Borders: Terminologies, Ideologies, and Performances (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161543753, 9783161543760, 3161543750

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) · James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL) · Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

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Borders Terminologies, Ideologies, and Performances Edited by

Annette Weissenrieder

Mohr Siebeck

Annette  Weissenrieder, born 1967; professor of New Testament at San Francisco Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union; Dr. theol. (University of Heidelberg); 2014–15 associated fellow at the Max Weber Kolleg for Advanced Studies; visiting scholar at Union Theological Seminary in New York, McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago, Harvard Divinity School and guest professor at the University of Freiburg.

e -ISBN PDF 978-3-16-154376-0 ISBN 978-3-16-154375-3 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

© 2016  by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen, printed by Gulde-Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Preface Nowadays borders and boundaries are understood in general as more or less defined lines between cultures, languages, and political and religious systems. In antiquity, however, a “border” and “frontier” might not always have been conceived as a line marking territories, dominions, or spheres. The term “border” evokes many meanings. A border may occupy geographical or ideological space. It may be friendly or antagonistic. It may protect and guard or provide a point of entry. For antiquity, such questions as the following arise: What are the relevant conceptualities and terminologies marking political, juridical, cultural, cultic, or religious distinctions? What terms seem to represent “border” and what did they signify in antiquity? Were “borders” dividing one thing from another imaginary or real? This volume goes back to an international as well as interdisciplinary workshop, the Muilenburg-Koenig History of Religion Seminar, which was held in March 2013 at the San Francisco Theological Seminary. The workshop brought together in lively interdisciplinary conversation biblical scholars, experts in the Ancient Near East and Judaism, classicists, historians, and other specialists. I am particularly grateful to the presenters and respondents of papers whose contributions at the conference could not be included in this volume: Prof. Dr. Barbara Kowalzig (Stanford University / ​Columbia University), Dr. Barbara Richter (UC Berkeley), Prof. Dr. Jacco Dieleman, Prof. Dr. Erich Gruen (Professor emeritus of Jewish Studies, UC Berkeley), Dr. David Trobisch. My thanks also to dean Prof. Dr. Jana Childers, president Dr. James MacDonald and Prof. Dr. Christopher Ocker, and to our students and doctoral students at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley who provided thoughtprovoking questions and suggestions in conversation on the topic of the interface of orality and written text in Old and New Testament and Classics, at the conference and afterwards. The group of scholars and (international) group of doctoral students investigated the diverse qualities of borders and boundaries in antiquity and current times as well as corpuses of knowledge which are effective in shaping the spatial design of borders. The primary focus was on borders and border zones (of traditional states, temples, and houses) and on the kind of borderlines which become visible and describable only against the background of concrete forms of delimitation. We have been also interested in instances where definitions of external borders are renounced altogether and states are organized from the center toward outer margins, for example, with the parts of a given territory

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remaining undefined. Transboundary social relationships, investigated on the basis of archaeological finds and textual sources, and their significance for the transfer of knowledge concurrently formed the substance of discussions within the workshop and the accompanying doctoral seminar. The Muilenburg-Koenig History of Religion Seminar is funded by a gift from Rev. Dr. Robert Koenig (MDiv ’69) in memory of James Muilenburg, SFTS Gray Professor of Hebrew Exegesis and Old Testament from 1963–69, and scholar in residence at the Graduate Theological Union until 1972. The greater part of this volume consists of a selection of papers delivered at a conference held at San Francisco Theological Seminary in San Anselmo in March, 2013. These papers appear here in revised form. In addition, I have invited a number of other authors to explore further issues that arose in the context of the conference. Some of the contributions have also been critically discussed at the Max Weber Kolleg in Erfurt (Annette Weissenrieder, Georgia Petridou, Anna-Katharina Rieger and Harry O. Maier). Several people contributed to the development of this work, and I want to thank them here. I am especially thankful for the support of San Francisco Theological Seminary, which contributed both practical help and financial support that made possible the funding of the conference and the visual images used in this volume. A special word of thanks goes to Bentley Stewart, Stephanie Ryder, Gill Harris, and the students of the border seminar for invaluable administrative assistance in organizing and running the conference at San Francisco Theological Seminary. My heartfelt gratitude goes to Prof. em. Dr. Polly Coote (Berkeley) for proofreading all the manuscripts and Jason T. Lamoreaux for their assistance in preparing the manuscripts. For the final structure of this book, my thanks go to Prof. Dr. Jörg Frey, who has been helpful in the completion of the plan of the book, and the editorial staff of Mohr Siebeck, especially Dr. Henning Ziebritzki, Klaus Herrmannstädter, and Jana Trispel, for their assistance in preparing the manuscript for publication. Berkeley / ​San Anselmo and Freiburg, May 2016

Annette Weissenrieder

Table of Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Annette Weissenrieder Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

I. Borders, Frontiers, and Boundaries of Land and City: Terms, Performances, and Ideologies Annette Schellenberg “And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4) – On the Role of Borders in the Priestly Texts of the Pentateuch . . . . . . . . . . 23 Martina Kepper What to do with borders when they become obsolete? Strategies of re-defining border concepts in the Hebrew and Greek Text of Genesis . . . . 43 David L. Balch Borders: Terms, Ideologies, and Performances. Jesus and the Samaritan / ​ Judean Border . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Harry O. Maier Histoire Croisée, Entangled Bodies, Boundaries, and Socio-Political Geographyin the Letter to the Colossians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Alexander Sokolicek Betwixt and Between – The Cultural Roles of the Magnesian Gate in Greek-Roman Ephesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 Christine M. Thomas The Magnesian Gate at Ephesos: Variant Readings of Monumentality at the Borders of the City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

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Stefan Esders Deditio and Baptism: Religious Borders and the Integration of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 Susanna Elm Response to Stefan Esders: Deditio and Baptism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

II. Borders and Boundaries of Temples: Terms, Performances, and Ideologies Barbara Schmitz Space, Borders and Boundaries in the Letter of Aristeas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 Georgia Petridou Amorphous Epiphanies and Divine Bilingualism: Crossing Physical and Cultural Borders on the Battlefield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Anna-Katharina Rieger Gods on the Rocks – Material Approaches to the Rock-Face at Caesarea Philippi (Mount Hermon) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Annette Weissenrieder “Tear Down the Middle Wall of the Temple”: the Meaning of mesotoichon in Ephesians 2:14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201

III. Borders and Boundaries of Houses: Terms, Performances, and Ideologies Frank Ueberschaer Borders between Privacy and Public in the Thinking of Ben Sira . . . . . . . . . 235 Bart B. Bruehler Open and Shut: The Real and Metaphorical Doors of the New Testament in their Mediterranean Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 Ivan Varriale Otium and Negotium – The Breakdown of a Boundary in the Imperial Villas: The case study of Pausilypon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283

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IV. Borders and Boundaries Barbara Böck On the Ancient Mesopotamian Concept of “Taboo”: Transgression and Delimitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305 Ingrid E. Lilly Rȗaḥ Embodied – Job’s Internal Disease from the Perspective of Mesopotamian Medicine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 Gert J. Steyn Crossing the Border – Reflections on Heb 13:13: “Let us then go to him outside the camp …” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337 Michael Bachmann Important and Delicate – Borders According to Paul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359 James R. Harrison Who is the “Lord of Grace”? Jesus’ Parables in Imperial Context . . . . . . . . 383 Holger Zellentin Jewish Dreams Between Roman Palestine and Sasanian Babylonia: Cultural and Geographic Borders in Rabbinic Discourse (Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 57c, 17–24 and Bavli Berakhot 58a–b) . . . . . . . . 419

Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 459 Index of Ancient Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 463 Index of Modern Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 493 Index of Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 498

Introduction Annette Weissenrieder “Borders are not spatial phenomena having a social impact, but rather social facts taking a spatial shape.” “Die Grenze ist nicht eine räumliche Tatsache mit soziologischen Wirkungen, sondern eine soziologische Tatsache, die sich räumlich formt.” (Georg Simmel, Soziologie)

Dictionaries define ‘border’ as a “line separating two properties, states, countries or areas (like climate zones)” (Wahrig) or “a line separating two political or geographic areas, or a district near a line separating two areas, the edge or a boundary of something” (OED). Figurative applications like “restrictions” or “frames” or even idioms like “the boundaries of good taste” and discourse too are distinguished from the sense of the “limits of potentiality.” In that way, the distinction begins between literal and transferred meanings. This definition could possibly be reconsidered and is revised in this volume on the basis of theoretical foundations, new material insights (like archaeological finds, inscriptions), and new corpora of knowledge.

1. Formation and Transformation of Space: Georg Simmel’s Theory of Borders The sociologist Georg Simmel puts this distinction between spatial and transferred into question: In order to describe a border more closely, Simmel does not start with the topography of a space, but with the sociological fact of the border and border zone as a communicative phenomenon. He writes: “Overall, where the interests of two elements have the selfsame object, the possibility of their coexistence is dependent on their spheres being divided by a borderline within the object, that now may either be an end to conflict as a legal limit or its beginning as a limit of potential.”1 Accordingly, a border is a sociological 1  G. Simmel, Soziologie. Untersuchungen über die Formen der Vergesellschaftung (2nd ed.; Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1992), 698: “Vielleicht in der Mehrzahl aller Verhältnisse zwischen Individuen wie zwischen Gruppen wird der Begriff der Grenze irgendwie wichtig. Überall, wo die Interessen zweier Elemente demselben Objekt gelten, hängt die Möglichkeit ihrer Koexis-

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certainty to Simmel: if the general concept of mutual delimitation arises from a spatial border, the latter is then also, more profoundly, simply a “crystallization or spatialization” of the singularly real “psychic process” of conceptualization.2 Every border, spatial, religious, or social boundary is a “psychic, more precisely: a sociological event,” that truly “can but not necessarily must be invested” in a linear, spatial limit, “and its most general significance in this respect remains first of all to express mutual proportionality.”3 Within the context of social differentiation demarcations remain, therefore, a distinction and a relationship between “yours” and “mine,” that which is your own and that which is foreign. Then of course, demarcations are a general aspect of human communication and acts. Simmel discusses this in context with other spatial qualities like equality or reciprocity. A border is thus a sociological, religious matter of fact that being shaped spatially in no way remains a spatial matter of fact with sociological consequences. Therefore, while demarcation divides two elements, as a limit it also combines them with each other. In the aspect of space, border is “a condition of indifference between defense and offense” (“Indifferenzzustand von Defensive und Offensive”4) pointing to something that lies beyond it. And this beyond is excluded. A border points to closedness and affiliation on this side of the border. Concerning spatial fixity for a nation or a (religious) group, the minimum and maximum extent of the area taken to be the general space are central first of all. This narrow and wide specification most often relates the group to their foundation and ground. “In many ways” they are “root and symbol of their structuring”.5 Foundation and ground are “characteristic of the uniqueness or the exclusivity”6 of the group. “Just as there is only one single general space, of which each specific room is a segment, also every partition has a kind of unique character for which there is scarcely any analogy.”7 This fixity is secondly connected to the extent that participant people may dwell in this space. Accordingly, in the third place the space may be centrally fixed if a group, organization or (religious) union possesses a room, housing structure, or if the union continues freely moving. In the household Simmel finds local fixity tenz daran, daß eine Grenzlinie innerhalb des Objekts ihre Sphäre scheidet – sei diese nun als Rechtsgrenze das Ende des Streits oder als Machtgrenze vielleicht sein Anfang.” 2  Simmel, Soziologie, 697. 3 Simmel, Soziologie, 699: “seelisches, näher: ein soziologisches Geschehen das zwar in eine lineare, räumliche Grenze investiert werden kann, aber nicht muß, und dessen allgemeinster Sinn insofern zunächst nur darin besteht, ein ‚Gegenseitigkeitsverhältnis‘ zum Ausdruck zu bringen.” 4  Simmel, Soziologie, 466. 5  Simmel, Soziologie, 465: “vielfach ihre Wurzel und das Symbol ihrer Struktur”. 6 Simmel, Soziologie, 462: “einen Charakter von Einzigartigkeit oder Ausschließlichkeit”. 7  Simmel, Soziologie, 462: “Wie es nur einen einzigen allgemeinen Raum gibt, von dem alle einzelnen Räume Stücke sind, so hat jeder Raumteil eine Art Einzigartigkeit, für die es kaum eine Analogie gibt.”

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“as living-space and meeting-place that is spatial expression of its energy […]. The house represents social thought by localizing it.”8 Early Christian writings show significant interest in the house, whether as lodging for missionaries and their coworkers in a trade (e. g., Acts 16:15), as showing the positions of different groups within the house toward the pater­ familias (Col, Eph, 1–2 Tim), or as a place for the ekklēsia (assembly) (e. g., 1 Cor 11–14, 16:19; Rom 16:5). Three questions are of particular interest from a New Testament perspective: (1) In what spaces was the house cult celebrated, and was there a sacral area in the house? (2) Who participated in the house cult? (3) In which way are houses of the Emperors distinct? Evidence for the Hellenistic domestic cult comes from literary sources such as papyri from Ptolemaic Egypt but also from Aristotle and Aristophanes, epigraphic material from Delos, and Athenian comedies; it also depends on excavations of domestic architecture, which is highly diverse and provides no clear foundation for reconstruction. It has been believed for some time that certain gods were venerated in nearly every household in Hellenistic Greece, although in the twenty-first century this is asserted only with certain caveats. Surnames reflecting a need for the security of a house and its inhabitants more specifically referred to Zeus, who had already been identified as the god of the Greek pantheon. Zeus Herkeios guarded, as his name herkos (“fence,” the delineating property border) suggests, the area of the domus bordered by a fence. In ancient literature there are countless references to him (e. g., Paus. Descr. 5.14.7), and it has been assumed in scholarship that families installed shrines in the house area in order to venerate this divinity. Any basis for assuming this in the sense of private family religion is doubtful; more often, texts show that there is a close relationship between imperial families and the guardian Zeus Herkeios as he appears in Antigone (Soph. Ant. 486–487) and with Demaratus, the exiled king of Sparta, as reported by Euripides (Tro. 16–17) and Herodotus (Hist. 6.68). However inapplicable it is to domestic cults, reference should be made to a passage in Aristotle (Arist. Ath. Pol. 55.3), often cited in the literature, in which a candidate has to prove in an official action that she or he possesses a Zeus Herkeios and where its place of worship in the house was. No archaeological evidence for such a cult in houses has been found, nor has any evidence describing sacrifice on the altar to Zeus Herkeios. In a recently published article on Citizenship, the Citizen Body, and its Assemblies Josine Blok has demonstrated that an ancient ekklēsía was as much tied together by democratic principles as by participation in venerating cults.9 The members honored the same gods at home and in public. She speaks of a “perceived covenant of the community of mortals and the immortal gods” 8 Simmel, Soziologie, 519: “die als Wohn‑ oder Versammlungsstätte der räumliche Ausdruck ihrer Energie ist […]. Das Haus stellt den Gesellschaftsgedanken dar, indem es ihn lokalisiert.” 9  J. Blok, “Citizenship, the Citizen Body, and its Assemblies,” in: Companion to Ancient Greek Government (H. Beck ed.; West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 161–175.

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of which the ekklēsía was one aspect. However, in some way the domestic cult differs from the official cult and contains different levels of individualization, as Ivan Varriale shows in his contribution. Frank Ueberschaer from the University of Zürich, Switzerland, focuses in his paper on “Borders between Privacy and Public in the Thinking of Ben Sira” on borders in Wisdom literature in its Greek and Syriac background, where he analyzes how “wisdom establishes borders, borders for life, borders for the necessary privacy of the individual, borders that protect and give guidelines for the way of living both for individuals and the people. However, wisdom also helps one to go beyond borders. According to Ben Sira’s main focus, to transcend the limited nature of one’s own life by becoming one of the outstanding personalities by whom wisdom conducts history.” In the book of Ben Sira, a wisdom teacher of the beginning 2nd cent. BCE provides his instructions to his students and readers. Among his many topics are instructions about how to behave in public and what has to be kept in privacy. He thereby defines private space as a sheltered sphere of retreat, while the public is regarded as both a promising and dangerous field in which to prove oneself and to climb up the social ladder. Finally, the fixity of housing space starts with the question of “individualization” that requires a relationship between occupant, owner and user. Bart Bruehler focuses in his paper on “Open and Shut: The Real and Metaphorical Doors of the New Testament in their Mediterranean Context” on the meaning of doors in passages of the New Testament. The door is a familiar and meaning-laden boundary marker, both as a structure and as a metaphor. The New Testament contains a relatively high number of references to doors: doors that are physical and symbolic, doors that are open and shut. A broader examination of the Mediterranean milieu of the New Testament, including both archaeological and literary evidence, reveals a general preference for open doors within Roman cultures and an inverse preference for shut doors within Jewish cultures. The books of the New Testament reflect these cultural preferences on both the real and metaphorical levels, often using open and shut doors to indicate dramatic divine activity in human experience. In his study on the newly excavated house of Pausilypon of Pompeii, “Otium and Negotium, a  Border Breaks Down in the Imperial Villas: The Study Case of Pausilypon” the archaeologist Ivan Varriale from the University of Naples focuses on the border between otium and negotium that becomes very clear during the republican period. He focuses therefore on the borders and boundaries of the house of the Emperor. The Roman nobles practice their negotia in Rome and their otium, as interval, in their villas and in particular in the bay of Naples. The concept of otium changes radically with the Empire and is conditioned by the Emperor’s idea of otium. The emperors have to maintain their role during the “villeggiatura” and to officiate at the daily rituals, going beyond the dichotomy

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between otium and negotium. From Nero on and above all with Domitian, they are divided between their own public role and their private self-representation. So in the imperial villas and palaces (the Domus Flavia on the Palatine hill, the Villa of Pausilypon, Villa Adriana and Villa of Domitian in Castel Gandolfo) some architectural elements normally assigned to the private otium of the households were used as a display of power. So the otium became an instrument of the political power of the Emperor. The Pausilypon complex was built for otium in the late republican period by Publius Vedius Pollio and bequeathed to Augustus and updated during the first century CE to satisfy the requirements of the imperial court. So the villa, particularly the architectures of the pars publica, reflects the new concept of otium elaborated during the first century CE. In that way, borders are sociopolitical (and religious) entities transformed into spaces in order to convey communication, border-crossing transference or religious conviction. Therefore a border signifies a dynamic and productive procedure which is characterized by complex processes of identity formation like potentiality and continuity or transformation. Analyzing borders helps to better understand the transformative processes of antiquity. Borders are social phenomena, and they become materialized in physical and therefore separate spaces. They may be naturally occurring spaces (in this volume analyzed by Anna-Katharina Rieger), walls (see Stefans Esders, Georgia Petridou, Alexander Sokolicek, Barbara Schmitz, Annette Weissenrieder), sanctuaries (Annette Schellenberg, Barbara Schmitz, Georgia Petridou, AnnaKatharina Rieger, Annette Weissenrieder), houses (Bart Buehler, Ivan Varriale), and ramparts (Barbara Schmitz), which have one thing in common: these border phenomena go beyond linear types of borders. Several contributions discuss the phenomenon of border zones and zones of influence.

2. Formation and Transformation of Space: Frontiers and Boundaries In the groundbreaking books The Significance of Frontier in the American His­ tory by Frederick Jackson Turner and The Nation State and Violence by Anthony Giddens the distinction between borders and frontiers was introduced.10 Whereas the term “border” is seen as a typical term for modern nation-states, insofar as it is the agreed border between two or more states or nations, in contrast 10  A. Giddens, A Contemporary Critique of Historical Marxism II: The Nation-State and Violence, Cambridge 1985, note the definition p. 52 f. Cf. also J. W. Rogerson, “Frontiers and Borders in the Old Testament” in: In Search of true Wisdom. Essays in Honour of Ronald E. Cle­ ments (E. Ball ed.; VT.S 300; 1999), 116–126, who discusses whether this modern distinction should be applied to the Old Testament texts as well.

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“frontier” should be used for aboriginal settlement areas on the edges of traditional states, signifying the limits and possibility of movement of this aboriginal settlement, and for traditional state or secondary settlement frontiers, signifying activity and movement in an inhabited land. Therefore a frontier defines an area in which political power can only be used peripherally. Giddens also emphasizes that such frontiers do not necessarily establish a border between one state and another. A frontier may also signify a border zone. In a widely influential work Vidal-Naquet’s definition for ancient frontiers is “the end of the city” territory (eschatiai), “badlands” (skiron), “wild places,” agroi (field, land and country) and the mountains.11 Turner’s work is important (and at the same time very disputed), especially because it is based on a reciprocity between a social network and the constitution of a society and the space, thus especially of the frontiers, which could also be seen as border zones. This ambiguity of the term “frontier,” which signifies demarcation as well as the space or land, can be found up to the 16th century. This becomes especially apparent in Luther’s translations of the Hebrew Bible. Luther translates YHWH’s promises of the land as “von der Wüsten an, […] das gantze Land der Hethiter sollen ewer grentze sein“ (Jos 1:4).12 A frontier is therefore defined as space / ​land and border. Old Testament exegesis has embraced this distinction between border and frontier. This is especially true in the widely influential work of J. W. Rogerson, where the question is raised how maps reflect the land seizures (‘Landnahme’) which the biblical texts often report. Does it make sense to draw modern maps with clearly defined demarcation lines of ancient states, like the Davidic Empire? In her article “What to Do with Borders When They Become Obsolete? Strategies of re-defining border concepts in the Greek Text of Genesis,” the Old Testament scholar and expert in the Septuagint from the University of Marburg, Germany, Martina Kepper takes her starting point from the eretz yisrael (Land of Israel): In contrast to its modern distribution in political discussions, the biblical term eretz yisrael or Land of Israel is rare and late. The biblical book of Genesis introduces the concept of this land as promised to Israel’s ancestors, but the term itself is entirely lacking in Genesis. Instead, the dimensions of it are established by describing the routes Abraham, Isaak, and Jacob take during their lives in this land. Thus its borders are established through mentioning the farthest places they reach. As archeological research has shown, these itineraries in Genesis correspond to the settlements of Israelites and Judahites during the time of the divided monarchies, namely Jacob in the north and Abraham in 11 P. Vidal-Naquet, The Black Hunter. Forms of Thought and Forms of Society in the Greek World (Baltimore: John Hopkins, 1986). 12  See DWB, vol. 9, 131 f. in: Grenzen der Antike: Die Produktivität von Grenzen in Trans­ formationsprozessen (A. Heinze et.al. eds.; Berlin / ​Boston: de Gruyter, 2014), 2.

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the south. These borders of settlement became obsolete after the destruction of Samaria, and especially after the fall of Jerusalem. For the Greek translator of Genesis they were no longer real borders, but the concept of eretz yisrael as the land they hoped to live in became important. And he had to deal with these itineraries as a translator. He chose different strategies to render the different names of towns and landscapes and by doing so created a new concept of eretz yisrael as a theologically motivated hope for his people living in the diaspora.13

3. Formation and Transformation of Space: Border and Boundaries In contrast to the distinction of border and frontier, scholars have come to use the terms “border” and “boundary” often interchangeably. A “boundary” can be defined as something that signifies a demarcation, a limitation or constraint, which can be geographical, cultural, ethnic or religious. Therefore the term “boundary” represents the constitution of an inherent group identity. The term is often used when an ethnic or cultural border is connected with a spatial border. Border, transgression and transformation often cannot be seen as distinct entities. “Thus boundaries are not understood here merely as concrete lines or visible landscapes located between socio-spatial entities, but above all as phenomena that are ‘located’ in the socio-spatial consciousness and collective memory of people living in territorially constructed units on various spatial scales […]. Boundaries are understood as structures that are produced, reproduced and contested in and between territorially bounded groupings of people.”14 In his essay “Important and Delicate” the professor emeritus Michael Bachmann of the University of Siegen, Germany, refers to borders and boundaries mentioned in the Pauline corpus. For the apostle Paul the boundaries between human beings,

13  Kai Brodersen in his Habilitationschrift on ancient exploration of space shows that space was based on structures defined by experience (K. Brodersen, Terra Cognita [Hildesheim: G.Olms Verlag, 1995, 2nd ed. 2003]). Maps as we know them as coverage of a geographical region were, according to Broderson, not really necessary in antiquity. Even in his recent works, as Broderson refers to material lost due to restricted survival as well as modern counterfeit or reconstructed material, once again he arrives at the conclusion that the Greco-Roman world managed to live “im Allgemeinen ohne Karten” (D. Dueck, Geographie in der antiken Welt [transl. and with an additional chapter by K. Brodersen; Darmstadt: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 2013]). However, the – admittedly few – positive examples of visual representations advise caution. In particular I would like to mention the Roman Imperial map of Rome (Forma Urbis Romae), the cadastral land in the register of Orange or the map of the Tabula Peutingeriana. 14 A. Paasi, “Deconstructing the idea of geography: dimensions of professional practice,” in: Geography and Professional Practice (V. Berdoulay and J. A. van Ginkel eds.; Utrecht: Netherlands Geographical, 1996), and idem, Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness: The Changing Geographies of the Finnish-Russian Border (Chichester: John Wiley, 1996), 301.

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groups, especially “Israel,” on the one side and God on the other, seem to mark the distinction between border and boundaries. Important religious boundaries for this group are given by the term new creation (see for instance Gal 6:15), the term “euaggelion” – gospel (1 Cor 15:1, 3b–5) and by “Israel” (Gal 6:16), all of which are important and delicate. This is also true for the “national” boundary which is likewise assessed to be delicate; for Jewish people in joining Christ “were also found to be sinners” (Gal 2:17b), and Paul says: “There is neither Jew nor Greek” (Gal 3:28). For individuals this evaluation is valid too, and therefore the believer “in Christ” has to respect God’s history with the creation and with the Jewish people (i. e., “Heilsgeschichte”). The collection for the Jews in Jerusalem (see Rom 15:25–32; cf. Rom 9–11) should be understood as an example of this; nevertheless, for instance, the border between Jews and Gentiles is delicate insofar as the Jewish “boundary markers,” the ceremonial prescriptions, the “works of the law” (see Gal 2:16; 4QMMT C27), according to the apostle (see Rom 3:28; Gal 2:16), are not to be accepted (and not to be practiced) by a Gentile Christian (who, as a male person, does not have to be circumcised). Significantly, space becomes an intimate aspect of group identity and thus of assimilation between the border and the transformation of neighboring things, for as Foucault says: “their edges touch, their fringes intermingle, the extremity of the one also denotes the beginning of the other. In this way, movement, influences, passions, and properties too, are communicated. So that in this hinge between two things a resemblance appears.”15 Foucault also uses the term “hinge” or “threshold” instead of boundary to signify a porous border that both separates and communicates. Foucault is relevant as he refers to a border and boundary as “the sign of a relationship, obscure though it may be.”16 Professor of Ancient Near Eastern languages and cultures from Madrid Barbara Böck, in her article “On the Ancient Mesopotamian Concept of ‘Taboo’: Transgression and Delimitation,” examines the concept of sacred borders in Ancient Mesopotamian thought. Emphasis is laid on the cognitive concept of the native Sumerian and Akkadian terms that correspond to notions of limit and transgression. Borders are not only meant to protect an area charged with positive energy and therefore to repel any approaching evil force but also to determine the morality of the individual. Böck writes, “This is the case when a person or a specific ritual setting or area had to be protected from contamination or evil influences. The other function, which stresses the aspect of enclosure, is trapping and locking up malignant forces by surrounding them with a circular line. For both concepts it is essential that the boundary could not be transgressed, thus impeding anybody from entering or leaving the space.” Subsequent discussions 15  M. Foucault, The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (London: Tavistock, 1970), 20. 16 Foucault, The Order of Things, 20.

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deal with the questions of how these limits were protected, the physical consequences of transgressions and how sacred borders were expressed ritually in the cuneiform literature. The question of embodiment of borders and boundaries is exemplarily deepened in the contribution by Ingrid Lilly on “Rȗaḥ Embodied: Job’s Internal Disease from the Perspective of Mesopotamian Medicine.” Many scholars refer in their analyses of these terms in Job implicitly or explicitly to Mary Douglas and her concept of purity and taboo.17 In Douglas’s work, the body represents a model that can be applied to “every closed system” in that its limitations symbolize all possible limitations that are threatened or unsafe.18 Thus, the body can also be understood to be a symbol of society.19 Starting from this theoretical background, scholars define skin as the final border of the body, which is threatened by diseases of the skin and rûaḥ in the Hebrew text as well as its Greek translation as a contingent and moving substance. The interpretation of the bodily border can be extended one step further to represent the border of Jewish society, which would be threatened by a skin illness. Drawing on Mesopotamian medicine, Lilly’s essay argues that Job’s internal disease is indicated by the state of his internal winds (Hebrew: rûaḥ). Usually translated “spirit,” the term has never been analyzed as an emic feature of Israelite embodiment and disease. With attention to skin as a boundary and rûaḥ as a contingent and moving substance, it becomes clear that various states of rûaḥ provide diagnostic information about a disease below the surface of the skin. In addition some scholars refer to the intertextual reference of Deut 28:35 in Job 2:7MT, that God “smote Job with sore boils from feet to head.” In Deuteronomy, the people of Israel were given curses in return for disobedience. In Job, this context refers – from the perspective of Job’s friends – to a connection between illness and sin.20 Therefore it is often argued that Job’s bodily unwholeness “break[s] the boundaries of bodily 17  In an essay on “Leprosy – A Test Case,” J. Pilch adopts large portions of an earlier essay under the summarizing dictum “The Interpretive Strategy.” (“Selecting an Appropriate Model: Leprosy – a Test Case” in: Healing in the New Testament. Insights from Medical and Mediter­ ranean Anthropology [idem ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000.], 38–54, 49ff). 18 Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger. An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (New York: Routledge Classics, 2002]), 124: “The body is a model which can stand for any bounded system. Its boundaries can represent any boundaries which are threatened or precarious. The body is a complex structure. The functions of its different parts and their relation afford a source of symbols for other complex structures. We cannot possibly interpret rituals concerning excreta, breast milk, saliva and the rest unless we are prepared to see in the body a symbol of society, and to see the powers and dangers credited to social structure reproduced in small on the human body.” 19  Douglas, Purity and Danger, 125 equates the problem of the openings of the body with the problem of the political-structural and cultural unity of a minority, as in the case of Israel. The unity can only be preserved if clearly defined structural boundaries exist that may not be crossed. 20  It should be mentioned here that the intertextual reference between Dtn 28:35LXX and Job 2:7LXX is not that obvious when considering the different terms for head etc.

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and societal wholeness; only whole, unpolluted bodies were allowed access into the realm of kinship relations. Whole bodies have secure boundaries […].”21 Job, so some scholars, represents a “liminal being.”22 This does mean that transgressions come with consequences. In his Preface à la transgression of 1963, Michel Foucault writes: “Transgression […] is not related to the limit as black and white, the prohibited to the lawful, the outside to the inside – but rather it is like a flash of lightning in the night which […] gives a dense and black intensity to the night.” In this volume the transgression of border through acted performativity is raised with regard to the performativity of the border between Samaria and Jerusalem in the already mentioned essay by Martina Kepper. The border as a demarcation line is not so important as the performative transgression of this line which leads to a transformation, which in turn allows the hybridization as well as the re-activation and confirmation of borders. That borders also initiate transitional spaces is shown by David Balch, Professor of New Testament at Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, who takes as his starting point in his paper “Borders: Terms, Ideologies, and Performances. Jesus and the Samaritan / ​ Judean Border” the common experience of social tension shared by Rome, Athens, and Jerusalem, “generated by the success of Rome’s multiethnic army and by Rome’s giving elite foreigners Roman citizenship. Ethnic tensions in Judea were not unlike ethnic tensions in other regions and countries around the Mediterranean. Jews including Jesus participated in these Mediterranean-wide social conflicts and changes.” His essay examines the Jew Jesus’ social / ​ethnic attitude, exemplified especially by the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37). Josephus too wrote of a border: Judeans who ate common things or broke the Sabbath fled north across the border to Samaria (Ant. 11.346–347). Such ritual differences symbolize tensions between cultures, also illustrated by 1 Cor 7:18: Paul writes Jewish male believers that they must not remove marks of circumcision because they are embarrassed to go nude to a Greek bath. Transformative Jewish leaders have sometimes found reason to transgress such an established order, e. g. Jeremiah, Jesus, Sabbatai Svi, and the Ba’al Shem Tov. Jesus did this by telling the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37), who as a Samaritan, not as an orthopraxic Judean, loved his neighbor. Balch summarizes his essay with a personal note from his experience of having lived and taught in Texas and California, states in the USA bordering on Mexico: 8,000 Latin emigrants have died crossing that border in the last 20 years. “Are not North Americans, includ21  Alec Basson, “Just Skin and Bones: The Longing for Wholeness of the Body in the Book of Job,” Vetus Testamentum 58 (2008): 287–299, here 291; see also J. L. Berquist, Controlling Corporeality. The Body and the Household in Ancient Israel (New Brunswick, 2002), 19–20; H. Eilberg-Schwartz, The Savage in Judaism. An Anthropology of Israelite Religion and Ancient Judaism (Bloomington, 1990), 195. 22 See e. g. Basson, “Just Skin and Bones,” 297 f.

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ing our churches, like the priest and Levite in Jesus’ parable (Luke 10:31–32), when we refuse dialogue with Latin Americans, many of whom are dying on our southern border?”

4. The heuristic value of analyzing borders Instead of simply recapitulating the results of this volume, I would like to sketch some heuristic values which have emerged through the different discussions forums of this volume: Terms: The Greek language knows around 30 terms signifying borders. Hedges, fences, parapets, moats and walls can all serve as this type of border. In his dissertation, Grenzen und Mauern in der griechischen Stadt, Alexander Sokolicek has shown that diateichisma is part of a city’s fortification system. Unlike a city wall it was built within the urban area dividing a city in two parts. He analyzes the phenomenon of diateichismata on the one hand as part of fortification architecture; on the other hand he shows the influence of diateichisma on the organisation of the urban space. The predominate group of settlements with diateichisma are free poleis. In the context of Greek poleis in a non-Greek environment, the significance of diateichismata gains more interest, involving the conflicts of different ethnic groups. The term diateichisma therefore signified in antiquity not only a larger city but also a social context. The term signifying a border can connote a special physical wall as well as the limiting function in the society, sanctuary or house. In her paper “‘Tear Down the Middle Wall of the Temple’: the meaning of mesotoichon in Ephesians 2:14,” Annette Weissenrieder from San Francisco Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley focuses on a term signifying a border in antiquity. Using a peculiar image, the Letter to the Ephesians describes how oppositions are overcome: Christ brings peace by tearing down the middle wall that faces the outer wall. But to what extent do these walls constitute borders? How should we imagine the middle wall? And how exactly do we understand the relationship between the walls and the space in between them? The subject of Weissenrieder’s paper is therefore a spatial and temporal contextualization of the image of the temple in the letter to the Ephesians (2:11–22). The temple image is often understood athematizing the new temple in Christ and as calling boundary markers like circumcision or eating restrictions into question, at the same time that it spiritualizes the temple cult and tears down the dividing wall of the temple in Jerusalem, where the term δρυφάκτος is used. The term δρυφάκτος is thus largely referred to as a delimiter in a judicial context, where it separates the judge from the defendant and the observers, and in temple inscriptions – although these appear later, in the 2nd and 3rd century CE. In Ephesians the contextualization is based on key terms in the

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text, μεσότοιχον and related expressions, which are hapax legomena in the New Testament and the Septuagint. These terms, however, also appear in epigraphic and archaeological material. Weissenrieder shows that μεσότοιχον and μέσος τοίχος, as used in ancient literature and inscriptions, describe neither the temple barrier of the Herodian temple that protects the temple’s purity, nor a cosmic wall, nor do they refer to a general protection against foreignness. If only the dividing wall is considered, both the Apollo temple in Didyma and the first Temple of Jerusalem built by Solomon are possible reference points. In any case, what is fundamental is the access to the inner sanctum, but if we take the previously assumed theory of exegesis into account, this would not be possible for either Jews or the uncircumcised. Weissenrieder summarizes, “The precise function of the wall is a division between those who belong to the cult and have direct access to it as priests and prophets and those who are waiting for the prophet’s advice rather than to separate insiders from outsiders (as we know from the temple of Jerusalem). The wall nonetheless provides a division of specific groups according to their respective statuses or privileges in relation to the cult.” In considering border regions, many of the contributions of this volume evaluate for the most part material of local space and materiality, which do refer to some extent to the transmission of supra-regional or Empire-wide knowledge, but for which local knowledge was necessary. The Other: In dealing with borders, boundaries, and frontiers, we are often dealing here with the notion of the “other.” Many narratives refer to attempted violations of borders by people who are ethnically differentiated from the defending populations by being described as barbaroi, i. e. ‘barbarians’ (see Michael Bachmann, Georgia Petridou, James Harrison). Josephus refers to the warning sign at the temple in Jerusalem saying, “No alien μηθένα ἀλλογενῆ may enter [the area] within the balustrade ἐντὸς τοῦ […] τρυφάκτου and the enclosure καὶ περιβόλου around the temple. Whoever is caught, on him shall be put blame for the death which will ensue ἑαυτῷ αἴτος ἔσται διὰ τὸ ἐξακολουθειν θάνατον.”23 Thus for Josephus, protecting the purity of the sanctuary is essential. Terms used for non-Jews who cannot enter the sanctuary are ἀλλογενής (J. AJ 15.417), μηείς (J. BJ 6.125), alienigenae (J. C 2.108) and ἀλλόφυλος (J. BJ 5.194) (see the contributions from David Balch, Barbara Schmitz, Annette Weissenrieder). Stefan Esders, historian of Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages at the Freie University of Berlin, picks up the theme of conversion and places it in the context of “The Integration of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire.” In particular, his research links the Empire’s political dependence on the Visigoths 23 Cf. the further discussion in J. Adna, Jerusalemer Tempel und Tempelmarkt im ersten Jahr­ hundert nach Christus (ADPV 25, Wiesbaden, 1999), 31, and others convincingly argued that these signs would have been mounted at the end of the first construction phase, in other words 12/11 or 10/9 B. C. This seems plausible if the signs are believed to be an addition by Herod.

Introduction

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with the religious conversion of these outsiders. “Now when dealing with late antiquity, there can hardly be any doubt that religious demarcation became more important when Christianity advanced to the status of a state religion and when Roman citizenship lost some of its relevance as a distinguishing element within Roman society.” In order to build trust and fidelity, the Romans believed that a common faith would sufficiently unite geographical and cultural divides, and this was signified through the rite of baptism. Susanna Elm, professor of ancient history at UC Berkeley, seeks to strengthen Esders’ core argument by highlighting the instabilities of the notion “Christian” during the later fourth and early fifth century. That is, even if surrender is often accompanied by baptism and hence (forced) conversion to Christianity, it is often very unclear what kind of Christianity is involved. Further, authors describing such baptisms at the moment of surrender are often more concerned with the ruler who does (or does not) accomplish both (or either) than with “accurate” descriptions of such events. In other words, Christianity in the later Roman empire remains a porous phenomenon, very much in flux and without clearly defined borders, despite the attempts of our sources to suggest clarity. Holger Zellentin, professor for Jewish studies at the University of Nottingham, in his paper on “Jewish Dreams Between Roman Palestine and Sasanian Babylonia: Cultural and Geographic Borders in Rabbinic Discourse” focuses on rabbinic culture in the Late Roman and Sasanian Empires. He is concerned with the notion “rabbi” and “non-Jew.” “The rabbis of Palestine and of Mesopotamia saw themselves as different from their non-rabbinic and non-Jewish contemporaries and stood in close contact with rabbis living about five hundred miles to the east and west respectively.” Geographic borders define the relationship between the two rabbinic centers of Palestine and Mesopotamia, and this “spatial separation of the two rabbinic centers led to an internal divide that in turn resulted in a cultural split within rabbinic Judaism.” In order more fully to understand rabbinic oneirocriticism, Zellentin argues for a re-evaluation of the key sources within their respective cultural and political borders, against the background of the two types of ancient dream interpretation. The dreambook of the Palestinian Talmud, to begin with, advocates for rabbis to act as professional dream interpreters, demanding pay for this service which they perform based on their hermeneutical virtuosity. At the same time, the Yerushalmi represents a Jewish ecotypification of early Byzantine lore, similarly expressed in the Greek Dream Book of Daniel. The dreambook of the Babylonian Talmud, by contrast, questions professional dream interpretation even by rabbis, and instead advocates a do-it-yourself approach based on codified lists of omina. The Bavli, then, is best understood within and against the context of the Sasanian Magi and their oneirocritical expertise. Zellentin summarizes that “the two rabbinic centers fully reflect the respective Greco-Roman and Sasanian cultural context in which they thrived in both positive and negative ways.”

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Narratives: Narratives are especially suitable for delivering the dynamization of borders, transgressions, transformation and border crossings. They can be interpreted as possibilities for transfer of knowledge of facts which are not inherent to the narrative. Knowledge can be transmitted through a new contextualization of fact through fiction. A well-known example is Josephus who undertakes a walk, a “city guide” with a (Roman) stranger to provide knowledge of the city as well as the Jerusalem temple, its barriers as well as its restrictions for entering city and temple (see Barbara Schmitz and Annette Weissenrieder in this volume). The narrative of the “city-guide” – keeping to the example – forms the space of a linear border, here the city wall and the different borders of the temple; however, it generates at the same time a re-interpretation of the border settlements and a new frame, which are crossed during the Roman war. Therefore, the narrative can be read as a confirmation of both the transgression and the transformation of the importance of Jerusalem and its temple. In any case, different transgressions and transformations of borders imprint themselves by normative means specific to different texts in the process of acquiring knowledge about borders. Narratives are therefore also media of transgressing borders, insofar as they hold borders, boundaries and frontiers in a variable, not defined mode. In this volume the literary study and approaches of Jurij M. Lotman and his work The Structure of the Artistic Text have proved to be helpful for analyzing the delimitation of margin and boundary. The Old Testament scholar from the University of Würzburg Barbara Schmitz contributes to the question of the borders of the Jerusalem temple and the city in her paper on “Space, Borders and Boundaries in the Letter of Aristeas.” The letter of Aristeas is significant for myriad implicit and explicit delimitations. First, one asks “who is the speaker of the writing?” in order to clarify the perspective that underlay the production for an understanding of the very foundational delimitation of the letter. Aided by the approaches of Jurij M. Lotman, more than merely analyzing the delimitation of margin and boundary, Schmitz raises the question of overstepping boundaries. Aristeas has the perspective of a foreigner on the city of Jerusalem and its Temple. Schmitz argues that two things stand out: unlike Josephus, Aristeas starts his city tour at the Jerusalem temple and ends with the countryside. “If – as Lotman emphasizes – space representations testify to a value system and culture model in which they are anchored, then this organizational principle shows a world view that describes not only Jerusalem, but places the temple in the center of the representation (Temple → castle → city → country) and, originating from it, the world. It is equally revealing that all four subspaces described are closed spaces that were created (circular walls) or are naturally present.” That there is a conscious transgression of limit is significant (i.e, a translation of the Jewish nomos), while otherwise it may be avoided (i. e., the equation of the God of Israel with other deities). Schmitz writes, “According to Lotman’s concept, the ‘hero-agent’ of a story is the one (human character or non-human

Introduction

15

character) who is able to cross the border in question and who also belongs to the other subspace. […] Therefore, boundaries quite often have a paradoxical function: In arranging structures, they seem to ‘tidy up’ the world. By doing so, boundaries frequently present a clear and often very simple view of the real or fictional world.” The article “And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4) – On the Role of Borders in the Priestly Texts of the Pentateuch” by Annette Schellenberg from Vienna University investigates the role of borders in the priestly texts from the Pentateuch (P). “P is well known for its interest in separations, first and foremost through the prominence of the verb ‫ בדל‬in the Hifil (‘to distinguish, separate’), which takes both God and humans as its subject.” It shows how all borders addressed within P serve to make the world a livable space, most of them connected with YHWH’s decision to dwell “in the midst” of the Israelites. Because YHWH is holy, his presence requires a sanctuary that is kept holy, a special class of priests who can serve him, and impeccable behavior on the part of the people around this sanctuary – requirements that can only be met if separations are made and borders are respected. P is highly concerned with these separations and borders; at the same time, however, it also reflects a great deal of realism and pragmatism and a theology that transcends categories. Therefore we can see that borders place different actors in different places, allowing or forbidding access to space. Materiality and borders of knowledge: How can knowledge of ancient borders, border zones, and boundaries be reconstructed when it rarely is recorded in writings, but material finds like artefacts, statues, archaeological finds very often show in themselves borders in cultural heritage? Entanglement refers to a way of doing evaluation of material finds that centers itself within an examination of border, boundaries and frontiers as they interact, intersect, and crisscross between people, cultures, nations, as well as different disciplines. As Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann argue: “[…] to cross is to crisscross, to interweave, that is, to cross over several times at tempo that may be staggered. This process-oriented dimension is a fundamental aspect of inquiry into any intercrossings. It points toward an analysis of resistances, inertias, modifications – in trajectory, form, and content – and new combinations that can both result from and develop themselves in the process of crossing. Such transformations are moreover not necessarily limited to elements of contact: they may also affect their local or remote environment and manifest themselves at a deferred moment.”24

24  M. Werner and B. Zimmermann, “Vergleich, Transfer, Verflechtung. Der Ansatz der His­ toire Croisée und die Herausforderung des Transnationalen,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28 (2002): 607–36, here 38, see for further details the contribution by Maier in this volume.

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In her contribution “Material Limits. The Rock Scarp in the Graeco-Roman Sacred Space at Caesarea Philippi (Mount Hermon) as Liminal Line in the Communication with the Gods” Anna-Katharina Rieger, fellow and postgraduate at the Max Weber Kolleg of Advanced Studies, raises important questions about the characteristics of a “sacred place” in antiquity, and she does so at a space which is of great interest for scholars in New Testament: Caesarea Philippi. The most characteristic feature of the sacred place at Caesarea Philippi is the rock scarp rising about 20 meters above the ground. One of the tributaries of the Jordan emerges from a cave in the scarp. Apart from buildings and facilities on the terrace at the foot of the scarp dating to Roman to late Roman times, the scarp itself, being an integral part of the sacred place, was used by people for leaving their dedications to the gods. A variety of niches, once housing images of deities, were cut in the scarp. Some of the dedicators added inscriptions to the niches mentioning names and invocations of different supra-natural beings. Others engraved only text or words in the rock-face. In her paper, Rieger inquires into the character of the invoked divinities, relates their material manifestation as image or letters on the rock to their character, and reconstructs their rôle in communicating with the gods. Deities that often are labeled as subsidiary in religious or ancient studies, and that are placed somewhere on the rock-face, appear to have a much higher importance in creating a ‘line of communication’ to the supra-natural powers than for example gods represented in statues and deliberately placed in an architectural framing. In his article “Histoire Croisée, Entangled Bodies, Boundaries, and SocioPolitical Geography in the Letter to the Colossians,” the New Testament scholar from Vancouver and fellow at the Max Weber Kolleg for Advanced Studies in Erfurt Harry O. Maier deploys the insights and methodological procedures of histoire croisée to discuss the articulation of borders in the New Testament letter to the Colossians. Histoire croisée attends to how history is comprised of cultural intersection, transportation from one idea or set of practices from one domain to another, and borrowed and redeployed vocabularies. Colossians, like the earlier Pauline letters, shows evidence of such entanglement in its utilization of imperial ideas, vocabularies, and political ideals. As it applies these phenomena to the death of Jesus it transforms them. Colossians draws on Roman imperial ideas that mark imperial territorial, cosmic, and domestic borders, to define the boundaries of Christ’s rule. Histoire croisée shows that while Colossians sought to mark a strong border between the church and the outside world, imperial borrowings reveal those boundaries to be permeable. It reveals how Colossians expresses cultural hybridity. Cultural hybridity is also discussed in the contribution by James R. Harrison, Professor of New Testament and Research Director, Sydney College of Divinity, Macquarie Park, Australia, on “Who is the ‘Lord of Grace?’ Jesus’ Parables in Imperial Context.” This article posits that there is an

Introduction

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ideological similarity between the exclusionist policy adopted by the Australian government towards asylum seekers arriving in its territorial waters and the paranoia felt by the Romans regarding the vulnerability of their borders to the incursion of the “barbarian” peoples and other national enemies. The Roman armies brutally subjugated the contumacious tribes and humiliated them visually in their triumphal iconography. More fundamentally, the rituals of deciding whether personal or national enemies could be accommodated within the rituals of Roman favour and clientage were well established by the first century CE. The Julio-Claudian or Flavian ruler had to discriminate rationally regarding the worth of the individual or nation being offered his “mercy” (clementia). Under no circumstance was the offer of merciful pardon to be affected by the presence of (what the Stoics deemed) the unstable emotion of “pity” (misericordia), lest the demands of justice (iustitia) be compromised. A prior evaluative “border,” therefore, was indelibly drawn in the Roman mind, discriminating between “worthy” and “unworthy” clients, with the latter group being deemed to be outside the scope of clementia. The article explores how Jesus’ parables of grace, with special reference to the parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (Luke 18:10−14), united divine clementia with divine misericordia in a new social and theological synthesis that would challenge Roman social relations from the top of the social pyramid to its base. The paradox for the Romans was that this was accomplished without diluting the stringent protocols of divine justice. Performance: The question arises, how do forms of knowledge affect the shaping of borders and border zones? The perspective of borders and border zones as liminal spaces prevails in contemporary scholarship on Greco-Roman history. This is especially true since the widely influential study by François de Polignac on cults, territory and organizations25 in Greek city states. He makes a distinction between urban and extra-urban sanctuaries that are linked through initiation. Socialization at liminal areas including transitional rites may emphasize their social status. He shows how extra-urban sanctuaries fall in the category of border zone sanctuaries. The archeologist Alexander Sokolicek from Columbia University, New York, director of excavation at Aphrodisias, aims to show in his study “Betwixt and Between – The Cultural Roles of the Magnesian Gate in Greek-Roman Ephesus” the role of the Magnesian gate and the Artemision for rituals. The Magnesian Gate in Ephesus is one of three principal gates to the city. Recent archaeological investigation identifies this city gate as a late Hellenistic axial gate with two towers built only a few years after the creation of the Roman province of Asia in 133 BCE. The major function of the gate was to protect the entrance into the city, but in Roman Imperial times – at least – the gate also be25  F. de Polignac, Cults, Territory and the Origin of Greek City-State (Chicago: University Press, 1995).

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comes an important station in the processions between the Artemision, Ephesus’ extra-urban main sanctuary, and the city. In a lengthy inscription dedicated by the wealthy Ephesian C. Vibius Salutaris in 104 CE describing recurring processions, the Magnesian Gate is mentioned as a place where ephebes receive statuary from the priests during the procession from the Artemision to Ephesus. Along with other documents, the inscription suggests that this action can be interpreted as a ritual that highlights the liminal stage of the ephebes in a liminal area of Ephesus. The essay by Christine M. Thomas (Professor for Ancient Mediterranean Religions) also engages the Magnesian gate at Ephesos. She observes that the rite de passage proposed by Sokolicek at this gate is part of a larger complex of rite de passage at Ephesos that implicate boundaries between the wild and the civilized. She also argues that the monumentalization of the Magnesian Gate during the Roman period heightens the visibility of this border space, but also signals the contestation of that space and its differing readings by various social actors; the monumentality expresses a reading by the agents of its construction that implies, not so much a physical boundary of a defensible city as a sacred and ceremonial boundary of a social space. Border as a rite de passage is also discussed in the contribution by Gert Steyn from Pretoria University in South Africa, in “Crossing the Border  – Reflections on Heb 13:13 ‘Let us then go to him outside the camp …’.” This study investigates three options: (a) that the phrase serves as a metaphor for rejection and God’s presence “outside the camp”; (b) that it is similar to the spiritualized interpretation in Philo; and (c) the possibility of symbolic entrance to the heavenly sphere, perhaps through a symbolic and mystical liturgical rite, by moving from one locality or state to another. Especially the sequence of liturgical events in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice may point in this direction. This latter option poses an interesting symbolic “border crossing,” a “spiritual gate” through which the readers should pass in order to get access to a transcendent existence, enabled by the symbolism of liturgical rites. Bilingualism: Through what territories does knowledge of borders circulate? And how is such knowledge circulated? A history of transmissions of borders and borders zones is based on an awareness of bilingualism on different levels (see the papers by Martina Kepper, Frank Ueberschaer, Barbara Boeck, Ingrid Lilly, Annette Weissenrieder). The paper “Amorphous Epiphanies and Divine Bilingualism: Crossing Physical and Cultural Borders on the Battlefield” by Georgia Petridou, fellow at the Max Weber Kolleg of Advanced Studies in Erfurt, focuses on divine border crossings at critical times of military collision and siege. She focuses mainly on the physical borderlines of Greek sanctuaries in Greece and Asia Minor, and narratives. The narratives refer to attempted violations by avaricious attackers, who are ethnically differentiated from the defending populations by being described

Introduction

19

as barbaroi, i. e. ‘barbarians’, ‘foreigners’. In this selection of epigraphic and literary narratives from Hellenistic and Imperial times, tutelary deities appear to be fighting alongside the populations that defended their sanctuaries from belligerent besiegers and transgressors. These deities responded quickly and decisively to the violation of the physical borders of their sanctuaries and the city-walls of the communities they took under their protection. They did so by joining in the battle and communicating their intentions to both their allies and enemies by means of divine epiphanies. But what did the warring communities see when they faced those deities? This study argues that these divine defenders of the sacred borderlines of their sanctuaries (and, of course, their treasuries) manifested themselves to the besiegers and the besieged using two different kinds of semiology or, better, speaking two ‘different languages’: the culturally familiar and easily recognizable language of anthropomorphic manifestation with the besieged, and the intercultural language of astounding natural phenomena and extreme meteorological conditions (often of catastrophic nature) with the besiegers. Thus, the belligerent deities appear to be making an effort to communicate their message effectively across the two clashing communities and cultures, which are literally fighting on the borders of the familiar and foreign, the sacred and the secular.

I. Borders, Frontiers, and Boundaries of Land and City: Terms, Performances, and Ideologies

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4) – On the Role of Borders in the Priestly Texts of the Pentateuch Annette Schellenberg Borders play an important role in the Hebrew Bible – not only with regard to the extent of the Holy Land but also in connection with questions of order and identity.1 In ancient Near Eastern thinking, most borders are connected with the distinction between cosmos and chaos, be they in the realm of cosmology (dry land–waters), geography (arable land–desert), nations (one’s own people–foreigners), the cult (holy–common; pure–impure), morality (righteousness–wickedness), or individual existence (life–death). In this article, I will focus on the significance of borders in P (including H), the Priestly text(s) of the Pentateuch.2 P is well known for its interest in separations, first and foremost through the prominence of the verb ‫ בדל‬in the Hifil (“to distinguish, separate”), which takes both God and humans as its subject.3 The following overview will confirm that separations and borders are important in P. However, it will also show that the priestly view on borders is complex and that most of P’s borders are not considered fixed once and forever.

1. Basic Separations P begins with a creation account (Gen 1:1–2:4a) in which the concept of creating order through separation plays a fundamental role. The world is not created ex 1  For a general overview of the role of borders in the Hebrew Bible, see E. Ballhorn, “Grenze,“ wibilex 2011; B. Janowski, “Unterscheiden – Überschreiten – Entgrenzen: Zum Umgang mit Grenzen im Alten Testament,” in: Kommunikation über Grenzen: Kongressband des XIII. Europäischen Kongresses für Theologie 21.–25. September 2008 in Wien (Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie 33; F. Schweitzer ed.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2009), 32–54. 2  In the following, I use the siglum P to refer to all priestly texts from the Pentateuch, including Lev 17–26 and related texts. This article is not the place to engage in the discussion on the formation of P. However, sometimes distinctions are relevant. In such cases, I use the terms Pg and Ps and refer specifically to H (= Lev 17–26) and related texts. 3  For a general discussion of this verb, see B. Otzen, “‫בדל‬,” ThWAT 1 (1973): 518–520. For its importance in P, see M. S. Smith, The Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 90–93.

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nihilo but from a “formless void” (‫ ;תֹהּו וָבֹהּו‬1:2), a state in which everything is mixed together. Before God creates plants, animals, and humans, he “separates” (‫ בדל‬hi.) and thereby sets up the basic order of the world. On the first day, God separates light from darkness (1:3–4, with ‫ ;)בדל‬on the second day, he separates the waters above from the waters below (1:6–7, with ‫ ;)בדל‬on the third day, he separates the waters below from the dry land (1:9, without ‫ ;)בדל‬and on the fourth day, he creates the sun and the moon, which are necessary to separate day from night and to distinguish time (1:14–18, with ‫)בדל‬.4 After this basic setup, the earth is ready to be filled with living beings (days five and six). P’s concept of creation through separation is not novel but is rather connected to older traditions. According to the Babylonian creation myth Enūma eliš, Marduk created the world by cutting the chaos monster Tiamat into two pieces, using one part of her body to build the sky (and hold back the upper waters) and the other to build the earth (4:135–5:66). This myth is one of many ancient Near Eastern texts that describe creation as a battle in which chaos is embodied in a watery monster that must be overcome (cf. Apophis in Egypt; Yam in Ugarit). There are several texts in the Hebrew Bible that allude to such a battle against chaos, always emphasizing that God is in control. Frequently, these texts employ border terms. Jer 5:22 is a good example: Do you not fear me? says YHWH; Do you not tremble before me? I placed the sand as a boundary (‫ )ּג ְבּול‬for the sea, a perpetual barrier (‫ )חֹק‬that it cannot pass (‫;)עבר‬ though the waves toss, they cannot prevail, though they roar, they cannot pass (‫ )עבר‬over it.

Calling the sand a ‫“( ּג ְבּול‬boundary”) for the sea is in line with the specific use of ‫ ּג ְבּול‬to mean “coast, bank” (Num 34:6; Josh 15:12). In Jer 5:22, however, it is clear that this “boundary” of the sea is not just a mundane shoreline but has cosmological significance. By setting this boundary, YHWH limits the tossing, roaring water to a well-defined place and thus ensures that chaos will not flood the world. The verb “to pass” (‫ )עבר‬is especially fitting in this context, as it applies in two different senses: on a literal level, it means “to pass over, cross” – in this case, the border between land and sea; on a more abstract level, it means “to transgress, overstep” a law or decree (cf. Prov 8:29; Ps 104:9; 148:6). This double meaning of ‫ עבר‬corresponds to the double meaning of ‫חֹק‬, which means both “engraved line, boundary” and “prescribed line, order, decree.”5 4  On the relationship of Gen 1:14, 18 to 1:4, see O. H. Steck, Der Schöpfungsbericht der Priesterschrift: Studien zur literarkritischen und überlieferungsgeschichtlichen Problematik von Genesis 1,1–2,4a (FRLANT 115; Göttingen: Vandenhock & Ruprecht, 21981), 110–115. 5  In the instances in which the figurative meaning of “boundary, border” (‫חֹק‬, ‫חקָה‬ ֻ ) is prevalent, in the Hebrew Bible it is always the water that is identified with the chaotic element (Jer 5:22; Ps 104:9; Job 26:10; 38:10; Prov 8:29). In other instances that are more abstractly about

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

25

In view of Jer 5:22 and the many other texts in the Hebrew Bible that recall the tradition that God set a limit to the chaotic waters, it is striking that Gen 1 does not exhibit any allusion to battle. Though in the beginning there is the watery “deep” (‫)תְהֹום‬, it is not described as a chaos monster. God does not create by fighting but simply by speaking (1:3, etc.). The “dome” (ַ‫ )ָרקִיע‬that forms the border between the waters above and the space below is not a piece of a dead chaos monster. And in reference to the waters of the sea, the text even avoids the term “to separate,” instead using the Nifal of ‫קוה‬, “to gather” (1:9), implying that the sea withdrew from the land voluntarily. From Gen 1, one would not know that the order that God created through the various separations might be contested. P does not maintain this idealistic picture, though. In *Gen 6–8 it exposes how easily the cosmos can turn back into chaos. P implicitly blames humans for these developments: created as the “image of God,” they were appointed as God’s representatives on earth (Gen 1:26–28). However, they did not uphold order and peace. Rather, under their stewardship the earth became corrupt and ָ ; 6:11). In stark contrast to 1:31, where God saw that filled with “violence” (‫חמָס‬ his entire creation was “very good,” in 6:12 he discovers that it has become “corrupt” (‫ ׁשחת‬ni.). On the moral level, order has returned into chaos.6 God responds by sending a “flood” (‫ ;מַּבּול‬6:17; 7:6) that elevates the chaos to a cosmic catastrophe: God causes the fountains of the watery “deep” (‫ )תְהֹום‬to break open and he opens the “windows” (‫ )אֲֻרּבֹות‬in the dome, so that the waters come from both above and below (7:11). Though the basic structure of Gen 1 is not overturned – the “dome” remains intact – the borders become so porous that, on a practical level, they cease to be meaningful. The waters deluge the land and kill almost all living beings. Obviously, at this point P draws on the classic Cha­ oskampf motif. However, according to the priestly theologians, it is not the waters that threaten the cosmos – hence, the stability of the “dome” – but “all flesh” (‫ ;כ ָל־ ָבשָר‬6:12) and especially human beings, who were appointed as rulers on earth. God does not fight the waters but uses them to stop the spread of violence. In Gen 9:1–17, P reveals how a new beginning is possible. After all that has happened, the receding of the waters is not sufficient to restore the world to order. Through God’s speech in these verses, P addresses both the moral problem, which led to the flood, and the experience of cosmic catastrophe. To solve the moral problem, in 9:1–7 God establishes a new order regulating how huYHWH’s “decree” or “order” for the cosmos, other elements such as the heavens, the rain, the moon and stars, and day and night are mentioned as well (Jer 31:35–36; 33:25; Ps 148:6; Job 28:26; 38:33). 6  For details, see A. Schellenberg, Der Mensch das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonder­ stellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen (AThANT 101; Zürich: TVZ, 2011), 44–46, 59.

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mans and animals are to live together. To prevent future violence, he employs three different strategies: He redefines “violence” by legitimizing some bloodshed, namely the killing of animals by humans (9:3); he formulates drastic consequences for those who still commit violence, namely the death penalty for anyone who sheds the blood of humans (9:5–6); and he does not confirm the role of humans as rulers on his behalf (the verb ‫ רדה‬from 1:26, 28 is not repeated), instead identifying himself as the one who will ensure that evildoers are punished (9:5 has the verb ‫ אֶדְ ֹרׁש‬three times). With these decrees, the border between violence and non-violence shifts and the relationships among humans, animals, and God drastically change.7 To reassure the survivors of the flood – and the readers of the text – that such a cosmic catastrophe will never be repeated, in 9:8–17 God promises never to destroy the earth by flood again. The continuation of P introduces many more separations, which are all necessary to make God’s dwelling in the world possible. Though it is not spelled out, the thematic correspondence and the narrative order suggest a connection with Gen 1:26–28 and the rest of P’s primeval history, which showed humans’ limitations: because humans did not live up to God’s expectations that, created as the “image of God,” they could represent him on earth, God chooses to be present on earth more directly, in form of his kābôd, inhabiting a sanctuary “in the midst” of Israel.8 According to P, many steps are necessary to make such a direct earthly presence of God possible. The process starts with the selection of Israel, whom God sets apart from the other nations to be his people. Only H expresses this idea explicitly using the verb ‫בדל‬, in verses that clearly reflect Dtr influence (Lev 20:24, 26). However, also Pg exhibits the belief that YHWH distinguishes the Israelites as in a special relationship with him. This belief has two aspects. On the one hand, God singles out the Israelites with special favors: He chooses them to be his covenant partner (Gen 17; Exod 6:4–5; 31:16; Lev 26), reveals his name to them – El Shaddai in Gen 17:1, YHWH in Exod 6:2–3 – and gives them his cultic laws (Exod 25 ff.), which will enable him to dwell in their midst. On the other hand, the Israelites have to behave in specific ways that make the presence of the divine among them possible. Separations are fundamental in the laws regulating Israel’s behavior. This is expressed explicitly, using the verb ‫בדל‬, in the context of cultic issues, namely the separation of holy from common and pure from impure (Lev 10:10; 11:47; details, see Schellenberg, Mensch, 60–68.  On this connection, see in more detail Schellenberg, Mensch, 392–395; with different accents, M. Köckert, “Das Land in der priesterlichen Komposition des Pentateuch,” in: Von Gott reden: Beiträge zur Theologie und Exegese des Alten Testaments (FS S. Wagner; D. Vieweger and E. J. Waschke eds.; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1995), 147–162, 149–154(ff); C. Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study of the Composition of the Book of Leviticus (FAT 2.25; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 59–68. 7 For 8

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

27

20:25). These cultic issues are to the fore in P, as in priestly thinking they are essential to safeguard the holiness of God’s dwelling place. The cultic separations occur within Israel – no one can avoid impurity and not everyone can be (as) holy (as the priests9). However, by paying attention to these distinctions and acting accordingly, Israel is set apart from all other peoples as a holy nation (Lev 20:24–26). In addition to cultic issues, H and some other Ps texts address moral issues as well. Though here the verb ‫ בדל‬is not used, the notion of separation is still present. In Lev 18:3 and 20:23 the moral law is connected with the requirement that the Israelites behave differently from the Egyptians and Canaanites. Furthermore, the texts make clear that Israelite society will not tolerate anyone who is defiled (and defiles) by moral deficiencies.10 In less severe cases, offenders can purify themselves through atonement (‫)כפר‬. In more severe cases, however, they are killed: “cut off” (‫ כרת‬ni.) – i. e., separated – from the people.11

2. Spatial Borders (Holy Land; Different Zones of Holiness) P’s interest in borders and separations is obvious. Beyond the basic separations described in the previous section it is even reflected in small details, like the prohibitions against crossbreeding, mixing fabrics and seeds (Lev 19:19). When it comes to spatial borders, however, P is rather disinterested. Most striking in this respect is P’s – and especially Pg’s – limited interest in the Holy Land.12 Though Pg is familiar with the promise of the land (Gen 17:8; 28:4; 35:12; Exod 6:4, 8), it only once connects it to the time after the Exodus (Exod 6:8). Elsewhere, it presents the promise as already fulfilled in the time of Abraham and his descendants (Gen 28:4; 35:12; cf. Gen 23, if this text is indeed Pg). The land has greater importance in H, with its concern about the land’s purity.13 Here, one finds many references to YHWH giving the land to the Israelites (Lev 18:3; 20:22, 24; 23:10; 25:2, 38). Twice, H even mentions that YHWH drives out other nations before the Israelites (Lev 18:24–25; 20:23). The focus of these texts is not on the conquest, however, but rather on what happens if the inhabit 9 On

these qualifications, see section 4.  On moral impurity, see section 3. 11  That P promotes the death penalty is clear from Gen 9:6. The verb “to be cut off” (‫ כרת‬ni.) occurs a first time in Gen 17:14. For different interpretations of the kareth-penalty, see J. Sklar, Sin, Impurity, Sacrifice, Atonement: The Priestly Conceptions (Hebrew Bible Monographs 2; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2005), 15–20. 12 On the (un)importance of the land in Pg, see (with different emphases) C. Frevel, Mit Blick auf das Land die Schöpfung erinnern (Herders Biblische Studien 23; Freiburg: Herder, 2000), 349–371; M. Köckert, “Land,” 147–162; K. Schmid, Erzväter und Exodus: Untersuchungen zur doppelten Begründung der Ursprünge Israels innerhalb der Geschichtsbücher des Alten Testaments (WMANT 81; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1999), 261–263; Nihan, Priestly Torah, 66–68. 13 On this difference, see section 3 with n.  29. 10

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ants of the land do not behave properly. The land has some importance in the Ps texts from Numbers, as here Israel leaves Mount Sinai and is on the move to the holy land. Noteworthy in particular are Num 13–14, a report about exploring the land, and Num 34, a description of its borders and allocation to the tribes. Yet despite this greater interest in the land in its later layers, overall it remains the case that in P the land is of secondary interest. Most telling in this regard is the fact that the core of P’s narrative takes place in the desert (*Exod 19–Num 10), outside the Holy Land. The important question for P is not where the Israelites live but how they live: what they have to do so that YHWH can dwell “in their midst” (Exod 25:8; 29:45–46; Lev 26:11; Num 5:3; cf. Lev 15:31; Num 16:3; 35:34). Together with cultic and moral laws, the sanctuary is most crucial in this regard, as it is built to be YHWH’s “dwellְ ‫ ; ִמ‬Exod 25:9; 26:1 ff.; Exod 40:34–35). It is portable and thus can ing place” (‫שכ ָן‬ be set up at different locations (Num 1:51; 10:17, 21).14 To be sure, this notion of a portable sanctuary is connected with the fiction that the cultic laws were revealed at Mount Sinai, in a period when the Israelites were still on the move to the Holy Land. No doubt for P the ideal dwelling place is Israel. However, the notion of a portable sanctuary also reflects the belief that the geographical position of the sanctuary / ​land is not of supreme importance. With YHWH’s presence any place can become holy, even the desert. In this theology, spatial borders are unimportant in an absolute sense, but they are important in a relative sense. Fundamental here is the notion that, in the ָ ) the sanctuary (Exod 25:8; 29:45–46; form of his kābôd, YHWH “inhabits” (‫שכ ַן‬ 40:35; cf. Num 5:3; 35:34). This inhabitation of the divine in a human-built sanctuary requires that this sanctuary be holy. Though P legislates certain humanperformed processes of sanctification,15 it assumes that ultimately the holiness of the sanctuary comes from God. While this is made explicit only once (Exod 29:44, a verse related to H), it is also reflected in the spatial dimension of the priestly concept of graded holiness.16 Again and again, P reflects the notion that different zones of the sanctuary have different degrees of holiness.17 There are 14 On the portability of the sanctuary, see M. K. George, Israel’s Tabernacle as Social Space (Ancient Israel and Its Literature 2; Atlanta: SBL, 2009), 75–79, 135, etc. 15  Described in section 3 below. 16 On the concept of graded holiness, see M. Haran, Temples and Temple Service in Ancient Israel: An Inquiry into Biblical Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1985), 175–188; P. P. Jenson, Graded Holiness: A Key to the Priestly Conception of the World (JSOT.S 106; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992). 17  Noteworthy in particular are the different materials, the different places where rituals take place, and the questions of access. For details, see George, Israel’s Tabernacle, 71–75; Haran, Temples, 175–188; M. B. Hundley, “Sacred Spaces, Objects, Offerings, and People in the Priestly Text: A Reappraisal,” JBL 132 (2013): 749–767, 755–756; Jenson, Graded Holiness, 90–114, 173–174; D. P.  Wright, The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamian Literature (SBL.DS 101; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 231–243.

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

29

some ambiguities in the details,18 but the principle is clear: the closer an area is to YHWH, the holier it is. Most holy is the holy of holies, as this is the place where YHWH’s kābôd sits enthroned over the cherubs of the ark (Exod 25:22; Lev 16:2; Num 7:89). Given the importance of the distinction of zones with different grades of holiness in P’s cultic system, it is striking how little attention P gives to the borders between these zones. On different levels, the following observations all reflect a disinterest in the lines that separate the different zones. (1) P’s lack of interest in these dividing lines is first reflected in its instructions on how to build the sanctuary, as they do not start with the sanctuary’s structure but with its furniture (Exod 25:10–40 before 26:1–37). The report about the actual construction differs somewhat in this respect (Exod 36:8–38 before 37:1–29). Here as well, however, the description does not start with the planks (Exod 36:20–31) which constitute the wall, but rather with the curtains covering them inside (Exod 36:8–13) and outside (Exod 36:14–19). Similarly, the description of the court follows the description of the altar placed in it, and again it starts with the curtains and not with the pillars carrying them (Exod 27:1–19; 38:1–20). (2) This disinterest is further reflected in how P describes the openings between the different zones of holiness. Though there are several references to these thresholds (for the “gate” to the court, see Exod 27:16; 35:17; 38:15, 18–19, 31; 39:40; 40:8, 33; for the “entrance” to the tent, see Exod 26:36–37; 35:15; 36:37–38; 39:38; 40:5, 28; for the curtain dividing the holy of holies from the rest of the tent, see Exod 26:31–33; 35:12; 36:35–36; 40:3, 21), they are no more numerous than references to other parts of the sanctuary. Furthermore, the more detailed references are concerned with the materials, which reflect the different degrees of holiness. That these thresholds have the function of blocking access and view is rarely addressed. Only with respect to the curtain to the holy of holies (here P uses the word ‫ )ּפָֹרכ ֶת‬are there some references to these functions: to “separate” (‫ בדל‬hi.) the holy and the most holy (Exod 26:33) and “to block off, cover” (‫ סכך‬qal, hi.) the ark of the covenant (Exod 40:3, 21; cf. 35:12). In the ָ , related to ‫ סכך‬hi.), only case of the two outer curtains (here P uses the word ‫מסְָך‬ the etymology hints at the dividing function. (3) In a different way, P’s disinterest in the thresholds is reflected in the lack of a systematic overview of who is allowed to enter which part of the sanctuary. This important information must be gathered from casual remarks, and some 18 Disputed

in particular is the question of whether P considers the (entire) court as holy – it is not listed in Exod 30:26–32 (anointment); however, P refers to (parts of) it as “a holy place.” For details, see Jenson, Graded Holiness, 91–92; Wright, Disposal, 232–235. The question of holiness of different areas is complicated throughout H and related texts, which are also interested in “the land.” None of them explicitly says that the land shall be holy. However, as they have a broader understanding of holiness and are concerned with the purity of the land (see sections 3 and 4 and n. 29), this seems to be the assumption.

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questions remain open.19 Regarding the high priest, from Lev 16 one learns that he is allowed to enter the holy of holies, but only once a year, on the Day of Atonement. The crucial verse 16:2 only says that the high priest must not go behind the curtain of the holy of holies at any time. The very last verse of the passage (16:34) clarifies that practically, this means that this ritual is to be performed (only) once a year. The passage does not spell out that it prohibits all other priests from entering the holy of holies. Regarding priests, Exod 28:43 makes clear that it is fatal to enter the sanctuary without wearing the proper priestly garments. That only priests are allowed to enter the sanctuary can be gathered (only) from Num 1:51; 17:28; 18:7, 22.20 Regarding ordinary Israelites, P never says that they are allowed to enter the court. However, this right is assumed in the laws that describe how they have to bring their offerings to “the entrance of the tent” (Lev 1:3) or “in front of YHWH” (Lev 3:1). Though geographically these terms are imprecise (see below), from the contexts in which they appear it is quite clear that ordinary Israelites were allowed to proceed up to the altar of burnt offering on which their sacrifices were offered. Regulations regarding offerings of women (Lev 12:6; 15:29; Num 6:1, 10, 13 ff.; see also Num 5) and resident aliens (Lev 17:8–9; 22:18; Num 15:14) indicate that they as well were allowed to access the court of the sanctuary. That such access was permitted only to people in a clean state can be gathered from occasional statements (Lev 12:4). Ps sometimes requires that the impure stay outside of the camp (Lev 13:46; 14:8; Num 5:2–3). In most cases, however, the question of an impure person’s access rights is not addressed. Likewise, P(s) is not clear regarding the access rights of the Levites (who play a role only in Ps). According to 2 Chron 23:6; 2 Chron 29:5, 15, they were allowed to enter the sanctuary. P, however, presents an ambiguous picture in Num 3:7–9; 4:20; 18:2 ff. (4) Finally, P’s disinterest in spatial borders is reflected in its silence on whether the entrances to the court and the sanctuary are guarded. Pg does not address the question of guarding the sanctuary at all. Ps does and points to the Levites as being in charge (Num 1:53; 8:24–26; 18:3), often with the verb ‫“( ׁשמר‬to watch, guard”).21 However, none of these verses addresses the issue of guarding the access points. This is striking, especially as from other books of the Hebrew Bible we know that there was a group of priests and Levites who were appointed to be “guardians of the threshold” (‫ ;ׁשֹמְֵרי ַהּסַף‬2 Kings 12:10; Jer 35:4; 1 Chron 9:19, 22), among other duties. 19  On questions concerning access, see Haran, Temples, 175–188; Hundley, “Sacred Spaces,” 759–761, who observes that “a person has access to spaces and objects one level of holiness higher than he himself possesses” (ibid., 759); Jenson, Graded Holiness, 107–108, 138. 20  For further discussion of these and similar verses, which are more concerned with the priestly office than with the issue of access, see section 4. 21  On these verses, see J. Milgrom, Studies in Levitical Terminology, 1: The Encroacher and the Levite; The Term ‘Aboda’ (University of California Publications, Near Eastern Studies 14; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970), 9–16.

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31

There are several possible reasons for P’s failure to highlight the lines that divide the different zones of holiness. Generally, P leaves many practical questions unanswered, as it has other interests. The rules of access might also have been so clear to everyone that there was no need to address them explicitly. More fundamentally, P’s interest in space is limited to space’s importance for cultic issues, as reflected in the use of terms like “holy of holies” (‫)קֹדֶ ׁש ַהקֳדָ שִים‬, ָ ), “the sanctuary” (‫) ִמקְדָ ׁש‬, “a “the holy (place)” (‫) ַהקֹדֶ ׁש‬, “a holy place” (‫מקֹם ָקדֹׁש‬ ָ ‫) ָמקֹום‬, and “an unclean place” (‫טמֵא‬ ָ ‫ ) ָמקֹום‬to refer to the differclean place” (‫טהֹור‬ ent zones.22 And space’s importance for cultic issues is limited. For example, both holiness and impurity can easily bypass the dividing lines.23 Against the spatial-cultic logic, the altar of burnt offering, which is “most holy” (Exod 29:37; Lev 10:12), is positioned in the court, which is only “holy” (Lev 6:9, 19). Most clearly, finally, the term “(at) the entrance of the tent of meeting” (‫פֶתַח אֹהֶל‬ ‫)מֹועֵד‬, which is used to refer to different locations, indicates that for P it is ritual reality that defines space and not the other way round.24

3. Cultic Borders (Holy–Common; Pure–Impure) The borders P is most concerned with are the borders between the holy and the common and the pure and the impure. P’s understanding of these borders is complex, in part because the two categories overlap and together define one spectrum, with holiness at one end and impurity at the other.25 In P’s understanding, it is of utmost importance to protect the holy from the impure, as the two are incompatible. Thus, these borders never lose importance. However, they are not at all stable, as both persons and objects can change their state and, in some cases, the impure and the holy even overlap temporarily. If handled properly, shifts of the border between the pure and the impure are unproblematic. Such shifts happen all the time, in both directions: pure persons and objects become impure and impure persons and objects become pure again. these terms, see Jenson, Graded Holiness, 90; Wright, Disposal, 232–243. section 3. 24  Only in a few instances does “entrance of the tent (of meeting)” signify the actual entrance to the tent (Exod 26:36). In many other cases, it designates the area around the altar of burnt offerings (Exod 29:11) or another unspecified place in the court of the sanctuary (Exod 29:4). For details, see M. B. Hundley, “Before YHWH at the Entrance of the Tent of Meeting: A Study of Spatial and Conceptual Geography in the Priestly Texts,” ZAW 123 (2011): 15–26, who convincingly argues that “at the entrance of the tent” describes “the point of maximum access,” that is, “the closest a common person may come ‘before YHWH’ to meet with him” (ibid., 15–26, 25–26). Whereas in other instances P uses the term “court,” in descriptions of rituals it prefers the phrase “at the entrance of the tent.” Geographically this term is confusing, but ritually it is apt: though these rituals do not take place at the actual entrance of the sanctuary, they take place at the border where the common and the divine meet. 25 For an overview, see Jenson, Graded Holiness, 40–55 ff. 22 On 23 See

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The shifts from pure to impure are only partially controllable, as the major sources of impurity are part of life. While one can decide to abstain from eating unclean animals (Lev 11) and touching unclean persons and objects (as long as one knows about their impurity), humans have only very limited control over birth, skin disease, discharges from the sexual organs, and death (Lev 12–15; Num 19). Furthermore, exposure to these sources of impurity is not only unavoidable but often required, as otherwise there would be no births and no one would bury the dead. Further shifts of the border between the pure and the impure occur as impurity is communicable by touch, leading to secondary and tertiary infections.26 For example, menstrual blood not only renders the menstruating woman unclean (Lev 15:19) but also anyone (15:19, 24) and anything (15:20) that directly touches her, as well as anyone (15:21–22) and anything (15:23) that touches anything touched by her. Impurity is not permanent, however. Generally, shifts from the pure to the impure can be reversed. These shifts from the impure to the pure require time, though, and, in more severe cases, rituals.27 Less frequent and more dangerous than shifts of the border between the pure and the impure are shifts of the border between the holy and the common. Unfortunately, here P leaves many questions unanswered. Where it is possible to draw conclusions, they point to highly complex ideas about holiness, with many variations28 and some severe compromises. The analysis is further complicated by the fact that holiness is one of the issues regarding which there are crucial differences between H (and related texts) and the rest of P.29 Thus, the different layers are concerned with different questions. In principle, however, their concerns are similar. As with purity / ​impurity, there are shifts in both directions: the common can become holy (sanctification) and the holy can become common (profanation). However, these shifts are more fundamental and most of them are not meant to be reversed. Sanctification can be either beneficial or highly dangerous and profanation can be either harmless or highly dangerous. Sanctification is beneficial when it is used to initiate legitimate holiness. Ultimately, this holiness comes from God, but only H and related texts make this explicit (primarily with regard to humans, but see also Exod 29:44).30 Where the 26 For a detailed analysis of the different types and grades of infection, see Wright, Disposal, 163–228. On non-communicable impurity, see ibid., 220–222. 27  On the ways of disposing of non-human impurity, see Wright, Disposal, 13–159. On the ways of disposing of human impurity, see Jenson, Graded Holiness, 165–171, 225–226. 28  On these variations, see Hundley, “Sacred Spaces,” 749–767, who tries to explain them in terms of different degrees of holiness (holy and most holy, etc.) and the state of the person who acts (impure, pure, holy). 29  For an overview on these differences, see I. Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 180–186 ff.; D. P. Wright, “Holiness in Leviticus and Beyond: Differing Perspectives,” Interp. 53 (1999): 351–364. 30  The conviction that ultimately holiness comes from God might be why the book of Exodus only points to the induction of holiness through the holy oil in the instructions (29:36; 30:22–29; 40:9–11) and not in the report on what was actually done (but see Lev 8:10–12; Num 7:1).

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

33

focus is on ritual and holiness in the strict cultic sense, P refers to humans as those who (with the means given to them by God) initiate holiness. Specifically, such processes of sanctification are mentioned with regard to the sanctuary and its furniture (Exod 29:36–37; 30:26–29; 40:9–11; Num 7:1), the priests (Exod 28:41; 29:7, 21; 30:30, 40:13–15; Lev 8:12) and their vestments (Exod 29:21; Lev 8:30), and the Nazirites (Num 6). In the case of Nazirites, it is clear that this sanctification is time-limited. P is less clear with respect to the sanctuary and its furniture and the priests. It only discusses the initial sanctification and leaves open whether the relevant rituals have to be repeated, for example, after the sanctuary is dismantled and set up again, after a priest becomes impure, or when someone enters the priesthood.31 For the initial sanctification, in most cases P refers to the holy anointing oil (Exod 30:22–25) as the means to establish holiness. However, oil is not mentioned in the ritual of the sanctification of the Nazirites, perhaps because their holiness is only temporary. In case of the court and the offerings, P simply states that they are “holy” (or “most holy”), without explaining how they attained this holy state. Exod 30:22–33, which discusses the composition of the holy anointing oil and its use in the initial sanctification of the sanctuary, the sanctuary furniture, and the priests, explicitly addresses the phenomenon of holiness’ communicability. It does not state explicitly that whatever comes into contact with the oil becomes holy, but this seems the assumption behind the anointing ritual and the warning that whoever reproduces and distributes this oil to ordinary people must die (30:31–33).32 The passage does state explicitly that once the sanctuary and its furniture have been anointed with the oil, “whatever (‫ )כֹל‬touches them will become holy” (30:29). The same formula, with minor variation, is found in Exod 29:37 (referring to the altar of burnt offering) and Lev 6:11, 20 (referring to offerings; see below). Scholars disagree over whether ‫כֹל‬, “whatever,” in this formula refers to objects only or persons as well.33 In any case, it is clear that P considers holiness’ communicability very dangerous. Though in the case of le31  With respect to new priests, see J. Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 535–536, 610–611; idem, Leviticus 17–22 (AB 3A; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 1815–1817, who argues that in later times only the high priest was anointed (Exod 29:29) but not ordinary priests, as their priesthood was thought to be established for all generations through the initial sanctification of Aaron’s sons (Exod 40:15). 32  Alternatively, the threat of death may be a response to improper handling of the holy in general (cf. Exod 30:37–38). 33 Whereas Haran, Temples, 176, holds that ‫ כֹל‬refers to both persons and objects, Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 443–456, argues that for P holiness is only communicable to objects but not to persons. It is true that only Ezekiel addresses the danger that people might become holy (Ezek 42:13–14; 44:19; 46:20). However, in P, the evidence is not as clear as Milgrom presents it. One important question is how one interprets the death of those who touch sancta (Num 4:15, 20; cf. 18:3): Is death an alternative to holiness, as Milgrom has it (ibid., 450), or is it a consequence of holiness? In my view, the second alternative is more likely; see below with n. 36.

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gitimate holiness P has a concept of profanation (see below), illegitimate holiness cannot simply be revoked. P’s main strategy for dealing with this problem is prevention. In only a few instances does it address how the problem must be solved if prevention fails. The problem of holiness’ communicability is somewhat limited in that only some holiness is communicable. With respect to space, it is clear that the holiness of the court is non-communicable, as otherwise ordinary Israelites would not be allowed to enter it. In case of the tent, one could argue on the basis of Exod 30:26, 29 and Num 4:5, 15, 19–20 that the space as such communicates holiness, though the focus is clearly on touching and seeing the furniture. With respect to persons (i. e., priests and Nazirites), P apparently assumes that their holiness is non-communicable. This is indicated by the fact that the sanctification of the priests (Exod 30:30) is mentioned after the verse that holds that the holiness of the objects listed before (the sanctuary and its furniture; 30:26–28) is communicable (30:29). The holiness of Nazirites is clearly non-communicable, as they are not mandated to stay in the sanctuary during their period of consecration. Moreover, P never indicates that physical contact with a priest is dangerous.34 Some verses prohibit Aaron and his sons (Lev 8:33, 35 and 10:7) and the high priest (Lev 21:12) from leaving the sanctuary – obviously not an absolute prohibition (Lev 10:14; 21:2) – but the issue here is not communicability of holiness but the risk of impurity and profanation (Lev 21:1–4, 11–12; cf. Num 6:6–12 for the Nazirites). With respect to the sanctuary and its furniture, Exod 29:37 and 30:26–29 clearly state that their holiness is communicable, and this is confirmed and elaborated in Num 4. According to this latter text, only some parts of the sanctuary (the furniture and utensils) communicate holiness but others (the textiles, frames, pillars, poles, bases, etc.) do not. Thus, the Levites can dismantle and carry the sanctuary, but first the priests must cover all its furniture and utensils, as otherwise the Levites would die (4:15, 20; cf. Num 18:3). In the case of the furniture inside the tent – but not the altar of burnt offering, though it is “most holy” as well35 – even seeing is prohibited (Num 4:20). The prohibition of sight explains the purpose of the curtains, which not only mark the thresholds as unpassable but also block the interior from view. P’s threat of death in case of illegitimate contact with the holy (Num 4:15, 20) sounds like an automatism (there is no mention of human involvement). Whether or not this is the case, death “solves” the problem of illicit sanctification,36 as with death a person presumably

34  Ezek 42:14 and 44:19 differ on this point, but in Ezekiel the issue is not the holiness of the priests but the holiness of their garments. P does not consider the holiness of textiles contagious; see the discussion in Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 447–449. 35  On this and related differences between the altar of burnt offering and the sancta in the tent, see Milgrom, Studies, 41–43. 36 See Hundley, “Sacred Spaces,” 763 n. 46, arguing against Milgrom (see again n. 33 above).

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

35

loses his or her holiness.37 Reflecting some different assumptions, Num 16 and 17:1–5 address the problem of illegitimate sanctification from a different angle. Here, the focus is on the claim of the Korachites that the entire congregation is holy (16:3) – probably a reaction to H’s idea that all Israel is holy. According to this text, it is not physical contact with the holy that causes death – against Num 4, these passages assume that the censers are not holy at the outset – but rather the Korachites’ pretension. However, as this pretension is related to coming into contact with the holy, it also causes a shift from the common to the holy, namely the sanctification of the censers. 17:1–5 focus on making the censers a warning sign, but these verses also reflect the belief that the holiness of the censers cannot be revoked. The solution here is that they are permanently integrated into the sphere of the holy, effectively legitimizing their holiness. With respect to offerings, P only discusses the holiness of parts that can be eaten by humans, leaving the question open as to when exactly an offering becomes holy. In the case of the ‫מנְחָה‬ ִ and the ‫ ַחטָאת‬, P explicitly states that their holiness is communicable (Lev 6:11, 20[–21?]38). Frequently, it rules that offerִ , the ‫ ַחטָאת‬, and ings that are “most holy” – Lev 6:10 and Num 18:9 list the ‫מנְחָה‬ the ‫ ָאשָם‬ – must be eaten “in a holy place” (Lev 6:9, 19; 7:6; 10:12–13, 17–18; 24:9; Num 18:10), that is, in the court. Thus, most scholars assume that P considers the holiness of all offerings that are “most holy” to be communicable (cf. Ezek 42:13; 46:20, where the priests are obliged to eat and cook these offerings in a place away from the public). In the case of other offerings – like the different types of the ‫ זֶבַח ַהשְלָמִים‬and the firstlings of fruits and animals – P apparently sees no danger to or from unsanctified people. Thus, those who bring these offerings can eat most parts of them (Lev 7:11–21; 19:5–8) and the priests are allowed to share the pieces given to them with their families (Lev 7:34; 10:14–15; 22:11–13; Num 18:11–19). Though these offerings are not “most holy,” they still are “holy” (Lev 19:8; 22:2–16; Num 18:11, 19). They do not communicate their holiness,39 but it is important that they not be profaned through impurity. Thus, they must be eaten in a pure state (Lev 7:20–21; 22:3–9; Num 18:11, 13) and in a pure place (Lev 10:14) – regulations that imply that they can be taken home.40 37 Whether it is specifically corpse impurity or death in general that causes this loss remains an open question. 38  The interpretation of Lev 6:20–21 is disputed. Some (like Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 403– 406) point to Lev 11:31–33 and argue that the required washing of the garment and bronze vessel and the breaking of the earthen vessel are means of preventing the spread of impurity. Others (such as Nihan, Priestly Torah, 191–192), however, understand them as means of preventing the further spread of holiness. The immediate context (Lev 6:20) suggests the latter. Nonetheless, it remains notable that these kinds of measures are only mentioned with respect ַ -offering, for which there are other indications that it is seen as a source of impurity to the ‫חטָאת‬ (see n. 52). 39  See Lev 5:14–16 and 22:14 for two other relatively harmless cases of illegitimate contact with holy offerings. 40 See the discussion in Wright, Disposal, 237–242.

36

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In the case of illegitimate holiness, P assumes that the sanctification process cannot simply be revoked. In case of legitimate holiness, however, shifts from the holy to the common are possible. Some are harmless, while others are not. A clearly harmless case is the holiness of the Nazirite, which has a fixed time limit (Num 6:4–8, 13).41 When the time of the ‫נֵז ֶר‬-consecration is over, a ritual is performed, which returns the Nazirite to the state of being common (6:13–20). In addition to this ritual, impurity (from corpses) has the power to nullify the Nazirite’s consecration. The power of impurity to nullify holiness is only expressed this explicitly with regard to the Nazirite (6:6–12), but profanation through (cultic) defilement seems also assumed in passages like Lev 21:1–3, 11– 12 (referring to defilement of priests) and Lev 7:19; 22:9, 15; Num 18:32 (referring to defilement of holy offerings). That P does not discuss harmless cases of profanation more often probably reflects the view that they somehow compromise the system. Holiness should never be profaned by impurity, but it is not always possible to prevent contact between the holy and the impure. While in the case of offerings, drastic measures are possible (the offering may be destroyed, as in Lev 7:19),42 with humans this is not practical. Thus, P addresses the problem of priestly impurity (Lev 21:1–3; Num 19:7) but leaves open what it means for their holiness. It seems to assume that the priests’ holiness remains intact but it does not elaborate on how it is affected by their impurity. When it comes to a particular type of impurity, however, the danger of profanation of the holy is frequently addressed in P or, more precisely, in Ps and especially H. This type of impurity has a moral dimension – hence, scholars call it “moral impurity” – and it defiles from afar, without physical contact.43 Various kinds of offenses44 are described as causes of profanation or defilement:45 improper handling of sacrifices (Lev 19:8; 22:2–10, 15–16; Num 18:32), performance of priestly duties by handicapped priests (Lev 21:23), prohibited departures of priests from the sanctuary (Lev 21:12), failure to perform mandated rituals (Lev 15:31; Num 19:13, 20), false swearing (Lev 19:12), working on the Sabbath (Exod 31:14), breaking a vow (Num 30:3; cf. 6:12), improper sexual relations by priests and their families (Lev 18:20, 23–25, 27–28, 30; 19:29; 21:4, 41 Some other harmless cases are described in Lev 27. On this chapter, see Nihan, Priestly Torah, 94, 552–553, 617–618. 42  See further n. 52 on the disposal of the ‫חטָאת‬ ַ . 43 For a general discussion of moral impurity, see J. Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism (Oxford: University Press, 2000), 21–42. On its power to pollute from afar, see below with n. 47. 44 Some of these offenses concern the cult. Nonetheless, they have a moral dimension as well, as with the cultic offense the offender also disregards God. 45  The texts discuss both defilement (with ‫ ;טמא‬in Num 35:33 also with ‫ )חנף‬and profanation (with ‫)חלל‬, apparently without distinction. There are some cases where one is preferred over the other: the “name” of God and the sacrifices are always “profaned,” whereas the land is always “defiled” (though ‫ חנף‬might have both nuances). However, in cases as important as humans and the sanctuary, the damage is described with both ‫ טמא‬and ‫חלל‬.

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

37

9, 14–15; Num 5:11–31), offering one’s children to Molech (Lev 18:21; 20:3), necromancy (Lev 19:31), homicide and not killing a murderer (Num 35:33–34). Moral impurity may defile the mistreated object (in the cases of the Sabbath, offerings, and vows), the misbehaving person (Lev 18:20, 23–24, 30; 19:31; 21:1, 3–4, 11; Num 5:13–14, 20, 27–29; 6:7, 9) and his / ​her family (Lev 19:29; 21:9, 15), YHWH’s name (Lev 18:21; 19:12; 20:3; 21:6; 22:2, 32), the sanctuary (Lev 20:3; 21:12, 23; Num 19:13, 20), and the land (Lev 18:25, 27–28; Num 35:33–34). Probably these are not alternatives but moral impurity is imagined to permeate everything and everyone that is (or ought to be) holy.46 P probably envisions instant complete profanation in the case of some objects, such as vows, sacrifices, and probably offenders (although in the case of offenders the question is usually irrelevant, since P rules that they have to die). In other cases, however, this cannot be the case, as the holiness in question is too essential. This is particularly clear in the case of the sanctuary. Moral impurity, like severe cultic impurity, has the power to defile the sanctuary from afar.47 This defilement does not nullify its holiness immediately, however. Rather, there is time to take countermeasures. Defilement through severe cultic impurity and through inadvertent sins can – and must – be cleansed immediately by means of ַ -ritual.48 For defilement through more severe sins there is no such posthe ‫חטָאת‬ sibility of immediate cleansing, and the pollution accumulates in the innermost part of the sanctuary. Nonetheless, the sanctuary remains holy enough that YHWH can continue dwelling in it, at least for some time. To keep it this way, once a year, on the Day of Atonement, the sanctuary must be purified (Lev 16:16, 19, 33) so that its holiness becomes as “pure” again as it ought to be.49 Similarly, according to H and other Ps texts, the sins of the Israelites defile the land, but at first this defilement has no consequences. Unlike in the case of the sanctuary, however, here the texts only describe a countermeasure in cases of impurity through murder (Num 35:33). Otherwise, the only strategy is prevention. Besides drastic consequences for offenders (which also stops them from continuing to pollute) it mainly consists in the warning that the land50 is not able to tolerate too many abominations. If the pollution becomes too severe, it will have to “vomit” its inhabitants out (Lev 18:24–28; 20:22) in order to rest (26:33– 35).51 Against its own principle that the holy and the common, the pure and the impure, must be separated for the system to function, in both the cases of the 46

 On the question of the holiness of the land, see n. 18 and n. 29.  See Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 49–50, 254–261, etc. 48 For a detailed study of the functions of the ‫חטָאת‬ ַ and an overview of scholarly positions, see Nihan, Priestly Torah, 166–195. 49  Restoration of undistorted holiness seems to be the meaning of the verb “to sanctify” (‫קדׁש‬ pi.) in Lev 16:19 and perhaps Lev 8:15 (though see Exod 29:36–37). 50  Lev 18:25; 20:23; 26:33 make clear that the driving force behind the land is YHWH. 51  See also the book of Ezekiel, which describes how YHWH moves out of the sanctuary and the land as he cannot endure their impurity any longer. 47

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sanctuary and the land P tolerates something being both holy and impure / ​common at the same time.52 The situation is not tenable in the long run, but it can be endured for a limited period of time.

4. Anthropological Borders (Priests–Ordinary Israelites; Israelites–Foreigners) Finally, P is also interested in anthropological borders, distinctions between different groups of humans. Again, here the picture is complex, as P highlights the importance of some of these borders but also makes statements that show that this importance is limited. Generally, Ps, including H, seems to be more interested in anthropological borders than Pg. Only here some of these distinctions are described with the verb ‫בדל‬: namely, the separation of Israel from all other nations (Lev 20:24, 26) and the separation of the Levites from the rest of the Israelites (Num 8:14; 16:9). Nonetheless, these same texts show an inclusive tendency as well, in that they extend holiness to all Israelites and assert that there is “one law” for Israelites and resident aliens alike. As for the distinction between priests and ordinary Israelites, interestingly, it is never described with the verb ‫בדל‬, even though in cultic matters this distinction is fundamental. P does not explain why it is only Aaron and his male descendants that are singled out by YHWH to serve as his priests; it simply states that they are (Exod 28–29; 40:12–15; Lev 8; Num 3:10; 18:7). The importance of the distinction between priests and ordinary Israelites is clear from verses that employ the term ‫“( ז ָר‬stranger, other”) to describe non-priests (Exod 29:33; 30:33; Lev 22:10, 12–13; Num 3:10, 38; 17:5; 18:7; cf. Num 1:51; 18:4 for nonLevites). These verses all contain prohibitions aimed at keeping non-sanctified humans away from the holy. While those from Exodus and Leviticus deal with the anointing oil and sacrifices, the verses from Numbers deal with the priestly office as such. Like some other verses in Numbers (17:28; 18:3, 22), they address the threat that a non-sanctified person might “approach” (‫)קרב‬, that is, perform the priestly tasks for which they are not qualified.53 Such “encroachers” threaten the holy and, hence, have to die. 52 P seems to make a similar compromise with the ‫חטָאת‬ ַ -offering: Though it is “most holy” (Lev 6:10, 18; Num 18:9), some verses suggest that it is also a source of impurity – which makes sense, given its role in purifying / ​atoning impurities and sins. This interpretation has been suggested by Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 270–272, 403–406, and taken up by Wright, Disposal, 129– 135, who find support in Lev 6:20–21; 16:27–28; Num 19:7–8, 10, 21 and the requirement to ַ -offering outside of the camp (Exod 29:14; Lev 4:11–12, 21; dispose of (burn) one type of ‫חטָאת‬ 6:23; 8:17; 9:11; 16:27; Num 19:3, 5). At least Lev 6:20–21, however, is less clear than they suggest (see n. 38). 53  On these verses and the use of the verb ‫( קרב‬lit. “to approach”) as a technical term to denote usurpation of the function of the priests or Levites, see Milgrom, Studies, 16–22, 33–46.

“And God Separated the Light from the Darkness” (Gen 1:4)

39

Though concerns about proper handling of the holy often reinforce the distinction between priests and ordinary Israelites, there are indications that these concerns about handling the holy are actually more important to P than the priestly status itself. Thus, not only non-priestly “encroachers” have to die, but also priests who perform the priestly tasks in a condition that is not acceptable (Exod 28:35, 43; 30:20; Lev 10:9; cf. Lev 21:17–23; 22:3, 9).54 And, in addition to describing non-priests, the adjective ‫ ז ָר‬also describes improper actions performed by priests (Exod 30:9; Lev 10:1; Num 3:4; 26:61). There are other indications that the privileged position of the priests is not absolute in P – which is noteworthy for a text written and composed by priests, who could easily have highlighted their special status more. However, they do not, but rather indicate that in many regards priests are like their fellow human Israelites. For one, P is clear that when it comes to impurity and sin, priests are not superior to other Israelites. Though they are subject to stricter rules regarding impurity, they are as prone to sin and impurity as everyone else (Lev 4:3; 9:7; 10:1–2, 16–18; 16:6, 11, 24, 33; 22:3–9; cf. Num 16 for the Levites). Conversely, Ps in some respects grants non-priests the capacity to reach a state close to that of priests. For example, it includes the institution of the Levites, who hierarchically stand in between priests and ordinary Israelites (Num 1:49–51; 3:6–9; 4; 8:5–26; 16:9–10; 18:2–6). There is also the institution of Naziritehood (Num 6), which allows all Israelites – explicitly including both men and women (6:2) – to become holy for a limited period of time. During the time of their consecration, Nazirites are priest-like and thus have to follow the same strict rules as priests regarding alcohol, haircuts, and remaining pure (not burying the closest family members). Finally, according to H and related texts, YHWH sanctifies all Israelites (Exod 29:43; 31:13; Lev 20:8; 22:32) and requires all of them to maintain this holiness (Lev 11:44; 19:2; 20:7, 26). Primarily, this means that they are subject to high religious and moral standards, but they are also bound by some requirements regarding bodily integrity (Lev 19:27–28), which is also important for priests (Lev 21:5). The elevation of all Israelites to a priest-like state in H and related texts does not make actual priests superfluous. H repeatedly highlights the priests’ special status and role (Lev 17:5–6; 19:22; 21; 22:1–16; 23:10–11, 20; 24:3–9), and its description of the priests as holy for YHWH and for Israel (Lev 21:6–8) may be an attempt to express that the priests’ holiness is greater than the holiness of the ordinary Israelites. Yet overall, the holiness of priests and the holiness of Israel are described similarly (Lev 21:23; 22:9, 16). As with the distinction between the priests and ordinary Israelites, P presents an ambiguous picture of other anthropological borders as well. For example, P includes statements that reflect patriarchalism alongside others that are gender

54 On

these passages, see Milgrom, Studies, 38–43.

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inclusive (Gen 1:27; Exod 35:22, 29; Lev 12:6; 15:29; Num 5:3, 6; 6:2).55 Its attitude towards foreigners is particularly noteworthy. On the one hand, the special attention that YHWH devotes to Israel is as important in P as it is in Deuteronomy and other texts in the Hebrew Bible (Gen 17:7–8; Exod 6:7; 29:45–46; Lev 11:45; 18:3, 24; 20:22–24, 26; 22:33; 26:12). On the other hand, however, P reflects a much friendlier attitude toward foreigners than most of these other texts. In the primeval history, P starts with a broad focus that includes all humanity, and the table of nations (Gen 10) and other passages make clear that the universal perspective is indeed meant as such.56 Remarkably, already in this first part of the document, P makes some strong statements about the relationship between God and humans: All humans are created as the “image of God” (Gen 1:26–28) and all humans (and animals) are covenant partners of God (Gen 9:8– 17). In the continuation, the focus narrows to Israel, but here as well P maintains an inclusive tendency.57 In Gen 17, it names Abraham and his descendants as the covenant partners of God, even though at this point Isaac is not even born yet, but only Ishmael. This seems to imply that this covenant includes the entire family of Abraham and not only the line of the people who eventually become the Israelites (although the text gives some mixed signals on this point; see vv. 19, 21). Finally, the cultic laws of P confirm its general openness towards non-Israelites. These laws frequently mention the “resident alien” (‫)ג ֵר‬, and it is made clear that the alien can participate in the cult as long as he is circumcised (Exod 12:44, 48)58 and follows all the other cultic requirements. The equality of foreigners and Israelites is emphasized in verses that mandate treating the resident alien much like a native Israelite (Exod 12:48; Lev 19:34) and in verses that stress that there is “one law” for the resident alien and the citizen alike (Ex 12:49; Lev 24:22; Num 9:14; 15:15–16, 29). The relation with the holy lets differences among humans disappear.

5. Summary Borders play an important role in P, both those described with ‫ בדל‬hi. (“to distinguish, separate”) and others. In various ways, they all serve to make the world a livable space. This is most evident of cosmic borders (Gen 1), but it is also true of cultic, anthropological, and other types of borders, as they are all connected with YHWH’s decision to dwell “in the midst” of the Israelites. Because  For details, see Schellenberg, Mensch, 131–134, 383–386.  For details, see Schellenberg, Mensch, 137–140. 57 For details, see Schellenberg, Mensch, 373–379. 58  Circumcision is also highlighted in Ezek 44:7, 9. There, however, the argumentation goes the other way around: because foreigners are not circumcised, they are not allowed to enter the sanctuary. 55 56

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YHWH is holy, his presence requires a sanctuary that is kept holy, a special class of priests who can serve him, and impeccable behavior on the part of the people around this sanctuary – requirements that can only be met if separations are made and borders are respected. As YHWH’s dwelling within Israel is of utmost importance for P, P lays out strict rules aimed at securing the borders and in many cases threatens death to those who transgress them. At the same time, however, P reflects a great deal of realism and pragmatism and a theology that transcends categories. Though borders are important, they are not ends in themselves but only means to a greater end, namely a world that allows humans and God to live in proximity to each other. Thus, P indicates that some borders are of limited importance, and even with respect to more important borders it allows some variance, flexibility, and compromise. Geographical and anthropological borders fall into the former category. They are of limited importance, as it is not space and humans that define holiness but holiness that defines space and humans. The awareness of the limited relevance of borders is particularly noteworthy with regard to humans, as here P shows an inclusive tendency that is markedly different from the exclusivism expressed in other books of the Hebrew Bible. The two (connected) borders that never lose importance, according to P, are those between the holy and the common and the pure and the impure. With respect to these borders, P displays realism, knowing that humans cannot uphold these borders absolutely, given that impurity and sin are part of the world. It also displays pragmatism, allowing variance and flexibility. P acknowledges that the borders between the pure and the impure and the holy and the common constantly shift, offers means through which many unwelcome shifts can be rectified, distinguishes different types of holiness and impurity (and respective dangers), and even tolerates the compromise that in some cases, for a limited time, the impure and the holy may overlap. Both the borders and P’s occasional flexibility with them serve the goal of allowing God and humans to “walk” together – as envisioned by God in the very beginning (Gen 6:9), and, in modified form focusing on Israel (Gen 17:1), to the very end (Lev 26:12). This “walk” of God and humans together is only possible with some safety measures, including borders. Ultimately, however, these borders exist to facilitate God’s dwelling on earth, which not only brings humans in close proximity to God but also transforms the world into a “sacred place.”

What to do with borders when they become obsolete? Strategies of re-defining border concepts in the Hebrew and Greek Text of Genesis Martina Kepper In his groundbreaking book on the interrelation of (modern) states and violence, Anthony Giddens introduced the distinction between borders and frontiers,1 the first being typical of modern states that claim and control a certain territory. In biblical terms this territory in question is simply called “the land” or eretz yisrael. Considering the violent conflicts that haunt the southern Levant in our days, it seems that this claim for territory and political influence still is one, if not the key issue. The question of who first settled in “the land” shapes the argument on both sides, especially in the often applied mixture of political interests and religious embellishments of fundamentalists. This term, rather than the clear cut notion of boundaries, like e. g. the “green line” dividing Israeli and Palestinian responsibilities, plays an important role in recent discourse and publications, not to mention that one of the mass media in the modern state of Israel is simply called “HaAretz.” Indeed, reading the Bible in its canonical shape could lead to the impression that this claim for “the land” is well-founded: In the books Joshua to 2 Kings we find a continuous narration from the conquest of the land through the establishment of an administrative entity called the United Monarchy up to the struggle of the divided monarchies for political autonomy against the surrounding empires that finally led to the catastrophe of the Babylonian Exile. And even the claim for “the land” that led to the conquest at first hand might seem justified: The so called Deuteronomistic History is complemented with a prehistory in the ancestor narratives in the book of Genesis, claiming that “the land” is said to be promised to Israel’s ancestors by God. 1  A. Giddens, A Contemporary Critique of Historical Marxism II: The Nation-State and Violence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), note the definition p. 52 f. Cf. also J. W. Rogerson, “Frontiers and Borders in the Old Testament,” in: In Search of True Wisdom. Essays in Honour of Ronald E. Clements (JSOT Supplement 300; E. Ball ed.; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 116–126, who discusses whether the application of this modern distinction should be applied to the Old Testament texts as well.

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But, as modern research has undisputedly shown without any doubt, this one-dimensional perception of Israel’s settlement in “the land” is simply wrong because most of the texts dealing with “the land” have been written after “the land” was lost.2 Therefore, it seems not unnecessary to reexamine the term “land” (eretz / ​‫ ארץ‬in Hebrew, gē / ​γη in Greek) in its Old Testament setting, raising the question of how the borders of “the land” are established, what concepts lie behind it and especially how these borders were reshaped under different political situati ons in antiquity. As the Genesis texts introduce “the land” as promised to the ancestors this paper will focus especially on them.3

1. The land and its boundaries: a very brief overview As can easily be seen on every map of the southern Levant, the geography of the so called “holy land” is highly fractured and not habitable in all parts. The question who settled between the natural boundaries of Mount Hermon in the north, the Mediterranean coast in the west, Gilead east of the Jordan River and in the deserts of the south, right in the centre of rugged highlands, and when this population understood themselves as one nation is a highly controversial matter. Even the Bible itself is not unambiguous, as it provides us with two different myths of foundation: the so called ancestor stories, claiming that the nation evolved within the particular land as an autochthonous entity, and the Exodus tradition, stating that this people came to the land from outside. Combining both myths4 by inserting the Joseph-novella, and continuing with the sometimes brutal conquest stories as well as the synchronistic history of the kingdoms in this land in the so called Deuteronomistic History – the biblical books Joshua to 2 Kings – the Bible portrays an exhaustive view of “Israel” fighting for and living in this land, thus establishing the basis for the modern myths concerning the land today. But what can be really said about the dimensions of this land? As it is highly contentious, if we can even find any reliable historical information at all about the first half of the first millenium BCE in the Bible itself,5 we must search for 2 There is an unmanageable bulk of literature dealing with the question of when the different layers of the Pentateuch as well as of the Deuteronomistic History have been written. For a recent summary cf. T. Römer, “Zwischen Urkunden, Fragmenten und Ergänzungen: Zum Stand der Pentateuchforschung,” ZAW 125 (2013): 2–24; C. Levin, “Nach 70 Jahren: Martin Noth’s Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien,” ZAW 125 (2013): 72–92. 3  It should be mentioned that the Hebrew word eretz of course has different connotations. The usage in Genesis is quite distinctive. Whereas in the first 11 chapters the word is used in the sense of Engl. earth (In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, Gen 1:1) the meaning is Engl. land throughout the remaining chapters. 4 Cf. the seminal work of K. Schmid, Erzväter und Exodus (WMANT 81; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 1999). 5  As is accepted by the majority of modern researchers we surely have memories of these centuries preserved in the prophetic as well as the historical books of the Hebrew Bible. To what

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extra-biblical evidence. Unfortunately, the archeological or epigraphical data are similarly disputed and inductive.6 After a long and controversial discussion it seems to be more or less accepted by a majority of researchers that we do have a reference to the biblical “king” David,7 but figures like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, or Moses and Joshua still are reminiscences of an obscure past. What can be reconstructed from extra-biblical sources about the dimensions of “the land” may be briefly summarized – and I now can be nothing more than a terrible simplificateur: First, there was the Egyptian province Kn’n, reaching from a few kilometres north of Byblos to the east, including Damascus, following the eastern bank of the River Jordan to the south, up to the Wadi al-Aris (or Wadi Gazze), heading from the southernmost point of the Dead Sea to the west toward the Mediterranean Coast.8 Sometime during the 10th–9th century first the northern, later on the southern kingdom evolved, mainly in the mountainous highlands including territories east of the River Jordan, its northern border hard-fought against Aramean influence, to the south restricted by the uninhabitable desert.9 A next step was the separation of the districts east of the River Jordan, which probably took place under Assyrian rule. As the writings of the Old Testament themselves show, the coastal plain never was part of “the land” but remained under control of the Philistines. Under Persian rule10 the territory in focus became part of the satrapy Transeuphratene. The medina or district Yehud was a very small entity with Jerusalem in its centre, reaching north to Bet-El, south to Bet-Zur, and limited on the east by the Dead Sea.11 In the 2nd extend the entire literary production can be traced back to these times, however, is not clear and disputed, cf. J. C. Gertz, Grundinformation Altes Testament (4th ed.; Stuttgart: UTB, 2010).  6  Just to mention a few coordinates within this field, cf. the discussions about the United Monarchy with its protagonists I. Finkelstein on the one side and Y. Garfinkel on the other: I. Finkelstein, “The Iron Age ‘Fortresses’ of the Negev Highlands: Sedentarization of the Nomads,” Tel Aviv 11 (1984): 189–209; N. Na’aman, Borders and Districts in Biblical Historiogra­ phy (Jerusalem: Simor Ltd., 1986); Y. Garfinkel and S. Ganor. “Khirbet Qeiyafa: A Fortified Border City between Judah and Philistia,” in: New Studies in the Archaeology of Jerusalem and its Region. 2 (D. Amit and G. Stibel eds.; Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 2008), 122–133; F. Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers: The Roles of Ancestor Veneration in Biblical Land Claims (LHBOTS 473; London: T&T Clark International, 2010); E. R. Kennedy, Seeking a Homeland: Sojourn and Ethnic Identity in the Ancestral Narratives of Genesis (BI 106, Leiden: Brill, 2011).  7  About the so-called Tel Dan Inscription mentioning a “house of David” see G. Athas, The Tel Dan Inscription, a Reappraisal and a New Interpretation (JSOT.S 360; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003); and for a rejoinder V. Sasson, “Some Observations on the Use and Original Purpose of the waw consecutive in Old Aramaic and Biblical Hebrew,” VT 47 (1997): 111–127.  8 H. Weippert, Palästina in vorhellenistischer Zeit (Munich: C. H.Beck, 1988), 4 f.  9  I. Finkelstein, The Forgotten Kingdom. The Archeology and History of the Northern King­ dom (SBL Ancient Near East Monographs 5; Atlanta: SBL, 2013). 10 O. Lipschits and M. Oeming eds., Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006). 11  P. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2002).

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century BCE the Hasmoneans were able to establish a very big and relatively independent kingdom, including vast territories in the north and east as well as in the south.12 All these real borders found their way into the writings of the Hebrew Bible.

2. Setting the stage: The borders of “the land” in Old Testament writings Although we cannot say with certainty how the memories of these geopolitical realities were adopted into the writings of the Hebrew Bible, we can trace them in the Deuteronomistic History. But in contrast to its modern distribution in political discussions, the biblical term eretz yisrael or Land of Israel is rare and late.13 The Old Testament writings contain several different definitions of the borders of this “land,” mostly to describe the territory of the so-called United Monarchy of David and Solomon, as well as the divided monarchies of Israel in the north and Judah in the south until the Babylonian Exile. A first example may be the well-known formula “from Dan to Beersheba.”14 I would like to call this pattern a static border concept because the outermost northern and southern cities are mentioned as set or fixed points to define the territory as a whole. Maybe it is noteworthy that the eastern and western borders are left out. Obviously, it is self-evident that the River Jordan as a natural border and the Coastal Region with its powerful Philistine Pentapolis limit the influence of “Israel.” This concept is also static because the recipients of the text must know the references; otherwise this kind of definition would not work.15 It is possible, but not entirely necessary, that static border definitions reflect real, historical circumstances. In fact, most of the descriptions to be found in the Old Testament do not: According to E. A. Knauf,16 they refer to different territories in different times and apply only partly to realistic borders, more to utopian borders. But it is necessary that a static border concept can rely on names of places, landscapes or geographical circumstances the audience of the texts still are familiar

 K. Bringmann, Geschichte der Juden im Altertum ( Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 2005). appears only 12 times in the entire Hebrew text of the Old Testament. In canonical order we find it in 1 Sam 13:19; 2 Kings 5:2, 4; 6:23; Ez 27:17; 40:2; 47:18; 1 Chr 13:2; 22:2; 2 Chr 2:16; 30:25; 34:7. It may be disputed whether 1 Sam 13:19 in fact is the oldest reference to the term “land of Israel.” 14  1 Sam 30:20; 2 Sam 3:10; 17:11; 24:2,15 et al. 15  In the words of B. U. Schipper, this could be called a “mindscape;” cf. B. U. Schipper, “Zum geopolitischen Hintergrund von Num 34:2–12,” ZDPV 127 (2011):142–161, esp. 157 16  Cf. E. A. Knauf, “Grenzen,” WUB 3 (2008): 49. Besides Genesis, he refers to Num 34 and Jos 15–19. Cf. also W. D. Davies, The Territorial Dimension of Judaism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 62–67. 12

13 It

What to do with borders when they become obsolete?

47

with.17 Returning to Knauf, “from Dan to Beersheba” together with Gilead east of the Jordan River best describes the real political conditions of the Omride Dynasty with Israel as the northern kingdom reigning over Judah as a vassal in the south;18 this, however, does not mean that every text applying this formula must have been written during this time. The function of a static border concept reflecting real borders certainly is to refer to “the good old days.” Remembering a glorious past surely is helpful in managing a difficult present. Another example can be found in Num 34, which is paralleled in Ez 47. Both texts convey a long list of city names. Within the narratological framework of these texts the lists carefully describe the south and north borders19 of the United Monarchy by mentioning several cities which can easily be combined to form a border line, provided that at least some of the names are known to the audience of the texts. Although composed much later, both texts with static concepts refer to the ancient Egyptian province KN’N, which is astonishing since a territory of that dimensions never was under control of one of the kingdoms. Speaking in terms of a narratological approach, the connection to Egypt mentioned in both texts may have brought forward the necessity for such reminiscences. A last example of this pattern is the description “from Euphrates to the border of Egypt” in 1 Kings 5:1 for the Solomonic territory, which probably is a very utopian description with no relation to any real political situation whatsoever, especially if eber hannachalah in 1 Kings 5:4 is correctly to be understood as “beyond the Euphrates.”20 Certainly this does not mean that King Solomon ever ruled over Mesopotamia, just the other way around! It is a matter of perspective: “Beyond the Euphrates” is an Aramaean description, applied to Syria and Palestine as a whole from an Aramaean point of view.21 So, this “very-big” Israel22 is defined by a static border concept, but a concept that only makes sense from outside the territory which it defines. And this utopian static border concept functions even more as a way to compensate for political powerlessness. The

17  Cf. also V. Fritz, “Die Grenzen des Landes Israel,” in: Studies in Historical Geography and Biblical Historiography, (G. Galil and M. Weinfeld eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 14–34, esp.14. 18 According to G. Lehmann, Judah was first able to expand its sovereignty west into the Shefela after the destruction of the Philistine cities by King Hazael of Damascus 826–825 BCE Cf. G. Lehmann, “When did the Shefela become Judahite,” Tel Aviv 41 (2014): 77–94. 19 The east and the west borders are not mentioned. This is a rather complex issue as the Deuteronomistic history clearly knows about settlement east of the Jordan river. Probably, Num 34 wants to replace the eastern territories with new and fictional areas in the north, cf. Fritz, “Grenzen,” 25. 20  As it is clear that the biblical text refers to Palestine, several modern translations change the text, e. g. Luther 84 or Zürcher 2007: diesseits des Euphrates. 21 Cf. the description of the 5th satrapy by Herodotus, III,91 and its critique by K. Ruffing, “Die ‘Satrapienliste’ des Dareios: Herodoteisches Konstrukt oder Realität?”, Archäologische Mitteilungen aus Iran und Turan 41 (2009): 323–340. 22 This is my translation of “Ganz-Groß-Israel” coined by Knauf, “Grenzen,” 48.

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same is to be said about the only static border concept in Genesis, namely Gen 15:18 “from the River of Egypt to the great River, the River Euphrates.” All examples agree upon the concept in principle, namely that the borders of “the land” are established by naming the limiting points, cities or landscapes that separate one territory from another. If the concepts had any reality at all,23 it is totally clear that the real borders lying behind these formulas must have become obsolete after the fall of the northern capital Samaria during the Assyrian campaign of Sennacherib and Sargon that led to the total destruction of the northern kingdom in 722 BCE. At least they must have become totally obsolete after the fall of the southern capital Jerusalem during the Babylonian campaign in 586 BCE. Until the Hasmonean rule in parts of Palestine in the second century BCE there existed no “Israel” as an autonomous state at all. Therefore, the question arises why border concepts are applied at all and especially if and how they are changed under different conditions.

3. Changing the perspective: a dynamic border concept in Genesis According to its function as a prehistory, the term eretz yisrael is entirely lacking in Genesis: following the narrative material, “Israel” has not yet been established in the time of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The territories of the neighbouring nations, however, are named according to the established pattern, namely eretz + name. Thus, we find eretz Mizrajim 33 times (Gen 13:10 et al.) eretz Edom 4 times (Gen 36:16,17,21,31) or eretz of the Philistines twice (Gen 21:32,34).24 But above all, the ancestral narratives in Genesis repeatedly stress that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, together with their wives and children and all their possessions, came to the land of Canaan (‫ארץ כנען‬, or eretz Canaan), which is somewhat surprising as this name is connected primarily to the coastal region as the settlement of the Philistines.25 The term appears 35 times in Genesis and it is clear that “the land” is inhabited by the Canaanites so that the ancestors live in this land as foreigners (cf. Gen 17:8). The land in focus to which the ancestors come and live in is surrounded and limited by the land of the other nations, if it is right to apply this modern term to ancient societies. And this land clearly is not theirs. 23

 Cf. Fritz, “Grenzen,” 30 f. type of naming territories is using landscape + name, cf. mountains of Se’ir in 36:9 or mountains of Gilead in 31:23,25. 25  The term probably is already used in the Amarna letters, describing the red purple which was one of the main trading goods of the Philistines settling along the border of the Mediterranean Sea, and thus become eponymous, cf. B. Maisler, “Canaan and Canaanites,” BASOR 102 (1946): 7–12; H.-J. Zobel, “KN’N,” ThWAT 4 (1982): 224–243; N. Na’aman, “The Canaanites and Their Land: A Rejoinder,” UF 26 (1994): 397–418. 24 Another

What to do with borders when they become obsolete?

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As a consequence of this fact, the Hebrew text of Genesis stresses repeatedly that God will give this land to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and their offspring. Though the term “promised land” is a modern term that never appears in the biblical writings, it has become a common dictum. The biblical pattern is different and a quite stable formula: After a narratological opening (“God appeared to X”), God stresses in direct speech that he will give or has given the land to the ancestor, always with the Hebrew root ntn (“to give”) and a suffixed form of the particle l (“to”).26 The tense of the verb is mutable, as are the appositions to the land. The mention of the offspring is optional. This formula appears 7 times in Genesis. Strikingly, all attestations point to a rather late stratum of the text production. Any proposal concerning the origin of these promises within the ancestor narratives has to take into account the changing trends in recent research dealing with the literary growth of that work. Although a new consensus of how the canonical shape of Genesis came into being, and at what stage in history, has not been reached yet, the perception that promising, or better giving the land to the ancestors is connected with – within the framework of the Documentary Hypothesis  – the Priestly code is rather undisputed.27 Actually, Gen 17:8; 28:4; 35:12; 48:4, essentially the revelations to Jacob and one to Abraham, are mostly said to belong to PG 28 and therefore are not older than the 6th century. Even younger are the other two remaining texts associated with Abraham in Gen 13:1729 and 15:18. “The land” is one of the key issues of this literary layer,30 as a promise that yet has to be redeemed. Written for a community that has been driven out of and lost “the land,” the Priestly Code finds its own concepts for defining its borders. This different border concept can be described as dynamic. First, keeping the pattern of naming, “the land” gets a new name. Abraham and Jacob, whose dif26  Therefore, M. Bauks is right in claiming that the term promising of the land (“Landverheissung”) for these texts is misleading and should be altered to donation of the land (“Landgabe”), cf. M. Bauks, “Die Begriffe ‫ נחלה‬und ‫ מורשה‬in Pg. Überlegungen zur Landkonzeption der Priestergrundschrift,” ZAW 116 (2004): 171–188, esp. 187. 27 Again, we find a nearly unmanageable bulk of literature. Cf. among others M. Köckert, “Das Land in der priesterlichen Komposition des Pentateuch,” in: Von Gott reden. Beiträge zur Theologie und Exegese des Alten Testaments. Festschrift für Siegfried Wagner, (D. Vieweger and E. J. Waschke eds.,Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 1995), 147–162; M. G. Brett, “The Priestly Dissemination of Abraham,” HEBAI 3 (2014): 87–107. 28  Bauks, “Begriffe,” 171. 29  The date of Gen 13:14–18 is heavily disputed. W. Zwickel, “Der Altarbau Abrahams zwischen Bethel und Ai (Gen 12f). Ein Beitrag zur Datierung des Jahwisten,” BZ NF 36 (1992): 207–219, votes for the late 10th century BCE, therefore making it the oldest text promising land to the ancestors. For the different view see C. Levin, Der Jahwist, (FRLANT 157; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 146. 30  Cf. J. Wöhrle, “The Un-Empty Land. The Concept of Exile and Land in P,” in: The Con­ cept of Exile in Ancient Israel and its Historical Contexts, (E. Ben-Zvi and C. Levin eds.; BZAW 404, Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 189–206.

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ferent stories are skillfully arranged in pairs,31 both have to live in this land as strangers (eretz megurecha 17:4 parallel 28:4). Defining the borders of this land, therefore, becomes difficult if not impossible because both Israel’s ancestors and the Canaanites now have to live within the same land.32 One of the main issues about borders, namely dividing territories to differentiate between diverging social or ethnic groups,33 becomes obsolete. The border concept changes to a dynamic one: No limiting geographical points determine the border any longer but rather the operating radius of the particular ancestor. When we first look at Abraham, we find that he gets the order to leave his homeland and go to the land that God will show (Hebr. r’h hiph’il) to him (Gen 12:1). Then he first reaches Shechem (12:6), then settles between Bethel and Ai (12:8) before heading for the south, where he still dwells (13;1,3) after his return from Egypt. There he gets the first important revelation: God will give him all the land that he can see (Hebr. r’h qal).34 His main point of settlement, however, is Mamre near Hebron (13:18; 18:1; 23:2). He only has a few “breakouts”: the first way up north, up to Dan and even Hoba, which is north of Damascus (14:14f) to settle family affairs, the second to the south, namely Kadesh, Shur and the desert of Beersheba (20:1; 21:14) for the same reason.35 It, therefore, is clear that Abraham is mainly connected to the south, the Judahite territory. Looking at Jacob, we find another geographical orientation: He obviously lives where his father Isaac lives, which is at the well Lahairoi (25:11, connecting his dwelling with that of Hagar, cf. 16:14). Contrary to Abraham, who had to 31 This is one of the main literary features of the Priestly Code, cf. K. Schmid, Literatur­ geschichte des Alten Testaments (Darmstadt: WBG, 2008), 124 f. 32  It is a matter of dispute whether these texts speak to the deported people in the Babylonian Gola and therefore have to be dated exilic, or have in mind the returnees claiming to be the “genuine Israel” and therefore should be dated postexilic, cf. A. de Pury, “Der priesterschriftliche Umgang mit der Jakobsgeschichte,” in: Schriftauslegung in der Schrift (FS O. H. Steck) (BZAW 300; R. G. Kratz et.al. eds.; Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 2000), 33–60; idem, “The Jacob Story and the Beginning of the Formation of the Pentateuch,” ThANT 99, Zürich, 2010, 147–169; de Pury claims a pre-exilic formation of the Jacob cycle, but without the land-texts, 160. Stating more precisely that P sees the land as the place of cohabitation between the returning exiles and the non-exiles, cf. Nili Wazana, “All the Boundaries of the Land: The Promised Land in Biblical Thought in Light of the Ancient Near East” (in Hebrew) Sifriyat ha-Entsiḳlopedyah ha-Miḳra’it 24 (2007): 387. 33 P. Bolte, “Grenze,” in: Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbegriffe III (H. Cancik, B. Gladigow, K.-H. Kohl eds.; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1993), 50 f. 34  Knauf tries to reconstruct the real dimensions of this “land” that could be seen from the point between Bethel and Ai where Abraham was probably standing, cf. E. A. Knauf,, “Der Umfang des verheißenen Landes nach dem Ersten Testament,” Bibel und Kirche 54 (1999): 152–155, esp. 154. Although his conclusions are appealing, especially as they seem to match the borders of the Persian province Yehud, such firm establishments remain insecure in the light of historical reconstructions versus literary constructions. 35  The somewhat mythical places Salem (14:18) and Moriah (22:2) cannot be located with certainty.

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leave Mesopotamia, he explicitly has to go back there, namely to Haran (26:5). On his way, he passes Bethel (26:19) before he gets to his uncle Laban in Haran (29:4). After getting married to Leah and Rachel, he flees from there to the east of the river Jordan, namely to the mountains of Gilead (31:25), where he has more encounters with God, namely in Mahanaim (32:3 f.) and at the river Jabbok (32:20–23) as well as in Penuel (32:31). He finally settles in the heartland, buying land in Sukkot near Shechem (33:17) and often returns to Bethel (35:1–6).36 Around this figure the memories of the Israelite kingdom are collected. This “topographical orchestration”37 has a double goal: First, Abraham and Jacob are concisely paralleled.38 Although each has his own main region of activity, they also have to “visit” the region of the other ancestor. Therefore, the figure of Abraham, as a representative of the southern kingdom, also has to stay in the north, namely Shechem. And the other way around, the figure of Jacob, the ideal ancestor of the North and even named „Israel“, has to come to Mamre (35:27), Abraham’s dwelling place. Second, through their operating radius, the borders of both kingdoms, Israel and Judah, are contoured, including the region east of the River Jordan. This is a rather complex issue, as the territory east of the river Jordan underwent different stages of change. Probably the River Jordan did not serve as a natural border before the times of Assyrian hegemony.39 Although both territories ceased to exist as political entities, the acting protagonists stay connected to the toponyms. As a consequence of this new concept, the borders become fuzzy and are no longer defined by stable toponyms but by verbs of activity: Abraham is prompted to walk (Hebr. hlk hitpa’el) through the land in its length and breadth (Hebr. larkah ulrachbah, Gen 13:17) without any further information exactly where to go. Correspondingly, Jacob has to inherit (Hebr. yrs) the land (Gen 28:4). By doing so, they take possession of a land with fuzzy borders, alongside the other inhabitants, to manage their lives in a new situation. The formulation as orders (an imperative in 13:17 and an infinitive in 28:4) focuses on the pre36  These are only the main geographical places mentioned in the Abraham‑ and Jacob – cycles. An exhaustive examination of the geographical settings in Genesis is to be found in D. Jericke, Die Ortsangaben im Buch Genesis (FRLANT 248, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013). 37  Jericke, Ortsangaben, 212–227: “Die literarisch-topographische Inszenierung.” 38  It should be noted that Isaac never gets a promise of the land personally, as Gen 26:4, his revelation in Gerar, states that God will give the land (only) to Isaac’s offspring. This is formulated as a mixture of the two former revelations to his father Abraham. It says that he should stay in the land that God will say to him. Accordingly, God said to Abraham first, he should go to the land that God will show him; secondly, he told him to go to the Land of Moriah to sacrifice his son Isaac on one of the hills that God will say to him. Isaac serves merely as a genealogical hinge between Abraham and Jacob. 39 Most likely Tiglathpileser III made the eastern territory a province in its own right, named Gilead, cf. A. Alt, “Das System der assyrischen Provinzen auf dem Boden des Reiches Israel,” in: Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel II (2nd ed.; Munich: C. H.Beck, 1959), 188–206; Fritz, Grenzen, 24.

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sent age. Compared to the other promises in the future tense, this new concept introduces a strong anti-eschatological tenor, inviting its readers to settle their lives now and within these new circumstances, following the paradigm of their ancestors. It would have been quite easy to give up any geographical issues after the loss of the land. But instead, the writers summed up by the Priestly Code transformed the concept of “the land” and opened it to the idea of inner-social diversity. Not without reason, these new formulated promises of “the land” are accompanied by undisputable signs of religious diversification: Gen 17 connects the promise to circumcision, Gen 28 to exclusive cultic obedience to YHWH.

4. Blurring the borders: Transformation through translation Another step within the developing border concepts is reached in the 3rd century BCE. As is nearly universally accepted in modern research, the translation of the Hebrew scriptures into the lingua franca of Hellenistic times, the Greek koine, was a milestone of Hellenistic Judaism, which maybe even helped the Jewish community to survive within a completely different and challenging culture.40 Some found it dangerous to translate the “holy scriptures” into a foreign language, as the grandson of the Jewish sage Ben Sira states at the beginning of his translation of his grandfather’s work: for what was originally expressed in He­ brew does not have the same force when it is in fact rendered in another language (Prologue 15, NETS). On the other hand, the translation offered the chance to adapt the concepts evolved over a long time and under different conditions, to the challenges of a new situation. Or, as Erich Gruen puts it: “Hellenistic Jews found in them a prod for imagination and inventiveness.”41 What differentiates this enterprise from the earlier adjustments of theological concepts that can be traced within the different literary layers of the Old Testament concerning the “promised land” is that the Alexandrian Jewish community42 probably did not have the intention to actually live in this particular  As implied by the title of T. Rajak, Translation and Survival, The Greek Bible of the An­ cient Jewish Diaspora (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). For recent introductions to the Septuagint cf. J. Dines, The Septuagint, (London: T&T Clark 2004); K. Jobes and M. Silva, In­ vitation to the Septuagint (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic Press, 2005); N. Fernandes Marcos, The Septuagint in Context: Introduction to the Greek Version of the Bible (Sheffield: SBL, 2009). For modern translations see the New English Translation of the Septuagint (NETS; http://ccat. s​a​s​.upenn.edu/nets/edition); Septuaginta Deutsch, Das griechische Alte Testament in deutscher Übersetzung, Stuttgart, 2009. 41 E. S. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 137. 42  The scenario evoked by the Letter of Aristeas seems to be plausible: The translation took place in Alexandria, Ps-Arist 301–311. Cf. also Arist fr 3 by Euseb praep. ev. 13,12,2; Philo de 40

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“land” anymore. As members of a Hellenistic politeuma,43 they had themselves settled and acculturated within a Hellenistic society they did not necessarily want to leave geographically. Maybe, this was even futile as “the land” itself, as part of the Seleucid or Ptolemaic provinces as well as under Hasmonean rule, was a Hellenistic society as well.44 But as strong as the will to refresh the ancient theologoumena might have been, a translation is still a translation and has to pay attention to its Vorlage, especially when this is holy scripture.45 Therefore, the translator of the Hebrew text of Genesis46 was not free to write a new story of Abraham or Jacob, ranging through “the land.” He47 had to deal with the static as well as the dynamic border concepts he came upon in the Hebrew text and could only change nuances in using different translation techniques to stress his new concepts.48 The Greek text of Genesis (henceforth GenLXX) shows traces of such subtle changes. A striking example is GenLXX 35:12, the revelation to Jacob at Bethel. The Greek text reads: vita Mosis II,37. On the different dating hypotheses of the translation see Dines, Septuagint, 27–40. For Aristeas see the contribution by Barbara Schmitz in this volume. 43  For a convenient summary of the situation of the Jewish community in Alexandria, cf. G. Hölbl, Geschichte des Ptolemäerreiche (Darmstadt: WBG, 1994), 166–168. 44 That Jerusalem and the heartland of Palestine were deeply influenced by Hellenism since the 3rd century BCE at the latest should be clear after the stupendous work of Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus. Studien zu ihrer Begegnung unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Palästinas bis zur Mitte des 2. Jhd.s vor Chr. (WUNT 10, 3. ed.; J. Jeremias and O. Michel eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988). 45  Although the canonizing process of the sacred Jewish scriptures surely was not concluded before the second century CE, the Greek Pentateuch with Genesis as the pioneering first translation can be dated much earlier, maybe as early as the third century BCE. The orientation points for a relative chronology are the letter of Aristeas, the quotations in different writers, already conducted by H. B. Swete, An Introduction to the Old Testament in Greek (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1900, repr. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1989), 369f, as well as Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 957. 46 Assuming that the Letter of Aristeas is right in putting the beginning of the translation project under the rule of Ptolemy II Philadelphus (285–246 BCE) and that the book of Genesis was the first to be translated, it is plausible that its translator was a pioneer, trying different strategies in translating and testing variable renderings for Hebrew words, thus explaining the rather ambivalent style of its work. For a discussion of Ps.-Arist see E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (G. Vermes and F. Millar eds.; Sheffield, Sheffield Academic Press, 1986), 679–684, and for questions concerning GenLXX, in particular the article by S. Schorch and P. Prestel in Septuaginta Deutsch. Erläuterungen und Kommentare (M. Karrer and W. Kraus eds.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2011) vol. I, 145–151. 47  The translator most probably was male, K. de Troyer, “Septuagint and Gender Studies: The Very Beginning of a Promising Liaison,” in: A Feminist Companion to Reading the Bible (A. Brenner and S. Fontaine eds.; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 326–365, esp. 333. 48  Every comparison between the Hebrew and the Greek text of course has to check text critical issues first. But different from other biblical books, GenLXX is of lesser text critical value, cf. E. Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (3rd ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 48 ff. This makes it possible to consider the possibility that the translator intentionally deviated from his Hebrew text.

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καὶ τὴν γῆν, ἥν δέδωκα ῾Αβραὰμ καὶ ᾽Ισαὰκ, σοὶ δέδωκα αὐτήν: σοὶ ἔσται, καὶ τῷ σπέρματί σου μετὰ σὲ δώσω τὴν γῆν ταύτην. And the land, I have given Abraam and Isaak: I have given it to you (too). It will be yours. And I will give this land to your offspring after you.

We find two significant differences related to the Hebrew Vorlage. The Greek δέδωκα renders the Hebrew verb ntn which is used three times in both versions. But whereas the Hebrew text uses a perfect denoting a past tense only for its first appearance (natatti), GenLXX uses the Gr. perfect twice, for a Hebrew imperfect denoting future tense (ettenennah) in the second place. The different rendering is not prompted by any obvious philological reason. At first sight, this may only be a slight change, but it makes a great difference: The “Hebrew” Jacob will get the land, but the “Greek” Jacob already has got it. This is even more stressed by the second difference: GenLXX inserts σοὶ ἔσται, which has no Ηebrew equivalent at all. For the Ηebrew text, the situation is clear: Jacob / ​Israel will get the land as his father and grandfather had got it. And his offspring will get it anew. This concept is specific for the Priestly Code. While undoubtedly the assignment of the land is very important for P, it still is highly disputed whether this assignment is already realized in the times of the ancestors or will be fulfilled in the time of the descendants.49 As Wöhrle observes, the Hebrew tenses used in this promise to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are different, using past tenses for Abraham and Isaac, but future tense for Jacob / ​Israel. Therefore, the promises to the ancestors have been fulfilled; they really owned the land. But Jacob / ​Israel will own it. In Wöhrle’s words: “The promised land is rather given anew to the ancestors and to their descendants in every generation. This priestly concept can well be understood against the background of the early post-exilic time and against the background of the situation of the returnees from the Babylonian exile, who came to an un-empty land.”50 But this surely is not any longer the situation for the Greek translator. His translation deals with other problems. For him, Jacob already possessed the land like his father and grandfather, as he uses σοὶ δέδωκα αὐτήν, the same tense as applied for Abraham and Isaac against the Hebrew text. But by inserting σοὶ ἔσται he differentiates between two kinds of attitude Jacob / ​Israel has towards the land. The syntagm σοὶ ἔσται is somewhat puzzling. It seems to be a mixture of Greek and Hebrew usage. In Greek, ἔστιν + name or possessive pronoun in the genitive 49  Two examples for different views are Köckert, Land, 153, opting for the fulfillment, and R. Klein, “The Message of P,” in: Die Botschaft und die Boten. Festschrift für Hans Walter Wolff zum 70. Geburtstag (J. Jeremias and L. Perlitt eds.; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 1981), 57–66, arguing against this view. 50 Wöhrle, “Un-Empty Land,” 199.

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designates legal ownership.51 GenLXX using the dative marks itself as adhering to Hebrew grammar: ownership in Hebrew is expressed by forms of “to be” (Hebr. hyh) or nominal clauses without any finite verb + a suffixed form of the particle “to” (Hebr. l ), normally representing a dative form of the personal pronoun in other languages. If the assumption that GenLXX wants to express legal ownership of the land by inserting σοὶ ἔσται against his Hebrew Vorlage is true, we get the proposition that Jacob / ​Israel already possesses the land of his fathers, but will own it later on, as his offspring will. Of course, we must be cautious in over-interpreting this feature, but it would fit in well with the situation of the Alexandrian Jewish community the translator comes from. The distinction between possession and ownership is well known in Greek and Hellenistic times.52 Applied to the Jewish community in Alexandria, distinguishing between two different kinds of attitude towards the land leaves open the option to stick with the situation (perfect tense) or hope for a change (future tense). In theological terms, this would be an expression of a present eschatological concept. Another observation gives support for this interpretation: The Hebrew term eretz megurecha in Gen 17:8 and 28:4, denoting that Abraham and Jacob have to live in “the land” as strangers, is translated by the unusual Greek term τὴν γῆν, ἥν παροικεῖς or τὴν γῆν τῆς παροικήσεώς σου. Especially the last noun is quite rare, only occurring again in GenLXX 36:7 and Sir 21:28.53 It seems possible that the translator chose this specific word consciously. For all other instances of “living” the translator uses the by far more common κατοικεῖν. The normal Greek usage for the applied compositum here would be παροικία which is remarkable as it became synonymous with the well-known μετοικία in Ηellenistic times,54 denoting the legal status of people living in the same poleis but without the same rights. So this could hint at the idea that the translator applied the understanding of this common Greek juridical institution to Abraham and Jacob, both living like the autochthonous people in their land, but probably without having or fighting for the same rights, which would fit in well with the just mentioned interpretation. By very subtle changes he adopted the dynamic border concept and applied it to his and his audience’s situation. But greater difficulties emerged in altering well-known toponyms. The static border concepts are definitely more problematic because even a totally Hel51  Cf. A. Chaniotis, “Justifying Territorial Claims in Classical and Hellenistic Greece,” in: The Law and the Courts in Ancient Greece (E. M. Harris and L. Rubinstein eds.; London: Duckworth, 2004), 185–213, esp.188. 52  Cf. the seminal study by A. Kränzlein, Rechtsvorstellungen im altgriechischen und graecoägyptischen Rechtskreis (Graz: Kienreich, 1975). 53  Cf. also Philo’s use of the noun as a translation of the name Hagar in de congr 20, sacr 43 and leg all III, 244. 54 Liddell-Scott-Jones, II. p. 1342.

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lenized Jew was aware of cities like Shechem, Bethel, Beersheba and so on. The translator, therefore, could not simply leave out or alter these concepts without risking being accused of forgery or even blasphemy. So he had to think about a different strategy to alter the anti-eschatological concept of the Hebrew text of P in Genesis. If we take a closer look at the less prominent toponyms in Genesis within its itineraries we come across a very specific way of rendering these names. A first example directly follows the just mentioned text. GenLXX 35:16 reads: Απάρας δὲ Ιακωβ ἐκ Βαιθηλ ἔπηξεν τὴν σκηνὴν αὐτοῦ ἐπέκεινα τοῦ πύργου Γαδερ. ἐγένετο δὲ ἡνίκα ἤγγισεν Χαβραθα εἰς γῆν ἐλθεῖν Εφραθα, ἔτεκεν Ραχηλ καὶ ἐδυστόκησεν ἐν τῷ τοκετῷ After leaving Bethel, Jacob pitched his tent beyond the Tower of Gader. It came about as he came near to Chabratha to go to the land of Efratha, that Rachel gave birth and suffered from severe birth pangs.

After having received the revelation from God and after building an altar at Bethel, Jacob leaves, heading for the hometown of his father Isaac. On the way, his wife Rachel is in labour and dies giving birth to his youngest son Benjamin. The text is a combination of the Hebrew verses 16 and 21 of that chapter: The Tower of Gader is the transcription of migdal `eder (Tower of the shepherds) from v. 21. The word Chabratha, however, is rendered as a toponym although it is a measure of length in Hebrew.55 The apposition εἰς γῆν, therefore, now belongs to Efratha, stating in the land of Efratha. The same translation appears in Jacob’s flashback GenLXX 48:7, but there it is clarified that the tomb is in the Land of Canaan which raises the problem of two tombs. This very problem occurs again within the context of the burying places of the ancestors. The solution the translator found for these problems can be exemplified through the translation of GenLXX 50:10–11,13, which reads: 10 καὶ παρεγένοντο ἐφ᾽ ἅλωνα Αταδ, ὅ εστιν πέραν τοῦ Ιορδάνου, καὶ ἐκόψαντο αὐτὸν κοπετὸν μέγαν καὶ ἰσχυρὸν σφόδρα: καὶ ἐποίησεν τὸ πένθος τῷ πατρί αὐτοῦ ἑπτὰ ἡμέρας. 11 καὶ εἶδον οἱ κάτοικοι τῆς γῆς Χανααν τὸ πένθος ἐν ἅλωνι Αταδ καὶ εἶπαν Πένθος μέγα τοῦτὸ ἐστιν τοῖς Αἰγυπτίοις: διὰ τοῦτο ἐκάλεσεν τὸ ὄνομα αὐτου Πένθος Αἰγύπτου, ὅ εστιν πέραν τοῦ Ιορδάνου. 13 καὶ ἀνέλαβον αὐτὸν οἱ υἱοί αὐτοῦ εἰς γῆν Χανααν καὶ ἔθαψαν αὐτὸν εἰς τὸ σπήλαιον τὸ διπλοῦν, ὅ ἐκτήσατο Αβρααμ τὸ σπήλαιον ἐν κτήσει μνημείου παρὰ Εφρων τοῦ Χετταίου κατέναντι Μαμβρη. 10 And they arrived at the threshing floor of Atad, which is beyond the Jordan, and they lamented him with a very great and strong lamentation, and he made mourning for his father seven days.

55 Cf. F. Siegert, Zwischen Hebräischer Bibel und Altem Testament (Münster: LΙΤ, 2001), 284, who claims that the translator simply transcribed the term because he did not find a suitable translation. J. W. Wevers, “Notes in the Greek Text of Genesis,” SBL.SCSt 35A (1993): 583, assumes the translator really meant a measure of length.

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11 And the inhabitants of the land of Chanaan saw the mourning on the threshing floor of Atad and said, “This is a great mourning to the Egyptians.” Therefore one called the name of the place Mourning-of-Egypt, which is beyond the Jordan. 13 And his sons took him up into the land of Chanaan and buried him in the double cave over against Mambre, which cave Abraam acquired in acquisition of a tomb from Ephron the Chettite.

This last chapter of Genesis reports the transportation of Jacob’s embalmed corpse56 back to Canaan. It is quite a complicated way for “all the elders of Egypt” following Jacob and his sons with all their sheep and cattle. It summed up to a very impressive company, with Egypt accompanying Jacob / ​Israel. As was already seen concerning the Hebrew text, this retarding element in the narration of Jacob’s burying tries to build a counterpart to the following story of the Exodus, by comparing the brutal “Exodus-Egypt” trying to destroy Israel and therefore smashed into the sea by God, to the positive “Joseph-Egypt,” supporting Israel / ​Jacob and even mourning for him.57 The Hebrew text gives two toponyms, the first being goren ha’atad (‫)גרן האטד‬. Both parts can be translated: goren (‫ )גרן‬means open place, especially “threshing floor” and is attested 34 times in the text of the Hebrew Bible, whereas atad (‫)אטד‬ is a rare word58 denoting “bramble” or “thornbush.” Naming a place after its typical and visible phenomena is a normal process. The translator chose to really translate the first word with its Greek equivalent but to simply transcribe the second by transforming it into a proper name. Therefore, he grammatically correctly leaves out a phonetic equivalent in his transcription for the Hebrew article ha, which means that he totally understood the Hebrew phrase. If we assume that a threshing floor with brambles on the way from Egypt to Palestine is rather eye-catching and probably the name of a familiar place, this translation technique may be the first hint of a strategy to blur and alter geographical facts in order to adopt them to his new perspective, namely looking from Egypt to Palestine. But as this interpretation of the first translation is highly tentative, we need further evidence. Fortunately, we find it in the following verse. The second place name is ’abel mizrajjim in Hebrew. Again, the translator shows his great skills in Hebrew lexicography because he is totally aware that the verse is a pun on the word ’abel / ​´ebel. One meaning is mourning; therefore, the translator cannot be 56 Mummification is well known in antiquity and even reported by Herodotus in Hist. II. Legal issues concerning mummification can be seen in Papyrus Dem. B. M. 10561. The ritual itself is described by S. Töpfer, “Bemerkungen zum Balsamierungsritual nach den Papyri Boulaq III und Louvre E 5158,” in: Ägyptische Rituale der griechisch-römischen Zeit (J. F. Quack ed.; ORA 6, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 201–221. 57  Cf. M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien (Halle / ​Saale: Niemeyer, 1943), 96; R. Bartelmus, “Topographie und Theologie. Exegetische und didaktische Anmerkungen zum letzten Kapitel der Genesis,” BN 29 (1985): 35–57, 48f; J. Ebach, Genesis 37–50 (HThKAT, Freiburg: Herder, 2007), 648. 58 Nearly all occurrences of this term are in the so called Jotam-tale Judges 9.

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accused of a mistake by formulating an aetiology of the place name by translating Πένθος  Ἀιγύπτου. But the second meaning of the word is “river” or “creek,” thus a synonym for Hebrew nahal. The same pattern of naming is rather common in the Hebrew Bible, as can be seen from toponyms like Abel-Bet-Maacha (2 Sam 20:14), Abel-Shittim (Num 25:1) or Abel-Mehola (Judg 7:22). The only other occurrence of this naming pattern with Mizraim as in Gen 50:11, however, strikingly is a text promising “the land” to Abraham, using a static border concept: “from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates” (Gen 15:18). As Gen 50:12 even twice states that the places are “beyond the Jordan,” the translator had a problem: From his Egyptian perspective the “river of Egypt” could never be located “beyond the Jordan.” Living in the Hellenistic metropolis Alexandria, this “river of Egypt” was much too near to ever be located in the land east of the Jordan. The translator dealing with this problem chose to blur the real geographical facts in order to replace the term by a theological statement: Even the Egyptians mourned at Israel’s death. The real toponym becomes totally unimportant. To sum up the argument, a last observation can be added. In verse 13 the Hebrew text states that Jacob was buried in the cave which Abraham bought from Efron the Hettite. The verse mentions Mamre and Machpela, thus referring to the important motif, expressed in Gen 23, that Abraham really bought a piece of land and in doing so acquired the right to a permanent stay in “the land.”59 As a translator, he certainly could not change the well-known place Mamre, connected to Abraham. But he left out the second place, Machpela, harmonizing the problem of the two toponyms and rendered it literally, namely as a double cave.

5. Conclusion What has already been said about the complex matrix of the interrelated forms of ethnic and socio-political identifications of the religion of ancient Israel60 obviously holds true for its geographical affiliations, too. Different times had their own views of how they should limit or establish the places they lived in or even hoped for. Thus, the borders of eretz yisrael as reflected in the Hebrew as well as the Greek Bible serve secondarily as statements about real historical conditions or even claims. Primarily the descriptions of the land clearly are theologically motivated. The “Israel” population always was aware that they settled in 59  In Hellenistic times legal claims for land could be made by four arguments. In the words of an inscription from Crete (cf. Inscriptiones Creticae vol. III, IV 9, line 133f; 2nd century B. C.): inheritance, conquest, donation or sale (κατ᾽ἀργύριου). 60  Cf. J. M. Hutton, “Southern, Northern and Transjordan Perspectives,” in: Religious Di­ versity in Ancient Israel and Judah (F. Stavrakopoulou and J. Barton eds.; London: T&T Clark, 2010), 149–174, 149.

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a land they did not own but received from their God always anew. Israel’s God enables his people to live. Written in times when stable borders were long gone, the changing concepts concerning these borders always tried to keep this fact in mind. All different strategies to define or blur these borders served one purpose: eretz yisrael throughout the Bible was and still is a theological construct. Every modern discussion using biblical texts for political issues should be aware of this fact.

Borders: Terms, Ideologies, and Performances Jesus and the Samaritan / ​Judean Border David L. Balch 1. Introduction: Wayne Meeks’ critique of Rudolf Bultmann on Christian Ethics Wayne A. Meeks critiques the final section of Rudolf Bultmann’s Theology of the New Testament, “The Problem of Christian Living” as follows: any hope readers might have for finding some guidance for living the moral life is disappointed. Bultmann’s Jesus “does not, as the prophets, did, raise the demand for justice and right; for the preaching of these things, once decisive for Israelite national life, has lost its meaning now that there is scarcely any national life left.”1 Meeks agrees with Schrey that “by focusing exclusively on the ‘I-Thou relationship and decision’ as definitive for ‘man as a historic being,’ Bultmann empties both human ‘historicity’ and ethics of concrete realization.”2 Bultmann’s lack of interest in the social sciences was common in German universities of that era.3 Meeks affirms rather that “the most interesting turn in moral philosophy of the past several decades is the growing persuasion […] that the modern individualist self is an illusion. Succinctly described by some ethicists as a recovery of the Aristotelian description of the human person as a ‘political animal’ against the Socratic-Platonic notion of the self-abstracting nous, this revised conception of the moral agent […] yields a model of personal identity as a social and transactional process. Each of us comes to know ‘who I am,’ not just by sitting and thinking about myself but […] by responding to other persons who respond to me.”4  W. A. Meeks, “The Problem of Christian Living,” 211–229 in: Beyond Bultmann: Reck­ oning a New Testament Theology (B. W. Longenecker and M. C. Parsons eds.; Waco: Baylor University, 2014), 212, quoting R. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament (Waco: Baylor University, 2007), 1, 12–13. A. Standhartinger, “Bultmann’s Theology of the New Testament in Context,” 233–255, also in Beyond Bultmann (2007), describes Hitler’s final year and the arrival of the Allies as the context in which Bultmann completed writing his Theology. 2  Meeks, “Christian Living,” 215, quoting H.-H. Schrey, “The Consequences of Bultmann’s Theology for Ethics,” in: The Theology of Rudolf Bultmann (C. W. Kegley ed.; New York: Harper & Row, 1966), 183–200, at 184. 3  Meeks, “Christian Living,” 219. 4 Meeks, “Christian Living,” 222. Meeks’ primary example of the fundamentally social character of ethics is H. R. Niebuhr, The Responsible Self: An Essay in Christian Moral Philosophy 1

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Given Bultmann’s dominance of New Testament theology and exegesis in the twentieth century, it is perhaps not surprising that Jesus’ multiethnic attitude toward the Samaritans has rarely been emphasized; however, in this essay I follow Meeks’ more Aristotelian understanding of human persons as social / ​political and turn to the topic of this book, borders, focusing on the Judean/ Samaritan social / ​political / ​ethnic / ​religious boundary.5 To clarify my own context as a writer, I mention a significant boundary conflict between the USA and the South. I grew up in Texas and teach in California, both of which are North American states that border on Mexico. The United States has militarized that border and is building a fence against Mexicans and other Latin Americans who attempt to cross into the United States. The Coalition for Human Rights (Coalición de Derechos Humanos) in Tucson, Arizona, has counted 2,381 people who have perished just in the stretch of the border between Sonora and Arizona, and they estimate that 8,000 might have died on the USA / ​Mexican border’s entire length since 1994.6 This twenty-first century boundary is more lethal that the boundary between ancient Roman Samaria and Judea; it would be mistaken simply to read the contemporary deadly boundary that infects my political life into the Judean / ​Samaritan tensions or into the parables Jesus narrated.

(San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1978). See also M. C. Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University, revised ed. 2001, first published 1986). For bibliography and discussion see D. G. Horrell, Solidarity and Difference: A Contemporary Reading of Paul’s Ethics (London: T&T Clark, 2005), e. g. chap. 7, “Other-Regard and Christ as Moral Paradigm,” and chap. 8, “Ethics and Outsiders.” I note that when the Jewish philosopher Karl Löwith lost his position in Marburg because of Nazi pressure (1934), Bultmann invited Löwith into his home for dinner: K. Löwith, My Life in Germany before and after 1933 (E. King trans.; Urbana: University of Illinois, 1994, original German, 1986), 59, 77–78, 85. 5 Ethnicity and race are extraordinarily difficult to define. See E. D. Barreto, Ethnic Negotia­ tions: The Function of Race and Ethnicity in Acts 16 (WUNT 2.294; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), chaps. 1–2, who surveys scholarship, cautioning against essentializing; ethnicities are socially constructed, but nevertheless powerful categories. Compare B. Becking, “Is There a Samaritan Identity in the Earliest Documents?” in: The Samaritans and the Bible: Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions (Studia Samaritana 7; J. Frey, U. Schattner-Rieser, and K. Schmid eds; Berlin / ​Boston: De Gruyter, 2012), 51–65, at 53–54, and the essays in Samaritans: Past and Present (M. Mor and F. V. Reiterer eds.; Studia Samaritana 5; New York: de Gruyter, 2010). Also S. U. Lim, “Josephus Constructs the Samari(t) ans: A Strategic Construction of Judaean / ​Jewish Identity through the Rhetoric of Inclusion and Exclusion,” JTS 64.2 (2013): 404–431. 6  D. Bacon, The Right to Stay Home: How US Policy Drives Mexican Migration (Boston: Beacon, 2013), 142. See Bacon, Illegal People: How Globalization Creates Migration and Crimi­ nalizes Immigrants (Boston: Beacon, 2008). I am grateful to the Rev. Kim Erno, Convergencia Resistencia ([email protected]), for the references to Bacon. Also G. L. Cuéllar, Voices of Marginality: Exile and Return in Second Isaiah 40–55 and the Mexican Immigrant Experience (American University Studies Series VII, vol. 271; New York: Peter Lang, 2008).

