Children in Late Ancient Christianity 3161502353, 9783161502354, 9783161513572

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Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity Herausgeber/Editors Christoph Markschies (Berlin) · Martin Wallraff (Basel) Christian Wildberg (Princeton) Beirat/Advisory Board Peter Brown (Princeton) · Susanna Elm (Berkeley) Johannes Hahn (Münster) · Emanuela Prinzivalli (Rom) Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt)

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Children in Late Ancient Christianity Edited by

Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phenix

Mohr Siebeck

Cornelia B. Horn, Ph. D. 2001, Early Christian Studies, Catholic University, Washington, DC; professor of Greek and Oriental Patristics, Saint Louis University, St Louis, USA. Robert R. Phenix, Ph. D. 2005, Languages and Literatures of the Christian Orient, Orientalisches Seminar, Eberhard-Karls-Universität Tübingen.

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-151357-2 ISBN 978-3-16-150235-4 ISSN 1436-3003 (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum) The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2009 by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. 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 printed by Laupp & Göbel in Nehren on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

This Work is Dedicated to All the Children in the Contributors’ Lives – Our Own, Those of Our Loved Ones, and Those Who Live On in the Sources.

Preface and Acknowledgments The contributors to this volume have allowed us to put together a work which, we believe, reflects fundamental research across the broad spectrum of the study of children in Christian sources from the Late Antique Mediterranean world. The volume came into existence from a conversation between the editors and Dr. Henning Ziebritzki of Mohr Siebeck in November 2007 at the Society for Biblical Literature North American Annual Meeting in San Diego. We are very grateful to him and to Prof. Christoph Markschies, the Chancellor of the Humboldt University in Berlin, who is the general editor of the STAC series, for agreeing to publish this project. Most of the submissions were received in January–March 2009; one pair of contributors had to bow out for personal reasons sometime in February, leaving the present collection of fourteen articles. The work on editing the volume took place over the course of 2009, with the production of the camera-ready copy, including the compilation of indices, having been accomplished between August and early October. We are grateful to all the contributors for their patience and understanding with us throughout the process of editing and finalizing their work. We acknowledge the valuable contribution of Ms. Caitlin Stevenson, an MA candidate in the Department of Theological Studies at Saint Louis University, for her hard work on compiling bibliographical information, catching mistakes, and compiling the indices that contribute so much to the utility of this volume. At an earlier stage, Mr. Aaron Overby, a doctoral candidate in the same theology department, offered valuable research assistance. Mr. Matthias Spitzner, head of the Production Department at Mohr-Siebeck, has once again contributed a marvelous effort. Ms. Andrea Horn, in helping watch our own two children, Katharina Jane and Lucas Origène, allowed us to expedite the editing and formatting of this work. Flic-en-Flac, Mauritius, October 5th, 2009

C. B. H. and R. P.

Table of Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments .............................................................. VII List of Abbreviations ............................................................................. XI Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phenix Introduction ........................................................................................... XIII Reidar Aasgaard Uncovering Children’s Culture in Late Antiquity: The Testimony of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas ...........................................................

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Tony Burke “Social Viewing” of Children in the Childhood Stories of Jesus ........... 29 Inta Ivanovska Baptized Infants and Pagan Rituals: Cyprian versus Augustine............. 45 Carole Monica C. Burnett Mother-Child Bonding in the Greek and Latin Fathers of the Church ......................................................................................... 75 Cornelia B. Horn Children in Fourth-Century Greek Epistolography: Cappadocian Perspectives from the Pens of Gregory Nazianzen and Basil of Caesarea ............................................................................................ 103 Susan R. Holman Sick Children and Healing Saints: Medical Treatment of the Child in Christian Antiquity ............................................................................ 143 Cornelia B. Horn Approaches to the Study of Sick Children and Their Healing: Christian Apocryphal Acts, Gospels, and Cognate Literatures ............. 171

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Nicole Kelley The Deformed Child in Ancient Christianity ........................................ 199 John W. Martens “Do Not Sexually Abuse Children”: The Language of Early Christian Sexual Ethics ........................................................................................ 227 Ville Vuolanto Choosing Asceticism: Children and Parents, Vows and Conflicts ....... 255 Cornelia B. Horn Raising Martyrs and Ascetics: A Diachronic Comparison of Educational Role-Models for Early Christian Children ........................ 293 Carrie Schroeder Children and Egyptian Monasticism ..................................................... 317 Chrysi Kotsifou Papyrological Perspectives on Orphans in the World of Late Ancient Christianity .. ......................................................................................... 339 Robert Phenix The Contribution of Social Science Research to the Study of Children and Childhood in Pre-Modern Ethiopia .................................. 375 Bibliography ....... .................................................................................. 407 Index of Ancient Sources ...................................................................... Index of Modern Authors....................................................................... Index of Selected Terms ........................................................................ Index of Subjects ...................................................................................

469 488 489 491

List of Abbreviations ACW CCL CSEL LCL WSA WUNT

Ancient Christian Writers Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Loeb Classical Library The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament

Introduction Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phenix The study of children in the Late Antique Mediterranean world and its cultural sphere (“Late Antiquity”) is a subdiscipline of the study of Late Antique civilization. The present collection of articles examines a further specialization within that subdiscipline by focusing on questions arising from the examination of late ancient Christian literature. The discipline can be defined as the application of various forms of criticism, including literary, historical, and art criticism, to Christian sources in order to understand the experience, value, and intellectual construction of children and childhood in Late Antiquity. It is therefore an open contribution to the study of children in Late Antiquity, rather than a closed discipline that would be interested only in what children meant for the development of Christian thought. The latter certainly is a significant line of research represented to some extent also in this and other collections, yet it is only one strand in the reconstruction of children and society in this period. As today, so too in Late Antiquity the debates over the development of children in Christian circles extended to everything that touched on human existence. The essays brought together in the present volume examine a wide spectrum of these issues: education and formation, the healing of children, the role institutions filled in the care of children, especially orphans, predation and exploitation of children, congenital conditions and the value placed on children with special needs in Late Antique Christian sources are only some of the areas examined here. The most important contribution which the collection of all of these essays makes is to foster a more substantial engagement of Christian sources in the scholarly research and discourse that concentrates on children in Late Antiquity. The problem of the definition of child and childhood in Late Antiquity intersects in the essays in this collection with problems in the sources addressed. The concept of an “apocryphal source” and its significance for tracing Christian thought lies behind several of the essays in this volume that use this material, and the validity of using papyri from a specific findspot to make generalizations about wider Greco-Roman society are only two of

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the problems that lie at the foundations of research incorporated into this collection of essays, and addressed directly or indirectly. This collection of essays draws together an across-the-board sample of research into children and childhood in Late Antiquity. While these texts are certainly of interest for those who work on the intellectual history of Christian writers in the first seven centuries CE, the collection as a whole should appeal to scholars who study children and the social, religious, cultural, and anthropological aspects of their lives. As such, it is also hoped that the information contained in this volume will be of interest for a number of areas of investigation. The scope of the primary sources and the social, cultural, and religious settings that the contributors address advance several areas of the study of children in Late Antiquity. What sets these contributions apart from available edited volumes on Children in Christian thought is first, that there is a focus on Christian sources from Late Antiquity, second, that the authors have engaged problems that are of considerable depth, rather than providing general overviews of the thought of a particular author, and third that this has allowed for more profound connections to be brought to light between a wider variety of textual sources. The studies offered here represent the state-of-theart in the study of children in Late Antique Christian sources. They bring to bear a number of significant ideas and methods that are important for understanding religion, society, and culture in Late Antiquity as a whole. Each contribution constitutes a snapshot of ongoing research, and thus represents an expert-level view of the problems and sources of the subdiscipline. This includes critical evaluation of published materials. There are disagreements and even corrections addressed by one contributor to another, and certainly some authors will respond to criticism from co-collaborators in this volume in their own future work. Indeed, occasionally there are even agreements among the contributors. The authors did not circulate copies of the submissions to the other contributors; these exchanges and differences of perspective are the expected result of thriving scholarship among researchers working on common texts and congruent problems. The present collection is unique for the type of sources and the degree to which the corpora of individual authors have been explored in the work of the contributors, whose approaches represent the future of research in this area. Jewish-Christian pseudepigrapha, New Testament apocrypha, Late Antique papyri, ancient Christian hagiography, biography, historiography, and others have been brought to bear on understanding the religious reception of the status of children in early Christianity, the investigation of children’s culture, or the role of Christian institutions in contributing to the social integration of children, only to mention a few of the numerous areas explored in these studies. It is clear that a wealth of informa-

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tion is yet to be gathered from these less-studied (but by no means neglected) sources. Here should also be mentioned the engagement of Classical, Late Antique, and Byzantine sources on medicine for information on “child health care” and Christian value in Late Antiquity. Indeed, several contributions in this volume (Kelley, Holmann, Horn, Martens, and Kotsifou) converge to indicate both the feasibility and the desirability of gaining a clearer understanding of the conditions of life for children in situations of distress caused for example by sickness, disability, death, or threats of sexual exploitation. Contents Reidar Aasgaard’s essay (“Uncovering Children’s Culture in Late Antiquity: The Testimony of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas”) concerning the Sitzim-Leben of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas (IGT) serves as a brief introduction to the study of the cultural matrix of children’s lives in Late Antiquity. His thesis is that the IGT may be the only full documentation of children’s culture in Late Antiquity, and thus represents a unique genre in Late Antique Christian literature. To demonstrate this, Aasgaard substantiates the existence of children’s culture in the general case. He approaches the existence of a children’s culture from demographics. Late Antiquity was a time and place with children comprising a much larger percentage of the population than modern Western societies, and more in line with agrarian pre-industrial ones. His essay identifies many of the problems in the artifacts of culture – not least of which is that much of what the mostly illiterate populations of Late Antiquity said about or to children was almost certainly never written down. The very definition of childhood itself, an area of extensive research in recent publications, is part of the problem. Yet the two central biases in scholarship that have hindered the study of children are that scholars refused to recognize the substantial body of primary evidence that is available to support childhood as a distinct stage of life in the sociology of Late Antiquity, and that most literary criticism assumes an adult audience. Aasgaard assembles an array of Christian and non-Christian literature composed or transmitted in Late Antiquity to show that there was a sizeable body of literature composed for and addressed to children. The IGT belongs to this category. Aasgaard’s article points out the peculiarity that other than the IGT (and presumably its early cognates), Christian writers addressing adult or general audiences were unconcerned, for the most part, with filling in the details of Jesus’ childhood. Many elements of the majority view of the lower-stratum audience and the clear diversity of recensions of the IGT suggest an originally oral composition, consistent with the origins of other children’s stories in Late Antiquity. Aasgaard reconstructs the internal evidence that the IGT was intended ori-

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ginally for children, and suggests ways in which the IGT offers insights into the reception of children’s pedagogy in early Christianity. One may add that this is a natural combination, as so much of religion consists of some form of instruction. The many treatises by Chrysostom and Jerome on the subject examined in this collection clearly attest this point. The implication of Aasgaard’s thorough and well-documented essay is that everything that has been said about the setting of the IGT, as well as many works from Late Antiquity in which children have significant roles or in which childhood is a prominent theme, require new assessments as to the intended audiences of these texts as well as with regard to what these texts do and do not reveal about the culture of children and childhood. If Aasgaard has set the IGT among literature composed for children, implying that the ancients saw enough value in children to communicate adult religious doctrine using images of childhood, Tony Burke (“‘Social Viewing’ of Children in the Childhood Stories of Jesus”) reads the IGT primarily as an extension of existing genres. He shares Aasgaard’s dissatisfaction with previous IGT scholarship (both lament the useless baggage of the slanderous “gnostic” classification of most of the secondary literature), but adopts a more clearly philological critique: everyone who has made sweeping and not-so-sweeping literary judgments about IGT is still relying on Freiherr von Tischendorff as though his were a critical edition. The other witnesses create a very different impression of the young Jesus, who in Tischendorff’s source seems irrational and callous. Many then and now wish their god-men to be impulsive, brutish enigmas, but Burke cautions us from concluding that this was the predilection of the redactor of the oldest complete form of the IGT. At the same time, we are told that the IGT is perhaps best described as an imitation of the puer senex prodigies of the gods and divinized political and social classes, such as kings and philosophers, which was extended in funerary inscriptions to ordinary children themselves, Christian or not. Aasgaard and Burke find little agreement in the use of the IGT for reconstructing the social anthropology of children in Greco-Roman Late Antiquity. The former’s IGT as an example of children’s culture designed for the juvenile audience confronts Burke’s IGT as revealing an idealized childhood, one which did not correspond to any reality in Late Antiquity. The examples from Greco-Roman sources that each author provides reflect two different formulations of the Sitz-im-Leben, with emphases on different sources and different interpretations. Inta Ivanovska (“Baptized Infants and Pagan Rituals: Cyprian versus Augustine”) provides an examination of the thought of Augustine of Hippo (d. 430) and Cyprian of Carthage (d. ca. 248) regarding one of the central themes of the study of children in Late Antique Christian sources, namely,

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innocence and guilt. If the mind of Augustine is like the archtypical Buddhist portrait of a flitting butterfly impelled from one thought to the next, Ivanovska shows a dog-like Zen in pinning down his wings and those of his more restrained compatriot. Ivanovska procedes from an investigation of Christian theological problems concerning just how defective a child’s soul was, and then engages the problem of the child-adult threshold in the two corpora. Ivanovska shows that Cyprian, writing during a period of state-sponsored persecution of Christians in Latin North Africa, understood the primary defect in a child to be physical, and thus ending with death, while Augustine, writing at a time when Christianity was for all intents and purposes the only tolerated religion, made a child’s fundamental defect one of inherited guilt that remained unaltered by the body’s demise. One may extend Ivanovska’s observations to the conclusion that we are presented with a political, rather than a strictly theological, conceptualization of child and childhood. Augustine seems to indicate that as bad as it is for children, it only gets worse with the transition to adulthood. Since martyrdom, or freedom from the influence of evil forces (especially demons), is no longer a possibility, it is best to die before one is further corrupted. Ivanovska’s article raises the questions of the child’s innocence, defect, and the development from child to adult. The political motives of Augustine’s thought are not to be discounted; it is hoped that future research into these may shed more light on the reasoning behind his approach to children and their development. Carole Monica Burnett (“Mother-Child Bonding in the Greek and Latin Fathers of the Church”) investigates the value that Late Antique Christian writers placed on raising children. The author examines the attitudes toward motherhood and the natural bond between mother and child in the context of several classical sources and the reception of Fourth Maccabees among Western Christian writers in the third and fourth centuries. The sheaf of commentaries on this text amounts to a harvest of denial of the natural affection of the mother for the child. All writers surveyed in Burnett’s study understand motherhood as an even weaker condition of the inferior sex, and like a terrible disease, the Christian woman does well to avoid it. Surely, their attitudes are born from a mix of folk superstition which was absorbed into classical medicine, and the martyr impulse of the new religion, which placed salvation above life. Motherhood, for these Christian writers, is yet another weakness that the will must overcome in order to reach salvation. There are many instances of men abandoning their sons to join monasteries, and Carrie Schroeder’s article, summarized below, discusses the evidence of this phenomenon from Late Antique Egypt. Burnett rather looks at Jerome’s portraits of women who abandon their children for a life of as-

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ceticism and renunciation, including turning away from raising children. Given that these women were among the Roman élite, they probably could afford others in their employ to take on the majority of the responsibilities for raising them. Paula leaves behind two young children for an adventure that would take her to some of the wealthiest parts of the empire, to live in holy companionship with other like-minded women. Melania the Younger presents us with the case of a woman who is clearly not interested in marriage, resents her husband for his insisting on procreation, and now must have a third pregnancy in order to fulfill her pre-nuptual agreement. Melania will die unless her husband agrees never to have sex with her again. Burnett examines her sources with care and method, but it is color by numbers for the reader: asceticism, whether it meant the total abandonment of family ties (or not, as Rebecca Krawiec has indicated for some), the ascetic life was a way for Christian women to escape the oppression of bearing children. To be sure, the relationship between mothers and sons in Late Antiquity could be characterized as one in which the mother pushed the son toward the pursuit of material wealth and power, thus ensuring the mother a comfortable life and care in old age. One also wonders whether the rejection of this form of mother-son relationship, as Burnett examines in the Monica-Augustine case, was another attempt to set Christians apart from Jews, for whom the care of aged parents was a sacred duty. Burnett concludes that tenderness in mother-child relationships was brought back to Christianity through changes in the view of Mary’s own emotions at the suffering and death of Jesus. It may also be the case that for women who were not as affluent as those who followed Jerome and thus for those for whom there was no alternative but to remain part of the husband’s household, a model was necessary in order to make personal suffering tolerable. Burnett concludes that the cult of Mary the mother of Jesus delivered that role model, and points to several areas of profitable departure for a study of the material conditions of women and the psychology of their religious experience. The first of three contributions from Cornelia Horn (“Children in Fourth-Century Greek Epistolography: Cappadocian Perspectives from the Pens of Gregory of Nazianzen and Basil of Caesarea”) offers insight into the assumptions behind the prescriptions of fourth-century Greek bishops from Cappadocia, Gregory Nazianzen and Basil the Great concerning social relationships within the family and the relationships tying the family to society and to the Christian church. Taking a start from other research on this question in Cicero’s and Pliny the Younger’s correspondences and other epistolary sources from Late Antiquity, she engages the two subjects of her research in an attempt to reveal their assumptions and arguments concerning the theological, sociological, and ethical dimensions of family

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relationships. Horn first addresses the problem of accurately uncovering assumptions from prescriptive sources, and finds compelling evidence for their utilization; Ville Vuolanto’s article, summarized below, provides further complimentary evidence that the authors of the letters themselves understood the reality of Christian families and framed their prescriptions accordingly. In Horn’s analysis, Gregory Nazianzen sees children as weak and vulnerable to corruption, and thus in need to be insulated from such effects through baptism and proper upbringing from their first hours. One might suggest that Nazianzen’s concern is born from a Christianization of the popular belief that the care and attention paid to the portents surrounding the birth of a child and prophylactic measures to stave off disease, the etiology of which was explained through possession by evil spirits or forces. Horn then identifies the four key elements concerning children in Gregory’s letters: education in a broad sense of upbringing, relationships, hardships, and a reaction to the presentation of children and parents in Classical stories of the gods. Horn does not discuss Gregory’s anthropology, for example in Gregory’s assumption that the father was the source of the son’s physical appearance, and so by extension must also be responsible for his character. This is also the notion of ēthos and the question of de-termination: is character for Gregory immutable, as Classical biography presupposed, or does Gregory have a softer form of determinism, namely that a son inevitably imitates his father’s character? In examining Basil’s letters, Horn identifies a lacuna in the work of Bernard Gain and others, but goes beyond this observation to provide a new framework that indicates the theological significance of broader sociological investigation. Basil, unlike Gregory, comments on the complete cycle of conception, birth, and childhood, and offers ample evidence for discerning his emotional sensitivity to the joys and tragedies of childhood and parenting. Women seem to have been primarily the birthgivers and nurses of children while the father was the one responsible for formation and education. Again, Horn does not examine the sources of these assumptions. Granted, they are not too hard to find: women were thought to be not creatures of the mind, but of the body, weak in character; hence their role in the formation of children was primarily limited to the formation of the body through birthgiving, nursing, and domestic duties. This is clear from the use of the father-child relationship as an analogy illustrating the obligation of a spiritual guide to his student. The discussion of Basil examines the many themes that occur in this literature, and provides sufficient ground for scholars to deepen our understanding of the social and theological aspects of these two writers, a call to which many of the contributors in this collection have responded.

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Susan Holman (“Sick Children and Healing Saints: Medical Treatment of the Child in Christian Antiquity”) examines the healing of children in Christian sources in light of medical treatises. This study brings valuable evidence from the transmission of classical medicine, drawing attention to the recent work of Peter Pormann, who has made better accessible the Arabic citations of an otherwise lost work of Paul of Aegina, On the Therapy and Treatment of Children. Holman gathers some of the scarce evidence among Late Antique Christian sources portraying sick Christian children undergoing treatment. The goal of this study is to provide the proper context for the interpretation of the themes of innocence and causation in narratives about medical incubation at Christian shrines, particularly from the material in Sophronius of Jerusalem’s The Miracles of Cyrus and John. This practice is a Christianization of a medical phenomenon, beginning at least in Early Bronze Age Mesopotamia, and which was a prominent part of the Greco-Roman Ascleipian cult, among others. The notion of personal fault in the causation of illness is practically a universal idea in the ancient Mediterranean world. Holman’s choice of this collection of miracles is grounded in part in the realization that it articulates theological and ideological bias, which are absent from the stories of Cosmas and Damian, for example, thus drawing attention to the use of innocence and causation in the miracle stories as a means of furthering theological and ideological perspectives within the Chalcedonian orthodox framework. Indeed, further research on the treatment of children from earlier periods in Mediterranean history could demonstrate how little the concepts of causality had changed. While the major Late Antique medical treatises are grounded in attempts to explain the etiology of illness without recourse to overtly supernatural forces (such as are all-pervasive in the huge quantity of earlier Mesopotamian-cuneiform literature and the less extensive Egyptian documentation), Christians seem to have maintained, or re-created, a scheme that was more dependent on such forces. Complementing Holman’s analysis of childhood sickness and theological identity, Horn’s second contribution (“Approaches to the Study of Sick Children and Their Healing: Christian Apocryphal Acts, Gospels, and Cognate Literatures”) approaches childhood sickness and healing from a programmatic perspective of medical anthropology, offering some reflections on the cultural conditions that underly Late Antique presentations of illnesses and healing. The social dimension of sickness is one of these roles. Horn examines social dimensions of healing in the New Testament and in Apollonius, ancient popular literature (Greco-Roman novels), and select papyri, this last instance abutting common ground with the contributions of Chrysi Kotsifou and Carrie Schroeder. Following the treatment of key elements that run through this collection of materials, Horn then exmines the

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question of gender and healing in selected Late Antique hagiographical sources. Specifically, the phenomenon of distance or avoidance of contact between healer and healed in miraculous contexts seems to be illustrative of the ascetic avoidance of contact with women of any age, with exceptions made for family contexts, as found in the Acts of Mār Mari, among other examples. The last sections examine elements of healing drawn largely from Christian Apocryphal texts. These sources offer opportunities to explore the family sociology of the healing of children and its significance for expressing religious concepts. Horn also connects the healing of children in these texts with relevant Greco-Roman medical treatises, and sheds some light on the practice of spiritual healing among Christians in which children or objects associated with them had therapeutic properties. Nicole Kelley (“The Deformed Child in Ancient Christianity”) illuminates the attitudes toward deformed children and based on this information argues for differences in the practices of Christians and their polytheist compatriots. The argument for certain practices, such as the exposition of infants, is necessarily indirect, as Kelley remarks that there are no explicit accounts in Christian sources for this practice. Kelley examines Augustine’s view of deformed children as part of the diversity of creation, and even part of a larger and perfect divine plan, with the proviso that this does not necessarily represent how all Christians understood the meaning of human physical deformity. Kelley identifies how Christians received the statement in the canonical Gospel of John 9 that sin was not the cause of congenital defect. She examines the various responses, from rejection of Jesus’ assertion (Irenaeus, who also comments on John 5 and gives a more equivocal interpretation) to endorsement (John Chrysostom, Jerome). Kelley then examines the role of fate and nature in understanding congenital deformity in Bardaisan of Edessa, Arnobius of Sicca, and Gregory of Nyssa. Here Kelley observes an important difference: Chrysostom understood deformity to be part of human nature; Nyssa understood deformity to be foreign to the goodness of human nature and thus the result of corruption, which in the Christian understanding comes only from sin. Kelley offers an analysis of Peter and his daughter in the Acts of Peter and passages from Jerome’s corpus to draw conclusions about parents’ views of disability and deformity in dedicating children to a life set apart from the world dedicated to spiritual purposes, concluding that Christian parents widely held that marriage was a better calling than chastity. Kelley concludes with a discussion of deformity and the resurrected body in Augustine’s corpus, and exposes a contradiction in Augustine’s thought on the value of deformity. John Martens (“‘Do Not Sexually Abuse Children’: The Language of Early Christian Sexual Ethics”) offers a discussion of the word paidophthoreō, which he identifies as a Christian coinage, and examines its mean-

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ing and significance in the sources wherein it appears. Martens draws from the historical exposition found in his recent work (co-authored with C. Horn), Let the Little Children Come to Me. Beginning with the New Testament and drawing from key texts such as the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and works by Philo, Martens argues on terminological grounds that the rejection of sexual intercourse with minors was an important differential that set Christians apart from polytheists in Late Antiquity, and was an explicit codification of what one could term an “implicit” moral code among Jews as presented in the codified rabbinic legal materials. Martens’ key conclusion is that the term in question is broad in its scope, and does not imply any particular form of sexual interaction between adult and child. In making this argument, Martens has offered some fresh insight into selected source texts on their relevance for understanding children in Late Antique society. Ville Vuolanto (“Choosing Asceticism: Children and Parents, Vows and Conflicts”) turns the examination of children and Christianity to the question of personal freedom: did Christianity widen children’s ability to make choices for themselves? Vuolanto examines this in the context of Christian children and the choice (or absence of choice) to enter an ascetic life. The author restricts himself to sources spanning the late fourth into the fifth centuries, that is, the usual suspects. Vuolanto seeks to challenge the assumption, articulated by Peter Brown and others, that with the establishment of Christianity, many children and especially girls wished to remain unmarried and abandon the structure of the traditional Greco-Roman family. Vuolanto examines the ideological character of presentations of conflict over ascetic choice in the sources, the role of children in estate planning and in ideas about the afterlife of parents, prescription and actual practice in epistolary material, and a reconsideration of the phenomenon of children choosing asceticism. Vuolanto provides considerable evidence that children who became ascetics maintained family ties, and were even brought back into the family when the needs of continuing the paternal lineage required it. This implies that the decision to enter the ascetic life and remain an ascetic was made in the context of the greater good of the family, as also indicated in the idea of children ascetics as a kind of “insurance” for the spiritual well-being of the family in this world – and in the Hereafter. Horn’s third contribution (“Raising Martyrs and Ascetics: A Diachronic Comparison for Educational Role-Models for Early Christian Children”) addresses the literature addressed to women with young daughters on raising them to become ascetics. This study examines less well-known sources and writers, such as Eusebius of Emesa. Another contribution is an explanation regarding the reception of certain biblical passages applied to

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Christian martyrdom, such as the ‘aqeda in Genesis 22. Horn identifies that the authors of some accounts of martyrdom or ascetic life had children in mind when considering their audiences, thus contributing to the idea of a “children’s culture” for which Aasgaard argued in the case of the IGT. The theme of the ‘aqedah is taken up in an example of monastic obedience in Carrie Schroeder’s study of the evidence for children in Egyptian monasteries in Late Antiquity (“Children and Egyptian Monasticism”). Schroeder presents ample evidence for the tensions between allowing children to grow up in the monasteries and the “worldly” responsibilities that attended their upbringing. One papyrus, P. Lips. I 28, which Schroeder presents, is an adoption contract cited at length and discussed by Chrysi Kotsifou in the following article. Schroeder concludes that this papyrus was evidence that the boy Paesis was taken into the monastic setting of his guardian, Aurelius Silvanus. Following this one finds an analysis of selected versions of the Life of Pachomius, and its attendant problems for reconstructing monastic social history; the lives seem to favor children as the “seeds” of a next generation of monks. Shenoute’s corpus likewise provides evidence for children. Although the Coptic terminology is unclear about which stage of childhood the great abbot meant, Schroeder finds evidence that young men arrived before puberty. Schroeder then examines evidence for the origins and education of children in monastic communities in Egypt. The evidence from hagiographical sources is difficult to interpret, but it suggests that, like the Pachomian letters, children were received into the mainstream of Egyptian monasticism as being better monks than adults. Letters from Kellis are also examined. Evidence from the sixth and seventh centuries suggests that children were fully integrated into Egyptian monasticism. For the eighth century, Schroeder examines papyri from Jeme. These sources are also taken up by Kotsifou who identifies them as donation texts, but Schroeder provides considerable background to understanding their significance for children, and demonstrates how these papyri can be read to ascertain the roles of children in this monastery. Of interest for readers of Holman’s article is the reference in a Jeme text to one child promised to the monastery named Peter, who becomes ill because his parents rescinded their vow to dedicate him to the monastery, a phenomenon that Holman mentions in connection with a miracle in the Miracles of Cyrus and John no. 38, concerning a young reader, George. This data includes a donation text wherein it stipulates that a child need not become a monk, but rather must turn over all income to the monastery, which goes a long way to illustrating the citation from Arietta Papaconstantinou in Kotsifou’s contribution (p. 372), namely, that Christianity, even by the eighth century in this case, hardly changed the fate of children. Schroeder

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concludes by offering some reflections on the importance of papyrological sources for the study of Late Antique children. Congruent to Schroeder’s study, Chrysi Kotsifou’s contribution (“Papyrological Perspectives on Orphans in the World of Late Ancient Christianity”) which examines selections from the vast wealth of papyrological data from Egypt, almost takes up where Schroeder’s article leaves off. Whereas Schroeder examines some themes in more detail, Kotsifou offers a broader sampling of the papyrological evidence concerning orphans and points to the importance of papyri for the study of many aspects of the lives of children in and outside of Egypt. The author assembles several English translations of relevant passages, making the article as much a scholarly discussion as a short, handy anthology on orphans in Egyptian papyri. Kotsifou engages the legal aspects of orphans and adoption that many of these papyri presuppose, and reflects on their implications for orphans and, indirectly, for the women who give the children up for adoption or the adults who adopted them. Kotsifou engages some of the important social-anthropological issues, such as the role of wider family members in providing education for orphans, as well as the rhetoric of persuasion found in letters addressing the concerns of children. Kotsifou presents the practice of Christians pledging children to monasteries as a response to the prohibition of the outright selling of children, except in extreme circumstances, after 536, although the practice may have continued thereafter. Still, it was stigmatized, and the letters reveal dire circumstances motivating the pledging of children. What one can draw from Kotsifou’s article is that Christianity did not change the fundamental economic conditions of the Roman Empire, and that practices concerning children were dictated by material concerns, perhaps then as much as now. After a review of selected papyri, Kotsifou provides a summary history of the relevance of the church as an institution involved in the lives of orphans and widows, beginning with the 1 Timothy (late 1st or early 2nd c.). Kotsifou’s approach is to demonstrate that the importance of petitions in Egyptian papyri reflects a longstanding practice of the church providing assistance to orphans and widows, an activity that was largely not on offer from public authorities. Clearly this imperative is taken from a Christian reading of prophetic texts in the Old Testament. It would be interesting to take Kotsifou’s assessment of the sociological dimension and place it in the context of exegetical and paraenetic Christian sources. Robert Phenix argues for the use of social-anthropology in the study of traditional societies in Ethiopia as a means of capturing assumptions in the presentation of children in Ge‘ez hagiography (“The Contribution of Social Science Research to the Study of Children and Childhood in Pre-Modern Ethiopia”). Phenix first examines the problem of the inheritance of topoi

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from Coptic and other sources, and then sketches some of the key elements of the social anthropological study of relevant groups in Ethiopia, particularly among speakers of Tigray and Amharic. This contribution argues that traditional societies before the 1970’s in Ethiopia offer key information that is relevant to the study of literature from much earlier periods. His work points out that while there is much information about children in societies that are relevant for the study of Ge‘ez hagiography, they are often incidental, and there is no comprehensive study of children on which the philologist can rely. Much needs to be done in developing further the methodology of applying the results of social-anthropological research to the study of children in Ethiopic hagiography, and this contribution, which draws from a variety of different sources and perspectives, serves to incite further discussion and investigation. Prospects for Future Research on Children in Christian Sources in Late Antiquity Each of these studies reveal Late Antique Christian and other sources to be rich in details about children, families, and the social aspects of the formation of Christian theology. Moving forward, the study of this discipline will need a more rigorous social-anthropological method to bring order to the assumptions and methods of which this collection of studies is a representative sample. Until the present, the model is essentially that of historical-critical approaches applied to the study of texts. These are very valuable in providing the initial survey of material, in assessing its facticity and reliability, and in providing a rough-and-ready organization of the results. However, as the questions become more specialized, and the same details are examined from different perspectives, a more powerful framework becomes necessary. If the data are to speak to concerns that seem to be at the heart of the study of any society – the formation of political institutions, the power of religion in organizing society, the role of social reflection in religious thought and in the differentialization of Christianity from its Jewish and Greco-Roman backgrounds, the role of gender in social decisions, and the construction of a normative view of society and its impact, there must be a set of clearly identified social-anthropological methods. The contributions in this volume also illustrate that there are substantial gaps in understanding how society was organized, and that these gaps require a more robust methodology and further basic investigation of the sources in order to understand the extent to which Christianity contributed to the conceptualization of children. First and foremost is the need for the development of criteria for a disciplined approach to the social and cultural anthropology of children in Late Antiquity, including Christian sources of all media. While this remains a goal to be accomplished in future work on

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children in late ancient Christianity, it is still valuable to remind us here of the benefits to be derived from it. Its usefulness and even necessity consists in the ability one may gain to provide a uniform language of presentation that can be a basis of comparison with other ancient and contemporary societies. It will also improve the yield of information and clarify the details of the reconstruction of this area of Late Antique civilization. Finally, it also permits for a more transparent evaluation of the methods used to select sources, interpret and organize the data, and provide verifiable limits on the conclusions that may be drawn from them.

Uncovering Children’s Culture in Late Antiquity: The Testimony of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas Reidar Aasgaard The world of Late Antiquity and Early Christianity was very much a children’s world.1 As in many twenty-first century societies, children constituted a large portion of the population. Demographic calculations, for example, have indicated that one third of the population of Rome was under sixteen years old.2 Given the special character of the Roman capital, with its not-very-favorable environments for children, the percentage of the young in other cities is likely to have been higher, and even more so in rural areas, the habitat of a majority of the ancient population.3 Within research on antiquity, this insight has dawned only slowly, but since the 1990s has been of central concern to many scholars.4 Studies have been conducted on a variety of issues pertaining to children, such as the phase of childhood within the larger course of life of the human being, living conditions, education, gender relations, societal and religious roles,

1

The designations “Late Antiquity” and “Early Christianity” are here used in a broad sense of the period from the first to about the fifth century. I use the former expression when dealing with the period in general and the latter when focusing on its Christian aspects. 2 For calculations see Tim G. Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World: A Cultural and Social History (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), 36–56 and 280–281; and Christian Laes, Kinderen Bij De Romeinen: Zes Eeuwen Dagelijks Leven (Leuven: Davidsfonds, 2006), 21–22. For simplicity, I here use “child” in a very broad sense, applying the term to children between 0–12 years of age, though with focus on the middle stages (ca. 4–10). Clearly, there are – and were – significant differences among children within this span of years, and the ancients were also very much aware of this. See Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 134–145. 3 P. A. Brunt, “Labour,” in The Roman World, Volume II, ed. John Wacher (London and New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987), 701–716, here 701–703 and 707, holds that up to ninety percent of the population lived in rural areas. 4 See Reidar Aasgaard, “Children in Antiquity and Early Christianity: Research History and Central Issues,” Familia (UPSA, Spain) 33 (2006), 23–46, for a survey of research until 2005.

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views on childhood, and childhood metaphors.5 As a consequence, children’s lives and attitudes to childhood have been brought into focus in ways that have greatly improved our understanding of ancient childhood. Was There a Children’s Culture in Late Antiquity? Despite the growing interest in questions related to children in the ancient world, not much has been written on the more distinctly cultural sphere of children’s life, on what here will be called “children’s culture.” It is true that there have been several studies discussing important aspects of this culture, for example ancient educational systems and child-parent relations.6 Yet only a few scholars have dealt with the issue of a children’s culture in systematic or comprehensive ways.7 One reason for this relative neglect obviously has to do with the expression “children’s culture” itself, which is a concept of recent origin and as such clearly reflects modern concerns. Two questions immediately present themselves in relation to the use of this expression, namely: “what does ‘children’s culture’ mean?” and, “did such a children’s culture in effect exist in Late Antiquity?” As for the former question, no simple answer can be given. A response to the question will depend, for example, on one’s perception of what is “culture” as well as on one’s understanding of how childhood is related to other stages of life. In addition, the character of a children’s culture will differ much with time and place. Thus, “children’s

5 See particularly references and bibliographies in Odd M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2005); Rawson, Children and Childhood; Laes, Kinderen; Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter, eds., Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, Hesperia Supplement 41 (Princeton, NJ: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2007); and Marcia J. Bunge and others, ed., The Child in the Bible (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, U.K.: Eerdmans, 2008). 6 Richard P. Saller, Patriarchy, Property, and Death in the Roman Family (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); and Peter Balla, The Child-Parent Relationship in the New Testament and Its Environment, WUNT 155 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). 7 Surveys of aspects of children’s culture can be found in Cornelia B. Horn, “Children’s Play as Social Ritual,” in A People’s History of Christianity, Vol. 2: Late Ancient Christianity, ed. Virginia Burrus (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2005), 95–116; and Karl Olav Sandnes, The Challenge of Homer: School, Pagan Poets and Early Christianity, The Library of New Testament Studies. Early Christianity in Contexts 400 (New York and London: T&T Clark International and Continuum, 2009).

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culture” can be understood and defined in a variety of ways.8 In spite of this, I find it tenable, and also fruitful, to speak of such a culture, although in a fairly general sense. I shall here be viewing this culture as a grid of the activities, narratives, notions, and perspectives that give shape to children’s lives, and I shall pay special attention to what makes this grid different from adult culture or culture in general. Central elements within children’s culture for example are children’s activities at home, at work, and at leisure time, the cultural heritage handed down to them from previous generations, or the curricula used for instructing them at school. Within this frame of reference, children’s culture in particular relates to the aspects of life that go beyond basic necessities such as nourishment, clothing, shelter, and human interaction. It also includes both elements initiated and taught by adults, and elements created and passed on by children themselves. Also, the second question, whether there existed a children’s culture in antiquity, cannot be answered in a simplistic or straightforward manner. Instead, we need to approach the issue in a pragmatic way, by taking our point of departure in demographic conditions. The sheer number of children at any given point in time in the ancient world – the fact that they made up one third to one half of the population – can be seen as supporting the existence of such a culture. With their omnipresence in the homes, at places of work, and in the public arenas, children very likely shaped and developed a way of life with a character of its own – a cultural grid with a profile related to, but still differing from that of adults. The problem with answering this question is not so much whether there existed a children’s culture or not, but how to get access to it. Thus, the question is rather whether and in what ways one can perceive, investigate, and describe this culture. Some of these problems – which represent both challenges to and new possibilities for research – need to be addressed before we can deal with the matter itself. Challenges and Possibilities in the Study of Children’s Culture in Antiquity The general scarcity of sources dealing with children poses the first challenge. Although this factor should not be overlooked, the ancient evidence – as shown by recent research – has proven to be considerably richer in such material than previously assumed. This has become clear on the basis of the rereading of traditional sources with special attention focused on 8 For such a discussion see for example Beth Juncker, “Det unødvendiges nødvendighed. Kulturbegreber og børnekultur” [“The Unnecessary Necessity: Concepts of Culture and Children’s Culture”], in Børnekultur: Et begreb i bevægelse [Children’s Culture: A Concept in Constant Motion], ed. Birgitte Tufte, Jan Kampmann, and Monica Hassel (Copenhagen: Akademisk, 2003), 12–24.

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children. For instance, the writings of several Classical authors and church fathers have turned out to be quite informative on matters relating to children, not least by way of their use of metaphors drawn from the field of childhood.9 New evidence also has been uncovered through scrutinizing less-studied written sources, for example juridical documents and epigraphic material, particularly inscriptions found on children’s graves.10 In addition, non-literary material has proven important, especially art and archeological remains, examples of which are depictions of children at play, and findings of toys and children’s clothes.11 Valuable insights also have emerged by means of interdisciplinary research and the study of different sources in combination.12 A second challenge is that children’s culture also in Late Antiquity varied greatly with regard to social, ethnic, and geographical settings. Research has begun only recently to focus on how this diversity affected children. It is clear, for example, that the lives of children, and consequently the cultural milieux in which they moved about, depended greatly on 9 See Reidar Aasgaard, “My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!” Christian Siblingship in Paul, Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement 265 (London and New York: T&T Clark International, 2004); James M. M. Francis, Adults as Children: Images of Childhood in the Ancient World and the New Testament, Religions and Discourse 17 (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2006); Reidar Aasgaard, “Like a Child: Paul’s Rhetorical Uses of Childhood,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge and others (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, U.K.: Eerdmans, 2008), 249–277; and Halvor Moxnes, ed., Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor (London and New York: Routledge, 1997). 10 Judith Evans Grubbs, “Parent-Child Conflict in the Roman Family: The Evidence of the Code of Justinian,” in The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy, and Beyond, ed. Michele George (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 93–128; Beryl Rawson, “Death, Burial, and Commemoration of Children in Roman Italy,” in Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Approach, ed. David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, U.K.: Eerdmans, 2003), 277–297; Janet Huskinson, “Constructing Childhood on Roman Funerary Memorials,” in Constructions of Childhood, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 323–338; Eve D’Ambra, “Racing with Death: Circus Sarcophagi and the Commemoration of Children in Roman Italy,” in Constructions of Childhood, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 339–351; and Jean Sorabella, “Eros and the Lizard: Children, Animals, and Roman Funerary Sculpture,” in Constructions of Childhood, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 352–370. 11 Jeannine Diddle Uzzi, Children in the Visual Arts of Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Cohen and Rutter, eds., Constructions of Childhood (various chapters); Leslie Joan Shumka, “Children and Toys in the Roman World: A Contribution to the History of the Roman Family,” M.A. Thesis (University of Victoria, Canada, 1993). 12 David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek, eds., Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue, Religion, Marriage, and Family Series (Grand Rapids, MI: W. E. Eerdmans, 2003); and Cohen and Rutter, eds., Constructions of Childhood.

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whether they belonged to families with abundant or with scarce means.13 In a similar manner, the world of a child growing up in a Jewish peasant family in Palestine is likely to have been quite different from that of a child belonging to the urban poor in Rome or one living in a fishermen’s village of coastal Spain.14 Thus, research on children’s culture has to be very attentive to such variation. More challenging, however, is that central features of children’s culture are difficult to assess simply due to the fact that much of it was of a nonmaterial character. This for example is the case with children’s songs and stories. The great majority of ancient children were illiterate, and little is left from the few who were able to write – the preservation of such material usually depended on adults seeing a worth in it. Still, we are not without such sources either, if we take more than a superficial look. For instance, several children’s letters and school exercises have been preserved, and many grafitti and drawings may very well be the work of children.15 In spite of this, it remains clear that most of what has survived has been mediated through the hands and minds of adults, and shaped and interpreted according to adult concerns. Nevertheless, as this study also argues, it is possible to work within this realm of limitations and still uncover at least some elements of children’s culture. Furthermore, we should also note that the dividing lines between adults’ and children’s everyday life in antiquity were not distinct. Much of the social interaction, whether in the household, at work, or elsewhere, involved all generations. Young and old led their lives in close contact with one another. In addition, the educational level was generally low, which to some degree lessened the impact of age differences. For example, in a given household the pre-teen children of the pater familias could be skilled readers whereas their teenage slave pedagogues might have been illiterate. Thus, the boundaries between children’s culture and culture in general were fluid. Despite common elements, however, many features of a children’s culture existed that made it differ from adult culture. This could partly find expression in activities that were typical of children, for example playing with dolls. Yet it could also be visible in different configurations of shared 13

Rawson, Children and Childhood, 127. See for example Michele George, ed., The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy, and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). The contributions in the book offer examples of children’s living conditions (health, family role, parent-child relations etc.) in regions as distant – and diverse – as Roman Italy, Egypt, North Africa, Lusitania (Western Spain/Portugal), Pannonia (Hungary), and Palestine. 15 Raffaella Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, American Studies in Papyrology 36 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars, 1996); and Cribiore, Gymnastics. 14

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cultural elements, for instance when more time was available for play in the case of children than for sports (interpreted as play) in the case of adults. As a consequence of this, in the study of children’s culture in Late Antiquity one has to be attentive both to its salient features and to special ways of mixing common elements. This too is a matter to which we shall return later. In addition to the challenges posed by the ancient sources, the state of affairs within research that concerns our topic has been important. In his highly influential 1960 monograph on the history of childhood, Philippe Ariès held that adults in antiquity had little insight into children’s lives and did not see childhood as a distinct stage of life. Quite a number of scholars have followed Ariès’ lead and have tended to minimize or deny the existence of a children’s culture in ancient times. According to their view, children in antiquity were subject to very demanding life conditions and primarily were valued for what they were to become, namely future adults. Thus, childhood only had a function as preparation for adult life.16 Although such a view still has its proponents, it has been weakened considerably in recent years. The growth and increasing refinement of research has allowed scholars to present a far more informed and nuanced picture of ancient childhood than was possible previously.17 Studies of Quintilian (ca. 35–100), John Chrysostom (ca. 347–407), and Augustine (354–430), just to mention three prominent figures, have indicated that people in antiquity were very much capable of seeing in childhood a distinctive stage of life, of gaining insight into children’s mental and social development, and of having empathy with them on days good and bad.18 Another, more indirect, factor that has hampered interest in exploring ancient children’s culture is the fact that modern scholarship has discussed only to a limited degree matters concerning the addressees of ancient sources, whether real or implied. When and where this has been touched upon, scholars have usually – explicitly or implicitly – depicted these audiences 16

Philippe Ariès, L’enfant et la vie familiale sous l’ancien régime (Paris: Librairie Plon, 1960). 17 Aasgaard, “Children in Antiquity,” 26–30. 18 See Reidar Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2009), ch. 6; Blake Leyerle, “Appealing to Children,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 5.2 (1997), 243–270; Vigen Guroian, “The Ecclesial Family: John Chrysostom on Parenthood and Children,” in The Child in Christian Thought, ed. Marcia J. Bunge (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, U.K.: Eerdmans, 2001), 61–77; and Martha Ellen Stortz, “‘Where or When Was Your Servant Innocent?’ Augustine on Childhood,” in The Child in Christian Thought, ed. Bunge, 78– 102. An example of the opposite is Jerome (ca. 347–420). See Phyllis B. Katz, “Educating Paula: A Proposed Curriculum for Raising a 4th-Century Christian Infant,” in Constructions of Childhood, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 115–127, esp. 125–127.

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as adult.19 Thus, although changes are under way, aspects relating to age have been taken into account only in a limited way – research has generally been marked by a strong adult bias. The preceding discussion has made it clear that we need to be more conscious of how children and childhood are reflected in the sources. Such awareness is particularly important for the exploration of the cultural sphere of children’s life, since that is less tangible and accessible than other, more material aspects. We need to approach the sources with the aim of obtaining a better grasp of the shape and contents of this sphere. Indeed, we should also strive to approach the sources from the perspective of children themselves, not only by reading the sources with an eye towards children, but also by trying to read them with the eyes of children. Although I am strongly aware of the manifold problems involved in this undertaking, such an approach should nonetheless be attempted.20 Indeed, other similar approaches to ancient sources, for instance feminist and socio-rhetorical readings, are wrought with the same challenges, without that preventing them from being applied, and applied successfully. In the following discussion, I shall sketch the main settings in which children’s culture found expression in Late Antiquity and Early Christianity, and I will present some material that testifies to the existence of such a children’s culture. Within the limits of an article, it is only possible to offer a cursory survey of the elements that likely formed part of this cultural grid. Special attention has to be paid to narrative material, and particularly to the Infancy Gospel of Thomas (hereafter IGT), as this apocryphal story turns out to be especially suitable for illustrating the topic under discussion. Settings of Children’s Cultural Life The culture of children found expression in a variety of forms, ways, and mixtures, depending on the milieu within which the respective children lived. In spite of this diversity, some arenas nonetheless likely served as main and common places for the unfolding of children’s cultural life. Here, they will only be surveyed briefly in order to visualize the wider spectrum of fields open to most children.

19 See for example, Ewen Bowie, “The Readership of the Greek Novels in the Ancient World,” in The Search for the Ancient Novel, ed. James Tatum (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 435–459; and Susan Stephens, “Who Read the Ancient Novels?” in Search for the Ancient Novel, ed. Tatum, 403–418. 20 It is not possible to expand on this matter here, but see Reidar Aasgaard, “Liberating Childhood: Reflections on a Child Perspective Reading of the Early Christian Sources,” (Paper, SBL Annual Meeting, Washington D.C., Nov. 11, 2006), unpublished.

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Without doubt, the household was the central realm, since it was the place for handing down family traditions, for socializing, for work, and for leisure time activities, such as playing or storytelling. Typical occasions for the telling of stories were for example at mealtime, in the twilight hour, during routine work, or at bedtime.21 Banquets, which often took place in private homes and with children being present in the periphery, also were important cultural events.22 In the household, children were in constant interaction and cultural exchange with others, both with kin, such as parents and grandparents, and with non-kin, such as slaves and friends of the family. Places of work, such as the workshop or the field, would also see the unfolding of children’s culture, since children often had work responsibilities from an early age.23 A very important but often underrated setting for the unfolding of children’s culture was the neighborhood. For children in Late Antiquity, everyday life was very much an outdoor life, outside and around their homes. Here, they mingled with other children, whether they were children of free people, slaves, or others. Here, they also came in contact with adults of various ages and occupations, and entered neighbors’ houses and places of work. Thus, this could be a zone for cultural encounters of manifold kinds, and a zone very often beyond adult control.24 The village, which was the social biotope for a considerable part of the Late Antique population, also was an important cultural field for children. With its streets, markets, and other public areas, the village became a place for children to meet people from different social levels, rich as well as poor, and people from the outside, whether they were itinerant philosophers, preachers, salespeople, or conjurers.25 21 For example, see John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 39–40 (ed. and tr. Anne-Marie Malingrey, Jean Chrysostome. Sur la vaine gloire et l’éducation des enfants, Sources Chrétiennes 188 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1972], 131–139; tr. Max L. W. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture in the Later Roman Empire, Together with an English Translation of John Chrysostom’s Address on Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring up Their Children [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1951], 85–122, here 102–105); see also Leyerle, “Appealing to Children,” 255. 22 For examples, see Graham Anderson, Fairytale in the Ancient World (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 3–11. 23 Cf. for example Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.39 (text and tr. Frank Justus Miller, Ovid. Metamorphoses, LCL 42 and 43 [London: Heinemann, 1916], vol. 1, 180–181). 24 See Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, “Domus and Insulae in Rome: Families and Housefuls,” in Early Christian Families, ed. Balch and Osiek, 13–18; and Margaret Y. MacDonald, “A Place of Belonging: Perspectives on Children from Colossians and Ephesians,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge and others, 278–304, esp. 298–303. 25 See e.g. Pliny the Younger, Letters 2.20.1 (text and tr. Betty Radice, Pliny. Letters and Panegyricus, LCL 55 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969], vol. 1, 151); Dio Chrysostom, Orations 20.10 (text and tr. James W. Cohoon, Dio Chrysostom,

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For some children, school was a central cultural arena where they learned how to read and write. There they also were imbued with material presenting conventional values and wisdom, and became acquainted with selections of the current literary canons, such as Homer and Virgil.26 Finally, occasions for religious activity likewise could constitute a considerable part of children’s life. The pre-Christian year, and later the Christian year, was organized into a number of periods for festivals and religious rituals of various kinds. Children were generally used to visiting places serving religious aims, for example temples, shrines, and family graves – such edifices took up central positions within or close to Roman towns of some size. For Early Christian children, house churches and later church buildings came to be places where they received central portions of their cultural formation.27 Late Antique Witnesses to Children’s Culture There are several kinds of sources that offer glimpses into children’s culture in Late Antiquity. Among the most important ones are texts, both literary and non-literary, artistic depictions, and archaeological remains. In the following, I shall present examples of objects and activities that testify to children’s culture. In sum, these examples show that Late Antique children had a broad range of means through which their cultural life could unfold. Toys seem to have played an important part in children’s everyday life, although the matter has not been systematically studied. Many such objects have been uncovered through archaelogical excavations and several can be seen on pottery paintings, sarcophagus reliefs, monuments, and even as parts of statues. Toys also are spoken of in written sources, both Christian and non-Christian. For the smallest children, rattles are known, sometimes in the shape of fruits or animals. Chains, often with small amulets or medallions, were also common. For children beyond infancy a broad range of toys existed, such as dolls, clay figures, spinning tops, hoops, balls, bows, and hobby-horses. Dolls, for example, could come in different sizes and LCL 257, 339, 358, 376, and 385 [London: Heinemann; and Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1932–51], vol. 2, 246–269, here 255); see also Anderson, Fairytale, 4 and 8–9. 26 See for example Sandnes, Challenge of Homer, passim. 27 See Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (London: Routledge, 1989), esp. chs. 4 and 6; Carolyn Osiek, Margaret Y. MacDonald, and Janet H. Tulloch, A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2006), esp. ch. 4. For a good example, see John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 39–46 (ed. and tr. Malingrey, Jean Chrysostome. Sur la vaine gloire et l’éducation des enfants, 131–145; tr. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture, 102–107).

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might be made of various kinds of materials. They ranged from the simplest kind, made of rags, to precious exemplars carved out of wood or ivory, equipped with jointed arms and legs. Both girls and boys appear to have played with them. Often, dolls also showed signs of sexual differentiation. Sometimes, they were produced in order to offer inspiration for imitating adult roles, for example brides and vestal virgins.28 Children often used caskets and boxes as playthings, or employed them in order to store their toys. Swings, which undoubtedly were used in children’s play, are known from pottery paintings. Now as then, children played with whatever they found at hand, such as clay, pebbles, shells, and nuts. Toys, especially dolls, not infrequently served religious aims or formed part of religious rituals. Sometimes ancient deities were depicted as playing with toys, and toys were also often used as votive offerings at sanctuaries. Most likely they were offered by the children themselves, sometimes at transition rites when entering youth or adulthood. A striking testimony of this is an Early Christian prayer preserved in a Late Antique anthology: Today, dear God, I am seven years old, and must play no more. Here is my top, my hoop, and my ball: keep them all, my Lord. 29

Various types of dice have been preserved, several of them made of bone or ivory, giving evidence to the playing of games. Although adults too would play games, and dice also were utilized as lots in cults, many of them were used by children. What these dice games were like is often not known. However, a few sources, among them Ovid (43 BCE–17 CE) and Minucius Felix (3rd c. CE), give descriptions of such games and some of their rules.30 The sources also testify to other types of games. Children are said to have played role games, in which they imitated adult figures, such as kings, judges, bishops, and even monks and demons. Hide-and-seek and tug-of-war games were also common, as were ball games, with rules of differing complexity depending on the children’s age. Types of games ranged from games for one person and pairs, and up to groups of several children at a time. Children would play with others of their sex, but also with the other sex. From their late childhood or early teens, many boys 28 For this and the next two sections, see Horn, “Children’s Play,” 97–105; Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 146–150; also Shumka, Children and Toys; and Nicholas Orme, Medieval Children (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2003), ch. 5. 29 Cited following the translation in Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 153. 30 Ovid, The Walnut-Tree (Nux) (text and tr. John H. Mozley, Ovid. The Art of Love, and Other Poems, LCL 232 [London: Heinemann, 1929], 235–249, here 241–243); Minucius Felix, Octavius 3.5–6 (text and tr. Gerhard H. Rendall, Tertullian. De Spectaculis … Minucius Felix, LCL 250 [London: Heinemann, 1931], 318–319, here 319); see also Horn, Children’s Play,” 106–108.

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participated in sports. Sometimes children, often girls, sang in choirs, both in connection with theatrical shows and Christian services. In addition, children occasionally played musical instruments, such as flutes (cf. Matt 11:16–17).31 Pets and playing with pets were common. Favorite pets for children were dogs, cats, pigeons, and sparrows. Children, particularly in the countryside, also were accustomed to tending and playing with sheep, goats, and rabbits. Scenes describing such activities can be found in written sources as well as on children’s tombstones.32 A number of written remains from the hands of children themselves have been preserved. As noted above, several school exercises are known, and also a number of papyrus letters from children to their parents have come to the fore. An example of the latter is a letter found in Egypt, written by a boy named Thonis. He had to stay away from home in order to go to school, and he was reproaching his father for showing him too little interest: I have written to you five times and you wrote back only once, never mentioning your health, nor have you come to visit. Though you promised me, saying, “I am coming,” you have not come to find out whether the teacher pays attention to me or not. Almost every day he himself inquires about you, saying, “Is he not coming yet?” and I always say, “Yes.”

At the end of his letter Thonis sent his greetings to family and friends, and to his teachers back home, and wished his father good health. The letter then has a postscript, giving a glimpse into a child’s interests and worries for his pets: “Remember my pigeons.”33 An important aspect of children’s culture was the manner in which they communicated with others, in particular how they spoke and interacted with other children. Few examples of extended conversations among children have been noted in the sources; additional research clearly is needed. Examples can possibly be detected in ancient plays with children or youths being part of the cast.34 A fragment of a children’s dialogue might be heard in Matt 11:16–17 in the mentioning of children “calling to one another, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed and you did not weep.’” Ancient sources also give evidence of other kinds of 31

Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 150–153; and Horn, “Children’s Play,” 110–111. Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 146; and Horn, “Children’s Play,” 105–106. 33 Thonis, Letter to his Father (ed. Friedrich Bilabel, Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten, vol. 3.1 [Berlin and Leipzig: de Gruyter, 1926], 40–41, SB 3:6262; tr. Cribiore, Gymnastics, 112). 34 Such conversations, of course, could be construed or shaped by the play’s adult author. Still, they should be seen as attempts on the part of the authors to imitate the conversations of children. 32

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interaction among children, such as in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas in which children harass and annoy one another. This text is examined in more detail below. Work and various everyday tasks also made up a part of children’s culture – for many children a substantial part. How these activities shaped the cultural sphere of children is difficult to say. As with other elements of children’s culture, there will have been an overlap with adult culture in this field. Still, it is likely that the forms it took were transformed into shapes adjusted to the perceptions and experiences of the children themselves.35 Narrative Material as Part of Children’s Culture After having painted some of the main settings and elements of children’s culture in very broad strokes, the discussion in this section shall present in more detail types of narrative material that formed part of ancient children’s cultural grid. Such material – much of which can be characterized as Greco-Roman folklore – very likely had a central place in children’s cultural formation.36 Although several of the sources speak of this kind of material as applying to children in particular, some of it undoubtedly also appealed to people more generally, irrespective of their age.37 First, one observes that stories from Greek and Roman mythology were clearly much used and popular. Children are said to have heard the Greek myths at the knees of their mothers and nurses.38 Ovid’s Metamorphoses gave a written form to many of these myths. Mythological stories had a central place in both primary and secondary school curricula.39 Plato (ca. 427–347 BCE) advised against unsuitable stories being told to children.40 Much later Emperor Julian (ca. 331–363 CE) held that whereas “the fable with a moral” aims at adult people, the “myth … is addressed to children.”41 Second, hero stories obviously appealed to the children of antiquity. Such stories materialized particularly in Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey (8th c. 35

Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 153–155. See Graham Anderson, Greek and Roman Folklore: A Handbook, Greenwood Folklore Handbooks (Westport, CT, and London: Greenwood, 2006) for a survey and discussion of much material of this kind. 37 See Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 12, for further examples and discussion. 38 See for example the references in Simon Price, Religions of the Ancient Greeks, Key Themes in Ancient History (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 129. 39 Cribiore, Gymnastics, 178–180 and 194–205; Rawson, Children and Childhood, 167–169; see also Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds. 40 Plato, Republic 2.377–378 (text and tr. Paul Shorey, The Republic, LCL 237 and 276 [London: Heinemann, 1953, 1956], vol. 1, 173–183). 41 Julian, Orations 7.207A (text and tr. Wilmer C. Wright, The Works of Emperor Julian, LCL 13, 29, 157 [London: Heinemann, 1913–23], vol. 2, 73–161, here 79). 36

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BCE) and in the Aeneid of Virgil (70–19 BCE), which were often used in school exercises and regarded as morally instructive for children. In Confessions 1.13–17 Augustine offered a famous criticism of the moral value of this material.42 Fables were a popular genre, in spite of comments like that of Julian referenced above. The Fables of Aesop were probably among those cherished most.43 For example, Philostratus (ca. 170–245 CE) stated in his Life of Apollonius that Aesop’s fables consisted of stories about “frogs ... donkeys, and nonsense for old women and children to chew on.”44 Quintilian was far more positive when commenting on fables: not only should young children hear them in school, they should even “learn ... to tell” them and do so in a “pure and unpretentious language.”45 Many fairytales were in circulation and children clearly constituted one of their main audiences. Sometimes such stories would turn up in reshaped, but still recognisable form in more literary settings. For instance, several folk-tale types and motifs do occur in the Hellenistic novels.46 Ancient terms applied to fairytales and related material varied: mythos was common in Greek, whereas fabula was used more widely in Latin. Authors referring to fairytales often characterized them negatively as “old women’s” or “old wives’ tales.”47 Quintilian spoke of fairytales in a more neutral tone, as “nurses’ stories.”48 42

Quintilian, The Orator’s Education 1.8.4–5 (text and tr. Donald A. Russell, Quintilian, LCL 124, 125, 126, 127, and 494 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001], vol. 1, 201); and Augustine, Confessions 1.13–17 (text and tr. William Watts, St. Augustine’s Confessions, LCL 26–27 [London: Heinemann; and Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1912], vol. 1, 39–53; and tr. R.S. Pine-Coffin, Saint Augustine: Confessions [New York: Penguin Classics, 1961], 33–38). See also Cribiore, Gymnastics, 194–197; and Rawson, Children and Childhood, 167–169. 43 See Christian Laes, “Children and Fables: Children in Fables in Hellenistic and Roman Antiquity,” Latomus 65 (2006), 898–914, here 912–914; also Laura Gibbs, Aesop's Fables, Oxford World’s Classics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), ix–xxix; and Cribiore, Gymnastics, 15 and 202–203. 44 Philostratus, Life of Apollonius 5.14.1 (text and tr. Christopher P. Jones. Philostratus. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, 2 vols., LCL 16 and 17 [Cambridge, MA, and London, England: Harvard University Press, 2005], vol. 2, 25). 45 Quintilian, The Orator’s Education 1.9.2 (tr. Russell, Quintilian, vol. 1, 209–211). 46 See Anderson, Fairytale, 156–157. 47 Common terms are graw`n/grawvdeiı muvqoi and aniles fabulae. See e.g. Plato, Republic 350E (tr. Shorey, The Republic, 95); 1 Tim 4:7; Epictetus, Discourses 2.16.39–40 (text and tr. William A. Oldfather, Epictetus. The Discourses as Reported by Arrian; the Manual, and Fragments, LCL 131 and 218 [London: Heinemann, 1926, 1928], vol. 1, 333); Cicero, On the Nature of the Gods 3.5.12 (text and tr. Harris Rackham, De natura deorum. Academica, LCL 268 [London: Heinemann; and Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1933], 299); Horace, Satires 2.6.77–78 (text and tr. Henry Rushton Fairclough, Satires, Epistles, and Ars Poetica, LCL 194 [London: Heinemann, 1926, 1966],

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Several ancient sources mention fairytales. Aristophanes (ca. 446–386 BCE) in his Wasps, for example, spoke of stories “about mice and cats.” In his view, such tales were an insult to tell to adults; thus, he implied that they were intended for children.49 Fairytale motifs are also found in other popular works, for example in Petronius’s Satyrica. There the author alluded to and retold a number of fairytales. In topic and outline these have much in common with modern fairytales.50 Ancient fables and fairytales incorporated a number of extraordinary features, such as miracles, transformations, illogical events, and talking animals. In his Octavius, Minucius Felix (3rd c. CE) condescendingly referred to such stories as “fiction of folklore,” which found “willing ears,” but were not worth remembering: “Why recall old wives’ tales of human beings changed into birds and beasts, or into trees and flowers?”51 In a similar way, Tertullian (ca. 160–220) commented on stories for children about apples growing in the sea and fishes on trees, while John Chrysostom warned parents against “fairytales about sheep with golden fleeces,” a motif clearly related to the story about Jason in Greek mythology. 52 In addition to these kinds of narrative material, children were taught songs and rhymes – although this matter has been little studied.53 John Chrysostom admonished parents not to “spend leisure on shameful songs and ill-timed tales.”54 The saying in the Gospel of Matt 11:16–17 about children “sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn’” probably refers to songs employed in children’s games of wed217); and Minucius Felix, Octavius 20.4 (tr. Rendall, Tertullian. De Spectaculis … Minucius Felix, 371). 48 Quintilian, The Orator’s Education 1.9.2 (tr. Russell, Quintilian, vol. 1, 209–211): fabula nutricularum. 49 Aristophanes, Wasps 1181–1186 (text and tr. Jeffrey Henderson, Aristophanes. Clouds. Wasps. Peace, LCL 179 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998], 373). 50 Petronius, Satyrica 38.8 and 77.6 (text and tr. Michael Heseltine, Petronius, LCL 15 [London: Heinemann, 1913], 1–379, here 60–61 and 154–155); cf. Anderson, Fairytale, 1–2. 51 Minucius Felix, Octavius 20.4 (tr. Rendall, Tertullian. De Spectaculis … Minucius Felix, 371, 373). 52 Tertullian, Against the Valentinians 20.3 (ed. and tr. Jean-Claude Fredouille, Contre les Valentiniens, 2 vols., Sources Chrétiennes 280 and 281 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1980–1981], vol. 1, 125–126); and John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 39 (tr. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture, 102–104). 53 For a brief treatment, see Horn, “Children’s Play,” 109–112. Orme, Medieval Children, 130–157, gives many medieval examples. 54 John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 34 (tr. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture, 100–101).

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ding and burial.55 In the famous episode leading up to Augustine’s conversion as recounted in his Confessions, a voice – probably that of a child – is said repeatedly to have been singing “take and read,” which could have been a fragment of a children’s song or rhyme.56 Riddles and jokes were also surely part of children’s cultural repertoire. Many of those were incorporated into fable collections such as that of Aesop. Similar material is probably reflected in the play with numbers and letters and in the nonsense verses found in many Classical sources.57 Question-and-answer games are also known.58 The literary and communicative forms briefly discussed here probably comprise the main types of narrative elements belonging to the grid of children’s culture in Late Antiquity. These elements also formed part of the cultural reservoir of Christian children. Yet Early Christians supplemented, and sometimes replaced, them with other material, frequently taken from the Bible.59 Many Christian children would become familiar with some Old Testament accounts. Among these, John Chrysostom spoke of the stories about Cain and Abel and Esau and Jacob as morally edifying for children (Gen 4; 25–28).60 In a fascinating passage, he gave a glimpse into his thinking about pedagogical cooperation between home and church. Children who have been introduced to a biblical story at home will, in his words, pay heed particularly when this tale is read aloud. You will see him rejoice and leap with pleasure because he knows what the other children do not know, as he anticipates the story, recognizes it, and derives great gain from it. And hereafter the episode is fixed in his memory.61

55 Citation is from New Revised Standard Version. Cf. Daniel Harrington, The Gospel of Matthew, SP 1 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991), 157; and Ulrich Luz, Matthew 8–20: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2001), 146–147. 56 The Latin words are tolle lege. See Augustine, Confessions 8.12 (tr. Watts, St. Augustine’s Confessions, 464). See also Carole Monica C. Burnett, “Mother-Child Bonding in the Greek and Latin Fathers of the Church,” 87, in the present volume. 57 See Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 9, with references. 58 Quintilian, The Orator’s Education 1.3.11 (text and tr. Russell, Quintilian, vol. 1, 39). 59 Cf. the discussions in Bakke, When Children Became People, 174–201; and John M. G. Barclay, “The Family as the Bearer of Religion in Judaism and Early Christianity,” in Constructing Early Christian Families, ed. Moxnes, 68–78. 60 John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 39–46 (tr. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture, 102–107). See also Leyerle, “Appealing to Children,” 262. 61 John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 41 (tr. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture, 105 [modified]).

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Chrysostom also recommended that children sing hymns to God; here he could be referring to biblical psalms, Early Christian hymns, or the like.62 In addition to such material, children were introduced to a number of gospel stories about Jesus, for example about the boy Jesus in the temple (Luke 2:41–52).63 Although such material was not primarily intended for children, much of it might have been seen as well suited for them. It is quite likely that children in ancient Christianity became acquainted with tales about apostles and other Christian heroes as well. These were tales about figures, even children of their own age, whom they could admire or with whom they could identify. Stories about children martyrs can have been of such a kind, with the deuterocanonical book of Four Maccabees and its story about the seven martyred sons possibly being a Jewish pre-cursor.64 Such material, biblical and non-canonical, stood in parallel to other Late Antique material that was directed at children as one of its main audiences, whether it served as additional or alternative material to the current pagan canon. In either case, it is improbable that within the growing Christian movement children would have led a storyless life or would have been left only with tales that were felt to be increasingly irrelevant and even impious.65 Instead, Christian children also were given new stories, stories that they could adopt as their own. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas as Case Study Let us now turn to one specific case study, the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. The reason for drawing on this apocryphal gospel in particular will become clear from the discussion below. This story, which tells of the childhood of Jesus from when he was a small child playing by a brook to when he entered the temple in Jerusalem as a boy of twelve (cf. Luke 2:41–52), often has been neglected within scholarship, and even slighted as being crude or heretical. The most problematic feature of the gospel is that Jesus is said to curse two children and a teacher so that they die. In spite of such strange elements – and the aversion they have elicited from several scholars – 62

John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 34 (tr. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture, 100–101). 63 Cf. Infancy Gospel of Thomas 17 (tr. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, appendix A and B). 64 See e.g. the examples of such tales presented by Cornelia B. Horn, “Fathers and Mothers Shall Rise up against Their Children and Kill Them: Martyrdom and Children in the Early Church,” unpublished paper, SBL Annual Meeting (Toronto, Canada, Nov. 2002). 65 Cf. Augustine’s reaction in Confessions 1.13–14 (text and tr. Watts, St. Augustine’s Confessions, vol. 1, 39–45) toward the pagan canon that he had to learn in school.

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there is more to the story than has been acknowledged. In fact, since the late 1990’s, a reassessment of it in a more favorable direction has been taking place.66 The gospel consists of a mixture of miracle stories and brief dialogues or speeches, the latter mostly in connection with Jesus being taken to school to learn how to read. The story has its origin in the middle of the second century somewhere in the eastern Mediterranean and in all likelihood was composed in Greek. It appears to have been very popular: it was widely disseminated, is preserved in many variants, and also early on was translated into other languages, among them Latin and Syriac. Although the story has often been labelled as Gnostic, little in it points in such a direction – it is more apt to characterize it as a mainstream Christian story, with a theological and ideological profile well within the range found within proto-orthodox or orthodox Christianity at large.67 Within scholarship there has been some discussion of the motives behind the creation of the story. A recurring explanation has been the wish, due to general human curiosity, to fill this large narrative gap in the life of Christ.68 Clearly, this idea has something to it and may find support in similar material, for example the New Testament infancy stories and other ancient biographical writings. Still, it can only account for the coming into existence of the story to a certain extent. The fact that within Early Christianity, no attempt seems to have been made to fill the even greater lacuna in Jesus’ life from age twelve and to the time he entered public life at thirty, indicates that other ways of coming to terms with this are needed.69 Earlier scholarship has also only occasionally touched upon the important questions concerning the social setting and audience of this infancy gospel. In my view, several features related to form, style, and contents suggest that the story had its Sitz in a middle or middle-to-lower class social setting within the Late Antique population. It is also probable that, in a 66 Particularly by Ronald F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels of James and Thomas, The Scholars Bible 2 (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge, 1995), and Tony Chartrand-Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas: The Text, Its Origins, and Its Transmission,” Ph.D. Thesis (University of Toronto, 2001); see also Burke’s article in this volume. This is a reevaluation which I very much support, even though I differ in opinion from these two scholars on several issues. As the basis for my analysis, I use variant Gs, which is represented by manuscript Sabaiticus 259 (H). For a presentation, discussion, and assessment of the history of research on the gospel, see Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 2. See the appendix below for a survey of the structure and contents of the story. 67 For a discussion of its popularity, dissemination, and theological profile, see Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, chs. 10–11. 68 For instance Hans-Josef Klauck, Apocryphal Gospels: An Introduction (London and New York: T&T Clark International and Continuum, 2003), 64. 69 For a discussion of this, see Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 11.

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way similar to fairytales and legends, it was transmitted orally, or that it was passed on in a combination of oral and written venues. The existence of widely differing variants of the story points in this direction. The distinctly rural character of the milieu depicted in it indicates that the story might have had a special foothold among Early Christians in the countryside.70 Of particular interest for the present argument, however, is whether something more specific can be said about the intended audience of this infancy gospel. In my opinion, these first recipients are likely to have been Early Christian children.71 Of course, such a claim does not exclude that adults also could have belonged to its audience – in fact, the transmission and survival of the story would have depended on adults also finding delight in it and seeing value in preserving it in written form. The point here, however, is that children should be regarded as its main target group. To be sure, none of the few early sources that referred to it made such a suggestion. This is hardly surprising, since these sources’ engagement with it was guided by other concerns. For example, Irenaeus of Lyons (last half of the 2nd c.), who considered the story to be Gnostic,72 wanted to defend the developing canon against potentially heretical material, while John Chrysostom’s rejection of it was occasioned by his wish to guard the canon against what could be unhistorical.73 Yet if one takes into account other ancient testimonies to the existence of children’s stories (cf. above), there is good reason to think that this infancy gospel could have served as such a story. If we turn to the indications within the gospel itself, such a claim becomes even more plausible. In the following, I shall pay attention to these internal indications, and reflect on what the findings may say about the issue of a children’s culture in antiquity. 70

This is argued in Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, chs. 4 and 11. The vivid portrayal of rural life has also been noted by Belarmino Bagatti, “Nota Sul Vangelo Di Tommaso Israelita,” Euntes Docete 29 (1976), 482–489, here 486–487. 71 Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 12. Such an audience has been suggested only by a couple of scholars: Arnold Meyer, “Erzählung des Thomas,” in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung, ed. Edgar Hennecke (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1904), 63–73, here 64; and François Bovon, “Évangiles canoniques et évangiles apocryphes: la naissance et l’enfance de Jésus,” Bulletin des facultés de Lyon 104 (1980), 19–29, here 25–26. However, neither one of these two scholars has developed his idea further. 72 Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.20.1–2 (tr. Dominic J. Unger, St. Irenaeus of Lyons against the Heresies, Ancient Christian Writers 55 [New York, N.Y.: Paulist Press, 1992], 76). 73 John Chrysostom, Homilies on John 17 (tr. Sister Thomas Aquinas Goggin, Commentary on Saint John the Apostle and Evanelist: Homilies [1–81], Fathers of the Church 33 and 41 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1969], vol. 1, 167).

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The Infancy Gospel of Thomas as a Children’s Story: Internal Evidence There are several ways in which the story told in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas appears to be well adapted to children. Here I shall focus briefly on the most central elements: its format and structure, setting, characters and cast, events, socio-cultural values, and theology.74 First, as far as format and structure are concerned, one observes that this gospel is a brief story of five to six modern book pages. Performing it orally would take less than thirty minutes, a span of time well suited for children. Structurally, the story consists of narratives interspersed with short speeches. The narratives, with their reports of Jesus’ actions and others’ reactions, give the story a high level of tension: something is happening all the time. The speeches serve to communicate ideas that are important within the gospel as a whole, particularly concerning Jesus’ divinity. In form and function, the speeches are very similar to those in other Classical and Early Christian writings. At the same time, they are shorter, and brief enough so as not to tire children. The frequent alternation between narrative and dialogue or speeches also provides variation in a way that captures the hearer’s interest right to the end. Second, as concerns setting, one notices that the narrative world of the story very much reflects an environment familiar to children. Differently from the Hellenistic novels and the apocryphal acts which cover rather vast geographical areas of the ancient world as their backdrops, the infancy gospel’s locale is limited to everyday surroundings. Its narrative space is taken up by a home, a workshop, houses, public places, a school, a brook, fields and woods – in short, this is the domestic, small-town, rural setting familiar to a majority of Late Antique children. Such a setting would have been of little interest for adults; theirs was the bigger world of the novels and the Christian acts of apostles. Yet for children, this more limited realm was the biotope which they recognized and identified as their own, and in which they found pleasure. This was their world, and the world in which they would also like to see Jesus, their hero. Third, when considering characters and cast, it emerges clearly that children have a prominent position in the story – indeed, the IGT teems with them. Most important of course is Jesus, who is characterized in a fairly varied and vivid way. His character displays a broad range of emotions and reactions: he laughs, is scornful, and becomes angry – in ways very similar to that of ordinary children. Jesus emerges as a well-rounded character, with the infancy gospel focused more on giving a psychological 74 These elements are discussed in more detail in Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 12. Again, one needs to keep in mind the methodological problems inherent in presupposing what can have been “well adapted to children.” See note 20 above.

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sketch of his personality than are the canonical gospels. In this way, the story invites its audience to identify with their hero in a different, more mental and emotional manner than do the New Testament texts. Apart from Jesus, many of the main characters in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas also are children: a son of the high priest, a boy bumping into Jesus, and Jesus’ brother James (IGT 2–4 and 15). Many of Jesus’ interactions are with children: they play, quarrel, and harass one another. He is even betrayed by his playmates (IGT 9). Nearly all of his miracles are performed on children. Thus, there are a number of central figures in the story to whom an audience consisting of children could relate, both positively and negatively. Adults too play a part. They hold two main roles: that of parents and that of teachers. As parents, they primarily appear through their children. Jesus’ contact is first with children: they serve as primary cast and identification figures for the audience. It is only at a second stage of conflict that parents enter the scene, and almost only when necessary for the resolution of conflict. Thus, parents generally stand at the fringes of the story. Jesus’ parents, however, are more central, particularly Joseph (e.g. IGT 5 and 11–12). He is depicted as both strong and weak, and from the perspective of a child he may serve as a foil for the child’s own father, both as concerns his function and authority. Joseph defends Jesus, but also corrects him; he takes him to work and school, and is in dialogue with his teachers. Thus, Joseph is and does what a child might expect from a father. At the same time on some occasions the father role is being challenged. For example, Jesus takes command over Joseph in the workshop, and protests when this father punishes him by pulling his ear (IGT 12:1b–2 and 5:2). Still, the challenge that is being presented is only slight, with proper relations being reestablished by the end of the story: Jesus develops into an obedient son (IGT 17). Thus, concession is made to children’s wish for rebellion against parents, but within strict limits and without jolting fundamental parent-child relations. The desire to rebel against adult authority is represented in a markedly stronger way in Jesus’ conflict with his teachers (IGT 6–8 and 13–14). This is easily understandable given teachers’ often harsh treatment of pupils, with physical punishment being common.75 It may be even more understandable from the discontent among many Early Christians with pagan school curricula.76 The aspect of revolt is especially evident at Jesus’ first school visit (IGT 6–8). Here, the dialogue with Jesus ends with a total defeat for the teacher, 75

See Cribiore, Gymnastics, 65–73. Bakke, When Children Became People, 201–215; and Sandnes, Challenge of Homer (part 2). 76

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who is shamed in front of the spectators. The respective scene which in comparison with others in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas is developed to a striking extent, can be seen as a comic travesty. It is not difficult to imagine the enthusiasm with which the oral performance of such a daring story would have been met by an audience consisting of children.77 In a way similar to that of Joseph, however, and due to the insight ascribed to the third teacher, the teachers are not deprived of all authority (IGT 14). Nevertheless, the story goes much further in challenging pedagogical than it does parental authority. Here too, however, adult authority is eventually confirmed. Thus, in a playful way, the challenging of the mighty is balanced against a confirmation of authority, with some room given for a rebellion of children against adult authority, but only within definite limits. Fourth, as one examines particular events, one notes that the manner in which central events are described also indicates that the story is well adapted to a young audience. The activities of Jesus and his playmates are of a kind that children would readily recognize. The forming of clay, for example, is an activity typical of children at all times, and the vivification of the clay birds may even reflect the fantasy world of children, expressive of the wish of being able to perform the extraordinary (IGT 2).78 The incident involving the high priest’s son destroying Jesus’ ponds describes a characteristic conflict in which a child senses that its geographical boundary is being violated (IGT 3). The subsequent episode of the boy bumping into Jesus depicts a typical incident in which a child is likely to feel harassed, now with its physical boundary, its body, being infringed upon (IGT 4). In both cases, children’s, but also more generally human beings’ wishful thinking of having one’s enemies drop dead comes true, since Jesus’ curse made both boys fall down dead. The episodes about Jesus at school being taught the letters would not only have fascinated the many more or less illiterate adults of antiquity, but even more so children. The gospel’s strange speculations about the meaning of the letter alpha (IGT 6:10) very likely had an immediate appeal to children, since some of them were themselves on the verge of being initiated into the mystical world of reading.79 77

See Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 9, for a discussion of this scene. The forming of clay also reflects the creation narratives in Gen 1–2. See Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 8, for an extensive presentation of biblical motifs in IGT. 79 See Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 9, for an analysis of this passage. For an extensive discussion of the level of literacy in antiquity, see William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, MA, and London, U.K.: Harvard University Press, 1989), esp. chapter 8 and conclusion. He assumes that 5–15 % of the population were able to read and/or write, and with considerable social and geographical diversity. 78

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The miracle stories included in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas are among the story’s most characteristic elements, and also match with children’s perspectives. Many of these miracles take place in social settings that are prominent in children’s lives, particularly within the family, and are related to their basic needs, such as nourishment and rest (e.g. IGT 10–12). The miracles also deal with threats well-known to children, such as deadly animals and accidents (IGT 9 and 15–16). The many healing miracles are worth special notice. In the story, they have almost only one focus: death and vivification. Although some of them recall New Testament miracle stories, the repertoire is nonetheless more limited. An explanation given for this narrow focus has been that it reflects a vulgarizing of taste after the first Christian generation.80 A more reasonable explanation, however, is that this kind of miracle would have had special appeal to children. If one imagines that the audience consisted of children who were about the age of Jesus in the story, i.e. mainly between 5–8 years, one may also take into account that this is a stage in which children would have become conscious and reflective of the phenomenon of death.81 Very likely, acts of the raising of the dead, which is a motif that is also prominent in fairytales, would be the most impressive miracles for such an audience. Children in antiquity also were exposed to much higher death rates than adults.82 Indicative of such an awareness is the fact that all but one of the persons vivified were children. It is not unlikely that children generally were more interested in hearing about children rather than adults being raised from the dead.83 The overall picture emerging from central events in the story is that they are very much related to children. In what happens to Jesus, in his actions and reactions, and in the descriptions of conditions of life, the fate and feelings of a young audience are reflected: they could recognize their own daily life and sense the same joys and fears. They could identify with Jesus’ anger, sympathize with his wish for revenge, and dream of having similar powers. This is formulated in ways which may seem exaggerated and even offensive for adult interpreters, but which quite likely put a voice to children’s experiences. Next to last, one may consider socio-cultural values. The IGT seems pedagogically and psychologically adapted to the level of children. It does 80

Oscar Cullmann, “Infancy Gospels,” in New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 1., ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher (Cambridge, U.K., and Louisville, KY: James Clarke & Co., and Westminster John Knox, 1991), 414–469, here 416–417 and 442. 81 It is only in the last episode, taken from Luke 2:41–52, that Jesus is more than eight years old. 82 See e.g. Saller, Patriarchy, Property, and Death, 25. 83 This does not exclude the idea that adults too, particularly those being parents, could have an interest in hearing stories about dead children being vivified.

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not idealize, but rather provides a fairly realistic picture of childhood and of Jesus as a Late Antique child, while at the same time also portraying him as divine in wisdom and power. The story also confirms contemporary values, such as children’s obligation to be loyal to parents, and to adapt to the honor code prevalent in the ancient world – while at the same time leaving room for dreams of revolt. In addition, the story is attentive to children’s need of psychological-social affirmation. In the interaction between Jesus and his parents, both Mary and Joseph show their love for him by hugging and kissing him (IGT 10:2 and 12:2). Similar descriptions of physical intimacy do not occur in the infancy stories of the canonical gospels. At least with regard to this detail of the story, the Infancy Gospel of Thomas may have had a more immediate appeal to children. It is worth noting that this gospel is not concerned with issues that are central in other Early Christian sources, such as asceticism, virginity, and marriage. Although such issues are generally not likely to be important in a tale about Jesus as a child, they might nonetheless have been hinted at if this had been a story for adults.84 Finally, it may also make sense to dwell on the child-specific or childappropriate elements of the theology of this gospel. The story reflects few of the concerns of Early Christian doctrinal, polemic, or apologetic debates. Whereas for example the virginity of Mary is a main issue in the Infancy Gospel of James, the matter is not at all reflected here. Instead, Christology is its main theological concern, with an aim to present a picture of Jesus that is credible to its audience. In this respect too, the story appears well adapted to children. By addressing Christology it deals with a very central theological issue. By focusing so consistently on one topic, it has the rhetorical force needed to make its message heard. Furthermore, given that it presents its theology in narratives and dramatic dialogues, it is shaped in a manner that renders its story one easy to remember – though not without passages suited for reflection. Thus, in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, theology is formulated in a way appealing to children, or stated pointedly, as theology for children.85

84 There are, however, a few examples in which asceticism is promoted in cases where reference is being made to children: for instance, Jerome’s advice (Letter 107) to the Christian woman Laeta concerning her baby girl. See Jerome, Letter 107 (text and tr. Frederick A. Wright, Select Letters of Jerome, LCL 262 [London: Heinemann, 1933, 1954], 338–370); see also Katz, “Educating Paula.” 85 For a thorough discussion of the theology of IGT, see Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, ch. 10.

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The Infancy Gospel of Thomas and Children’s Culture in Late Antiquity I have argued above that the narrative of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas reflects the life and world of children in a very pronounced way. One can see this in the kind of physical environment and social arrangements described, but even more so in the characters portrayed, in what they do, and in how they interact. We hear of children’s playthings and activities, such as the use of water and clay and the forming of ponds and birds. We also hear of social interactions, such as play, testing of boundaries, conflicts between children, and between children and parents. School, an important cultural arena for some children, occupies a central place in the story. We can also sense a desire for rebellion against the adult world and authority figures, and the presence of dreams of revenge upon those infringing on one’s person. In addition, the story works with an attentiveness to children’s need for safety, protection, and emotional affirmation. The author displays an impressive quality of insight into the lives of children and of empathy with them. Interestingly, the storyteller even appears to be able to take a stand with children against adults, especially against parents and teachers, and thus to establish a perspective of the adult world “from below.” In several respects, then, the gospel seems well adapted to children and their concerns. All this is expressed in a manner highly appealing to children, viz., in the form of telling an exciting story with a child as the main character and as a hero with whom one can identify and whom one can admire. At the same time, however, this “pro-children” perspective is not allpervasively present in this infancy gospel. As noted above, children’s culture also had many elements in common with ancient culture in general, which was shaped and realized very much on adult premises. This is reflected in the narrative as well. Children are, for example, given work responsibilities and are expected to conform to current socio-cultural values, such as the honor code. Still, the story mirrors the fact that such cultural elements could be, and often were, differently configured in the case of children. Jesus, for instance, is given tasks adapted to his age, such as fetching water for his mother at seven and assisting his father in the workshop at eight (IGT 10 and 12). The children in the story appear to have had more time for leisure activities than adults, as when on various occasions, Jesus is said to be engaged in playing. In addition, the children, and particularly the child Jesus, are given more room for emotional outbreaks and unpredictable behavior than was tolerated in the case of adults. Interpreted in such ways, this infancy gospel can offer an intriguing glimpse into ancient pedagogy, and particularly into a central aspect of Early Christian cultural transmission: the process of how religious beliefs were communicated to children. Whereas other ancient sources reflect on

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this process of transmission by means of theoretical approaches or in the form of advice to educators (cf. Quintilian and John Chrysostom), the Infancy Gospel of Thomas instead emerges as a case of applied pedagogy; it can be seen as the kind of material employed to introduce Christian ideas to children. With its entertaining narrative about Jesus as a child, the story offered a powerful means in the transmission of the Christian faith to children. In this line of interpretation, this gospel becomes important evidence for what I have called a children’s culture, in particular where Early Christianity is concerned.86 Strategies for Uncovering Children’s Culture Within the constraints of an essay, it has only been possible to make a few suggestions and present some examples of what might have constituted elements of children’s culture in Late Antiquity, here with an emphasis on the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. There is an obvious need – and a potential – for further study within this field. Traditional sources, both Classical and Early Christian, have to be reread with an eye to children. Other less studied sources should also be taken into account. The material detected needs to be organized and discussed, with the aim of sketching, if only fragmentarily, a picture of the cultural scene of ancient childhood. In particular, the sources should be approached with attention to whether and how they can reflect children’s own perspectives on their lives and on the world. The presentation offered here has given some indications of ways in which such a search for children’s culture can be carried out. Taking my point of departure from these, I will suggest some strategies that can be applied in such an endeavor.87 1. Children as originators. Material that clearly, or probably, has children as authors or originators should be seen as reflecting their culture, for example children’s school exercises. Although such material might have been initiated by adults and thus mirrors their concerns, nonetheless it should be regarded as a genuine product of children themselves, not only as an imitation. One should not demand in composition more originality from children than from adults. 2. Adult attestation. Material that the sources affirm as pertaining to or being directed at children should be regarded as belonging to their culture. Quintilian’s mention of fables as part of children’s narrative repertoire can serve to exemplify this. 86 Some of the issues in this and the previous paragraphs are also discussed in Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, esp. chs. 6–7 and 12. 87 These strategies rely on the approaches of historical Jesus research.

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3. Adult embarrassment. When sources condescendingly speak of behavior or other aspects of life as “childish” or use similar expressions, what they refer to generally should be seen as related to children’s culture. One example of this is Aristophanes’ negative comment on fairytales “about mice and cats,” being stories too insulting to tell to adults. Although such comments can also mirror adults’ negative attitudes to children, they have value by reflecting elements within a children’s culture. 4. Non-elite material. Special attention needs to be paid to non-elite sources. Sources from popular contexts are less likely to have been molded after literary models or ideals than material contained in elite sources. They also are more likely to be closer to the world of children, for instance by reflecting a comparable educational level. Some of what has been regarded as non-elite (adult) material may in fact throw more light on a children’s culture. Examples of this could be the word jingle on the letter A in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas or some of the tales in Petronius’ Satyrica. 5. Reflections of the world of children. Sources depicting a world (or elements of a world) that resembles the world as it could have been experienced by children, should be studied with particular attention to what they may reveal about children’s everyday life and culture. Some of Aesop’s fables and various other types of Greco-Roman folklore can serve as examples of such material. 6. Reflections of children’s interests. Material that is arguably of little interest or relevance for adults, or that makes more sense from the perspective of children, should be regarded as potentially mirroring children’s culture. Sometimes, but on insufficient grounds, the Infancy Gospel of Thomas has been interpreted as advancing theologically heretical views. As argued above, it should more readily be seen as reflecting children’s interests and perspectives. 7. Attitudes critical of adults. Sources that speak critically of adults or present them negatively may genuinely reflect a children’s culture, even if they are authored by adults. Relevant examples are some of Aesop’s fables, the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, and a number of children’s letters to parents. ** Ancient sources, both Classical and Early Christian, have been studied extensively for what they can tell about the culture of adults. Much research has been accomplished in relation to a broad range of sources and a variety of human groups, whether related to gender, social status, or ethnic milieu. The time is now ripe to uncover and rehabilitate another central part of this ancient landscape, that of children and their culture.

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Appendix: Structure and Contents of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas 1 2–3

Heading/Prologue Three miracles 2:1 Cleaning of pools 2:2–5 Vivification of sparrows 3 Curse on Annas’ son 4–5 A miracle and the responses to it 4 Curse on careless boy 5 Joseph rebukes Jesus 6–8 First teacher discourse 6:1–7 Dialogue 6:8–10 Alpha lesson 7 Teacher’s lament 8 Jesus’ exclamation 9 A miracle and the responses to it 9:1 Raising of Zeno 9:2–4 Parents’ dialogue with Jesus 10–12 Three miracles 10 Carrying water in cloak 11 Miraculously great harvest 12 Miraculous repair of bed 13–14 Teacher discourses 13 Second teacher 14 Third teacher 15–16 Two miracles 15 Healing of James’ snakebite 16 Healing of injured foot 17 Final discourse (epilogue) 17 Jesus in the temple

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“Social Viewing” of Children in the Childhood Stories of Jesus Tony Burke The “Childhood Stories of Jesus” (Paidika; tou` Kurivou ∆Ihsou`), more commonly known as The Infancy Gospel of Thomas (IGT), is a secondcentury collection of tales of the young Jesus from the ages of five to 1 twelve. The IGT is a non-canonical (some would say “apocryphal”) text – i.e., it was not considered acceptable for inclusion in any canon of the Christian New Testament. One look at the IGT’s contents and the reason for its exclusion seems clear.2 In one story, a child disturbs the young Jesus at play, so Jesus causes the boy to whither away (chs. 2–3). When another boy bumps into him in the marketplace, Jesus utters a curse (“You won’t continue your journey”) and the boy falls dead (ch. 4). Jesus later embarrasses a teacher with his superior knowledge (ch. 6), and kills a second teacher for reprimanding him (ch. 14). The IGT is cited regularly by scholars to show how shocking and puerile some of the apparently “heretical” Christian texts can be. Indeed, it is certainly shocking. Scholars have called its miracle stories “ridiculous” and “immoral,”3 “malevolent and cruel,”4 or just plain “crude.”5 Jesus in 1 An early version of this essay was presented as a paper at the Colloquium on Religions of Classical Antiquity, Centre for the Study of Religion, University of Toronto in April 2002. It is based extensively on research for my doctoral thesis “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas: The Text, its Origins, and its Transmission” (Ph.D. diss., University of Toronto 2001) soon to be published in Corpus Christianorum Series Apocryphorum. 2 The text of IGT can be found in a number of collections of non-canonical Christian literature. Unfortunately, many of these appeal to the long-outdated critical edition of Constantin von Tischendorf (Evangelia Apocrypha, 1853, 2nd ed. 1876 [Leipzig: H. Mendelsohn, 1976]). My doctoral dissertation (“The Infancy Gospel of Thomas”) features, in part, a new critical edition of IGT based on a larger manuscript base. However, the dissertation is not readily accessible to many readers. For the purpose of this paper, quotations and citations of the text are taken from the edition of Ronald F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels of James and Thomas, The Scholars Bible 2 (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press, 1995). 3 C. E. Stowe, Origin and History of Books of the Bible, Both the Canonical and the Apocryphal (Hartford, CT: Hartford Publishing Company, 1868), 206; and similarly, Adam F. Findlay, Byways in Early Christian Literature (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1923), 173.

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the IGT has been called a “hero of ridiculous and shabby pranks”6 and “an enfant terrible who seldom acts in a Christian way.”7 The text in general has been deemed “utterly worthless”8 and “lacking in good taste, restraint and discretion.”9 Comments such as these are clearly anachronistic. They illustrate an unwillingness to properly engage with and understand the text. The IGT seems to bring out the Christian in scholars of Christianity and the snobbery in scholars of the Roman classics. Yet, looked at fairly, the IGT must have been considered quite reasonable to whoever wrote and valued the text. Like any other text of antiquity, the IGT must be understood in light of its appropriate context. The key to the proper interpretation of the text lies in other depictions of children in antiquity. These other depictions, which include biographical and epistolary literature, as well as funerary reliefs and epitaphs, indicate that it was customary to depict cherished children as possessed not of child-like qualities, but of wisdom and maturity – precisely the qualities valued in adults in Mediterranean societies in the Hellenistic era. The portrayal of Jesus in the IGT, therefore, is similarly inspired by a “social viewing” of childhood that leads to adults portraying the children they love or admire as something greater than mere children.10 The IGT in Previous Scholarship The IGT is one of the earliest texts of the Christian Apocrypha. Estimates of its date of composition range from ca. 125 to 175 CE.11 Its paucity of 4 B. Harris Cowper, The Apocryphal Gospels and Other Documents Relating to the History of Christ, 4th ed. (London: Frederic Norgate, 1874), 129. 5 Oscar Cullmann, “Infancy Gospels,” in New Testament Apocrypha, Vol. 1, Gospels and Related Writings, ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, tr. R. McL. Wilson, rev. ed. (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1991), 414–469, here 442; and J. K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 68. 6 Jacques Hervieux, The New Testament Apocrypha, tr. Dom Wulstan Hibbard (New York: Hawthorn Books, 1960), 106. 7 Eliott, The Apocryphal New Testament, 68. 8 Cowper, The Apocryphal Gospels, 129. 9 Cullmann, “Infancy Gospels,” 442. See also Aasgaard’s article in this volume. 10 “Social viewing” is a term coined by Janet Huskinson (Roman Children’s Sarcophagi: Their Decoration and its Social Significance [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996], 81) in discussing the prevalence of adult-like images of children on Roman children’s sarcophagi. 11 See, for example, Cullmann, “Infancy Gospels,” 442; and Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 91–92. D. R. Cartlidge and D. L. Dungan (Documents for the Study of the Gospels, 2d ed. [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994], 86) offer the early date of 125 CE. Sever Voicu, who has written extensively on the text, is more cautious, assigning to it a date of the second/third century (see “Verso il testo primitivo dei Paidika; tou` Kurivou ∆Ihsou`

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explicit parallels with canonical Christian texts suggests that it should be placed on the early end of this spectrum.12 The security of a second-century origin for the gospel allows us some confidence in considering that it could reflect early Christian attitudes toward children, although few previous scholars have believed the IGT to be useful in this regard. This is due, at least in part, to a number of misconceptions about the original contents of the text. A proper understanding of the IGT depends upon a stable text from which to work. Apocryphal Christian texts are more prone to change and expansion over the centuries than the canonical texts which achieved a measure of rigidity early on, although only after the canonizing process. The IGT is often cited as a text which is particularly malleable. Its first proper critical edition was prepared by Constantin von Tischendorf in 1853.13 In it were published five versions of the text. The most well-known of these is Greek A, the now-standard nineteen-chapter text tracing Jesus’ childhood from the ages of five to twelve, culminating in the story of Jesus in the temple from Luke 2:41–52. The second version is Greek B, a shorter text comprised of eleven chapters. Greek B has received little attention in scholarship as it is believed to be a late abbreviation of Greek A. Tischendorf also published a Latin translation of the IGT which includes a prologue of several stories of the Holy Family’s sojourn in Egypt. Finally, Tischendorf presented two witnesses to a second Latin translation: a fifthcentury fragmentary palimpsest14 and a longer version of the infancy gospel compilation Pseudo-Matthew which incorporated this other Latin version of the IGT as its pars altera.15 ‘Racconti dell’infanzia del Signore Gesù,’” Apocrypha 9 [1998], 7–95, here 45–51). Stephen Gerö (“The Infancy Gospel of Thomas. A Study of the Textual and Literary Problems,” Novum Testamentum 13 [1971], 46–80, here 56, fn. 1) considers the date of the Latin palimpsest (fifth century; see further below) the earliest sure evidence for IGT’s existence. 12 See the discussion in Tony Chartrand-Burke, “Completing the Gospel: The Infancy Gospel of Thomas as a Supplement to the Gospel of Luke,” in The Reception and Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity. Proceedings of the Montréal Colloquium in Honour of Charles Kannengiesser, 11–13 October 2006, ed. Lorenzo DiTommaso and Lucian Turcescu (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 101–119. 13 Tischendorf, Evangelia apocrypha, 140–180. 14 The palimpsest is treated in greater depth in G. Philippart, “Fragments palimpsestes latins du Vindobonensis 563 (Ve siècle?): Évangile selon S. Matthieu, Évangile de Nicodème, Évangile de l’enfance selon Thomas,” Analecta Bollandiana 90 (1972), 391–411. 15 Jan Gijsel (Pseudo-Matthaei Euangelium. Textus et commentaries, Corpus Christianorum Series Apocryphorum 9 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1997]) has prepared a critical edition of the numerous manuscripts of Pseudo-Matthew. The branches of the MS tradition containing the material of the IGT are considered to be a late development in the tradition; the pars altera is thus left out of his edition.

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A number of other versions of the text have appeared since Tischendorf’s day. Armand Delatte published a third Greek recension (Greek D) which corresponds to the form of the longer Latin translation.16 Slavicists have worked steadily over the century on the Slavonic text, which appears to have been translated from the Greek A recension, dated to the tenth or eleventh century.17 Still others have published witnesses to a handful of early versions: Syriac, Georgian, Ethiopic, and Irish.18 These versions became significant when it was determined that they, along with the early Latin translation, go back to an earlier form of the text lacking chs. 1, 10, 17 and 18.19 Text criticism of the IGT has continued with the publication of additional Syriac20 and Greek21 manuscripts which have helped to establish 16 Armand Delatte, “Évangile de l’Enfance de Jacques: Manuscrit No. 355 de la Bibliothèque Nationale,” in Anecdota Atheniensia 1 (Paris: Edouard Champion, 1927), 264– 271. 17 For more on the Slavonic tradition see the two major studies by Aurelio de Santos Otero, Das kirchenslavische Evangelium des Thomas, Patristische Texte und Studien 66 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1967); and Thomas Rosén, The Slavonic Translation of the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Slavica Upsaliensia 39 (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1997). 18 The first Syriac manuscript (BL Add. 14484; 6th cent.) was published by William Wright, Contributions to the Apocryphal Literature of the New Testament (London: Williams & Norgate, 1865), 6–16. Since then three additional manuscripts have seen publication: see W. Baars and J. Helderman, “Neue Materialien zum Text und zur Interpretation des Kindheitsevangeliums des Pseudo-Thomas,” Oriens Christianus 77 (1993), 191–226, and vol. 78 (1994), 1–32; E. A. W. Budge, The History of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the History of the Likeness of Christ, 2 vols. (London: Luzac & Co., 1899); and Paul Peeters, Évangiles apocryphes, vol. 2, Textes et documents pour l’étude historique du Christianisme 18 (Paris: Librairie Alphonse Picard & Fils, 1914), 291–311. For the Georgian text see G. Garitte, “Le fragment géorgien de l’Évangile de Thomas,” Revue d’histoire ecclesiastique 51 (1956), 511–520. For the Ethiopic version see Sylvain Grébaut, “Les miracles de Jésus: Texte éthiopien publié et traduit,” in Patrologia orientalis 12.4 (Paris: Firmin-Didot et Cie, Imprimeurs-Éditeurs, 1919), 555–652. For the Irish version see Máire Herbert and Martin McNamara, “A Versified Narrative of the Childhood Deeds of the Lord Jesus,” in Apocrypha Hiberniae, t. 1: Evangelia infantiae, vol. 1, ed. Martin McNamara, and others, Corpus Christianorum Series Apocryphorum 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001), 443–483. 19 A determination made by Lucas van Rompay in “De ethiopische versie van het Kindsheidsevangelie volgens Thomas de Israëliet,” in Enfant dans les civilisations orientales, ed. A. Théodoridès, P. Naster, and J. Riesl (Leuven: Editions Peeters, 1980), 119–132. 20 A large number of Syriac manuscripts remains unpublished. A partial list of these manuscripts (although with a few infelicities) can be found in Anton Baumstark, Geschichte der syrischen Literatur mit Ausschluss der christlich-palästinensischen Texte (Bonn: A. Marcus & E. Webers Verlag, 1922), 69–70, fn. 12, and p. 99, fn. 4; and Simon C. Mimouni, “Les Vies de la Vièrge: État de la question,” Apocrypha 5 (1994), 211– 248, here 239–242. I have begun the process of collating these manuscripts for a series of articles and a comprehensive critical edition.

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better the original texts of these traditions. One Greek manuscript is of particular importance as it stands at a midpoint in the tradition between the shorter text of the early versions and the expanded text of the Greek and related Latin and Slavonic versions.22 This manuscript, assigned to the new recension Greek S, contains chs. 1 and 10 but lacks chs. 17 and 18 and several other expansions within individual chapters. Used together with the early versions, Greek S brings us closer than ever to the original text of the IGT in its original language.23 Yet even today most interpretations of the text are based on the widely published version of Tischendorf. What is striking about this nineteenchapter form of the text is that Jesus apparently curses and blesses without reason. In chs. 3–5 he maims one boy, kills another, and blinds those who condemn him. Yet in ch. 8, after humbling the teacher Zacchaeus, he restores those he had cursed to health and then performs several beneficent miracles (chs. 9–13). Soon thereafter, he returns to his former ways and murders another teacher (ch. 14), only to resurrect him after a third teacher (ch. 15) recognizes his authority. Jesus then resumes his blessings (chs. 16–18) and finishes his childhood exploits by impressing the teachers in the Temple (ch. 19). This vacillation between blessing and cursing has led previous scholars to think the text has no observable plot; but they are led astray by their assumption that the young Jesus actually needs to be rehabilitated, to be taught “to bless and not curse” (IGT 4:4). A close reading of the early witnesses to the text and Greek S indicates that this is not the theme of the text at all. In its earliest form, the IGT appears to have lacked the beneficent, synoptic-like miracles of chs. 17 and 18 and the resuscitation of the second teacher. With these elements having been removed, the focus of the story shifts from the actions of Jesus to the responses of those who witness them. Like the New Testament gospels, the IGT is the tale of a wonderworker who must demonstrate his authority to the unbelieving masses through wondrous miracles and unearthly teachings. When Jesus demonstrates his abilities, he often faces incredulity, even violence, instead of acceptance. However, unlike the New Testament Jesus, the Jesus of the IGT responds in kind, chastizing those who oppose him. Jesus’ family and neighbors are distressed by his curses, but their attempts to correct Jesus’ 21 Chartrand-Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” 134–244. Details of all the Greek manuscripts are provided also in Tony Chartrand-Burke, “The Greek Manuscript Tradition of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” Apocrypha 14 (2004), 129–151. 22 This determination was made first by Sever J. Voicu, “Notes sur l’histoire du texte de l’Histoire de l’Enfance de Jésus,” Apocrypha 2 (1991), 119–132, here 128–129. 23 Scholars are virtually unanimous that Greek is the language of composition. A few, most notably Peeters (Évangiles apocryphes, xvii–xxii), have suggested Syriac but the arguments for Syriac composition are not strong (for a response to the theory see Chartrand-Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” 247–254).

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behavior remain without effect. Indeed, they are shown to be unnecessary, for as Zacchaus, the teacher humbled by Jesus’ display of unearthly wisdom states: “This child is no ordinary mortal” (7:4); “what great thing he is – god or angel or whatever else I might call him – I don’t know!” (7:11). The perspective of the text appears to be that no matter what Jesus does with his powers, he should be feared and praised. It is not Jesus who needs to be taught; rather it is his teachers, neighbors, parents, and the gospel’s readers who have a lesson to learn here. Early discussion of the text went astray also by the mistaken belief that the IGT was a Gnostic text. For some time, the IGT was identified as the “Gospel of Thomas” associated with the Manicheans by many early Christian writers. Scholars had some difficulty finding Gnostic elements in the text,24 but a listing of the “Gospel of Thomas” as containing 1300 stichoi led to the theory that the IGT had been expurgated of much of its heretical contents. With the discovery of the true Gospel of Thomas at Oxyrhynchus and Nag Hammadi these early testimonies are rendered useless for establishing the origins of the IGT, although some writers continue to appeal to them.25 Another ancient citation, this one more certainly connected to the IGT, places the text among the Gnostic Marcosians at the end of the second century. According to Irenaeus (Haer. 1.20.1), the Marcosians circulated the story of Jesus and the Teacher (chs. 6, 14, and 15). Yet its use by the Marcosians is not evidence for Gnostic composition; indeed the same story appears in Epistula Apostolorum, an anti-Gnostic apocryphon from around the same time.26 Despite the lack of evidence for Gnostic origins, some scholars see in the stories of the young Jesus evidence of docetic Christology – i.e., Jesus only appeared to take on human flesh, when in fact he was an incorporeal spirit. Yet nowhere in the text is Jesus portrayed as not having human form. In many of the tales he plays like a normal human child and seems to feel pain when Joseph grabs his ear (ch. 5:4). He only appears superhuman in his maturity and displays of wisdom. As we will see, this was a common motif in portrayals of idealized children from the ancient world – so com24 The apparent Gnostic elements in IGT are catalogued by A. Meyer, “Erzählung des Thomas,” in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung, ed. Edgar Hennecke, (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1904), 63–67, here 64–65; de Santos Otero, Das kirchenslavische Evangelium des Thomas, 172–184; and, most recently, Baars and Helderman, “Neue Materialien,” 30–31. 25 See, for example, Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament, 68–71. 26 For a translation of the text with introduction see C. Detlef G. Muller, “Epistula Apostolorum,” in New Testament Apocrypha, Vol. 1, Gospels and Related Writings, ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, tr. R. McL. Wilson, rev. ed. (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1991), 249–284. For the story of Jesus as teacher see Epistula Apostolorum 4 (tr. Muller, “Epistula Apostolorum,” 253). On the text’s anti-Gnostic position, see p. 250.

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mon, that it would be considered strange not to portray the young Jesus this way. Idealized Children in Antiquity The study of children in antiquity is fraught with problems.27 The sources are various – including legal texts, inscriptions, funerary archeology, portraiture, narratives, epistolary literature, etc. – but few offer us a clear look into the thoughts, experiences, and emotions of children, for children are typically shown only from the point of view of the adults who wrote about them or pictured them. Thus the sources reveal more what adults wanted children to be than what children really were.28 Not only are portrayals of children highly idealized, but childhood itself is viewed with disdain by those who lived to write about it. Fortunately, it is the ideal, not the real that particularly concerns us here. The IGT reveals little about the real experiences of children in the second century, but it can illustrate how an idealized view of the child functioned in early Christian thought. What was it about adult-child relationships in antiquity that led to such a devaluation of childhood?29 Studies of the family in antiquity reveal that 27 Some general challenges in the study of ancient families are outlined by Suzanne Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press, 1993), 17–18; as well as Miriam Peskowitz, “‘Family/ies’ in Antiquity: Evidence from Tannaitic Literature,” in The Jewish Family in Antiquity, ed. Shaye J. D. Cohen, Brown Judaic Studies 289 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 9–36, here 14–15. Keith Hopkins, “Seven Missing Papers,” in Parenté et stratégies familiales dans l’antiquité romaine. Actes de la table ronde des 2–4 octobre 1986 [Paris, Maison des sciences de l’homme], ed. J. Andreau and H. Bruhns (Palais Farnèse: École Française de Rome, 1990), 623–630, offers a wry indictment of some typical approaches to the primary sources. Methodological problems particular to studying Christian families are discussed by Halvor Moxnes, “What is Family? Problems in Constructing Early Christian Families,” in Constructing Early Christian Families. Family as Social Reality and Metaphor, ed. Halvor Moxnes (London/New York: Routledge, 1997), 13–41; and by Carolyn Osiek, “The Family in Early Christianity: ‘Family Values’ Revisited,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 58.1 (1996), 1–24, here 8–9. 28 Thomas Wiedemann thinks the evidence for the Roman child’s view of the world is “insufficient.” He does, however, believe some aspects of their lives are recoverable, particularly in how adults see children’s place in the wider social world (see Adults and Children in the Roman Empire [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989], 2–3). 29 The following brief summary of children’s lives in antiquity is condensed from Chartrand-Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” 316–365, where it was drawn from several scholarly “classics” on the subject including Keith R. Bradley, Discovering the Roman Family: Studies in Roman Social History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991); Dixon, The Roman Family; Suzanne Dixon, ed., Childhood, Class, and Kin in the Roman World (London and New York: Routledge, 2001); John K. Evans, War, Women, and Children in Ancient Rome (London and New York: Routledge, 1991); Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University

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the typical parent-child relationship was distanced; high mortality rates seem to have affected bonds between parent and child, as did the widespread use of wetnurses and other surrogate caregivers, of slavery, of frequent remarriage and the blending of families, and of early entry into marriage and the workforce. In general, parents seem to have been more interested in their children the closer they came to reaching adulthood. And children reached adulthood far earlier than children of today. At the age of twelve children began to take on some of the responsibilities that we associate with adulthood, including marriage and childrearing (for girls), and careers (either participation in political life for children in elite families, or apprenticeship for the lower ranks of society) for boys. The reason for the brevity of childhood is due partly to parents’ need to ensure support in their old age.30 The primary responsibility of children, Press, 1990); Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Richard P. Saller, Patriarchy, Property, and Death in the Roman Family (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Wiedemann, Adults and Children; and essays collected in David J. Kertzer and Richard P. Saller, eds., The Family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1991); Beryl Rawson, ed. The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives (New York: Cornell University Press, 1986); Beryl Rawson, ed., Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991); and Beryl Rawson and Paul Weaver, eds., The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997). On specifically Jewish families see Cohen, The Jewish Family in Antiquity; David Kraemer, ed., The Jewish Family: Metaphor and Memory (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989); James S. Jeffers “Jewish and Christian Families in FirstCentury Rome,” in Judaism and Christianity in First-Century Rome, ed. K. P. Donfried and P. Richardson (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998), 128–150; and Leo G. Perdue, and others, Families in Ancient Israel (Louisville, KY: Westminster and John Knox, 1997). Scholars of Christianity are just beginning to examine family life among early Christians. In doing so, they heavily draw upon the sources listed above. Work in the field includes: Odd Magne Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Christianity, tr. B. McNeil (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005); Marcia J. Bunge, ed., The Child in Christian Thought (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000); Sarah Currie, “Childhood and Christianity from Paul to the Council of Chalcedon” (Ph.D. diss., Cambridge University, 1993); Diane Wood, ed. The Church and Childhood, Studies in Church History 31 (Cambridge, England: Blackwell, 1994); Kevin Coyle, “Empire and Eschaton: The Early Church and the Question of Domestic Relations,” Église et Théologie 12 (1981), 35–94; Geoffrey S. Nathan, The Family in Late Antiquity: The Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition (London and New York: Routledge, 2000); Carolyn Osiek and David L. Balch, Families in the New Testament World. Households and House Churches (Louisville, KY: Westminster and John Knox, 1997); David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek, eds., Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2003), and essays collected in Moxnes, ed., Constructing Early Christian Families. 30 For a discussion of this subject and the related primary sources see particularly Tim Parkin, “Out of Sight, Out of Mind: Elderly Members of the Roman Family,” in The Ro-

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indeed often given as the very reason to have children, was to provide financial or other support to their parents. This duty is expressed in the literature as a debt owed to parents by their children for being reared; epitaphs of children often mourn the loss to their parents of care in old age. The deceased two-year-old Flavius Hermes, for example, is reproached in his epitaph for failing to live up to his claim he would be his grandmother’s support in her old age (CIL 6.18086).31 Conversely, epitaphs to parents written by their adult children congratulate themselves for fulfilling their obligations. When assessing parent-child relationships in antiquity, one must keep in mind that reaching adulthood was extremely important in Mediterranean society, for only in adulthood did a person acquire reason. Reason was required to participate in the rational adult world of the Roman citizen; those who lacked this virtue (women and children) were perceived as standing outside the norm. As a result, children as a whole tended to be described negatively in non-biographical sources: they were ignorant, capricious, foolish, and quarrelsome; they spoke nonsense, lacked judgement, were physically frail, and easily frightened.32 Children who did not display such qualities, however, were celebrated. The term applied to such a child was puer senex – a child with the maturity and wisdom of an adult. For example, Pliny (ca. 61–113 CE) praised Minicia Marcella, a friend’s deceased daughter, by telling her father: she had not yet reached the age of fourteen, and yet she combined the wisdom of age and dignity of womanhood with the sweetness and modesty of youth and innocence ... she ap33 plied herself intelligently to her books and was moderate and restrained in her play.

It is not clear, however, whether children like Minicia were honored for their maturity or whether honored children were said to be mature. The latter seems most applicable in the composition of childhood tales of leaders, heroes, kings, philosophers, and gods. In a world that defined childhood as a time of powerlessness (using words like pais which also denotes a slave; infans which means non-speaking), a powerful figure could man Family in Italy, ed. Rawson and Weaver, 123–148; and Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 39–42. 31 CIL=Berlin Royal Academy, eds., Corpus inscriptionum latinarum (Berlin: Reimer, 1863–1974). 32 See the discussion in Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 17–19 and 24; Golden, Children and Childhood, 4–7; and Currie, “Childhood and Christianity,” 15–16. 33 Pliny the Younger, Letters 5, 16 (text and tr. Betty Radice, Pliny. Letters and Panegyricus I, LCL [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969], 378–383). Marcella was actually twelve years old at her death. ILS 1030 (in Hermann Dessau, ed., Inscriptiones latinae selectae [Berlin: Wiedmann, 1892]) records her epitaph.

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not be shown to suffer from the limitations of childhood.34 Such figures are routinely portrayed in this manner. Hermes, Hercules, Cyrus the Great, Alexander, Plato, Apollonios, Abraham, Moses – all are venerated figures, all display their adult abilities when they are only children, and all are said to have excelled in learning – are praised for their restraint, and sometimes are portrayed speaking like adults when only being children.35 Such honors are not restricted to depictions of the powerful, nor is the puer senex an image valued only by the literary elite. Ordinary children like Minicia Marcella receive the same praise, as do numerous other children featured in funerary art and epitaphs. Reliefs on sarcophagi and funerary altars,36 primarily used by the lower classes,37 often portray the prematurely deceased as young adults. They either depict the children as they would have appeared had they not met an untimely death, or feature symbolic representations of the qualities they (allegedly) possessed.38 Nineyear-old Florentius,39 for example, had the status of eques (solider) but not the fine figure of the adult military man in the image on his sarcophagus. A child’s sarcophagus dated ca. 280 features a number of motifs associated with higher, not elementary, learning: pictured on the front is a young boy (the deceased?) half-draped like a philosopher and attended by the Muses, and the lid depicts a boy reclining with scrolls and codices.40 The age of the deceased is not known, but even boys not yet old enough to read were commonly depicted with scrolls and scroll holders.41

34 For a more detailed discussion of etymology see Golden Children and Childhood, 12–17. 35 See Chartrand-Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” 380–394, for an overview of the primary texts and the literary motifs they employ. 36 For discussions of Roman sarcophagi see the classic works by Henri-Irénée Marrou, Mousikos anér: Étude sur les scènes de la vie intéllectuelle figurante sur les monuments funéraires romains (Rome: Brettschneider, 1964); and Franz Cumont, Recherches sur le symbolisme funéraire des Romains, Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 35 (Paris: P. Geuthner, 1942; reprinted New York: Arno Press, 1975). Children’s sarcophagi are treated in detail by Diana E. E. Kleiner, Roman Imperial Funerary Altars with Portraits (Roma: Bretschneider, 1987); Diana E. E. Kleiner, “Women and Family Life on Roman Imperial Funerary Altars,” Latomus 46 (1987), 545–554; Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi; and Beryl Rawson, “The Iconography of Roman Childhood,” in The Roman Family in Italy, ed. Rawson and Weaver, 205–232. 37 Rawson “Iconography,” 227–232; and Kleiner, “Women and Family Life,” 553. 38 Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, 2; and Kleiner, “Women and Family Life,” 553. 39 See Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, pl. 16.3. 40 Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, pl. 10.2. 41 Kleiner, Roman Imperial Funerary Altars, 12.

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Like the reliefs, numerous inscriptions ascribe to children a wisdom that belies their age. There are copious examples of the practice,42 but two are particularly noteworthy. An inscription from Rome mentions Kritiēs, who died at the age of two and a half. For his intelligence, it is said, he should be compared to someone of gray wisdom.43 Another inscription for a fouryear-old from Isauria declares: ... he was very bright in learning, clever in understanding things. He has exercised himself in the finesses of excellence. The god had given all these qualities to him because of his short life. He has bestowed upon a mortal boy an immortal monument (SEG 30.1539).44

Evident in the reliefs and epitaphs is the desire of parents to have their children educated. Through education children acquired reason, the requisite virtue for entry into the world of adults; unfortunately, the untimely deceased would never achieve this goal in life. In a sense, they could in death, where they would receive education directly from the Muses.45 Christian sarcophagi, inscriptions, and literature bear similar depictions of children to their non-Christian counterparts. A sarcophagus from Rome, for example, features the resurrection of Lazarus in the left panel, and a young philosopher seated in the right.46 Another figure on the far left is a philosopher with a scroll. Also, in an epitaph to a Christian girl named Apollonia, the girl is remembered for being “of outstanding goodness, marvelous modesty and wise beyond her years” (ILCV 3.36).47 Similarly, hagiographical texts typically depict the subject as dedicating himself or herself to God at an early age. Rumwold, for example, lived only three days, but before he died, he is said to have professed his faith in a lengthy sermon to his family.48 42 See, for example, Marrou, Mousikos anér, 201–207; and Marc Kleijwegt, Ancient Youth: The Ambiguity of Youth and the Absence of Adolescence in Greco-Roman Society (Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1991), 126–130. 43 This example is provided by Kleijwegt, Ancient Youth, 126. Unfortunately, he does not specify his source. 44 English translation from Kleijwegt, Ancient Youth, 128. SEG=Pierre Roussel, and others, eds., Supplementum epigraphicum graecum (Lugduni Batavorum: Sijthoff, 1923– ). 45 Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, pl. 93; and Marrou, Mousikos anér, 200–201. 46 Huskinson, Roman Children’s Sarcophagi, pl. 16.2. 47 ILCV= Ernestus Diehl, ed., Inscriptiones latinae christianae veteres, 2d ed. (Berlin: Wiedmann, 1961). 48 See Teresa C. Carp, “Puer senex in Roman and Medieval Thought,” Latomus 39 (1980), 736–739, here 737. For additional examples of Christian figures depicted as adultlike children – such as Origen, Ambrose, Athanasius, and Prudentius – see Chartrand-

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All of these sources, the literature, inscriptions, and reliefs, from both 49 lower and upper levels of society, Christians and non-Christians, betray an uneasiness with childhood. It seems that all children of note, be they emperors, heroes, saints, or simply one’s prematurely deceased child, did not act like normal children. Early Christian gospel writers would expect Jesus to do no less. Social Viewing in the IGT Few previous scholars of the IGT have noted a connection between the childhood stories of Jesus and contemporary depictions of children. Some are aware of the literary motif of portraying the subjects of biographies as possessing in childhood the abilities for which they would be known as adults,50 but no one makes the connection between the IGT and the pervasive image of the ideal child found in ancient images, epitaphs, and literature. They have been prevented, to some extent, by the early, mistaken analyses of the IGT as a Gnostic text. The stories from the IGT that feature Jesus as mature and wise as a youth show that he was not truly human. The child’s temperament has been associated with the Gnostic contempt of the world. Although the erroneous identification of the IGT with Gnostic Christianity should have ceased with the discovery of the Gospel of Thomas, many scholars continue to associate the IGT with Gnosticism and, as a result, continue to see something unusual and aberrant about its portrayal of Jesus.51 Yet if one abandons the association with Gnosticism and considers the tendencies of contemporary depictions of children, the portrayal of Jesus in the IGT becomes more understandable. The key to unlocking the secrets of Burke, “The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, 390–391; see also Gillian Clark, “The Fathers and the Children,” in The Church and Childhood, ed. Wood, 1–28, here 14–15. 49 Unfortunately, Jewish funerary artifacts rarely include images. The inscriptions and epitaphs, however, share the same views on childhood as their non-Jewish counterparts. 50 See Hock, Infancy Gospels, 95–97, building principally on Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 55. On this motif see Charles H. Talbert, “Prophecies of Future Greatness: The Contribution of Greco-Roman Biographies to an Understanding of Luke 1:5–4:15,” in The Divine Helmsman: Studies on God’s Control of Human Events, Presented to Lou Silberman, ed. James L. Crenshaw and Samuel Sandmel (New York: KTAV Publishing House, Inc., 1980), 129–141; and Christopher Pelling, “Childhood and Personality in Greek Literature,” in Characterization and Individuality in Greek Literature, ed. Christopher Pelling (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 213–244, here 235–240. 51 The most prominent discussions of the text presenting this position are Cullmann, “Infancy Gospels,” 453–455; and Sever J. Voicu, “Histoire de l’Enfance de Jésus,” in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens vol. 1, ed. François Bovon and Pierre Geoltrain (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 191–204, here 192.

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the IGT involves breaking the portrayal down into two constituents: the curses and the displays of maturity or wisdom. The cruelty in Jesus’ behavior must be considered in light of the tendency in biographies to foreshadow the protagonist’s future career. Therefore, the IGT’s Jesus curses his opponents because the author believes that the adult Jesus would do the same. Also, the Jesus as depicted in the New Testament did occasionally lose his temper: he overturned the tables in the temple, cursed a fig tree (Mark 11:12–22; Matt 21:18–19) and disbelieving towns (Luke 10:13–15), and even permitted the disciples to curse cities or individuals (Matt 10:11– 15; Luke 9:5, 10:10–12). Moreover, the power of Jesus to curse is invoked repeatedly in magical papyri.52 The most vivid parallels to the IGT’s Jesus, however, are to be found in Luke-Acts’ portrayal of the apostles. The evangelist tells a tale of Peter engineering the deaths of Ananias and Sapphira (Acts 5:1–11), and of Paul blinding the false prophet Elymas (Acts 13:6–11); it is in Acts too that an angel of God kills King Agrippa I for his execution of James, the brother of John (12:20–23). Luke’s model for Jesus and the apostles is the legendary Hebrew prophet Elijah as well as his successor Elisha.53 They too embodied the power and authority of God, and occasionally they used this power with impunity to bless or to curse. One memorable tale has Elisha punish some taunting children by sending a bear to maul them (2 Kgs 2:23–25). In the first century, the prophet in the style of Elijah was so popular that several Jewish luminaries were honored for being like Elijah or even were identified as Elijah reborn, including Hanina ben Dosa (b. Ber. 61b), Honi the Circle Drawer (Gen. Rab. 13:7), John the Baptist (Mark 6:15; Luke 9:8), and Jesus himself (Mark 8:28 par; Josephus, Ant. 18.63).54 Given the correspondences between both the personality and miracles of Jesus in the IGT and Elijah, it is likely that IGT was written by and for a group who also saw Jesus as an Elijah-like prophet.55 52

See the texts in Marvin Meyer and Richard Smith, eds., Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1994), 183–225. 53 See particularly Craig A. Evans, “Luke’s Use of the Elijah/Elisha Narratives and the Ethics of Election,” Journal of Biblical Literature 106 (1987), 75–83. 54 Josephus describes Jesus as a performer of “marvelous deeds,” the same phrase he uses for Elijah (Ant. 9.182). 55 The same model of the irascible wonderworker is used in the various Apocryphal Acts. For example, Acts of Peter tells the story of an unworthy woman who is paralyzed when she receives the Eucharist at Paul’s hands (ch. 2) (tr. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, “The Acts of Peter,” in New Testament Apocrypha, Vol. 2, Writings Relating to the Apostles; Apocalypses and Related Subjects, ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, tr. R. McL. Wilson, rev. ed. [Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1992], 271–321, here 288–289), and in Acts of John, John threatens the worshippers of Artemis with death, destroys their temple, and then restores life to a priest who perished in the destruction (chs. 37–47; tr. Knut Schäferdiek, “The Acts of John,” in New Testament Apocrypha, Vol. 2, ed. Schneemel-

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Yet what of Jesus’ adultlike wisdom and maturity? Even at five years of age, Jesus responds to those around him with cryptic sayings and obscure teachings. The first hint of this comes in Jesus’ reply to his father’s reprimand: “It’s one thing for you to seek and not find,” Jesus says, “it’s quite another for you to act this unwisely. Don’t you know that I don’t really belong to you? Don’t make me upset” (5:5–6). Soon follows a lengthy discourse (6:4–8) which reduces those who are listening to silence (6:9). Additional manifestations of his superior knowledge arise from encounters with teachers and elders (IGT, Greek S 6:16–23; 8:1–2; 13:3; 15:3–4; 19:4–5). Why would Jesus possess these qualities as a child? When childhood tales of Jesus were composed, the idealized model of children entered also into the author or authors’ depictions, perhaps even subconsciously. Jesus is shown as wise and mature not strictly because he is a Gnostic Redeemer, or some other form of supernatural being, but because it would simply break with convention to depict Jesus as a normal child. Conclusion The IGT has been so maligned in scholarship that rehabilitating its image of Jesus is a difficult task. Few scholars look at the text with the requisite detachment and, as a result, many fail to see its connections with the literature and thought-world of its day. Yet as scholars turn their attention to evidence for the religious lives of children throughout history, the IGT may finally find a sympathetic audience. In the IGT we have a text that provides us with a glimpse of an early Christian use of an idealized representation of children in the second-century Mediterranean world. Unfortunately, this interpretation of the text does little to remove the objectionable material in the gospel. Jesus is still precocious and cruel, and for some scholars, no explanation for this portrayal will make the text any more attractive. The IGT, therefore, may be doomed to neglect. Like children in antiquity, Jesus becomes interesting to most adults only when he reaches adulthood. Like the adults who transformed children according to their cultures’ view of

cher, tr. Wilson, 152–212, here 187–189). Similar tales are told of the Chris-tian holy men in the hills around Antioch in Theodoret’s History of the Monks of Syria (tr. R. M. Price, A History of the Monks of Syria by Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Cistercian Studies Series 88 [Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1985]; cursing stories are here attributed to James of Nisibis [ch. 1], Julian [ch. 2], Peter the Galatian [ch. 9], Maë-symas [ch. 14], and Acepsimas [ch. 19]) and of Jewish luminaries in Jewish or Christian Pseudepigrapha (e.g., Artapanus, frg. 3; “The Fragments of Artapanus,” tr. John J. Col-lins in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 2, ed. James H. Charlesworth [Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983], 889–903, here 898–903). Wonderworkers who bless and curse seem to be quite common in literature of the period; perhaps early readers of the New Testament gospels were surprised that Jesus cursed so little.

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the ideal child, most scholars are far more comfortable with their own idealized vision of Jesus than the Jesus of the childhood tales.

Baptized Infants and Pagan Rituals: Cyprian versus Augustine Inta Ivanovska The Problem of Religious Initiation Infants have posed special challenges, both practical and theological, for the Christian church.1 All early church writers considered newborn children as complete human beings and, like all other persons, newborns had the God-given right and necessity to develop their spiritual identity. Yet infants are limited in their volitional, cognitive, and physical capacities and are, therefore, incapable of the voluntary pursuit of their personal religious identity. At this young age, the infant is entirely dependent on adults, parents or others, for initiating and continuing membership in a religious community. Should membership in a religious community require submission to an entry ritual or sacrament, the young child is brought to this moment by the decision of others and not through an act of personal will and intent. Some strands within our modern understanding tend to view religious identity as a strictly individual enterprise. That someone, infant or other, should be submitted to religious rites of initiation apart from his or her own will and bound by the religious decisions made by others often strikes the modern sentiment as forced, even oppressive. One might even wonder whether such a religious rite, administered to another person apart from his or her expressed will, possesses any validity or efficacy. In the early church, such qualms were rare, if not non-existent. Sacramental action bore an intrinsic power not dependent upon personal will and intent. Small children, therefore, in like measure as adults were believed to                                                              1 For the purposes of this study, the term “infant” refers to a very young child who cannot exercise personal initiative and therefore cannot be held accountable for his or her actions. This study assumes that those children are “infants” who are between the time of their birth and the time when they become toddlers. The age classification and its respective meaning have been the subject of much study. Introductory readings include Philippe Ariès, L’enfant et la vie familial sous l’ancien régime (Paris: Librarie Plon, 1960), tr. Robert Baldick, Centuries of Childhood (New York: Vintage, 1962); Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (London: Routledge, 1989); Suzanne Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992); and Odd Magne Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity, tr. Brian McNeil (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005).

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receive divine benefit from the church’s sacramental ministry. Such a conviction, however, was not without its problems. Specifically, the practice of baptizing and also of communing infants provided a sort of “litmus test” for any attempt to explain the role and function of an individual’s consent in establishing his or her religious identity as well as in maintaining it. Theological and practical questions arising from religious initiation of small children occupied the thought of two prominent fathers of the early Latin Church in North Africa, namely, Cyprian of Carthage and Augustine of Hippo. The figure of Cyprian loomed large for the church of North Africa. No one possessed the reputation and authority in the North African Church that he did. To be true to the ecclesial heritage of North Africa, one had to be true to the thinking and practice of Cyprian. He was, as it were, the representative figure of North African Christianity. His theological opinions were regarded as authoritative, second only to Scripture.2 The practices described and established in Cyprian’s writings were widely regarded as the norm to follow, and Cyprian was the touchstone and standard for any demonstration of authentic continuity of North African ecclesial life and tradition.3 Preceding Augustine by over a century, Cyprian was a North African bishop while the church was still a minority and struggling for political, social, and cultural acceptance. Persecution and martyrdom were an ever-present reality; Cyprian himself would be martyred. The church over which Augustine presided as bishop stood in a very different relationship to the Roman Empire. Christianity had not only become legal, it was becoming the dominant religious force in the empire. Paganism, although still existent, was increasingly a spent force at the time of Augustine. The figures of Cyprian and Augustine lie on either side of this massive change in the position of the church. Comparison of the theological positions and corresponding practices of Cyprian and Augustine regarding the religious identity of infants offers the opportunity to observe a process in which the church in North Africa strove to preserve its continuity with the past while yet redefining its position in the present.

                                                             2 Maureen A. Tilley, “Cyprian of Carthage,” in Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopaedia, general ed. Allan D. Fitzgerald (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, U.K.: William B. Eerdmans, 1999), 262–264, here 263. 3 See, for example, Vasilije Vranic, “Augustine and the Donatist claims to Cyprianic ecclesiological legacy,” Philotheos 7 (2007), 232–240; Jonathan P. Yates, “Augustine’s appropriation of Cyprian the martyr-bishop against the Pelagians,” in More than a Memory: The Discourse of Martyrdom and the Construction of Christian Identity in the History of Christianity, ed. Johan Leemans, collaborator Jürgen Mettepenningen (Leuven, Paris, and Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2005), 119–125.

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Cyprian of Carthage (c.200–258) When we kiss an infant, piety should tell each one of us that we ought to be thinking of the very hands of God from which that infant has so freshly come; in a sense, therefore, in a human being recently formed and newly born we are kissing those hands of God 4 when we embrace what God has made.

With this beautiful sentence, Cyprian and his African cobishops have given an essential definition of an infant: every newborn child is a religious being by the very fact of having been created by God. The fact of being formed by “the very hands of God” constitutes the basic religious identity of every infant, indeed of every creature. Like any creature, an infant has a definite place in the religious order of God’s universe. According to Cyprian’s view, a newborn infant is in every way a full human being, lacking in nothing that is essential to human nature. We need to ask, what can be lacking to one who has been already formed by the hands of God in his mother’s womb? To our way of thinking, indeed, and to our eyes infants after their birth appear to grow and increase as the earthly days go by; but as far as God their Maker is concerned, whatever has been made by Him is perfect and complete thanks to 5 His handiwork and almighty power.

In other words, infants do not become more fully human through the development of their intellectual or physical attributes. What constitutes the human person is the fact that the person has been made by God. In the eyes of God, the person who has been created is “perfect and complete.” It is God’s design and purpose in the act of creation that defines the reality, not the growth and development that accrue to the child through the passing of time. Cyprian insists that there exists “divine and spiritual equality, according to which all men are equal and alike, because they have all once been made by God; we may be different so far as the world is concerned, in the development of our bodies depending on our various ages, but there is no                                                              4 Cyprian, Letter 64:4.2 (ed. Gerard F. Diercks, Sancti Cypriani Episcopi Opera: Sancti Cypriani Episcopi Epistularium, Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina (CCL) IIIc, pt. III.2 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1996], 418–425, here 422; tr. Graeme W. Clarke, The Letters of St. Cyprian of Carthage, ACW 46.3 [New York and Mahwah: Newman Press, 1986], 109–112, here 111): Quando in osculo infantis unusquisque nostrum pro sua religione ipsas adhuc recentes dei manus debeat cogitare, quas in homine modo formato et recens nato quodammodo exosculamur, quando id quod deus fecit amplectimur. 5 Cyprian, Letter 64:2.2 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 420; tr. Clarke, Letters, 110): Quid enim ei deest qui semel in utero dei manibus formatus est? Nobis enim atque oculis nostris secundum dierum saecularium cursum accipere qui nati sunt incrementum uidentur. Ceterum quaecumque a deo fiunt dei factoris maiestate et opera perfecta sunt.

