Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity 9004410678, 9789004410671

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Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity

Themes in Biblical Narrative Jewish and Christian Traditions

Editorial Board Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten Robert A. Kugler Loren T. Stuckenbruck Advisory Board Reinhard Feldmeier George H. van Kooten Judith Lieu Hindy Najman Martti Nissinen J. Ross Wagner Robyn Whitaker

volume 25

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/tbn

Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity Politico-Cultural, Philosophical, and Religious Forms of Critical Conversation

Edited by

George van Kooten Jacques van Ruiten

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Encounter between Jews and Greeks (“The Elephant Mosaic Panel”, upper register, in the Synagogue at Huqoq, Galilee, early 5th century CE; photo credit: Jim Haberman, © Jodi Magness). Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Kooten, Geurt Hendrik van, 1969– editor. Title: Intolerance, polemics, and debate in antiquity : politico-cultural, philosophical, and religious forms of critical conversation / edited by George van Kooten, Jacques van Ruiten. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2019. | Series: Themes in biblical narrative: Jewish and Christian traditions, 1388-3909 ; volume 25 | Includes index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019025591 (print) | LCCN 2019025592 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004410671 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004411500 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Religions—Relations—History—To 1500. | Philosophy—History—To 1500. | Toleration— History—To 1500. | Religious tolerance—History—To 1500. | Polemics—History—To 1500. | Politics and culture—History—To 1500. Classification: LCC BL410 .I65 2019 (print) | LCC BL410 (ebook) | DDC 200.93—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025591 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025592

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 1388-3909 isbn 978-90-04-41067-1 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-41150-0 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands, except where stated otherwise. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. Brill has made all reasonable efforts to trace all rights holders to any copyrighted material used in this work. In cases where these efforts have not been successful the publisher welcomes communications from copyright holders, so that the appropriate acknowledgements can be made in future editions, and to settle other permission matters. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents List of Illustrations ix List of Contributors xi  Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity: Politico-Cultural, Philosophical, and Religious Forms of Critical Conversation in the Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, Graeco-Roman, and Early Islamic Worlds 1 George van Kooten and Jacques van Ruiten

part 1 Discourses within the Ancient Near East and Early Judaism 1 Religious Intolerance in the Ancient Near East 23 Marjo C. A. Korpel 2 Polemics against Child Sacrifice in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History 57 Dominik Markl 3  Jubilees 11–12 against the Background of the Polemics against Idols in the Hebrew Bible and Early Jewish Literature 92 Jacques van Ruiten 4 Intolerance in Early Judaism: Emic and Etic Descriptions of Jewish Religions in the Second Temple Period 115 Stefan Beyerle

part 2 Discourses with Greek and Roman Powers 5 Intolerance and Freedom of Thought in Classical Athens: The Trial of Socrates 159 Paulin Ismard 6 Antiochus IV Epiphanes’s Policy towards the Jews 186 Peter Franz Mittag

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7 Contesting Oikoumenē: Resistance and Locality in Philo’s Legatio ad Gaium 205 Pieter B. Hartog 8 Stranger Danger! Amixia among Judaeans and Others 232 Steve Mason

part 3 Discourses between Greeks, Christians, and Jews 9 Difference, Opposition, and the Roots of Intolerance in Ancient Philosophical Polemic 259 George Boys-Stones 10 John’s Counter-Symposium: “The Continuation of Dialogue” in Christianity—A Contrapuntal Reading of John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium 282 George van Kooten 11 Valentinian Protology and the Philosophical Debate regarding the First Principles 358 Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta 12 Celsus’s Jew and Jewish Anti-Christian Counter-Narrative: Evidence of an Important Form of Polemic in Jewish-Christian Disputation 387 James Carleton Paget 13 The Emperor Julian, Against the Cynic Heraclius (Oration 7): A Polemic about Myths 424 Robbert M. van den Berg

part 4 Discourses between Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Greeks 14 Qurʾanic Anti-Jewish Polemics 443 Reuven Firestone 15 Christian-Muslim (In)tolerance? Islam and Muslims according to Early Christian Arabic Texts 463 Clare Wilde

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16 The Intolerance of Rationalism: the Case of al-Jāḥiz in Ninth-Century Baghdad 486 Paul L. Heck 17 The Law of Justice (šarīʿat al-ʿadl) and the Law of Grace (šarīʿat al-faḍl) in Medieval Muslim-Christian Polemics 504 Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella

part 5 Modern Cinematic Reflection 18 Writing History with Lightning: D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance and the Imagined Past 533 James C. Oleson Indices 575 1 Index of Modern Authors 575 2 Index of Ancient Sources 577 2.1 Ancient Near-Eastern Sources 577 2.2 Graeco-Roman Sources 577 2.3 Biblical Sources 584 2.3.1 Jewish Scriptures, including LXX 584 2.3.2 New Testament Writings 589 2.4 Jewish Sources 593 2.5 Christian Sources 597 2.6 Qur’anic and Islamic Sources 601 2.6.1 Qur’an 601 2.6.2 Islamic Sources 602

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Encounter between Jews and Greeks (“The Elephant Mosaic Panel” in the Synagogue at Huqoq, Galilee, early 5th century CE; photo credit: Jim Haberman, © Jodi Magness) 18 Baal stele, Louvre AO15775. (Drawing of the author after O. Keel, Die Welt der altorientalischen Bildsymbolik und das Alte Testament, Neukirchen 192, fig. 291) 29 Palette depicting the victorious Egyptian King Narmer. Author’s rendering 32 Samaria gods (Courtesy C. Uehlinger, ‘Anthropomorphic Cult Statuary’, in: Karel van der Toorn (ed.), The Image and the Book (CBET, 21), Leuven: Peeters, 1997, p. 126) 38 Mutilated head of a king or god found at Nineve, Bagdad. National Museum of Iraq. Photo: INTERFOTO: Alamy Stock Photo 42 Damaged statue of a goddess from the Old Babylonian city of Mari. Aleppo National Museum. Photo: INTERFOTO: Alamy Stock Photo 43 The polemical pyramid (arrows indicate hostility) 427 Intolerance Resumes Its Time-Honored Mask. Source: David Wark Griffith, The Rise and Fall of Free Speech in America, Los Angeles: n.p., 1916, p. 3, downloaded from https://archive.org/details/riseandfallfree00grifgoog 537 Belshazzar’s feast. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story 543 The crucifixion of Christ. Still image from Intolerance, the sacred story 544 The court of King Charles IX. Still image from Intolerance, the medieval story 545 The execution of the Boy is stopped just in time. Still image from Intolerance, the modern story 548 The Cradle Endlessly Rocking. Still image from Intolerance 549 Blocks indicating (right to left) the sequence of crosscut narrative fragments in the 2002 Kino Video release of Intolerance, freely available at: https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgylj-1tzBQ. Intertitle cards not represented. Author’s rendering 551 Handmaidens of the Temple of Love. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story 553 High Priest of Bel. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story 558 Costume of a Babylonian priest. Source: Friedrich Hottenroth, Trachten, Haus-, Feld- und Kriegsgeräthschaften der Völker alter und neuer Zeit, Stuttgart: Gustav Weise, 1884, plate 13, downloaded from http://digi.ub .uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/hottenroth1884bd1/0211 558

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Illustrations The woman taken in adultery. Still image from Intolerance (image reversed), the sacred story 560 James Tissot, The Adulterous Woman—Christ Writing Upon the Ground (1886–94), watercolour over graphite on paper, 24.0 × 19.2 cm, Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn, NY. Source: Wikimedia Commons. With permission from the Brooklyn Museum 561 John Martin, Belshazzar’s Feast (1820), oil on canvas, 90.2 × 130.2 cm, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, CT. Source: Wikimedia Commons. This is a half-sized “sketch” of the original painting (160 × 249 cm), rejected by the National Gallery for being too large, which is now privately owned. With permission from Yale Center for British Art 562 Princess Beloved and Prince Belshazzar looking upon Babylon. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story 563 Edwin Long, Babylonian Marriage Market (1875), oil on canvas, 172.6 × 304.6 cm, Royal Holloway, University of London. Reproduced by permission of Royal Holloway, University of London. Source: Wikimedia Commons 564 Woman for auction at the marriage market (on platform). Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story 565

Contributors Stefan Beyerle Professor of Hebrew Bible at the Faculty of Theology, University of Greifswald George Boys-Stones Professor of Classics and Philosophy, Department of Classics, University of Toronto James Carleton Paget Reader in Early Christianity and Ancient Judaism, Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge and Fellow of Peterhouse Reuven Firestone Regenstein Professor in Medieval Judaism and Islam, Hebrew Union College— Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles Pieter B. Hartog Postdoctoral Researcher at the Protestant Theological University, Amsterdam/ Groningen Paul L. Heck Professor of Islamic Studies, Department of Theology, Georgetown University, Washington, D.C. Paulin Ismard “Maître de conferences” in Greek history, Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne and Fellow of the Institut Universitaire de France Marjo Korpel Associate Professor in Old Testament Studies, Protestant Theological University, Amsterdam/Groningen Dominik Markl, S.J. Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible, Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome, and Research Associate of the University of Pretoria

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Steve Mason Distinguished Professor of Ancient Mediterranean Religions and Cultures, Faculty of Theology & Religious Studies, University of Groningen Peter Franz Mittag Professor of Ancient History at the Historisches Institut, Abteilung Alte Geschichte, Universität zu Köln (Cologne) James C. Oleson Associate Professor in Criminology, Department of Criminology, The University of Auckland, New Zealand Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Studies, Faculty of Theology & Religious Studies, University of Groningen Robbert van den Berg University Lecturer in Ancient Philosophy, Department of Classics, University of Leiden George van Kooten Lady Margaret’s Professor of Divinity, Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge and Fellow of Clare Hall Jacques van Ruiten Professor of the Reception History of the Bible (Historical Hermeneutics), Faculty of Theology & Religious Studies, University of Groningen Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella Professor in Arabic and Islamic Studies and Rector of the Pontifical Institute for Arabic and Islamic Studies (PISAI), Rome Clare Wilde Assistant Professor in Qur’ānic Studies, Faculty of Theology & Religious Studies, University of Groningen

Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity: Politico-Cultural, Philosophical, and Religious Forms of Critical Conversation in the Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, Graeco-Roman, and Early Islamic Worlds This volume addresses the phenomenon of forces and methods of “cultural resistance” in the ancient world, calling attention to the whole spectrum of intolerance, polemics, and debate in which cultural resistance against other individuals and groups, or even dominant societies, found expression. It takes “the ancient world” in a rather broad sense, encompassing the ancient Near East and Graeco-Roman antiquity, the latter also including early Judaism and early Christianity, together with early Islam. In this way, the volume seeks to understand polemics and intolerance in their different (dis)guises of cultural, religious, and philosophical intolerance and polemics in antiquity. By taking such a broad perspective, it tries to question common modernist assumptions that “religion” is, by definition, associated with intolerance and polemics, whereas “philosophy” is naturally characterised by tolerance and debate. The questions that underlie the contributions to this volume enquire into the boundaries between debate, polemics, and intolerance. What is the precise nature of intolerance? When is debate transposed into polemics, and at what point does polemics spill over into intolerance? Is every assertion of values and norms, every exclusivism necessarily intolerant? Where, when, and how do cultural, religious, or philosophical self-identities begin to exclude others in an intolerant way? It will become clear that the boundaries between debate, polemics, and intolerance are very difficult to draw. They signify intensified levels of critical conversation, with polemics perhaps bearing the connotation of a hostile attack in a public setting, and intolerance possibly exerted principally from a majority position upon a minority, whereas it may be that cultural resistance particularly indicates the reverse phenomenon: the reaction of a minority to a dominating culture. Other recent collective volumes and monographs on these issues in antiquity, which are in themselves very informative and stimulating, have often focused on one particular cultural era, rather than performing a cross-cultural analysis, or centred either on religious polemics (and often, in

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one breath, on religious intolerance)1 or on philosophical polemics,2 although there are also a few comparative studies.3 The current volume, however, consciously seeks a broader understanding of antiquity and also includes both philosophy and religion in order to prevent any modern, anachronistic separation of fields that were closely linked in antiquity. The regular conferences organised by the Department of Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Origins of the Faculty of Theology & Religious Studies at the University of Groningen on the reception history of biblical themes have encouraged us to take this approach, to work cross-culturally and cover the intellectual, “discursive” side of critical conversation as inclusively as possible. This reception history, which is deeply defined by the twin activities of acculturation and cultural resistance, made us aware of the need to devote a special conference to modes of critical conversation in antiquity. This volume consists of the revised papers that were presented at that conference, which took place in Groningen on May 16–18, 2017. The volume consists of four sections. The first section addresses discourses in the ancient Near East and early Judaism, paying attention to prevalent polemics and instances of religious intolerance. The second and third sections focus on discourses in the Graeco-Roman era, differentiating between the discourses of particular individuals and groups who held Greek and Roman socio-political power (in section two) and discourses among and between Greeks, Christians, and Jews (in section three). Finally, the fourth section engages with discourses 1  Martin Wallraff, ed., Religiöse Toleranz: 1700 Jahre nach dem Edikt von Mailand (Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 2016); Dirk Rohmann, Christianity, Book-Burning and Censorship in Late Antiquity: Studies in Text Transmission (Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 2016); Albert C. Geljon and Riemer Roukema, eds., Violence in Ancient Christianity: Victims and Perpetrators (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2014); Jordan D. Rosenblum, Lily C. Vuong, and Nathaniel P. DesRosiers, eds., Religious Competition in the Third Century CE: Jews, Christians, and the Greco-Roman World (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014); Wendy Mayer and Bronwen Neil, eds., Religious Conflict from Early Christianity to the Rise of Islam (Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 2013); Maijastina Kahlos, Forbearance and Compulsion: The Rhetoric of Religious Tolerance and Intolerance in Late Antiquity (London: Duckworth, 2009). 2  Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler, eds., Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy (Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 2016). 3  Peter Van Nuffelen, Penser la tolérance durant l’Antiquité tardive (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 2018); Christoph Riedweg, ed., Philosophia in der Konkurrenz von Schulen, Wissenschaften und Religionen: zur Pluralisierung des Philosophiebegriffs in Kaiserzeit und Spätantike (Berlin/ Boston: De Gruyter, 2017); C. Kavin Rowe, One True Life: The Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2016); Maijastina Kahlos, Debate and Dialogue: Christian and Pagan Cultures c. 360–430 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007). See also H. A. Drake, ed., Violence in Late Antiquity: Perceptions and Practices (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006); H. A. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000); and idem, “Lambs into Lions: Explaining Early Christian Intolerance”, Past & Present 153 (1996): 3–36.

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between Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Greeks. The volume is brought to a conclusion with a modern cinematic reflection on intolerance. 1

Discourses in the Ancient Near East and Early Judaism

The first section focuses on discourses in the ancient Near East and early Judaism. In her contribution “Religious Intolerance in the Ancient Near East,” Marjo Korpel (Amsterdam/Groningen) shows that religious intolerance in the ancient Near East was not confined to the monotheistic religions, but was also widespread in polytheistic milieus. Egypt and Mesopotamia justified their aggressive behaviour towards their weaker neighbours by invoking divine authorisation of their acts. Religious intolerance was expressed in many ways, from mockery of other gods to the destruction of their temples and cult images. Dominik Markl (Rome) argues in his “Polemics Against Child Sacrifice in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History” that polemics can also have a positive effect on societies and cultures. Although the Deuteronomistic tradition emphasises the foreign origin of child sacrifice, several texts indicate that the idea of the sacrifice (or “consecration”) of the firstborn son, in particular, seems to be a genuine part of Israelite religion. Sacrificing human or animal offspring could be understood as returning to the deity that which has been received—in the hope of gaining divine favour to produce further offspring. Moreover, surrendering one’s beloved child to a deity could be seen as proof of the highest degree of piety. Child sacrifice was a last resort in desperate situations for worshippers of deities who were believed to require sacrifice. This motivation and the resulting historical practice of child sacrifice form the background for the polemics against it in biblical texts, especially in Deuteronomy and Kings. The motif of child sacrifice is embedded there in a cluster of cultic sins which lead to the exile of Israel and Judah. Both Deuteronomy and Kings employ sophisticated literary warfare, with the declared aim of abolishing child sacrifice. These Deuteronomistic polemics contributed, in the end, to reducing child sacrifice in several cultures to a merely archaeological fact. In “Jubilees 11–12 Against the Background of the Polemics Against Idols in the Hebrew Bible and Early Jewish Literature,” Jacques van Ruiten (Groningen) shows that intolerance for foreign influence can lead to polemics against one’s own people. In the book of Jubilees, separation from other nations is explicitly required and is accomplished by refusing to conclude agreements with other nations, abstaining from common meals with foreigners, and refraining from intermarriage with them. This separation is religiously motivated and consists in the idea that there is one unique and eternal covenant between God and his

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chosen people, and it is this that establishes Israel as different from all other peoples. This corresponds to the polemical attitude against idolatry ( Jubilees 11–12), which is related to the broader discourse of polemics against idols in the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish literature. In these texts, other gods and their worshippers are criticised in a particular way—by denigrating the gods as mere artefacts. The impotence of the statue-gods brings shame on the people who attribute power to them and is an expression of their lack of knowledge. What is interesting is that the idol worshippers do not always come from among other peoples, but can also be found within the Israelite group. One may suspect that the insertion of this theme into the book of Jubilees is motivated by historical events, although no specific historical clues can be found. The author integrates the broader discourse into his own narrative, where the polemical objects are members of Abraham’s family. What remains clear, however, is that the influence of idols is closely related to the influence of evil spirits and demons, and their origin is explicitly identified with Ur of the Chaldeans. Stefan Beyerle (Greifswald) argues in “Intolerance in Early Judaism: Emic and Etic Descriptions of Jewish Religions in the Second Temple Period” that the acts and practices of intolerance and toleration are operationalised on the basis of construed differences that, through the technique of “othering,” are ascribed to “the others” as defining features. The Samaritans are taken as an example, demonstrating how literary constructions (e.g., in Josephus, Ben Sira, and texts from Qumran) could lead to the construal of differences that did not necessarily reflect historical reality. These differences are invented as part of a literary strategy emphasising the otherness of the Samaritans. By contrast, the Yehûdites at Elephantine, long before the Samaritan conflict, teach us how a lively Jewish religious reality could function in a syncretistic, tolerant environment. 2

Discourses with Greek and Roman Socio-Political Powers

The second section on discourses with Greek and Roman socio-political powers highlights the types of discourses in the Graeco-Roman era in which the participants encounter the power of the state. It starts with a discussion of the famous confrontation between Socrates the philosopher and the political institute of Athenian democracy, in a chapter written by Paulin Ismard (Paris), entitled “Intolerance and Freedom of Thought in Classical Athens: The Trial of Socrates.” In this contribution, Ismard basically demonstrates a tension between education and democracy that we, as modern people, might

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find counter-intuitive, but which is perhaps sometimes sensed when political discourse no longer trusts science, or when democratic movements and referenda seem to acquire populist overtones, revealing a discrepancy in value judgments between “democratic” and “populist”—even if on occasion, at least factually, these terms describe the same phenomenon. According to Ismard, although Athens was not an obscurantist democracy that persecuted its own intellectual elite, neither was Socrates’s trial merely a political trial. Rather, it seems that Socrates’s pedagogy took education out of the traditional private sphere of the family and also liberated it from the contractual constraints that characterised the relation between the sophists and their pupils. Out in the open, in the public spaces of the city, his pedagogy offered the opportunity for a charismatic, life-long bond between a philosopher and his pupils—a bond that could be seen as a potential threat to the established social order (even if this order was egalitarian and democratic) and to its institutions, including its law courts, as Socrates submitted “the agnostic space of the tribunal to the imperatives of philosophical practice.” The second chapter in this section studies the confrontation between Greek-Seleucid politics and the ethnicity of the Jews (or Judaeans) in the second century BCE, in a contribution by Peter Franz Mittag (Cologne) under the title “Antiochus IV Epiphanes’s Policy Towards the Jews.” Antiochus IV is often seen as the initiator of a decree in 167 BCE ordering the full hellenisation of the whole Seleucid Empire, and consequently the forceful prohibition of the Jewish religion and the conversion of the Jerusalem temple into a Hellenistic cultic space. For these reasons, it is deemed to constitute “one of the most prominent examples of religious intolerance in the ancient world.” However, following the revisionist views of Sylvie Honigman and going against the prevailing scholarly consensus, Mittag argues that Antiochus IV’s decree cannot possibly be authentic. Not only is the decree missing from 2 Maccabees, despite its author’s inclination to include as many relevant documents as possible, but the initial hellenisation of Jerusalem is voluntary and meets with no significant resistance. Instead, Mittag ascribes the subsequent crisis to a power struggle within the Jewish elite and understands the assumption of an anti-Jewish decree issued by Antiochus as a misperception, by some Jews, of measures that were taken in the wake of a Jewish insurrection put down by the Seleucids. Mittag’s alternative reading of the events is not meant to exonerate Antiochus IV, but to make sense of the otherwise unattested religious intolerance of the Seleucids. If Mittag is right, the relevant Jewish literature rather shows how a particular group of Jews portrayed themselves as victims of a consistent Seleucid religious policy, with the (simultaneous) intention of

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discrediting the legitimacy of rival Jewish groups. Even so, this response is only one link in an uncomfortable and complex chain of occupation, insurrection, and polemical responses. Different Jewish responses to Graeco-Roman rule are central in the remaining chapters in this section. A subsequent crisis between Roman political power and the Jews is examined in the chapter by Pieter Hartog (Groningen) under the title “Contesting Oikoumenē: Resistance and Locality in Philo’s Legatio ad Gaium.” This chapter explores the way in which Philo of Alexandria responded to the confrontational politics of the Roman emperor Gaius Caligula, who failed to protect Jewish political life in Alexandria from Greek and Egyptian attacks in 38 CE and even threatened to disrupt their religious life in Jerusalem by placing his statue in their temple. Hartog shows how Philo’s cultural resistance against the Roman emperor takes shape in a rather subtle way, by presenting the Jews as “the guardians of traditional Roman values.” Whereas the previous emperors, Augustus and Tiberius, conducted themselves as rulers of the global oikoumenē and exhibited a translocal mindset, taking care to foster the stability of the global Roman Empire by allowing the subjected nations to maintain their local ethnic customs, Gaius deviates from the succession of these good emperors, with his self-centred character and lack of virtue distorting the stability of the empire. The Jews, however, through the defence of their ethnic customs, contribute to the empire’s stability. Although polemicising against the figure of Gaius, Philo’s use of a strategy of “glocalisation,” in which he reimagines the Jews’ local identity from within the global context of the Roman Empire, allows him to remain as constructive as possible. The final chapter in this section focuses on the way in which Flavius Josephus responds to the charges that Rome (through the mouths of its historians) levelled against the Jews after its destruction of Jerusalem following the Jewish revolt against Rome (66–70 CE). In a contribution entitled “Stranger Danger! Amixia among Judaeans and Others,” Steve Mason (Groningen) shows how a Roman historian such as Tacitus, writing his Histories after the Romans destroyed Jerusalem and extinguished the Jewish revolt, polemically accuses the Jews of separating themselves from all other peoples and also exerting an attraction upon non-Jews who, after adopting the Jewish way of life, “quickly grasp the principle, with which they are indeed thoroughly infected, of despising the gods, disowning their patria, and holding in contempt their own parents, children, and brothers” (5.5). Mason demonstrates how these two seemingly contradictory accusations (of Jewish separation from and simultaneous attraction of non-Jews) are in fact rather coherent when understood against the background of the notion of amixia or “non-mingling.” This amixia was criticised by some as a misanthropic vice, but commended by others

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(including Plato in his comments on Spartan amixia) as a virtue that resonated with the strongly ethnographic mindset of the Graeco-Roman world, which commended loyalty to one’s ancestral laws and customs. According to Mason, Jewish intellectuals such as Philo and Josephus, in various polemical circumstances, join this discourse of amixia, accepting the fact of amixia but denying that this implies any misanthropy on their part. Rather, the Jews’ positive form of amixia surpasses that of the Germani, inasmuch as the Jews, unlike the Germani, live throughout the Roman Empire. Jewish amixia also supersedes that of the Spartans, since the Jews “welcome foreigners who truly resolved to live under their laws.” This study of Philo and Josephus thus demonstrates that an important potential response to polemics consists in the fluency with which victims participate in a common cultural discourse with their antagonists. 3

Discourses between Greeks, Christians, and Jews

The third section continues our interest in intolerance, polemics, and debate in the Graeco-Roman era, but here the attention switches from the more clearly socio-political aspects to the more intellectual and deliberative confrontations found in philosophy and religion. In the opening chapter of this section, under the title “Difference, Opposition, and the Roots of Intolerance in Ancient Philosophical Polemic,” George Boys-Stones (Toronto) explores the emergence of a “distinctive polemical vocabulary” in post-Hellenistic philosophy that distinguished between two forms of disagreement: the weak form of “difference” within a particular philosophical school, and the strong form of “opposition” between the schools. According to Boys-Stones, mere differences are turned into oppositions when a school emphasises its own qualitative explanatory difference over and above another school, believing that its position enables a better or fuller explanation of particular phenomena than rival theories do. This polemical “subordination” is then greeted by the other schools in a critique, stating that the more comprehensive frameworks are unnecessary, illusory, and in need of “deflation.” Yet despite these mutual polemics of subordination and inflation, each school regarded the philosophical training of the rival schools as “propaedeutic” to its own, enabling the kind of “intellectual journey through the schools” that Justin Martyr experienced when he progressed from Stoicism to Aristotelianism, Pythagoreanism, Platonism, and finally to Christianity. It is this hierarchy of successive subordination, BoysStones argues, that prevents the post-Hellenistic schools from becoming intolerant, although an important antithesis remains: between these “dogmatic” schools on the one hand and Scepticism on the other. Christianity fits into

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these kinds of inter-school polemics, but only up to the point at which some Christians argued, not that they had access to the ultimate explanatory principles, but that this access remained unavailable to the Greek philosophers even in principle, because it was dependent upon divine help and revelation. These Christians joined the debate with the philosophical schools with the intention not only of subordinating the other schools, but also of rendering them irrelevant, as they deemed faith to be possible without (and even despite) the propaedeutic utility of the philosophical schools. Although scholars increasingly doubt whether a systematic policy of intolerance towards pagan philosophy ever actually emerged within the Christian Roman Empire, some Christian positions are more inclined to intolerance than others, depending on their views of the constructive propaedeutic role that pagan literature and philosophy could play in understanding ultimate truth. Yet Boys-Stones reminds us that debates between the philosophical schools could be very heated indeed. For instance, the Platonist Atticus responds to Aristotle’s criticism of Platonism by stating that Aristotle “could not understand the theory, since things so great, divine, and transcendent require a like faculty for their comprehension,” whilst Numenius, another Platonist, opposes both the scepticism of the Academic school and the materialism of the Stoic school, accusing them of “betraying” Plato by dropping some of his beliefs, distorting others, and diverging from him through ignorance or even deliberately. In the second chapter, entitled “John’s Counter-Symposium: ‘The Continuation of Dialogue’ in Christianity—A Contrapuntal Reading of John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium,” George van Kooten (Cambridge) responds to the view that the resistance of early Christianity to Graeco-Roman culture was so antithetical that the “sermon” was squarely placed over against dialogue and silenced it. He argues that early Christian writings testify to a continued discourse with the Graeco-Roman world and that this can already be seen in the New Testament writings. In his contribution, Van Kooten develops the thesis that the author of the Gospel of John engages in a sustained discourse with Plato’s Symposium, to the point that his own gospel acquires the characteristics of the genre of “counter-symposia.” John’s Gospel resembles Plato’s Symposium in both form and content, focusing on the topic of divine love—the shared theme of both writings. Van Kooten first discusses the sympotic genre in antiquity, arguing that this genre was particularly competitive, probably reflecting the actual character of many sympotic meetings in real life. Plato’s Symposium met with approval and emulation as well as parody and criticism, responses that the ancient satirical writer Lucian nicely captures in the neologism “counter-banqueting” (ἀντισυμποσιάζειν): writing in response to Plato’s Symposium. This partly emulative, partly polemical activity is subsequently traced in John’s

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Gospel. In his biography of Jesus, the author depicts his Johannine Christianity as the “supersession” of both Judaism and Hellenism in a way that resembles what George Boys-Stones in his chapter characterises as the technique of “subordination,” which is used in the polemics between the Greek philosophical schools. Making use of the narratives of Plato’s dialogues, John portrays Jesus as Socrates’s successor among the non-Greeks, thus subsuming Socrates and Jesus into one continuous discourse. Therefore, as a counterpart of Plato’s Symposium, John’s Gospel encompasses the whole spectrum of positioning itself as its equal and equivalent, but also as a supplement and an improvement. Borrowing a term from Edward Said, one could also understand John’s Gospel as a “contrapuntal” reading of Plato’s Symposium. This perspective allows us to recognise the ambiguity of an emerging subculture in relation to the dominant culture, the appropriation of which is marked by both congeniality and criticism, thus enabling a critical appropriation of the leading culture. In a third chapter, entitled “Valentinian Protology and the Philosophical Debate Regarding the First Principles,” Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta (Groningen) is keen to stress that Gnostic thought is not simply “a parasite on orthodox Judaism or Christianity.” To the contrary, “Gnostics were important actors in the cultural context in which they lived, and the stature of their thought can only be properly understood as part and parcel of the ongoing discussion among philosophical and religious groups in the first centuries CE.” Consequently, Roig Lanzillotta argues that “their views cannot be taken as simple reactions,” but “that essential conceptual developments in both Christian and pagan worldviews were due to their innovative contributions.” He demonstrates this by contextualising Valentinian thought in the polemics between the philosophical schools, with particular attention to the topic of God’s relationship to the world. The Valentinians were responding to the Aristotelian, Epicurean, and Neo-Pythagorean critique of the Platonic God in the Timaeus and of the Stoic immanent deity; these depictions of a “technomorphic” creator God portray him as “grievously overworked.” Roig Lanzillotta argues that Valentinian Christians such as Ptolemy “tacitly and implicitly” side with these critics and resolve the issue by considering the Demiurge in the Timaeus not as the highest God, but as a lower creator God who created the lower realms of the world (the astral and earthly regions), and by equating him with the Christ–Logos who enacts the Father’s plan. In this way, Ptolemy’s solution prefigures the distinction that the Platonist philosopher Numenius makes between a genuinely divine intellect and a demiurgic intellect that brings the former’s plan into practice. Thus the Valentinians, according to Roig Lanzillota, not only engaged in the contemporary debate about God’s relationship to the world, but also took the initiative in explaining how God interacted with the world.

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The final chapters in this section challenge some common views that have been extrapolated from particular historiographies of early Christianity in its relation to its Jewish and pagan contexts. Given that much urgent attention has been duly paid to the phenomenon of early Christian polemics against the Jews, it is relevant to raise the question of whether the reverse phenomenon, early Jewish polemics against the Christians, was absent in antiquity. In a contribution under the title “Celsus’s Jew and Jewish Anti-Christian CounterNarrative: Evidence of an Important Form of Polemic in Jewish-Christian Disputation,” James Carleton Paget (Cambridge) discusses the anti-Christian criticism expounded by an anonymous Jew who is used as an authoritative informant in the anti-Christian polemics of the Platonist philosopher Celsus in his True Word around 180 CE. Although there is otherwise no known Jewish evidence of a Jewish counterpart to the Christian Adversus Judaeos tradition before the Rabbinic period (in the sense of a Jewish Adversus Christianos literature paralleling the widespread phenomenon of pagan anti-Christian literature), Carleton Paget regards the anti-Christian polemic of “Celsus’s Jew” (as he is known) as authentic and therefore as “the first unambiguous example of a pagan showing knowledge of Jewish association with Christians and exploiting this fact for his own purposes.” Celsus’s Jew’s criticism is levelled against both Jesus and his followers, and focuses primarily on Jesus’s alleged divinity, arguing that the biographical details of his life are incompatible with his supposed divine origins and demonstrate that he could not be the divine Logos. Celsus’s Jew appears to be familiar with and polemicising against Christian gospels (in particular against the gospels of Matthew and John), inverting their accounts of Jesus’s life in a kind of popular “counter-narrative” and mixing them with “pre-existing, polemically oriented stories about Jesus.” In this way, he creates a “biographical calumny” that attacks Jesus’s character and actions rather than his ideas, with the principal purpose of showing “that there is a striking disjunction between the claims made for Jesus’s divinity and the reality of his life.” Interestingly, this Jew also inscribes his critique of Jesus in a broader comparison with the (demi-)gods of Greek myths, from which Jesus emerges unfavourably. The continued existence of such a genre of comprehensive counter-narratives about Jesus seems confirmed in passages from Justin, Tertullian, Lactantius, and possibly in the fourth-century Martyrdom of Conon, according to which, during the persecution of the Christians under the emperor Decius (249–51 CE), a group of Jews presented a Roman governor with critical accounts of the life of Jesus. According to Carleton Paget, this kind of ad hominem counter-narratival polemics probably constituted the earliest phase of Jewish-Christian polemics, before the rise of the counter-exegesis

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and counter-argument that came into favour in the Christian Anti Judaeos polemics. The contexts in which such polemical counter-narratives emerged and functioned are probably shaped by direct disputations between Jews and Christian Jews, in which the former tried to prevent the latter from abandoning their ancestral law and deserting them “for another name and another life”— the stated intention of Celsus’s Jew. In these situations, ad hominem attacks on the founder of the Christian movement were considered more effective than counter-exegetical strategies. In this way, Carleton Paget contributes to a fuller understanding of Jewish-Christian polemics in antiquity. A similar historiographical check is performed by Robbert van den Berg (Leiden) in a chapter entitled “The Emperor Julian, Against the Cynic Heraclius (Oration 7): A Polemic about Myths,” which focuses on the emergence of early Christian intolerance at the end of the fourth century CE. In 380 CE, as a result of Emperor Theodosius I’s Edict of Thessalonica, “Catholic” Christianity (i.e., the type of Christianity that accorded with the Council of Nicaea, which took place in 325 CE) became the state religion of the Roman Empire, after it had first been allowed as a licit religion alongside other, pagan religions in the Edict of Milan in 313 CE. But how does the figure of the ex-Christian Roman emperor Julian (reigned 361–63 CE) fit into this context? Amidst what is regularly seen as an epochal turn from Roman persecutions of Christians towards Christian intolerance, Julian has often been perceived as the last strong tower of Roman tolerance. But how did this emperor, who also issued the so-called School Edict (362 CE) that excluded Christian professors from teaching classical literature and philosophy, actually behave towards the pagan philosophies that he himself, as an adherent of pagan Neoplatonism, did not favour? Van den Berg demonstrates how Julian performed his polemics by focusing on Julian’s oration against the Cynic philosopher Heraclius in response to a now-lost oration that Heraclius delivered in Constantinople in 362 CE. He does so with the aid of a model of polemical discourse developed by Jürgen Stenzel, who emphasises the aggressive, public nature of polemics and differentiates between the polemical subject, the polemical object, the polemical theme, and the audience, whom the subject tries to convince of the importance of the theme as well as of the justifiable disapproval of the object. Following Jürgen Stenzel, Van den Berg stresses “the role of values in philosophical polemics.” According to Stenzel, a polemical theme “has to be controversial and an abundant source of energy for aggression, so it has to be able to activate intensely held values.” As another recipient of Stenzel’s insight, André Laks, emphasises, “‘Philosophical polemics’ (as distinct from philosophical argumentation) enter the philosophical scene when ultimate convictions are at

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stake.”4 In his contribution, Van den Berg demonstrates how Julian’s response to Heraclius advertises his own religious-philosophical program and engages in two polemics at once: first, a polemic with the Cynic Heraclius, and second (and simultaneously), a polemic with his own Christian opponents by proxy. In his polemics, Julian follows a well-established strategy of philosophical polemics that Van den Berg deduces from the following examples, in which Platonic philosophers respond to harsh, polemical, slanderous attacks on Plato by Epicureans, rhetoricians, and sophists. Van den Berg refers to a public reading of texts written by the Epicurean Colotes and a provocative public interpretation of Plato’s Symposium by the rhetorician Diophanes. Whilst Colotes attacks Plato in order to establish the superiority of Epicurus, Diophanes deliberately misuses Plato for his own unethical cause, with both antagonists prompting those Platonists in the audience who felt most offended to ask other philosophers to respond on their behalf, showing that Colotes and Diophanes were merely fake philosophers because “they completely dissociate themselves from the entire philosophical tradition.” Platonists such as Numenius, Plutarch, and Porphyry describe such polemics between the philosophical schools in the language of a “Homeric battle,” in which “Homeric warriors” come to the defence of a good cause. Similarly, Julian, when confronted with the polemical critique of the Cynic Heraclius in a public meeting, decides to engage in a polemical exchange with him because the Cynic blasphemes against the gods. Julian tries to frame him as a finance-driven fake philosopher and as a shrewd, wandering Christian monk who lives on alms. By rendering Heraclius a fake Cynic philosopher, to be distinguished from the original Cynics, Julian prevents Christians from seeing his polemics against Heraclius as an example of the disharmony that characterised the relations between the philosophical schools, at least according to Christians such as Eusebius of Caesarea. As Van den Berg puts it, Julian’s “polemics with Heraclius is not a duel between two pagan philosophers, but one between a champion of the Greek philosophical tradition and someone who, like the Christians, has placed himself outside of that tradition.” In his response to Heraclius’s oration, Julian alludes to the argument that Plato develops in books II and III of his Republic—the need for state control over literature. In this way, Van den Berg concludes, the emperor warns the intellectuals and orators in his empire that “it will not suffice merely to pay lip service 4  Jürgen Stenzel, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus. Vorschläge zu einer Theorie der Polemik,” in Formen und Formgeschichte des Streitens. Der Literaturstreit, ed. Franz J. Worstbrock and Helmut Koopman (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1986), 3–11, here 6; André Laks, “The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means?” in Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy, ed. Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 16–30, here 26.