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In Contested Ethnicities and Images: Studies in Acts and Art (2015) I have argued that social changes from ethnocentricity toward multi-ethnicity were occurring in Rome, Greece, and Judea in the first century BCE and first century CE.7 Rome, Athens, and Jerusalem all experienced these social tensions, generated by the success of Rome’s multiethnic army and by Rome’s giving elite foreigners Roman citizenship. Ethnic tensions in Judea were not unlike ethnic tensions in other regions and countries around the Mediterranean. I will not repeat those arguments here, but Jews including Jesus participated in these Mediterranean-wide social conflicts and changes. This essay examines the Jew Jesus’ social / ​ethnic attitude, exemplified especially by the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37).

2. Jesus’ Sayings and his Healing of Foreigners Several authentic Q and Markan texts refer to foreigners. “Then people will come from east and west, [from north and south,] and will eat in the kingdom of God.” (Q / ​Luke 13:28/Matt 8:11)8 Decisively, Jesus’ saying in Q / ​Luke 13:28–29 includes ethnic others from east and west eating in the kingdom of God. Not only Jesus, but apocalyptic and other Jews were reflecting on the relation between Israel and the peoples of the world9 – those to the east and west. Conflicts within contemporary Judaisms as well as conflicts within Jewish Christianities and Gentile Christianities show that table fellowship was a decisive issue. Jesus emphasizes the praxis of this eating by choosing table fellowship with those who had been excluded – a praxis with traces in all the sources.10 Jesus’ table fellowship with the unclean in Galilean villages,11 both a ritual and an ethical praxis, signals the inbreaking of God’s kingdom.  7  D. L. Balch, Contested Ethnicities and Images: Studies in Acts and Art (WUNT 345; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), which relies on E. Dench, Romulus’ Asylum: Roman Identities from the Age of Alexander to the Age of Hadrian (Oxford: Oxford University, 2005).  8  Luke added “from north and south,” seen again in the story of the southern Ethiopian / ​ African (Acts 8:26–40).  9 See Balch, Contested Ethnicities and Images, esp. chaps. 1 and 7. 10  U. Schnelle, Theology of the New Testament (M. E. Boring trans.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2009, from German of 2007), 107–108; compare the text at n. 16 below on Josephus, Ant. 11.346–347. 11  M. Moreland, “The Inhabitants of Galilee in the Hellenistic and Early Roman Periods: Probes into the Archaeological and Literary Evidence,” 133–159 in: Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (J. Zangenberg, H. W. Attridge, and D. B. Martin eds.; WUNT 210; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 138: “[…] the claim that pre-70 Galilee was occupied mainly by migrants from Judea is not supported […]. That some Judeans had migrated to Galilee prior to the early 1st c. seems to be supported by our evidence, but Judeans do not appear to have been the majority population.” On Jesus in this economic context see D. E. Oakman, “Biblical Economics in an Age of Greed,” in: Market and Margins: Lutheran Perspectives (W. Deifelt ed.; Minneapolis: Lutheran University Press, 2014), 82–97.

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Second, Jesus’ typical activities of healing and exorcism involved both Judeans and ethnic others. He healed the Capernaum centurion’s slave / ​servant, remarking, “not even in Israel have I found such faith.” (Q / ​Luke 7:9) Jesus breathes “woe” on the Galilean towns of Chorazin and Bethsaida, “For if the deeds of power done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon [Syria], they would have repented long ago […].” (Q / ​Luke 10:13) Further, he exorcized a demon from the daughter of a Gentile woman, a Syrophoenician (Mark 7:26–28; compare Matt 15:21–23 [a Canaanite woman]), after she famously debated him on the meaning of their ethnic and gender differences. The three authentic sayings from Q all assume some tension between Judeans and others: east and west, a Roman centurion, Tyre and Sidon. The Gospel of Thomas 53 is similar, although available only in Coptic translation, not in the earlier Greek texts.12

3. Social Boundaries: Josephus and Recent Archaeology of Samaritans 3.1 Josephus on the Samaritans On this point, Josephus is helpful as he is specific about conflicts between (some) Judeans and (some) Samaritans.13 Two of his stories illustrate these tensions and their ethnic symbols. Alexander the Great approached Jerusalem (narrative time: fourth century BCE14) and was shown the book of Daniel (AJ 11.227), which 12 I follow the distinction in P. Perkins, Introduction to the Synoptic Gospels (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 69–72, 83–84, based on J. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke (X-XXIV) (Anchor Bible 18B; New York: Doubleday, 1985), 976, who observes that the Coptic Gospel of Thomas 36 (fourth century CE) condenses its own Greek predecessor (second century CE), so that we may not automatically date the Coptic text early. 13  For debates about the Chronicler’s attitude to Samaritans see R. W. Klein, 1 Chronicles and 2 Chronicles (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006 and 2012), 2 vols., at 1, 46 and 2, 5–6: Klein dates Chronicles c. 400–350 CE, before the Samaritan schism. For another view, J. D. Purvis, “The Samaritans,” in: The Cambridge History of Judaism (=CHJ), vol. 2 (W. D. Davies and L. Finkelstein eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1989), 591–613 at 594–596. On the Roman period S. Isser, “The Samaritans and their sects,” in: CHJ, vol. 3 (W. Horbury, W. D. Davies, and J. Sturdy, eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1999), 569–595. With Josephus compare Ben Sira: M. Goff, “‘The Foolish Nation That Dwells in Schechem’: Ben Sira on Shechem and the Other Peoples in Palestine,” in: The “Other” in Second Temple Judaism: Essays in Honor of John J. Collins (D. C. Harlow, K. M. Hogan, M. Goff, J. S. Kaminsky eds.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 173–188. 14 For apologetic purposes Josephus dates the Samaritan temple on Mt. Gerizim to the time of Alexander, two centuries late: see M. Kartveit, “Josephus on the Samaritans – his Tendenz and purpose,” in: Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans: Studies on Bible, History and Linguistics (J. Zsengellér ed.; Studia Samaritana 6; Berlin / ​Boston: De Gruyter, 2011), 109–121, at 119. Excavations on Mt. Gerizim between 1982 and 2006 date the temple from the fifth century BCE until 111 BCE; see Y. Magen, “The Dating of the First Phase of the Samaritan Temple on Mount Gerizim in Light of the Archaeological Evidence,” in: Judah and the Judeans in the

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declares that a Greek should destroy the Persians. He supposed this Greek to be himself, Josephus tells us, and so he granted Jews in Jerusalem and those in Babylon the right to live by their own laws (11.338). He then visited Shechem, the metropolis of the Samaritans, who seeing that he had honored the Jews determined to profess themselves Jews. Josephus rather declares them “apostates (apostaton) of the Jewish nation” (11.340).15 “If anyone were accused by those of Jerusalem of having eaten things common, or of having broken the Sabbath, or of any other crime of the like nature, he fled away to the Shechemites […].” (11.346–347)16 The second story: Antiochus IV Epiphanes of Syria took Jerusalem and installed a garrison of Macedonians, but impious and wicked Jews also lived there, according to Josephus, who caused their co-citizens much suffering (AJ 12.246, 252; narrative time: second century BCE17). Antiochus built an idol altar on God’s altar and offered swine, forbidding Jews to circumcise their sons, which many obeyed (12.253–255). When Samaritans witnessed this suffering, they denied they were Jews, but rather claimed to be a colony of Medes and Persians, with which Josephus agrees (12.257).18 Samaritans say rather that they choose to live according to the customs of the Greeks (12.263). In this context Josephus begins narrating the revolt of Mattathias the Maccabee against the Syrians (12.265). Fourth Century B. C. E. (O. Lipschits, G. N. Knoppers, and R. Albertz eds.; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 157–211, and M. Böhm, “Wer gehörte in hellenistisch-römischer Zeit zu ‘Israel’? Historische Voraussetzungen für eine veränderte Perspektive auf neutestamentliche Texte,” in: The Samaritans and the Bible (Frey et al. eds.), 181–202, at 185. 15 Compare Acts 21:21. The name “Samaritan” may derive from shamar (“keep”), “keepers” of the Torah, a claim to be those who did not apostatize. 16  On Josephus’ three different stories of the origins of the Samaritans, see Kartveit, “Josephus and the Samaritans,” citing this passage at 116. Compare the reading of Josephus and Samaritan versions by C. H. T. Fletcher-Louis, “Alexander the Great’s Worship of the High Priest,” in: Early Jewish and Christian Monotheism (L. T. Stuckenbruck and W. E. S. North eds.; JSNTSupp 263; New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 71–102. For a discussion of Josephus’ attitudes see L. H. Feldman, “Josephus’ Attitude toward the Samaritans: A Study in Ambivalence,” in: Studies in Hellenistic Judaism (AGAJU 30; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 114–136, who summarizes: “Josephus, like the rabbis, is ambivalent with regard to the Samaritans, at times referring to them as a separate national entity and at other times looking upon them as a variety of Jew […] [T]he separation of the Jews and the Samaritans, like that of the Jews and the Christians, was not sudden but took place over a considerable period of time […].” (136) Feldman’s essay was originally published in Jewish Sects, Religious Movements, and Political Parties, (M. Mor ed.; Omaha: Creighton University, 1992), 23–45. 17  For one, perhaps two Hellenized Samaritan writers from this same century see P. W. van der Horst, “Samaritans and Hellenism,” The Studia Philonica Annual 6 (1994): 28–36, on Ps.Eupolemus and Theodotus, 28–33, both edited by C. R. Holladay, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors (Chico & Atlanta: Scholars, 1983 and 1989), 1.157–187 and 2.51–204. On the other hand, J. J. Collins, “The Epic of Theodotus and the Hellenism of the Hasmoneans,” HTR 73 (1980): 91–104, at 101, argues that the anti-Samaritan epic of Theodotus gives expression to the militant Judean nationalism of the Hasmonean period. 18 Kartveit, “Josephus on the Samaritans,” 117. Feldman, “Josephus’ Attitude,” 119, 130, 132.

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In Josephus’ narrative time, the conflicts between Judeans and Samaritans are centuries old, going back to Alexander the Great and Antiochus. The Judeans’ neighbors, the Samaritans, were occasionally their cultural / ​religious / ​political antagonists, viewed by some as “apostates.”19 When Judeans from Jerusalem had violated key identity symbols / ​commandments (not keeping kosher, violating the Sabbath, or obeying Antiochus’ order not to circumcise their sons), some of them fled for safety to Samaria.20 3.2 Archaeological Excavations in Samaria On the basis of 1) the recently excavated inscriptions on Mt. Gerizim and 2) fourth century BCE papyri found in Samaria, Becking21 draws four conclusions: the two competing Yahwistic identities in Judea and Samaria 1) share a common myth, 2) each claims a “house of sacrifice,” 3) both venerate one deity only, and 4) as for the element of the boundaries of the community: A difference might be found in the acceptance of a foreigner as dedicator on Mount Gerizim. Here too, external evidence positions this idea as against the concept of a restricted and fenced community as can be inferred from Ezra and Nehemiah. Neither Becking’s conclusion nor my narration above of two of Josephus’ stories means that the latter are objective and historical, nor that Josephus correctly describes all Judeans / ​Jews and all Samaritans.22 Since Josephus was himself 19 Böhm, “Wer gehörte … zu ‘Israel?” 185–188, affirms that from the second century BCE, there were two regional, monotheistic JHWH temples, one in Samaria the other in Judea. Ten thousand persons lived on Mt. Gerizim, which suggests many pilgrims to the temple. Analogously, in pre-Christian centuries, there were diverse versions of the text of Torah, and some readings of the Samaritan Pentateuch are early, earlier even than the Masoretic text. See The Israelite Samaritan Version of the Torah: First English Translation Compared with the Maso­ retic Version, (B. Tsedaka with S. Sullivan eds.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), vii–xi (E. Tov), xv–xx (J. H. Charlesworth), xxi–xxxvi (B. Tsedaka). 20  See also Josephus, BJ 2.232–46; AJ 18.30; 20.118; compare Matt 10:5; Acts 1:8; 8:25; John 4:4–30, and on the later rabbinic opinion, Isser, “Samaritans,” 580, nn. 25–26, including Sabbath boundaries; also 583, 591. 21  Becking, “Samaritan identity,” 65. 22 See nn. 11–20. Feldman, “Josephus’ Attitude,” 125, 129, emphasizes that Josephus’ animus against Samaritans is related to his having been a priest of the temple in Jerusalem. Josephus, AJ 20.200–203 reports that the Sadducean high priest Ananus, whom Josephus describes as a rigid judge, accused James, Jesus’ brother, and others of breaking the law and had them stoned (62 CE). Other citizens in Jerusalem who were uneasy at the breach of the laws objected both to Ananus and to Albinus, the Roman procurator just arriving in Jerusalem. King Agrippa then took the high priesthood away from Ananus. See E.P Sanders, Judaism: Practice & Belief 63 BCE – 66 CE (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1992), 325, 394, 419, 469. Josephus is not always consistent, but before and after the time of Jesus, he repeatedly narrates political and military conflict between Jerusalem and Samaria-Sebaste, the social / ​political context described above. See e. g. AJ 11.84–116; 12.156; 13.74–79; 18.29–30; 20.118–126 (compare BJ 2.232–246). For the religious identity of the Samaritans over against Jerusalem, see S. Freyne, “Behind the Names: Galileans, Samaritans, Ioudaioi,” in: Galilee through the Centuries: Confluence of Cul­ tures (Duke Judaic Studies Series 1; E. M. Meyers ed.; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 39–55,

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Judean, however, it is plausible that historically some Judeans in the first century CE felt the way he did about Samaritans and that the conflict Josephus describes also reflects historical tensions within Judea and Jerusalem in the first century CE. Jesus’ position on these issues was not unique; on the contrary, he addressed contemporary ethnic negotiations in a colonial setting where Judeans (plural) and Samaritans constructed Israelite identity in diverse ways.23

4. Rituals / ​Symbols of Ethnic Identity and Social / ​Religious Change 4.1 Jonathan Z. Smith on Social Conflict and Change After specifying these conflicts, two clarifications are necessary: 1) to understand these conflicts theoretically and 2) to make clear that the tensions outlined are not between Jesus the Christian and other Jews. Jonathan Z. Smith provides two models of social change, refusing to value only one of them. “Order can be creative or oppressive. The transgression of order can be creative or destructive. Yet the two options represent such fundamentally different world views that ‘to change stance is to totally alter one’s symbols and to inhabit a different world.’”24 Jesus’ proclamation of the reign of God by narrating the parable of the Good Samaritan created a new world; his words did not leave Judean institutions or cultural boundaries as they were. 4.2 Symbols of Jewish and of Greco-Roman Cultural Identity: Circumcision and Roman Baths Contemporary discussions of ethnicity insist that ethnic identities are negotiated, particularly when difference is encountered in a colonial context. Such encounters evoke discursive justification of particular cultural practices, which is why many, probably most, contemporary students of ethnicity deny that any static list of ethnic characteristics is adequate.25 Interpreting Judea in the first

a critique of R. A. Horsley, e. g. Archaeology, History and Society in Galilee (Valley Forge: Trinity, 1996). For an extensive collection of sources see J. Zangenberg, ΣΑΜΑΡΕΙΑ: Antike Quellen zur Geschichte und Kultur der Samaritaner in deutscher ¨Ubersetzung (Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter 15; Tübingen: A. Francke, 1994). 23 Böhm, “Wer gehörte … zu ‘Israel’?”189–198, observes that Samaritan inscriptions on the island of Delos claim the title “Israelites” (plural), but not Judeans / ​Jews, although pagan sources included Samaritans under the term Ioudaioi. See Klein, 1 Chronicles 1, 46. 24 J. Z. Smith, “The Influence of Symbols upon Social Change: A Place on Which to Stand,” Worship 44 (1970), 457–474, at 467, reprinted in Map is not territory: studies in the history of religions (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 129–146, at 143, 145–146. 25 Barreto, Ethnic Negotiations, 23, 39, 44.

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century CE, it would be inadequate to list kosher, Sabbath, and circumcision26 as religious laws that distinguish Judeans from other ethnicities; such a list has no single sine qua non that defines a particular ethnic group. Ethnic difference is malleable, even mutable. In the texts quoted above, we hear Judean ethnic identities being constructed and contested by diverse colonized Judeans and Samaritans. Circumcision is a particular example of a Judean ethnic boundary construction. Shaye Cohen with many contemporary scholars argues that there was no single, objective definition of Jewishness in the ancient world, that Jewish identities were “subjective […], constructed by the individual him / ​herself, other Jews, other gentiles, and the state.”27 There is no evidence that individual Jews were easily recognizable in antiquity: neither somatic difference, clothing, ritual participation, nor circumcision were reliable ethnic markers. “How then, did you know a Jew in antiquity when you saw one? The answer is that you did not. But you could make reasonably plausible inferences from what you saw.”28 Cohen’s conclusion is mistaken, since he inquires primarily about Jewish ethnic symbols, not also about the power of Greco-Roman institutions on the other side of the constructed ethnic boundary, that is, the social power of those symbolic institutions to include or exclude individuals and ethnic groups. In the contemporary West, Conservative or Reformed Jewish males may be relatively invisible; in ancient Greco-Roman baths and gymnasia, orthopraxic Jewish males were publicly visible. One of the core symbols of Greco-Roman culture was the gymnasium, where Greek men exercised nude, and Roman men and woman bathed nude.29 Romans discovered concrete, and one of the key symbols of ancient Roman culture that remains until the present day are aqueducts that they constructed to bring water from some distant source to their cities, in which they constructed fountains and baths. Gymnasia and baths were core cultural symbols of colonizing Greeks and Romans by which they distinguished between civilized and barbarian, between those who bathed nude and those who did not. Circumcised Jewish men – in Jerusalem,30 Antioch, Alexandria, or Rome – faced 26 On diverse Jewish interpretations of circumcision see N. E. Livesey, Circumcision as a Malleable Symbol (WUNT 2.295; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). 27  S. Cohen, The Beginning of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California, 2001), 3. 28 Cohen, Jewishness, 67, quoted by Barreto, Ethnic Negotiations, 17. 29  G. G. Fagan, Bathing in public in the Roman world (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1999). A. Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: University of Cambridge, 2008), 169–190. From the early first century CE men and women bathed increasingly together: L. Jacobelli, “Die suburbanen Thermen in Pompei: Architektur, Raumfunktion und Ausstattung,” Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt 23 (1993): 327–335, here 330; I. Nielsen, Thermae et balnea: the Architecture and Cultural History of Roman Public Baths (Arhus: Arhus University, 1990), 2 vols., 1.135–136, 146–148. L. Foxhall, Studying Gender in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2013), 129–135. 30 See M. Bernett, “Space and Interaction: Narrative and Representation of Power under the

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a defining choice whether to participate in Greco-Roman culture or not when they decided whether to bathe nude or not, whether to join the “civilized” or not. “In those days out of Israel came sons, transgressors of the law, and they persuaded many […]. And they built a gymnasium in Hierosolyma [Jerusalem] according to the precepts of the nations, and they fashioned foreskins for themselves and apostatized from the holy covenant […].” (1 Macc 1:11–15 NETS; compare 2 Macc 4:9, 12).31 The choice was not merely philosophical or rational, but bodily, and the consequences were not only individual, but also religious and cultural. The choice for Jewish individuals or communities was a bodily decision, not merely one of the mind. In gymnasia Jewish men were clearly visible, different. If they bathed nude, their circumcision was ridiculed by the “civilized”32 and their nudity forcefully challenged by traditional compatriots. In core institutions of Greco-Roman culture, gymnasia and baths, Jewish men were visible and exposed in a nontraditional way. Cohen incorrectly asserts that Judaism moved from an ethnic, geographically defined people to a cultural, religiously defined one. Those who circumcised their sons and rejected nudity in gymnasia / ​baths had to construct an identity visibly separate from “civilized” Greco-Roman culture and its symbols.33 What should be clear from this consideration of circumcision is that Jesus proposes a way of being multiethnic without imposing orthopraxy on other ethnic groups. In narrating the parable of the Good Samaritan, who obeys Torah, but not those particular ritual commands emphasized in Judea,34 Jesus Herodians,” 283–310 in: Contested Spaces: Houses and Temples in Roman Antiquity and the New Testament (D. L. Balch and A. Weissenrieder eds.; WUNT 285; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 289–97, citing Josephus, BJ 1.401–425; AJ 15.266–388; 16.143–144, on Herod’s building program, including aqueducts and gymnasia. Herod dramatically changed the architecture of Judea immediately before and during Jesus’ lifetime. But see M. A. Chancey, Greco-Roman Cul­ ture and the Galilee of Jesus (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2005), 77–84, 86–90, 129–130, 132, 147, 156–158, 163, 225–228. 31 R. Doran, “1 Maccabees. The New Interpreter’s Bible IV (Nashville; Abingdon, 1996), 22: it was written originally in Hebrew in Israel shortly after the death of John Hyrcanus (104 BCE), and was translated into Greek before Josephus. J. Sievers, The Hasmoneans and Their Supporters: From Mattathias to the Death of John Hyrcanus I (South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 6; Atlanta: Scholars, 1990), 3, dates 1 Macc between the latter years of John Hyrcanus and Pompey’s conquest of Jerusalem (63 BCE). Sievers, 6–7, with n. 28, dates the source of 2 Macc, Jason’s history, between ca. 155 and ca. 106 BCE and the epitomizer between 124 BCE and 70 CE probably in the first third of that time span. R. Doran, 2 Maccabees: A Critical Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortrtess, 2012), 14–17, quoting Bartlett, dates it “anywhere in the last 150 years BC” in the diaspora, noting that other scholars have placed the composition in Jerusalem. 32  Philo, Spec. 1.1, “I will begin with that [circumcision] which is an object of ridicule among many people,” cited by Livesey, Circumcision, 49, 56–57. 33 L. T. Johnson, Among the Gentiles: Greco-Roman Religion and Christianity (New Haven: Yale University, 2009), 111. 34  On the liturgical and ritual differences between Judeans and Samaritans, see G. N. Knoppers, “Samaritan Conceptions of Jewish Origins and Jewish Conceptions of Samaritan Origins:

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confronts critical symbolic boundary markers and advocates for a radical shift in worldview. This point is confirmed by glancing at the assimilation of male Jewish members of Pauline house churches in Corinth, to whom Paul responds: “Was anyone at the time of his call already circumcised? Let him not seek to remove the marks of circumcision (μὴ ἐπισπάσθω).” (1 Cor 7:18a) Dutch comments: This issue is directly related to the Greek gymnasium and Greek athletics where men competed nude. Public exposure of the marks of circumcision may produce an unfavourable reaction and cause embarrassment. What could Jewish men do? […] This could be a route to social mobility. Would they have the marks of circumcision removed by an operation?35 Significant controversy surrounds the interpretation of this passage, but it confirms that Jewish males, including, of course, those believing in Christ, were visible in the Roman world, and that this visibility affected both their social status and their ethnic / ​religious identity.36 There were tensions and debates on both sides of this visible religious / ​ethnic boundary marker. 4.3 Historical Examples of Social Conflict and Transformation within Judaism: Jeremiah and the Ba’al Shem Tov Using Jonathan Smith’s categories,37 the history of Judaism contains prominent examples of social change within Judaism that involves the transgression of order. Jesus was a prophetic critic within Judaism, not unique, which is illustrated both by Jeremiah and by the founder and first leader of Hasidism in Eastern Europe, the Ba’al Shem Tov (1700–1760, “master of the good name”). First, Jeremiah (3:16) makes the astounding assertion, “the ark of the covenant of the Lord […] shall not come to mind, or be remembered, or missed; nor shall another one be made.”38 The ark, a portable shrine in the wilderness, signifying God’s Any Common Ground?,” in: The Samaritans and the Bible (Frey et al. eds.), 81–118; see R. Jacoby, “The four species in Jewish and Samaritan Tradition,” in: From Dura to Sepphoris: Stud­ ies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity (L. I. Levine and Z. Weiss eds.; Portsmouth RI, 2000), 225–230, with figs. 101–107. 35 R. S. Dutch, The Educated Elite in 1 Corinthians: Education and Community in GraecoRoman Context (New York: T&T Clark, 2005), 295–296, with discussion and bibliography; also A. Kerkeslager, “Maintaining Jewish Identity in the Greek Gymnasium: A ‘Jewish Load’ in CPJ 3.519 (=P Schub 37 = P Berol 13406),” JSJ 28.1 (1997): 12–33. 36  See also Mart. 7.30, Tac. Hist. 5.5, and the discussion in M. Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism: From Herodotus to Plutarch (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974), 1.521–529. 37  Smith, “The Influence of Symbols.” 38  P. C. Craigie, P. H. Kelley, and J. F. Drinkard, Jr., Jeremiah 1–25 (Word Biblical Commentary 26; Dallas: Word, 1991), 61, think these words are Jeremianic from the reign of Josiah, appealing to M. Weinfeld, “Jeremiah and the Spiritual Metamorphosis of Israel,” ZAW 88 (1976): 17–56, at 23. W. L. Holladay, Jeremiah 1: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah chapters 1–25 (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 63–64, 120–121, 131, suggests different

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divine presence (Exod 25:10–15), which contained the two tablets of laws from Sinai (Deut 10:2, 5), which David brought to Jerusalem, signifying the unity of the Northern and Southern kingdoms (2 Sam 6), and which Solomon placed in the Holy of Holies in the new temple (1 Kings 8:4–7), that ark shall not be remembered! Just as shocking, “it shall no longer be said, ‘As the Lord lives who brought the people of Israel up out of the land of Egypt,’ but ‘as the Lord lives who brought out and led the … house of Israel out of the land of the north’[…]” (Jer 23:7–8)39 Israel will not speak of the exodus from Egypt, but rather of a new Exodus from Babylon! Jeremiah the prophet is encouraging significant change in how to celebrate and where to experience the presence of God. My colleague at PLTS / ​CLU / ​GTU, Prof. Steed Davidson,40 suggests that these verses in Jeremiah are probably from later redactors, but in a sense that would make them even more remarkable. Not the original, creative prophet himself, but later scribes in Israel, the later institution, are making radical adjustments, changes. The Ba’al Shem Tov repelled some other Jews by his activity as a miracle worker. There was a bitter struggle in Lithuania, led by Elijah ben Solomon Zalman of Vilna, who opposed Hasidic “ecstasy, visions, and miracles, their dangerous lies and idolatrous worship.” In the 1770s and 1780s there were bans (harem) against Hasidism. Hasids and their opponents denounced each other to authorities, which led to arrests.41 Hasidism, now one of the most important forms of religious Judaism in Europe, North America, and Israel, was bitterly opposed when first introduced. recensions of Jer 2:1–4:4 by Jeremiah himself. P. D. Miller, “The Book of Jeremiah,” The New Interpreter’s Bible VI (Nashville; Abingdon, 2001), 605, understands 3:16 as “rooted in the politics of late pre-exilic and exilic Judah.” 39 Craigie, Kelley, and Drinkard, Jeremiah 1–25, 332, again argue for authenticity, relying on Weinfeld. Holladay, Jeremiah 1, 622, compares Jer 23:7–8 to 3:16, and observes that most commentators reject the authenticity of 23:7–8, which is probably from Nehemiah’s time (fifth century BCE). Miller, “Jeremiah,” 744–745, suggests that this oracle might have been uttered during Zedekiah’s rule (597–586 BCE). 40  See S. V. Davidson, “Prophets Postcolonially: Initial Insights for a Postcolonial Reading of Prophetic Literature,” The Bible and Critical Theory 6/2 (2010): 24:1–13. 41 H. H. Ben-Sasson and A. Rubinstein, “Israel ben Eliezer Ba’al Shem Tov,” Encyclopedia Judaica 9 (1971): 1050–1058, and A. Rubinstein, “Hasidism,” Encyclopedia Judaica 7 (1971): 1390–1399. G. Scholem, “Ba’al Shem,” Encyclopedia Judaica 3 (2007): 9, and L. P. Gartner, “Hasidism,” Encyclopedia Judaica 8 (2007): 393–397, at 395–396: “Opposition to Hasidism”; “recognition came only after a bitter struggle.” (395) B. L. Schwartz, “The Vilna Gaon and the Baal Shem Tov: The Debate over Spirituality,” 57–63, Judaism’s Great Debates: Timeless Controversies from Abraham to Herzl (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2012). The classic is by A. J. Heschel, A Passion for Truth (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1973), and more recently, I. Etkes, The Besht: Magician, Mystic, and Leader (S. Sternberg, trans.; Waltham: Brandeis University, 2005). Compare W. D. Davies, “From Schweitzer to Scholem: Reflections on Sabbatai Svi,” 257–77 in: Jewish and Pauline Studies (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), at 264: “in both movements [of Jesus and of Sabbatai Svi] there was a radical confrontation with the established order focused on the ultimate authority within Judaism, the Torah.”

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Jeremiah, Jesus, and the Ba’al Shem Tov illustrate the alternatives of order or transgression of order within Judaism. To observe that Jesus transgressed traditional order in Judea in the first century is not anti-Jewish, any more than it is to observe that Jeremiah offended many in Israel in the sixth century BCE, and that the Ba’al Shem Tov transgressed traditional Jewish order in Eastern Europe in the 18th century CE, although unlike the other two, Jesus failed to persuade many other Jews that this new order was a good development. 4.4 Institutional Change Illustrated by Conflict in Contemporary Lutheran Churches As to the second necessary clarification, that this conflict was not between Jesus the Christian and the Jews, J. Z. Smith explains that all institutions, including religious ones, face social change,42 face the alternatives of order or transgression of order. Contemporary religious institutions, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, or Buddhist, have been hearing persuasive feminist critics for two centuries. Our contemporary synagogues, churches, mosques, etc., have more recently begun facing gay / ​lesbian critique of traditionally homophobic practices. Such critique / ​change evokes conflict and reinterpretation of scripture; e. g. in 2009 the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) voted to permit those bishops and synods that choose to do so to ordain qualified gay and lesbian persons as pastors, with institutional conflict before and after the decision. In this example, there was and is radical change in the interpretation and praxes of the Christian denominational group (a transgression of previously established order), but even though they transgress the old order, those bishops and synods that choose to ordain qualified gay and lesbian persons claim not to have become a different religious social order, since a two-thirds majority, most of them laypersons, voted at the 2009 Church Wide ELCA assembly for this change.43 4.5 Cultural, Ethnic Dialogue, not Fusion As just illustrated, transgression of order is not only individual, but also occurs in ethnic / ​cultural / ​religious groups.44 One of the convincing theses of WallaceHadrill’s extraordinary new book (Rome’s Cultural Revolution) is that Greek and Roman cultures / ​societies intermingled in Italy for three centuries (the first two centuries BCE and the first CE). Colonization was not one-way. 42 Smith,

“The Influence of Symbols.”  See Balch, Contested Ethnicities and Images, chap. 11. 44  For Greek opposition to and Roman support for ethnic “mixing,” for social change toward greater multi-ethnicity – a generalization with exceptions – see D. L. Balch, “Jesus as Founder of the Church in Luke-Acts,” in: Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (T. Penner and C. Vander Stichele eds.; Atlanta: Scholars and Brill, 2003), 137–186, at 167–173, now republished in Balch, Contested Ethnicities and Images, 196–239. 43

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Gosden’s idea of a ‘middle ground’, in which cultures stand in dialectic with one another, provides a way out. “If we focus on the reciprocity of the process whereby the colonial power not only provides powerful new cultural models to the colonized, but in turn takes to itself cultural models from the colonized (enough to refer to the spread of tea and curry in colonial Britain, and the fashions of oriental art and religion), we can allow that Roman conquest of Greece led not to fusion but reciprocal exchange. The cultures do not fuse […], but enter into a vigorous and continuous process of dialogue with one another. Romans can ‘hellenise’ (speak Greek, imitate Greek culture), without becoming less Roman […]. Reciprocally, the Greeks under Roman rule define their own identity more sharply by paideia even as they become Roman in other ways […].”45 This theoretical approach would surely be productive in interpreting the interaction of Jewish, Christian, and Roman cultures in the centuries before Constantine, or in our present, for understanding dialogues on the boundaries between North American colonizing and Latin American colonized “Christian” cultures.

5. The Jew Jesus and Samaritans As we saw above,46 some other Jews criticized Jesus’ eating habits (Mark 2:15–17, 18–20; 7:18–19; Q / ​Luke 7:22, 34; 10:8; 13:28), and others disputed the meaning and practice of the holy Sabbath (Mark 2:23–28; 3:1–6; 7:1–2; 12:13; Q / ​Luke 7:30; 11:39–44; GThom 39 [Greek text], 89, 102). Though the gospels never narrate conflicts about circumcision, the other two customs / ​laws (kosher and the Sabbath) are not simply traditional religious rituals; rather, they are also symbolic boundary markers between Judeans and others, including Samaritans, powerful dividing lines between constructed ethnicities.47 According to Luke Jesus crossed the border into Samaria (Luke 9:51–55),48 healed a Samaritan leper (Luke 17:11–16), and narrated the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–  A. Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2008), 23–24. 46 See section 1. 47  Note the evidence in Feldman, “Josephus’ Attitude,” 127–35. 48  M. Böhm, Samarien und die Samaritai bei Lukas (WUNT 2.111; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 216–218, 254, 310, demonstrates that pilgrims from Galilee to Jerusalem typically traveled through Samaria, not the longer and more difficult journeys through Jordan or along the coast. She cites e. g. Josephus, J. W. 2.232; Ant. 20.118. Böhm’s observations make it probable, although not certain, that Jesus traveled through Samaria. See Feldman, “Josephus’ Attitude,” 124. Some actual event or relationship stimulated the historical Jesus to formulate the parable of the Good Samaritan. Whether Jesus crossed the geographical border into Samaria or not, his parable crosses cultural / ​religious, contested ethnic boundaries. 45

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37), judged authentic by most scholars49); Jesus’ parable would have generated a powerful response, as Josephus insists, in some Judean audiences. As Jewish, Jesus advocated a new order that he also practiced. Actually, he claimed to be practicing the order of God’s creation,50 which is multiethnic. Contemporary Judaisms were multiethnic, in the sense that many Jews in different geographical locations, in Rome, North Africa, Greece, Syria, and Persia, for example, as well as in Judea lived orthopraxic lives. Second, Jewish authors in Judea narrated qualitatively different attitudes toward foreigners.51 When Jesus the Jew told the parable of the Good Samaritan, he was “multiethnic” without a certain kind of orthopraxy.52 The Samaritan in Jesus’ parable loved God and loved his neighbor as himself (Luke 10:27 and 37, citing Deut 6:4 and Lev 19:18) as a Samaritan,53 which as Josephus, himself a Judean, defined their practice, did not involve keeping kosher in prescribed ways or resting in defined ways on the holy Sabbath. I emphasize that Jesus’ narrating the parable of the Good Samaritan intensified a dialogue / ​dialectic between Jewish and Greco-Roman religion and culture that was occurring before him and continued after him. Dialogue with different others, whether individual or religious / ​political, generates transformation, 49 B. B. Scott, Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 189–202. J. D. Crossan, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus (Sonoma: Polebridge, 1992), 55–64 (only Luke 10:30–36). P. F. Esler, “Jesus and the reduction of intergroup conflict: The Parable of the Good Samaritan in the light of social identity theory,” Biblical Interpretation 8 (2000): 325–357. R. Zimmermann, “Berührende Liebe (Der barmherzige Samariter): Lk 10:30–35,” 538–555 in: Kompendium der Gleichnisse Jesu (R. Zimmermann et.al. eds.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2007). J. Frey, “‘Gute’ Samaritaner? Das neutestamentliche Bild der Samaritaner zwischen Juden, Christen und Paganen,” in: The Samaritans and the Bible (Frey et.al., eds.), 203–233 at 211, n. 27. 50 See Schnelle, Theology of the New Testament, 81, 88, 107–114, 118–121. 51  See nn. 7 and 9 above, and for earlier attitudes open toward “the nations” in the Old Testament, compare J. van Seters, “The Theology of the Yahwist: A Preliminary Sketch,” in: Changing Perspectives 1: Studies in the History, Literature ad Religion of Biblical Israel (London: Equinox, 2011), 231–239 at 233–234, 238–239. 52  Again, this was not unique. See e. g. 1 Macc 1:43, 52; 2 Macc 4:13–17; as well as Josephus, Ant. 11.346–47 and 12.246, 252, cited above. See A.-J. Levine, The Social and Ethnic Dimen­ sions of Matthean Social History: “Go nowhere among the Gentiles …” (Matt 10:5b) (SBEC 14; Lampeter: Edwin Mellen, 1988). Are not both Matt 10:5b and 28:19 Judean /Jewish(‑Christian)? In that colonized society, as within other colonized countries, conflict polarizes around how to relate to imperial intruders, to powerful cultural / ​religious others. Compare J. Blenkinsopp, Judaism: the First Phase. The Place of Ezra and Nehemiah in the Origins of Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 228–230, his “provisional conclusion in four propositions.”. 53 In general, colonizing Greeks (Antiochus IV Epiphanes) demanded conformity in religious practice, that Judeans eat pork sacrificed to Zeus (see 2Macc 6–7), but colonizing Romans allowed diversity in practice. Compare the contrast between Greeks and Romans by WallaceHadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution, 33–35. Given this distinction, the colonized Jewish Jesus’ parable is Roman, not Hellenistic. Dench, Romulus’ Asylum, 55: “Once again, we find a Roman author taking up a stance off-centre, on the border of ‘us’ and ‘them’ […] [b]oundaries are confounded in the Roman imperial experience.”

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change. Such change in political contexts often involves tragedy and death / ​martyrdom54; nevertheless, in this dialogue both partners, each with their own past, constructed histories, lean into the future as they are transformed and transform others. Jesus taught and lived a dynamic form of Judaism that was colonized by Rome. Jesus, the Jewish wise prophet, was in dialogue with others, including a Syrophoenician woman, and according to literary tradition (John 4), a Samaritan woman.

6. Conclusion: Contemporary North / ​ South Ethnic and Legal Boundaries Interpreting texts is not simply a scientific endeavor but is rather hermeneutical; we construct history in light of our own questions and values.55 In the Introduction, I made clear that my worldview is Aristotelian / ​political, not that of a Platonic / ​self-abstracting nous. I read scripture in light of contemporary, tragic, social / ​political events in North and South American, European, and other contexts. In the last century Lutheran theologians in Germany turned against Jews, our mothers in the faith, or to use another metaphor, our siblings, and legitimated the murder of six million in the Holocaust, that was both a heinous crime against human rights and also a sacrilegious offense by those who claimed the name of “Christian,” who claimed to be followers of Jesus who narrated the parable of the Good Samaritan.56 When Roman Catholic bishops in Argentina legitimated the military dictator Jorge Rafael Videla (1976–1983) as he “disappeared” 30,000 mostly young Argentine “Marxist” students,57 literally throwing a generation of Argentine youth into the Pacific Ocean in the Cold War between “Christian” capitalists and “communists,”58 that too was a crime against human rights and a heinous sacri54  Rethinking Martyrdom, concilium 2003/1 (T. Okure, J. Sobrino, and F. Wilfred eds.; London: SCM, 2003). S. Sprinkle, Unfinished Lives: Reviving the Memory of LGBTQ Hate Crimes Victims (Eugene: Resource Publications, 2011). 55  See Schnelle, New Testament Theology, chap. 1. 56  See S. Heschel, The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany (Princeton: Princeton University, 2008); S. Heschel, “Historiography of Antisemitism versus Anti-Judaism: A Response to Robert Morgan,” JSNT 33.3 (2011): 257–279. A few protested publicly, e. g. Dietrich Bonhoeffer. 57 Paloma (1956–1976), one of the disappeared, was a daughter of the Argentine artist Carlos Alonso, who then produced 30 to 40 searing images of these murders, paintings now exhibited in the Museo de Belles Artes in Cordoba, Argentina. For reproduction of a few of these haunting paintings see Carlos Alonso (auto)biografía en imágenes (J. Fiterman ed.; Argentina: RO Ediciones, 2003), 91–113, by M. T. Constantin, “Un espacio para el dolor.” 58  R. Dri, La hegemonía de los cruzados: La iglesia católica y la dictadura militar (Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2011). Carlos Mugica (1930–1974), a well-known Argentine priest, protested,

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lege against the Creator God who revealed herself in Jesus, the Jew of Nazareth, who narrated the parable of the Good Samaritan. In the present, when North American churches close ourselves off against dialogue with Latin American churches and culture,59 some even legitimating the building of a lethal wall between our cultures and economies, our self-protective and profitable isolation is counter to Jesus’ own interethnic dialogue between Judeans / ​Jews and Samaritans. When we refuse dialogue, are not North Americans, including our churches, in the position of the priest and the Levite in Jesus’ parable (Luke 10:31–32), as we continue to consider the robbery, rape,60 and death of thousands of these Latina / ​o emigrants insignificant?61

and in the same era in El Salvador, so did Archbishop Oscar Romero (1917–1980); both were martyred. See N. E. Bedford, Jesus Christus und das gekreuzigte Volk: Christologie der Nach­ folge und des Martyriums bei Jon Sobrino (CRM 15; Aachen: Augustinus, 1995). Perhaps the most courageous protest in Buenos Aires was by Rabbi Marshall Meyer. 59 For official Latino / ​ a Lutheran and Reformed church documents protesting the political ethics of capitalist North America, which generate hunger, unemployment, homelessness, and death in South America, see R. Krüger ed., Life in All Fullness: Latin American Protestant Churches Facing Neoliberal Globalization (Buenos Aires: ISEDET, 2007). For Biblical hermeneutics supporting these South American ecclesial statements that call for dialogue with North America, see R. Dri, “Las Iglesias, el capitalismo y el ideario socialista,” in Teología de la Liberación y los Derechos Humanos: Por un nuevo cielo y un nuevo mundo (A. Blatezky, ed.; Buenos Aires: Movimiento Ecuménico por los Derechos Humanos, 2011), 263–279. For an Argentine Lutheran theological critique of globalization see G. Hansen, En las fisuras: esbozos luteranos para neustro tiempo (Buenos Aires: Iglesia Evangélica Luterana Unida, 2010); Hansen is now a professor of theology at Luther Seminary, St. Paul. Compare C. L. Nessan, Orthopraxis or Heresy: The North American Theological Response to Latin American Liberation Theology (AAR Series 63; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989). Compare David L. Balch, “Violence in Pompeian/ Roman Domestic Art as a Visual Context for Pauline and Deutero-Pauline Letters,” in Early Christianity in Pompeian Light: People, Texts, Situations (B. Longenecker, ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, forthcoming 2016). 60 See N. E. Bedford, “In the Face of Femicide: Theological Anthropology’s Critical Path of Non-violent Resistance,” forthcoming in: Sexual Violence and Religion: Intercultural Practices of Feminist Theology (Maria Pilar Aquino and Maricarmen Servitje eds.). 61 I thank Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary (PLTS) for a sabbatical (2012) and also PLTS, now merged with California Lutheran University, for supporting a cultural immersion trip to Mexico (Jan 2015). I also thank my hosts at ISEDET in Buenos Aires, especially Rector José David Rodriguez and René Krüger, Professor of New Testament.

Histoire Croisée, Entangled Bodies, Boundaries, and Socio-Political Geography in the Letter to the Colossians Harry O. Maier The documents that comprise the New Testament were composed in the shadow of the Roman Empire. They present a variety of responses to the social and political context in which they were formed, ranging from optimism and general accommodation to its goals and aspirations (for example, 1 Tim 2:1–2) to uncompromising resistance to them (the Apocalypse). While it is not true of every document that makes up the canon, one cannot historically understand the writings found there without reference to the socio-political realities and claims of Rome’s imperium. We discover in these letters a continual return to the ideals, vocabularies, images, and exhortations, as well as the admonitions of Roman rule and of those allied with its ideals. This is markedly so in the case of the Pauline corpus, a set of writings that draws heavily from such imperial themes and modes of thinking, even if only to inflect them to make their own idiosyncratically religious claims. This essay takes up the question of borders in the Pauline corpus generally and the Pauline letter to the Colossians particularly, by drawing attention to the motif of entanglement. My chief interest is in imperial geopolitical boundaries and the ways in which Pauline letters, specifically Colossians, adapt and improvise upon them. Entanglement refers to a way of doing history that centres itself within an examination of boundaries as they interact, intersect, and crisscross between people, cultures, nations, and global realities. Histoire croisée, as the name implies, attends to how the discipline of history always engages with intersecting, crisscrossing, interchanging realities that involve communication, transportation of one idea or set of practices in one domain to another, inflections of ideas, borrowings of vocabularies, mutual interaction of actors and institutions, and so on.1 This includes as well the task 1

 For the term and its explication, M. Werner and B. Zimmermann, “Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity,” History and Theory 45 (2006): 30–50. The German term, Verflechtung, is a synonym for histoire croisée. For the relation between the terms, M. Werner and B. Zimmermann, “Vergleich, Transfer, Verflechtung. Der Ansatz der Histoire Croisée und die Herausforderung des Transnationalen,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28 (2002): 607–636. The term also has parallels with the English phrase “entangled history,” coined by S. W.  Mintz. Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History (Harmondsworth:

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of history and the historian who him / ​herself intersects and crosses over and transports one set of categories for comparative analysis from one place to another one. Entangled history attends to ways in which any topic of historical investigation, including the way historians examine it, involves a decision about borders, and implies the crossing and intersection of ideas, practices, and goals. In such entanglements we do not refer to history as a process of colliding billiard balls with sharp boundaries that ricochet off one another as discrete phenomena on simple linear trajectories. Nor do we conceive history as a record of pure observation without interpretation. We rather refer to history as phenomena with penetrable borders, which when they come into contact and are researched, absorb one another, both in terms of whatever they may have been phenomenally in their original contexts and how they are conceived and interpreted from the contemporary ones of modern observers and analysts. Entanglement from a historical perspective and as a historical understanding refers then always to forms of hybridity that arise through human interactions and interpretations of interactions. Our billiard balls are rather more like permeable entities that absorb one another and shift and expand or contract and perhaps break apart in unique ways rather than bounce off one another, forming new trajectories from collisions with discrete and hard edged entities. Entangled history seeks an understanding of porous boundaries, absorbed, interpenetrated, and transformed into new realities, as ideas and practices cross over one another and are transformed by them. Entangled history also affirms the ways in which investigators, as they observe such processes, also cross over these entities and themselves are transformed as well as transform phenomena by the task of observation and analysis. Borders here are always shifting, always moving, and always provisional as one moves back and forth, to and fro, between modern and historical contexts, and between contemporary ideas and past ones. Histoire croisée contests also any idea of individual entities. It looks for a history of interactions and mutual transformations. Instead of a unidirectional approach it focuses on multidimensional factors in historical processes. As “intercrossing” it does not limit itself to a single point of intersection, but to multiple points at different intervals. As Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann argue: “[…] to cross is to crisscross, to interweave, that is, to cross over several times at tempo that may be staggered. This process-oriented dimension is a fundamental aspect of inquiry into any intercrossings. It points toward an analysis of resistances, inertias, modifications – in trajectory, form, and content – and new combinations that can both result from and develop themselves in the process of Penguin Books, 1986), which has come to refer in postcolonial studies to the contact, interaction and transfer between the cultures of colonizer and colonized. Entangled Religions: Interdiscipli­ nary Journal for the Study of Religious Contact and Transfer (Ceres, Ruhr Universität Bochum), founded in 2014 and edited by V. Krech, attends to the history of contact and transfer in religion in past and present times.

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crossing. Such transformations are moreover not necessarily limited to elements of contact: they may also affect their local or remote environment and manifest themselves at a deferred moment.”2 This model of history proves especially useful as we consider the ways in which canonical biblical texts as they came to circulate throughout the Roman Empire in the first centuries of the Common Era transformed cultural ideals, reconfigured social boundaries, and affected governing structures and socio-political realities. Here we can see, for example, the extent of a “deferred moment” that has become the focus of cultural historians to observe and analyze. We cannot speak so much of a Constantinian Revolution on this account as of a kind of engagement, modulation, or transposition of received texts and social realities configured in a new set of practices, beliefs, and outlooks.3 Boundaries are not static but complex, shifting, contested, practised in differing ways in differing places. Here events, laws, religious practices, sacred texts and their conflicting interpretations, iconography ranging from monumental to daily forms all conspire together to reconfigure borders, establish new regimes of knowledge, and make possible new modalities for the practices of everyday life and the conduct of social relations. History does not proceed linearly, but folds back over itself, taking up earlier configurations and representing them in ways that recover past modes of being and thinking while taking them forward. Historie croisée furnishes a useful means of engaging what we might conceive as boundaries, politics, and imperial identities in the Pauline corpus generally, and the Letter to the Colossians specifically. The letters of Paul, both those written by him (Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, Philemon), and those composed by his followers (arguably Ephesians, Colossians, 2 Thessalonians, 1 and 2 Timothy, Titus), reveal themselves as entangled in Roman imperial ideas, images, ideals, and goals. The letters insist upon a certain kind of universality, a particular mode of crisscrossing and intersecting with imperial ideas and ideals. They affirm a global religious understanding – a kind of “boundarylessness” even as they assert the erection of new boundaries centred in movement away from Greco-Roman polytheism toward Christ worship, the inculcation of a new set of ethics, and new formulations of cosmic realities. As they do so they draw upon a repertoire of civic, imperial, and philosophical terms that affirm a transcultural reality that moves beyond traditional boundaries, whether they are conceived locally, geopolitically, or cosmically. At the same time they remove boundaries, they create a new marking of borders that make transitions from one reality to another reality. This is a potent paradox that is productive 2

 Werner and Zimmermann, “Beyond Comparison,” 38. an account, J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph (Oxford History of Art; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998); H. Maier, Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles (London: T&T Clark / ​ Bloomsbury, 2013), 197–202, where further literature is cited. 3 For

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of religious meaning and meaning making of self, community, and world. The Pauline motif of the body, both as self (Rom 6:6,12; 7:4,24; 8:10–11,23; 12:1; 1 Cor 6:18–20; 15:35–44; 2Cor 4:10; 5:10; 7:1; 12:2–3; Eph 2:3; Phil 3:21; Col 2:11; 1 Thess 5:23) and as religious entity (Rom 12:4–5; 1 Cor 6:15; 10:16–17; 11:29; 12:12–27; Eph 1:23; 2:16; 3:6; 4:1,12,16; 5:23,30; Col 1:18,24; 2:19; 3:15), reveals itself as a category that is informed by a series of cultural and political and religious intersections and crisscrossings. The body in Paul’s thought is at once local and universal, individual and communal, terrestrial and cosmic. It is a site where the tools of entangled history prove particularly useful in analysis. Even as the bodies of Christ followers were incorporated through the ritual baptism into what Paul names the body of Christ, the inhabitants of the Mediterranean world from the Hellenistic period onward were conceived as belonging to a body politic. In the Roman period, idealized representations of the Empire’s leaders (emperors, members of the imperial family, civic officials, and benefactors) were publicly displayed. These depictions were intended as portraits of the idealized body politic.4 As political propaganda they functioned to mirror the ideals of empire and polis back to their viewers. Further, these portraits were sometimes presented alongside contrasting portraits of the vanquished, usually naked, or improperly clothed, with unbound hair, or unshaven. By such display, observers beheld a snapshot of civilization and its opposite, represented in beautiful and ugly bodies. The Pauline motif of the body when considered from this aspect represents at once a corporate and an alternative civic identity. The borders of Empire run through the religious imagination of the body politic and the body of the believer, which Paul and his followers held up to view to listeners, as they outlined the ideals of the rightly functioning community and self. The letters of Paul and his followers reveal borders that run through community and body. Bodies are entangled with Empire in the Pauline corpus. This essay takes up first the uncontested Pauline letters to establish a context for making some observations about how Paul’s entanglements with Roman imperial social and socio-political as well as religious ideals function in the construction of borders. This will furnish the backdrop for then turning to the letter to the Colossians, where we discover a further number of “resistances, inertias, modifications” (Werner and Zimmerman). We can discover their intersections with a Pauline heritage that is transformed due to a new context for religious meaning making. We can also discover there crisscrossing with Roman imperial ideas, slogans and goals, especially cosmic and geo-political ideas, to form a new set of boundaries, especially with respect to the motif of the church. For both 4  For an overview of the political meanings of the term and its history in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, E. Schweizer, “σῶμα κτλ,” TDNT 7 (1971): 1024–1094; for Pauline appropriation of civic ideals, including notions of display of the civic and ecclesial body, D. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 38–138; also, Y. Kim, Christ’s Body in Corinth (Paul in Critical Contexts; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008), 39–64.

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the earlier Paul and his later Colossian interpreter, the body functions as a site of boundary construction and entanglements with individual, communal, political, and cosmic and social realities. I hope to show that entangled history furnishes an important means of observing the semi-permeable boundaries of Pauline religious ideas and the communities that centred around them, even as those ideas marked out and confirmed and sought to reinforce certain kinds of new borders. I will show how an earlier Pauline vision that centres on a transcultural reality couched in an apocalyptic mode became transformed into an ecclesial vision, whereby a cosmic reality was confined to a particular formulation of a cosmic and local church.

1. Crisscrossed Imperial Identities and Paul The undisputed Pauline letters repeatedly return to imperial language and ideas.5 Paul’s Gospel to the Gentiles affirms a transnational rule of Christ that already contests traditional boundaries. In Rom 3:29, after affirming the universal rule of sin (3:23) Paul affirms that God is not the God of Ioudaioi (᾽Ιουδαίων) only but of Gentiles (ἔθνων) also. The reference to Gentiles rhetorically named from a Jewish location emphasizes the overcoming of difference through an ethnic representation made from the insider position of a Jew convinced of his divine election. Gal 3:28–29 represents the broadest reconstitution of boundaries, centred in a new identity. “For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Here Paul erases traditional boundaries of ethnic or national identities (᾽Ιουδαῖος / ​῞Ελλην), economics (δοῦλος / ​ἐλεύθερος), and gender (ἄρσεν / ​θῆλυ) by celebrating Christ followers as possessing a new paternity as Abraham’s offspring. Here being incorporated into the Christ event of Jesus’ death and resurrection constitutes a new universal humanity, so that the universal promises to Israel as extended to Christ, Abraham’s historical descendent, become transferred to those reconstituted through participation in the baptismal ritual of dying and rising (3:16, 26–27) as Abraham’s offspring. To affirm this universality, Paul at once draws on an imperial model of the unbounded imperium of Rome’s dominion, while asserting, paradoxically, a strong demarcation that inscribes identity and separation from the lived world of daily

5 For an orientation of encounter with, appropriation of, and resistance to imperial themes, J. Punt, “Pauline Agency in Postcolonial Perspective: Subverter or Agent for Empire?” in: The Colonized Apostle: Paul Through Postcolonial Eyes (Paul in Critical Contexts; C. Stanley ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2011), 53–61.

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interaction of Christ followers with those around them.6 Such a paradoxical reality reveals entangled boundaries – points of resistance, inertia, and modification. Paul’s erasure of dichotomies that is celebrated in Gal 3:26–27 belongs to two larger theorizations of boundaries in the apostle’s immediate religious and social context. The first has to do with the Jewish Law and the other has to do with Roman law. In both instances, Paul removes boundaries in favour of a new identity that celebrates the universal transcendence of limits and strictures. In the former case, the apostle takes away traditional markers of Jewish identity (circumcision and dietary regulations) with a view to re-establishing Israel on a new basis. The complex arguments of Paul’s letter to the Romans are nothing if not a paradoxical (some would argue contradictory) realigning of boundaries. Paul’s basic argument is to affirm that if there is anything that is universal about all of humankind, Jew and non-Jew / ​Gentile alike, it is the sin and death of a postlapsarian epoch. Paul breaks down all boundaries that might be erected by practitioners and non-practitioners of the Law, by affirming that the Law shows that all – nonpractitioners and practitioners  – have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (Rom 3:23). This radical democratization erases a sharp religious boundary and puts all people on the same footing.7 It clears the way for Paul to confirm first Abraham as the sign of a new identity based on an identity of faith in the promises of God (Rom 4:1–25). Abraham, who leaves everything behind him to follow after the promise of God, thus becomes the father of faith and hence the progenitor of a new humanity. The second sign of this new identity is the death and resurrection of Jesus which repristinates the Adam story in order to create a new humankind made active through incorporation – a re-embodiment through the ritual of baptism – into Christ’s resurrected body (Rom 5:12–6:11). For Paul that resurrected body is known in the present in the realized resurrection of his body, the Church (Rom 12:3–8; 1 Cor 12:14–31; 11:27–32). This physical body is a reconstitution not only of space but also of time. Those who participate now in the life of Christ’s body are the sign of the inbreaking of a new reality and the turning of time as the start of a fulfilled messianic reality (1 Cor 15:20–28; 2 Cor 5:16–19). From here Paul can confirm that all of the civic ideals of the harmonious state are realized in this new body, marked by an ethics that again moves past traditional boundaries, where the strong care for the weak (Rom 14:1–15:6; 1 Cor 11:20–34), and both strong and weak submit themselves to the ideals of an order that has already begun. Here we have a transmogrification of many boundaries: time (even not / ​not yet); ethnicity (first Jew / ​then 6  For a reading of the formula in the light of imperial claims, B. Kahl, Galatians Re-Imagined: Reading with the Eyes of the Vanquished (Paul in Critical Contexts; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 281–285; D. Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered: Reimaging Paul’s Mission (Paul in Critical Contexts; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008), 17–55. 7  For commentary along this line, R. Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008).

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Gentile); economics (strong / ​weak); life and death (first Adam / ​Second Adam); self (flesh / ​spirit). By replacing universality based on universal observance of the Law, an ideal that universalist apologists of Judaism promoted as both the celebration of Israel’s priority and God’s good will for all humankind, with one based on the promise and faithfulness of God through the Christ event of death and resurrection, Paul seeks at once to reinforce Israel’s priority and to redefine it so that Israel is now a term that applies no longer to patrimony of biological descent but to one in which any who have faith or share in the faithfulness of God are taken out of one dominion and placed in another. Since this redefinition is oriented not so much to the past (the giving of the Law at Sinai), but to the future (the full realization of God’s dominion in the Second Coming of Jesus), Paul’s universal vision is always inchoate. In its secular manifestation, which to a degree finds its origins in Paul himself, it is always increasing but never arriving. Indeed, its improvement and its growth are predicated on the idea of a utopia that exists nowhere but in the capacity to imagine a universal humankind centred in certain democratic ideals, where all are a part and wherein the rights of each to a common good is protected and guaranteed under the law. Such is the power of promise to create people willing to break boundaries as they are found amidst the socio-economic-religious complexities of a given social order. The second resource for Paul’s recreation of boundaries is imperial politics. His reconceptualization is embedded within the Roman theorization and practices of the civic order. Rome’s imperium created a means of imagining a universal order based on the application of law and the affirmation of a humankind living under a divinely appointed government.8 Panegyrists and political philosophers like Aelius Aristides (117–181 CE) and Plutarch (c. 46–c. 120 CE), for example, express this civic imagination when they liken harmonious imperial rule to the governance of the cosmos by Zeus.9 And it is present in elite literature, such as Virgil’s Aeneid, where the descendants of Aeneas are promised an imperium “without end.”10 Law was a more invisible means of marking such an order. Display was another, and was a critical means of disseminating ideals of Roman rule and political goals to non-elite populations. Imperial iconographers spread the Roman idea of pacification across the Empire through coins, monuments, statues, reliefs, frescos and mosaics. Pacification meant the subjugation of enemies through either diplomacy or the force of arms. A recurring image is the vanquished enemy naked and bound at the foot of the cuirassed emperor,  8  For a general overview, N. Elliott, The Arrogance of Nations: Reading Romans in the Shadow of the Roman Empire (Paul in Critical Context; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008), 25–58; C. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Jerome Lectures 19; Hélène Leclerc trans.; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 1–58.  9  For example, Aristides, Or. 23.76–8; 26.1–5; Plutarch, De fort. Rom. 2.316e–317c. 10 Aeneid 1.333–334.

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beneath a trophy, or seated amidst despoiled weapons. These often appear in the company of a recurring set of military terms: victoria, securitas, pax, and so on. As Paul Zanker has argued, such imagery was so ubiquitous from the Augustan period onward that it penetrated the very unconscious of Rome’s subjects.11 Certainly it formed part of entertainments such as the games, where conquered subjects regularly battled to the death with animals, mock battles, mythological dramas, and so on. While local allegiances and civic boundaries remained intact, as is manifested through intra-city rivalries, the effect of this was also to encourage a universal image of being imperial subjects. The group amongst which Paul was most active – namely tradespeople and slaves – well knew the universal reach of Rome’s dominion. Tradespeople relied upon it to cross countless ethnic, linguistic, political, religious and cultural boundaries as they travelled from city to city to sell their wares and to ply their trades.12 Slaves taken from conquered territories and inserted into households benefiting from Roman rule had such a universal dominion inscribed on their bodies through bronze collars marking their servitude, not to mention scars, a reality Paul himself identifies with when he refers to himself as bearing the marks of Jesus on his body (Gal 6:17).13 Philip Harland has shown how in these cities some ethnic religious associations contained and inscribed ethnicity through migrant gatherings of co-religionists practicing and thus preserving their native rituals, beliefs and customs.14 It is a unique feature of Paul that he precisely does not promote this; rather he argues for the abrogation of traditional ethnic markers and instead uses graphic speech to convince his listeners to see themselves inhabiting narratives similar to what Roman powers were promoting to celebrate Roman rule. Thus Paul’s language, too, is one of victory, conquering, warfare, and pacification (for example, Rom 8:37; 16:20; 1 Cor 15:54–5; 2 Cor 10:3–4; 1 Thess 5:8). And he makes the universal claims for his Gospel with the help of a repertoire of civic vocabulary and images. The church is a body, believers form a citizenship (Phil 3:20), Paul preaches a Gospel, Christ marks the beginning of new things (2 Cor 5:17), Jesus is a Lord and Saviour, he likens the coming of Jesus to the adventus of a visiting ruler or diplomat (1 Thess 4:17).15 Thus if Paul  P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Jerome Lectures 16; Alan Shapiro trans.; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988), 265–295. 12 For this demography and for the impoverished world in which Paul preached his Gospel, J. Meiggit, Paul, Poverty and Survival (Studies in the New Testament and its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998). 13 For the daily experience of slaves, also amongst Christ followers, D. Martin, “The Eyes Have It: Slaves in the Communities of the Christ Believers,” in Christian Origins (A People’s History of Christianity, vol. 1; R. Horsley ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 221–239. 14 P. Harland, Dynamics of Identity in the World of the Early Christians (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 97–142. 15  For discussion of these imperial terms in the uncontested corpus, and their relation to politics, Maier, Picturing, 35–61. 11

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erases boundaries separating ethne in favour of a universal picture of humankind and thus tries to redraw the cognitive and religious map of identity, he does so paradoxically with the tools and concepts of the strong boundary markers of Roman rule. If we speak of deferred transformation as Werner and Zimmerman do, a case immediately springs to mind, namely the appropriation of imperial images and ideas in Byzantine art as well as the Eusebian vision of history as the triumph of Christianity over Greco-Roman polytheism and heresy. Under a new sign, Eusebius affirms at once limitless boundaries of a rule of Christ without end, even as he promotes a new inscription of definitions to conceptualize how a proper boundary should look. This he does through the creation of an orthodox history willed by God and a history of heresy and persecutions sent by Satan to thwart the divine plan of salvation.16 Paul’s formulation of boundaries, his endorsement of civic ideas and vocabularies, and his notion of an expanded rule of God come together with Constantine and the desire to regulate belief, ritual, and leadership. Eusebius’ church history is histoire croisée in bold colours.

2. Histore croisée in Colossians When we turn to the letter to the Colossians we enter a new world and a new set of historical entanglements. Colossians belongs to a body of New Testament letters ascribed to Paul but which for a number of reasons many New Testament scholars argue do not come from him directly. These reasons include differences of syntax, the presence of unique vocabulary not found in the earlier letters of Paul and the absence of typical Pauline language and concepts, a changed set of expectations about the imminent return of Christ, the assertion of traditional hierarchical arrangements earlier letters remove or radically transform, differences in ecclesiology, and significant expansion if not transformation of Christological beliefs.17 Each of these represents a significant reformulation of boundaries from a conceptual, institutional, social, cultural, and theological point of view. There is not room here to outline each of these. Instead I will focus on a few of them to see how a later Pauline Christ believer takes up a pre-existing set of ideas and revises them for a new situation. We discover here a two-fold entanglement: the 16  For Eusebian history and imperial ideology together with reference to Byzantine art, H. Maier, “Dominion from Sea to Sea: Eusebius of Caesarea, Constantine the Great and the Exegesis of Empire,” in: The Calling of the Nations: Exegesis, Ethnography, and Empire in a Biblical-Historic Present (M. Vessey, S. Betcher, R. Daum, H. Maier eds.; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010), 149–175. 17  For detailed discussion, J. Sumney, Colossians: A Commentary (The New Testament Library; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008), 1–9; M.Kiley, Colossians as Pseudepigraphy (The Biblical Seminar; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1986), 37–109.

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writer crisscrosses over received Pauline traditions and, like the apostle before him, returns to the Roman Empire to use imperial ideals to set up and champion new borders. These boundaries at once rehearse earlier political ideals and transform them. In Colossians we discover one of the most daring transfigurations of received ideas in the New Testament, second perhaps only to Paul’s startling reconfiguration of the Jesus tradition for a dispersed imperial audience. The letter to the Colossians is a polemical letter. It seeks to persuade audiences to stay away from ideas and rituals associated with what it calls “philosophy and empty deceit” (Col 2:8). These include ascetical practices, rituals associated with cosmic ideas, and what the author interprets as self-abasement before cosmic powers (2:16–23). Scholars have expended no little effort on identifying more precisely Colossians’ target.18 I direct attention here not to the accuracy of the polemic but to its uses in creating and marking borders. Indeed, it is under a polemical aspect that Colossians’ author returns to earlier Pauline ideas and reformulates them for a new situation. What are these new borders and how do they function? I take up three of them and analyse each under the rubrics of entangled history. These include geopolitical, cosmic, and institutional boundaries.

3. An Empire-Wide Christ Colossians transforms Paul’s concern with how a God of an ethnic group, Israel, becomes the God of all nations, into a set of beliefs about a set of cosmic realities. This transformation involves an extension of both geographical borders and vertical ones. The undisputed letters of Paul see the apostle travelling around the Mediterranean basin, collecting funds to offer the leaders of the church in Jerusalem, probably as a means of legitimizing his interpretation of the death and resurrection of Jesus as the sign that through his circumcision-free Gospel, free of traditional Jewish dietary prescriptions, God’s promise to Israel that Gentile nations would honour the God of Israel is being fulfilled. In this aspect Paul’s theology retains its temporal formulation as one of promise, fulfillment, eschaton. In Colossians we discover a different formulation, through a startling reconceptualization of boundaries that are no longer temporal, but geographical. The letter starts with a typical Pauline introduction of praise for his audience, but introduces a geographical set of terms that will be important as the argument 18  For differing appraisals, F. Francis and W. Meeks eds., Conflict at Colossae: A Problem in the Interpretation of Early Christianity Illustrated by Selected Modern Studies (SBLSBS 4; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1973); J. Sumney, “Servants of Satan,” “False Brothers,” and Other Opponents of Paul (JSNTSup 40; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 188–213; A. Clinton, The Colossian Syncretism: The Interface Between Christianity and Folk Belief at Colossae (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1996).

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of the letter unfolds. The writer extols the Gospel as a global reality: Christ followers have heard and believed “the gospel which has come to you, as indeed in the whole world it bearing fruit and growing” (Col 1:6). The combination of the terms “gospel [εὐαγγέλιον]” and “whole world [ἐν παντὶ τῷ κόσμῳ] is striking because it echoes the geo-political achievements of the Rome’s imperium. The audience listening to this combination of terms was primed to understand its reach through imperial propaganda, which affirmed the reign of Caesar as a gospel also unfolding and growing through the whole world – a reign of peace, abundance, and fertility.19 Iconographers from the Augustan period onward regularly combined images of the emperor with symbols of agricultural abundance, such as sheathes of grain and cornucopias.20 Such associations helped to affirm that with the emperor’s reign came a worldwide renewal. Colossians’ author does the same, but he links it with the reign not of Caesar, but of Christ whose dominion spreads through the world through the preaching of an alternative Gospel. The author repeats this geographical affirmation later in the letter, where, outlining the basis for ethical behaviours, he states, “Here there cannot be Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave, free man, but Christ is all, and in all” (3:11).21 Here he revises the formulation of Gal 3:25. We note that the pair male / ​female, for example, is absent, and he adds the terms barbarian and Scythian. When read in the context of the geographical affirmation of Col 1:6, the terms barbarian and Scythian are especially notable. Both terms refer not to a demographic reality so much as to a geographical one: the Gospel has grown throughout the world, so that it encompasses even the furthest limits of the Empire, including the hinterland of civilization that Scythians inhabit. The point here is not that there are literal Scythians living in the Lycus Valley where the audience of the letters live (although this cannot of course be excluded), it is rather that there is no boundary to the Gospel.22 In a simple formula the author marks the “boundarylessness” of Paul’s preaching and its effects. It erases limits. In the Roman imperial imagination, as in the Hellenistic one, “Scythian” represents a fantasy space of extreme lack of civilization and of limitless im-

19

 Here the parallels with imperial inscriptions celebrating Augustus are particularly striking. For example, the Priene inscription (9 BCE), which inaugurates the worship of the emperor, marks the birthdate of Augustus as the date of the New Year, as the beginning of “good news” and of the growth of new things. For the inscription V. Ehrenberg and A. Jones eds., Documents Illustrating the Reigns of Augustus and Tiberius (2nd ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1976), 82, no. 98. 20 For discussion with visual examples, H. Maier, Picturing, 83–85. 21  For detailed analysis of the text, H. Maier, “Barbarians, Scythians and Imperial Iconography in the Epistle to the Colossians,” in Picturing the New Testament: Studies in Ancient Visual Images (WUNT 2.193, A. Weissenrieder, F. Wendt, P. von Gemünden eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck), 385–406. 22  For Scythians as demographic reference, T. Martin, By Philosophy and Empty Deceit: Co­ lossians as Response to a Cynic Critique (JSNTSS 118; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996).

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morality.23 The author here confirms that the Gospel does what the Romans fail to do: reach beyond any boundary one might imagine. This also transforms the other pairs of the formulation. Thus, Greek / ​Jew, circumcised / ​uncircumcised, slave / ​free, while they refer to religious and demographic phenomena, now also entail geographical understandings as well as cultural ones. Those inside Israel and those outside it, those in parts of the Empire where there are free people and those whence slaves are drawn – all of these are encompassed within the reach of Christ’s rule. Here the author crosses the boundaries of the Roman Empire in order to take the edge of imperial propaganda and fold it back upon itself, like a piece of folded paper. He layers a geopolitical affirmation of Roman rule over an antecedent Pauline, eschatological affirmation about Abraham’s new paternity. Such a crisscrossing results in the transformation of both in a new formulation of boundary and geographical thinking. That this is geographical in orientation is further attested by the fact that Col 3:11 is embedded within a larger formulation of ethics linked with the motif of dressing and undressing. The author states that believers, presumably in baptism, “have put off the old nature with its practices, and have put on the new nature” (3:9–10); they are “to put on” a series of virtues listed in 3:12–13 and to “put on” love (v. 14). In a study dedicated to the clothing imagery of these verses, Rosemary Canavan has shown how Paul’s language here should be understood with the help of civic and funerary iconography that depicts the virtuous as properly dressed: if clothes “make the man,” properly arranged dress reveals virtue.24 This too is an imperial theme. Roman imperial iconographers marked boundaries separating the conqueror from the conquered in military depictions that portrayed imperial victory. Here they represent the conquerors – always male – as clothed in military dress or as heroic nudes symbolizing their semidivine qualities, and the vanquished as naked females with clothing in disarray and unbound hair.25 These iconographers drew on traditional gender boundaries to contrast the masculine self-rule, and hence superior virtue, of the conqueror with the unregulated femininity and vulnerability of the vanquished, who are in need of the strong male hand of domestication Roman power represents.26 For 23 D. Braund, “The Caucasian Frontier: Myth, Exploration and the Dynamics of Imperialism,” in: The Defense of the Roman and Byzantine East (2 vols.; BAR International Series 297; P. Freeman and D. Kennedy eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 1:31–49. 24 R. Canavan, Clothing the Body of Christ at Colossae. A Visual Construction of Identity (WUNT 2.334; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 67–134. 25  For discussion of these motifs, with reference to the imperial portraiture at the imperial temple dedicated to Augustus and his Julio-Claudian successors at Aphrodisias, see the essays by R. Smith, “The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias,” JRS 77 (1987): 88–138; “Myth and Allegory in the Sebasteion,” in Aphrodisias Papers: Recent Work on Architecture and Sculpture (JRASS 1; C. Roueché and K. Erim eds.; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1990), 89–100; “Simulacra Gentium: The ethne from the Sebasteion of Aphrodisias,” JRS 78 (1988): 50–77. 26 For masculine portraiture and political ideology, Lopez, Apostle, 27–54.

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an audience inhabiting Roman imperial Phrygia, saturated with images of Roman imperial might as a masculine achievement of civilization, such associations in Colossians could hardly have passed unnoticed. But even as Colossians draws on a modality of victory language to confirm the boundarylessness of Christ’s rule, it feminizes its listeners and thus again manifests a folding over of boundaries and limits in a striking way. In 3:12 the author includes amongst the virtues of “putting on” Christ “kindness, lowliness, meekness;” they are to forbear and to forgive one another (v. 13), and to put on “love” and let the “peace of Christ rule in your heart” (v. 15). Here when placed in the gender politics and boundaries of the larger civic and moral world, to put on means to submit oneself, and to display the ideals of regulation that come from a dominant power.27 The peace that rules in hearts here is a peace of pacification, of the transformation of barbarians and Scythians under a new civilizing dominion. It is inescapable that the peace here, when read against the backdrop of Roman politics, is one of bringing to submission and dominion. The author genders his listeners as feminine in order to express the transcendence of all boundaries under a new dominion, which has created its own imagination of boundaries, in a Gospel that is spreading throughout a world free from traditional limits. Here again, we discover entangled imperial bodies, both as individuals, but also as the ecclesial body, united together under the new power, Christ. The Household Code of 3:18–4:1, which belongs with the ethical instructions that precede it, continues such a geopolitical affirmation. We should remember that the codes themselves are part of Greco-Roman statecraft, theorized from the time of Xenophon onward as the means toward harmonious governance of the city-state.28 The masculine-centred hierarchy centred on the pair dominion / ​ subservience is predictable and belongs to a traditional exercise of domestic rule. But the inflection of the rule so that those in the male position of domination also undertake extra care to love wives, not to frustrate children, and to treat slaves justly and equitably begins to erase traditional borders, so that even as Christ’s rule erases traditional Roman boundaries, so it also modifies household hierarchies.29 It can only do so, however, by reaffirming them. Here we have an excellent example of histoire croisée: the intersection of a series of Pauline ethics centred in love with a traditional topos of household management centred in right rule and submission results in a mutual transformation and the emergence 27  For power and gender construction in the Roman period, D. Montserrat, “Reading Gender in the Roman World,” in: Experiencing Rome: Culture, Identity and Power in the Roman Empire (J. Huskinson ed.; London: Routledge, 2000), 153–182. 28  For an orientation to the household code and ancient statecraft, J. Crouch, The Origin and Intention of the Colossian Haustafel (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972). 29 For discussion of these modifications and the resulting shift in ethics from earlier formulations, M. MacDonald, “Beyond Identification of the Topos Household Management: Reading the Household Codes in Light of Recent Methodologies and Theoretical Perspectives in the Study of the New Testament,” NTS 57 (2010): 65–90.

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of hybridity. The author is clear about keeping a heavy hand on slaves: many have noted that the longest duties fall on slaves (3:22–24), and yet their obedience to masters is not to be undertaken for the sake of the master’s authority, but with a view to submission to Christ. The result here is that the divine observation penetrates the domain of the household so that in its innermost chambers it is the divine gaze and not the eyes of the master that are the true eyes to be on the lookout for. This establishes the boundaries of household rule on a new footing even as old boundaries are rehearsed.

4. Redrawing Cosmic Boundaries The Gospel that grows and expands through the earth has as its precondition a cosmic victory. The letter’s argument against “philosophy and empty deceit” (2:8) and the assault against those who would encourage “worship of angels” (2:18) has as its chief plank the affirmation of a tripartite universe where all creation is subject to the one who created it. This is most evident in 1:15–20 where the author affirms that all things were created through the Son and for the Son, including “thrones or dominions or principalities or authorities” (v. 16). Further the writer introduces the theme of estrangement where he refers to the incarnation of the Son as a reconciliation (ἀποκαταλλάξαι; vs. 20, 22) that has been brought about through the blood of Christ that has “made peace [εἰρηνοποιήσας]” (v. 20). The phrase “to make peace” should be understood as pacification – namely subjugation through force; reconciliation here is the fruit of victory – the end of enmity brought about through an embassy of peace.30 The unique aspect of this in Colossians, as in the earlier Pauline writings, is that there is an inversion of power at work. We can see this in 2:15 where the author sees the death of Jesus as the means of victory over the principalities and powers, and where he introduces the image of a military victory, in which the vanquished powers are paraded.31 Here the author embarks upon a typical set of imperial associations: pacification of enemies, parade of the vanquished, reconciliation. However, history is crisscrossed where we have two ideas in juxtaposition: the event of crucifixion as symbol of subjugation is now the means of military victory; the suing for peace 30 For peace as pacification, see Z. Rubin, “Pax als politisches Schlagwort im alten Rom,” in: Frieden und Friedensicherungen in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart (M. Schenke and K.-J. Matz eds.; Munich: Fink, 1984), 21–40; for έιρηνοποιεῖν as imperial title, H. Windisch, “Friedensbringer – Gottessöhne. Eine religionsgeschichtliche Interpretation der 7. Seligpreisung,” ZNW 24 (1925): 240–260; for the defeated suing for peace through embassies, C. Breytenbach, Grace, Reconciliation, Concord: The Death of Christ in Graeco-Roman Metaphors (SNovT 135; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 171–186; A. Bash, Ambassadors for Christ: An Exploration of Ambassadorial Language in the New Testament (WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 98–99. 31  For an exegetical orientation to the text and its links with Roman triumph, Maier, Pictur­ ing, 67–71; R. Yates, “Colossians 2:15: Christ Triumphant,” NTS 37 (1991): 573–591.

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and reconciliation by the vanquished is now the initiation of the victor in his paradoxical triumph. Through such a paradoxical set of affirmations, the writer of Colossians redraws the map of diplomacy as well as imperial military success. And this is to affirm that through such a victorious crucifixion Christ is raised and exalted to a position over top of the principalities and powers. The closest parallel we might find in imperial cosmology is where one discovers the emperor likened to Zeus who brings the forces of the cosmos into harmony. In the traditional formulation, even the deified emperor takes his place amongst the cosmic powers, inasmuch as his rule has revealed divine power manifested in his reign, and his achievements merit his posthumous apotheosis to join in the company of the gods.32 But here we have the affirmation of a monotheism that places everything under its sway, including those powers and dominions and authorities that rule the Roman Empire.33 The play of terms here is noticeable: the cosmic powers created through and for the Son, and the principalities and powers responsible for Jesus’ death, are unmasked for what they are in the crucifixion of Jesus.34 In the cosmic map of Colossians the boundaries of Roman rule are reformulated: Zeus / ​Jupiter and his vice-regent the emperor are not supreme, but are no more than cosmic intermediaries brought to heel by the higher divine power manifested, through the resurrection, on the cross. The startling conclusion to this remapping of borders is that the Christ followers of the Lycus Valley, whatever their social and economic and civic identities may be on their earthly plane, are cosmically united in their baptism with the resurrection of Jesus and thus exalted with him in the superior cosmic position (3.1). Thus they improperly submit themselves to powers that in fact are in submission to them; they occupy a position of dominion and not servitude. They are the body of the head, Christ; where he is, they are (2:19).

5. Intersections of Church and Empire Exegetes have argued that the writer of the Colossians inserted a reference to the church in 1:15–20, and thus transformed a pre-Christian hymn to one that extols  Mary Beard, John North, and Simon Price eds., Religions of Rome: A History (Religions of Rome Vol. 1; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 206–210. 33 N. Wright astutely names this “christological monotheism”: “Poetry and Theology in Colossians 1.15–20,” NTS 36 (1990): 444–468. 34  The unmasking is more dramatic if one accepts an alternative translation of Col. 2.15 to the one usually rendered in modern translations. For example, the NRSV translates the verse: “He disarmed the rulers and authorities and made a public example of them, triumphing over them in it.” The Greek text reads: ἀπεκδυσάμενος τὰς ἀρχὰς καὶ τὰς ἐξουσίας ἐδειγμάτισεν ἐν παρρησίᾳ θριαμβεύσας αὐτοὺς ἐν αὐτῷ. Equally grammatical is to translate ἀπεκδυσάμενος as a middle , “Being stripped, he made a bold public example of the principalities and powers, triumphing over them on it [i. e. the cross].” Here the stripping refers to the humiliation of crucifixion. For discussion of this alternative translation, Yates, “Colossians 2:15,” 573–591. 32

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Christ with an ecclesiological pronouncement.35 This occurs at v. 18 (“he is the head of the body, the church”). That argument does not need to be resolved here one way or the other. From the perspective of boundaries, however, the presence of the phrase is notable, as is its analogue at 2.:19 (“holding fast the head from whom the whole body […] grows with a growth that is from God”). From the perspective of entangled boundaries, two observations are noteworthy. First, we discover an intriguing intersection with earlier Pauline ideas and a transformation of them. In the undisputed letters, Paul invokes the motif of the body as the organic unity of believers who together join together as the body of Christ (Rom 12:4–5; 1 Cor 12:12–27). The point there is that the church as the physical group of worshipers is the visible token of the imminent transformation of all things: there, for Paul, we see a new creation already sweeping away boundaries as Gentiles in Christ worship the God of Israel and thus prove themselves descendants of Abraham in a newly configured people of God. Colossians takes this sign of the future, spatializes it, and creates an ecclesiocentric vision. A temporal boundary of even now / ​not yet is transformed into an institutional boundary of what is inside / ​outside: those who are in the church have passed from one dominion to another, from one space to another one. This is especially evident in 3:7 where the author contrasts the lives of the believers before they were baptized with their lives after baptism.36 In other words, the place where one discovers the end of boundaries named in 3:11 is in the church; the church is a new entity, whose future is not determined by an imminent second coming but by the ritualized creation of a before and after through baptism. The second observation reveals the author entangled with imperial ideas: here the motif of the body is civic and imperial. The body politic in ancient politics is not a temporal designation but a spatial one, determined by the body of citizens and other adherents that together are a legally constituted entity with certain privileges and access to the Law, linked to a particular place or group. The first-century CE Roman philosopher Seneca extends this idea in a treatise dedicated to instructing Nero on the necessity of the right exercise of clementia. There the spatialized conception is extended beyond any particular local entity to the empire as a whole: as the head of the empire, he is obliged to pursue a life of virtue so as to keep himself free from the taint and potentially injurious outcomes of vice. Insofar as he the head of the Empire is healthy so will the body of his dominion be.37 Our author’s representation of the organic unity of example, E. Lohse, Colossians and Philemon: A Commentary on the Epistles to the Co­ lossians and Philemon (W. Poehlmann and R. Karris trans.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1971), 41–62. 36  For discussion of these texts from a sociological and anthropological perspective of ritual marking a movement from one social identity to another, and the function of Colossian ecclesiology in marking a movement toward an ecclesiocentric formulation, see M. MacDonald, Colossians and Ephesians (Sacra Pagina17; Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2000), 126–151. 37 Sen. Cl. 1.1.2; 1.3.3–4. 35 For

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the members of the body joined together with the head in a growth that is from God shows an analogous application. So does the reference later in 3:14 where listeners are exhorted to “put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.” What are remarkable from the perspective of histoire croisée are the entanglements of boundaries through a homologous application of concepts. As the emperor is to his body the Empire, so is Christ to his body the church. The difference is that whereas the Empire has its geographical limits, the church by contrast is at once bounded by its ritual markers, but in principle without limit, as the reference to Scythians and barbarians indicates. Both manifest a spatial imaginary. But, whereas the imperial body is geographically spread through contiguous territories, the ecclesial one is made up of a series of local and self-defined unities that inhabit a larger geographical territory. This results in a simultaneous rethinking of borders and a sharp distinction of them. The local is the place of the erasure of borders, even as it is the locale for marking strong limits. We thus discover in Colossians at once a reconfiguration of geo-political, cosmic, and local boundaries as a Pauline heritage is reformulated and imperial ideas and ideals are crisscrossed in new ways.

6. Borders and Hybridity Histoire croisée is a history of hybridity – the hybridity of historical phenomena, and the hybridity that emerges when historian and the past engage one another. Borders under this understanding are not static, but shift and move as phenomena connect with one another, unfold in relation to each other, and mutually influence and transform each other. We can see this in the case of Paul and his successors, especially in the letter to the Colossians. New Testament interpreters are inclined to draw strong distinctions between emergent Christianity and its wider Graeco-Roman context. This is in part due to the modern idea of conversion as the move from one religion to another. This idea itself is of course a historical one that is explicable in part through the history of Evangelical awakenings in Europe and America from the 18th century onward. To read Paul as a conversionist is to entangle oneself, historically, in the history one is observing. But the foregoing implies that such a movement is not so easy to recognize. Entangled history shows that even if Christ followers conceived a strong boundary between themselves and others, their uses of imperial language and imagery to identify and define themselves resulted in a pronounced entanglement with the larger geopolitical order. Borders here conceived from the inside may be firm, but from the outside may appear more complex. Indeed, here we may speak of the implied audience of the letter, who ideally conform to the author’s point of view, in which there is a need for strong borders. However, the very occasion of the letter presupposes that such a strong border did not in fact exist. While

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debates continue concerning the proper identification of those Colossians opposes, the fact that the letter addresses itself to a group of Christ followers, some of whom evidently see no problem with combining Christ belief with the certain other rituals and practices, suggests an entangled reality the author seeks to disentangle. Here we are on the cusp of a history of heresy where distinction, definition, borders become topics of primary interest and identity. There too we may discover entangled boundaries, histoire croisée, and new imperial paradigms to bring about disentanglement even as new entanglements arise. Borders are created, erased, and recreated. The preceding argument presents a part of the framework for that later development. In Colossians we discover a historical affirmation of borders that at once seek to be firm, but also reveal that they are porous, as imperial ideas and ideals crisscross with Pauline ideas and received tradition in the transformation of belief.

Betwixt and Between – The Cultural Roles of the Magnesian Gate in Greek-Roman Ephesus1 Alexander Sokolicek This paper aims to investigate the liminal roles of the Magnesian Gate in Ephesus from an archaeological perspective, and asks to what extent it was also a ritual boundary in Roman Imperial Ephesus. Recent excavations at the gate provide new results that allow for interpreting the architectural remains especially in the light of the famous foundation of C. Vibius Salutaris, inscribed on the great theater in 104 CE. This inscription concerns a foundation of both recurrent processions and a lottery. In its manifold information on Ephesian social and ritual life in the early second century, the inscription contains a passage that mentions the Magnesian Gate as a station in the funded processions. The inscription also mentions ritual transfer of sacred objects at the gate, which could identify the gate as a ritual boundary area. In his detailed and convincing discussion of the Molpoi decree from Miletus, a decree regulating the New Year’s procession between the sanctuary of Apollo in Didyma and Miletus, A. Herda argues that the sacred boundary of the processional way was established before the procession by placing temporary borderstones, so-called gylloi, at the city gate of Miletus and the temenos of Apollo in Didyma2. The temporary character of boundaries established for processions is also evident at the Magnesian Gate and needs to be seen in the light of this important decree. However, architectonic features in the gate area and the architecture of the sacred way may point to an architectonically more established cultic boundary at the Magnesian Gate.

1 I want to express warm thanks to Annette Weissenrieder and to the San Francisco Theological Seminary for organizing this workshop. In her answer to the talk, C. Thomas (UCSB) fostered the further discussion by focusing on the important liminal role of processions in general and the various social sub-groups in Ephesus in particular. I want to thank her especially for the stimulating discussion. 2  A. Herda, Der Apollon-Delphinios-Kult in Milet und die Neujahrsprozession nach Didyma. Ein neuer Kommentar der sog. Molpoi-Satzung (Milesische Forschung 4; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2006), 249–259. See also S. Agelidis, “Zur architektonischen Fassung von Prozessionswegen,” in: Manifestationen von Macht und Hierarchien in Stadtraum und Landschaft (BYZAS 13; F. Pirson ed.; Istanbul: Ege Yayınları, 2012), 96, who follows Herda’s interpretation in her discussion of the architecture of processional ways.

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City gates are enhanced openings in a city wall and liminal by definition; they are neither city nor country, nor wall.3 Whereas this definition is clear and distinct, the functions and roles of city gates are quite diverse. First and foremost, city gates provide controlled access to or departure from a city. They are usually placed at the main roads that connect a city with its regional traffic network. In nearly all cases, city gates are part of the urban fortifications4 and therefore an example of military architecture. In all ancient cultures, the main city gates are accentuated gateways, often with towers, bearing distinctive decorations on the doors, the walls, and often additional décor such as statues and friezes.5 The functions of a city gate are primarily limited to ensuring the security and control of the traffic flow, but depending on the historical context and the size of the settlement, city gates are also the place to display images and décor in praise of the city and its benefactors,6 to locate booths to collect taxes and tolls,7 and sometimes to accommodate necropoleis in the space of the gate.8 In order to discuss the architecture of the gate and its possible roles in the processions described in the Salutaris-inscription, it is first necessary to present the architecture and the building chronology. 3  General on city gates: G. Schattner and F. Valdés Fernández eds.; Stadttore: Bautyp und Kunstform. Akten der Tagung in Toledo vom 25. bis 27. September 2003 = Puertas de ciudades: Tipo arquitectónico y forma artística. Actas del coloquio en Toledo del 25 al 27 de septiembre 2003 (Iberia archaeologia 8; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2006) and on republican city gates G. Brands, Republikanische Stadttore in Italien (BAR International series 459; Oxford: B. A. R., 1988), especially 3–4. 4  There are no freestanding city gates known that would highlight the entrance to an unwalled city. The large freestanding gate just outside of the city of Gadara (Jordan), e. g., was apparently begun in the 3rd century CE in expectation of expanding the city’s boundaries much further, see C. Bührig, Das spätkaiserzeitliche Bogenmonument extra muros in Gadara. Städte­ bauliche Bedeutung und Funktion eines freistehenden Torbaus an der Schnittstelle von Stadt und Umland (Orient-Archäologie 21; Rahden: M. Leidorf, 2008). 5  Decoration with apotropaic meaning: M. Weissl, Torgottheiten. Studien zum sakralen und magischen Schutz von griechischen Stadt‑ und Burgtoren unter Einbeziehung der benachbarten Kulturen (PhD, University of Vienna; Vienna: http://othes.univie.ac.at/17605/1/Diss070212d_ comp.pdf, 2012), 185–200. 6  The most prominent example is the series of ten statues in the renewed city gate complex of Perge, all sponsored by the rich local Roman benefactress Plancia Magna. Decorations like Plancia Magna’s demonstrate the political role of local sponsorship in the empire and identify the Roman phase of the city gate as part of Roman urban aesthetics rather than of military architecture; see S. Dillon, The Female Portrait Statue in the Greek World (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 155–161 with entire bibliography on the gate and its statues. 7  I. Jacobs, “Gates in late antiquity in the Eastern Mediterranean,” BABESCH 84 (2009): 197–213; esp. 197. 8 H. Schörner, “The intra-urban burial inside Greek poleis in Asia Minor,” in: Le Mort dans la ville. Pratiques, contextes et impacts des inhumations intra-muros en Anatolie, du debut de l’Age du Bronze a l’epoque romaine, 2emes rencontres d’archeologie de l’IFEA, Nov. 2011, Istanbul (Rencontres d’archéologie de l’IFÉA 2; O. Henry ed.; Istanbul: Institut Français d’Études Anatoliennes Georges Dumézil, 2013), 223–230, esp. 228 with bibliography. See also A. Sokolicek, “Zwischen Stadt und Land: Neues zum Magnesischen Tor in Ephesos,” ÖJh 78 (2009): 321–347, on the Magnesian Gate.

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1. Architecture and chronology of the Magnesian Gate The Magnesian Gate lies in a smooth saddle between the mountains of Bülbül Dağ and Panayır Dağ in the southeast of Ephesus (fig. 1; fig. 3). It is Ephesus’ main entrance for visitors from the south and named after the nearest city, Magnesia at Maiandros. In relation to other city gates the area of the Magnesian Gate  – including two towers and a courtyard  – is fairly large (ca. 40 × 40 m; fig. 2), but not excessively wide-dimensioned.9 Other city gates in Ephesus are smaller. One is located in the north – the Koressian Gate near the stadium – and the other in the west next to the outskirts of the harbor;10 from the latter only scanty remains have survived. Small sally ports are also known at the east side of Panayır Dağ and on the stretch of walls on Bülbül Dağ11. The city gates of Ephesus are all located on clearly visible and easily accessible areas where the regional / ​supraregional routes contact the city. It is not surprising that a large city like Ephesus had only a few entrances; in long city walls the number of gates is often reduced to a minimum in order to reduce the number of vulnerable points.12 The Hellenistic fortification system is the best preserved architectural remain of the early Hellenistic city.13 In the first decade of the 3rd century BCE the diadoch king Lysimachos initiated the construction of the city walls, for which he engaged Athenis, an otherwise unknown architect from Cyzicus.14 The fortification system encircles the inhabited area of Hellenistic and Roman Ephesus, which basically sprawls between the two mountains of Bülbül Dağ and Panayır Dağ (fig. 1). Recent investigations15 have resumed unfinished archaeological explorations in the area of the Magnesian Gate, which was unearthed in the 1860’s by the British engineer John Turtle Wood.16 The gate was again subject of archaeologi-

 9 See F. E. Winter, Greek Fortifications (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1971); A. W. Law-

rence, Greek Aims in Fortification (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979); J.-P. Adam, L’architecture militaire grecque (Paris: Picard, 1982); Schattner, Stadttore; M.-C. Hellmann, L’architecture grecque (Paris: Picard, 2010). 10 J. Keil,“X. Vorläufiger Bericht über die Arbeiten in Ephesos 1912,” ÖJh 15 (1912): Beibl. 183–186. 11  Th. Marksteiner, „Bemerkungen zum hellenistischen Stadtmauerring von Ephesos,” in: 100 Jahre Österreichische Forschungen in Ephesos. Akten des Symposiums Wien 1995 (Archäologische Forschungen 1 = DenkschrWien 260; H. Friesinger and F. Krinzinger eds.; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1999), 413–419. 12 Winter, Greek Fortifications; Lawrence, Greek Aims. 13  Marksteiner, “Stadtmauerring von Ephesos.” 14  Inschriften von Ephesos 1441. 15 Sokolicek, “Magnesisches Tor,” (2009); A. Sokolicek, “Chronologie und Nutzung des Magnesischen Tores von Ephesos,,” ÖJh 79 (2010): 259–281. 16  J. T. Wood, Discoveries at Ephesus: Including the site and remains of the great temple of Diana (London: Longmans, 1877), 19–21; 111–120.

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cal excavations by Gerard Seiterle from 1976 to 1986 and in 1996 and 1997.17 The gate consists of two large towers, a walled courtyard, and three separate entrances in the front. The western wall of the courtyard has one large opening leading to the avenue to the Upper Agora, the so-called Südstraße (street nr. 9 in fig. 1). A further opening in the south wall, probably of Roman or late antique date, connects to the living quarters of the upper city.18 The place in front of the gate mirrors the large court behind the towers in terms of structure and size. The forecourt is limited by the south and the north towers and opens to the east. Both the court and the forecourt are paved with large slabs. In both areas the main street, designed for wheeled traffic, is separated from the rest of the pavement. In the northern area of the forecourt, a pedestrian way is visible, coming from the Artemision. This is the place where the processional way meets the gate. Recent excavations have yielded find contexts that substantiate a late Hellenistic date around 100 BCE.19 This date challenges an older idea of an early Hellenistic city gate built by Lysimachus in the first decade of the 3rd century BCE20 as part of the oldest fortification system and has important historical implications for the transformation of Ephesus in the early days of the Roman province of Asia; these will not be discussed further here.21 Deep soundings have proved that the walls of the gate building were built on top of the foundations of the early Hellenistic city walls, which were pulled down for the purpose of building the gate in this area (fig. 4).22 In the earliest phase, two towers flanked the entrance, and a walled courtyard opened access on the back side between the towers. Whether the entrances into the court were already divided into three different accesses is not clear. The opening in the back wall of the courtyard has been altered, probably in Roman or later times; the original design of the gateways to the Südstraße is unclear. In the early days of the gate, the streets and the courtyard were paved with mud and gravel, and the main street lay about 1 m. below the Roman paved surface of the road. 17 G. Seiterle, “Das Hauptstadttor von Ephesos,” Antike Kunst 25 (1982): 145–149; G. Seiterle, “Grabungen,” ÖJh 67 (1998) Beibl. 78. Based on the excavated parts of the gate, P. Scherrer presented a reconstruction of the gate as part of his topographical studies in P. Scherrer, “Hellenistische und römische Stadttore in Kleinasien unter besonderer Berücksichtigung von Ephesos,” 63–78. 18  S. Groh, “Neue Forschungen zur Stadtplanung in Ephesos,” ÖJh 75 (2006): 47–116. 19 Seiterle, “Hauptstadttor,”145. 20  Seiterle, “Hauptstadttor,”145. 21  The new dating of the Magnesian Gate recontextualizes the building in a different historical setting – it is not a product of Hellenistic sovereignty, but a building erected under Roman rule, only shortly after the province of Asia was installed in 133 BCE. As a Roman city gate in the Greek East the Magnesian Gate sheds new light on the intertwining process of Greek and Roman transformations in Asia Minor which cannot be discussed here. See Sokolicek, “Magnesisches Tor,” (2010) for a short discussion. A more detailed discussion of the dating of the gate is currently being prepared by the author. 22 Sokolicek, “Magnesisches Tor,” (2010) 275.

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Significant changes to the gate architecture were made in Roman Imperial times. They fit well into the picture of Roman manipulation of Greek / ​Hellenistic fortifications, when city gates were deprived of their function of being a primary military zone. Cities in the Empire were safe. At the Magnesian Gate, the streets and the courtyard were paved with marble slabs toward the end of the 1st century CE; a new aqueduct line, donated by Tiberius Claudius Aristion,23 bypassed the gate, leaving a chamber open to scoop water for those reaching the gate thirsty. Smaller buildings of uncertain function were established in front of the gate in the course of the 1st century CE. At the end of the 2nd century CE the renowned sophist Flavius Damianus24 dedicated a via tecta, a roofed street, that carried the processional way between the Artemision and the Magnesian Gate.25 Traces of the Damianus Stoa have survived in cuttings in the paving in front of the gate (fig. 5: next to the right tower).26 The purpose of the via tecta, as Philostratus states in his biography of Damianus,27 was to protect worshippers from unfavorable weather conditions and swampy ground when the procession was on its way from the Artemision to the Magnesian Gate. In fact, the Damianus Stoa rises about 2 m. above the Roman Imperial ground level28 and the architectural design of the Damianus Stoa produced a rather narrow, protected, and nearly isolated walkway between the Artemision and Ephesus.29

2. The Processions Funded by C. Vibius Salutaris and the Magnesian Gate The most significant source on processions in Ephesus is a foundation dedicated by C. Vibius Salutaris.30 The text was published on the northern analemma of the great theatre in 104 CE. The foundation, approved by boule and demos and the 23  Scherrer, “Stadttore,” 56; G. Wiplinger, “Wasser für Ephesos, Stand der Erforschung der Wasserversorgung,” in: Cura Aquarum in Ephesus, Proceedings of the 12th International Con­ gress on the History of Water Management and Hydraulic Engineering in the Mediterranean Region (BABESCH Suppl. 12 = SoSchrÖAI 42; G. Wiplinger ed.; Leiden: Peeters, 2006), 23–39. 24 PIR2 III (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1943), 146, F 253. 25 D. Knibbe and G. Langmann, Via Sacra Ephesiaca I (BerMatÖAI 3; Vienna: Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut, 1993); W. Pietsch, “Außerstädtische Grabanlagen von Ephesos,” in: Friesinger and Krinzinger, 100 Jahre Grabungen Ephesos, 455–460; Groh, “Stadtplanung,” 108–109. 26  Sokolicek, “Magnesisches Tor,” (2010) 279. 27  Philostr. VS 2.23. 605–606. 28 D. Knibbe, “Via Sacra Ephesiaca,” 451–452. 29  The space between the pillars supporting the roof construction was gradually filled with sarcophagi; D. Knibbe and G. Langmann, Via Sacra Ephesiaca I. Possible viewers from the outside could therefore hardly observe what happened during the procession, as was recently pointed out by Agelidis, “Prozessionswege,” 95. 30  Fundamental on the foundation: G. Rogers, The Sacred Identity of Ephesos: Foundation Myths of a Roman City (London: Routledge, 1991).

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Roman authorities, ensured a lottery for the Ephesians, and endowed funds to hold regular processions. Thirty-one gold and silver statues representing historical and mythical figures relevant for Ephesus were carried from the Artemision to and through the city, including portraits of Trajan and Plotina as well as of the mythical founder Androklos, the diadoch king Lysimachos, and personifications of civic boards, such as demos and boule, the gerousia, the ephebeia, the phyles, and the senate.31 These artworks not only represent historical and mythical figures from Ephesian history, but they also communicate Ephesian self-esteem in Roman Imperial times: a Greek city, honoring their discredited founder Lysimachos, but ambitiously taking advantage of Roman culture and administration.32 The inscription is not only a master plan of the procession, regulating weights and sizes of the images (and protecting them from alteration), but it also organizes the concept of the procession. The regulations include directives for performances by different social groups in Ephesus.33 The itinerary of the procession started at the pronaos of the Artemision, passed the Magnesian Gate, and went via the Upper Agora, the Curetes’ street and the embolus, to the theater, the final destination, where the statuary was placed on specific bases.34. It was a stational pompa, a procession that stopped at various points for performance of ritual actions.35 S. Groh has recently reconstructed further stations of the procession that he identifies in the large open spaces in 31 Rogers, Sacred Identity, 90–93. The revival of past traditions and reflections of individual history were common phenomena in imperial Roman Asia Minor, see A. Chaniotis, “Negotiating Religion in the Cities of the Eastern Roman Empire,” Kernos 16 (2003): 177–190. The display of the senate in the images shows that the Roman authorities were an integral component of local administration; see G. Schörner, “Wie integriert man Rom in die polis? Der Kult des Senats in Kleinasien,” in: Integration of Rome in the Roman World (G. de Kleijn and S. Benoist eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 233–234, and 241–242, table of statues carried along during the procession. 32  F. Graf, “Ritual restoration and innovation in the Greek cities of the Roman Imperium,” in: Ritual Dynamics in the Ancient Mediterranean. Agency, Emotion, Gender, Representation (A. Chaniotis ed.; Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 2011), 105–117, discusses the phenomenon of reviving old rituals in the Roman empire in three examples. This revival brings the Classical tradition of Greek cities forward and is a critical part of shaping and integrating old identities into the new reality of the Roman Empire. Rogers, Sacred Identity, argues that the demos played a critical role in the “Romanization” process of Ephesus; this view was challenged by R. van Bremen in a review of Rogers, Sacred Identity, JRS 83 (1993): 245. The display of local and Roman authorities, however, is an important part of the procession showing the Ephesian way of integrating Rome in the province; see Schörner, “Kult des Senats,” 233–234. 33  Rogers, Sacred Identity, passim. 34  Twelve inscribed bases have survived, see Inschriften von Ephesos nr. 223–247. 35 I. Nielsen points out that dramatic performances during processions often involved the participants in the ritual action; I. Nielsen, Cultic Theatres and Ritual Drama (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2002), 16–18. V. Gasparini identifies the Salutaris procession as a stational pompa, similar to ludi scaenici or ludi megalenses in Rome; V. Gasparini, “Staging Religion. Cultic performances in (and around) the temple of Isis in Pompeii,” in: Memory and Religious Ex­ perience in the Greco-Roman World (PAwB XL; N. Cusumano, V. Gasparini, A. Mastrocinque and J. Rüpke eds.; Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 2013), 194.

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Ephesus, such as the upper Agora, the Tetragonos Agora and the theater.36 These public squares measure each more than 500 m² and can hold a large audience. Furthermore, all these places are positioned at an equal distance of about 300 meters from each other. The Magnesian Gate is the first station of the big procession, and the performative character of the space expressed by the transfer of the sacred items between priests and ephebes turns this area into a cultic boundaryzone between the city and the hinterland. The Roman procession renews an older ritual about which not much is known.37 The earliest notion of a procession for Artemis can be identified in a mime of Herondas and from Pliny, who refer to a painting by the renowned painter Apelles illustrating a pompa for Artemis Ephesiae, probably in the early 3rd century.38 By that time, Ephesus was in the process of moving from the area of Ayasoluk and modern Selcuk to the new place between Bülbüldağ and Panayır Dağ;39 what route the procession followed then is not clear40. In the dedication, the Ephesian youth seems to have played a vital role. G. Rogers emphasizes that a central focus of the foundation of C. Vibius Salutaris was the education of the youth and the acculturation of this group to the mythical and historical past of Ephesus, as well as the introduction of the youth to civic hierarchies.41 The ephebes are explicitly mentioned as performing actors in this central Ephesian festival, and they also occur as participants in a ritual performed in the procession that stopped at the Magnesian Gate. In lines 50 and 51 the Magnesian Gate is named as the place where the ephebes take the statuary and the sacred items from the priests and carry them to the theatre where the festival continues: “[…] two of the neopoioi attending and the beadle, to be brought and brought back, the ephebes receiving and escorting from the Magnesian Gate into the theatre, and from the theatre in the same manner during the first new moon’s sacrifice during the archieratic year, and on the occasion of the twelve

36 Groh,

“Stadtplanung,” 71–72.  Graf, “Ritual restoration and innovation,” 105–117. Recently, S. Feuser has presented a discussion of older processions at Ephesus; see S. Feuser, “A Stroll along the Sea: The Processional Way in Ephesus and the Littoral,” CHS research bulletin 3/1 (2014): http://wp.chs. harvard.edu/chs-fellows/2015/02/20/a-stroll-along-the-sea/. 38  Herondas, Mimes 4, 66-–67; Plin. NH 35,93.96. For the date see J. A. Nairn, The Mimes of Herodas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1904), XIV. 39  The city was transferred to the area between Bülbül Dağ and Panayır Dağ only under Lysimachos (or later); P. Scherrer, “The historical topography of Ephesos,” in: Urbanism in Western Asia Minor: New Studies on Aphrodisias, Ephesos, Hierapolis, Pergamon, Perge and Xanthos (Journal of Roman Archaeology, Suppl. 45, 2001; D. Parrish ed.; Portsmouth, 2001), 57–95. 40  Feuser, “Processional Way in Ephesus,” argues that the old procession followed the same route as the one described in the Salutaris inscription. The evidence, however, is vague; the preHellenistic procession might have been just between the Artemision and the city at Ayasoluk. 41  Rogers, Sacred Identity, 67–69. 136; see also A. Chaniotis, “Negotiating religion in the cities of the eastern Roman empire,” Kernos 16 (2003): 182. 37

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sacred gatherings and regular assemblies every month, and during the Sebasteia and the Soteria and the penteteric festivals […]” Later in the inscription, the Magnesian Gate is again mentioned, when the statues should be carried back to the Artemision at the end of the procession: “After the assemblies have been dismissed, the type-statues and the images should be carried back to the sanctuary of Artemis and should be handed over by the guards, […] the ephebes receiving and escorting from the Magnesian Gate in the theatre, and from the theatre right to the Koressian Gate with all due dignity.”42 The text clearly states that the ephebes receive statues and images at the Magnesian Gate from the guards and the neopoioi, the cult officials who were responsible for the building of the temple as well as for the administration of the finances and the temple property;43 but ephebes have to leave the procession when the procession leaders leave the Koressian Gate.44 In the original Greek text the term used for receiving the statues is διαδέχεσθαι. The basic meaning of this verb is “to receive one from another,” but it is commonly used as a technical term for “to succeed” or “to come after,” or “take an office from somebody else in a given order.”45 According to the etymology of the word, the prefix dia‑ adds a social expectation to the word δέχεσθαι, whose basic meaning is “to receive.”46 In Greek inscriptions, διαδέχεσθαι appears almost always in the sense of succeeding in or receiving a function, such as succeeding to the throne,47 or receiving a prayer, as in a tablet from Fayoum in Egypt.48 The described transfer of the sacred statuary is a ritual action. G. Rogers reconstructs a crowd of at least 250 ephebes waiting at the Magnesian Gate, when the neopoioi and servants of the Artemision, about ten persons, reached this place. The crowd of ca. 260 persons would perform the rites and proceed further on into the city. The ratio of adults to ephebes is 1:25; this superior number of ephebes illustrates clearly the significance of this group in the procession. The importance of the youth might also be reflected in the unusual term διαδέχεσθαι. The Salutaris Inscription instructs the priests to hand over the sacred items to the ephebes; in other words, young boys form the main corpus of the procession in the city. It is maybe too farfetched to see a loss of cultic / ​religious power for the priests in this action, but with this transfer the ephebes become responsible for 42

 Lines 208–212, translated by G. Rogers. “Art. Νεωποιοί,” RE 16/2 (1935): 2433–2439; C. Roueché, Performers and Partisans at Aphrodisias in the Roman and Late Roman Periods (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1993), 81–86. 44 Rogers, Sacred Identity, 110. 45  LSJ s. v. διαδέχομαι. 46  H. Frisk, Griechisches Etymologisches Wörterbuch s. v. “δέχομαι” (Heidelberg: Winter, 1960). 47  “Basileia” in the Commagenian kingdom: SEG 26, 1623; kingdom: Plb. 2,4,7; see LSJ s. v. διαδέχομαι. 48 Fayoum 2, 134 Euhemeria (Qasr el-Banat), 79 BCE. 43 O. Schultheß,

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safe transport. This act can be seen as part of a rite of socialization in the sense of Victor Turner:49 the ephebes’ age is a period in young adults’ growing up that has been accompanied by socialization rites in diverse cultures and times, and we have evidence especially from Hellenistic and Roman sources that ephebes had to fulfill tasks and rites to be prepared for society. In processions and rites, ephebes played a transitional role, but another critical element in their socialization in pre-Roman Greece was the sending out of ephebes to liminal areas of the polis.50 The ephebes’ socialization on the borders of the polis and their socialization during processions are substantially different: the liminal experience on the polis-borders prepared the youth primarily for military exercise, whereas the processional experience integrated the ephebes actively into society.51 The involvement of the ephebes in the Salutaris procession is comparable; the procession’s main focus facilitates socialization of the ephebes into Ephesian society.52 As in other liminal experiences, the rites in Ephesus also reflect the liminal age of the ephebes: they are in a transitional stage of age, no longer pais but not yet men. Socialization at liminal areas including transitional rites may emphasize their social status as such. It was not by chance that the ephebes played such an important role at the Magnesian Gate: the physical liminality of the gate and the biological liminality of these late adolescents had a symbolic coherence.53 Rituals rarely leave traces in architecture, but in the case of the Magnesian Gate a series of cuttings and smaller features probably bear witness to temporary activities that took place at the gate. It is fortunate that most of the excavated Roman archaeological material dates to the first and second centuries CE,54 a period from shortly before to about a century after Salutaris made his dedication to the  V. Turner, “Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites de Passage,” in: The Forest of Symbols (V. Turner ed.; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1967), 93–111. 50 Many processions and festivals (Eleusinia, City Dionysia, Panathenaia, Artemis Agrotera) are known from Hellenistic times, see H. M. Parke, Festivals of the Athenians (London: Thames and Hudson, 1977) and J. J. Winter, “The ephebes’ song: tragoidia and polis,” in: Nothing to do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in its Social Context (J. J. Winkler and F. I. Zeitlin eds.; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 20–62. A good example of imperial Roman practice is known from an inscription from 3rd century Eleusis, where as part of the mysteries the ephebes carried the “holy objects” from Eleusis to Athens (described in IG II2 1078, 9–30; K. Dowden, “Rhetoric and Religion,” in: A Companion to Greek Rhetoric [I. Worthington ed.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2010], 330). In these rituals, garments and dressing – sometimes even as girls – are important features of the action of the ephebes. Rites of transition, both in ritual and dressing, were part of the military training; A. Chaniotis, War in the Hellenistic World (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 51–55; I. Polinskaya, “Liminality as Metaphor: Initiation and the Frontier of Ancient Athens,” in: Initiation in Ancient Greek Rituals and Narratives (D. B. Dodd and C. A. Faraone eds.; London: Routledge, 2003), 85–106. 51  See especially on the liminal experience at the polis-borders: Polinskaya, “Liminality,” 85–106. 52 This is also a main concern of G. Rogers; Rogers, Sacred Identity, 67–69. 53  I thank especially C. Thomas, UCSB, for discussing this particular matter and supporting the idea of this ambiguous relationship between biological age, rites, and choice of place. 54 Sokolicek, “Magnesisches Tor,” (2010): 280–281. 49

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Ephesians in 104 CE. In that scenario, these cuttings were probably added in the 2nd, maybe 3rd century CE. In the forecourt of the gate, a series of cuttings could be identified in the paving in front of the southern pillar of the central entrance. The cuttings total 11 holes and are arranged in two different groups, each of them having four cuttings organized in a square, and a central dowel hole (12 cm. deep) with a pouring channel (fig. 6). This clearly indicates a combination of a permanently fixed block and a temporary construction. The exterior holes are shallower than the dowel hole (3–5 cm.) and most probably were meant to hold a wooden construction, whereas the dowel holes were most likely to fix an altar or a base,55 maybe similar to the structure depicted in the Nile mosaic in Palestrina.56 It is very likely that the wooden construction was a baldachin that was temporarily mounted atop the (reconstructed) altar or base. Baldachins mounted on a pavement are known from many examples, e. g. Athens, Corinth, Cirò, Selinunt, and the Near East.57 Written sources mention portable wooden shrines and baldachins, which were carried during processions to cover statues or altars;58 it is possible that those portable baldachins were fixed in the holes when needed in the procession. The complete arrangement at the Magnesian Gate can be reconstructed in the following way (fig. 7): A base or an altar was installed in front of the gate, and on special occasions it was canopied by the presumed baldachin. This arrangement has two phases. The older arrangement is nearer at the gate pier, the newer one was moved about 50 cm. towards the north-east. The cuttings of the later arrangement do not exactly align with the axis of the gate, but are turned slightly more towards north – the direction from which the procession from the Artemision would arrive at the gate. There is no hard fact that would allow for making a precise connection between the activities that were happening around the base / ​baldachin feature and the gate. The Salutaris inscription does not talk about the topography of the ritual space. Clearly the cuttings were done after the pavement was laid out in the late 1st or the beginning of the 2nd century CE;59 hence, the cuttings must 55 An imperial Ephesian inscription (CIG II 2661; C. Picard, “Un texte nouveau de la correspondance entre Abgar d’ Osroène et Jésus-Christ gravé sur un porte de ville, a Philippes (Macédoine),” BCH 44 (1920): 61 mentions a statue of Artemis placed in front of a city gate; it is not clear which city gate is meant, but there is a slight possibility that the (reconstructed) base in front of the Magnesian Gate held that statue. 56  See J. Rüpke, Die Religion der Römer (2nd ed.; Munich: C. H. Beck, 2006), 96 fig. 8 on the procession through a kiosk-like sanctuary. A statue of a dog on a base suggests the Egyptian cult. 57 M. Weber, Baldachine und Statuenschreine (Rome: Brettschneider, 1990), 2 (definition); 35–46 (archaeological remains); wooden baldachins: 40 (Samos); 41 (Ephesus); 42 (Didyma and Athens); 43 (Corinth and Selinunt); 44 (Cirò); stone baldachins: 46–50; Roman baldachins: 51–53; on wall painting in Pompeji (51). 58  Hdt.1,191: καμάρα; Callix. 2, Phylarch. 41 J., Plut. Alex.37, Phoc .33, and Vit.Dec. 12, 539d: οὐρανίσκος (after LSJ). See Weber, Baldachine , 36–39 for further discussion. 59 Sokolicek, “Magnesisches Tor,” (2009) 330.

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be contemporary or younger. This date is very close to the date of Salutaris’ foundation, and the probability that the base-baldachin arrangement was directly associated with the (new) procession is very high. This theory could be substantiated by the fact that the cuttings have two different temporal qualities, permanency (base or altar) and temporality (baldachin).60 In that case, the altar or base was permanently standing in front of the gate, and – for the occasion of the procession – it was canopied for the purpose of being a part of the ritual performance at the gate. Another feature inside the courtyard, a small, 3,4 m. wide exedra,61 suggests the ritual action in the courtyard of the gate. This bench, seating about five or six people, faces the courtyard area. It is possible that the 250 ephebes waited in the gate area to receive the sacred items from the priests, who had taken seats on the bench.

3. An Ephesian Gyllos? An attested cult does not turn the Magnesian Gate into a special phenomenon. During the large procession from Eleusis to Athens in honor of the goddess Athena, the participants entered the city at the sacred gate; the ephebes performed races armed with weaponry. In Erythrai, a cult at the city gate connected with gods protecting the gate, such as Heracles Kallinikos, Poseidon Asphaleios, Apollo and Artemis, is recorded as well; the Erythraeans would meet monthly at the gate to honor the gods. The famous displays of gods in the gates of Thasos are one of the few examples in the Greek world which vividly refer to cultic actions at gates.62 The most interesting procedure referring to processions and gates comes from Miletus. A. Herda points out in his detailed interpretation of the New Year’s procession between Didyma and Miletus that the procession would stop at the sacred gate of Miletus, and sacred stones, so-called gylloi, were placed at the beginning and the end of the sacred road between Miletus and the sanctuary of Apollo in Didyma in order to define the procession’s space.63 Herda also argues that the gylloi were epichoric to Asia Minor.64 60

 Temporality of processions was recently discussed by E. Stavrianopoulou, “The Archaeology of Processions,” in: A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World (R. Raja and J. Rüpke eds.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2015), 349–361. 61  First excavated and mentioned by G. Seiterle (Seiterle, “Hauptstadttor”). 62  M. Geis, Die Stadttore von Thasos (Saarbrücken: VDM Verlag Dr. Müller, 2007). 63 Herda, Apollon-Delphinios-Kult, 249–259; A. Herda, “How to run a state cult: The organisation of the cult of Apollo Delphinios in Miletos,” in: Current Approaches to Religion in Ancient Greece: Papers Presented at a Symposium at the Swedish Institute at Athens 17–19 April 2008 (M. Haysom and J. Wallensten eds.; Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athen, 2011), 74–85. 64  A. Herda, “Karkiša-Karien und die sog. Ionische Migration,” in: Die Karer und die An­ deren, Internationales Kolloquium an der Freien Universität Berlin, 13. bis 15. Oktober 2005 (F. Rumscheid ed.; Bonn: R. Habelt, 2009), 89.

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In consideration of A. Herda’s results, an epigraphic document, found near the Magnesian Gate but now lost,65 may be relevant for the interpretation of the procession and the Magnesian Gate.66 A slab made of grey marble bears a horos inscription of the temple of Artemis: Ορος / ​Ιερος / ​Αρτεμιδος. Horos stones are the most common boundary markers in Greek culture. They were used to determine the borders of sacred areas, the property of sanctuaries, the borders of cities and demes, of public and private real estate, and of tombs,67 and they also flag the area of processional ways.68 The horos stone from the Magnesian Gate marks a point on the Artemision’s property, but it does not mention any kind of road or processional route. The letter style of this horos stone, especially the apices, suggests an early Roman Imperial date. Although many blocks of the Artemision were carried to Ephesus after the devastation of the temple, it is unlikely that this stone belongs to the immediate surroundings of the sanctuary. As the procession started at the Artemision and entered the urban area of Ephesus at the Magnesian Gate, the horos stone could have been used in the same function as the gylloi in Miletus determining the extent of the processional route.

4. City gates, borders, and cult The main quality of a border is not necessarily confinement, but is more focused on the regulation and control of connectivity. Borders, like fortifications, need openings – city gates – that allow transgression. City gates are permeable and thus vulnerable parts of urban fortifications, a transitional zone between city and countryside.69 The protection and the survival of the city are dependent on the quality of the fortification works in general, but especially of the gates. However, various studies of fortifications in the past70 have made clear that enceintes do 65 Inschriften

von Ephesos, Nr. 566. The dimensions of the slab are 30 × 36 × 11 cm (after sketchbook, inv. Nr. 2323). Location described by Josef Keil (1928): “Südöstl. des magnes. Tor, in einer der Trockenmauern auf dem Höhenrücken,” ad loc. 66 I want to thank A. Herda who in a discussion of the horos stone suggested thinking about a gyllos. 67  A. Seiffert, Der sakrale Schutz von Grenzen im antiken Griechenland – Form und Ikono­ graphie (PhD, Würzburg: http://opus.bibliothek.uni-wuerzburg.de/frontdoor/index/index/d​ o​c​I​d/3943, 2006), 20–67. 68  Such a horos stone, belonging to the processional way from Athens to Delphi, was found during the excavations of the Attalos stoa at the Agora of Athens, Agora Inschriften inv. 5476. See discussion at A. Herda, “Apollon Delphinios – Apollon Didymeus: Zwei Gesichter eines milesischen Gottes und ihr Bezug zur Kolonisation Milets in archaischer Zeit,” in: Kult(ur) kontakte. Apollon in Milet / ​Didyma, Histria, Myus, Naukratis und auf Zypern, Akten der Table Ronde in Mainz vom 11.–12. März 2004 (Internationale Archaeologie 11; R. Bol, U. Hockmann, and P. Schollmeyer eds.; Rahden: Leidorf, 2008), 13–86; here 63 n. 360. 69  Schattner, Stadttore, 9–14. 70 P. Ducrey, “La muraille est-elle un élément constitutif d’une cité?,” in: Sources for the an­

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not bear only one apparent function – to defend a city from possible attacks. Fortifications are signs of power, might, and influence of a city; they divide urban zones from less inhabited zones and necropolises, traditionally non-urban areas; they define and display urban identity; and they control traffic and economy. Fortifications display the materialized idea of a border between city and country and need not necessarily be the defining element of a border. In cities like Sparta, which famously did not have a city wall until Hellenistic times, the border between city and country was defined topographically and extended far beyond the urban center. Defense was guaranteed by settlements in the chora which acted as military camps, and sanctuaries constituted a sacred boundary.71 Therefore the choice of terminology describing “borders” is essential to communicate its quality. Architecture defines an exterior and an interior, situated on a borderline; streets divide areas and create room; also images bear a quality of border as they transport ideas and work as a transmitter between the creator and the beholder. All these borders have different qualities; they link separate entities with each other. Fortifications establish actual borders between urban and rural zones whose principle difference is architecture. Streets, scattered buildings, often necropoleis, and topography characterize the countryside; the urban area is defined by streets, plazas and a variety of buildings. Borders are by nature vulnerable and uncontrolled transgression of them means breaking rules or orders. Protection by means of borders is therefore not surprising. Beyond the apparently necessary military protection, many fortifications were equipped with small sanctuaries, religious inscriptions, or display of gods and goddesses – especially at the gates – that had apotropaic functions.72 The connection of cult and religious activities with fortifications and city gates had as its primary role to protect the fortifications and the city; but fortifications do not seem to have played an active role as a place of cult. The primary importance of fortifications as a defensive system, both practical and psychological, lies in their forming a border between the city and the extraurban territory.73 This kind of border works completely differently in antiquity than in a medieval city, as the idea of the polis or urbs carries a wider social and territorial meaning. In this sense, the city wall divides the ordered space of the inhabited, “cultivated” city from the “uncultivated” chaos of nature,74 but the city cient Greek city-state. Symposium August 24–27, 1994 (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre, 2; H. M. Hansen ed.; Copenhagen: Munksgaard 1995), 245–256. 71  E. Kourinou, Σπάρτη. Συμβολή στη Μνημειακή Τοπογραφία της (Athens: Horos, 2000). 72 See especially Weissl, Torgottheiten, 11–13. 73  T. Hoelscher, Öffentliche Räume in frühen griechischen Städten (Heidelberg: Winter, 1998). 74 Ducrey, “Muraille,” 253–256; Lang 1996, 21; Hölscher 1998, 60–64. 67 f.; F. Lang, Archai­ sche Siedlungen in Griechenland: Struktur und Entwicklung (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999), 5–10; J. D. Tracy, “Introduction,” in: City Walls. The Urban Enceinte in Global Perspective (J. D. Tracy ed.; Cambridge: University Press, 2000), 1–19.

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wall is not the same as a demarcation line with legal and proprietorial qualities. The “fuzziness” of a city wall as a borderline can be clearly demonstrated in an example from Athens. One part of the Themistoklean city walls encloses the hill of the Pnyx, home of the demoi Koile and Melite.75 The confines of these demoi can be identified by horos stones76 which are placed along the main streets. The city walls have nothing to do with the dimensions and outlines of the demoi; the wall simply follows the best line of defense. The actual border lines between the demoi are primarily roads. This example may be far-fetched for the discussion of borders in late Hellenistic / ​Roman Imperial Asia Minor, but it shows that city walls need not be equated with legal boundaries. They do not define urban status. Evaluating borders and city walls faces yet another problem, at first sight a terminological problem. Borders are considered as divisions that separate cultures, religions, languages or any kind of coherent identities; nevertheless, borders can be lines, restricted areas, or less defined “fuzzy” zones in between. Defining the quality of borders is a linguistic problem: the phenomenon of separation is named by many various terms in ancient and modern languages.77 Whereas the English language knows a limit, a frontier, a boundary, or a borderland, the German language, e. g., is limited to the words “Rand” or “Grenze,” whose qualities have to be described with attributes. On the occasion of the procession, the Magnesian Gate was a transitional zone between the influential area of the Artemision and the city of Ephesus. The differences between the organization and legal authority of the city of Ephesus and the Artemision, which acted as an autonomous temple-state, as a financial center, and as the owner of extensive areas in the hinterland of Ephesus, were distinct in Hellenistic times. Despite constant changes and reforms in Roman times,78 the Artemision of course remained the bearer of identity to the Ephesians. The severest interference came with Augustus and in the 40’s CE with Paullus Fabius Persicus, who re-organized the desperate financial situation of the Artemision79 and tried to incorporate the Hellenistic concept of a self-governing temple into the civic order of good administration and gain more control over the activities of the Artemision.80 Of special importance is the Artemision’s right of giving asylum, as this does affect the borders of city and Artemision. People who were charged for a crime but could escape direct prosecution could be hosted in the restricted area of the 75  G. V. Lalonde, “IG I³ 1055 B and the boundary of Melite and Kollytos,” Hesperia 75 (2006): 83–119. 76 Lalonde, “Melite and Kollytos,” 83–89. 77  B. Isaac, “The Meaning of ‘Limes’ and ‘Limitanei’ in Ancient Sources,” Journal of Roman Studies 78 (1988): 125–147. 78 See especially B. Dignas, Economy of the Sacred in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 141–177. 79  Dignas, Economy, 141. 80 Dignas, Economy, 219.

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asylum, in the temple or at the altars.81 The asylum guaranteed by the Artemision was restricted to the borders of the sanctuary, which were determined by the walls of the temenos. In late Hellenism, these boundaries were considerably enlarged beyond the temenos walls until they finally reached the urban area of Ephesus. Strabo laments the streets of Ephesus being full of criminals, and Apollonius of Tyana complains about robbers in the temple protected by its shelter.82 The right to give asylum, the asylia, however, had diplomatic and political significance and outweighed the difficulties with criminal subjects.83 At least in late Hellenism the city walls were not a boundary that protected the city from the enlargement of the asylum area; even if the Ephesians were reluctant to accept Augustus’ reduction of the asylia,84 many an inhabitant of Ephesus might have been relieved by it. In respect of the reorganization of the affairs of the Artemision, the aforementioned horos stone might be considered as also having the connotation of limiting the Artemision’s area of influence to the area outside of the city – the Artemision’s sphere ending at the city borders. Borders shape identity. The practice of separating powers at the city gate can be seen as a means of growing “Romanization,” and perhaps adaptation of Greek and Roman traditions in the Roman East.

81

 Tacitus (Hist. 3,61,1) reports that people were sitting at the altar of the Artemision. 14,1,23. See also Philostr. VA. 65. 83  The significance of asylum for Hellenistic and Roman sanctuaries is broadly discussed by Dignas, Economy, 289–300, and in K. Bouraselis, “Zur Asylie als aussenpolitisches Instrument in der hellenistischen Welt,” in: Das antike Asyl, Akten der Gesellschaft fur griechische und hellenistische Rechtsgeschichte 15 (M. Dreher ed.; Cologne: Böhlau, 2003), 143–158. Asylum boundaries were extended in various sanctuaries of Asia Minor with the intervention of Sulla after the Mithridatic wars; Dignas, Economy, 294 and note 30. P. Herrmann, “Rom und die Asylie griechischer Heiligtümer. Eine Urkunde des Dictators Caesar aus Sardeis,” Chiron 19 (1989): 127–164. 84 Dignas, Economy, 290. 82 Strab.

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Fig. 1: City plan of Ephesus; after S. Groh and V. Lindinger (S. Groh, “Neue Forschungen zur Stadtplanung in Ephesos,” ÖJh 75 (2006): 53 fig. 3).

Fig. 2: Plan of the Magnesian Gate (drawing A. Leung).

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Fig. 3: View of the Magnesian Gate from north (A. Sokolicek).

Fig. 4: Deep sounding of the entrance to the Magnesian Gate with foundations of the Hellenistic city walls (A. Sokolicek).

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Fig. 5: Aerial view of the Magnesian Gate (N. Gail).

Fig. 6: Holes for baldachin in front of the Magnesian Gate (N. Gail).

Histoire Croisée, Entangled Bodies, Boundaries, and Socio-Political Geography

Fig. 7: Reconstruction of baldachin in front of the Magnesian Gate (A. Sokolicek).

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The Magnesian Gate at Ephesos Variant Readings of Monumentality at the Borders of the City Christine M. Thomas Archaeological evidence and material culture are culture, and as such require interpretation. Archaeological evidence can address theoretical issues such as the concept of borders, because one can – in fact, one must – theorize archaeological evidence and material remains, like any aspect of human culture. Physical remains are not just “there” as a physical reality, but are mythologized and historiated both by their ancient creators and viewers, and by modern interpreters. Archaeological evidence is particularly useful for concepts such as “borders”: scholars tend to construe human culture temporally, as a long line of events reaching back into the past; but the spatial dimension of human existence is equally important – and it is this that comes to view in the archaeological evidence. The stones are evidence of past actions the fossilization of human activity in the planning and construction of built environments, and the material record of habitual human behavior within them.

1. Liminality Ancient monuments are not just spaces, but are human spaces. We would not interpret a modern city without considering it as a lived space, without analyzing the habitual actions and behaviors of the people who inhabit it. Similarly, though ancient monuments now stand dead and deserted, to understand their function as the lived spaces of the ancient world, we need to populate them, to the best of our ability based on our sources, with the concrete human agents who filled these spaces with their actions. The Salutaris inscription at Ephesos1 provides us with an excellent possibility of visualizing the Magnesian Gate2 as a living space in the experiences of Roman-period Ephesians. The inscription describes 1  Guy Rogers provides a definitive treatment of the Salutaris inscription in The Sacred Iden­ tity of Ephesos: Foundation Myths of a Roman City (London: Routledge, 1991). 2  This essay on the Magnesian Gate at Ephesos stands in dialogue with the paper of Alexander Sokolicek in this volume. Sokolicek provides information about the excavation of the Magnesian Gate, its history of construction, and the dating of its stratigraphy, which, in the interest of brevity, I assume but do not rehearse in my interpretation below.

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a procession instituted by the Boule and Demos of Ephesos at the behest of the Roman equestrian C. Vibius Salutaris in 104 CE, who funded processions that were to take place at the regular meetings of the assembly, and on the occasion of other civic festivals. Guy Rogers in his classic study of the inscription estimates that the processions would have occurred on a biweekly basis.3 Many locations in the city, and groups of human actors, appear in this inscription; Alexander Sokolicek, in his contribution to this volume, focuses on the role of the ephebes at the Magnesian Gate. During the processions, the ephebes waited at the Magnesian Gate to receive from the various officials of the temple of Artemis the twenty-nine images in gold and silver also funded by the bequest of Salutaris, which the officials carried from the temple porch (pronaos) of the Artemision up to the gates of the city. But the temple officials did not cross over into the city: that was the role of the ephebes. The ephebes then escorted the images to the theater, where they were set on bases before the assembly, and then up to a second city gate, the Koressian Gate, where they then handed them over to the temple officials again,4 who then brought them back for storage or display at the temple. The institution of the ephebeia is attested for many Greek cities, although only at Athens do we have substantial evidence of the purpose and activities of this organization (e. g., Aristotle Ath. Pol. 42).5 In most cases, this is an organization of youths from between the ages of sixteen to twenty, initially for the purposes of military training. During the Roman period, however, the military aspect was eclipsed by the more strictly cultural and social concerns of preparing elite adolescents to become citizens,6 the neoi, “new [citizen] men.” Sokolicek notes that the biological liminality of these late adolescents, the ephebes, had a symbolic coherence with the physical liminality of the Magnesian Gate as the border between wild and civilized space.  Rogers, Sacred Identity, 83–85. guards of the Artemision, two neopoioi, a staff-bearer (e. g., IvE no. 27, ll. 554–568, a passage devoid of the reconstructions and emendations that dot the rest of the inscription; Rogers, Sacred Identity, 85). 5 See N. M. Kennell, Ephebeia: A Register of Greek Cities with Citizen Training Systems in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (Hildesheim: Weidmann, 2006); S. Tracy, “Reflections on the Athenian Ephebeia in the Hellenistic Age,” in: Das hellenistische Gymnasion (D. Kah and P. Scholz eds.; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004), 207–210; J. J. Winter, “The ephebes’ song: tragoidia and polis,” in: Nothing to do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in its Social Context (J. J. Winkler and F. I. Zeitlin eds.; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 20–62. And the classic: P. Vidal-Naquet, The Black Hunter: Forms of Thought and Forms of Society in the Greek World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986). 6  During the classical period, Athens paid for the upkeep of the ephebes as a military force enacting guard duty at the fortresses in the hinterland of the city. Once city no longer supported the ephebes, surely at least in part because their military significance waned under Roman rule, only elite males could afford to participate (H.-J. Gehrke, “Ephebeia,” in: Brill’s New Pauly [2006; H. Cancik and H. Schneider eds.; Brill Online: 2016] http://referenceworks.brillonline. com/entries/brill-s-new-pauly/ephebeia-e331340). 3

4 The

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The ephebes were closely allied with the fate of the city. In the processions funded by Salutaris, their entire activity took place between the two city gates. As future citizens, they were the future of the city. But they were not yet citizens, and not yet fully adults. In their liminal biological stage, they had left the realm of Artemis, who was the patron goddess of childhood, to whom children sacrificed locks of hair and toys upon entering adulthood (for boys, during the third day of the Apatouria). In the Ephesian processions, the ephebes were symbolically separated from the territory of the temple of Artemis and were placed within civilized life by simply taking up their position at the Magnesian Gate. Since Artemis was also the goddess of the wilderness, and of wild animals, the contrast between the life of children and the life of adults is also construed as a passage from the uncivilized wild into civilization: precisely what happens at a city gate. It is an anthropological truism that the wilderness often plays the part of a liminal space for rites of passage, particularly from childhood into adulthood. In many ancient Greek cities, the major activities of the ephebes took place in the hinterland of the cities; in Athens, for example, the ephebes spent the first year garrisoned at the Piraeus, and the second year at the various fortresses in the Athenian countryside. These rites of passage are more numerous in ancient Greek societies than one might initially suspect, since life stages and rites of passage are not often on the agenda of the archaeologists interpreting features of sites, though the topic has attracted attention among scholars of ancient literary sources.7 At Ephesos, we may have yet another rite of passage in another festival of Artemis, the birthday celebration of the goddess described by Strabo. It took place as an annual festival in a grove in a place called Ortygia, well outside the city of Ephesos, which was the birthplace of the goddess. In contrast to the more widespread myth of the birth of the divine twins on the island of Delos (Callimachus, Hymn 4), in the Ephesian version of the myth, Leto gave birth to the divine twins Artemis and Apollo at the foot of an olive tree in the Ephesian hinterland (Strabo 14.1.20).8 As Strabo writes, “A general festival is held there annually; and by a certain custom the νέοι vie for honor, particularly in the splendor of their banquets there. At that time, also, the ἀρχεῖον of the Kouretes holds symposia and performs certain sacrifices for initiates (τινας μυστικὰς θυσίας).” The νέοι are usually obfuscated in English translation as “youths,” when the word means the “new [citizen] men.” It is well attested as the next step in a boys’ life after the ephebeia, the point at which an ephebe becomes a citizen. The institution of the neoi is an association of these young citizens that, though not well attested in literary sources, nevertheless is widespread on inscriptions through7 M. W. Padilla ed., Rites of Passage in Ancient Greece: Literature, Religion, Society (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University, 1999). 8  On this passage in Strabo, see G. M. Rogers, The Mysteries of Artemis of Ephesos: Cult, Polis, and Change in the Graeco-Roman World (New Haven: Yale University, 2012), 103–118.

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out the eastern Mediterranean. Some cities, such as Pergamon and Miletos, had separate gymnasia for the neoi.9 In Strabo’s passage the neoi appear in the role of the benefactors of this particular festival of Artemis, the goddess who is the center of Ephesian identity. But the festival is held not in the city, but out in the wild, in the place of a divine birth: the liminal passage from pregnancy to birth is memorialized at this site. The wilderness achieves double significance in this event: it symbolizes the entrance of Artemis, through birth, into the wild space of childhood; and Artemis is herself the goddess of the wilderness. The liminality of the birth event is also underscored by the initiatory sacrifices into the mysteries of Artemis held there during the same festival.10 Initiation into religious associations in many Greek cities was considered a sort of rebirth, or, more prosaically, an entrance into the society of initiates, a birth into a new social role. The initiates at Ephesos stand in some unspecified relationship with the Kouretes who offer the sacrifices; but the role of the Kouretes as protectors of the goddess is clear. As in the story of Rhea at the birth of Zeus, here also the Kouretes banged their shields to protect a mother giving birth, but here it is protecting Leto from Zeus’ wife Hera by disguising Leto’s cries as she labored to give birth to Zeus’ children. The initiatory sacrifices by the Kouretes thus emphasize the biological liminality of birth, and its perils, at the site of the divine birth out in the wild, which is emphasized by the ritual and sacred liminality of initiation. The ritual transfer of the images at the Magnesian Gate would then be part of a larger complex of rites of passage for the young men of Ephesos, in which the goddess Artemis, and the juxtaposition of civilization and wilderness, are deeply embedded. The repeated and habitual actions, the processions and annual festivals attested in literary and epigraphic sources, provide important clues to the symbolic resonances of the architecture of the city, in this case the Magnesian Gate, and help us better understand the built environment of Ephesos as a lived space rich with meaning for its ancient inhabitants. The repetition of the actions is important, as well, because the repeated symbolism of the processions and festivals, viewed by the participants on a biweekly, monthly, or annual basis since they were small children, was a means of instilling important cultural content into the memories of individuals over the course of their lifetimes. The city’s architecture provided the visual canvas for these actions deep with significance; in their everyday iterations through the city’s architecture, as they shopped, fetched water, went to the baths or to the assemblies, the city’s inhabitants would recall the special and sacred significance of their city. For  9 C. A. Forbes, Neoi: A Contribution to the Study of Greek Associations (Middletown, Lancaster: American Philological Association, Lancaster Press, 1933); Rogers, Mysteries of Artemis, 104–107. 10 Exhaustively on the topic of the mysteries of Artemis, see Rogers, Mysteries of Artemis.

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one of the functions of ritual is to instruct. When the ephebes received the sacred images and brought them into the city, they were acting the part of the citizens they would become. They were also acting the part of the protectors of Artemis, the Kouretes, that many upper-class men eventually took on as members of the archeion of the Kouretes.11 The processions were a form of socialization12 where the young about-to-be-citizens were trained to play their part, kinetically as they toured their city, optically as their eyes viewed its monuments, haptically as they carried the sacred images with all the symbolic and real weight that they implied.

2. Romanization Many borders have a template in “nature,” in the world external to human society. Nothing in nature is actually “natural”; features of the topography only assume meaning and value for particular historical agents. The conditions of “naturalization” are social constructs heavy with the exercise of power. Yet there are some borders that are more widely shared and readily apparent as aspects of shared human existence. The Magnesian Gate has its location in a valley that passes between two mountains, the Bülbül Dağ and the Panayır Dağ, a valley that we still see today. So part of the border of Ephesos is provided by “nature,” by the high mountains that still ring the ancient ruins. On the other side of the city, the ocean also provided another boundary, simultaneously the end of the land, but the beginning of ancient travel connections by water. This oceanic border is no longer evident to our modern eyes, however, because of the changes in the ancient coastline, but must be reconstructed by geomorphic analysis.13 The less “natural” and more culturally-constructed borders are also relevant facts on the ground for ancient agents, and, as potentially contested boundaries with no clear foothold in the topography of the city, they appear more frequently in our sources. For example, as Sokolicek notes, Augustus famously limited the rights of asylia for the Artemision, a boundary that protected those within it 11 C.  M. Thomas, “Greek Heritage in Roman Corinth and Ephesos: Hybrid Identities and Strategies of Display in the Material Record of Traditional Mediterranean Religions,” in: Corinth in Context: Comparative Studies on Religion and Society (S. Friesen, J. Walters, and D. Schowalter eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 114–44, esp. 125–131. On the Kouretes, see D. Knibbe, Der Staatsmarkt: Die Inschriften des Prytaneions: Die Kureteninschriften und sonstige religiöse Texte (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften; Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut, 1981); also Rogers, Mysteries, chapters 5–7, passim. 12  Similarly Rogers, Sacred Identity, 67–69. 13  J. Kraft et al., “A Geologic Analysis of Ancient Landscapes and the Harbors of Ephesus and the Artemision in Anatolia,” ÖJh 69 (2000): 175–210, pll. 1–17. On the implications for the processions around Panayır Dağ, see S. Feuser, “A Stroll along the Sea: The Processional Way in Ephesus and the Littoral,” CHS Research Bulletin 3/1 (2014): http://wp.chs.harvard.edu/ chs-fellows/2015/02/20/a-stroll-along-the-sea/.

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from seizure.14 This episode plays up the importance of culturally-constructed boundaries, and shows that borders exist at the intersection of various forms of authority: political and traditional, local and supraregional. This should explain what would otherwise be an anomaly, the continued importance of the Magnesian Gate during the Roman period despite the fact that its ostensible function as a defensive bulwark was not only unnecessary, but unwanted, at least by the Roman government: they surely did not want the Magnesian Gate to be used as a defense against the powers of their armies. Ironically – or perhaps not so much – the gate seems to have received particular attention during the high Roman Empire. The new dating of the main structure reveals that it is entirely a product of the Roman period, constructed shortly after Ephesos became the capital of the new Roman province of Asia in 133 BCE.15 This interest continued through the high Roman period. In the late first century CE, the forecourt was paved in marble; in the second or third century, it was fitted with the cuttings for altars and baldachins that Sokolicek discovered. This paving is only one part of a complex of the monumentalization of this gate during the Roman period. In addition to the paving and the marble architecture of the gate, there is the huge display of the Salutaris inscription itself, which appears line by line on the analemma of the theater of Ephesos; and the temporary monument of human bodies walking together during the frequent processions funded by Salutaris, in which the inhabitants of Ephesos both viewed the monuments, and formed one themselves. The Stoa of Flavius Damianus, a covered walkway (via tecta) built in the late second century CE, is important here as well: even more than the Magnesian Gate, it follows the path of the crowd of processors every step of the way, and monumentalizes the act of procession itself.16 Spectacles and monuments become more opulent and visible in times of social and political instability, and contested power relations, because they are so critical in displaying public identity. Archaeologists have noted that grave 14  On asylum at the temple of Artemis at Ephesos, C. M. Thomas, “At Home in the City of Artemis: Religion in Ephesos in the Literary Imagination of the Roman Period,” in: Ephesos Metropolis of Asia: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Its Archaeology, Religion, and Culture (H. Koester ed.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1995), 81–117; see esp. 98–106. On the phenomenon generally, K. J. Rigsby, Asylia: Territorial Inviolability in the Hellenistic World (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1996). 15  A. Sokolicek, “Chronologie und Nutzung des Magnesischen Tores von Ephesos,” ÖJh 79 (2010): 259–281. 16 D. Knibbe and G. Langmann, Via Sacra Ephesiaca (Berichte und Materialien 3; Vienna: Schindler, 1993); D. Knibbe and H. Thür, Via Sacra Ephesiaca: Grabungen und Forschungen 1992 und 1993 (Berichte und Materialien 6; Vienna: Schindler, 1995); D. Knibbe, “Via Sacra Ephesiaca: New Aspects of the Cult of Artemis Ephesia,” in: Koester, Ephesos Metropolis of Asia, 141–155; H. Thür, “Via Sacra Ephesiaka,” in: Steine Und Wege: Festschrift Fur Dieter Knibbe Zum 65. Geburtstag (Sonderschriften 32; P. Scherrer, H. Taueber, and H. Thür eds.; Vienna: Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut, 1999), 163–172.

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monuments generally become steadily poorer during periods that are economically and politically stable, and that accumulation of artifacts can document social tensions among and within communities.17 Where nothing is at stake, there is no reason to go through the expense of display. The entire Roman East is a testimony to the use of monumentalization both by Roman benefactors and also by the traditional elites of the Hellenic cities to present a new reality to the inhabitants of their cities. So display and monumentalization at the Magnesian Gate in the Roman period suggests the high degree of contestation and negotiation about this site among various forms of authority in Ephesos during the Roman Empire.18 The accumulation of resources around this site, whether the marble of the forecourt or the marble of the gate, the bricks of the Stoa of Flavius Damianus, the bequest of a wealthy Roman citizen such as Salutaris, these are all clues that the Magnesian Gate and the celebrations of the goddess Artemis had become points of contention among the various social actors in Ephesos during the high Roman empire. The new benefactors, mostly Roman citizens, devoted considerable resources to “reinterpreting” the Magnesian Gate. The building program at the gate, and the repetitive processions that passed through it, were highly visual cultural constructs, an attempt by the agents, the builders and benefactors, to present a vision of Ephesos to its inhabitants. The symbolic complexes they chose were central to the identity of the city: the celebration of its patron goddess, and the very border of the city itself, which had been transformed from a defensive bulwark against outsiders into a sacred boundary between the territory of Artemis and the territory of the city, at which the liminal citizens-to-be, the ephebes, were trained in their civic responsibilities. As Guy Rogers has noted, the images carried in the procession evince a hybrid identity, an amalgam of traditional Ephesian values, such as Artemis, the Boule and the Demos; and Roman values, such as the various emperors and the Senate of Rome.19 Romans and Greeks were likely to see the same city in very different ways, and at Ephesos, we can see the Romans imposing their vision monumentally on a pre-existing city. Moreover, by the second century, there is no longer a simple division between Greek and Roman cultural elements and experiences. Any Greek with Roman citizenship would already be obliged to learn to worship in the Roman fashion in order to discharge his religious duties as the adoptive 17 M. P. Pearson,

“Economic and Ideological Change: Cyclical Growth in the Pre-State Societies of Jutland,” in Ideology, Power and Prehistory (D. Miller and C. Tilley eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 69–92; I. Hodder, “Economic and Social Stress and Material Culture Patterning,” American Antiquity 44, no. 3 (1979): 446–454. 18  On monumentalism, display, and cultural contestation at Ephesos, see: C. M. Thomas, “Greek Heritage,” 131–136. 19 Rogers, Sacred Identity, 83–86.

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member of a Roman family. By the second century, many of the Greek elite at Ephesos would have possessed this sort of hybrid vision. In the case of the Magnesian Gate itself, it is fascinating that the social actors in Roman Ephesos not only did not allow the gate to fall into ruin, but in fact “doubled down” by according fresh resources to its upkeep. A monument that could simply have been abandoned as otiose – a defensive structure with no abiding purpose – was repurposed. The Magnesian Gate enjoyed continued importance not as a defensive border, but as a sacred border, almost like the pomerium present not only at Rome, but in all Roman colonies. The processions emphasized to the inhabitants of the city the importance, the symbolic weight, of crossing this border between country and city, wilderness and civilization, the territory of the goddess and the territory of the city – and between childhood and citizenship.

3. Conclusion The Magnesian Gate and the rituals associated with it provide a vivid example of the significance of the borders between a city and its hinterland, and the conditions under which the borders can be transgressed and re-established. Also on display is the ambiguous nature of borders and their sometimes completely arbitrary and socially-constructed quality. Some borders are more stable: those between the wilderness and the city, which are related to the non-human world and the biological aspects of human life, which also concern the defense of this biological life, by means of gates and walls. And there are also moveable borders, such as the boundaries of the asylum provided by a temple, perhaps more subject to human contestation, negotiation, and the exercise of authority for their establishment. But both sorts of borders can be read in different ways, or repurposed, by different agents at different times. A Greek defensive structure that protects from invasion, that lets in the citizens but keeps out the enemy, becomes to a Roman viewer  – perhaps  – the sacred pomerium, the transgression of which becomes monumentalized and highly marked by rituals and processions. Not so much borders as such, but rather the different ways in which they are read and manipulated, serve as markers of particular political or cultural identities.

Deditio and Baptism Religious Borders and the Integration of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire Stefan Esders “Borders are not spatial phenomena having a social impact, but rather social facts taking a spatial shape.”1 This statement, from the early 20th-century German philosopher Georg Simmel, calls in the first place for an open definition of borders. At a basic level, it is societies or social groups that tend so to demarcate themselves. For them, drawing a borderline may serve many different social purposes, for instance to disambiguate and to homogenize one’s group. Of course such societies’ political authorities play a vital role in the process of developing borders further and stabilizing some of them on a more general level. The quality of borders varies a great deal. It ranges from social distinction and unwritten rules of habit to explicit affirmation of borders separating groups, societies and states. And the spatial quality of borders obviously can be very different in character, too. In fact, while many borders appear to be rather clearcut, others apparently are rather fuzzy, so that one may find it hard to identify a definite line of division, or to say what consequences crossing such a border would have. When dealing with borders, such as social, political, or religious ones, it seems helpful to proceed from assuming the existence of multi-layered borders of different kinds, some of which converge, whereas some or indeed most do not. Groups defined by political, ethnic, religious and other identities do not necessarily share the same borders, even if they are living within one region. From this perspective, it appears as a historical exception rather than a rule when political, legal, social and religious borders converge on a single line. And from this point it is still a long way to go before such borders acquire the character of an iron curtain. Even where historical development seems to have created clearly defined political borders as we find them all around the Roman Empire, a much more complicated social process appears to have been at work in order to maintain them. Property, privileges and other things may have incited people living in the border areas to see their interests protected best if they adhered to the Roman 1 G. Simmel, Soziologie. Untersuchungen über die Formen der Vergesellschaftung (1908) (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1992), 697.

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Empire. At the same time, maintaining political borders not only served to uphold certain distinctions but also to facilitate more clearly defined communication and exchange between these groups. We only need to take a brief look at the borders of the Roman Empire to realize that there was much more behind the Roman limes than a line of military defense.2 If we take, for instance, the limes in the desert of Roman Syria, it becomes evident that it must have been conceived as an instrument to control the mobility of nomad and semi-nomad groups. The Roman administration could not and did not want to prevent these groups from entering Roman territory in order to get water in certain periods of their annual cycle of life. Instead the Roman government sought to control their movement by installing posts at the relevant water holes. In other regions, it was more important to control economic activities by watching what was happening along the trading routes and roads. And one could add further examples for the different character of borders, the military function being only one among others. Thus it is by no means self-evident that in a frontier region political mechanisms of control would be equally exercised in political, legal, economic, fiscal and sometimes also religious terms. And for this reason one should be a little hesitant in qualifying political and social borders as religious ones and assuming a deliberate attempt by political authorities to create religious dividing lines for political reasons. This is not to deny that this could happen, but one may debate to what extent this was simply a result of late Roman society being Christianized, that is, reacting to the religious needs of Roman soldiers or the militarized civil population, rather than an attempt to demarcate a Roman frontier society as a Christian one entirely different from those groups living on the other side. Such questions are not easy to answer. Rather one has to ask: How important were such religious lines of division? How did they relate to other dividing lines, social and political ones for instance, where did they converge and where did they not? Did such demarcation respond to a special situation, or was it a feature of longterm shifts in the definition of local and political identities? Now when dealing with late antiquity, there can hardly be any doubt that religious demarcation became more important when Christianity advanced to the status of a state religion and when Roman citizenship lost some of its relevance as a distinguishing element within Roman society.3 It thus seems obvious that religion and confession came to play an increasingly important role in defining 2  C. R. Whittaker, Frontiers of the Roman Empire. A Social and Economic Study (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 243 ff.; A. D. Lee, Information and Frontiers. Roman Foreign Relations in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); G. Greatrex and S. N. C.  Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier and the Persian Wars, II. A. D. 363–628. A Narrative Sourcebook (London: Routledge, 2002). 3 R. W. Mathisen, “Peregrini, Barbari, and Cives Romani: Concepts of Citizenship and the Legal Identity of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire,” American Historical Review 111 (2006): 1011–1040; idem, “Concepts of Citizenship,” in: The Oxford Handbook of Late Anti­ quity (S. F. Johnson ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 744–763.

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borders within late Roman society, but it also transcended the outer borders of the Roman Empire in some significant ways.4 It was as early as in the reign of Constantine that the Roman emperor wrote to the Persian Great King asking him to treat the Christians under his rule properly. Thus in a way Christianity as a group’s status transcended the frame of the Roman Empire. And if we take the opposite perspective, it was pagan and Christian Roman emperors alike who persecuted the Manicheans by accusing them of being the fifth column of the Persians. The topic dealt with in this paper is the role played by Christianity in defining a group’s identity and separating it from other groups. My object of study is the later Roman Empire’s religious policies towards groups of non-Roman people the Romans used to call “barbarians.” Part of this history has been written along the lines of master-narratives, such as missionary history focusing on the Christianization of barbarian people as part of early European history. But I doubt that this is a helpful frame of reference if we want to understand the religious function of borders. According to a nice anecdote told by the late Roman historian Eunapius of Sardis, in the late fourth century some pagan Goths, who crossed the Danube in order to enter Roman territory, disguised some members of their group as bishops and monks, because they thought that Christianity was so highly esteemed by the Romans that only as Christians would they be granted access to Roman territory. The Romans, Eunapius stated, were so incredibly stupid that they fell for the deceptive manoeuver and didn’t realize that the Goths were pagans. So they let them cross the Danube and enter the Roman provinces which they would soon devastate.5 It seems that this story alludes to the fact 4  B. Isaac, “The Eastern Frontier,” in: Cambridge Ancient History XIII: The Late Empire, A. D. 337–425 (A. Cameron and P. Garnsey eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; 1998), 437–460; F. Millar, A Greek Roman Empire. Power and Belief under Theodosius II, 408–450 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 5 Eunapius, Fragm. 48, 2: Φυλαὶ μὲν γὰρ τῶν πολεμίων τὴν ἀρχὴν διεβεβήκεσαν ἄπειροι,

καὶ πλείους ἐπιδιέβαινον, οὐδενὸς κωλύοντος· ἀλλ’ἐν τοσούτοις κακοῖς κέρδος αὐτοῖς ἐδόκει γνήσιον τὸ δωροδοκεῖσθαι παρὰ τῶν πολεμίων. εἶχε δὲ ἑκάστη φυλὴ ἱερά τε οἴκοθεν τὰ πάτρια συνεφελκομένη καὶ ἱερέας τούτων καὶ ἱερείας· ἀλλὰ στεγανή τις ἧν λίαν καὶ ἀδαμάντινος ἡ περὶ ταῦτα σιωπὴ καὶ τῶν ἀπορρήτων ἐχεμυθία. ἡ δὲ εἰς τὸ φανερὸν προσποίησις καὶ πλάσις εἰς τὴν τῶν πολεμίων ἀπάτην διηρτυμένη καὶ συντεθειμένη, Χριστιανοί τε εἶναι πάντες ἔλεγον καί τινας ὡς ἐπισκόπους αὐτῶν ἐς τὸ θαυμαζόμενον σχῆμα καταστολίσαντες καὶ περικρύψαντες, καὶ πολλῆς αὐτοῖς τῆς ἀλώπεκος ἐπιχέαντες, εἰς τὸ μέσον προηφίεσαν, πανταχοῦ τὸ ἀφύλακτον διὰ τῶν καταφρονουμένων ὅρκων παρ’ἐκείνοις, παρὰ δὲ τοῖς βασιλεῦσι σφόδρα φυλαττομένων, ὑποτρέχοντες. ἦν δέ τι καὶ τῶν καλουμένων μοναχῶν παρ’ αὐτοῖς γένος, κατὰ μίμησιν τῶν παρὰ τοῖς πολεμίοις ἐπιτετηδευμένον, οὐδὲν ἐχούσης τῆς μιμήσεως πραγματῶδες καὶ δύσκολον, ἀλλὰ ἐξήρκει φαιὰ ἱμάτια σύρουσι καὶ χιτώνια πονηροῖς τε εἶναικαὶ πιστεύεσθαι. καὶ τοῦτο ὀξέως συνεῖδον οἱ βάρβαροι τὸ θαυμαζόμενον παρὰ  Ῥωμαίοις ῥαδίως ἐς παραγωγὴν ἐπιτηδεύσαντες, ἐπὶ τά γε ἄλλα μετὰ βαθύτητος καὶ σκέπης ὅτι μάλιστα στεγανωτάτης τῶν ἀπορρήτων τὰ παρὰ σφίσιν ἱερὰ γεννικῶς τε καὶ ἀδόλως φυλάττοντες. οὕτω δὲ ἐχόντων τούτων, ὅμως ἐς τοσαύτην ἄνοιαν ἐξεπεπτώκεσαν ὥστε συμπεπεῖσθαι σαφῶς καὶ ἀμάχως τοὺς δοκοῦντας νοῦν ἔχειν ὅτι Χριστιανοί τέ εἰσι καὶ πάσαις ταῖς τελεταῖς ἀνέχοντες (The Frag­ mentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire. Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Malchus, Vol. 2 [R. C. Blockley ed.; Liverpool: Francis Cairns, 1983], 74–76).