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difference between us so far as God is concerned: “For just as God draws no distinction between persons, so neither does he between ages.”6 Since God makes no distinction between persons on the basis of their age, Cyprian draws the conclusion that infants possess the same religious and spiritual needs as do all other persons. Age difference does not determine one’s place or status before God. All are in need of divine mercy. Cyprian expresses this unitary human need by saying that “it is not right to deny the mercy and grace of God to any man that is born.”7 In another passage, he writes, “Every man without exception has the right to be admitted to the grace of Christ.”8 However, that is also to admit that infants share with all other human persons that malady or deficiency which is to be remedied only by the mercy and grace of God. What is this deficiency? At this point Cyprian admits his first distinction between the religious status or spiritual condition of infants and adults. An infant’s need for God’s grace, says Cyprian, is due not to any sin of his or her own, since “an infant who, being newly born, can have committed no sins,” 9 but is due to the sins of another, namely, the sin of Adam. According to Cyprian’s understanding, the innocence of infants must be attributed to their natural state. In this natural state, infants were not yet guilty of sins that could properly be called their own.10 Given this circumstance, Cyprian even proposes that it would be easier for an infant to attain the grace of God than for a grownup who had committed “more heinous sins.” Thus, Cyprian maintains the somewhat difficult opinion that an in                                                             6

Cyprian, Letter 64:3.2 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 421; tr. Clarke, Letters, 110– 111): Sed illic aequalitas diuina et spiritalis exprimitur, quod pares atque aequales sint omnes homines, quando a deo semel facti sunt, et possit aetas nostra in incrementis corporum secundum saeculum, non secundum deum habere discrimen … Nam deus ut personam non accipit, sic nec aetatem. 7 Cyprian, Letter 64:2.1 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 419; tr. Clarke, Letters, 110): [sed uniuersi potius iudicauimus] nulli hominum nato misericordiam dei et gratiam denegandam. 8 Cyprian, Letter 64:5.1 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 423; tr. Clarke, Letters, 111): … sed omnem omnino admittendum esse ad gratiam Christi. 9 Cyprian, Letter 64:5.2 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 424; tr. Clarke, Letters, 112): … quanto magis prohiberi non debet infans qui recens natus nihil peccauit, nisi quod secundum Adam carnaliter natus contagium mortis antiquae prima natiuitate contraxit, qui ad remissam peccatorum accipiendam hoc ipso facilius accedit quod illi remittuntur non propria, sed aliena peccata. 10 On the natural innocence of infants, cf. Cyprian, Letter 58:6 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 321–335, here 327–9), where the author attributes innocence to the infant “martyrs” killed (allegedly) by King Herod for Christ’s sake. Cyprian’s point is that the natural “innocence” of these infant proto-martyrs typologically signifies the ritual and confessional innocence of all future Christian martyrs as well as the total expiation of the martyr’s former sins by the “baptism in blood.”

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fant is personally innocent while at the same time adversely affected by the unfortunate contamination of humanity through the sin of Adam. It is important to observe that, according to Cyprian, the effect of Adam’s sin that is passed from one generation to another is referred to as mortality, not guilt. This effect of Adam’s sin is a kind of contamination that is transferred through purely physical channels. Its symptoms do not pass beyond those that relate to the aggravated state of the bodily condition of mortality.11 A child “is born after the flesh according to Adam” and, therefore, having been formed from flesh that is contaminated, the child comes into this world with what Cyprian calls a “contagion of the ancient death.” The waters of baptism heal this contagion by bestowing upon the baptized a new life through the second birth in laver of saving water.12 Cyprian also discusses the malady affecting humanity and the transforming benefits of baptism in his treatise To Donatus 3–5. In this passage, Cyprian attempts to explain the baptismal mystery of new birth. What the baptized has put off is characterized in a two-fold manner. First, Cyprian speaks of an “innate” malady, which has hardened in the corruption of material nature. Secondly, he speaks of an “acquired” malady, which “has become inveterate by a long accustomed use.”13 As an adult convert to Christianity, Cyprian believed that in his case baptismal regeneration had remedied both that which was innate and that which was acquired. However, as noted, in the case of infant baptism, the sacrament effectively removes the innate corruption of mortality, but does not remove the sins of habit because an infant has not yet acquired the habit of sinning. This quick glance at Cyprian’s theology of baptism already allows one to see an underlying conviction at work. To Cyprian’s mind, certain material substances are able to communicate their properties to those who come into physical contact with them. On the one hand, from a corrupted body can only come a body stained with an identical corruption. On the other                                                              11 Cyprian tends to describe sin as the result of human error, whereby carnal and worldly entanglements cloud the human spirit. Cf. Cyprian, To Donatus 4 (ed. Manlio Simonetti and Claudio Moreschini, Sancti Cypriani Episcopi Opera: Ad Donatum; De mortalitate; Ad Demetrianum; De opere et eleemosynis; De zelo et livore; De dominica oratione; De bono patientiae, CCL IIIa, pt. II [Turnhout: Brepols, 1976], 3–13, here 4–5). 12 Cf. Cyprian, To Donatus 3–4 (ed. Simonetti, CCL IIIa, pt. II, 4–5). On the effects of baptism, see also Cyprian, The Dress of Virgins 2 (ed. G. Hartel, S. Thasci Caecili Cypriani Opera Omnia, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum (CSEL) III.1 [Vienna, Austria: C. Geroldi filium, 1868], 187–205, here 188–9); Cyprian, Letter 63:8 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 389–417, here 398); and elsewhere. 13 Cyprian, To Donatus 3 (ed. Simonetti, CCL IIIa, pt. II, 4; tr. here and subsequently by the present author, unless indicated otherwise): Qui possibilis, aiebam, tanta conuersio, ut repente ac perniciter exuatur, quod vel genuinum situ materiae naturalis obdurit vel usurpatum diu senio uetustatis inoleuit?

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hand, a sanctified physical element, such as the waters of baptism or the bread and wine of the Eucharist, communicates its holiness to those who are exposed to it.14 It is this understanding of the effect of one material substance that is in contact with another that lies at the basis of Cyprian’s understanding of the incorporation of infants into the community of God. Except for physical contact, infants are incapable of interaction with realities external to themselves. Hence, through contact with physical elements made holy by the divine Spirit, the infant becomes sanctified. The understanding that material substances communicate their properties moves on a two-way street. On the one hand, while exposure to or contact with a sacred substance might offer an infant escape from its predicament of bodily corruption or the “contagion of the ancient death,” on the other hand, such an infant may be infected once again through a subsequent exposure to profane, polluted substances. In Concerning the Lapsed 25, Cyprian reports that a baptized, chrismated, and communed infant girl was exposed by her nurse to pagan sacrifices. Consequently, the child was contaminated to such a degree that later she could not physically tolerate any contact with the sacred elements of the Eucharist, nor could she even endure to be in the presence of the Christian community gathered for worship. What otherwise one might consider as natural, normal behavior of an infant – vomiting, fussing, crying – Cyprian interprets as a physical, repulsive reaction due to the contamination with pagan sacrifices. A sterner, more polemically charged conclusion could hardly be imagined: “The Eucharist could not remain in a body or a mouth that was defiled; the drink which had been sanctified by Our Lord’s blood returned from the polluted stomach.”15 As the context of this passage demonstrates, it is Cyprian’s in                                                             14 For a similar understanding of the communication of properties between two distinct realities, cf. Tertullian, On Baptism 4 (tr. Ernest Evans, Tertullian’s Homily on Baptism [London: S.P.C.K., 1964], 9–11): “The Spirit of God, who since the beginning was borne upon the waters, would as baptizer abide upon waters. A holy thing in fact was carried upon a holy thing – or rather, that which carried acquired holiness from that which was carried upon it. Any matter placed beneath another is bound to take to itself the quality of that which is suspended over it: and especially must corporeal matter take up spiritual quality, which because of the subtlety of the substance it belongs to finds it easy to penetrate and inhere. Thus the nature of waters, having received holiness from the Holy, itself conceived power to make holy.” 15 Cyprian, Concerning the Lapsed 25 (ed. Maurice Bévenot and Robert Weber, Sancti Cypriani episcopi opera: Ad Quirinum, Ad Fortunatum, De lapsis, De ecclesiae catholicae unitate, CCL III.1 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1972], 221–242, here 235; tr. Maurice Bévenot, St. Cyprian: The Lapsed, The Unity of the Catholic Church, ACW 25 [Westminster, MD: The Newman Press, 1957], 13–42, here 33): … in corpore adque ore uiolato eucharistia permanere non potuit, sanctificatus in Domini sanguine potus de pollutis uisceribus eruptit. Tanta est potestas Domini, tanta maiestas; secreta tenebrarum sub eius luce detecta sunt: sacerdotem Dei nec occulta crimina fefellerunt.”

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tention to forewarn, even perhaps to frighten, those lapsed who, having participated in the sacrilegious rites demanded by the Decian decree, might attempt to sneak back into the Christian communion rather than disclose their guilt and submit to the discipline of penance.16 The sanctity of the Eucharistic elements was thought to be so elevated and powerful that the Eucharist itself would ensure that no one polluted by contact with pagan ritual would partake of it. The physical punishment might well be the consequence and indeed a telltale sign of any such misuse. Most assuredly, the secret pollution of the communicant would be disclosed by the physical incapacity of the lapsed to stand in the presence of the holy things of God. Such an understanding raises questions. One might ask Cyprian why it was that a baptized, chrismated, and communed Christian, that is, a person in a state of purity, could so readily be polluted by pagan rites and sacrilegious substances. Would one not expect that when approaching pagan rites and profane substances, a baptized Christian, in whom the Holy Spirit dwells as in a temple, would experience a physical reaction similar to the one described in the incident of the polluted infant girl and be repulsed in that way from them? Would not the sanctified body of a Christian, which is literally believed to be a member of Christ’s body,17 be resistant, if not immune, to the pagan contamination? Finally, how can it be that the sanctity granted and imparted by the one true and all-powerful God yields its place to the pollution of sacrifices offered to false, nonexistent gods? It might seem self-evident and reasonable to answer such questions by referring to the conscious and intentional individual renunciation of Christ. Were a person to approach a pagan altar with the intention to sacrifice, such a person by way of this very intention might have given occasion for Christ and the Holy Spirit to depart from him or her. In that case, the pro                                                             The reported incident involving the infant girl stands in a catena of other moments of “evidence” which portray the punitive physical consequences that befell those who attempted to approach the sacred substances of the Eucharist in a state of ritual pollution. Cyprian reports the case of a woman who, having approached the Eucharist without due penance, suffered seizures or a stroke. Another woman could not touch the Eucharist because it burst into flames. Yet another man attempted to commune, but the Eucharist in his hands turned into ashes. See Cyprian, Concerning the Lapsed 26 (ed. Bévenot, CCL III.1, 235–236). Of course, Cyprian does not exclude that a “polluted” lapsed person could incur divine wrath in the form of bodily punishments even without any attempt to approach sacred substances. Thus, he reports that a man who approached the Capitol in order to offer pagan sacrifices, became dumb; another woman suffered seizures and bit off her tongue. Cf. Cyprian, Concerning the Lapsed 24 (ed. Bévenot, CCL III.1, 234). 17 Cf. Cyprian, Letter 55:27 (ed. Gerard F. Diercks, Sancti Cypriani episcopi Epistularium, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1994], 256–295, here 290): Nam cum corpora nostra membra sint Christi et singuli simus templum dei, quisque adulterio templum dei uiolat deum uiolat, et qui in peccatis committendis uoluntatem diaboli facit daemoniis et idolis seruit. 16

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tection or prophylaxis that the Christian sacraments would otherwise have offered would not exist any longer. However, Cyprian does not stress the role of conscious intent. On the contrary, he reports several incidents of ritual contamination that occurred quite apart from the person’s will, intent, or awareness. Therefore, one finds that in every instance in which Cyprian considers the motives of those who have lapsed, he examines the extent of guilt (and the subsequent extent of penitential discipline), not the level of contamination.18 The fact of contamination with pagan sacrifices is never doubted in Cyprian’s writings. This sentiment is reflected in Cyprian’s correspondence with Caldonius. The latter asked for advice whether or not to extend the peace of the church to those “who, after having sacrificed, were tried again and were sent into exile.”19 Caldonius wondered whether their willingness to endure exile did not in fact constitute a valid “second” confession, and hence, whether it annulled their previous denial of Christ.20 Among the list of persons involved, Caldonius mentions a certain woman named Bona. Her husband had physically forced her hand to sacrifice, and during this ordeal Bona had cried out in protest, “I did not do it, it was you who did it!” Apparently, the Roman magistrates had not accepted her sacrifice as valid and banished her into exile.21 Amazingly, Caldonius did not distinguish her from the others who had sacrificed willingly, and he informed Cyprian that “all of these” (apparently Bona included) “asked for peace” and “repented.”22 Ironically, it seems that Bona’s personal opposition to sacrifice was considered more seriously by the Roman magistrates than it was by her Christian clergy! When Cyprian and his colleagues wrote an answer to                                                              18

Cf. Cyprian, Letter 55:13–14 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 270–272). Cyprian, Letter 24 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 121–122, here 121): …hi qui posteaquam sacrificauerunt iterato temptati extorrentes sunt facti: uidentur ergo mihi abluisse priorem delictum, dum possessiones et domos dimittunt et paenitentiam agentes Christum secuntur. Cyprian’s answer to Caldonius is provided in Letter 25 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 123–124). 20 As Graeme W. Clarke has observed, “Caldonius leaves it entirely obscure how those who have sacrificed, and thereby complied with the imperial demands, can be iterato temptati. As they were actively repentant (paenitentiam agentes) they may well have attracted further official attention.” See Clarke, Letters, ACW 46.3, 347, n. 2. 21 Cyprian, Letter 24 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 121–122): Sed et sub persecutione eadem mulier nomine Bona quae tracta est a marito ad sacrificandum, quae conscientiam non commiscuit, sed tenentes manus eius sic ipsi sacrificauerunt, sic ipsa coepit dicere contra “non ei, uos fecistis”, sic et ipsa extorris facta est. 22 Cyprian, Letter 24 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 122): Cum a me ergo uniuersi pacem peterent dicentes “reciperauimus fidem quam amiseramus, paenitentiam agentes Christum publice sumus confessi”, quamuis mihi uideatur ut debeant pacem accipere, sed ad consultum uestrum eos demisi, ne quid uidear temere aliquid praesumere. Si quid ergo ex communi consilio placuerit scribite mihi. 19

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Caldonius, the case of Bona was not addressed separately. Rather, the answer provided insight into the general consensus that after their second confession all lapsed should be granted peace, because “they have washed away all their sin and, with the Lord assisting at their side, they have effaced their former stain by their subsequent display of courage.”23 In his consideration of this event, J. Patout Burns noted that “Cyprian failed to distinguish the impurity of this woman who had been forced from that of the men who had willingly complied,” and he concluded that “Cyprian seems to have agreed with Caldonius in accepting a bodily pollution which could be incurred even contrary to a person’s intention and thus required repentance and purification.”24 Indeed, it is very difficult not to concur with this assessment. It would seem, then, that according to the understanding of Cyprian’s church, the very exposure to sacrilegious rites and substances was sufficient enough to establish a change in one’s spiritual identity. On the basis of such an understanding, Cyprian could write some of the most rhetorically charged passages concerning the plight of Christian children whose salvation had been jeopardized, if not altogether annulled, because of their involuntary contact with the sacrificial elements of pagan rituals. In his treatise Concerning the Lapsed, Cyprian used the full inventory of his rhetorical skills to persuade and encourage his Christian community which was threatened due to imperial persecution. Since the possibility of apostasy was a real one, Cyprian the bishop wished to instill in his people a fair dose of holy fear and discipline so that they might stand steadfast in the midst of this danger. On this occasion, Cyprian employed the rhetorical strategy of direct speech, that is, of presenting a direct quote of a (real or imaginative) persona through which the speaker himself addressed the audience.25 The stronger the emotional connection (either negative or positive) the audience had towards this persona the greater the rhetorical effect the speaker may have had. Yet what could be more emotionally charged                                                              23

Cyprian, Letter 25 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 123–124, here 123; tr. Graeme Wilber Clarke, Letters, ACW 43 [New York: Newman Press, 1984], 110): Recte autem sensisti circa inpertiendam fratribus nostris pacem quam sibi ipsi uera paenitentia et dominicae confessionis gloria reddiderunt sermonibus suis iustificati, quibus se ante damnauerant, cum ergo abluerint omne delictum et maculam primam adsistente sibi domino posteriore uirtute deleuerint, iacere ultra sub diabolo quasi prostrati non debent, qui extorres facti et bonis suis omnibus spoliati erexerunt se et cum Christo stare coeperunt. 24 J. Patout Burns, Cyprian the Bishop (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 138. 25 Such a rhetorical device is called sermonicatio, or in Greek dialogos, ēthopoiia, or mimēsis. Cf. Galen O. Rowe, “Style,” in Handbook of Classical Rhetoric in the Hellenistic Period, 330 B.C.–A.D. 400, ed. Stanley E. Porter (Leiden, New York, and Köln: Brill, 1997), 121–157, here 144.

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than a cry for justice coming out of the mouths of innocent babes in front of the judgment seat of God? As Cyprian introduced his literary personae, the true plight of their situation was graphically laid before the eyes of his readers: “even infants, dragged by or carried in the arms of their parents, lost [emphasis added] while yet little ones, what they had gained in the very beginning of their birth.”26 Cyprian presented the pleas of these wronged infants in a style worthy of the best classical tragedies: “It was not we who did anything, nor of ourselves that we left Our Lord’s food and drink out of eagerness to defile ourselves with those unholy things; it was the faithlessness of others which ruined us – we have found our parents our murderers; it was they who denied to us the church as our Mother, and God as our Father, so that, while we were small and lacked foresight and were unconscious of such a crime, we were associated by others in the partnership of their crimes, we were ensnared by the deceit of others.”27 Two distinct and different realities are here placed in opposition: the moral personal innocence of the infants and the contaminating power of pagan sacrifice. Children are the victims of circumstances beyond their control. And now, they must bear the punitive consequences of the actions of others regardless of the injustice of the matter, as the readers of Cyprian may judge. When employing such powerful rhetoric, Cyprian was walking a fine line. In the first place, he clearly intended to impart to his adult audience a sense of the tragedy and of the despair incurred in the ruin of the infants. To achieve this effect, the innocence of these infants had to be upheld as real. Their ruin had to be represented as equally real. Cyprian emphasized both realities. His readers may not be allowed to think that God will take compassion on the infants and spare them from their punishment. Were that possibility allowed, the gravity of the crime committed against them would seem to be but a minor misdeed. In such a case, the rhetorical intent of Cyprian, that his readers not lapse through participation in pagan sacrifice, would be compromised. At the same time, however, Cyprian could not press his rhetoric so far as to suggest that indeed God might be unjust in exacting accountability from those who were victims of the acts of others. Nonetheless, the message is clear. If God was unwilling to ig                                                             26 Cyprian, Concerning the Lapsed 9 (ed. Bévenot, CCL III.1, 225): Ac ne quid deesset ad criminis cumulum, infantes quouque, parentum manibus inpositi uel adtracti, amiserunt paruuli quod in primo statim natiuitatis exordio fuerant consecuti. 27 Cyprian, Concerning the Lapsed 9 (ed. Bévenot, CCL III.1, 225): Nonne illi, cum iudicii dies uenerit. Dicent: ‘Nos nihil fecimus, nec derelicto cibo et poculo Domini ad profana contagia sponte properauimus: perdidit nos aliena perfidia, parentes sensimus parricidas: illi nobis ecclesiam matrem, illi patrem Deum negauerunt ut, dum parui et inprouidi et tanti facinoris ignari per alios ad consortium criminum iungimur, aliena fraude caperemur’?

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nore the pollution of idolatry even in the case of innocent infants, how could any of the adult lapsed believe that their pollution was any less serious and that God would in any way ameliorate his judgment on them? The end-game for Cyprian was to encourage reconciliation with the lapsed and to lead them to a fruitful penance. So Cyprian, the skilled rhetorician, left the judgment scene unresolved. God’s verdict and his response to the lamentations of the infants are not spelled out, and the readers are left in an uncomfortable suspense of guilt, fear, and hope. The example of the infants offered Cyprian a rhetorical venue both to uphold existing theological convictions about the contaminating power of the idols as well as to press his adult congregants towards a desired religious behavior. Yet what about real infants in Cyprian’s church? What was the fate of those infants whom the Christian church baptized, chrismated, and communed, but who, after their unfortunate exposure to pagan rites and sacrilegious substances, were considered by the church as polluted and accursed? In the case of adults Cyprian fought to uphold a personal and publicly visible penance as the only official (and the only theologically justifiable) venue of reconciliation.28 Yet infants, of course, could not undergo penance. It is unfortunate that in his extant writings Cyprian never describes his suggestions for the process of “decontaminating” in cases that concerned infants. One can only speculate about the penitential discipline and purification he might have prescribed in the case of infants. Would they be doomed to be penitents for the rest of their lives? Would they be readmitted through some kind of chrismation or exorcism ritual? Cyprian does not describe his episcopal practice in such instances. As it happened, yet another wave of persecution was looming at the horizon.29 In these new circumstances, Cyprian with his colleagues decided that all those who had formerly lapsed should be immediately readmitted to the peace of the church. From within the peace of the church, they might face the new persecutions with an intact Christian identity, fortified by the                                                              28

Cyprian rejected the immediate exculpatory efficiency of the intercessory letters of martyrs and confessors – a mode of reconciliation, which, in principle, could be successfully applicable to infants. Cf. Cyprian, Letter 15 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 85– 89); Cyprian, Letter 17 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 96–99); Cyprian, Letter 18 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 100–102); Cyprian, Letter 19 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 103–105); and elsewhere. For further discussion of the power struggle between the bishops and confessors concerning the authority to readmit the lapsed to the peace of the church, see Burns, Cyprian, 25–50. 29 In May 253, fearing impending new persecution by Emperor Gallus, the African bishops held a Council that granted immediate peace to all repentant lapsed. The council’s decisions and their theological justifications are recorded in Cyprian’s Letter 57 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIb, pt. III.1, 300–310). For the historical background, see Burns, Cyprian, 8; and Clarke’s introduction to Letters, ACW 46.3, 1–17.

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protection of Christ’s body and blood in the Eucharist. Presumably, this decision also applied to all infants who had come into contact with pagan pollution and for that reason were outside the peace of the church. They too would have been received back and thus granted again what they had formerly “lost while they were little and lacked foresight and were unconscious of the crime.” The church’s bishops had spoken. The polluted and accursed infants were clean and in the state of grace again. In the face of the new threatening circumstances, Bishop Cyprian felt the necessity of pronouncing the verdict of absolution upon all the repentant lapsed – a verdict which earlier on he had withheld from the mouth of God in the tragic scene of Concerning the Lapsed 9. Cyprian was faced with the serious potential, as well as the reality, of Christian apostasy through participation in pagan rites and sacrifices. It was necessary to ensure to the greatest extent possible that the adult members of Cyprian’s church avoided contact with the visible manifestations of pagan religion. How better to fight against this danger than to demonstrate that even unconscious infants could be polluted ritually and possibly be damned for their contact with pagan sacrifices? It was also necessary to ensure that the adult Christians of Cyprian’s church complied with the penitential discipline which their bishop imposed upon them. How better to encourage that submission than to demonstrate that even the pollution acquired by unwilling infants could not remain hidden and unpunished? Social pressure and imperial persecution threatened Christian identity and the integrity of the Christian community by enforced participation in pagan cults. In such a context, the conviction that pagan sacrifice resulted in physical contamination (extending even to helpless infants) served to forewarn the Christian people of the perilous danger of apostasy. It served also to persuade and move those who had already lapsed to submit to the penitential discipline of the church. Perhaps this theological reasoning was not without its cost. The possibility of involuntary infant contamination with the sacrificial elements of paganism might indeed provide polemical and disciplinary benefits for ensuring adult compliance. Yet at the same time, it raised difficult challenges. Some of these problems were practical, such as the need to establish general practical guidelines for the readmission of the lapsed. Other problems were theological and theoretical. The possibility of involuntary contamination with sacrilegious elements by the baptized challenged the conviction concerning the efficacious power of Christian sacraments. Baptism and the Eucharist which, to use the language of Peter Brown, may be described as a “vaccination with the name of Christ,”30 in                                                              30

Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo. A Biography. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1975), 41: “Moreover, Augustine grew up in an age where men thought that they shared the physical world with malevolent demons. They felt this

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the understanding of Cyprian may indeed have turned out to be an ineffective remedy against the potency of pagan sacrificial elements. Augustine of Hippo (354–430) The political context of North African Christianity had changed significantly between the episcopacies of Cyprian and Augustine.31 Even though Christians were being persecuted by Diocletian as late as the beginning of the fourth century, the ascendancy of Christianity was assured when Constantine came to power and the Edict of Milan (313) gave legality to the practice of the Christian religion. With the exception of the brief rule of Julian, a staunchly pro-pagan emperor (361–363), Christianity, or at least its “orthodox” branches, would not again endure oppressive measures from the Roman state during the fourth century.32 Indeed, in 380 Emperor Theodosius I, a convinced Nicene Christian, elevated Nicene Christianity to the status of the official religion of the Empire. To be sure, paganism was still a sizeable and vigorous part of the religious mosaic of the Roman Empire, yet Augustine could now point to the decline of pagan shrines and temples as a fulfillment of the prophecy of the global victory of Christ.33                                                                                                                                                             quite as intensely as we feel the presence of myriads of dangerous bacteria. The ‘name of Christ’ was applied to the Christian like a vaccination. It was the only guarantee of safety … These Christian rites, of course, might influence a grown-up man’s conduct as little as the possession of a certificate of vaccination; but they expressed a mentality that had cut off, as positively ‘unhygienic,’ the pagan religion of the classical past.” 31 For a convenient brief overview of political events that preceeded Augustine’s time, see Jane E. Merdinger, Rome and the African Church in the Time of Augustine (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), 3–27. 32 I am grateful to one of the anonymous reviewers of this article for emphasizing that during later centuries, Christians, including orthodox ones, again came in conflict with the forces of the state. One might only think of the controversies over Chalcedon or iconoclasm. 33 Cf. Augustine, Letter 91:3 (ed. Alois Goldbacher, S. Aurelii Augustini Hipponiensis episcopi Epistulae XXXI–CXXIII, CSEL 34.2 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1898], 427– 435, here 428–429); Augustine, Sermon 159B:16 (ed. François Dolbeau, “Nouveaux sermons de saint Augustin pour la conversion des païens et des donatistes (II): Sermo beati Augustini super uerbis apostoli: O altitudo diuitiarum sapientiae et scientiae dei, et de psalmo LIX: Deus, reppulisti nos et destruxisti nos iratus es et misertus es nobis, et de psalmo CXVIII: Bonum mihi quod humiliasti me, ut discam iustificationes tuas,” Revue des Études Augustiniennes 37 (1991), 271–288, here 285–286); Augustine, Sermon 299A:8 (ed. François Dolbeau, “Nouveaux sermons de saint Augustin pour la conversion des païens et donatistes (IV): Sermo sancti Augustini habitus ad populum in die natalicio apostolorum sanctorum Petri et Pauli,” Revue des Études Augustiniennes 39 (1993), 411–420, here 413); Augustine, Sermon 24:6 (ed. Cyril Lambot, Sancti Aurelii Augustini Sermones de Vetere Testamento, CCL 41, pt. 11.1 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1961], 326–333, here 331–332); Augustine, Sermon 44:2 (ed. Germain Morin, Sancti Caesarii Arelatiensis Sermones, CCL 103.1 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1953], 583–587, here 584); Au-

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The religious life of infants also was affected by such a change in the political status of Christianity. Granted, baptismal initiation into full membership in the Christian community and subsequent admission to the Eucharist was, just as in Cyprian’s time, available and recommended for children as young as newborn infants. However, as can be understood from Augustine’s writings, a sizable number of families preferred to delay committing their children to full membership in the church due to the strict moral and ascetic standards to which the baptized had to conform.34 Since baptism was understood to convey a plenary forgiveness of sins on the very day of baptismal conversion,35 many Christians, to Bishop Augustine’s dismay,36 postponed baptism until the last moments of their life.                                                                                                                                                             gustine, City of God VIII:24 (eds. Bernard Dombart and Alphonse Kalb, Sancti Aurelii Augustini De Ciuitate Dei Libri I–X, CCL 47, pt. 14.1 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1955], 243), and elsewhere. For the numbering of Augustine’s sermons, refer to Pier Franco Beatrice, “Sermones,” in Augustine Through the Ages: An Encyclopedia, tr. Matthew O’Connell, gen. ed. Allan D. Fitzgerald (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, U.K.: William B. Eerdmans, 1999), 773–792. For the numeration of Augustine’s letters, refer to Robert B. Eno, “Epistulae,” in Augustine Through the Ages, 298–310. 34 See the discussion and references in Brown, Augustine, 106–114. Cf. also William Harmless, Augustine and the Catechumenate (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1995), 39–74. 35 Apparently, catechumens who delayed their conversion relied on Ezek 18:21, which was understood to promise an immediate and absolute forgiveness of sins in baptism. 36 To instill in his hearers the urgency of conversion, Augustine frequently coupled Ezek 18:21 with Sir 5:7. See Augustine, Sermon 20:4 (ed. Lambot, CCL 41, pt. 11.1, 261–267, here 265–267); Augustine, Sermon 39:1 (ed. Lambot, CCL 41, pt. 11.1, 489– 492, here 489); Augustine, Sermon 339:7–8 (ed. Cyril Lambot, Sancti Aurelii Augustini, Hipponensis Episcopi, Sermones selecti duodeviginti, in Stromata Patristica et Mediaevalia (SPM) 1, gen. ed. Christine Mohrmann and Johannes Quasten [Brussels: In aedibus Spectrum, 1950], 112–122, here 119–121), and elsewhere. Cf. Augustine, Sermon 352A:7 (ed. François Dolbeau, “Sermons inédits de saint Augustin prêchés en 397 (4ème série): Sermo sancti Augustini de verbis Euangelii impleta sunt tempora et appropinquauit regnum dei paenitemini et credite in Euangelium,” Revue Bénédictine 103 [1993], 313–320, here 318–319; translated as Augustine, Sermon 94A, Edmund Hill, Sermons, The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century (WSA), pt. III, vol. 11, gen. ed. John E. Rotelle [Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1997], 87–94, here 92), where Augustine warns about the dangers of putting off baptism: Ubi est quo dicebas: differo in crastinum, et crastinum in alterum crastinum, quoniam deus promisit mihi indulgentiam dicens: “in qua die conuersus fuerit peccator.” Non enim dixit: si hodie conversus fuerit, sed: “in quacumque die conuersus fuerit”? Respondet tibi deus: indulgentiam tibi promisi, diem crastinum non promisi. An forte uis coniungere et copulare sibi duo promissa, quod promisit deus, et quod promisit mathematicus? Deus enim promisit indulgentiam, mathematicus forte tibi promisit crastinum diem. Obserua, miser: fallitur mathematicus, et damnat te deus. Quam multi subito rapti nec deo satisfacere nec mathematicos accusare permissi sunt. “Where now is what you were saying: “I will put it off till tomorrow, and tomorrow till the day after tomorrow, because God has promised me forgiveness, saying, On whatever day the sinner is converted (Ezek 18:21) – I mean,

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In this way – so many apparently thought – the terrible danger of post-baptismal sins could be avoided, not to mention the grim prospect of having to undergo the rigors of public penance. The new political status of Christianity had opened doors to individual Christians for more lucrative financial and political aspirations. It seems that in the balance of “being in the world yet not of the world,” the scales had tipped slightly in favor of the first precisely because it had become the more viable option. Of course, the initiation of children into the Christian community was still practiced. However, such initiation was not always carried out to the point of a full baptismal commitment. We know that in his infancy, Augustine himself, instead of having undergone full Christian initiation through baptism, chrismation, and the reception of the Eucharist, was merely signed with the sign of the cross on his forehead and salted with the salt of Christ.37 It would be a mistake to interpret such an approach to Christian initiation for infants as the parents’ relinquishing their say in their children’s religious identity and reserving for them a chance to make up their own minds with regard to their religious decisions at a later time. Rather in the changed circumstances of the Christian faith, Christian mothers and fathers might well have expected their children to live long and stabile lives for which the behavioral prescriptions of the church might prove to be too stringent to be practical. Since the status of being a catechumen allowed for more relaxed moral standards,38 the practice of initiation without assuming the full burden of baptismal piety seemed to offer a perfect compromise between God and the world. It seems that at least some Christian parents were ready to present their young ones as catechumens to the protection and care of God rather than to the ranks of the church as fully baptized members.39                                                                                                                                                             he didn’t say: If he is converted today, but On whatever day he is converted”? God answers you: I promised you forgiveness; I did not promise you tomorrow. Or perhaps you want to link up and join together two promises, one made by God, and one made by an astrologer? God, you see, has promised forgiveness, an astrologer, perhaps, has promised you tomorrow. Consider, wretched fellow: the astrologer gets it wrong, and God condemns you. How many have been suddenly snatched away, and not given time either to make amends to God or bring a charge against the astrologers!” 37 Cf. Augustine, Confessions I:17 (ed. Luc Verheijen, Sancti Augustini Confessionum Libri XIII, CCL 27 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1981], 9–10). 38 Cf. Augustine, Confessions I:18 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, 10). 39 It is not exactly clear what benefits and protections were believed to issue from the mere status of the catechumen. One can reasonably agree with Harmless, Catechumenate, 80, who proposed that “these rites, in the popular mind at least, were believed to help ward off attacks from demonic forces.” However, I have not been able to find explicit textual evidence that Augustine would support that opinion. On the contrary, Augustine frequently warned his people against having too high a trust in the protective and sanctifying power of the catechumenate. See Augustine, Tractates on the Gospel of John 50:2

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Unfortunately, the status of catechumen alone did not guarantee salvation. According to Augustine, through the catechumenate, the church had “conceived” a child,40 but the actual new birth would occur only in the subsequent baptism, which in turn would be followed by the “nourishment” of the Eucharist. Augustine adamantly insisted that a catechumen who died an untimely death should not be buried alongside the faithful baptized, because the catechumenate by itself did not ensure eternal salvation.41 The church could offer no consolation to the grieving survivors of the late catechumen. If a catechumen had passed away without obtaining the grace of baptism, then his or her status was as irreconcilable as that of a prematurely aborted fetus. The new life, even though it might have been conceived in the womb of the church, had not in fact been born into a real life in Christ. Given such an understanding, it should not be surprising that the Christian church at Augustine’s time faced numerous cases of emergency baptisms.42 Augustine himself was almost submitted to baptism during a lifethreatening illness in his childhood.43 A friend of Augustine’s, a Manichaean sympathizer, underwent an emergency baptism during a terminal illness.44 The case of the baptism of Augustine’s friend attests to the strong belief in the powerful efficacy of this sacrament. Even though Augustine’s friend was unconscious during the baptismal rite, and even though prior to his sickness he had drifted away from the Christian faith, his baptism was not only considered to be validly administered, but, even more, it resulted                                                                                                                                                             (ed. Radbod Willems, Sancti Aurelii Augustini In Iohannis Euangelium Tractatus CXXLV, CCL 36, pt. 8 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1954], 433–434), where Augustine warns that the sign of Christ on the forehead helps against the devil only if the life of the catechumen conforms to the Christian standards. 40 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 216:1 and 7 (ed. PL 38:1076–1082, here 1076 and 1080), referring specifically to those catechumens who already had expressed a wish to be baptized, and hence were updated to the rank of competentes. Cf. also Augustine, Sermon 260C:1 (ed. Adalbert Hamman, Patrologiae Cursus Completuus, Supplementum (PLS) 2 [Paris: Éditions Garnier Frères, 1960], 483–488, here 483–484), referring to all catechumens. 41 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 142: Appendix (ed. François Dolbeau, “Nouveaux sermons de saint Augustin pour la conversion des païens et des donatistes (II): De sepultura catechumenorum,” Revue des Études Augustiniennes 37 (1991), 294–295). 42 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 293:11 (ed. PL 38:1319–1327, here 1334); Augustine, Explanations of the Psalms 50:10 (ed. Eligius Dekkers and Jean Fraipont, Sancti Aurelii Augustini Enarrationes in Psalmos I–L, CCL 38, pt. 10.1 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1956], 599– 616, here 606); and Augustine, Tractates on the Gospel of John XXXVIII:6 (ed. Willems, CCL 36, pt. 8, 341). 43 Cf. Augustine, Confessions I:17 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, 9–10). 44 Cf. Augustine, Confessions IV:8 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, 43–44).

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in a quite astonishing renewal of Christian faith. Augustine reported of his experience and witness to this unexpected change of heart in his friend: Immediately, upon my first chance to speak to him … I tried to make jokes with him, just as I thought he would joke with me about that baptism which he had received when he was far away in mind and sense. He had already learned that he had received it. But he was horrified at me as if I were an enemy, and he warned me in swift and admirable free45 dom that if I wished to remain his friend, I must stop saying such things to him.

Having witnessed the dramatic results of baptism even in the case of an adult apostate, Augustine never questioned the efficacy of baptism administered to unconscious infants. For no other Christian sacrament did Augustine champion its intrinsic efficacious power so insistently. In his antiDonatist polemic, Augustine fought hard to eliminate any ideas that might put baptismal efficacy under a shadow of doubt, be it the individual unworthiness of the priest or the communal unworthiness of the congregation as a whole. Not long before, Cyprian had thought that through the sacraments of baptism and chrismation, the Holy Spirit could be given only by those who validly possessed it, that is, by the orthodox priest in good moral standing.46 Because of this perceived necessity for an uncompromised “human conduit” for baptismal holiness, Cyprian insisted on the rebaptism of converts from schismatic and heretical groups.47 According to the opinion of Augustine, on the contrary, no human defect or fault could render ineffective the divine grace of baptism, because the grace of baptism derived in an unmitigated manner directly from God.48 Augustine feared that if the sacrament relied on the worthiness of the administrant or the community,                                                              45

Augustine, Confessions IV:8 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27:44; tr. John K. Ryan, The Confessions of Saint Augustine [New York: Doubleday, 1960], 97–98): Statimque, ut primo cum eo loqui potui … temptaui apud illum inridere, tamquam et illo inrisuro mecum baptismum, quem acceperat mente atque sensu absentissimus. Sed tamen iam se accepisse didicerat. At ille ita me exhorruit ut inimicum admonuitque mirabilis et repentina libertate, ut, si amicus esse uellem, talia sibi dicere desinerem. 46 Cf. Cyprian, Letter 65:2–4 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 426–433, here 428– 431); Cyprian, Letter 69:1–3 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 469–496, here 469–474); Cyprian, Letter 70:1–2 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 499–515, here 501–511); Cyprian, The Unity of the Church 4, 6, and 11 (ed. Bévenot, CCL III.1, 249–268, here 251– 252, 253–254, and 257); and elsewhere. 47 Cf. Cyprian, Letter 71:1–3 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 516–522, here 516– 521); Cyprian, Letter 72:1–2 (ed. Diercks, CCL IIIc, pt. III.2, 523–528, here 523–527); and elsewhere. Of course, Cyprian did not regard this practice as “rebaptism,” since the schismatic baptism was not baptism at all. 48 Cf. Augustine, On Baptism III:15 (ed. Michael Petschenig, Sancti Aurelii Augustini scripta contra Donatistas: Psalmus contra partem Donati; Contra epistulam Parmeniani libri tres; De baptismo libri septem, CSEL 51.1 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1908], 145–375, here 205–206).

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then the human element would have a power to jeopardize the Divine sacramental power. For him such a consequence was theologically absurd as well as practically unsustainable. Even those who were baptized in schismatic or heretical churches were to be regarded as truly baptized, provided that they had been baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.49 Similarly, Augustine insisted that the baptismal grace could not be hindered by any unworthiness in the individual who was to be baptized. Even the catechumen who came to baptism with less-than-pure motives, or the infant who was presented by a sponsor with dubious motives, was admitted to the font.50 After all, the true disposition of the human heart – be it that of the catechumen or that of the priest administering baptism – cannot be known except by God. In all cases involving doubt, Augustine abided by the dictum of Rom. 14:1, “Receive the one who is weak in faith, not with disputes over opinions.” These theological convictions from his anti-Donatist polemic are repeated in Augustine’s later writings when he addresses infant baptism during the Pelagian controversy. All that was needed for the infant to be baptized was a Christian sponsor who cared enough to bring the child to the font of regeneration. Nobody should deny baptism to infants because they lack the capacity to consent, to repent, or even to comprehend what was happening. Augustine writes: Someone will say, “… Can such little ones repent of anything?” To this we answer: If they should not be called repentant, because they do not yet have a mind capable of repentance, they should not be called believers, because they likewise do not yet have a mind capable of believing. But if they are correctly called believers, because they in some sense profess the faith by the words of their parents, why should we not also first regard them as repentant, since we see that they renounce the devil and this world by the words of these same parents? All this takes place in hope by the power of the sacrament and of the divine grace which Christ has given to the church.51

                                                             49 Granted, the sin of heresy persisted after the heretical baptism; it could be wiped away only after the heretic’s conversion to orthodox Christianity. 50 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 279 (ed. Hamman, PLS 2, 657–660); Augustine, On the Instruction of Beginners 9 (ed. Johann B. Bauer, Michael P. J. Van den Hout, Ernest Evans, and others, De Catechizandis Rudibus, in Sancti Aurelii Augustini De fide rerum invisibilium; Enchiridion ad Laurentium De fide et spe et caritate; De catechizandis rudibus; Sermo ad catechumenos de symbolo; Sermo de disciplina Christiana; Sermo de utilitate ieiunii; Sermo de excidio urbis Romae; De haeresibus, CCL 46, pt.13.2 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1964], 121–178, here 129–130); Augustine, Letter 227 (ed. Alois Goldbacher, S. Aurelii Augustini Hipponiensis episcopi epistulae CLXXXV–CCLXX, CSEL 57.4 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1911], 481–483); and Augustine, Letter 98:5 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 520–533, here 526–527). 51 Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:25 (ed. Karl F. Urba and Joseph Zycha, Sancti Aurelii Augustini De peccatorum meritis et remis-

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Nor, of course, was baptism refused because the child was restless and crying. After all, Augustine had to acknowledge that infant resistance to the sacrament was unconscious, even if on several occasions he explained this behavior as an indication of the sinful state of the unbaptized infant.52 On the contrary, the weakness of the infant was thought to be countered by the faith of the church who as the Mother lent her faithful heart and confessing lips53 to those who were neither able to speak nor believe for themselves. However, if the faith of adults could support and strengthen the weakness of infants, could there be an adverse side to this theory? Could the sinfulness or unbelief of an individual serve to impair the spiritual health of a baptized infant? This was the very question addressed to Augustine in a letter by Bishop Boniface of Cataqua: “How does the faith of their [infants’] parents help them, when they are baptized, if their infidelity cannot do them any harm?”54 Boniface asked this question, specifically referring to a real-life situation in which Christian parents endeavored to heal the physical illnesses of their baptized children by means of some healing charm, spell, or amulet, i.e., through means that the Christian church opposed and prohibited. Augustine was quite familiar with the fact that his Christian congregants at times entrusted their physical wellbeing to various cures and healers that                                                                                                                                                             sione et de baptismo parvulorum ad Marcellinum libri tres; De spiritu et littera liber unus; De natura et gratia liber unus; De natura et origine animae libri quattuor; Contra duas epistulas Pelagianorum libri quattuor, CSEL 60 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1913], 3–151, here 24–25; tr. Roland J. Teske, Answer to the Pelagians: The Punishment and Forgiveness of Sins and the Baptism of Little Ones, The Spirit and the Letter, Nature and Grace, The Perfection of Human Righteousness, The Deeds of Pelagius, The Grace of Christ and Original Sin, The Nature and Origin of the Soul, WSA, pt. I, vol. 23 [Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 1997], 47): Dicet aliquis: quomodo ergo et ipsi uocantur in paenitentiam numquid tantillos potest aliquid paenitere? Huic respondetur: si propterea paenitentes dicendi non sunt, quia sensum paenitendi nondum habent, nec fideles dicendi sunt, quia similiter sensum credendi nondum habent. Si autem propterea recte fideles uocantur, quoniam fidem per uerba gestantium quodammodo profitentur, cur non prius etiam paenitentes habeantur, cum per eorundem uerba gestantium diabolo et huic saeculo renuntiare monstrantur? Totum hoc in spe fit ui sacramenti et diuinae gratiae, quam dominus donauit ecclesiae. See also Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:28 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 27). 52 Cf. Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:36 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 35); and Augustine, Sermon 293:10 (ed. PL 38:1333– 1334). 53 Cf. Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:38 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 37). 54 Augustine, Letter 98:1 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 520; tr. Roland J. Teske, Letters 1–99, WSA, pt. II, vol. 1 [Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2001], 426): Quaeris a me, … quo modo eis [i.e. paruulis] prosit, cum baptizantur, parentum fides, quorum eis non potest obesse perfidia.

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were not allowed by the overseers of the church. Augustine’s sermons testify to the practice of laity resorting to various non-Christian forms of healing, sometimes with considerable frequency.55 This behavior constituted as grave an apostasy for Bishop Augustine as did the offering of sacrifices to pagan gods under persecution for Bishop Cyprian. Lurking behind the charms, spells, and amulets Augustine perceived the same demonic agency that worked spiritual harm behind the altars and shrines of Roman paganism. Augustine insisted that if a Christian refused the temptation to resort to demonic charms and spells and consequently died of the illness, he or she could be securely counted among the ranks of the martyrs.56 Although state imposed pagan worship was no longer a threat to the Christian faithful, Augustine had no doubt that the same demonic assault upon the Christian faith remained a reality of spiritual warfare. The Devil now simply focused his attention on the private and domestic lives of the Christians. What during the time of Cyprian took place publically in the amphitheater, now during the time of Augustine took place privately at the sickbed of Christians. The necessity to uphold the boundaries of Christian identity had not lost its urgency at the time of Augustine; it had merely changed its form. Just as Cyprian had to instruct and discipline his congregation concerning any contact with non-Christian religious expressions, Augustine had to instruct his people concerning the spiritual dangers arising from the use of pagan methods when ensuring one’s health or prosperity. After all, Christians were not destitute of their own instruments designed to promote their physical wellbeing. As an alternative to pagan charms and amulets, Christians possessed martyr shrines and relics, intercessions of the bishops, monks, and holy men, and last but not least, the miraculous healing power of the Christian sacraments themselves.57 To Augustine’s mind, the fact that the laity resorted to non-Christian healing remedies constituted nothing other than an apostasy from Christ.                                                              55 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 306E:7 (ed. François Dolbeau, “Nouveaux sermons de saint Augustin pour les fêtes de martyrs: Sermo sancti Augustini episcopi de natali sancti Quadrati martyris,” Analecta Bollandiana 110 [1992], 296–304, here 301); Augustine, Sermon 286:7 (ed. PL 38:1297–1301, here 1300–1301); and Augustine, Sermon 318:3 (ed. PL 38:1437–1440, here 1439–1440). 56 See again the references in the preceding note. 57 Augustine himself had witnessed several miraculous healings. In his sermons and writings, he was by no means shy in publicizing the power of Christian healing means. Cf. Augustine, Letter 78:3 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 331–345, here 334–336); Augustine, City of God XXII:8 (ed. Bernard Dombart and Alphonse Kalb, Sancti Aurelii Augustini De Ciuitate Dei Libri XI–XXII, CCL 48, pt. 14.2 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1955], 824– 827); Augustine, Sermon 317:3 (ed. PL 38:1435–1437, here 1436); Augustine, Sermon 275:3 (ed. PL 38:1254–1255, here 1255); Augustine, Sermon 286:4 (ed. PL 38:1299); and elsewhere.

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Yet Augustine’s approach to the problem of contamination through contact with demonic “instruments” differed from that of Cyprian more fundamentally. There was not only a change of setting, from the public sphere of ritual cult to the more domestic and private sphere of the household. Through his polemical encounters with Manichaeism, Augustine had to reevaluate the question of spiritual “infection” or “contamination” by means of physical substances. The devaluation or outright rejection of the physical reality of the world by Manichaeism was a position impossible to uphold for Augustine. As a Christian believer, he was committed to the proposition that all created substances were intrinsically good because they had been created by God. As Augustine struggled to develop a Christian answer to the dilemma of the existence of evil in an essentially good cosmos, more and more he came to transfer the seat of evil from the material sphere to that of the will. As a result, Augustine was able to assert that the res of the universe was intrinsically good, while yet allowing the possibility that an agent with defective will might subject the things of creation to an unlawful use.58 It would be difficult to overestimate the implications of Augustine’s theory of evil on his understanding of ritual pollution through substances. Throughout his writings, one encounters numerous passages in which Augustine strongly denies any possibility of ritual pollution via a purely physical contact. In these contexts, Augustine repeatedly cites Titus 1:15 to support his theory that physical substances in and of themselves cannot pollute human beings: “To the pure all things are pure, but to the corrupt and unbelieving nothing is pure; their very minds and consciences are corrupted.” In Sermon 149 Augustine offered his standard explanation: “Everything is established as being clean or unclean, not in virtue of physical contact, but in virtue of purity of conscience.”59 This axiom had far-ranging consequences. Augustine could now argue that no food was unclean if                                                              58

The amount of secondary literature addressing Augustine’s theory of evil is immense. Suggested introductory readings include Donald A. Cress, “Augustine’s Privation Account of Evil: A Defense,” Augustinian Studies 20 (1989), 109–128; Gillian R. Evans, Augustine on Evil (New York and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); John Hick, Evil and the God of Love (London: Collins, 1979); J. Van Winden, “Spiritual or Intelligible Matter in Plotinus and Augustine,” Vigiliae Christianae 16 (1962), 205–215 and 18 (1964), 144–145; John P. Maher, “Saint Augustine and Manichean Cosmogony,” Augustinian Studies 10 (1979), 91–104; and Arthur H. Armstrong, St. Augustine and Christian Platonism (Villanova, PA: Villanova University Press, 1967). 59 Augustine, Sermon 149:3 (ed. PL 38:800–807, here 801; tr. Edmund Hill, Sermons 148–183, WSA, pt. III, vol. 5 [New Rochelle, NY: New City Press, 1992], 19–29, here 20): Omne ergo in his rebus siue mundum siue immundum, non in contactu carnis, sed in conscientiae puritate, aut in macula constitutum est.

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the conscience of the one who ate it was clean.60 It was not the physical contact of an act of violence (such as rape) that polluted but the possible hidden consent of the victim.61 Finally, no rituals and ceremonies, no matter how sacrilegious, pollute merely through physical contact.62 What matters is the participation of the will. No physical contact of any sort pollutes, because pollution has nothing to do with the physical or material realities of creation. Purity is a virtue of soul, and the only way to soil the soul is through sin, that is, a perverse movement of the will away from the highest good.63 This opinion was upheld even when Augustine explained such scriptural passages as Leviticus 22:4 (“One who touches something impure, is impure”) or Isaiah 52:11 (“Touch nothing unclean”). Augustine clarified: “One touches [the impure] by consent of the will.”64 Consequent                                                             60 Cf. Augustine, On the Catholic and the Manichean ways of life I:71 (ed. Johann B. Bauer, Sancti Aurelii Augustini opera: De moribus ecclesiae Catholicae et de moribus Manichaeorum libri duo, CSEL 90 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1992], 76); Augustine, Letter 55:36 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 169–213, here 210–212); and Augustine, Explanations of the Psalms 125:6 (ed. Eligius Dekkers and Jean Fraipont, Sancti Aurelii Augustini Enarrationes in Psalmos CI–CL, CCL 40, pt. 10.3 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1956], 1844–1856, here 1849–1850). 61 Cf. Augustine, City of God I:18 (ed. Dombart and Kalb, CCL 47, pt. 14.1, 18–20). See also Augustine’s discussion in On Lying on the possible defilement of a victim’s body through such acts as rape. Initially (On Lying 15), Augustine shows leniency towards a person who would rather tell a lie than have his body be defiled. However, already by the end of this treatise, Augustine has cemented his unwavering theory that the chastity of the mind is to be valued above that of the body. In On Lying 41, Augustine summarizes his conclusion: “Therefore, even corporeal chastity cannot be corrupted except in the mind, by which neither consenting nor permitting one can by no means rightly say that corporeal chastity is violated, no matter what might be perpetrated in the body by another’s lust.” Ed. Joseph Zycha, Sancti Aurelii Augustini De fide et symbolo; De fide et operibus; De agone christiano; De continentia; De bono coniugali; De sancta virginitate; De bono viduitatis; De adulterinis coniugiis lib. II; De mendacio; Contra mendacium; De opere monachorum; De divinatione daemonum; De cura pro mortuis gerenda; De patientia, CSEL 41 (Vienna: F. Tempsky, 1900), 411–466, here 463: Etiam corporalis ergo pudicitia corrumpi nisi in animo non potest: quo non consentiente neque permittente nullo modo recte dicitur uiolari pudicitia corporalis, quidquid in corpore fuerit aliena libidine perpetratum. 62 Cf. Augustine, Explanations of the Psalms 78:4 (ed. Eligius Dekkers and Jean Fraipont, Enarrationes in Psalmos LI–C, CCL 39, pt. X.2 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1956], 1097– 1111, here 1101–1102). 63 Cf. Augustine’s statements in Against Felix, a Manichee II:17 and 20 (ed. Joseph Zycha, Sancti Aurelii Augustini Contra Felicem; De natura boni; Epistula Secundini; Contra Secundinum; Euodii De fide contra Manichaeos; Commonitorium Augustini, CSEL 25.2 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1892], 801–852, here 846 and 850): Anima … per peccatum polluta est”; and “Pollutam dicimus animam ex uoluntate peccati. 64 Augustine, Letter 108:7 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 612–634, here 619): Scriptum est enim: “exite inde et immundum ne tetigeritis;” et “qui tetigerit pollutum, … pollutus

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ly, pagan theaters and pagan religious rites pollute those who attend them only because the individual has consented to worship the demons or has willed to imitate the sinful actions of pagan gods.65 With the force of this one idea Augustine demystified all magic, charms, amulets, socalled rites of purification, and any other devices of ancient pagan religion. For Augustine, no physical realities could convey a spiritual power, except the Christian sacraments and relics, because in them operated the only real spiritual power – the power of the one true God. All other “powers,” be they human or angelic, could exert their influence solely through solicitation or extortion of the willful consent of an individual. Only when such consent is offered, can the material objects become the instruments of spiritual or physical harm. For charms and amulets to work, one must first believe that they work and will that they work. This view of Augustine’s is of utmost significance when one considers the efficacy and incorruptibility of baptismal grace in infants. In his polemics against Pelagians, Augustine makes it abundantly clear that infants lack any power of will or comprehension. In his view, therefore, they are wholly innocent in regard to actual sins, that is, transgressions through acts of will and intent.66 Augustine ridicules any attempt to argue to the contrary: Hence, it will not take a great effort to refute those who say that little ones are baptized in order to be forgiven the personal sin which they have contracted in this life, not the sin which they inherited from Adam. For, when they reflect a little by themselves, without wanting to be argumentative, on how absurd and unworthy of discussion their claim really is, they will immediately change their position. But if they refuse to do so, we should not place so little hope in the human mind that we fear that they will persuade anyone of their position. … After all, words and proofs are superfluous for establishing the inno-

                                                                                                                                                            est.” Sed consensione uoluntatis, qua deceptus est homo primus, non conuersatione corporis, qua et Iudas osculatus est Christum. 65 Augustine, City of God VI:6 and VII:21 (ed. Dombart and Kalb, CCL 47, pt. 14.2, 172–174 and 202–203). 66 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 115:4 (ed. PL 38:655–657, here 657; tr. Edmund Hill, Sermons 94A–147A, WSA, pt. III, vol. 4 [Brooklyn, NY: New City Press, 1992], 201): Ubi isti [i.e. paruuli] perierant? Quantum ad ipsos proprie attinet, innocentes uideo, reatum quaero. Unde? Apostolum audio: “per unum hominem intrauit peccatum in orbem terrarium.” … In ramo adhuc nihil commiserunt: sed in radice perierunt. … [paruuli] nihil habent mali, nisi quod de fonte traxerunt: nihil habent mali, nisi quod de origine traxerunt. “As far as they are personally concerned, I see them as innocent; I look more deeply for the guilt. Where? I listen to the apostle: ‘Through one man sin entered into the world.’ (Rom 5:12) … They have not yet committed anything in the branch, but they have already perished in the root. … Infants have no evil in them but what they have contracted from the source; they have no evil but what they have contracted from their origin.” Cf. also Augustine, Sermon 181:1 (ed. PL 38:979–984, here 979); Augustine, On Grace and Free Will 44 (ed. PL 44:881–912, here 909–910).

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cence of infants in the life which they live in their own persons immediately after their birth, if the human mind fails to recognize it, unaided by the help of any argument.67

For this reason, the church even foregoes the customary imposition of prebaptismal penance for infants.68 After all, what benefit is gained by demanding obedience to commandments from one who cannot yet comprehend the commandments?69 It is only through acts of will that, in addition to ori                                                             67

Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:22 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 21–22; tr. Teske, Answer to the Pelagians, 45–46): Quapropter qui dicunt paruulos ideo baptizari, ut hoc eis remittatur quod in hac uita proprium contraxerunt, non quod ex Adam traduxerunt, non magno molimine refellendi sunt. Quando enim secum ipsi paululum sine certandi studio cogitauerint, quam sit absurdum nec dignum disputatione quod dicunt, continuo sententiam commutabunt. Quod si noluerint, non usque adeo de humanis sensibus desperandum est, ut metuamus, ne hoc cuipiam persuadeant. … Neque enim sermone uel documentis opus est, quibus innocentia probetur infantium, quantum ad eorum pertinet uitam, quam recenti ortu in se ipsis agunt, si eam non agnoscit sensus humanus nullis amminiculis cuiusquam disputationis adiutus. In fact, Augustine came to see this developmental impediment of human infants as a defect due to the corruptive power of Adam’s sin. Cf. Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:67–69 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 67– 70). 68 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 351:2 (ed. PL 39:1535–1549, here 1537). 69 Cf. Augustine, Sermon 165:7 (ed. PL 38:902–907, here 906; tr. Hill, Sermons, WSA, pt. III, vol. 5, 205): Quare ergo moriuntur paruuli infantes? Nam, si dicam, quare moriuntur grandes homines? dicturus es mihi, peccauerunt. Ergo de maiorum aetate non disputabo: paruulorum infantiam contra te testem citabo. … Ecce infantes in suis utique operibus innocentes sunt, nihil secum nisi quod de primo homine traherunt habentes. … Rogo te, quando peccauerunt? Quomodo peccauerunt? Bonum et malum quid sit nesciunt. Peccatum accipiunt, qui praeceptum non capiunt? Proba mihi peccatores infantes: quod dixisti, uere quia oblitus es quod fuisti, proba mihi peccata infantium. An quia plorant, peccant? Si motus isti peccata sunt, ampliores peccatores in baptismo fiunt; quia cum baptizantur, uehementissime reluctantur. Quare illis in tanta reluctatione non imputatur peccatum, nisi quia nullum est adhuc uoluntatis arbitrium? “So why do infant children die? I mean, if I said, “Why do adults die?” he would say to me, “They have sinned.” So I won’t argue about people who have come of age; I will summon to testify against you the infancy of the babies. … Here we have infants, obviously innocent in their actions, having nothing sinful about them apart from what they have contracted from the first man. … How have they sinned? They don’t know what good and evil are. Do they get saddled with sin, though they can’t even understand the commandment? Prove to me that infants are sinners. That’s what you said, in truth because you have forgotten what you were; prove to my satisfaction the sin of infants. Or is it because they cry, that they sin? Because with moments like those of dumb animals they push away what annoys them, accept what gives them pleasure, is that why they sin? If such motions are sins, they become much more thorough sinners in baptism, because when they are baptized, they struggle against it most vigorously. Why is such resistance not imputed to them as sin, if not because there is still no deliberate choice of will?”

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ginal sin, a person can become guilty also of actual, personal sin,70 but infants do not have developed yet the faculties of reason and will. In view of this, infants do not have it within their powers to sabotage their baptismal grace. Nor are they able to effect any change in their religious identity through their own volition. In other words, infants alone of all those who are baptized are incapable of the sin of sacrilege.71 Although they may still be victims of demonic attacks (as, for example, infant martyrs), they are not culpable for this ordeal and hence will not receive the judgment of eternal damnation.72 Since infants are free of actual sin, it is of no surprise that when Boniface inquired about the possible harm done to baptized infants through pagan healing practices, the whole discussion centered on the question of the parents’ infidelity. Any harm done to the child could not arise through an allegedly intrinsic evil within the pagan ritual, for nothing is intrinsically evil, including the material tools of paganism. Nor could any harm come to the child because of the child’s own personal sin, for the child itself could not commit actual sin. The question remained whether or not the sins of the parents could harm the baptized child. Augustine’s understanding was based squarely on the presuppositions of baptismal efficacy and the willfulness of personal sin: … someone who has been once born through the carnal pleasure of others and has been once reborn through the spiritual will of others cannot thereafter be held bond by the bonds of another’s sinfulness, if he has not consented to it by his own will. … But a soul does not sin when its parents or anyone else performs for it the sacrilegious rites of the demons, while it knows nothing of this.73

                                                             Cf. Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:12 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 13). 71 Unfortunately, this “immunity” vanishes at the first signs of comprehension. When the child begins to understand its actions, it is in danger of committing actual sin and so becoming guilty of idolatry. In his famous passage from Confessions I:11 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, 6), Augustine finds that even a toddler (infans, that is, one who is not yet able to speak, but apparently is already capable of discerning surrounding realities to a small degree) can be jealous of his conursling. Cf. Augustine, Sermon 115:4 (ed. PL 38:657), where Augustine observes, Qui maior est aetate, maior est et iniquitate “Superior in age means superior also in wickedness.” 72 Cf. Augustine, City of God XXI:14 and XXII:22 (ed. Dombart and Kalb, CCL 48, pt. 14.2, 780 and 844). 73 Augustine, Letter 98:1 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 520–533, here 520–521; tr. Teske, WSA, pt. II, vol. 1, 426–432, here 426–427): Ubi respondeo tantam illius sacramenti, hoc est baptismi salutaris esse uirtutem in sancta compage corporis Christi, ut semel generatus per aliorum carnalem uoluptatem, cum semel regeneratus fuerit per aliorum spiritalem uoluntatem, deinceps non possit uinculo alienae iniquitatis obstringi, cui 70

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In baptism the sole effective operative agent is the Holy Spirit, not the will of the parents. Augustine explains: “For scripture does not say, ‘unless one is reborn from the will of the parents or from the faith of the godparents or of the ministers,’ but unless one is reborn of water and the Holy Spirit (John 3:5).”74 The will of the parents benefits the baptized child because as members of the “society formed by one and the same Spirit” they were moved by the Holy Spirit when they brought their child to baptism. On the contrary, with respect to the actual sins of an individual, everyone is on his or her own, because everyone is separated from others by his or her proper will. “One does not have a share in sin through the will of another in the same way as one shares in the grace through the unity of the Holy Spirit.”75 Thus, Augustine approaches the question of spiritual harm and profanation through contact with pagan rituals and objects with different theological assumptions and conclusions than did Cyprian. For Cyprian, the faithful were in constant danger of unconscious contamination with pagan ritual or objects; for Augustine the faithful could not be contaminated by any material object in and of itself. The nature of all created things was good, and the inherent efficacy of the Christian sacraments was certain because God himself was the effective cause. The era of magic spells, unclean objects, and any other devices that could “bind” a person irrespectively of his or her will, as far as Augustine was concerned, belonged to the superstition (or, in the case of the Old Testament ritual laws, to the prophetic “shadows”) of the past. Augustine, however, was aware of the great respect and authority that Cyprian continued to enjoy in North Africa. In the fourth and fifth centuries, it was Cyprian, not Augustine, who was the great father of the North African Church. It is to the abiding credit of Augustine that he undertook the task of incorporating the legacy of Cyprian into the new order of postConstantinian Christianity. In this way, he asserted the essential continuity of the church in North Africa and could claim the authority of Cyprian also for his own theological and pastoral program. Thus, Augustine insisted that if Cyprian is to be “understood correctly,” then the tragic Last Judgment scene of infants known from Cyprian’s Concerning the Lapsed 9 may not necessarily be so tragic as a first reading might suggest. Augustine seized the opportunity to fill in the blanks for the verdict of God, which Cyprian                                                                                                                                                             nulla sua uoluntate consentit. … Non autem peccat ipsa, cum parentes ei omnino nescienti uel quilibet alius adhibet sacrilegia daemoniorum. 74 Augustine, Letter 98:2 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 521; tr. Teske, WSA pt. II, vol. 1, 427): Non enim scriptum est: nisi quis renatus fuerit ex parentum uoluntate aut ex offerentium uel ministrantium fide, sed: “nisi quis renatus fuerit ex aqua et spiritu.” 75 Augustine, Letter 98:2 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 522): Non enim sic communicatur culpa per alterius uoluntatem, quem ad modum communicatur gratia per sancti spiritus unitatem.

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so skillfully had left out: “For if it is truly said, ‘We have done nothing,’ and the soul that has sinned will die (Ezek 18:4), then they [i.e. the baptized infants who had come into contact with pagan sacrifices] will not perish under God’s just judgment.”76 When read through the eyes of Augustine, Cyprian did not intend to suggest that the baptismal grace of those infants who had been brought to pagan sacrifices by their parents had been compromised. Such infants had not lost any of their baptismal grace, even if Cyprian had used the verb “to lose.” In a fascinating exegetical tango, Augustine, himself a skillful rhetorician, redirected the steps of his predecessor into a new pattern: He [i.e. Cyprian] said, ‘They lost it,’ insofar as it pertained to the crime of those who were forcing them to lose it. ‘They lost it’ in the mind and will of those who committed so great an outrage upon them. For, if they had lost it in themselves, they would, of course, have remained destined for damnation by the divine sentence without any defense.77

What about the other case reported by Cyprian? How must one explain the physical reaction of a baptized infant girl who could not stomach the Eucharistic elements after her contamination with pagan sacrifices? Augustine insisted that her reaction was a divine miracle designed to reveal the sins of the adults who brought her to the pagan sacrifices. Augustine would disabuse Boniface of any idea that her vomiting had been occasioned by any natural and mutual repulsion between holy and profane substances: “God did this so that the adults would not think that they did not sin against the little ones by that sin, but would understand rather that they were admonished in a miraculous way through that somehow significant gesture of the body of speechless infants.”78

Paradoxically, the dormant reason of infants – the impediment that Augustine so readily bewailed on numerous occasions79 – ended up functioning                                                              Augustine, Letter 98:3 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 524; tr. Teske, WSA pt. II, vol. 1, 428): Si enim uere dicitur: “nos nihil fecimus”; “anima quae peccauerit, ipsa morietur”, nec illi peribunt sub dei iusto iudicio. 77 Augustine, Letter 98:3 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 524): “Amiserunt, dixit, quantum adtinuit ad illorum scelus, a quibus amittere coacti sunt; amiserunt in eorum mente et uoluntate, qui in illos tantum facinus commiserunt; nam si in se ipsis amisissent, remansissent utique diuina sententia sine ulla defensione damnandi. 78 Augustine, Letter 98:4 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 525; tr. Teske, WSA pt. II, vol. 1, 428–429): “Ideo mihi uidetur diuinitus factum, ne maiores putarent nihil se in paruulos illa iniquitate peccare, sed potius intellegerent per illum significantem quodam modo gestum corporis eorum, qui loqui non poterant, se mirabiliter admoneri, quid ipsi facere deberent.” 76

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as an impenetrable shield around the religious identity of the baptized “little ones.” If the only way to sin was through a conscious consent and if personal sin was the only way to sully one’s baptismal grace, then, following the thought of Augustine, baptized infants were as close to the perfection of holiness as any human being in this mortal life could ever be. Conclusions The power of the past to extend its influence into the future lies in the power of the future to redefine and use the past. Cyprian’s message was relevant to the circumstances of his time. Some two centuries later, Augustine used the “deposit of faith of the church” and reappropriated the words of Cyprian to speak to a new set of circumstances. Yet, as this article has confirmed, the continuity of the church as institution does not necessarily imply a one-hundred-percent-accurate continuity of ideas and practices. During Cyprian’s episcopacy, infants lived in a dangerous world. Even if they were fortunate enough to be brought to the saving sacraments of the church, their newly gained religious identity could be damaged or even taken away altogether by an unwilling or unconscious contact with demonic sacrilegious substances. For Cyprian, the “Damocles’ Sword” hanging over the heads of the baptized newborns was the evil in the world around them. In the world of Augustine’s episcopacy, on the other hand, baptized infants were sound and safe in their religious identity. For a brief moment in their life, the only gate through which the devil could harm their baptismal identity, namely the gate of a conscious intent, remained closed. However, each and every day of an infant’s life brought him or her closer to the awakening of volitional and intellectual powers. As Augustine knew well, these powers would in fact succumb to the sin of concupiscence that, according to him, was and remained an inherent defect in all descendants of

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Cf. Augustine’s early sentiments expressed in The Soliloquies II:36 (ed. Wolfgang Hörmann, Sancti Aurelii Augustini Opera: Soliloquiorum libri duo; De inmortalitate animae; De quantitate animae, CSEL 89 [Vienna, Austria: F. Tempsky, 1986], 3–98, here 98; tr. Thomas F. Gilligan, Writings of Saint Augustine: The Happy Life; Answer to Skeptics; Divine Providence and the Problem of Evil; Soliloquies, The Fathers of the Church 1 [New York: CIMA, 1948], 425): Non potest satis dici, quantum hoc malum [i.e. ueritas obliuionem ] metuendum sit. Qualis enim erit illa aeterna uita uel quae mors non ei praeponenda est, si sic uiuit anima, ut uidemus eam uiuere in puero mox nato? Ut de illa uita nihil dicam, quae in utero agitur; non enim puto esse nullam. “One cannot sufficiently emphasize how much this evil [i.e. the oblivion regarding the Truth] is to be feared. What kind of eternal life will that be or what death ought not to be preferred to it, if the soul so lives as we see it living in a newly born infant, not to speak of the life which goes on within the womb, for I do believe there is life there.”

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Adam, even in those who were baptized.80 For Cyprian, the greatest threat to baptized infants was the pagan world outside the church. For Augustine, the greatest threat for baptized infants was their own nascent will. To put it somewhat provocatively: for Cyprian, the best thing for a baptized infant would be to have its cradle put beside the holy altars of the Catholic church, while for Augustine, the best thing for a baptized infant would be…a premature death.

                                                             80 Cf. Augustine, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism I:70, II:4, and II:44–46 (ed. Urba and Zycha, CSEL 60, 70–71, 73–75, and 115–117).

Mother-Child Bonding in the Greek and Latin Fathers of the Church Carole Monica C. Burnett Few would dispute the notion that the quality and strength of a mother’s bond to her child are vital factors in a child’s welfare and development. It is therefore worthwhile to examine the attitude of the early church toward this bond. The social historian’s observations concerning family relationships in Late Antiquity, as these relationships actually were, lie beyond the scope of the present essay, which is confined to patristic theology and addresses the moral exhortation offered for the edification of Christian mothers. What, according to ancient Christian writers, should an ideal mother feel toward her child? Should the mother’s happiness be contingent upon the child’s? Is sacrificial maternal devotion a form of obedience to God, and thus to be cultivated, admired, and aspired to? If so, what should be the purpose of such sacrifice?1

1 For a study of the evolution of motherhood as a social construct, see Clarissa W. Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation: Christian Motherhood in the Middle Ages (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1991). The Victorian era regarded maternal sacrifice, for the sake of children’s health and happiness, as a summum bonum in itself. For example, the American poet William Herbert Carruth wrote at the turn of the twentieth century, “A mother starved for her brood / … And Jesus on the rood / Some call it Consecration /And others call it God”; from his poem “Each in His Own Tongue,” in Each in His Own Tongue and Other Poems (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1909); first printed in New England Magazine, 1902. Blindly sacrificial motherhood was preached as a moral requirement by Helen E. Brown in The Mother and her Work, published by the American Tract Society in 1862. Brown declared, “The pale, thin face and the feeble step. … But the ‘true mother’ yields herself uncomplainingly, yea, cheerfully, to the wholesome privation, solitude, and self-denial allotted her. … Now the library is seldom visited, the cherished studies are neglected, the rattle and the doll are substituted for the pen. Her piano is silent, while she chants softly and sweetly the soothing lullaby”; quoted in the unsigned article “A Spasm of Sense,” The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 11, no. 66 (April 1863), accessed through Project Gutenberg at http://infomotions.com/etexts/gutenberg/dirs/1/2/ 0/2/12023/12023.htm (on October 30, 2008).

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The First-Century Background The Haustafeln of the deutero-Pauline epistles to the Ephesians and Colossians and 1 Peter2 offer, among the injunctions aimed at wives, husbands, fathers, children, slaves, and masters, no instruction or exhortation specifically addressed to mothers. Instead there is a deafening silence. The brief mention in Titus 2:4 of “train[ing] the young women to love their husbands and children” is set in the context of prescribing rules of decorum for both sexes of any age, and is followed by a list of qualities, such as chastity, kindness, and submissiveness, that a proper young Christian matron should display.3 The tantalizingly obscure precept in 1 Tim 2:15, “woman will be saved through bearing children,”4 presents maternity not as a positive value in itself but as a field of endeavor in which a woman may exercise the virtues of faith, love (ajgavph), holiness, and modesty, thus compensating for the weakness of Eve.5 The obvious reason for such silence on the topic of mothering is that maternal devotion is assumed to be a natural phenomenon, not a virtue to be cultivated. “Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?” asks Second Isaiah (Isa 49:15) rhetorically, pointing to a mother’s love as such a universally recognized occurrence that it can be used in an instructive analogy illustrating the eternal love of God.6 The accounts of the scheming and striving of Sarah on behalf of Isaac, of Hagar for Ishmael, and of the mother of Moses, take it for granted that readers will not see anything puzzling or unnatural in such behavior. The Old Testament background to the New thus portrays maternal love as innate and a fact of nature, which is contrasted with the gro-

2

Eph 5:2–6:9; Col 3:18–4.1; and 1 Pet 2:18–3.7. The translation of Scripture used here and elsewhere follows the RSV, unless otherwise indicated. 4 Greek: [hJ gunh;] swqhvsetai de; dia; th`~ teknogoniva~, from The Greek New Testament, ed. K. Aland, M. Black, C. Martini, B. Metzger, and A. Wikgren, Third Edition (London: United Bible Societies in cooperation with the Institute for New Testament Textual Research, 1975). 5 Stanley E. Porter evaluates a variety of suggestions regarding the exegesis of this text; see his article “What Does It Mean to Be ‘Saved by Childbirth’ (1 Timothy 2.15)?” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 49 (1993), 87–102. 6 Sarah J. Dille, however, points out that in Isa 49.13–21 God’s unfailing maternal love is contrasted with the fallible love of a human mother, specficially that of Zion personified; see her Mixing Metaphors: God as Father and Mother in Deutero-Isaiah (London and New York: T & T Clark International, 2004), 148–150. The motherhood and daughterhood of Zion are discussed both by Dille, Mixing Metaphors, and by Christl M. Maier, Daughter Zion, Mother Zion: Gender, Space, and the Sacred in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), 164–167. 3

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tesquely unnatural horror of starving women eating their children after the conquest by Nebuchadnezzar II.7 First-century Greco-Roman philosophy offers a view of parental devotion to offspring as natural, but as an aspect of life in which the human being must surpass the animal world. In his unfinished essay “On Affection for Offspring,” Plutarch points to the sacrificial behavior of animal parents in protecting and feeding their offspring, and then employs a quanto magis argument to show that human parents, both men and women, are to be held to a standard of utter selflessness, never entertaining any thought of reaping the least benefit from their own children.8 For just as in uncultivated plants, such as wild vines and figs and olives, Nature has implanted the principles, though crude and imperfect, of cultivated fruits, so on irrational animals she has bestowed a love of offspring, though imperfect and insufficient as regards the sense of justice and one which does not advance beyond utility; but in the case of man, a rational and social animal, Nature, by introducing him to a conception of justice and law and to the worship of the gods and to the founding of cities and to human kindness, has furnished noble and beautiful and fruitful seeds of all these in the joy we have in our children and our love of them.9 … the end and aim of bearing and rearing a child is not utility, but affection.10

Thus the experience of love is the goal of human parenthood. Plutarch’s depiction of the aristocratic Roman matron Cornelia, however, sounds an additional note, which perhaps Plutarch may have men7

Lam 2.20. John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988), 141–142, provides more examples from the OT (Lev 26:29, Deut 28:53–36, and 2 Kgs 6:28–29), noting that these “are clearly intended to shock.” 8 Plutarch, “On Affection for Offspring” (Peri; th`~ eij~ ta e[ggona filostorgiva~), ed. and tr. W. C. Helmbold, Plutarch’s Moralia in Sixteen Volumes, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1939; repr. 1970), vol. 6, 328–497. In his introduction to this essay Helmbold points out its unfinished state; see pp. 328–329. 9 Plutarch, “On Affection” 3 (ed. and tr. Helmbold, Plutarch’s Moralia, vol. 6, 342– 343): hJ ga;r fuvsi~, w{sper ejn futoi`~ ajgrivoi~: oiJ`on oijnavnqai~ ejrineoi`~ kotivnoi~: ajrca;~ ajpevptou~ kai; ajtelei`~ hJmevrwn karpw`n ejnevfusen: ou{tw toi`~ me;n ajlovgoi~ to; pro;~ ta; e[ggona filovstorgon ajtele;~ kai; ouj diarke;~ pro;~ dikaiosuvnhn oujde; th`~ creiva~ porrwtevrw proercovmenon e[dwken: ajnqrwpon de;, logiko;n kai; politiko;n zw/`on: ejpiv divkhn kai; novmon eijsavgousa kai; qew`n timav~ kai; povlewn iJdruvsei~ kai; filofrosuvnhn: gennai`a kai; kala; kai; ferevkarpa touvtwn spevrmata parevsce th;n pro;~ ta; e[ggona cavrin kai; ajgavphsin. Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers, 164–165 and 168, notes that examples drawn from observations of animal behavior were commonplace in antiquity. See also, for example, the excerpts from 4 Maccabees and the discussions of John Chrysostom’s and Gregory of Nazianzus’s homilies on it, below in this essay. 10 Plutarch, “On Affection” 3 (ed. and tr. Helmbold, Plutarch’s Moralia, vol. 6, 348– 349): … tou` tekei`n kai; qrevyai tevlo~ ouj creivan ajlla; filivan e[conto~.

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tioned in his essay on parenthood if he had completed it (or if a complete version were extant).11 The widow Cornelia, the daughter of the heroic general Scipio Africanus, reared her two sons, Tiberius and Gaius, who would become famous as bold reformers of the Roman Republic, with such unflagging attentiveness that their upbringing was regarded as a more formative influence on them than was nature.12 Thus Plutarch perceived this mother-child interaction as more powerful than genetically inherited nobility, which was usually so important in the eyes of carefully bred Roman aristocrats. Her maternal behavior, says Plutarch, was filovteknon, which can be translated as “child-loving.” Yet one wonders whether Cornelia’s careful mothering itself was a result of a natural instinct or of her dedication to matronly duties. Plutarch supplies an answer to this question in his description of Cornelia’s equanimity in describing her sons’ achievements after their untimely deaths; she was “without grief or tears” (ajpenqh;~ kai; ajdavkruto~) as she spoke of them. For Plutarch this is the most admirable aspect of her ever virtuous conduct, and he characterizes as morally obtuse those who attributed Cornelia’s serenity to senility or numbness. The quality of Cornelia’s motherhood, and therefore of ideal motherhood, “derives from a noble nature and from honorable birth and rearing,” and from virtue, rather than from a nature shared with all other mothers. Her admirable mode of childrearing and her loyalty to her sons are based not on emotional tenderness but on a devotion to the duty of instilling civic virtues in two future citizens; that is, her overarching mission is on a plane higher than the pleasure enjoyed in an interpersonal relationship.13

11

See note 8, above. Suzanne Dixon, Cornelia: Mother of the Gracchi (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), has contributed a thorough study of Cornelia, her historical context, and her influence on literature and society. 13 Plutarch, “Tiberius Gracchus” 1.4–5 and “Caius Gracchus” 19.2–3 (ed. and tr. Bernadotte Perrin, Plutarch: Lives, LCL [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921; repr. 2006], vol. 10, 146–147 and 240–241). This example is cited by Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation, 12–14. Valerius Maximus’s anecdote about “Cornelia’s jewels” (her highly cherished sons), a story that was popularized in Victorian households, is intended as an illustration not so much of maternal devotion as of modest living and detachment from material possessions. Nevertheless, it is obvious that Cornelia’s pride in her sons is the only acceptable attachment that Valerius Maximus wishes to allow his heroine. See John Briscoe, ed., Valeri Maximi Facta et Dicta Memorabilia, vol. 1 (Stuttgart and Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1998), 4.4 praef., p. 256. 12

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Seneca, too, has some words of wisdom regarding motherhood.14 In his letter of consolation to his own mother, Helvia, who was grief-stricken upon the exile of Seneca, her firstborn son, he praises her for the absence of self-interest in her love for him.15 He also proceeds to identify “the true source of the power of a mother’s grief” (unde vera vis materni doloris oritur) in quoting her own laments: “I am deprived of the embraces of my dearest son; I may no longer enjoy the pleasure of seeing him, the pleasure of his conversation” (ergo complexu fili carissimi careo; non conspectu eius, non sermone possum frui).16 It is the delight of a mother in her child’s company that causes a mother to grieve at its loss. Seneca’s recommendation is that, although society allows women to shed copious tears, Helvia should not succumb to womanly weakness, for her moral character transcends such excess, and she should imitate Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi.17 The method for overcoming sorrow is to devote oneself to philosophy, for which Helvia’s mind is able and equipped despite the unjust deprivation that her education has suffered. He advises her that “the grief that has submitted to reason is allayed forever,” and “philosophy is your most unfailing safeguard” (at quisquis rationi cessit, in perpetuum componitur, and haec quidem certissima praesidia sunt).18 Delight in one’s child, he implies, is not the highest good in a mother’s life. A Hellenistic Jewish text, shaped by Stoicism and contemporaneous with Plutarch and Seneca, as well as with the New Testament,19 provides an even more striking example of a mother’s aspiration that transcends the physical and emotional welfare of her child. This is 4 Maccabees, an account of martyrdoms purported to have occurred under the reign of the Seleucid monarch Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175–164 BCE), that is, almost 14 Seneca, “To the Mother Helvia, On Consolation” (ed. and tr. John W. Basore, Seneca: Moral Essays, LCL [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1965], vol. 2, 416–489). Both the Latin and the English quotations are taken from this volume; see Seneca, “To Helvia” 15.1, 17.2, and 17.5, on pp. 468–469, 474–475, and 478–479, respectively. 15 As Plutarch urged; see note 10 and the corresponding text, above. 16 Seneca, “To Helvia” 15.1 (ed. and tr. Basore, Moral Essays, vol. 2, 466–469). 17 Seneca, “To Helvia” 16.1–6 (ed. and tr. Basore, Moral Essays, vol. 2, 470–473). Cornelia was known as an exemplar of aristocratic women’s education, largely through the publication of her letters; see Sarah B. Pomeroy, Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity (New York: Schocken Books, 1995), 150, 161, and 170; and Dixon, Cornelia, 26–29, 34–35, and 53. 18 Seneca, “To Helvia” 17.2 and 17.5 (ed. and tr. Basore, Moral Essays, vol. 2, 474– 479). 19 The dating of 4 Maccabees, as well as that of 2 Maccabees, has been discussed at length by David A. de Silva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary on the Greek Text in Codex Sinaiticus, Septuagint Commentary Series (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006), xiv–xvii. De Silva convincingly places the composition of 4 Maccabees in the years 19–72 CE, with preference for the later end of this range.

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two hundred years before the composition of the document. This wellknown story, which was embraced by the ancient church,20 tells of the agonizing deaths of the elderly priest Eleazar, seven youths, and the mother of the seven youths, all of whom have refused to eat foods proscribed by Judaism. The mother, forced to witness the grisly torture of her sons, one by one, urges each of them to persevere – even the youngest, still a boy – then finally flings her own body into the fire after all of her sons have perished. The story had been presented decades earlier in 2 Maccabees, but now, in 4 Maccabees, it is retold with a different perspective on the mother’s role. The topic addressed by 4 Maccabees is the ability of human reason, in dedication to God, to master the emotions. Contrasting 2 and 4 Maccabees, Robin Darling Young observes that 4 Maccabees “accords much greater space, proportionally, to the paradox of reason’s triumph in the weakest of rational beings: a woman tied spiritually with the bonds of motherhood.”21 This dramatic example of even the power of maternal love – that overwhelming force possessing the hearts of the weaker sex – yielding to the demands of a higher ideal, even in the face of horrific tragedy, serves as proof positive of the power of reasoning (logismov~). The author fills the final five chapters with a paean to reason. The passages referring to motherhood include the following: Observe how complex is a mother’s love for her children, which draws everything toward an emotion felt in her inmost parts. Even unreasoning animals, like mankind, have a sympathy and parental love for their offspring. For example, among birds, the ones that are tame protect their young by building on the housetops, and the others, by building in precipitous chasms and in holes and tops of trees, hatch the nestlings and ward off the intruder. If they are not able to keep him away, they do what they can to help their young by flying in circles around them in the anguish of love, and warning them with their own calls. … O reason of the children, tyrant over the emotions! O religion, more desirable to the mother than her children! … She loved religion more, religion that preserves them for eternal life according to God’s promise. … mothers, who because of their birth-pangs have a deeper sympathy toward their offspring than do the fathers. Considering that mothers are the weaker sex and give birth to many, they are the more devoted to their children [or, For to the degree that mothers are weaker and the more children they bear, the more they are devoted to their children.]. … and because of the pains she suffered with each of them she had sympathy for them. … O mother, tried now by more bitter pangs than even the birth-pangs you suffered for them! … But devout reason, giving her heart a

20

See note 24, below. Robin Darling Young, “The ‘Woman with the Soul of Abraham’: Traditions about the Mother of the Maccabean Martyrs,” in “Women Like This”: New Perspectives on Jewish Women in the Greco-Roman World, ed. Amy-Jill Levine (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991), 67–81, here 74–75. 21

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man’s courage in the very midst of her emotions, strengthened her to disregard her temporal love for her children.22

Certain points are evident: (1) that motherhood renders women, already weak, even more vulnerable to the irrational instincts of animals; (2) that the pain of childbirth imparts a “sympathy” (sumpavqeia; 4 Macc 15:7) whereby the mother suffers pains even harsher than those of childbirth (pikrovteroi povnoi; 4 Macc 15:16) when her children suffer; and (3) that it is “devout reason” (oJ eujsebh;~ logismov~; 4 Macc 15:23) that can overcome such vulnerability by imparting manly fortitude for the purpose of resisting the natural inclinations of motherhood. A strong inference here is that maternal love has a corporeal basis (birth pangs) and that its conquest is therefore inherent in the struggle between reason and physical desires, between mind and body. Although 2 Maccabees depicts the mother as explicitly stating her reliance on her belief in the future resurrection as her assurance that she will be reunited with her sons (2 Macc 7:23, 29), 4 Maccabees does not place such words in the mouth of the mother. Instead, her sons in her presence proclaim their faith in the afterlife (4 Macc 13:15–17), and the narrator informs us that the mother believed that her sons would gain eternal life (4 Macc 15:3). Thus we may infer that, in addition to Hellenistic values and absolute loyalty to the Jewish Law, her religious faith in the resurrection of the dead also plays a role in the mother’s heroism. Even so, the expression 22

4 Macc 14:13–17 and 15:1, 3, 4c, 5, 7, 16, 23. Trans. in the Oxford Annotated Apocrypha, Revised Standard Version, ed. Bruce M. Metzger (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 309–329, here 324–325. The Greek text is found in Septuaginta, ed. A. Rahlfs, 7th edition, vol. 1 (Stuttgart: Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 1935; repr. 1962), 1177–1179, as follows: qewrei`te de; pw`~ poluvplokov~ ejstin hJ th`~ filotekniva~ storghv, e{lkousa pavnta pro;~ th;n tw`n splavgcnwn sumpavqeian, o{pou ge kai; ta; a[loga zw`/a oJmoivan th;n eij~ ta; ejx aujtw`n gennwvmena sumpavqeian kai; storgh;n e[cei toi`~ ajnqrwvpoi~. Kai; ga;r tw`n peteinw`n ta; me;n h{mera kata; ta;" oijkiva" ojrofoitou'nta proaspivzei tw'n neottw'n, ta; de; kata; korufa;" ojrevwn kai; fara;ggwn ajporrw'ga" kai; devndrwn ojpa;" kai; ta;" touvtwn a[kra" ejnnossopoihsavmena ajpotivktei kai; to;n prosiovnta kwluvei: eij de; kai; mh; duvnainto kwluvein, peruptavmena kuklovqen aujtw'n ajlgou'nta th/' storgh/' ajnakalouvmena th/' ijdiva/ fwnh/', kaq j o{ duvnatai, bohqei' toi'" tevknoi". … \W logisme; tevknwn, paqw`n tuvranne, kai; eujsevbeia mhtri; tevknwn poqeinotevra. … th;n eujsevbeian ma`llon hjgavphsen th;n swv/zousan eij~ aijwnivan zwh;n kata; Qeovn. … dia; to; tw`n paqw`n toi`~ gennhqei`sin ta;~ mhtevra~ tw'n patevrwn kaqestavnai sumpaqestevra~. {Osw/ ga;r kai; ajsqenovyucoi kai; polugonwvterai uJpavrcousin aiJ mhtevre~, tosouvtw/ ma`llovn eijsin filoteknovterai … kai; dia; polla;~ ta;~ kaq j e{kaston aujtw`n wjdi`na~ hjnagkasmevnh th;n eij~ aujtou;~ e[cein sumpavqeian. … w\ pikrotevrwn nu`n povnwn peirasqei`sa mhvthr h[per tw`n ejp j aujtoi`~ wjdivnwn. … ajlla; ta; splavgcna aujth`~ oJ eujsebh;~ logismo;~ ejn aujtoi`~ toi`~ pavqesin ajndreiwvsa~ ejpevteinen th;n provskairon filoteknivan paridei`n.

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of this faith as a choice between temporal and eternal happiness (4 Macc 15:2–3) reflects a Platonist frame of reference.23 Patristic Views on Motherhood and Martyrdom Although the story of the Maccabean martyrs exerted an influence on the early literature of Christian martyrology,24 theological commentary on 4 Maccabees first appeared in the third century. Origen remarked admiringly that normal maternal feeling was not ignited in the mother because her piety and holiness had prevented it.25 It was in the latter part of the fourth century, however, that the account of the Maccabean martyrs acquired prominence in the Christian tradition.26 Its importance is attested by the homilies of John Chrysostom, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Augustine.27 Three of Chrysostom’s homilies on the Maccabean martyrs are extant.28 In the first of these, Chrysostom stresses the ineluctable bond between mother and child, forged by the mother’s pains in childbirth, which causes a mother to become physically ill when her child is suffering. Chrysostom emphasizes the mother’s faith in eternal life: the Maccabean mother, he says, achieved an awe-inspiring victory over the power of nature through her focus on heavenly rewards, both her sons’ and her own. It was this focus that enabled her to break free from “the tyranny of nature”:

23 Van Henten points out that 2 Maccabees is more closely tied to the Old Testament theme of God’s discipline visited upon his people in suffering and persecution, including the expiatory sufferings of the righteous ones, whereas 4 Maccabees does not draw this connection; see Jan Willem van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees (Leiden, New York, and Cologne: Brill, 1997), 138–140, 162–163, and 182. 24 Early Christian use of 4 Maccabees has been traced by de Silva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, xxxii–xxxviii; F.-M. Abel, Les livres des Maccabées (Paris: Librairie Lecoffre, 1949), i–xi; and Raphaëlle Ziadé, Les martyrs Maccabées: de l’histoire juive au culte chrétien. Les homélies de Grégoire de Nazianze et de Jean Chrysostome, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 66–106. 25 Origen, Exhortation to Martyrdom 23–27 (ed. Paul Koetschau, Die Schrift vom Martyrium; Gegen Celsus; Die Schrift vom Gebet, GCS 2, Origenes Werke, Band 1 [Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1899], 20–24). See also John O’Meara’s translation in Origen: Prayer. Exhortation to Martyrdom, ACW 19 (Westminster, MD: The Newman Press, 1954), 167. A more recent translation is that of Rowan A. Greer in Origen: Selections, Classics of Western Spirituality (New York: Paulist Press, 1979). 26 See Wendy Mayer with Bronwen Neil, John Chrysostom: The Cult of the Saints (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2006), 119 and 135. 27 Ziadé, Les martyrs Maccabées, provides a thorough study of the preaching of John Chrysostom and Gregory of Nazianzus on this topic; see note 24, above. 28 John Chrysostom, Homiliae I, II, and III On the Maccabees (Eij" tou;~ Makkabaivou~) (ed. and tr. PG 50:617–628).

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For she didn’t see the blood that was flowing, but saw the crowns of righteousness being woven. She didn’t look at the ribs that were being pierced through, but looked at the eternal dwellings under construction. … Indeed there is no animal so weak that it doesn’t shield its offspring; no creature so gentle that it isn’t enraged when its children are killed. But she dissolved the tyranny of nature that extends both through rational human beings and through irrational animals. … Let mothers hear these things, let them emulate the woman’s courage, her love for her offspring. Let them raise their children this way. For giving birth is not the defining characteristic of a mother, for that is a matter of nature; instead, a mother’s defining feature is raising [her child], for that is a matter of choice.29

A mother’s gift to her children, therefore, should belong not to this world, but to the next, and maternal love should be transfigured into a spiritual benefit. All truly loving mothers look beyond their children’s temporal comforts to their eternal life with God, no matter how costly the latter may be. It could be inferred that, in offering an appropriate homily for an established feast day, Chrysostom has simply adapted the account in 4 Maccabees, shifting the emphasis of the story from the power of reason to the eternal glory of the martyr’s crown. Other samples of his preaching, however, should be examined in characterizing Chrysostom’s view of motherhood. One is his description of the martyrdoms by means of suicidal drowning of the virgins Bernike and Prosdoke and of their mother, Domnina, who urged her daughters to die rather than to relinquish their chastity. Employing language that echoes his preaching on the Maccabean martyrs, Chrysostom speaks of natural maternal anguish and its overthrow by the heroic mother.30 Yet another homily on the Epistle to the Ephesians also addresses the topic of godly motherhood, although it was not composed for the purpose of honoring martyrs.31 In exhorting his congregation to greater zeal, Chrysostom points to the Old Testament character Hannah, the mother of the prophet Samuel, as worthy of imitation by both men and wo29

Tr. Mayer with Neil, Cult of the Saints, 141–142. Greek text in PG 50:620–621, as follows: Ouj ga;r eJwvra to; katarJrJevon ai|ma, ajlla j eJwvra tou;~ stefavnou~ th`~ dikaiosuvnh~ plekomevnou~: oujk e[blepe diorupomevna~ pleurav~, ajlla j e[blepen oijkodomoumevna~ skhna;~ aijwnivou~. … Kai; oujdevn ejsti zw`on ou{tw~ ajsqene;~, o{ mh; uJperaspivzoi tw`n ejggovnwn: oujde;n ou{tw~ h{meron, o{ mh; tw`n paidivwn ajfairoumevnwn paroxuvnhtai. jAll j au{th kai; th;n dia; tw`n logikw`n ajnqrwvpwn kai; th;n dia; tw`n ajlovgwn zwvwn tetamevnhn th`~ fuvsew~ turannivda katevluse. … jAkouevtwsan mhtevre~ tau`ta, zhlouvtwsan th;n ajndreivan th`~ gunaiko;~, th;n peri; ta; e[ggona filostorgivan: ou{tw trefevtwsan ta; paidiva: ouj ga;r to; tekei`n mhtro;~, tou`to ga;r th`~ fuvsew~, ajlla; to; qrevysai mhtro;~, tou`to ga;r th`~ proairevsew~. 30 John Chrysostom, Homily on the Holy Martyrs (Eij~ ta;~ a{gia~ mavrtura~) (Greek text in PG 50:629–640, especially 639; tr. Mayer with Neil, “On Saints Bernike, Prosdoke, and Domnina,” Cult of the Saints, 158–176, especially 173). 31 John Chrysostom, On Ephesians Chap. VI. Homily XXI (text and tr. PG 62:149– 156).

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men. Not knowing whether she would ever be able to bear another child, Hannah willingly and single-mindedly offered her long-awaited only son to the Lord’s service, in faithful and zealous renunciation of all the gratifications that motherhood could have conferred. Men are put to shame by her filosofiva, for, if even a woman can practice such emotional detachment, surely a man should be capable of it.32 On the other hand, the antithesis of such maternal behavior is found in Chrysostom’s account of the dissuasive discourse that his mother, Anthusa, delivered to him in order to prevent him from embarking upon a monastic life during her lifetime. He relates that Anthusa cited her birth pangs as the immediate prelude to her financially and emotionally arduous widowhood, which entailed difficult years endured as a single mother, and she declared that her only enjoyment had been her relationship with her small son, for whom she had made sacrifices. On this basis she pleaded tearfully with John to postpone his monastic life, and thus to spare her another grievous loss.33 Here one may find a glaring contrast both to Hannah and to the two martyred mothers of martyred children, namely, Domnina and the Maccabean mother.34 Although John had no intention of disparaging his mother, it is obvious that in Anthusa’s case the maternal emotions did not facilitate but instead blocked the offspring’s sacrificial devotion to God. It is possible, though not at all certain, that the contrast clarified for him the conquest of the natural attachments that the Christian mother ideally should achieve. Gregory of Nazianzus’s homily on the Maccabean martyrs extols the mother in lavish terms.35 Whereas 4 Maccabees itself granted her a status equivalent to that of Abraham,36 Gregory ranks her as even higher than Abraham, Hannah, and Phineas because these Old Testament figures each 32

John Chrysostom, On Ephesians Chap. VI. Homily XXI (text and tr. PG 62:151): Aijscunqw`men, oiJ a[ndre", th`~ gunaiko;~ th;n filosofivan. Elizabeth A. Clark, “Sex, Shame, and Rhetoric: En-gendering Early Christian Ethics,” American Academy of Religion 1990 Presidential Address, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 59/2 (1991), 221–245, has observed that John Chrysostom, Augustine, and Ambrose all used examples of women martyrs to shame their congregations into improving their moral characters. 33 John Chrysostom, On the Priesthood (Peri; iJerwsuvnh~) 1.5 (ed. PG 48:621–692, here 625; tr. with intro. Graham Neville, Six Books on the Priesthood; John Chrysostom [Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1984], 38–39). 34 Anthusa’s attitude also does not meet the standard set by Plutarch of disinterested, other-centered parenting. See above. 35 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio 15, On the Maccabees (Eij" tou;~ Makkabaivou~) (ed. and tr. PG 35:911–934). Another text can be found in Homélie de saint Grégoire de Nazianze sur les Machabées, ed. E. Sommer (Paris: Librairie Hachette et Cie, 1892). 36 4 Macc 14.20; see Darling Young, “The ‘Woman with the Soul of Abraham,’” 76– 77 and 79–81.

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offered one son for the Lord, whereas the Maccabean mother sacrificed seven.37 Her sacrificial zeal did not indicate a lack of natural attachment to her sons, because, after all, she would have mourned for them if disease, war, or some other natural disaster had taken them from her; truly she was filovtekno~. Like a mother bird fluttering and cooing above her children, she suffered with her sons.38 She was, however, an exemplar of two loves, not one: love for her children and love for God; indeed, she is described with the expression, filovpai~ oJmou` kai; filovqeo~.39 Because the former was embedded in and permeated with the latter, her only fear at the scene of her sons’ torment was that they might not achieve the blessing of martyrdom.40 Gregory does not tell us explicitly whether the hope of eternal life with her sons helped to sustain her, or whether she derived her strength only from her unshakable conviction that the Jewish Law must be obeyed. Her only hope of personal reward seems to have been that her remains would be interred with those of her sons.41 Augustine also preached on the feast day of the Maccabean martyrs,42 declaring that these martyrs are worthy of imitation and urging women to learn from the suffering and strength of the Maccabean mother, “who knew how to save her sons.”43 This mother was martyred seven times because she suffered with each of her sons.44 Augustine’s main point, however, is the mother’s utter confidence that the loss of her sons on earth would be a guarantee of their eternal companionship with her in heaven. With his characteristic fondness for paradox, he paraphrases her sentiments thus: “If you seem to desert me, then you are not deserting me. There I will have you, where I will not be afraid of ever losing you again.”45 In another sermon on 4 Maccabees, he says, “She did not send her sons away, but she 37 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio 15 (ed. PG 35:916 and 928; ed. Sommer, Homélie de saint Grégoire de Nazianze sur les Machabées, 7 and 19). Ziadé, Les martyrs Maccabées. 236–237, remarks that the assessment of a mother in terms of the number of her children was a feature of the ancient Hellenistic mindset. 38 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio 15 (ed. PG 35:925 and 928; ed. Sommer, Homélie de saint Grégoire de Nazianze sur les Machabées, 16 and 18–19). 39 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio 15 (ed. PG 35:916; ed. Sommer, Homélie de saint Grégoire de Nazianze sur les Machabées, 7). 40 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio 15 (ed. PG 35:925; ed. Sommer, Homélie de saint Grégoire de Nazianze sur les Machabées, 16–17). 41 Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio 15 (ed. PG 35:928–929; ed. Sommer, Homélie de saint Grégoire de Nazianze sur les Machabées, 19–20). 42 Augustine, Sermons 300 and 301 (ed. PL 38:1376–1385). 43 Augustine, Sermon 300.6 (ed. PL 38:1379): quae noverat servare filios suos. 44 Actually the mother herself died, thus being martyred an eighth time, but Augustine’s purpose is to edify the mothers in his congregation. See 4 Mc 17.1. 45 Augustine, Sermon 300.7 (ed. PL 38.1380): Si me quasi deseris, tunc me non deseris. Ibi te habebo, ubi ne perdam ulterius non timebo.

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sent them ahead of her.”46 In these sermons Augustine, like Chrysostom, is offering clear instruction to Christian mothers, exhorting them to let their actions be guided by the prospect of eternal salvation for their children. Motherhood should be focused on the spiritual, not the corporeal, because it is life in heaven for which mothers should prepare their offspring. The ways in which Augustine’s portrayal of his own mother, Monica, provided a model of this perspective deserves attention. First, however, the martyrdom account of Perpetua and Felicitas, a well known piece of patristic martyrology, needs to be considered. The description of Perpetua’s martyrdom illustrates the repudiation of the physical and emotional involvement of motherhood, in favor of radical devotion invested elsewhere, that was presented as an ideal in early Christian literature. The Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas, written near the turn of the third century, portrays two young women eager to transfer their maternal responsibilities to others in order to perform the ultimate act of Christian faith.47 Perpetua’s initial longing for her infant son, as well as her father’s warning regarding the mortal danger that she has imposed on the baby, is focused on the mutual needs of the nursing mother and child; again, as in 4 Maccabees, the maternal bond is associated with corporeality. During a visit from her family, the imprisoned Perpetua nurses her famished baby, and then procures permission to keep him with her in prison. She remarks, “At once I recovered my health, relieved as I was of my worry and anxiety over the child. My prison had suddenly become a palace, so that I wanted to be there rather than anywhere else.”48 Here Perpetua is thinking only of the present moment and the nursing, not of her child’s future. Such an attitude can be seen as irresponsible and immature, or it can

46

Augustine, Sermon 301.1 (ed. PL 38:1380): Non enim amittebat filios, sed praemit-

tebat. 47

Herbert Musurillo, ed. and tr., The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 106–131. For a study of Perpetua with regard to her ancient North African milieu, see Joyce E. Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion: The Death and Memory of a Young Roman Woman (New York and London: Routledge, 1997). 48 Acts of Perpetua 3 (ed. and tr. Musurillo, Acts of the Christian Martyrs, 110–111): statim convalui et relevata sum a labore et sollicitudine infantis, et factus est mihi carcer subito praetorium, ut ibi mallem esse quam alicubi. It is unlikely that labor here would refer to childbirth, since Perpetua’s baby had already been born before her imprisonment. Thomas J. Heffernan and James E. Shelton observe that this metaphor of the prison as a palace reflects “strongly eschatological thinking” and “passionate attachment to an ecstatic celebration of martyrdom”; see “Paradisus in carcere: The Vocabulary of Imprisonment and the Theology of Martyrdom in the Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 14:2 (2006), 217–223. These scholars assume (p. 220) that Perpetua ensured the survival of her child before continuing to channel her energies toward martyrdom.

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be perceived as an expression of faith in God’s providential care for her child. Her father, however, visits and pleads with her, “Think of your child, who will not be able to live once you are gone,” and in a subsequent encounter he urges, “Have pity on your baby.”49 In desperate terms he is begging for the child’s very life. Perpetua then requests that her father give her the baby, who apparently has been taken away during one of the family visits, but the father refuses. But father refused to give him over. But as God willed, the baby had no further desire for the breast, nor did I suffer any inflammation; and so I was relieved of any anxiety for my child and of any discomfort in my breasts.50

One can only hope that the infant’s cessation of desire indicates his weaning to nutriment other than mother’s milk, rather than a fatal anorexia. Perpetua does not specify, but her phrase “as God willed” assumes a happy ending in that God’s purpose for the child is being fulfilled, whether he lives or dies. There is no indication, however, that Perpetua’s child, if he survives, will receive a Christian upbringing; by contrast, the child borne in prison by the pregnant slave Felicitas is entrusted to the care of “a certain sister,” presumably a member of the Christian community. Yet the future life of Perpetua’s son, both physical and spiritual, is left undefined, along with that of her pagan parents, into whose control the infant has been surrendered. Perhaps one may speculate, somewhat wildly, that Perpetua intended to bring eternal salvation to her son through her prayers, as she did for her deceased younger brother Dinocrates, whom her prayers delivered from a miserable afterlife to a blissful existence;51 if so, then Perpetua’s apparent abandonment of her son would eventually benefit him. The Acts of Perpetua has a much briefer account of the confrontational interaction between Perpetua and her father.52 After the father urges her to 49 Acts of Perpetua 5 and 6 (ed. and tr. Musurillo, Acts of the Christian Martyrs, 112– 113): … aspice filium tuum qui post te vivere non poterit, and, Miserere infanti. 50 Acts of Perpetua 6 (ed. and tr. Musurillo, Acts of the Christian Martyrs, 114–115): Sed pater dare noluit. Et quomodo Deus voluit, neque ille amplius mammas desideravit neque mihi fervorem fecerunt ne sollicitudine infantis et dolore mammarum macerarer. 51 Acts of Perpetua 7–8 (ed. and tr. Musurillo, Acts of the Christian Martyrs, 114– 117). 52 This document is generally believed, though not proven, to have been composed later than the Acts of Perpetua. For a textual analysis of the Acta, see J. W. Halporn, “Literary History and Generic Expectations in the Passio and Acta Perpetuae,” Vigiliae Christianae 45 (1991), 223–241. Halporn believes that the Acta “are not to be regarded as merely a later and inferior reworking of the Passio” (226). The text of the Acta is found in the Passio sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis, ed. Cornelius Ioannes Maria Ioseph Van Beek (Nijmegen: Dekker & Van de Vegt, 1936), 58–73.

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have pity on her baby, “who will not be able to live after you [die],”53 and the proconsul suggests to her that she should allow herself to be moved by the cries of her little one, she still remains unmoved. Her father then pushes (iactans) the baby onto her neck, but she pushes (proiciens) him back to her father, harshly dismissing her parents, along with the baby, with the words of Jesus in Matt 7:23: “Depart from me, you evildoers; I never knew you.”54 The feast day of the two young martyred mothers was a venerable occasion in their native North Africa, and sermons of Augustine on the reading of their Acts are still extant. Augustine makes much of the strength that was exhibited paradoxically by the “weaker sex” (sexus infirmior).55 In the case of Perpetua, motherhood is to be seen as an exacerbation of feminine weakness: “Of these, one was a mother, so that to the weakness of her sex a more urgent emotion might be added,”56 so as to increase the significance of her victory over the devil. The victory has been won by the power of the inner self – the interior homo, which is neither male nor female.57 Although motherhood, a specifically feminine vulnerability, can pose an obstacle to the full realization of the Christian spiritual life, the gender-free part of the human psyche can overcome it. Early Christian Asceticism Commentary and analysis have been addressed already to the replacement of natural family relationships with spiritual maternity, paternity, fraternity, and sorority in the monastic life of Late Antiquity.58 Such a reconfiguration of the individual’s social bonding had taken place as early as the first few decades of the church’s existence, as new Christians found themselves in opposition to their non-Christian families and immersed in the intense relationships experienced by groups weathering serious peril and suf-

53

Same Latin words as in the Acts of Perpetua; see above. Text A, Acts 6 (ed. Van Beek, Passio sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis, 68–70). 55 Augustine, Sermon 281.1 (ed. PL 38:1285). 56 Augustine, Sermon 281.2 (ed. PL 38:1285): Quarum altera et mater, ut ad infirmitatem sexus impatientior adderetur affectus. 57 Augustine, Sermon 280.1 (ed. PL 38:1281); and Augustine, Sermon 281.2 (ed. PL 38:1285). 58 E.g., Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation, 65–66; Rebecca Krawiec, “‘From the Womb of the Church’: Monastic Families,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11:3 (2003), 283– 307, especially p. 285; Carol Harrison, “The Silent Majority: the Family in Patristic Thought,” in The Family in Theological Perspective, ed. Stephen C. Barton (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 87–105, here 101. Harrison, p. 93, remarks that ascetical literature is the main resource for studying the patristic ideals for Christian family life. 54

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fering hardships together.59 The present study expands on the discussion by scrutinizing some of the depictions of the ideal biological family relationship in ascetic literature. Like the martyr stories and the sermons that were preached about them, the ascetical writings of fourth- and fifth-century authors presented emotional detachment from one’s offspring as an ideal for devout Christian matrons. The obvious example is Jerome’s encomium on Paula, in which he illustrates her dedication to an ascetic life in the Holy Land by including a verbal snapshot of Paula’s little son, Toxotius, and her adolescent daughter, Rufina, standing on the dock and tearfully bidding farewell to their beloved mother as she sailed away.60 Melania the Elder, too, entrusted her son, Publicola, to the care of a guardian and departed for the East, where she remembered her son in her prayers but allowed no distractions from her focus on Christ;61 perhaps her constancy in prayer on behalf of her child was Melania’s mode of exercising maternal care for him. Both of these women removed themselves geographically from their children. Melania the Younger,62 as a mother of two children, one born and one as 59

Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation, 19. In the letter from the persecuted churches of Lyons and Vienne, the slave Blandina has a maternal role among the martyrs and is explicitly compared to the Maccabean mother. See Eusebius, Church History 5.1.55 (ed. G. Bardy, Eusèbe de Césarée: Histoire Ecclésiastique, Livres V–VII, Sources chrétiennes 41 [Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1955], 20). 60 Jerome, Letter 108.6 (epitaphium sanctae Paulae) (ed. Isidorus Hilberg, Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae. Pars II: Epistulae LXXI–CXX, CSEL 55 [Vienna: F. Tempsky; and Leipzig: G. Freytag, 1912], 306–351, here 311). In Letters 107 to Laeta and 128 to Pacatula (and Gaudentius), Jerome offers advice on rearing little girls whom parents have consecrated to virginity; see CSEL 55, ed. Hilberg, Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae. Pars II: Epistulae LXXI–CXX, 290–305, and CSEL 56/1, ed. I. Hilberg, Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae. Pars III: Epistulae CXXI–CLIV (Vienna: F. Tempsky; and Leipzig: G. Freytag, 1918), 156–162. Such specific guidance, which addresses such topics as the child’s food, companions, and pastimes, is rare in patristic literature; of course, this advice is not aimed at girls being educated as laywomen. 61 Palladius, The Lausiac History of Palladius, ed. with critical discussion by Cuthbert Butler (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1898; repr. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1967); see chaps. 46 and 54, pp. 134 and 146. 62 Gerontius, Life of Melania the Younger, ed. Denys Gorce, Vie de sainte Mélanie, Sources chrétiennes 90 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1962). An older Greek text was published by H. Delehaye, “S. Melaniae Iunioris. Acta Graeca,” Analecta Bollandiana 22 (1903), 5–50, and was reproduced with translation by Theodore C. Papaloizos, “Gerontius’s Sanctae Melaniae Junioris Vita (The Life of Saint Melania the Younger): A Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary,” Ph.D. diss. (The Catholic University of America, 1977), 119–219. A more recent translation was offered by Elizabeth A. Clark, The Life of Melania the Younger: Introduction, Translation, Commentary, Studies in Women and Religion 14 (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1984). Selections from Clark’s translation are reproduced in Patricia Cox Miller, Women in Early Christianity:

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yet unborn, subjected herself to bodily mortifications and prayed ardently for the freedom to pursue the monastic life, apparently without emotional investment in her children. She had promised her husband, Pinian, that she would bear him two heirs before renouncing her wealth and her married life; it must have been this stipulation that plunged her into depression upon the death of her infant son, the second child, for now she would be compelled to endure yet another pregnancy before being permitted to fulfill her desire for the monastic life. Her mental state is described as “giving up on life”63 rather than as mourning for her child. Her recovery began when her husband consented to her demand for sexual renunciation (in violation of their pact): “If you want me to continue living, give your word before God that we will spend the rest of our lives in chastity.”64 The subsequent death of their only remaining child, a little girl whom they have consecrated to lifelong virginity, has positive consequences, as it provides the opportunity for them to plan their escape from the mundane pleasures and obligations of the Roman aristocracy. So says Gerontius of his heroine. Rebecca Krawiec, however, has contributed the insight that, although language and imagery of the family were appropriated by monastic communities, the adoption of a monastic lifestyle did not always necessitate a repudiation of one’s sense of identity as a family member. Instead, says Krawiec, there was a “simultaneous possibility of transforming biological ties into more binding, eternal ones … the biological family does not have to exist as a stumbling block to ascetic practice, but rather … can be included alongside that practice.”65 One of her three cogent illustrations of this thesis is Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina.66 The relationship between Macrina and her mother, Emmelia, reveals a role reversal whereby Macrina became Emmelia’s spiritual guide, thus acting as a mother to her own mother, as she simultaneously built a commuTranslations from Greek Texts (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2005), 210–228. Clark’s translation is utilized here. 63 Life of Melania the Younger 6 (ed. Gorce, Vie de sainte Mélanie, 136–139; tr. Cox Miller, Women in Early Christianity, 213): pro;~ to; zh`n ajpagoreuvsasan. 64 Life of Melania the Younger 6 (ed. Gorce, Vie de sainte Mélanie, 136–139; tr. Cox Miller, Women in Early Christianity, 213): Eij bouvlei me, fhsivn, e[ti zh`n, do;~ lovgon ejnwvpion tou` qeou`, o{ti to; loipo;n tou` bivou hJmw`n ejn aJgneiva/ diavgwmen. 65 Krawiec, “‘From the Womb of the Church’: Monastic Families,” 286–287. 66 Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Saint Macrina (ed. and tr. Pierre Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, Sources chrétiennes 178 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1971]; tr. Joan M. Petersen, Handmaids of the Lord [Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, Inc., 1996], 51–86). Also tr. Kevin Corrigan, The Life of Saint Macrina (Toronto: Peregrina, 1997); and tr. Virginia Woods Callahan, Ascetical Works: Saint Gregory of Nyssa (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1967), 161–94. All three English translations that have been referenced here are excellent.

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nity of virgins by whom she would be venerated eventually as foundress and matriarch. While Emmelia has been rightly characterized as an effective influence in her children’s religious training,67 her leadership within this household at Annisa waned as her virgin daughter took over the upbringing of the youngest child, Peter, and instructed Emmelia on how to conquer her grief upon the death of her son, Macrina’s brother Naucratios. It is noteworthy that the relationship between Emmelia and Naucratios, which Gregory depicts as having been based on emotion (spoudhv),68 is the very relationship that Gregory sees as vulnerable to the wiles “of the Adversary” (tou` ajntikeimevnou) and is the only one of Emmelia’s maternal relationships that was terminated.69 It is the deprivation of her habitual delight in her son that caused the devastation wrought by “onslaughts of her human nature” (aiJ th`~ fuvsew~ prosbolai;), which she was able to overcome by reason (logismoiv) under Macrina’s supervision.70 Gregory’s account of Emmelia’s bereavement contains four instances at which he mentions fuvsi~ as antagonistic to the spiritual life and three where reason (logismoiv) is presented as its antidote. Although he does not name maternal emotion as the culprit, it is obviously subsumed under the concept of “nature.” In fact, the role reversal between mother and daughter is itself contrary to nature. By contrast, the quasi-maternal relationship between Macrina and Peter is not characterized as involving an emotional bond. Gregory’s portrait of this pair shows two people striving toward virtue, one of whom “looks to” (i.e. blevpwn) his elder as his model (skopov~).71 The relationship is not an end in itself, but functions rather as an instrument for spiritual and moral formation. It is implied therefore that fruitful maternity has a quality of emotional detachment.

67 Philip Rousseau, “The Pious Household and the Virgin Chorus: Reflections on Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 13:2 (2005), 165– 186, see especially 175–176. 68 Rousseau, “The Pious Household,” 175–176, calls attention to this word spoudh; in demonstrating that the monastic household at Annisa should be characterized as more domestic than institutional. See Vita Macrinae 8 (ed. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, 168; tr. Petersen, Handmaids, 57–58). 69 Life of Macrina 9 (ed. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, 170; tr. Petersen, Handmaids, 58). 70 Life of Macrina 10 (ed. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, 172– 174). The noun logismoiv is variously translated by Petersen, Handmaids, 58–59, as “reason,” “thoughts,” and “reflections.” Krawiec, “‘From the Womb of the Church’: Monastic Families,” 299, points out the opposition between fuvsi~ and logismoiv. 71 Life of Macrina 12 (ed. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, 180– 184; tr. Petersen, Handmaids, 60–61). Here fuvsi~, mentioned twice, is identified as the source of Peter’s aptitude for learning the practical skills needed for monastic life.

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An additional feature of the Life is the narrative of a young couple with their diseased child visiting Macrina’s monastic establishment.72 As father, mother, their little daughter, the daughter’s nurse, and the servants were about to return home, after the couple and the child had separately spent time in the men’s and women’s quarters,73 they were persuaded to prolong their visit by Macrina’s promise to apply some sort of medication to the little girl’s infected eye. On their way home after sharing a meal with Macrina and Peter, the spouses were bubbling with enthusiasm and regaling each other with impressions and anecdotes from their time at the monastery. Suddenly the young mother became aware that they had forgotten (hjmelhvsamen, says the mother)74 to ask for this medication. The parents were seized with anxiety, but the child’s nurse pointed out that the eye had already been healed, obviously through Macrina’s miraculous faith. Although the point of the story is Macrina’s benevolent spiritual power, one subtext seems to be that the mother’s forgetfulness of the child’s corporeal need (despite the fact that the child had accompanied the mother during the visit) was due to her absorption in the spiritual beauty of God’s servant, which was the proper focus of her attention. The mother sought first the love of God as revealed through the holy woman, and then was rewarded with an unexpected blessing. Maternal negligence (ajmeleiva, as the nurse calls it) 75 is not blameworthy if the third party in the mother-child relationship is God (or, as here, one of God’s servants).76 Monica Another quasi-monastic household that included family relationships was the residence of Augustine and his loved ones, including Monica, his mother, at Cassiciacum in 386, the site of Augustine’s momentous decision to submit himself to baptism, the culmination of a long process of conversion. Augustine’s spiritual journey, however, cannot be seen apart from another conversion: namely, that of Monica, who relinquished her desire for social advantages for her son in favor of an exclusive focus on his spiritual welfare. The mother and son who shared together a profound experience of 72

Life of Macrina 36–38 (ed. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, 256–264; tr. Petersen, Handmaids, 80–82). 73 The reader is not told whether the nurse and the servants entered the monastery or waited outside. 74 Life of Macrina 38 (ed. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de sainte Macrine, 262; tr. Petersen, Handmaids, 81). 75 At Life of Macrina 38, Petersen, Handmaids, 81, aptly translates ajmeleiva as “carelessness.” 76 There is no question of Macrina replacing the child’s mother, since the monastery visit is presented as a one-time-only occurrence.

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God during Monica’s final days had each undergone a radical reorientation.77 According to Augustine, while he was indulging his adolescent impulses in Thagaste, his mother hesitated to channel his lusts appropriately by arranging a marriage for him; her motive was to avoid any risk to her son’s future career. Of this phase of her development, Augustine remarks that she was lingering at the edge of Babylon.78 Fourteen years later, after Monica had followed her adult son to Milan, Augustine was interested in the acquisition of riches, fame, and matrimony,79 and Monica was pleased to accommodate his desire by procuring a socially advantageous match (and dismissing his mistress of many years), in spite of the fact that her prayers and dreams had not imparted to her any sense of assurance that such a marriage was compatible with God’s will.80 In retrospect Augustine reproaches himself with moral laziness and timidity in his reluctance to divest himself of sexual self-indulgence even after he has been inspired by the sermons of Ambrose and the moving story of the conversion of the renowned Neoplatonist philosopher Victorinus.81 He could direct a similar charge (although he does not) against Monica, too, because her Christian faith had not yet enabled her to set a higher goal for her son – a heavenly goal that does not include enhancement of the family’s social status – even after all her tears and pleas expended for the purpose of winning her son over to Christ. Monica’s ambivalence, however, was suddenly dispelled by Augustine’s conversion experience in the garden. His was a conversion to ascetic Christianity, facilitated in part by a narration of the life of Antony of Egypt, which left a deep impression on Augustine.82 Finally, after hearing a child’s voice and reading a passage from Romans 13, Augustine surredered to Christ. When Augustine and Alypius informed Monica of this conversion to the celibate Christian life, Monica’s joy released her from her fixation on earthly gratification.

77

Augustine, Confessions 9.10.23–25 (ed. Lucas Verheijen, Sancti Augustini Confessionum Libri XIII, CCL 27 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1981], 147–148). 78 Augustine, Confessions 2.3.8 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, p. 21). 79 Augustine, Confessions 6.6.9 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, p. 79). 80 Augustine, Confessions 6.13.23 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, p. 89). In regard to the dismissal of Augustine’s mistress, Gerald Bonner, St Augustine of Hippo: Life and Controversies (Norwich, England: The Canterbury Press, 1986), 79, remarks that “Monica’s part in the affair is not clear,” allowing both for the possibility that worldly ambition motivated her and for the alternative speculation that Monica may have regarded an arranged marriage to a girl belonging to an influential Christian family as the only means of procuring his baptism. 81 Augustine, Confessions 8.5.10–12 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, pp. 119–121). 82 Augustine, Confessions 8.6.14–15 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, pp. 121–123).

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She saw that you had granted her far more than she had long been praying for in her unhappy and tearful groans. The effect of your converting me to yourself was that I did not now seek a wife and had no ambition for success in this world. I stood firm upon that rule of faith on which many years before you had revealed me to her. You “changed her grief into joy” (Ps 29:12) far more abundantly than she desired, far dearer and more chaste than she expected when she looked for grandchildren begotten of my body.83

Monica extends the scope of her motherhood to embrace Augustine’s spiritual kinsmen at Cassiciacum, and soon she is ready to part company with her son through her impending death. She has learned to set her heart only on her son’s eternal salvation – not on any other kind of benefit that she may give to him, or he to her.84 With this desire fulfilled, she expresses complete confidence in her life with God and calmly passes away.85 The purification and reorientation of Monica’s maternal feelings for Augustine has thus resulted in her willingness to relinquish him. Like the mother of the Maccabean martyrs as characterized in Augustine’s sermons discussed above, Monica put her trust in the promise of eternal joy in the afterlife, which Augustine believed to be the only correct focus of Christian motherhood. Although Augustine’s consistent portrait, throughout the Confessions, of his mother’s moral virtues – especially her chastity, her loyalty to her husband, her prudent speech, and her fortitude in the face of obstacles – is likely to have been influenced by classical models of feminine virtue, such as Cornelia,86 nevertheless Monica’s sudden volte-face, in accepting with 83

Augustine, Confessions 8.12.30 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, p. 132; tr. Henry Chadwick, Saint Augustine: Confessions, Oxford World’s Classics [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992; repr., 1998], 153–154): … quia tanto amplius sibi a te concessum de me videbat, quam petere solebat miserabilibus flebilibusque gemitibus. Convertisti enim me ad te, ut nec uxorem quaererem nec aliquam spem saeculi huius stans in ea regula fidei, in qua me ante tot annos ei revelaveras, et convertisti luctum eius in gaudium multo uberius, quam voluerat, et multo carius atque castius, quam de nepotibus carnis meae requirebat. 84 It has been argued that Augustine, in recounting his own wondrous conversion, felt compelled to describe a God-given conversion experience in the life of his mother also, as mediated through the servant girl who rebuked the young Monica for her habit of stealthily consuming wine, as described in Confessions 9.8.18; see Margaret More O’Ferrall, “Monica, the Mother of Augustine: A Reconsideration,” Recherches augustiniennes 10 (1975), 23–43. It is likely, however, that this moral turning-point in Monica’s youth reflects her embrace of Roman civic values, according to which it was immoral for a woman to drink wine; on the Roman prohibition against female wine-drinking, see Marjorie O’Rourke Boyle, Divine Domesticity: Augustine of Thagaste to Teresa of Avila (Leiden, New York, and Cologne: E. J. Brill, 1997), 43–44. 85 Augustine, Confessions 9.9.22–9.11.28 (ed. Verheijen, CCL 27, pp. 146–150). 86 Augustine’s depiction of Monica is compared to the classical portrait of Cornelia by O’Ferrall, “Monica, the Mother of Augustine,” 36, and Boyle, Divine Domesticity, 29.

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pleasure Augustine’s decidedly non-classical aspiration to forgo marriage, moves beyond such models. Instead, it is clear that Augustine’s account of his mother’s attainment of Christian maturity, as well as his preaching on the Maccabean mother, is entirely compatible with his exposition of “use” (usus) versus “enjoyment” (fructus) in De doctrina Christiana. Among the many issues discussed in this treatise, Augustine addresses the question of whether a human being should love another as an end in himself or herself (“enjoyment” of another person) or whether one should love another person for the purpose of enjoying God (“use” of another person).87 He concludes that the latter alternative is the moral imperative that should shape and inform our relationships. Citing Jer 17:5 (“cursed is he who puts his hope in a man”) and the gospel command to love God with all one’s heart, soul, and mind, Augustine envisions the love of neighbor as a means of journeying toward God. Thus he states: And when it says “all your heart, all your soul, all your mind,” it leaves no part of our life free from this obligation, no part free as it were to back out and enjoy some other thing; any other object of love that enters the mind should be swept towards the same destination as that to which the whole flood of our love is directed. So a person who loves his neighbor properly should, in concert with him, aim to love God with all his heart, all his soul, and all his mind. In this way, loving him as he would himself, he relates his love of himself and his neighbor entirely to the love of God, which allows not the slightest trickle to flow away from it and thereby diminish it.88

These words allow no exception, even for mother and child. In Augustine’s eyes, both the Maccabean mother and his own mother ordered their priorities correctly in ushering their children into God’s kingdom and then, each having fulfilled her purpose, departing this life. They had used their children and had been used by them in gaining eternal salvation. Mary the Theotokos Thus far, the Christian mothers and maternal figures under consideration in this essay have been those who occupied themselves with the salvation of 87 Augustine, On Christian Doctrine 1.3.3–1.5.5 (ed. Joseph Martin, Sancti Aurelii Augustini: De doctrina Christiana, CCL 32 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1962], 7–9). 88 Augustine, On Christian Doctrine 1.22.21 (ed. Martin, CCL 32, pp. 17–18; tr. R. P. H. Green, Saint Augustine: On Christian Teaching, Oxford World’s Classics [Oxford University Press, 1997], 17): Cum autem ait: “toto corde, tota anima, tota mente,” nullam vitae nostrae partem reliquit, quae vacare debeat et quasi locum dare, ut alia re velit frui, sed quidquid aliud diligendum venerit in animum, illuc rapiatur, quo totus dilectionis impetus currit. Quisquis ergo recte diligit proximum, hoc cum eo debet agere, ut etiam ipse toto corde, tota anima, tota mente diligat deum. Sic enim eum diligens tamquam se ipsum totam dilectionem sui et illius refert in illam dilectionem dei, quae nullum a se rivulum duci extra patitur, cuius derivatione minuatur.

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specific individuals. By contrast, it is the eternal salvation of all humanity for which the Virgin Mary is understood to have acquiesced to the tragic loss of her son. In this sense, her sacrifice can be called unique. Patristic writers, however, naturally viewed Mary through the lens of the undeveloped state of Marian doctrine characteristic of their era, combined with attitudes toward women prevalent in antiquity. Although devotion to the Virgin Mary did not become prominent until the fifth century, a study of early Marian literature is helpful for gleaning insights into patristic views of motherhood. Of all the mothers appearing in Scripture and tradition, Mary would seem to be the most conspicuous and logical choice as a model for Christian motherhood. Yet patristic interpretations of her role were not always positive. According to Origen’s exegesis, Christ’s prediction at the Last Supper that all the apostles would soon be “scandalized” (Mark 14:27) is applicable to Mary, too. She balked at her Son’s shocking end because she was not exempt from sin; in fact, Rom 3:23 (“all have sinned and fallen short …”) includes Mary, says Origen, because Jesus died for her sins along with everyone else’s. Her recalcitrance in the face of his Passion was a shortcoming and functioned as the sword that pierced her heart (Luke 2:35).89 Basil of Caesarea has apparently appropriated Origen’s interpretation, juxtaposing the sword in Mary’s heart, predicted by Simeon, with the Matthean passage in which Christ predicts scandal (Matt 26:31). He characterizes Mary standing at the cross as being in the grip of “perplexity” (savlo~) and “doubt” (diavkrisi~). The reason that Basil provides is the same as that of Origen, namely, that Christ atoned for everyone’s sins, including his mother’s.90 Cyril of Alexandria also perceives Mary as a doubting follower at the Crucifixion.91 Although he honored her as the chaste virgin whose pure 89

Origen, Homily 17.6–7 (ed. Henri Crouzel, Francois Fournier, and Pierre Périchon, Homélies sur s. Luc: texte latin et fragments grecs, 2nd ed., Sources chrétiennes 87 [Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1998], 256–258; tr. Joseph T. Lienhard, S.J., Origen: Homilies on Luke, Fathers of the Church 94 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1996], 73). 90 Basil, Letter 260.9 (ed. PG 32:965–968; tr. Sister Agnes Clare Way, C.D.P., Saint Basil: Letters, Volume 2 (186–368), Fathers of the Church 28 [New York: Fathers of the Church, Inc., 1955; repr., Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008], 231). 91 Frances Young “Theotokos: Mary and the Pattern of Fall and Redemption in the Theology of Cyril of Alexandria,” in The Theology of St Cyril of Alexandria: A Critical Appreciation, ed. Thomas G. Weinandy and Daniel A. Keating (London and New York: T & T Clark, 2003), 55–74, examines Cyril’s view of Mary’s role in salvation. It is apparent that, for Cyril, Mary’s significance consisted in her indispensable role in the conception and birth of Jesus Christ.

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womb provided the means by which the Incarnation occurred – namely, as the Theotokos – he envisaged her as questioning the divinity of her Son because of her feminine susceptibility to emotional extremes. According to Cyril, the evangelist John’s reason for mentioning the women weeping at the cross is as follows: That the Passion in its unexpectedness had caused even the mother of the Lord to fall, as it appears, and that the death on the cross, being extremely bitter, made her depart to some extent from the thoughts that were fitting. … For you need not doubt that she admitted into her mind thoughts of the following kind: “I gave birth to the one who is mocked on the tree. Perhaps in saying that he was the true Son of almighty God he was mistaken. He was apparently in error when he said, ‘I am the Life.’” … It is extremely probable that a mere woman, ignorant of the mystery, was deceived into thoughts of this kind.92

Cyril proceeds to link these alleged doubts with the sword of Luke 2:35. The favorable perspective on the Virgin Mary that is held by Ambrose of Milan can serve as a counterweight to the negative patristic tradition. As Hilda Graef has pointed out, Ambrose’s view of the Virgin Mother at the Crucifixion anticipated medieval conceptions of her never-wavering, though sorrowful, constancy.93 In his Commentary on Luke, Ambrose shows us a mother who stands alone with her Son at Calvary while all of his other followers have fled, and who is confident that this tragic scene will result in the salvation of humankind; Ambrose even speculates that she is willing to die herself for the salvation of the world.94 The sword predicted by Simeon years earlier is not an attack of doubt or fear, but rather 92

Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on John 12 (ed. PG 74:661; tr. Richard M. Price, “The Theotokos and the Council of Ephesus,” in Origins of the Cult of the Virgin Mary, ed. Chris Maunder [London: Burns and Oates, 2008], 89–103, here 96–97): th;n tou` kurivou mhtevra to; ajdokhvtw~ sumbebhko;~ ejskandavlise pavqo~: kai; mikrou` tou` prevponto~ ejxevsthse logismou` pikro;~ w[n livan oJ ejpi; tw/` staurw/` qavnato~. … Mh; ga;r ejndoiavsh/~: o{ti toiouvtou~ tina;~ eijsedevxato logismouv~: Gegevnnhka me;n ejgw; to;n ejpi; xuvlou gelwvmenon: ajll j UiJo;n eJauto;n ajlhqino;n ei\nai levgwn tou` pavntwn kratou`nto~ Qeou`, tavca pou kai; diesfavlleto: jEgwv eijmi, levgwn, hJ zwh;, pw`~ ejstaurwvqh; … Kai; eijkov~ ge dh; sfovdra to; musthvrion oujk eijdo;~ ejn toiouvtoi~ tisi; to; guvnaion ojlisqh`sai dialogismoi`~. 93 Hilda Graef, Mary: A History of Doctrine and Devotion (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics; and London: Sheed & Ward, 1963 and 1965; repr. 1985), 81–82. 94 Ambrose, Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 10.132 (ed. Dom Gabriel Tissot, Ambroise de Milan: Traite sur l’evangile de s. Luc II, Livres VII–X, Sources chrétiennes 52 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1958], 200). Ambrose says that Mary “was standing before the cross and was looking with devout eyes upon the wounds of her Son, because she was awaiting not the death of her child, but the salvation of the world” (Maria … ante crucem stabat et piis spectabat oculis filii vulnera, quia exspectabat non pignoris mortem, sed mundi salutem). Graef highlights this text in Mary: A History, 82.

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her awareness and understanding of God’s salvific purpose in the crucifixion of her Son, comparable to the Word of God as a two-edged sword.95 Obviously, however, Mariology in the fourth and fifth centuries awaited further development in both the East and the West. In the Byzantine Empire of the sixth century, Romanos the Melodist explored in depth the theme of Mary’s reaction to the tragedy that was descending upon her Son. His kontakion on the Theotokos, a hymn of seventeen stanzas, each ending in the phrase “My Son and my God,” is a dialogue between Mary and Jesus on the way to Calvary.96 Mary, “worn out with grief,”97 remonstrates, “I did not expect, my child, to see you in this plight,” and “You are on your way, my child, to unjust slaughter.”98 Jesus replies, “Why are you weeping, Mother? Why are you carried away like the other women? Should I not suffer? Not die? How then shall I save Adam?”99 Then he repeats his exhortation not to weep and explains the salvific function of his suffering and death. When she expresses her difficulty in trying to understand the rationale he offers, he responds kindly with further explanation. Finally she declares, “I am conquered, my Child, I am conquered by love. … Let me come with you, for to see you heals me. … Life, who is it? It is my Son and my God.”100 Jesus then cautions her that she will witness cataclysmic events such as earthquakes, darkness, and the emptying of tombs: “When you see these things, if, as a woman, you are afraid, cry out to me,

95 Ambrose, Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 2.61 (ed. Dom Gabriel Tissot, Ambroise de Milan: Traite sur l’evangile de s. Luc I, Livres I–VI, Sources chrétiennes 45 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1956], 99). Graef points out this text in Mary: A History, 81. 96 Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 35 (ed. José Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome IV, Nouveau Testament (XXXII–XLV), Sources chrétiennes 128 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1964], 158–186). The English translation used here is found in Kontakia on the Life of Christ, trans. with intro. by Archimandrite Ephrem Lash (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1995), 143–150. Another fine translation is that of Marjorie Carpenter, Kontakia of Romanos, Byzantine Melodist. I: On the Person of Christ (Columbia, MO: University of Missouri Press, 1970), 196–203. 97 Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 35.1 (ed. Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome IV, Nouveau Testament [XXXII–XLV], 160): trucomevnh. 98 Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 35.2 and 35.3 (ed. Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome IV, Nouveau Testament [XXXII–XLV], 162), which reads, oujk h[lpizon, tevknon, ejn touvtoi~ ijdei`n se and uJpavgei~, w\ tevknon, pro;~ a[dikon fovnon. 99 Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 35.4 (ed. Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome IV, Nouveau Testament [XXXII–XLV], 164): Tiv dakruvei~, mhvthr; Tiv tai`~ a[llai~ gunaixi; sunapofevrh;/ Mh; pavqw; mh; qavnw; pw`~ ou[n swvsw to;n jAdavm; 100 Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 35.15 (ed. Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome IV, Nouveau Testament [XXXII–XLV], 182): Nikw`mai, w\ tevknon, nikw`mai tw/` povqw/. … [Afe~ ou\n sunevlqw: qerapeuvei ga;r ejme; to; qewrei`n se. … hJ zwh; de; tiv~ ejstin; JO UiJo;~ kai; Qeov~ mou.