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to some version of Greek philosophy and pagan mythology to win his favour, as Heraclius may have hoped,” but that “they should aim for a purified version of Greek literature and philosophy. If not, they are no better than the Christians, with whom Julian associates Heraclius.” Taking this into account, it may be interesting to consider Julian’s exclusion of Christians from a common discourse, aggravated by his School Edict, as one of the reasons behind post-Julian Christians wishing to elevate their religion from its pre-Julian status as a licit religion (313 CE) to that of the official state religion of the Roman Empire (380 CE). 4

Discourses between Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Greeks

The fourth section of this volume is concerned with discourses between Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Greeks in late antiquity and the Middle Ages. In a chapter entitled “Qur’anic Anti-Jewish Polemics,” Reuven Firestone (Los Angeles) discusses the large number of references to Jews and their ancestors, the Israelites, in the Qur’an. It demonstrates the important status Jews held in the region from which the Qur’an emerged in late antiquity. The Qur’an expresses a clear ambivalence towards Jews. In some contexts it expresses admiration and esteem. More often, however, the Qur’an is highly critical of Jews. In order to truly understand and appreciate the anti-Jewish polemic of the Qur’an, the Qur’an’s views of Jews need to be examined in relation to its positions towards other communities that contested its self-proclaimed status as a divinely revealed text. Moreover, the Qur’an’s views of Jews must be observed historically in relation to the emergence of the Qur’an in late antiquity, and phenomenologically in reference to the emergence of Scripture and the birth of religion in general. Firestone focuses on this last aspect. The Qur’an’s appearance as a divine disclosure, occurring after the closure of Jewish and Christian scriptural canons, represents a criticism of prior Scriptures and the religious communities and practices those prior Scriptures authorise. In other words, the very existence of the Qur’an is a polemical statement. Moreover, the polemics in emergent Scripture also derive from attacks by members of established religions. Firestone surveys several categories of critique levelled against the new prophet and his message, to which the Qur’an seems be responding: i) Jewish rejection of the new revelation; ii) Jewish criticism of the new revelation; ii) Jewish rejection and undermining of the authority of the prophet; and iv) Jewish criticism of new religious practices. Some new religious movements do indeed succeed in establishing new religions. When this occurs, they remain forever threatening to the authority of previously established religions.

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Earlier scriptural monotheisms therefore continue to disparage newer religions even after they become established. The newer religions, in turn, carry within their sacred Scriptures the institutional memory of those early attacks and their own defensive reactions in the form of invective directed against their accusers. As a result, the hostility becomes embedded in both religions’ worldviews, as it is eternalised in theology, ritual, law, and practice. Thus, Firestone emphasises, Qur’anic anti-Jewish polemics cannot be properly understood without taking into account the historical and phenomenological context of their origin. Given the phenomenology of religious emergence, it should not be surprising that religious resentment, fear, and prejudice is so difficult to transcend. In “Christian-Muslim (In)tolerance? Islam and Muslims according to Early Christian Arabic Texts,” Clare Wilde (Groningen) discusses the situation of Christians living under Muslim rule. In order to gain proper insight into their situation, it is important to look at previous legislation in the region, as well as at the literary genre and theological orientation of Christian literature in Arabic. She focuses on two different types of Christian Arabic writings from the early Islamic period (the ninth century): one in the form of a letter, the other framed as a debate text. Christians had been in power prior to Muslim rule, and their writings reflect a desire for a return to their former glory, either in this world or the next. Moreover, despite numerous allusions to social disadvantages, Christian Arabic texts depict benevolent Muslims, particularly Muslim officials. At the same time, Christian Arabic texts also contain disrespectful remarks about Islam, the Qur’an, Muhammad, Muslims, Jews, and others with whom they disagree. Finally, in addition to being reduced to a subordinate status by the Islamic state, Christians themselves were also intolerant of the errors of Islam, and of Muslims, and of Jews—not just in their literary productions, but also in their attempted regulation of cross-communal interactions. Their refusal to recognise the truth claims of other religious communities did have consequences for those who wished to transgress the communal borders—consequences such as excommunication or refusal of marriage. The refusal to accept (as true) the beliefs and practices of others was not restricted to a rejection of the religion of the ruling elites; it also extended to the religion of their own peers with the same socio-political status. In the next chapter, entitled “The Intolerance of Rationalism: The Case of alJāḥiz in Ninth-Century Baghdad,” Paul L. Heck (Washington, DC) discusses the institution of the Inquisition by the caliph al-Ma’mūn (813–33 CE) in the last year of his reign. The goal of this institution was to test the religious scholars and juridical authorities of the realm and to verify that they were in line with the caliph’s position that the Qur’an was created rather than uncreated. These

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two theological positions were deeply rooted in different religious experiences that resulted in two conflicting visions of how the community of Muslims should be ordered. Those who defended the position that the Qur’an was created exalted scholastic argumentation of a philosophical kind in its theological approach, making that understanding of religious experience more deployable as an emblem of political order. The others—those who viewed the Qur’an as uncreated—can be characterised as promulgating a pious and even mystical encounter with the body of God that lent itself to a view of religious community apart from the political order under the caliphal aegis. The Inquisition is an example of what Heck calls political intolerance, in which the ruling power seeks to eliminate certain ideas and the communities that adhere to them. The intention of the Inquisition was not to advance the common welfare or maintain order, but to eliminate theological ideas that the ruling elite found philosophically distasteful and even considered a disgrace to Islam. The scholar al-Jāḥiz (d. 869) supported the Inquisition because its goal reflected his goal of establishing a clear method for ascertaining theological truths. Al-Jāḥiz’s intolerance was rationalist in its claim to be based upon the sound workings of human rationality, in alignment with philosophical assumptions about what all humans should recognise as true. This shows that intolerance is not necessarily characteristic of the irrational masses. Al-Jāḥiz’s intolerance was rooted in the rationalist pretensions of the ruling elite. In the last chapter in this section, “The Law of Justice (šarīʿat al-ʿadl) and the Law of Grace (šarīʿat al-faḍl) in Medieval Muslim-Christian Polemics,” Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella (Rome) discusses Paul of Antioch, the Melkite Bishop of Sidon, who wrote an apology for Christianity in Arabic around the year 1200. His argument regarding two types of revealed law (the law of justice and the law of grace) challenged his Muslim readers to reflect in turn on their own understandings of religious history—that is, to think theologically of Islam alongside other monotheistic traditions and to respond to his implicit question: What does Muḥammad’s prophetic message bring to those to whom the divine Word had already been addressed? The Muslim respondents to Paul of Antioch’s Letter to the Muslim Friend—al-Qarāfī, Ibn Taymiyya, and al-Dimašqī— specifically addressed this argument. The differences between their responses are subtle and significant, and could be considered different expressions of an Islamic theology, each asserting Islam’s superiority over Christianity. These figures show, as does Paul of Antioch, that medieval Muslim-Christian polemics deserve the attention not only of historians, but also of theologians and, more generally, of anyone interested in the complex processes of religious thinking and identity formation, which also takes shape in moments of contradistinction from other religious groups.

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A Modern Cinematic Reflection

A final contribution to the volume offers a modern cinematic reflection on the theme of intolerance. In “Writing History with Lightning: D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance and the Imagined Past,” James Oleson (Auckland) studies the feature film Intolerance, produced by D. W. Griffith and premiered in 1916, slightly more than a century ago, and argues that it is “a film that also deserves to be studied more widely—by historians, political scientists, philosophers, and theologians.” According to Oleson, the imagery of Intolerance is important because it shaped—and still shapes—popular understandings of ecclesiastical and secular struggles for power. An epic on a hitherto unprecedented scale, the film was a commercial failure, bankrupting its production company and ruining its director financially. Today, however, Griffith’s silent epic is considered to be one of the greatest films ever made. With a runtime of approximately three hours, Intolerance recounts four interrelated stories: the fall of Babylon (539 BCE), the crucifixion of Jesus Christ (27 CE), the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre (1572 CE), and a fictional representation of the Ludlow Massacre (1914 CE) and its unintended consequences. These four threads are depicted in a radically nonlinear manner, linked via more than fifty transitions, and are unified by the visual refrain of an eternal mother rocking a cradle. By drawing on cross-cultural examples from Babylon, Jerusalem, Paris, and the modern American metropolis, the film shows that even well-intended reforms which are undertaken for the “betterment” of society are characterised by a tension between (in)tolerance and love that is, eventually, reminiscent of the classical, perennial tension between justice and mercy. Throughout human history, Griffith warns, a host of evils (intended and unintended) has been unleashed through our intolerance of others. The cross-cultural and inclusive approach we have taken in this volume permits us to propose the following insights, some of which may be counter-intuitive. It seems that the difference between debate and polemics is perhaps not so significant as one might assume. Polemics, after all, may also be read as indications that ultimate values are at stake. In that sense, polemics are the emotional side of contested values. Techniques of “othering”—which, as anthropologists have noted, forge a dualism between “the opponents” and one’s own “in-group”—may be at work in such polemics, but several contributions to this volume have shown that in this “othering,” one also criticises (members of) one’s own community. The “polémique extérieure” is always also an implicit “polémique intérieure.” We have seen how, in the case of the critique of child sacrifice, it is not only the current practice of other religions, but also

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the earlier developmental stages of one’s own religious practice that are condemned. Moreover, we have seen how this kind of polemics, in one way or another, helps cultures develop further—in this case leading to the eventual abrogation of child sacrifice. Generally, polemics seem to have a negative connotation, but they also perform positive functions. Intolerance seems more straightforwardly negative than polemics. Historically speaking, it is rather interesting to note where intolerance is found. Its occurrence is not limited to monotheisms, but it is also widespread in polytheistic milieus. In many contexts, religious intolerance appears to be a justification of politics through religious means. Rather counter-intuitively, intolerance is also found in democratic institutions, as the case of Socrates’s trial makes clear. This insight might become less surprising as we note similar clashes between democracies and science, and between populist majorities and minorities within democratic societies in the modern era. As one of the contributions has shown, the rationalist pretensions of the ruling elite can also be politicised and become totalitarian; they can be employed to eliminate particular ideas and the communities that adhere to them. A pressing question seems to be whether tolerance is something that can only be granted by and expected from the majority culture. But this would let minority cultures off the hook. Or can they, in some sense, be asked to show their “respect” for particular majority views whilst, within this discourse, negotiating freedom for their own values and concerns? This might convince the current majority that the empowerment of minorities would not simply result in turning the tables of intolerance. Several contributions to this volume seem to confirm the importance of minorities being fluent in the dominant discourses and able to develop their contrapuntal lines of thought within a common cultural discourse. Perhaps we can infer from this that such a common discourse would flourish best in a context in which all the cultural actors also paid attention to the values on which all the interlocutors agree, even if these values are anchored in different argumentations and distinct worldviews. There might then be polemics regarding the subordination or deflation of each other’s actual arguments, but at the same time, particular values would also be highlighted as common objectives, whilst the other’s arguments could be recognised as (at least) propaedeutically valuable in these ongoing critical debates. The ambiguities of critical encounters are nicely illustrated in the image of the late-antique mosaic that accompanies this introduction and is also displayed on the front cover of the volume. We are greatly indebted to our colleague Professor Jodi Magness (University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill) and her husband, the photographer Jim Haberman, for granting us the right to

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figure 0.1 Encounter between Jews and Greeks (“The Elephant Mosaic Panel” in the Synagogue at Huqoq, Galilee, early 5th century CE) photo credit: Jim Haberman, © Jodi Magness

use their photo of one of the late-antique mosaics in the Synagogue at Huqoq, which Professor Magness and her team discovered in 2013–2014. This image (see Figure 0.1) illustrates our subject matter so well. Now known as “The Elephant Mosaic” and dating from the early fifth century CE, this panel depicts an encounter between Jews and Greeks—perhaps the respectful affirmation of the Jewish god by Alexander the Great (cf. Flavius Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 11.325–339, as according to Jodi Magness herself), or perhaps the Maccabean Revolt against Antiochus IV Epiphanes (the topic of Peter Franz Mittag’s contribution to this volume), among other interpretations.5 Whatever the precise identity of the figures in the panel and the nature of their encounter (whether peaceable or rather more hostile), it impressively portrays the tension between debate and power in cross-cultural encounters in antiquity. We are also very grateful to the following funding organisations for supporting our conference so generously: The Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences; the Nicolaas Mulerius Foundation, chaired by the vice-chancellors (past and present) of the University of Groningen; the Groningen University 5  For the official publication of this mosaic and an exploration of various interpretive possibilities, see Karen Britt and Ra’anan S. Boustan, The Elephant Mosaic Panel in the Synagogue at Huqoq: Official Publication and Initial Interpretations (Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 106; Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2017). Cf. also Katherine M. D. Dunbabin, “Introduction to a Range of Interpretations of the Elephant Mosaic Panel at Huqoq,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 31 (2018): 506–508. For its interpretation with regard to Antiochus IV Epiphanes and the Maccabean Revolt, see esp. Janine Balty, “La ‘mosaïque à l’éléphant’ de Huqoq: un document très convoité et d’interprétation controversée,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 31 (2018): 509–12.

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Fund; the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies of the University of Groningen; and, last but certainly not least, the Protestant Theological University. The Faculty of Divinity of the University of Cambridge kindly permitted the use of the Lady Margaret Fund to cover the copyright costs of using the Huqoq illustration. The support of the editors at Brill Academic Publishers, Laura Morris and Tessa Schild, as well as the great assistance of our copyeditor, Dr Alissa Jones Nelson (Berlin), made preparing this volume for publication very enjoyable. George van Kooten Jacques van Ruiten April 2019

part 1 Discourses within the Ancient Near East and Early Judaism

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chapter 1

Religious Intolerance in the Ancient Near East Marjo C. A. Korpel 1 Introduction In the ancient Near East, politics was always directly or indirectly connected with religious convictions.1 The separation of the two is a modern idea that exists mainly in the minds of Western intellectuals. This chapter provides a rather superficial overview of the phenomenon of religious intolerance in the ancient Near East, because the relevant material is too vast to deal with in one article. In my opinion, at least eleven forms of religious intolerance can be discerned in the ancient Near East: 1. the exaltation of one deity over all others; 2. jealousy among deities; 3. the derision of other deities; 4. the intimidation of followers of other religions; 5. the refusal to worship other deities; 6. the divine sanctioning of wars; 7. the abduction of cult images; 8. the mutilation of cult images and religious texts; 1  With regard to “religion,” as implied in the adjective “religious,” in this study on the ancient Near East, we join Bruce Lincoln in his statement on the term religion: “[I]t is only with the Enlightenment that religion came to be viewed and organized as one cultural system among others (politics, economy, liteature, art, philisophy, fashion, etc.), all of which enjoy relative independence. Previously religion was constituted as a uniquely privileged transcendent system of culture that encompassed, structured, disciplined, and permeated all others. And, as a result of the extent to which those other systems were informed, even controlled by the religious, none of them can be understood as secular in the modern sense”; Lincoln, “The Role of Religion in Achaemenian Imperialism,” in Religion and Power: Divine Kingship in the Ancient World and Beyond, 2nd ed., Oriental Institute Seminars, 4 (Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2008), 223. The recent study by Beate Pongratz-Leisten, Religion and Ideology in Assyria, Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 6 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015) impressively reaffirms the direct or indirect connections between politics and religious convictions in Assyria. For the modern discussion on the definition of “religion” and the confusion it can raise after the Enlightenment, see for example William T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 101–22.

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9. the elimination of other deities by syncretism; 10. the elimination of other deities by replacement; 11. the elimination of other deities by destruction. 2

The Exaltation of One Deity over All Others

Most people in the ancient Near East were polytheists. In theory, their polytheism was a tolerant form of religion. Foreign deities were adopted without noticeable tension in the pantheons of Egyptians, Babylonians, Assyrians, Hittites, Ugaritians, Phoenicians, and so on.2 However, with the rise of the big empires of Egypt and Mesopotamia in the second millennium BCE, the urge arose to mirror this development in the divine world. One god had to be the almighty king over all the others. His followers sometimes even claimed that he was the only true god. In Egypt, Amun-Re became this one above all others; in Babylonia, it was Marduk (later Assur); in Persia, it was Ahura Mazda. These developments may be regarded as precursors of monotheism, but they were definitely nothing more than monolatrous or henotheistic tendencies.3 2  As demonstrated by Meindert Dijkstra (“‘May the King Consent that a Sculptor Come Hither in Order to Set Out for me to Make an Image…’: Shipments of Stelae and Statues between Egypt and the Levant,” Biblische Notizen 170 [2016]: 119–36), even statues of foreign deities and semi-divine kings were exchanged between Egypt and Canaan as a means of diplomacy. 3  On this hotly debated issue, see for example Johannes C. de Moor, The Rise of Yahwism: The Roots of Israelite Monotheism, Bibliotheca Ephemeridum theologicarum Lovaniensium 91 (Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 41–64, with reference to earlier literature; Manfred Krebernik and Jürgen van Oorschot, eds., Polytheismus und Monotheismus in den Religionen des Vorderen Orients, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 298 (Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2001); Vera Chamaza, Die Omnipotenz Assurs: Entwicklungen in der Assur-Theologie unter den Sargoniden Sargon II., Sanherib und Asarhaddon, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 295 (Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2002); Reinhard G. Kratz and Hermann Spieckermann, eds., Götterbilder— Gottesbilder—Weltbilder: Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike, Vol. 1: Ägypten, Mesopotamien, Kleinasien, Syrien, Palästina, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2.17 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); Jan Assmann, Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt, 3rd ed., Wiener Vorlesungen 116 (Wien: Picus, 2007); André Lemaire, The Birth of Monotheism: The Rise and Disappearance of Yahwism (Washington: Biblical Archaeology Society, 2007); Eberhard Bons, ed., Der eine Gott und die fremden Kulte: Exklusive und inklusive Tendenzen in den biblischen Gottesvorstellungen, Biblisch-Theologische Studien 102 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2009); William W. Hallo, “One God for Many: Philological Glosses on Monotheism,” in Nili Sacher Fox et al., eds., Mishneh Todah: Studies in Deuteronomy and Its Cultural Environment in Honor of Jeffrey H. Tigay (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 253–61; Baruch H. Halpern, From Gods to God: The Dynamics of Iron Age Cosmologies, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 63 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009); Othmar Keel, Jerusalem und der eine Gott: Eine Religionsgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011); and Mark S.

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25

Inevitably, however, the priests of less fortunate deities saw their incomes dwindle when worshippers switched their allegiance to the cult of a more exalted god. This probably led to strife between rival groups of priests, but little is known of such conflicts. Yet it may be assumed that certain myths of the ancient Near East reflect these struggles for supremacy. 3

Jealousy among Deities

In the Ugaritic Legend of Aqhâtu, the goddess Anat is jealous of a miraculous composite bow the young hero Aqhâtu has received from his father. It was made by the divine craftsman Kotharu. During a banquet, she describes the gorgeous weapon: [Aqhâtu l]owered an arrow,4 [the bow, the creation of Kotharu] was loaded. When she raised her eyes she [Anatu] saw [that it was beautiful indeed.] [Beautiful the sha]pe of its stave, [its arrows] like lightning. [The humming of its string] as when the lightning makes the Flood shudder. [`Anatu too wanted to lower] its [arrows], wanted to load the bow, the creation of [Kotharu], [the curved tip]s of which writhed like a serpent. [She threw her goblet] on the ground, she spilled her cup [in the dust].5 She offers the young man gold and silver in exchange for the miraculous bow, but he refuses. Next she offers him eternal life, but Aqhâtu calls this a blatant lie. Anatu becomes furious and calls his behaviour sinful. She arranges a party, probably a mock wedding with herself, at which she has Aqhâtu murdered. Afterwards, she weeps bitterly over the fact that the bow is broken, and she is unable to bring Aqhâtu back to life. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 4  A heavy composite bow was loaded with the foot. See the image in Wolfgang Decker and Michael Herb, Bildatlas zum Sport im Alten Ägypten, Handbuch der Orientalistik. 1. Abt., Der Nahe und der Mittlere Osten 14 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), vol. 2, plate 79 (G 30). 5  K TU 1.17:VI.9–16.

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The lesson of this episode is clear: even if a jealous deity utters an unreasonable wish, the resistance of a human being is intolerable. It is a sin, a capital offence. Attempts to avoid the notion that the God of Israel was also a jealous deity6 are mistaken.7 In my opinion, Song of Songs 8:6 in particular would seem to indicate that Hebrew qin’āh (‫ ) ִקנְ ָאה‬denotes jealousy as a primitive emotion,8 one that is natural between lovers if they fear being betrayed or slighted.9 Other semantic shades of the concept must be regarded as metaphorical extensions of the original meaning,10 which understandably arose when YHWH no longer had a female partner according to official Jewish religion. Even then, it should be observed that it was YHWH’s fierce love for his people, often personified as a woman, that incited his wrath against any rivals. Scholars have sometimes argued that the jealousy of Israel’s God is patterned after a monogamous relationship.11 This is a misconception. Although most marriages in the ancient Near East and in Greece were monogamous, jealousy also occurred in polygynous relations—in both the divine and the human spheres—especially when adultery or the preferential treatment of another person was involved.12 In Akkadian, the verb qenû—which is the exact etymological equivalent of the Hebrew qn’ (“to be jealous”)—is employed to describe this fierce emotion in male and female lovers, both human and divine.13 Thus the many Old Testament scholars who still think that the Old Testament is unique in this

6  See, for example, Bernard Renaud, ‘Je suis un dieu jaloux’: Évolution sémantique et signification théologique de qine’ah (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1963); Joachim Schaper, “Das Theologoumenon des ‘Eifers’ Gottes in alttestamentlchen Texten: Sein Zusammenhang mit dem Bilderverbot und seine Wirkung auf das frühe Judentum,” in Martin Hengels ‘Zeloten’, ed. H. Lichtenberger (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 1–13. 7  So also Assmann, Monotheismus, 33–34. 8  It also occurs in animals. See below. 9  Cf. Marjo C. A. Korpel, “Who Is Who? The Structure of Canticles 8:1–7,” in Unit Delimitation in Biblical Hebrew and Northwest Semitic Literature, ed. M. C. A. Korpel and J. M. Oesch, Pericope 4 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), 89–120. 10  Friedrich Küchler, “Der Gedanke des Eifers Jahwes im Alten Testament,” Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 28 (1908): 42–52, esp. 43. 11  See, for example, Lamontte M. Luker, “Jealousy,” New Interpreter’s Dictionary 3:202. 12  Hennie J. Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East, OTS 49 (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Hildegard-Lindemaier et al., “Tolerance,” in Brill’s New Pauly Online, 2012; Marten Stol, Women in the Ancient Near East (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016). 13  Chicago Assyrian Dictionary 13:81, 209–10 and 285; De Moor, Rise of Yahwism, 315–17.

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respect are certainly mistaken.14 The expression “a jealous God” (‫ל־קּנֹוא‬ ַ ‫ֵא‬ in Joshua 24:19 and Nahum 1:2; ‫ ֵאל ַקּנָ א‬in Exodus 20:5 and 34:14, as well as Deuteronomy 4:24, 5:9, and 6:15) seems to have been chosen in conscious opposition to the title of the head of the Canaanite pantheon, El the Creator (’l qny/h). The verb qny definitely had a sexual connotation.15 It is sometimes stated that the prohibition against making images rests on a false, overly rigid interpretation, which is found only in Deuteronomy 4:16–18. The prohibition—as formulated in Exodus 20 and Leviticus 19 and 26, as well as Deuteronomy 5 and 27—would merely have been meant to exclude the creation of images of YHWH.16 This is evidently an erroneous interpretation of the commandment. As Tigay rightly remarks, “In fact, nonidolatrous statues of certain creatures were not considered violations of this commandment and were used in the Tabernacle and in Solomon’s temple.”17 The point was that one should not worship those images. Of course, making an image or even an aniconic symbol representing a deity, often using costly materials, would be a waste if it were not the intention of the creators to make it an object of worship. This was already perceived by Deutero-Isaiah, who mocks the idol-makers by giving an elaborate parody of their activities. In Isaiah 44:15, he writes, “Also he works [wood] into a god and bows down, he makes an idol and worships it.” And again in verse 17, he states, “He worships it, and bows down and prays to it, and says, ‘Deliver me! For you are my god!’”18 4

The Disparagement of Other Deities

Deriding the deities of other people was an effective trick to belittle their power. This method is amply attested in the Hebrew Bible,19 but it is also found in religious documents among other peoples in the ancient Near East. 14  See, for example, Gerhard von Rad, Gottes Wirken in Israel: Vorträge zum Alten Testament (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1974), 165; Schaper, “Theologoumenon des ‘Eifers’ Gottes.” 15  M  arjo C. A. Korpel and Johannes C. de Moor, Adam, Eve, and the Devil: A New Beginning, 2nd enlarged ed. (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2015), 7–8. 16  Angelika Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder: Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 162 (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1998); Schaper, “Theologoumenon des ‘Eifers’ Gottes.”. 17  Jeffrey H. Tigay, The JPS Torah Commentary: Deuteronomy (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1996). 18  See also Isaiah 46:6. 19   Horst-Dietrich Preuss, Verspottung fremder Religionen im Alten Testament, Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament 12 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971); Korpel and De Moor, Adam, Eve, and the Devil, 151–72.

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In the Ugaritic Myth of Baʿlu, the god of abundant rain, it is the god of artificial irrigation, ʿAthtaru, who is repeatedly the object of mockery. The semiarid region of Ugarit normally received sufficient rain in autumn and winter to sustain agriculture. Even in the administrative texts of Ugarit, irrigators are depicted as inefficient farmers. ʿAthtaru is a pathetic god who has no loving wife to undress him when it is time for bed: “Alone I have to get out of my underwear, nimble lads have to wash me.”20 Thus he was unable to raise a family. Later, when the rain god Baʿlu is temporarily confined to the realm of death, ʿAthtaru is appointed as his successor and ascends the mountain of Baʿlu to occupy the latter’s throne. But he fails miserably: Then ʿAthtaru the Rich went up into the highlands of Ṣapānu.
 He sat down on the throne of Baʿlu the Almighty, his feet did not touch the footstool, his head did not touch the upper rim. And ʿAthtaru the Rich said,
 “I cannot be king in the highlands of Ṣapānu!” ʿAthtaru the Rich came down,
 he came down from the throne of Baʿlu the Almighty, and he became king on the earth, the god of it all. [The gods(?)] had to draw water in basins, [humankind(?)] had to draw water by pipes.21 Apparently, this diminutive deity was unable to fill the throne of the rain god—at least according to the priests who favoured Baʿlu at that time. A stele from Ugarit depicts the vigorous rain god striding victoriously over the body of the sea god, wielding his thunder club and grasping his lightning spear. The artist has used the grain of the stone to suggest heavy rainfall (figure 1.1). The supernatural size of the god is expressed by the small worshipper before him. In Ugarit, a gradual transition of power from the old creator Ilu to the vigorous young god Baʿlu (Baal) can be discerned.22 By the first millennium, Baʿlu has eclipsed El almost completely. This is adumbrated in Ugarit by Baʿlu’s open disagreement with Ilu and his brazen mocking of him. When none of the 20   K TU 1.2:III.20. 21   K TU 1.6:I.56–67.
 22  Korpel, “Exegesis in the Work of Ilimilku of Ugarit,” in Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel, ed. Johannes C. de Moor, Oudtestamentische Studiën 40 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 86–111, esp. 108–10.

Religious Intolerance in the Ancient Near East

figure 1.1 Baal-stele from Ugarit, Louvre AO15775 (Drawing after O. Keel, Die Welt der altorientalischen Bildsymbolik und das Alte Testament [Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1972], 192, fig. 291)

29

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gods dares to answer the messengers of the sea god Yammu, who have come to demand the extradiction of Baʿlu, the latter protests: One of the gods must answer the tablets of Yammu’s messengers, of the envoys of Judge River.
 Lift up your heads, O gods, from your knees, from your exalted thrones! For I am the one who will answer Yammu’s messengers, the envoys of Judge River!23 In the Legend of Kirtu, the king has invited all the deities to a banquet to celebrate his wedding. However, the gatekeeper of Kirtu’s palace appears to be able to detain the gods. Baʿlu then challenges his father-in-law, Ilu: [How] can you leave now, O Benevolent, Ilu the good-natured?
 Surely you must bless Kirtu, the nobleman, surely you must fortify Ilu’s gracious lad!24 Baʿlu’s spouse ʿAnatu also repeatedly treats her father, Ilu, with deep contempt, threatening to slaughter him like a defenceless lamb if she does not get her way. All of this indicates that the younger generation in the Ugaritic pantheon no longer tolerated the supremacy of the highest god, Ilu. A Hebrew example of intolerance expressed by mockery is related in 1 Kings 18. The Hebrew prophet Elijah is confronted with four hundred and fifty prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel. He proposes a contest: each party will slaughter a bull and put it on the altar without lighting a fire. The god who commands the lightning will ignite the wood. Obviously, the followers of Baal expected their champion to accomplish this trick with ease, but their prayers remained unanswered: They called on the name of Baal from morning until noon, saying,
 “O Baal, answer us!”
 But there was no voice, and no one answered.
 And they limped around the altar they had made.
 And at noon Elijah mocked them, saying,
 “Cry louder, for he is a god.
 23   K TU 1.2:I.25–29. 24   K TU 1.15:II.13–16.

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He may be engaged in conversation, or has withdrawn himself, or he is travelling, perhaps he is asleep and must be shaken awake.”25 Of course such sarcasm hurt, especially when Elijah’s God subsequently answered his prayer with fire from heaven, which consumed everything on his altar, even though it was drenched in water. A story like this was clearly intended to demonstrate contempt for the religion of others. The uproar among Muslims over the satirical cartoons of Muhammad in the Danish journal Jyllands Posten and the French weekly Charlie Hebdo shows that mockery of another person’s religion can still be experienced as an infringement on his or her religious feelings. 5

The Intimidation of Followers of Other Religions

Much of the art produced in the Ancient Near East was meant to inspire terror. One of the most ancient examples of this kind of intimidation is a palette depicting King Narmer on both sides (dated to about 3100 BCE; see figure 1.2 below). On the left, the king holds an enemy by the hair and is about to slay him. He is also depicted as the Horus falcon, checking a rebel from the Nile Delta with a nose hook. Below, naked inhabitants of cities and villages flee. On the other side, the king looks over the beheaded corpses of rebels. Dragons representing Upper and Lower Egypt are curbed by lowly personnel. In the lower register, the king is depicted as an infuriated bull who tears down the wall of a city, from which another enemy flees. The king’s metamorphosis into the forms of dangerous animals signifies his godhead. Rebelling against him was a grave sin. A common way to put pressure on foreign rulers was to demand that they declare themselves subservient to the national god of the suzerain. A good example of this is found in the Egyptian Report of Wenamun, a literary masterpiece composed between 1090 and 1080 BCE, when Egyptian domination of the Levant was declining. The Egyptian emissary Wenamun admonishes the king of Byblos as if he were still a vassal and servant of Amun, Egypt’s national god under the New Kingdom: “There is no ship on the river that does not belong to Amun. His is the sea and his the Lebanon of which you say, ‘It is mine.’ […] But Amun-Re, King of Gods, he is the lord of life and health, and he was

25  1 Kings 18:26–27.


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figure 1.2 Palette depicting the victorious Egyptian king Narmer. Author’s rendering

the lord of your fathers! They passed their lifetimes offering to Amun. You too, you are the servant of Amun!”26 A humorous element in the account of Wenamun is that the Byblian ruler, for his part, tries to intimidate the Egyptian diplomat by seating him within sight of the sea, which the mostly land-based Egyptians feared deeply. Wenamun describes his encounter with the king of Byblos as follows: “I found him seated in his upper chamber with his back against a window and the waves of the great sea of Syria broke behind his head.”27 For many months, the Byblian king kept the Egyptian diplomat and the image of Amun he had brought with him captive on the shore of Lebanon—also during the winter, when storms swept the coast. This was apparently intended to show the Egyptian that he had no respect whatsoever for Amun-Re. 6

The Refusal to Worship Other Deities

A well-known example of intolerance in antiquity is the monotheistic reformation of the Egyptian pharaoh Amenophis IV/Akhenaten (1353–36/34 BCE). 26  Miriam Lichtheim, “The Report of Wenamun,” in The Context of Scripture, ed. W. W. Hallo (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 1:91. 27  Lichtheim, “Report of Wenamun,” 90–91.

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He decreed that henceforth only one god—the sunlight, Aten—should be worshipped, and not by everybody, but by him and his family alone. He founded a new capital at Amarna in order to prevent the contamination of his cult with that of other deities. Many temples of long-venerated deities were closed, their images destroyed, and their names hacked out or mutilated. Of course this created enormous tension among the priests of these other gods, and soon after the death of Akhenaten, Amun-Re became the national god again. Former gods were reinstated, although they were subordinated to the highest god, Amun-Re. This time, it was the reliefs honouring Aten that were deliberately removed or damaged.28 It is also highly interesting that a god Yawwu (Yw) occurs in Ugarit, who is renamed Yammu (Ym). Yammu was the Ugaritic sea god, and his name was also used as a designation of the dreaded sea peoples who terrorised the Levant at the end of the second millennium BCE. This is the passage in which Yawwu is renamed: And the Benevolent, Ilu the good-natured, answered:
 “My son [shall not be called] by the name of Yawwu, O goddess, [but Yammu shall be his name!”]
And he called him by the name of Yammu.29 In the Babylonian language of the time, the consonantal waw was often replaced by mem.30 With foreign names, this also happened in Ugaritic. For example, Ionia, the name of early Greece, is represented as “Yamānu” (Ym’an) in Ugaritic.31 So renaming the sea god Yawwu as Yammu was an obvious choice.