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that permanent settlement of barbarians on Roman territory from the later fourth century onwards happened on the condition that these groups converted to Christianity. From a barbarian perspective, conversion thus came to be some kind of entrance ticket to the Roman Empire if they wanted to settle there. But from a Roman point of view the conversion of barbarians also served as a means of clientele policy defined in religious terms.6 In investigating this aspect further, I shall focus on the instruments which the Romans used to create new barbarian group identities along religious lines  – hence the paper’s title “deditio and baptism.” Already in the Republican and early imperial period, relations between Romans and barbarians were often defined by treaties, so called foedera, in which both sides agreed upon keeping the peace, giving each other military support, and so on. Such treaties were usually composed of several elements. For enacting them, an important role was played by the so-called deditio, a ritual by which the barbarians, having surrendered, formally bowed down to Roman authority, to the Roman dicio, and submitted themselves to Roman fides, hoping that the Roman side would show mercy and decide to enter into a peace treaty.7 This formal procedure of deditio provided the starting point for developing relations along very different, indeed peaceful and legally defined, lines. It thus was an important element of Roman “foreign policy,” so to say. Even in cases when the Romans did not defeat their enemy, they would demand that their counterparts formally surrender by performing a deditio, as a condition of entering into contractual and political relations. Now in late Antiquity, while the deditio continued to play an important part, it also came to be used for the integration of barbarian groups into late Roman provincial society by settling them on Roman territory.8 Here, the deditio ceased to be part of “international law” as defined by the existence of two sovereign parties contracting a foedus-treaty. When a tribal group of barbarians entered Roman territory in order to live there permanently, they first had to give up their sovereignty, for it was the Roman side that exercised unlimited potestas over Roman soil, at least in legal theory. The barbarians ceased to be federates and now became subjects of the Roman Empire, whatever that may have exactly meant.9

6  P. Heather, “The Late Roman Art of Client Management: Imperial Defence in the Fourth Century West,” in: The Transformation of Frontiers. From Late Antiquity to the Carolingians (W. Pohl, I. Wood, H. Reimitz, eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 15–68. 7  K.-H. Ziegler, “Deditio und fides im römischen Völkerrecht,” Zeitschrift der SavignyStiftung für Rechtsgeschichte, Romanistische Abteilung 108 (1991): 279–285. 8  K.-H. Ziegler, “Tradition und Wandel im Völkerrecht der römischen Spätantike,” in: Idee und Realität des Rechts in der Entwicklung internationaler Beziehungen. Festgabe für Wolfgang Preiser (A. Böhm ed.; Baden-Baden: Nomos, 1983), 11–31; R. Schulz, Die Entwicklung des rö­ mischen Völkerrechts im vierten und fünften Jahrhundert n. Chr., Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1993). 9  R. Scharf, Foederati. Von der völkerrechtlichen Kategorie zur byzantinischen Truppengat­ tung (Vienna: Holzhausen, 2001), 21–22.

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It is difficult to describe precisely the status of these groups who would from now on live on Roman soil. By performing a deditio a group entered into an intermediate position according to international law, but in the case of their settlement on provincial land the barbarians who were integrated into the Roman Empire obtained a permanent position.10 They had special status among the provincial population, living according to their own tribal laws, and having their own military commanders. So in many ways they maintained the social borders which were part of their identity as a distinct group that late Roman government wanted to respect (quite contrary to the earlier empire, where the grant of citizenship served to integrate such groups within one or two generations and make them step by step adapt their legal customs to Roman law).11 But at the same time, the barbarian groups were subordinated to the Roman military hierarchy, for instance to a dux limitis or a magister militum, who would be superior to their own leader, who in turn would be a two-headed figure, a barbarian chief and a Roman officer at the same time. And the barbarian troops were subject to Roman military law, since they had sworn a military oath when they became part of the Roman army, accepting the Roman emperor as their highest military commander.12 So, in sum, they were integrated into late Roman society and army according to military law, but not at all or rather loosely according to civil law.13 But some of them would possess territories in compensation for their service,14 and this would have a profound impact on their social structure, for instance through the rules of inheritance which they became subject to with regard to the military territories. This may explain the fuzziness of the situation in late Roman border territories. It seems striking that, from the late Roman period onward, barbarians who would become integrated into late Roman provincial society would in addition to their deditio and their settlement have to promise to be baptized as well – a fact the story quoted from Eunapius was already alluding to. Obviously the late Roman emperors placed emphasis on the barbarians adopting Christianity as part of their contractual arrangement when becoming settled on Roman soil. Foederati, 21–22. “Peregrini, Barbari, and Cives Romani, 1011–1040. 12  S. Esders, “Les implications militaires du serment dans les royaumes barbares (Ve–VIIe siècles),” in: Oralité et lien social au Moyen Âge (Occident, Byzance, Islam): Parole donnée, foi jurée, serment (M.-F. Auzepy and G. Saint-Guillain eds.; Paris: ACHCByz, 2008), 17–24. 13  W. E. Voss, “Vom römischen Provinzialprozeß der Spätantike zum Rechtsgang des frühen Mittelalters,” in: Recht im frühmittelalterlichen Gallien. Spätantike Tradition und germanische Wertvorstellungen (H. Siems, K. Nehlsen-von Stryk, D. Strauch eds.; Cologne–Vienna: Böhlau, 1995), 73–108; M. Mirkovic, “῾Υπήκοοι und σύμμαχοι. Ansiedlung und Rekrutierung von Barbaren bis zum Jahr 382,” in: Klassisches Altertum, Spätantike und frühes Christentum. Adolf Lippold zum 65. Geburtstag gewidmet (K. Dietz, D. Hennig, H. Kaletsch eds.; Würzburg: Der Christliche Osten, 1993), 425–434. 14  B. S. Bachrach, “Military Lands in Historical Perspective,” Haskins Society Journal 9 (1997): 95–122. 10 Scharf,

11 Mathisen,

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In what follows I shall discuss some examples of this practice from the late fourth and early fifth centuries onward to illustrate the impact of Christianity on the barbarians, and also to examine this as a reflection of late Roman border policy that led to an important redefinition of social, political, religious and indeed ethnic borders. If I am correct, it seems that deditio and baptism were combined for the first time in the 370’s under the East Roman emperor Valens. Following invasions of the Huns in 375 Visigothic groups under their leader Fritigern crossed the Danube and asked Valens for reception into the Roman Empire.15 Valens agreed to this, conceded territories for their settlement somewhere in the frontier zone, and demanded from the Visigoths military support for the Roman side in compensation. The measures taken by Valens were disputed even among contemporaries, for the Goths started to pillage the provinces soon afterward, and when Valens tried to reverse the Gothic settlement this effort ultimately led to the battle of Adrianople in 378, where the Roman side suffered a decisive defeat with even the emperor Valens losing his life.16 Nonetheless the settlement of the Visigoths in 376 and once again in 382 under Theodosius I obviously provided an ideal model which was henceforth used time and again for the integration of barbarians into late Roman society: the barbarian groups performed a deditio, were disarmed temporarily, received settlement areas and territories (or sometimes even tax income), and retained their character as an ethnic group that was in many respects distinct from the Roman provincial population whom they were assigned to protect by their military service.17 When entering Roman territory they also had to promise that they would become Christians soon. Interestingly enough, our two main and most explicit sources on this, the pagan historians Ammianus Marcellinus and Zosimus, do not mention the Visigoths’ conversion at all.18 It is only with church historians, as in Socrates’ or Sozomenos’ ecclesiastical histories, that reference is made to the Visigoths adopting Christianity when crossing the bor-

15 H. Wolfram, Die Goten. Von den Anfängen bis zur Mitte des sechsten Jahrhunderts. Ent­ wurf einer historischen Ethnographie (3rd ed.; Munich: Beck, 1990), 125–131. 16  Johannes Straub, “Die Wirkung der Niederlage bei Adrianopel auf die Diskussion über das Germanenproblem in der spätrömischen Literatur” (1943), in: Regeneratio Imperii. Aufsätze über Roms Kaisertum und Reich im Spiegel der heidnischen und christlichen Publizistik vol. 1 (idem ed.; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972), 195–219, here 201; L. J. Daly, “The Mandarin and the Barbarian. The Response of Themistius to the Gothic Challenge,” His­ toria 21 (1972): 351–379; W. Hagl, Arcadius apis imperator. Synesios von Kyrene und sein Beitrag zum Herrscherideal der Spätantike (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1997), 92–99. 17  F. Ausbüttel, “Die Dedition der Westgoten von 382 und ihre historische Bedeutung,” Athenaeum N. S. 66 (1988): 604–613. 18  Ammianus Marcellinus, Historia Romana XXXI, 4, 1–13 (W. Seyfarth ed.; Darmstadt, 1971), 252–255; Zosimos, Historia Nova IV, 20, 5 u. 7 (F. Paschoud ed., Vol. 2/2, Paris, 1979), 281–282.

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der.19 Using their accounts, the sixth-century historian Jordanes in his history of the Goths emphasizes that the Visigoths spent a lot of thought on the decision to convert, asking the emperor Valens to concede territories to them in Thracia and Moesia. Finally they promised to become Christians, as Jordanes says, in order to make their fidelity towards Valens more reliable, and on the condition that Valens would send missionaries to them who would instruct them in the Christian faith in their own language.20 It is interesting that conversion was a precondition of Gothic integration in 376,21 for at that time Christianity was not yet the sole Roman state religion. But reliability and fidelity were regarded as being higher when both partners were Christians. This is at least what Jordanes wants to tell us in the sixth century. In the fourth, things may still have been different. But the Visigoths’ conversion obviously corresponded to the fact that it was above all the emperor, as the highest military commander, who granted access to Roman territory to the Goths. Valens was, as we know, an adherent of Arian Christianity, and this is why the Visigoths became Arian Christians too.22 We may assume that adopting Christianity profoundly changed the ethnic identity of the Visigoths, at least in the middle and long term. Baptism marked a departure from their pagan tradition and created a new starting point for an ethnic group’s self-assertion.23 Translating the Bible and other Christian texts into their mother-tongue24 made the Goths some kind of “textual community,”

19  Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica IV, 33, 1–4 (R. Hussey ed.; Oxford, 1853), 559–561; Sozomenos, Historia ecclesiastica VI, 37 (J. Bidez and G. C. Hansen eds., Berlin 1960), 294–297; Theodoretus, Historia ecclesiastica IV, 37 (L. Parmentier and F. Scheidweiler eds.; Berlin, 1954), 237–238; Orosius, Historia adversus paganos VII, 33, 19 (K. Zangemeister ed.; Wien, 1882), 520. 20  Jordanes, Getica 25, 131: Vesegothae … exterriti, quidnam de se propter gentem Hunno­ rum deliberarent, ambigebant, diuque cogitantes tandem communi placito legatos in Romania direxerunt ad Valentem imperatorem fratrem Valentiniani imperatoris senioris, ut, partem Thra­ ciae sive Moesiae si illis traderet ad colendum, eius se legibus eiusque vivere imperiis subderentur, et, ut fides uberior illis haberetur, promittunt se, si doctores linguae suae donaverit, fieri Chris­ tianos (T. Mommsen ed.; MGH AA V, 1, Berlin, 1882), 92. 21  P. Heather, “The Crossing of the Danube and the Gothic Conversion”, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 27 (1986): 289–318; N. Lenski, “The Gothic Civil War and the Date of the Gothic Conversion,” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 36 (1995): 51–87. 22  N. Lenski, Failure of Empire. Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century A. D. (Berkeley: University of California, 2002), 116–119 and 320–325. 23 A. Angenendt, “Der eine Adam und die vielen Stammväter. Idee und Wirklichkeit der Origo gentis im Mittelalter,” in: Herkunft und Ursprung. Historische und mythische Formen der Legitimation (P.Wunderli ed.; Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1994), 27–52; L. E. von Padberg, “Unus populus ex diversibus gentibus. Gentilismus und Einheit im früheren Mittelalter,” in: Der Um­ gang mit dem Fremden in der Vormoderne. Studien zur Akkulturation in bildungshistorischer Sicht (C. Lüth, R. W. Keck, E. Wiersing eds.; Cologne: Böhlau, 1997), 155–193; A. Plassmann, Origo gentis. Identitäts‑ und Legitimitätsstiftung in früh‑ und hochmittelalterlichen Herkunfts­ erzählungen (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2006). 24  P. Heather and J. Matthews, The Goths in the Fourth Century (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1991), 145 ff. and 163 ff.

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regardless of whether the majority of the group could actually read or write.25 At the same time their group identity may have been enhanced by the fact that they came to be regarded as heretics after Valens died and later emperors returned to the Nicene Creed. It is for this reason, I believe, that baptism as part of the Goths’ deditio was thought of as an efficient means of separating this group from other Gothic groups, and this is what mattered most to the Roman government in this very situation. In order to affirm this separation, the baptized Goths were not integrated into the diocese structure that largely corresponded to the provincial organization, but received a bishop who was solely responsible for their group. This again blurred the seemingly clear-cut profile of late Roman border organization. The Gothic bishop was responsible for the Goths alone and did not have a diocese in a strict spatial sense. Only few years later, at the council of Constantinople held in 381, reference was made to ecclesiae in barbaricis gentibus, which were directly subordinated to the patriarch of Constantinople.26 Some sources suggest that the Goths’ military service now became enhanced by their Christian fervor. The emperor Theodosius I is alleged to have used 20,000 Goths to defeat the usurper Eugenius in 394. In his propaganda, Theodosius even declared this war as a religious war, as a final struggle between Christianity and paganism.27 It is difficult to judge whether for the Goths their being Christians was a true motivation to fight or whether, more likely, their loyalty towards Theodosius in fact mattered more to them. But at least they were allowed to remain Arians and thus were not subjected to Theodosius’ law on heretics issued in 380.28 As late as in the 6th century we find the emperor Justinian legislating elaborately against all kinds of heretics, only to state in his long law’s subtitle 17 that the Goths of Constantinople should be exempt from all this on account of the important services they rendered to the Roman state.29 It is true that the conversion of the Visigoths would be of pivotal importance in the process of Christianizing Germanic tribes in the late and post-Roman West. But the phenomenon I am dealing with here was by no means confined 25 B. Stock, Listening for the Text. On the Uses of the Past (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 23 ff. 26  Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta, (G. Alberigo, P.-P. Joannou, C. Leonardi, P. Prodi eds.; Basel: Herder, 21962), 27–28. R. W. Mathisen, “Barbarian Bishops and the Churches in barbaricis gentibus in Late Antiquity,” Speculum 72 (1997): 664–695. 27  M. Springer, “Die Schlacht am Frigidus als quellenkundliches und literaturgeschichtliches Problem,” in: Westillyricum und Nordostitalien in der spätrömischen Zeit (R. Bratoz ed.; Ljubljana: Narodni Muzej Slovenije, 1996), 45–94; H. Leppin, Theodosius der Große. Auf dem Weg zum christlichen Imperium (Darmstadt: Primus, 2003), 211–212. 28  Codex Theodosianus XVI, 1, 2 (T. Mommsen and P. M. Meyer eds.; Berlin, 1905), 822–823. P. Barceló and G. Gottlieb, “Das Glaubensedikt des Kaisers Theodosius vom 27. Februar 380: Adressaten und Zielsetzung,” in: Klassisches Altertum, Spätantike und frühes Christentum, 409–423. 29 Codex Iustinianus I, 5, 12 (§ 17) (P. Krüger ed.; Berlin, 1915), 54.

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to the Goths, nor to the north or west of the late Roman Empire, but has to be seen against the background of the Roman army being Christianized.30 Already under Valens, almost at the same time, if not somewhat earlier than the Goths, in Southern Syria an Arabian queen called Mavia gathered a confederation of semi-nomadic Arabian tribes and rebelled against Roman rule. Mavia’s husband, the last king of the Arabian tribe of the Tanukh, al-Hawari, had been an ally of the Romans and had just died in the year 375, leaving no heirs. What happened afterward is reported by the church historian Rufinus of Aquileia: “Mavia, the queen of the Saracens, had begun to wage a brutal war against cities and towns on the border of the provinces of Palestine and Arabia and to plunder provinces adjacent to them. Having defeated the Romans several times, she was asked to conclude peace. She eventually agreed to that on the condition that a monk called Moses would be appointed bishop over her people.”31 This sounds strange: the queen campaigned against the Romans until she was finally allowed to adopt Christianity. So one has to speculate: The peace treaty, which may have been concluded in 378 (the precise date is not clear), obliged the Saracens to become Christians. One cannot rule out the possibility that Valens even earlier may have attempted to persuade Mavia and her Arabian groups, which had been Roman federates, to adopt the Christian faith in the Arian confession. At any rate, she did so only later. According to later tradition Mavia preferred to adopt the Nicene Creed for herself and her people. The already mentioned Moses was the first bishop responsible for Arabian tribes, and is credited with having built up a Christian church in Syria, to which many people from the Arabian Tanukh tribe would belong. This treaty thus restored the good terms which the Arabian tribes had had with the Romans before. It is well conceivable that Mavia and her troops also received land on this occasion, though our evidence does not mention this.32 For this would not only parallel the Visigothic case, but also explain the Tanuks’ move into the inner border zone of the Roman Empire. But the treaty may have included even more, for we know that Mavia had her daughter Chasidat married 30  For the long-term development see G. Greatrex, “Justin I and the Arians,” in: Studia patristica 34 (M. F. Wiles and E. J. Yarnold eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 72–81; W. E. Kaegi, “Arianism and the Byzantine Army in Africa, 533–546,” Traditio 21 (1965): 23–53; L. S. B. MacCoull, “‘When Justinian was upsetting the World’. A Note on Soldiers and Religious Coercion in Sixth-Century Egypt,” in: Peace and War in Byzantium. Essays in Honor of George T. Dennis (T. S. Miller and J. Nesbitt eds.; Washington D. C.: Catholic University Press, 1995), 106–113; M. Leontsini, “Adherence to the Chalcedonian Creed and Organisation of the Byzantine Army in the Seventh Century,” Byzantinoslavica 62 (2004): 71–78. 31 Rufinus of Aquileia, Historia ecclesiastica XI, 6 (T. Mommsen ed. in: Eusebius Werke, Vol. 2: Die Kirchengeschichte. Die lateinische Ubersetzung des Rufinus, Eduard Schwartz ed.; Berlin, 1905), 1010–1012. O. Schmitt, “Mavia, Die Königin der Sarazenen,” in: Nomaden und Seßhafte  – Fragen, Methoden, Ergebnisse (Halle: Orientwissenschaftliches Zentrum, 2003), 163–179. 32  Ammianus Marcellinus, Historia Romana 31, 16, 5–6 (W. Seyfarth ed.; Vol. 4, Darmstadt, 1971), 300–302.

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to Victor, who was the supreme commander of the Roman army in that area at this time. We have additional evidence from the fifth century. In 421, Theodosius II took up arms against the Persians, and it seems that Romans and Persians now for the first time were fighting each other because of Christianity and conversion. The Persian general Aspebetos, who commanded a group of Arabian tribes, around this time was ordered to prevent Christians living under Persian rule from taking refuge on the Roman side. But, instead of doing so, Aspebetos together with his army changed sides and became an ally of the Romans. Being authorized by the Roman administration, Aspebetos and his troops settled down in Palestine, somewhere between Jerusalem and Jericho. At the same time he was appointed “Phylarchos of the Roman federates in the province of Arabia.”33 Aspebetos and his son Terebon were baptized by a monk called Euthymius. The monk adopted the new name Petrus on this occasion and was appointed “bishop of the tentdwellers” (τῶν παρεμβολῶν ἐπισκόπος), in which position he is attested ten years later at the council of Ephesos in 431.34 There are further examples of Arabian tribal leaders who settled down on Roman territory with imperial license and became Christians at the same time, like the Ghassanids in Syria in the early sixth century under Anastasius, who consequently became miaphysite Christians.35 When Justinian reorganized the diocese of Oriens in 529, he installed the Ghassanid phylarch al-Hārith, as is reported by Procopius, “ruler over the Saracens in Arabia, governor of many tribes, and conferred on him the dignity of kingship.”36 Of course the relevance of this decision can hardly be overestimated with regard to the pre-Islamic ethnogenesis of the Arabs and their conversion to monotheism. Justinian was the first emperor to become godfather of a barbarian king whose people were allowed to settle on Roman territory, thus creating a link of kinship with the Christianized barbarian ruler.37 He did this for the Heruls, who were settled in the Balkans to fight against the Ostrogoths in Italy in the mid 530’s.38 33

 Isaac, “The Eastern Frontier,” 437–460. “The Eastern Frontier,” 450–451. 35 I. Shahīd, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, Vol. I, 2: Ecclesiastical History (Washington D. C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995), 694 and 702–705; A. Muraviev, “Ghassanids”, in: Late Antiquity. A Guide to the Postclassical World (G. W. Bowersock, P. Brown, O. Grabar eds.; Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 468–469. 36  Procopius, Bellum Persicum I, 17, 45–7 (Otto Veh ed., Munich, 1962), 126. 37  I. Engelhardt, Mission und Politik in Byzanz. Ein Beitrag zur Strukturanalyse byzanti­ nischer Mission zur Zeit Justins und Justinians (Munich: Institut für Byzantinistik und Neugriechische Philologie der Universität, 1974), 80; A. Angenendt, Kaiserherrschaft und Königstaufe. Kaiser, Könige und Päpste als geistliche Patrone in der abendländischen Missionsgeschichte (Berlin–New York: de Gruyter, 1984), 6–7. 38  Procopius, Bellum Gothicum II, 14, 33–34:  Ἐπεὶ δὲ ᾿Ιουστινιανὸς τὴν βασιλείαν παρέλαβε, 34 Isaac,

χώρᾳ τε ἀγαθῇ καὶ ἄλλοις χρήμασιν αὐτοὺς δωρησάμενος, ἑταιρίζεσθαί τε παντελῶς ἴσχυσε καὶ Χριστιανοὺς γενέσθαι ἅπαντας ἔπεισε. διόπερ τὴν δίαιταν ἐπὶ τὸ ἡμερώτερον μεταβαλόντες τοῖς Χριστιανῶν νόμοις

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But there were several other cases of conversion of tribes who were positioned against the Persians on the Black Sea shore.39 Some of these tribes were forced to submit themselves to Roman authority together with their land, which they received back after their conversion. So their deditio did in fact extend Roman territory. One last example I would like to mention briefly occurred in the seventh century in the reign of the emperor Heraclius, when groups of Croats were resettled and converted in order to fight the Avars, who had occupied Roman provinces in the Balkans.40 Our source, a 10th century treatise on Byzantine foreign policy written by the emperor Constantine Porphyrogennetos, henceforth distinguishes “White Croats” from “Baptized Croats.” So baptism separated the two groups, and the unbaptized Croats living beyond the Roman frontier were designated “White Croats.”41 In the earlier Roman imperial period the tribes ἐπὶ πλεῖστον προσχωρεῖν ἔγνωσαν, καὶ ῾Ρωμαίοις κατὰ τὸ συμμαχικὸν τὰ πολλὰ ὲπὶ τοὺς πολεμίους ξυντάσσονται. ἔτι μέντοι αὐτοῖς εἰσιν ἄπιστοι καὶ πλεονεξίᾳ ἐχόμενοι βιάζεσθαι τοὺς πέλας ἐν σπουδῇ ἔχουσιν, οὐ φέροντος αὐτοῖς αἰσχύνην τοῦ ἔργου. καὶ μίξεις οὐχ ὁσίας τελοῦσιν, ἄλλας τε καὶ ἀνδρῶν καὶ ὄνων, καί εἰσι πονηρότατοι ἀνθρώπων ἁπάντων καὶ κακοὶ κακῶς ἀπολούμενοι (Otto Veh ed., Munich,

1966, 318). F. E. Wozniak, “East Rome, Ravenna and Western Illyricum. 454–536 A. D.,” His­ toria 30 (1981): 35–82; G. Neumann and M. Taylor, “Heruler,” Reallexion der germanischen Altertumskunde 14 (1999): 468–474; R. Steinacher, “The Herules. Fragments of a History,” in: Neglected Barbarians (F. Curta ed.; Turnhout: Isd, 2010), 321–364. 39  M. Maas, “Delivered from Their Ancient Customs: Christianity and the Question of Cultural Change in Early Byzantine Ethnography”, in: Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages: Seeing and Believing (K. Mills and A. Grafton eds.; Rochester NY: University of Rochester, 2003), 152–88. 40  R.-J. Lilie, “Kaiser Herakleios und die Ansiedlung der Serben. Überlegungen zum Kapitel 32 des De administrando imperio,” Südostforschungen 44 (1985): 17–43; N. Budak, “Frühes Christentum in Kroatien,” in: Karantanien und der Alpen-Adria-Raum im Frühmittelalter (G. Hödl and J. Grabmayer eds.; Vienna–Cologne: Böhlau, 1993), 223–234; R. Katičić, “Die Anfänge des kroatischen Staates,” in: Die Bayern und ihre Nachbarn Vol. 1 (H. Wolfram and A. Schwarcz eds.; Vienna: DsOAW, 1985), 299–312; F. Borri, “White Croatia and the Arrival of the Croats: An Interpretation of Constantine Porphyrogenitus on the Oldest Dalmatian History,” Early Medieval Europe 19 (2011): 204–231. 41 Constantine Porphyrogennetus, De administrando imperio 31:  Ὅτι οἱ Χρωβάτοι, οἱ εἰς τὰ τῆς

Δελματίας νῦν κατοικοῦντες μέρη, ἀπὸ τῶν ἀβαπτίστων Χρωβάτων, τῶν καὶ ἄσ-πρων ἐπονομαζομένων, κατάγονται […] Φραγγίας δὲ πλησίον κατοικοῦσι, καὶ συνοροῦσι Σκλάβοις, τοῖς ἀβαπτίστοις Σέρβλοις. Τὸ δὲ Χρωβάτοι τῇ τῶν Σκλάβων διαλέκτῳ ἑρμηνεύεται, τουτέσιν‚ οἱ πολλὴν χώραν κατέχοντες‘. Οἱ δὲ αὐτοὶ Χρωβάτοι εἰς τὸν βασιλέα τῶν  Ῥωμαίων,  Ἡράκλειον πρόσφυγες παρεγένοντο πρὸ τοῦ Σέρβλους προσφυγεῖν εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν βασιλέα,  Ἡράκλειον κατὰ τὸν καιρόν, ὃν οἱ  Ἄβαρεις πολεμήσαντες, ἀπ’ ἐκεῖσε τοὺς  Ῥωμάνους ἐναπεδίωξαν, οὓς ὁ βασιλεὺς Διοκλητιανὸς ἀπὸ  Ῥώμης ἀγαγὼν ἐκεῖσε κατεσκήνωσεν […] Προτάξει οὖν τοῦ βασιλέως  Ἡρακλείου οἱ αὐτοὶ Χρωβάτοι καταπολεμήσαντες καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν ἐκεῖσε τοὺς  Ἀβάρους ἐκδιώξαντες,  Ἡρακλείου τοῦ βασιλέως κελεύσει ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ τῶν  Ἀβάρων χώρᾳ, εἰς ἣν νῦν οἰκοῦσιν, κατεσκήνωσαν. Εἶχον δὲ οἱ αὐτοὶ Χρωβάτοι τῷ τότε καιρῷ ἄρχοντα τὸν πατέρα τοῦ Ποργᾶ.  Ὁ δὲ βασιλεὺς  Ἡράκλειος ἀποστείλας καὶ ἀπὸ  Ῥώμης ἀγαγὼν ἱερεῖς καὶ ἐξ αὐτῶν ποιήσας ἀρχιεπίσκοπον καὶ ἐπίσκοπον καὶ πρεσβυτέρους και διακόνους, τοὺς Χρωβάτους ἐβάπτισεν· εἶχον δὲ τῷ τότε καιρῷ οἱ τοιοῦτοι Χρωβάτοι ἄρχοντα τὸν Ποργᾶ […]  Ὅτι αὗτοι οἱ βαπτισμένοι Χρωβάτοι ἔξωθεν τῆς ἰδίας αὐτῶν χώρας πολεμεῖν ἀλλοτρίας οὐ βούλονται· χρησμὸν γάρ τινα καὶ ὁρισμὸν ἔλαβον παρὰ τοῦ πάπα  Ῥώμης, τοῦ ἐπὶ  Ἡρακλείου, τοῦ βασιλέως  Ῥωμαίων, ἀποστείλαντος ἱερεῖς καὶ τούτους βαπτίσαντος. Καὶ γὰρ οὗτοι Χρωβάτοι μετὰ τὸ αὐτοὺς βαπτισθῆναι συνθήκας καὶ ἰδιόχειρα ἐποιήσαντο καὶ πρὸς τὸν ἅγιον Πέτρον, τὸν

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living beyond the frontier had been called the “free Germans” and the “free Sarmati;” now, in the seventh century, the people living beyond the border were the “unbaptized” ones. Barbarians, it seems, had by now become pagans, and the baptized tribes were those living on Roman territory. In fact the Roman border had been blurred by this time so much that a casual observer could tell only by a barbarian’s religion whether he was on supposed Roman territory or beyond. So, when looked at in the long term, things apparently had changed between the fourth century and the seventh: in the fourth century tribes had to get baptized in order to be settled on Roman soil; in the seventh century Roman soil was wherever a Christian tribe was settling.42 The interpretation given here is based on distinguishing different social borders and different identities which did not converge with the Roman frontier. It proceeds from the observation that formal surrender (deditio), settlement on Roman soil, and baptism were combined in order to integrate barbarian groups into the late Roman Empire to make them loyal military supporters of the Roman cause. There seems to have been an awareness among the late Roman emperors that Christianizing barbarians could change their ethnic structure by cutting them off from their traditional groups and making them loyal to the Romans.

ἀπόστολον ὅρκους βεβαίους καὶ ἀσφαλεῖς, ἵνα μηδέποτε εἰς ἀλλοτρίαν χώραν ἀπέλθωσιν καὶ πολεμήσωσιν, ὰλλὰ μᾶλλον εἰρηνεύειν μετὰ πάντων τῶν βουλομένων, λαβόντες καὶ παρὰ τοῦ αὐτοῦ πάπα  Ῥώμης εὐχὴν τοιάνδε, ὡς εἴ τινες ἄλλοι ἐθνικοὶ κατὰ τῆς τῶν αὐτῶν Χρωβάτων χώρας ἐπέλθωσιν καὶ πόλεμον ἐπενέγκωσιν, ἵνα τῶν Χρωβάτων ὁ Θεὸς προπολεμεῖ καὶ προΐσταται, καὶ νίκας αὐτοῖς Πέτρος ὁ τοῦ Χριστοῦ μαθητὴς προξενεῖ (G. Moravcsik ed.; Washington D. C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 21967), 146–151).

42 H.-G. Beck, “Christliche Mission und politische Propaganda im byzantinischen Reich (1967),” in: Ideen und Realitäten in Byzanz (idem ed.; London: Ashgate, 1972), IV, 649–674; W. Pohl, Die Awaren. Ein Steppenvolk in Mitteleuropa 567–822 n. Chr. (2nd ed.; Munich: Beck, 2002), 267–268.

Response to Stefan Esders: Deditio and Baptism Susanna Elm Historians of the later Roman Empire, following Edward Gibbon and A. H. M. Jones, pause at the year 378. That year, in which a force of Gothic Tervingi and Greuthungi, augmented by a small band of Huns, defeated the Roman emperor Valens at Adrianople, represents a real caesura.1 Valens’ death at Adrianople marked the beginning of a new imperial dynasty with the ascent of Theodosius I that ended with the death of Theodosius II in 450. One aspect of that dynastic rule, in addition to its longevity, was Rome’s sustained engagement with the so-called barbarians: Goths, Huns, Franks, in ways that differed from what came before.2 In 378, the Roman Empire was still one realm with one legal system and one set of emperors ranked according to seniority. When, however, Priscus of Panium described persons he encountered at Attila’s court in 449 he did so as if they were from a different country: “Western Romans.”3 Indeed, regionalism increased sharply in this period, above all in the West, and after the death of Theodosius II and that of Attila three years later, it was evident that the Roman Empire was no longer one. However, these were not the only changes. As Stefan Esders points out, notions of romanitas based on citizenship and regional allegiance began to give way to concepts of romanitas determined by religion, more precisely, by forms of Christianity defined as orthodoxy by imperial fiat.4 1 Ammianus Marcellinus Res gestae

31.2.1–12. E. Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire vol. 1 (London: Penguin, 1994), 1073–1074; A. H. M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire: A Social, Economic and Administrative Survey vol. 1 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964), 154; A. Marcone, “A Long Late Antiquity? Considerations on a Controversial Periodization,” Journal of Late Antiquity 1 (2008): 3–19; N. Lenski, Failure of Empire. Valens and the Roman State in the fourth Century A. D. (Berkeley: UC Press, 2002), 320–334. 2 The bibliography on barbarians is enormous. See for instance M. Maas, “Barbarians: Problems and Approaches,” in: The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity (S. F. Johnson ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 60–91; G. Halsall, Barbarian Migration and the Roman West, 379–568 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); P. Heather, Goths and Romans, 332–489 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). 3  Priscus, History of Attila, fr.2, line 345, in: The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire vol. 2 (R. C. Blockley ed.; Liverpool: Cairns, 1983); M. Maas, “Reversals of Fortune: An Overview of the Age of Attila,” in: The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Attila (M. Maas ed.; New York: Cambridge University Press), 2015, 3–25. 4 M. Maas, “Ethnicity, Orthodoxy and Community in Salvian of Marseilles,” in: FifthCentury Gaul: A Crisis of Identity? (J. F. Dinkwater and H. Elton eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge

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Not surprisingly, then, conversion to Christianity increasingly signaled, indeed became synonymous with, an overt acceptance of Rome’s dominance, so that, as Esders points out, baptism becomes more and more a part of deditio, the formal act of surrender to Rome.5 However, Christianity itself was at that time still a borderland. Phrased differently, it is not at all obvious to what form of Christianity, or, as a consequence, Romanness, one did in fact surrender, and, moreover, whether or not these “uncertainties” as to the prevalent form of Christianity did not also reflect local customs and exigencies. Modern scholars have tended to consider Theodosius I’s declaration that what he called Catholic Christianity ought to be the religion of the realm as yet another caesura: with his famous edict Cunctos Populos issued in 380, Theodosius is supposed to have settled uncertainties as to what form of Christianity ought to dominate Rome once and for all, or at least until the Councils of Ephesus and Chalcedon, namely, Nicene orthodoxy.6 To recapitulate, Theodosius arrived in Constantinople in November 380. However, already in February of the same year – about a year after his accession – while in residence in Thessalonica, he had issued a law indicating his wish that the people of Constantinople would follow the faith of the Apostle Peter as practiced by Damasus of Rome and Peter of Alexandria. Those doing so ought to adopt the appellation catholic. All others were suspect of the infamy of heresy and ought to be aware that their meeting places would be denied the name churches.7. On the face of it, this law appears indeed to be the unambiguous declaration of imperial intent as scholars have long read it, following Sozomen, the only church historian to mention it at all. Sozomen placed the edict in the context of Theodosius’s illness and subsequent baptism and considered it advance notice from the emperor, still at Thessalonica, to his subjects in Constantinople “so that he would not seem to be acting with such violence if he gave instructions to worship contrary to their way of thinking.”8 However, the inhabitants of Constantinople and the empire would have been very surprised to find an emperor being so unambiguous in his views of what Christianity ought to be, especially an emperor who had not even arrived at his capital and was hence entirely unfamiliar with the lay of the land. Indeed, R. MalUniversity Press, 1992), 19–92; J. P. Conant, “Romanness in the Age of Attila,” in: The Cam­ bridge Companion to the Age of Attila, 156–172. 5  R. W. Mathisen, “Peregrini, Barbari and Cives Romani: Concepts of Citizenship and the Legal identity of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire,” American Historical Review 111 (2006): 1011–1040, also for the concept of peregini dedicitii. 6  CTh 16.1.2; S. Williams and G. Friell, Theodosius: The Empire at Bay (London: Routledge, 1994), 53; A.-M. Ritter, Das Konzil von Constantinopel und sein Symbol (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1961), 28–31. 7  M. Escribano Paño, “Ley religiosa y propaganda política bajo Teodosios I,” in: Religión y propaganda política en el mundo romano (M. F. Simón, F. Pina Polo, R. J. Rodriguez eds.; Barcelona: Publicacions Universitat de Barcelona, 2002), 143–158. 8  Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica 7.4.5–6; R. M. Errington, “Christian accounts of the religious legislation of Theodosius I.,” Klio 79 (1997): 398–443, esp. 411.

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com Errington and Neil McLynn have recently pointed out that this edict was an indication of intent, leaving Theodosius the lawgiver a great deal of leeway to adjust and negotiate what kind of Christianity ought to be that of Rome, and a great deal of wiggle room for the many diverse constituents he actually had to integrate and placate. Some of these diverse constituents, all with their own ideas regarding Christianity, Theodosius had inherited from his precursors, who acted in fact much as he did: offering the broadest form of a consensus-based Christianity, amenable to many, that left, however, the nature of imperially sponsored Christianity in somewhat of a borderland-limbo.9 Thus Valens, mindful of the earlier turmoil created by the more rigorous religious polices adopted by his precursor Julian, made conversion to Christianity a condition for allowing the Gothic Tervingi and Greuthungi to settle in the empire.10 His form of Christianity was a kind of minimalist consensus formulation known as and labeled “Arian,” and thus these Gothic Tervingi and Greuthungi, too, became “Arian” Christians.11 However, this kind of Christianity was not merely the result of imperial fiat. Rather, a council at Constantinople, called by the then emperor Constantius II, affirmed a particular form of Arianism also known as homoian, and among the many signatories of this council was also a certain Ulfila, or Little Wolf, a bishop representing the Goths.12 The church historian Socrates, who informs us of Ulfila’s presence, notes that he was not the first bishop of the Goths present at an imperially sponsored council; he had been preceded by his teacher Theophilus, who had been a signatory at Nicaea.13 In 360, however, Ulfila signed an “Arian” creed, and this same Ulfila, we are told, not only translated the Bible into Gothic, thereby inventing Gothic script, but also spread Arian Christianity among many other Goths, under different lead 9 R. M. Errington, “Church and State in the first years of Theodosius I.,” Chiron 27 (1997): 21–72; N. McLynn, “‘Genere Hispanus’: Theodosius, Spain, and Nicene Orthodoxy,” in: His­ pania in Late Antiquity (K. Bowes and M. Kulikowski eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 77–120; id., “Moments of Truth: Gregory of Nazianzus and Theodosius I.” in: From the Tetrarchs to the Theodosians (S. McGill, C. Sogno, and E. Watts eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 215–239; S. Elm, “Waiting for Theodosius, or The Ascetic and the City: Gregory of Nazianzus on Maximus the Philosopher,” in: Ascetic Culture. Essays in Honor of Philip Rous­ seau (B. Leyerle and R. Darling Young eds.; Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 2013), 182–197. 10  Socrates, HE 7.33.4; Heather, Goths and Romans, 127–28; S. Esders, “Grenzen und Grenzüberschreitungen: Religion, Ethnizität und politische Integration am Rande des oströmischen Imperiums (4.–7. Jh.),” in: Gestiftete Zukunft im mittelalterlichen Europa (W. Huschner and F. Rexroth eds.; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2008), 3–28, esp. 5–13. 11 For the intricacies behind the label see C. Beeley, The Unity of Christ: Continuity and Conflict in Patristic Tradition (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2012); L Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Trinitarian Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 12  N. McLynn, “Little Wolf in the Big City: Ulfila and his Interpreters,” Bull. Inst. Classical Studies 50 (2007): 125–135. 13 Soc. HE 2.41.23.

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ers. Further, this same Ulfila later negotiated the crossing of the Danube of those Goths, already Arians, who soon thereafter defeated Valens, and whose crossing was, ostensibly, connected with Valens’ demand that they accept Arian Christianity  – a demand of which Socrates also informs us.14 As Neil McLynn has pointed out, accounts of a deditio on the condition of the acceptance of an Arian creed reflect the intention of the authors, in this case both Nicene, who wanted to use Valens’s demand as an indicator of his increasing Arianization, even though they themselves report that the Goths in question had already adopted Arian Christianity thanks to Ulfila, at least according to them.15 Indeed, we find the same Ulfila again in Theodosius’s Constantinople, in 383, where he is said to have died while attending the so-called Council of the Sects as a representative of the homoians, a council in other words, at which Theodosius sought to achieve a consensus between the representatives of the major forms of Christianity in the East, homoians and homoiousians, and the versions offered by the two by no means unanimous promoters of his recent edict.16 Also present at that council was a certain Eunomius and his followers, so-called anhomoians, who were the party favored by Ulfila’s main historian, Philostorgius, a man with anhomoian leanings, who wrote in Constantinople around 430, that is, at a moment very different from the one that concerns me here, namely the aftermath of Theodosius’s advent into Constantinople.17 Philostorgius presents Ulfila as a staunch supporter of Eunomius, and as one of several Eunomian bishops responsible for larger regions, a phenomenon of episcopal leadership almost entirely overlooked by scholars today. Ulfila was, accordingly, responsible for the Goths in their homeland, while a man known as Theophilus the Indian served the South Arabian Peninsula.18 Followers of Eunomius were, however, also represented in significant numbers among the eunuchs at court in Constantinople.19 Eunuchs were responsible for running immensely important and sensitive areas of the imperial administration. Many were also of foreign or barbarian origin, and it is possible, though impossible to prove, that they might have been drawn to Eunomius’s form of Christianity in part because if his wide-spread regional networks.

 This is also in Soz. HE 6.37.2–6; Soc. HE 4.33.1–7.  McLynn, “Little Wolf,” 125–135. 16 R. P. Vaggione, Eunomius of Cyzicus and the Nicene Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 338–339; N. Lenski, Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the fourth Century AD (Berkeley: UC Press, 2002), 248–249. 17 Phil. HE 2.3; 4.3–7; Philostorge; Histoire ecclésiastique (Sources chrétiennes 564; J. Bidez; É. Des Places; B. Bleckmann; D. Meyer, eds.; Paris: Ed. du Cerf, 2013). 18  I. Shahîd, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1985), 86–106; S. Elm, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome (Berkeley: UC Press, 2012), 235–245. 19  S. Elm, “What the Bishop Wore to the Synod: John Chrysostom, Origenism, and the Politics of Fashion at Constantinople,” Adamantius 19 (2013): 156–169. 14 15

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Be this as it may, Theodosius’s eunuchs were not the only non-Nicenes he had to deal with. We know, of course, from numerous sources that significant portions of Theodosius’ army and its military leaders were and remained Arian (homoian); a famous incident involving the burning of a church in Constantinople frequented by Arian Goths in 400 is a salutary reminder of the important Arian, Gothic military presence in the Eastern capital and beyond.20 In fact, even the subsequent entrenchment of the Nicene positions did not alter that; as Geoffrey Greatrex points out, the Arians had “priests, bishops, churches and wealth” in Constantinople until 538.21 In other words, the dominant religion of the Roman empire was Christianity, and the joining of deditio and baptism attests to the often discussed and emphasized transformation of Romanness into the equivalent of orthodoxy. However, those who crossed that border found a landscape full of nuance and regional and local diversity. Even imperial pronouncements that seem to usher in clear contours of what that Christianity was supposed to mean turn out to be, on closer inspection, rather announcements of intent open to negotiation. No emperor, not even Theodosius I, could ignore the realities of his military men’s preferences, nor those of his closest administrative staff, and no emperor did. Instead, there was a great deal of negotiation and compromise, leading to the persistence of many different forms of Christianity, at the very least in the East. The West, on which Stefan Esders has focused, might have been different. But here too the border between scholars of theology focusing on Arians, and scholars of political and military history focusing on Arians, might suggest the existence of borders far less porous than they actually were.22

20

 Elm, “What the Bishop Wore,” 156–169. “Roman Identity in the Sixth Century,” in Ethnicity and Culture in Late Antiquity (G. Greatrex and S. Mitchell, eds.; London: Routlege, 2000), 267–292. 22  Y. Hen, Roman Barbarians: The Royal Court and Culture in the Early Medieval West (London: Duckworth, 2007). 21 G. Greatrex,

II. Borders and Boundaries of Temples: Terms, Performances, and Ideologies

Space, Borders and Boundaries in the Letter of Aristeas Barbara Schmitz Representation of space in literary writings is not just decorative, but plays an important narrative function. Therefore, space is not only the place where something happens, but also includes the whole spatial construction of a literary writing. Narrative analysis has often focused on representations of time in literary texts and has paid less attention to the representations of space. But over the past decades, a lot of work in narratological, cultural, gender and postcolonial studies, etc. has been done to bring questions of space and the representation of space to the fore.1 The analysis of space constructions in literary writings leads to recognizing the question of boundaries as a crucial point in the spatial construction of a text. Representations of space in literature analyze the geographical and topographical settings and clarify where the plot happens, where objects and aspects of reality are located, and how the setting of a scene is narratively construed. Quite often, these settings have opposing elements: inside the house or outside the house, on the top of the mountain or in the valley, etc. These settings do not have a decorative function, but have a specific meaning within the narra1  M. G. Henderson ed., Borders, Boundaries, and Frames. Essay in Cultural Criticism and Cultural Studies (London / ​New York: Routledge, 1995). R. Jenkins, Social Identity (London: Routledge, 1996). K. Wenz, Raum, Raumsprache und Sprachräume. Zur Textsemiotik der Raumbeschreibung (Tübingen: Narr, 1997). L. McDowell and J. P. Sharp, Space, Gender, Knowledge. Feminist Readings (London: Arnold, 1997). E. W. B. Hess-Lüttich et.al. eds., Signs and Space / ​Raum und Zeichen (Tübingen: Narr, 1998). M. Reif-Hülser ed., Borderlands. Nego­ tiating Boundaries in Post-Colonial Writing (Amsterdam / ​Atlanta: Rodopi, 1999). C. Benthien and I. M. Krüger-Fürhoff eds., Über Grenzen. Limitation und Transgression in Literatur und Ästhetik (Stuttgart / ​Weimar: Metzler, 1999). R. Görner and S. Kirkbright eds., Nachdenken über Grenzen (Munich: Iudicium, 1999). B. Haupt, “Zur Analyse des Raumes,” in: Einführung in die Erzähltextanalyse. Kategorien, Modelle, Probleme (P. Wenzel ed.; Trier: WVT, Wiss. Verl., 2004), 69–87. B. Janowski, “Unterscheiden – Überschreiten – Entgrenzen. Zum Umgang mit Grenzen im Alten Testament,” in: Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie 33 (H. Schweitzer ed.; Gütersloh: Kaiser, 2009), 32–54. K. James-Chakraborty and S. Strümper-Krobb eds., Crossing Borders. Space beyond Disciplines (Oxford: Lang, 2011). M. Huber, C. Lubkoll, St. Martus and Y. Wübben eds., Literarische Räume. Architekturen – Ordnungen – Medien (Berlin: Akademie-Verl., 2012). A. Nünning, “Raum / ​Raumdarstellung, literarische(r),” in: Metzler Lexikon Literatur‑ und Kulturtheorie. Ansätze – Personen – Grund­ begriffe (A. Nünning ed.; Stuttgart / ​Weimar: Metzler, 2013), 634–638.

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tive: “Spatial opposites are construed as models for narrative opposites”2 and therefore fulfill a crucial function in the interpretation of a text through their metaphorical, psychological, and other meanings. When they differentiate one location from another, boundaries play a very important role in the construction of space in literary writings. They constitute different areas and result in an ‘inside’ and an ‘outside’. For example, let us assume that there is one character in a text who is able to cross a boundary, but another is not able or allowed to do so. Separation and exclusion are not the only functions of boundaries in texts; they can also put people together in order to constitute a group. Boundaries very often have social functions in setting limits for constructing an identity and constituting a group.3 Therefore, boundaries do have an important impact on the constitution of a society – in reality as well as in fiction. Thus, special attention must be paid to boundaries in literature, as well as to how they are constructed, how they include or exclude, how they stabilize identities, and who is able or allowed to cross the border and who is not. In his study “The Structure of the Artistic Text,”4 the Estonian scholar Jurij M. Lotman (1922–1993) places the question of space and boundaries in the center of his text analyses: “The simplest and most fundamental case is when the space of a text is divided by some boundary into two parts and each character belongs to one of them. But more complex situations are possible too in which different characters not only belong to different spatial areas, but are associated with different, occasionally incompatible, types of spatial division. […] There arises a sort of spatial polyphony, the play of different sorts of spatial division for each.”5 According to Lotman’s concept, the ‘hero-agent’ of a story is the one (human or non-human character) who is able to cross the border in question and who also belongs to the other subspace: “[T]he border between these subsets, which under normal circumstances is impenetrable, though in a given instance […] it proves to be penetrable for the hero-agent.”6 Therefore, boundaries quite often have a paradoxical function: In arranging structures, they seem to ‘tidy up’ the world. By doing so, boundaries frequently present a clear and often very simple view of the real or fictional world. They place subjects in this or that space, allow or forbid, enable or reject. But a closer look quite often shows that these boundaries are much more fluid than they appear to be at first: “selectivity, fluidity, dynamism, permeability are all intrinsic to the construction of boundaries; yet so too are layers of rhetoric and power. 2  M. Pfister, The Theory and Analysis of Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Pr., 1988), 257. 3  F. Barth ed., Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Organization of Cultural Difference (Oslo / ​London: Universitetsforlaget, 1969). 4 J. M. Lotman, The Structure of the Artistic Text (Michigan: Univ. of Michigan, 1977) [Struk­ tura khudozhestvennogo teksta, 1971]. 5  Lotman, The Structure of the Artistic Text, 231. 6 Lotman, The Structure of the Artistic Text, 240.

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Stability and continuity are claimed by appeal to the past, but this is a conceit made necessary by the novelties of the present. Where rhetoric constructs the boundary as immutable and impenetrable, we may suspect actual invasion and penetration.”7

1. Spatial representation and boundaries in the Book of Aristeas The Book of Aristeas8 is characterized by a wide variety of boundaries. The first to be discussed is a basic, but rarely heeded boundary crossing: Who is “Aristeas” in the Book of Aristeas? To what extent can the character “Aristeas” be understood as a boundary crossing? Then the geography in the Book of Aristeas will be examined, which is characterized by two centers in the narrated time: Alexandria and Jerusalem. The geographical boundary between these two cities is transgressed by various characters; the question will be whether these characters thereby become relevant actors (“hero-agents”) or who takes on this role in the Book of Aristeas (topological boundary). Another demarcation in the text relates to the question of the Jewish conception of life, about which the Egyptian delegation asks and to which the high priest responds by explaining that Moses, as a lawgiver, surrounded the people with “impregnable ramparts and walls of iron” (ἀδιακόποις χάραξι καὶ σιδηροῖς τείχεσιν Arist 139). This practical boundary is to be discussed in consideration of a fourth demarcation in the Book of Aristeas, the theological boundary: does the Book of Aristeas really extend the declaration of belief in the one and only God, central to the identity of Israel, to include an equation with the gods of the peoples, as is often assumed?

2. Who narrates the Book of Aristeas? A first boundary crossing In the Book of Aristeas, a Greek writer “Aristeas” ( Ἀριστέας) presents himself as a text-internal author. Thus Aristeas is the first-person narrator who relates from his perspective in retrospect the events regarding how the desire to acquire the writings of the Jews for the library of Alexandria was realized. This Aristeas introduces himself as a Greek and non-Jew (Arist 16; 121–171), who was reportedly working as a high court official at the court of King Ptolemy II (Arist 1–8). As first-person narrator, he reports (διήγησις “report”; Arist 1; 18; 322) to Philocrates on the past events (Arist 1). 7 J. M. Lieu, “‘Impregnable Ramparts and Walls of Iron’: Boundary and Identity in Early ‘Judaism’ und ‘Christianity,” NTS 48 (2002): 297–313, 309. 8  The translation follows M. Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates (Letter of Aristeas) (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1951).

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At the same time Aristeas is also part of the world that he narrates and in which he appears: Aristeas describes, for example, how he traveled to Jerusalem and spoke to the high priest there. Aristeas therefore has a dual role: he is both the narrator and a character. As a narrator, he describes the events from his perspective in retrospect in the form of an ongoing story, in which he, as an acting character, plays a crucial role, and appears therefore as a contemporary narrator and in the past events as an actor. Following Gérard Genette, one can therefore describe Aristeas as an intradiegetic-homodiegetic narrator.9 In his dual role, this Aristeas is a fictional character (“fictional identity of B.Ar.’s narrator”10). Aristeas as the intradiegetic-homodiegetic narrator must be clearly distinguished from the pseudonymous writer / ​author of the Book of Aristeas that could possibly have been a Jew (and could be described as “Pseudo-Aristeas”). “The fictional identity of B.Ar.’s narrator introduces an important shift as compared to the real author. The real author was most probably a learned Alexandrian Jew, but the fictional identity he takes on is that of a Greek courtier of Ptolemy II.”11 Thus there is a first boundary crossing at the level of the book’s conception. The unknown, probably Jewish writer allows “Aristeas” to appear as a Greek, non-Jew and court official and makes him the spokesman of his text. In the text, the (probably) Jewish author of the Book of Aristeas offers a Greek perspective with the narrative voice and character; he allows the Jewish perspective to be told through other characters, such as the high priest or the 72 scholars. In so doing, the author of the Book of Aristeas plays with the “boundary” between different groups (“Jews” – “Gentiles, Greeks”) and transgresses this boundary in the genre of literature to narrate his (Jewish) writing from the perspective of a (non-Jewish) Ptolemaic court official.

3. Geographical spaces and boundaries in the Book of Aristeas The Book of Aristeas tells of two encounters, in each of which boundary crossings are necessary. The delegation of the Ptolemaic king, to which Aristeas also belongs, travels to Jerusalem in order to meet the high priest there and talk with him (Arist 121–171). From there, the delegation with the 72 scholars chosen by the high priest travels back to Alexandria (Arist 172), where they meet the Ptolemaic king (Arist 184–300). Both encounters require the crossing of geo 9  See G. Genette, Figures of Literary Discourse (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); B.G. Wright, The letter of Aristeas. “Aristeas to Philocrates” or “On the Translation of the Law of the Jews” (Berlin/Boston: de Gruyter, 2015), 20. 10  S. Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria. A Study in the Nar­ rative of the Letter of Aristeas (London: Routledge, 2003), 69. 11 Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria, 69.

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graphical boundaries. It is interesting that neither the journey from Alexandria to Jerusalem nor the return journey from Jerusalem to Alexandria are described; these are dealt with only briefly (Arist 83; 172; see also 319: brief note of the return journey of the 72 scholars). In the account, the destinations appear to be more important than the distances. The speaker Aristeas describes Jerusalem lying on a high mountain and situates the city in his text-map (contrary to the real geography) in the middle of Judea (Arist 83), which one can interpret as a signal of harmony.12 Contrary to expectation, this is not followed by a description of Jerusalem, which would maintain the perpective of the approaching delegation, but rather a description of the Temple (Arist 84–99), which lies in the center of the city. In the spatial representation, the narrative thus jumps from seeing the high mountain (Arist 83) to a description of the Temple which lies on the top of this mountain (Arist 84). The representation of space is therefore taken up anew in the center of town and describes the Temple as a building with its size, its rooms and its furnishings (Arist 84–91), as well as those priests working inside it (Arist 92–95) and the high priest (Arist 96–99). Then, interestingly, in decreasing length, the castle (ἄκρα) in Jerusalem (Arist 100–104) and the city itself (Arist 105–106) are described. For the Temple, castle, and town the size and proportions are mentioned. It is also noticeable that each of the three topographical areas is surrounded by circular walls (Temple: Arist 84; castle: Arist 100–101; city: Arist 105); This is significant in that the word “circular wall” (περίβολος) is used in Book of Aristeas only for these three places. The description of the city of Jerusalem is followed by the description of the land and its boundaries (Arist 107) with its economic sectors (agriculture, trade and port), rivers, and mountains (Arist 107–119). Aristeas even compares Jerusalem here with Alexandria (Arist 109), which in the spatial description suggests an equivalence of Jerusalem and Alexandria that is a very interesting and even bold interpretation with respect to the real cities and distribution of power. Aristeas names adjacent areas as well and stresses that, as with the Temple, castle and city, Judea is surrounded by boundaries, by natural ramparts, making an invasion of the country difficult (Arist 118). In the geographical description of the country by Aristeas, which – according to the text-internal presentation – tours the country and the city with foreign eyes, two things stand out. The description does not follow the travel route, but instead starts at the Temple, then goes to the castle and the city of Jerusalem, and ends with the country. This account places the Temple at the beginning and goes out in the description of the topography from this center to the periphery. If – as Lotman emphasizes – space representations testify to the value system and culture model in which they are anchored, then this organizational principle shows a world view that describes not only Jerusalem, but places the temple in 12  J.-M. Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford et.al.: Oxford University Press, 2004), 218–223.

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the center of the representation (Temple → castle → city → country) and, originating from it, the world. It is equally revealing that all four subspaces described are closed spaces that were created (circular walls) or are naturally present. The spatial description of the events that take place in Alexandria is different. From the point of view of the text construction, the first-person narrator Aristeas is ‘at home’ here and identifies the rooms of the event without describing them intensively. The action here is mainly focused on two spaces: The first is the court or the palace of the king, from which the delegation is sent and received (Arist 9–20; 173–183) and at which the seven-day symposium takes place (Arist 184–294). A second location is the island of Pharos, on which, as a protected space, the 72 scholars from Jerusalem are to withdraw to complete the translation in peace and quiet (Arist 301–307). The island as well as the house which is built on it are two enclosed spaces. This geographical description of the space divides the narrated world into two subspaces: Jerusalem and Alexandria. While Alexandria is scarcely described, but rather assumed to be known, the city of Jerusalem is described as lying in the center of Judea and is divided into Temple, castle, city.

4. Boundary crossings in the Book of Aristeas by characters: The scrolls of the law The boundary between Alexandria and Jerusalem is crossed two times each by the Egyptian delegation from the Ptolemaic king of Alexandria and by the 72 scholars from Jerusalem. It is striking that the boundary is indeed described as surmountable for two large groups, but these groups do not thereby become “heroes” (“hero-agents”): Although mobile, they only fulfill certain orders and then each return after the accomplishment of their mission back to the space from which they came; the return of the Jewish scholars to Jerusalem is even explicitly mentioned (Arist 319). Thus the boundary crossing of the individuals to the opposing field is not permanent but only temporary, and is also authorized by the powers in the respective subspaces. A permanent boundary crossing takes place quite surprisingly in the Book of Aristeas through a very different ‘character’: the scrolls of the law. At first glance this is an unusual boundary-crossing ‘character’ – but only at first glance. The occasion and purpose of the efforts described in the Book of Aristeas are to have a copy of the Jewish laws (τῶν  Ἰουδαίων νόμιμα μεταγραφῆς) in the library of Alexandria (Arist 10). But because it was written in a different script and language, it must first be translated (Arist 11). Thus right at the beginning of the Book of Aristeas, the commitment to a double border crossing is apparent: Jewish law as text crosses over the space of Jerusalem and the Temple to be permanently preserved in the library of Alexandria. The text thus permanently topologically

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crosses a boundary – or in other words, the boundary turns out to be permeable for the Torah. With the translation of the text, it crosses a second boundary, but this boundary crossing is ambivalent and is therefore described in differentiated manner: the text is to be translated. But any translation changes and opens different possibilities, which the Book of Aristeas itself concedes, because the translations of the scholars need to be coordinated (Arist 302). This goal of conformity (συμφωνία) is emphasized once more at the end when the Jewish community of Alexandria accepts the new text as “well and piously made and in every respect accurate” (καλῶς καὶ ὁσίως διηρμήνευται καὶ κατὰ πᾶν ἠκριβωμένως; Arist 310). Jewish law therefore crosses a boundary by permanently remaining in another space, while the second boundary as a translation, interestingly enough, is played down as far as possible. As a result, while the original text remains in Hebrew and has its place in Jerusalem, the new Greek text will have its place in Alexandria. From the spatial construction here, it is instructive that the transfer of the scrolls from Jerusalem is not described, but that the emphasis here is on the selection of scholars (see Arist 46–47; 121–127). Conversely, in Alexandria the arrival of the scrolls is first honored and only then are the scholars received. Breaking with custom – delegations which have just arrived normally have to wait 30 days before the king receives them – the king interrupts his official duties and calls for the scholars (Arist 174–175). Contrary to the usual etiquette, the king is waiting impatiently for the new arrivals, walking back and forth (Arist 175), and does not at first welcome the guests, but first asks about the books: “They entered, then, with the gifts which had been sent and the precious parchments in which the Law was inscribed in Jewish letters with writing of gold, the material being wonderfully worked and the joinings of the leaves being made imperceptible; and when the king saw the men he began to put questions concerning the books. When they had uncovered the rolls and had unrolled the parchment the king paused for a considerable space, and after bowing deeply some seven times said, ‘I thank you, good sirs, and him that sent you even more, but most of all I thank God whose holy words these are’.” (Arist 176–177). Only after the king has had the scrolls removed, he greets the men (Arist 179). The not explicitly described ‘departure’ of the scrolls from Jerusalem and the much more broadly orchestrated arrival of the scrolls in Alexandria as such make the specific Alexandrian perspective clear with respect to the arrival of the scrolls in Alexandria as the crucial boundary crossing: the Torah, with its translation into Greek, permanently crosses a boundary and thus fundamentally changes. Now it no longer belongs only to the subspace of Jerusalem, but permanently and in a modified form also to the Alexandrian living environment. In the terminology of Lotman, that would be the “revolutionary element”13 in relation to the previously constructed world view in the text. 13 Lotman,

The Structure of the Artistic Text, 238.

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5. Boundaries and boundary markers Probably the strongest talk of a boundary in the Book of Aristeas is attributed to the high priest in his answer to the question by Aristeas and the Ptolemaic delegation regarding the Jewish purity laws with the “impregnable ramparts and walls of iron.” The Ptolemaic delegation had, in fact, inquired about the provisions in the legislation on food and drinks as well as unclean animals (Arist 128) and asked, “why it was that, creation being one, some things are regarded as unclean for food and some even to touch” (Arist 129). First, the high priest explains the theological foundation that there is only one God (Arist 132, more in the next section) and then goes on to speak of the laws in detail. Against the background of worship of gods and images classified as foolish, the high priest highlights the achievements of Moses, who is always referred to in the Book of Aristeas as lawgiver (νομοθέτης), to whom thanks are due that he has given the people the food and purity laws which protect the people with “impregnable ramparts and walls of iron” (ἀδιακόποις χάραξι καὶ σιδηροῖς τείχεσιν Arist 139): “When therefore our lawgiver, equipped by God for insight into all things, had surveyed each particular, he fenced us about with impregnable ramparts and walls of iron, to the end that we should mingle in no way with any of other nations, remaining pure (ἀκάθαρτος)14 in body and in spirit, emancipated from vain opinions, revering the one and mighty God above the whole creation” (Arist 139). The food and purity laws thus have no function as such, they do not serve to ensure health, etc., but rather are only there to establish a boundary with which the membership in the nation is defined and a stable identity is established. In his explanatory statement the high priest argues that the observance of the laws, especially in terms of the unclean animals and the food laws, enables a way of life in righteousness (Arist 147–149). The Jewish perspective described in the Book of Aristeas therefore lays great emphasis on the boundary effected by the laws given by Moses. It is interesting, however, that the observance of the food laws at the seven-day symposium of the Ptolemaic king (Arist 182) does not take place because anyone wants to observe the Jewish laws, but because taking on the customs and traditions of others for reasons of hospitality and courtesy was common for the Ptolemaic court. One can certainly conclude from this that the self-described boundary in the Book of Aristeas was “subverted.”15 It is also remarkable that in the Book of Aristeas only the food and purity laws are named as typical boundary markers; other typical boundary markers, however, are not mentioned here.16 Consistently missing are aspects such as  ἀκάθαρτ– in Arist 128.129.147.166.169.  Lieu, Christian Identity , 110. 16 Lieu, “Impregnable Ramparts and Walls of Iron,” 297–313. 14 15

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circumcision, calendar questions or the Sabbath. The 72 scholars spend a sevenday symposium with the King and work 72 days on their translation without mention of keeping the Sabbath. According to the Book of Aristeas, however, the boundary-setting food and purity laws have another function. Then the high priest explains further that they serve to define the boundaries of belonging: “Whence the priests who are the guides of the Egyptians, have looked closely into many things and are conversant with affairs, have named us “men of God” (ἀνθρώπους θεοῦ), a title applicable to no others but only to him who reveres the true God (εἰ μή τις σέβεται τὸν κατὰ ἀλήθειαν θεόν)” (Arist 140). Those who belong to the “men of God” are therefore those “who revere the true God” (Arist 140). With this a new boundary is created: the “men of God” are those that are committed to the one and only God. Thus a clear boundary has been created, one which is not ethnically identical to Israel (at least the Book of Aristeas does not emphasize this), but one that defines the boundary of belonging, where the one and only God is known and experienced. This is a different definition of belonging, which is basically universally oriented.

5. Theological boundaries: No crossing! Boundaries in the Book of Aristeas turn out to be permeable; they are able to be temporarily crossed by the envoys from Alexandria and the 72 scholars, even permanently for the divine nomos. What about the concepts of God in this context? Does the Book of Aristeas expand the exclusively monotheistic concept of God in the sense of equating the God of Israel with Zeus, as one often reads? It is notable that throughout the book, the word as well as the subject (ὁ) θεός “God” is only relatively rarely found: in the discussion between King Ptolemy and Aristeas (Arist 15–21), in the discussion between the high priest Eleazer and Aristeas (Arist 121– 171; esp. 128; 130–141; 155–166; 168) and in the questionand-answer exchange during the symposium at the Ptolemaic court between the king and the Jewish scholars (Arist 184–294). So far, the question of conceptions of God has been paid only little attention and has always been reduced to the well-known and much-received statement of the analogy between the God of Israel and Zeus in Arist 16.17 In an audience with the Ptolemaic king, Aristeas explains that “for the same God who has given them their law guides your kingdom also” (Arist 15) and continues: “God, the overseer and creator of all things, whom they worship, is He whom all men wor17  B. Schmitz, “… using different names, as Zeus and Dis’ (Arist 16). Concepts of ‘God’ in the Letter of Aristeas,” in: Die Septuaginta – Orte und Intentionen (WUNT; S. Kreuzer, M. Meiser, M. Sigismund eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck (forthcoming)).

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ship, and we too, Your Majesty, address him differently, as Zeus and Dis” (τὸν γὰρ πάντων ἐπόπτην καὶ κτίστην θεὸν οὗτοι σέβονται, ὃν καὶ πάντες, ἡμεῖς δέ, βασιλεῦ, προσονομάζοντες ἑτέρως Ζῆνα καὶ Δία·Arist 16).

Due to the speech situation (see 1. above), the analogy between their own and the Jewish God is not made from a Jewish perspective, but by the narrative voice, the Greek non-Jew Aristeas. The (possibly Jewish) author of Book of Aristeas puts this statement into the mouth of the non-Jew Aristeas. The equation of the various deities thus occurs from Greek-pagan (external) perspective: Aristeas argues that this position in the Jewish system is occupied by “God” and in the Greek system by “Zeus”, and is only different with respect to the name given (προσονομάζοντες ἑτέρως). This interpretation of another name-giving is supported by the two different ways of forming the accusative of Zeus: Ζῆνα καὶ Δία “Zena and Dia”.18 In a subtle play on words, Aristeas illustrates the interdependence of the two names which at first glance are different: “by these names men of old not unsuitably signified that He through whom all creatures receive life and come into being is the guide and lord of all” (Arist 16). Thus a position is represented by Aristeas that is already found in the pre-Socratics (Xenophanes, similar in Heraclitus) and especially in the Stoics. Zeno of Citium (335–262 BC), who is considered the founder of the Stoics, writes: “God is one and the same with Reason, Fate, and Zeus (Δία); he is also called by many other names (προσονομάζεσθαι).” (Diog. Laert. VII 135).19 The equation and the resulting idea of the the multiple naming of Zeus is adopted by Zeno’s students (Cleanthes, Chrysippus, etc.); Cleanthes of Assos (died 230–229 BC) expressed this in his hymn to Zeus (around 280 BC): “Noblest of immortals, many-named (πολυώνυμε), always all-powerful 2Zeus, first cause and ruler of nature, governing everything worth your law, 3greetings!”20 With the statements of Aristeas, the pagan but not the Jewish position is highlighted in the Book of Aristeas; the Jewish position is represented rather by the high priest Eleazer and by the 72 scholars. The high priest takes questions from the delegation from Alexandria (Arist 128–141) about the Jewish way of life as an opportunity to explain the theological foundations of the Jewish laws and way of life: “But first of all he taught that God is one (ὅτι μόνος ὁ θεός ἐστι) and that His power is made manifest in all things (καὶ διὰ πάντων ἡ δύναμις αὐτοῦ φανερὰ γίνεται), and that every place is filled with His sovereignty, and that nothing done by men on earth secretly escapes His notice, but that all anyone does and all that is to be manifest to Him” (Arist 132). Thus Eleazer represents a clear, monotheistic confession which he repeats a little later when he speaks of the “one and mighty  N. Meisner, Aristeasbrief (JSHRZ II.1, Güterloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1973), 47–48. Diogenes Laertius. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. With an English translation by R. D. Hicks, II (Cambridge / ​Massachusetts: 1979), 241. 20  The translation follows J. C. Thom, Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus. Text, Translation, and Com­ mentary (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 33; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 40. 18

19 Cf.

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God” (τὸν μόνον θεὸν καὶ δυνατὸν σεβόμενοι) (Arist 139). The high priest expresses his position of exclusive monotheism with the μόνος formula in classical terminology, as its contents are known, for example, from the writings of DeuteroIsaiah (Isa 43:11; 44:6; 45:1–6, 21–22; 46:9, etc.).21 This exclusive-monotheistic position is subsequently unfolded twice in a traditional biblical manner (Arist 134–138): in the criticism of polytheism and of the worship of idols or images of god. This idol and cult-image polemic presents the traditional standpoint (Isa 44:9–20; see also Jer 10:3–16; Ps 115:4–8/135:15–18; Bar 6; Dan 14; Wis 13–14, etc.). Thus this statement of the high priest is firmly rooted in the Jewish tradition, which maintains an exclusive-monotheistic concept of God. This makes it clear that the theological boundary in the Book of Aristeas is clearly drawn and is not crossed. Rather, the respective character specifies the perspective of the statement: Aristeas represents a philosophical, possibly Stoic-inspired concept of God, in which behind the different manifestations one supreme God is assumed who is capable of carrying the name of Zeus. The high priest, however, represents the Jewish exclusive-monotheistic concept of God. In the Book of Aristeas, this boundary is rather implicitly drawn. There is no direct interaction between the two positions, and this would not even be possible because of the power gap in the narrated situation. The Book of Aristeas, however, still positions itself clearly at this point: the Greek-philosophical idea of ‘God’ developed in the dialogue between Aristeas and the king is contradicted by the statement of the high priest that the Jews, in contrast to the many gods of the peoples (Arist 134–138), worship the one and only God (Arist 132; 139–140 passim). In this way, the identification thesis of Aristeas (Arist 16) and thus a theology of inclusion or identification is contradicted. It is not to be ruled out, however, that the Stoic-inspired concept of God discarded in the Book of Aristeas may have been attractive in the Jewish environment of Alexandria; perhaps this is why the Book of Aristeas therefore positions itself so clearly at this point.

6. Conclusion The Book of Aristeas includes a many-faceted boundary concept. The first sentence “Aristeas to Philocrates” already plays with boundaries and their crossing. Geographic spaces are described that are to be differentiated from each other (Jerusalem  – Alexandria) and are separated by a boundary. This boundary is crossed twice each by the delegation from Alexandria to Jerusalem and the journey of the 72 scholars from Jerusalem to Alexandria. Both boundary crossings are arranged and authorized by the respective rulers; the return to the respective 21  Μόνος in Deut 32:12; 1 Sam 7:4.3; 2 Kgs 19:15.19 // Isa 37:16.20; Ps LXX 50:6; Isa 44:24 and in 3 Esr 8:25; Est C 14 [= EstLXX 4:17l]; 2 Macc 7:37 etc.

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subspace is a part of this. The situation is different with the Torah: it goes as text from Jerusalem to Alexandria and remains there permanently, translated and thus fundamentally changed, even when the Book of Aristeas repeatedly makes an effort to maintain the high accuracy of the translation. While the geographical boundaries are presented as permeable and the topological boundary crossing of the Torah even as permanent, the Book of Aristeas, however, makes one boundary on a theological level very clear. The interpretation of God as the One who is addressed by different names (Arist 15–17) is shown in Book of Aristeas, due to the speech situation, to be the perspective of Aristeas, the narrator who describes the action and who as a non-Jew represents a philosophical, Stoic-inspired concept. This is contrasted with the position of the high priest of Jerusalem (Arist 132–133 passim), who in the tradition of Deutero-Isaiah and others recognizes the God of Israel as the One and Only. In other words, in the Book of Aristeas boundaries are shown to be crossable. The Book of Aristeas even goes so far as to say that the Torah itself can become a prototype of boundary crossing; but not up for discussion is the commitment to God as the One and Only. This boundary is not permeable.

Amorphous Epiphanies and Divine Bilingualism Crossing Physical and Cultural Borders on the Battlefield1 Georgia Petridou 1. Introduction The study of borders and boundaries (physical and conceptual alike) has been in the foreground of social sciences for decades.2 The salience of the border emerged primarily from confronting outdated anthropological ideas about bounded cultures and recent focus on the flow across nations and cultures.3 Studying the border has proved an especially fruitful tool for those social scientists who approach culture as a process of negotiation. This study follows in the steps of cultural anthropologists such as Renato Rosaldo and Katherine Pratt Ewing who extended the semantic field of ‘border’ beyond the obvious meaning of a physical boundary and used the metaphor of border to denote a process of negotiation of all sorts (ethnicity, sex, religious belief, gender, age, race, etc.).4 It is in this sense that I am using the concepts of ‘border’ and ‘borderland’ in this paper to refer not just to physically mapped borders and borderlands but to conceptual ones too. 1 I am indebted to Annette Weissenrieder for her kind invitation to participate in this project. I would like to thank wholeheartedly the ‘Lived Ancient Religion’ ERC Project at the MaxWeber Kolleg, Universität Erfurt, and its director Jörg Rüpke for funding my research. The following epigraphic corpora appear abbreviated: FD III,1 = Fouilles de Delphes, III. Épigra­ phie (É. Bourguet ed.; Paris: de Boccard, 1929 – Fasc. 1, Inscriptions de l’entrée du sanctuaire au trésor des Athéniens (É. Bourguet ed.; Paris: De Boccard, 1929); Galates = Les Galates en Grece et les Soteria de Delphes (G. Nachtergael; Brussels: Palais de Academies, 1977). I.Délos = Inscriptions de Délos, (F. Durrbach et al. eds.; Paris: Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 1929–1950); I.Lindos = Lindos: fouilles et recherché. II: Fouilles de l’acropole (C. Blinkenberg ed.; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1941); I.Stratonikeia = Die Inschriften von Stratonikeia. Vol. I (C. Şahin ed.; Bonn: Habelt, 1981), Panamara, with II, 2. Neue Inschriften und Indices (Bonn: Habelt, 1990); LSAM = Lois sacrées de l’Asie Mineure (F. Sokolowski ed.; Paris: De Boccard, 1955); Robert, OMS = Opera Minora Selecta (L. Robert ed.; Amsterdam: AM Hakkert,1 969–990); Syll.³ = Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum (3rd ed.; W. Dittenberger et al. eds.; 4 vols. Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1915–1924). All translations, unless otherwise stated, are mine. 2  M. Lamont and V. Molnár, “The Study of Boundaries in the Social Sciences,” Annual Re­ view of Sociology 28 (2002): 167–195. 3  K. Pratt Ewing, “Crossing Borders and Transgressing Boundaries: Metaphors for Negotiating Multiple Identities,” Ethos 26 (1998): 262–267. 4 R. Rosaldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Boston: Beacon Press, 1998).

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In particular, my paper focuses on the physical and conceptual borderlines of Greek sanctuaries in Greece and Asia Minor, and narratives (epigraphic and literary alike) that account for their repeated attempted violations by avaricious attackers, who are ethnically differentiated from the defending populations by being described as barbaroi, i. e. ‘barbarians’, ‘foreigners’. A high concentration of this type of narrative appears in the situational context of siege of both temples and city walls. Siege is by definition a dramatic setting where borderlands come to the foreground and become ethnically and emotionally charged. In this type of context, borderlands become also religiously and politically charged, i. e. they become epicenters of intense religious and political contestation. More interestingly, siege blurs the conceptual boundaries between a temenos (by definition a divine property) and the walls of a city, which, when occupied and defended actively by tutelary divinities, become an extension of the god’s sanctuary, and, therefore, divine property.5 The divine consecrates with its presence the entire civic space and the city becomes an extended sacred space, on which sanctions about foreigners entering the sacred space apply. This blurring of boundaries between human and divine property and the semantic expansion of the notion of sacred ground may be the driving force behind the eagerness tutelary deities exhibit in joining forces with the human defenders of these spaces. In these narratives, which date to Hellenistic and Imperial times, the divine joins forces with the indigenous populations and fends off the potential transgressors of their secular and sacred borderlands effectively by means of divine epiphanies.6 These epiphanies are perceived by two different communities: the besiegers and the besieged, who, more often than not (civil strife being the exception here), are two different peoples with different languages and cultural traditions. It is, I argue here, for this very reason of diversity of target audience that the divine appears to adapt the morphological content of their divine epiphanies: culturally meaningful and easily decipherable epiphanies for the besieged (religious insiders) and amorphous epiphanies for the besiegers (religious outsiders). 5 More on this issue in section 3. Transgressing Boundaries and Divine Bilingualism at the temple of Athena of Lindos. The material properties of a τέμενος (from the Greek verb τέμνω, ‘to cut off’), i. e. a plot of land clearly demarcated as belonging to the deity, along with the fascinating question of whether setting physical boundaries for the sacred space was indeed a human rather than a divine desideratum were two issues expertly discussed by Gunnel Ekroth in a recent paper delivered at the Danish Institute of Athens (July 2015). The paper was entitled “A room of one’s own? Exploring the temenos concept as divine property” and will be published in the proceedings of the conference “The Stuff of the Gods,” which was jointly organised by the British School of Athens and the Swedish Institute of Athens. 6  See A. Chaniotis, “An Age of Miracles and Saviours: The Effects of Hellenistic Wars on Religion,” in: War in the Hellenistic World: A Social and Cultural History (A. Chaniotis ed.; Malden and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2005), 143–165, with more bibliography.

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By amorphous epiphanies I refer to the kind of divine epiphanies in which the human perceivers do not encounter the divine in any particular iconic form,7 i. e. in the shape of a man or animal, a member of the priestly personnel, or that of a cult-statue or even in the form of a phasma.8 On the contrary, the whole of nature, the earth and the sky become the canvas whereon the divine ‘paints’ his or her presence in culturally comprehensive and easily decipherable terms using a variety of natural elements and forces.9 Hence, amorphous epiphanies often amount to astounding natural phenomena and extreme meteorological conditions of a catastrophic nature, such as calamitous storms, avalanches, earth shattering earthquakes, floods, calamitous precipitations, prolonged drought, etc.10 These extreme natural phenomena and meteorological disasters – variably  7  The term ‘amorphous’ is also used to differentiate what in visual art we call ‘aniconic’, i. e. non-anthropomorphic, non-zoomorphic, non-phytomorphic etc. representation of the divine, namely the representation of the divine through less iconic shapes, such as through a column, a baetyl, a rock, etc. M. Gaifmann in her latest book on aniconic representations of the divine, Aniconism in Greek Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) argues convincingly enough that these more ‘abstract’ shapes allow for more freedom when imaging the shape of the gods.  8  Phasma is variously translated in English as ‘phantom’, ‘phantasm’, ‘ghost’, ‘apparition’, ‘specter’, etc. However, none of these words conveys exactly the meaning of the Greek word. Its semantic field may vary considerably from one author to another. When Greek authors describe a manifestation in a phasma form, they mean a spectral appearance that has a more ethereal bodily quality than the actual presence of a god or a hero in person. Notwithstanding the emphasis on the viewer’s impression, a phasma is not a figment of one’s imagination. Firstly, the phasma could be seen and heard by a number of perceivers. Secondly, the phasma differs from what we mean when we speak of a ghost or a phantasm because it appears to exhibit a greater degree of physicality: compare here the phasmata of Astrobacus and Heracles, which make love to human females and manage to produce descendants of flesh and blood (Hdt. 6.68; Paus. 6.11.2). Furthermore, a phasma often appears in narratives with a distinctively epiphanic flavour, such as Herodotus’ account of Aristeas’ series of epiphanies (Hdt. 4.13–14). Most importantly, in several narratives a phasma appears to be another morphological variant of divine manifestation, equal in value and dynamic to a statue epiphany or a corporeal divine manifestation. The reader may be reminded that the Samothracian version of the myth of Demeter’s rape by Eetion or Iasion as narrated by different authors presents an analogous case. According to Hellanicus (FGrHist 4 F23 = fr. 23 Fowler), Iasion was struck with lightning because he violated the statue of the goddess. Conon (Narr. Const. 21= Phot. Bibl. 186.134a), on the other hand, reports that Iasion violated Demeter’s phasma, while in the Ehoiae (Hes. fr. 117.8–12 M–W), our earliest evidence, Iasion mated with Demeter in person. Hence, the difference between a phasma’s physicality and that of a corporeal divine manifestation is only a matter of degree: the body of a phasma differs from that of a deity in bodily manifestation. It is less concrete and more difficult to define: it may be viewed by one or more spectators; it leaves behind material traces of its advent; it can be both dangerous and beneficial (in a military and sexual context). In other words, a phasma poses the same challenges as a corporeal divine manifestation. More on the correlation of divine morphology and epiphany in G. Petridou, Divine Epiphany in Greek Literature and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), ch. 1.  9 More on the topic of amorphous epiphanies and epiphanies in a siege context in Petridou, Divine Epiphany, ch. 2. 10  However, this is not to say that the concept of epiphanies as manifestations of power is unattested in sources from archaic and classical periods.

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referred to in our sources as ἐπιφάνεια, δύναμις, ἀρετή, ἐνάργεια, or ἐνέργεια τοῦ θεοῦ – are conceptualized as ‘acts of god’ and, effectively, as manifestations of divine power.11 The three main parts of the paper will discuss respectively: a) the amorphous epiphany of Zeus Panamarios at Stratonikeia during the siege of his sanctuary by the Parthians in 39 BC (I.Stratonikeia 10), b) that of Athena Lindia during the siege of the acropolis of Lindos in 490 BC by the Persians in the so-called Lindian Chronicle (Lindos II 2), and finally c) the salvific epiphany of Apollo during the siege of Delphi by the Gauls in 279 BC in the so-called Delphic Sote­ ria (Syll.3 398, 1–39). The common denominator in all three inscriptions is that by manifesting their presence through extreme forces of nature and severe weather conditions, the local poliadic gods decide to speak a koine, i. e. a common language, a common sign system that could be deciphered by both those defending a territory and those attacking. More importantly, in the last two epigraphic sources, the epiphanic deity appears to be “speaking two different languages,” the local dialect of the anthropomorphic or pars pro toto manifestation with the besieged and the intercultural language of natural disasters to the besiegers.12

2. Thwarted Border Crossings at the Sanctuary of Zeus Panamaros in Stratonikeia An illustrative example of an amorphous epiphany is provided by a long civic decree from the Carian Stratonikeia.13 The text, preserved in a fragmentary state, commemorates the divine epiphany of Zeus Panamaros (or Panēmerios or Panēmeros, as he was also known), the Carian sky-god par excellence.14 Ac11  L. Robert, Opera Minora Selecta I, 602. It is ironic that natural disasters of this kind even in our modern rationalistic society are referred to – and this is especially true in the case of home insurance contracts – as ‘acts of god’. An extreme, perhaps, application of the term occurred back in May of 2010, when Rick Perry, the then Governor of Texas, used the phrase ‘act of god’ in his speech in Washington to describe the Gulf of Mexico oil spill as an unpreventable ‘act of God’! 12 Pars pro toto epiphany: when the divine denotes its presence synecdochically through a symbol or a fraction of their divine substance or body. There was a wide scope for the selection of such a symbol, provided that it was consistent with a deity’s particular religious persona and functions: i. e. the deity’s sacred animal or plant, or even the deity’s sacred paraphernalia: his or her garments, weaponry, or footwear. More examples and further bibliographical references in Petridou, Divine Epiphany, ch. 1. 13 I.Stratonikeia 10. The main part of the inscription was found at Panamara. A small part of the text was found at Pisye. See also the first text in the Appendix. 14  N. Belayche, “‘Un dieu est né’ … à Stratonicée de Carie,” in: Manières de penser dans l’Antiquité méditerranéenne et orientale: Mélanges offerts à Francis Schmidt par ses élèves, ses collègues et ses amis, (M. Vârtejanu-Joubert and Ch. Batsch eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 193–214 argues that this Zeus is, in fact, new in conception. This particular inscription is regarded as the god’s “birth-certificate.” The motives behind the dedication and the display of I. S. 10 were

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cording to the colourful narrative preserved in the inscription, Zeus Panamaros fought alongside the Panamarians to protect the sacred borderland of his sanctuary in 39 BC, when the Parthians under Labienus besieged the city unsuccessfully.15 The inscription in question – only one of over four hundred inscriptions related to his cult – was found in the precinct of the god at the end of the nineteenth century, and might have been inscribed on the base of a statue or a group of statues commemorating the miraculous revelation of the god (ll. 32–35).16 Although this particular group of statues is not preserved, the iconographic identity of the Panamarian weather deity is well-known from his ubiquitous presence on civic coinage of the first and the second centuries CE, where he appears as a rider god in military attire.17 Yet, it is not in this anthropomorphic guise that Zeus Panamaros chooses to manifest himself. Instead, when his sanctuary was attacked by the Parthians’ cavalry and infantry, the tutelary deity of Panamara painted his presence on nature’s canvas and manifested his power by orchestrating a continuum of extreme climate phenomena. As clearly stated in l. 3 ([καὶ πρότερον πολλὰς καὶ μεγάλας ἐπιφανεῖς ἐνήργησεν ἐνεργεία]ς εἰς τὴν τῆς πόλ[ε]ως σωτηρίαν ἐκ παλ[αιῶν χρόνων –]), the Panamarians enjoyed a long-standing relationship with the god, who also happened to be an oracular god; in lines 18–20 of the inscription, we read that in face of the imminent danger the god had repeatedly reassured his protégés via oracles that he took Panamara under his protection, and that no woman or child should leave the place. Following these oracles, and obeying the god’s will, the people of Panamara stayed in the village and were kept secure and unharmed by the god (παρέστησε τὸν δῆμον ε]ὐθαρσῆ καὶ ἀκίνδυνον·). It seems that Zeus Panamaros had been energetically involved in local politics frequently in the past and managed to preserve the population against many previous foreign invasions (3–4): ἐπει[δὴ rather political than religious. On the complex religious identity of Stratonikeia, see also N. Belayche, “Individualization and Religious Rhetoric in Imperial Anatolia,” in: The Individual in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean, (J. Rüpke ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 243–267. See also R. van Bremen, “The Demes and Phylai of Stratonikeia in Karia”, Chiron 30 (2000): 389–401; and eadem, “Leon son of Chrysaor and the religious identity of Stratonikeia in Caria,” in: The Greco-Roman East (S. Colvin ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 207–244. 15  P. Roussel, “Le miracle de Zeus Panamaros”, BCH 55 (1931): 76–77. 16 For another possible case of statues commemorating the epiphanic revelations of gods see I.Stratonikeia 1101 = LSAM 69 with commentary. In lines 4–6 of the inscription we read: καθίδρυται δὲ ἀγάλματα ἐν τῷ σεβαστῷ βουλευτηρίῳ τῶν | προειρημένω[ν θεῶν, εναργ]εστάτας παρέχοντα τῆς θείας δυνά‑ | μεως ἀρετάς· The gods mentioned above are Zeus Panemerios and Hekate, who are προεστῶτες θεοί of Stratonikeia, as we read in l. 2 of the same inscription. 17  See for instance BMC 42, which is dated to the 1st–2nd century CE (fig. 1). On the different types of Carian coinage, see A. R. Meadows, “Stratonikeia in Caria: the Hellenistic city and its coinage,” Numismatic Chronicle 162 (2002): 79–134. On rider deities and their Neoplatonic connections, see S. I. Johnston, “Riders in the Sky: Cavalier Gods and Theurgic Salvation in the Second Century A. D.,” Classical Philology 87 (1992): 303–321.

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ὁ μέγιστος Ζεὺς Πανάμαρος] | [καὶ πρότερον πολλὰς καὶ μεγάλας ἐπιφανεῖς ἐνήργησεν ἐνεργεία]ς εἰς τὴν τῆς πόλ[ε]ως σωτηρίαν ἐκ παλ[αιῶν χρόνων –].

However, the battle against the Parthians and the god’s participation in it is singled out in line 4: “but in this particular case above all, the god fought against the enemies and revealed his godhead” ([– μ]άλιστα δὲ νῦν, ἠγωνισμένου καὶ πεφηνά[ντος τοῦ θεοῦ τοῖς πολεμίοις,]). With πεφηνάντος we remain in the semantic field of epiphany, while ἠγωνισμένου conveys the partisan nature of the god’s appearance. More importantly, the amorphous epiphany of the god literally ‘revealed’ the attackers, who otherwise would have gone unnoticed in the middle of the night, to the Panamarians. The details of this extraordinary alliance between Zeus Panamaros and his devotees bring us even closer to this world of heroic military collision and, to some extent, bridge the chronological gap between the actual time of the battle against the Parthians and that of the legendary Trojan War, as well as the Persian and Gallic wars. The same effect is achieved with the linguistic choices of the author of the narrative, who insists on recasting the two attacks (first in the middle of the night and secondly the next day) against the temple of Zeus and the one against the temple of Hera in terms of Iliadic battle scenes. As we are told in lines 7–8 the god revealed his presence through his powerful thunderbolt that set the attackers of his temple and much of their military equipment on fire (ὁ θεὸς μετὰ φω]τὸς φλόγα | πολλὴν [α]ὐτοῖς ἐνετίναξεν).18 The light of the god-sent thunderbolt brightened the night and enabled his devotees to see more clearly through the darkness – it seems that the Parthian army attacked the Panamarians in the night-time first, in an attempt to catch them off their guard. Nonetheless, the Parthians not only were not disheartened by this most unwelcoming first reception, but they launched a second attack the following morning (lines 9–10). This time they were afflicted by a series of other uncanny meteorological phenomena, such as a deep fog that was mysteriously shed around them (l. 10) and a severe storm with lightning and thunder that immediately ensued (ll. 12–13). Lines 12–13, however, make it clear that this extreme climate change was highly localised and targeted specifically the besiegers rather than the besieged: [– κύ]κλῳ δὲ περὶ τὸ μ[έρο]ς τοῦ χωρίου καθ’ ὃ προ[σβάλλειν ἐπεχείρησαν] / ​[ἐπιγίνεσθαι χειμῶνα μέγαν καὶ καταρραγῆναι βροντὰς συνεχεῖς κ]αὶ διαΐσσειν [ἀστρα]πάς. It seems as if the god decided to respond to the siege of his sanctuary and the violation of his sacred borderland by further encircling the besiegers and trapping them in circle of blustery weather. By contrast, the same extreme weather conditions proved beneficial for the besieged. Those fighting on the god’s side (l. 10, τοὺς μὲν μετὰ τοῦ θεοῦ μ[αχομένους) 18  Book 24 of the Odyssey (esp. 539) provides a close parallel to the god’s intervention in the battlefield through a thunderbolt: καὶ τότε δὴ Κρονίδης ἀφίει ψολόεντα κεραυνόν. This and other parallels with the Iliadic battlefield (on which see below) reveal a conscious effort on behalf of the author of the narrative to invest both this newly introduced Imperial deity and the military collision against the Parthians with Homeric glamour.

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were enabled to escape the enemies’ notice because of the eerie fog that covered the battlefield, and were greatly benefited by the mutual slaughter of the enemies, which came as a natural consequence of the confusion and the panic they experienced (ll. 14–15). Here the presence of the god seems to emulate the function of the walls of the sanctuary by setting up the boundaries. His allies remain protected, while his enemies are harmed. The combination of deep fog and tempestuous weather must have heavily impacted the cognitive faculties of the attackers, who were said to have lost their minds (l. 15, [μὴ γνωρίζοντες καὶ ἔξω τοῦ φρονεῖν γε]νόμενοι) and have become mad (ll. 17–18: καθάπερ ἐνμανεῖς ὄντες καὶ ὑπὸ  Ἐρινύων τινῶ[ν] / ​[ἐλαυνόμενοι). Some of the Parthians, we are told, began jumping out of this fog, as if out of a torrent, and injured themselves seriously, while others, as if driven mad by the Furies, threw themselves off the cliffs of the nearby mountains and were either hurt or killed during their withdrawal from the precinct (lines 15–16). Thus those who attempted to violate the sacred borderline of the sanctuary were represented as guilt-ridden tragic heroes of the type of Orestes or even Pentheus, who knowingly or unknowingly transgress sacred boundaries and violate sacred laws. From line 22 onwards, we are told that the Parthian military forces were suddenly reinforced and made a fresh attempt to lay siege this time to the precinct of Hera: ἐπιφανείσης δὲ τοῖς πολεμίοις τῆς βοηθείας, ἐπισυάγοντες | [δύναμιν ἔτι πλείονα ἐκ τοῦ στρατοπέδ]ου τοῦ ὄντος ἐν τοῖς Πισυητικοῖς καὶ παρακελευσάμενοι πάλιν ὥρμησαν ἐπὶ τὸ ἱερὸν.19 This new attack was met by an elaborate symphony of audio-visual effects: a) a loud noise was heard as if auxiliaries were coming from the city, though no one appeared (line 24); b) the dogs started barking as if they were attacking the enemies (lines 25–26); c) the lamps within the temple of the god were found burning during the siege (line 27). We remind ourselves here that the combination of barking of dogs and supernatural light has been among the concomitant semeia that often accompany epiphanic accounts, such as that of Hecate in the siege of Byzantium and that of Athena in the farmstead of Eumaeus.20 19 It is rather noteworthy that the extra help that they receive appears to them as an epiphany! The participle ἐπιφανείσης comes as a natural linguistic choice in a passage where the concept of “epiphany” is most conspicuous, and is mainly used to express this idea of the “sudden and unexpected”, but, of course, epiphaneia can also denote a sudden unexpected military attack. More on this in G. Zanker, “Enargeia in the Ancient Criticism of Poetry,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 124 (1981): 297–311. 20 Hecate in Byzantium: Hesych. of Miletus, FGrHist 390 F1 26. Cf. also Steph. Byz. s. v. Βόσπορος. L. Robert comments on both passages in Les stèles funeraires de Byzance gréco-ro­ maine, 1967, 155–159. From I.Stratonikeia 1101, we find out that Zeus Panemerios and Hekate were celebrated together for having saved the city from great dangers (ll.2–3), and both of them were called epiphanestatoi theoi (l. 6). In another decree from Lagina (I.Stratonikeia 512) Hekate goddess is said to have rendered the demos free and autonomous through her divine support. Athena in the Odyssey: Od. 16.155 ff.

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The notion of divine punishment returns in ll. 28–29, where we are told that barbarians, being punished by the god (ποινοστροβούμενοι) for their impiety, threw their weapons away and, unable to find their way back to the camp or take refuge somewhere in the city, fled in disorder. The participle poinostrobou­ menoi picks up the idea of the divine punishment already expressed earlier (l. 17), where we read that they were driven mad by the Furies and were drawn by them to the nearby mountains, where their bodies were strewn along the ravines. In other accounts of barbarians transgressing sacred borderlines and committing sacrilege against a temple, it usually is the god Pan who sends the divine madness that results in mutual slaughter amongst enemies. This is, for instance, the case with the siege of Apollo’s temple at Delphi by the Gauls, as shown in the third part of this study.21 All in all, the god’s contribution to the military expeditions of the besieged is pervasive and decisive. He thwarts the Parthians’ first attempt to catch the Panamarians unaware by illuminating the night and setting the battlefield alight with thunderbolt and lightning, while he impedes the Parthians’ second attempt to transgress the sacred borderline on the following day by literally limiting their visual capacity (by shedding the fog) and impeding their mental faculties (through sudden and inexplicably extreme weather conditions). Equally pivotal is Zeus Panamaros’ intervention when the Heraion gets attacked: the eerie audio-visual semeia along with the bewildering hurling of the attackers from their scaling ladders (l. [– καὶ πάντε]ς οἱ προσβάλλοντες κατὸ  Ἥραιον ὑφ’ ἕνα καιρὸν κατεκρημνίσθησαν) successfully hindered the Parthians’ renewed attempt to invade the temple’s sacred borders.22 Nonetheless, one might object, our text is fragmentary and heavily reconstructed. Much of what we actually read in the inscription has been supplied by Roussel, Merkelbach, Şahin and its other editors. The formulaic character of this document, however, allows for fairly secure emendations. More to the point, despite the fragmentary state of the text, it is clear that this conspiracy of nature against the attackers of the sacred precinct was interpreted by the dwellers of Panamara as a clear sign of divine favour, a sign of θεοφιλία:23 whereas 21 The Gauls, after having experienced a sequence of uncanny phenomena similar to the ones described in our inscription and having suffered serious setbacks at the hands of the Greek army, were afflicted by a panic-attack (Πανικός). 22 In order to commemorate the epiphany and the intervention of Zeus Panamaros, the dwellers of the city established the Panamareia festival, an annual festival, which included athletic contests and lasted at first for ten days and later on for a whole month. The festival began with a procession from the precinct at Panamara to the city-chamber at Stratonikeia and it was mostly known as the ἐπιδημία τοῦ θεοῦ, namely the “Sojourn of the god.” 23  Roussel, “Le miracle,” 80: “Le miracle exalte les fidèles qui célèbrent la puissance de leur dieu”. Cf. also Chaniotis, “Age of Miracles”, 143–144: “To publicly thank a god by means of a dedication is of course more than a demonstration of gratitude; it is also a commemoration of a successful communication between humans and gods, and – even more important – a subtle strategy of self-representation: the dedicant presents himself not just as a thankful recipient of

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Fig. 1: BMC 42 Caria, Stratonikeia. 1st–2nd Century AD. AE 24 mm. CTΡATONIKEΩN, Zeus Panamaros, radiate with sceptre over shoulder, on horseback right / ​ ΨΗΦΙCAMENOY ΦΛΑΒΙΟΥ ΔΙΟΜΗ ΔΟΥC, Hekate with veil flowing overhead is seated side-saddle on a lion. SNGHel 258, SNG Cop 499.

the Parthians were massacred, with the god’s help the Panamarians were kept unharmed and unhurt (line 18), with the exception of a few superficially injured men (lines 21–22). The textual uncertainty, though, does become an obstacle for our understanding of lines 13–14. If we read the text with Roussel we understand that at some point towards the end of the battle the Panamarians shouted: ‘Zeus Panamaros is a mighty god’.24 If we read the same lines with Merkelbach (followed by Şahin), on the other hand, we understand that it was a group of the Parthians, who, while deserting the battlefield and after having experienced the extraordinary amorphous epiphany of the god, were begging for pardon.25 Merkelbach’s emendation allows for this notion of an epiphanic god in action, who makes use a divine favour, but also as the beneficiary of a privileged relationship with the divinity. And, of course, these thanksgiving dedications are also expressions of superiority.” 24 The transcript in ll. 13 reads: ]ΟΥΝΤΩΝ / ​ΤΩΝΜΕΝΙΧΩΡΗΝΦΟΜΟΥΝΤΩ[. Roussel’s reconstruction of ll. 12–14 reads as follows: - - - διὰ τ[αῦτα δὲ δεινῶς κατεπλάγησαν] / ​[οἱ πολέμιοι· καὶ κραυγὴ πολλὴ ἦν τῶν βοηθούντων τῶν μὲν ΙΧΩΡΗΝ φωνούντω[ν], / ​ἑτι δὲ ἀναβοών[των] μεγάλῃ τῇ φωνῇ μέγαν εἶναι Δία Πανάμαρον, / ​[τῶν δὲ κελεύοντων μηδένα τοῖς παρ᾿ αὐτ]ῶν αὐτομόλοις κτλ. Cf. also Acts 19:32–41: Paul was preaching in the theatre of Ephesos, when the people started shouting: “Great is Artemis of the Ephesians.” Ephesos was claimed to be the birthplace of the goddess and the guardian of her xoanon, which had allegedly fallen from the sky. See Strabo 14.1.20. On the widespread phaenomenon of ‘megatheism’ in the Imperial era, see A. Chaniotis, “Megatheism: the Search for the Almighty God and the Competition of Cults,” in: One God. Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire (S. Mitchell and P. van Nuffelen eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 112–139. 25  Merkelbach (R. Merkelbach, “For the miracles of Zeus Panamaros,” ZPE 2 (1968): 39–40), on the other hand emends the text in ll. 13–14 differently: [καὶ αὐτίκα πλῆθος ἦν (?) τῶν αὐτομολ]

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of the intercultural semiology of natural disasters and finally succeeds in conveying his message both to the besieged and the besiegers, who finally appear to have fully comprehended and embraced the ostentatious omnipotence of the Carian weather deity. Merkelbach’s reading seems to me more appealing precisely because this type of intercultural semiology, i. e. the language of extreme meteorological phenomena and disasters is used here. This type of intercultural semiology prevails in analogous cases of divine epiphanies taking place in situational contexts of siege and disputed borderlines, as the next section shows.

3. Transgressing Boundaries and Divine Bilingualism at the temple of Athena of Lindos Our first comparandum comes from the neighbouring city of Lindos.26 The narrative is part of an extraordinary decree (in terms of both length and content) from the acropolis of Lindos dated to 99 BCE,27 which contains a sequence of ούντων τῶν νγ̣ώην φωνούντω[ν,] / ​ἔτι δὲ ἀναβοών[των] μεγάλῃ τῇ φωνῇ Μέγαν εἶναι Δία Πανάμαρον, [ἄλλοι δὲ ἐκέλευον μηδεμίαν τοῖς παρ’ ἑαυτ]ῶν αὐτομόλοις διδόναι συνγνώμην·

26  Rhodes was much more to Stratonikeia than a simple neighbor. The city of Stratonikeia first came under Rhodian control during the reign of Seleukos II (264–226/5 BC), then around 200 BC it was captured briefly by Philip V of Macedon, only to return to the Rhodians in 197 BC. On this and on the complex religious and cultural affinities between Rhodes and Stratonikeia, see R. van Bremen, “The Demes and Phylai of Stratonikeia in Karia,” Chiron 30 (2000): 389–401; and eadem, “Leon son of Chrysaor and the religious identity of Stratonikeia in Caria,” in: The Greco-Roman East (S. Colvin ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 207–244. 27  I. Lindos II, 2 = Syll.3 725. Cf. FGrHist D 532 with commentary 445; SEG 39:727. The marble stele (now in the National Museum of Denmark, Inv. 7125, fig. 2), which was found face down embedded on the floor of the early Byzantine church of Hagios Stephanos below the Lindian Acropolis, contains 4 columns (A, B, C, D). Column A of the inscription contains the decree (psēphisma) to erect a stele in honour of Athena that would contain a list of the epiphanies of the goddess and the offerings that had been long accumulated in the temple. Columns B and C record the various other anathēmata (offerings) presented in the temple by mythical and historical persons, yet another indication that our notion of history must have been something rather alien to people of Lindos. Column D contains list of Athena’s epiphanies. Appended to the decree under the title  Ἐπιφάνειαι are four epiphanic accounts, the first and the third are complete, the second one is fragmentary, while the forth is not readable. The first one took place during Darius’ reign, the second one is of uncertain date, and the third one is said to have taken place in 305/4 B. C. E., the date that Demetrius Poliorketes attacked the city of Lindos. The stele was christened by Blinkenberg ‘Temple chronicle,’ but, if we want to be more accurate, we preferably speak of an inventory of the temple treasures. More on this topic in A. Chaniotis, Historie und Historiker in den griechischen Inschriften-Epigraphische Beiträge zur griechischen Historiographie (Stuttgart: Steiner Franz Verlag, 1988), 56 f., who quotes Jacoby’s discussion in FGrHist 532, and prefers to think of the inscription as an Anagraphē. In that sense, the inscription is quite similar to the I.Délos 298, or IG II² 137 ff. For some epigraphic parallels to the inscription see C. Higbie, The Lindian Chronicle and the Greek Creation of Their Past, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 258–273, although the document is quite unique. On the Lindian Chronicle defying categorisation, see B. Dignas, “Inventories of Offering Lists?

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three extensive ἐπιφάνειαι (fig. 2).28 The epiphany of Athena of Lindos first to one of the local magistrates and subsequently to the Persians, who besieged the city in 490 BC, is related in the first of these narratives. However, unlike the undifferentiated amorphous epiphany of Zeus Panamaros that was directed unequivocally to both besieged and the besiegers, Athena Lindia (with a little help from her father Zeus, see below) appears to be ‘speaking two different languages’: the local dialect of anthropomorphic manifestation with the besieged and the intercultural language of natural disasters and extreme weather conditions with the besiegers. Lines 9–10 (πλείστων δὲ ἐς Λίνδον ἀθροισθέντων, ποθεδρεύσαντες ἐπολιόρκευν αὐτοὺς τοὶ βάρβαροι) set out the dramatic context: the physical boundaries of the Lindian acropolis separate two opposing ethnicities the Greeks and the Persians, the besieged and the besiegers. Confined within the city walls, the besieged were on the brink of surrendering themselves due to lack of water. At this very time of collective tension, Athena appeared in the sleep of one of the archons of the city and ordered him to have courage, as she would ask her father Zeus for beneficial rain (ll. 14–17: καθ’ ὃν δὴ χρόνον ἁ μὲν θεὸς ἑνὶ τῶν ἀρ‑ / ​χόντων ἐπιστᾶσα καθ’ ὕπνον παρεκάλει / ​θαρσεῖν ὡς αὐτὰ παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς αἰτησευ‑ / ​μένα τὸ κατεπεῖγον αὐτοὺς ὕδωρ).29 The goddess appeared in a rather Homeric manner: in Homer it is usually the oneiros-figure who comes and takes “his stand above the head of the dreamers.”30 There is a conscious effort to connect the Lindian Athena with the Athena of the Homeric poems, and although we do not possess any details of how exactly Athena looked when she appeared in the dreams of the magistrate, one could not be very far from the truth if one assumes that she appeared in an Assessing the Wealth of Apollo Didymaeus,” ZPE 138 (2002): 240–241). On the impact the combination of epiphanies and corresponding votive offerings in the stele might have had on the synchronic reader, see V. J. Platt, Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in GraecoRoman Art, Literature and Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 161–169. 28 The interested reader is directed to Higbie, The Lindian Chronicle, 18–50, where a transcript and translation of the inscription, an extensive commentary, along with further bibliographical references, can be found. On these documents as their function as museum archives, see J. Shaya, “The Greek Temple as Museum: The Case of the Legendary Treasure of Athena from Lindos,” American Journal of Archaeology 109 (2005): 423–442; and eadem, “Greek Temple Treasures and the Invention of Collecting,” in: Museum Archetypes and Collecting in the Ancient World (M. Wellington Gahtan and D. Pegazzaro eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 24–32. 29 “Be courageous!”; “Cheer up!”; “Be of good cheer!” is the standard introduction to a speech that a deity delivers when (s)he appears in many Homeric epiphanic narratives: Il.15.254; Il.24.171; Od. 4.825; Od. 13.362; h. Ven. 193; h.Bacch. 9, etc. 30 Cf., for instance, Il. 2.55 and 59; 10.496–97 and Od. 4.803. On Homeric dreams and the oneiros figure, see A. H. M. Kessels, Studies on the Dream in Greek Literature (Utrecht: Rijksuniversiteit te Utrecht, 1978); C. Brillante, “Scene oniriche nei poemi omerici,” Materiali e Discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 24 (1990): 31–46; R. Koch-Piettre, “Oneiros, le dieusonge (Iliade II),” Uranie 7 (1997): 115–140. On the Homericity of the narrative, see C. Higbie, “Homeric Athena in the Chronicle of Lindos,” in: Athena in the Classical World (S. Deacy and A. Villing eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 105–125.

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anthropomorphic likeness, very much in the manner of Athena of Ilion in the dreams of the people of Kyzikos.31 Entrusting themselves to Athena’s care, the citizens of Lindos gave a detailed account of their dealing with the divine and asked Datis, the general of King Dareios, for an truce of five days; if the goddess hadn’t fulfilled her promises within these five days, then they would have to surrender themselves (ll. 22–26). Datis laughed (l. 27) at the Lindians, but, nevertheless, granted this favour to them. “The next day great darkness gathered over the Acropolis and copious rain broke over its middle point” (ll. 28–29). This highly localised rainfall enabled the people of Lindos to quench their thirst and vindicated their faith in their tutelary goddess. For the Persian army, however, on the other side of the wall, the rain was only a painful reminder of their own water shortage. The barbarian general was said to be awe-struck at this epiphany of the goddess (ll. 34–35, καταπλαγεὶς ὁ βάρβα[ρος] τὰν τᾶς θεοῦ ἐπιφάνειαν). The author of this narrative, no doubt a man of letters, has made a conscious effort to parallel here and even mirror the initial emotional reaction of the Lindians to the Persian army that vastly outnumbered them (ll. 6–7, καταπλαγέντων δὲ τῶν κατὰ / ​τὰν χώραν τὰν ἔφοδον τῶν Περσᾶν.32 In response, he stripped himself of all his body ornaments (l. 34 ff.) and sent them as dedications to the temple, along with some other of his valuable belongings. The amorphous epiphany of Athena of Lindos tipped the scales in favour of the besieged and brought home to the besiegers that the greatest transgression they had committed was their desire to cross the physical boundaries of a city which found itself under the protection of the divine. It is here that we can see more clearly this blurring between the physical boundaries of the deity’s sanctuary and the city walls. Datis even made a treaty with the besieged and declared remorsefully that the Lindians were under divine protection: (ll.47–48) τοὺς ἀνθρώπους τούτους θεοὶ φυλάσσουσι! This factual demonstration of their θεοφιλία, this special relationship that the city was enjoying with Athena of Lindos led him to raise the siege.33 31  Plut. Luc. 10. 4 ἱστορεῖται δὲ τῶν ἐν  Ἰλίῳ πολλοῖς καθ’ ὕπνον ὀφθῆναι τὴν  Ἀθηνᾶν, ἱδρῶτι πολλῷ ῥεομένην καὶ ὑποφαίνουσάν τι τοῦ πέπλου παρερρωγός, λέγουσαν ὡς ἀρτίως ἥκοι βοηθήσασα Κυζικηνοῖς· καὶ στήλην τινὰ δόγματα καὶ γράμματα περὶ τούτων ἔχουσαν ἐδείκνυον  Ἰλιεῖς. 4. Translation: It is re-

lated, too, that the goddess Athena appeared to many of the inhabitants of Ilion in their sleep, dripping with sweat, showing part of her peplos torn away, and saying that she had just come from assisting the people of Kyzikos. And the people of Ilion used to show a stele which had on it certain decrees and writings relating to these matters. 32  On the author of the inscription, see G. C. Richards, “Timachidas,” in: New Chapters in the History of Greek Literature (2nd series, J. U. Powell and E. A. Barber eds.; Cambridge, 1929), 76–82. 33  A. Momigliano, Alien Wisdom (Cambridge: University Press of Cambridge, 1973), 98–99 compares Datis’ experience of the divine assistance provided to the Lindians by their tutelary deity to the experience of the Vizir Heliodoros at the temple of Jerusalem circa 180 BC, which was collected and conflated by the author of 2 Maccabees, Eusebius (Eccl Hist 5.5.1–8) and several others. More on the so-called ‘rain-miracle’ in J. N. Bremmer, “Close Encounters of the

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Fig. 2: The Lindian Temple Chronicle as exhibited at the National Museum of Denmark (Inv. 7125)

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His initial inability to grasp the omnipotence of the city’s tutelary deity when he heard the dream-vision (ὄψιν) of the archon, and his dismissive laughter had given way to remorse and respect. But perhaps he was not wholly to be blamed for his failure. Athena’s anthropomorphic epiphany was too culture-specific for a bar­ baros to fully grasp its significance; whereas Zeus’ amorphous epiphany overran successfully the conceptual boundaries of Datis and brought the message home. Effectively, then, during the siege of Lindos by the Persians Athena Lindia manifested herself in person in the sleep of one of the local archons, but when it came to manifesting herself to both the besieged and the besiegers she did it through a series of extreme meteorological phenomena such as an ominous dark sky and excessive rainfall over the city’s acropolis. It is as if Athena of Lindos decided to speak the local dialect when communicating with the local magistrates by manifesting herself privately in a familiar form (a form which perhaps corresponds to her cult statue in the acropolis, and, in any case, in a form similar to her most popular artistic representations) easily decipherable by those who share the same cultural references; whilst she recruited her father Zeus and employed the intercultural language of excessive natural disasters to denote her presence and safely convey her message to the Persians. In fact, in both cases, the siege of the sanctuary of Panamara and the acropolis of Lindos, the barbarians’ failed attempt to invade the physical borderlands, which stood their ground thanks to the divine protection they enjoyed, is efficaciously contrasted with the successful attempt of the divine to penetrate the conceptual borderlands of the besiegers and turn their reluctance into compliance.

4. Border-crossings and variations of epiphanic morphology at the sanctuary of Delphios Apollo Occasionally, different morphological variants appear to substitute for one another in different accounts of the same divine epiphany that aims at thwarting the attempts of the besiegers and strengthening the resources of the besieged. These morphological variations depend heavily on the generic context of the narrative, the medium preserving the narrative, and, of course, the political agenda behind it. One could hardly find a better way to flesh this assertion out than Apollo’s divine epiphany in the course of the siege of Delphi by the Gauls. The Gallic attack against Delphi and the spirited resistance of its defenders were considered to be of major importance by Greek historians, such as Plutarch and Polybius, who place it on the same level of importance with the Persian wars.34 Third Kind: Heliodorus in the Temple and Paul on the Road to Damascus,” in: Greek Religion and Culture, the Bible and the Ancient Near East (J. N. Bremmer ed.; Leiden: Brill), 215–233. 34 Plb. 2.35.7, Plu. Cim. 1.1.

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Apollo joined forces with those who defended his sacred borderlines against the Galates who attempted to plunder the Delphic treasury under the leadership of Brennus in 279 BC. As expected, the god manifested his godhead through a plethora of uncanny meteorological phenomena and disasters, which essentially constitute his amorphous epiphany. However, and this what marks this epiphany as out of the ordinary, while in the previous two narratives this morphological variant guaranteed a successful reception of the divine message for those fighting on both sides of the sacred borders, in Pausanias’ account (10.23.1–9) – which, in all likelihood, draws from a tradition established soon after the siege – Apollo’s amorphous epiphany does not hit home with the barbarians, at least not from the beginning. Our text lays emphasis on how quickly and clearly the god signified his opposition (καὶ τοῖς βαρβάροις ἀντεσήμαινε τὰ ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ ταχύ τε καὶ ὧν ἴσμεν φανερώτατα) by causing an earthquake followed by lightning and thunder. Even so, the Gauls fail to interpret these signs of opposition and adversity and proceed with their attempts to violate the sacred borders. This time, their attempts are met with fierce opposition which comes not in the form of extreme climate changes and disasters, but in the form of eerie phasmata of the local heroes Hyperochos, Laodokos, Pyrrhos and Phylakos, who manifest themselves and scare the besiegers. Phylakos in particular is singled out in our text (οἱ δὲ καὶ τέταρτον Φύλακον ἐπιχώριον Δελφοῖς ἀπαριθμοῦσιν ἥρωα) perhaps because he provides one further conceptual link with yet another successful divine intervention which saved Apollo’s sanctuary, about two centuries before, this time from the Persians.35 The psychological turmoil and the terror caused by misfortunes (ἔκπληξις) of the day were met in equal measure and even surpassed by the terrors of the night, when the Galates were faced with the frost and the snow of Parnassus; many of them were also killed by a fierce avalanche.36 Those left alive suffered at the hands of the local defenders of the sacred borderland and were afflicted by a panic-attack 35 Hdt.

8.36–37. In the Herodotean account Apollo manifests himself to the Delphians through his sacred weapons moving of their own accord and being found outside the temple’s gates by the priest Akeratos (a pars pro toto epiphany easily decipherable by the community who shares the same cultural references with the god), whilst the barbarians perceive his presence through the intercultural semiology of thunderbolts, avalanches, and frightening sounds that come from the temple of Athena Pronaia. The extraordinary alliance with the divine in Pausanias’ account has traditionally been interpreted as imitatio Herodotii. Interestingly enough, Diodorus’ account of Apollo’s epiphany at Delphi (11.14.3–4) during the Persian invasion is also construed in terms of extreme natural phenomena such as heavy rainfall, thunderstorms and murderous avalanches, which are conceived as amorphous epiphanies (theōn energeia and theōn epiphaneia). More on this topic below. 36  Paus. 10.23.4: ῥῖγός τε γὰρ ἰσχυρὸν καὶ νιφετὸς ἦν ὁμοῦ τῷ ῥίγει, πέτραι τε ἀπολισθάνουσαι τοῦ Παρνασσοῦ μεγάλαι [τε] καὶ κρημνοὶ καταρρηγνύμενοι σκοπὸν τοὺς βαρβάρους εἶχον, καὶ αὐτοῖς οὐ κατὰ ἕνα ἢ δύο ἀλλὰ κατὰ τριάκοντα καὶ ἔτι πλείοσιν, ὡς ἕκαστοι ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ φρουροῦντες ἢ καὶ ἀναπαυόμενοι τύχοιεν, ἀθρόοις ἡ ἀπώλεια ἐγένετο ὑπὸ τῆς ἐμβολῆς τῶν κρημνῶν. The full of pathos description of the unseasonal blizzard (the historical attack took place in late autumn) is reminiscent of the suffering of the Persians by the river Strymon while retreating from Salamis (Aesch. Pers. 495–501 ff.).

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(Syll.³ 398, Πανικός, essentially Pan’s amorphous epiphany) and killed one another (ἥ τε ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ μανία πλεῖστον ἐξειργάσατο ὑπ’ ἀλλήλων τοῖς Γαλάταις τὸν φόνον). This continuum of extreme natural disasters was conceptualised by the perceivers as Apollo’s divine epiphany in the earliest attestation of the god’s divine manifestation, this time in an epigraphic source, the so-called Koan decree (dated to 278 BCE) which also draws from the same Delphic tradition established shortly after the unsuccessful Gallic invasion, and orders thanksgiving sacrifices in honour of the god.37 However, unlike the elaborate descriptions of the divine epiphanies in Panamara and Lindos, the decree from Kos gives only a highly condensed and formulaic description of the amorphous epiphanies of Delphios Apollo and Zeus Soter. In this particular inscription, Apollo’s divine intervention is given precedence over the soldiers who fought for the deliverance of the temple (ll. 5–9, τὸς μὲν ἐλ‑ / ​θόντας ἐπὶ τὸ ἱερὸν τιμωρίας τετεύ‑ / ​χεν ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν ἀνδρῶν  / ​ τῶν ἐπιβοαθησάντων τῶι ἱερῶι ἐν τᾶι / ​τῶν βαρβάρων ἐφόδωι) and comes first in the thanksgiving sacrifices list, followed by Zeus Soter and Nike (ll. 31–34). According to the traditional line of interpretation, the historiographical accounts of the Gallic attack are preoccupied with stressing the parallels with the Persian attack as delineated in the much-quoted Herodotean text, and it is for this reason that they lay so much emphasis on the Apollo’s amorphous epiphany.38 I am more inclined to read this with Bearzot as a combination of historically attested extreme weather conditions and priestly embellishment of local traditions established shortly after the events.39 This is the only plausible explanation 37  Syll.³ 398, 17–20. As C. Champion argues very convincingly, an independent and quite different tradition was also propagated by the Aetolians, who helped the people of Delphi to defend the temple, and consequently told their own version of the story. This tradition is reflected in a series of the recognition decrees for the first celebration of the Aetolian penteteric Sōtēria in 245, all mentioned in Nachtergael, Galates 435–447. In these decrees, the element of divine intervention and Apollo’s key role in the repulse of the enemies is conspicuously absent, whereas Aetolian piety and heroism are emphasized. These later inscriptions imply that the Aetolians, rather than Delphi, repulsed the Gallic threat. The emphasis on Apollo’s divine intervention re-emerges in another recognition decree from Smyrna (I.Smyrna 574 dated to c. 214 BC), where Apollo’s epiphaneia has been replaced by the more general reference to τήν τε ἐπιφάνειαν τῶν θεῶν (l.6). The epiphany in the Smyrnan recognition decree can be interpreted in four different ways: a) it could denote the demigods in Pausanias’ account, or b) Apollo and the White maidens in Diodorus (32.9.5), or c) even Zeus Soter and Apollo, the dedicatees of the recognition decrees of 246/5, or d) it could refer to the appearance of Apollo, Artemis, and Athena which is reported in Justin (Epit. 24.8.5). This last possibility would suggest that the Smyrna decree reconciles, in a way, the two contradictory traditions by incorporating two Aetolian deities (i. e. Athena and Artemis) into the Delphic tradition. More in C. Champion, “The Soteria at Delphi: Aetolian Propaganda in the Epigraphical Record,” American Journal of Philology 116 (1995): 213–220. See also SEG 45.122. 38  See, for instance, H. W. Parke and D. E. W. Wormell, The Delphic Oracle (vol. 1, Oxford: Blackwell, 1956), 255. 39  C. Bearzot, “Fenomeni naturali e prodigi nell’Attacco Celtico a Delfi (279 a.C),” in: Fenomeni naturali e avvenimenti storici nell’antichità (M. Sordi ed.; Milan: Universita Cattolica, 1989), 71–86.

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of why we get an amorphous epiphany amalgamated with a culturally-specific epiphany of the local heroes, which would have been perceivable only by the defenders of the sacred borders. This hypothesis can be further supported by looking closely at Justin’s account of the Delphic Sōtēria, which preserves another line of tradition. According to Justin, Apollo manifested himself first to the members of his priestly personnel, who then informed the defenders of the sacred borders that they could see and hear the god in full military attire (which brings to mind the well-known Homeric description of Apollo sliding down the peaks of Olympos with his bow and quiver in the first Book of the Iliad l.46 ff.) fighting in the first rank of their lines.40 It is only via the medium of highly skilled ‘viewers’ of the divine body (in Justin’s account, it is through the vates) that we get detailed descriptions of the divine body, and even then these culture-specific divine manifestations are directed to those fighting to defend the sacred borderlands rather than those who are fighting to invade them.

5. Conclusion To pull the threads together, so far we have looked at three different divine manifestations of deities who fought along with their devotees to defend their sanctuaries and city walls in the course of a siege. In all three cases, the divine epiphanies of the defenders of sacred (and by extension of secular) borderlines consisted of a series of uncanny meteorological phenomena such as deep fog, copious rain, severe and continuous storms interspersed with frightening thunders and lightning, panic attacks that literally drive the attackers out of their minds, uncanny, destructive sea-storms and deadly precipitations. Throughout the whole paper, we attempted to answer the question that follows naturally: why does the divine choose to manifest its presence through a series of extreme natural phenomena in the course of a siege? The most likely answer given so far is that amorphous epiphanies would have been more easily perceived by large numbers of witnesses and would, therefore, guarantee a higher degree of receivability.  Justin. Epit. 24.8.4–7: Advenisse deum clamant, eumque se vidisse desilientem in tem­ plum per culminis aperta fastigia, 5. dum omnes opem dei suppliciter inplorant, juvenem supra humanum modum insignis pulchritudinis; comitesque ei duas armatas virgines ex propinquis duabus Dianae Minervaeque aedibus occurrisse; 6. nec oculis tantum haec se perspexisse, audisse etiam stridorem arcus ac strepitum armorum. Translation: “they cried that the god has arrived and that they have seen him leaping down to the temple through the open top of the roof. Then they were all implored the god suppliantly for his help, that he was a young god of distinctive beauty, which surpassed the human level, and that he was accompanied by two armed virgins, who had come from the two neighbouring temples of Minerva and Diana. Not only did they see this with their own eyes, but they also heard the strident noise of his bow and the rustling of his shield.” The main problem with Justin’s account is that his epitome of Pompeius Trogus’ account is really a compilation of earlier sources, whose origin remains a matter of debate. 40

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More significantly, these amorphous epiphanies were perceived by two different communities: the besiegers and the besieged, who are two different peoples with different languages and cultural traditions. By manifesting their presence through forces of nature, Greek gods and goddesses decide to speak a koine, that is a kind of common language, a kind of semiology that could be deciphered by both those defending a territory and those attacking. Nonetheless, one must not forget that these dedications were also conscious actions of self-representation directed not only to synchronic viewers, but also to generations to come. By orchestrating these divine epiphanies by means of easily decipherable semeia (namely undisputable natural disasters and extreme meteorological phenomena) the communities who commemorated these epiphanies on stone and then placed them in public spaces for everyone to see succeeded in conveying their theophilic status not only to the community of synchronic viewers and their opponents, but also to posterity.

Gods on the Rocks – Material Approaches to the Rock-Face at Caesarea Philippi (Mount Hermon) Anna-Katharina Rieger 1. The terrace at the foot of the rock-face at Caesarea Philippi The most characteristic features of the sacred place at the later city of Caesarea Philippi are the steep scarp and the spring of one of the tributaries of river Jordan (Nahl Banias) from a cave in the limestone.1 Caesarea Philippi is situated on the southern slopes of Mount Hermon (Israel), on a thoroughfare from the coastal zones of Phoenicia to the inland zones east of Mount Hermon, which becomes in Roman times the Tyre – Damascus road (fig. 1. 2).2 Slightly to the east of Caesarea Philippi, the route passes between the Golan Heights and the Mount Hermon massif (close to the Lake Phiale, today’s Birket Ram, fig. 1, left). Moreover, it is situated at a point where different geological formations meet – the basaltic flows of the Golan and the limestone slopes of Mount Hermon, while to the south the swampy Hula Valley opens down to Lake Tiberias. Hence, in terms of (hydro‑) geomorphology and geology it is characterised by a density of natural phenomena that are more or less directly intelligible. Different stone types, including limestone, tufa and basalt, as well as different types of soils form the natural landscape (fig. 1, right. 3). Depending on the various types of underground geology, the relief changes from scarps to mountainous slopes and plains. 1  The idea to include a study of the sacred place of Caesarea Philippi in this volume arose in discussions with Annette Weissenrieder at Erfurt. I am grateful to her for including my contribution in this volume. The study is part of research conducted under the auspices of the ERC Advanced Grant Lived Ancient Religion (directed by Jörg Rüpke, No. 2975555) at the Max Weber Center of Advanced Cultural and Social Studies, Erfurt. I thank my colleagues from the LAR-group and the MWK for discussing my paper, especially Jörg Rüpke, Valentino Gasparini, Harry Maier, Georgia Petridou, and Neville Morley, as well as the participants of a workshop at Princeton University organized by Harriet Flower and Jörg Rüpke in January 2015, for their comments on an earlier draft of this paper. 2  Cf. for a discussion of routes and roads in D. Urman, The Golan. A Profile of a Region dur­ ing the Roman and Byzantine Periods (BAR International Series 269, Oxford: Tempus Reparatum, 1985), 106–116. A description covering also later periods is given by M. Sharon, Corpus inscriptionum Arabicarum Palaestinae (CIAP) (Handbuch der Orientalistik, Abt. 1: Der Nahe und der Mittlere Osten = The Near and Middle East, 30, vol. 2; B. Spuler ed.; Brill: Leiden 1999), 22–28 (including also the minor route to Damascus directly northeast of Caesarea Philippi passing by the later Crusader Castle of Nur ed-Din, and Lake Phiale / ​Birket Ram to the east).

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Fig. 1: Map of the area of Galilee, Mount Hermon and Golan with the location of Caesarea Philippi, indication of the ancient road system (left) and geological formations (right) (A.-K. Rieger on the basis of the geological map Sheet 2-II, 1:50,000 [M. Rosensaft and A. Sneh, The Geological Survey (Jerusalem: Geological Survey of Israel, 2014)] and on Y. Tsafir, L. Di Segni and J. Green, Tabula Imperii Romani Iudaea Palaestina. Eretz Israel in the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods [Publications of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1994] sheet “north”).

These geological characteristics are responsible for a very important feature of the place: Due to the karstic underground, springs are abundant and at the later sanctuary of Caesarea Philippi, the water gushes from the cave at the foot of the rock-face, flowing down to Lake Tiberias (fig. 2, 3, 4). Here human activity can be traced from the 5th century BCE onwards.3 When approaching the place, the vertical rock scarp of ca. 30 m height with the large cave opening in its western parts and the abundance of water hits the senses. At the foot of the cliff lies a terrace of ca. 20 m width and 80 m length, where man-made structures were constructed in the different phases of the place from the 1st century BCE onwards (fig. 3, 4, 5).4 South of this natural place shaped by 3

 See below n. 7 for further details on the finds.  The place kept its attraction: Today it is part of the Banias Nature Reserve under the Israel Nature and National Parks Protection Authority. 4

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anthropogenic measures the city of Caesarea Philippi stretches, most likely a Ptolemaic foundation (fig. 2).5 However, in Roman times also the up-hill places urban area is excavated and published by V. Tzaferis and S. Israeli, Paneas I: The Roman to Early Islamic Periods, Excavations in Areas A, B, E, F, G, and H (IAA Reports 37; Jerusalem: Publications of the Israel Antiquities Authority, 2008), especially the bathing complex, which most likely had a close relation to the sacred place. See also E. Stern ed., New Ency­ clopedia of Archaeological Excavations in the Holy Land, s. v. Banias (Z.-U. Ma’oz ,V. Tzaferis and M. Hartal; Jerusalem: Carta, 1993), 136–143 (hereafter NEAHL I) and E. Stern ed., New Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of the Holy Land, s. v. Banias (Z. Ma’oz) 1587–1594 (Jerusalem: 5 The

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Fig. 2: Map of the citycity of Caesarea Philippi and the sacred place to its north (after Wilson, 1. Plan of the ancient Caesarea, fig. 1).

to the east and west of the rock scarp were settled. Despite this rather late date of the city, the general settlement pattern in Mount Hermon and the Hula Valley goes back to the Bronze Age.6 Unsurprisingly, the cave and the spring seem Carta, 2008) (hereafter NEAHL V); M. Hartal, Paneas IV. The Aqueduct and the Northern Suburbs, with contributions by G. Bijovsky, L. Eppelbaum, Y. Gorin-Rosen and S. Itkis (IAA reports 40; Jerusalem: Publications of the Israel Antiquities Authority, 2009). 6 The settlement of Tel Dan dating back to the Bronze Age, where the famous 2nd century

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open-air area / platform

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closed structure / building

Fig. 3: View from south onto the rock-face, the cave and the terrace forming the sacred place of Caesarea Philippi. The coloured fields mark the remains of open-air areas or built structures (A.-K. Rieger on the basis of a photograph by ©Sonia Hollidays).

to be the focal point where human activity concentrated, most likely before the place became a sacred one. The earliest fragments of pottery, to be dated to the Persian and early Ptolemaic period,7 were found in front of the cave, where the abundant water was always a reason to stop at this point on the road connecting the coast with Mount Hermon or the plains east and south of it. Earliest evidence CE Greek-Aramaic inscription of the “god, who is in Dan” was found, lies only 3 km to the southwest. On the general settlement pattern see S. Dar, Settlements and Cult Site on Mount Hermon, Israel. Ituraean Culture in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods (BAR International Series 589; Oxford: Tempus Reparatum, 1993) and Urman, The Golan. 7  However, the few pot shards dating to the Persian period do not point to cultic activity (cf. A. Berlin, “The Archaeology of Ritual: The Sanctuary of Pan at Banias / ​Caesarea Philippi,” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 315 (1999): 27–45, 30 with n. 5. The final publication of the site by the excavator Z.-U. Ma’oz is still pending (Z. Ma’oz et. al. forthcoming, Panion I: Excavations in the Sanctuary of Pan at Caesarea-Philippi, Banyas (Jerusalem: Publications of the Israel Antiquities Authority). In Z. Ma’oz, “Banias, Temple of Pan”, Excavations and Surveys in Israel 13 (1995): 2–7 (hereafter Ma’oz, 1995) and id., “Banias, Temple of Pan,” Excavations and Surveys in Israel 15 (1996): 1–5 (hereafter Ma’oz, 1996) excavation reports are published.

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Fig. 4: Plan of the sacred place at Caesarea Philippi (Friedland, Marble Sculptures, fig. 4).

of a religious function of the terrace and religious practices reflected in the use of pottery can be traced back to the 2nd/1st century BCE.8 Why did it start there? How did this become a sacred place – after which the city and the region were named (Paneas, Caesarea Panias)? Is it the geographical 8 Cf.

Berlin, “The Archaeology of Ritual,” 31–34.

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Fig. 5: View along the terrace from east, showing the differences in levels, and pavements (©biblewalks.com).

location and geological characteristics that inspired people to make this place a sacred one through their religiously imbued activities? And if so, then what is the relationship between natural features and anthropogenic features? Which characteristics made people know, in the different phases of the sacred place from 2nd/1st century BC to 5th century CE, that this is a sacred place, and which parts and areas seem to have been designated for what activities? And how are parts that are crucial for religious activities marked and distinct? In the broader context of “borders,”9 I use the term for the purposes of my contribution to mean “spatial, and temporal delimitation” and “demarcation through practices and objects” and discuss these focusing on some of the remains at the rock-face of Caesarea Philippi.10 I grapple with materiality of structures and objects and the spatial organization of practices, as well as with reconstructing communicational strategies employed in that very place in the Roman period. Regarding material objects, I start from the assumption that the use of material objects in religious activities goes far beyond the application of paraphernalia

 9

 See the Introduction in this volume. set of aspects the place offers with regard to the archaeology of religion will be dealt with in a contribution in Seeing the Gods, Proceedings of the conference held in June 2015, Bonn (M. Arnhold, H. Maier and J. Rüpke eds; WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, in preparation). 10 Another

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in rituals on one end of the scale, or the veneration of an object on the other.11 Dedications, buildings, offerings, ritual instruments, dress, and images – all sorts of objects in religious contexts have physical material features12 that play a rôle in the way people came into contact with “agents that do not appear immediately plausible,” with the gods.13 Material has agency, and the agency is employed and enacted for enabling contact with the gods. Firstly, departing from the topographical characteristics and developments I inquire into why and how this place became a frequented place and later a place for religious activity. Then, with a close analysis of the features and structures, natural as well as man-made ones, I explore the spatial layout of the place and sensory experiences (again from the point of view of material affordances) that demarcate areas and render the place distinct from its surroundings. This analysis leads also to the reconstruction of practices for which the spaces were shaped and which in turn shaped the practices. For consolidating the results, the design and alterations in the rock-face with niches, images and inscriptions are investigated and interpreted in the following step. I end with observations on the particular constellation of deities and their communicational competences that we encounter on the cliff at Caesarea Philippi: gods representing the ability to pass over a threshold, a limen.14 For my approach the emphasis lies on recurrent religious practices that make a place sacred through memory building which over time becomes materially more and more manifest and visible. Hence I seek to reconstruct the set of practices, preserved through spatial arrangements, textual references in inscriptions and visual options, in which gods (equated with nature) and men were embedded.

11  Cf. the research in the field, for example, in Material Religion and Material Culture. The Matter of Belief (D. Morgan ed.; London: Routledge, 2010), or in Approaches to the Visual in Religion (Research in Contemporary Religion 10; D. Pezzoli-Olgiati and Ch. Rowland eds.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011). 12  On materiality as part of creating meaning of an object or its relations to other agents cf. F. Fahlander, “Articulating Stone. The Material Practice of Petroglyphing,” in: Encounter­ ing Imagery. Materialities, Perceptions, Relations (I.-M. Back Danielsson, F. Fahlander and Y. Sjöstrand eds.; Stockholm: Stockholm University, 2012), 97–116. esp. 98–99, and F. Fahlander, “Differences that Matter. Materialities, Material Culture and Social Practice,” in: Six Essays on the Materiality of Society and Culture (H. Glorstad and L. Hedeager eds.; Stockholm: Bricoleur Press, 2008), 127–154. 13  J. Rüpke, “Religious Agency Identity, and Communication: Reflections on History and Theory of Religion,” Religion 45,3 (2015): 344–366; 344. 14  I use limen in the literal meaning of the word “threshold”, describing the zone of transgressing from one area to another, being the zone of overlap – that encompasses also a phase of transition in terms of time. I do not intend to engage with concepts from ritual studies such as “liminality” “liminal spaces” or “liminal situations,” embracing aspects of instability, danger and risk, as developed by A. van Gennep, Rites des passages (1909) or V. Turner, The Ritual Process (1969), dealing more with ritualised changes of social rôles.

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2. What makes the terrace, the cave and the rock-face at Caesarea Philippi a sacred place? In many societies, and hence also in the ancient Mediterranean, nature features as the epiphanic presence of the gods. They are not represented in natural phenomena, but are nature itself.15 Only in the course of time, places of natural phenomena and divine epiphanies are reshaped by man-made objects and structures.16 The singularity of a place, either through a singular event like the (narrated and memorized) epiphany of a god or through the accumulation of natural features or features beyond the normal (water emerging from rocks; caves; steep rockfaces), is the trigger to sacralise it. With this point of view I argue against the notion of the inherent sacredness of places.17 Sacred is not an a priori category. There must be an initial attraction, but then people and their practices sacralise a place – render it sacred through activities and their remains. These locations are then marked, become recognizable and subsequently attract other people, smoothing the way for building up memory and creating a (religious and social) identity, when the places and practices prove fruitful for fulfilling the requests of the visitors to the gods. However, natural phenomena are in many cases the points of reference where demands and needs of people come first and foremost, so that they are susceptible to being transformed religiously. Keeping risks of meteorological impacts low, especially for societies based on agricultural life-strategies, and coping with threats from nature, bettering resources, and in a second step, also regulating social order – these are the fields where religious strategies are developed. These strategies confine the risk and unpredictability for visitors and attendants in a sacred place to whether the gods will react and act in the desired way. In studies on ancient Mediterranean religion, though, nature is often described as a framing feature, as scenery or screen, at best as only a starting point for a sacred activity at a place, later incorporated into an elaborated form of sanctuary – for the Graeco-Roman antiquity conceptualized as temple buildings, and 15 This holds true when we accept the claim that nature is not ‘out there’ but socially constructed, cf. M. Wallace, Finding God in the Singing River (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 120. 16  Cf. G. Petridou, Divine Epiphany in Greek Literature and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). 17  As formulated in search of the “essence of religion” (Eliade) by religious phenomologists in the first half of the 20th century like R. Otto, Das Heilige: Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen (Wrocław: Trewendt & Granier, 1917) followed by M. Eliade, Das Heilige und das Profane. Vom Wesen des Religiösen (Hamburg: Rowohlt Taschenburchverlag, 1957), whose views are received lately for example by B. Linke, Antike Religion (Enzyklopädie der griechisch-römischen Antike 13; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014) 119: “naturräumliche Besonderheiten wie Höhlen konnten aus sich heraus eine sakrale Aura entfalten”, overlooking the fact that only a human being could perceive or ascribe a sacred aura to any place, object, person, or event.

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the like.18 However, we can agree with J. Mylonopoulos in claiming that certain natural phenomena are invested with qualities that render a place feasible for getting into contact with divinities and conducting religious activities, i. e. for becoming a sacred place  – such as caves, springs, and other water-bodies, or, from the organic part of the world, trees.19 Other localities, like rock-sanctuaries, where changes in the layout and facilities did not take place, are labeled as ‘natural sanctuaries’, ‘rural shrines’ or the like. But we have to consider these starting points independently of any changes in the layout of the places, and examine them also in light of their material aspects.20 Physical materiality of the places is often underrated. The rock-face and the cave at Caesarea Philippi on the southern slopes of Mount Hermon should not be ascribed a genuine original “sacredness.”21 Attraction and accumulation are rather the terms which in my view describe how a place becomes sacred through its use by people. The later function of the cave as a sacred place originates from the fact that it offers water on the road between Tyre and Damascus, before or after the passage between the Golan Heights and Mount Hermon at today’s Mas’ada. Beside this, the water emerges from the rock, in a cave, and feeds one of the most important rivers in the region, the Jordan. Attraction through meeting a vital need, and subsequent accumulation of features led to the fact that passers-by as well as farmers or herders from the surrounding area came to get water and left in return a gift to the gods as guarantee of continued good fortune. In the case of Caesarea Philippi, in Roman times no one belonging to the Mediterranean Oikoumene would have questioned that the place below the rock-face with the spring and cave was a sacred place.22 A variety of anthropogenic features 18 Cf. J. Mylonopoulos, “Natur als Heiligtum – Natur im Heiligtum,” in: Religion und Raum (Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 10; F. Hölscher and T. Hölscher eds., Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008) 45–76; id., “Sacred springs,” in: Encyclopedia of Ancient History (R. S. Bagnall ed.; Malden: Blackwell-Wiley, 2012); Y. Ustinova, Caves and the Ancient Greek Mind Descending Under­ ground in the Search for Ultimate Truth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). See also the contributions by J. Scheid, K. Sporn, F. Pirson et al. in Natur – Raum – Kult. Akten des internationalen Kolloquiums, Paris-Lodron-Universität Salzburg 2012 (Sonderschriften des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes 51; K. Sporn, S. Ladstätter and M. Kerschner eds.; Vienna: Phoibos-Verlag, 2015). 19  Also mountain peaks, rivers, rock formations and groves number among the natural phenomena, cf. Mylonopoulos, “Natur als Heiligtum,” 63–67. 20  Only in the case of oracular sanctuaries are natural features taken more seriously in research and regarded as still important even in the further architectural development of these sacred places. 21  Too generalized is the interpretation of Ph. Borgeaud, Recherches sur le dieu Pan (Rome: Droz diffuseur, 1979), 76–78 that “wild places” at a certain distance from settlements invite more personal, individual prayer and devotion – being neither applicable to the place in the 2nd century CE as it was almost incorporated into the city of Caesarea Philippi, nor to an earlier phase, because of its situation alongside the route. 22 Expectations and perception coincide here (cf. T. Mendel, “In Quest of the Known: Multi-

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(materialized in inscriptions, in buildings, in places for practices, in dedications, in images etc.) left in this phase no doubt for any visitor to the place, while fame, stories and rumors about the place and its festivities built up a less tangible, but not less effective image of it as a sacred place. Since there are no visual, perceivable, man-made markers like boundary stones or an enclosure wall that would clarify the approach to the gods and the distinction from the world around, we have to explain, what in detail determined the perception of the cave, the spring, and the cliff with other structures as sacred place? What rendered the location different – at least for certain periods in time or for certain groups of persons – from its surroundings?

3. Spatial layout and sensory experiences 3.1 Structures and facilities not made for daily-life activities23 The cardinal parts of the locality are the rock-face, the cave, and the water, with the partly natural, partly reshaped terrace in front of them. Besides these natural resources and phenomena, it is not only one distinct feature, but again a variety and accumulation of features over time that distinguish the place from its surroundings, namely the structures and spatial arrangements, niches and inscriptions in the rock-face that are to be found there (fig. 3, 4, 5). Even though buildings are highly visible, structuring the space and transmitting meanings and messages through their layout, architectural design and ornaments, they are not necessarily embedded into interactions of human agents with the gods and hence not the features where practices necessarily take place. In religious contexts archaeology still focuses on architecture (temple building) and particular artifacts (statuary), even though ritual and social aspects of religion have come to the fore since the 1980’s, and with them material objects like pottery and mass-produced dedicational figurines.24 Despite the undeniable importance of the architectural setting of a deity’s home, as well as the political meaning of sculptured decoration, or the socio-political impact of public rituals, ple Spaces as an Essential Component of Traveling Experiences from a Social Sciences Perspective,” in: Religious Representation in Place (M. K. George and D. Pezzoli-Olgiati eds.; New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 193–209, with example of recent pilgrimages. Cf. E. S. Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place in a Fairly Short Stretch of Time,” in: Senses of Place (S. Feld and K. Basso eds.; Santa Fe: SAR Press, 1996), 13– 52, esp.24: “Places also gather experiences and histories, even languages and thoughts.”. 23  This phrasing recalls E. Durkheim, Les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. Le système totémique en Australie (1912), advancing as one definitive criterion of religion activities and spaces set apart from everyday life. 24  This picture is overdrawn to make my point clear. However, studies on certain material groups outnumber the ones with an approach of re-contextualising materials and spatial settings at sacred places.

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my aim is to examine the interplay of the physical setting, the choice of divine agents, and the way of representing them textually, visually and materially, in order to understand how a place was shaped gradually as sacred and how spatial and material settings displayed the change of context that made a place, an object, a situation or a person perceivable or treated as sacred. This allows for inquiring into how the contact with the supra-natural powers was established and what religious practices were conducted. How are areas delimited, either through the presence of an object or the concentration of a number of objects, through changes of light conditions, choice of building materials or differences in surface levels? How are access and movements in the spaces along the terrace regulated? How are spaces perceivable (often through visibility or the contrary)? First of all the sensory differences at the rock-face in comparison to the surrounding areas have to be taken into account as part of the accumulation of features and the attraction for human beings. The rock changes light and temperature in combination with the cave and the water. The bluff lies in full daylight from morning to evening; thus, the change of temperature that was and is given through the presence of water and the cave is remarkable. Air smells differently closer to the rock or closer to the water. A visible effect is that the niches in the bluff described below disrupt the rough surface of the limestone with their smoothened surroundings and fine architectural decoration. The aural impressions might be quite varying: One hears the gushing water, as well as sounds reverberating from the rock-face. All these sensations add up to an impressive locality (temperature, light, smell, sounds of the elements air and water, rock). These are the first-hand phenomena. As second hand phenomena we have to consider the man-made installations: structures, rock carvings, images, objects and written texts. The first traces of a building are from the early 1st century CE, when in front of the cave a hall-like structure is constructed – not a building in the strict sense of a closed space, since it has no a rear wall, thus allowing access to the cave (fig. 3, 4). The large niche to the east of the natural cave with the platform in front of it seems to be the next step in shaping the terrace and the rock-wall: The large niche on ground level (ca. 4 m wide and 2 m high) houses a smaller on in its rear wall (fig. 3, 6, 7). Their chronology can only be assumed according to the find of a coin in the foundation of the platform / ​open air area in front of them that is dated to the 1st/2nd century CE.25 However, it would also be possible to assume the niches have been carved out earlier than the datable traces of the platform. The 2nd century CE sees some additions in the material appearance of the place: Niches are added in the rock-wall above and to the east of the first one

25  Cf. Z.-U. Ma’oz, “Coin and Temple – the Case of Caesarea Philippi-Paneas,” Israel Nu­ mismatic Journal 13 (1994): 90–102, esp. 92.

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Fig. 6: View from south onto the rock-face, the cave and the terrace forming the sacred place of Caesarea Philippi with the niches and addressed gods (A.-K. Rieger on the basis of a photograph by ©Sonia Hollidays).

(fig. 6, 7), while a modest temple is built at this time (fig. 3, 4).26 Both niches can be dated to the 2nd century CE through inscriptions that are discussed later (fig. 6, 7). To the east of the temple buildings follows a narrow court with a niche in its rear. The tripartite building, to be dated to 3rd century CE, comes next in 26 See NEAHL V, 1588–1589, where Mao‘oz gives a date for this building of around 100 CE (with reference to architectural decoration) and 98–99 CE as the anniversary of the foundation of the city, while in NEAHL I, 141 he speaks also of “pottery retrieved from the foundation fill of the porch” indicating an early 2nd century construction. The ascription to Zeus results from an inscription on a marble slab: “To Heliopolitan Zeus and to the god Pan, who brings victory, for the salvation of our Lord Traian Caesar, with his entire house Maronas, son of Publius Aristo has dedicated this holy altar” (NEAHL V, 1588, found in the northeastern corner of the building). Another Greek inscription refers to Zeus Heliopolitanus: “To Heliopolitan Zeus, the father, for the salvation of our lords, the Caesars, Quadratus, also called Marcellus son of Selamanes, physician, dedicates (this statue of) Asklepios, having made a vow, with his wife and children. Year 160”, written on a pillar, cf. Isaac in Ma’oz et al. forthcoming, no. 7 (cf. Ma’oz 1996, 4 and SEG 46, 2036; J. F. Wilson, Caesarea Philippi [New York: I. B. Tauris, 2004] 201 n. 62. 63 with wrong date). However, a more precise dating than 1st/2nd century CE is not possible. A Latin inscription on an altar found in front of the building refers to “Iovi Olybraeo”, NEAHL V, 1589 – a Zeus known from Cilicia (cf. B. Isaac, “Dedications to Zeus Olybris,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 117 (1997): 126–128).

IGLS 11, A/16

IGLS 11, A/17, 222/1 CE

Niche above the Tripartite building (no inscription)

Fig. 7: The niches and inscriptions in the rock-face of the sacred place of Caesarea Philippi (A.-K. Rieger on the basis of photographs by ­©biblewalks.com).

l. 4 instead of e)p [horon ei)ko] n' pe?/trh? Merkelbach and Stauber 2002 read εἰ[κασ]μέ[νον ἐ]ν πέτρῃ

IGLS 11, A/14, 148/9 CE

Pani/ te kai\ Nu/mfaiv Mai/hv go/non e!nq' a)ne/qh ken (Ermei/an Dio\v ui(o/n e)p [horon ei)ko] n' pe?/trh?, Ou)i/ ktwr Lusima/xou pai s\i sune?uca/[meno]v °rn /

Th/nde qea\n a)ne/qhke fileuh/xw Dio/pani Ou)i/ktwr a)rhth/r Lusi ma/xoio go/nov

IGLS 11, A/13, mid-2nd century CE

vaulted niche, tabula ansata to the west (tabula to the east empty)

vaulted niche on top, tabula ansata below

(Upe\r swthri/av tw=n kuri/wn au)tokrato/rwn Ou)ale/riov [ I(s]pano/v, i(ereu\v Qeou= Pano/v, th\n Kuri/an Ne/mesin kai\ to\n su\n th?= (up' au)tou= koilanqei/sh? pe/tra? telesiourgh[ qe/] nta nao\n au)th=v [ a)ne/qhken su\n tw?= ko/smw? kai\ tw?= k] anke/llw? sidhrw=? [ su/]npante?[ i]

Partly destroyed niche, inscription on the eastern rim

A)gri/ppav Ma/rkou a!r xwn, e!touv skg', o)ni/rw? xrhsmo do[th]qei/v, th\n k[u]r[i/an] H)xw\ a)ne/qh ken, a$%m' A)gri[p] pia/di sumbi/ w? kai\ A)grippi/ nw? kai\ Ma/r kw? kai\ A)gri/p pa? bouleutai=v kai\ A)grippeinh? kai\ Domnh?= te/ knoiv au)tw=n

Pane Z[----] IGLS 11, A/15 (Latin)

On the rock, above IGLS 11, A/16

Above them on the base of a stele hewn in the rock

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the eastern stretches of the terrace (fig. 3, 4).27 Above it, and most probably accessible through the roof-top, a niche is situated which offers no chronological clue (fig. 6, 7). On the level below the terrace, a curved courtyard facility with an apse was built in the 3rd or 4th century CE (fig. 3, 4). The latest phase of use as a sacred place can be dated to the 5th century CE.28 What we can observe through the material remains and their relative chronology at the foot of the rock-face is a step-by-step “filling” of the terrace with buildings and courtyards. However, the arrangement and compactness of the structures at no point in time obstruct the view onto the rock, but rather underline its physical and material aspects.29 3.2 Platforms and practices: Where and how the gods can be approached What about the installations and facilities on the ground floor, the platforms in front of the bluff, the benches hewn in the rock at the foot of the limestone scarp? In a closer look at their spatial arrangement, they will disclose aspects of practices and organisation of space and movement through space on the terrace in front of the scarp that tell us about the way the gods were approached. In front of the largest niche east of the natural cave stretches a platform of about 10.00 × 15.00 m (fig. 3, 4).30 A smaller inner niche is hewn in the rear-wall of the large niche about 1.5 m above the ground. Two flat and wide steps were worked into the rock in front of this niche. As arranged, the inner niche was located at eye level of a visitor or viewer or attendant. The double set-off parallel to the ground level in front of the large niche stretching over a length of ca. 10 m results from leveling of the rock surface before spreading the concrete for the platform (fig. 7). They serve either as benches, steps or scaffolds. A vertical offset separates this ensemble of niches from the one adjoining to the east, where the inscription naming Hermes was carved into the tabula ansata west of it. The bottom of the niche starts at ca. 1.5 m above ground level and rests on rectangular pedestal carved from the rock. Again two steps of set-offs lie in front of the base for a length of ca. 2 m, though they run on different levels than the long benches of the western niche (fig. 5, 7) and slightly lower than the western ones. Four holes on each side of the base might have been used either for the addition of decorative parts (columns in a different material) or a fence around 27  The benches in the middle room and the goat bones indicate the use as banqueting room and not as “temple-tomb of the goats” as Ma’oz 1996, 2 proposes, see also J. Aliquot, Review of A. Ovadiah and Y. Turnheim, Roman temples, shrines and temene in Israel (Supplementi alla RDA, 30; L’Erma di Bretschneider Editore: Rome, 2011), Histara (2011): http://histara. sorbonne.fr/cr.php?cr=1382. See below p. 188. 28 Cf. Ma’oz, 1995; id. 1996. 29  The “temple of Zeus” does not impede access or visibility of any niche, and the westernmost building has to be reconstructed with an open rear, allowing access to the cave. 30 Ma’oz 1995, 4.

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the niche on the pedestal. In front of it, between the platform of the first niche and the adjoining temple building to the east (“temple of Zeus”), built slightly later than the niche,31 remains an aisle or area, from which the niche could be seen and approached – and the deity, being present there, could be addressed by people (fig. 3, 4). The text of the inscriptions that were carved into the rock close to two of the described niches refers to practices: West of the niche on the pedestal, a certain Victor, son of Lysimachos, dedicates the image of Hermes, “praying together with his children” (παισὶ συνευξά[με]νος, l. 5/6, IGLS 11, A/14, 148–149 CE, fig. 6, 7). In a second inscription from the same person, located above the western large niche (IGLS 11, A 13, fig. 7), he denominates himself as the one who prays (ἀρητήρ, l. 3). This epigram alludes not only to him as praying person, but also to the repeated and recurrent action of this prayer, since Victor offers his dedication (consisting of a θεά, most probably a statuette of Echo in the niche, the text, and the ritual of dedication) to φιλευήχῳ Διόπανι, the Pan (as son of Zeus or as ZeusPan), “who loves Echo.”32 As in his first inscription (IGLS 11, A/14, fig. 6, 7), the broader context of praying and addressing the gods with words and wishes is related to the niches. Since they were spatially integrated and not secluded (and this is true for all niches apart from the one above the tripartite building), but approachable through the platforms, they function as a focal point on the terrace of the sacred place. The open-air areas in front of the niches allow access, for example for gathering and praying. The same form of material and sensory alternations resulting from it recurs in the eastern parts of the sacred terraces: Here, between the temple building and the tripartite edifice a narrow area runs up to the foot of the scarp (4.3 m wide, 16.5 m long, fig. 3, 4, 6). This corridor-like court was paved with a checkerboard pattern from pinkish and whitish-greyish limestone slabs (fig. 5, 6).33 Additionally one had to go up two steps to get into this open-air area, heading to the cliff at the back. These steps leading from the slopes of the natural terraces up to the court are made from limestone, as is the street thoroughfare running eastward from the courtyard (fig. 5). The changes of material in combination with changes of levels are clear markers on the floor which visitors realized more unconsciously than opening a door or passing through a curtain or similar vertical markers of transit points. At the end, and in spatial relation to this clearly demarcated zone for gathering, a large niche is situated (3 m high 1.15 m wide, 0.6 m deep, fig. 6, 7), which, however, is carved into the rock ca. 6 to 7 m above ground 31

 For the chronology see above p. 184–187.  See J. Aliquot, Inscriptions Grecques et Latines de la Syrie. Tome 11  – Mount Hermon (Liban et Syrie) (Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique183; Beirut: Presses de l’Ifpo, 2008) A/15; A/17) (hereafter IGLS 11), 99. 33  E. Friedland, The Roman Marble Sculptures from the Sanctuary of Pan at Caesarea Philip­ pi / ​Panias (Israel) (Archaeological Reports 17; Boston: ASOR, 2012), 15. 32

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level:34 A longer inscription was carved on this high position on the rock-face, commissioned by a certain Valerius Hispanus. As priest of Pan he offers a statue of Nemesis, most likely to the god whom he serves (IGLS 11, A/16, fig. 7).35 The last niche, which was probably approachable in a different way from the above-mentioned ones, is situated above the tripartite building in the eastern part of the terrace. The building, where the middle room possesses benches along each long wall, seems to have housed banqueting rooms with adjoining service rooms on the both sides (fig. 3, 4).36 The niche carved out in about 6 to 7 m height,37 confirms through its position central to the middle aisle and almost central to the symmetrical tripartite building that it had some relation to the building below it (fig. 6, 7). That the roof or a second story was accessible can be inferred from the dimensions of the walls: The wall east of the banqueting room is a third wider than the one to the west. Here a stairway might have led up to the next level, to which the niche and the image it held was closer. Platforms and open-air areas in front of the niches show that the niches were not just places to put a dedication. Rather, religious activities took place on the platforms in front of them; benches between the western niches and the one of Hermes (fig. 3, 4, 6) might have been used for offerings left by the attendants and visitors. The rock, not the building, was the focal point of the sacred place for approaching the gods.