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‘Spare me, my Son and my God.’”101 The hymn ends with the singer addressing Christ in praise and thanksgiving, including among Christ’s wondrous works his bestowal upon his mother of the confidence and freedom to call upon him. Romanos may have been familiar with the tradition, apparently stemming from Origen, of Mary’s doubt, which he mentions fleetingly in connection with the sword of Luke 2:35, in his kontakion on the Presentation of the child Jesus in the Temple.102 It is significant, however, that, in his kontakion on the Theotokos, Mary’s reservations are overcome by her persistence in petitioning her son combined with her trust in his truthfulness. Questioning is acceptable behavior when questions are laid at the feet of the Lord. More importantly, nowhere does she doubt his divinity, and in fact her words of address to him in the refrain (“my Son and my God”) assert his divinity repeatedly. It is even possible that Mary’s positive identification of her Son as life may be a refutation of Cyril’s speculation that Mary entertained doubt regarding her Son’s declaration, “I am the life.” Thus Cyril’s portrait of Mary is rejected, though Romanos gives full play to her maternal emotions. The Western patristic tradition contains the seed of the doctrine of a sinless Mary in the writing of Augustine, who preferred to believe that she committed no sin in her lifetime.103 Bede would continue this line of thought in the early eighth century by commenting explicitly, with respect to Luke 2:35, that, although Mary suffered grief at the Crucifixion, she did not doubt that by his death Christ would conquer death.104 Seven centuries

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Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 35.16 (ed. Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome IV, Nouveau Testament [XXXII–XLV], 184): o{tan i[dh/~ tau`ta, eja;n pthvxh/~ wJ~ gunhv, kravxon pro;~ mev: Fei`saiv mou, oJ UiJo;~ kai; Qeov~ mou. 102 Romanos the Melodist, Hymn 14.13 (ed. José Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Mélode: Hymnes. Tome II, Nouveau Testament (IX–XX), Sources chrétiennes 110 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1965], 190): Simeon tells Mary, Kai; ga;r o{tan i[dh/~ tw/` staurw/` proshlouvmenon to;n uiJo;n sou, … ajmfibalei`~ eujqevw~: wJ~ rJomfaiva de; soi e[stai hJ diavkrisi~ tou` pavqou~: ajlla; meta; tau`ta i[asin tacei`an ejkpevmyei th/` kardiva/ sou … Trans. Lash, Kontakia on the Life of Christ, 32, as follows: “For when you see your Son nailed to the Cross, … at once you will doubt. The misgiving caused by suffering will be like a sword for you. But after this he will send your heart swift healing …” Here the object of the momentary doubt is not specified; perhaps it is the necessity for Christ to suffer, as in the previously discussed kontakion, rather than his divinity itself. 103 Augustine, On nature and grace 36.42 (ed. C. Urba and J. Zycha, Augustinus VIII, Pars I, CSEL 60 [Vienna: F. Tempsky, 1913], 233–299, here 263–264). 104 Bede the Venerable, Commentary on Luke (ed. D. Hurst, In Lucae Evangelium expositio; In Marci Evangelium expositio, CCL 120 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1960], 68): Quae etsi Christum utpote Dei filium sponte propria mori mortemque ipsam non dubitaret esse devicturum, ut sua tamen carne procreatum non sine doloris affectu potuit videre cru-

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later, Julian of Norwich would erase the apparent contradiction between Mary’s sorrow and Mary’s faith by linking her pain to a Christian’s love for Christ, with the difference between her love for him and that of any other believer being a difference of degree, not of kind. Influenced by late Medieval piety with its emphasis on participation in the sufferings of Christ, Julian says that, while all who are devoted to Christ suffer with him, Mary did so most of all: Here I saw part of the compassion of our Lady Saint Mary, for Christ and she were so united in love that the greatness of her love for him caused the intensity of her pain; in this I saw the essential character of the love, natural but maintained by grace, which all creation has for him; this natural love was shown in his dear Mother most abundantly, and indeed supremely, for just as her love for him surpassed that of anyone else, so did her suffering for him.105

For Julian, therefore, Mary underwent a kind of martyrdom herself. Here nature and grace are working together in a scenario far removed from the patristic belief that Mary’s grief was a hindrance to her discipleship. We have seen that Origen viewed Mary as affected by an inherent feminine weakness (more so than was the mother of the Maccabean martyrs, whom he lauded, as seen above). This perspective was adopted by Basil of Caesarea and Cyril of Alexandria, but not by Ambrose of Milan. In the postpatristic centuries in both the East and the West, however, the negativity associated with Mary’s maternal devotion fades away in favor of a positive focus on the intensity and holiness of her love for him as her Lord. The development of Marian tradition, therefore, helped to remove the stigma from, and to elevate the status of, the emotional component of the maternal side of the bond between a mother and her child. Conclusion Because of an absence of systematic moral instruction for Christian mothers, the patristic concept of Christian motherhood must be pieced together cifigi. Bede repeats this opinion in almost the same words in his Homily I.18 (ed. Dom David Hurst, OSB, Bedae homiliae evangelii, CCL 122 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1955], 132). 105 Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Long Text 18 (tr. Elizabeth Spearing with intro. and notes by A. C. Spearing, Revelations of Divine Love (short text and long text); Julian of Norwich [London: Penguin Books, 1998], 67). Critical texts of Julian include the following: Edmund Colledge and James Walsh, eds., A Book of Showings to the Anchoress Julian of Norwich, 2 vols., Studies and Texts 35 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1978); Georgia Ronan Crampton, ed., The Shewings of Julian of Norwich, Medieval Institute Publications (Kalamazoo: Western Michigan University, 1994); and Marion Glasscoe, ed., Julian of Norwich, A Revelation of Love, Exeter Medieval English Texts (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1976; rev. ed., 1986).

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from various genres of literature, most of them being narrative accounts. It appears that the Hellenistic devaluation of maternal attachment as a fleshly phenomenon, along with the exaltation of martyrdom and asceticism, were operative in the early church. Thus the ideal Christian mother would be able to part with her child cheerfully for the sake of her own or her child’s salvation in Christ; accounts of martyrs and ascetics make this concept abundantly clear. In Augustine’s description of Monica, her tenacious maternal devotion is rewarded with her son’s long-desired conversion, but this devotion must be purified and realigned so as to exclude any wishes for his enrichment by worldly goods. Although the Virgin Mary’s devotion would come to be accepted and admired in Byzantine and medieval western thought through an emphasis on her unwavering confidence in her Son’s divinity, patristic interpretation tends toward a view of Mary as torn apart and plunged into doubt by the spiritually harmful turmoil of emotion elicited by her Son’s suffering. The leitmotif in all of these perspectives is that the primary focus of ideal Christian motherhood, overriding all other goals or desires, is directed austerely and unceasingly to the spiritual life, not to the maternal relationship, with its accompanying emotions, nor to what may enhance the comfort of the child. Maternal sacrifice, therefore, may include relinquishing earthly bonding with one’s child for the sake of the eternal goods that are central to the child’s true welfare. Such a sacrifice does not preclude a spiritual union with one’s child, both through prayer and in the afterlife.

Children in Fourth-Century Greek Epistolography: Cappadocian Perspectives from the Pens of Gregory Nazianzen and Basil of Caesarea Cornelia B. Horn Introduction Social ethics as a normative discipline of the organization of society has explored only insufficiently the wisdom and practical knowledge that early Christian sources from the West and from the East have to offer.1 One subset of relevant questions of this topic pertains to instructions on how to deal with their children, which the generations of early Christian fathers and mothers of the first through fifth centuries received. For some time now, historians, classicists, and archaeologists have engaged early Christian conceptions, awareness, and representations of children’s lives and experiences, within but also independent of family settings.2 Often, this interdisciplinary work benefits from the results of allied  This article is dedicated to Martina, Anne, and Simone Löffler, with fond memories of time spent together caring for children in Washington DC. I am grateful to Aaron Overby for research assistance offered for this project. That remaining errors are the responsibility of the present author goes without saying. 1 A project dealing with patristic perspectives regarding social ethics that was conducted at the Centre for Catholic Social Ethics at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven (Louvain) serves as a useful step on the way towards overcoming this neglect. For some results of that work see Brian Matz, Patristic Sources and Catholic Social Teaching: A Forgotton Dimension; A Textual, Historical, and Rhetorical Analysis of Patristic Source Citations in the Church’s Social Documents (Leuven: Peeters, 2008); and Brian Matz, “The Use of Patristic Socioethical Texts in Catholic Social Thought,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, ed. Susan R. Holman, Holy Cross Studies in Patristic Theology and History (Grand Rapids: BakerAcademic and Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 2008). 2 For work that addresses new promising directions for future research, see Beryl Rawson, “The Future of Childhood Studies in Classics and Ancient History,” in Hoping for Continuity: Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Katarina Mustakallio, Jussi Hanska, Hanna-Leena Sainio, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 33 (Rome and Tampere: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2005), 1–11. Representative monograph-length studies and collections of articles include Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America

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fields, such as the successful approach to the letters of Cicero which helped Leslie Joan Shumka reconstruct the world of children’s life and play in Rome,3 Thomas Wiedemann’s mining of ancient pagan and Christian private letters for data on children,4 the illuminating illustrations of the life of luxury enjoyed by upper-class children that Keith Bradley extracted from Pliny the Younger’s correspondance,5 or the examination of the surviving papyrological evidence of correspondences between spouses or parents and children.6 The study of children, childhood, and related metaphors also has attracted the attention of scholars of the New Testament and of the second and third centuries for some time.7 The study of patristics, on the Press, 2009); Odd M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005); Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); Suzanne Dixon, ed., Childhood, Class, and Kin in the Roman World (London and New York: Routledge, 2001); Beryl Rawson and Paul Weaver, eds., The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space (Canberra: Humanities Research Centre; and Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997); Suzanne Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992); Beryl Rawson, ed., Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome (Canberra: Humanities Research Center; Oxford: Clarendon Press; and New York: Oxford University Press, 1991); Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990); Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (London: Routledge, 1989); and Beryl Rawson, ed., The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986). 3 See Leslie Joan Shumka, “Children and Toys in the Roman World: A Contribution to the History of the Roman Family,” M.A. thesis (University of Victoria, Canada, 1993), 22–32. On children, their toys, and play as a means of socializing the young in the Christian Church, see Cornelia B. Horn, “Children’s Play as Social Ritual,” in Late Ancient Christianity. A People’s History of Christianity. Vol. 2, ed. Virginia Burrus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 95–116. 4 Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire, 84–112. 5 See Keith R. Bradley, “Child Labor in the Roman World,” in Keith Bradley, Discovering the Roman Family: Studies in Roman Social History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 103–124, here 103–106. See also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 172–173. 6 See evidence in papyri that pertain to the healing of sick children as discussed in Cornelia Horn, “Approaches to the Study of Sick Children and Their Healing in Christian Apocryphal Acts and Gospels and in Cognate Literatures,” in this volume. 7 See, for example, the contributions by Judith M. Gundry, John T. Carroll, Marianne Meye Thompson, Joel B. Green, Beverly Roberts Gaventa, Reidar Aasgaard, Margaret Y. MacDonald, and Keith J. White in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, England: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2008), 143–304 and 353–374; Christine Gerber, Paulus und seine “Kinder”: Studien zur Beziehungsmetaphorik der paulinischen Briefe, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche 136 (Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter, 2005); Peter Balla, The ChildParent Relationship in the New Testament and Its Environments, WUNT 155 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003); David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek, eds., Early Christian Families

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other hand, has only begun to read sources that are more specific to its field of inquiry for information on children in their social settings. Initially, scholars of the early church took up questions of family life in a broad sweep using the results of investigations on other related topics.8 More recently, with relatively more data having been gathered and analyzed, studies have begun to concentrate on children directly.9 Whereas early Christian literature of the first through third centuries has been studied somewhat more thoroughly with a view towards children, it emerges with clarity that a good amount of work remains to be done on the lives of children in sources from the fourth, fifth, and subsequent centuries. Moreover, children in Christian sources in languages other than Latin are still rather poorly represented in scholarship.10 Based primarily on the letters of Gregory Nazianzen and Basil of Caesarea, this article argues that Greek epistolography originating from fourthcentury Cappadocia is a heretofore neglected, yet precious source for gaining insights into the social values, theological concerns, ascetical dimenin Context. An Interdisciplinary Dialogue, Religion, Marriage, and Family series (Grand Rapids, MI, and Cambridge, England: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2003); Bettina Eltrop, “Kinder im Neuen Testament. Eine sozialgeschichtliche Nachfrage,” Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie 17 (2002), 83–96; Carolyn Osiek and David L. Balch, Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1997); and Bettina Eltrop, Denn solchen gehört das Himmelreich. Kinder im Matthäusevangelium. Eine feministisch-sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Stuttgart: Ulrich E. Grauer, 1996). 8 See, e.g., Philip Rousseau, “Blood-Relationships among Early Eastern Ascetics,” Journal of Theological Studies 23 (1972), 135–144; Graham Gould, “Childhood in Eastern Patristic Thought: Some Problems of Theology and Theological Anthropology,” in The Church and Childhood. Papers Presented at the 1993 Summer Meeting and the 1994 Winter Meeting of The Ecclesiastical History Society, ed. Diana Wood, Studies in Church History 31 (Oxford: Published for The Ecclesiastical History Society by Blackwell Publishers, 1994), 39–52; Carol Harrison, “The Silent Majority: the Family in Patristic Thought,” in The Family in Theological Perspective, ed. Stephen C. Barton (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 87–105; and Andrew S. Jacobs, “‘Let Him Guard Pietas’: Early Christian Exegesis and the Ascetic Family,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 265–281. For a brief survey of other relevant literature and themes see also Andrew S. Jacobs and Rebecca Krawiec, “Fathers Know Best? Christian Families in the Age of Asceticism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 257–263. 9 See, for example, Bakke, When Children Became People; and Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me.” 10 For a few exceptions see for example Alison G. Salvesen, “‘Without Shame or Desire’: Attitudes towards Childhood in Early Syriac Writers,” Scottish Journal of Theology 59.3 (2006), 1–20; Cornelia Horn, “The Lives and Literary Roles of Children in Advancing Conversion to Christianity: Hagiography from the Caucasus in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages,” Church History 76.2 (2007), 262–297; and Robert R. Phenix Jr., “The Contribution of Social Science Research to the Study of Children and Childhood in Pre-Modern Ethiopia,” in this volume.

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sions, and practical considerations pertaining to children’s lives in the Christian household, the church, and the public realm at the time. This article first examines Gregory Nazianzen’s letters and then turns to an investigation of comments on children in Basil of Caesarea’s epistolary corpus. Conclusions evaluate the views and concerns of the two authors from a comparative perspective. Although collections of letters of three of the famous fourth-century Cappadocian theologians are extant, only Basil of Caesarea and Gregory Nazianzen commented on children directly or in passing when writing to friends or colleagues. Basil’s younger brother Gregory of Nyssa, the only one of the three Cappadocian fathers who may have been the head of a family of his own,11 does not reveal in his letters that he had children in view to any significant extent or that he had children of his own. Cynegius,12 whom Gregory addressed as his son in Letter 13, more likely was a spiritual and not a biological son, given that Gregory used the language of sonship also in the cases of Alexander,13 Basil,14 and Letoius,15 who clearly were among Gregory’s spiritual children. Also, by the time Grgeory wrote to or about these men they were already adults, which certainly holds true in the case of Bishop Letoius. Such circumstantial evidence therefore provides sufficient reason to exclude Gregory of Nyssa’s correspondence from the present study. By their very nature of being a means of communication between people that allows for the revelation of intimate details about a person’s private life, letters are an excellent source from which to gather data regarding personal convictions and motivations for actions as well as about interpersonal relationships and details of everyday-life engagements. This holds true for epistolography in the classical world. It also applies to letters written by patristic authors who were trained in the literature of that classical 11

See the discussion in Jean Daniélou, “Le mariage de Grégoire de Nysse et la chronologie de sa vie,” Revue des Études Augustiniennes 2 (1956), 71–78. 12 Gregory of Nyssa, Letters 13.3 (ed. and tr. Pierre Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse. Lettres, Sources chrétiennes 363 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990], 196–197; tr. Dörte Teske, Gregor von Nyssa. Briefe, Bibliothek der griechischen Literatur 43 [Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1997], 62; tr. Anna M. Silvas, Gregory of Nyssa, the Letters. Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 83 [Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007], 154). 13 Gregory of Nyssa, Letters 8.4 (ed. and tr. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse. Lettres, 176–177; tr. Teske, Gregor von Nyssa. Briefe, 57; tr. Silvas, Gregory of Nyssa, the Letters, 145). 14 Gregory of Nyssa, Letters 21.2 (ed. and tr. Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse. Lettres, 272–273; tr. Teske, Gregor von Nyssa. Briefe, 81; tr. Silvas, Gregory of Nyssa, the Letters, 188). 15 Gregory of Nyssa, Epistula canonica ad Letoium Episcopum (ed. PG 45.221–236, here 236B).

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world and who, in addition, pursued pastoral goals of shaping the members of their audiences in the pursuit of the right way of life, not only through their proclamations when preaching, but also through their written word. Some have argued that in the Byzantine era letters were more often proscriptive than descriptive, revealing not so much how things were, but how people thought things ought to be.16 Nevertheless, this observation does not impede the study of these letters as a source for reconstructing social networks and family relationships, of which children were a vital part. The very birth of children was the mortar that bound families together in a manner that surpassed the connections established through marriage relationships. Through children social networks could be extended across the boundaries not only of space but even more so of time. Thus this article is situated at the cutting edge of three distinct areas of inquiry that receive renewed or even novel attention in patristics: the study of ancient epistolography,17 the examination of principles of social ethics and their application in everyday life in Late Antiquity,18 as well as childhood studies that initially functioned as a subset of family studies but now emerge increasingly in their own right. Gregory Nazianzen’s Concern for Children as Reflected in His Letters In scholarly literature, Gregory Nazianzen is not especially known or valued as a social reformer.19 Given his distinct reputation as “the Theolo16 Despina Stratoudaki White, “Byzantine Epistolography,” Greek Orthodox Theological Review 21 (1976), 215–223. 17 For larger research projects on letters in the Late Antique world, see for example the “Late Latin Letters” project, directed by Michele Salzman, at the Institute for Antiquity and Christianity at Claremont University, CA (http://iac.cgu.edu/research/letters. html [accessed March 10, 2009]). For the Greek realm, one may refer for instance to the study of the voluminous corpus of Isidore of Pelusium’s letters that Pierre Évieux has offered with his Isidore de Péluse, Théologie historique 99 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1995), and the edition of much of that corpus in Pierre Évieux, ed. and tr., Lettres. Isidore de Péluse, Sources chrétiennes 422 and 454 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1997–2000). 18 See for example work on poverty in the writings of Basil of Caesarea, Gregory Nazianzen, and Gregory of Nyssa in Susan R. Holman, The Hungry Are Dying: Beggars and Bishops in Roman Cappadocia (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). See also more recently the articles in Susan R. Holman, ed., Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, Holy Cross Studies in Patristic Theology and History (Grand Rapids: BakerAcademic and Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 2008). 19 As more of his works become available in English translation to a wider interested audience, both academic and pastoral, this evaluation may have to be modified. Martha Vinson’s translation of selected orations that heretofore were not easily accessible to those without knowledge of Greek is destined to make a significant contribution here. See Martha Vinson, tr., Gregory of Nazianzus: Select Orations, Fathers of the Church 107 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2003). See also the com-

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gian” among the Cappadocian Fathers, it is not surprising that the few comments that have been made about his views on children arise in contexts that deal with matters of church doctrine, especially the sacraments.20 With regard to the study of the development of baptismal practices in early Christianity one notices that in Oration 40, a sermon delivered in 381, Gregory provided specific instructions concerning the age at which the child ought to receive baptism.21 His letters reveal that Gregory eagerly attempted to help parents overcome their hesitations at having their children baptized. To those parents, who had “an infant child (νήπιον),” he recommended not to “let sin get any opportunity.” Rather, parents ought to allow their child to “be sanctified from its childhood (βρέφους), from its most tender age,” and let the child “be consecrated by the Spirit.”22 A few paragraphs later, Gregory fine-tuned his recommendations and defined more exactly the specific circumstances when the baptism of children in their most tender years should occur. To people who asked whether those who were still children indeed ought to be baptized, Gregory responded that “if any danger presses,” baptism should be administered immediately. He was convinced that it was “better that they [i.e., children] should be unconsciously sanctified than that they should depart unsealed and uninitiated.”23 When circumstances were normal, however, Gregory preferred baptism af-

ments in Frederick W. Norris’s review of that volume in Journal of Early Christian Studies 13.2 (2005), 254–256, here 255. 20 See Michael Gärtner, Die Familienerziehung in der Alten Kirche. Eine Untersuchung über die ersten vier Jahrhunderte des Christentums mit einer Übersetzung und einem Kommentar zu der Schrift des Johannes Chrysostomus über die Geltungssucht und Kindererziehung, Kölner Veröffentlichungen zur Religionsgeschichte 7 (Köln and Wien: Böhlau Verlag, 1985), 67. 21 Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 40 (ed. and tr. Claudio Moreschini and Paul Gallay, Grégoire de Nazianze. Discours 38–41, Sources chrétiennes 358 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990], 198–311). For discussion of the evidence from Oratio 40, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 286–287; and Brian Matz, “The Purifying Work of Baptism and the Christian’s Post-Baptismal Life according to Gregory Nazianzen,” Ph. D. thesis (Saint Louis, MO: Saint Louis University, 2006), 192–196, which more broadly examines Gregory’s baptismal theology, particularly in Orations 39 and 40. 22 Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 40.17 (ed. and tr. Moreschini and Gallay, Grégoire de Nazianze. Discours 38–41, 232, ll. 15–16; tr. Charles Gordon Browne and James Edward Swallow, “Select Orations of Saint Gregory Nazianzen Sometime Archbishop of Constantinople,” NPNF 2nd ser., vol. 7 [New York: Christian Literature Publishing Co., 1893], 365 [modified]). 23 Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 40.28 (ed. and tr. Moreschini and Gallay, Grégoire de Nazianze. Discours 38–41, 262, l. 4 and ll. 5–6; tr. Browne and Swallow, “Select Orations of Saint Gregory Nazianzen,” 370).

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ter a child had completed his or her third year of life.24 For Gregory, the baptism of children differed from that of adults. Whereas children were baptized in order to be initiated and to be sealed, adults in addition obtained a “cure” for their sins from receiving this sacrament.25 Gregory Nazianzen’s letters do not refer to children in connection with matters of church doctrine or official ecclesiastical practices.26 Instead, in several instances Gregory wrote of his concern for the practical matters of children’s lives, many of which also had spiritual dimensions.27 From an examination of the 249 extant letters of Nazianzen’s correspondence, four main topics emerge that color his treatment of children. Firstly, he displays his concern about children’s education, both practically and spiritually. Secondly, he speaks about matters affecting the relationships between parents and children. Thirdly, Gregory takes account of hardships children suffered. One may also observe as a fourth area of Gregory’s interest a certain consideration of children’s lives through the lens of ancient mythology. Gregory’s concern with children’s education presents itself in manifold facets. It clearly was a pressing need that required his attention and he dealt with both the practical and the spiritual sides of the issue. In Letter 157, one of several letters addressed to Bishop Theodore of Tyana,28 Gregory commented on the professional education in stenography that some of 24

Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 40.28 (ed. and tr. Moreschini and Gallay, Grégoire de Nazianze. Discours 38–41, 262, ll. 9–11; tr. Browne and Swallow, “Select Orations of Saint Gregory Nazianzen,” 370). 25 See Gregory Nazianzen, Carmina (theologica) I.1.9.91–92 (ed. PG 37.455–464, here 464A; tr. Peter Gilbert, On God and Man: The Theological Poetry of St. Gregory of Nazianzus [Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2001], 74): “For little children it [i.e., baptism] is a seal, for grown-ups, again, it is a cure and the finest seal” (νηπιάχοις μὲν Σφρηγὶς, ἀεξομένοισι δ’ ἄκος καὶ σφρηγὶς ἀρίστη). Matz, “The Purifying Work of Baptism,” 193, also refers to this evidence. 26 Studies of Gregory Nazianzen’s letters, principles of epistolography, and motifs employed in his letters include George T. Dennis, “Gregory of Nazianzus and the Byzantine Letter,” in Diakonia: Studies in Honor of Robert T. Meyer, ed. Thomas Halton and Joseph P. Williman (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1986), 3–13; as well as the comments in Abraham J. Malherbe, Ancient Epistolary Theorists (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1988; reprinted from Abraham J. Malherbe, “Ancient Epistolary Theorists,” Ohio Journal of Religious Studies 5 [1977]), 58–61; White, “Byzantine Epistolography,” 217–218; and Stig Y. Rudberg, “ΣΤΗΛΑΙ ΟΥΚ AΚΙΝΗΤΟΙ: A Metaphor in Letter 154 of Gregory of Nazianzus,” in Kyriakon: Festschrift Johannes Quasten, ed. Patrick Granfield and Josef Andreas Jungmann (Münster: Verlag Aschendorff, 1970), 424–426. 27 For some discussion of Gregory’s use of family imagery and family life, see Constantine N. Tsirpanlis, “Saint Gregory the Theologian on Marriage and Family,” Patristic and Byzantine Review 4.1 (1985), 33–37. 28 See also Letters 121–124, 139, 152, 157, and 160–163; perhaps one could also include Letter 159, but see Marie Madeleine Hauser-Meury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz, Theophaneia 13 (Bonn: P. Hanstein, 1960), 164–165.

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the children of his niece Alypiana and her husband Nicoboulos were to receive.29 It had been arranged that the children moved to the city of Tyana for that purpose. Gregory requested that the letter’s addressee, Theodore, keep an eye on the children to ensure that they would continue to go to church. It was clear to Gregory that through contact with virtuous people the children’s character would be formed in Christian virtue. His concern for the guarantee of an appropriate practical and spiritual education of these children may also have been grounded in a conviction he expressed in Letter 239. There he saw a connection between children’s obligation to honor their parents and the need of parents to instruct their children.30 In cases where parents had passed away and guardians had become involved with decisions made on behalf of the children, Gregory stipulated that those who took on the task of caring for the children also acquired the responsibility for their spiritual education. A second major theme of Gregory’s concern on behalf of children as expressed in his letters is constituted by his considerations of the relationship between children and parents. In general, he saw this relationship as intrinsically good, since parents clearly wanted and sought the best for their children. In Letter 121 he commented that already in ancient times fathers wished to extend all blessings to their children (toi'" paisivn), especially dew from heaven and the fertility of the earth.31 The addressee of the letter, Bishop Theodore of Tyana, was to understand that the same intentions also held true with contemporary biological and spiritual fathers. Comparative data shows that Gregory was familiar with typical attitudes or even necessities of relationships between parents and children. In Letter 52, addressed to his niece Alypiana’s husband Nicoboulos, Gregory presented a parallel between a father’s role in bringing about the physical characteristics of the child and the father’s influence on the child’s works. In both instances it was unavoidable that the father’s role became visible in what he had begotten: a child resembles the father both in looks and in deeds.32 Gregory’s perspective clearly was that of an adult who did not problematize the use of the child for the increase of the honor and status of the par29

Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 157.2 (ed. Paul Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte 53 [Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1969], 115; tr. Michael Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, Bibliothek der griechischen Literatur 13 [Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1981], 174–175). 30 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 239.1 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 171; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 223). 31 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 121.2 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 91; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 154). 32 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 52.3 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 49; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 119).

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ent. In Letter 230 Gregory made it a point to state that the goodwill of a father towards his offspring did not distinguish among the children. Rather, the love and benevolence of a father towards his offspring had to be impartial.33 Even though Gregory only spoke explicitly of the male parent, perhaps one may expand his observation more generally to all parents. As a consequence of the love that the parent showed towards his children, an outsider to this intimate relationship could become an insider as well. An adoptive parent or a guardian, for example, created a complete and authentic relationship with a child by extending the same love and affection as a biological parent. The well-off youth Adelphius from Naviles, a town near Nazianzen,34 seemed to have been in danger of squandering his inheritance and instead of following a life of ascetic restraint that Gregory had recommended to him Adelphius was ready to draw other young virgins (παρθένοι) along with him into a life outside of the dedicated service to God. Gregory appears to have seen his role regarding Adelphius as that of a substitute parent and perceived and acted upon the need to pursue the task of calling the youth back to a higher calling. Of the several letters addressed to men named Adelphius, at least two, Letters 205 and 206, were written to this young fellow about whose education and future Gregory was concerned.35 Gregory did not formulate this argument directly, but what he had to say implied as much. As far as he was concerned, through the loving attention one showed to a parent’s children one could also extend affection to the parent himself.36 The image of the father being concerned about his children was one which Gregory adopted for himself as well. He arrived at this identification not primarily by way of what he saw in the world around him, but rather through the recognition that biblical models could provide a fitting lens through which he thought he could evaluate and judge his role as spiritual father. Gregory used the example of Eli and his sons (1 Samuel 2– 3) as a case that illustrated his own situation.37 In Gregory’s interpretation of this story, Eli had admonished his sons to return to the service of God. 33 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 230.5 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 165, ll. 21–22; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 219). 34 See William M. Ramsey, The Historical Geography of Asia Minor, Supplementary Papers (Royal Geographical Society [Great Britain]) vol. 4 (London: John Murray, 1890; reprinted Amsterdam: A. M. Hakkert, 1962), 307. 35 See also Hauser-Meury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz, 23, on educating Adelphius as a son. For a different Adelphius, who was a wealthy landowner, see Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 204 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 147– 148; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 203–204). 36 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 230.4 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 165, ll. 18–20; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 219). 37 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 206.2–3 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 149; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 204).

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Yet since they did not listen, their father was punished, as Gregory saw it, for not having reprimanded them sufficiently. The underlying assumption was that children certainly would change their ways for the better, if only their parents showed enough strength in instructing them. Other early Christian texts also availed themselves of references to the same story about the relationship between that Old Testament priest and his offspring.38 As examples one may refer to both the longer version of Pseudo-Ignatius of Antioch’s Letter to the Magnesians and the so-called Letter of Mary the Proselyte to Ignatius that featured Samuel as a little child “reprov[ing] Eli, who was ninety years old, for giving honour to his sons rather than to God.”39 Mary the Proselyte’s letter specified Eli’s neglect of properly ordering his relationships and raising his sons even further when it raised a reprimand against Eli for having allowed his sons “to go unpunished, when they turned the office of the priesthood into ridicule, and acted violently towards” God’s people.40 Although these letters are spurious, they likely are the product of the fourth century and thus more or less contemporary with Gregory of Nazianzen’s writings.41 In contrast to the example set by Eli, who had acted as a parent who placed the desires and interests of his children above the honor and respect due to God, in Letter 61 Gregory emphasized that as much as it was right to dedicate to God the first-fruits of one’s harvest and one’s vineyard, so also one should dedicate to God the first-fruits from among one’s children 38

For the following example, see the discussion in Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 82–83. 39 Pseudo-Ignatius of Antioch, Letter to the Magnesians, III, 3 (ed. Franciscus X. Funk, Patres Apostolici [Tübingen: Libraria Henrici Laupp, 1901], vol. 2, 78–95, here 81). This material is found only in the longer rescension. The Letter of Mary the Proselyte (Mary of Cassobola) to Ignatius ch. 2 (ed. Funk, Patres Apostolici, vol. 2, 46–53, here 48–51; tr. A. Cleveland Coxe, The Apostolic Fathers with Justin Martyr and Irenaeus, Ante-Nicene Fathers 1 [reprinted Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1987], 120–121, here 120) formulated that “Samuel, while yet a little child, was called a seer, and was reckoned in the company of the prophets, that he reproved the aged Eli for the transgression, since he had honoured his infatuated sons above God the author of all things.” 40 Letter of Mary the Proselyte to Ignatius ch. 2 (ed. Funk, Patres Apostolici, vol. 2, 48–51; tr. Coxe, The Apostolic Fathers with Justin Martyr and Irenaeus, 120). The author of this letter also is referred to as Mary of Cassobelae, a site not otherwise known. This letter is part of the longer recension. 41 The letters of Ignatius of Antioch are preserved in three recensions: a shorter recension in Greek, a longer recension in Greek, and a relatively short Syriac recension. The longer recension in Greek dates to the fourth century. See Johannes Quasten, Patrology, Vol. 1: The Beginnings of Patristic Literature (Allen, Texas, first published 1950, eighth paperback repr. 1995), 74. See also F. R. Prostmeier, “Ignatius of Antioch,” in Dictionary of Early Christian Literature, ed. Siegmar Döpp and Wilhelm Geerlings, tr. Matthew O’Connell (New York: The Crossroad Publishing Company, 2000), 296–298.

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if one really loved one’s offspring.42 Such a request to order one’s relationships properly included the acknowledgement that parents ought to make sure that some of their children would at least be encouraged or enticed to pursue a life of asceticism or of ministerial service in the church as forms of service to God. One suspects that Gregory’s own experience of having his father goad him to take up the priestly ministry provided some of the background to the formulation of this kind of advice.43 Despite his own repeatedly realized inclination to withdraw from the world, Gregory was very capable of seeing the good and the fulfillment that married life could bring and how it continued to be the desired and desirable goal of many a parent for his or her children. Indeed, he acknowledged that it was fitting and proper for parents to be active in the preparation and performance of the rituals associated with their child’s wedding. In Letter 231, Gregory commented on the role of a father in his daughter’s wedding ceremony. While it was the priest’s task to say the appropriate prayers, according to custom the father of the bride, perhaps also the father of the bridegroom, placed the wedding crowns on the couple’s heads.44 In writing the letter as a congratulatory note to the father of the bride, Gregory recognized the importance of the wedding of one’s children and the role of the parents in that ceremony. In Letter 193, he spoke at somewhat greater length about the joys, including the dancing, that were experienced at such a feast, here at the wedding of Vitalianus’s daughter Olympias.45 Marriage provided families with an opportunity to expand and develop their networks of useful, beneficial relationships with other clans.46 Greg42

Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 61.1 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 55; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 124). 43 See for example Gregory Nazianzen, Carmina (historica) 2.1.11 (De vita sua 340– 349) (ed. PG 37.1029–1166, here 1053; ed. and tr. Christoph Jungck, Gregor von Nazianz. De Vita Sua. Einleitung–Text–Übersetzung–Kommentar, Wissenschaftliche Kommentare zu griechischen und lateinischen Schriftstellern [Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag, 1974], 70–71; text and tr. Alessandra Lukinovich, Grégoire de Nazianze. Le dit de sa vie [Geneva: Ad Solem, 1997], 74–77). 44 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 231.5 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 166; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 219). The evidence in Gregory’s letter is insufficient to decide whether or not the father of the bridegroom was involved in this ritual as well. On the custom of crowning bride and bridegroom in the wedding ceremonies of Eastern Christian churches and for theological reflections on the ceremony and its meaning see e.g. Joseph Raya, “The Crowning: Sacrament of Union,” Diakonia 16.3 (1981), 188–203; and David M. Petras, “The Liturgical Theology of Marriage,” Diakonia 16.3 (1981), 225–237. 45 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 193 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 140; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 196). 46 On the central role of family structures in the Cappadocian theologians’ circles, see for example Philip Rousseau, “The Pious Household and the Virgin Chorus: Reflections on Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 13.2 (2005),

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ory realized that as members of a family children also benefitted from such endeavors at expansion. In Letter 174 he explained that children had a right to inherit not only their father’s property and money, but also friends and other personal connections that their father or mother had established and cultivated.47 He may have assumed that the larger a parent’s friendship network was during the parent’s lifetime, the greater were the benefits children could expect to reap from such a support system after their parents’ death. As far as children and their fate were concerned, a third major component of Gregory’s thoughts on children consisted of his sensitivity to hardships children suffered. Then as now, children’s lives and well-being were threatened by a range of difficulties. Occasional comments in Gregory’s letters, for example, witness to the threat of slavery that ever loomed over children’s lives.48 In Letter 146 Gregory requested assistance from Olympius, the governor of the province of Cappadocia, in order to preserve the children of his relative Nicoboulos from the fate of becoming subject to slavery together with their father.49 Later on, in Letter 174, Gregory gratefully acknowledged the help Olympius provided in raising these children.50 When a parent faced the potential loss of his or her personal freedom, his or her children were also confronted with the same fate. The most urgent and frequent cause of stress in children’s lives that Gregory addressed in his letters was the loss of parents to death. Suffering the plight of one’s parents’ death was a burden of special severity for young children. Gregory likely had acquired familiarity with such situations as a pastor no less than his contemporaries, for example, given the high mortality rate of mothers in childbirth.51 Having children was a cir165–186; and Raymond Van Dam, Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003). 47 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 174.2 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 125; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 183–184). 48 For a discussion of Gregory Nazianzen’s view of slavery, see Richard Klein, Die Haltung der Kappadokischen Bischöfe Basilius von Caesarea, Gregor von Nazianz und Gregor von Nyssa zur Sklaverei, Forschungen zur Antiken Sklaverei 32 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2000), 117–185. 49 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 146.6 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 108; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 168). 50 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 174.4 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 126; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 184). 51 On mothers’ mortality during delivery in the ancient world, see for example the comments in Valerie French, “Midwives and Maternity Care in the Roman World,” Helios NS 13.2 (1986), 69–84; Nancy H. Demand, Birth, Death, and Motherhood in Classical Greece (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 75–80; Magnus Zetterholm, The Formation of Christianity in Antioch: A Social-Scientific Approach to the Separation between Judaism and Christianity, Routledge Early Church Monographs (London: Routledge, 2003), 30; Donald J. Ortner, Identification of Pathological Conditions in

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cumstance of life that could more favorably predispose parents than those without children of their own to perceive the need of aiding orphaned children. In Letter 104, Gregory argued that all those who acted in accord with reason should be able to see that it was important to aid widows and orphans. He also expressed his conviction that men who had a wife and children ought to understand the plight of widows and orphans and respond in accordance with this knowledge.52 It should be obvious to those with children that Christian charity was to be extended to children in need. Gregory argued along very similar lines in Letter 207, in which he told of the hardships of Simplicia, a widow and mother who fought on behalf of her orphaned offspring.53 He implored and encouraged the letter’s addressee, Jacob, a judge who may also have been the governor of the province,54 to make his decisions in this case while at the same time considering the data with the eyes of a father who had children and thus to be moved to provide assistance.55 In Letter 208 Gregory encouraged a father named Jacob, a different addressee from the one of Letter 207,56 to come to the aid of a widow and her orphaned children by exhorting him that through the mercy he showed to these orphans he could in fact work towards the well-being and security of his own children.57 Gregory did not spell out in detail what the exact nature of this exchange was and how it was supposed to resolve the case. It may simply not have required further elaboration for his audience. Perhaps it was understood that in a society in which it was customary for parents, or more generally, for adults to be concerned about the well-being of all children, not only those of one’s own family, one could rest assured that if one’s own children would become orphans a system was in place Human Skeletal Remains, Second Edition (London, UK, and San Diego, CA: Academic Press, 2003), 175; and Eleni Sotiriu, “Birth,” in Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece, ed. Nigel Guy Wilson (London: Routledge, 2006), 126–128. For comments on and references to literature on the high infant mortality rate in the ancient world see Blake Leyerle, “Appealing to Children,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 5.2 (1997), 243–270, here 247; and Alex Scobie, “Slums, Sanitation, and Mortality in the Roman World,” Klio 68.2 (1986), 399–433, here 399. See also Scobie, “Slums,” 419 and 422, on how the death of infants could contribute to the horrendous sanitary conditions in large cities as well as how infants could suffer from them. 52 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 104.3 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 83; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 148). 53 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 207.2 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 150; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 206). 54 Hauser-Meury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz, 100. 55 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 207.5 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 151; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 206). 56 See Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 206 and 257, fn. 418; see also HauserMeury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz, 100. 57 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 208.4 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 151; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 206).

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that ensured that a sufficient number of people outside of one’s own family would feel called upon to aid also those newly orphaned children and not leave them destitute or desperate. That a well-functioning system beyond the one constituted by the smaller circle of family and friends was necessary for securing the wellbeing of children is manifest from yet another instance, when Gregory wrote Letter 196 on behalf of the children of his relatives Alypiana and Nicoboulos.58 A situation had arisen in which these children suffered at the death of their father with their mother having been left behind as a destitute widow in need. Neither anyone of the friends of the family nor of those who had been expected to take up the roles of the children’s protectors were coming through with any assistance, despite earlier promises they had made of taking care of these children. Gregory addressed his appeal to a certain governor Hecebolius whom he considered to be the only hope for their case. In this instance, without other family members or friends to make the children’s case, Gregory himself became an advocate who pleaded the case from the perspective of a relative and thus of an insider. It is possible that in similar circumstances other families died by starvation or became slaves to stay alive if there was no one to solicit assistance on their behalf. The fate of orphans occupied Gregory rather frequently when he had occasion to comment on children.59 In fact, if one judged matters only from the limited perspective of his letters, one could conclude that the plight of orphans occupied Nazianzen at least with comparable intensity than it did occupy Basil, the great social activist.60 For the realm of early and medieval Greek-speaking Christianity, Timothy Miller has offered an extensive study of how the death of parents, or more specifically the death of one’s father and thus of one’s legal representative affected children’s lives by turning them into orphans.61 Miller’s valuable monograph, The 58 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 196.4 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 142; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 198). 59 Also in Letter 199, addressed to Nemesius, Gregory spoke of a threat to the wellbeing of orphaned children. See Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 199.4 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 144–145; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 200). 60 Definitive judgments on that question have to await a more comprehensive study of all of Gregory’s comments on the plight of orphans throughout his corpus. On Basil’s social engagements, see Ioannes Karayannopoulos, “St. Basil’s Social Activity: Principles and Praxis,” in Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic, ed. Paul J. Fedwick, 2 vols. (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1981), vol. 1, 375–391; as well as literature referenced in Cornelia B. Horn, Asceticism and Christological Controversy in Fifth-Century Palestine. The Career of Peter the Iberian, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 56–57. 61 Timothy S. Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium. Child Welfare in the Christian Empire (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003).

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Orphans of Byzantium: Child Welfare in the Christian Empire, also considers some, even if not all passages from the works of Gregory Nazianzen and Basil of Caesarea.62 Miller highlighted that when Nazianzen served as bishop of Constantinople, he noted and recorded in his poems that the Nicaean community he shepherded in the capital included orphans among its congregants. These orphans, as Miller assumed, may have been taken care of in some facility in the vicinity of the community’s Anastasia Church.63 That caring for orphans was a charity practiced in Gregory’s immediate family emerges from Oration 18 in which he accorded praise to his mother as a supporter of orphans.64 The data on orphans that can be gathered from Nazianzen’s letters here supplements Miller’s demonstration of Gregory’s awareness of their plight and of structures as well as individuals who acted to counter it. The fourth and for the purposes of the present discussion the final main theme in Gregory’s letters that is related to the lives of children also allows the reader to gain a sense of the literary Greco-Roman, non-Christian context and subtext that informed this Cappadocian author’s perspective on children. Occasional comments permit one to trace some elements of the representation of children in Greek mythology, of which Gregory and presumably at least some members of his audience were aware. In at least two instances in his letters, evidence can be detected that witnesses to the knowledge of mythological stories from ancient Greece that involved the tragic fate of children. In Letter 38 Gregory mentioned in passing the shoulder of the body as the distinguishing mark of the inhabitants of the island of Pelops.65 Employing such a descriptive detail only made sense if Gregory could expect that the letter’s recipient, Themistius, city prefect of Constantinople and educator of Prince Arcadius, the son of Emperor Theodosius the Great,66 knew the myth underlying this reference. Once upon a time, Tantalus, the king of the Lydians, intended to test the scope of knowledge of his visitors from Mount Olympos. For dinner, he served his divine guests a stew cooked from the body parts of his own son, Pelops. Except for Demeter, all the gods realized what had happened and refused to eat of the dish. Demeter however readily consumed a piece of 62

See Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, Basil: 6–7, 16, 72, 110, 114–124, 127–130, 147–148, 211–212, 226, 231, 240, 245, 255, 282; and Gregory: 58, 61–63, 219, 272. 63 See Gregory Nazianzen, Carmina II. I. 16, “Somnium de Anastasiae ecclesia” (ed. PG 37:1254–1261, here 1260); and Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 61. 64 Gregory Nazianzen, Oration 18: Funeral Oration for His Father 9 (ed. PG 35:985– 1044, here 996; tr. Browne and Swallow, “Select Orations of Saint Gregory Nazianzen,” 257); see also Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 62–63. 65 Gregory Nazianzen, Letters 38.1 (ed. Gallay, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 33; tr. Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 106). 66 Hauser-Meury, Prosopographie zu den Schriften Gregors von Nazianz, 160.

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said Pelops’ shoulder. Subsequently, when Zeus restored the boy to life, Demeter gave him a new shoulder made from ivory as a replacement for the one of which she had eaten. Ancient myth saw in this event an aetiology for a supposedly white spot on their bodies that marked all the inhabitants of the island of Pelops as offspring of Tantalus’s son. One does not need to assume that Gregory or his audience knew of this myth from any written source, even though Gregory may have read about it in Pindar, Euripides, or one of several other classical authors.67 Yet it is certainly possible that such a story of how children were killed by their parents who wished to either serve or test the gods and how ancient gods revived them also may have been part of what the letter’s recipient, Themistius, taught the young Arcadius in Constantinople. Gregory’s letters contain a second passage in which one can detect traces of his audience’s likely familiarity with mythological stories that involved children suffering violence by being killed and served as a meal. In Letter 114, addressed to the judge Celeusius, whose tasks included the organization of games for public entertainment, Gregory included in a fable of sparrows and swans a reference to the story of the fate of the young boy Itys, known from Aristophanes’ play The Birds and Ovid’s Metamorphoses.68 Itys was the son of King Tereus of Thrace and Prokne, one of the daughters of King Pandion of Athens. When Prokne’s sister Philomele came to visit, Prokne’s husband Tereus raped her and cut out her tongue. Yet with her own blood Philomele managed to write down what had happened to her and sent the account as a letter to her sister Prokne. The two sisters took revenge by killing little Itys and serving him as a meal to his father. When Tereus realized that he had eaten his own child, he set out to kill the two women. They however, having been changed into birds in the meantime, flew off into the air: Prokne as a nightingale and Philomele as a 67

See Pindar, Olympian Odes 1, 24–53 (ed. and tr. Stephen Instone, Pindar: Selected Odes; Olympian One, Pythian Nine, Nemeans Two & Three, Isthmian One [Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1996], 43–45); Euripides, Iphigenia in Tauris, 384–391 (tr. M. J. Cropp, Euripides: Iphigenia in Tauris [Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 2000], 95–96); Ovid, Metamorphoses VI, 575–589 (tr. Charles Martin, Ovid: Metamorphoses [New York: Norton, 2004], 206); Hyginus, Fables (ed. Peter K. Marshall, Hygini Fabulae [Stutgardiae: Teubner, 1993], 79; tr. and ed. Mary Grant, The Myths of Hyginus [Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1960], 77). See also Jan Stenger Kiel, “Pelops [1],” in Der Kleine Pauly: Lexikon der Antike (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2000), vol. 9, cols. 509–510; and Walter Burkert, Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth (Berkley, CA: University of California Press, 1983), 93–103, here 99. 68 Aristophanes, The Birds 209–214 (ed. and tr. Jeffrey Henderson, Aristophanes: Birds; Lysistrata; Women at the Thesmophoria, LCL 179 [Cambridge, MA, and London, Eng.: Harvard University Press, 2000], 44–45, see also 14–15, fn. 5); and Ovid, Metamorphoses VI, 590–977 (ed. Martin, Ovid: Metamorphoses, 206–218). For a brief summary of the fable, see Wittig, Gregor von Nazianz. Briefe, 249, fn. 241.

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sparrow. Tereus was changed into a hoopoe. When composing Letter 114, Gregory clearly presupposed that his letter’s addressee possessed knowledge of a mythological account that featured in a central position the pitiful fate of a young child. Myths pertaining to children and the brutally violent misuse they suffered at the hands of real or mythological rulers or relatives were part of the knowledge that Gregory’s audience possessed and that became reactivated when he referenced such stories in his letters. Gregory was neither the only one nor the first Christian author to problematize the fate of children at the hands of mythological figures. Theophilus of Antioch, for example, had recalled several times how pagan gods, particularly Zeus, were corruptors of children.69 It is to be noted here that Gregory continued a tradition of recalling and thus highlighting the negative and harmful treatment children were said to have experienced when they were subjected to agents known from the pagan past. Admittedly, the 249 letters in the collection of Gregory’s correspondence only contain two instances of such mythological references involving children and even then these hints at relevant cases are offered merely in passing. Yet perhaps precisely through the fact that such stories only needed to be hinted at in passing and clothed in rather vague references, even this meager evidence suffices as an indicator for the resilience of mythological knowledge and for the persistent influence of mythological ideas in shaping the early Christian imagination of adults with regard to children’s lives. Mythological stories clearly were part of adults’ and children’s world of reference.70 When adults functioned for example as educators of the young or as organizers of public spectacles for the multitudes, their own familiarity with myths involving children may have facilitated a process through which children would learn, step by step, to feel at home with these tales. Moreover, given the threat posed to children’s lives in such stories, children quite likely may have learned fear from being exposed to such accounts. Gregory’s letters do not readily supply evidence for depictions of mythological scenes on the walls of private homes. Yet it is documented in archaeological findings that myths were present to people’s imagination

69 See Theophilus of Antioch, To Autolycus 1.9 (ed. and tr. Robert Grant, Theophilus of Antioch. Ad Autolycum, Oxford Early Christian Texts [Oxford: At the Clarendon Press, 1970], 12–13); for discussion, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 228. Now see also the extended discussion of the sexual misuse and corruption of children in John W. Martens, “‘Do Not Sexually Abuse Children’: The Language of Early Christian Sexual Ethics,” in this volume. 70 For stories known to children, see also Reidar Aasgaard, “Uncovering Children’s Culture in Late Antiquity: The Testimony of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas,” in this volume.

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not only via the spoken or written word.71 It remains to be investigated what the impact of visual representations of mythological scenes more generally as well as of scenes involving children more specifically was on the children themselves who saw them either at home or in public places, either in paintings or via the means of theater performances.72 Basil of Caesarea’s Correspondence: Commenting on Children A more detailed picture of children’s lives emerges from Basil of Caesarea’s correspondence than from Gregory’s letters. With about 350 letters, depending on how one is counting, Basil’s is the numerically largest collection of letters available from the pen of either one of the three famous fourth-century Cappadocian theologians.73 Two decades ago, Benoît Gain conducted an extensive examination of the value of the data Basil supplied in his letters for the reconstruction of the organization and everyday life of

71 See for example Jeannine Diddle Uzzi, “The Power of Parenthood in Official Roman Art,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter, Hesperia Supplement 41 (Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2007), 61–81, here 62 (Pompeian wall-painting featuring Aeneas with his son Ascanius and his father Anchises); Rebecca Miller Ammerman, “Children at Risk: Votive Terracottas and the Welfare of Infants at Paestum,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 131–151, here 147, fg. 7.20; Amy C. Smith, “Komos Growing Up among Satyrs and Children,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 153–171; and Ada Cohen, “Gendering the Age Gap: Boys, Girls, and Abduction in Ancient Greek Art,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Cohen and Rutter, 257–278, here 260 (statue of Leto with Apollo and Artemis). See also David L. Balch, Roman Domestic Art and Early House Churches, WUNT 228 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 95, with the depiction of a caricature of Aeneas, his father Anchises, and his son Ascanius from a villa near Pompeii (Gragnano). See also the comments at Balch, Roman Domestic Art, 196–197 and 212. 72 See also Rawson, “The Future of Childhood Studies,” 9, who suggests to develop this and related areas of research. Literature on depictions of children in ancient Christian art is still not very frequent. Included among the few exceptions are Cecily Hennessy, “Iconic Images of Children in the Church of St. Demetrios, Thessaloniki,” in Icon and Word: the Power of Images in Byzantium: Studies Presented to Robin Cormack, ed. Antony Eastmond and Liz James (Aldershot, England, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2003), 157–172; and Cecily Hennessy, Images of Children in Byzantium (Farnham, England, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008). 73 The collection of 368 letters, which are translated by Wolf-Dieter Hauschild, Basilius von Caesarea. Briefe, 3 parts, Bibliothek der Griechischen Literatur 3 (part 2), 32 (part 1), and 37 (part 3) (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1973, 1990, and 1993), also includes 19 letters which Basil received from Julian (Letters 39–40), Libanius (Letters 336, 338, 340–341, 343, 345–347, 349, 352, 354–355, 357–358), Apollinarius (Letters 362 and 364), and Gregory of Nazianzen (Letter 367), as well as a letter from Gregory Nazianzen (elder) to Eusebius of Samosata (Letter 47).

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social groups in Cappadocia at the time.74 Yet the question of what this correspondence has to say about the life circumstances of children and what was to be done to improve the lot of those children who were in need did not receive comprehensive or concentrated treatment in that study.75 Parents and Children Basil’s comments on children that are found in his letters cover the whole range of experiences of life, from the conception and birth of a child to cases of children’s early death and the impact of such tragedies on their parents and grandparents. Basil was aware of deep emotional ties between parents and children that ranged from great joy to harsh pain caused by either one for the other. He knew of the intensity of feelings which mothers experienced at the birth as well as at the death of their children.76 He readily used the image of a woman giving birth,77 of the infant at its mother’s breast,78 or featured a reference to the voice of a loving mother.79 At times

74 See Benoît Gain, L’Église de Cappadoce au IVe siècle d’après la correspondance de Basile de Césarée (330–379), Orientalia Christiana Analecta 225 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientale, 1985). 75 For occasional comments see Gain, L’Église de Cappadoce au IVe siècle, 24–25, 36, 89, 111, 137–138, 140, 145, 156, 238–242, 248, 250–251, 285, 344–345, and 347. 76 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 6.1 (ed. Yves Courtonne, Saint Basile. Lettres. Tome I, Collection des Universités de France [Paris: Société d’Édition “Les Belles Lettres,” 1957], 19, ll. 9–10; ed. and tr. Roy J. Deferrari, Basil: Volume I, Letters 1–58, LCL 190 [London: W. Heinemann; and New York: G. P. Putnam’s sons, 1926], 40–45; tr. WolfDieter Hauschild, Basilius von Caesarea. Briefe. Erster Teil, Bibliothek der Griechischen Literatur 32 [part 1] [Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1990], 43; tr. Agnes Clare Way, Saint Basil: Letters, volume I (1–185), Fathers of the Church 13 [New York: Fathers of the Church, Inc., 1951], 17–18). 77 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 223.1 (ed. Yves Courtonne, Saint Basile. Lettres. Tome III, Collection des Universités de France [Paris: Société d’Édition “Les Belles Lettres,” 1966], 9, l. 38; ed. and tr. Roy J. Deferrari, Basil: Volume III, Letters 186–248, LCL 243 [London: W. Heinemann; and New York: G. P. Putnam’s sons, 1930], 286–291; tr. WolfDieter Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe. Dritter Teil, Bibliothek der Griechischen Literatur 37 [part 3] [Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1993], 46; ed. and tr. Agnes Clare Way, Saint Basil: Letters, volume II (186–368), Fathers of the Church 28 [New York: Fathers of the Church, Inc., 1969], 125–127). Here Basil employed the image via a citation of Isa 42:14. 78 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 102 (ed. Yves Courtonne, Saint Basile. Lettres. Tome II, Collection des Universités de France [Paris: Société d’Édition “Les Belles Lettres,” 1961], 4, ll. 31–32; ed. and tr. Roy J. Deferrari, Basil: Volume II, Letters 59–185, LCL 215 [London: W. Heinemann; and New York: G. P. Putnam’s sons, 1926], 190–193; tr. Wolf-Dieter Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe. Zweiter Teil, Bibliothek der Griechischen Literatur 32 [part 2] [Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1990], 28; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 226– 227).

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Basil drew his inspiration for using birthing imagery from the Scriptures, for example in Letter 243 where he relied on Isaiah 49:15, a verse that has God create confidence in the believers by recalling for them that God is like a mother who does not forget the children who have come forth from her womb.80 Yet Basil also was aware of difficulties that could arise in connection with a child’s conception or birth. Letter 188 addressed questions pertaining to the stage of the child’s life prior to birth.81 Basil was unwilling to differentiate between the unformed and the fully formed embryo.82 For him it was clear that both a mother who aborted a child as well as those who gave her the necessary poison to bring about an abortion were murderers.83 Likewise, those who neglected the proper care of newborn infants and as a consequence caused their death were to be seen as guilty of homicide.84 Letter 217 spells out that babies who had been born while the mother was on a journey and who died may in fact have suffered from

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Basil of Caesarea, Letters 228 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 32–33; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 348–351; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 61; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 150–151). 80 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 243.3 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 69–70; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 440–449; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 85; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 187). 81 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 188.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 124; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 20–23; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 102; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 12–13). 82 On ancient views regarding embryos, see the helpful overview in E. Lesky and J. H. Waszink, “Embryologie,” in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 4 (1959), 1228– 1244. 83 For studies of ancient views on abortion see Anastasia D. Vakaloudi, Αντισύλληψη και αμβλώσεις από την Αρχαιότητα στο Βυζάντιο [Contraception and Abortion from Antiquity to Byzantium] (Athens: Ant. Stamoulis Editions, 2003); L. A. Dean-Jones, “Abortion in the Ancient World,” American Journal of Philology 124 (2003), 613–616; K. Kapparis, Abortion in the Ancient World (London: Duckworth, 2002); L. Wierschowski, “Der historisch-demographische Kontext der severischen Abtreibungs- und Kinderaussetzungsverbote,” Laverna 7 (1996), 42–66; Andreas Lindemann, “‘Do Not Let a Woman Destroy the Unborn Baby in Her Belly’: Abortion in Ancient Judaism and Christianity,” Studia Theologica 49 (1995), 253–271; Michael J. Gorman, Abortion and the Early Church: Christian, Jewish and Pagan Attitudes in the Greco-Roman World (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press; and New York: Paulist Press, 1982); S. Dickison, “Abortion in Antiquity,” Arethusa 6 (1973), 159–166; Enzo Nardi, Procurato aborto nel mondo Greco Romano (Milano: Dott. A. Giuffrè Editore, 1971); and F. J. Dölger, “Das Lebensrecht des ungeborenen Kindes und die Fruchtabtreibung in der Bewertung der heidnischen und christlichen Antike,” Antike und Christentum 4 (1934), 1–61. 84 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 199.33 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 161; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 124–125; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 127; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 57).

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their mothers’ neglect; such mothers were to be punished.85 Possible reasons for such a neglect or rejection of children were manifold. For instance, Letter 210 indicates that mothers of disabled children felt shame at the birth of their children.86 It is conceivable that such shame may have been one of the factors that contributed to a child’s death. In Letters 17 and 24 Basil witnessed to his awareness of the fact that close relationships between fathers and children were possible.87 Applying the language of such relationships to spiritual fathers as well, he stated in Letter 236 that from their earliest days children learned from their fathers.88 At times Basil availed himself of the image of the father who first threatens and then graciously forgives his son.89 Basil thought it was appropriate for fathers to take care of their children as much as farmers needed to take care of seeds and plants. When children grew properly and in virtue, fathers had every reason to be happy and joyful about it.90 Yet when children acted wickedly, any accusations raised against them would fall back on their fathers’ heads. Basil extended this description from everyday

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Basil of Caesarea, Letters 217.52 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 210; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 244–245; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 35–36; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 107). 86 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 210.5 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 194–196; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 206–211; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 149; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 92–93). On ancient views regarding the birth of disabled children, see the discussions by Darrel W. Amundsen, “Medicine and the Birth of Defective Children: Approaches of the Ancient World,” in Euthanasia and the Newborn: Conflicts Regarding Saving Lives, ed. Richard C. McMillan, Hugo Tristram Engelhardt, and Stuart F. Spicker, Philosophy and Medicine 24 (Dordrecht and Boston: D. Reidel Pub. Co.; and Norwell, MA: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1987), 3–22; and Gary B. Ferngren, “The Status of Defective Newborns from Late Antiquity to the Reformation,” in Euthanasia and the Newborn: Conflicts Regarding Saving Lives, ed. McMillan, Engelhardt, and Spicker, 47– 64. See also Nicole Kelley, “The Deformed Child in Ancient Christianity,” in this volume. 87 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 17 and 24 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 47 and 59– 61; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 116–119 and 144–149; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 62 and 70–71; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 50–51 and 62–64). 88 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 236.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 47–49; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 386–391; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 70; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 165–167). 89 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 170 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 106; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 442–445; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 91; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 332– 333). 90 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 294 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 168–169; ed. and tr. Roy J. Deferrari, Basil: Volume IV, Letters 249–368, LCL 270 [London: W. Heinemann; and New York: G. P. Putnam’s sons, 1934], 202–205; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 144; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 285–286).

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life to his condemnation of heretics who had drifted off from what he considered was the right Christian faith.91 Concern about children was a natural and central part of married life, extending from the desire to have children and the accompanying fear of childlessness in the first place to thoughts about the proper ways of how to raise children.92 That not all children born within the framework of an approved marriage necessarily were those of both spouses was a fact of life not unbeknown to Basil either. In Letter 2 he employed his knowledge of such cases to illustrate people’s reluctance to speak out openly and directly about a subject matter by referring to the image of dishonest wives who concealed from their husbands that a given child was not theirs but rather the offspring of an extramarital affair.93 Repeatedly, Basil commented on the close resemblance between children and their parents or other spiritual teachers. In Letters 2, 17, and 260 he called attention to similarities on the level of visual representation as well as that of virtuous conduct. Letter 2 remarked that friends could recognize children as the offspring of couples with whom they were befriended because of the children’s resemblance with their parents.94 Given this physical resemblance, Basil explained in Letter 302 that children functioned as living images of their parents when the parents passed away.95 In 91

Basil of Caesarea, Letters 223.5 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 14–15; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 302–307; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 50; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 131–133). 92 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 2.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 6–8; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 8–15; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 35; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 5–8). For a helpful introduction to views regarding childlessness in early Christianity see Peter Thrams and Wolfram Drews, “Kinderlosigkeit,” in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 20 (2004), 947–964. 93 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 2.5 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 10–11; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 18–21; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 37; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 9–10). For possible consequences deriving from the same issue see also Pseudo-Clementine Homilies 4.21.3 (ed. Bernhard Rehm and Georg Strecker, Die Pseudoklementinen I. Homilien, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 3rd corrected ed. 1992], 23–281, here 91; tr. Marie-Ange Calvet, Dominique Côté, Pierre Geoltrain, Alain Le Boulluec, Bernard Pouderon, and André Schneider, “Homélies,” in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens II, ed. Pierre Geoltrain and Jean-Daniel Kaestli, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade [Paris: Gallimard, 2005], 1235–1589, here 1328), with the discussion in Cornelia B. Horn, “The Pseudo-Clementines and the Challenges of the Conversion of Families,” lectio difficilior. European Electronic Journal for Feminist Exegesis 2 (2007), http://www.lectio.unibe.ch/07_2/horn.htm. 94 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 2.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 5–6; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 6–9; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 34; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 5). 95 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 302 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 179–181; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 230–235; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 152; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 295–297).

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their shared fear of God Basil saw evidence for the resemblance between children and parents or spiritual teachers.96 The children of Origen, a theologically trained layman, as Wolf-Dieter Hauschild described the recipient of Letter 17, supposedly were the exact image of their father as far as their abilities were concerned.97 In closing that same letter, Basil extended a prayerful wish that God might bless Origen’s household, including his grandchildren. These comments show the family that is extended beyond the nuclear family and beyond time and generational boundaries as an ideal approved of and promoted by an early Christian theologian and ecclesiastical leader. Observations concerning the relationship between a parent and a child served Basil as a description of an important model that could reveal the nature of the relationship between a teacher and a student.98 Parents took charge by providing their children with an education. Basil observed that some parents sent off their children for studies in the sciences already at a young age.99 For him, the image of the father caring for his children like a farmer for his plants and seeds also seemed applicable to the relationship between teacher and students.100 Yet it was the relationship between a father and a son that was the primary model for how he envisioned the proper relationship between teacher and student.101 When reflecting on his own role as teacher, Basil chose the model of the father as a fitting image that described his tasks in that realm. He felt he shared a physical father’s role and responsibility for his students. Specifically, he saw it as the teacher’s task to ensure that the children be instructed and shaped in piety.102 Thus as a bishop as well he saw himself in the role of a father caring 96 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 260.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 105; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 48–51; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 106; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 222–223). 97 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 17 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 47; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 116–119; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 62; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 50–51). 98 On this matter, see also Bernard Schlager, “Saints Basil and John Chrysostom on the Education of Christian Children,” Greek Orthodox Theological Review 36 (1991), 37–55. 99 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 174–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 148; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 291–293). 100 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 294 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 168–169; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 202–205; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 144; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 285–286). 101 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 223.5 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 14–15; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 302–307; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 50; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 131–133). 102 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 174–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 148; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 291–293).

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for his children. Basil reported to the philosopher Libanius that he considered each one of the faithful of his jurisdiction as his adoptive children.103 The genealogical model also functioned effectively when questions of a teacher’s authority arose. Basil commented in Letter 260 that at times a given teacher was accepted because he was the student and thus the spiritual offspring of another great teacher.104 Others shared Basil’s application of the parent-child model to the teacher-student relationship, as further evidence from his correspondance with Libanius demonstrates.105 Basil applied that image to Libanius when he wrote to him and compared him to a teacher willingly dealing with his students like a father playing with his children and trying to entice his children’s pride.106 Yet also in a letter addressed to Basil, Libanius used this very same language of the father-child relationship when he spoke about how teachers and students interacted with one another.107 One awaits a fuller examination of Libanius’s correspondence to examine if this use of the image is limited to his exchange with Basil.108

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Basil of Caesarea, Letters 337 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 204–205; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 292–293; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 166; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 321). 104 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 260.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 105; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 48–51; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 106–107; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 222–223). 105 The application of the parent-child metaphor to the teacher-student relationship also is found in Scripture. See for example John 21:5, Gal 4:19, 1 Thess 2:11, and 1 John 2:1. See also James Francis, “Children, Childhood,” in Eerdmans Dictionary of the Bible, ed. David Noel Freedman, Allen C. Myers, and Astrid B. Beck (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing, 2000), 234–235, here 235. 106 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 339 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 206–207; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 296–301; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 167; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 323–324). 107 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 346 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 212–213; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 312–313; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 171; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 329). 108 For recent work on Libanius and his approach to rhetoric see for example Raffaella Cribiore, The School of Libanius in Late Antique Antioch (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007). On Libanius in relation to Christianity, see Elizabeth G. Burr, “Libanius of Antioch in Relation to Christians and Christianity: The Evidence of Selected Letters,” in Topoi. Orient-occident. Mélanges Albert Francis Norman, ed. A. González Gálvez and Pierre-Louis Malosse, Supplement 7 (Paris: Boccard, 2006), 63–76. Most recently, some aspects of the relevance of Libanius’s work for the study of children’s lives have come into focus as well. See for example Raffaella Cribiore, “The Education of Orphans: A Reassessment of the Evidence of Libanius,” in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, ed. Sabine R. Hübner and David Ratzan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 257–272.

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Children and Their Grandparents Basil’s remarks in his letters illustrate the central involvement of grandparents in children’s lives, both in the children’s secular and in their spiritual education. Some children were raised directly by their grandparents, as was the case with Basil himself who grew up with his grandmother in Neocaesarea.109 Also in cases in which children had become orphaned, grandparents took on distinct roles in raising them and in staying involved in their lives.110 In Letter 204 Basil commented especially on the role of his own grandmother Macrina the Elder in raising and teaching him the theology of Gregory Thaumaturgos. Seemingly with a concern for what was appropriate for the boy’s young age, Macrina had instructed him by reformulating for him the Wonderworker’s thought in pious doctrinal sentences,111 a method that suggests a form of instruction similar to the approach of catechisms employed in later years. Basil acknowledged in Letter 223 that he had received his formative instruction concerning the concept of God both from his mother and grandmother.112 Given such an involvement on the part of grandparents in their grandchildren’s lives, it comes as no surprise that grandparents were deeply affected when one of their grandchildren died unexpectedly.113 Children and Death Providing consolation to parents or grandparents was the goal of many a letter Basil sent. Letters 2, 5, 6, 41, 206, and 300 dealt explicitly with the

109 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 210 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 189–197; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 194–213; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 146; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 87–95). For comments on the relevance of the family in the circles of the Cappadocians, see Philip Rousseau, Basil of Caesarea, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 20 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Oxford: University of California Press, 1994), 3–5. 110 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 315 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 189; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 254–257; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 157; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 306). See also Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 44 and 98–102. For comments on the role of grandparents in the education of Christian children, see also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 160. 111 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 204.6 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 178–179; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 168–175; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 138; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 76–77). 112 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 223.3 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 11–13; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 294–301; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 48; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 128–130). 113 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 206 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 182–183; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 176–181; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 141; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 80–81). Basil comments on the effect of a child’s death on his grandfather, namely the letter’s addressee, Bishop Elpidius.

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death of children.114 Basil acknowledged and shared the feelings of grief that parents and others suffered at the death of a child. In Letter 300 Basil commented on the great pain that a natural father endured at the death of his child, suggesting that it was more severe than the devastation of his own soul that he experienced when learning of the child’s death.115 Yet at times Basil could consider the effect of a death in the family also from the opposite perspective. In Letter 30 he revealed his awareness that the death of a parent could cause great hardship for a child, for a small one as much as for grown-up children.116 Both Basil and his audience were aware of the magnitude of the pain that a child who loved his or her father had to go through at the parent’s death. For Basil remarking on such a case served him well to give expression to a similar pain of the congregation at the loss of their shepherd.117 In other instances, for example Letter 240, Basil availed himself of motifs related to children’s experience of the loss of one or both parents to death, not by accident or due to age or sickness, but as a consequence of martyrdom or confession. In light of the formidable witness those children had received, Basil emphasized their special responsibility to resist the teachings of heretics that threatened the church.118 Children died of various causes, some of them suspicious. In Letter 41, addressed to Emperor Julian, Basil needed to report the case of a little boy who was killed through the workings of poison that had been administered

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Basil of Caesarea, Letters 2, 5, 6, 41, 206, and 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres, t. 1, pp. 5–13, 16–19, 19–21, and 96–98, t. 2, pp. 182–183, and t. 3, pp. 174–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 6–25, 32–39, 38–45, and 234–239, Vol. III, 176–181, and Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe, pt. 1, 34–39, 41–44, and 92–93, pt. 2, 140–141, and pt. 3, 148–149; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 5–11, 14–17, 17–19, and 100–101, Vol. II, 80– 81 and 291–293). For a fuller discussion of the consolation Basil and other early Christian authors provided to grieving parents see Cornelia B. Horn, “Parents Facing the Death of Their Children in the Light of Unexplored Sources from the Early Christian East,” paper delivered to the “Early Christian Families Group” at the American Academy of Religion / Society of Biblical Literature Annual Meeting, Philadelphia, PA (November, 2005), unpublished. 115 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 174–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 148; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 291–293). 116 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 30 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 72–73; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 174–177; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 78; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 74–75). 117 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 227 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 29–32; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 342–349; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 59; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 147–149). 118 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 240.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 62–63; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 422–425; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 80; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 179–180). For comments on children in families of martyrs, see also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 143, 240–244, and 246–249.

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to him.119 Some have questioned this letter’s authenticity,120 yet in either case such an event was quite possible.121 When writing to individual caregivers who were grieving, at times Basil could reflect on the theological meaning of the early death of a given child. At several instances he availed himself of the models of Job and the mother of the Maccabean youths to provide to his audience gender-specific biblical exempla that grieving parents might wish to imitate.122 His sensitivity to the different emotional and pastoral needs, which could bring relief not only to individual sets of parents but also for individuals in a given set of parents in such situations, is evidenced by the fact that at times Basil addressed separate letters of consolation to a father and a mother each, as in the case of Letters 5 and 6.123 Part of the consolation he offered to parents was a conclusion drawn from a combined reading of Matt 11:25 and Matt 11:28–29, which to Basil’s way of thinking supported the assumption that through their guileless way of life children had received the promise of finding rest in Christ.124

119 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 41.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 98; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 238–239; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 93; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 101). 120 Agnes Clare Way, “The Authenticity of Letter 41 in the Julio-Basilian Correspondence,” American Journal of Philology 51 (130), 67–69, offered stylistic observations in support of the letter’s authenticity, while at the same time assuming that Letter 40 is a forgery. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 191, fn. 218, also is willing to accept the letter’s authenticity, as long as one does not dismiss Letter 40 as inauthentic. Even if both letters were the product of one of Basil’s disciples who strove to improve his rhetorical style, the case of a woman losing her child to the murderous activities of someone administering poison does not have to be dismissed as an unthinkable event at the time. 121 For punishments administered to those who murdered people by using poison, see Codex Theodosianus IX, 38, 1 (ed. P. Krueger and Th. Mommsen, Codex Theodosianus. Volumen I. Theodosianus libri XVI cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis, pars posterior [Berlin: Apud Weidmann, 1904; reprinted: Hildesheim: Weidmann, 2000], 496). 122 For the use of Job, see Basil of Caesarea, Letters 2.3, 5.2, and 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres, pt. 1, pp. 8–9 and 17–19, and pt. 3, pp. 174–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 14–17 and 34–39, and Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe, pt. 1, 36 and 42, and pt. 3, 149; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 8–9 and 15–17, and Vol. II, 291–293). Reference to the example of the mother of the Maccabean sons occurs at Basil of Caesarea, Letters 6 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 19–21; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 38–45; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 43; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 17–19). For further discussion see also Horn, “Parents Facing the Death of Their Children.” 123 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 5 and 6 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 16–21; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 32–45; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 41–44; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 14–19). 124 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 5 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 16–19; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 32–33; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 42; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 14–17). At times Basil’s reflections followed along lines that differed somewhat from those which Gregory of Nyssa pursued, for example in his funeral orations.

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In a select few instances Basil revealed his awareness that pain could enter into the relationship between parents and children also by ways other than that of death. Enumerating in Letter 260 what he considered were the seven sins of Abel’s brother Cain, Basil identified as the sixth sin that Cain had caused pain for his parents.125 How aware children may have been that they were bringing about pain for their parents, even when they were not involved with the death of a sibling, remains difficult to determine. Basil’s comment on youths shouting to encourage fighters in the arena at the least demonstrates that young people were present at bloody and violent spectacles in public places.126 Such exposure at an early age may have diminished their sensitivity to and perception of pain.127 Whichever may have been the immediate source of grief, pain, or loss for children, when it confronted them, it complicated their lives. Orphans can be singled out as one distinct group of children who had to learn to live with the consequences of such experiences. The following section addresses some of the problems that confronted their lives as Basil perceived them. Orphans Timothy Miller’s study of orphans and orphanages in Byzantium has considered some data from the corpus of Basil’s works, showing particular interest in how the charitable work of monks extended to orphan care through the medium of educational institutions.128 Benoît Gain has offered a few brief comments on orphan care as revealed in Basil’s letters, noting in particular the lack of any correspondence addressed to an orphan and the 125

Basil of Caesarea, Letters 260.3 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 106–109; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 52–59; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 108; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 224–226). 126 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 66 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 156–159; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 26–33; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 129; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 159–162). Also see the comments on children’s presence at the attempted burning of Thecla in the arena as featured in the apocryphal Acts of Paul (and Thecla) in Cornelia B. Horn, “Suffering Children, Parental Authority and the Quest for Liberation?: A Tale of Three Girls in the Acts of Paul (and Thecla), the Act(s) of Peter, the Acts of Nerseus and Achilleus, and the Epistle of Pseudo-Titus,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 11 (New York and London: Continuum and T&T Clark International, 2006), 118–145, here 126–127 and 129. 127 The scientific literature on connections for instance between children’s exposure to media violence and their display of aggressive behavior is sizable. See for example F. Molitor and K. W. Hirsch, “Children’s toleration of real-life aggression after exposure to media violence; A replication of the Drabman & Thomas Studies,” Child Study Journal 24.3 (1994), 191–207. 128 Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 114–120, 124, and 127–128.

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indications for a move towards institutionalizing orphan care at the time.129 Yet Basil’s letters specifically supply further details regarding orphans’ lives that have been overlooked thus far. The fate of an orphan was a hard one, as Basil’s Letter 243 clearly articulated.130 Letter 239 suggests that in some cases orphans were taken into a person’s home only to end up living there as slaves.131 Like Gregory Nazianzen, Basil spoke up on behalf of the needs of orphans. Yet his remarks reflect a broader concern with children who were suffering from the effects of poverty that had come upon their parents. In Letter 309 Basil knew of a father who had fallen into a desperate state of poverty that also threatened his children’s existence, since the father had become financially unable to provide for his children any longer.132 Basil also took up the role of an advocate on behalf of children who were threatened to be drawn into the public life at too early an age in order to fill in for their parents’ unmet obligations. Basil’s Letter 84 featured just such a case of a little not-yet-four-year-old boy who faced the challenge of having to take on public office by becoming a member of the city council in a town in Cappadocia. That orphaned boy, whose parents had died right after his birth and who lived with his grandfather, was required to take over his grandfather’s obligations at that one’s dismissal from office. Yet since the child would not have been able to exercise the duties involved, his taking office threatened to be equivalent to a recall to public duty of his grandfather. Basil wrote to the city prefect in order to obtain a dispense for both, trying to assist an orphan and an elderly person at the same time in this case.133 129

Gain, L’Église de Cappadoce au IVe siècle, 274 and 285–286. Basil of Caesarea, Letters 243.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 69–70; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 440–449; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 84; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 185–186). 131 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 239.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 59–60; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 414–417; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 78; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 176–177). Klein, Die Haltung der Kappadokischen Bischöfe, 35–115, examines Basil’s stance towards slavery, but does not raise the question of Basil’ perception of children’s experience of slavery, whether with respect to their own freedom or with reg ard to their dealings with slaves around them. 132 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 309 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 185; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 244–247; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 155; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 302). 133 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 84.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 188–189; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 106–109; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 147–148; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 192–193). A systematic examination of the conditions of life and experiences of the elderly in early Christianity remains a desideratum. For some initial work see Jean Laporte, “The Elderly in the Life and Thought of the Early Church,” in Ministry with the Aging, ed. William M. Clement (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1981), 37–55; and War130

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Basil spoke up and expressed the need of society to take care of orphans.134 Members of Basil’s own family were involved in the care for orphans, for example a female relative of his, whom he presented in Letter 315 as a woman helping such children.135 For Gain this comment also pointed to the existence of institutionalized care for orphans.136 Letter 109 spoke of a widow who took care of an orphaned boy.137 The legal definition of an orphan in Late Antiquity pertained to children who had lost their father.138 Therefore, when Basil advised a mother who had lost her husband to try to find some consolation by focusing on raising her children, he effectively also spoke up as an advocate on behalf of orphans.139 Already the loss of one parent obviously could jeopardize the well-being of children, for example with regard to their education. A further difficulty might arise when a widow with children remarried. In Letter 300 Basil alerted the letter’s recipient to the possibility that in such cases children from the previous marriage would suffer from being neglected by their mother who once remarried would busy herself only with the interests of her new spouse and their joined offspring.140 Thus, even if ren Carter, “A Survey of Recent Scholarship on the New Testament and Aging and Suggestions for Future Research,” Journal of Religious Gerontology 9.2 (1995), 35–50. 134 See also Basil of Caesarea, Letters 41 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 96–98; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 234–239; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 93; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 100–101). 135 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 315 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 189; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 254–257; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 157; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 306). 136 See Gain, L’Église de Cappadoce au IVe siècle, 285–286. For discussion of the famous orphanage that was founded in Constantinople around the middle of the fourth century and that might have offered inspiration for such institutionalization, see Timothy S. Miller, “The Orphanotropheion of Constantinople,” in Through the Eye of a Needle: Judeo-Christian Roots of Social Welfare, ed. Emily Albu Hanawalt and Carter Lindberg (Kirksville, MO: Thomas Jefferson University Press, 1994), 83–104; and Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 176–246. 137 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 109 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 10–11; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 208–211; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 32; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 233–234). 138 See, e.g., Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 32. 139 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 302 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 179–180; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 230–235; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 152; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 295–297). 140 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 174–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 149; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 291–293). On issues related to the impact of divorce on children see for example Judith Evans-Grubbs, “Children and Divorce in Roman Law,” in Hoping for Continuity: Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Katarina Mustakallio, Jussi Hanska, Hanna-Leena Sainio, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 33 (Rome and Tampere: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2005), 33–47; and M.

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family structures were reconstituted through new marriages, orphaned children did not necessarily stand to benefit from such developments. Adults’ Perceptions of Children’s Characteristics Most or even all of the references to children in Basil’s correspondence see children through the lens of an adult. Many of the references also feature these children in their relationship to adults. In a few instances Basil focused on children directly and provided what one may describe as characteristics of a child’s typical behavior. According to Basil’s comments in Letter 25, children were more afraid than adults.141 Yet they also were not reticent and shy by nature.142 From what Basil could observe in the world around him, young people almost naturally admired and showed respect for figures with authority, particularly priests.143 In some instances such respect for authority figures may have facilitated the misuse of children, spiritually and otherwise. Letter 169 features the case of a deacon who misled young virgins.144 In Letter 226 Basil indirectly commented on the capabilities of the young child when he explained that even a simple-minded, child-like faculty of reasoning was able to understand that people who were recommending or blackening other people were ultimately only out for their own advantage.145 Among other things, this also suggests that young children were seen as being able to discern people’s motives even when they were hidden behind apparently different actions. A child did not Corbier, “Constructing Kinship in Rome: Marriage and Divorce, Filiation and Adoption,” in The Family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present, ed. D. Kertzer and R. Saller (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), 127–144. See also M. Corbier, “Divorce and Adoption as Roman Familial Strategies (le divorce et l’adoption en plus),” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. Beryl Rawson (Canberra: Humanities Research Center; Oxford: Clarendon Press; and New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 47–78; and S. Treggiari, “Divorce Roman Style: How Easy and how Frequent was it?” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. Rawson, 31–46. 141 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 25.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 61–62; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 148–151; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 71; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 64–65). 142 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 300 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 174–175; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 218–225; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 148; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 291–293). 143 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 51.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 131–132; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 320–325; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 114; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 133–134). 144 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 169 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 104–105, tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 438–443; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 90–91; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 330–332). 145 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 226.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 24–26; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 330–335; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 56; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 142–144).

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possess the characteristics of an adult, though there could be exceptions.146 Strength and firmness of character, for example, only came with time, as Basil observed in Letter 260. Yet children could contribute to the formation of their own character. In a letter to a widow and her daughter, Basil encouraged the girl to keep on studying the Word of God in order to nourish her soul and allow her inner spirit to grow as well.147 During their early years of life children were seen as being receptive to establishing lasting relationships with other people, especially with other children.148 Close bonds between children from different families could develop, for example, when children were raised together by the same nurse.149 Even in cases where later on adults found themselves in opposing camps, the intensity of their animosity against one another was conditioned by the close relationships or even friendships they had shared with one another earlier on as children. The childhood acquaintance between Basil and Emperor Julian could serve as a case in point.150 Spiritual Childhood While Basil’s letters allow only glimpses at elements of what seems to contribute to his construction of the typical biological child, he also appears to have had a sense of the appearance of a typical spiritual child, who could be of any physical age. The question of spiritual childhood carried both positive and negative connotations for Basil’s conception. Having a spiritual child certainly could be a source of joy, as Basil expressed in Letter 73.151 The relationship between a given priest or bishop and the congregation to whom he ministered fittingly could be described as that of spi146

Basil of Caesarea, Letters 260.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 105; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 48–51; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 106; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 222–223). 147 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 296 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 171; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 210–211; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 146; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 287–288). 148 See Basil of Caesarea, Letters 272.1, 274, and 290 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 144–145, 147, and 161–162; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 146–149, 152–155, and 186–191; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 130–131 and 140; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 262–263, 265, and 279–280), for examples of friendships between people that developed from childhood on. 149 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 36 and 37 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 79–80; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 190–195; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 82; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 82–83). 150 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 40 [Julian to Basil] (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 94– 96; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 230–235; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 92; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 98–99). 151 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 73.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 170; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 60–63; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 137; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 174).

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ritual children to their father.152 In a spiritual sense individuals could be regarded as children of the church.153 Yet it was through the working of the Holy Spirit that a person became a child of God.154 Basil also could give expression to moments of frustration regarding what might be seen as spiritual childhood. For him, children who had not yet grown up fully provided a useful image to portray those he considered spiritually immature.155 Children’s Participation in the Liturgy Basil’s correspondence provides significant evidence for children’s participation in the church’s liturgy and prayer life.156 According to comments in Letter 11, children took part in the celebrations and festivities of the church.157 Both within church buildings and outside of them, when the congregations met in open places, children participated in the prayers of the Christian community as Basil revealed in Letter 92.158 In Letter 242 Basil reported that in places where the congregation felt threatened by heretics, children were part of the crowds of worshippers who left the churches and gathered for prayer in the open, being exposed there to the inclemency of wind, sun, and rain.159 Basil also knew to comment that 152

Basil of Caesarea, Letters 222 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 6–8; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 282–287; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 45; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 123–125). 153 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 73.3 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 171–172; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 64–67; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 138; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 175–176). See also the discussion in Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” ch. 2. 154 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 105 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 6–7; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 198–201; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 30; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 229– 230). See also Basil of Caesarea, Letters 219.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 2–3; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 272–275; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 42; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 120) for a further instance of his usage of the expression “child of God.” 155 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 223.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 8–10; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. III, 286–291; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 46; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 125–127). 156 For a discussion of children’s incorporation into and participation in the worship life of the early church, see also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” ch. 7. 157 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 11 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 41; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 102–105; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 59; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 44–45). 158 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 92.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 200–201; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 136–141; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 156; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 204–206). 159 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 242.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 66–67; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 430–433; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 82; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 183).

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some people had in fact exercised themselves already from infancy in the struggles of piety,160 a remark which may refer simply to prayers, but perhaps also to the observance of an ascetic discipline from an early age on. A special obligation to work on behalf of piety adhered to those who were the children of confessors and martyrs, as Basil thought.161 Children and Theological Reflection From Basil’s correspondence one may derive numerous insights into how children’s lives and the language pertaining to their existence produced echoes in the realm of theological considerations.162 From the perspectives of their opponents, the Pneumatomachoi seemed to claim that the Holy Spirit would become the “brother” of the Son if one were to acknowledge the Spirit’s divinity.163 In this case, the image of sibling relationships shaped doctrinal debate. In another instance and in unison with Ezekiel 18:20, Basil clarified for the recipient of Letter 223 that fathers and children did not take on sins for one another. Rather, each one was responsible for her or his sin.164 Given the relative prominence of the theme of children’s death in Basil’s correspondence, it is of special interest that when consoling a grandfather at the death of a child in his family, Basil explained to the mourner that young children were excused at the time of the

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Basil of Caesarea, Letters 82 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres I, 184–186; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 96–101; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 145; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 188–189). 161 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 240.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 62–63; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 422–425; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 80; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 179–180). 162 The connection between discussions of children’s lives and theological debates also is established in Susan R. Holman, “Sick Children and Healing Saints: Medical Treatment of the Child in Christian Antiquity” in the present volume. 163 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 226 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 23–29; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 326–343; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 57; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 141–147). Basil of Caesarea was the key opponent of the Pneumatomachoi, a group that vehemently refused to refer to the Holy Spirit as God. See Wolf-Dieter Hauschild, “Die Pneumatomachen: eine Untersuchung zur Dogmengeschichte des vierten Jahrhunderts,” thesis, doctorate in theology (University of Hamburg, Germany, 1967); and Michael A. G. Haykin, The Spirit of God: The Exegesis of 1 & 2 Corinthians in the Pneumatomachian Controversy of the Fourth Century, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 27 (Leiden and New York: E. J. Brill, 1994). 164 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 223.5 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 14–15; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 302–307; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 50; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 131–133). See also John 9:1–7; and Michael Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit. Epilepsie in antiker Medizin, Astrologie und Religion, Marburger Theologische Studien 57 (Marburg: N. G. Elwert Verlag, 1999), 147–148.

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Last Judgment because of their young age.165 That letter did not specify if the question of whether or not the child had been baptized at the time of his or her departure played a role.166 Yet perhaps one could assume that the comment would not have addressed any real or significant concern if it had been made in reference to a recently baptized child. Thus one may conclude that Basil did not think that young children who died without baptism would be excluded from life in the heavenly kingdom. Children and the Option of Asceticism The fate of children in the early Christian Church was intricately connected with the emergence of a viable option of a life of asceticism that had begun to shape Christianity. Basil knew that some Christian women chose a life of asceticism and despised marriage, childbearing, and childraising in order to gain a better reputation with God and a higher appreciation among their fellow men and women.167 In such cases, as an obvious consequence of sexual renunciation children did not come into existence. In other instances, Basil’s interest in the proper furtherance of the ascetic enterprise made him a critic of undue pressure exerted on children to take up a specific way of life, either married life or asceticism. On the one hand, he spoke up in an effort to change old customs of abducting girls for marriage purposes. At least three times in his correspondence, in Letters 169, 199, and 270, Basil addressed the problem that girls were being dragged away from their families and sometimes forced to marry, often against their will.168 In such cases Basil thought that the abductor and all 165 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 206 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 182–183; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 176–181; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 141; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 80–81). See also Gregory of Nyssa, On Infants’ Early Deaths (ed. Hadwig Hörner, “De infantibus praemature abreptis,” in Gregorii Nysseni Opera Dogmatica Minora. Pars 2 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1987], 65–97, here 72–73 and 82–83; tr. William Moore and Henry Austin Wilson, “On Infants’ Early Deaths,” in Select Writings and Letters of Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa, NPNF 2nd ser., vol. 5 [reprinted Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1995], 372–381, here 373–374 and 376–377), and the comments in Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 287–289. 166 For a helpful discussion of attitudes to the baptism of infants and small children in Eastern Christian sources, see Jane Baune, “The Fate of Babies Dying before Baptism in Byzantium,” in The Church and Childhood. Papers Presented at the 1993 Summer Meeting and the 1994 Winter Meeting of The Ecclesiastical History Society, ed. Diana Wood, Studies in Church History 31 (Oxford: Published for The Ecclesiastical History Society by Blackwell Publishers, 1994), 115–125. 167 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 289 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 159–161; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 180–187; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 139; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 277–279). 168 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 169, 199.22, and 270 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres, pt. 2, 104–105 and 158, and pt. 3, 141–142; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 438–443, Vol. III,

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who had supported him ought to be excommunicated.169 Basil also knew of cases of girls who joined with a husband on their own but against their parents’ will.170 On the other hand, Basil became an avid defender of young girls against pressures their parents and brothers exerted upon them by trying to force them to commit to the life of virginity against the girls’ will. In Letter 199 he condemned such a practice in which parents or brothers expected advantages for themselves from committing their daughters or sisters to the ascetic life.171 Possibly connected with his interest to aid girls preserve their autonomy as far as choices for or against the ascetic life were concerned, Basil further regulated in his monastic Rules that officials should be present when parents handed their children over to a monastery.172 Basil held up as rule that children themselves could not validly take vows of virginity or make promises of leading a life of asceticism.173 The minimum age requirement for such commitments was for girls to be fifteen to sixteen years old.174 As far as Basil was concerned, the ascetic life was meant for adults, not for children. It posed a rather difficult task for those involved. Neverteless, in Letter 207 Basil described himself as an orphan when he compared his own ascetic achievements to those of others.175 He seemed to have wanted to express how far he felt left behind and surpassed by what others had accomplished already. 112–115, and Vol. IV, 140–143; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe, part 2, 91 and 125, and part 3, 128; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 330–332, and Vol. II, 51–52 and 259–260). 169 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 270 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 141–142; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 140–143; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 128; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 259–260). 170 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 169, 199.38, and 199.42 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres, pt. 2, 104–105 and 161–162; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 438–443, and Vol. III, 126–129; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 91 and 128; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 330–332 and Vol. II, 58–59). 171 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 199.18 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 155–157; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 104–109; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 124; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 48–49). 172 See Basil of Caesarea, Longer Rules 15 (tr. Monica Wagner, “The Long Rules,” in Saint Basil: Ascetical Works, tr. Monica Wagner, Fathers of the Church. A New Translation 9 [New York: Fathers of the Church, 1950], 223–237, here 264–268). See also Susanna Elm, ‘Virgins of God’: The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 71, fn. 42. 173 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 199.18 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 155–157; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 104–109; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 123–124; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 48–49). 174 See the discussion in Susanna Elm, ‘Virgins of God.’ The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 139–141. 175 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 207.2 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 184–186; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 182–187; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 143; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 82–83).

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Children and Work Although work determined most of the waking hours of most people also in the ancient world, and thus constitutes a topic of interest and relevance for study, the evidence that is available from ancient eastern Christian sources that illustrates children’s participation in various forms of active labor still awaits systematic examination.176 Basil’s letters provide a few pointers to the types of work children engaged in. Adults used children as messengers and carriers of letters as Basil Letter 260 indicates.177 Some children in orphanages could witness the labor of adults, including that of slaves who served in such facilities.178 Without specifying their individual tasks, Basil’s Letter 204 featured a reference to slave girls as well.179 Both boys and girls who were enslaved had to participate in the work force.180 Children and Classical Culture As in the case of Gregory Nazianzen, also Basil could assume that at least some of the recipients of his letters were well versed in ancient mythology and classical literature, including accounts of the lives and thoughts of ancient philosophers as well as Greek historiography. Thus in Letter 4, addressed to his wealthy friend Olympius, it made sense for Basil to adduce the example of the philosopher Diogenes throwing away a cup he had owned because he had become impressed by the humility of a little boy.181

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See also recently Christian Laes, “Kinderarbeid in het Romeinse rijk. Een vergeten dossier?” Kleio 30 (2000), 2–20; and Christian Laes, Kinderen bij de Romeinen. Zes eeuwen dagelijks leven (Louvain: Uitgeverij Davidsfonds, 2006), 133–198. 177 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 260.1 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 106; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. IV, 48–51; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 106; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 222–223). Gain, L’Église de Cappadoce au IVe siècle, 142–146, does not include his discussion of this case, which he treats on pp. 24–25, under the rubric of “labor.” In his study, he considers labor only with regard to the work undertaken by ascetics, primarily manual labor. 178 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 239 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 59–61; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 414–421; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe III, 78; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 176–178). 179 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 204.4 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres III, 175–176; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. III, 160–165; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 137; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. II, 73–75). 180 For discussions of children, labor, and slavery, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 166–183, and comments throughout. 181 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 4 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 15–16; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. I, 28–31; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe I, 40; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 13–14).

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Letter 112 reflected both Basil’s and his addressee’s knowledge of stories in Herodotus concerning a father’s reaction to the murder of his son. 182 Some Conclusions The lacuna in scholarship on children in Greek and Oriental Christian sources in Late Antiquity is especially prominent in the period beginning in the fourth century. The letters of Basil and Gregory Nazianzen offer a solid foundation for studies that intend to begin to bridge this gap. Gregory Nazianzen’s letters raise several interesting sociological and theological concerns regarding children and baptism. His approach to the baptism of children focuses less on theological matters and is concerned more with the practicalities of education in its many facets and conditions, the relationships between parents and children, and the difficulties of childhood, presented through the representation of biblical characters, particularly Eli and his sons in 1 Samuel, but also through the lens of stories of the GrecoRoman deities. The father is the role model, as the child will reflect him in his deeds; mothers do not seem to have been part of Gregory’s audience. From Gregory’s perspective, marriage and rearing children also should engender a consciousness of the fate of widows and orphans, thus extending the positive effect of a personal union onto the rest of society. Gregory’s use of Greco-Roman stories in which children functioned to demonstrate the whimsy and power of the gods is one example of a negative appropriation of these stories in early Christian literature. The letters of Basil of Caesarea offer an even more profound source of material for the study of children in Late Antique Christianity. Basil drew attention to the shame that gives rise to child abandonment, to the feelings of mothers and fathers for their children, and the responsibility of fathers for the behavior of their offspring. More than for Gregory, for Basil children were the physical and spiritual images of their parents. Basil argued from this physical resemblance that children must receive an education, shaped in the piety of their familial religion. The correspondence between Libanius and Basil on these matters is an area of promising further investigation. Basil did not shrink from using the death of children to propose his views of the virtue of martyrdom. Nevertheless, he shows considerable sensitivity to the feelings of both parents at the loss of a child. Basil’s concern with orphans extended to the problems of poverty and slavery that often attended this phenomenon in Late Antiquity. Basil’s encouragement of widows to raise their children on their own is also part of this phenomenon. Other areas addressed, such as the bonds of childhood 182

Basil of Caesarea, Letters 112 (ed. Courtonne, Basile. Lettres II, 13–16; tr. Deferrari, Basil: Vol. II, 214–221; tr. Hauschild, Basilius. Briefe II, 35; tr. Way, Basil: Vol. I, 236–239).

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friendship and the role of children in the liturgy can only be mentioned here in passing. In his theological argument against the Pneumatomachoi, Basil reiterated a theme found in Gregory Nazianzen, that the sins of fathers and their sons were each their own responsibility. Consistent with this is Basil’s view that young children were essentially sinless and so would be pardoned at the last judgment, even if they were not baptized. Basil also defended the rights of young girls from coercion into childhood marriages or ascetic vows. The evidence to be gleaned from both sets of letters provides an unexpectedly rich source of information regarding perceptions of the lives of Christian children in the Cappadocian communities. Moreover, the material allows the researcher to discern the role of non-Christian, literary models and constructions of images of childhood that informed Christian representations of children. The non-Christian context and subtext that informed and shaped the writers’ perception and awareness of children can be illustrated by highlighting as a framework elements of the place of children in Greek mythology of which Gregory Nazianzen and Basil as well as presumably at least some of the members of their congregations were aware insofar as those children’s stories were part of their world of reference. A considerable amount of work remains to be done on the presentation of children in the received classical culture in Christian sources. Yet without doubt the evidence to be derived from the correspondence between Basil and Libanius allows one to examine the mutual intelligibility and referentiality of the topos of the child’s world employed between the classical rhetorician and the Christian theologian.

Sick Children and Healing Saints: Medical Treatment of the Child in Christian Antiquity Susan R. Holman Introduction Late in the fourth century, Ambrose the bishop of Milan wrote to a correspondent about the health of a young child: Little Faustinus is suffering from a cough, and he has come to his saintly sister to be cured … He thinks, too, that I am a doctor and looks to me for his meals. So he gets his medicine here twice a day and has begun feeling fairly well, but when, out of excessive love, they hold off the doses, his stomach cough becomes worse than before, and if he does not return to his medicines he will continue to suffer.1

This passage provides one of the rare descriptions of a sick child in Christian antiquity who is receiving a particular treatment – food and medicine – and who is also, the author believes, in the process of healing. We know little more about Faustinus beyond Ambrose’s brief description here, but the child’s therapeutic environment – in the company of theological leaders or bishops and “saintly” (likely monastic) laity – characterizes a common theme in Christian pediatric medicine of Late Antiquity. This study explores this theme, beginning with a preliminary summary of Late Antique sources for the medical treatment of the child as they contribute to an understanding of the context within which to read the pediatric miracle narratives from Christian incubation shrines in Greek-speaking communities of the late Roman empire. This essay focuses on the use of children’s healing stories in Sophronius of Jerusalem’s seventh-century Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John, looking particularly at the themes of innocence and causation in pediatric illness and the concept of childhood “innocence” in a world that was concurrently including the child in its developing notions of “original sin.” The essay considers pediatric medicine in the context of Sophronius’s use of moral innocence and agency to further his own theological promotion of Chalcedonian orthodoxy, and reads his text in the light of comparable miraculous healing stories about children from other Late Antique 1

Ambrose of Milan, Letter 71 (tr. Sister Mary Melchior Beyenka, Ambrose, Letters, Fathers of the Church 26 [Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1954], 414).

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Christian incubation healing shrines. As the interrelationships of these themes have not been previously explored, my goal here is to sketch out a preliminary framework that might invite further work in this area. Recent studies of children and childhood in antiquity most commonly explore issues of normative identities and activities, or consider pediatric medicine as it relates to either birth or death (mortality), rather than focusing on the description or treatment of illness (morbidity) during the child’s life.2 This focus on why children died – rather than on specifically how Christians treated their children when they were sick – is perhaps not surprising, since the sick child in the ancient world was a particularly liminal entity, suspended in what was often a very fragile balance. As Keith Bradley notes, Roman society “was very much aware of the vulnerability of 2 Some of the many recent studies that focus on children in the ancient world (listed here in alphabetical order) include Odd M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity, tr. Brian McNeil (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005); Janine Bertier, “Enfants malades et maladies des enfants dans le Corpus hippocratiuque,” in La ‘maladie’ et les maladies dans la Collection hippocratique: Actes du Vie Colloque International Hippocratique (Québec, du 28 septembre au 3 octobre 1987), ed. Paul Potter, Gilles Maloney, and Jacques Desautels (Québec: Les Éditions du Sphinx, 1990), 209–220; John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (New York: Vintage, 1990); Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter, eds., Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy (Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2007); Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990); Véronique Dasen, ed., Naissance et petite enfance dans l’Antiquité: actes du colloque de Fribourg, 28 novembre – 1er décembre 2001 (Fribourg: Academic Press; and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004); Cornelia B. Horn, “Children’s Play as Social Ritual,” in Late Antique Christianity: A People’s History of Christianity, vol. 2, ed. Virginia Burrus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 95–116; Cornelia B. Horn, “The Lives and Literary Roles of Children in Advancing Conversion to Christianity: Hagiography from the Caucasus in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages,” Church History 76 (2007), 262–297; Blake Leyerle, “Children and Disease in a Sixth-Century Monastery,” in What Athens has to do with Jerusalem: Essays on Classical, Jewish and Early Christian Art and Archaeology in Honor of Gideon Foerster, ed. Leonard V. Rutgers, Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion 1 (Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 349–372; Blake Leyerle, “Appealing to Children,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 5 (1997), 243–270; Ivan G. Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996); Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley, eds., Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003); David and Noelle Soren, A Roman Villa and a Late Roman Infant Cemetery: Excavation at Poggio Gramignano Lugnano in Teverina (Rome: “L’ERMA” di Bretscheider, 1999); and Jeannine Diddle Uzzi, Children in the Visual Arts of Imperial Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). See also Ville Vuolanto’s extensive bibliography, “Children in the Ancient World and the Early Middle Ages: A Bibliography,” University of Tampere; Department of History and Philosophy, http://www.uta.fi/laitokset/historia/sivut/BIBChild.pdf (accessed 1 July 2008).

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children and of a tightly bound link between sickness and death of a kind that is unimaginable in the contemporary western world.”3 Sick children were presumably treated by mothers and nurses, but apart from surviving letters and fragments of pediatric medical treatises (discussed further below), they rarely appear in the ancient text until they either die or experience a “miraculous” healing judged worthy of male narrative.4 The Sick Child: Innocent or Guilty? Where they do appear in the texts, children’s ailments, like those of adults, are the consequence of either internal disease or external accidents and trauma. Healing narratives further vary considerably in the degree of detail about those very things the modern reader may wish most to know: cause, symptoms, diagnosis, treatment, and outcome. Yet much about children’s illness narratives differs markedly from those of adults. Whether the child is diseased or injured, its affliction is most commonly presented in the text as a crisis for those responsible for its care. Children’s physical fragility often drove parents to appeal to spiritual healers in the same desperate tone that a woman named Esther voiced in her letter to a monk at the monastery of Epiphanius in Thebes between the sixth and eighth centuries CE: “Be so kind as to instruct me … I bear my children … They die. Perhaps (I) do something unfitting. Be so kind as to send me a rule whereby I may walk; for my soul is grieved.”5 In this and other texts, children are assumed to be innocent agents whose distressed state and its medical outcome (disease that frequently results in death) are interpreted as effecting a broader moral message to adults, who then seek to explain the misfortune by blaming it on their own, adult, behaviors. And during the child’s sickness, her or his medical treatment, like that of little Faustinus, often consisted of food and medicine taken in the company of theological “doctors” and saints who emphasized these themes of culpability and moral “causes” to parents and guardians, also in terms of adult behavior. 3

Keith Bradley, “The Roman Child in Sickness and in Health,” in The Roman Family in the Empire: Rome, Italy, and Beyond, ed. Michele George (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 67–92; Bradley’s article is a useful, detailed compendium of some of the most common pediatric treatments and primary sources that mention pediatric illness. 4 For two examples of surviving letters that include details about sick children, see Roger S. Bagnall and Raffaella Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt: 300 BC– AD 800 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2006), 261 (=P. Col. 8.215, a woman writes to her mother with advice on feeding a little girl in the mother’s care who is sick; in Philadelphia in the first or second century CE) and pp. 280–81 (=PSI 3.177, a distraught mother’s letter to her husband about their sick boy who has not eaten for six days, likely from Oxyrhynchus in the second or third century CE). 5 O. Mon. Epiph 194, in Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 247.

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Yet despite the prevalence of this common assumption that children are innocent of blame for their own illness and death, some early Christian writers – most infamously Ambrose’s disciple, Augustine of Hippo – held a different view. “For in your sight no man is free from sin,” Augustine lamented in his Confessions 1.7, “not even a child who has lived only one day on earth.” Children’s faults, which Augustine describes as tantrums, hitting out at others, and jealousy, “are not small or unimportant, but we are tender-hearted and bear with them because we know that the child will grow out of them. …The same faults are intolerable in older persons.”6 In other words, he seems to say we should admit that children are appropriately childish, but not call it innocence, for it expresses a sinful nature that requires growth and change. Augustine’s view on children in this passage differs from that found, for example, in Irenaeus who, as M. C. Steenberg has argued, drew on an image of children’s innocence to suggest that Adam and Eve in Eden had been literally (that is, in some sense, physiologically) nēpioi, ‘infants or children’ and not simply “childlike” adults. Although Edenic, pre-Fall children would be inevitably innocent and healthy, Irenaeus’s focus is on Christ and “[t]he perfection of this real child.”7 For Irenaeus, Steenberg notes, most poignantly, the doctrine of an infant creation establishes a dynamism to the human person in its relationships to God that forms the very heart of a developmental anthropology of salvation … it is for the growth of the child, Adam, that the son of God becomes incarnate and shows forth the adult, the full image, that the child is to become.8

The essential importance of Christ becoming a literal infant and child, experiencing every phase of human life that he might redeem it, would be so important for Christian theology by the fifth century that Nestorius’s excommunication was sealed by a miscommunication over this detail, when he famously insisted that he could not call God “a child of two or three months old.”9 Yet despite the importance of Christ’s childhood for redemp6

Augustine, Confessions 1.7 (tr. R. S. Pine-Coffin, Saint Augustine: Confessions [New York: Penguin Classics, 1961], 27–28). 7 Matthew C. Steenberg, “Children in Paradise: Adam and Eve as ‘Infants’ in Irenaeus of Lyons,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 12 (2004), 1–22, here 22. For a useful overview of early Christian views about children’s innocence, see Bakke, When Children Became People, 56–109. 8 Steenberg, “Children in Paradise,” 22. 9 As the stenographers noted, transcribing the report of Theodotus, the bishop of Ancyra for the council records, Nestorius said that, “God ought not to be called two or three months old” (James F. Bethune-Baker, Nestorius and his Teaching: A Fresh Examination of the Evidence [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1908], 79). In Theodotus’s view, as Nestorius himself later reports, Nestorius was thus guilty of “counting human qualities a dishonor.” Theodotus further charged that Nestorius had said “that

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tive Christology, the explicit emphasis on infants as culpable and thus already deserving the consequences of sin committed in the brief time since their birth rests largely with Augustine.10 In his comments in the Confessions, Augustine is clearly citing the emotive behavior of early childhood (particularly, as noted, greed, anger, and jealousy) as proof of the infant’s ability to sin. And yet it is difficult to separate his view of children in this passage from his own adult repentance. It is, after all, his own childhood that he is remembering and reading – as an adult – into his perceptions of other children. But as with Irenaeus, so for Augustine, even in the arguments over original sin that he had with his opponent, Julian of Eclanum, “it was not the nature of man alone that interested them, it was the nature of God.”11 Augustine argued that even wrong done in ignorance or involuntarily was sin worthy of punishment, having its “origin in the first sin of the will when it was free.”12 In his latein-life Retractions, Augustine emphasized that “what we call original sin in infants, who have not yet the use of free choice, may not absurdly also be called voluntary, because it originated in man’s first evil will and has become in a manner hereditary.”13 Like Esther’s letter from Thebes, it is not right to say of God that he suckled milk or that He was born from a virgin” (Bethune-Baker, Nestorius and his Teachings, 71; Nestorius’s first-person narrative of the events is found in Nestorius, The Bazaar of Heracleides, ed. and tr. Godfrey R. Driver and Leonard Hodgson, Nestorius: The Bazaar of Heracleides [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1925], 137 [= page 156 of the Syriac manuscript on which Driver and Hodgeson based their translation]). In fact, as Nestorius takes pains to explain, writing much later from exile, his meaning was more deeply nuanced and, as Bethune-Baker and others have argued, not in fact the heresy of which Theodotus and Cyril of Alexandria had accused him. The impact of Nestorius’s comment demonstrates how some fifth-century theologians, roughly contemporary with Augustine, were determined to defend, rather than condemn the human condition of infancy as one worthy of, indeed necessary for, Christ. None of the Christian authors claimed that children did not need to be brought under the redemptive power of Christ (see discussion on Gregory of Nyssa, below); yet even so, most authors other than Augustine described children using terms of innocence on some level. 10 For modern religious philosophers who take issue with Augustine’s tainted condemnation of all infants, see, e.g., William E. Mann, “The Philosopher in the Crib,” in Augustine’s Confessions: Critical Essays, ed. William E. Mann (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006), 1–16. 11 Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography, new edition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 394. 12 Augustine, On Free Will, 54 (ed. and tr. John H. S. Burleigh, Augustine: Earlier Writings, The Library of Christian Classics [Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1953], 102–217, here 203). 13 Augustine, Retractions 1.13.5 (tr. Burleigh, Augustine: Earlier Writings, 219; see also Mary Inez Bogan, tr. Saint Augustine: The Retractions, Fathers of the Church 60 [Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1968], 61 [here numbered

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Augustine’s Confessions ultimately places the blame on its author – as an adult – for doing “something unfitting” that needs religious healing to attain the redemption of the much-lamented and remembered child. It is important to remember that Augustine’s emphatic doctrine of original sin developed to the pitch that it did – in the West – as a reaction to Pelagian opponents. Augustine was keen to demonstrate the justice and goodness of God in the face of otherwise apparently senseless suffering and death. In this detail, Augustine’s view may in fact differ only slightly from that of Gregory of Nyssa’s explanation in his treatise, “On Infants’ Early Deaths.” In Gregory’s view, God’s choice that even loved and wanted newborns die is an act of merciful antecedent prevention: the child’s death, that is, he theorizes, averts their incipient potential for adult sin: “not only to heal evils that have been committed, but also to forestall them before they have been committed; and this, we suspect, is the cause of the deaths of newborn infants.”14 While Gregory’s treatise focuses on pediatric death rather than illness, and therefore is not directly applicable to the present study, it is worth noting here that both Augustine and Gregory attribute infant suffering to something innate within the infant, not the parent. The difference is that Gregory understands such incipient guilt as explicitly unrealized although divinely foreseen adult potential, while Augustine understands it as guilt for behaviors and tendencies already manifest. Finding the Child in the Text In exploring religious themes as they relate to children’s medicine in the ancient world, one of the most persistent challenges is that of finding the child in the text. When medical treatises, miracle stories, and letters mention patients they call pais, it may be impossible to determine whether the patient is a child or slave, particularly since many such references fail to state the individual’s age. Sick adolescents may also be called pais in stories that closely affiliate them with parents or other adults who are seeking their cure (as, e.g., “the child of ...”) or in the context of a reference to foolish and what a modern reader might call “adolescent” behavior (e.g., when the illness of a pais is blamed on excessive drunkenness or sexual excess). Yet virtually all Greco-Roman medical writers recognized puberty

113.4]). For more on the role of infant sin in the Confessions, see also Paul Rigby, Original Sin in Augustine’s Confessions (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 1987), 38–46. 14 Gregory of Nyssa, On Infants’ Early Deaths (ed. Hadwiga Hörner, “De infantibus praemature abreptis,” in Gregorii Nysseni Opera Dogmatica Minora, pars. 2, Gregorii Nysseni Opera 3.2 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1987], 67–97, here 90; tr. William Moore, “On Infants’ Early Deaths,” Nicene- and Post-Nicene Fathers, second series, vol. 5 [repr. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1995], 372–381, here 379).

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as a distinct developmental and medical stage, separate from childhood;15 in theory, therefore, adolescents should not be included in a data set of examples of children in such settings. Because of this linguistic imprecision despite the developmental distinction, the examples cited throughout this essay are (in most cases) limited to instances where the text either explicitly states a child’s age, or where the description suggests a sufficiently obvious pediatric behavior, such as certain types of play, a breastfeeding child, or one who uses childlike gestures to communicate. Occasional examples where a pais obviously is an adolescent rather than a slave are also considered in cases where the pais’ defined identity and medical concerns are dominantly shaped within a context of parental issues and concerns. Pediatric Illness and Treatment in Greco-Roman Medicine The miraculous healing stories that are reported as having taken place at Late Antique Christian incubation shrines developed in a social context where “standard” medical care was that of everyday health care providers, individuals who were not known for performing miracles, but who employed a wide range of specific substances and “natural” theories. These “experts” included those to whom patients turned for common practices of folk medicine, as well as physicians, midwives, and iatrosophists, or physicians who were also known for their medical teaching. Those who treated sick children would have faced a staggering range of symptoms and diseases, which Keith Bradley lists as overwhelming gastrointestinal diseases and respiratory infections such as cholera and dysentery, typhoid and tuberculosis, conditions which were often lethal because they were not properly understood. Poor standards of sanitation and hygiene, both public and private, together with contaminated supplies of water in fountains and baths. … Chronic malnutrition, at all levels of society, may have been another relevant factor and malaria probably had ravaging effects, both as a cause of disease directly and as a condition that rendered the body prone to other deadly dangers.16

The medical systems used to treat such ailments had become, by Late Antiquity, what Vivian Nutton has called “a coherent mosaic of opinions, ideas and remedies,” with the three most substantial Greek medical writers of Late Antiquity being Oribasius of Pergamum (4th c.), Aetius of Amida 15

For a recent discussion of life stages in ancient Greek and Roman medicine, see Susan Mattern, Galen and The Rhetoric of Healing (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008), 106–112. Mattern notes (p. 239, note 16) that “schemata for dividing life into stages are widely attested in antiquity and very diverse.” 16 Bradley, “The Roman Child in Sickness and in Health,” 80. For further details about these public health risks based on excerpts in Oribasius, see Susan R. Holman, “Molded as Wax: Formation and Feeding of the Ancient Newborn,” Helios 24 (1997), 77–95.

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(6th c.), and Paul of Aegina (7th c.).17 While pediatric medicine as it is preserved in the works of these three authors draws on earlier texts from Hippocrates, Galen, Soranus, and Rufus of Ephesus, it is Paul of Aegina whose treatise On the Therapy and Treatment of the Child is most relevant for sixth- and early seventh-century Alexandria, the world of Sophronius and his miracle healers. Yet Paul too represented a continuity, influenced by predecessors such as Aetius, and among explicit sources Paul often quotes from Rufus of Ephesus’s second-century treatise known as On the Therapy of Infants or On the Upbringing of Infants.18 A brief summary of several of these “non-miraculous” medical sources is outlined in the sections below. These somewhat cursory overviews illustrate the range of popular perceptions about the medical treatment of children that would have prevailed as distressed parents were bringing their children to various Christian healers in Late Antiquity for a very different and often “last resort” approach to healing therapy. The Hippocratic Epidemics Medical texts attributed to Hippocrates compose the backbone of all appeals to medical “expertise” in Greco-Roman medical care. Of the extant “Hippocratic” texts, specific references to sick children are found most frequently in the medical “case studies” known as the Hippocratic Epidemics.19 These collections of short narratives also demonstrate the common Vivian Nutton, Ancient Medicine (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), 295. Peter E. Pormann, “The Greek and Arabic Fragments of Paul of Aegina’s Therapy of Children,” MPhil thesis, University of Oxford, 1999, 11. I thank Professor Pormann for his immensely kind generosity in allowing me to consult this manuscript. For a brief summary of Rufus’s life and work, see Vivian Nutton, Ancient Medicine (London: Routledge, 2004), 208–211. Much of Rufus’s work is lost. Our knowledge of this text depends on Greek excerpts that survive in Oribasius and on some Arabic fragments. For further details, see Manfred Ullmann, “Die Schrift des Rufus ‘De infantium curatione’ und das Problem der Autorenlemmata in den ‘Collectiones Medicae’ des Oribasios,” Medizinhistorisches Journal 10 (1975), 165–190; and M. Ullmann, “Die arabische Überlieferung der Schriften des Rufus von Ephesos,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II.37.2, ed. Wolfgang Haase. (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1994), 1293–1349, here 1336–1338, cited in Peter E. Pormann, The Oriental Tradition of Paul of Aegina’s Pragmateia, Studies in Ancient Medicine 29 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 98– 99. 19 References to the Epidemics here are to the text in the Loeb series: Hippocrates, Epidemics I and III (tr. W. H. S. Jones, in Hippocrates I [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1923], 139–287); and Hippocrates, Epidemics II, IV,V, VI, VII (ed. and tr. Wesley D. Smith, in Hippocrates VII [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994]). For recent studies on the Epidemics, which traditionally falls into three distinct groups of texts dated between the fifth and fourth centuries BCE, see e.g., Jacques Jouanna, Hippocrates, tr. Malcolm B. DeBevoise, Medicine and Culture (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins 17 18

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tendency in Late Antique medical texts to keep descriptions of children’s diseases brief, at best. In the seven books of the Epidemics, one finds only fifteen cases where the patient is definitely or likely a pre-adolescent child.20 Of these fifteen children, nine have a medical affliction that results from trauma, including a gangrenous navel scar (4.31) and unspecified broken bones, and a twelve-year-old girl whose skull was shattered and crushed when she was hit by a door. The six children whose illnesses are unrelated to trauma suffer from deafness, body rash, fever, and pain. Of the fifteen, nine die, two survive, and the fate of the others is unknown. Treatment is mentioned in only five cases, and includes trephination for head wounds, cautery, purging medications, plasters for swelling, and for the deaf child the application and ingestion of various substances. In one case (4.11), a boy’s death is implicitly blamed on a woman’s inappropriate response: hit on the head with a potsherd by another child, he might have recovered but the “woman who washed the wound rubbed the area around it and it took a chill.”21 The late Janine Bertier observed that it is impossible to speak of children’s medicine in the Hippocratic corpus.22 Rather, the available texts seem to limit descriptions of children to symptoms and sometimes outcomes, but rarely describe any specific action that connected the two. Pediatric illness in antiquity, Bertier observed, was viewed quite differently from the modern attention to the typical “childhood illnesses” which today are anticipated by vaccinations. Pediatric morbidity fell, rather, into three categories in the Hippocratic texts: (1) exudates or efflorescences that alUniversity Press, 2002), 387–390; some recent studies on the Epidemics include Karl Deichgräber, Die Patienten des Hippokrates: historisch-prosopographische Beiträge zu den Epidemien des Corpus Hippocraticum, Abhandlungen der Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse 9 (Mainz: Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur; and Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1982); Lutz Alexander Graumann, Die Krankengeschichten der Epidemienbücher des Corpus Hippocraticum: medizin-historische Bedeutung und Möglichkeiten der retrospektiven Diagnose (Aachen: Shaker Verlag, 2000); Rainer Hellweg, Stilistische Untersuchungen zu den Krankengeschichten der Epidemienbücher I und III des Corpus Hippocraticum (Bonn: Rudolf Habelt, 1985); Volker Langerholf, Medical Theories in Hippocrates: Early Texts and the ‘Epidemics,’ Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 34 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1990); Charles Lichtenthaeler, Neuer Kommentar zu den ersten zwölf Krankengeschichten im III. Epidemienbuch des Hippocrates (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1994); and Anastasios A. Nikitas, “Untersuchungen zu den Epidemienbüchern II, IV, VI des Corpus Hippocraticum,” Dissertation, University of Hamburg (Hamburg, 1968). 20 I.e., Epidemics 4.11, 4.31, 5.16, 5.28, 5.66(=7.62), 7.35 (3 cases of children), 7.52 (2 children), 7.106, and 7.122 (3 cases where only one is clearly a child); 7.117 and 7.118 may describe either paides who are children (of uncertain age) or older slaves. 21 Hippocrates, Epidemics 4.11, tr. Smith, Hippocrates VII, 99. 22 Bertier, “Enfants malades et maladies des enfants dans le Corpus hippocratique,” 219.

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tered humors by disrupting the normal balance of heat and moisture; (2) epilepsy; and (3) stones, either in the kidney or the bladder. To these, one might add a fourth common cause in Christian healing stories: infant or childhood hernias. Such are the contexts from which any discussion of pediatric medicine, sickness, treatment, and outcome begins. Celsus The Latin encyclopedic compilation of Aulus Cornelius Celsus, De medicina,23 includes a number of beliefs about how to treat the sick child that were popular in the late first and early second centuries CE.24 Celsus expressed a belief, common in Greek medical texts, that the vulnerable body of the child was most likely to succumb to health crises at ages forty days, seven months, seven years, and at puberty.25 Childhood was understood to be a distinct stage, and “in general children ought not to be treated like adults.”26 He identified certain specific afflictions that were common to early childhood: oral thrush, vomiting, insomnia, discharge from the ears, navel inflammation, problems associated with teething (swollen gums, fevers, spasms, diarrhea, with well-nourished or constipated children at greatest risk), and special risks for older children (tonsils, spine curvature, swollen neck, pedunculated warts, and other swellings).27 Celsus noted particular age-specific vulnerabilities (dysentery “carries off mostly children up to the age of ten”)28 and precautions (in general, children should not be bled),29 and recognized that children might also heal more quickly than 23

Of Celsus’s work, the critical edition of books I–II is Guy Serbat, ed. and tr., Celse: De la Médecine I–II (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1995). English translations here are those of the Loeb Classical Library, see Celsus: De Medicina, tr. Walter Spencer, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935), vol. 1. 24 Pliny the Elder’s encyclopedic Natural History, which is peripheral to this essay’s focus on children’s sickness, miracles, and disease causation and blame and is therefore not discussed here, might also be considered for its folk beliefs and practices concerning children’s medicine. 25 Celsus, De medicina 2.1.20 (ed. Serbat, Celse: De la Médecine I–II, 51). 26 Celsus, De medicina 3.6.7.1 c (tr. Spencer, Celsus: De Medicina, vol. 1, 263). 27 Celsus, De medicina 2.1.18–19 (ed. Serbat, Celse: De la Médecine I–II, 50–51). 28 Celsus, De medicina 2.8.30 (tr. Spencer, Celsus: De Medicina, vol. 1, 146–147). 29 Celsus De medicina 2.10.1–5 (tr. Spencer, Celsus: De Medicina, vol. 1, 154–157) argues that weak children should not be bled, but strong healthy children might be with safety; however, in his view the strong children were the thin children who had more blood to spare than their chubby peers (who had proportionately more flesh than blood). In contrast, Galen’s commentary Regimen in Acute Diseases argued that bloodletting should never be used in cases of diarrhea or respiratory distress, which would in fact be common symptoms of many infant ailments (see Peter Brain, Galen on Bloodletting: A Study of the Origins, Development and Validity of his Opinions, with a Translation of the Three Works [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986], esp. 127–133). For a study

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older persons30 and were thus the best patients for certain surgeries.31 He advised the surgical excision of “cancerous” lesions around the navel only for healthy children between age 7 and 14, with the surgery most safely done in Springtime.32 Celsus also recommended surgery for prolapsed intestines and hydrocele (De medicina 7.20–21) and lithotomy, providing extensive details about such surgery in children (De medicina 7.26–27). Throughout the work, however, he said little or nothing about either the (presumed) “cause” or (non-surgical) treatment of the various afflictions he listed and described. Galen Galen, too, made age-dependent distinctions between the diseases and medical care of children, meirakia (adolescents), neaniskoi (“youths”) and old men.33 Susan B. Mattern’s recent study on patient narratives in Galen, a study that focuses on “how the act of healing is represented,”34 contains a detailed appendix that itemizes 358 case narratives culled from Galenic sources.35 The rare presence of children on this list echoes the trend seen above in the Hippocratic Epidemics and suggests that children were functionally incidental to Galen’s work. Mattern identifies only seventeen cases unequivocally identified as children, and several of these are fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boys referred to as pais. Galen was eager to demonstrate the superiority of his own treatment over that of both his medical competitors and the patient’s caregivers, and so his cases contain more details describing the patient’s social context and treatment than what Hippocrates offered in the Epidemics. For example, Galen blamed one boy’s bladder damage on the fact that the child (age not given) was fishing in a cold river (Mattern’s case 94).36 He reluctantly conceded the curative power of an amulet in another child’s epilepsy (case 225)37 and he exposed and blamed a rich boy’s mother, who secretly was feeding her greedy child and aggraof the practice of bleeding children as it is still done in modern Tajikistan, see Salmaan Keshavjee, “Bleeding Babies in Badakhshan: Symbolism, Materialism, and the Political Economy of Traditional Medicine in Post-Soviet Tajikistan,” Medical Anthropology Quarterly 20 (2006), 72–93. 30 Celsus, De medicina 5.26.3 b 6 (tr. Spencer, Celsus: De Medicina, vol. 2, 70–71). 31 For further discussion of Celsus’s views on hernia surgery, see Niki S. Papavramidou and Helen Christopoulou-Aletras, “Treatment of ‘Hernia’ in the Writings of Celsus (First Century AD),” World Journal of Surgery 29 (2005), 1343–1347. 32 Celsus, De medicina 7.14.7–8 (tr. Spencer, Celsus: De Medicina, vol. 3, 380–383). 33 Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, 105–106. 34 Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, x. On Galen, see also now Ian Johnson, Galen On Diseases and Symptoms (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 35 Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, 173–202. 36 Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, 180. 37 Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, 191.

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vating his persistent fever (case 279).38 Despite these few social particulars, however, the reader knows very little of how Galen viewed the act of healing in children, and so one is again left wondering about the actual course of most children’s illness, treatment, and outcome. Humors and the Pediatric Body Ancient medicine understood the child’s body as naturally containing a balance of moist, hot humors. Such warm moisture explained, for example, why children tended more (it was said) to bladder stones than the kidney stones common in adults. The sixth-century CE medical writer John of Alexandria, in his commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics, said that like melted honey or heated lead running through a sieve, “in the case of children, the humor when melted down goes through the uretic channels to the bladder.” The pediatric body was also perceived as naturally “thick.” This “thick humor” in newborns was attributed to “the cheesy and earthy milk of the women doing the nursing”; the “crude and thick humor” in the warm-moist body of children was attenuated by their typically “uncontrolled diet,” resulting in accumulated residues.39 An imbalance of this warm-moist thickness also served as the explanation for certain pediatric illnesses caused by nurses and mothers who over-fed their children. Of the sources cited above, the medical texts attributed to Galen and Hippocrates had the most “authoritarian” relevance for Alexandria in the seventh century. Between the fourth and seventh centuries CE, the teaching curriculum for medicine in Alexandria “was confined to Hippocrates and Galen: a definite syllabus was followed which consisted of more or less sixteen books of Galen and about eleven works of the Hippocratic corpus.”40 The names of several teachers are known who used this medical curriculum, and included Stephanus, John, and Gesios. Sophronius also mentions Gesios, who was especially famous in the city, as being a reluctant and recalcitrant patient and skeptic of the shrine of Ss. Cyrus and John. Thus it was Galen’s and the Hippocratic depiction of pediatric medicine that ruled the social norms of medicine for those who, in their desperate illnesses, chose to turn instead to the saints in Late Antique Christian Egypt.

38

Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing, 195. John of Alexandria, Commentary on Hippocratis’ Epidemics, 130 a 18, selections, here taken from John M. Duffy, ed. and trans., Commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics VI fragments / John of Alexandria, Commentary of an anonymous author on Hippocrates’ Epidemics VI fragments, Corpus Medicorum Graecorum 11.1.4 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997), 67, 69, and 71. 40 Duffy, Commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics VI fragments, 10. 39

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Paul of Aegina’s Therapy of Children While the medical influences of Hippocrates and Galen on prevailing social and medical views are explicitly identified in Sophronius’s narrative, it is Paul of Aegina’s work that likely preserves everyday beliefs and practices in early seventh-century Alexandria as they related to standard pediatric medicine. A thirteenth-century Arabic text says that Paul was a famous physician who lived in Alexandria at the beginning of the Islamic period, and that he was known as an obstetrician and was frequently consulted by midwives. Thus, Paul’s activities fall at least a decade later than Sophronius’s pre-Islamic visit to Alexandria and the shrine at Menouthis, which is usually dated to between 610 and 620. According to Peter Pormann, Paul’s writings on children represent an original synthesis of earlier medical and astrological sources, including Rufus’s second-century treatise on children. They are found in Paul’s two surviving works, On the Therapy and Treatment of Children and (scattered more diffusely throughout) his seven-book encyclopedic compendium known as the Pragmateia.41 Though often identified as a Christian, Paul makes no references to religion in his extant comments on pediatric medicine, nor does he describe specific cases comparable to Galen’s or the Hippocratic Epidemics. Rather, his text is a practical handbook that identifies common afflictions of infants and young children and lists the substances and methods for applying possible treatments. His use of astrological texts and numerology may also reflect “the syncretistical milieu of seventh century Alexandria.”42 Further exploration of this text is beyond the focus of this article. Yet it may be worth noting that neither Paul’s advice nor any of his recipes bears even a vague resemblance to the equally earthy and food-related treatments found in Sophronius’s healing stories of children at the shrine of saints Cyrus and John. Paul’s prescriptions presume the traditional view of children’s bodies as made up of warm-moist-thick humors, and the role of humoral imbalance in illness. The treatments he described included various substances, both common and unusual, fashioned into poultices used for bathing; scented amulets; the practice of blowing aromatic (or noxious) substances into the 41 Pormann, The Oriental Tradition of Paul of Aegina’s Pragmateia, 7, notes that the extant fragments of Paul’s On the Therapy and Treatment of Children are “mostly lost in Greek but extant in a number of Arabic fragments.” For a Greek text of the Pragmateia, see I. L. Heiberg, ed., Paulus Aegineta, CMG 9.1 and 9.2 (Leipzig and Berlin: Teubner, 1921, 1924). The only English translation remains that of Francis Adams, trans., The Seven Books of Paulus Aegineta, 3 vols. (London: Printed for the Sydenham Society, 1844–1847). 42 Pormann, “Greek and Arabic Fragments of Paul of Aegina’s Therapy of Children,” 20.

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nose or mouth; and foods intended to counter diarrhea or constipation. “Old cooked wine” was a common ingredient, and salt-based substances were prescribed explicitly to dry pediatric conditions caused by excessive moisture. As Celsus did, Paul too regarded the fat, over-fed child as at greatest risk for diseases, including apoplexy, diarrhea, and runny ears, which were all blamed on excessive humors caused by nurses and mothers who over-fed. Skin ulcerations in newborns were likewise blamed on the woman, caused either by the bad quality of the nurse’s milk or by some substance that existed in the mother’s womb as the child developed.43 Children in Christian Healing Miracles44 Sophronius’s Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John is one of several Greek collections of Christian healing miracles from Late Antiquity. The author is usually identified with the Sophronius who was a learned rhetor from Damascus and who was John Moschos’s traveling companion, later a mentor to Maximus the Confessor, and who, having been appointed bishop of Jerusalem late in life, died soon after surrendering the city to the caliph ‘Umar in 638.45 Sophronius said he wrote the Miracles in gratitude to the 43

Pormann, “Greek and Arabic Fragments of Paul of Aegina’s Therapy of Children,”

64. 44 An early version of this section on the children’s miracles in Sophronius was presented at the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies in London, 21–26 August, 2006. I thank members of that audience and the Boston Patristics Group for their helpful discussion and suggestions. For more on Christian themes in Sophronius’s text, see P. Booth, “Saints and Soteriology in Sophronius Sophista’s Miracles of Cyrus and John,” in The Church, the Afterlife, and the Fate of the Soul, ed. Peter Clarke and Tony Claydon, Studies in Church History 45, forthcoming; idem, “John Moschus, Sophronius Sophista and Maximus Confessor between East and West,” PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2008; and Susan R. Holman, “Rich and Poor in Sophronius of Jerusalem’s Miracles of Saints Cyrus and John,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, ed. Susan R. Holman, Holy Cross Studies in Patristic Theology and History (Grand Rapids: BakerAcademic, 2008), 103–124. 45 Sophronius and Maximus had met (according to the 10th century Greek Life of Maximus) as exiles in a North African monastery, probably in Carthage, between 627 and 633. In his letter to Peter the Illustrious, Maximus called Sophronius his “blessed lord, father and master, the lord abbot, Sophronius who is truly prudent (sôphrona), a wise advocate of truth and an invincible defender of divine dogmas” (Maximus, Letter 13 [ed. PG 91:509–534, here 533A; French tr. Emmanuel Ponsoye, Saint Maxime le Confesseur: Lettres, Sagesses chrétiennes [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1998], 150–164, here 164; my translation), arguing against Monophysitism; see also Christoph von Schönborn, Sophrone de Jérusalem: Vie monastique et confession dogmatique, Théologie Historique 20 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1972), 75. In another letter (Maximus, Letter 12 [ed. PG 91:459–510, here 461A; tr. Ponsoye, Saint Maxime le Confesseur: Lettres, 119–150, here 121; my translation), Maximus referred to the “venerable monks exiled in Africa, above all the blessed servants of God, our fathers who are called the ‘Eukratades’,” which, as von

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saints after they healed him of an eye ailment.46 The Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John is unusual for its degree of detail about the life and illnesses of a few specific children. Although the historical details and circumstances of a particular child’s case are impossible to determine for any of the narratives, such accounts were readily credible to their original audiences, who often heard them in weekly liturgical readings of “success stories” at the shrine. Sophronius’s stories explicitly contain views on causation, innocence, and the role of theological tensions in the healing dynamics that were scripted onto the body of the afflicted child. In Sophronius’s stories about children, the reader finds rhetorically intertwined issues of innocence, blame, agency, violence, and heterodox eating, with anxious mothers, saints, reptiles and pigs all playing a visible role in healing the sick child. The Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John invites a focused examination because of this wealth of details and obvious theological bias. Even though only six of its seventy stories relate to children, these six stories may also be placed next to comparable narratives from two other incubation healing shrines from the same period, the Miracles of S. Artemios47 and the Miracles of Ss. Cosmas and Damian.48 The common themes of children within Schönborn (Sophrone de Jérusalem, 75) notes, most likely refers to the circle of John Eukratas, meaning John Moschus. Judith Herrin (The Formation of Christendom [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987], 210–211) notes that “John Moschos, ... Sophronius, Maximos, and his faithful assistant Anastasios were probably the last generation of eastern monks to practice the traditional xeniteia,” that is, wandering from one community to another, “a choice that became a necessity during the Persian and Arab invasions from about 604.” 46 Sophronius’s story is Miracle 70 (ed. Natalio Fernandez Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio: Contribucion al estudio de la incubatio cristiana [Madrid: Instituto ‘Antonio de Nebrija,’ 1975], 394–400). 47 Virgil S. Crisafulli and John W. Nesbitt, ed. and trans., The Miracles of St. Artemios: A Collection of Miracle Stories by an Anonymous Author of Seventh-Century Byzantium, The Medieval Mediterranean 13 (Leiden: Brill, 1997). 48 For the critical edition of the Greek text of the Miracles of Ss. Cosmas and Damian see Kosmas und Damian: Texte und Einleitung, ed. Ludwig Deubner (Leipzig: Teubner, 1907). For a French translation of Deubner’s text, see “Saints Côme et Damien,” in Sainte Thècle, Saints Côme et Damien, Saints Cyr et Jean (Extraits), Saint Georges, ed. and tr. André-Jean Festugière, Collections grecques de Miracles (Paris: Éditions a et J. Picard, 1971), 85–213. Festugière notes that Maximus (not the Confessor), who edited Series VI of the Miracles of Ss. Cosmas and Damian, identified the shrine of Cosmas and Damian in Constantinople as “the most ancient church situated at the famous monastery of the Cosmidion (Festugière, “Saints Côme et Damien,” 87, fn. 1). This church was built by Paulinus, companion to Emperor Theodosius II (408–450), ca. 439. Procopius mentioned it (Procopius, On Buildings 1.6, tr. Henry Dewing and Glanville Downey, LCL [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; and London: W. Heinemann, 1940], vol. 7, pp. 60–65) and located it (for discussion see Festugière, “Saints Côme et Damien,” 87). It was apparently in a ramshackle condition by the time of Justinian (527–565), but after that emperor was healed during an incubation, he had it “transformed,” enlarging both

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these three texts may be contrasted, in turn, with other stories from Late Antiquity about acts of healing accomplished by saints such as Thekla, Macrina, and Menas. Pediatric Healing in Sophronius’s Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John Sophronius’s Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John is a text known for overtly aligning physical healing with Chalcedonian Christian orthodoxy during John the Almsgiver’s episcopate in predominantly non-Chalcedonian Alexandria.49 The work has much in common with other Christian healing narratives from the same period, especially in its focus on supernatural healing of otherwise incurable diseases through the agency of resident martyr-saints and dreams at an incubation shrine. However, the Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John differs from its contemporaries on several points. More than the miracle accounts of saints Cosmas and Damian or Artemios, for example, it is concerned with theological tensions between Chalcedonians and non-Chalcedonians. A number of supplicants at Menouthis are healed only after they give up “pagan” beliefs or loyalty to the aphthartodocetic teachings of Julian of Halicarnassus.50 The text also gives much more detail about each patient, including name, age, gender, hometown, socioeconomic status, religious loyalties, substantial detail about their ailment and narrative of healing, and their relationship, if any, to other persons in the shrine or in the text. Cyrus and John were medical generalists; they cured a wide range of ailments with a dizzying and graphic spectrum of therapies. Unlike the often passive healings that church and ornaments. A monastery was established by 518. Both monastery and church were destroyed by the Avars in 626 and 629, but the site was not long abandoned, and as late as 1261 Michael VIII Paleologus spent the night there before entering reconquered Constantinople. 49 Before the critical Greek published by Marcos (see fn. 46), the editio princeps of the Greek text with its Latin version, translated by Anastasius Bibliothecarius ca. 857, is in Angelo Mai, ed., Spicilegium Romanum, vol. 3 (Rome 1840), 97–669; for a recent study of Anastasius’s translation, see Bronwen Neil, “The Miracles of Saints Cyrus and John: The Greek Text and Its Translation,” Journal of the Australian Early Medieval Association 2 (2006), 183–93. In addition to von Schönborn’s study (see fn. 45), the most recent translation and critical study is Jean Gascou, Sophrone de Jérusalem: Miracles des saints Cyr et Jean (BHG I, 477–479), Collections de l’Université Marc-Bloch, Strasbourg, Études d’archéologie et d’histoire ancienne (Paris: De Boccard, 2006). For textual history and a consideration of Sophronius’s rhetorical style, see John Duffy, “Observations on Sophronius’ Miracles of Cyrus and John,” Journal of Theological Studies n.s. 35 (1984), 71–90. All English translations from the Miracles are by Holman. 50 The first four stories in his second section, of non-Alexandrian Egyptians, describe Julianites. Aphthartodocetism was the teaching that Christ’s physical body was from its very conception incapable of corruption, a view that opponents argued was docetic reductionism.