28  Emma Brunner-Traut “Namenstilgung und -verfolgung,” Lexikon der Ägyptologie 4:338–41; De Moor, Rise of Yahwism, 41–45; Jan Assmann, “Theological Responses to Amarna,” in Egypt, Israel, and the Ancient Mediterranean World: Studies in Honor of Donald B.Redford, ed. Gary N. and Antoine Hirsch, Probleme der Ägyptologie 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 179–92; Aidan Dodson, Amarna Sunset: Nefertiti, Totankhamun, Ay, Horemheb, and the Egyptian Counter-Reformation (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2009); Dodson, Amarna Sunrise: Egypt from Golden Age to Age of Heresy (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2014); Donald B. Redford, “Akhenaten: New Theories and Old Facts,” Bulletin of the American Schols of Oriental Research 369 (2013): 9–34; Athena van de Perre, “The Year 16 Graffito of Akhenaten in Dayr Abû Ḫinnis: A Contribution to the Study of the Later Years of Nefertiti,” Journal of Egyptian History 7 (2014): 67–108. 29   K TU 1.1:IV.13–15. 30  Wolfram von Soden, Grundriss der Akkadischen Grammatik, 3rd ed., Analecta Orientalia 33 (Roma: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1995), §21d. 
 31  Korpel, “The Greek Islands and Pontus in the Hebrew Bible,” Old Testament Essays 19, no. 1 (2006): 101–17, esp. 107–8.

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In later Canaanite dialects, such as Hebrew, the casus ending –u was dropped. Subsequently, Yaww developed into Yô(h), one of the forms of the name of God in the Bible, and to Iao(h) in some extra-biblical spells.32 Two further observations support the hypothesis that this Yawwu/Yammu is a very early reference to a precursor of the God of Israel. When his messengers arrive at the assembly of the gods, they refuse to bow: Then the messengers of Yammu arrived, the envoys of Judge River.
 They did not fall down at the feet of Ilu, did not prostrate themselves in the Congregation. Standing they said33 what they had to say, repeated what they knew.34 Not to bow before the highest god, Ilu, and the assembly of the pantheon was highly unusual. On all other occasions, lower divine beings in Ugaritic myths pay homage to superior deities by bowing down before them. Obviously, this reminds us of the biblical injunction not to bow to other gods, which—according to the Bible—is motivated by God’s jealousy (see Exodus 20:5). Thus we observe that the polytheistic Ugaritians apparently joked about this strange God who forbade his followers to bow to other deities. Subsequently, the ineffective god ‘Athtaru seems to mock Yawwu/Yammu with the remark that the latter has no wife or son.35 In polytheism, this was also unusual. In both cases, it would seem possible to suspect mockery of the religion of the deity Yawwu/Yammu, who did not need a family. This observation runs counter to much modern Old Testament scholarship, but that should not be a reason to suppress this piece of information. Not to comply with the customs of polytheists was an open act of intolerance on the part of early monotheists or henotheists.

32  Wolfgang Fauth, “Iao,” Der Kleine Pauly: Lexikon der Antike (Stuttgart: Druckenmüller, 1967), 1314–18. 33  Reading ’amr ’amr. 
 34   K TU 1.2:I.30–32. 35  If we follow the partly reconstructed text of KTU 1.2:III in Johannes de Moor and Klaas Spronk, A Cuneiform Anthology of Religious Texts from Ugarit, SSS 6 (Leiden: Brill. 1987), 15. 


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The Divine Sanctioning of Wars

All the kings of the ancient Near East routinely referred to themselves as elected by the highest deities to undertake military campaigns against other nations.36 They claim to have prayed to their deities before successfully attacking their enemies.37 Since at least the twenty-fifth century BCE, kings justified their wars by asserting that their campaigns were ordered by their gods, who accompanied them on the warpath. Of course, this did not mean that their wars were “holy wars,” in the sense of violent attempts to convert nonbelievers,38 but it would be folly to deny the religious dimension of ancient Near Eastern warfare. A well-known example is the long letter in which the Assyrian king Sargon II (722–705 BCE) reported to his patron god Assur about his eighth campaign against Urartu,39 but there are many, much older accounts testifying to the conviction that wars were conducted in accordance with the will of the gods. The Vassal Treaties of the Assyrian king Esarhaddon clearly state, in line 393: “For the future and for ever Assur is your [plural!] god.” This probably meant that they should recognise Assur as their ultimate overlord, not that they were forced to give up their own deities. One can certainly not claim that the Assyrians forced subjected peoples to abandon their own gods. The same Sargon II, for example, offered defeated kings a copious dinner, during which they “blessed my kingship before the god Aššur and the deities of their land.”40 Vassals of Assyria were bound by oaths invoking their own deities next to those of the Assyrians. However, in this way, these foreign gods were also made subservient to Assur. This is clearly seen in the following passage from Sargon’s account of his eighth campaign: “Because King Urzana, their ruler, had not held in awe the name of Aššur, had cast away the yoke of my lordship, and forgotten his service, I designed to carry off the people of that city and I commanded the remotion of Haldi, the object of trust of the land of Urartu. I imperiously 36  See, for example, Sa-Moon Kang, Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East, Beohefte zur Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 177 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1989); Bustenay Oded, War, Peace and Empire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1992); James K. Hoffmeier, “The Annals of Thutmose III (2.21) (Leiden: Brill),” Context of Scripture 2:7–13; A. Kirk Grayson and Jamie Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), part 1, The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 3/1 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 330. 37  See, for example, Grayson and Novotny, Royal Inscriptions, part 2:332. 
 38  John McKay, Religion in Judah under the Assyrians, SBT second series 26 (London: SCM Press, 1973), 60–66; Kang, Divine War, 2. 
 39  For the latest translation and commentary, see F. Mario Fales, “The Letter to the God Aššur Recounting Sargon’s Eighth Campaign (714 bce) (4.42),” Context of Scripture 4:199–215. 
 40  Fales, Context of Scripture 4:201. 


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made it41 sit before his own city-gate, [while] I deported his wife, his sons, his daughters, and his royal family.”42 This public humiliation of the national god of Urartu was followed by the abduction of the images of the god himself, together with those of his wife, as well as the plundering of all the precious objects in their temple.43 Kings who were allowed to rule as vassals were forced to swear very disadvantageous loyalty oaths in the names of the gods of their conquerors as well as in the names of their own deities. Terrible curses awaited those who broke such treaties.44 “By swearing an oath of loyalty the inferior partner reduced himself to permanent vasselage and exposed himself to the vengeance of the gods invoked.”45 This was not only the vengeance of the gods of the suzerain, but also the wrath of the vassals’ own gods. This must have been extremely painful for these vassals. It has been argued that the Assyrians did not do any missionary work in the countries they conquered because they lacked any ideology, let alone any theology whatsoever.46 However, this policy was adopted simply because they needed no theological justification. In their view, their superiority was indisputable because it was the will of their gods. To those subjected, however, it must have been insupportable. Vassal rulers were often seen by their subjects as collaborators with the enemy—which in fact they were.47 What the Assyrians regarded as tolerant rule was experienced as religious intolerance by their victims. In the Ugaritic Legend of Kirtu, the king is instructed by his personal patron, Ilu, to undertake a campaign against King Pubâlu of the city of Udumu in order to obtain the latter’s lovely daughter as a wife. All of Kirtu’s subjects volunteer to join his army, which seems to imply that they fully agree with his divinely approved mission. Kirtu besieges Udumu for seven days, and Pubâlu 41  That is, the image of the god Ḫaldi. 
 42  Fales, Context of Scripture 4:212. 43  Fales, Context of Scripture 4:213–15. 
 44  See, for example, Donald J. Wiseman, “The vassal-treaties of Esarhaddon,” Iraq 20 (1958), 1–99; Kazuko Watanabe, Die Adê-Vereidigung anlässlich der Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons (Berlin: Mann, 1987); Simo Parpola and Kazuko Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treatises and Loyalty Oaths (Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988); Simo Parpola, “Staatsvertrag (treaty), B. Neuassyrisch,” Reallexikon der Assyriologie 13:40–45; Anne Marie Kitz, Cursed Are You! The Phenomenology of Cursing in Cuneiform and Hebrew Texts (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2014). 
 45  Oded, War, Peace and Empire, 84. 
 46  Fritz Rudolf Kraus, “Assyrisch imperialisme,” Jaarbericht van het Vooraziatisch-Egyptisch Genootschap “Ex Oriente Lux” 15 (1957–58): 232–39; McKay, Religion in Judah; for a more nuanced view, see Oded, War, Peace and Empire, 185–88. 
 47  See, for example, KAI nos. 222–24. 


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sends messengers to his attacker to offer surrender. He begs him to not to harass his city, because “Udumu is a gift of Ilu.”48 Kirtu replies that, in a dream, the same Ilu has promised him Pubâlu’s daughter as a wife.49 Here we have an interesting case of two kings who both invoke the same god to defend their conflicting interests. Ugarit also ascribes a desire for territorial expansion to the god Baʿlu. At the height of his power, just after the inauguration of his glorious palace on Mount Ṣapānu, while his guests are still dining, Baʿlu departs alone: He passed from town to town, turned from city to city. Sixty-six towns he seized seventy-seven cities. Baʿlu str[uck] eighty he drove out ninety.50 Of course, this is a passage from a myth, and there is no need to suspect an underlying reality. Nevertheless, it no doubt reflects wishful thinking on the part of the elite of Ugarit. The spread of the cult of Baʿlu started here. 8

The Abduction of Cult Images

Warlords often abducted cult images from foreign nations and brought them to their own countries as spoil. The explanation for this policy seems to be twofold: on the one hand, they deprived their enemies of the protection of their gods; and on the other hand, they themselves hoped to profit from the capture of foreign deities. The image of the national god of Babylonia was captured successively by the Hittites, the Assyrians, and the Elamites, who—according to Marduk himself—profited greatly from his presence in their countries.51

48   K TU 1.15:V.40–43 par. 49   K TU 1.14:VI.31–32 par. 50   K TU 1.4:VII.7–11.
 51  On this matter, see De Moor, Rise of Yahiwsm, 60–61, with reference to earlier literature; Zainab Bahrani, The Graven Image: Representation in Babylonia and Assyria (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 179; Stephen L. Herring, Divine Substitution: Humanity as the Manifestation of Deity in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 247 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 29–31. 


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figure 1.3 Deities of Samaria carried away as spoil (Courtesy C. Uehlinger, “Anthropomorphic Cult Statuary in Iron Age Palestine and the Search for Yahweh’s Cult Images,” in The Image and the Book, 126)

Several Assyrian inscriptions prove that, from the time of the reign of TiglathPileser I (ca. 1114–1076 BCE) onwards, the spoliation of divine images became a standard practice in the Assyrian Empire. Cult statues were also carried off from Samaria.52 Sargon II boasts that he deported nearly 28,000 inhabitants of Samaria and counted “the gods in whom they trusted as spoil”53 (figure 1.3). Cult images of the Northern Kingdom are mentioned in the Bible,54 and there is no reason to doubt that Sargon’s spoil included the gods of Samaria. Sargon’s successor, Sennacherib (705–681 BCE), intensified this policy: I ordered archers, chariots, [and] horses of my royal contingent to confront the king of the land Elam. They killed many troops, including his 52  Morton Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E., Society of Biblical Literature Monophraph Series 19 (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1974), 22–54 and 120–21; Christoph Uehlinger, “Anthropomorphic Cult Statuary in Iron Age Palestine and the Search for Yahweh’s Cult Images,” in The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East, ed. Karel van der Toorn, Contributions to Biblical Exegesis & Theology 21 (Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 97–155 (both with many illustrations); Mordechai Cogan, The Raging Torrent: Historical Inscriptions from Assyria and Babylonia Relating to Ancient Israel. 2nd. ed. (Jerusalem: Carta Jerusalem, 1998), 96–97. However, Stefan Timm (Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels und Syrien-Palästinas, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 314 [Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2004], 116) assumes that the images would have been Assyrian. But why would Sargon have deported these objects if they were Assyrian? 53  Bob Becking, “Assyrian Evidence for Iconic Polytheism in Ancient Israel?” in The Image and the Book, 160–61. 54  1 Kings 16:32–33; 2 Kings 13:6, 17:10 and 16; Isaiah 10:11; Hosea 8:5–6, 10:5; Amos 5:21.

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son, and he [the king of Elam] retreated. They marched to Uruk [and] carried off the deities Šamaš of Larsa, the Lady of the Rēš-Temple, the Lady of Uruk, Nanāya, Uṣur-amāssa, Bēlet-balāṭi, Kurunam, Kaššītu, [and] Palil, the gods who live in Uruk.55 Among these cult statues, they also recaptured some from Babylonia and Assyria, such as Šamaš of Larsa and Nanaya of Uruk. As was not uncommon in royal inscriptions, his grandson Assurbanipal also claimed to have brought Nanaya back from Elam to Uruk.56 Sometimes the Assyrians returned divine images they had captured from other peoples. Sennacherib, for example, took cult images away from an Arabian queen,57 but his son Esarhaddon (681–669 BCE) gave them back.58 The kings of smaller countries also abducted cultic objects from their neighbours when they could. King Mesha of Moab, for example, waged war against Israel and other countries by order of his national god, Kemosh.59 He boasts: And I [(re)built] Qiryaten. Now the men of Gad had dwelt in the land of Aṭaroth a long time already, for the king of Israel had built Aṭaroth for them. But I fought against the city and took it. And I killed all the people of the city, so that it became the property of Kemosh and Moab. And I captured from there the fire altar of his David and [dr]agged it before Kemosh in Qiryat(en).60

55  Grayson and Novotny, Royal Inscriptions, part 2:223. Also, his grandson Assurbanipal abducted many Elamite images of deities; see Victor A. Hurowitz, “Aššurbanipal’s Rassam Prism (A) (4.41),” in Context of Scripture 4:190–91. 56  Hurowitz, Context of Scripture 4:191. 57  A  . Kirk Grayson and Jamie Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), part 1, The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 3/1 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2012), 232; Hurowitz, “Esarhaddon’s Heidel Prism (Nineve B) (4.40),” Context of Scripture 4:180. 58  Hurowitz, “Esarhaddon’s Thompson Prism (Nineve A) (4.39) ,” Context of Scripture 4:177; Hurowitz, Context of Scripture 4:180. 59  For this well-known inscription, see for example Shmuel Aḥituv, Echoes from the Past: Hebrew and Cognate Inscriptions from the Biblical Period (Jerusalem: Carta, 2008), 389–418, with the new readings by A. Lemaire. See also Becking, “A Voice from Across the Jordan: Royal Ideology as Implied in the Moabite Stela,” in Herrschaftslegitimation in vordertorientalischen Reichen der Eisenzeit, ed. Christoph Levin and Reinhard Müller (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 125–45, esp. 138–39. 60  Mesha stele, 9–13.

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Therefore, the long-debated dwdw in the Moabite Mesha inscription61 should be construed as the name of David with a personal suffix. Personal suffixes were sometimes attached to divine names, as in Kuntillet Ajrud, Chirbet el-Qom (’šrth, “his Asherah”) and Ugarit (ʿnth, “his ’Anat”).62 In line 31 of the same inscription, according to the new reading recovered by André Lemaire from an early cast of the stone, the Davidic dynasty (bt dwd) is mentioned again. On the strength of similar cultic setups elsewhere, Mesha seems to have assumed that the image before which a fire altar had burned continuously was an image of David, the deified founder of the Israelite dynasty. As Mordechai Cogan has noted,63 two cases of Israel’s spoliation of images of foreign gods have been recorded in the Bible. 2 Samuel 5:18–21 reads:64 18 Now the Philistines had come and spread out in the valley of Rephaim. 19 And David inquired of the Lord, “Shall I go up against the Philistines? Wilt thou give them into my hand?” And the Lord said to David, “Go up; for I will certainly give the Philistines into your hand.” 20 And David came to Baal-perazim, and David defeated them there; and he said, “The Lord, has broken through my enemies before me, like a bursting flood.” Therefore the name of that place is called Baal-perazim. 21 And the Philistines left their idols there, and David and his men carried them away. This is one of many passages indicating that, just like other kings in the ancient Near East, the kings of Israel asked God for permission to attack an enemy, and they carried off their enemy’s idols. According to 1 Chronicles 14:12, David would have them burned, which is clearly a harmonisation with the commandment in Deuteronomy 7:25.65 A second example of Israel’s spoliation of cult images of foreign gods is found in 2 Chronicles 25 (RSV):

61  For a recent example, see Becking, “Voice from Across the Jordan,” 133–34. 62  Another example is found in Exodus 15:7; see my article “A Subdued Demon in Exodus 15:7,” in Vetus Testamentum 69 (2019): 60–68. 63  Cogan, Imperialism and Religion, 116–17. 64  All biblical quotations follow the Revised Standard Version (RSV). 65  Isaac Kalimi, Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten: Literarisch-historische Abweichungen der Chronik von ihren Paralleltexten in den Samuel- und Königsbüchern, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 226 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1995), 140–41. On Deuteronomy 7:25, see Arie Versluis, The Command to Exterminate the Canaanites, Oudtestamentische Studiën 71 (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 121–22.

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14 After Amaziah came from the slaughter of the Edomites, he brought the gods of the men of Seir, and set them up as his gods, and worshiped them, making offerings to them. 15 Therefore the Lord was angry with Amaziah and sent to him a prophet, who said to him, “Why have you resorted to the gods of a people, which did not deliver their own people from your hand?” 16 But as he was speaking the king said to him, “Have we made you a royal counselor? Stop! Why should you be put to death?” So the prophet stopped, but said, “I know that God has determined to destroy you, because you have done this and have not listened to my counsel.” It is questionable, however, whether this passage reflects an historical event. It may well be a passage rationalising Amaziah’s subsequent defeat (see 2 Chronicles 25:20). 9

The Mutilation of Cult Images and Religious Texts

In the ancient Near East, former subjects deliberately destroyed or mutilated statues of semi-divine kings and foreign deities by cutting off their heads, ears, noses, and limbs66 (see figure 1.4 below). It is absolutely certain that this kind of damage was inflicted in antiquity, and not later. “Although it is sometimes suggested that such mutilations were made in the modern era by local Muslims offended by these representations of the human figure, this is hardly true, since in every case, nearby faces and human figures remain quite untouched.”67 The next figure is a special case, because it demonstrates that images were transported over great distances:

66  See, for example, Carl Nylander, “Earless in Nineveh: Who Mutilated ‘Sargon’s’ Head?” American Journal of Archaeology 84 (1980): 329–33, plates 43–45; Barbara Nevling Porter, “Noseless in Nimrud: More Figurative Responses to Assyrian Domination,” in Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola, ed. M. Luuko et al., Studia Orientalia 106 (Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. 2009), 201–20; Natalie Naomi May, “Decapitation of Statues and Mutilation of Image’s Facial Features,” in A Woman of Valor: Jerusalem Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Joan Goodnick Westenholz, ed. W. Horowitz et al., Biblioteca del Próximo Oriente Antiguo 8 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2010), 105–18; May, Iconoclasm and Text Destruction in the Ancient Near East and Beyond (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012); Joel M. LeMon, “Cutting the Enemy to Pieces: Ps 118,10–12 and the Iconography of Disarticulation,” Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 126 (2014): 59–75. 67  Nevling Porter, “Noseless in Nimrud,” 207.

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figure 1.4 Mutilated head of a king or god found at Nineve, Bagdad. Source: National Museum of Iraq. (Photo: INTERFOTO: Alamy Stock Photo)

This bronze head was found in Nineve, but originally it represented a king or a god of the Akkad period, roughly 2400–2300 BCE. It was possibly deliberately “wounded” by the Babylonians and/or the Medes when they conquered the Assyrian city of Nineve in 612 BCE. The nose and ears have been cut off, and one eye has been quite forcefully pierced. Apparently, the head was separated from the body. It seems likely that the Assyrians brought the statue intact to their capital, but when this happened, and whether they knew it had been a king or a god long ago in southern Babylonia, is unknown. As Joel LeMon has recently demonstrated, the dearticulation of living enemies was a common practice all over the Ancient Near East, also in Israel.68 To support this point, he advocates the translation “In the name of Yhwh I cut them to pieces” for the recurrent phrase in Psalm 118:10–12. It should be 68  LeMon, “Cutting the Enemy.”

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figure 1.5 Damaged statue of a goddess from the Old Babylonian city of Mari (Aleppo National Museum. Photo: INTERFOTO: Alamy Stock Photo)

observed that this gruesome practice of mutilating living people did indeed also occur in Israel, allegedly with divine approval (see Judges 1:6–7; 1 Samuel 15:33; 2 Samuel 4:7–8). The mutilation of the statues of one’s enemies was a kind of postponed or second punishment. However, attacking images of deities was a less frequent practice than abduction in the ancient Near East. As we have seen, conquerors preferred to seize statues of deities as spoils of war. Nevertheless, some examples of damaging or even destroying divine images are known. The Assyrian king Assurbanipal (669–627 BCE), for example, boasts of demolishing images of the deities of Mari: “I destroyed [the statues of] their gods, I calmed the innards of the Lord

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of Lords [Marduk/Assur], [the statues of] his gods and his goddesses […] I plundered to the land of Assyria.”69 Furthermore, figure 1.5 depicts the image of a goddess from the Old Babylonian city of Mari (about 1900 BCE). Her eyes and nose have been damaged deliberately.70 The mutilation or destruction of images erected by those formerly in power is a phenomenon that occurs across all ages. It is a symbolic act of revenge by people celebrating their victory over those who formerly oppressed them. In the wake of the Reformation, iconoclastic hordes—probably sixteenth-century Anabaptists—deformed the faces of images of the saints with an axe. In fact, there is little difference between the brutal treatment of the goddess in Mari and that of an abbess in Münster, even though 3500 years separate the two events.71 In Israel, the mutilation of the cult image of the Philistine god Dagon of Ashdod was attributed to YHWH himself (1 Samuel 5). However, in the Deuteronomistic terminology of this narrative, the intention to depict Dagon as a defeated god of the enemy still shines through.72 The expression “fall to the ground before” clearly indicates making obeisance.73 10

The Elimination of Other Deities by Syncretism

In polytheistic religions, deities were often merged with other deities. This type of syncretism is attested from the earliest times onwards.74 I will give only two examples of this well-known process in polytheism: when he rose to ultimate power, the Babylonian god Marduk assumed the identities and responsibilities

69  Hurowitz, Context of Scripture 4:190. 70  The fact that the vessel she holds in her hands is undamaged excludes other interpretations, such as that the statue fell down. 71  Martin Warnke, ed., Bildersturm: Die Zerstörung des Kunstwerks (München: Hanser, 1973), 93 and plate 9. 72  Herring, Divine Substitution, 74–75 and 85. 73  Genesis 44:14; Joshua 5:14, 7:6; Judges 13:20; 1 Samuel 25:23; 2 Samuel 14:22; Ruth 2:10. 74  See, for example, Wolfgang Schenkel, “Götterverschmelzung,” Lexikon der Agyptology 2:720–25; Gebhard J. Selz, Untersuchungen zur Götterwelt des altsumerischen Stadstaates von Lagaš, Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 13 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum, 1995); Julia M. Asher- Greve and Joan Goodnick Westenholz, Goddesses in Context: On Divine Powers, Roles, Relationships and Gender in Mesopotamian Textual and Visual Sources (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013).

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of all the other deities;75 and under the New Kingdom, the Egyptian god Seth was identified with the Canaanite gods Baal and Ḥoran.76 It was long ago demonstrated that the God of Israel also appropriated many aspects of Canaanite deities, especially certain qualities of the Creator El,77 the rain god Baal,78 and even goddesses such as Asherah and Anat. Manfred Weippert has sketched Israel’s gradual development from polytheism via syncretism to monotheism in an exemplary way.79 Until a relatively late period, the God of Israel was still merged with other deities—for example in Egypt, where he was associated with former Canaanite deities, such as Anat and Bethel.80 However, syncretism reduces the influence of once-powerful, independent deities to subordination or even insignificance. They can only exert part of their influence if they are involved with the superior deity. This form of henotheism also occurred in ancient Israel and resulted in a process that demoted former Canaanite deities to the status of either angels or demons.81

75  See, for example, W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, Mesopotamian Civilizations 16 (Winona Lake, 2013), 147–68 and 251–77; Lambert, “Syncretism and Religious Controversy in Babylonia,” in Ancient Mesopotamian Religion and Mythology, ed. A. R. George and T. M. Oshima, ORA 15 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 165–70. 76  Korpel and De Moor, Adam, Eve, and the Devil, 58, 82, and 95. 77  Korpel and De Moor, Adam, Eve, and the Devil, with reference to earlier literature. 78  James S. Anderson, Monotheism and Yahweh’s Appropriation of Baal, The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 617 (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), with reference to earlier literature. 79  Manfred Weippert, Jahwe und die andere Götter: Studien zur Religionsgeschichte des antiken Israel in ihrem syrisch-palästinischen Kontext, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 18 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 1–24 (reprint of an article that first appeared in 1990). 80  Karel van der Toorn, “Anat–Yahu, Some Other Deities, and the Jews of Elephantine,” Numen 39 (1992): 80–101; Sven P. Vleeming and Jan-Wim Wesselius, Studies in Papyrus Amherst 63: Essays on the Aramaic Texts in Aramaic/demotic Papyrus Amherst 63, 2 vols. (Amsterdam: Juda Palache Instituut, 1985/1990); Mathias Delcor, “Remarques sur la datation du Ps 20 comparée à celle du psaume araméen apparenté dans le papyrus Amherst 63,” in Mesopotamica—Ugaritica—Biblica: Festschrift für Kurt Bergerhof zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres am 7. Mai 1992, ed. M. Dietrich and O. Loretz (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993), 25–43; Angela Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der JudäoAramäer von Elephantine: Archäologische und schriftliche Zeugnisse aus dem perserzeitlichen Ägypten, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 396 (Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2014); van der Toorn, “Eshem-Bethel and Herem-Bethel: New Evidence from Amherst Papyrus 63,” Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 128 (2016): 668–83. 81  Korpel, “A Subdued Demon”; J.C. de Moor, “Converted Demons: Fallen Angels Who Repented,” in Your Text and My Text, ed. K. Spronk and E. van Staalduine-Sulman, Studia Semitica Neerlandica (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 9–22.

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The Elimination of Other Deities by Replacement

It is difficult to distinguish the removal of a deity by syncretism from its removal by replacement, yet some examples may be adduced here. Already around the nineteenth century BCE, the Babylonian god Marduk had replaced Asaluhi of the city of Eridu.82 When the Assyrian king Sennacherib (705–681 BCE) destroyed Babylon in 689 BCE, he replaced Marduk, the national god of the Babylonians, with his own national god, Assur. This fundamental theological swing went so far as to attribute the role of almighty creator to Assur instead of to Marduk.83 This appropriation of the religious traditions of Babylonia was definitely an act of intolerance. Furthermore, the last native king of Babylonia, Nabonidus (556–539 BCE), unsuccessfully tried to replace Marduk with the moon god Sin of Harran. 12

The Elimination of Other Deities by Destruction

One of the most effective ways to prevent enemies from invoking the support of their gods was the total destruction of their temples. The pain this caused was enormous, and this suffering is very movingly expressed, especially in Sumerian lamentations.84 This type of literature is comparable to the biblical laments about the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem (see, for example, Psalms 79 and 137; Lamentations 1:10, 2:1, 2:6–7, and 4:11)—a lament that continues even up to the present day, at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. The

82  Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, 251–55. 83  See, for example, Angelika Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder: Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik, Orbis Biblcus et Orientalis 162 (Freiburg: Universitatsverlag, 1998), 106–10; but note the reservations of Lambert in Babylonian Creation Myths, 4–5. 84  Jerrold S. Cooper, The Curse of Agade (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1983); Mark E. Cohen, The Canonical Lamentations of Ancient Mesopotamia (2 vols.; Ann Arbor: Capital Decisions Limited, 1988); Pjotr Michalowski, The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur, Mesopotamian Civilizations 1 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1989); William C. Gwaltney, Jr., “The Biblical Book of Lamentations in the Context of Near Eastern Lament Literature,” in Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East, ed. F. E. Greenspahn (New York: New York University Press, 1991), 242–65; Jacob Klein, “Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (1.166) (Leiden: Brill),” in Context of Scripture 1:997; Willem H.Ph. Römer, Hymnen und Klagelieder in sumerischer Sprache, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 276 (Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2001); Römer, Die Klage über die Zerstörung von Ur, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 309 (Münster: UGARITVerlag, 2004); Uri Gabbay, Pacifying the Hearts of the Gods: Sumerian Emesal Prayers of the First Millenium BC (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2014).

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destruction of places of worship is still a form of terrorism in the Middle East and Asia. Bert van der Spek85 and Eduard Rung86 claim that the burning of Greek temples by the Persians was a religious aspect of war, not a religious war against Greek gods. In my opinion, this is too fine a distinction. The Greeks experienced the burning of their holy shrines—with the images of their deities still inside—as sacrilege, and the Persians must have expected that reaction. True, the Persians were mostly fairly tolerant towards foreign religions, especially under Cyrus the Great. But occasionally, they also seem to have become inconsistent in their religious policies (for example, under Cambyses and Xerxes).87 Hurting other people’s religious feelings was a kind of terror that was often practiced in warfare. Preventing others from fulfilling their religious duties is definitely a form of intolerance. 13 Conclusion Religious intolerance often led to strife in the ancient Near East. Modern people may think it functioned to mask greed, jealousy, or the urge for territorial expansion. If this is the case, then humankind does not differ much from animals, who fight for the very same reasons. Such fights are certainly not restricted to strong species, such as chimps. They are also natural among much weaker kinds of animals, such as blackbirds. Unless one would defend the thesis that innate aggression against one’s own species is a form of religion, one must conclude that it springs from low-level bestial instinct. It is questionable, however, whether people in antiquity were able to see a lack of religious tolerance on their own part as a flaw.88 To justify their often 85  Bert van der Spek, “Cyrus the Great, Exiles and Foreign Gods: A Comparison of Assyrian and Persian Policies on Subject Nations,” in Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, ed. M. Kozuh et. al., Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68 (Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2014), 233–64. 86   Eduard Rung, “The Burning of Greek Temples by the Persians and Greek WarPropaganda,” in The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome, ed. K. Ulanowski, Ancient Warfare 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 166–79. 87  Dieter Metzler, “Bilderstürme und Bilderfeindlichkeit in der Antike,” in Bildersturm: Die Zerstörung des Kunstwerks, ed. M. Warnke (München: Hanser, 1973), 22–23; but see also Amélie Kuhrt, “Reassessing the Reign of Xerxes in the Light of New Evidence,” in Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, ed. M. Kozuh et. al., Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68 (Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2014), 163–69. 88  As Lotty Spycher remarks pointedly, “Mit Wort und Bild schuf aber der Ägypter objektive, immer gültige, ja geradezu neue und bessere Wirklichkeit”; see “Propaganda,” Lexikon der Ägyptologie 4:1120–22).

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extremely cruel policies, rulers in the ancient Near East ascribed their motivation to the will of their deities. Purportedly, they were merely obeying divine commandments. It was not they themselves, but rather their gods who wanted to abolish their enemies and their sanctuaries. If they were successful, it was because their gods accompanied them in their wars. If they were defeated, it was because their gods were angry with them and had abandoned them. Religious intolerance is often attributed to monotheism or henotheism.89 Indeed, concentration on one deity who demands exclusive worship can lead to intolerance or even hatred among his worshipers if they encounter others who refuse to accept their theology. However, I have tried to demonstrate that the same kind of fierce emotions also occurred in polytheistic religions. This prompts the question: Was there any difference between Israel and its neighbours in this respect? Unfortunately, an unequivocal answer to this question is impossible. We have the Hebrew Bible only in its final, post-exilic form. It is very likely that in an earlier period, at least part of the population favoured a more tolerant attitude towards other religions. In fact, it does not matter much whether or not this was the case. At the end of one of the latest and most moving Hebrew Psalms, the poet exclaims: If only you would kill the wicked, O God! O men who shed blood, leave me alone! Those who speak to you with deceptive schemes, rising for worthless talk—those adversaries of you! Should I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? Should I not loathe those who rise up against you? I do hate them totally, for me they have become enemies!90 This zealous follower of the Lord plainly expresses religiously motivated hatred. However, he immediately continues: Search me, O God, and know my heart, test me, and know my disquieting thoughts, 89   So, for example, Assmann, “Theological Responses to Amarna”; Reuven Firestone, “Savagery and the Sacred: The Rhetoric of Terror and its Consequences in the Scriptural Monotheisms,” in Critical Concepts: Terrorism, forthcoming with Cambridge University Press (the author has kindly provided me with a preprint version of the volume, for which I am grateful). 90  Psalm 139:19–22. This is my own translation of this difficult Hebrew text.

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and see if there is hurtful conduct91 in me, and guide me in conduct that endures.92 If only all religious fanatics would allow themselves such second thoughts. Bibliography Aḥituv, Shmuel. Echoes from the Past: Hebrew and Cognate Inscriptions from the Biblical Period. Jerusalem: Carta, 2008. Anderson, James S. Monotheism and Yahweh’s Appropriation of Baal. The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 617. London: Bloomsbury, 2015. Asher-Greve, Julia, and Joan Goodnick Westenholz. Goddesses in Context: On Divine Powers, Roles, Relationships and Gender in Mesopotamian Textual and Visual Sources. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013. Assmann, Jan. “Theological Responses to Amarna.” In Egypt, Israel, and the Ancient Mediterranean World: Studies in Honor of Donald B. Redford, edited by Gary N. Knoppers and Antoine Hirsch, 179–92. Probleme der Ägyptologie 20. Leiden: Brill, 2004. Assmann, Jan. Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt. Wiener Vorlesungen im Rathaus 116. 3rd ed. Picus: Wien, 2007. Bahrani, Zainab. The Graven Image: Representation in Babylonia and Assyria. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003. Becking, Bob. “Assyrian Evidence for Iconic Polytheism in Ancient Israel?” In The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East, edited by Karel van der Toorn, 157–71. Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 21. Leuven: Peeters, 1997. Becking, Bob. “A Voice from Across the Jordan: Royal Ideology as Implied in the Moabite Stela.” In Herrschaftslegitimation in vorderorientalischen Reichen der Eisenzeit, edited by Christoph Levin and Reinhard Müller, 125–45. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 21. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017. Berlejung, Angelika. Die Theologie der Bilder: Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik. Orbis Biblicis et Orientalis 162. Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1998. Bons, Eberhard, ed. Der eine Gott und die fremden Kulte: Exklusive und inklusive Tendenzen in den biblischen Gottesvorstellungen. Biblisch-theologische Studien 102. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2009. 91  Proverbs 15:1 suggests this translation. 92  Psalm 139:23–24, my translation.

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Brunner-Traut, Emma. “Namenstilgung und –verfolgung.” In Lexikon der Ägyptologie, edited by Hans Wolfgang Helck, Eberhard Otto, and Wolfhart Westendorf, 4:338–41. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1982. Cancik-Lindemaier, Hildegard, Walter Eder, Klaus Fitschen, Elisabeth Hollender, and Isabel Toral-Niehoff. “Tolerance.” In Brill’s New Pauly: Antiquity, edited by Hubert Cancik and Helmuth Schneider. Accessed 16 July 2017, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/15749347, bnp e1216810. Cavanaugh, William T. The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict, New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Chamaza, G. W. Vera. Die Omnipotenz Assurs: Entwicklungen in der Assur-Theologie unter den Sargoniden Sargon II., Sanherib und Asarhaddon. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 295. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2002. Cogan, Morton. Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series 19. Missoula: Scholars Press, 1974. Cogan, Mordechai. The Raging Torrent: Historical Inscriptions from Assyria and Babylonia Relating to Ancient Israel. 2nd ed. Jerusalem: Carta Jerusalem, 2013. Cohen, Mark E. The Canonical Lamentations of Ancient Mesopotamia. 2 vols. Ann Arbor: Capital Decisions Limited, 1988. Cooper, Jerrold S. The Curse of Agade. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983. Decker, Wolfgang, and Michael Herb. Bildatlas zum Sport im Alten Ägypten, Bd. 2: Abbildungen. Handbuch der Orientalistik. 1. Abt., Der Nahe und der Mittlere Osten, Bd. 14. Leiden: Brill, 1994. Delcor, Mathias. “Remarques sur la datation du Ps 20 comparée à celle du psaume araméen apparenté dans le papyrus Amherst 63.” In Mesopotamica—Ugaritica— Biblica: Festschrift für Kurt Bergerhof zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres am 7. Mai 1992, edited by Manfried Dietrich and Oswald Loretz, 25–43. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 232. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993. De Moor, Johannes. The Rise of Yahwism: The Roots of Israelite Monotheism. 2nd revised and enlarged ed. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 91. Leuven: Peeters, 1997. De Moor, Johannes. “Converted Demons: Fallen Angels Who Repented.” In Your Text and My Text, edited by Klaas Spronk and Eveline van Staalduine-Sulman. Studia Semitica Neerlandica. Leiden: Brill, 2018), 9–22. De Moor, Johannes C., and Klaas Spronk. A Cuneiform Anthology of Religious Texts from Ugarit. Semitic Study Series 6. Leiden: Brill, 1987. Dijkstra, Meindert. “‘May the King Consent that a Sculptor Come Hither in Order to Set Out or me to Make an Image …’: Shipments of Stelae and Statues between Egypt and the Levant.” Biblische Notizen 170 (2016): 119–36.