4. Gods in the rock-face: Niches, images and texts Who, now, are the gods and goddesses present and addressed in the inscriptions, depicted in niches, and approached on the platforms? Eight rock-carved niches are preserved, spread over the entire scarp, differing in dimension and finishing. They range from the 1st century to the early 3rd century CE.38 In the case of the undecorated niches, the surface is cut and deepened so that a change of light and shade happens. In the case of niches that show a sculptured decoration, framed by columns or having a conch at their top, the contrast lies between the 34 Measures are very approximate here. The level of ground floor is not easy to define due to earth movements, collapsing rocks and re-use in Islamic times. See description of the niche in NEAHL V, 1588–1589. 35 The dating of the inscription to 178/9 CE is only interpolated in the reading by L. Di Segni, Dated Greek Inscriptions from Palestine from the Roman and Byzantine Periods (unpubl. PhD, Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1997) – cited in IGLS 11, 103. The niche is not well preserved; a part of the upper arch with cornices is still visible (fig. 7). Fixings for framing pilasters and a stucco surface on the rock around the niche are mentioned in NEAHL I, 141. The courtyard in front of it can be dated to the 2nd century CE, because it relates to the temple building to the west to be dated from the beginning of the century (see above n. 25). 36  See above n. 26. 37  Ma’oz 1996, 3 speaks of “c. 7 m.” 38 See above p. MS 8–9 and n. 24. 26.

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smoothed, worked rock and the rough texture of the natural rock around. The limestone surface around three of the niches is worked so that it appears almost polished in contrast to the untreated rock. Paint and of course images in the niches have to be imagined as completing the visual impression when looking at the rock-wall. They are a conspicuous feature on the cliff. Out of the eight, three niches are accompanied by inscriptions (IGLS 11, A/13; A/14; A/16, fig. 5),39 while two more inscriptions are spread over the rock (IGLS 11, A/15; A/17). Except for one in Latin (IGLS 11, A/15), they are all written in Greek (fig. 6, 7).40 4.1 The gods who are in Panias Of the westernmost niches, only one is decorated and is accompanied by an inscription. The niche above the largest one has a sculptured vault and a tabula ansata below, bearing the inscription to φιλευήχῳ Διόπανι,41 to whom Victor offers a θεά. This constellation lets us assume that the niche might have housed a statue of Echo (IGLS 11, A/13, 148–149 CE?). The next inscription accompanying the niche to the east on floor level speaks of a statue of Hermes, son of Maia, given to Pan and the nymphs and dedicated by the same Victor as in the inscription before (IGLS 11, A/14, 148–149 CE). The rather long inscription of Valerius Hispanus is sitting high on the rock-wall, close to the large niche described above. He, as priest of Pan, offers a statue of Nemesis, maybe to the god whom he serves (IGLS 11 A/17, 178–179 CE ?). Echo appears again, as κυρία  Ἠχὼ, high on the scarp, but not close to a niche (IGLS 11 A/16, 221–222 CE). Agrippa and his family offered this text or more precisely the votive. Hence, there was either an area of smoothened surface in the rock-wall (as in the case of the niche of Nemesis) prepared for bearing a painted image, or no image at all. A comparison to the epigraphical material found on objects like altars or slabs (for revetment), clearly shows differences as to what god appears at what place: Inscriptions on these objects, also stemming from the 2nd century CE, speak of “pro salute Caesaris” and / ​or are addressed to Zeus.42 Pan appears only once as 39 The inscriptions offer a variety of nuances and information about the people behind them. Two are written in verse metres (IGLS 11, A/13 and A/14; cf. Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten (R. Merkelbach and J. Stauber eds.; vol. 4 Die Südküste Kleinasiens, Syrien und Palaestina, Munich / ​Leipzig: K. G. Saur Verlag, 2002), while another refers to a dream as motivation to dedicate something (IGLS 11, A/17). In A/14, A/17 and in the one mentioned in n. 26 the family members and the children of the dedicator appear. 40 NEAHL I, 140: „High above and to the right of this niche, a round pillar on a square base is carved in the rock. Inscribed below the base are the Latin words: “PANEl Z […].” Can be amended to Pan or the city (territory) of Caesarea Paneas (fig. 7). 41 See above p. 188. 42  See above n. 26. Additionally there is a fragmented inscription “Pro salute M(arci) Aur(elii) Antonini Aug(usti) Aur(elii) Ant(onini) Aug(usti) F(ilii)” on an altar, cf. NEAHL I 140, which most likely is meant for Commodus or Elagabalus (218–222 CE).

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the one “who brings victory”. None of these is written in a verse metre, and they do not speak of religious offices, relatives or other gods.43 4.2 Ways of representation and material of the gods All in all, the texts and the arrangements on the rock-face are a characteristic way of representing and addressing the gods. All the niches and inscriptions use the stone and are carved into it. Pushing this practical aspect of sculpting material further, the rock features as an interface where boundaries are blurred and lines of separation dissolved. This interpretation – in blunt words, that the rock can materially be equated with the gods – attains confirmation through two of the inscriptions which dedicators left on the rock-face: The stone material features prominently in two of the inscriptions. Hermes is connected to the material his image is made from (IGLS 11, A/14). The text l. 4 gives “whose image is cut from the rock”, επή[ορον εἰκό]ν’ πέτρῃ. Moreover the position as “high / ​elevated on the mountain / ​rock” is determined.44 The second case is the inscription to Nemesis, where not her image, but her ναός were “hollowed out of the stone,” referring also to the full accomplishment of the work (κοιλανθείσῃ πέτρᾳ τελεσιουργη[θέ]ντα IGLS 11, A/16).45 The material aspect of the dedication, and hence of the deities mentioned there and depicted in the niches, is anchored in the texts. The niche with the latter inscription, where a deity is “made from stone”, reveals evidence that there was a statuette-like image standing inside. A hole for anchoring something upright there (with lead filling) is still visible on its ground (fig. 8), while the niche close to the inscription of Hermes and its εἰκών has no traces of a fixing or pedestal for a statuette. Only in the case of the niche between the two mentioned ones, above the one of Hermes, a base made from the limestone indicates that there was an image. The other niches do not show features for putting images in them, but highly probably housed also statuettes (fig. 8). The niches and, moreover, the images and the names of the gods are cut in and made of the limestone of the scarp. The gods appearing in the inscriptions are called with one exception (the εἰκών of Hermes in IGLS 11, A/13) only by their name (IGLS 11, A/12: θεάν; IGLS 11, A 17: κυρία  Ἠχὼ), not called “statue of”, even though the material is mentioned at least for the rest of the work done for the gods (IGLS 11, A/16: κυρίαν Νέμεσιν and ναός) (fig. 6). The gods, not their 43  However, there is one on an slab with reference to a vow. See above n. 26, and IGLS 11, A/16 on the rock-wall mentions “the Caesars”. 44 Merkelbach and Stauber, Steinepigramme, 285, 20/16/01 A read εἰ[κασ]μέ[νον ἐ]ν πέτρῃ, which refers only to the image. Although it refers to a statuette of Hermes, they wrongly call this inscription an “Epigramm auf die Panstatue”,. 45 More precisely he offers the Nemesis and the naos “with the hollowed-out stone”.

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Fig. 8: Pedestal and fixture for statuettes in two of the niches in the cliff (©D. Benington).

images, are made from the stone. This phrasing underlines the close relationship between, in fact near equation of the material and the deity. From this, we can deduce that people were not only aware of the material aspect of their dedication, but also operationalized the material that established a visible and insuperable point of reference at the place. In order to establish the line of communication with the gods, the insurmountable rock is chosen for putting the names and images of gods. The built structures are not the place at the terrace of Caesarea Philippi where we find traces of engaging with the gods. It is rather the rock-face, the niches and the platforms in front of them. The limestone rock wall (indirectly also responsible for the presence of water) seemed to be the most feasible place for undertaking to communicate with the godheads. More precisely, it is the various niches and inscriptions cut in the limestone cliff of the place, and thus they must have been intrinsic to its significance (fig. 3, 6). The vertical rock marks an end point in the surroundings, and at the same time the source and beginning of the river Jordan. It is a cardinal point and thus becomes a place of activity. In visual and practical regards, the rock at Caesarea Philippi is the crucial feature marking the place and later the sacred place. The niches as described

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and contextualized with the spaces in front of them and the texts accompanying them, also look out from the rock-face. They are visible when directing the eyes to the rock (and not to the buildings), so that an association with looking at a stage building (theatre) may have been experienced by beholders and visitors. A theatre evokes a place of words and messages. On the other hand, a stage building implies an orchestra in front of it, as an area where performances take place: Claiming that the platforms at the foot of the slope were the areas of practices, again this association seems apt.46 Other sensations such as temperature, light, smell, sounds of the elements (air and water) add to this impression. These are the first-hand phenomena. As second hand phenomena we have to consider the man-made installations: structures, images, objects and texts. However, the niches and inscriptions on the bluff turn out to play a first-ranked rôle, intrinsic to their position and material aspects.

5. The rôles of the gods in the rockface in enabling communication Even though we do not know whether people chose also other ways to communicate through objects (ostraka, defixiones thrown into the source, inscriptions on portable objects like altars or terracotta figurines) or through spoken words, archaeology can analyze the material aspects, the employed media, epigraphical habits, and spatial and material setting of dedications in order to better understand how people in antiquity established communicational lines to their gods.47 5.1 Addressees and additives Pan,48 who features most prominently on the coins of the city of Caesarea Philippi, is not the recipient of dedications in all the cases.49 In a closer look at 46  V. Gasparini pointed to this comparison in discussions. Cf. his article on “Staging Religion. Cultic Performances in (and around) the Temple of Isis in Pompeii,” in: Memory and Religious Experience in the Graeco-Roman World (Postdamer Altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 45; id. and N. Cusumano eds., Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag 2013), 185–211. 47  Only a little evidence is preserved for prayers or the like in inscriptions or textual sources, cf. A. Chaniotis, “Acclamations as a Form of Religious Communication,” in: Die Religion des Imperium Romanum. Koine und Konfrontationen (H. Cancik and J. Rüpke eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 199–218; idem, “Sweet Revenge: Emotional Factors in ‘Prayers for Justice’,” in: Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World (Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien 52; A. Chaniotis ed.; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012) 235–266. 48 Pan himself embodies a hybrid status between animal and man, being a deity representing  – in Graeco-Roman thinking not struggling with a Cartesian dichotomy  – nature in an anthropomorphic figure. 49 Maybe he appears also in the damaged inscription IGLS 11, A/15; see above n. 40.

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the contents of texts in relation to the dedicated images, it turns out that in most cases the dedications include a number of divine beings. If an addressee is mentioned, it is Pan (IGLS 11, A/13; A/15?) or Pan and the nymphs (IGLS 11, A/14), whereas two of the preserved inscriptions go without specifying the recipient of the dedication (IGLS 11, A/16; A/17). But the latter, IGLS 11, A/17, is commissioned by a ἱερεὺς θεοῦ Πανός, thus referring also to Pan. All the inscriptions are very explicit about the deities whose images – or more precisely  – who themselves are being dedicated, since they appear with their names only, not with the formula “an image of” (Echo IGLS 11, A/16, maybe also in A/13; Hermes IGLS 11, A/14; Nemesis IGLS 11, A/17).50 Through reference to the genealogy of Pan in IGLS 11, A/13, Maia and Zeus also appear on the rock. Compared to other dedicatory inscriptions from the Mount Hermon region (admittedly not so numerous), the appearance of Hermes, nymphs, and Nemesis is restricted to Caesarea Philippi.51 Moreover, the recipients of a dedication are mentioned more commonly at other places (Kafr Hawar IGLS 11, 45; Har Senaim IGLS 11, 2–10), which is not the case at the rock-sanctuary at Caesarea Philippi. One could easily explain the presence of these godheads by alluding to the setting with cave and water at Caesarea Philippi  – analogies to other cavesanctuaries are numerous. But analogy explains only the fact, but not why a phenomenon is ubiquitous. What gods are chosen to be addressed, depicted and mentioned, and why? Who are the additional godheads in the texts and images? What message does it carry that not the recipient is prominent but rather a number of different gods and goddesses? Here a particular type of “not unquestionably plausible agent”52 comes to the fore, allowing for a certain type of communication between them and the dedicators. Even though we have only a small number of inscriptions, they feature prominently among the material furnishings of the sacred place and give insights into the communication processes intended by the dedicators.53 “Mediatory” can be 50 Only once an εἰκών is mentioned, though in a syntactical construction that sets off Hermes, the depicted, from his image (IGLS 11, A/14). See p. MS 13–14 and 18–19. 51  See R. C. Gregg and D. Urman, Jews, Paganism and Christians in the Golan Heights: Greek and Other Inscriptions of the Roman and Byzantine Eras (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 298, map 6. 52  See above n. 13. 53 Cf. e. g. Ch. Frevel and H. v. Hesberg, “Einführung,” in: Kult und Kommunikation. Medien in Heiligtümern der Antike (Zakmira 4; Ch. Frevel and H. v. Hesberg eds.; Wiesbaden: Verlag Dr. Ludwig Reichert, 2007), 9–16 on introducing media-theoretical approaches to the study of religious activities in the ancient Mediterranean. See also Ch. Frevel, “Medien in der Alltagskultur – Einführung,” in: Medien im antiken Palästina: Materielle Kommunikation und Medialität als Thema der Palästinaarchäologie (FAT II 10; Ch. Frevel ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 1–26, esp. 22–23, and Ch. Uehlinger, “‘Medien’ in der Lebenswelt des antiken

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applied in the literal sense of the word; they seem to be in-between “in medias” of the dedicator (sender) and the addressed god (receiver that often remains unnamed).54 Gods with intermediary competences like Hermes and Nemesis are embedded in the rock-face. Hermes appears as the most well-known god of this kind of divine beings (IGLS 11, A/14). His position among the gods is that of the herald, the messenger.55 He is the one between situations, realms, and persons. In the inscription he can be understood as the embodied message to Pan and the nymphs uttered by the dedicator Valerius. Nemesis, being venerated in a large niche with inscription at the rock-scarp (IGLS 11, A/17), is a multifaceted divine power. She is not accounted a typical mediator, since the aspect of revenge and defeat of enemies connected to the Imperial cult on the one hand or her veneration in the realm of the amphitheatre on the other prevails in narratives of Roman Imperial times.56 However, she is a negotiator, she prevents people from unjust thoughts and action, and she takes care of equal shares. A balancing rôle between differing parties is her intrinsic character, her function to restore equilibrium. As such she has to be familiar with both sides, moving to and fro between them. Nemesis mediates between two sides, a characteristic that – transferred to iconographical expressions – results in depicting her with wings. She is imagined and depicted as a winged deity like other messenger gods.57 In my view, in the context of the sanctuary of Caesarea Palästina,” in: loc. cit. 31–61, esp. 33–42. See also recently J. Rüpke, “Religiöses Handeln. Kommunikation mit göttlichen Mächten,” in: Imperium der Götter: Isis – Mithras – Christus. Kulte und Religionen im Römischen Reich (Begleitband zur Ausstellung im Badischen Landesmuseum (Badisches Landesmuseum Karlsruhe ed.; Darmstadt: Theiss, 2013), 32–39. 54  That the receiver (god) acts or reacts to the prayers and vows of people can only be inferred from the dream oracle (IGLS 11, A/17) or fulfilled vows, see above n. 26. 55  Cf. A. Thomsen, Die Wirkung der Götter. Bilder mit Flügelfiguren auf griechischen Vasen des 6. und 5. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Image & Context 9; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 272–274 for early examples, but some good general observations. 56 See M. B. Hornum, Nemesis, the Roman State and the Games (Religions in the GraecoRoman world 117; Leiden: Brill 1993); A. Chaniotis, “Drei kleinasiatische Inschriften zur griechischen Religion” Epigraphica Anatolica 15 (1990): 127–133. On Nemesis in the Near East cf. H. Seyrig, “Némésis et le temple de Maqam er-Rabb,” in: Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph: Mélanges offerts au Père René Mouterde pour son 80e anniversaire I, vol. 37 (1961): 259–270; id., “Antiquites syriennes,” Syria 13 (1932): 50–64. See also H. Bru, “Némésis et le culte impérial dans les provinces syriennes,” Syria 85 (2008): 293–314 with the common interpretations. 57  For examples of winged Nemesis see Musée du Louvre, Inv.-Nr. MNE 798 (2nd century CE) with wings, or the twin statuettes from Ephesus (see R. Fleischer, “Eine neue Darstellung der doppelten Nemesis von Smyrna,” in: Hommages à Maarten J. Vermasseren, vol. 1 (Etudes préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 68; Margreet B. de Boer and T. A. Edridge eds.; Leiden: Brill, 1978) 392–396, Taf. 79,2; id., “Doppelte Nemesis-Aphrodite?,” Anadolu 22 [1981/1983]: 127–141, Abb. 1, with example from Çavdarlı), as well as on Roman coins from Smyrna (Hornum, Nemesis, the Roman State and the Games, 12). On gems she is often depicted winged, cf. J. Spier, Ancient Gems and Finger Rings: Catalogue of the Collec­ tions (Malibu: The J. Paul Getty Museum, 1992), no. 334, and G. M. A. Richter, Catalogue of

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Philippi the mediating characteristics of Nemesis make much more sense than the revenging bias in her nature.58 Among the nymphs as an unspecified group appears Echo, who plays a mediatory rôle, too, even though it is not as prominent as in the case of Hermes. She features twice there, as an epithet of Pan, who is φιλευήχος (IGLS 11, A/13), and in an image given as dedication (κυρία  Ἠχὼ IGLS 11, A/17). Her prominence derives from the natural features, the rock that physically reverberates with every sound. She conveys the words and messages of dedicants due to the existence of the rock-wall. The nymphs, and as such also Echo, are the divinized reference to nature in changing shapes, since they are localized between the perceptible world and the non-intelligible power of nature.59 They are not just “nature deities,”60 but rather considered powerful and ubiquitous deities, and hence highly venerated.61 5.2 Ways of communication The deities present on the rock-face at Caesarea Philippi represent different ways of interaction between a human being and the divinities. In the ascribed roles and compeences, the different gods, Hermes, Nemesis, Echo, can transmit and translate the messages of the dedicants and attendants to the supra-natural powers. At the same time, they are evoked and approached, too, since they are named in the inscriptions and represented in images. Echo is the most obvious figure for communicational processes.62 She is the sound and as such the message, her technical medium is acoustic, with the help of the material-physical features of the place, i. e., the rock. She is an aural repeater. Echo appears in the inscription of Agrippa (IGLS 11, A/16), whose entire dedication on the cliff results from an “oracle sung in a dream” (l. 4–6 ὀνίρῳ χρησμωδο[τη]θεί).63 The wording plays with voice and melody that may Engraved Gems of the Classical Style: Greek Etruscan, and Roman (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2006[1920]), 84, no. 370, pl. 47. On winged creatures in Classical times see Thomsen, Die Wirkung der Götter. 58 This characteristic of Nemesis might come into play in the context of amphitheatres, where her image is frequent, guaranteeing fairness and avenging feelings. 59  On nymphs see J. L. Larson, Greek Nymphs: Myth, Cult, Lore (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 3–20, 100–121. Their iconographical unspecificity is counterbalanced by being highly local goddesses with singular characteristics. 60  Cf. recently J. Larson, “A Land Full of Gods: Nature Deities in Greek Religion,” in: Com­ panion to Greek Religion (D. Ogden ed., Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2007), 56–70. 61 On the veneration of nymphs in Classical and Late Classical reliefs see M. Gaifman, “Visualized Rituals and Dedicatory Inscriptions on Votive Offerings to the Nymphs,” Opuscula 1 (2008): 85–104; in general Larson, Greek Nymphs. 62 Especially the nymphs, who are very place-bound, but in their physical appearance unspecific, have also the neutral character a mediator needs. 63  The nymphs can also exert divination powers, often through nympholepsy, while here an oneiromanty happens. On nympholepsy see D. Fabiano, “La nympholepsie entre possession

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then come back from bluff, repeating the communication with an unknown addressee. Hermes transmits messages through physical movement and spoken words. An audible aspect can be found in the written words of the inscription that mentions his image. Valerius acts as ἀρητήρ (IGLS 11, A/13, l. 3), as a man uttering his prayer. Nemesis connects and balances through her presence and intervening. Her wingedness indicates an active part through mobility between two parties.64 The choices of the gods mentioned and represented in inscriptions and images result in a predominance of gods with transmitting competencies. The persons dedicating at the sanctuary did not take their own ability for granted. They extended the common ways to establish communication with the gods by introducing messengers in-between: Hermes, or unspecified and very placebound deities like the nymphs, the Nymph Echo – an embodiment of (repeated) sound, or the divinification (not personification)65 of the mediating concept that Nemesis stands for. Thus, the processuality as well as the materialization of the communication comes to the fore along the rock-face. In the communication between two rather distant parties (in terms not only of spatial distance and different language code, but also of ontology) mediating heralds, themselves gods, are introduced and appointed. Echo, Hermes or Nemesis are ones who can cross the borders and mediate between human and divine interests. Here the concept which has already been spelled out by Nicole Belayche using epigraphical material can be tested with material remains.66 In a case study of inscriptions from Roman Asia Minor she points out that ἂγγελοι gain more relevance in votive inscriptions from Roman Imperial times, but emphasizes the double character of the messengers as independent and at the same time merging with the divine

et paysage,” in: Perception et construction du divin dans l’Antiquité (Recherches et rencontres, 31; Ph. Borgeaud and id. eds.; Genève: Librairie Droz, 2013), 165–175, esp. 172–174; astragaloi in cave sanctuaries like the Corycian Cave (Larson, Greek Nymphs, 234–238), or the oracle in a (unlocalised) sacred place of the nymphs at Apollonia, Epeiros, cf. Larson, Greek Nymphs, 11–14. See also R. Caillois, “Les démons du midi (suite),” Revue de Histoire des Religions 116 (1937): 54–83. Cf. Y. Ustinova, Caves and the Ancient Greek Mind, on divinations by nymphs 55–68. Hydromantic rites are probably referred to by Eusebius, Historia ecclesiae, 7, 17. 64 Nemesis can bear the epithet exaudentissima (CIL III 1126, 2nd/3rd century CE, from Apulum). See Belayche, “Individualization and Religious Rhetoric in Imperial Anatolia,” 243. 65  On the rather weak concept of personification, when explaining functions and rôles of gods, see Thomsen, Die Wirkung der Götter, 33–35. 66  Cf. S. Krämer, Medium, Bote, Übertragung. Kleine Metaphysik der Medialität (Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2008), 66–89 and 110–121 with aspects of her “Botenmodell,” focusing on “Distanz,” “Heteronomie,” “Drittheit,” and “Materialität”; Uehlinger, “‘Medien’ in der Lebenswelt,” 50. For the material aspect of communication and media see for example J. Faryno, “Die Sinne und die Textur der Dinge,” in: Materialität der Kommunikation (H. U.  Gumbrecht and K. L. Pfeiffer eds., Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1988), 654–665, esp. 660–664.

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figure they are messenger for.67 At Caesarea Philippi, the absence of an addressee or receiver follows the same strategy. The intended recipient might have been obvious, while the transmission of a wish to the deity was seen as a much more problematic step for the people visiting the place. Hence, deities take over the intermediary rôle for setting up the line of communication some other god(s). From the point of view of communication theory the remains at the cliff of Caesarea Philippi speak in favour of a strong rôle for the messenger in building a line of communication to the gods. Broadening the concept of communication defined by the poles of a receiver and a sender, the mediator or transmitter of these messages comes to the fore. The triadic and thus, also the more processual character of communication (sender, messenger, receiver) is underlined, going beyond the dyadic view as applied in semiotic approaches.68 Through the messenger, the message takes on also a potentially material aspect, as he / ​she / ​it is the message for a certain time while the distance in time and or space between the sender and the receiver has to be overcome.69

6. Conclusion Employing criteria of materiality and practices to the interpretation of remains from the cave, the cliff and the terrace at Caesarea Philippi I inquired into the features which made the place a sacred place in the 1st to 3rd century CE. This approach leads to better understanding of what spatial and material layouts people in Graeco-Roman antiquity conceptualized physically and perceived as where the gods could be encountered. A focus on materials, shapes and interdependencies of natural and man-made features offered insights into how this place was distinct, and how different areas of practices were delimited from the surroundings. The cave with the source at Caesarea Philippi is an attractive point of reference for any human presence there, because it offers water supply for passers-by at a crossroads of routes as well as for local inhabitants. Therefore, the terrace is frequented at most from the 5th century BCE onwards. In subsequent times, people shaped areas of divine presence along the terrace and the cliff, and composed 67 N. Belayche, “Individualization and Religious Rhetoric in Imperial Anatolia,” in: Reli­ gious Individualization in the Hellenistic and Roman Period (J. Rüpke, ed.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 243–266, esp. 247–251; idem, “Angeloi in Religious Practices of the Imperial Roman East,” Henoch 32 (2010): 45–65; idem, “Religious Actors in Daily Life: Practices and Related Beliefs,” in: A Companion to Roman Religion (J. Rüpke ed.; Malden: WileyBlackwell, 2007), 275–291. An inscription from Haloua (IGLS 11, 1), about 40 km to the north of Caesarea Philippi, mentions θεὸν ἄγγελον Μελικέρτην. 68  Krämer, Medium, Bote, Übertragung, 9–19 in her “Prolog.” 69  R. Debrays cited in Krämer, Medium, Bote, Übertragung, 87 with n. 19; see also Krämer, op. cit., 116–117 for M. Serres emphasizing the “between.”

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staggered zones where practices to get in contact with the gods could take place. Open-air platforms in front of the rock-face are the most characteristic feature at the terrace, in use from the 1st century to the 5th century CE. I argued that the spatial arrangements and the deliberate use of differences in level, pavement material and visibility point to the rock-cliff as most important place for activities. The platforms in front of niches housing images of godheads and the inscriptions in the limestone cliff show the ways of interacting with the gods that people at Caesarea Philippi chose in Roman times. The niches in the rock play with aesthetical differences (in the sense of aesthesis as sensory perception) between the rough limestone texture and the smoothed or even decorated zone of the niche. The texts refer in two cases to the material the (images of) gods are made from: The rock and stone are of intrinsic importance at the place. The gods represented and mentioned in images and texts display particular competences, addressed with particular wording in comparison to dedications found on objects on ground floor (where mainly Zeus is addressed). Hermes, the nymphs, prominently among them Echo, and Nemesis are dedicated, and named, while the recipient of dedications is in some cases Pan, but often remains unnamed. The texts and their location represent ways of communication – with acoustic devices, repetition and active transmission through physical mobility. Though they are not the addressees, the mentioned deities are not less important, since they transmit messages, the vows and wishes, from the humans to (an) other god(s). They prove successful as mediators, able to transgress limines in the literal sense of the word, and enabling the relationship between men and gods. The cliff at Caesarea Philippi and the anthropogenic intrusions reflect the materialized ways of interaction between the human and divine agents. The cutting of divinities, messengers and messages into the rock, as well as the platforms and areas in front of them, rendered this contact zone somehow tangible and superable, much more than any architecturally designed building. For this reason people came to the rock and the cave, and engaged during their practices with the rock as closely as possible.

“Tear Down the Middle Wall of the Temple”: the Meaning of mesotoichon in Ephesians 2:141 Annette Weissenrieder With book and essay titles like “Das Urchristentum als Religionsgemeinschaft der Entgrenzung,”2 “Jenseits der Mauern und Zäune,”3 and The Broken Wall,4 scholars are referring to Eph 2:14, which says that Christ establishes peace by “destroying the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility τὸ μεσότοιχον τοῦ φραγμοῦ λύσας.”5 The term μεσότοιχον, often translated in the theological commentaries as “middle wall” or “dividing wall,” is a hapax legomenon in the New Testament. To date, four different suggestions have been presented in the relevant literature. Most interpreters assume that the term μεσότοιχον refers to the temple gate and the associated warning inscription of the temple in Jerusalem, and that in the letter to the Ephesians it functions as a metaphor for the separation between Jews and those of other faiths.6 Both the inscription and Josephus describe this “dividing wall” using the term τρυφάκτος, or the older form δρυφάκτος. However, this physical barrier does not exist in a vacuum, but is part of a complex, some1 I would like to warmly thank Prof. Helga Bumke and her excavation team, who allowed me to more closely investigate the temple of Apollon in Didyma and different the walls. This article is based on a talk that was first discussed in the workshop Borders: Terms, Ideolo­ gies, and Performances at San Francisco Theological Seminary, and in a revised version at the Max Weber Kolleg in Erfurt in 2014. Particular thanks go to Susanna Elm, Erich Gruen, Markus Vinzent, Georgia Petridou, Anna-Katharina Rieger, and Richard Gordon whose critical analysis helped me develop my chapter for the book project Tempelbild, ekklēsia und Kultterminologie in der frühchristlichen Epistolographie (1/2 Kor und Eph), and to Jörg Rüpke for inviting me to the Max Weber Kolleg. 2  S. Vollenweider, “Das Urchristentum als Religionsgemeinschaft der Entgrenzung,” in Kom­ munikation über Grenzen (F. Schweitzer ed.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2009), 55–71. 3  F.-J. Steinmetz, “Jenseits der Mauern und Zäune,” GuL 59 (1986): 202–214. 4  J.-E. Howard, “The Wall Broken: An Interpretation of Ephesians 2:11–22,” in Biblical Interpretation: Principles and Practices (F. F. Kearley, E. P.Myers, and T. D. Hadley eds.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1986), 296–306. 5  Even the interpretation of the genitive construction is questionable: if we assume a genitivus qualitatis, then the terms mean “the separating partition”; if the genitive is understood as a genitivus posessionis, then it is “the wall that belonged to the fence”; and finally, if we see the term as an apposition to the genitive, it would be translated as “the partition wall that belonged in the fence.” 6  For more on τρυφάκτος and δρυφάκτος, see pp. 218–221.

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times tension-filled system of additional cultic, ritual and social restrictions – for instance between men and women, priests and laypeople, clean and unclean, holy and profane. However, the terms τρυφάκτος and δρυφάκτος are not semantically related to μεσότοιχον, as some scholars would have us believe. This interpretation is closely linked with another view, as per Aristeas, that interprets the wall as a law: “Our Lawgiver [Moses] being a wise man and specially endowed by God to understand all things, took a comprehensive view of each particular detail, and fenced us [the Israelites] round with impregnable ramparts and walls of iron (περιέφραξεν ἡμᾶς ἀδιακόποις χάριξι καὶ σιδηροῖς τείχεσιν), that we might not mingle with any of the other nations, but remain pure in body and soul, free from all vain imaginations […].”7 In Chap. 142–143, Aristeas continues: “Therefore lest we should be corrupted by any abomination, or our lives be perverted by evil communications, he hedged us round on all sides by (ἡμᾶς περιέφραξεν) rules of purity, affecting alike what we eat, or drink, or touch, or hear, or see […].” This circumstance was also similarly formulated by Philo of Alexandria and 1 Enoch.8 The law is taken as a starting point for establishing the special nature of each side, for those of other faiths as well as Jews. In my opinion, it is fundamental to this argument that “in his flesh” (ἐν τῇ σαρκὶ αὐτοῦ) can grammatically refer to multiple objects.9 Since the writings of Schlier, Mussner and Dibelius, this instrumental phrase has often been linked with the participle καταργήσας (destroy) following the “middle wall.” Consequently, “the enmity” (τὴν ἔχθραν) becomes the object of καταργήσας. Many exegetes also see the phrase “the law with its commands and regulations” (τὸν νόμον τῶν ἐντολῶν ἐν δόγμασιν) as an apposition to enmity (τὴν ἔχθραν). Thus the Torah is described as a dividing wall, which can be read as protecting identity on the Jewish side; on the Christian side, it is seen as the aspect that prevents all people from being unified in the peace of God.10 This critique of the law may have been influenced by Col 2:14,11 because this is the only other place where δόγματα is found in the NT epistles. In addition,  7 For

Aristeas see the article by Barbara Schmitz in this volume (pp. 143–153).  See e. g. Ph. De virtutibus 186: “In a ship the pilot is worth as much as all the crew, and in an army the general as much as all the soldiers, since if he fall, defeat results as certainly as it would if the whole force were annihilated. So, too, against the worth of a whole nation the wise man can hold his own, protected by the impregnable wall of godliness τείχει πεφραγμένος ἀκαθαιρέτῳ.” (translation: Colson) See also F. Mussner, Christus, das All und die Kirche. Studien zur Theologie des Epheserbriefes (TThSt 5; Trier: Paulinus Verlag, 1968), 82–84, who also refers to 3 Macc 3:4; see also M. Dibelius “Die Christianisierung einer hellenistischen Formel,” in: Botschaft und Geschichte. Ges. Auf. 2 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1956), 14–29.  9 For the question of the changes of the text version by Marcion, see my manuscript Tem­ pelbild, ekklēsia und Kultterminologie (forthcoming). 10  A. Lincoln, Ephesians (WBC 42; Dallas: Thomas Nelson, 1990), 142 already illustrates the two lines of thought with regard to ancient literature. 11  J. Muddiman, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Ephesians (BNTC, London, New York: Baker, 2001), 132 decisively argues against an intertextual connection between Col 2:14 and Eph 2:14; in Col 2:14 the paradoxical metaphor of the death of Jesus is explained more concisely.  8

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a suggestion by Schlier, reviving an idea from Ferdinand Chr. Baur (from 1845), was quite popular – the idea of a Gnostic redeemer myth. In this interpretation, the text describes a cosmic wall, the wall between the world of God and the world of human beings.12 The Gnostic redeemer destroys this wall or border, thereby bringing about peace. One problem with this, though far from the only one, is that the literature referenced by Schlier and others was written much later.13 This chronological balancing act is especially noticeable in the Mandaean texts, which play an important role for Schlier. Even more important is the fact that terms referring to the middle wall are entirely absent, and only appear in places where the Gnostic sources were influenced by the Letter to the Ephesians; so even in the best-case scenario, these can only be considered a form of reception criticism. Recently, researchers’ emphasis has once again shifted. The wall is now seen as a metaphor for social enmity, which is directed not just toward a single group, for instance Jews or gentiles, but toward everyone who is subject to forms of social conformity, for instance due to “differences in place of residence, manner of worship, food and dress, politics and ethics, and above all the blank wall of mutual incomprehension, fear and contempt between the two groups. And this apartheid between Jews and Gentiles is understood here not as a legitimate peace-keeping measure, but on the contrary as the institutionalization of mutual antipathy.”14 In this interpretation, the early Christians were urged to build “bridges” between the various ethnic groups.15 This interpretation is noteworthy particularly because Muddiman previously read μεσότοιχον as meaning a dividing wall in terraced houses. Does this not, then, suggest a spatial interpretation?16 Overall, it is worth noting that the above mentioned concepts, in interpreting the wall destroyed by Christ, can be guided either by their interpretation of the Pauline doctrine of justification (because of the mention of the law) or else Christian universalism (because of the mention of Jews and gentiles), but they do not acknowledge the terms μεσότοιχον and φράγμος as such. In the following, I am going to describe the two terms, μεσότοιχον and φράγμος, more precisely. In addition to the Greek text of the New Testament, I will also use the Vetus Latina and Vulgata version, though briefly, in order to evaluate Roman building inscriptions in addition to Greek inscriptions. For one thing is worth noting: 12  In addition, H. Schlier, Der Brief an die Epheser. Ein Kommentar (5th ed.; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1971), refers to Leviticus Rabbah 26 (124a), which states: “the snake first broke down the first great fence of the world; therefore it became the executioner for those who break through fences (the rules of the teachers – Schlier).” 13 Particular mention should be made of the arguments by Schnackenburg, who states that heaven and earth are not divided in this way otherwise; this perspective is confirmed by Merkel, who states that the law has a cosmic relevance which it does not have elsewhere. 14 Muddiman, Ephesians, 128. 15  Muddiman, Ephesians, 128 f. 16  This assessment is rather remarkable as it does not provide any references. Is the author using references from Dura Europos?

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both terms, μεσότοιχον and φράγμος, which occur very infrequently in the Greek, are commonly used in their Latin translations of paries and maceria in antiquity.

1. The meaning of μεσότοιχον in Greek and Roman antiquity 1.1 The meaning of μεσότοιχον in the Apollo Temple in Didyma Even in his commentary on the Letter to the Ephesians, Best referred to the building inscriptions in Didyma in a footnote, but without any further discussion of how the term μεσότοιχον functioned within the sanctuary.17 In fact, the term appears multiple times in the building inscriptions on the temple of Apollo in Didyma, which is why the temple and its inscriptions both deserve closer study.18 In archaic times, the cult of Apollo Didymeus19 and the oracle20 were controlled by the Branchidai, members of a kind of association of cults.21 After  E. Best, Ephesians. A Shorter Commentary (Bloomsbury: T & T Clark, 2003). B. Fehr, Zur Geschichte des Apolloheiligtums von Didyma (MarbWPr, Marburg: Verlag des Kunstgeschichtlichen Seminars, 1972), 14–59; J. Fontenrose, The Cults of the Mile­ sian Didyma (PhD. Berkeley, 1933); idem, Didyma. Apollo’s Oracle, Cult, and Companions (Berkeley, Los Angeles: University Press, 1978), 30 ff.; W. Günther, Das Orakel von Didyma in hellenistischer Zeit: Eine Interpretation von Steinurkunden (IM Beihefte 4; Tübingen: Wasmuth, 1971); B. Haussoullier, “Le culte de Zeus à Didymes, la Βοηγία,“ Melange Weil (Paris, 1898), 147 ff.; H. Knackfuss, Didyma I: die Baubeschreibungen (Berlin: Mann, 1941); R. D. Miller, The Origins and Original Nature of Apollo (Ph.D. Philadelphia, 1939); H. W. Parke and D. E. W.  Wormell, The Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor I: History (Oxford: Blackwell, 1956 = London: University Press, 1985),125 ff.; H. W. Parke and D. E. W. Wormell, The Delphic Oracle II: The Oracular Responses (Oxford: Blackwell, 1956); Th. Wiegand, Vorläufige Berichte über die von den staatlichen Museen in Milet und Didyma unternommenen Ausgrabungen. Abhand­ lungen der Preussischen Wissenschaften zu Berlin: Bericht 6: Anhang 1, Abhandlung (1908); Bericht 7: Anhang, Abhandlung 1 (1911); Bericht 8: Abhandlung 1 (1924). 19  The cult of the oracle is called Απόλλων Διδυμεύς or Διδυμεὺς’ Απόλλων in the building inscriptions (see Did. II 281; SIG 906 A 6); Απόλλων Διδυμεύς is used in the early imperial era in a letter sent by Septimius Severus to Milet (I.Milet I 7.274.25); see also the epiclesis Σωτήρ Did. II 75; Milet I 7.279.280.281; and in addition see the epiclesis  Ἥλιος Did. II 504.9 f. (SEG I 427). See for further details Günther, Orakel von Didyma, 11 f. 20 For the seer in Greek oracles see M. A. Flower, The Seer in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University Press, 2008), esp. 22–23 for Didyma; in Hellenistic times there are the so-called kosmoi who oversee the oracle: see Herda, Der Apollon-Delphinios-Kult in Milet und die Neujahrspro­ zession nach Didyma. Ein neuer Kommentar des sogenannten Molopoi Satzung (Mainz: Zabern, 2006), 35–37; in contrast, Parke [The Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor, 33 ff.] and C. Morgan [“Divination and Society at Delphi and Didyma,” Hermathena 147 (1989): 17–42, here 28] who believe that the group of Molopoi from Milet is of major importance for Didyma. 21 Didyma was also well-known as Βραγχίδαι or Βραγχιαδῶν; see therefore Hdt. 1.158.1; the toponym Branchidai in the feminine plural is used by Herodotus 1.46.2; 1.99.2; 1.157.1; 1.159.1; 2.159.3; 5.36.3; with regard to the epiclese of Apollo Branchiades see Lact. Plac. in Stat. Theb. 3,479 = FGrHist 184 F 16: Branchus Thessalus fuit, dilectus Apollonit, ut Hyacinthus, quem ac­ riter interfectum dolens sepulcro et templo sacravit illinc Branchiades Apollo dicitur. Branchidai is mentioned together with the founder of the oracle “Branchos.” The name Branchos is mentioned the first time in the second half of the sixth century BCE by Hipponax of Ephesos (see fr. 17

18 See

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the oracle fell silent, something that can probably also be linked to the Branchidai’s resettlement by the Persians,22 Didyma played no more than a regional role for the next 150 years, and was revitalized only in the Alexandrian Era when the oracle was re-established, as reported by Callisthenes.23 As Parke and Herda convincingly argue, the male mantis of the Branchidai disappeared not just because of the Persians, but also in order to effectively counteract the dominance of the panhellenic Delphi with a female prophetis or promantis. Both descriptions should be considered as assimilating with Delphi, as Aristophanes, Plato or Lucian may explain.24 The heart of the temple of Apollo was the oracle site, which was built around the room of the union (μεῖξις) of Zeus and Leto, including the holy tree and the holy well (fig. 2: map). The cultic function required a hypaethral facility so the temple was designed as an adyton (fig. 3–5).25 Bielefeld, for instance, referring to a passage in Iamblichus, describes the mantic inspiration of the light falling within the adyton: “The very strange footprint of the didymäic sanctum [… is …] above all [connected] with epiphany-like appearances of the God as a 105 line 6; M. L. West, Iambi et elegi graeci vol. 1.2 [Oxford: University Press, 1989], 145–146, who is also referring to P.Oxy. XVIII 2175 fr. 5,6). This fragment suggests an early dating of the Branchos myth that N. Ehrhardt only recently argued against. He translates the Branchos myth in Hellenistic times; it is, however, remarkable that he mentions this archaic fragment without referring to the applicable consequences for the dating. He also considers “dass es ein Familie, einen Clan oder einen sonstwie zu definierenden Verband der Branchidai in historischer Zeit nicht gab” [“that there was no family, clan or otherwise defined association of the Branchidai in historical times”] (p. 16). The Branchidai are to be interpreted as a Milesian invention from the time of Alexander the Great [“Poliskulte bei Theokrit und Kallimachos: Das Beispiel Milet,” Hermes 131 (2003): 269–289, here 289, n. 101]. There are apparent reasons for the fact that this was a common narrative in ancient authors’ writings; the graffiti from Berenzan seems to be evidence of the toponym and the oracle under the leadership of the Branchidai, as is convincingly shown by Burkert (see W. Burkert, “Olbia and Apollo of Didyma: A New Oracle Text,” in: Apollo. Origins and Influences. Symposium Arizona 1988 [J. Solomon ed.; Tucson: University of Arizona, 1994], 49–60). With regard to the translation of the text see W. Burkert, “Apollon Didim i Ol’vija,” VDI 2 (1990): 155–160. LSJ argues that the name derives etymologically from the βράγχος I.1: “hoarseness or sore throat causing hoarseness.” This etymological derivative leaves it open whether it refers to a fictive family group. See also A. Herda, “Der Kult des Gründerheroen Neiles und die Artemis Kithone in Milet. Neue Forschungen,” ÖJh 67 (1998): 1–48 and Herda, Der Apollon-Delphinos-Kult in Milet, 277; H. W. Parke, “The Temple of Apollo at Didyma: The Building and its Functions,” JHS 106 (1986): 121–131, here 125 f., which refers to the revitalized oracle of Didyma at Delphi. 22 One placed them close to the fateful border river Iaxartes; for more detail see E. Fredricksmeyer, “Alexander’s Religion and Divinity,” in: Brill’s Companion to Alexander the Great (J. Roisman ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 253–278. 23 See FGrHist 124 F 14 and the abovementioned passage from Strabo; see also Parke, Oracle of Apollo, 33–45; Fontenrose, Didyma, 15–18; Günther, Das Orakel von Didyma, 21–26. 24  See Ar. 42.131; Pl. Phdr. 244a; Lucian Bis.Acc. 1; Hdt. 6.66 and passim. For a thorough review see G. Radke, “Art. Promantis 2,” RE XXIII 1 (1957): 647; see also Parke, Oracles of Apollo, 186 f. 25  With the exception of some Imperial and late ancient inscriptions, this term is used in Did II 159; III 14, where the term σῆκος is used.

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light-bringer. Unfortunately, the details of these cultic circumstances are largely unknown to us, but their spiritual existence as such is undisputed.”26 This effect is heightened in the Hellenistic temple not just because the adyton reached impressive dimensions, with a width of 21.71 meters and a length of 53.63 meters – the entire building is also elevated, which reinforces the impression of the “numinous,”27 further strengthened by a large flight of steps leading to the double-pillared hall (fig. 4–6). Of course, visitors to the twelve-pillared hall, whose doors are supposed to open the path for them, are confronted with a 1.5-meter-tall marble oracle threshold made of marble. Thus the sanctuary did not reveal any glimpses of the inner sanctum to visitors, and of course there was no direct outside access to this room. One noteworthy feature of the room is an iron door, the trithyron ἐν τῶι στρώματι τοῦ τρι[θύρo]υ.28 Later, this description was replaced by κιονίσκος in the building documents.29 A single monumental staircase, with twenty-two steps, led from the inner room of the temple to the oracle threshold (fig. 5–7). This inner area of the temple could only be reached from the outside by two long tunnellike passages on the east side, which ran along the north and south sides. These tunnels were just wide and tall enough to admit one visitor. The building inscriptions made a significant contribution to the construction history of the Didymeion. The latest preserved building documents can probably be dated to the end of the 2nd century BC. These are steles with writing on both sides. The building documents do not indicate the current construction status of the Didymeion at the time, but the prologue mentions the annually changing highest official of Miletus, known as the Milesian stephanephor. The representatives of the sanctuary are the high priest or prophet, the household employees responsible for cash management, the tamiai, and finally the architect responsible for this section of the building and the commissioner supervising the construction process, the epistate, and the annually changing public official from Didyma. The building documents are in any case an excerpt from the original temple administration files, and include annual accounting reports (ἀπολογισμός) about the work performed, as well as a detailed explanation of work processes; in the section on inscriptions that particularly interests us, Did. II 25–29, these

26  See Bielefeld, “Ein anatolisches Motiv bei Kanachos?” Ist.Mitt. 12 (1962): 23 with reference to Iamb. Myst.3.11. 27 The concept of the „Numinosen“ (numinous) was first introduced by Rehm, Bauberichte, 8, who contrasts this with the “Aufgeklärten des frühen Hellenismus” [“enlightened people of early Hellenism”] (p. 9). 28 Did. II 29,13. 29  See Did. II 35,19 [ἐν τῶ]ι προδόμι ἐν τῶι κιονίσκωι, which may be explained by the fact that in the 2nd century BCE the prodomos was still included, as shown by Günther, Orakel von Didyma, 98.

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specify every single stone laid in the temple.30 However, these documents are not official records in the strictest sense of the term; they are merely excerpts from the irretrievably lost original files from the archive. Sections Did. II 25–29 of the building documents already stand out because they are more specific, precisely identifying the building level, the building section and the numbered building blocks. They have one other unique feature: the offset stones each bear a person’s name. In addition, the stones have offset markings (λίθος ἄγραφος), probably to simplify billing.31 The names are significant, and indicate various suppliers. Thus there do not seem to be any specifications about certain parts of the temple, as was common in other temple facilities. The term μεσότοιχον appears frequently in the inscriptions in Didyma. In the following, we are particularly interested in steles 25–27.32 Overall, the inscription lists fifteen layers, and μεσότοιχον is named in Sections IA, IIB, IIIA and IIIB. Because of its size, the building is schematically cut in half along the longitudinal axis in the building reports. Thus the inscriptions each refer to the northern (βόρειον) or southern (νότιον μέρος) side of the building. In the context of the μεσότοιχον, the adyton wall is described first, the προήνεμος τοῖχος. The information primarily refers to the adjacent two-pillar hall on the western side, and the staircases leading from the hall to the roof of the temple. In addition to the structural elements and a list of their costs, it also precisely describes the construction of the staircase and hallway, along with the labyrinth in a room above them.33 The information provided by the building documents under μεσότοιχον mainly refers to the side walls. A closer investigation of the staircase and the labyrinth suggests two hypotheses (fig. 1a/b): first, as Rehm and Günther suggest, 30  The dating of these inscriptions is debated. It is especially questionable whether there is a time lag of several years between inscriptions 27 and 29, as Rehm, Bauberichte, 1 f. argues, or whether work on the sanctuary was completed within the space of a few years, as Voigtländer, Didyma, 75 believes. 31 See Rehm, Didyma II, 28; Haussoullier, “Milet,” 53 who believes to have found the distributor’s stone markers: “[…] nom propre, clui de l’entrepreneur ou du chef d’equipe qui a fourni la pierre.” Rehm, Didyma II, 95–96 argues that these “stone markers” refer to the slave owner who rented the labor force to the sanctuary: “The number of workers needed for a year of construction depended on the money that was available. So the number was subject to change. If it had a large number of its own slaves, the sanctuary ran the risk of seeing them temporarily unemployed. […] The personal names thus referred to the owners of the slaves.” This position broadly accords with the inscriptions, as they document that the work accomplished was billed per unit; in doing so, one determined a fixed price per foot. The expenses were listed in the annual accounts: food and clothing for the workers as well as tool repairs were listed as separate invoice items (see particularly Did II 40,7; II 39). A larger amount was required for material transport, since some of the marble had to be brought to Didyma by sea. The building inscriptions mention the region Ionia Polis, the Grion Mountains, in other words the southeastern part of the Milesian peninsula. 32  See I A9; III B 72; III A 81, 86; II B 7; II B 13; III B 1; II B 21; III B 75; III A 117; III B 64. 33  B. Haussoullier, “Inscriptions de Didymes. Comptes de la construction du temple d’Apollon Didyméen,” Revue de Philologie 29:3 (1905): 237–265. Formularbeginn

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a b

Fig. 1a and b: Drawing of the Apollo Temple in Didyma (see Wiegand).

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μεσότοιχον could be interpreted as a “middle wall”34 that creates a special struc-

ture for the staircase together with the labyrinth (fig. 1a). In this view, the middle wall is not just an architectural necessity, but must be read together with the ceiling fret that indicates the walkway for the prophetess and the deity, which of course cannot be accessed by outsiders. Thus the middle wall is not a dividing wall between faithful people who have different levels of proximity to the sanctuary – seen as a τρυφάκτον in the temple in Jerusalem – but instead works with the labyrinth to indicate the path of the God and his prophets. The area is bounded by another wall, which is often but by no means consistently described in the texts as θυραῖος τοῖχος. It separates priests and prophets from those seeking the oracle, and from the wall with the door to the oracle. There may be a second possibility: a closer investigation of the walls in Didyma showed that this μεσότοιχον cannot be distinguished from the same solid door walls, μακρὸς τοῖχος, up to a height of 1.46 meters (fig. 1b).35 This is proven by the inscriptions at one point: there are five 2½-foot marble blocks set on the μεσότοιχον, with their suppliers listed in the expected order ἀπὸ τοῦ θυραίου (as well as τοίχου); however, Line 17 contains the following: first καὶ τὸν διαφράσσοντα τὴν ἀναβασιν τριημιπόδιον and then ἀντέθηκαν δὲ τοὺτοις πετρίνους τέσσαρας, τόν πρῶτον Στράτωνος,| τοὺς δὲ λοιποὺς ἱερούς· καὶ τὸν διαφράσσοντα Στάρτωνος.36 That demonstrates the unusual thing about these designations: Διαφράσσοντες refers to μεσότοιχον here, while it normally refers to θυραῖος τοῖχος.37 This unu34  For more details see Rehm, Ausgrabungsbericht, 35 ff. and Günther, in a private email from June 2013. 35  Certainly, a fundamental observation is made by Knackfuß [Textband, 62 f.], cited as follows: “The internal structure of the layers is very unusual and technically remarkable; it is fundamentally the same for all of the walls in the building as well as the anteroom walls, the surrounding walls of the adyton and the inner cross and longitudinal walls. It is not made of the usual system of alternating stretcher and binder layers; instead, because of the very thick walls, each layer is made up of three consecutive stretcher rows. There is a row of marble blocks on the front side, whose depth and thickness take up about two-fifths of the entire wall thickness. The remaining three-fifths are more or less equally distributed among the two following parallel stretcher rows, with the outer layer again made of marble and the inner, hidden filler layer is made of limestone blocks. In the following layer, the ratio is reversed, with the narrow row in front and the thick one behind, so that the entire wall is made up of longitudinal dovetailing and covers the longitudinal joints. Careful attention is paid to make sure the butt joints on the front side are offset from the joints on the back side, and also that these joints do not line up with the butt joints in the filler layer.” 36  Translation: “Man hat an der Trennwand des Labyrinths (Treppenhauses) fünf der 2,5 Fuß dicken Quader versetzt, davon der vom Portal aus gerechnet erste [Quader] (finanziert) von Kallikrates, der zweite von Protos, der dritte vom Heiligtum, der vierte von Eutyches, der fünfte vom Heiligtum. Und den, der den Aufgang trennt (teilt; diaphrasson), einen Stein von 1,5 Fuß, (finanziert) von Neon. Dazu hat man versetzt vier Kalksteine, der erste (finanziert) von Straton, die übrigen vom Heiligtum; und den, der trennt (teilt) (finanziert) von Straton.” 37  Voigtländer, Didyma, 78 ff.; Knackfuß, Textband, 62–65 and Rehm himself, Ausgrabungs­ bericht, 40 ff. made similar observations, but then qualified these.

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sual feature is compounded when one considers that διαφράσσων refers to walls that separate one room from another, rather than a middle wall – not just in the building documents from Didyma, but elsewhere as well. This is clear even from the basic definition, which is given as “shutter” or “barricade” in building documents in Athens38 and in an arsenal inscription39 and is confirmed by Plutarch, among others.40 In addition, διαφράσσοντες is normally used for marble stones. Finally, it should be mentioned that the middle wall of the staircase, which was formerly interpreted as a μεσότοιχον, is only the thickness of two layers and not five, and was not covered in marble. Thus the wall described as a μεσότοιχον does not match the wall in the inscriptions, and we may question the hypothesis that this μεσότοιχον merely refers to the wall of the staircase. Unlike the longitudinal wall in the labyrinth, this middle wall is impressive and marks a clear separation between the place where the God and the prophets do their work and the area of the oracle-seekers. It extends from the oracle-seekers’ area to the outer wall of the staircase. It is noteworthy that the term describes the perspective from the inside; the rooms associated with the μεσότοιχον can only be accessed from inside the temple, not from the outside. Thus I suggest that the meaning of “dividing wall” be considered for the μεσότοιχον named in the inscriptions in Didyma. Two other aspects support this thesis: first, as Rehm pointed out, “it is positively remarkable how rarely it, the προήμενος τοῖχος (= the adyton’s east wall, A. W.)” is mentioned in the major building reports.41 In any case, it is clear that the term is not used in the same way as the other building elements, even though this component was surely an expensive part of the construction. In fact, it is undisputed that work on the adyton’s east wall could only begin once the foundation work for the twopillar hall and work on the steps of the adyton staircase were well underway. Voigtländer has pointed out that when building inscription no. 29 mentions the “flooring foundation” in line 13, it probably means the limestone to be laid, ἐν τῶι στρώματι τοῦ τρι[θύρo]υ. In my opinion, he correctly supposed that these were the limestone blocks used as a “substructure for the currently visible marble floor of the Trithyros.”42 Thus it is assumed that the flooring work for the great oracle threshold must already have been more advanced. “When the oracle threshold was laid, work was being done on the 14th layer of the walls.”43 The use of μεσότοιχον as a “dividing wall” is likely for a third reason: inscription no. 27, in lines 16–20, states that the costs for one cubit foot of material are many times higher than in the comparable building inscriptions before and  Cf. IG I2 373,251 ff., where the term also mentions the installation of a dividing wall.  Cf. IG II2 1668,63 ff. 40 See Diod. 17,96,4; Plut. Cam. 34,3; Aemil. 13,3. 41  Rehm, Bauberichte, 40. 42  Voigtländer, Didyma, 78 f. 43 Voigtländer, Didyma, 79. 38 39

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after it. The cost is 30 drachmas per cubic foot, based on the size of the marble blocks. Thus it can be assumed that the costs of the oracle threshold had already been included here. In any case, it is noteworthy that inscription 27 also mentions the “great wall,” μακρὸς τοῖχος, which was previously assumed to refer to the longitudinal wall of the staircase. The inscription mentions the work on the 11th layer of the walls in the staircase, and it seems likely that μακρὸς τοῖχος refers to the wall. In my opinion, it is thus reasonable to imagine the μεσότοιχον as part of the μακρὸς τοῖχος. Φραγμός (outer wall) is not referred to very often and describes the lower portion of the adyton wall in Didyma, in any case; however, the term is not used in the building documents as an appositional genitive to μεσότοιχον. To summarize the findings about μεσότοιχον in the Didymeion at this point, we can state with certainty that μεσότοιχον, as a term for a wall, surely did not function as a way to separate various groups of visitors. Instead, the μεσότοιχον, as a “dividing wall,” could have separated the initiates and the priests or prophet from one another.44 The precise function of the wall is a division between those who belong to the cult and have direct access to it as priests and prophets and those who are waiting for the prophet’s advice rather than to separate insiders from outsiders (as we know this from the temple of Jerusalem). The wall nonetheless provides a division of specific groups according to their respective statuses or privileges in relation to the cult.45 1.2 The meaning of μεσότοιχον in the inscription 22 from Argos Another inscription from Argos (no. 22),46 which uses the term μεσότοιχον in the context of an Apollo shrine, was discovered in the south-eastern section of the apse of a Byzantine church that was probably built on the former shrine of Apollo Phythia. While the inscription in the Apollo shrine was a building inscription, here it can be seen that the term μεσότοιχον is also used in conjunction with oracle-seekers whose house was built on a tall sub-surface ἀβυσσον, which causes the middle-wall (μεσότοιχον) to collapse. Finally, I want to point out two other inscriptions: a decree (δόγμα) from an official office in Iasos refers to a μεσότοιχον whose construction was taken over by a certain Charon, and Dura Europos mentions μεσότοιχον in a partition deed for a terraced house. Just as in Didyma, these sources describe a wall with an opening for a door which sepa44

 See also the statements on the dividing wall in 27B68. 75. 77 The Oracles of Apollon; idem, Sibyls and Sibylline Prophecy in classical antiquity (B. C. McGing eds.; London; New York: Routledge, 1983); Salomon, Apollons Origins and Influences. See particularly also: M. Jameson, “Apollon Lykeios in Athens,” Archaiognosia 1 (1980): 49–54; F. Graf, Nordionische Kulte. Religionsgeschichtliche und epigraphische Unter­ suchungen zu den Kulten von Chios, erythai, Klazomenai und Phokaia (Rom: Schweizerisches Institut, 1985), 335–350. 46 Vollgraff, „Inscriptions D’Argos,“ Nr. 22. 45 Parke,

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rates the group of people who have access to the house from another group of people who do not belong to the house. 1.3 The meaning of paries and maceria First of all, it is certainly noteworthy that we can assume a unique combination of two wall concepts μεσότοιχον / paries and φράγμος / maceria in the Letter to the Ephesians if we look only at the Greek text. However, if we also consider the Latin translation of Ephesians 2:14, the Vetus Latina and the Vulgate, whose manuscripts refer partly to paries and maceria,47 or only paries, we find several analogies.48 Paries is often found in conjunction with a sacred space.49 An overview of these passages also shows that the use of the name was unrelated to the structure of the wall. Hedges, fences, parapets, moats and walls can all serve as this type of border. The paries particularly used construction forms such as stone, brick, adobe and cast parts. In addition, it is clear from numerous inscriptions that this type of wall was intended as a surrounding wall, but it could be interrupted by gates and windows. In other words, they are in fact not linear and closed off, but open and permeable. We find numerous (building) inscriptions,50 grave inscriptions51 and text passages,52 most of which are found in Asia Minor. In addition to the inscriptions, both of the terms are also found in ancient spe47  For further details see my book project Tempelbild, ekklēsia und Kultterminologie in der frühchristlichen Epistolographie (1/2 Kor und Eph.) 48 See Ter. Marc 5,17,14 itaque ipse est, inquit, pax nostra, qui fecit duo unum – Iudaicum scili­ cet (+ populum) et gentile, quod longe ‑soluto medio pariete in imicitae in carne sua; AM 61,11,3 (385,4) veni, non ut inclinarem parietem et maceriam impellerem, sed ut solverem. Veni enim pax ut faciam utraque unum et medium parietem maceriae solvens qui carnem et animam dividebat, ut unum sentire possent 118 Ps 6,19,1 (118,1): si habeas fundatum parietem, non illum medium qui domus unius separet membra; PS-AU 131,5 (2007): […] in quo duo parietes de diverso de diverso venientes; CAE s 195,1 (748,12): Ps 18,2/ utrique sane tamquam initia duorum parietum de diverso venientium, Iudaerum et gentium,circumcisionis scilicet et praeputii, ad angularem lapidem cucurrunt; Car Ps 94,4 (857,92): unus enim paries fuit plebs Iuaeorum […]; PS-HI 117 (1186B):Ps 117,22 connectens duos parietes, unum de circumcision, alium praeputio, in uno novo homine hoc est in semetipso; AM 89,434: ipse factus est pax nostra […] parietem saepis solvens. quem parietem exponit apostolus inimicitias esse in carne. Has ergo inimicitias tulit dominus et pacem refudit, […] quasi medium solvit legis parietem; Orig. Hom. Gen. XIII,2: Ut medium parietem saepis soluat inimicitias in carne sua. 49  Cato De agricultura 15; Vitr. 2.8.16; Plin. NH 35.173. 50  CIL 4842 = ILS 5743 = Dessau 5743 = SEG 8,13 = FIRA I 2 67 Z. 23 ff. See also Fontes Iuris Romani Anteiustiani the Codex Theodosianus 438 and Hadrian CIL XIII 1623 = Dessau 5749. 51   Cf. e. g. d(is) m(anibus)/ M(arcus) Antonius Agathias/ aediculam puram ex sepulchro/ M(arci) Coccei Daphni cuius heres est/ facta divisione inter se et coher des suos/ adiecto de suo pariete medio et ostio libero/ facto fecit sibi et/ (vac.)/ libertis libertabusque posterisque eorum; A. Helttula, Le iscrizioni sepolcrali katine nell’Isola Sacra (ActaInstRomFin 30; Rome 2007), 94–108; for further details also A. Thylander, Inscriptions du port d’Ostie (Gleerup: Lund, 1952) A 83 and Abb. XXIX.1, A 16 and Abb. VII, A 17 und Abb. VI.2; A. E. Cooly, The Cambridge Manual of Latin Epigraphy (Cambridge: University Press, 2012), 138–139. 52  See esp. CIL I2 1688; 2216; 5.7747; 89701; 8.23022; 10.4104; 3.2929. See also grave inscriptions: 6.11998; 13061; 1559; 34321; 10.4765; 6069; 12.5244.

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cialized literature, which gives us insight into the sacred concepts of the ancient world. For instance, M. Terentius Varro and Donatus Aelius53 name both terms side by side: maceria extrema paries qui est, eum parietem cum margine altum facito p(edes). In addition, both terms can also be found on gravestones, which had a particular interest in marking borders.54 Fundamental texts for understanding these two terms, μεσότοιχον and φράγμος, can be found (again) in several Latin building inscriptions. In particular, the relationship between a paries and the maceria is described in great detail in a building inscription from 105 BC. The building document describes four different parts of the wall. Three are described as paries; the first wall seems to be a kind of surrounding wall, and separates the area of the sanctuary from the walkway and the profane. The impluvium, or courtyard, seems to have been a fairly modest area, since the dimensions are fairly moderate. For instance, the gate height was about seven feet, or 2.04 meters – a modest building entrance. In addition, the wall, which can be reached by the threshold and the anterooms and has a cross-section of 1 ¼ feet (0.37 meters), is actually less thick than the standard wall, compared to descriptions in Pliny55 and Vitruvius.56 The outermost surrounding wall is the first one mentioned in the inscription, the paries qui propter viam, in other words the wall that connects to the Serapis temple and separates the profane from the sacral area. The term maceria extrema paries suggests that the two nominatives refer to the same object, the surrounding wall paries qui propter viam. Thus this wall maceria extrema paries refers to a dividing wall within a sacral area. This interpretation corresponds to the possible reason for the renovation, which is given at the end of the inscription: “the chapels, altars and statues that are located on the campus and belong to it shall be taken back into the renovated impluvium, gathered in the place and set up by the person performing the work; this place shall be described to him by the Duovirn – eidem sacella, aras signaq(ue), quae in campo sunt, quae demonstrata erut, ea omnia tollito deferto componito statuitoque, ubei locus demonstratus erit duumvirum arbitratu.” Thus a paries is a special kind of maceria, the surrounding wall that encloses a limited space. 53 Don Ter. Ael. 908 maceries dicitus paries non altus de (materia) macerata. See also CIL I 2 1001; Plaut. Truc. 303; Tac. Hist. 3.82; Liv 23.9,13, 45, 6.6. See also the glossar by the grammarian M. Verrius Flaccus (under Augustus). See CIL X 4104: lucus sacer macerie cinctus; cf. 292 (I 1260: circum lucum macer(iem) et murum. 54 Further examples for paries are e. g. Vitr. De architectura 5.11.3 (with regard to a Temple): extra autem disponantur porticus tres, una ex peristylo exeuntibus, duae dextra atque sinis­ tra stadiatae, ex quibus una, quae spectaverit ad septentrionem, perficiatur duplex amplissima latitudine, altera simplex, ita factae, uti in partibus, quae fuerint circa parietes et quae erit ad columnas, margines habeant uti semitas non minus pedum denum medium que excavatum, uti gradus sint in descensu marginibus sesquipedem ad planitiem, quae planities sit non minus pedes xii; ita qui vestiti ambulaverint circum in marginibus, non inpedientur ab unctis se exercentibus; Plaut. Com. 2.9: medium parietem perfodit seruos, commeatus clanculum. 55  Plin. NH 35.173. 56 Vitr. 2.8, 16. See also Cato Agr. 15.

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In conclusion: The terms paries and maceria are often found in conjunction with a sacred space. In addition, it is clear from numerous inscriptions that this type of wall was intended as a surrounding wall, but it could be interrupted by gates and windows. The terms often signify a boundary to keep out people who do not belong to the cult. Of course, we cannot automatically assume that the two Latin terms concisely reflect the connotations of μεσότοιχον and φράγμος. These, too, are an interpretation, a transfer and translation into another language. If this assumption is correct, the use of the term μεσότοιχον or paries assumes the existence of an inner room belonging to the divinity that must be protected, as well as the issue of accessing it and walling it off. It signifies a wall that separates the profane from the sacral area. One thing is clear in any case: the topography of the rooms in the Apollo temple in Didyma is based on the religious status of the faithful, who are divided into priests / ​prophets and those seeking advice. This view is further supported if we include the interpretation of μέσος τοίχος in Josephus.

2. The significance of μέσος τοίχος in Josephus In his commentary on the Letter to the Ephesians, Sellin referred to a document by Josephus Antiquitates 8.71 that includes ὁ μέσος τοίχος; he also sees this reference as confirmation of the interpretation as a temple barrier, and thus a way to prevent gentiles from entering the temple.57 In numerous places, Josephus provides information about the tent sanctuary for God (AJ 3.100–189), the temple of Solomon (AJ 8.61–110) and the second temple of Herod (AJ 15.380–425 and BJ 5.184–247), the religious service, the high priests, their sacrifices and prayers as well as the role of the high priests’ regalia.58 In this context it is worth noting that Josephus writes in his introduction that he will present a τὴν παρ’ ἡμῖν ἀρχαιολογίαν καὶ διάταξιν τοῦ πολιτεύματος ἐκ τῶν  Ἑβραϊκῶν (AJ 1.5).59 Even if it is impossible to draw a clear line to the historiography of a Dionysius Harlicarnassus, this does not apply to the numerous references seen in Augustus, for instance, which suggest a type of Roman antiquarianism – an idealizing of the past, which can act as a prototype for the present.60 We can also read the frequent reference to  Sellin, Epheser, 213.  See G. Schimanowski, “Propaganda, Fiktion und Symbolik die Bedeutung des Jerusalemer Tempels im Werk des Josephus,” in: Flavius Josephus. Interpretation and History (J. Pastor et al. eds.; Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2011), 319–320. 59  Numerous scholars have tried to interpret the introduction to the Antiquitates in light of the historiography of a historian like Dionysius of Harlicarnassus; see, e. g., G. E. Sterling, Historiography and Self Definition: Josephus, Luke-Acts, and Apologetic Historiography (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 285 f.; an objection is raised to this by T. Rajak, “Josephus and the ‘Archaeology’ of the Jews,” in The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural and Social Interaction (eadem ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 241–255, here 253. 60  Of the wealth of literature, I simply want to mention the arguments of A. Momigliano 57 58

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the Jewish πολιτεία in the same way – it echoes the laws of the true lawmaker (νομοθέτης), whom Josephus believes to be Moses and who stands in contrast to the lawmaker who refers to mythologies (AJ 1.15: καθαρὸν τὸν […] λόγον τῆς παρ’ ἄλλοις ἀσχήμονος μυθολογίας). In his fundamental question – how must Israelites live in order for YHWH to take up residence among them – Josephus refers back to Exod 25–29 (Exod 25:8; 29:45–46). The sanctuary, along with the cultic and moral laws, is fundamental to answering this question, since the sanctuary is the place where YHWH withdraws into the darkness of the cloud. In fact, for Josephus there is no doubt: the Temple of Jerusalem is the ideal home for YHWH. Nonetheless, he emphasizes again and again that the sanctuary is fundamentally a portable sanctuary, and that the geographic location is not the main issue. The indwelling of the divine in a sanctuary built by human hands presupposes its holiness.61 Solomon’s temple prayer is of central importance here: “But will God really dwell on earth? The heavens, even the highest heaven, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built!”62 Thus the fundamental issue is how a place can be built for YHWH on earth so that heaven and earth may come together. At its heart, this project is one that crosses boundaries and at the same time redefines them in order to guarantee holiness. In contrast to the Bellum, spatial boundaries are unimportant in an absolute sense in the Antiquitates; however, they are of central importance in a relative sense as Josephus avoids mentioning several dividing walls in the Temple courtyard.63 What is fundamental here is the statement that YHWH resides in the sanctuary in his glory δόξα (Exod 25:8; δόξης κυρίου ἐπλήσθη ἡ σκηνή J. AJ 8.102). Josephus lays out the area of the sanctuary in concentric circles, closing in on the inner sanctum. The transitions, or openings, between these areas are especially important. Josephus discusses these in detailed descriptions and describes the zones with care, including various materials and colors. It is in this context that Josephus uses the term μέσος τοίχος. [The Classical Foundations of Modern Historiography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990, 68 ff.)] and Chr.S. Kraus [“From Exempla to Exemplar, Writing History around the emperor in Imperial Rome,” in: Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome (J. Edmondson, St. Mason and J. Rives eds.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), here 186 ff.]. 61 J. Sklar, Sin, Impurity, Sacrifice, Atonement: The Priestly Conceptions (Hebrew Bible Monographs 2; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2005), 15–20; K. Schmid, Erzväter und Exodus: Untersuchungen zur doppelten Begründung der Ursprünge Israels innerhalb der Ge­ schichtsbücher des Alten Testaments (WMANT 81; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1999), 261–263; C. Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study of the Composition of the Book of Leviticus (FAT 2.25; Tübingen: Mohr, 2007), 59–68. 62 1Kings 8:27LXX. 63  While Josephus describes the dividing walls between the courtyards as a concentric division in Bellum, he argues for more fragile boundaries particularly in his description of the tabernacle and Solomon’s temple.

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Solomon’s temple is based on a forecourt, ‫’( אּולָם‬ûlam) in Hebrew, τὸ αἰλαμ κατὰ πρόσωπον τοῦ ναοῦ in Greek, that m arks the entrance area to the temple

(1 Kings 6:3) and is formed by the widening side walls of the cella.64 From the entrance hall, a door leads to the main room, Hebrew ‫( הֵיכ ָל‬hêkal), the Greek translation of LXX δαβίρ, which is described as a house in 1 Kings 6:17. In 1 Sam 1:9, the term refers to the temple of Silo; in Jer 50:28 it refers to the temple of Jerusalem, and in 1 Kings 21:1 the palace of Ahab. In contrast to the abovementioned passages, however, here the term refers to the main room of the temple and not to the sanctuary or the temple itself. The term itself does not indicate this distinction. According to Josephus, Solomon divided the main room into two parts, of which the second is known as the ‫( ּדְ בִיר‬debîr), the holy of holies or the innermost room (1 Kings 6:27; 7:50), which in turn is described in the Septuagint as δαβίρ. Josephus uses τὸ ἄδυτον (ἄδυτος means, which cannot be accessed from), which also describes a room in Greek and Roman temples that could only be accessed by priests and initiates (J. BJ 5.236). In addition, he also describes the term as ἁγίου δὲ ἅγιον ἐκαλεῖτο, the holy of holies (BJ 5.219). It was previously mentioned that Josephus does not include a prohibition on access in AJ 8. Nonetheless, there are a few references to boundary lines that signal an inner and an outer area (AJ 8.71–72). Here, Josephus defines the inner area of the temple using the rare term for a middle wall μέσος τοίχος and through various materials and systems of decoration.65 This middle wall μέσος τοίχος was not only made of cedar wood, as was the case in the naos, but was also set apart from its context by ornamental carvings and various colors. The sacral space is highly differentiated, and access and usability are strictly regulated. The middle wall plays a central role here. It separates the temple cella, as the core of the cultic area, from the main room. Thus it does not have a structural support role within the building, but signals an explicitly factual boundary line. The door is both an access point and a gradual boundary line, as well as a factual line. As a rule, opening a door provides a view of the next room.66 That may be why the door is reinforced by another barrier, the curtains: “Before it [the door] he [Solomon] hung colored curtains, not only in purple, crimson and carmine red, but also made of a brightly glowing, softly flowing linen.” Josephus refers to this curtain καταπέτασμα ten times (BJ 5.212; 219; 232; 6.390; 7.161; AJ 8.75; 8.90; 12.250; 14.107). Following Ex 27:16, Josephus refers to the curtain that separates the adytum from the holy of holies 64 M.-Chr.

Hellmann, “À Propos vocabulaire architectural dans les insciptions déliennes. Les parties portes,” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 110 (1996): 237–247; eadem, Recherches sur le vocabulaire l’architecture Grecques d’après les inscriptions de Délos (Ecole Fraincaise D’Athenes, 1992), 346–347. 65  For more detail, see Annette Weissenrieder, Tempelbild, ekklēsia und kultische Sprache in der frühchristlichen Epistolographie (2016). 66 See the contribution by Bart Buehler in this volume.

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(AJ 8:90; BJ 5:219; Exod 26:31–37; 37:3; Lev16:2LXX).67 The comparison between the fabric of the curtains and the high priests’ regalia and the elements of the cosmos is based on two aspects:68 first on the color ἐκ τῆς χροίας ὁμοιουμένων (purple, scarlet, blue-purple, carmine red, gold, sardonyx), and second on the origin of the color διὰ τὴν γένεσιν (earth: flax, linen; sea: fish; pomegranates: lightning; the sound of bells: thunder; elements: earth, sea, air and fire).69 Behind the second curtain and the middle wall is the holy of holies, which is a windowless, unlit room – the “cloud of darkness.” The Hebrew uses the term ‫( ִמשְכ‬Exod 25:9; 26:1ff; Exod 40:34–35), tabernacle, which is translated in the Septuagint and by Josephus as σκηνή.70 This portable temple is closely linked with the history of Israel, which says that Israel was given the ritual laws on Mount Sinai and that Israel is on the path to the Promised Land. Thus it is Israel that was chosen by YHWH as the ideal residence. While the populace is not allowed to enter the forecourt, as they must “bring their sacrifices to the entrance of the temple,” the Levites were permitted to approach the burnt-sacrifice altar in the forecourt, dressed in fine linen; during their short term of duty, the priests were allowed to enter the ναός and celebrate religious services. In addition, the high priests were allowed to enter the holy of holies in their priestly regalia. In their clothing, the high priests represent the curtains, thereby embodying this relative access boundary to the μέσος τοίχος. The concentric design of the temple’s sanctuary is expressed not only through the gradual distinctions in terms of cleanliness, but also through the priests’ varied clothing. We have seen that μεσότοιχον and μέσος τοίχος, as used in ancient literature and inscriptions, describe neither the temple barrier of the Herodian temple that protects the temple’s purity, nor a cosmic wall; nor do they refer to a general protection against foreignness. Neither of the abovementioned approaches is able to refer to texts that use the term μεσότοιχον. It should also be reviewed whether such an explanation attempt also falls short because it unquestioningly reduces the functions of the Early Christian religious community to merely a “sacral space” and a religious system. If only the dividing wall is considered, both the Apollo temple in Didyma and the first Temple of Jerusalem built by Solomon are possible reference points. In any case, what is fundamental is the access to the inner sanctum; but if we take the previously assumed theory of exegesis into account, this would not be possible for either Jews or the uncircumcised.

 Καταπέτασμα is also used for the tent in Ex 37:5.16; Num 3:26LXX; and Aristeas 86.  J. BJ 5.212–214. 69 Gussmann, Priesterverständnis des Flavius Josephus, 387. 70  The term is used with particular frequency in Josephus, in AJ 3.79, 82, 93, 100, 101, 103, 103, 106, 108, 110, 115, 121, 122, 123, 124, 133, 149, 150, 180, 181, 189, 193, 196, 197, 198, 201, 203, 204, 206, 212 219, 220, 222, 224, 247, 258, 289, 290, 293, 310, 312. 67 68

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3. The question of the dividing wall with the term τρυφάκτος – δρυφάκτος The perspective of the Second Temple and its destruction are widely discussed in the seven books of the Bellum Judaicum (written ca. 79–81 CE). In addition to describing the destruction of Jerusalem and the temple, Josephus reports extensively on the architecture of the temple; he emphasizes the relevance of his description with the formulaic statement that he has “added nothing and left nothing out.”71 It is also in this context that Josephus mentions a τρυφάκτος – δρυφάκτος: In Bellum (BJ 5.184–247), Josephus provides the description of Jerusalem and the Jerusalem Temple as a form of “tourist guide.”72 The context is noteworthy because the guide is embedded in the description of the revolt and the war, and is thus a kind of regressive moment in the narrative. However, before Josephus describes the city and the temple in detail, he metaphorically embeds Judea, Jerusalem and the temple in concentric circles of holiness. He begins with the location of Judea, which borders a city known as Anuathu Borcaeus on its northern side and an Arabic city called Iardan on its southern side;73 the eastern boundary is a natural one, namely the Jordan, and the western boundary is defined as Jaffa. Right in the middle (μεσαιτάτη) of this delineated space is Jerusalem, which according to Josephus is the “navel of the region” (τινές οὐκ ἀσκόπως ὀμφαλὸν τὸ ἄστυ τῆς χώρας ἐκάλεσαν).74 Here, too, the basis is the revolt against the Romans.75 In regard to Judea, he uses the term ὀμφαλός, which in antiquity was associated with the famous sacred site in Delphi, and which is linked to Delphi as the center of the universe as well as its central position as the sacral site of antiquity, as

71  See BJ 1.26. For more on this formulation, see: S. Inowlocki, “Neither adding nor Omitting”: Josephus’ promise not to modify the scriptures in Greek and Latin contexts,” JJS (2005): 3–26; W. C. van Unnik, “Die Formel ‘nichts wegnehmen, nichts hinzufügen’ bei Josephus,” in: Flavius Josephus als historischer Schriftsteller (Institutum Judaicum Universität Münster; idem eds.; Heidelberg, 1978), 26–40; L. H. Feldman, Studies in Josephus Re-Written Bible (JSJ. 58; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 539–543. For comparable wording, see De 4:2;12:32;13:1LXX; Koh 3:14LXX; Sir 18:6LXX; 42,21; Aristeas 311. The treatise Contra Apionem only briefly touches on the priestly garments, so it will not be addressed in any great detail below. 72  Gussmann, Priesterverständnis des Flavius Josephus, refers to this as a “city tour.” 73  M. Avi-Yonah, The Holy Land from the Persian to the Arab Conquests (536 B. C. to A. D. 640): A Historical Geography (Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1966), 155–156. 74  See J. BJ 3.52. 75  See Y. Shahar, Josephus Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004) and T. Landau, Out-Heroding Herod: Josephus, Rhetoric, and the Herod Narratives (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 246; see also M. Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem: The Clash of Ancient Civilizations (New York: Alfred Knopf, 2007), who assumes a hypothetical visitor to Jerusalem and Rome.

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Price explains in detail.76 Thus it is not surprising that Josephus assumes this association to be generally known (τινές […] ἐκάλεσαν). Here Josephus represents a cosmography that develops in concentric circles toward the holy of holies.77 In doing so, Josephus draws on cosmographic concepts that are also found in Jubilees, where Mount Zion is called the “navel of the world” (Jub 8,19).78 After Josephus explains Jerusalem’s geographic context as the “navel of the world,” he guides the visitor (BJ 5.223 τοῖς […] ἀφικνουμένοις ξένοις πόρρωθεν) around various courtyards and dividing walls until they finally reach the inner area of the temple. Josephus begins with the first courtyard, the gentiles’ courtyard (ὁ πρῶτος περίβολος BJ 5.190–192), which he describes as the outer courtyard;79 Jews as well as non-Jews may enter it, and he succumbs to its beauty, describing the extraordinary beauty of the columns and the royal Stoa at the southern end of the temple complex (he also uses the term τέμενος in this context). The term that Josephus uses here can also be found in Pausanias Periegeta, for instance θεωρίαν ἀξιόλογον,80 so one might assume that Josephus wanted to compare it to the beauty of polytheistic temples. However, this is not at all the case, as the following excerpt demonstrates: “The costliness of the material, its beautiful craftsmanship and harmonious combination created an unforgettable sight, and yet neither the painter’s brush nor the sculptor’s chisel had decorated the work from the outside” (BJ 5.191). Although Josephus praises the royal Stoa in glowing terms, it is clear that he is emphasizing the absence of painting (ζωγραφία) and sculpture (γλυφίς), contrasting it with the natural beauty of the material (φυσικὴ πολυτέλεια) and the simple panels (κεδρίνοις δὲ φατνώμασιν ὠρόφωντο J. BJ 5.190– 191). The fact that this description of the simple decorations is truly unusual can 76  See S. Price, Religions of the Ancient Greeks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 56. 77  Numerous studies subscribe to Josephus’ view of the archaeology of Herod’s temple, which cannot be discussed in more detail here; still of importance are the extensive explanations by Th. Busink, Der Tempel von Jerusalem von Salomo bis Herodes: eine archäologisch-histori­ sche Studie unter Berücksichtigung des westsemitischen Tempelbaus. 2 Bde. (Leiden: Brill, 1970), 2.1062–1251; D. W.  Roller, The Building Program of Herod the Great (Berkeley: University Press, 1998); A. Lichtenberger, Die Baupolitik des Herodes des Großen (Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz Verlag, 1999); S. Jaap, Die Baupolitik Herodes des Großen: die Bedeutung der Architektur für die Herrschaftslegitimation eines römischen Klientelkönigs (Leidorf: Rahden, 2000); P. Richardson, Building Jewish in the Roman East (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2004), 253–307. 78 In addition, it can be shown that rabbinical literature in particular focuses at length on this concentric concept, as seen, for instance, in the Mischnah treatise of Kelim, which includes ten different levels of holiness for Jerusalem, starting with the country of Israel, Israel’s city walls, the city of Jerusalem, the temple mount and the various courtyards. 79  Meir Ben-Dov [In the Shadow of the Temple: The Discovery of Ancient Judaism (translated from the Hebrew by Ina Friedman; Jerusalem: Keter, 1985, 132] argued that this outer courtyard is not part of the temple. Against this idea: J. von Ehrenkrook, Sculpting Idolatry in Flavian Rome. (An)Iconic Rhetoric in the Writings of Flavius Josephus (SBL, Early Judaism and its Literature 33; Atlanta: SBL, 2011), 132. 80 J. BJ 5.191. See also Ehrenkrook, Sculpting Idolatry, 105.

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be seen from a comparison with AJ 15.416, where various materials are equally emphasized (αἱ δ᾽ ὀροφαὶ ξύλοις ἐξήσκηντο γλυφαῖς πολυτρόποις σχημάτων ἰδέαις), like Greek and Roman architectural elements (Corinthian pillars, AJ 15.414). In his tourist guide, Josephus thus first emphasizes that the Jerusalem Temple is just as beautiful as the Greek temples, and that this is particularly due to its un-iconic construction style. The second courtyard, τὸ δεύτερον ἱερὸν, is separated from the first courtyard by a warning sign. This dividing wall is discussed astonishingly little in ancient literature. It is primarily Josephus who refers to the dividing wall within his description of the sanctuary, and who describes the dividing wall using the term τρυφάκτος as well as the older form δρυφάκτος. However, Josephus is not the only one to mention this dividing wall: one sign, a block made of well-preserved limestone, was found on the north side of the Jerusalem temple courtyard.81 A fragment of another sign, a spoile, was discovered in a graveyard near St. Stephen’s Gate, also known as the Lion’s Gate.82 It is not as well preserved, but the texts are the same, other than a few minor changes.83 The text reads: “No alien (μηθένα ἀλλογενῆ) may enter [the area] within the balustrade (ἐντὸς τοῦ […] τρυφάκτου) and the enclosure καὶ περιβόλου around the temple. Whoever is caught on himself shall be put blame for the death which will ensue (ἑαουτῷ αἴτος ἔσται διὰ τὸ ἐξακολουθειν θάνατον).”84 Thus for Josephus, protecting the purity of the sanctuary is essential. Terms used for non-Jews who cannot enter the sanctuary are ἀλλογενής (J. AJ 15.417), μηείς (J. BJ 6.125), alienigenae (J. C 2.108) and ἀλλόφυλος (J. BJ 5.194).85 It is noteworthy that Josephus lexically distinguishes the foreign wanderer ξενός from the alien ἀλλογενής who is not permitted to enter the temple. The term δρυφάκτος is mainly found in Aristophanes and in various inscriptions, which mostly appear in two different areas: in the courtroom and in a few ancient temples.86 First of all, the term is used to describe a balustrade or dividing wall in official buildings, but especially in buildings that also served as 81 Ch. Clermont-Ganneau, “A Discovery of a Tablet from Herod’s Temple,” PEFQSt N. S.  1 (1881): 132–133. See also Virgil Roy Lee Fry, The Warning Inscriptions from the Herodian Temple (unpublished diss. at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, 1975), 20; see also OGIS II 598, 294–295; CIG II 1400, 328–330. 82  J. H. Iliffe, “The ΘΑΝΑΤΟΣ Inscription from Herod’s Temple. Fragment of a Second Copy,” QDAP 6 (1936): 1–3. 83 The Latin version mentioned in J. BJ 5.194 has not been found to date. 84  Cf. the further discussion in Fry, Warnings, 60–83. J. Adna, Jerusalemer Tempel und Tempelmarkt im ersten Jahrhundert nach Christus (ADPV 25, Wiesbaden, 1999), 31 and others convincingly argued that these signs would have been mounted at the end of the first construction phase, in other words 12/11 or 10/9 B. C. This seems plausible if the signs are believed to be an addition by Herod. 85 Gussmann, Priesterverständnis des Flavius Josephus, 351 points out that Josephus did not use ἀλλογενής because ‑γένος contained a “genealogical connotation.” 86  See Thdt.Qu.in Ex.60, who is familiar with the term for the tabernacle: δρυφάκτῳ … ἡ σκηνὴ προσεώκει.

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βουλή, and often in the plural.87 Aristophanes is significant for all other references.88 In the area of inscriptions, δρυφάκτος is used in a longer inscription from

Delos, preserved in a marble stele, as a decree from the Emperor describing a barrier made of wood.89 In addition, the term is found in a temple inscription, as Decreta et Leges Secundum, Decretum de Templo Minervae Victoriae Rationes Templi,90 but with the problem that the text is very fragmentary here and must be reconstructed, which results in different versions of the text.91 In the same way, Herodianus uses the term δρυφάκτος in his Technici reliquiae, which he defines as follows: δρύφακτοι αἱ τοῦ δικαστηρίου θύραι ἢ τὰ διαφγράγματα ἢ τα περτειχίσματα. Thus δρυφάκτος can describe balustrades or doors in the court building, as well as barriers in the temple area of polytheistic temples.92 This balustrade gives Josephus, but not the foreigner, access to the “inner courtyard,” the ἐνδόν αὐλή, which only culticly pure Jewish men may enter (BJ 5.227; not mentioned in AJ) and to the women’s courtyard, γυναικωνῖτις (BJ 5.199; 204; not mentioned in AJ) also known as an inner courtyard, ἐντός περίβολος (AJ 15.418), which culticly pure Jewish women from Judea and the diaspora may enter. The term δρυφάκτος is thus largely used as a delimiter in a judicial context, where it separates the judge from the defendant and the observers, and in temple inscriptions – although these appear later, in the 2nd and 3rd century CE. From the material presented here, it should be clear that the term δρυφάκτος is not only not used in the Letter to the Ephesians, but also that δρυφακτός can connote a judicial metaphor that is missing in Eph 2.

87

 This particularly applies to the references in Aristophanes and Herodianus. V. 830: ἄνευ δρuφάκτον τὴν δίκη μέλλεις καλεῖν, ὃ πρῶτον ἡμῖν τῶν των ἱερῶν ἐφαίνετο; this adverbial expression was first used in the Mysteries, where it describes the first step in a significant sequence. See also Pl. Euthd. 277E. 89 ἔκ τε τῆς περιλειπομένης ξυλικῆς ὕλ[ης τὸν δρ]ύφακτον καὶ αὐτὸν κα[τ]ηριμ[μ]ένον καὶ [τόν τε] ναὸν τᾶς Τύχης καὶ τὸ ἀ [ρχαῖο]ν Καισ[ά]ρειον [κ]ατασ[κ]ευάσας [π]α[ρα]δώσειν […]. Inscriptiones Insularum Maris Aegaei Praeter Delum, Fasciculus XII.1 (Fridericus Hiller de Gaertringen ed.; Berlin: Reimerum), 326.25. 90 Inscriptiones Graecae Atticae Euclidis anno Anteriores (Berlin: de Gruyter, Akademie der Wissenschaften DDR, 1981), 64.14. See also the edition by Pogorelski and Hiller in SB Ak. Berlin 1922: 189–192. The Diccionario Griego Espanol writes: barrera, balustrade, barande para delimiter un recinto official o sagrado: para separar a los miembros de la βουλή o las tribunalas (viewed in the online version, January 2015). 91 IG 11(2).287A.56, see also IG 11(2).287A.10, λίθινος ID 1403Bb.2.19, 20, ξύλινος ID 1417A.2.38, τὰ δρύινα εἰς τὸν τρύφακτον ID 366A.47, τοῦ τρυφάκτου τοῦ μεταξὺ τοῦ βωμοῦ … καὶ τῆς τραπέζης τοῦ θεοῦ ILabr.60.12. 92 See Herodianus ed. K. Lehrs II 494.16; see also I,16 δρυφακτός· εἴρηται κυρίως πάντα τὰ ἀπὸ ξύλων γινόμενα. Δρυόφρακτός τις ὢν ὁ ἐκ δρυῶν φραγμός where a barrier or boundary made of wood is described, as well as II,595: τρύφακτος· ἔνιοι διὰ τοῦ δ ρῦς γὰρ τὸ ξύλον. Cf. also Hellad. En. Sch. Orib. 114.5: τὰς κυγχλίδας καὶ τὰ σανιδώματα καὶ τὰς κλιμακας προσηγόρευον. 88 Ar.

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4. Conclusion While the mention of μεσότοιχον is singular even for a New Testament text, it is embedded in Eph 2 within other architectural terms, and it is surely no coincidence that the pseudepigraphic author of this circular from the Pauline school references Paul here, and thus – according to consensus by scholars – builds on Paul’s ideas. Here, as in 1 Cor 3:9–17, there is a reference to θεμέλιον, which means foundation in the neuter,93 and is derived from τίθημι, which has the meanings “to position” and “to choose a place” in the local sense, but can also be interpreted as “to consecrate” or “to dedicate” with regard to a sanctuary (LSJ). As a rule, θεμέλιον does not just refer to a solid subterranean mass, but also rises to the level of the stylobate that forms the base for the pillars (Vitr. De architectura 3.4.5). Still, in contrast to the Pauline text, the foundation here is not Christ, but the prophets and apostles. The shift in meaning only becomes clear when another meaning is taken into account, namely the identification of ἀκρογωνιαῖος with Christ.94 Etymologically, the term derives from ἀκρός, the highest point of something. The traditional interpretation identifies this stone as the cornerstone, which is part of the foundation, and tries to connect it with Is 28:16 – a text that was already interpreted messianically by the Targum.95 It is surely significant that Tertullian and other church authors all refer to a stone placed at the highest point in the temple, which archaeologists call the akrotere, the tallest solid stone in the temple. Let us go back to Didyma: Ernest Best argues that the akroteres in the Apollo sanctuary in Didyma are evidence of this. Emperor Gaius Caligula had plans96 to complete the entire temple in Didyma, as did Trajan. Both had corner capitals installed with statues. Even if we can by no means be certain that the text refers to Didyma or its surrounding area, it is still noteworthy that the corner capitals were hidden behind the high reliefs of the busts of gods added under the influence of Hadrian: not only did these evoke all of the major divinities, given a touch of realism with ochre and yellow paint for the skin tones, but the TrajanHadrian era also inspired countless other motifs that bore clearly realistic traits. Here we refer to verse 21, where we find συναρμολογουμένη, to combine; this can be derived from the Greek ἅρμος, one of the most important terms in ancient architectural theory. Harmony and symmetry can be found in Plato’s Philebos 93 Here, see numerous building inscriptions listed in Hellmann, Vocabulaire, 154–155 for Delos and in Liddle-Scott-Jones. 94  See also 1 Petr. 2:6, where Is 28 is included as a quotation, stating: ἰδοὺ τιθημι ἐν Σιὼν λιθον ἀκρογωνιαῖον ἐκλεκτὸν ἔντιμον καὶ ὁ πιστεύων ἐπ‘ αὐτῷ οὐ μὴ καταισχυνθῇ. However, it should be noted that the term Zion is not included here, and that the quotation is not otherwise reproduced. 95 The reference to the pronoun αὐτοῦ is also questionable. Is Christ the cornerstone of the foundation? In that case, Christ would be built into the foundation as the cornerstone. Or else Christ himself is the cornerstone. That would set Christ apart from the apostles and prophets. 96 Suet. Gaius 21.

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and Vitruvius’s De architectura and refer to the metron, whose goal is to render two opposite things congruent so that they are in harmony with one another.97 The harmonious character is thus indicated for the proportionally appropriate relationship between the various parts of the building and their position (Vitruvius 1.2.4). Symmetria thus means the agreement between the various parts, and between the individual parts and the entire complex.98 Here it is noteworthy that this interaxial basic structure, with its height determined by the central crossbeam of the building, was preserved during the Hadrian-era addition, thus also preserving the symmetry of the building. It should also be mentioned that Milet and Didyma were demonstrably members of the panhellenic association, in that an inscription could even describe a citizen as a Penhellenon. The Emperor is also honored as Panhellenios, Paninios and holder of the office of stephanephor in Didyma. As a result, this new interpretation of Corinthian architectural theory, of Christ as the highest point rather than the foundation, becomes more significant. Finally, we should note οἰκεῖοι τοῦ θεοῦ and οἰκοδομή, which were both used as terms for the temple in the inscriptions of Didyma, and particularly in the oracles. The fact that Eph 2 mentions the constant growth of the building, αὔξει, may also apply to Didyma; Pausanias states that the temple was never finished (Paus. 7.5.4). Thus one thing is clear: the term μεσότοιχον in Eph 2:14 should not be read as a reference to dividing walls in the Temple of Jerusalem that separate the Jews from those of other faiths. Instead, the sources suggest that this term refers to a dividing wall that separates the inner, off-limits temple area from the publicly accessible area.

 Pl. Phlb. 25 e and 64 eff. Lefas, Architectural Terms.

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98 Pavlos

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Fig. 2: Map of the Apollo temple in Didyma, Arachne DAI Istanbul, Tuchelt.

Naiskos, covered

Adyton

Oracle Room

Temple Platform

Stairs down to Adyton

Forrest of Columns

Labyrinth

Fig 3: Map of the Apollo temple in Didyma, with drawing (A92M31).

Entrance Stairs up

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Fig. 4: Adyton of the Apollo temple in Didyma, Arachne DAI Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-7233)

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Fig. 5: Photo of the Twelve-pillared hall of the Apollo temple in Didyma, Arachne DAI Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-R7392).

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Fig. 6: Photo of the staircases to Twelve-pillared hall, the Labyrinth of the Apollo temple in Didyma, Arachne DAI Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-7234, D-DAI-IST-R19417).

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Fig. 7: Photo of the staircases to Twelve-pillared hall, the Labyrinth of the Apollo temple in Didyma, Arachne DAI Istanbul (D-DAI-IST-7234, D-DAI-IST-R19417).

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Fig. 8: Reconstruction of the wall belonging to the Labyrinth of the Apollo Temple in Didyma (photo: A. Weissenrieder, with permission).

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Fig. 9: Reconstruction of the wall belonging to the Labyrinth of the Apollo Temple in Didyma (photos: A. Weissenrieder, with permission).

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Fig. 10: Reconstruction of the east side of the Apollo temple, Tuchelt.

→ μέσος τοίχος

Adyton

Fig. 11: Drawing of the Jerusalem Temple built (Solomon’s temple).

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III. Borders and Boundaries of Houses: Terms, Performances, and Ideologies

Borders between Privacy and Public in the Thinking of Ben Sira Frank Ueberschaer The Book of Ben Sira is a book about borders  – crossing them, and defining them. In the time Ben Sira wrote and composed, Hellenism was the predominant culture in the Near East. How was Judaism to respond to this challenge? Although the Hellenistic culture was not missionary-minded of its own accord, it proved very attractive as a cosmopolitan culture promising membership in a leading worldwide community. At the beginning of the 2nd century BCE when Ben Sira composed his book, many of the upper class were keen on taking part in this new cultural movement  – despite the political rivalries among themselves. While not only the intellectuals in Jerusalem appeared open to Hellenistic innovations, it is surprising that they did embrace Hellenism rather than unilaterally defending their inherited culture. This is demonstrated quite clearly by the fact that a thinker like Qoheleth was even later to be incorporated into basically every biblical canon (although not without discussion), a fate that Ben Sira’s work achieved only in a select number of canons. Although Ben Sira is not the only one who accepts the intellectual challenge of Hellenism, his book is the most comprehensive and most complex response from that era. It does not by far address all issues, but his book represents nothing less than a new definition of Judaism in times of change. Primarily, however, the Book of Ben Sira is a book of wisdom teaching. This includes both wisdom and teaching. Following the tradition of the Book of Proverbs, Ben Sira presents instruction, advice, and suggestions infused with theological reflection. The target audience of his original teaching was surely students of young adult age.1 As Katja Tesch has shown, parts of the book can even be attributed to teaching sketches.2 Ben Sira unsurprisingly deals with the diversity of issues that he thinks his students will have to face. His teachings are, therefore, also devoted to both private life and how to behave in public. He draws a fine 1 Compare F. Ueberschaer, Weisheit aus der Begegnung. Bildung nach dem Buch Ben Sira (BZAW 379; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 160–193. 2  K. Tesch, Weisheitsunterricht bei Ben Sira. Lehrkonzepte im Sirachbuch und ihre Relevanz für heutiges Lernen im Religionsunterricht (BBB 169; Bonn: Bonn University Press, 2013), 69–79.

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line between these two realms. This article investigates these two realms – and the fine line between them.3

1. Public, Publicity, and Rules of Conduct Ben Sira wants to prepare his students for life – for the sage’s life of giving advice to his people in the assembly and thereby orchestrating its history. Ben Sira points this out most explicitly in the paragraphs about the future possibilities for the wisdom students, in 15:5–6 and though a correspondence between 39:1–11 and 44:1–15. The text of 15:5–6 is part of the wisdom section in 14:20–15:10. In this section Ben Sira attempts to give an idea of what wisdom learning and its results can mean for his students. One of these results he describes as an act of Lady Wisdom herself: 5b And in the midst of the congregation she will open his mouth. 6 Joy and gladness he will find, and an everlasting name she will cause him to inherit. (Ms A, B)4

Wisdom will enable the student to speak in the assembly (‫ קהל‬resp. ἐκκλησία), which means he receives the highest reward.5 Moreover, Ben Sira considers the more distant future, the “afterlife” – and this passage illuminates how Ben Sira thinks about it: “afterlife” means an eternal remembrance of one’s name. Whoever achieves this status will attain the same success as the important men that Ben Sira portrays in his account of a “history of Israel” in chaps. 44–50. 3  To deal with the Book of Ben Sira means to deal with many books. The textual history of this work is one of the most complicated. The original was surely written in Hebrew; according to the preface of the Greek translator, it was then translated into Greek in Egypt. However, there is not only one version of the book, but two, a shorter one and a longer one. Unfortunately both versions are attested both in Hebrew and Greek. Moreover there is more than one Hebrew version extant, as the few Hebrew manuscripts differ in more than just small details. Furthermore, the translations into Latin and Syriac should be taken into account, and they too present many variants. Dealing with the Book of Ben Sira therefore means to work with different versions. It is not always possible to make a decision as to which could be the original. The numbering of chapters and verses follows the edition of J. Ziegler, Sapientia Iesu Filii Sirach (Septuaginta. Vetus Testamentum Graecum XII/2; 2nd ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980). The English translations generally follow the English translation in Accordance for the Hebrew text; translations of the Greek text follow the translation by Ben Wright in the New English Translation of the Septuagint (NETS), and the Syriac text makes use of the English translation in N. Calduch-Benages, J. Ferrer and J. Liesen, Wisdom of the Scribe. Diplomatic Edition of the Syriac Version of the Book of Ben Sira according to Codex Ambrosianus, with Translations in Spanish and English (Estella [Navarra], Spain: Editorial Verbo Divino, 2003). 4 There are no important differences between the versions. 5  G. Sauer, Jesus Sirach / ​Ben Sira (ATDA 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Rupprecht, 2000), 130, even says: “Er erlebt auf diesem Wege Freude und Erfüllung” (On this path he experiences joy and satisfaction).

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This combination of temporal career and eternal fame appears in the other two texts as well. The text of 39:9–10 is the closing sentences of the large section about professions in 38:24–39:11. In these verses, he first characterizes the occupation of craftsmen and then describes in luminous colors the life of the sage. The craftsmen, the peasant, the artisans, the smith, the potter, and this list is surely meant as open-ended – they all do have their undeniable place within the human community. And Ben Sira is far from mocking them, something known from the Egyptian “Satire of the Trades” or “Instruction of Dua-Kheti.” His appreciation of their role is seen in his statement: “Each is wise in his work. / ​Without them a city will not be inhabited” (καὶ ἕκαστος ἐν τῷ ἔργῳ αὐτοῦ σοφίζεται· ἄνευ αὐτῶν οὐκ οἰκισθήσεται πόλις; 38:31–32).6 But Ben Sira also states that they do not have any capacity to succeed in the public sphere: “They will not be sought for a council of the people. / ​And they will not gain prominence in the assembly. On the judge’s seat they will not sit, and disposition of a legal decision they will not understand, and they will never shed light on instruction and judgment.” (ἀλλ᾿ εἰς βουλὴν λαοῦ

οὐ ζητηθήσονται καὶ ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ οὐχ ὑπεραλοῦνται· ἐπὶ δίφρον δικαστοῦ οὐ καθιοῦνται καὶ διαθήκην κρίματος οὐ διανοηθήσονται. οὐδὲ μὴ ἐκφάνωσιν παιδείαν καὶ κρίμα; 38:32–33).

By denying this function to the craftsmen, Ben Sira opens the field for the sage, whose perfect appearance is depicted in 38:34–39:11. At the end he accords a bright role to the sage (39:9–10): 9 Many will praise his understanding, and it will never be blotted out; his memorial will not depart, and his name will live for generations of generations. 10 Nations will narrate his wisdom, and an assembly will proclaim his praise (καὶ τὸν ἔπαινον αὐτοῦ ἐξαγγελεῖ ἐκκλησία). (G)

The same topic appears again at the end of the book. For the first time in wisdom literature, Ben Sira presents the so called “praise of the ancestors,” a short “history of Israel,” to demonstrate the impact of wisdom in its existence (Sir 44–50). Ben Sira opens this segment with an introduction in which he contemplates wisdom’s impact. He reflects on important men (44:1), who are called in the Hebrew text ‫אנשי חסד‬, which may refer to wisdom’s ‫ חסד‬with them, and ἄνδρας ἐνδόξους in the Greek version, which may refer to their importance in Israel’s history. However, Ben Sira exemplifies the nature of these men by referencing most of the main characters of the biblical tradition. Again an ideal is presented, and again at the end there is a bright outlook for the sage who fulfills Ben Sira’s criteria of being a wise man – the ones by whom wisdom conducts the destiny and history of his people:

6

 The Syriac version adds the characterization as “art” or “craftsmanship” (‫ܕܐܘܡܢܘܬܗܘܢ‬

‫)ܒܥܒܕܐ‬.

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14 Their bodies were buried in peace, and their name lives for generations. 15 Peoples will recount their wisdom, and an assembly will proclaim their praise (‫ותהלתם יספׂר קהל‬/ καὶ τὸν ἔπαινον ἐξαγγέλλει ἐκκλησία). (44:14–15 Ms M; G7)

As already mentioned, this passage expresses Ben Sira’s hope for the afterlife with regard to these specific individuals. By using parallel language in 39:10 and 44:15, he reveals to his students the possibilities of their own lives as sages, namely the continuity of their names after physical death by remembrance in the people’s assembly.8 What stronger kind of motivation could be provided? The outstanding preeminence attributed by Ben Sira to the assembly is reflected in his desire for his students to seek their place in the public sphere as advisors and counselors, and by his warnings against public defamation. As one of his positive motivations, 21:17 may be cited: The mouth of a prudent person will be sought in an assembly (ἐκκλησία), and his word they will ponder in their heart. (G) The mouth of a wise person is called for in the assembly (‫)ܟܢܘܫܬܐ‬ and they will ponder his discourse. (S)

And one of his warnings is found in 7:7b: Do not condemn yourself in the gathering (‫ )הדע‬of the gate of God. (Ms A) Do not sin against the multitude (πλῆθος) of the town. (G) Do not condemn yourself in the assembly (‫ )ܟܢܘܫܬܐ‬of the town. (S)

For Ben Sira it is quite important to keep one’s own name pure and free of any shadow. Furthermore, the variations between the versions in 7:7 are of interest: While the Hebrew text reads ‫עדה‬, in the Greek tradition it is translated with the pejorative πλῆθος. In other words: unlike the Hebrew text, which may reflect the concept of an institution that is more or less neutral,9 the Greek translator gives an unambiguous judgment. πλῆθος is clearly negative in attitude, and it is by no means an institution, but is instead an uncontrolled crowd. The Greek translator does, however, signify an intention that is indeed found in the Hebrew text to convey a difference between the expressions ‫ קהל‬on the one hand and ‫ עדה‬on the other.10 ‫ קהל‬is consistently translated with ἐκκλησία and for the most part bears a positive meaning. In contrast ‫ עדה‬is rendered by different  7

 The Syriac version in both instances witnesses ‫ܥܡܐ‬.  P. W. Skehan and A. A. Di Lella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira. A New Translation with Notes (AncB; New York: Doubleday, 1987), 452–453, emphasizes the relevance of an enduring name for the Old Testament period and thereby indirectly relates Ben Sira to this time in its way of thinking, while Sauer, Jesus Sirach, 270, portrays Ben Sira as a thinker on the cusp of this period (similarly B. Zapff, Jesus Sirach 25–51 [NEB; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2010], 266–267).  9  See Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 199, who unfortunately do not consider the terminological differences within the Book of Ben Sira. 10 The Syriac version uses ‫ ܟܢܘܫܬܐ‬as translation for both ‫ קהל‬and ‫עדה‬.  8

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terms, mostly with συναγωγή (4:7; 16:6; 41:18; 45:18; 46:14), but also πλῆθος (7:7,14) and λαός (44:15; 46:7). These different renderings already indicate that the expression ‫ עדה‬is far less positive than the term ‫קהל‬. Nevertheless, or even because ‫ עדה‬is not one-sided, this form of gathering of the people is also quite important for Ben Sira’s students. In fact, the ‫ עדה‬functions as some kind of test because the ‫ עדה‬echoes one’s way of life with approval or rejection. Thus it is important to be popular in the ‫עדה‬. This leads Ben Sira to advise his students to promote themselves (4:7):11 Make yourself beloved to the ‫ עדה‬/ ​σ υναγωγή, and for a governor of the city12 bow your head. (Ms A; G)

Approval will be given to whoever stays constant with God, e. g. his acts of charity will be recounted (καὶ τὰς ἐλεημοσύνας αὐτοῦ ἐκδιηγήσεται ἐκκλησία G 31:11). On the other hand, transgressors are threatened with rejection. According to 1:30 the συναγωγή is the place where God convicts them.13 Thus Ben Sira teaches about public behavior. His main concern in this regard seems to be about gossip (26:6): Of three things was my heart wary, and in the face of a fourth I was frightened: a slander by a city, an assembly of a mob (ἐκκλησία ὄχλου) and false accusation, all miserable beyond death! (G)14

It is the loss of control which frightens Ben Sira: the uncontrolled mass and the uncontrolled circulation of what makes “news.”15 This numbered saying may provide insight into the perspective of a wisdom teacher who is used to investigating and explaining the world by finding and formulating orders. Thereby the translators have adopted his thinking and transferred it into their context, as we can see in 28:14 (there is no Hebrew version of this passage): and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 167, refer to ‫ עדה‬resp. συναγωγή as some kind of informal institution (“the community of the Jews”), but this is quite unlikely. Sauer, Jesus Sirach, 70, interprets the verse in its closer contexts and sees it as support for the poor, but there is no evidence for this in the dictum itself. Although Schreiner, Jesus Sirach, 32, also goes in the same direction, he comes closer to the dictum, when he states: “Sir rät, sich in der Gemeinde […] einzufügen, in der man lebt” (Sir advises one to blend into the community in which one lives). Correctly Marböck, Jesus Sirach, 86, leaves it open. Anyway the non-existence of an obvious thematic connection between the cited sentence and its close context may possibly indicate that it had an independent prior existence. 12  G: μεγιστάν. 13 Sir 31:11 and the next example, 26:5, are two instances in which ἐκκλησία does not have an overall positive meaning. 14  In the Syriac version, this text does not have the form of a numbered saying; while it contains the same introduction as in Greek, there are only two items counted because the first two are combined in a constructus-connection. 15  See Zapff, Jesus Sirach, 151, who emphasizes the difference between a crowd as in 26:5 and the proper people’s assembly. 11 Skehan

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A third tongue (= a detractor) has shaken many and separated them from nation to nation and demolished strong cities and overturned the houses of nobles. (G) A threefold tongue has has brought many into captivity and scattered them from nation to nation and expelled honorable persons of the cities from their houses and devasted completely houses of kings. (S)

In 28:14 the Greek translation focuses on the political consequences of gossip and defamation.16 Communal living in a Hellenistic polis probably formed both the background and purpose. On the other hand, the Syriac version focuses on private affairs in the third line and in the fourth line on kings. At first sight, the latter one seems to be as political as the Greek, but the Syriac reveals a different political system: local power is not in the hands of noble families but of a single ruler. The problem with gossip and its uncontrolled circulation is that it may turn back and strike the speaker. This is why Ben Sira teaches in quite severe terms (9:18): Gossip17 is awful for a man of speech, and a weight on his mouth will be hated. (Ms A) Feared in his city is a garrulous man, and he who is reckless in his speech will be hated. (G) The loud-mouthed man is feared in town, and the slanderer is hated. (S)

Finally, misconduct damages one’s own reputation (23:13–14): 13 Do not let your mouth become used to lewd want of education, for there is in it a word of sin. 14 Remember your father and mother, for you sit in council among nobles, lest you forget yourself before them and act foolishly by your habit, and you will wish that you were never born, and you will curse the day of your birth. (G)18 16  Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 365, refer to the later bArakin 15b. The third tongue is explained nicely in that it kills three: the slanderer, the slandered, and the one who believes the slander. Zapff, Jesus Sirach, 172, suggests that the Syriac tradition is an interpretation that retrojects the saying into the exilic era. 17  The Hebrew word ‫ ביטה‬is not clearly defined. The most reasonable explanation may be from Aramaic ‫ ביטוי‬gossip, ramblings (see M. Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Tal­ mud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature [Jerusalem: Chorev, 1903], 160). 18  13 ἀπαιδευσίαν ἀσυρῆ μὴ συνεθίσῃς τὸ στόμα σου· / ​ἔστιν γὰρ ἐν αὐτῇ λόγος ἁμαρτίας. 14 μνήσθητι

πατρὸς καὶ μητρός σου, / ​ἀνὰ μέσον γὰρ μεγιστάνων συνεδρεύεις, / ​μήποτε ἐπιλάθῃ ἐνώπιον αὐτῶν / ​καὶ τῷ ἐθισμῷ σου μωρανθῇς / ​καὶ θελήσεις εἰ μὴ ἐγεννήθης / ​καὶ τὴν ἡμέραν τοῦ τοκετοῦ σου καταράσῃ.

The Syriac version provides a different text which apparently tries to give meaning to a difficult Vorlage:

‫ܐܬܕܟ̈ܪ ܕܐܒܐ ܘܐܡܐ ܐܝܬ ܠܟ ܘܡܢ ܐܝܕܐ ܕܚܠܬܐ ܬܬܦܠܛ‬ ‫ܐܠܕ ܬܬܩܠ ܩܕܡܝܗܘܢ ܘܒܝܘܠܦܢܟ ܬܨܛܥ̈ܪ‬ ‫ܘܬܐܡܪ ܕܐܠܘ ܐܠ ܐܬܒܪܝܬ܂ ܘܠܝܘܡܐ ܕܐܬܝܠܕܬ ܒܗ ܬܠܘܛ‬

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At the same time, Ben Sira again expresses his hope for his students’ careers in 23:13–14:19 sitting in council among nobles – a position in which they are prominent, for good and for ill. This shows that he focuses on the individual: rather than thinking about the well being of the city as a whole, he considers the personal careers of his students. Doubtless this is a consequence of his educational aim, but furthermore an expression of a thinker who lives in a political system whose overall nature he cannot influence. Thus Ben Sira gives two other pieces of advice with regard to public behavior. In 8:1 he advises: Do not contend with one who is more severe than you, why should you fall in his hand? (Ms A, D; S) Do not contend with a powerful person, lest you fall into his hands. (G)

Despite the textual differences, the message is clear. Ben Sira knows that his students will never have the chance of being in a position of independence. Thus he gives advice how to handle people of higher political or social rank. One of his main suggestions is to keep distance in every possible way. He cautions his students especially both against aiming at positions that they cannot fulfill and against positions in which they become dependent on higher-ranking persons. For instance, in 7:6 Ben Sira warns his students against becoming leaders if they do not also receive the power to fulfill the job at the same time: Do not seek to be a ruler if you do not have the power to put down presumptuousness. (Ms A) Do not seek to become a judge; you might not have the strength to get rid of injustice. (G) Do not seek to become a judge if you do not have the power to put down unrighteousness. (S)

It is interesting that we can observe a textual difference in the crucial term. While the Hebrew text presents ‫( מושל‬Ms A20), the Greek and the Syriac text are more specific in their choice of terms: They read “judge” (κριτής; ‫)ܕܝܢܐ‬. There is unfortunately no possibility of correlating the terms for offices and positions of power used by Ben Sira with equivalents known from historical documents,21 so we cannot attribute a specific office to the different terms. Hengel posited the rivalries between different influential families in Jerusalem as historical 19  See also A. A. Di Lella, “Ben Sira’s doctrine on the discipline of the tongue. An intertextual and synchronic analysis,” in: The Wisdom of Ben Sira. Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and The­ ology (DCLS 1; A. Passaro and G. Bellia eds.; Berlin / ​New York: de Gruyter, 2008), 244–245. 20  The text is preserved in Mss A and C, but in Ms C the word ‫ מושל‬is omitted due to a page turn. 21 See N. Calduch-Benages, “Fear for the Powerful or Respect for Authority?” in: Der Ein­ zelne und seine Gemeinschaft bei Ben Sira (BZAW 270; R. Egger-Wenzel and I. Krammer eds.; Berlin / ​New York: de Gruyter, 1998), 87–102, and A. Minissale, “Ben Siras Selbstverständnis in Bezug auf Autoritäten der Gesellschaft,” in: Der Einzelne und seine Gemeinschaft 103–116.

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background,22 but Skehan and Di Lella object convincingly.23 So it still seems that the Hebrew text discusses the relation to power in a more general way than the two other textual traditions – but this can only be stated if we do not understand the term “judge” as a pars pro toto, in which case it would mean more or less the same as the Hebrew ‫לשומ‬. The reason for this wariness is that such a position may have a negative effect on the former student’s life (13:1–2, 4): 1 If someone touches pitch it clings to his hand, and if one associates with a scoffer he learns his way. 2 Something too heavy for you – why should you bear it? And to someone who is richer than you – why should you associate with him? Why should an earthen jar associate with a pot? For this will strike against that, and then it is broken. Or why should a rich man associate with a poor one? […] 4 If you are useful for him, he will serve you, but if you bow down, he will spare you. (Ms A)24

The stronger will dash the weaker to the ground if he has no use for him any more, simply because he is the stronger.25 Thus, in 13:9–11 Ben Sira cautions against positions that can be dangerous because they are made too difficult by inscrutable, more powerful officials. The textual versions differ on some of the details, but the main message is clear: 9 When a nobleman (‫ )נדיב‬approaches to you, stay far away, so that he will call you. 10 Do not be forward, lest you be rejected, and do not stand far off, lest you be disliked. 11 Do not expect that you can be free with him and do not trust in the multitude of his conversations. For from his many conversations comes a test – he laughs with you while probing you. (Ms A) 9 When a ruler / ​powerful man (δυνάστης) invites you, be reserved, and he will invite you so much more. 10 Do not be forward, lest you be rejected, and do not stand far off, lest you be forgotten.

22 M. Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus. Studien zu ihrer Begegnung unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Palästinas bis zur Mitte des 2. Jh.s v. Chr. (WUNT 10; 3rd ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988), 245. He is followed by J. Schreiner, Jesus Sirach 1–24 (NEB; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2002), 49. 23  Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 199–200. Likewise J. Marböck, Jesus Sirach 1–23 (HThK. AT; Freiburg: Herder, 2010), 126. 24 The Greek text of v. 1 reads: he who associates with a proud person will become like him, and v. 2: Do not associate with one stronger and richer than you. 25  See also B. Wright, “The Discourse of Riches and Poverty in the Book of Ben Sira,” SBL. SP 134 (37/1998): 559–578.

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11 Do not aim to speak as an equal with him, and do not put faith in his rather many words; for with much talk he will test you, and as though smiling he will be examining you. (G). 9 When a rich man (‫ )ܥܬܝܪܐ‬approaches you, stay far away, and all the more he will approach you. 10 Do not be forward, lest you be rejected, and do not stand far off, lest you be disliked. 11 Do not be confident to speak with him and do not believe in his many stories, because his many stories are tests, and he will be troubling you until he will know your end. (S)

Ben Sira vividly describes potential problems with higher ranking persons, whether they be office holders or simply influential persons in society.26 The terminology of proximity and distance, of coming close and staying far off shows that Ben Sira does not consider his students part of this social class. There is a border between the two that the students will never cross.27 Despite the fact of this border and the resultant dangers, he not only encourages his students to serve before leaders, but also regards this service as honorable, as he describes in 39:1–10. On the other hand, Ben Sira sketches out a border separating off the lower classes of society as well. In 7:16 he cautions against being too closely connected with ordinary people. Do not let yourself be counted to ordinary people. Remember that misfortune will not pass you by. (Ms A)

In this saying Ben Sira not only points out that publicity and the public sphere are most important – he argues, too, that it has to be the appropriate public venue and publicity. While there seems to be an ill-defined fuzzy border between his students and the upper class, the difference between them and the lower classes of society has to be marked clearly. It is not only the positive motivation to become a remembered figure through whom wisdom conducts history; Ben Sira also uses the fear of being pushed down the social scale to motivate his students. Regarding the textual versions, the most important difference is located in the first stichos: The Greek translation says ἐν πλήθει ἁμαρτωλῶν (in the multitude of sinners) instead of ‫במתי עם‬. Obviously the aim is to clarify the pejorative meaning of ‫מתי עם‬. However, in Ben Sira’s view, the sage should place himself in the appropriate company, as he states positively in 20:27: 26

 The versions differ in this point, but the possibilities in understanding the Greek term

δυνάστης may also be wide-ranging (see NETS), although it usually is translated as “ruler.”

27 This does not necessarily refer to the Seleucid king as the foreign Hellenistic overlord as argued by Sauer, Jesus Sirach, 97, especially for 8:1, who is followed by many commentators who understand Ben Sira as fighting against Hellenism. It more likely reflects conditions in Jerusalem‘s society. Cf. Prov 25:6–7.

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The sage will apply himself with words28, and a prudent person will please nobles. (G)

In another section, in 41:16–42:8, Ben Sira gives insight into his social frame of reference. In this passage he talks about shame, or as the case may be, of what one should be ashamed. Two aspects are of interest in this context: first are those figures whom Ben Sira takes into account as references for being ashamed of something. These are parents, rulers, other officials (the versions differ in the labels of the administrative functions), the ‫ עדה‬and the people, friends, and the “place where you stay.” It is noteworthy that he mentions upper classes and whoever is relevant on one’s own level of the social system, but he does not speak about the poor and the lower classes. He instead keeps his view consistently upon the relevant persons and institutions that a former student will need for his career. One could say that Ben Sira defines the context in which the soonto-be former students will act, mentioning the players in this arena. The second aspect of interest is what someone has to be ashamed of: the reasons are linked to sexual affairs, lies and falsehood, injustice, theft, the breach of social conventions, and also religious affairs. Many instances are concerned with talking, and the last item on this list is gossip (42:1). Consequently Ben Sira cautions against talking about a third person in any way (19:8–10): 8 Among friend and foe do not tell anything accusing, and unless it is a sin for you, do not disclose. 9 Suppose he has heard you and kept watch on you and in time will hate you. 10 Have you a heard a word? Let it perish along with you. Be brave! It will never make you burst. (G)29

In this passage, it is noticeable that Ben Sira does not reflect on how the fate of the whole human community might be harmed by such gossip, but only about the reputation of his students. The same is also the case in 20:5–8: 5 There exists a person who keeps silent, who is found to be wise, and there is one who is hated from much talk. […] 28 Ziegler, Sirach, 219, edited “The sage will apply himself in few things” ( Ὁ σοφὸς ἐν ὀλίγοις προάξει ἑαυτόν). But firstly Ziegler shows in his apparatus that this reading is only attested in the

Syriac tradition. Unfortunately this cannot be verified in the Codex Ambrosianus 7a1 as one of the main witnesses for the Syriac tradition. As the whole Greek textual transmission renders λογοις (except for some few that read λογω) – together with the Syriac – ‫ܡܬܐܠ‬ – “words” is obviously the correct reading. 29 The Syriac version is more vivid in details, but expresses the same message: 8 To a friend and to an enemy do not lie / ​and if you have sins, pray for them / ​and never slander a person 9 lest he who hears you hate you / ​and consider you as baneful. 10 Have you heard a word? Let it die in your heart; / ​let it not become an arrow that will pierce you and will stick out.

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8 He who is excessive with speech will be loathed, and he who pretends to authority will be hated. (G) And vividly and precisely it says in 20:18: A slip on the ground rather than of the tongue; so the downfall of evil persons will come speedily. (G)30

Ben Sira speaks not only of gossip, however. Of the many other topics, one especially indicates most clearly who his students are: the topic of the foreign woman reveals that Ben Sira has young male adults in mind when he addresses his audience and readers, e. g. 9:6–9: 6 Do not give yourself to a prostitute, lest she lay siege on your inheritance, 7 that you behave foolishly in your own view and you will become desolate behind her house. 8 Hide your eyes from a beautiful woman, and do not gaze upon beauty that is not yours; because of a woman many have been ruined, like this her lovers will be burnt in fire. 9 Do not enjoy with her husband,31 and do not turn around with him when you are drunk, lest you incline the heart to her and will incline to the pit by blood.32 (Ms A)

The Greek version of the text reads: 6 Do not give your soul to whores, lest you loose your inheritance. 7 Do not look around in city alleyways, and in its deserted places do not wander. 8 Turn an eye from a shapely woman, and do not ogle beauty belonging to another; by a woman‘s beauty many have gone astray, and from it fondness flares up like a fire. 9 With a married woman do not sit down at all, and do not feast with her at wine, lest your soul incline to her and by your blood you slip into destruction. (G)

The difference between the Hebrew and the Greek version in V 7 reveals that there are two different views of human communities in the background. The 30  There is no witness to this verse in Hebrew and Syriac. See Marböck, Jesus Sirach, 245–246, for some reference texts from times preceding Ben Sira. 31  The non-vocalized term ‫ בעלה‬can be read as “her husband” or as “married woman,” which the Greek and the Syriac versions do. However, the personal suffix in third person singular in ‫ עמו‬in the second line suggests clearly that a male person is in focus in the Hebrew text. 32  The term ‫ דמים‬generally has the meaning of bloody deeds. Thus, Ben Sira could be cautioning against murder, but more likely is the understanding of the term as the flowing and overwhelming blood coming together with strong emotions (see Sauer, Jesus Sirach, 99).

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Hebrew text clearly has in mind small lanes behind the houses where one could be unobserved. There is still some privacy in which the individual is the only judge. In contrast, in the Greek textual tradition there is talk of wide places and streets in a city. The term πόλις is used, which possibly also evokes a glimpse into the social setting operating behind the scene: the Hellenistic city with its social entities – and its social control which has to be taken into account even if the city places seem to be lonely places. The aspect of social control is also reflected in Ben Sira’s word about raising a daughter (42:11):33 [My son,] keep strict watch over a daughter, [le]st she ma[kes you infamous], gossip in the city and the congregation of the people [and she causes you to be ashamed in the assembly of the ga]te. (Ms B, M)34 Over a wanton daughter keep strict guard, lest she make you a laughingstock to enemies, common talk in the city and summoned by the people, and she shames you in a multitude of many. (G)

On the other hand, a person who is not an inhabitant of a city is even more suspicious (36:31): Who will put his trust in an armed gang that skips from city to city? So it is with a man who does not have a nest and who has to lodge wherever night falls. (Ms B, C, D) For who will trust an unencumbered robber as he bounds from city to city? – likewise a person who does not have a nest and who lodges wherever night falls. (G35) For who will believe a boy who is like a gazelle who is leaping from town to town; thus is a man who has no woman, in the place where he happens to be, he will die. (36:2836 S)

In this verse the textual versions diverge significantly. Most interesting is the first line. While the Hebrew text speaks of a whole gang, both the Greek and the Syriac versions have a single person in mind. The Peshitta version executes an interesting shift in meaning. The Syriac reads ‫ܓܕܘܕ‬, which are the same consonants as ‫ גדוד‬in the Hebrew text. But in Syriac ‫ ܓܕܘܕ‬has the meaning of an unmarried young man or a boy. The translator obviously read the Hebrew term ‫ גדוד‬and understood it in his own language tradition as “boy / ​young man”; thus the living conditions of daughters see Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 483.  Both manuscripts show many omissions but luckily for different words. 35  In the Rahlfs / ​Hanhart-Edition 36:26–27. 36 According to the edition by Calduch-Benages. 33 About 34

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he did not see any necessity to change the consonants, even though he changed the meaning. From a textual-critical perspective, the Syriac con firms the Hebrew ‫ גדוד‬against the Greek’s singular rendering λῃστής. From an intercultural perspective, this verse is a brilliant example of misunderstanding. Regardless, all of these textual traditions focus on the suspicion of foreigners; the border between “us” and “them” is deeply rooted. This is interesting because Ben Sira himself views traveling as a good opportunity to gain knowledge and wisdom (e. g. 34:9,12; 39:4).37 To sum up, in Ben Sira’s view the public sphere is two-sided. On the one hand, his students need the public sphere for their own careers. Study and education are most important, but he is still aware of the fact that publicity is one of the main promotors of success. On the other hand publicity bears its dangers. There is no getting round it, whoever wants to make his career in the assembly has to face the fact that he will be dependent on public opinion. Ben Sira seems to fear nothing more than a “public relations nightmare” or what we call today a “shitstorm.” Therefore, students should aim to preserve their honor. The way to accomplish this is by drawing a clearly defined line between the private and public spheres.

2. @home The realm of privacy is called the “house,” e. g. in 29:21: The most important of life is water and bread and clothing and a house for hiding indecency. (G)38

Ben Sira clearly assumes that everybody has something to hide. However, for those who value good publicity as much as or even more than study, privacy is understandably of high value. It is protected by the “house.” Although the term can imply a family, in 29:21 the reference to clothing implies the understanding of the term as the building. Thus Ben Sira also teaches about the borders between the two realms of the public and private. Most prominent is the section in 21:22–24: 22 The foot of a foolish man hastens to a house, but it is an honor for a man that he will stand outside.

the way, Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 431, point out that the required “nest” in Ben Sira’s thinking is established by the wife, so women play a decisive role in making men trustworthy. 38 There is no Hebrew text, and the differences to the Syriac textual transmission are of no further importance for our question. NETS translates the Greek ἀρχή with “beginning”; this is doubtless possible, but the translation in the sense of “most important” likely fits better to the closer context. 37 By

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23 A fool will look from the window / ​door into the house, but a man of discretion will lower the face. (Ms C39) 22 A foolish person’s foot is quick into a house, but an experienced person will feel restraint in front. 23 A fool peeks into a house from a door, but an educated man will stand outside. 24 It is lack of education for a person to listen at a door, but a prudent person will be weighed down by dishonor. (G)40

Finally, the matter of education is decisive in determining whether privacy is observed or not. The wise know how to behave, how to draw near, how far off to stand, and the location of the line that it would be indecent to transgress. What does Ben Sira attribute to the “house” and thereby to the private affairs? It is mainly the relationship between woman and man, especially sexuality, that Ben Sira connects to the house and places under its protection (26:16). The sun shining in the heights above the beauty of a woman in a chosen inner room / ​in the inner room of the chosen. (Ms C) The rising sun in the heights of the Lord41 – and a good wife’s beauty in the world of her house. (G) As the sun which shines in the firmament of the heaven so is the beauty of a good woman in the habitation of her house. (S)

Sentences like these have given Ben Sira a misogynist reputation – this is a little bit one-sided, but not fully unjustified, as the context of this verse may indicate.42 But in the context of the question of borders, this dictum can be understood positively as well. Ben Sira attempts to point out that the intimate relation between man and woman belongs inside the protected framework of a sheltered situation. And furthermore, by using the expression ‫ דביר‬he describes this situation as compared to the holiest possible setting.43 This is why he approaches adultery with such antipathy, e. g. 23:18–21: 18 There is a person who transgresses against his bed, saying in his soul, “Who will see me? Darkness surrounds me, and the walls will hide me, and no one will see me. Why am I discreet? The Most High will never remember my sins.” 39

 Due to the shape of the manuscript, the passage ends after v. 23. are not many differences to the Syriac tradition and none of them is important here. 41  It hardly understandable why the Greek version witnesses κύριος. Possibly ‫ מעל‬has been read as a form of ‫עליון‬, but still this does not explain much, as κύριος gives reason to expect the divine name but not ‫ עליון‬in the Vorlage. 42  Cf. Zapff, Jesus Sirach, 155, who correctly points out that according to the Hebrew text, the main field of action for a woman seems to be inside of the house. In general: S. Schroer, “Der eine Herr und die Männerherrschaft im Buch Jesus Sirach: Frauenbild und Weisheitsbild in einer misogynen Schrift,” in: S. Schroer, Die Weisheit hat ihr Haus gebaut. Studien zur Gestalt der Sophia in den biblischen Schriften (Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald Verlag, 1996), 96–109. 43 Cf. Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 351. 40 There

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19 And people’s eyes are his fear, and he was unaware that the eyes of the Lord are ten thousand times brighter the the sun, as they look upon all the ways of human beings and as they look into obscure parts. 20 Before all things were created, they were known to him, so also after they were completed. 21 This one will be punished in the streets of the city, and when he did not suspect it, he will be seized. (G)

Although he speaks of adultery and thereby about what he would call perversion,44 the sensitivity Ben Sira ascribes to a sexual relationship is identifiable even in these verses. Two persons who belong together should experience their bond within their own four walls, in their own manner, just for themselves. Adultery tears these walls down. Although the adulterer – and it should be recognized that the alleged misogynist Ben Sira speaks of a male adulterer – feels that he is in an intimate situation and has taken every cautionary measure, nevertheless he is watched. Ben Sira strongly emphasizes that adultery will be punished. Besides the Greek version, the text is also attested in Syriac. The decisive verses 23:20b–21 are transmitted as follows: 20b And it is in what a person did not consider that he is going to be caught. 21 In the squares of a town such will be spread. (S)

Interestingly, the punishment that Ben Sira imagines for the adulterer will not be decided and executed by a judge or a judicial authority of any kind. The verbs are in passive voice both in Greek and in Syriac. Thus Ben Sira seems to consider some kind of public setting to play the role of both judge and executor. Indeed the inhabitants of a city seem to act as a law court that cannot be controlled by an individual, according to Ben Sira’s view. And as there is no specific punishment mentioned, the public likely executes it by means of their behavior and attitude towards the transgressor, “in the streets of the city” (23:21). Being hated, as mentioned in 9:18 (see above), may be adequate punishment for the guilt incurred. In other words, Ben Sira not only ascribes to the human community in the city a function of providing social security for the individual but also a function of a close net of social control.45 This is why he talks about borders between the private and the public. On the other hand Ben Sira uses this border to give advice for behavior (4:30): Do not be like a dog in your house, but acting like a stranger and an anxious person at your work. (Ms A) 44 Skehan and Di Lella, Ben Sira, 324: “Ben Sira offers accurate observations about the psychology of the adulterer.” 45  See also I. Bella, Ben Sira on Family, Gender, and Sexuality (DCLS 8; Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2011), 132–134.

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Do not be like a lion in your house, but unpredictable in your work. (Ms C) Do not be like a lion in your house, even conceiving vain fancies among your domestics. (G)

However the second line is to be understood,46 it becomes quite clear that Ben Sira draws a distinct line between the two realms.

3. On Borders and Iron Curtains Ben Sira strongly warns against giving anybody the opportunity to enter one’s house (11:29a): Not every man is meant to bring into the house! (Ms A; S) Do not bring every man into your house! (G)

Ben Sira gives this advice in the context of his thinking about detractors and other persons from whom his students should keep their distance. The entrance to the house should be selective. The same is the case for what leaves the house and its private sphere (3:10): Do not honor yourself in your father’s shame, for this is no glory for you. (Ms A; S) Do not glorify yourself by your father’s disgrace, for you have no glory in a father‘s disgrace. (G)

In this dictum Ben Sira points out that whatever belongs to the private realm should stay within that realm, even if indiscretion could bring individual advantage. He thereby strongly emphasizes the honoring of one’s parents in this section, valuing family ties more than individual benefits. But this rule holds even in general (8:18): Before a stranger do not do anything secret, for you do not know what the end will bring. (Ms A, D; G; S)

At first sight, it is not obvious what ‫( רז‬secret) refers to, but in the following verse Ben Sira writes about the individual’s personal thoughts and thereby about private things (8:19): Do not reveal your heart to all flesh, and do not drive the good from yourself. (Ms D; G) Do not reveal to everybody what is in your heart, lest the kindness condemns you. (S) 46  For the different reading of “dog” (‫ )כלב‬and “lion” (‫ )אריה‬a common text has been suggested by R. Smend, Die Weisheit des Jesus Sirach erklärt (Berlin: Reimer, 1906), 46, that reads ‫( כלביא‬like a lion).

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But Ben Sira does not teach only in general terms; he also considers certain occasions in which private and public overlap. The most prominent is the meal, as he reflects in Sir 31–32 (according to the Ziegler edition: 34[31]–35[32]). To maintain the line between the two realms, Ben Sira insists on table manners. But how to define the line both to maintain the border to protect oneself, on the one hand, and to remain in the public eye to gain positive publicity and influence over people, on the other? In 6:6 Ben Sira defines this line as trust. The question is whom you trust and whom not (6:6): People who are in peace with you may be many, but a host of your secret be one of a thousand. (Ms A, C; S) Those who are in peace with you shall be many, but your advisors one of thousands. (G)

On the other hand this implies not to squander trust the trust of others (27:16– 19, 21): 16 He who reveals secrets has destroyed trust and will never find a friend for his soul. 17 Show a friend affection, and keep faith with him, but if you reveal his secrets,47 do not follow after him. 18 For just as a person destroyed his corpse, so you destroyed your fellow’s friendship. 19 And as you let a bird go free from your hand, so you let go of your fellow, and you will not catch him. (…) 21 Because it is possible to bind up a wound, there is also reconciliation for abuse, but he who revealed secrets is without hope. (G)

There is no Hebrew text for this portion, but there are two important differences between the Greek and the Syriac text. In V 18 the Syriac tradition reads ‫( ܡܢܬܗ‬his portion). Additionally most of the Greek manuscripts witness τὸν ἔχθρον instead of τὸν νεκρόν.48 Possibly the Greek translator misread ‫( מנה‬portion) as ‫( מת‬dead), so that the Syriac version would be the original, and the line has to be read as follows: For just as a person destroyed his portion […] The second variant is in the last line of v. 21. The Syriac version reads: but to reveal a secret is the end of confidence.

47  The Syriac textual transmission reads “‫“( ”ܐܢ ܕܝܢ ܓܐܠ ܪܐܙܐ ܕܗܝܡܢܘܬܐ‬if, however, he reveals a confidential secret”). Thus the focus is not on the addressee but on the addressee‘s friend. However, the context in the following verse argues for a misreading in the Syriac tradition. 48 Cf. Ziegler, Sirach, 252.

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This difference will not be solved by textual criticism.49 Thus both variants should be considered. In any case, the meanings are very close. Again the topic is not to squander trust because to do this will mean the irretrievable ending of a friendship that can never be healed again. One may blame Ben Sira for losing hope too quickly, but it may be a deep anthropological insight. Also his pedagogical aim is part of what leads Ben Sira to this harsh statement. A final example leads back to Ben Sira’s thinking about women. In 36:29 he describes the woman as the stronghold for her husband who preserves the borders between private and public (36:29): Gain a woman as the main asset, a help and stronghold and a supporting pillar. (Ms B*) Who gains a woman as the main asset, a fortified city and a supporting pillar. (Ms B Corrector = Ms D) Who gains a woman as the main asset, gained a fortified city […] he raised a pillar. (Ms C) He who acquires a wife makes a beginning of a possession, a helper corresponding to him and a pillar of rest. (G)

As a minor note, the Greek translation makes a reference to Gen LXX 2:18 by using βοηθὸν κατ᾿ αὐτὸν, a term that translates ‫ עֵז ֶר ּכְנֶג ְּדֹו‬in Gen, while in Sir 36, what is written is just ‫עזר‬. In any case, the woman is indispensable for her husband. Finally, mention must also be made of the one case in which these limits are overturned: in the search for wisdom. In 14:20–15:10 Ben Sira describes the search for wisdom by using everything he prohibits in 21:23–25: 20 Blessed the man who meditates on wisdom and has his eyes fixed on understanding […] 22 to go out after her with delving, and at all her entrances he is lurking. 23 Who observes through her window, and at her door he eavesdrops. 24 Who encamps around her house, and he has fixed his tent pegs at her wall. 25 Who stretches out his tent next to her and lives as a good neighbor. […] 26b In her habitation he will dwell. (Ms A)

According to 14:20–26, there is no search like the search for wisdom.50 But we cannot say there are no lines and borders. On the contrary: wisdom establishes 49  Different is O. Kaiser, “Was ein Freund nicht tun darf. Eine Auslegung von Sir 27,16–21,” in: Freundschaft bei Ben Sira (BZAW 244; F. V. Reiterer ed.; Berlin / ​New York: de Gruyter, 1996), 113–115. 50  For the metaphors in this passage see M. Reitemeyer, Weisheitslehre als Gotteslob. Psal­ mentheologie im Buch Jesus Sirach (BBB 127; Bonn: Philo, 2000), 116–118 and further 139–158.

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borders, borders for life, borders for the necessary privacy of the individual, borders that protect and give guidelines for the way of living both for individuals and the people. However, wisdom also helps one to go beyond borders. According to Ben Sira’s main focus, that is to transcend the limited nature of one’s own life by becoming one of the outstanding personalities by whom wisdom conducts history. As a result, one will enjoy continued existence in the memory of the people.

Open and Shut: The Real and Metaphorical Doors of the New Testament in their Mediterranean Context Bart B. Bruehler And those who were ready went in with the bridegroom to the wedding banquet, and the door was shut. (Matthew 25:10) Look! I have placed before you an open door, which no one is able to shut. (Revelation 3:8)

1. Introduction A door is one of the most common and familiar boundaries experienced by human beings. Doors identify the basic division of space between the home and the outside world as well as indicating more subtle differentiation between spaces within a home and other structures. Doors mark who / ​what is inside and who / ​ what is outside. As Yi-fu Tuan has said, “Constructed form has the power to heighten the awareness and accentuate, as it were, the difference in emotional temperature between ‘inside’ and ‘outside.’”1 A door accentuates the differences of spaces in a way that resonates in our emotional and psychological being. Yet, a door does not only distinguish and separate; it connects. A door is the constructed means (either rough or refined) that human beings use to pass between like or unlike places and spaces. As Georg Simmel has said, “The door cancels the separation of the inside from the outside because it constitutes a link between the space of the human and everything which is outside of it.”2 A door, unlike a wall, communicates access and connection, a pathway that links here and there. Separation and connection – the door enables and signifies both. The New Testament, which was written over the course of fifty to one hundred years by persons of a variety of backgrounds in cities and regions across the eastern and northern Mediterranean, understandably contains various references to doors as briefly reflected in the epigrams to this essay. Upon a more 1  Y. Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977), 107. 2 M. Kearn, “Georg Simmel’s The Bridge and the Door,” Qualitative Sociology 17 (1994): 397–413, esp. 409.

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thorough examination, the NT mentions several real doors: doors to houses (Mark 1:33), doors to prisons (Acts 5:19), majestic doors to temples (Acts 3:2), and rough-hewn entrances to tombs (Matt 27:60). These constructed doors can be shut for privacy and protection (Matt 6:6; John 20:26) or opened for freedom and access (Acts 16: 26; Rev 4:1). The NT also employs a variety of metaphorical doors: from the wide door of new prospects (1 Cor 16:9) to the narrow door of limited access (Luke 13:24), from the open door of faith (Acts 14:27) to the shut door of exclusion (Matt 25:10). The NT gathers narrative, epistle, homily, and apocalypse into one collection written by authors embedded to varying degrees in Hellenistic, Jewish, and Roman pockets of culture. The variation in the real and metaphorical doors of the NT, while perhaps not surprising, is intriguing and directs the interpreter to the diversity of Mediterranean perspectives brought together in these key documents of earliest Christianity. The purpose of this investigation is both to help explain individual instances of doors and to give reasons for the wide spectrum of real and metaphorical doors in the NT. To begin, the analysis will outline the variety of references to doors in the NT and the broader Mediterranean world, focusing on the Greek term θύρα. From there, the analysis will examine doors in the Mediterranean world, considering archaeological and literary evidence from both Roman and Jewish provenances. This will set the stage for the next section, which will consider how doors functioned as metaphors within the currents of Jewish and Roman cultures. The study will close by returning to the doors of the NT, commenting on the physical doors mentioned in the NT and delving into the diverse and creative ways that “door” is deployed as a metaphor across these earliest Christian writings.

2. The Variety of Door References in the Mediterranean and the New Testament This section provides a broad overview of the references to doors in the Mediterranean world broadly and the NT more specifically to prepare for the investigation of the archaeological and literary evidence in the next section. One can easily identify most references to doors in the writings of the New Testament with a word search for the Greek term θύρα. While this basic lexeme provides a focus for the research, the evidence offers other complexities. First, one might also include the term πύλη, especially in light of Q 13:24 where Matthew has πύλη and Luke uses θύρα (see Luke 13:24 and Matt 7:13–14). Perhaps these are interchangeable terms? Yet, this seems unlikely since other places in the NT explicitly speak of the πύλη of a city or town (Luke 7:12; Acts 12:10),3 which is in line with 3  This over-designation “the gate of a city” is rare since most uses of πύλη assume that it belongs to a city (e. g., J. BJ 1.142; Paus.11; App. BC 1.10.88, etc.)

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the sense of the remaining uses as well (Matt 16:18; Acts 3:10, 9:24, 16:13; Heb 13:12). Thus, πύλη, even across the variety of the NT, is typically understood as a gate to a city, whereas θύρα is usually some part of domestic architecture (see further below).4 Moreover, one could pursue an analysis of the verb ἐισέρχομαι, which often designates the activity of entering a door (e. g. Matt 6:6; Rev 3:20) even when a door is not explicitly mentioned (e. g., 1 Cor 14:23–24; Mark 5:39). While the socially charged activity of “entering” a space is worthy of study, this analysis will delve into the explicit role of physical doors and metaphors involving doors in the NT. Finally, one could also consider the use of Latin terms such as janua, ostium, or foris, and these will not be ignored in the survey that follows. Thus, while there are a wide range of possible considerations, the use of the term θύρα and its range of usage in the NT and beyond is the gravitational center of this study. The semantic range of θύρα is wide open. Beyond being the common term for the front door of a home, θύρα can refer to other domestic structures such as the door of a courtyard (To.LXX 7:1; Lys. Eratosth. 12.16; probably Acts 12:13 with the combination τὴν θύραν τοῦ πυλῶνος; see also a Latin equivalent in Hor. Carm. 3.10) or the door of an inner room (To.LXX 8:4; Matt 6:6; Plu. Pel. 11.2; see also a Latin equivalent in Ov. Met. 10.383–87). One finds several uses of θύρα that refer to other types of entrances: the gates of Jerusalem (To.LXX 13:17–18), the gate for a sheep pen (John 10:1–2),5 the entryway to a tomb (Mark 16:3), the door of a temple (Paus. 9.6); the door of grand public buildings (App. BC 3.3, 8), prison doors (Acts 12:6), the entrance to a cave (2 Macc 2:5), and a small trap-door (Plu. Arat. 26.2). Θύρα commonly refers to the primary entrance to a house including both the opening and the variety of structures used to close that opening.6 This usage stretches across time, region, and local cultures in extant Greek documents: in the classical era of Athens,7 in a variety of Jewish writers,8 in the New Testament (Mark 2:2; Luke 11:7), and in other contemporary Greek authors in the Mediterranean.9 Finally, we find different metaphorical uses of θύρα: death’s door (J. AJ 17.182; D.Chr. Charid. 22), the door of philosophy (Arr. Epict. 2.16; Ph. Ebr. 1.49), putting a door and bolt on one’s mouth (Si. LXX 28:25), and a door of opportunity (1 Cor 16:9). Thus, this single word has a wide range

4 Πύλη does rarely appear to designate a front door to a (grand) house (A. Ch. 732) or an interior door to the women’s rooms in a Greek house (S. OT 1261), but these uses tend to be culturally and architecturally distant from the uses in the NT. 5 These first two overlap with the typical meaning of πύλη, demonstrating that the distinction between the two is not hard and fast. 6  Θύρα often appears in the plural to reflect the two panels of a single door. See John 20:19, 26 and Acts 5:19, 26 as well as D. S. 10.20.2; J. BJ 5.208–211; Plu. Quaes. rom. 5. 7  Ar. Ach. 402–403; D. Euerg.47.38; Pl. Smp. 174e. 8  1 Macc 1:55; Si.LXX 21:23; J. BJ 5.432; Job Thd. 5:3. 9 Ap. BC 6.8.76; Arr. Epict. 3.22.14; Plu. Reg. imp. apopth. 90; D.Chr. 28; Chariton 3.1.2–3.

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of both denotations and connotations, creating a fascinating and challenging situation for analysis. Turning to a brief overview of the use of θύρα in the NT, the term appears thirty-nine times: thirty-one times in the Gospels and Acts but only eight times in the rest of the canon. Sixteen of these uses refer to literal doors and the remaining twenty-three are metaphorical, at least to some degree.10 Two other patterns initially stand out. First, the number of uses of θύρα in the NT seems relatively high in comparison to comparable documents. Josephus uses it thirty times in An­ tiquitates and only eleven times in Bellum. The word only appears sixteen times across the twenty books of Dionysius’s Antiquitates romanae, but it is found twenty-one times in Epictetus’s Diatribai. Second, the New Testament appears to have a relatively high frequency of metaphorical or potentially metaphorical uses of θύρα. The vast majority of the references in Josephus’s and Dionysius’s narratives are to physical doors (with a few exceptions). Philosophical treatises such as the Diatribai of Epictetus (and the comparable portions of the NT) lend themselves to more metaphorical instances. Of the twenty-one occurrences of θύρα in the Diatribai, seven refer to physical doors (e. g., 1.9, 3.7) and fourteen to a metaphorical door of some kind (e. g., 1.14, 2.1). As a combined collection of narrative and more religiously / ​philosophically oriented material, we find a mix of both literal and metaphorical uses. This prompts us to attend to the moments where NT writers specifically indicate a physical door and to note the ways in which a “door” serves as an effective metaphor. Finally, as highlighted at the beginning of this investigation, the writings of the NT exhibit a wide variety when it comes to both the physical and metaphorical uses of θύρα, and this merits an investigation into the real and metaphorical doors of its Mediterranean milieu.

3. Constructed and Experienced Doors in the Mediterranean World Dealing with “The Mediterranean” as a zone of cultural coherence is not without its problems, and it may be that the study of “The Mediterranean” holds together best as a set of quilted case studies.11 Identifying “The Mediterranean” at least provides some limits for comparative analysis as well as a set of local cultures that we may find manifested in the pages of the NT and that interacted with one another to some degree in the ancient world. When attempting to incorporate 10  Some of the metaphorical cases may be slightly mixed or ambiguous, such as a door referenced in a parable (Luke 11:7) or a door in heaven (Rev 4:1), but they are not merely referring to a physical structure. 11  P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 2000), 1–5. See also D. Abulafia, The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), xxiii–xxxi.

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architecture and archaeology in the study of constructed doors, we immediately run into the problem of the selective and limited nature of the evidence. We have very few structures where the entire door system is extant and almost no actual doors since they were often made of wood. Pompeii dominates the Roman evidence, but we can add insights from other regions including in and around Judea. The experience of constructed doors can be captured in a variety of ways in written records: from a passing reference to extended description. Even with all of these caveats, this investigation will try to draw out some common elements that characterize door structures and their description in the Roman and Jewish zones of the Mediterranean, though the dangers of stereotyping and abstraction stay close at hand. The following analysis will look at both architectural and literary evidence from a Roman and then a Jewish provenance. The houses of Pompeii often take center stage in the discussions of Roman domestic architecture. The House of Pansa (VI.vi.i) has been taken as a “canonical example of the Roman, Vitruvian” plan of a home (fig. 1).12 The door structure is located on the bottom center of the house plan. This house illustrates how Roman homes could be constructed with a clear axis that runs from the door straight through to the back of the structure. This primary axis is then cut perpendicularly by other axes leading to side rooms, giving the home a generally orthogonal layout with several small variations. Vitruvius lauds such a symmetrical arrangement of a home that wisely considers the visual impact of the design (6.2.1–4, 6.3.11). This “axiality” reveals one of the functions of the entrance in some Roman homes: the door provides an opening through which a passer-by or potential guest may have a line of sight that often extends through the atrium and peristyle into the back of the home, where one might find a garden, dining room, or shrine (see fig. 2).13 The Romans valorized open and publicly accessible homes.14 Plutarch praises Roman leaders for keeping an open home (Crass. 3.1), which enabled others to see inside and thus increase the visibility and honor of the householder among the general public (Publ. 20). The best tribunes kept their doors open to the people almost constantly (Quaes. rom. 81; Praecepta 800f). The House of Augustus in the heart of Rome was reported to have been made over in order to make it more accessible to the public (D.Chr. Orat. 55.12). However, the view into a home is highly managed in two ways. First, the narrow hallway just inside the door, called the vestibulum or fauces, limits visual and actual access into the house to one narrow path (see fig. 2).15 Second, the viewer looking into these larger, elite homes would see zones of decoration including 12  S. Hales, The Roman House and Social Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 3–4. 13 A. Wallace-Hadrill, Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 44 and Hales, Roman House, 107. 14  Hales, Roman House, 36. 15 C. Kunst, Leben und Wohnen in der römischen Stadt (Darmstadt: WBG, 2006), 69.

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Hortus

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0 5 10m Figure 1: Floor Plan of the House of Pansa (Shelley Hales, The Roman House and Social Identity, 3–4. Rights held by Cambridge University Press).

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Figure 2: View from the door of the House of the Ceii (picture by Samuel Magal).

mosaics, painting, and architecture, all designed to impress.16 The Roman domus was a critical place for the demonstration of Romanitas, the pervasive (and often unspoken) ideals of Roman culture.17 Roman culture valued presentation and visibility as ways to demonstrate Romanitas, especially among the honorable elite, yet this was not liberal and haphazard access but carefully managed access that heightened the owner’s social status. The visually accessible domus is evidenced in Pompeii and praised for its Roman virtue, but variation and a greater control of visibility appear in other regions impacted by Roman culture. In Verulanium, on the western edge of the Roman Empire, many houses had a large front porch that connected the space between the street and the main entrance to the home.18 In Volubilis (Mauretania) most houses are built on a thoroughfare, but the main entrance to the house would be located on a side street.19 The hilly topography of Ephesus often disallowed the axiality observed in Pompeii. The need to build houses on terraces meant that a front door might lead only to one room or immediately to a set of stairs. More visibility was designed into the peristyle of Ephesian homes 16  Hales, Roman House, 107–110 and M. Adrian, „Der Blick durch die enge Tür: Lk 13.22–30 im architekturgeschichtlichen Kontext der städtischen domus,“ NTS 58 (2012): 481–502, esp. 489. 17  Hales, Roman House, 18. 18  Hales, Roman House, 185. 19 Hales, Roman House, 197.

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in the Roman era, but a guest had to be welcomed inside to achieve the views of luxury and importance that the garden afforded.20 The best Roman domus was supposed to keep its doors open during the day, but this did not allow for haphazard admission or the dissolution of domestic security.21 Cicero, who had an active political life, strongly differentiated between the challenges of public engagements and the safety and rest of his private domicile (Att. 17; Fam. 4.6.2). Privacy was still a concern, and many elite homes had a special alcove just off the ostium or front opening for a slave (called an ostiarius or ianator) who would guard and answer the door (Plu. De Cur. 3).22 However, Juvenal points out that the close quarters of urban life often violated privacy, even privacy that one tried to guard behind closed doors (Sat. 9). Thus, while architectural axiality and social visibility appear to have been the norm for homes in Pompeii and other centers of Roman life, cultural and topographical differences allowed for and even determined variations that broke this line of sight and guarded the privacy of the home more closely. Shifting focus from the house plan and function to the elements of the door itself reveals several carefully defined and designed components. As noted above, the actual opening on the front of the house was labelled the ostium (which can also mean “mouth”). The ostium was often decorated with fine mosaics on the floor. The façade of the ostium on the street could be highly decorated as with the so-named House of the Grand Entry23 or basic and solid as with the House of the Ceii (see fig. 3). With embellishment or without, the façade was easily noticeable from the street, and the doors of homes stood out from the doors of nearby shops in terms of size and quality. Just inside the threshold one would find the vestibulum (or fauces) inclining slightly with more mosaics on the floor and decorations on the wall.24 However, we also find internal Roman debate about the naming of some of these features. While most architectural schematics label the hallway just inside the door as the vestibulum, Aulus Gellius says that this label properly belongs to a small shelter area between the door and the street where a potential visitor may wait for admittance (Noctes 16.5). Regardless, these architectural elements signaled the entrance to the home, presented a view of status and culture to guests, and served the practical needs of managing both visual and physical access. Again, while Pompeii provides the classic examples of extant doorways, other locations around the empire had differing door designs based on local style, topography, and the size and prosperity of the city.

 Hales, Roman House, 223.  Hales, Roman House, 37. 22 S. R. Joshel and L. H. Petersen, The Material Life of Roman Slaves (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 41. 23  Wallace-Hadrill, Houses and Society, 118–119. 24 Kunst, Leben und Wohnen, 70. 20 21

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Figure 3: View of the façade of the House of the Ceii (picture by Samuel Magal).

Studying the door itself presents archaeological challenges. The typical Roman domus would have a wooden door, and so extant examples are scarce. However, a few doors have been preserved in Herculaneum, where the organic materials were carbonized by the ash that preceded the horribly destructive pyroclastic flow (see fig. 4). We also have a few paintings of doors that have survived (see fig. 5). These doors present the normal two-panel construction that typically opened inward into the home. The common double door form helps to explain the common plural forms of θύρα and janua, referring to a door with a left and right panel. Figure 4 preserves a metal knocker mechanism on the top right hand side found on many Roman doors (the base is present while the knocker ring is missing). Custom expected that such household doors would remain open during the day (Plin. HN. 36.42.112),25 and Plautus has one of his characters express shock at finding a door closed during the day (Mos. 2.2). However, several pieces of evidence point to doors regularly being closed and locked. Callers were supposed to knock before entering (Plu. De Cur 3; Cim. 17). Characters knocking at a front door are practically a stock scene for Plautus: sometimes it is a slave sent on an errand (As. 2.3), sometimes a lover knocks quietly to avoid notice (Cur. 1.1, 3), but most often some protagonist is beating and shouting at the door, trying to get the attention of those inside (Am. 4.2; Cist. 3.1; Rud. 2.5, 25 Hales,

Roman House, 37.

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Figure 4: Preserved wooden door from Herculaneum (picture by Recliner).

3.2; Truc. 2.1). Similarly, Plautus repeatedly uses a squeaky door as a technique to disrupt attempts at secrecy (Per. 3.2; Mil. 2.2; Trin. 5.1). Archaeological and literary evidence also attests to bolts or locks on Roman doors (Ov. Am. 1.6; Plu. De Cur.. 3; Pl. Cist. 3.1). But closed doors generated suspicion – surely someone was hiding some shame or sedition.26 In the Roman world, thresholds and doors were also numinous places. Janus, the double-faced god of doors and namesake for “January,” is the best known, but lesser spirits were associated with hinges and thresholds.27 A great deal of superstition hovered around thresholds.28 Stumbling 26

 Hales, Roman House, 37–38. Janus in Roman Life and Cult (Menaha, WI: The Collegiate Press, 1918),

27 B. R. Burchett,

3–4.

28  M. B. Ogle, “The House-Door in Greek and Roman Religion and Folk-Lore,” The Ameri­ can Journal of Philology 32 (1911): 251–271, esp. 252.