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constituted other Christian incubation-shrine miracles, Cyrus and John used dreams to give orders, sometimes rather unusual orders;51 healing depended on the patient’s willingness to take an active and sometimes humiliating public role in following orders. Many of these healings involved the inadvertent agency of strangers, other patients, and animals in and around the sanctuary and the broader community. Thus Cyrus and John seemed to deviate more than usual from the “standard” routines of similar texts, although certainly much evidence is lost and some of these features do occur in other accounts of Christian incubation shrines. The text’s very diversity suggests that it did not present a “representative sample” of healing stories,52 but reflected the author’s preference for particular rhetorical details. Sophronius’s text describes the healing of three girls and three boys. Two girls, Maros (Mir. 10) and Maria (Mir. 11), were nursing infants. Three children, Menas (Mir. 91), Callinicus (Mir. 34), and Anna (Mir. 94), were between eight and twelve years old. The oldest child, Isidore (Mir. 54), was a young adolescent from Damascus, an only son who was accompanied to the shrine by his wealthy parents. The parents of the two nursing infants served in the shrine and lived in or very close to it. The eight-yearold Menas came with his mother from Babylon in Lower Egypt. Callinicus walked to the shrine with his mother and younger (apparently healthy) brother. Twelve-year-old Anna was a child-nun from a community in Heracleon, a day’s journey away, who had no apparent family. Only two children had an internal disease: Maros with a bad ear infection and Isidore with epileptic seizures. The others had suffered violence or mishap. All were healed, but none by the holy oil or wax, myron and kērōtes, that was usual for healing as it was practiced at this and other shrines.53 Even therapeutic aroma, another common agent of all ancient medicine, is suggested only in the large volume of aromatic wine that the young nun, Anna, was 51

Literature on dreams at healing shrines is vast. For further discussion see, e.g., Patricia Cox Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity: Studies in the Imagination of a Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). For a brief summary of the role that beliefs about children played in dream interpretation, see Keith Bradley, “Children and Dreams,” in Childhood, Class, and Kin in the Roman World, ed. Suzanne Dixon (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), 43–51. 52 For example, we know from Dorothea’s prayer that women came to the shrine praying for children; yet Sophronius included no such stories in his collection. 53 For the role of scent in the wax and oil used at such shrines, see Béatrice Caseau, “Parfum et guérison dans le christianisme ancien et byzantin: des huiles parfumées des médecins au myron des saints byzantins,” in Les Pères de l’Église face à la science médicale de leur temps, ed. Véronique Boudon-Millot and Bernard Pouderon, Théologie Historique 117 (Paris: Beauchesne, 2005), 141–191 and Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), esp. 65–75.

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forced to drink in a tavern to induce her to vomit the three live lizards that caused her agony. Instead, the children’s healing accounts are idiosyncratic, with details that vary according to the individual differences of each child’s physical crisis, family relationships, and associated theological position. In light of the way in which Sophronius interpreted adult illness in the other stories of the text54 and what we know of his theological agenda, his rhetorical glimpse at this fragile social group – constituted by the sick child – may also serve as a theological icon of a community which he feared was facing disintegration through spiritual disorder and external violence. This is suggested by the way that the stories deal with two themes: first, disease causation; and second, the author’s “take-away” message about theology. Affliction, Cause, and Innocence Christian incubation texts tend to say little about the causal theories that prevailed in classical medicine. This is likely a function of the prevalent syncretism. Even texts by Christian authors, like John of Alexandria’s Commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics, cited above, seem quite distant from the medicine practiced at the shrine.55 Those who came to the shrines usually had exhausted their resources on ordinary physicians and folk medicines. By the time the patient reached the shrine, his or her case was considered incurable, and the cause and course of the disease usually blamed on demonic forces or persistent moral failures or imbalances. The prescribed treatments in healing texts – and this is particularly true of Sophronius – are constructed within a context of “moral tales”; that is, cure, regardless of cause, depended on some type of spiritual purification. Treatment was a moral act that reversed or liberated causation forces through acts of obedience, humility, even humiliation, and penance that enacted purification. Even where an adult patient was a loyal believer in the saints and eager to obey prescriptive instructions, healing – for virtually all adult supplicants in Sophronius’s stories – depended on responsible agency and moral choices. This is not true of the healing stories about children. Here Sophronius assumed the child’s moral innocence in every case. Not one of the six chil54

See Holman, “Rich and Poor in Sophronius of Jerusalem’s Miracles of Saints Cyrus and John,” 103–124. 55 Duffy (Commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics VI fragments, 12, notes 5 and 6) suggests that John’s medical teacher may even have been the renowned Alexandrian physician, Gesios, the very man whom saints Cyrus and John reduce to humiliation when he is forced to seek out the shrine for his own otherwise incurable ailment (Mir. Ss. Cyrus & John 30; ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 302; French translation at Gascou, Sophrone de Jérusalem, 101–107).

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dren was held morally culpable for his or her suffering. Maros and Maria were still infants (or toddlers) when one was afflicted with ear infection and the other fell from a high window. Eight-year-old Menas’s deformity was blamed on a “criminal demon who hated mankind” who pulled out his tongue one night as he slept, and then beat him in the face. The epilepsy of the helpless if teenaged pais, Isidore, began at the baths, but his physicians told his parents that it was not related to humoral imbalance but to “the iniquity of demons.” Only when Isidore came to Cyrus and John was this demonic activity implicitly associated with his mother’s crypto-paganism. The innocence of the children Callinicus and Anna demanded a slightly more subtle rhetoric, since in both cases the children deliberately ate the reptiles that then crawled in their gut. Callinicus, in fact, fought with his younger brother over the serpent’s egg they had found under a tree along the road to the shrine, and Sophronius conceded that, if it were not for the saints’ clemency, the boy would have rightly died for disobeying his mother (Mir. 34.3).56 Yet in constructing the story as an allusion to Satan’s temptation of Eve in Eden, Sophronius located Callinicus in a state of original innocence. The jealous Prince of Darkness showed the boys the egg, he said; they took it as Eve had because of their “immaturity due to age, still lacking the ability to discern good from evil.”57 The reader senses a concession in Sophronius’s comments here that is, perhaps, not unlike Augustine’s recognition that adults rightly tolerate children’s childish errors. Yet Dorothea passionately argued for her son’s innocence, as she cried out to the saints, “Why do you cast onto unknowing (agnoousi) children the sins of their mother?”58 “Punish me and let my child go, or punish me with him, so I will not see his death. Or else give me my son ... imitate your God and master who is receptive to pity.”59 In other stories, Sophronius demonstrated how the saints teach theology during their nocturnal appearances to recalcitrant patients, but here Dorothea gave the saints a theological scolding; they merely issued a few strategic instructions once she was finished. Dorothea reminded the saints of Exodus 20, where the Mir. 34.3 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 316): “For having disobeyed the mother’s order, he would have rightly died (to\ qanathfo/ron e)kdu=nai pepoi/hkan di/ktuon) if the martyrs Cyrus and John had not allowed that he be released from death.” 57 Mir. 34.2 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 315): dia\ to\ a)tele\j th=j h(liki/aj 56

e)fai/neto, mh/pw laxou/shj gegumasme/na ta\ th=j yuxh=j ai0sqhth/ria pro\j kalw~n kai\ mh\ toiou/twn dia/krisin. 58 Mir. 34.7 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 316): ti/ mhtro\j a(marti/aj a)gnoou~si te/knoij e)pa/gete; 59 Mir. 34.7, 8 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 316–17): @H ou}n e)me\ kola/sate, kai\ to\ te/knon e)a/sate, h@ su\n au)tw~| ka)me\ timwrh/sasqe, i#na mh\ zw~sa ble/pw tou= e0mou~ paido\j th\n a)pw/leian. ei0 de\ tou/twn ou0de\n a)ne/xesqe diapra/casqai, pa/lin mou to\n pai=da xari/sasqe, to\n fi/loikton qeo\n kai\ Despo/thn u(mw~n e)kmimou/menoi;

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Mosaic law says that the sins of the fathers will fall on the children, and she argued from Galatians, Ezekiel, and Romans that Christ had released humanity from this curse; henceforth each person was individually accountable before God. Thus she insistently spoke up for her son’s innocence. The nun Anna also was rendered blameless by her childish nature. Having no one to guide her, Sophronius said, she too was tempted like Adam and Eve. While playing alone among the reeds, perhaps she began to chew on them out of hunger, Sophronius suggested, thus ingesting the small lizards that live on the stalks. This happened, he said, “by reason of her young age;” “being the little girl that she was, she entered into the play of little girls.”60 While Dorothea blamed herself, Sophronius gently but unmistakable criticized Maria’s mother for being the passive cause of her infant’s fall. He says, “As often happened, busy with other tasks, the mother had to leave the child near the window while she worked, but the child, deprived of maternal oversight, naturally incapable of distinguishing good from evil, fell from this high window.”61 Other medical texts suggest it was not unusual for physicians to blame mothers or nurses for children’s ailments, as evident in the Epidemics, for example, cited above, where the child’s head wound from a potsherd was inappropriately handled by a woman’s inept medical care; and in Galen’s description of the greedy rich boy, whose mother’s secret feeding caused the mysterious persistence of his ailment despite the doctor’s (implicitly correct) instructions for treatment.62 Innocence and childlike attributes play a role in several of Sophronius’s children’s stories not only in defining cause, but also in healing. In a delightful twist on the serpent in Eden, the mother of the baby serpent that Callinicus swallowed was just as upset at losing her child as the boy’s mother was at losing him. While biblical imagery has a woman crushing the serpent’s head (Gen 3:15), here the Christ-inspired saints caused the mother serpent to enter the sanctuary, keening loudly, and summon her baby serpent out through the child’s mouth in a very public display. Given Dorothea’s appeal to the Mosaic law, it is possible that Sophronius was hinting

60

Mir. 44.3 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 348): nhpiw/douj h(liki/aj tug-

xa/nousa ... oi}a meira/kion ta\ meiraki/wn dih/nue pai/gnia …

Mir. 11.2 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 262): kai\ r(euyewj gemome/nhj tino\j oi{a filei= polla/kij sumbai/nein kai\ gi/nesqai, kai/ tinoj ta/xa tw~n a)nagkai/wn a)pasxolh/santoj, kai\ to\ paidi/on e)pi\ th~j quri/doj e)a~n a)nagka/santoj, e)kei/nh me\n h}n e)f7) o# te kai\ e!dramen. 61

62 Blame on nurses and caregivers is a widespread commonplace in medical texts about infants and children.

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at the healing role of Moses’ serpent in Christian hagiography.63 Baby animals also appear in Maria’s healing. When her mother and attendants rushed to the place where she fell, expecting a corpse, they found her unharmed, playing among some piglets. Young Menas was healed mysteriously by other innocent children at the shrine who, in play, pushed him and caused him to fall onto the marble flagstones before the sanctuary, where he was cured instantly; childish violence healing the effects of “demonic” violence. Even Maros’s gentler healing by honey applied to her ears suggests a substance best known for its association with children’s feeding with the natural world.64 Thus, children were regarded as innocent of sin in these texts, and their Christian healing employed this very childlikeness – often together with animal imagery – to salvific effect. The homeopathic pairing of children with animals in tales of healing and innocence is also suggested in several tales by Sophronius’s colleague and friend, John Moschus; his Spiritual Meadow pairs children with animals, either as associated elements in the story (tale 196) or as messengers of forgiveness (tale 101), discussed further below.65 The innocence of childhood was a common belief. For example, we find a similar assumption in the Hippocratic treatise on epilepsy. When they sense an imminent seizure, the author notes, adults flee out of shame and (some say) fear of the gods, while children, because they lack shame, simply run to their mothers out of fear at what is about to happen. As Julie

63

That is, the snake is not an enemy in this text (which we might expect in a shrine built intentionally to oppose an Isis cult) nor something merely used for human aid, but in fact restored and comforted in its own needs by the saints. We find a similar dynamic in one of the narratives in the Greek Life of Symeon the Stylite, by Antonius, where a male snake brought his spouse to the pillar for healing; she had a cancerous ulcer high on her neck. Everyone in the crowd (as in this story) was terrified at the sight of the beast, but Symeon understood that the snake was really bowing and prostrating to him in supplication, and he healed the female snake. See Robert Doran, tr., The Lives of Symeon Stylites, Cistercian Studies Series 112 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1992), 227, where it is “Chapter 25” and present in only certain manuscripts. 64 Honey does appear as an ingredient in several of the adult healings as well. On honey in infant feeding in antiquity, see e.g., Holman, “Molded as Wax: Formation and Feeding of the Ancient Newborn,” esp. at 33. Modern advice not to feed honey to infants in their first year is based on the small but potentially fatal risk of botulism; see S. S. Arnon and others, “Honey and other environmental risk factors for infant botulism,” Pediatrics 94 (1979), 331–336, here 331. 65 See also François Bovon, “The Child and the Beast: Fighting Violence in Ancient Christianity,” Harvard Theological Review 92 (1999), 369–392. On animals in hagiography (but without a concurrent discussion of children), see Blake Leyerle, “Monks and Other Animals,” in The Cultural Turn in Late Ancient Studies: Gender, asceticism, and historiography, ed. Dale Martin and Patricia Cox Miller (Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2005), 150–171.

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Laskaris has noted for the Hippocratic text, “The author takes special pains in these sections to argue against an etiology of divine punishment.”66 Theological Lessons Sophronius puts three of the stories on children’s healing to use theologically, directly advancing his pro-Chalcedonian cause. In addition to Dorothea’s prayer in Mir. 34, discussed above, a child serves to draw a theological moral in Mir. 11 (about Maria who falls from a window) and in Mir. 54 (the story of the epileptic boy, Isidore). While Maria’s mother was the one who immediately responded to the toddler’s fall from the window and witnessed her healing, it was Maria’s father, a deacon serving at the shrine, who received its theological lesson. There was at the shrine another deacon, an official from Byzantium who had come to serve Cyrus and John from the time of his own healing on. Sophronius made it a point to note that this other deacon had been ordained by John the Almsgiver who “presently leads the church of Alexandria” (Mir. 11.6). This reference to the Chalcedonian bishop in a dominantly non-Chalcedonian region emphasizes not only Sophronius’s loyalties but the specific theological alliances he considered to be “orthodox.” The night before Maria fell, this Byzantine deacon dreamt that the saints had invited him to a majestic feast at Maria’s parents’ home. “I was amazed,” he said, “by the high social rank of the invited guests and astonished at the noblylavish feast.”67 Yet the dream’s meaning was a mystery “until the accomplished miracle explained it.” On discussing it with the child’s father after Maria’s miraculous survival, the two deacons interpreted the dream using John 4:32, where Jesus at the well in Samaria told his disciples, “I have food that you do not know.” By this, they agreed, Jesus meant “the wellbeing/salvation of those who believe in him and the blessed redemption”68 (Mir. 11.9). Since Jesus then said, “My food is to do the will of the father and accomplish his work,” the deacons concluded that the martyrs’ image of food in the Byzantine deacon’s dream obviously pointed to the child’s 66 Julie Laskaris, The Art is Long: On the Sacred Disease and the Scientific Tradition, Studies in Ancient Medicine 25 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 139 and 145, commenting on the anonymous Hippocratic treatise, The Sacred Disease (peri\ i(erh=j nou/sou), chapter 11. Bradley (“Children and Dreams,” 45) also observes that in Artemidoros’s interpretation of children’s appearances in dreams, “children are viewed as innocents who will tell the truth because they have not yet learned how to lie.” 67 Mir. 11.8 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 264): pa/lin met7) au)tw~n a)nex-

w/rhsa pro\j ta\ tw~n daitumo/nwn peqhpw\j a)ciw/maa kai\ stoli/smata : kai\ qauma/zwn tou= dei/pnou th\n semnh\n polute/leian; lit. the noble costliness (or lavishness) of the food. 68 Mir. 11.9 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 264): brw~sin ei)pw\n th\n tw~n ei)j au)to\n pisteuo/ntwn swthri/an kai\ terpnh\n a)polu/trwsin.

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salvation (th;n swthrivan th'" paivdo").69 Sophronius concluded that this miracle “nourished their good and philanthropic hunger (or desire), and fulfilled their pure and wise purpose.”70 As in the more ordinary references to pediatric medicine cited above from Ambrose of Milan and Paul of Aegina, the use of food is a common therapeutic theme in Sophronius’s healing stories of children, in its role both in provoking and in healing disease. Yet food in Christian healing texts such as these usually signifies far more than its ordinary therapeutic uses, taking on theological significance beyond its literal ingestion or application.71 This is clearest in Mir. 54, the healing story of the epileptic boy, Isidore. As the boy’s wealthy parents were sleeping at the shrine, the saints ordered his mother, Julia, personally to anoint her son from head to foot with pigs’ fat (Gk. stear, stiff fat, tallow, or suet), “as a means to heal his soul.”72 The saints exposed Julia as a crypto-pagan: “For because of the death of Adonis, she refused pork products” (Mir. 54.6).73 To cure her son, 69

While there are no obvious Eucharistic overtones to any of these healing miracles of children, the ever-present relationship between salvation and the Eucharist (particularly as the food of infants) in other Late Antique Christian theological texts invites further consideration of this theme in early Christian approaches to pediatric medicine. 70 Mir. 11.10 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 264): w(j tre/fon au)tw~n pei=nan a)gaqh\n kai\ fila/nqrwpon, kai\ te/rpon au)tw~n th\n a(gnh\n kai\ filo/frona pro/qesin. 71 The literature on spiritually therapeutic uses of food with healing imagery in early Christianity is vast, though much of it focuses on food control or fasting in ascetic texts rather than on explicit Christian medical treatment. See, e.g., Yves-Marie Duval, “Diétetique et medécine chez Jérôme,” in Les Pères de l’Église face à la Science médicale de leur temps, ed. Véronique Boudon-Millot and Bernard Pouderon, Théologie Historique 117 (Paris: Beauchesne, 2005), 121–140; Andrew McGowan, Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); and Teresa M. Shaw, The Burden of the Flesh: Fasting and Sexuality in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1998). 72 Mir. 54.6 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 369): oi0konomi/a| xrhsa/menoi th\n au)th~j yuxh\n qerapeu=sai spouda/santej; That we find pigs a recurrent healing presence twice in six stories may suggest Sophronius’s view that abstaining from pork was visible proof that one was a pagan or heretic; while Maria’s fall to safety among some piglets may be incidental, the condemnation of Julia’s secret abstention from pork products makes it clear that the author believed Christians should have no such inhibitions. This emphasis on the healing potential of pork products is not present in stories from the other incubation shrines. Mir. Ss. Cosmas and Damian 34 (where Hesperus, a former butcher, is told to give up butchering and becomes the chief barber at the shrine) and 6 (where a patient is told to give up swearing and eating meat during Lent) are quite different in their concerns and do not specifically mention pork. See Deubner, ed., Kosmas und Damian, 187–89 and 110–11. 73 Mir. 54.6 (ed. Marcos, Los Thaumata de Sofronio, 369): dia\ to\n 7)Adw/nidoj qa/naton ta\ kre/a paraitei=sqai ta\ u#eia. According to the myth, Adonis was killed by Ares who had taken the form of a wild boar. The boar also had significance in the Egyptian myth of Osiris, where Osiris’s death is avenged on his uncle Set who comes disguised as

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she personally now had to practice deliberate contact with pork, and under her own hands watch it effect his healing and salvation. As soon as she began to anoint the boy, the demons fled, and Sophronius added, “I think that [she] benefited from this miracle, if she took the truth to heart and was not completely impious and stupid” (Mir. 54.8). Pork was a food taboo for several groups that Christians condemned, and those who abstained were easy targets for blame as heretics or “Jews.” Comparative Texts The theme of moral cause that one finds in Sophronius’s stories is not as evident in other Christian healing miracles of children from Late Antiquity. Where it does appear, however, the moral lesson again was directed to the adults, and the children were innocent victims whose illness marked some aspect of spiritual disorder within their larger social context. For example, among the miracle stories from the shrine of Cosmas and Damian at Constantinople, some of which were known to Sophronius, only three stories explicitly concern a child, in each case one who is suffering from an illness rather than an accident.74 One story is that of a paralytic youth (anēr … nean) whose father was a dishonest merchant (Mir. 4). Another child was a four-year-old boy whose progressive blindness was blamed on demons (Mir. 36). The third was a high court official’s daughter, Theodora, whose age, illness, and cure are not described (Mir. 40). In each case, the cure involved physical application of some substance, although few details are given. Cosmas and Damian healed the paralytic youth by laying their hands on him “with mercy,” though there is no mention of the cure’s effect on his father’s dishonesty. In the second story, an eulogia75 obtained from a cleric and prepared in the name of Christ was applied to the child’s eyes. In the third case, Theodora’s father donated to the shrine a gold- and silk-embroidered peplos (a woven cloth that might function as a sanctuary curtain, veil, or possibly sanctuary wall hanging) that both illustrated the girl’s healing in the embroidered image and rea boar. Robert Graves (The Greek Myths [London: Penguin, 1960], vol. 2, 115, fn. 1) notes that “the Egyptian taboo on boar’s flesh was lifted only at midwinter.” However, there is no evidence in Sophronius’s text to suggest that Julia, who was from Damascus and is not identified as Egyptian, knew of any relationship between Adonis and Osiris, although the comparison is tempting in light of the Christian’s shrine’s opposition to Menouthis’s famous Isis healing sanctuary. 74 Miracles of Ss. Cosmas and Damian (ed. Deubner, Kosmas und Damian, 107–108 [Mir. 4], 189–190 [Mir. 36], and 198–199 [Mir. 40]). 75 For more on the religious function of the small food offering that was known as a eulogia or “blessing” in Late Antique texts, see Daniel Caner, “Wealth, Stewardship and Charitable ‘Blessings’ in Early Byzantine Monasticism,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, ed. Holman, 221–242.

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corded it with an inscribed iambic meter. Of these three stories, only the first – that of the dishonest father – suggested human moral failure as a causative factor in the child’s illness. Cures and responses, where they were described, were unexceptional. Children’s healings at the shrine of Ss. Cosmas and Damian do not seem to demonstrate any particular pattern but these few accounts support the general themes of innocence and moral lessons about causation that are present more systematically in Sophronius. In contrast to the minimal and almost incidental references to children at the shrine of Cosmas and Damian, activity at the shrine of St. Artemios engaged in a specialty trade in pediatric healing, particularly testicular complications of inguinal hernias. Twelve of the forty-five stories in the Miracles of St. Artemios concern children.76 In most of these accounts healing occurred concurrent with parents’ dreams, although neither parents nor children had to be physically present in the sanctuary at the point of cure. In only one story (Mir. 28) is the hernia blamed on an accident, a child who fell out of bed.77 Mothers who brought their children to St. Artemios are frequently depicted as fearful that the cure would require costly payment for a painful surgery; but they (or their husbands) usually were little more than passive agents on whom the dream that healed their child was effected. Some patients appear in several stories, in which the individual healed in childhood retained a special dedication to the shrine, remaining or returning several times over a lifetime. While children’s miracles were common for the shrine of St. Artemios, only two of the twelve miracle narratives mentioned any fault, and in each case this was associated again with the responsible adults rather than with the child. In Mir. 34, twelve-year-old Euphemia, whose mother was “of ill repute,”78 was afflicted with black plague “spots called blessings,” and believed to be dead. As her parents prepared to bury her, it was the child’s devotion to the shrine, where she helped her charitable neighbor, Anna, serve at the saint’s lamps, that ultimately saved her.79 In Mir. 38, nineyear-old George was similarly devoted to the church, as a reader. His testicular ailment occurred when his parents forcefully removed him from the church to train him in their dishonest way of life. Healing followed only

76 Mir. 10, 11, 12, 28, 31, 33, 34, 36, 38, 42, 43, and 45; in addition, Mir. 4 speaks of a father who travels to the shrine with his son, but gives no information that might suggest the son’s age. 77 Crisafulli and Nesbitt, ed. and trans., The Miracles of St. Artemios, 154–157. 78 Crisafulli and Nesbitt, ed. and trans., The Miracles of St. Artemios, 177; the Greek is gunai=ka, dusw~numon, ou[san, possibly instead suggesting “unlucky” or “ill-fated”? 79 Crisafulli and Nesbitt, The Miracles of St. Artemios, 176–181.

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when they yielded and voluntarily returned him to his vocation at the shrine. He eventually became a deacon, monk, and priest in the church.80 Although Sophronius’s stories differ from the references to children’s distress that are contained in the Spiritual Meadow, a work of his friend, John Moschus, the themes of moral guilt, causation, and childhood innocence may be discerned in these tales as well. Moschus mentioned children in half a dozen stories, but never in a context of illness or disease. More often it was a dead child who convicted (tale 166) or prayed for (tale 101 and tale 165) his or her murderers, on one occasion being brought back to life (tale 233), but leading in each case to the adult’s repentance. Other children in Moschus’s text participated innocently in eucharistic practices that violated the “rules” in order to teach the adults powerful lessons of God’s omnipotence and power to convert (tales 196, 197, 227, and 243).81 Not all saints’ miracles include accounts about children, or even necessarily physical healing. The extant miracles of St. Menas, for example, describe the saint’s intercession in situations that concerned greed, theft, and lust.82 Similarly, the fifth-century Miracles of S. Thekla focuses on moral or power issues.83 Others, like Gregory of Nyssa’s fourth-century narrative about his sister, Macrina, contains only one reference to a healed child, a miracle that Gregory learned from the child’s father only after Macrina’s death. Gregory used it as an almost incidental, and rhetorically underplayed, conclusion to the saint’s life.84

Crisafulli and Nesbitt, The Miracles of St. Artemios, 197–201; George appears again, as an adult, in Mir. 39 and 40. For a similar phenomenon of children suffering for the sins of their parents in eighth century Egypt at the monastery of Poibammon (Jeme), see below in Carrie Schroeder’s contribution, p. 334. 81 References to John Moschus here follow the numbered stories in The Spiritual Meadow (Pratum Spirituale), trans. John Wortley, Cistercian Studies Series 139 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Press, 1992). 82 John Duffy and Emmanuel Bourbouhakis, “Five Miracles of St. Menas,” in Byzantine Authors: Literary Activities and Preoccupations: Texts and Translations Dedicated to the Memory of Nicolas Oikonomides, ed. John W. Nesbitt (Boston: Brill, 2003), 65– 81; and E. A. Wallis Budge, Texts Relating to Saint Menas of Egypt and Canons of Nicaea in a Nubian Dialect (London: British Museum, 1909). 83 For the critical text, see Gilbert Dagron, Vie et Miracles de Sainte Thècle: Texte Grec, Traduction et Commentaire, Subsidia Hagiographica 62 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1978); see also Stephen J. Davis, The Cult of Saint Thekla: A Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity, Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); and Scott Fitzgerald Johnson, The Life and Miracles of Thekla: A Literary Study, Hellenistic Study Series 13 (Cambridge, MA.: Center for Hellenic Studies at Harvard University, 2000). 84 Gregory of Nyssa, Vita S. Macrinae (ed. Virginia Woods Callahan, Gregorii Nysseni Opera 8.1 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1952], 409–413, citing PG 46:996–997; tr. Virginia Woods Callahan, “The Life of Saint Macrina,” in Saint Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical 80

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Conclusion Healing stories from incubation shrines of early Christian saints in Late Antiquity provide detailed depictions of pediatric illness and therapy. Such stories further offer a context for exploring social and theological views of innocence, blame, and agency as they relate to afflicted children. While most ancient medical and theological writers discussed in this article assumed children to be innocent of blame for their sufferings, the miraculous accounts show little, if any, dependence on standard medical theories about children’s bodies, such as heat, moisture, or “thick” humors. Rather, children’s bodies become a location onto which the miraculous response to illness or debilitating mishap inscribes a moral and theological message given to the child’s parents, guardians, and other adults in the community. The children’s bodies, healed at the shrine, function perhaps similarly to Augustine’s famous controversial narrative cited earlier: the performance displayed in the child offers a lesson for the mature adults who know themselves to be sinners in need of repentance. Sophronius’s Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John offers a particularly striking example of this genre of theological pediatric healing stories. Here, physical healing functions rhetorically, to advance the author’s agenda of defending Chalcedonian orthodoxy, and this is also evident in its six accounts of sick children. While the children are viewed as morally innocent, their healing is interwoven in several cases with explicit theological dialogue with or concerning their parents.85 While the Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John is rich in details about social and pediatric medical practices in Late Antique Christianity, its rhetoric of children’s innocence and agency for salvation may best be understood in light of its author’s theological concerns. The text very likely accompanied the saints’ translation from Alexandria to Rome in 634, in the midst of the monoenergist controversy in which Sophronius’s theology played a pivotal role.86 This text would have continued to serve as a theological text for the importance of “right” belief in the healing of the Christian body.87 Works, Fathers of the Church 58 [Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1967], 188–190). See also Carole Monica C. Burnett, “Mother-Child Bonding in the Greek and Latin Fathers of the Church,” 75–101 in the present volume. 85 In the case of the young nun, Anna, it is “a brother at the shrine” who received her prescription and oversaw its delivery. 86 For a detailed list of sources, see Holman, “Rich and Poor in the Miracles of Saints Cyrus and John,” 110, fn. 35. 87 Neil, “The Miracles of Saints Cyrus and John,” 183–193. This influence is further emphasized by the presence of S. Cyrus (“Abbakyros”) on a fresco that includes physician-saints and is attributed to the eighth century, at the church of S. Maria Antiqua in

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The brief exploration of ancient pediatric medicine in Christian antiquity offered in this article raises a number of questions that invite further study. For example, how might such a view of children’s moral innocence (at least as it relates to pediatric illness and physical accident) fit into the broader views of children’s sinfulness that was to develop later in the West, following Augustinian influence? Given the teachings about “original sin” in baptismal theology (and the medical imageries that are suggested by the use of common therapeutic ingredients – water, oil, salt, scent, and blowing into the nose or mouth – in baptismal practices), did healing stories of children from the Latin Christian West develop to reflect these nuanced differences? Ambrose’s story of little Faustinus, for example, faulted only the “excess love” of adults whose misplaced sensibilities, because they were feelings that led them to withhold the child’s medicine, increased the boy’s illness. We still know little about how sick children were treated in monastic hospitals, although we know how some children in monastic life died.88 Medical care in antiquity – even Christian antiquity – was a broad plane characterized by a constant interaction of a variety of ideologies and methods. The incubation healing stories of saints Cyrus and John, Cosmas and Damian, and Artemios lead us to a few brief glimpses within that larger landscape, much of which still awaits further exploration.

Rome, where Cyrus is flanked by Cosmas, Stephanus, Procopius, and Damian. The seventh-century decoration of this church benefited from the special patronage of Pope Martin I (649–655), a western champion in the anti-Monothelite campaign, and a protector of Sophronius’s one-time disciple, Maximus the Confessor. For the fresco image, see Heinz Skrobucha, The Patrons of the Doctors, Pictorial Library of Eastern Church Art 7 (Recklinghausen: Aurel Bongers, 1965), 20. For information on the church of S. Maria Antiqua I have depended on John Beckwith, Early Christian and Byzantine Art, The Pelikan History of Art (London and New York: Penguin Books, 1970), 151–156. 88 E.g., Leyerle, “Children and Disease in a Sixth-Century Monastery.”

Approaches to the Study of Sick Children and Their Healing: Christian Apocryphal Acts, Gospels, and Cognate Literatures* Cornelia B. Horn Introductory Comments and Plan of Work Healing the sick and restoring the bodies of those who were broken or dead are features that are central to the depiction of the ministry of Jesus as told of in the canonical Christian Bible.1 Christian apocryphal texts from the * This article is dedicated to Thomas Dennis Higbie, whose questions and insights continue to teach and challenge me. 1 Amanda Porterfield, Healing in the History of Christianity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), ch. 1 (“Jesus: Exorcist and Healer”); Jürgen Helm, “Sickness in Early Christian Healing Narratives – Medical, Religious and Social Aspects,” in From Athens to Jerusalem. Medicine in Hellenized Jewish Lore and in Early Christian Literature. Papers of the Symposium in Jerusalem, 9–11 September 1996, ed. Samuel Kottek, Manfred Horstmanshoff, Gerhard Baader, and Gary Ferngren, Pantaleon Reeks 33 (Rotterdam: Erasmus Publishing, 2000), 241–258; Bernd Kollmann, Jesus und die Christen als Wundertäter: Studien zu Magie, Medizin und Schamanismus in Antike und Christentum, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 170 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996); Jürgen Becker, Jesus of Nazareth, tr. James E. Crouch (German ed.: Berlin, 1996; English tr.: New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1998); Graham H. Twelftree, Jesus the Exorcist: A Contribution to the Study of the Historical Jesus, WUNT 54, second series (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1993); Gary B. Ferngren, “Early Christianity as a Religion of Healing,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 66 (1992), 1–15, here 2–3; Alfred Suhl, Die Wunder Jesu. Ereignis und Überlieferung (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, [1968]), 7–54, reprinted in Der Wunderbegriff im Neuen Testament, ed. Alfred Suhl, Wege der Forschung 295 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980), 464–509; and Rudolf and Martin Hengel, “Die Heilungen Jesu und medizinisches Denken,” in Medicus Viator. Fragen und Gedanken am Wege Richard Siebecks. Eine Festgabe seiner Freunde und Schüler zum 75. Geburtstag, ed. P. Christian and D. Rössler (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], and Stuttgart: Georg Thieme, 1959), 331–361, reprinted in Der Wunderbegriff im Neuen Testament, ed. Alfred Suhl, Wege der Forschung 295 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980), 338–373. For the wider discussion of diseases and healing in the world of the New Testament, see for example D. W. Amundsen and G. B. Ferngren, “The Perception of Disease and Disease Causality in the New Testament,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II.37.3, ed. W. Haase (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), 2934–2956; and Larry P. Hogan, Healing in the Second Tempel [sic] Period, Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus 21 (Fribourg [Switzerland]: University Press; and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992). When Christian au-

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post-biblical period, especially various acts of apostles and infancy gospels, for example the apocryphal Acts of John, the Acts of Andrew, the Syriac Acts of Mār Māri, or the Arabic Infancy Gospel, contain sizeable accounts of the healing of the sick. In both canonical and apocryphal writings, one notable group of people who appear among the immediate beneficiaries of acts of healing from sickness or of the restoration of the body from disability is that of children. Ancient medical writers readily recognized that the relationship between a disease and the human person affected by it was determined by a range of factors. For example, Hippocrates knew how to classify certain diseases with regard to the patient’s age and gender, and observed: In the different ages the following complaints occur: to little children and babies (toi'si me;n smikroi'si kai; neognoi'si paidivoisin), aphthae [oral ulcers, thrush], vomiting, coughs, sleeplessness, terrors, inflammation of the navel, watery discharges from the ears. At the approach of dentition, irritation of the gums, fevers, convulsions, diarrhœa, especially when cutting the canine teeth, and in the case of very fat children (toi'si pacutavtoisi tw'n paivdwn), and if the bowls are hard. Among those who are older occur affections of the tonsils, curvature at the vertebra by the neck, asthma, stone, round worms, ascariasis [hosting of the parasitic roundworm Ascaris lumbricoides], warts, swellings by the ears, scrofula and tumours generally. Older children and those approaching puberty suffer from most of the preceding maladies, from fevers of the more protracted type and from bleeding at the nose. Most diseases of children (ta; de; plei'sta toi'si paidivoisin pavqea) reach a crisis in forty days, in seven months, in seven years, at the approach of puberty. But such as persist among boys without ceasing at puberty, or, in the case of girls, at the commencement of menstruation, are wont to become chronic.2

thors of the post-New Testament period developed language that spoke of Christ as physician, they relied not so much on New Testament imagery but rather on Greek philosophy. See Gary B. Ferngren, “Krankheit,” in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 21 (2006), 966–1006, here 997–998. For onsiderations of depictions of Jesus as physician and healer in early Christian apocryphal and patristic authors, see also Michael Dörnemann, Krankheit und Heilung in der Theologie der frühen Kirchenväter, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 20 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). 2 Hippocrates, Aphorisms 3.24–28 (ed. and tr. W. H. S. Jones, Hippocrates, 8 vols., LCL [London: Heinemann; and New York: Putnam, 1923–], vol. 4, 98–221, here 130– 133; also cited in Jacques Jouanna, Hippocrates, tr. M. B. DeBevoise, Medicine & Culture [Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999], 148; and ed. and tr. G. E. R. Lloyd, J. Chadwick, W. N. Mann, I. M. Lonie, and E. T. Withington, Hippocratic Writings, The Pelican Classics [Harmondsworth, England, and New York, NY: Pelican Books, 1978], 215–216). On the relevance of Hippocratic medicine in early Christianity, see the substantial discussion in Owsei Temkin, Hippocrates in a World of Pagans and Christians (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991). On diseases affecting children in particular see also Janine Bertier, “La médecine des enfants à l’époque impériale,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, ed.

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Certainly, many of the conditions ascribed to children in this passage also describe sicknesses that could befall adults. Yet there is no doubt that writers in the ancient world singled out the child and its diseases explicitly when considering health and sickness. Studies of issues related to childhood in the ancient world, including early Christianity, have gained significant momentum in recent years, and some attention has turned to the exploration of the child in apocryphal literature as well.3 Yet the sick or disabled child, the child receiving healing, or the function of the child in contexts of healing has not often been the focus of such scientific investigations. For notable exceptions one may refer to Christine Hummel’s study of the child and its diseases in Greek medicine from the beginnings of Christianity to the end of the Byzantine period or to about a handful of articles by Ann(i)e Allély, Janine Bertier,

Wolfgang Haase and Hildegard Temporini, Teil II, Bd. 37.3 (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), 2147–2227, here 2185–2191; and Valérie Bonet, “Les maladies des enfants et leur traitement d’après le témoignage de Pline l’Ancien,” in Maladie et maladies dans les textes latins antiques et médiévaux. Actes du Ve Colloque International «Textes médicaux latins» (Bruxelles, 4–6 septembre 1995), ed. Carl Deroux, Collection Latomus 242 (Bruxelles: Latomus. Revue d’Études Latines, 1998), 184–198. See also the comments in Andreas Kunz-Lübcke, Das Kind in den antiken Kulturen des Mittelmeers. Israel-Ägypten-Griechenland (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2007), 112–113. 3 See for example Cornelia B. Horn, “The Depiction of Children and Young People as Literary Device in Canonical and Apocryphal Acts,” in Bringing the Underground to the Foreground: New Perspectives on Jewish and Christian Apocryphal Texts and Traditions (Proceedings of the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Section of the Society for Biblical Literature International Meeting Held in Groningen, The Netherlands, July 25–28, 2004), ed. Pierluigi Piovanelli, forthcoming; Mary F. Foskett, “The Child Mary in the Protevangelium of James,” paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (Boston, November 2008); Reidar Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2009); Reidar Aasgaard, “Hearing with Children: The Infancy Gospel of Thomas as Evidence of Children’s Culture in Late Antique Rural Christianty,” paper presented at the meeting of AELAC (Association pour l’étude de la littérature apocryphe chrétienne), (Dole, France, June 2008); Cornelia Horn, “Children at the Intersection of Classical and Early Christian Popular Literature,” invited paper for panel on children in the ancient world, organized by Early Christian Families Group, Annual Meeting of the American Academy of Religion / Society of Biblical Literature, San Diego, California (November 2007); Cornelia B. Horn, “Suffering Children, Parental Authority and the Quest for Liberation?: A Tale of Three Girls in the Acts of Paul (and Thecla), the Act(s) of Peter, the Acts of Nerseus and Achilleus, and the Epistle of Pseudo-Titus,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 11 (New York and London: Continuum and T&T Clark International, 2006), 118–145; and Eric Junod and Jean-Daniel Kaestli, “Un fragment grec inédit des Actes de Jean: la guérison des fils d’Antipatros à Smyrne,” Museum Helveticum 3 (1974), 96–104.

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Keith Bradley, Danielle Gourevitch, and Blake Leyerle.4 Hummel’s study is particularly relevant. From the perspective of medical history she was able to show that the ancients did not regard the child as a miniature adult but that its unique and specific status with regard to physical and psychological characteristics was well recognized.5 As several of the contributions to the present volume illustrate as well, the scientific study of children and healing in ancient Christianity is a field of active and growing research. The present article offers some initial perspectives on cases of sick or disabled children, their treatment, and the purposes behind the accounts of their healing or physical restoration in the New Testament and the wider world of early Christianity.6 It approaches the topic from comparative, ana4 See Christine Hummel, Das Kind und seine Krankheiten in der griechischen Medizin: Von Aretaios bis Johannes Aktuarios (1. bis 14. Jahrhundert), Medizingeschichte im Kontext 1 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1999) (reviewed by Deborah Goldstein in Bulletin of the History of Medicine 74 [2000], 813–815); Bertier, “La médecine des enfants à l’époque impériale”; Danielle Gourevitch, “Au temps des lois Julia et Papia Poppaea, la naissance d’un enfant handicapé est-elle une affaire publique ou privée?” Ktèma: Civilisations de l’Orient, de la Grèce et de Rome antiques 23 (Strasbourg: Université des sciences humaines de Strasbourg, Centre de recherches sur le Proche-Orient et la Grèce antiques – Groupe de recherche d’histoire romaine, 1998), 459–473; Janine Bertier, “Enfants malades et maladies des enfants dans le Corpus Hippocratique,” in Actes du VIe Colloque international Hippocratique (Québec, du 29 septembre au 3 octobre 1987), ed. Paul Potter, Gilles Maloney, and Jacques Desautels (Québec: Les Éditions du Sphinx, 1990), 209–220; Janine Bertier, “Reflets et inflexions théoriques de la médecine des enfants dans l’Oribase latin. Du syncrétisme tardif aux Écoles du 1º–3º siècle,” in Les écoles médicales à Rome. Actes du 2ème Colloque International sur les Textes Medicaux Latins Antiques, Lausanne, septembre 1986, ed. Philippe Mudry and Jackie Pigeaud, Littérature, médecine, société. Publications de la Faculté des lettres (Université de Lausanne) 33 (Genève: Droz, 1991), 269–283; Keith Bradley, “The Roman Child in Sickness and in Health,” in The Roman Family in the Empire. Rome, Italy, and Beyond, ed. Michele George (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 67–92; Blake Leyerle, “Children and Disease in a Sixth-Century Monastery,” in What Athens Has to Do with Jerusalem. Essays on Classical, Jewish, and Early Christian Art and Archaeology in Honor of Gideon Foerster, ed. Leonard V. Rutgers, Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion 1 (Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 349–372; Blake Leyerle, “Appealing to Children,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 5.2 (1997), 243–270, here 249–250; Anne Allély, “Les enfants malformés et considérés comme prodigia à Rome et en Italie sous la République,” Revue des études anciennes 105 (2003), 127–156; and Annie [sic] Allély, “Les enfants malformés et handicapés à Rome sous le Principat,” Revue des études anciennes 106 (2004), 73–101. 5 Hummel, Das Kind und seine Krankheiten, 300. 6 I have presented some of the material that found its way into this article earlier on in the form of a paper entitled “Diagnosing, Treating, and Healing the Sick and Disabled Child in Early Christian Texts: Who, How, Why, and For Whose Sake?” and delivered at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Boston, Mass., November 2008. For specific considerations of the treatment of sick children in the ancient world, see also Bertier, “La médecine des enfants à l’époque impériale,” 2198–2211.

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lytical, and synthetic perspectives, and relies in part on insights derived from the field of medical anthropology. Set against the background of ancient medical theories and practices of dealing with and caring for children who were affected by diseases, especially epilepsy and leprosy, and who suffered illnesses, including those that were understood to be caused by the possession by impure spirits and demons, this article contributes to examining the role which the sick or disabled child and its treatment played in the construction of the early Christian worldview. On the basis of a preliminary collection of data on cases of children’s sickness and disability gleaned primarily from the ancient novel, the New Testament, non-literary Christian papyri, early Christian apocrypha, hagiographical works, and selected patristic writings, this article addresses a set of questions dealing with the availability of appropriate medical knowledge, ancient pediatric skills, concerns of patient care including the role of gender, the role and identity of the healer, and the effect of the diagnosis, treatment, or even healing of the medical condition on the child and the family context to which the child belonged. Medical Anthropology In contrast to biomedical approaches to sickness and disease, which characterize much of Western medicine in the modern era, medical anthropology, a branch of cultural anthropology, offers a cross-cultural perspective on medical systems outside the Western world.7 Santiago Guijarro has described three central traits of the medical systems of such non-Western societies and has observed that within those systems (1) explanations for the symptoms of illness are based on “the belief that there exists an interdependence between the natural, the supernatural, the society, and the person”; (2) the person functioning as healer is well-integrated into and receptive to the system of values and social norms of the patient and is able to identify precisely “the patient’s social roles within the community”; and that (3) “participation in the healing process by other significant persons, mainly members of the extended family, relatives and neighbors, is decisive in the overall process.”8 The approach of medical anthropology therefore, as far as it can support the present research goals, seeks a more comprehensive understanding of what causes contribute to, are operative in, and determine people’s perceptions of distortions of their well-being, that is their illness, and how dyadic interactions between the sick person and 7 P. Worsley, “Non-Western Medical Systems,” Annual Review of Anthropology 11 (1982), 315–348; and Allan Young, “The Anthropology of Illness and Sickness,” Annual Review of Anthropology 11 (1982), 257–283. 8 Santiago Guijarro, “Healing Stories and Medical Anthropology: A Reading of Mark 10:46–52,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 30.3 (2000), 102–112, here 103.

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the healer cannot be viewed appropriately without considering the role of wider social networks that comprise the forces working together to bring about healing. Here, healing is understood as a culturally determined process that restores meaning to a person’s life and experience and reintegrates the person into the social and cultural network, from which illness has separated him or cut her off, in part in the form of disease, but also in the form of other factors that alienated the sick from fully accepted life in the family and society at large.9 This is in contrast to a definition of healing that is more widespread in the Western world and that sees healing as a means of restoring the individual to a state that enables her or him again to function properly and fulfill his or her tasks in the world. In the field of New Testament studies more narrowly, the past two decades of research have seen several attempts to bring to bear insights gained from the social-sciences, and here particularly medical anthropology, on the exegesis and interpretation of healing work narrated in the canonical texts. In addition to Guijarro, one could refer to the studies conducted by Peder Borgen, John J. Pilch, and Hector Avalos.10 The approach of these studies recommends itself for application also to texts that form the background and context of the biblical material, particularly ancient popular writings from non-Christian and Christian authors, such as ancient novels and early Christian apocryphal works. 9

See for example the discussions in John Pilch, “BTB Readers Guide: Understanding Healing in the Social World of Early Christianity,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 22 (1992), 26–33; John Pilch, “Insights and Models from Medical Anthropology for Understanding the Healing Activity of the Historical Jesus,” Hervormde Teologiese Studies 51 (1995), 314–337; John Pilch, “Understanding Biblical Healing: Selecting the Appropriate Model,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 18 (1988), 60–66; and John Pilch, “Biblical Leprosy and Body Symbolism,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 11 (1981), 119–133. The content of these articles is also available in John J. Pilch, Healing in the New Testament. Insights from Medical and Mediterranean Anthropology (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000), chs. 1–3. 10 See Peder Borgen, “Miracles of Healing in the New Testament. Some Observations,” Studia Theologica. Nordic Journal of Theology 35 (1981), 91–106; Hector Avalos, Health Care and the Rise of Christianity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999); and Guijarro, “Healing Stories and Medical Anthropology.” See also John Pilch, “Healing in Mark: A Social Science Analysis,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 15 (1985), 142–150; John Pilch, “The Health Care System in Matthew: A Social Science Analysis,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 16 (1986), 102–106; John Pilch, “Reading Matthew Anthropologically: Healing in Cultural Perspective,” Listening; Journal of Religion and Culture 24 (1989), 278–289; and John Pilch, “Sickness and Healing in Luke-Acts,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1991), 181–209. All of the preceding articles by Pilch are revised and reprinted in Pilch, Healing in the New Testament. Insights from medical anthropology also have been applied to texts from ancient Israel in Hector Avalos, Illness and Health Care in the Ancient Near East. The Role of the Temple in Greece, Mesopotamia, and Israel, Harvard Semitic Museum Monographs 54 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1995).

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Selected Perspectives from the New Testament In the New Testament one may find relatively ample evidence for the healing of sick children or the restoration to life of children who died from a disease or illness. With some regularity parents who were throwing themselves upon their trust in Jesus’ healing power are shown to have called upon Jesus to heal their sick children.11 In several cases, demonic possession may be seen as accompanying the illness or as being its root cause.12 One notes that the casting out of demons is a feature of the New Testament Synoptic gospels, as there are no exorcisms in New Testament John.13 While the latter does feature several instances of healing, John’s narrative has incorporated an earlier collection of miracle narratives from the socalled “Signs Gospel.”14 The literary construction of Jesus’ casting out de11 For some discussion of cases of parents bringing their sick children to Jesus, see Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America, 2009), 92–93; see also Bradley, “The Roman Child,” 81. 12 See for example Gary B. Ferngren, “Early Christian views of the demonic etiology of disease,” in From Athens to Jerusalem. Medicine in Hellenized Jewish Lore and in Early Christian Literature. Papers of the Symposium in Jerusalem, 9–11 September 1996, ed. Samuel Kottek, Manfred Horstmanshoff, Gerhard Baader, and Gary Ferngren, Pantaleon Reeks 33 (Rotterdam: Erasmus Publishing, 2000), 183–201; and John Christopher, The Devil, Disease and Deliverance: Origins of Illness in New Testament Thought, Journal of Pentecostal Theology. Supplement Series 13 (Sheffield, England: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998). 13 See for example the discussion in Ronald A. Pieper, “Satan, Demons and the Absence of Exorcisms in the Fourth Gospel,” in Christology, Controversy, and Community: New Testament Essays in Honour of David R. Catchpole, ed. David G. Horrell and Christopher M. Tuckett, Supplements to Novum Testamentum 99 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2000), 253–278. 14 The initial claim for such a “Signs Gospel” was presented in 1941 in Rudolf Bultmann, Das Evangelium des Johannes, Kritisch-exegetischer Kommentar über das Neue Testament (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 15th edition, 1957, photographic reproduction of the tenth edition from 1941). For a reconstruction of the “Signs Gospel,” see Robert J. Miller, ed., The Complete Gospels: Annotated Scholars Version (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, 1994), 175–193. For discussions of the relationship between the “Signs Gospel” and the canonical Gospel of John, see for example Robert T. Fortna, “The Gospel of John and the Signs Gospel,” in What We Have Heard from the Beginning: the Past, Present, and Future of Johannine Studies, ed. Tom Thatcher (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007), 149–158; Tom Thatcher, “The Signs Gospel in Context,” in Jesus in Johannine Tradition, ed. Robert T. Fortna and Tom Thatcher (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 191–197; Robert T. Fortna, “Jesus Tradition in the Signs Gospel,” in Jesus in Johannine Tradition, 199–208; and Sara C. Winter, “Little Flags: The Scope and Reconstruction of the Signs Gospel,” in Jesus in Johannine Tradition, 219–235; Gilbert van Belle, The Signs Source in the Fourth Gospel: Historical Survey and Critical Evaluation of the Semeia Hypothesis, Bibliotheca Ephemeridum theologicarum Lovaniensium 116 (Leuven: Leuven University Press and Uitgeverij Peeters,

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mons as a cure of physical symptoms is a feature particular to Mark’s eschatology, which was adopted and modified by Matthew and Luke.15 Ironically, the observation of a preponderance of medical terminology in Luke and Acts in comparison with the other Synoptics does not correlate with a heightened awareness of pathology and diagnosis as understood in GrecoRoman medicine.16 Narratives of children’s healings are found in the synoptic gospels in the stories of the Syro-Phoenician woman who asked for cleansing of her daughter from an unclean spirit (Mark 7:24–30 and Matt 15:21–28), of the father who brought his epileptic son to Jesus for healing (Mark 9:14–29; Matt 17:14–20; and Luke 9:37–42), of the synagogue leader Jairus whose daughter Jesus raised from the dead (Mark 5:21–24, 35–43; Matt 9:18–19, 23–26; and Luke 8:40–42, 49–56), as well as of the widow of Nain’s son whom Jesus likewise raised again to life (Luke 7:11–17).17 One may also accept Jürgen Sauer’s argument that Mark 10:13–16, a pericope often referred to as evangelium infantiae, has its original Sitz im Leben as a statement in support of the legitimacy of healing children.18 In addition to the synoptic material, John 4:46–54 preserves the story of the little sick boy in Capernaum whose father, a royal official, traveled to Cana to seek help from Jesus.19 1994); Urban C. von Wahlde, The Earliest Version of John’s Gospel: Recovering the Gospel of Signs (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1989); and Robert Tomson Fortna, The Gospel of Signs: A Reconstruction of the Narrative Source Underlying the Fourth Gospel, Monograph Series. Society for New Testament Studies 11 (London: Cambridge University Press, 1970). 15 For a brief characterization of Mark’s eschatological themes see the discussion offered in John R. Donahue and Daniel J. Harrington, The Gospel of Mark, Sacra Pagina 2 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2002), 37–38. For the centrality of healing and exorcism in Mark, see also Peter G. Bolt, Jesus’ Defeat of Death: Persuading Mark’s Early Readers, Monograph Series (Society for New Testament Studies) 125 (Cambridge, UK, and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 16 Annette Weissenrieder, Images of Illness in the Gospel of Luke: Insights of Ancient Medical Texts, WUNT 164, second series (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003); and William Kirk Hobart, The Medical Language of St. Luke (Dublin: Hodges, Figgin, and Co., 1882; reprinted: Grand Rapids: Baker, 1954). 17 For a focused consideration of aspects of these scenes of healing of children as presented in the Matthean passages, see Bettina Eltrop, Denn solchen gehört das Himmelreich. Kinder im Matthäusevangelium. Eine feministisch-sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Stuttgart: Ulrich E. Grauer, 1996), 103–110, 112–113, and 71–75. 18 Jürgen Sauer, “Der ursprüngliche ‘Sitz im Leben’ von Mk 10:13–16,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche 72.1–2 (1981), 27–50, here 45–49. 19 In studies of this passage the boy usually does not come into focus. See for example Nicole Chibici-Revneanu, “Königlicher Glaube: der basilikos in Joh 4,46–54 als Paradigma eines nachösterlichen Jüngers,” Biblische Notizen 136 (2008), 85–104; Kerry H.

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In all of these cases, the healing is initiated from within the popular sector of the health care system, primarily through the agency of a parent or guardian, that is, by people whose relationship to the sick child is one of being a family or household member and who stand in a physical or derivative kinship relationship to the patient. The sick children are not in a position to approach Jesus on their own either because they are possessed by a spirit or demon and so are not in ready control of their actions, or because sickness has brought them to the brink of death or they have died already. The texts do not offer sufficient evidence that would allow one to conclude that the children’s age as such would have been perceived as a factor that prohibited them from coming to Jesus for help. The members of the respective child’s social network, realizing that their own popular sector of the health care system was insufficiently equipped to deal with the child’s illness, turned to a healer who had more of the qualities of a practioner of folk medicine than a formally trained physician, but who also carried some traits of healers from the medical profession. Ultimately, Jesus’ healing activities are shown to have surpassed both types of healers as far as his effectiveness in achieving healing results was concerned.20 The choices made by the children’s caretakers who were not professionals could have been grounded in a variety of factors, including but not limited to greater availability of and access to the folk healer than the medical professional for those of average or below-average economic means or the relative ideological proximity of the popular sector to that of folk medicine, given that both shared common explanatory models regarding the sources, causes, and possible methods of the treatment of sickness, for instance the effectiveness of demonic and other supernatural forces in causing illness.21 The list of illnesses that emerges from the New Testament as those with which children struggled is rather limited. It extends only to cases of posWynn, “Johannine healings and the otherness of disability,” Perspectives in Religious Studies 34.1 (2007), 61–75, here 72–74; and John M. Howard, “The significance of minor characters in the Gospel of John,” Bibliotheca sacra 163 (2006), 63–78, here 64 and 69–70. 20 For a collection of voices from ancient classical literature that criticize physicians for the ineffectiveness of their work, see Darrel W. Amundsen, “Romanticizing the Ancient Medical Profession: The Characterization of the Physician in the Graeco-Roman Novel,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 48.3 (1974), 320–337, here 320. For the mixed perspectives offered in the New Testament, see also Michael Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit. Epilepsie in antiker Medizin, Astrologie und Religion, Marburger Theologische Studien 57 (Marburg: N. G. Elwert Verlag, 1999), 78–80. On the roles and perceptions of doctors in the ancient Roman world see also Ralph Jackson, Doctors and Diseases in the Roman Empire (Norman and London: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988), 56–85. 21 See also Pilch, “Sickness and Healing in Luke-Acts,” 198–200; and Guijarro, “Healing Stories and Medical Anthropology,” 105.

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session by impure spirits or demons in a girl or a boy, in the case of the latter manifesting itself also in the inability to hear or speak as well as in seizures and convulsions likely in the form of epilepsy,22 to a not further identified case of sickness that was about to lead to death, and to the case of a child’s untimely death, independent of any identification of a sickness as its cause.23 The treatment, which children were shown to have been able to receive at Jesus’ hands, rivals that available even from exceptionally gifted physicians. The case of Jairus’s daughter illustrates this. When confronted with her situation, Jesus’ diagnosis recognized that although the little girl was thought to have died already, she was still alive. Here a story preserved in the ancient novel Apollonius, Prince of Tyre offers an instructive parallel that features the skills of the exceptionally talented and skilled healer. Apollonius, Prince of Tyre contains the account of how a student in medical training anointed the seemingly dead body of the young wife of 22

For literature on epilepsy in the ancient world see below, fnn. 27 and 29. For modern discussions of the fates of families and children affected by epilepsy, see the helpful discussion in Richard Lechtenberg, Epilepsy and the Family (Cambridge, MA, and London, England: Harvard University Press, 1984), 91–125. 23 One of the few texts of early Christian writers of the post-New Testament period that focus explicitly on children is a treatise by Gregory of Nyssa in which he discusses people’s concern with the fate of children who died prematurely. See Gregory of Nyssa, “On Infants’ Early Death” (ed. Hadwig Hörner, “De infantibus praemature abreptis,” in Gregorii Nysseni Opera Dogmatica Minora. Pars 2, ed. J. Kenneth Downing, Jacobus A. McDonough, and Hadwig Hörner, Gregorii Nysseni Opera 3.2 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1987], lxxxv–cxlvi and 65–97; tr. William Moore and Henry Austin Wilson, “On Infants' Early Deaths,” in Select Writings and Letters of Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa, tr. William Moore and Henry Austin Wilson, NPNF 2nd ser. Vol. 5 [reprinted: Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 372–381). For detailed discussions of this treatise see the contributions in J. C. M. van Winden and A. van Heck, eds., “Colloquii Gregoriani III Leidensis. 18/23–IX–1974. Acta” (Leiden, 1976), typescript. For an approach to premature death in the ancient Roman world from an archaeological perspective see Stefanie Martin-Kilcher, “Mors immatura in the Roman world – a mirror of society and tradition,” in Burial, Society and Context in the Roman World, ed. John Pearce, Martin Millett, and Manuela Struck (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2000), 63–77. For evidence of children’s diseases in the archaeological record, see also Charlotte Roberts and Keith Manchester, The Archaeology of Disease (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, third edition, 2005); and M. E. Lewis, “Infant and childhood leprosy: past and present,” in The Past and Present of Leprosy: Archaeological, Historical, Palaeopathological and Clinical Approaches, ed. C. A. Roberts, M. E. Lewis, and K. Manchester, British Archaeological Reports International Series 1054 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2002), 163–170. Archaeological evidence for children’s sickness often is coupled with aspects of violence committed against children. See for example Roberts and Manchester, The Archaeology of Disease, 118–119; and Guillaume Blondiaux, Joël Blondiaux, Frédéric Secousse, Anne Cotton, Pierre-Marie Danze, and René-Marc Flipo, “Rickets and Child Abuse: the Case of a Two Year Old Girl from the 4th Century in Lisieux (Normandy),” International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 12 (2002), 209–215.

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Apollonius, who was still identified as “girl” (puella) in the text, in preparation for burial.24 The bright and ambitious young student was convinced he could still detect signs of life in the corpse and through trained touches and exercises that he applied to the corpse reactivated life within it. His teacher praised him for his skill, practical knowledge, and diligence.25 When Mark 5:41, Matt 9:25, and Luke 8:54 portray Jesus as taking Jairus’s little daughter by the hand, the knowledge Jesus previously displayed of her not being dead but asleep could combine with physical contact with the girl’s body that could bring the fullness of life back into her. Thus to the audiences of the gospels, Jesus as healer emerged from this scene as someone who was at least on a par with exceptionally gifted practitioners of the medical profession at the same time that he possessed the insights of a wise folk healer, who was able to handle cases of demon possession appropriately, as featured in other scenes.26 In more than half of the New Testament cases, which feature the healing of children, an explicit connection is established between demon possession and the child’s sickness. In these cases the possession functioned as sufficient explanation of the cause of the sickness. The case of Jesus’ healing of the epileptic boy holds prominence here.27 Ancient medical literature saw epilepsy as a disease prominently and frequently affecting children. The relatively large number of cases of epilepsy and epilepsy-related seizures and convulsions among children featured in the New Testament and in apocryphal literature may not only be due to the opportunity this socalled “holy sickness” offered to demonstrate the healer’s powers over the supernatural, demonic forces that were thought to be the causes of the disease, but also may have a basis as a comment on what typically affected 24 Apollonius, Prince of Tyre 26 (ed. Alexander Riese, Historia Apollonii regis Tyri [Leipzig: Teubner, second ed., 1893], 48–51; tr. Gerald N. Sandy, “Anonymous. The Story of Apollonius King of Tyre,” in Collected Ancient Greek Novels, ed. B. P. Reardon [Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1989], 736–772, here 753–754). 25 Apollonius, Prince of Tyre 27 (ed. Riese, Historia Apollonii regis Tyri, 51–53; tr. Sandy, “Anonymous. The Story of Apollonius,” 754). See also Amundsen, “Romanticizing the Ancient Medical Profession,” 327. For further studies of aspects of medicine in ancient novels that do not feature physicians who speak, see E. T. Sage, “Medicine in the romance of Petronius,” Annals of Medical History 7 (1935), 192–196; and A. M. G. McLeod, “Physiology and medicine in a Greek novel: Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 89 (1969), 97–105. 26 Guijarro, “Healing Stories and Medical Anthropology,” 104–105, assigns Jesus’ role as healer more prominently to the realm of folk medicine. 27 For a study of this particular case of epilepsy, see Andreas Lindemann, “Jesus und das epileptische Kind. Die Wundererzählung Markus 9, 14–29,” in Medizinisches und Theologisches zur Epilepsie. Neue Forschungsergebnisse aus dem Epilepsiezentrum, ed. Margarete Wohlhüter, Bethel-Beiträge 38 (Bielefeld: Bethel-Verlag, 1988), 130–139.

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children.28 The manifestations of epilepsy in the ancient world have been carefully studied in numerous articles and monographs.29 Sufficient groundwork was laid previously that allowed scholars also to examine the specific case of Jesus’ healing of the epileptic boy in the light of ancient medical knowledge and with a view towards its character as a story of sickness caused by a demon which Jesus expelled. Michael Wohlers’ monograph-length study of epilepsy in ancient medicine, astrology, and religion observed that the view of epilepsy as a disease caused by demonic possession is a construction that cannot be documented in Greek or Roman sources prior to the first century CE.30 Wohlers is evidently unaware of the enormous material in Akkadian and Sumerian on demons and illness. As William Lambert phrased it, “There exists a considerable primary literature on demons and on medicine, including Akkadian commentaries on these texts, many of which date to the Seleucid period (ca. 312–132 BCE) but are as late as the third century CE, from southern Iraq.” This material, which has been extensively studied in secondary sources for over one hundred years, has hardly if ever been consulted in understanding epilepsy or other diseases in the Mediterranean world. The present communication will not break with this tradition, but future studies could benefit from Assyriologists’ study of this area. The first non-Christian witness to epilepsy that Wohlers admits is found in the treatise Peri; aijtw'n kai; shmeivwn cronivwn paqw'n, written in the middle of the first century CE by the physician Aretaios of Cappadocia, who commented that in cases of epilepsy one assumed “that a demon has entered the human being.”31 Aretaios may, but admittedly does not have to have had contacts with oral synoptic traditions that spread in Asia Minor at the time.32 Greco-Roman religion already possessed the notion that sicknesses could be the result of the activities of deities. Within Hellenistic Judaism and then very prominently in early Christianity such deities were de28

Hummel, Das Kind und seine Krankheiten, 78. On epilepsy in the ancient world, see especially Owsei Temkin, The Falling Sickness. A History of Epilepsy from the Greeks to the Beginnings of Modern Neurology (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins Press, second revised ed., 1971), with comments on pp. 29, 31, and 116 on epilepsy as “children’s disease.” On epilepsy, see also Mervyn J. Eadie and Peter F. Bladin, A Disease Once Sacred. A History of the Medical Understanding of Epilepsy (Eastleigh, England: John Libbey & Company Ltd., 2001); and Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit. 30 Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit, 129. 31 Aretaios of Cappadocia, Peri; aijtw'n kai; shmeivwn cronivwn paqw'n I 4,2 (ed. Karl Hude and J. Zwicker, Aretaeus, Corpus Medicorum Graecorum II [Berlin: In aedibus Academiae scientiarum, second ed., 1958], 38,30): daivmono" dovxh" ej" to;n a[nqpwpon eijsovdou. 32 Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit, 129–130, forcefully promotes Aretaios’ dependency on Christian traditions. 29

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graded to numinous, evil intermediary beings, the demons,33 who in that new form could continue to be regarded as the bringer of diseases, including epilepsy. The specifically Christian contribution to the interpretation of epilepsy as caused by demons thus may have been grounded in Jewish transformations of Greco-Roman ideas concerning the divine realm and its effectiveness.34 Against this background, the portrayal of the inefficiency of the disciples upon whom the epileptic boy’s father first had attempted to prevail to heal his son by expelling the demons and Jesus’ comments that only through prayer would they be able to cast out such a demon, whereas he himself had just cast out the demon through a word of exorcism, gain in interpretive dimension. Jesus, who was efficient through his word displayed his divine power which was at least on a par and ultimately superior to the power of demons, representing ancient deities. His disciples or others attempting to heal in such cases by expelling demons would only be successful if they had faith in him and his superior powers. Even if through their prayers the disciples had cast out the demon, their prayer would have worked only as an expression of their faith in Jesus. In both the story of the cleansing of the Syro-Phoenician woman’s daughter from the impure spirit and in the case of the healing of the epileptic boy possessed by a demon the child’s healing depended on the display of the caregiver’s persistent faith and trust in Jesus. Children’s transition from sickness to healing, and thus their ultimate well-being, as illustrated by these cases, had to rely on their parent’s literal and spiritual turning to Jesus, accompanied by manifest expressions of such faith. Children depended on their immediate social network of family relationships, not only for access to a healer, but also for the effectiveness of that healer’s work that in the case of Jesus’ healing activity required faith. Ancient Christian perceptions of children and the practices that were employed in dealing with sicknesses that affected them are featured relatively frequently, but certainly not exclusively, in what one might classify as texts that had a more popular appeal, for instance apocryphal and hagiographical writings. In order to situate Christian views of the sick child and its treatment in those texts more appropriately, it is helpful to compare views of the child’s sickness in apocrypha and hagiography with the evidence of non-Christian popular literature, i.e., the ancient novels and biographies, and Christian day-to-day communications as revealed for example in ancient Christian papyri. The following discussion is only able to offer selected insights into and a preliminary, comparative approach to this material. 33

Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit, 130, fn. 238, cites Ps 96:5 [Ps 95:5 LXX]: o{ti pavnte" oiJ qeoi; tw'n ejqnw'n daimoniva. 34 Wohlers, Heilige Krankheit, 130.

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Manifestations of Sickness and the Child in Papyri and Ancient Popular Literature Information concerning children’s sickness and healing in the early centuries of Christian history is accessible in private letters preserved on papyri. Private ancient correspondences reveal that quite frequently adults included in their writings greetings addressed to children or sent such greetings to relatives, other household members, or people in charge of taking care of their children.35 One subset of concern for children’s well-being that is expressed on such papyri findings deals with children’s health or sickness. The Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence preserves a second- or third-century CE papyrus originating from Oxyrhynchus (PSI 3.177) with the text of a letter written in Greek that has a certain Isidora, mother of a sick child, urge her “lord brother” Hermias, likely her husband, to come to her because their child was sick. The illness in question here seems to have caused the child not to eat any food for six days. As the child’s body was waning away, the threat of his or her death was increasing constantly. The mother on her part warned Hermias that she might be committing suicide by hanging herself if the child died during Hermias’s absence. With these comments Isidora seems to have tried to make Hermias understand that she needed his support during such a trying time. The child that was in view in this letter, if with Bagnall and Cribiore one accepts the emendation Π[ΑΙ]ΔΙΟΝ, “little child,” instead of Χ[ΟΙΡΙ]ΔΙΟΝ, “piglet,”36 appears to have been of relatively young age, although no precise age is specified. Neither the cause for, nor the type of the sickness affecting the child are provided in the letter. Nevertheless the reader learns that the sickness led to the child’s refusal or incapability to eat, and conditioned by this, to a critical weight loss. For Bagnall and Cribiore this papyrus letter serves as evidence that also in the ancient world children’s death could lead to strong emotional reactions on their parents’ part. This assessment is in contrast to other assumptions voiced in older scholarship of “a lack of ‘emotional investment’ in young children.”37 A first- or second-century CE papyrus, found at Philadelphia (‘Ammān, Jordan) and now preserved at Columbia University (P. Col. 8.215), con35 Roger S. Bagnall and Raffaela Cribiore, with contributions by Evie Ahtaridis, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 300 BC – AD 800 (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2006), 77. 36 Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 281; for the emendation Χ[ΟΙΡΙ]ΔΙΟΝ, “piglet,” they refer to the work of G. Parássoglou. 37 Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 280. Other scholarship has likewise called into the question this presumed “lack of ‘emotional investment.’” See for example Mark Golden, “Did the Ancients Care When Their Children Died?” Greece & Rome 35.2 (1988), 152–163.

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tains a letter which the woman Apollonous sent to her mother Thermouthas. Apollonous expressed concern for the health of both Thermoutas and a little girl that remained unnamed.38 She entreated her mother to “take care of [her]self and also of the little girl,” especially in light of conditions winter created for them. She also desired, if possible, to be updated concerning the two female persons’ health. That the little girl in question may have suffered from a sickness or perhaps because of her young age may have been at a higher risk of falling ill is suggested by Apollonous’s request that Thermouthas go and “see the little girl three times a day” and moreover supply her with a special portion of food, taken from a provision of “twelve dried fish and twenty-two sesame cakes,” set aside especially for the little girl. With that food possibly as nutritional supplement, the little girl was to be fed regularly, for as long as the provision lasted. Concern for children clearly was on the mind of the author of the letter as she sent greetings explicitly to various sets of children of female acquaintances or relatives of her. Whether or not Apollonous and the little girl in question were related to one another is not clear from the letter. Yet one might imagine a situation in which Apollonous had sent the little girl, possibly her own child, to a nurse and, because of the challenges which winter posed, now felt she needed to supply additional food for the child. What could have been at stake in this letter perhaps may have been more the risk of sickness than an actual case of sickness. It is noteworthy that both in P. Col. 8.215 and PSI 3.177, discussed above, children’s sickness or threats to children’s health are immediately connected with concerns for proper or sufficient food. Next to concern about a proper food supply for children who were sick, or who would become sick without such food, papyri also witness to other aspects that played a role when children fell ill. Papyri that are part of the fourth-century Nepheros archive witness to the benefits sick children received from intercessory prayers of a spiritual person, in this case, the Melitian priest Nepheros, who served the monastery of Hathor and the village of Neoi in Egypt.39 One of the letters of the archive, P. Neph. 1, was writ-

38

Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 261–262. For details, see Bärbel Kramer and John C. Shelton, mit zwei koptischen Beiträgen von Gerald M. Browne, Das Archiv des Nepheros und Verwandte Texte. Teil 1: Das Archiv des Nepheros. Papyri aus der Trierer und der Heidelberger Papyrussammlung, Aegyptiaca Treverensia. Trierer Studien zum Griechischen Ägypten 4 (Mainz am Rhein: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 1987), 6–21. See also the summary in R. J. S. Barrett-Lennard, Christian Healing after the New Testament. Some Approaches to Illness in the Second, Third and Fourth Centuries (Lanham, New York, and London: University Press of America, 1994), 49–50. 39

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ten by two authors, Paul and Tapiam, mother of Paul’s children.40 As Tapiam herself was sick, she requested that Nepheros mention her name and those of her children in his prayers.41 In order to strengthen her request she reminded Nepheros that already previously her children had been sick, but had regained health through Nepheros’s prayers.42 Tapiam expressed her firm conviction that God listened to the priest Nepheros’s prayers. The positive benefits of prayer offered by Nepheros on behalf of the wellbeing of adults and children, also in contexts not immediately related to matters of physical health, are attested elsewhere in that same archive.43 It remains an unresolved question whether Nepheros’s ability to heal is to be connected with his exercise of the priestly ministry, in congruence with James 5:14– 15, or whether it was due to the saintly character and conduct of his person.44 In either case, in the event, to which Tapiam referred, children clearly had received the benefits of it. Ancient popular literature, whether it was consumed in the form of biography or novel, included in its portrayal of scenes related to private lives and needs arising within family settings various presentations of sick children and aspects of their healing. Philostratus’s On Apollonius of Tyana offers the reader perhaps the longest surviving biography from antiquity, composed likely in the 220’s or 230’s.45 When visiting the Wise Men, Apollonius comes to witness healing miracles, three of six involving children or youths. A first healing miracle consisted of the attempt, presumably succesful, of one of the Wise Men handing a mother a letter with threats and rebukes addressed to a spirit that possessed her sixteen-yearold son. For two years already that spirit had tortured the youth, hindering him from the pursuit of normal-life activities and instead “carr[ying] him off into deserted places.”46 A further miraculous cure pertained to bringing

40 For the text and translation of P. Neph. 1, see Kramer and Shelton, Das Archiv des Nepheros, 36 and 40. Also see the discussion in Barrett-Lennard, Christian Healing after the New Testament, 70–79. 41 P. Neph. 1, ll. 7–9 (ed. Kramer and Shelton, Das Archiv des Nepheros, 36): ejn tai'" eujcai'" uJmw'n mnhmoneuvshtai ojnomavsai hJma'" dia; th;n xeneitivan hJmw'n kai; tw'n paidivwn hJmw'n. 42 P. Neph. 1, ll. 12–13 (ed. Kramer and Shelton, Das Archiv des Nepheros, 36): ga;;r pro; touvtou ta; paidiva hJmw'n ejnovshsan kai; dia; ta;" eujca;" uJmw'n ejpauvsanto. 43 See P. Neph. 4, ll. 11–13 (ed. Kramer and Shelton, Das Archiv des Nepheros, 45); and P. Neph. 9, ll. 12–14 (ed. Kramer and Shelton, Das Archiv des Nepheros, 63). 44 See Kramer and Shelton, Das Archiv des Nepheros, 21–25. 45 Christopher P. Jones, ed. and tr., Philostratus. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, 2 vols., LCL 16 and 17 (Cambridge, MA, and London, England: Harvard University Press, 2005), vol. 1, p. 3. 46 Philostratus, On Apollonius of Tyana III.38.1 (ed. and tr. Jones, Philostratus. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, vol. 1, 300–301). Jones (p. 21) also remarks that Johann

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an end to a serious of miscarriages a woman had suffered.47 Finally a father whose sons (pai'de") “had died as soon as they began to drink wine” and who had been diagnosed as “being the issue of overly hot seed” such that they were destined to go insane (ouj ga;r a]]n dievfugon to; mh; manh'nai), received guidance on how to prevent a similar fate and death also for his most recently born child (paidivon), a child of only seven days of age. The remedy that was recommended consisted of seizing the eggs of an owl that had just nested, ‘and giv[ing] them lightly boiled to the baby (brevfo") to munch.” Tasting the eggs before tasting the wine was to produce “a fixed hatred of wine and a very sover temperament” in the child.48 The comparison between Jesus’ healing activity in the case of Jairus’s daughter and the skillful revivification of Apollonius of Tyre’s young wife at the hands of the apt medical student has already suggested the value of examining motifs found in popular literature for better situating children’s healings in Christian texts. Darrel Amundsen has discussed the role of the physician in discerning cases of love-sickness in the ancient romance. He was able to analyze several cases in which such love-sickness occured and was perceived as real or in which sickness was feigned by individuals in order to be with their lover or object of love.49 Amundsen’s study focused on cases in which those in charge of the patients, mostly family members, sought the assistance of a medical professional. Yet one notices that in the one case, in which love-sickness affected a rather young couple-to-be, the fourteen-year-old Anthia and the sixteen-year-old Habrocomes, their parents sought help from Apollo at his shrine at Colophon.50 The reasons for this choice are not formulated. Ancient Greek religion however considered the young to be in a closer and thus more natural relationship to the divine

Wolfgang von Goethe’s peom “Der Erlkönig” is related to the episode in Philostratus’s text in question here. 47 Philostratus, On Apollonius of Tyana III.39 (ed. and tr. Jones, Philostratus. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, vol. 1, 302–303). 48 Philostratus, On Apollonius of Tyana III.40 (ed. and tr. Jones, Philostratus. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, vol. 1, 302–303). 49 Amundsen, “Romanticizing the Ancient Medical Profession,” 328–336. 50 Xenophon, Ephesiaka 1.6–7 (ed. Georges Dalmeyda, Xénophon d’Éphèse. Les Éphésiaques, ou, Le roman d’Habrocomès et d’Anthia, Collection des Universités de France [Paris: Société d’Édition «Les Belles Lettres», 1926], 9–10; ed. James N. O’Sullivan, Xenophon Ephesius. De Anthia et Habrocome Ephesiacorum Libri V, Bibliotheca Scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana [Monachii et Lipsiae: In aedibus K. G. Saur, 2005], 8–10; tr. Graham Anderson, “Xenophon of Ephesus. An Ephesian Tale,” in Collected Ancient Greek Novels, ed. B. P. Reardon [Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1989], 125–169, here 131–132). See also Amundsen, “Romanticizing the Ancient Medical Profession,” 331, n. 42.

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realm than those who were of an older age.51 Amundsen’s analysis could be furthered, to begin with, by taking into account that entangled family relationships lie at the heart of the causes of many or most of the cases of love-sickness that are featured in the novels, given that the symptoms of this illness manifested themselves most prominently and vehemently when the object of a patient’s desire was already found to be in a liaison with another family member, for instance a son falling in love with his father’s concubine, or when the desire pertained to a closely related family member, for example the desire of a mother for her stepson. The investigation of such complicated cases of the intermingling of sickness and trans-generational family relationships certainly deserves more attention than what can be devoted to it here. The examination of ancient novels also brings to the fore that in passages in the text that do not concern themselves with the roles of physicians specifically, one can find cases in which young girls feigned or suffered sickness not in order to be with their lover, but rather as a means of escape from situations that threatened to bring them into contact with men who sought to be their lovers or simply wanted to have sex with them. Anthia in Xenophon’s Ephesian Tales feigned epileptic seizures in order to discourage visitors to the brothel to which she had been sold from seeking physical contact with her.52 Leucippe in Achilles Tatius’s Leucippe and Clitophon gained the necessary distance from her persistent and powerful suitor through undergoing a lengthy outbreak of dementia that was accompanied by seizures reminiscent of epilepsy.53 In Anthia’s case the girl’s pretence of sickness led to appropriate treatment originating from the popular sector of the health care system, that is first at the hands of the bystanders at the brothel and then at the place of the brothel keeper. When she fabricated the story of how already as a very young child she had been physically hit in a cemetery at night by a seemingly dead person who had returned to life, the brothel keeper who believed her 51

See for example the observations in Jenifer Neils, “Children and Greek Religion,” in Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past, ed. Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, in association with the Hood Museum of Art, Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH, 2004), 139–161. 52 Xenophon, Ephesian Tales 5.7 (ed. Dalmeyda, Xénophon d’Éphèse. Les Éphésiaques, 65; ed. O’Sullivan, Xenophon Ephesius. De Anthia et Habrocome Ephesiacorum Libri V, 69–70; tr. Anderson, “Xenophon of Ephesus. An Ephesian Tale,” 163). 53 Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 4.9–10 and 15–17 (text and tr. S. Gaselee, Achilles Tatius, LCL [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; and London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1969], 206–213 and 222–231; ed. Ebbe Vilborg, Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon, Studia Graeca et Latina Gothoburgensia 1 [Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1955], 76–78 and 82–85; tr. John J. Winkler, “Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon,” in Collected Ancient Greek Novels, ed. B. P. Reardon [Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 1989], 170–284, here 226–227 and 230– 231).

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may not have been simply credulous but may have known, as ancient medical knowledge did, that epilepsy as a sickness could be caused by physical blows applied to the body as well as by great fear.54 Leucippe, on the other hand, eventually enjoyed the prospects of receiving more professional treatment through the army surgeon who was assigned to her case. To some extent the immediate analysis of her condition at the hand of medical laypeople may have been inaccurate, given that the initial description of what befell her, namely suddenly falling down to the ground, also could point to epileptic seizures, especially as epilepsy was understood to be a potentially only temporary disability that affected the young and would or at least could wane with age. Ancient medicine did not see it as the result of the heat of young blood boiling over and flooding the circuits of rational thought, as Menelaios thought in the novel, but rather as the result of the cold and humid condition in the young person.55 Despite the partially deficient diagnosis from within the confines of the popular sector, both girls nevertheless received or were about to receive appropriate treatment. At least in one of the cases the seemingly sick, the young person used her sickness in self-defense and managed to work the health care system on her own behalf and in defense of a female lover’s self-interest, protecting the female body from unwanted sex offered by male aggression. As an example taken from the Life of Antony may illustrate, in Christian popular literature in the realm of hagiography, female agency was significantly more restricted, also in cases of the young. Gender and the Sick Child: Hagiographical Perspectives Some of the available evidence from early Christian hagio-biography indicates that the gender of the sick person played a role in how the healer approached his task, especially in situations that involved a liquid discharge exuding from the patient’s body. In cases of female patients, both of adult age and of the age of a child, the person conducting the healing physically kept himself at a distance from the sick person, quite obviously in order to avoid coming into contact. The Life of Anthony, for example, offers comments on the healing of a girl “from Busiris in Tripoli,” who suffered from “a terrible and altogether hideous ailment – for when her tears along with the mucus and discharge from her ears fell to the ground, they immediately turned into worms. In addition her body was paralyzed and her eyes were

Hummel, Das Kind und seine Krankheiten, 182 See Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 4.10 (text and tr. Gaselee, Achilles Tatius, 210–211; ed. Vilborg, Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon, 77–78; tr. Winkler, “Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon,” 226). 54 55

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defective.”56 The characterization of the girl’s ailment as “hideous” (aijscrov") points to the embarrassment and shame which the child’s disease might have caused for her and her whole family.57 The impediments to her mobility and vision are clearly stated. That mucus and discharge from her ears turned into worms is not explained further.58 It does fit with ancient medical notions or even observations that worm-related diseases frequently occurred in environments in which liquids turned foul and began to rot. Hummel has argued that children, who in comparison to adults were understood to be of a warmer and moister constitution, may have been perceived as especially favorably disposed to such worm-infestations.59 That fluids that were being discharged from children’s bodies likewise would offer prime breeding-grounds for worms, as in the present case featured in the Life of Anthony, fits in rather well with this picture. The girl’s parents had taken the trouble of traveling with their daughter to Egypt, where they “stayed outside the mountain with Paphnutius.” Yet when their fellow travelers requested Anthony’s permission to admit the parents and child into his presence, Anthony refused. Instead, he announced that the girl “has been healed, unless she is dead.” He emphasized that her healing was not his work, but came “from the Savior,” who “granted her prayer” and whose “benevolence has shown [him] that he will cure the ailment of the child where she is (to; pavqo" ejkei' th'" paido;").”60 The text seems to imply that Anthony had received knowledge concerning the child’s healing in a vision. Yet besides communicating this revealed knowledge of her healing, Anthony is not portrayed as having been involved in the healing process any more deeply, for instance by praying for the child.61 When “the wonder [of her healing] took place,” the parents were found “exulting and the child completely healthy.”62 Life of Anthony 58.1 (ed. and tr. G. J. M. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie: Vie d’Antoine, Sources chrétiennes 400 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1994], 288–291; tr. Robert C. Gregg, Athanasius. The Life of Antony and the Letter to Marcellinus, Classics of Western Spirituality [Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1980], 74–75); see also Barrett-Lennard, Christian Healing after the New Testament, 189–190. 57 See Barrett-Lennard, Christian Healing after the New Testament, 190–191. 58 For ancient views of inflammations, pus-related infections, and the development of pus in the first place, see Mirko D. Grmek, Diseases in the Ancient Greek World, tr. Mireille Muellner and Leonard Muellner (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 119–132. 59 Hummel, Das Kind und seine Krankheiten, 235; see also Bertier, “La médecine des enfants à l’époque impériale,” 2164–2175. 60 Life of Anthony 58.5 (ed. and tr. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie: Vie d’Antoine, 290–291; tr. Gregg, Athanasius. The Life of Antony and the Letter to Marcellinus, 75). 61 See Barrett-Lennard, Christian Healing after the New Testament, 190. 62 Life of Anthony 58.5 (ed. and tr. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie: Vie d’Antoine, 292–293; tr. Gregg, Athanasius. The Life of Antony and the Letter to Marcellinus, 75). 56

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A second case that involved the distancing of the healer from a female patient is to be found in the apocryphal Acts of Andrew. In the context of the healing of the son of Gratinus, the author also treated the healing of the son’s mother from dropsy, which manifested itself with swellings of the body and which was healed in the end by liquids leaving her body.63 In this case, charges of sexual improprieties were involved as causes of sickness in both parents. Yet while the apostle Andrew took the initiative to pray for the healing of the father directly, he had reservations and hesitated whether or not Jesus would decide to heal Gratinus’s wife as well. Also here the human healer refrained from becoming active in the case of a female patient and instead placed that task on Jesus. The male human healer avoided any physical but also any immediate spiritual contact with the female patient. The precise reasons for the avoidance of contact with the patients are not spelled out in either one of these two cases. One may think of a perceived threat of infection, of course. Yet given that this distancing of the Christian healer from the patient, as far as I have been able to observe the phenomenon in the texts, is limited to cases of female patients, other reasons may have played a role, for instance the fear of some kind of ritual or ethical pollution or the tendency, to be noticed more widely in ascetic texts, that contact between the sexes was to be avoided. This then would extend also to young girls, spoken of as children, and even in cases of their suffering from illness. Gender issues emerge as a factor influencing the relationships between healer and child-patient in some texts, at least in some of the cases that involve male healers and female patients.64 Yet their impact seems to have been less obvious in the realm of interactions between members of the immediate family and the child. The only exception may have been in cases 63 Acts of Andrew (Gregory’s Epitome) 5 (ed. and tr. Dennis Ronald MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew and The Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals, Texts and Translations 33, Christian Apocrypha Series 1 [Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1990], 194–199). 64 To what extent relationships between female healers and their male or female childpatients likewise were affected by such gender-based issues remains an issue to be studied. Data on ancient Christian women as healers is relatively more difficult to come by. Some cases in hagiographical literature, however, offer a welcome entry point. See for example the healing of a young girl from an eye infection in Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 36–38 (ed. and tr. Pierre Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse. Vie de Sainte Macrine, Sources Chrétiennes 178 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1971], 256–265). See also the comments in Carol M. C. Burnett, “Mother-Child Bonding in the Greek and Latin Fathers of the Church” in this volume. Pioneer work on women as healers in early Christianity of the New Testament period and its more immediate context has been accomplished in Elaine M. Wainwright, Women Healing / Healing Women. The Genderization of Healing in Early Christianity, BibleWorld (London and Oakville: equinox, 2006).

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of threats of the death or another form of loss of an only child, which cannot be treated here in detail. From the consideration of the child’s diagnosis, treatment, or even healing as featured in the material that has been investigated thus far, several areas emerge within the context of evaluating the effects on the child and his or her family that either point to problems and concerns, or that show how the intervention of healing dramatically changed the form of relationships that had been in place previously. Problematic areas that emerge in ancient texts are the difficulties encountered in finding diagnosis and appropriate treatment, issues of honor and shame in parenting a child suffering from a disease or disability, the existential crisis a family faced when threatened by the loss of a child to a potentially fatal disease, the family members’ extensive involvement with the sick child, or on the other hand the only relative value placed on the life of the child. The following comments limit themselves to a few examples, drawn from the Syriac apocryphal Acts of Mār Māri and the Greek Acts of Andrew, a work more widely accessible in a Latin epitome, probably created by Gregory of Tours.65 Effects of Healing on the Child and Its Family Context Some cases of children’s sickness in apocryphal literature allow the reader to perceive the deep crisis and despair into which a family could fall when a child, especially an only child, fell sick and threatened to die or actually died. The apocryphal Acts of Andrew illustrates quite vividly the pain which older parents of a boy suffered when their son had passed away and all their hopes placed upon the child’s future had vanished. The text references the parents’ exhaustion from having to divert money they had set aside for other expenses and planned needs, for instance their retirement, but now had to use in order to pay for the boy’s funeral. In their grief the parents are featured as screaming and mourning at this and related misfortunes.66 Learning of the prospects that the apostle Andrew might be able to heal and thus restore their son to them, the father made it clear that he had nothing more valuable in this life than his son, but that he also was willing to give his son up and hand him over to Andrew. Such comments certainly demonstrate an emotional affection of parents in the ancient world to their children, yet one that was only relative and did not lay claim to having to be serviced under any and all circumstances. In fact, when another set of parents, also featured in the Acts of Andrew, saw that their little son who 65 On the question of the authorship of this epitome, see K. Zelzer, “Zur Frage des Autors der Miracula B. Andreae apostoli und zur Sprache des Gregor von Tours,” Grazer Beiträge 6 (1977), 217–241. 66 Acts of Andrew (Gregory’s Epitome) 7 (ed. and tr. MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew, 210–213).

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had been bitten by a snake lay dead, they were weeping but they also declared that they would not grieve their son’s death any longer if they could witness revenge taking its toll on their enemies.67 The question of the merely relative value of the life of a child that is prompted by several of the episodes of children’s sickness and healing as featured in various of the apocryphal acts of apostles also gives rise to the possibility that regional factors determined parents’ attitudes in this regard. It will be necessary to examine the material more carefully. Yet initial observations point into the direction that in regions at the outskirts of the Roman Empire, like those featured in the Mesopotamian lands visited by Mār Māri, a harsher reality of life and different cultural conditions may have contributed to a somewhat tougher attitude on the part of parents toward their children. Texts like the Acts of Andrew whose events were placed more inland and not immediately at the missionary frontiers of the ever expanding Christian realm feature a greater span of attitudes of concern of parents for their sick children and the value they seem to have placed on their lives. Indeed, the missionary character of some of the apocryphal material codetermined other aspects of the presentation of stories of children’s healing. One of the intentions of apocryphal acts of apostles was to demonstrate to the audiences of these works that the apostles in question were highly effective missionaries, who spread the word of God and gained numerous converts. It will not come as a surprise that accounts of healings of children also are modeled in a way that supports this overarching goal. The Syriac apocryphal Acts of Mār Māri is a text that is especially rich in narratives of the apostle’s healing ministry on behalf of children, mostly in support of his goal of converting a royal family and subsequently a whole city or region. Thus, when a certain king Ādār learned of the healing of his daughter, he commanded Mār Māri to come into his presence, inquired who the apostle was and what he taught, ordered all sick people of the city to come and requested from the apostle that he perform signs and miracles in front of him and his noble ones, “mainly [as the story tells] so that he could ascertain faith in Christ for himself.”68 Yet cases of radical changes to a new religion, caused by a child’s healing, were not limited to the child’s parents or caregivers. In several instances the texts suggest that the healing the children underwent also opened up new dimensions for their 67 Acts of Andrew (Gregory’s Epitome) 19 (ed. and tr. MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew, 262–265). 68 Acts of Mār Māri 16 (ed. and tr. Christelle and Florence Jullien, Les Actes de Mār Māri, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 602 & 603, Scriptores Syri tt. 234 & 235 [Lovanii: In aedibus Peeters, 2003], 27–28 [Syriac] and 33 [French]; ed. and tr. Amir Harrak, The Acts of Mār Māri the Apostle, Writings from the Greco-Roman World 11 [Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005], 36–39).

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own lives. Phraṭia, the daughter of King Shahgird, had suffered from a case of paralysis that bound her to the house and made it impossible for her to participate in any of the external events in which her family engaged.69 One suspects that an element of shame on the part of the family may also have played a role when the girl persistently seemed to have been left behind and not taken along to public festivals or religious activities. One day, when all members of her family and household had left without her in order to sacrifice and celebrate in honor of the city’s gods, she received healing in the course of a visit of the apostle Andrew to her home at the palace. That experience changed the girl from one who had been utterly dependent upon her caretakers and who had obeyed their every word and regulation to one who, out of gratitude for the healing Andrew had worked in her by freeing her from paralysis, now was more concerned about the apostle’s well-being than about her proper place and role in the family. In response to Andrew’s request for bread, she now was willing to break her father's, i.e., the king’s decree “that no one could set fire for baking during three days dedicated to the gods,” even at the threat that such a violator of the law together with everything he or she possessed “would be destroyed by fire.”70 After her healing, the girl trusted more in the apostle’s promise of safety and protection than in her earlier instinctive fear and respect of parental and hierarchical authority that had manifested itself in obedience to her father’s decree of imminent punishment. A child’s experience of healing could move it to form stronger relationships to those outside of its immediate social network and thus challenge the customary order of traditional society. Yet that was only one side of the coin. The other, very prominent and in the end perhaps more permanent message that was being offered was one that reinforced the strong relationships within family units, also and especially through cases of the healing of children. A marvelous set of examples derived from the Arabic Infancy Gospel may serve well to illustrate this point. The Use of Children as Therapy Within the realm of healing methods for diseases, the use of the body of the animal or the human being, its organs, or of products derived from other parts of the body of the animal or human being as a medicine has a longstanding tradition.71 The use of the body of a child or of parts or prodActs of Mār Māri 12 (ed. and tr. Jullien and Jullien, Les Actes de Mār Māri, 23 [Syriac] and 28 [French]; ed. and tr. Harrak, The Acts of Mār Māri the Apostle, 26–29). 70 Acts of Mār Māri 12 (ed. and tr. Harrak, The Acts of Mār Māri the Apostle, 28–29). 71 See for example Charles J. S. Thompson, Magic and Healing (London: Rider & Company, n.d.), 126–131. Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1989), 18, offers some data from 69

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ucts related to the body of a child in particular appears as a relevant factor in healing contexts featured in select apocryphal Christian stories. Insights into ancient notions of the place of children in the repertoire of medical practices and remedies combined with the practice of using the human body directly may throw some light on a curious set of miracle stories attributed to the infant Jesus and the medicinal use of both his swaddlingbands or diapers and his bathwater. In a text known by scholars as the Arabic Infancy Gospel or the Arabic Life of Jesus as well as in a large section of the Syriac History of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which may witness to the Syriac text underlying the Arabic Infancy Gospel, the reader encounters a whole subset of miracles of healing worked through the baby boy Jesus’ body or through contact with items that previously had touched his body, namely his swaddling-bands or diapers or, alternatively, his bathwater.72 The three-year-old son of an Egyptian priest, who was possessed by a demon, placed onto his head one of Jesus’ diapers, which Mary had washed and hung up for drying on a wall. Immediately the demons left the boy’s body in the form of ravens and serpents.73 A young girl whose body had become white with leprosy found healing through washing herself in scented water in which the Jesus-baby had been bathed.74 The same type of

Pliny’s Natural History on the use of parts or products of the animal’s body for healing children’s sicknesses. 72 The relatively frequent reference to Jesus’ bathwater in the Arabic Infancy Gospel catches the reader’s attention, especially in light of the fact that ancient medical writers warned mothers not to bathe their new-born infants too frequently since this might be a cause of sickness for children. Soranus, Gynecology II.XVI.30 (tr. Owsei Temkin, with the assistance of Nicholson J. Eastman, Ludwig Edelstein, and Alan F. Guttmacher, Soranus’ Gynecology [Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1956, reprinted 1991], 103–104), for instance, warned that “One must, indeed, pay rather strict attention to the bath so that the newborn be neither bathed continually nor be much softened by dousing. This is what most women do. For they give it three baths day and night and pour water over it to the point of exhaustion, delighting in the fact that when it has grown weary after the bath it keeps quiet and falls asleep. But this is harmful, for the body becomes weak, susceptible to disease, easily cooled and easily affected by any harm, and above all, the head is wont to be injured, the senses too.” 73 Arabic Infancy Gospel 11 (ed. and tr. Mario E. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia secondo il ms. Laurenziano orientale (n. 387), Quaderni de “La Terra Santa” [Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1973], 76–79; tr. Charles Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens I, ed. François Bovon, Pierre Geoltrain, and Sever J. Voicu, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade [Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1997], 207–238, here 215–216). 74 Arabic Infancy Gospel 17 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 82– 83; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 218). On ancient views of leprosy, see Grmek, Diseases in the Ancient Greek World, 152–176 and 198–209.

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miracle also healed a little leprous boy, the son of a village official.75 When the Holy Family returned from their journey to Egypt and entered Bethlehem, Jesus’ bathwater healed one of the twin sons of a woman imploring Mary for aid. Like all other inhabitants of Bethlehem, that child also had fallen into a serious illness, with numerous growths befalling the skin of boys especially, causing them great pain. The boy’s brother had already died from the disease,76 and he as the twin brother was at the edge of death himself. That family’s neighbor’s son, who had become blind and who suffered from a terrible headache, likewise was healed through Jesus’ bathwater.77 Several further cases could be listed, all of which involve as immediate instrument of healing either the water in which Jesus was bathed or his swaddling bands or diapers coming in touch with the sick child.78 Although these stories might sound like fanciful inventions, they certainly suggest that the healing of the children in question was accomplished through bringing the child’s body into very close contact with a substance or a piece of material that in its own turn had touched Jesus’ body.79 Yet in light of ancient medical theories about the usage of the small child as a possible means of therapy in cases of sickness one might even be able to discern a more specific function of the diaper or bathwater employed in these miracles of a child healing children. For some ancient medical writers like Galen and the tenth-century author Theophanes Chrysobalantes (Nonnus), a child’s urine could be used as a therapeutic for malignant ulcers (Galen and Theophanes), hydropsy (Theophanes), various types of warts (Theophanes), or in order to facilitate and ease the breakthrough of a child’s first teeth (Theophanes).80 This medical knowledge offers an immediate context for the understanding of the healing power of Jesus’ bathwater that freed the Bethlehemite boy from his affliction by the Arabic Infancy Gospel 18 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 82– 87; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 218–219). 76 Arabic Infancy Gospel 25 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 94– 95; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 221). 77 Arabic Infancy Gospel 26 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 94– 97; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 222). 78 Arabic Infancy Gospel 21, 27, and 29–32 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 88–89, 96–99, and 100–108; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 220, 222–225). 79 Arabic Infancy Gospel 17–18 and 28 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 82–87 and 98–101; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 218–219 and 223); see also Arabic Infancy Gospel 15 (ed. and tr. Provera, Il Vangelo arabo dell’Infanzia, 80–83; tr. Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en arabe,” 217) for comments on sweet odor or parfum rising from the infant Jesus’ body. 80 Hummel, Das Kind und seine Krankheiten, 35, 78, 161, and 295. In her review of Hummel’s study, Goldstein (Bulletin of the History of Medicine 74 [2000], 814) noted that Soranus decried the use of children’s urine to wash newborn infants. 75

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painful growths and pustules on his body. One may not be stretching ancient imaginations too far when one understands the usage of Jesus’ bathwater or diaper as closely and delicately related to the medicinal usage of children’s urine in other cases. The frequency and density of this motif in a likely sixth-century or possibly even later apocryphal text that in turn is based on rewriting earlier material in connection with the spread of relevant medical knowledge across at least a whole millennium is a telling indicator how in the Christian imagination at least in selected contexts accurate medical knowledge of the time about children’s use as therapeutic means could be combined with theological interests in promoting the curative power of the idealized holy child and the mediation of that power especially through the child’s mother Mary, who in the narrative regularly distributed or watched over the distribution of diapers and bathwater. Here was a field par excellence for offering healing coming from primary groups within the public sector back to the public sector of the health care system. Conclusions This study has at least begun to offer insights into several areas that are relevant at the intersection between childhood studies, healthcare, and religion in the ancient Christian world. It contributes to an assessment of the practical knowledge early Christian writers displayed of matters relevant for children’s health care. It was able to document the exceptionally strong role ascribed to the healer and his special qualifications in this worldview. It highlighted the predominance of the role of the immediate family and the concomitant dependency of the sick child upon the support of its family when the search for healing became an active endeavor. Yet this study also suggested how the weakest members of society (here the children) in situations of greatest adversity (here disease, disability, or potential death) were perceived as posing both the greatest threat to the identity and continuance of their surroundings, as well as the greatest opportunity for bringing about change in a family or even tribal structure.

The Deformed Child in Ancient Christianity Nicole Kelley In 375 CE, Basil of Caesarea wrote to inform some Neocaesarean notables of the existence of a Trinitarian heresy in their midst. He mentioned that after the heretics’ ideas were rejected by Bishop Melitius of Antioch, “like the mothers of monsters (aiJ tw'n teravtwn mhtevre"), ashamed of their natural disabilities (toi'" phrwvmasi th'" fuvsew"), so too these nurse their deformed children (ta;" aijscra;" eJautw'n wjdi'na"), hiding [them] in appropriate darkness” (Letter 210.5).1 Basil’s use of the language of teratology and deformity was undoubtedly metaphorical: that is, his language was intended to paint his heretics in a most unflattering light, but was not necessarily based on any real knowledge of how parents might have cared for deformed children. Nevertheless, Basil’s letter raises questions that largely have been ignored by modern scholars. What, if anything, do we know about deformed children in ancient Christianity? How were deformed and disabled children treated by Christian parents, and did they fare differently than deformed children born into non-Christian families? What were Christians’ attitudes toward deformed children, and did those attitudes differ from those of their non-Christian contemporaries? What theological and social significance was assigned to childhood deformity by Christian authors? This study will survey some of the more important references to deformity and children in second- through fifth-century Christian texts, addressing such questions as the evidence allows. To write about deformed children in ancient Christianity is, unfortunately, to explore a subject about which our sources are largely silent. Ancient Christian authors have very little to say about deformed infants or adolescents, and the scant information they do provide about deformed persons young and old makes it difficult for us to answer even some of the most basic questions outlined here. It is worth mentioning, too, that these few references in Christian sources make it difficult to know precisely what their authors meant by terms 1

Basil of Caesarea, Letters, 210.5 (ed. and tr. Yves Courtonne, Saint Basile. Lettres. Tome II, Collection des universités de France [Paris: Société d'édition “Les Belles Lettres,” 1957], 194–196). Translations are my own unless otherwise noted. I thank Colin Womack for his help in the preparation of this essay.

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such as deformed and deformity. After all, the human body exhibits an almost endless variability – there are tall and short people, people with big feet and people with small hands, obese and thin people – and most of these variations would be located on the spectrum of “normal” human differences. We should bear in mind that categories such as deformity vary according to the cultural contexts in which they are employed. As Robert Garland notes, “The attitude of an individual and of a society towards deformity is a cultural product informed by a particular value-system, even though we may expect to discover similarities across time and place.”2 Ancient authors usually did not feel the need to specify what sorts of physical characteristics would count as deformities rather than more ordinary differences. When they did mention specific physical traits of deformed bodies, they tended to refer to the reduplication of limbs and the presence of extra digits; most often they used vague terminology such as “maimed” or “crippled.” In other words, ancient Christians were apparently uninterested in specifying what constituted deformity; they seem to have taken for granted that the category would be self-evident to their readers. Instead, they invariably raised the issue of childhood deformity much in the same way as Basil did – that is, they used deformity as a tool “to think with,” but they did not necessarily intend to offer descriptions of the historical or social realities of deformed children’s lives.3 We can begin to determine aspects of the range of Christian attitudes toward deformed children by examining two discrete but overlapping discourses in ancient Christian literature: Christian arguments against the exposure of infants, and Christian appeals to the inherent goodness and perfection of God’s creation. Although the texts that raise such issues seldom mention deformed children directly, they give us an indirect but compelling indication of how Christians may have regarded deformed children and adolescents.

2

Robert Garland, “Deformity and Disfigurement in the Graeco-Roman World,” History Today 42.11 (1992), 38–44, here 39. An obvious example of culturally constructed notions of deformity is Aristotle’s observation that newborn babies are imperfect (Generation of Animals, 5.1.779a24) and Pseudo-Aristotle’s remark that they are ugly (On Colors 6.797b24–30). Dasen argues that, by drawing attention to infants’ physical disproportions, Aristotle associates babies with animals and suggests “mental incapacities.” Véronique Dasen, “‘All Children Are Dwarfs’: Medical Discourse and Iconography of Children’s Bodies,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 27.1 (2008), 49–62, here 50–51. 3 For a discussion of what little we do know about the historical realities of the lives of deformed children and adults in Rome during the Principate, see Annie Allély, “Les enfants malformés et handicapés à Rome sous le principat,” Revue des Études Anciennes 106.1 (2004), 73–101, here 95–101.

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The Exposure of Deformed Infants In order to understand Christian arguments against infant exposure, we must begin by looking at Greek and Roman literary texts that mention the exposure or killing of physically abnormal infants.4 Plato’s Republic, which prescribes the conditions for an ideal state rather than describing existing conditions in fourth-century Athens, nonetheless reveals something significant about ancient attitudes toward deformed infants.5 In Rep. 460c Socrates tells Glaucon that “the offspring of the good” will be raised by nurses in a separate quarter of the city, but “the offspring of the inferior, and any of those of the other sort who are born defective (ajnavphron), they will properly dispose of in secret, so that no one will know what has become of them.”6 Plato’s Socrates does not necessarily refer to exposure here, but the gist of his statement is clear enough. “Defective” offspring have no place in the ideal community envisioned by the author. Aristotle is somewhat more direct in his Politics 1335b, also a part of a prescription

4 My discussion of Greek and Roman texts that deal with exposure of deformed infants relies on the excellent work of Darrel W. Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), 50–69; Martha L. Edwards, “The Cultural Context of Deformity in the Ancient Greek World: ‘Let There Be a Law That No Deformed Child Shall Be Reared,’” Ancient History Bulletin 10.3–4 (1996), 79–92; Annie Allély, “Les enfants malformés et considérés comme prodigia à Rome et en Italie sous la République,” Revue des Études Anciennes 105.1 (2003), 127–156, here 149–155; and a series of articles by Véronique Dasen chronicling the treatment of deformed infants in Pharaonic Egypt, archaic and classical Greece, and republican and imperial Rome: Véronique Dasen, “L’accueil des nouveaunés malformés dans l’Antiquité. 1. L’Egypte ancienne; 2. La Grèce archaïque et classique; 3. Le monde romain,” Revue international de Pédiatrie 30.292 (January-February 1999), 37–40; 30.294–3 (April 1999), 50–53; and 30.297–6 (September 1999), 32–35. For a more general discussion of the exposure of children in antiquity, see W. V. Harris, “Child-Exposure in the Roman Empire,” Journal of Roman Studies 84 (1994), 1–22. Harris (p. 12) notes that it is important to consider “which defects were thought grave enough to require the destruction or the abandoning of a new-born child.” This is undoubtedly a significant question, but in most cases the evidence does not allow us to make such a determination. 5 In Rome and Italy, multiple births, hermaphrodites, infants who spoke prematurely, infants born with teeth, and infants with severe physical deformities (so-called monsters) were regarded as prodigia – bad omens that put the pax deorum at risk. On this see Allély, “Les enfants malformés et considérés comme prodigia,” 127–156; and Allély, “Les enfants malformés et handicapés,” 73–101. 6 Ed. T. E. Page, E. Capps, W. H. D. Rouse, L. A. Post, and E. H. Warmington, and tr. Paul Shorey, Plato. The Republic, LCL 237 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1953), vol. 1, 463. The translator notes that “opinions differ whether this is euphemism for exposure.” On Plato’s treatment of infanticide see Edwards, “Cultural Context,” 82– 84.

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for an ideal state: “As to exposing or rearing the children born, let there be a law that no deformed child (pephrwmevnon) shall be reared.”7 While Plato and Aristotle mention the exposure of defective infants in their visions of the ideal city-state, several other authors refer to similar practices during ideal periods of past history. Cicero’s Laws 3.8 reports that according to the fifth-century BCE Twelve Tables, an insignis ad deformitatem puer must be killed quickly.8 Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ Roman Antiquities 2.15.2 says that Romulus forbade the inhabitants of Rome “to destroy any children under three years of age unless they were maimed or monstrous (ajnavphron h] tevra") from their very birth”; the latter could be exposed, provided the parents’ five nearest neighbors approved of the decision.9 The first-century CE author Quintus Curtius reports that, in India during the time of Alexander the Great, the decision about whether to rear or expose children was entrusted not to parents but to individuals charged with the physical examination of infants: “If these have noted any who are conspicuous for defects or are crippled in some part of their limbs (insignes aut aliqua parte membrorum inutiles), they give orders to put them to death.”10 Plutarch’s Life of Lycurgus 16 similarly tells us that in ancient Sparta, elders (rather than parents) sent “ill-born and deformed” (ajgenne;" kai; a[morfon) children to “a chasm-like place at the foot of Mount Taÿgetus, in the conviction that the life of that which nature had not well-equipped at the very beginning for health and strength, was of no advantage, either to itself or to the state.”11 The historical reliability of these reports is questionable, to be sure; such passages invariably reveal as much about attitudes held in the authors’ own times as they do about the purported realities of bygone eras.12 7 Ed. G. P. Goold and tr. H. Rackham, Aristotle. Politics, LCL 264 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), vol. 21, 623. See Edwards, “Cultural Context,” 83–84. 8 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 59–60. The text (which reads necatus or delatus) is corrupt, making it difficult to determine the exact manner in which such children were disposed of. Harris, “Child-Exposure,” 12. On this passage see Allély, “Les enfants malformés et considérés comme prodigia,” 130–131. 9 Translation from Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, trans. E. Cary (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1937–1950), as cited in Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 58. On this passage see Harris, “Child-Exposure,” 5. 10 Quintus Curtius, History of Alexander 9.125, as cited in Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 57. 11 Plutarch, The Parallel Lives: Life of Lycurgus 16 (ed. and tr. Bernadotte Perrin, Plutarch. Lives. Theseus and Romulus, Lycurgus and Numa, Solon and Publicola, LCL 46 [Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1914, reprinted 1968], 254–255; also cited in Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 57–58). See also Edwards, “Cultural Context,” 83. 12 Garland, “Deformity and Disfigurement,” 39, appears to take Plutarch’s account at face value. Eleanor Scott has taken issue with conclusions drawn from archaeological

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But here is what they do tell us: because these authors (Cicero and Plutarch in particular) place such practices within the context of the idealized past, it would appear that the exposure and killing of deformed infants was thought to contribute to the establishment and maintenance of an ideal society. This does not mean, of course, that Greeks and Romans everywhere agreed on the necessity or the acceptability of such practices. 13 In fact, the mention of the exclusion of parents from the decision-making process in some of the above examples would suggest that many mothers and fathers found it difficult if not impossible to abandon their offspring, whatever abnormalities may have been present at birth.14 At the very least, it seems clear that these authors did not question whether it was morally acceptable to expose or kill infants who were physically deformed.15 This conclusion is supported to some extent by the fact that “there were no laws in classical antiquity, Greek or Roman, that prohibited the killing, by exposure or otherwise, of the defective newborn.”16 While some Greek and Roman authors questioned the morality of abortion, exposure, and infanticide generally, there is no surviving evidence to indicate that there were widespread pagan challenges to the practice of exposing or killing deformed newborns. Christian authors, on the other hand, appear to have sided with their Jewish counterparts17 in challenging the morality of abortion, exposure, and infanticide under any circumstances. As Darrel W. Amundsen noted, “None of the early Christian condemnafinds of infant remains – specifically, that such infants must have been illegitimate, female, or disabled. Eleanor Scott, “Unpicking a Myth: the infanticide of female and disabled infants in antiquity,” in Proceedings of the Tenth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, London 2000, ed. G. Davies and others (Oxford: Oxbow, 2000), 143–151 (pages 146–149 discuss the evidence for deformed and disabled infants). 13 Edwards, “Cultural Context,” 85–88, is surely correct in her conclusion that not all deformed infants were exposed or killed. 14 We know, moreover, that some deformed infants were kept alive as “pets” for wellto-do individuals. On this see Harris, “Child-Exposure,” 12; Marie Delcourt, Stérilités mystérieuses et naissances maléfiques dans l’antiquité classique (Liége: Faculté de philosophie et lettres, 1938), 59–61; Robert Garland, The Eye of the Beholder: Deformity and Disability in the Graeco-Roman World (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 48–50; and Dasen, “L’accueil des nouveau-nés malformés dans l’Antiquité. 3. Le monde romain,” 33–34. 15 This is the conclusion drawn by Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 62. 16 Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 55. On the rights of Roman fathers generally to kill their children, see the excellent article by Brent D. Shaw, “Raising and Killing Children: Two Roman Myths,” Mnemosyne 54 (2001), 31–77, especially 56–77; cf. Allély, “Les enfants malformés et handicapés,” 90–95. 17 See e.g. Harris, “Child-Exposure,” 6–7, on Josephus’ and Philo of Alexandria’s objections to the practice of exposure. See also Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in early Christianity (Washington D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2009), ch. 6.

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tions of infanticide make any reference to the condition of the baby, whether it is healthy or defective, or consider a possible eugenic motivation for the active or passive killing of a newborn.”18 Instead, early Christian authors consistently prohibit the exposure of infants, virtually without qualification. Didache 2.2 states, “You shall not kill a child by abortion, nor shall you kill one who has been born” (oujde; genneqe;n ajpoktenei'").19 This same prohibition is repeated in the Epistle of Barnabas 19.5.20 Section 8 of the Ethiopic text of the Apocalypse of Peter (not to be confused with the Nag‘ Ḥammadī text of the same name) depicts the eternal punishment of parents who kill their children. The children, who are watched over by the angel Temlakos and who look down on their parents from “a place of delight,” cry out to God, “These are they who neglected and cursed and transgressed thy commandment. They killed us and cursed the angel who created (us) and hung us up.”21 Clement of Alexandria, in his Eclogae Propheticae 41, 48–49, refers with apparent approval to the Apocalypse of Peter’s scenario of the punishment of parents and the angelic consolation of exposed children.22 Arguments against the exposure of children were also taken up by the apologists as evidence of Christians’ superior morality. The Epistle to Diognetus 5.6 claimed that Christians were morally superior to their pagan

18

Amundsen, Medicine, Society, and Faith, 63–64. Didache 5.2 likewise lists “murderers of children” among those who belong to the Way of Death. See Willy Rordorf and André Tuilier, ed. and tr., La doctrine des Douze Apôtres = Didachè, Sources chrétiennes 248 bis, 2nd edition (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1998), 148, 166, and 168. 20 Ed. Robert A. Kraft and tr. Pierre Prigent, Épître de Barnabé, Sources chrétiennes 172 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1971), 200–202. 21 Ethiopic Apocalypse of Peter 8 (tr. C. Detlef G. Müller, revising the text ed. by S. Grébaut and tr. H. Duensing, “Apocalypse of Peter,” in New Testament Apocrypha II: Writings Relating to the Apostles, Apocalypses and Related Subjects, ed. Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher, trans. R. McL. Wilson [Revised ed.; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992], 620–638, here 630). On this problematic passage, see Dennis D. Buchholz, Your Eyes Will be Opened: A Study of the Greek (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 207; perhaps this refers to hanging or crucifixion? 22 Otto Stählin, ed., Clemens Alexandrinus, Dritter Band: Stromata Buch VII und VIII, Excerpta ex Theodoto, Eclogae Propheticae, Quis Dives Salvetur, Fragmente, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller 17 (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1909), 135–155, here 149–150. Clement makes a number of references to the exposure of children, which he equates with murder and which, as he suggests, might lead to unintentional incestuous relationships between fathers and their abandoned daughters. On this see Odd Magne Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity, trans. Brian McNeil (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 118–120. 19

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counterparts because Christians did not expose their children.23 Athenagoras, too, claimed that believers regarded exposure as the murder of children: Again, what sense does it make to think of us as murderers when we say that women who practice abortion are murderers and will render account to God for abortion? The same man cannot regard that which is in the womb as a living being and for that reason an object of God’s concern and then murder it when it has come into the light. Neither can the same man forbid exposing a child that has been born on the grounds that those who do so are murderers and then slay one that has been nourished. 24

Justin Martyr, Tertullian, Minucius Felix, and later Christian apologists all argued against the practice of exposure.25 Lactantius, for instance, said in Divine Institutes 6.20 that while the killing of newborns was “the greatest impiety” (vel maxima est impietas), “it is … as wicked to expose as it is to kill” (tam … nefarium est exponere, quam necare).26 None of these authors, however, made reference to the physical condition of the child. Of course, such rhetorical denunciations of exposure did not necessarily correspond to the behavior of ancient Christians. As Odd Bakke has observed, it is imprudent to assume that the attitudes of Christian intellectuals “reflect actual practice, especially when we bear in mind that their wish is to form Christian readers in keeping with particular ideals.”27 It is true, however, that “no source in the time before Constantine tells us that Christians practiced the exposure of children.”28 It is unfortunate that none of our Christian sources specifically mentions the exposure or killing of deformed children, but the widespread Christian denunciation of the general practice of expositio does at least suggest that ancient Christians may have been less likely to kill or expose deformed children than their pagan counterparts. 23

Epistle to Diognetus 5.6 (ed. Jeffrey Henderson and tr. Bart Ehrman, The Apostolic Fathers II, LCL 25 [repr. ed. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005], 122– 159, here 141). 24 Athenagoras, A Plea for the Christians 35.6 (ed. and tr. W. R. Schoedel, Athenagoras, Legatio and De Resurrectione, Oxford Early Christian Texts [Oxford: Clarendon, 1972], 3–87, here 85). 25 On this see Bakke, When Children Became People, 121–125. 26 Lactantius, Divine Institutes 6.20 (ed. and tr. Christiane Ingremeau, Lactance. Institutions Divines VI, Sources chrétiennes 509 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2007], 318–320). On this see Bakke, When Children Became People, 127–128. 27 Bakke, When Children Became People, 125–126. 28 There are, however, extant Christian texts that reveal that some Christians did practice abortion; see e.g. Hippolytus, Refutatio 9.12.24–26 (ed. M. Marcovich, Hippolytus: Refutatio omnium haeresium, Patristische Texte und Studien 25 [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1986], 355–356). Bakke, When Children Became People, 126.

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Christians during and after the time of Constantine continued to denounce expositio, but with increasing attention to the economic difficulties that forced parents to abandon their children.29 In addition to these literary denunciations of exposure, there is also evidence of Christian legal opposition to the practice. The Christian emperors Constantine and Valentinian, perhaps motivated in part by the long-standing tradition of Christian opposition to infant exposure, issued a series of laws designed to curtail or eliminate it (C. Th. 5.9.1, 5.10.1, 11.27.1, 11.27.2).30 These laws, like the writings of Christian authors in the fourth and fifth centuries, mention economic rather than eugenic considerations. The Goodness of God’s Creation One further indication that Christian attitudes toward deformed children may have been different from those of their pagan contemporaries is to be found in Augustine’s City of God, written in the early fifth century CE. There he argues that physically deformed individuals contribute to the diversity, and hence the beauty, of God’s creation. It should be noted that the bulk of his discussion is devoted to a mini-catalogue of monstrous races;31 he writes about deformed individuals insofar as they are relevant to his larger point about such races and their implications for divine creation, goodness, and wisdom, and he mentions deformed infants only in passing. In other words, this chapter of Augustine’s City of God is only incidentally about deformed children; it does, however, have important implications for understanding how Christians may have viewed such children. Thus it may be worthwhile to take a closer look at what Augustine has to say. In City of God 16.8, Augustine argues that those who are offended by physical deformities – even monstrosities – lack their Creator’s panoptic vision of the balance and beauty of his perfect creation. He states, 29

See for example Basil of Caesarea, Letters 199.33 and 217.52 (ed. and tr. Courtonne, Saint Basile. Lettres. Tome II, 161 and 210); and Basil of Caesarea, Hexaemeron 8.6 (ed. Emmanuel Amand de Mendieta and Stig Y. Rudberg, Basilius von Caesarea. Homilien zum Hexaemeron, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller n.F. 2 [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997], 137–140). See also Bakke, When Children Became People, 137. 30 Codex Theodosiani 5.9.1, 5.10.1, 11.27.1, 11.27.2 (ed. T. Mommsen and P. Meyer, tr. T. Mommsen, Codex Theodosianus [Hildesheim: Weidmann, 2000], vol. 1, 225–227 and 616–617). See also Bakke, When Children Became People, 134–136. Bakke, however, is almost certainly right to suggest that we look beyond Christian piety when discussing possible motives for these edicts. 31 On monstrous races, see Garland, “Deformity and Disfigurement,” 41–42. On Greek and Roman conceptions of monstrosity and its significance see Véronique Dasen, “Malformazioni Neonatali Nell’Antichità Classica,” in Mater, incanto e disincanto d'amore, ed. G. Baggieri (Rome: Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali, 2000), 55–59.

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For God is the creator of all, and he himself knows where and when any creature should be created or should have been created. He has the wisdom to weave the beauty of the whole design out of the constituent parts, in their likeness and diversity. The observer who cannot view the whole is offended by what seems to be the deformity of a part (de32 formitate partis), since he does not know how it fits in, or how it is related to the rest.

Worse still, those who find fault with deformity are implicitly attributing ignorance and fault to the Creator, who makes no mistakes: We know of cases of human beings born with more than five fingers or five toes. This is a comparatively trivial abnormality; and yet it would be utterly wrong for anyone to be fool enough to imagine that the Creator made a mistake in the number of human fingers, although he may not know why the Creator so acted. So, even if a greater divergence from the norm should appear, he whose operations no one has the right to criticize knows 33 what he is about.

A few lines later, Augustine goes on to argue that deformed individuals are all human and therefore descendants of the first man Adam: “In fact, it would be impossible to list all the human infants very unlike those who, without any doubt, were their parents. Now it cannot be denied that these derive ultimately from that one man ...” He even suggests that God may have created monstrous races, which relatively few people have ever seen, in order to discourage people from questioning divine wisdom or perfection when they encounter deformed individuals, presumably a more common occurrence: [I]t may be suggested that God decided to create some races in this way, so that we should not suppose that the wisdom with which he fashions the physical being of men has gone astray in the case of the monsters which are bound to be born among us of human parents; for that would be to regard the works of God’s wisdom as the products of an imperfectly skilled craftsman. If so, it ought not to seem incongruous that, just as there are some monstrosities (monstra) within the various races of mankind, so within the whole human race there should be certain monstrous peoples.34

We can draw a couple of conclusions from Augustine’s extended discourse on monstrous individuals and races and the goodness of God’s creation. By arguing that even seemingly imperfect bodies reveal their Creator’s benevolence and infallibility, Augustine invites his Christian readers to view deformed individuals, including deformed children, as intentional and val32

Ed. B. Dombart and A. Kalb, trans. G. Combes, Augustine. La cite de Dieu, BA 33– 37 (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1959–1960), 210. For this and the following citations see Henry Bettenson, ed. and tr., Saint Augustine, Concerning the City of God against the Pagans (London: Penguin Books, 2003), 661–664, here 662. 33 Bettenson, City of God, 662; Combes, La cité de Dieu, 210. 34 Bettenson, City of God, 663; Combes, La cité de Dieu, 212.

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uable parts of God’s creation. Augustine’s revaluation of the deformed body in light of creation, then, would seem to encourage Christians to regard physically abnormal children as part of a larger, perfect, and beneficent divine plan. Likewise, he discourages the devaluation of such persons on the grounds that doing so is tantamount to challenging God’s wisdom. Those who would question the value of deformed bodies are thereby marginalized as individuals who “cannot view the whole” – that is, as persons with an imperfect and incomplete view of creation and the divine plan. As was the case with earlier Christian polemics against exposure, however, Augustine’s treatment of deformity does not necessarily mean that all (or even most) Christians embraced deformed individuals as equal members of their families and communities. Even if Augustine were describing the actual treatment of deformed persons in the early fifth century, we could not be sure that he accurately represented the historical situation or (perhaps more to the point) that all Christians everywhere agreed with his perspective on the matter. In fact, it is almost certainly safer to assume that attitudes toward deformed individuals varied widely among Christians as they probably did among their pagan neighbors; the statement of Basil at the beginning of this essay certainly points in this direction.35 In other words, the historical situation is complex, and it is probably not advisable to speak of a (uniform) Christian attitude toward deformed children. It is, however, possible for us to explore the ways in which Christian authors used childhood deformity as a tool for thinking about several theological and social issues central to ancient Christianity: nature and fate, sin and virtue, and the form of the resurrected body. Sin, Fate, and Nature: Christian Writers on the Causes of Deformity Christian assessments of the theological significance of deformity sometimes began with the question of what, ultimately, caused physical abnormalities in the first place.36 Were physical deformities tangible evidence of individual sin? Were they accidents of fate? Were they signs of divine punishment37 or divine protection? Such questions were particularly pressing 35 Augustine elsewhere writes of physical deformity in negative terms – specifically, that it is “in keeping with this miserable life” (on this see below). It is significant, though, that Augustine’s language thereby renders physical abnormality as emblematic of the human condition rather than a signal that one is less than human or less deserving of acceptance and compassion. 36 This Christian conversation followed on the heels of a long-standing discussion among Greek and Roman writers about divine and non-divine causes of deformity. On this see Dasen, “Malformazioni Neonatali,” 56–57; Edwards, “Cultural Context,” 80–82. 37 Physical deformity as divine punishment was not unknown in the larger Greco-Roman world. Robert Garland notes, “In Greek society prejudice against deformity and disablement was thus abetted by religion, beauty and wholeness being regarded as a mark of

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in cases of congenital deformity, since many Christians were reluctant to say that deformed infants had committed sins in utero or that congenital deformity could be punishment for ancestral sin. It is hardly surprising, then, that one of the earliest Christian texts to mention childhood deformity begins with the question of whether sin could be the ultimate cause of congenital abnormalities. In the story of the man born blind (John 9.1–41), the disciples after meeting the man asked Jesus, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”38 Jesus responded by informing the disciples that “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him.” Much of the Johannine pericope, of course, is about redefining “true” blindness in spiritual rather than physical terms, but the passage marks the beginning of a history of Christian speculation about the causes of physical deformity and disability. Some of this later Christian speculation centered on the potentially incompatible statements about sin and disability offered by Jesus in the Fourth Gospel. Whereas in John 9.2 Jesus explicitly denied a connection between sin and the man’s blindness, earlier in the Gospel Jesus healed a paralytic man and then instructed him, “Do not sin any more, so that nothing worse happens to you” (John 5.14). The latter statement seems to suggest clearly that sinful behavior results in physical disability. How, then, should Christians understand the causes behind deformity and disability? Irenaeus, who discussed both of the Johannine healing stories just mentioned, appears to have believed that some (though not all) physical deformities and disabilities were the result of personal sin. While he repeated Jesus’ assertion that the man’s congenital blindness was not due to his or his parents’ sinfulness (Adv. Haer. 5.15.2), on at least two other occasions Irenaeus concluded from Gospel healing narratives that deformity and disability could be the result of sin. He summarized his discussion of the Matthean story of Jesus healing a paralytic (Matt 9.1–7) by observing, “By this work of his he confounded the unbelievers, and showed that he is himself the voice of God … for the paralysis followed as a consequence of sins (ex peccatis autem paralysis subsecuta est). Therefore, by remitting sins, he did indeed heal man, while he also manifested himself who he was.”39 Irenaeus’s larger point may have been Christological, but he quite clearly drew a causal link between sin and disability in this instance. divine favour, ugliness and deformity a sign of the opposite.” Garland, “Deformity and Disfigurement,” 39. 38 All biblical translations are from the New Revised Standard Version. 39 Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.17.2–3 (tr. A. Roberts and J. Donaldson, The Apostolic Fathers, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, ANF 1 [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 545; ed. and tr. A. Rousseau, L. Doutreleau, and C. Mercier, Irénée de Lyon. Contre les hérésies V, Sources chrétiennes 153 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1969], 224–228).

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Irenaeus made a similar observation following a brief reference to John 5:1–15, where (as we have seen) Jesus himself established a connection between sin and disability: “And thus also he healed by a word all the others who were in a weakly condition because of sin; to whom also he said, ‘Behold, thou art made whole, sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon thee:’ pointing out by this, that, because of the sin of disobedience, infirmities have come upon men.”40 Irenaeus drew no broader systematic conclusions from these Gospel stories about sin and disability, and it is difficult to determine whether he would have rejected sin as a causal factor for all cases of congenital deformity.41 Other Christian authors drew clearer conclusions about sin and congenital deformity from the Johannine material. The Pseudo-Clementine Homilies 19.22.5–8 made the most unusual exegetical move in declaring that the John 9 pericope did indicate a connection between sinfulness and congenital abnormalities: In the beginning of the world people lived long and were free from sickness, but when they were careless and abandoned the observance (ajmelhvsante" th;n parathvrhsin ajpevlipon), then the sons in succession, having sexual intercourse when they ought not because of ignorance, place their own children under myriad sufferings. Whence our teacher, when we questioned him about the man who was blind from birth and recovered his sight, if this man sinned, or his parents, that he was born blind, answered, ‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but that the power of God might be revealed through him in healing the sins of ignorance’ (ajll j i{na di j aujtou' faverwqh'/ hJ duvnami" tou' qeou' th'" ajgnoiva" ijwmevnh ta; aJmarthmata). And truly such sufferings as these exist because of ignorance; truly, by not knowing when one ought to have sexual intercourse with his wife, if she happens to be pure from her discharge (eij kaqara; ejx ajfevdrou tugcavnei).42

While the Johannine Jesus eliminated sin as a cause of the man’s blindness, the Homilies reintroduced sin as the root of his disability. Congenital blindness, according to this text, was associated with “sins of ignorance,” 40

Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.15.2 (tr. Roberts and Donaldson, The Apostolic Fathers, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, 543; ed. and tr. Rousseau, Doutreleau, and Mercier, Irénée. Contre les hérésies V, 202–206.) 41 Irenaeus does have a concept of original sin, although it is not as fully developed as Augustine’s. On this see J. N. D. Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines (Rev. ed.; San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1978), 170–174. To my knowledge, Irenaeus never applied his understanding of original sin to the problem of congenital deformity. 42 Pseudo-Clementine Homilies 19.22.5–8 (ed. B. Rehm and G. Strecker, Die Pseudoklementinen I: Homilien, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller 42 [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1992], 265). See also Cornelia Horn, “The Pseudo-Clementine Homilies and the Challenges of the Conversion of Families,” lectio difficilior 2 (2007), 1–35, esp. 9–10 [electronic journal]; available from http://www.lectio.unibe.ch/07_2/horn.htm# _edn51; Internet; accessed 27 February 2009.

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which were committed by men who unknowingly had sexual intercourse with women during the proscribed seven-day period of menstruation (see Lev 15:19–24 and 20:18). On this reading of John 9, birth defects served as divine punishment for human sinfulness, and specifically sins that contravened the Levitical sexual prohibitions and purity code. John Chrysostom, another fourth-century Christian writer in the East, reached a conclusion directly opposite that of the Homilies. While he was willing to acknowledge that the paralysis of the man in John 5 was due to sin, Chrysostom clearly rejected such an explanation for the man’s congenital blindness in John 9: “Has he sinned? It is not possible to say so, for he is blind from his birth. Have his parents sinned? Neither can one say this, for the child does not suffer punishment for the father.”43 The disciples’ question, according to Chrysostom, was not a genuine inquiry into the cause of the man’s blindness, but an expression of perplexity at seeing an innocent child suffer. Chrysostom went on to argue that Jesus’ rejection of sin as a cause of the man’s blindness must apply to all cases of congenital blindness (and presumably other congenital abnormalities as well): “For both this man and his parents have sinned, but his blindness is not due to that.” And he did not mean that, even though this man was not blinded [for the sins of his parents], others had been made blind because of the sins of their parents – since it cannot be that when one person sins another should be punished. For if we allow this, we must also allow that he sinned before his birth. As therefore when he declared, “neither has this man sinned,” he did not mean that it is possible to sin from one’s birth, and be punished for it; so when he said, “nor his parents,” he did not mean that one may be punished for his parents’ sake.44

According to Chrysostom, then, children were not punished for the sins of their parents; those who would cite Deut 5:9 as evidence to the contrary were mistakenly drawing universal conclusions from a statement that applied only to persons “who came out of Egypt.” Nor was it the case that this man sinned before he was born; instead, as Jesus stated in John 9:3, the man was born blind “so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” Such works, stated Chrysostom, include the spiritual enlightenment of the blind man himself as well as the restoration of his physical sight: For just as some excellent architect may build part of a house, and leave the rest unfinished, so that to those who do not believe he may prove, by means of that remnant, that 43

John Chrysostom, Homily on John 9.1–2 (Homily 56.1) (tr. C. Marriott, “John 9.1,2,” in Chrysostom: Homilies on the Gospel of Saint John and the Epistle to the Hebrews, ed. Philip Schaff, NPNF 14, first series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 200 [translation modified]). 44 John Chrysostom, Homily 56.1 (tr. Marriott, “John 9.1,2,” 200 [translation modified]).