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Dodson, Aidan. Amarna Sunset: Nefertiti, Totankhamun, Ay, Horemheb, and the Egyptian Counter-Reformation. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2009. Dodson, Aidan. Amarna Sunrise: Egypt from Golden Age to Age of Heresy. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2014. Fauth, Wolfgang. “Iao.” In Der Kleine Pauly: Lexikon der Antike, edited by Konrat Ziegler, 2:1314–18. Stuttgart: Druckenmüller, 1967. Firestone, Reuven. “Savagery and the Sacred: The Rhetoric of Terror and its Consequences in the Scriptural Monotheisms.” In Critical Concepts: Terrorism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming. Gabbay, Uri. Pacifying the Hearts of the Gods: Sumerian Emesal Prayers of the First Millenium BC. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2014. Gelb, Ignace J., et al. The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. 21 vols. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1956–2010. Grayson, A. Kirk, and Jamie Novotny. The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC). Part 1, The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 3/1. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2012. Grayson, A. Kirk, and Jamie Novotny. The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC). Part 2, The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 3/2. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2014. Gwaltney, William C., Jr. “The Biblical Book of Lamentations in the Context of Near Eastern Lament Literature.” In Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East, edited by Frederick E. Greenspahn, 242–65. New York: New York University Press, 1991. Hallo, William W. “One God for Many: Philogical Glosses on Monotheism.” In Mishneh Todah: Studies in Deuteronomy and its Cultural Environment in Honor of Jeffrey H. Tigay, 253–61. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2009. Halpern, Baruch H. From Gods to God: The Dynamics of Iron Age Cosmologies. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 63. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2009. Helck, Hans Wolfgang, Eberhard Otto, and Wolfhart Westendorf, eds. Lexikon der Ägyptologie. 7 vols. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1972–92. Herring, Stephen L. Divine Substitution: Humanity as the Manifestation of Deity in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 247. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013. Hoffmeier, James K. “The Annals of Thutmose III (2.21).” In The Context of Scripture, edited by W. W. Hallo, 2:7–13. Leiden: Brill, 2000. Hurowitz, Victor A. “Esarhaddon’s Thompson Prism (Nineve A) (4.39).” In The Context of Scripture, edited by K. Lawson Younger, Jr., 4:173–79. Leiden: Brill, 2017. Hurowitz, Victor A. “Esarhaddon’s Heidel Prism (Nineve B) (4.40).” In The Context of Scripture, 4:179–82. Leiden: Brill, 2017.

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Hurowitz, Victor A. “Aššurbanipal’s Rassam Prism (A) (4.41).” In The Context of Scripture, 4:182–96. Leiden: Brill, 2017. Kalimi, Isaac. Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten: Literarisch-historische Abweichungen der Chronik von ihren Paralleltexten in den Samuel- und Königsbüchern. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 226. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1995. Kang, Sa-Moon. Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 177. Berlin: De Gruyter 1989. Keel, Othmar. Jerusalem und der eine Gott: Eine Religionsgeschichte. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011. Kitz, Anne Marie. Cursed Are You! The Phenomenology of Cursing in Cuneiform and Hebrew Texts. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2014. Klein, Jacob. “Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (1.166).” In The Context of Scripture, 1:535–39. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Korpel, Marjo C. A. “Exegesis in the Work of Ilimilku of Ugarit.” In Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel, edited by Johannes C. de Moor, 86–111. Oudtestamentische Studiën 40. Leiden: Brill, 1996. Korpel, Marjo C. A. “Who Is Who? The Structure of Canticles 8:1–7.” In Unit Delimitation in Biblical Hebrew and North-west Semitic Literature, edited by Marjo C. A. Korpel and Josef M. Oesch, 89–120. Pericope 4. Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003. Korpel, Marjo C. A. “The Greek Islands and Pontus in the Hebrew Bible.” Old Testament Essays 19, no. 1 (2006): 101–17. Korpel, Marjo C. A. “A Subdued Demon in the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15:7).” Vetus Testamentum 69 (2019): 60–68. Korpel, Marjo C. A., and Johannes C. de Moor. Adam, Eve, and the Devil: A New Beginning. 2nd enlarged ed. Hebrew Bible Monographs 65. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2015. Korpel, Marjo C. A., and Johannes C. de Moor. Adam, Eva en de Duivel: Kanaänitische mythen en de Bijbel. Vught: Skandalon, 2016. Kratz, Reinhard G., and Hermann Spieckermann, eds. Götterbilder—Gottesbilder— Weltbilder: Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike. Vol. 1, Ägypten, Mesopotamien, Kleinasien, Syrien, Palästina. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2/17. Vol. 2, Griechenland und Rom, Judentum, Christentum und Islam. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006. Kraus, Fritz Rudolf. “Assyrisch imperialisme.” Jaarbericht van het VooraziatischEgyptisch Genootschep ‘Ex Oriente Lux’ 15 (1957): 232–39. Krebernik, Manfred, and Jürgen van Oorschot. Polytheismus und Monotheismus in den Religionen des Vorderen Orients. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 298. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2001.

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Küchler, Friedrich. “Der Gedanke des Eifers Jahwes im Alten Testament.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 28 (1908): 42–52. Kuhrt, Amélie. “Reassessing the Reign of Xerxes in the Light of New Evidence.” In Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, edited by Michael Kozuh, Wouter F. M. Henkelman, Charles E. Jones, and Christopher Woods, 163–69. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68. Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2014. Lambert, Wilfred G. Babylonian Creation Myths. Mesopotamian Civilizations 16. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2013. Lambert, Wilfred G. “Syncretism and Religious Controversy in Babylonia.” In Ancient Mesopotamian Religion and Mythology, edited by Andrew R. George and Takayoshi M. Oshima, 165–70. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 15. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016. Lemaire, André. The Birth of Monotheism: The Rise and Disappearance of Yahwism. Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 2007. LeMon, Joel M. “Cutting the Enemy to Pieces: Ps 118,10–12 and the Iconography of Disarticulation.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 126 (2014): 59–75. Lichtheim, Miriam. “The Report of Wenamun.” In The Context of Scripture, 1:89–93. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Luker, Lamontte M. “Jealousy.” In New Interpreter’s Dictionary, edited by Katharine Doob Sakenfeld, 3:202–3. New York: Abingdon Press, 2008. Marsman, Hennie J. Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East. Oudtestamentische Studiën 49. Leiden: Brill, 2003. May, Natalie Naomi. “Decapitation of Statues and Mutilation of Image’s Facial Features.” In A Woman of Valor: Jerusalem Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Joan Goodnick Westenholz, edited by Wayne Horowitz, Uri Gabbay, and Filip Vukosavović, 105–18. Biblioteca del Próximo Oriente Antiguo 8. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2010. May, Natalie Naomi. Iconoclasm and Text Destruction in the Ancient Near East and Beyond. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. McKay, John. Religion in Judah under the Assyrians. Studies in Biblical Theology, Second Series 26. London: SCM Press, 1973. Metzler, Dieter. “Bilderstürme und Bilderfeindlichkeit in der Antike.” In Bildersturm: Die Zerstörung des Kunstwerks, edited by Martin Warnke, 14–29. München: Hanser, 1973. Michalowski, Pjotr. The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur. Mesopotamian Civilizations 1. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1989. Nevling Porter, Barbara. “Noseless in Nimrud: More Figurative Responses to Assyrian Domination.” In Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related

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Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola, edited by Mikko Luukko, Saana Svard, and Raija Mattila, 201–20. Studia Orientalia 106. Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2009. Nylander, Carl. “Earless in Nineveh: Who Mutilated ‘Sargon’s’ Head?” American Journal of Archaeology 84 (1980): 329–33, plates 43–45. Oded, Bustenay. War, Peace and Empire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1992. Parpola, Simo. “Staatsvertrag (treaty), B. Neuassyrisch.” In Reallexikon der Assyriologie, 13:40–45. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate. Religion and Ideology in Assyria. Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Records 6. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015. Preuss, Horst-Dietrich. Verspottung fremder Religionen im Alten Testament. Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament 12. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971. Redford, Donald B. “Akhenaten: New Theories and Old Facts.” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 369 (2013): 9–34. Renaud, Bernard. “Je suis un dieu jaloux”: Évolution sémantique et signification théologique de qine’ah. Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1963. Rohrmoser, Angela. Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine: Archäologische und schriftliche Zeugnisse aus dem perserzeitlichen Ägypten. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 396. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2014.
 Römer, Willem H. Ph. Hymnen und Klagelieder in sumerischer Sprache. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 276. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2001.
 Römer, Willem H. Ph. Die Klage über die Zerstörung von Ur. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 309. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2004. Rung, Eduard. “The Burning of Greek Temples by the Persians and Greek WarPropaganda.” In The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome, edited by Krzysztof Ulanowski, 166–79. Ancient Warfare 1. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Sazonov, Vladimir. “Some Remarks Concerning the Development of the Theology of War in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome, 23–50. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Schaper, Joachim. “Das Theologoumenon des ‘Eifers’ Gottes in alttestamentlchen Texten: Sein Zusammenhang mit dem Bilderverbot und seine Wirkung auf das frühe Judentum.” In Martin Hengels “Zeloten,” edited by Hermann Lichtenberger, 1–13. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013. Schenkel, Wolfgang. “Götterverschmelzung.” In Lexikon der Ägyptologie, edited by Hans Wolfgang Helck, Eberhard Otto, and Wolfhart Westendorf, 2:720–25. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1977. Selz, Gebhard J. Untersuchungen zur Götterwelt des altsumerischen Stadstaates von Lagaš. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 13. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum, 1995.

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Smith, Mark S. The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Stol, Marten. Women in the Ancient Near East. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016. Strommenger, Eva, and Max Hirmer. Cinq millénaires d’art mésopotamien. Translated by M. Duval-Valentin. Paris: Flammarion, 1964. Tigay, Jeffrey H. The JPS Torah Commentary: Deuteronomy. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1996. Timm, Stefan. Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels und Syrien-Palästinas. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 314. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 2004. Uehlinger, Christoph. “Anthropomorphic Cult Statuary in Iron Age Palestine and the Search for Yahweh’s Cult Images.” In The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East, edited by Karel van der Toorn, 97–155. Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 21. Leuven: Peeters, 1997. Uehlinger, Christoph. “‘… und wo sind die Götter von Samarien?’: Die Wegführung syrisch-palästinischer Kultstatuen auf einem Relief Sargons II. in Ḫorṣābād/ Dūr-Šarrukīn.” In ‘Und Mose schrieb dieses Lied auf’: Studien zum Alten Testament und zum Alten Orient: Festschrift für Oswald Loretz zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres, 739–76. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 250. Münster: UGARIT-Verlag, 1998. Ulanowski, Krystov, ed. The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome. Ancient Warfare 1. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Van de Perre, Athena. “The Year 16 Graffito of Akhenaten in Dayr Abû Ḫinnis: A Contribution to the Study of the Later Years of Nefertiti.” Journal of Egyptian History 7 (2014): 67–108. Van der Spek, Bert. “Cyrus the Great, Exiles and Foreign Gods: A Comparison of Assyrian and Persian Policies on Subject Nations.” In Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, edited by Michael Kozuh, Wouter F. M. Henkelman, Charles E. Jones, and Christopher E. Woods, 233–64. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68. Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 2014. Van der Toorn, Karel. “Anat–Yahu, Some Other Deities, and the Jews of Elephantine.” Numen 39 (1992): 80–101. Van der Toorn, Karel. “Eshem-Bethel and Herem-Bethel: New Evidence from Amherst Papyrus 63.” Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 128 (2016): 668–83. Van der Toorn, Karel, ed. The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 21. Leuven: Peeters, 1997. Versluis, Arie. The Command to Exterminate the Canaanites: Deuteronomy 7. Oudtestamentische Studiën 71. Leiden: Brill, 2017. Vleeming, Sven P., and Jan-Wim Wesselius. Studies in Papyrus Amherst 63: Essays on the Aramaic Texts in Aramaic/demotic Papyrus Amherst 63. 2 vols. Amsterdam: Juda Palache Instituut, 1985–90.

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Von Rad, Gerhard. Gottes Wirken in Israel: Vortr ä ge zum Alten Testament. Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1974. Von Soden, Wolfram. Grundriss der Akkadischen Grammatik. 3rd ed. Analecta Orientalia 33. Roma: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1995. Warnke, Martin, ed. Bildersturm: Die Zerstörung des Kunstwerks. München: Hanser, 1973. Watanabe, Kazuko. Die Adê-Vereidigung anlässlich der Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons. Berlin: Mann, 1987. Weippert, Manfred. Jahwe und die andere Götter: Studien zur Religionsgeschichte des antiken Israel in ihrem syrisch-palästinischen Kontext. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 18. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997.

chapter 2

Polemics against Child Sacrifice in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History Dominik Markl Child sacrifice1 is an emotive topic, and it has lent itself to polemics2 since antiquity. Even contemporary scholars do not seem to be free of emotion and at times employ affective rhetoric when it comes to the issue. In trying to understand historical phenomena, however, we are obliged to minimise our emotional responses, trying to empathise with people of remote cultures, even if their attitudes and practices may be unimaginable or repugnant to our own habitual feelings or moral standards. I shall consider, therefore, comparative evidence of child sacrifice and the tension between polemics and historical facts in the first part of this paper. The second part will analyse the polemics against child sacrifice in Deuteronomy and its historiographical counterpart in the book of Kings, which will lead me, in the third and final part, to reflect on their strategically combined literary warfare, aimed at abolishing this practice. 1

Child Sacrifice: between Polemics and Fact

From the perspective of contemporary societies, especially those whose cultures have been permeated by the Jewish, Christian, Islamic, and humanistic traditions for centuries, it may be difficult to imagine that child sacrifice ever happened in the past. It may become even more dubious when one considers 1  Child sacrifice is a sub-category of human sacrifice, whereby “child” is here understood as referring to infants or boys or girls “below the age of puberty” (OED). It is useful to distinguish between human sacrifice—the killing of a human being as an offering to a deity (with a communicative function)—from ritual killing (with a distancing function). Cf. B. PongratzLeisten, “Ritual Killing and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East,” in Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, Numen book series, Studies in the History of Religions 112 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 3–33, esp. 10. On conceptions of infancy and childhood in the Hebrew Bible, see D. Markl, “Infant, Infancy. I. Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament,” Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, vol. 12, Ho Tsun Shen—Insult, ed. C. Helmer et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016), 1135–39. 2  The term “polemics” will be used in this chapter according to a general definition: “a strong verbal or written attack on a person, opinion, doctrine, etc.” (OED).

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that child sacrifice had a long history of being used as a topos for polemically portraying specific peoples as atrociously uncivilised.3 Related textual and archaeological evidence needs to be treated with the utmost care. Since much of the potential evidence for child sacrifice in antiquity is disputed, I shall refer to some more recent and indisputable evidence before approaching some contested cases from the cultural contexts of ancient Israel and reflecting on its religious rationales. Cross-Cultural Evidence of Child Sacrifice from the Inca Empire and Polynesia Indisputable archaeological evidence of Inca child sacrifice has been discovered on high summits of the Andes mountains, typically above 5,000 metres in altitude. Mummies of sacrificial victims have been found, usually buried within ceremonial structures and accompanied by offering assemblages, atop Argentina’s Mt. Chañi (5,896 metres), Mt. Chuscha (over 5,300 metres), and Mt. Quehuar (6,130 metres), as well as on the slopes of Mt. Piramide (in the Aconcagua massif, over 5,300 metres); on Chile’s Mt. El Plomo (5,424 metres); on Mt. Llullaillaco (6,739 metres), on the border between Chile and Argentina; and on Peru’s Mt. Ampato (6,288 metres) and Mt. Sara Sara (5,505 m). Moreover, burial sites were discovered at Mt. Esmeralda, near the northern coast of Chile, as well as in the crater of Mt. Misti (6,130 m) and atop Pichu Pichu (5,600 m), both in Peru’s Arequipa region.4 1.1

3  Joseph J. Azize (“Was There Regular Child Sacrifice in Phoenicia and Carthage?” in Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings of the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004, ed. J. Azize and N. Weeks, Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 21 [Leuven: Peeters, 2007], 185–206, here 192) comments on classical references to Punic child sacrifice: “One wonders whether the accusations could be anti-Carthaginian propaganda? The accusations are all made by Carthage’s enemies in war, and even then, not by sounder historians like Polybios and Livy.” Katell Berthelot (“Jewish Views of Human Sacrifice in the Hellenistic and Roman Period,” in Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, 151–73, esp. 156–61) analyses the “clear polemical overtones” (p. 156) in the apologetic references to alleged Canaanite child sacrifice in Wisdom of Solomon 2:24 and Philo (Special Laws 2.170). J. D. Levenson (The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993], 26) even identifies a “sarcastic” phrase in Tertullian’s description of North African child sacrifice: “And between murder and sacrifice by parents—oh! the difference is great!” 4  For summaries of all the aforementioned sites, see J. Reinhard and M. C. Ceruti, Inca Rituals and Sacred Mountains: A Study of the World’s Highest Archaeological Sites (Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press, 2010), 9–20; M. C. Ceruti, “Frozen Mummies from Andean Mountaintop Shrines: Bioarchaeology and Ethnohistory of Inca Human Sacrifice,” BioMed Research International (2015): 3–6.

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Three excellently preserved mummies were recovered from Mt. Llullaillaco in a controlled archaeological excavation in 1999. A girl and a boy, both between four and five years old, and a young woman of about 13 years old5 were buried in a ceremonial platform on the summit, together with textiles, ceramics, and offering items such as figurines of llamas and humans made of gold, silver, semi-precious stones, textiles, and feathers.6 The boy’s vomit contained blood, which could have been caused by pulmonary edema. The three children have no external injuries. They may have been buried alive or suffocated prior to burial.7 They were sedated with alcohol and coca prior to death.8 The children’s nutrition before the sacrificial rituals was good, and their rich clothing suggests that they were considered of high rank. Combining hard archaeological evidence9 with a critical examination of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century ethnohistorical sources, the Inca practice of child sacrifice can be reconstructed in some detail.10 Several sources attest that Inca child sacrifice rituals were called capacocha. Boys selected for the ceremony were supposed to be four to ten years old. “Chosen women” (acllas) were taken to special houses (acllahuasi) before puberty and safeguarded by consecrated women (mamacona). Some of them were chosen as capacocha offerings in their teenage years. Capacocha rituals were sponsored by the Inca leadership centrally—in the capital, Cuzco—and were part of imperial political strategy.11 The recovered evidence of victims is, of course, just a small token of the capacocha rituals that were historically performed.12

5  Age indications according to A. S. Wilson et al., “Archaeological, Radiological, and Biological Evidence Offer Insight into Inca Child Sacrifice,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 110 (2013): 13322–27, here 13322. 6  Reinhard and Ceruti, Inca Rituals, 61–85; Ceruti, “Frozen Mummies,” 6. 7  Reinhard and Ceruti, Inca Rituals, 125–26. 8  Wilson et al., “Archaeological, Radiological, and Biological Evidence.” 9  Based on the indisputable child sacrifice assemblages from high elevation sites, the burial of seven children (aged 3–12 years old) with comparably high status artefacts at Chuquepukio in Peru’s Cuzco Valley has been interpreted as evidence of capacocha. See V. A. Andrushko et al., “Investigating a Child Sacrifice Event from the Inca Heartland,” Journal of Archaeological Science 38 (2011): 323–33. 10  On the following, see Ceruti, “Frozen Mummies,” 7–9; Reinhard and Ceruti, Inca Rituals, 121–61. 11  Ceruti, “Frozen Mummies,” 9; on the “state pilgrimage” to Llullallaco, see Reinhard and Ceruti, Inca Rituals, 89–99. 12  Chroniclers referred to great numbers of children sacrificed, especially in and around Cuzco; see Andrushko et al., “Investigating a Child Sacrifice Event,” 324. Even if some of these accounts are exaggerated, the archaeological evidence renders it unlikely that they are based on pure invention.

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Inca child sacrifice was not an isolated phenomenon. Human sacrifice, including child sacrifice, was performed on several Polynesian islands, such as Tahiti and Tonga, up to the nineteenth century, as attested in many contemporary reports.13 William Mariner (1791–1853), who lived among the indigenous population of Tonga from 1806 to 1810, provided a description of the sacrifice of a child of two years of age; it was strangled and allegedly pitied by its “destroyer.”14 Since the Polynesian islands were populated by people from Southeast Asia,15 the development of human sacrifice there was remote and independent from comparable phenomena in the Andean cultures of South America. It is neither possible nor necessary here to provide a comprehensive cross-cultural survey of child sacrifice.16 The evidence referred to above may suffice to demonstrate that child sacrifice occurred in regions as geographically and culturally distant and distinct as the Inca Empire and the Polynesian islands. There are no grounds, therefore, to doubt child sacrifice as a historical phenomenon in principle. The mere possibility of child sacrifice as a cultural phenomenon, however, does not favour any particular interpretation of the ambiguous evidence relating to it. Disputed evidence, to which I shall now turn, requires unbiased evaluation of all the accessible, relevant data. 1.2 Canaanite Child Sacrifice? Disputed Egyptian Reliefs Delbert Hillers duly pointed to the methodological problems involved in analysing Canaanite religion and the issue of child sacrifice—in particular, from the viewpoint of biblical scholars, who are looking for the “abominable.”17 However, it was an Egyptologist, Philippe Derchain, who first interpreted Egyptian reliefs—predominantly from the Ramesside period—depicting attacks on and

13  S ee M. Filihia, “Rituals of Sacrifice in Early Post-European Contact Tonga and Tahiti,” Journal of Pacific History 34 (1999): 5–22. 14  J . D. Martin, Tonga Islands: William Mariner’s Account (Tonga: Vava’u, 1991), 140–41, quoted in Filihia, “Rituals of Sacrifice,” 7–8. 15  S ee J. S. Friedlaender et al., “The Genetic Structure of Pacific Islanders,” PLoS Genet 4 (2008). 16  For examples from Mexico and India, see below, note 63. For a wider range of cross-cultural evidence of human sacrifice, see J. N. Bremmer, ed., The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 1 (Leuven: Peeters, 2006). 17  D  . R. Hillers, “Analysing the Abominable,” Jewish Quarterly Review 75 (1985): 253–69, esp. 258–59. Ugaritic texts that have been interpreted as referring to child sacrifice are too fraught with interpretative difficulties to provide any certain evidence. See S. Ackerman, Under Every Green Tree: Popular Religion in Sixth-Century Judah, Harvard Semitic Monographs 46 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 122–23.

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defeats of Canaanite cities, as relating to child sacrifice.18 Derchain’s prime example was a relief showing the defeat of Ashkelon in Karnak’s Temple of Amon (thirteenth century bce).19 During the final Egyptian assault on the city, which is about to fall, the population is praying on the city walls. Incense is being offered on a brazier, while children are suspended down the wall—ready to fall into the abyss.20 Derchain found supportive evidence for this interpretation in two significantly later texts. (Pseudo-)Lucian claims that the inhabitants of Hierapolis in northern Syria (modern Manbij) sacrificed animals by throwing them down the propylon, and that “some even throw their children off the place.”21 And Philo of Byblos, according to Eusebius, referred to the Phoenician rulers’ practice of sacrificing a child to avert common ruin (Preparation for the Gospel 1.10.44).22 Othmar Keel, however, placed the reliefs Derchain discussed into their wider iconographic context, as part of 34 representations of the Pharoah’s conquest of Canaanite cities, in ten of which children are suspended over or down the city wall.23 According to Keel’s interpretation, the relevant scenes do not depict battles for cities, but rather their conquest and punishment.24 The incense is not offered to Canaanite deities, but to the approaching Pharaoh, in acknowledgement of his numinous powers25 and in an attempt to appease his wrath.26 Thus the children are not offered as a sacrifice to Canaanite deities, but as hostages to Pharaoh or his crown prince, as a symbolic promise of 18  P  . Derchain, “Les plus anciens témoignages de sacrifices d’enfants chez les sémites occidentaux,” Vetus Testamentum 20 (1970): 351–55. 19  For the image, see Derchain, “Témoignages,” 352; W. Wreszinski, Atlas zur altägyptischen Kulturgeschichte. II. Teil (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1935), plate 58. 20  Thus the interpretation in Derchain, “Témoignages,” 351–53. 21  See H. W. Attridge and R. A. Oden, eds., The Syrian Goddess (De Dea Syria): Attributed to Lucian, SBL Texts and Translations 9 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1976), 59. On the date (second century ce) and basic trustworthiness of the text, see pages 2–3. 22  K. Mras and É. des Places, eds., Die Praeparatio Evangelica. Erster Teil. Einleitung, die Bücher I bis X (Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 1982), 51. 23  O. Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten auf ägyptischen Tempelreliefs,” Vetus Testamentum 25 (1975): 413–69, esp. 416. For the iconographic context, see S. C. Heinz, Die Feldzugsdarstellungen des Neuen Reiches: Eine Bildanalyse, Denkschriften der Gesamtakademie 18 (Wien: Verlag der ÖAW, 2001). 24  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 420. 25  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” esp. 428, 431–32, 435–36, and 443. Keel admits, however, that this specific way of offering incense to Pharaoh has no Egyptian parallel, suggesting special divine veneration of Pharaoh in the province and the extremity of the situation as possible explanations (page 430). 26  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 433–34 (adducing texts from the Old Testament) and 436.

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loyalty.27 Keel points out that the children are always suspended but never actually falling.28 One difficulty, however, is that, in the assault on Ashkelon, a child is suspended not only on the right, towards the approaching Pharaoh, but also on the left, which Keel explained as an aesthetic consideration of symmetry.29 More unusual, however, is that there are more examples of reliefs in which children are not held in Pharaoh’s direction.30 While Keel argued elaborately against Derchain’s interpretation of the reliefs in question as representing child sacrifice, he considered the possibility that the Pharaohs’ demands for the children of conquered rulers historically influenced later Canaanite inclinations to sacrifice their rulers’ children to their deities.31 Anthony Spalinger corroborated Derchain’s interpretation,32 although unfortunately he did not discuss Keel’s contribution. Spalinger observed that the Canaanite cities in question are not yet defeated, since their gates are not yet open, and thus the Sitz im Leben of this scene is “a war in which one’s city is besieged.”33 He emphasised that the child on the right of the Ashkelon scene looks dead,34 and the children suspended down the city walls in two other scenes from Medinet Habu appear to be dead as well.35 Moreover, he pointed to the inscription that accompanies the relief of Ramesses taking a Canaanite city, depicted in the temple of Beit el-Wali in Nubia, which reads: “(I) believe that there is no other like Baʿal (and) the ruler is his true son forever.”36 Thus, as Spalinger interprets it, “the enemy chief is extolling both Baʿal, his god, as well as Ramesses.” In connection with biblical and other comparative material, Spalinger saw a common pattern of a Canaanite ritual, which basically involved the invocation of Baʿal, child sacrifice, and incense offerings in the midst of a dangerous crisis caused by a siege.37 Against Spalinger’s interpreta27  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 436–37 and 439–42. 28  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 438. 29  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 443. 30  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 450–53 (nos. 8 and 15) and 457–58 (no. 33). Keel suggests that careless execution or misinterpretation of the scene by the artists could be reasons for these anomalies. The children that are not offered to Pharao could represent attempts at flight. 31  Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 462–63. 32  A  . J. Spalinger, “A Canaanite Ritual found in Egyptian Reliefs,” Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 8 (1978): 47–59. 33  Spalinger, “Canaanite Ritual,” 52. 34  Spalinger, “Canaanite Ritual,” 50. 35  Spalinger, “Canaanite Ritual,” 51; cf. Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten,” 457 (plate 22) and 460 (plate 23). 36  Spalinger, “Canaanite Ritual,” 51. 37  Spalinger, “Canaanite Ritual,” 54.

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tion of the inscription accompanying the relief at Beit el-Wali, Michaela Bauks adduced evidence of identifications of Pharaoh with Baʿal in the Ramesside period,38 which allows for the possibility that the Canaanite leader is portrayed as worshipping Pharaoh as Baʿal. The discussion briefly reviewed here shows that the interpretation of the Canaanite rituals in Egyptian reliefs is difficult. While Keel placed Derchain’s short, provocative note in a larger context, which significantly complicates the picture, Spalinger adduced observations that still bear some weight. The biblical story of the Moabite king Mesha, who—due to great danger in a war— sacrifices his son on the city wall (2 Kings 3:27), and Philo of Byblos’s reference to certain leaders’ habit of sacrificing children when under siege attest to such practices in the Levant in the first millenium bce. The analogical situation in some of the Egyptian reliefs from the late second millenium is striking and is still the main reason why the possibility that they represent child sacrifice should be considered. While some of the reliefs clearly represent offering children as hostages as a sign of surrender, others are less clear in this regard. The reason why some of the children suspended over the city wall have limp bodies and may thus be dead has not been sufficiently clarified. As Keel observed, the represented rituals have some specifically Canaanite features.39 Moreover, the use of the divine epithet Baʿal, whether referring to the Canaanite deity or identified with the Pharaoh, attests to the Egyptian reception of motifs from Canaanite religion. While it may well be possible to otherwise explain all the Egyptian reliefs in question,40 the possibility that some of them relate to the practice of child sacrifice cannot be easily dismissed.41 If the Egyptian army witnessed the ritual 38  M  . Bauks, “Kinderopfer als Weihe- oder Gabeopfer. Anmerkungen zum mlk-Opfer,” in Israeliten und Phönizier. Ihre Beziehungen im Spiegel der Archäologie und der Literatur des Alten Testaments und seiner Umwelt, ed. M. Witte and J. F. Diehl, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 235 (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2008), 233–52, here 242–43. Bauks deduced from this observation that the combination of image and inscription in Beit el-Wali does not provide any “real indication” of the presentation of Canaanite rituals on the Egyptian reliefs and that, therefore, the interpretation of the scenes as child sacrifice is obsolete (page 243). The latter claim, however, is too strong, since Spalinger’s interpretation of the Beit el-Wali inscription is not necessarily disproven by the alternative interpretation, and Spalinger’s argument does not solely depend on his interpretation of the inscription from Beit el-Wali. 39  Especially the incense offering; see above, note 25. 40  Bauks, “Kinderopfer,” 244: “Sowohl die ikonographischen als auch die inschriftlichen Belege lassen sich durchaus anders interpretieren.” 41  Except for M. Bauks (see above), reviews of the arguments favour the positions of either Keel or of Spalinger, but without providing any further arguments. While Israel Eph’al (The City Besieged: Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East, Culture

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of child sacrifice on Canaanite city walls, it would probably have left a strong impression. It would not be surprising to find Egyptian war chroniclers and artists integrating such scenes into their war narratives. It is not impossible that such scenes were represented as modifications of earlier depictions of the offering of children as hostages, and that they were reinterpreted as an act of desperate, total surrender to and worship of Pharaoh. At this stage, therefore, the question cannot be regarded as clarified. 1.3 Phoenician/Punic Child Sacrifice A broad spectrum of archaeological, epigraphic, and literary evidence, in contrast, attests to the practice of child sacrifice in Carthage and other Phoenician/ Punic42 sites in North Africa, Sicily, and Sardinia between the eighth century bce and the second century ce.43 In the “tophet” of Carthage alone, some 20,000 burials and more than 6,000 inscribed steles have been excavated. The strongest evidence for the practice of child sacrifice is the archaeological remains of the cremated bones of infants, together with the epigraphical evidence on the directly related stelae, which explicitly refers to sacrifice, sometimes even literally to “human sacrifice.” A recent controversy concerns the osteological analysis of the precise age of the infants buried in these cemeteries, which suggests that some of the bones stem from foetuses; their prenatal death would exclude sacrificial killing.44 From the perspective of an interdisciplinary approach, however, “the and History of the Ancient Near East 36 [Leiden: Brill, 2009], here 158) found Spalinger’s argument convincing, Heath Dewrell has been convinced by Keel; see Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel, Explorations in Ancient Near Eastern Civilizations 5 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2017), esp. 42–44. M. S. Smith (The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel [San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990], here 135–36) and A. Lange (“ ‘They Burn their Sons and Daughters. That Was No Command of Mine’ (Jer 7:31): Child Sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible and in the Deuteronomistic Jeremiah Redaction,” in Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, Numen book series, Studies in the History of Religions 112 [Leiden: Brill, 2007], 109–32, here 120–22) accept Spalinger’s interpretation of the reliefs, but without discussing the issues raised by Keel. 42  On the issue of terminology, see J. C. Quinn, “Tophets in the ‘Punic World’,” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici sul Vicino Oriente Antico 29–30 (2012–13): 23–48, esp. 23–28. 43  For a useful summary, see P. Xella, “‘Tophet’: An Overall Interpretation,” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 29–30 (2012–13): 259–81, esp. 260–61. On the Greek and Latin sources, see idem, “Sacrifici di Bambini nel Mondo Fenicio e Punico Nelle Testimonianze in Lingua Greca e Latina,” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 26 (2009): 59–100; a brief survey of the history of research is provided in Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 44–50. 44  See J. Schwartz, F. Houghton, L. Bondioli, and R. Macchiarelli, “Bones, Teeth, and Estimating Age of Perinates: Carthaginian Infant Sacrifice Revisited,” Antiquity 86 (2012): 738–45; V. Melchiorri, “Osteological Analysis in the Study of the Phoenician and Punic Tophet: A History of Research,” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 29–30 (2012–13): 223–58;

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range of sources currently available to researchers beyond the disputed osteology strongly suggests that the tophet was first and foremost a ritual site or sanctuary and that the cremated depositions of infants and animals were sacrificial offerings.”45 If the evidence for the primary purpose of tophets as cultic burial sites for victims of child sacrifice is overwhelming, why are some scholars still claiming that sacrifice was rarely practised? Susanna Shelby Brown suspected that “many modern authors are perhaps overly eager to exonerate the Phoenicians from a ‘crime’ (in our eyes) that, by Phoenician standards, was simply not an offense.”46 To the contrary, as I shall argue below (see section 1.5)—they even had reasons to consider themselves especially pious.47 1.4 Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel The tension between historical fact and polemics has been powerfully played out concerning the question of child sacrifice in ancient Israel. Several biblical texts themselves have polemical features (see below), but the theme has also lent itself to modern scholarly polemics.48 From a historical point of view, the P. Xella, J. Quinn, V. Melchiorri, and P. van Dommelen, “Phoenecian Bones of Contention,” Antiquity 87 (2013): 1199–1207. 45  Xella et al., “Phoenecian Bones,” 1202. 46  S. Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice and Sacrificial Monuments in their Mediter­ ranean Context, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement / American Schools of Oriental Research Monograph Series 3 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), here 75. 47  Azize thus argues from a contemporary perspective without sufficient qualification: “False accusations of the murder and mistreatment of children are easy to make, and are not infrequently made, because such actions are abhorrent” (“Regular Child Sacrifice,” 192; cf. the contemporary example on pages 202–3). Neo-Assyrian propaganda artists, in contrast, had no difficulty portraying Assyrian soldiers extracting a fetus from the womb of a woman. Cf. P. Dubovský, “Ripping Open Pregnant Arab Women: Reliefs in Room L of Ashurbanipal’s North Palace,” Orientalia 78 (2009): 394–419. Even though such actions were perceived as abhorrent by those who suffered from them in the ancient world, an imperial power could still take pride in them, which is difficult to imagine today. Another example of ethical perceptions that differ from modern sensitivities is the exposure (ἔκθεσις; expositio/oblatio) of unwanted children, which was widely accepted in Greek and Roman antiquity. See J. Wiesehöfer, “Child Exposure,” in Brill’s New Pauly 3 (2003): 224–25, esp. 225: “The first open condemnation of the practice can be found in Philo (De specialibus legibus 3.110–119), whose position was later shared by many Christian authors such as Tertullian.” See also C. Patterson, “‘Not Worth the Rearing’: The Causes of Infant Exposure in Ancient Greece,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 115 (1985): 103–123. 48  M. Weinfeld’s “The Worship of Molech and of the Queen of Heaven and Its Background” (Ugarit-Forschungen 4 [1972]: 133–54) was criticised polemically in M. Smith, “A Note on Burning Babies” (Journal of the American Oriental Society 95 [1975]: 477–79), who called the rabbinic interpretation used by Weinfeld “worthless except as a source of amusement” (page 478).