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Figure 5: Painting of a door scene from the Villa at Oplontis (picture by Susan SilberbergPierce).

over an entrance was a sure sign of bad luck (Plu. Dem. 29.2; Ov. Am. 1.12), and doors were the object of several apotropaic rituals (Plin. HN. 20.39, 28.27, 32.16). Thus, while Roman mores may have expected homeowners to keep their doors open, significant anxiety over privacy and the supernatural hovered around a door, and they may have been shut in practice quite often. Roman archaeological and literary evidence attests to the dual and dissonant functions of doors identified at the beginning of this essay: doors both connect and separate. Roman culture valued and amplified visibility through a door when it increased one’s honor and social standing, but it simultaneously showed careful management and protection of privacy. On the spectrum of connection and separation, Roman architecture and ideals fall somewhat on the side of connection, but with closely regulated and astutely negotiated access. Romans skillfully promoted participation and passage between the public and private spheres in their architecture and rhetoric.29 Hales states, “The Roman domus does not make pure and clearly demarcated indications of domestic life. The numerous

29  C. Knights, “The Spatiality of The Roman Domestic Setting: An Interpretation of Symbolic Content,” in Architecture and Order: Approaches to Social Space (M. P. Pearson and C. Richards eds.; London: Routledge, 1994), 113–146, esp. 115.

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thresholds of the Roman house seem to invite pollution.”30 The axiality of the Roman house, the expectation of open doors, and the impressively decorated entryways all emphasized connection and access. On the other hand, there are variations in that axiality, the shutting and locking of doors in practice, and the careful control of visual and physical access. A Roman householder wanted to have an open house and open door, but an openness that he could control and deploy in ways that amplified his honor and secured his authority. The door was the literal threshold of the paterfamilias’s power The archaeological and written evidence from a Jewish provenance presents a different way of negotiating the door as a border between places and people. Jewish architecture falls into the domain of the Roman Empire as illustrated in the title to the collection of Peter Richardson’s essays Building Jewish in the Ro­ man East. As Richardson states, “The distinctiveness of Jewish architecture lay more in its way of mixing diverse influences than in anything inherent in Judaism’s own architectural traditions.”31 Thus, Jewish architecture will probably not reveal much through unique or unusual features but rather in the way that relatively typical features for the era and region are deployed. Jewish culture may be labelled conservative and wary of outside influence, but it still found creative ways to adapt to and accommodate larger cultural and political powers.32 However, as Marianne Sawicki has shown, adaptation can come in two streams: collaborative and resistive. Colonized Jewish culture of the first century shows a combination of these approaches. Jews could both patronize public baths (collaboration) and construct domestic miqva’ot (resistance), but the work and writing of the rabbis, in particular, attest to attempts to resist the encroaching Roman hegemony through a variety of tiny skirmishes over the regulating of daily life.33 Thus, architecture may reveal some subtle adaptations of larger trends while the rabbinic writings may illustrate a more determined attempt to manage the borders created by doors. Beginning again with the implications of domestic floor plans, most Jewish homes noticeably lack any kind of axiality, any visible line of sight through the home.34 As discussed above, architectural axiality was not established compre30 Hales, Roman House, 245. She adds that the variation of Roman houses across the empire reveals a similar negotiation of Romanitas with local culture and elite preferences. Those who succeeded in the Roman Empire were those who could skillfully compromise between Roman values and local culture. 31  P. Richardson, Building Jewish in the Roman East (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2004), 337. 32 Richardson, Building, 341. 33  M. Sawicki, Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the Occupied Land of Jesus (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 118–121. 34 Archaeology has discovered some large, elite homes in Palestine that come closer to this Roman ideal, but such axiality seems limited to grand Hellenistic-Roman villas and is not widespread. See Y. Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Period (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1995), 102.

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Stable

Triclinium

Bedroom

Stairway to Roof Living Rooms Vestibule

0

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Figure 6: The “Triple Courtyard House” of Capernaum (Yizhar Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Perior, p. 69. Rights held by Franciscan Printing Press).

hensively throughout the Roman Empire, and regional variations in style, topography, and the size of the city could alter this ideal. Jewish domestic construction in the first century follows one of the basic patterns of the Levant region – large domestic complexes or multiple living units clustered around a central courtyard.35 Multiple examples are extant (see fig. 6 and 7). The so-called “Triple Courtyard House” of Capernaum adapts some elements of Roman architectural habits. Note the presence of rooms labeled “vestibule” and “triclinium” – Roman architectural terminology, as well as the “Mediterranean” incorporation of a shop into the domestic complex. However, axiality is strikingly absent. Again, Roman atrium-style homes regularly feature a line of sight designed to display status and wealth, while many Jewish homes of the 35  Richardson, Building, 339–340 and P. J. J. Botha, “Houses in the World of Jesus,” NeoT 32 (1998): 37–74, esp. 44–45. Rabbinic writings contain a number of judgments concerning boundaries and responsibilities in shard courtyards (y. B. Meṣ. 11:11–12; y. B. Bat. 1:4).

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cistern

Cave

stairs up

mikveh

Figure 7: Courtyard House at Yodefat (illustration by Bart Bruehler).36

same era reduced such visibility to furnish greater security and seclusion from 36outsiders.37 The doorway from the street to the vestibule and the doorway from the vestibule to the central courtyard appear to be purposefully misaligned so as to prevent a line of sight,38 and it is nearly impossible to see into more than one room from any point in the house with the exception of the triclinium and the living room from the center of the courtyard. The “Courtyard House” excavated at Yodefat shows rougher construction with no hewn stones or mortar.39 The courtyard (with no pillars, thus not a peristyle) functions as the center of the complex with rooms on either side of the front wall and door, a natural cave and possible storage room. The courtyard was the location of most domestic labor as well as where members of the household would interact with friends and neighbors over business (m. B. Bat. 2:3) and mundane tasks.40 However, one can still see the lack of axiality and orthogonal construction. While the front door provides a view into the courtyard, a  The layout for this house was developed from illustrations in Richardson, Building, plate 6. Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002), 157. 38  Hirschfeld, Palestinian Dwelling, 68. The rooftop area was another distinctive of the Palestinian region not found commonly elsewhere in the Mediterranean. 39  Richardson, Building, 76–77. 40  See C. Baker, Rebuilding the House of Israel: Architectures of Gender in Jewish Antiquity (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002), 37–38 and Botha, “Houses,” 61. 36

37 J. Reed,

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passer-by cannot see well into any of the rooms of the home. Homes that shared courtyards were discouraged from having doors that opened directly across from other doors or windows to preserve privacy; however, a door could open directly onto the door to a house on the opposite side of a street since the owner of that house was already charged with preserving his own privacy from the eyes of any passers-by (b. B. Bat 60a). The bottom of Figure 7 illustrates the main living quarters (probably with two stories) reached by a set of stairs (further misaligning any view). This home represents how many domestic courtyards functioned in Palestinian dwellings during this era. They were both a center of domestic work and a buffer between the street and the main living quarters.41 Thus the courtyard was a mixed space that not only facilitated social interaction among residents of the home and others as well but also provided for greater privacy, shielding the residents from easy public view and access.42 While the rabbinic writings have some comments about the construction and function of a house complex,43 the commentary proliferates dramatically around the subject of doors, even as the archaeological evidence decreases (extant door construction is rare). If the Roman door was typically open to symbolize access and publicly demonstrated status, then the Jewish door was often semi-closed to define borders and secure privacy. Crucial to this discussion was the belief that carrying something across a boundary was work and therefore could be a violation of the Sabbath (t. Šabb 1:4; t. Erubin 7:1–5). Thus, the rabbis had to define exactly when and how a door a functioned as a border. To cross a threshold into a house was to move from public to private, a move that involve a change of place and legal reasoning (b. Šabb.8b; b. Ned. 3a, 5b). The width of a threshold could make it a zone of its own between the public and private (b. Šabb. 6a), and the nature of that threshold as either in the house or outside the house could be determined by whether the door was open or shut (b. Šabb. 9a). The rabbis decreed doors as a necessary part of a home, for a door had to be included with any rentable domicile (m. B. Meṣ. 8:7). Similarly, several rabbis comment on the necessity and function of locks on doors (b. Šabb. 126a; b. B. Bat 65b; m. Kelim 11:2–4), and you had better remember your key for peace of mind (t. Beṣah. 1:11). Door mechanisms were so important they could be repaired in the midst of a festival week (m. Mo’ed Qaṭ. 1:10). Finally, the rabbis debated the proper location and need for the mezuzah – a small scroll inscribed with passages from the Torah that should be affixed to the doorpost (c.f. Deut 6:9). The mezuzah had to be placed safely and properly around a variety of posts, hinges, and locks (b. Men. 33a), and the careful discussion of when an Israelite had to  Hirschfeld, Palestinian Dwelling, 272. “Houses,” 45. 43  Often, the topic of “house” is handled in rabbinic writings as a metaphor for authority, for household relationships, or for a woman’s body rather than about the structure itself. See C. Baker, Rebuilding, 48–64. 41

42 Botha,

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Figure 8: Reconstruction of the main entrance to the house at Horvat Susiya (Yizhar Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Period, p. 252. Rights held by Franciscan Printing Press).

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place a mezuzah on a newly constructed, rented, or foreign home reinforces its role as a key identity marker for a Jewish home (y. Meg. 4:12). Doors functioned as key borders that impacted the identity of places and people in the rabbinic writings. While one should take into consideration the historical and ideological location of the rabbis arguing for a Jewish way of life,44 this evidence indicates that doors were considered at least by some Jews a border to be closely defined and guarded. The limited archaeological evidence we have about doors in Palestine during this era confirms their importance in the social-spatial life of many Jews. The lived practice of doors thus contributes to and interacts with the written sources and an overall cultural perception of the role of doors as borders.45 The few surviving examples demonstrate that doors were one of the more expensive, technologically advanced, and well-crafted structural elements in Palestinian architecture (see Figure 8).46 On a grander scale, both the House of the Lintel at Meiron and a home excavated at Ḥorvat Susiya show skilled construction of entrance doors with large doorposts, lintels, and threshold stones.47 Meanwhile, the doors of simpler homes reveal that a lower degree of materials, embellishments, and  – presumably  – expenses were required for their construction.48 While the posts, lintel, and threshold were stone, the door itself was typically the work of a carpenter.49 Single doors with strong deadbolts and perhaps also carefully designed two-panel doors were made to provide security to the residents and reinforced a sense of doors as a crucial border that must be carefully controlled.50 Thus, while Roman doors commonly have a noticeable and wellcrafted knocker, Jewish residents in Palestine seem to have been more attentive to the locks on their doors. Again, this lived practice of heavy, manufactured locks became a custom that shaped and was shaped by a view of reality.51 In this case, it reflects a perspective that emphasized security and privacy relatively over access and openness. The archaeological and written evidence from a Jewish, Palestinian provenance continues the theme of doors signaling and enabling both connection and separation, both access and privacy. Drawing on a variety of water metaphors embedded in Jewish thought and practice (e. g. surrounding miqva’ot), Sawicki  Sawicki, Crossing Galilee, 119–121. were also used as metaphors for women and women’s bodies in rabbinic literature (Baker, Rebuilding, 44, 56). 46  Hirschfeld, Palestinian Dwelling, 122. 47 E. M. Meyers, J. F. Strange, and C. L. Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Meiron, Upper Gali­ lee, 1971–72, 1974–75, 1977 (Meiron Excavation Project 3; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 74 and Hirschfeld, Palestinian Dwelling, 252. 48 Reed, Archaeology, 158. 49  Hirschfeld, Palestinian Dwelling, 122 and Reed, Archaeology, 158. 50  Hirschfeld, Palestinian Dwelling, 254 and Sawicki, Crossing Galilee, 15–18. 51 Reed, Archaeology, 3. 44

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has cast Jewish homes in terms of how they enabled and regulated the “flow” of people or how they functioned as “containers” for various people.52 While the architecture of Jewish / ​Palestinian homes demonstrates a real capacity for “fluid” adjustments in the people and places of the home,53 what stands out in the archaeological remains and especially in the illumination provided by the written evidence is the degree to which such fluidity was defined, managed, and controlled so that it operated in its proper fashion and direction.54 If, as quoted above, the Roman house invited pollution through the spilling over and conflation of spaces, then the Jewish home inversely – but to a similar degree – sought after purity, the proper regulation of people and things through structures and customs. Rather than absolute polarities, these are points along a spectrum. We find the rabbis arguing for the reasonable fluidity of women’s movement: husbands who are too strict keep their wife locked up at home, husbands who are foolish let their wives roam unconstrained, the wise strike a balance by allowing a wife to visit with relatives and friends while staying close to the home (t. Soṭah 5:9). It is not that the Romans ignored demarcation or the Jews disallowed contact.55 Rather, it is a question of relative emphasis vis-á-vis one another. The Romans designed, constructed, and lived more publicly in axial homes with impressive entries and access-granting knockers that, when taken as a whole, serve to signify honor, power, and openness. On the other hand, Jews designed, constructed, and lived privately in houses with front courtyards using doors with heavy bolts that enabled interaction while carefully defining boundaries and identity.

4. Doors as Metaphors in the Mediterranean World Sometimes a door is more than a door, and authors within the streams of both Jewish and Roman cultures employed doors as metaphors in interesting ways. The previous section illustrated the wide variety of architectural forms and experiential perspectives regarding doors among a variety of Jews and Romans. Within the variety that clusters in and around Jewish and Roman cultures, one can discern a difference between their perspectives on doors. Elements from a Roman provenance show some preference for the role of the door as open, as a portal of (controlled) access, while elements within a primarily Jewish provenance show some preference for the role of doors as shut, as an (openable) portal that marked boundaries and guarded privacy. Thus we may expect to discover a  Sawicki, Crossing Galilee, 23–25. Crossing Galilee, 34–35 and Baker, Rebuilding, 41. 54  Sawicki, Crossing Galilee, 35 and Baker, Rebuilding, 42–43. 55  Botha points out that courtyards could not be kept completely private, for many had walls only a meter high and they could be seen into from neighboring rooftops (“Houses,” 44–45). 52

53 Sawicki,

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similar pattern with the use of the concept “door” as a metaphor: Roman authors preferring open doors and Jewish authors preferring shut doors. Such predilections are far from absolute for two reasons. First, both Roman and Jewish societies are complex and diverse; thus we should expect variation within those loosely bounded cultures and with their use of a particular metaphor.56 Second, as we have seen, the door is already a reality with dual possibilities: doors always represent both connection and separation, both access and exclusion. Therefore, while we may find more “open door” metaphors in Roman writings and more “closed door” metaphors in Jewish writings, we will also find the door metaphor used with its less common implication within both bodies of literature.57 Metaphors tend to work in clusters of coherence around the fundamental values held by a culture.58 Furthermore, Lakoff and Johnson claim that “in / ​out” is one of the basic orientation metaphors that appear in almost all cultures – an orientation closely related to the door as the basic boundary marker that distinguishes “in” from “out.”59 Fortunately, other scholars have done excellent work theorizing the symbolic coherence of Roman and Jewish cultural perspectives around architecture. Hales claims that the Roman domus does not provide a pure statement on Roman domestic life precisely because it is place of fluid boundaries where the “outside world seeped into every area of the domus” and “the Roman family’s domestic domain reached out over the city.”60 The Roman Empire thrived because of its ability to both subtly Romanize other regions and incorporate elements of other cultures at the same time. The ideal of Romanitas was actually a mixed reality that balanced traditional Roman values with an influx of new ideas and practices. The Roman house embodied this interaction and mixing, inviting the pollution of change and seeking to construct an identity out of a combination of influences both “in” and “out” of the home.61 A door in this cultural system was a locus of contact and control with the emphasis on enabling the mingling of differences in a way that was culturally and socially advantageous. Illustrating the Jewish perspective, Sawicki employs “water” as an overarching metaphor that both symbolically and concretely demonstrates the concern of Jews to manage the flow of things and people (especially women) as a colonized

56 Z. Kövecses, Metaphor in Culture: Universality and Variation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 88–89. 57  As noted above, the genre of a work affects the use of the term “door”: historical and narrative pieces tend to mention physical doors as part of their stories while speeches and more philosophical prose is more like to employ “door” as a metaphor. 58  G. Lakoff and M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 22–23 and Kövecses, Metaphor, 284. 59  Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors, 24. 60  Hales, Roman House, 245. 61 Hales, Roman House, 245–247.

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minority.62 Village gates had previously functioned as places of public interaction and identification, but in the Hellenistic-Roman era this was replaced by the synagogue, which became a constructed container that held, circulated, and grounded people in a way that preserved their identity.63 A door was then the primary way “for selectively admitting, retaining, and releasing the people, activities, and commodities of the household.”64 Thus the Jewish cultural perspective appears to value what is “in” even as the Roman perspective encourages the wise incorporation of what is “out.”65 While the Roman cultural system fostered mixing within a dominant Roman ethos, the Jewish cultural system promoted careful preservation of its own identity as part of a colonized subculture. Thus the function of doors overlaps but also differs: for the Romans a door is a fruitful passageway for strategic mingling, but for the Jewish it was an essential border for managing interaction. The same pattern of overlap and difference obtains in the deployment of doors as metaphors. The survey of the constructed and experienced doors of the Mediterranean reinforces this cultural coherence. Kövecses has unpacked how metaphors interact reciprocally with their social-physical environment, both shaping and being shaped by the environment.66 The daily experience of a door designed with an identity marker (the mezuzah) and constructed with heavy locks, situated far away from one’s living quarters, reinforces a perspective on doors as a place for preserving identity and regulating movement. However, the daily experience of a door that was (expected to be) open and provided a line of sight into and through the house (at least in some cases) reinforces a perspective on doors as a place for expanding identity and fostering movement. This contrast is not surprising, for subcultures (like the colonized Judeans) “often define themselves in contradistinction to mainstream culture” (like the Roman Empire).67 Real and metaphorical doors are excellent examples of this, and the written record shows that authors from Roman and Jewish provenances typically employed “door” as a metaphor in differing ways. Within the large and diverse body of Roman literature, a door can appear as a metaphor for many things, but more often for beginnings, opportunities, and access. Epictetus says, “The beginning of philosophy for the one who at least enters it the right way and by the door is a consciousness of his own weakness and inability” (Arr. Epict. 2.11.1, emphasis mine; see also 2.16.34). Polybius cites a saying, “He was not foiled at the door but in the road” (39.14.1) referring to failure Crossing Galilee, 33–36 and 118–121.  Sawicki, Crossing Galilee, 54–56 64  Sawicki, Crossing Galilee, 98. 65 As Lakoff and Johnson point out, while most cultures have an “in-out” orientation, the way that orientation is deployed can vary widely (Metaphors, 24). 66  Kövecses, Metaphor, 163–165. 67 Kövecses, Metaphor, 97. 62 Sawicki, 63

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not at the beginning of a venture (the “door”) but at its midpoint (the “road”). An open door can represent military access, often through a key town or battle (Cic. Mur. 15), but a closed door can mean just the opposite (Liv. 42.67.6). Cicero deploys the “open door” as a metaphor for possibility and opportunity: as the possibility of escaping something (Cael. 12.30; Vat. 14.34), as a door of opportunity (Off. 2.66; Har. 24.52), and as a possibility of something bad (Tul. 2.5; Planc. 3.8; Amic. 83). He also distinguishes between the “front door” as the entrance for legitimate pleasures and the “back door” as a passage for secret and shameful gratification (Red. Sen. 6.14). Similarly, open doors could unfortunately allow bad people and influences into a home (Catul. 67; Prop.1.16). Finally a door can refer to a sense of vulnerability – an open door leaves one exposed by removing all barriers (Arr. Epict. 3.22.14–16; Verg. A. 4.486–88; Lucr. 3.367–68; 4.269–77; Plu. De Garr. 3). The majority of metaphors from a Roman provenance feature open doors that symbolize opportunity and possibilities. While this “open door” variety of metaphor is common in Roman material, it is not always positive, nor is it the only metaphorical use of doors in Roman writings. The door metaphor frequently refers to the possibility and reality of death. In his Diatribai, Epictetus repeatedly states “the door is open,” referring to the possibility of entering into death at any moment if life seems dishonorable or useless to live. For example, he says, “The poor flesh is treated harshly and then on the other hand smoothly. If this does not please you, then the door is open; if it does, then bear with it” (Arr. Epict. 2.1.19; see also 1.9.20, 1.24.20, 1.25.18, 3.8.6, and 3.13.14). The phrase the “door of death” or close equivalents are also common (Verg. A. 2.661, 6.127; Lucr. 1.1111–12), and pictures of doors are stock images on sarcophagi as well.68 Open doors could be joyful sign of (unmarried) lovers being able to meet with one another (Hor. Carm. 3.9; Pl. Men. 2.3), but more often locked doors symbolized the pain of separation (Ov. Am. 1.4, 2.12; Catul. Carm. 63.65; Hor. Carm. 3.7). Shut doors also assume other metaphorical implications in Roman writings. They can provide appropriate security that should be respected (Plu. Cim. 17; Plu. De Cur. 3), can keep out inappropriate influences (Plu. Conjug. 19), or can be a symbol of social exclusion (Epict. Ench. 33.14). Overall, however, the majority of door metaphors in Roman literature are of the “open” variety, signaling positive access and opportunity, though open doors can also let in immoral influences or be the way to death. “Closed door” metaphors also appear, and while they can be positive in the sense of protecting privacy and propriety, they are usually a negative image associated with painful separation and exclusion.

68  B. Haarløv, The Half-Open Door: A Common Symbolic Motif within Roman Sepulchral Sculpture (Odense University Classical Studies 10; Odense: Odense University Press, 1977), 55–56.

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Moving from Roman literature to writings of a Jewish provenance poses three challenges. First, the extant Jewish literature of this era cannot match the scope of the available Roman (and Hellenistic) writings. Second, rabbinic materials rarely use doors as metaphors, eliminating a large block of potentially relevant material. Third, Jews were part of the Hellenistic-Roman world, so there is no hard and fast divide here; rather one should expect to find adaptation of (or perhaps resistance to) Roman culture in Jewish material, giving us a mixed body of evidence. Nevertheless, the available Jewish material demonstrates a pattern of door metaphors rather different than what can be found in Roman authors. One of the more common door metaphors in Jewish writings is the presentation of a door as a symbol of inconsiderate or inappropriate encroachment. Sirach passes along the following advice: “A boor peers into the house from the door, but a cultivated person remains outside” (21:24), and “It is poor manners to listen at a door, and the discreet would be grieved by such a disgrace” (28:25). Proverbs stereotypes the door as a place where one can meet an unfaithful wife (5:38) or the calling of the “foolish woman” (9:14). On one occasion, the rabbis cited the door metaphor of Proverbs 5:38 as support for avoiding contact with disapproved teaching (t. Ḥul. 2:24). Additionally, we find a rabbinic story where the Shema was recited inaudibly in order to prevent the quaestor who was “standing in the door” from hearing it (t. Ber. 2:13).69 Philo, like Epictetus above, can speak of approaching the “door of philosophy” with suitable training and respect (Ebr. 1.49). He also casts hope as the disposition that guards the door to the other virtues, for “no one may approach who has not previously paid homage to hope” (Abr. 1.15; see also Pr. 2.19). Both Sirach and Philo use the image of a locked door to admonish people to guard what they say: “Make a door and a bolt for your mouth” (Sir.LXX 28:25; see also Ph. Abr. 1.191). Finally, shut doors can provide safety: “Come my people; enter your chambers, and shut your door behind you to hide for a little while until the wrath is past” (Is.LXX 26:20). Doors could be almost proverbial as offering protection (Ep.Je. LXX 1:59), and doors should be shut to keep out those who might wrongly hear revelation from God (Ps.-Orph. 1:1, 3:1; Aristobul. 4:3). Doors do appear infrequently as opportunities ordained by God (Is 45:1–2). In apocalyptic writings, one finds doors that open into heaven, enabling the disclosure of special revelation (1 En. 14:13–16, 25; 3 Bar. 2:2, 3:1). Josephus as a writer of narrative and history has only a few metaphorical uses of doors, replicating the notion of the “door of death” found in broader Roman literature (BJ 4.341; AJ 17.187). The bulk of the uses of doors as metaphors in writings from a Jewish provenance emphasize thresholds as borders that could be wrongly violated, and thus shut doors are a fitting way to provide security and control. Doors as metaphors often symbol69  In contrast to these examples of dangerous proximity, seeking out the door of the wise is a good choice, for it builds good character (Pr. LXX 8:32; Si. LXX 6:36).

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ized potentially dangerous borders that should be closely guarded and sealed shut by closing the door.

5. The Real and Metaphorical Doors of the New Testament The preceding survey of doors  – constructed, experienced, and symbolized  – across the Mediterranean reveals a rather consistent, but not absolute, pattern of difference. To put it broadly, Romans preferred architecture, description, and metaphors that featured open doors signaling access and opportunity while Jews preferred architecture, description, and metaphors that featured doors as risky borders that often should be closed. This brings us to the NT, which is a complex combination of Jewish, Roman, and Hellenistic elements of society and rhetoric.70 While noticeable Hellenization swept through Judea more than two hundred years before the events of the NT and while Roman power politically and militarily dominated the entire eastern Mediterranean well before the era of the NT, distinctive Jewish religious, cultural, and literary traditions were actively thriving, though perhaps as a subculture.71 Turning to the real and metaphorical doors of the NT, one may initially expect to see a combination of the elements surveyed above, noting actual and symbolic doors exhibiting both Roman and Jewish tendencies. Documents of the New Testament assigned to more of a Jewish provenance (e. g., Matthew, Revelation) or more of a Hellenistic-Roman provenance (e. g., Acts, Colossians) may reflect the preferences of those cultural provenances.72 This is, in fact, what the evidence of the NT reveals. The sayings of Jesus preserved in the Synoptic Gospels show a marked preference for the metaphor of the shut door. Jesus urges his disciples, “Shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret” (Matt 6:6).73 Shut doors appear in Jesus’ parables as symbols of exclusion for those who have ignored or missed the proclamation of the Kingdom of God. Unfortunate bridesmaids who do not obtain enough oil will have the door shut on them (Matt 25:10). Similarly, the householder will close the door and not allow admittance to outsiders because he does not know them (Luke 13:24–27). Here Luke cites a “narrow door” that allows one to still see inside – a feature that fits well within the Roman architec70  V. K. Robbins, The Tapestry of Early Christian Discourse: Rhetoric, Society, and Ideology (New York: Routledge, 1996), 168–186. 71 S. Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B. C.E to 640 C.E (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 3–4. 72  Multiple complicating factors exist, though. Take, for instance, the Gospel of Luke where an author typically described as a Gentile of Hellenistic origin preserves the teachings of a Jewish man in Palestine. Or, consider Paul, a Jewish man, writing to primarily Roman and Gentile congregations in a letter such as Philippians. 73 Note that this is probably an interior door in a house rather than a front or courtyard door.

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tural features of the vestibulum and fauces74 – yet he retains the Jewish flavor of a door that is shut for security against outsiders. In his teaching on prayer, Jesus generates creative tension with the image of a door shut securely in the middle of the night even though the persistent petitioner ultimately wins out and gains access (Luke 11:5–8). Matthew’s special material remembers Jesus declaring that the “gates of Hades” (here πύλαι, not θύραι) will not prevail against the church (16:18), reflecting the common conception of the “doors of death” found in both Jewish and Roman material. Mark and Matthew preserve the saying of Jesus which describes signs that reveal that the return of the Son of Man is near, “right at the door” (Mark 13:29; Matt 24:33). Given the apocalyptic nature of that saying’s context, this seems to fit well with the more Jewish notion of the door as a border that signals dangerous closeness or access (t. Ber. 2:13), but it may also be a more positive reference to the possibility of the return of the Son of Man in the view of those eagerly awaiting it. The physical doors of the Synoptic Gospels have a Jewish flavor that reflects the architecture examined above. Mark notes that crowds gathered at the doors of houses where Jesus was teaching (1:33, 2:2). This seems to reflect a public nuisance to Jesus that ultimately kept him from the cities where he encounters such invasive mobs (1:45, 3:7). The other major instance of a real door is the symbolically laden shut door of the tomb of Jesus (Mark 15:46, 16:3; Matt 27:60), which is opened only by divine intervention (Matt 28:2–3).75 Thus the Synoptics show a marked preference for shut doors both real and metaphorical, a tendency that fits with the Jewish provenance of their subject and sources. John records what is probably the most well-known door metaphor of the NT: Jesus claiming, “I am the door for the sheep” (10:7). The provenance of the Gospel of John has been the subject of some debate, with claims of a primarily Jewish background (rather than Hellenistic or Gnostic) being more favored in recent scholarship, so both cultural streams must be considered when coming to John 10.76 In 10:1–2, the door offers protection for the sheep. The true, good shepherd is the one who enters properly through the door, but thieves avoid the door and climb over the wall to try to steal the sheep away. Here the door is more of a protective measure that guards appropriate access. However, John layers the metaphors here, for Jesus is not only the Good Shepherd but also the Door of the sheep (10:7–9). As the door, Jesus allows people to enter and become his sheep. Then, they can go out to find pasture and come back in for safety. Jesus as the door speaks more to invitation and access, both in and out. John has almost an equally balanced mixture here. Doors mark both safety and 74

 Adrian, “Der Blick,” 496. that Luke, perhaps the most Hellenized of the Synoptic writers, omits the references to the doors found in Mark 1:33 and 2:2, as well as the mention of the door of the tomb. 76  J. van der Watt, An Introduction to the Johannine Gospel and Letters (T&T Clark Approaches to Biblical Studies; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 133–142. 75 Note

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entrance. The door both shuts and opens at appropriate times for appropriate ends. Later in the gospel, John retains a more Jewish usage of a physical door when he notes that the disciples were hiding behind closed doors (in Jerusalem) for fear of the Jews when Jesus miraculously appears in their midst (John 20:19, 26). Significantly, when John expounds on the door as a metaphor, he activates notions of both connection and separation, but when he mentions a physical door, it is shut for safety’s sake. Acts contains more references to doors of all kinds (and gates – πύλη) than any other book of the NT.77 Near the beginning of the book, Luke uses “door” as a metaphor of nearness similar to Jesus’ apocalyptic saying in the Gospels but in a more mundane sense (5:9): those who buried Ananias are waiting “at the door” to bury Sapphira as well. Luke refers to a number of miraculously open doors, where God intervenes dramatically to rescue the leaders of the church from prison: “During the night an angel of the Lord opened the prison doors and brought them out” (5:19; also see similar events in 12:6–10 and 16:26–27).78 These instances, along with the miraculous opening of Jesus’ tomb, use the opening of a physical door as an epiphanic manifestation of the power of God.79 Thus, while the door is a literal, physical door, its opening bears supernatural and symbolic weight. Luke can also refer to doors that are shut for the sake of safety. Peter comes upon a closed (courtyard) door after his midnight prison break (12:13), and Paul is dragged away from the temple mob and secured behind closed doors (21:30). Finally, Luke contains an instance of the “open door” as a metaphor for opportunity. On their way to the Jerusalem Council in Acts 15, Paul and Barnabas related how God “had opened a door of faith for the Gentiles” (14:27). In Acts, God opens both physical and metaphorical doors in order to further the spread of the gospel. The only doors that appear in the Pauline letters are metaphorical doors that God has opened or can open. This makes sense since the audiences of these letters were primarily Gentiles with a Hellenistic-Roman background. Paul notes that a “wide [μεγάλη] and effective door has opened” for him in Ephesus (1 Cor 16:9). The verb “has opened” probably has the sense of a theological passive, with God being responsible for opening the door. This statement by Paul contrasts both with the repeatedly closed doors of the Synoptics (e. g., Matt 6:6 and 25:10) as well as the difficulty implied by “narrow” doors (Luke 13:24; see also the narrow πύλη and ὁδός of Matt 7:13–14). Paul makes a similar statement in 2 Cor 2:12: “When I came to Troas to proclaim the good news of Christ, a  Interestingly, Luke refers to the “Beautiful Gate” of the temple both as a θύρα (3:2) and a

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πύλη. He uses πύλη to refer to city gates in Acts 9:24, 12:10, and 16:13.

78 Prison escapes through miraculously opened doors are not unique to Acts, for several precedents exist in the ancient world. See J. B. Weaver, Plots of Epiphany: Prison-escape in Acts of the Apostles (BZNW 131; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2004), 44–45. 79 Weaver, Plots, 121 and 265–266.

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door was opened for me in the Lord.” Again, God opens doors and opens them for the spread of the gospel. Finally, in Col 4:3 Paul asks the Colossians to pray that “God will open for us a door for the word so that we might proclaim the mystery of Christ.” All of these instances (along with Acts 14:27) draw more on the Roman tendency to use doors as metaphors for opportunity, but in each case an opportunity created by the intervention of God. The final few references to doors occur in James and Revelation. James may be drawing upon the tradition of Jesus’ sayings in a Jewish setting when he declares, “The Judge is standing at the doors!” (5:9; compare Mark 13:29 and Matt 24:33).80 Revelation has a mixture of references to symbolic and supernatural doors. Jesus is responsible for opening a door for the Philadelphians that “no one can shut” (3:8), probably referring to their access to salvation that cannot be blocked by any of their adversaries (v. 9). On the other hand, Jesus is on the outside looking in for the Laodiceans, and he must beseech them to heed his knocking and open the door to him so that he can come in to them (3:20). The open door of the Philadelphians is a metaphor for access and opportunity that has been divinely opened, but in a more Jewish vein Jesus is shut out by the closed door of the Laodiceans and must knock to get in. Finally, Revelation, not surprisingly, contains an apocalyptic reference to a supernatural door opening into heaven, through which the seer enters as a gateway to his revelations (4:1; cf. 1 En. 14:13–16 and 3 Bar. 2:2).

6. Conclusion This survey of doors in the Mediterranean world more broadly and the NT more specifically has revealed a few discernible trends. First, constructed, experienced, and metaphorical doors interactively reinforce one another. The architecture of doors, written descriptions of those doors, and the metaphorical use of doors in discourse flow into similar patterns within a culture. Second, noticeable differences between Roman and Jewish preferences materialize in this analysis. Within the varieties of Roman culture, one finds an emphasis on open doors providing connection combined with metaphorically open doors that refer to opportunity and access. Within the varieties of Jewish culture, one finds an emphasis on closed doors providing separation combined with metaphorically closed doors that afford security and privacy. Third, these tendencies and emphases are far from absolute, for the door itself is a dual reality marking both access and separation, and the less common significance appears in both cultural streams. Finally, these same tendencies appear to have filtered into the New Testament. 80  Similar to what James has done with the Q saying as argued by P. J. Hartin, James and the Q Sayings of Jesus (LNTS; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 195–198.

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Granting the mixed cultural and literary nature of these documents, writings from a primarily Jewish provenance prefer real and metaphorical doors that are closed (e. g., Matthew), whereas writings from a primarily Hellenistic-Roman provenance prefer real and metaphorical doors that are open (e. g. Acts). One of the distinctive contributions of the New Testament is its use of doors in the description of divine activity: opening the tomb of Jesus (Matt 28:2), opening doors for the proclamation of the gospel (Acts 14:27; 2 Cor 2:12), standing at the door ready to return (Mark 13:29; Jas 5:9), and ultimately Christ becoming the door that grants access to salvation for the people of God (John 10:7–9).

Otium and Negotium – The Breakdown of a Boundary in the Imperial Villas* The case study of Pausilypon Ivan Varriale 1. Foreword The aim of this essay is to illustrate how the architecture of the imperial otium villas reflects the change in the concept of imperial power which occurred during the second half of the first century CE. In order to do so, we have to start from the concept of otium procul negotiis, elaborated by the Roman aristocracy during the Republican age, which implies an ideal boundary between the political life of the Urbe and the practice of otium. So the ownership of an extra-urban villa, meant as a place of leisure away from political life, became the bedrock of the Roman aristocracy. As we will see, with the birth of the empire, the ideal boundary between the spheres of otium and negotium became vague and began to break down, because the emperor could not remain outside political life. Therefore social and political procedures, ceremonial events and imperial luxury began to be manifested both on the Palatine and in extra-urban residences, within architectural complexes enriched with innovative, singular elements that reflect this change and the new concept of otium as an instrument of power.

2. Introduction Ancient literature, in particular in the late Republic and the early decades of the empire, is full of references to the concept of otium amongst the Romans, understood as devotion to literature, Greek philosophy, and care of the body according to Greek canons. The concept of otium is very open, as it was adapted and transformed on the basis of the needs of the Roman aristocracy, but it is always associated with the part of life that is procul negotiis,1 or far from business and the obligations of political life. The clear boundary between otium and negotium was * For the translation I would like to thank Dr. Ceil Friedman. 1  Hor. Ep. II, 1, 127–131.

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crossed every time one moved away from the concerns of active political life to devote oneself to the life of the mind, to study, and to writing. For a member of the senatorial class, it was deplorable to live a life completely devoted to otium, which was to be limited to an interval, a pause from political life, and only in this way could it be considered otium cum dignitate.2 The practice of otium, or the retreat from urban life into a sort of feigned liberty, is inextricably tied to villa life. Beginning in the second century BCE, the Campania area, in particular the Bay of Naples, became the seat of aristocratic villas belonging to the Roman nobility, who withdrew from the Urbe, leaving behind negotia to devote themselves to otium. The favorable environment and mild climate are not sufficient to explain why the Roman elite preferred the Bay of Naples for their “holiday periods;” rather, it was the strong Greek cultural matrix here resistant to Samnite domination and Romanization that ultimately attracted the Romans to the gulf called the crater.3 It is no coincidence that one of the first noblemen to acquire a villa in Campania was the Hellenized Scipio Africanus, to whom, moreover, Cicero refers in his elaboration of the concept of otium.4 Scipio in 184 BCE chose Literno because it was one of the colonies in which his veteran soldiers had settled.5 The link between otium and education amongst Greek philosophers and teachers is a constant theme of villa life in the Bay of Naples. Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, owned a villa at Misenum, where the philosopher Blossius of Cumae educated her children. At his residence at Herculaneum, the famous Villa of the Papyri,6 Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus, Julius Caesar’s fatherin-law, received the Epicurean philosopher Philodemus of Gadara, with whom he formed an extensive library consisting of an extraordinary number of papyri, today only partially recovered. Horace and Virgil, the latter a guest of his teacher Sirone at Posillipo, attended the school of Philodemus.7 In addition to these examples, we know of at least fifty personages who had a villa on the Bay of Naples. Many owned more than one and amused themselves by wandering from one to another.8 Cicero, who certainly was not one of the 2 J. M. André, L’Otium dans la vie morale et intellectuelle romaine, des origines a l’époque Augustéenne (Publications de la Faculté des lettres et sciences humaines de Paris-Sorbonne Série “Recherches” 30; Paris: Presses Universitaire de France, 1966), 309; J. H. D’Arms, Romans on the Bay of Naples. A social and cultural study of the villas and their owners from 150 B. C. to A. D. 400 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1970), 165–167. 3  D’Arms, Romans on the Bay of Naples, 165–167. 4  Cic. Off. III, 1. 5 Sen. Ep. 86. 6  Hor. Ep. II, 1, 127–131. 7  M. Gigante, Virgilio e la Campania (Pubblicazioni del bimillenario virgiliano promosse dalla Regione Campania; Napoli: Giannini, 1984), 9–40, 67–92. 8  D’Arms, Romans on the Bay of Naples, 165–167; J. H. D’Arms, “Proprietari e ville nel golfo di Napoli,” in: I Campi Flegrei nell’archeologia e nella storia. Convegno internazionale, Roma, 4–7 maggio 1976 (Atti dei Convegni Lincei 33; AA.VV. eds; Roma: Accademia Nazionale dei

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richest senators, had five villas in Lazio and three in Campania; of these, one was near Pompeii, one at Cumae and another on Lucrine Lake, the prestigious Academia where he took refuge in philosophy after the deepening crisis of the res publica. Here rose the academic city imagined by the literary figure who set the dialogues of the Academica in the villas of Quintus Hortensius Hortalus, Quintus Lutatius Catulus and Marcus Terentius Varro.9 Many passages of the Epistulae ad Atticum, written in the villas of Cumae and Puteoli, refer to the pleasures of otium, professed through the practice of Greek philosophy and enjoyment of the delights of the Bay of Naples, but also evoke a glimpse of “villa society,” as John H. D’Arms defines it, comparing it to rich California society.10 Cicero loved spending time at the villa of his neighbor, Faustus Cornelius Silla, son of the dictator Lucius, who owned an immense library, filled with works by Aristotle and Theophrastus that his father had brought from Greece from the library of Apellicon of Theos.11 Many political figures were able to acquire grandiose residences on the Bay of Naples after having accumulated fortunes in the East. Among these were Lucullus, who owned a villa at Miseno and another at Nisida, Servilius Vatia, who had a property at Torregaveta, and Vedius Pollio, who resided at Posillipo.12 Around the beginning of the first century BC, the axial layout of the villas with sequential rooms (atrium and peristyle) organized in a single architectural block, as in the case, for example, of the Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii, was replaced by grandiose villas constructed in nuclei of separate buildings arranged on terraces and often reaching enormous sizes. Many were equipped with moorings, ensuring rapid communication with Naples and other places in the gulf, hatcheries for breeding fish, crustaceans and mollusks, monumental buildings, gardens, walkways, thermal baths, servants’ quarters, nymphaeums, triclinia, porticoes, and rooms that opened onto the sea. Residences of this sort appeared like cities, due to their dimensions and complexity, but they were built in service of pleasure and otium, to satisfy the senses and the spirit and to allow the owners the coveted opportunity to surprise and awe guests with their magnificent display.13 The radical separation between otia and negotia began to wane with the rise of personal power and during the internecine struggles that characterized the end of the Republic, when the tumultuous political life of the Urbe began pushing Lincei, 1977), 347–363; I. Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito (EnoLibro, pagine da bere 10; Napoli: Valtrend editorie, 2011), 9–29.  9 Cic. N D, II 99–100. 10  D’Arms, Romans on the Bay of Naples. 11  Cic. Att. IV 10, 3 12 Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito; I. Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” RM 121 (2015): 227–268. 13  Sal. Cat. XI 3–5; H. Mielsch, La villa romana: con guida archeologica alle ville romane (Firenze: Giunti, 1999).

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beyond the boundaries of the Bay of Naples. Cicero’s testimony14 is invaluable, recounting that Caesar, during his stay in the Phlegraean Fields at the end of 45 BCE, did not move around unguarded. With the definitive affirmation of personal power culminating in the birth of the empire, the concept of otium began to change, above all for the emperor himself who, as such, although he was a member of the aristocratic class, could no longer remain outside political life, because the political essence of Rome was concentrated in his being, and he was its maximum expression. According to Henner von Hesberg,15 the idea of otium was no longer determined by the interaction and competition among the Roman nobles, but rather by the concept of the emperor; in this way, it was slowly transformed along with the concept of the empire until it became an instrument of power, so much so that we can speak of the power of otium. This change in the concept of otium is apparent in the architecture of the villas conceived for enjoying brief pauses from political life, and particularly in the residences of the emperors, who, due to their role, were expected to carry out activities of an official nature even in their “holiday” homes. However, in the absence of epigraphic proof, these residences remain difficult to identify, because the emperors owned numerous villas and were themselves aristocrats.16 In the case of the princeps, some belonged to his personal patrimony, others were inherited, and still others were confiscated from aristocrats, as in the case of the property that Nero possessed in the Phlegraean Fields. A separate discussion, however, must be undertaken for the complexes built from scratch for an emperor, such as Domitian’s Villa at Castel Gandolfo and Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli, or those radically modified, such as the Villa at Pausilypon. These complexes were transformed into true “palaces of power” reflecting a vision of the empire that was born in the Julio-Claudian age, in particular with Nero, achieved fulfillment in the age of Domitian, and is evident in the residences of Rome, where there was an exchange of influences between urban and extra-urban architectural models. In fact, the Domus Aurea was probably influenced by the architecture of Baia, and buildings like the Gartenstadion can be recognized both in urban structures such as the Domus Flavia and extra-urban ones like Hadrian’s Villa and Pausilypon. With this phenomenon the dichotomy between otium and negotium was overcome, and beginning in the late first century CE, political procedures, ceremonial events, and imperial luxury were manifested both on the Palatine and in extra-urban residences, within architectural complexes enriched with innovative, singular elements. These architectural novelties spring from the nature of the Principality itself, that saw the principes divided between their public role and personal fulfillment. Att. XIII, 52.  H. v. Hesberg, “Il potere dell’otium: la villa di Domiziano a Castel Gandolfo,” ArchCl 57 (2006): 224–225. 16 Mielsch, La villa romana: con guida archeologica alle ville romane, 133–150. 14 Cic. 15

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The complex of Pausilypon on the Bay of Naples is an exceptional study case for analyzing the breakdown of the boundary between otium and negotium. It was built in the late Republican period as a villa for otium, left in inheritance to Augustus, and transformed over the course of the first century CE to adapt to the new needs of the imperial court. Even the name, Pausilypon, or “place that puts an end to worries,” which today refers to the entire Neapolitan hillside, gives an idea of the pleasantness of the site and the purpose of the villa. The hillside of Posillipo rises to the west of Neapolis, separating the territory of the city from the Phlegraean Fields, extends toward the sea and, along with the island of Nisida, divides the Gulf of Naples from that of Pozzuoli. The coastline in this area consists of a steep tuffaceous cliff with open ravines, natural and artificial cavities17 and numerous inlets that facilitated the approach, allowing the residents to use the sea as a rapid means of communication.18 The remains of the Roman-era structures are preserved both on the land and below sea level for the entire coastline, testifying to the importance of the area in antiquity.19

3. The Villa of Pausilypon The construction of the villa of Pausilypon probably dates to the second half of the first century BCE, when it belonged to the eques Publius Vedius Pollio, who became rich in the East thanks to the offices obtained from Augustus due 17 M. Simeone, P. Masucci and A. Pagliarani, “Le cavità costiere dell’Area Marina Protetta Parco Sommerso di Gaiola (Golfo di Napoli),” in: Atti I Convegno Regionale di Speleologia (Oliveto Citra ed.; (SA), 2007), 241–249. 18 Travels by boat across the gulf are well attested in ancient sources; see, for example: Cic. Att. 14, 16 and 20, Sen. Ep. 57. 19   R. W. T.  Günther, Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples: with a description of the sub­ merged foreshore and with observations on the tomb of Virgil and on other Roman antiquities on Posilipo (Oxford: Printed by H. Hart for the author, 1913); P. Amalfitano, G. Camodeca and M. Medri, I Campi Flegrei: un itinerario archeologico (Venezia: Marsilio, 1990), 30; Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito, 44–52. On the Imperial Villa at Pausilypon: M. Pagano, “Gli impianti marittimi della villa Pausilypon,” Puteoli 4 (1981): 245–255; G. Vecchio, “Le ville sul mare,” in: Napoli antica (E. Pozzi ed.; Napoli: Macchiaroli, 1985), 349–350; A. Gallottini, “Per la topografia dei Campi Flegrei. Una proposta di ricostruzione della Scuola di Virgilio,” JAT 2 (1992): 167–182); G. Vecchio, La Grotta di Seiano e il parco archeologico del Pausilypon (Il Mattino: Soprintendenza archeologica di Napoli e Caserta, Maggio dei monumenti, Napoli,1999); I. Varriale, “Costa flegrea e attività bradisismica dall’antichità ad oggi,” in: Rotte e porti del Mediter­ raneo dopo la caduta dell’Impero romano d’Occidente: continuità e innovazioni tecnologiche e funzionali (R. Turchetti and L. De Maria eds.; Genova: Rubbettino, 2004), 291-–310; I. Varriale, “La villa imperiale di Pausilypon,” in: La villa romana, (R. Ciardiello ed.; Napoli: Orientale Editrice, 2007), 147–165; M. Simeone and P. Masucci, “Analisi geo-archeologiche nell’Area Marina Protetta Parco Sommerso di Gaiola (Golfo di Napoli),” Il Quaternario – Italian Journal of Quaternary Sciances 22 (2009): 25–32; Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito; Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” 227–268.

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to the friendship and support he gave the emperor during the campaign against Antonius. At the time of death of the eques in 15 BCE, the grandiose villa was left through inheritance to Augustus.20 The identification of the Pausilypon complex as an imperial property and thus with the villa inherited by Augustus is due, above all, to a lead fistula found in the area of the upper thermal baths, inscribed with the name of Emperor Hadrian.21 What we know about the Villa of Pausilypon relates to the imperial era, while we have little information about the villa at the time of P. Vedius Pollio,22 known for his splendid residence on the Esquiline, which was as big as a city.23 This void is due to the partial nature of our knowledge and the absence of excavations useful for exploring the villa’s previous phases, but what appears to be a total cover-up of evidence for the residence of Vedius Pollio might be also explained by Augustus’ desire to distance himself from that controversial personage, whose friendship, despite the princeps’ resolute attempts to keep him at arm’s length, was always considered a blemish, and was a source of criticism until his death.24 These theories are corroborated by Augustus’ behavior with regard to the residence of Vedius Pollio on the Esquiline, which was torn down to make way for the Porticus Liviae.25 This gesture, narrated by Ovid,26 symbolized the struggle against unbridled toxic luxury, for which Augustus renounced a property left to him through inheritance in favor of the citizens, offering himself as an exemplum and, above all, decisively and ostentatiously distancing himself from P. Vedius 20  On the figure of P.Vedius Pollio see R. Syme, “Who was Vedius Pollio?,” JRS 51 (1961): 23–30; Varriale, “Posillipo: storia e mito,” 61–71. He is mentioned for the first time by Cicero (Att. 6,1,25), and then by Seneca (Cl. 1,18,2) and by Pliny the Elder (NH 9,77), who writes of his habit of feeding slaves to the murenae, again by Seneca (Ira 3,4; Dial. 5,40,1–5) and Cassius Dio (Hist. Rom. 54, 23,2–4), who narrates the episode that took place at Posillipo in 22 BC, when Augustus saved a slave from the ire of the eques. On Augustus’ inheritance see D. C. Hist. Rom. 54,23,2–4; Plin. NH 9,167. 21  CAES ‑TRAIANI • HADR • AVG; R. W. T. Günther, Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples, 129, fig. 78, 214, 14; I. Varriale, “La villa imperiale di Pausilypon,” 151; G. Vecchio, Gaiola: il parco archeologico e il parco sommerso (Milano: Mondadori Electa, 2009), 17; Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito, 61. 22 Cf. G. Vecchio, “Le ville sul mare,” 348; S. De Caro and G. Vecchio, “Pausilypon, la villa imperiale,” in: Neapolis (F. Zevi ed.; Napoli: Banco di Napoli, 1994), 83–94, esp. 89; G. Vecchio, La Grotta di Seiano e il parco archeologico del Pausilypon, 10; Varriale, “Posillipo: storia e mito,” 72. Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito; idem, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale.” 23 Ov. Fast. 6, 639–643: ubi Livia nunc est porticus, immensae tecta fuere domus; urbis opus domus una fuit spatiumque tenebat quo brevius muris oppida multa tenent. 24  Tac. Ann. 1,10,5. 25  D. C.  Hist. Rom. 54,23. 26  Ov. Fast. 6,643–648. The poet, further, clarifies: “[…] nullo sub crimine regni, sed quia luxuria visa nocere sua,” because the destruction of houses was a general measure used by those with the ambition to reign, as in the famous examples of Sp. Maelius, Sp. Cassius and Manlius Capitolinus (J. Bodel, “Monumental villas and villa monuments,” JRA 10 (1997): 5–35, esp. 7), while that adopted by Augustus was intended to present the princeps as a champion of restraint and above all served to erase every urban monument that recalled his cumbersome friend.

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Pollio by destroying the house that represented a monument to the memory of the eques27. Augustus, therefore, gave up the luxurious urban residence and kept the one on the Bay of Naples, where what was forbidden in Rome was allowed.28 Although we have only limited knowledge today of the imperial villa at Pausilypon, and it is therefore problematic to comprehend its true expanse, limits and absolute chronology, on the basis of known monuments and recent studies it is possible to divide the complex schematically into sectors with distinct functions.29 We can distinguish what is commonly identified with the strictly “public” part of the villa (areas A1, A2, A3, A4, A5). It is the most monumental and bestknown sector, located on the upper terrace overlooking the Bay of Trentaremi. It was clearly the ceremonial area of the villa, where the emperor carried out official activities which, given his role, he was required to continue even though this was his place of rest. The area is filled with a great apsidal hall, a theater of a scale similar to that in the villas of Domitian at Castel Gandolfo30 and Hadrian at Tivoli,31 a small odeon similar to the one found in the villa of Agrippa Postumo at Pianosa,32 several large reception rooms, two porticoes for various functions and, finally, a structure that can be identified with a Gartenstadion, comparable in part to the one identified by A. Hoffmann at Hadrian’s Villa.33 A second area, for which we have only partial data, is located south of the public area and is clearly separated from it and characterized by greater privacy, guaranteed by exclusive passageways hidden from visitors to the public spaces. It is divided into three distinct zones connected by corridors, stairways and ramps. The first, located behind the odeon (areas A2, B1, B2) and articulated on at least four levels, constitutes one of the nuclei of the imperial palace itself and is characterized by rooms dominating the public area and facing the gulf. The second is sited at the extreme eastern part of the hillside (areas B3, B4) and includes the socalled “House of Pollio,” one of the villa’s most imposing structures, composed 27  Bodel, “Monumental villas and villa monuments,” 10; M. B. Roller, “Demolished Houses, Monumentality, and Memory in Roman Culture,” ClAnt 29 (2010): 117–180, esp. 163–164. 28 De Caro and Vecchio, “Pausilypon, la villa imperiale,” 88. D’Arms, Romans on the Bay of Naples, 76–78; I. Varriale, Tacito e la Corte imperiale in Campania, (EnoLibro, pagine da bere 5; Napoli: Valtrend editore, 2010), 27–44. 29 Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” 237–238. 30  H. v. Hesberg, “Zur Datierung des Theaters in der Domitiansvilla von Castel Gandolfo,” Atti della Pontificia accademia romana di archeologia. Rendiconti 51 (1978–80): 305–324; H. v. Hesberg, “Neue Ausgrabungen in Castel Gandolfo. Die Villa des Domitian im Garten des Papstes,“ Artis 1 (1981): 24–27; H. v. Hesberg, “Il potere dell‘otium: la villa di Domiziano a Castel Gandolfo,” 221–244. 31 E. Salza Prina Ricotti, Villa Adriana: il sogno di un imperatore, (Bibliotheca archaeologica 29; Roma: “L‘Erma” di Bretschneider, 2001); P. León, Teatro Grego, Villa Adríana: campañas de excavaciones arqueológicas 2003–2005; Sevilla: Universidad Pablo de Olavide, 2007). 32 G. Sartorio, “Teatri in villa. L’esempio di Pianosa,” Atti della Pontificia accademia romana di archeologia. Rendiconti 74 (2001): 55–82. 33  A. Hoffmann, Das Gartenstadion in der Villa Hadriana, (Sonderschriften Deutsches Archäologisches Institut. Römische Abteilung 4; Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 1980).

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of at least two or three levels and overlooking the valley of the Gaiola. The eastern slope of the hill was completely occupied by terraces that are still preserved in sector B4, where we can identify five or six levels of substructures supporting residential areas,34 storage areas and, probably, housing for slaves and soldiers in the emperor’s retinue.35 At the extreme southern limits of the hillside (area B4, C1) were the spaces devoted to otium. There were three levels that hosted the socalled Upper Baths (B4–303–401), beneath which there was a system of sloping levels36 articulated in terraces connected by porticoes and crypto-porticoes that reached sea level, where there were luxurious rooms opening onto the gulf, now partially submerged due to the effects of bradyseism (area C1).37 A third, large sector consists of the maritime part that includes both the port structures (area C3) and those devoted to the production and exploitation of fish resources (area C2). It is not clear whether the islands of the Gaiola area, home to a modern villa now abandoned, were occupied by additional residential buildings and whether all of the remains visible on the coastline from the San Basilio cove to the so-called Palazzo degli Spiriti were part of the imperial property.

4. The pars publica In order to observe how the change in the concept of otium is reflected in the architecture of the imperial villa, we will analyze the architectural spaces on the pars publica of Pausilypon. The great upper terrace faces the Bay of Trentaremi on one side and the valley of Gaiola on the other, while to the north it is bounded by the theater built on the slope of the hill behind it and by the surrounding wall (A1–015), and to the south by a long portico (A2–001) set in front of the odeon and by the spaces facing it. Behind the covered theater rose a part of the residential area that dominated the entire piazza. The pars publica was in turn divided into several sectors used for different functions, set at varying elevations and connected by staircases. Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples, 86–87, fig. 49. “Wasser für den Kaiser: eine neue Sicht der Villa Adriana in Tivoli,” in: Wasserhistorische Forschungen: Schwerpunkt Antike 2 (C. Ohlig ed., Siegburg: DWhG 2003), 183–191, C. Ricci, “Il principe in villa. Residenze imperiali in Italia e servizi di sicurezza,” Ca­ hiers du Centre Gustave Glotz 15 (2004): 317–341. 36  Günther, Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples, 83–86. 37  Günther, Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples; M. Pagano, “Gli impianti marittimi della villa Pausilypon”; G. Vecchio, “Le ville sul mare”; A. Gallottini, “Per la topografia dei Campi Flegrei. Una proposta di ricostruzione della Scuola di Virgilio,” 167–182; Vecchio, La Grotta di Seiano e il parco archeologico del Pausilypon; Varriale, “Costa flegrea e attività bradisismica dall’antichità ad oggi,” 197; Varriale, “La villa imperiale di Pausilypon”; Simeone and Masucci, “Analisi geo-archeologiche nell’Area Marina Protetta Parco Sommerso di Gaiola (Golfo di Napoli)”; Vecchio, Gaiola: il parco archeologico e il parco sommerso; Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito; Varriale, Posillipo: storia e mito; idem, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” 255–259. 34 Günther,

35 H. Manderscheid,

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Access to the public area of the villa was probably directly from the piazza in front of the theater, by way of a staircase (A1–009) coming from the rooms (S1–001–002) below the hall (A3–001) located east of the theater and built on an ample terrace resting on substructures. According to this hypothetical reconstruction, the entrance led, by way of an underground passage, to the luminous and grandiose piazza of the theater that fanned out with a diameter of more than 40 meters. The large theater and the buildings that rose both to the west and south, where the core of the most imposing nuclei of the “imperial palace” rose, must have inspired great awe in the emperor’s guests, contributing, thanks to the majesty of the architectural space, to the self-representation of the princeps. The piazza of the theater, with a long central pool (A1–004), is closed to the east and to the west by two large wings (A1–006, 010), connected to the cavea, or seating area, of the theater which, located to the north, rests on the natural slope of the hillside with the cavea open toward the south. The complex consisting of the theater and the facing piazza is particularly interesting from an architectural point of view: in fact, it is composed of two intersecting circles. This architectural space must have appeared particularly grandiose due to the absence of a permanent theatrical stage; when the temporary stage was dismantled, the view from the cavea was left open, enhancing the scenic effect. It has been calculated that the theater building could hold as many as two thousand spectators, like that of a small city and other imperial villas, including Domitian’s residence at Castel Gandolfo and the so-called Greek theater of Hadrian’s Villa. The cavea of Posillipo was completely clad in cocciopesto and decorated with stone elements removed over centuries of neglect.38 As at Castel Gandolfo, there was no distinction in the seating, either by decoration or size, suggesting an essential equality among the spectators. What mattered was to have been invited by the emperor.39 In ancient times, the orchestra (A1–001) must have been richly paved in marble and has a large, central pool (A1–004). The northern section of the basin, which occupied a part of the orchestra, was found covered by a large slab of marble40. The pool (A1–004), even when it was only partially visible, was identified as a 38  It is believed that the majority of the marbles were removed before 1840. See Günther, Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples, 39. Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” 241. 39  v. Hesberg, “Il potere dell’otium: la villa di Domiziano a Castel Gandolfo,” 235. The testimony of Tacitus (Ann. 14, 14; 15, 33, 1) regarding Nero’s private ludi demonstrates how during games of that nature, the comingling of various social strata was normal. 40  M. Ruggiero, Degli scavi di antichità nelle province di terraferma dell’antico regno di Napoli dal 1743 al 1876; (Napoli: V. Morano, 1888), 35; A. Sogliano, “il perché del nome volgare ‘a Gaiola’,” NapNobil 12 (serie I) (1903): 177–180, esp. 178.

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basin for aquatic performances;41 it was, in fact, a small kolymbetra, or pool used for tetimimi, widespread in Rome after 80 CE, and the presence of the theater suggests it was used for self-celebratory performances such as the fabulae prae­ textae, used by the Roman nobilitas starting in the late Republic to reinforce their own charisma through mythical-historical and religious legitimization.42 We cannot exclude the possibility that the basin served as a natatio, or that it, along with statues and fountains, simply served to decorate the piazza in front of the theater. At any moment, the pool could be covered with planking and transformed into a great post scaenam space, while the stage, made of wooden elements, could be removed to allow for the execution of various kinds of performances. In fact, behind the orchestra were some underground spaces that held equipment and machinery, while six wells were used to seat vertical elements of the stage.43 The piazza was designed as a multifunctional architectural area, suitable for welcoming guests in a majestic space appropriate to the self-representation of the emperor. Therefore it served as an atrium of the villa, useful for receiving guests of the princeps as they awaited an audience with him or one of the performances that he organized for their entertainment. Like the atrium of a domus, the piazza served to divide the guests in the other sectors of the villa by way of the stair (A1–012bis) that led to the area of the Gartenstadion (A4–A5) and to the portico of the odeon (A2–001), while from the east one reached the hall (A3–001) on the eastern terrace through a walkway in an area still to be excavated. We cannot exclude the possibility that the area also served as a space for banquets, with a central Euripos44 rising from the orchestra of the theater, which recalls the theaters-nymphaeums-coenationes of Baia and Anguillara Sabatia.45  G. Traversari, Gli spettacoli in acqua nel teatro tardo-antico (Roma: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 1960), 66–68; A. Berlan-Bajard, Les spectacles aquatiques romains (Collection de l’École française de Rome 360; Roma: École française de Rome, 2006), 444–446; different from M. Ruggiero, Degli scavi di antichità nelle province di terraferma dell’antico regno di Napoli dal 1743 al 1876, 35–39; Günther, Pausilypon, The imperial villa near Naples, 34, interprets it as a compluvium. 42 The tetimími performed in Rome in 80 CE, on the occasion of the inauguration of the Flavian amphitheater, resonated widely. Myths having to do with water, such as that of Hero and Leander (Mart. De spect. 25–25 b; Front., Epist. 3, 13) were enacted, or individual sea gods were represented, such as Triton, Nereus, Thetis, Galatea (Mart. De spect. 28), or there were lascivious choreographed performances by young women, at times dressed as Nereids. For the performances in villas, see R. Taddei, “Gli edifici teatrali privati in Italia tra il I secolo a.C. ed il II secolo d.C.: Funzioni e tipologia,” AnnPerugia 33 (N. S. 19) (1997): 285–389. 43  Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” 241–243. 44  Summer triclinia are found in more or less monumental forms in Roman domestic architecture, notably the exceptional triclinium in Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli. For this last example, see Salza Prina Ricotti, Villa Adriana: il sogno di un imperatore, 249–251; P. Pensabene, “‘Canopo’ di Villa Adriana: Programmi tematici, marmi e officine nell’arredo statuario,” ASAtene 87 (2009): 381–424. 45  R. Taddei, “Gli edifici teatrali privati in Italia tra il I secolo a.C. ed il II secolo d.C. Funzioni e tipologia,” 285–389. The relationship between conviviality and theater is even more apparent in the odeon sector (A2). 41

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From the staircase (A1–012bis) one reached the Gartenstadion (A5), which has a rectangular arcaded courtyard with a semicircle on a short side consisting of three steps with large quadrangular niches that served to hold statues, planters, and fountains.46 Structures of this sort were also present at Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli47 and on the Palatine Hill in Rome,48 and therefore in two complexes of imperial property. This structure with plants, sculptures, and fountains must have been elaborate and elegant, with an extensive use of polychrome marble, and from its site there was certainly a sweeping view thanks to its position overlooking the sea. The arrangement with plants of this building was a pendant to the gardens situated on the terrace in front of the odeon, at an elevation higher than the level of the theater plaza. The gardens, along with the sculptural decoration and fountains, were integrated with the architecture and served to create heavenly spaces between one building and another.49 In addition they served to create internal routes and made evident the separation and connections between various buildings. All of these elements at Posillipo are found according to an arrangement that included a sequence formed by the theater, post scaenam with natatio, viridarium and porticus. This connection has also been hypothesized for the area of the Greek theater of Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli, where we find the same connection among theater, viridarium, and porticus.50 The sector of the odeon is home to a long porticus (A2–001), the teatrum tec­ tum, and grand reception rooms. The porticus (A2–001), partially collapsed, has fluted columns made of brick, covered with plaster, and a central avant-corps consisting of four columns. The colonnade hid the stage of the odeon and, along with the facing garden space,51 created an exceptional scenic backdrop for those who occupied the theater. The odeon, destined for performances of poetry, rhetoric, or music, consists of a single cavea interrupted in the fourth row to permit the viewing of the performance from the great apsidal salon that opened at the center of the 46

 Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale,” 244–245. Das Gartenstadion in der Villa Hadriana. 48 U. Wulf-Rheidt, “Die Pracht der Macht: die römischen Kaiserpaläste zwischen Luxus und Repräsentation,” in: Macht der Architektur  – Architektur der Macht (E. L.  Schwandner and K. Rheidt eds.; Mainz, 2004), 168–179; A. Riedel, “Zwischen Villenluxus und Repräsentationsarchitektur. Neue Untersuchungen am so genannten Gartenstadion auf dem Palatin,” in: Bericht über die 44. Tagung für Ausgrabungswissenschaft und Bauforschung vom 24. bis 28. Mai 2006 in Breslau (K. Tragbar ed.; Bonn: Koldewey-Gesellschaft, 2008), 135–143. 49 Cic. Q.fr. 3,1,5. 50  P. León, Teatro Grego, Villa Adríana, 239–253. 51  S. De Caro, P. G. Guzzo and G. Tocco, “La Campania (Rassegne Archeologiche),” in: Magna Grecia e Oriente mediterraneo prima dell’età ellenistica (Atti del 39 Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia, 39 eds.; Taranto: Istituto per la Storia e l’Archeologia della Magna Grecia, 2000), 863–936, esp. 886–887, which also discusses the discovery of statues and supporting pilasters that must have decorated the garden. 47 Hoffmann,

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stairs, construable as an imperial stage (A2–005).52 The building was covered53 and completely clad with precious marbles,54 while the secondary rooms were plastered and painted. The odeon is at the center of a series of reception rooms (A2–006, 007) sited along the arcade (A2–001) and directly accessible from it or through corridors (A2–002, 003). The rooms opening directly onto the portico (A2–007 and corridor 003) have wider intercolumniations at the entrances (3.50 m rather than 2.50) to emphasize the ceremonial function and to allow the guests to look into the garden and vice-versa.55 The corridor (A2–002) leading to the room (A2–006) has a narrower intercolumniation compared to the other (A2–003), testifying to the more private nature of this space, which was in direct communication with the pulvinar of the odeon. From the imperial stage, (A2–005) one could reach, through two passageways (A2–017, 018), both of the reception areas and directly access the private area of the villa, located behind the odeon. The emperor, therefore, could arrive at his stage from various areas of the villa and from there proceed to his private rooms through an exclusive route, not visible to others. To the west of the odeon, overlooking the Bay of Trentaremi, were some rooms not open to the portico, but accessible from it through a corridor (A2– 002) or directly from the reception stage. To the east is a grand reception room (A2–007), open to the portico (A2–001), which has a wider intercolumniation at the entrance. The room, perhaps a large triclinium, was decorated with a floor in opus sectile of which only the impression and some colored marble tiles remain. Even the walls bore a high, precious marble cladding, while the upper zone must have been decorated with frescoes. Here the juxtaposition of a building for performances and a banquet room is clear and manifests the use function of conviviality and performances that in ad-

52  This arrangement recalls the villa at Pianosa, where the small scenic building has a cavea divided at the center to hold a space reserved for the dominus. Sartorio, “Teatri in villa. L’esempio di Pianosa,” 66–68. 53  G. M. Fusco, Frammento inedito di uno scrittore Napolitano del secolo XVI intorno alle grotte incavate nel promontorio di Posilipo in cui è parola di quella detta volgarmente di Sejano, con un comento critico-archeologico di GMFATGGVF, accademico Lunatico (Napoli: R. Miranda, 1841); for the hypothetical reconstruction of the roof: G. C. Izenour, Roofed theaters of classical antiquity (New Haven / ​London: Yale University Press, 1992), 73–76, fig. 2.2. 54 G. M. Fusco, Giunta al comento critico-archeologico sul frammento inedito di Fabio Giordano intorno alle grotte del promontorio di Posillipo; (Napoli: M. Vara, 1842), 111. 55  This device is often used in the high level villas and residences at Pompeii and Herculaneum; one example is the House of Menander at Pompeii. Cf. I. Varriale, “Art and architecture in the House of Menander in Pompeii,” in: Contested Spaces. Houses and Temples in Roman Antiquity and the New Testament (D. L. Balch and A. Weissenrieder eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 131–152.

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dition to entertaining the guests in the exclusive covered theater, probably also served propagandistic and self-celebratory purposes.56 The presence of marble wall coverings not only confirms the opulence of the residence, but can also be considered a useful element for determining a hierarchy amongst the spaces ranging from great extensions of marble, like the odeon, with floors and high or lower wall cladding, to secondary ones that appear simply painted and with tessellated or cocciopesto pavements.57 The portico (A2–001) leads to a second arcaded space, (A2–019), excavated in part and partially restored as a porticus duplex with masonry columns covered in stucco and flooring in opus sectile. The walls have a marble socle and traces of frescoes.58 We cannot exclude the existence of a third wing to the east, now buried, which would make this a porticus triplex. The portico (A2–019, 020) also served as the passageway between the public area and other more private spaces to the south, but today these connections can only be hypothesized. The last building belonging to the pars publica is the hall (A3–001), perhaps used for daily audiences. The hall occupies a terrace to the east of the theater, built on vaulted spaces that formed the access to the villa, and is divided into three naves by four pilasters; the western wall is apsidal and decorated with pilasters and half columns that were originally stuccoed and painted. The building faced the Valley of the Gaiola and dominated the entrance to the villa.

5. Final observations The Imperial Villa at Pausilypon belongs fully to the typology of maritime villas built during the first century BCE, with its organization in nuclei and terraces that descend to sea level. Despite the lack of data in our possession, it is possible 56 As an example see the banquets given by Augustus during which the princeps brought in professional actors (Suet. Aug. 74). 57 The height and the presence of marble wall decorations in the Domus aurea has been studied in relationship to the function of the rooms. W. J. T. Peters and P. G. P. Meyboom, “Decorazione ed ambiente nella Domus Aurea di Nerone,” in: Functional and spatial analysis of wall painting (Proceedings of the Fifth International Congress on Ancient Wall Painting, Amsterdam, 8–12 September 1992, E. M. Moormann ed.; Leiden: Stichting BABESCH, 1993), 59–63; P. G. P.  Meyboom and E. M.  Moormann, Le decorazioni dipinte e marmoree della Domus Aurea di Nerone a Roma (Babesch Supplement 20; Leuven; Paris; Walpole MA: Peeters, 2013). 58 The portion of fresco, small relative to the dais, can be compared to the frescoes preserved on the IV level of the Villa “della Sosandra,” where an Egyptianizing frieze dated by De Vos to Hadrian’s time accompanies them. M. De Vos, A. De Vos, and M. J. Vermaseren, L’egittomania in pitture e mosaici romano-campani della prima età imperiale, (*EPRO 84; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1980), 13 and 25–26, tav. 9, 1; G. Di Luca, “Nullus in orbe sinus Bais praelucet amoenis: Riflessioni sull’architettura dei complessi c.d. ‘dell’Ambulatio’, ‘della Sosandra’ e delle ‘Piccole Terme’ a Baia,” BABesch 84 (2009): 143–162, esp. 159, fig. 18.

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to hypothesize that the villa, above all the pars publica, underwent modifications so significant that the structure of the residence of P. Vedius Pollio was essentially erased. These modifications probably date to the Flavian age, while further changes, the extent of which is not clear, were carried out in Hadrian’s time. Monumental buildings were created along with spaces used by the emperor to welcome the numerous aristocrats living on the Bay of Naples who, very likely, assiduously frequented the residence to participate in banquets, performances, and ludi organized by the princeps, as well as in daily rituals that despite the distance from Rome had to take place regularly, even in the residences outside the Urbe.59 Domitian, for example, offered the guests of the Albanum the ludi dedicated to Minerva, the so-called Quinquatrus,60 opening to a wider public, clearly selected by the emperor, certain activities of otium traditionally reserved for the owner and his most intimate friends. In this way, as H. von Hesberg has clearly shown in the case of Domitian’s villa at Castel Gandolfo, the otium of power was transformed into the power of otium, an ideological concept that provided an opening to all those deemed worthy by the emperor.61 This concept is reflected in the architecture of Pausilypon, where the emperor shared with his guests, according to their position in the social hierarchy, the activities traditionally reserved to the otium of noblemen and their friends. In order to do so, spaces such as triclinia, porticoes, and gardens – present in every villa for otium – were flanked by buildings that usually had a public function, such as the odeon, the theater, and unique arrangements like the Gartenstadion. These buildings were characterized by various levels of accessibility and connected to each other by selective, at times exclusive, routes. They reflected the social hierarchy in which only those belonging to the highest ranks could be near the princeps and reach certain sectors of the villa, where they shared the most intimate forms of otium with the emperor. Admission to the emperor’s extra-urban residence and moving freely among the various areas of the villa signified crossing the boundaries between the various hierarchical levels of the imperial court. Having access to increasingly pri59 A. Winterling, Hof ohne “Staat”: Die aula Caesaris im 1. und 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr; (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1997); A. Winterling, Zwischen “Haus” und “Staat”: antike Höfe im Vergleich (Historische Zeitschrift Beihefte Neue Folge 23; Munich: Oldenbourg, 1997), A. Winterling, Aula Caesaris: Studien zur Institutionalisierung des römischen Kaiserhofes in der Zeit von Augustus bis Commodus (31 v. Chr.–192 n. Chr.) (Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 1999); A. Winterling, “‘Öffentlich’ und ‘privat’ im kaiserzeitlichen Rom,” in: Gegenwärtige Antike – antike Gegenwart: Kolloquium zum 60. Geburtstag von Rolf Rilinger (R. Rilinger, T. Schmitt and A. Winterling eds.; Munich: Oldenbourg, 2005), 223–244; A. Winterling, “Freundschaft und Klientel im kaiserzeitlichen Rom,” Historia 57,3 (2008): 298–316; Varriale, “Pausilypon tra otium e potere imperiale.” 60  These festivities were particularly dear to Nero, who participated in them at Baia, and he also used them to lure Agrippina into the fatal trap (Tac., Ann. 16,3). 61 v. Hesberg, “Il potere dell’otium: la villa di Domiziano a Castel Gandolfo,” 221–244.

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vate, luxurious environments frequented by the emperor himself was a sign of prestige and social advancement. This phenomenon marks the total disintegration of the ideal boundary between otium and negotium, as activities, rituals, and social and political dynamics that were once limited to the confines of the Urbe, over the course of the first century CE began to extend beyond the boundaries of Rome to also take place in extra-urban residences, where they were implemented through the sharing of imperial otium, which thus became an instrument of power.

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Fig. 1: General plan of the Pausylipon Villa. (Dipl.-Ing T. Busen).

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Fig. 2: Plan of the Pars Publica. (Dipl.-Ing T. Busen).

Fig. 3: View of the theater (photo by the author).

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Fig. 4: The Odeon with the imperial stage (A2–005) (photo by the author).

Fig. 5: Exclusive passageway (A2–017) from pulvinar (A2–005) to private rooms (photo by the author).

Open and Shut

Fig. 6: View of Nisida and Misenum from the Pausilypon (photo by the author).

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IV. Borders and Boundaries

On the Ancient Mesopotamian Concept of “Taboo” Transgression and Delimitation Barbara Böck Transgressions of the Ancient Mesopotamian religious, moral and social code are subject to divine punishment and are followed by all types of misfortune. Both the Sumerian and Akkadian languages have provided a rich vocabulary to describe the concept of the invisible line or zone that separates good from evil, the sacred from the profane, and the appropriate from the improper, as well as terms for the physical marking of the border between these areas in rituals. Often the word “taboo” is employed to refer to something which is set apart from the ordinary and as such consecrated or prohibited.1 As a term borrowed from another cultural worldview and religious outlook, “taboo” does not properly fit the Ancient Mesopotamian evidence2 and has been used here only initially in the meaning of “something inapproachable or unattainable” and therefore “untouchable.” The following discussion addresses the issues of the native terminology and its underlying cognitive concept, the forms of transgression and their contextual frame, the physical impact of divine punishment on the human body, and those rituals that set an example for the function of borders.

1. The terminology and its cognitive concept The main Akkadian word to designate something abominable is ikkibu(m). The term is thought to be a loanword from egx.gebx which is the pronunciation of the Sumerian word níg.gig in the Emesal dialect.3 However, a direct loan from the Sumerian language is equally possible.4 It may not come as a surprise that 1  W. W. Hallo, “Biblical Abominations and Sumerian Taboos,” The Jewish Quarterly Review 76 (1985): 21–40. 2  M. J. Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 42 (1990): 105–112. 3  S. J. Lieberman, Sumerian Loanwords in Old Babylonian Akkadian (HSS 22; Missoula MT: Scholars Press, 1977), no. 510 and M. Schretter, Emesal-Studien. Sprach‑ und Literatur­ geschichtliche Untersuchungen zur sogenannten Frauensprache des Sumerischen (IBK 69; Innsbruck: Institut für Sprachwissenschaft der Universität Innsbruck, 1990), 168–169. 4 M. J. Geller, “Tabu,” in: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 13 5/6 (M. P. Streck ed.; Berlin / ​Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2012): 394.

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the semantic fields of Akkadian ikkibu(m) and Sumerian níg.gig are overlapping. However, attestations coming from differing contexts show that both terms have additional nuances beyond the shared meaning. Sumerian níg.gig is a compound noun constructed with níg, “thing, what,” and the adjective gig which has the basic meanings “sacred” and “sick.”5 It has been suggested that they are “separate independent antonyms”;6 another interpretation followed here understands Sumerian gig as “something driving away or warding off,” “something that is repulsive, against nature,” connecting thus the two seemingly different meanings.7 Two references provide an insight on how níg.gig was imagined. One comes from one of the versions of the short Sumerian narrative Enlil and Namzitara, which is about the encounter between the supreme god Enlil disguised as a raven and Namzitara, a priest at Enlil’s temple in Nippur.8 In the Sumero-Akkadian bilingual version from the city of Emar, the much discussed phrase appears: “Twice sixty years are the years of humankind – it is its níg.gig.”9 Translators have rendered the term variously as “bane,”10 “misfortune,”11 “term,”12 or “limit.”13 Taking into account calculations of Ancient Babylonian life expectancy, 120 years seems a rather unreachable age, suggesting the meaning “limit” in the physical sense with the nuance of something impossible to attain or something that would be against nature.14 The other reference comes from the description of a ritual that is embedded in an exorcistic Sumerian spell against evil demons. One of the single rites to be performed to ward off the demon consisted in drawing a circle of flour around the bed of the possessed patient. The flour is called “níg.gig for  5  Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 116; K. van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia. A Comparative Study (SNN 22; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1985), 43.  6  Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 116.  7  A. Cavigneaux, “Textes magiques de Tell Haddad,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 85 (1995): 35–36; and A. Cavigneaux and F. N. H. Al-Rawi, Gilgames et la mort. Textes de Tell Haddad VI (CM 19; Groningen: Styx Publications, 2000), 20 note 60.  8  M. Civil, “Enlil and Namzitarra,” Archiv für Orientforschung 25 (1974): 65–71; B. Alster, Wisdom of Ancient Sumer (Bethesda: CDL Press, 2005), 327–338.  9 J. Klein, “The ‘Bane’ of Humanity: A Lifespan of One Hundred Twenty Years,” Acta Sumerologica 12 (1990): 58–59 l. 23’–24’. 10 Klein, “The ‘Bane’ of Humanity,” 59 l. 23’-24’. 11 Alster, Wisdom of Ancient Sumer, 337. 12  J. S. Cooper, “Puns and Prebends: The Tale of Enlil and Namzitarra,” in: Strings and Threads: A Celebration of the Work of Anne Draffkorn Kilmer (W. Heimpel and G. FrantzSzabó eds.; Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 42 note 11; followed by Y. Cohen, “‘Enlil and Namzitarra’: The Emar and Ugarit Manuscripts and A New Understanding of the ‘Vanity Theme’ Speech,” Revue d’assyriologie 104 (2010): 94. 13 Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 107, 116; Cavigneaux and Al-Rawi, Gilgameš et la Mort, 20 note 60. 14  E. Gehlken, “Childhood and Youth, Work and Old Age in Babylonia  – A Statistical Analysis,” in: Approaching the Babylonian Economy (AOAT 330; H. D. Baker and M. Jursa eds.; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2004), 89–120. Cooper, “Puns and Prebends,” 42 note 11 stresses that níg.gig = ikkibu in the Sumerian tale refers to “an absolute limit, beyond which a human life is not allowed to extend.”

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the Spirit-of-the-dead.”15 As will be discussed below, the visual delimitation is used to mark off the area of the patient and to create a zone of protection. This area was considered powerful since neither demons nor gods could cross the line. The flour was believed to have the capacity to stop and turn away the attacking demon; as “repelling limit” the flour circle was so strong that it was deemed unbreakable. As the two references indicate, the original concept of níg.gig is that of a border which cannot be approached because it is repelling and which creates by delimitation an inaccessible and powerful area or zone. This basic meaning is diluted and transformed according to context. Suffice it to mention some examples of changes in meaning and further nuances of the term, as well as differences between Sumerian níg.gig and Akkadian ikkibu(m). From the connotation “sick” as something repulsive, a meaning “trouble” or “hardship” evolved which is usually rendered in the Akkadian language with a different term, viz. maruštu(m). Both words are attested in enumeration of all types of misfortunes, including illness and attacking demons, that can befall humankind.16 A number of attestations for the term níg.gig in Sumerian texts come from the collection of proverbs.17 Bereft of context many of these aphorisms are difficult to interpret. Occasionally the meaning of níg.gig is best rendered as “it is shocking” or “appalling,” still resonating with the effect of rejection: “to own property and to insist on more – this is shocking”18 or “putting an unwashed hand in one’s mouth is appalling.”19 A few times the transformed sense is derived from the notion that something is against nature or not conforming to the expected ordinary course of events: “a young scribe neglects (his instructions) – this is preposterous”20 or “a wild ox is not fit for the plough.”21 Incidentally, human action also affects the gods: for example, “to take revenge repels the god Ninurta”22 or “a witness comes forward in a case he knows noth15  M. J. Geller, Forerunners to Udug-Hul (FAOS 12; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1985), 74–75 l. 789–790. 16 Especially in incantations, prayers and omen apodoses; see M. Civil, I. J. Gelb, A. L. Oppenheim and E. Reiner, The Assyrian Dictionary M / ​I (Chicago / ​Glückstadt: The Oriental Institute Chicago / ​J. J. Augustin Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1977), 318 b) and c). See the discussion of Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 109. 17  Alster, Wisdom of Ancient Sumer, 338, provides list of attestations in Sumerian proverbs; see the discussions of some of the texts in Hallo, “Biblical Abominations and Sumerian Taboos,” 23–29 and Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 105–111. 18  B. Alster, Proverbs of Ancient Sumer (Bethesda: CDL Press, 1997), 11 proverb 1.23. 19  Alster, Proverbs of Ancient Sumer, 107 proverb 3.161. 20 The proverb is attested in the Sumerian dispute between Winter and Summer, see M. Civil, “Feeding Dumuzi’s Sheep: The Lexicon as a Source of Literary Inspiration,” in: Language, Literature, and History: Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner (AOS 67; F. Rochberg-Halton ed.; New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1987), 49–50; and see Å. W.  Sjöberg, The Sumerian Dictionary B (Philadelphia: University Museum, 1984), 111. 21  Alster, Proverbs of Ancient Sumer, 82 proverb 3.14. 22 Alster, Proverbs of Ancient Sumer, 194 proverb 11.66.

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ing about (but says) ‘I shall tell you all I know about the case’ – this repels the god Suen.”23 This same meaning is shared by the Akkadian term ikkibu(m). An entire ritual had to be performed to be freed from the consequences of having stepped over this “limit that repels the gods” (see below 2. Transgressions). The text provides a long list of examples of human actions and behaviour that turn away the gods, such as “not to free the captive and not to release a man in bonds”24 or “to cause a judge to pronounce an incorrect judgment.”25 Also some foods were believed to repel the gods.26 Many food taboos were restricted to only one day of the year, namely the 7th day of the month Tašrītu (corresponding to the months of September / ​October);27 others, like the prohibition against eating especially leeks, which could alter the state of purity, applied only to priests.28 It is, however, often difficult to determine the rationale behind some food prohibitions. A more comprehensible example for precisely the 7th Tašrītu comes from the so-called Offering Bread Hemerology, also known as Hemerology of Assur: “(a person) should eat [neither] fish or leek, or a scorpion will sting him: it repels (because it is preserved for) the god Šulpaʾe, lord of the orchard.”29 According to an older tradition Šulpaʾe belongs to a group of gods who are called “the fish-eaters”;30 he also was believed to guarantee the growth of garden vegetables, which might explain why eating fish or leek could be repulsive to him.31 The idea of repulsion is especially evident in secular contexts. In the curse section of a boundary stone establishing the borders of property the one who dares to alter the contract inscribed on the stone or misplaces or destroys the stone is threatProverbs of Ancient Sumer, 100 proverb 3.118.  The standard edition is E. Reiner, Šurpu. A Collection of Sumerian and Akkadian Incanta­ tions (Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft 11; Wien: Selbstverlag des Herausgebers; Graz, 1958). For additions to the edition see R. Borger, “Šurpu II, III, IV und VIII in ‘Partitur’,” in: Wisdom, Gods and Literature. Studies in Assyriology in Honour of W. G. Lambert (A. R.  George and I. L. Finkel eds.; Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 15–90. Quoted is Šurpu II: 29. 25 Šurpu II: 15. 26 I refer to food which is termed ikkibu(m). For other descriptive phrases referring to food taboos see W. G. Lambert, “Donations of Food and Drink to the Gods in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in: Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East (OLA 55; J. Quaegebeur ed.; Leuven: Peeters, 1993), 199; and see S. Ermidoro, “Food Prohibition and Dietary Regulations in Ancient Mesopotamia,” Aula Orientalis 32 (2014): 79–91. 27  As a matter of fact, the 7th Tašrītu was the day with the highest number of níg.gig’s because the day was considered especially dangerous and unlucky, see A. Livingstone, “The Use of Magic in the Assyrian and Babylonian Hemerologies and Menologies,” Studi Epigrafici e Lin­ guistici sul Vicino Oriente Antico 15 (1998): 61, and A. Livingstone, Hemerologies of Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars (CUSAS 25; Bethesda: CDL Press, 2013), 137–139 l. 32–66. 28  S. W. Cole, “The Crimes and Sacrileges of Nabû-šuma-iškun,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 84 (1994): 241. 29 Livingstone, Hemerologies of Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, 137 l. 55–56. 30  See P. Delnero, “Šulpaʾe,” in: Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäo­ logie 13 3/4 (M. P. Streck ed.; Berlin / ​Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 2012), 284, 285. 31 A. Falkenstein, “Sumerische religiöse Texte,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie (1962): 55 l. 34. 23 Alster, 24

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ened: “he shall become an outcast (ikkibu(m)) in his city.”32 Especially in Akkadian texts another nuance of the term can be detected. Here ikkibu(m) refers exclusively to the area which is protected (by the repelling limit); the meaning is transferred to something which is reserved (place or action) to a king or god. In this way certain cuneiform tablets containing specialized knowledge which is to be kept away from the uninitiated become the ikkibu(m), the “exclusive property” of gods.33 The act of breaking the border and entering the protected area is described in Sumerian and Akkadian with the idiom “to eat (gu₇, akālu(m)) a níg.gig or ikkibu(m),” i. e., “to commit an infringement.”34 Often instead the corresponding and synonymous phrase azag gu₇ or asakka(m) akālu(m), literally “to eat what is set apart (for king or god),” i. e. “to commit a violation,” appears. The Sumerian term azag refers originally to the treasure of the god.35 The treasure was possibly kept in the so-called “house of the azag / ​asakku(m),”, a place that is inaccessible.36 This aspect of seclusion possibly explains the shift in meaning from “treasure house” to a “place which is set apart.” In a number of references the term asakku(m), referring to the material property of gods, is synonymously replaced by the Akkadian words for “oath” (nīšu(m)) and the word for “sweepings,”37 and the verb “to eat” in the phrase asakka(m) akālu(m) by “to swear” (tamû(m)).38 These alternative formulations have been thought to throw light on the original concept.39 However, it should be noted that it is not clear how representative this evidence is for the general development of the concept in 32  S. Paulus, Die babylonischen Kudurru-Inschriften von der kassitischen bis zur frühneuba­ bylonischen Zeit (AOAT 51; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2014), 839 text U l. 36. 33  See P.-A. Beaulieu, “New Light on Secret Knowledge in Late Babylonian Culture,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 82 (1992): 98–111; and K. van der Toorn, “Why Wisdom Became a Secret: On Wisdom as a Written Genre,” in: Wisdom Literature in Mesopotamia and Israel (J. R. Clifford ed.; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature Press, 2007), 26–27. 34  For a discussion of the terminology see van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 42–44; and Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 111–112 note 31. 35 W. Sallaberger, Der kultische Kalender der Ur III-Zeit I (UAVA 7; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1993), 237. 36 Paulus, Die babylonischen Kudurru-Inschriften von der kassitischen bis zur frühneubaby­ lonischen Zeit, 222. 37  The word is written with the logogram sar.meš which usually stands for Akkadian warqū “herbs.” For the idea that “herbs” were consumed see D. Charpin, “‘Manger un Serment,’” in: Jurer et maudire: pratiques politiques et usages juridiques du serment dans le Proche-Orient Ancien (Méditerranées 10–11; S. Lafont ed.; Paris: L’Harmattan, 1997), 91–92. J.-M. Durand proposed that the term might be rather a Mari writing for the Akkadian word šūšurātum “sweepings”; see La religion amorrite en Syrie à l’époque des archives de Mari (OLA 162/I; Leuven: Peeters, 2008), 581. This meaning was accepted by D. Charpin, “Les formulaires des contrats de Mari à l’époque amorrite: entre tradition babylonienne et innovation,” in: Trois millenaires de formulaires juridiques (S. Démaire-Lafont and A. Lemaire eds.; Genève: Librairie DROZ S. A., 2010), 38. 38  Charpin, “‘Manger un Serment,’” 86–92. 39 Charpin, “‘Manger un Serment,’” 93–96.

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Ancient Mesopotamia. It has been suggested that the asakku(m) was protected by an oath which was taken during a ceremony in which drink and food were consumed. It seems as if guarding an ikkibu(m) could not be conceived of without an oath. Accordingly, an infringement is tantamount to breaking an oath. It has been put forward that drinking water in which “sweepings” are dissolved formed part of the ceremony of taking an oath.40 Indeed, often such ceremonies include the ingestion of food and drink or anointment with oil. Interestingly, in curse formulas concerning perjury it is occasionally said “just as bread and wine enter into the intestines, so may the gods make this oath enter into your intestines and into those of your sons and daughters”41 or “just as oil enters your flesh, so may they cause this oath to enter into your flesh, the flesh of your brothers, your sons and your daughters.”42 If the oath is broken the great gods of heaven and earth would “turn water and oil into an ikkibu(m),”43 “something repelling” for the perjurers.44 That this menace is not to be taken as a metaphor is shown by a group of diagnostic texts as well as magico-medical prescriptions about the physical impact of a broken oath on the digestive tract (see below 3. The impact of breaching on the human body)45. It is possible that the close connection between ikkibu(m) and oath led to the development of the independent coexistent concept called in Akkadian māmītu(m).46 The term describes oaths that “derive their authority from the threat of sanctions, whether divine or terrestrial”;47 according to context the meaning shifts to curse and ban.48 In the latter sense of “ban” it occurs in a ritual text that is to be recited in order to ward off demons.49 The main rite of the ritual consists in drawing a line of flour to protect the patient. Transgressing 40

 Charpin, “Les formulaires des contrats de Mari à l’époque amorrite,” 38–39. and K. Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAA 2; Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1988), 52 paragraph 72 l. 560; quoted by Charpin, “‘Manger un Serment,’” 94. 42 Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths, 56 paragraph 94 l. 560; quoted by Charpin, “‘Manger un Serment,’” 94. 43  Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths, 51 l. 523; quoted by Charpin, “‘Manger un Serment,’” 94. 44 Charpin, “Les formulaires des contrats de Mari à l’époque amorrite,” 39–40, referring to K. R. Veenhof, “Review of E. Kutsch, Salbung als Rechtsakt im Alten Testament und im Alten Orient,” Bibliotheca Orientalis 23 (1966): 313. 45 See below 3. The impact of breaching on the human body. 46  See van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 50–52. 47  Y. Feder, “The Mechanics of Retribution in Hittite, Mesopotamian and Ancient Israelite Sources,” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 10 (2010): 128. 48  D. O. Edzard, “Zum sumerischen Eid,” in: Sumerological Studies in Honor of Thorkild Jacobsen (AS 20; Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1975), 63; W. Schramm, Bann, Bann! Eine sumerisch-akkadische Beschwörungsserie (GAAL 2; Göttingen: Seminar für Keilschriftforschung, 2001), 3–8; Y. Feder, “The Mechanics of Retribution in Hittite, Mesopotamian and Ancient Israelite Sources,” 129–134. 49 Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 8–9. 41 S. Parpola

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this magical border is sanctioned with a māmītu(m) curse (see below 4. Drawing borders in rituals). It is noteworthy that in Akkadian religious texts the acts that are considered violations of the “marked-off space” and the reasons for incurring conditional self-cursing are not only occasionally identical but were conceived as equally grave transgressions.50

2. Transgressions The range of violations is very broad since both secular and sacred spaces were marked off. To diminish the booty of a soldier was considered an ikkibu(m) infringement against both the gods and the king.51 Intercepting and diverting sacrifices such as sheep, ghee and flour for regular offerings were equally considered an azag transgression and punishable by death.52 The best source for violations is the ritual book Šurpu “Cremation,” which dates in its best-preserved version to the 7th century BC.53 The aim and function of the book conditions the interpretation of the transgressions. The Šurpu ritual consisted in the recitation of incantations, which the exorcist recited for his patient while the patient was performing a number of symbolic rites. The patient is said to be “sick, troubled, distraught and in danger of death”54 because of having committed crimes and broken oaths, acts that are considered sin and subject to divine punishment in the form of sickness. The exorcist’s task is to plead with the gods for removing and annulling the patient’s sins, thus healing the patient. The idea is that of a lawsuit in which the patient is the culprit and stands before his or her gods; it is indispensable that he or she admit his / ​her guilt even if he/she is not conscious of having committed any infraction. As symbols for the sin various objects are symbolically burned;55 before that the patient’s mouth is purified and his hands are washed.56 In order to figure out the transgression in question the exorcist recites long lists of examples in the hope that one of them would apply to his patient.  See below 2. Transgressions. “‘Manger un Serment,’” 88. 52 As stated in a Sumerian succession document from Nippur, l. 12–19; for the edition see J.-M. Durand, “Une condemnation à mort à l’époque d’Ur III,” Revue d’assyriologie 71 (1977): 125–136 with additions of M. T. Roth, “Appendix: A Reassessment of RA 71 (1977) 125 ff.,” Archiv für Orientforschung 31 (1984): 9–14, and C. Wilcke, “Familiengründung im alten Babylonien,” in: Geschlechtsreife und Legitimation zur Zeugung (E. W. Müller ed.; Freiburg and Munich: Verlag Karl Alber, 1985), 211–222 note 12. 53 Reiner, Šurpu, 7–10. 54  Reiner, Šurpu II: 4. 55  Note in this context that sacrileges such as stealing the temple treasure were punished with death by fire; see F. Joannés, “Une chronique judicaire d’époque hellénistique et le châtiment des sacrileges à Babylone,” in: Assyriologica et Semitica. Festschrift für Joachim Oelsner (AOAT 252; J. Marzahn and H. Neumann eds.; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2000), 206–211. 56 See also below 3. The impact of breaching on the human body. 50

51 Charpin,

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The first of these lists, which forms the second chapter or tablet of the book, includes up to 120 entries, which range from offending the gods and wrong social behaviour towards family, friends, neighbours, the community, and business partners to mistreating the weak, issuing false statements, and improper handling of ritual objects. Suffice it to mention a few examples to give an idea of the style and content: “he forgot to mention the name of his god in his incense offering”;57 “he despised father and mother, he offended his elder sister”;58 “he estranged friend from friend”;59 “he had intercourse with the wife of his neighbour”;60 “because he stood up in the assembly speaking inadequate words”;61 “he gave with small measure but received with big measure”;62 “he did not clothe a young man when he was naked”;63 “altogether he talks false words”;64 “he is held responsible for the kindled kinūnu(m) brazier.”65 It has been stressed that the statements are in the first place explanations for the origin and cause of the troubling sickness of the patient.66 However, secondarily they establish a religious, moral and social code. Violating this code was considered variously as “sins, errors, crimes, offences or (being under) curses” (Akkadian arnu(m), ḫiṭātu(m), gillātu(m), ennītu(m), and māmātu(m)).67 The term níg.gig or ikkibu(m) is attested three times in the first list, once referring to offence against the gods by one “who has eaten what is preserved to his god, who has eaten what is preserved to his goddess,” once in the meaning of general transgression “because of the evil infringement he has committed,” and once in context of the city or city community: “he ate what was preserved for his city.”68 No information about the precise nature of the crime is given. It is noteworthy that less grave infringements appear beside serious crimes, which makes it impossible to estimate or rank the severity of each transgression. The breaking of an oath is the topic of the following incantation, which forms the third tablet or chapter of the book. More than 170 entries deal with the māmītu(m) oath, which makes the Šurpu book our richest source for oaths too. Šurpu, II: 79.  Reiner, Šurpu, II: 36. 59 Reiner, Šurpu, II: 27. 60 Reiner, Šurpu, II: 48. 61  Reiner, Šurpu, II: 81. 62  Reiner, Šurpu, II: 37. 63 Reiner, Šurpu, II: 51. 64  Reiner, Šurpu, II: 57. 65  Reiner, Šurpu, II: 109. Offerings to the gods are placed on the kinūnu(m) brazier. The entry possibly refers to the misuse of the brazier. For references see A. L. Oppenheim, The Assyrian Dictionary K, Chicago / ​Glückstadt: The Oriental Institute Chicago / ​J. J. Augustin Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1971), 394–395 meaning 1.b) 2’–4’ and 2.a). 66 J. Bottéro, “Une grande liturgie exorcistique,” in: J. Bottéro, Mythes et rites de Babylone (Genéve / ​Paris: Slatkine, 1985), 217–218. 67  Reiner, Šurpu, II: 187–189. 68 Reiner, Šurpu, II: 5, 69, 95. 57 Reiner, 58

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However, the interpretation of the entries is hampered by a series of difficulties. One is related to the ambiguous meaning of māmītu(m) which, as has been stated above, refers to both an oath and its curse as sanction resulting from breaking the oath. Others refer to the style of the incantation, listing entries that lack not only any context but also seem not to differentiate between an oath and breaking the oath. Several entries refer to objects that were used in the ceremony of taking an oath, such as the so-called ṣarṣaru(m) cup from which water is drunk to be mindful of an oath. The entry reads: “māmītu(m): to drink water from the ṣarṣaru(m) cup.”69 Another entry alludes perhaps to the symbolic act when purchasing a field that has as one of its borders a water-course: “māmītu(m): breaking a clod and throwing the clod into water.”70 It is probable that this type of entry refers to the mishandling of objects that form part of ceremonies for taking an oath; the misuse of objects or the imitation of essential gestures would then be sanctioned. However, it is equally plausible to understand the māmītu(m) oath as an independent force which is activated by breaking the oath;71 each sanction would then derive its name from the elements used, the gods involved in the oath taking, or the locations chosen for the ceremony. The idea would be that of a māmītu(m) which takes up residence in animate and inanimate beings once an oath is taken and which becomes alive in case of violation. As a matter of fact, the verbs which are constructed with māmītu(m) are verbs of action used in context with living beings: when a person falls sick it can be because māmītu(m) has “caught, seized, reached or struck a man,” employing the same phraseology when gods and demons attack a man to punish him.72 Other entries are seemingly easier to understand, such as “māmītu(m): swearing faithfulness to a friend and then killing him.”73 The māmītu(m) curse could be transmitted between family members up to seven generations down and was deemed so contagious that by only touching a person under curse one could get infected.74 The Šurpu book is not the only cuneiform collection which associates ikkibu(m) transgressions with māmītu(m) curse. The other, also a collection of incantations and prayers, is called Lipšur (“may it absolve you”) litanies. The affinities between these litanies and the Šurpu book have long been recognised. Šurpu, III: 62.  Reiner, Šurpu, III: 31; see M. Malul, Studies in Mesopotamian Legal Symbolism (AOAT 221; Kevelaer / ​Neukirchen-Vluyn: Butzon & Bercker / ​Neukirchener Verlag, 1988) 406–418. 71 Van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 45–55; for stressing the mechanical aspect see W. van Binsbergen and F. Wiggermann, “Magic in History. A Theoretical Perspective, and Its Application to Ancient Mesopotamia,” in: Mesopotamian Magic. Textual, Historical, and Interpretative Perspectives (AMD 1; Tz. Abusch and K. van der Toorn eds.; Groningen: Styx, 1999), 27–29, and Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 114; and see the discussion of Feder, “The Mechanics of Retribution in Hittite, Mesopotamian and Ancient Israelite Sources,” 131–135, 149–153. 72 As stressed by Bottéro, “Une grande liturgie exorcistique,” 210. 73  Reiner, Šurpu, III: 34. 74  Reiner, Šurpu, III: 6; for the effect of contagion see Geller, “Taboo in Mesopotamia,” 113–114. 69 Reiner, 70

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Here examples for transgressions, classified as “sin” (Akkadian arnu(m)), are immediately followed by māmītu(m) curses.75 If the exorcist was unable to figure out what wrong behaviour caused the patient’s sickness he could still resort to another set of incantations which were called Ilī ul īdi “My god I do not know.” These incantations were often recited together with performance of the Šurpu ritual in case the patient was completely unaware of his transgressions.76 The Lipšur litanies could form part of a long ritual which is known under the Sumerian title nam.erim₂.bur₂.ru.da. The term nam.erim₂ is translated in Sumero-Akkadian bilingual texts with Akkadian māmītu(m); the ritual served to “to relieve (a person) from the curse (which resulted from breaking the māmītu(m) oath).” The Sumerian term nam.erim₂ refers in the older Sumerian judicial documents to an assertoric oath. The person who takes such an oath declares that he or she has issued a true statement. The action is described with the phrase nam.erim₂ ku₅, literally “to cut off from somebody something evil.” It has been suggested that this expression might have referred originally to a statement with which the one who takes the oath disassociates himself from something evil or false.77 In the later religious literature this meaning shifted then to “curse.”

3. The impact of breaching on the human body A medical cuneiform book offers some, though little, information about the impact of an ikkibu(m) transgression on the body. In the treatise on diagnostic and prognostic omens entitled Sakikkû “Symptoms,” a person who is diagnosed with “having eaten an infringement” shows as symptoms pains in the belly, which is expressed by the phrase “(the patient) shouts ‘my belly, my belly.’”78 By contrast, an asakku(m) violation was indicated by the throat constricting the windpipe and provoking choking.79 Both attestations point to the idea of how the infringement was activated in the body. It obstructed the throat and caused pains and troubles in the belly.80 Also the māmītu(m) curse was felt in the body. A number of entries in the Sakikkû book describe the following symptoms: “(the patient) suffers at75 E. Reiner, “‘Lipšur’ Litanies,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 15 (1956): 129–149; and cf. M. J. Geller, “An Incantation Against Curses,” in: Festschrift für Rykle Borger zu seinem 65. Geburtstag am 24. Mai 1994 (CM 10; S. M. Maul ed.; Groningen: Styx, 1998), 127–140. 76 E. Ebeling, Tod und Leben nach den Vorstellungen der Babylonier (Berlin / ​Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter, 1931), 120 l. 20. For still another set of incantations to be recited in this context see W. G. Lambert, “Dingir.šà.dib.ba Incantations,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 33 (1974): 267–322. 77  Edzard, “Zum sumerischen Eid,” 77. 78  R. Labat, Traité akkadien de diagnostics et pronostics médicaux (Leiden: Brill, 1951), 124 l. 22. The phrase goes on with another diagnosis which was considered equally severe, viz. “(the patient) has touched / ​laid hands on a man or a woman.” 79  Labat, Traité akkadien, 84 l. 28. 80 For the discussion of symptoms see also van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 80–81.

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tacks of sickness and anxiety during the night”;81 “(the patient) salivates while talking, his face is covered with the Aḫḫāzu jaundice demon, and he suffers from diarrhoea”;82 “(the patient) keeps on talking maliciously(?)”;83 “(the patient) suffers from vertigo, his intestines are inflated, his eye rims are inflamed, the tips of his feet are inflamed, he bleeds from his left nostril”;84 “(the patient) is now hot, now cold, his flesh is covered with yellow spots, […]”;85 “(the patient) collapses before having eaten, craving for garlic or cress annoys him, the tips of his fingers and toes are made bright”;86 “(the patient) is hot, he becomes nauseous, chokes, and what he expulses is black”;87 “(the patient) runs a high fever and it does not fall, he belches and coughs and his belly rises and falls for vomiting”;88 “(the patient’s) chest and back are aching constantly, what he expulses from his belly is black, he is nauseous”;89 “(the patient’s) belly is hot, he eats bread and drinks beer but regurgitates it, his epigastric region and his shoulders are causing him constant pain, he coughs, belches and spits”;90 “(the patient)’s epigastric region is causing him piercing pain, his belly holds fever and the fever is constant, he spits out repeatedly black sputum and vomits again and again”;91 “(the patient) vomits repeatedly.”92 The majority of the symptoms points to severe digestive problems. Further symptoms are dizziness, heat in the belly, belching and spitting out black stuff and an inflammation of the dorsal of the feet. In a plea directed to the sun god Šamaš the exorcist recites for his patient an incantation against a māmītu(m) curse which does not release its victim. The text offers a literary account of the effects of a broken oath on the body, including anxiety, weight loss, insomnia 81 N. P. Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik (AOAT 43; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2000), 203 l. 80. 82  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253 l. 16. Note here the expression “hand of the curse”; for a discussion of the “hands” of gods and demons with references to previous literature see B. Böck, The Healing Goddess Gula: Towards an Understanding of Ancient Babylonian Medicine (CHANE 67; Leiden / ​Boston: Brill, 2014), 47, 171–172. 83 Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253 l. 17. The translation of the term taslimtu “malicious talk(?)” follows E. Reiner, The Assyrian Dictionary T (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 282. 84 Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253 l. 19–20; note the expression “hand of the curse.” 85  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253 l. 21; note the expression “hand of the curse.” 86 Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253 l. 22–23; note the expression “hand of the curse.” 87  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253 l. 25. 88 Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 253–254 l. 26–27. 89  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 254 l. 28; note the variant “sin”. 90  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 254 l. 29–30; note that the symptoms refer to both “sin” and “curse.” 91  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 254 l. 31–32. 92  Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik, 272 l. 2; note the expression “hand of the curse.”

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and digestive troubles.93 The wording is different from the description of symptoms in the medical book Sakikkû but probably refers to the same condition. It appears that there was a certain similarity between the physical effects of having committed an ikkibu(m) transgression, “eaten” an asakku(m) violation, and broken an oath. The various symptoms of severe digestive troubles can be understood as a detailed medical account of what the curse formula “just as bread and wine enter into the intestines, so may the gods make this oath enter into your intestines” physically meant. Ancient Babylonians developed various strategies for coping best with the consequences of a broken oath. One consisted in the performance of the Šurpu ritual, in which, as mentioned above, alongside the recitation of incantations the exorcist and his patient carried out basically two actions. One was cleansing the mouth of the patient: one by one tamarisk, soap plant, reed, alkali, salt, cedar, and juniper are addressed in incantations to “cleanse and purify the mouth of man.”94 Supposedly the exorcist used these items to wipe clean the mouth of his patient while reciting the incantations. The other main rite was concerned with the symbolic burning of the sin: the patient peeled an onion and threw it into fire, stripped off dates, unravelled a matting, plucked apart flocks of wool, goat’s hair, red wool, and corns of grain, all to be thrown successively into the fire as well. It is noteworthy that so much emphasis is laid on the mouth cleansing, which is possibly to be explained by the fact that the mouth emits evil and blasphemous talk. The symptom of malicious talk in the Sakikkû book, mentioned above, fits well this context. The concept of a transgression that emerges from the mouth is explicitly stated in a short text about the manufacturing of an amulet stone chain which was meant inter alia “to extirpate a malicious ikkibu(m) transgression, as many as come out from the mouth.”95 Another form of getting rid of the effects of a māmītu(m) curse is described in the so-called ritual “to relieve (a person) from the curse (which resulted from breaking the māmītu(m) oath)” (nam.erim₂.bur₂.ru.da). Here the exorcist manufactured two wax effigies, one for the patient and the other representing the māmītu(m) curse. Then both figurines were married  – a common rite to transfer disease and disaster in Ancient Mesopotamia96 , supplied with provisions for their journey to the world of the dead, and then buried in the wilderness.97 93 B. R. Foster, Before the Muses. An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (Bethesda MD: CDL Press, 2005), 732–733. 94  Reiner, Šurpu, IX: 7, 15, 24, 32, 40, 47, 56. 95 A. Schuster-Brandis, Steine als Schutz‑ und Heilmittel. Untersuchung zu ihrer Verwendung in der Beschwörungskunst im 1.Jt. v. Chr. (AOAT 46; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2008), 255 iv: 47. 96  See M. Stol, Epilepsy in Babylonia (CM 2; Groningen: Styx, 1993), 99–102. 97 See E. Ritter and J. V. Kinnier Wilson, “Prescriptions for an Anxiety State: A Study of BAM 234,” Anatolian Studies 30 (1980): 23–30; and for the translation of the complete text see S. M. Maul, “2.15 Rituale zur Lösung von ‘Bann,’” in: Texte zur Heilkunde (TUAT NF 5; B. Janowski and D. Schwemer eds.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2010), 136–141.

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According to some accompanying rites of the ritual Ilī ul īdi “My god I do not know,” the figurines could also be burned.98 However, for restoring the patient’s health completely it was indispensable to reconcile the gods with prayers and sacrifices.99 Other strategies include wearing amulet chains or directly treating the physical symptoms. Instructions for the manufacturing of at least five amulets with three, ten, eleven, seventeen, eighteen, and twenty-two stones are preserved.100 A small group of medical prescriptions refers to the treatment of some of the symptoms mentioned in the Sakikkû book. Suffice it to mention three examples which confirm and complement the range of problems that are diagnosed with māmītu(m). One recipe commences “If māmītu(m) has seized a patient and he has very high fever and sweats a lot” and recommends a potion to stop the fever.101 Another recipe locates the pain in the feet describing possibly a gangrene “if a patient suffers from a gangrene (on the foot) and the surface of his flesh is covered with white and black spots – this is the disease of māmītu(m)”102 which is treated by applying a cataplasm. A third prescription states that “anything (the patient) ingests does not stay calmly in his belly but revolts so that he discharges everything through his anus and does not eat bread.”103 Various recommendations follow, prescribing a bath, an enema, a salve, and a potion. If the symptoms had advanced already too far the patient would die, such as in the case “if the gangrene (of the foot) has spread too much, māmītu(m) has seized (the patient) – he will calm down but die a little later.”104

4. Drawing borders in rituals A māmītu(m) curse once unleashed was a dangerous threat to life and could be used as an instrument. To the exorcist this powerful force served to ban demons. A small magical compendium, entitled in Sumerian sag.ba sag.ba, includes two long incantations that were meant to repel evil demons and protect the patient Ebeling, Tod und Leben, 118 rev. 5. stressed by Maul, “2.15 Rituale zur Lösung von ‘Bann,’” 135–136. 100  Schuster-Brandis, Steine als Schutz‑ und Heilmittel, 98–99 chains no. 44–49. The māmītu curse was occasionally associated with witchcraft and other evil machinations. Three amulets with five, seven, and eight stones respectively were believed to protect from them; see idem, 100–101 chains no. 50–51. 101  F. Köcher, Babylonisch-assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchungen II (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1963), no. 174 obv. 29. 102  R. Campbell Thompson, Assyrian Medical Texts (London: Oxford University Press, 1923), no. 15,3 + 18,5 + 32,2 + 73,1 + 74,1 + 75,1 ii: 33. 103 Köcher, Babylonisch-assyrische Medizin II, no. 156: 1–3; for a translation of the text see Maul, “2.15 Rituale zur Lösung von ‘Bann,’” 145–146. 104  Campbell Thompson, Assyrian Medical Texts, no. 15,3 + 18,5 + 32,2 + 73,1 + 74,1 + 75,1 ii: 61’.  98 See  99 As

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from their attacks. What makes these two incantations so important for the concept of transgressions and borders is the context in which they had to be recited as well as their contents. The Sumerian term sag.ba is usually rendered with “ban.” The ban is imposed on the demons and serves as a threat to destroy them in case they approach a sick person. This menace closely resembles the mechanisms of an oath turned into a curse. As a matter of fact, the two Sumerian terms sag.ba and nam.erim₂ are rendered in Akkadian with māmītu(m), which stresses the tight connection between the two concepts.105 In the incantations the ‘sag.ba ban’ takes on material form. It is called “drawing of the gods which cannot be transgressed, drawing of heaven and earth which cannot be altered so that not even a god can overthrow it, and neither god nor man can remove it.”106 Indeed, the incantations were recited over lines drawn usually with a mixture of flour and presumably water.107 The flour is associated with the goddess of grains, Nisaba. The lines represent the ban or the border that the demons cannot overstep as explicitly stated in the second incantation “Ban! Wherever (the demon) comes from, it cannot pass over the drawing […] the drawing – you (demon) shall not approach it!”108 The terms for drawing in Sumerian and Akkadian are giš.ḫur and uṣurtu(m) respectively. The word is also used to designate divine designs, plans and ordinances for heaven, earth and man109 emphasizing the concept of something irrevocable and unalterable. “Drawing a line” is expressed in Akkadian with a paronomastic construction, so typical for Semitic languages, viz. uṣurta(m) eṣēru(m), literally “to draw a drawing.” The drawings referred to with uṣurtu(m) have the shape of linear and curved scratched or carved lines.110 In the context of the sag.ba sag.ba incantations the line is heaped up. The border or line has other qualities beyond the apotropaic one of repelling demons. It can also attack and catch the evil force, as is stated in the first of the two sag.ba sag.ba incantations. The ban, i. e. the drawing, was considered “an inevitable trap set for the evil force” and “a stretched net from which nobody can escape.”111 As soon as a demon would approach the flour line, the net of Nisaba,

105 For the discussion of the meaning of sag.ba and the similarities with nam.erim₂ see Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 3–8. 106  See W. H.Ph. Römer, “Eine Beschwörung gegen den ‘Bann,’” in: DUMU-E2-DUB-BA: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg (OPSNKF 11; H. Behrens, D. Loding and M. T. Roth eds.; Philadelphia: University Museum, 1989), 467; and Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 20–21 l. 1b–10. 107  See Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 9–10. 108  Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 74–75 l. 9, 13b; see also van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 51–52. 109 See M. T. Roth, The Assyrian Dictionary U and W (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008), 294–295 meaning 2.a–d). 110  See Paulus, Die babylonischen Kudurru-Inschriften von der kassitischen bis zur frühneu­ babylonischen Zeit, 39–40 and 62 note 117. Also the lines in the hands and the wrinkles on the face were called uṣurātu(m) see B. Böck, Die babylonisch-assyrische Morphoskopie (Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft 27; Wien: F. Berger & Söhne GmbH, 2000), 156 l. 106 and 284 l. 16. 111 Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 20–21 l. 11–12.

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the goddess of grain and as such the owner of the flour, would tie it up.112 The sag.ba sag.ba incantations formed part of other complex rituals which provide important information about the moment when the line had to be drawn. They had to be recited in three ritual ceremonies that were performed to cure a patient from evil demons such as the Spirit-of-the-dead,113 from the baby-snatching female demon Lamaštu,114 and from witchcraft and other evil machinations.115 In each healing ceremony the exorcist did not simply draw a line but drew a circle of flour around the patient’s bed. In this way the patient was set apart in a space which was beyond the reach of the demons. The border helped create a zone which was so powerful that not even gods could enter it, as quoted above. In each of the three ceremonies the preceding rites consisted in the expulsion of the demons or evil power and the purification of the patient. To give an idea of the moment when the encircling takes place, the first mentioned ritual, the so-called ‘Embrocation’ (Muššuʾu) ceremony, is further described. The rite of surrounding the patient’s bed with flour belongs to the concluding rites, which are preceded by actions specific to the Muššuʾu ritual. These consist, as the name implies, in rubbing various parts of the body with a salve while reciting incantations; both actions are meant to exorcise the demons which had taken hold of the patient’s body. These rites also include tying various amulet stone chains around the limbs and the torso while reciting Muššuʾu specific incantations. The amulets function very much like a boundary in that they are also believed to repel demons and protect the exorcised patient. The incantations and the rites performed at the end of the healing ceremony constitute standard procedures.116 They include first tying a shoot or frond of a date palm, followed by wool strings, around the patient’s hands and feet in order to ward off evil forces – forming again a boundary. Then the bed was surrounded with red wool, which provided the first layer of protection through encircling. Incense was burnt and all the sides of the bed were fumigated. Subsequently, the patient was sprinkled with water, and water was poured around his bed, which is the second encircling. Following that, the  Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 20–21 l. 27–29. F. Köcher, “Die Ritualtafel der magisch-medizinischen therapeutischen Tafelserie ‘Einreibung’,” Archiv für Orientforschung 21 (1966): 13–20; B. Böck, “When You Perform the Ritual of ‘Rubbing’: On Medicine and Magic in Ancient Mesopotamia,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 62 (2003): 1–16; and B. Böck, Das Handbuch Muššuʾu “Einreibung”. Eine Serie sumerischer und akkadischer Beschwörungen aus dem 1. Jt. v. Chr. (BPOA 3; Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2007), 70–78. 114  See W. Farber, Lamaštu. An Edition of the Canonical Series of Lamaštu Incantations and Rituals and Related Texts from the Second and First Millennia B. C. (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 192–193 l. 107. 115  For the reference to the incantation in the performance of the so-called Maqlû ceremony against witchcraft see Tz. Abusch and D. Schwemer, Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Rituals (AMD 8/1; Leiden / ​Boston: Brill, 2011), 397–398. 116  Note that these rites conclude one section during the Maqlû ceremony and are not performed at the end as pointed out by Schramm, Bann, Bann!, 9. 112

113 See

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exorcists drew the third and last circle, this time of flour paste, around the bed. Once the patient was secured, an additional area was created by drawing still another flour circle. This one marked off the house and gate of the patient. The force of this circle is best illustrated by the fact that the exorcist is said not to touch the door. After the recitation of another incantation the exorcist was able to enter the house again and to perform a last rite in which he lifted a weapon whose wood had magical – apotropaic – properties.117 Encircling the patient’s bed with the flour paste (as well as tying amulets or wool around the his body parts) served to safeguard the purified patient and to impede a new attack of the demons. Drawing circles or encircling as a form of protection is a well-known feature of magical rites in general.118 Interestingly, the border was round. In Ancient Mesopotamia the roundness must have had special significance because demons would choose as their whereabouts places that are characterised by the exact opposite of round, viz. corners and angles. They seemed to have preferred such places because they could find refuge and hide in the often-dark corners. Also they preferred to enter and leave houses through corners and niches.119 The fact that the roundness did not provide a hideout for demons stresses, thus, even more the apotropaic character of the circle. The use of flour to enclose and protect a place is attested in still another ritual. The expression used is simply “to surround with flour,” in Akkadian qēma(m) lamû(m). This one concerns one of the rites to be performed in case a person decides to build a new well, to rebuild an old well, or to repair a well or a bath tub in his house. After excavation work the site had to be purified, and immediately afterwards the place was surrounded with flour.120 Again the circle of flour served to protect a purified site from renewed contamination. A similar function is behind the Akkadian paronomastic expression šidda(m) šadādu(m) “to draw a line.” This indication is often attested in rituals after a sacrifice to the gods has been prepared; the action served to separate the area of the sacrifice from the rest of the scene and to protect it. As material for drawing the lines flour could be used or strings were stretched to mark off the different ritual settings.121 In another ritual directed against the demons Spirit-of-the-dead, Alû and Gallû, a figurine representing the demon was trapped in a flour circle, i. e. a 117

 See Böck, “When You Perform the Ritual of ‘Rubbing,’” 6–11. W. E. Pax, “Circumambulatio” in: Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 3 (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann Verlag, 1957), 143–152. 119  Böck, “When You Perform the Ritual of ‘Rubbing,’” 14–15. 120 R. Caplice, “Namburbi Texts in the British Museum V,” Orientalia NS 40 (1971): 150–151 l. 28’; and see S. M. Freedman, If a City Is Set on a Height (OPSNKF 17; Philadelphia: University Museum, 1998), 260–262 Ritual 2. 121 For a discussion of the expression which has been formerly understood as “drawing a curtain” see S. M. Maul, Zukunftsbewältigung. Eine Untersuchung altorientalischen Denkens anhand der babylonisch-assyrischen Löserituale (Namburbi) (BAFO 18; Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1994), 55–56. 118 See

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line was drawn around the figurine. The expression used in Akkadian is zisurrâ lamû(m) “to surround with a flour circle.” Here the circle had indeed the function of catching the demon and immobilising it; it could not escape and caught in the circle it became subject to further rites aiming at destroying its evil power.122

5. Conclusion Borders in rituals have two important functions that are derived from the idea of separating and protecting areas. According to context the line can take on an apotropaic function. This is the case when a person or a specific ritual setting or area had to be protected from contamination or evil influences. The other function, which stresses the aspect of enclosure, is trapping and locking up malignant forces by surrounding them with a circular line. For both concepts it is essential that the boundary could not be transgressed, thus impeding anybody from entering or leaving the space. The area set apart was apparently not of neutral quality but was rather charged with positive energy since it helped to absorb and eliminate evil power and to maintain the purified state which was the condition for gaining divine approval.

122  For the passage in question see J. A. Scurlock, Magical Means of Dealing with Ghosts in Ancient Mesopotamia (Chicago IL: UMI Dissertation Services, 1988), 214–219.

Rȗaḥ Embodied – Job’s Internal Disease from the Perspective of Mesopotamian Medicine Ingrid E. Lilly Ancient Israelite medical discourse was, as far as we know, particularly interested in skin disease. Leviticus 12–15 provides priests with a manual for analyzing skin infections, eruptions, and other bodily discharges. Israelite narratives about illness focus on victims with skin disease.1 Indeed, in the most famous Israelite medical case, Job’s illness begins with sores that cover the skin of his whole body. The data available suggests that the boundary of the body was of particular interest to Israelite writers. Skin is one kind of bodily border. Mainstream medicine in the West assumes the body is a bounded entity with skin or other surfaces marking the borders of relevant diagnostic anatomy. Western doctors typically diagnose with invasive procedures or probes. However, the skin remains the relevant boundary defining the medical subject. Embodiment, however, is not so straightforward. Boundaries of bodies are frequently expressed in the language of fluidity, porousness, connectivity, or contingency. Priestly literature is concerned not only with surfaces but also with entrances and exits. The fluidity of embodiment leads to legal material governing boundaries and border-crossings like the ingestion of food and the discharge of puss, semen, menses, or afterbirth.2 Other examples can further illustrate culturally diverse ways to conceptualize embodiment. Today, we might say that a person has a conscience in the language of philosophy. However such properties of personhood are frequently conceived physically. For example, as Dale Martin suggests of Paul in The Corinthian Body, syneidēsis (or conscience) is a fluid property in the body, meted and made through physical contingency, especially in relation to pollution. Likewise, several cultures conceptualize bod1 Miriam

in Num 12 and Naaman in 2 Kgs 5.  See Howard Eilberg-Schwartz who discusses skin and bodily discharge in Leviticus as a system of “government of the body” in H. Eilberg-Schwartz, “The Problem of the Body for the People of the Book,” in: Reading Bibles, Writing Bodies: Identity and the Book ( T. K. Beal and D. Gunn eds.; New York: Routledge, 1996), 34–55, esp. 36–38. One can return also to the seminal though not unproblematic view of the wholeness and integrity of the Israelite body in Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (New York: Routledge, 1966), esp. 51–52. 2

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ily emanations in terms of humors, which can interact with the environment and in turn impact behavior, personality, and health. For instance, one study of humors in the Hindu tradition examines how aromas correspond between bodies and jungles, showing how a richly scented ecosystem acquires language from physiology, health, and disease.3 Such an example underscores the role environment can play in medicine and embodiment. A study of ancient disease is also a study of embodiment, which, like all crosscultural work, must explore the emic boundaries of somatic experience. For instance, the strongest statement about healthy physical function in the book of Job states “his loins were full of milk and the marrow of his bones moist” (21:24). Milky loins and moist marrow suggest that indexes like dry to wet were more salient measures of health than properly functioning anatomical parts, for example. What dries out a body? Are emotions wet? What impedes the circulation of fluids? Where do agents of disease come from and how do they interface with embodiment? The book of Job presents the most complex depiction of illness in the Hebrew Bible. In addition to an advancing skin disease, Job suffers from a ruptured kidney, intestinal illness, and fever. Such diagnostic language is somewhat unusual. Hence, Job’s illness represents one of the most fruitful places to explore how embodiment shapes medical discourses in Israelite literature. Inasmuch as Job is about a physical illness, it correlates its anatomical descriptions with frequent language of spirit or rûaḥ. The book of Job uses rûaḥ to mean wind as a climatic outside force and breath as a physical, life-maintaining rhythm. But in addition to these semantic meanings, almost all translations at some point employ “spirit” to mean an animating vital force. Whether this is a helpful translation remains to be seen.4 In this essay, I will explore the role of rûaḥ in Job’s experience of embodiment and illness. To do so, I will examine how “winds” functioned in Mesopotamian medicine as both external and internal agents of health and illness. It will quickly become possible to dispense with the Western notion of spirit as a philosophical soul. Rûaḥ in Job acts more like a physical property, a feature of embodiment, one that can cross the boundaries of skin and is, from a medical perspective, best 3  F. Zimmermann, Jungle and the Aroma of Meats: An Ecological Theme in Hindu Medicine (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). See examples of humors in medical anthropology in the seminal G. Foster, Hippocrates’ Latin American Legacy: Humoral Medicine in the New World (Langhorne, PA: Gordon & Breach, 1994). P. J. Stewart and A. Strathern, Humors and Substances: Ideas of the Body in New Guinea (Westport, CT: Bergin & Garvey, 2001). 4  Perhaps the most important book on ‘spirit’ in biblical literature, John Levison’s Filled with the Spirit analyzes Job according to the very boundary I seek to problematize. He takes Job’s spirit as a God-given animating force that must contend with “the ash heap,” that is, a sick body made of dust. Levison’s Job reproduces the spirit-flesh divide found in so much of Western thought which, as I hope to demonstrate, is a misreading of how rûaḥ functions in Job. J. R.  Levison, Filled with the Spirit (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 17–23.

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translated as “moving air.” This essay helps to conceptualize rûaḥ as an emic category of embodiment allowing us to explore ancient ideas about somatic boundaries and the cultural work that they can do.

1. Winds and Illness in Mesopotamian Medical Discourse To understand Israelite medicine, we must cobble together impressions gleaned from legal, narrative, and poetic literature. The case is far different for Mesopotamian medicine.5 From Assurbanipal’s library alone, nearly 700 medical tablets were recovered. The majority of Mesopotamian medical texts date from about 1000 to 612 BCE. Hence the Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian periods are well represented. In addition to these diagnostic tablets, significant medical information can be gleaned from diverse genres: incantations, ritual texts, omen collections, legal material, and literary works like hymns and laments. Focusing on the former diagnostic medical texts with some reference to other genres, I frame the following discussion with how winds [IM] function in discourses of disease. In the famous Mesopotamian Therapeutic Series (UGU), which matched treatments with diagnoses, internal pain and fever can be attributed to winds.6 In a description of a fever accompanied by stabbing pain one diagnosis reads: “A person’s insides are feverish (and he has) ṣētu-fever, cold, “clay” and wind {IM}.”7 And regarding a person sick with su ʾālu-cough: “If a wind blasts {ši-biṭ IM} him … being full of […], and stopped up “wind” {IM} plus ṣētu (enteric fever).”8 These two examples introduce the fundamental concept I wish to explore: winds that lodge inside the body. Hence, we have here a conceptual crux in winds as both internal and external agents of disease. Scurlock and Anderson think “wind blasts” (ši-biṭ IM) “might refer to redness and irritation of the skin that would result from sand striking the skin from a severe windstorm.”9 This interpretation of ši-biṭ IM is borne out in other discussions of climate and illness. For example, the external danger of wind is captured 5 For a nice discussion of sources, see P. Prioreschi, A History of Medicine, Volume 1: Primi­ tive and Ancient Medicine (2d ed; Omaha: Horatius, 1996), 388–391. 6  J. Scurlock, Sourcebook for Ancient Mesopotamian Medicine (WAW 36; Atlanta: SBL, 2014), 295–336. 7  UGU Extract Series, Fragment 9C+D obv. 11′–13′ + 9d 7′–9′. Scurlock, Sourcebook, 302– 303. Citations from Scurlock follow the following conventions: an underline is a broken but legible reading, [] indicates damage to clay tablet, () indicates information supplied by Scurlock to clarify text, and I supply Akkadian / ​Sumerian for inline quotations with {}. 8  UGU Extract Series, Fragment 9B obv. lines 15′–19′. Scurlock, Sourcebook, 300. 9 J. Scurlock and B. R. Anderson, Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine: Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses (Champaign, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2005), 91–92 in a section about genital diseases and p. 203 discussing perhaps chicken pox or shingles.

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in a Middle Babylonian text on treatment for fever, which instructs: “Protect him from the wind {IM}.”10 Likewise, in several tablets on fevers in the Mesopotamian Diagnostic and Prognostic Series, climatic winds are to blame. For example: “[If] his [mentation] is continually altered, his words are unintelligible and he forgets whatever he says, a wind {IM} from behind him afflicts him; he will die alone like a stranger.”11 This same climatological interpretation seems borne out in Late Babylonian incantations against eye disease where winds cause bloodshot eyes, blurry vision, or other eyesores.12 For example, “O painful eye, O doubly painful eye, O eye of painful sight! A pair, they are one eye, yet a mountain is set as a bar between them … (on) their surface a knot is tied, (on) their under part a wall is built … What hath been their wind, what not their wind …? What hath been their windgust, what not their windgust? Wind of the face.”13 While physical winds and types of storm gusts may be responsible for some skin, eye, and throat diseases, fevers and internal pain could also be attributed to an internal wind or even to “stopped up wind.” Indeed, fevers seemed to invite the ambiguity of external vs. internal winds: certain symptoms could be caused by sandstorms, but the fever and internal pain persisted due to internal blockages or prolonged containment of winds. One common type of offending fever is called ṣētu. As we saw above, the ṣētu fever is caused by wind blasts that make the victim full with “stopped up wind.” This type of fever is a great example of the problem of internal winds. In a tablet entirely devoted to a salve for ṣētu, the illness is described in great detail: “[IF] ṣētu burns [a person] so that the hair of his head continually stands on end, his face seems continually to spin [and] he continually feels burning hot, his body is continually tired (and he continually has) a lukewarm temperature, he continually has su ’ālu-cough, his stomach is continually upset, his saliva flows, his stomach turns over and over, he is sick with “flowing” of the intestines and makes (one bowel movement) follow (another), the flesh above is cold (but) his bones below (feel) burning hot, when he tries to sleep, (his breath) turns back (and) his wind pipe continually closes up, he coughs (variant: belches), (and) he continually has burning intestinal fever, that person is burned by ṣētu.”14

Although the “flowing” intestines and stomach “turning over” are not attributed to internal winds here, other texts about fevers like ṣētu and their associated gastrointestinal problems invoke internal winds:  Scurlock, Sourcebook, 417–421. Tablet 22, lines 49–50. Scurlock, Sourcebook, 191. 12  In Foster’s section, “Against Eye Disease,” four of the six incantations identify winds as the cause (a, b, e, f). B. R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3d ed; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005), 967–971. 13  R. C. Thompson, “Assyrian Medical Texts,” Proc. Royal Soc. Med. XVII (1924): 1–34, as quoted in Priorschi, A History of Medicine, 1:395. 14 BAM 145. Scurlock, Sourcebook, 422–424. 10

11 DPS

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“If a person’s insides are continually bloated, his intestines rumble, his intestines continually make a loud noise, ‘wind’ {IM} groans in his stomach (and) ‘buts’ into his anus, that person is sick with pent-up (wind).”15 “[If …] he is stopped up (and) [he has] wind {IM} [(that hurts him so badly) that he has to bring] a hand [up], he was gotten by [ṣētu] or is sick with DÚR.GIG.”16 “If a person’s epigastrium continually afflicts him, his insides are continually bloated and he is pregnant with “wind,” {IM} the muscles of his back? are drawn taut; his hips are stiff, his legs continually hurt him and, before he eats, (his stomach) repeatedly bloats and raises up, it may turn into a persistent illness (with) pent-up “wind” {IM} for that person.”17

Phrases like “pregnant with wind,” “pent-up wind” or “stopped up (with) wind” reveal the medical conceptualizations at work. It makes sense that flatulence would be diagnosed as pent-up wind. But medical discourses also diagnosed fever and various internal pain in terms of internal wind (IM), the same term used for external climate-caused symptoms like fever, skin irritation, or bloodshot eyes. It seems that winds could become a persistent illness if they remained in the body for too long, causing fever and intestinal trouble. Incantations and diagnostic literature about headaches show frequent reference to internal wind as well. In one text, the headache is three times likened to wind storms and lightening occurring inside the head.18 A more extensive treatment of a headache describes the illness and the ritual cure: “If a person continually has headaches, his ears roar, his eyes become dimmed, his neck muscles continually hurt him, his arm(s) are continually numb, his kidney gives him a jabbing pain, his heart is troubled, (and) his feet continually have rimūtu-paralysis, a pursuing ghost continually pursues that person.”19

Later in the text, the ghost is called “an evil wind” (IM.ḪUL) that “has blown upon me.” The final appeal at the end of the ritual recitation reads: “let the evil wind {IM.ḪUL} that put it there (?) go up like smoke to heaven.” The incantation correlates two types of invasive agents of disease, winds and ghosts. This raises two theoretical issues. First, it provides an opportunity to discuss medical pluralism.20 Thus far, I have only focused on the term IM in  BAM 159 v. 48–50; Scurlock, Sourcebook, 499–501.  BAM 159 vi. 5–10; Scurlock, Sourcebook, 499–501. 17 BAM 159 vi. 23–33; Scurlock, Sourcebook, 499–501. 18  Foster, IV. 40 (c) “Against Headache,” 976. 19  BAM 323, 228, 229 or no. 91 in: J. Scurlock, Magico-Medical Means of Treating GhostInduced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia, 305–307. See also Scurlock, Sourcebook, 692–701. 20  Other anthropological approaches could attend to cultural-geographical differences or contextualized social location. For instance, Zucconi studies the multiple terms for healer across geographical cultures as a way to discuss medical pluralism. L. M. Zucconi, Can No Physician Be Found?: The Influence of Religion on Medical Pluralism in Ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Israel (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2010). Or Avalos explores the temple as a healthcare provider across geographical cultures. H. Avalos, Illness and Healthcare in the Ancient Near East: The 15 16

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Mesopotamian conceptualizations of illness.21 Doing so surfaced a very small number of texts compared with the massive trove of medical data available. In other words, winds are by far a minority agent of disease. Second, focusing on the word IM is a restrictive decision that actually obscures the variety of entities that could enter the body and cause illness. In this sense, winds should be counted among a genus of invading disease agents, including ghosts and demons. For example, in JoAnn Scurlock’s extensive study of ghost-induced illnesses, nearly all of the symptoms caused by winds can also be caused by ghosts.22 They can both cause headaches, intestinal trouble, and fever. These shared symptomatic domains warn us against systematizing ‘the’ Mesopotamian diagnosis for wind too quickly. Nevertheless, winds, ghosts, and demons have more than overlapping symptoms in common. Conceptually, they all invade the body from the outside. This is not just a modern correlation. Ancient medical discourses also conceived them in concert. We just saw how one ghost-induced illness was attributed to the force of an evil wind.23 In another example, LKA 86–88, the gods are angry with the victim such that “wind from an evil mouth has been blown into me; an evil rābiṣu-demon, which has been set on me so that it continually pursues me.”24 The transference of exterior wind from one body into another is a striking image of demon possession for a medical condition. Suffice it to say, invasive agents of illness included ghosts, demons, and winds whose symptoms were frequently shared. Since winds were sometimes correlated with ghosts and demons, we can conclude by discussing the occasional appearance of an “evil wind” in descriptions of illness. The IM.ḪUL or “evil wind” does not occur frequently in medical incantations or diagnostic texts, except for the few mentioned above. But it often bears responsibility for sickness and disease in texts that invoke deities. An especially interesting case of evil winds, in light of the genre of the book of

Role of Temple in Greece, Mesopotamia, and Israel (HSM 54; Cambridge: Harvard Semitic Museum, 1995). 21 While IM is the overwhelmingly predominant term used for medical winds, Akkadian šāru can also be found, such RA 65 73:33 “if the intestines are full of air (ša-ra).” 22  Her list of exemplary symptoms caused by ghosts includes: head or neck aches which could be accompanied by internal bleeding or pain, ringing ears, various bodily aches, intestinal trouble, numbness, shortness of breath, fever, emaciation like a living skeleton, neurological disorders, or other mental disturbances. Ibid. 11–18. Scurlock, Magico-Medical Means of Treating Ghost-Induced Illnesses. Almost all of these texts date from the Neo-Assyrian Period (roughly 1100–600 BCE.) 23  For example, of a dead person, one tablet reads, “whether it is a ghost (eṭemmu) who was cast out on to the plain, whose wind (IM) has not left the body …” KAR 21:11. 24  LKA 86–88, lines 33–34. Scurlock, Magico-Medical Means of Treating Ghost-Induced Ill­ nesses, 339–347. See also Scurlock’s commentary for line 17 which uses IM in an expression of identity to mean “[the ghost] is like me in some essential way.” Idem, 357.

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Job, is Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi, The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer.25 On Tablet II, Šubši-mešrȇ-Šakkan, the speaker, describes the divine wrath set against him as he is overcome by headache, a cough, chills, and intestinal trouble. Each of his symptoms is caused by an invasive agent, beginning with his fatigue: Exhaustion is like a “windstorm driving [him] on” (i-red-di me-hû-[u]).26 The debilitating sickness comes from an “evil wind” (im-ḫul-lu) that has blown in from the horizon.27 Then subsequent ghosts and demons (utukku, lemnu, lamaštu) emerge from exotic geographies, combining to form one large medical “inundation.”28 This examination of wind in Mesopotamian medical discourse allows us to draw several conclusions. 1) Winds are environmental factors that can cause disease. Particular winds, or gusts of particular types of storms interface with bodily surfaces (skin, eyes, throat) as irritants. But climate was also an offender in some fevers and headaches where external winds could initiate beginning stages of a more advanced illness. 2) Some Mesopotamian medical diagnoses conceived internal illness as blockages or irregular containment of winds in the body. This was particularly true of headaches, fever, upset stomach, and gastro-intestinal problems. 3) Internal winds that cause sickness in the body could be correlated with other invasive agents, like ghosts or demons. Although a comprehensive study was not conducted, there is some indication that these invasive agents produced similar symptoms. From this discussion, we are left with the strong impression that internal ailments were caused by outside invasive agents. At least in the cases of winds examined above, fevers, intestinal sickness, and headaches were explained as external invasion and irregular internal containment.

25 For cuneiform text, transliteration, and translation see A. Annus and A. Lenzi, Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi: The Standard Babylonian Poem of the Righteous Sufferer (SAAT 7; Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2010). See also transliteration and translation in W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, 1960), 21–62; and the translation, “The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer,” translated by B. R. Foster (COS 1.153:486–492). 26  II.49. Or “a whirlwind is driving me”; Foster (COS 1.153:489). 27  II.51. Or “an evil vapour”; Foster (COS 1.153:489). 28 See my discussion of Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi in I. E. Lilly, “Conceptualizing Spirit: Supernatural Meteorology and Winds of Distress in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East,” in: Festschrift in honor of John J. Collins (J. Baden, H. Najman, and E. Tigchelaar eds.; JSJSupp; Boston: Brill, 2016 forthcoming). In this connection, one could fruitfully compare the association of evil spirits and skin disease in texts from the Judean Desert. For example, J. M. Baumgarten, “The 4Q Zadokite Fragments on Skin Disease,” JSS 41 (1990): 153–165; E. Qimron, “Notes on the 4Q Zadokite Fragments on Skin Disease,” JSS 42 (1991): 256–259.

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2. Wind and the Progression of Job’s Illness Details of Job’s illness are largely supplied by his own voice. The friends discuss sickness in general (cf. 20:20–25), but they never discuss specific details of Job’s body as it deteriorates. Aside from a brief narration about Job’s skin in the folk tale that frames the poetic speeches, Job’s sickness is all self-narrated. Across ten speeches, Job expresses and describes the progression of his illness with sometimes quite detailed attention to his physical state and frequent mention of rûaḥ.29 In Job’s first speech (ch. 3), he is aware of impending trouble. He feels fenced in (v. 23), he admits he is already sighing and groaning (v. 24), and he describes his sense of foreboding: “For I tremble at dread when it comes upon me, and that which I fear comes to me. I am not at ease, nor am I quiet. I do not rest. Turmoil comes” (Job 3:25–26).30 Not until Job’s second speech (chs. 6–7) does the righteous sufferer acknowledge the medical quandary in which he finds himself. He declares a thesis for the medical theme in all of his speeches: “remember, my life is rûaḥ” (7:7).31 In this second speech, Job also introduces a medical theodicy. Both his health and the progression of his illness depend on the nature of rûaḥ. Will rûaḥ assault him from the outside? Will it wreak havoc inside his body and become stopped up? Or will it remain his vital force? It is important to note that this is the first time Job describes his physical illness: 6:7 7:4 7:5 7:19

My appetite refuses to touch them, they are like food of illness to me. I am full of tossing until dawn. My flesh is clothed with worms and a clod of dust; my skin hardens and flows. Let me alone until I swallow my spittle.

Job suffers from surface symptoms. The clearest statement he makes about his illness (in 7:5) invokes clothing and skin. But there are signs that he suffers from internal ailments as well. His loss of appetite and his trouble with drooling suggest there is more to his illness than skin disease. When he says he cannot sleep, the verb śābaʿ in the phrase “I am full (wĕśābaʿtî) of tossing” typically applies to the stomach, suggesting that he already suffers from some form of intestinal trouble. Early in Job’s second speech, he asks “is my flesh bronze?” (6:12). This question reveals the fundamental medical anxiety Job will confront in each of his subsequent speeches about his illness: his body does not have a hard boundary, 29 Job’s speeches occur in ch. 3; chs. 6–7; chs. 9–10; chs. 12–14; chs. 16–17; ch. 19; ch. 21; chs. 23–24; chs. 26–27; and chs. 29–31. 30  Hebrew translations are my own and follow MT. 31 In the same context, Job reflects, “my days are hebel” (v. 16).

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leaving his internal rûaḥ vulnerable to dangerous penetrations. Indeed, Job’s first statement about his own medical condition points to the dilemma of his rûaḥ, “the arrows of the Almighty are in me; my rûaḥ drinks their poison” (6:4) and in 7:20, Job asks “why have you made me a target?” Job’s skin is porous, his flesh is vulnerable, and as the target of a divine scourge, it is his rûaḥ that becomes sick. He admits this internal distress when he later determines to “speak the anguish (ṣar) of my rûaḥ” (7:11). Ṣar also carries the sense of constrained, suggesting that his wind is contained and hemmed in. Job is not the only one who frames his medical troubles as a problem of boundaries. Satan, the divine adversary, stakes his whole wager with God on the internal versus external nature of human illness.32 “Skin for skin! All that people have they will give to save their lives. But stretch out your hand now and touch his bone and flesh, and he will curse you to your face” (Job 2:4–5). Satan knows that skin disease is not enough. He wants to see God penetrate Job’s body so the illness will affect his bone and flesh. God’s only condition in this wager with Satan is to “spare [Job’s] life” (2:6). Hence, the illness will spread into but not fully overtake Job’s flesh and bones. The book of Job charts the penetration of the illness with particular emphasis on the state of Job’s rûaḥ. As if to underscore this progression from surface to interior, Satan initiates the illness, inflicting “loathsome sores on Job from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head” (2:7). Initially a mere skin disease, the illness progresses into Job’s flesh and bones by means of his rûaḥ. Indeed, as we just saw, Job’s second speech introduces his skin disease but foreshadows greater illness to come with the poisoned and constrained internal rûaḥ. Job’s third speech (chs. 9–10) juxtaposes the divine causes of both illness and wellness. As if invoking the evil wind (IM.ḪUL) from Mesopotamian medical discourses, Job describes the God of creation as an angry God who inflicts wounds on the body with a destructive wind. “He crushes me with a storm (śĕʿārâ), he multiplies my wounds without cause; he will not let me get my breath (rûaḥ), but fills me with bitterness” (9:17–18).

Job’s body is crushed and wounded by God. His rûaḥ, unable to return to him, is replaced by bitterness. Job’s body is vulnerable to some kind of climatic storm that causes surface wounds and internal bitterness. The passage puts the medical theodicy in creation on center stage, that God would fashion Job’s body but then turn and destroy it (v. 8). In contrast to this dystopian body, Job declares the ideal view: “You clothe me with skin and flesh, and knit me together with bones and sinews. You grant me life and steadfast love, 32 The term consistently used to designate this character is hašsaṭan “the satan.’ The independent character named Satan was a later development. Nevertheless, I use Satan as a character name, but it everywhere refers to “the adversary,” not a specific fallen angel but a role in the divine court.

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and your oversight guards my rûaḥ” (Job 10:11–12). In the whole book, this is Job’s strongest statement of contingency in medical health.33 It reflects a sense of wholeness between the exterior and interior: skin and flesh, bones and sinews. The wholeness of the body is only possible, however, when divine oversight becomes the guardian of human rûaḥ. For health, the divine martial metaphor introduced in 6:4 and 19:17–18 must be inverted. Where the dystopian body is assaulted by its creator, the ideal healthy body enjoys a divine guard. As God’s character shifts between assailant and guardian, the physical skin acts as an index. But the deterioration of the rest of the body reveals the drama of rûaḥ. By Job’s fifth speech (chs. 16–17), the ideal begins to unravel. The dystopian body starts to show signs of alarming internal sickness. Job’s kidneys (kīlyâ) begin to fail and he starts to throw up stomach gall (mĕrarǎ) and blood (dām) (16:13, 18). His neck (ʿōrep) probably seizes up (16:12), his face is red from weeping, and his eyelids are covered in a death-like shadow (16:16). He complains, “my eyes are dim from grief” (17:7). Job attributes his conditions, especially the internal illness in his kidneys and intestines, to supernatural assault: I was at ease and he shattered me. He grasped my neck (ʿōrep) and smashed me. He set me up as his target. His archers surround me. He slashes open my kidneys, and shows no mercy. He pours out my gall upon the ground. He makes a breach into me again and again. He rushes at me like a warrior” (Job 16:12–14).

Once again, Job self-identifies as a target of divine attack. The boundary of his body is under siege, especially evident in the emphatic Hebrew phrase “He makes a breach into me again and again” (yīprĕṣēnî pereṣ ʿal pĕnê pāreṣ). As we might expect from the deteriorating conditions of his internal body, Job announces, “my rûaḥ is ruined” (17:1). Job’s sixth speech (ch. 19) reaffirms the diagnosis of his medical condition in terms of internal winds. He complains that his rûaḥ is a stranger to his wife (19:17). It is important to note that Job does not lack a wind. On the contrary, such a statement implies that the character and / ​or nature of Job’s wind has changed. Job is still alive, but his wind is foreign and his physical condition is near-death (cf. 19:20). In one last push to reassert the ideal medical body, Job’s ninth speech (chs. 26–27) reopens the question of supernatural control over climate. Although God is cast as a warrior: he rebukes, pierces, strikes down, and causes the natural world to tremble, Job also notes that God’s wind makes heaven serene (šīprâ) (v. 13). Having assured himself that God’s rûaḥ can still produce serenity, Job draws a conclusion about his illness and internal wind:

33 See

also Job 21:24 which provides an exclusively physical description of health.

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“As God lives, who has taken away my case, and the Almighty who has made my life bitter, as long as my breath (nĕšāmâ) is in me and the spirit (rûaḥ) of God is in my face, my lips will not speak falsehood” (Job 27:2–4a).

The bitterness in Job’s body has nearly taken his life. Earlier, he announced that his wind was ruined. His wife confirmed through misrecognition that another wind was overtaking him, one with destructive force. Indeed, Job proclaimed in 6:4 that divine arrows penetrated his body, poisoning his internal wind. And yet here in ch. 27, after a reflection on climate and divine intentions, Job decides that God’s wind can still bring serenity. The “evil” or offending wind that caused his intestines to fail has not overtaken his face. Job feels he can still speak in confidence, since his nĕšāmâ and the rûaḥ of God are both still inside his body. Job’s last speech in the book runs for three chapters (chs. 29–31) and offers one of the longest reflections on illness in the entire book. With blackened skin that falls from his body,34 and bones burning with heat (30:30), Job has succumbed to the illness Satan predicted for him. It reached his flesh and bones. To amplify this brief medical diagnosis, the speech metaphorically describes the last moments of critical condition unto death, with a stormy rûaḥ playing an important role. 10b

They do not hesitate to spit on my face. 11 He opened my sinews (yeter) and violated me. They loosened the jaw (resen) from my face. 13 They tear up my path. They accelerate my ruin. They do not need any help. 14 They enter as through a wide rupture (pereṣ). Under the storm (šōʾāh) they drive on in waves. 15 Terrors are set against me. Even my honor pursues me like a wind (rûaḥ). My rescue passes over me like a cloud. 16 And now, my life is poured out. Days of calamity grasp hold of me. 17 The night above me pierces my bones. That which is gnawing on me does not sleep. 18 With great force, he grips my garment. He binds me up as with the collar of my tunic. 19 He shoots me until I become dirt (ḥōmer). I became like dust and ashes. 22 You lift me up and make me ride on the wind (rûaḥ). You dissolve me with a downpour. 23a For I know you will return me to death. (Job 30:10b–11, 13–19, 22–23a).

The poetic description in 30:10–23 takes Job’s illness well beyond flesh and bones. Swept into the metaphor of a storm, Job’s body is disassembled, penetrated, and dissolved. The border of his body contains a “wide rupture.” It is pierced and gnawed upon under cover of a terrifying nighttime storm.35 When Job invokes the rûaḥ in v. 22, it appears that his body has been turned into dirt, swept into a windstorm and dissolved by the downpour.

34  The phrase “from upon me” (‫מעָלָ֑י‬ ֵ ) indicates that Job’s skin (‘or) has sloughed off. It is not entirely clear where flesh ends and skin begins, but with his skin gone, Job’s flesh would now be exposed. 35  This ominous assault resembles the medical inundation suffered by Šubši-mešrȇ-Šakkan. In Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi, the agents of assault were named as ghosts, demons, and winds. Job does not name the assailants, but the context of a storm and its effects show parallels.

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This rûaḥ is far more than an internal blockage of wind that can cause gastrointestinal failure, extreme headache, and bone-deep fever. The final rûaḥ of Job’s illness is all consuming. In the storm wind, his body is dissolved and scattered as dirt. The external wind has achieved the ultimate invasion, blowing Job’s body apart until it effectively disappears into death.

3. Job’s Illness and Mesopotamian Medicine As we saw in the discussion of Mesopotamian medicine, external storm winds could cause skin, eye, and throat illness and potentially lead to more serious ailments. Job certainly suffers from skin disease. Satan covers his body with sores from foot to head (2:7). Job’s flesh is dirty and covered with worms (7:5a), and his skin hardens and then breaks out again (7:5b). At one point, he protests that a crushing storm causes wounds (9:17), and by the end of his illness, Job’s blackened skin sloughs off (30:30). Aside from Satan’s scourge to the skin, described in the narrative frame, Job’s entire medical drama is induced, not by a skin disease, but by a poisoned rûaḥ (6:4). God’s arrows pierce him bringing poison into his body, a clear movement from external to internal across the boundary of Job’s skin. The terminology of a rûaḥ drinking poison does not seem particularly Mesopotamian. Further, Job does not use phrases like: “stopped-up wind,” or “pregnant with wind.” (One possible exception is Job 7:11, the wind is constrained within him.) In any case, Job’s symptoms strongly resemble Mesopotamian “wind” problems. Internal stopped-up winds were associated with headaches, gastro-intestinal illness, and fevers. Of all of Job’s ailments, he does not seem especially tormented by headaches. However, he does suffer from gastro-intestinal problems. At first, his stomach is just uneasy (6:7; 7:4) but his condition deteriorates to acute intestinal trouble, including kidney failure (16:13). The external signs of his stomach problems begin with his spittle (7:19) and progress to vomit, which contains gall and blood (16:13, 18). During this phase of his illness, he makes five important statements about his rûaḥ: it drinks poison (6:4), it is constrained (7:11), it is replaced by bitterness (9:18), it is ruined (17:1), and it is strange (19:17).36 There may be even more correspondences between Job’s illness and fevers like ṣētu. In the long description of ṣētu found in BAM 145 (quoted above) the symptoms comprised: Fatigue Flowing saliva

Cough Flowing intestines

Upset stomach Cold flesh

36  Is the ‘strange spirit’ in Job functioning, at this point, like the Mesopotamian IM.ḪUL or evil wind? It would explain why Job can subsequently assert that God’s rûaḥ is in his face (i. e., not his intestines) and his neshamah remains in him, keeping him alive and able to speak.

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Burning hot bones Burning intestines

Trouble breathing

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Closed throat

Job does not overtly describe a cough or cold flesh. But all of the other symptoms correspond. In addition to all the gastro-intestinal troubles, Job has trouble sleeping (7:4), breathing (9:18), and in the last stages, he complains of bones burning with heat (30:30). Job’s burning bones find a striking parallel with language for fever in BAM 145. The only glaring symptoms left unexplained by a fever like ṣētu are blackened skin that sloughs off (30:30) and the neck seizing up (16:12).37 But even sore neck was associated, in other cases quoted above, with internal wind blockages like headaches and gastro-intestinal illness. In short, Job’s illness bears a striking resemblance to wind-induced illnesses from Mesopotamian medical literature.

4. Rûaḥ, Embodiment, and Disease in Job Disease in the book of Job is about more than flesh, skin, and bones. Disease does cultural work as somatic breakdown reveals features of Israelite embodiment. From this analysis, the strongest indexes of illness are porous boundaries of skin and the internal fluxes of moving air. Job’s skin breaks out, hardens, flows, changes color, and falls off. This progression charts the deterioration of Job’s health. But the skin does more than just change states. Its porous surface is repeatedly breached. The language of arrows, targets, piercing, and entering exposes Job’s body to an internal set of advancing symptoms. The agents of Job’s internal disease come from outside. This is a striking feature of Job’s embodiment in comparison with, for example, the priestly interest in porous skin. The book of Job is far more concerned with penetration than with discharge. The pores of Job’s skin become sites of invasion. Invasion occasions the advance of Job’s internal illness. But the marks of his illness are registered in various states of rûaḥ or “moving air.” Poisoned, constrained, emptied, ruined, and strange rûaḥ correspond with what appears at first to be a stomach bug and progresses to acute intestinal trouble and fever. Inasmuch as rûaḥ was a marker of disease, it also played a key role in concepts of embodiment. Much as in Mesopotamian medical discourses, rûaḥ was an agent of internal disease. But it is also responsible for the cultural work of Job’s medical theodicy and even drives a medical apocalypse in Job’s final speech.38 37  Bloody vomit might be difficult to explain in this kind of fever diagnosis. It could be that the reference to “blood on the earth” in 16:18 came from Job’s open skin wounds and not from his vomit. 38  The medical theodicy is addressed in chs. 6–7 and 9–10. It actually starts out as a justice concern about winds (not a Theos-dike but a rûaḥ-dike). When Job is assaulted by divine arrows and his rûaḥ is poisoned, he protests that his life is rûaḥ, and he concludes that his days are wind

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Even so, rûaḥ is more than a metaphor or a symbol.39 It is not a philosophical concept. Rûaḥ is an integral feature of Israelite embodiment and a key agent of Job’s disease. If skin is an external index for illness, rûaḥ became the internal one. The progressive change in rûaḥ charted the development of Job’s disease below the surface.

(hebel). He is still trying to articulate the medical bind in reference to airs and winds. By chs. 9–10, he foregrounds God in a more fully developed medical theodicy, questioning God’s role as guardian or assailant of rûaḥ. 39  My interest in emic features of embodiment distinguishes this study from the exclusively cognitive approach found in Philip D. King’s study of bitterness in Job. King analyzes conceptualizations using cognitive metaphors (conventions, entrenchments, and novel uses). For example, in Job 9:18, bitterness (mamrōrîm) fills Job when his wind (rûaḥ) is emptied from him. King argues the concept of bitterness is rooted in the somatic experience of taste. Hence, the phrase becomes a convention of language to communicate feelings of distress. King views the Job 9:18 as an achievement of cognitive metaphor. I argue the opposite: neither wind nor bitterness are metaphors. Rûaḥ is a feature of physical health, disease, and embodiment. Job’s body is emptied of rûaḥ and replaced by bitterness (mamrōrîm), which is, I argue, connected with Job’s intestinal trouble. P. D. King, Surrounded By Bitterness: Image Schemas and Metaphors for Conceptualizing Distress in Classical Hebrew (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2012), 348, 361.