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he is author of the whole; so also God joins together and completes our body, as it were a house decayed, healing the withered hand, bracing the palsied limbs, straightening the lame, cleansing the lepers, raising up the sick, making sound the crippled, recalling the dead from death, opening the eyes that were closed, or adding them where before they did not exist. By correcting all of these things, which are blemishes arising from the weakness of our nature, he showed his power.45

On Chrysostom’s reading, physical abnormalities such as lameness, leprosy, and missing or non-functioning eyes were “blemishes arising from the weakness of our nature” that serve as opportunities for God to demonstrate his creative power. While such deformities may in specific instances be connected to sinful behavior, this is not generally the case, and in the event of congenital abnormalities sin should be ruled out as a cause altogether. Jerome likewise used the pericope in John 9 on two occasions to question the link between sin and blindness, though he did not address the issue of congenital defects. On the first occasion, in his 397 CE Letter to Castrutius (68.1), he begged Castrutius not to believe that his blindness had been caused by sin. After mentioning Jesus’ response to the disciples in John 9.3, Jerome went on to observe that there were plenty of “heathens, Jews, and heretics” who did not suffer as a consequence of their beliefs, while holy men lived with “sicknesses, miseries, and want.”46 He argued that Castrutius’s blindness could not have been caused by sin any more than the blindness and dim sight of Isaac and Jacob, which were manifestly part of God’s plan for Israel and the church. For the second occasion, Jerome’s Letter to Demetrias (130.16) warned its addressee of the dangers of Origenism, especially the idea of the preexistence of souls. Jerome wrote that the Origenists appealed to the disciples’ question in John 9:2 as scriptural warrant for this theological principle. Moreover, they employed the example of the suffering of small children, who had “done nothing either good or evil,” along with more general references to the suffering of God’s servants, to argue that God was only truly righteous if such suffering could be understood as punishment for misdeeds committed during the previous existence of their souls.47 Jerome naturally disagreed with this interpretation, and though he did not refute it in any detail here, it is nevertheless quite clear that he rejected any sugges45 John Chrysostom, Homily 56.1 (tr. Marriott, “John 9.1,2,” 200 [translation modified]). 46 Jerome, Letter 68.1: To Castrutius (tr. W. H. Fremantle, G. Lewis, and W. G. Martley, in Jerome: Letters and Select Works, ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, NPNF, second series, vol. 6 [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 140). 47 Jerome, Letter 130.16 (tr. Fremantle, Lewis, and Martley, Jerome: Letters and Select Works, 269).

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tion that very young children were subject to suffering as punishment for sins committed during their souls’ previous state of existence. In addition to the number of instances where Late Antique Christian authors used biblical interpretation to argue for or against sin as a cause of physical deformity, several Christian authors speculated on the connections between deformity, fate, and nature. Not surprisingly, Bardaisan of Edessa (c. 154–222 CE) has the most to say in this regard. If we are to understand his statements regarding deformity and fate, a word about his ideas is in order. Bardaisan was a prominent philosopher and Christian theologian with interests in astrology, cosmology, and ethnography. He taught that human beings consisted of body, soul, and spirit: a person’s spirit was essentially free and of divine origin; it joined with the soul as the latter descended through the various planetary spheres and into the human body at birth. The position of the stars at the moment of one’s birth determined qualities of the soul that affected certain aspects of one’s life, such as health or illness, wealth or poverty. The body, for its part, was subject to various laws of nature as well as astral fate, whose power was real but not absolute.48 In the Book of the Laws of Countries, a dialogue written by a pupil of Bardaisan shortly after his death in 222 CE, Bardaisan explained the workings of nature49 and fate as they relate to the human body: Sometimes it [fate] aids and strengthens nature, and sometimes it hinders and impedes it. To grow up and become adult pertains to the work of nature but outside this work, illnesses and physical defects are caused by fate. … Having children belongs to the domain of nature. But through fate children are sometimes deformed, they sometimes miscarry and sometimes die prematurely.50

It seems, then, that in Bardaisan’s thought nature was the force that governed the “ordinary” and “normal” development of the human body, both in utero and during the course of one’s lifetime. Fate could work in concert with nature to produce healthy bodies, but Bardaisan’s main point seems to have been that fate just as often obstructed such “natural” development, 48 This paragraph contains material from Nicole Kelley, “Astrology in the PseudoClementine Recognitions,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 59.4 (2008), 607–629, here 610–611. See also H. J. W. Drijvers, Bardaisan of Edessa, Studia Semitica Neerlandica 6 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1966). 49 The idea of Nature as found in the Book of the Laws of Countries is somewhat akin to the Stoic concept of nature, or logos; on this see A. A. Long, Hellenistic Philosophy: Stoics, Epicureans, Sceptics (2nd ed.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986) , 148–150. 50 Book of the Laws of Countries col. 575 (tr. H. J. W. Drijvers, The Book of the Laws of Countries: Dialogue on Fate of Bardaisan of Edessa [Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2007], 34–35).

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producing bodies that were sick, defective, deformed, and subject to untimely death. Deformed children, on this reading, represented cases where fate had hampered the work of nature, and their deformity was evidence of the limited but nevertheless tangible power of fate over human existence.51 It is significant that the Book of the Laws of Countries addressed the issue of childhood deformity in terms of such larger theological and cosmological concepts as nature and fate, since these were precisely the categories that deformity evoked for some later Christian authors as well.52 Roughly a century after Bardaisan’s pupil had written his work, the African Christian Arnobius of Sicca (d. 330 CE) also discussed physical deformity and fate in the context of his Adversus Gentes. Although he did not mention deformed children specifically, in I.47 he did make a rather direct argument about deformity, fate, and the healing power of Christ: Christ … could even overcome the decrees of fate. For if, as is evident, and as is agreed by all, infirmities and bodily sufferings, if deafness, deformity, and dumbness, if shriveling of the sinews and the loss of sight happen to us, and are brought on us by the decrees of fate and if Christ alone has corrected this, has restored and cured man, it is clearer than the sun itself that he was more powerful than the fates are when he has loosened and overpowered those things which were bound with everlasting knots, and fixed by unalterable necessity.53

Here Arnobius’s sentiments run parallel with those expressed in the Book of the Laws of Countries: sickness, suffering, deformity, and disability all occur as a result of the “decrees of fate.” According to this argument, while such physical conditions might seem impossible to correct – owing as they do to the unalterable power of fate – they are in fact subject to

51

One has to wonder whether Bardaisan or his pupils would have acknowledged any role for free will in the production of deformed children, as did the Pseudo-Clementine Homilies. Bardaisan in other places granted that free will was strong enough to overpower fate, but that does not appear to be the point made here. On this see F. Stanley Jones, “Eros and Astrology in the Periodoi Petrou: The Sense of the Pseudo-Clementine Novel,” Apocrypha 12 (2001), 53–78, here 76. One also has to wonder whether Bardaisan or his pupils might have held that Christian women were less likely to give birth to deformed children, because their baptism would have given them power over fate. 52 In making this observation I do not mean to suggest that later authors such as Arnobius and Gregory of Nyssa were dependent, either directly or indirectly, on a Bardesanite source; to my knowledge no such connections have been demonstrated. 53 Arnobius of Sicca, Against the Heathen I.47 (tr. H. Bryce and H. Campbell, “Seven Books of Arnobius Against the Heathen,” in Gregory Thaumaturgus, Dionysius the Great, Julius Africanus, Anatolius and Minor Writers, Methodius, Arnobius, ed. A. Roberts and J. Donaldson, ANF 6 [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 413–543, here 426; ed. and tr. Henri Le Bonniec, Arnobe. Contre les Gentils [Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1982], 172–173).

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change in light of the healing power of Christ, which is more powerful than fate. While Arnobius argued that Christ’s healing ability had overcome the deforming and disabling power of fate, Gregory of Nyssa took up the other portion of the Bardesanite triad fate-nature-deformity by juxtaposing physical deformity and human nature, and describing sin as a force that deformed the human will. According to Gregory, Sin, indeed, is a miscarriage, not a quality of human nature: just as disease and deformity are not congenital to it in the first instance, but are its unnatural accretions, so activity in the direction of sin is to be thought of as a mere mutilation of the goodness innate in us; it is not found to be itself a real thing, but we see it only in the absence of that goodness. Therefore he who transformed the elements of our nature into his divine abilities, rendered it secure from mutilation and disease, because he admitted not in himself the deformity which sin works in the will.54

Gregory here was reflecting on the incarnation and the effects of sin upon the will; he only mentioned physical deformity in order to illustrate his point about sin being foreign to the innate goodness of human nature. It is nevertheless noteworthy that Gregory divorced physical deformity from human nature, describing it (along with disease) as an “unnatural” state of affairs. Those with physical deformities thus stood apart from their nondeformed counterparts as “unnatural” aberrations of human nature, and as tangible reminders of the power of sin to deform the human will. Gregory’s argument about deformity and human nature is in some ways reminiscent of the Book of the Laws of Countries, which also separated deformity and disease from the ordinary workings of nature.55 Gregory’s assessment does stand, however, in contrast to John Chrysostom’s assertion mentioned above, insofar as Gregory regarded deformity as somehow foreign to the innate goodness of human nature, while Chrysostom saw deformity as a typical expression of the infirmity of human nature. Gregory’s argument is also rather different from Augustine’s reflections on deformity in the City of God. Recall that for Augustine, deformed individuals constituted part of the divinely intended diversity of creation; they might have 54

Gregory of Nyssa, Letter XVII: To Eustathia, Ambrosia, and Basilissa (tr. W. Moore and H. A. Wilson, “Letters,” in Gregory of Nyssa: Dogmatic Treatises, Etc., ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, NPNF 5, second series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 542–545, here 543; ed. and tr. P. Maraval. Grégoire de Nysse. Lettres, Sources chrétiennes 363 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1990], 136). 55 There is an obvious difference between the Bardesanite text and Gregory of Nyssa’s letter, however. While Gregory wrote about human nature, the Book of the Laws of Countries referred to a more Stoic sense of Nature; that is, “the power or principle which shapes and creates all things” or “the power or principle which unifies and gives coherence to the world.” Long, Hellenistic Philosophy, 148.

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represented deviations from the norm, but they were in any event deformed by design. This presumably would make deformed persons “natural” occurrences in Augustine’s eyes, even though he did not invoke the vocabulary of nature in City of God 16.8. Virtue and the Deformed Body In addition to Christian discussions of sin and fate as causes of deformity, there are also texts which mention childhood deformity and its relationship to the Christian pursuit of chastity and the virtuous life. Deformed children56 appear in two such early Christian texts, which derive from very different sociohistorical contexts but share an interest in so-called “encratism.” In the first place, there is the story of the apostle Peter’s daughter preserved in the early fifth-century Coptic papyrus Berlin 8502, which belongs to the collection of texts known as the apocryphal Acts of Peter (not to be confused with the Coptic Acts of Peter found in the Nag‘ Ḥammadī corpus). In this story, as Peter was standing among a crowd of sick people who had been brought to him for healing, someone in the crowd pointed out an irony in Peter’s healing ministry: Look, Peter, before our eyes you have made many (who were) blind to see, and the deaf to hear and the lame to walk, and you have helped the weak and given them strength. Why have you not helped your virgin daughter, who has grown up beautiful and has believed on the name of God? For she is quite paralysed on one side, and she lies there stretched out in the corner helpless. We see the people you have healed; but your own daughter you have neglected.”57

Peter responded by explaining that God knew why “her body is not well,” and that his daughter’s condition was not due to God’s weakness. Peter 56

It is worth noting that the texts themselves do not mention the ages of the “children” being discussed here, except to suggest that the young women are of marriageable age and that they remain, in one form or another, in the care of their parents. 57 W. Schneemelcher, tr., “The Acts of Peter,” in Hennecke, Schneemelcher, and Wilson, New Testament Apocrypha vol. 2, 285–286. This translation is based upon the Coptic text and English translation from James Brashler and Douglas M. Parrott, ed. and trans., “The Act of Peter, BG, 4: 128,1–141,7,” in Nag Hammadi Codices V, 2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502,1 and 4, ed. Douglas M. Parrott, NHS XI (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1979), 473–493. For further discussion of Peter’s daughter, see Cornelia B. Horn, “Suffering Children, Parental Authority and the Quest for Liberation?: A Tale of Three Girls in the Acts of Paul (and Thecla), the Act(s) of Peter, the Acts of Nerseus and Achilleus, and the Epistle of Pseudo-Titus,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 11 (New York and London: Continuum and T&T Clark International, 2006), 118–145.

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healed his daughter and asked her to walk unassisted, so that the crowd would see evidence of divine power. Rather surprisingly, given the standard healing narrative of most Christian texts, Peter then instructed his daughter to “lie down and return to your infirmity, for this is profitable for you and for me.” When the crowd protested this development, Peter explained that on the day of his daughter’s birth he had received a vision in which the Lord had told him, “this (daughter) will do harm to many souls if her body remains healthy.” He went on to say that when the girl was ten years old, a rich man named Ptolemaeus sought her hand in marriage and, undeterred by her parents’ refusal, abducted her. Peter, fearing that his daughter’s chastity would be compromised, prayed to God for her protection, and God responded by paralyzing his daughter on one side of her body.58 Ptolemaeus’s servants subsequently returned the girl to her parents, who praised “the Lord who had preserved his servant from uncleanness and shame,” and Ptolemaeus himself was eventually converted. In the second place, there is a much shorter but equally telling passage from Jerome’s Letter to Demetrias (130.6). Here Jerome discussed the propensity of some Christian families, who valued marriage and its attendant social and economic benefits more than the life of virginity, to reserve their eligible (or attractive or healthy) daughters for marriage, committing their less marriageable children to a life of chastity only as a last resort. He observed, Parents who are wretched, and whose Christian faith is not complete, make it a practice to devote to virginity daughters who are deformed and crippled in some limb (deformes et aliquo membro debiles filias), because they will not find suitable husbands. Glass, as it is said, is as great as a pearl.59

Both of these texts forge a connection between physical deformity and chastity, although they do so in different ways. For the Acts of Peter, physical disability is preferable to marriage and the sexual activity it entails. What is more, the girl’s disability actually enables her pursuit of chastity because it renders her less sexually desirable to potential suitors and thus less marriageable.

58

The story of Ptolemaeus’ abduction of Peter’s daughter and her subsequent paralysis is unfortunately on pages 133 and 134 of the manuscript, which are missing. The general outline of the story, however, is known from Augustine’s Contra Adimantum Manichaei discipulum 17 (ed. and tr. R. Jolivet and M. Jourjon, Six Traités Anti-Manichéens [Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1961], 318–334). 59 Jerome, Letter to Demetrias 130.6 (ed. Isidorus Hilberg, Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae, Pars III. Epistulae CXXI–CLIV, CSEL 56.1 [rev. ed.; Vindobonae: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1996], 175–202; my translation).

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It is worth pointing out that the paralysis of Peter’s daughter might be classified as a disability rather than as a deformity in the strict sense – that is, her condition appears to have prevented her from performing certain tasks of daily life, such as walking without assistance, but it may not have entailed any obvious changes in the outward appearance of her body. It is also possible that her impairment did involve some degree of physical deformation, as is sometimes the case, for example, with more involved forms of hemiplegia.60 In any event, she is described by the anonymous man in the crowd as “beautiful.” This is a fairly typical feature of apocryphal apostolic acts, which often feature beautiful virgins who are doggedly pursued by suitors wishing to compromise their chastity, and it is essential to the Acts of Peter if the story about Ptolemaeus’s unquenchable desire for her is to be convincing. It is, however, unusual to find her beauty affirmed after she has been divinely disabled, rather than before her encounter with Ptolemaeus. It is also worth noting that the story nowhere mentions the perspective of Peter’s daughter. She never speaks, and we do not know if she herself objected to the marriage with Ptolemaeus or embraced her partial paralysis. Her parents speak for her, and the text invites the reader either to ignore the daughter’s point of view or to assume that she is in agreement with the judgment of her parents about the value of chastity and the objectionable status of marriage. What is clear from the text is that the apostle and the gathered crowd have rather different understandings of the significance of the girl’s physical disability. This disparity between the two perspectives is used to great effect in the story. On the one hand, the crowd holds what we might describe as the typical Christian view – namely, that those who are blessed by God live in a state of bodily wholeness. Hence the crowd finds it inconceivable that Peter would want his daughter to remain in her disabled state. Why, they ask, would Peter heal others and not confer that same blessing on his own daughter? The girl’s continuing disability is especially difficult for the crowd to fathom in light of her pious existence. According to the unnamed man, Peter’s daughter has “believed on the name of God,” which ought to render her worthy of bodily wholeness in his eyes. Peter, on the other hand, sees things “as they really are,” and it is his perspective that the reader is invited to adopt. Peter knows that his daughter’s condition is a result of the protection and care given to her by God, rather than a sign that she has been deprived of God’s blessings. Rhetorically, the girl’s disability serves as a startling and unsettling affirmation of 60

On the effects of spastic hemiplegia on gait and its contribution to the abnormal development of major muscles, see for example Michael Whittle, Gait Analysis: An Introduction (3rd ed.; Oxford and Boston: Butterworth-Heinemann, 2002), 121–122.

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the value of chastity, and it is little surprise that this story is typically mentioned as evidence of the “encratic” tendencies behind the Apocryphal Acts generally and the Acts of Peter in particular.61 Whereas in the Acts of Peter a child’s disability is used to affirm the importance of chastity, in Jerome’s Letter to Demetrias the physical abnormality of one’s offspring takes on quite a different relationship to chastity. On the one hand, Jerome – who is, famously, just as much a proponent of chastity as the authors of the apocryphal acts – agrees with the Acts of Peter concerning the value of virginity,62 which in his view ought to be much more highly esteemed than marriage. Jerome’s letter also shares a fundamental presupposition about deformity and disability with the Acts of Peter: physical abnormalities make one sexually undesirable and hence less eligible for married life.63 For both Christian authors, then, deformity and disability make a life of chastity more likely.64 Yet while the Acts of Peter interprets the disability of Peter’s daughter as an act of divine protection, Jerome reaches a very different conclusion. In Jerome’s eyes, the deformed and crippled bodies that belong to the daughters of his “wretched Christians” do not signal God’s protection of their chastity. Instead, it appears that their imperfect bodies make them less valuable – less valuable in the eyes of their parents, who marry off their eligible daughters and are willing to devote only their less-than-desirable daughters to the Christian pursuit of virginity and vir61 See for example Wilhelm Schneemelcher, “The Acts of Peter,” in New Testament Apocrypha vol. 2, ed. and tr. Hennecke, Schneemelcher, and Wilson, 271–321, especially 283. It is, however, worth noting that the text represents Peter himself as married with a child – an unusual role model for Christians who adopted “encratism” as a way of life. On this point see Brashler and Parrott, “The Act of Peter,” 475. 62 David G. Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy in Ancient Christianity: The Jovinianist Controversy (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 240. 63 On this point see also Herodotus’ account of the Babylonian marriage market. Herodotus, History 1.196 (ed. and tr. Ph.-E. Legrand, Hérodote. Histoires. Livre 1. Clio, Collection des Universités de France [Paris: Société d’Édition «Les Belles Lettres», 1970], 190–191). See also the citation in Edwards, “Cultural Context,” 91. 64 Compare this sentiment with those expressed by John Chrysostom, Instructions to Catechumens 2.3 (ed. and tr. W. R. W. Stephens and T. P. Brandram, “Second Instruction,” in Chrysostom: On the Priesthood, Ascetic Treatises, Select Homilies and Letters, Homilies on the Statues, ed. P. Schaff, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers 9, first series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 159–171, here 167–168), who argues that physical deformities can never hinder one’s pursuit of virtue or one’s experience of divine grace; and Augustine, On the Holy Trinity 8.9 (tr. A. W. Haddan and W. G. T. Shedd, “On the Holy Trinity,” in Augustin: On the Holy Trinity, Doctrinal Treatises, Moral Treatises, ed. P. Schaff, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers 3, first series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 1–228, here 120–121), who states that many people with deformed bodies have righteousness in them, since righteousness pertains to the mind rather than the body.

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tue; and less valuable in the eyes of Jerome, who regards these deformed young women as merely “glass” and not the “pearls” that parents ought to offer to God. By offering their less-valuable daughters, such Christians reveal that they esteem marriage more than celibacy. Resurrection: The Deformed Body and the Afterlife In addition to the various Christian reflections on childhood deformity in connection with fate, nature, sin, and virtue, there exists a lively intertextual discussion of physical deformity in connection with bodily resurrection. As Caroline Walker Bynum’s work has shown, ancient and medieval Christians were preoccupied with questions about resurrection.65 Would the physical body be resurrected? If so, which body: would the resurrected body resemble a child, a middle-aged adult, or an elderly person? Would lost hair and fingernails be restored in the resurrection body? If so, would not the addition of many years’ worth of hair and nails constitute a “deformity” that is inconsistent with the purported perfection of such bodies? What would happen to the bodies of deformed individuals in the afterlife? Physical deformity might seem out of place in Christian discussions of the afterlife, since according to the New Testament scarcely a single deformed or disabled person managed to escape an encounter with Jesus without having been restored to bodily wholeness. Physical deformity is at first blush a problem of existence in this world, which alongside disease and frailty will be transcended in the resurrected state. Yet in fact deformity is tied up in matters of personal identity in ways very different from sickness or disease.66 For some early Christians, it was a given that the resurrected bodies of the faithful would be free of disease, but it was far less apparent that a person born with one arm would have two arms in the afterlife. For other Christians who regarded deformed or monstrous physical bodies as aberrations of nature or cruel tricks of fate, it was inconceivable that the power and goodness of Christ would not restore such bodies to their normal and natural states. Such discussions of deformity and resurrection begin as early as the apologist Justin Martyr and continue through the Middle Ages; the following authors are a representative sampling of the ancient conversation. In On the Resurrection 4, Justin was appalled by the suggestion of other Christians that the risen flesh would retain the deformities of its previous 65

Caroline Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995). 66 On the subject of disease and personal identity, cf. Gregory of Nyssa, On the Making of Man 27 (tr. H. A. Wilson, “On the Making of Man,” in Gregory of Nyssa: Dogmatic Treatises, Etc., ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, Nicene and Post-Nicene Ffathers 5, second series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994], 387–427, here 418–419).

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life. For Justin, the earthly Jesus’ healing ministry was conclusive proof that he would continue to heal and restore the bodies of Christians in the resurrection: Well, they say, if then the flesh rise, it must rise the same as it falls; so that if it die with one eye, it must rise one-eyed; if lame, lame; if defective in any part of the body, in this part the man must rise deficient. How truly blinded are they in the eyes of their hearts! For they have not seen on the earth blind men seeing again, and the lame walking by his word.67

According to Justin, Jesus’ healing ministry not only fulfilled the predictions of the biblical prophets, but also was intended to persuade people to believe that the resurrected body “shall rise entire.” For this second-century apologist, arguments for the resurrection of deformed bodies were tantamount to a denial of the healing and restorative power of Christ. Nearly four centuries later, the Christian presbyter and patrologist Gennadius reported in his On Illustrious Men 18 that the African Donatist Tichonius believed in a single resurrection that would include “even the aborted and the deformed (etiam abortivi deformati) lest any living human being, however deformed, should be lost.”68 Gennadius was more interested in Tichonius’s assertion of a single resurrection than he was in Tichonius’s views on the resurrection of deformed people, but Gennadius’s mentioning of the latter point suggests that Tichonius may have been unusual in asserting that deformed and aborted persons would experience bodily resurrection. Tichonius’s views echoed the opinions of the many Christian authors surveyed above, all of whom suggested that human lives at every stage of development (and, by implication, whether deformed or “normal”) ought to be valued equally. Gennadius did not specify whether Tichonius believed that such resurrected bodies would be raised in their deformed state or be restored to bodily wholeness; this was the question that preoccupied his contemporary Augustine as well as later medieval Christian authors. Augustine’s many comments on the subject make it evident that it was much discussed by people in his day. In City of God 22.12, he wrote in re67

Justin Martyr, On the Resurrection 4 (tr. M. Dods, “Fragments of the Lost Work of Justin on the Resurrection,” in The Apostolic Fathers, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, ed. A. Roberts and J. Donaldson, Ante-Nicene Fathers 1 [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 294–299, here 295; ed. and tr. Johann K. T. v. Otto, Iustini Philosophi Et Martyris Opera Quae Feruntur Omnia, Corpus Apologetarum Christianorum Saeculi Secundi 3 [Wiesbaden: Martin Sändig, 1969], 222). 68 Gennadius, On Illustrious Men 18 (ed. PL 58:1053-1120, here cols. 1071A–1072A; tr. E. C. Richardson, “Tichonius the African,” in Theodoret, Jerome, Gennadius, Rufinus: Historical Writings, Etc., ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers 3, second series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 385–402, here 389).

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sponse to “unbelievers” who mentioned congenitally and accidentally deformed bodies as part of their objection to the very idea of bodily resurrection: They then make play with deformities and defects (foeditates et vitia), either accidental or congenital; they talk with a mixture of horror and derision about monstrous births, asking what kind of resurrection is in store for such unpleasantness. If we reply that nothing of this kind will reappear in the resurrected body, then flatter themselves that they will rebut our answer by quoting the marks of the wounds, since we give it out that Christ rose from the dead with those marks on his body.69

Augustine seems to have regarded as absurd the idea that “deformities and defects” would be reproduced in resurrected bodies, and scoffed at the idea that the wounds in the risen Christ’s body are to be equated with such physical abnormalities. While the latter are bodily defects that were to be rectified at the resurrection, the former did not signal imperfection. Augustine made clearer statements about the fate of deformed and blemished bodies at two points in the Enchiridion. In Enchiridion 87, he wrote: “We are not justified in affirming even of monstrosities (monstra), which are born and live, however quickly they may die, that they shall not rise again, nor that they shall rise again in their deformity, and not rather with an amended and perfected body.”70 In other words, he argued that monstrous (that is, seriously deformed) bodies would be resurrected, but in their resurrected state they would be restored to a perfect physical form. He went on to cite the case of a double-limbed man mentioned by Jerome, saying that at the resurrection there would be two distinct men, “as would have been the case had twins been born.”71 Deformed and monstrous individuals were to rise again, but their bodies would be altered to reflect a more perfect state of the human body: And so other births, which, because they have either a superfluity or a defect, or because they are very much deformed, are called monstrosities (vel amplius vel minus aliquid habendo, vel quadam nimia deformitate, monstra dicuntur), shall at the resurrection be restored to the normal shape of man; and so each single soul shall possess its own body;

69

Bettenson, City of God, 1053–1054; Combes, La cité de Dieu, 230. Augustine, Enchiridion 87 (tr. J. F. Shaw, “The Enchiridion,” in Augustin: On the Holy Trinity, Doctrinal Treatises, Moral Treatises, ed. P. Schaff, NPNF 3, first series [repr. ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 237–276, here 265; ed. and tr. J. Rivière, Exposés généraux de la foi: De fide et symbolo. Enchiridion, Bibliothèque augustinienne [Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1947], 102–327, here 258). 71 Augustine, Enchiridion 87 (tr. Shaw, “The Enchiridion,” 265; ed. and tr. Rivière, Exposés généraux de la foi: De fide et symbolo. Enchiridion, 258). 70

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and no bodies shall cohere together even though they were born in cohesion, but each separately shall possess all the members which constitute a complete human body.72

This would seem to cut against Augustine’s argument in City of God 16.8 (discussed earlier in this essay), which asserted that deformed and monstrous bodies were deliberately created by God and form part of the diversity and beauty of creation. At the very least, Augustine did not explain why his deformed-body-as-diversity model applied in this life but not in the afterlife. He did, however, make a distinction between the bodies of “the saints” and those doomed to perdition. On the one hand, “The bodies of the saints … shall rise again free from every defect, from every blemish” (Enchiridion 91).73 Here Augustine’s statement indicates that his prior discussion of the resurrection of deformed and monstrous persons referred to saintly bodies rather than the bodies of the damned. This becomes clearer in the following chapter, where he wrote, But as for those who … are not redeemed … they too shall rise again, each with his own body, but only to be punished with the devil and his angels. Now, whether they shall rise again with all their diseases and deformities of body, bringing with them the diseased and deformed limbs which they possessed here, it would be labor lost to inquire. For we need not weary ourselves speculating about their health or their beauty, which are matters uncertain, when their eternal damnation is a matter of certainty (Enchiridion 92).74

This passage suggests that some Christians had raised questions about whether the bodies of the damned would be restored to physical wholeness alongside the bodies of the saints. Augustine was not willing to speculate one way or the other, and suggested that such restored bodily perfection would be irrelevant in any event for those subject to eternal punishment. He commented more explicitly on the connection between bodily deformity, punishment, and personal identity in City of God 22.19: What I mean by saying this75 is not that I think that anything will perish which is present in any body as belonging to the essential nature of that body; but that anything in that na72 Augustine, Enchiridion 87 (tr. Shaw, “The Enchiridion,” 265; ed. and tr. Rivière, Exposés généraux de la foi: De fide et symbolo. Enchiridion, 258). 73 Augustine, Enchiridion 91 (tr. Shaw, “The Enchiridion,” 266; ed. and tr. Rivière, Exposés généraux de la foi: De fide et symbolo. Enchiridion, 264). 74 Augustine, Enchiridion 92 (tr. Shaw, “The Enchiridion,” 266; ed. and tr. Rivière, Exposés généraux de la foi: De fide et symbolo. Enchiridion, 266). 75 In the preceding lines Augustine suggested that one’s hair and fingernails – which grow and are regularly cut throughout the course of one’s lifetime – would not be restored in the resurrection body in ways that would cause a deformity (in this case, an unusual appearance). “Now the hair has been cut, and the nails have been pared, again and again. And if the restoration of what has been cut would disfigure the body, then it will

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ture that is deformed – and, of course, the sole purpose of the deformity is to give yet another proof of the penal condition of mortals in this life – anything of this kind will be restored in such a way as to remove the deformity while preserving the substance intact (ut servata integritate substantiae deformitas pereat).76

In other words, the resurrection body will retain all of its constituent elements; any deformed parts will be mended, but in a way that preserves the substance of the body. That is to say, even the resurrected bodies of previously deformed people will exhibit material continuity with their former embodied selves. Augustine went on to compare the divine reconstitution of the resurrection body to the work of a human sculptor, who is able to repair the deformities of a statue without discarding any of the “stuff” out of which the statue is made: An artist who has for some reason produced an ugly statue can recast it and make it beautiful, removing the ugliness without any loss of the material substance. And if there was any displeasing excess in some parts of the first figure, anything out of proportion to the rest, he does not have to cut it off or throw away any part of the whole; he can simply moisten the whole of the material and remix it, without producing any ugliness or diminishing the quantity of material. If a human artist can do this, what are we to think of the Almighty Artist? 77

If a mortal artisan was capable of this feat, Augustine argued, it followed that the Creator could eliminate deformity in the resurrected body while preserving its substance (and hence identity): Can he not remove all the deformities of the human body, not only the familiar ones but also the rare and the monstrous, such as are in keeping with the miseries of this life (quae huic miserae vitae congruunt), but are utterly incongruous with the future felicity of the saints (abhorrent autem ab illa futura felicitate sanctorum)? 78

It is curious that in City of God 16.8, Augustine argued that deformity and monstrosity belonged to the diversity and wonder of God’s creation, while in City of God 22.19 he stated that monstrosity was “in keeping with the miseries of this life.” There is perhaps no contradiction to be found here, since in both cases Augustine assigned physical deformity to human life as part of the order of creation, but there seems to be an obvious difference in not be restored. But that does not mean that anything will ‘perish’ from the person at the resurrection. Such constituents will be returned to the same body, to take their place in its structure, undergoing a change of substance to make them suitable for the parts in which they are used” (Augustine, City of God 22.19 [tr. Bettenson, City of God, 1060; ed. and tr. Dombart, Kalb, and Combes, La Cité de Dieu, 228–230]). 76 Bettenson, City of God, 1060; Combes, La Cité de Dieu, 230. 77 Bettenson, City of God, 1060–1061; Combes, La Cité de Dieu, 230. 78 Bettenson, City of God, 1061; Combes, La Cité de Dieu, 230.

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the value assigned to deformity. In the first instance it is at least somewhat positive, while in the final chapter of the work it is unmistakably negative. Conclusion The many early Christian texts discussed in this essay reveal that childhood deformity sat at the center of a complex, and elusive, web of considerations. It is difficult to know either how Christians regarded deformed children, or whether such attitudes were noticeably different from those of non-Christians. Many Christian authors condemned the exposure of infants, and did not seem to have made exceptions in the case of deformed newborns as their pagan counterparts routinely did. Augustine claimed that deformed and even monstrous individuals ought to be considered part of the diversity and excellence of God’s creation. These slivers of evidence suggest that, whatever the range of attitudes exhibited by everyday Christians, many Christian texts invited their readers to consider deformed children as human beings and value them as such. However, more often than not Christian texts mentioned deformity – including congenital and childhood deformity – as a tool for thinking about larger theological issues such as sin, nature, fate, and virtue. Some Christians believed that certain instances of congenital deformity were caused by human sinfulness, while others argued that children were born deformed because of the power of fate. Some Christians asserted that physical deformity was an example of the weakness of human nature, while others said that physical abnormalities were aberrations out of keeping with the innate goodness of human nature. Christians likewise used deformed children to reflect on the pursuit of chastity in this life as well as the constitution of the embodied self in the life to come. Moreover, as Basil’s statement quoted at the outset of this essay suggests, the specter of deformed children could also be invoked as a weapon in heresiological disputes. None of these passages suggests that their authors were familiar with the day-to-day realities of deformed children’s lives. The deformed child was, for these authors, less a historical reality than an abstraction with religious significance. It would seem, then, that ancient Christian discussions of deformed children are a small subset of a much larger conversation about the physical body and its significance for Christian belief and practice.

“Do Not Sexually Abuse Children”: The Language of Early Christian Sexual Ethics John W. Martens One of the areas in which Christianity in its earliest centuries impacted the lives of children for the good was that of sexual ethics. Many have noted that Christian apologists, moralists, and theologians often spoke against the sexual abuse of children, which was common in the Greco-Roman world, supporting an ethos that had been pronounced previously by Jewish authors. What has not been noted is that Christians, apart from using the common Greek diction of the day, also developed a new language to speak about the sexual abuse of children, a language that demanded that the sexual abuse of children not be described in euphemistic terms. The new verb Christians created was paidophthoreô, whose construction and meaning will come into the focus of the discussion of this article in due course, but about which one may say already at this point that it describes sexual practices between children and adults as practices which are destructive and corrupting.1 This article argues that this language was created partly to express Christian opposition to the Greco-Roman practice of using children sexually, by making explicit in the word itself the corrosive effects of such behavior. Yet, the purpose of this verb and cognate forms was also intended to speak to those within the Christian community. This was accomplished by using the new terminology in the context of a new list of divine “commandments,” to certify that opposition to these sexual practices came not simply from certain members of the Christian community, but from God. Sexual Abuse of Children and the New Testament The word paidophthoreō does not appear in the New Testament. There the sexual abuse of children is not directly addressed. Yet it is possible that certain New Testament passages assume an awareness of this phenomenon. Before moving into the core of this study proper, it is important to examine the New Testament material so as to situate the present study culturally 1

For an earlier discussion of the development of this new language, see Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Children and Childhood in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 2009), 226–230.

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and theologically within the early Christian world. It is possible that both Jesus and the Apostle Paul alluded to the sexual abuse of children. Independently from one another Will Deming and Raymond F. Collins suggested that the “scandal” against the “little ones” about which Jesus warns his disciples in Mark 9:42 was the sexual abuse of children.2 If they are correct, that passage would speak to the only occasion in the New Testament on which Jesus drew attention to such behavior or even acknowledged its existence. Sexual abuse was not unknown to the Jews, and certain Jews must have engaged in practices of sex with minors, but such behavior was not culturally or religiously accepted.3 Later Christian condemnation, as opposed to Jesus’ proposed stance against the practice, was based on a more widespread observation and broader cultural acceptance of such activities in the regions Christianity had reached. Deming’s attempt to draw a parallel to b. Niddah 13a and Jesus’ teachings as presented in Mark 9:42 might strike many as a stretch, at least historically. Yet, if Deming and Collins have located a passage in which Jesus did speak against sexual abuse of children, this opposition was expressed within the Jewish context of his time, that is, Jesus would be echoing the stern condemnations of his own tradition. For the Apostle Paul, the case would be different. In 1 Cor 6:9–11, Paul may have condemned Greco-Roman sexual practices in which men used boys for sexual pleasure when he employed the terms malakoi (“soft” or “effeminate” males) and arsenokoitai (“those who lie with men”). Although these words, which are hapax legomena in the extant Pauline corpus, are notoriously difficult to translate and understand, they emerge from Paul’s knowledge of sexual practices in the context of Greco-Roman society. The current discussion of these two terms, malakoi and arsenokoitai, took full flight with the publication of John Boswell’s study in 1980.4 Boswell claimed that Paul was referring to male prostitution in general when 2

Will Deming, “Mark 9.42–10.42, Matthew 5.27–32, and B. Nid. 13b: A First Century Discussion of Male Sexuality,” New Testament Studies 36 (1990), 130–141; and Raymond F. Collins, Sexual Ethics and the New Testament: Behavior and Belief (New York: Crossroad Publishing, 2000), 62–72. 3 Daniel Schwartz, “Did the Jews Practice Infant Exposure and Infanticide in Antiquity?” Studia Philonica Annual 16 (2004), 61–95; Adele Reinhartz, “Philo on Infanticide,” Studia Philonica Annual 4 (1992), 42–58; and Meir Malul, “Adoption of Foundlings in the Bible and Mesopotamian Documents: A Study of Some Legal Metaphors in Ezekiel 16.1–7,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 46 (1990), 97–126. 4 John Boswell, Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning of the Christian era to the Fourteenth Century (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1980), especially in an appendix devoted to the discussion of arsenokoitai (pp. 341–353).

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he used arsenokoitai, but that it could also relate to sexual relations of men with boys. Robin Scroggs saw the word malakos, which he rightly defined as “literally meaning soft and by extension ‘effeminate,’” as referring in Paul’s vice list to those youths who sold themselves to older men and so represented “a specific dimension of pederasty which ... neither proponent nor opponent of pederasty ever defended.”5 Scroggs understood arsenokoites to mean “one who lies with a male,” but acknowledged its peculiarity, given that the word made its first documented appearance in Greek literature in 1 Cor 6:9 (and again in 1 Tim 1:10). Scroggs appears to have discovered the origin of this apparent neologism in Greek by tracing it to the Hebrew phrase mishkav zakur, “lying with a male.” He understood the phrase to denote “the adult, who took the active role in the sexual encounter.” In conjunction with the word malakos, the expression indicates the youth who is hired for sex and the adult who hires him.6 When one considers literature dealing with 1 Cor 6:9, one notices that the linguistic evidence has been debated and examined, and so, too, has the social setting for male homosexual behavior in Greece and Rome. Two basic paths have been cleared. In 1 Cor. 6:9 Paul may refer to a specific form of male prostitutes and the men who have sex with them, or Paul may have in view sex between males generally. The former explanation identifies the 5 Robin Scroggs, The New Testament and Homosexuality: Contextual Background for Contemporary Debate (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983), 106. 6 Scroggs, The New Testament and Homosexuality, 107–108. Cf. Victor Furnish, The Moral Teaching of Paul: Selected Issues (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1979), 67–72, who follows Scroggs in almost every detail, translating the phrase in 1 Cor 6:10 as “effeminate males” and “men who have sex with them.” Other scholars, however, have seen these translations as too narrow. David F. Wright, “Homosexuals or Prostitutes? The Meaning of Arsenokoitai (1 Cor. 6:9; 1 Tim. 1:10),” Vigiliae Christianae 38 (1984), 125– 153, argued that arsenokoitai was best understood as broadly defining sexual relations between two males, not specifically an act of prostitution (he did not examine the term malakos in his study). Like Scroggs, also Wright (129) derived his understanding of arsenokoitai from Hellenistic Judaism, particularly the Septuagint, where the two parts of the word, arsen and koites, appear in conjunction in both Lev 18:22 and 20:13. He stated that “Christian writers and teachers identified arsenokoitai with by far the commonest form of homosexuality current in the Hellenistic world, that is, the relationship between an adult male and a youth of teenage years” (136). Wright’s examination of the linguistic evidence was extensive but he has been followed and was preceded by a number of other scholars (Craig S. Keener, 1–2 Corinthians [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005], 54–55; Charles H. Talbert, Reading Corinthians: A Literary and Theological Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians [New York: Crossroad Publishing, 1987], 25; and Hans Conzelmann, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians. Hermeneia [Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1975], 106–107). Gordon Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: The New International Commentary on the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1987), 242–44, wants to understand malakoi as referring to “call boys” and arsenokoitai as referring to those who perform homosexual acts in general.

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malakos as the youthful prostitute, while the arsenokoitês is the adult who purchases his services. If one chooses the second approach, one would see the terms more generally, with malakoi referring to the “passive” partners and arsenokoitai denoting the “active” partners, with no particular focus on prostitution or youthfulness. There is good ground to understand malakos to mean younger males, not necessarily prostitutes, who generally did function as partners to older males. These boys were often described as “soft” or “effeminate” as evidenced in Philo.7 Bernadette Brooten has demonstrated how in the ancient context the “soft” male was viewed as the “passive” partner.8 According to her analysis, “soft” could describe either effeminate men or women; it was expected in women, but derided in men. Therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that arsenokoitai in 1 Corinthians must mean the men who sleep with malakoi. If one were to understand malakoi as only referring to “callboys” or prostitutes or even children, one would take out of consideration a large part of the reality of sexual behavior and social reality in the first century CE. Paidophthoreô implies a particular understanding of what constituted a pais in the Greco-Roman world. Mark Golden argued that a slave, whatever his age, was often considered a “child” (pais) and called a “child” all of his life.9 Indeed, the terms “child” and “slave” were basically interchangeable. More to the point, Golden examined the close relationship between slavery and homosexuality in Athens.10 Male slaves and children existed in a position of inferiority, the former in perpetuity unless manumitted; the latter until reaching the age of majority. One of the key elements of such a position in the sexual hierarchy is that male children and slaves 7 Philo, Special Laws 3.37–42 (ed. and tr. Francis H. Colson, Philo, LCL 320 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1937, reprinted 1981], 499–501); and Philo, On Abraham 136 (ed. and tr. Francis H. Colson, Philo, LCL 289 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935, reprinted 1981], 71). 8 Bernadette J. Brooten, Love Between Women: Early Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 122, 126, 148, and 256. For a fuller list of the continuing scholarship, see Brooten’s footnote 133 on page 256. Cf. also Stanley K. Stowers, “Paul and Self-Mastery,” in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook, ed. J. Paul Sampley (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2003), 524–550, here 544, who speaks of all people being ranked on scales of “femaleness” and “maleness,” with male being ideally “hard” and “active” and female being “soft” and “passive,” yet full of desire and passions. Stowers understood malakoi to refer to “soft men” and “male homoeroticism was considered manly for the active partner and an expression of femaleness by the passive partner” (544). Yet he hastened to add that malakoi could also refer to an unhealthy desire for sex with women. 9 Mark Golden, “Pais, ‘Child’ and ‘Slave,’” L’Antiquité Classique 54 (1985), 91–104. 10 Mark Golden, “Slavery and Homosexuality at Athens,” Phoenix 38 (1984), 308– 324.

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would be “passive” partners in homosexual activity. As Golden said, “Homosexual relationships did not involve equals.”11 Often this relationship was based on age, with the younger partner “thought of as subordinate to the older.” While free boys became full adults and so outgrew the subordinate role in homosexual relationships, slaves were not permitted such a change of status. Furthermore, slaves were often bought for sexual use, and these boys or men had no choice but to participate in the required sexual behavior. Pederasty was not limited to classical Athens, either. In his Special Laws 3.37–42, Philo of Alexandria criticized pederasty at length,12 describing both the pederasts and the young men (neoi) who were kept in a state of youthfulness and encouraged to use make-up, braid their hair, and wear perfumes in order to create the appearance of “softness” or “effeminacy.” The discussion of this evidence does not allow one to claim that Paul only directed his warnings to those who would sexually abuse children, but such practices are most certainly included in his condemnation of sex between males. If one accepts that Jesus also condemned sexual abuse of children in Mark 9:42, then one may discern that the major difference between Jesus and Paul, as far as their condemnations of such sexual behavior was concerned, was the cultural setting, rather than a shared Jewish sexual morality. Paul’s passage was set in a letter to a Greco-Roman city and acknowledged that members of his church in Corinth, even if in the past, had participated in such sexual practices (“and this is what some of you used to be,” 1 Cor. 6:11). Condemnation of such behavior for Paul was not simply theoretical, but based upon cultural tendencies and practices in the Greco-Roman world and the knowledge of previous behavior of this type among members of his congregation in Corinth. Yet even in 1 Corinthians Paul only implicitly rejected the sexual abuse of children, perhaps because he was speaking more broadly in his definition of condemned sexual behavior. Had he wanted to condemn the sexual abuse of children specifically, he could have used a form of the word paiderasteō, examined in more detail below. The “Christian” Word Paidophthoreô Explicit condemnation of the sexual abuse of children emerged in Christian literature within a generation of the creation of the Pauline corpus. The Christian reception of Jewish norms of sexual behavior created a moral dissonance with the norms governing the sexual use of children in Greco-Roman society. Jewish moralists often criticized the use of boys by pe11 12

Golden, “Slavery and Homosexuality at Athens,” 312. Philo, Special Laws 3.37–42 (ed. and tr. Colson, Philo, LCL 320, 499–501).

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derasts (hoi paiderastai), those men who were attracted sexually to boys or ephebes.13 Jewish sources adopted the term paiderasteô from popular discourse to describe such activity. In itself, paiderasteô is neutral with respect to moral judgment of the act of sex with children. Certainly, Jewish commentators and even some Greco-Roman observers were critical of the practice, and so this adoption does not imply an acceptance of sex with children in Jewish thought. Indeed, sex with minors was more common among the Greco-Roman population than among Jews.14 This is not to suggest naively that individual Jews did not engage in such behavior with children; it is more properly an issue of whether these practices were accepted and approved by the majority of Jews or by their legal system and cultural norms.15 Philo of Alexandria regularly criticized Greco-Roman sexual practices, including those involving children. In addition to the evidence cited above from his Special Laws 3.37–42, one may point to a passage in which Philo condemned the one who “played the pederast” (paiderastôn) in Special Laws 2.50. Here he described pederasts among Greeks and barbarians as “wicked.”16 His most extensive criticism of pederasty may be found in De vita contemplativa 48–62.17 In this text, Philo featured a description of the sexual role of the beautiful young men who poured wine at banquets, a role which was noted in Greco-Roman sources.18 Philo stated that boys (pais) poured the wine, while “older boys” or “bigger boys” (boupais),19 who 13 The literature regarding Greco-Roman acceptance of such sexual practices is voluminous. Some of the standard expressions of basic attitudes can be found in Kenneth James Dover, “Classical Greek Attitudes to Sexual Behaviour,” in Sex and Difference in Ancient Greece and Rome, ed. Mark Golden and Peter Toohey (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004), 114–130, here 121–123; Henri Irénée Marrou, Histoire de l'éducation dans l'antiquité (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1948), tr. George Lamb, A History of Education in Antiquity (Sheed and Ward, Inc., c1956, repr. 1982; reprinted on demand: Wisconsin Studies in Classics [Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2005]), 25–37; and Werner A. Krenkel, “Prostitution,” in Civilization of the Ancient Mediterranean: Greece and Rome 2, ed. Michael Grant and Rachel Kitzinger (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1988), 1295–1297. 14 Golden, “Childhood in Ancient Greece,” 22; see also Jan N. Bremmer, “Adolescents, Symposion, and Pederasty,” in Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposium, ed. Oswyn Murray (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 135–148. 15 Schwartz, “Did the Jews Practice Infanticide in Antiquity?” 64; and Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 34–35 and 218–220. 16 Philo, Special Laws 2.50 (ed. and tr. Colson. Philo. LCL 320, 338–339). 17 Philo, On the Contemplative Life 48–62 (ed. and tr. Francis H. Colson, Philo, LCL 363 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1941, reprinted 1981], 104–169, here 141–151). 18 Bremmer, “Adolescents, Symposion, and Pederasty,” 135–148. 19 Boupais is a combination of pais and bous, “bull” or “cow,” designating the offspring of a bovine as well as, secondarily, an older boy who is not yet an adolescent. See

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were made up with cosmetics, poured the water (50).20 Hovering in the background were the “teenagers” (meirakion) who, according to Philo (52), recently had been the “pets” of the pederasts. These descriptive terms, pais, boupais, and meirakion, orient the reader to the age of these slave boys: they were from about seven or eight to thirteen or fourteen.21 Philo’s comment on those who were meirakia as being past prime and standing in the background suggests that sexual attention was placed on the younger boys. Philo goes on to speak of the damage done to the boyhoods of those chosen by the pederasts. It was the young boys, who had smooth, hairless skin, who were the most desirable sexually to ancient pederasts, and the slave boys who were judged to be too old were tossed aside.22 The Sibylline Oracles, emerging out of the Greco-Roman world in the Hellenistic era, also criticized the Greco-Roman use of boys as sexual objects in five instances, all in oracles understood to be Jewish in origin, and all using the verb paiderasteô or its cognates.23 Any study of the Christian censure of the sexual abuse of children must note this particular Jewish element and influence. A significant aspect of the Christian condemnation of sexual abuse of children is the adoption of Jewish sexual morality, which was fully accepted by the Christian tradition and made their own. It contained a constant criticism and rejection of the sexual practices in the Greco-Roman world, which can already be seen broadly in the New Testament (1 Cor 6:9–11, Rom 1:24–27, 1 Thess 4:3– 8, etc.). Following this Jewish inheritance in the New Testament, later Henricus Stephanus, Thesaurus Graecae Linguae (Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1954), vol. 3, cols. 370–371. See also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 218. 20 See the fuller discussion of this evidence in Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 218–220. 21 Harvey A. Shapiro, “Fathers and Sons, Men and Boys,” in Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past, ed. Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, c2003, 2004), 85–111, here 111, fn. 114, states that the boys who served wine were not always slaves, but they were certainly always children, including girls on occasion. 22 On the desirability of smooth skin among boys chosen for sexual pleasure, see Jennifer Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 23. 23 Sibylline Oracles 3.185–187, 3.596–600, 5.166–167, 5.387–589, and 5.430 (ed. Johannes Geffcken, Die Oracula Sibyllina, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller 8 [Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs'sche Buchhandlung, 1902; repr. in the series Greek Texts and Commentaries, New York: Arno Press, 1979], 57–58, 79, 112, 123, and 125). One also finds criticism of the sexual abuse of children in Greco-Roman sources, e.g. Musonius Rufus’ condemnation in harsh terms of a father who took his own son, noted for his “ripe beauty,” and sold him into sexual slavery; see Musonius Rufus, “Must One Obey One’s Parents under All Circumstances?” (ed. and tr. Cora Lutz, “Musonius Rufus: ‘The Roman Socrates,’” Yale Classical Studies 10 [1947], 3–147, here 100–107, especially 102–103).

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Christians also employed paiderasteô to condemn Greco-Roman sexual behavior with children. It is obvious that Christian and Jewish use of this word, which in its original Greco-Roman context was neutral with regard to the value judgment of sexual acts between adults and children, was used in these literatures to imply the condemnation of Greco-Roman practice. From the second century on, Christian writers expanded their assault on the practice of pederasty as it became necessary to censure it in their own ranks. Already an opaque reference lurks in 1 Cor 6:9–11. It is with the appearance of the word paidophthoreō in Christian literature, which this essay argues is of Christian coinage, that the condemnation of sexual behavior between adults and children becomes explicit. As with many other Christian neologisms, there is a trace of a cognate for paidophthoreô that can be clearly identified before the Common Era, but it is scant: paidophthoria has one attestation, occurring in the Testament of Levi (17.11). Every other usage appears in Christian texts. This article argues that the evidence suggests that even this single attestation is the result of Christian influence on the Testament of Levi.24 Paidophthoreô emerges first in the late first or early second century CE and continued in Greek Christian literature into Late Antiquity, never falling out of favor among Christian writers who desired to exhibit their rejection of the sexual abuse of children. The verb is constructed from paid- ‘child’ and phthoreô, a verb derived from a nominal stem, perhaps from a variant of phthorâ, ‘corruption,’ or a post-classical variation of phtheirô, ‘to corrupt’ or ‘be ruined.’ The root phthe/o/ar- has a range of meanings in post-classical usage including ‘seduce,’ ‘corrupt,’ and ‘destroy’; as a noun and adjective; the root phthor- carries the same meaning of ‘destruction,’ ‘ruin,’ ‘seduction,’ ‘seducer,’ ‘corruptor,’ or more generally, ‘one committing injury,’ and ‘one causing destruction.’25 This is the case for the pre-Christian and post-Christian usage of the root phtheir/phthor-. These cognates also refer, 24

See Kurt Niederwimmer, The Didache: A Commentary, tr. Linda M. Maloney, Hermeneia [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998], 89, fn. 7, on the use of the word, paidophthoreō, and his belief that it was constructed by Jewish / Christian moralists. For a fuller discussion of the likely history of paidophthoreô, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 226–230, and the discussion below. 25 See Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958), revised by Henry Stuart Jones (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), 1930, for the entry for “phthora” and its basic meaning of “destruction,” “ruin,” and “corruptor.” In uses by medical authors, such as Galen and Soranus, it can also have the sense of destruction by abortion or miscarriage. More closely related to the sexual aspects of “corruption” and “ruin,” it can be combined to indicate “seducer of virgins” or “seducer of women.” Extended from this, it sometimes has the sense of “rape.” These basic meanings also apply to the verb phtheirô, with the exception of rape. It can be used, however, to refer to the seduction of girls or women and, in the passive sense, to refer to “moral corruption” (Liddell and Scott, 1928).

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if not exclusively then often, to a ‘seducer’ of women.26 As a result, if context does not demand otherwise, the translation of the verb paidophthoreô should assume that the destruction, corruption, or seduction of children, both girls and boys, is referenced and prohibited.27 At this point a working definition is necessary before examining further the Christian texts. Some options, previously used, must be rejected out of hand. The verb has been translated in the past as ‘to sodomize’ which is unacceptable as it does not denote any particular sexual practice, let alone one focused on male homosexual behavior.28 It has also been translated as ‘to commit pederasty,’ an example of which will be offered below, which misses the very point of the verb which has been coined in opposition to those who would argue that sexual relations with children are a form of “eros.” The Greek sources give a generally positive view of pederasty, paiderasteô. This verb is combined from pais, ‘child,’ and eraô, ‘to love sexually’ or ‘to love passionately.’ As such it refers to the sexual “love” of children by adults.29 The positive valuation of pederasty is visible in numerous texts, none of which can be examined here in full. Yet this feature has to be noted to give a sense of the phenomenon of pederasty and its place in Greek culture and society. The standard example of love between a boy and an adult male comes from Greek mythology, especially in the example of Ganymede, the shepherd boy whom Zeus stole while being in the shape of an eagle to bring him to serve at banquets on Mt. Olympus. In ancient texts, this myth serves repeatedly as an example of the truest love and the superiority of pederasty to marital love. Plato spoke approvingly of the love between boys and men on numerous occasions (Symposium 181c, 192b; Phaedrus 237b–241d, etc.; Lysis), as did his contemporary Xenophon (Anabasis 7.4.7; Symposium 4.10–26). While they often proclaimed that a sort of spiritual love is superior to erotic love, erotic love is never denied or condemned. These classical exam26

See Liddell and Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, 1928 and 1930. See also the preceding footnote. 27 Geoffrey W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961), 997, translates the verb paidophthoreô as “to corrupt boys”; the feminine noun as “corruption of boys”; and the masculine noun as “corrupting boys.” The translation is certainly not improper, with its focus on “corruption,” but girls, one might argue, also ought to be included among those who ought not to be corrupted. Although it is certainly true that paiderasteô generally referred to sexual relations between men and boys, paidophthoreô had a wider range of meaning. 28 This is the case for the translation of Didache 2.2 (ed. and tr. Bart D. Ehrman, The Apostolic Fathers, LCL 24 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003], 416–443, here 418, l. 2). 29 See Liddell and Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, 1288, for the translation of paiderasteō as “to be a lover of boys.” This is the same meaning given for the nouns, paiderastēs, “lover of boys,” and paiderastia, “love of boys.”

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ples, however, are not the sole examples of the practice of pederasty in the ancient world. A number of texts which postdate the rise of Christianity indicate that the Greek view of pederasty did not change. Plutarch, in the Dialogue on Love, shared a spirited conversation between a proponent of Eros in the marriage bed, Daphnaeus, and a proponent of pederasty, Protogenes. Both are given ample time to make their arguments, although in the end wedded sexual bliss is seen as the best path. On the other hand, Pseudo-Lucian’s Affairs of the Heart, dated to the early fourth century C.E.,30 decided in favor of pederasty, proclaiming it as best suited to the “privilege only of philosophy.”31 Achilles Tatius, a Greek novelist from Alexandria, whose work is dated to the late third or early fourth century C.E., also offered a discussion of the superiority of Eros between married lovers or pederasty, which he placed into the mouth of some of the characters in his novel Leucippe and Clitophon.32 Yet, regardless of how any one of these texts determined the outcome of the discussions, sex with children – in these cases all boys – was never simply dismissed or condemned. A Greek pagan author could make a case for pederasty, which his characters might accept as the superior life or dismiss, but the argument was accepted as a valid one, long after Christianity rose to prominence. All of these authors indicated the standard cultural view of pederasty in the Greco-Roman world, in discussions that are unimaginable in a Jewish or Christian document. This broader Greco-Roman understanding of pederasty allows us to make religious and cultural sense of paidophthoreô. As has been just seen, “pederasty” referred to the sexual “love” of children by adults. If Christian authors had wished to describe such sexual relations in this way, they could have used the Greek term paiderasteô, as did Philo of Alexandria, who as seen above was no friend of the pederasts, and also as did some Christian writers themselves. The Christian moralists who used paidophthoreô explicitly rejected the notion that those who used children sexually were “lovers” of children. The translation of the verb which this article offers in the end is based on a careful examination of the use of the verb in Christian literature. Details of that examination will be presented below. One also has to take into account that construct verbs in 30 See Matthew D. Macleod, Lucian, LCL 432 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), 147. 31 Pseudo-Lucian, Affairs of the Heart (tr. Matthew D. Macleod, Lucian, LCL 432 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967], 147–235, here 229). 32 See Stephen Gaselee, Achilles Tatius, LCL 45 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917), vii–ix, xiv–xv, for a discussion of the date. See Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon II.35–38 (text and tr. Gaselee, Achilles Tatius, 121–133).

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Greek cannot necessarily be translated with a simplistic equivalence of their various parts. Nevertheless, the context of the use of the verb must direct us to an understanding of the verb as intending to express the corruption, destruction, or seduction of children. As a starting point therefore, this article works with a translation of the verb or noun, as the “destruction – corruption – seduction of children” or “one who destroys – corrupts – seduces children” in order to keep in mind all of the possible meanings of the word. It is obvious that paidophthoreô was intended as a direct response to and rejection of the compound verb paiderasteô, but that does not make its translation straightforward. Apart from determining the best translation of the verb, the discussion here traces the two prongs of this topos, the one directed externally, in the context of Christian apologetics, as a symbol of Christian rejection of the sexual abuse of children in Greco-Roman society, and the other directed internally, as an acknowledgment of the reality of sexual abuse among Christians, as noted already in 1 Cor 6:9–11. Social practices and realities are always more difficult to construct than an outline of literary usage, but the continuous reference to this topos, and the way in which it was utilized, point to warnings directed not simply to the world “outside,” but also within the Christian community itself. The “Jewish” Use of Paidophthoroi: The word paidophthoroi is found only once, in Test. Levi 17:11, a text assigned to the period prior to the Common Era, generally dated to the second century BCE. It is possible that the Greek text of the Testament of Levi as we have it now is the production of Christians, but in origin it is to be regarded as a Jewish text that, like the rest of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs of which it is a part,33 underwent subsequent Christian additions.34 It is generally accepted that many of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Test. XII) were subjected to Christian redaction, although some scholars have argued for a Christian origin.35 While the text history of the See Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ. Volume III.2, revised and edited by Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Martin Goodman (Edinburgh: T&T Clark. 1987), 775, for the date, but especially the discussion preceding it which begins on 769. On 772 a summary on the nature of the text is made: “The Testaments are, therefore, best defined as a Jewish work, related to, but not necessarily deriving from, Qumran, which has survived in a Christian version incorporating a limited amount of easily recognizable editorial modifications and glosses.” 34 Robert A. Kugler, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 31–39. 35 See Howard Dixon Slingerland, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Critical History of Research, SBL Monograph Series 21 (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1997) for an overview of various positions into the late 1970s. See 8–15 for the early33

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Test. XII is complex, the Christian involvement in the production or rewriting of all of these texts is thought to have occurred by the late second to early third century CE, which, of course, might support a Christian origin for this noun.36 Before offering a more fully developed argument for the Christian origin of this noun in the Test. Levi, it is helpful first to examine the use of the noun itself in the text and then return to the issues of origin and dating. While these might not seem to be the most significant questions related to the topic of sexual abuse during childhood in the ancient world, answers to them could give us significant clues as to why Christians alone used paidophthoroi and why, in particular, it was thought necessary to employ the term in the manner in which Christian authors and moralists did use it. In the Testament of Levi the word paidophthoroi describes the wicked priests at the end of time.37 The text argues that these priests become increasingly more debased until they have turned into idolaters, adulterers, those who are paidophthoroi and those who practice bestiality (ktēnophthoroi), among other moral violations. The pericope in which paidophthoroi occurs (17:10–11) is confused in structure, which likely is due to the passage having been excerpted in fragmentary form from another text.38 Test. Levi 17:1–9 presents an apocalyptic timetable portraying the

nineteenth-century consensus on Christian origins and 47–89 for the revived twentiethcentury position of Marinus de Jonge, Józef T. Milik, and Jean Daniélou. See also Marinus de Jonge, “The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: Christian and Jewish,” in Jewish Eschatology, Early Christian Christology and the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: Collected Essays of Marinus de Jonge (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 233–243. 36 Kugler, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 36; Marinus de Jonge, “The Testaments of The Twelve Patriarchs as a Document Transmitted by Christians,” in M. de Jonge, Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament as Part of Christian Literature: The Case of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and the Greek Life of Adam and Eve (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 84–106. More difficult to prove is that an interpolated text such as the Test. XII might have been influenced by a Christian or Jewish oral catechetical tradition passed on in the Early Church. 37 Test. of Levi 3.17.11.3 (ed. Marinus de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs. A Critical Edition of the Greek Text [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1978],129–183, here 45). 38 For the text history of the Testament of Levi see Marinus de Jonge, “The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and Related Qumran Fragments,” in M. de Jonge, Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament as Part of Christian Literature: The Case of The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and the Greek Life of Adam and Eve (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2003), 107–123; Marinus de Jonge, “The Testament of Levi and Aramaic Levi,” in M. de Jonge, Jewish Eschatology, Early Christian Christology and the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: Collected Essays of Marinus de Jonge (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 244–262; Michael E. Stone, “Remarks on the Aramaic Testament of Levi from the Geniza,” in M. E. Stone, Selected Studies in Pseudepigrapha and Apocrypha (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 228–246; and Jürgen Becker, “Die Semitischen Parallelstücke zu TL, TN und TJUD,” in Jürgen

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corruption of the priesthood, organized in seven weeks (cf. Daniel 9). The passage in question, 17:10–11, jumps back to the fifth week in which the house of the Lord is restored (17:10), even though the fifth week has previously been called a time of darkness (17:6). It reprises week seven, as one of lawlessness run amok (17:11), omitting any discussion of the sixth week previously mentioned in 17:7. Harm W. Hollander and Marinus de Jonge translate 17:10–11 as follows: And in the fifth week they will return to their desolate country and they will renew the house of the Lord. And in the seventh week the priests will come, (who are) idolators, contentious, lovers of money, arrogant, lawless, lascivious, abusers of children and beasts.39

These particular sexual practices, the text suggests, will be a common phenomenon just prior to the end of time. The condemnation occurs in the context of delineating the sins of a corrupt Jewish priesthood. This does suggest the Jewish origin of the text, as there would be no Christian motive to criticize the Jewish priesthood in a future sense a generation or two after the destruction of the Temple. Whether the historical time frame for the authorship of this text can be clearly determined on this basis, as Robert H. Charles suggested, is another matter, but not significant for our purposes.40 The author does not seem to be condemning current practices among the Jewish priesthood, unless Charles is correct that the author is writing of priests during the Hasmonean reign,41 but using apocalyptic language and

Becker, Untersuchungen zur Entstehungsgeschichte der Testamente der Zwölf Patriarchen (Leiden: Brill, 1970), 69–104. 39 Harm W. Hollander and Marinus de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Commentary (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 173. Robert H. Charles, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1908), 62, presents an almost identical translation for 17:10, with the exception of two verb choices (‘shall’ for ‘will’); 17:11 is identical. Cf. also Howard Clark Kee, “Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Volume 1, ed. James Charlesworth (New York: Doubleday, 1983), 775–828, here 794, who offers the translation as follows: “And in the fifth week they shall return to the land of their desolation, and shall restore anew the house of the Lord. In the seventh week there will come priests: idolaters, adulterers, money lovers, arrogant, lawless, voluptuaries, pederasts, those who practice bestiality.” It should be noted that Kee’s translation of paidophthoroi as ‘pederasts’ must be rejected; as already discussed above, the use of paidophthoroi is a rejection of the Greek practioners of “pederasty,” or sexual ‘lovers’ of children. 40 Charles, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 173. 41 Charles, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 62, n. 11, for instance, dated this portion of the text to the time of the Antiochean persecution, stating with conviction that “this verse refers to the Hellenistic chief priests who joined with Antiochus Epiphanes in his attack on Judaism.”

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describing forbidden practices that imply how far the priesthood will fall prior to the eschaton. Elias Bickerman did not read this text as Charles did, that is, as reflecting criticism of priests at a particular historical period of time. Instead he believed that 17:10–11, in which paidophthoroi appears, is a part of an interpolation from an apocalyptic text now lost to us.42 Bickerman argued that 17:10–11 is a fragment of a longer and more complex passage listing the sins of the priesthood and that Test. Levi 17, in whole or in part, is a fragment of an apocalypse that also included Test. Levi 15–16 and 18.43 The Jewish character of this now-lost source for these four chapters seems certain: in addition to the list of the sins of the priesthood, Enoch is mentioned twice.44 It remains to be demonstrated that a Christian redactor placed the fragment of this lost work into Test. Levi.45 Despite the arguments favoring a Jewish source for Test. Levi 17, the word paidophthoreô may have been inserted into the list of sins or substituted for an original word with similar meaning (such as paidoeraô) to reflect Christian moral concerns. The earliest manuscripts of Test. Levi are Aramaic and Hebrew fragments from Qumran and the Cairo Genizah.46 Naturally, these Greek words do not appear in these texts and it is also the case that, as Emil Schürer formulated, the Greek texts as a whole could have arisen from “an abbreviation and free reworking by Greek-speaking Jews of one, if not several, of the recensions of the Semitic Testaments.” This origin of the Greek version does not rule out the possibility that paidophthoroi is a Christian interpolation. As Schürer saw, “it goes without saying that it was on the Greek version(s) that Christian editorial activity was subsequently exercised.” Such activity could have been influenced by the Didache or the Epistle of Barnabas, both of which contain paidophthoreô, and both of which date to around the turn of the second century CE.47

42

Elias Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” Journal of Biblical Literature 69.3 (1950), 245–260. 43 Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” 248–249 and 251–253. 44 Michael E. Stone, “Enoch, Aramaic Levi and Sectarian Origins,” in M. E. Stone, Selected Studies in Pseudepigrapha and Apocrypha (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 247–258. 45 See Harm W. Hollander, “The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” in Outside the Old Testament, ed. Marinus de Jonge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 71–91, here 72–74. 46 See note 38 above for full scholarly examinations of this issue and Schürer, The History of the Jewish People. Volume III.2, 772, fn. 19, and 775–778, for a summary of scholarship. 47 Schürer, The History of the Jewish People. Volume III.2, 774.

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One can cite further evidence in support of a later Christian interpolation. There is more than just this historical coincidence, however, as to when paidophthoroi and paidophthoreō first appeared in written form. Bickerman stressed that the Aramaic and Hebrew recensions (or cognate texts) for the Test. Levi do not contain chapter 17 in which the word paidophthoroi appears.48 Test. Levi itself has long been acknowledged as different from the other Test. XII in a number of ways. This is seen in the addition of a Messianic hymn and the prophecy of seven jubilees and the priesthood in chapters 17 and 18, which Bickerman categorized as “a very obscure fragment of some later apocalypse.”49 Bickerman also noted that the hymn continued on to proclaim that after the punishment of the current priesthood, a new Messianic priest was to be raised up who would “be different from the ancient, Levitic, order of priesthood.50 For Bickerman, this indicated the Christian origin of these additions in chapters 17 and 18. He went on to say that copyists were particularly prone to add apocalyptic texts ... In the Test. Levi the mention of the ‘Seventy Weeks’ in an (inserted) passage (16,1) attracted a second interpolation about jubilees (17, 1–9) and a third one, a fragment of some piece, which divided history into seven weeks (17, 10–11).51

Bickerman concluded that each of these passages from Test. Levi emerged from a Christian hand. Although scholars have debated whether the original texts were Semitic, Greek, or whether there is a “body” of “testament” literature or traditions from which the Greek authors or translators drew in creating their own texts, one may follow Bickerman and assume that these passages in Test. Levi are Christian interpolations, whatever the history of the development of the texts themselves and whether now they ought to be considered in their own right as “Christian” texts. In addition to arguments from the text forwarded by Bickerman, there are linguistic reasons for suspecting that paidophthoroi does not emerge from a Jewish milieu. This term, and the related ktēnophthoroi, meaning “corruptors – destroyers – seducers of animals,” do not have Hebrew or Aramaic cognates. No Hebrew or Aramaic equivalent for chapter 17 exists, it is true, but even without it, we are aware that these words do not directly translate any known Semitic terms. There is no Hebrew or Aramaic equivalent for paidophthoroi, conceptually let alone directly, and the words which the LXX uses to translate Hebrew for ‘bestiality’ do not mimic ktēnophthoroi. 48

Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” 248. Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” 253. 50 Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” 253. 51 Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” 248. 49

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Lending credence to a Greek origin for these terms is that the respective section of the text of Test. Levi does not appear in any of the Aramaic or Hebrew fragments of the text found either at Qumran or in the Cairo Genizah, as noted earlier. It appears, therefore, that these words have been coined in Greek and are not translations of Hebrew or Aramaic terms. It is still possible, however, that these terms represent innovations of a Jewish author in Greek, but apart from previously noted textual and literary issues, this seems unlikely. One term, paidophthoroi, never again appears in a Jewish text, which would be odd if the term emerged from a Jewish provenance. Instead, it continues to appear in Christian texts, which in turn suggests a Christian origin and subsequent application to the Testament of Levi. Ktênophthoroi, which has a common cognate in Greek, ktênobatês, does not appear again in any extant text. This strongly suggests that its origin lies in being “attracted” to paidophthoroi by an editor or author detailing in list form the sins of the wicked priests at the end of time.52 One might speculate that the term was not used subsequently because it did not reflect a particularly striking moral issue among Christians or pagans. Also, there is no equivalent positive term for ‘bestiality’ such as ‘pederasty’ and so this word is an anomaly of this text, created as a counterpart to paidophthoroi, but not needed to drive home a continuing moral point. Ktênobatês does not have the same positive connotations that could be drawn from paiderastēs and ktênophthoroi does not seem to have been constructed as a replacement or in opposition to ktênobatês. In working through this issue the Christian origin of the word paidophthoreô emerges, even apart from Bickerman’s arguments for interpolation. It is quite clear that at the most basic, surface level, phthor- replaces a less condemnatory, or morally neutral, word, that of sexual “lover,” to express a heightened moral revulsion of either an author or a tradition at improper sexual practices. It seems likely, too, that paidophthoroi was coined first, prior to ktênophthoroi that is, as a direct response to and rejection of paiderastês. Paidophthoroi itself “matches” paiderastês lexically, albeit in opposition to it, suggesting a moral response along the lines of, “not only are you not ‘lovers of children,’ you are ‘corruptors – seducers – destroyers of children.’” If this is the case then ktênophthoroi took on the form of its neighboring word paidophthoroi in a form of elision or imitation. To summarize the results of this discussion, Test. Lev. 17:10–11 is a Christian interpolation which has no counterpart in the older Aramaic or Hebrew witnesses, independent of the question of the relationship of these two transmissions. Paidophthoroi appears only in Christian texts other 52 The only reference to this word in Lampe’s Patristic Lexicon is to its occurrence in Test. Levi; it does not occur in Liddell-Scott.

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than Test. Levi. Bickerman dated the Hebrew Vorlage of the Greek Test. Lev. as emerging from the period circa 225–175 BCE,53 a dating that is widely accepted. It seems implausible that these new words would have emerged at the beginning of the Hellenistic period in a Jewish context and then have lain fallow for the next four centuries in Jewish and Christian literature. A more plausible explanation is that paidophthoroi is a Christian interpolation, imported either from an existing Christian text, which is most likely, or from a still-current Christian oral tradition. This is not to suggest that the word could not have emerged out of the Jewish moral tradition, just that the evidence points quite clearly to this word as a particular Christian term. Paidophthoreô in Christian Sources54 As noted above, the first two instances of the usage of the verb paidophthoreô come in the Didache and the Epistle of Barnabas (Ep. Barn.). In both cases, a form of paidophthoreô appears in a list of precepts modeled on the language of Exod 20:2–16, Lev 19:9–19, or Deut 5:6–22(19). The Didache offers twenty-two commandments, while the Epistle of Barnabas has approximately forty-three commands and prohibitions, although it is possible to come to a different number depending on how one parses the text. There are clear similarities at many points between the two texts. The prohibition against the sexual use of children comes in both texts in the middle of prohibitions against adultery and fornication. Both texts also contain prohibitions against abortion and infanticide. Didache 2.2 places the teaching ou paidophthorêseis ‘do not destroy – corrupt – seduce children’ in the middle of the revised list of commandments in which the prohibitions on abortion and infanticide are formulated.55 Following the commandments that forbid murder and adultery one finds a prohibition against the sexual abuse of children. The same constellation is to be found in Ep. Barn. 19.4, where, subsequent to commandments prohibiting fornication and adultery one reads ou paidophthorêseis ‘do not destroy – corrupt – seduce children.’56 Following this one finds in Ep. Barn. 19:5 a prohibition against abortion, setting this text in a context that is similar to that in the Didache. This list of commandments, adding behaviors more commonly 53

See Bickerman, “The Date of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” 253–260, for his careful and convincing reasons for dating. 54 Data used in the following discussion is also analyzed in Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 226–230. 55 Didache 2.2 (ed. and tr. Ehrman, The Apostolic Fathers, vol. 1, 416–443, here 418, l. 2). 56 Epistle of Barnabas 19.4 (ed. and tr. Bart D. Ehrman, Apostolic Fathers, vol. 2, LCL 25 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003], 12–83, here p. 76, l. 10).

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found among Greeks and Romans than Jews, seems to imply a number of key factors. Lists like these were constructed in a Greco-Roman context, most plausibly from one or more Christian sources. The commandment not to abuse children sexually was likely part of an oral catechetical tradition prior to being assembled in a written collection. Another possibility is that one of these two authors simply coined paidophthoreô and the other adopted it, but it seems more likely that the verb gave expression to an early Christian topos which had existed already prior to its literary use in Christian catechesis and apologetics and which could have been adopted by each one of these authors independently from one another. These teachings express basic Judeo-Christian moral teachings, including some of the actual Ten Commandments, but they also incorporate teachings that address new moral situations in a shifting cultural context. It seems that these lists cannot be seen simplistically as concerned with behavior outside of the church, but must be viewed as directed primarily at behavior within the church or by members of the church and secondarily for apologetic purposes.57 Just as the priestly Holiness Code in Leviticus 19 adopted the language of the Ten Commandments as a stylistic appeal to authority, these two related lists in the Didache and Ep. Barn. suggest to the reader the force of divine law. The prohibition against paidophthoria and its novelty in Jewish and Christian Greek literature clearly indicate that this was a behavior in Christian communities. Clement of Alexandria represented a slightly later use of the topos than the Didache and the Ep. Barn., but his work reflects the same literary context, possibly borrowing directly from the earlier texts.58 Exhortation to the Greeks (Protrepticus) 10.108.5 has ou paidophthorêseis in a context similar to that found in the Didache and Ep. Barn. This command comes in the middle of a new Christian list of commandments, implying that paidophthoria is as serious a crime as theft, adultery and murder. Clement introduced the list of commandments by stating that these laws (nomoi) were from the lawgiver (nomothetês), God. Clement said that one could follow Solon, Argive, or Lycurgus, but if one wanted to be a citizen of God’s country, heaven, one should follow God’s laws.59 Clement’s argument worked towards showing that the law against sexually abusing children

Markus Bockmuehl, Jewish Law for Gentile Churches: Halakhah and the Beginning of Christian Public Ethics (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic Press, 2003), 229–230. 58 See also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 227. 59 Clement of Alexandria, Protreptikos X.108.5 (ed. Miroslav Marcovich, Clementis Alexandrini. Protrepticus, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 34 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995], 158, l. 16). 57

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was a part of God’s commandments for all people and as such represented the eternal law. In Paedagogus 3.12.89, this prohibition is found again in the middle of other prohibitions concerning adultery, idolatry, theft, and bearing false witness, and is placed before the positive commandment to honor one’s mother and father. Like the previous citation, this prohibition is equated with God’s law as found in the Ten Commandments. Clement attributed these laws directly to God. These laws (nomoi) were from the lawgiver (nomothetês) Moses, via the divine mind. Earlier Clement had stated that these laws reflected the teachings of Jesus himself in the Great Commandment, embodied in the love of God and neighbor.60 Clement did not suggest anywhere that the commandment not to abuse children sexually was not directly from God or that it represented law at a “lesser” level, reflecting, that is, cultural norms of a particular people. The same prohibition also occurs in Clement’s Paedagogus 2.10.88 and 2.10.89, again following prohibitions of fornication and adultery in 2.10.89, whereas in 2.10.88 it is coupled with adultery alone and is attributed to Moses.61 In Stromateis 3.4.36, the command is paired with the prohibition on adultery, but here it is not directly attributed to Moses.62 In consideration of Clement and the close parallels with the Didache and the Ep. Barn., the earliest sources include the command not to abuse children sexually in a list of divine commandments. For these early Christian sources, paidophthoria was a behavior which could not be countenanced and had to have the authority of God’s condemnation to drive home the Christian rejection of this practice. Given that the weight of the divine commandments would rest most powerfully on the consciences of those who were Christians, one may contend that denunciations of such abuse were directed at Christians who were accustomed to such sexual practices or tolerated them. While the prohibition may have been formulated orally at the time of the Didache and the Ep. Barn., or just prior, and while these authors might have borrowed directly from such variant oral traditions, this form of explanation might apply with lesser likelihood to Clement of Alexandria, since, at least theoretically, a written source was available to him. It is difficult to argue with certainty for the direct literary dependence of Clement 60

Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 3.12.89 (ed. Miroslav Marcovich and J. C. M. van Winden, Clementis Alexandrini. Paedagogus, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 61 [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2002], 197, 1.28). 61 Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 2.10.88 (ed. Marcovich and van Winden, Clementis Alexandrini. Paedagogus, 123). 62 Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis 3.4.36 (eds. Otto Stählin and Ludwig Früchtel, Clemens Alexandrinus. Zweiter Band. Stromata. Buch I–VI, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller [Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1960], 212, l. 23).

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on the Didache or the Ep. Barn. The direct connection to God’s law and Moses himself, although clearly implied by the earlier texts, was made explicit by Clement himself. In one respect, however, Clement did have a precursor in defining the divine nature of the law against sexual abuse. The noun, paidophthoros, occurs in Ep. Barn. 10.6 in a discussion of the Mosaic dietary laws, in which the prohibition against eating rabbit (Lev 11:6; Deut 14:7) is explained as a metaphor indicating the prohibition of the seduction of children.63 Paidophthoros is used on other occasions in the second century, by Tatian, Justin Martyr, and Theophilus in particular, and their writings allow the modern audience to see another dimension of the Christian denunciation of the sexual use of children by adults. Tatian employed the noun to denounce and ridicule Greek gods, calling them paidophthoroi and adulterers.64 This accusation also was raised in Pseudo-Justin’s third-century Oration against the Greeks.65 In these sources the denunciation of the gods as paidophthoroi is not to be found in commandment lists but rather is paired with adulterers as in Didache 2.2, Ep. Barn. 19.4, and Clement of Alexandria. This is a common link in the second-century use of paidophthoreô, even when, as in Tatian, the word is used in an apologetic sense to ridicule the gods, who are no better than mortals. This apologetic use, which was intended to be read by non-Christians, indicates that the term was in use outside of Christian discourse, implying further that paidophthoreô was understood clearly as a rejection of adult-child sex, even by those who were not Christians and not accustomed to its catechetical use in a Christian context. Such denunciations and rejections, part of a larger early Christian polemic against Greco-Roman religions, was stock-in-trade for other secondcentury apologetical texts. In his Dialogue with Trypho 95.1, Justin Martyr stated in an offhanded manner that the Jews had not been able to follow all of the laws given to them, and so, continuing the Apostle Paul’s polemic, 63

Epistle of Barnabas 10.6 (ed. Ehrman, Apostolic Fathers, vol. 2, p. 48, l. 12). The noun also occurs in feminine form in Origen (see first three references to Origen below in fn. 69) and Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 2.10.88 (ed. Marcovich and van Winden, Clementis Alexandrini Paedagogus, 123, l. 3). Theophilus of Antioch, To Autolycus 3.27 (ed. and tr. Robert M. Grant, Theophilus of Antioch. Ad Autolycum. Text and Translation [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970], 140) employs a composite of noun and verb (pai'da" dievfqeiren). 64 Tatian, Oration to the Greeks 8.1 (ed. and tr. Molly Whittaker. Tatian. “Oratio ad Graecos” and Fragments, Oxford Early Christian Texts [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982], 14, l. 14). 65 Pseudo-Justin Martyr, Oration to the Greeks 2 (tr. Marcus Dods, “[Justin Martyr] The Discourse to the Greeks,” Ante-Nicene Fathers 1 [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1913], 271–272, here 271).

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he argued that they remained under a curse. With a rhetorical question, the argument is extended a fortiori to condemn the “nations,” qualified as idolaters and paidophthorountes.66 Theophilus’s To Autolycus 1.9 charged Zeus with incest, adultery, and paidophthoria. Here Theophilus directed the reader who wished to know the sordid details to Homer.67 As with earlier Christian authors, Justin and Theophilus saw the sexual abuse of children as the height of Gentile depravity and indicative of those without God’s law. From the late first and into the second century paidophthoreô indicated divine displeasure and was a part of the apologetical battery thrown up at the Greco-Roman opponents of the Christians. Later Christian Reception of Paidophthoreô68 Origen (ca. 180–250) listed paidophthoria along with adultery and the use of abortifacients.69 While clearly echoing earlier Christian listings of moral guidelines, the four remarks in his extant writings reveal particular developments. Commenting on Matt 18:15 and using material derived from other unnamed sources, Origen presented a short list of serious sins that Christians might commit. These included murder, poisoning, and paidophthoria.70 Comments at three other instances are similarly disposed. In Fragments on Ephesians 24.4, paidophthoria is one of the sins of the flesh in the Christian body.71 Origen’s fertile imagination read the leaven forbidden on the Passover (Exod 12:15, 19; 13:7) as a type of forbidden sexual activity, including paidophthoria: those possessing this leaven and those committing this “Christian” offense will both be put to death. The former will suffer a physical death, the latter, an eschatological one.72 Finally, in his Commentary on John, Origen described the evil desires found in those Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 95.1 (ed. Miroslav Marcovich, Iustini Martyris Dialogus cum Tryphone [Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 1997], 234, l. 8). 67 Theophilus of Antioch, To Autolycus 1.9 (ed. and tr. Grant, Theophilus of Antioch. Ad Autolycum, 12–13). 68 For the presentation and discussion of this material, see also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 227–230. 69 Origen of Alexandria, Commentary on Matthew 18:15 (ed. PG 13.3:825–1600, here col. 1173); Origen of Alexandria, Fragments on Ephesians 24.4 (ed. John A. F. Gregg, “The Commentary of Origen upon the Epistle to the Ephesians,” Journal of Theological Studies 3 [1902], 233–244, 398–420, and 554–576, here 559); Origen of Alexandria, Commentary on John 20.22.178.2 (ed. Erwin Preuschen, Origenes. Vierter Band, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller [Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1903], 354); and Origen, Selecta in Exodum 12.284.54 (ed. PG 12:281–298, here 284). 70 Origen of Alexandria, Commentary on Matthew 18:15 (ed. PG 13.3:1173). 71 Origen of Alexandria, Fragments on Ephesians 24.4 (ed. Gregg, “The Commentary of Origen upon the Epistle to the Ephesians,” 559). 72 Origen, Selecta in Exodum 12.284.54 (ed. PG 12:284). 66

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who participated in fornication, adultery, and paidophthoria.73 Significantly, in Origen there is no mention of the wicked Greco-Romans of the earlier sources examined above; Christians had made paidophthoria a sin of their own. Origen did not draw special attention to the sexual abuse of children as such, although he did mention it on four occasions, which suggests that these were sufficiently common sins in the Christian community. The accusation of paidophthoria reflects the changing targets of Christian apologetical literature. In place of the Greco-Romans, now opponents within Christianity became paidophthorountes. Epiphanius denounced the sexual abuse of children in his Ancoratus, a text in which he compiled a list of heretical Christian groups and their practices.74 In Ancoratus 105.9, he described an heretical Christian leader as a “teacher of paidophthorōn.” Naturally, Epiphanius spoke of this leader, one who was presiding over others, including children, in a thoroughly negative tone. That it concerns Christian “heretics” does not render his criticism beyond the bounds of Christianity. Epiphanius would certainly disagree, but ancient Christianity is not simply co-extensive with “orthodox” Christianity, and one could not place such a teacher in the pagan world, either. Such abuse of opponents was quite common in the ancient world, including ancient Christianity,75 and the fact of voicing an accusation certainly does not render such an accusation true. Yet it is telling at least that the charge of having sex with children is now offered as a charge against a person in one’s own community and not against the notorious “other” in the pagan world. As Chris73

Origen of Alexandria, Commentary on John 20.22.178.2 (ed. Preuschen, Origenes. Vierter Band, 354). 74 See Epiphanius, Ancoratus 105 (ed. PG 43:17–256, here 208). 75 The study of ancient rhetoric, Greek and Roman, is quite advanced, but so, too, is the study of ancient Christian rhetoric. On the other hand there is less discussion available on intra-Christian polemical debates and techniques in general than one might expect. Most studies focus on the techniques of a particular Christian author and his rhetorical assaults on his chosen opponents. See George A. Kennedy, Greek Rhetoric under Christian Emperors (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 188, 197–199, 208–210, and 258–264; George A. Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric and Its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1980), 135; and George A. Kennedy, The Art of Rhetoric in the Roman World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1972), 610–613. See also Andreas Spira, “The Impact of Christianity on Ancient Rhetoric,” Studia Patristica 18.2 (1989), 137– 153. Spira argued that the intra-church debates of the fourth century recreated the polemical political situations needed for powerful persuasive rhetoric (139–140). For excellent studies of individual Christian authors engaged in intra-Christian polemics, see Robert D. Sider, Ancient Rhetoric and the Art of Tertullian (London: Oxford University Press, 1971), especially 24–40, 56–60, and 95–100; and George Christopher Stead, “Rhetorical Method in Athanasius,” Vigiliae Christianae 30 (1976), 121–137, especially 129– 137 for the use of invalid philosophical arguments in Athanasius’s debates with Arians.

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tians began to develop a more sophisticated field of doctrinal polemics associated with specific individuals, the charge of paidophthoria came to rest on the heads of personal opponents. In Adversus Eunomium 6.6, Gregory Nazianzen accused his opponents (Eunomius and his followers) of being adulterers and sexual abusers of children. This kind of accusation does not necessarily have its basis in truth, but in Gregory and Epiphanius it suited the authors as an epithet to throw at opponents, perhaps because it was difficult to think of a worse crime with which one could accuse them. It is also possible that Epiphanius and Gregory of Nazianzen were speaking of the “corrupting” doctrine which the heretical teacher proffered, even though this seems unlikely. The phrase “teacher of paidophthorôn” indicates not a specific style of teaching or the content of doctrine, but the concrete behavior which is itself corrupting. The term always seems to possess sexual connotations and, when combined with Gregory’s use of “adultery” in combination with the charge of paidophthoria, this seems to cement its application to oppents as an accusation of actual behavior. Fourth- and fifth-century occurrences of paidophthoreô and its cognates slavishly depended on earlier literary forms for their use of paidophthoria, transmitting both the anti-Greco-Roman apologetic genre and its Listenwissenschaft of taboo sexual relations. In three passages in Against the Nations, Athanasius of Alexandria criticized the Greek gods, especially Zeus, who he said in 26.16 was both an adulterer and abuser of children and who had taught these practices to the Greeks.76 In 15.18, Athanasius just spoke broadly of Zeus’ immoralities, while claiming that the other gods were guilty of the sexual abuse of children. In 12.38, the gods were again blamed for this behavior. Yet Athanasius stated that many Greeks decried the practice, while nevertheless serving gods who engaged in it. The Life of Antony 74.3 had its hero ask some wise Greeks who came to dispute with him whether it was more beautiful to worship the cross or to honor the gods who committed adultery and sexually abused children.77 In each

Athanasius of Alexandria, Against the Gentiles 12.38, 15.18, and 26.16 (ed. and tr. Robert W. Thomson, Contra gentes; and, De Incarnatione. Athanasius [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971], 2–133, here 36, 42, and 70). On Zeus as model for pederasts, see also Cornelia B. Horn, “The Pseudo-Clementines and the Challenges of the Conversion of Families,” lectio difficilior. European Electronic Journal for Feminist Exegesis 2 (2007), http://www.lectio.unibe.ch/07_2/horn.htm. 77 Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Antony 74.3 (ed. and tr. Gerhard J. M. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie: Vie d’Antoine, Sources chrétiennes 400 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1994], 324–325; tr. Robert C. Gregg, Athanasius: The Life of Antony and the Letter to Marcellinus [Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1980], 29–99, here 84–85). 76

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of these cases, Athanasius reflected the Christian apologetic refrain that it was the Greco-Roman gods who were impious, not the Christians.78 The fifth-century Life and Miracles of St Thecla attributed to Basil of Seleucia contains a list of the unsavory attributes of the Greco-Roman deities, shaming them as adulterers, fornicators, pederasts, and practitioners of incest and paidophthoria.79 This is the first text in which both pederasty and paidophthoria appear together. Thus, the criticism here might strictly be a catch-all of all possible terms of derision, or the use of paidophthoreô had become so traditional that the distinction between paidophthoreô and paiderasteô had become lost. Two Pseudo-Athanasian tracts, the Collection of Teaching for Monks and Instruction of the Three Hundred Eighteen Nicene Fathers reflect the commandments tradition regarding paidophthoreô.80 These texts also appear to be dependent upon the earliest Christian denunciations, since they reproduce the form of the lists of revised commandments found in the early second-century sources. Both texts state that one should not murder, commit adultery, use abortifacients, or abuse children sexually, among other prohibitions. John Chrysostom referred to paidophthoreô only once, and on this occasion he counted the sexual abusers of children with those who were lustful and gluttonous, in On Repentance, sermon 2.81 The Apostolic Constitutions included the behavior in the more general category of homosexual acts when it stated oude paidophthorêseis and then described “the evil of Sodom” as “contrary to nature.”82 It remains possible, of course, that “the evil of Sodom” in the author’s mind was the corruption of children specifically or perhaps that most often the sexual abuse of children involved adult males abusing boys, as was discussed earlier on in terms of 1 Corinthians 6:9–11. The works ascribed to Ephraem Graecus, a vast and largely unresearched heterogeneous corpus of ascetical literature from Late Antiquity 78

As is known, Athanasius’s authorship of Life of Antony is in question. Yet it is still the case that the text reflects the use of paidophthoria at the time of Athanasius’s and Antony’s lives. 79 Pseudo-Basil of Seleucia, De vita et miraculis sanctae Theclae bk. 1 (ed. PG 85:477–617, here 497). 80 See Pseudo-Athanasius, Syntagma doctrinae ad monachos 1.5.2 (ed. Henri Hyvernat, “Le Syntagma Doctrinae dit de Saint Athanase,” in Studia Patristica. Études d’ancienne littérature chrétienne [Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1890], fasc. 2, 119–160, here 122); and Pseudo-Athanasius, Didascalia cccxviii patrum Nicaenorum (ed. PG 28:1637–1644, here col. 1639, l. 40). 81 John Chrysostom, On Penitence, sermon 2 (ed. PG 60:699–706, here col. 699, l. 28). 82 Apostolic Constitutions 7.2.10 (ed. and tr. Marcel Metzger, Les Constitutions Apostoliques, Tome III, Livres VII et VIII , Sources chrétiennes 336 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1987], 30–31).

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and the Middle Ages provides numerous lists of moral crimes which include the sexual abuse of children.83 The lists which include paidophthoreô bear some resemblance to those in Clement, the Ep. Barn., and the Didache, but they do not imitate them directly, neither in order nor in content. Adult-child sex and the sexual abuse of children exist in any population. Whether these lists that witness to the thriving Listenwissenschaft of Christian ascetical and ethical literature are rhetorical lists of sins that ascetics would have ‘put on’ themselves as forms of self-abasement or show a genuine awareness and concern with this practice is difficult to ascertain, especially in a corpus as problematic as Ephraem Graecus. From this corpus, Questions and Responses 80, l. 8, lists a series of sins which the respondent is called upon to renounce, in the form of “I renounce” or “I give up.” One of the sins listed therein is that of sexually abusing children. It is also possible that there were monks who engaged in these practices.84 A list similar to all the others may be found in the remnants of Pseudo-Polemon.85 Conclusion Apart from the use of the verb paidophthoreô, the related nouns, and the topos as a whole, Christian authors often condemned the abuse of children sexually in general.86 In these passages, as in the passages just examined, 83 Ephraem Graecus, “Sermon on the Second Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ” (ed. Konstantin G. Phrantzolas, Hōsiou Ephraim tou Syrou Erga, vol. 4 [Thessalonikē: Ekdoseis to Periboli tēs Panagias, 1992], 9–46, here 17, l. 11 and 26, l. 3); Ephraem Graecus, “Questions and Answers” (ed. Phrantzolas, Hōsiou Ephraim tou Syrou Erga, vol. 4, 76– 110, here 80, l. 8 and 89, l. 7); and Ephraem Graecus, “On Virtues and Mental Passions” (ed. Phrantzolas, Hōsiou Ephraim tou Syrou Erga, vol. 5 [Thessaloniki: Ekdoseis to Periboli tēs Panagias, 1994], 392–410, here 396, ll. 3–4). For discussion of the material from Ephraem Graecus, see also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 230. 84 See Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” chapter 8 on children and asceticism. See especially Apophthegmata Patrum, Sayings of Arsenius 28; Amoun of Nitria 3; Carion 3; Cassian 2; (tr. Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers. The Alphabetical Collection, Cistercian Studies Series 59 [London: A. R. Mowbray & Co. Ltd.; Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1975], 13–14, 32, 113, and 118). See also Philip Rousseau, “Blood-Relationships among Early Eastern Ascetics,” Journal of Theological Studies 23 (1972), 135–144, for sayings which indicate that sexual temptation lurks in the relationships of an adult monk and a child. Sexual temptation in general was an issue for many of the monks, but the temptation of sex with children can also clearly be located in their sayings. 85 Pseudo-Polemon, Physiognomonica 17.11 (ed. Richard Foerster, Scriptores physiognomonici Graeci et Latini [Leipzig: Teubner, 1893], vol. 1, 297–431, here 327). 86 See for example the general condemnations in Tatian, Oratio ad Graecos 28 (ed. and tr. Whittaker, Tatian. Oratio ad Graecos and Fragments, 52–53); Theophilus, To Au-

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the Christians were engaging in polemic regarding a common practice among their neighbors. Without question, their criticism had become part of a stereotyped Christian list, a stock arsenal of charges, but it is also clear that such sexual abuse of children was a part of common Greco-Roman practice. As Christians began to engage their culture both apologetically and critically they challenged that practice, in part by coining a new word for what they observed and knew took place among the Greeks and Romans. Christians did not refer to the person who had sex with children as the “(sexual) lover of children” (paiderastês), but as the “destroyer – corruptor – seducer of children” (paidophthoros).87 The protection of children from sexual advances, at least in the case of boys, may be the one area of morality in which early Christianity was truly countercultural. This study of paidophthoreô reveals some perhaps surprising results. Many times the passages that deal with the issue of sexual abuse are directed straightforwardly at Christian audiences and sometimes they come in apologetic works that at least pretend to envision non-Christian Greeks or Romans as hearers. Yet often in these cases it is the Greek gods who are under attack and not necessarily the Christians’ neighbors. Whether the authors are speaking to Christians or pagans, it is clear that the critique of the sexual abuse of children was a significant theme of Christian morality that promised the possibility of altering children’s lives for the better.88 In this respect, Christians challenged what they perceived were the corrupt norms of the prevailing morality in clear and pronounced terms. Also, they often pointed the finger at themselves, calling the adherents of the Christian way to turn from the sin of sexual abuse by including it in lists of divine commandments, promulgated by Moses and, ultimately, by God. What then is the best translation of the word paidophthoreô? Is it to corrupt, to seduce, or to destroy? Or is it some combination of these? It is difficult to decide among these possible translations, since some aspects of tolycus 1.2 (ed. and tr. Grant, Theophilus of Antioch. Ad Autolycum, 4–5); Athenagoras, A Plea for the Christians 34.1 (ed. Miroslav Marcovich, Athenagoras. Legatio Pro Christianis [Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 1990], 106); and Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 2.10, 3.3, and 3.4 (ed. Marcovich and van Winden, Clementis Alexandrini Paedagogus, 120–121, 123, 160, 164, ll. 6–7). 87 See also Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 226–230. 88 Odd M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 141–149, discusses the reality of sexual relations between children and men in the Christian Church and notes that the Council of Elvira (306 CE), canon 71, stipulates excommunication for those who have sex with boys (141). He also proposes that the fact that only one council saw fit to deal with the question suggests that such practices, although they were real, did not occur frequently (149). It is difficult to decide whether the present study indicates greater frequency of such practices than Bakke suggests or simply continuing Christian vigilance about these matters.

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each are needed to accurately portray the nuances of the word. Whichever word is chosen to translate phthor-, one must insist that both boys and girls are in mind, even though it might have been more likely that boys were sexually abused simply due to freer access to boys and a cultural acceptance of such behavior.89 Nevertheless, there is no evidence that only boys were used sexually in the ancient world, and phthor- also referred to the seduction, corruption, and even rape of women, when not used in this compound construction. More significantly, there exists definitive data related to the sexual use of girls, such as the slave girls used by their masters or girls enslaved in brothels, and one should see paidophthoreô as forbidding such behavior as well. One has to emphasize again that no particular sexual practice is implied and so a translation of the meaning of this Christian verb must be broad enough to imply the full nexus of the sexual abuse of children. This discussion has operated with all three aspects of the meaning of phthoreô, using “do not destroy – corrupt – seduce children” as a working translation, but it remains obviously too clunky and indistinct. Seduction captures a sexual aspect, but not the reality that seduction was rarely needed to gain the sexual use of a child. Seduction is not an essential element of the sexual abuse of children, even though the sexual sense of seduction is paramount to understanding paidophthoreô properly. Therefore, “do not seduce children,” cannot work as a translation as it is too narrow and misrepresents the behavior itself. Corruption captures the effects of the sexual abuse of children, and the impact upon the child, but not necessarily the sexual element of such corruption. “Do not corrupt children,” might imply a sexual sense, but it also could imply much more than this. Destruction, even more than corruption, is vague with regard to the sexual element of the behavior perpetrated against the child, but it captures well the impact of the sexual abuse of the child implied by this word. “Do not destroy children,” is in some ways my preferred translation, as the destruction wrought by sexual abuse is something modern psychologists and social workers can attest to on a daily basis, and it was acknowledged in the ancient context also by Clement of Alexandria, for instance. Yet, in the ancient context, where children were killed by forms of infanticide, it remains too vague a term to capture what the ancient Christian authors intended. Perhaps one must opt for a term used throughout this paper at various times, including in the title, one which expresses modern sensibilities, but also captures the 89 It is also the case that girls who were made to enter marriages at a young age – by Jews, Christians, or pagans – from a modern perspective would be considered to be suffering abuse. This was not taken into account by the criticism explicit in the Christian use of paidophthoreō. For more on this point, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 10, 35, 114, 231, and 312.

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destructive nature of using children sexually and the behavior which is at the heart of it: abuse: “Do not sexually abuse children.” Ancient Christians coined the term paidophthoros because they knew such practices were morally wrong and destructive for children; they were also bold enough not only to criticize the culture around them, but to acknowledge that when such behavior occurred in their own midst, it was no less the destruction of children through sexual means than it was in the Greco-Roman pagan world. “Do not sexually abuse children,” ancient Christians demanded, “for this is a part of the divine law.” There were to be no exceptions, whether within or outside the church.

Choosing Asceticism: Children and Parents, Vows and Conflicts Ville Vuolanto This chapter analyzes the rhetoric that highlights the autonomy of children in choosing asceticism, family dynamics, and the gendered expectations towards teenage boys and girls in Late Antiquity.1 The central question that motivates this inquiry is whether or not Christianity widened the possibilities for children to make choices for themselves. Children in Late Antiquity have aroused little attention in research. When noticed, they have usually been dealt with in legal or educational history, or in discussions that scrutinize whether the rise of Christianity made any difference to attitudes towards children, or created a certain sentiment de l’enfance. The focus in research has often been on ‘childhood,’ not on children, and the place of children in everyday life has aroused only marginal interest. Moreover, childhood is often viewed as one, monolithic stage of life.2 However, it is easy to see how children’s aging would have had a profound impact on their changing experiences of life. This study sheds light on the history of children mainly in the second decade of their lives, already at the edge of becoming adults but most still under the surveillance of their parents. The sources for the present study include material on virginity and ascetic life that was authored by late-fourth- and early-fifth-century ecclesiastical writers. Special attention is paid to cases of underaged children choosing asceticism that appear in the correspondences of Ambrose of Milan, Jerome, Augustine of Hippo, and Paulinus of Nola.3 Hagiographic 1 I am grateful to Cornelia B. Horn for her thoughtful comments on this chapter. All dates in this article are CE unless otherwise stated. 2 On the historiography of Roman childhood, see now Mary Harlow, Ray Laurence, and Ville Vuolanto, “Past, present and future in the study of Roman childhood,” in Approaches to Childhood in the Past, ed. S. Crawford and G. Shepherd, IAA International Series 1 / BAR International Series 1696 (Oxford: Archaeopress 2007), 5–14. 3 For texts used see J. Labourt, ed., Saint Jérome, Lettres I–VIII, Collection Budé (Paris: Les Belles Lettres 1949–1963); O. Faller, ed., Ambrosius Mediolanensis, Epistulae et acta, I (ep. 1–34), CSEL 82.1 (Vindobonae: Hoelder-Pichler-Tempsky, 1968); M. Zelzer, ed., Ambrosius Mediolanensis, Epistulae et acta, II–III, CSEL 82.2–3 (Vindobonae: Hoelder-Pichler-Tempsky, 1982, 1990); G. de Hartel, ed., Paulinus Nolanus, Epistulae,

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sources are used in order to introduce comparative viewpoints and to highlight the differences between the highly idealizing literary descriptions and the glimpses of everyday life available in epistolary sources. The Christian spiritual elite aimed at propagating the ascetic lifestyle in which virginity was seen as fulfilling the aims and hopes previously associated only with married life. In this process, the values, thought patterns, and actual practices of their audiences are reflected and used as the basis of argumentation. Special attention is paid to those (unfortunately rare) cases that present clashes between the values claimed and the behavior described. By analyzing both the rhetorically constructed and the actual familial conflicts it is possible to penetrate into the discourses on family dynamics and to construct a view of the space in which Late Antique children were brought up. This offers an invaluable opportunity to scrutinize early Christian family dynamics and the roles given to family life and children. Given the limitations of the source material, the primary viewpoint that can be examined is that of elites and sub-elites.4 Before entering into a discussion of children and familial disputes over asceticism, it is necessary to investigate some features of the context in which the decisions over asceticism were made. First of all, institutionalized forms of asceticism in general, and the western system of oblatio in particular, were only developing during the fourth and fifth centuries.5 Therefore, it is necessary to distinguish between making a vow and giving a child to the monastic community. This difference can be illustrated by referring to the early life of Gregory Nazianzen. Gregory claimed that he had been promised to God by his mother before his birth. He redeemed the promise by taking baptism and dedicating himself to God’s service after having been nearly drowned in a stormy sea at about twenty years of age.6 CSEL 29 (Vindobonae: Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2nd ed., 1999); K. D. Daur, ed., Aurelius Augustinus, Epistulae I–LV, CChr.SL 31 (Turnholt: Brepols, 2005); K. D. Daur, ed., Aurelius Augustinus, Epistulae LVI–C, CChr.SL 31A (Turnholt: Brepols, 2005); J. Divjak, ed., Aurelius Augustinus, Epistulae 1*–29*, CSEL 88 (Vindobonae: Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981); and A. Goldbacher, ed., Aurelius Augustinus, Epistulae, CSEL 34.2, 44, and 57 (Vindobonae: Tempsky, 1898, 1904, and 1911). 4 On these, see Peter Brown, “The study of elites in Late Antiquity,” Arethusa 33 (2000), 321–346, here 339–345, for ecclesiastical sub-elites. 5 Mayke de Jong, In Samuel’s Image. Child Oblation in the Early Medieval West (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 22–30. 6 Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 2.77 (ed. PG 35:407–515, here 484b–c) (dated 362); Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 18.31 (ed. PG 35:986–1043, 1023b–c) (dated 374); Also Theodoret of Cyrrhus had been dedicated to God before his birth, but started his ascetic life not before adulthood: Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 9.4 and 13.16–18 (ed. P. Canivet and A. Leroy-Molinghen, Théodoret de Cyr. Histoire des moines de Syrie, Sources chrétiennes 234 [vol. I] and 257 [vol. II] [Paris: Cerf, 1977–1979], vol. I 412–

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Especially in the case of girls, the vows of dedication did not lead them to leave home, but instead they continued on as home ascetics within their families of origin. Moreover, that there were children in monastic communities did not mean that the young were destined to become ascetics. First of all, when the ascetic recruits entered the monastic life, they often took along their children born to them before their vows. In this early stage of monasticism, there seems to have been a strong sense that, if possible, a family should not be broken up. The opinion of the children was hardly taken into account. Yet it seems that not all of these children eventually became ascetics themselves.7 Moreover, it was customary to give children to monasteries and bishops to be taken care of and educated both in the East and West. For example, there was an upper-class girl living under Augustine’s guardianship in one of his monastic communities. Her case is recorded since Augustine had to turn away suitors, citing the girl’s still young age and reluctance.8 414 and 502–506); and A. Leroy-Molinghen, “Introduction,” in Canivet and Molinghen, Théodoret de Cyr. Histoire des moines de Syrie, vol. I, Sources chrétiennes 234, 9–113, here 14–16. 7 See e.g. Paulinus of Nola, Letters 39.1–2 (ed. de Hartel, 334–335) (dated between 397 and 406), on the sons of Eucherius and Galla at the monastic community of Lérins; on the presence of children in Lérins, see also Regula orientalis 17.36 and 18.1 (ed. Adalbert Vogüe, Les Règles des saints Pères, II, Sources chrétiennes 298 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1983], 474 and 476) (dated before the 490’s); Palladius, Lausiac History 41.5 (ed. G. J. M Bartelink, Palladio: La Storia Lausiaca [Verona: Mondadori 1974], 212) (ca. 420). On the son and daughter of Apronianus and Avita at Nola, see Paulinus of Nola, Carmina 21.66–71 and 21.313–329 (ed. G. de Hartel, Sancti Pontii Meropii Paulini Nolani opera, 2. Carmina, indices, CSEL 30 [Vindobonae: Tempsky, 1894], 160 and 168– 169) (dated 406). Eunomia, the daughter, remained an ascetic. Her brother was promised to God while a child, but he is not mentioned in later sources with his parents and sister at Nola. For Auspiciola, the daughter of Salvian and Palladia who is known as a young girl to have followed her parents in their ascetic reclusion, see Salvian, Letters 4.6, 12, 16–18 (ed. G. Lagarrigue, Salvien de Marseille, Œuvres, tome I, Sources chrétiennes 176 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1971], 90 and 94–98) (dated 430’s). For hagiographical evidence, see e.g. Cassian, Institutes 4.27 (ed. Michael Petschenig, Ioannis Cassiani De institutis coenobiorum et de octo principalium vitiorum remediis libri XII; De incarnatione Domini contra Nestorium libri VII, CSEL 17 [Vindobonae: Tempsky, 1888], 65–67) (dated between 419 and 426); Callinicus, Life of Saint Hypatius 18.3 (ed. G. J. M. Bartelink, Callinicos, Vie d’Hypatios, Sources chrétiennes 177 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1971], 132) (ca. 450?); Apophthegmata patrum, Cario 2 (ed. PG 65:71–440, here 250d–251c) (dated ca. 500); and Life of Eupraxia 2.7–12 (ed. PL 73:623–642, here 627–629) (5 th or 6th cent.). 8 Augustine, Letters 252–255 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 348–349). John Chrysostom was eager to propagate the need for parents to send their children to the monasteries to be educated: John Chrysostom, Homily 21 on Ephesians 2 (ed. PG 62:149–155, here 151– 152); John Chrysostom, Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life 3.11 and 18 (ed. PG

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More generally, both Augustine and Gregory of Nyssa referred to foundlings that actually were under the care of consecrated virgins. Hagiography also records some such cases, and Basil of Caesarea, in his monastic rules, urged monastic communities to take in orphans and raise them. Thus it is not surprising that Basil assumed a continuing presence of children in his monastic foundations. However, he made it quite clear that the children given to the monasteries were not to be counted as dedicated ascetics. Instead they were in the monastery to be brought up and educated, forming a separate group before they took their vows, if they so desired, at the earliest when sixteen or seventeen years old.9 Some children did become ascetics, leading the ‘angelic life’ at their (parents’) homes or as part of monastic communities. In scholarly studies, the assumption that most frequently seems to underly considerations regarding the motivation of these children practicing asceticism can be crystallized in a quote from Peter Brown: “many children, mostly girls now wished to remain unmarried.” That is, it is assumed that children themselves had opted for celibacy, spiritual life, and ascetic practices.10 47:319–386, here 366–367 and 380–381) (dated between 378 and 386). For the education and ‘educational fosterage’ in early medieval monasteries, see Timothy Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium. Child Welfare in the Christian Empire (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 152–157; Nikos Kalogeras, “The role of parents and kin in the education of Byzantine children,” in Hoping for Continuity. Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Katariina Mustakallio and others, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 33 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2005), 134–144; and Anita Guerreau-Jalabert, “Nutritus / oblatus: parenté et circulation d’enfants au Moyen Âge,” in Adoption et fosterage, ed. Mireille Corbier (Paris: De Boccard, 2000), 263–290, here 275–277. 9 Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 26 (ed. Pierre Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse. Vie de Sainte Macrine, Sources chrétiennes 178 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1971], 232) (dated early 380s); Augustine, Letters 98.6 (ed. Daur, 231) (dated 408); Basil, Letters 199.18 (ed. Y. Courtonne, Lettres. Saint Basile, vol. II [Paris: Collection des universités de France, 1961], 155–158); and Basil, Longer Rules 15 (ed. PG 31:951a–957a) (dated mid 370s). For a requirement for bishops and priests to take care of orphans, see Apostolic Constitutions 4.1 (ed. P. M. Metzger, Les Constitutions apostoliques, tome II, Sources chrétiennes 329 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1986], 173) (ca. 380?) and Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Canons 56 (Arabic text) (ed. W. Riedel and W. E. Crum, The Canons of Athanasius of Alexandria. The Arabic and Coptic Versions [London and Oxford: Text and Translation Society, 1904], 38; [ca. 370]). Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 114– 120 and 152–157, interprets the monastic foundations organized by Basil as schools for both orphans and children given by their parents. 10 Peter Brown, The Body and Society. Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 191 (the quote; see also 275). See also Raymond van Dam, Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 115–120; Michelle Salzman, The Making of a Christian Aristocracy. Social and Religious Change in the Western Roman Empire (Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Press, 2002), 164; Mathew

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My aim in the following is to question this viewpoint and to stress the role of children as playing an important part in family dynamics. The discussion is divided into four parts. The first of these is an examination of stories of conflicts between parents and their children intending to choose the ascetic life that are featured prominently in the theological treatises and hagiographical accounts of the time. This study argues for their primary character as rhetorical devices that point to certain ideological goals. The second part assesses of the role of children in family strategies: not so much in family economic strategies or in the strategies for limiting the size of a given family, but in wider strategies pertaining to inheritance management and afterlife. The section following this considers epistolary material presenting actual cases of children ‘choosing’ asceticism and evaluates the difference between discourses and actual practices. Finally, a reconsideration of childhood and the choice for asceticism from the perspectives of authority and gender is offered. Ascetics against Their Parents: An Ideology of Opposition One of the most renowned examples of familial conflicts over asceticism is the story told by Ambrose of Milan of a particular girl wanting to take a vow of virginity. When her relatives tried to force her into a marriage, the girl took refuge at the church altar and there defended her resolution never to marry: When the others were silent, one burst out somewhat roughly: “If,” he said, “your father were alive, would he suffer you to remain unmarried?” Then she replied with more religion and more restrained piety, “And perchance he is gone that no one may be able to hinder me.” That this was an answer not about her father, but a prophecy concerning himself, he proved by his own speedy death. So the others, each of them fearing the same for themselves, began to assist her and not to hinder her as before; her virginity involved not the loss of property due to her, but also received the reward of her integrity. See, you

Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch. Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2001), 294; Gillian Clark, “The fathers and the children,” in The Church and Childhood, ed. Diana Wood, Studies in Church History 31 (Oxford and Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1994), 1–28, here 26; Joyce Salisbury, Church Fathers, Independent Virgins (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 4, 111–116, and 120–125; Joëlle Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme à Byzance (4e– 7e siècle). I: Le droit imperial, Travaux et mémoirs du Centre de recherche d'histoire et civilisation de Byzance 5 (Paris: De Boccard, 1992), 260–261; Michel Verdon, “Virgins and widows: European kinship and early Christianity,” Man 23:3 (1988), 488–505, here 503; Anne Hickey, Women of the Roman Aristocracy as Christian Monastics, Studies in Religion 1 (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1987), 19; and Jan Drijvers, “Virginity and asceticism in late Roman western elites,” in Sexual Asymmetry. Studies in Ancient Society, ed. Josine Blok and Peter Mason (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1987), 241–273. In all these contributions the language of ‘choosing’ and ‘desiring’ is used.

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maidens, the reward of devotion, and be warned, parents, by the example of transgression.11

This story is to be taken with a grain of salt. In introducing the scene, Ambrose refers both to parents and relatives of the girl. This double reference appears to be a rhetorical device, since later on the audience learns that the father of the girl was dead, a crucial detail for Ambrose’s argument, and the mother is never referred to. The time and place of the event are not specified, and all the persons involved remain anonymous. This is a curious choice, if Ambrose was recalling an event which he and his audience remembered. Names would have made the story more convincing, but one notices that Ambrose is only resorting to the claim that he could remember the case – he was not even claiming to have been present at the event. It seems that at least the particulars of this story represent a pious invention on the part of the narrator.12 Thus, we are left with the impression that conflicts over the choosing of virginity and property issues were a topic that was relevant for Ambrose and his audience. Most of the ideologically laden texts of the fourth and fifth centuries depicting antagonism between the children and their relatives do not refer to relatives in general but rather specifically to parents engaged in the struggle with their children. A typical way of presenting the argument is found in an anonymous sermon on virginity from the later half of the fourth century originating in the East. It claimed that mothers often opposed their daughters’ yearning for chastity, because they were anxious for their daughters, or were misled by their beauty, or were consumed by jeal11 Ambrose, On Virgins 1.11.65–66 (ed. E. Cazzaniga, S. Ambrosii Mediolanensis De virginibus libri tres [Aug. Taurinorum: Paravia 1948], 33–34; tr. by present author) (ca. 377–378): Memoria nostra puella dudum nobilis saeculo, nunc nobilior Deo, cum urgueretur ad nuptias a parentibus et propinquis ad sacrosanctum altare confugit … Silentibus caeteris unus abruptius. “Quid si, inquit, pater tuus viveret, innuptam te manere pateretur?” Tum illa maiore religione, moderatiore pietate: “Et ideo fortasse defecit, ne quis impedimentum posset afferre.” Quod ille responsum de patre, de se oraculum, maturo sui probavit exitio. Ita ceteri eadem sibi quisque metuentes favere coeperunt, qui impedire quaerebant nec dispendium debitarum attulit virginitas facultatum, sed etiam emolumentum integritatis accepit. Habetis puellae devotionis praemium. Parentes, cavete offensionis exemplum. The treatise is based on his sermons (see Ambrose, On Virgins 1.1.1–2 and 1.2.5 [ed. Cazzaniga. 1–2]). 12 This would not be the only place where Ambrose had invented a memory. For example, he claimed to have “seen a miserable sight, freeborn children dragged to the marketplace due to the debts of their father” – but this phrase is, in fact, a translated quotation from a sermon by Basil of Caesarea. See Ambrose, On Tobit 8.29 (ed. Carolus Schenkl, Sancti Ambrosi opera, vol. 2. CSEL 32.2 [Vindobonae: Tempsky, 1897], 534) (dated ca. 389), with Basil, Homily 2 in Ps. 14 4 (ed. PG 29:264–280, here 277b) (dated ca. 370). See further Ville Vuolanto, “Selling a freeborn child: rhetoric and social realities in the late Roman world,” Ancient Society 33 (2003), 169–207, here 174.

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ousy. The fathers, in turn, were set against the ascetic interests of their sons as they did not understand what their sons desired.13 The question arises whether these kinds of depictions are any more trustworthy than the story told by Ambrose. The paradigmatic case about a teenage girl being in conflict with her parents is that concerning Melania the Younger, who earned a great name for herself among her contemporaries (and among modern scholars) through her asceticism and denial of senatorial status and wealth at the age of about fourteen. The principal source for her undertakings is the Life of Melania the Younger, written ca. 450 by a monk in her company, Gerontius. It describes how both Melania’s own and her husband Pinianus’s parents were against their plan to resign to asceticism, as the parents were afraid of public reproach. However, Publicola, a senator and the father of Melania, is the only person the text singled out as opposing their plan. Gerontius claimed that the father made repentance on his deathbed for his earlier attitude and yielded to his daughter’s will, reinstating her as his inheritor. By this dramatic narrative device Gerontius both made Melania an heiress of a spectacular patrimony and was able to claim parental opposition and highlight Melania’s struggles on her way to sanctity. In an earlier account of this incident offered by Palladius, one finds no reference to any struggle against her parents after Melania’s marriage. Thus, when the story goes into details, the supposed protests of the parents about Melania’s and Pinianus’s asceticism are reduced to Gerontius’ claim of antagonism between the father and daughter, a claim that is not impossible but rests on rather weak ground. After all, when Publicola had died, not only his daughter and son-in-law entered into chastity, but also Albina, Melania’s now widowed mother, joined her daughter in the pursuit of asceticism.14 13

Anonymous Homily on Virginity 11–13 (parents), 99 (mothers and daughters), and 110 (fathers and sons) (see David Amand De Mendieta and Matthieu-Charles Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque inédite sur la virginité addressée aux pères de famille,” Revue Bénédictine 63 [1953], 18–69 and 211–238, here 37–39 and 59–63) (ca. 300–350). For warnings not to oppose ascetic inclinations for the fear of eternal punishment, see also Chrysostom, Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life 3.1–2 and 3.21 (ed. PG 47: 349–351 and 385–386) (dated between 378 and 386). 14 Gerontius, Life of Melania 6–7 and 10–12 (ed. Denys Gorce, Vie de Sainte Mélanie. Texte Grec, introduction, traduction et notes, Sources chrétiennes 90 [Paris: du Cerf, 1962], 136–140 and 144–148) (ca. 450); and Palladius, Lausiac History 61 (ed. Bartelink, 264–268) (ca. 420). As Elizabeth Clark has shown, Gerontius would have had motivation to shun Publicola and present him as opposing asceticism (E. Clark, “Piety, Propaganda and Politics in the Life of Melania the Younger,” in Elizabeth Clark, Ascetic Piety and Women’s Faith. Essays on Late Ancient Christianity [Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1986], 61–94, here esp. 83–84). For the legal aspects and its inconsistencies in the story as told by Gerontius, see Kate Cooper, “The Household and the Desert: Monastic and Biological Communities in the Lives of Melania the Younger,” in

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The idea of parental opposition was easily woven into stories about choosing asceticism. In a letter by Jerome to Eustochium, a fifteen-yearold elite girl, the author pointed out that there should be no one to prevent her desire, whether mother, sister, kinswoman, or brother. However, even if indeed she had problems with her uncle and his wife, her mother and sisters were themselves devoted to the ascetical ideals and certainly did not oppose her resolution. Jerome’s request that Eustochium oppose the family members therefore was directed to the ‘general audience,’ rather than to Eustochium herself.15 Similarly, Ambrose of Milan supposed a general opposition, projected it onto the parents, and used this as an argument for children whose mother already had taken a positive stand towards asceticism.16 Thus, in these cases, references to resistance to ascetic vows were used in anonymous and generalizing contexts, even if the actual contexts given pointed to the positive circumstances that were in place for the advancement of ascetic life. The same scheme is present when Ambrose claimed that there were widowed mothers who opposed their virgin daughters’ will to consecrate themselves to the ascetic life after the girls had heard him preach.17 Even if Ambrose reproached such widows, he claimed that by their opposition, parents were testing the calling and zeal of their daughter to be steadfast in future temptations, and were willing to be overcome (volunt vinci) at the end: They resist at first because they are afraid to believe; often they are angry that one may learn to overcome [temptations]; they threaten to disinherit in order to test whether one is able not to fear temporal loss; they entice with exquisite allurements to see if one cannot be softened by the seduction of various pleasures.18

Household, Women, and Christianities, ed. Anneke Mulder-Bakker and Jocelyn WoganBrowne (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 11–35, here 21–26. 15 Jerome, Letters 22.24 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 135) (dated 384); for the case involving the uncle see Jerome, Letters 107.5 (ed. Labourt, vol. V, 150). On asceticism in the family of Eustochium and her mother Paula, see e.g. Christa Krumeich, Hieronymus und die christlichen feminae clarissimae, Habelts Dissertationsdrucke. Reihe Alte Geschichte. Heft 36 (Bonn: Habelt, 1993), 80–101. 16 Ambrose, Exhortation to Virginity 7.42 (ed. PL 16:335–364, here 364a) (early 390’s, to Juliana [and her children]). 17 Ambrose, On Virgins 1.10.58 (ed. Cazzaniga, 30) (ca. 377). 18 Ambrose, On Virgins 1.11.63 (ed. Cazzaniga, 32) (ca. 377): Contradicunt parentes: sed volunt vinci. Resistunt primo, quia credere timent; indignantur frequenter, ut discas vincere, abdicationem minantur, ut temptent si potes damnum saeculi non timere; quaesitis eblandiuntur inlecebris, ut videant si variarum mollire te non queat blanditia voluptatum.

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Ambrose further praised those girls who chose chastity on their own initiative as a warning against parents who too enthusiastically were pushing their offspring toward virginity.19 This idea is echoed also in an anonymous contemporary sermon devoted to a fallen virgin called Susanna. According to the author of that work the only solace for the parents in such a situation was that the girl herself had opted for virginity. The father had depicted the many difficulties of the virginal life, but she had vehemently opposed his arguments. The situation in the family was understood much in the same way as in Ambrose’s texts. Even if the parents were eager to point out the seriousness of the undertaking, there was no conflict over virginity as such; the parents did not resist the girl taking the vow, but the father even “counted [her] as his singular point of pride.”20 The idea of opposition found its way also into descriptions of actual cases in which it is hard to imagine that any disagreements on asceticism had arisen. Demetrias, also a teenage girl of the elite class, was under the authority of her widowed mother Juliana and her grandmother Proba, who, according to Jerome, wanted her to get married. However, the girl had the courage to oppose them and express her will to dedicate herself to virginity after the wedding day already had been fixed.21 Jerome used the theme of an arranged marriage to highlight Demetrias’s independence, but other ecclesiastical writers like Augustine and Pelagius, who were commenting on Demetrias’s vow, did not even mention the aim of giving Demetrias into marriage – and none of the three referred to any conflict between Juliana, Proba, and Demetrias. Indeed, both of the widows were already quite familiar with the ascetic ideals.22 19

Ambrose, On Virgins 1.11.62 (ed. Cazzaniga, 31–32). Pseudo-Ambrosius, To a Lapsed Virgin 4.15 and 17 (ed. E. Cazzaniga, Incerti auctoris De lapsu Susannae [Aug. Taurinorum: Paravia 1948], 8–9) (dated 350–400): sibi singularem gloriam computabat. ‘Susanna’ should here rather be seen as a reference to a biblical theme than to any individual person. 21 Jerome, Letters 130.4–5 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 168–170) (dated 413 or 414). 22 Augustine, Letters 150 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL, 44, 380–382) (dated 413); Augustine, Letters 188 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 119–130) (dated 417 or 418); Augustine, On the Good of Widowhood, esp. 1 (ed. Joseph Zycha, Sancti Aurelii Augustini opera, Vol. 5.3, CSEL 41 [Vindobonae: Tempsky, 1900], 305–306) (ca. 414); Pelagius, Letter to Demetrias (ed. PL 30:15–46) (dated 413–415). See also Augustine, Letters 130, esp. 30 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 44, 75–77) (dated 412), which shows that Proba was well introduced to the ascetic ideals by the early 410s. Further on Demetrias and ascetic rhetoric, see Andrew Jacobs, “Writing Demetrias: Ascetic Logic in Ancient Christianity,” Church History 69 (2000), 719–748. Likewise, when highlighting the virtues of Paulina, the daughter of Paula the Elder and wife of Pammachius, Jerome claimed that initially she did not want to get married – thus he implied that Paula, his paragon of a holy widow, had forced her daughter to marry and lose her virginity: Jerome, Letters 66.3 (ed. Labourt, vol. III, 169) (dated 397). 20

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A more famous example of ‘family opposition’ is presented by Gregory of Nyssa. According to him, after his sister Macrina had lost her fiancé, she firmly objected to any further proposals of marriage on the part of her parents. Gregory stressed the will and independence of Macrina, who then was about fifteen years old, but did not presume any familial conflicts beyond this point. He did not even claim that there were any actual proposals made to her by her parents. In fact, the parents seem to have been quite content with their daughter’s wish. Later on the spread of the ascetical ideals among family members would also point in the direction of mutual agreement regarding Macrina’s chastity.23 Even if no conflict as such is referred to, the success of the topos of the insistence of the daughters against their parents’ will is at least partly dependent on this story, as Macrina quickly became a paradigmatic example of an independent virgin. An echo of Macrina’s exemplum can be heard for example in the Life of Syncletica; there the parents “gladly urged the young girl toward marriage,” but “the tears of her parents did not soften her, nor the exhortation of any other relative.” There was no open conflict, however, as Syncletica did not dedicate herself to virginity before she was orphaned.24 A story even more closely resembling that of Macrina was told by Jerome when he wrote of Marcella, with her mother Albina playing the part of Emmelia, Macrina’s mother. When Marcella was widowed after a marriage of seven months, she successfully resisted her widowed mother Albina and refused another marriage. According to Jerome, no one dared to talk to her any longer about getting married. However, this struggle, if indeed it ever took place, was not concerned with asceticism as such, given that Asella, Marcella’s sister, was dedicated to virginity even before her birth, and Albina and Marcella later lived together with Asella as dedicated widows.25 The common antecedent to the foregoing cases is the story of Thecla, fleeing from the influence of her mother who tried to force her to 23 Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 4–5 (ed. Maraval, 152–160) (ca. 380, on events in the early 340s). Susanna Elm’s and Raymond van Dam’s reading of the relevant passages puts little weight on their laudatory characters, leading them to emphasize Macrina’s own choices (Susanna Elm, Virgins of God. The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994], 40–47; and van Dam, Families and Friends, 103– 107). For an analysis of ‘Macrina’ as rhetorically constructed by Gregory of Nyssa, see Elizabeth Clark, “Holy Women, Holy Words: Early Christian Women, Social History, and the ‘Linguistic Turn,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 6:3 (1998), 413–430, here 423–429. 24 Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Syncletica 7, 9, and 11–12 (ed. PG 28:1485–1557, here 1489b–1493a ) (5 th cent.). 25 Jerome, Letters 127.2 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 137–138) (Marcella must have been in her late teens; see Krumeich, Hieronymus, 70–71). See also Clark, “Holy Women, Holy Words,” 420, for the narrativity in this case.

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marry. That narrative gained much popularity in Late Antiquity, and Thecla became the paragon of a female virgin.26 In all, it is clear that in Late Antiquity a virgin needed parental opposition for a claim of her exemplary and saintly character to be plausible. The basic form this opposition took was a forced marriage. The theme had become a hagiographical topos already by the fourth century. In the fifthcentury Life of Euphrosyne of Alexandria, Euphrosyne’s father tried to marry her off to a rich and powerful family. Yet the girl had secretly vowed herself to God, and ran away, dressed like as a man, to a monastery. In his Lausiac History, Palladius referred to two cases in which parents were able to force a daughter into marriage: Melania the Younger and Magna.27 Compared to the cases of girls, the theme of forced marriage rarely appears with sons, and when it does, then only in hagiography. Some, like the future Abba Amoun, were claimed to have been persuaded toward marriage. In the Life of Malchus Jerome let Malchus tell how his parents tried to marry him off, his father using threats and his mother trying to entice him with soft words, until he ran away.28 The ages of these sons are not mentioned in these stories, but in connection with other cases of dramatic family disputes the age is often specified as having been in the early or 26 See e.g. Life of Thecla pr., 1 and 4 (ed. Gilbert Dagron, Vie et miracles de Sainte Thêcle, Subsidia Hagiographica 62 [Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1978], 167–283, here 168–174 and 182–186) (mid 5th cent.). Thecla is referred to as an exemplary virgin in many of the stories cited above: Syncletica was her true disciple; for Eustochium she was a forerunner; Macrina was the second Thecla; and for Ambrose, she was an exemplum for all virgins: Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Syncletica 8 (ed. PG 28:1489c–d) (5th cent.); Jerome, Letters 22.41 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 159); Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 2 (ed. Maraval, 146) (early 380s); and Ambrose, On Virgins 2.3.19– 21 (ed. Cazzaniga, 42–43) (ca. 377). See also Monika Pesthy, “Thecla among the Fathers of the Church,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, ed. Jan Bremmer (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 164–178. 27 Life of Euphrosyne 3 and 6 (ed. A. Boucherie, “Vita sanctae Euphrosynae secundum textum graecum primaevum,” Analecta Bollandiana 2 [1883], 195–205, here 196– 198 (late 5th ca.?); Palladius, Lausiac History 61 and 67.1 (ed. Bartelink, 264 and 278) (ca. 420). 28 Amoun: Palladius, Lausiac History 8.1 (ed. Bartelink, 40) (ca. 420); History of the Monks in Egypt 22 (ed. A.–J. Festugière, Historia Monachorum in Aegypto. Subsidia Hagiographica 34 [Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1961], 128–130) (ca. 400); and Sozomen, Church History 1.14.1 (ed. Joseph Bidez and Günther Christian Hansen, Sozomenus, Kirchengeschichte, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller 50 [Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1960], 30) (ca. 440); Jerome, Life of Malchus 3.1 (ed. E. M. Morales, Jérôme, Trois vies de moines. Paul, Malchus, Hilarion, Sources chrétiennes 508 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf 2007], 184–211, here 188) (year 388?). See also Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Syncletica 5 (ed. PG 28:1489a–b) (5th cent.): the brother of Syncletica “fled away like a bird” after the parents had come to an agreement on his marriage.

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mid teens, that is, at the same age that emerges in the disputes or struggles over the virginity of a daughter. The mid-fourth century Life of Pachomius tells that Theodore ran away to an anchoritic life at fourteen without informing his mother; six years later he joined the monastic settlement of Pachomius. As Theodore’s mother wanted to see him, her other son, Paphnutius, followed her and joined the Pachomian koinonia, also against the will of the mother.29 The future Gallic saint Martin also was described as having met fierce opposition on the part of his parents. His father especially opposed his ‘holy actions’ and aspirations for leading an ascetic life in the desert. The father had his son arrested, put in chains, and sent to the army at the age of fifteen.30 In the face of the frequency with which cases concerning teenage daughters and parental opposition appear in ancient correspondences and treatises on virginity and asceticism, one notes with interest that outside of hagiography there are no cases concerning parental opposition to the choices of sons of the same age group. Such conflicts seem to have been expected to occur only later in life. Thus, Jerome expected opposition to his friend Heliodorus on the part of his family members if he would commit himself to asceticism, even if he had already been practicing asceticism with Jerome in Syria. At the time, Jerome himself was about 25 years old, and Heliodorus was most probably of the same age.31 The argument presented to the young men was not that they should marry, but that they should stay at home and take care of running the household. Such young 29

Life of Pachomius, Bohairic version 31 and 37–38 (see translation in J. E. Goehring, “Theodore’s entry into the Pachomian Movement [Selections from the Life of Pachomius],” in Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiquity: A Sourcebook, ed. Vincent Wimbush [Minneapolis: Fortress Press 1990], 349–356, here 352–355) (mid 4th cent.). Also Ammon ran away from his home for Pachomius, see Letter of Ammon 2 and 30 (ed. James Goehring, The Letter of Ammon and Pachomian Monasticism [Berlin and New York: De Gruyter 1986], 124–125 and 152–153) (ca. 400?). Letter of Ammon 9 (ed. Goehring, 130) gives the age of thirteen to Theodore’s entry to the monastery. 30 Sulpicius Severus, Life of Martin 2.3–2.5 (ed. J. Fontaine, Sulpice Sévère, Vie de Saint Martin, tome I, Sources chrétiennes 133 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1967], 254) (ca. 398–399). The parental opposition is also a central feature in the story of Honoratus. According to Hilarius, the parents were anxious about Honoratus’s behavior already when he was a child, and his conversion to asceticism met with his parents’ complete opposition. It is quite probable that the Life of Martin had had influence on this narrative: Hilary of Arles, Life of Honoratus 6 and 8 (ed. M.–D. Valentin, Hilaire d’Arles, Vie de saint Honorat, Sources chrétiennes 235 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1977], 84 and 88–90) (ca. 441). 31 Jerome, Letters 14.2 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 35) (dated 376 or 377): Licet parvulus ex collo pendeat nepos, licet sparso crine et scissis vestibus ubera quibus nutrierat mater ostendat, licet in limine pater iaceat, per calcatum perge patrem, siccis oculis ad vexillum cruces vola!