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textual evidence49 suggests that child sacrifice did happen in ancient Israel— an opinion held by the “vast majority of contemporary scholars.”50 Although the Deuteronomistic tradition emphasises the foreign origin of child sacrifice, “several texts indicate that it was a native element of Judahite deity-worship.”51 In particular, the idea of the sacrifice of the firstborn seems to be a genuine part of Israelite religion, although it is hard to verify the extent to which it was really practised.52 The practice of child sacrifice related to the contested expression lmlk (‫)למלך‬,53 however, could be of Phoenician origin.54 Although it will be impossible to reconstruct the precise extent to which child sacrifice was

49  For an overview and discussion, see Dewrell, Child Sacrifice. A useful (but not exhaustive) list of relevant passages is provided in Xella, “Tophet,” 264. 50  Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 1. 51  F . Stavrakopoulou, King Manasseh and Child Sacrifice: Biblical Distortions of Historical Realities, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 338 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004), 283. Lange (“They Burn their Sons,” 129) even arrives at the conclusion that child sacrifice was “an indigenous part of Israel’s YHWH-cult,” the evidence for which is less conclusive. 52  Cf. Exodus 13:11–16; 22:28–29; 34:19–20; Numbers 8:16; 18:15–18; Deuteronomy 15:19– 23; Ezekiel 20:25–26; Micah 6:7; Nehemiah 10:37. From among these, it is likely that the passage from the Book of the Covenant (Exodus 22:28) is the most ancient; cf. K. Finsterbusch, “The First-Born between Sacrifice and Redemption in the Hebrew Bible,” in Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, Numen book series, Studies in the History of Religions 112 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 87–108, esp. 91–95. For further discussion, see Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 72–90; Stavrakopoulou, King Manasseh, 179–91. 53  Since Otto Eißfeldt published Molk als Opferbegriff im Punischen und Hebräischen und das Ende des Gottes Moloch (Halle: M. Niemeyer, 1935), the expression lmlk has been understood in comparison with Punic inscriptions and interpreted as a term for a sacrificial rite. For recent confirmations of this theory, see for example K. A. D. Smelik, “Moloch, Molech or Molk-Sacrifice? A Reassessment of the Evidence Concerning the Hebrew Term Molekh,” Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 9 (1995): 133–42; and Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 4–36, with a new text-critical consideration of Leviticus 20:5 (pages 30–35). Among the defenders of the traditional understanding of mlk as the name of a deity were G. C. Heider (The Cult of Molek: A Reassessment, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series 43 [Sheffield: Academic Press, 1985]) and J. Day (Molech: A God of Human Sacrifice in the Old Testament [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989]. T. Hieke (“Das Verbot der Übergabe von Nachkommen an den ‘Molech’ in Lev 18 und 20: Ein neuer Deutungsversuch,” Die Welt des Orients 41 [2011]: 147–67) proposed interpreting ‫ למלך‬in Leviticus 18:21 and 20:2–4 as a veiled reference to the Persian king and the prohibition “to make pass” (‫ עבר‬hi., 18:21) or “to give” (‫נתן‬, 20:2–4) children to the king as “the priestly prohibition for the Jewish community to hand over any of their children to serve in the Persian army or the households of the Persian authorities” (page 147). 54  See the argument in Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 4–36 and 119–46.

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practised in ancient Israel,55 “its historical reality came to present a problem for biblical writers of later periods”56—which plays out in the related polemics that will be subsequently discussed. 1.5 Religious Rationales behind Child Sacrifice Child sacrifice, as a cultural institution, necessarily had sociological and socio-psychological implications, and it could be employed by political institutions—as, for example, in the Phoenician/Punic cities and the Inca Empire. The principal motivating factors for performing it, however, were religious. Modern investigations need to reconstruct this aspect—which is quite distant from modern sensitivities—in order to understand the phenomenon. While the religious beliefs connected with human sacrifice were variegated,57 it may be helpful here to mention three reasons why children might have been considered especially apt for sacrifice. First, offspring were frequently seen as a gift from the divine realm. Sacrificing token human or animal offspring could thus be understood as returning to the deity what had been received—in the hope of gaining divine favour to produce further offspring.58 The divine origin of offspring and God’s right to claim them back is implied in the biblical idea that, as the divine voice tells Moses, “whatever is the first to open the womb among the children of Israel, among human beings and animals, is mine” (Exodus 13:2).59 Second, high “ascetic” value could be attributed to child sacrifice. Surrendering one’s beloved child to a deity could be seen as proof of the highest degree of piety. This aspect is highlighted in the literary presentation of the “Binding of Isaac,”60 as the story is called in Jewish tradition. God himself requires the sacrifice from Abraham—even if it is a “test” (Genesis 22:1): “Take 55  T  . C. Römer (“Le sacrifice humain en Juda et Israël au premier millénaire avant notre ère,” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 1 [1999]: 16–26) classifies the “ban” (‫ )חרם‬as “sacrifice de reconnaissance” (pages 18–20). The ban includes but is not specific to children, and is thus not treated here. 56  Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 146. 57  In Tahiti, for example, human sacrifice was connected with the belief that the soul of a sacrifice entered the chief in order to strengthen him; cf. Filihia, “Rituals of Sacrifice,” 8. 58  Dewrell, Child Sacrifice, 83. 59  The context of Exodus 13 suggests that it is a later theological reflection on the earlier command to sacrifice the firstborn in Exodus 22:28–29. See Finsterbusch, “First-Born,” 102–7. 60  High literary artistry is employed in the narrative in Genesis 22:1–19. See J. L. Ska, “Gen 22 or the Testing of Abraham: An Essay on the Levels of Reading,” in The Exegesis of the Pentateuch, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 66 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 97–110.

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your son, your only one, whom you love, Isaac, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as an offering on one of the mountains that I shall tell you” (Genesis 22:2). Double emphasis is placed on the father’s special relationship with his “only” and “beloved” son. And although the sacrifice is not performed, a voice from the heavenly realm appreciates Abraham’s willingness to offer his child:61 “Now I know that you fear God as you have not withheld your only son from me” (Genesis 22:12).62 Moreover, Abraham is greatly rewarded with abundant offspring (on this, see above): “Because you have done this […], I will indeed bless you, and I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore” (Genesis 22:16–17). Third, children could be considered especially apt as sacrificial victims because of their sexual and moral purity. This interpretation is attested by chroniclers who describe Inca child sacrifice.63 The institutionalised preservation of the virginity of young women chosen as sacrifices (see above on the acllahuasi) adds credibility to this interpretation. The first two aspects of the potential religious motivations for child sacrifice mentioned above are attested in biblical texts. They may help us understand why child sacrifice, especially as a last resort in desperate situations, could have been a step worth considering for worshippers of deities who were believed to require sacrifice. This motivation and the resulting historical practice of child sacrifice form the background for the polemics against it in biblical texts, to which I shall now turn.

61  Since a ram is ultimately sacrificed in place of Isaac, the text envisions—as others do— the substitution of an animal for a human victim. See Lange, “They Burn their Sons,” 127. 62  On the interpretation of this verse, see J. L. Ska, “‘And Now I Know’ (Gen 22:12),” in Exegesis of the Pentateuch, 111–38. The climax of this story is crucial for identifying the main thrust of its message, which concerns the “testing” of Abraham, in which he is seen as an exemplary God-fearer; cf. T. Veijola, “Das Opfer des Abraham—Paradigma des Glaubens aus dem nachexilischen Zeitalter,” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 85 (1988): 165–98. 63  Ceruti, “Frozen Mummies,” 7. The rationales for the choice of victims, however, could be very different. In Aztec culture, where the sacrifice of human adults was frequent, children were sacrificed to specific deities, such as the god of wind and rain, Ehecatl-Quetzalcoatl; the children may have been chosen to personify little deities. See I. De La Cruz et al., “Sex Identification of Children Sacrificed to the Ancient Aztec Rain Gods in Tlatelolco,” Current Anthropology 49 (2008): 519–26, esp. 525. The Konds in India preferred adults over children for sacrifice, because they were more costly and thus more appreciated by the deity. See L. van den Bosch, “Human Sacrifice among the Konds,” in The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, ed. J. N. Bremmer, Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 1 (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 195–227, here 213.

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Child Sacrifice in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History

Among several biblical texts that polemicise against child sacrifice,64 I shall concentrate here on Deuteronomy and the “Deuteronomistic History,”65 specifically the book of Kings. The relevant passages are strongly interrelated (see below, section 2.3) and employ two formulations: “to burn sons (and daughters) in fire” (‫ באש‬+ [‫ ובנות‬+] ‫ בנים‬+ ‫שרף‬: Deuteronomy 12:31; 2 Kings 17:31)66 and “to make pass son(s) (and/or daughter[s]) into/through fire” (‫ באש‬+ [‫ובת‬ sg./pl.+] ‫ בן‬sg./pl. + ‫ עבר‬hi.: Deuteronomy 18:10; 2 Kings 16:3; 17:17; 21:6; 23:10).67 While the first is unambiguous, some scholars have interpreted the latter as referring to a ritual that does not involve the killing of the child.68 Comparing related passages, however, indicates that “to make pass a child into/through fire” is a technical expression for child sacrifice.69 In Deuteronomy, Moses emphatically prohibits child sacrifice, among other rituals. In the book of Kings, 64  See, for example, Jeremiah 7:31; 19:5; 32:35; and Lange, “They Burn their Sons,” 112–13, on possible interpretations. Lange speaks explicitly about “Dtr polemics” against child sacrifice (page 128). Römer (“Sacrifice humain,” 24–26) identifies polemics in texts from the Persian period. 65  I use the expression “Deuteronomistic History” as a convenient scholarly label to refer to the historiographical complex from Deuteronomy to 2 Kings, without implying my acceptance of Martin Noth’s theory of its origin (see Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien: Die sammelnden und bearbeitenden Geschichtswerke im Alten Testament, 2nd ed. [Darmstadt: M. Niemeyer, 1957]; The Deuteronomistic History, trans. Jane Doull et al., Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series 15, 2nd ed. [Sheffield: Academic Press, 1991]). For an overview of the issues involved, see T. Römer, The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical, and Literary Introduction, 2nd ed. (London: T&T Clark, 2007). 66  When “daughters” are not explicitly mentioned, ‫ בנים‬can refer to either sex. Beyond Deuteronomy 12:31 and 2 Kings 17:31, this formulation occurs in Jeremiah 7:31 and 19:5. 67  In addition, this formulation occurs in Ezekiel 20:31 and 2 Chronicles 33:6 (// 2 Kings 21:6). 68  See, for example, Weinfeld, “Worship of Molech,” 140–44; J. Lust, “The Cult of Molek/ Milchom,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 63 (1987): 361–66, esp. 361–62; A. Jeffers, Magic and Divination in Ancient Palestine and Syria, Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 8 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 123–24. 69  The most important indications are found in 2 Kings 23:10, where “to make pass through fire” is connected with the expression ‫למלך‬, and in a reference to the tophet that is connected with “burn children in fire” in Jeremiah 19:5–6; there, the “valley of the son of Hinnom” is called the “valley of slaughter” (‫)גיא ההרגה‬, which provides unambiguous reference to the killing of children. (Lust [“Cult of Molek/Milchom,” 362] has to downplay 2 Kings 23:10 as “probably a conflation” to sustain his theory.) Another strong indication is that “to make pass” (‫ עבר‬hi.) with children as its object is connected with ‫ למלך‬in Jeremiah 32:35 and with the explicit reference to the “slaughter” (‫ )שחט‬of children in Ezekiel 16:21. (Weinfeld [“Worship of Molech,” 141] sees in the respective passages in Jeremiah and Ezekiel “a great deal of exaggeration.”) All of these passages strongly

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Ahaz and Manasseh, kings of Judah (2 Kings 16:3; 21:6); the Israelites (17:17); and the Sepharvites (17:31) are all accused of committing this act, while King Josiah is credited with abolishing it (23:10). In the following sections, I shall first analyse the relevant passages in Deuteronomy and Kings, respectively, and then discuss their relationship to each other. 2.1 Polemics against Child Sacrifice in Deuteronomy Deuteronomy is harshly intolerant when it comes to the cultic practices attributed to the Canaanite nations, which are disqualified as “abominations” (‫)תועבה‬.70 Specifically, these are the Canaanite idols (Deuteronomy 7:25–26), the forms of worship offered to them (12:30–31; 20:18), and several rituals (18:9– 14).71 The two passages that explicitly refer to child sacrifice (12:31; 18:10) are both presented in the scenario of Israel coming into the land (introduced by “when” [‫ ]כי‬in 12:29 and 18:9) and the subsequent danger that the Israelites might learn such practices from the Canaanites.72 Within Deuteronomy 12, the concluding passage of the chapter, which refers to Canaanite child sacrifice (verses 29–31), forms an inclusio with its introductory passage, in which Moses demands the demolition of Canaanite cult indicate that “to make children pass (into/through fire)” is a technical expression for child sacrifice. 70  Cf. the use of ‫ תועבה‬in Deuteronomy 7:25–26; 12:31; 18:9, 12; and 20:18. In these instances, the term is related to boundaries and identity formation, as pointed out by C. L. Crouch, “What Makes a Thing Abominable? Observations on the Language of Boundaries and Identity Formation from a Social Scientific Perspective,” Vetus Testamentum 65 (2015): 516–41. 71  On the relatedness of these passages concerning the Canaanite nations, see R. Ebach, Das Fremde und das Eigene: Die Fremdendarstellungen des Deuteronomiums im Kontext israelitischer Identitätskonstruktionen, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 471 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), esp. 227–32. 72  In 12:30, this danger is formulated as Israel’s interested question and their wish to imitate Canaanite practice. In 18:9, it is expressed by the prohibition “you must not learn” (‫לא‬ ‫)תלמד‬. The same motif occurs in 20:18 (“so that they may not teach you”, ‫ למד‬pi.), where child sacrifice is not explicitly mentioned. But 20:18 is strongly connected with 12:31, via “abomination” and “they did for their gods” (‫)עשו לאלהיהם‬, so that child sacrifice is likely to be implied in 20:18 as well. On the function of the question in 12:30 to establish a dialogue with addressees, see A. Bartor, Reading Law as Narrative: A Study in the Casuistic Laws of the Pentateuch, SBL Ancient Israel and Its Literature 5 (Atlanta: SBL, 2010), 124–25. This dialogue “wishes to influence the realm of thought” (page 124) and “seeks not only to prevent an action but also to undermine the desire to perform such acts” (page 125). The prohibition against learning (18:9) contrasts with the theme of what Israel is supposed to learn in Deuteronomy. See K. Finsterbusch, Weisung für Israel: Studien zu religiösem Lehren und Lernen im Deuteronomium und in seinem Umfeld, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 44 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), esp. 117–314.

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places and objects (verses 2–3) and contrasts them with the worship due to YHWH (verse 4).73 The two passages are strongly related via the issue of how the Canaanite nations served their gods74 and the prohibition against worshippers of YHWH also acting thusly (12:4, 31).75 While this prohibition has a macrostructural function in verse 4, as it anticipates the chapter’s positive commands (introduced by “but” [‫ ]כי אם‬in verse 5), in verse 31, it is substantiated by a double reference to the nations’ abominations, twice introduced by “because” (‫ )כי‬and concluded with “for their gods” (‫)לאלהיהם‬: “because all the abominations of YHWH that he hates they did for their gods” “because even their sons and their daughters they burned in fire for their gods” The formulation emphasises that “even” (‫ )גם‬burning the children with fire is the extreme culmination of “all abominations of YHWH, which he hates.” The central concern of Deuteronomy 12, the rightful worship of YHWH at his single chosen “place” (‫מקום‬: verses 5, 11, 14, 18, 21, and 26), is thus framed by the double contrast with the many cult “places” that must be destroyed (‫מקמות‬: verse 2, cf. ‫ מקום‬in verse 3) and the abominable worship of the many gods of the nations (verses 29–31). The latter contrast concludes with the final rhetorical climax of the entire chapter—the motif of burning children. The rightful worship of YHWH is presented as a counter-program to the Canaanite cults, the character of which is supposed to become abhorrently clear in the ultimate abomination of burning children. The second passage referring to child sacrifice, Deuteronomy 18:9–14, is found, despite the similar scenario (between 18:9 and 12:29–30, on which see 73  E  . Otto (Deuteronomium 12,1–23,15, Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament [Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2016], 1166) attributes Deuteronomy 12:1–7 and 29–31 to the Deuteronomistic redaction of Deuteronomy. The inclusio implies a temporal development. 12:29–31 presupposes the physical destruction of cult places (12:2–3) and envisions a situation in which Israel has taken over the land and lives there (verse 29). Cf. Otto, Deuteronomium, 1196. 74  The “nations” (‫גוים‬: 12:2, 29–30) “served” (‫עבד‬: 12:2, 30) “their gods” (‫אלהיהם‬: 12:2–3, 30–31). None of these expressions occurs elsewhere in Deuteronomy 12, and the specific phrase (12:2, 30) occurs nowhere else in the Hebrew Bible. In addition, 12:2 and 29 are connected via a relative clause, “that you are taking into possession” (verse 2: ‫אשר אתם‬ ‫ ירשים אתם‬/ verse 29: ‫)אשר אתה … לרשת אותם‬. 75  “You shall not act thus for YHWH your God” is exclusive to both passages (verse 4: ‫לא‬ ‫ תעשון כן ליהוה אלהיכם‬/ verse 31: ‫)לא תעשה כן ליהוה אלהיך‬.

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above),76 in quite a different context. Deuteronomy 18 is tied together by the theme of religious offices—the final section of Deuteronomy’s regulations on juridical, political, and religious offices (16:18–18:22).77 The chapter is divided into three subunits on the rights and duties of the Levites and priests (18:1–8), prohibited rites (verses 9–14), and the announcement of the prospect of a prophet like Moses (verses 15–20).78 The negative prohibitions in verses 9–14 are thus framed by positive regulations on legitimate religious officeholders.79 The deficit created by the prohibition of diviners, soothsayers, and the like (verses 10–11) is filled with the “Mosaic” prophecy divinely installed at Horeb.80 The list of prohibited “offices” is introduced, somewhat surprisingly,81 with practitioners of child sacrifice: “There shall not be found among you one who makes pass his son or his daughter into/through fire” (verse 10). This is, em76  The contrast expressed in Deuteronomy 18:14 by “not thus” (‫ )לא כן‬creates a link with 12:4 and 31 (‫לא תעשה כן‬/ ‫)לא תעשון כן‬, without any additional parallel in Deuteronomy. 77  S ee B. M. Levinson, “Deuteronomy’s Conception of Law as an ‘Ideal Type’: A Missing Chapter in the History of Constitutional Law,” in “The Right Chorale”: Studies in Biblical Law and Interpretation, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 54 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 52–86 (= Maarav 12 [2005]: 83–119); N. Lohfink, “Die Sicherung der Wirksamkeit des Gotteswortes durch das Prinzip der Schriftlichkeit der Tora und durch das Prinzip der Gewaltenteilung nach den Ämtergesetzen des Buches Deuteronomium (Dt 16, 18–18, 22),” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur I, Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände 8 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1990), 305–23. 78   On the special literary features of Deuteronomy 18:15–22, see D. Markl, “Moses Prophetenrolle in Dtn 5; 18; 34. Strukturelle Wendepunkte von rechtshermeneutischem Gewicht,” in Deuteronomium—Tora für eine neue Generation, ed. G. Fischer, D. Markl, and S. Paganini, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 17 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 51–68, esp. 56–57. 79  The prospective scenario of the land with its nations (Deuteronomy 18:9) contrasts with the retrospective reference to Israel’s foundation on the “day of the assembly” at Horeb (verses 16–20), when God announced a true prophet to Moses. 80  While the nations “listen” (‫ )שמע‬to mantic personnel (Deuteronomy 18:14), Israel is supposed to “listen” to true prophets (verses 15 and 19). 81  Although we have little knowledge about what the ritual of child sacrifice concretely entailed, one may assume that the sacrifice of a child was seen as a special way of communicating with the divine realm to garner a benign response—and could thus be considered as related to mantic practices. The list could also refer to heterogenous practitioners of rites to which the author(s) were opposed for different reasons. Child sacrifice may be rejected based on moral sentiments, while other forms of divination could be seen as potential rivals to “Mosaic” prophecy. T. C. Römer (“Das Verbot magischer und mantischer Praktiken im Buch Deuteronomium (Dtn 18, 9–13),” in Diasynchron: Beiträge zur Exegese, Theologie und Rezeption der Hebräischen Bibel, ed. T. Naumann and R. Hunziker-Rodewald [Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2009], 311–27, esp. 316–17) assumes a chthonic association of the cult (based on the reading of mælæk as one of YHWH’s titles) and therefore sees a connection between child sacrifice and necromancy at the end of the list (pages 322–23).

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phatically, the first example of the “abominations of these nations” (verse 9). “Abomination” constitutes an inclusio for the list, but in the second occurrence, the practitioners themselves are called an “abomination of YHWH” (verse 12), and “because of these abominations YHWH your God is driving them out before you”—a significant detail with regard to the etiologies of exile in the Deuteronomistic History. In the first half of the Deuteronomic collection of laws (chapters 12–18),82 the issue of child sacrifice forms an inclusio between its opening and its concluding chapters. While it appears as the concluding climax of the inclusio in Deuteronomy 12, it is the prominent beginning of the central prohibitions in Deuteronomy 18. Just as child sacrifice is the extreme contrast, the foil to rightful worship of YHWH (Deuteronomy 12), those who sacrifice children are, first and foremost, the opposite of legitimate priests and prophets (Deuteronomy 18). While the initial scenario of taking the land into possession and the danger of the people’s interest in Canaanite worship is more elaborately unfolded at the beginning (12:29–30; cf. 18:9), the reflection on the consequences of the abominations are more explicit at the end (18:12). Such abominations would lead to the loss of the land—a central issue in the Deuteronomistic historiographic conception. 2.2 Child Sacrifice in the Historiography of Kings While Moses is an engaged rhetorician in Deuteronomy and unsurprisingly employs polemical speech, the voice of the narrator in Kings represents itself as an omniscient historiographer,83 whose quasi-objective presentation, however, is quite opinionated, especially when it comes to child sacrifice. The theme occurs five times (2 Kings 16:3; 17:17, 31; 21:7; 23:2) at critical points in the narrative. Kings Ahaz and Manasseh of Judah are presented in close parallel, as having sacrificed their own sons.84 82  On the thematic and literary characteristics of Deuteronomy 12–18 versus Deuteronomy 19–25, see D. Markl, Gottes Volk im Deuteronomium, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 18 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012), 25–32; idem, “Deuteronomy,” in The Paulist Biblical Commentary, ed. J. E. Aguilar Chiu et al. (New York: Paulist, 2018), 147–93, here 169–70 and 177. 83  I presuppose the possibility of redactional growth in Kings and use “historiographer” not to refer to one specific author or redactor, but to the literary characteristics of the voice of the narrator in the text as it has grown into its received forms. 84  For Ahaz as the “prototype of Manasseh” and Hezekiah as the “prototype of Josiah,” see E. Ben Zvi, “The Account of the Reign of Manasseh in II Reg 21, 1–18 and the Redactional History of the Book of Kings,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 103 (1991): 355–74, here 360; E. Gaß, “Die kultischen Vergehen Manasses, die Königebücher und das Deuteronomium,” in Menschliches Handeln und Sprechen im Horizont Gottes: Aufsätze zur

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2 Kings 16:3

‫וגם את בנו העביר באש‬

2 Kings 21:6

‫והעביר את בנו באש‬

and even his son he made pass into/through fire and he made pass his son into/ through fire

The Israelites are reported to have committed child sacrifice before they were exiled by the Assyrians,85 while the Sepharvites did so after the Assyrians settled them in the territory of the Northern Kingdom.86 2 Kings 17:17

‫ויעבירו את בניהם‬ ‫ואת בנותיהם באש‬

2 Kings 17:31

‫והספרוים שרפים‬ ‫את בניהם באש‬

and they made pass their sons and their daughters into/through fire and the Sepharvites burnt their sons/children in fire

King Josiah’s abolition of the tophet is programmatically the last reference to child sacrifice in Kings. 2 Kings 23:10

‫לבלתי להעביר איש‬ ‫את בנו ואת בתו‬ ‫באש למלך‬

lest anybody make pass his son or his daughter into/through fire lmlk

The formulation contrasts specifically with both Ahaz’s and Manasseh’s sacrifices of their sons (individually “his son,” ‫ )בנו‬and with the Israelites’ sacrifice of “their sons and their daughters.” Josiah is explicitly shown in contrast to his two evil predecessors, Ahaz and Manasseh, in the context immediately following,

biblischen Theologie, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 100 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 157–87, esp. 181. 85  This is the only and quite global attribution of child sacrifice to the population of the Northern Kingdom and is thus historically less trustworthy than its attribution to the kings of Judah. Cf. K. Koch, “Molek astral,” in Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: FS H.-P. Müller, ed. A. Lange, H. Lichtenberger, and D. Römheld, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 278 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1999), 29–50, esp. 34–35. 86  The contrast between 17:1–6, 7–23 and verses 24–41 is presented systematically. The conclusion of the reflection on the exile of the Northern Kingdom (2 Kings 17:7–23), “and Israel was carried away from his land to Assyria until this day” (verse 23, cf. verse 6), contrasts with both the Assyrian king’s settlement of other peoples in the land in place of Israel (verse 24) and their cultic misbehaviour, including child sacrifice, “until this day” (verses 34 and 41).

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as he destroys their altars (2 Kings 23:12).87 While Josiah is fully credited with the abolition of child sacrifice, Manasseh’s sins are identified as the cause of God’s continuing wrath, despite Josiah’s reform (23:26; 24:3–4).88 It is of the greatest significance for the Deuteronomistic historiographical conception that child sacrifice is directly related to its etiologies of exile. Israel’s child sacrifice (2 Kings 17:17) is one of the issues that kindle divine wrath, which leads to the exile of the Northern Kingdom (verse 18). Judah’s similar behaviour (verse 19)—anticipated in the example of Ahaz’s child sacrifice (16:3)—however, also leads to their removal from YHWH’s sight (17:20). Although Manasseh’s child sacrifice is not explicitly mentioned in the last references to his responsibility for Judah’s downfall (23:26–27; 24:3–4),89 it is one of his “abominations” (23:13; cf. 21:2, 11). The extent to which child sacrifice is related to the etiology of exile, however, becomes even clearer when Kings is read against the background of Deuteronomy.

87  H  . Spieckermann (Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 129 [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982], here 161) aptly calls Manasseh an “Antitypos” of Josiah. 88  The extremely negative presentation of Manasseh in 2 Kings 21:1–18 employs the formulation “to do evil in the eyes of YHWH” as a Leitmotif (verses 2, 6, 15, and 16; cf. verse 9; see below) and culminates in the divine announcement of “evil” (‫ )רע‬to be brought upon Jerusalem and Judah (verse 12). The prophetic oracle in 21:10–15 is fulfilled by 23:26–27 and 24:3–4; cf. Stavrakopoulou, King Manasseh, 41. On the presentation of Manasseh in Kings, see ibid., 17–45; P. S. F. van Keulen, Manasseh through the Eyes of the Deuteronomists: The Manasseh Account (2 Kings 21:1–18) and the Final Chapters of the Deuteronomistic History, Oudtestamentische Studiën 38 (Leiden: Brill, 1996); E. Eynikel, “The Portrait of Manasseh and the Deuteronomistic History,” in Deuteronomy and Deuteronomic Literature. Festschrift C. H. W. Brekelmans, ed. M. Vervenne and J. Lust, Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 133 (Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 233–61; K. A. D. Smelik, Converting the Past: Studies in Ancient Israelite and Moabite Historiography, Oudtestamentische Studiën 28 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), esp. 129–68; Ben Zvi, “Manasseh;” for a study of the formulaic language, see Gaß, “Vergehen.” The reference to the consequences of Manasseh’s sins in 2 Kings 24:2–3 is analogous to the reference to Jeroboam’s sin in 17:21–23; see van Keulen, Manasseh, 150–52. On the reinterpretation of Manasseh in the Second Temple period, see L. K. Handy, “Rehabilitating Manasseh: Remembering King Manasseh in the Persian and Hellenistic Period,” in Remembering Biblical Figures in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods: Social Memory and Imagination, ed. D. V. Edelman and E. Ben Zvi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 221–35. 89  “The innocent blood that he had shed; for he filled Jerusalem with innocent blood” (24:4) is parallel to 21:16, where it is presented as a misdeed that Manasseh committed in addition to (‫ )וגם‬the ones previously mentioned. It is, therefore, not to be equated with child sacrifice.

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2.3 Child Sacrifice and the Etiology of Exile in Deuteronomy and Kings Not only do Deuteronomy and Kings employ the same two formulations for child sacrifice (see above, page 69), but these formulations and their contexts are intensely interrelated. One detail that merits attention is that the first reference to child sacrifice in both Deuteronomy (12:31) and Kings (2 Kings 16:3) is highlighted by “even” (‫)גם‬90—alerting readers to the introduction of a particularly sensitive issue. The following analysis demonstrates three salient connections between Deuteronomy and Kings concerning how they ultimately work together in a major historiographic conception. First, the combination of child sacrifice with other rituals connects Moses’s prohibition with the respective deeds of Israel and Manasseh:91 Deuteronomy 18:10–11

‫מעביר בנו ובתו באש‬

One who makes pass his son or his daughter through fire,

‫קסם קסמים‬

a diviner of divinations, a soothsayer or an augur or a sorcerer

‫מעונן‬

‫ומנחש‬ ‫ומכשף‬

2 Kings 17:17

‫ויעבירו את בניהם ואת‬ ‫בנותיהם באש‬

And they made pass their sons and their daughters through fire

2 Kings 21:6

‫והעביר את בנו באש‬

And he made pass his son through fire

‫ויקסמו קסמים‬

and they divined divinations

‫וינחשו‬

and practiced augury

he practiced soothsaying and augury

‫ועונן‬

‫ונחש‬

90  Observed for 2 Kings 16:3 in M. S. Smith, “Child Sacrifice as the Extreme Case and Calculation,” in Not Sparing the Child: Human Sacrifice in the Ancient World and Beyond. Studies in Honor of Professor Paul G. Mosca, ed. V. D. Arbel et al. (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), 3–17, here 9, with reference to the highlighting function of ‫ )ו(גם‬in 2 Kings 13:6; 17:19; 21:16. In addition, a close parallel is the use of ‫ וגם‬in 1 Kings 14:24 in the context of the “abominations of the nations” (see below). 91  The translation of some of the terms referring to divination is difficult but is not directly relevant to the argument presented here. For discussions of the semantics, see Otto, Deuteronomium, 1494–96; Jeffers, Magic and Divination, 35–98. Beyond the parallel between 2 Kings 17:17 and 21:6, the sins of Israel in 17:11, 16–17 and of Manasseh in 21:3 also show parallels; see Ben Zvi, “Manasseh,” 363; William M. Schniedewind, “History and Interpretation: The Religion of Ahab and Manasseh in the Book of Kings,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 55 (1993): 649–61, esp. 657.

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‫וחבר חבר‬

or one who casts spells,

‫ושאל אוב וידעני‬

or who consults ghosts or spirits,

‫ודרש אל המתים‬

‫ועשה אוב וידענים‬

and he practiced with ghosts and spirits

or who seeks oracles from the dead

Not only do the rare terms appear in all three examples, but their sequence is also parallel. Since Deuteronomy’s list is by far the most comprehensive, it has been suggested that this text depends on the others.92 Read against the background of Deuteronomy, the sins of Israel and Manasseh clearly appear as offences against Mosaic prohibitions,93 even more so as reference to Moses’s commands is made in both contexts (2 Kings 17:13; 18:12; 21:8).94

92  Cf. the comparison between Deuteronomy 18:10–11 and 2 Kings 21:6 in B. B. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 11 (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1994), esp. 182 and 188. Otto (Deuteronomium, 1495) classifies Deuteronomy 18:10–12 as “nachexilische Fortschreibung.” Spieckermann (Juda unter Assur, 165), in contrast, considers the lists in both 2 Kings 17:17 and 21:6 excerpts from Deuteronomy 18:10–11; cf. also W. B. Barrick, The King and the Cemeteries: Toward a New Understanding of Josiah’s Reform, Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 88 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), esp. 95; and M. Cogan and H. Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Anchor Bible 11 (New York: Doubleday 1988), here 205 and 266, for Deuteronomy 18:10 as Vorlage for 2 Kings 17:17 and 21:6. 93  Van Keulen (Manasseh, 90–91) considers texts from Deuteronomy as a “frame of reference” (page 91) for Manasseh’s “abominations.” Direct dependence of Manasseh’s sins from Deuteronomy 12, 17, and 18 is assumed in R. H. Lowery, The Reforming Kings: Cults and Society in First Temple Judah, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series 120 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), esp. 183–85; and E. Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige: 1. Kön. 17–2. Kön. 25, Altes Testament Deutsch 11.2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 441. 94  While the divine word to David and Solomon reported in 2 Kings 21:7–8 follows the reference to the rituals immediately, 2 Kings 18:9–12 provides a separate account and interpretation of the fall of the Northern Kingdom, in addition to 17:1–6, 7–23. The divine speech in 17:13 refers to “my commandments and my statutes, according to all the Torah […] that I sent to them through my servants the prophets.” Although Moses is not explicitly mentioned, “commandments,” “statutes,” and “Torah” are first and foremost associated with him. References to Moses and to his Torah are considered by some as belonging to a redactional layer. See, for example, Ben Zvi, “Manasseh,” 367–71.

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Second, the motif of the “abominations of the nations” connects Deuteronomy 18 with Kings:95 Deuteronomy 18:9 ‫לעשות כתועבת הגוים ההם‬ Deuteronomy 18:12 ‫ובגלל  התועבת האלה יהוה אלהיך מוריש אותם מפניך‬ 1 Kings 14:24 ‫עשו ככל התועבת הגוים אשר הוריש יהוה   מפני בני ישראל‬ 2 Kings 16:3 ‫כתעבות הגוים אשר הוריש יהוה אתם מפני בני ישראל‬ 2 Kings 21:2 ‫כתועבת הגוים אשר הוריש יהוה   מפני בני ישראל‬ Deuteronomy 18:9 Deuteronomy 18:12 1 Kings 14:24 2 Kings 16:3 2 Kings 21:2

to act according to the abominations of these nations and because of the abominations of these nations is YHWH, your God, driving them out before you They acted according to all the abominations that YHWH had driven out before the children of Israel according to the abominations of the nations that YHWH had driven out before the children of Israel according to the abominations of the nations that YHWH had driven out before the children of Israel

Israel Israel Judah Ahaz Manasseh

The very regular formula “like (all) the abominations of the nations that YHWH had driven out before the children of Israel” qualifies the deeds of Judah concerning cultic practices condemned in Deuteronomy,96 Ahaz’s child sacrifice, and Manasseh’s cultic misdeeds (2 Kings 21:2–9), which include child

95  The expression “abominations of the nations” (‫ )תועבת הגוים‬occurs, beyond the passages listed above, in the parallels in 2 Chronicles 28:3 (Ahaz), 33:2 (Manasseh), and, additionally, in 2 Chronicles 36:14, which identifies “collective sin” as the reason for Judah’s downfall, as part of the Chronicler’s thorough reinterpretation; see B. Halpern, “Why Manasseh is Blamed for the Babylonian Exile: The Evolution of a Biblical Tradition,” Vetus Testamentum 48 (1998): 473–514, esp. 475–77. 96  The “pillars and sacred poles” (‫מצבות ואשרים‬: 1 Kings 14:23) are supposed to be destroyed (Deuteronomy 7:5; 12:3), and the “temple prostitute” (‫קדש‬: 1 Kings 14:24, whatever the term really refers to) is prohibited and closely related to “abomination” (Deuteronomy 23:18–19).