Crossing the Border – Reflections on Heb 13:13 “Let us then go to him outside the camp …” Gert J. Steyn 1. Introduction The unknown author of Hebrews appeals to his readers on several occasions to change from one action, or state of opinion, to another. The self-appeal “Let us […].” – by using first person plural subjunctives – is meant to persuade the readers to leave their current position and to cross the boundaries to another position. This argumentative text is meant to move them to action, to arrive at other insights, to leave behind that which could keep them back (“let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely,” ὄγκον ἀποθέμενοι πάντα, Heb 12:1)1 and to cross the divide from one condition to the next. The intention of Heb 13:13 amongst these hortatory cases is, however, somewhat unclear.2 The author appeals to his audience: “let us then go to him outside the camp and bear the abuse he endured” (τοίνυν ἐξερχώμεθα πρὸς αὐτὸν ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς τὸν ὀνειδισμὸν αὐτοῦ φέροντες).3 How should the symbolism behind this call be understood?4 There are a number of possibilities that have been listed in

1 The

NRSV is consistently used as English translation of the Biblical texts (with minute changes) and NA28 for the Greek text of the New Testament. 2 So H. Koester: “Hebrews 13.9–14 is among the most difficult passages in the entire New Testament” (“‘Outside the Camp’ Hebrews 13.9–14,” HTR 55 (1962): 299–315, here 299). So also J. W. Thompson: “Hebrews 13:9–14 is one of the most complex passages in Hebrews” (“Outside the camp: a study of Heb 13:9–14,” CBQ 40/1 (1978): 53–63, here 53). A. J. M. Wedderburn is of the opinion that the vocabulary and to some extent even the content of the whole of Hebrews 13 “differ from those of 1–12 and may be more plausibly explained if 13 was written in the knowledge of 1–12 but by a different author and for a different situation” (“The ‘letter’ to the Hebrews and its thirteenth chapter,” NTS 50/3 (2004): 390–405). 3  Part of the text of Heb 13:13 had been confirmed on the extant text of the 4th cent. P146 126, containing Heb 13:12–13, 19–20 and published in 2009. Cf. C. Clivaz, “A New NT Papyrus: P126 (PSI 1497),” Early Christianity 1 (2010): 158–162. 4  Cf. H. W. Attridge: “The referent of the expression has been a matter of debate” (“How the Scrolls Impacted Scholarship on Hebrews,” in: The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls, Volume Three: The Scrolls and Christian Origins: The Second Princeton Symposium on Judaism and Christian Origins (J. H. Charlesworth ed.; Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006), 227–228).

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the past.5 This study will concentrate, however, only very briefly on three options based on the possible socio-historical context of the readers. a. Is it, firstly, intended to be a metaphor for rejection and suffering “outside the camp” and hence identification with the crucifixion of Christ? Does the author intend it thus to be understood in a concrete manner by which his audience should identify with Christ’s suffering?6 Scholarship generally seems to give preference to this first option and to understand it in the sense that the recipients should accept rejection by their group members – taken to be fellow Jews – and be willing to suffer rejection outside the circle of their own community. It is particularly understood in this line of thinking to be a polemic discourse. This interpretation would situate the call in a polemical context of suffering and persecution through rejection, as a deliberate choice against Judaism and Jewish food laws, to become “outsiders.” b. Or, alternatively, do we perhaps have here an allegorical and spiritualised interpretation – one in which the philosophical and wisdom undertones of Hebrews should be taken into consideration and one which is more closely aligned with Philo’s interpretation of “outside the camp”? This line of interpretation goes back to the time of Chrysostom7 and understands the statement to be an appeal to leave the material world.8 c. Or, thirdly, should we think here more along the lines of a cultic interpretation,9 closely linked to a more particular liturgical action by which the group is called during some festive celebration to move from one locality, or state, to another? Connections with the centrality of the Day of the Atonement and the sacrifices that were burned outside the city gates, as well as with the priestly services, might point in such a direction. Furthermore the fact that more than half of all the quotations in Hebrews are taken from the Psalms and that the last quotation, which is present in the context of Hebrews 13, is taken specifically from Psalm 118. This Psalm belongs to the great Hallel, i. e. the group 5 For an overview, see for instance W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13 (WBC 47B; Dallas: Word, 1998), 542–546. 6 Cf., for instance, B. C. Small: “It appears to be a similar expression to ‘taking up one’s cross’. The call is to embrace the path of suffering …” The Characterization of Jesus in the Book of He­ brews (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 307. So also H. W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989), 399. 7 Chrysostom, Hom. Heb 33: “Let us go forth therefore to Him without the camp, bearing His reproach, that is, suffering the same things; having communion with Him in His sufferings. He was crucified without as a condemned person: neither let us then be ashamed to go forth out [of the world].” 8  Cf. J. Cambier, Eschatologie ou Hellénisme dans l‘épître aux Hébreux (Louvain: Nauwelaerts, 1949), 15–18. 9 The 1956 work of Martin Dibelius sets the tone to pursue a cultic direction. Cf. M. Dibelius, “Der himmlische Kultus nach dem Hebräerbrief,” in: Botschaft und Geschichte II: Zum Urchristentum und zur hellenistischen Religionsgeschichte. Gesammelte Aufsätze von Martin Dibelius (G. Bornkamm ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1956), 160–176.

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of Pilgrimage psalms used during the Jewish festivals. This line of interpretation would situate the call in a context in which the symbolism of Christ’s sacrifice is perhaps liturgically enacted. In this contribution we will briefly explore the interpretation of the phrase “outside the camp” (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς) from the angle of each of these three possibilities and by means of inter-textual comparisons. Although it is anticipated that a clear choice for any of these options may prove impossible, it is hoped that this study will contribute to understanding the implications of “crossing the border” from one position to another.

2. Option 1: A metaphor for rejection and God’s presence “outside the camp” When exploring the OT contexts within which this phrase occurs, one might identify at least three negative and three positive connotations10 – all connected with the Exodus when Israel was on its journey through the desert. The negative connotations of “outside the camp” are largely to be found in the contexts of Numbers and Deuteronomy, but also in Leviticus. The positive connotations of the phrase are to be found mainly in Exodus and Leviticus, but also in Numbers. 2.1 Negative connotations: A space for punishment 2.1.1 A dumping place for the bodies of disobedient cultic servants Leviticus 10 reports about the sons of Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, who offered “unholy fire before the Lord, such as he had not commanded them.” When fire from the presence of the Lord struck them and they died, Moses instructed that their bodies should be carried “from the front of the sanctuary to a place outside the camp” (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς, Lev 10:4–5).11 2.1.2 Rejection outside the camp for impurity Some passages refer to occasions when religiously unclean persons were rejected by the mainstream religious community and chased outside the city. For 10 “The place ‘outside the camp’ is ambiguous. On the one hand, it is a place of uncleanness, where lepers dwell (Lev 13:45–46; Num 5:2–4), the defiled wait out their purification (Num 12:14–15; 31:19–20), and lawbreakers are executed (Num 15:32–36). On the other hand, there are ‘clean places’ outside the camp where sacrificial corpses are burned (Lev 4:12; 6:11; 16:27) and, most strikingly, where God’s presence is to be found (cf. Exod 33:1–7).” (D. A. deSilva, Perseverance in Gratitude: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on the Epistle “to the Hebrews” [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], 501–502). 11  The different volumes of the Göttingen Septuagint text editions are consistently used in this article for the LXX. Cf. Vetus Testamentum Graecum. Auctoritate Academiae Scientiarum Gottingensis editum (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

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instance, in Num 5:1–3 the Lord commanded Moses “to put out of the camp (ἐξαποστειλάτωσαν ἐκ τῆς παρεμβολῆς) everyone who is leprous, or has a discharge, and everyone who is unclean through contact with a corpse […] putting them outside the camp (ἐξαποστείλατε ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς); they must not defile their camp, where I dwell among them.” We find in Num 12:10–15 also Miriam’s sentence to “be shut out of the camp for seven days” (ἑπτὰ ἡμέρας ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς) after she was punished by becoming leprous. In Num 31:19 anyone who “has killed any person or touched a corpse” shall “Camp outside the camp seven days” (παρεμβάλετε ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς ἑπτὰ ἡμέρας). Only after some particular purification rites would such persons be allowed back “into the camp” (31:24). In Deut 23:11 anyone who becomes “unclean because of a nocturnal emission […] shall go outside the camp; he must not come within the camp” (ἐξελεύσεται ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς καὶ οὐκ εἰσελεύσεται εἰς τὴν παρεμβολήν). 2.1.3 Execution outside the camp due to violation of the Sabbath Punishment through execution also took place “outside the camp,” as becomes clear in Num 15:32–36 from the narrative about the man who gathered sticks on the Sabbath day. The Lord commanded Moses that he should be put to death and that “all the congregation shall stone him outside the camp” (ἐξήγαγον αὐτὸν πᾶσα ἡ συναγωγὴ ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς). 2.2 Positive connotations: The space of religious rituals 2.2.1 The sanctuary outside the camp Exodus 33:7–8 reports repeatedly about the “tent of testimony” – (ἐκλήθη σκηνὴ μαρτυρίου) “outside the camp”: Moses pitched it “outside the camp, far off from the camp” (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς μακρὰν ἀπὸ τῆς παρεμβολῆς); “everyone who sought the Lord would go out to the tent, which was outside the camp” (ἐξεπορεύετο εἰς τὴν σκηνὴν ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς); Moses went into the tent outside the camp (Μωυσῆς εἰς τὴν σκηνὴν ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς). Philo later refers to this passage in Leg. 2,54, saying that “Moses also pitches his tent outside of the camp (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς), a long way from the camp, (μακρὰν ἀπὸ τῆς παρεμβολῆς) and it was called the ‘tent of testimony’” (ἐκλήθη σκηνὴ μαρτυρίου).12 2.2.2 The sanctuary outside the camp as a space for God’s spirit and prophecy According to Num 11:16–30, seventy elders from Israel were chosen and brought to the tent of testimony (πρὸς τὴν σκηνὴν τοῦ μαρτυρίου, 11:16) where they received 12  The following work is used in this article for the Greek text of Philo: P. Borgen, K. Fuglseth and R. Skarsten eds., The Works of Philo: Greek Text With Morphology (Bellingham: Logos Bible Software, 2005). Throughout the article, the following work is used (with minute changes) for the English translation of Philo: C. D. Yonge transl., The Works of Philo: Complete and Unabridged (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1995).

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“some of the spirit” (ἀπὸ τοῦ πνεύματος, 11:17, 25)13 that was on Moses – “and when the spirit rested upon them, they prophesied” (11:25). In contrast to the rest, two of these elders, however, Eldad and Medad, remained in the camp; the spirit also “rested” on them (ἐπανεπαύσατο ἐπ̓ αὐτοὺς τὸ πνεῦμα), as “they had not gone out to the tent, and so they prophesied in the camp” (οὐκ ἦλθον πρὸς τὴν σκηνήν ‑καὶ ἐπροφήτευσαν ἐν τῇ παρεμβολῇ, 11:26). 2.2.3 Day of the Atonement rituals outside the camp The analogies between the role of the High Priest, the sanctuary and the sacrifices in observing the Day of the Atonement and that of Jesus as High Priest, as sacrifice and sanctuary, were pointed out by the author earlier in his document (cf. Heb 4:14–5:10; 6:19–10:39; 13:10–16). This motif serves as an indicator for the importance of Leviticus 16 where the rituals of the Day of the Atonement are described. Furthermore, the role of Lev 16 becomes key to understanding Hebrews’ description of the blood of the offered animals being taken into the sanctuary for atonement of sins (Lev 16:14–20) and the bodies of these animals being burned “outside the camp” (ἐξοίσουσιν αὐτὰ ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς, Lev 16:27). The ritual consists, on the one hand, of the slaughtering of a bull and the one of two goats on which the lot fell as sin offerings. On the other hand, the ritual entails sending the second of the two goats alive into the desert for Azazel. Both events – the burning of the bodies of the slaughtered animals and the sending out of the goat of Azazel – take place “outside the camp” (Lev 16:22–28). 2.2.4 The ritual for the purification water “outside the camp” Numbers 19:1–10 describes the ritual of the red heifer – without defect or blemish and which never carried a yoke – that needs to be slaughtered by the priest “outside the camp” (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς, Num 19:3). After some of its blood has been sprinkled in front of the altar, the complete carcass must be cremated with cedarwood, hyssop, and crimson material. “Then someone who is clean shall gather up the ashes of the heifer, and deposit them outside the camp in a clean place (ἀποθήσει ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς εἰς τόπον καθαρόν); and they shall be kept for the congregation of the Israelites for the water for cleansing. It is a purification offering” (Num 19:9). 2.3 Assessment of Option 1 Based on the evidence of the OT passages in which the phrase “outside the camp” occurs, mainline scholarship interprets Hebrews’ reference in 13:13 diversely. The majority of scholars emphasize the relation with Israel and align the interpretation of the phrase more closely with its positive connotations in the 13  See the quotation of LXX Joel 2 in Acts 2. Cf also G. J. Steyn “‘apo tou pneumatos …’ (Ac 2:17,18): What is being poured out?” Neotestamentica 33.2 (1999): 391–398.

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OT. Hebrews’ audience is urged to make an active decision to leave their community and to seek the presence of God outside their borders. The intention would then be “to sever the emotional and social ties with the Jewish community that continue to characterize the members of the house church.”14 These scholars “see Hebrews urging its addressees to maintain a separate identity from the people of Israel (and) see the ‘camp’ as a symbol for the community of the old covenant.”15 This parting from their community, due to their Christian commitment, might be the result of different theological viewpoints that were held within the community on issues such as the Sabbath rest, the roles of Jesus and Moses, Aaron and Melchizedek, as well as particularly the covenant. The intention would then be that the borders of these doctrinal issues need to be crossed by this early Christian community.16 They are thus urged to leave the enclosure of their past and “to go outside the camp” – where the “camp” is the protective enclosure of Israel and its old covenant.17 Lane, amongst others, argues thus that this possibility “would be highly relevant to Jewish Christians who could feel the pull of their Jewish heritage at a time when they were growing weary with the necessity of sustaining their commitment to Jesus in a hostile society”.18 Other scholars, in turn, emphasize the death of Christ and align the interpretation of the phrase more closely with the negative connotations in the OT19 – especially Lev 16:28 and the events on the Day of the Atonement. These scholars “focus on the parallel with Christ, crucified in shame outside the city”20 and understand this to be a metaphorical analogy to the death of Christ outside Jerusalem.21 Hebrews’ audience is urged to make a passive decision by being socially ostracised – keeping in mind the consequences involved. Similar to the rejection and suffering of Christ, they should be prepared to suffer rejection by their com14 See W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, 545, who refers to B. F. Westcott, The Epistle to the He­ brews: The Greek Text with Notes and Essays (3rd ed.; London: Macmillan, 1903), 441–442; F. Filson, “Yesterday”: A Study of Hebrews in the Light of Chapter 13 (SBT 4; Naperville: Allenson, 1967), 61–66; F. F. Bruce, The Epistle to the Hebrews (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 403; P. E. Hughes, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977), 580–82; O. Michel, Der Brief an die Hebräer (12th ed.; KEK 13; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 511. 15 H. W. Attridge, “Scrolls”, 227–228. 16  “The implied contrast is between a religious attitude centered in the sanctuary in Jerusalem and the sacrificial provisions of the old covenant and a faith that expresses itself in Christian discipleship” (W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, 545). 17  “Those who imitate the faith of their former leaders (v. 7) cannot continue to pattern their lives in terms of the assurances offered by the old framework” (W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, 545). 18 W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, 546. 19  Cf. P. R. Jones: “The developing appeal (13:11–14) is based on the burning of sacrificial bodies outside the camp (Lev. 16:27) as parallel to the death of Christ outside Jerusalem (v. 12)”. (“A Superior Life: Hebrews 12:3 –13:25,” Review and Expositor 82 [1985]: 391–405). 20  H. W. Attridge, “Scrolls,” 227–228. 21  So, for instance, J. W. Thompson: “Undoubtedly ἔξω τῆς πύλης contains an implicit reference to Jesus’ death outside the gates of Jerusalem” (“Outside the camp,” 60).

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munity and to accept this reality in imitation of Christ. Hence, according to some scholars, “the appeal to go outside and identify with Jesus (v.13) is in conscious contrast to Leviticus 16:28. Not for the Christian is the security of holy places, but rather the Christian is to be pilgrim in the uncleanness of the world where there may be suffering and reproach.”22 The contrast is thus understood between “the sacred” and “the profane,” between “the cultic” and “the secular.”23 They are considered by their “in-group” to be “unclean” and thus driven out of their circle. This viewpoint is not without criticism, and several scholars have pointed out that Hebrews’ “concern is not to advocate a separation from the sphere of the cultic so as to embrace the secularity of the world, but rather the acceptance of the reproach of Christian commitment in a hostile environment.”24 Harold Attridge has drawn attention to the reference “out of the camp” in one of the halakic texts of the Dead Sea Scrolls. From 4Q394–399 (4QMMT=Some Works of Torah or Halakhic Letter) he concludes, however, that despite this parallel,25 the scrolls do not assist in resolving the debate: “Direct dependence is unlikely, but Hebrews, in its use of the spatial metaphor for social reality, attributes the same value to the ‘outside’ as does the scroll.”26

3. Option 2: Spiritualised interpretation in Philo and the Talmud There are several places in the Corpus Philonicum where Philo deals with the expression “outside the camp.” Referring mostly to the OT account where Moses pitched the tabernacle “outside the camp” (Exod 33), Philo generally interprets it in an allegorical sense and links it to the Greek philosophical concept of the soul that is contained, or imprisoned, in the body – which allegorically implies for Philo the “extrication of the soul from the world of sense.”27 To move “outside 22  P. R. Jones, “A Superior Life: Hebrews 12:3–13:25,” 391–405. See also H. Koester, “Outside the Camp”, 300–302; L. P. Trudinger, “The Gospel Meaning of the Secular: Reflections on Hebrews 13:10–13.” EvQ 54 (1982): 235–237. 23  The opinion of H. Koester (“Outside the Camp”, 300–302) as summarized by W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, 542–546. 24 So W. L. Lane; W. G. Johnsson, “Defilement and Purgation in the Book of Hebrews.” Dissertation, Vanderbilt University, 1973, 364–365; J. Thurén, Das Lobopfer der Hebräer. Studien zum Aufbau und Anliegen von Hebräerbrief 13 (Theologie und Philosophie 51; Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 1976), 103–104. 25  “And we think that the temple [is the place of the tent of meeting, and Je]rusalem is the camp; and outside the camp is [outside Jerusalem;] it is the camp of their cities. Outside the ca[mp …] […]” (Composite text, vv.32–34). 26  H. W. Attridge, “How the Scrolls Impacted Scholarship on Hebrews,” in: The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls, Volume Three: The Scrolls and Christian Origins: The Second Princeton Symposium on Judaism and Christian Origins (J. H. Charlesworth ed.; Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006), 227–228. 27  H. W. Attridge Hebrews, 399. Cf. Leg. all. 2.54–55; 3.46; Det. pot. ins. 160; Ebr. 15, 95–100; Gig. 54; Rer. div. her. 68. Cf. also 2 Clem. 5.1.

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the camp” conveys a positive meaning for Philo and means to set the soul free from the body in order to reach a state of virtue and to pursue a peaceful and divine life. 3.1. A God-loving soul flees affections and seeks perfect doctrines of virtue (Leg. 2,54–8) Philo alludes to Ex 33 when he refers in Leg 2,54 to Moses, who pitched his tabernacle outside the camp (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς), and notes that it was called “the tabernacle of testimony” (ἐκλήθη σκηνὴ μαρτυρίου). He explains further in 2,55 that it means “the soul which loves God has put off the body and the affections which are dear to it” (ἡ φιλόθεος ψυχὴ ἐκδῦσα τὸ σῶμα καὶ τὰ τούτῳ φίλα), that it “fled a long way from them” (καὶ μακρὰν ἔξω φυγοῦσα ἀπὸ τούτων πῆξιν) and that it “chose a lasting settlement in the perfect doctrines of virtue” (ἐν τοῖς τελείοις ἀρετῆς δόγμασι λαμβάνει). According to him, the fact that the soul loves what is good is attested to by God (μαρτυρεῖται ὑπὸ θεοῦ), as Moses said that “it was called the tabernacle of testimony” (ἐκλήθη γὰρ σκηνὴ μαρτυρίου). Philo, furthermore, alludes to Leviticus 16 when he mentions in 2,56 that the high priest “will not come into the holy of holies clad in a garment reaching to the feet” (ὁ ἀρχιερεὺς εἰς τὰ ἅγια τῶν ἁγίων οὐκ εἰσελεύσεται ἐν τῷ ποδήρει), “but having put off the robe of opinion and vain fancy of the soul” (ἀλλὰ τὸν τῆς δόξης καὶ φαντασίας ψυχῆς χιτῶνα ἀποδυσάμενος), “will come forward naked, without colours or any sounds (γυμνὸς ἄνευ χρωμάτων καὶ ἤχων εἰσελεύσεται), to make an offering of the spiritual blood (σπεῖσαι τὸ ψυχικὸν αἷμα), and to sacrifice the whole mind to God the Saviour and Benefactor” (καὶ θυμιᾶσαι ὅλον τὸν νοῦν τῷ σωτῆρι καὶ εὐεργέτῃ θεῷ). Using the example of Nadab and Abihu “who came near to God, and left this mortal life and received a share of immortal life” (οἱ ἐγγίσαντες θεῷ καὶ τὸν μὲν θνητὸν βίον καταλιπόντες τοῦ δ’ ἀθανάτου μεταλαχόντες), Philo further elaborates in 2,57 on the theme of nakedness and absence of corporeality, which he explains “is free from all vain and mortal opinion” (τῆς κενῆς καὶ θνητῆς δόξης). It breaks with “every bond of passion and of corporeal necessity” (πάντα δεσμὸν πάθους καὶ σωματικῆς) and is not “adulterated by the accession of atheistical reasonings” (ἀθέων ἐπεισόδῳ λογισμῶν κιβδηλευθῇ). His conclusion in 2,58 is: “clothes belong to the irrational part of the animal, which overshadow the rational part.” 3.2 Pursuing virtues (Leg. 3,151–152) “Outside the camp” might point to the pursuit of virtues – which in the context of Hebrews, would fit the broader context of Hebrews 13. Philo argues that, due to the fact that “we are bound up in our bodies” (ἡμᾶς ἐνδεδεμένους σώματι), “the priest recommends to him who is led away by his bodily necessities to indulge in nothing beyond what is strictly necessary.” Philo then further explains:

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In the first place, says he, “Let there be a place for you outside of the camp” (τόπος ἔστω σοι ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς); meaning by the camp virtue (παρεμβολὴν καλῶν τὴν ἀρετήν), in which the soul is encamped and fortified (ἐν ᾗ ἐστρατοπέδευκεν ἡ ψυχή); for prudence and a free indulgence in the necessities of the body cannot abide in the same place (152). After that he says, “And you shall go out there” (ἐξελεύσῃ φησίν ἐκεῖ ἔξω). Why so? Because the soul, which is abiding in companionship with prudence and dwelling in the house of wisdom (ἐν τῷ οἴκῳ διατρίβουσα τῆς σοφίας), cannot indulge in any of the delights of the body, for it is at that time nourished on a diviner food in the sciences (τρέφεται γὰρ τότε θειοτέραις τροφαῖς ἐν ταῖς ἐπιστήμαις), in consequence of which it neglects the flesh, for when it has gone forth beyond the sacred thresholds of virtue (ἐξέλθῃ τῶν ἱερῶν ἀρετῆς οἴκων), then it turns to the material substances, which disarrange and oppress the soul (Leg. All. 3,151–152). 3.3 The wise man pursues a peaceful and divine life (Ebr. 97–101) In his work On Drunkenness, Philo states that life according to the body is allegorically the camp.28 He elaborates that our state of affairs constantly swings between “peace” (εἰρήνη) and “war” (πόλεμος). All the strife, battle, contention and other deeds of interminable war are located in the body (ἐν τῷ μετὰ σώματος βίῳ), “which he, speaking allegorically, calls the camp” (ὃν ἀλληγορῶν καλεῖ στρατόπεδον). Scripture says that Moses fixed his tent outside the camp (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς) and at a great distance from the camp (μακρὰν ἀπὸ τῆς παρεμβολῆς). These statements figuratively mean (αἰνίττεται), according to Philo, “that the wise man is but a sojourner (ὁ σοφὸς μέτοικος), and a person who leaves war and goes over to peace (ἀπὸ πολέμου πρὸς εἰρήνην), and who passes from the mortal and defiled camp (καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ θνητοῦ καὶ πεφυρμένου στρατοπέδου) to the undisturbed and peaceful and divine life (πρὸς τὸν ἀπόλεμον καὶ εἰρηναῖον […] βίον θεῖον) of rational and happy souls (λογικῶν καὶ εὐδαιμόνων ψυχῶν).” The “body and mortal life” – which is “cramped and confined, and like a man who is bound in prison” (ὥσπερ ἐν δεσμωτηρίῳ) – is considered to be the “city” (ἐν μὲν τῇ πόλει τοῦ σώματος καὶ τοῦ θνητοῦ βίου) which contains “the purest and most unalloyed mind” (νοῦν εἱλικρινέστατον καὶ καθαρώτατον). But as soon as it has escaped from this city (ἐξέλθῃ τὴν πόλιν ταύτην), then being released, as to its thoughts and imaginations, as prisoners are loosened as to their hands and feet (καθάπερ πόδας καὶ χεῖρας οἱ δεσμῶται), it will put forth its energies in their free, and emancipated, and unrestrained strength, so that the commands of the passions will be at once put an end to (Ebr. 101).

28 Philo

Ebr. 99.

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3.4 Focusing the mind on God (Gig. 54–55) In his work On the Giants, Philo refers to Moses’ pitching of “his tent outside of the tabernacle (ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς) and outside of all the corporeal army (τοῦ σωματικοῦ παντὸς στρατοπέδου), that is to say, having established his mind immovably (τὴν γνώμην ἱδρυσάμενος ἀκλινῆ), begins to worship God” (προσκυνεῖν τὸν θεὸν ἄρχεται). The consequences were that Moses “entered into the darkness (εἰς τὸν γνόφον), that invisible country (τὸν ἀειδῆ χῶρον), and remains there (καταμένει).” This worship consisted of “performing the most sacred mysteries” (καταμένει τελούμενος τὰς ἱερωτάτας τελετάς) so that Moses became “not merely an initiated man (μύστης), but also a hierophant of mysteries (ἱεροφάντης ὀργίων) and a teacher of divine things (διδάσκαλος θείων), which he will explain to those whose ears are purified.” “Therefore the divine spirit is always standing by him (τὸ θεῖον ἀεὶ παρίσταται πνεῦμα), conducting him in every right way (πάσης ὀρθῆς ἀφηγούμενον ὁδοῦ).”29 3.5 The Palestinian Talmud McNamara points to the interesting paraphrase of Exod 33:7 in the Palestinian Talmud: “v.6 […] the tent he took from there and spread it outside the camp … and he called it the tent of the house of consultation. And everyone that used to return in repentance in a perfect heart used to go out to the tent of the house of consultation that was outside the camp confessing his guilt and praying on account of his guilt, and praying he was forgiven (Targum Pseudo-Jonathan [Lon­ don MS f. 95 ab]).” He interprets it as follows: “The camp is taken as the home of wickedness. Those who forsook evil and turned in repentance to God left the camp and went out to the Lord in the tent of Meeting.”30 McNamara reckons that “this same paraphrase of TJI may have prepared the symbolism of Heb 13:13.” He states that: “In this text the Author tells his Jewish readers of weak faith to ‘go forth to Jesus outside the camp,’ the camp symbolizing the practices of Judaism which they are invited to forsake once for all.”31 3.6 Assessment of Option 2 Philo’s Hellenistic Jewish perspective on the phrase “outside the camp” is an allegorical and spiritualized interpretation typical of his merging of Greek (neo-Platonic) philosophy and Jewish religion. Whereas the unknown author of Hebrews simply refers to the phrase and assumes that his audience understands its implied meaning, Philo explicitly provides his readers with his own interpretation, in Gig. 54–55.  M. McNamara, The New Testament and the Palestinian Targum to the Pentateuch (Analecta Biblica 27; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1966), 179–181. 31 M. McNamara, Palestinian Targum, 179–181. 29 Philo 30

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which he consistently explains the phrase allegorically. “Outside the camp,” in Philo’s understanding, implies transcending the body, to flee from affections and to pursue the perfect doctrines of virtue – “meaning by the camp virtue, in which the soul is encamped and fortified” (Leg. All. 3,151) and that life according to the body is allegorically the camp (Ebr. 99). It implies focusing the mind on God by pursuing a peaceful and divine life. There are two important interlocking aspects in this understanding of Philo. Firstly, his readers are motivated to actively set their minds on God and to pursue a virtuous life. They should cross the borders of their bodily affections and flee from them. Secondly, this interpretation of Philo mobilizes his readers to cross the border from one space of existence to another, from the earthly32 to the divine. Cultic tradition is now reinterpreted spiritually through the “offering of the blood of the soul” and “to sacrifice the whole mind to God the Saviour and Benefactor” (Leg. 2,56). The “wise man” for Philo is a “sojourner”, someone who crosses the border, i. e. “who leaves war and goes over to peace”, “who passes from the mortal and defiled camp to the undisturbed and peaceful and divine life of rational and happy souls” (Ebr. 97–101).

4. Option 3: Entering the heavenly sphere: A symbolic liturgical rite? There is yet another dimension to Heb 13:13 that might be deduced from the immediate literary context. It is the positive connotation of the death of Christ, which is linked, firstly, to the explanatory γάρ-sentence of the next verse (13:14): “For here we have no lasting city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.” Secondly, it is linked to the sacrifices outside the camp, which consist now of praising the name of Jesus (v.15). This implies then for some scholars that “outside the gate” or “outside the camp” refers not merely to the physical historical event of Jesus’ crucifixion, but “it refers to the sacrifice of Christ in the heavenly sanctuary.”33 Thompson argues, for instance, that “‘outside the camp’ connotes outside the earthly sphere, since the writer regards Christ’s offering as made in the heavenly sanctuary. Jesus has opened the way into the heavenly world (10:19–23), and it is the task of the church to follow him, adopting the lifestyle of the pilgrim people of God.”34 Latching on to this viewpoint, our second possibility links the call “let us go outside the camp” to some possible symbolic liturgical rite. It might be hypothetical, but it is certainly worth exploring in light of the cultic backdrop of Hebrews. Some clues that point in this direction 32 Similarly

J. W. Thompson, “Outside the gate,” 61.  J. W. Thompson, “Outside the gate,” 60. 34  J. W. Thompson’s view (“Outside the camp”, 53–63) as summarised in the words of W. L. Lane (Hebrews 9–13, 546). 33

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include aspects such as the high frequency of quotations from the Psalms, Odes and other hymnic sections,35 and the use of Psalm 95 during the Festival of Tabernacles (Sukkoth), Genesis 22 during the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur) and Haggai 2:6 probably during the Festival of Tabernacles (Sukkoth). Other indications are cultic imagery, references to priesthood, sacrifices, and sanctuary, and allusions to the Day of the Atonement. The book, furthermore, ends with a quotation from Ps 118 from the Hallel – a key passage cited during the great Jewish festivals. To all this might be added the climax in Hebrews 12 with the “arrival” of the recipients at “Mount Zion and the heavenly Jerusalem,” as well as the possible influence of the Eucharistic formula (Hebrews 8 and 10) and the reference to the baptism of the recipients (Heb 10:22). In previous contributions by the current author on Psalm 118 in Hebrews,36 as well as on the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifices (Angel Liturgy) and the eschatology of Hebrews,37 the liturgical background of Hebrews has already been emphasized. We will now briefly repeat some of those insights here in the light of Hebrews’ statement “let us go outside the camp.” 4.1 Psalm 118 and its liturgical connections with the Jewish Festivals38 Psalms 113–118, the “Egyptian Hallel,” belong to the group of so-called Hallelujah Psalms, i. e., those specifically assigned for festivals and pilgrimages.39 These were traditionally associated with the Passover and was initially sung at the Feast of the Lights (Hannukah). Psalm 118, the conclusion of the Egyptian Hallel group of Psalms, represents a “Dankfestliturgie”40 whose liturgical use was later extended to the three great festivals of Passover, Pentecost and the Feast of the Tents41 – all feasts of pilgrimage (Deut 16:16–17).42 The same Psalm, 35  S. J. Kistemaker refers to the situation in Ephesians and Colossians, noting that they “had become familiar with the Psalms in the local worship services in which the congregation sang ‘psalms, hymns and spiritual songs’ (Eph 5:19; Col 3:16).” S. J. Kistemaker, Hebrews (New Testament Commentary Series; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1984), 35. 36  G. J. Steyn, “The occurrence of Ps 118(117):6 in Hebrews 13:6. Possible liturgical origins?” Neot 40.1 (2006): 119–134. 37 G. J. Steyn, “The Eschatology of Hebrews as understood within a cultic setting,” in: Eschatology in the New Testament (J. Frey & J. G. van der Watt eds.; WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 429–450. 38 Parts of my work on Ps 118:6 in Heb 13:6 are quoted, summarised or reworked here. See G. J. Steyn, “Occurrence of Ps 118,” 119–134. 39  J. K. West, Introduction to the Old Testament (2nd ed.; New York: Macmillan, 1981), 440. 40 H.-J. Kraus, Psalmen: 2. Teilband. Psalmen 60–150 (BKAT XV; Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 1978), 978. 41  D. K. Falk, Daily Sabbath, and Festival Prayers in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 198–199; R. De Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1980), 512. 42  S. E. Porter and C. A. Evans eds., Dictionary of New Testament Background. A Compen­ dium of Contemporary Biblical Scholarship (electronic ed; Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2000).

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however, also belonged to the opening of the Great Hallel, which consisted of Psalms 118–136, and it was “recited on the first evening at the Passover supper and on occasions of great joy.”43 According to the Mishnah, Psalms 115–118 were sung after drinking the fourth and last cup during the Feast of the Passover, the hallel cup.44 It is therefore significant that Psalm 118 is quoted in Heb 13:6 when the next section (Heb 13:7–19) deals with the sacrifice of Christ and seems to allude to the sacrament of the Eucharist. Some scholars have been thus of the opinion that this saying might have been “used by Christians as a slogan to refer to the experience of the Eucharist” by referring to 13:9.45 Particularly verses 9–10 argue against a “‘sakramentalistische[n]’ Auffassung des Herrenmahls als eines Opfermahls [a sacramental’ view of the Lord’s supper as a sacrifice].”46 The connection here lies in the fact that the Eucharist had its roots in the Jewish festival of the Passover. Particularly in post-apostolic times some celebrated the Eucharist more in the sense of a “sacrifice” than as a “love feast”47 so that it could serve as a counter position against the sacrificial nature of the OT Jewish cultic practices such as the Passover. The Passover was made a pilgrimage feast as the feast of the Unleavened Bread already during the reform of Josiah recorded in Deuteronomy. The obvious move was then to combine the two feasts.48 Passover was fixed during NT times on the 14th of Nisan and the feast of the Unleavened Bread the following seven days, 15–21 Nisan. The traditions of the Pentateuch connected the Feasts of the Unleavened Bread and the Passover with the Exodus from Egypt49 so that these two feasts, which were simply known as the Passover, became a festival of redemption.50 There is also sufficient evidence from early Judaism and early Christianity that Psalm 118 played a key role in the liturgies of the Jewish festivals as a Hallel Psalm. Particularly its links with the Jewish Sabbatical Year, the Passover and the Feast of Tents are clear. The prominence given to Psalm 118 by early Christian writers, as well as the presence and the liturgical rootedness of the term βοηθός  M. G. Easton, Easton‘s Bible Dictionary (Oak Harbor: Logos Research Systems, 1996). Hebrews 9–13, 520; A. B. Du Toit ed., The New Testament Milieu (GNT II; Halfway House: Orion, 1998), 468; E. Ferguson, Backgrounds of Early Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 523; E. Lohse, Grundrisse zum Neuen Testament (NTD; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980), 114. 45 K. J. Thomas, “The Old Testament Citations in Hebrews,” NTS 11 (1964): 303–325, here 319. 46  E. Grässer, An die Hebräer (Hebr 10,19–13,25) (EKK XVII/3; Zürich: Benzinger, 1997), 379. 47  E. Grässer, Hebräer, 379. 48  E. Ferguson, Backgrounds, 523. 49 D. A. DeSilva, An Introduction to the New Testament (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2004), 78; A. B. Du Toit ed., The New Testament Milieu, 467; E. Lohse, Grundrisse, 113; R. De Vaux, Ancient Israel, 492. 50 E. Ferguson, Backgrounds, 523. 43

44 W. L. Lane,

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(helper, Ps 118:6) in the early church, are clear indications that this Psalm also played a key role in early Christianity. The author of Hebrews builds on this tradition. He creates a close link between the quotations from Deut 31:6 and Ps 118:6 in Heb 13:5–6. Structurally both quotations are presented in a single sentence with a single introductory formula. The occurrence of ἐγκαταλείπω (Heb 13:5, Deut 31:6) strengthens this link.51 Behind this structural connection, however, lies a deeply rooted Jewish festival tradition that combines the two quotations. The Sabbatical Year and Feast of Tents, to which Deuteronomy 31 testifies, provide a liturgical link for the author with Psalm 118, which was sung at these occasions as well as during the Passover. The dialogical nature of the two quotations, God said (through the words of Deut 31:6 in Heb 13:5), and we say (through the words of Ps 118:6 in Heb 13:6)52 has a liturgical tone. Kistemaker is therefore probably right in pointing to a possible pars dei (Deut 31:6 in Heb 13:5) and a pars populi (Ps 118:6 in Heb 13:6).53 Add to this the preceding context concerning the love for money (Heb 13:5) in the light of a Sabbatical Year motif in Deuteronomy 31, on the one hand, as well as the possible motif of the Eucharist (especially Heb 13:10–12) in the light of the Passover festival, on the other hand, and the author’s and his readers’ familiarity with these texts from a liturgical tradition becomes clear. 4.2 Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice and the Apocalypse of Abraham as liturgical examples54 There seem to be interesting similarities between the cultic and Jewish apocalyptic imagery that occur in both Hebrews and the Shirot ‘olat ha-Shabbat (4Q400– 407; 11Q17; Mas1k) – better known as the “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice”55 or 51  P. Ellingworth, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 701. 52 Cf. H. W. Attridge, “The second quotation is introduced as a response that the Christian community, ‘we’ (ἡμᾶς), make as a result … of God’s promise in the Torah,” (Epistle to the Hebrews, 389). Similarly H.-F. Weiss, Der Brief an die Hebräer (KEK 13; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 706. 53 S. Kistemaker, The Psalm Citations in the Epistle to the Hebrews (Amsterdam: Van Soest, 1961), 56. 54  Parts of my work on the eschatology of Hebrews are quoted, summarised or reworked here. Cf. G. J. Steyn, “Eschatology,” 429–450. 55  Similarities between the ideas of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice and Hebrews have been noticed by scholars before. Cf., for instance, C. R. A. Morray-Jones, who states that these themes were “taken up and developed in combination by the Christian writers, who regarded their Savior-Messiah as ‘a great high priest who has gone through the heavens’ (Heb 4:14)” (“The Temple Within,” in: Paradise Now: Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism [A. D. DeConick ed.; Leiden: Brill, 2007],145–178, here 178); T. Haraguchi, “Hebrews 1–2 in the Light of Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice (4QShirShabb; 11QShirShabb; MasShirShabb),” Theological Forum 46 (2006): 81–98; G. Gäbel, Die Kulttheologie des Hebräerbriefes (WUNT 212; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 60–69.

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the “Angel Liturgy”. Löhr has already pointed in this direction with a comparison between Hebrews and the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifices.56 These Songs were used liturgically for the first 13 Sabbaths (a quarter) of the year. A brief summary of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice (4Q400–406)57 is in order for the purpose of providing a socio-historical liturgical comparison. Philip Alexander’s exposition58 will form the basis of this description: – Song 1: God’s appointment of an angelic priesthood in heaven – Song 2: The Torah, theophany, and the heavenly and earthly communities – Song 3: The number 7; Melchizedek – Song 4: ‘Stillness’ as sound of praise of the Cherubim – Song 5: Divine predestination and God’s transcendence – Song 6: Bridging heaven and earth – Song 7: The heavenly temple – Song 8: The high priest – Song 9: Description of the architecture and decoration of the heavenly temple – Song 10: The inner sanctum behind the curtain – Song 11: Images of heaven – Song 12: God’s judgement and wrath as supreme King in heaven – Song 13: Four themes – offerings, high priests, atonement and sanctuary In the light of the above-mentioned list of themes, it is clear that there are several points of similarity between this mystical-liturgical text and the book of Hebrews. The themes of the city of God, the royal King, seven hymns, cultic imagery with a sanctuary and priesthood in heaven, the mediating and judicial roles of the angels (Angel Liturgy) and of the Son (Hebrews), Melchizedek and the high priesthood, the Sabbath rest, perfection and ascension through the heavens are spatial images portraying an apocalyptic view. This view, which is situated within a liturgical setting, provides an entry into the eschatological dimensions implied and referred to in Hebrews. The Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifices provide us with a useful ancient contemporary text with which we can compare the cultic backdrop of Hebrews. Spatial concepts and imagery used there are very similar to those in Hebrews. It confirms a cultic setting, which in turn suggests the possible existence of a group who might have had a history of closer ties with mystical rituals. Performance of such rites, whether it is rooted within the Jewish festival 56  H. Löhr, “Thronversammlung und preisender Tempel. Beobachtungen am himmlischen Heiligtum im Hebräerbrief und in den Sabbatsopferliedern aus Qumran,” in: Königsherrschaft Gottes und himmlischer Kult im Judentum, Urchristentum und in der hellenistischen Welt (M. Hengel and A. M. Schwemer eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 185–205, here 204–205. 57  For the text and translation, see F. García Martínez & E. J. C. Tigchelaar eds., The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, Volume 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 807–837. 58  I rely heavily on the work of Philip Alexander for the discussion of the 13 Songs that follows here, presenting it as a summary of his exposition: cf. P. Alexander, The Mystical Texts. Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice and Related Manuscripts (London: T & T Clark, 2006), 15–44.

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tradition or within Jewish mysticism,59 or both, provides us with a hermeneutical key to understand the temporal-spatial nature of Hebrews’ eschatology. There are several other similar apocalyptic documents from extra-biblical pseudepigraphal and Dead Sea Scroll circles that “develop the concept of the heavenly Temple and associate it with the notion of the heavenly priesthood.”60 For instance, the Slavonic Apocalypse of Abraham,61 a midrash on Gen 15 probably post-dating the NT, also shares some interesting similarities with the Sabbath Sacrifices and with Hebrews. Here too, one encounters the dualism of an earthly and heavenly sanctuary with priestly mediated rituals during which celebrants are transformed and introduced to the mysteries of the throne room. Although the patriarch Abraham is the main character, his connection with Melchizedek, a heavenly priesthood and celestial temple, celestial songs and possible festival connections all form a set of strikingly familiar motifs present in the Sabbath Sacrifices and Hebrews. Constantly fluctuating between “above” and “below”, Hebrews depicts a change from the priesthood below to the priesthood of Christ above62. The earthly tabernacle below is seen as a mere sketch and a shadow that was made according to the pattern63 of the heavenly temple64 above; the inner sanctuary 59 P. Borgen’s observation is important in this regard: “Philo’s own emphasis on heavenly ascent and the complementary roles of ruler (Moses) and law-abiding person suggests that he draws on traditions from early Jewish mysticism. Furthermore, Philo and mystical Judaism share the idea of a heavenly being or angel, Israel, understood by means of a pseudo-etymology to mean ‘the one who sees God.’” (P. Borgen, “Philo of Alexandria,” in: The Anchor Bible Diction­ ary, Vol 5 [D. N. Freedman ed.; New York: Doubleday, 1996], 333–342, here 341). The study of the connection between the conceptual background of Hebrews and that of Jewish Merkabah mysticism could be traced back to Schenke and to Williamson. Cf. H.-M. Schenke, “Erwägung zum Rätsel des Hebräerbriefes” in: Neues Testament und Christliche Existenz. Festschrift für Herbert Braun (H. D. Betz and L. Schottroff eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1973), 421–437, here 433–434; R. Williamson, “The Background to the Epistle to the Hebrews”, ExpTim 87 (1975–76), 232–237. So observed by W. L. Lane, Hebrews I, cviii–cix, and G. H. Guthrie, “Hebrews within its First Century Contexts,” in: The Face of New Testament Studies: A Survey of Recent Research (S. McKnight and G. R. Osborne eds.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2004), 414–443, here 425. 60  These include The Book of the Watchers, Jubilees, Aramaic Levi Document, 4QInstruction, 4QVisions of Amran, 11QMelchizedek (A. A. Orlov, Heavenly Priesthood in the Apoca­ lypse of Abraham [Cambridge: University Press, 2013], 4). 61  See the recent work of A. A. Orlov, Heavenly Priesthood. 62  See G. Gäbel, Kulttheologie, 131–466. 63 This image should not only be restricted to Plato’s idea of the σκία. Cf. for instance, C. R. A. Morray-Jones: “According to the Hebrew Bible, the earthly temple is the embodiment of a celestial archetype: the heavenly palace and throne room of the Lord.” “The Temple Within,” 177. 64  See G. Gäbel, Kulttheologie, 25–128, on “‘Der wahre Tempel’. Frühjüdische Diskurse über irdischen und himmlischen, gegenwärtigen und eschatologischen Tempel und Kult.” A. D. DeConick explains the perception of the heavenly temple as follows: “The celestial realm is understood to be a heavenly version of the Jerusalem temple. The various heavens are the hekaloth, shrine rooms or sanctuaries within the temple” (Paradise Now: Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism, 14).

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(“Holy of Holies”) with all its cultic objects and the priests’ ritual duties below is compared with the heavenly sanctuary above; the cultic rites of sacrifices and blood that were performed by the priests as mediators below are compared with the body and blood of Christ as the Mediator above.65 It is at this point that the author states that “the Holy Spirit had at that time not yet disclosed the way into the sanctuary;” hence the “first tent is a symbol of the present time” (Heb 9:8–9). When Christ came, he entered through the greater and perfect tent (τῆς μείζονος καὶ τελειοτέρας σκηνῆς, Heb 9:11), once and for all into the Holy Place (Heb 9:12). Christ is thus presented as that “new and living way” (Heb 10:20) through whom access to the heavenly sanctuary above becomes possible, Christ who mediated a new covenant to the believers below and who now “appears in the presence of God on our behalf” above. “He has appeared once for all at the end of the age to remove sin by the sacrifice of himself.” Mortals below will die once and there will be judgement.66 Christ offered to bear the sins of many and will appear a second time “to save those who are eagerly waiting for him” below (Heb 9:24–28). Note the chiastic manner in which the topics referred to above in underlined print, are discussed here in Hebrews 6–9: priesthood tabernacle sanctuary sacrifices and blood sanctuary tent (appear to save)

The spatial development here is striking. By means of contrasts between below and above, there is progression from the priesthood through concentric circles of the tabernacle, into the sanctuary towards the sacrificial centre, then from the centre out of the sanctuary, back through the tabernacle (tent), to the moment where the priest (Christ) appears with the soteriological rite. The liturgical process of the one is a mirror image of the other. The cultus below is seen as “the law that has only a shadow of the good things to come and not the true form of these realities” (10:1). 4.3 Assessment of Option 3 In the light of the above – and especially the sequence of liturgical events in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice – one cannot help but ponder the possibility of 65  Although somewhat controversial, the similarities between Hebrews and Philo at these points are striking. A. Lieber, for instance, drew attention to these similarities (“Jewish and Christian Heavenly Meal Traditions,” in: A. D. DeConick ed., Paradise Now, 313–339, here 324–326). 66 E. Grässer points out that the eschatological judgement function of the Son remains an undeveloped aspect and although the parousia is a traditional topos (9:28; 10:25, 37), it is not a current theme. “Man erwartet das Ende, aber nicht in akuter Naherwartung” (An die Hebräer: 1. Teilband: Hebr 1–6, [EKKNT 17/1; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1990], 94).

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Hebrews’ community being familiar with a similar liturgy. Does one have in Hebrews perhaps an implied early Christian reaction against a group that was involved in some sort of “Angel Liturgy,” or “Heavenly Passover Ritual”?67 The sequence and progression of Sabbath Songs resemble the sequence and progression present in the document to the Hebrews. The movement in Hebrews 6–9 through the topics of the priesthood, tabernacle and sanctuary to the sacrifices and blood – and again through these elements in the reverse order – as well as reaching a climax in Heb 12:24 with their envisioned presence in heaven, might point to common knowledge by the Hebrews community of a liturgy similar to that of the Sabbath Songs. They find themselves to have come “[…] to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God the judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel (Heb 12:22–24).” This enhances the pilgrimage character of this group, so that the call to go “outside the camp” might imply “a call to leave earthly assurances and to pursue the heavenly world where Jesus completed his redemptive action at the heavenly altar.” “To ‘go out’ from earthly security is simultaneously ‘to enter’ the heavenly world.”68 This viewpoint does not necessarily exclude “the horizontal eschatological perspective of present and future that is intrinsic to vv 13–14”69 – as I indicated in my own work on the eschatology of Hebrews.70 If this cultic-liturgical option was intended by the author of Hebrews with his statement “let us go outside the camp” in 13:13, then it would imply that Hebrews’ audience ought to cross the border of the earthly realm to that of the heavenly realm. It would imply sharing in the sacrifice of Christ in the heavenly sanctuary, perhaps through the symbolism of a liturgical event. Symbolic cultic and liturgical actions would then become the “spiritual gate” through which the border of earthly trials are crossed and through which access is gained to the throne of Christ’s exaltation.

67  See G. J. Steyn, “Addressing an Angelomorphic Christological Myth in Hebrews?” HTS Teologiese Studies / ​Theological Studies 59 No. 4 (2003): 1107–1128; G. J. Steyn, “Eschatology,” 448. 68  J. W. Thompson’s view (“Outside the camp”, 53–63) as summarized in the words of W. L. Lane (Hebrews 9–13, 546). 69  Cf. W. L. Lane’s critique of Thompson’s work: W. L. Lane, Hebrews 9–13, 546. The latter also refers to C. K. Barrett, “The Eschatology of the Epistle to the Hebrews,” in: The Back­ ground of the New Testament and Its Eschatology (W. D. Davies and D. Daube eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1954), 376, 381; W. G. Johnson, “The Pilgrimage Motif in the Book of Hebrews.” JBL 97 (1978): 239–251, here 247–248; O. Michel, Hebräer, 504–506. 70 G. J. Steyn, “Eschatology”, 429–450.

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5. Conclusion Hebrews’ use of the phrase “let us then go to him outside the camp and bear the abuse he endured” and the author’s intended meaning with it remain a difficult and disputed issue. Three options were briefly explored, without intending to say that these are the only ones. a. In the Septuagint, “outside the camp” is largely used in a negative sense, referring to the exclusion from the presence of God to a deserted place of those who are impure and disobedient.71 But it is also used in a positive sense in the LXX when the contrast to this custom is portrayed. In such instances the impression is created that the Israelite camp itself is impure, resulting in Moses and Joshua leaving the camp and pitching the tabernacle outside the camp,72 where they are described as at the tabernacle, the sacred sanctuary, outside the camp.73 It is used, furthermore, in a positive sense during the Day of the Atonement when the goat of Azazel is sent outside the camp, symbolically carrying the sins of the people away from their camp and when the bodies of the sacrificial animals are burnt outside the camp.74 The use of this expression by the unknown author of Hebrews is usually understood in the sense of the latter – especially against the explicit cultic backdrop of the Day of the Atonement, which the author links symbolically to Christ’s perfect sacrifice. Should the author’s LXX background be used as the filter to understand his intention with the hortatory “let us go outside the camp,” then the author may be calling on his readers to cross the border from their own (Jewish?) context to that of rejection or desertion in order to seek the presence of God. It might then be a metaphor for rejection and suffering and hence a call to cross the border of the safety of their familiar space in order to venture into a sphere of rejection, persecution and suffering by following the example of Christ. This implies the crossing of a socio-religious border. b. According to Philo of Alexandria, “outside the camp” clearly – and typically – is interpreted in an allegorical manner. He relates it consistently to the positive sense of the expression in the LXX, particularly to that of Ex 33 when Moses and Joshua pitched the tabernacle outside the camp. He understands this primarily in the sense of crossing over to virtue. Referring to the statement “Let there be a place for you outside of the camp”, Philo states: “meaning by the camp virtue, in which the soul is encamped and fortified.”75 Furthermore, “the soul who loves God, having put off the body and the affections which are dear to it,” finds “a lasting settlement in the perfect doctrines of virtue.” In his interpreta71

 Cf., for example, Num 5:1–4; 12:10–16; 15:32–36; 31:24; Deut 2:14–15; 23:10–11. Exod 33:7–11. 73  Cf. Num 11:16–30. 74  Cf. Lev 16:22–28. 75 Cf. Philo Leg. 3,151. 72 Cf.

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tion, the High Priest “puts off the robe of opinion and vain fancy of the soul” and “makes an offering of the blood of the soul, sacrificing the whole mind to God the Saviour and Benefactor.”76 Hebrews’ use of the expression might make good sense against the backdrop of Philo’s interpretation, especially with Hebrews 13 being embedded in a context of virtue. The author of Hebrews might thus call his readers, in the words of Philo, “figuratively,” to do as “the wise man” who “passes from the mortal and defiled camp to the undisturbed and peaceful and divine life of rational and happy souls.”77 Also Bauer-Arndt-Gingrich interpreted the expression ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς in the same manner.78 Against this backdrop, the intention of Hebrews might have been to persuade readers to turn their backs on a syncretistic and compromised lifestyle, to cross the border and to embrace a Christian lifestyle, that of the Vita Christiana (cf. Heb 10:19–25).79 This implies the crossing of a spiritual border. c. A third possibility was explored, namely that Hebrews reflects a symbolic rite in the liturgy of such a religious community. Analogies with the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, as well as possible connections with the Jewish Festival traditions and relatedness to Jewish mysticism  – in addition to the cultic character of the book Hebrews  – all these might point in the direction of a religious group who might have practiced a mystical liturgy. The similarity in motifs and the progressive elements present in both the Sabbath Sacrifices and Hebrews are striking. Hebrews certainly spiritualizes the Jewish cultic symbols and practices. Should this be the case, then Hebrews intends to persuade its readers to leave this earthly sphere and to cross the border to the heavenly realm, enabled through the symbolism of liturgical rites to follow the example of Christ’s sacrifice. This implies the crossing of a symbolic border, a “spiritual gate” through which the readers should pass in order to get access to a transcendent existence. This is then the crossing of a third border in the history of salvation by this early Christian group. These border crossings are clear from a comparison between verses 11–16:

Philo Leg. 2,54–58.  Philo Ebr. 100. 78  “In this passive the words ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς seem to refer to separation from worldly things in general (cf. Philo Gig. 54 Μωϋσῆς ἔξω τῆς παρεμβολῆς καὶ τοῦ σωματικοῦ παντὸς στρατοπέδου πήξας τὴν ἑαυτοῦ σκηνήν); but cf. G. A. Barton, JBL 57 (1938): 204 f., Koester, “‘Outside the Camp’ Hebrews 13.9–14,” 299–315. Of Jerusalem Hb 13:12 v.l. (for πύλης), W. Arndt et al., A GreekEnglish Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature: (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 625. 79  See G. J. Steyn, “Die Vita Christiana volgens Hebreërs 10:19–25. Eksegetiese kantaantekeninge.” Nederduitse Gereformeerde Teologiese Tydskrif 48 (2007): 612–620. 76 Cf. 77

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The animals (v. 11)

Jesus (v. 12)

The author and audience of Hebrews (vv. 13–16)

blood of the animals brought into the sanctuary by the high priest as a sacrifice for sin

By his own blood To sanctify the people

Let us continually Offer a sacrifice of praise (the fruit of lips that confess his name)

Bodies of the animals Are burned Outside the camp

Jesus Suffered Outside the city gate

Let us go to him Bear the abuse he endured Outside the camp

The first border that was crossed relates to the ancestral sacrificial cultic rites of an old covenant (Heb 13:11). The second border that was crossed relates to Christ who mediated a new covenant and who became the “new and living way” (Heb 10:20) through whom access into the heavenly sanctuary became possible (Heb 10:12). The third border that needs to be crossed relates to the current situation of the readers. The author appeals to them to present a sacrifice of praising his name80 and to bear the abuse he endured. Attridge has drawn attention to the fact that the “exhortation to ‘go out’ (ἐξερχώμεθα) recalls other appeals to movement in Hebrews. Yet the imagery has shifted.” He continues: “Where previous appeals had called for entry (4:11) in imitation of Christ who entered the true sanctuary, or for approach to the High Priest enthroned at God’s right hand, the present appeal is for movement in the opposite direction. Yet the goal of the movement is the same, ‘to him’ (πρός αὐτόν).”81 Reference was made to the literal cultic practice of the sacrifices “outside the camp” on the Day of the Atonement. It is symbolically interpreted in connection with Christ’s death “outside the city gate.” The call to go to him “outside the camp and endure the abuse he endured” calls for the crossing of borders. It is a call to leave the “city” (the space of social security) and to “endure the abuse” (the space of social abuse) as they are “looking for the city that is to come” – the city of God, the heavenly Jerusalem (πόλει θεοῦ ζῶντος,  Ἰερουσαλὴμ ἐπουρανίῳ, Heb 12:22).

80  D. E. Aune states: “The substitution or equation of prayer with sacrifice is a very ancient one and emphasized in Judaism since the cessation of animal sacrifices accompanying the destruction of the last two Jewish temples, the main one in Jerusalem in A. D. 70 and the schismatic temple of Onias in Leontopolis, Egypt, in A. D. 73.” (Revelation 6–16 [WBC 52B; Dallas: Word, 1998], 546). 81 Attridge, Hebrews, 398.

Important and Delicate – Borders According to Paul* Michael Bachmann 1. Introduction Borders are often thought of or described as boundary lines. But what is really at stake with such a boundary line? And, does one need such a thing at all? The first of these two questions cannot be easily answered. The boundary line that up until November 1989 divided the metropolis Berlin, that is, the “Berlin Wall” was – at least since August 1961 – clearly visible. Not only did it have a substantial length of more than 100 kilometers, but in addition it was more than three meters high, and since it was built of concrete and stone it had a certain breadth, all the more if one takes into account the facilities associated with it (that is, it included a strip of land “of approximately 30 to 500 meters”1). Thus this boundary line was three-dimensional, at least where it did not pass through water. In this regard one could perceive it as something physical. By contrast, in mathematical contexts a line is defined as a one-dimensional geometric object – as a series of points densely strung together. And thus it is something actually not perceptible optically, although, for example, in the case of a circular line one often attempts to visualize it with compasses. Incidentally, some comedy makes a play on the fact that likewise differences, boundaries between social groups, do not readily catch the eye. Carl Zuckmayer’s “Deutsches Märchen (German Fairy Tail),” known as “Der Hauptmann von Köpenick (The Captain of Köpenick)” (1930) comes to mind. Schoolbook geometry employs compasses and rulers to make visualizations of lines, so that something abstract can be better understood. However, no such tools help to answer the question whether one also can perceive or visualize quite different boundary lines, borders. Once in a conversation with table companions interested in politics, people who rated themselves fairly progressive, it quickly became clear to me how ambivalent things are with this second question. On the one hand, the hosts emphasized the contribution that they made to overcoming * Many thanks of the author to Robert L. Brawley, colleague and friend, for translating the essay, originally a German paper. 1  “Berliner Mauer,” Wikipedia, accessed on Oct. 3, 2014.

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the ecological crisis, for instance by producing from their solar panels more than 150 percent of the electricity that they themselves used, and this set them apart from many others. This distinction, this border, was considered important in the conversation. Almost in the same breath in the conversation – and this also from the same persons – the complaint was made that drawing boundaries, demarcations, exclusions induces social and political problems. Thus indeed, for example, rich and poor, Christians and non-Christians, Sunnis and Shiites, educated and uneducated supposedly stood over against each other. Such distinctions were understood indeed as the cause of many crises and conflicts in the present. Thereby, the accentuation of such differences appeared as delicate. When boundaries run between different groups of people  – and these differentiating boundaries of course designate strongly distinct divisions  – then such lines that can be described as sociological hardly mean that an individual is unaffected by them. A single person does indeed belong to particular groups. A woman or man of course may ask her‑ or himself whether the place occupied by her or him on the one side or on the other of a border is the better or the more correct one. Obviously such considerations arise also where what is at stake is something like “identity,” because here one has to do for a start “with – – – –

an individual dimension, supra-individual, social aspects, a mental concept that is not uncommonly innovative, and a habitus that is joined to it.”2

Boundaries both visible and hidden, important and delicate, have an influence on each individual and, in addition, on social entities made up of many people. This holds of course also for early Christianity. Some Pauline statements make reference to this.

2. Pauline Statements 2.1. Correlated with Groups 2.1.1. Important Borders Without question according to Paul important markers are correlated with God’s action. In a certain respect this holds for what is created  – the creation as a whole – and especially for humanity. At any rate in Gal 6:14–15 the new creation (καινὴ κτίσις) is strictly set apart from the κόσμος. The “kingdom of God” mentioned in Gal 5:21 (cf. 1 Cor 15:24, 50; 1 Thess 2:12) – precisely of God! – cannot be in agreement (cf. esp. Rom 8:5–8; 1 Cor 15:50) with the realm of σάρξ 2  M. Bachmann, “Identität bei Paulus: Beobachtungen am Galaterbrief,” NTS 58 (2012): 571–592, 572.

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and τὰ ἔργα τῆς σαρκός, as the prior context expresses (Gal 5:16–17, 19[–21]). In this sense καινὴ κτίσις means, as expressed in 2 Cor 5:17, the passing away of the old (τὰ ἀρχαῖα) and the coming into being of the new (καινά). The boundary characterized by this is important, but of course not impervious, and this is precisely what the relevant meaning of this line of separation amounts to. This is to say that God’s act in Christ remarkably opens, as it seems, the possibility to reach the positive side, so to speak. Thus it says in the following context (and to a certain degree similarly also in Gal 6:14–15; Rom 8:1–39) among others: “God was in Christ and reconciled the κόσμος to himself” (v. 19), and thereby God “has reconciled us with himself through Christ” (v. 18).3 This is for Paul, as also for early Christianity around him, an especially pronounced moment precisely in God’s action. And, as is well known, he thinks of the so-called Christ event4 especially where he speaks about the “gospel” and about “faith” or “believing.” For the apostle the term εὐαγγέλιον is then also encountered with the genitive (τοῦ) θεοῦ, as in Rom 1:1, in 15:16, and in 2 Cor 11:7. And the other genitive τοῦ Χριστοῦ that also appears somewhat more frequently in the Corpus Paulinum, namely in Rom 15:19; 1 Cor 9:12; 2 Cor 2:12; 9:13; 10:14; Phil 1:27; 1 Thess 3:2 (cf. Rom 1:9; 2 Thess 1:8, further 2 Cor 4:4), indicates thereby that this is a matter of something like the event that has to do with Christ. This is quite unmistakable in 1 Cor 15:1–5, where the factor designated in v. 1 as “gospel” is described in vv. 3b–5 with the following wording in the tradition (at least in essence)5: “that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures and that he was buried and that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures and that he appeared (to Cephas, then to the twelve).”

Obviously God plays a role in this declaration about the death (vv. 3b–4a) – here interpreted as salvific – and the resurrection of Christ (vv. 4b–5),6 at least in the passivum divinum ἐγήγερται (“he was raised [by God]” [v. 4b]), but indeed also in the doubled κατὰ τὰς γραφάς (“according to / ​conformable to the Scriptures” [i. e., the biblical, the Old Testament Scriptures] [vv. 3b, 4b]). The fifteenth chapter of  On this cf. for instance E. Gräßer, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther. Kapitel 1,1–7,16 (ÖTK 8.1; Gütersloh / ​Würzburg: Gütersloher Verlagshaus / ​Echter Verlag, 2002), 221–225, esp. 223–225. 4  On this term (especially with reference to 1 Cor 15:3–5) see for instance T. Nicklas, “Frühchristliche Ansprüche auf die Schriften Israels,” in Scriptural Authority in Early Juda­ ism and Ancient Christianity (I. Kalimi, T. Nicklas, and G. Xeravits, eds. [in collaboration with H. Hötzinger]; Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Studies 16; Berlin / ​Boston: de Gruyter, 2013), 344–365, 350–352. 5 Cf. D. Zeller, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (KEK 5, 1st ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 462. 6  Cf. J. Ware, “The Resurrection of Jesus in the Pre-Pauline Formula of 1 Cor 15.3–5,” NTS 60 (2014): 475–498, esp. 497 (“revivification”). 3

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1 Corinthians, which is thus concerned with God’s action in Jesus Christ, in addition leaves hardly any doubt that the attitudes taken up in view of this gospel require a separation and in this sense mark a certain boundary line. Anyone who accepts this statement in its proper way, to that one – and obviously to such a one alone – the σωθῆναι (v. 2a), that is, being saved, being redeemed, salvation is promised (v. 2a[–c]; cf. v. 15). Then, according to v. 3b, such a person is also certainly due the forgiveness of sin (and v. 4b also allows room for thinking about his or her resurrection from the dead [cf. vv. 20–57])7. In connection with the gospel these verses also speak of faith. The mode of expression in v(v). (1–)2 and v. 11 makes it clear that πιστεύειν, “to believe,” is conceived of as the positive reaction to the gospel. Similarly in v. 14 (and v. 17) what is addressed is that πίστις, “faith,” has to do with Christ’s resurrection. That is, without this resurrection, proclamation and faith would be “empty.” This is likely why in Paul it is also expressed differently, namely in Rom 3:22 (cf. v. 26); Gal 2:16 (twice); 3:23 (cf. Gal 2:20; 3:26; Phil 3:9): πίστις […] Χριστοῦ […], and the fact that in connection with this and with the justification terminology of the context (Gal 2:16–17, 21; 3:6, 8, 11, 21, 24; 5:4–5) in Gal 2:16–17 the phrase εἰς Χριστὸν  Ἰησοῦν ἐπιστεύσαμεν (v. 16) is found as well as the succinct ἐν Χριστῷ (v. 17) still speaks, in my opinion, for an understanding in the sense of “faith in […] Christ […]”– precisely about “Christ,” crucified and raised, as the object of faith.8 The Christ event named in the gospel and the acceptance of this statement – the πίστις τοῦ εὐαγγελίου, believing in the gospel, as it is expressed in Phil 1:27 – for Paul are accordingly concerned with a significant marker. Precisely those who align themselves with the gospel can indeed, as has been expressed, experience forgiveness. Besides, this fits quite well in the “cosmological” mode of expression initially considered, insofar as God has, if one follows those lines of argument, “reconciled” human beings “with himself through Christ” (2 Cor 5:18). Both linguistic contexts obviously are thinking in the end about one and the same important boundary that comes about in view of God’s action in, or better, upon Christ.

7  On this see M. Bachmann, “1Kor 15,12–13: ‘resurrection of the Dead (= Christians)’?” in Von Paulus zur Apokalypse – und weiter. Exegetische und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Studien zum Neuen Testament (samt englischsprachigen summaries) (NTOA / ​StUNT 91; Göttingen / ​ Oakville [CT]: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 73–77 (orig., 2001), esp. 76–77. 8 Cf. K. F. Ulrichs, Christusglaube. Studien zum Syntagma πίστις Χριστοῦ und zum pau­ linischen Verständnis von Glaube und Rechtfertigung (WUNT II, 227; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), esp. 251–254; further A. Lindemann, “Christusglaube und ‘Werke des Gesetzes’ bei Paulus. Exegetische Perspektiven,” in Ancient Perspectives on Paul (NTOA / ​StUNT 102; T. Nicklas, A. Merkt, and J. Verheyden, eds.; Göttingen / ​Bristol [CT]: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 234–262, 242 n. 37; and M. Bachmann, “Zwei Ebenen oder eher ein Niveau? Zur Entgegensetzung innerhalb von Gal 2,16a,” BZ NF 59 (2015): 112–116, 112, 116.

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This boundary of course does not coincide with the external boundary of the Jewish people, because the cosmos terminology and for instance the first person plural of 1 Cor 15:3b certainly do not exclude non-Jews. Accordingly in the distinction between Jews and non-Jews – a differentiation that Paul, according to what is disclosed, for example, in Rom 1:16 and Gal 2:15, knew very well and of which he was mindful – one will have to deal with another boundary than with what we heretofore have drawn out of the Corpus Paulinum. In this regard one could perhaps suppose that the juxtaposition of Jews and pagans (or non-Jews) was considered unimportant by the apostle, based upon 1 Cor 9:19–23: “for the sake of the gospel” (v. 23). Without question this supposition is encountered in not a few documents of church history.9 However, it scarcely applies. The fact that what one might call redemptive historical thinking does not begin for the first time with the Christ event10 is suggested already by the phrase already mentioned from 1 Cor 15:3b, 4b: “according to the [biblical, Old Testament] Scriptures.” Also the fact that in the context a parallel between Adam and Christ is expressed (1 Cor 15:20–56, esp. vv. 22, 45–49) and that Adam in Rom 5:12–21 is explicitly brought into a relationship with Moses (v. 14; cf. v[v]. [13,] 20) makes room for thinking redemptive-historically in a wider sense, and a corresponding notion holds all the more if one lists Abraham’s role in the justification passages in Gal 2–4 (3:6 and repeatedly) and Rom 3–4 (4:1 and repeatedly). After all he is called in Rom 4:12 πατὴρ τῆς περιτομῆς (“father of the circumcision”) (cf. Gal 3:28–29), whereas it says earlier in v. 11: πατὴρ πάντων τῶν πιστευόντων δι’ ἀκροβυστίας (“father of all those who believe through uncircumcision / ​uncircumcised believers”). If the phrase πατὴρ τῆς περιτομῆς in this context is subordinated in relation to “uncircumcision,” this does not indicate for instance a troublesome concession, but rather that the realm of circumcision of course has to be taken into account. this see F. Lott, “Juden, Judentum VII.2: Historisch-theologisch,” LTK (3rd ed.) 5 (1996): 1045–1046, 1045 (Judaism “in the hermeneutical categories of salvation history was justified with the witness of the J. [= Jews] as mediators of the OT (Augustine) and with the expectation of their endtime conversion (Rom 11:25–26). Christian theology varied between the poles of condemnation and of qualified tolerance”); and B. Schaller, “Judentum und Christentum I: Probleme der Begriffsdefinition,” RGG (4th ed.) 4 (2001): 628 (“The confrontation of J. [= Judaism] and Ch. [= Christianity] had the effect that the essential historical and theological bonds of Christianity to Judaism are faded out and in the wake of this the rooting of Christian faith in J. theology virtually can appear as irrelevant”). Cf. M. Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive? Merkwürdigkeiten bei der Wahrnehmung der betreffenden exegetischen Diskussionen,” BZ NF 60 (2016): 73–10, here 77–82. 10  On this see M. Bachmann, “Zu temporalen Momenten des Galaterbriefs: Beschneidungsfreiheit für Heidenchristen und Heilsgeschichte,” in Paulus und Petrus. Geschichte – Theologie Rezeption (ABG; H. Omerzu and E. D. Schmidt eds.; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2016), 101–136, here 123–136; cf. R. Deines, Acts of God in History: Studies Towards Recovering a Theological Historiography (WUNT 317; C. Ochs and P. Watts eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), esp. 20–26.  9 On

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Indeed the previous context also expresses this supposition unmistakably. In Rom 3:29–31 one reads: “Or is God the God of Jews only? Not also of the gentiles? Yes, also of the gentiles. Since God is one [cf. Deut 6:4], who will justify the circumcision from faith and the uncircumcision by faith. Do we now abolish the law by faith? By no means! Rather we uphold the law.” Thus a certain redemptive-historical priority of Judaism is presupposed in spite of the universality connected to the gospel (cf. again esp. Gal 1:16), and this particularity is implied also in Gal 2:7–8. Here the expression τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τῆς ἀκροβυστίας (v. 7), which obviously refers to a point conceded to Paul in Jerusalem, precedes the corresponding phrase applying to Peter, [τὸ εὐαγγέλιον] τῆς περιτομῆς (v. 7), thus emphasizing the matter under discussion in the conference. But the subsequent formulation adds the “natural” sequence after all: “Namely the one [that is, God] who was at work in Peter for the apostleship ministry to the circumcision was also at work [for the apostleship ministry] in me [that is, Paul] among the gentiles” (v. 8). Thus the distinction between Jews and non-Jews is without question not considered unimportant by the “apostle to the gentiles” (Rom 11:13; cf. 1:5) in view of the “salvation” conceived of as potentially universal on the basis of the Christ event. Rather in a certain way it is recognized and considered in a redemptive-historical way. Two supplementary sets of facts should be considered to confirm this. They are addressed here simply rather succinctly – particularly as I have already presented the appropriate data in more detail in other publications. First the Pauline use of words and expressions with which one first of all (or certainly not last) might like to talk about Jews is of great interest. We touched on this theme just above, especially where it is a matter of circumcision and of Abraham as father. Three tableaus – with their own short comments – attached will hopefully suffice to clarify the pertinent textual data.11

11 For the three tableaus and the explanations accompanying them, I take up material published earlier: M. Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles: Hermeneutical and Exegetical Notes,” in Paul and Judaism. Crosscurrents in Pauline Exegesis and the Study of Jewish-Chris­ tian Relations (Library of New Testament Studies 463; R. Bieringer and D. Pollefeyt eds.; London: T & T Clark, 2012), 72–105, 82–84. The two quotations within that passage are taken from: M. Bachmann, “Verus Israel. Ein Vorschlag zu einer ‘mengentheoretischen’ Neubeschreibung der betreffenden paulinischen Terminologie,” NTS 48 (2002): 500–512 (reprinted in M. Bachmann, “Von Paulus zur Apokalypse,” 79–91), 506; P. J. Tomson, “The Names Israel and Jew in Ancient Judaism and in the New Testament,” Bijdr 47 (1986): 120–140, 268–289, 288 (where emphasis is absent).

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“To begin with the first tableau: Jews

A E

‘true Jews’

D true Jews

“true Jews”

B

other (or nominal) Jews

C

Here one has distinguished the set A, the set of the Jews, from the set E, the set of the Christians (which is in Paul’s time even smaller, as it is noted here for the sake of clarity). At the term Jews, nominal Jews (i. e., merely nominal Jews), C, are distinguished from true Jews, B, and the term true Jews, which was suggested by Justin (besides Dial 11.5 compare, e. g., Dial 116.3; 135.3) especially for non-Jews, moreover is visualised twice, once with double quotation marks for Gentile-Christians, D, and once with single quotation marks for Jewish‑ and Gentile-Christians, E. The second tableau is more complex: ‘people of God’ (or similar) A E D B

C ‘sons’, ‘children’ ‘heirs’ – ‘of God’ (or similar)

‘Jew’ (etc .) / ‘circumcision’ (etc.) / descendants of Abraham

It indicates that in his vocabulary concerning Judaism, Paul, at least to a large extent, knows in addition to a literal understanding also something like a transferred application (i. e., so to speak, particularly also for the subset D). This is unquestionably the case with the word  Ἰουδαῖος (see Rom. 2.28–29), also with the circumcision terminology and the conceptualization of descent from Abraham

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(see Rom. 2.26, 29; 4.17–18). In a weakened manner it is in particular valid for the ‘sons’, ‘children’ and ‘heirs’ of God (see Rom. 8.14–21), though, however, even with Gal. 4.1–5 ‘[a] candid characterization of all Jews – […] also the ones belonging to the subset C – as heirs of God (or also as his sons or children) is […] not’ simple to state. Things are somewhat different with the expression ‘people of God’, more exactly: with ‘my [i. e., God’s] people’ (Rom. 9.25, 26), respectively with ‘his [i. e., God’s] people’ (Rom. 11.1, 2; 15.10; 2 Cor. 6.16); because here, despite Rom. 9.25–26, no clear reference to non-Jews is given, and so Paul says in Rom. 15.10 with regard to Deut. 32.42 that the nations should rejoice with his, that is, with God’s people – with the Jews. When the apostle goes back to the Old Testament here and also in his five other ‘people of God’ instances, it fits in a certain sense with the fact that Paul does not, seen from a traditional-historical point of view, break ranks too with the other terms of this tableau. Hence, the third tableau might be easier to understand: ‘Israel’ (or similar) A E D B

C

On the one hand, the apostle proceeds similarly with the Israel terminology, but even a little bit more radically than in the case of the ‘people of God’ expression. With his three instances of the gentilic (or ‘gentilium’)  Ἰσραηλíτης (Rom. 9.4; 11.1; 2 Cor. 11.22) […] and at least with all 15 Pauline occurrences of the ‘ethnicon’  Ἰσραήλ beyond Gal. 6.16c (Rom. 9.6a, 6b, 27a, 27b, 31; 10.19, 21; 11.2, 7, 25, 26; 1 Cor. 10.18; 2 Cor. 3.7, 13; Phil. 3.5; compare Rom. 10.1 v.l.; Eph. 2.12) the word family is used in a way not just referring to something like the subset D, not just to non-Jews. It therefore seems to be unsurprising that a contextual overlapping is given with λαός (Rom. 9.25, 26) and with ὁ λαòς αὐτοῦ (Rom. 11.1, 2; compare further Rom. 10.21). On the other hand, […] years ago P. J. Tomson described the tradition-historical peculiarity of this term with good reasons as follows: It is “the cherished, inner-Jewish name of the Covenant People.” So far solely the expression of Gal. 6.16c, ὁ  Ἰσραὴλ τοῦ θεοῦ, not attested in the Greek literature before Paul, has as a precaution not been accounted for in the third

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tableau. But this example, which belongs to something like a word of blessing, could optimally match the other results. There Paul, so we just had to notice, with the concept ‘Israel’ refers consistently to real Jews, just as is customary in the tradition, and he thereby proceeds similarly to his usage of his expression, used reasonably synonymously, ‘his’ or rather ‘my people’, which in addition interestingly offers in each case a pronoun referring to God.” In recent times not only have I spoken for the thesis that Paul does not use the word  Ἰσραήλ even once in a figurative sense, but also A. Lindemann, S. G. Eastman, B. Schaller, and C. Zimmermann have done so.12 The synchronic and diachronic reasons which are asserted for this – in addition to what has just been said above13 – in my opinion have such weight that an interpretation that results in the view of Justin (Martyr) (cf. Dial 11.5) should be discarded.14 Apart from this, however, for the coherence of the argument of this paper it should be stated: 12 On this see M. Bachmann, “Kirche und Israel Gottes. Zur Bedeutung und ekklesiologi­ schen Relevanz des Segenswortes am Schluß des Galaterbriefs,” in Antijudaismus im Galater­ brief? Exegetische Studien zu einem polemischen Schreiben und zur Theologie des Apostels Pau­ lus (NTOA 40; Freiburg [Schweiz] / ​Göttingen: Universitätsverlag / ​Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999) (English = Anti-Judaism in Galatians? Exegetical Studies on a Polemical Letter and on Paul’s Theology [R. L. Brawley, transl.; Grand Rapids / ​Cambridge (U. K.), 2008]), 159–187, esp. 164–175, 179–184; A. Lindemann, “Israel im Neuen Testament,” WD 25 (1999): 167–192, esp. 174–176 (cf. A. Lindemann, “Israel und sein ‘Land’ im Neuen Testament,” in Glauben, Han­ deln, Verstehen. Studien zur Auslegung des Neuen Testaments. vol. 2 [WUNT 282; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011], 149–189, esp. 157–118); S. G. Eastman, “Israel and the Mercy of God: A Re-Reading of Galatians 6.16 and Romans 9–11,” NTS 56 (2010): 367–398, esp. 368–376, 385– 390, 394–395; B. Schaller, “Die Rolle des Paulus im Verhältnis zwischen Christen und Israel,” in Between Gospel and Election. Explorations in the Interpretation of Romans 9–11 (WUNT 257; F. Wilk and J. R. Wagner eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 1–36, 6 n. 19; C. Zimmermann, Gott und seine Söhne. Das Gottesbild des Galaterbriefs (WMANT 135; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsanstalt, 2013), 133–141. Cf. also M. Bachmann, “Paulus,” in Historische Gestalten der Antike. Rezeption in Literatur, Kunst und Musik (Der Neue Pauly. Suppl. 8; P. von Möllendorff, A. Simonis, and L. Simonis eds.; Stuttgart / ​Weimar: J. B. Metzler, 2013), 736–750, 737; M. Bachmann, “Neues Testament und Antijudaismus: z. B. Bergpredigt und Galaterbrief,” Update-Exegese 2.1. Ergebnisse gegenwärtiger Bibelwissenschaft (W. Kraus and M. Rösel eds.; Leipzig: Eva, 2015), 236–248, (orig. 2014), 244–245. 13  With respect to the synchronic dimension the observations of Zimmermann, Gott und seine Söhne, 135–136, should be mentioned, “that [Paul] in all metaphors that he takes from the realm of Jewish images, attaches clarifications, which are supposed to explain to the addressed Galatians who mostly are not of Jewish origin why they themselves without circumcision now also are children of the one God,” whereas on the contrary (in the case of Israel, Gal 6:16) it holds: “A comparable contextual explanation, which would explain to the non-Jewish Galatians that the designation Israel of God as a figuration applies to them, not to mention a direct identification (‘you are …’) is missing […] for Gal 6:16.” Some diachronic references are: Ps 124, 5 [cf. v. 2]LXX; 127,6LXX; 4QMMT C31–32.; PapMur 42:7; 18./19. benediction of the Palaestinian Version of the Shemoneh Ezreh (on this cf. Bachmann, “Neues Testament und Antijudaismus,” 59, further Zimmermann, Gott und seine Söhne, 135 [with n. 13]). 14 Recently but differently D. J. Moo, Galatians (Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2013), (400–)403 (together with n. 10)–in which, however, none of the evidence gathered by us, which has just been mentioned in n. 13, is considered.

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The factor of universality does not restrain Paul from emphasizing particularly with the terms  Ἰσραηλίτης and  Ἰσραήλ a certain redemptive-historical distinctiveness of Jews, which clearly distinguishes them from non-Jews. To express this in the words of Rom 9:4–5 (and 11:1–32): “They are Israelites, and to them belong the sonship, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, and the promises, to whom belong also the ancestors and from whom ὁ Χριστὸς ὁ κατὰ σάρκα comes.” And Paul himself is according to Rom. 11:18 an “Israelite [originating] from the seed of Abraham, from the tribe of Benjamin;” hence, it holds: “Has God repudiated his people? By no means!” Second the role which the “locality” Jerusalem, in particular the apostle’s socalled collection for Jerusalem or the collection of Pauline congregations, plays in Paul needs to be considered.15 To be sure, after his call, which took place near Damascus, he then stayed away from that in many respects unquestionably prominent Jewish city, as one learns in Galatians, in 1:16–17, especially in v. 17a. But things do not remain unchanged. After three years he makes his way there, then again after yet a longer interval, this time with Barnabas and Titus, according to 1:18 and 2:1. There according to 2:1–10 something like a defense of his own proclamation of the gospel took place – with a successful outcome although obviously by necessity (see v. 2c)  – particularly before τοῖς δοκοῦσιν. “James and Cephas and John” are named, “who are considered to be pillars (οἱ δοκοῦντες στῦλοι εἶναι).” Still more remarkable are statements of the chapter Rom 15 – which with reference to Rom 15:10 (and Deut 32:42) has already been addressed – where Paul describes the geographical arena of his proclamation of the gospel with recourse to a scriptural saying (v. 21b: Isa 52:15bLXX [with reference to ἔθνη and βασιλεῖς in keeping with Isa 52:15aLXX!]) as follows: ἀπὸ  Ἰερουσαλὴμ καὶ κύκλῳ μέχρι τοῦ  Ἰλλυρικοῦ (v. 19b, and this is certainly carried out over against the de facto sequence in Gal 1:17b). He understands himself in this as “a minister (λειτγουργός) of Christ Jesus among the gentiles [cf. again Isa 52:15LXX], delivering the gospel […] as a priest so that the offering of the Gentiles might be acceptable” (v. 16). With this, as vv. 25–27/28 make clear, the so-called Jerusalem collection of the Pauline congregations comes into view, brought up in the Corpus Paulinum at least in 1 Cor 16:1–4, in 2 Cor 8–9 and in Rom 15:25–32 (cf. further Gal 2:10). In my opinion the characteristic style of Rom 15:15–32 speaks preferably for the thesis that this appeal, which according to v. 26 points εἰς τοὺς πτωχοὺς τῶν ἁγίων τῶν ἐν  Ἰερουσαλήμ, has been addressed to the Jews there in general, not, as is commonly understood, only to the Jewish Christians – even if it might have been the plan that the gift should be handed over specifically 15  On what has just been said see M. Bachmann, “‘… an sie und an alle’ (II Kor 9:13). Zum Adressatenkreis der sog. Jerusalemkollekte paulinischer Gemeinden,” TZ 69 (2013): 435–445, esp. 438–445 (quotation p. 441) (cf. E. Bammel, “πτωχός D: Neues Testament,” TDNT 6 [1959]: 902–912, 908–909; further K. Ehrensperger, “The Ministry to Jerusalem (Rom 15.31): Paul’s Hopes and Fears,” TZ 69 [2013]: 338–352, esp. 350–352).

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to persons of this smaller group. Further, among other things it catches the eye that “the plural ἅγιοι, which is used not less than seven times in connection with the theme of the collection (Rom 15:25, 26, 31; 1 Cor 16:1; 2 Cor 8:4; 9:1, 12),” is employed there quite noticeably: with the article (differently e. g. from Rom 8:27), without references (for example personal pronouns) to a relationship of the “holy ones” to Christ (differently e. g. from 1 Thess 3:13; cf. also 1 Cor 1:2; Phil 1:1), in addition however with a differentiation specifically between the “holy ones” and others (see 2 Cor 9:12–13). One also feels reminded in this respect of the usage attested in 1 Macc 1:46 (where “the ‘holy ones,’” who are here Jews threatened in their cultic integrity, are affiliated precisely with the Jerusalem ἁγίασμα). Perhaps this is due also to the redemptive-historical concepts of the Pauline collection for Jerusalem, as is suggested not least on the basis of the Book of Isaiah (see alongside 52:15LXX for instance: 2:1–4/5; 60:1–14/22; 66:19–21/24 [cf. 19:24–25]).16 In any case an evaluation of Jerusalem comprehended against such a background is simply not lacking in Paul. In this respect, for Paul not only the line that has to do directly with justification and salvation, but also the boundary between Jews and non-Jews is and remains important. For the apostle both markers are in fact connected. For the course of the gospel – in any case according to Rom 15 – goes out precisely from Jerusalem, and moreover according to Rom 11 (see esp. vv. 11–16, 25–27) and indeed also according to Gal 6 (see esp. vv. 15–16) this direction does not at all mean that thereby “Israel” had been abandoned. On the contrary, one might say (indeed must say) with Gal 6:16c, that at least in some way nothing less than ὁ  Ἰσραὴλ τοῦ θεοῦ is at stake. 2.1.2. Delicate Borders According to Pauline statements, in view of the Christ event the border between Jews and non-Jews is certainly at least perforated. This is emphatically expressed in Gal 2:15–17a (cf. esp. Rom 3:21–26), starting with the formulation (already touched on): “We [who are] by birth Jews and not sinners from the gentiles” (v. 15). Obviously this is an allusion to a concept that already existed in early Judaism, according to which “the gentiles as people who are not acquainted with the Jewish law are therefore ἄνομοι and consequently ἁμαρτωλοί.”17 But this boundary according to which “the non-Jews in short” were precisely “‘the

16 On

this cf. especially H. Irsigler, “Ein Gottesvolk aus allen Völkern? Zur Spannung zwischen universalen und partikularen Heilsvorstellungen in der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels,” BZ NF 56 (2012): 210–246, esp. 243–244. 17 W. G. Kümmel, “‘Individualgeschichte’ und ‘Weltgeschichte’ in Gal 2:15–21,” in Heils­ geschehen und Geschichte. vol. 2, Gesammelte Aufsätze 1965–1977 (Marburger theologische Studien 16; E. Gräßer and O Merk eds.; Marburg: N. Elwert, 1978), 130–142 (orig: 1973), 132 (cf. nn. 14, 16–17: for instance, among others, Pss. Sol. 2:1[‑2]).

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unclean,’”18 can now no longer be described in this way, as is then explained – by way of correction – immediately in vv. 16–17a. That is, with the fact that “we,” Jews, “have believed in Christ Jesus” the necessity of “justification” is acknowledged also for “us,” in this respect for “all flesh” (cf. Ps 143:2): εὑρέθημεν καὶ αὐτοὶ ἁμαρτωλοί (v. 17a). Presumably behind this stands the logic of “from solution to plight” (E. P.  Sanders).19 The experience that is spoken about of Jewish people who have affiliated with Jesus certainly relativizes the distinction between Jews and non-Jews. Expressed with the nomenclature of the three tableaus above, in the presentation of group A the circular line that is used is indeed now cut by the corresponding periphery, which relates to group E. The dividing line between Jews and non-Jews is therefore certainly – in the sense of redemptive-historical aspects – important, but on account of the gospel more precisely delicate, i. e., on account of the assurance of the forgiveness of sin (see once more 1 Cor 15:3b). Because “faith in the gospel” is practiced both here and there, one has to notice that in principle on both sides of this boundary there is need of forgiveness of sin and “justification.” This marking is relativized, to express it in connection with Gal 3:26–27, “by means of faith in (ἐν) Christ Jesus” and with baptism εἰς Χριστόν inasmuch as it says: πάντες γὰρ υἱοὶ θεοῦ ἐστε (v. 26). The well-known list20 offered in the following verse (3:28) – surely based on a traditional formulation – is headed up notably by οὐκ ἔνι  Ἰουδαῖος οὐδὲ  Ἕλλην (“there is neither Jew nor Greek [non-Jew / ​ gentile]”) (cf. esp. Rom 1:16; 2:9–10; 1 Cor 12:13; further Gal 2:3; Col 3:11). Similarly radical is the phraseology of the two following pairs, which are connected to the preceding in each case in a chiastic manner: οὐκ ἔνι δοῦλος οὐδὲ ἐλεύθερος (“there is neither slave nor free”) and οὐκ ἔνι ἄρσεν καὶ θῆλυ (“there is no male and female”). A further emphatic indication of the (new) unity now in effect is added: “All of you are one (εἷς) in Christ Jesus.” Since the words ἄρσεν καὶ θῆλυ immediately preceding this statement refer back to Gen 1:27LXX,21 here with respect to content apart from this – similar to Gal 6:15 in the emphatic leveling out of the difference between περιτομή and ἀκροβυστία (cf. 5:6; 1 Cor 7:19) – the theme of the new creation might be touched on. But the confronting of what is old and what is new actually changes little about the fact that what is leveled out is still very much perceptible in the (communal) present of the apostle as difference and is also named by him (see simply Gal 2:6–10; Phlm 10–20; 1 Cor 7:1–17). What appears to make the relativized boundaries difficult is illuminated 18 Str-B.

4.1: “Exkurse zu einzelnen Stellen des Neuen Testaments. Abhandlungen zur Neutestamentlichen Theologie und Archäologie” (Munich: C. H. Beck’sche Buchhandlung and Oskar Beck, 1928), 375. 19 See E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977), 443. Cf. at n. 44 below. 20  Cf. for instance Moo, Galatians, 252–255. 21 On this see for instance Moo, Galatians, 254.

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by the gospel and thereby loses something of its awkwardness. Certainly what is new does not prevent Paul from then putting it nevertheless in relationship to redemptive history in Gal 3:29: “But if you are Christ’s, you are also Abraham’s seed, heirs according to the promise.” With the Christ event the boundaries between Jew and non-Jew, free and slave, man and woman are to be sure torn down in principle, leveled, and in this sense they are delicate. But what is new is simultaneously linked to God’s earlier activity – specifically Abraham, promise, and Christ. Therefore in this context the juxtaposition of Jews and non-Jews is then also especially emphasized. 2.2. Correlated with Individual Persons 2.2.1. Important Borders For Paul the distinction between sin and the forgiveness of sin, between the cosmos and the new creation, is of course important especially also for individual human beings. As is said in 1 Cor 15 the gospel pertains to them, and thus selfevidently its wording (see esp. vv. 2a, 11b), and indeed also what concerns the resurrection of the one who was crucified (see vv. 4b–10) and along with this the possibility of resurrection from the dead (see vv. 12–20a). According to 2 Cor 5 to be “in Christ” (v. 17) (which is made possible through accepting the gospel) allows what is there called the “ministry of reconciliation” (v. 18), and the “word of reconciliation” (v. 19) enables the impetus of Christ’s reconciliation to continue to be effective (v. 20), which not least of all concerns overcoming sin (v. 21).22 Expressed in terms of Gal 6, it amounts to a concentration on “the cross […] of Jesus Christ” (v. 14a), that at any rate means a break with the cosmos (v. 14b), also in this sense a leveling of the difference between περιτομή and ἀκροβυστία (v. 15; cf. esp. Rom 3:29–30; Gal 2:6–9, further Rom 4:11–12, 16–18; 1 Cor 7:18–19.). This does not mean, as already mentioned, a disregard for redemptive history, which indeed has led precisely to the Christ event and thereby to the integration of non-Jews into the realm of justification. Israel’s special role connected with God’s action is then emphasized in Gal 6 – already in Gal 6!23 And this occurs notably in connection with the just mentioned comment about “circumcision” and “uncircumcision” that brings the two into a single entity (v. 15): To get into this condition is lauded (v. 16a–b) and simultaneously it is said that “peace […] this see Gräßer, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther, esp. 224–225, 232–235.  Differently, for example, U. Schnelle, “Gibt es eine Entwicklung in der Rechtfertigungslehre vom Galater‑ zum Römerbrief?” in Paulus – Werk und Wirkung. Festschrift für Andreas Lindemann zum 70. Geburtstag (P.-G. Klumbies and D. S. du Toit eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 289–309, esp. 296–298, 304–306. Questions on this already in Bachmann, “Neues Testament und Antijudaismus,” 243–245. (Cf. Bachmann, “Zu temporalen Momenten des Galaterbriefs,” esp. 107, 132–133) 22 On 23

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and mercy” are applied certainly καὶ ἐπὶ τὸν  Ἰσραὴλ τοῦ θεοῦ (v. 16c). Similarly a rather obvious misunderstanding is then also confronted by Rom 9–11: “lest you deem yourselves to be φρόνιμοι” (11:25b; cf. 11:1–2a, 13a) – and it is said by way of explanation: “πώρωσις has come upon a part of Israel, until τὸ πλήρωμα of the gentiles / ​non-Jews have come in, and so all Israel will be saved” (11:25c, 26a; cf. 11:1–24 and 11:29 [“The gifts and the calling on the part of God are irrevocable”]).24 It holds also for every individual person who is “in Christ,” that in view of the universality made possible now by the Christ event, such a person should not forget the prerequisites and precursors of this and the divine promises connected with them. Likewise it is also explained that Paul tenaciously pursues the Jerusalem collection25 (see again Rom 15:25–32; 1 Cor 16:1–4; 2 Cor 8–9; cf. Gal 2:10b), in my opinion, already recommended to him in the conference outlined in Gal 2:1–10 (see v. 10a). Especially interesting with respect to the members of the Christian congregations is that the apostle names these persons with emphasis and makes a theme of the generous love gifts that were contributed (see esp. 1 Cor 16:2; 2 Cor 8:3–4, 7–9, 14, 24; 9:2–15; Rom 15:25–27). According to 1 Cor 16:3–5 he even thinks that what was gathered together (τὴν χάριν ὑμῶν) might be taken to Jerusalem by some members of the congregations themselves. In any case this holds: In spite of the leveling advocated in principle, the boundary between Jews and non-Jews remains important. In the sense of a certain “mutuality” non-Jews have to perceive the boundary and – in the end – have to cross over it with their contributions (see esp. Rom 15:27; cf. 2 Cor 8:13–15; 9:12–15) with respect to the “holy ones” (cf. again for instance Rom 15:25).26 2.2. Delicate Borders According to Paul the line of separation between Jews and non-Jews is certainly not to be described in such a way that non-Jews would have affiliated with Judaism, so that they thus would have become Jews. Notably it is the gospel itself that pertains to the ἔθνη (see once more esp. Gal 2:7: “The gospel of uncircumcision”). It relativizes the line of separation between Israel and the gentiles, but nevertheless not in such a way that it would have led to the inclusion of non-Jews into Judaism. In this respect this important boundary is at the same time delicate. The difficulties connected with this then also determine important Pauline arguments and statements. In these the apostle insists, conceivably immediately or this see simply K. Haacker, Der Brief des Paulus an die Römer (THKNT 6; 4th ed.; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2012), 282–285, esp. 283–284. 25  Bachmann, “‘… an sie und an alle,’” esp. (435–)437. 26 On this see Bachmann, “‘… an sie und an alle,’” 442–443. Cf. esp. U. Schmidt, “Nicht ver­ geblich empfangen!” Eine Untersuchung zum 2. Korintherbrief als Beitrag zur Frage nach der paulinischen Einschätzung des Handelns (BWANT 162; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 2004), esp. 129–130, 148–149, 179–195, 248–249. 24 On

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quite soon after his call (see Gal 1:16a; cf. however at any rate Gal 5:1127), that non-Jews who affiliate with Christ are not governed by the circumcision regulations (see esp. Gen 17:9–14) that are unquestionably important for Jews, and also not by other analogous ceremonial commands. This is so important for Paul that he can even speak in such contexts about the “truth of the gospel” (Gal 2:5, 14) and can engage this theme in proceedings with Jerusalem’s esteemed Jewish Christians (see Gal 2:1–10, esp. vv. 2–3, 6–9), moreover can dispute with persons who were of a different mind or behaved differently, especially with Cephas (see especially Galatians, esp. 2:11, 14; 5:2–6; 6:12–15/16). The expression ἔργα νόμου, which is attested eight times in Paul, surfaces precisely in the context of such discussions (Rom 3:20, 28; Gal 2:16a, 16b, 16c; 3:2, 5, 10; cf. Rom 4:2, 6; 9:12, 32; 11:6, further 2:15). If one does not downplay this contextual evidence – though to ignore it on the basis of “Lutheran” customary understanding may seem preferable28 – then one will have to say, along the lines of the so-called New Perspective, that the phrase ἔργα νόμου has to do at least primarily with “identity” and “boundary markers” (J. D. G. Dunn),29 specifically in the sense of particular regulations, that is, of halakhot.30 Precisely this is advocated by quite a long line of Protestant as well as Catholic exegetes, especially by R. Bergmeier, M. Müller, V. Stolle, K. Wengst, U. Wilckens, and J. Woyke, as well as M. Ebner, P. Grelot, H. Merklein, R. Penna, and M. Tiwald.31 Inasmuch  Cf. (also with reference to the inquiry addressing Gal 5:11) for instance Moo, Galatians, 336–337. 28  On this see (again) Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?” esp. 77–82, 99–100. Cf. by way of example W. Härle, “Paulus und Luther. Ein kritischer Blick auf die ‘New Perspective,’” ZTK 103 (2006): 362–393. 29  See for instance J. D. G. Dunn, “The New Perspective on Paul” in: The New Perspective on Paul. Collected Essays (WUNT 185; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 89–110 (orig., 1983), 99, 100. Cf. Dunn, “Works of the Law and the curse of the Law (Gal 3.10–14),” in New Perspective, 111–130 (orig., 1985), 120: “‘Works of the law‘ denote all that the law requires of the devout Jew, but precisely because it is the law as identity and boundary marker which is in view, the law as Israel’s law focuses on these rites which express Jewish distinctiveness most clearly.” 30 Cf. on this M. Bachmann, “Rechtfertigung und Gesetzeswerke bei Paulus,” in: Antijuda­ ismus im Galaterbrief? 1–31 (orig., 1993), esp. 14: “With the expression ‘works of the law’ Paul does not mean something that lies at the level marked out by action according to the regulations of the law, especially not the fulfillments of (a) command(s)”. Rather Paul “means the regulations of the law themselves,” “the mṣwt, the hlkwt which are to be observed.” 31  For the Protestant exegetes (mentioned here in chronological order) see R. Bergmeier, “Das Gesetz im Römerbrief,” in: Das Gesetz im Römerbrief und andere Studien zum Neuen Testament (WUNT 121; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 31–102, esp. 37–41 (cf. Bergmeier, Gerechtigkeit, Gesetz und Glaube bei Paulus. Der judenchristliche Heidenapostel im Streit um das Gesetz und seine Werke [BThSt 115; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 2010], esp. 24–32); M. Müller, “Jesus und das Gesetz. Eine Skizze im Licht der Rezeptionen,” KD 50 (2004): 208–225, esp. 209–211; V. Stolle, “Nomos zwischen Tora und Lex. Der paulini­ sche Gesetzesbegriff und seine Interpretation durch Luther in der zweiten Disputation gegen die Antinomer vom 12. Januar 1538,” in: Lutherische und Neue Paulusperspektive. Beiträge zu einem Schlüsselproblem der gegenwärtigen exegetischen Diskussion (M. Bachmann ed. [in collaboration with J. Woyke]; WUNT 182, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 41–67, 59 n. 95; 27

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as I have already commented on the discussion about this Greek phrase for many years, it will suffice if I refer to such contributions32 and here mention briefly only especially important matters. As indicated, it ought to be of considerable relevance that the Pauline references throughout stand in quite close contact with περιτέμνειν (Gal 2:3; cf. 5:2–3; 6:12–13) or περιτομή (Rom 2:25–29; 3:1, 30; 4:9–12; Gal 2:7–9, 12; cf. 5:6, 11; 6:15) and with ἀκροβυστία (Rom 2:25–27; 3:30; 4:9–12; Gal 2:7).33 In Gal 2:12–13 moreover the talk is about a similar distinction in relation to the problem of a common meal of Jews and non-Jews. Further synchronic indicators which U. Wilckens, Theologie des Neuen Testaments I.3: Die Briefe des Christentums: Paulus und seine Schüler, Theologen aus dem Bereich judenchristlicher Heidenmission (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsanstalt, 2005), esp. 141–142; J. Woyke, Götter, ‘Götzen,’ Götterbilder. As­ pekte einer paulinischen ‘Theologie der Religionen’ (BZNW 132; Berlin / ​New York: de Gruyter, 2005), 350 n. 113 (cf. Woyke, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes / ​Rechtfertigung des Menschen,” in: Hand­ buch Bibeldidaktik [M. Zimmermann and R. Zimmermann, eds.; UTB 3996; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013], 222–227, 224); K. Wengst, “Freut euch, ihr Völker, mit Gottes Volk!” Israel und die Völker als Thema des Paulus – ein Gang durch den Römerbrief (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 2008), 185–188. (One can also mention here J. Frey, “Das Judentum des Paulus,” in: Paulus. Leben  – Umwelt  – Werk  – Briefe [O. Wischmeyer ed.; 2nd ed.; UTB 2767; Tübingen / ​Basel: A. Francke, 2013], 25–63, 62 [“The phrase is best translated by ‘prescripts’”], further E. Lohse; this scholar commented to me in a letter of May 31, 2007: “You certainly are correct that the expression ἔργα νόμου is to be understood in the sense of halakhot.”) Concerning Catholics (arranged likewise chronologically), see P. Grelot, “Les œuvres de la Loi (A propos de 4Q394– 398),” RevQ 16 (1993/95): 441–448, esp. 448; R. Penna, “Le ‘opere della Legge’ in s. Paolo e 4QMMT,” RStB 9/2 (1997), 155–176, esp. 170–171, 173–174 (cf. R. Penna, “The Meaning of πάρεσις in Romans 3:25c and the Pauline Thought on the Divine Acquittal,” in: Lutherische und Neue Paulusperspektive [Bachmann ed.], 251–274, esp. 264 with n. 48); H. Merklein, “Paulus III: Paulinische Theologie,” LTK (4th ed.) 7 (1998): 1498–1505, 1500; M. Ebner, “Die Rechtfertigungslehre des Paulus in soziologisch-sozialgeschichtlicher Perspektive,” in: Paulus. Identität und Universalität des Evangeliums (N. Kleyboldt ed.; Münster: Dialogverlag, 2009), 93–104, esp. 101; M. Tiwald, “Setzt der Glaube an Christus die Tora außer Kraft? Ein neuer Blick auf die ‘Werke des Gesetzes’ in Röm 3,20–31,” in: König und Priester. Facetten neutestamentlicher Theologie. Festschrift für Claus-Peter März zum 65. Geburtstag (M. Bär, M.-L. Hermann, and T. Söding eds.; ETS 44; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2012), 165–175, esp. 175. Jewish scholars advocate the halakhot thesis too, e. g. A. Segal, Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven / ​London: Yale University Press, 1990), 130; J. D. Garroway, Review of Bachmann [Anti-Judaism in Galatians?], Studies in Christian-Jewish Relations 6 (2011): R1–2, R2, and M. D. Nanos (on this see Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles,” 93 n. 105). Cf. further M. Bachmann, “Keil oder Mikroskop? Zur jüngeren Diskussion um den Ausdruck ‘Werke des Gesetzes,’” in: Von Paulus zur Apokalypse, 94–159 (orig., 2005), esp. 113–120 (pp. 117–118: D. Flusser), further Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?” 83–85. 32  Besides Bachmann, “Rechtfertigung und Gesetzeswerke,” I point out for example Bachmann “4QMMT und Galaterbrief, ‫ בעשׂי התורה‬und ΕΡΓΑ ΝΟΜΟΥ,” in: Antijudaismus im Galaterbrief? 1–31 (orig., 1998). Cf. further Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles;” Bachmann, “‘The New Perspective on Paul’ und ‘The New View of Paul,’” in: Paulus Handbuch (F. Horn ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 30–38, 35–37; Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?”, esp. 80–99. 33  Cf. Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?” 92–94, where further contextual conspicuous matters are mentioned, which point in the same direction.

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clearly speak against taking ἔργα νόμου as directly having to do with behavior conforming to the law should be added: the (certain) parallel to νόμος (see esp. Rom 3:20–21, 27–28; Gal 2:19, 21; 3:10–11; cf. 5:4) or to πάντα τὰ γεγραμμένα ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ τοῦ νόμου (Gal 3:10; cf. 3:10, 12: αὐτά)34 and particularly the absence of pertinent adjectives (for example, “good works of the law”) and personal pronouns (for example, “our works of the law”), to which E. Lohmeyer has already called attention some decades earlier.35 As soon as one reflects on these synchronic observations one will hardly be able to deny that with ἔργα νόμου something prescriptive is raised up, and the fact that on semantic grounds one has naturally to distinguish between a commandment or commandments and its or their observance36 serves to corroborate this idea. (Self-evidently prescripts are formulated in view of the actions that correspond to [or conflict with] them, but nevertheless a rule and the behavior related to it form without question two distinctive sememes.37) Admittedly in theological and exegetical literature this is rarely taken into account. One example of this lapse may suffice: Recently A. Lindemann remarked with reference to Gal 3:10b and the quotation there (Deut 27:26) that “the νόμος […] aims at ‘doing,’ thus at ‘works’ (ὁ ποιήσας αὐτὰ ζήσεται ἐν αὐτοῖς).”38 But the pronoun αὐτά of Gal 3:12b (cf. again v. 10) refers, as 34 Cf. esp. M. Bachmann, “Zur Argumentation von Gal 3.10–12,” in: Von Paulus zur Apoka­ lypse, 185–205 (orig., 2007), 188–189. 35  E. Lohmeyer, “Gesetzeswerke,” in: Probleme paulinischer Theologie (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1954), 31–74 (orig., 1929), esp. 34, 59, 62–65, 68, 71. (Consequently it holds that “here there is never any talk of an ‘I’ that has to despair of establishing himself or herself by means of works, […] to stand before God according to his or her works” [p. 68].) 36 On this see Bachmann, “Zu temporalen Momenten des Galaterbriefs,” 119–120. 37  On this see particularly Bachmann, “Keil oder Mikroskop?,” 121–123; Bachmann, “Zu temporalen Momenten des Galaterbriefs,” 116–120. M. Wolter, Paulus. Ein Grundriss seiner Theologie (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 2011), 352–353 (cf. Wolter, “Gesetz / ​Werke des Gesetzes,” in: Paulus Handbuch [Horn ed.], 358–62, esp. 359), thinks: One “will be able to say that the expression ‘works of the law’ in Gal 3:10; Rom 3:20 […] means the works required by the Torah, whereas in Rom 3:28; Gal 2:16; 3:2, 5 it designates actions that are done in observance of the Torah.” However, the quite general remarks on metonymy in Paul (see Wolter, Paulus, 352) do not suffice at all as substantiation for this thesis, not even what is asserted by the New Testament scholar from Bonn concerning the expression ἔργα νόμου. This is, to say the very least, because in Gal 3:10 (and in Rom 3:20) just as in Gal 2:16a, 16b, 16c; 3:2, 5 one reads ἐξ ἔργων νόμου (on this cf. [at] n. 43 below). On this see further Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?” 88 n. 62. 38 Lindemann, “Christusglaube und ‘Werke des Gesetzes,’” 246 (cf. incidentally Moo, Gala­ tians, 175). Such an interpretation cannot be maintained in view of the somewhat parallel use of the expressions ἔργα νόμου and νόμος, which may be observed in the Pauline writings. Whether the juxtaposition of ἔργα νόμου and νόμος encountered for instance in Rom 3:20(–21) has to be understood with Lindemann, p. 243 (cf. p. 252 n. 80), such that these terms are synonymous, seems to be not beyond doubt (see Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?” 92 [at] n. 72). I myself have also considered something similar many years ago (see M. Bachmann, Sünder oder Übertreter. Studien zur Argumentation in Gal 2,15 ff. [WUNT 59; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992], esp. 99–100: There I proposed “that with the works of the law it is a matter of the commandments and prohibitions of the Torah (cf. Eph 2:15)”). However, the Pauline con-

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noted in passing above, first of all back to τὰ γεγραμμένα ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ τοῦ νόμου, and means by this of course something written down, which is obviously something prescriptive, not the actual “doing.” The fact that with the German word “Werk(e),” and correspondingly with the English word “work(s)”, one is accustomed to think of such doing, accordingly easily leads to error with the Pauline expression in Gal 3:1–12/13. Diachronic observations on the expression ἔργα νὀμου, terminology that is not attested in Greek before Paul (that is, before Gal 2:16a), should urge caution too – corresponding to what has just been summarized on synchrony. Here also in the historical tradition, indications of something prescriptive are not lacking. Two of them shall be addressed here. For one Exodus 18:20 is referred to.39 There the Septuagint renders the Hebrew word ‫( מעשה‬singular form) with the plural ἔργα, for which the “German Septuagint,” alongside the so-to-say obvious transfer “meaning,” that is, “works,” specifically offers the possibility of translating with “prescripts,”40 and, inasmuch as previously it already says something more or less parallel, “God’s ordinances,” “his law” and “ways,” ἔργα obviously means there something like commandments. Moreover it is not without interest for our inquiry, whether or not the Pauline ἔργα νόμου deals with ceremonial prescriptions or “boundary markers” of Judaism, that the Old Testament context (see Exod 18:20, 22) has to do with the distinction of legal matters great and small. These play a role, for instance in the Gospel of Matthew, with respect to the domain of what is (still) ethically binding for Jesus adherents (see esp. Matt 5:19; 23:23), and further in a well-known passage in the Talmud, bYebam. 47a, b, which deals texts, and this holds also for Rom 2:25–29 and 3:1, 30–31 (cf. v. 19), point to – as was already touched on in (and at) nn. 33–34 above – the fact that the expression ἔργα νόμου using the plural ἔργα is inserted precisely because it hints at the aspect of the ceremonial commandments (selfevidently connected with the νόμος) more clearly than is the case with the word νόμος used in the singular (cf. Bachmann, “Lutherische oder Neue Paulusperspektive?”, 87–88 [at] nn. 62.72, 92 [at] n. 72). After 1992 I saw myself under the necessity of revising my assessment a little. Since then my judgment is (“now still closer to the sociological impulse of Dunn”): There exists a “proximity of the Pauline expression to what the New Testament scholar of Durham had defined with ‘identity’ and ‘boundary markers’ of Judaism“ (Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles,” 92). Cf. n. 50 below, further M. Wolter, “Τί οὖν ἐροῦμεν πρὸς ταῦτα;” in: Die Theologie des Paulus in der Diskussion. Reflexionen im Anschluss an Michael Wolters Grundriss (BThSt 140; J. Frey and B. Schließer eds.; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchner Verlagsgesellschaft, 2013), 257–287, esp. 277–278. 39  On this see M. Bachmann, “Was für Praktiken? Zur jüngsten Diskussion um die ἔργα νόμου,” in: Von Paulus zur Apokalypse, 207–226 (orig., 2009), 214–222, esp. 216–217. Cf. for instance Bachmann, “Neue Zugänge zu Paulus – und ihre ökumenische Relevanz,” Von Paulus zur Apokalypse, 251–275 (orig., 2009), 271–274, esp. 271. 40 Septuaginta Deutsch. Das griechische Alte Testament in deutscher Übersetzung (W. Kraus and M. Karrer eds.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2009), 74 n. (on Exodus 18:20a) (J. Roloff and E. Weber; J. Schaper, collaborator): “Werke: oder Vorschriften” (“works, or precepts”).

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with what is expected of non-Jewish converts in matters of halakhah. Whereas here such persons are confronted also “with a part of the light […] commandments,” according to Josephus, Ant. 20.40–42, in the first century of our era the somewhat different counsel could be given by a Jew named Ananias, that a convert, namely Izates (II), could possibly not apply the prescription of circumcision to himself (§ 42, τὸ ἔργον). For another, at least since 1994 an exact (Aramaic‑)Hebrew parallel to the Greek syntagm ἔργα νόμου (or ἐξ ἔργων νόμου) has been known, the expression ‫ )מקצת( מעשי התורה‬from 4QMMT C27, at that time rendered by “(some of the) precepts of the Torah.”41 Especially with a glance at Rom 3–4 and Gal 2–3 it is of considerable interest that in line C31 justification terminology is encountered as well. But this should not obscure another matter: eye-opening parallels in three other lines of the document, namely in B2, where it reads ‫)ה(מעשים‬, “[the] works” (cf. esp. Rom 4:2, 6), and in B1 as in C30, where in each case the expression ‫מקצת דברינו‬, “some of our words” (on this see for instance Deut 1:1; 5:22), is used (cf. moreover esp. Lev 18:3[–5]; CD I.1–2; II.14–15; VI.842). So close to the end of the document, in which almost 20 “halakhic” requirements have been dealt with from line B1 on, these prescripts in 4QMMT C27 are viewed in retrospect, and these regulations are judged differently among those referred to as “we” than among persons of an out group (on this see simply B8–10). Thus, synchrony like diachrony demonstrates that the eight Pauline instances of ἔργα νόμου – of which no less than seven (the exception is Rom 3:28; cf. 3:21; 4:6) display a very precise, rather exact form reminiscent of the (Aramaic‑)Hebrew syntagm from 4QMMT C27, namely, ἐξ ἔργων νόμου (on the preposition cf. esp. Dan 1:5LXX)43 – precisely point to something prescriptive and thereby at least primarily reckon with such ceremonial regulations that distinguish Jews from non-Jews, (for men) especially the regulation of circumcision. The fact that Paul deliberately and emphatically excludes non-Jews who accept the gospel for themselves from this circumcision regulation (perhaps one ought to say, on a certain analogy to the council of Ananias in Josephus, Ant. 20.40–42), is according to Gal 2:15–21 naturally connected with the insight that 41 On this see Bachmann, “Was für Praktiken?” 209–210, 220–222 (together with n. 74), further of course E. Qimron and J. Strugnell eds., Qumran Cave 4. Vol. V: Miqṣat Ma‘aśeh Ha-Torah (DJD X; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), esp. 63, where the translation quoted is found, “some of the precepts of the Torah.” 42  On this see esp. Bergmeier, Gerechtigkeit, Gesetz und Glaube bei Paulus, 30–31; M. Bachmann, “Synchrone und diachrone Exegese des Neuen Testaments. Zu Unsinn und Sinn bibelwissenschaftlicher Arbeit,” in: Von Paulus zur Apokalypse, 13–35, 31–32 (cf. Bachmann., “Bemerkungen zur Auslegung zweier Genitivverbindungen der Galaterbriefs: ‘Werke des Gesetzes’ (Gal 2,16 u. ö.) und ‘Israel Gottes’ (Gal 6,16),” in: Von Paulus zur Apokalypse, 277– 298 [orig., 2010], 284 n. 39); Bachmann, “‫ עשה‬/ ​ ‫מעשה‬,” Theologisches Wörterbuch zu den Qumranschriften 3 (2016), III.4. Cf., however, Lindemann, “Christusglaube und ‘Werke des Gesetzes,’” 243 (together with) n. 47. 43 Cf. once again Bachmann, “Was für Praktiken?” 220 (together with n. 74). Cf. n. 37 above.

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also Jews joining Jesus Christ experience themselves as sinners (see esp. v. 17a), which on the basis of the death of Jesus (on behalf of others) appears unavoidable.44 That insight also implies that the possible expectation that διὰ νόμου δισκαιοσύνη could be bestowed (see esp. v. 21b) does not come into question. The apostle, nevertheless, does not conclude from this that the νόμος has simply come to an end – precisely not with respect to ethics – also not in Rom 10:4.45 On the contrary!46 To be sure, that law, if one follows Gal 3:19–20a, has been delivered through a “mediator,” Moses. The mediator is (according to just this passage in Galatians) “not of one” (v. 20a) but “of many” (see Gal 3:16; cf. v. 20a), and accordingly obviously precisely Jews are understood as those who received the Torah. If here the Torah is characterized as “commanded by angels” (Gal 3:19), this hardly means destruction of the law (cf. esp. Deut 33:2LXX; Jos. Ant. 15.136; Acts 7:53; Heb 2:2).47 Not least of all Rom 13:8–10 and Gal 5:14 elucidate this (cf. Gal 2:19–20, further esp. Rom 3:31; 7:12). The apostle is, however, actually of the opinion – and he considers this to be “the truth of the gospel” – that Jewish “boundary markers” should certainly not be considered binding for non-Jews who affiliate with the gospel, if God is after all the God of Jews and also the God of non-Jews (cf. again Rom 3:29–30). But since this according to Paul’s understanding means anything but the abrogation of the Torah in principle (see anew Rom 3:29–31; 7:12), what is precisely at stake is that individual non-Jewish Christ followers should not cross over the important and simultaneously delicate boundary between Jews and non-Jews in such a way that they become Jews, in such a way that they cease to be non-Jews (see esp. Gal 5:2[–6]; cf. 6:11–16a). Compared with aspects of redemptive history and of the Jewish roots of the Christ movement (see again Rom 9:1–5; cf. esp. 1:3–4; Gal 4:4–5.), to which precisely also the ἀποστολὴ τῆς περιτομῆς (Gal 2:8; cf. again v. 7: [τὸ εὐαγγέλιον] τῆς περιτομῆς) with its claim to a certain priority belongs, it is a somewhat other question when dealings of Jewish Christ followers with non-Jewish people, who might come or had come into contact with the gospel, are considered. In relation to such Jews – not least of all himself – Paul judges, as the scene in Gal 2:11–14 indicates, that they have to put aside their own observance of ceremonial commandments, that is, here, certain food regulations, in particular instances. By means of the εἰ-πῶς-sentence in v. 14b – analogous to 1 Cor 15:12 (and 1 Cor 44 On

this see (at) n. 19 above.  On this see esp. Haacker, Der Brief des Paulus an die Römer, 247–250. Cf. Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles,” 95. 46 On this see Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles,” 89–103. Cf. e. g. Merklein, “Paulus III,” 1501–02, and I. Pollmann, Gesetzeskritische Motive im Judentum und die Gesetzeskritik des Paulus (NTOA / ​StUNT 98; Göttingen / ​Bristol [CT]: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), esp. 23, 238. 47  On this see Zimmermann, Gott und seine Söhne, 69–73 together with n. 10; Bachmann, “Zu temporalen Momenten des Galaterbriefs,” nn. 74–93, esp. n. 93. Cf. (however) Pollmann, Gesetzeskritik des Paulus, 225–230 together with 30–31. 45

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15:13, 20a [cf. vv. 20b, 21]) – presumably an implied syllogism gets down to the point with the premise, or partial statement, then substantiated by Gal 2:15–21, that is, with: “The Jew(ish Christian) must not live strictly in a Jewish way (inasmuch as the halakhot are relativized through Christ).”48 Also the passage 1 Cor 9:19–22 ought to be understood similarly, where it says in v. 21 that he, Paul, has become τοῖς ἀνόμοις ὡς ἄνομος. The doubled hedging in connection with this ὡςphrase (μὴ ὢν ἄνομος θεοῦ ἀλλ’ ἔννομος Χριστοῦ), which is given here in distinction from v. 20, makes clear that the νόμος is thereby not simply abandoned.49 This fits best with the slogan in 1 Cor 7:19b: τήρησις ἐντολῶν θεοῦ (cf. esp. Rom 1:32; 2:14, 15, 26; 8:4). The boundary between Jews and non-Jews that has actually lapsed with the new creation according to Gal 3:28 in a way still continues to exist all the same; indeed, it is rather important. Non-Jewish and Jewish Christ followers should deal carefully with this delicate state of affairs in the interest of the universally available gospel, which goes out from Israel. To say this with Rom 2:26, both groups, including the uncircumcised, remain directed by τὰ δικαιώματα τοῦ νόμου – and not by ceremonial regulations, which are customarily emphasized with the syntagm ἔργα νόμου.50 For Jews the process under consideration is thereby complicated, inasmuch as for them and their relation to, for example, the pertinent food regulations, which in the normal case are upheld, it holds that in association with non-Jewish members of the congregation – in a somewhat threatening conflict at that – it would be better for this not to happen, because otherwise (to express it in allusion to Gal 2:12b) things might come to their withdrawal from the overarching fellowship determined by the gospel. Also other two border lines, which are mentioned in Gal 3:28 and which emerge from the juxtaposition of slave and free as well as of man and woman, according to Paul are to be considered in conduct, because these markers are indeed in principle possible to overcome, but still exist de facto. For this kind of distinction Paul says in 1 Cor 7 quite generally: “Each one should remain before God in the [state] in which he or she was called” (v. 24; cf. vv. 17a, 20). This holds now not 48 See

82).

Bachmann, “Identität bei Paulus,” 588 (cf. in general pp. 587–588 together with nn. 81–

 On this see for instance Zeller, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, 318, further Bachmann, “Paul, Israel and the Gentiles,” 97. Cf. M. D. Nanos, “Paul’s Relationship to Torah in Light of his Strategy ‘to Become Everything to Everyone’ (1 Corinthians 9.19–23),” in: Paul and Judaism (Bieringer and Pollefeyt eds.), 106–140, esp. 138–139. 50  With the phrase quoted from Rom 2:26, here also those further syntagms may be combined, with which “Paul […] quite positively [speaks] about commandments that stand in in connection with the Torah” (Bachmann, “Neue Zugänge zu Paulus,” 273–274). “Most important examples are expressions in Rom 1–2; 8, and 1 Cor 7: ‘the work [indeed, the entire requirement] of the law’ (Rom 2:15); ‘the righteous requirement of the law’ (Rom 8:4); ‘the [things / ​ requirements] of the law” (Rom 2:14); ‘the righteous requirements of the law’ (Rom 2:26); ‘God’s righteous requirement’ (Rom 1:32); ‘God’s commandments’ (1 Cor 7:19)” (p. 274, where the brackets [with the contents] are found too). Cf. further Rom 2:6; 7:12, also (at) n. 38 above. 49

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only for circumcision and uncircumcision (see vv. 18–19a) but also for freedom and slavery (see v. 21–23) as well. The apostle approves the possibility of a real setting free,51 as then indeed his endeavor to intercede for Onesimus with his master Philemon, indicates his attention to economic conditions (Phlm, esp. 18–19a).52 However, Paul’s argument is determined almost equally by a flexible linguistic approach to the categories of freedom and slavery, which pertains to behavior corresponding to the new creation. Onesimus should no longer be considered as a slave, but as “more than a slave,” that is, as “a beloved brother” – and this “both in the flesh and in the Lord” (Phlm 16[–17]) – and even though Paul is “free with respect to all,” nevertheless he has made himself, as it says in 1 Cor 9:19, “a slave to all.” Parallel to this is the expression of 1 Cor 7:22–23, which effects a paradox involving one “who is called as a slave,” who “is a freed person of the Lord,” and one “who is called as a freed person,” who “is a slave of Christ.” This mode of expression aims at the imperative: “Do not become slaves of human beings!” The remarks on the relationship of man and woman, which are offered by the apostle not least of all in 1 Cor 7, without question cause certain difficulties in the modern world (see esp. vv. 26b, 27–28, 29c, 40a).53 But under the proviso of the “brevity of the [remaining] time” (v. 29b) these remarks are at the same time not simply adverse to sexuality (see esp. v. 9). Especially it should be noted that the behavior that is recommended should be determined by whether the addressees thus “always serve the Lord” (v[v]. [33–]35b). Delicate boundaries that still exist are thus taken into account from the perspective of the Christ event, and this should help the individual member of the community to deal with such boundary lines in a new way.

3. Implications As was already mentioned at the beginning, in many areas of the modern world quite distinct realities and perceptions bump against each other. In this sense the situation today is comparable to the Roman Empire in certain respects, although of course the geographical space as it is perceived at the present time (and which contributes to such contacts of differences) is as a rule clearly more wide-reaching than was the case then. Present conditions closely approach the universal significance of the gospel that reaches out far beyond Judaism. Especially the necessity of forgiveness of sins will be clear for many people who do not shut their eyes to crime, injustices, warring conflicts, and the predatory exploitation of nature. In this respect the merely Zeller, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, esp. 253, 255.  On this see merely E. Reinmuth, Der Brief des Paulus an Philemon (THKNT 11/II; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006), 49–50. 53 Cf. for instance Zeller, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, esp. 278. 51 Cf. 52

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gospel ought to be on the agenda in our day, for Jews as well as for non-Jews. Concerning the boundary that is thereby touched on, a quite new location has of course emerged. Thus the configuration of Gal 2:7–8 threatens to be lost from sight simply on account of the large number of non-Jewish Christ followers, i. e., the configuration according to which for Peter, that is for a Jew, the discourse did apply to the ἀποστολὴ τῆς περιτομῆς (v. 8; cf. anew v. 7: [τὸ εὐαγγέλιον] τῆς περιτομῆς). But the fact that the gospel was first delivered to Jews and holds for them also precisely in this sense should not be ignored in view of the altered circumstances and also in view of the appalling, indeed, catastrophic anti-Jewish and anti-Semitic misinterpretations of Pauline statements, and one should also not attempt to, so to say, neutralize this state of affairs for instance with reference to Rom 11:25–26 and Gal 6:16. This of course is not to say that gentile Christians, all the more German gentile Christians, could even be suited to effect such an orientation of the gospel toward Jews. In view of the additional markers between slave and free as well as between man and woman, also addressed in Gal 3:28, Christianity is challenged without question to emphasize energetically the fundamental relativizing of these boundaries. Corresponding social and political action is assigned to Christian women and Christian men, and also here eschatological hopes in particular should not serve to obscure what is demanded here and now. The love commandment, esteemed as the essence of the Torah (see anew Rom 13:8–10; Gal 5:14; cf. 2:19–20, further 6:2), tolerates no deferment! The relativizing of Jewish ceremonial commandments, including the regulation prescribing circumcision and the specifications concerning food, ought likewise to be of considerable significance for our situation. A certain relevance for these regulations is indeed quite definitely acknowledged by Paul, for example, in 1 Cor 7:18. This could mean, for instance, not merely to tolerate reluctantly Muslim women who wear burkas, but rather to understand them with great openness as proponents of their tradition. Of course Paul’s words in 1 Cor 7:19a beyond doubt contest a lofty opinion on the ongoing value of circumcision and uncircumcision  – in light of the Christ event. This should make members of Christian communities quite cautious about complacently adopting uncritical esteem of such “boundary markers,” which today quite frequently emerge in the juxtaposition of cultures and indeed often are especially emphasized – whether at a given moment the matter has to do with questions of food, of clothing, of relationships between genders, of possessions, or of the dealings with nature. If one judges on the basis of Pauline statements, all of this has a certain significance, but it ought not be too highly esteemed.54 Even the principle of political 54  On this see M. Bachmann, “Biblische Didaktik ohne historische Rechenschaft? Einige Notizen und das Beispiel der (paulinischen) Rechtfertigungsbotschaft,” in: Von Paulus zur Apokalypse, 227–250 (orig., 2009), 245–246, and Woyke, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes,” 226.

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correctness, which in recent years appears so important for many, ought to be relativized in not a few cases. For Christians the love commandment surely is in force. For such persons it should have a higher priority than other maxims (cf. for instance also 1 Cor 8:1).

Who is the “Lord of Grace”? Jesus’ Parables in Imperial Context James R. Harrison 1. Territorial Borders and the Ideology of Marginalisation 1.1 The Borders of Australia and the Question of Mercy to Asylum Seekers The ideology of territorial “borders” and the inclusion or exclusion of peoples living therein has been at the forefront of Australian identity from the establishment of the first British colony in 1788 under Governor Philip Gidley King. The legal fiction of terra nullius − a land belonging to nobody − depicted the landmass as empty of any inhabitants, notwithstanding the presence of the indigenous Australian peoples who had settled in the continent approximately 50,000 to 65,000 years before.1 The empty continent was at long last ready for occupation by settlers, convicts, and migrants, with the early explorers mapping out the boundaries of the landmass. The property rights of indigenous Australians, however, were rejected from the outset, with the result that they were dispossssed of their land. The early British colonisers also ignored the fact that Australia had been regularly visited by non-indigenous migrants to the continent. The Melanesian Papuans from the north-east and the Macassan fleets of Indonesian fishermen from the north-west had frequent contact with the northern part of the continent and its indigenous peoples for hundreds of years before.2 Furthermore, the western and northern coastline of Australia had been charted and occasionally landed upon by the Dutch well before the British arrival. But even these preliminary European contacts with Australia del Espiritu Santo (“The Australian Land of the Holy Spirit”), as the Portugese navigator Queirós called the undiscovered southern continent, were ignored in the British colonial mythology of “discovery.”3 Consequently, as S. Perera has argued, this 1 See H. Reynolds, Aboriginal Sovereignty: Reflecting on Race, State and Nation (Crows Nest: Allen and Unwin, 1996); B. Attwood, Telling the Truth About Aboriginal History (Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2005); S. Webb, The First Boat People (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 2  See C. MacKnight, The Voyage to Marege: Macassan Trepangers in Northern Australia (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1976). 3 See J. P. Sigmond and L. H. Zuiderbaan, Dutch Discoveries of Australia: Shipwrecks, Treas­ ures, and Early Voyages Off the West Coast (Adelaide: Rigby, 1979).

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boundary marking created a spatial and carceral order that (a) kept foreigners at a distance by regulating the entry of non-white British subjects to Australia and (b) enclosed the indigenous Australian peoples “within clearly demarcated national borders.”4 The geographical separation of land and sea in Australia has created a mythology of continental “insularity,” which the early British settlers and later AngloSaxon migrants perceived to be axiomatic.5 What emerged was a tight control of the country’s borders because Australia’s boundaries naturally coincided with its landmass. This resulted in the Colony of Victoria passing the Chinese Act which limited the number of Chinese immigrants on the 11th June 1855. After the federation of the Australian colonial states in 1901, the Immigration Restriction Act was passed by the first Parliament of Australia. The infamous “White Australia” policy, which intentionally favoured immigration from certain European countries to Australia, had arrived. The fear of the “outsider” and of the invasion of Australian borders by “ethnic” groups other than the dominant Anglo-Celtic, Judeo-Christian white population remained deeply ingrained for decades.6 But, with immigration and the gradual advent of multi-culturalism in the late 1950’s and 1960’s, the arrival of Vietnamese boat-refugees on the Australian continent in the 1970’s and 1980’s received a (largely) compassionate response among everyday Australians.7 However, with the successive prime ministerial elections of Howard (1996−2007), Rudd and Gillard (2007−2013), and Abbott (2013−2015), Australian attitudes towards boat people violating the country’s territorial borders have again hardened. There is virtually no difference between the Liberal-National Coalition and Labor parties on the issue, with each party positioning itself as “tougher” than the other on issues of border protection and asylum seeker claims. During the Howard era, the Liberal-National Coalition, with Labor party support from 2001−2007, intercepted and deported asylum seekers arriving by boats in Australian waters to Pacific island nations, as opposed to processing their claims to refugee status onshore in Australian detention centres. The “Pacific Solution,” as the policy was called, nominated the offshore dentention sites of Christmas Island, Manus Island in Papua New Guinea, and the island nation of Nauru. Although this policy violated Australia’s international law 4 S. Perera, Australia and the Insular Imagination: Beaches, Borders, Boats, and Bodies (New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2009), 27. 5  Perera, Australia, 8–10, 31−51. 6 See G. Hage, White Nation: Fantasies of White Supremacy in a Multicultural Society (Annandale: Pluto, 1998); M. Dixson, The Imaginary Australian: Anglo-Celts and Identity – 1788 to the Present (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 1999); P. Mares, Borderline: Austral­ ia’s Treatment of Refugees and Asylum Seekers (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2001); A. Burke, In Fear of Security: Australia’s Invasion Anxiety (Annandale: Pluto, 2002). 7  See N. M. Vo, The Vietnamese Boat People, 1954 and 1975–1992 (Jefferson: McFarland and Co., 2005).

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obligations,8 the Prime Minister John Howard famously stated in his 28th October 2001 election policy speech: “We will decide who comes to this country and the circumstances in which they come.” The ensuing Labor Government (2007−2013) initially abandoned the “Pacific Solution,” though without fundamentally changing Australia’s border policing policies. But, with the increasing arrivals of refugee boats in Australian territorial waters, the Gillard government capitulated to public pressure and revived the “Pacific Solution” on the 18th August 2012.9 With the election of the Liberal-National Coalition government in 2013 under Prime Minister Abbott, “Operation Sovereign Borders” began on the 18th September. Maritime arrivals of asylum seekers were turned away in covert operations by the navy from Australian territorial waters to international waters, forcing them back to the land of their voyage’s origin, and ending within months the people-smuggling trade to Australia. Offshore detention and processing centres for refugees still continue at Papua New Guinea and Nauru, with a new agreement struck in September 2014 for the resettlement of asylum seekers from Australia’s offshore detention centres to the impoverished country of Cambodia. It is a country with a terrible record for protecting the human rights of asylum seekers, and, as a Buddhist nation, is hostile towards Muslims, the faith of many of the asylum seekers.10 The other offshore detention sites also have their own human rights abuses, particularly in relation to the physical and mental health of the detainees, many of whom are children. Consequently, many detainees self-harm or commit suicide. Further, the denigration of asylum seekers in the political language of the Liberal Coalition government is calculated to demonise them: they are “illegals” or “queue jumpers,” not having applied to come to Australia by the normal immigration processes, but rather arriving mostly without proper documentation, as opposed to the “genuine refugees.” In this ideological construct, the “worthiness” of those who are admitted to Australia by the proper legal processes stands in contrast to the “unworthiness” of those who attempt to arrive by boat in violation of border controls. 1.2 The Borders of Roman Empire and the Question of Mercy in Its First-Century Context The uncompromising atttitude of Australian governments towards asylum seekers is reminiscent of the Roman paranoia about the vulnerability of their  8  See R. Mansted, “The Pacific Solution − Assessing Australia’s Compliance with International Law,” Bond University Student Law Review 3/1 (2007): 1−11.  9 See M. Grewcock, “Back to the Future: Australia’s Border Policing under Labor 2007−​ 2013,” State Crime Journal 3/1 (2014): 102−125. 10  See A. Warbrooke, “Australia’s ‘Pacific Solution’: Issues for the Pacific Islands,” Asia and the Pacific Policy Studies 1/2 (2014): 337−348.

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borders to the incursion of the “barbarian” peoples, with the Roman armies subjugating the contumacious tribes, and humiliating them visually in their triumphal iconography.11 The Roman practice of demeaning the barbarians at the borders of empire did not change with the arrival of Christian emperors. More fundamentally, the Roman extension of clementia (“mercy”) to personal and national enemies was characterised by a prior evaluation of the “worthiness” of the individual or group so that clementia would not degenerate into misericordia (“pity”). Scrupulous consideration was also given as to whether the demands of “justice” (iustitia) would be compromised by granting such people mercy. The “borders” of ancient mercy were just as difficult to negotiate as the Australian territorial waters are for modern asylum seekers. Luke’s portrait of divine mercy in the parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (Luke 18:10−14:  Ὁ θέος, ἱλάσθητί μοι [v. 13b]; cf.  Ὁ ποιήσας τὸ ἔλεος: 10:37; ἐλέησον με: 16:24) is terminologically and conceptually different to imperial clementia. The parable challenged the dominant social ideology by proposing that divine mercy could be exercised towards the “unworthy” (Luke 18:13b: τῷ ἁμαρτωλῷ), but, intriguingly, without thereby compromising the demands of divine justice (18:14a: δεδικαιωμένος). The unusualness of what is happening is further underscored by Luke’s unconventional use of the imperative ἱλάσθητί (“be merciful,” “be gracious”) instead of the more conventional LXX usage (ἐλέησον: “have mercy”).12 It would have caught the eye of readers schooled in the LXX as much as readers of the Roman texts. By the time of Domitian, as we will see, imperial clementia had come to be distinguished in some Roman minds from the excesses of the ruler’s tyranny. No longer could the Roman ruler be naively considered, as the Julio-Claudian propaganda had proposed, to be clementia incarnate. A crucial question therefore arises: Given the strictures regarding the allocation of mercy in the imperial world, how would Jesus’ parables about grace to the “unworthy” have been received by their Gentile auditors as the gospel increasingly penetrated the eastern Mediterranean basin? Before we investigate more fully the ideological borders of mercy in the Roman world, what has New Testament scholarship said about Jesus’ parables in their imperial context? What methodologicial caveats are necessary for charting the hermeneutical movement of Jesus’ parables from the soil of Galilee to the paved streets of Rome? With that discussion firmly in place, we will then set out the structure of our investigation. 11  See J. R. Harrison, “‘More Than Conquerors’ (Rom 8:37): Paul’s Gospel and the Augustan Triumphal Arches of the Greek and Latin West,” Buried History 47 (2011): 3−21; idem, “Paul’s ‘Indebtedness’ to the Barbarian (Rom 1:14) in Latin West Perspective,” NovT 55 (2013): 311−348. 12 J. Nolland, Luke 9:21−18:34 (Word 35b: Nashville, Thomas Nelson, 1993), 887. Nolland points out that in Classical Greek ἱλάσκεσθαι means “to be appeased”, whereas in the LXX, with one exception (Exod 32:14: “to be mollified”), the word regularly means “to forgive” or “to have mercy.”

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2. The Borders of Imperial Grace: Misericordia or Clementia? Jesus researchers have not isolated clearly enough the political implications of Jesus’ parables of grace in their first-century context.13 This is the case whether the backdrop chosen for comparison is the later corpus of rabbinic parables or the contemporary propaganda of the imperial rulers. In the case of the rabbinic parables, many studies have compared Jesus’ parables with those of the Tannaim. However, scholars have more focused on the genre and style of the rabbinic parables than on their social relevance and political intent. In a monumental work, I. Ziegler argued that references to “kings” and “kingdoms” in the rabbinic parables had the imperial rulers in view.14 But Lukan scholars have not taken Ziegler’s lead in discussing imperial beneficence in relation to the advent of the Kingdom in Jesus’ parables.15 Studies of the Palestinian context of Jesus’ parables have briefly touched on the imperial context. In a seminal study, W. R. Herzog II has delineated the subversive social content of Jesus’ parables within their Palestinian milieu, add13 On

the social, political, economic, and ideological issues underlying the parables, see J. S. Kloppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard: Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); E. van Eck, “Interpreting the Parables of the Galilean Jesus: A Social-Scientific Approach,” HvTSt 65/1 (2009): 310−321. 14  I. Ziegler (Die Königsgleichnisse des Midrasch beleuchtet durch die römische Kaiserzeit [Bresslau: S. Schottlaender, 1903]) discusses 937 rabbinic parables of the “kingdom” and “kings” against the backdrop of the reigns of the Caesars from the time of Augustus to Diocletian. C. L.  Blomberg (Interpreting the Parables [Leicester: Apollos, 1990], 62) comments that Ziegler’s study shows “the great detail with which [the rabbinic parables] accurately reflected life under the emperors.” Surprisingly, Ziegler does not examine the rabbinic parables from the perspective of imperial clementia (“mercy”) or the other imperial virtues. This omission is explained by the conventional nature of Ziegler’s imperial analysis (offices and honours, proconsular power, jurisdiction, civil service, family and slaves, amici etc.). Unfortunately, Ziegler’s coverage of the Caesars as benefactors (Die Königsgleichnisse, 311−327), important for Jesus’ parables of grace, is confined to the motif of “bread and circuses.” The empire-wide networks of imperial benefaction are bypassed. Notably, Jesus’ parable of the ten minas, as rendered by Luke (19:11−27), shares with the later rabbinic parables imperial reference in its Palestinian context (J., AJ 17.299−323; BJ 2.80−100). 15 For discussion of the rabbinic parables against the backdrop of Jesus’ parables, see P. Fiebig, Altjüdische Gleichnisse und die Gleichnisse Jesu (Tübingen and Leipzig: Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1904); idem, Die Gleichnisreden Jesu im Lichte der Rabbinischen Gleichnisse des Neutestament­ lichen Zeitaltars: Ein Beitrag zum Streit um die “Christusmythe” und eine Widerlegung der Gleichnistheorie Jülichers (Tübingen and Leipzig: Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1912); R. M. Johnston, Parabolic Interpretations Attributed to Tannaim (unpub. PhD thesis, The Hartford Seminary Foundation, 1977); D. Flusser, Die rabbinischen Gleichnisse und der Gleichniserzähler Jesus. 1. Teil: Das Wesen der Gleichnisse (Bern: Peter Lang, 1981); B. H. Young, Jesus and His Jewish Parables: Rediscovering the Roots of Jesus’ Teaching (Mahwah: Paulist Press, 1989); H. K. McArthur and R. M. Johnston, They Also Taught in Parables: Rabbinic Parables from the First Cen­ turies of the Christian Era (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1990). Young (Jesus, 259−266) discusses grace in the parable of the Labourers in the Vineyard (Matt 20:1−16) against the backdrop of several rabbinic parables, whereas McArthur and Johnston (They Also Taught, 165−180) do not mention the role of grace in Jesus’ parables.

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ing substantially to D. E. Oakman’s study of the economic dimensions of Jesus’ ministry.16 Herzog discusses the social context of the “mercy” traditions in the parables, demonstrating sensitivity to the impact of the Romans and their clients upon the Judean and Galilean economy in the parables of mercy.17 But the imperial context of clementia in the first century is not explored.18 Regarding the imperial context of the parables, modern interpreters have overlooked the fact that the retelling of Jesus’ parables by subsequent generations of believers throughout the Roman Empire would have posed questions for their auditors about the social and political consequences of the “reign of grace.”19 In the first century, the eschatological age of Augustus marked a watershed in beneficence. From the late first century BC, as the Julian house eclipsed its rivals, beneficence was monopolised by the Caesars. The one-sidedness of this contest struck contemporary observers as a turning point. This was reflected in the Augustan propaganda and in the arrival of the Neronis quinquennium.20 Luke’s 16  See W. R. Herzog II, Parables of Subversive Speech: Jesus as Pedagogue of the Oppressed (Louisville: Westminster / ​John Knox Press, 1994); D. E. Oakman, Jesus and the Economic Ques­ tions of His Day (Lewiston / ​Queenstown: Edwin Mellen Press, 1986), esp. 95−139. On the imperial cult in Roman Judaea, see H. Hänlein-Schäfer, Veneratio Augusti: Eine Studie zu den Tempeln des ersten römischen Kaisers (Rome: Bretschneider, 1985), 201−203; L. C. Kahn, “King Herod’s Temple of Roma and Augustus at Caesarea Maritima,” in: Caesarea Maritima: A Retrospective after Two Millennia (A. Raban and K. G. Holum eds.; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996), 130−145; K. G. Holum, “The Temple Platform: Progress Report on the Excavations,” in: Cae­ sarea Papers (A. Raban and K. G. Holum eds.; Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement Series 35: Portsmouth, RI, 1999), 233−240; J. E. Taylor, “Pontius Pilate and the Imperial Cult in Roman Judaea,” NTS 52/4 (2006): 555−582; M. Bernett, Der Kaiserkult in Judäa unter den Herodiern und Römern: Untersuchungen zur politischen und religiösen Geschichte Judäas von 30 v. bis 66 n. Chr. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). 17  Herzog II, Parables, 173−193. 18 Herzog II, Parables, 142–146, 192–193. K. E. Bailey (Poet and Peasant and Through Peas­ ant Eyes: A Literary-Cultural Approach to the Parables in Luke [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983], 112 –113 [Through Peasant Eyes section]) highlights the centrality of the parables of grace in Luke, analysing their social implications from the perspective of Middle Eastern peasant culture (ibid., 30–37). 19  On the stages of transmission of the parables, see J. Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus (rev. ed. London: SCM, 1972), 22–114. J. D. Crossan (“The Parables of Jesus,” Int 56/3 [2002]: 253) comments regarding the anti-imperial thrust of the parables: “the function of Jesus’ parables was to create debate about justice, to raise consciousness about oppression, to ask how God would run this world if God sat on Caesar’s throne, and to do all that through internal transformation rather than external domination.” Crossan sets this debate in a communal context: “Jesus’ parables were lures not for personal thought but for communal debate by interactive hearers” (ibid., 251). However, the parables were not just a matter of abstract community debate but “a genre for a divine counter-kingdom” (ibid., 258). As Crossan concludes (ibid., 258), “The kingdom, as God’s will for this earth, can be entered here and now by the many through a lifestyle of horizontal sharing from the bottom of society upwards. Such a covenantal kingdom was, of course, in calculated opposition to Antipas’ commercial sub-kingdom of Rome entered here and now by the few through a hierarchical lifestyle of greed from the top downwards.” 20  See J. R. Harrison, Paul’s Language of Grace in Its Graeco-Roman Context (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 226–234; s. v. Index “Ancient Benefactors: Caesars.”

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gospel, as R. A. Horsley has demonstrated, is alert to the themes of Augustan propaganda and resists its soteriological implications.21 But scholars have not bothered to examine the Lukan parables of grace from the perspective of imperial mercy, especially in light of the first-century Roman debate regarding to whom mercy should be proffered.22 This is not to imply that little research has been conducted on the imperial context of Jesus’ parables in the last decade. Three examples will suffice to demonstrate the fruitfulness of recent scholarship in the area, though its focus has mainly been on Matthew’s gospel. First, C. K. Rowe, in a methodologically sophisticated article, focuses on the κύριος terminology of Luke-Acts in its JulioClaudian and Flavian context, but only briefly discusses the parables in Luke’s gospel (Luke 12:39−40, 42b−48).23 Second, J. A. Overman has investigated the parables of the Wicked Tenants (Matt 21:32−36) and the Great Supper (22:1−14) from the perspective of imperial client-patron relationships. Third, in a series of innovative studies, W. Carter has thrown light on the way that the gospel of Matthew interacts with Roman imperial theology.24 Importantly for our purposes, Carter discusses two Matthean parables (Matt 18:23–35; 22:1–14), setting them in the context of the gods’ election of Nero and imperial alliances with local elites.25 Carter argues that Mathew’s gospel, in rendering the parabolic tradition of Jesus, “both resists and utilises an imperial paradigm.”26 He adopts the same approach in his discussion of Jesus’ parables in a socio-political and religious reading of Matthew.27 21  See R. A. Horsley, The Liberation of Christmas: The Infancy Narratives in Social Context (New York: Crossroad, 1989), 2338. 22  S. C. Barton (“Parables on God’s Love and Forgiveness (Luke 15:1–32),” in: The Challenge of Jesus’ Parables [R. N. Longenecker ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], 199–216) discusses the parables of grace from the perspective of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s “cheap grace,” but he does not touch on the imperial or rabbinic context. 23  See C. K. Rowe, “Luke-Acts and the Imperial Cult: A Way Through the Conundrum?” JSNT 27/3 (2005): 279–300, esp. 295. See also S. Walton, “The State They Were In: Luke’s View of the Roman Empire,” in: Rome in the Bible and the Early Church (P. Oakes ed.; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 1–41. 24 W. Carter, “Contested Claims: Roman Imperial Theology and Matthew’s Gospel,” BTB 29 (1999): 56–67; idem, “Toward an Imperial-Critical Reading of Matthew’s Gospel,” SBL 1998 Seminar Papers Part One (Scholars Press: Atlanta, 1998): 296–324; idem, “Are There Imperial Texts in the Class? Intertextual Eagles and Matthean Eschatology as ‘Lights Out’ Time for Imperial Rome (Matthew 24:27–31),” JBL 122/3 (2003): 467–487; idem, “Matthew’s Gospel, Rome’s Empire, and the Parable of the Mustard Seed (Mt 13:31–32),” in: Hermeneutik der Gleichnisse Jesu: Methodische Neuansätz zum Verstehen urchristlicher Parabeltexte (R. Zimmermann and G. Kern eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 181–201. Cf. J. Riches and D. C. Sim eds., The Gospel of Matthew in Its Roman Imperial Context (London / ​New York: Clark, 2005), passim. 25  W. Carter, “Resisting and Imitating the Empire: Imperial Paradigms in Two Matthean Parables,” Int 56/3 (2002): 260–272. 26  Carter, “Resisting and Imitating the Empire,” 262 (emphasis Carter’s). 27  W. Carter (Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical Reading [Maryknoll, New York: Orbis, 2001], 36–40) reconstructs the imperial context of Matthew’s gospel at Antioch, draw-

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As ground breaking as this research has been, the Lukan parables of grace – with their emphasis on mercy (῾Ο ποίησας τὸ ἔλεος: Luke 10:37; ἐλέησόν με: 16:24; ἱλάσθητί μοι: 18:13) and compassion (ἐσπλαγχνίσθη: 10:33; 15:20)  – have been bypassed by New Testament scholars. How were these parabolic traditions of “mercy” understood in Julio-Claudian and Flavian contexts where clemen­ tia (“mercy”) was vaunted in the literary and numismatic propaganda of the Caesars? From the time of the late republic through to the reign of Domitian, clementia belonged to a group of royal virtues, discussed in the Hellenistic Περὶ βασιλείας literature, which were later transferred to the rulers of the Roman state with the arrival of the Roman hegemony in the Greek East.28 Another important issue for Roman auditors would have been how clementia related to misericordia (“tender-heartedness,” “pity,” “compassion”). Seneca had explored the relationship between each concept in his (incomplete) second book of De Clementia, written for the young Nero at the beginning of his reign. What relevance did Seneca’s manual of statecraft have for Roman auditors of Luke’s gospel? How would they have understood the dimension of “compassion” in the Lukan parables when misericordia was contrasted unfavourably with clem­ entia in the Roman sources? The recent publication of monographs by classical scholars on “pity” and “clemency” makes our investigation timely.29 Our methodological approach to Luke’s evidence needs to be clarified. If later generations of believers were, to various degrees, geographically, ethnically and socially removed from the late twenties Palestinian context of Jesus’ teaching, how can we determine the way in which Luke’s parables of grace might have been perceived in the imperial context from the early sixties to the late eighties? First, Luke is a third generation document, as the preface to the gospel makes clear (Luke 1:1−4).30 While some scholars assign the gospel to a pre-70 date, ing attention to the presence of God’s empire in Jesus over against the Roman state. See also idem, Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2001). 28 On the royal virtue of clemency in the Περὶ βασιλείας literature, see L. Delatte, Les traités de la royautè d’Ecphante, Diotogéne et Sthénidas (Paris: Librairie E. Droz, 1942), 263, 272. On the imperial virtues, see H. Axtell, The Deification of Abstract Ideas in Roman Literature and Inscriptions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1907); M. P. Charlesworth, “The Virtues of the Roman Emperor,” PBA 23 (1937): 105−133; A. D. Castro, Tacitus and the “Virtues” of the Roman Emperor: Imperial Propaganda in the Historiography of Tacitus (unpub. PhD diss. Indiana University, 1972); A. Wallace-Hadrill, “The Emperor and His Virtues,” Historia 30 (1981): 298–323; J. R. Fears, “The Cult of Virtues and Roman Imperial Ideology,” ANRW II. 17/2 (1981): 827–948. 29  D. Konstan, Pity Transformed (London: Duckworth, 2001); F. B. Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty in the Roman World (Michigan: University of Michigan Press, 2006). It is worth noting that in the Clementine Vulgate (4th cent. CE) clementia only appears 7 times, whereas miseri­ cordia appears 329 times. The statistic is striking. Does it point to − in the minds of the fourth century Latin translators of the bible at least − the total triumph of the LXX notion of unconditional misericordia (“tenderheartedness,” “compassion,” “pity,” [LXX equivalent: ἔλεος]) over the much more qualified Roman notion of clementia? 30 First generation: αὐτόπται καὶ ὑπηρέται γενόμενοι τοῦ λόγου (Luke 1:2). Second generation:

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the majority of scholars conclude that the work was written c. 80−90 CE.31 Therefore, in order to ensure that the differing contexts of imperial rule are respected, depending on one’s dating of Luke, we will look at the evidence of the Julio-Claudian and Flavian periods, though with a special focus on Seneca’s De Clementia.32 Second, a selection of genres of evidence (literature, inscriptions, coins, reliefs, gems and vessels) should guarantee that a variety of viewpoints and social constituencies are canvassed. Numismatic and relief evidence ensure that those with little or no literacy in the first century could access the propaganda of the Caesars in a meaningful way. The private world of gems and vessels, with their iconography, and the aristocratic bias of the literary evidence were counterbalanced by the ubiquity of the public inscriptions in a variety of contexts (e. g. eulogistic, funerary, legislative). Bystanders reading the inscriptions could fill in the illiterate on their formulaic content, including the professional guides who expounded the inscriptions for visitors to cities such as Corinth.33 Third, in the case of Matthew’s gospel, Carter has skilfully investigated the imperial context of Syrian Antioch,34 the cradle of Mathew’s community. But there is no consensus in modern scholarship as to which polis Luke’s gospel was composed in and disseminated from.35 Therefore Luke’s understanding of “mercy” in its imperial context cannot be given local definition, as is the case with Matthew. πολλοὶ ἐπεχείρησαν ἀνατάξασθαι διήγησιν (1:1). Third generation: ἡμῖν, i. e. Luke, Theophilus, and

the church (1:2). See E. Scheffler, “Compassionate Action: Living According to Luke’s Gospel,” in: Identity, Ethics, and Ethos in the New Testament (J. G. van der Watt ed.; Berlin / ​New York: de Gruyter, 2006), 79. 31 For the late sixties CE date, see I. H. Marshall, Commentary on Luke (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978), 33−35; for 80−85 CE, see J. A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke I−IX (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981), 57. 32 Rowe (“Luke-Acts and the Imperial Cult,” 281) has discussed the methodological problems raised by the various reconstructed situations for Luke, depending in each case on the dating of the gospel. 33 F. W. Danker (“On Stones and Benefactors,” CurTM 8/6 [1981]: 352) states: “when such a communication appears on stone, everyone knows that Rome means business. An inscription is meant to be read or heard – there’s always someone around to clue illiterate folk on the latest – by every citizen, temporary resident, slave, or tradesperson,” Plutarch (De Pyth. 395A) mentions the professional guides of Corinth expounding the inscriptions. 34  See Carter, Matthew and Empire, 35–53. 35  Rowe (“Luke-Acts and the Imperial Cult,” 281–282) comments on the interpretative difficulties faced by Lukan scholars because they do not know the precise place of origin or destination of Luke-Acts. While author Luke’s own Syrian and Antiochene origin seems assured (Fitzmyer, Luke I–IX, 41−47), the gospel’s place of composition and destination are uncertain. Note the comment of Fitzmyer, Luke I−IX, 57: “As for the place of composition of the Lucan Gospel, it is really anyone’s guess. The only thing that seems to be certain is that it was not written in Palestine […] In the long run, it is a matter of little concern, because the interpretation of the Lucan Gospel and Acts does not depend on it.” Apart from Luke’s audience being Gentile, we are in the dark regarding the gospel’s destination. This is especially the case if, as some have argued (R. Bauckham, ed., The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998]), the audience of the gospels was general.

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Even the case for a Roman or Syrian destination for Mark’s gospel is more easily established than a specific destination for Luke.36 We will therefore confine our investigation to the Latin terminology of “clemency” (clementia: “clemency”; misericordia: “pity”) as opposed to the Greek terminology of ἐπιείκεια (“fairness,” “clemency”: Latin equivalent, clementia), φιλανθρωπία (“humanity,” “benevolence,” “kindliness,” “clemency”) and ἔλεος (“pity”: Latin equivalent, mis­ ericordia; also, “mercy,” “compassion”).37 The strategy has advantages for our study. If we concentrate on the evidence of the Latin West, we will focus on the official propaganda regarding clementia, as well as the responses of disgruntled critics to its ideology in the capital38 This provides us with a stable perspective on how Roman auditors in the western empire might have interpreted the Lukan “mercy” traditions in the parables. Fourth, if the “we” passages in Acts represent the authentic “eyewitness” testimony of a companion on Paul’s missionary journeys and are not just a literary device,39 Luke accompanied Paul to Rome (Acts 27:1–28:16). Although we are focusing on the reactions of Roman auditors to Luke’s parables of grace, three intriguing (but ultimately unanswerable) questions emerge. To what extent was Luke exposed to the imperial cult while he was in the capital with Paul, presuming that he stayed on at Rome for an extended period?40 Had Luke written his gospel by that time or was the work still in the process of formation?41 If the gospel had not been written as yet, did the imperial traditions of “clemency” provoke a counter-imperial apologetic in Luke that explains, to some extent, his emphasis on “mercy” and “compassion” in his presentation of Jesus’ parables in the late seventies to eighties? As noted, scholars have already demonstrated that Luke’s gospel is sensitive to the claims of the imperial propaganda and subverts its implications. A focus on the literary evidence of Latin writers, as well as the imperial numismatic and iconographic evidence, provides us a Roman perspective for probing such possibilities. In what follows, I will explore the role of clementia in late republican and early imperial politics and proceed to a case study of Seneca’s De Clementia. Then we will be able to evaluate how Roman auditors might have heard the “mercy” tradi On the suggested locations, see J. Marcus, Mark 1−8 (New York: Doubleday, 1999), 30–37.  On the Greek and Latin terminology, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 3–8. 38 On Luke’s familiarity with the imperial cult, see Rowe, “Luke-Acts and the Imperial Cult,” 281–282. 39  On the historicity of the “we” sections, see C. J. Hemer, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic History (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 308–334; cf. S. E. Porter, The Paul of Acts: Essays in Literary Criticism, Rhetoric and Theology (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 10–46. 40  S. Kim (Christ and Caesar: The Gospel and the Roman Empire in the Writings of Paul and Luke [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008], 83 n. 83) posits Luke’s first-hand knowledge of the imperial cult at Caesarea (“we”: Acts 25:5–15; 27:1; cf. 10:34–43). 41  The answer to this question depends on whether Luke was composed in the late sixties or in the eighties (supra n. 31). 36

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tions articulated in the parable of Pharisee and the Tax Collector in light of the Latin evidence eulogising and criticising imperial clementia. Luke 18:10–14 will be the focus of our discussion, with reference to other parables of “grace” where relevant. It will be argued that Jesus’ linkage of “divine mercy” with “divine compassion” challenged the way in which the Roman political and social system operated in imperial times. In so doing, Jesus opened up the borders of an alternate Kingdom, based on the intersection of God’s grace with his justice, so that the socially marginalised and repentant could enter without fear or accusation.