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men included Laetus, an associate member or trainee in the monastic brotherhood of Augustine whose mother would not allow him to retire from the world; Nebridius, another friend of Augustine, with a mother afraid of being left alone in the midst of daily cares; and John Chrysostom, whose mother referred to the burdens of widowhood in running an estate when asking her then twenty-year-old son to await her death before entering asceticism.32 If the protagonists were not always twenty-five, the legal age for independent management of one’s property, then they were at least in their late teens and in practice able to transact business under their guardians’ supervision.33 Outside of hagiographical accounts one can find two cases in which fathers are depicted as opposing the plans of their sons. Paulinus of Nola wanted to give the impression that Sulpicius Severus’s father was against his son’s plans to leave home and devote himself to the religious life after the death of his young wife.34 Also the father of Stagirius, a rich young man and a friend of John Chrysostom, opposed his son’s joining a monastic community. The mother ended up in a difficult situation when she had to take up the role of an intermediary between the other family members.35 32 Augustine, Letters 243 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 568–579) (undated) on Laetus. For Laetus’s status Augustine used the term tua tirocinia; Augustine, Letters 10.1 (ed. Daur, 24) (389, when Augustine himself was 35 years old) on Nebridius; John Chrysostom, On the Priesthood 1.2 (ed. A.–M. Malingrey, Jean Chrysostome, Sur le sacerdoce (Dialogue et Homélie), Sources chrétiennes 272 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1980], 66–72) (dated between 375 and 386). Chrysostom indeed retired from his home in Antioch only after the death of his mother. For this and the chronology of events, see J. N. D. Kelly, Golden Mouth: The Story of John Chrysostom, Ascetic, Preacher, Bishop (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998 [orig. 1995]), 14–16. See also the cases of Rusticus (Jerome, Letters 125, esp. 6–7 [ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 117–118] [dated 411]) and Bonosus (Jerome, Letters 3.4 [ed. Labourt, vol. I, 13–14] [dated 375]). 33 For age limits and the involvement of widows in the guardianship of children (tutela and cura minorum) in Late Antiquity, see Ville Vuolanto, “Women and the property of fatherless children in the Roman Empire,” in Women, power and property in the Roman Empire, ed. R. Berg and others, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 26 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2002), 203–243, here 204–206, 215–218, and 230–232 (discussing also some of the cases mentioned here). 34 Paulinus of Nola, Letters 5.5–6 (ed. de Hartel, 28–29) (year 396?). This theme also is echoed in Sulpicius Severus, Life of Martin 2.2–5 (ed. Fontaine, 254) (ca. 398–399). 35 John Chrysostom, To Stagirius 1.1 (ed. PG 47:423–494, here 426), written in the 380s. It seems that Chrysostom used the particulars of Stagirius’s story in composing an exemplum in favor of monasticism in Chrysostom, Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life 2.10 and 3.12 (ed. PG 47:368–370) (between 378 and 386), with a story about an anonymous rich young man aiming at leading a monastic lifestyle. Even if his mother hoped the child would become an ascetic, his father strongly opposed the arrangement. Thus, son and mother forged a plan: the young man would have an ascetic as his pedagogue and live with him, but his father would think he was merely studying. Later, when

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In both of these cases the father’s opposition could not prevent the adult son from entering the monastic community, and again there are no reasons to suppose that the sons would have been less than twenty years old. An immediate conclusion that can be drawn from the preceding discussion concerns the age of the first marriage. For the earlier Roman Empire the common pattern was that there was an age difference between the spouses; on average, men entered their first marriage some ten years later than women. Among the members of the elite, who in general tended to marry earlier than the rest of the population, this would mean that the daughters would marry in their mid-teens, but sons only in their mid-twenties. For the middle-class population (for those at the lowest levels of society any estimations are hard to make), the respective ages would have been little less than twenty years of age for women, and again some ten years more for men.36 Thus far no studies have appeared that concentrate on the age at first marriage among the late Roman population. However, the material on choosing asceticism suggests that at least among the upper classes, the age for a first marriage for girls had remained much the same (or was slightly younger): the late Roman authors, sharing an elite cultural background, held it as self-evident that the discussions on entering into asceticism would have taken place when the girls approached marriageable age in their early teens. The few actual cases for which we have information fit well into this scheme. For sons, choosing asceticism was connected to marriage only in some hagiographic stories (and in these cases no indication of the age of the sons was given); thus, there was no similar link between marriage and entering into asceticism. Concequently, it is reasonable to assume, that a considerable age difference between the upper-class boys and girls still prevailed at their point of entering a first marriage. For daughters, the decision to enter the ascetic life had to be made already when they were underage children (even by Roman standards), but sons the father eventually found out about the arrangement, the son was able to defend himself. 36 On the sources and calculation of the average age at first marriage, see Richard Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family, Cambridge Studies in Population, Economy and Society in Past Time 25 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997 [orig. 1994]), 36–41, 45–47, and 67. Saller’s calculations, partly based on model life tables, have their shortcomings, as Walter Scheidel, “Roman Age Structure: Evidence and Models,” Journal of Roman Studies 91 (2001), 1–26, has shown. Yet for the purposes of the present study their accuracy suffices to show the age difference between women and men at the time of first marriage, and their differing positions vis-à-vis their parents, especially fathers. See also Mary Harlow and Ray Laurence, Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome: a Life Course Approach (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 80–81 and 95–102.

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had more time available to make a final decision to marry or remain unmarried. Children in Family Strategies: Asceticism and Disinheritance Ideologically laden texts have not been alone in directing scholarly attention to disputes inside of families because of asceticism. The sources that refer to a tendency that left children who had entered an ascetic lifestyle without inheritance have been interpreted as signs of conflicts between parents and children, and, consequently, of independent choice by the children.37 A fourth-century text of Eastern provenance, the Canons of Athanasius, indeed referred to the tendency to disinherit children due to their celibacy, and in the later Justinian legislation one finds references to parents, who disinherited their children when they chose to enter monasteries or become members of the clergy. This code specified that it was not legal to prevent the child from choosing such a lifestyle, “or for this reason to exclude him or her from their inheritance or succession.”38 The accusations that parents denied their children who had become ascetics their share of the family property appear also in texts composed by ecclesiastical writers. Jerome polemically complained that fathers who prided themselves on their piety frequently “give to their virgin daughters sums scarcely sufficient for their maintenance, and bestow the bulk of their property upon sons and daughters living in the world.” He also gave the example of an anonymous (and as such quite suspect) “rich presbyter” who had left “two of his daughters who were professed virgins with a mere pittance,” whereas to the other children he gave “ample means for self-indulgence and pleasure.” Jerome also pointed out that even many ascetic women had acted thus with regard to their offspring.39 In the 430s Salvian 37 Antti Arjava, Women and Law in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 46 and 158–159; Gillian Clark, Women in Late Antiquity. Pagan and Christian Lifestyles (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 52–53; and Verdon, “Virgins and widows,” 494–495. 38 Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Canons 102 (Arabic text) (ed. Riedel and Crum, 66) (ca. 370); and Code of Justinian 1.3.54.5 (ed. P. Krueger, Corpus iuris civilis, vol. 2: Codex Iustinianus [Berlin: Weidmann 111954], 37–38): Si quis in parentium potestate constitutus vel constituta vel forsitan huiusmodi iure absolutus vel absoluta elegerit se vel monasterio vel clero sociare et reliquum vitae suae tempus sanctimonialiter degere voluerit, non liceat parentibus vel easdem personas quocumque modo abstrahere vel propter hanc tantummodo causam quasi ingratum a sua hereditate vel successione repellere. See also Novels of Justinian 123.41 (ed. R. Schoell and G. Kroll, Corpus iuris civilis, vol. 3: Novellae [Berlin: Weidmann 1895], 622–623 [dated 546]). 39 Jerome, Letters 130.6 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 172–173) (dated 413 or 414): Certe qui religiosiores sibi videntur, parvo sumptu, et qui vix ad alimenta sufficiat, virginibus dato, omnem censum in utroque sexu, saecularibus liberis largiuntur … quod nuper in hac urbe dives quidam fecit presbyter ut duas filias in proposito virginali inopes relin-

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presented the same accusation towards parents who divided their property among the children in the world, leaving those leading a religious life without their share.40 This phenomenon was seen not only in Italy and Gaul, but also in Africa. Ianuarius, a presbyter and a member of Augustine’s monastic community, had disinherited his son and daughter, who also had embraced the ascetic life.41 These references to disinheriting virgin daughters or celibate sons should not to be taken as indications of familial conflicts over the ascetic lifestyle. First of all, the cases almost invariably are associated with people who themselves were well-acquainted with ascetic Christian ideals, like the fathers and mothers in Jerome’s accusations, or Ianuarius, who, as a monastic himself, certainly had nothing against asceticism as such. One of the ironies in Jerome’s correspondence is that the only person we know by name who actually withdrew the inheritance from a child with an ascetic calling was Albina, mother of Marcella, who later headed a female ascetic community, and whom Jerome called his spiritual mother. At Marcella’s death, Jerome illustrated her ascetic zeal and obedience to Albina by telling how “her mother, caring for her relatives and having no sons or grandchildren, wanted to give all to her brother’s children,” instead of making donations for the poor and giving Marcella her share. Indeed, Marcella was left without her share of the maternal property.42 Reading the highly rhetorical reproaches concerning the transgressions of “many parents” easily leads the scholar astray to look for merciless struggles and obverse motives of the actors in question. However, as the example of Albina shows, ‘disinheritances’ with individual goals and strategies involved can be revealed in rather trivial contexts. queret, et aliorum ad omnem copiam filiorum luxuriae atque deliciis provideret. Fecerunt hoc multae, pro dolor, nostri propositi feminae; atque utinam rarum esset exemplum, quod quanto crebrius est, tanto istae feliciores, quae ne plurimarum quidem exempla sectatae sunt. 40 Salvian, To the Church against Avarice 3.4.21–3.9.39 (ed. G. Lagarrigue, Salvien de Marseille, Oeuvres, tome I, Sources chrétiennes 176 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1971], 254–268) (dated between 435 and 439). 41 Augustine, Sermons 355.3 (ed. PL 39:1568–1574, here 1570–1571): factum est ut argentum ipsum quasi puellae servaretur, ut cum ad legitimos annos veniret, faceret inde quod virginem Christi deceret, quando optime iam facere posset. Dum hoc exspectatur, coepit ille morti propinquare: quamdiu tamquam de suo iure, non filiae, testamentum fecit. … Filia ipsius in monasterio feminarum est; filius ipsius in monasterio virorum est. 42 Jerome, Letters 127.4 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 140) (dated 412) [I]lla suum diligeret sanguinem, et absque filiis ac nepotibus, vellet in fratris liberos universa conferre, ista pauperes eligebat. As Marcella did not get her share of the patrimony, she was able to donate only objects belonging to her personal property, mundus muliebris. For comments on Albina, see Jerome, Letters 32 (ed. Labourt, vol. II, 37–38) (dated 384), and Jerome, Letters 45.7 (ed. Labourt, vol. II, 100) (385).

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The strategic aspects of refusing to pass on family wealth to celibate children are also revealed in the realization that Christ would not require a dowry from His brides. In addressing would-be virgins, Ambrose referred to parents who, in opposing their daughters’ taking the vow of virginity, refused them the dotal part of their inheritance. Since in Roman society the dowry formed a part of a daughter’s paternal inheritance, Ambrose reassured virgins that remaining unmarried did not mean disinheritance, even if the parents would at first argue that way. Parents did not need to invest in the dowry, but neither did the virgin daughter lose it, as she was inheriting her share of the patrimony when the parents died. Ambrose even went so far as to remind parents that they did not need to trouble themselves with the dowry of their virgin daughters.43 Against the background of these considerations Publicola’s alleged aim of leaving all of the inheritance to those children remaining in the world rather than to Melania the Younger and her husband, who had announced their wish to enter the ascetic life can be understood from a new perspective. There is no reason to assume that Publicola’s action was a threat directed against the young couple’s ascetic resolution, but rather was a practical solution to protect the family wealth. However, in the narrative offered by Melania’s hagiographer, her father’s goal of disinheriting her became the most important piece of evidence for the opposition of her parents against her asceticism.44 One may also find sources that point directly to familial strategies behind the decisions of making a family member become an ascetic. Many parents quite willingly dedicated their sons and daughters to asceticism, even against the child’s wishes. Basil of Caesarea, for example, claimed that some parents and other relatives handed over girls of minor age to monasteries regardless of their disposition, in order to gain a provision for themselves. Unfortunately, Basil does not specify what kind of material advantage he had in mind. It may simply have been a question of having 43

Ambrose, On Virgins 1.11.62–63, 66 (ed. Cazzaniga, 31–34) (ca. 377): Dotem negabunt parentes; sed habes divitem sponsum; and Ambrose, On Virgins 1.7.32 (ed. Cazzaniga, 16–17): Virgo individuum pignus parentum, quae non dote sollicitet, non emigratione destituat, non offendat iniuria. 44 Gerontius, Life of Melania 6–7 and 12 (ed. Gorce, 136–138 and 150) (ca. 450). For Melania having a brother, see also Palladius, Lausiac History 54.3, 54.6 and 61.5 (ed. Bartelink, 246 and 248). I see no reason to doubt this information, even if the editors of the Life of Melania are unanimous that it is improbable that Melania the Younger had brothers (see e.g. Gorce, Vie de Sainte Mélanie, 145 and 150–151; and P. Laurence, La vie latine de sainte Mélanie / Gérontius; Edition critique, traduction et commentaire, Collectio minor. Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 41 [Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 2002], 178–179). See also the comments in Cooper, “The Household and the Desert,” 22, with further references.

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one mouth less to feed. Yet since the argument is not that the provision would be for the girls in question, it is more probable that he had in mind the evasion of the need for a dowry or the dispersion of the patrimony.45 Similarly, parents dedicating their daughters to asceticism even against their wishes can be seen behind a decision by Pope Leo in the mid-400s, as he limited the irrevocability of the ascetic vow to those young women, who had taken the vow on their own free will.46 It is quite clear, that the free will was not always at play. The real or supposed transgressions even led to public reactions. In 458, the Western Emperor, Majorian, decreed that a daughter could not be compelled to virginity.47 This edict presumed that the parents were not dedicating their daughters purely for religious motives, but in order to evade the expenses of a dowry and the dispersion of the patrimony after the parents’ death. Thus, it was prohibited to consecrate a daughter under forty years of age to virginity. However, if a daughter was dedicated to virginity, and if, after the death of her parents, she wished to quit her vow before she was forty years old, she could do so and could not be disinherited for that reason. The reference to the age limit of forty years is a new element introduced by this legislation; the idea was that a forty-year-old daughter would be independent of her parents’ aspirations and authority, and thus capable of making a decision regarding the vow on her own. Such a relatively high age was chosen also in order to urge parents to marry off their widowed but childless young daughters. The edict was directed at noble women without children. Humiliores still had the freedom to act as they wished towards their young daughters, and noble women with children had already fulfilled their duty towards the family and the res publica. Thus, the principal aim of the edict was the safeguarding of the financial interests of the parties involved. On the one hand, asceticism could not be used to save the part of the inheritance due to the girl in question; on the other hand, a person willing to marry could not be denied her share of the inheritance. Moreover, the young childless widows needed to give their property to their near relatives if they abstained from remarrying. The continuity of the

45

Basil, Letters 199.18 (ed. Courtonne, 156–157): Polla_j ga_r gonei=j prosa&gousi kai\ a)delfoi\ kai\ tw~n proshko/ntwn tine/j pro\ th=j h(liki/aj, ou0k oi1koqen o(rmhqei/saj pro\j a)gami/an, a)lla/ ti biwtiko\n e9autoi=j dioikou/menoi. See also Joëlle Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme à Byzance (4e–7e siecle), vol. II: Les pratiques sociales, Travaux et mémoirs du Centre de recherche d'histoire et civilisation de Byzance 6 (Paris: De Boccard, 1992), 304. 46 Leo the Great, Letters 167.15 (PL 54:551–1218, here 1208a) (year 458 or 459). 47 Novels of Majorian 6, esp. pr., 3 and 5 (ed. T. Mommsen and P. Meyer, Codex Theodosianus, Vol. 2: Leges novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes [Berlin: Weidmann, 2 1954], 163–165) (year 458).

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family and the financial interests of the kin group were to be carefully guarded. All in all, losing their inheritance posed a real threat to ascetics. However, the dividing line was not that of religious affiliation. There were devout Christians accused of withholding inheritance from their children because of the children’s inclinations toward asceticism. Similarly, it was not only anti-ascetic Christian parents who actually disinherited their virgin daughters or celibate sons. Thus, it is clear that cases of disinheritance cannot be considered without qualifications as evidence for familial conflicts over asceticism. Indeed, these stories regarding disinheritance should be seen in connection with family strategies. It was not an unwelcome situation to have only a limited number of children who qualified for inheritance. A practice of denying an inheritance to an ascetic son or a daughter aimed at avoiding the dispersion of the inheritance among too many heirs, and thus it contributed to the promotion of power and privileges of the family.48 Moreover, property given to the childless would endanger its further transmittance in the family line. Families strove to make best use of their resources, and asceticism served as a tool for organizing family finances and inheritance strategies. However, even if the family economy played a part in the considerations over asceticism, it is highly improbable that asceticism has been used as a tool in family or kinship strategies that aimed at disposing of surplus children, as some scholars have claimed that lower class families would have controlled the size of the family by giving over their children to ascetic careers instead of killing or abandoning the newborn. 49 First of all, whereas abandonment of children was practiced with newborns, children given to ecclesiastical communities were older. It seems that the minimum 48

As seen, for example, in Augustine, Tractates on the Gospel of John 2.13 (ed. R. Willems, Aurelii Augustini opera, vol. 8, CChr.SL 36 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1954], 17); and Augustine, Sermons 57.2 (ed. P.-P. Verbraken and others, Aurelii Augustini opera, vol. 11.2, CChr.SL 41Aa [Turnholt: Brepols, 2008], 179). See also Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 161; Jean Andreau and Hinnerk Bruhns, “Introduction,” in Parenté et stratégies familiales dans l’antiquité romaine: acts de la table ronde des 2–4 octobre 1986, ed. Jean Andreau and Hinnerk Bruhns (Rome: Ecole Française de Rome, 1990), vii–xxii, here xx. 49 See John Boswell, “Expositio and oblatio: The abandonment of children and the ancient and medieval family,” The American Historical Review 89:1 (1984), 10–33; and Arjava, Women and Law, 166. See also Brown, Body and Society, 261; Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme à Byzance II, 303–305; Rita Lizzi, “Una società esortata all’ascetismo: misure legislative e motivazioni economiche nel IV–V secolo D.C.,” Studi Storici 30:1 (1989), 129–153, here 141; David Kertzer and Richard Saller, “Historical and anthropological perspectives on Italian family life,” in The Family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present, ed. David Kertzer and Richard Saller (New Haven: Yale University Press 1991), 1–19, here 11.

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age for giving up one’s child to a monastery was around age three, and when commenting on such cases ancient authors pointed out that even such a young age was exceptional. Monasteries were not alternatives to abandonment, but to labor contracts and apprenticeship. Moreover, the introduction of the practice of devoting children to an ascetic career did not affect the abandonment of children, which continued without interruption throughout the early medieval period. Moreover, in the West, devoting a child to monastic life would not have freed the parents of the oblate from the costs of upbringing. The practice, formalized as oblatio, was restricted to the upper class.50 In order to track further the parents’ motivations to give their children to ascetic careers it is necessary to study actual cases of children choosing asceticism. Making the Choice for Virginity In the previous sections, emphasis has been laid on the rhetoric of choosing asceticism and the propagation of the desired behavior through sermons, treatises, and other idealized and normative writings. In the following, evidence derived from historical cases depicts the influence of the parents when their children dedicated themselves to asceticism. This way, it is possible to discern in which ways parental opposition becomes visible (if it indeed does) and how the gendered patterns of the discourses and practices are revealed in the texts. To be able to assess the comparative frequency of different kinds of cases and patterns of behavior and discourses, I have systematically examined the correspondences that have been preserved from the pens of Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine, and Paulinus of Nola. Within this material, one can identify twenty-four cases of sons or daughters embracing virginity, in which actual familial relationships and attitudes can be inferred with some certitude. Of these cases, in only two the father was alive and active but there is not reference to the mother. In the case of Ambrosia, it was not the father, but the grandfather Eusebius, to whose influence Ambrose gives the credit for the vow of his granddaughter.51 The second case was that of the presbyter Ianuarius with his 50 Age: Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 26.4 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, II, 167) (Heliodorus entered an ascetic community when he was three). For later cases, see De Jong, In Samuel’s Image, 31–54 (the youngest were three years old). For the abandonment of children vs. oblation in the medieval west, see Guerreau-Jalabert, “Nutritus / oblatus,” 271–275. For abandonment and other modes of dislocation of children, see Vuolanto, “Selling a freeborn child,” 195–202; and Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 148–161. 51 Ambrose, The Consecration of a Virgin 1.1 (ed. PL 16:305–334, here 319a–b) (380s or early 390s). On the relationship between Eusebius and Ambrosia, see further

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two children who had pledged themselves to asceticism as indicated above. Even in these cases the influence of the mother in the vows cannot be excluded.52 On the other hand, there are thirteen cases in which only mothers were mentioned along with children vowing themselves to asceticism or entering a monastic community. Of these cases, five concerned mothers and sons.53 In four of these, a son was independent of his mother, being able to make decisions individually (the age of the sons in question ranged from their late teens to about thirty years of age), even if it emerges that the opinions of the mothers were not easily disregarded. In the case of Antonius of Fussala, his mother had intended her small son to be admitted into the monastic community of Augustine at Hippo. The primary reason for entering the community was not the mother’s will to have her son to be brought up as a monk, but the need of the family to take shelter in the church. The situation was rather desperate, as the boy, his mother, and his step-father were extremely poor and starving. Antonius’s biological father was still alive, but had no longer anything to do with the members of his former family. The cases that concern daughters and their mothers display somewhat different relationships between a parent and her children entering asceticism. Eustochium was consecrated a virgin in 384. During that same year her sister Blaesilla lost her husband and took vows. Eustochium was then in her mid-teens, Blaesilla around twenty. It is hard to believe that the opinions of their mother, Paula, who had dedicated herself to widowhood shortly before, would have played no part in their decisions.54 The same is

Ambrose, Letters 38.1 (ed. Zelzer, 23–24) (ca. 395); and Ambrose, Letters 26.2 (ed. Faller, 179) (ca. 392). The father is also alive. 52 Augustine, Sermons 355.3 (ed. PL 39:1570–1571) (Ianuarius, his son, and his daughter). In addition to these, in Jerome, Letters 130.6 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 173) (413 or 414), one finds a passing reference to an anonymous presbyter with two virgin daughters used as an exemplum, with rather suspect historicity. 53 Jerome, Letters 125, esp. 6–7 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 117–119) (dated 411, on Rusticus); Augustine, Letters 243 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 568–579) (undated, on Laetus); Jerome, Letters 3.4 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 13) (dated 375, on Bonosus); Augustine, Letters 10.1 (ed. Daur, 24) (dated 389, on Nebridius, with Augustine, Confessions 6.10.17 and 9.3.6 (ed. Lucas Verheijen, Sancti Augustini. Confessionum. Libri XIII, CChr.SL 27 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1981], 85 and 135–136; ca. 400); Augustine, Letters 20*, esp. 2 and 32 (ed. Divjak, 94–95 and 111) (year 422 or 423). Antonius finally ended up as a full member of the monastic community. 54 Jerome, Letters 22 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 110–160) (dated 384); Jerome, Letters 39 (ed. Labourt, vol. II, 71–85) (389); and Jerome, Letters 108 (ed. Labourt, vol. V, 159– 201) (404) (the husband of Paula, Toxotius, had died ca. 380).

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to be assumed also for the case of Demetrias.55 This pattern of taking the vow of chastity after the death of one’s father is also reflected in the case of Marcella, who after the death of her husband followed the example of her mother in taking the vow of chastity, and the two women formed the core of the ascetic community on the Aventine in Rome.56 Melania the Younger and her husband Pinianus, together with Melania’s mother Albina the Younger, offer an example of a chaste couple following the same pattern: they started the ascetic life right after Melania’s father, Publicola, had died.57 A feature that occurs repeatedly is that of the formation of ascetic communities around widowed mothers and their children who had taken a vow of chastity.58 A final case to be mentioned is that of a widowed mother and daughter with the mother having pledged her daughter to virginity when the daughter had recovered from a serious illness. Yet as her son had now died, the mother wanted to revoke the promise and instead pledge herself to perpetual chastity as a widow.59 In the sources under consideration here, one also encounters nine cases in which both parents were alive and took part in the dedication of their children. In four of these the parents are referenced collectively without any distinction being made for their active or passive role in their children’s dedication; the parents’ positive attitude towards asceticism is taken for granted. Two of the cases consider sons and two others, daughters.60 55

Augustine, Letters 188 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 119–130) (year 417 or 418); Jerome, Letters 130 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 166–193) (413 or 414). See also Augustine, On the Good of Widowhood praef., esp. 8.11, 19.24 (ed. Zycha, 305, 315, and 334–335) (ca. 414), dedicated to the widowed Juliana, mother of Demetrias. 56 Jerome, Letters 127 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 136–148) (dated 412). 57 On the asceticism of Melania the Younger with her mother and husband, see Augustine, Letters 124 and 126 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 44, 1–2 and 7–18) (both dated 411); Paulinus of Nola, Carmina 21.60–73, 281–285, and 836–844 (ed. de Hartel, 160, 167, and 185) (dated 407). Thus, as a case of social history, this is an instance of asceticism beginning after the death of the father; yet as hagiography, it is a case of forced marriage and parental opposition. See above and Gerontius, Life of Melania 1–2 and 6–7 (ed. Gorce, 130–132 and 136–140) (ca. 450), and Palladius, Lausiac History 61.1 (ed. Bartelink, 264) (ca. 420). 58 In addition to the above mentioned, see Jerome, Letters 7, esp. 1 and 6 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 21 and 24); and Jerome, Letters 8 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 25–26) (374 or shortly after): an ascetic community with a widow, her two daughters and two sons, Chromatius and Eusebius, living “under the same roof” and devoted to ascetic ideals with their friend, Jovinus. Augustine, Letters 212 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 371) (ca. 415): the widow Galla and her young daughter Simpliciola, consecrated to virginity. 59 Augustine, Letters 3* (ed. Divjak, 21–25) (dated 420s?). 60 Augustine, Letters 111.7 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 34.2, 654) (dated 409, on a virgin daughter captured from her parents by the barbarians); Augustine, Letters 218 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 425–428) (dated 426 or 427, on Palatinus taking the vow, with parents rejoicing); Augustine, Letters 13* (ed. Divjak, 80–82) (undated; a girl living as a dedi-

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The role of the father is emphasized in the case of a North African girl who had been rebaptised by the Donatians against the will of her parents and who had assumed the “appearance of a nun.” Yet subsequently the father wanted her to return to the Catholic communion. Given that the father is said already to have used physical violence in order to persuade his daughter, the girl seems to have remained at home.61 Yet the issue at stake was not asceticism but heresy and parental authority. In fact, Augustine, who told the story, gives the impression that the appearance of a nun was one further way of showing her opposition to her family. Her asceticism was an effect, not the cause of the conflict. In two other cases, those of Florentina and Paula the Younger, both of their respective parents were alive, but the mothers had been in charge of their daughters’ religious education, and they asked for advice. Florentina was already an older girl, given that Augustine’s letter was addressed directly to her. Paula on the other hand had been consecrated to God even before her birth. It seems in fact that Paula’s birth was understood as the response to a votum her parents had made.62 Pacatula, still an infant, also was pledged to a life of virginity by her parents. Her father had asked for advice concerning her education.63 In pointing out Asella as an exemplary virgin, Jerome hardly mentioned the parents, wanting to stress her independence. However, she had been dedicated to God following a dream (or vision) her father had had. It remains somewhat obscure if Jerome wanted to express that she had been vowed already before her birth when he mentioned her being blessed already in the womb. Yet at least he gave the credit for her dedication and consecration (when she had “hardly passed her tenth year”) to her parents.64

cated virgin with her parents); Paulinus of Nola, Letters 51 (ed. de Hartel, 424–425; dated between 423 and 426; on the two sons of Eucherius and Galla following them to asceticism). 61 Augustine, Letters 35.4 (ed. Daur, 129) (year 396): Nam cum ecclesiae quidam colonus filiam suam, quae apud nos fuerat catechumena, et ad illos [i.e. Donatians] seducta est invitis parentibus, ut ubi baptizata etiam sanctimonialis formam susciperet, ad communionem catholicam paterna vellet severitate revocare. 62 Florentina: Augustine, Letters 266 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 647–650) (undated); Paula the Younger: Jerome, Letters 107.3 (ed. Labourt, vol. V, 147) (year 403): Paululam nostram … quam prius Christo consecrata est quam genita, quam ante votis quam utero suscepisti. See also Jerome, Letters 108.26 (ed. Labourt, vol. V, 195) (year 404): immo voto et futurae virginitatis repromissione conceptam. 63 Jerome, Letters 128 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 148–154) (dated 413). 64 Jerome, Letters 24.2 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 45) (dated 384): Praetermitto quod in matris utero benedicitur ei antequam nascatur, quod in fiala nitentis vitri et omni speculo purioris patri virgo traditur per quietem, quod adhuc infantiae involuta pannis vix annum decimum aetetis excedens, honore futurae beatitudinis consecratur.

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In all cases that contain a reference to a parental vow occuring already at birth, the child is a girl. Also the daughter of Melania the Younger and Pinianus was consecrated to God at birth.65 Certainly, such a predominance of female figures could be a mere coincidence. Yet Theodoret of Cyrrhus’s story of his own infancy hints at an alternative explanation. Before his conception, his father had gone around to ask the hermits for their intercession so that he would have a child while his mother vowed to dedicate her future son to a life of virginity. Nevertheless, even if Theodoret was well socialized to ascetic Christianity through frequent visits to the “family hermits”, his parents were rather unwilling to honor their promise, and only after they had died did he take vows and retire to the desert. It was claimed this was because his parents were too attached to him to let him go.66 One might highlight two points here. As far as the vow was concerned, the birth of a male successor may have influenced the parents more readily to forget their promise. The daughter of Melania the Younger and Pinianus, for example, was pledged to virginity right from birth – if the child had been a son, he would have been destined for a wordly career instead, in order to continue the renowned lineage. As a second point, since the ultimate decision had to be made before a girl’s marriageable age had passed, the dedication of daughters was much more binding than that of sons, whose age of making a final decision usually came after the death of their fathers and who also had more opportunities to decide for themselves because of their gender and higher age. Not a single one of the cases featured in the correspondences studied here implied that the reason for the loss of one’s patrimony would have been due either to any opposition to the ascetic lifestyle or parents’ will to punish their offspring for rising against their will. Only those cases involving mothers and sons include any kind of discussion about entering into a life of vowed chastity. However, it made considerable difference whether the children who aimed at becoming ascetics were boys or girls and whether or not their father was still alive.

65

Gerontius, Life of Melania 1 and 6 (ed. Gorce, 130–132 and 136–138) (ca. 450). Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 9.4 and 13.16–18 (ed. Canivet and LeroyMolinghen, vol. I, 412–414 and 502–506) (dated 440s). Theodoret was careful not to accuse his parents, but he was able to enter the desert only after their deaths. Leroy-Molinghen, “Introduction,” 14–16. For Theodoret’s religious education and initial introduction to asceticism, see Cornelia B. Horn, “Children as Pilgrims and the Cult of Holy Children in the Early Syriac Tradition: The Cases of Theodoret of Cyrrhus and the ChildMartyrs Behnām, Sarah, and Cyriacus,” in Pilgrimages and Shrines in the Syrian Orient (Proceedings of the ARAM Twenty First International Conference). ARAM Periodical 19.1&2 (2007), 439–462, here 444–450. See also the case of Gregory of Nazianzen, above, p. 256. 66

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When one compares the situations featured in the correspondences with contemporary hagiographic presentations, it is possible to correlate the prevailing ideas of ascetic sainthood with actual cases. In order to study this correlation, a further set of cases, taken from late-fourth- and fifthcentury hagiography has been examined. Of twenty-nine cases in which comments on the role of parents in their children’s asceticism can be discerned, five record the child’s dedication to asceticism as being conducted by the father alone. Four of these cases deal with male children, one with a female child.67 In eight cases both parents are mentioned as playing equally active roles. In seven of these (five dealing with sons only, one with a son and a daughter, and one with a daughter only), the parents opposed their offspring’s plans.68 The remaining eighth case, the only contradictory account, is the story of a certain Akylas, who renounced the world with his wife and five sons.69 In eight cases only mothers are mentioned, and only in the case of Theodore and his brother are the children male. The others concern widowed mothers and their virgin daughters. In one of them, that concerning Magna, her mother had forced her to marry. Yet in other cases the mother had dedicated herself to chastity or otherwise re67 History of the Monks in Egypt 1.10 (ed. Festugière, 12) (ca. 400; John of Lycopolis makes a noble man dedicate his newborn son to God); Cassian, Institutes 4.27 (ed. Petschenig, 65–67) (dated between 419 and 426; Patermutus enters a monastery with his eight-year-old son); Sozomen, Church History 7.28 (ed. Bidez and Hansen, 344, 4–5) (ca. 440; Ajax dedicates two of his sons to chastity together with himself); Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 21.14 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, II, 90–92) (440s; a man promised to dedicate his only son to God, if he lived to maturity). Sulpicius Severus, Life of Martin 19.1–2 (ed. Fontaine, 292) (398 or 399; an ex-prefect, Arborius, dedicated his daughter to virginity after Martin had made her recover from fever). Only in the case of Patermutus and his son is the mother mentioned as being deceased. 68 Gerontius, Life of Melania 1–2 and 6–7 (ed. Gorce, 130–132 and 136–140) (ca. 450) and Palladius, Lausiac History 61.1 (ed. Bartelink, 264) (ca. 420, on Melania the Younger); History of the Monks of Egypt 22.1 (ed. Festugière, 128) (ca. 400; on Amoun persuaded to marry – in Palladius, Lausiac History 8.1 [ed. Bartelink, 40], Amoun is an orphan persuaded to marry by other relatives. See also Sozomen, Church History 1.14.1 [ed. Bidez and Hansen, 30] [ca. 440]); Jerome, Life of Malchus 3.1 (ed. Morales, 188) (year 388?); Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Syncletica 5–7 (ed. PG 28:1489a– b) (5th cent.; parents tried to marry off their son, but he ran away; Syncletica refused to marry but could not enter asceticism as long as her parents were alive); Letter of Ammon 2 and 30 (ed. Goehring, 124–125 and 152–153) (ca. 400?; Ammon had run away from his pagan parents to enter the monastery of Pachomius at the age of seventeen); Sulpicius Severus, Life of Martin 2.1–5 (ed. Fontaine, 254) (dated 398 or 399; parents oppose Martin’s ascetic yearnings); Hilarius of Arles, Life of Honoratus 6 and 8 (ed. Valentin, 84 and 88–90) (ca. 441; parents oppose Honoratus, but when a brother joins Honoratus in asceticism, no opposition mentioned or implied). 69 Callinicus, Life of Saint Hypatius 18.3 (ed. Bartelink, 132) (ca. 450?). For a later account see e.g. Apophthegmata Patrum (Cario) 2 (ed. PG 65:250d–251c) (ca. 500).

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acted positively, at least in the end, to her child’s yearning for an ascetic life.70 Eight cases deal with orphans. Five of these treat only male children, one a boy and a girl, and two concern girls (with a grandmother alive and active in one case). Usually the protagonists are depicted as entering into asceticism immediately after the death of both parents; Antony the Great himself had started his ascetic career only after his parents had died.71 Similar decisions were reported to have been taken by Paul of Thebes, Hilarion, Paesios and Isaias, Syncletica, and Publios.72 It strikes one as fitting that the status of orphans is quite frequently pointed out in hagiographic texts, as it functions as a sign of the individual’s own choice manifesting itself in entering into the ascetic life. It also offered the possibility of depicting the topical giving away of one’s patrimony as alms since it created

70 Life of Pachomius (Bohairic version) esp. 37–38 (tr. Goehring, 354–356) (mid 4th cent.; on Theodore and his brother); Ambrose, On Virgins 3.7.33 (ed. Cazzaniga, 73) (ca. 377; on Pelagia); Palladius, Lausiac History 31.1 (ed. Bartelink, 148) (ca. 420; Piamun living with her widowed mother); Palladius, Lausiac History 57.1 (ed. Bartelink, 254) (Candida, a chaste widow, dedicated her daughter to virginity); Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 30.1 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, II, 240) (dated 440s; Domnina, a virgin living with the household of her widowed mother); Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 9.12 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, I, 426–430) (a servant daughter ran away from her master to a convent with a widowed mother agreeing); Life of Eupraxia 2.7–12 (ed. PG 73:627–629) (5th or 6th cent.; Eupraxia entered a monastic community, her widowed mother agreeing at the end); Palladius, Lausiac History 67.1 (ed. Bartelink, 278) (ca. 420; Magna married off by her mother). 71 Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Antony 2.1–2 (ed. G. J. M. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie. Vie d’Antoine, Sources chrétiennes 400 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1994], 132–134) (dated after 357). 72 Jerome, Life of Hilarion 2.6 (ed. E. M. Morales, Jérôme, Trois vies de moines. Paul, Malchus, Hilarion, Sources chrétiennes 508 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf 2007], 212– 299, here 216) (dated before 392); Jerome, Life of Paul of Thebes 4.1 (ed. Morales, Jérôme, Trois vies de moines, 144–183, here 150) (year 376?); Palladius, Lausiac History 14.1–2 (ed. Bartelink, 58) (ca. 420; Paesios and Isaias); Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Syncletica 11 (ed. PG 28:1491d) (Syncletica, 5th cent.); Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 5.1 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, I, 328–330) (Publios, dated 440s). The other cases of orphans are Life of Porphyrius 100–102 (ed. H. Grégoire and M.-A. Kugener, Marc le Diacre: Vie de Porphyre, éveque de Gaza [Paris: Belles Lettres 1930, 76–79) (Salaphtha, grandmother and aunt living; ca. 420–500); and Palladius, Lausiac History 8.1 (ed. Bartelink, 40) (Amoun forced to marry by an uncle; ca. 420). Moreover, for Olympias, although she was a widow when she took the decision to dedicate herself to chastity, her status as an orphan was highlighted by Palladius: Palladius, Dialogue on the Life of John Chrysostom 17.134–139 (ed. A.-M. Malingrey, P. Leclercq, and J. Leclercq, Palladios, Dialogue sur la vie de Jean Chrysostome, Sources chrétiennes 341–342 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1988], vol. 341, 46–451, here 342– 343) (ca. 430).

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a space for a general rejection of the past, family traditions, and family continuity. When comparing the hagiographical cases to what can be gained from a study of the cases in the correspondences, one overall shared feature is the relatively small number of cases that involve fathers alone. One cannot find actual cases of widowers who would permit their children to take up asceticism, and quite seldom does one find this possibility being mentioned in hagiographic sources either. Of the twenty-four cases that are discernible in the letters, in thirteen the father is known to be dead. Of the twenty-nine stories found in hagiographies, fifteen involve children whose father is deceased. To these are to be added the exemplary tale Jerome offered of a widowed mother and her virgin daughter living together, and the case of an orphan girl throwing herself down at the altar to evade marriage as told by Ambrose.73 Moreover, when Augustine needed to exemplify the differing fates of twins who were born under the same horoscopes, the “standard” case consisted of a married brother, traveling much and holding high office, while his twin sister was living as a holy virgin on the estate she inherited from her deceased father. In order for this argument to sound convincing for the intended audience, it had to have depicted a situation widely held as typical.74 In cases to be found outside of the hagiographic accounts and correspondences utilized for the compilation of material above, the fathers’ absence comes to the fore with force as well. Both Augustine and Ambrose had lost their fathers before they had made their resolution to become celibate and practice asceticism. The recent death of the father and subsequent widowhood of the mother are closely followed by the taking of the vow of virginity in the case of Marcellina, Ambrose’s sister.75 The same situation also applied in the case of Basil the Elder’s children: Macrina seems to have started her asceticism only after her father’s death, and at least her brothers, Basil, Peter, and Naucratius, began their ascetic careers when their father was already deceased.76 Likewise, John Chrysostom joined an 73 Jerome, Letters 117 (ed. Labourt, vol. VI, 76–87) (405 or 406); and Ambrose, On Virgins 1.11.65–66 (ed. Cazzaniga, 33–34) (ca. 377). 74 Augustine, City of God 5.6 (ed. B. Dombart and A. Kalb, Aurelii Augustini opera, vol. 14, 1–2, CChr.SL 47 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1955], 133–134) (ca. 427). 75 See “Marcellina I,” in Prosopographie chrétienne du Bas-Empire 2: Prosopographie de l'Italie chrétienne (313–604) 1–2, ed. J. Desmulliez and others (Rome: École française de Rome, 1999 and 2000), 1365–1367. 76 On Macrina, see esp. Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 4–5 (ed. Maraval, 152– 160) (dated early 380s): her engagement ended in ca. 340 with the death of her betrothed. Basil the Elder died in the early 340s. For the early years of her “self-proclaimed widowhood” (rather than straightforward asceticism), see also Philip Rousseau, “The Pious Household and the Virgin Chorus: Reflections on Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina,”

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ascetic community and started a more rigorous asceticism only after his mother’s death.77 In comparison, for cases found outside the correspondences, only in those of Gregory Nazianzen and Stagirius were the fathers alive when their sons started their ascetic careers.78 A further sign showing the prevalence of this idea consists of Ambrose’s remark containing the supposition that the new widowhood of the mother would also make the children more susceptible to exhortations to virginity. In the realm of hagiography to the extent that it has been examined here, the mother was deceased only in the case of Patermutus as told by John Cassian.79 Also, there are no cases in the hagiographic record that depict mothers and sons together, whereas one can find descriptions of a widowed mother living in continence with her daughter as a dominant theme. This constellation was rhetorically more convincing and corresponded to the ideals of the time. Also more generally, in hagiography the gender of the dedicated children correlates with the gender of the parent who was active: mothers are coupled with daughters and sons with fathers.80 The topical nature of this figure comes to the fore even more pointedly if one takes into consideration that in the cases featured in the correspondences this type of pairing up parents and children along the lines of gender is absent; of the twelve cases in which mothers are active without their husbands, half of them deal with sons.81 Journal of Early Christian Studies 13 (2005), 165–186, here 174; and Elm, Virgins of God, 45–46. On her brothers, see Elm, Virgins of God, 80–81 and 87–91. 77 Chrysostom, On Priesthood 1.2 (ed. Malingrey, 66–72) (dated between 375 and 386); and W. Mayer and P. Allen, John Chrysostom, The Early Chuch Fathers (London: Routledge, 2000), 5–6. Also Theodoret of Cyrrhus was able to start his asceticism only after the death of his parents: Religious History 9.4 and 13.16–18 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, I, 412–414 and 502–506) (dated 440s). 78 Gregory Nazianzen, Orations 7.9 (ed. M.-A. Calvet-Sebasti, Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 6–12, Sources chrétiennes 405 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1995], 200) (ca. 369) – his father died in 374; Chrysostom, To Stagirius 1.1 (ed. PG 47:426) (380s). See also Paulinus of Nola, Carmina 24.499–528, 589–94 (ed. de Hartel, 223 and 226) (ca. 400), which mentions a son of a certain Cytherius, dedicated as a boy to God. 79 Ambrose, On Virgins 1.10.57–60 (ed. Cazzaniga, 30–31) (ca. 377); and Cassian, Institutes 4.27 (ed. Petschenig, 65–67). See also Ambrose, Exhortation to Virginity 3.13– 4.27 (ed. PL 16:355b–359a) (dated early 390s): widows are presented as opposing their daughters listening to Ambrose’s sermons on virginity. 80 As the only exception one may refer to the case of Theodore and his brother (Life of Pachomius, Bohairic version 37–38 (tr. Goehring, 354–356) [mid 4th cent.]). 81 Sons: Augustine, Letters 10.1 (ed. Daur, 24) (Nebridius); Jerome, Letters 125.6–7 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 117–119) (Rusticus); Augustine, Letters 243 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 568–579) (Laetus); Jerome, Letters 3.4 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 13) (Bonosus); Augustine, Letters 20* (ed. Divjak, 94–95) (Antonius of Fussala); Jerome, Letters 7 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 21–24) (both sons and daughters). Daughters: Jerome, Letters 127 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 136–148) (Marcella); Jerome, Letters 22 and 39 (ed. Labourt, vol. I,

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The twenty-four cases featured in the correspondences mention seventeen daughters and eleven sons who were dedicated to asceticism, and the twenty-nine cases gathered from hagiographical sources mention twentyfive sons and twelve daughters. Thus, one finds about twice as many sons in hagiographical accounts and one-and-half times more daughters in actual cases. One might be able to name two external factors for this discrepancy. The first is that male authors of hagiographical narratives were much more concerned about male sainthood and thus were writing more about males and attached greater importance to their conversions to the ascetic life. The other factor is that actual cases are drawn from correspondences which were composed for specific and concrete occasions: when girls were about to enter into a life of virginity, they were still underage and lived under their parents’ strict observation. Even later on, ascetic women were expected to stay with their parents, meeting with other people as little as possible.82 In order to come in contact with them written communication was needed. Moreover, given that the girls vowing their lives to virginity were on average much younger than their male counterparts, this restricted their opportunities for being shown around even more, and consequently increased the need to receive advice for them or for their parents with regard to their education. Another feature that appears to be conditioned by questions of gender expectations is that religious education and the taking of actual vows depended to a great extent on mothers, even in cases in which the fathers were alive. This tendency is clear especially in the case of daughters. Jerome considered it a task of women to make the vow regarding a daughter, even in the case in which it was the father who was active in asking for advice (here for Pacatula). The same presupposition is inherent in many other texts promoting asceticism. Palladius, for example, referred to such a case in his Lausiac History. A certain Candida had instructed her daughter in virginity and brought her to Christ “as a gift of her own body.” Moreover, it was the mother who vowed Theodoret to asceticism even before his

110–160, and vol. II, 71–85) (Blaesilla and Eustochium, daughters of Paula the Elder); Augustine, Letters 188 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 119–130) and Jerome, Letters 130 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 166–193) (Demetrias); Augustine, Letters 3* (ed. Divjak, 21–25) (anonymous daughter); Augustine, Letters 212 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 57, 371–372) (Simpliciola); and Augustine, Letters 124 and 126 (ed. Goldbacher, CSEL 44, 1–2 and 7– 18) (Melania the Younger). 82 For the surveillance of virgins, see Arjava, Women and Law, 162–163, and Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme, vol. 2, 303–305. On the positive value attached to the seclusion of the young girls of marriageable age in general in late Roman culture, see Geoffrey Nathan, The Family in Late Antiquity: the Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 81–82.

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birth, and brought her up in the constant contact with the hermits.83 In the midst of family life, women’s work was acknowledged as a major factor in childhood socialization and in transferring the cultural values of society to the next generation. After the Vow – Parents and Their Virgins In his Exhortation to Virginity, Ambrose appealed to Juliana’s four children to enter a life of virginity by referring to the vow already made by their parents on their behalf, even if stressing that it was impossible to make anybody take the actual vow of virginity without his or her own decision and will.84 Nevertheless, it is clear that since the dedication of a child was often made without, or even in spite of, the wishes of the children it was possible that discord erupted at a later phase of living under the ascetic vow, even if there were no (overt) disagreements when entering into the vow. An important part of ascetic practice was to subordinate one’s will. According to the writers propagating asceticism, this should have led to even stricter obedience to parental authority. A female virgin or young widow was virtuous if she indeed stayed with her relatives, secluded in her parents home, or at least took refuge in a community led by a female elder relative. In these early phases of asceticism, home was a place in which it was possible to live apart from the world and its perils, a safe bastion in the battle against earthly passions. The contacts with the outer world were to be reduced to a minimum.85 Thus, for a virgin living as a member of her rela83 Jerome, Letters 128, esp. 2 (ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 149) (year 413); Palladius, Lausiac History 57.1 (ed. Bartelink, 254) (ca. 420); Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History 9.4 and 13.16–18 (ed. Canivet and Leroy-Molinghen, I, 412–414 and 502–506) (dated 440s) with Horn, “Children as Pilgrims,” 444–450. See also Pseudo-Athanasius of Alexandria, Canons 97 (Arabic text) (ed. Riedel and Crum, 62) (ca. 370), for an exhortation to women to pledge their daughters to virginity in order to keep them pure for Christ (there is no such exhortation for men). John Chrysostom urged women to consecrate their (firstborn) children to God – that is, to give them an ascetically minded upbringing: Chrysostom, Homily 21 on Ephesians 2 (ed. PG 62:151–152). 84 Ambrose, Exhortation to Virginity 3.13, 3.17 and 8.51 (ed. PL 16:355b, 356b, and 366c–367a) (dated early 390s?) There were three daughters and one son. Ambrose refers to the vow taken by the parents making the comparison to the Old Testament Jepthah (Judg 11:31-40), who went to death because of her father’s careless promise (incauta patris oblatio). 85 See e.g. Jerome, Letters 22.16 and 25 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 125 and 136–138) (year 384); 24.4 (ed. Labourt, vol. II, 12) (year 384); and 117 (ed. Labourt, vol. VI, 76–87) (dated 405 or 406). Ambrose, On Virgins 1.7.32 (ed. Cazzaniga, 16–17) (ca. 377); Ambrose, The Consecration of a Virgin 1.1 (ed. PL 16:319a–b) (dated 380s or early 390s); Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 5 and 11 (ed. Maraval, 156–160 and 176–178) (dated early 380s).

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tives’ household, both the ordinary parental power and the power of spiritual guardianship were concentrated in the hands of the same people, the parents or other relatives. Therefore, possible conflicts between the parents and their virgin daughters became public knowledge only in very exceptional cases, and therefore they rarely reach modern scholarly attention. However, Jerome depicted the case of an intra-familial dispute involving a dedicated widow and her virgin daughter. The details of the case as Jerome described them, with the mother and daughter being separated and taking a non-kin male advisor, are somewhat suspect. The letter in question offers a declamatory elaboration not addressed to any specific individual, given that it features anonymous main protagonists and “a certain brother from Gallia,” on whom Jerome claimed to rely for his information on the case.86 This text is valuable since it shows not only Jerome’s presupposition that in a ‘normal’ situation asceticism was an intergenerational effort, but also his sharp eye in spotting the possibility for disagreements between the elderly widow and her in theory more honored virgin daughter.87 The letter may have been intended as a warning and advice to those mother-daughter pairs of ascetics Jerome knew too well to address directly.88 Nevertheless, at least in one unique letter a family issue concerning asceticism was brought to the fore. Augustine mentioned a nun, a sanctimonialis, who in the middle of the night woke up a presbyter who because of his duties had stayed at her and her parents’ house. According to the presbyter, the nun started to complain about her parents, and continued until he

86 Jerome, Letters 117 (ed. Labourt, vol. VI, 76–87) (year 405 or 406); contemporary readers have claimed already that the letter was fictitious. Jerome called these accusations blasphemous, but gave no arguments to refute them: Jerome, Against Vigilantius 3 (ed. J.-L. Feiertag, S. Hieronymi Presbyteri opera, vol. 3.5 [Opera polemica, 5], CChr.SL 79C [Turnholt: Brepols, 2005], 8–9) (year 406). 87 There had developed a hierarchy of values for different kinds of Christian lifestyles. The standard claim was that a married couple bring forth thirty-fold fruit, widows sixtyfold, and virgins a hundredfold, these also reflecting the status of a given group in the church. See e.g. Ambrose, On Virgins 1.10.60 (ed. Cazzaniga, 31) (ca. 377); Jerome, Against Jovinian 1.3 (PL 23:205–384, here 223b–224a; year 393); Jerome, Letters 22.15 (ed. Labourt, vol. I, 124); 49.2 (ed. Labourt, vol. II, 121; year 393); Augustine, On the Good of Widowhood 23.28 (ed. Zycha, 342; dated ca. 414); Paulinus of Nola, Letters 39.1 (ed. de Hartel, 334–335); and Cassian, Conferences 21.9 (ed. Michael Petschenig, Iohannis Cassiani Conlationes XXIIII, CSEL 13 [Vindobonae: Geroldi, 1886], 1180b– 1182b) (dated 426–428). 88 Esp. Paula the Elder and Eustochium, and Albina the Elder and Marcella – Jerome in fact later referred to some differences of opinion (Jerome, Letters 127.4 [ed. Labourt, vol. VII, 140]).

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got too upset and left the room, fearing damage to their reputations.89 The presbyter’s fear was justified, since later on he was indeed accused of “fornication or some iniquity” – by the sanctimonialis herself. It is difficult to uncover her motivation for her latter action, unless one views the case as a chance for her to escape her vow and her parents’ house.90 The case certainly demonstrates the narrow limits of freedom for virgin daughters living with their parents. Under ordinary circumstances they seem to have had very little say regarding their own affairs. The love for asceticism on the part of one’s parents could shake the foundations of a child’s life in other ways. Couples retiring with their children to ascetic communities have already been mentioned, but also a vow by a rich widow, combined with a resolution to visit holy places could have a profound impact on her children. Melania the Elder left her son behind in her quest for the angelic life in the earthly Jerusalem, and Rufina’s crying or the protests of the small Toxotius could not stop their mother, Paula, leaving for the East. Against the laws of nature, as Jerome would have it, Paula’s love for her children was overcome by her greater love of God. Jerome added that nothing was crueler than to separate parents from their children.91 Indeed, the records of the Council of Gangra show concern for parents who do not provide for their children with proper piety but neglect them “under pretext of asceticism.” Such parents were liable to be anathematized. The canon was directed especially against the Eustathians, among whom such things were thought to happen.92 In hagiography, the theme of abandonment of children due to asceticism appears rather often. For example, the fifth-century miracle collection of Saint Thecla includes the story of Dionysia, who abandoned her husband, children, and house and left for the shrine of Thecla.93 Men also left their children and wives. For example, an anonymous rich man from Asia featured in the Dialogues of Sulpicius Severus is praised for suddenly leaving 89

Augustine, Letters 13* (80–82 Divjak) (undated): [D]e parentibus suis nescio quas querelas immurmurantem. 90 With one caveat, however: even if Augustine relies on the presbyter’s account more than the virgin’s, it is possible that the presbyter’s story is an invention to cover his misdeed. 91 Jerome, Letters 108.6 (ed. Labourt, vol. V, 164) (dated 404), depicting an incident that took place in 385: pietatem in filios pietate in Deum superans … amorem filiorum maiore in Deum amore contemnans … contra iura naturae … nihil crudelius est quam parentes a liberis separari. See also Jerome, Letters 45.4 (ed. Labourt, vol. II, 98) (385). 92 Council of Gangra, Canons 15 (ed. J. D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, [Florence and Venice: 1798], vol. II, 1104) (dated early 340s?): profa/sei th=j a)skh/sewj a)meloi/n. 93 Miracles of Thecla 46 (ed. Gilbert Dagron, Vie et miracles de Sainte Thêcle, Subsidia Hagiographica 62 [Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1978], 284–412, here 409) (mid 5th cent.).

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his wife and small child and entering the desert. In his Conferences John Cassian similarly praised Theonas for leaving his wife and fleeing to a monastery after having used all his rhetorical skills to persuade his wife.94 As far as one can tell, there is only positive value attached to leaving children behind. Even if based on relatively little information concerning intra-familial discussions over asceticism, it is clear that the psychological pressure in these situations was tremendous. Moreover, all these cases illustrate the crucial role played by adults in decisions about children’s entering into asceticism. The space left for individual choice by non-independent family members was not wide. Authority and Gender in the Family Nucleus A Christian in conflict with his or her parents was a living embodiment of the fulfillment of Christ’s prophecy regarding his own role in setting “a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-inlaw against her mother-in-law” (Matt 10:35), at the same time being both an unheard-of act and a sign of the true faith and holiness of the ascetic in question. As ancient writers aimed in their works at constructing the image of an exemplary Christian, their interpretation of Jesus’ teaching on the necessity to leave one’s parents and kin was an important factor. It was crucial to highlight the independent and free decision of children in their dedication to virgin life. The conflict with one or both parents was the ultimate sign of the ascetic’s preferences, even holiness, as it indicated his or her chosing the family of Christ instead of the authority of the parents and family continuity. The biographers of ascetics and saints were eager to point out that their decision to take the vow had been independent of and, if possible, against the wishes of their parents or relatives. Thus, recourse to the topic of independence was taken even in cases in which no conflicts were indicated and where the role of the parents was decisive. Especially the theme of forced marriage emerged as a much used literary topos. It was a dramatic motif that was well-suited to highlight the virtue of those model Christians who after all struggles still ended up being married.

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Sulpicius Severus, Dialogues 1.22.1–2 (ed. J. Fontaine, Sulpice Sévère, Gallus: Dialogues sur les vertus de saint Martin, Sources chrétiennes 510 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2006], 188–190) (ca. 404); Cassian, Conferences 21.8–10 (ed. Petschenig, 1179c– 1184a) (dated 426–428). Paul the Simple left his wife and children when he found his wife with her lover. Then he himself left for the desert: Palladius, Lausiac History 22.1 (ed. Bartelink, 118) (ca. 420). See also another hero of Palladius’s, Innocent, who left his wife and an adult son when he renounced the world (Palladius, Lausiac History 44 [ed. Bartelink, 214–216]).

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A marriage arranged by one’s parents was the standard in Late Antiquity, even among Christians. Even if the consent of the child, in principle, was needed, the possibility that a son would protest the choice of a spouse made by the father was nearly non-existent, and for a daughter not to give her consent was only a hypothetical option.95 The choice between marrying at all and taking the vow of chastity clearly followed along these same lines of authority. From the parents’ point of view, to force a child to marry a certain spouse was not a statement against asceticism, even if later on hagiographers could interpret their actions as revealing such an attitude. Thus, by referring to a forced marriage, Paulinus of Pella, a self proclaimed would-be ascetic, could highlight his Christian virtue.96 Therefore, these stories should not be interpreted as signs of actual parental opposition, let alone be used to argue for a distinction between a pro-ascetic East and a more critically distanced West.97 Thus, independence and the pursuit for freedom can hardly be seen as actual reasons for the underaged children to enter asceticism. It seems that scholarly literature has overstated opportunities children may have had to decide for themselves, especially in cases involving young female virgins.98 For most virgins their parents made the final decisions, and even after the vow, the girls were kept under strict surveillance. Instead of claiming that many children desired to remain unmarried, and this led to familial conflicts between parents and their children, it would be more to the point to note that many parents desired to have a celibate ascetic in the household. Taking the vow of virginity was a family matter. 95 Arjava, Women and Law, 29–35; See, however, Judith Evans-Grubbs, “ParentChild Conflict in the Roman Family: The Evidence of the Code of Justinian,” in The Roman Family in the Empire. Rome, Italy, and Beyond, ed. Michele George (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 93–128, here 99–112 for some third century cases with sons in dispute with their fathers. 96 Paulinus of Pella, Thanksgiving 176–181 (ed. C. Moussy, Paulin de Pella, Poème d'action de grâces; Prière, Sources chrétiennes 209 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1974], 70) (dated 459). I thank Judith Evans Grubbs for directing my attention to him. 97 Cf. Brown, Body and Society, 343: “Unlike the austere and populous families of Cappadocia, fourth-century Romans parted with their daughters with extreme reluctance”; and Nathan, The Family in Late Antiquity, 82. See also Hagith Sivan, “On Hymens and Holiness in Late Antiquity. Opposition to Aristocratic Female Asceticism at Rome,” Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 36 (1993), 81–93. 98 It is noteworthy that even in cases in which the dependent position of home ascetics and the influence of the authorative ecclesiastical figures, especially on young female virgins, have been noted (see esp. Brown, Body and Society, 260 and 263; Beaucamp, Le statut de la femme, vol. 2, 303–305; and Arjava, Women and Law, 162 and 164–165), scholars have continued to refer to the vows as resulting from an individual choosing, and the difference between the (young) virgins and the (older, and more independent) widows is not always made clear (for other studies, see above note 9).

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Indeed, the cases of disinheritance of ascetics do not seem to have anything to do with disagreements over asceticism. Not giving inheritance to an ascetic son or daughter was a part of the strategy of evading the dispersion of the inheritance, a way of allocating the family wealth efficiently. Asceticism offered a new tool for the machinations for the transfer of family property. As ascetics themselves did not have offspring, and given that it was expected that they would be lavish in donating their property to the poor and to the church, economically the patrimony given to ascetics was to be regarded as money being wasted from the family succession, even if it yielded great spiritual rewards. The attitude towards the asceticism of a family member depended on the particular situation a family faced at a given time. One encounters parents first consecrating their children to virginity without asking their opinion, but later trying to revoke the vow; ascetically minded parents who married off their children despite their potential wish to be dedicated to asceticism; and dedicated widows warning their children against hearing sermons advocating virginity. Open conflict with one’s parents was to be carefully avoided. One does not find actual cases in which the opinion of a paterfamilias over asceticism was openly contested. If disagreements existed and parents were set against their children’s resolution, they were to be solved by waiting and using tactics of evading or even concealing. Yet one does find some differences between sons and daughters handling that window of opportunity that opened up in those cases. The account of how Syncletica waited for her parents to pass away before she began her ascetic life, while her brother ran away from parental authority exemplifies how the story’s credibility required different responses from son and daughter. Yet even for sons, who had greater freedom of choice, abrupt reactions seem to have been the exception. After all, no historical cases of such behavior are known outside of hagiographical stories. In this situation it is not surprising that the death of the parents, at least that of the father, was often the prerequisite for the child to take the vow. In cases when the father was dead, at least the sons as new heads of households had all the legal rights to distribute their property and retire to the desert if they so wished.99 However, a central feature of the ancient value system that applied in families was dutiful respect (pietas)100 for the wishes of the parents, regardless of their juridical standing vis-à-vis their children. As the cases of the mothers of Laetus, Nebridius, Thedoret, and John Chrysostom, among others, imply, the widowed mothers had strong influence on their children. If

99

On the juridical point of view, see further esp. Arjava, Women and Law, 32. On pietas, see Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 110 and 131.

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the mother was opposed to her children’s vow, they waited until she had died. The decision for the vow of continence had to be taken when the child reached marriageable age. This age was much lower for girls than boys. Upper class girls tended to get married in their early or mid-teens, for the boys this seems to have happened only some ten years later. What is more significant, for boys the variation seems to have been greater, and thus also the option to defer the decision to marry or not to marry. The earlier the decision had to be made, the more uncertainty there was regarding the continuity of the family lineage through other children and grandchildren. Moreover, the high mortality rate led to a situation in which on average at least one quarter of the children had lost their father at fifteen, the age when girls entered marriages, and nearly half by the age of twenty-five, when young men were typically married. For the mother, the corresponding estimates come down at one fifth for girls at fifteen and at least one quarter for boys at twenty-five.101 Thus, the likelihood that the parents and older relatives, or at least the father, were dead by the time a decision about a life of marriage or asceticism had to be made for his offspring was much greater for sons than for daughters. An unmarried son who had reached his late twenties was not a catastrophe for the family. If sons had time to wait when making the final decision for asceticism, daughters did not have the same luxury. For young, marriageable girls in their early teens, the question was one of immediate choice between marriage and celibacy. This situation is echoed in the presuppositions inherent in treatises and exhortations to virginity, namely that daughters faced struggles with their parents. Ecclesiastical writers needed to warn the young maidens of the possible resistance, and brand it as inevitable and even sanctifying. This resistance, however, did not lead to open conflicts despite the war cries of the propagators of asceticism against prejudiced parents. Only in hagiography are daughters depicted in rebelling against their parents in order to take the vow. One also seems to be able to discern a gender bias towards young female recruits to asceticism. The patrilineal continuity of the lineage was still sought after, and special value was placed on having the “bloodline” continued, especially through the male members of the next generation. A surviving child, especially a son, guaranteed “the uninterrupted succession of the name to be handed down,” as Ambrose congratulated his friend Eu-

101 These figures are relevant, naturally, only if the calculations of Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 48–65 (tables), 121, and 229, are applicable also to the late Roman society. See also above, note 35).

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sebius, who had dedicated his granddaughter to virginity.102 Sons were preferred for administering the family’s property and carrying on the family’s reputation and name to the next generation. It seems that it was reserved for them to play the more mundane roles in their parents’ strategies to secure the family’s continuity into the next generation. This does not mean that the daughters were (inevitably) less valued, as, after all, they were used to form spiritual links to the “family of God.” According to ecclesiastical writers, ascetic recruits should despise any emotional attachments to the domus, the household unit. They also should minimize active links to their actual family members and blood relatives. Yet in spite of this rhetoric, an ascetic belonged very much to his or her family of origin. The strategic nature of directing some of one’s children to spiritual careers is apparent in the texts that depict how changing demographical realities required bringing offspring who had been promised to chastity back into the family’s fold in order to continue the family line. On the other hand, the vows of children as gifts to God were investments bonding their parents with the family of Christ – now himself a relative by spiritual marriage.103 This relationship was an anticipation of bad days to come, much in the way earthly networks between relatives, neighbors, and patrons, often formed and reinforced through marriages, were securities against misfortunes.

102 Ambrose, Letters 38.1 (ed. Zelzer, 23–24) (year 395): perpetuati vocabuli iugis successio. For the virgin Ambrosia, see also Ambrose, The Consecration of a Virgin 1.1 (ed. PL 16, 319) (380s or early 390s); and Ambrose, Letters 26.2 (ed. Faller, 179) (ca. 392). 103 Thus, for example, Jerome called Paula the Elder “mother-in-law of God (socrus Dei)” as her daughter took the vow of virginity (Jerome, Letters 22.20 [ed. Labourt, vol. I, 130] [dated 384]).

Raising Martyrs and Ascetics: A Diachronic Comparison of Educational Role-Models for Early Christian Children1 Cornelia B. Horn Introductory Remarks For somewhat more than about a decade, a research emphasis has emerged with concentrations on the function of “family” as a metaphor employed in texts and its relationship to the social reality of family life in early Christianity, including the world in which this new religion arose.2 By now, the 1 This article was in the making for a long time, beginning in 2004, when a draft of some of the material included herein could be presented at the Annual Meeting of the North American Patristics Society. Subsequently I have benefitted from constructive criticism which Robert R. Phenix Jr. offered. I also gratefully acknowledge the research assistance which Aaron Overby provided at the final stages of this project. Any remaining errors or infelicities are my own. The present article is dedicated to Tanja K. Horn and Andrea Horn, who taught me a lot about raising children. 2 The scientific literature on the role of the family as well as on the use of the metaphor of family in the early and late ancient Christian world is growing. For the more immediate New Testament context, including early post-apostolic literature, it may suffice here to refer to the collection of articles gathered in Halvor Moxnes, ed., Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor (London: Routledge, 1997); Carolyn Osiek and David L. Balch, Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997); Joseph H. Hellerman, The Ancient Church as Family: Early Christian Communities and Surrogate Kinship (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2001); David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek, ed., Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue, Religion, Marriage, and Family Series (Grand Rapids, MI: W. E. Eerdmans, 2003); and Carolyn Osiek, “Family Matters,” in Christian Origins, ed. Richard A. Horsley, A People’s History of Christianity 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 201–220. For wider contexts, including that of patristic literature, see, e.g., Geoffrey S. Nathan, The Family in Late Antiquity: the Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition (London and New York: Routledge, 2000); and Carol Harrison, “The Silent Majority: The Family in Patristic Thought,” in The Family in Theological Perspective, ed. Stephen C. Barton (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 89–97. Brent Shaw, “The Family in Late Antiquity: the Experience of Augustine,” Past and Present 115 (1987), 3–51, discusses both Augustine’s conception and experience of “family.” For an example from the Greek realm, see Douglas O’Roark, “Parenthood in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of Chrysostom,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 40 (1999), 53–81. For recent studies of applications of family-related lan-

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role and place of children in early and late ancient Christianity have also begun to receive some attention in this program of investigation.3 No doubt, the infrequent treatment of the subject matter of children in ancient sources is at least one of the reasons for the relatively late start of scholarly interest in the topic. Few of the early Christian theological and historical texts take children as their main theme. Best known among these perhaps is John Chrysostom’s Address on Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring Up Their Children.4 Some earlier research already has begun to classify children’s experiences of martyrdom in early Christian settings as well as models of parental attitudes towards children’s suffering.5 Other studies, including work by guage to social realities of the early Church, see for example Theodore S. de Bruyn, “Flogging a Son: the Emergence of the pater flagellans in Latin Christian Discourse,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 7.2 (1999), 249–290; and Michael Penn, “Performing Family: Ritual Kissing and the Construction of Early Christian Kinship,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 10 (2002), 151–174. For an explorations of aspects of family language in application to the monastic context, see Rebecca Krawiec, “’From the Womb of the Church’: Monastic Families,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 283– 307. A helpful, brief guide to further literature is Andrew S. Jacobs and Rebecca Krawiec, “Fathers Know Best? Christian Families in the Age of Asceticism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 257–263. 3 Literature on children in the classical Greek and Roman world is more easily accessible. See for example Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990). Among the few exceptions of studies on children in patristic settings, one may refer to Gillian Clark, “The Fathers and the Children,” in The Church and Childhood, ed. Diana Wood (London: Blackwell, 1994), 1–28; Susan Ashbrook Harvey, “Sacred Bonding: Mothers and Daughters in Early Syriac Hagiography,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 4 (1996), 27–56; Odd M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005); and Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2009). 4 John Chrysostom, Address on Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring Up Their Children (ed. and tr. Anne–Marie Malingrey, Jean Chrysostome. Sur la vaine gloire et l’éducation des enfants, Sources chrétiennes 188 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1972]; tr. Max L. W. Laistner, Christianity and Pagan Culture in the Later Roman Empire together with An English Translation of John Chrysostom’s Address on Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring Up Their Children [Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1951; Cornell Paperbacks, second printing 1978], 85–122). More recently, a new German translation with extensive introduction and commentary has been published by Michael Gärtner, Die Familienerziehung in der Alten Kirche: eine Untersuchung über die ersten vier Jahrhunderte des Christentums mit einer Übersetzung und einem Kommentar zu der Schrift des Johannes Chrysostomus über Geltungssucht und Kindererziehung (Köln: Böhlau, 1985). See also Johannes Quasten, Patrology, vol. 3 (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics, Inc., reprinted 1994), 465–467. 5 See, e.g., Cornelia Horn, “‘Fathers and Mothers Shall Rise Up Against Their Children and Kill Them’: Martyrdom and Children in the Early Church,” paper delivered at

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Rebecca Krawiec, Timothy Miller, and Ville Vuolanto, have explored aspects of the use of family discourse in ascetic literature,6 as well as the contribution of monastic communities to the care for orphans.7 While many aspects of both of these areas, the function of children in martyrdom settings and the question of the intersection of children and asceticism, are in need of further study in their own right, the present contribution focuses on the models of the “martyr” and the “ascetic,” of which parents and other adult educators made use in dedicating the children under their care to a Christian life, including preparation for monasticism. This article suggests that there existed a structural continuity in the literary development from earlier martyrdom-centered approaches in Christian literature to later ones that concentrated on ascesis, both of which dealing with various aspects of children and childhood. Methodologically, the first step to such a study is to examine a sample of martyrdom accounts of children in order to understand how the images of the ascetic and the martyr are built up and employed. Yet in light of the relative prominence of advice towards virginity as a choice of life recommended for women in ancient Christian texts, the present study is concerned in particular with identifying and analyzing texts that concentrate on young girls and their mothers. Then the investigation is broadened to consider other types of ancient literature that in some way relate the proper raising of children with the ideals of the ascetic and the martyr. Since the Annual Meeting of the American Academy of Religion / Society of Biblical Literature, Toronto, Canada (November, 2002); and Cornelia Horn, “Parents Facing the Death of Their Children in the Light of Unexplored Sources from the Early Christian East,” paper delivered at the American Academy of Religion / Society of Biblical Literature Annual Meeting, Philadelphia, PA (November, 2005). See also the related discussion in Joel Thomas Walker, The Legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative and Christian Heroism in Late Antique Iraq, Transformation of the Classical Heritage 40 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 206–245. 6 See, e.g., Rebecca Krawiec, Shenute and the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), especially 133–174); Krawiec, “‘From the Womb of the Church’”; Ville Vuolanto, “Children and Asceticism. Strategies of Continuity in the Late Fourth and Early Fifth Centuries,” in Hoping for Continuity: Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Katariina Mustakallio, Jussi Hanska, Hanna-Leena Sainio, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae XXXIII (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2005), 119–132; Ville Vuolanto, “Family and Asceticism. Continuity Strategies in the Late Roman World,” Ph.D. thesis (University of Tampere, Finland, 2008); and Ville Vuolanto, “Choosing Asceticism. Children and Parents, Vows and Conflicts,” in the present volume. 7 For the realm of the Byzantine Empire, this question was examined most comprehensively in Timothy S. Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium: Child Welfare in the Christian Empire (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003). See also my review of this work in Journal of Early Christian Studies 12.1 (2004), 135–137.

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much of the surviving literature details aspects of parents’ attitudes to their children’s fate, parental arguments for and against the exposure of children to martyrdom and asceticism also receive some attention in this study. Raising Young Martyrs Ancient authors seem to have composed only few accounts which focus more or less exclusively on the martyrdom of a given child or a group of children. Nevertheless, the extant martyrdom literature involving children can be classified according to various criteria. One category based on content that has been proposed distinguishes the available evidence with respect to the grouping of children and the extent of the integration of a child’s martyrdom into the Christian witness of the young martyr’s immediate family.8 Such texts include the martyrdom of an individual child (e.g., the Martyrdom of Abd al-Masih, preserved in Syriac, Armenian, and Arabic),9 the martyrdom of a group of children (e.g., the Georgian Martyrdom of the Children of Kola),10 or the martyrdom of a child or a group of children accompanied by a parent or parents (e.g., the Martyrdom of Sophia and Her Three Daughters,11 or the Martyrdom of Domnina and Her Daughters Bernice and Prosdoce).12 The present contribution, given its 8

For a more comprehensive discussion of the categorization of this kind of literature, see Horn, “‘Fathers and Mothers Shall Rise Up Against Their Children and Kill Them.’” 9 Bollandist Society, Bibliotheca Hagiographica Orientalis, Subsidia Hagiographica 10 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1910), 1–2, entries 3–4. For the oldest extant source of this martyrdom, see the Syriac account, edited and translated into Latin in Josephus Coruly, “Acta Sancti Mar Abdu’l Masich,” Analecta Bollandiana 5 (1886), 5–52; as well as the text in Paul Bedjan, Acta martyrum et sanctorum Syriace 1 (Paris and Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1890; reprinted Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1968), 173–201. An Armenian text can be found in Vitae et passiones sanctorum selectae ex Eclogariis, 2 vols. (Venice, 1874), vol. 1, 6–25. A later Arabic version has been published by Paul Peeters, “La passion arabe de s. ‘Abd al-Masih,” Analecta Bollandiana 44 (1926), 270– 341. See also Siméon Vailhé, “Abdul Masich,” in Dictionnaire d’Histoire et de Géographie Ecclésiastiques 1 (1912), 67. 10 The Georgian text can be found in Nikolai Y. Marr, “Mučeničestvo otrokov’ Kolaĭcev’,” in Teksty i Razyskanija po Armjano–Gruzinskoĭ Filologii (St. Petersburg: Leschtukow, 1903), vol. 5, 55–61. An English translation is available in David Marshall Lang, Lives and Legends of the Georgian Saints, Selected and Translated from the Original Texts (London: George Allen & Unwin; and New York: Macmillan, 1956), 40–43. 11 Syriac Manuscript BL Add 17,204 from the fifth century CE is the oldest available source. See W. Wright, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts of the British Museum (London: The British Museum, 1872), vol. 3, p. 1081. The text is edited and translated into English in Agnes Smith Lewis, Select Narratives of Holy Women from the Syro–Antiochene or Sinai Palimpsest, in Studia Sinaitica 9 and 10 (London: C. J. Clay and Sons, 1900), vol. 9, pp. 218–244 (Syriac) & vol. 10, pp. 168–184 (English). 12 For bibliographical references to ancient treatments of the martyrdom of this mother and her daughters, see below, fns. 49 and 52.

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quest for pedagogical strategies, focuses on examples taken primarily from the last group mentioned. In the case of Christian parents’ involvement with their children’s martyrdom, one can distinguish between three prominent constellations or attitudes reflected in the literary witness. In one scenario, a given set of parents is merely alluded to in order to provide a setting of the stage, whereas the parents themselves are not really involved with the affairs of the martyrdom. Sometimes they reappear on the scene as pious protectors and as the first to venerate the relics of their dead child. The twelve-year old child-martyr Agnes’s parents could serve as a good example of this.13 One encounters a second set of parents who anxiously try to hide their child(ren) from a potential exposure to martyrdom. Most often their attitude is contradicting the intentions of the child itself who sometimes readily and secretly seeks out its persecutors and confronts them, not infrequently provoking them to apply tortures and thus to effect the killing. Perhaps the best known example of that same kind of attitude, both on the part of the parent as well as on the part of the child, at least in intention, is the young Origen. According to Eusebius of Caesarea, Origen was filled with such an ardent longing for martyrdom that neither his mother’s appeals to reason nor sympathy were successful. Only when “she hid all his cloth13 See the parents as presented in Pseudo–Ambrosius, Epistolae ex Ambrosianarum numero segregatae 1.14–16 (ed. PL 17:735–742, here 741–742). Agnes was a popular virgin and child–martyr, especially in the West. Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins to Marcellina His Sister in Three Books I.2.5–9 (ed. PL 16:187–232, here 189–191; ed. and Italian tr. Franco Gori, Opere morali II/I: Verginita e vedovanza, Opera omnia di sant’Ambrogio 14.1–2 [Milan: Bibliotheca Ambrosiana, 1989], vol 14/1, pp. 100–241, here 104– 111; tr. Elizabeth Clark, Women in the Early Church, Message of the Fathers of the Church 13 [Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1990], 107–109; and tr. Boniface Ramsey, Ambrose [London and New York: Routledge, 1997], 71–116, here 74–75) elaborated on her witness. So did Prudentius, Peristephanon 14 (ed. Mauricius P. Cunningham, Aurelius Prudentius Clemens: Carmina, CCSL 126 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1966], 386– 389; ed. and tr. Henry J. Thomson, Prudentius, 2 vols., LCL [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1953, reprinted 1961], vol. 2, 98–345, here 338–345; tr. M. Clement Eagen, The Poems of Prudentius, 2 vols., The Fathers of the Church 43 and 52 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1962 and 1965], vol. 1, 95–280, here 274–280). For the development of the cult of Agnes and the establishment of a convent at her tomb, see D. Philbert Schmitz, “La première communauté de vierges à Rome,” Revue Bénédictine 38 (1926), 189–195; and Henri Leclercq, “Agnès (Cimetière de Sainte-),” in Dictionnaire d’Archéologie Chrétienne et de Liturgie 1 (1907), 918–965. On Agnes, see also Pio Franchi de’ Cavalieri, S. Agnese nella tradizione e nella leggenda, Römische Quartalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und für Kirchengeschichte. Zehntes Supplementheft (Rome: Spithöver und Herder, 1899); Maria–Barbara v. Stritzky, “Agnes,” in Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche 1 (1993), 237–238; Albert Dufourcq, “Agnès,” in Dictionnaire d’Histoire et de Géographie Ecclésiastiques 1 (1912), 971–972; and E. Schäfer, “Agnes,” in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 1 (1950), 184.

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ing,” obviously hoping that he would not dare to leave the house naked, could she “compel[.] him to stay at home.” Nevertheless, according to Eusebius, the young boy Origen advised his imprisoned Christian father to remain steadfast and suffer martyrdom.14 Like other parents in cases omitted from this discussion, also Origen’s mother did not disapprove of martyrdom as such, but rather of the exposure of her own child to such an experience. She may have felt she had sacrificed enough members of her family with her husband Leonides’s imprisonment.15 Eulalia’s story, recounted in Prudentius’s Peristephanon, and her mother’s attitude offer another case in point.16 The third type of parents that is represented in the sources offers a view at those who strongly encourage their children to suffer courageously until the end and to accept martyrdom. In some cases the parents themselves, having watched their children die, also become martyrs. One example of that kind of behavior is found in the Martyrdom of Sophia and Her Three Daughters. This text provides an impressive witness of the faith of a parent and her children, even if the material is characterized by what may be strongly legendary features, starting with the very names of Sophia’s daughters: Pistis, Elpis, and Agape, or Faith, Hope, and Love.17 As the three girls, twelve, ten, and seven years old,18 prepared to confront their persecutors, Sophia instructed them not to “look … at the childishness of your years, nor at the superb beauty of your faces,” but rather to put on “heavenly armour,” “the breastplate of the Spirit,” and to 14

Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VI.2 (ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen, second ed. Friedrich Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, 3 vols., Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, N.F., vols. 6.1–3 [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, reprinted 1999], vol. 2, 520; tr. Geoffrey A. Williamson, Eusebius: The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine, revised and edited with a new introduction by Andrew Louth, Penguin Classics [London: Penguin Books, 1965, revised reprint 1989], 180). 15 Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VI.1 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 518; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 179). 16 See Prudentius, Peristephanon 3 (ed. Cunningham, Aurelius Prudentius Clemens: Carmina, 278–285; ed. and tr. Thomson, Prudentius, vol. 2, 142–157; tr. Eagen, Poems of Prudentius, vol. 1, 128–137). 17 For edition and translation of the Syriac text of the Martyrdom of Sophia and Her Three Daughters, see above, fn. 11. The edition of the Greek recension appeared in François Halkin, Légendes grecques de ‘martyres romaines,’ Subsidia Hagiographica 55 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1973), 179–228. For a useful comparative discussion of the different recensions and their historical context, see Michel van Esbroeck, “The Saint as Symbol,” in The Byzantine Saint, ed. Sergei Hackel (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2001), 128–140. 18 Smith, Select Narratives, vol. 10, p. 173.

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“place a crown upon your mother by your endurance”19 as spiritual soldiers. She saw gain for herself in her daughters’ steadfastness in death. Not only could they gain the crown, but also she as their mother was able to win a crown of victory. The fame of a deed achieved by one’s offspring returned glory and honor back to the parent.20 The same theme is found again in literature that promotes ascetic feats of young children, as will be seen below. As Sophia continued her speech, she appealed to her daughters to be strong as she herself was strong when enduring the pains of giving birth to them.21 Although the girls were still young, the mother’s allusion to the birth pangs of a woman delivering a child presupposed knowledge about such conditions already on the part of her daughters. This account offered to girls the option of suffering martyrdom as a legitimate and fitting alternative to fulfilling their otherwise customary female role in life, namely to become mothers and bring forth children. Sophia proclaimed that she was ready to “offer to God the perfect sacrifice of [their] victory.”22 This reference to a sacrificial context did not turn the mother directly into a priest. Yet it shows that in this telling of their passion, she interpreted her involvement in the martyrdom of her children in sacrificial, priestly language. This theme of sacrifice connects accounts of children’s martyrdom with considerations of children as ascetics, as will be demosntrated below. Raising Children for the Ascetic Life There is scant evidence that Christian writers presented children as being drawn to the ascetic life.23 Athanasius wrote, “that even children who have not yet attained lawful age promise virginity over and above the law,” thus

19

See Eph 6:10–17; and Smith, Select Narratives, vol. 10, p. 170. Note also the words of the child–martyr in Prudentius’s account of the martyrdom of Romanus. See Prudentius, Peristephanon 10.779–780 (ed. Cunningham, Aurelius Prudentius Clemens: Carmina, 357; ed. and tr. Thomson, Prudentius, vol. 2, 280–281; tr. Eagen, Poems of Prudentius, vol. 1, p. 223). 21 Smith, Select Narratives, vol. 10, p. 171, see also p. 176. 22 Smith, Select Narratives, vol. 10, p. 172. See also 4 Macc 6:28, 17:21–22. 23 For a brief discussion, see Heshmat Fawzy Keroloss, “Virginity in the Early Church: The Meanings and Motives of Sexual Renunciation in the First Four Centuries,” Ph. D. thesis (New York: Fordham University, 1996), 312–313 and 335. I owe the references to Athanasius’s comments documented in the following two notes to Keroloss’s work. The question of the raising of children towards asceticism is treated at somewhat greater length in P. Francisco de B. Vizmanos, Las Virgenes Cristianas de la Iglesia Primitiva: Estudio histórico–ideológico seguido de una Antología de tratadis patrísticos sobre la virginidad (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1949), 191–211. 20

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proving the success and truth of the faith.24 In his History of the Arians, he even saw the fact that “many fathers persuaded their children and [that] … many were urged by their children, not to be hindered from Christian asceticism”25 as a sign of their joy at being delivered from the Arian heresy. Yet such evidence comes merely from a relatively small number of references. In contrast to writings that focused explicitly on the intersection between childhood and martyrdom, texts that exclusively featured a child or several children as ascetics are virtually nonexistent. Thus, evidence for the study of how children chose the life of asceticism and virginity has to be gleaned from a wider range of sources and literary genres. Some information about children and the ascetic life can be gained from saints’ vitae which integrate into their presentation elements of the protagonist’s childhood. A further significant source for studying children’s initiation into the ascetic life consists of letters of advice written to parents in answer to their questions on how to raise their children. Jerome’s correspondence provides ample material in that regard and has been studied extensively,26 more recently also with a view towards its value for understanding the role of toys and games as contributing elements in the process of children’s initiation into the Christian church.27 Patristic literature from the West and from the East also supplies its readership with letters, homilies, and tractates on educational matters, of-

24

Athanasius, On the Incarnation 51 (ed. and tr. Robert W. Thomson, Athanasius. Contra gentes, and, De incarnatione, Oxford Early Christian Texts [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971], 134–277, here 262–263). 25 Athanasius, History of the Arians 25 (ed. PG 25:691–796, here 721–724; ed. Hans Georg Opitz, Athanasius’ Werke II.I [Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1934– 1940], 183–230, here 196–197; tr. Miles Atkinson, Historical Tracts of S. Athanasius, Archbishop of Alexandria, Library of the Fathers of the Catholic Church 13 [Oxford: J. H. Parker; and London: J. G. F. and J. Rivington, 1843], 219–296; reprinted in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers 4, second series [Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing Company, 1892; repr. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 266–302, here 278). 26 Of relevance in particular are Jerome’s Letter 107 (To Laeta; on her infant daughter Paula) and Letter 128 (To Gaudentius; on how to raise up his infant daughter). See Jerome, Letters 107 and 128 (ed. Isidorus Hilberg, Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae, 3 vols., CSEL 54–56 [Vindobonae: F. Tempsky; and Lipsiae: G. Freytag, 1910–1918; reprinted Vindobonae: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1996], vol. 55, pp. 290–305; and vol. 56/1, pp. 156–162). 27 See Cornelia Horn, “Children’s Play as Social Ritual,” in A People’s History of Christianity. Volume 2. Late Ancient Christianity, ed. Virginia Burrus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), 95–116; and Cornelia Horn, “How Children Became Christians in the Early Church: Three Models,” paper delivered at the Regional Meeting of the American Academy of Religion / Society of Biblical Literature, St. Paul, MN (April, 2004).

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ten attempting to counteract parents’ opposition to the ascetic life.28 These texts by Augustine, Ambrose, Chrysostom, and others consistently portray Christian parents, especially from upper classes, as resisting their children’s vocation, since the parents considered the monastic life a path that was shameful and unworthy of those of noble origins. In his consolation to the monk Stagirius,29 for example, Chrysostom recalled how Stagirius’s father had said the monastic life made his son “shameful and unworthy of the brilliance of [his] ancestors.” Through choosing such a path, the son was also destroying his own father’s glory. Had that particular father not been so strongly compelled by the bonds of nature, he would have “quickly disinherit[ed]” him.30 Chrysostom challenged both pagan and Christian parents by asking them whether they really had their offspring’s best interests in mind. In his response to pagan parents he showed that ascetics also possessed the goods valued by people of the world, such as money,31 health,32 glory,33 and power.34 Yet they held command over them in a far superior way. Since ascetics lived already on earth the life of heaven, theirs was the fulfillment of any longing a parent could ever have when being eager to find the best for her or his children. Thus Chrysostom advised parents to send their offspring to ascetics, “for their higher education and moral training.”35 An anonymous homily on virginity may be added to the set of texts on parents’ arguments against or in support of their children’s ascetic choi28

For discussion concerning a more wide-spread opposition to the monastic life, see, e.g., Louis Gougaud, “Les critiques formulées contre les premiers moines d’occident,” Revue Mabillon 24 (1934), 145–163; and Pierre de Labriolle, “Rutilius Claudius Namatianus et les moines,” Revue des Études Latines 6 (1928), 30–41. 29 For recent efforts at newly editing this text, see Daniel Ridings, “A New Edition of John Chrysostom’s Ad Stagirium a daemone vexatum,” Studia Patristica 29 (1997), 508– 514. 30 John Chrysostom, To Stagirius Tormented by a Demon 2.3 (ed. PG 47:423–494, here 452; tr. David G. Hunter, A Comparison between a King and a Monk / Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life. Two Treatises by John Chrysostom, Studies in the Bible and Early Christianity 13 [Lewiston, NY, and Queenston, Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, c1988], 97, fn. 11). 31 John Chrysostom, Comparison between a King and a Monk 2.3–5 (ed. PG 47:387– 392, here 389–392; tr. Hunter, Comparison / Against the Opponents, 99–105). 32 John Chrysostom, Comparison between a King and a Monk 2.5 (ed. PG 47:391– 392; tr. Hunter, Comparison / Against the Opponents, 105). 33 John Chrysostom, Comparison between a King and a Monk 2.5–6 (ed. PG 47:391– 392; tr. Hunter, Comparison / Against the Opponents, 105–109). 34 John Chrysostom, Comparison between a King and a Monk 2.6–7 (ed. PG 47:391– 392; tr. Hunter, Comparison / Against the Opponents, 109–112). 35 Johannes Quasten, Patrology, Vol. 3: The Golden Age of Greek Patristic Literature (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics, Inc., seventh paperback reprinting, 1994), 463.

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ces.36 It advises “the father to persuade his son, and the mother her daughter, to live in chastity for Christ, for the children are common to both of them.”37 However, parents should not assent to their children’s ascetic inclinations immediately.38 Only when the mother of a virgin daughter, for example, had sufficiently tested her young daughter’s intentions, was she to “lead [the girl] into the nuptial chamber of the Child of the Lord God (τῷ παιδὶ κυρίου τοῦ θεοῦ).”39 From then on, the father of the child was to “watch over the temple of God”40 and officiate as a “priest of the Most High God.”41 It is noteworthy not so much for cultural or social reasons, but more so for theological ones, that this early fourth-century homily conceived of the union between the young ascetic and Christ in terms of a marriage of children. That decisions regarding a young person’s marriage partners were made already during his or her infancy, and that the child and the future spouse entered engagement or even marriage very early in their lives was not so unusual in ancient society, and it is also still common in modern, non-Western contexts. In this text, the first- and second-century Christological terminology of the “child of God (παῖϛ θεοῦ),” which at the time of the likely composition of the homily was more or less replaced by “Son of God (ὑιὸϛ θεοῦ),” was retained. A likely reason for this may be seen in the emphasis it allowed one to place on the unique, one could even say

Often the homily is referred to as the Homily on Virginity by Pseudo-Basil, ed. David Amand de Mendieta and Matthieu-Charles Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque inédite sur la virginité addressée aux pères de famille,” Revue Bénédictine 63 (1953), 18– 69 and 211–238 ; English translation with introduction by Teresa M. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” in Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiquity: A Sourcebook, ed. Vincent L. Wimbush (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 29–44. See also Concetta Aloe Spada, “Un’omelia greca anonima ‘sulla verginità’ (Rev. Ben. 63 [1953]),” in La Tradizione dell’Enkrateia, ed. Ugo Bianchi (Rome: Ateneo, 1985), 603–621, with discussion at 622–623; and Arthur Võõbus, “Syrische Herkunft der Pseudo–Basilianischen Homilie über die Jungfräulichkeit,” Oriens Christianus 40 (1956), 69–77. 37 Pseudo–Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.10 (ed. Mendieta and Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque,” 36–37; tr. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” 31). 38 Pseudo–Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.15–18 (ed. Mendieta and Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque,” 38–39; tr. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” 32). 39 Pseudo–Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.18 (ed. Mendieta and Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque,” 38–39, also fn. 6; tr. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” 32 [modified]). For further discussion of the designation of Christ as “Child of God,” see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 61–64. 40 Pseudo–Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.19 (ed. Mendieta and Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque,” 38–39; tr. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” 32). 41 Heb 7:1; Pseudo–Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.20 (ed. Mendieta and Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque,” 38–39; tr. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” 32). 36

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ideal, relationship to be established between Christ and the young child.42 While Christ’s admonition to “become like little children” was addressed to all Christians, in the spiritual union between Christ and a young childascetic, one encountered the perfect case of a believer “enter[ing] the kingdom of heaven” (Matt 18:3). Scholarly discussions have shown some aspects of the lively connections between monasteries and family life, be that in the form of relatives joining the same monastery,43 family members promoting the cult of a saintly ascetic from among their own family,44 or parents, when unable to raise their own children because of poverty, handing them over into the care of monasteries.45 With the latter cases in mind, monastic legislators, e.g., Basil of Caesarea in his Long Rules, addressed the question of what to do with these little ones as well as with orphans or exposed children who were taken into the monastery as a permanent member of the monastic family.46 Turning to the very nexus of the factors relevant for the present discussion, i.e., children, martyrdom, and asceticism, the clearest cases that combine these themes are found in stories of young girls who had dedicated their lives, or whose parents had dedicated them, to virginity. Excellent illustrations are the examples of Domnina and her daughters Bernice and Prosdoce, Pelagia of Antioch (not the well-known converted prostitute), See also Ludger Bernhard, “Das frühchristliche Verständnis der Formel ΙΗΣΟΥΣ ΠΑΙΣ ΘΕΟΥ aufgrund der alten Bibelübersetzungen,” in Lingua Restituta Orientalis: Festgabe für Julius Aßfalg, ed. Regine Schulz, Julius Assfalg, and Manfred Görg, Ägypten und Altes Testament 20 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1990), 21–29; David J. Ison, “ΠΑΙΣ ΘΕΟΥ in the Age of Constantine.” Journal of Theological Studies 38 (1987), 412–419; and Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 61–64. 43 See, e.g., Philip Rousseau, “Blood–Relationships among Early Eastern Ascetics,” Journal of Theological Studies 23 (1972), 135–144. 44 Alice-Mary Talbot, “Family Cults in Byzantium: The Case of St. Theodora of Thessalonike,” in ΛΕΙΜΩΝ: Studies Presented to Lennart Rydén on his Sixty–fifth Birthday, ed. Jan Olof Rosenqvist, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Studia Byzantina Upsaliensia 6 (Uppsala: Uppsala University; and Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1996), 49–69, reprinted in Alice-Mary Talbot, Women and Religious Life in Byzantium, Variorum Collected Studies Series 733 (Aldershot, Great Britain, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate Variorum, c. 2001), ch. 7. Note that Theodora’s “eldest child, Theopiste, was dedicated to the monastic life c. 837 at age six in thanksgiving for her survival” (p. 50). See also Alice-Mary Talbot, “The Byzantine Family and the Monastery,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 44 (1990), 119–129, reprinted in Talbot, Women and Religious Life in Byzantium, ch. 13. 45 See, for example, Miller, Orphans of Byzantium, 148. 46 Basil of Caesarea, Long Rules, Quaestio 15 (ed. PG 31:889–1052, here 951–958; tr. Sister M. Monica Wagner, Saint Basil: Ascetical Works, The Fathers of the Church, A New Translation 9 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1962], 264–268). Question 15 is entitled: “At what age consecration of oneself to God should be permitted and at what time the profession of virginity should be regarded as safe?” 42

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the gender-inclusive example of Theodora and Didymus, as well as the case of the twelve-year-old child martyr Agnes.47 The story of the girls Bernice and Prosdoce with their mother Domnina, also a martyrdom account of a mother and her children, readily lends itself to comparisons with the portrayal of Sophia and her three daughters Pistis, Elpis, and Agape, which in turn quite clearly shows resemblance to the treatment of the martyrdom of the seven Maccabean boys and their mother, a very popular story both in Jewish and in early Christian literature.48

47 The account of Agnes’s martyrdom, however, can only be dealt with in passing in the present study. For a selection of sources on this child-martyr, see above, fns. 11, 13, and 17. 48 2 Macc 7:1–42. Given that early, post-biblical tradition saw Antioch as the place of their martyrdom, it made good sense for John Chrysostom to preach three homilies on these Maccabean martyrs. The texts of these homilies are available in PG 50:617–628. See J. Obermann, “The Sepulchre of the Maccabean Martyrs,” Journal of Biblical Literature 50.4 (1931), 250–265; Mariano Rampolla del Tindaro (published anonymously), “Del luogo del martirio e del sepolcro dei Maccabei,” Bessarione 1 (1896–1897), 655– 662, 751–763, 853–866, and vol. 2 (1897), 9–22; Cardinal [M.] Rampolla [Del Tindaro], “Martyre et sépulture des Machabées,” Revue de l’Art Chrétien 5.10 (1899), 290–305, 377–392, and 457–465; and Henri Leclercq, “Antioche (archéologie),” in Dictionnaire d’Archéologie Chrétienne et de Liturgie 1 (1927), 2359–2427, here 2375–2379. For secondary literature on the use of the story of the Maccabean martyrs in Greek and Latin patristic literature, see Donald F. Winslow, “The Maccabean Martyrs: early Christian Attitudes,” Judaism 23 (1974), 78–86; Margaret Schatkin, “The Maccabean Martyrs,” Vigiliae Christianae 28 (1974), 104–113; and Max Maas, “Die Maccabäer als christliche Heilige (Sancti Maccabaei),” Monatsschrift für die Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 44 (1900), 145–156. A Syriac memrâ on the Maccabees, preserved in a manuscript in the Bodleian, is edited by Robert Lubbock Bensly, with an introduction and translation by William Emery Barnes, The Fourth Book of Maccabees and Kindred Documents in Syriac (Cambridge: The University Press, 1895), 1–30 and xlviii–lxxii (translation). A Ph. D. dissertation by Sigrid Peterson, “Martha Shamoni: A Jewish Syriac Rhymed Liturgical Poem about the Maccabean Martyrdoms (Sixth Maccabees),” (University of Pennsylvania, 2006), attempted to locate the Jewish and Christian layers of this text. For further secondary literature on the Maccabean martyrdom and the traditions developing around them see, e.g., Witold Witakowski, “Mart(y) Shmuni, the Mother of the Maccabean Martyrs in Syriac Tradition,” in VI Symposium Syriacum, 1992, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 247 (Rome Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 1994), 153–168; Robin Darling Young, “The ‘Woman with the Soul of Abraham’: Traditions about the Mother of the Maccabean Martyrs,” in “Women like This”: New Perspectives on Jewish Women in the Greco-Roman World, ed. Amy-Jill Levine, Early Judaism and Its Literature 1 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, c.1991), 67–81; Robin Darling Young, “2 Maccabees,” in Women’s Bible Commentary: Expanded Edition, eds. Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 322–325; Toni Craven, “2 Macc 7:1– 42: Martyred Mother with Seven Sons,” in Women in Scripture: A Dictionary of Named and Unnamed Women in the Hebrew Bible, the Apocryphal/Deuterocanonical Books, and the New Testament, eds. Carol Meyers, Toni Craven, and Ross S. Kraemer (Grand Rap-

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Mother and Daughters: or, Is Suicide Allowed to Protect One’s Virginity? Early Christian texts in Greek preserve the memory of a mother, named Domnina, and her two young daughters, Bernice and Prosdoce, all three of whom suffered martyrdom at Antioch during the reign of Diocletian and Maximian.49 This mother and her daughters are featured in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Church History,50 in Eusebius of Emesa’s Homily 6: De martyribus,51 in two homilies by John Chrysostom,52 and in Ambrose of Milan’s treatise On Virgins.53 In De civitate Dei, Augustine likewise addressed similar circumstances, yet not directly their case, being concerned to distinguish carefully between voluntary death and martyrdom. He clearly stated that anyone who killed him- or herself, independent of what the circumstances were, had broken the sixth commandment.54 ids, MI and Cambridge, U.K.: William E. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2000), 390– 392. 49 On April 20, 302 A.D. See R. Van Doren, “1. Domnina,” in Dictionnaire d’Histoire et de Géographie Ecclésiastiques 14 (1960), 638; and F. O’Briain, “Bernicé,” in Dictionnaire d’Histoire et de Géographie Ecclésiastiques 8 (1935), 835–837; both with further bibliographical references. See also Eva Maria Synek, Heilige Frauen der frühen Christenheit. Zu den Frauenbildern in hagiographischen Texten des christlichen Ostens, Das östliche Christentum. Abhandlungen im Auftrag des Ostkirchlichen Instituts der deutschen Augustiner, Würzburg, Neue Folge, Band 43 (Würzburg: Augustinus-Verlag, 1994), 193–194. 50 See Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VIII.12.3–4 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 766–769; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 269–270). 51 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs (ed. É. M. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, I. La collection de Troyes (Discours I à XVII); II. La collection de Sirmond (Discours XVIII à XXIX), 2 vols. [Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, 1953 and 1957], vol. 1, 151–174). An English translation of this homily is available in Mary Bernard Hughes, “De martyribus and De virginibus, Two Sermons of Eusebius of Emesa: A Translation with Introduction and Commentary,” M.A. thesis (The Catholic University of America, 1961). 52 Bollandist Society, Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca, 3 vols., Subsidia Hagiographica 8a (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1957), vol. 1, p. 97, no. 274–275; John Chrysostom, Homily on the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins, and Domnina their Mother (ed. and tr. PG 50:629–640); and John Chrysostom, On the Four Days of Lazarus and on the Holy Martyrs Domnina, Bernice, and Prosdoce (ed. and tr. PG 50: 641–644). 53 Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins III.7.34–37 (ed. PL 16:230–232; ed. and tr. Gori, Opere morali II/I, vol. 14/1, pp. 100–241, here 234–241; tr. H. de Romestin, Ambrose: Select Works and Letters; Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers 10, second series [Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing Company, 1896; repr. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995], 363–387, here 364–365; and tr. Ramsey, Ambrose, 115–116). 54 Exod 20:13 and Deut 5:17. Augustine of Hippo, City of God 1.16–19 (ed. and tr. Patrick G. Walsh, Augustine: De Civitate Dei, Books I & II, Aris & Phillips Classical Texts [Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005], 56–67). For a detailed discussion of Augustine’s

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As Christians the mother and her two daughters had been tracked down during the Great Persecution and were “summoned to Antioch” where they would be “at the mercy of the soldiers.” Painfully aware of the “dire peril” that awaited her and her daughters, the mother, according to Eusebius’s account, “opened [her daughters’] eyes to the dreadful things they must expect at human hands … the most unbearable – the threat to their chastity.” Attempting to strengthen her children and enable them to counteract such an attack on their body and spirit the mother “impressed on the girls and herself … the necessity of shutting their ears to any such suggestion,”55 i.e., of an attack upon their chastity. Judging from how Eusebius presented the mother’s instructions, any form of giving in on the part of the girls to aggression against their chastity was equal to “surrender[ing] their souls to be enslaved by demons,” and thus “worse than any death and any destruction.”56 He showed the mother as spelling out for her daughters in crystal clear terms that the loss of their virginity was worse than bodily death, because for them it was equal to spiritual death. Eusebius of Caesarea’s writings that were composed in Greek and are at home in the East should not too readily be suspected of being under the influences of explicitly Roman or Latin civilization.57 Yet his reconstruction argument see Arthur J. Droge and James D. Tabor, “The Augustinian Reversal,” chapter 7 of A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom Among Greeks and Romans, Jews and Christians in the Ancient World (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992), 167–183, also fns. 3 and 13; see also James D. Tabor, “Martyr, Martyrdom,” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary 4, ed. David N. Freedman (New York, London, Toronto, Sydney, and Auckland: Doubleday, 1922), 574–579, here 578. 55 The quotations are taken from Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VIII.12.3 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 766–768; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 269). 56 Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VIII.12.3 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 768; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 269). 57 For studies on Eusebius as a historian, see Robert Grant, Eusebius as Church Historian (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), especially 168–169; and William Adler, “Eusebius’ Chronicle and Its Legacy,” in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Gohei Hata (Leiden, New York, and Köln: E. J. Brill, 1992), 467–491. For Eusebius’s use of Latin historiography, see Robert A. Markus, “Church History and Early Church Historians,” in The Materials, Sources and Methods of Ecclesiastical History: Papers Read at the Twelfth Summer Meeting and the Thirteenth Winter Meeting of the Ecclesiastical History Society, ed. Derek Baker, Studies in Church History 2 (New York: Harper and Row, 1975), 1–17, here 2–3. Jerome, Chronicon 5 (ed. Rudolf Helm, Eusebius Werke: Die Chronik des Hieronymus, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, N.F., vol. 7 [Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1956], 6–7; tr. Malcom D. Donaldson, A Translation of Jerome’s Chronicon with Historical Commentary [Lewiston: Mellen University Press, 1996], 1–2), suggested that because Eusebius was writing in Greek for his countrymen, he neglected much of Roman History.

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of the mother’s comparison of her daughters’ potential loss of virginity to spiritual death is not that far removed from Roman Republican and Imperial constructions of the absolute necessity for Vestal Virgins to preserve their virginity at all costs. Ariadne Staples has shown how in the case of the elect servants of Vesta, who entered the deity’s service between the ages of six and ten, the loss of virginity was not only to be punished by live intombment. In the case of Vestal Virgins, the loss of virginity equaled the annihilation of the fallen girl or woman’s entire existence. Or at least this was the way the religio-political ideological machinery of Rome had defined and subsequently handled cases of the loss of virginity in Vestal Virgins.58 Given Eusebius’s overall concern of fostering a close connection between imperial rule and the Church as a valuable and prominent promoter of the best interest of the state, it may have seemed advisable to him at least occasionally to introduce into his Church History the theme of how parents might contribute towards the spiritual well-being of their own children and thus that of the church (and the world) by promoting the spiritual ideal of virginity among their offspring, no matter the costs. Thus, when the mother had convinced her daughters that the three of them, the two virgins and she herself, needed to preserve their chastity, half way on their journey back to Antioch they “requested the guards to excuse them [for] a moment, and threw themselves into a river that flowed by.”59 Eusebius merely commented that “these [three made away] with themselves.”60 He did not see any problem in the question of whether or not their act of suicide was justified given that the mother’s marital chastity and the girls’ virginity were in danger. Rather he strengthened his case of the need of young virgins having to sacrifice their lives when in danger by briefly mentioning another case, that of “another couple of girls” at Antioch, “sisters indeed,” who “young in years,” “religious in their conduct [and] admirable in their devotion” during the persecutions “were thrown into the sea by command of the demon’s devotees.” Here he did not explicitly state that these girls were virgins. Yet the reader has no reason to presume otherwise. Also in this case, young, presumably unmarried girls suffered martyrdom not merely by way of physical, but even more so by way of spiritual attack. 58

See the discussion in Ariadne Staples, From Good Goddess to Vestal Virgins: Sex and Category in Roman Religion (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), 129–156. 59 Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VIII.12.4 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 768; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 270). 60 The citations in this paragraph are from Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History VIII.12.5 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 768; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 270).

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The immediate audience of the Church History did not necessarily include young children, given that Eusebius states near the beginning of his work that he conceived of his opus as one to be read.61 Although his narrative included further accounts of young children and youths suffering martyrdom,62 knowledge about them may have reached the ears of children more likely through oral retellings by Christian parents and educators who would have read and studied his work. Thus, to the extent that Eusebius of Caesarea wished to promote the choice of virginity, even at the price of a young life, it was an astute move on his part to supply an audience that included parents with the example of a mother instilling in and impressing upon her daughters’ minds the desirability and the necessity of martyrdom for chastity’s sake. Subsequent authors, like Eusebius of Emesa and John Chrysostom, did not neglect the usefulness of approaching the subject matter from such an angle. Among Eusebius of Emesa’s seventeen sermons that have come down to modern times in Latin translation, two are of immediate relevance for the present topic: Homily 6: On Martyrs and Homily 7: On Virgins.63 Both of them present the ideal life as that of virginity. Such a message also was intended for children’s ears, as comments in Homily 7 show. Eusebius was aware of the fact that unmarried, presumably young people were among his audience. He expressly referred to “those who are here” pondering marriage.64 61 Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History I.1 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 1, 8; tr. Williamson, Eusebius: History of the Church, 2). 62 Several of these accounts of children’s martyrdom have been studied and classified in Horn, “Fathers and Mothers Shall Rise Up Against Their Children and Kill them.’” In his account of martyrs in Palestine, Eusebius specifically includes children in groups of martyrs: the one hundred confessors from Egypt, and the companions of Pamphilus. See Eusebius of Caesarea, Martyrs of Palestine L/S 8.1, and L 11.c (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke: Die Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2, 924–925 and 931; tr. Hugh J. Lawlor and John E. L Oulton, Eusebius, Bishop of Caesarea: The Ecclesiastical History and The Martyrs of Palestine, 2 vols. [New York and Toronto: Macmillian, 1927], vol. 1, 364–366 and 379). He also includes children in groups that are called on to offer pagan sacrifices. See Eusebius, Martyrs of Palestine L/S 4.8, L/S 4.14–15 (ed. Schwartz, Mommsen, and Winkelmann, Eusebius Werke, vol. 2, 914–915 and 928; tr. Lawlor and Oulton, Eusebius, Bishop of Caesarea, vol. 1, 351–352 and 372). 63 For Homily 6: On Martyrs, see above, fn. 52. For the second one, see Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 7: On Virgins (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 175–195). See also Éloi Marie Buytaert, “L’authenticité des dix-sept opuscules contenus dans le ms. T. 523 sous le nom d’Eusèbe d’Émèse,” Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique 43 (1948), 5–89, here 69–70. 64 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 7: On Virgins 15 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, p. 186). For comments on Eusebius of Emesa’s use of rhetorical devices when delivering sermons as well as for an exploration of theological

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When Eusebius of Emesa presented Domnina’s exhortation of her daughters to choose death in the waters of the river in order to preserve their virginity, not any different from the way they formerly had found the grace of baptism also through water, he had her offer an only slightly altered version of the Ethiopian eunuch’s words to Philip, encouraging her daughters to behold the waters and consider that nothing was prohibiting their being crowned.65 Yet at that point her daughters raised objections. Whereas the girls simply agreed to their mother’s suggestion in the presentation of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Church History, Eusebius of Emesa had them doubt whether such an act of voluntary martyrdom was permitted, or would not rather be equal to suicide, which as they knew was forbidden.66 In her long retour, geared at overcoming the girls’ hesitations and convincing them to join her in entering the river, Domnina argued that their fate had been sealed already. They were to die in any event, and according to the judgment against them they in fact were already dead (sumus iam mortae). Thus, why should they not be allowed to go (abire) and die (mori)?67 Since their death was guaranteed, they should simply hasten it and not give the devil any advantage of time.68 Rather, they would be able to imitate more perfectly Christ, since as Christians they learned that the one who

ideas of unifying the body of Christ which the preacher may have actively pursued through his choice of themes and vocabulary when addressing his audience, see Robert E. Winn, “The Church of Virgins and Martyrs: Ecclesiastical Identity in the Sermons of Eusebius of Emesa,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 309–338, here 313– 317; and Robert E. Winn, ”The Theology of Eusebius of Emesa,” Ph. D. thesis (The Catholic University of America, 2001), 47–87 (ch. 2: “Rhetorical and Exegetical Strategies”). 65 See Acts 8:36. Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 23 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 166, ll. 15–21; ed. André Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur des saintes d’Antioche Bernice, Prosdoce et Domnine,” Analecta Bollandiana 38 (1920), 241–284, here 277, ll. 10–16: Et dixit mater ad filias secundum vocem boni illius eunuchi: Filiae, ecce aqua: quis prohibet nos coronari? Haec est aqua per quam liberatae sumus a peccatis. Reddamus ei qui donavit . Gratiam per aquam accepimus; sit gratia pro gratia. Per aquam salvatae sumus; per aquam et coronemur. Non sustineamus impiorum manus, non cornificum gladios. 66 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 24 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conserves en latin, vol. 1, 166, l. 23): si licitum esset sine vi exire vita. 67 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 24 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 167, ll. 3–5; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 277, ll. 26–28). 68 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 24 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 168, ll. 3–5; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 278, ll. 22–24): Certe propositum est nobis mori; praemoriamur. Non habeat diabolus tempus adversum nos; non sit ulla occasio deceptionis.

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was not dead, died, and the one who died, lived.69 If the girls were to die as virgins, the devil would have no reason to enjoy any victory, and would not be able to defile the temple of their bodies through his machinations.70 Moreover, should their virginity be harmed, the mother feared that she would be rendered sterile insofar as she would no longer be a mother of virgins. Like Sophia’s reference to the pains of her womb in childbirth which would be rendered fruitless if the girls were to decide against martyrdom, also here the mother encouraging her daughters to preserve their virginity took recourse to language of female fruitfulness. Moreover, this comment provided an insightful redefinition of a parent’s need for offspring and was a skillful counter argument on Eusebius of Emesa’s part against parents’ rejection of asceticism as a valid and fruitful choice of lifestyle on the part of their children. As Domnina continued her argument, she elaborated on the unseemliness of any encounter between a virgin and a man, let alone an impious male. Moreover, not every act of ending a human life was to be considered murder, a point at which Augustine would have strongly disagreed with her. Yet Domnina referred to the examples of Phineas, Samuel, and the prophet Elijah who having condemned many to death still was not charged with murder. For Domnina’s young daughters, these biblical examples should be proof enough. Thus her two daughters and she herself were not about to kill but rather save themselves through voluntary death: et nunc nos non interficiamus, sed salvemus.71 Domnina added two real-life examples that provided more vivid illustrations for her daughters. One story told of Pelagia of Antioch, a young virgin who had gained the crown of martyrdom by throwing herself down from the roof of her house when her persecutors entered the building to lead her away and misuse her.72 The second example brought to life the events surrounding the virgin Theodora,73 who refused to marry and was 69

Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 24 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 167, ll. 11–12; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 278, ll. 4–5): qui non fuerit mortuus mortuus est; qui autem fuerit mortuus vixit. 70 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 24 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 167; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 278, ll. 8–9). 71 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 24 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 168; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 278). 72 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 25 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 168; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 279). 73 For information on Theodora and Didymus, see for example François Halkin, Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca, vol. 2, Subsidia Hagiographica 8a (Bruxelles: Société des

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placed into a brothel as punishment. Yet a spiritual brother, Didymus, dressed in the garments of a soldier, entered her chamber of shame in the brothel, urged her to change clothes with him, and thus allowed her to go free, in the meantime offering his own life for hers.74 The second, genderinclusive example would have offered a model for imitation to young boys in the audience, who also then enjoyed playing adults and their different roles and here were offered a virtuous example of what it meant to be a “true” soldier, not one who killed but one who gave up his life in the service of virginity.75 In the end, Bernice and Prosdoce’s objections were overcome. The recitation of the protomartyr Stephen’s words, “Lord Jesus, receive [our] spirit” (Acts 7:59), preceded the voluntary martyrdom of all three, the two girls and her mother Domnina, in the river’s current, which carried them off to heaven.76 Thus Eusebius of Emesa signaled to his audience, including the children among them, that voluntary death for the sake of preserving one’s virginity was to be ranked alongside the first and prime witness and sacrifice of life for the faith given thus far. In his discussion, Eusebius of Emesa referred to Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac. The author of the pseudo-Basilian Homily on Virginity, briefly discussed above, had given instructions that when a girl was dedicated to the virginal life she was to be under the supervision of her father. Not a bishop or priest but a layperson, the girl’s father, was to function as “the priest of the Most High God,”77 offering his child to God for a virginal life. When Bollandistes, 3rd ed., 1957), 274, no. 1742; Anonymous, “De SS. Didymo et Theodora, Martyribus Alexandriae in Aegypto,” Acta Sanctorum XI, April III (1866), 578–581; Pio Franchi de’ Cavalieri, “Intorno alla ‘passio’ di Teodora e Didimo,” in Studi e Testi 65 (1935), 233–278; Alessandro Galuzzi, “Teodora e Didimo,” in Bibliotheca Sanctorum 12 (1969), cols. 227–228; and Heike Grieser, “Theodora,” in Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche 9 (2000), cols. 1398–1399. 74 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 26 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 169–170; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 279–282). 75 This reading is congruent with Winn, “The Church of Virgins and Martyrs,” 320– 321, and his interpretation of the role of Domnina as a martyr in the service of virginity, that of her daughters. On ancient children imitating adult behavior, see for example Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 208–209; and Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1989), 60. 76 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 30 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 173; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 284). 77 See above, at fns. 23 and 42. Pseudo–Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.20 (ed. Mendieta and Moons, “Une curieuse homélie grecque,” 38–39; tr. Shaw, “Homily: On Virginity,” 32).

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Eusebius of Emesa discussed Domnina’s role, he did not hesitate to ascribe the role of the officiant to her, a woman. Indeed, he suggested that “if therefore the admirable Abraham sacrificing his only son received praise, why should one not rather prefer to give” the same, or even more “admiration to that holy mother who,” inspired by Isaiah “proclaim[ed], ‘Here are myself and the daughters whom God has given me’ (cf. Isa 8:18)?”78 The ‘aqedah (Genesis 22), even though Eusebius of Emesa considered it in his discussion more from the perspective of the parent than that of the child, quite fittingly functioned as one of the prime models to which the “sacrifice” of the virginal child was compared. Isaac being sacrificed was not only a popular but also a very useful motif for Christian preachers concerned with cases of the martyrdom of children.79 It expressed at the same time the “ultimate sacrifice” of both parent and child, and in the end also was a “non bloody” sacrifice, which allowed not only for a typology of the sacrifice of Christ on the altar, but could teach the Christian audience that when a child was subjected to martyrdom, its witness for the faith even surpassed that of the Old Testament model. Eusebius of Emesa did not explicitly compare the mother to Sarah, whose anxiety, pain, and concern for Isaac are ignored altogether in Genesis. Yet her perspective is dealt with in Christian poetry from the heritage of Syriac-speaking Christians,80 a cultural context to which Eusebius as a Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 29 (ed. Buytaert, Eusèbe d’Émese. Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 172; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 282, ll. 20–23): Si igitur Abraham admirabilis immolans suum unigenitum laudatur, cur sancta mater quae dicit: “Ecce ego et filiae quas dedit mihi Deus,” non et ipsa admiratione est praeferenda? See Winn, “The Church of Virgins and Martyrs,” 320–321 and 334, for a discussion of Eusebius’s emphasis on Domnina and the supportive role of martyrs for virgins as the ideal and perfect members of the church. Winn does not take into account the priestly dimensions which Eusebius of Emesa ascribes to Domnina. 79 For interpretations of the ‘aqedah in Patristic writers, see Mieczyslaw C. Paczkowski, “The Sacrifice of Isaac in Early Patristic Exegesis,” in The Sacrifice of Isaac in the Three Monotheistic Religions: Proceedings of a Symposium on the Interpretation of the Scriptures Held in Jerusalem, March 16–17, 1995, ed. Frédéric Manns, Analecta (Studium Biblicum Franciscanum) 41 (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1995), 101–121; Lino Cignelli, “The Sacrifice of Isaac in Patristic Exegesis,” in The Sacrifice of Isaac, ed. Manns, 123–126; and Gerrit J. Reinink, “The Lamb on the Tree: Syriac Exegesis and Anti-Islamic Apologetics,” in The Sacrifice of Isaac: the Aqedah (Genesis 22) and its Interpretations, eds. Ed Noort and Eibert Tigchelaar (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2002), 109– 124; also see the bibliography and list of ancient writers in the same volume, pp. 211– 230. 80 See, e.g., the discussion in Sebastian P. Brock, “Reading between the Lines: Sarah and the Sacrifice of Isaac (Genesis, chapter 22),” in Women in Ancient Societies: an Illusion of the Night, ed. Léonie Archer, Susan Fischler, and Maria A. Wyke (London: Macmillan; and New York: Routledge, 1994), 169–180. For further consideration of the fig78

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native of Edessa had access.81 John Chrysostom, however, who composed two homilies that featured the mother and daughters’ voluntary martyrdom, developed the suggested Abraham typology further by employing stories involving the couple Abraham and Sarah in his own treatment of Domnina and her daughters. Chrysostom’s concern and point of comparison were not the sacrifice of Isaac as such. His first homily on the topic of the three female martyrs, delivered on their feast day, April 20, discussed relatively early on whether Abraham was right to expose his wife Sarah to the advances of the Egyptian Pharaoh by suggesting she make herself known not as Abraham’s wife but as his sister.82 Two crimes, that of sexual impurity, i.e., adultery in the case of Sarah and the rape of a chaste wife and virgins in the case of Domnina and her daughters, and homicide, i.e., the potential murder of Abraham if he were recognized as Sarah’s husband and the putting to death of the two girls and their mother, were at stake.83 In his treatment of Domnina and her daughters’ fate, Chrysostom showed remarkable concern for the mother’s feelings in the face of the violence overcoming herself and her daughters.84 In an obvious allusion to the preparation for Isaac’s sacrifice, Chrysostom also intimated that the mo-

ure of Sarah in Syriac authors, see for example Cornelia B. Horn, “Reverting the GodGiven Order: Sarah and the Mother of the First-Born in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations,” in Festschrift: Rev. Dr. Jakob Thekeparampil, ed. Geevarghese Panicker and others, The Harp 20 (Kerala, India: SEERI [Saint Ephrem Ecumenical Research Institute in Kottayam], 2006), 387–398. 81 For Edessa as a cultural background for Eusebius, see Winn, “Theology of Eusebius,” 14–27; Judah B. Segal, Edessa ‘the Blessed City’ (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970), 149–152; and Han. J. W. Drijvers, “The School of Edessa, Greek Learning and Local Culture,” in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern Europe and the Near East, ed. Jan Willem Drijvers and Alasdair A. MacDonald (Leiden, New York, and Köln: E. J. Brill, 1995), 49–59. 82 Gen 12:11–13; John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 1 (ed. PG 50:630–632). 83 John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 1 (ed. PG 50:631), who does not make the parallel to the fate of Domnina, Bernice, and Prosdoce explicit, but seems to imply it. For a recent study of how the tradition dealt with violence committed against specific women in the Hebrew Bible, see John L. Thompson, Writing the Wrongs: Women of the Old Testament among Biblical Commentators from Philo through the Reformation, Oxford Studies in Historical Theology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). Thompson does not focus on Sarah though. I am grateful to Corrine L. Carvalho for drawing my attention to this study. 84 John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 6 (ed. PG 50:639): {Wste meizovnw" dia; tw'n qugatevrwn ejmartuvrhsen au[th, kai; pro;" aujth;n ajpeduvsato th'" fuvsew" th;n turannivda, kai; pro;" th;n flovga tw'n wjdivnwn e[sth kai; pro;" th;n ajfovrhton tw'n splavgcnwn tarach;n, kai; pro;" to;n th'" mhvtra" qovrubon.

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ther fulfilled the role prefigured by Abraham.85 Thus also here his portrayal of mother and daughters quite closely resembled that of Eusebius of Emesa,86 which might be taken as an indication that both drew from a common, already well-established tradition. As Chrysostom continued the motif of a priestly function of the mother, he had her lead her daughters into the river in an image in which virginity and marriage were closely joined, Christ being at the very center.87 As in the martyrdom of the three girls Pistis, Elpis, and Agape, so also here one could encounter the notion of fruitfulness of young girls, now to be achieved through a virginal death. Several times Chrysostom explicitly identified Bernice and Prosdoce as παιδία, perhaps offering expression to a concern to gain and keep the attention of his audience, especially of the mothers and daughters among them.88 For all, young and old, the mother and her virginal child martyrs were to become patrons,89 and thus certainly also models. Concluding Comparisons When raising martyrs and ascetics, parents and preachers availed themselves of stories that included children as models. Accounts of the martyrdom of children without explict consideration of ascetic and virginal dimensions seem to have relied more exclusively on biblical examples, primarily those of Isaac, the Maccabeean martyrs, and the Bethlehemite infants.90 When education towards the acceptance of the virginal and ascetic life was the motivation or at least comotivation of a given account, references to Isaac’s attempted sacrifice were being retained with some prominence. In texts, not discussed here, the Old Testament example of Hannah offering her little son Samuel in the Temple, likewise was featured.91 In

85

John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 6 (ed. PG 50:639; tr. Clark, Women in the Early Church, 175): kai; to; dh; qaumasto;n, o{ti ou;k ejdehvqh qusiasthrivou quvousa, oujde; xuvlwn, oujde; puro;", oujde; macaivra". Clark does not refer to Gen 22.6(–7) here. 86 Chrysostom also has Domnina employ Isa 8:18. 87 John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 6 (PG 50: 638–639; tr. Clark, Women in the Early Church, 174–175). 88 John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 6 (ed. PG 50:638): ajkouevtwsan kai; mhtevre" kai; parqevnoi. 89 John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce, Virgins 7 (ed. PG 50:640): ajxiw'men genevsqai prostavtida" hJmw'n . 90 Matt 2:17–18; and Jer 31:15. 91 See, e.g., John Chrysostom, Five Homilies on Hanna (ed. PG 54:631–676; tr. Robert C. Hill, St. John Chrysostom Old Testament Homilies: Vol. 1. Homilies on Hannah, David, and Saul [Brookline, MA: Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 2003], 121–132). On those

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addition, examples taken from the post-biblical, hagiographical Christian tradition assisted in the pursuit of pedagogical purposes. By way of offering their occasional comment, early Christian writers themselves reflected on the usefulness of such storytelling. Eusebius of Emesa, for instance, having included the examples of Pelagia of Antioch as well as of Theodora and Didymus in Domnina’s speech, admitted that whether or not Domnina really said all he had her say was less important than the fact that it would not be useless to tell these stories.92 Given that Eusebius was also conscious of the presence of children among his audience, a modern reader may here catch a glimpse at the intentions he pursued in telling such stories to begin with. With Theodora and Didymus he even was able to provide role models of the ascetic and the martyr for both boys and girls.93 Ambrose of Milan’s account of a young girl who tried to escape an unwanted marriage proposal by running off to the church, laying the priest’s hand on her head, and placing her own head under the cloth of the altar as a veil may serve as a reminder that imitation of models, roleplaying, and real life were neither then nor are they now very far apart in a young child’s mind.94 Ambrose was even more explicit than Eusebius of Emesa in recommending virginal child martyrs as ideal examples to be presented to the eyes and ears of children for imitation. In his On Virgins, he showed forth the twelve-year-old virgin Agnes both as a marvel for “men” and as a sign of hope for “children.”95 homilies, see also Robert C. Hill, “St. John Chrysostom’s Homilies on Hannah,” St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 45 (2001), 319–338. 92 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 28 (ed. Buytaert, Eusebius of Emesa, Discours conservés en latin, vol. 1, 171, ll. 19–20; ed. Wilmart, “Le souvenir d’Eusèbe d’Émèse: Un discours en l’honneur,” 282, ll. 6–7): sive igitur dixit sive non dixit, non inportunum est ut ista dicantur. 93 For studies of the connection between martyrdom and asceticism in early Christian literature and imagination, see Marcel Viller, “Le martyre et l’ascèse,” Revue d’Ascétique et de Mystique 6 (1925), 105–142; and E. E. Malone, The Monk and the Martyr: The Monk as the Successor of the Martyr (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1950). For suffering children as role models, see also the observations in Cornelia B. Horn, “Suffering Children, Parental Authority and the Quest for Liberation? A Tale of Three Girls in the Acts of Paul (and Thecla), the Act(s) of Peter, the Acts of Nerseus and Achilleus, and the Epistle of Pseudo-Titus,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 11 (New York and London: Continuum and T&T Clark International, 2006), 118–145, here 127–129, 137, and 145. 94 Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins I.11.65–66 (ed. PL 16:282; ed. and tr. Gori, Opere morali II/I, vol. 14/1, 160–165; tr. Ramsey, Ambrose, 91) 95 Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins I.2.5 (ed. PL 16:189–190; ed. and tr. Gori, Opere morali II/I, vol. 14/1, 104–107; tr. Clark, Women in the Early Church, 107): “It is the

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Through emphasis on the parent’s priestly role, which is quite explicit in both Eusebius of Emesa and John Chrysostom, the preacher managed to urge and heighten parental involvement in the goal of raising martyrs and ascetics. Parents as priests embodied the ideals of sacrificial martyrdom, ascetic dedication, and educational responsibility in a way that was very similar to how these were joined ideally in a priest. Thus through the support of their services children might become what they were called to be: ideal Christians.

birthday of a virgin: let us imitate her integrity. It is the birthday of a martyr: let us sacrifice the victim. It is the birthday of Saint Agnes: let men marvel, let children not lose hope (non desperent parvuli), let the married be astounded, let the unmarried seek to resemble her.”

Children and Egyptian Monasticism Carrie Schroeder Medieval and Byzantine monasteries and convents were teeming with children. From orphans deposited on their doorsteps to become monastics, to pupils studying in their schools before moving on to an uncloistered adult life, to sick children seeking care from church hospitals, monastic institutions for men and women, East and West sheltered scores of children during this era.1 This contribution addresses the question of whether one may date the beginnings of this commonplace occurrence and its origins to developments in monasticism in early Christian Egypt. Sources for Egyptian asceticism testify to the presence of children among adult monks, albeit sparingly. Certainly, minors formed a crucial wing of the ascetic movement from its beginnings in the wider Greco-Roman Mediterranean world. Girls on the cusp of adolescence, as they approached the appropriate age for marriage as early as twelve years old, soon became the standard-bearers for a religion that prized moral and sexual virtue.2 Female martyrs were extolled for dying rather than risking the loss of their virginity, and as early as the second and third centuries virgin girls who shunned marriage in order to become brides of Christ were held up as symbols of the church.3 By the fourth century in Egypt, and particularly in Alexandria, See the classic by John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Present (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988). For recent work on children in the Byzantine era including monasticism with a postscript on the Latin West, see Timothy S. Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium: Child Welfare in the Christian Empire (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003). 2 On marriage and betrothal, see Judith Evans Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity: The Emperor Constantine’s Marriage Legislation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 141–202. 3 E.g., Tertullian, On the Veiling of Virgins (ed. Eva Schulz-Flügel, French tr. Paul Mattei, Tertullien: Le voile des vierges, Sources chrétiennes 424 [Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1997]; tr. Geoffrey D. Dunn, Tertullian [London and New York: Routledge, 2004], 135– 161); Ambrose, On Virgins to Marcellina His Sister in Three Books (ed. and Italian tr. Franco Gori, Opere morali II/I: Verginita e vedovanza, Opera omnia di sant’Ambrogio [Milan: Bibliotheca Ambrosiana, 1989], vol 14/1, pp. 100–241; tr. Boniface Ramsey, Ambrose [London and New York: Routledge, 1997], 71–116); and Prudentius, Crowns of Martyrdom (Peristephanon) (ed. Mauricius P. Cunningham, Aurelius Prudentius Clem1

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“house virgins” and their families comprised an important religious and political constituency with whom Bishop Athanasius had to contend.4 In the most popular literature documenting early Egyptian monasticism, children are to be eschewed, not welcomed into the monastic lifestyle by other ascetics. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Apophthegmata Patrum) recounts a horrifying yet iconic story about children in early Egyptian monasteries. A father who sought to join a monastery was commanded by the community’s leader to throw his son into the river as a requirement of admission. Only at the last minute did another monk from the community stop him, just as the father was poised to toss the child into the Nile. The aspiring ascetic then abandoned his son to become a monk.5 The story, which clearly draws on Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac (Genesis 22), exemplifies the extent to which a novice had to embrace the ascetic imperative to renounce one’s biological family in order to join a new ascetic family. Obedience to the monastic leader trumped attachments and obligations to kin. Despite an ascetic ideology emphasizing the renunciation of children and family, children were a significant presence in coenobitic monasticism, and it seems that children were also among anchorites or semi-eremitic monastics. Children required protection from hazards posed by the physical labor and corporal punishment endured by adults as well as from sexual advances by other monks. Monastic leaders had to integrate these children who would become monks into the ways of the community – into their new ascetic families – and they had to accommodate their communities to the challenges posed by the presence of such children. Evidence for Children in the Early Periods of Egyptian Monasticism (Fourth-Early Fifth Centuries) Texts from and about early lavrai and coenobitic monasteries provide a patchwork of evidence about the presence of children. This material expresses deep ambivalence about allowing children to reside in monasteries. ens: Carmina, CCSL 126 [Turnholt: Brepols, 1966], 386–389; tr. M. Clement Eagen, The Poems of Prudentius, The Fathers of the Church 43 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1962 and 1965], 1:95–280). 4 See Athanasius, Letters to Virgins and On Virginity (tr. David Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998], 274–309). See also Brakke’s treatment of these texts and their contexts on pp. 17–79. Originally, Brakke’s study was published as Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). 5 Apophthegmata Patrum (hereafter AP) Sisoes 10 (ed. PG 65:391–407; tr. Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection [Kalamazoo: Cistercian Press, 1975], 214).

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Yet it also documents that even during this formative stage of Christianity children lived in ascetic communities in training to become adult monks. The monasteries did not merely house them or educate them during their minor years; the evidence indicates that children were present as novices. Of our early sources, the Apophthegmata Patrum mentions children the most frequently. It tells the stories of at least four male monks who brought children to their semi-anchoritic monastic communities. Three of these sayings refer to fathers and biological sons, and these three pairs all lived in the desert community of Scetis, south of Alexandria (although the Apopthegmata does recount traditions about monastic women in Egypt, I have not yet found any references to ascetic girls in this source). In all four cases, the boy was being raised to become a monk himself.6 The Apophthegmata also records sayings by two prominent ascetics about children at Scetis. These consist of warnings about the dangers of bringing children into an ascetic group. Abba Macarius the Great, one of Egypt’s most revered monks, is reported having warned the monks, “When you see a cell built close to the marsh, know that the devastation of Scetis is near; when you see trees, know that it is at the doors; and when you see young children, take up your sheepskins and go away.”7 For Macarius, children seem to have embodied the dangers of an encroaching “civilization” on an idealized “desert” community.8 Abba Isaac of Nitria, a large and semi-anchoritic community not far from Scetis, is reported to have explained in hindsight the demise of his neighboring community as a result of the presence of children: “Do not bring young boys here. Four churches in Scetis are deserted because of boys.”9 Scetis flourished in the mid- to late-fourth century and was destroyed not from within by paedophilia but by the violent attacks of non-Christian raiders from the tribe of the Mazices, who lived in

6 AP Carion 2 (ed. PG 65:249–52; tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 117–18). AP Anonymous 171, 173, 341 (ed. F. Nau, “Histoires des solitaires égyptiens,” Revue de l’Orient Chrétien 12 (1907), 43–69, 171–189, and 393–413, vol. 13 (1908), 47–66 and 266–297, vol. 14 (1909), 357–379, vol. 17 (1912), 204–211 and 294–301, and vol. 18 (1913), 137–146, here 13 (1908), 55–57, and 17 (1912), 296; tr. Benedicta Ward, The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers: Apophthegmata Patrum from the Anonymous Series [Fairacres and Oxford: SLG Press and Convent of the Incarnation, 1975; repr. 1977], 9–10 and 57; numbered as 39, 41, 210, respectively). 7 AP Macarius the Great 5 (ed. PG 65:264; tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 128). 8 James E. Goehring, “The Dark Side of Landscape: Ideology and Power in the Christian Myth of the Desert,” in The Cultural Turn in Late Ancient Studies: Gender, Asceticism, and Historiography, ed. Dale B. Martin and Patricia Cox Miller (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), 136–149. 9 AP Isaac Priest of the Cells 5 (ed. PG 65:225; tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 100).

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the Libyan desert.10 Yet the Apophthegmata was assembled in the fourth and fifth centuries, for a while circulated orally, and then was written down in its current form as late as the sixth century in Palestine, not Egypt.11 This collection projects a nostalgia about early monasticism. Isaac’s conclusion about the roots of Scetis’s destruction is but one of a string of sayings which imply that the community’s downfall occurred as a result of God’s will. These sayings narrate a decline in virtue on the part of later ascetics, when compared to their earliest forebears and according to this narrative the monks’ ascetic laxity incurred a particularly destructive manifestation of God’s judgment.12 One modern editor of the Apophthegmata recognized the nostalgia inherent in Isaac’s analysis of Scetis’s devastation yet nonetheless read it as a rather literal account of a “decline in monastic standards,” observing that “the theme of homosexual temptations” is “notably absent from the first generation in Scetis.”13 This argument from silence seems precipitous. It is more likely that the account of a decline from initially virtuous origins resulted from a desire to nurture a myth of a golden age of monastic discipline, to which future monks could aspire to return through renewed vigor in their own asceticism. As William Harmless has observed, the Apophthegmata constituted a type of “portable desert wis-

10 See Hugh Gerard Evelyn-White, The Monasteries of the Wâdi ‘n Natrûn, pt. ii: The History of the Monasteries of Nitria and Scetis (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Egyptian Expedition, 1932), 150–167; Derwas Chitty, The Desert a City: An Introduction to the Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism under the Christian Empire (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1966), 60–61, 69–70, and 144–145; and William Harmless, Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 205–206. 11 See Lucien Regnault, “Les Apophtegmes des Pères en Palestine aux Ve–VIe siècles,” Irénikon 54.3 (1981), 320–330; and Harmless, Desert Christians, 170–171. 12 Harmless, Desert Christians, 205. This is a common topos in Christian literature that has its roots in the Deuteronomistic History. For another example, see Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, whose sources claim that Jesus himself appeared to the Persian King Kavad just as the king was about to call off his siege of Amida and promised him he would capture the city in order to punish the sins of its Christian inhabitants. In the same account, the fall of the city is blamed on monks whose laxity allowed the Persians to enter one of the defense towers. See Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, Chronicle VII.4 (ed. and tr. E. W. Brooks, Historia Ecclesiastica Zachariae Rhetori vulgo adscripta vol. II, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium [hereafter CSCO] 84 & 88, Scriptores Syri 39 & 42 [Louvain: Imprimerie Orientaliste Durbecq, 1953], 25–27 [Syriac] and 16–18 [Latin]; English tr. F. J. Hamilton and E. W. Brooks, The Syriac Chronicle Known as that of Zachariah of Mitylene [London: Methuen and Co, 1899, reprinted New York: AMS Press, 1979], 155–160; for an ET with extensive notes see Geoffrey Greatrex, Robert Phenix, and Cornelia Horn, The Chronicle of Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, Translated Texts for Historians [Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010], forthcoming). 13 Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 99.