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sacrifice.97 In Deuteronomy 18, the expression “abominations of the nations” (verse 9) and the abominations as YHWH’s reason for driving the nations out of the land (verse 11)98 is split and forms an inclusio for the list of the prohibited rituals. Beyond the passages quoted above, four similar relative clauses that employ different verbs deserve consideration:99 Deuteronomy 8:20

2 Kings 17:8

‫כגוים אשר יהוה מאביד‬ ‫מפניכם‬

like the nations that YHWH is making perish before you

‫וילכו בחקות הגוים אשר‬ ‫הוריש יהוה מפני בני ישראל‬

and they walked in the statutes of the nations that YHWH drove out before the children of Israel like the nations that YHWH carried away before them to do more evil than the nations that YHWH destroyed before them

2 Kings 17:11

‫כגוים אשר הגלה יהוה מפניהם‬

2 Kings 21:9

‫לעשות את הרע מן הגוים אשר‬ ‫השמיד יהוה מפני בני ישראל‬

Remarkably, the reference to the “nations that YHWH” drove away or destroyed “from before” (‫ )מפני‬Israel occurs no less than four times in the accounts of Israel’s (2 Kings 17:8, 11) and Manasseh’s sins (21:2, 9). 2 Kings 17:8 is an introductory summary of the subsequent misdeeds, and 21:2 and 9 frame the account of Manasseh’s sins. As Klaas Smelik suggested, the flashbacks to the nations imply “that Israel will suffer the same fate.”100 What can be discerned in Kings is explicitly stated in Deuteronomy 8:20: “Like the nations that YHWH is destroying before you, so shall you perish, because you have not obeyed 97  F . Blanco-Wißmann (“Er tat das Rechte …” Beurteilungskriterien und Deuteronomismus in 1 Kön 12–2 Kön 25, Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 93 [Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2008], here 170] sees 2 Kings 21:2 and 6 as on the same conceptual level (“konzeptionell auf der gleichen Ebene”), as they both create a link with Deuteronomy 18:9–12. 98  This formulation (combining ‫ יהוה‬+ ‫ ירש‬+ ‫ )תועבת‬occurs in Deuteronomy 18:12; 1 Kings 14:24; 2 Kings 16:3; 21:2; and 2 Chronicles 28:3; 33:2. 99  Cf. the comparison between 2 Kings 16:3; 17:8; and 21:2 in Ben Zvi, “Manasseh,” 362. 100  Smelik, Converting the Past, 156; see the discussion that follows on pages 156–58.

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the voice of YHWH your God” (cf. also 7:1–4, 25–26). This cyclical scheme is a historiographical pattern of thought in Deuteronomy.101 Only against the background of Deuteronomy’s Mosaic teaching does the etiology of exile implied in this series of references to the Canaanites’ loss of the land become explicitly clear. Third, the phrase “to do evil in the eyes of YHWH, to provoke him” creates a strong connection between Israel’s and Manasseh’s abominations and three passages in Deuteronomy:102 Deuteronomy 4:25 Deuteronomy 9:18 Deuteronomy 31:29 2 Kings 17:17 2 Kings 21:6 Deuteronomy 4:25 Deuteronomy 9:18 Deuteronomy 31:29 2 Kings 17:17 2 Kings 21:6

‫ועשיתם  הרע בעיני יהוה אלהיך להכעיסו‬ ‫לעשות  הרע בעיני יהוה להכעיסו‬ ‫תעשו את הרע בעיני יהוה להכעיסו‬ ‫לעשות  הרע בעיני יהוה להכעיסו‬ ‫לעשות  הרע בעיני יהוה להכעיס‬

and you do evil in the eyes of YHWH, your God, to provoke him to do evil in the eyes of YHWH to provoke him you will do evil in the eyes of YHWH to provoke him to do evil in the eyes of YHWH to provoke him to do evil in the eyes of YHWH to provoke [him]

Israel: idolatry Israel: idolatry Israel: idolatry Israel: idolatry and rites Manasseh: idolatry and rites

101  See esp. N. Lohfink, “Geschichtstypologisch orientierte Textstrukturen in den Büchern Deuteronomium und Josua,” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur IV, Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände 31 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000), 75–103, and the last section on the vicious cirles of history in Deuteronomy in D. Markl, “Deuteronomy’s ‘Anti King’: Historicized Etiology or Political Project?,” in Changing Faces of Kingship in Syria-Palestine 1500–500 BCE, ed. A. Gianto and P. Dubovský, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 459 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2018), 165–86. 102  This formulation ([‫ להכעיס]ו‬+ ‫ הרע בעיני יהוה‬+ ‫ )עשה‬occurs, in addition to the passages listed above, only in the parallel in 2 Chronicles 33:6 (Manasseh).

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This formulation combines the very frequent Deuteronomistic formula “to do evil in the eyes of YHWH”103 with “to provoke” (‫)כעס‬, a key verb for the Deuteronomistic etiology of exile.104 The resulting, theologically laden formulation is quite rare and salient. In Kings, it is strategically employed in two accounts of sins, including idolatry, child sacrifice, and other forbidden rites attributed to Israel (2 Kings 17:7–17) and Manasseh (21:2–9)105—which is one aspect of the parallelised presentations of the falls of the Northern and Southern kingdoms in Kings.106 In Deuteronomy, the formulation is twice employed in contexts explicitly related to Israel’s future disobedience and the ensuing catastrophe. Idolatry will lead to exile (Deuteronomy 4:25–28); the same is implied in the introduction to the Song of Moses (31:25–29),107 in which the disaster is unfolded. Moses uses the same formulation in his account of the story of the golden calf (9:18), which appears in the context of the redacted book as a prefiguration of future idolatry.108 Accordingly, the golden calf 103  The formula has 54 occurrences in the Hebrew Bible. Besides Deuteronomy (4), Judges (8), 1 Samuel 15:19, 1/2 Kings (30), Chronicles (9), and Jeremiah 52:2, it is found only in Numbers 32:13. For the formula in the context of Deuteronomistic expressions that refer to disloyalty, see M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 339. 104  ‫ כעס‬occurs twice in the reflection on exile in 2 Kings 17:11 and 17, in Huldah’s oracle (22:17), and three times with reference to Manasseh, including the last occurrence and ultimate interpretation of exile (21:6, 15; 23:26). On the Deuteronomistic usage of the verb, see N. Lohfink, “‫ כעס‬kāʿas,” Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament 7 (1995): 282–88, esp. 286–87; idem, “Der Zorn Gottes und das Exil,” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur V, Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände 38 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk 2005), 37–55, esp. 43–46. 105  In 2 Kings 17:17, the formulation concludes the account, while in 21:2–9, it concludes the first part, verses 2–6 (see the inclusio “he did evil in the eyes of YHWH […] doing evil in the eyes of YHWH”). 21:7 again takes up the issue of the Asherah (already mentioned in verse 3), and verse 9 forms an even stronger inclusio with verse 2 (“do evil” compared to the “nations that YHWH had driven out/destroyed before the children of Israel”). 106  S ee P. Dubovský, “Suspicious Similarities: A Comparative Study in the Falls of Samaria and Jerusalem,” in The Fall of Jerusalem and the Rise of the Torah, ed. P. Dubovský, D. Markl, and J.-P. Sonnet, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 107 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 47–71. 107  Idolatry is alluded to in Deuteronomy 31:29, through the expression “work of your hands” (cf. 4:28; 27:15) and through the verb “to provoke” (cf. the use of ‫ כעס‬in 32:16, 21). 108  On the relationship between the relevant passages in Deuteronomy 4, 9, and 31, see M. A. Zipor, “The Deuteronomic Account of the Golden Calf and its Reverberation in Other Parts of the Book of Deuteronomy,” Zeitschrift für die alttestementliche Wissenschaft 108 (1996): 20–33; J.-P. Sonnet, The Book within the Book: Writing in Deuteronomy, Biblical Interpretation Series 14 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), esp. 167–71.

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stories are alluded to in the etiology of exile in 2 Kings 17:14: “They hardened their necks like the neck of their fathers.”109 While the preceding three observations have consistently demonstrated correspondences between the reflection in 2 Kings 17:7–23 and the account of Manasseh (21:1–16), which parallelises them as etiologies of exile, a unique element in the treatment of Manasseh is the issue of Jerusalem and the temple.110 In the account of his sins (21:2–9), two divine words are quoted before and after the reference to child sacrifice (verses 4 and 7–8), which highlight the theological dignity of Jerusalem and the temple, where God “put” his “name.” These references emphasise Manasseh’s cultic misdeeds (the building of altars in verse 4 and the introduction of the Asherah idol in verse 7) and thematically anticipate the harsh contrast of the prophetic oracle, which announces the utter destruction of Jerusalem (verses 11–15). The reference to Jerusalem as the chosen place creates a strong thematic link with Deuteronomy 12,111 which intensifies the dialogue between the account of Manasseh and the Mosaic instructions regarding the cult. The motif of child sacrifice is thus embedded in a cluster of cultic sins which, according to the Deuteronomistic historiographers, caused the exile of both Israel and Judah. Via the formulations discussed above, the theme of child sacrifice in Kings is intensely interconnected with Moses’s prohibition of the “abominations of the nations” (Deuteronomy 18) and his prophecies regarding 109  Cf. the expression ‫ קשה ערף‬in Exodus 32:9; 33:3, 5; 34:9; Deuteronomy 9:6, 13; 31:27. The verbal formulation in 2 Kings 17:14 appears to be an inversion of Moses’s prohibition in Deuteronomy 10:16, “do not harden your neck anymore.” The allusion to the golden calf stories in 2 Kings 17:14 (“like the neck of their fathers” explicitly refers to a preceding story) introduces the reference to idolatry (verse 15) and, in particular, to Jeroboam’s calves (verse 16). Moreover, the “great sin” that Jeroboam brought upon Israel (17:21) takes up a key expression from the golden calf story in Exodus (‫ חטאה גדלה‬in 32:21, 30, 31; otherwise found only in Genesis 20:9). I owe the observations of this note to my doctoral students Simon Weyringer and Seung-Ae Kim. 110  While 2 Kings 17 is interested in disqualifying any cultic traditions related to the Northern Kingdom, whose destruction is just a natural consequence, 2 Kings 21–25 has to grapple with the issue of the destruction of Jerusalem’s temple, which is considered YHWH’s chosen temple. For a recent treatment of the historical issues involved in 2 Kings 17, see B. Hensel, Juda und Samaria: Zum Verhältnis zweier nachexilischer Jahwismen, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 110 (Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck, 2016), esp. 367–89. 111  The formulation “that I have chosen out of all the tribes of Israel, I shall put my name” (2 Kings 21:7) is very closely related to Deuteronomy 12:5, “that YHWH your God will choose out of all your tribes to put his name there.” The combination of “choose” (‫)בחר‬ “out of all tribes” (‫ )מכל שבטים‬and “put the name” (‫ שים‬+ ‫ )שם‬occurs elsewhere only in 1 Kings 14:21 (// 2 Chronicles 12:13) to highlight the sins of Judah (1 Kings 14:22–24), which result in Shishak’s plundering of the temple (14:25–26).

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the disaster that awaits Israel in the future, including exile (Deuteronomy 4; 31). The complexity of the interrelation between these literary works points to a complicated history of redactions. This process—however one may reconstruct it in detail—has resulted in a highly effective literary dialogue between Mosaic rhetoric and historiography, which I will reflect upon in my conclusion. 3

Mosaic Polemics and the Pragmatics of Historiography

Although Moses’s highly rhetorical discourse in Deuteronomy belongs to quite a different literary genre than the historiography of Kings, they both employ similar techniques to disqualify child sacrifice, together with other rituals and cultic practices. Both apply the highly emotive term “abominations” (‫)תועבת‬ to the practice with great frequency112 and attribute its origin to ethnic groups that had previously inhabited the land.113 The latter device serves to “other” such practices, claiming that they contrast with true Israelite and Judahite identity.114 In addition, they form part of a historiographical pattern that is implicit in Kings and explicit in Deuteronomy. Just as YHWH had driven out the Canaanite nations before Israel, the Israelites will suffer the same fate, as they commit the same abominations. Deuteronomy’s interaction with the historiography of Kings is part of its hybrid nature as “historicised law”—essentially prescriptive on the one hand, but inserted into and forming part of descriptive historiography on the other.115 The historical question of how the interaction between Deuteronomy and Kings developed—whether a primitive version of Deuteronomy served as a theological basis for the historiography in Kings, or whether the latter influenced the redaction of Deuteronomy—is the object of continued discussion, and it is quite likely that the influence was bidirectional. Doubtless, however, the resulting construct of Mosaic teaching within the major historiography of Israel is meant to be read together. 112  See the four occurrences in both Deuteronomy (12:31; 18:9, 12) and Kings (2 Kings 16:3; 21:2, 11; 23:13). Kings employs the term only once more, in 1 Kings 14:24. It is not used from Joshua to 1 and 2 Samuel. 17 occurrences show the term’s prominence in Deuteronomy (as opposed to only six in Leviticus 18:22–30 and 20:13, two in Exodus 8:22, and two in Genesis 43:32 and 46:34). 113  See Deuteronomy 12:29–31; 18:9–14; 1 Kings 14:24; 2 Kings 16:3; 21:2, 9, and the analysis above. 114  Cf., for example, E. Noort, “Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel: The Status Quaestionis,” in The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, ed. J. N. Bremmer, Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 1 (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 103–25, here 119. 115  See, more elaborately, Markl, “Anti-King,” 165–68.

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The first part of Deuteronomy’s laws (Deuteronomy 12–18) is of special significance to the etiology of exile in Kings. The one chosen place in opposition to other cult places, altars, and Asherot (Deuteronomy 12); the issues of child sacrifice and other rituals (Deuteronomy 12; 18); and the issue of obedience to true prophets (Deuteronomy 18) all play important roles in Deuteronomistic etiologies of exile (2 Kings 17–25). Moreover, the Mosaic vision of the king (Deuteronomy 17:14–20) opens an intricate dialogue with the institution of kingship, as it unfolded according to Samuel and Kings.116 The different genres work together in the end. While Moses’s direct address to Israel allows the authors to employ the communicative strategies of a rhetoritician, the historiographic voice of Kings presents itself as a sober, objective report on the fatal ends of Israel and Judah.117 The ruins of Jerusalem and the temple serve the Deuteronomistic History as the ultimate proof of the truth of its prophetic historiography. The desperate situation at the end of the history of Israel and Judah as well as the book found in the temple under Josiah, which contains the key to the catastrophe, motivate readers to go back to the Mosaic book of the Torah. Only there will they find the key to a hopeful future118—including the rules that must be adhered to in order to avoid another disaster in the future. The involvement of child sacrifice and other rites in the etiology of exile is intended to make post-exilic readers shudder at the dangerous idea of engaging in any such practices. Both Mosaic rhetoric and sober historiography polemicise using their respective means. In their interaction, they unleash their full force. With different but coordinated strategies, Deuteronomy and Kings employ sophisticated literary warfare, with the declared aim of abolishing child sacrifice. Their battle was joined by prophetic voices, and the textual evidence from Qumran indicates that child sacrifice was no longer considered a danger in the later Second Temple period.119 116  See the discussion in Markl, “Anti-King,” esp. 168–73. 117  Cf., for example, the contrast between Moses’s curses and the sober report on the destruction of Jerusalem: J.-P. Sonnet, “The Siege of Jerusalem between Rhetorical Maximalism (Deut 28) and Narrative Minimalism (2 Kgs 25),” in The Fall of Jerusalem and the Rise of the Torah, ed. P. Dubovský, D. Markl, and J.-P. Sonnet, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 107 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 73–86.  . Markl, “No Future without Moses: The Disastrous End of 2 Kings 22–25 and the Chance 118  D of the Moab Covenant (Deut 29–30),” Journal of Biblical Literature 133 (2014): 711–28. 119  The only reference to child sacrifice in the Qumran texts is the Temple Scroll’s rewriting of Deuteronomy 18:10. See J. G. Brooke, “Deuteronomy 18.9–14 in the Qumran Scrolls,” in Magic in the Biblical World: From the Rod of Aaron to the Ring of Solomon, ed. T. Klutz, Journal for the Study of the New Testament: Supplement Series 245 (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 66–84, esp. 74.

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Although the polemic against the Canaanite nations in Deuteronomy is ideologically laden and proved to be dangerous in its history of reception,120 and although there are highly problematic aspects related to this in the history of the worldwide missions of the biblical religion in its Christian transformation, one may congratulate these Deuteronomistic polemics for contributing, in the end, to reducing child sacrifice in several cultures to a merely archaeo­ logical fact. Bibliography Ackerman, Susan. Under Every Green Tree: Popular Religion in Sixth-Century Judah. Harvard Semitic Monographs 46. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992. Andrushko, Valerie A., et al. “Investigating a Child Sacrifice Event from the Inca Heartland.” Journal of Archaeological Science 38 (2011): 323–33. Attridge, Harold W., and Robert A. Oden, eds. The Syrian Goddess (De Dea Syria): Attributed to Lucian. SBL Texts and Translations 9. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1976. Azize, Joseph J. “Was There Regular Child Sacrifice in Phoenicia and Carthage?” In Gilgameš and the World of Assyria: Proceedings of the Conference Held at Mandelbaum House, The University of Sydney, 21–23 July 2004, edited by J. J. Azize and N. Weeks, 185–206. Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 21. Leuven: Peeters, 2007. Barrick, W. Boyd. The King and the Cemeteries: Toward a New Understanding of Josiah’s Reform. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 88. Leiden: Brill, 2002. Bartor, Assnat. Reading Law as Narrative: A Study in the Casuistic Laws of the Pentateuch. SBL Ancient Israel and Its Literature 5. Atlanta: SBL, 2010. Bauks, Michaela. “Kinderopfer als Weihe- oder Gabeopfer. Anmerkungen zum mlkOpfer.” In Israeliten und Phönizier: Ihre Beziehungen im Spiegel der Archäologie und der Literatur des Alten Testaments und seiner Umwelt, edited by M. Witte and J. F. Diehl, 233–52. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 235. Fribourg: Academic Press, 2008. Berthelot, Katell. “Jewish Views of Human Sacrifice in the Hellenistic and Roman Period.” In Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, Numen book series, Studies in the History of Religions 112 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 151–73.

120  See, for example, J. J. Collins, “The Zeal of Phinehas: The Bible and the Legitimation of Violence,” Journal of Biblical Literature 122 (2003): 3–21; F. E. Deist, “The Dangers of Deuteronomy: A Page of the Reception History of the Book,” in Studies in Deuteronomy: FS C. J. Labuschagne, ed. F. G. Martinez, Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 53 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 13–30.

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Blanco-Wißmann, Felipe. “Er tat das Rechte  …” Beurteilungskriterien und Deuteronomismus in 1 Kön 12–2 Kön 25. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 93. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2008. Bosch, Lourens van den. “Human Sacrifice among the Konds.” In The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, edited by J. N. Bremmer, 195–227. Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 1. Leuven: Peeters, 2006. Bremmer, Jan N., ed. The Strange World of Human Sacrifice. Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 1. Leuven: Peeters, 2006. Brooke, George J. “Deuteronomy 18.9–14 in the Qumran Scrolls.” In Magic in the Biblical World: From the Rod of Aaron to the Ring of Solomon, edited by T. Klutz, 66–84. Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 245, London: T&T Clark, 2003. Brown, Shelby. Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice and Sacrificial Monuments in their Mediterranean Context. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement / American Schools of Oriental Research: Monograph Series 3. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991. Ceruti, Maria Costanza. “Frozen Mummies from Andean Mountaintop Shrines: Bioarchaeology and Ethnohistory of Inca Human Sacrifice.” BioMed Research International (2015): 12 pages. Article ID 439428, http://dx.doi.org/10.1155/2015/ 439428. Cogan, Mordechai, and Hayim Tadmor. II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Bible 11. New York: Doubleday, 1988. Collins, John J. “The Zeal of Phinehas: The Bible and the Legitimation of Violence.” Journal of Biblical Literature 122 (2003): 3–21. Crouch, Carly L. “What Makes a Thing Abominable? Observations on the Language of Boundaries and Identity Formation from a Social Scientific Perspective.” Vetus Testamentum 65 (2015): 516–41. Day, John. Molech: A God of Human Sacrifice in the Old Testament. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Deist, Ferdinand E. “The Dangers of Deuteronomy: A Page of the Reception History of the Book.” In Studies in Deuteronomy: FS C. J. Labuschagne, edited by F. G. Martinez, 13–30. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 53. Leiden: Brill, 1994. De La Cruz, Isabel, et al. “Sex Identification of Children Sacrificed to the Ancient Aztec Rain Gods in Tlatelolco.” Current Anthropology 49 (2008): 519–26. Derchain, Philippe. “Les plus anciens témoignages de sacrifices d’enfants chez les sémites occidentaux.” Vetus Testamentum 20 (1970): 351–55. Dewrell, Heath D. Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel. Explorations in Ancient Near Eastern Civilizations 5. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2017. Dubovský, Peter. “Ripping Open Pregnant Arab Women: Reliefs in Room L of Ashurbanipal’s North Palace.” Orientalia 78 (2009): 394–419.

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Dubovský, Peter. “Suspicious Similarities: A Comparative Study in the Falls of Samaria and Jerusalem.” In The Fall of Jerusalem and the Rise of the Torah, edited by P. Dubovský, D. Markl, and J.-P. Sonnet, 47–71. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 107. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016. Ebach, Ruth. Das Fremde und das Eigene. Die Fremdendarstellungen des Deuteronomiums im Kontext israelitischer Identitätskonstruktionen. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 471, Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014. Eißfeldt, Otto. Molk als Opferbegriff im Punischen und Hebräischen und das Ende des Gottes Moloch, Halle: M. Niemeyer, 1935. Eph’al, Israel. The City Besieged: Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 36 Leiden: Brill, 2009. Eynikel, Erik. “The Portrait of Manasseh and the Deuteronomistic History.” In Deuteronomy and Deuteronomic Literature. Festschrift C. H. W. Brekelmans, edited by M. Vervenne and J. Lust, 233–61. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 133. Leuven: Peeters, 1997. Filihia, Meredith. “Rituals of Sacrifice in Early Post-European Contact Tonga and Tahiti.” Journal of Pacific History 34 (1999): 5–22. Finsterbusch, Karin, Armin Lange, and K. F. Diethard Römheld, eds. Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition. Numen book series. Studies in the History of Religions 112. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Finsterbusch, Karin. Weisung für Israel: Studien zu religiösem Lehren und Lernen im Deuteronomium und in seinem Umfeld. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 44. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005. Finsterbusch, Karin. “The First-Born between Sacrifice and Redemption in the Hebrew Bible.” In Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, Numen book series, Studies in the History of Religions 112 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 87–108. Friedlaender, Jonathan S., et al. “The Genetic Structure of Pacific Islanders.” PLoS Genet 4 (2008): e19. doi:10.1371/journal.pgen.0040019. Gaß, Erasmus. Menschliches Handeln und Sprechen im Horizont Gottes: Aufsätze zur biblischen Theologie. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 100. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015. Halpern, Baruch. “Why Manasseh is Blamed for the Babylonian Exile: The Evolution of a Biblical Tradition.” Vetus Testamentum 48 (1998): 473–514. Handy, Lowell K. “Rehabilitating Manasseh: Remembering King Manasseh in the Persian and Hellenistic Period.” In Remembering Biblical Figures in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods: Social Memory and Imagination, edited by D. V. Edelman and E. Ben Zvi, 221–35. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Heider, George C. The Cult of Molek: A Reassessment. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series 43. Sheffield: Academic Press, 1985.

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Heinz, Susanna Constanze. Die Feldzugsdarstellungen des Neuen Reiches: Eine Bildanalyse. Denkschriften der Gesamtakademie 18. Wien: Verlag der ÖAW, 2001. Hensel, Benedikt. Juda und Samaria: Zum Verhältnis zweier nachexilischer Jahwismen. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 110. Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck, 2016. Hieke, Thomas. “Das Verbot der Übergabe von Nachkommen an den ‘Molech’ in Lev 18 und 20: Ein neuer Deutungsversuch.” Die Welt des Orients 41 (2011): 147–67. Hillers, Delbert R. “Analysing the Abominable.” Jewish Quarterly Review 75 (1985): 253–69. Jeffers, Ann. Magic and Divination in Ancient Palestine and Syria. Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 8. Leiden: Brill, 1996. Keel, Othmar. “Kanaanäische Sühneriten auf ägyptischen Tempelreliefs.” Vetus Testamentum 25 (1975): 413–69. Koch, Klaus. “Molek astral.” In Mythos im Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt: FS H.-P. Müller, edited by A. Lange, H. Lichtenberger, and D. Römheld, 29–50. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 278. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1999. Lange, Armin. “‘They Burn their Sons and Daughters. That Was No Command of Mine’ (Jer 7:31): Child Sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible and in the Deuteronomistic Jeremiah Redaction.” In Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, ed. K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, 109–32. Numen book series, Studies in the History of Religions 112 (Leiden: Brill, 2007). Levinson, Bernard M. “The Right Chorale”: Studies in Biblical Law and Interpretation, 83–119. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 54. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008. Lohfink, Norbert. “‫ כעס‬kāʿas.” Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament 7 (1995): 282–88. Lohfink, Norbert. Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur IV. Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände 31. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000. Lowery, Richard H. The Reforming Kings: Cults and Society in First Temple Judah. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series 120. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991. Lust, Johan. “The Cult of Molek/Milchom.” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 63 (1987): 361–66. Martin, John D. Tonga Islands: William Mariner’s Account. Tonga: Vava’u, 1991. Markl, Dominik. “Moses Prophetenrolle in Dtn 5; 18; 34. Strukturelle Wendepunkte von rechtshermeneutischem Gewicht.” In Deuteronomium—Tora für eine neue Generation, edited by G. Fischer, D. Markl and S. Paganini, 51–68. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 17. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011. Markl, Dominik. Gottes Volk im Deuteronomium. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 18. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012.

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Markl, Dominik. “No Future without Moses: The Disastrous End of 2 Kings 22–25 and the Chance of the Moab Covenant (Deut 29–30).” Journal of Biblical Literature 133 (2014): 711–28. Markl, Dominik. “Infant, Infancy. I. Hebrew Bible/Old Testament.” In Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, vol. 12, Ho Tsun Shen—Insult, edited by C. Helmer et al., 1135–39. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016. Markl, Dominik. “Deuteronomy’s ‘Anti King’: Historicized Etiology or Political Project?” In Changing Faces of Kingship in Syria-Palestine 1500–500 BCE, edited by A. Gianto and P. Dubovský, 165–86. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2018. Markl, Dominik. “Deuteronomy.” In The Paulist Biblical Commentary, edited by J. E. Aguilar Chiu et al., 147–93. New York: Paulist, 2018. Melchiorri, Valentina. “Osteological Analysis in the Study of the Phoenician and Punic Tophet: A History of Research.” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 29–30 (2012–13): 223–58. Mras, Karl, and Éduard des Places, eds. Die Praeparatio Evangelica. Erster Teil. Einleitung, die Bücher I bis X. Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 1982. Noort, Ed. “Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel: The Status Quaestionis.” In The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, edited by J. N. Bremmer, 103–25. Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 1. Leuven: Peeters, 2006. Noth, Martin. Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien: Die sammelnden und bearbeitenden Geschichtswerke im Alten Testament. 2nd ed. Darmstadt: M. Niemeyer, 1957. Noth, Martin. The Deuteronomistic History. Translated by Jane Doull et al. 2nd ed. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series 15. Sheffield: Academic Press, 1991. Otto, Eckart. Deuteronomium 12,1–23,15. Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament. Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2016. Patterson, Cynthia. “‘Not Worth the Rearing’: The Causes of Infant Exposure in Ancient Greece.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 115 (1985): 103–23. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate. “Ritual Killing and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East.” In Human Sacrifice in Jewish and Christian Tradition, edited by K. Finsterbusch, A. Lange, and D. K. F. Römheld, 3–33. Numen book series. Studies in the History of Religions 112. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Quinn, Josephine Crawley. “Tophets in the ‘Punic World’.” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici sul Vicino Oriente Antico 29–30 (2012–13): 23–48. Reinhard, Johan, and Maria Constanza Ceruti. Inca Rituals and Sacred Mountains: A Study of the World’s Highest Archaeological Sites. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press, 2010. Römer, Thomas C. “Das Verbot magischer und mantischer Praktiken im Buch Deuteronomium (Dtn 18, 9–13).” In Diasynchron: Beiträge zur Exegese, Theologie und Rezeption der Hebräischen Bibel, edited by T. Naumann and R. Hunziker-Rodewald, 311–27. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2009.

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Römer, Thomas C. The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical, and Literary Introduction. 2nd ed. London: T&T Clark, 2007. Schwartz, Jeffrey, Frank Houghton, Luca Bondioli, and Roberto Macchiarelli. “Bones, Teeth, and Estimating Age of Perinates: Carthaginian Infant Sacrifice Revisited.” Antiquity 86 (2012): 738–45. Schmidt, Brian B. Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 11. Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1994. Schniedewind, William M. “History and Interpretation: The Religion of Ahab and Manasseh in the Book of Kings.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 55 (1993) 649–61. Ska, Jean Louis. The Exegesis of the Pentateuch. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 66. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009. Smelik, Klaas A. D. Converting the Past: Studies in Ancient Israelite and Moabite Historiography. Oudtestamentische Studiën 28, Leiden: Brill, 1992. Smelik, Klaas A. D. “Moloch, Molech or Molk-Sacrifice? A Reassessment of the Evidence concerning the Hebrew Term Molekh.” Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 9 (1995): 133–42. Smith, Mark S. The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990. Smith, Mark S. “Child Sacrifice as the Extreme Case and Calculation.” In Not Sparing the Child: Human Sacrifice in the Ancient World and Beyond. Studies in Honor of Professor Paul G. Mosca, edited by V. D. Arbel et al., 3–17. London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015. Smith, Morton. “A Note on Burning Babies.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 95 (1975): 477–79. Sonnet, Jean-Pierre. The Book within the Book: Writing in Deuteronomy. Biblical Interpretation Series 14. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Sonnet, Jean-Pierre. “The Siege of Jerusalem between Rhetorical Maximalism (Deut 28) and Narrative Minimalism (2 Kgs 25).” In The Fall of Jerusalem and the Rise of the Torah, edited by P. Dubovský, D. Markl, and J.-P. Sonnet, 73–86. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 107. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016. Spalinger, Anthony J. “A Canaanite Ritual found in Egyptian Reliefs.” Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 8 (1978): 47–59. Spieckermann, Hermann. Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 129. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982. Stavrakopoulou, Francesca. King Manasseh and Child Sacrifice: Biblical Distortions of Historical Realities. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 338. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004.

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Van Keulen, Percy S. F. Manasseh through the Eyes of the Deuteronomists: The Manasseh Account (2 Kings 21:1–18) and the Final Chapters of the Deuteronomistic History. Oudtestamentische Studiën 38. Leiden: Brill, 1996. Veijola, Timo. “Das Opfer des Abraham—Paradigma des Glaubens aus dem nachexili­ schen Zeitalter.” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 85 (1988): 165–98. Weinfeld, Moshe. “The Worship of Molech and of the Queen of Heaven and Its Background.” Ugarit-Forschungen 4 (1972): 133–54. Weinfeld, Moshe. Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School. Oxford: Clarendon, 1972. Wiesehöfer, Josef. “Child Exposure.” In Brill’s New Pauly 3 (2003): 224–25. Wilson, Andrew S. et al. “Archaeological, Radiological, and Biological Evidence Offer Insight into Inca Child Sacrifice.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 110 (2013): 13322–27. Wreszinski, Walter. Atlas zur altägyptischen Kulturgeschichte. II. Teil. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1935. Würthwein, Ernst. Die Bücher der Könige: 1. Kön. 17–2. Kön. 25. Altes Testament Deutsch 11.2. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984. Xella, Paolo, Josephine Quinn, Valentina Melchiorri, and Peter van Dommelen. “Phoenecian Bones of Contention.” Antiquity 87 (2013): 1199–1207. Xella, Paolo. “Sacrifici di Bambini nel Mondo Fenicio e Punico Nelle Testimonianze in Lingua Greca e Latina.” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 26 (2009): 59–100. Xella, Paolo. “ ‘Tophet’: An Overall Interpretation.” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 29–30 (2012–13): 259–81. Zipor, Moshe A. “The Deuteronomic Account of the Golden Calf and its Reverberation in Other Parts of the Book of Deuteronomy.” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 108 (1996): 20–33.

chapter 3

Jubilees 11–12 against the Background of the Polemics against Idols in the Hebrew Bible and Early Jewish Literature Jacques van Ruiten The theme of intolerance and polemics is very prominent in the book of Jubilees. Throughout, the book creates a strong dichotomy between Israel and other nations. The author erects sharp boundaries between insiders and outsiders. In Abraham’s last speech before his death, for example, Israel is summoned to separate itself from the nations, which means not eating with them, not acting as they do—practices such as making offerings to the dead, worshipping demons, or eating in tombs ( Jubilees 22:16–19)—and not marrying Canaanite women ( Jubilees 22:20–22). The people of Israel should stay far away from other peoples and from their customs and practices. This opinion reinforces what was brought forward in certain traditions in the Torah of Moses, where it is noted that God had chosen Israel out of all the nations of the world to be a special people. The setting apart of Israel for YHWH is constitutive of this belief (see, e.g., Deuteronomy 7:6–8).1 Separate meals, the emphasis on purity, and the prohibition of intermarriage seem not to have not been exclusive to the people of Judah.2 Every people in the Graeco-Roman world had its owns laws and foundational traditions. Despite following one’s own laws and the practice of not mixing with other ethnic groups, people still had to live together peacefully in a multinational empire.3 Following other ancestral traditions, certain Jewish groups show an openness towards people of other ethnic groups, who renounced their own laws and ancestral traditions. One can point to a spectrum of attitudes towards foreigners within the Judaism of the Second Temple period: sympathisers, converts,

1  Cf. J. T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, Abraham in the Book of Jubilees: The Rewriting of Genesis 11:26– 25:10 in the Book of Jubilees 11:14–23:8 (JSJSup 161; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 309–18. 2  The coexistence of different ethnic groups without mutual interaction was a common matter in the Graeco-Roman world. See Steve Mason’s article (“Stranger Danger! Amixia Among Judaeans and Others”) in this volume. 3  See M. Walzer, On Toleration (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 14–19 (“Multinational Empires”).