3. The Role of Clementia in Roman Politics from the Late Republic to the Early Empire 3.1 Defining Clementia and the Occasions for Its Demonstration From the time of Sulla to the reign of Domitian and beyond, clementia was one of the pre-eminent virtues of the great man at Rome.42 In contrast to the covenantal traditions of a “merciful” God in the LXX and Second Temple Judaism,43 the Roman understanding of clementia belonged more to the world of politics than to the realm of the gods.44 As D. Konstan observes of the mercy of the gods, “Although the pagan Greek and Roman gods might feel pity on occasion, it was not their primary trait, and philosophers never endorsed it as such.”45 42  See B. F. Harris, “The Idea of Mercy and Its Graeco-Roman Context,” in: God Who is Rich in Mercy: Essays Presented to D. B. Knox (P. T. O’Brien and D. G. Peterson eds.; Homebush: Lancer Books, 1986), 89−105. Additionally, see E. A. Judge, “The Quest for Mercy in Late Antiquity,” in: O’Brien and Peterson, God Who is Rich in Mercy, 107–121; E. Bons ed., “Car c’est l’amour qui me plaît, non le sacrifice” Recherches sur Osée 6:6 et son interpretation juive et chrétienne (Leiden / ​Boston: Brill, 2004), passim. On Paul’s critique of the “great man” in antiquity, see J. R. Harrison, “The Imitation of the Great Man in Antiquity: Paul’s Inversion of a Cultural Icon,” in: Christian Origins and Classical Culture: Social and Literary Contexts for the New Testament (S. E. Porter and A. W. Pitts eds.; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 213–254. 43  On ἔλεος in the LXX, see J. Joosten, “hēn ‘bienveillance’ et ἔλεος ‘pitié.’ Réflexions sur une equivalence lexicale dans la Septante,” in: Bons, Car c’est l’amour qui me plait, 25−42. Additionally, F. I. Anderson, “Yahweh, the Kind and Sensitive God,” in: O’Brien and Peterson, God Who is Rich in Mercy, 41−88. For the Greek context, see E. Stafford, “Eleos: the Athenian ‘Altar of Pity’ and Its God,” in: Worshipping Virtues: Personification and the Divine in Ancient Greece (idem ed.; London: Duckworth and the Classical Press of Wales, 2000), 199–225; Pernot, “Conceptions Grecques de la Pitié,” in: Bons, “Car c’est l’amour qui me plait,” 179–187. 44  On the scarce mention of the mercy of the gods in the ancient sources, see Harris, “The Idea of Mercy,” 92–95; Konstan, Pity Transformed, 105–124. Tacitus underscores the remoteness of the gods and the rarity of their pity towards human beings: “At last Heaven itself was taking pity (deos misereri) on Britian: it was keeping the Roman general at a distance, and his army in the seclusion of another island” (Ag. 15); “At the same time they heaped reproaches on the general and invoked high heaven – anything and everything that could arouse odium and pity (misericordium), alarm or indignation” (Ann. 1.21). Contra, see Sen., Cl. 1.7.1–2. 45 Konstan, Pity Transformed, 124.

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Therefore, it is more likely that Roman auditors of Luke’s gospel would have evaluated “mercy,” “pity,” and “compassion” in Jesus’ parables from their political experience of the clementia of the Caesars as opposed to their knowledge of the mystery cults, the aretalogies of Isis, or some other beneficent deity.46 By the first century CE, the offer of clementia occurred in situations where a fixed standard of behaviour governed the relationships between two individuals or groups under normal circumstances, but which had been violated by one of the partners. During the late Roman Republic, clementia was exercised when the relationships between Rome and an enemy state had been interrupted by war or where a Roman general had triumphed over his rivals in a protracted civil war (Cic. Off. 1.88).47 In the latter case, clementia was displayed on a massive scale towards fellow citizens who had supported the losing side. For example, although Sulla demonstrated ruthlessness in the proscriptions during his dictatorship, he earned a grudging reputation for his clemency towards his enemies, if we allow for the hostility of the anti-Sullan propaganda in the literary tradition.48 By the time of the imperial age, however, the focus of clementia was increasingly upon the restoration of relationships with the Roman ruler that had been imperilled or breached by the (often minor) offences of an inferior.49 Consequently, in the mid-first century CE, Seneca (Cl. 2.3.1) defines clementia thus: “Mercy (clementia) means restraining the mind from vengeance when it has the power to take it, or the leniency of a superior to an inferior in fixing punishment […] mercy may also be termed the inclination of the mind towards leniency in exacting punishment (ad lenitatem in poena exigenda) […] mercy consists in stopping short of what might have been deservedly imposed (quod merito constitui posset).”50

46 Harris,

“The Idea of Mercy,” 95.  Valerius Maximus’ tractate on humanitas et clementia (Book 5.1) mainly concentrates on acts of clemency in wartime. See Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 181−184. Similarly, Cicero comments that mansuetudo (“mildness,” “gentleness”) and clementia were the traditional virtues associated with provincial administration (Ver. 2.5.43 §§ 115, 125). The defeated enemies of Pompey credit the victor with mansuetudo (Cic., Man. 5). On clementia in the middle republican writings of Ennius, Plautus, and Accius, see Dowling, ibid., 8–16. 48 See M. B. Dowling, “The Clemency of Sulla,” Historia 49 (2000): 303–340; Konstan, Pity Transformed, 97. 49  Note Konstan’s comment (Pity Transformed, 97): “the civil wars that racked Rome during the century before the establishment of Augustus’ Principate provided new scope for displays of kindness or cruelty on the part of the victors not just toward foreign enemies but, for the first time on so massive a scale, toward fellow citizens as well.” 50 R. Syme (The Roman Revolution [Oxford: Oxford University Press], 442) argues that the virtues of the republican principes (“leaders”), such as Pompey’s pursuit of gloria (“glory”) and Caesar’s dignitas (“worth,” “merit,” “character”) and magnitudo (“greatness”), were “to be monopolised by the one Princeps, along with clementia.” The old governing class, in the face of Augustus’ dominance, had to learn to be satisfied with “the less decorative virtues” (ibid., 442). On Seneca’s definition of clementia against its Stoic backdrop, see M. T. Griffin, Seneca: A Philosopher in Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), 154–162. 47

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We turn now to an investigation of the operation of clementia in the world of the Julio-Claudian and Flavian rulers. To what extent did the ruler’s subjects embrace the propaganda regarding his clementia? What reservations emerged regarding imperial clementia in the first-century? How might such reservations have opened Luke’s auditors up to a new presentation of “mercy” in Jesus’ parables of grace? 3.2 Clementia and Its Critics: The Ambiguity of Imperial Rule in the First Century 3.2.1 The clementia of Julius Caesar During the First Triumvirate, Julius Caesar, the leader of the populares party at Rome, pursued a policy of clemency towards his senatorial opponents, including Brutus, his later assassin.51 In a well-known letter of Caesar, preserved in Cicero’s correspondence to Atticus (Att. 9.7c; cf. 9.16), Caesar contrasts his clement behaviour towards Pompey with Sulla’s pitiless elimination of his opponents: “this is a new strategy of conquest – to arm ourselves with pity and generosity (misericordia et liberalitate).”52 Caesar adopted the same policy in his military and foreign policy towards Gaul. In the Bellum Gallicum, Caesar explains how his policy of clemency, exercised in traditional manner, persuaded the Bellovaci tribe to consider the advantage of friendship with Rome (Gall. 2.14). The same portrait of Caesar’s clementia emerges in the Roman writers. Suetonius devotes an entire chapter of his biography (Jul. 75) to the way Caesar not only demonstrated clemency to enemy soldiers but also pardoned the Pompeian exiles. In his speeches, Cicero, with his political purposes in view, underscores Caesar’s clementia (e. g. Deiot. 12.33; 13.37; Lig. 2.5; 4.10; 5.14−16; Marc. 3.8; 4.12; Vat. 9.22).53 For example, Cicero (Marc. 4.10–12) speaks of Caesar’s clemency to Marcus Claudius Marcellus, a supporter of Pompey in the civil war, who died in 45 BC: 51  Clementia was not confined to Caesar alone. Cicero highlights the clemency of Lepidus towards Sexteius Pompeius (Phil. 14.38; 15.40; 45.116). On Caesar’s clemency, see E. Stauffer, Christ and the Caesars (London: SCM Press, 1955), 42–53. 52  H. C. Gottof (Cicero’s Caesarian Speeches: A Stylistic Commentary [Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1993], 15) comments: “Cicero was never wholly convinced; writing to Brutus soon after Caesar’s death, he argued for a ‘wholesome severity’ as against a ‘useless show of clemency’ (Brut. 1.15.10).” In Att. 14.22.1, Cicero argues that ultimately Caesar’s death was attributable to his clemency. On the changed attitudes to clementia after Caesar’s death, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 34–37. 53  M. Griffin (“Seneca and Pliny,” in: Cambridge History of Political Thought [C. Rowe and M. Schofield eds.; New York / ​Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000], 538), citing Cicero (Marc. 9.12, 18; Lig. 29–30), observes: “Under the dictatorship Cicero instinctively saw the appropriateness of Hellenistic works on kingship and used them in speeches like pro Mar­ cello and pro Ligario to celebrate the Greek virtues that approximate to the Roman clementia: epieikeia (forbearance), praotes (mildness) and philanthropia.”

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“For you, O Caesar, have, by preserving Marcellus, restored their dignity even to those Marcelli who are dead, and you have saved that most noble family, now reduced to a small number, from perishing […] this justice and lenity (lenitas) of yours will every day grow brighter and brighter, so that, in proportion as time takes away from the effect of your deed, in the same degree it will add to your glory. And you had already surpassed all other conquerors in civil wars, in equity, and clemency (misericordia), but this day you have surpassed even yourself […] we have been preserved by the deliberate decision of your clemency (clementiae tuae).”54

The message of Caesar’s clementia was posthumously promoted in the numismatic propaganda. On a silver denarius, P. Sepullius Macer, the Roman moneyer, depicted a temple dedicated to the CLEMENTIAE CAESARIS (“To the Clemency of Caesar”).55 Plutarch tells us that the senate had erected the temple of “Epieikeia” in accordance with Caesar’s wishes (Caes. 57). Although its precise location is not known,56 the temple registered the gratitude of the Roman Senate for Caesar’s clementia demonstrated to his opponents during the civil wars. Apparently, inside the temple were to be placed statues of Caesar and Clementia holding hands.57 Subsequent coin issues continued to highlight Caesar’s clemency towards his foes. On the reverse of a denarius minted by L. Buca, Caesar’s moneyer, we see the legend CLEMENTIAE (“To Clemency”) accompanied by the head of the goddess Clementia and a laurel branch. Clearly, Caesar’s supporters, in contrast to their rivals, exploited the potential of numismatic propaganda in order to highlight not only Caesar’s personal clementia but also the unprecedented honour of having a temple erected to his clementia.58 Only once before was CLEM­ ENTIA (“Clemency”) employed on a denarius to describe the gift of liberty by 54  See S. M. Braund “Praise and Protreptic in Early Imperial Panegyric: Cicero, Seneca, Pliny,” in: The Propaganda of Power: The Role of Panegyric in Late Antiquity (M. Whitby ed.; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 68−69. Notwithstanding Cicero’s soaring rhetoric regarding the glory of Caesar’s clementia (pace, supra n. 52), see Konstan on why Cicero distrusted Caesar’s clemency (Pity Transformed, 99–100). Additionally, Pliny (the Elder), HN 7.93. 55  R. A. G.  Carson, Principal Coins of the Romans (London: British Museum, 1980), Vol. 1 No. 250. Our sources also speak of an altar set up to the clementiae Caeasaris (App., BC 2.106.443; Plu., Caes. 57.4; D. C. 44.6.4). Tacitus (Ann., 4.74), with typical venom, speaks of the Senate sycophantically voting Tiberius an Ara Clementiae. 56  S. Weinstock (Divus Julius [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971], 233−243) argues that the temple was never built. 57 Braund, De Clementia, 36. 58  S. W. Stevenson, A Dictionary of Roman Coins (rev. F. W. Fairholt; London: Seaby, 1964), 215. Weinstock (Divus Julius, 237) agues that while it was Caesar who initially promoted the policy of clementia in Roman politics, it was Cicero who gave it wide currency. Konstan (Pity Transformed, 98−99) argues that Weinstock has overstated his case because Cicero speaks of Caesar’s misericordia as much as his clementia: “While Caesar’s generous policy toward the defeated made a powerful impression on his contemporaries and on posterity, it is fair to say that the terminology to describe it was not fixed, and clemency still vied with pity and other locutions.” Moreover, as Konstan notes (ibid., 98), Caesar rarely refers to his clementia in his own writings. This is why the unambiguous reference to CLEMENTIAE CAESARIS by itself

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a Roman general, Lucius Aemilius Lepidus Paullus (ca. 229–160 BC), to the conquered Macedonians.59 Thus the numismatic propaganda of Caesar’s supporters capitalised on the little exploited virtue of clementia to underscore how he had not only acted within “republican” conventions but had also extended grace to his enemies in ways that surpassed Roman generals such as Paullus and Sulla. Finally, a terracotta plaque from the Via Cassia shows in the centre a general in military uniform, identified by scholars as Caesar, extending his hand to a kneeling figure, with the figure’s arm extended upwards in supplication towards Caesar. This personification of Roma or Oikoumene (the civilised world), probably a gift of a Roman army engineer or builder, is “a private celebration of the clemency of a public man.”60 We are reminded here of the role that the Roman military forces played in promoting the clementia of Caesar. 3.2.2 The clementia of Augustus Although Augustus does not employ the terminology of clemency in his numismatic propaganda,61 the motif is promoted in the Res Gestae. Augustus mentions that a shield was set up in the Curia Julia with an inscription honouring his “courage, clemency, justice and piety” (RG 34.2: virtutis clementiaeque et iustitiae et pietatis).62 Augustus’ boasted that he “spared the lives of all citizens who asked for mercy” (RG 3.1) after Actium in 31 BC (RG 3.2).63 He claims that he had preserved rather than exterminated the foreign nations who could be safely pardoned (RG 3.2). Here we see how the traditional approach to clem­ on the coin is such an important piece of propaganda on the part of his supporters, given the distribution of the coin issue throughout the empire. 59  S. W. Stevenson, Roman Coins, 215. 60  For the relief and discussion, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 24−25, Plates Fig. 1. 61 However, the coin issues of the oaken corona civica (RG 34) and the clipeus virtutis or “shield of virtues” (RG 34) refer to Augustan clementia, even if the language of “clemency” is absent. For numismatic samples, see C. H. V. Sutherland, The Roman Imperial Coinage. Volume 1: Revised Edition from 31 BC–AD 69 (London: Spink, 1984), Indexes VI / ​VIII s. v. “Corona civica”; Index VIII s. v. “Clupeus virtutis.” For discussion, see Dowling, Clemency and Cru­ elty, 131–133, 158–160. L. S. Ryberg (“Clupeus Virtutis,” in: The Classical Tradition: Studies in Honor of A. Caplan [L. Wallach ed.; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1966], 238) argues that the four virtues, including clementia, mentioned in RG 34, are an Augustan variation on the traditional Greek canon of virtues (wisdom, justice, fortitude, moderation). 62  Augustus, in emphasising that his clementia was his peculiar possession, adhered to the kingship theory of the Hellenistic age, as well as the claims of the leading Roman men of the republican past. Cicero claims that Cato had praised himself as a leading Roman politician for his clementia (Att. 7.2–7). See Harris, “The Idea of Mercy,” 104. 63 F. W. Danker (“Politics of the New Age according to St Luke,” CTM 12/6 [1985]: 342) comments: “Awareness of this theme of beneficence is important for understanding Luke’s perception of the connection between God’s interest in the welfare of humanity and the function of Jesus. Caesar Augustus proved to be a benefactor to Rome by closing up the chasms that had been created by the civil war. One of his boasts recited in the Res Gestae is the amnesty that he granted to the losing side. God displays a related disposition in the kindness manifested toward the thankful or the boorish (6.35).”

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entia, extended judiciously to the enemy nations of Rome, converged with the new element in imperial clementia: namely, the ruler’s personal pardon of his enemies, presaged in the propaganda of his adopted father, Caesar. Suetonius, too, spotlights Augustus’ pardon of his political opponents (Aug. 51).64 This is shown especially in the case of Antony and his ancestors. The Senate, in quick recognition of the absolute triumph of Augustus, radically reshaped the past by erasing Antony’s ancestors from the official records (fasti) of Rome’s magistrates (ILLRP 342). However, Augustus partially rehabilitated Antony by reinserting the name of Antony, along with his grandfather’s, in the fasti (Tac., Ann. 3.18.1). Not only does this demonstrate that the fasti must not suffer the erasure of distinction from their records, but it also underscored Augustus’ total control over commemoration within the city of Rome. As H. Flower aptly observes, “the clemency of Rome’s ruler could serve to obscure the bitterness of the previous conflict and the challenge presented to Caesar’s heir.”65 The visual evidence confirms the Latin literature regarding the ruler’s clemen­ tia.66 One of the famous silver Boscoreale cups shows Augustus being greeted by a group of Gallic men and their smiling children, with a Gaul kneeling before Augustus. The ruler extends his hand in a welcome, personifying clementia. But, as M. B. Dowling notes, the soldiers behind Augustus and his position on a stool underscore his authority as conqueror and his possession of imperium.67 In reality, the scene depicts submissio on the part of the Gauls, as the presence of the lictors highlights, more than the ruler’s offer of clementia.68 64  On Augustus’ exercise of clementia and its literary representation by the Augustan authors, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 60–125. On “pardon” in antiquity, see R. Newbold, “Pardon and Revenge in Tacitus and Ammianus,” Electronic Antiquity 6/1 (2001): no pagination. It would be worthwhile, but beyond the bounds of our investigation, to consider the evidence of imperial petitions in relation to clementia. Dowling (Clemency and Cruelty, 149–151) refers to the Laudatio Turiae (ILS 8393: in: M. R. Lefkowitz and M. B. Fant, tr. and eds.; Women’s Life in Greece and Rome: A Source Book in Translation [London: Duckworth, 2005], § 168). This funeral oration records a wife’s successful petition to Octavian for clemency, with the result that her husband’s name was removed from the triumvirate’s proscription list. For examples of petitions to Roman prefects and proconsuls in the imperial period, see New Docs 3 (1983): §§ 3, 5; 4 (1987): § 22. On petitionary language in the New Testament, see New Docs 6 (1992): § 18. 65 H. I. Flower, The Art of Forgetting: Disgrace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 117. 66  On clementia in the Augustan visual evidence, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 126–168. 67  Ibid., 146–147. See also A. L. Kuttner, Dynasty and Empire in the Age of Augustus: The Case of the Boscoreale Cups (Berkeley / ​Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995), Plates 4 BR I:2, 5 BR I:2, 6 BR I:2. For similar representations on the Meroë and Hoby cups, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 143–146, Plates Figs. 8 and 9. Similarly, for a bronze figure of Augustus as imperator with his right arm extended out, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, Fig. 11a. Tiberius’ subjugation of Armenia into a client-kingdom was rendered on a coin that shows an Armenian, kneeling and dressed in a tiara and long robe, with both hands extended in petition (RIC I2 “Augustus,” § 290). 68 Dowling (Clemency and Cruelty, 147) comments: “The lictors’ rods and axes, clearly

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In the Augustan gem evidence, an image of the nude Augustus, standing victorious as the god Apollo in a chariot drawn by hippocampi, rides over the severed head of Sexteius Pompey rolling in the waves below.69 However, in the later propaganda of the principate, less violent portraits of Augustus’ victory at Actium (31 BCE) begin to emerge. On a sardonyx gem Augustus is depicted as a toga-clad triumphator riding behind tritons and surrounded by the conventional symbol of victory (laurel wreaths).70 Even though Augustus’ severity was well known,71 the image of a “merciful” ruler gathered momentum in less formal but equally tangible ways. For example, Augustus’ intervention in 15 BC to save a slave from a savage punishment – his master, Vedius Pollio, intended to feed the boy to the lampreys in the fishpond for breaking a crystal cup – had acquired parabolic status by Seneca’s era.72 Thus, over a period of time, several iconic exempla of Augustus’ clementia seized the popular imagination with such force that they were preserved in the moral literature of the popular philosophers. Significantly, Augustus’ promotion of clementia as pivotal virtue of his rule came to have paradigmatic effect for the Roman senate in its judicial processes. In its sentence passed upon Piso, the Roman senate asserted that its model – as visible in the depiction of the frontal lictor who stands between Augustus and the first Gallic father and baby, indicate not only Augustus’ role as a magistrate of the Roman people but his power to punish and to spare.” 69 For a picture of the gem, see D. Plantzos, Hellenistic Engraved Gems (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), § 633; P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990), § 82. For discussion, see respectively Plantzos, Gems, 96 and Zanker, The Power of Images, 97–98. While the severed head could be Antony’s (Zanker, ibid., 97 Fig. 82), it is more likely that this gem represents the culmination of an intense propaganda war between Octavian (the later Augustus) and the Pompeians from 38 BC down to the late 30’s. See J. R.  Harrison, Paul and the Imperial Authorities at Thessalonica and Rome: A Study in the Conflict of the Ideology of Rule (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 314–315. 70  For the later triumphator image on Augustan gems, see Zanker’s discussion of a sardonyx gem (The Power of Images, 97–98, § 81). Of the earlier “Hellenistic” style agate gem, Plantzos (Hellenistic Engraved Gems, 96) states: “Octavian’s victory is represented in the GreekHellenistic way, and in the manner a Hellenistic king would commission. In later Augustan art, including glyptic, a much more tedious symbolic vocabulary was employed. Explicit references to political developments are used as a substitute to the vague allusions exercised earlier.” 71  On the “severity” of Octavian from the time of Caesar’ death (44 BC) up to his victory at Actium (31 BC), see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 38−60. 72 Seneca, Dial. 5; Ira 3.40 (D. C. 54.23.1ff). R. Saller (“Response by Richard Saller,” in E. A. Judge, “Judging the Merits of Augustus,” in: idem, The First Christians in the Roman World: Augustan and New Testament Essays [J. R. Harrison ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008], 286) comments: “Seneca the Younger is one of the many writers who used imperial exempla with some frequency. His philosophical works include six stories about Augustus, three about Tiberius, and four about Caligula. Their content illustrates just how successful Augustus’ propaganda campaign was: Augustus is always held up as an example of imperial clemency and toleration in contrast to Caligula’s cruelty. Seneca recalls stories uniformly favourable to Augustus despite the fact that he knows of Augustus’ early bloody days. The fact that Tiberius may well have had less blood on his hands than his predecessor is of no concern to Seneca.”

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Augustus himself had hoped (RG 8.5) would be the case – was the “exemplary practices” of Augustus’ reign: “Likewise the senate, mindful of its own clemency (clementiae), justice (iustitiaq[ue]) and great-heartedness (animi magnitu­ dinisque) – virtues which it has inherited from its ancestors, and especially learnt from its leaders, the deified Augustus and Tiberius Caesar Augustus […].”73 However, although this “benign” image of Augustus was widespread, the Culex of ps.-Virgil depicts the Julian ruler differently. In this allegorical work dedicated to the boy Octavian (the later Augustus), a kindly gnat stings a sleeping shepherd in the eye in order to warn him that a deadly serpent is approaching. Unaware of his benefactor’s favour, the shepherd crushes the gnat and kills the serpent with a tree bough. Here the polemic of Augustus’ opposition is perfectly clear: as a ruler, Augustus wielded his power arbitrarily if provoked.74 Another literary source, the non-Senecan tragedy Octavia, contrasts two vastly different views regarding the exercise of clementia in the Augustan principate.75 In a conversation between Seneca and Nero (ps.-Sen. Oct. 476–478), Seneca advises the ruler to pursue the policy of clemency, emphasising Augustan precedent: “‘Tis glorious to tower aloft amongst great men, to have care for father-land, to spare the down-trodden, to abstain from cruel bloodshed, to be slow to wrath, give quiet to the world, peace in one’s time. This is virtue’s crown, by this way is heaven sought. So did that first Augustus, his country’s father, gain the stars, and is worshipped in the temples as a god.”

However, in a similar vein to Pliny the Elder (HN 7.45.147–150),76 ps.-Seneca provides an alternate appraisal of Augustus by means of Nero’s critique of Augustus’ bloodstained principate (ps.-Sen. Oct. 504–533). Nero mentions the proscription lists of the Second Triumvirate and the bloody victories that accompanied Augustus’ rise to power (i. e. Philippi, Sicily, Actium). Ps.-Seneca cynically sums up the ensuing Augustan “Golden Age” of peace thus: “At last the victor now weary, sheathed his sword, blunted with savage blows, and maintained his sway by fear (ps.-Sen. Oct. 524–526).” Thus, by the time of pseudo-Seneca’s historical drama Octavia  – written during the rule of the Flavian rulers, Galba and Vespasian  – the critics of the Julio-Claudian rulers increasingly challenged the militaristic construct of Ro73 W. Eck et al., eds., Das Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre (Munich: Beck, 1996), 49. I am indebted to A. E. Cooley (Res Gestae Divi Augusti: Text, Translation, and Commentary [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009], 40) for this reference. 74 For discussion, see Harrison, Paul and the Imperial Authorities, 179–182. 75  See P. Kragelund, Prophecy, Populism, and Propaganda in the “Octavia” (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 1982). On prophecy in an imperial context, see D. Potter, Prophets and Emperors: Human and Divine Authority from Augustus to Theodosius (Cambridge, MA / ​ London: Harvard University Press, 1994); R. L. Wildfang and J. Isager, eds., Divination and Portents in the Roman World (Odense: Odense University Press, 2000). 76 For discussion, see Harrison, Paul and the Imperial Authorities, 177–179.

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man virtus (“virtue”) and its embodiment in the ruler. In a revealing conversation between Seneca and Nero regarding the virtues of the ruler (ps.-Sen. Oct. 440–444), the ruler’s extension of clementia (“mercy”) and securitas (“safety”) to his citizens is exalted over against the traditional ideal of the Roman leader destroying the foes of the state, internal and external: “Seneca: It is not becoming to proceed rashly against one’s friends. Nero: It is easy to be just when the heart is free from fear. Seneca: A sovereign cure for fear is clemency (clementia). Nero: To destroy foes is a leader’s greatest virtue (maxima est virtus ducis). Seneca: For the father of his country (patriae patri) to save citizens (servare cives) is greater still.”

In sum, the propaganda of Augustus successfully highlighted the ruler’s extension of clementia to foes and citizens, but the indelible stain of his bloodletting during his rise to power in the triumviral years remained for his critics to highlight.77 For disgruntled Romans, however, the time was opportune in the late fifties-to-sixties for a new conception of rule to emerge in which a virtuous benefactor would dispense mercy and security to his enemies without personal intimidation or the threat of military power. A generation later, Luke’s gospel, replete with its incomparable parables of grace, answered this hope in an unexpected way. 3.2.3 The clementia of Tiberius In the case of the coin evidence of Tiberius, a dupondius bears the dedicatory inscription CLEMENTIAE (“To Clemency”). On some coins, the full-faced figure in the centre is female, probably personifying the goddess Clementia. On other coins, however, the figure has a male face, surrounded by a laurel crown (the symbol of imperial clemency), and probably depicts Tiberius. The inscription, OB CIVES SERVATOS (“For Saving the Citizens [of Rome]”), articulates the traditional civic focus of clemency once again.78 77  Juvenal refers to the sword of Octavian being “wet from non-stop slaughter” on the fields of Thessaly (Sat. 8.242–243), while Propertius highlights the cost of the human carnage at Actium that so grieved the Roman gods (Elegies. 2.15.41–48; cf. 2.7.5–6). 78  S. W. Stevenson, A Dictionary of Roman Coins (rev. F. W. Fairholt; London: Seaby, 1964), 215; R. M.  Grant, Roman Imperial Money (London: Nelson, 1954), 150, 167, 203. See also the dupondius of Tiberius in BMC I “Tiberius” § 85 (Plate 24 No. 4). Stevenson (Roman Coins, 215) observes in regard to the presence of SC (Senatus Consulta) on the coin: “The mark of Senatorial sanction on this coin seems by implication to indicate the wish of that obsequious body, that the emperor should in future be merciful, which for a long time previous he had not been.” However, this seems to me to be a case of reading the numismatic evidence through the jaundiced eyes of Tacitus rather than approaching the numismatic propaganda on its own terms. On the clementia of Tiberius, see R. S. Rogers, Studies in the Reign of Tiberius (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1943), 39–55; B. M. Levick, “Mercy and Moderation on the Coinage of Tiberius,” in: idem, The Ancient Historian and His Materials: Essays in Honour of C. E. Stevens on His Seventieth Birthday (Farnborough: Gregg, 1975), 123–127.

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However, this state-centred emphasis of clementia on Tiberius’ coins stands in stark contrast to the literary presentations of Tacitus and Suetonius. They depict Tiberius’ allocation of clementia mostly in relation to the offences perpetrated against the person of the ruler. In a series of passages, Tacitus (Ann., 2.47; 5.6; 6.14; 11.3; 14.48) and Suetonius (Jul. 75; Aug. 51; Tib. 53; Dom. 9, 11) expose what they consider to be the dark side of Julio-Claudian clemency from the time of Augustus to Domitian. It is clear from their evidence that the ruler’s clementia involved pardon of trivial offences, personal insults, and accusations of treason. It is the personal nature of the offence towards the ruler that determined whether clementia was offered to the offender, rather than, as tradition dictated, whether the offence had been committed against the Roman people. Somehow, the person of the ruler had come to be considered inviolable. Both Tacitus and Seneca, therefore, wield their irony consummately to indicate that there was, in their opinion, a “whiff of tyranny” about the so-called “clemency” of the ruler in the Julio-Claudian and Flavian periods.79 Last, Velleius Paterculus highlights the submission of enemies before a clement Tiberius in the same manner as depicted on the Boscoreale, Meroë and Hoby cups (n. 52). In 5 CE, under Tiberius as general, the German tribes of the Cauchi were subjugated. In a description that reflects the eyewitness testimony of Velleius Paterculus (Vell. Pat. 2.106.1), Tiberius’ legate in the German and Pannonian campaigns, the defeated tribes enact the ritual of submission before the victorious general: “All the flower of their youth, infinite in number though they were, huge in stature and protected by the ground they held, surrendered their arms, and, flanked by a gleaming line of our soldiers, fell with their generals upon their knees before the tribunal of the commander.”

The same ritual was later enacted by the Pannonian forces in Dalmatia “prostrating themselves one and all before the knees of the commander” (Vell. Pat. 2.114.2). 3.2.4 From the Julio-Claudians to the Flavians: Further Instances of Imperial clementia Five additional pieces of evidence underscore the continuing importance of clementia in the imperial propaganda the first century CE. First, as a reminder to Caligula of the venerable tradition of clementia exercised by his predecessors, the Senate instituted a yearly sacrifice to Caligula’s clemency (Suet. Cal. 16.4; 79  For discussion, see J. F. Burgess, “Statius’ Altar of Mercy,” CQ 22 (1972): 339−349, esp. 340–342. Notwithstanding the force of Tacitus’ portrayal of the tyranny of Tiberius, one must realise that Tacitus’ jaundiced polemic is not actually borne out by the evidence that the great historian provides for Tiberius’ alleged “reign of terror.” See B. Walker, The Annals of Tacitus: A Study in the Writing of History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1960), 82–137.

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D. C. 59.16.10). The strategy had become necessary because, as M. B. Dowling argues,80 Caligula had adopted a policy of severity by refusing to pardon his enemies (Suet. Cal. 27, 29–30, 32–33). Caligula had reverted either to the militaristic construct of republican virtus (“virtue”) or the Hellenistic kings’ policy of the brutal suppression of their enemies, distilled graphically in the iconography of the Augustan gem discussed before (supra n. 69).81 Second, in a famous Greek inscription, Nero proclaims his short-lived liberation of Achaia from taxation (67 CE) and recompenses the province for his providential care by the gods. Nero emphasises, with due reference to the reciprocity system, that this recompense was not made out of “mercy” (οὐ δι᾽ ἒλεον) but out of “good will” (ἀλλὰ δι᾽ εὒνοιαν) to the Greeks and their gods.82 Here ἒλεος is more to be understood within the framework of the Stoic deprecation of “pity” (misericordia). The Stoics linked pity with the unstable emotions and thus it could never acquire the status of a praiseworthy virtue or a tried and tested disposition. Nero rejects such misunderstandings by his deliberate choice of εὒνοια in explaining the motivation for his beneficence. However, an inscription of the annual protocols of the priestly college of the Arval Brethren (66 CE) – outlining the public sacrifices at Rome in honour of the Roman gods, the ruler and his family – lists the following offerings: “by reason of the supplications [decreed by the senate, to Jupiter a bovine male, to Juno a cow, to Minerva] a cow, to Felicitas a cow, to Clementia [a cow – - ‑].”83 It is significant that this is the only place where Clementia is mentioned in the thirty-nine extant inscriptions of the Arval Brethren spanning the period from Augustus to Nero. It reflects, late in Nero’s reign, the continuing impact of the teaching of Seneca, his tutor, about the important role of clementia in the ruler’s decisions. The poetry of Calpurnius Siculus, too, highlights the importance of clementia in the golden age of Saturn that had returned with the advent of Nero’s quinquennium (Ecl. I. 42, 64). Calpurnius says that slaughter had prepared the path for Augustus’ rise to power (Ecl. I. 50–51) and arbitrary executions had marked Claudius’ reign (Ecl. I. 60–62, 73 [afflictum aevum]).84 But, with the cyclical turn discussion, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 189–191.  Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 189. 82  SIG3 814 ll. 20–24. For a translation, see F. W. Danker, Benefactor: Epigraphic Study of a Graeco-Roman and New Testament Semantic Field (St. Louis: Clayton Publishing House, 1982), § 44. 83  J. Scheid, Commentarii Fratrum Arvalium Qui Supersunt: Les copies épigraphiques des protocols annuels de la Confrérie Arvale (21 AV. –31 AP. J.-C) (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1998), § 30 Col. I cd. ll. 17–19. 84  On the executions in Claudius’ reign and their relation to imperial clementia, see Dowling, Clemency and Cruelty, 191–194. Note especially the graphic portrait of Claudius’ imperialism on a relief in the Sebasteion (a temple dedicated to Augustus) at Aphrodisias. Claudius, nude like the gods and heroes, stands dominantly behind the semi-naked Britannia, his right knee positioned on her thigh to secure her, ready to deliver a mortal blow. For the relief and discus80 For 81

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of the ages under Nero, Clementia had established once more the peaceful reigns of Saturn and Numa and had restored respect for ancestral law and the Senate: “Clemency (Clementia) has commanded every vice that wears the disguise of peace to betake itself afar: she has broken every maddened sword blade. No more shall the funereal procession of a fettered senate weary the headsman at his task; no more with crowded prison leave only a senator here and there for the unhappy Curia to count. Peace in her fullness shall come; knowing not the drawn sword, she shall renew once more the reign of Saturn (Saturni regna) in Latium, once more the reign of Numa (regna Numae) who first taught the tasks of peace to armies that rejoiced in slaughter […] Nay, laws shall be restored; right will come in fullest force; a kinder god will renew the former tradition and look of the Forum and displace the age of oppression (afflictum aevum).”85

Although Calpurnius Siculus emphasises the outbreak of peace, the world of Roman imperialism was vastly different. A relief in the Sabasteion of Aphrodisias depicts Nero hauling away a naked female barbarian figure, the personification of the defeated Armenia, in a manner similar to Claudius (supra, n. 84). Nero’s message to his provincial clients was unambiguous: he was continuing the policies of his imperial predecessor by subduing the unruly tribes on the frontiers of the Roman Empire.86 Third, moving to the crisis of 69 CE, the coins of Vitellius bear the legend CLEMENTIA IMP. GERMAN. (“The Clemency of Imperator Germanicus”: cf. Suet. Vit. 8). The coin celebrates Vitellius’ clemency towards Otho’s brother, Titianus, upon Otho’s death.87 The legend is accompanied by a seated female figure, the goddess Clementia, holding a branch in one hand and a sceptre in the other. This coin highlights the increasingly personal nature of the ruler’s clem­ entia in the first century CE. Fourth, in the case of the Flavian dynasty, Martial presents the recall of the father of Claudius Etruscus from exile in 89 CE as an act of clementia on the part of Domitian, even though the language of clemency is not used. The father had been exiled by Domitian in 82 CE, but was restored to imperial favour through the intercession of his son. In the view of Martial, Domitian’s reinstatement of the father represents an act of clemency superior to the gods (Mart. 6.83; cf. 7.40; Stat. Silv. 3.3): “As much as his father’s fortunes owe to Etruscus’ solicitude, so much, most exalted of leaders, do both owe you. For you recalled the bolts that your hand discharged; I would

sion, see D. C. Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered: Reimagining Paul’s Mission (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008), 2 fig. 1, 43–45. 85  Calpurnius Siculus, Ecl. I.59–65, 71–73. 86 Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered, 43 fig. 10. 87  Stevenson, Roman Coins, 215; C. H. V.  Sutherland, The Roman Imperial Coinage Vol­ ume 1 (Rev. ed. London: Spink, 1984), 268 No. 1; 269 Nos. 17, 39. See H. Mattingly, “Some Historical Roman Coins of the First Century AD,” JRS 10 (1920): 37–41.

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that Jove’s hand did so. If the supreme Thunderer were of your disposition, Caesar, seldom would his arm use a bolt entire.”

Fifth, Statius, writing during the reign of Domitian, departs from the rulerfocused and state-centred notions of clementia that had dominated the discourse of reconciliation from the time of the Republic to the imperial age. In a remarkable passage from the Thebiad (Stat. Theb. 12.481−496), the Altar of Mercy functions in the midst of the city as a locus of reconciliation and comfort for suffering humanity and the poor. There is no cultic image to identify and locate the divine presence in the precinct or sacrifices to propitiate the goddess. Instead, Clementia’s presence is transferred to the hearts of her suppliants: “There was in the midst of the city an altar belonging to no god of power; gentle Clemency had there her seat, and the wretched made it sacred; never lacked she a new suppliant, none did she condemn or refuse their prayers. All that ask are heard, night and day may one approach and win the heart of the goddess by complaints alone […] No image is there, to no metal is the divine form entrusted, in hearts and minds does the goddess delight to dwell. The distressed are ever nigh her, her precincts ever swarms with needy folk, only to the prosperous is her shrine unknown.”

What is the reason for Statius’ departure from Roman precedent here in his depiction of the operations of clementia? J. F. Burgess suggests that this passage represents the Statius’ imperial ideal for the future: that is, “Domitian dispensing clementia of the new sort.”88 Given the disenchantment of ps.-Virgil, ps.-Seneca, Tacitus and Suetonius with the ruler’s allocation of clementia, Statius wanted to differentiate the true concept of clementia from tyranny.89 3.2.5 Conclusion By the time Luke composed his gospel – irrespective of whether it was during the excesses of Nero’s reign or early in the Flavian dynasty – clementia had become the preserve of the Roman ruler and his clients gratefully acknowledged its benefits. In response, the critics of imperial rule from the time Julius Caesar to Domitian asserted that (a) blood shedding had often preceded the ruler’s accession to power; (b) the ruler had intimidated his opponents into submission through his offer of clementia; and (c) the tyranny of his rule was not disguised by these public charades of clementia. Furthermore, the brutal treatment of cap88  Burgess, “Statius’ Altar,” 348. Contra, R. T. Ganiban (Statius and Virgil: The Thebiad and the Interpretation of the Aeneid [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007], 219–222) argues that Statius conflates clementia and misericordia, with a view to demonstrating that clementia was not beneficial to the first-century world. 89  See also Martial, Spec. 33. In a “parable” of imperial grace, Martial depicts a hind approaching Domitian as a suppliant begging for clemency at the spectacles in order to escape the pursuing Molossian hounds: “suppliant and like one begging she halted at Caesar’s feet; and the hounds did not touch their prey. Such was the boon she won from knowing her prince. Caesar has divine power; sacred, sacred, is this potency, believe it. Wild beasts never learned to lie.”

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tives in the imperial reliefs at the Sebasteion of Aphrodisias (supra, nn. 84, 86) and the engraved Hellenistic gem of Augustus (supra, n. 69) gave the lie to the imperial iconography of clementia (i.e the Boscoreale, Meroë and Hoby cups, supra, n. 67).90 The time was ripe, therefore, for a new understanding of mercy not linked to the politics of “friendship” and “enmity” that subdued the nations in late republican and early imperial Rome. Luke’s emphasis on the universal implication of the gospel (1:48, 79; 2:14, 30−32; 3:6, 38b; 13:29; 24:47) demonstrates how far removed his vision was from the propaganda of a world subdued under the “clement” rulers of Rome. But what of Seneca’s work, De Clementia, written for his young charge, Nero, at the outset of his reign? What do we learn about the role of clementia in Seneca’s treatise on the statecraft of the ideal ruler? How does clementia relate to misericordia in the ruler’s distribution of justice?

4. Seneca and the Clementia of the Ideal Ruler Seneca’s two-volumed (but incomplete) work, De Clementia (“Concerning Mercy”) is datable to the year 55–56 CE, given the clear allusion to the eighteenth year of Nero in Cl. 1.9.1.91 Seneca’s work is addressed to the young ruler when the “Quinquennium Neronis,” the first five golden years of Nero’s rule, were in full swing. Seneca, as Nero’s tutor, intends to guide his young student towards the ideal of a merciful ruler. The work may have been occasioned by the death of Britannicus, the son of Claudius and Messalina, who was poisoned, Tacitus alleges, by Nero’s order in the early months of his reign.92 In Seneca’s view, what determines effective rule is “not the form of the constitution, but the moral character of the emperor.”93

90 See also the Parthian on the cuirassed statue of Augustus at Prima Porta (Zanker, The Power of Images, 190−191, Fig. 148a / ​b, with discussion 188–192) and the bound Dalmatian captives on the lower panel of the Gemma Augustea (L. J.  Kreitzer, Striking New Images: Ro­ man Imperial Coinage and the New Testament World [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996], 79 Fig. 5, with discussion 78−80). On the imperial iconography of the conquered nations under Roman rule, see Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered, 26–55. 91 This section is a reduced and adapted version of Harrison, Paul and the Imperial Authori­ ties, 292–299. 92  Tacitus Ann. 13.15–17; 14.63; 15.62 (cf. Suet. Nero 33.2–3; idem, Tit. 2; D. C. 60.33.10; 61.7.4). See Griffin, Seneca, 133–135. However, A. Barrett (Agrippina: Sex, Power, and Politics in the Early Empire [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999], 171–172) argues that Britannicus was killed by an epileptic seizure. J. M. Rist (“Seneca and Stoic Orthodoxy,” ANRW 2.36.3 [1989]: 2006) points to the recent “judicial abuses of Claudius’ reign” as another factor why Seneca urged the young Nero to be merciful. 93  R. L. Parrott, Paul’s Political Thought: Rom 13:1–7 in the Light of Hellenistic Political Thought (unpub. PhD diss. Claremont Graduate School 1980), 112, Parrott’s emphasis.

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Seneca (c. 4 BC/1 CE–65 CE) affirms the Pythagorean and Stoic emphasis that the ruler has been divinely “chosen (electusque sum) to serve on earth as vicar of the gods (vice deorum).” In a flattering aside, Seneca observes that Nero now surpassed Augustus and Tiberius as a model to be imitated (Cl. 1.1.6). Consequently, Seneca advises the young Nero to commune with himself in this manner so that clemency might continue to be the characteristic virtue of his reign (Cl. 1.1.2–4): “I am the arbiter of life and death for the nations […] With me the sword is hidden, nay, is sheathed: I am sparing to the utmost of even the meanest blood; no man fails to find favour at my hands though he lack all else but the name of man. Sternness I have kept hidden, but mercy (clementiam) ever ready at hand […] I have been moved to pity by the fresh youth of one, by the extreme old age of another; one I have pardoned for his high position, another for his humble estate; whenever I found no excuse for pity (misericordiae), for my own sake I have spared.”

According to Seneca, mercy elevates a prince or king above the rest of humanity (Cl. 1.3.3) and the demonstration of mercy to his subjects represents a “godlike use of power” (Cl. 1.26.5; cf. 1.5.7; 1:19.9).94 However, Nero’s mercy (clementia) is in no way conditioned by pity: “whenever I have found no excuse for pity (misericordia), for my own sake I have spared.” In an interesting echo of Paul’s body imagery in Romans 12:4–8, Seneca employs a “body-soul” metaphor to explain the vital role that the ruler plays in producing a healthy state (Cl. 1.4.1–1.5.1–2). Seneca illustrates how Nero as ruler preserves the “body” of state from social disintegration through his clemency: “For if […] you are the soul of the state (animus rei publicae) and the state your body (illa corpus tuum), you see, I think, how requisite is mercy (clementia); for you are merciful (parcis) to yourself when you are seemingly merciful to another (parcere). And so even reprobate citizens (improbandis civibus) should have mercy as being the weak members of the body (membris languentibus), and if there should ever be need to let blood, the hand must be held under control to keep it from cutting deeper than may be necessary. The quality of mercy (clementia), then, as I was saying, is indeed for all men in accordance with nature, but in rulers it has a special comeliness inasmuch with them it finds more to save, and exhibits itself amid ampler opportunities.”95

Indeed, Seneca flatters Nero for never having used the sword (Cl. 1.11.3). Nero’s restrained actions stand in contrast to Augustus, who having used the sword ruthlessly in the initial triumviral years and later at Actium (Cl. 1.9.1−2; 1.11.1−2), learned to show mercy only in his mature years as a ruler, as his pardon of Lucius 94  Note Seneca’s emphasis on the prince being the author of mercy: “the more indulgent the ruler, the better he is obeyed” (Cl. 1.24.2). Additionally, “of all men none is better graced by mercy than a king or a prince. For great power confers grace and glory only when it is potent for benefit” (Cl. 1.3.2). According to Seneca, this exercise of mercy makes the ruler analogous with divinity: Nero is the bright and beneficent star (Cl. 1.3.1; 1.7.1–2; cf. Sen., Apoc. 4.1). 95  Parrott (Paul’s Political Thought, 116) observes that in Seneca’s view the ruler’s extension of mercy is not altruistic: “such mercy would in actuality be self-serving: the head or soul would be taking care of its own body (1.5.1).”

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Cinna demonstrated (Cl. 1.9.2–12). According to Seneca, this merciful restraint on behalf of the ruler is illustrated in nature. Just as the “king of the bees” (i. e. the queen bee) does not employ its sting in the hive because nature has “removed his weapon,” so neither should the ruler intimidate by force or fear (Cl. 1.19.1–6). Perhaps the most interesting observations concerning clementia as a royal virtue occur in De Clementia II, a manuscript that has not come down to us intact. There the king is to demonstrate a particular type of mercy: clementia (“mercy”) over against misericordia (“pity”). According to Seneca, clementia restrains the mind from taking vengeance in cases where retribution is deserved, or where one is tempted to be too lenient in fixing a punishment (Cl. 2.3.1–2). By contrast, misericordia is a mental defect because, according to Stoic thinking, it succumbs with sorrow at the sight of people’s ills (Cl. 2.4.4–5.1; 2.6.4).96 As Seneca observes, “Pity (misericordia) regards the plight, not the cause of it; mercy (clementia) is combined with reason” (Cl. 2.5.1). By contrast, the wise man, guided by clementia, has a serene mind that is not clouded by the plight of others or by strong emotions such as sorrow (Cl. 2.5.4–5). Seneca argues that clementia serves the cause of justice by not succumbing to misericordia in pardoning crimes worthy of punishment (Cl. 2.7.1, 3): “Pardon is given to a man who ought to be punished; but a wise man […] does not remit a punishment which he ought to exact […] Mercy (clementia) has freedom in decision; it sentences not only by the letter of the law, but in accordance with what is fair and good (aequo et bono) […] But to pardon is to fail to punish one whom you judge worthy of punishment; pardon is the remission of punishment that is due. Mercy (clementia) is superior primarily in this, that it declares that those who are let off did not deserve any treatment; it is more complete than pardon, more creditable.”

Adams argues that in Seneca’s De Clementia II, the philosopher falls back to the old Greek conception of ἐπιείκεια (“fairness,” “clemency,” “equity”).97 We see this emphasis appearing in Seneca’s statement, cited above, that clementia “sentences not only by the letter of the law, but in accordance with what is fair and good (aequo et bono).” In Aristotle, ἐπιείκεια referred to the rectification of the law where the law is defective because of its generality (Aristotle, Eth.  See also Seneca, Ira 2.10: “That you may not be angry with individuals, you must forgive mankind at large (universis ignoscendum est), you must grant indulgence to the human race (generi humano venia tribuenda est).” Diogenes Laertius (7.123) writes that the Stoic wise men “are not pitiful and make no allowance for anyone; they never relax the penalties fixed by the laws, since indulgence and pity (ὁ ἒλεος) and even equitable consideration are marks of a weak mind, which affects kindness in place of chastising. Nor do they deem punishments too severe.” Similarly, note Cicero, Tusc. 3.20–21: “The wise man, however, does not come to feel envy; therefore he does not come to feel compassion either (ergo ne misereri quidem). But if the wise man were accustomed to feel distress he would also be accustomed to feel compassion (miseri etiam soleret). Therefore distress keeps way from the wise man.” 97  T. Adam, Clementia Principis: Der Einfluß hellenistischer Fürstenspiegel auf den Versuch einer rechtlichen Fundierung des Principats durch Seneca (Stuttgart: Ernst Klett Verlag, 1970), 90. 96

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Nic. 1137a–1137b). In contrast to Aristotle, however, Seneca reserves clementia for the ideal ruler: the ruler must not arbitrarily compromise the just and fair standards of the law through the lesser exercise of pardon.98 Rather through the superior exercise of clementia the ruler expresses both the justness of his own character and of the law. In sum, precisely because Seneca wanted to connect clementia with iustitia (“justice”), he made clementia the servant of iustitia in the second treatise,99 opening up new territory in the first-century understanding of imperial clemen­ tia.100 From the time of Augustus onwards, clementia was incorporated into the Stoic teaching on the emotions as a prized feature of the Princeps, as the “römisch Tradition” of Seneca’s first treatise shows.101 But, in his second treatise, Seneca desired to form the character of the Princeps more thoroughly through a new understanding of clementia: namely, that the Princeps will always uphold the strict demands of justice when he exercises mercy in his rule. In other words, for Seneca, the inculcation of clementia had become a pastoral strategy that would enable a properly counselled ruler to develop a just and merciful regime.102 Now that we have explored the ruler’s clementia in its Julio-Claudian and Flavian context, it is time to consider why Roman auditors would have struggled to conceive how God could exercise mercy towards the “tax collector” in Luke 18:10–14. In what ways would Jesus’ parables of “grace” have communicated to a culture that evaluated the allocation of clementia carefully, in order that considerations of justice might not be vitiated by misericordia?

5. “Mercy” and “Compassion” in the Lukan Parables from a Roman Perspective, with Special Emphasis on Luke 18:10–14 The parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (Luke 18:10–14) presents a tax collector, a client of the Roman and Herodian overlords,103 going up to the  98  On the differences between Aristotle’s understanding of ἐπιείκεια and Seneca’s presentation of clementia, see Rist, “Seneca and Stoic Orthodoxy,” 2007.  99 On the relationship between clementia and iustitia, see S. Braund, De Clementia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 40–42. 100  Griffin (Seneca, 169−170) and Braund (De Clementia, 70) also point to the originality of Seneca’s position on clementia. 101  Adam, Clementia Principis, 98. 102  Seneca’s understanding of clementia stands in contrast to the late republican concept of clementia. D. C. Earl (The Moral and Political Tradition of Rome [London: Thames and Hudson, 1967], 60) agues that clementia in the republic was “arbitrary mercy, bound by no law, shown by a superior to an inferior who is entirely in his power.” It was for this reason that some Romans (e. g. the son of Ahenobarus) rejected Caesar’s clementia. 103  Until recently, because of J. Donahue’s highly influential article (“Tax Collectors and Sinners: An Attempt at Identification,” CBQ 33 [1971]: 39–61), the “tax collector” in Luke 18:10–14 has been regarded as a subordinate official, the “toll collector.” This lower echelon

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temple and praying: “God, be merciful ( Ὁ θέος, ἱλάσθητί μοι) to me, a sinner!” (18:13). The tax collector’s humble prayer of repentance stands in contrast to the Pharisee’s prayer of gratitude to God (18:11–12).104 In recounting how he official collected the indirect taxes of the Herodian elite and Romans at the tollbooths located at commercial and transport centres (Matt 9:9), making his living by overcharging taxpayers (Luke 19:8; cf. 3:12–13; 18:11). F. Herrenbrück (Jesus und die Zöllner: Historische und neutes­ tamentlich-exegetische Untersuchungen [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1990]; cf. idem, ‘Wer waren die “Zölner”,’ ZNW 72 [1981]: 178–194) has challenged Donahue’s construct, arguing that the tax collectors were small tax farmers responsible for collecting revenue. Likewise, H. Merkel (“τελώνης,” EDNT Vol. 3 [ed. H. R. Balz; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993], 348), on the basis of the Egyptian papyri, proposes that the tax collectors were well-to-do Jews who paid for the right to collect individual fees and taxes. Perhaps this debate is based on a false antithesis, at least as far as the gospel evidence goes. Jesus did not interact with the wealthy retainers who collected tax at Tiberias or Sepphoris, preferring to bypass these large urban centres and to meet with the toll collectors in the Galilean villages. But Zachaeus of Jericho (Luke 19:1−8), the “chief tax collector” in a Roman regional tax centre (19:2: ἀρχιτελώνης), probably had status comparable to Josephus’ tax collector at Caesarea Maritima (B. J. 2.287). The booth collector, Levi of Galilee (Luke 5:27), was also wealthy enough to throw a large banquet (5:29), but was most likely a lower echelon official. The evidence seems to point to Jesus interacting with both upper echelon tax collectors and lower echelon poll collectors during his ministry, largely within the confines of rural communities. Significantly, in the case of the higher echelon individuals, the emphasis is on Zachaeus seeking out Jesus (Luke 19:3–4). In other words, Jesus routinely encountered lower echelon poll collectors, but there were occasional encounters with upper echelon officials attracted by his notoriety. K. R. Snodgrass (Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008], 467) allows that the taxcollector in the parable could have been “fairly well off or possibly a lower level toll collector.” In the popular estimation, tax collectors were (a) compromised by their association with the Roman and Herodian overlords, (b) deemed “unclean” according to the “holiness” system (m. Tehar. 7:6; cf. Mark 2:13–17; Luke 18:10–14; 19:1–10; J. BJ, 2.287–292), (c) despised throughout the ancient world (Herrenbrück, Jesus und die Zöllner, 89–94: cf. Lucian, Men. 11; b. Sanh. 25a–b; m. Ned. 3.4), and (d) dismissed by their countrymen as rapacious quislings living outside the covenant (Philo Legat. 199–200; J. AJ, 12.160–220; Luke 3:12–13; 18:11; 19:8; cf. Matt 5:46–47; 18:17). For further sources and discussion, see Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 467, 741 n. 144. 104  Scholars refer to b. Ber. 28b, t. Ber. 7.18[16] and 1QH 7.34 as samples of prayer piety in Second Temple and rabbinic Judaism similar to the Pharisee’s prayer in Luke 18:11–12. See Jeremias, Parables, 142; E. Linnemann, Parables of Jesus: Introduction and Conclusion (London: SPCK, 1966), 59; M. Farris, “A Tale of Two Taxations (Luke 18:10–14b): The Parable of the Pharisee and the Toll Collector,” in: Jesus and His Parables: Interpreting the Parables of Jesus Today (V. G. Shillington ed.; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1997), 26. D. Bock (Luke 9:51–24:53 [Grand Rapids: Baker, 1996], 1458) also draws attention to similar Old Testament prayers (Pss 17:3–5; 26). Snodgrass (Stories with Intent, 463–465) adds several other Jewish sources to those cited above. B. B. Scott (Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990] 96) also observes that “both the prayer’s form and its content indicate that he is living up to the map drawn by the temple: he is the model of the pious man.” However, while there are similarities here, a significant difference exists. Whereas the Jewish prayers and the prayer of Luke’s Pharisee are thanksgivings for God’s moral guidance, the prayer of the tax collector is a prayer of confession and repentance (Luke 18:13b), with strong Old Testament precedents in its penitential piety (Pss 34; 51: Bock, Luke, 1458). See W. L. Liefeld, “Parables on Prayer (Luke 15:5–13; 18:1–14),” in Longenecker, The Challenge of Jesus’ Parables, 260. Luke contrasts the self-confidence of the Pharisee, by means of his self-centered approach to God ( Ὁ θέος, εὐχαριστῶ σοι ὅτι οὐκ εἰμὶ οἱ λοιποὶ ὥσπερ τῶν ἀνθρώπων: Luke 18:11a), with the humble plea

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excelled his contemporaries in nomistic righteousness (cf. Gal 1:14; Phil 3:5–6),105 the Pharisee exalts himself and denigrates others (Luke 18:11b).106 By contrast, the tax collector pleads for pardon from God, as the LXX usage of ἱλάσκομαι indicates (Luke 18:13b: cf. 2 Kgs 5:18; Lam 3:42; Pss 25:11; 79:9; Dan 9:19; Esth 4:17h [C 10]).107 But, as noted (supra n. 12), the imperative ἱλάσθητί μοι departs from the traditional “mercy” language of the LXX (ἐλέησον μοι) by virtue of its expiatory emphasis, seen in New Testament use of cognates of ἱλάσκομαι for an atonement sacrifice (Rom 3:25; Heb 2:17; 9:5; 1 John 2:2; 4:10).108 As D. E. Garland notes, the phrase is better translated “make atonement for me.”109 Admittedly, the terminology might be considered as entirely appropriate within the context of the evening atonement sacrifice at the Jerusalem temple.110 But the fact that the tax collector pleads that God provide the atonement − coupled with of the desperate tax collector before God ( Ὁ θέος, ἱλάσθητί μοι τῷ ἁμαρτωλῷ: 18:13b). Finally, L. Schottroff’s argument that Luke provides an exaggerated portrait of the Pharisee’s selfrighteousness in his prayer (The Parables of Jesus [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006], 9) may have an element of truth (Marshall, Luke, 677). But it is more likely that the “achievement” ethos underlying the “zeal” tradition of first-century Pharisaism (e. g. Gal 1:14b: ζηλωτής; Phil 3:6: ζῆλος) explains the Pharisee’s heavy emphasis on “I” (five times) in Luke 18:11–12. Bock (Luke, 1466) concludes regarding the competitive spirit of the Pharisee (cf. Gal 1:14a; Phil 3:4b): “The humble do not engage in comparison and are aware that their standing before God is possible only because of his mercy.” See also Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 471–472. 105  On how the Pharisee’s fasting and tithing exceeds Old Testament expectations, see Bock (Luke, 1463–1464); C. F. Evans, Saint Luke (London: SCM Press, 1990), 643–644; J. A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke X−XXIV (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1986), 1187–1188; Marshall, Luke, 679–680). 106  Snodgrass (Stories with Intent, 472) notes: “The error of the Pharisee […] is surely that he thinks he can be obedient to God and still have disdain for people like the taxcollector.” The denigration of the tax collector is also conveyed by the physical position assumed by the Pharisee in the temple, provided that we take πρὸς ἑαυτόν (Luke 18:11) as modifying the aorist passive participle σταθέις (“having stood”), as opposed to modifying the imperfect verb προσηύχετο (“was praying”). If the latter alternative is correct, the Pharisee prays to himself (A. Plummer, The Gospel According to Luke [Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1896], 416–417; NASB, NIV, RSV translations). However, if the former alternative is correct, the meaning is either that the Pharisee “stood by himself” (Bailey, Through Peasant Eyes, 147; Farris, “A Tale of Two Taxations,” 29 n. 15; Herzog II, Parables, 185; ESV, NRSV translations) or that “he took up a prominent position and uttered his prayer” (Jeremias, Parables, 140; similarly, Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 470). This infuses Jesus’ parable with powerful symbolism in its depiction of sacred space. During the public worship at the temple, the Pharisee deliberately separates himself from the other worshippers and utters a self-righteous prayer heard by all (Luke 18:11a). By contrast, the despised tax collector stands at a distance, averting his eyes and beating his breast (18:13), presumably positioned at the centre of the temple forecourt or its entrance (E. Schweitzer, The Good News According to Luke [London: SPCK, 1984], 282). 107 A. J. Hultgren (The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], 124) argues that Luke chose ἱλάσκομαι for the language of mercy over the more common verb ἐλεέω because “the petition is spoken in the temple, where atonement is made.” 108 D. E. Garland, Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament (ECNT 3; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2011), 719. 109  Garland, Exegetical Commentary, 719. 110 Garland, Exegetical Commentary, 719.

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his deep contrition and his placement of himself spatially at a distance within the temple precincts (supra n. 106) − demonstrates that the temple’s sacrificial cultus would not avail in his case.111 The prayer is accompanied by the strong emotion of contrition (cf. Luke 23:48), symbolised by the tax collector beating his breast (Luke 18:13; cf. Josephus, AJ 7.252).112 The tax collector’s reverential attitude in prayer is seen in his refusal to lift his eyes to heaven because of his shame over his guilt before God (Ezra 9:6; 1 Enoch 13.5).113 He confesses that he is a ἁμαρτωλός (“sinner”: Luke 18:13b), a term which in Luke’s understanding not only expresses his moral complicity in defrauding people (cf. Luke 19:8), but also his social alienation from God’s covenantal people (Luke 5:30; 7:34; 15:1; 19:2–7).114 Unexpectedly, it is the tax collector, rather than the pious Pharisee, who finds God’s justice (18:14a: δεδικαιωμένος).115 Jesus’ shocking reversal of which worshipper was reckoned “just” before God is explained by the eschatological humbling of those who exalt themselves before God (18:14b), a saying previously cited in 14:11. A. Hultgren notes that here Jesus “assumes an authority that belongs to God alone” by declaring in advance the eschatological justification of the tax collector (cf. Mark 2:3–12 et par.; Luke 7:47–49).116 In declaring the tax collector “just,” Jesus consigned the entire Pharisaic holiness system, encapsulated in vv. 11–12, to the rubbish heap. Ultimately, even the temple sacrificial system is rendered obsolete through God’s pardon of the tax collector’s sins, even though the offering of sacrifices would continue unabated until 70 CE.117 In conclusion, God’s vindicated elect (Luke 18:8, 14) were not the “self appointed guardians of Israel’s national life” like the Pharisees, as N. T. Wright observes,118 or, for that matter, the privileged Sadducean priesthood of the temple. Rather, with the advent of the Kingdom in Jesus, the marginalised national enemy, the 111  Garland, Exegetical Commentary, 719, 719–720. As F. Bovon (L’évangile selon saint Luc 15,1–19, 27 [Labor et Fides: Genève, 2001], 187) writes, the imperative ἱλάσθητί μοι “correspond à la requête d’une foi qui a spiritualisė sa relation à Dieu et n’a pas besion de médiation rituelle.” 112 On the tax collector’s contrition in light of Middle Eastern peasant culture, see Bailey, Through Peasant Eyes, 153–154. 113 Fitzmyer, Luke X−–XIV, 1188; Hultgren (Parables, 124). 114 J. R. Donahue (The Gospel in Parable: Metaphor, Narrative and Theology in the Synoptic Gospels [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988], 190) notes: “He does not unroll a catalogue of sins, like the Pharisee’s catalogue of virtues, nor does he compare himself with others. Like the other powerless outsiders in Luke and the OT – the poor, the widow, the stranger in the land – he casts his lot with God.” Similarly, F. W. Danker (Jesus and the New Age: A Commentary on St. Luke’s Gospel [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988], 298): “The publican was wiser – he called on God to be both judge and defender.” 115  While the participle δεδικαιωμένος (Luke 18:14a) presages Paul’s exposition of justification, it “is less comprehensive in scope” (Bock, Luke, 1465). Also, Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 474. 116 Hultgren, Parables, 125. Similarly, Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 474. 117  Contra, Farris, “A Tale of Two Taxations,” 31; Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 473. 118  N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God. Christian Origins and the Question of God: Volume 2 (London: SPCK, 1996), 366.

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tax collector, is forgiven unconditionally without any reparations required on his part (cf. Luke 19:8). How would a Roman auditor, familiar with imperial clementia, have responded to the parable? Several aspects would have caused consternation for those familiar with the imperial “mercy” traditions. First, since clementia was a political notion as opposed to a religious one for the Romans, the idea of God dispensing mercy would have been unusual, given the reluctance of the gods in antiquity to do so. Conversely, the readiness of the God of Israel and of Jesus to dispense mercy to the humble, contrite and repentant must have appealed to Roman auditors who wanted a personal encounter with God as opposed to the fickleness of the gods in antiquity.119 Second, the fact that mercy was dispensed to an individual who, in this case, was a prosperous tax collector (cf. Luke 19:8; supra n. 103) would have created tensions for Roman auditors. This would not have sat easily with a Flavian audience familiar with the “mercy” traditions found in the writings of Statius. Statius’ Altar of Mercy, situated prominently in the city, only attracted the poor and not the wealthy. In this regard, the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19−31) would have been more appealing to these Roman auditors. There Abraham, the inaugural recipient of covenantal mercy, ignores the rich man’s plea for mercy (ἐλέησον με: 16:24). The reason for Abraham’s dismissal of the rich man’s plea was that God had reversed the former deprivation of Lazarus (16:25) and had already exercised his judgement regarding the eternal fate of the rich man (16:26). Third, the strong emphasis on “emotion” (Luke 18:14) in the parable, too, would also have meant that the “mercy” dispensed by God to the tax collector was suspect in terms of its justice, if Seneca’s Stoic counsel to Nero in De Clem­ entia II was taken seriously by its auditors. The problem was compounded by the fact that the tax collector went home with a ringing endorsement of divine justice (δεδικαιωμένος: Luke 18:14)! The issue is even more provocatively aired at a level of social relations in the parable of The Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37). There the Samaritan is filled with compassion (Luke 10:33: ἐσπλαγχνίσθη) for the victimised traveller. He shows that he is a true neighbour to a national enemy (Luke 10:36), fulfilling the Levitical love command (Lev 19:18b; Luke 10:27b; cf. 6:27–31) by exercising mercy towards him ( Ὁ ποιήσας τὸ ἔλεος: 10:37). For Roman auditors, this link between emotion and the exercise of mercy would vitiate the rationality of the decision made regarding a national enemy in this instance. Augustus only pardoned the foreign nations who could be safely pardoned (RG 3.2). 119  However, Snodgrass (Stories with Intent, 474) observes that the parable also highlights the fact that “God is not a God whose mercy can be taken for granted. Within the parable the taxcollector does not even know the outcome of his prayer.”

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In the parable of The Good Samaritan Jesus reinforces the folly of this approach by saying: “Go and do likewise (ποίει ὁμοίως)” (Luke 10:37b). Jesus separates beneficence from a rational consideration of who was worthy of it on the basis of the unstable emotion of “compassion.” For Romans, however, care and discrimination was necessary in allocating clementia if patronage was to function properly. Gifts were only given to the worthy because they were likely to return the favour. This social reality explains why Nero refused to offer “mercy” to Achaia (SIG3 814). The issue is further clarified in the parable of The Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11– 32). There the father, symbolic of God, sees the son from afar, is filled with compassion (Luke 15:20: ἐσπλαγχνίσθη) – and in an act undignified for fathers in an eastern context120 – runs and embraces his son without any demand of repentance. The nature of God as a “kind” and “compassionate” God (Luke 6:35, 36 [Exod 34:6–7]: χρηστός, οἰκτίρμων) is the dynamic driving Jesus’ thought here (Luke 7:13: ἐσπλαγχνίσθη).121 This linkage of the expression of divine clementia (“mercy”) with divine misericordia (“compassion”), to borrow the Latin terms, challenged the operations of imperial patronage. The same point about God’s relentless unilateral love transforming human existence is made in a different way in the parables of The Lost Sheep (Luke 15:4–7) and The Lost Coin (15:8–10). Fourth, returning to the parable of The Pharisee and the Tax Collector, the question of the “desert” of mercy would have been raised in the minds of Roman auditors, even though the piety of the Pharisee’s prayer (Luke 18:11) was consonant with the penitential traditions of the Qumran psalms and the later Talmudic prayers (supra, n. 103).122 In the case of Roman auditors, there would have been more sympathy for the Pharisee than the tax collector’s demeaning plea for pity, which Jesus, to their surprise, commends. As Cicero says in his defence of Milo (Mil. 34.92) regarding pleas for pity: “In truth, if in battles of gladiators, and in the case of men of the very lowest class and condition and fortune, we are accustomed to dislike those who are timid and suppliant, and who pray to be allowed to live, and we wish to save those who are brave and courageous, and who offer themselves cheerfully to death; and if we feel more pity (misericordia) for those of men who do not ask our pity (misericordia), than for those who entreat it; how much more ought we to nourish those feelings in the case of our bravest citizens?”

In cases where Cicero commends pity for his client, he is careful to specify the grounds upon which it is to be sought. In the case of his client Plancus (Planc. 1.3), for example, Cicero says:  Jeremias, Parables, 130; Bailey, Poet and Peasant, 181–182. Old Testament references, see S. C. Keesmat, “Strange Neighbours and Risky Care (Matt 18:21–35; Luke 14:7–14; Luke 10:25–37),” in Longenecker, The Challenge of Jesus’ Para­ bles, 280. 122 Donahue, The Gospel in Parable, 188–189. 120

121 For

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“[…] if I do not prove him to be a man of perfect temperance, piety, and innocence, I will not object to your punishing him; but if I establish that he has every quality which may be expected in the character of a virtuous man, then I beg of you, O judges, to grant, at my entreaty, your pity (misericordia) to that man, through whose pity (misericordia) it is I myself have been preserved in safety.”123

Thus Roman auditors must have wondered why the Pharisee was not justified as opposed to the tax collector. Here we see the vast ideological chasm that the gospel of grace faced as it moved from Jewish soil, with its covenantal traditions of divine mercy, to the harder terrain of the Roman world where pity was only to be dispensed, if Cicero is representative, to those whose uprightness and justice had already been established. Seneca, too, is clear that “mercy’” (clementia) or “pardon” (venia) should only be extended to those whose character, though flawed, retained sufficient integrity to be rectified. The ruler, as Seneca (De Clementia, 2.7.3–4) counsels, was to remember this, lest iustitia (“justice”) be compromised in the allocation of mercy: “[…] to pardon (ignoscere) is to fail to punish one whom you judge worthy of punishment; pardon (venia) is the remission of punishment that is due. Mercy (clementia) is superior primarily in this, that it declares that those who are let off did not deserve any treatment; it is more complete than pardon (venia), more creditable. In my opinion, the dispute is about words, but concerning the fact there is agreement. The wise man will remit many punishments, he will save many whose character though unsound can yet be freed from unsoundness.”

The problem posed by Jesus’ parable for Roman and Jewish auditors was this: tax collectors had no redeeming feature to warrant “pardon,” or its more creditable option, “mercy.” The tax collector’s posture, position in the temple and prayer (Luke 18:13) underscored how far removed from any hope of redemption he was. Finally, why did Romans auditors respond to the extension of divine mercy and compassion to the unworthy in Jesus’ parables of grace – a stance also affirmed in Romans124 – given the radically different understanding of clementia and misericordia in the Roman world? We have seen that these traditions did not remain unchallenged among Romans. What the anti-imperial critics longed for was the ruler’s clementia extended without a brutal period of bloodshed prefacing the offer. A civil war had secured Augustus’ principate (ps.-Virgil, Culex; ps.-Seneca, Oct. 440–444, 524–526) and executions had inaugurated Claudius’ and Nero’s reigns (Calpurnius Siculus, Ecl. 50–51, 60–62, 73). Further, the impe123  In the case of Publius Quinctius, Cicero (Quinct. 30.91, 97) specifies the age and desolate condition of Quinctius as reasons for demonstrating pity to his client. 124 See C. Breytenbach, “CHARIS and ELEOS in Paul’s Letter to the Romans,” in: The Let­ ter to the Romans (U. Schnelle ed.; Leuven: University Press, 2009), 323–363. For a discussion of clementia in Romans, see N. Elliott, The Arrogance of the Nations: Reading Romans in the Shadow of Empire (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), 87–119.

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rial reliefs at the Sebasteion of Aphrodisias (supra, nn. 84, 86) and the engraved Hellenistic gem of Augustus (supra, n. 69) revealed a brutality and ruthlessness that questioned – at least in the minds of the conquered nations and war-weary Romans – the reality of the clementia depicted on the Boscoreale, Meroë and Hoby cups (supra, n. 67). The fact that a tax collector, despised in the Jewish and Roman world, could be unconditionally extended mercy (Luke 18:13; cf. 1:50 [τὸ ἔλεος αὐτοῦ], 54 [ἐλέους], 72 [ἔλεος], 78 [διὰ σπλάγχνα ἐλέους θεοῦ]) and declared just before God (18:14a; cf. 18:8a), without any expectation of restitution, must have proved attractive to the marginalised and powerless. It ushered in a new age of mercy and compassion that moved inexorably towards a just culmination in Christ (Luke 18:8, 14b), including the eschatological dethroning of the powerful and arrogant (8:14a; cf. 1:51–52). By contrast, the cyclical appearance of a new “Golden Age” of Rome, whether it was under Augustus or Nero, was stained with the blood of its victims.

6. Conclusion This article set out to investigate to what extent the exercise of imperial clementia in the first century might have provided a backdrop to the “mercy” and “compassion” traditions in the Lukan parables of grace. As third generation believers heard Luke’s gospel for the first time, those who were Romans may have had difficulties in comprehending the radical political and social challenge that these parables posed to the operation of the ruler’s patronal relationships and to the exercise of clementia to those who had affronted him, or to the enemy nations which had opposed his rule. In either case, the ruler was to discriminate rationally regarding the worth of the individual or nation being offered his pardon. Under no circumstance was the offer of merciful pardon to be affected by the presence of (what the Stoics deemed) the unstable emotion of “pity,” lest the overarching protocols of justice (iustitia) be violated. A prior evaluative “border,” therefore, was indelibly drawn in the Roman mind, discriminating between “worthy” and “unworthy” clients, with the latter group being deemed to be outside the scope of clementia. We have seen that Luke’s compassionate Saviour and Lord joins together the expression of divine clementia with divine misericordia in a new social and theological synthesis that would challenge Roman social relations from the top of the social pyramid to its base. It is possible that Luke, during his stay with Paul at Rome, encountered this strand of imperial propaganda and, aware of the seamless unity of “mercy” and “compassion” traditions in the LXX and the ministry of the historical Jesus, designed his portrait accordingly. More fundamentally, and more likely in my view, Jesus’ own experience of and meditation on the

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“compassion” and “mercy” of his Father (Luke 6:36; Matt 5:25; 9:13; 12:27; cf. Hos. 6:6), aired initially in his disputes with the Pharisees,125 generated the beginnings of his own critique of the Roman and the Herodian elites (Luke 13:1–5, 32; 22:25–30).126 This small seed sown in the early decades of first-century Palestine would produce a large crop – thirty, sixty and a hundredfold – on Roman soil in the final decades of the first century and beyond.

125 See P. Keith, ‘Les citations d’Osée 6:6 dans deux pericopes de l’évangile de Matthieu (Mt 9:9–13 et 12:1–8)’, in Bons, «Car c’est l’amour qui me plait, 58–80; D. Gerber, “Les emplois d’ ἔλεος en Luc-Actes,” in Bons, ibid., 80–95; M. Borg, Conflict, Holiness and Politics in the Teach­ ings of Jesus (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1972), 123–143. D. J. Goergen (The Mission and Ministry of Jesus [Wilmington: Michael Glazier, 1986], 144) observes that Jesus’ prayer life with the Father (Luke 3:21; 5:16; 6:12; 9:18, 28–29; 11:1; 22:41, 44) empowered his own prayers for and forgiveness of his faithless disciples and enemies (Luke 6:28; 22:31–32; 23:34). 126  See R. J. Cassidy, Jesus, Politics and Society: A Study of Luke’s Gospel (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1978). Luke provides positive and negative portraits of Roman officials (Luke 7:1–10; 23:47; Acts 10:1–43; 13:4–12; contra: Luke 23:1–25; Acts 4:27–30; 24:26).

Jewish Dreams Between Roman Palestine and Sasanian Babylonia Cultural and Geographic Borders in Rabbinic Discourse (Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 55c, 15–22 and Bavli Berakhot 56a–b)* Holger Zellentin “While many geographers are unable to grasp the idea that a border can be a non-territorial construct,” David Newman argues, “many sociologists and psychologists are equally unable to fathom why territory should play such a dominant role in our contemporary understanding of borders, as though the only unit of societal ordering which requires categorization and compartmentalization is the physical space in which we reside.”1 Rabbinic culture in the Late Roman and Sasanian Empires is marked by two types of borders, both of which can best be understood if we combine geographical with sociological and socio-psychological considerations. Sociological and socio-psychological borders define the relationship between the two rabbinic communities of late antiquity on the one side and the non-rabbinic, and especially non-Jewish Late Roman and Persian populations on the other. From our modern perspective, these late ancient borders can now best be studied through the lens of cultural differences between rabbis and non-Jews. Geographic borders, moreover, define the relationship between the two rabbinic centers of Palestine and Mesopotamia. The spatial separation of the two rabbinic centers led to an internal divide that in turn resulted in a cultural split within rabbinic Judaism. By means of the example of rabbinic dream discourse, the present study seeks to illustrate how both types of borders, geographical and sociological, separated the parties living within them from those beyond, and how both types of borders connected them. * This article constitutes a further exploration of my study on parodic elements in the Babylonian rabbinic dreambook published in H. Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies of Jewish and Christian Literature (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 95–136. I have first developed many of the arguments summarized below in the framework of a graduate seminar on “Corresponding Landscapes: Religious and Cultural Exchange in the Post-Classical Mediterranean,” to which I was invited to contribute at Brown University in April 2013. My gratitude to Byron MacDougall, the organizer, Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Stratis Papaioannou, the faculty sponsors, as well as to the wonderful participants for their enthusiasm and helpful insights during our lively discussions. 1 David Newman, “The Lines that Continue to Separate Us: Borders in our ‘Borderless’ World,” Progress in Human Geography 30 (2006): 154.

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The rabbis of Palestine and of Mesopotamia saw themselves as different from their non-rabbinic and non-Jewish contemporaries and stood in close contact with rabbis living about five hundred miles to the east and west respectively. At the same time, the two rabbinic centers fully reflect in both positive and negative ways the respective Greco-Roman and Sasanian cultural context in which they thrived. Both centers, after all, stood in fierce competition with each other. Rabbinic literature thereby becomes an invaluable trove not only for ethnic and cultural discourse, but precisely for the study of geographical, sociological and socio-psychological boundaries. The Talmud, itself divided into a Palestinian and Babylonian recension, is in and of itself a document that establishes and transgresses an infinite number of borders, a few of which will be discussed in this chapter. Using the example of the rabbis’ participation in the discourse on dreams, the present contribution shows the surprising functions of the cultural and geographic borders surrounding the Jewish sages of Palestine and Mesopotamia. This chapter consists of three parts and an appendix. The first part, titled Trans­ lating Dreams: Professional Interpreters and Lists of Omina in Late Antiquity, illustrates how two types of dream interpretation are recurrently found throughout the Near and Middle East. Professional dream interpreters offered their services in return for payment to clients, while lists of dream symbols, or omina allowed the more direct access to the science of oneirocriticism. These two types of dream interpretation are neither exhaustive nor mutually exclusive; in the rabbinic world as well as beyond, professional dream interpreters authored and in turn availed themselves of specialist literature. Yet oneirocritical professionalism and recourse to dream books are two poles that may explain the attitudes of the rabbis and the elites under which they lived, chiastically interposed: while the rabbis of Palestine as well as the Sasanian Magi functioned as professional dream interpreters, the Babylonian rabbis as well as the church fathers despised professional dream interpreters. The population of the late Roman Empire as well as the Babylonian rabbis, in turn, favored the use of lists of omina such as can be found in the early Byzantine Dreambook of Daniel as well as in the Babylonian, but not in the Palestinian Talmud. The second part of this chapter, titled Cultural Borders: The Palestinian Rab­ bis and Late Roman Dream Culture, considers how the Talmud Yerushalmi, the rabbinic compilation produced in Roman Palestine around 400 CE, relates to the dream discourse of its time. This part shows how the rabbis of Palestine compiled a dream book that, eschewing lists of omina, instead propagates the function of professional and virtuosic rabbinic dream interpreters. At the same time, the Yerushalmi’s dream book avails itself of the oneirocritical expertise available in the Late Roman Empire, as recorded for example in the fourth century CE Dream Book of Daniel, in order to improve the skills of rabbis who function as professional dream interpreters. The Palestinian rabbis integrate Late

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Roman dream discourse by fusing it creatively, and uncritically, with rabbinic scriptural hermeneutics. The third part, titled Geographic Borders: A Babylonian Parody of a Palestin­ ian Dream Book, continues a previous study of the dream book contained in the Talmud Bavli, the rabbinic compilation produced in Sasanian Mesopotamia in the sixth or seventh century CE. The Bavli’s dream book, intriguingly, reflects Sasanian dream culture mainly negatively: while the Sasanian authorities and especially the Magi functioned as professional dream interpreters, the Bavli ridiculed this profession. Instead, the Bavli builds on the insights of Greco-Roman dream theory, as preserved in Artemidorus’ Oneirocriticon, the classical second century CE text of Hellenistic dream culture, and in many other works ranging from Epicurus to Galen. This third part argues that the rabbis’ dream culture clearly reflects the border lines that connect and separate the rabbis of Palestine to and from those of Mesopotamia: the Bavli’s dream book, on the one hand, stands in continuity with the teachings of the Yerushalmi’s dream book; on the other hand, the Bavli’s retellings of the Yerushalmi are all marked by ironic difference. In effect, the middle part of the Bavli’s dream book constitutes a devastating critique of the professional Palestinian rabbinic dream interpreters; the Bavli suggests that consulting its own list of omina and oneirocritical insights is a far safer and saner method. A concluding part of this chapter is an appendix titled Props and Omina as Markers of Internal Borders that considers how the Bavli, at the same time as reinforcing them, also erases internal rabbinic borders by using its own list of omina, along with objects used in the Yerushalmi’s dream narratives, as both props and dream symbols forming simultexts in its parodic dream narratives. A few examples illustrate that the Bavli’s parodies of the Yerushalmi’s dream book, on the one hand, are late literary creations that seek to widen the gulf between Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis. On the other hand, the recycling of dream symbols fuses the two rabbinic traditions and thereby the centers they represent, inviting the Babylonian rabbinic audience to understand its own tradition in continuity with that of Palestine, albeit with ironic difference.

1. Translating Dreams: Professional and Lists of Omina in Late Antiquity In order to appreciate the Bavli’s dream discourse in its various geographic and cultural contexts, a consideration of the literary context of its dream book, compiled in the sixth or seventh century CE, may be useful.2 The Bavli tractate 2  The final redaction of the Babylonian Talmud can be dated to between the 5th and the 7th centuries, clearly later than the Palestinian Talmud and later than the Dream Books of Arte-

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Berakhot interprets, among many other things, the Mishnaic instructions for blessings commemorating miracles. The Talmud’s discussion of blessings for miracles, and of miracles in general, leads to a discussion of proper forms of supplication, including appropriate supplications for a good dream – which is apparently understood as a minor miracle.3 “Dream” is the key term which seems to have led the composers of the Bavli to create a long passage that lays out, in great detail, this Talmud’s views on dream interpretation (Berakhot 55a–57b). The passage, which scholars have helpfully called the Bavli’s “dream book,” constitutes a carefully composed triptych that begins with general statements on dreams, followed by a set of stories about rabbinic dream interpreters – three of which contain quite incongruous elements – and closes with a long list specifying the standard interpretation of common dream symbols, or omina. Talmudists as well as folklorists, among the latter ones chiefly Haim Weiss, have been drawn to the dream book as a whole and to its many stories in particular, understanding it by and large as a typical rabbinic anthology with many affinities to the dream folklore of the late ancient Near East.4 While this view is not wrong per se and midorus and Daniel, yet before that of Ahmet (see below). For a recent overview and a recent argument for the completion of the Babylonian Talmud before the middle of the 6th century, see Y. Elman, “The World of the ‘Sabboraim’: Cultural Aspects of Post-Redactional Additions to the Bavli,” in: Creation and Composition: The Contribution of the Bavli Redactors (Stammaim) to the Aggada (J. Rubenstein ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 383–415. 3  Just as the Shabbat is one-sixtieth part of the world to come, so a dream is one-sixtieth part of a prophecy, the Bavli states in an often cited dictum (Berakhot 57b). 4  There is a vast secondary literature on the Bavli’s dream book and Babylonian rabbinic dream culture as a whole. In addition to my own study (Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 95–136), titles over the past ten years alone include Haim Weiss, ‫ דיון בסדרת‬:?‫מה מונח על פי החבית‬ )‫ ברכות נו ע"א‬,‫חלומותיהם של אביי ורבא על חביות (בבלי‬, in: Fleeting Dreams and Possessive Dybbuks: On Dreams and Possession in Jewish and Other Cultures (R. Elior et.al. eds.; Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 2013), 150–164; St.L. Bolz, Rabbinic Discourse on Divination in the Babylonian Talmud (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Michigan, 2012); R. Kalmin, “Talmudic Attitudes Toward Dream Interpreters: Preliminary Thoughts on their Iranian Cultural Context,” in: The Talmud in Its Iranian Context (C. Bakhos and M. Rahim Shayegan eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 83–99; E. Alvstad, Reading the Dream Text: A Nexus between Dreams and Texts in the Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Gothenburg, 2010); A. Shinan, ‫ חלומות יוסף בראי הספרות היהודית הקדומה‬:)5 ‫“ויחלם יוסף חלום” (בראשית לז‬, Beit Mikra 55 (2010): 138–150; M. Zipor, “‫פותרי חלומות כדרשנים‬,” in: ,‫אור למאיר ;מחקרים במקרא‬ ‫ בספרות חז"ל ובתרבויות עתיקות מוגשים למאיר גרובר במלאות לו שישים וחמש שנה‬,‫בלשונות השמיות‬ (Y. Shamir ed.; Ber Sheva: Ben Gurion University Press, 2010/11), 411–430; H. Weiss, “‘I saw pigeons keep on coming to my bed’: Women in Ancient Jewish Dream Literature,” El Prezente 3 (2010): 157–168; idem, “Dreams and their Interpretations in Late-Antiquity: Between Science and Folklore,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Folklore 26 (2009):159–168–[Hebrew]; idem, “‘Twenty Four Dream Interpreters were in Jerusalem …’: On Dream Interpreters and Interpretation in the Talmudic Dream Tractate,”  Jewish Studies 44 (2008): 37–77 [Hebrew]; S. Fishbane, Deviancy in Early Rabbinic Literature: A Collection of Socio-Anthropological Essays (Leiden: Brill, 2007): 177–212; H. Weiss, The Role of Dreams in Rabbinic Literature: Cultural Aspects: A Literary Reading in the Talmudic “Dreams Tractate” (BT Berakhot 55a– 57b) (PhD diss. The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2006) [Hebrew]; E. Alvstad, “Oneirocritics and Midrash: on Reading Dreams and the Scripture,” in: From Bible to Midrash: Por­

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I partially adopt it myself, we should also note that especially the longest of the three central stories, the one presenting the intellectual struggle between Rava and a very marginal rabbi, the dream interpreter Bar Hedya, contains element of comedy. Several studies have pointed to the fact that the three incongruous stories belong to the latest layer of the dream book; a pioneering study by Abraham Afik-Abecassis has understood the story of Bar Hedya as evidence of comical criticism, or satire – a view already developed by Richard Kalmin, yet flatly rejected by Weiss.5 In a recent publication, I argued at length that the notion of parody can greatly enhance our understanding of the rabbis’ retellings. Here parody is defined as the ironic repetition of a previous text (usually known to the implied audience) that emphasizes difference. Rabbinic parodies, to be understood in the oral context of the rabbinic study house, are infrequent, but appear pervasively; I have adduced examples of parody from all genres of Palestinian Amoraic literature – exegetical midrash, “homiletic” midrash, and the Talmud Yerushalmi – and from the Bavli.6 trayals and Interpretative Practices (H. Trautner-Kromann ed.; Lund: Arcus, 2005): 123–148; B. J. Koet, ““Sag lieber, dass er diesen Traum positiv deuten soll”: über die Traumdeutung nach einem rabbinischen Traumbuch (Babylonischer Talmud Berachot 55–57),” Kirche und Israel 17 (2002): 133–149. I cannot help remarking that even Weiss’s most recent publications discuss or show awareness of few if any of the works listed above other than his own. Two noteworthy earlier publications (which include extensive bibliography) are Galit HasanRokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press 2000), 88–107 and P. Alexander, “Bavli Berakhot 55a–57b; The Talmudic Dreambook in Context,” Journal of Jewish Studies, 46 (1995), 230–248; see also notes five and eight below. 5  On the comical evidence in the story of Bar Hedya, see I. Afik (Abecassis), Hazal’s Percep­ tion of the Dream (PhD diss., Bar Ilan University, 1991 [Hebrew]), 370–385; Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), esp. 67–69; as well as Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 95–136. Bolz likewise agrees with me that the Rava story is a parody, yet questions one aspect of my reading – without, however, offering a full alternative, see eadem, Rabbinic Discourse on Divination in the Babylonian Talmud, 38–42. Weiss, by contrast, states that “despite the clear and dominant satirical element in [the Bar Hedya] story, I do not see in it a story of comical characteristics,” (my translation, idem, “‘Twenty Four Dream Interpreters were in Jerusalem,” 53 note 73). Weiss in my view deprives himself of appreciating a central feature of the texts he studies. 6 The rabbis often do not discard unwanted traditions, either their own or those of others, and sometimes they repeat texts with irony in order to mark their own point of view as different. Examining repeated subtle distortions of one text allows us to approach the notoriously difficult question of rabbinic self-criticism as well as the question of the rabbis’ knowledge of non-rabbinic narratives. Both the rabbinic parodies and the texts they retell should be located within the oral culture of late antiquity and include rabbinic, non-rabbinic, and non-Jewish texts. Sometimes we can reconstruct the repeated texts with the help of extant sources, though it is likely that we usually cannot. Still, we can see that Palestinian rabbis parody previous rabbinic texts from Palestine and from Babylonia, as well as Jewish-Christian and gentile Christian texts from Palestine, whereas the Bavli parodies previous rabbinic texts from Palestine and Babylonia, as well as Jewish-Christian and Christian texts circulating in Babylonia. See Zellentin, Rab­ binic Parodies, see also idem, “Jerusalem Fell After Betar: The Christian Josephus and Rabbinic Memory,” in: Envisioning Judaism: Studies in Honor of Peter Schäfer on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday Volume I (R. Boustan et al. eds.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 319–367.

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I also defined the limits of parody. The Bavli as a whole functions as a straight and serious elaboration of large parts of the Yerushalmi (or a text very closely related to it).7 It may therefore be a consequential finding that the Bavli’s parodies of the Yerushalmi, while infrequent, can be as intricate as they are ruthless. I have already sought to illustrate that two of the three incongruous stories in the Bavli’s dream book are indeed parodic. These two, the story of the twenty-four dream interpreters in Jerusalem (Berakhot 55b) and its almost immediate sequel, the story of the dream interpreter Bar Hedya (Berakhot 56a-b), collectively parody much of the respective dream book of the Yerushalmi, a passage composed in the late fourth or early fifth century that celebrates Palestinian rabbinic dream interpreters (Ma‘aser Sheni 55c, 15–22).8 I now want to take my argument further and support my previous claims about the Bavli’s parodies by showing that the third incongruous story the Bavli’s dream book relates just after the Bar Hedya story, equally about a problematic dream interpreter – the story about Rabbi Ishmael interpreting the dreams of a heretic  – also parodies the Yerushalmi (Berakhot 56b). This will lead to my main point in this paper that in effect the Bavli’s three stories about professional dream interpreters are entirely parodic and that they together parody the entirety of the Yerushalmi’s dream book (with the noteworthy exception of the interpretation of one single omen, wine, as we shall see). At the same time, I want to advance our knowledge of how closely both Talmudim are integrated in the general Near Eastern dream culture, as suggested by Weiss and others, and to show how both Talmudim antagonistically respond to the attitudes displayed towards professional dream interpreters by their respective governments, as suggested by Richard Kalmin.9

7  The relationship between the Bavli and the Yerushalmi remains to be defined in greater detail; among the best treatment to date remains Christine Elizabeth Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds: Accounting for Halakhic Difference in Selected Sugyot from Tractate Avodah Zarah (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). The Yerushalmi is generally thought to have been edited between the middle of the 4th and the middle of the 5th centuries CE; see G. Stemberger and H. Strack eds. and M. Bockmuehl trans., Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 187. 8  Ma‘aser Sheni 4:9 (55b–c). The sequence in the Yerushalmi has a very close parallel in Ekha Rabbah, a Palestinian Midrash edited in the fifth century (1.14–18; see Stemberger, Introduc­ tion to Midrash and Talmud, 307). Brigitte Stemberger suggests that the parallel material in Ekha Rabbah (1.14–18) is a reworking of the passage from the Yerushalmi’s dream book (B. Stemberger, “Der Traum in der Rabbinischen Literatur,” Kairos, Zeitschrift für Religions­ wissenschaft und Theologie 18 (1976): 9, n. 47). On the passage see also I. Afik, Hazal’s Percep­ tion of Dreams, 21 ff.; R. Ulmer, “The Semiotics of the Dream Sequence in Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni,” Henoch 23 (2001): 305–323; and Pinhas Mandel, ‫ ומהדורה‬,‫מבוא‬: ‫מדרש איכה רבתי‬ ‫ביקורתית לפרשה השלישית‬, (PhD diss. The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997). 9  See Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors, 78; idem, “Talmudic Attitudes;” Weiss, esp. “Science, Folklore and Rationality;” and idem, “‘Twenty Four Dream Interpreters;” and Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 127.

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A short example illustrates the comic element of the Bavli’s dream book, as well as its participation in the broader Near and Middle Eastern dream discourse. In its list of over a hundred common omina, the Bavli states the following (Be­ rakhot 57b): All kinds of vegetables are a good sign in a dream, except turnip tops (lit. “the heads of turnips,” ‫)ראשי לפתות‬. But did not Rav Ashi say: I did not become rich until I dreamt of turnip-tops? It was on their stalks (‫ )בכניהו‬that he saw them.10

Rabbinic dream interpretation here follows the logic of halakhic discussion: a general rule – turnip tops are a bad omen – is proposed. Then the anonymous voice often titled the Talmudic stam, the voice of a real or implied redactor, raises an objection: Rav Ashi’s experience apparently did not conform to the general rule; he saw turnip tops and became rich.11 It may well be that the question indicates the stam’s knowledge of a lesson recorded already by Artemidorus (on whom more below), that “plants with a head (κεφαλωτὰ), […] and nutritious vegetables signify success (ὠφελειῶν).”12 In either case, the stam’s question shows that just as in any society, the rabbis test their traditional knowledge against their daily experiences, which in this case seems to invalidate the tradition. Yet the Talmud then does not discard the teaching about turnip tops as an omen in question, but instead resolves the tension between tradition and one individual’s experience within its hermeneutical framework – the method of all scientific inquiry. It adds an additional detail – the turnip tops were on stems – that removes the apparently contradictory experience from the general class of bad omina it posits – turnip tops – and thereby manages to uphold the integrity of the class. In the Bar Hedya 10  All translations from rabbinic texts are my own; Talmud Bavli Berakhot 576 text cited according to Manuscript Munich, manuscript Paris 671, manuscript Oxford Opp. Add. fol. 23 as well as manuscript Florence II-I-7. Ashi is spelled “Asi” in manuscript Florence II-I-7, which also omits the last line; manuscript Oxford Opp. Add. Fol. 23 erroneously spells ‫ בבנייהו‬instead of ‫בכניהו‬. The Vilna print omits Ashi altogether, associating the anecdote instead with Rav. 11 For a recent overview of scholarship on the role of the stam in the redaction of the Babylonian Talmud, see J. Rubenstein, “Introduction,” in: Creation and Composition, 1–20; see also Yehoshua Levinson, The Twice Told Tale: A Poetics of the Exegetical Narrative in Rabbinic Midrash [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2005), 239–307. For a more reserved position vis-à-vis the importance of the stam, see R. Kalmin, “The Function and Dating of the Stam and the Writing of History,” in: Melekhet Mahshevet: Studies in the Redaction and Development of Talmudic Literature (A. Shemesh and A. Amit eds.; Bar-Ilan University Press, 2011), 31*–50*; Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds; 3–30 and R. Brody, “The Contribution of the Yerushalmi to the Dating of the Anonymous Material in the Bavli” in Melekhet Mahshevet, 27–38. 12  The text of Artemidorus is that of R. A. Pack, Artemidori Daldiani onirocriticon (Leipzig: Teubner, 1963); the translation, with some minor modifications, follows R. J. White, The Inter­ pretation of Dreams: Oneirocritica by Artemidorus (Park Ridge: Noyes Press, 1975); citations will follow the format Pack, Artemidori I.67.11–12, White, Dreams 51. I have occasionally consulted the new edition and translation by D. E. Harris-McCoy, Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).

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story, the Bavli then repeats its own serious discourse about an interpretation of the same omen with a remarkable difference in the Bar Hedya story: [Rava] said to [Bar Hedya]: “I saw two turnip tops [‫]גרגלידי דלפתא‬.” He said to him: “You will receive two blows [‫]קולפי‬.” Rava went on that day to sit the whole day in the study house. He saw two blind men [lit. “full of light,” ‫ ]סגי נהורי‬fighting each other. Rava went to separate them, and they struck [‫ ]ומחוהו‬him twice. They wanted to strike once more. He [Rava] said: “I have had enough [‫ !]מסתיי‬I saw two.”13

Imagining any haggadic scene as enacted on a stage always helps to illuminate its subtle playfulness, in this case quite literally as slapstick. Rava finds himself in a highly compromising situation, being beaten by two blind men who cannot of course discern his lofty status, a comical situation whose incongruence can, to a degree, still be appreciated today. Even if we grant the comedy at the level of narrative, the present scene becomes fully intelligible only when we consider its situation as sandwiched in between two levels of seriousness: first, we have to assume that “within” the story, at the level of its characters, Rava believes in a straight correlation between the dream image and the beatings. Second, at the meta-level of self-reflexivity “above” the story, we should understand the Bavli to employ this story to make a serious point and criticize the dangers of naively believing in dreams. In detail, the Bar Hedya story parodies the respective teaching about turnip-tops from the Bavli’s list of omina by enacting it with ironic difference.14 As Rava dreams of two turnip tops, Bar Hedya adheres to the general rule that turnip tops are a bad omen and predicts two blows. His belief in the mantic powers of the dream and its interpretation is then reduced ad absurdum by inverting cause and effect. Rava accepts two blows since he “saw” them in his dream, but intervenes to prevent a third one, since such an event would invalidate the predictive power of having seen two turnip tops. The prophetic element which the rabbi attributes to mantic dreams is thereby implied to be potentially self-fulfilling. While this phenomenon would be remarkable already if it were only a singular and irregular 13 Bavli Berakhot 569. The text is based on the Vilna and Soncino prints, Ms. Munich 95, and Ms. Florence II-I-7. Ms. Oxford 366 (fol. Add. 23) and Ms. Paris 671 read: “‘I saw two in my dream.’ And they left him.” As Kalmin points out, the last two lines of this segment (along with the satirical climax) are missing from one Geniza fragment of the Leningrad library (A. Katsh, Ginzei Talmud Bavli: The Antonin Genizah in the Saltykov-Schedrin Public Library in Lenin­ grad [Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1979), vol. I 16]; it is also missing from the fragment Cambridge F-S F1 (1) 41, which indicates an unspecified number of beatings (Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Au­ thors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 68). I argue for the likely originality of the last two lines as lectio difficilior in Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 113. 14 The Bar Hedya story as a whole is likely younger than the list of omina, as most of its dream symbols and props are composed of elements appearing either in the Yerushalmi’s dream book or in the Bavli’s list of omina – a fact I will explore in more detail in the appended last part of this chapter; see also Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 131 and note 5 above.

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occurrence, it is in fact in line with the text’s repeated ridicule of Rava’s overly naïve belief in the mantic power of certain dreams throughout the story, as I illustrated in my previous study. Even at its redactional level, however, we should not misunderstand the Bavli’s criticism of Rava’s belief in mantic dreams as a dismissal of the power of dreams in general. The serious argument behind the story is not that dreams are arbitrary, but that one should not naively believe certain dream interpreters like Bar Hedya. One may easily distort reality in order to uphold one’s beliefs, the Talmud implies, displaying an attitude reminiscent of that of the Second Sophistic.15 The parody, then, functions very much like the previous example of Rav Ashi, who became rich despite having seen a turnip-top: as a way to clarify the supreme reality that is the Oral Torah and its teachings on dreams. Rav Ashi’s experience in the original saying threatened to invalidate the general rule about turnip-tops as a bad omen in a list of omina. In the case of Rav Ashi, it is the editorial voice of the Talmud, the stam, who intervenes to resolve a halakhic tension. In the case of Rava, the actor within the text intervenes to make reality comply with the prophecy, effectively short-circuiting halakhic discourse and rabbinic dream interpretation at the same time.16 Yet it is of course the same redactor who weaves together the Rava story with the story of Rav Ashi in the same text, improving his audience’s knowledge about the Oral Torah by indicating exceptions to broader truths about mantic dreams at the same time as indicating useful limits to a rabbi’s credulity in the rabbinic tradition. Hence, the fact that the Bavli displays a certain playful attitude towards the mantic powers of dreams or their interpretation in general – as expressed in turn in the Bavli’s list of omina – cannot be dismissed. Yet the Bavli’s general attitude towards the tradition it has amassed, i. e. its repetition of other parts of the dream book, and especially towards many elements originally stemming from the list of omina, is a straight one. This attitude towards previous texts, showcasing parody only in order to make a serious point, also marks the Bavli’s “naturalization” of a foreign text: the dream book of the Yerushalmi. The Bavli’s parodies do not dismiss the factuality of the Yerushalmi’s stories about professional rabbinic dream interpreters, with whom it presupposes familiarity, as we shall see. It does, however, satirize an all-too naïve belief in the usefulness of a professional dream interpreter as expressed in the Yerushalmi’s dream book, thereby incorporating the Yerushalmi’s traditions at the same time as domesticating them and implicitly questioning their integrity. The Bavli’s lesson in the Bar Hedya story is to advise rabbis to avoid any professional interpreter, including rabbinic ones, because they may be corrupted by being invested 15 For a consideration of rabbinic culture in dialogue with the second sophistic see e. g. D. Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 193–280; see also Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 194 and 230 for further bibliography. 16 See also Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 68.

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in the outcome of the dream. The Bavli holds that rabbis, instead of relying on the esoteric principles associated with the professional dream interpreters, should instead apply the exoteric rabbinic principles of dream interpretation as offered throughout the Bavli’s dream book, and including in its list of omina.17 Turnip tops really are a bad omen, unless they are still on the stem, yet one does not need a dream interpreter to know this – one should instead consult the Oral Torah (as embodied in the Bavli). (An added complication for the rabbis is that interpreted dreams always come true as we will see below; according to what I call the Palestinian Doctrine of dream interpretation, the mantic power lies with the interpreter, not the omen.) With the Bar Hedya story, the Bavli justifies its own methods of exoteric, one may almost say “scientific” dream interpretation, based on a list of omina, by parodying the alternative that the Yerushalmi offers to its audience: consulting a rabbi as professional dream interpreter. Criticizing methods of dream interpretation prevalent in one’s own tradition is not a minor cultural intervention. Dream interpretation was one of the main sciences of antiquity. Mantic dreams are private oracles, and by their popular character very likely numerically much more important than the famed official oracles and the institutionalized prophecy that are so plentifully attested by ancient literature and archaeology. The practices of institutionalized prophecy and dream interpretation even converged in the Hellenistic and early Byzantine custom of sleeping in “official” holy sites in order to engender mantic dreams; such dreams were often for medical purposes. Jews also adhered to similar uses of synagogues, as is attested even by Chrysostom’s infamous homilies against the Jews, accusing his Christian congregation equally of sleeping in synagogues.18 To reiterate, throughout Late Antiquity, we can find two basic ways of interpreting dreams. On the one hand, we find “professional” dream interpreters, purportedly endowed with higher knowledge about dreams, either because they have acquired such knowledge by learning or because they commune with the divine on a regular basis. Again, Jews were part of this phenomenon, as at least anecdotally evidenced by the Yerushalmi’s stories of dream interpreters, as well as by Juvenal’s satirical remarks that “Jews will tell you dreams of any kind you please for the minutest coin.”19 Such professional methods of dream interpretation drew the ire not only of Roman polemics against superstition, but also of 17 As Kalmin carefully suggests, “a lengthy discussion of dreams in the Babylonian Talmud is designed to blunt the force of negative dreams, and to equip individual dreamers with the tools necessary to cope on their own with anxiety-producing dreams, thereby removing the need to consult professional dream-interpreters” (idem, “Talmudic Attitudes towards Dream Interpreters,” 87). 18  For an illuminating overview of the evidence on ancient dream practices see S. M. Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium: Six Oneirocritica in Translation, with Commentary and Introduction (Surrey: Ashgate, 2008), esp. 38–58. 19  See Juvenal 6.542–7 (Ramsay LCL), and Weiss, “Twenty-Four Dream Interpreters were in Jerusalem,” 44 and 52.

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the Late Roman church in the time of the Yerushalmi.20 The Yerushalmi’s strong support for its professional dream interpreters may partially be a sign of the ongoing cultural struggle with a doubly hostile Late Roman attitude towards both Jews and dream interpreters. Parallel to the flourishing of professional dream interpretation throughout antiquity, to as mentioned above we find a tendency to compile lists of omina that enable dreamers themselves, or somebody in their surroundings, to interpret any dream. The divinity responsible for the dreams, indeed, was not as capricious as one may think. Omina, this approach assumes, are fairly regular in their meaning, and thus were classified and collected, often with precise instructions as to what a certain omen means in general, like the turnip tops in the Bavli, what it means for a specific person, or when perceived in specific circumstance, much like Rav’s turnips on a stem in the previous example. The best-known of these lists was actually composed by a professional dream interpreter, Artemidorus, who in the first or second century C. E. collected many omina and discussed their subtleties. Protecting his family business or at least evoking a sense of exclusivity, Artemodorus also provided more intimate knowledge exclusively for his son in two additional volumes, which became part of the book as well. Artemidorus insists that it is incumbent upon any interpreter of dreams “to have prepared himself from his own resources and to use his native intelligence rather than simply to rely upon manuals.”21 The Bavli follows this instruction by providing a list of omina in conjunction with general advice for its intelligent application: it is, in effect, acting out advice such as that of Artemidorus by telling the stories of Rava and Rav Ashi. Several scholars have thus rightly noted the partial affinity between the Bavli’s list of omina and Hellenistic material, highlighting the evidence of Artemidorus.22 The ubiquity of dream-discourse in Greco-Roman culture, however, 20  Based on the censure against those who “observe dreams” (observet somnia) in the Vulgate’s rendering of Deuteronomy 18:9–12, influential Neoplatonists such as Syesius and Calcidius and church fathers such as Tertullian and Augustine warned against demonic dreams and condemned professional dream interpreters, as observed by Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byz­ antium, 40–50. In the middle ages, dream interpretation was explicitly outlawed by the church, see S. F.  Kruger, Dreaming in the Middle Ages (Cambridge / ​New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992), esp. 7–13. Note, however, that an official prohibition of dream interpretation does not necessarily follow from the prohibition of “divination” in canon 24 of the council of Ancyra (314 CE). The censoring of all who observe “auguries or auspices or dreams or divinations (augeria vel auspicia, sive somnia vel divinationes)” can only be found in the pseudonymous commentary on the canon by “Isidor Mercator,” a fact which is not sufficiently emphasized by Oberhelman (Dreambooks in Byzantium, 50), or J. LeGoff (The Medieval Imagination [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988 (1985)], 211 and 276). 21  Pack, Artemidori I.12, White, Dreams 22. 22 On the relevance of Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica to rabbinic dream interpretation, see P. Alexander, “Quid Athenis et Hierosolymis? Rabbinic Midrash and Hermeneutics in the GraecoRoman World,” in: A Tribute to Geza Vermes: Essays on Jewish and Christian Literature and History (P. R. Davies and R. T. White eds.; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 117 f. and

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should caution us not to overrate the evidence of Artemidorus for either the Palestinian or the Babylonian Talmud. There are, indeed, many later texts in closer chronological proximity to the Talmudic rabbis of both the Roman and the Persian Empire, such as the early Byzantine Dream Book of Daniel; given the traditional character and stability of content of many dream manuals one should even consider the post-Talmudic Dream Book of Ahmet, among many others.23 Comparing the Bavli or the Yerushalmi solely to Artemidorus, as has often been done, may thus seem a little anachronistic. While Artemidorus’ work remained in circulation as a standard work through Hellenistic times and was translated from the Greek into Arabic in the ninth century, we seem to have no unanimous evidence of its relevance for the Talmudim.24 Still, in as far as the later dream books often remain very similar to Artemidorus in their choice of omina and even in some of their respective interpretations, the previous comparative work between Hellenistic and rabbinic dream cultures remains valid, even if their focus blurs the results to a degree. Instead, one should contextualize both Talmudim more broadly in Byzantine and other dreambooks. In other words, even if Artemidorus remains a key witness to Hellenistic dream culture, we should construct this culture more broadly, and most importantly as an oral at least as much as a written culture. The dream book of Daniel, not Artemidorus, is chronologically the most closely related to the Yerushalmi, and in its simplic“Bavli Berakhot 55a–57b: The Talmudic Dreambook in Context,” 241–244; S. Lieber­man, Hel­ lenism in Jewish Palestine: Studies in the Literary Transmission Beliefs and Manners of Palestine in the I Century B. C.E–IV Century C. E. (New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1950), 71–75; B. Stemberger “Der Traum in der Rabbinischen Literature,” 23; and Weiss, e. g. in ‫מעמדו ותפקידו של החלום בספרות חז"ל‬. 23  For broader studies, including Daniel and other Greek and Latin manuals of dream interpretation, see Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, and S. F. Kruger, Dreaming in the Middle Ages (Cambridge / ​New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992). On the dreambook of Ahmet see M. Mavroudi ed., A Byzantine Book on Dream Interpretation: The Oneirocriticon of Achmet and Its Arabic Sources (Leiden: Brill, 2002), esp. 237–255; and S. M. Oberhelman, The Oneirocriticon of Achmet: A Medieval Greek and Arabic Treatise on the Interpretation of Dreams (Lubbock: Texas Tech University Press, 1991). A comprehensive study of the Syriac tradition on dream interpretation remains a desideratum; helpful studies include the studies of J. Lamoureux, “New Light on the Textual Tradition of Bar Bahlûl’s Book of Signs,” Le Muséon 112 (1999): 227–230; idem, Dream Interpretation in the Early Medieval Near East, Ph.D. dissertation, Duke University, 1999; and idem, “The Sources of Ibn Bahlul’s Chapter on Dream Divination,” Studia Patristica 33 (1997): 553–557. See also F. Drexl, “Achmet und das syrische Traumbuch des cod. syr. or. 4434 des Brit. Mus.,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 30 (1929–30): 110–113; and G. Furlani, “Une clef des songes en syriaque,” Revue de l’Orient Chrétien 21 (1918–19): 119–144 and 224–248. 24 The Arabic translation of Artemidorus has been edited and translated by Toufic Fahd, Artémidore d’Éphèse: Le livre des songes, traduit du grec en arabe par Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq (Damascus: Institut Francais de Damas, 1964); see also idem, “Hunayn ibn Ishâq est-il le traducteur des Oneirocritica d’Artémidore d’Éphèse?” Arabica 21 (1975): 270–284; see already M. Ullmann, “War Hunain der Übersetzer von Artemidors Traumbuch?” Die Welt des Islams 13 (1971): 204–211. For the Muslim tradition more broadly see e. g. J. Lamoreaux, The Early Muslim Tradition of Dream Interpretation (Stony Brook: SUNY Press, 2002).

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ity and overwhelming influence on later traditions, Daniel may resemble the popular aspects of oral dream culture of Palestine more than Artemidorus. And again in light of the relative stability of dream imagery we encounter throughout the Late Ancient East, both Artemidorus and Daniel also constitute important evidence for the Bavli.25 The Bavli is beyond the reach of the Imperial and Late Roman polemics against professional dream interpreters. Moreover, as Kalmin has recently argued, the politics of the Sasanian Empire seem diametrically opposed to those of the Romans: the Magi were religious officials often endorsed by the government, and as such were associated with professional dream interpretation.26 If we understand the status of rabbis as part of a minority culture in both empires, then it becomes clear how the cultural politics of the Bavli negatively, reacting to the official support for certain dream interpreters, may have disfavored rabbinic professional rabbinic dream interpreters for the same reasons that the Yerushalmi favored them, reacting to their Roman censure. While we cannot of course build our analysis solely on these broad contexts of cultural polarization, we will see that the two Talmudim respectively do take a very specific stance towards Late Antique dream culture in general. The respective straight and parodic relationship of both Talmudim to non-Jewish lists of omina collected in dreambooks, moreover, helps us to situate the Yerushalmi and the Bavli vis-à-vis the broader dream culture of antiquity, and vis-à-vis each other. The collections of omina that circulated as dream books throughout antiquity help us understand both the Bavli and the Yerushalmi. For example, in the dream book of Daniel, which was one of the most popular dreams books of Late Antiquity, we find a sequence of omina that involve dreaming of having sex with a specific partner usually from a male perspective some of them incestuous or adulterous. The examples from Daniel are all paralleled by similar earlier Hellenistic collections such as Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica and by later Byzantine collections such as the Dreambook of Ahmet. Moreover, related to the Greek dream book of Daniel yet distinct from it, the Latin collection Somniale Dan­ ielis gives very similar dreams generally a roughly comparable, yet not always 25 Weiss considers further Ancient Near Eastern evidence from Assyria and Egypt; while the broader cultural continuity he finds is fascinating, it does not, in my view, add much to our understanding of the much younger Talmudim; see idem, “Twenty-Four Dream Interpreters were in Jerusalem,” 54–56. 26  Kalmin, “Talmudic Attitudes Toward Dream Interpreters.” Kalmin cites a number of Greco-Roman, Armenian and Persian sources indicating the reputation of the magi as dream interpreters. Crucially, Kalmin explains the relative paucity of the Persian evidence by evoking the analysis of scholars who “argue that the priests who composed and transmitted the official accounts of the Zoroastrian religion omitted references to activities that they considered to be disreputable magic or superstition” (ibid, 87). This would explain why the prominent role of the magi as dream interpreters is now difficult fully to illustrate. On the dream interpretations of Ardashir in the context of the Bavli see already Weiss, “Twenty-Four Dream Interpreters were in Jerusalem,” 41.

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fully overlapping interpretation.27 The interpretations recorded in these popular sources are obviously closest to the type of interpretations that would populate the oral culture of antiquity, the market square, and the lore of professional and private dream interpreters alike. The rabbis would have heard such traditions just as much as they were exposed to any other aspect of Late Ancient culture. To illustrate the rabbis’ participation in this discourse, we can consider some of the sexual omina in these works. They include the following, using the words of Daniel:28 – Going to bed (συγκοιτάξειν) with your daughter or sister indicates separation.29 – Having sex (συνδοιάσαι) with a virgin signifies spiritual distress (στενοχωρίαν ψυχῆς).30 – Having sex (συνδοιάσαι) with another man’s wife signifies good profit (κέδρος).31 – To dream of having sex (συνδοιάξειν) with one’s mother, even if she is dead [in real life], signifies profit (κέρδος).32 While these sexual omina in Daniel can have either positive or negative meanings, elsewhere in the same collection the dream book of Daniel recasts some dreams negatively states that “having intercourse (συγγενέσθαι) with a woman you know, even if she is married to someone else: this signifies illness.”33 Artemidorus, in turn, excludes sexual dreams about a woman one knows, for very simple psychological reasons, stating that “to have sexual intercourse with a woman with whom one is familiar and on intimate terms, if the dreamer is sexually attracted 27  Note that Oberhelman’s translation generally provides the parallels between the dreambooks; a useful feature of which I have availed myself in the sequel without further reference. 28 The translation of Daniel is that of Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 58–115, with some minor modifications. The Greek text follows F. Drexl, “Das Traumbuch des Propheten Daniel nach dem cod. Vatic. Palat. gr. 319,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 29 (1926): 290–314; the basis of Oberhelman’s translation. The subsequent references to the medieval Somniale Danielis are to the edition of M. Förster, “Beiträge zur mittelalterlichen Volkskunde IV. 5. Das lateinischaltenglische Pseudo-Danielsche Traumbuch in Tiberius A.III,” Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen 125 (1910): 39–70; and idem, “Beiträge zur mittelalterlichen Volkskunde V. 6. Ein mittelenglisches Vers-Traumbuch des 13. Jahrhunderts. 7. Ein mittelenglisches Prosa-Traumbuch des 14. Jahrhunderts,” Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen 127 (1911): 31–84; this is also the version cited by Oberhelman. 29 Dream 344, Drexl, Traumbuch 308, Dreambooks in Byzantium 99, see Artemidorus I.78, Ahmet 128, Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge IV), LXVII. Weiss cites an ancient Egyptian parallel as well as Artemidorus’ dismissal of such dreams, and then states that “In the GrecoRoman dream literature I found no reference to dreams specifically dealing with sexual intercourse between brothers and sisters” (“I saw pigeons keep on coming to my bed,” 166). 30  Dream 349, Drexl, Traumbuch, 308, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 101, see Ahmet 128, Somniale Danielis (Beiträge IV) LXIX and Förster, Beiträge V, 34. 31  Dream 350, Drexl, Traumbuch, 308, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 101, see Ahmet 127 and 128. 32 Dream 364, Drexl, Traumbuch, 308, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 103, see Artemidorus, I.79 and Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge, IV), LXVIII. 33  Dream 104, Drexl, Traumbuch 297, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 73, see Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge, IV), CCXCIX, Ahmet 127.

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to and desirous of the woman, signifies nothing at all because his desire for her has been aroused.”34 Here, Artemidorus bases his view on the widespread Epicurean notion, shared by the rabbis, that many dreams are simply the “day’s residue,” as Freud put it.35 This is Artemidorus’ distinction between a mantic and a meaningless dream: “Oneiros differs from enhypnion in that the first indicates a future state of affairs, while the other indicates a present state of affairs. To put it more plainly, it is simply the nature of certain experiences to run their course in proximity to the mind and to subordinate themselves to its dictates, and so to cause manifestations that occur in the sleep, i. e. en­ hypnion. For example, it is natural for a lover to seem to be with his beloved in a dream […] It is possible, therefore, to view these cases in which those types of experience occur as containing not a prediction of a future state but rather a reminder of a present state.”36

Although the Bavli (as well as the Yerushalmi, as we will see), generally shares this general Hellenistic distinction between mantic and meaningless dream as expressed by Artemidorus, there is no reason to infer any specific affinity between Artemidorus and the Bavli. More interestingly, the Bavli turns the hermeneutical screw a bit further than the Epicureans. It repeats the view shared by Artemidorus in a statement by R. Samuel b. Nahmani, in the name of R. Jonathan, namely that “A man is shown in a dream only what is suggested by his own thoughts” (bBerakhot 55b). Outshining even Joseph, who told Pharaoh not only the interpretation but even the dream, the Bavli uses Epicurus’s insight to allow rabbis to predict a future dream by inducing it. In one of the Bavli’s stories, the rabbis tell the Roman and the Persian emperors respectively that their opponent will capture and torture them. The emperors worry until they indeed do dream precisely what the rabbis predicted, playfully fusing psychology and prophecy in a story told just before the aforementioned one about Bar Hedya is related (bBerakhot 56a).37 Yet to return to the meaningful sexual dreams, we should note that in the Bavli’s list of omina, we find a list of incestuous and adulterous dreams similar to that in Daniel: Artemidori I.78, White, Dreams, 59. stated explicitly that “dreams have no divine character nor any prophetic force but originate from the influx of images” (Vatican Sayings, 24), a view further developed by Lucretius (4.757–826 and 962–1036) and influential throughout the Graeco-Roman world; see Beert C. Verstraete, “The Implication of the Epicurean and Lucretian Theory of Dreams for ‘Falsa Insomnia’ in Aeneid 6.896,” The Classical World 74 (1980): 7–10, see also D. Sedley, “Epicurus’ Theological Innatism,” in: Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition (J. Fish and K. R. Sanders eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 29–52. The same view also marks Galen’s On the Diagnosis of Dreams, which in turn partially builds on Aristotelian thinking, see Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 43–4 and below. 36 Pack, Artemidori I.1, White, Dreams 14. 37  The dreams of kings and especially of the Roman Emperors were hotly discussed during late antiquity, see for example the extensive discussion in Gregor Weber, Kaiser, Träume und Visionen in Prinzipat und Spätantike (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2000). 34 Pack,

35 Epicurus

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He who has sex with his mother in a dream, he may expect understanding, as it is said, “You will call understanding ‘mother’” (Prov 2:3).38 He who has sex with a betrothed maiden (‫)נערה מאורסה‬, he may expect [to know] Torah, as it is said: “Moses commanded us a Torah, an inheritance (‫ )מורשה‬of the congregation of Jacob” (Deut 33:4). Read not ‫“ מורשה‬inheritance,” but ‫מאורשה‬, “betrothed.” He who has sex with his sister in a dream, he may expect to obtain wisdom, since it says, “Say to wisdom, you are my sister” (Prov 7:4). He who has sex with [another] man’s wife in a dream, it is promised to him that he is a son of the world to come, that is, that he does not know her and did not think of her (‫הרהר‬ ‫ )בלבו‬in the evening.39

The Bavli, like the dream books of Daniel and Artemidorus, contains a list of the significance of sexual omina, all of which here are incestuous or adulterous, including sex with one’s mother and sister, a betrothed (virgin) maiden, and a married woman. The similarities between the Greek and the rabbinic lists point to a shared cultural context rather than to specific cultural reference or even literary contact (which we cannot of course exclude). Artemidorus’ and Daniel’s dream books, after all, are Greek, not Sasanian texts, yet the continuity from Artemidorus through Daniel and the Bavli to Ahmet allows us to stipulate that at least Jewish Sasanian Persia shared a rather stable Hellenistic dream culture. The differences between the Bavli and other texts, moreover, are just as significant as the similarities. While Artemidorus and Daniel understand some of the sexual omina as good and some as bad, the Bavli evaluates all incestuous dreams as positive.40 The Bavli shares with Daniel the positive significance of an adulter38  The Bavli here reads ‫ אם‬as meaning “mother,” rather than “if.” The interpretation uses Proverbs 2.3: “If (‫ )אם‬you indeed cry out for insight, and raise your voice for understanding.” The Hebrew “if” is understood here as “mother”, based on the two words’ identical spelling. 39  Bavli Berakhot 57a, f; the citation follows the Vilna print; the manuscripts (Munich 95, Florence II–I–7, and Paris 671) relate the same dreams in slightly different order. Weiss discusses this passage in idem, “I saw pigeons keep on coming to my bed,” 163–164;” he also touches on the hermeneutics of the dream of the betrothed maiden in idem, “Twenty-Four Dream Interpreters were in Jerusalem,” 73 (where he cites a useful parallel in Bavli Pesahim 49b). Note that the interpretation possibly follows Proverbs 6:26: “but the wife of another stalks (‫ )יקרה‬a man’s very life (‫)נפש‬,” understanding the biblical ‫ יקרה‬as “to call.” Perhaps the aim of this story is, as Alexander argues, to “defuse the disquieting implications of dreams, particularly those with an overt sexual content,” and it therefore transfers dreams into the realm of exegesis (P. Alexander, “Bavli Berakhot 55a–57b; The Talmudic Dreambook in Context,” 239). However, the passage explicitly excludes dreams with an overt sexual content from such an attempt to defuse sexual implications by specifying that the dreamer must have not thought about the woman at night – in this case, so the Talmud, he probably had a sexual fantasy, and thus he might not be destined for the world to come after all. 40 The Bavli’s positive evaluation of incestuous dreams is shared by the Byzantine dream book of Ahmet, which likewise does not consider a female dreamer’s dreams of having sex. See Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 72, note 108, and M. Mavroudi, “Occult Science and Society in Byzantium: Considerations for Future Research,” in: The Occult Sciences in Byzan­ tium (P. Magdalino and M. Mavroudi eds.; Geneva: Éditions de la Pomme d’Or, 2007), 57–59. Sasanian Babylonia had more tolerance for incestuous intercourse than Roman Palestine, a fact that may have allowed the Bavli authors to play with the sexual images – without endorsing the

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ous dream – and, intriguingly, just like Artemidorus, the Bavli stipulates that this is not always the case. While Daniel classifies sex with any woman “you know” as a negative omen, Artemidorus finds it “not good to possess the legal wife of another man,” yet dismisses the dream image as meaningless if the dreamer desires the woman. Likewise, the Bavli specifies that the dream is irrelevant if a man knows the wife of another man with whom he dreams of having sex and thinks of her in the evening – using the same differentiation between a mantic and an insignificant dream so prevalent in Greco-Roman culture. The Bavli thus seems to stand closer to the Epicurean dismissal of such dreams, as preserved in Artemidorus and elsewhere, than to Daniel. For two main reasons, however, the Bavli’s view of dreams cannot be reduced to the Hellenistic one: one, it generally favors positive over negative dream interpretation, and two, it makes extensive use of scriptural hermeneutics to justify the possible negative or positive interpretations of a dream, as is evident in all four examples of its sexual omina. The Bavli’s use of omina, hence, may on the one hand be a product of its time and of the broader Hellenistic dream culture, yet it also reflects rabbinic scriptural hermeneutics and an entirely idiosyncratic rabbinic Babylonian proclivity to human happiness, at least where the outcome of dreams is concerned. While a list of omina and their meaning constitutes a significant part of the Bavli’s dream book and helps us to situate this Talmud in its cultural context, this is not at all the case with the Yerushalmi. Here, the absence of a list of omina allows us to appreciate this Talmud’s cultural context vis-à-vis the world of early Byzantine dream interpretation in general, and vis-à-vis the later point of view of the Bavli in particular. This is not entirely an argument from silence, since the Yerushalmi specifies that only the following single omen has a stable predictable meaning; a stability which is of course the precondition for any useful list of omina: R. Yohanan said: Dreams are fulfilled according to their interpretation (‫כל החלומות הולכין‬ ‫ )אחר פתרוניהן‬except for wine. There are some who drink it and it (turns out) good for him, and there are some who drink it and it turns out ill for him. A scholar who drinks and it (always turns out) good for him, an ‘am ha’arets who drinks it (always turns out) bad for him.41

The Yerushalmi here and in other cases stipulates that the interpreter, more so than the omen itself, will determine a dream’s mantic potential. What you see in a dream, in other words, is less important than what you make of it, here expressed in the terms “dreams are fulfilled according to their interpretation.” I labelled this the Palestinian Doctrine of dream interpretation in my recent study, and one actions. See G. van Gelder, “Incest and Inbreeding,” in: Encyclopaedia Iranica (E. Yar-Shater ed.; London: Routledge, 1982), ad loc. 41  Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni, 4:9 (55c) according to manuscript Leiden, cited in P. Schäfer, Synopse zum Talmud Yerushalmi I/6–11 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 278–9.

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can see that it enhances the delicacy of proper dream interpretation  – getting it wrong may not lead to a meaningless, but possibly to a disastrous interpretation.42 The Yerushalmi seems to uphold this doctrine partially to justify the requirement for expert – i. e. paid and rabbinic – dream interpreters. It allows only one single exception to the Palestinian doctrine, the case of wine, for which it stipulates a general rule and offers a fixed meaning, necessitating only that one pay attention to whether the dreamer is a sage or an ‘am ha’arets. Wine signifies good for the former, and ill for the latter.43 The Bavli as a whole endorses the Palestinian doctrine as effective, but also satirizes its potentially bizarre or even dangerous outcomes in its stories about the dream interpreters in Jerusalem, and in the Bar Hedya story, as laid out above.44 Bar Hedya abuses his powers by offering positive interpretations to those who pay him and negative ones to those who do not. All these interpretations, though seemingly arbitrary, come true in accordance with the Palestinian doctrine; the story ends with Rava finally understanding this principle, after suffering horrible losses. Rava then causes Bar Hedya’s death through a curse. Since the Yerushalmi offers only one fixed omen, the one about wine, it is unsurprising that this omen is the only element of the Yerushalmi’s dream book which the Bavli adopts in a straight way when it retells it. It is helpful to consider the Bavli’s following adaptation of the Yerushalmi’s teaching before turning to the Palestinian rabbinic material, as we will soon do: A Tanna recited in the presence of R. Yohanan: All kinds of drinks are a good (sign) in a dream except wine; there are some who drink it and it (turns out) good for him, and there are some who drink it and it turns out ill for him. [Psalm 104:14 and Proverbs 31:6 are used as prooftexts] […] Rabbi Yohanan said to the Tanna: teach that for a scholar it is always good [Proverbs 9:5 is given as prooftext].45 42  See Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 96–99; cf. the criticism of Bolz, Rabbinic Discourse on Divination in the Babylonian Talmud, 38–42; see note 5 above. 43 In the dream book of Daniel, drinking spiced wine, as well as being drunk, signifies bad luck, dream 260, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 90 and dream 359, idem, Dream­ books in Byzantium, 102. See also Artemidorus 1.66, 3.42, Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge IV), CCXLVI and (Förster, Beiträge V), 59, and Ahmet 113, 114, 195, 196, 244. Daniel also records many dreams about grapevines and vineyards, see dreams 24, 25, 28, 30, and 46 on grapevine (Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 62–65), see also Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge, IV), CXLV, CCXL, CCXLI, Ahmet 151 and 253. 44 While the Bavli states that “all dreams follow the mouth” (‫)כל החלומות הולכים אחר הפה‬, the Yerushalmi states that “a dream fulfills itself according to its interpretation (‫שאין החלום הולך אלא‬ ‫)אחר פתרונו‬. The difference between “mouth” and “interpretation” might suggest more than simply a different reading: the Babylonian tradition may present the doctrine as giving even more freedom to the interpreter than the Palestinian tradition. The “mouth” can speak whatever it wants, whereas an “interpretation” is restrained by the object of its exegetical endeavor. Assessing the difference would be contingent on a broader inquiry into Babylonian dream culture, which is beyond the scope of this paper. Yet it is safe to state that the freedom of the dream interpreter the subject of the Bar Hedya story. 45 Talmud Bavli Berakhot 57a according to the Vilna print and manuscripts Paris 671 and

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The Bavli here retells a tradition about the meaning of wine similar to that of the Yerushalmi, including the attribution to R. Yohanan. As mentioned before, wine is the only stable omen whose meaning the Yerushalmi fixes in the Hellenistic manner; the rest of the Yerushalmi’s “dreambook” is a collection of stories about rabbinic dream interpreters. The teaching on wine, moreover is the only part of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook which the Bavli adopts in a “straight” way, without parody. Yet intriguingly, the Bavli does not present wine as the only exception from said doctrine, but just another omen. It naturalizes this tradition by placing it into the mouth of an anonymous Tanna. Moreover, the Bavli here expands and elaborates upon the Yerushalmi’s terser saying, providing scriptural proof and an aggadic context of a dialogue, all lacking in the (likely older) Palestinian version. Such dramatization, we will see, also marks the Bavli’s – in this case deeply parodic – retelling of the rest of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook to which we will turn after considering the Palestinian dream book in its own context.

2. Cultural Borders: The Palestinian Rabbis and Late Roman Dream Culture In order fully to grasp the Bavli’s parody of the Yerushalmi’s entire dream book, I will first present the Yerushalmi’s dream book on its own terms, especially in its relationship with the broader Hellenistic dream culture as epitomized by the dream books of Daniel. The Yerushalmi praises the hermeneutical virtuosity of the rabbis who act as dream interpreters, mainly R. Ishmael, Yose ben Halafta, Yose b. R. Ishmael, and Aqiva who, following Artemidorus’ advice, rely on their intelligence rather than on manuals. The Yerushalmi’s dreambook is much shorter than that of the Bavli. It does not discuss any sexual omina, as do the Bavli and the Hellenistic dreambooks. Freudian undertones, however, are not absent. Indeed, one of the Yerushalmi’s masterly dream interpreters, R. Ishmael b. R. Yose, exposes sexual sins betrayed by the dreams of two men who come to consult him: A man went to Rabbi Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose. [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that I poured oil on an olive (‫משקא זיתא‬ ‫)משח‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “May his soul expire, for this man knew his mother.” A man went to Rabbi Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose. [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that my eye kissed the other (‫עיני נשקה‬ ‫חבירתה‬, i. e. the eye next to it).” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “May his soul expire, for this man knew his sister.”46 Florence II-I-7. Manuscript Munich substitutes Rabbi Nahman for Yohanan as the scholar in whose presence the saying is cited, which may well be a mistake since Yohanan then responds to the Tanna. Ms. Munich also omits Yohanan’s formal instruction to “teach.” 46  Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 4:8–9 (55b) according to manuscript Leiden, cited in Schäfer, Synopse, 276–7; the passage is partially damaged in Ms. Vatican.

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When hearing a dreamer report about olives and the pouring of olive oil, the Yerushalmi’s rabbinic audience may well expect a regular dream interpretation. In effect, the specific dream imagery of olives is also well known from Artemidorus as well as from Daniel, which of course as is hardly surprising given the centrality of olives in Near Eastern agriculture. The shared lore, however, is more specific than that, and extends to the specific dream image of pouring olive oil. In Daniel, for example, “pouring oil on yourself or anointing yourself” signifies good opportunities,47 “handling olives” means spiritual distress (στενοχωρίαν […] ψυχῆς),”48 “drinking olive oil in a dream signifies illness,”49 and “eating olives points to profit (κέρδος).”50 The Yerushalmi’s dreamers see what Daniel’s dreamers see. The Yerushalmi, however, portrays R. Ishmael as differentiating between mantic dreams about the future and meaningless dreams about a dreamer’s present state. We saw a similar distinction in Artemidorus as well as in the Bavli. The Yerushalmi, however, creatively employs this common wisdom, and does not dismiss the dreams about the past as merely meaningless. Instead, it sees the dream images as indicative of past crimes that apparently continue to trouble the dreamer in the present.51 Yet intriguingly, the specific incestuous crimes which Rabbi Ishmael identifies as having occurred in the dreamer’s past intriguingly correspond to Daniel’s list of omina! As we saw above, sex with mother or sister is part of the conventional list of omina from Hellenistic through Byzantine dream manuals, including in the Bavli; we can therefore safely assume that the Palestinian rabbinic audience 47  Dream 170, Drexl, Traumbuch 300, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 80, see Artemidorus 1.75 and Ahmet 23. 48  Dream 171, Drexl, Traumbuch 300, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 80, see Artemidorus 4.11, Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge, IV) CXCIV, and Ahmet 198. 49 Dream 183, Drexl, Traumbuch 300, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 82, see Artemidorus 1.66, Somniale Danielis (Beiträge, IV), ibid., CCLXIV, Beiträge V), 105, and Ahmet 198. 50 Dream 197, Drexl, Traumbuch 301, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 82, see Ahmet 198. 51  The parallel of this passage in the Midrash Ekha Rabbah even heightens the contrast between the audience’s expectation of the omen relating to a future event and R. Ishmael’s actual interpretation. Here, the dreamer reports the same dream omen in the presence of another dream interpreter who predicts that the dreamer will “see much light,” only to have R. Ishmael expose the naiveté of this interpretation and rectify it by revealing the same crime of incest as we see in the Yerushalmi. In Ekha Rabbah, Rabbi Ishmael reveals banalities like the profession of the dreamer; on the hermeneutics of these stories (very specifically defined) see R. Ulmer, “The Semiotics of the Dream Sequence in Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni,” 312–15. Ekha Rabbah, more specifically, sets up the entire sequence as a contest of dream interpretations between Rabbi Ishmael and a Samaritan (who appears only in one of the stories in the Yerushalmi’s dream book, see below). In Ekha Rabbah, the Samaritan interprets four dreams to mean: “He will see a lot of light” (‫)נהור סגיא‬, and four others to mean a combination of “he will achieve greatness” (‫)סליק לרבו‬, “he will become famous” (‫ )שמיע סגיא‬or “he will be prolific in his business affairs” (‫)עסקיה סגין‬. Rabbi Ishmael, by contrast, consecutively reveals four crimes or banalities from the past.

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will have known these sexual images as omina. The audience would therefore have appreciated the Yerushalmi’s reshuffling of the material contained in the manuals, its transposition from dream image to past crime. It may repeat the conventional material with ironic difference, yet not in order to signal its ironization of, say, Daniel’s dream book. Instead, its interpretations effectively travesty the audience’s expectations regarding the dream image. An audience even vaguely familiar with Artemidorus’ wisdom would have understood pouring olive oil on olives either as an omen oriented towards the future, or as meaningless revelations about the present. The Yerushalmi cunningly turns the traditional omen into a very meaningful revelation about a haunting past, which in turn corresponds to a traditional omen! Such transposition of dream images and past revelations cannot be dismissed as irregularity or coincidence. The Yerushalmi’s playfulness with existing literature and the audience’s initial expectation continues in the sequel as well. In two subsequent scenes, for example, R. Ishmael hears about a dreamer having three eyes, and another one four ears: A man came to R. Ishmael b. R. Yose and said to him: “In my dream I saw that I had three eyes.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: You are making ovens; two of the eyes are you own, and one eye belongs to the oven.” A man came to R. Ishmael b. R. Yose and said to him: “In my dream I saw that I had four ears.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You are drawing water. Two of the ears are your ears, and two ears belong to the cask.”52

The Yerushalmi’s rabbinic audience will once more be familiar with the dream images, which are again typical of early Byzantine lore. The multiplication of body parts here is well attested as a positive omen; in Daniel, “having many eyes signifies gain (κέρδος),”53 “having two heads signifies a union of friends,”54 “having more fingers signifies additional livelihood (προσθήκεν βίου),”55 and, finally, “having two tongues is [good] for lawyers [or] curators, but evil for anyone else.”56 Artemidorus is again more nuanced than Daniel, and among other things regards “to have more ears than the normal two” as a portent of various fates; for

52 Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 4:9 (55b), cited in Schäfer, Synopse 276–277; according to Ms. Vatican, the dreamer only makes a single oven. 53  Dream 404, Drexl, Traumbuch 310, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 106, see Artemidorus 1.26 and Ahmet 52. 54  Dream 131, Drexl, Traumbuch 298, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 76, see Ahmet 39. 55 Dream 120, Drexl, Traumbuch 297, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 75, see Artemidorus 1.42 and Ahmet 72. 56  Dream 102, Drexl, Traumbuch 297, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 73, see also Artemidorus 1.32 and Ahmet 62.

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example, it is “auspicious for an artisan,”57 resembling the Yerushalmi’s ears as indicating the drawing of water. Even more closely resembling the Yerushalmi, Artemidorus relates the following: “I know of a man who dreamt that he had three eyes. He went blind, not because of the myth of the Cyclops, but because of the third eye, which signified that he would have need of still other light, since his own was not sufficient.”58 The Yerushalmi, it seems, repeats dream images of its time, but always adds a new twist. The audience would expect that the omen related to R. Ishmael may signify a future event good or bad. The Yerushalmi’s audience, moreover, was already primed to expect that the dream may reveal something meaningful from the past. Now its expectations are yet again frustrated: the audience may be familiar with dreams about additional body parts, but R. Ishmael now turns them into accurate, yet utterly banal revelations about the dreamers’ livelihood! The virtuosity of R. Ishmael’s method fuses popular dream images with the widespread notion that dreams may signify nothing more than the day’s residue, as noted above. This Talmud places the potential devastation that a dream image may portend, such as looming blindness, in incongruous tension with the banality of Ishmael’s revelation. Just like Artemidorus, Ishmael finds the third “eye,” in addition to the dreamer’s own two eyes, as revelatory. Yet here, the third eye is merely the opening of an oven the dreamer made and the ears mean the handles of a cask the man used to draw water – the two “ears” in addition to the dreamer’s two own ones. Again, the Yerushalmi remains within the conventional imagery of the genre, allowing us to perceive its innovations in sharper relief. Yet again, it permeates the border between the dream image and its interpretation by inverting the two. “Drawing water,” the activity Ishmael reveals as the meaning of the dream, is a dream image attested by Daniel: here, “drawing water from a well [means] useful gain.”59 By populating both the dream images – multiplication of body parts – and interpretation – drawing water – with images attested as late Roman omina, the Yerushalmi plays with the wisdom contained in lists of omina such as Daniel’s dream books. Yet even this technique is well known from Artemidorus, who states that “whatever is signified by one thing symbolizes reciprocally the very thing by which it is signified.”60 Hence, the Yerushalmi’s focus is not on distancing itself from Daniel and the other collections. Had it wanted to make such a point, it would have engaged this literature. Instead, the Yerushalmi simply emphasizes the creative genius of its rabbinic heroes by outdoing their non-Jewish contemporaries at their own game. Its palpable Artemidori I.24, White, Dreams 27–28.  Pack, Artemidori I.26, White, Dreams 30. 59  Dream 460, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 112, see also Ahmet, 181. 60 Pack, Artemidori IV.24, White, Dreams 197. 57 Pack, 58

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ironies indicate that it toys with the rabbinic audience’s expectations rather than with the genre as such. The Yerushalmi thus emphatically follows the advice as attested in Artemidorus to rely on the interpreter’s intelligence rather than on manuals. As an alternative to conventional lists of omina, which it lacks, the Yerushalmi squarely favors the wisdom of rabbinic dream interpreters. These rabbis travesty the expectation of their audience with a series of unexpected innovations, rearranging late Roman dream imagery by migrating omina to interpretations and the revelation of the future or present to that of the past. In the Yerushalmi’s subsequent two examples, which I will not cite in detail, the banality of the dreams’ meaning is once more the point (fleeing creatures point to a thorny twig being carried, twelve tablets point to twelve patches on a blanket). Then the Yerushalmi relates the following dream featuring further hermeneutical innovations that draw on scriptural and linguistic insight: A man went to Rabbi Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose. [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that I swallowed a star (‫)בלע חד כוכב‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “May his soul expire; he killed a Jew, as it is written: a star shall rise from Jacob (Num. 24:7).”61

The audience may once again be aware that seeing stars62 or the constellations63 in a dream is meant to mean “happiness” in dream books such as Daniel. In turn, Artemidorus states that inversely, the disappearance of stars is a negative sign: “eating the stars” for most men, “predicts death.”64 Likewise, Artemidorus writes, that it is not “auspicious to dream that one is stealing the stars. After this dream, dreamers have generally become temple robbers.”65 The Yerushalmi’s audience, hence, would likely already have expected a negative revelation. Just like Artemidorus, the Yerushalmi associates the dream image with a sacrilegious crime, and the swallowing of stars with death. R. Ishmael, this time, fulfils the expectation. Yet he also naturalizes the Hellenistic wisdom by using for the first time his scriptural knowledge and seeing that the star signifies not the dreamer, but a son of Jacob. The Yerushalmi repeats conventional teachings with a difference, emphasizing the unbridled genius of the rabbinic dream interpreter. Rabbi Ishmael’s virtuosity consists precisely of drawing on any possible source of hermeneutical wisdom available only to him, wisdom that is not available to the sorry commoners who may seek to interpret dreams with the help of conventional interpretations as collected in the omina. Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni, 4:9 (55c), according to manuscript Leiden, cited in Schäfer, Synopse, 276–277. 62  Dream 18, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 61, see also Somniale Danielis (Förster, Beiträge IV) CCXXVIII, Ahmet 166–167. 63  Dream 32, Oberhelman, Dreambooks in Byzantium, 63, see also Artemidorus 2.36. 64  Pack, Artemidori 2.36, White, Dreams 117. 65 Pack, Artemidori 2.36, White, Dreams 117. 61 Talmud

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The two dreams that form the climax of the Yerushalmi’s dream book equally form the climax of the rabbis’ integration of Hellenistic dream culture. Artemidorus advises his son that “you should use the principle of numerical value whenever dream objects, even apart from their equal numerical values, have the same meaning as other dream objects that are equal in numerical value.”66 The Yerushalmi, not unlike Artemidorus, uses a similar gematria interpretation in order to explain the well-known dream about Cappadocia that opens its entire dream book. Its use of the Greek language in this dream may indeed indicate a reference to the source of its technique: A man went to Rabbi Yose ben Halafta [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that I was told: ‘Go to Cappadocia (‫ )לקפודקיא‬and you will find [the inheritance] of your father.” [R. Yose] said to him: “Did you father in his days ever go to Cappadocia?” [The man] said to him: “No.” [R. Yose] said to him: “Count twenty67 rafters of the roof of your house and you will find [the inheritance] of your father – [In Greek] kappa [means twenty] and dokoi68 [means “rafters”].69

Showing once again a rabbi’s interpretative genius, the Yerushalmi here features Rabbi Yose ben Halafta, the father of Rabbi Ishmael. Based on his knowledge of Greek, he manages to break down the Greek word Cappadocia, which in and of itself turns out to be meaningless, into its meaningful components: kappa is indeed the Greek number symbol for “twenty,” while dokoi is the plural for “beams.”70 Thus far the Yerushalmi stays within the convention: using a dream to uncover hidden treasure in a bed room is attested in previous manuals.71 Yet by expanding the number of expected languages to include Greek, R. Yose again expands the hermeneutical horizon, and thus helps the dreamer to reveal his father’s property. The dream actually constitutes the only direct link to the Yerushalmi’s halakhic inquiry. The sugya in which we find the dream discusses the second tithe;  Pack, Artemidori IV.24, White, Dreams 196. ‫עשרין‬, following Ms. Vatican, Ms. Leiden and the Venice print have ‫עשר‬, “ten.” 68 ‫דקוייה‬, following Ms. Vatican, Ms. Leiden and the Venice print have ‫דקוריא‬, perhaps based on Greek deka, “ten”. 69  Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni, 4:9.7 (55b), following Ms. Vatican, cited in P. Schäfer, Synopse, 274–275. 70  On this dream, see also Galit Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life, 94–95 and 102–103; eadem, “Multilingual Puns in Rabbinic Literature,” in: The Cambridge Companion to the Talmud and Rabbinic Literature (C. E. Fonrobert, M. Jaffee eds.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 222–239; and R. Ulmer, “The Semiotics of the Dream Sequence in Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni,” 309–311. In manuscript Leiden, καππα is understood to mean ten, perhaps because κ is the tenth letter in the Greek alphabet, and δóκια, correctly, as “beams.” The parallels in Ekha Rabbah (1.4) and Bereshit Rabbah (68.12) correctly understand κ as the numerical symbol for which it stands in Greek, twenty. 71 Cicero, De Divinatione 2.134, on Chrysippus. 66

67 

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information gathered from dreams, we learn, is irrelevant for the tithing status of goods. Nothing more than the topic of dreams then triggers the Yerushalmi’s extensive praise for its rabbinic dream interpreters, after which the discussion of tithing resumes. The issue of money, however, constitutes one possible other link between the Yerushalmi’s dream book and the halakhic context in which we find it. The following dream emphatically endorses the notion that rabbinic dream interpreters should be remunerated: Somebody came to Rabbi Ishmael Bar Yose and said to him: “I saw in my dream that I was told, ‘in this way your finger [‫ ]אצבעתך‬fell down.’” He said to him: “Give me compensation [‫]אגרי‬, and I will tell you.” He said to him: “I saw in my dream that I was told, ‘in this way there will be a swelling in your mouth [‫]בפומך‬.’” He said to him: “Give me compensation, and I will tell you.” He said to him: “I saw in my dream, ‘in this way your finger rose.’”72 He said to him: “Didn’t I tell you, ‘give me compensation, and I will tell you’? As you were told, ‘in this way [your finger fell downward],’ rain fell on your [stored] wheat. As you were told, ‘in this way [there will be a swelling in your mouth],’ it swelled. And as you were told, ‘in this way [your finger rose],’ it sprouted.”73

The Yerushalmi’s dream book recounts Rabbi Ishmael bar Yose’s ingenious reading of the dream symbol as well as his demand for payment. It also emphasizes the damage the rabbi allowed the dreamer to suffer, despite the fact that his only shortcoming lies in refusing to compensate Rabbi Ishmael for his services.74 Rabbi Ishmael’s insistence on receiving payment even after the catastrophes had already began to unfold highlights the fact that they could have been avoided – had Rabbi Ishmael interpreted the dreams in the first place. The Yerushalmi’s dream book seems to side with the rabbi who demands payment; it describes rabbinic dream interpreters “without a hint of criticism,” Kalmin aptly notes.75 The Yerushalmi gives no indication that compensation for dream interpretation is reproachable and does not object to the idea that Rabbi Ishmael might have been responsible for the dreamer’s loss, as the Palestinian doctrine would suggest. With this, we can turn to the Bavli’s parody of the dream book.

72  Or “is erected” (‫)זקיף‬. See M. Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic, (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 181. 73  Talmud Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 4:9 (55c), according to Ms. Leiden, cited in Schäfer, Synopse, 276–277; the passage in manuscript Vatican is partially corrupted. 74 Sprouted wheat cannot be stored as seedlings or used for most forms of baking. 75  Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 66; see also ibid, “Talmudic Attitudes Towards Dream Interpreters,” 97–99. Kalmin refers to the closely parallel material in Ekha Rabbah.

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3. Geographic Borders: A Babylonian Parody of a Palestinian Dream Book In the Bavli, the Bar Hedya story parodies eight out of twelve sections of the Yerushalmi’s dream book  – especially those involving Rabbi Ishmael and his demand for payment for dream interpretation, as I have argued previously. The Yerushalmi’s acquiescence to Rabbi Ishmael’s demand for payment is questioned in the Bavli. The Bavli repeats the narrative about Rabbi Ishmael in the person of Bar Hedya and considers the potential implications of his actions. The last subsection of the Bar Hedya story, to give but one brief example of my analysis, repeats the story of Rabbi Ishmael and the dreamer who lost his wheat-with a decisive difference. It recounts Bar Hedya’s death in Rome. The last subsection includes the story’s anticipated climactic finale: [Bar Hedya] arose [‫ ]קם‬and exiled himself to Rome. He went and sat [‫ ]אזל יתיב‬at the entrance of [the house of] the king’s chief of the embroiderers. The chief embroiderer had a dream vision. [The embroiderer] said to [Bar Hedya]: “I saw in my dream that a needle pierced my finger [‫]מחטא עייל באצבעתי‬.” [Bar Hedya] said to him: “Give me a zuz.” And he did not give it to him, and he did not tell him anything. He said to him: “I saw in my dream that decay fell on two of my fingers.” He said to him: “Give me a zuz.” And he did not give it to him, and he did not tell him [the dream’s interpretation]. He said to him: “I saw that decay fell on my entire hand.” He said to him: “Decay fell on all of the silk garments [‫]שיראי‬.” The royal household heard [about the issue] and brought the chief embroiderer in order to kill him. [The embroiderer] said to them: “Why me? Bring the one who knew and did not say it.” They brought Bar Hedya. They said to him: “On account of your zuz, the silken garments of the king have been destroyed.” They tied [‫ ]כפיתו‬two cedars [‫ ]ארזי‬with a rope [‫]בחבלא‬. They bound one foot to one [‫ ]חד‬cedar and one to another cedar, and released [‫ ]ושרו‬the rope so that his head was split [‫ ]דאצטליק‬in one and one [‫]חד וחד‬, and he fell in two [parts].76

This passage marks the end of Bar Hedya, as well as of his story in the Bavli. After Rava finds a dream book and finally learns about the Palestinian doctrine, 76 Talmud Bavli Berakhot 56a–b, cited according to the Vilna print. Rava has a slightly more active role in bringing about the execution in Ms. Munich 95, Ms. Oxford 366 (fol. Add. 23), Ms. Paris 671, and the Soncino print. Here, just before relating Bar Hedya’s execution, the text states that: “Rava said: ‘I will not forgive him until his head is split in two.’”

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he curses Bar Hedya for having caused the death of his wife (in turn, I argued before, a parody of another segment of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook in which a spouse is killed by the incompetence of rabbinic dream interpreters). Bar Hedya exiles himself to Rome in order to atone for his guilt, yet upon his arrival he immediately resumes his dubious business. Perhaps slightly repentant for his past faults and failures, he does not, at first, interpret the dream of the chief embroider unfavorably even though the latter refuses to pay. Instead, Bar Hedya does not interpret it all. As the dreamer refuses to pay a third time, the king’s garments decay and the embroiderer informs the king that Bar Hedya is to blame. The structural, lexical, and most importantly narrative affinities between the Yerushalmi and the Bavli make it evident that the Bavli here repeats the story about Rabbi Ishmael’s demand for payment with a difference: – The officer responsible for the king’s garments in the Bar Hedya story has a dream that unfolds in three consecutive parts, just like the dream that Rabbi Ishmael interprets. – In both cases, the rabbinic dream interpreter asks for compensation and twice refuses to interpret the dream before receiving it. Both texts use the term “‫  ​אגרא‬/  ‫”אגרי‬. – The symbol in the first and third dreams Rabbi Joshmael refuses to interpret is a finger. A finger likewise appears in the first and second dreams that Bar Hedya at first refuses to interpret. Both texts use the word “‫אצבע‬.” – In both stories, the consequence of not paying the interpreter is the destruction by “natural” causes of property looked after by the unfortunate dreamer. – Most importantly, in both cases, the events “predicted” by dreams seem to unfold throughout the narrative: the damage predicted by the first two dreams was limited in both dreams, while the man’s dreams kept recurring. The interpreter delivers the devastating news only after everything is lost. The damage could have been prevented had the dream interpreter revealed the meaning of the dreams earlier. The similarities between the two Talmudim, along with the starkly different outcomes, indicate a parodic relationship between the two stories, especially in light of the cumulative evidence that the Bar Hedya story presupposes its audience’s familiarity with the Yerushalmi’s dream book. The author of the Bar Hedya story shows that Rabbi Ishmael’s demand for compensation, whether or not acceptable in general, can be dangerous when exercised by a corrupt dream interpreter. Whereas the Yerushalmi’s dream book accepts the dangers associated with professional rabbinic dream interpretation, the Bavli from the outset considers Bar Hedya’s conduct a crime punishable by death. A more divergent view of the trade of dream interpretation than that put forward by the two Talmudim is hardly imaginable. Yet both form part of the same rabbinic tradition  – the core of the story itself crosses the cultural border between the late Roman and

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the Sassanian Empire, yet its naturalization in this case includes the inversion of its message. The Bavli’s Bar Hedya story thus punishes a morally detached dream interpreter who punishes the stingy ones among his innocent customers. Yet we will see that the Bavli also criticizes those dream interpreters who reward wicked dreamers. The Bar Hedya story, namely, is succeeded in the Bavli by another story, this time told explicitly about R. Ishmael. In the following Bavli story, the parts printed in regular typescript would again sound uncomfortably familiar to any student of the Yerushalmi, while the parts in italics develop the Yerushalmi’s themes further: I. A certain heretic (‫ )מינא‬said to R. Ishmael the Son of Rabbi Yose: “[In a dream,] I saw myself pouring oil on olives (‫)משקה שמן לזיתים‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “He has had sex with his mother.” II. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw I plucked a star (‫ )דקטיף לי כוכבא‬for myself.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You have stolen an Israelite.” III. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that I swallowed the star (‫)דבלעתי לכוכבא‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You have sold an Israelite and consumed the proceeds.” IV. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that my eyes were kissing one another (‫עיני דנשקן‬ ‫)אהדדי‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “He has had sex with his sister.” V. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that I kissed the moon.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “He has had sex with the wife of an Israelite.” VI. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that I was trampling the shade of a myrtle.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “he has had sex with a betrothed maiden. VII. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that there was a shade above me, and yet it was beneath me. [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You laid upside down [with a woman].” VIII. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw ravens returning to my bed.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “Your wife has whored with many men.” IX. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw pigeons returning to my bed. [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You have defiled many women.” X. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that I took two doves and they flew away.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You have married two wives and dismissed them without a bill of divorce.” XI. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that I was shelling eggs.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You have been stripping the dead.” [The heretic] said to him: “Everything [you said] I did, except that I am innocent of the last thing! Just then a woman came and said to him: “This cloak which you are wearing belonged to So-and-so who is dead, and you have stripped it from him.” XII. [The heretic] said to him: “I saw that people said to me: ‘Your father has left you property in Cappadocia.’” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “Do you have you property in Cappadocia?” [The heretic] said to him: “No.” “Did your father go to Cappadocia?” [The heretic] said to him: “No.”