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dom” for later generations of monks.14 At the very least, the three stories of adult monks with children at Scetis combined with the two warnings about bringing children specifically to Scetis testify to a historical memory of boys living among adult ascetics in this community – boys in training to become monks themselves. One fourth-century papyrus provides documentation for a monk who did not seem to be affiliated with a known coenobitic community and who took responsibility for the upbringing of a child. Dated 381 CE, the papyrus is essentially a contract recording the adoption of a ten-year-old boy named Paesis by his uncle, Aurelius Silvanus, the latter being identified as a monachos from the Hermopolite nome of Egypt.15 It should be noted that Silvanus’s monastic community remains unmentioned; for this reason, it seems unlikely that he was a member of a coenobitic monastery since the name of that monastery would have been specified in the papyrus as information registering the monk’s identity. The child’s grandmother Aurelia Teeus, who appears to have been caring for the boy, presented the child for adoption after the death of his father who was also the above-mentioned Aurelius Silvanus’s brother. Much of the scholarly treatment of the text has revolved around discussions of its legal implications. Technically, women could not offer a child for adoption under Roman law.16 However, this document is a piece of evidence, albeit a limited one, for the relationship between children and adult ascetics, since the purpose of the papyrus was to record a legal and financial contract whereby the monk Aurelius Silvanus agreed to become the guardian of both the boy and his inheritance; the latter being delineated in the Leipzig papyrus in some detail, “consisting of lands and buildings and movable goods belonging to the house inventories …” Moreover, Aurelius Silvanus promised to make Paesis the “heir of my property.” Since the purpose of the document was to record this legal relationship, it did not provide much detail about the living arrangements of the child. Presumably Paesis was living with Aurelia Teeus, since despite the letter of the law it was she who was giving him up for adoption. Aurelius Silvanus pledged to watch over Paesis’s property and to “feed and clothe [him] in decent and appropriate fashion” as well as to “raise him in decent and appropriate fashion.” Although it is possible that the monk pro14

Harmless, Desert Christians, 251. P. Lips. I 28 (ed. Ludwig Mitteis, Griechische Urkunden der Papyrussammlung zu Leipzig [Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1906; repr. Milan: La Goiardica, 1970], 72–74; tr. Jane Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society in Greek and Roman Egypt: A Sourcebook [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998], 297–298). Rowlandson’s translation and a discussion of its contents from a different approach are found below in Chrysi Kotsifou’s contribution, pp. 339ff. 16 Marek Kurylowicz reviews the issues and scholarship on this item in, “Adoption on the Evidence of Papyri,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 19 (1983), 61–75, here 67–69. 15

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vided the funds for the boy’s care while the child lived elsewhere, the language of the contract leaves open the possibility that Paesis went to live with his uncle after the adoption. Given the evidence from the Apophthegmata for adult monks who resided in lavrai together with their biological children, such a scenario is far from remote. The most famous coenobitic community in Egypt was comprised of a series of monasteries originally founded by the fourth-century monk Pachomius. Several versions of Pachomius’s Vita exist, along with some of his letters, which he composed in difficult-to-decipher alpha-numeric and biblical codes as well as monastic rules and instructional addresses authored by him and some of the subsequent leaders of his monastic federation. The rules are primarily extant in the form of a Latin translation by Jerome, but some Coptic and Greek sections survive. The rules from the Pachomian monasteries outline a number of prohibited behaviors as well as required practices, but they rarely mention children. However, this near silence cannot be taken as evidence that children did not live in the Pachomian koinonia, for both the Greek Vita and the fragmentary Tenth Sahidic Coptic Vita17 of Pachomius reference resident children. Utilizing hagiography as a transparent witness to social history is problematic, and Pachomius’s Greek Vita, in particular, is known for its tendency to shape Pachomius’s history to favor the political and theological landscape of the time of its writing in the 390s, some five decades after Pachomius’s death, by a monk who did not know Pachomius personally. Despite these difficulties, these sources can provide a sense of the roles of children in late-fourth-century monasticism, and possibly shed light on an even earlier stage. Both the First Greek Vita and the Tenth Sahidic Vita depict a Pachomius who believed that caring for children in the monastery and raising them to be ascetics was a sacred task, one decreed to the monks by God. Pachomius praised children as the apple of God’s eye18 in the former and professed care for “the little ones”19 according to God’s will in the latter.20

17 Harmless, Desert Christians, 116–117. On bias in the Pachomian Vitae, see James Goehring, “Pachomius’s Vision of Heresy: The Development of a Pachomian Tradition,” in James E. Goehring, Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Christianity, Studies in Antiquity and Christianity (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 1999), 137– 161; originally published in Le Muséon 95 (1982), 241–262. 18 See also Deut 32:10, Ps 17:8, Prov 7:2, and Zech 2:8. 19 There are numerous possibilities for Scriptural sources of inspiration, including Matt 10:42 and Deut 1:39. 20 First Greek Life of Pachomius (hereafter G1) 49 (tr. Armand Veilleux, The Life of Saint Pachomius and His Disciples, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, Cistercian Studies Series 45 [Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1980], 331); and Tenth Sahidic Life of Pa-

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Moreover, each Vita evinces a predominantly respectful attitude toward children, valuing their potential as future ascetics. Some children, by their nature and destiny, would never be able to succeed as ascetics, but the rest were appreciated precisely because of their ascetic potential. According to the Tenth Sahidic Vita, Pachomius “set a little one in the midst of his disciples saying, ‘Anyone who shall receive a young child such as this in my name receives me (see Matt 10:42).’ But as for other little ones who have acquired an evil bent in their [youth] [the ms breaks off for a few words] … [as Solomon] says, ‘Anyone who lives wantonly from his youth shall become a slave (Prov 31:21 LXX).’ And so my brothers, every young child as well as those who are older whom the Lord has brought to us for the rebirth, let us be zealous … many times, let us teach them.”21 Pachomius envisioned an ascetic future for these children, “[I]f they keep their body pure from their youth up, they may become temples of the Lord and the Holy Spirit may dwell in them.” 22 Thus instructing children in the ways of the monastic life receives praise as a fundamental mission of the koinonia. Likewise, the Greek Life esteems children for their potential as future ascetics. Their monastic virtuosity will far exceed that of their adult counterparts. Likening monastic children to a “clean ground”23 ready for planting with “good seed,”24 the Pachomius of this vita exhorted the community to “‘watch over the children as God wills,’” so that their ascetic promise would not turn fallow. The yield from this monastic harvest would be greater than the yield from adult novices. “It is easier for children to reach this degree,” explained Pachomius, since they have been “obedient from their earliest age.”25 The rules and letters penned by Shenoute, who directed a coenobium that was home to several thousand men and women in the fourth and fifth centuries, may provide more insight into the lives of children in coenobitic monasticism. Known as Shenoute’s Monastery although it existed before and well after his tenure, or as the White Monastery on account of the church building constructed of white stone, the community consisted of three monastic residences plus affiliated hermits who lived in the nearby desert caves. Shenoute became leader of the White Monastery in or around the year 385 and remained in that position until his death in 465.26 His wrichomius (hereafter S10) Fragment 2 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 451– 452). 21 S10 Fragment 2 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 451). 22 S10 Fragment 2 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 451–452). 23 See for example Matt 13:8, and elsewhere. 24 See Matt 13:24, and elsewhere. 25 G1 49 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 331). 26 Stephen Emmel, “Shenoute the Monk: The Early Monastic Career of Shenoute the Archimandrite,” in Il Monachesimo tra eredità e aperture: atti del simposio “Testi e temi

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tings are contemporaneous with or slightly later than the Pachomian Vitae and Latin translations of the Pachomian rules. His letters and rules are filled with the Coptic terms for “boys,” “girls,” and “little ones.” The nature of these references demonstrate that the monastic community included many young people, and that this was not an aberration or a somehow lessthan-ideal phenomenon in the monastery. Unfortunately, when Shenoute mentioned “little boys” and “little girls,” it is unclear whether he was referring to small children, adolescents, adults who were merely new monks, or a category of persons which included all of the above. The Coptic terms translated as “boy” and “girl” are šēre šēm and šeere šēm, which in English literally mean “little son” and “little daughter.” The usual term for an established male monk, regardless of age, is “old man” (hllo). Revered monks were spoken of as “fathers” (apa or abba) and “mothers” (amma), and the individuals directly beneath Shenoute in the monastic hierarchy – the man and woman who essentially ran the male and female residences – as well as other extremely senior monks were called “elders” (phllo [male elder], thllō [female elder], and nhllo [elders]).27 The ambiguity of Shenoute’s terminology means that the terms for “boy” and “girl” could denote either biological age or monastic rank. Given the use of terms of age and familial relationships for other monastic offices, it seems likely that šēre šēm and šeere šēm were novices, be they adults or children. Child monks most certainly would have been considered novices. An excerpt from Shenoute’s earliest extant letter composed in the early 380s before he became the leader of his monastery, when he was still only a monk himself, includes a rule that aptly illustrates the use of the term in the community. Near the beginning of this first letter he quoted several of the monastery’s regulations concerning “children,” including one prohibition on touching a young monk, “Cursed is anyone who will defile and touch a child/novice, saying, ‘I would know whether he has come of age.’”28 This rule clearly applied to minors, not merely adult novices, and indicates the presence of underage children in the community.

nella tradizione del monachesimo cristiano” per il 50° anniversario dell’Istituto monastico di Sant’Anselmo, Roma, 28 maggio–10 giugno 2002, ed. Maciej Bielawski and Daniël Hombergen, Studia Anselmiana 140 (Rome: Pontificio Ateneo di S. Anselmo, 2004), 151–174. 27 Caroline T. Schroeder, Monastic Bodies: Discipline and Salvation in Shenoute of Atripe, Divinitations (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 179, fn. 24; cf. Bentley Layton, “Social Structure and Food Consumption in an Early Christian Monastery: The Evidence of Shenoute’s Canons and the White Monastery Federation AD 385–465,” Le Muséon (2002), 25–55, here 29. 28 Shenoute, Letter One, Canon 1, XC 7–8 (unpublished manuscript, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek Papyrussamlung, Vienna K 9101R/V).

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Some of the actual children may have been children of adult monastics. In one of his letters to the women’s community, Shenoute mentioned a woman Thesnoe who was the daughter of one Apa Hermef.29 Given Hermef’s title of Apa, it seems likely that he was a member of the men’s community at Shenoute’s Monastery. Shenoute’s rules also prohibited male monks from speaking to female monks at the gatehouse of the women’s community, even if the woman was that monk’s mother or daughter; the rule again suggests the presence of biological or adoptive – but at least legal – parents and children at the monastery. However, these particular references pertain to adult children; at what point in time the families joined the monastery remains a mystery. Shenoute’s Vita itself does provide an example of a child joining the community. It purports that because Shenoute was already such a pronounced child of God, as a mere boy he came to live in the monastery, which the vita maintains was founded and directed at that time by Shenoute’s uncle. Although Shenoute’s own writings do not confirm the historical accuracy of the details of his life story, the account of his entrance into the ascetic life indicates that children were given to the monastery, possibly to become monks, either by their parents or as orphans.30 Other documents from the monastery testify to the presence of minor children. Shenoute’s later writings mention orphans living in the community.31 These children may have been able to leave the monastery upon becoming adults, but the hagiographical evidence for child monks and the Pachomian goal of raising children who would make their bodies “temples of the Lord” suggest that at least some of these children remained ascetics upon attaining adulthood. Moreover, Shenoute’s successor, Besa, wrote about at least one specific child who resided in the monastery, because he had been “given to God,” again suggesting an ascetic future for the boy.32 29 Rebecca Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 164. 30 Bohairic Life of Shenoute 3–8 (ed. Johannes Leipoldt, Sinuthii Vita Bohairice, CSCO 41, Scriptores Coptici 1 [Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1951], 8–11; tr. David N. Bell, Besa: The Life of Shenoute, Cistercian Studies Series 73 [Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1983], 42–44). On the authorship of the vita, and the question of the genre of the text see Nina Lubomierski, “The Coptic Life of Shenoute,” in Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt: Volume 1, Akhmim and Sohag, ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla, A Saint Mark Foundation Book (Cairo and New York: American University in Cairo Press, 2008), 91–97. 31 Andrew T. Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital: Christian Monasticism and the Transformation of Health Care in Late Antiquity (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005), 134–135. 32 Besa, Defense against Unjust Accusations I.3–4 (ed. and tr. K. H. Kuhn, Letters and Sermons of Besa, CSCO 157–158, Scriptores Coptici 21–22 [Louvain: L. Durbecq, 1956], 112–113 [Coptic] and 109 [English]).

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On occasion, this community provided a home to lay children as well. During a period in which Shenoute’s monastery sheltered refugees from a raid on neighboring cities by marauders from the south, children are listed among those whom the monastery housed.33 Finally, we know of at least one child who was a member of the group of acolytes who traveled with a prominent Manichaean leader. Letters from the town of Kellis document a family whose young son had left his home to join their revered “teacher” who was likely an ascetic, given that this was a requirement among the Manichaeans, as he journeyed around Egypt. This example is examined in more detail below. This evidence suggests that already by the middle of the fifth century children comprised an important population in Egyptian ascetic communities. Minor children lived among both semi-anchoritic and coenobitic monks and were raised to take on the ascetic life themselves as adults. How children came to join these communities – especially the monasteries of Pachomius and Shenoute – and how their daily lives were structured remain questions that are difficult to answer. Monastic Children’s Origins and Education in the Early Ascetic Communities Literature from the Pachomian federation does not explain how the “little ones” praised by Pachomius had entered the monastery. Research into Shenoute’s monastery is still tentative, because many of the sources remain unpublished, and the material has not been thoroughly mined for evidence of daily life in the community.34 Nevertheless, so far and despite the evidence for children’s presence in the community, I am aware of no writings from Shenoute himself describing rules for the assimilation of children 33 Shenoute, Continuing to Glorify the Lord, Canon 7, DG 421 (ed. and tr. Johannes Leipoldt, Walter Crum, and Hermann Wiesmann, Sinuthii Archimandritae Vita et Opera Omnia, vol. 3, CSCO 42, Scriptores Coptici 2 [Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1908], 69–70 [Coptic]) Shenoute calls the raiders “Blemmeyes.” On the Blemmeyes (also translated as Nubians or Cushites), see Roger S. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 146–147 and 174. 34 Johannes Leipoldt published the first monograph on Shenoute (based primarily on texts he later published elsewhere) in Schenute von Atripe und die Entstehung des national ägyptischen Christentums, Texte und Untersuchungen 25.1 (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1903). Since then, only the first chapter of Rebecca Krawiec’s book has systematically addressed daily life in Shenoute’s monastery. See Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women, 13–30; see also Heike Behlmer, “The Recovery of the Coptic Sources for the Study of Gender in Late Antiquity,” Orientalia 73 (2004), 255–269. A consortium of scholars, led by Stephen Emmel, has undertaken a long-term project to publish and translate critical editions of Shenoute’s ascetic writings. Until the texts are edited and published, any systematic study of children in the monastery remains preliminary.

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into the monastery similar to the rules for adults who sought to take the monastic vow. I also have not yet found any letters, sermons, or treatises by Shenoute himself addressing the entry of minors. As we have seen, the Apophthegmata provides evidence for biological children living with their ascetic parents, and P. Lips. I 28 invites speculation that a monk could have reared his adoptive son. Certainly it seems possible that adults joined Pachomius’s and Shenoute’s monasteries with their biological or adoptive children in tow. It is known that elsewhere in the Mediterranean world in the fourth century, communities of ascetic women raised abandoned children. Providing care and education, these women nurtured foundlings who then became adult monks.35 In North Africa, Augustine wrote of nuns who baptized and cared for exposed babies in their region.36 Macrina, sister of the Cappadocian fathers Basil the Great and Gregory of Nyssa, founded a community of virgins, many of whom included girls she had rescued during a famine, who were exposed infants “prostrate along the highway at the moment of starvation.”37 Unfortunately, there is no direct evidence for such a practice at the monasteries of Pachomius and Shenoute during this period. However, indirect evidence alludes to some possibilities. Both monasteries included women’s communities. Moreover, the library at Shenoute’s monastery contained formulas for medical treatments to induce lactation in women. Although these recipes could have formed part of a larger medical collection acquired by the monastery, of which the lactagogical elements would have remained unused, they could well have been employed for inducing lactation to nurture abandoned or orphaned babies then living at the community.38 The Apophthegmata Patrum indicates that poverty was also a factor accompanying the presence of children in Egyptian monasteries. The account of Carion and his son Zacharias reports that originally the father did not 35

Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 288–289. Augustine, Letters 98 (ed Alois Goldbacher, Sancti Aurelii Augustini Hipponiensis episcopi Epistulae, CSEL 44 [Vindobonae, F. Tempsky, 1904], 520–533; tr. in Philip Schaff, ed., The Confessions and Letters of St. Augustin with a Sketch of His Life and Work, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church 1 [Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1886], 409). 37 Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina 36–38 (ed. PG 46:988B; ed. and tr. Pierre Maraval, Grégoire de Nysse. Vie de Sainte Macrine, Sources chrétiennes 178 [Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1971], 256–265; tr. Virginia Woods Callahan, Saint Gregory of Nyssa: Ascetical Works, Fathers of the Church 58 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1967], 182–183). 38 Andrew Crislip, “Care for the Sick in Shenoute’s Monasteries,” in Akhmim and Sohag, vol. 1 of Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt, ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla (Cairo and New York: The American University in Cairo Press, 2008), 21–30, here 27. 36

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seek to initiate his son into the monastic life. Rather, economic catastrophe led the boy to the monastery. According to the Apophthegmata, Carion was living as an ascetic in Scetis when his wife and two children from his former life came to visit him during a famine. His wife demanded that Carion support his family, so he offered to raise the children himself at Scetis. Their daughter refused to join him, choosing instead to remain with her mother, but their son Zacharias stayed.39 The most famous names among the burgeoning ascetic movement in fourth-century Egypt are those of men who converted to the ascetic life as adults: Antony, Pachomius, and Macarius the Great are such examples. As for the phenomenon of child monks, saints’ lives tend to attribute early ascetic prowess (not poverty or parental tragedy) to the phenomenon of child monks. Following the traditions of Greco-Roman biography and panegyric for adults considered favored by the gods, the Life of Shenoute recounts a childhood in which the monk was already marked by God in his youth. On his own initiative, the boy Shenoute prayed every night with such fervor that the fingers of his outstretched hands burned “like ten flaming laps.” So strong was the child’s ascetic aura that his uncle, Pcol, the local monastic luminary, greeted Shenoute by calling the youth “my father and archimandrite.” The young Shenoute exorcised a demon and was protected in his sleep by a guardian angel. The natural culmination of the narrative was Shenoute’s entrance into the ascetic life with Pcol as his guide (Pcol was credited also with founding the monastery Shenoute would eventually lead). Once Shenoute had come to live with Pcol, but while he was still a child, God pronounced him “archimandrite of the entire world!”40 The Tenth Sahidic Vita of Pachomius similarly traced the ascetic expertise of one of Pachomius’s successors back to an extraordinary childhood. Theodore would eventually lead the Pachomian federation of monasteries, after the founder’s death and an intervening period when the monk Horsiesius directed the koinonia.41 According to the Bohairic Life Theodore joined the community at the age of 20, but the Greek Life put the age at 14, and the Tenth Sahidic Life described him as a “boy” when he joined.42 In the Greek Life of Pachomius Theodore “stood out above the others” early in life, bewailing “the things of this world” that came between him and God. Purportedly he often fasted during the day and generally practiced “abstaining 39

AP Carion 2 (ed. PG 65:249–252; tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 117–

118). Life of Shenoute 4–9 (tr. Bell, Besa. The Life of Shenoute, 42–45). For a historical summary of the succession of leaders in the Pachomian federation, see Harmless, Desert Christians, 132–139. 42 G1 33 and Tenth Sahidic Life fragment 4 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 320 and 453). 40 41

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from expensive meats and foods like a monk” until his parents allowed him to leave their household in order to live among monks in a monastery.43 The Tenth Sahidic Life recorded one mild flare-up of stubborn disobedience, albeit an incident of monastic disobedience perhaps somewhat easier to rationalize than other transgressions: Theodore refused to eat food presented to him.44 These accounts of Theodore’s childhood, like Shenoute’s Vita, portray a child destined for ascetic greatness as an adult. Given the hagiographical genre of these texts, it is difficult to use them as evidence for families donating boys and girls to monasteries because of perceived virtue in the children at young ages. However, these biographical flourishes are in keeping with the ascetic theory about monastic children expressed elsewhere in the Pachomian saints’ lives and in the Apophthegmata Patrum. As we have already seen, the Vitae of Pachomius characterized the ascetic potential for children as greater than the potential of those who converted to monasticism as adults.45 The Apophthegmata Patrum shares this view, particularly in its profile of Zacharias, the son of Abba Carion. The sayings concerning Carion and Zacharias consistently depict Zacharias as a monk who was far more astute than his father. Even as a child, Zacharias had understood the complex social and psychological relationships among semi-anchoritic monks better than Carion. While he was still young, the other monks of Scetis gossiped about his presence there and the propriety of an adult monk living with a boy. When Carion proposed moving away from Scetis, Zacharias wisely observed that the monks in their new community would not know that they were related – suggesting that such a relocation would only exacerbate their delicate situation. Carion disregarded his son’s advice to his own regret, for the two ended up moving back to Scetis after they faced the same rumors at their new community.46 As an adult monk, the son continued to exceed his father’s ascetic progress in the monastic art of discernment. According to the sayings concerning Zacharias, the younger monk once turned to his father for aid in interpreting a vision. Carion “did not understand this matter,” and “beat [his son] soundly, saying that it came from the demons.”47 Zacharias remained skeptical of his father’s conclusion and turned to one of the most famed and influential monks in the Apophthegmata, Abba Poemen.48 Poemen immediately recognized that the vision 43

G1 33 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 320–321). Tenth Sahidic Life fragment 3 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 452). 45 See above, pp. 322–323, esp. fn. 25. 46 AP Carion 2 (ed. PG 65:249–252; tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 117– 118). 47 AP Zacharias 4 (tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 68). 48 Harmless, Desert Christians, 206–211, on Poemen. 44

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“came from God” and sent him on to another esteemed monk for guidance. This other abba described the vision to Zacharias before he could inquire about it, and assured the younger monk that the vision came from God (not from the demons, as his father had asserted). Although the monk then instructed Zacharias to “go … and submit yourself to your father,” the narrative provided an implicit critique of Carion’s ascetic prowess. Although the younger monk had to respect the ascetic hierarchy and profess obedience to his ascetic mentor (even if he was less proficient in discerning divine versus demonic origins of visions), Zacharias’s choice to pursue advice beyond his father’s received approval in the narrative. Zacharias had been right to question his father’s interpretation, and thus proved himself to be a more discerning monk than Carion.49 In the other anecdotes as well, Zacharias is portrayed as an esteemed and especially blessed monk, whom the other abbas consulted for spiritual guidance.50 Despite the multiple attestations to the value of rearing ascetic children, among the sources from the formative period of Egyptian monasticism only the Pachomian texts outline an educational program for these special novices. It is possible that such a program at Shenoute’s monastery will emerge with the publication of critical editions of the materials. Yet thus far it is not apparent from Shenoute’s letters and rules. The Tenth Sahidic Life of Pachomius briefly outlines the stages in an ascetic child’s education. Remarkably, children had to follow the same steps as adult novices. First, they were taught that God was the creator of humans as well as “heaven and earth, the sun and moon.” This detail about heaven, earth, sun, and moon may be a nod to the Origenist controversy.51 Then they were to learn to bless God “without ceasing,” either aloud or in their hearts. After this basic level of understanding about God came the pursuit of more specific educational goals, which matched the traditional spiritual practices of monks in Egypt. They should learn Scripture, and specifically memorize the Psalms. Then they progressed to a more theological education: “And afterwards the children shall be taught what is pleasing to God, and his will from his law.” As part of this theological education, the children learned the rules of the monastery and came to understand the “golden rule” to “love their neighbor as themselves.” Additionally, they learned to discern authentic Scripture from heresy; they were instructed in God’s “will” in part so that “they may know surely that which is written by the AP Zacharias 4 (tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 68). AP Zacharias 1–3 and 5 (tr. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 67–68). 51 On the role of astrology and charges of “astral determinism” in the Origenist controversy, see Elizabeth A. Clark, The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural Construction of an Early Christian Debate (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 166–167, 177–178, 198–201, 218–219, and 231. 49 50

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Holy Spirit.” The ultimate goal of this educational program was to produce a spiritual development that worked in concert with ascetic bodily discipline, “so that, if they keep their body pure from their youth up, they may become temples of the Lord and the Holy Spirit may dwell in them.”52 Fourth-century letters from the Manichaean community in Kellis indicate that some families were perhaps quite willing to devote their children to an ascetic life, regardless of the family’s economic circumstances or the child’s particular ascetic virtuosity.53 As the editors of the Kellis documentary texts argued, at this point the line between Manichaeism and Christianity was practically non-existent. The authors of the letters identified themselves in ways that marked them as “Manicheans,” but they used “Christian terminology,” and probably “regarded themselves as Christians,” specifically “the true (and perhaps more effective or spiritual) church.”54 Most of the families represented in the letters probably were catechumens, and not members of the Manichaean elect, although they shared close social and possibly familial networks with the elect.55 A trove of letters written by members of one family, known as the “Makarios family documents,” provides an unparalleled window into daily life and the relationships between lay religious folk and religious authorities. Their correspondence repeatedly referenced “the Teacher.” Although the individual remained unnamed, this title was reserved for the highest office in the Manichean church, of which there were only twelve officials worldwide.56 One of the sons in the Makarios family, named Piene, had left home to travel with the Teacher throughout the Nile valley.57 The letters never state Piene’s age, but an epistle from one of Piene’s brothers (who lived in the Nile Valley) to their mother, Maria, referred to the boy as a “child.”58 The editors of the documents reasonably concluded that Piene was sent off with the Teacher “at a young age” for religious instruction, perhaps with the objective that he, too, would become one of the elect.59 For the family of Piene, having a relative who traveled with “the Teacher” as a valued student 52

Tenth Sahidic Life, fragment 2 (tr. in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1, 451–

452). 53 Iain Gardner, Anthony Alcock, and Wolf Peter-Funk, eds., Coptic Documentary Texts from Kellis, Volume 1: P. Kell. V (P. Kell. Copt. 10–52; O. Kell. Copt. 1–2), Dakley Oasis Project 9 (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 1999). On the dating of the letters, see pp. 8– 10. 54 Gardner and others, Coptic Documentary Texts, 73. 55 Gardner and others, Coptic Documentary Texts, 74. 56 Gardner and others, Coptic Documentary Texts, 75. 57 See letters 20, 24, 25, 29 in Gardner and others, Coptic Documentary Texts, 166– 172, 182–193, and 202–204. 58 Text and tr. Gardner and others, Coptic Documentary Texts, 188 and 191. 59 Gardner and others, Coptic Documentary Texts, 76.

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was an honor. Likewise, other families, whether Manichaean or not, may have found honor and status in dedicating a child to a monastery, particularly if it was an esteemed community with a lineage tracing back to notable monks such as Pachomius or Shenoute. The Full Integration of Children into Egyptian Monasticism By the sixth and seventh centuries, Egyptian monasticism as an institution had incorporated children fully into its fold. In the Theban region, documentary evidence from papyri and ostraca provides anecdotal evidence of numerous children living in coenobitic monasteries or being raised by individual monks. The evidence also demonstrates that monasteries became a refuge for orphans and for children whose parents could no longer afford to care for them. An ostracon from Thebes records a letter from a man who had given his daughter to a nearby, unnamed monastery.60 The father, Psalom, had requested that a certain “Victor” (possibly a priest) write to “Apa Dios” of the monastery where his daughter was ensconsed. Humility is one of the hallmarks of this genre of letters between religious officials, but the language in the letter surpasses the typical formulaic modesty. Psalom is referred to as “this poor man,” (peiheēke) and he begged that the monastery not return the girl to her father’s household. Psalom even offered to provide a monetary deposit to the monastery to ensure that they would not send her back to his household. Although Psalom’s circumstances are not described in detail, the language, particularly the Coptic term heēke which often refers to economic poverty, suggests that he could afford to give some money to the monastery in return for their care of his daughter, but that he could not support the child’s entire upbringing himself. Another ostracon from the same region and time period describes an orphan living with a female monk (monachē). Maria the monk wrote to an anchorite named Kyriakos requesting his blessing.61 At the end, she asked for prayers “on behalf of the little orphan (orphanos šēm)” in her care. She wrote that the boy’s father had died and had left him to her. Since she requested blessings and prayers specifically for her “house” (mentioning “my house” [paēi] twice in the short letter), the implication was that the child lived with her in her home. Groups of children lived in monasteries, as well. Also in Thebes, an eighth-century ostracon mentions some “lesser brethren” (nelaue šēm),62

Henry R. H. Hall, ed., Coptic and Greek Texts of the Christian Period from Ostraka, Stelae, etc. in the British Museum (London: The British Museum, 1905), 93–94. 61 Hall, Coptic and Greek Texts, 146–147. 62 Hall, Coptic and Greek Texts, 27. 60

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which some Coptologists have interpreted as children.63 In the same region and employing similar terminology, a letter requesting prayers for sick people nlelaue šeēm seemed to refer to children, indicating that the similar phrase in the first ostracon signified minors, as well.64 At the Theban Monastery of Epiphanius, a piece of correspondence also preserved on a pottery shard encouraged the recipient not to inform the “lesser” or “little” “brothers” (ncnēu šēm) that the writer of the letter was ill.65 One ostracon dated to the seventh to eighth century and containing a letter to a monk at an unnamed community mentioned orphans.66 Much further north, at the Monastery of Apa Jeremias in Saqqara, an inscription on a stela memorialized “David, the little Apa” (pkoui napa).67 In Middle Egypt, at the monastery of Bawit, an inscription mentions an entire cell of children, or “little ones.” The text discusses a monk who was affiliated with (or “belonged to”) the cell of the children (patri neko[u]i).68 Terminology is an issue in each of these references as it is unclear whether the terms interpreted as children instead refer to monks of junior status or rank. The language used at Bawit (the “little” monks) is identical to language used in the Pachomian corpus to refer to children. With respect to the more ambiguous citations, a point in favor of understanding these references as evidence for minors is indisputable evidence for the presence of children at the Phoibammon Monastery near Thebes. A number of eighth-century papyri survive from the Theban town of Jeme. These papyri document the donation of children to the monastery of

63

Herbert E. Winlock and Walter E. Crum, The Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, Part 1: The Archaeological Material, the Literary Material (New York: Metropolitan Museum, 1926; repr. Arno Press, 1973), 139, fn.7. 64 Ed. and tr. Walter E. Crum and H. G. Evelyn White, The Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, Part II: Coptic Ostraca and Papyri; Greek Ostraca and Papyri (New York: Metropolitan Museum, 1926; repr. Arno Press, 1973), 88 and 249. 65 Ed. and tr. Crum and White, The Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, Part II, 77 and 232. 66 Hall, Coptic and Greek Texts, 58. 67 James E. Quibell with Herbert Thompson, Excavations at Saqqara (1908–09, 1909– 10): The Monastery of Apa Jeremias, with Coptic Inscriptions Edited by Sir Herbert Thompson, Service des antiquités de l’Égypte (Cairo: L’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1912), 73. 68 M. Jean Clédat, Le Monastère de la nécropole de Baouît, Fascicule 2, Mémoires publiés par les membres de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale du Caire sous la direction de M. É. Chassinat (Cairo: L’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1906), 107; see also the reference in Quibell, Excavations at Saqqara, 43, fn. 1. Other inscriptions in close proximity to this one mention specific “young” or “little” monks (Isaac and Anoup; Clédat, Le Monastère de la nécropole de Baouît, 107–108).

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Phoibammon.69 This cache of papyri is unique. Thus it is impossible to derive generalizations about practices throughout Egypt based on the evidence from one particular monastery. However, there are some trends that converge on what may be inferred from the other evidence. The Phoibammon papyri recorded the oaths of parents (single mothers, fathers, and couples) who promised their children to the monastery after the community’s monks or patron saint had cured the child. For example, one text recorded the words of a woman named Tachel, who gave birth to her son prematurely. Tachel vowed to give the boy to the monastery if God saved him. He was cured, and then she reneged on her agreement. He became seriously ill again, which she interpreted as a reminder of her broken promise. She swore to abide by the original agreement if the monastery healed her son a second time.70 Another papyrus narrated a similar story, this time of a couple who promised their son Peter to Phoibammon’s monastery at the time of his birth. As Peter grew up, the parents reconsidered their vow, and then the boy received the “punishment of sickness.” A visit to the monastery healed him, and the papyrus reaffirmed their commitment to giving the child away.71 Yet it was not always a broken contract that propeled the recording of the donation; one papyrus documented the story of a certain Pesynte and Tasia who promised their boy, Panias, to Phoibammon’s community after the monks healed him from a “severe illness” from which he almost died.72 The data derived from the papyri from Jeme also raise the question of the role of these children in the community, which may not necessarily have been one of monks-in-training. These were legal contracts in which the parents, who according to law and custom had absolute legal authority over their children, gave possession of the child to the monastery. As papyrologists have noted, the legal force of the document is on the ownership of the child and the child’s future production.73 Ariette Papaconstantinou 69

Walter E. Crum and Georg Steindorff, Koptische Rechtsurkunden des achten Jahrhunderts aus Djême (Theben), Bd. 1: Texte und Indices (hereafter P.KRU) (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1912). German translations in Walter C. Till, Die Koptischen Rechtsurkunden aus Theben (= Sitzungsberichte der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, phil.-hist. Klasse 244/3) (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1964), 149–188. For English translations of some of the documents, see Leslie S. B. MacCoull. “Child Donations and Child Saints in Coptic Egypt,” East European Quarterly 13 (1979), 409–415. 70 P. KRU 86.17–32 (tr. Rowlandson, Women and Society in Greek & Roman Egypt, 299). 71 P. KRU 100 (tr. MacCoull, “Child Donations,” 411–412). 72 P. KRU 91 (tr. MacCoull, “Child Donations,” 410–411). 73 Arietta Papaconstantinou provides a thorough survey of the field of scholarship on child donation papyri in her article “Notes sur les actes de donation d’enfants au monastère de Saint-Phoibammon,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 32 (2002), 83–105. See also

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advocates translating the Coptic term for these children’s new status in the monastery (hmhal or caouon) as ‘slave’ or ‘hierodule’ (temple slave).74 Tasia and Pesynte’s agreement with the monastery indeed bears all the hallmarks of a contract: the obligations of the parties involved including both the obligations the monastery had fulfilled and those which Tasia and Pesynte still had to fulfill, witnesses, and an oath to God to honor the contract. One contract stipulated that the monastery could decide in which capacity the child was to serve. Reflecting a terminology that was typical of documentary papyri from the region, it used the word topos, ‘place,’ to refer to the institution of the monastery itself. The contract reported, “We went to the oikonomos, who is the superior of the holy topos, Apa Surus, and said: The God of the topos has given the boy the gift of being healed. Do you wish that he come to the holy place and serve in it? God and you shall decide. Or do you wish that he hand over his work obligation to the holy place? We will give him in the way that you see to all the boys of the holy place.”75 As an economic contract, this document recorded the economic obligation the boy owed the monastery; either he himself had to go to the monastery and “serve” with his own labor and self or he had to give them the fruit of his labor. The nature of the service, should Panias live at the monastery, remained unstated, and it may imply that he was to become a novice monk, an agricultural serf, or both. These possibilities are suggested by the rules at Shenoute’s monastery, which indicate that monks performed a variety of kinds of manual labor for the community. The contract also reveals that the Phoibammon monastery had an established practice of accepting boys into the community: “We will give him in the way that you see to all the boys of the holy place.” Another child’s parents likewise promised their offspring as a “slave” to the topos, and if he was not “able to be a servant of the monastery where he was healed, he is to give to the monastery everything he earns by his labor, and is to conclude an agreement to this effect with the superior in office at the time.”76 Again, the nature of the service was left undefined, and the emphasis was on the boy’s labor as an economic commodity. The child did not have to become a monk; rather he was required to turn over all the fruits of his labor for life to the monastery. As Papaconstantinou noted, the monastery became the “master” of the child for eternity.77 The child could stay at the monastery, and of course as we know from the Pachomian sources, Shenoutean sourEwa Wipszycka, “Donation of Children,” Coptic Encyclopedia, ed. Aziz Atiya (New York: MacMillan, 1991), 3:918–919. 74 Papaconstantinou, “Notes sur les actes de donation d’enfants,” 92–93 and 102. 75 P.KRU 91 (tr. MacCoull, “Child Donations,” 410–411). 76 P.KRU 100 (tr. MacCoull, “Child Donations,” 412). 77 Papaconstantinou, “Notes sur les actes de donation d’enfants,” 93.

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ces, and other papyri about daily life in a monastery, manual labor in fields such as agriculture, mat production, etc., constituted the bulk of a monk’s duties. Clearly the monastery’s economic survival depended on the monks’ work. Or the child could live apart, but he would still be required to turn over his “work obligation” to the monastery. Another Jeme papyrus states that the child was donated to “your [God’s] altar,” suggesting a religious obligation.78 As Wilfong has noted, when these papyri do outline specific duties for the child, the task most often mentioned is the “tending of lamps,” a religious duty.79 All of the children mentioned in the Jeme papyri are boys. Whether they are considered monastic serfs, hierodules, novices, or any of the three, these children comprised an identifiable, integrated population at the monastery. The significant counterexample to this narrative of the inclusion of children lies to the north, at the community at Naqlun. The ascetics at Naqlun included monks living in a monastic residence as well as in hermitages built into the hills of the surrounding area. Of the remaining archaeological deposits, the oldest date to the fifth century with many additional structures from the sixth century.80 Based on archaeological findings, we know that the community consisted of a coenobium and a lavra, which were the cells in the hills, rather than a coenobium with affiliated hermits as at the Pachomian and Shenoutean monasteries. A monastic rule survives in Arabic and has been published in Latin translation. The manuscript tradition suggests that it may have had connections to the ascetic community at Scetis.81 Prohibitions against interacting with both children and adolescent boys contain the same wariness about the presence of male youths among celibate men as that found in the Apophthegmata Patrum. Like the Apophthegmata, the text of this rule also preserves indications that children lived in the community with the intention of becoming adult monks. For exam78 P.KRU 79 (tr. Terry G. Wilfong, Women of Jeme: Lives in a Coptic Town in Late Antique Egypt, New Texts from Ancient Cultures [Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002], 102). 79 Wilfong, Women of Jeme, 100. 80 Wlodzimierz Godlewski, “Excavating the Ancient Monastery at Naqlun,” in Christianity and Monasticism in the Fayoum Oasis, ed. Gawdat Gabra, A Saint Mark Foundation Book (Cairo and New York: The American University in Cairo Press, 2005), 155– 171. 81 Ewa Wipszycka, “Apports de l’archéologie à l’histoire du monachisme Égyptien,” in The Spirituality of Ancient Monasticism: Acts of the International Colloquium held in Cracow-Tyniec 16–19 November 1994, ed. Marek Starowieyski (Cracow: Tyniec, Wydawnictwo Benedyktynów, 1995), 68–70; and Tomasz Derda, “Polish Excavations at Deir el-Naqlun 1986–1991: Interdependence of Archaeology and Papyrology,” in Proceedings of the 20th International Congress of Papyrology, Copenhagen, 23–29 August, 1992, ed. Adam Bülow-Jacobsen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 1994), 124– 130. The rule itself is published (with a Latin translation) in PG 40:1065–1074.

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ple, one prohibition charges monks never to speak with a boy, explaining that he will be a stumbling block. Another forbids conversing with a boy or young man (Latin puer and iuvenis). One prohibition specifically alludes to homoeroticism, charging that discussions with children and adolescents lead to familiarity or friendship. Shenoute also used the language of “friendship” to describe same-sex erotic relations at his community.82 Thus one may assume that the Naqlun rule, using a similar discourse, was alluding to the dangers of a sexual relationship, as well. Finally, one regulation charged the community to expel from the monastery any young man who had not yet taken the monastery’s habit, and who had caused a “scandal.” This last instruction indicated that the other regulations were not designed to draw boundaries between the Naqlun monks and lay children from outside the community. The Naqlun monastery did engage in commerce and it may have hosted pilgrims; one could imagine children visiting the community in either of those contexts.83 Rather, the last instruction that has been cited attests to minor children, specifically boys, living at Naqlun in preparation for becoming monks. The rule drew boundaries between people who were living in the community, but who were of different status: adult male monks and boys who had not yet become monks. Thus, the rule suggests that, indeed, males of the age of minors lived at Naqlun, but that they were not considered to be a part of the general monastic population. Conclusions Children of the age of minors were a part of Egyptian monastic life from its first stages. These children included biological offspring of adult monks as well as other boys or girls in the communities. Texts about the earliest monasteries exhibit ambivalence about boys and adolescent males, in particular, living among adult males. Although these children may have grown up to become the most successful mature ascetics, their presence challenged the ascetic progress of adults. While some of these children may have been expected to leave the monasteries or lavrai upon reaching adulthood, it was clearly anticipated that many of them would become monks themselves. The diversity of monasticisms that is to be encountered in Egypt, whether the differences are geographical, organizational (lavra versus coenobiticism), or consisting otherwise in the particularities of the practices at individual communities such as the child donations at the Phoi82

Terry G. Wilfong, “‘Friendship and Physical Desire’: The Discourse of Female Homoeroticism in Fifth-Century CE Egypt,” in Among Women: From the Homosocial to the Homoerotic in the Ancient World, ed. Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz and Lisa Auanger (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002), 304–329. 83 Wipszycka, “Apports de l’archéologie à l’histoire du monachisme Égyptien,” 72– 77.

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bammon monastery, means that overarching conclusions cannot be drawn. However, we can see a historical trajectory in which children lived in early Egyptian monasteries and became more integrated into the cultures of the communities as time progressed. Future work has to account for the experiences and roles of children living among ascetics. Aside from the educational program at the Pachomian monasteries and a few known responsibilities, such as those of children lighting lamps at the Phoibammon monastery and distributing supplies for weaving at Shenoute’s monastery,84 the daily lives of children in monasteries in Egypt remain shrouded in mystery.

84

Shenoute, Canon 5 (in Leipoldt, Sinuthii Archimandritae Vita et Opera Omnia, vol. 4, CSCO 73, Scriptores Coptici 5 [Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1913], 61). See also Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital, 134–135.

Papyrological Perspectives on Orphans in the World of Late Ancient Christianity Chrysi Kotsifou Papyrus Lips. I 28, written in three different hands, reads as follows: (1st hand) In the consulship of Flavius Eucherios, most illustrious, and Syagrios, most illustrious, commander (of the imperial praetorian guards), 5 Tybi. Aurelia Teeus, daughter of Paesis, and her mother Thaesis, about 60 years old, with a scar on her left knee, from Areos Kome in the Hermopolite nome, with the assistant I have willingly brought in for myself who also writes of me, since I do no know letters, Aurelius Proous, son of Koulos, headman of the same Areos Kome, and Aurelius Silvanus, son of Petesis and the aforementioned Teeus, appending his subscription below, a monk, from the same Areos Kome, greet one another. Since the elder son of me, the aforementioned Teeus, died – Papnouthios was his name – and left his son who is called Paesis, about 10 years old, more or less, it has seemed best that I, his brother Silvanus, adopt the child out of respect with a view toward being able to raise him in decent and appropriate fashion. In accordance with this, I, Teeus, turn over to you, Silvanus, the aforementioned child for adoption together with his inheritance from his father and mother consisting of lands and buildings and movable goods belonging to the house inventories, with the intention that he is to be your legitimate and first – born son, as if he were engendered by you from your own blood. On my part, I, Silvanus, receive from you, my mother, for adoption the aforementioned son of Papnouthios, whom I shall feed and clothe in decent and appropriate fashion as my own legitimate and physical son, as though he were born from me. I also receive his inheritance from his father and mother consisting of lands and buildings and movable goods belonging to the house inventories, on the condition that I watch over these things for him and restore them to him when he comes of age, all in good faith. Further, he who has been adopted by me is to be the heir of my property, as stipulated above. This contract of adoption is authoritative and has been written in identical duplicate copies so that a personal copy is with each of us for safe-keeping. And when asked, we assented. (2nd hand) I, the aforementioned Aurelia Teeus, daughter of Paesis, made this contract of adoption and I agree to all its written provisions, as stipulated. I, the aforementioned Aurelius Proous, son of Koulos, headman of the village, assisted her and wrote for her, because she does not know letters. (3rd hand) I, the aforementioned Aurelius Silvanus, son of Petesis, monk, made this contract of adoption and I have received his inheritance from his father and mother, and I agree to all its written provisions, as stipulated. (1st hand) It was written by me, Philosarapis.1

1 Translated in Jane Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society in Greek and Roman Egypt. A Sourcebook (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), #233. Unless otherwise

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P.Lips. I 28 is an adoption contract from the Hermopolite nome in Egypt, dated December 31, 381.2 This document raises several questions regarding the fate of orphans in Late Antiquity, the role of women in the life of orphans, issues of guardianship, and last but not least the function of a monk as a guardian of an orphan. This article addresses such topics using papyrological data available from the third to the eighth century. The papyri and ostraca that will be analyzed are for the most part private letters and petitions in Greek and Coptic. The primary focus of this examination concentrates on documentary evidence that mentions orphans, since orphans and orphanhood in Late Antiquity is a subject that merits further discussion. This data can contribute considerably to the study of childhood in the Late Antique period. In addition, it constitutes a corpus of material that usually is underrepresented in studies of the legal and socio-cultural parameters that affected the lives of orphans and widows. Coptic papyri are not represented in this area,3 even when previous studies of childhood in the Roman and Late Antique world have referred to papyri.4

stated, translations are taken from the primary editions of the texts. All papyri and ostraca are abbreviated according to the Checklist of Editions of Greek, Latin, Demotic and Coptic Papyri, Ostraca and Tablets. See http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/texts/ clist_papyri.html. Accessed Sept. 20th, 2009. For a discussion of P. Lips. I 28, see the contribution above by Carrie Schroeder, 321ff. 2 All dates are CE unless otherwise stated. 3 It should be kept in mind that for several centuries after the first appearance of Coptic most official and economic matters were dealt with in Greek. It was not until the sixth century that the first legal texts in Coptic began to appear, and only after the Arab Conquest did Coptic begin to fulfill the same functions as Greek and replace it. See Roger Bagnall, Reading Papyri, Writing Ancient History (London: Routledge, 1995), 21–22. For a description of the type of legal and economic Coptic documents relating to public and private law, see Leslie MacCoull, “Law, Coptic,” Coptic Encyclopedia, ed. S. Aziz Atiya, vol. 5 (New York: MacMillan, 1991), 1428b–1432a. 4 Andrew Jacobs and Rebecca Krawiec offer an informative overview and critique of more recent scholarship regarding issues pertaining to early Christian families. See Andrew S. Jacobs and Rebecca Krawiec, “Fathers Know Best? Christian Families in the Age of Asceticism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11:3 (2003), 257–263. Generally speaking, contemporary studies of childhood in the Ancient, Late Antique, and Medieval worlds have been shaped by Phillipe Ariès’ controversial book, L’enfant et la vie familial sous l’ancien régime Tr. R. Baldick. Centuries of Childhood. (New York: Vintage, 1962). For a discussion of Ariès’ thesis and its problematic applicability to the studies of childhood in the ancient world, see Ada Cohen, “Introduction: Childhood between Past and Present,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter, Hesperia Supplement 41 (Athens: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2007), 1–22, here 6–11; and Mark Golden, “Did the Ancients Care When Their Children Died?” Greece & Rome 35.2 (1988), 152–163, here 154–155; for a discussion of its impact on the study of the Byzantine world, see Arietta Papaconstantinou, “Homo Byzantinus in the Making,” in Becoming Byzantine. Children and Childhood

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Sources, Method, and Themes Children are mentioned specifically in papyri that preserve adoption documents, apprenticeship and work contracts, wills, magical papyri, donation documents to monasteries, accounts and settlements of disputes when children are used as collateral, petitions, and private letters. These papyrological records can greatly supplement the information that is available from historical, legal, or hagiographical writings. They offer circumstantial accounts of family relationships that paint a picture of daily life and of marital and familial obligations both in the cities and in the countryside. Moreover they reflect the life of rich and poor, boys and girls, men and women.5 The latter point is of particular significance, since the stages of the life course for females and males were constructed very differently. The course of life of the female person seldom appears in types of literature other than papyri that characterize the different stages. Understandably, this phenomenon reflects the complete dominance of male authors within the surviving body of literary sources.6 Various scholars in the past have doubted the applicability of the Egyptian papyrological evidence to the rest of the Roman and Late Antique Mediterranean world.7 Nonetheless, these concerns have been convincingly allayed. Roger Bagnall, for example, notes that, We now have papyri in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Aramaic, Syriac, and other languages from various parts of the Near East, including the Negev (Nessana), or the Dead Sea region, in Byzantium, ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou and Alice-Mary Talbot (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), 1–14; and for the medieval world, see Barbara A. Hanawalt, “Medievalists and the Study of Childhood,” Speculum 77.2 (2002), 440–460, here 440– 442. 5 Suzanne Dixon, “Conflict in the Roman Family,” in The Roman Family in Italy. Status, Sentiment, Space, ed. Beryl Rawson and Paul Weaver (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 149–167, here 85. 6 Mary Harlow and Ray Laurence, Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome. A Life Course Approach (London: Routledge, 2002), 15. 7 Skeptical views about papyri and the study of childhood have been recently expressed in Antti Arjava, Women and Law in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 24; Beryl Rawson, “The Future of Childhood Studies in Classics and Ancient History,” in Hoping for Continuity. Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Katarina Mustakallio, Jussi Hanska, Hanna-Leena Saino, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 33 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2005) 1–11, here 6–7; and in Mary Harlow, Ray Laurence, and Ville Vuolanto, “Past, Present, and Future in the Study of Roman Childhood,” in Children, Childhood and Society, ed. Sally Crawford and Gillian Shepherd, BAR International Series 1696 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2007), 5–14, here 10–11. Also see, Dixon, “Conflict in the Roman Family,” 85, for a call to being cautious about generalizations and oversimplifications in the study of family life and childhood.

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the Middle Euphrates valley, and Arabia. Arabic papyri are known from Samarra and near Damascus. Ostraca have been found in Libya and the Dead Sea ... Even if the existence of extensive written documentation outside of Egypt is admitted, however, one may ask how normal either the documentary practices or the institutions and society revealed by papyri are. These questions are much harder, but recent work has tended to suggest the differences in documentary practices were relatively small, with a wide zone of commonality visible at least within the Greek-writing part of the Mediterranean.8

The last two decades saw the publication of two seminal studies that employed Greek papyri extensively to illustrate the social and cultural conditions of the lives of widows and orphans in Late Antiquity.9 Joëlle Beaucamp produced two detailed volumes, one of which examined legislation affecting women, and the second detailed the social practicalities that governed women’s lives in this period. The second volume depends heavily on papyrological evidence from Egypt.10 Three years later, Jens-Uwe Krause published a four-volume work that studied the lives of widows and orphans

8 Bagnall, Reading Papyri, 10–11. Also see Todd Hickey, “Writing Histories from Papyri,” in Oxford Handbook of Papyrology, ed. Roger S. Bagnall (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 495–520, here 500; and Ville Vuolanto, “Women and the Property of Fatherless Children in the Roman Empire,” in Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire, ed. Päivi Setälä, Ria Berg, Riikka Hälikkä, Minerva Keltanen, Janne Pölönen, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 25 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2002), 203–243, here 225. Furthermore, speaking more generally, Antti Arjava, “Paternal Power in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Roman Studies 88 (1998), 147–165, here 156, remarks that “we can avail ourselves of two rather disparate groups of evidence: firstly again the papyri from Egypt and secondly the imperial rescripts. Both can be employed for determining the impact of law on the populace.” More specifically, Peter van Minnen, “Medical Care in Late Antiquity,” in Ancient Medicine in its Socio-Cultural Context: Papers Read at the Congress Held at Leiden University 13–15 April 1992, ed. Philip J. van der Eijk, Manfred F. J. Horstmanshoff, and Piet H. Schrijvers, Clio Medica 27 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995), 153–169, here 160, says that despite the fact that there is no papyrological evidence for hospitals outside of Egypt, he is still willing to accept that “the situation at the local level elsewhere resembled that of Egypt.” 9 Antti Arjava, Women and Law in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996); and Judith Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law in the Roman Empire. A Sourcebook on Marriage, Divorce and Widowhood (London: Routledge, 2002), also refer to papyri and children but are primarily concerned with the legal status of women in the Roman and Late Antique world. 10 Joëlle Beaucamp, Le Statut de la Femme à Byzance (4–7 siècle), 2 vols., Travaux et Mémoires du Centre de Recherche d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance 5–6 (Paris: De Boccard, 1990–1992). For the various facets of the relationships between mothers and their children, see especially, vol. 2, 158–191. For a review of this work, see Roger S. Bagnall, “Women, Law, and Social Realities in Late Antiquity: A Review Article,” Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrology 32.1–2 (1995), 65–88. Also see Joëlle Beaucamp, “La Référence au Veuvage dans les Papyrus Byzantins,” Pallas 32 (1985), 149– 157.

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in Late Antiquity.11 Krause draws extensively from the available papyrological data in his third volume, which concentrates on orphans.12 Timothy Miller, in his monograph on orphans in Byzantium, used data derived from about 20 papyri (mainly petitions), together with hagiographical evidence, legal sources, and historical sources as parallel evidence to what was happening in the rest of the Empire outside of Egypt from Late Antiquity to the late Byzantine era.13 Notably, despite the importance of the papyrological documents that Miller analyzed, he often applied Late Antique papyri to illustrate circumstances of the late Byzantine era, without a clearly argued method. Finally, Ville Vuolanto’s contributions should be noted in the context of studies of late Roman childhood insofar as they also rely on evidence drawn from papyri.14 Having established with reasonable certainty that papyri from Egypt can provide accurate information about social conditions in the Roman and Late Antique Mediterranean generally, one may apply this information to the study of the use of children, and explicitly orphans, in familial and persuasion strategies, especially in the case of petitions to local authorities. Vuolanto remarks that “family strategies can be defined as implicit, recurrent patterns of familial behavior resulting from the individual strategies on the family level” and that economic considerations relating to inheritance, wealth and especially land, have been seen as the most essential features of family strategies.15 Recent literature has directed increasing attention to the necessary anthropological position that childhood is a social construct, in order to examine in proper context the nature of the family in which a child grew up, and to explore the ways in which familial strategies

11 Jens-Uwe Krause, Witwen und Waisen im Römischen Reich, 4 vols. (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1995). Reviewed by Thomas A. J. McGinn, “Widows, Orphans, and Social History,” Journal of Roman Studies 12.2 (1999), 617–632. 12 Krause, Witwen und Waisen, vol. III, 255–272. Also relevant to this article, vol. IV, 26–51. 13 Timothy S. Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium. Child Welfare in the Christian Empire (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003). 14 Ville Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child: Rhetoric and Social Realities in the Late Roman World,” Ancient Society 33 (2003), 169–207; and Ville Vuolanto, “Women and the Property of Fatherless Children in the Roman Empire,” in Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire, ed. Päivi Setälä, Ria Berg, Riikka Hälikkä, Minerva Keltanen, Janne Pölönen, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 25 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2002), 203–243. 15 Ville Vuolanto, “Children and Asceticism. Strategies of Continuity in the Late Fourth and Early Fifth Centuries,” in Hoping for Continuity. Childhood, Education and Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Katarina Mustakallio, Jussi Hanska, HannaLeena Saino, and Ville Vuolanto, Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 33 (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2005), 119–132, here 121.

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functioned.16 Furthermore, it is also necessary to examine the actual timing of such strategies and decisions. During the course of the years and as situations changed, people unavoidably would also change their plans and strategies.17 Similarly, in her study of the works of Libanius, Raffaella Cribiore demonstrates how important family support could be for the education of children, including orphans. She explains that orphans could still have some rhetorical education as long as close family members took over the duties of the deceased parent and the child was prosperous enough to handle the educational costs. Besides these two factors, as long as there was no urgent need to earn a living and the child was talented enough, an orphan with such family support could complete his education.18 These papyri also provide insight into the rhetoric of persuasion concerning orphans within a family setting. The reference to and role of emotions in these documents is a significant aspect of this rhetorical strategy.19 Another remarkable yet understudied area is the central function of emotions in the persuasion strategies of those who composed petitions and private letters, primarily suppliant women.20 In recent years there have been 16

Harlow, Laurence, and Vuolanto, “Past, Present and Future,” 11, explained only two years ago that “childhood as a social construct, childhood and life course, childhood and social capital or children and familial strategies have aroused comparatively little attention.” They also noted that “topics that remain virtually unexplored include the relationships between children and grandparents, brothers and sisters” (ibidem, 10). The present article demonstrates that papyrological data can throw light both on the connections between children and familial strategies and on the relationships between children and grandparents, or brothers and sisters. 17 Tamara K. Hareven, “The History of the Family and the Complexity of Social Change,” The Americal Historical Review 96.1 (1991), 95–124, here 115–116. Nevertheless, Richard Alston, “Searching for the Romano-Egyptian Family,” in The Roman Family in the Empire. Rome, Italy and Beyond, ed. Michele George (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 129–157, here 128–129, rightly adds that merely offering economic definitions of the family is an unsatisfactory approach, because they point only to one of the many roles that a family can perform. The political and social functions of a family, especially for socialization of the young, should also be kept in mind. 18 Raffaella Cribiore, “The Education of Orphans: A Reassessment of the Evidence of Libanius,” in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, ed. Sabine R. Hübner and David Ratzan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 257–272, here 271. 19 I would like to thank the members of the project “The Social and Cultural Construction of Emotions: The Greek Paradigm,” where I am currently employed, and particularly its director Prof. Angelos Chaniotis for many of the insights expressed here as well as for guiding my understanding of papyri in this light. 20 It is noteworthy that up to this point the functions of emotions in the Coptic data have never been examined closely or conclusively. Terry G. Wilfong, “‘Friendship and Physical Desire.’ The Discourse of Female Homoeroticism in Fifth-Century CE Egypt,” in Among Women. From the Homosocial to the Homoerotic in the Ancient World, ed. Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz and Lisa Auanger (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002),

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some significant contributions in the field of children and emotions in the Roman family.21 Most of these studies address the long-held theory that in the Greek, Roman, and Late Antique periods high infant and child mortality conditioned parents to distance themselves emotionally from their children and not to form emotional bonds with them.22 As Harlow and Laurence have noted, the ‘indifference’ debate can only be sustained if one takes a very one-sided view of evidence, ignores its cultural and socio-economic context, and makes comparison with a modern western ideal of parenting to highlight the perceived irresponsibility of the Roman social system.23

Both in the Roman and the Medieval periods, children were raised with care and attention while parents were aware that sentimentality about childhood would not extend into adulthood. In due course, children had to be trained for life in the adult world and the child had to learn the behavior appropriate to his or her social standing and gender.24 Children were used in the alliance strategies of the elite, in the fields of the peasantry, and in the workshops of the artisans in the towns. As a result, the fact that chil303–329, here 313, notes, for example, how little attention has been paid to the parameters of ‘friendship’ in Coptic literature. 21 Naomi J. Norman, “Death and Burial of Roman Children: The Case of the Yasmina Cemetery at Carthage – Part I, Setting the Stage,” Mortality 7.3 (2002), 302–323, here 313; Suzanne Dixon, “The Sentimental Ideal of the Roman Family,” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. Beryl Rawson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 99–113, here 109ff., for the sentimental ideal and treatment of children specifically; Marie-Odile Kastner, “L’Enfant el les Jeux dans les Documents d’Époque Romaine,” Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé 1 (1995), 85–100, here 87; and Brigitte Pitarakis, “The Material Culture of Childhood in Byzantium,” in Becoming Byzantine. Children and Childhood in Byzantium, ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou and Alice-Mary Talbot (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), 167–251, here 171ff., for a study of Late Antique and Byzantine children’s jewelry and clothes, which served as adornment and protection in both this life and the afterlife, and the role of food in celebrations of childbirth and in the formation of emotional ties between parents and offspring. See also David Konstan, “οἰκία δ᾿ ἐστί τις φιλία: Love and the Greek Family,” Syllecta Classica 11 (2000), 106–126; and Mark Golden, “Mortality, Mourning and Mothers,” in Naissance et Petite Enfance dans l’Antiquité. Actes du Colloque de Fribourg, 28 Novembre–1 Décembre 2001, ed. Véronique Dasen (Fribourg: Academic Press Fribourg, 2004), 145– 157. 22 Still proposed very recently in Phyllis B. Katz, “Educating Paula: A Proposed Curriculum for Raising a 4th-Century Christian Infant,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter, Hesperia Supplement 41 (Athens: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2007), 115–127, here 115. 23 Harlow and Laurence, Growing Up and Growing Old, 35. 24 Harlow and Laurence, Growing Up and Growing Old, 52; and for the medieval era, see Hanawalt, “Medievalists and the Study of Childhood,” 456.

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dren were expected to participate in the family’s sufferings did not mean that there was lack of affection, and as Papaconstantinou concludes “the fact that grief at the death of a child could include worry about the family’s economic future did not make that grief less real.”25 Terminology When examining Greek and Coptic papyri, the language referring to children reflects and encodes the social construction of childhood and its several stages. The vocabulary that is employed to speak of a child is extensive and varies according to the age and gender of the person.26 When it comes to words that denote orphan and widow, both Greek and Coptic papyri use the same Greek terminology, namely ὀρφανός and χήρα, respectively.27 The term ὀρφανός is mainly employed in papyri to refer to children who have lost a father, but whose widowed mother is still living; and a more accurate translation of this term is ‘half-orphan.’28 Miller also notes this phenomenon but adds that from the time of the Emperon Justinian the term ὀρφανός came to mean primarily children who had lost both parents.29 Papyri and the role of children in the Late Antique world. A brief overview of the principal types of papyri in which children feature prominently may be helpful at the outset. As previously stated, these docu25

Papaconstantinou, “Homo Byzantinus,” 10–11. The most recent and detailed analysis of the terminology of the different stages of childhood in legal texts, which also corresponds to the terms employed in papyri, can be found in Günter Prinzing, “Observations on the Legal Status of Children and the Stages of Childhood in Byzantium,” in Becoming Byzantine. Children and Childhood in Byzantium, ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou and Alice-Mary Talbot (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), 15–34, here 16–23. Granted this vocabulary can also be rather vague with several words, such as paidion, pais, neaniskos, teknon, and nêpios, all meaning ‘child’ but not exclusively. See Youval Rotman, “Working Kids,” paper delivered at Becoming Byzantine: Children and Childhood in Byzantium, Symposium at Dumbarton Oaks (Washington DC, 28–30 April 2006). 27 For the use of the Greek orphanos and chēra in Coptic documents, see Hans Förster, Wörterbuch der Griechischen Wörter in den Koptischen Dokumentarischen Texten (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 2002), 590–591 and 873, respectively. For demographical data regarding widows in the Roman and Late Antique world and the typology of households run by them, see McGinn, “Widows, Orphans, and Social History,” 620–630. 28 McGinn, “Widows, Orphans and Social History,” 631. Also see G. H. R. Horsley, ed., New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity (North Ryde, N. S. W.: The Ancient History Documentary Research Centre, Macquarie University, 1981–), vol. IV, 71, for a brief description of the use of the term orphanos in Roman and Late Antique inscriptions. 29 Miller, The Orphans of Byzantium, 16–17. 26

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ments vary from private letters,30 to magical papyri,31 adoption papers, apprenticeship and work contracts, donation documents, and all the papyri and ostraca that mention how children were pawned by one or both of their parents in order to cover their parents’ debts. Restricting the present discussion to the most recent and most significant publications of these documents is necessary, given the size of the corpus. Adoption contracts witness in particular to the bond of parents and children, including the ones who gave a child for adoption and the ones who received him or her.32 Adoption was one of a number of legal mechanisms and strategies which Romans employed from time to time, whether to satisfy the needs of sentiment or to optimize the financial situation of the immediate household or extended family. Ultimately, the main motive for giving up oneself or one’s children for adoption was probably financial betterment,33 either for the child who was being adopted or for the family 30 The most common theme in letters by women is that of care and concern for children. Several letters contain greetings from and to children and inquiries into their wellbeing. When children are mentioned in the main body of a letter, for the most part the topic is that of the education of a child. Education of children was apparently one of the main concerns of the classes of people represented in these letters. See Roger S. Bagnall and Raffaella Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt 300 BC–AD 800 (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2006), 77. 31 Sarah Johnson offers a comprehensive study of the role of children in magical papyri. She notes that children were employed in ancient divination because straightforward and young persons were thought to make the best mediums. She adds that in many modern and ancient cultures, children are presumed to tell the truth because they have not learned to do anything else. Ultimately, she concludes that “trustworthy, disposable, and highly likely to provide the desired results, children fit the practitioner’s bill to perfection.” See Sarah I. Johnston, “Charming Children: The Use of the Child in Ancient Divination,” Arethusa 34 (2001), 97–117, here 106ff. and 115. 32 For an analysis of the adoption contracts that survive in papyri, see Marek Kuryłowicz, “Adoption on the Evidence of the Papyri,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 19 (1983), 61–75. Kuryłowicz explains that all we can get out of adoption documents before Late Antiquity is that both men and women used to be adopted and they were adopted by men as well as by women. Yet from the fourth century onwards, papyri offer more information about the concerns involved in the adoption of a child. See ibidem, 62–63. For Late Antique adoption documents also see Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 195, esp. fn. 78. I would like to add to these lists P.Köln VII 321, a 7th–8th Greek adoption contract from Herakleopolis. 33 Jane Gardner, “Status, Sentiment, and Strategy in Roman Adoption,” in Adoption et Fosterage, ed. Mireille Corbier (Paris: De Boccard, 1999), 63–79, here 75. This sentiment and wish is also clearly stated in P.Oxy. XVI 1895 (Oxyrhynchus, 554) where the impoverished widow, Herais, surrenders her daughter for adoption, “my husband died, and I was left, toiling and suffering hardships for my daughter by him in order that I might provide her with necessary sustenance; and now, not having the means to maintain her ... she being nine years old, more or less, I have asked you ... to receive her from me as your daughter, and I acknowledge that I have handed her over to you from now for

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that was offering a child for adoption.34 As contracts, the basic rules of adoption concern only legal aspects, but the use made of adoption in practice often reveals a concern with the family in the biological and emotional sense.35 Notably according to Roman law, women could not adopt or give others for adoption because they could not have potestas over other free persons.36 Yet evidence to the contrary seems to exist as well. As quoted in the opening of the present article, P.Lips. I 28 is a contract made out by a grandmother who gives her grandson for adoption. Nevertheless, in this contract Teeus was probably acting according to the wishes (or authorization) of her dead son. As the contract states, it was the wish of the dead father that after his death, his brother adopt his son.37 Remarkably, while one of the main concerns of adoption contracts is the provision for inheritance, at the same time these texts demonstrate concern for the well-being of the adopted child. Thus, one finds stipulations such as that the adopted child will have the same status as a legitimate child, the adopting parents agree to take proper care of the child, and in P.Oxy. IX 1206 (335 CE), the adopting father agrees not to forsake or sell the adoptee.38

ever as your legal daughter, and I have no power henceforth to take her away from you.” Tr. in Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society, #234. 34 It also needs to be noted that adoption contracts might not have been final and parents could have expected to get their child back when their economic situation had become better. See Kuryłowicz, “Adoption on the Evidence of Papyri,” 72. Similar familiar strategies could have been at work when parents abandoned children. Firstly, abandonment could signal parental concern for the economical dire straits of the family and for the survival of the other offspring, and secondly if children were abandoned to foundling homes, parents often hoped to get them back eventually. See Harlow, Laurence, and Vuolanto, “Past, Present, and Future,” 9; and Hareven, “The History of the Family,” 116, respectively. 35 Gardner, “Status, Sentiment, and Strategy in Roman Adoption,” 64. 36 Gardner, “Status, Sentiment, and Strategy in Roman Adoption,” 65. She also adds that “By the early third century AD, something with some of the effects, at least, of adoption was apparently allowed to some women by individual grant of the emperor. In AD 291, the emperor Diocletian replied to a woman called Syra: «It is definite that adrogation by a woman is not possible since she does not have her own children in potestas. But since, as consolation for the loss of your sons you want your stepson to take the place of legitimate offspring, we grant your request.» In the sixth century AD, Justinian’s Institutes reiterate the general ban, and cite, as the one exceptional circumstance in which «adoption» might be allowed, mothers whose natural children have died.” 37 Kuryłowicz, “Adoption on the Evidence of Papyri,” 68–69. 38 Kuryłowicz, “Adoption on the Evidence of Papyri,” 71–73. He adds that notably in both documents (P.Oxy. IX 1206 and P.Lips. I 28) first place is given to the obligations of the adopting person towards the child, while their rights are not mentioned at all. This practice conforms with the local law conception that emphasized the care that parents owed to their children.

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Apprenticeship contracts are sources of information concerning children who were not members of the elite. The majority of children in Roman society were denied the benefits of upper-class life; many children had to begin work at the age of twelve. The documentary evidence of apprenticeship from Roman Egypt offers a very different picture of childhood than that available from the upper-class paradigms.39 Vuolanto adds that “an honest way to give one’s child away to work was to enter into a contract of apprenticeship.”40 Parents gave their child to a craftsman, who agreed to teach the child his craft, and the child worked for him for a set amount of years, usually from six months up to six years.41 Quite often, though, children were leased out to work for someone for a certain amount of time. Usually during the contract period, the child received food, clothing, taxes paid, and a monthly wage.42 Closely related to apprenticeship contracts are the several papyri that reveal children who have been used as collateral by their parents. At the end of the fourth century, sometime after 381 in Lykopolis, Psois wrote to Apa John: To my master, beloved Apa John. I give thanks to God and to whoever will help me with you, through you and through God, for all souls live through you on account of your godliness [towards] the Almighty. So now help me: write a letter to Psois from Taetos, the tribune, to release me – if I have not already been released. I ask this because Psois’ son has already demanded seven gold solidi from me and his assistant another gold solidus. You received money from me so I might be released, but they have not released me. I ask God that you either get me released or return to me the eight gold solidi. I am Psois, son of Kyllos, from the village of Pochis in the Antaeopolite nome. Now, then, for God’s sake do not neglect to do this, master, for you have already put up my children as collateral to the money lender for the gold and I never serve in the army, being unfit for ser-

Keith R. Bradley, “Child Labor in the Roman World,” in Keith R. Bradley, Discovering the Roman Family. Studies in Roman Social History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 103–124, esp. 103, 107ff., and 111. 40 Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 192. 41 See for example, PSI IV 287 (377 CE) and P.Aberd. 59 (4th–5th c.). 42 Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 193–194. Notably, Hareven, “The History of the Family,” 118, finds that in recent centuries, working children had power within a family and the fact that they earned their own money, could even grant them influence upon opinions that were held or operative within the household at any given point. Yet this does not seem to be applicable to the period under consideration in the present article. The children mentioned in apprenticeship or simple work contracts engaged in work to help out their families economically, and quite often it is even stipulated in the contract that the child’s labor goes towards an already pre-existing debt of the parents. Nonetheless, their labor and contribution to the family financial affairs should not be underestimated. Hanawalt, “Medievalists and the Study of Childhood,” 451–453, notes that in a largely rural economy all labor was essential and child labor was as valuable as any, thus abandonment of children in Medieval Europe was not so widespread. 39

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vice. Because of my finger; I have a good reason for this; it has not festered, but it has not healed either. Deliver to my master, the anchorite John. (P.Herm. 7)43

This is a letter by Psois, a recruit who may have injured his finger on purpose to avoid being drafted. Yet his action did not work, and as a result he was imprisoned. He then pledged his children in order to come up with the money necessary to be released. Apa John was the one responsible for delivering the money and arranging this, but he had not succeeded. Therefore, Psois, in frustration, sent him this letter, begging for the monk’s further action.44 Up to the sixth century, there was no clear prohibition in Roman law against parents selling their children. Thus, although selling and pawning one’s own children was stigmatized in Roman and Late Antique societies, parents did not break the law in doing so.45 Yet in 534, the Codex Iustinianus summed up the tradition of Roman law regarding the pledging of children. In principle, selling or pledging of children was not valid, but exceptions could be made, for instance if the child was bought as a newborn and the sale was necessitated by poverty and hunger.46 Therefore, we are to understand that the pledging of children was a means of last resort for desperate parents. Abject poverty (τῇ ἐσχάτῃ περιπεπτωκότος πενίᾳ) is 43 Tr. in Tim Vivian, “Holy Men and Businessmen: Monks as Intercessors in Fourth Century Egypt,” in Tim Vivian, Words to Live By: Journeys in Ancient and Modern Egyptian Monasticism (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Press, 2004), 323–349, here 348. Also see, Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 193; and Chrysi Kotsifou, “Monks as Mediators in Late Antique Egypt,” in Law and Society in Greek and Roman Egypt, ed. James Keenan, Joe Manning, and Uri Yiftach-Firanko (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). 44 For an analysis of this document and other parallels where monks are asked to intervene to save adults (men and women) from prison and occasionally also their children from the same fate, see Kotsifou, “Monks as Mediators,” forthcoming. 45 The same principle applied to parents who sold their children (moral condemnation was not on the parents but on the moneylenders and the tax collectors who forced parents to act in this way), and for parents who exposed their children to prostitution. Justinianic laws imposed heavy penalties on all those involved in the trade including landlords and brothels and not the parents who possibly did so under the pressure of need. See Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 177–186; and John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers. The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1988), 194–195. BGU IV 1024 (Hermopolis, end of 4th c.) is an intriguing papyrus. It records various legal proceedings before a high official. One of the cases contained in this papyrus concerns a leading councilor of Alexandria who murdered a prostitute. Ultimately, the court awarded the mother of the girl a handsome compensation because her daughter had been her main income. For the merits of this document, see James Keenan, “Roman Criminal Law in a Berlin Papyrus Codex (BGU IV 1024–1027),” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 35 (1989), 15–23. It is wrongly dismissed as totally fictitious by Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 233, fn. 138. 46 Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 185–186.

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also the reason put forward by Martha for her father pawning her sister Procla, in P.Coll.Youtie II 92, a loan of money accompanied by a hypotheke document from Antinoopolis, dated 569.47 There are some cases, though, where the parents who had pledged their children were not poor but rather business men who had failed in their economic endeavors. P.Lond. VI 1915 and 1916 are two letters from the Herakleopolite nome, written ca. 330–340, and addressed to Apa Paieous, who is asked to mediate on behalf of Pamonthius, whose children have been imprisoned on account of his debt. Lastly, there are the Coptic donation documents of children to monasteries. This group of texts consists of twenty-six documents from the eighth century, all addressed to the monastery of Phoibammon near Jeme.48 In all documents but one, a single male child is donated to the monastery by his parents. Each text contains a section that explains the circumstances that moved the parents to make their donation, followed by identification of the monastery and the stipulation of status and duties of the adoptee. Some of the documents stipulate that the boy would spend the rest of his life in the 47

Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 185–186 and 188. Vuolanto (ibidem, 195) quite rightly also adds that we can never know if all of these parents managed to set their financial affairs straight and release their children from the pledge. P.Coll. Youtie II 92 again is a document of such a story. Martha’s father had died before getting his daughter back. Now that Procla was fifteen years old, Martha had to pawn her to a new more favorable master until she could pay off the rest of her debt. This contract also attests to the bonds between the two sisters, with the elder one trying anything in her power to better the life of her younger sister in the absence of their father. She explicitly states with vivid language that the reason for changing the masters of her sister was because she wished to redeem Procla as she “was being overworked” (βουλομένη ἀναλυτρώσασθαι τὴν ἐμὴν καταπονουμένην ἀδελφήν). P.Tebt. II 378 (Tebtunis, 265) is another document that shows a sister taking care of a sibling. It is a contract of land made out on behalf of Sarapammon by his sister Heraclia (she is acting as her brother’s curatrix) because the former is παρῆλιξ, i.e. old and of unsound mind or past one’s prime. Wrongly identified as a mentally ill person in Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 237, fn. 156. 48 In the past, scholars have addressed these texts repeatedly: Leslie MacCoull, “Child Donations and Child Saints in Coptic Egypt,” East European Quarterly 13.4 (1979), 409–415; Arietta Papaconstantinou, “Notes sur les Actes de Donation d’Enfant au Monastère Thébain de Saint-Phoibammon,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 32 (2002), 83– 105; and Arietta Papaconstantinou, “Θεία Οἰκονομία. Les Actes Thébains de Donation d’Enfants ou la Gestion monastique de la Pénurie,” in Mélanges Gilbert Dagron, Travaux et Mémoires du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance 14 (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2002), 511–526. One of the most recent and comprehensive studies with an updated bibliography is Tonio Sebastian Richter, “What’s in a Story? Cultural Narratology and Coptic Child Donation Documents,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 35 (2005), 237–264. Also see Hickey, “Writing Histories from Papyri,” 509, for the merits of Richter’s approach to these documents using the methods of narratology.

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monastery acting as a servant while others state that after the boy comes of age he would leave the monastery, marry, and have children.49 John Boswell notes that oblation of infants was in many ways the most humane form of abandonment ever devised in the West,50 while Phylis Katz’s study of Jerome’s Epistle 107 shows that also upper-class Christians were encouraged to dedicate a child to a monastery. At Jerome’s instigation, Laeta dedicated her newborn daughter to a life of chastity and asceticism. Although children were usually given to the church by parents who could not afford to feed them, such dedications of newborn children to the church were not unusual.51 In general, monasteries commonly accepted children, both orphans and non-orphans, and the primary purpose of child oblation was to have the child educated. The education they received in monasteries was far above that which orphans could obtain otherwise. Orphans in monasteries customarily also were educated in crafts ensuring their ability to make a living as adults.52 Petitions Petitions merit a more detailed discussion than adoptions and apprenticeship documents. Orphans are particularly well represented in two types of documents, namely petitions by orphans and/or widows, and private letters addressed chiefly to bishops and monks by widows. In the period under consideration, besides the occasional, brief account or other short document,53 orphans appear in various petitions to local authorities. These petitions, preserved in papyri rather than ostraca due to their length, illuminate numerous aspects of their lives from infancy to adulthood. These docu49

Richter, “What’s in a Story?” 240–245. Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers, 238–239. 51 Katz, “Educating Paula,” 117. 52 Andrew Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital. Christian Monasticism and the Transformation of Health Care in Late Antiquity (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2005), 112 and 134–135. Crislip also discusses the daily schedule and duties of the orphans that resided in the monasteries of Shenoute. Nonetheless, Richard Greenfield, “Children in Byzantine Monasteries. Innocent Hearts or Vessels in the Harbor of the Devil?” in Becoming Byzantine. Children and Childhood in Byzantium, ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou and Alice-Mary Talbot (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009), 253–282, here 278, explains that Byzantine attitudes to children in monasteries were not always positive or welcoming as children were often considered to be a grave cause of temptation for monks. He also mentions various other reasons children would be brought into a monastery, namely for blessing, healing, pilgrimage to a saint’s tomb within a monastery, etc. To this point, see Carrie Schreoder’s contribution in this volume. 53 For example, SB XXII 15719 (Karanis, 315 CE), account of a debt of an orphan; P.Abinn. 10 (Philadelphia, 346 CE), petition for vegetable seed for an orphan; and P. Mich. XV 726 (provenance unknown, 4th–5th c.), fragmented reports of proceedings, question of buying and selling, orphans played a role. 50

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ments are usually written by orphans or on their behalf; an orphan typically acts together with women, including mothers, grandmothers, or aunts. This fact is not surprising, given that males had a significantly shorter life expectancy than women. This grouping of widows and orphans also is indicative of the strong bond that existed between a mother and her children. That bond also surfaces in the legal and papyrological data from the Roman and Late Antique periods.54 As has been noted for the Late Antique period, the role of a woman as a mother was much more multi-faceted as compared to the one of a daughter or a wife, and widows gained at the expense of the women placed in a traditional family.55 Frequently, the focus of these petitions is the property that belongs to orphans and its subsequent management.56 These documents refer primarily to property issues of the elite and the financial concerns of upper class orphans. One may treat these texts therefore with good reason as clear expressions of familial strategies of continuity, namely the continuity of inheritance, wealth, and status. In addition, the interplay of law and social practice in Late Antiquity is essential for understanding the implications of See, for example, P.Oxy. X 1295 (Oxyrhynchus, 2nd – 3rd c.), a letter from Taosis to Dionysios about his treatment of her orphaned son. Among other comments, the letter reads: “Look, I did not imitate you by trying to take away my son, but if you intend to rebuke him in this way, I shall send Ptolemaios and remove him. When his father died, I gave 1,300 drachmas for him and I expended 60 drachmas on his clothing. For this reason, therefore, stop trying to persuade him to be away from me, or I shall take him and leave him in Alexandria as a pledge.” Tr. in Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters, 361. The authors rightly remark that the letter is “emotionally forceful for the standards of papyrus letters” and that “the mother’s control of the boy after his father’s death is underlined by her threats.” 55 Bagnall, “Women, Law, and Social Realities,” 70. For a synopsis of the various types of documents in which a mother could appear together with her children, such as sale of property, applications for the child to be registered in so-called epikrisis-lists, registering of land in tax lists, leasing of land and so, see Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 232–233. 56 After studying the demographic background of fatherless children in the Late Roman world, Walter Scheidel, “The Demographic Background,” in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, ed. Sabine R. Hübner and David Ratzan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 31–40, here 40, concludes that there are three main categories under which children would fall: 1) Children of relatively young men whose fathers lived on and continued to father more children. They would grow up under the care of their fathers and might later be called upon to assume responsibility for their younger siblings once the father had finally died; 2) Children of relatively young men whose fathers died young and who subsequently grew up under the tutelage of mature male relatives of the deceased father, and who did not have to assume responsibility for younger siblings later on; and 3) Children of older men who more frequently lost their fathers as minors and were more likely to come and grow up under the care of others and to come under the control of guardians who were not close paternal relatives. 54

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these petitions.57 A typical document of this kind is P.Sakaon 40 from Theadelphia, drafted between 318 and 320. It reads: To Valerius Ziper, the most eminent praeses of Herculian Egypt, from Aurelius Aithiopas son of Kanis, a minor, acting with his guardian, Sakaon, relative of his on his father’s side, from the village of Theadelphia in the Arsinoite nome. Your majesty is wont, my lord praeses, to vindicate the wronged orphans. Now I myself being an orphan, for I have been deprived of both my parents, I am suffering great injustice from Annous, the sister of my paternal grandfather, although she ought rather to restrain others whenever they commit injustice against me. For, covetous of my father’s choice animals and believing, forsooth, that the death of my father (against whom she had presented no claims nor raised any action about anything during his lifetime) was a windfall, she proceeds against me for the first time now, when she has reached a very old age; for she appears to have lived more than sixty years, during which (until now at least) she lived inoffensively. Therefore (since it is obviously superfluous to recall now the legal actions she did not bring either against my grandfather, whose sister she is, or against my father) I beg your Virtue to command, if you so please, that the distress caused by this woman be put to an end by whomever you may approve (for my father served three times as sitologos58 and is in debt over it); and should I obtain this I shall for ever acknowledge my gratitude to you. Farewell. I, Aurelius Aithiopas, acting through me, his guardian, have presented this petition. I, Aurelius Agathos, wrote for him since he is illiterate. Payni 16th. The logistes shall shelter the boy under tutelage from any violence.59

With this petition, an orphan named Aithiopas and his guardian Sakaon are appealing to the praeses of Herculian Egypt because Aithiopas’ great aunt is trying to take unlawfully some animals from him.60 Beryl Rawson summarizes that in upper class families orphans had a network of support to see to their maintenance and education until adulthood. A male guardian 57

The two works that are especially illuminating in this respect are Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law; and Vuolanto, “Women and the Property.” Besides the continued influence of Roman Law in later centuries, Lisa A. Alberici and Mary Harlow, “Age of Innocence: Female Transitions to Adulthood in Late Antiquity,” in Constructions of Childhood in Ancient Greece and Italy, ed. Ada Cohen and Jeremy B. Rutter, Hesperia Supplement 41 (Athens: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2007), 193–203, here 197ff., also note that in many respects Classical Roman values and medical beliefs set the parameters for Late Antiquity. Additionally, Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 209, finds that the ideological framework related to the issues of motherhood also remained unchanged in Late Antiquity. 58 This was the title held by the keeper of the public granary. Henry G Liddell and Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexikon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958, 1985), vol. 2, p. 1602. 59 Col. 65 of Vol. 2. 60 Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 205, explains that one of the primary roles of a guardian was to take care of the economic arrangements of his ward’s maintenance and to be the spokesman in legal matters. Guardians were not expected to take any risks in their administration, but simply maintain a way of living suitable for the status of their pupil.

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(tutor) was typically appointed from within the family, but this was not universally so. This appointment did not prevent orphans from continuing to reside with their mothers, or mothers from continuing to have an interest and influence in raising their children. Furthermore, grandparents, uncles, and aunts are known to have had a role in orphans’ upbringing.61 Children inherited mainly from their father but the most important additional source of wealth for them was their maternal inheritance. Roman women were strongly expected to bequeath the bulk of their property to their descendants. Emperor Constantine established definite rules for the fate of maternal inheritance, and widowed fathers were in charge of preserving these goods for the children.62 From an early period on, Roman law recognized that pre-adolescent orphans were vulnerable to deceit and manipulation by those with designs on their property.63 For this reason, a guardian needed to be appointed as soon as possible following the death of the father. If a guardian was not mentioned in the deceased father’s will, one ought to be nominated by a family member of the orphaned child.64 Papyri also attest to the appointment of 61 Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 250–251. She concludes that in less well-off families, orphans had less access to such networks and their futures were less assured. Those taken by relatives or friends would often find themselves in an in-service role. 62 Arjava, “Paternal Power,” 151. Late Roman laws also prescribed against mothers or fathers who usurped the property of their orphaned children. See Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 228. The importance of the way a mother shared her property amongst her family is stressed in a first-century inscription, CIL VI.10230 (ILS 8394). The fact that Murdia shared her property equally among her children from her first marriage is seen by her son who composed her epitaph as a clear expression of her love and affection towards them. The beginning lines of the inscription read, “She made all her sons her heirs equally, having given her daughter her share as a legacy; her maternal love is apparent in her affection for her children (and) her equal distribution of portions.” See Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 225. Notably, relationships of mothers with their orphaned children were not always as ideal as this. P.Oxy. LXIII 4393 (Oxyrhynchus, 5th c.), for example, is a petition from a widow who alleges that her son is wrongly trying to impose on her part of a debt; that her son also negatively influences his underage brothers; and that she is so impoverished that she had to pledge her daughter. Or see, O.CrumVC 92 (Thebaid, 7th–8th c.), a Coptic letter in which Tshemshai recounts to a monk the story of an orphaned girl who was abandoned by her mother. The latter took all her belongings, went off, and left her daughter nothing to live on. 63 Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 236. Stepfathers were also not considered trustworthy. Thus, one of the reasons imperial law allowed mothers to serve as guardians to their children in the fourth century was (if the mothers promised not to remarry) not to subject the children to the hostile machinations of a stepfather (Cod. Theod. 3.17.4; 21 January 390). See Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 247. 64 This necessity is stated in P.Oxy. VI 888 (Oxyrhynchus, late 3rd–early 4th c.), an edict of a prefect and a petition. The edict notes, “Orphans for whom no guardians have been assigned shall have in accordance with their age created for them by those comptent

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guardians, description of their duties, and whether or not they fulfilled them. The process of appointing a guardian is described well in P.Merton I 26 (Oxyrhynchus, 274 CE), an extract from the minutes of an exegetes, where an aunt arranges for her brother to be the guardian of her orphaned nephew. The relevant lines of the document read: The lady present here comes before you in accordance with an order of our illustrious Epanorthotes, Claudius Firmus, in discharge of a pious duty. For when the parents of her nephew, Aurelius Pekusis, also called Chairemon, both his father and his mother, died of a certain horrible disease, she did not see fit to leave the boy unprotected, but observing that the property bequeathed him stood in need of a man able to administer it she sought by all means in her power to preserve this property for him, and taking into consideration what the law ordains, she decided that the boy needed a guardian. Nor did she proceed to this inquiry without due examination, but approved as fit for the position Severus, now present in court, who is her brother and uncle on the father’s side of the child you now see before you and who asks for the appointment of a guardian.65

Later Roman law did permit guardianship of mothers66 and grandmothto make the appointment ...; for it will thus result that they receive proper attention, whereas at present much business concerning orphans and depending upon their guardians is delayed because the orphans are unattended by tutores or curatores.” Until the third century women could not be legal guardians of orphans but they could nominate a man they thought suitable. The law was explicit about this: Cod. Just. 5.35.1 and 5.31.6, 20 September, 224, states that “Administering a guardianship is a man’s burden, and such duty is beyond the sex of feminine weakness. A mother’s sense of duty (pietas) is able to instruct you which tutors you ought to request for your son, but also to observe that nothing contrary to what is necessary is done concerning the boy’s affairs”; and Cod. Just. 5.31.8, 11 March 291 among others notes “Since the careful duty of seeking a guardian is demanded from mothers.” See Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 242 and 238, respectively. Also see Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 211–214. 65 Also see P.Tebt. II 326 (Tebtunis, ca. 266) for a petition to a prefect by a mother for appointing her brother as guardian of her orphaned daughter. 66 Vuolanto, “Women and the Property” is devoted to the study of the gradual easing of the traditional rejection of women acting as guardians. He specifically notes that in the 390s a breakthrough occurred when a law allowed a woman to become an official guardian if there were no other available candidates and the widow would not remarry. Justinian further addressed in his legislation several issues of women as guardians, and by 539, a mother no longer needed to promise not to remarry because tutela automatically ended if she remarried. Yet Vuolanto (ibidem, 216–223) remarks that in Egypt there was a continuing tradition of women acting as guardians in the Roman and Late Antique era. The local custom seems to have permitted equal possibility for both men and women to practice epitropeia. From the third century on it was so common for a woman to act as a guardian that the actual words for guardianship dropped out of use simply because they were not necessary, to the point that by the sixth century in no document with widows acting for their children they are called guardians, even if by that time it was legally possible. Furthermore, Jan N. Bremmer, “Pauper or Patroness. The Widow in the Early Christian Church,” in Between Poverty and the Pyre. Moments in the History of Widow-

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ers.67 Persons who did not belong to the extended family were nominated as guardians if they were considered suitable. It is noteworthy that in Late Antiquity bishops and monks were proposed for guardianship.68 As stated previously, guardians were mainly in charge of the management of the property of orphans, and they were required to offer reports of their financial activities.69 Quite understandably, such issues often raised disputes within extended families.70 Most mothers were not willing, as Phoibammon was in his testament, to wait for the guardians of their children to receive a divine judgment and so they took legal action.71 Women were lehood, ed. Jan Bremmer and Lourens van den Bosch (London: Routledge, 1995), 31–57, here 42–43, notes that there is evidence from the middle of the fourth century that widows in the Egyptian Church order held a much more prominent position than their Western counterparts regarding prayer, visiting the sick, fasting, and the handling of alms distributed to orphans and the poor. 67 P.Lips I 28 presents a grandmother who was giving her grandson for adoption. Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 237–238, notes that at least in Egypt, grandmothers seem to have had a firm hold of the economic matters of their families. They are likely to feature in varied documents as acting on behalf of their grandchildren as their mother would. 68 P.Oxy. XXII 2344 (Oxyrhynchus, 351–352 CE) is a petition from a bishop who wishes to avoid the guardianship of some children and the management of their property because he claims that a second party has evaded these same obligations and instead laid them upon him. Also discussed in Miller, Orphans of Byzantium, 258. In P.Cair.Masp. II 6715 (Antinoopolis, 570 CE) Phoibammon appoints in his testament the superior of the monastery of Jeremiah as guardian of his younger sons. This monk was to protect the children according to the laws and to recall that God, the father of orphans, would demand a careful reckoning of the superior’s conduct. Also see, Miller, Orphans of Byzantium, 84. 69 P.Oxy, LVIII 3921 (Oxyrhynchus, Feb.–Mar. 219) is such an annual account of a guardian of orphans; while in P.Oxy. LIV 3756 (Oxyrhynchus, 325 CE) is a petition by the guardian of an orphaned girl who is trying to get the management of some of the girl’s property back. Parents were not exempt from such scrutiny. Codex Justinianus 5. 45.1 (259 CE) states that “A mother who did administer her child’s affairs instead of having a guardian appointed would herself be responsible for any mismanagement that might occur, and would need to produce her child’s financial accounts when the child passed the age of guardianship.” 70 See for example, P.Lond. V 1708 (Antinoopolis, 567 CE), an arbitration in a family dispute, where among other matters also issues of the guardianship of an orphaned boy by his brother are raised. Also discussed in Miller, Orphans of Byzantium, 256. 71 For a general discussion of women’s petitions during Late Antiquity, see the very informative article by Roger S. Bagnall, “Womens’ Petitions in Late Antique Egypt,” in La Pétition à Byzance, ed. Denis Feissel and Jean Gascou, Centre de Recherche d’Histoire et Civilisaton de Byzance, Monographie 14 (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2004), 53–60. Bagnall (ibidem, 57–58) notes that women’s petitions drastically diminish after 400, and that the appropriate sphere for such action seems to have shrunk to matrimonial issues or to situations where a widow was compelled to act on her own. Nonetheless, “widowhood simply does not have the central

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gally incapable of bringing an action on behalf of others, but exception was made when the guardians of an underage relative were believed to be deceitful.72 P.Cair.Isid. 77 (Karanis, 320 CE) is a petition of this kind addressed to a praepositus pagi.73 An aunt of two orphaned girls worried about the misuse of her nieces’ property by their uncles, who were their guardians. Part of the petition states: and they not only have broken the seals placed on the farm-buildings by the father of the orphans ... and removed the property left there, but with supreme disregard of law, although they are bound by the laws to guardianship of the children – for they are their paternal uncles – they also neglect the land ... I necessarily resort to you and request that you summon these men and compel them to compile an inventory of the entire legacy and to give their full attention to the land, to the end that they (i.e. the arouras) be kept productive and the orphans suffer no loss.

A considerable number of petitions were also compiled by the orphans themselves. In 297 at Oxyrhynchus, Didyme petitions the prefect because her uncles stole part of her property (P.Oxy. XXXIV 2713): It is a difficult matter to be wronged by strangers, but to be wronged by kin is worst of all ... After some time, my mother also died, while I was still under-age and already an orphan. My lord prefect, you know well that the race of women is easy to despise, because of the weakness of our nature (ὂτι τὸ γυναικεῖον γένος εὐκαταφρόνητον πέφυκεν διὰ τὸ ήμᾶς τῆς φύσεως ἀσθενές) ... In the meantime, my mother’s brothers from the same mother plotted together with useless and foolish stupidity, intending to cheat me ... Now, at any rate, I have recovered, due to your ever-alert spirit, and I am beginning to realise that I should approach no one but you, the benefactor and guardian of me and everyone 74 else ...

role it holds in the later texts, and even women with living and present husbands are submitters of petitions. There is a much lesser tendency to cite widowhood as a factor of victimhood or something the official should take into question. Arguments (however valid and fair) are made more directly on the basis of law and actions.” 72 Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 240. Notably, Libanius remarks that after his father died, his mother feared the wickedness of guardians and the inevitable necessity of going to court that arose from their excesses. So she decided to act as the guardian of her son instead. Cribiore, “The Education of Orphans,” 259; and Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 225. 73 This was a civilian liturgical official who came from the metropolitan bouleutic class. Roger S. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 169. 74 Tr. in Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society, #75; also tr. in Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 53–54. Also see P.Col. VII 173 (Karanis, 330–340 CE) composed by Tapaeis who petitions against her half-brother’s misuse of her land. She describes herself as “a minor and an orphan” and concludes “for this reason having reached your fortunate

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It should be kept in mind that girls from the age of twelve on and boys at fourteen could make a will, marry, but also prosecute within thirty years from this age for loss of property incurred while they were still legally impaired.75 These two documents present the use of “the weakness of the female nature” by women in their petitions as part of their persuasion strategies. In general, both orphanhood and specifics of the feminine nature were employed to achieve the desired result.76 Besides the two papyri already mentioned, there are six further petitions in papyri from the period under consideration by women who purposefully employed an appeal from natural weakness in their rhetoric. Women petitioners often combined this comment with the remark that they are orphaned or that they are responsible for orphaned children. Orphanhood seems to have been used primarily by women in order to provoke pity.77 As David Konstan notes, Greek pity was not an instinctive response to another person’s pain, but depended on a judgment of whether or not the other’s suffering was deserved.78 It is exactly this judgment that the women petitioners are trying to manipulate with their stories. It is worth mentioning the contents of these documents in some detail. P.Oxy. VI 899 (Oxyrhynchus, 200 CE) is a petition by Apollonarion who has no husband or helper and is burdened by the responsibility for sustaining some unproductive public land. She stresses her weakness, and that as a result she might become a wanderer. “For which reason, in order that I may not become a wanderer ... as I have only ... to live on, I present this petition, and beg you [to take pity on] what has befallen me, and to release me from the cultivation of the aforesaid lands”79 In P.Sakaon 36 (Thraso, Arsinoite nome, 280 CE), Artemis petitions the prefect because sixty of her deceased husband’s goats and sheep were stolen. She mentions her underage children three times (νήπια τέκνα), and aprule I flee to your feet, a needy orphan child.” Also discussed in Horsley, ed., New Documents, vol. IV, 71. 75 Prinzing, “Observations on the Legal Status of Children,” 34. 76 Admittedly, orphanhood was also evoked by men in order to appeal to the sense of justice of judges. In P.Oxy.XIX 2235 (Oxyrhynchus, ca. 346), a petitioner writes on behalf of his orphaned grandchildren and the illegal taxes that are being imposed on them. He mentions repeatedly that the children are orphans and concludes that if this situation is not settled in their favor they would be so destitute that they would have to become fugitives, thus, adding an appeal ad misericordiam, pity for the orphaned children. 77 An exception being P.Diog. 17 (Arsinoite nome, 2nd–3rd c.), a petition to the prefect about some disputed land. The petitioner notes, τῆς ἀβοηθήτου μου ὀρφανείας. See also the aforementioned P.Sakaon 40. 78 David Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006), 201. 79 Translation and commentary in Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society, #202.

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peals for his help. “Therefore I ask you, lord, to send help to me by your command, in order that I might get back the property of my infant children and of myself, a widow, and that I might be able to comply with my tax assessment readily.”80 P.Oxy. I 71 (Oxyrhynchus, 303 CE) attests to a widow who petitions the prefect and asks for his help because her business managers are dishonest. Rather unduly, besides mentioning her great wealth, at the same time she exaggerates her weakness, You give help to all, my lord prefect, and render to all their due, but particularly to women because of their natural weakness ... Having large [estates] around the same Arsinoite nome, and paying a considerable sum in taxes ... and being a weak and widowed 81 woman, for my sons are in the army.

P.Oxy. XII 1470 (Oxyrhynchus, 336 CE) reports of Theodora, an orphan, who petitions the prefect regarding a piece of land that she has inherited from her deceased father and that now is not being released to her. She states that she is in this predicament because the man in charge of the land is despising her orphanhood (τῆς δὲ ἡμετέρας ὀρφανίας καταφρονῶν). P.Amh. II 141 (Hermopolite nome, 350 CE) is a petition by Thaesis who complains of an assault upon her by her brother and his wife and concludes, “since I cannot silently let it pass, I a weak woman and a widow (γυνή ἀσθενὴς καὶ χήρα) present to you.” P.Oxy. L 3581, (Oxyrhynchus, 4th–5th c.) is a wife’s petition for divorce because her husband was violent. As one of the reasons for his abuses the text offers that he scorned the orphaned state of his wife (καταφρονῆσας τῆς ὀρφανίας μου).82 In each of these eight documents, the petitioners use the same persuasion strategies in order to achieve the settlement of a dispute in their favor. They usually commence their petition by stating that they know that the 80 Tr. Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 257–258. It is also discussed in Horsley, ed., New Documents, vol. III, 5, where the authors note that the wording of the petition evokes situations in gospel parables, which undoubtedly would have struck a cord. 81 Tr. in Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society, #177; and Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 55. Rowlandson, Women and Society, 221, also explains that male landowners were required to cultivate, or at least to pay the taxes on, unproductive public land. Women were officially exempted from this burden on the grounds of their weakness and unsuitability to agricultural tasks. 82 Tr. in Rowlandson, ed, Women and Society, #154. An excellent counterpart to the petitions of the widows and orphans is the petition by Arion (P.Sakaon 41, Theadelphia, 322 CE). Arion, using as colorful and evocative language as the previously mentioned petitions, comments that he is deprived of his wife and children and that he is old and then requests the settlement of a dispute about a piece of land. Also discussed in Horsley, ed., New Documents, vol. IV, 30.

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prefect is a just judge and a protector of all. Then they describe the dispute, usually with great detail, assuming that the more details they provide the more credibility they lend to their case. Furthermore, in order to provoke the pity of the prefect, they employ strong language such as the verb ‘to despise’ (καταφρονέω) or make repeated references to their unfortunate children and their weak feminine nature. At the end of the document, some of petitioners mention their continued gratitude to the prefect should he help them attain justice. All in all, petitions in later Roman Egypt become more fulsome and elaborate and the petitioners artfully combine the claim to the pitiable quality of their vulnerability as women with references to their wealth and status. Despite what is stated in these petitions, ultimately these women came from well-to-do families and may not have been as vulnerable as they claim.83 Their weakness is certainly exaggerated so as to provoke pity. The theme of the weakness of feminine nature in the petitions is an issue that deserves further comment. Notably, all examples of invocation of “womanly weakness” come from the first part of our period, with no instances in papyri of the fifth to seventh centuries.84 What is most interesting is that these women petitioners are openly using what is stated in Roman Law about the feminine nature to their advantage in their legal actions.85 Evans Grubbs notes that “womanly weakness” is reflected in various aspects of the law. While boys were required to have a guardian until they reached puberty, girls had to have one “both below puberty and above, both on account of their weakness of their sex and their ignorance of legal matters” (Rules of Ulpian 11.1). Womanly weakness explained why women often were not allowed to be informers or serve as guardians of their fatherless children. On account of their weakness, punishments that were rendered to women differed from those administered to men for similar crimes.86 In general, in primary texts from the period women are portrayed as weak, passive, easily deceived, and inferior to men. Several of the laws of Emperor Constantine express a low opinion of female self-control and behavior, while with Justinian, who generally assigns a much higher value to women than his predecessors, the vocabulary changes. This point is also noted in Horsley, ed., New Documents, vol. IV, 30. Bagnall, “Women’s Petitions,” 59. 85 Also elaborated in Rowlandson, ed, Women and Society, 221 and 354; and in Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 53–55. The fact that most of the women who feature in these documents belonged to the propertied classes should always be kept in mind when thinking of their role in their families or in society more broadly. One should remember that probably for most women widowhood was a catastrophe. See Bagnall, “Women, Law, and Social Realities,” 60; and Arjava, Women and Law, 171–172. 86 Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 51–52; see also Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society, 354–355. 83 84

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Now emperors use women’s weakness as a basis for protection rather than as an excuse for legal incapacities.87 In conclusion to this section, one may say that petitions to the local authorities by widows or orphaned girls can throw light on various aspects of family life and strategies. Among other things, they demonstrate that a division between male and female that presents a dominance of the male over the female in terms of power is too simplistic.88 Dixon rightly emphasizes that conflict of various kinds is a normal, continuing part of family dynamics and that families serve to reproduce the means of sustaining the economic and social values desired by the ruling class to maintain its dominance, which makes the family regularly a locus of conflict and a means of oppression, particularly of women and of the younger generation.89 Nevertheless, one has to keep in mind the bias of those who employed these strategies, and one has to ask to what extent and in what way various family members participated in the collective decisions impinging on their lives.90 Thus, one sees that with these petitions women had a decisive part in their family’s future. Regardless of how affective these petitions were, the women who submitted them had vested interests in the family properties, the present and the future of their children, and they had a definite say as to who would be involved in their affairs and life. Furthermore, the motivation that is behind these petitions by mothers, grandmothers, and aunts was an amalgam of familial strategies of continuity and expressions of concern and love. Quite correctly, Vuolanto remarks that “The underlying cause for mother’s unofficial guardianship even against the current law seems to have been that the person who gave sustenance, lived with, took care of the upbringing and education, and was emotionally attached to the child, also administered the property. Complete separation of personal and economic power inside the family was impossible.

87

Judith Evans Grubbs, “Abduction Marriage in Antiquity: A Law of Constantine (CTh IX 24. I) and its Social Context,” Journal of Roman Studies 79 (1989), 59–83, here 64; Bagnall, “Women, Law, and Social Realities,” 66; and Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 210 and 217–218. 88 Harlow and Laurence, Growing Up and Growing Old, 18. The authors add that the emphasis on the interrelationship of age and gender in terms of agency or individual empowerment needs to be recognized. 89 Dixon, “Conflict in the Roman Family,” 151. 90 Hareven, “The History of the Family,” 117–118. She adds that feminist scholars in particular have directed attention to the fact that an emphasis on the family as a collective entity might tend to obscure the respective roles of individual members in the decision-making process.

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Private Letters While the affairs of well-to-do orphans and widows are illuminated by the previously mentioned petitions, aspects of the daily life of orphans from the lower social classes (people who did not have the security of a considerable inheritance or other income) are revealed in private letters from the fourth to the eighth century.91 These brief communications are preserved in papyri and ostraca, both in Greek and Coptic. Coptic sources are of particular interest as this material is usually underrepresented in previous secondary literature.92 A typical example of such a source is a letter found at the monastery of Epiphanius in the Thebaid that dates from the first half of the seventh century. It is written by the mother of Epiphanius (the leader of the monastic community),93 and regards the sale of wine and even more so a robbery that Apa David suffered when his orphan children were carried away without Daniel’s knowledge. Epiphanius is urged to look into the matter and to take care of David.94 Since you came yesterday and said, “I will not leave until you have received wine,” look, here now is the wine. I have received it from Sarapion’s son. He has not ... except one. Look, the solidus (worth) of wine I collected, (but) I have not found a man to whom to sell it so far. If I sell it, I will bring up the solidus. Be so good and for God’s sake be diligent to go with Constantine to the dwelling of Apa David and ask him concerning the property; for he and his children have been robbed, and he does not know it. For they have carried off his cloak and his orphan children. Now if you are at home, for God’s sake do not put off going with him and inquiring well of him, so that I may give you thanks. If you have ground grain, send to me and I will fetch his grindstone and come up. Give it to my beloved son Epiphanius, from Koletjeu, his mother. I, Apa Iohannes, greet your paternity. Be so good as to pray for me. Send me a “seal” for my children (O.Mon.Epiph. 336).95

As Krause notes, in Late Antique cities a great number of poor people were widows and orphans. These are people who did not have a husband or 91

There is an extensive bibliography for general issues such as widows, charity, and the Church establishment. Therefore, I mainly refer to the most recent works, which will also provide readers with past bibliography. 92 Topics that are similar to the ones addressed in these letters are also dealt with by Church Fathers and in several hagiographical writings. I will only mention this data in passing since it is the focus of other contributions in this volume. 93 Given the directive tone of the letter, one would be right to think that Koletjeu is the natural mother of Epiphanius. The word is not used to refer to an honorary title. For another communication between Koletjeu and her son, see O.Mon.Epiph. 250. 94 Epiphanius probably took heed of his mother’s advice. O.Mon.Epiph. 259 is a letter from Epiphanius to his mother. Among other issues, he mentions “Be so good and send unto master Patermuthius concerning the affair of the children ... for this is the time ... Delay not, then, regarding the affair of the children of ... for there is need.” The editors propose that these could be the children of O.Mon.Epiph. 336. 95 Tr. Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters, 250–251.

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a father to depend on.96 He estimates that forty percent of women in the 40–50 age bracket were widows.97 In this period if family support was lacking, widows and orphans could appeal to clerics and monks for assistance.98 Since the first two centuries, there has been a long tradition and impetus for support of widows and as an extension of orphans by the Church. The author of 1 Timothy 5 explicitly states on the one hand the responsibilities of society, family, and the Church towards widows and on the other the duties of young and elder widows. A widow’s primary responsibility is her children or grandchildren, if she has any. If a widow is young, she should remarry, bear children, and take care of her household. If a widow is over sixty years old, has married only one man, and if there are witnesses of her good deeds, i.e. that she has raised her children and been hospitable and charitable, then she can join the church (as a deaconess). Lastly, the author notes that if a widow has relatives who can help her, she should seek aid with them and not with the church, so the latter can help those ones who do not have any family. These instructions set the stage for what was to come.99 By the fourth century the role of widows was influenced by Christian ascetic ideals, and women were repeatedly encouraged to renounce marriage. The clergy came in for criticism since they encouraged women to refuse marriage or remarriage and turn their devotion and their wealth to spiritual rather than family matters.100 Eventually, the Church came to play certain roles in the life of widows and orphans that would be traditionally performed by family members. The encouragement for virginity and the renunciation of a second marriage, for example, indicate that the Church became as influential as the family in 96 Jens-Uwe Krause, “La Prise en Charge des Veuves par l’Église dans l’Antiquité Tardive,” in La Fin de la Cité Antique et le Début de la Cité Médiévale de la Fin du III siècle à l’avènement de Charlemagne, ed. Claude Lepelley (Bari: Edipuglia, 1996), 115– 126, here 117. 97 McGinn, “Widows, Orphans and Social History,” 618. 98 For a general discussion of the charitable works of the Egyptian Church, see Ewa Wipszycka, Les Ressources et les Activités Économiques des Eglises en Égypte du IV au VIII Siècle (Bruxelles: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élizabeth, 1972), 109ff. For the assistance to widows, eadem, 113–115. On p. 111, Wipszycka adds that such charitable activities were particularly helpful to towns during periods of calamities, natural disasters, epidemics, etc. 99 Bremmer, “Pauper or Patroness,” 35ff. 100 Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 233; Bremmer, “Pauper or Patroness,” 45ff.; Alberici and Harlow, “Age of Innocence,” 199; and Rebecca Krawiec, “’From the Womb of the Church’: Monastic Families,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 283– 307. Nonetheless, not all widows aspired to an ascetic lifestyle. Writings by Church Fathers recount how young widows could not manage their property, keep their slaves under discipline, and represent their household in public. See Arjava, Women and Law, 171.

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major life decisions available to women.101 Moreover, it can be argued that the Church absorbed and redeployed the main roles of stepfathers. As soon as monasteries started to accept donated children, the Church assumed the functions of foster fathers. Thus “religious houses provided economic and material support, they created a domus that offered emotional links to a new ‘family’ and they created a social milieu by means of which an orphan might find access to office and responsibility that in other circumstances might be denied to them.”102 Before taking a closer look at the various ways widows and orphans were aided by clerics and monks and the relevant papyrological evidence that survives, we should emphasize that it was for the first time in Late Antiquity that orphans received care from people other than their family. As far as orphans were concerned, in antiquity there was no public support available to them.103 Rawson explains that there were no public institutions for the care of the children in this period, and public programs to assist children never envisaged children outside a familial context.104 Anthony Hands adds that in the Greek and Roman world provisions were made only for the property rights of the upper class orphans and that the law did not deal with the welfare of orphans, in general. Notably, the absence of public orphanages and foundling hospitals can be seen as one of the most distinctive differences between the ancient and modern practice.105 For the period from the fourth century on evidence is available that charitable institutions for all disadvantaged people, including orphans, were organized and maintained from private funds or from ecclesiastical institutions.106 References to charitable institutions become more frequent in the middle of the sixth century and coincide with extensive legislation 101

Alberici and Harlow, “Age of Innocence,” 199. Geoffrey Nathan, “Woe to Those Making Widows Their Prey and Robbing the Fatherless: Christian Ideals and the Obligations of Stepfathers in Late Antiquity,” in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, ed. Sabine R. Hübner and David Ratzan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 273–292, here 290–291. Notably in the fragmented letter P.Ryl.Copt. 296 (provenance unknown, 6th–7th c.), a monastic superior is addressed as “the father of orphans and the judge of widows (peiwt nnorfanos mnpekriths n[ne]x[h]r[a] ) ” 103 Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital, 110. 104 Beryl Rawson, “Adult-Child Relationships in Roman Society,” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome, ed. Beryl Rawson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 7–30, here 8. See also Rawson, Children and Childhood, 217. 105 Anthony R. Hands, Charities and Social Aid in Greece and Rome (London: Thames and Hudson, 1968), 73–74. 106 Wipszycka, Les Ressources et les Activités, 115–120. In response to the dire circumstances deprived orphans faced in the late Roman period, Basil established the first orphanotropheion in his hospital. Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital, 111, and Miller, Orphans of Byzantium, 114–119. 102

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promulgated by Justinian.107 By the middle of the sixth century, churches and monasteries had accumulated considerable wealth, through income from rent and operations on property owned by religious institutions and from donations.108 In Late Antique Egypt, papyrological evidence shows that charitable institutions were found both in urban settings and in the countryside. The editor of P.Sorb. II 69 (Hermopolis, 618–619 or 633– 634), a tax register, expresses his amazement at the attestation of such a great number of monasteries, philoponia, and other kinds of religious foundations in this document.109 In recent years, scholars have looked with a fresh eye at the papyrological evidence of charitable institutions.110 While editing P.Bingen 136 (Arsinoite/Herakleiopolite nome, second half 107

Adam Serfass, “Wine for Widows. Papyrological Evidence for Christian Charity in Late Antique Egypt,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, ed. Susan R. Holman (Grand Rapids, MI, and Brookline, MA: Baker Academic, 2008), 88–102, here 96–97. He elaborates that according to Justinian’s legislation, charitable institutions (euageis oikoi) were divided into two categories: institutions administered by bishops and their deputies and institutions founded, funded, and run by private individuals. 108 Already by the mid-fifth century donations by aristocratic female benefactors, often widows, were frequent. In 455, the eastern emperor Marcian had declared (in response to a particular legal case involving a wealthy woman who had made a priest her heir) that religious women could leave as much as they liked to churches, clerics or monastics, or the poor. See Evans Grubbs, Women and the Law, 233. From the 4th–9th c., the Egyptian Church could also count on the help of the philoponoi. These were fraternities of lay men who participated in charitable works. They existed in both Churches and offered amongst other things financial assistance. See Ewa Wipszycka, “Les Confréries dans la Vie Religieuse de l’Égypte Chrétienne,” in Proceedings of the Twelfth International Congress of Papyrology, ed. Deborah H. Samuel, American Studies in Papyrology 7 (Toronto: A. M. Makkert Ltd., 1970), 511–525. For example, P.Lond. III 1080 (unknown, 6th c.) is a donation of a piece of land to the philoponion of the martyr Abbas Theodore; P.Lond. III 1071b (unknown, 6th–7th c.) is a list of philoponoi. This list demonstrates that philoponoi came from various social layers and that it was possible for them to be attached to a specific church. Both papyri are edited in Pieter J. Sijpesteijn, “New Light on the ΦΙΛΟΠΟΝΟΙ,” Aegyptus 69 (1989), 95–99. 109 Jean Gascou, Un Codex Fiscal Hermopolite (P.Sorb. II 69), American Studies in Papyrology 32 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1994), 70ff., esp. 76–87. In her study of the Late Antique to Middle Byzantine saints’ Lives and writings of the Church Fathers, Konstantina Mentzou-Meimari found all the references to charitable institutions in Greece, Asia Minor, the Holy Land, and Egypt. She concluded that they were administered both by the Church and private initiative and that they were primarily in the countryside. See Konstantina Mentzou-Meimari, “Επαρχιακά Ευαγή Ιδρύματα μέχρι του τέλους της Εικονομαχίας,” Βυζαντινά 11 (1982), 245–308, esp. 289ff. 110 Van Minnen, “Medical Care in Late Antiquity,” 153–169, and Amphilochios Papathomas, “Eine Abrechnung über Getreidelieferungen eines Xenodocheion an Hilfsbedürftige Personen. Zur Wohltätigen Aktivität der Spätantiken Kirche,” in Papyri in Honorem Johannis Bingen Octogenarii, ed. H. Melaerts, Studia Varia Bruxellensia ad Orbem Graeco-Latinum Pertinentia 5 (Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 561–571.

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of the 6th c.), which is a list of grain distributions to widows and orphans by a xenodocheion, Amphilochios Papathomas also compiled a list of fifteen papyri (dated from 502 until the Arab conquest in 639) with nineteen different references to xenodocheia.111 Peter van Minnen, examining the references to hospitals in papyri, concluded that they were primarily based in urban environments and run by laymen. Adam Serfass is correct in noting that charitable institutions were both in cities and the countryside,112 adding that while orphanages do not appear in papyri, monasteries could act as de facto orphanages.113 Institutions other than orphanages, such as hospitals and hostels mentioned in papyri could also function as orphanages. It is noteworthy to briefly consider the assistance offered by the church and these institutions to widows and orphans and its distribution. In the above-mentioned P.Bingen 136, twelve persons each receive anything from half to three and a half artabas of grain. Churches also customarily distributed to widows wine or clothes and receipts of both types of transactions survive. They are brief orders to the administrators to provide a widow either with a certain amount of wine or a piece of clothing.114 One example of this is P. Wisc. II 64 (Oxyrhynchos, 480 CE), which reads, “The holy Church to Peter, steward (of the church) of (Saint) Kosmas. Provide the widow Sophia, from the cloaks which you have which are fit for use, with one cloak, total 1 cloak only. Farewell. Year 156/125, Mecheir 1 of the 3rd indiction.” P.Oxy. XVI 1954 (Oxyrhynchus, late 5th c.) states, “To Victor wineseller. Give to the widows of (Saint) Michael 1 only double-jar of wine. Mesore 16, indiction 5, beginning of 6.”115 The way the church knew who was eligible for such assistance was by keeping lists of widows and other disadvantaged persons. Churches across the Late Antique Mediterranean kept such lists, and those of Egypt were no exception.116 111

Papathomas, “Eine Abrechnung über Getreidelieferungen,” 570–571. Serfass, “Wine for Widows,” 90. 113 Serfass, “Wine for Widows,” 100. 114 A brief discussion of these documents can be found in Horsley, ed., New Documents, vol. II, 108. 115 Tr. in Rowlandson, ed., Women and Society, #63 and #64, respectively. Clerics were also involved in other affairs pertaining to orphans, beyond distributing goods to them and their family. O.Medin.Habu 141 (Jeme, 7th–8th c.) is a letter from Victor the priest to his son, asking him to take care of some orphans. Victor requested, “According as I besought [you that] time in the matter of the [children of the] late Stephen, be so kind ... for you know that they are orphans. [Be so] kind and relate the matter in ... according as you have heard it; for I remember that you told the matter to me in full.” 116 Serfass, “Wine for Widows,” 91. Also see Judith Herrin, “Ideals of Charity, Realities of Welfare: The Philanthropic Activity of the Byzantine Church,” in Church and People in Byzantium: Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies Twentieth Spring 112

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At a more unofficial level, widows could appeal to monks for various types of assistance. Their letters demonstrate that widows, who often lived in the countryside, were helped by these monks and ascetics who were not attached to urban institutions. Some of the letters are written by the widows themselves and others are addressed to the monks on behalf of the widows and their children. Their requests vary from a simple call for prayers for their health and salvation of their soul to an appeal to a monk to facilitate the removal of stationed soldiers in the house of a widow.117 The latter type also includes various settlements of debts that the monks are asked to handle on behalf of widows. O.Crum 129 (Thebaid, 7th – 8th c.) relates such a situation. It opens with greetings to a monastic superior and other brothers and then adds: As to what thy paternity wrote me concerning the children of John the priest, I have in truth found it (to be so) as regards the younger brother who is ... according to their declaration made me; and also as to the trouble in which the widow is about him. For I have heard that thou hast said that none of her portion should be demanded of her beyond 4 artabas of corn. She has however paid him 5 artabas; for I learned the truth from the father. Indeed thou knowest that before now he (i.e. the brother) has been disobedient. So now I have reconciled them together and neither is again to give offence to the other.118

It stands to reason that the role these monks are asked to perform is similar to that of a guardian for orphans or of a kyrios for a widow. Unofficially, the monks would be responsible for taking care of the widows’ financial Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Manchester 1986, ed. Rosemary Morris, Birmingham: Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies (Birmingham: University of Birmingham, 1990), 151–164, here 153–158. She examines the lists of poor people that were kept by bishops as these lists are reflected in the hagiographical writings of the Late Antique to the late Byzantine period. 117 In O.Brit.Mus.Copt. add. 23 (unknown, 6th–7th c.), Maria the nun asks Kyriakos the anchorite “Be so kind as to remember me in your prayers ... and send your blessing to me ... Be so kind as to pray God for this little orphan, for his father has died and left him to me.” Translated in Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters, 200. P.Herm. 17 (Lykopolis, 380 CE) reads, “To my most pious Apa John, Leuchis daughter of Malamos. Your goodness embraces all those without resources; and let your mercy extend to me too, lord. After God, I await your help, that you ask the tribune of the Goths to remove them from my house, since I am a widow woman. My lord, do it for God’s sake,” Translated in Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters, 204. For a discussion of the status of Apa John and his role as a mediator, see Kotsifou, “Monks as Mediators.” People also communicated with monks regarding their children if the former sought out some comfort from the ascetics because their children had died. See for example P.Mon.Epiph. 194 and 209 (both from the Thebaid, 7th–8th c.). 118 Also see O.Crum 266 (asking for charity and a judicial settlement for a widow); O.Mon.Epiph. 258 (monks are asked to mediate regarding some children and their belongings); and O.Theb. IV 28 (7th–8th c.), a letter addressed to Apa Isaac asking him to supply 300 pieces of copper in order to help a widow and her children.

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affairs, settlements of disputes, and other such legal issues.119 Furthermore, the period of the Persian occupation (618/19 – Sept. 628 at the latest) seems to have weighted heavily on many of the locals, especially solitary women. Two letters are most indicative of the experiences of that era. In O.Mon.Epiph. 300 (first half of the 7th c.), a widow approaches a monk because ever since her husband died some time after the Persian invasion, a priest owes her money but refuses to settle his debt, and in SB Kopt. I 295 (Jeme, 7th c.), we have a widow’s emotional petition to bishop Pisenthius for his help to stay in her house.120 Her husband is dead and her son has fled Jeme after he was beaten by the Persians due to their debt. Now, since she cannot settle her taxes and other dues, the local authorities are claiming her house. The widow begs Pisenthius to intervene with the authorities so that this does not happen and she has to turn into a fugitive. Ultimately, the position of these women and the function of the monks they are petitioning need to be viewed within the context of settling disputes in Late Antiquity. When it came to the settling of disputes outside courts, parties who were weaker in social terms stood a better chance in informal settings than in courts dominated by the peers of their socially stronger adversaries. Notably, there is hardly any positive evidence for the use of courts to settle disputes after about 500. Two reasons seem probable. One is that going to court was procedurally complicated, costly, and time-consuming. Another is that Egyptians in Late Antiquity favored an approach based on personal relationships to solve problems between members of their communities, especially within their families.121 The phrasing of these letters was crucial for the effectiveness of the appeal. As we saw in P.Herm. 17, Leuchis phrased her requirement in colorful terms in order to fully instill the urgency of her situation to Apa John. She also wished to flatter John and exaggerate her helplessness. Thus, Leuchis opened her letter by noting that John assisted “all those without resources,”122 and that besides God she could only depend on John. The phrasing used in these private letters is very similar to the rhetorical technique employed in the petitions presented in the previous section, notably in the way women appealed to the sense of justice and pity of the judges. In P.Ryl.Copt. 310 (Upper Egypt, 4th–5th c.), a widow petitions in favor of a man who is in debt, has been maltreated, and has been forced to hand over his children as collateral. This is the same practice that was described in the Greek petitions. Notably, the date of this Coptic letter agrees with the dates of the Greek documents that mention children used as collateral. 120 Also discussed in James Drescher, “A Widow’s Petition” Bulletin de la Société d’Archéologie Copte 10 (1944), 91–96. 121 Kotsifou, “Monks as Mediator.” 122 A person’s charity towards widows and orphans is also praised in the fragmented letter P.Ryl.Copt. 275 (unknown, 4th–5th c.). 119

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Similarly, these widows indirectly or directly emphasized that it was the monk’s duty to help them and their children.123 SB Kopt. I 295 is an instructive exercise in this attitude. This letter reads: First, I embrace the sweetness of the blessed feet of your truly God-loving paternity that intercedes for us before God; and you are he that does beseech God on behalf of the whole people and whom God has made a true high priest to make petition on behalf of the whole people before God; and you are our patron that intercedes for us before God and men. I am this wretched one, miserable beyond (all) men on earth, and sore oppressed with grief and sadness, and heartbroken for my husband who is dead for my son whom the Persians beat (?) ... and my cattle which the Persians carried off. Now I beg your blessed paternity to send and bring the lashane of Jeme and Amos and beg them to leave me in my house nor have me wander abroad. For they said to me “You are liable for the field.” The son, too, whom I had was heartbroken and went off. And also the pair of cattle which were left from the Persians – the money lender came forth and carried them off and sold them on account of his loan which I borrowed for the tax. And so, for pity’s sake, let me be settled in my house. To my holy lord and father, [Bishop] Pesente, From the present poor wretch, the wife of the late Pesente.124

The letter indicates that monks and ascetics acted as mediators primarily based upon the spiritual authority that was vested in them by the church, and most importantly by the lay community that surrounded them, and not because they were legally bound to do this. The hardships of widowhood were put forward as one of the main reasons these women needed help.125 Admittedly, other types of texts also painted an ominous picture of orphanhood, such as SB Kopt. I 464 (= O.Brit.Mus.Copt. 3, Antinoopolis, 8th c.). It is the grave inscription of John the deacon, and among others it notes, “Let all who love to weep for their dead come to this place and mourn greatly on account of the wretchedness of my childhood. I, Iohannes the deacon, passed through it when my mother was a widow.”126 After all the good deeds that the monks were to perform for the widows and orphans, they would be rewarded by God himself.127 Given all these craftily constructed appeals, one cannot help but wonder to what extent monks responded to them and, if they did, how successful they were in solving such situations. The fact that several letters are writIn O.Mon.Epiph. 300, the widow Thello point blank states that it is a monk’s responsibility, according to what God has appointed, to inquire about the affairs of the poor. 124 Translation adapted from Drescher, “A Widow’s Petition,” 93–94. 125 See O.Brit.Mus.Copt. 172 (unknown, 6th–8th c.), O.Crum 267 (Thebaid, 6th–8th c.), O.CrumST 176 (Thebaid, 6th–8th c.), and P.Pisenthius 39 (Thebaid, end 6th–beginning 7th c.). 126 123

“ouon nim eto mmoi rime eJn nentaumou nntootou. marouei epeima nseJw noutoeit eFouoote eJn t@m @n @t ebihn nta@m@ n@t Shre Shm. anok iwannhs pdiak[onos] ntaiei ebol Hitoots ntamaau nxhra ” 127

As stated in O.Crum 67 (Thebaid, 6th–7th c.).

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ten on behalf of widows by priests or other monks indicates that a kind of reference letter was required in order to vouch for the truthfulness and urgency of each case. This point, taken together with the exaggerations employed in the appeals, can certainly tell us that most probably bishops and monks were not willing to take at face value any petition that came their way. In addition, we must consider that even if monks were willing to help all these unfortunate women, they must have required on the one hand that a considerable amount of cash be available and on the other that the monks were highly esteemed in their society so that they could successfully mediate with the local authorities and persons.128 Jens-Uwe Krause also takes a skeptical attitude as to how much and how effectively the church could help widows and orphans. He explains that the resources of the church could not possibly cover the needs of all widows. He adds that younger widows who could work to support themselves were not included in the list of widows who should receive charity. Ultimately they had to depend on their natural family for support.129 Despite the papyri and ostraca we have considered, and in agreement with Krause’s pessimistic attitude, there are various papyri that are evidence for widows and orphans associating with lay persons, and of the latter taking care of them, both financially and emotionally, or not!130 Conclusions Recent scholarship has tempered the claim that Christianity positively changed the life of women and children. Arietta Papaconstantinou remarks that, “it is important to dismantle the myth that children’s lives were trans128

Earlier in this article, reference was made to P.Herm. 7 where Psois urges Apa John to help him as soon as possible, as John had not been able to release Psois from jail for many days now. From the dossier of the Apa John correspondence, we know that John came to be a great mediator in his community, but this letter possibly comes from an early stage of John’s career when he was not yet as effective as he would have liked to be. See Kotsifou, “Monks as Mediators.” 129 Krause, “La Prise en Charge des Veuves,” 122–123. 130 See P.Bour. 25 (Apamea in Syria, 4th c.), in which a girl in Syria notifies her aunt in Egypt that her mother has died and now she has no one with her; SB XIV 11588 (unknown, late 4th c.), a letter of Aria to her son in which she recounts her many mishaps, including an orphan child to take care of; SB XIV 11881 (unknown, 4th c.), which is a letter from Allous to her mother Faustina concerning the care of her brother’s orphaned children; and P.Kell.Copt. 43 (355 CE), which is a letter about charitable work that a mother wants her son to do for orphans and widows. Of substantial interest is P.Cair.Masp. I 67005 (Antinoopolis, 558 CE). This is a petition by Sophia, a twice-widowed woman who lacks any familial or clerical support and after various mishaps has lost the guardianship of her orphaned boy due to her second husband’s debts. With this petition, she is trying to get the boy back; see the discussion of this letter in Miller, Orphans of Byzantium, 262–263.

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formed with the coming of Christianity,”131 and Ville Vuolanto pointedly adds that “in the Christian context nothing changed.” He elaborates that the responsibilities of women for the running of their household remained the same and that even the role of widows in this respect primarily stayed the same, despite the fact that in the Christian era the prestige of widows grew significantly.132 In conclusion to this section and contribution, I would like to reflect on the papyrological evidence concerning the relationship of monks with their natural family.133 Greek and Coptic papyri from the fourth to the eighth century indicate that various bonds existed between monks and the families they had left behind. In general, letters addressed to monks by their family members point to a basic contact with them, a continuous involvement in the family’s financial affairs, and an interest in or care for their well-being.134 There are also documents such as sale, work, and adoption contracts that speak of substantial economical involvement on behalf of the monks in worldly matters. It is worth noting that in the adoption contract of P.Lips. I 28, the monk is not only adopting his nephew but also agrees to bequeath to the boy all of his property. He obviously does not plan to bestow it to a church or monastery. Furthermore, in PSI XII 1239 (Antinoopolis, 430 CE), a monk and his dead sister’s three children together are selling property which they had inherited from his mother, their maternal grandmother.135 Lastly, P.Nessana 56 (Nessana, 687 CE) releases from a labor contract a boy whose father is identified as a monk.136 Remarkably, in these instances, monks and nuns are assisting widows and orphans out of responsibility towards the members of their natural family and not out 131

Papaconstantinou, “Homo Byzantinus,” 13. Brent D. Shaw, “The Family in Late Antiquity: The Experience of Augustine,” Past & Present 115 (1987), 3–51, here 43, notes that due to the financial burdens and emotional demands of raising several children, Augustine frequently urged even the rich members of his congregation to simply dispose of their unwanted children, so that others who do not have children might pick them up. Given the evidence that has been studied for the present article, Papaconstantinou’s statement does not seem to apply to the lives of orphans. 132 Vuolanto, “Women and the Property,” 210. 133 Aleksandr P. Kazhdan, “Hagiographical Notes,” Byzantion 54 (1984), 177–192, here 188–192, notes the ambivalence that exists in late Byzantine hagiographical writings about the relationship between monks and their family. Some monks are portrayed as taking care of their family members and some do not. He finds that there is a clear tension between the nuclear family and the monastic institution. 134 Koletjeu’s letter to her son, Apa Epiphanius, about the orphans (O.Mon.Epiph. 336) has been discussed above. See also O.Mon.Epiph. 179 (Thebaid, 7th–8th c.), where Tachel the widow writes to her son Enoch (a monk) and complains about hardships related to her children. 135 Also discussed in Arjava, “Paternal Power,” 161. 136 See Vuolanto, “Selling a Freeborn Child,” 193, fn. 92.

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of their duty towards God or the instigations of church leaders. Therefore, yet again we find that even in the realm of monastic life, economic and emotional attachment to one’s family was significant, diverse, and uninterrupted, from which the next generation, including orphans, benefited.