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ethical monotheists, and participants in the eschatological redemption.4 In the book of Jubilees, however, there is no openness at all. The extremely strong emphasis on Israel’s separation from the other peoples may have to do with the fact that their isolation was threatened. Although it is difficult to relate the book of Jubilees to a specific historical situation, it may be related to the crisis under Antiochus IV Epiphanes, who tried to prevent the Jews from upholding their laws and traditions.5 The notion of intolerance might be related to the keeping of the ancestral traditions. In any case, the use and interpretation of the scriptural material show that the author of Jubilees acknowledges the existence and authority of the Torah of Moses. This Torah of Moses is to be understood as the ancestral 4  T. L. Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of Universalism (to 135 CE) (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007). 5  Jubilees was written sometime in the second century BCE. The most influential view has been that it was composed in the mid-second century BCE. External evidence suggests that the oldest Qumran fragment (4Q216) may date to 125–100 BCE. Moreover, Jubilees is mentioned by name in the Damascus Document (CD xvi.2–4), the earliest copy of which can be dated to 100–50 BCE. The internal evidence pointed to in support of this dating is the use of all the existing parts of 1 Enoch, which would point to the fact that the book of Jubilees would have been composed after the Book of Dreams, which was written in 164 or 163 BCE. Since there is no evidence in the book in favour of withdrawal from Jewish society, it may have been written prior to the foundation of the community at Qumran (150–140 BCE.). See J. C. VanderKam, “Recent Scholarship on the Book of Jubilees,” Currents in Biblical Research 6 (2008): 405–31. But one can question the viability of these arguments. Since only a very small percentage of the whole work is represented in the Dead Sea Scrolls, it is difficult to come to firm conclusions as to the exact form and size of the book in the Second Temple period. It is doubtful whether any of the surviving fragments could have contained the whole book. See E. J. C. Tigchelaar, “The Qumran Jubilees Manuscripts as Evidence for the Literary Growth of the Book,” Revue de Qumrân 104/26 (2014): 579–94; M. P. Monger, “4Q216 and the State of Jubilees at Qumran,” Revue de Qumrân 104/26 (2014): 595–612. Moreover, in my opinion the many parallels between Jubilees and 1 Enoch do not point to a literary dependency of Jubilees on the text of the Book of Dreams. See J. T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, “A Literary Dependency of Jubilees on 1 Enoch? A Reassessment of a Thesis of J. C. VanderKam,” Henoch 25 (2003): 1–5; M. A. Knibb, “Which Part of 1 Enoch were Known to Jubilees? A Note on the Interpretation of Jubilees 4.16–25,” in Reading from Right to Left: Essays on the Hebrew Bible in Honour of David J. A. Clines (ed. J. Cheryl Exum and H. G. M. Williamson; JSOTSup 373; London: T&T Clark, 2003), 254–62. However, some scholars opt for a pre-Hasmonean date. This is because the book does not mention the persecution and decrees of Antiochus IV. See M. A. Knibb, Jubilees and the Origins of the Qumran Community: An Inaugural Lecture in the Department of Bible Studies Delivered on Tuesday 17 January 1989 (London: [the author], 1989); G. W. E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah: A Historical and Literary Introduction (2d ed.; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), 73–74. Others argue for a date late in the second century. This is because of the close similarities between Jubilees and the Qumran texts. See C. Werman, “The Book of Jubilees and the Qumran Community: The Relationship between the Two,” Megillot 2 (2004): 37–55 [in Hebrew].

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laws identified as the laws allegedly given to Moses on Mount Sinai. This concept was well established by the second century BCE. Its observance was indicated especially by practices that had symbolic value as ethnic markers, such as circumcision, Sabbath observance, and religious festivals. In the second century, this was an expression of what it meant to be a Ioudaios: to observe the Torah of Moses. This was what Antiochus IV Epiphanes tried to suppress. According to 2 Maccabees 6, “it was impossible either to keep the Sabbath, to observe the ancestral festivals, or openly confess oneself to be a Ioudaios.”6 The book of Jubilees presupposes the material found in Genesis 1 to Exodus 19 and 24.7 In this regard, one can also refer to those passages in which the author of the book of Jubilees refers to the (first) law, as distinct from the revelation to Moses in Jubilees (see Jubilees 6:22; 30:12).8 However, the author of Jubilees not only adopts the scriptural texts, but also supplements them and offers the correct interpretation. The book contains more material than Genesis and Exodus together. Other sources and traditions are also incorporated into the book—for example, material originating from the Enochic traditions ( Jubilees 4:15–26; 5:1–12; 7:20–39; 10:1–17), traditions upon which the Aramaic Document of Levi is based (see, e.g., Jubilees 31–32), and 4QVisions of Amram (see Jubilees 46).9 What is more, Jubilees seems to claim a greater authority for its own revelation than for that of the Torah.10 Four authority-conferring strategies are at work here.11 First, Jubilees claims that it reproduces material 6  J. J. Collins, The Invention of Judaism: Torah and Jewish Identity from Deuteronomy to Paul (The Taubman Lectures in Jewish Studies 7; Oakland, CA: The University of California Press, 2017), 1. 7  For a comparison of Genesis 1–11 and Jubilees 2–10, see J. T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, Primaeval History Interpreted: The Rewriting of Genesis 1–11 in the Book of Jubilees (JSJSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 2000); for a comparison of Genesis 12–25 and Jubilees 11–23, see idem, Abraham in the Book of Jubilees; for a comparison of the Jacob story in Genesis and Jubilees, see J. C. Endres, Biblical Interpretation in the Book of Jubilees (CBQMS 18; Washington: Catholic Bible Association of America, 1987). 8  VanderKam, “Moses Trumping Moses,” 35–37; J. J. Collins, “The Genre of the Book of Jubilees,” in A Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam (ed. E. F. Mason et al.; Journal for the Study of Judaism Supllement Series 153; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 737–55, esp. 746. 9  For this paragraph, see Van Ruiten, Abraham in the Book of Jubilees, 10–11. 10  Collins, “The Genre of the Book of Jubilees,” 746. 11  H. Najman, “Interpretation As Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 30 (1999): 379–410, esp. 408 (reprint in: eadem, Past Renewals: Interpretative Authority, Renewed Revelation and the Quest for Perfection in Jewish Antiquity [JSJSup 53; Leiden: Brill, 2010], 39–71); H. Najman, “Reconsidering Jubilees: Prophecy and Exemplarity,” in Enoch and the Mosaic Torah: The Evidence of Jubilees (ed. G. Boccaccini and G. Ibba; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 229–43 (reprint in: eadem, Past Renewals, 189–204).

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that was written on the “heavenly tablets.” Second, the angel of the presence dictates the content of the book at God’s command. Third, it was dictated to the same Moses to whom the Torah was given; both the book of Jubilees and the Torah were transmitted by the same prophet.12 Finally, Jubilees claims that its teachings are the true interpretation of the Torah.13 So, its teachings derive from those of the Torah. 1

Opposition to the Idols of the Nations

The requirement to separate from the nations is accomplished by not concluding agreements with them, by abstaining from common meals, and by refraining from intermarriage. This separation is ultimately related to the worship of the God of Israel alone, which corresponds to the prohibition against idolatry. Through the covenant, this unique God was considered to have made Israel his partner from creation onwards. In Jubilees, there is one unique and eternal covenant between God and his chosen people, and this establishes Israel as different from all other peoples. In Jubilees, the resistance to the worship of idols can be found especially in chapters 11–12, which deal with the first stages of Abraham’s life, from his birth until his departure from Haran. The theme of this passage is that Abraham renounces the services of the many gods and their idols at an early age, and he testifies to his belief in the one true God.14 This opposition against idols is particularly evident in 11:16–17 and 12:1–8, 12–14. Apart from these verses, idolatry occurs also in 11:4 as part of a passage that describes the building of the city of Ur of the Chaldeans and the influence of Mastema and his spirits on the people in doing evil (11:3–6).15 The Jubilees passages on idolatry are usually related to the polemics against the idols of foreign peoples in the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish literature. In these polemical texts, other gods and their worshippers are criticised by denigrating the gods as mere images. Despite the 12  Regarding the book of Jubilees as a whole, Najman proposes contextualising it within the traditions of biblical prophecy, especially exilic and post-exilic prophecy. Jubilees participates in prophetic discourse by attaching its origin to Mosaic recording and angelic dictation. See Najman, “Reconsidering Jubilees,” 232. 13  Cf. also H. Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple (JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 46, where she points out that the author of Jubilees primarily presents the scriptural text in what he considers to be its essence. 14  See, G. W. E. Nickelsburg, “Abraham the Convert: A Jewish Tradition and Its Use by the Apostle Paul,” in Biblical Figures outside the Bible (ed. M. A. Stone and T. A. Bergren; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 1998), 151–75, esp. 156. 15  Traces of this polemics against idols can also be found in Jubilees 20:8; 21:5; and 22:18.

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variety of ways in which idolatry is portrayed, a number of motifs occur which are more or less standardised. In the remainder of this paper, I firstly deal with Jubilees 11:14–12:31 in relation to the worship of idols. I then address the question of the extent to which the author of Jubilees participates in the wider discourse about the polemics against idols. In order to do so, I briefly present the terminology and recurring motifs of this discourse, and then deal with the similarities and dissimilarities between Jubilees and the other texts. What is the author’s own contribution to this discourse, and how can the differences be explained? Finally, I will address the question of the audience for these polemics against idols. 2

Jubilees 11:14–12:31

This passage on the early stages of Abraham’s life begins with a statement about his birth ( Jubilees 11:14–15): “Terah married a woman whose name was Edna, the daughter of Abram, the daughter of his father’s sister.”16 His father “called him Abram after the name of his mother’s father because he had died before his daughter’s son was conceived.” Immediately following this report, the author relates his character: (16) The child began to realize the strayings of the land—that everyone was going astray after the statues (gǝlfo) and after impurity. His father taught him (the art of) writing. When he was two weeks of years, he separated from his father in order not to prostrate himself before idols (tā‘ot) with him. (17) He began to pray to the creator of all that he would save him from the strayings of humankind and that it might not fall to his share to go astray after impurity and wickedness. Jubilees 11:16–1717

At the age of fourteen, after his father has taught him to write, he separates from his father in order to avoid worshiping idols with him. He recognises the deviations of others and prays to be saved from them. Statues, impurity, and wickedness illustrate the errors of the people. The text does not say in which 16  On Jubilees 11:14–12:31, see the recently published commentary by J. C. VanderKam, Jubilees I: A Commentary on the Book of Jubilees Chapters 1–21 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2018) 432–63. 17  In this article, translations from the book of Jubilees are taken from J. C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees I (Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 510; Scriptores Aethiopici 87; Leuven: Peeters, 1989).

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language Abram’s father taught him to write, nor does it specify the content of this writing. In 12:25–27, we read that Hebrew, forgotten after the collapse of Babel, was revived in the days of Abram “through the revelation of an angel.” This revelation allowed Abram to learn the writings of his forefathers, such as Enoch and Noah (cf. 21:10). The first thing Abram does after he learns Hebrew is to copy his father’s books and study them for six months. This means that Abram, according to Jubilees, had access to esoteric knowledge inherited from the age before Babel, which is often revealed by the angels (e.g., 3:15; 4:15, 18, 21; 10:10–12; cf. also 8:3–4).18 This would mean that Abram’s father did not teach him Hebrew, and that he had no access to the knowledge of his forefathers before angel’s revelation. It would also mean that the books he got from his father (12:27: “his fathers’ books”) had simply been mechanically handed down from father to son after Babel’s collapse. They were not part of his father’s instruction, which was related to idolatry (see also 11:8: “His father [= Serug] taught him [= Nahor] the studies of Chaldeans, to practice divination and to augur by the signs of the sky”). In 8:2 one reads, “And his father taught him writing,” which cannot be anything other than writing Hebrew. After this, Kainan was able to read the inscriptions of the watchers regarding astrology, which were apparently written in Hebrew. The Ethiopic text of Jubilees uses several words in relation to idolatry. In 11:16, the word gǝlfo is used for “statues.” This word means “carved work; carved idol; graven idol; statue; graven image.”19 Note that the form is singular, though some manuscripts have the plural form.20 The word tā‘ot is used for “idol.”21 In 11:16, the Syriac text has “molten image” instead of “impurity” (“that everyone was going astray after the statues and after a molten image”). According to Tisserant, the Syriac is to be preferred under the influence of Deuteronomy 27:15, which has both terms (“a graven or molten image”; ‫)פסל ומסכה‬.22 According to VanderKam, however, one can also argue the other way around. The Syriac Oracle might have adapted the text to be simpler. According to him, the Ethiopic text of Jubilees is the more difficult reading, and is therefore to be 18  Cf. S. Weitzman, “Why Did the Qumran Community Write in Hebrew?” Journal of the American Oriental Society 119 (1999): 35–45. 19  W  . Leslau, Concise Dictionary of Ge‘ez (Classical Ethiopic) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1989), 202. 20  VanderKam, Book of Jubilees I, 70. 21  Leslau, Concise Dictionary, 220. 22  Cf. J. C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees, II (Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 511; Scriptores Aethiopici 88; Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 67. See E. Tisserant, “Fragments syriaques du Livre des Jubilés,” Revue Biblique 30 (1921): 55–86 and 206–32, esp. 212. So also K. Berger, Das Buch der Jubiläen (Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit 2.3; Gütersloh: Mohn 1981), 389, note c to v. 16.

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preferred.23 The word “impurity” is also used in 11:17 (“to go astray after impurity and wickedness”). Additionally, the word “impurity” is used in 11:4 in close connection to “idols” and “statues.”24 In 11:16–17, the worship of statues and idols is qualified as a “straying.” The verb sǝḥta has a broad meaning: “make a mistake; err; sin; do wrong; go astray; miss; lose; get lost; be misled; be seduced; be deceived.”25 This straying is related to “the land” (mǝdr), which probably refers to the land of the Chaldeans, where Abram was living with his family (cf. 11:3). However, 11:17 speaks about the straying of “humankind” or of “the sons of men” (wǝluda sab’). This might suggest a translation of mǝdr in the broader sense of “earth.”26 In 11:18–24, Abraham subsequently counteracts a plague of ravens who devastate his crops. First, he chases the ravens away (v. 18–22), and then he invents a plow, which prevents the damage caused by the birds (v. 23–24). The episodes of the ravens very strongly links prince Mastema, the leader of the evil spirits who sends the ravens (see 11:11–13), to Abraham, who chases the ravens away. By keeping the ravens away from the fields and inventing a sowing machine, Abraham cancels out at least part of the influence Mastema has over mankind. In 11:5, just after the text mentions idolatry in 11:4, Mastema and the evil spirits are held responsible for all kinds of ways in which the people go astray. This might suggest a connection between the passages about idolatry that occur before (11:16–17) and after (12:1–8) the passages on the ravens. Moreover, the mention of “the skilful woodworkers” in relation to the invention of the sowing machine (11:23) might be a reference to idolatry as well.27 After the raven passage, we find a conversation between Abram and his father (12:1–8), in which idolatry is a prominent feature. Abram tries to convince his father, Terah, to renounce idolatry: (1) During the sixth week, in its seventh year, Abram said to his father Terah: “My father.” He said: “Yes, my son?” (2) He said: “What help and advantage do we get from these idols (tā‘ot za’ǝnta) before which you worship and prostrate yourself? (3) For there is no spirit in them, because they are dumb. They are a straying of the heart. Do not worship them. (4) Worship the God of heaven who makes the rain and dew fall on the land and makes everything on the land. He created everything by his 23  See VanderKam, Book of Jubilees II, 67. 24  For the text, see below. 25  Leslau, Concise Dictionary, 66. 26  So also Berger, Das Buch der Jubiläen, 389. 27  Cf. Van Ruiten, Abraham in the Book of Jubilees, 27–29.

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word; and all life (comes) from his presence. (5) Why do you worship those things that have no spirit in them? For they are works of the hands and you carry them on your shoulders. You receive no help from them, but instead they are a great shame for those who make them and a straying of the heart for those who worship them. Do not worship them.” (6) And he said to him: “I, too, know (this), my son. What shall I do with the people who have ordered me to serve in their presence? (7) If I tell them what is right, they will kill me, because they themselves are attached to them so that they worship and praise them. Be quiet, my son, so that they do not kill you.” (8) When he told these things to his two brothers and they became angry at him, he remained silent. Jubilees 12:1–8

In verse 2, Abraham questions the use of worshiping idols, and in verse 3 he describes the defects of the idols and calls on his father not to worship them. The same structure can be found in verse 5. In between these rejections of the idols, there is a positive call to worship the god of heaven, who is omnipotent (v. 4). The text uses the word tā‘ot for idols (v. 2; cf. 11:16). Additionally, the text stresses the weak nature of the idols: “for there is no spirit in them” (v. 3, 5); “for they are works of the hands” (12:5); “because they are dumb” (v. 3). Verses 6–7 imply that Terah serves as a priest for the idols. Both of his brothers are also characterised as idolatrous. In this family scene, we see that his family asks him to be silent about his criticism. After the text reports the marriages of Abraham, Haran, and Nahor (Jubilees 12:9–11), the text relates that Abraham burns the house of idols, in which Haran, Lot’s father, dies trying to save the idols from the fire (cf. Jubilees 12:12–14). (12) In the sixtieth year of Abram’s life (which was the fourth week, in its fourth year), Abram got up at night and burned the house of the idols (beta ta‘otāt). He burned everything in the house but no one knew (about it). (13) They got up at night and wanted to save their gods (’amalktihomu) from the fire. (14) Haran dashed in to save them, but the fire raged over him. He was burned in the fire and he died in Ur of the Chaldeans before his father Terah. They buried him in Ur of the Chaldeans. Jubilees 12:12–14

The addition of the story of burning the house of the idols fits in with the context, which portrays Abraham as someone who turns away from idolatry. We have already seen that he breaks with his father in order not to worship idols (11:16–17) and that subsequently, he tries to persuade his father to give up

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idolatry (12:1–8). The burning of the house of idols can be seen as a climax in this storyline. The account of Abraham in Genesis does not mention idolatry or the burning of the idols. However, there are some clues in the biblical text which might be the origin of these deviations in Jubilees. Haran, who is mentioned as the third son of Terah, is the first to have a son of his own (Genesis 11:27). Immediately after Lot’s birth, Haran dies (Genesis 11:28). Genesis mentions some striking details: first, “and Haran died before Terah (‫ ;”)על פני תרח‬second, “in the land of his birth.” One can easily deduce from Haran’s death on the one hand and Terah’s departure of on the other that something irregular must have happened. The story of a fire could be motivated by the name of the city of Ur. The root ‫“( אור‬to become light”), and in particular the noun ‫“( אֹור‬brightness; light”), can be related to fire.28 The extensive description of the events surrounding Haran’s death does serve one clear function. It characterises Haran as the prototype of the unfaithful one, the idol worshipper, in opposition to the faithful and righteous Abraham, who serves the one God who is the creator of all. In the final part of Jubilees 12, Abram observes the stars on a certain night to predict the rains, but then he acknowledges the existence of a creator God, who has created everything and also sustains his creation by giving rain: (16) In the sixth week, during its fifth year, Abram sat at night—at the beginning of the seventh month—to observe the stars from evening until morning in order to see what would be the character of the year with respect to the rains. He was sitting, and he was observing. (17) A voice came in his heart, and he said: “All the signs of the stars and signs of the moon and the sun—all are in the hand of the Lord. Why am I seeking? (18) If he wishes, he will make it rain in the morning and evening; and if he wishes, he will not make it fall. Everything is in his hand.” Jubilees 12:16–18

In this pericope, Abram rejects astrology through his recognition of God’s power. This forms the introduction to a prayer in which Abram praises God and requests that God save him from the evil spirits so he will not be led astray: (19) That night he prayed and he said: “My God, my God, God most High, You alone are my God. You have created everything; everything that 28  For the tradition that Abram was saved from the fire (cf. Jubilees 12:12), see J. L. Kugel, The Bible As It Was (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 143–44.

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was and has been is the work of your hands. You and your kingdom I have chosen. (20) Save me from the hand of the evil spirits who rule the thoughts of the people’s heart. May they not lead me astray from following you, my God. Do establish me and my seed until eternity. May we not go astray from now until eternity.” (21) And he said: “Shall I return to Ur of the Chaldeans who are seeking me to return to them? Or am I to sit here in this place? Make the path that is straight before you prosper through the hand of your servant so that he may do (it). May I not proceed in the going astray of my heart, my God.” Jubilees 12:19–21

The practice of astrology is understood as a manifestation of the evil spirits misleading people.29 Other passages in the book of Jubilees also demonstrate a clear connection between demons and astrology, and idolatry is related to evil spirits and demons as well: (3) Ur, Kesed’s son, built the city of Ara of the Chaldeans. He named it after himself and his father. (4) They made molten images (sǝbkawāta) for themselves. Each one would worship the idol (tā‘ot) which he had made as his own molten image (sǝbko). They began to make statues (gǝlfo), images (mǝsl), and unclean things; the spirits of the savage ones were helping and misleading (them) so that they would commit sins, impurities, and transgression. (5) Prince Mastema was exerting his power in effecting all these actions and, by means of the spirits, he was sending to those who were placed under his control (the ability) to commit every (kind of) error and sin and every (kind of) transgression; to corrupt, to destroy, and to shed blood on the earth. (6) For this reason Serug was named Serug: because everyone turned to commit every (kind of) sin. Jubilees 11:3–6

These passages about Abram’s early life are bound together by the theme of Abram renouncing the services of the many gods and their idols at an early age. He testifies to his belief in the one true God. The resistance to against

29  A  . Lange, “The Essene Position on Magic and Divination,” in Legal Texts and Legal Issues: Proceedings of the Second Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies. Published in Honour of Joseph M. Baumgarten (ed. M. Bernstein, F. García Martínez, and J. Kampen; STDJ 23; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 377–435, esp. 383: “demons linked with astrology.”

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idolatry is related to the struggle against demons, and both are rooted in the broader context of Jubilees. This battle is ultimately related to the election of Israel. The specific relationship between the Lord and Israel is expressed most clearly in Jubilees 15:30–32, in which the author describes God’s treatment of Israel as distinct from his treatment of the other nations. The election of Israel means that the Lord has adopted Israel for himself. The other nations belong to God indeed, but they do not have the same direct relationship with him as Israel has. The Lord makes spirits rule over the nations, and these spirits try to “lead them astray from following him.” He himself rules over Israel, and this relationship is the basis for the covenant: (30) For the Lord did not draw near to himself either Ishmael, his sons, his brothers, or Esau. He did not choose them (simply) because they were among Abraham’s children, for he knew them. But he chose Israel to be his people. (31) He sanctified them and gathered (them) from all humankind. For there are many nations and many peoples, and all belong to him. He made spirits rule over all in order to lead them astray from following him. (32) But over Israel he made no angel or spirit rule, because he alone is their ruler. He will guard them and require them for himself from his angels, his spirits, and everyone, and all his powers so that he may guard them and bless them and so that they may be his and he theirs from now and forever. Jubilees 15:30–32

3

The Polemics against Idols in the Hebrew Bible and Early Jewish Literature

In Jubilees, the opposition to idols has no clear link with the text of Genesis. We may suspect that the introduction of this theme is related to the pollution of the temple by Antiochus IV Epiphanes. However, scholars have also related it to the polemics against idols in the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish literature.30 In these texts, other gods and their worshippers are criticised in a particular way—by denigrating the gods as mere images. Despite the variety of ways in which idolatry is portrayed, a number of more or less standardised motifs occur. The descriptions are mostly very general, and neither the 30  See, for example, Anchor Bible Dictionary (6 vols.; New York: Doubleday, 1992), 3:376–81; Nickelsburg, “Abraham the Convert,” 156. See also VanderKam, Jubilees I, 445–47.

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names of gods nor those of their worshippers are mentioned. In the Hebrew Bible, one can point to the following texts: Isaiah 40:19–20; 41:6–7; 44:9–20; 46:1–2, 5–8; Jeremiah 10; Habakuk 2:18–19; and Psalms 115 and 135. From the Greek Bible, the Septuagint, one can add the following: Bel and the Dragon; the Epistle of Jeremiah (= Baruch 6); and Wisdom of Solomon 13–15. In other early Jewish literature, among those works which did not become canonical at a later stage and were mainly written in the Hellenistic period, apart from Jubilees 11:14–12:31, one can point to the following works: Letter of Aristeas 134– 38; Josef and Asenath; Apocalypse of Abraham 1–8; Pseudo-Philo, 25 and 44; and Sibylline Oracles III and V. Apart from these texts, the same kind of reasoning can be found in Judith 8:18; 3 Maccabees 4:16; and 1 Enoch 99:7. Finally, Philo and Flavius Josephus also dealt extensively with the subject.31 These polemics are directed against “idols” and their worshipers. In English, scholarly literature speaks not only of “idols,” but also of “idolatry” and “other gods.”32 German studies speak about “Götterbilder,” “Kultbilder,” and “Götter.”33 This terminological diversity points to the fact that there is no agreement about whether the term “idol” is about gods, or about statues, or both. The term 31  For the polemic against idols, see among others: R. H. Pfeiffer, “The Polemic against Idolatry in the Old Testament,” Journal of Biblical Literature 43 (1924): 229–40; G. von Rad, Weisheit in Israel (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchner Verlag, 1970), 229–39 (“Die Polemik gegen die Götterbilder”); H. D. Preuss, Verspottung fremder Religionen im Alten Testament (BWANT 92; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971); W. M. W. Roth, “For Life, He Appeals to Death (Wis 13:18): A Study of Old Testament Idol Parodies,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 37 (1975): 21–47; C. A. Kennedy, “The Semantic Field of the Term ‘Idolatry,’” in Uncovering Ancient Stones: Essays in Memory of H. N. Richardson (ed. L. M. Hopfe; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 193–204; J. Tromp, “The Critique of Idolatry in the Context of Jewish Monotheism,” in Aspects of Religious Contact and Conflict in the Ancient World (ed. P. W. van der Horst; Utrechtse Theologische Reeks 31; Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, Universiteit Utrecht, 1995), 105–20; A. Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder: Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik (Orbis biblicus et orientalis 162; Fribourg: Academic Press, 1998); J. Woyke, Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder: Aspekte einer paulinischen “Theologie der Religionen” (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 132; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005); N B. Levtow, Images of Others: Iconic Politics in Ancient Israel (Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego 11; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008); S. Amman, Götter für die Toren: Die Verbindung von Götterpolemik und Weisheit im Alten Testament (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 466; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015); “Idols, Idolatry,” Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, 12 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016), 806–37. 32  Pfeiffer, “The Polemic against Idolatry,” 229–40; “Idols, Idolatry,” Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, passim. 33  Von Rad, Weisheit in Israel, 229–39 (“Die Polemik gegen die Götterbilder”); Preuss, Verspottung fremder Religionen; Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder; Amman, Götter für die Toren.

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“idolatry” is a polemical term in itself, and it does not appear in the Hebrew Bible. The modern understanding of such a term seems to presuppose a kind of dualistic ontology that distinguishes between a visible, material icon and an invisible, immaterial deity. When “idolatry” is practiced, the material icon is wrongly interpreted as being that which it in fact represents.34 These texts are not concerned with what the idols or statue-gods (positively formulated) are in reality. There is not even an unambiguous, coherent terminology for referencing these alleged gods or their statues. What is clear is that there is not one Hebrew word for what are called “idols” in translations and scholarly literature. The Hebrew Bible has a rich vocabulary with regard to idols and idolatry.35 Many of these terms and the contexts in which they appear are themselves polemical and derogatory. In the cases we are examining in this chapter, the polemical term idol might be rightly chosen.36 In some cases, the concepts themselves indicate that the worship of other gods and their statues is inappropriate against the background of the exclusive worship of YHWH. These terms underline their illegitimacy: “abomination” (‫ ;תועבה‬to‘ebah); “monster” (‫ ;שקוץ‬shiquts); “violations” (‫‘ ;עצבים‬atsabim).37 Terms such as “futilities” (‫’ ;אלילים‬elilim) and “vanity” (‫ ;הבל‬hebel) deny the power of these gods and idols in order to to delegitimise them because of how they are made. If the object (namely the statue) of the other gods is indicated by words such as ‫’( עצבים‬atsabim), ‫( גלולים‬gilulim), ‫( פסל‬pesel), and ‫מסכה‬ (masēkāh), then emphasis is placed on the relationship of their origin—that is, they are made by human hands. They are mere material. This profanation ultimately serves to reveal the impotence of the other gods (statues) as compared to YHWH.38 In the Septuagint, many of these terms are translated with one and the same word, namely εἴδωλον (eidōlon), from which the word idol originates.39 Εἴδωλον (eidōlon) is used in the Septuagint as an equivalent for actual statues (‫’[ עצבים‬itsubim], ‫[ גלולים‬gilulim], ‫[ פסל‬pesel]), but also for the manifesting deities themselves (‫’[ אלהים‬elohim]). The context always points towards powerlessness and profanation by expressing the human origin of these statue-gods. 34  Levtow, Images of Others, 6; Amman, Götter für die Toren, 15. 35  Cf. Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder, 320–23; Kennedy, “The Semantic Field,” 199–200; Woyke, Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder, 89. 36  Levtow, Images of Others, 5–6n12. 37  See also ‫ גלולים‬which, according to Woyke, possibly means “dung hills”; Woyke, Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder, 89. See also Kennedy, “The Semantic Field,” 200. 38  Cf. Woyke, Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder, 89. See also C. R. North, “The Essence of Idolatry,” in Von Ugarit Nach Qumran (ed. J. Hempel; Berlin: Alfred Töpelmann, 1958), 151–60. 39  Kennedy, “The Semantic Field,” 198; Woyke, Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder, 89.

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This illustrates the primary negative meaning of εἴδωλον (eidōlon) as “godstatue” and the deity that is manifest or present in the statue. This concept of εἴδωλον (eidōlon) becomes the comprehensive characteristic of non-Jewish divine worship, and it has entered into modern languages as such.40 There are several recurring motifs in the polemics against idols.41 One motif is the description of the material from which the god-statues are made. The first material that one encounters is “wood”—sometimes described with a kind of metal attached to it (Isaiah 40:19–20; Jeremiah 10:3–4, 8–9; Epistle of Jeremiah), but also occurring on its own (Isaiah 44:12–13, 14–17; 45:20; Wisdom of Solomon 13:11–19; 14:1; Apocalypse of Abraham 1–8). Wood contributes to the textual polemics in different ways. In the first place, wood may indicate a nondurable, namely flammable, and therefore inferior material. This means that the god-statues are presented as being made out of second-rate material. These statue-gods are nothing but pieces of firewood (Isaiah 44:19; Epistle of Jeremiah 54); they are made of otherwise useless waste (Wisdom of Solomon 13:13); the statue-god’s wood is rotten (Wisdom of Solomon 14:1, cf. Epistle of Jeremiah 19). Secondly, people could have made different use of their wood. It could have been used for more meaningful things (Isaiah 44:14, 17; Wisdom of Solomon 13:11; 14:1–7), a criticism which foregrounds the uselessness of the statues. The second material we find is “silver and gold.” Unlike wood, silver and gold are precious, valuable materials.42 The polemical texts reveal no material or technical defects of the statues of gods made from silver and gold: the statues are adorned with these metals (Isaiah 40:19) and thus made more beautiful (Jeremiah 10:3; cf. Epistle of Jeremiah 23); their jewellery is made of gold (Epistle of Jeremiah 8–9). The polemical aspects of these materials seem to lie in their value. This creates a contradiction between the material aspect and the technical efforts required versus the uselessness of the statue.43 Sometimes “clay” appears as a material (Wisdom of Solomon 15:7–13), presented as parallel to soil, as a cheap material (Wisdom of Solomon 15:10). Just like wood, it is said that the user decides what to make with the clay (Wisdom of Solomon 15:7) and that the material is inferior. Perhaps it may be that clay also refers to the creation of human beings from clay: the maker is himself

40  Woyke, Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder, 90; Amman, Götter für die Toren, 15n61. 41  For the following, see Amman, Götter für die Toren, 270–73. See also Roth, “For Life, He Appeals to Death,” 25–27; Tromp, “The Critique of Idolatry,” 108–110. 42  Their value is still increased by reference to importance, as in Jeremiah 10:9. 43  Cf. the Epistle of Jeremiah 7; Isaiah 40:19–20; see also Isaiah 46:6–7; Jeremiah 10:4–5, 9.

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created and perishable, just like what he has made (Wisdom of Solomon 15:8). The similarity between the maker and the statue-god is the issue here.44 Another recurring motif is the fact that the god-statues are made by human hands. The description here is not so much aimed at demonstrating that they would be artificially bad. The work corresponds to the ordinary work of the craftsmen. What matters is the very making of it. Emphasis is placed on the fact that these gods are made by people. We certainly see this in texts in which the gods are identified with the images (‫[ פסל‬pesel] // ‫’[ אל‬el]: Isaiah 44:10, 15, 17; 45:20): the result is that the gods are made by human beings, which leads to the denigrating phrase, “work of human hands” (Epistle of Jeremiah 50) and the emphasis on the craftsman’s humanness (cf. Isaiah 44:11).45 The motif of gods made by human hands is often combined with another recurring motif—namely, the weakness of the idols. This happens in several ways. The idols are called lifeless, dead, mute, deaf, or senseless. The idols must be locked away to protect them from being stolen. They must be stuck in place so as not to fall. They must be carried because they cannot move on their own (Isaiah 46:7; Epistle of Jeremiah 26). They cannot fulfil requests because they are unable to save (Isaiah 44:20; 46:7; Wisdom of Solomon 13:17–19). In the idol-polemical texts, the observation of the weakness of the godstatues is contrasted with YHWH, the God of Israel, who is described as the creator of the world and the sustainer of his people. In Jeremiah 10:12–16, the opposition between human-made gods and the creator God is explicitly formulated. YHWH has created the world, and he creates rain to ensure its survival, in contrast to the idols:46 12a It is he who made the earth by his power, b who established the world by his wisdom, c and by his understanding stretched out the heavens. 13a When he utters his voice there is a tumult of waters in the heavens, b and he makes the mist rise from the ends of the earth. c He makes lightnings for the rain, d and he brings forth the wind from his storehouses. 14a Every man is stupid and without knowledge; b every goldsmith is put to shame by his idols (‫;)פסל‬ 44  See also Psalms 115:8; 135:18; the Epistle of Jeremiah 46–47; Wisdom of Solomon 15:16 45  Amman, Götter für die Toren, 270–77. 46  Amman, Götter für die Toren, 277. For a recent study of Jeremiah 10, see N. Mizrahi, Witnessing a Prophetic Text in the Making: The Literary, Textual, and linguistic Development of Jeremiah 10:1–16 (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 502; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017).

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c for his images (‫ )נסכו‬are false, and there is no breath in them. 15a They are worthless, a work of delusion; b at the time of their punishment they shall perish. 16a Not like these is he who is the portion of Jacob, b for he is the one who formed all things, c and Israel is the tribe of his inheritance; d the LORD of hosts is his name. Jeremiah 10:12–1647

Phrases such as “the portion of Jacob” (Jeremiah 10:16a) and “his inheritance” (Jeremiah 10:16c) make it clear that this creating God is the foundation of life for his people. YHWH can take care of his people because he controls the forces of nature. The people’s trust in YHWH is based on the fact that he is the creator of the world. As a creator, he focuses in the well-being of his people. This makes it absurd to rely on anyone other than this creator God.48 Other concepts—such as that of YHWH as Israel’s covenant God, God the Father, or the God who proved himself powerful in the events depicted in Exodus—play only a minor role in the idol-polemical discourse. According to the idol-polemical texts, the impotence of the statue-gods brings shame (Isaiah 42:17; 44:11; 45:16; Jeremiah 10:14) to the people who attribute power to them: the maker manufactures something that does not fulfil its expected function. The cultic worship of the statue-gods remains unprofitable for human beings and is presented as meaningless. These polemics focus less on the (mostly indefinite and unnamed) statue-gods and more often on the peoples related to the statue-gods. The powerlessness of the statue-gods rebounds on their worshippers. The person most often mentioned in these texts is the maker of the god-statues (cf. Isaiah 40:19–20; 41:6–7; 44:9, 11–13; 45:16; 46:6; Jeremiah 10:3, 9, 14; 51:17).49 Lack of knowledge always plays an important role in these idol-polemical texts. This is not about other knowledge, but about the inadequate knowledge which underlies the worship of the gods. Hence, the worshippers of other gods are explicitly said to be stupid. They are also blind in the sense that they cannot perceive and process what is visible and recognizable. The makers of the gods cannot recognise their statue-gods as the pieces of wood that they actually are

47  The translation is taken from the Revised Standard Version. 48  Amman, Götter für die Toren, 277. 49  Amman, Götter für die Toren, 275–77.