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“In that case, ‘kappa’ is a beam and ‘deka’ means ten. Go and look at the beam which is the first of ten for it is full of zuzim.” He went, and found it full of zuzim.77

Rabbi Ishmael in the Bavli’s dream book represents the only dream interpreter in addition to Bar Hedya who may qualify as a professional. The Bavli’s story about him does not specify that he takes money for his service, but his interaction with a heretic recalls his dealings with non-rabbis in the Yerushalmi’s dream book. As Kalmin noted, no other rabbi in the Bavli is portrayed as interpreting the dreams of a non-rabbi.78 The story portrays Rabbi Ishmael as revealing a long list of sins that a heretic has committed. These sins include, but are not restricted to, the very same offences Rabbi Ishmael revealed about various individuals in the Yerushalmi. The Bavli indeed repeats the Yerushalmi’s dream imagery very closely: the heretic, among other things, dreams – of pouring oil on an olive – of one eye kissing the other, and – of having swallowed a star. Moreover, the dreams reveal two corresponding instances of incest (sex with the mother and the sister), and one instance of a crime against an Israelite. In addition to repeating Rabbi Ishmael’s interpretations, the Bavli, as in other cases, elaborates on the Yerushalmi’s dramatic setting and introduces further actors. It also expands the list of crimes of the heretic, which actually also appear in the Bavli’s own list of omina as discussed above: intercourse with a betrothed maiden and with a married woman. Just as in the Bar Hedya story, the Bavli here again repeats elements of its own list of omina along with elements of the Yerushalmi. The Bavli thus retells the parts of the Yerushalmi’s dream book presented above that involve the revelation of past crimes in an apparently straight manner. The Bavli expands on these dreams and dramatizes them, doubling the dream imagery of the star and adding further dream images and further sexual crimes. It introduces a dramatic highlight when the heretic admits to all his crimes, albeit with a little reminder from an unexpected witness. Shockingly to the rabbinic audience, however, Rabbi Ishmael in the Bavli does not wish for the heretic that his soul may expire, as he did in the Yerushalmi for each of the men whose crimes he revealed. Instead, the Bavli’s Ishmael rewards the heretic by allowing 77  Talmud Bavli Berakhot 56b cited according to the Vilna print, manuscript Florence II-I-7 and manuscript Paris 671, with minor variations. Manuscript Munich substitutes Rabbi Shim’on bar Yosef for Rabbi Ishmael, and changes Cappadocia to “inn” (‫ ;)פונדקייא‬manuscript Oxford (Opp. Add. fol. 26) misspells Cappadocia as ‫ ;קפוטקיא‬the story is otherwise told rather consistently by all textual witnesses. 78 Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 66.

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him to find his father’s considerable inheritance – an outcome based again on a Yerushalmi story that the Bavli repeats with considerable difference! Kalmin rightly argues that the incongruence between sin and reward in the Babylonian story about Rabbi Ishmael indicates “a conflation of originally independent traditions.”79 The result of combining sin and reward is, in Kalmin’s words, “to put it mildly, uncharacteristic of ancient rabbinic texts.”80 I agree with Kalmin in doubting that the redactor of the Bavli could have been so careless as flagrantly to reward an evildoer by allowing him to find the treasure. Taking the narrative at face value, we see a Palestinian rabbinic dream interpreter who acts as a professional (by interpreting the dream of a heretic, rather than that of a fellow rabbi), and pours his exegetical virtuosity into his interpretations, without any regard to the outcome of his actions. When describing Rabbi Ishmael as rewarding a sinner, the Bavli’s dream book implies that he is morally disengaged. This disengagement, in a different form, is also the very problem of Bar Hedya’s actions, which in turn punish a righteous rabbi rather than rewarding sinners. In my view, then, the Bavli’s story about Rabbi Ishmael retells the three segments of the Yerushalmi’s dream book (or a very similar composition) that it had not yet retold in the Bar Hedya story (or in its adaptation of wine as omen). It recontextualizes these three segments – one about a man finding his father’s treasure, and two about sins – simply by combining them. The lightness of hand of the parody does not undermine its effectiveness: the trade of Rabbi Ishmael is effectively led ad absurdum by having him reward a heretic whose hyperbolic amount of admitted crimes he has just revealed. Rabbi Ishmael in the Yerushalmi punishes a dreamer for not paying him, an action the Bavli parodies in the Bar Hedya story. Now, the Bavli portrays Ishmael directly as rewarding a sinner. The Bavli thereby ironically and satirically distances itself from the memory of the two rabbinic dream interpreters, Rabbi Yose and his son Ishmael, whose memory the Yerushalmi celebrates most.81 If we assume not a careless copyist, but a witty author as creator of the Babylonian story about Rabbi Ishmael in the Bavli’s dream book, we can read the story as comic imitative criticism of a series of stories in the Yerushalmi. Since we  Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 64.  Kalmin, Sages, Stories, Authors and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia, 64; later, Kalmin restates that “either we are dealing with an extremely sloppy job of editing, or the Babylonian editor has stitched together independent traditions to preserve them but undermine their meaning. He has taken several traditions that favorably portray rabbis as dream interpreters, yielding a single story dramatizing the terrible things that happen when rabbis serve in this capacity” (idem, “Talmudic Attitudes towards Dream Interpretation,” 99). In other words, the Bavli has retold these stories with a difference; it parodied them; see also the following note. 81 I already made an argument on this passage similar to the one here spelled out in my PhD Dissertation, Late Antiquity Upside-Down: Rabbinic Parodies of Jewish and Christian Litera­ ture, 238–241; Richard Kalmin in turn cites and develops my reading (inspired in turn by his previous one) in “Talmudic Attitudes Towards Dream Interpreters,” 97–99. 79 80

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can assume that this author expected his audience to know a Palestinian version of the dream stories featuring Rabbi Ishmael, parody becomes the best mode to describe his actions. The following table shows how the Bavli repeats the three passages of the Yerushalmi’s dream book which it had not already repeated through the Bar Hedya story (which are now marked by italics); as analyzed above in my previous study: Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 55c, 15–22 I. A dream about Cappadocia. A man went to Rabbi Yose ben Halafta [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that I was told: ‘Go to Cappadocia (‫ )לקפודקיא‬and you will find [the inheritance] of your father.”

[R. Yose] said to him: “Did you father in his days ever go to Cappadocia?” [The man] said to him: “No.” [R. Yose] said to him: “Count twenty ­rafters of the roof of your house and you will find [the inheritance] of your father – [In Greek] kappa [means twenty] and dokoi [means “rafters”]. II. A dream about a laurel wreath interpreted once to mean lifting up, once to receive lashes. [cf. Joseph’s dream in Genesis 40] III. Dreams that reveal sexual transgressions. A man went to Rabbi Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose. [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that I poured oil on an olive (‫משקא‬ ‫)זיתא משח‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “May his soul expire, for this man knew his mother.” A man went to Rabbi Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose. [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that my eye kissed the other [‫עיני‬ ‫ נשקה חבירתה‬eye next to it].” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “May his soul expire, for this man knew his sister.”

Bavli Berakhot 56a–b

[XII. The heretic] said to [Rabbi Ishmael]: “I saw that people said to me: ‘Your father has left you property in Cappadocia.’” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “Do you have you property in Cappadocia?” [The heretic] said to him: “No.” “Did your father go to Cappadocia?” [The heretic] said to him: “No.” “In that case, ‘kappa’ is a beam and ‘deka’ means ten. Go and look at the beam which is the first of ten for it is full of zuzim.” He went, and found it full of zuzim. Bar Hedya can read the same omen as portent of fortune (for paying customers) or of ill (for those who do not pay).

[I.] A certain heretic said to R. Ishmael: “[In a dream,] I saw myself pouring oil on olives (‫)משקה שמן לזיתים‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “He has had sex with his mother.”

[IV. The heretic] said to him: “I saw that my eyes were kissing one another (‫עיני דנשקן‬ ‫)אהדדי‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “He has had sex with his sister.”

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Yerushalmi Ma‘aser Sheni 55c, 15–22

Bavli Berakhot 56a–b

IV. Dreams that reveal banalities.

Bar Hedya reveals that a cushion ripped.

V. A dream that reveals a crime. A man went to Rabbi Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose. [The man] said to him: “I saw in my dream that I swallowed a star (‫בלע חד‬ ‫)כוכב‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “May his soul expire; he killed a Jew, as it is written: a star shall rise from Jacob (Num. 24:7).”

[(II and) III. The heretic] said to him: “I saw that I swallowed the star (‫דבלעתי‬ ‫)לכוכבא‬.” [R. Ishmael] said to him: “You have sold an Israelite and consumed the proceeds.”

VI. A dream about lettuce reveals that wine turned sour.

Bar Hedya interprets a dream about lettuce to mean that Rava’s wine turned sour.

VII. In a three-partite dream, Rabbi Ish­ mael demands pay and lets wheat rot.

In a three-partite dream, Bar Hedya de­ mands pay and lets clothing rot.

VIII. A Samaritan invents a dream involving cedar trees which Rabbi Ish­ mael causes to become true, leading to the dreamer’s demise.

Bar Hedya is executed with cedar trees, enacting his inaccurate interpretations.

IX. Rabbi Eliezer interprets a dream about the breaking of a beam of a house to mean that a son will be born. His students interpret it to mean that a son will die. Both come true “because a dream fulfills itself according to its interpretation [‫שאין‬ ‫]החלום הולך אלא אחר פתרונו‬.”

Rava’s children are led to captivity. He dreams about a breaking wall and a falling house, his wife dies. “All dreams follow the mouth” (‫כל החלומות‬ ‫)הולכים אחר הפה‬.

X. R. Yohanan said: Dreams are fulfilled according to their interpretation except for wine. There are some who drink it and it (turns out) good for him, and there are some who drink it and it turns out ill for him. A scholar who drinks and it (always turns out) good for him, an ‘am ha’arets who drinks it (always turns out) bad for him.”

A Tanna recited in the presence of R. Yohanan: All kinds of drinks are a good sign in a dream except wine; there are some who drink it and it (turns out) good for him, and there are some who drink it and it turns out ill for him.… [Psalm 104:14 and Proverbs 31:6 as prooftexts]… Rabbi Yohanan said to the Tanna: Teach that for a scholar it is always good [Proverbs 9:5 as prooftext.]

XI. Dream about leg cut off reveals amount of meat.

Bar Hedya’s legs tied during execution; many dreams in Bar Hedya’s interpretations involve meat.

XII. Dream about Nissan is thought to reveal evil, in reality the absence of the necessity of miracles (‫ )ניסין‬is a good sign.

Bar Hedya turns evil interpretations into good ones; Rava dreams about Passover (in Nissan), a miracle (‫ )ניזסא‬happens to him.

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The evidence for the Bavli’s parody of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook, then, is quite comprehensive. It seems that out of the twelve segments of the latter, the former parodies eleven. Through the Bar Hedya story, the Bavli parodies eight segments of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook, thereby highlighting the dangers of the Palestinian doctrine in case a professional dream interpreter happens to be corrupt. Bar Hedya punishes the innocent. Through the story of Rabbi Ishmael and the heretic, the Bavli then parodies another three segments of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook, thereby highlighting the dangers of the Palestinian doctrine in case a professional dream interpreter happens to be morally disengaged. In the Bavli, Rabbi Ishmael rewards a sinner. The only segment of the Yerushalmi’s twelfth segment which the Bavli repeats without emphasizing difference is the omen about wine. Yet this omen as such is already more palatable to its own dream discourse; the Bavli does of course strip this Palestinian tradition of its reference to the Palestinian doctrine. The Bavli hence reveres and safeguards aspects of the traditions of the Yerushalmi, albeit at times at the cost of what is most valued in the Talmud of the land of Palestine. The Babylonian rabbis began to discard the teachings of the west long before Pirqoi ben Baboi called for doing so. We should therefore reassess the Bavli’s relationship to the Yerushalmi anew, and admit that the Bavli occasionally adopts the narrative and hermeneutic paradigms of the Yerushalmi by retelling it with parodic difference. When considering the history of rabbinic dream interpretation, a certain historical irony may best describe the rabbis’ relationship to the broader phenomenon of Hellenistic dream cultures. The Yerushalmi seems intimately familiar with the omina of its contemporaries, as well as with the significance they attributed to them. In a culture increasingly hostile to professional dream interpreters, it favored and idealized these professionals. The Yerushalmi, while staying wholly within the borders of conventional Graeco-Roman imagery, establishes itself beyond Hellenistic dream culture by creating a new rabbinic way of reading dreams. It draws on hermeneutical genius, bilingualism, scriptural interpretations and psychological insight, and preserves the tradition of the Greco-Roman dream interpreter within the changing world of early Byzantium. The Bavli, confronted with an environment in which professional dream interpreters seem favored by the dominant culture, satirizes them in a parody of the very text that celebrates their exploits, the Yerushalmi. When the Bavli introduces its own long list of omina – one of the sources of the Bar Hedya story, as I argue below – it effectively introduces or defends the Hellenistic tradition of establishing an objective guide to predicting the future in the context of Sasanian Persia. The science of applying the omina the Bavli presents may not have been as subtle as the art of the Yerushalmi’s professionals, yet it was certainly less dangerous, cheaper, and it ensured that one could achieve positive rather than negative outcomes. The two Talmudim, then, on the one hand, create a common rabbinic discursive

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space that transcends the geographical boundaries of two empires that separate them. At the same time, however, the two rabbinic communities substitute cultural borders for the geographical ones that separate them from each other. Both Talmudim are rabbinic, yet both are at least as much part of the cultures they reject than they are part of the fleeting rabbinic oikoumene. The borders of Judaism, as well as the borders of rabbinic culture, are as much part of a constant negotiation as any other aspect of culture. Borders, a recent study reminds us, have always and will always remain in motion.82 In antiquity as today, one of the cultural vehicles in which this motion was implemented as well as recorded was literature. The Talmudim, as perhaps few other documents, allow us to study the transnational and transcultural aspects of three ancient cultures: the Graeco-Roman world, Sasanian Persia, and the respective rabbinic subaltern minorities of these two empires. The rabbis’ relationship to their immediate non-rabbinic and non-Jewish surroundings as well as to their rabbinic peers of the neighboring empire is marked by both antagonistic and acculturating forces that cut across and erect unexpected boundaries. The present study of the rabbis’ view of dream interpretation illustrates how the study of geographical, sociological and socio-psychological boundaries enhances our understanding of Jewish ethnicity and culture both in dialogue with itself as well as in dialogue with its surrounding. Rabbis made borders, but these borders also made the rabbis.

4. Appendix: Props and Omina as Markers of Internal Borders If, then, the Yerushalmi recasts conventional early Byzantine dream interpretation and if the Bavli’s stories about the Yerushalmi’s dream interpreters are mostly parodical, we should continue to rethink the literary possibilities of rabbinic literature in the context of borders. In the words of Jonathan Culler, “in so far as literature turns back on itself and examines, parodies, or treats ironically its own signifying procedures, it becomes the most complex account of signification we possess.”83 The Yerushalmi as well as the Bavli show remarkable independence in relationship to previous signifying procedures; the case of dream omina is but an outstanding example of a pervasive – yet infrequent – technique in both Talmudim. I am hoping that I will not be misunderstood, or misconstrued, as over-emphasizing the frequency of parody or irony in rabbinic literature. Much work lies ahead of us to determine precise numbers and to re-evaluate rabbinic literature as a whole in light of the recent findings by Moulie Vidas, Barry 82 Victor Konrad, “Toward a Theory of Borders in Motion,” Journal of Borderlands Studies 30 (2015): 1–17. 83  See J. Culler, The Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981), 36.

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Wimpfheimer, Daniel Boyarin, myself, and others.84 What makes parodies stand out is their contrast to straight halakhic or haggadic discourse, and this becomes clear especially if we consider straight forms of adaptation interwoven with parodic ones. I want therefore to conclude this article by showing very briefly the limits of the significance of parody by arguing that the Bar Hedya story in the Bavli combines straight and ironic retellings. On the one hand, we saw that it retells the Yerushalmi’s dreambook with ironic difference, marking the geographic border between the two rabbinic communities in the clearest way. On the other, however, I will briefly illustrate that the same story retells many of the omina to be found later in the Bavli’s own dreambook, lacking any clear irony. The Bavli in effect parodies the stories of the Yerushalmi, all the while recycling the omina of its own respective list by populating the Bar Hedya story’s entire décor – dream symbols and props – with elements from it. Parody is dependent on maintaining and questioning the border between itself and the parodied text. Recognizing parody, at the same time, is dependent on delineating it as precisely as possible from non-parodic retellings. In the following brief exploration, to be read as an appendix to my published analysis of the Bar Hedya story, I argue that the Bavli’s list of omina indeed preceded the composition of the Bar Hedya story, and that the Bar Hedya story, in addition to functioning as a parody of the Yerushalmi’s dream book, integrates many elements of the Bavli’s dream book of which it later became part.85 (I shall use my own subdivision of the Bar Hedya story when referring to its individual elements.) To begin with, all three of the four physical objects appearing in the narrative reality of the Bar Hedya story – Tephilin, a boat, and the rope used for Bar Hedya’s execution – are dream symbols known from the Bavli’s dream book.86 (The fourth, a cedar, is a dream symbol from the Yerushalmi’s dream 84  See M. Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), and B. Wimpfheimer, Narrating the Law: A Poetics of Talmudic Legal Stories (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). 85 Afik, in his analysis of the Bar Hedya story, claims that the Bar Hedya story cites literary genres as well as isolated citations: )1 :‫“אנו רואים כאן צורך לחלק את החומר המצותת לשתי חטיבות‬ ”‫) מימרות בודדות שונות‬2 …‫יחידות ספרותיות מגובשות ממקורות ספרותיים‬, I. Afik, Hazal’s Perception of Dreams, 359). Following Bakhtin, he proposes that all these citations in the text serve to create bi‑ or multi-vocal messages, and goes on to analyze the comical content of many of them (“‫קול‬ ‫קוליים‬-‫קוליים או רב‬-‫( ”הציטאט [ממלא] את התפקיד של קולות ודיבורים דו‬ibid., 359). Afik may slightly over-interpret the material at this point, since he bases his analysis, at times, on forced textual criticism and does not present enough evidence to support the existence of the genres he surmises the story to imitate. In my view, the Bar Hedya story does not cite genres, but mainly the dream books of the Yerushalmi and of the Bavli. 86  Rava’s Tephilin are the focus of a dream interpretation in the story in segment IIIf. In the Bavli’s dream book, putting on Tephilin in a dream is a good omen (57a). Likewise, Rava and Bar Hedya sit in a boat (‫ )בארבא‬in segment VI. In the Bavli’s dream book, sitting in a boat (‫ )בעריבה‬signifies a good name. In segment II.7, Rava’s dream’s interpretation is that he shall be arrested (‫)ומתפסת‬. In the Bavli’s dream book, when one is arrested (‫ )הנתפש‬in a dream, this means protection. Here, if one is bound with neck chains, and not a mere rope (‫)חבלא‬, this

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book.)87 Such clusters of reference, created by similar words used in two distinct contexts, are common in the Bavli. They allow the reader to perceive of their referent as “simultext,” as Zvi Septimus has recently called the phenomenon by which the Bavli expects its audience to read another text simultaneously alongside the text at hand.88 The use of simultext, in this case, seems pointed. When evoking the list of omina as text, the message of Bar Hedya story seems to be that the use of the Bavli’s dream book would be a safer way to approach dreams than contacting a professional dream interpreter – especially a Palestinian one in the likeness of Rabbi Ishmael, or his Babylonian alter ego, Bar Hedya. Intriguingly, several dream symbols of the Bavli’s dream book also appear in the Bar Hedya story as dream symbols proper. In effect, the Bar Hedya story contains twenty-seven separable dream images. Eight of these are scriptural verses.89 Three appear twice.90 Of the remaining sixteen, I have suggested that seven are inspired by the Yerushalmi’s dream book,91 while eight others seem to imitate the Babylonian dream book.92 Only Rava’s dream of a split head is unique to the story; the dream is not fully understood by Bar Hedya and in effect predicts the dream interpreter’s imminent execution by being split in two, as I argued above.93 In other words, all but one dream symbol in the Bar Hedya story are adapted either from the Yerushalmi’s dream book or from the Bavli’s dream book – the Bar Hedya story is a creation of citations which ironizes one of its sources while evoking the authority of the other one. In the Bar Hedya story’s straight adaptation of dream symbols from the Bavli, its attitude ranges from random reference (in five cases) to carefully almeans even more protection. Accordingly, the cedars used for Bar Hedya’s execution are also bound with a rope (‫)בחבלא‬. Since there are only three such items, one could argue that their use might be coincidental. However, the three items are the only ones used in the Bar Hedya story, and the additional similarities (like “arrest” as a dream symbol and the “cedar” to which I shall return) suggest that the props in the Bar Hedya story are adapted from dream symbols in the Bavli’s dream book. 87 Intriguingly, the method of transforming dream symbols into real objects is a neat inversion of the reverse technique in the Bavli’s dream book, of turning Rabbi Ishmael’s sexualizing interpretations into dream symbols which we saw above. 88 See Z. Septimus, “Trigger Words and Simultexts: The Experience of Reading the Bavli,” in B. S. Wimpfheimer ed., Wisdom of Bat Sheva; in Memory of Beth Samuels (Jersey City NJ: Ktav, 2009), 163–185. Generally, Septimus’ notion of simultexts operates within the limits of intertextuality; the Bavli’s extensive use of similar words for marking intertextuality stands out as cultural specificity. 89  II.1–7, V.5. 90 A “vat” appears in III.3 and III.5; a “mansion” appears in V.2 and V.5, and “decay” appears twice in part VII. 91  The imagery of a falling doorway of a house in IV.1, that of a falling wall and a falling mansion in part V, the “lettuce” in III.1; the “meat” in III.2; the “fingers” and “decay” in part VII. 92  The “vat” and the “palm” in III.3, the “pomegranate” in III.4, the “well” in III.5, the “donkey” in III.6, the “teeth” in IV.3, the “doves” in IV.3, and the “turnip tops” in IV.4. 93 See above and Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies, 114–119.

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tered citation and, once, to straightforward imitation.94 In three of the eight cases in which the Bar Hedya story refers to the Bavli’s dream book, the story suggests to its audience that Bar Hedya is perfectly aware of the Babylonian associations of certain dream images. To an audience familiar with the Bavli’s dream book, these uses of Babylonian dream symbols create the impression that Bar Hedya manipulates his interpretations according to his financial interests, twice in order to do damage to Rava,95 and once to help Abaye – further adding to the story’s strategy of emphasizing Bar Hedya’s vicious arbitrariness.96 Only once does Bar Hedya seem to conform entirely to the use of an omen attested in 94  Of the total of eight dream symbols that have close parallels in the Bavli’s dream book, there are five cases of seemingly random adaptations, in which Bar Hedya completely ignores the symbols’ “normative” interpretations proposed by the Bavli’s dream book. For example, in the third part of the story the rabbis see a well (‫)לבירא‬, which Bar Hedya interprets to mean that business goods shall be in demand or decay, respectively (III.5). In the dream book, however, the well is a sign that signifies peace and life, according to Rava himself (Berakhot 56b). Then, an ass, according to the sequel of the story, may signify an Amora (III.5). However, in the Bavli’s dream book, seeing an ass signifies salvation (56b). The other examples are as follows: A jar with meat on it, in part III.2, can mean sweet or sour wine in the Bar Hedya story. A pot, in the Bavli’s dream book, signifies also peace [of mind]–unless there is meat in it (56b). A palm tree, in the story (IIIc), stands for business; in the Bavli’s dream book, it means the end of iniquities (56b). In part IVb, Rava dreams that his teeth and molars (‫ )ככי ושני דנתור‬fall out, and Bar Hedya tells him that his sons will die. In the Bavli’s dream book (56b), the dissimilar but comparable image of jaws falling out (‫ )לחיי שנשרו‬signifies the death of the dreamer’s opponents. Accordingly, one might suppose that in this case the audience would have expected the death of Rava’s opponent, not that of his children, yet the reference in this case is too imprecise to warrant this interpretation. 95 For example, in the third part of the story, Bar Hedya interprets the pomegranates that Rava and Abaye see “correctly” as omina concerning business (III.4). In his interpretation for Abaye, Bar Hedya conforms to the interpretation of the Bavli’s dream book that pomegranates signify good business (57a), and predicts good business for him. For Rava, however, who of course had the same dream, Bar Hedya diverges from the teaching in the Bavli’s dream book in order to cause or predict damage–the recourse to the rather surprising “staleness” of the otherwise desired fruit might be another ironic twist of Bar Hedya. The other such case is in part IVc. Bar Hedya interprets the two doves that fly away from Rava as two women that Rava will divorce. This may at first seem correct, since also the Bavli’s dream book states that doves signify the dismissal of women (56b). However, the meaning there is divorce without a divorce bill, which leads to ironic incongruence in light of Rava’s impeccable reputation. 96  In the dream in IIa, Rava and Abaye read ‘Your ox shall be butchered before your eyes [but you shall not eat from it],’ (‫שורך טבוח לעיניך ולא תאכל ממנו‬, Deuteronomy 28.31).” The same theme is repeated in dream IId. The eating of an ox’s flesh, according to the Bavli’s dream book (Berakhot 56b), signifies the acquisition of riches. (See also Rav Yehoshua, son of Rav Idi, who refrains from eating a calf since he fasts for a dream, Shabbat 11a and Ta’anit 12b.) Rava, in his dream, does not eat the ox, and Bar Hedya “correctly” realizes the financial implications of this dream. He concludes that Rava’s business will fail, and that he will not eat because of his heart’s sadness (‫ מעוצבא‬IIa), or that he will drink wine in order to dull (‫לפכוחי‬, IId) his heart. Abaye, however, has the same dream, and Bar Hedya, revealing once more the arbitrariness of his techniques, bends the dream interpretation and predicts the exact opposite. Thus, unpredictably based on the “normative” interpretation, Bar Hedya predicts that the heart’s joy (‫)מחדוא‬ will prevent Abaye, too, from eating.

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the Bavli’s dream book, namely when Rava sees the two turnip tops (‫גרגלידי‬ ‫)דלפתא‬, as described above in part one of this chapter. In accordance with Bar Hedya’s prediction, two blind men strike Rava twice. This interpretation corresponds to the teaching in the Bavli’s dream book that all vegetables are a good omen apart from turnip tops (‫ראשי לפתות‬, literally: turnip “heads”).97 The single straightforward adaptation of this one dream symbol from the Bavli’s dream book, however, serves but to enhance its parodic use: this is the dream interpretation in which Rava himself has to ensure that the dream accurately comes true according to its interpretation by limiting the number of times he is beaten. The omen, hence, is used in a way that parodies the Palestinian doctrine. The Bar Hedya’ story’s straight retelling of the Bavli’s dream book’s list of omina, in effect, can support its parody – just as its parody of the Yerushalmi’s dreambook includes a moment of an almost straight retelling, as we have seen in the case of wine as an omen. In one case, the Bar Hedya story even fuses its use of dream symbols from the Bavli’s and from the Yerushalmi’s dream book. Here, the Bar Hedya story uses a dream symbol that, in the Bavli’s dream book, Rava himself is portrayed as mentioning when ruling out certain objects from appearing in dreams as dream symbols. Namely, in the Bavli’s dream book (Berakhot 56b), Rava says that nobody is shown impossible situations in a dream, such as an elephant that goes through (‫ )דעייל‬the eye of a needle (‫)דמחטא‬. In the last part of the Bar Hedya story, in the first dream of the chief embroiderer, we find the same terminology without the elephant: the embroiderer sees a needle (‫ )מחטא‬that pierced (‫ )עייל‬his finger. The fusion of the two traditions is precise: the image of the finger, we saw above, retells the dream related to Rabbi Ishmael three times in the Yerushalmi, whereas we can now see whence the other two elements. The simultextual affinity between the Bar Hedya story and the Bavli’s own list of omina alerts the audience to the importance of Rava’s own dream theory as formulated elsewhere in the Bavli, and this happens more than once.98 The Bar Hedya story multiple times crosses the border between Palestinian and Babylonian narrative. 97 IV.4.

98 One such example is Rav Hisda’s statement in the Bavli’s dream book, that the dreamer’s sadness (‫ )עציבותיה‬is enough (‫ )מסתייה‬to nullify a bad dream, and that the dreamer’s joy (‫)חדוייה‬ will be enough (‫ )מסתייה‬to nullify a good dream. To this the blind Rav Yosef adds that, even for him, merriment makes a good dream dull (‫)מפכחא‬. These statements moderate the outcome of dreams. If we look at the two dream interpretations in II.1 and II.4 and IV.1 of the Bar Hedya story, we find that Bar Hedya is portrayed as using the exact same terminology for “sadness”, “joy”, “being enough” and “dulling.” Not only does the story thereby elegantly reference Hisda’s and Yoseph’s sayings, but it even introduces two blind men in the scene, thereby alluding to Rav Yosef himself. Furthermore, the story has already tacitly introduced Rav Hisda into the scene, when mentioning Rava’s wife, who is none other than Hisda’s daughter. The allusion to this Babylonian statement perhaps exposes the dramatic dangers in Bar Hedya’s way of understanding dreams, which emerge when comparing it to the relatively simple way in which Hisda and Yosef had interpreted them.

Jewish Dreams Between Roman Palestine and Sasanian Babylonia

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Most importantly perhaps, it demolishes the border between itself and other parts of the Bavli’s dreambook, and perhaps most importantly between its straight and parodic retellings.

Authors Michael Bachmann, Professor em. for Protestant Theology (esp. New Testament), University of Siegen, Germany; main areas of research: Gospel of Matthew, Luke-Acts, Hebrews, Revelation and, not least of all, Paul, also: the temple (of Jerusalem), anti-Judaism (in [early] Christianity), methods of exegesis and reception history (art history / ​iconography). David L. Balch, Professor of New Testament, Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary, California Lutheran University, Graduate Theological Union, two Fulbright grants to Tübingen, Germany (1968, 1987); main areas of research: Roman domestic art and architecture, Hellenistic philosophy and the New Testament, social / ​historical context of Pauline and Lucan house churches. Barbara Böck, researcher and lecturer for Ancient Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at the CSIC (Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas), Madrid; main areas of research: cultural and intellectual history of Ancient Mesopotamia with special focus on the history of religions and the history of medicine. Bart B. Bruehler, Associate Professor of New Testament at Indiana Wesleyan University; main areas of research: Luke-Acts, space and place in the HellenisticRoman world, socio-rhetorical interpretation, and comparative sacred texts. Susanna Elm, Sidney H. Ehrman Professor of History and Classics, Dept. of History, University of California at Berkeley; main area of research: history of the later Roman Empire. Stefan Esders, Professor of the history of late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages at the Friedrich-Meinecke Institute of the Freie Universität Berlin; main research interests: continuity, change and acculturation during the transition from Antiquity to the Middle Ages; religion and its part at political identity-building between late Antiquity and Middle Ages and feudal society and family structures in the Europe of the Middle Ages. James R. Harrison, Professor of New Testament and Research Director, Sydney College of Divinity, Macquarie Park, Australia; Honorary Associate, Macquarie University Ancient History Department. Martina Kepper, senior research associate “Oberstudienrätin” in Hebrew Bible, Philipps-University Marburg; main areas of research: archaeology, history and archaeology of the Ancient Near East, book of Genesis, language and linguistics of Hebrew.

460

Authors

Ingrid E. Lilly (PhD, Hebrew Bible) taught at Western Kentucky University, Georgia State, San Francisco Theological Seminary, and the Graduate Theological Union; main area of research: philology and anthropology of Second Temple Jewish Literature and the Septuagint (Two Books of Ezekiel: Papyrus 967 and the Masoretic Text as Variant Literary Editions). Harry O. Maier, Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Studies, Vancouver School of Theology; Fellow, Max Weber Kolleg for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies at the University of Erfurt, Germany; main areas of research: visual culture, Roman imperial iconography and the New Testament, space and spatial practices in emergent Christianity, the representation of violence in antiquity, ecotheology. Georgia Petridou, classicist, postdoctoral research associate at the Max-Weber Kolleg for Advanced Studies, University of Erfurt, Germany; main areas of research: classical literature, history of religions and Graeco-Roman medicine in its socio-cultural context; divine epiphany in Greek literature and culture. Anna-Katharina Rieger, archaeologist of the Graeco-Roman Mediterranean, postdoctoral research associate in the “Lived Ancient Religion”‑ Project (ERC Advanced Grant, directed by Prof. Jörg Rüpke) at the Max Weber Institute of Advanced Cultural and Social Studies, University Erfurt, Germany; main areas of research: religion in the Graeco-Roman Eastern Mediterranean, history of religion, landscape archaeology, archaeology of arid regions. Annette Schellenberg, Professor of Old Testament, University of Vienna, Austria; main areas of research: primeval history (Gen 1–11), priestly literature, wisdom literature, Song of Songs, anthropology of the Hebrew Bible, Hebrew Bible within its ancient Near Eastern context. Barbara Schmitz, Professor for Old Testament Studies, University of Würzburg, Faculty of Catholic Theology, main areas of research: literature of the Second Temple Period. Alexander Sokolicek, Professor of archaeology, Institute of Fine Arts, New York and director of excavation at Aphrodisias; main areas of research: fortifications and diateichisma, urbanism, archaeology of Southern Italy. Gert J. Steyn, Professor and Head of the Department of New Testament Studies, University of Pretoria, South Africa. Main areas of research: Hebrews, Septuagint studies, and Philo of Alexandria. Christine M. Thomas, Associate Professor of Ancient Mediterranean Religions in the Department of Religious Studies, University of California, Santa Barbara; main areas of research: archaeology of Ephesos and Western Turkey in the Roman imperial period; material aspects of religion in the ancient Mediterranean

Authors

461

(spaces, objects, practices); theoretical models for the use of archaeological evidence in the study of religion. Frank Ueberschaer, Senior Assistant for Old Testament Studies, University of Zürich, main areas of research: wisdom literature, Book of Ben Sira, Book of Kings, the kingdom in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East, iconography, textual criticism. Ivan Varriale, scholar in Classical archaeology and President of Cultural Association “Archeologia Napoli”; Visiting Researcher at the University of Tokyo (from 2004 to 2009), German Archaeological Institute fellow (2011), Fritz Thyssen Stiftung postdoctoral fellow, Förderung italienischer Nachwuchswissenschaftler an deutschen Institutionen in Italien (2013); main research interests: Roman domestic space, Roman villas, Roman painting, domestic architecture (Roman), architecture and power. Annette Weissenrieder, Professor of New Testament at San Francisco Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union, Berkeley; main areas of research: Corpus Hellenisticum with an emphasis on Graeco-Roman medicine and philosophy, ancient architecture especially of temples, Pauline letters and letter to the Ephesians, Vetus Latina Luke and Matthew. Holger Zellentin, Associate Professor in Jewish Studies, University of Nottingham; main areas of research: rabbinic and Hellenistic Judaism and early Islam.

Index of Ancient Authors Hebrew Bible Genesis 1 25 1:1–2:4a 23 44 n. 3 1:1 1:2 24 1:3 25 1:3–4 24 15, 24 n. 4 1:4 1:6–7 24 24, 25 1:9 24 n. 4 1:14, 18 1:14–18 24 1:26–28 25–26, 40 26 1:26, 28 1:27 40 1:31 25 6–8 25 6:9 41 6:11 25 6:12 25 6:17 25 7:2 25 7:11 25 9:1–17 25 9:3 26 9:5–6 26 9:5 26 9:6 27 n. 11 26, 40 9:8–17 10 40 12 f. 49 n. 29 12:1 50 12:6 50 12:8 50 50 13:1, 3 13:10 48 49 n. 29 13:14–18 13:17 49, 51 13:18 50

14:14 f. 50 50 n. 35 14:18 48–49, 58 15:18 16:14 50 26, 40, 52 17 26, 41 17:1 17:4 50 17:7–8 40 27, 48–49, 55 17:8 17:9–14 373 27 n. 11 17:14 40 17:19, 21 18:1 50 20:1 50 21:14 50 48 21:32, 34 22:2 50 n. 35 27, 58 23 23:2 50 25:11 50 51 n. 38 26:4 26:5 51 26:19 51 28 52 27–28, 50, 51, 55 28:4 29:4 51 31:25 51 51 32:3 f. 32:20–23 51 32:31 51 33:17 51 35:1–6 51 35:12 27–28 35:27 51 36:16–17, 21, 31 48 48:4 49 50:11 58 50:12 58 50:13 58

464 Exodus 6:2–3 26 6:4–5 26 27 6:4, 8 6:7 40 6:8 27 40 12:44, 48 12:48 40 12:49 40 26 25 f. 25:9 217 25:10–15 71 25:22 29 25–29 215 28, 215 25:8 25:9 28 25:10–40 29 28, 217 26:1 ff. 26:1–37 29 26:31–37 217 26:31–33 29 26:33 29 26:36–37 29 31 n. 31 26:36 27:16 29, 216 28–29 38 39 28:35, 43 28:41 33 28:43 30 31 n. 24 29:4 29:7, 21 33 31 n. 24 29:11 38 n. 52 29:14 29:21 33 29:33 38 33, 37 n. 49 29:36–37 29:36 32 n. 30 31, 33–34 29:37 29:43 39 29:44 28, 32 28, 40, 215 29:45–46 30:9 39 30:20 39 30:22–33 33 30:22–29 32 30:22–25 33 30:26–32 29 n. 18 30:26–29 33–34

Index of Ancient Authors

30:26–28 34 34 30:26, 29 30:29 33–34 30:30 33–34 30:31–33 33 30:33 38 33 n. 32 30:37–38 31:13 39 31:16 26 34:6–7 414 35:12 29 35:15 29 35:17 29 40 35:22, 29 36:8–38 29 36:8–13 29 36:14–19 29 36:20–31 29 36:35–36 29 36:37–38 29 37:1–29 29 37:3 217 217 n. 67 37:5, 16 38:1–20 29 38:15, 18–19, 31 29 39:38 29 39:40 29 29 40:3, 21 29 40:5, 28 40:8, 33 29 40:9–11 32–33 40:12–15 38 40:13–15 33 40:15 33 n. 31 28, 217 40:34–35 40:35 28 Leviticus 1:3 30 3:1 30 4:3 39 38 n. 52 4:11–12, 21 5:14–16 35 n. 39 31, 35 6:9, 19 35, 38 n. 52 6:10, 18 33, 35 6:11, 20 6:20–21 38 n. 52 35 n. 38 6:20

Index of Ancient Authors

6:21 35 38 n. 52 6:23 7:6 35 7:11–21 35 7:19 36 7:20–21 35, 35 n. 38 7:34 35 8 38 8:10–12 32 n. 30 8:12 33 37 n. 49 8:15 8:17 38 n. 52 8:30 33 34 8:33, 35 9:7 39 9:11 38 n. 52 39 10:1–2, 16–18 10:1 39 10:7 34 10:9 39 10:10 26 10:12–13, 17–18 35 10:12 31 10:14–15 35 10:14 34–35 11 32 35 n. 38 11:31–33 11:44 39 11:45 40 11:47 26 12–15 32, 323 12:4 30 30, 40 12:6 13:46 30 14:8 30 32 15:19, 24 15:19 32 15:20 32 15:21–22 32 15:23 32 30, 40 15:29 28, 36 15:31 16 30 16:2 29–30 16:6, 11, 24, 33 39 37 16:16, 19, 33 16:19 37 n. 49 38 n. 52 16:27–28

38 n. 52 16:27 16:34 30 17–26 23 n. 2 17:5–6 39 17:8–9 30 40 18:3, 24 18:3–5 377 18:3 27 18:20, 23–25, 36   27–28, 30 18:20, 23–24, 30 37 18:21 37 18:24–25 27 37 18:25, 27–28 18:25 37 n. 50 19:2 39 19:5–8 35 19:8 35–36 19:12 36–37 19:18 74 19:18b 413 19:19 27 19:22 39 19:27–28 39 19:29 36–37 19:31 37 19:34 39 20:3 37 39 20:7, 26 20:8 39 40 20:22–24, 26 27 20:22, 24 27, 37 n. 50 20:23 20:24–26 27 26, 38 20:24, 26 20:25 27 21 39 34 21:1–4, 11–12 37 21:1, 3–4, 11 21:1–3 36 21:2 34 36–37 21:4, 9, 14–15 21:5 39 21:6–8 39 21:6 37 21:9, 15 37 37 21:12, 23 21:12 36

465

466 21:17–23 39 21:21 34 21:23 36, 39 22:1–16 39 22:2–16 35 22:2–10, 15–16 36 37 22:2, 32 35, 39 22:3–9 22:9, 16 39 22:9 36 38 22:10, 12–13 22:11–13 35 35 n. 39 22:14 22:18 30 22:32 39 22:33 40 39 23:10–11, 20 23:10 27 24:3–9 39 35 24:9, 15 24:22 40 25:2, 38 27 26 26 28, 40 26:11 26:12 41 37 n. 50 26:33 36 n. 41 27 Numbers 1:49–51 39 28, 30, 38 1:51 1:53 30 3:4 39 3:6–9 39 3:7–9 30 38 3:10, 38 3:10 38 4 34–35, 39 34 4:5, 15, 19–20 33–34 4:15, 20 4:20 30, 34 5 30 5:2–3 30 5:3, 6 40 5:3 28 5:11–31 37 5:13–14, 20, 37  27–29

Index of Ancient Authors

33, 39 6 30 6:1, 10, 13 ff. 6:2 39, 40 36 6:4–8, 13 34, 36 6:6–12 6:7, 9 37 6:12 36 6:13–20 36 7:1 32 n. 30, 33 7:89 29 8:5–26 39 8:14 38 8:19 35 8:24–26 30 9:14 40 10:17, 21 28 12 323 13–14 28 15:14 30 40 15:15–16, 29 35, 39 16 16:3 28, 35 16:9–10 39 16:9 38 17:1–5 35 17:5 38 30, 38 17:28 18:2 ff. 30 18:2–6 39 38 18:3, 22 18:3 30, 33–34 18:4 38 30 18:7, 22 18:7 38 38 n. 52 18:9 18:10 35 18:11–19 35 35 18:11, 13 35 18:11, 19 18:24–28 37 18:32 36 19 32 19:3, 5 38 n. 52 38 n. 52 19:7–8, 10, 21 19:7 36 36–37 19:13, 20 20:22 37 14:7 441

467

Index of Ancient Authors

25:1 58 26:33–35 37 26:61 39 30:3 36 28, 47 34 34:6 24 35:33–34 37 36 n. 45, 37 35:33 35:34 28 Deuteronomy 1:1 377 5:22 377 74, 364 6:4 6:9 269 10:2, 5 71 455 n. 96 28:31 9, 9 n. 20 28:35 31 350 31:6 350 153 n. 21 32:12 32:42 366, 368 33:4 434 Joshua 1:4 6 15:12 24 Judges 7:22 58 1 Samuel 1:9 216 153 n. 21 7:4 46 n. 13 13:19 30:20 46 n. 14 2 Samuel 46 n. 14 3:10 6 71 46 n. 14 17:10 20:14 58 24:2, 15 46 n. 14 1 Kings 5:1 47 5:4 47 6:3 216

6:17 216 6:27 216 7:50 216 8:4–7 71 21:1 216 2 Kings 5 323 5:2, 4 46 n. 13 5:18 411 46 n. 13 6:23 12:10 30 1 Chronicles 9:19, 22 13:2 22:2

30 46 n. 13 46 n. 13

2 Chronicles 2:16 46 n. 13 23:6 30 30 29:5, 15 Ezra 9:6 412 Esther 4:17h 41 Job 2:4–5 331 2:6 331 9, 9 n. 20, 331, 334 2:7 3 330, 330 n. 29 3:23 330 3:24 330 3:25–26 330 257 n. 8 5:3 330, 330 n. 29, 334 f. 6–7 6:4 331–334 6:7 330 6:12 330 7:4 330, 334–335 7:5 330 7:5a 334 7:5b 334 7:7 330 331, 334 7:11

468 7:19 330, 334 7:20 331 9–10 330 n. 29, 331 9:7 334 9:8 331 9:17–18 331 9:18 334–335 10:11–12 332 12–14 330 n. 29 330 n. 29, 332 16–17 16:12–14 332 16:12 332, 335 332, 334 16:13, 18 16:13 334 16:16 332 16:18 335 n. 37 332, 334 17:1 17:7 332 19 330 n. 29, 332 19:17–18 332 332, 334 19:17 19:20 332 20:20–25 330 330 n. 29 21 21:24 324, 332 n. 33 330 n. 29 23–24 330 n. 29, 332 26–27 26:10 24 n. 5 26:13 332 27 333 27:2–4a 333 25 n. 5 28:26 330 n. 29, 333 29–31 30:10–23 333 30:10b–11, 13–19, 333  22–23a 30:22 333 30:30 333–335 24 n. 5 38:10 38:33 25 n. 5 Psalms 25:11 411 34 410 n. 104 410 n. 104 51 79:9 411 104:9 24, 24 n. 5 104:14 436

Index of Ancient Authors

115:4–8 153 135:15–18 153 143:2 370 24, 25 n. 5 148:6 Proverbs 2:3 434 n. 38 5:38 276 7:4 434 8:29 24, 24 n. 5 9:5 436 9:14 276 25:6–7 243 n. 27 31:6 436 Isaiah 28 222 n. 94 28:16 22 43:11 153 44:6 153 44:9–20 153 153 45:1–6, 21–22 45:1–2 276 46:9 153 Jeremiah 2:1–4:4 71 n. 38 70, 71 n. 38–39 3:16 5:22 24, 24 n. 5, 25 10:3–16 153 71, 71 n. 39 23:7–8 31:35–36 25 n. 5 25 n. 5 33:25 35:4 30 50:28 216 Lamentations 3:42 411 Ezekiel 27:17 46 n. 13 46 n. 13 40:2 42:13–14 33 n. 33 42:13 35 34 n. 34 42:14 44:7, 9 40 n. 58 33 n. 33, 34 n. 34 44:19 33 n. 33, 35 46:20

469

Index of Ancient Authors

47 47 46 n. 13 47:18

Hosea 6:6 417

Daniel 9:19 411 14 153

Septuagint Genesis 1:27 370 2:18 252 15 352 22 348 35:12 53 35:16 56 35:21 56 36:7 55 48:7 56 56 50:10–11, 13 Exodus 18:20, 22 376 18:20 376 33 343–344, 355 339 n. 10 33:1–7 355 n. 72 33:7–11 33:7 346 Leviticus 339 n. 10 4:12 6:11 339 n. 10 10 339 10:4–5 339 13:45–46 339 n. 10 341, 344 16 16:2 217 16:13 343 16:14–20 341 341, 355 n. 74 16:22–28 16:27 399 n. 10, 341 16:28 342–343 Numbers 3:26 217 n. 67 5:1–3 340

355 n. 71 5:1–4 339 n. 10 5:2–4 11:16–30 340, 355 n. 73 11:16 340 341 11:17, 25 11:25 341 11:26 341 355 n. 71 12:10–16 12:10–15 340 339 n. 10 12:14–15 339 n. 10, 340, 355 n. 71 15:32–36 19:1–10 341 19:3 341 19:9 341 31:19–20 339 n. 10 31:19 340 340, 355 n. 71 31:24 Deuteronomy 2:14–15 355 n. 71 218 n. 71 4:2 6:16–17 348 218 n. 71 12:32 218 n. 71 13:1 23:10–11 355 n. 71 23:11 340 27:26 375 31:6 350 33:2 378 1 Kings 8:27

215 n. 62

Tobit 7:1 257 8:4 257 13:17–18

470

Index of Ancient Authors

Psalms 153 n. 21 50:6 95 348 113–118 348 115–118 349 118–136 349 338, 348–350 118 348 n. 38, 350 118:6 124:5 367 n. 13 367 n. 13 127:6 Proverbs 8:32

276 n. 69

Ecclesiastes 3:14

218 n. 71

Sirach 1:30 239 3:10 250 4:7 239 4:30 249 6:6 251 6:36 276 7:6 241 7:7 238 7:7b 238 239 7:7, 14 7:16 243 241, 243 n. 27 8:1 8:18 250 8:19 250 9:6–9 245 240, 249 9:18 11:29a 250 13:1–2, 4 242 13:9–11 242 236, 252 14:20–15:10 14:20–26 252 15:5–6 236 16:6 239 18:6 218 n. 71 19:8–10 244 20:5–8 244 20:18 245 20:27 243 21:17 238 21:22–24 247

21:23–25 252 257 n. 8 21:23 21:24 276 21:28 55 23:13–14 240–241 23:18–21 248 23:20b–21 249 23:21 249 239 n. 13, 15 26:5 26:6 239 26:16 248 251 27:16–19, 21 27:18 251 28:14 239–240 28:25 257–276 29:21 247 31–32 251 239, 239 n. 13 31:11 34:9, 12 247 36 252 36:28 246 36:29 252 36:31 246 38:24–39:11 237 38:31–32 237 38:32–33 237 39:1–11 236 39:1–10 243 39:4 247 39:9–10 237 39:10 238 41:16–42:8 244 41:18 239 42:1 244 42:11 246 218 n. 71 42:21 44–50 236–237 44:1–15 236 44:1 237 44:14–15 238 44;15 238–239 45:18 239 46:7 239 46:14 239 Joel 2

341 n. 13

Index of Ancient Authors

Haggai 2:6 348

52:15a 368 52:15b 368 60:1–14/22 369

Isaiah 2:1–4/5 369 19:24–25 369 26:20 276 153 n. 21 44:24 52:15 368–369

Letter of Jeremiah 1:59 276 Daniel 1:5 377

Vulgate Deuteronomy 18:9–12 429

New Testament Gospel of Mark 256, 278, 278 n. 75 1:33 1:45 278 257, 278, 278 n. 75 2:2 2:3–12 412 2:13–17 410 n. 103 2:15–20 73 2:18–19 73 2:23–28 73 3:1–6 73 3:7 278 5:39 257 7:1–2 73 7:26–28 64 12:13 73 278, 280–281 13:29 15:46 278 257, 278 16:3

9:13 417 66 n. 20 10:5 74 n. 52 10:5b 12:27 417 15:21–23 64 257, 278 16:18 18:17 410 n. 103 18:23–35 389 21:32–36 389 22:1–14 389 23:23 276 24:3 278 24:33 280 256, 277, 279 25:10 256, 278 27:60 28:2–3 278 28:2 281 74 n. 52 28:19

Gospel of Matthew 5:19 376 5:25 417 410 n. 103 5:46–47 256–257, 277, 279 6:6 7:13–25 256 7:13–14 279 8:11 63 410 n. 103 9:9

Gospel of Luke 1:1–4 390 406 1:48, 79 1:50, 54, 72, 78 416 1:51–52 416 406 2:14, 30–32 3:6, 38b 406 410 n. 103 3:12–13 417 n. 125 3:21

471

472

Index of Ancient Authors

5:16 417 n. 125 410 n. 103 5:27 5:29 410 n. 103 5:30 412 417 n. 125 6:12 6:27–31 413 6:28 417 414 6:35, 36 6:36 417 417 n. 126 7:1–10 7:9 64 7:12 256 7:13 414 73 7:22, 34 7:30 73 7:34 412 7:47–48 412 411 n. 105 8:13b 9:18, 28–29 417 n. 125 9:51–55 73 10:8 73 10:13 64 10, 63, 73–74, 413 10:25–37 10:27 74 10:27b 413 11, 76 10:31–32 390, 413 10:33 10:36 413 74, 386, 390, 413 10:37 10:37b 414 11:1 417 n. 125 11:5–8 278 257, 258 n. 10 11:7 11:39–44 73 12:39–40, 42b–48 389 417 13:1–5, 32 13:22–30 261 n. 16 13:24–27 277 256, 279 13:24 13:28–29 63 63, 73 13:28 13:29 406 14:11 412 15:1 412 15:4–7 414 15:8–10 414 15:11–32 414 390, 414 15:20

16:19–31 413 386, 390, 413 16:24 16:25 413 16:26 413 17:11–16 73 412 18:8, 14 416 18:8, 14b 18:8a 416 18:10–14 386, 393, 409, 410 n. 103 410, 410 n. 104, 411 18:11–12 n. 104 410 n. 103, 411 n. 106, 18:11 414 18:11a 410 n. 104, 411 n. 106 18:11b 411 18:11–12 412 18:13 390, 410, 411 n. 106, 412, 415–416 386, 410 n. 104, 18:13b 411–412 18:14 413 386, 412, 412 n. 115, 18:14a 416 18:14b 412 410 n. 103 19:1–10 19:1–8 410 n. 103 19:2–7 412 410 n. 103 19:2 19:3–4 410 n. 103 410 n. 103, 412–413 19:8 387 n. 14 19:11–27 22:25–30 417 22:31–32 417 n. 125 417 n. 125 22:41, 44 417 n. 126 23:1–25 23:34 417 n. 125 417 n. 126 23:47 23:48 412 24:47 406 Gospel of John 4 75 66 n. 20 4:4–30 10 278 257, 278 10:1–2 10:7–9 278, 281 10:7 278

Index of Ancient Authors

20:19, 26 257 n. 6, 279 20:26 256 Acts of the Apostles 1:8 66 n. 20 341 n. 13 2 3:2 256, 279 3:10 257 4:27–30 417 5:9 279 257 n. 6 5:19, 26 256, 279 5:19 7:53 378 66 n. 20 8:25 63 n. 8 8:26–40 9:24 257, 279 417 n. 126 10:1–43 392 n. 40 10:34–43 12:6–10 279 12:6 257 256, 279 12:10 12:13 257, 279 417 n. 126 13:4–12 256, 279–281 14:27 15 279 257, 279 16:13 16:15 3 16:26–27 279 16:26 256 163 n. 24 19:32–41 65 n. 15 21:21 21:30 279 417 n. 126 24:26 392 n. 40 25:5–15 27:1–28:16 392 392 n. 40 27:1 Romans 1–2 379 n. 50 1:1 361 1:3–4 178 1:5 364 1:9 361 363, 370 1:16 1:32 379, 379 n. 50 379 n. 50 2:6 2:9–10 370 2:14–15, 26 379

379 n. 50 2:14 373, 379 n. 50 2:15 2:25–29 374 2:25–27 374 366 2:26, 29 2:26 379, 379 n. 50 2:28–29 365 363, 377 3–4 374 3:1, 30 3:20, 28 373 3:20–21, 27–28 375 375 n. 37 3:20 3:21–26 369 3:21 377 3:22 362 3:23 81–82 3:25 411 3:26 362 3:28 8, 375 n. 37, 377 364, 378 3:29–31 371, 378 3:29–30 3:29 81 3:30 374 3:31 378 4:1–25 82 4:1 363 373, 377 4:2, 6 4:6 377 4:9–12 374 4:11–12, 16–18 371 4:11 363 4:12 363 4:17–18 366 5:12–6:11 82 5:12–21 363 5:13 363 5:14 363 5:20 363 80 6:6, 12 80 7:4, 24 7:12 378, 379 n. 50 379 n. 50 8 8:1–39 361 8:4 379, 379 n. 50 8:5–8 360 80 8:10–11, 23 8:14–21 366 8:27 369

473

474 8:37 84 8, 372 9–11 9:1–5 378 9:4–5 368 9:4 366 9:6 366 373 9:12, 32 9:25–26 366 9:27 366 9:31 366 10:1 366 10:4 378 366 10:19, 21 10:21 366 11 369 11:1–32 368 11:1–24 372 11:1–2 366 11:1–2a, 13a 372 11:1 366 366 11:2, 7, 25–26 11:6 373 11:11–16, 25–27 366 11:13 364 11:18 368 11:25–26 381 11:25b 372 11:25c–26a 372 11:29 372 12:1 80 12:3–8 82 12:4–8 407 80, 92 12:4–5 13:8–10 378, 381 14:1–15:6 82 15 368–369 15:10 366, 368 15:15–32 368 361, 368 15:16 15:19 361 15:19b 368 15:21b 368 369 15:25–26, 31 15:25–32 8, 368, 372 15:25–27/28 368 15:25–27 372 15:25 372 15:26 368

Index of Ancient Authors

15:27 372 16:5 3 16:20 84 1 Corinthians 1:2 369 3:9–17 222 6:15 80 6:18–20 80 379, 379 n. 50, 380 7 7:1–17 370 7:9 380 379 7:17a, 20 371, 380 7:18–19 10, 381 7:18 7:18a 70 370, 379 n. 50 7:19 7:19a 379, 381 7:21–23 380 7:22–23 380 7:24 379 7:26b, 27–28, 29c, 380  40a 7:29b 380 7:33–35b 380 8:1 382 9:12 361 9:19–23 363 9:19–22 379 9:19 380 9:20 379 9:21 379 9:23 363 10:16–17 80 10:18 366 11–14 3 11:20–34 82 11:27–32 82 11:29 80 12:12–27 80, 92 12:13 370 12:14–31 82 14:23–24 257 15 371 15:1–5 361 15:1–2 362 15:1, 3b–5 8 15:1 361

Index of Ancient Authors

15:2a–c 362 362, 371 15:2a 15:3–5 361 n. 4 278–279 15:3, 20, 21 363, 370 15:3b 15:3b–5 361 15:3b–4a 361 15:3b 361 15:4b–10 371 15:4b–5 361 15:4b 361–363 15:11 362 15:11b 371 15:12–20a 371 15:12 378 15:14 362 15:15 362 15:17 362 15:20–57 362 15:20–56 363 15:20–28 82 15:22, 45–49 363 360 15:24, 50 15:35–44 80 15:50 360 15:54–55 84 368, 372 16:1–4 16:1 369 16:2 372 16:3–5 372 16:9 256–257, 279 16:19 3 2 Corinthians 2:12 279, 281, 361 366 2:7, 13 4:4 361 4:10 80 5 371 5:10 80 5:16–19 82 84, 361, 371 5:17 361–362, 371 5:18 5:19 361, 371 5:20 371 5:21 371 6:16 366 7:1 80

475

368, 372 8–9 8:3–4, 7–9, 14, 24 372 8:4 369 8:13–15 372 369 9:1, 12 9:2–15 372 9:12–15 372 9:12–13 369 9:13 361 10:3–4 84 10:14 361 11:7 361 11:22 366 12:2–3 80 Galatians 1:14 411 1:16–17 368 1:16 364 1:16a 373 1:17a,b 368 1:18 368 2–4 363 368, 372–373 2:1–10 2:1 368 373 2:2–3, 6–9 2:2c 368 2:3 370, 374 373 2:5, 14 2:6–10 370 2:7–9, 12 374 364, 381 2:7–8 364, 372, 374, 378, 381 2:7 364, 378, 381 2:8 2:10 368 372 2:10a, b 2:11–14 378 2:11, 14 373 2:12–13 374 2:12b 379 2:14b 378 377, 379 2:15–21 2:15–17a 369 2:15 363, 369 362 2:16–17, 21 2:16–17a 370 2:16 362, 373, 375 2:16a 376

476

Index of Ancient Authors

2:17 362 370, 378 2:17a 2:19–20 378, 381 375 2:19, 21 2:20 362 2:21b 378 3:1–12/13 376 373 3:2, 5, 10 3:2, 5 375 3:6, 8, 11, 21, 24 362 3:6 363 3:10–11 375 375, 375 n. 37 3:10 3:10b 375 3:12b 375 3:16, 26–27 81 3:16 378 3:19–20a 378 3:19 378 3:20a 378 3:23 362 3:25 87 82, 370 3:26–27 362, 370 3:26 3:28–29 81, 363 8, 370, 379, 381 3:28 3:29 371 4:1–5 366 4:4–5 378 373, 378 5:2–6 5:2–3 374 5:4–5 362 5:4 375 5:6, 11 374 5:6 370 373, 373 n. 27 5:11 5:14 378, 381 5:16–17, 19–21 361 5:21 360 6 369, 371 6:2 381 6:11–16a 378 6:12–15/16 373 6:12–13 374 6:14–15 360–361 371 6:14a, b 6:15–16 369 8, 370–371, 374 6:15

8, 367 n. 13, 381 6:16 6:16a–b 371 6:16c 366, 369, 372 6:17 84 Ephesians 1:23 80 2 221–223 2:3 80 2:12 366 11, 202, 202 n. 11, 212, 2:14 223 2:15 375 n. 38 2:16 80 2:21 222 3:6 80 80 4:1, 12, 16 5:12, 30 80 348 n. 35 5:19 Philippians 1:1 369 1:27 361–362 411 n. 104 3:4b 3:5–6 411 3:5 366 411 n. 104 3:6 3:9 362 3:20 84 3:21 80 Colossians 1:6 87 1:15–20 90 1:15–20 91 1:16 90 80 1:18, 24 1:18 92 90 1:20, 22 1:20 90 2:8 86, 90 2:11 80 202, 202 n. 11 2:14 2:15 90–91 2:16–23 86 2:18 90 80, 91–92 2:19 3:1 91

477

Index of Ancient Authors

3:7 92 3:9–10 88 3:11 87–88, 92, 370 3:12–13 88 3:12 89 3:13 89 80, 89 3:15 348 n. 35 3:16 3:18–4:1 89 3:22–24 90 4:3 280 1 Thessalonians 2:12 360 3:2 361 3:13 369 4:17 84 5:23 80 2 Thessalonians 1:8 361 1 Timothy 2:1–2 77 5:8 84 Philemon 10–20 370 16–17 380 18–19a 380 Hebrews 2:2 378 2:17 411 4:11 357 4:14–5:10 341 6–9 353–354 6:19–10:39 341 8 348 9:5 411 9:8–9 353 9:11 353 9:12 353 9:24–28 353 353 n. 66 9:28

10 348 10:1 353 10:12 357 10:19–25 356 10:19–23 347 353, 357 10:20 10:22 348 10:25, 37 353 n. 66 12:1 337 12:22 357 12:13–14 354 12:22–24 354 12:24 354 338, 344, 356 13 13:5–6 350 13:5 350 13:6 348–349 13:7–19 349 13:9–10 349 13:10–16 341 13:10–12 350 13:11–16 356 13:11 357 13:12–13, 19–20 337 13:12 257 18, 337, 337 n. 3, 341, 13:13 346–347, 354 13:14 347 13:15 347 James 5:9 280–281 1 Peter 2:6

222 n. 94

1 John 2:2 411 4:10 411 Revelation 255, 280 3:8 3:9 280 257, 380 3:20 4:1 256, 258 n. 10, 280

478

Index of Ancient Authors

Apocryphal Literature Baruch 6 153 3 Esdras 8:25

153 n. 21

Esther 4:17

153 n. 21

1 Maccabees 1:11–15 69 74 n. 52 1:43, 52 1:46 369 1:55 257 n. 8

2 Maccabees 2:5 257 69 4:9, 12 74 n. 52 4:13–17 6–7 74 n. 53 153 n. 21 7:37 3 Maccabees 2:2 280 202 n. 8 3:4 Wisdom of Solomon 13–14 153

Pseudepigraphic Literature 3 Baruch 2:2 276 3:1 276 1 Enoch 13:5 412 14:13–16, 25 276 14:13–16 280 Letter of Aristeas 1–8 145 1 145 9–20 148 10 148 11 148 15–21 151 15–17 154 15 151 145, 152–153 16 18 145 46–47 149 83 147 84–99 147 84–91 147 217 n. 67 86 92–95 147 96–99 147

100–104 147 100–101 147 105–106 147 107–119 147 109 147 118 147 145–146, 151 121–171 121–127 149 128–141 152 150, 150 n. 14, 151 128 129 150, 150 n. 14 130–141 151 132–133 154 132 150, 152–153 134–138 153 139–140 153 139 145, 150, 153 140 151 147–149 150 155–166 151 150 n. 14 166 168 151 150 n. 14 169 172 146–147 173–183 148 174–175 149 175 149

479

Index of Ancient Authors

176–177 149 182 150 184–300 146 148, 151 184–294 301–307 148

302 149 310 149 218 n. 71 311 319 147–148 322 145

Near Eastern Literature Bann, Bann 9–10 9 20–21 l.1b–10 20–21 l.11–12 20–21 l.27–29 74–75 l.9, 13b.

318 n. 107 319 n. 116 318 n. 104 318 n. 111 318 n. 112 318 n. 108

Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine 91 327 n. 19 145 326 n. 14, 334–335 327 n. 15 159 v.48–50 327 n. 16 159 vi.5–10 159 vi.23–33 327 n. 17 327 n. 19 228 327 n. 19 229 323 327 n. 19 315 n. 81 203 l.80 315 n. 82 253 l.16 253 l.17 315 n. 83 315 n. 84 253 l.19–20 315 n. 85 253 l.21 253 l.22–23 315 n. 86 315 n. 87 253 l.25 253–254 l.26–27 315 n. 88 315 n. 89 254 l.28 254 l.29–30 315 n. 90 315 n. 91 254 l.31–32 315 n. 92 272 l.2 Dreambook in Byzantium 260 436 n. 43 395 436 n. 43 Enuma Elish 4:135–5:66 24

Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths 51 l. 523 310 n. 43 310 n. 41 52.72 I. 560 310 n. 42 56.94 I. 560 Mesopotamian Diagnostic and Prognostic Series 326 n. 11 22.49–50 The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer II.49 329 n. 25 329 n. 27 II.51 Proverbs of Ancient Sumer 1.23 307 n. 18 3.14 307 n. 21 308 n. 23 3.118 307 n. 19 3.161 307 n. 22 11.66 Šurpu II.4 II.5 II.15 II.29 II.27 II.36 II.37 II.48 II.51 II.57 II.69 II.79 II.81 II.95 II.109 II.187–189 III.6

311 n. 54 312 n. 68 308 n. 25 308 n. 24 312 n. 59 312 n. 58 312 n. 62 312 n. 60 312 n. 63 312 n. 64 312 n. 68 312 n. 57 312 n. 61 312 n. 68 312 n. 65 312 n. 67 313 n. 74

480 III.31 III.34 III.62 IX.7 IX.15

Index of Ancient Authors

313 n. 70 313 n. 73 313 n. 69 316 n. 94 316 n. 94

IX.24 IX.32 IX.40 IX.47 IX.56

316 n. 94 316 n. 94 316 n. 94 316 n. 94 316 n. 94

Dead Sea Scrolls 1QH 7.34 410 n. 104 4Q394–399 343 4Q400–407 350 4Q400–406 351 377 4QMMT B1 4QMMT B2 377

4QMMT B8–10 377 4QMMT C27 8, 377 377 4QMMT C30 4QMMT C31–32 367 n. 13 4QMMT C31 377 11Q17 350

Greco-Roman Literature Aelius Aristides Orationes 83 n. 9 23.76–78 26.1–5 83 n. 9 Aemilianus Anthologia Graeca 210 n. 40 13.3

Aristophanes Acharnenses 402–403

257 n. 7

Vespae 830

221 n. 88

Aristotle Athenain politeia 42 116

Aeschylus Choephori 732

257 n. 4

Persae 495–501 ff.

Ethica nichomachea 1137a–1137b 408–409

169 n. 36

Fragments 3

Ammianus Marcellinus Historia Romana 128 n. 18 31.4.1–13 131 n. 32 31.16.5–6 Res gestae 31.2.1–12

135 n. 1

Appian Bella civilia 256 n. 3 1.10.88 2.106.443 396 n. 55 257 3.3, 8 257 n. 9 6.8.76

52 n. 42

Arrian Epicteti dissertations 1.9.20 275 1.24.20 275 1.25.18 275 2.1.19 275 2.11.1 274 2.16 257 2.16.34 274 3.8.6 275 3.13.14 275 3.22.14–16 275 257 n. 9 3.22.14

481

Index of Ancient Authors

Artemidorus Oneirocritica 433 n. 36 I.1 1.12 429 n. 20 436 n. 43 1.66 425 n. 12 1.67.11–12 3.42 436 n. 43 442 n. 66 4.24 Augustus Res Gestae 3.1 397 397, 413 3.2 397 n. 63 6.35 8.5 400 397 n. 61 34 34.2 397 51 398 Aulus Gellius Noctes atticae 16.5 262 Caesar Bellum Gallicum 2.14 395 Callimachus Hymni 2 104 n. 58 4 117 Calpurnius Siculus Eclogues I.42, 64 403 I.50–51, 60–62, 73 415 I.50–51 403 1.59–65, 71–73 404 403 I.60–62, 73 Cassius Dio Historia Romana 44.6.4 396 n. 55 54.23 288 n. 25 399 n. 72 54.23.1 ff. 288 n. 20 54.23.2–4 59.16.10 403 406 n. 92 60.33.10 406 n. 92 61.7.4 Cato De agricultura 15 212 n. 49, 213 n. 56

Catullus Carmina 63.65 275 67 275 Chariton Callirhoe 257 n. 9 3.1.1–2 Cicero Brutus 1.15.10

395 n. 52

De amicitia 83 275 De divinatione 2.134

442 n. 71

De haruspicum response 24.52 275 De natura deorum 2.99–100 285 n. 9 De officiis 1.88 394 2.66 275 284 n. 4 3.1 Epistulae ad familiars 4.6.2 262 Epistulae ad Atticum 4.10.3 285 n. 11 288 n. 20 6.1.25 397 n. 62 7.2–7 9.7c 395 9.16 395 286 n. 14 13.52 14 287 n. 18 395 n. 52 14.22.1 287 n. 18 16 17 262 287 n. 18 20 In Vatinium 9.22 395 14.34 275 In Verrem 2.5.43 2.5.115 2.5.125

394 n. 47 394 n. 47 394 n. 47

482

Index of Ancient Authors

Marius 3.8 395 4.12 395

Demosthenes In Evergum et Mnesibulum 47.38 257 n. 7

Orationes philippicae 395 n. 51 14.38 15.40 395 n. 51 395 n. 51 45.116

Dio Chrysostom Caridemus 22 257

Post reditum in senatu 6.14 275 Pro Caelio 12.30 275 Pro Lege manilia 5 394 n. 47 Pro Ligario 2.5 395 4.10 395 5.14–16 395 395 n. 53 29–30 Pro Marcello 4.10–12 395 395 n. 53 9.12, 18 Pro Milone 34.92 414 Pro Murena 15 275 Pro Plancio 1.3 414 3.8 275 Pro Quinctio 30.91, 97

415 n. 123

Pro rege Deiotaro 12.33 395 13.37 395 Pro Tullio 2.5 275 Tusculanae disputations 408 n. 96 3.20–21 Conon Narr. Const. 21

157 n. 8

Melancomas II 28

257 n. 9

On Homer and Socrates 55.12 259 Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca historica 257 n. 6 10.20.2 169 n. 35 11.14.3–4 17.96.4 210 n. 40 170 n. 37 32.9.5 Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 408 n. 96 7.123 7.135 152 Epictetus Diatribai 1.9 258 1.14 258 2.1 258 3.7 258 Enchiridion 33.14 275 Eunapius Fragments 48.2

125 n. 5

Euripides Troades 16–17 3 Frontus Epistles 3.13

292 n. 42

483

Index of Ancient Authors

Hellanicus Fragments 23

157 n. 8

Hesychius of Miletus Fragments of Greek History 164 n. 27 D 532 205 n. 23 124 F 14 161 n. 20 390 F1 26 Herodotus Historiae 1.46.2 1.57.1 1.158.1 1.159.1 1.191 1.99.2 2.159.3 4.13–14 5.36.3 6.66 6.68 2.36–37

204 n. 21 204 n. 21 204 n. 21 204 n. 21 104 n. 58 204 n. 21 204 n. 21 157 n. 8 204 n. 21 205 n. 24 3, 157 n. 8 169 n. 35

Herondas Mimes 4.66–67

101 n. 38

Hesiod Fragments 117.2–12 M–W

157 n. 8

Homer Hymn to Bacchus 165 n. 29 9 Hymn to Venus 193

165 n. 29

Iliad 1.46 ff. 2.55, 59 10.496–497 15.254 24.171

171 165 n. 30 165 n. 30 165 n. 29 165 n. 29

Odyssey 4.803

165 n. 30

4.825 13.362 16.155 ff. 24

165 n. 29 165 n. 29 161 n. 20 160 n. 18

Horace Epistlulae 2.1.127–131

283 n. 1, 284 n. 6

Carmina 3.7 275 3.9 275 3.10 257 Jordanes Getica 25.131

129 n. 20

Josephus Antiquitates judaicae 1.5 214–215 1.26 218 n. 71 217 n. 70 3.79 3.82 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.93 3.100–189 214 217 n. 70 3.100–101 3.103 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.106 217 n. 70 3.108 3.110 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.115 217 n. 70 3.121–124 3.133 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.149–150 217 n. 70 3.180–181 3.189 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.193 217 n. 70 3.196–198 3.201 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.203–204 217 n. 70 3.206 3.212 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.219 217 n. 70 3.220 3.222 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.224 217 n. 70 3.247

484

Index of Ancient Authors

3.258 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.289–290 3.293 217 n. 70 217 n. 70 3.310 217 n. 70 3.312 7.252 412 8 216 8.61–110 214 8.75 216 8.90 216–217 8.102 215 11.84–116 66 n. 22 11.227 64 11.338 65 11.340 65 11.346–347 10, 63, 65, 74 n. 52 66 n. 22 12.156 410 n. 103 12.160–220 12.246, 252 65, 74 n. 52 12.250 216 12.253–255 65 12.257 65 12.263 65 12.265 65 13.74–79 66 n. 22 14.107 216 15.136 378 15.266–388 69 n. 30 15.380–425 214 15:414 220 15.416 220 12, 220 15.417 15.418 221 16.143–144 69 n. 30 17.182 257 17.187 276 17.299–323 387 66 n. 22 18.29–30 66 n. 20 18:30 20.40–42 377 20.42 377 66 n. 22 20.118–126 66 n. 20, 73 n. 48 20.118 Bellum judaicum 1.142 1.401–425 2.80–100 2.232–246

256 n. 3 69 n. 30 387 n. 14 66 n. 20, 22

73 n. 48 2.232 410 n. 103 2.287–292 2.287 410 n. 103 218 n. 74 3.52 4.347 276 214, 218 5.184–247 5.190–192 219 5.190–191 219–220 5.191 219, 219 n. 80 12, 220, 220 n. 8 5.194 5.199 221 5.204 221 257 n. 6 5.208–211 217 n. 68 5.212–214 5.212 216 5.219 216–217 5.223 219 5.227 221 5.232 216 5.236 216 5.432 257 n. 8 12, 220 6.125 6.390 216 7.161 216 66 n. 22 20.200–203 Contra Apionem 2.108 12, 220 Justin Epitome 24.8.4–7 24.8.5

171 n. 40 170 n. 37

Juvenal Satirae 428 n. 19 6.542–547 8.242–243 401 n. 72 9 262 Livy History of Rome 23.9.13 213 n. 53 42.67.6 275 45.6.6 213 n. 53 Lucian Bis accusatus 205 n. 24 1 Menippus 11

410 n. 103

485

Index of Ancient Authors

Lucretius De rerum natura 1.1111–1112 275 3.367–368 275 4.269–277 275 433 n. 35 4.757–826 4.962–1036 433 n. 35 Lysias Against Eratosthenes 12.16 257 Martial De Spectaculis 25–25b 292 n. 42 28 292 n. 42 405 n. 89 33 Epigrams 6.83 404 7.40 404 Ovid Amores 1.4 275 1.6 264 1.12 265 2.12 275 Fasti 6.639–643 6.643–648

288 n. 23 288 n. 26

Metamorphosis 10.383–387 257 Pausanius Graecae description 5.14.7 3 157 n. 8 6.11.2 7.5.4 223 9.6 257 10.23.1–9 169 169 n. 36 10.23.4 11 256 n. 3 Philo De Abrahamo 1.15 276 1.191 276

De ebrietate 257, 276 49 95–100 343 n. 27 345, 347 97–101 345 n. 28, 347 99 100 356 n. 77 101 345 De gigantibus 54–55 54

346, 346 n. 29 343 n. 27

De praemiis et poenis 2.19 276 De specialibus legibus 1.1 69 n. 32 De virtutibus 186

202 n. 8

De vita Mosis II 37

52 n. 42–53 n. 42

Legatio ad Gaium 199–200 410 n. 103 Legum allegoriae 2.54–58 344, 256 n. 76 343 n. 27 2.54–55 340, 344 2.54 2.55 344 344, 347 2.56 2.57 344 2.58 344 343 n. 27 3.46 3.151–152 344–345 347, 355 n. 75 3.151 3.152 345 Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 68 343 n. 27 Quod deterius potiori insidari soleat 343 n. 27 160 Philostratus Vita Apollonii 65 109 n. 82 Plato Euthydemus 277E

221 n. 88

486

Index of Ancient Authors

Menexenus 2.3 275 Phaedra 244a

205 n. 24

Philebus 25E 64Eff.

223 n. 97 223 n. 97

Symposium 174E

257 n. 7

Plautus Amphitruo 4.2 263 213 n. 54 9 Asinaria 2.3 263 Cistellaria 3.1 263–264 Curculio 1.1, 3

263

Miles gloriosus 2.2 264 Mostellaria 2.2 263 Pericles 3.2 264 Rudens 2.5 263 3.2 263–264 Trinummus 5.1 264 Truculentus 2.1 264 213 n. 53 303 Pliny Naturalis historia 7.45.147–150 400 7.93 396 n. 54 288 n. 20 9.77 9.167 288 n. 20 20.39 265

28.27 265 32.16 265 35.93.96 101 n. 38 212 n. 49, 213 n. 55 35.173 36.42.112 263 Plutarch Alexander 37

104 n. 58

Artaxerxes 26.2 257 Camillus 34.3

210 n. 40

Caesar 57 396 Cimon 1.1 168 n. 34, 263 17 275 Conjugalia Praecepta 19 275 Crassus 3.1 259 De curiositate 3

262–264, 275

De fortuna Romanorum 2.316e–317c 83 n. 9 De garrulitate 3 275 Demosthenes 29.2 265 Lucullus 10.4

166 n. 31

Pelopidas 11.2 257 Phocion 33

104 n. 58

Praecepta gerendae rei publicae 800 f. 259 Publicola 20 259

487

Index of Ancient Authors

Quaestiones romanae et graecae 257 n. 6 5 81 259 Regum et imperatorum apophthegmata 257 n. 9 90 Vitae decem oratorum 12.539d. 104 n. 58 Polybius Historiae 2.4.7 102 n. 47 168 n. 34 2.35.7 39.14.1 274 Priscus History of Attila Fr.2, line 345 135 n. 3 Procopius Bellum Gothicum 132 n. 38 2.14.33–34 Bellum Persicum 1.17.45–47 132 n. 36 Propertius Elegiae 2.7.5–6 2.15.41–48

401 n. 77 401 n. 77

Poema 1.16 275 Pseudo-Orpheus 1:1 276 3:1 276 Pseudo-Seneca Octavia 401, 415 440–444 476–478 400 504–533 400 400, 415 524–526 Seneca Apolocyntosis 4.1

407 n. 94

De clementia 1.1.2–4 407

92 n. 37 1.1.2 1.1.6 407 407 n. 94 1.3.1 407 n. 94 1.3.2 1.3.3–4 92 n. 37 1.3.3 407 1.4.1–1.5.1–2 407 407 n. 95 1.5.1 1.5.7 407 393 n. 44, 407 n. 94 1.7.1–2 1.9.1–2 407 1.9.1 406 1.9.2–12 408 1.11.1–2 407 1.11.3 407 288 n. 20 1.18.2 1.19.1–6 408 1.19.9 407 407 n. 94 1.24.2 1.26.5 407 2.3.1–2 408 2.3.1 394 2.4.4–5.1 408 2.5.1 408 2.5.4–5 408 2.6.4 408 2.7.1, 3 408 2.7.3–4 415 De ira 2.10 3.4 3.40

408 n. 96 288 n. 20 399 n. 72

Dialogi 5 5.40.1–5

399 n. 72 288 n. 20

Epistles 57 86

287 n. 18 284 n. 5

Statius Silvae 3.3 404 Thebaid 12.481–496 405

488

Index of Ancient Authors

Strabo Geographica 117, 163 n. 24 14.1.20 14.1.23 109 n. 82 Suetonius Divus Augustus 51 402 295 n. 56 74 Divus Julius 75

395, 402

Divus Titus 2

406 n. 92

Domitianus 9, 11

402

Gaius Caligula 16.4 402 222 n. 96 21 27, 29–30, 32–33 403 Nero 33.2–3

406 n. 92

Tiberius 53 402 Tacitus Agricola 15

393 n. 44

Annals 288 n. 24 1.10.5 1.21 393 n. 44 2.47 402 3.18.1 398 4.74 396 n. 55

5.6 402 6.14 402 11.3 402 406 n. 92 13.15–17 291 n. 39 14:14 14.48 402 406 n. 92 14.63 291 n. 39 15.33.1 406 n. 92 15.62 16.3 296 n. 60 Historiae 3.82 5.5

213 n. 53 70 n. 36

Velleius Paterculus Historiae 2.106.1 402 2.114.2 402 Virgil Aeneid 83 n. 10 1.333–334 2.661 275 4.486–488 275 6.127 275 Vitruvius De architectura 1.2.4 223 2.8.16 212 n. 49, 213 n. 56 3.4.5 222 213 n. 54 5.11.3 6.2.1–4 259 6.3.11 259

Inscriptions Agora of Athens, Agora Inscriptions 106 n. 68 5476 Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum II.2661 104 n. 55 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 213 n. 53 I2.1001

I2.1688 I2.2216 III.1126 III.2929 4842 V.7747 V.89701 VI.1559

212 n. 52 212 n. 52 197 n. 64 212 n. 52 212 n. 50 212 n. 52 212 n. 52 212 n. 52

Index of Ancient Authors

VI.11998 VI.13061 Vi.34321 VIII.23022 X.292 X.4104 X.4765 X.6069 XII.1623 XII.5244

212 n. 52 212 n. 52 212 n. 52 212 n. 52 212 n. 53 212 n. 52, 213 n. 53 212 n. 52 212 n. 52 212 n. 50 212 n. 50

Dessau 5743 5749

212 n. 50 212 n. 50

Didyma II.25–29 206 II.25–27 207 206 n. 28 II.29, 13 II.35, 19 206 n. 29 207 n. 31 II.39 207 n. 31 II.40, 7 II.75 204 n. 19 205 n. 25 II.159 204 n. 19 II.281 II.504.9 f. 204 n. 19 204 n. 25 III.14 Fontes iuris romani anteiustiniani I.2.67 Z.23 ff. 212 n. 50 Inschriften von Ephesos 366 106 n. 65 106 n. 65 2323 Die Inschriften von Milet I. 7.274.25 204 n. 19 I 7.279.280.281 204 n. 19 Die Inschriften von Smyrna 574 170 n. 37 170 n. 37 574.6 Die Inschriften von Stratonikeia 10 158, 158 n. 13–14 10.3 159 10.4 160 10.7–8 160

489

10.9–10 160 10.10 160 10.12–14 163 n. 24 10.12–13 160 10.13–14 163 10.13 163 n. 24 10.14–15 161 10.15–16 161 10.15 161 10.17–18 161 10.17 162 10.18 163 10.21–22 163 10.22 161 10.24 161 10.25–26 161 10.27 161 10.28–29 162 10.32–35 159 161 n. 20 512 159 n. 16, 161 n. 20 1101 1101.2–3 161 n. 20 161 n. 20 1101.6 Inscriptiones de Délos 298 164 n. 27 221 n. 91 336A.47 1403Bb,2,19, 20 221 n. 91 221 n. 91 1417A.2.38 Inscriptiones Graecae I.373.251 ff. 210 n. 38 164 n. 27 II.137 ff. 103 n. 50 II.1078.9–30 II.1668.63 ff. 210 n. 39 221 n. 91 XI(2).287A.10 221 n. 91 XI(2).287A.56 Inscriptiones Greques et Latines de la Syrie I.141 189 n. 35 11.A/12 191 11.A/13 188, 190, 190 n. 39, 191, 194, 196–197 188, 190, 190 n. 39, 191, 11.A/14 194, 194 n. 50, 195 190, 193 n. 49, 194 11.A/15 189–191, 191 n. 43, 194, 11.A/16 196

490

Index of Ancient Authors

11.A/17

190, 190 n. 39, 191, 194–195, 195 n. 54, 196 11.2–10 194 11.45 194 189 n. 35 11.103

2.34–35 166 1.47–48 166

Inscriptiones Latinae Liberae Rei Publicae 342 398

NEAHL I.140 190 185 n. 26, 189 n. 34 V.1588–1589 185 n. 26 V.1588 V.1589 185 n. 26

Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae 5743 212 n. 50

Opera Minora Selecta 158 n. 11 1.602

Les Galates en Grece et les Soteria de Delphes 170 n. 37 435–447

Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 8.13 212 n. 49 102 n. 47 26.1623 39.727 164 n. 27 170 n. 37 45.122 185 n. 26 46.2036

Lindos: fouilles et recherché II 2 158, 164 n. 27 2.5–9 2.6–7 166 2.9–10 165 2.14–17 165 2.22–26 166 2.27 166 2.28–29 166 2.34 ff. 166

Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum 3.814 414 398.1–39 158 398.17–20 170 n. 37 403 n. 82 814.20–24 906 A 6 204 n. 19

Rabbinic Literature Baba Batra 267 n. 35 1:4 2:3 268 60a 269 269 65 b. Baba Meṣiʿa 11:11–12

267 n. 35

m. Baba Meṣiʿa 8:7 269 Berakot 55a–57b 422 55b 424 424, 444 n. 76, 449–450 56a–b

56b 57a 57b 569

424, 447 n. 77, 455 n. 94–95, 456 434 n. 39, 436 n. 45, 453 n. 86, 455 n. 95 422 n. 3, 425 426 n. 13

b.Berakot 28b 410 n. 104 55b 433 56a 433 t. Berakot 2.13 7.18[16]

276, 278 410 n. 104

491

Index of Ancient Authors

Bereshit Rabbah 442 n. 70 68.12

Šabbat 11a

t. Beṣah 1:11 269

b. Šabbat 6a 269 8b 269 9a 269 126a 269

Ekha Rabbah 1.4 442 n. 70 1.14–18 424

t. Šabbat 1:4 269

t. ʿErubin 7:1–5 269

b. Sanhedrin 25a–b

t. Ḥullin 2:24 276

424 n. 8 437 n. 46, 442 n. 69 435 n. 41 424, 449, 450

y. Megillah 4:12 271 b. Menaḥot 33a 269

t.Soṭah 5:9 272 Taʿanit 12b

455 n. 96

m.Ṭeharot 7:6

410 n. 103

Targum Pseudo-Jonathan MS f. 95 ab 346

m. Moʿed Qaṭan 1:10 269

b. Yebam b. Nedarim 3a, 5b 3.4

410 n. 103

Somniale Danielis 24, 25, 28, 30, 46 436 n. 43 59 436 n. 43 436 n. 43 113, 114, 195,   196, 244

m. Kelim 11:2–4 269 Maʿaser Sheni 55B–C 55B 55C 55C. 15–22

455 n. 96

47a, b

269 410 n. 103

Early Christian Literature Chrysostom Homily on Hebrews 33 338 n. 7 Codex Iustinianus 130 n. 29 1.5.12

Codex Theodoisanus 16.1.2 130 n. 28 2 Clement 5.1

343 n. 27

492

Index of Ancient Authors

Constantine Porphyrogennetus De administrando imperio 31 133 n. 41

Philostorge Historia ecclesiastica 2.3 138 n. 17 138 n. 17 4.3–7

Eusebius Praeparatio evangelica 52 n. 42 13.12.2

Rufinus of Aquileia Historia ecclesiastica 11.6 131 n. 31

The Gospel of Thomas 39 73 53 64 89 73 102 73 Justin Martyr Dialogue with Trypho 11.5 367 Orosius Historia adversus paganos 129 n. 19 7.33.19

Socrates Historia ecclesiastica 2.41.23 137 n. 13 138 n. 14 4.33.1–7 4.33.1–4 129 n. 19 138 n. 14 6.37.2–6 Sozomenos Historia ecclesiastica 129 n. 19 4.37 136 n. 8 7.4.5–6 Theodoretus Historia ecclesiastica 129 n. 19 4.37

Index of Modern Authors Adam, J.-P. ​97 n. 9 Adam, T. ​408 n. 97, 409 n. 101 Afik, I. ​423 n. 5, 424 n. 8, 453 n. 85 Alexander, P. ​351, 351 n. 58, 423 n. 4, 429 n. 22, 435 n. 39 Alster, B. ​306 n. 8, 11, 307 n. 17–19, 21–22, 208 n. 23 Alt, A. ​51 n. 39 Anderson, B. R. ​325, 325 n. 9 Anderson, F. I. ​393 n. 43 Annus, A. ​329 n. 25 Athas, G. ​45 n. 7 Attridge, H. W. ​63 n. 11, 337 n. 4, 338 n. 6, 342 n. 15, 20, 343, 343 n. 26–27, 350 n. 52, 357, 357 n. 81 Aune, D. E. ​357 n. 80 Bachmann, M. ​7, 12, 359, 360 n. 2, 362 n. 7–8, 363 n. 9–10, 364 n. 11, 367 n. 12–13, 368 n. 15, 371 n. 23, 372 n. 25, 373 n. 28, 30–31, 374 n. 31–33, 375 n. 34, 36–38, 376 n. 38–39, 377 n. 41–43, 378, n. 45–47, 379 n. 48–50, 381 n. 54 Baker, C. ​268 n. 40, 269 n. 43, 271 n. 45, 272 n. 53–54 Balch, D. L. ​10, 12, 63 n. 7, 9, 69 n. 30, 72 n. 43, 76 n. 59, 294 n. 55 Barreto, E. D. ​62 n. 5, 67 n. 25, 68 n. 28 Barton, G. A. ​356 n. 78 Barton, S. C. ​58 n. 60, 389 n. 22 Bauckham, R. ​391 n. 35 Bauks, M. ​49 n. 26, 28 Baur, F.Chr. ​203 Becking, B. ​62 n. 5, 66, 66 n. 21 Belayche, N. ​158 n. 14, 159 n. 14, 197, 197 n. 64, 198 n. 67 Bergmeier, R. ​373, 373 n. 31, 377 n. 42 Berlin, A. ​177 n. 7, 178 n. 8 Bernett, M. ​68 n. 30, 388 n. 16 Best, E. ​204 n. 17

Bielefeld, E. ​205, 206 n. 26 Blok, J. ​3, 3 n. 9 Böck, B. ​8, 305, 315 n. 82, 318 n. 110, 319 n. 113, 320 n. 117, 119 Bock, D. ​410 n. 104, 411 n. 104–105, 412 n. 115 Böhm, A. ​126 n. 8 Böhm, M. ​65 n. 14, 66 n. 19, 67 n. 23, 73 n. 48 Borgen, P. ​340 n. 12, 352 n. 59 Boyarin, D. ​427 n. 15, 453 Braund, D. ​88 n. 23 Braund, S. M. ​396 n. 54, 57, 409 n. 99–100 Breytenbach, C. ​90 n. 30, 415 n. 124 Bruehler, B. ​4, 255 Bultmann, R. ​61, 61 n. 1, 62 Burgess, J. F. ​402 n. 79, 405, 405 n. 88 Burkert, W. ​205 Busink, Th. ​219 n. 77 Canavan, R. ​88, 88 n. 24 Carter, W. ​389, 389 n. 24–27, 391, 391 n. 34 Chaniotis, A. ​55 n. 51, 100 n. 31–32, 101 n. 41, 103 n. 50, 156 n. 6, 162 n. 23, 163 n. 24, 164 n. 27, 193 n. 47, 195 n. 56 Charpin, D. ​309 n. 37–39, 310 n. 40–44, 311 n. 51 Cooly, A. E. ​212 n. 51 D’Arms, J. H. ​284 n. 2–3, 8, 285, 285 n. 10, 289 n. 28 Danker, F. W. ​391 n. 33, 397 n. 63, 403 n. 82, 412 n. 114 Davidson, St. ​71, 71 n. 40 De Pury, A. ​50 n. 32 Di Lella, A. A. ​238 n. 8–9, 239 n. 11, 240 n. 16, 241 n. 19, 242, 242 n. 23, 246 n. 33, 247 n. 37, 248 n. 43, 249 n. 44 Di Segni, L. ​189 n. 35 Douglas, M. ​9, 9 n. 18–19, 323 n. 2

494

Index of Modern Authors

Dowling, M. B. ​390 n. 29, 392 n. 37, 394 n. 47–48, 395 n. 52, 397 n. 60–61, 398, 398 n. 64, 66–68, 399 n. 71, 403 n. 80–81, 84 Drexl, F. ​430 n. 23, 432 n. 28–33, 438 n. 47–50, 439 n. 53–56 Du Toit, A. B. ​349 n. 44, 49 Du Toit, D. S. 371 n. 23 Dunn, J. D. G. ​373, 373 n. 29 Durkheim, E. ​183 n. 23 Eck, E. van 387 n. 13 Eliade, M. ​181 n. 17 Elliott, N. ​83 n. 8, 415 n. 124 Elm, S. 13, 135, 137 n. 9, 138 n. 18–19, 139 n. 20, 201 n. 1 Elsner, J. ​79 n. 3 Esders, St. ​5, 12–13, 123, 127 n. 12, 135–136, 137 n. 10, 139 Fahd, T. ​430 n. 24 Fehr, B. ​204 n. 18 Finkelstein, I. ​45 n. 6, 9, 64 n. 13 Flusser, D. ​374 n. 31, 387 n. 15 Foucault, M. ​8, 8 n. 15–16, 10 Frey, J. vi, 62 n. 5, 65 n. 14, 70 n. 34, 74 n. 49, 348 n. 37, 374 n. 31, 376 n. 38 Fritz, V. ​47 n. 17, 19, 48 n. 23, 51 n. 39 Fusco, G. M. ​294 n. 53–54 Gäbel, G. ​350 n. 55, 352 n. 62, 64 Garfinkel, Y. ​45 n. 6 Gasparini, V. ​100 n. 35, 173 n. 1, 193 n. 46 Geller, M. J. ​305 n. 2, 4, 306 n. 5–6, 13, 307 n. 15–17, 309 n. 34, 313 n. 71, 74, 314 n. 75 Gennep, A. van 180 n. 1 Giddens, A. ​5, 5 n. 10, 6, 43, 43 n. 1 Graf, F. ​100 n. 32, 101 n. 37, 211 n. 45 Grässer, E. ​349 n. 46–47, 353 n. 66 Griffin, M. T. ​394 n. 50, 395 n. 53, 406 n. 92, 409 n. 100 Groh, S. 98 n. 18, 99 n. 25, 100, 101 n. 36 Gruen, E. V, 52 n. 41, 201 n. 1 Günther, R. W. T. ​204 n. 18–19, 205 n. 23, 206 n. 29, 207, 209 n. 34, 287 n. 19, 288 n. 21, 290 n. 34, 36–37, 291 n. 38, 292 n. 41

Haacker, K. ​372 n. 24, 378 n. 45 Hales, S. 259 n. 12–14, 261 n. 16–19, 262 n. 20–21, 263 n. 25, 264 n. 26, 265, 266 n. 30, 273, 273 n. 60–61 Harland, P. ​84, 84 n. 14 Harrison, J. ​12, 16, 383, 386 n. 11, 388 n. 20, 393 n. 42, 399 n. 69, 72, 400 n. 74, 76, 406 n. 91 Hartal, M. ​175 n. 5, 176 n. 5 Hayes, Chr. E. ​424 n. 7, 425 n. 11 Heeßel, N. P. ​315 n. 81–92 Hellmann, M.-Chr. ​97 n. 9, 216 n. 64, 222 n. 93 Hemer, C. J. ​392 n. 39 Henderson, M. G. ​143 n. 1 Hengel, M. ​53 n. 44, 241, 242 n. 22, 351 n. 56 Herda, A. ​95, 95 n. 2, 105, 105 n. 63–64, 106, 106 n. 66, 68, 204 n. 20, 205, 205 n. 21 Herrenbrück, F. ​410 n. 103 Herzog, W. R. ​387–388, 388 n. 16–18, 411 n. 106 Hesberg, H. Von 194 n. 53, 286, 286 n. 15, 289 n. 30, 291 n. 39, 296, 296 n. 61 Hirschfeld, Y. ​266 n. 34, 268 n. 38, 269 n. 41, 271 n. 46–47, 49–50 Hoffmann, A. ​289, 289 n. 33, 293 n. 47 Hölscher, T. ​107 n. 74, 182 n. 18 Horsley, R. A. ​67 n. 22, 84 n. 13, 389, 389 n. 21 Haussoullier, B. ​204 n. 18, 207 n. 31, 33 Hultgren, A. ​411 n. 107, 412, 412 n. 113, 116 Isaac, B. ​108 n. 77, 125 n. 4, 132 n. 33–34, 185 n. 26 Jackson Turner, F. ​5 Janowski, B. ​23 n. 1, 143 n. 1, 316 n. 97 Jeremias, J. ​53 n. 44, 54 n. 49, 388 n. 19, 410 n. 104, 411 n. 106, 414 n. 120 Johnson, L. T. ​69 n. 33 Johnson, M. ​273, 273 n. 58–59, 274 n. 65 Johnson, S. F. ​124 n. 3, 135 n. 2 Johnson, W. G. ​354 n. 69 Jones, A. H. M. ​87 n. 19, 135, 135 n. 1 Jones, P. R. ​342 n. 19, 343 n. 22

Index of Modern Authors

Joosten, J. ​393 n. 43 Judge, E. A. ​393 n. 42, 399 n. 72 Kahl, B. ​82 n. 6 Kaiser, O. ​252 n. 49 Kalmin, R. ​422 n. 4, 423, 423 n. 5, 424, 424 n. 9, 425 n. 11, 426 n. 13, 427 n. 16, 428 n. 17, 431, 431 n. 26, 443, 443 n. 75, 447, 447 n. 78, 448, 448 n. 79–81 Karrer, M. ​53 n. 46, 376 n. 40 Kepper, M. ​6, 10, 18, 43 Kinnier Wilson, J. V. ​316 n. 97 Kistemaker, S. 348 n. 35, 350, 350 n. 53 Klein, J. ​306 n. 9–10 Klein, R. ​54 n. 49, 64 n. 13, 67 n. 23 Kloppenborg, J. S. 387 n. 13 Knackfuß, H. ​209 n. 35, 37 Knauf, E.A 46, 46 n. 16, 47, 47 n. 22, 50 n. 34 Knibbe, D. ​99 n. 25, 28–29, 119 n. 11, 120 n. 16 Koester, H. ​120 n. 14, 16, 337 n. 2, 343 n. 22–23, 356 n. 78 Konstan, D. ​390 n. 29, 393, 393 n. 44–45, 394 n. 48–49, 396 n. 54, 58 Kövecses, Z. ​273 n. 56, 58, 274, 274 n. 66–67 Krämer, S. 197 n. 66, 198 n. 68–69 Kraus, Chr.S. 215 n. 60 Kraus H.-J. ​348 n. 40 Kraus, W. ​53 n. 46, 367 n. 12, 376 n. 40 Kreitzer, L. J. ​406 n. 90 Krüger, R. ​76 n. 59, 61 Kruger, S. F. ​429 n. 20, 430 n. 23 Krüger-Fürhoff, I. M. ​143 n. 1 Kunst, C. ​259 n. 15, 262 n. 24 Kuttner, A. L. ​398 n. 67 Lakoff, G. ​273, 273 n. 58–59, 274 n. 65 Lane, W. L. ​338 n. 5, 342, 342 n. 14, 16, 342 n. 17–18, 343 n. 23–24, 349 n. 44, 352 n. 59, 354 n. 68–69 Larson, J. L. ​196 n. 59–61, 197 n. 63 Lenzi, A. ​329 n. 25 Levison, J. R. ​324 n. 4 Lieberman, S. J. ​305 n. 3, 430 n. 22 Lieu, J. ​145 n. 7, 147 n. 12, 150 n. 15–16 Lilly, I. ​9, 18, 323, 329 n. 28

495

Lincoln, A 202 n. 10 Lindemann, A. ​362 n. 8, 367, 367 n. 12, 371 n. 23, 375, 375 n. 38, 377 n. 42 Linnemann, E. ​410 n. 104 Löhr, H. ​351, 351 n. 56 Lohse, E. ​92 n. 35, 349 n. 43, 49, 374 n. 31 Lopez, D. ​82 n. 6, 88 n. 26, 404 n. 84, 86, 406 n. 90 Lotman, J. M. ​14, 144, 144 n. 4–6, 147, 149, 149 n. 13 Luther, M. ​6, 47 n. 20 Ma’oz, Z.-U. ​175 n. 5, 177 n. 7, 184 n. 25, 185 n. 26, 187 n. 27–28, 30, 189 n. 37 Maier, H. O. ​16, 77, 79 n. 3, 84 n. 15, 85 n. 16, 87 n. 20–21, 90 n. 31, 173 n. 1, 179 n. 10 Marcus, J. ​392 n. 36 Martin, D. B. ​63 n. 11, 80 n. 4, 84 n. 13, 323 McNamara, M. ​346, 346 n. 30–31 Meeks, W. A. ​61, 61 n. 1–4, 62, 86 n. 18 Merkelbach, R. ​163, 163 n. 25, 164, 190 n. 39, 191 n. 44 Merklein, H. ​373, 374 n. 31, 378 n. 46 Millar, F. ​53 n. 46, 125 n. 4 Möllendorff, P. Von 367 n. 12 Momigliano, A. ​166 n. 33, 215 n. 60 Moo, D. J. ​367 n. 14, 370 n. 20–21, 373 n. 27, 375 n. 38 Muddiman, J. ​202 n. 11, 203, 203 n. 14–15 Mylonopoulos, J. ​182, 182 n. 18–19 Nanos, M. D. ​374 n. 31, 379 n. 49 Nielsen, I. ​68 n. 29, 100 n. 35 Nolland, J. ​386 n. 12 Oakman, D. E. ​63 n. 11, 388, 388 n. 16 Oberhelman, S. M. ​428 n. 18, 429 n. 20, 430 n. 23, 432 n. 27–28, 423 n. 30–33, 433 n. 35, 434 n. 40, 436 n. 43, 438 n. 47–50, 439 n. 53–56, 440 n. 59, 441 n. 62–63 Overman, J.  A. ​389 Pack, R. A. ​425 n. 12, 429 n. 2, 433 n. 34, 36, 440 n. 57–58, 60, 441 n. 64–65, 442 n. 66

496

Index of Modern Authors

Parke, H. W. ​103 n. 50, 170 n. 38, 204 n. 18, 20, 205, 205 n. 21, 23–24, 211 n. 45 Petridou, G. vi, 5, 12, 18, 155, 157 n. 8–9, 158 n. 12, 173 n. 1, 181 n. 16, 201 n. 1 Pratt Ewing, K. ​155, 155 n. 3 Price, S. 91 n. 32, 219, 213 n. 76 Rajak, T. ​52 n. 40, 214 n. 59 Reiner, E. ​307 n. 16, 308 n. 24, 311 n. 53– 54, 312 n. 57–65, 67–68, 313 n. 69–70, 73–74, 314 n. 75, 315 n. 83, 316 n. 94 Reynolds, H. ​383 n. 1 Richardson, P. ​219 n. 77, 266, 266 n. 31–32, 367 n. 35, 368 n. 36, 39 Rieger, A.-K. vi, 5, 16, 173, 201 n. 1 Rogers, G. ​99 n. 30, 100 n. 31–33, 101, 101 n. 41, 102, 102 n. 42, 44, 103 n. 52, 115 n. 1, 116, 116 n. 3–4, 117 n. 8, 118 n. 9–10, 119 n. 11–12, 121, 121 n. 19 Rogers, R. S. 401 n. 78 Rogerson, J. W. ​5 n. 10, 6, 43 n. 1 Römer, T. ​44 n. 2 Römer, W. H.Ph. ​318 n. 106 Rosaldo, R. ​155, 155 n. 4 Roussel, P. ​159 n. 15, 162, 162 n. 23, 163, 163 n. 24 Rowe, C. K. ​389, 389 n. 23, 391 n. 32, 35, 392 n. 38, 395 n. 53 Rubenstein, J. ​422 n. 2, 425 n. 11 Rüpke, J. ​100 n. 35, 104 n. 56, 105 n. 60, 155 n. 1, 159 n. 14, 173 n. 1, 179 n. 10, 180 n. 13, 193 n. 47, 195 n. 53, 198 n. 67, 201 n. 1 Şahin, C. ​155 n. 1, 162–163 Sanders, E. P. ​66 n. 22, 370 n. 19 Sanders, K. R. ​433 n. 35 Sawicki, M. ​266, 266 n. 33, 271, 271 n. 44, 271 n. 50, 272 n. 52–54, 273, 274 n. 62–64 Schaller, B. ​363 n. 9, 367, 367 n. 12 Scheid, J. ​182 n. 18, 403 n. 83 Schellenberg, A. ​5, 15, 23, 25 n. 6, 26 n. 7–8, 40 n. 55–57 Schimanowski, G. ​214 n. 58 Schlier, H. ​202, 203, 203 n. 12 Schmid, K. ​27 n. 12, 44 n. 4, 50 n. 31, 62 n. 5, 215 n. 61

Schmidt, E. D. ​363 n. 10 Schmidt, U. ​372 n. 26 Schmitz, B. ​5, 12, 14, 53 n. 42, 143, 151 n. 17, 202 n. 7 Schnelle, U. ​63 n. 10, 74 n. 50, 75 n. 55, 371 n. 23, 415 n. 124 Schottroff, L. ​352 n. 59, 411 n. 104 Schramm, W. ​310 n. 48–49, 318 n. 105– 108, 111, 319 n. 112, 116 Scurlock, J. ​321 n. 122, 325, 325 n. 6–9, 326 n. 10–11, 14, 327 n. 15–17, 19, 328, 328 n. 22, 24 Sedley, D. ​433 n. 35 Seiffert, A. ​106 n. 67 Seiterle, G. ​98, 98 n. 17, 19–20, 105 n. 61 Sellin, G. ​214, 214 n. 57 Shamir, Y. ​422 n. 4 Siegert, F. ​56 n. 55 Simmel, G. ​1, 1 n. 1, 2, 2 n. 2–7, 3 n. 8, 123, 123 n. 1, 255, 255 n. 2 Skarsten, R. ​340 n. 12 Skehan, PW. ​328 n. 8–9, 239 n. 11, 240 n. 16, 242, 242 n. 23, 246 n. 33, 247 n. 37, 248 n. 43, 249 n. 44 Sklar, J. ​27 n. 11, 215 n. 61 Smith, J. Z. ​67, 67 n. 24, 70, 70 n. 37, 72, 72 n. 42 Smith, M. S. 23 n. 3 Smith, R. ​88 n. 25 Snodgrass, K. R. ​410 n. 103–104, 411 n. 104, 106, 412 n. 115–117, 413 n. 119 Sokolicek, A. ​5, 11, 17–18, 95, 96 n. 8, 97 n. 15, 98 n. 21–22, 99 n. 26, 103 n. 54, 104 n. 59, 115 n. 2, 116, 119, 120, 120 n. 15 Stern, E. ​175 n. 5 Stern, M. ​70 n. 36 Steyn, G. J. ​18, 341 n. 13, 348 n. 36–38, 350 n. 54, 354 n. 67, 70, 356 n. 79 Sutherland, C. H. V. ​397 n. 61, 404 n. 87 Tesch, K. ​235, 235 n. 2 Thomas, C. M. ​18, 95 n. 1, 103 n. 53, 115, 119 n. 11, 120 n. 14, 121 n. 18 Thomas, K. J. ​349 n. 45 Thompson, J. W. ​337 n. 2, 342 n. 21, 347, 347 n. 32–34, 354 n. 68–69 Thompson, R. C. ​317 n. 102, 104, 326 n. 13

Index of Modern Authors

Tigchelaar, E. J. C. ​329 n. 28, 351 n. 57 Tov, E. ​53 n. 48, 66 n. 19 Tuan, Y. ​255, 255 n. 1 Turner, F.  J. ​5–6 Turner, V. ​103, 103 n. 49, 180 n. 14 Ueberschaer, F. ​4, 18, 235, 235 n. 1 Urman, D. ​173 n. 2, 177 n. 6, 194 n. 51 Varriale, I. ​4, 5, 283, 285 n. 8, 12, 287 n. 19, 288 n. 20–22, 289 n. 28–29, 290 n. 37, 291 n. 38, 292 n. 43, 293 n. 46, 294 n. 55, 296 n. 59 Vidal-Naquet, P. ​6, 6 n. 11, 116 n. 5 Videla, J.  R. ​75 Voigtländer, W. ​207 n. 30, 209 n. 37, 210, 210 n. 42–43 Vollenweider, S. 201 n. 2 Wallace-Hadrill, A. W. ​68 n. 29, 72, 73 n. 45, 74 n. 53, 259 n. 13, 262 n. 23, 390 n. 28 Wazana, N. ​50 n. 32 Weippert, H. ​45 n. 8 Weissenrieder, A. vi, 5, 11–12, 14, 18, 69 n. 30, 87 n. 21, 95 n. 1, 155 n. 1, 173 n. 1, 201, 216 n. 65, 294 n. 55 Werner, M. ​15, 15 n. 24, 77 n. 1, 78, 79 n. 2, 80, 85 Westcott, B. F. ​342 n. 14 Whittaker, C. R. ​124 n. 2

497

Wilson, J. F. ​185 n. 26 Winterling, A. ​296 n. 59 Wood, I. ​126 n. 6 Wood, J. T. ​97, 97 n. 16 Wright, B. G. ​146 n. 9, 236, 242 n. 25 Wright, D. P. ​28 n. 17, 29 n. 18, 31 n. 22, 32 n. 26–27, 29, 35 n. 40, 38 n. 52 Wright, N. T. ​91 n. 33, 412, 412 n. 118 Zalman, E. ben Solomon 71 Zanker, G. ​161 n. 19, 399 n. 69–70, 406 n. 90 Zanker, P. ​84, 84 n. 11 Zellentin, H. ​13, 419, 419 n.*, 422 n. 4, 423 n. 5–6, 424 n. 9, 426 n. 13–14, 427 n. 15, 436 n. 42, 454 n. 93 Zeller, D. ​361 n. 5, 379 n. 49, 380 n. 51, 53 Ziegler, I. ​387, 387 n. 14 Ziegler, J. ​236 n. 3, 244 n. 28, 251, 251 n. 48 Ziegler, K.-H. ​126 n. 7–8 Zimmermann, B. ​15, 15 n. 24, 77 n. 1, 78, 79 n. 2 Zimmermann, C. ​367, 367 n. 12–13, 378 n. 47 Zimmermann, F. ​324 n. 3 Zimmermann, M. ​374 n. 31 Zimmermann, R. ​74 n. 49, 374 n. 49, 389 n. 24 Zucconi, L. M. ​327 n. 20 Zuckmayer, C. ​359

Index of Subjects Abraham ​6, 27, 40, 45, 48–50, 50 n. 34, 51, 51 n. 36, 38, 53–55, 58, 81–82, 88, 92, 350, 352, 363–364, 371, 413 Abraham, offspring ​365, 368, 371 Achaia ​403, 414 Acropolis, of Lindos ​158, 164, 168 Adrianople ​128, 135 Adultery ​248–249 Aelius Aristides ​83, 83 n. 9 Agent ​14, 18, 61, 115, 119, 121–122, 144–145, 148, 180, 180 n. 12, 183–184, 194, 199, 324–325, 327–329, 333 n. 35, 335–336 Agora ​98, 100–101, 106 n. 68 Agrippa I ​66 n. 22, 190, 196 Ahmet ​422 n. 2, 430, 430 n. 23, 431, 432 n. 29–31, 33, 434, 434 n. 40, 436 n. 43, 438 n. 47–50, 439 n. 53–56, 440 n. 59, 441 n. 62, 422 n. 2 Alexandria ​52 n. 42, 53 n. 43, 55, 58, 68, 145–149, 151–154 Allegorical ​338, 343, 345–347, 355, 400 Altar ​3, 29–31, 31 n. 24, 33–34, 34 n. 35, 56, 65, 104–105, 109, 109 n. 81, 120, 185 n. 26, 190, 190 n. 42, 193, 213, 217, 341, 354, 396 n. 55, 405, 413 Ammianus Marcellinus ​128 Amorphous epiphany ​158, 160, 163, 165–166, 168–171 Ancestors ​6, 43–44, 48–49, 49 n. 29, 50, 52, 54, 56, 237, 368, 398, 400 Ancient Near East v, 8, 23–24, 422, 431 n. 25 Androklos ​100 Angel ​90, 279, 331 n. 32, 348, 351, 352 n. 59, 354, 378 animi magnitudinisque ​400 Antiochus IV Epiphanes ​65, 74 n. 53 Antiquity, late ​12–13, 124, 126, 419, 421, 423 n. 6, 428, 431, 433 n. 37 Antony ​398, 399 n. 69

Apollo ​12, 95, 105, 117, 158, 162, 168– 169, 169 n. 35, 170, 170 n. 37, 171, 204, 204 n. 21, 205, 211, 214, 217, 222, 399 Apollo Didymeus ​204 Architecture ​3, 5, 11, 69 n. 30, 95, 95 n. 2, 96, 96 n. 6, 97, 99, 103, 107, 118, 120, 183, 218, 257, 259, 261, 265–266, 271–273, 277–278, 280, 283, 286, 290, 292 n. 44, 293, 296, 351 Argos ​211 Aristeas ​14, 53 n. 42, 45–46, 143, 145–154, 157 n. 8, 202, 202 n. 7, 217 n. 67, 218 n. 71 Aristocracy ​283 Aristophanes ​3, 205, 220, 221, 221 n. 87 Aristotle ​3, 285, 408–409, 409 n. 98 Army ​10, 63, 127, 131–132, 139, 160, 162 n. 21, 166, 202 n. 8, 346, 393 n. 44, 397 Artefacts ​15 Artemidorus ​421, 425, 425 n. 12, 429, 429 n. 22, 430, 430 n. 24, 431–432, 432 n. 29, 433–435, 437–442 Artemis ​101–102, 104 n. 55, 105–106, 116–118, 118 n. 10, 119, 121, 170 n. 37 Artemision ​17–18, 98–100, 101 n. 40, 102, 104, 106, 108–109, 109 n. 81, 116, 116 n. 4, 119 Asia Minor ​18, 98 n. 21, 100 n. 31, 105, 108, 109 n. 83, 156, 197, 212 Assembly ​3, 72, 116, 236–239, 239 n. 15, 246–247, 312, 354 Assyria ​45, 48, 51, 308 n. 27, 325, 431 n. 25 Asylia ​109, 119 Asylum ​ 17, 108–109, 109 n. 83, 120 n. 14, 122, 383–386 Athena ​105, 156 n. 5, 158, 161, 161 n. 20, 164, 164 n. 27, 165–166, 166 n. 31, 168, 169 n. 35, 170 n. 37 Atrium ​259, 267, 285, 292 Aulus Gellius ​262

Index of Subjects

Australia ​16–17, 383–386 Azazel ​341, 355 Ba’al Shem Tov ​10, 70–72 Babylonia ​13, 24, 43, 46, 48, 50 n. 32, 54, 306, 316, 325–326, 419, 419 n*, 420, 421, 421 n. 2, 422 n. 2, 4, 423 n. 6, 425 n. 11, 428 n. 17, 430, 434 n. 40, 435, 436 n. 44, 444, 448, 448 n. 80, 451, 454–456, 456 n. 98 Badlands ​6 Baldachin ​104–105, 112 fig. 6, 113 fig. 7, 120 Balkans ​132–133 Ban ​71, 310, 317–318 Baptism ​13, 80–82, 88, 91–92, 123, 126, 128–130, 133–136, 139, 348, 370 Bar Hedya ​423, 423 n. 5, 424–426, 426 n. 14, 427–428, 433, 436, 436 n. 44, 444, 444 n. 76, 445–451, 453, 453 n. 85–86, 454, 454 n. 86, 455, 455 n. 94–96, 456, 456 n. 98 Barbarians ​12, 18, 89, 93, 123, 125–128, 134–135, 135 n. 2, 156, 162, 168–169, 386 Barbaroi ​12, 18, 156 Barricade ​210 Barrier ​12, 14, 24, 201, 214, 216–217, 221, 275 Battlefield ​18, 155, 160 n. 18, 161–163 Bavli Tractate ​421 Believing ​70, 361–362, 426 Ben Sira ​4, 52, 64 n. 13, 235–236, 237–238, 239–241, 241 n. 19, 242–243, 244–245, 245 n. 30, 32, 246–253, 461 Bethel ​50, 50 n. 34, 51, 53, 56 Bible ​6, 23, 23 n. 1, 24, 24 n. 5, 25, 30, 40–41, 43–44, 44 n. 5, 46, 57–59, 129, 137, 324, 390 n. 29 Bilingualism ​18, 155, 156 n. 5, 164, 451 Bodies, entangled ​16, 77 Body ​9, 9 n. 18–19, 24, 80, 80 n. 4, 81–82, 84–85, 89, 91–93, 150, 157 n. 8, 158 n. 12, 166, 171, 202, 269 n. 43, 283, 305, 314–315, 319–321, 323–324, 324 n. 4, 325–335, 336 n. 39, 343–345, 347, 353, 355, 401 n. 78, 407, 407 n. 95, 439–440 Body politic ​80, 92 Body-soul ​407

499

Borders v, 1, 4–19, 23, 23 n. 1, 25, 27–31, 38–41, 43–44, 46–47, 47 n. 19, 48–50, 50 n. 34, 51–52, 58–59, 61–62, 77–81, 86, 89, 91, 93–95, 103, 103 n. 51, 106–109, 115, 119–120, 122–125, 127–128, 134, 139, 143, 155, 162, 169, 171, 179, 197, 213, 218, 235, 247–250, 252–253, 266, 269, 271, 276–277, 305, 308, 313, 317– 318, 321, 323, 342, 347, 357, 359–360, 369, 371–372, 383–387, 393, 419–421, 437, 444, 451–452 Border, cultural ​7, 18, 155, 437, 445, 452 Border, geographical ​73 n. 48, 86 Borderland ​108, 136–137, 155–156, 159–160, 168–169, 171 Border, anthropological ​38–39, 41 Border, fuzzy ​51, 243 Border, internal ​421, 452 Border, sociological ​1–2, 92 n. 36, 360, 419–420, 452 Border, socio-psychological ​419–420, 452 Border, vulnerability ​17, 88, 275, 385 Border, Zone v, 1, 5, 6, 15, 17, 131 Boule ​99–100, 116, 121 Boundaries, cosmic ​90 Boundaries, gender ​88 Boundaries, legal ​75, 108 Boundaries, permeable ​81 Boundaries, traditional ​79, 81–82 Boundary ​1–2, 4, 7–9, 11, 14, 18, 24, 24 n. 5, 62, 68, 70, 73, 81–82, 85, 87–89, 92– 93, 95, 101, 106–109, 119, 121, 144–146, 148–151, 153–155, 183, 214, 216–218, 221 n. 92, 269, 273, 283, 287, 297, 308, 319, 321, 323, 324 n. 4, 330, 332, 334, 359, 361–363, 369–370, 372–373, 373 n. 29, 376, 376 n. 38, 378–381, 384 Boundary marker ​4, 8, 11, 70, 73, 85, 106, 150, 273, 373, 373 n. 29, 376, 376 n. 38, 378, 381 Branchidai ​204, 204 n. 21, 205, 205 n. 21 Bülbül Dağ ​97, 101 n. 39, 119 Byblos ​45 C. Vibius Salutaris ​18, 95, 99, 101, 116 Caesarea Philippi ​16, 173, 173 n. 1–2, 174–175, 179–182, 182 n. 21, 192–194, 196, 198, 198 n. 67, 199

500

Index of Subjects

Camp, inside ​340–341 Camp, military ​107, 162, 345 Camp, outside ​18, 30, 38 n. 52, 337–339, 339 n. 10, 340–342, 342 n. 21, 343, 343 n. 25, 344–348, 354–357 Campania ​284–285 Capernaum ​64 Carian Stratonikeia ​158 Castle ​14, 147–148, 173 n. 2 Country ​6, 14, 96, 107, 122, 135, 147–148, 219 n. 78, 346, 384–385, 400–401, 410 n. 103 291, 293, 294 n. 52 Cavea ​ Cella ​216 Chaos ​23–25, 107 Charon ​211 Christ movement ​378 Christians, Arian ​129–131, 137–139 Christians, miaphysite ​132 Cicero ​262, 275, 284–286, 288 n. 20, 394 n. 47, 395, 395 n. 51–53, 396 n. 54, 58, 397 n. 62, 408 n. 96, 414–415, 415 n. 123 Circumcision ​10–11, 40 n. 58, 52, 67–68, 68 n. 26, 69, 69 n. 32, 70, 73, 82, 86, 151, 212 n. 48, 363–365, 367 n. 13, 371–373, 377, 380–381 Citizenship ​3, 10, 13, 63, 84, 121–122, 124, 127, 135 City ​6, 11, 14, 17–19, 21, 47, 84, 89, 95–96, 96 n. 3–4, 6, 97, 98, 98 n. 21, 99–101, 101 n. 39–40, 102, 104 n. 55, 105–109, 115–116, 116 n. 6, 117–119, 121–122, 147–148, 155–156, 159, 161, 161 n. 20, 162, 162 n. 22, 164, 164 n. 26–27, 165–166, 168, 171, 173, 175–176, 178, 182 n. 21, 185 n. 26, 190 n. 40, 193, 218, 218 n. 72, 219 n. 78, 237, 239–241, 245–246, 249, 252, 256, 256 n. 3, 257, 262, 267, 272–273, 279 n. 77, 285, 287–288, 291, 306, 309, 312, 338–339, 342, 345, 347, 351, 354, 357, 360, 368, 398, 405, 413 Cleanthes of Assos ​152 Clemency ​390, 390 n. 28, 392, 394, 394 n. 47, 395, 395 n. 51–52, 396, 396 n. 54, 58, 397, 397 n. 61, 398, 398 n. 64, 399 n. 72, 400–402, 404–405, 405 n. 89, 407–408

Clementia ​17, 92, 386–387, 387 n. 14, 388, 390, 390 n. 29, 392–394, 394 n. 47, 50, 395, 395 n. 51–53, 396, 396 n. 54–55, 58, 397, 397 n. 61–62, 398, 398 n. 64, 66, 399–401, 401 n. 78, 402–403, 403 n. 84, 404–405, 405 n. 88, 406–409, 409 n. 102, 413–415, 415 n. 124, 416 Cocciopesto ​291, 295 Colony ​65, 383–384 Commandment ​66, 375, 375 n. 38, 376, 376 n. 38, 377–379, 379 n. 50, 381 Commandment, love ​381–382 Communicability ​33–34 Communication ​2, 5, 16, 77, 124, 162 n. 23, 179, 192–194, 196–197, 197 n. 66, 198, 199, 202, 285, 287, 294, 391 n. 33 Conqueror ​88, 396, 398 Constantine ​73, 85, 125, 133 Constantinople ​130, 136–139 Cosmos ​23, 25, 25 n. 5, 83, 91, 217, 363, 371 Court ​5, 29, 29 n. 18, 30–31, 31 n. 24, 33–35, 97–98, 135, 138, 145–146, 148, 150–151, 185, 188, 221, 249, 287, 296, 331 n. 32 Creation ​8, 17, 23–25, 74, 85, 90, 92, 150, 331, 360, 370–371, 379–380 Croats ​133 Culture v, 4, 8, 10, 13–15, 19, 52, 73, 76–77, 78 n. 1, 96, 103, 115, 147, 168, 171, 235, 257–258, 262, 266, 266 n. 30, 272–274, 280, 323, 327 n. 20, 381, 388 n. 18, 409, 412 n. 112, 419, 421–422, 423 n. 6, 424, 427 n. 15, 430–432, 435, 436 n. 44, 437, 442, 451–452 Culture, bounded ​155 Culture, Greco-Roman ​68–69, 72–74, 100, 106, 108, 256, 257–258, 261, 265, 272, 376, 280, 429, 435 Curtain ​29–30, 34, 123, 188, 216–217, 250, 320 n. 121, 351 Cyzicus ​97 Damascus ​45, 47 n. 18, 50, 173, 173 n. 2, 182, 368 Danube ​125, 128, 138 David ​6, 45–46, 71 Day of Atonement ​30, 37, 348

Index of Subjects

Death ​12, 16, 23, 26, 27 n. 11, 32, 33 n. 32– 33, 34–35, 35 n. 37, 41, 58, 69 n. 31, 75–76, 76 n. 59, 81–84, 86, 90–91, 135, 202 n. 11, 220, 238–239, 257, 275–276, 278, 288, 311, 311 n. 55, 332–334, 340, 342, 342 n. 19, 21, 347, 357, 361, 378, 395 n. 52, 399 n. 71, 404, 406–407, 414, 436, 441, 444–445, 455 n. 95 Dedication ​16, 101, 103, 158 n. 14, 162 n. 23, 163 n. 23, 166, 172, 180, 183, 188–189, 191–194, 196, 199 Deditio ​123, 126–128, 130, 133–136, 138–139 Defixiones ​139 Degree ​28–29, 32 n. 28, 121, 157 n. 8, 171, 256 Deities ​14, 16, 19, 152, 156, 159 n. 17, 170 n. 37, 171, 180, 191, 194, 196–199, 328 Delimitation v, 2, 8, 14, 179, 305, 307 Delphi ​106 n. 68, 158, 162, 168–169, 169 n. 35, 170, 170 n. 37, 171, 205, 205 n. 21, 218 Demaratus ​3 Demarcation ​2, 6–7, 10, 81, 108, 124, 145, 179, 272, 360 Demarcation, religious ​13 Demon ​64, 306–307, 310, 313, 315, 315 n. 82, 317–321, 328–329, 333 n. 35 Demos ​99–100, 100 n. 32, 116, 121, 161 n. 20 Deuteronomistic ​43–44, 44 n. 2, 46, 47 n. 19 Diateichismata ​ 11 Didyma ​12, 95, 104 n. 57, 105, 201 n. 1, 204, 204 n. 20–21, 205, 205 n. 21, 206–207, 207 n. 31, 209–211, 214, 217, 222–223 Didymeion ​206, 211 Dionysius Harlicarnassus ​214 Disease ​9, 32, 316–317, 323–325, 325 n. 9, 326–329, 329 n. 28, 330–331, 334–336, 336 n. 39 Documentary Hypothesis ​49 Dog ​104 n. 56, 161, 249, 250 n. 46 Dominion v, 81, 83–84, 87, 89–92 Domitian ​5, 286, 289, 291, 296, 386, 390, 393, 402, 404–405, 405 n. 89 Domus ​3, 5, 261–263, 265, 273, 286, 292, 295 n. 57

501

Door ​4, 96, 188, 206, 209, 211, 216, 221, 248, 252, 255–257, 257 n. 4, 6, 258, 258 n. 10, 259, 261–263, 264, 265–266, 268–269, 271, 271 n. 45, 272–273, 273 n. 57, 274–276, 276 n. 69, 277, 277 n. 73, 278, 278 n. 75, 279, 279 n. 78, 280–281, 320, 320 n. 91 Door, Jewish ​269 Door, narrow ​256, 277, 279 Door, death’s ​257 Door, prison ​257, 279 Door, sheep ​278 Door, shut ​4, 256, 273, 275–278 Dream ​13, 165, 165 n. 30, 166, 168, 196, 419–459 Dua-Kheti ​237 Dura Europos ​203 n. 16, 211 dux limitis ​127 eber hannachalah ​47 Ecclesiology ​85, 92 n. 36 Echo ​188, 190, 194, 196–197, 199 Economics ​81, 83 Efratha ​56 Eleazer ​151–152 Elijah ben Solomon ​71 Embodiment ​9, 82, 197, 323–325, 335–336, 336 n. 39, 352 n. 63, 401 Emperor ​3–5, 80, 83, 87, 87 n. 19, 91, 93, 121, 125, 127–130, 132–137, 139, 215 n. 60, 221–223, 283, 286, 288–291, 294, 296–297, 386, 387 n. 14, 401 n. 78, 406, 433, 433 n. 37 Entanglement ​15–16, 77–78, 80–81, 85, 93–94 Entrance ​17–18, 29–31, 31 n. 24, 96 n. 4, 97–98, 104, 118, 126, 213, 216–217, 224, 250, 252, 256–257, 259, 261–262, 265, 271, 275, 279, 291, 294–295, 323, 411 n. 106, 444 Enūma eliš ​24 Ephebeia ​100, 116–117 Ephebes ​18, 101–103, 103 n. 50, 105, 116, 116 n. 6, 117, 119, 121 Ephesus ​17–18, 95, 95 n. 1, 97–100, 100 n. 32, 101, 101 n. 37, 103, 104 n. 57, 106, 108–109, 136, 195 n. 57, 261, 279

502

Index of Subjects

Epiphany ​157 n. 8, 158, 158 n. 12, 160, 161 n. 19, 162 n. 22, 163, 165–166, 168–169, 169 n. 35, 170, 170 n. 37, 171, 181, 205 Epictetus ​258, 274–276 Eques ​287–288, 288 n. 20, 289 Eretz Canaan ​48 Eretz Mizrajim ​48 Eretz yisrael ​6–7, 43, 46, 48, 58–59 Ethnē ​85 Ethnicity ​62 n. 5, 63, 67, 72 n. 44, 82, 84, 155, 452 Eumaeus ​161 Eunapius of Sardis ​125 Eunomius ​138 Eunuch ​138–139 Exodus ​27, 32 n. 30, 38, 44, 57, 71, 339–340, 349, 376 Exorcist ​306, 311, 314–317, 319–320 fabulae praetextae ​292 Faith ​13, 64, 75, 82–83, 129, 131, 136, 166, 201–202, 209, 214, 243, 251, 256, 279, 342 n. 16–17, 346, 361–362, 363 n. 9, 364, 370, 385 Family ​3, 37, 39–40, 50, 80, 122, 190, 190 n. 39, 205 n. 21, 247, 250, 273, 312–313, 366, 387 n. 14, 396, 403, 429 Fauces ​259, 262, 278 Fence ​3, 11, 62, 66, 150, 187, 201 n. 5, 202, 203 n. 12, 212, 330 Flavius Damianus ​99, 120–121 Flavius Josephus ​10, 12, 14, 63 n. 10, 64, 64 n. 14, 65, 65 n. 16, 66, 66 n. 22, 67, 74, 201, 214–215, 215 n. 63, 216–218, 218 n. 71, 219, 219 n. 77, 220, 220 n. 85, 221, 258, 276, 377, 410 n. 103 Force, evil ​8, 318–319 Foreigner ​10, 14, 18, 23, 38, 40, 40 n. 58, 48, 63, 66, 74, 156, 221, 247, 384 Fortification ​11, 96–99, 106–107 Frontier v, 5–7, 12, 14–15, 43, 108, 124, 128, 133–134, 404 Fulfillment ​54 n. 49, 86, 286, 373 n. 30 Gaius Caligula ​222, 399 n. 72, 402–403 Gate ​17–18, 29, 97, 99, 105, 107, 122, 169 n. 35, 201, 212–214, 220, 238, 257, 274,

278–279, 279 n. 77, 320, 342 n. 21, 347, 354, 356 Gate, city ​17, 95–96, 96 n. 3–4, 6, 97, 103, 105–107, 109, 116, 122, 256 n. 3, 257, 279 n. 77, 338, 342 n. 21, 357 Gate, Korressian ​97, 102, 116–117 Gate, Lion’s ​220 Gate, Magnesian ​17–18, 95, 96 n. 8, 97–98, 98 n. 17, 21, 99–102, 104, 104 n. 55, 105–106, 108, 115, 115 n. 2, 116–122 Gender ​39, 64, 81, 88–89, 89 n. 27, 143, 155, 381, 428 Gentiles ​8, 68, 81, 92, 146, 203, 214, 219, 279, 364, 368–369, 372 Ghassanis phylarch al-Hārith ​132 Ghosts ​327–328, 328 n. 22, 329, 333 n. 35 God’s kingdom ​63 Gods ​3, 16, 91, 105, 107, 145, 150, 153, 157 n. 7, 158, 159 n. 16, 162 n. 23, 172–173, 180–183, 187–197, 197 n. 65, 198–199, 222, 292 n. 42, 307–312, 312 n. 65, 313, 316–320, 328, 389, 393, 393 n. 44, 401 n. 77, 403, 403 n. 84, 404, 407, 413 Greuthungi ​135, 137 Gyllos ​105, 106 n. 66 HaAretz ​43 Hadrian ​222–223, 286, 288–289, 291, 292 n. 44, 293, 295 n. 58, 296 Halakhic Letter ​343 Heaven ​25 n. 5, 44 n. 3, 203 n. 13, 215, 248, 258 n. 10, 276, 280, 310, 318, 327, 332, 351, 352 n. 64, 354, 393 n. 44, 400, 412 Hellenism ​53 n. 44, 109, 235, 243 n. 27 Hellenization ​277 Heraclius ​133 Heraculaneum ​263, 284, 294 n. 55 Heracales Kallinikos ​105 Hermes ​187–191, 191 n. 44, 194, 194 n. 50, 195–197, 199 Hero-agent ​14, 144–145, 148 Herodotus ​3, 157 n. 8 Herondas ​101 High Priest ​30, 33 n. 31, 34, 66 n. 22, 145–147, 150–154, 206, 214, 217, 341, 344, 350 n. 55, 351, 356–357

Index of Subjects

Histoire Croisée ​16, 77, 77 n. 1, 78, 85, 89, 93–94 Holy Land ​23, 27–28, 44 Holy of Holies ​29–31, 71, 216–217, 219, 344, 353 Holy place ​29 n. 18, 31, 35, 343, 353 Homer ​160 n. 18, 165, 165 n. 29, 171, 333 Honor ​3, 65, 100, 105, 117, 149, 223, 240, 243, 247, 250, 259, 261, 265–266, 272, 275, 333 Horace ​284 Hortus ​260 fig. 1 House v, 3–5, 45 n. 7, 66, 70–71, 84, 89–90, 143, 148, 184, 185 n. 26, 189–191, 203, 206, 211–212, 216, 240, 245–248, 248 n. 42, 249–250, 252, 256–257, 257 n. 4, 259, 261–263, 266, 266 n. 30, 267–268, 268 n. 36, 269, 269 n. 43, 271–274, 276–277, 277 n. 73, 278, 288 n. 26, 289, 294 n. 55, 309, 320, 342, 345–346, 388, 423, 426, 442, 444, 449–450, 454 n. 91 House, Courtyard ​267, 267 n. 35, 268–269, 272, 272 n. 55, 277 n. 73, 279, 293 House of Augustus ​259 Household code ​89, 89 n. 28 Hula Valley ​173, 176 Human Rights ​62, 75, 385 Humans ​15, 23–26, 32–33, 35–36, 36 n. 45, 38, 40–41, 162 n. 23, 199 Hybridity ​16, 78, 90, 93 Hymn ​91, 152, 325, 348, 348 n. 35, 351 Iamblichus ​205 Identity marker ​271, 274 Ideology ​85 n. 16, 88 n. 26, 383, 386, 392 ikkibu(m) ​305–308, 308 n. 26, 309–314, 316 Image vi, 11, 16, 25–26, 40, 63, 75 n. 57, 77, 79, 83–88, 87, 89–90, 96, 100, 100 n. 31, 102, 107, 116, 118–119, 121, 150, 153, 180, 183–184, 188–191, 191 n. 44, 192–194, 194 n. 50, 196, 196 n. 58, 197, 199, 275–276, 278, 328, 351, 352 n. 63, 353, 367 n. 13, 399, 399 n. 70, 400, 405, 426, 431, 433 n. 35, 434 n. 40, 435, 438–441, 447, 454, 454 n. 91, 455, 455 n. 94, 456

503

Incantations ​307 n. 16, 311, 313–314, 314 n. 75, 316–319, 325–326, 326 n. 12, 327–328 Inhabitants ​3, 37, 51, 57, 80, 118, 120–122, 136, 166 n. 31, 198, 249, 383 Inner room ​206, 214, 248, 257 Inscription, Salutaris ​18, 95–96, 99, 101 n. 40, 102–105, 115, 115 n. 1, 116–117, 120–121 Iustitia ​17, 386, 397, 400, 409, 409 n. 99, 415–416 Jaffa ​218 Jerusalem ​7–8, 10–12, 14, 45, 48, 53 n. 44, 63–66, 66 n. 22, 67–69, 69 n. 31, 71, 73 n. 48, 86, 132, 145–149, 153–154, 166 n. 33, 201, 209, 211, 215–218, 218 n. 75, 219, 219 n. 78, 220, 223, 235, 241, 243 n. 27, 257, 279, 342, 342 n. 16, 19, 343 n. 25, 348, 352 n. 64, 354, 357, 357 n. 80, 364, 368–369, 372–373, 411, 424, 436 Jew ​8, 10, 12, 52, 56, 63, 65, 65 n. 16, 66–67, 67 n. 23, 68, 71–76, 81–82, 87–88, 145–146, 153–154, 201–203, 217, 219, 223, 266, 271–274, 276–277, 279, 338, 363–367, 367 n. 13, 368–373, 373 n. 29, 374, 377–379, 381, 410 n. 103, 419, 428–429, 441, 450 Jewish-Christians ​423 n.  6 Job ​9–10, 241, 323–324, 324 n. 4, 329–330, 330 n. 29, 331–333, 333 n. 34–35, 334, 334 n. 36, 335, 335 n. 37–38, 336, 336 n. 39 Jorge Rafael Videla ​75 Judaism, Hellenistic ​52 Judea ​10, 62–63, 63 n. 11, 66, 66 n. 19, 67, 69, 69 n. 30, 72, 74, 147–148, 218, 221, 259, 277 Judeans ​10, 63 n. 11, 64, 66–67, 67 n. 23, 68, 69 n. 34, 73, 74 n. 53, 76, 274 Juvenal ​262, 401 n. 77, 428 26, 28–29 Kābôd ​ Kingdom ​44–48, 51, 63, 71, 151, 277, 360, 387, 387 n. 14, 388 n. 19, 393, 398 n. 67, 412 Korachites ​35

504

Index of Subjects

Labienus ​159 Labyrinth ​207, 209, 209 n. 36, 210 Land ​6–7, 7 n. 13, 23–24, 27, 27 n. 12, 28, 29 n. 18, 36 n. 45, 37, 37 n. 46, 50–51, 43–44, 44 n. 3, 45–46, 46 n. 13, 48–49, 49 n. 29, 50, 50 n. 32, 34, 51, 51 n. 38, 52–59, 58 n. 59, 59, 71, 119, 127, 131, 133, 136, 147, 156 n. 5, 287, 359, 383–385, 412 n. 114, 451 Lazarus ​413 Levites ​30, 34, 38, 38 n. 53, 39, 217 Life ​4, 23, 32, 61–62, 79, 82–83, 92, 95, 117, 122, 124, 128, 145, 150, 152, 183, 183 n. 23, 235–237, 239, 242, 247, 253, 262, 265–266, 271, 273, 275, 283–286, 317, 330–331, 333, 335 n. 38, 344, 345, 347, 356, 387 n. 14, 407, 412, 417 n. 125, 432, 434 n. 39, 455 n. 94 Liminal area ​17–18, 103 Limit ​1, 2, 4, 6–10, 14–16, 24–25, 27, 31–34, 36, 38–39, 41, 45–46, 48, 50, 58, 78–79, 82, 87, 89, 93, 96, 98, 108–109, 119, 127, 144, 162, 213, 252–253, 256, 258–259, 266 n. 34, 271, 284, 289, 290, 297, 306, 306 n. 14, 307–309, 384, 424, 427, 445, 453, 454 n. 88, 456 Luther ​6, 373 n. 31 Luxury ​262, 283, 286, 288 Lycus Valley ​87, 91 Lysimachos ​97, 100, 101 n. 39, 188 Maceria ​204, 212, 212 n. 48, 213–214 Magi, Sasanian ​13, 420 magister militum ​127 Magistrate ​165, 168, 398, 399 n. 68 Maia ​190, 194 Mamre ​50, 51, 58 Margin v, 14, 213, 213 n. 54 Markers, ethnic ​68, 84 Mas’ada ​182 Materiality ​12, 15, 179, 180 n. 12, 182, 198 Mattathias the Maccabee ​65 Mavia ​131 Medes ​65 Mediterranean ​4, 10, 44–45, 63, 80, 86, 118, 181–182, 194, 255–259, 267, 268 n. 38, 272, 274, 277, 280, 386

Mesopotamia ​8–9, 13, 47, 51, 305, 310, 316, 320, 323–326, 328–329, 331, 334–335, 419–412 Mesopotamian Therapeutic Series ​325 Mesotoichon ​11, 201 Messenger ​195, 197–199 Metaphor ​4, 18, 75, 144, 155, 201, 202 n. 11, 203, 218, 221, 252 n. 50, 255–258, 258 n. 10, 269 n. 43, 271, 271 n. 45, 272– 273, 273 n. 57, 274–281, 310, 332–333, 336, 336 n. 39, 338–339, 342–343, 355, 367 n. 13, 407 Mexico ​10, 62, 76 n. 61, 158 n. 11 Mezuzah ​269, 271, 274 Miletus ​95, 105–106 Miqva’ot ​266, 271 Misericordia ​17, 386–387, 390, 390 n. 39, 392, 395–396, 396 n. 58, 403, 406–409, 414–416 Misfortune ​169, 243, 305–307 Missionary history ​125 Monotheistic ​66 n. 19, 151–153 Monumentality ​18, 115 Mount Hermon ​16, 44, 173, 176–177, 182, 194 Movement ​6, 8, 71 n. 41, 79, 92 n. 36, 93, 124, 184, 187, 189 n. 34, 197, 235, 272, 274, 326, 334, 354, 357, 378, 386 Mt. Gerizim ​64 n. 14, 66, 66 n. 19 Mt. Hermon ​16, 44, 173, 176–177, 182, 194 Multiethnic ​10, 62–63, 69, 74 Mythology ​383–384 Naos ​ 191 n. 45, 216 Naples ​4, 284–287, 289, 296 Nation ​2, 5, 15, 17, 23, 26–27, 38, 40, 44, 48, 65, 69, 74 n. 51, 77, 86, 150, 155, 202, 202 n. 8, 237, 240, 366, 384–386, 397–398, 406, 406 n. 90, 407, 413, 416 Nazirites ​33–34, 39 Necropolis ​107 Negotium ​4–5, 283, 286–287, 297 Nemesis ​189–191, 191 n. 45, 194–195, 195 n. 56–57, 196, 196 n. 58, 197, 197 n. 64, 199 Neo-Assyrian ​325, 328 n. 22

Index of Subjects

Neo-Babylonian ​325 Neoi ​116–118 Neopoioi ​101–102, 116 n. 4 Neronis quinquennium ​388 New Perspective ​373 Nicene Creed ​130–131 Niche ​16, 180, 183–184, 185 fig. 6, 185, 186 fig. 7, 187, 187 n. 29, 188–189, 189 n. 34–35, 190, 190 n. 40, 191, 192 n. 8, 192–193, 195, 199, 293, 320 nomos, Jewish ​14 Non-Jew ​12–13, 82, 145–146, 152, 154, 220, 363–366, 367 n. 13, 368–374, 377–379, 381, 419–420, 423 n. 6, 431, 440, 452 Nous ​61, 75 Nymphaeum ​285, 292 Nymphs ​190, 194, 196, 196 n. 59, 61–63, 197, 197 n. 63, 199 Objects ​30 n. 19, 31–33, 33 n. 33, 34, 37, 95, 103 n. 50, 143, 179–181, 183–184, 190, 193, 199, 202, 311–313, 353, 421, 442, 453, 454 n. 87, 456, 461 Omina ​13, 420–422, 425–426, 426 n. 14, 427–435, 437–441, 447, 451–454, 455 n. 95, 456 Oneirocriticism ​13, 420 Order ​10, 23–25, 25 n. 5, 26, 46 n. 13, 51, 66–67, 70, 71 n. 41, 72, 74, 82–83, 93, 102, 107–108, 148, 170, 181, 209, 239, 384, 406, 419, 434 n. 39 Ortygia ​117 Ostium ​257, 262 Otium ​4–5, 283–287, 290, 296–297 Pacification ​83–84, 89–90, 90 n. 30 Paganism ​130 Paideia ​73 Pain ​275, 314–315, 317, 325–327, 328 n. 22 Palace, imperial ​289, 291 Palestine ​13, 47, 47 n. 20, 48, 53 n. 44, 57, 131–132, 266 n. 34, 271, 277 n. 72, 391 n. 35, 417, 419–421, 423 n. 6, 431, 434 n. 40, 451 Palestinian Amoraic literature ​423 Pan ​162, 170, 185 n. 26, 188–190, 190 n. 40, 193, 193 n. 48, 194–196, 199

505

Panamara ​155 n. 1, 158 n. 13, 159, 162, 162 n. 22, 168, 170 Panayır Dağ ​97, 101, 101 n. 39, 119, 119 n. 13 Panegyrist ​83 Panhellenic ​205, 223 Parable ​10–11, 17, 63, 67, 69, 73, 73 n. 48, 74, 74 n. 53, 75–76, 258 n. 10, 386, 387 n. 14–15, 393, 405 n. 89, 409, 410 n. 103, 411 n. 106, 413, 413 n. 119, 414–415 204, 212, 212 n. 48, 213, 213 n. 54, Paries ​ 214 Parody ​423, 423 n. 5–6, 424, 427, 437, 443–445, 448–449, 451–453, 456 Parthian ​160–161, 406 n. 90 Patrimony ​83, 286 Paullus Fabius Persicus ​108 Pausanias ​169, 169 n. 35, 170, 219, 223 Peace ​11, 25, 87, 89–90, 90 n. 30, 126, 131, 148, 201–203, 238, 251, 269, 345, 347, 371, 400, 404, 455 n. 94 Pentapolis ​46 Pentateuch ​15, 23, 23 n. 2, 44 n. 2, 53 n. 45, 66 n. 19, 349 Performance ​17, 36, 100, 105, 293, 314, 316, 319 n. 115, 351 Peristyle ​259, 261, 268, 285 Persians ​65, 125, 132–133, 158, 165, 168–169, 169 n. 36, 205 Philistines ​45, 48, 48 n. 25 Philo of Alexandria ​355 Philocrates ​145, 153 Philodemus of Gadara ​284 Phoenicia ​173 Pilgrimage ​339, 348–349, 354 Piraeus ​117 Platforms ​187–189, 192–193, 199 Plautus ​263–264, 394 n. 47 Plutarch ​83, 168, 210, 259, 391 n. 33, 396 Polis ​80, 103, 103 n. 51, 107, 240, 391 Politeuma ​53 Polytheism ​79, 85, 153 Pompeii ​4, 259, 261–262, 285, 294 n. 55 Porticus ​213 n. 54, 288 n. 23, 293, 295 Poseidon Asphaleios ​105 post scaenam ​292–293 Postcolonial ​78 n. 2, 143 Priestly Code ​49, 50 n. 31, 52, 54

506

Index of Subjects

Priestly text ​15, 23, 23 n. 2 Priests ​12, 15, 18, 30, 33, 33 n. 31, 34, 34 n. 34, 35–36, 38, 38 n. 53, 39, 41, 101–102, 105, 139, 147, 151, 202, 209, 211, 214, 216–217, 308, 323, 351, 353, 431 n. 26 Princeps ​286, 288, 288 n. 26, 291–292, 295 n. 56, 296, 394 n. 50, 409 Procession ​18, 95, 99, 99 n. 29, 100, 100 n. 31–32, 35, 101, 101 n. 40, 102–104, 104 n. 56, 105–106, 116, 120–121, 162 n. 22, 404 procul negotiis ​283 Propaganda ​80, 87–88, 130, 386–389, 391–392, 394–396, 398–399, 399 n. 69, 72, 401–402, 406, 416 Propaganda, numismatic ​390, 396–397, 397 n. 58, 401 n. 78 Property ​3, 102, 106, 123, 156, 285–286, 288, 290, 293, 307–309, 323–324, 383, 442, 445–446, 449 Ptolemaic King ​146, 148, 150–151 Publius Vedius Pollio ​5, 287 Punishment ​162, 249, 305, 311, 339–340, 394, 399, 408, 408 n. 96, 415 Pure-impure ​23, 31 Purity ​9, 12, 27, 29 n. 18, 32, 150–151, 202, 217, 220, 272, 308 Rabbi ​13, 423–424, 426, 428, 436–438, 438 n. 51, 441–447, 447 n. 77, 448–451, 454, 454 n. 87, 456 Rabbinic discourse ​13, 419 Ramparts ​5, 145, 147, 150, 202 Rav Ashi ​425, 427, 429 Reconciliation ​90–91, 251, 371, 405 Regulations, ceremonial ​377, 379 Representation ​5, 7 n. 13, 14, 80–81, 92, 143, 145, 147–148, 157 n. 7, 162 n. 23, 168, 172, 191, 291–292, 398 n. 64, 67 Res Gestae ​397, 397 n. 63 Resurrection ​81–83, 86, 91, 361–362, 371 Righteousness ​23, 120, 150, 241, 411, 411 n. 104 Rites, transitional ​17, 103 Ritual, apotropaic ​265 River ​48, 51, 58, 169 n. 36, 205 n. 22 River, Euphrates ​48, 58

River, Jordan ​44–47, 47 n. 19, 51, 173, 192 rôle ​16, 180, 193, 195–196, 198 Roman Empire ​13, 77, 79, 86, 88, 91, 100 n. 32, 120–121, 123–128, 131, 134–135, 139, 261, 266, 266 n. 30, 267, 273–274, 280, 285, 288, 404, 420 Romanitas ​135, 261, 266 n. 30, 273 Romanization ​100 n. 32, 109, 119, 284 rûaḥ ​ 9, 323–324, 324 n. 4, 325, 330–334, 334 n. 36, 335, 335 n. 38, 336, 336 n. 38–39 Sacred terrace ​188 Sacrifice ​3, 18, 30, 36, 36 n. 45, 37–38, 51 n. 38, 66, 74 n. 53, 101, 117–118, 170, 214, 217, 311, 317, 320, 338–339, 341, 344, 347–350, 350 n. 55, 351–357, 357 n. 80, 402–403, 405, 411–412 Samaria ​7, 10, 48, 62, 66, 66 n. 19, 22, 73, 73 n. 48 Samaritan, good ​10, 63, 67, 69, 73, 73 n. 48, 74, 75–76, 413–414 Samaritans ​62, 64, 64 n. 13, 65, 65 n. 16, 66, 66 n. 22, 67, 67 n. 23, 68, 69 n. 34, 73, 76 Sanctification ​28, 32–33, 33 n. 31, 34–36 Sanctuary ​11–12, 15, 18, 26, 28, 28 n. 14, 29–31, 31 n. 24, 33–34, 36, 36 n. 45, 37, 37 n. 51, 38, 40 n. 58, 41, 95, 102, 104 n. 56, 105–106, 109, 156, 158–161, 166, 168–169, 174, 181, 194–195, 197, 204, 206, 207 n. 30–31, 209, 213–217, 220, 222, 339–341, 342 n. 16, 347–348, 351–355, 357 Sasanian Empire ​13, 419, 431 Satan ​85–86, 331, 331 n. 32, 333–334 Satire ​237, 423 Scythians ​87, 87 n. 22, 89, 93 Sebasteion of Aphrodisias ​406, 416 Securitas ​84, 401 Seneca ​92, 288 n. 20, 390–392, 394, 394 n. 50, 399, 399 n. 72, 400–403, 405–406, 406 n. 92, 407, 407 n. 94–95, 408–409, 409 n. 98, 100, 102, 413, 415 Septuagint ​6, 12, 52 n. 40, 53 n. 42, 216–217, 339 n. 11, 355, 376 Sexteius Pompey ​69 n. 31, 394 n. 47, 50, 395, 399

Index of Subjects

Sick ​306–307, 311–315, 318, 324 n. 4, 325–332 Skin disease ​32, 323–324, 329 n. 28, 330–331, 334 Slave ​64, 81, 84, 84 n. 13, 87–90, 207 n. 31, 262–263, 288 n. 20, 290, 370–371, 379–381, 387 n. 14, 391 n. 33, 399 Socrates ​128, 137, 137 n. 10, 138 Sojourner ​345, 347 Soldier ​124, 170, 202 n. 8, 284, 290, 311, 395, 398, 402 Son of Man ​278 Soul ​202, 245, 248, 251, 324, 343–345, 347, 355–356, 407, 407 n. 95, 437, 441, 447, 449–450 Socialization ​17, 103, 119 Sozomenos ​128 Space v, 1–7, 7 n. 13, 8, 10–12, 14–18, 25, 30 n. 19, 31, 34, 40–41, 82, 87, 92, 96, 99 n. 29, 100–101, 104–105, 107, 115–118, 143–144, 146–149, 153, 156, 156 n. 5, 172, 180, 180 n. 14, 183, 183 n. 22–23, 184, 187, 193, 198, 207 n. 30, 212–214, 216–218, 255, 257, 261, 269, 272, 289–294, 294 n. 52, 295–296, 311, 319, 321, 339–340, 347, 355, 357, 380, 411 n. 106, 419, 452 Statues ​15–16, 83, 96, 96 n. 6, 100, 100 n. 31, 102, 104, 159, 159 n. 16, 213, 222, 292–293, 293 n. 51, 396 Stephanephor ​206, 223 Student v, vi, 4, 67, 75, 152, 235–236, 238–239, 241–245, 247, 250, 406, 446, 450 Supernatural ​161, 265, 279–280, 332 Symmetry ​222–223 Syria ​47, 64–65, 74, 124, 131–132 Tabernacle ​215 n. 63, 217, 220 n. 86, 343–344, 346, 352–355 Table fellowship ​63 Taboo ​9, 305, 308, 308 n. 26 Tabula ansata ​187, 190 Talmud ​343, 346, 376, 414, 420–425, 427, 430–431, 431 n. 25, 434 n. 39, 435, 440, 445, 451–452 Talmud, Babylonian ​13, 421 n. 2, 422 n. 2, 425 n. 11, 428 n. 17, 430

507

Talmud, Palestinian ​13, 346, 420, 421 n. 2 Tax collector ​17, 386, 393, 409, 409 n. 103, 410, 410 n. 103–104, 411, 411 n. 104, 106, 412, 412 n. 112, 413–416 Teatrum ​293 Temenos ​95, 109, 156, 156 n. 5 Temple v, 11–12, 14, 64 n. 14, 66 n. 19, 22, 88 n. 25, 102, 106, 108–109, 116–117, 120 n. 14, 122, 147–148, 156, 156 n. 5, 160–162, 164, 164 n. 27, 166, 166 n. 33, 169 n. 35, 170, 181, 183, 185, 187 n. 27, 29, 188, 201, 204–207, 210–213, 213 n. 54, 214–223, 256–257, 279, 306, 327 n. 20, 343 n. 25, 351–352, 396, 400, 410, 411, 412, 415, 441 Temple, Herodian ​12, 214, 217, 219 n. 77–79 Temple of Solomon ​71, 214–215, 215 n. 63, 216, 231 fig. 9 Territory v, 6, 17, 43, 45–48, 50–51, 51 n. 39, 93, 107, 117, 121–122, 124–126, 128–129, 132–134, 158, 172, 190 n. 40, 287, 409, 419 Tervingi ​135, 137 Testimony ​121, 286, 291 n. 39, 340, 344, 392, 402 Theodosius ​128, 130, 132, 135–139 Theophrastus ​285 Tiberius Claudius Aristion ​99 Topography ​1, 104, 107, 119, 147, 214, 261–262, 267 Torah ​65 n. 15, 66 n. 19, 69, 71 n. 41, 149, 154, 202, 269, 343, 350 n. 52, 351, 377, 378, 379 n. 50, 381, 434 Torah, oral ​427–428 Trajan ​100, 222 Transcultural ​79, 81, 452 Transeuphratene ​45 Transgression ​7–10, 14, 67, 70, 72, 106–107, 122, 166, 305, 308, 311–314, 316, 318, 449 Translation ​6, 9, 14, 47 n. 20, 22, 52, 53, 53 n. 42, 45–46, 54, 56, 56 n. 55, 57, 64, 91 n. 34, 117, 145 n. 8, 148–149, 151, 152 n. 19–20, 154, 165 n. 28, 166 n. 31, 171 n. 40, 204, 205 n. 21, 209 n. 36, 212, 214, 216, 236 n. 3, 238 n. 10, 240, 243, 247 n. 38, 252, 315

508

Index of Subjects

n. 83, 316 n. 97, 317 n. 103, 324, 329 n. 25, 340 n. 12, 351 n. 57, 377 n. 41, 403 n. 82, 425 n. 10, 425 n. 12, 430 n. 24, 432 n. 27–28 Transmogrification ​82 Triclinium ​267–268, 292 n. 44, 294 Triumphator ​399, 399 n. 70 Triumvirate ​395, 398 n. 64, 400 Tyre Damascus ​64, 173, 182 Ulfila ​137–138 Universalism ​203 Vestibulum ​259, 262, 278 Vestments ​33 Vetus Latina ​203, 212 vice deorum ​407 Victory ​84, 88–90, 185 n. 26, 191, 399, 399 n. 70–71 Villa, “House of Pollio” ​289 Villa, Adriana ​5 Villa, Agrippa Postumo ​289 Villa, Domitian ​5, 286, 289, 291, 296 Villa, Hadrian ​286, 289, 291, 292 n. 44, 293, 295 n. 58 Villa, imperial ​4–5, 283, 287 n. 19, 289–291, 295 Villa, Papyri ​284 Villa, Pausilypon ​4–5, 283, 286–287, 287 n. 19, 288–290, 295–296 Villa, Quintus Hortensius Hortalus ​285 Virgil ​83, 284, 400, 405, 415 Viridarium ​293 Vitruvius ​213, 223, 259

Visigoths ​12, 128–130 Vulgate ​212, 390 n. 29, 429 Wall ​11–12, 29, 76, 96, 98, 166, 183–184, 187, 189–190, 191 n. 43, 192, 196, 201 n. 5, 202, 202 n. 8, 203, 207, 209, 209 n. 35, 210–214, 216–217, 252, 255, 262, 268, 278, 290, 295, 295 n. 57, 326, 359, 450, 454 n. 91 Wall, circular ​147 Wall, dividing ​11–12, 201–203, 209–210, 210 n. 38, 211, 211 n. 44, 213, 217–218, 220–221, 223 Wall, middle ​11, 201–203, 209–211, 216–217 Wall, temenos ​95, 109, 156, 156 n. 5 Walls, of the city ​11, 14, 96, 107–108 War ​14, 75, 130–131, 160, 218, 345, 347, 394–395, 397 n. 63, 399 n. 69, 415–416 Wisdom ​4, 235–239, 243, 247, 252–253, 338, 345, 397 n. 61, 434, 438–441 Wisdom literature ​4, 237 Worship ​3, 71, 79, 87 n. 19, 90, 92, 121, 136, 150–151, 153, 203, 346, 348 n. 35, 411 n. 106 Xenophon ​89 Zeus ​3, 74 n. 53, 83, 91, 118, 151, 151 n. 17, 152–153, 158 n. 14, 160, 165, 168, 170, 170 n. 37, 185 n. 26, 187 n. 29, 188, 190, 194, 199, 205 Zeus Panamarios ​158–159, 159 n. 16, 160, 161 n. 20, 162, 162 n. 22, 163, 165