The Contribution of Social Science Research to the Study of Children and Childhood in Pre-Modern Ethiopia Robert Phenix Introduction The present article offers an assessment of aspects of research into children and childhood in Ethiopic hagiography.1 For the entire pre-modern period, the only written sources on children in Ethiopic culture are the parabiblical writings preserved in Christian and Falasha texts, which originated entirely outside of Ethiopia and constitute part of its translation literature, and Ethiopic hagiography, some of which is indigenous to Ethiopia, and much of which is translated from or influenced by Coptic or more plausibly CoptoArabic sources. This relative silence is compensated somewhat by the significant role that the biography of the saint’s family origin and childhood has in Ethiopic hagiography. Despite the inherent complications of this genre for isolating those elements of childhood that are likely to be of Ethiopic rather than Egyptian or Syrian origin, historians of literature and society are rewarded with an abundance and diversity of material that rivals any other Christian hagiographical tradition. The modern study of the hagiography of Ethiopian Christians began in the nineteenth century.2 However, it is only recently that the investigation 1

Different parts of this research were presented in two academic papers: a lecture delivered to the Faculty of Cultural Sciences at the University of Tübingen, “Kann sozialwissenschaftliche Forschung einen Beitrag zum Studium der Welt von Kindern und der Vorstellung von Kindheit im frühen Äthiopien leisten?” (July, 2008) and “Holiness and Rites of Passage of Child Saints in Ethiopic Hagiography,” delivered at the meeting of the Early Christian Families Group at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston (November, 2008). 2 Notably the analyses in early editions of saints’ lives, e.g., I. Guidi, “Il ,” Reale Accademia dei Lincei. Memorie, ser. V, II (1894), 54–96 and early manuscript studies, C. Conti Rossini, “Manoscritti e opere abissine in Europa,” Reale Accademia dei Lincei. Rendiconti, ser. V, VIII (1899), 606–637. See also Hugo Duensing, “Liefert das äthiopische Synaxar Materialien zur Geschichte Abessiniens? Für den zweiten die Monate Magabit bis Paguemen enthaltenden Teil des Synaxars untersucht,” Inaugural-Dissertation (Göttingen, 1900). There is still no comprehensive introduction to the material; the best single source is Steven Kaplan, The Monastic Holy Man and the Chris-

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of children in these sources has attracted attention. The current status of research and study of the subject consists of just a few articles published by two prominent scholars of religion in Ethiopia, Paolo Marrassini and Steven Kaplan. Kaplan was probably the first to entertain the possibility that social scientific research could provide a basis for understanding the role that children played in society and the manner in which Ethiopic hagiographers integrated this role into the more stereotypical roles of childhood in Christian hagiography from the Eastern Mediterranean, particularly Copto-Arabic literature. In contrast to Kaplan’s optimism one encounters the dismissal of Marrassini, who criticized Kaplan for attempting to find social-historical reality in stories about children that ultimately derive from hagiographical topoi. Of course, the historical elements of hagiographical literature are well-established for those figures enjoying positive historical existence; one example among many in this regard is a published communication on the Gadla Dān’ēl.3 The articles by Marrassini and Kaplan provide such a wealth of information that the present discussion takes only certain significant aspects of their investigation as the basis for its proposal, which is that social scientific research on traditional societies in Ethiopia over the last century may hold valuable information for assessing the cultural meaning of children and childhood presented in Ethiopic hagiography. It is not the object of the present essay to argue for a specific outcome, but only to suggest hypotheses, and point toward studies and approaches that may be of interest for further research. The status of the study of children in social science research on Ethiopia is considerably less robust, even for the modern period, than the study of Ge‘ez hagiography. This reflects the condition of social science research in Ethiopia generally, especially when compared with studies in the rest of Africa. Any portrait of children in a given traditional society in Ethiopia must be pieced together from secondary sources in which the role of children was not the social anthropologist’s primary interest.4 Moreover, metianization of Early Solomonic Ethiopia, Studien zur Kulturkunde 73 (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1984). 3 Gianfrancesco Lusini, “Historical Elements in the Gadla Dān’ēl,” in New Trends in Ethiopian Studies. Papers of the 12th International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Michigan State University, 5–10 September, 1994, ed. Harold Marcus (Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1994), vol. 1, 1275–1281. 4 Donald N. Levine, Wax and Gold. Tradition and Innovation in Ethiopian Culture, nd 2 ed. (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1972), provides an overview of the important aspects of modernization among the Amhara and the Tigrinya. This work, though valuable as a summary of traditional modes of existence including family life and the rise of adolescence as a distinct category, does not provide any deeper analysis concerning the connections between traditional society and the audience of Ethiopic

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thodology and basic questions that ought to be posed in the investigation of children have not been developed in the study of traditional societies in Ethiopia. With limited data, the methodology must assemble all evidence from social anthropology and in the light of this data then set out to read the hagiographical material. This generates a fresh set of questions, which the targeted investigations in the social anthropology of children can address. However, without first bringing social anthropology into dialogue with the hagiographical sources, this process cannot begin. Therefore, it is permissible to “read into the past” some of the hagiographical elements. It is understood that such tentative associations between what one observes in the hagiographical accounts and social anthropological research will probably be disproven or modified. To state this methodology concisely, one generates hypotheses by identifying elements of Ethiopic hagiography with the present results of social science research, with the understanding that such identifications will stand or fall, depending upon the further results of careful analysis of new field data. While this approach to the study of children in hagiographical sources originating in Ethiopia is novel, the use of sociological methods in the study of Western European Medieval children provides some parallel and support.5 The one important difference between the two cases is that for Western Europe, most of the data for reconstructing social anthropology in the pre-modern period is derived from an enormous literary corpus that documented many aspects of society over centuries. It is by indirect observation that conclusions about society in Late Antique and Medieval Europe

hagiography, or of the roles that the depiction of the saint might play in shaping these traditional societies. 5 Among them Pierre André Sigal, “L’histoire de l’enfant au moyen age: une recherche en plein essor,” Histoire de l'Education 81 (1999), 3–21; Ann Moffatt, “The Byzantine Child,” Social Research 53.4 (1986), 705–723; Shulamith Shahar, “Infant, Infant Care, and Attitudes toward Infancy in the Medieval Lives of Saints,” The Journal of Psychohistory 10.3 (1983), 281–309; Dorothy Abrahamse, “Images of Childhood in Early Byzantine Hagiography,” The Journal of Psychohistory 6.4 (1979), 497–517; Mary Martin McLaughlin, “Survivors and Surrogates: Children and Parents from the Ninth to the Thirteenth Centuries,” in The History of Childhood, ed. Lloyd de Mause (New York: Harper and Row, 1975), 101–181; and Michael Goodich, “Childhood and Adolescence among the Thirteenth-Century Saints,” The Journal of Psychohistory 1.2 (1973), 285–309. For an account of medieval history in Ethiopia, especially with regard to relations between Ethiopia and the West, see Wilhelm Baum, Äthiopien und der Westen im Mittelalter. Die Selbstbehauptung der christlichen Kultur am oberen Nil zwischen dem islamischen Orient und dem europäischen Kolonialismus, Einführung in das orientalische Christentum 2 (Klagenfurt: Kitab, 2001).

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can be drawn.6 For Ethiopia, outside of oral literature one only has available a much smaller written corpus. It bears almost exclusively a Christian religious character and does not consist of detailed recollections about society. To be sure, there are some reports from Western Europeans, especially after the arrival of the Portuguese in the sixteenth century. Yet these are of limited value in comparison to the existence of traditional societies in Ethiopia that in many instances have preserved social structures over centuries, or have oral literatures that witness to older structures.7 Studies of Children and Childhood in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages in Europe and the Near East The use of hagiography as source of information concerning the conditions of children and psychological and social aspects of childhood in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages in Europe and the Near East has an increasingly well-established tradition. For the last fifteen years, one may notice a visible resurgence of scholarly interest in this area, which is a particular development of the broader study of the religions of these periods and places from a paradigm that integrates religion, culture, history, and social science. As with most relatively new areas of study, investigations of children and childhood in Christian literature emerged out of interest in the social history of the New Testament world.8 The investigation of children in Late Antique and Medieval Christian literature is in part a development of the application of the study of biography and rhetoric to hagiography.9 In the

6

Among the extensive literature for Western Europe, see Didier Lett, L’enfant des miracles: enfance et société au Moyen Age (XIIe–XIIIe siècle) (Paris: Aubier, 1997); and Aron Yakovlevich Gurevich, Historical Anthropology of the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Polity, 1991). 7 The ethnographical and anthropological observations of many early travelers and researchers reflect biases associated with colonialization. See for instance Barbara Sòrgoni, Etnografia e colonialismo: l’Eritrea e l’Etiopia di Alberto Pollera (1873–1939) (Torino: Bollati Boringhieri, 2001); Bernhard Streck, “Äthiopien und Pelasger: Zu den Quellen der imaginären Ethnographie,” Paideuma 42 (1996), 169–181; and more broadly Hellen Tilley, Ordering Africa: Anthropology, European Imperialism and the Politics of Knowledge (Manchester, England: Manchester University Press, 2007); Clifford Geertz, After the Fact: Two Countries, Four Decades One Anthropologist (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995). 8 The literature is too large to be summarized here. Helpful introductions to this field may be found in Anthony J. Blasi, Jean Duhaime, and Paul-André Turcotte, eds., Handbook of Early Christianity: Social Science Approaches (Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press, 2002). 9 The contributions of Elena Giannarelli and others reflect this development. See for example Elena Giannarelli, “Infanzia e Santità: Un problema della biografia cristiana an-

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case of Late Antiquity, the study of the social significance of sanctity and saints in the Greco-Roman realm helped prepare the ground for the reception of studies of children and childhood.10 Sporadically over the last twenty years, the questions, methods, and results springing from these investigations have begun to be applied to Oriental Christian sources.11 Studies of society in the Oriental Christian context share as one of their features that most of the important sources of social history are thoroughly Christian: ecclesiastical histories, letters of bishops, theological tracts, more recently Christian apocryphal literature,12 and, above all, hagiography.13 The study of children in Oriental Christian hagiography (including Christian apocryphal texts) has been the responsibility of younger scholars, standing on the achievements of the representatives of the previous generation, who have investigated the social implications of Oriental Christian sources generally. Interestingly, Ethiopic hagiography was perhaps the earliest area of Oriental Christian philology to benefit from this activity, primarily through the work of Paolo Marrassini and Steven Kaplan. Subsequently there has been a gradual increase in related attention being paid to other Oriental Christian hagiography, though mostly independent of the gains that have been made in Ethiopic hagiography. Children, childhood, and questions of family life in Syriac, Coptic, Copto-Arabic, Armenian, and Georgian hagiography have experienced their rites of passage into academic scholarship, for Syriac particularly through the work of Cornelia tica,” in Bambini santi. Rappresentazioni dell’infanzia e modelli agiografici, ed. Anna Benvenuti Papi and Elena Giannarelli (Torino: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1991), 25–58. 10 See, for example, Peter Brown’s influential article “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Roman Studies 61 (1971), 80–101. 11 See for example work on the role of saints in alleviating poverty in regions in the Christian East, like the study by Susan Harvey, “The Holy and the Poor: Models from Early Syriac Christianity,” in The Eye of a Needle: Judeo-Christian Roots of Social Welfare, ed. Emily Albu Hanawalt and Carter Lindberg (Clarksville: Thomas Jefferson University Press, 1994), 43–66. 12 See for example Cornelia Horn, “The Depiction of Children and Young People as Literary Device in Canonical and Apocryphal Acts,” in Bringing the Underground to the Foreground: New Perspectives on Jewish and Christian Apocryphal Texts and Traditions (Proceedings of the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Section of the Society for Biblical Literature International Meeting Held in Groningen, The Netherlands, July 25–28, 2004), ed. Pierluigi Piovanelli, forthcoming. 13 There does not exist a single overview of the social history of Eastern Christian communities. For Ethiopia, the closest work is Richard Pankhurst, A Social History of Ethiopia (Trenton, NJ: The Red Sea Press, 1992, reprint of Addis Abeba: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Abeba University, 1990). For Coptic, see the essays in James E. Goering, ed., The World of Early Egyptian Christianity: Language, Literature, and Social Context. Essays in Honor of David W. Johnson (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2007).

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Horn, Alison Salvesen, and Klaus Fitschen, and for Coptic through Carrie Schroeder, to name some of the scholars participating in this area.14 Previous Literature on Children in Ethiopic Saints Lives To date, the only comprehensive introduction to the study of childhood in the Ethiopic gadl (pl. gadlāt), or “saint’s life,” is the 1991 article of Paolo Marrassini.15 Approaching the subject from the social-historical perspective is Steven Kaplan’s 1997 article,16 which reflects Kaplan’s interest in the social history of Ethiopian Christianity and Judaism. An earlier version of his article, a paper based on a lecture that Kaplan had delivered at the Twelfth International Conference of Ethiopic Studies, was the first to sug14

See Alison G. Salvesen, “Infants or Fools in Eden? An Ambiguity in Early Syriac Tradition,” in Hamlet on a Hill. Semitic and Greek Studies presented to Professor T. Muraoka on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, ed. M. F. J. Baasten and W. Th. van Peursen (Leuven and Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2003), 433–440; Alison G. Salvesen, “Without shame or desire: attitudes towards childhood in early Syriac writers,” Scottish Journal of Theology 59.3 (2006), 1–20; Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in the Early Christian Community (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2009); Cornelia Horn, “The Lives and Literary Roles of Children in Advancing Conversion to Christianity: Hagiography from the Caucasus in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages,” Church History 76.2 (2007), 262–297; Cornelia Horn, “Children as Pilgrims and the Cult of Holy Children in the Early Syriac Tradition: The Cases of Theodoret of Cyrrhus and the Child-Martyrs Behnām, Sarah, and Cyriacus,” in Proceedings of the ARAM Twenty First International Conference: Pilgrimages and Shrines in the Syrian Orient (University of Oxford), published in ARAM Periodical 18–19 (2006–2007), 439–462; Cornelia Horn, “Children and Violence in Syriac Sources: The Martyrdom of Mar Ṭalyā‘ of Cyrrhus in the Light of Literary and Theological Implications,” in Proceedings of the International Symposium Syriacum (Beirut, Lebanon 2004), published in Parole de l’Orient 31 (2006), 309–326; and Cornelia B. Horn, “Reconstructing Women’s History from Christian-Arabic Sources: the Witness of the Arabic History of the Patriarchs of the Coptic Church of Alexandria regarding Challenges and Ecclesial Opportunities Family Life Provided for Women,” Parole de l’Orient 32 (2007), 419–444. For some consideration of the broader realm of images of family life in Syriac literature, see Klaus Fitschen, “Familienidyll und bürgerliches Glück bei Aphrahat, Ephraem und Ps.-Makarios,” in Grundbegriffe christlicher Ästhetik. Beiträge des V. Makarios-Symposiums Preetz 1995, ed. K. Fitschen und R. Staats, Göttinger Orientforschungen, Syriaca 36 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1997), 39–46. For the realm of Coptic literature, see for example Carrie Schroeder, “Children and Egyptian Monasticism,” and Chrysi Kotsifou, “Papyrological Perspectives on Orphans in the World of Late Ancient Christianity,” in the present volume. 15 Paolo Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo nel cristianesimo orientale: il caso dell’ Etiopia,” in Bambini Santi. Rappresentazioni dell’infanzia e modelli agiografici, ed. Anna Benvenuti Papi and Elena Giannarelli (Torino: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1991), 141–181. 16 Steven Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood in Medieval Ethiopian Hagiographies,” The International Journal of African Historical Studies 30.3 (1997), 539–553.

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gest that the use of the fruits of social scientific research in Ethiopia would yield a better picture of the depictions of children and childhood in Ge‘ez literature.17 Still prior to these two studies is the 1990 senior thesis of Robin Aronson.18 Yet Aronson’s essay of some sixty pages has not been published, and Columbia University does not maintain a copy of this thesis.19 Thus, unfortunately, no copy of this work could be obtained in time for review in this study. Paolo Marrassini deployed a substantial quantity of examples taken from virtually every edition of Ethiopic gadlāt, reflecting his extensive familiarity with Ethiopic hagiography and philology. His interest was to demonstrate the transmission of literary motifs from Copto-Arabic saints’ lives into Ethiopic hagiography, as well as the influence of the Bible and to a lesser extent para-biblical literature upon the body of Ethiopic hagiographical traditions. Marrassini offered an introduction that ties together a very large corpus of texts in an organized presentation. His study is foundational and of great use as a first guide to this voluminous corpus; however, there is no attempt to locate the transmission of Christian hagiography in Ethiopic sources in a social-historical setting, and these are at best treated with passing references to one or two secondary sources.20 Marrassini seemed to exclude any possibility that there might be any value in reconstructing social history from the tales of children in the gadlāt, albeit without an explicit statement to this effect.21 However, there are many examples of the use of legends that incorporate aspects of traditional social structures. One example out of many that may be presented in this connection are the legends of the Mogämänä clan of the Gurage in Ethiopia. These stories tell of the rivalry between brothers over the inheritance of land and are an epitome of actual situations that obtain in this society, in which male sibling rivalry is a very significant dynamic.22 17 Steven Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Towards a History of Childhood in Ethiopia,” in New Trends in Ethiopian Studies. Ethiopia 94: Papers of the 12th International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, Michigan State University, 5–10 September, 1994, ed. Harold Marcus and Grover Hudson (Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1994), 814–821. 18 Robin Aronson, “Ethiopic Hagiography: The Contextual Matrix of the Infancy Narratives,” senior thesis essay, Department of Religious Studies, Columbia University, 1990, cited in Steven Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Towards a History,” 820, fn. 10. 19 Attempts to contact the author have not been successful – so far. 20 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 157, with a discussion of the value of bees in Ethiopic hagiography, see also 177, fn. 52, referring to C. Seyffert, Biene und Honig im Volksleben der Afrikaner (Leipzig: Voigtländer, 1930). 21 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 152, et passim. 22 William A. Shack, The Gurage. A People of the Ensete Culture (London, New York and Nairobi: Oxford University Press for the International Institute, 1966), 119. Shack’s

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The format of Kaplan’s article permits coverage of only a fraction of the relevant material, focusing on the events surrounding the saint’s birth and early childhood.23 Kaplan’s discussion of the topoi of childhood was not the end in itself, but rather provided information supporting his argument that the gadlāt are of considerable value for reconstructing the social history of Ethiopia, which is one of the areas of Kaplan’s primary research focus.24 The Topoi of Childhood in Studies of Ethiopic Hagiography Of the estimated four hundred distinct Ge‘ez gadlāt of various Ethiopian and foreign Christian saints, only about forty percent have been edited or translated.25 While new works are constantly being added to this number,26

description of children and family among the Gurage (pp. 83–142) is exceptionally detailed in comparison with other studies of traditional society in Ethiopia. 23 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 548, fn. 54, mentioned that he hoped to address these topics in a future publication, which as of a personal communication (April 2008) is in progress. 24 See a list of selected publications at Kaplan’s website, http://religions.huji.ac.il/ faculty/kaplanCV.pdf (accessed April 18, 2008). 25 This estimate is based on Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 147, and an adjustment for the period between 1990, when Marrassini’s article was written, and 2008, a period during which there have been several important editions and translations of gadlāt. Marrassini took as basis for his estimate the publications by C. Conti Rossini, “Manoscritti e opere abissine in Europa,” Rendiconti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, ser. v, VIII (1899), 606–637, and Kinefe-Rigb Zelleke, “Bibliography of the Ethiopian Hagiographical Traditions,” Journal of Ethiopian Studies 13 (1976), 57–102, both providing a figure of 300 to 400 distinct texts. There is no comprehensive and up-to-date bibliography of Ethiopic literature, let alone of gadlāt. The present author’s estimate is based on a comparison of the following bibliographies: Paolo Marrassini, Vita di Yohannes l’Orientale (Firenze: Istituto di linguistica e di lingue orientali, 1981), xiii–xvii; Kaplan, The Monastic Holy Man, 136–145 (Kaplan separated his sources into those which were consulted in manuscripts and those which were edited); and J. Abbink, A Bibliography on Christianity in Ethiopia, African Studies Centre Working Paper 52/2003 (Leiden: African Studies Centre, 2003), online at: http://www.ascleiden.nl/pdf/ workingpaper52.pdf (accessed April 18th, 2008). Abbink’s work is essentially an update to Paulos Milkias, Ethiopia: A Comprehensive Bibliography (Boston: G. K. Hall & Co., 1989), especially pp. 596–642. In addition, Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 170–172, provides an abbreviated list of the sources that have been consulted, and also potentially helpful are the bibliographies of recent editions of saints’ lives in the series Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Scriptores Aethiopici (= CSCO, Script. Aeth.), that is, when the editors have provided bibliographies and not left the reader to trudge through densely abbreviated footnotes. For further bibliographical guidance, one may also consult John Gay Yoh, Christianity in Ethiopia and Eritrea. An Annotated Bibliography (Amman, Jordan: Royal Institute for Inter-Faith Studies, 1998).

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there remains a vast quantity of literature in manuscripts scattered across the globe, waiting to be explored. Thus any conclusions about the depiction of children in Ethiopic saints’ lives will likely have to be revised in light of future progress made in critically editing relevant texts. Nevertheless, it is still valuable to offer some assessment of the limited earlier scholarship in this area, and to determine the profitable lines of inquiry that can illuminate the status of children and the social reality of childhood for the cultures in which the gadlāt were composed and transmitted. The historian of Medieval Ethiopia Taddesse Tamrat identified the essential components of the Ethiopic gadl (sg. constrct form gadla; pl. gadlāt) or ‘life’ of a saint.27 These are the biography, the kiḍān or covenant,28 the miracles of the saint, and the malke’ or hymn praising the parts of the saint’s body. The narratives of the childhood of the saints are located within the ‘biographical’ section. A large amount of material on children and childhood also can be found in another genre of writing, the miracles of Ethiopic saints, the presentation and examination of which largely has to be neglected here. The present discussion also leaves aside the data on children found elsewhere in the gadlāt and related literature, such as the miracles that Ethiopic saints performed for women who had not been able to give birth or who delivered stillborn children.29 In the last section of the present essay, some implications of the comparative study of miracles involving children in Ethiopic texts and elsewhere in Christian hagiography are presented. The topoi of childhood in the gadlāt are family origin, the circumstances surrounding conception and birth, reports of the prodigious character of the child in the early years, education, the desire to separate from family and the corrupting burdens of secular adulthood such as marriage, the actual flight from the family, acceptance of virginity (or in rare cases, martyrdom), and the formal entrance into either monastic life, often after ordination to the diaconate. This idealized meta-narrative that Marrassini articu26

For the time being, for example, the present author is involved in the project of establishing the critical edition and English translation of the Ethiopic version of the Life of Antony of Egypt. 27 Tadesse Tamrat, Church and State in Ethiopia, 1270–1527 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972), 2–3. 28 Stanislaw Kur, “Le pacte du Christ avec le Saint dans l’hagiographie éthiopienne,” in Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. University of Lund, 26–29 April 1982, ed. Sven Rubenson (Addis Abeba: Institute of Ethiopian Studies; Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies; and East Lansing, MI: African Studies Center, Michigan State University, 1984), 125–129. 29 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 542–543; and Rudolf Kriss and Hubert Kriss-Heinrich, Volkskundliche Anteile in Kult und Legende äthiopischer Heiliger (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1975).

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lated established the framework for his presentation. Although there is variation within each of these topoi, basic patterns emerge due primarily to the influence of Copto-Arabic hagiography (which transmits earlier Greek and perhaps Syriac hagiographical traditions) on Ethiopic gadlāt. Marrassini created an outline of the standard gadl of the childhood of the male Ethiopic saint (qeddus), reserving the distinct features corresponding to the gadl of a female saint (qeddest) to a brief summary of the important differences.30 His contribution classified the topoi of ancestry, birth, and childhood in Ethiopic saints’ lives and in some instances made source-critical identifications in the gadlāt of Copto-Arabic and to a lesser extent Greek sources. Although Marrassini did not provide any remarks about his method of approaching the study of Ethiopic hagiography, it is consistent with the broader study of Ge‘ez hagiography, characterized by an almost exclusive concentration on locating the manuscripts, on the literary sources and influences from Copto-Arabic literature, and on the mutual comparison of types of gadlāt, along with a skepticism or outright rejection of their historical validity of many of these for reconstructing elements of society Ethiopia. Consistent with this approach there is no consideration of the social meaning of these texts, or their value for reconstructing the social history of Ethiopia. This assessment is not intended to discredit the monumental work of earlier Ethiopic philology, but to demonstrate some points of departure for new explorations. Kaplan’s methodological approach consisted of examining gadlāt for cultural facts, rather than attempting to assess whether the details of a given story are literally true. He formulated this approach in his 1984 monograph on the holy man in Ethiopia,31 which in turn followed closely the methods and assumptions of Peter Brown’s paradigmatic study of the Holy Man in Greco-Roman Late Antiquity.32 Some reviews of Kaplan’s monograph, notably that of Marrassini, were critical of Kaplan’s apparent “cre-

30

Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 148. While some of the important lives of female saints have been published, they remain underrepresented in the editions and translations, although to be sure this is in part due to a minority of female lives of saints (gadlāt qeddestāt) in the sources as such. Examples of lives of female saints include Enrico Cerulli, Atti di Krestos Samrā, CSCO 164–165, Script. Aethiopici 34–35 (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1956); and L. Ricci, Vita di Walatta P̣ēṭros, CSCO 316–317, Scriptores Aethiopici 61–62 (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1970). The lives of other female saints, such as Zēna Maryām, Masqal Kebrā, and Walatta Maryām, remain unedited. Many female saints were not included in Marrassini’s discussion in “L’infanzia del santo,” 148. 31 Kaplan, The Monastic Holy Man, 1–11. 32 See Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man,” cited above, fn. 10.

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dulity” in his method.33 While few of the learned editions of Ethiopic saints’ lives make much use, if any, of Kaplan’s work, it is equally remarkable that Kaplan’s two published studies on childhood do not mention Marrassini’s article on children. The time has come to commune the work of these two scholars. In his 1997 article “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood in Medieval Ethiopian Hagiographies,” Kaplan formulated his approach with reference to John Boswell’s work on the abandonment of children.34 Boswell’s key assumption was that hagiographers purposefully included facts that the audience would identify from its own collective cultural experience so as to give an aura of authenticity to the saint’s life.35 This assumption, even if not stated at all or formulated in different terms, also underlies the investigation of hagiography as a contributing source of information on social history in European and Oriental Christian contexts. One of the obvious pitfalls of this approach is that details in hagiography can be included not because they reflect common experiences, but because of their dramatic value.36 These elements in addition offer the possibility for exploring aesthetic and literary assumptions in Ethiopic literature, an area to which no systematic study has been dedicated thus far. Although Kaplan championed the gadlāt as valuable witnesses to society in Medieval Ethiopia, his work did not attempt to engage modern social science research in Ethiopia. Reflecting the approach of social historians of Europe, Kaplan developed his work on the basis of the reconstruction of society from clues hidden in the literary sources. His work did not articulate any developed methodological approach, instead relying on references to existing models deployed in the analysis of Christian literature in GrecoRoman Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages.37 Richard Pankhurst’s valuable study of Ethiopian society in the Middle Ages and in the modern period does not provide a model, either, as this work relies almost entirely on information from European travelers, makes no reference to the study of

Paolo Marrassini, review of Steven Kaplan, The Monastic Holy Man and the Christianization of Early Solomonic Ethiopia, in Rassegna di Studi Etiopici 31 (1987), 275– 276. See also the citation of an anonymous reviewer in Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 541, fn. 12. In Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Towards a History,” 815, the author responded in brief to this aspect of Marrassini’s review. 34 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 541. 35 John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988), 11, fn. 15, referenced in Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 541, fn. 13. 36 Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers, 6–11, referenced in Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 541, fn. 14. 37 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 540–541. 33

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social anthropology, has only a limited engagement in the hagiographical literature, and provides just a small section on children and childhood.38 Social Sciences in Ethiopia: An Overview William A. Shack provided the first overview of research in the social sciences in Ethiopia.39 The complexity of Ethiopia’s ethnography was the subject of investigations in the period preceding the Second World War. However valuable these studies were, none of them represented a comprehensive study using social science methods and theories.40 In the period before the 1974 revolution, social anthropologists exclusively from Western nations began to turn their attention to Ethiopia.41 Beginning with the dissertation of Simon Messing, which contains the publication of work he conducted among the Amhara of Gondar in 1953–54, there have been important studies undertaken; some of these are dissertations, few of which have been published.42 While the Amhara have received the lion’s share of

Pankhurst, A Social History of Ethiopia; see especially 3–6 for a brief presentation of the lives of children. 39 William A. Shack, “Social Science Research in Ethiopia: Retrospect and Prospect,” in Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. University of Lund, 26–29 April 1982, ed. Sven Rubenson (Addis Abeba: Institute of Ethiopian Studies; Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies; and East Lansing, MI: African Studies Center, Michigan State University, 1984), 411–417. 40 Gebre Yinitso, Anthropological Training in Ethiopia (Addis Abeba: Dept. of Sociology and Social Anthropology, Addis Abeba University, 2006); Ian R. G. Macpherson, “Some Reflections of an External Researcher Aiming to Conduct an Ethnographic Case Study in a Developing Country,” M. Sc. thesis, University of Oxford (Oxford, England, 2002); Shack, “Social Science Research in Ethiopia: Retrospect and Prospect,” 412, and references to these earlier sources on p. 416. 41 Shack, “Social Science Research in Ethiopia: Retrospect and Prospect,” 412. 42 E.g., Simon Messing, “The Highland-Plateau Amhara of Ethiopia,” Ph.D. thesis, University of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia, 1957); Donald Remnick, “The Manze Amhara of Ethiopia: A Study of Authority, Masculinity, and Sociality,” Ph.D. thesis, University of Chicago (Chicago, 1973). Among the many studies that have appeared in the last ten years, there are few monographs that focus on the more rural Amhara or Tigray populations, but see Awet Ermias Eyasu, “A History of Interaction and Integration: The Case of Agew in Eritrea and Ethiopia,” Ph.D. thesis, University of California at Los Angeles (Los Angeles, 2002); Zewdie Abebayehu, “A Study of ‘Yelma Gedam’ People’s Indigenous Lifestyle at Gera Keya Woreda in North Showa, Ethiopia,” Ph.D. thesis, Oxford Center for Mission Studies and University of Leeds (Oxford and Leeds, England, 2002). See Shack, “Social Science Research in Ethiopia: Retrospect and Prospect,” 412–413; for bibliographical details and a brief statement of these studies see also Donald N. Levine, Greater Ethiopia: The Evolution of a Multiethnic Society, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000). 38

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scientific inquiry, other groups and regions have been investigated.43 Nevertheless, for all groups in Ethiopia, what is known is fragmentary.44 Of note is that there have been only very few studies that have specifically focused on the lives of children, or attempted to define the cultural, psychological, and social stages of childhood in any Ethiopian society.45 One methodological benefit of Ethiopia’s diversity is that, at least into the pre-revolutionary period, i.e., up until 1974–1975, there were still societies which were largely pre-modern, and whose social structures had remained essentially intact for several generations.46 Children and childhood in these populations would be of great interest in approximating the role of children in the past. However, the fragmentary knowledge of Ethiopia’s di43 Selected monographs include: Ivo A. Strecker, The Ethnographic Chiasmus: Essays on Culture, Conflict, and Rhetoric (Addis Abeba: Jinka, South Oromo Research Center, 2007); Alexander Kellner, Mit den Mythen denken: die Mythen der Burji als Ausdrucksform ihres Habitus (Hamburg: Lit. Verlag, 2007); Ton Leus and Cynthia Salvadori, Aadaa Boraanaa: A Dictionary of Borana Culture (Addis Abeba: Shama Books, 2006); Tafere Kelemework, Indigenous Institutions of Conflict Resolution among the Ab’ala Afar of North-Eastern Ethiopia (Addis Abeba: Dept. of Sociology and Social Anthrpology, Addis Abeba University, 2006); Kassa Negussie Getatchew, Among the Pastoral Afar in Ethiopia: Tradition, Continuity, and Socio-Economic Change (Utrecht: International Books, in association with OSSREA, 2001); Ayalew Gebre, The Arbore of Southern Ethiopia: A Study of Inter-Ethnic Relations, Social Organization and Production Practices (Addis Abeba: Dept. of Sociology, Anthropology and Social Administration, Addis Abeba University, 1995); James Quirin, Caste and Class in Historical Northwest Ethiopia: The Beta Israel, Falasha, and Kemant, 1300–1900 (S. I.: s. n., 1993); and Steven Kaplan, The Beta Israel (Falasha) in Ethiopia: From Earliest Times to the Twentieth Century (New York: New York University Press, 1992), among many others that could be named and not taking account of articles in academic journals. The NCTPE Newsletter, published by the National Committee on Traditional Practices in Ethiopia (Addis Abeba), and the Sociology Ethnology Bulletin published by the Dept. of Sociology and Social Administration (Addis Abeba) are other sources of information on children and family issues in traditional societies. 44 Shack, “Social Science Research in Ethiopia: Retrospect and Prospect,” 414. 45 Among the few exceptions, one may refer to Richard Pankurst, “Childhood in Traditional Ethiopia: Work, Education and Preparation for Adult Life and Literacy,” in On Both Sides of Al-Mandab: Ethiopian, South Arabic and Islamic Studies Presented to Oscar Löfgren, ed. Ulla Ehrensvard and Christopher Toll, Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, Transactions 2 (Stockholm: Svenska Forskningsinstitutet i Istanbul, 1989), 55–68. Pankhurst’s study examines nineteenth-century reports about life among Oromo children and offers only a brief examination of education in Medieval Christian Ethiopia, drawn from sources such as the vita of Takla Hāymānot which are discussed in greater detail in Marrassini’s article. 46 For a study of the persistence of traditional modes of behavior in Ethiopia, see David Korten, with Frances F. Korten, Planned Change in a Traditional Society. Psychological Problems of Modernization in Ethiopia, Praeger Special Studies in International Economics and Development (New York, Washington, and London: Praeger Publishers, 1972).

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verse population means that establishing comparisons from one geographical area to another is difficult, if not impossible. Saints are associated with various regions of Ethiopia, but most of these regions are located in the Christian heartland, dominated by the Amhara and Tigray.47 If a study provides valuable data concerning children from another region of Ethiopia, without a clear understanding of the social and economic differences among different populations and regions, then the validity of a generalization from one region to another is called into question, but is not necessarily invalid.48 In the period since the revolution there have appeared a number of monograph studies of traditional societies in Ethiopia, as well as dozens of articles, yet precious few of these sources is devoted to addressing the role of children in traditional Ethiopian communities.49 Nearly all studies of children highlight the many problems that children face in rural Ethiopia.50 Some of these studies, such as on child marriage, capture aspects of childhood that offer clues to the perception of women and of the limits of childhood and adulthood that are consistent with the experiences narrated in some of the Ethiopic gadlāt.51 However, there is still no detailed portrait of childhood from any region of Ethiopia. What sociological data on the lives of children might exist must be gleaned from studies that examine society 47 For studies that provide economic and social analysis of family and household structures among these tribes see for example Dan Franz Bauer, Household and Society in Ethiopia. An Economic and Social Analysis of Tigray Social Principles and Household Organization, Monograph No. 6, second edition, Occasional Papers Series, North African Studies Committee (East Lansing, MI: African Studies Center Michigan State University, 1977, second edition 1985). 48 Shack, “Social Science Research in Ethiopia: Retrospect and Prospect,” 414. 49 One exception is Asmarom Legesse, Gada. Three Approaches to the Study of African Society (New York: The Free Press, 1973), which is focused on matters of family, community, and kinship relationships as well as the structure that is in play with regard to stages of life in traditional Ethiopian societies. 50 There are many studies on the contemporary problems of orphans, poor children, and their impact on public health in Ethiopia. Among the dozens of recent publications, see Nicola Jones, Bekele Tefara, and Tassew Woldehanna, “Childhood Poverty and Evidence-Based Policy Engagement in Ethiopia,” Development in Practice 18.3 (June 2008), 371–384; Tassew Woldehanna, Nicola Jones, and Bekele Tefara, “The Invisibility of Children’s Paid and Unpaid Work: Implications for Ethiopia’s National Poverty Reduction Policy,” Childhood 15.2 (May 2008), 177–201; Bo Malmberg and Tsegaye Tegenu, “Population Pressure and Dynamics of Household Livelihoods in an Ethiopian Village: An Elaboration of the Boserup-Chayanovian Framework,” Population and Environment 29.2 (Nov. 2007), 39–67. 51 E.g., Bauer, Household and Society in Ethiopia, 112–150, presents the economic basis for the separation of households under various conditions of marriage, practices that reflect traditional agrarian Tigray society, which remained largely unchanged for generations at the time of Bauer’s study.

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in general, or the growing volume of data on the roles of women in Ethiopia.52 Relative to the rest of Africa, the social scientific study of children in Ethiopia is less well developed; social scientific articles on children in Africa are featured regularly in the major journals.53 Much of the roles and expectations concerning children that the gadlāt assume are particular to a Christian society in which monasticism plays a central role in religious life.54 This aspect limits the types of societies in Ethiopia that can serve as sources for data on children. Ethiopia’s Muslim, evangelical Christian, or animist societies would not be good candidates, although it is possible that they have much information to offer that is relevant to other aspects of childhood in the gadlāt.55 While some aspects of the separation of the child from his or her family are perhaps exaggerated, an adolescent who decided to enter the monastery must have presented some dilemma to the parents, especially under certain conditions, such as being the only son.56 Understanding these expectations for the role of children in child-parent or child-family relationships would go a long way to clarifying the extent to which the authors of the gadlāt accurately captured common experiences of family life.57 It is difficult to imagine that in a traditional society, a young woman’s decision to forsake her traditional roles and instead to enter a life of chastity and religious devotion in a convent would not have provoked a reaction on the part of the audience.58 Al52

E.g. Jaylan Hussein, “A Cultural Representation of Woman in the Oromo Society,” African Study Monographs 25.3 (2004), 103–147. 53 For instance, Erick Otieno Nyambedha and Jens Aagaard-Hansen, “Practices of Relatedness and the Re-Invention of Duol as a Network of Care for Orphans and Widows in Western Kenya,” Africa 77.4 (Nov. 2007), 517–534. 54 On Ethiopian monasticism, see for example Friedrich Heyer, Die Kirche Äthiopiens. Eine Bestandsaufnahme (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1971), 145– 187; Tamrat, Church and State in Ethiopia, 1270–1527, 107–112; and Osvaldo Raineri, La Spiritualità Etiopica, La Spiritualità Cristiana Orientali 1 (Roma: Edizioni Studium, 1996), 51–57. 55 For some orientation on varieties of Christianity in Ethiopia, see Yoh, Christianity in Ethiopia and Eritrea, 1–31. For other religions, see for example John Spencer Trimingham, Islam in Ethiopia (London: Frank Cass, 1965). 56 For a discussion that focuses on aspects of the age of adolescence in a context of comparing traditional and changing society in Ethiopia, see Levine, Wax and Gold. Tradition and Innovation in Ethiopian Culture, 95–147. Korten, Planned Change, to a large extent is based on data derived from university students’ responses to a questionnaire that tried to assess “attitudes, beliefs, patterns, and values” (p. vi). 57 Many ethnological and anthropological studies of societies in Ethiopia offer some glimpse as to the expectations of children’s roles in the household and in wider society. There is no separate comprehensive study that attempts to synthesize this research and call out areas where further data is needed. 58 See for instance the rather famous scene recounted in Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins 1.11.65–66 (ed. E. Cazzaniga, S. Ambrosii Mediolanensis De virginibus libri tres

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though the response of the saint to the calling presented in a given gadl is construed as extraordinary, using all manner of hagiographical techniques, with the exception of the examples of royal saints the intention of these devices is to inspire men and women to take up the monastic life, which was the only route possible for sanctity in Ethiopic Christianity. These devices must have been intelligible only if the spiritual benefits outweighed the associated risks. The spiritual obstacles, specifically the temptations of this world, are almost always presented in the context of social barriers, such as the desire of a parent to marry off their child. This and other social barriers must have had a persuasive effect only if the audience could identify with the social contraints that made spiritual progress difficult and thus made the victory of the saint all the more miraculous. While much of the literary material describing the spiritual gauntlet of a given Ethiopic saint is stock-in-trade in Christian hagiography and legend, specifically the New Testament, its associated Apocrypha, and Coptic, Syriac, and Arabic literature, the social setting of Ethiopic hagiography developed, as could be expected, to reflect the familial and societal expectations of Ethiopian Christians. To come to understand these expectations, is necessary to apply what is known from the study of children in Ethiopia, and to encourage social scientists to pay closer attention to this population that has been largely neglected in research. Terminology and Consideration of Some Topoi “Child” and “childhood” in Ge‘ez are each expressed with a set of words that are broad in meaning. The four terms used to designate a child are wald (fem. walatt), ne’us (pl. ne’usān), daqiq (pl. daqiqān), and ḥeḍān59 (pl. ḥeḍānāt).60 Thus far, no study has been devoted to an examination of all of these terms from a comparative perspective, in large measure due to a lack of concordances, even for the Ethiopic Bible. Of these terms, ḥeḍān has received the most attention in the rather modest study of children in Ethiopic hagiography, and seems to be the form that is least confined to

[Aug. Taurinorum: Paravia 1948], 33–34). See also the discussion in Ville Vuolanto, “Choosing Asceticism. Children and Parents, Vows and Conflicts,” in the present volume. 59 For some reason Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 546 and elsewhere, transliterates all of the words derived from the root ḥ-ḍ-n as though from the root ḥaṣana; to be sure, the confusion of ḍ and ṣ in all but the oldest Ethiopic manuscripts is typical. 60 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 149; and Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 545–548.

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specific usages.61 This term also occurs in connection with important topoi in the gadlāt. Ḥeḍān is derived from the same root as the verb ḥaḍana (yeḥḍen), with the core meaning ‘to hold in the lap,’62 ‘to nurse.’63 From this basic meaning, the connotation of ‘nurture’ gave rise to a number of other denotations, so that the verb ḥaḍana commonly expresses a range of meanings, including typically ‘to nourish, suckle, feed, educate, train, or take care of.’64 Setting aside metaphorical uses of this term, the gadlāt do not seem to specify for ḥeḍān a specific range of years, stage of physical development, or social status. This ambiguity also is not resolved through an examination of cognate nouns from the root ḥ-ḍ-n in Ge‘ez, all of which express the same broad range in the semantic field of ‘nuturing.’65 In some instances, this term refers clearly to a nursing infant; other gadlāt use this term to refer to an adolescent. ZaMikā’ēl Arāgāwi was still called a ḥeḍān at the age of fourteen.66 Batra Māryām was fifteen years old when the abbot of the monastery to which he fled denied him permission to become a member of the community on the grounds that he was still a ḥeḍān.67 The common denominator for the status of ḥeḍān seems to be ignorance and lack of discernment.68 The age of transition out of the status of ḥeḍān is associated with taking responsibility in the wider community. In the religious setting of the gadlāt, this is associated in some accounts with ordination to the diaconate. The following passage from the Gadla Marḥa Krestos reveals the incorporation of childhood into the clerical ranks.69 After narrating the ordination of the young Thomas (the baptismal name of Marḥa Krestos), the members of the audience and the author are admonished: 61 Other than Marrassini and Kaplan, the study of this word in the context of childhood episodes in Ethiopic hagiography has not received systematic treatment. 62 Cf. Arabic ḥ ̣aḍana, ‘to hug, nurse, educate, rear.’ Standard and Classical varieties of Arabic do not typically use this root for words meaning ‘child.’ 63 Cognate to Hebrew ḥōṣen, ‘nursing,’ Ps 129:7, Isa 49:22, and Neh 5:13. 64 Wolf Leslau, Concise Dictionary of Ge‘ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1989), 27. 65 E.g. ḥeḍnāt: ‘nursing, nourishing, education, tutelage, upbringing’; Leslau, Concise Dictionary of Ge‘ez (Classical Ethiopic), 27. 66 Life of ZaMikā’ēl Arāgāwi (ed. Guidi, “Il ,” 57; tr. M. A. van den Oudenrijn, La vie de saint Za-Mīkā’êl Aragāwī [Fribourg: Imprimérie St Paul, 1939], 40). See also Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 165. 67 Enrico Cerulli, “Gli Atti di Batra Māryām,” Rasegna di Studi Etiopici 4 (1944), 133–144 and vol. 5 (1946), 42–66, here vol. 5, 45; see also Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 165–166. 68 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 547. 69 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 547, cited an abbreviated version of this passage.

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Henceforth, let us desist from calling him a ḥeḍān. If he was a ḥeḍān in his body, he was an adult (‘ābiy)70 in discernment and according to the order of the diaconate. [There is] a time to call [someone] a ḥeḍān and a time to call [someone] a deacon, a time to call [someone] priest and a time to call [someone] master and a time when we will call him “our father Marḥa Krestos.”71

To demonstrate that Thomas’ diaconate reflects genuine spiritual maturity, one learns of “miracles which the Lord accomplished through the hands of his servant Yemerḥanna Krestos, the deacon.”72 In this gadl, ḥeḍān designates a stage of spiritual and intellectual development on the path to sainthood, and the reader is to note that even the lowest of the ‘mature’ stages, that of the deacon, is capable of high spiritual attainment. One senses that the term ḥeḍān in this instance is the equivalent to ‘lay person.’ The corollary to this would be that even the physical adult who is a lay person is still spiritually a ḥeḍān. This specific aspect of ḥeḍān certainly requires more clarification and support from a future study of the occurrences of the term in Ethiopic literature. Other ages for the transition from childhood (Ge‘ez ḥeḍānennā)73 to adulthood include infants just a few days old, children of three, five, seven, nine, and twelve years. Episodes that illustrate the later ages of a ḥeḍān (ages seven and older) occur after the saint has fled from marriage, a topos that Marrassini discussed in some detail. Many other clear examples for the age range of the term ḥeḍān come from the topos of the flight from marriage found in the gadlāt of male saints (qeddusān).74 Marrassini located the origins of this liminal aspect of childhood in Coptic sources, particularly the Ethiopic translation of the Coptic Synaxarion.75 Ethiopic saints must refuse marriage, and the only exceptions to this are Coptic saints whose lives were translated into Ethiopic.76 In Egypt, martyrdom was the premier form of Christian witness and hence there was room for married saints who were 70 Lit. ‘big, great, honorable.’ I have tentatively translated this as ‘adult,’ in accord with the meaning of the word and the context. 71 Gadla Marḥa Krestos (ed. and tr. Stanislaw Kur, Actes de Marḥa Krestos, CSCO 330–331, Script. Aethiopici 62–63 [Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1972], 9 [Ethiopic] and 8 [French]). 72 Gadla Marḥa Krestos (ed. and tr. Kur, Actes de Marḥa Krestos, 9 [Ethiopic] and 9 [French]). 73 Also ḥeḍānnā. Words for ‘childhood’ do not seem to occur frequently in the gadlāt literature and there is no discussion of these terms of which I am aware, either in Ge‘ez sources or in secondary literature. 74 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 165–167. 75 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 166; citing E. A. Wallis Budge, The Book of the Saints of the Ethiopian Church, 4 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1924; reprinted Hildesheim and New York: Georg Olms, 1976), here vol. 1: the saints Melk (p. 5), Cyriacus (p. 308), and Eugenius (p. 323). 76 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 165.

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martyrs. Ethiopia, lacking the conditions for Christian martyrdom, placed greater emphasis on ascetic renunciation and for this reason the clear expression of the chastity of the saint even at an age before puberty is de rigueur in Ethiopic hagiography.77 This is one of the many points of the transformation of the Egyptian ascetic ideal in Ethiopic sources. What is needed is a comprehensive comparative account of Egyptian and Ethiopic approaches to hagiography, including childhood, in order to identify topoi that can be situated in social context. In the gadlāt, most saints flee from arranged marriage at seven years of age.78 None of the secondary literature provides any reason for why this number is particularly prominent. Seven is a “magical” number that occurs in biblical texts,79 yet it is not the precise number per se that is interesting. Seven, along with many of the other numbers for the threshold of adulthood, may reflect a wider cultural phenomenon in which children at about this time in their lives experience the first stages of initiation into adulthood, or at least into adolescence.80 Thus, it is not enough to simply explain away the significance of “idealized” ages of transition for the Ethiopic audience by positing an “outside” origin. These stages of life had significance, and certainly new meaning, when rooted in the new imagination of Ethiopic Christianity. Human development is virtually universal but the identification of stages of development and their cultural significance are distinctive features of a group’s identity and social structures. The association of the end of the status of ḥeḍān with the end of ignorance, as Kaplan described it,81 is substantiated by the ages at which Ethiopic saints begin their education.82 The education of a saint is a prominent topos. On the one hand, it is explicitly biblical, modeled after Luke’s stereotypical portrait of the twelve-year-old Jesus debating the fine points of legal interpretation in the Jerusalem temple (Luke 2:41–50). On the other hand, there are many variations to this theme. Marrassini located the twelfth year in Coptic hagiography, the year in which the saint “refuses marriage, or becomes [destined as] a martyr, or enters a life of asceticism,

77

Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 165. Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 165. 79 E.g. the seven loaves of bread and the seven baskets (both symbols of the Gentiles) in Mark 8:1–10 || Matt 13:32–38), the seven deacons for the “Greeks” in Acts 6:5, not to mention the Sabbath day (Gen 2:2–3), Sabbath year and Jubilee year (Lev 25:1–55). 80 This topic has been addressed for the Western European Middle Ages in Willem Frijhoff, “Enfants saints, enfants prodiges: l’experience religieuse au passage de l’enfance à l’âge adulte,” Paedagogica Historica 29.1 (1993), 53–76. 81 Kaplan, “Seen but Not Heard: Children and Childhood,” 547–548. 82 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 161–162. 78

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or becomes an orphan … or gains the attention of angels and emperors.”83 Marrassini understood the Ethiopic ‘twelve’ to be an example of a biblical topos that reinforces the claims to a Hebraic or Old Testament lineage for Ethiopian Christianity.84 However, its presence in Coptic sources implies that ‘twelve’ is in part a relic from Coptic hagiography, one of the motifs that had a cultural meaning in Egypt in the early Christian centuries but which Ethiopian hagiographers disseminated in their gadlāt because it was part and parcel of the hagiographical model they inherited from Egypt. This number also has significance for traditional societies in Ethiopia. It figures in the lives of Ethiopic saints. Given that aspects of Coptic hagiography, such as the importance of martyrdom, were altered to reflect the position of Christianity in Ethiopia, it would be no surprise to find that the presentation of children was also adapted to the new setting. However, this number, like the others mentioned for the transition from boyhood to adulthood, and the concomitant transition from living in this world to living in a representation of the next world through asceticism, is an area of needed exploration in the sources. Understanding this data will require the results of the study of traditional societies to properly understand the reception history of such information from Coptic and other Chrisitan sources in the “new” Ethiopic social environment. Details about the education of children as reflected in the gadlāt include the curriculum, the fact that at least some monks learned to read and write, and personal difficulties which are surmounted through prayer and a form of divine intervention that one might call ‘miraculous learning.’ One can find descriptions of different types of education in Ethiopic hagiography. It is a topos that is omitted only in the cases of four ‘royal’ saints. In the case of King Iyāsu I, who was killed by a conspiracy (making him also one of the very few Ethiopic saints who may be considered a martyr), mention of his education was probably omitted because the martial training for a king, the commander-in-chief of the army, was at odds with the paradigm of holiness.85 Some saints do acquire practical skills. ZaYoḥannes of Kebrān, after beginning his course of instruction in the sacred books of the Old and New Testaments at the age of seven, also learned to hunt and to shoot a bow. He was capable of killing a lion with a single shot, and wild beasts would avoid him.86 Given that the education of members of the clergy in 83

Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 162 and 179, fn. 82, with references to the Ethiopic translation of the Coptic Synaxarion. 84 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 162, mentioned Psalms, the prophetic writings, Wisdom of Solomon, Sirach, Job, Daniel, and pseudepigraphical works such as Jubilees. 85 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 149. 86 Gadla Za-Yoḥannes Kebrān (ed. and tr. Madeleine Schneider, Les actes de Za-Yoḥannes de Kebrān, CSCO 332–333, Script. Aethiopici 64–65 [Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1972], 7–8 [Ethiopic] and 8 [French]).

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Ge‘ez is still largely handed down through a time-honored traditional system of oral instruction, it seems possible that there are elements of the educational system in the gadlāt that can be illuminated through observations of social scientists examining the traditional systems of education of the Ethiopian Church. One question that this information raises is to what extent monasteries depended on their monks having practical skills to place in service of the monastery’s economy. The study of the monastic economy in the Byzantine Empire, in the territories beyond its boundaries to the East, and in Western Europe forms a significant part of the social history of the Middle Ages.87 The fact that some monks were refused entry into the monastery because they were still ḥeḍānāt, and that this stage of life was associated with the acquisition of economically useful training, suggests at least the possibility that monasteries refused entry to young individuals who had not acquired some skill on the grounds that they would not be able to contribute their share to the economy of the monastery. Information on monastic economy in rural Ethiopia might shed light on whether this indeed was a factor that members of the monastic audience of these gadlāt would have understood. Of the ages at which monks were admitted to the monastery, twelve is of course the idealized year for the onset of puberty in both sexes, and falls into the period during which many cultures have some form of rite of initiation.88 Elena Giannarelli has investigated aspects of the symbolic dimension of ‘twelve’ in hagiographical sources.89 Yet as far as the present writer is aware, the application of ethnological and sociological information about the transition to adulthood in Ethiopian cultures has not yet been employed to clarify the background of this material as it would have been part of the experience of the audience of the gadlāt. ‘Five’ is another age that figures as the beginning of education in Ethiopic saints lives.90 Marrassini has identified this number with the age of Jesus’ own first school year as found in the Ta’ammerāt (Miracles of) Iyā-

87 Larger recent studies of monastic economy include the work by Cynthia J. VillaGomez, “The Fields, Flocks, and Finances of Monks: Economic Life at Nestorian Monasteries, 500–850,” Ph.D. thesis, University of California (Los Angeles, 1998). 88 For the Amhara, see Levine, Wax and Gold. Tradition and Innovation in Ethiopian Culture, 100–101. 89 Elena Giannarelli, “Nota sui dodici anni – l’età della scelta – nella tradizione letteraria antica,” Maia 29–30 (1977–1978), 127–133; also cited in Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 161. 90 See for example Veronica Six, Die Vita des Abuna Tadēwos von Dabra Māryām (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner Verlag, 1975), 79, fn. 158; presented in Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 161.

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sus, or Miracles of Jesus,91 which were translated from Arabic no later than the fourteenth century; Stephen Gerö hinted at the possibility of an earlier date.92 ‘Five’ is also a number that occurs in the Gadla and the Ta’ammerāt Marḥa Krestos in several locations (five stones of David, five lions, illness for five months, five kings, five churches, the two pairs of five virgins in Matt 25:2, a pregnancy lasting five years [!]).93 Like ‘twelve,’ ‘five’ might also be of Coptic origin, as it occurs in the Ethiopic Synaxarion.94 However, this number may also reflect a conscious appropriation of Jewish themes, the most obvious connection being the five books of the Torah. It is not necessary to cling to any of the years given in the gadlāt for such a study to be valid. All of these numbers are in some way part of the symbolic biblical consciousness of pre-modern Christianity. Rather, one can understand the ages of the beginning of education to evoke the social significance of the onset of adulthood for the audience in Ethiopia. From this information, it may be possible to understand just how radical are the accounts of saints who make unusual choices or abandon their responsibilities in this stage. In turn, one my wonder whether or to what extent these stories incited Christian children in Ethiopia to imitate these saints. Examinations of the nature of the social and psychological phenomenon of the decision to become a monk or nun in Ethiopia also would be desirable.95 A further dimension to this episode is the notion of ordination to the diaconate or into monasticism as a rite of passage into spiritual maturity. The gadlāt contain a range of ages at which a child enters into ecclesiastical life. Nearly all of the saints undergo a number of stages as they cross out of the world and into the life of a monastery (or in rarer cases, the life of a hermit). In many of these, there is a clear reversal of the expected order: chastity instead of marriage and procreation, or abandoning family instead 91

Ta’ammerāt Iyāsus 8 (ed. and tr. Sylvain Grébaut, Les miracles de Jésus, Patrologia Orientalis 12.4 [Paris: Firmin-Didot & Cie; and Turnhout: Brepols, 1974], 631). 92 Stephen Gerö, “The Ta’āmra ’Iyasūs: A Study of Textual and Source-Critical Problems,” in Proceedings of he Eighth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. University of Addis Ababa, 1984, ed. Dr Tadesse Beyene (Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 1988), vol. 1, 165–170, here 166. More recently on this text, see also Witold Witakowski, “The Miracles of Jesus: An Ethiopian Apocryphal Gospel,” Apocrypha 6 (1995), 279–298. 93 The woman pregnant for five years is the subject of the saint’s thaumaturgic charisma in Miracle 1, ed. and tr. Stanislas Kur, Acts de Marḥa Krestos, 122–124 (Ethiopic) and 108–110 (French); see also Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 179, fn. 79. 94 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 179, fn. 79. 95 See Ephraim Isaac, “The Significance of Food in Hebraic-African Thought and the Role of Fasting in the Ethiopian Church,” in Asceticism, ed. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 329–342.

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of assuming responsibility for the care of one’s parents. A better understanding of the traditional rites of initiation among the Christian populations of Ethiopia and the expectations in the individual’s next stage of life that these rites communicate could clarify the social significance of these hagiographical topoi. Children in Ethiopic hagiography reflect a complex of social relationships, expectations, and Christian valuations of the purity of children that distinguishing between on the one hand what is part of the Coptic or more particularly Copto-Arabic inheritance and the elements of the Christian religious imagination that encode into religious discourse the phenomenon of children in Christian societies requires a new paradigm that incorporates research from ethnology, anthropology, and sociology of traditional societies in Ethiopia in order to stimulate new directions in social scientific research on children. Nearly all studies of traditional societies in Ethiopia provide some data on children and family life, but this information has never been gathered together and analyzed. Of course, a synthetic image of children across different societies is not entirely possible and a comparative framework that can offer objective categories has never been worked out. Despite the methodological difficulties in herent in this aspect of comparative social science research, there is enough data in Ethiopic hagiography for a new line of investigation that brings the social sciences to bear on reconstructing the audience’s reception of the lives of holy children. Before concluding, there is another aspect of saint’s lives, one that is associated with adulthood but which demonstrates another avenue for implementation of the ideas put forth here. In the following section, the pact between the saint and the believer, called in Ge‘ez the kidān, is described in relation to a similar phenomenon in a traditional Ethiopic society. Kiḍān and the Tano Compact Although not a part of the infancy narratives found in Ethiopic hagiography, the kiḍān suggests another connection between hagiography and family-related aspects of culture and the broader cultural background of Ethiopia. The kiḍān plays an important role in Ethiopic hagiography. It is the contract between a celestial being, typically Christ, and a human saint that grants tangible rewards in this world or intercession before Christ for a blessed afterlife to devoté(e)s who perform certain rituals, such as observance of the saint’s feast day, or the giving of alms.96 While the narrative of the kiḍān often comes at the end of the biography itself, in some inPerhaps the most prominent contract of this kind is Kiḍāna Mehrat, the Promise of Forgiveness, Christ’s promise to his mother Mary that no one of those who take refuge with her will be condemned or lose eternal life. See Heyer, Die Kirche Äthiopiens, 90– 92. 96

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stances it is found within the narrative. There is no detailed structure for the kiḍān, and not every hagiography, even among Ethiopic saints, has this feature. The kiḍān is a unique contribution of Ethiopic hagiography. Throughout Christianity, the veneration of saints and holy objects has nearly always been associated with the benefits of healing, of victory for pious kings, or with that of the security of attainment in the afterlife. However, Ethiopic hagiography uniquely codified a reciprocal agreement between the saint and the pious devoté(e), guaranteed through divine sanction. I would like to suggest that although the origin of this idea may be traced to roots outside of the Christianity of the core region associated with Aksum and its extension into Shäwä, its present form reflects traditional veneration of ancestors, especially those who are attributed with the establishment of a nation or clan. There exists an institution among the Sadama of Ethiopia called the tano compact that may provide a better understanding of the social, cultural, and religious implications of the kiḍān. This institution has been eroded in recent years through the various forces of conversion among the Sadama.97 Nevertheless, previous studies of the institution before the acceleration of conversion have preserved sufficient information about the institution which permit an assessment of the relevance of the tano compact for understanding the development of the kiḍān in Ethiopic hagiography. Comparison of the tano compact and the kiḍān is supported through the documentation of syncretism in religious contact in Ethiopia. In some societies in which a percentage of the population had become Christian within a few generations, attitudes toward syncretism were mixed. However, in at least one instance, Christians continued to observe some key aspects of the traditional religion. Shack observed that there are no firm boudnary lines between Orthodox Christians, Muslims, and observers of the traditional religion among the Gurage. The long influences of Christianity and Islam on Gurage society has resulted in a traditional ritual that is strongly influenced by both. The influences of the traditional religion and culture on the other two are also evident. Shack also observed that Orthodox Gurage practice polygyny and levirate marriage while Muslim Gurage women do not at all observe the rules of covering of the female body. Moreover, the socialization of ritual draws Gurage of all faiths to Christian, Islamic, and traditional rites.98 Among Gurage converts to Christianity (of all types) and Islam, Christianity is seen as offering, through missionary activity, the 97

John H. Hamer, “The Religious Conversion Process among the Sidama of NorthEast Africa,” Africa 72.4 (2002), 598–627. 98 Shack, The Gurage, 171; for further information about the relationship between traditional Gurage religion, Christianity, and Islam, see Shack, The Gurage, 191–193.

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opportunity for education and personal advancement.99 Setting aside the complexities of particular instances of religious contact, incorporation of one or more features from indigenous religion into a Christian framework is well attested in Ethiopia in the process of Christianization, although there are no surveys for Ethiopia available.100 It should be noted that the adoption of elements of the Christian society, such as Amharic names (and not necessarily of Christian religious practices in the traditional religion) took place before phases of forced Amharization and Christianization. One example that may be presented in this connection is the religion (now moribund) of the Qemant, a Traditional-Hebraic religion of Gondar north of Lake Ṭana in Ethiopia.101 John Hamer reported from fieldwork conducted in 1964–65 concerning the gerontocracy of traditional Sadama rituals among the two related Holo and Garbičo moieties. Of interest is the report concerning the prestige of Abo, the apical ancestor of these clans. This prestige is expressed through the tano compact, in which the human promises that if the deity fulfills the requests for wealth, the acquisition of children, or other such needs, then the human will make an offering to the deity. In traditional Ethiopic socities, the religious figure – be it a traditional or Orthodox Christian priest or saint, or a Muslim leader or holy man – plays an important role in offering prayers or intercession for women (less often men) who are barren. Among Gurage, women who are adherents to the traditional religion, Christians, and Muslims all seek the intercession of their respective religious figures, and possible those of the other religion(s) in Gurage society, in order to conceive children.102 Abo is in principle a human ancestor, but he stands in 99

Shack, The Gurage, 177. Hamer, “The Religious Conversion Process among the Sidama,” also contains a comparison with conversion processes among other nations in Ethiopia with bibliographical references. In addition, see Gabre Ammanuel Mikrre-Sellassie, “Church and Missions in Ethiopi in Relation to the Italian War and Occupation and the Second World War,” Ph.D. thesis, Aberdeen University (Aberdeen, 1976); for specific regions see e.g. Gunnar Kjærland, “Culture Change among the Nomadic Borana of South Ethiopia,” Ph.D. thesis, Fuller Theological Seminary (Pasadena, 1977). Yoh, Christianity in Ethiopia and Eritrea, contains several further references to published and unpublished studies; however, many of these are not grounded in the social sciences, being concerned with the propagation of Christianity per se. 101 The adoption of Amharic names for the Chelga wambar, who is the highest spiritual and civil authority of the Qemant, took place between 1800 and 1850, and thus before the forced Amharization and forced baptism and conversion to Christianity that began under Emperor Menelik; see Frederik C. Gamst, The Qemant. A Pagan-Hebraic Pesantry of Ethiopia (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1969), 41. 102 This is especially true in the case of the yearly festival for the goddess Dämwamwit; all sexually mature and initiated women are obligated to participate. The women pay tribute to Dämwamwit in order to be cured of all maladies that have arisen in the previ100

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the place of the deity in the tano compact, and thus is in some sense deified. At the elaborate ritual held at Abo’s gravesite, there are officiants whose sole responsibility is to receive the gifts that supplicants bring in order to fulfill their obligations of the tano. These officiants are said to represent Abo in this capacity. Even despite the inroads of Islam and various forms of Christianity beginning in the 1960’s, the veneration of Abo as a human being whose powers beyond the grave protect the Sadama has not waned. In the 1970’s, a mosque was completed just outside the outer wall of the taboo compound of Abo’s grave. For the purposes of comparison with the kiḍān of the Ethiopian saints, the popularity of Abo over other deities is striking. While a human might enter a tano compact with the sky-deity (who is the chief deity), or with one of several spirits, the quasi-deified Abo is far and away the most popular. The reason for this popularity, Hamer reported, is his great power. This deified human is not unique in Southwest Ethiopia. The Aleta federation of clans has a similar system of deified ancestor veneration, in which a compact simialr to the tano compact is made with the apical founder of the most important of the clans, one in which Abo also plays a role.103 The important aspect here is that it is a human who has received certain supernatural status, rather than an actual deity, with whom the tano compact is made. This mediating element of the sacred ancestor bears some resemblance to the role of the Ethiopic saint who has been granted a kiḍān from the Christian deity. The structural differences should be noted. First, the tano compact is one that is made between the supplicant and Abo directly. In the Christian conception, the kiḍān is an agreement made between the Christian saint and the Christian deity. The Christian suppliant enjoys the benefits of the kiḍān by extension. In the myth of Abo, there is no mention of a deity who grants Abo his power and authority to enter into a tano compact. The second element is the difference between the custodians of the Abo shrine and the Christian clergy. While both Orthodox Christians and Sadama honor their respective human custodians of the cults of their holy men and women, there is no evidence for Orthodox attitudes toward the manner in which a monk or priest acts as a representative of the saint. Certainly Orthodox Christians make material offerings in connection with the veneration of a saint, but the appreciation of church hierarchy as repreous year. Shack, The Gurage, 188, noted that the most important of these concern childbearing, or the increase of fertility among younger women. 103 This passage is a paraphrase from John H. Hamer, “Myth, Ritual, and the Authority of Elders in an Ethiopian Society,” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 46.4 (1976), 327–339, here 328.

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sentatives of saints in instances of fulfilling the kiḍān are not well understood. The Sadama, in contrast, understand the officials who receive their offerings at the site of Abo’s grave to be representatives of Abo, who are therefore held in very high esteem. This esteem is the basis for their authority in settling legal disputes, whereby the officiants of the grave of Abo are thought to be more effective in resolving matters such as murder, default on loans, adultery, or land claims more effectively than the local village elders. Although the priest in a Christian village in Ethiopia traditionally enjoyed the respect of his flock and was important in mitigating disputes, that authority had little to do with the kiḍān of a given saint, but obviously with his being the mediator of Christian sacraments, and his education, his ability to read and write. To be sure, the terms “Christian” and “Sadama” are not mutually exclusive. The Sadama are not traditionally Orthodox, but inroads have been made by other Christian missionaries, mostly various Protestant and Catholic groups. Whereas Islam has a greater compatibility with the Abo cult, as Hamer noted,104 Christianity is more hostile to the notion of feeding a dead relative and to other Sadama practices that are modeled on the myth of Abo, such as polygamy. Indeed, many young Sadama converts to Christianity whom Hamer had interviewed in the 1960’s stated that their motivation for conversion was access to education and jobs that the missionaries provided, and most did not stop participating in the veneration of Abo, which they understood to give them the strength to endure the changes that modernity imposed. Thus far, no comprehensive study of the role of sacred compacts in the religions of Ethiopia has been published. It would be of great benefit to understand how the reception of what is essentially a Mediterranean idea, namely, that the holy man plays an important role in the mediation of divine benefits, has been adapted in Orthodox Christianity in Ethiopia and transformed into the kiḍān that is a standard element of the gadl of Ethiopian saints, and which reflects a long tradition of piety. There are other dimensions to the kiḍān that could also be mentioned in brief, which may be summarized as the anthropology of the benefits that the saint promises to bestow on his or her devoté(e)s. Certainly, the devotion of the Christian to the holy man in Mediterranean Late Antiquity was of importance, but it was in competition also with the cult of Asclepius. It remains to be examined in what sense the notion of the kiḍān competed with traditional healers in Ethiopia. There is very little information in Ethiopic hagiography to shed light on this question, but there is a wealth of information in the study of Ethiopian societies and their notions of healing that awaits clarification, which can provide new insights into the presentations in Ethiopic hagiog104

Hamer, “Myth, Ritual, and the Authority of Elders in an Ethiopian Society,” 337.

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raphy. Again, the methodological problem is one of extrapolating from the present back into time, but with a complete absence of data from the Ethiopic sources themselves, it would seem that this is as good a place to begin as any. Even the Abo cult presents some problems in this respect. According to the reckoning of the descendants of Abo, his cult cannot be more than four hundred years old. There is also the possibility then that the Christian notion of the kiḍān has been transmitted to the Sadama, who have adapted it to their myth of a common ancestor. Some Philological Notes Having raised preliminary questions that might be fruitfully pursued through the application of modern social scientific research in future studies, it is worthwhile to briefly touch on some philological aspects of the study of children in Ethiopic hagiography. One area of philological investigation with respect to the gadlāt which heretofore has been neglected is the influence of Christian apocryphal texts. Marrassini mentioned in passing the Ta’amarāt Māryām, or Miracles of Mary, a text that is situated in Egypt and that was very popular in Ethiopia.105 As much as recent investigations of comparable texts in the Syriac and Syriac-Arabic tradition have been able to highlight the prominent role of Mary as promoter of family life and supporter of children in need in that material, it is to be expected that a similarly focused examination of the Ethiopic Miracles of Mary could yield valuable insights into perceptions of childhood and children in Ethiopia.106 Another popular text that an Ethiopian child must know to be considered educated is Jubilees.107

105

To demonstrate the fictive quality of Ethiopic hagiography of foreign saints: Saint Yem’atā, one of the Nine Ṣadqān (‘righteous’), is from the city of Qosyāt ‘in Mesopotamia,’ but Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 151, identifies this city with al-Quṣiyyah in Egypt, which is associated with the Miracles of Mary. Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 175, fn. 23 provides a reference to the same but independent conclusion of Theodor Nöldeke, which should be corrected to “Chronique de Galâwdêwos…Vita Za-Mika’el Aragawi…Geschichte der Galla,” Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen 158.2 (1896), 164–173, here 170. 106 See for example Cornelia Horn, “From Model Virgin to Maternal Intercessor: Mary, Children, and Family Problems in Late Antique Infancy Gospel Traditions and Their Medieval Trajectories,” in Proceedings of the International Workshop on Christian Apocryphal Literature “Christian Apocryphal Texts for the New Millennium. Achievements, Prospects, and Challenges,” ed. Pierluigi Piovanelli, forthcoming. 107 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 162 and 179, fn. 90, citing the particularly long catena of required reading found in the Gadla Beṣu‘a ‘Amlāk, ed. C. Conti Rossini, “Beṣu‘a ‘Amlāk e il Convento della Trinità,” Rendiconti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, ser. v, 9 (1902), 389–429, here 403

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These passing references certainly do not constitute an assessment of the influence of Christian apocrypha on children in the gadlāt. The infancy accounts of Mary and Jesus would be a natural starting point for such an investigation of literary and possibly socio-cultural relationships. One problem that arises immediately in this context is whether the transmission of motifs originating in Christian apocryphal sources was direct or through the mediation of Copto-Arabic hagiography.108 Setting aside this problem, there are at least two elements of the representation of childhood in the gadlāt that suggest themselves as candidates for this kind of source-critical activity. The first is related to the theme of chastity. The second pertains in particular to the peculiar forms of nourishment for a ḥeḍān. The motif of a child refusing to drink milk from his mother’s breast has been discussed in Marrassini’s article.109 A wealth of information on children is extant in the miracles of Ethiopic saints, not merely in the Miracles of Mary, which neither Marrassini nor Kaplan have investigated.110 A great deal of information in this material is of relevance for the study of the social and political aspects of Christianity in Ethiopia in the Middle Ages. The performance of miracles associated with human reproduction and family life is an important motif in Christian hagiography generally. Cornelia Horn has addressed the relationship of these types of miracles in Georgian and Armenian hagiography and historiography.111 While of interest for comparison with Ethiopic hagiography more broadly, the Georgian and Armenian material is of particular interest 108

The study of Christian apocryphal texts in Christian Arabic has received renewed attention in recent work, see for example Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala, Textos apócrifos árabes cristianos (Madrid: Editorial Trotta, 2003); and Cornelia Horn, “Apocryphal Gospels in Arabic, or Some Complications on the Road to Traditions about Jesus,” in Jesus in apokryphen Evangelien, ed. Jörg Frey and Jens Schröter, with the collaboration of Jakob Spaeth, WUNT (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming 2009). The question of the influence of Christian apocrypha on Copto-Arabic hagiography, particularly the Coptic Synaxarion, which is translated into Ethiopic, is still open. 109 Marrassini, “L’infanzia del santo,” 167–168. 110 E.g. Gabra Manfaṣ Qeddus: Miracles Seven and Eight both involve the vivification of dead children (ed. and tr. Paolo Marrassini, “Vita,” “Omelia,” “Miracoli” del Santo Gabra Manfas Qeddus, CSCO 597 and 598, Scriptores Aethiopici 107 and 108 [Lovanii: In aedibus Peeters, 2003], 353–361 [Ethiopic] and 124–126 [Italian]). Libānos: of the sixty-eight miracles attributed to him, eighteen mention the miraculous healing of children or spiritual childhood, or the nursing breasts of Libānos’ mother, or otherwise contain the imagery of children (Miracles 1, 12, 15, 18, 23, 39–40, 42, 47–48, 51, 56–57, 59–61, 64, and 67) (ed. and tr. Alessandro Bausi, La e i di Libānos, CSCO 595 and 596, Scriptores Aethiopici 105 and 106 (Lovanii: In aedibus Peeters, 2003), 73–205 [Ethiopic] and 46–118 [Italian]). 111 Horn, “The Lives and Literary Roles of Children in Advancing Conversion to Christianity.”

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in the Ethiopic context because the sources from the Caucasus are associated with evangelization or conversion. Ethiopia was a place of Christian expansion and evangelization for much of the Middle Ages, the period in which the composition of gadlāt was in its prime. In the period of territorial expansion in the 13th–15th centuries, the gadlāt contain some gems that reflect an idealization of Christian interaction with the non-Christians subsumed into the expanding Amhara-dominated kingdom. One of these is of a child saint. Fīlipos of Dabra Āsbo (later renamed Dabra Lībanos)112 is reported to have harshly mistreated a local non-Christian healer; his father punished him for his behavior in order that the locals would not kill the future disciple of Takla Hāymānot for his actions.113 This episode, set in Shawā, which in the 14th century was an area of active Christianization based largely on monastic institutions,114 is almost certainly indicative of the tensions inherent in Christianization, even if this specific episode is part of the hagiographer’s license. The tales of evangelization in Ethiopic hagiography are essentially etiologies or more precisely Entstehungsgeschichten for the emergence of Christianity in a particular region of Ethiopia, written during the expansion of the hegemony of the Christian Ethiopian kings over and against their polytheist and later Muslim neighbors. Syriac, Georgian, and Armenian evangelization accounts were also developed in conditions where the local church had asserted its independence from the regional center, in all of these cases this center being Antioch: the fifth-century Acts of Mār Mari in the case of Edessa or the fifth-century stories of the evangelization of Armenia through Rhipsimē and Gaiana and of Georgia through Nino. The traditional conversion narrative of Ethiopia mentions that Frumentius, the first bishop of Axum, was first employed as

Tadesse Tamrat, Church and State in Ethiopia, 172, fn. 6, states that since Takla Haymānot is believed to have died in 1313, and since his vita states that he lived for about 29 years after establishing Dabra Āsbo, this must have happened in 1284; see E. A. T. Wallis Budge, The Life of Takla Hâymânôt in the Version of Dabra Lîbanôs, and the Miracles of Takla Hâymânôt in the Version of Dabra Lîbânôs, and the Book of the Riches of Kings. The Ethiopic Texts, from the British Museum Ms. Oriental 723, edited with English translations, to which is added an English translation of the Waldebbân version (London: Private Printing for Lady Meux, 1906), 96. 113 Gadla Filipos (ed. B. Turaiev, Vitae sanctorum indigenarum. Gadla Aron, seu Acta sancti Aronis; Gadla Filipos, seu Acta sancti Philippi, CSCO 30 and 31, Script. Aethiopici 13 and 14 [Lovanii: L. Durbecq, 1955, 1961), 111–261 [Ethiopic] and 99–234 [Latin], here vol. 30, pp. 182–183, cited in Tadesse Tamrat, Church and State in Ethiopia, 1270–1527 [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972], 157). 114 Kaplan, The Monastic Holy Man, 92–94, examines the reasons for Abuna Ya‘qob’s choice of the “House of Takla Hāymānot,” of which the monastery of Dabra Asbo was a part, for missionary activity in the south. 112

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a tutor of the crown prince of King ‘Ezana.115 Clearly, much basic comparative work needs to be done in this area.

Conclusions and Departures There are no sources for children and childhood in Ethiopia contemporary to the gadlāt. The search for the social and cultural context of children in these texts must turn to the scientific study of children in traditional societies in Ethiopia. This study must agree with the optimistic assessment of Kaplan that it is possible to find the general truth behind the edifying stories of Ethiopia’s saints. What is needed as a next step is a concerted effort on the part of social scientists to provide a basis for comparing the roles of children and the understanding of childhood in Ethiopia’s traditional societies. Of need also is an openness on the part of philologists and historians to draw from the living memories of these societies with a sensitivity to the reconstruction of the world of medieval Ethiopic hagiography.

115

The source mentioning Frumentius’s service as a tutor is T. Rufinus of Aquileia (ca. 340–410) in his continuation of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Historia Ecclesiastica (composed in 402 or 403). See Rufinus of Aquileia, Church History X.9 (ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen, Eusebius Werke. Die Kirchengeschichte. Zweiter Teil. Die Bücher VI bis X. Über die Märtyrer in Palästina [Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1903; reprinted 1999], 971–973). For a detailed examination of the origin of Christianity under ‘Ezana and Frumentius, see Heinzgerd Brakmann, Die Einwurzelung der Kirche im spätantiken Reich von Aksum (Bonn: Borengässer, 1994), 51–67, and the detailed bibliography and discussion provided in the notes to these pages. Brakmann, Die Einwurzelung der Kirche, 62–63, noted the scholarship identifying Rufinus’s source as the lost church history of Gelasius, bishop of Caesarea (Palaestina; d. before 400); the name of the crown prince, Azgwāgwā, is noted only in a Ge‘ez hymn to Frumentius in ms. EMML 1763: Getatchew Haile, “The Homily in Honour of St. Frumentius, Bishop of Axum (EMML 1763 ff. 84v–86r),” Analecta Bollandiana 97 (1979), 309–318; for the Ethiopic Synaxarion entry to 28 Ḥamlē (1 August), see Brakmann, Die Einwurzelung der Kirche, 64, fn. 315. For a recent study of Rufinus’s historiography, see V. M. Tiulenev, Rozhdenie Latinskoy Khristianskoy Historiografii. S Prilozheniem Perevoda “Tserkovnoi Historii” Rufina Akvileiskogo (Sankt-Peterburg: Izdatestvo Olega Abyshko, 2005); a new English translation of Rufinus’s continuation may be found in Torben Christiansen, Rufinus of Aquileia and the Historia Ecclesiastica Lib. VII–IX, of Eusebius (Copenhagen: Kongelige Danske videnskabernes selskab: Comissioner, Munksgaard, 1989).

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White, Despina Stratoudaki. “Byzantine Epistolography.” Greek Orthodox Theological Review 21 (1976), 215–223. Whittle, Michael. Gait Analysis: An Introduction. Oxford and Boston: Butterworth-Heinemann, third edition, 2002. Wiedemann, Thomas. Adults and Children in the Roman Empire. New Haven: Yale University Press; and London: Routledge, 1989. Wierschowski, L. “Der historisch-demographische Kontext der severischen Abtreibungsund Kinderaussetzungsverbote.” Laverna 7 (1996), 42–66. Wilfong, Terry G. “‘Friendship and Physical Desire’: The Discourse of Female Homoeroticism in Fifth-Century C.E. Egypt.” In Among Women: From the Homosocial to the Homoerotic in the Ancient World. Ed. Nancy Sorbin Rabinowitz and Lisa Auanger. Pp. 304–329. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002. –, tr. Women of Jeme: Lives in a Coptic Town in Late Antique Egypt. New Texts from Ancient Cultures. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002. Winn, Robert E. “The Church of Virgins and Martyrs: Ecclesiastical Identity in the Sermons of Eusebius of Emesa.” Journal of Early Christian Studies 11.3 (2003), 309–338. –, “The Theology of Eusebius of Emesa.” Ph.D. Thesis. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America, 2001. Winslow, D. F. “The Maccabean Martyrs: early Christian Attitudes.” Judaism 23 (1974), 78–86. Winter, Sara C. “Little Flags: The Scope and Reconstruction of the Signs Gospel.” In Jesus in Johannine Tradition. Ed. Robert T. Fortna and Tom Thatcher. Pp. 219–235. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2001. Wipszycka, Ewa. “Apports de l’archéologie à l’histoire du monachisme Égyptien.” In The Spirituality of Ancient Monasticism: Acts of the International Colloquium held in Cracow-Tyniec 16–19 November 1994. Ed. Marek Starowieyski. Pp. 63–78. Cracow: Tyniec, Wydawnictwo Benedyktynów, 1995. –, “Les Confréries dans la Vie Religieuse de l’Égypte Chrétienne.” In Proceedings of the Twelfth International Congress of Papyrology. Ed. Deborah H. Samuel. American Studies in Papyrology 7. Pp. 511–525. Toronto: A. M. Makkert Ltd., 1970. –, “Donation of Children.” In The Coptic Encyclopedia. Ed. Aziz Atiya. Vol 3. Pp. 918– 919. New York: MacMillan, 1991. –, Les Ressources et les Activités Économiques des Eglises en Égypte du IV au VIII Siècle. Bruxelles: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élizabeth, 1972. Witakowski, Witold. “Mart(y) Shmuni, the Mother of the Maccabean Martyrs in Syriac Tradition.” In VI Symposium Syriacum, 1992. University of Cambridge, Faculty of Divinity, 30 August–2 September 1992. Ed. René Lavenant. Orientalia Christiana Analecta 247. Pp. 153–168. Rome: Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 1994. –, “The Miracles of Jesus: An Ethiopian Apocryphal Gospel.” Apocrypha 6 (1995), 279– 298. Wohlers, Michael. Heilige Krankheit. Epilepsie in antiker Medizin, Astrologie und Religion. Marburger Theologische Studien 57. Marburg: N. G. Elwert Verlag, 1999. Wood, Diane, ed. The Church and Childhood. Studies in Church History 31. Cambridge: Blackwell, 1994. Worsley, P. “Non-Western Medical Systems.” Annual Review of Anthropology 11 (1982), 315–348. Wright, David F. “Homosexuals or Prostitutes? The Meaning of Arsenokoitai (1 Cor. 6:9; 1 Tim. 1:10).” Vigiliae Christianae 38 (1984), 125–153. Wright, William. Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts of the British Museum. London: The British Museum, 1870–1872.

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Index of Ancient Sources Bible Genesis 2:2–3 3:15 4:25–28 12:11–13 22

393n.79 162 15 313 312, 318

Exodus 12:15 12:19 13:7 20 20:2–16 20:13

247 247 247 161 243 306

Leviticus 11:6 15:19–24 18:22 19 19:9–19 20:13 20:18 22:4 25:1–55

245 211 229n.6 244 243 229n.6 211 66 393n.79

Nehemiah 5:13

391n.63

Psalms 17:8 29:12 96:5 129:7

322n.18 94 183n.33 391n.63

Proverbs 7:2 322n.18 31:21 [LXX] 323 Isaiah 8:18 49:15 49:22 52:11

312, 314n.87 76, 122 391n.63 66

Jeremiah 17:5 31:15

95 314n.91

Lamentations 2:20 77

Deuteronomy 1:39 322n.19 5:6–22(19) 243 5:9 211 5:17 306 14:7 246 32:10 322n.18

Ezekiel 18:4 18:20 18:21

71 136 58n.35, 58n.36, 59n.36

Daniel 9

239

2 Kings 2:23–25

Zechariah 2:8

322n.18

41

Index of Ancient Sources

470 Sirach 5:7

58n.36

Matthew 2:17–18 7:23 9:1–7 9:18–19 9:23–26 9:25 9:42 10:11–15 10:35 10:42 11:16–17 11:25 11:28–29 13:8 13:24 13:32–38 15:21–28 17:14–20 18:3 18:15 25:2 26:31

314n.91 88 209 178 178 181 228, 231 41 287 322n.19, 323 11, 14 129 129 323n.23 323n.24 393n.79 178 178 303 247 395 96

Mark 5:21–24 5:35–43 5:41 6:15 7:24–30 8:1–10 8:28 9:14–29 10:13–16 11:12–22 14:27

178 178 181 41 178 393n.79 41 178 178 41 96

Luke 2:35 2:41–50 2:41–52 7:11–17 8:40–42 8:49–56 8:54 9:5 9:8

96, 97 393 16, 31 178 178 178 181 41 41

9:37–42 10:10–12

178 41

John 3:5 4:32 4:46–54 5 5:1–15 5:14 9 9:1–41 9:2 9:3 12:20–23 21:5

70 164 178 211 210 209 210–11 209 209, 212 211, 212 41 126n.105

Acts 5:1–11 6:5 8:36 13:6–11

41 393n.79 309 41

Romans 3:23 5:12

96 67n.66

1 Corinthians 6:9 229, 230 6:9–11 228, 234, 237, 250 6:10 229n.6 6:11 231 Galatians 4:19

126n.105

Ephesians 5:2–6:9 6:10–17 24:4

76 299n.19 247

Colossians 3:18–4:1 76 1 Thessalonians 2:11 126n.105 1 Timothy 1:10

229

Index of Ancient Sources 2:15 5

76 364

Titus 1:15 2:4

65 76

Hebrews 7:1

471

James 5:14–15

186

1 Peter 2:18–3:7

76

1 John 2:1

126n.105

302

Apocrypha Acts of Andrew 5 191 7 192 19 193

Epistle of Barnabas 10.6 246 19.4 243, 246 19.5 204, 243–44

Acts of John 37–45 42n.55

Gospel of Thomas 34, 40

Acts of Mār Māri 16 193 12 194

Infancy Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew 30

Acts of Peter 2 41n.55 Apocalypse of Peter (Ethiopic) 8 204 Arabic Infancy Gospel 11 195 15 196n.79 17 195 17–18 196 18 196 21 196 25 196 26 196 27 196 28 196 29–32 196 Didache 2.2 5.2

204, 235n.28, 243, 246 204n.19

Epistula Apostolorum 34

Infancy Gospel of Thomas 2 21 2–3 29 2–4 20 3 21 3–5 33 4 21, 29 4:4 33 5 20 5:2 20 5:4 34 5:5–6 42 6 29, 34 6–8 20 6:4–8 42 6:10 21 6:16–23 42 7:4 34 7:11 34 8 33 8:1–2 42 9 20, 22 9–13 33 10 24 10–12 22 10:2 23

Index of Ancient Sources

472 11–12 12 12:1b–2 12:2 13–14 13:3 14 15 15–16 15:3–4 16–18 17 19 19:4–5

20 24 20 23 20 42 21, 29, 33, 34 20, 33, 34 22 42 33 16, 20 33 42

Miracles of Mary 401–2 Pseudo-Clementine, Homilies 19.22.5–8 210 Syriac History of the Blessed Virgin Mary 195 Ta'ammerāt Iyāsus see Miracles of Jesus Ta’ammerāt Maryam see Miracles of Mary

Miracles of Jesus 8 395

Jewish Sources 2 Maccabees 80–2 7:1–41 304 7:23 81 7:29 81 4 Maccabees 16, 79-86 13:15–17 81 14:13–17 81 14:20 84 15:1 81 15:2–3 81–2 15:3 81 15:4 81 15:5 81 15:7 81 15:16 81 15:23 81 17:1 85n.44 b. Ber. 61b

41

b. Niddah 13a

228

Gen. Rab. 13.7

41

Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 9.182 41n.54 18.63 41 Jubilees 402 Philo of Alexandria, De vita contemplativa 48–62 232 50 232–33 52 233 Philo of Alexandria, On Abraham 136 230 Philo of Alexandria, Special Laws 2.50 232 3.37–42 230, 231, 232 Sibylline Oracles 3.185–187 233 3.596–600 233 5.166–167 233 5.387–589 233 5.430 233 Testament of Levi 3.17.11.3 238 16:1 241 17:1–9 238–39, 241

Index of Ancient Sources 17:6 17:7 17:10–11 17:11

239 239 238, 239, 240, 241 234, 237, 239

17:15–16 17:18 18

473 240 240 241

Classical Sources Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 2.35–38 236 4.9–10 188 4.10 189n.55 4.15–17 188

Codex Justinianus 5.31.6 356n.64 5.35.1 356n.64 5.45.1 357–358n.69 1.3.54.5 269

Aesop, Fables 13, 15, 16 Apollonius, Prince of Tyre 26 181 27 181

Codex Theodosianus 5.9.1 206 5.10.1 206 9.31.1 129n.121 11.27.1 206 11.27.2 206

Aretaios of Cappadocia, Περί αίτών καί σημείων χρονίων παθῶν 1.4.2 182

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities 2.15.2 202

Aristophanes, The Birds 209–214 118

Euripides, Iphigenia in Tauris 384–391 118n.67

Aristophanes, Wasps 1181–1186 14, 26

Galen, Regimen in Acute Diseases 152n.29 153

Aristotle, Politics 1335b 201–202 Celsus, De medicina 2.1.20 152 3.6.7.1 152 2.1.18–19 152 2.8.30 152 2.10.1–5 152n.29 5.26.3 b 6 152–53 7.14.7–8 153 7.20–21 153 7.26–27 153 Cicero, Laws 3.8 202

Herodotus, History 1.196 219n.63 Hippocrates, Aphorisms 3.24–28 172 Hippocrates, Epidemics 4.11 151 4.31 151 5.16 151 5.28 151 5.66(=7.62) 151 7.35 151 7.52 151 7.106 151 7.122 151

Index of Ancient Sources

474 7.117 7.118

151n.20 151n.20

Pindar, Olympian Odes 1.24–53 118n.67

Hippocrates, The Sacred Disease 11 163n.66

Plato, Lysis

Hippolytus, Refutatio 9.12.24–26 205n.28

Plato, Phaedrus 237b–241d 235

Hyginus, Fables 118n.67

Plato, Republic 2.377–378 12 460c 201

Julian the Apostate, Orations 7.207A 12 Minucius Felix, Octavius 3.5–6 10 20.4 14 Pliny the Elder, Natural History 152n.24 Plutarch, Life of Lycurgus 16 202 Quintus Curtius, History of Alexander 9.125 202 Ovid, Metamorphoses 12 4.39 9 6.575–589 118n.67 6.590–977 118n.68 Ovid, The Walnut Tree 10 Petronius, Satyrica 38.8 14 77.6 14 Philostratus, Life of Apollonius 3.38.1 186–187 3.39 187 3.40 187 5.14.1 13

235

Plato, Symposium 181c 235 192b 235 Plutarch, “Caius Gracchus” 19.2–3 78 Plutarch, Dialogue on Love 236 Plutarch, On Affection for Offspring 3 77, 79n.15 Plutarch, “Tiberius Gracchus” 1.4–5 78 Pseudo-Lucian, Affairs of the Heart 236 Quintilian, The Orator's Education 1.3.11 15 1.8.4–5 13 1.9.2 13 Seneca, “To 15.1 16.1–6 17.2 17.5

Helvia” 79 79 79 79

Soranus, Gynecology 2.16.30 195n. 72

Index of Ancient Sources

475

Thonis, Letter to his Father 11

Xenophon, Ephesiaka 1.6–7 187

Ulpian, Rules 11.1 363

Xenophon, Ephesian Tales 5.7 188

Xenophon, Anabasis 7.4.7 235

Xenophon, Symposium 4.10–26 235

Christian Sources Acts of Marha Krestos M1 395n.93 Acts of Perpetua 3 86 5 87 6 87, 88 7–8 87 Ambrose of Milan, Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 2.61 97–8 10.132 97 Ambrose of Milan, The Consecration of a Virgin 1.1 274, 284n.84, 290n.101 Ambrose of Milan, Exhortation to Virginity 3.13 284 3.17 284 3.13–4.27 282n.78 7.42 262 8.51 284 Ambrose of Milan, Letters 26.2 274–275n.50, 290n.101 38.1 274–275n.50, 290 71 143, 170 Ambrose of Milan, On Tobit 8.29 260n.11 Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins 1.1.1–2 260n.10 1.2.5 260n.10, 316 1.7.32 284n.84

1.10.57–60 1.10.58 1.10.60 1.11.62–63 1.11.62 1.11.63 1.11.65–66 2.3.19–21 3.7.33 3.7.34–37

282 262 285 271 263 262 259–60, 281, 315 265n.25 279–280 305

Ambrose of Milan, On Virgins to Marcellina 317n.3 1.2.5–9 298n.13 Ammon, Letter 2 266n.28, 278n.67 9 266n.28 30 266n.28, 278n.67 Anonymous Homily on Virginity 11–13 260–261 99 260–261 110 261 Antonius, Life of Symeon the Stylite 162–163n.63 Apophthegmata Patrum Anon. 171 319 Anon. 173 319 Anon. 341 319 Arsen. 28 251n.84 Amoun 3 251n.84 Cario 2 278n.68 Carion 2 319, 329 Carion 3 251n.84

Index of Ancient Sources

476 Cassian 2 Isaac 5 Macarius 5 Sisoes 10 Zach. 1–3 Zach. 4 Zach. 5

251n.84 319 319 310 330 329, 330 330

Apostolic Constitutions 4.1 258n.8 7.2.10 250 Arnobius of Sicca, Against the Heathens 1.47 214 Athanasius of Alexandria, Against the Gentiles 12.38 249 15.18 249 26.16 249 Athanasius of Alexandria, History of the Arians 25 300 Athanasius of Alexandria, Letter to Virgins 318n.4 Athanasius of Alexandria, On the Incarnation 51 300 Athenasius of Alexandria, On Virgins 318n.4 Athenagoras, Legatio 35.6 205 Athenagoras, A Plea for the Christians 34.1 251–252n.86 Augustine of Hippo, Against Felix, a Manichee 2.17 66n.63 2.20 66n.63

Augustine of Hippo, Answer to Admantius, a Disciple of Mani 17 217n.38 Augustine of Hippo, City of God 1.8 66 1.16–19 306 5.6 281 6.6 67 7.21 67 8.24 58n.33 11.14 69 12.8 64n.57 16.8 206–7, 215–16, 224 22.12 221–22 22.19 223n.75, 224 22.22 69 Augustine of Hippo, Confessions 1.11 69n.71 1.13–14 16 1.13–17 13 1.17 59, 60 1.18 59 1.7 146 2.3.8 93 4.8 60, 61 6.6.9 93 6.10.17 275n.32 6.13.23 93 8.5.10–12 93 8.6.14–15 93 8.12 15 8.12.30 94 9.8.18 94n.84 9.9.22– 9.11.28 94 9.10.23–25 92–3 Augustine of Hippo, Enchiridion 87 222–23 91 223 92 223 Augustine of Hippo, Explanations of the Psalms 50.10 60n.42 78.4 66 125.6 66

Index of Ancient Sources Augustine of Hippo, Letters 3* 276, 282 (283n.80) 10.1 267, 275, 282 13* 276 (277n.59), 285 20* 282 20.2 275 20.32 275 35.4 276–77 55.36 66 78.3 64n.57 91.3 57n.33 98 327 98.1 63, 69 98.2 70 98.3 71 98.4 71 98.5 62 98.6 258 108.7 67 111.7 276 124 276n.56, 282 (283n.80) 126 276n.56, 282 (283n.80) 130.30 263n.21 150 263 188 263, 276, 282 (283n.80) 212 276n.57, 282 (283n.80) 218 276 227 62 243 266–67, 275, 282 252–255 257n.7 266 277 Augustine of Hippo, On Baptism 3.15 61 Augustine of Hippo, On the Catholic and Manichean Ways of Life 1.71 66 Augustine of Hippo, On Christian Teaching 1.3.3–1.5.5 95 1.22.21 95 Augustine of Hippo, On Free Will 54 147 Augustine of Hippo, On the Good of Widowhood 1 263

8.11 19.24 23.38

477 276n.54 276n.54 285n.86

Augustine of Hippo, On Grace and Free Will 44 67n.66 Augustine of Hippo, On the Holy Trinity 8.9 219n.64 Augustine of Hippo, On the Instruction of the Beginners 9 62 Augustine of Hippo, On Lying 15 66n.61 Augustine of Hippo, On the Merits and Forgiveness of Sins and on Infant Baptism 1.12 69 1.22 67–8 1.25 62–3 1.28 63n.51 1.36 63 1.38 63 1.67–69 68n.67 1.70 73n.80 2.4 73n.80 2.44–46 73n.80 Augustine of Hippo, On Nature and Grace 36.42 99 Augustine of Hippo, Retractions 1.13.5 147 Augustine of Hippo, Sermons 20.4 58n.36 24.6 58n.33 39.1 58n.36 44.2 58n.33 57.2 273n.47 115.4 67, 69n.71 142.App. 60 149.3 65 159B.16 57n.33

Index of Ancient Sources

478 165.7 181.1 216.1 260C.1 275.3 279 280.1 281.1 281.2 286.4 286.7 293.10 293.11 299A.8 300 300.6 300.7 301 301.1 306E.7 317.3 318.3 339.7–8 351.2 352A.7 355.3 355.5

68–69n.69 67n.66 60 60 64n.57 62 88 88 88 64n.57 64n.55 63 60n.42 57n.33 85 85 85 85 85–6 64n.55 64n.57 64n.55 58n.36 68 58n.36 270 275

Augustine of Hippo, Soliloquies 2.36 72n.79 Augustine of Hippo, Tractates on the Gospel of John 2.13 273n.47 38.6 60n.42 50.2 60n.39 Basil of Caesarea, Hexaemeron 8.6 206n.29 Basil of Caesarea, Homilies on Psalm 14 2 260n.11 Basil of Caesarea, Letters 2 127–28 2.1 124 2.2 124 2.3 129n.122 2.5 124

4 5 5.2 6 6.1 11 17 24 25.1 30 36 37 40 41 41.2 51.1 66 73.1 73.3 82 84.2 92.2 102 105 109 112 169 170 188.2 199.18 199.22 199.33 199.38 199.42 204.4 204.6 206 207.2 210 210.5 217.52 219.2 222 223.1 223.3 223.5 226 226.2 227 228

139 127–28, 129 129n.122 127–28, 129, 129n.122 121 135 123, 125 123 133 128 134 134 129n.120, 134 127–28, 129, 132 128–129 133 130 134 135 136 131 135 121 135 132 139–140 133, 137, 138 123 122 138, 258, 271–72 137 122, 206n.29 138 138 139 127 127–28, 136–37 138 127 123, 199 122–123, 206n.29 135n.154 134–35 121, 135 127 124, 125, 136 136 133 128 122

Index of Ancient Sources 236.1 239 239.1 240.2 242.2 243.2 243.3 260.1 260.3 260.9 270 272.1 274 289 290 294 296

123 139 131 128, 136 135 131 122 125, 126, 134, 139 130 96 137–38 134n.148 134n.148 137 134n.148 123, 125 134

300

125, 127–28, 129n.122, 132, 133 124, 132 131 127, 132 126 126 126

302 309 315 337 339 346

Basil of Caesarea, Long Rules 15 138, 258, 303 Bede the Venerable, Commentary on Luke 99–100n.104 Bede the Venerable, Homilies 1.18 99 Besa, Defense against Unjust Accusations 1.3–4 325 Book of the Laws of Countries 575 213, 215 Callinicus, Life of S. Hypatius 18.3 257n.6, 279 Cassian, Conferences 21.8–10 287 21.9 285n.86

479

Cassian, Institutes 4.27 257n.6, 279, 282 Clement of Alexandria, Eclogae Propheticae 43 204 50–51 204 Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 2.10 251–252n.86 2.10.88 245, 246 2.10.89 245 3.12.89 245 3.3 251–252n.86 3.4 251–252n.86 Clement of Alexandria, Protrepticus 10.108.5 244 Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis 3.4.36 245 Coptic Documentary Texts from Kellis 331 Coptic and Greek Texts (ed. Hall) 332, 333 Council of Gangra, Canons 15 286 Cyprian of Carthage, Concerning the Lapsed 9 54, 56, 70 24 51n.16 25 50 26 51 Cyprian of Carthage, The Dress of Virgins 2 49n.12 Cyprian of Carthage, Letters 15 55 17 55 18 55 19 55 24 52 25 52n.19, 53 55.13–14 52

Index of Ancient Sources

480 55.27 57 58.6 63.8 64.2.1 64.2.2 64.3.2 64.4.2 64.5.1 64.5.2 65.2–4 69.1–3 70.1–2 71.1–3 72.1–2

51 55n.29 48 49n.12 48 47 48 47 48 48 61 61 61 61 61

Cyprian of Carthage, To Donatus 3 49 3–4 49 4 49 Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on John 12 97 “De Ss. Didymo et Theodora” 311 Dio Chrysostom, Orations 20.10 9 Ephraem Graecus, “On Virtues and Mental Passions” 396.11.3–4 251 Ephraem Graecus, “Questions and Answers” 80.1.8 251 89.1.7 251 Ephraem Graecus, “Sermon on the Second Coming” 17.1.11 251 26.1.3 251

Eusebius of Caesarea, Church History 1.1 308 5.1.55 89n.59 6.1 298 6.2 298 8.12.3 306 8.12.3–4 305 8.12.4 307 8.12.5 307–308 Eusebius of Caesarea, Martyrs of Palestine L/S 4.8 308n.63 L/S 4.14–15 308n.63 L/S 8.1 308n.63 L 11.c 308n.63 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 6: On Martyrs 305, 307 23 309 24 309, 310 25 311 26 311 28 315 29 312 30 311 Eusebius of Emesa, Homily 7: On Virgins 308–9 7 309 “Five Miracles of St. Menas” 168 Gadla Filipos 403 Gadla Marha Krestos 392, 395 Gadla Za-Yohannes Kebrān 394

Epiphanus, Ancoratus 105.9 245

Gennadius, De viris illustribus 18 221

Epistle to Diognetus 5.6 205

Gerontius, Life of Melania the Younger 89

Index of Ancient Sources 1 1–2 6 6–7 10–12 12

278 276n.56, 279 90, 278 261, 270, 276n.56, 279 261 270

Gregory of Nazianzus, Against Eunomius 6.6 249 Gregory of Nazianzus, Carmina (historica) 2.1.11 113n.43 2.1.16 117n.63 Gregory of Nazianzus, Carmina (theologica) 1.1.9.91–92 109 Gregory of Nazianzus, Letters 38.1 117 52.3 110 61.1 112–13 104.3 115 114 118–19 121–124 109n.28 121.2 110 139 109n.28 146.6 114 152 109n.28 157 109–10 159 109n.28 160–163 109n.28 174.2 114 174.4 114 193 113 196.4 116 199.4 116n.59 204 111n.35 205 111 206 111 207.2 115 207.5 115 206 115 206.2–3 111 208.4 115 230.4 111 230.5 111 231.5 113

481

239.1 110 257 fn.418 115 Gregory of Nazianzus, Orations 2.77 256 7.9 282 15 84, 85 18.9 117 18.31 256 39 108n.31 40 108 40.17 108 40.28 108, 109 Gregory of Nyssa, Epistula Canonica 106 Gregory of Nyssa, Letters 8.4 106 13.3 106 17 215 21.2 106 Gregory of Nyssa, Life of S. Macrina 90, 168 2 265n.25 4–5 264, 281n.75 5 284n.84 8 91n.68 9 91 10 91 11 284n.84 12 91 26 258 36–38 92, 191n.64, 327 38 92 Gregory of Nyssa, On Infants’ Early Deaths 137n.165, 148 Gregory of Nyssa, On the Making of Man 27 220n.66 Hilary of Arles, Life of S. Honoratus 6 266n.29, 279n.67 8 266n.29, 279n.67 History of the Monks in Egypt 1.10 279

Index of Ancient Sources

482 22 22.1

265n.27 279

Irenaeus of Lyons, Against Heresies 1.20.1 34 1.20.1–2 18 5.15.2 209, 210 5.17.2–3 209 Jerome, Against Jovinian 1.3 285n.85 Jerome, Against Vigilantius 3 285n.85 Jerome, Letters 3.4 267n.31, 282 7 282 7.1 276n.57 7.6 276n.57 8 276n.57 14.2 266 22 275, 282 22.4 262 22.15 285n.86 22.16 284n.84 22.20 291n.102 22.41 265n.25 24.2 277 24.4 284n.84 25 284n.84 32 270n.41 39 275, 282 45.4 286n.90 66.3 263n.21 68.1 212 107 23, 89n.60, 300n.27, 354 107.3 277 108 275 108.26 277n.61 108.6 89, 286 117 281, 284n.84, 285 125 267n.31 125.6–7 275, 282 127 276, 282 127.2 264 127.4 270, 285n.87 128 89n.60, 277, 300n.27 128.2 284 130 276, 282 (283n.80)

130.4–5 130.16 130.6

263 212 217, 269, 270n.38

Jerome, Life of Hilarion 2.6 280 Jerome, Life of Malchus 3.1 265, 278n.67 Jerome, Life of Paul of Thebes 4.1 280 John of Alexandria, Commentary on Hippocrates' Epidemics 130a 18 154 John Chrysostom, Address on Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring Up Their Children 294 John Chrysostom, Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life 2.10 267n.34 3.1–2 261n.12 3.11 257n.7 3.12 267–268n.12 3.18 257n.7 3.21 261n.12 John Chrysostom, Comparison between a King and a Monk 2.3–5 301 2.5 301 2.5–6 301 2.6–7 301 John Chrysostom, Five Homilies on Hanna 315n.92 John Chrysostom, Homily on the Holy Martyrs 83, 305 John Chrysostom, Homilies on Ephesians 2 21 257n.7, 284n.82

Index of Ancient Sources John Chrysostom, Homilies on John 17 18 56.1 211–12 John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Maccabees 1 82, 83 2 82 3 82 John Chrysostom, In quatriduanum Lazarum 305 John Chrysostom, On Ephesians Chap. VI 21 83–4 John Chrysostom, On the Holy Martyrs Bernice and Prosdoce 1 313 6 314 7 314 John Chrysostom, On Penitence 2 250 John Chrysostom, On Priesthood 1.2 267, 282 1.5 84 2.3 219n.64 John Chrysostom, On Vainglory 34 14, 15 39 14 39–40 8 39–46 15 John Chrysostom, To Stagirius 1.1 267, 282 2.3 301 John Moschus, Spiritual Meadows 101 163, 168 165 168 166 168 196 163, 168 197 168 223 168 227 168 243 168

483

Julian of Norwich, Revelations L18 100 Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 95.1 246–47 Justin Martyr, On the Resurrection 4 220–21 Lactantius, Divine Institutes 6.20 205 Leo the Great, Letters 167.15 272 Letter of Mary the Proselyte to Ignatius 2 112 Life and Miracles of Libanos 1 403n.110 12 403n.110 15 403n.110 18 403n.110 23 403n.110 39–40 403n.110 42 403n.110 47–48 403n.110 51 403n.110 56–57 403n.110 59–61 403n.110 64 403n.110 67 403n.110 Life and Miracles of St. Thecla 168 1 250, 265n.25 4 265n.25 46 286 Life of S. Antony 2.1–2 280 58.1 189–190 58.5 190 74.3 249 Life of Eupraxia 2.7–12 257n.6, 279–80 Life of Euphrosnye of Alexandria 3 265

Index of Ancient Sources

484 6

265

Life of Maximus 156n.45

Miracles of Marḥa Krestos 395 Miracles of Thekla 168, 286

Life of Pachomius (Bohairic) 31 266 37–38 266, 279–80, 282n.79

Nestorius, The Bazaar of Heracleides 147n.9

Life of Pachomius (First Greek) 33 328, 329 49 322, 323

Origen of Alexandria, Commentary on John 20.22.178.2 247–48

Life of Pachomius (Tenth Sahidic) F2 322, 323, 330–31 F3 329 F4 328

Origen of Alexandria, Commentary on Matthew 18.15 247

Life of Porphyrius 100–102 280 Life of Shenoute (Bohairic) 3–8 325 4–9 328 Life of ZaMikā'ēl Arāgāwi 57 391

Origen of Alexandria, Exhortation to Martyrdom 23–27 82 Origen of Alexandria, Fragments on Ephesians 24.4 247 Origen of Alexandria, Homilies 17.6–7 96

Majorian, Novellae 6.3 272 6.5 272

Origen of Alexandra, Selecta in Exodum 12.284.54 247

Martyrdom of Sophia and Her Three Daughters 296, 298–99

Palladius, Dialogue on the Life of John Chrysostom 17.134–139 280n.71

Maximus the Confessor, Letters 12 156n.45 13 156n.45

Palladius, The Lausiac History 89 8.1 265n.27, 279n.67, 280n.71 14.1–2 280 22.1 287n.93 31.1 279–80 41.5 257n.6 44 279n.93, 287n.93 54.3 271n.43 54.6 271n.43 57.1 279–80, 284 61 261, 265 61.1 276n.56, 278 61.5 271n.43 265, 279–80 67.1

Miracles of Artemios 157 Miracles of Cosmas and Damian 157, 166–67 Miracles of Gabra Manfas Qeddus 7 403n.110 8 403n.110

Index of Ancient Sources

485

Paul of Aegina, On the Therapy and Treatment of Children 155–56

Pseudo-Athanasius, Didascalia cccxviii patrum Nicaenorum 250

Paulinus of Nola, Carmina 21.60–73 276n.56 21.66–71 257n.6 21.281–285 276n.56 21.313–329 257n.6 21.836–844 276n.56 24.499–528 282n.77 24.589–594 282n.77

Pseudo-Athanasius, Life of Syneletica 5 265n.27 5–7 279n.67 7 264 8 265n.25 9 264 11 280 11–12 264

Paulinus of Nola, Letters 5.5–6 267 39.1 285n.86 39.1–2 257n.6

Pseudo-Athanasius, Syntagma doctrinae ad monachos 1.5.2 250

Paulinus of Pella, Thanksgiving 176–181 288 Pelagius, Letter to Demetrius 263n.21 Pliny the Younger, Letters 2.20.1 9 5 37 16 37 Prudentius, Crowns of Martyrdom 317n.3 Prudentius, Peristephanon 3 298n.16 10.779–780 299n.20 14 297n.13 Pseudo-Ambrosius, Epistolae ex Ambrosianarum numero segregatae 1.14–16 297n.13 Pseudo-Ambrosius, To a Lapsed Virgin 4.15 263 4.17 263 Pseudo-Athanasius, Canons (Arabic) 56 258n.8 97 284n.82 102 269

Pseudo Basil, Homily on Virginity 2.10 302 2.15–18 302 2.18 302 2.19 302 2.20 299, 302, 312 Pseudo-Ignatius of Antioch, Letter to the Magnesians 3.3 112 Pseudo-Justin Martyr, Oration to the Greeks 2 246 Pseudo-Polemon, Physiognomonica 17.11 251 Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor, Chronicle 7.4 320n.12 Regula orientalis 17.36 257n.6 18.1 257n.6 Romanos the Melodist, Hymns 14.13 99 35.1 98 35.2 98 35.4 98 35.15 98 35.16 98–9

486

Index of Ancient Sources

Rufinus of Aquileia, Church History 10.9 404n.115 Salvian, To the Church against Avarice 3.4.21– 3.9.39 270 Salvian, Letters 4.6 257n.6 Shenoute, Canons 5 338 Shenoute, Continuing to Glorify the Lord, Canon 7 DG 421 326 Sophronius, Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John 156–57, 158, 169 4 166, 167n.76 6 165n.72 10 159, 160, 163, 167 11 159, 160, 163, 167 11.2 162 11.6 164 11.8 164 11.9 164 11.10 164–65 12 167 28 167 31 167 33 167 34 159, 164, 165n.72, 167 34.2 161 34.3 161 34.7 161 34.8 161 36 166, 167 38 167 39 167n.80 40 166, 167n.80 42 167 43 167 44 169 44.3 162 45 167 54 159, 161, 164 54.6 165 54.8 165–166

70 91 94

156–157 159, 160–61, 163 159

Sozomen, Church History 1.14.1 265n.27, 279n.67 7.28 279 Sulpicius, Severus, Dialogues 1.22.1–2 287 Sulpicius Severus, Life of S. Martin 1.22.1–2 287 2.1–5 279n.67 2.2–5 267n.33 2.3–5 266 19.1–2 278 Synaxarion (Ethiopic) 395 Ta’ammerāt Marḥa Krestos see Miracles of Marḥa Krestos Tatian, Oration to the Greeks 8.1 246 28 251n.86 Tertullian, Against the Valentinians 20.3 14 Tertullian, On Baptism 4 50n.14 Tertullian, On the Veiling of Virgins 317n.3 Theodoret of Cyrus, History of the Monks of Syria 1 42n.55 2 42n.55 9 42n.55 14 42n.55 19 42n.55 Theodoret of Cyrus, Religious History 5.1 280 9.4 256n.5, 278, 282n.76, 284 9.12 279–280 13.16–18 256n.5, 278, 282n.76, 284

Index of Ancient Sources 21.14 26.4 30.1

277, 279 274 270–280

487

Theophilus of Antioch, To Autolycus 1.2 251–252n.86 1.9 119, 247 3.27 246n.63

Index of Modern Authors Allély, Anne 173 Amundsen, Darrel W. 203 Ariès, Philippe 6 Aronson, Robin 381 Avalos, Hector 176 Bagnall, Roger S. 184, 342 Bakke, Odd M. 205 Bertier, Janine 173 Beauchamp, Joëlle 342 Bickerman, Elias 240, 243 Borgen, Peder 176 Boswell, John 228–29, 352, 385 Bradley, Keith 104, 144, 149, 173 Brooten, Bernadette 230 Brown, Peter 54–5, 258, 384 Burns, J. Patout 51 Bynum, Caroline Walker 220 Charles, Robert H. 239, 240 Collins, Raymond F. 228 Cribiore, Raffaela 184, 342 Delatte, Armand 31 Deming, Will 228 Dixon, Suzanne 362 Gain, Benoit 120, 130, 132 Garland, Robert 200 Gerö, Stephen 395 Giannarelli, Elena 395 Golden, Mark 230, 231 Gourevitch, Danielle 173 Graef, Hilda 97 Guijarro, Santiago 175 Hamer, John 399, 400 Hands, Anthony 365 Harlow, Mary 345 Harmless, William 320 Hauschild, Wolf-Dieter 125 Horn, Cornelia 405 Hummel, Christine 173, 174

Kaplan, Steven 376, 379, 381, 382, 384, 385, 393, 402, 405 Katz, Phyllis 352 Konstan, David 359 Krause, Jens-Uwe 342, 343, 364, 371 Krawiec, Rebecca 90, 295 Lambert, William 182 Laurence, Ray 345 Leyerle, Blake 173 Marrassini, Paolo 376, 379, 380, 381, 384, 385, 392, 393, 395, 402 Mattern, Susan B. 153 Messing, Simon 386 Miller, Timothy 116–117, 130, 295, 341, 345 Nutton, Vivian 149 Pankhurst, Richard 386 Papaconstantinou, Arietta 372 Papathomas, Amphilochios 367 Pilch, John J. 176 Rawson, Beryl 353, 366 Sauer, Jürgen 178 Schürer, Emil 240 Scroggs, Robin 229 Serfass, Adam 367 Shack, William A. 386, 399 Shumka, Leslie Joan 104 Staples, Ariadne 307 Taddesse Tamrat 383 van Minnen, Peter 367 von Tischendorf, Constantin 30, 32 Vuolanto, Ville 295, 341–42, 349, 363, 372 Wiedemann, Thomas 104 Wohlers, Michael 182 Young, Robin Darling 80

Index of Selected Terms Coptic abba 324 amma 324 apa 324 caouon 335 hēke 332 hmhal 335 lavra/i 318, 322, 336–37 monachē 332 monachos 321 ncnēu šēm 333 nelaue šeēm 332 nlelaue šeēm 333 nhllo 324 orphanos šēm 332 paēi 332 patri neko[u]i 333 peiheēke 332 phllo 324 pkoui napa 333 šeere šēm 324 šēre šēm 324 thllō 324 Ge‘ez ‘ābiy 392 daqiq 390 gadlāt 380, 381–85, 388–95, 401–03, 405 ḥaḍana 391, 394 ḥeḍān 388–91, 402 ḥeḍānennā 392 ḥeḍnāt 391n.65 kiḍān 383, 397, 498–01 malke' 383 ne'us 390 qeddest 382 qeddus 382, 390 tano 395, 396–98 walatt 390

wald 388 Greek agapē 76 agennes 204 agnoousί 163 aischros 192 amorphon 204 anēr nean 167 antikeimenos 93 arouras 359 arsenokoites 230–32 anapēron 203, 204 blepōn 93 boupais 234, 235 brephos 189 chēra 346 choirodion 186 diakrisis 98 dialogos 55n.25 epitropeia 356n.66 eraō 237 ēthopoiia 53n.25 hameleia 96 hēmelēsamen 94 huios theou 305 iatrosophist 151 kataphoneō 361 kērōtes 161 koinonia 322 ktēnobatēs 246 ktēnothoroi 240, 243 kyrios 373 logismos 93 logistes 354 malakos 230–32 meirakion 155, 235 mimēsis 53n.25

490

Index of Selected Terms

myron 161 mythos 13 neaniskoi 155 neoi 233 nomoi 245, 246 nomothetēs 245, 246 oikonomos 335 orphanos 346 orphanotropheion 365n.106 paiderasteō 233–39, 252 paiderastēs 237n.29, 243, 254 paiderastia 237n.29 paiderastōn 232, 234 paidia 314 paidophthoreō 229, 232, 233, 236–39, 242–49, 251–55 paidophthorēseis 245, 246, 252 paidophthoria 236, 246–47, 249–52 paidophthoron 250–51 paidophthoros 239–40, 241n.39, 242– 45, 248, 254, 256 paidophthorountes 249–50 pais 37, 150–151, 152n.20, 155, 163, 189, 232, 234, 235, 237 paidas diephtheiren 246n.63 paidion 186, 189 pepērōmenon 204 peplos 168 philoponia 367 philosophia 86 philoteknon 80 philoteknos 87 physis 93 phtheirō 236 phthoreō 236, 255 pikroteroi 83 salos 98 sitologos 354 skopos 93 sophrona 158n.45

spondē 93 stear 167 stichoi 34 sympatheia 83 topos 334 xenodocheion 367 Hebrew ‘aqedah 312 miškav zakur 229 Latin ad misericordiam 356n.76 competentes 58n.40 curator 356n.64 domus 293, 366 eques 39 fructus 97 expositio 207, 208 iactans 90 infans 39, 71n.71 interior homo 90 iuvenis 337 mundus muliebris 272n.41 oblatio 258, 276 pietas 355n.64 praeses 354 prepositus pagi 358 prociens 90 prodigia 203 puella 183 puer 336 puer senex 38 sermonicatio 53n.25 sexus infirmior 90 socrus Dei 293n.102 tutela 357n.66 tutor 355, 356n.64 usus 97 votum 279

Index of Subjects 2 Maccabees 80–82 4 Maccabees 16, 79–86, 304, 314 – Augustine on 85–86 – Chrysostom on 82–83 – Gregory Nazianzen on 84–85 Abo 399–401 abortion 122, 203–05, 234n.25, 243, 339–40 Abraham (Old Testament) 38, 84, 311– 14, 318 Acts of John 172 Acts of Andrew 172, 192–93 Acts of Mar Mari 172, 193, 404 Adam (Genesis) 98 adolescence 89, 93, 159, 200 – distinct from childhood 148, 153 adoption 111, 321–22, 347–48 – and inheritance 321, 339, 348, 372 Aesop 13, 15, 26 Agnes (martyr) 297, 304 Ambrose of Milan 40n.48, 84n.32, 93, 97, 100, 143, 146, 165, 170 – on virginity 255, 259–63, 265n.25, 271, 274, 281–82, 284, 290, 297n.13, 301, 305, 315 animals 9, 14, 21, 77, 80–81, 83, 200n.2, 241 – as cause of sickness 159, 161 – as pets 11 – role in healing and healing stories 157, 159, 162–63, 194, 195 Arabic Infancy Gospel 172, 195–96 Aristophanes 14, 26, 118 Arnobius 214–15 asceticism (children) – age 268–69, 273–74, 283, 317, 395 – as financial strategy 271–72 – as personal choice 258, 263, 264, 287 – and orphanhood 281–82, 325 – in hagiography 300, 325, 328–29

– and inheritance 269–73, 278, 301, 321 – institutionalization of 256, 274 – Manichean 326, 331 – parental opposition to 259–62, 264– 67, 278, 301, 390 – as hagiographical topos 265 – parents forcing children to become ascetics 137–38, 263, 271–72, 277– 78, 283–84 – and socio-economic class 301–303, 327–28, 332, 352 – versus marriage 113, 256, 314, 317, 384, 392 – see also monasticism and monasteries Athanasius 300 Augustine of Hippo 6, 13, 15, 57, 301, 327 – against heretics 61–63, 65, 67, 148 – on Cyprian 70–71 – on the efficacy of baptism 61–63, 70 – on evil 64–65 – on infants’ ability to sin 147–48 – and mother Monica 92–95 – on physical deformities 206–08, 221– 25 baptism 70, 136–37 – adult baptism 49, 58–60, 109 – alternatives to 59 – child baptism 109 – in heretical/schismatic churches 61– 62 – infant baptism 49, 58, 61–62, 69, 108 Bardaisan 213–14 Basil of Caesarea 140–41, 199, 225 – on fatherhood 123 – on orphans 130–33 – on the pain children cause their parents 127–30 – on parent-child relationships 121–23 body

492

Index of Subjects

– form of the resurrected body 220–25 – and the humors – natural development of 213–14 Cain and Abel 15, 130 Canons of Athanasius 269 Celsus 152–53 childhood in Late Antiquity – as a distinct stage of life 6, 174 – effect of Christianity on 371–72 – scholarly assessments of 1, 6, 40 – as social construct 343–44, 346 – spiritual childhood 134–35 – as a time of powerlessness 38 children – adult attitudes toward 6, 23, 26, 81– 82, 115, 133, 184 – as future financial support for parents 37 – as social networking strategy 107, 113 – ascetic potential 329, 383 – born out of wedlock 124 – challenging adult authority 26, 330 – child martyrs 16, 69 – death of 127–29, 192–93 – familiarity with Bible 15 – idealized portrayals of 35, 37–39, 42 – letters by children 5, 11, 26 – moral innocence versus culpability of 145–48, 160–63, 166–68, 169–70 – other works by children 5, 25 – participation in church life 135–36 – pawned to pay parents’ debts 347, 349–51 – raised in monasteries 138, 257–58 – relationship with parents, 36–37 – respect for authority 133, 330 – roles in dramatic works 11 – social interaction 8, 24 – socialization 284 – see also asceticism (children), martyrs and martyrdom (children), monasticism and monasteries Cornelia 78–79 cultural diversity 4–5, 8, 117, 155 Cyprian of Carthage 46, 61, 70–73 – on baptism 49–51 – on contamination by pagan rituals 50– 56 deformed and disabled children

– as sign of God’s goodness 206–08, 212, 215 – as source of theological reflection 206–13, 225 – as source of virtue 217–20 – deformities as metaphor 199–200, 215 – deformity versus disability 200, 218 – exposure of 201–06 – and fate 213–15 – upon resurrection 221–25 – sin as possible cause of 208–13, 215 donation documents 341, 351 Domnina 83–84, 304–315 economy, monastic 394 education 39, 277, 308, 383, 393–94 – medical education 154, 181 – at monasteries 258, 323, 330, 338 – of orphans 344, 352, 354 – parental responsibility for 125, 283 see also school education, spiritual 302, 330–31, 393– 94 – as parental obligation 110, 344 Eli (Old Testament) 111–12, 140 Elijah 41, 310 epilepsy 151, 153, 159, 161, 163–65, 175, 178, 180–83, 188–89 – ancient views of 182 – as caused by demonic possession 181– 83 – other causes 189 Epistula Apostolorum 34 Esau and Jacob (Bible) 15 Ethiopia 375–78, 381, 384–90, 393–405 – traditional societies in 387–89, 396, 397–401 see also hagiography, Ethiopic Eucharist 41n.55, 50–51, 56, 58–60, 71, 164n.69, 168 Eusebius of Caesarea 297–98 – Church History 307, 308 – on virginity and martyrdom 306–08 Eusebius of Emesa 301, 308–313, 315– 16 Eve 76, 161 evil 67, 72, 161 – based in physical matter versus a person’s will 65 – catechumenate as protection from 59– 60n.39

Index of Subjects – pagan healing practices as 64–65 exposure – of deformed infants in classical antiquity 201–03, 225 – early Christian condemnation of 203– 06, 225 – Jewish condemnation of 203 – rescue from 327 father – as role model 110–11, 125, 140 – father of the bride role 113 fatherhood – as model for spiritual leadership 125– 26 – models for 111 fairy tales 13–14, 17, 26 family – Church as 63, 287, 365 – extended 125, 127, 175, 284–85, 344, 355 – and inheritance strategies 270–73, 343–44 – sick children and 186–88, 190–94 – spiritual versus biological 88–89, 90, 106, 110, 123, 291, 302 fathers and fatherhood 20, 76, 80, 110– 15, 123, 125–26, 128–29, 136, 140– 41, 161, 164, 166, 183, 187, 191–92, 203, 204n.22, 259–61, 267–69, 270, 276–79, 281–83, 288n.94, 289, 299, 301–02, 312, 318–19, 324, 329–30, 332, 334, 339, 346, 353n.56, 355, 365, 372 folklore see mythology friendship 134 gadl see hagiography, Ethiopic Galen 153–54 gender differences 36, 268, 290–91, 341 – and ascetic lifestyle 283–84 – dominance of male authors 341 – feminine virtues 94 – and forced marriage 265–66 – in hagiographic healing stories 189– 92 – and laws 342, 348, 355–61 – life expectancy 353 – male monks and boys in monasteries 319, 337 – parental influence over ascetic vows 274–76, 278, 282–83, 302

493

– and petitions 344 – play 10–11 – in Sayings of the Desert Fathers 319 – “womanly weakness” 359–61 – women blamed for children’s sickness 156, 162 Gospel of Luke 41, 178 Gospel of Thomas 34, 40 grandfather 127n.113, 131, 136, 274, 354 grandmother 37, 127, 263, 280, 321, 348, 353, 357n.67, 362, 372 grandparents 127 Gregory of Nyssa 90–91, 106, 148, 215, 327 Gregory Nazianzen – on baptism 108–09 – children in the letters of 109–, 140 – and orphans 116–17 – use of Greco-Roman myths 118–19 hagiography 315, 379 – abandoning children as topos 286–87 – social science research and 377–78 – conflict with parents over asceticism as topos 280, 287, 290 – forced marriage as topos 280 – Oriental Christian 379–80 – orphanhood as topos 280 hagiography, Ethiopic 375–405 – emphasis on monasticism 389 – evangelization in 403–04 – fleeing from marriage 383, 392–93 – influences on 381, 384, 392–93, 401– 02 – kiḍān in 397–401 – ordination and monastic vows in 392, 396 – scholarship on 375–76, 379, 383–85 – social structures seen in 381–82, 396 – terminology in 390–91 – topoi 383–84, 391–97 Hannah (Old Testament) 83, 315 Healer(s) 145, 149, 175, 179, 181, 190– 91, 197, 403 – Jesus as 177–83, 187 – types of 179 healing – as cultural and holistic, not just medical 176

494

Index of Subjects

– as evidence of the work of God 181– 82, 193 – through Christian shrines, relics, prayers, sacraments 64 – Greco-Roman medical treatment 150– 56 – in Infancy Gospel of Thomas 22, 33 – by intercessory prayer 185–86 – by monks 334 – in the New Testament 177–81, 183 – parents seeking to have sick children healed 92, 334 see also infants and pagan religious rituals – role of gender 189–92 – use of charms, amulets, pagan rituals 63–65, 153 – use of children/children’s products in healing 194–97 Hercules 38 Hippocrates 150–52, 154, 172 Holy Spirit 61, 62, 70, 135–36 Homer 9, 12, 247 homosexuality 228–31, 250, 320, 337 household 5, 65, 91–92, 106, 125, 179, 184, 194 – center of child’s life 8 – child ascetics living in 266, 284, 318, 328–29 Infancy Gospel of James 23 Infancy Gospel of Thomas – adults in 20, 34 – appeal for children 19–23, 24 – as applied pedagogy 24–25 – characters 20, 24 – Christology as chief concern 23 – considered crude 16, 29–30 – intended audience 18, 23 – literary structure 19 – manuscript tradition 32–33 – miracles stories in 17, 20, 22, 29, 33 – mislabeled as Gnostic 17, 18, 34, 40– 41 – play in 24, 29, 34 – setting 18, 19 infant – and pagan religious rituals 46, 50, 54– 56, 63–64, 69, 70–71 – religious identity of 45–47, 55, 58, 72 – and sin 48–49, 63, 67, 69, 72, 141, 147, 352

infanticide 243, 253 inheritance 269–73, 278, 301, 321 Ireneus of Lyons 18 – on sin and physical deformities 209– 10 Isaac (Old Testament) 311, 314 Jairus’ daughter 178, 180–81, 187 James (brother of Jesus) 20, 40 Jerome 6n.18, 23n.84, 89, 222, 300, 322 – on physical disabilities 212–13, 217, 219–20 – on asceticism 255, 262–65, 269, 270, 274–77, 281, 283, 285–86, 291n.102, 352 Jesus 41, 88, 96, 98–99, 164, 209 – healing ministry (canonical) 172, 177–183, 209–12 – in Infancy Gospel of Thomas 19–20, 30, 33–34, 41–43 – Jesus’ bathwater 195–97 John the Baptist 41 John Chrysostom 6, 14–15, 18, 25, 250, 257n.7, 261n.12, 267, 281, 284n.82, 289, 294, 301 – on martyrdom – on sin and physical deformities 211– 12, 215 – on virginity and martyrdom 301, 308, 316 Joseph, father of Jesus 20–21, 34 Jubilees 402 Julian the Apostate 12 Justin Martyr 205, 220–21, 246–47 Justinian 158n.48, 346, 356n.66, 361, 366 labor 8, 12, 139, 274, 335–36, 345 – work contracts 341, 347, 349, 372 Lazarus 38 leprosy 175, 195, 212 letters – as source 106–07 – on behalf of widows and orphans 368–71 – by children 5, 11, 26 – sick children in 184–86 Libanius 126 literacy 5, 9, 21, 339 Macrina the Younger 264, 327 – relationship with own mother 90–91 – as spiritual mother 91–92

Index of Subjects magical papyri 41, 341, 347 Manicheans 34, 60, 65, 326, 331 marriage 113, 137–38, 287–88, 302, 383 – concern for children as central aspect 124 – forced 137, 259–60, 264–66, 279 – forced marriage as hagiographical topos 264–66 martyr and martyrdom (children) 79, 136, 308 – as alternative to motherhood 299 – attitudes towards 298, 312 – child martyred along with a parent or parents 296, 298–99, 304, 314 – in Coptic hagiography 392–93 – desirability of martyrdom 82, 317 – spiritual 308 Martyrdom of Abd al-Masih 296 Martyrdom of the Children of Kola 296 Martyrdom of Domnina and Her Daughters Bernice and Prosdoce 296 Martyrdom of Sophia and Her Three Daughters 296, 298, 304 medical anthropology 174, 175–76 Minucius Felix 10, 14 miracles – as widespread hagiographical topos 403 – healing miracles in IGT 22 – healing miracles involving children 149, 157, 186–87 – healing miracles in Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John 157–66, 169–70 Miracles of S. Artemios 167 Miracles of Ss. Cosmos and Damian 166–67 Miracles of Ss. Cyrus and John 156–66, 169–70 Miracles of S. Thecla 168, 286 monasticism and monasteries – children raised in 138, 257–58, 317– 38 – dangers of raising children in 319, 321, 336–37 – and families 90, 303, 318–19, 322, 324–25, 327, 330–31, 337, 372, 373 – helping widows 369–71, 373 – roles of children 319, 324, 335–37

495

Monica 92–95 Moses (Old Testament) 38 mother 353 –dedicating daughters to ascetic life 283 –entering the monastic life 89–90 –opposing daughters’ decision to become ascetics 260–62 motherhood – biblical views of 76–77 – Chrysostom on 82–84 – classical views of 77–78 – emotional detachment as ideal 79, 81, 83, 86, 89–90, 91–92, 94, 100 – goals of 78, 86, 95, 101 – and martyrdom 79–88 – models for 83–84, 94 – salvation and 76, 82–83, 85–87, 94– 96, 101 – spiritual benefits of 83, 86, 87, 95 mythology 12–14, 26, 118–19, 139, 140, 165, 235, 246–47, 400 – children in 118–19 – place in children’s cultural formation 12 – use in school exercises 12–13 music 5, 11, 14–15 Naqlun 337 neighborhood 8 newborn 46, 47, 58 oblation 274, 352 Origen 96, 99, 100, 125, 247–48, 297– 98 Origenism 212, 330 original sin (sin of Adam) 143, 147, 170 orphan 114–16, 325, 332, 363–65 – and education 344 – in Greek and Coptic papyri 340–43, 346 – half-orphan 346 – and inheritance 357–58 – and petitions 352–53, 358–60 – public support for 365, 367 Ovid 10, 12 Pachomius 322–23, 326–28, 330, 335– 36, 338 parent-child relationship – attitudes towards child’s martyrdom 297–98 – Basil of Caesarea on 121

496

Index of Subjects

– children as spiritual guides for parents 90–91, 92 – conflicts regarding asceticism 137–38, 259–63, 273, 285 – death of children 36, 128–29 – dedicating babies to asceticism 112, 256n.5, 264, 277, 278, 325, 334 – emotional attachment 80–81, 83–87, 184, 192, 345–46 – encouraging children to become ascetics 112–13 – enhancing spiritual growth 83–84, 86, 91, 92, 95, 101, 299, 307 – factors affecting – Gregory of Nazianzen on 110–16 – hindering spiritual growth 79, 84 – physical resemblance 110, 124 – and sickness 194 – and sin 136 – and social ethics 115 Paul of Aegina 154–56 Paula 89 pedophilia see sexual abuse Pelagia of Antioch (martyr) 304, 310, 315 Perpetua and Felicitas 86–88 Peter (apostle) 41, 216–19 petitions 341, 343 Petronius 14, 26 Philostratus 13 Phineas 310 Plato 12, 38, 201–02, 235 Platonism 82, 93 Pliny 36 Pneumatomachoi 136, 141 play 5, 8, 14–15, 24 poverty 103n.18, 131, 139, 213, 303, 327, 328, 332, 350, 363, 379n.11 Pseudo-Matthew, infancy gospel of 30 remarriage 133, 272, 364 Rome 1, 5, 39, 104, 169, 200n.3, 201n.5, 202, 229, 276, 307 Quintilian 6, 13, 15n.58, 25 Samuel 83, 112, 310, 315 Sarah (Old Testament) 312–13 Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Apophthegmata Patrum) 318–20, 327–29 Scetis 319–21, 329 school 3, 5, 9, 11, 12, 17

– Jesus in 20–21, 24, 395 seizures see epilepsy sexual abuse of children – accusations of as polemical weapon 246–47, 248–50, 252 – as acceptable in the Greco-Roman world 227–28, 235–36, 250 – condemnation in the Apocrypha 243 – early Christian condemnation of 243– 47, 250 – Jewish condemnation of 228, 231–33 – in monasteries 319, 324 – moral rather than legal prohibition 244–45, 247 – possible New Testament references 227–29 – and prostitution 228–30 – terminology for 234–35, 237, 242–43, 252–54 – in the Testament of Levi 237–43 Shenoute’s Monastery (White Monastery) 324–25, 327–28, 330, 335–38 shrine 9 – incubation (healing) shrines 149, 158, 160, 168 – pagan 57, 64, 187, 400 sickness in childhood 143–45, 148, 173–74, 333 – attitudes toward 151, 190 – causes of 145, 151, 153, 156, 160–61, 179, 182–83, 189, 190 – classical views of 150–54 – demonic possession and 175, 177–78, 180–83, 186–87, 195 – effect on family 190, 192, 194, 197 – food and 153, 156, 184, 185, 187 – humors and 154 – and monasticism 334 – Paul of Aegina on 154–56 – reflecting adult behavior 145, 161, 165–67 – theological development of 164–68 – types of 149, 151–52, 155–56, 172 sin 53, 58–59, 66–67, 68n.69, 69–73, 96, 99, 108–09, 130, 136, 141, 320n.12 – original sin (sin of Adam) 48–49, 63, 67, 68n.67, 69, 143, 147–48, 170 – and sickness 146, 161, 163, 170

Index of Subjects – and physical deformities 208–13, 215–16, 225 – in the Testament of Levi 239–42 – sexual abuse as 239–42, 247, 250, 252 slavery 36, 114, 116, 149, 230–31, 350 – as monastic role 335 – sexual slavery 231 social ethics 103, 107, 109, 115 social science research on Ethiopia 376– 77 – children in 381, 387, 394, 405 – methodology 377, 396, 405 – modern 385–390 spiritual warfare 64–65, 88, 298–99, 311 stepfather 355n.63, 365 Stephen (New Testament) 311 stepson 188 suicide 306 – as martyrdom 83, 307, 309–11 Synaxarion (Ethiopic) 395 syncretism 398 Syriac History of the Blessed Virgin Mary 195 Ta’ammerat Maryam (Miracles of Mary) 401–02 Ta’ammerat Iyasus (Miracles of Jesus) 395 Ta’amrat Marha Krestos 395 tano compact 397–99 teenager 233, 261, 266, 290 Tertullian 14, 205 Thecla 130n.126, 264–65, 286

497

Theodora and Didymus 304, 315 Theodore 328–29 toys 5, 9–10, 24 – religious uses of 10, 300 twins 281 vestal virgin 10, 307 Victorinus 93 Virgil 9, 12 virginity 305–314 – connection with physical deformities 216–20 – threat posed by loss of 133, 306–07, 310 – see also asceticism (children) Virgin Mary 23, 24, 195–97, 402 – as martyr 100 – as mediator 197 – early ambivalence towards 96–97, 101 – Mariology and attitude towards motherhood 100 – and salvation 96, 97 – virginity of 23, 96–97 wedding 113 widow 78, 84, 115–16, 132, 134, 140, 178, 261, 262–64, 267, 272, 275–76, 279–82, 284–86, 288n.97, 289, 340 – in Greek and Coptic papyri 342–43, 363–64, 369–70 – in petitions 352, 357–58 – helped by Church 364, 367–68, 371 – religious value of widowhood 364, 372 widower 281