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(cf. Isaiah 44:18–20). This non-recognition in both the creation and the creator seems to be a fundamental stupidity according to many polemical texts.50 According to the idol-polemical texts, the idol-maker, as one who is accountable for the worship of the statue-gods, and who should and perhaps does know better, does not necessarily come from the (other) peoples. Texts such as Isaiah 40:19–20, 46:6–7, and Jeremiah 10:14 address those who, according to the author, should belong to the community of YHWH worshippers. Nevertheless, there (also) seems to be an international polemic. Jeremiah 10 ultimately targets the wise men of the nations (Jeremiah 10:2). Instead of admonishing Israel, the rejection of the statue-gods follows criticism of the peoples’ lack of knowledge.51 4

Jubilees and the Polemic against Idols

Jubilees 11–12 is related to this broader discourse of the polemics against idols; however, the author is adding his own accents as well. Jubilees has a terminology for indicating the idol—statues that is comparable to that of the Hebrew Bible, although with less variety. It uses “idol” (tā‘ot; 11:4, 16; 12:1, 12; 21:3; 22:22), “molten image” (sǝbko; 11:4; 20:8; 21:5), “image” (mǝsl; 11:4, 7, 16; 12:2, 12; 20:7; 21:3; 22:22), “statue” (gǝlfo: 11:4, 16; 20:8; 21:5), and “gods” (’amālǝkt; 12:13; cf. 20:8).52 Moreover, it very often happens that the idols are referred to as the “work of the hands of men.” The text stresses the weakness of the idols: “for there is no spirit in them” (12:3, 5; 20:8); “they have no mind to think” (22:18); “for they are works of the hands” (12:5; 20:8); “because they are dumb” (12:3); “they are something empty” (20:8); “all who trust in them trust in nothing” (20:8); and “their eyes do not see what they do” (22:18). Finally, the weakness of the statues is contrasted with YHWH, the God of Israel, as the creator of the world and the sustainer of his people and of the world. Quite often we see a reference to his rainmaking capacity (12:4: “Worship the God of heaven who makes the rain and dew fall on the land and makes everything on the land”). However, there are also dissimilarities. First of all, the author of Jubilees integrates the remarks on idolatry into his own narrative. This does not happen in the same way in the other texts. Secondly, as we have seen above, in most 50  Amman, Götter für die Toren, 282–91. Amman explores the relationship between this polemical discourse and wisdom literature in great detail. 51  Amman, Götter für die Toren, 291–95. 52  In the Hebrew Bible, one can find, e.g., ‫( תועבה‬to‘ebah; “abomination”); ‫( שקוץ‬shiquts; “monster”); ‫‘( עצבים‬atsabim; “violations”); ‫’( אלילים‬elilim; “futilities”); ‫( הבל‬hebel; “vanity”); ‫( גלולים‬gilulim); ‫( פסל‬pesel); and ‫( מסכה‬masēkāh).

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Old Testament texts, the objects of the polemics are not addressed directly. It is always about “those who worship idols.”53 In Jubilees 11–12, however, Abraham addresses the worshippers directly.54 Thirdly, in Jubilees, those polemicised against are members of Abraham’s family. In the Old Testament texts, the addressees are quite vague. Of course, this difference might be explained by the fact that Jubilees integrates all the elements into a narrative. Thus the readers are implicitly admonished not to worship other gods. Fourthly, the motif of describing the materials from which the statues are made (wood, silver and gold, clay), which is quite characteristic of the other texts engaged in idol polemics, does not occur in Jubilees. Instead, Jubilees draws a strong connection between idols and “unclean things” (11:4c, 16–17; 20:7d; 21:5b). Moreover, the idols’ influence is reduced to the influence of the evil spirits and the demons, with Prince Mastema as their leader.55 The origin of idolatry is explicitly identified with Ur of the Chaldeans (11:7; 12:15, 21), and moreover, the anti-idol polemic is strongly connected with Abraham. He himself takes action against the idols. The fact that Jubilees connects these anti-idol polemics with Abraham places the book in relation to some other texts. Most obvious is the relationship with Joshua 24:2–3, which refers to the idolatry of the fathers on the other side of the river (“Your fathers lived of old beyond the Euphrates, Terah, the father of Abraham and of Nahor; and they served other gods. Then I took your father Abraham from beyond the River and led him through all the land of Canaan, and made his offspring many”; cf. also Joshua 24:14–15). It is not completely clear whether Joshua 24:2–3 means that Abraham also served other gods, or only that Terah and Nahor did (“they served other gods”). Jubilees does not follow the Joshua tradition indicating that Abraham departed from Ur without his family at God’s initiative. Rather, in this case, it follows the text of Genesis. Jubilees does follow Joshua in making the connection between Abraham and renouncing idolatry, however. Judith 5:6–9 also speaks of Abraham’s early life and connects Abraham with the anti-idol polemic.56 Comparable to what we find in Jubilees, the departure from Ur is related to renouncing foreign gods (“they would not follow the gods of their fathers”). They left the tradition of 53  The verb is in the third-person plural. 54  The verbs are in the second-person masculine plural. 55  This teaching about evil spirits seems to be part of the wider influence of material originating from the Enochic traditions (see esp. 1 Enoch), although the author of Jubilees adds his own accents (e.g., the role of Mastema). 56  A  . Roitman, “The Traditions about Abraham’s Early Life in the Book of Judith (5:6–9),” in Things Revealed: Studies in Early Jewish and Christian Literature in Honor of Michael E. Stone (ed. E. G. Chazon, D. Satran, and R. A. Clements; Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 89; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 73–87.

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their parents and “worshiped the God of heaven, a god whom they had come to know” (cf. Judith 6:8). Because of this, they were driven out of Ur. This tradition concerning Abraham’s transition from idolatry to monotheism is quite similar to that of Jubilees. Even though Jubilees does not say that the family is expelled from Ur, there are some traces of the tensions between Abraham’s family and the Chaldeans ( Jubilees 12:6–8, 21). The fact that the departure from Ur is places immediately after the burning of the house of idols also points in the direction of a need to flee.57 The specific linkage of the story of the ravens with the polemic against the religion of the Chaldeans may have been originated with the author. The struggle against the ravens can be related to the fight against evil spirits. However, it is also possible that this linkage is a traditional one. In the Epistle of Jeremiah, the struggle against idols plays a prominent role. They cannot save themselves from war or calamity. They cannot set up a king over a country or give rain to human beings (Epistle of Jeremiah 29–51; cf. Jubilees 12:1–8). Moreover, the text speaks about a fire that breaks out in a temple and about the priests who flee and escape (Epistle of Jeremiah 54; cf. Jubilees 12:12–14). Sun, moon, and stars are sent forth to serve and are obedient. Only when God commands the clouds to cover the whole world do they carry out his command (Epistle of Jeremiah 59–61; cf. Jubilees 12:16–18). It is in this context of anti-idol polemics that ravens are also mentioned: “For they have no power; they are like ravens between heaven and earth.”58 The powerless idols are compared to the ravens, who have no power when they are flying through the air. Although the Epistle of Jeremiah does not speak about Abraham, the connection is easily made, since the letter describes the situation of Babel and the Chaldeans.59 57  For a development of this tradition, most of it from somewhat later sources, see PseudoEupolemus (Praeparatio Evangelica 9.17.2–9; 9.18.2); Orphica (25–31; long recension); Philo, De Abrahamo, 68–88; De migratione Abrahami, 176ff.; De somniis, 1.44ff.; Flavius Josephus, Antiquitates judaicae 1.7.1–2; Pseudo-Philo, Liber antiquitatum biblicarum 6–7; Apocalypse of Abraham 1–8; Acts 7:2–4; Targum Neofiti 1 and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan (passim). Cf. Roitman, “Traditions,” 74; Nickelsburg “Abraham the Convert,” 159–71; Kugel, Bible, 133–48. 58  For text-critical problems in the Epistle of Jeremiah 53, cf. C. J. Ball, “The Epistle of Jeremy,” in The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapa of the Old Testament in English: with Introduction and Critical and Explanatory Notes to the Several Books (ed. R. H. Charles; 2 vols; Oxford: Clarendon, 1913), 1:607–8; C. A. Moore, Daniel, Esther and Jeremiah; the Additions: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Anchor Bible 44; New York: Doubleday, 1977), 352; I. Assan-Dhôte and J. Moatti-Fine, Baruch, Lamentations, Lettre de Jérémie (La Bible d’Alexandrie 25.2; Paris: Les Édition du Cerf, 2005), 327. 59  C  . D. Crawford (“On the Exegetical Function of the Abraham-Ravens Tradition in Jubilees 11,” Harvard Theological Review 97 [2004]: 91–7, esp. 96) suggests that the raven tradition,

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5 Conclusion Every people in the Graeco-Roman world had its owns laws and foundational traditions. Despite following one’s own laws and the prohibition against mixing with other ethnic groups, people still had to live together peacefully in a multinational empire. Following their ancestral traditions, different Jewish groups had different attitudes towards other ethnic groups. Some even demonstrate an openness towards other people. However, the book of Jubilees is extremely strict with regard to guarding the boundaries between one’s own group and others. The separation from other nations is explicitly required and is accomplished by not concluding agreements with them, abstaining from common meals, and refraining from intermarriage. In the book of Jubilees, this separation is religiously motivated. It is ultimately related to the exclusive worship of the God of Israel. With the covenant, this unique God was considered to have made Israel his partner from creation onwards. In Jubilees, there is one unique and eternal covenant between God and his chosen people, and this establishes Israel as different from all other peoples. This corresponds to the polemic attitude against idolatry, which was the subject of this chapter. As we have seen, the resistance to the worship of idols is found especially in chapters 11–12. The opposition against idols has no clear link with the text of Genesis. One may suspect that the introduction of this theme is motivated by historical events, although no specific historical clues can be found. In this chapter, I have tried to show that Jubilees 11–12 is related to the broader discourse of polemics against idols in the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish literature. In these texts, other gods and their worshippers are criticised in a particular way—by denigrating the gods as mere images. The impotence of the statue-gods brings shame on the people who attribute power to them and is an expression of their lack of knowledge. These worshippers do not always come from among other peoples, but can also be found within the Israelite group. The author of Jubilees integrates the broader discourse into his own narrative, which is a rewriting of the book of Genesis. The polemical objects are members of Abraham’s family. Finally, the influence of idols is closely related to the influence of evil spirits and demons, and their origin is explicitly identified with Ur of the Chaldeans.

before it was integrated into Jubilees, served as an explanation for the odd use of the word “raven” in the Epistle of Jeremiah 53.

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Bibliography Amman, Sonja. Götter für die Toren: Die Verbindung von Götterpolemik und Weisheit im Alten Testament. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 466. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015. Assan-Dhôte, Isabelle, and Jacqueline Moatti-Fine. Baruch, Lamentations, Lettre de Jérémie. La Bible d’Alexandrie 25.2. Paris: Les Édition du Cerf, 2005. Ball, Charles J. “The Epistle of Jeremy.” Pages 596–611 in Vol. 1 of The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapa of the Old Testament in English: with Introduction and Critical and Explanatory Notes to the Several Books. Edited by R. H. Charles. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1913. Berger, Klaus. Das Buch der Jubiläen. Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit 2.3. Gütersloh: Mohn, 1981. Berlejung, Angelika. Die Theologie der Bilder: Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik. Orbis biblicus et orientalis 162. Fribourg: Academic Press, 1998. Collins, John J. “The Genre of the Book of Jubilees.” Pages 737–55 in A Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam. Edited by E. F. Mason et al. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 153; Leiden: Brill, 2012. Collins, John J. The Invention of Judaism: Torah and Jewish Identity from Deuteronomy to Paul. The Taubman Lectures in Jewish Studies 7. Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2017. Crawford, Cory D. “On the Exegetical Function of the Abraham-Ravens Tradition in Jubilees 11.” Harvard Theological Review 97 (2004): 91–7. Donaldson, Terence L. Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of Universalism (to 135 CE). Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007. Endres, John C. Biblical Interpretation in the Book of Jubilees. Catholic Bible Quarterly Monograph Series 18. Washington, DC: Catholic Bible Association of America, 1987. Kennedy, Charles A. “The Semantic Field of the Term ‘Idolatry.’” Pages 193–204 in Uncovering Ancient Stones: Essays in Memory of H. N. Richardson. Edited by L. M. Hopfe. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994. Knibb, Michael A. “Which Part of 1 Enoch were Known to Jubilees? A Note on the Interpretation of Jubilees 4.16–25.” Pages 254–62 in Reading from Right to Left: Essays on the Hebrew Bible in Honour of David J. A. Clines. Edited by J. Cheryl Exum and H. G. M. Williamson. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 373. London: T&T Clark, 2003. Knibb, Michael A. Jubilees and the Origins of the Qumran Community: An Inaugural Lecture in the Department of Bible Studies Delivered on Tuesday 17 January 1989. London: King’s College London, 1989. Kugel, James L. The Bible As It Was. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997.

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Lange, Armin. “The Essene Position on Magic and Divination.” Pages 377–435 in Legal Texts and Legal Issues: Proceedings of the Second Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies. Published in Honour of Joseph M. Baumgarten. Edited by M. Bernstein, F. García Martínez, and J. Kampen. Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 23. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Levtow, Nathaniel B. Images of Others: Iconic Politics in Ancient Israel. Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego 11. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008. Mizrahi, Noam. Witnessing a Prophetic Text in the Making: The Literary, Textual, and linguistic Development of Jeremiah 10:1–16. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 502. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Monger, Matthew P. “4Q216 and the State of Jubilees at Qumran.” Revue de Qumrân 104.26 (2014): 595–612. Moore, Carey A. Daniel, Esther and Jeremiah; the Additions: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Bible 44. New York: Doubleday, 1977. Najman, Hindy. “Interpretation As Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies.” Journal for the Study of Judaism 30 (1999): 379–410. Repr. pages 39–71 in Past Renewals: Interpretative Authority, Renewed Revelation and the Quest for Perfection in Jewish Antiquity. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 53. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Najman, Hindy. “Reconsidering Jubilees: Prophecy and Exemplarity.” Pages 229–43 in Enoch and the Mosaic Torah: The Evidence of Jubilees. Edited by G. Boccaccini and G. Ibba. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009. Repr. pages 189–204 in Past Renewals: Interpretative Authority, Renewed Revelation and the Quest for Perfection in Jewish Antiquity. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 53. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Najman, Hindy. Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 77. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Nickelsburg, George W. E. “Abraham the Convert: A Jewish Tradition and Its Use by the Apostle Paul.” Pages 151–75 in Biblical Figures outside the Bible. Edited M. A. Stone and T. A. Bergren. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 1998. Nickelsburg, George W. E. Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah: A Historical and Literary Introduction. 2d ed. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005. North, Christopher. R. “The Essence of Idolatry.” Pages 151–60 in Von Ugarit Nach Qumran. Edited by J. Hempel. Berlin: Alfred Töpelmann, 1958. Pfeiffer, Robert H. “The Polemic against Idolatry in the Old Testament.” Journal of Biblical Literature 43 (1924): 229–40. Preuss, Horst. D. Verspottung fremder Religionen im Alten Testament. Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament 92. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971. Roitman, Adolfo. “The Traditions about Abraham’s Early Life in the Book of Judith (5:6– 9).” Pages 73–87 in Things Revealed: Studies in Early Jewish and Christian Literature

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in Honor of Michael E. Stone. Edited by E. G. Chazon, D. Satran, and R. A. Clements. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 89. Leiden: Brill, 2004. Roth, Wolfgang M. W. “For Life, He Appeals to Death (Wis 13:18): A Study of Old Testament Idol Parodies.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 37 (1975): 21–47. Tigchelaar, Eibert J. C. “The Qumran Jubilees Manuscripts as Evidence for the Literary Growth of the Book.” Revue de Qumrân 104.26 (2014): 579–94. Tisserant, Eugène. “Fragments syriaques du Livre des Jubilés.” Revue Biblique 30 (1921): 55–86 and 206–32. Tromp, Johannes. “The Critique of Idolatry in the Context of Jewish Monotheism.” Pages 105–20 in Aspects of Religious Contact and Conflict in the Ancient World. Edited by P. W. van der Horst. Utrechtse Theologische Reeks 31. Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, Universiteit Utrecht, 1995. Van Ruiten, Jacques T. A. G. M. “A Literary Dependency of Jubilees on 1 Enoch? A Reassessment of a Thesis of J. C. VanderKam.” Henoch 25 (2003): 1–5. Van Ruiten, Jacques T. A. G. M. Abraham in the Book of Jubilees: The Rewriting of Genesis 11:26–25:10 in the Book of Jubilees 11:14–23:8. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 161. Leiden: Brill, 2012. Van Ruiten, Jacques T. A. G. M. Primaeval History Interpreted: The Rewriting of Genesis 1–11 in the Book of Jubilees. Journal for the Study of Judaism Supplement Series 66. Leiden: Brill, 2000. VanderKam, James C. “Recent Scholarship on the Book of Jubilees.” Currents in Biblical Research 6 (2008): 405–31. VanderKam, James C. Jubilees I: A Commentary on the Book of Jubilees Chapters 1–21. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2018. VanderKam, James C. The Book of Jubilees I. Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 510; Scriptores Aethiopici 87. Leuven: Peeters, 1989. VanderKam, James C. The Book of Jubilees, II. Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium 511; Scriptores Aethiopici 88. Leuven: Peeters, 1989. Von Rad, Gerhard. Weisheit in Israel. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchner Verlag, 1970. Walzer, Michael. On Toleration. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997. Weitzman, Steve. “Why Did the Qumran Community Write in Hebrew?” Journal of the American Oriental Society 119 (1999): 35–45. Werman, Cana. “The Book of Jubilees and the Qumran Community: The Relationship between the Two.” Megillot 2 (2004): 37–55 (in Hebrew). Woyke, Johannes. Götter, “Götzen,” Götterbilder: Aspekte einer paulinischen “Theologie der Religionen.” Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 132. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005.

chapter 4

Intolerance in Early Judaism: Emic and Etic Descriptions of Jewish Religions in the Second Temple Period Stefan Beyerle 1

The “Mosaic Distinction” and Religious Intolerance

Religions, especially monotheistic religions, display a strong link to polemics, intolerance, and violence. While this may at first seem to be self-evident, the connection of multifaceted polytheisms with intolerance is far less recognisable. Ancient Egyptian texts provide good examples:1 most prominent are the “Execration Texts,” which functioned as representatives of Egypt’s enemies from the Old Kingdom through the Roman era. These texts were written on red pots or figurines designed to be broken in rituals and served to identify the fate of the enemies with that of the pots or figurines.2 Another example comes from the ritual against the Egyptian serpent god Apep (Apophis). In this myth, the sun god Re confronts Apep, whom he vanquishes for the sake of order and creation. In a “Coffin Text” (No 160) from the Middle Kingdom (middle of the twelfth dynasty, early second millennium BCE), one reads: “I have come just so that I might plunder the (serpent-formed) earth gods. As for Re, may he who is in his evening (i.e., Re) be satisfied with me when we have circled the sky, while you (the serpent) are in your fetters.”3 This ritual should guarantee the victory of Re, who is in charge of a just and stable order of creation. Therefore, Re’s enemy, the serpent god of chaos, will be plundered and shackled. A third example stems from the late Ptolemaic era. The so-called “Potter’s Oracle” 1  Micha Brumlik, “Respektabel, aber falsch—Peter Sloterdijks Verschärfung von Jan Assmanns Mosaischer Unterscheidung,” in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismus-Debatte zwi­schen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen, ed. Rolf Schieder (Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2014), 200–201 and 205–8; this text also mentions and quotes Greek, Persian, Assyrian, and Ugaritic examples of religious polemics and intolerance. 2  Cf. selected “Execration Texts” from the Old Kingdom in William H. Hallo and K. Lawson Younger (ed.), The Context of Scripture, vol. 1, Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 50–52: nr. 32, trans. Robert K. Ritner (hereafter COS). 3  For the translation, cf. Robert K. Ritner, COS 1.21: 32. Cf. also Jan Assmann, Totale Religion. Ursprünge und Formen puritanischer Verschärfung (Picus Verlag: Vienna, 2016), 11–15.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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polemicises against those whom it refers to as the “girdle wearers,” a sobriquet for Hellenists in Ptolemaic Egypt.4 While the “Execration Texts” very concretely list Nubians, Asiatics, Libyans, or Egyptians (both living and deceased) as well as threatening forces in general,5 the Apep (Apophis) myth only mirrors this-worldly conflicts in otherworldly spheres. While the “Execration Texts” represent an effective way of pursuing a collective political objective, the latter references from the Apep ritual pertain to a religious or mythic conflict. Finally, the “Potter’s Oracle” combines both aspects—the political and mythic attitudes of polemics and intolerance. It propagates ancient Egyptian myths and, at the same time, polemicises against Hellenistic culture. One of the major criteria for intolerance is violence, as the fight between Re and Apep (Apophis) highlights. Both within and beyond the Germanspeaking scholarly community, Jan Assmann in particular has focused on the relationship between violence and monotheism, with a particular focus on Jewish monotheism. Assmann has referred to this relationship, which results in a strong connection between monotheism and intolerance, as the “Mosaic distinction.”6 It is a “distinction between true and false in religion” which “blocked [the] intercultural translatability” of the gods. Monotheism appears as a “counter-religion” and finds its most elaborate expression in the biblical story of the Exodus.7 Assmann writes, “The distinction I am concerned with in this book is the distinction between true and false in religion that underlies more specific distinctions such as Jews and Gentiles, Christians and pagans, Muslims and unbelievers.”8 Assmann’s approach led to a long, intensive, broad-based debate—and sometimes to harshly pronounced criticism. While the German-speaking academic community tends to criticise Assmann’s general verdict that the Hebrew Bible attests to a god of violence and anger—a verdict which, in its radicalism, appears at least somewhat premature9—the English-speaking discourse rather reflects on the hermeneutical presuppositions and biases of Assmann’s approach: for example, Ari Ofengenden 4  Cf. Stefan Beyerle, “Authority and Propaganda—The Case of the Potter’s Oracle,” in Sibyls, Scriptures, and Scrolls. John Collins at Seventy, ed. Joel Baden, Hindy Najman, and Eibert Tigchelaar, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 175 (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 167–84. 5  Cf. COS 1.32: 50, trans. Robert K. Ritner. 6   See Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 1–8. 7  See Assmann, Moses the Egyptian, 3–4 and 7. 8  Assmann, Moses the Egyptian, 1. 9  Cf. Bernd Janowski, Ein Gott, der straft und tötet? Zwölf Fragen zum Gottesbild des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2012), 89–116.

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criticises Assmann’s all-too-negative attitude towards monotheism.10 Other scholars wonder whether the “Mosaic distinction” has contributed to explanations for the causes of “Judeophobia” or, what is more, anti-Semitism.11 But the historical key to anti-Semitism is not to be found in the Hebrew Bible, nor was it the Jews themselves who were responsible for “Judeophobia.”12 Nevertheless, it is obvious that the distinction between “true” and “false” leads invariably to polemics. It is a kind of polemic that includes power, intolerance, and—sometimes also—violence. However, while intrinsic violence is possible, it is not necessary. Therefore, Jan Assmann refers to a whole group of texts in the Hebrew Bible that attest to a violence against other religions or re­ ligious habits, but also to harsh attacks against the Hebrews or the Jewish people. Most of these biblical texts are taken from the so-called Deuteronomistic tradition (Exodus 23:31–32; Deuteronomy 7:1–6; 20:15–18). Their ambition is to establish an exclusive, monotheistic Yahwism against what the Deuteronomists called the “Canaanites.” Most recently, Assmann has re-evaluated his theses.13 In his book on Exodus, he distinguishes between the “monotheism of loyalty” and the “monotheism of truth.” The former monotheism is older, recognises the existence of other gods, and fits within the Exodus narrative and its Deuteronomistic contexts. Against this, the “monotheism of truth” is a later phenomenon, attested in late prophetic writings, such as Deutero-Isaiah or Daniel. This concept excludes the existence of other deities. Assmann’s point is that there was no development from the “monotheism of loyalty” to the “monotheism of truth.” Rather, both 10  Cf. Ari Ofengenden, “Monotheism, the Incomplete Revolution: Narrating the Event in Freud’s and Assmann’s Moses,” Symplokē 23 (2015): 296–302. For further arguments on the hermeneutical level, cf. Rolf Schieder, “Die Monotheismusthese, oder: Ist Mose für religiöse Gewalt verantwortlich?,” in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismus-Debatte zwischen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen, ed. Rolf Schieder (Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2014), 15–35; Jan Assmann, “Monotheismus und Gewalt. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit Rolf Schieders Kritik an «Moses der Ägypter» ,” in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes, 36–55. 11  Cf. Marcia Pally, “The Hebrew Bible Is a Problem Set,” in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes, 222– 24; Brumlik, “Respektabel, aber falsch,” 211–13. See also Alon Segev, Thinking and Killing: Philosophical Discourse in the Shadow of the Third Reich (Boston: De Gruyter, 2013), 84–92. 12  Richard Wolin (“Biblical Blame Shift. Is the Egyptologist Jan Assmann Fueling AntiSemitism?” The Chronicle of Higher Education, 15 April 2013, http://www.chronicle.com/ article/Biblical-Blame-Shift/138457) accuses Assmann of arguing in this way, but see the clear and convincing reply in Jan Assmann, “Monotheismus der Treue. Korrekturen am Konzept der «mosaischen Unterscheidung» im Hinblick auf die Beiträge von Marcia Pally und Micha Brumlik,” in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes, 249–66. 13  Cf. Jan Assmann, Exodus. Die Revolution der Alten Welt (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2015), 106–19; idem, Totale Religion, 11–57; idem, “Monotheismus der Treue,” 252–59.

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forms of monotheism existed alongside each other.14 A differentiation between these types of monotheism is not new, but is well established through the use of different terminology: monolatry or henotheism and monotheism—or, in other words, inclusive and exclusive monotheism.15 In contrast to Assmann’s thesis, a socio-historically indicated synthesis of different conceptualisations of the “One god” is possible: while the Deuteronomists emphasised YHWH’s uniqueness in conflicts with foreign peoples and their gods, Deutero-Isaiah constructs one god and denies the existence of other gods. Finally, the priestly composition of the Pentateuch refers to the god of creation and order by enabling the identification of the Israelite god with other gods.16 Consequently, the Deuteronomists and Deutero-Isaiah prefer an exclusive approach, while the priestly texts favour an inclusive model of “monotheism.” Nevertheless, one should be rather hesitant in characterising the faith of the early Israelites and the Jewish people in antiquity as monotheistic. As Marcia Pally writes, “In short, even in theory, the Hebrews for much of the time between the exodus and the Common Era were monolatrists (not monotheists)— and not very loyal ones at that.”17 For various reasons, Assmann’s “Mosaic distinction” appears to be a problematic category for a historical interpretation and reconstruction of polemics and intolerances: first of all, Assmann himself admits that his categories should be related to a “mnemohistory,” not to a historical reconstruction of events. Secondly, and because of this, Assmann is not interested in the history of religious thought or its social and ideological differentiations. For example, he admits that the counter-religion of the “mono­ theists” refers to a folio that the Deuteronomists called “Canaanites.” Here, Assmann does not take into consideration the distinction between historical reality and the fictional setting of canonical texts from the Bible. Historically speaking, the Israelites or Hebrews originally counted among the “Canaanites” in the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age.18 Thus, the Deuteronomistic polemics against the “Canaanites” do not reflect the etic, but rather the emic view 14  Cf. Assmann, “Monotheismus der Treue,” 252–59. 15  Cf., for example, Stefan Beyerle, “Monotheism, Angelology, and Dualism in Ancient Jewish Apocalyptic Writings,” in Monotheism in Late Prophetic and Early Apocalyptic Literature. Studies of the Sofja Kovalevskaja Research Group on Early Jewish Monotheism, vol. 3, ed. Nathan MacDonald and Ken Brown, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament II/72 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 219–20; Thomas Römer, The Invention of God (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015), 231. 16  Cf. Römer, The Invention of God, 216–18, on the Deuteronomists; on Deutero-Isaiah, see 219–21; and on the priestly composition of the Pentateuch, see 225–27. 17  So Pally, “The Hebrew Bible Is a Problem Set,” 219. 18  In contrast to the biblical account of the “conquest,” especially in the books of Numbers and Joshua, “Israel” emerged from “Canaan.” Cf., for example, Christian Frevel, Geschichte

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of intolerance. The latter fits perfectly with a major strategy that argues for a legitimisation of religious violence: it is the strategy of “othering” (see below) people from the same religious movement or declaring people from different religions and denominations to be members of one and the same religion. For example, in medieval Christian traditions, several Christian authors interpreted Muhammed or Muslims as Christians in order to denounce them as “heretical.” This helped to legitimise the Christian Crusades.19 However, despite these reservations, Assmann’s readers can distil import­ ant criteria for what it means to speak of intolerance and polemics in the history of Israel and the Jewish people. On the one hand, intolerance relates to matters of religion and cult, rather than of ethnicity or culture. On the other hand, intolerance was directed towards religiously charged behaviour that was perceived—at the very least—as foreign. In order to avoid further methodological distortions, the following analysis will be based mainly on primary sources that provide us with a readily apparent religious and socio-cultural provenance.20 2

The Samaritans as Foreigners: the Etic Perspective

Among the ancient historiographers, Josephus was one of the first to identify the “Samaritans” as foreigners. In his Jewish Antiquities, stemming from the end of the first century CE (93–94 CE), Josephus writes, “Once Salmanasses had then deported the Israelites, he settled in their place the nation of the Chouthaites (κατῴκισεν ἀντ᾿ αὐτῶν τὸ τῶν Χουθαίων), who previously were in the interior of Persia and Media. Thereafter, however, they were called the Samareians (τότε μέντοι Σαμαρεῖς ἐκλήθησαν), getting this name from the country in which they were settled.”21 Josephus refers to the report of the fall of Samaria in 2 Kings 17:24 (cf. also verse 30), wherein the Assyrian king brought people from Babylon, Cuthah, Ava, Hamath, and Sepharvaim and placed them in the cities Israels, 2nd ed. Kohlhammer Studienbücher Theologie 2 (Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer, 2018), 86. 19  Cf. Bettina Koch, Patterns Legitimizing Political Violence in Transcultural Perspectives. Islamic and Christian Traditions and Legacies, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—Tension, Transmission, Transformation 1 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 30–35. 20  For a similar approach, cf. Reinhard G. Kratz, Historical and Biblical Israel. The History, Tradition, and Archives of Israel and Judah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). 21  Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 10.184; translation taken from Christopher T. Begg and Paul Spilsbury, Judean Antiquities Books 8–10. Flavius Josephus. Translation and Commentary, ed. Steve Mason (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 264.

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of Samaria in place of the children of Israel. In the Masoretic Text of 2 Kings 17, Salmanassar’s replacement of the “Israelites” is indicated by the Hebrew particle taḥat ‫(תחת)‏‬, which the Septuagint translated as ἀντί (τῶν υἱῶν Ισραηλ).22 Furthermore, Josephus uses the name “Samareians” (Σαμαρεῖς) as “a gentilicium formed from a geographical name.”23 As Magnar Kartveit has pointed out, the passage quoted above is only one of three different stories on the origin of the Samaritans within Josephus’s accounts.24 In the passage mentioned above, the ancient historiographer reflects on the eastern origin of the Samaritans (in Jewish Antiquities 9.278–79, 288–91; 11.19). As Reinhard Pummer emphasises: “The picture that Josephus paints of the Samaritans in Ant. 9.288–291 and 10.183–185 is one of foreigners who were settled in the deserted North by the Assyrians after the conquest of Israel, a claim which Josephus will repeat in later passages.”25 Further evidence highlights their expulsion from Jerusalem, including the building of a Samaritan temple ( Jewish Antiquities 11.302–47) and their Phoenician-Sidonian origin ( Jewish Antiquities 11.344; 12.258–63). If we look at the version that argues for the eastern origin of the Samaritans, another passage in Josephus’s Antiquities clearly mentions religious polemics based on monotheism or monolatry ( Jewish Antiquities 9.288–91, here 9.288): Now those who were settled in Samareia were the “Chouthaioi,” for they are called by this name until today because they were brought in from the country called “Couthas” […] Each of the nations—there were five of them [cf. 2 Kings 17:24]—brought its own god to Samareia (ἕκαστοι κατὰ ἔθνος ἴδιον θεὸν εἰς τὴν Σαμάρειαν). By adoring these, as was their ancestral [custom], they aroused the greatest god to wrath and rage (παροξύνουσι τὸν μέγιστον θεὸν εἰς ὀργὴν καὶ χόλον).26 22  Cf. Rita Egger, Josephus Flavius und die Samaritaner. Eine terminologische Untersuchung zur Identitätsklärung der Samaritaner, Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus 4 (Freiburg and Göttingen: Universitätsverlag and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 51–52. 23  So Magnar Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, Vetus Testamentum Supplements 128 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 74–76 and quotation at 89: In Josephus Antiquities 9.290 and 11.88, the Χουθαῖοι are equated with the Σαμαρεῖται. 24  Cf. Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 85–100. 25  So Reinhard Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 129 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 80. 26  The selected translation of this passage stems from Begg and Spilsbury, Judean Antiquities Books 8–10, 202; for text and translation, cf. also Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 68–69.

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After the “greatest god” had inflicted a plague on the Samaritans, they learned by way of an oracle that their conversion to the “greatest god” would provide healing for them. A few of the priests whom the Assyrians had once taken captive were sent, and they instructed the Samaritans and taught them the ordinances of and reverence for the “greatest god.” This passage as a whole paraphrases contents from 2 Kings 17 (verses 24–28 and 34). Obviously, Josephus does not refer to verses 29–33, wherein 2 Kings 17 polemicises against the other gods, but he nevertheless includes religious polemics in that passage.27 This is because the well-being of the Samaritans is directly dependent on their veneration of the “greatest god.” The main point in this context is that they are opportunists,28 as Josephus points out ( Jewish Antiquities 9.291): Whenever, by turns (οἳ πρὸς μεταβολήν),29 they see things going well for the Judeans, they call themselves their relatives, in that they are descendants of Josep [Joseph] and have family ties with them in virtue of that origin. When, however, they see that things are going badly for them [the Judeans], they say that they owe nothing to them and that they have no claim to their loyalty or race (οὐδὲν αὐτοῖς εὐνοίας ἢ γένους). Instead, they make themselves out to be migrants of another nation (ἀλλὰ μετοίκους ἀλλοεθνεῖς).30 In this passage, Josephus describes the foreign status of the “Samaritans” as this people’s self-designation. Nevertheless, in several other sections, the RomanJewish historiographer himself characterises the Samaritans as “Chouthaites,” “Sidonians,” and, in general, as people from foreign regions ( Jewish Antiquities 11.174, ἀλλόφυλος; 12.257, ἄποικος). Their customs and religious convictions are different from the cultic habits and behaviours of the “Israelites” and the “Judaeans.” 27  P ace Egger, Josephus Flavius und die Samaritaner, 176–79. Cf. Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 71–72 and 74–76, who points out that Josephus depicts the “Chouthaites” “as true converts who worshiped the Most High God with great zeal. But after having equated them with the Σαμαρεῖται, he accuses them of duplicity (§ 291). With this equation and indictment he creates a link to the Samaritans in the later accounts of Antiquities, and his readers no doubt understood that he refers at the same time to the Samaritans of his own day”; see Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 76, italics in the original. 28  Cf. Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 82–84. 29  For this disputable expression in Greek, cf. Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 83. 30  The translation is taken from Begg and Spilsbury, Judean Antiquities Books 8–10, 203; for text and translation, cf. also Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 68–69.

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Other sources, at least from Hellenistic-Roman times, confirm Josephus’s view of the Samaritans as a foreign syncretistic or polytheistic people. In the Septuagint, in the so-called Lucianic or Antiochene version, the Assyrian official Rabshakeh asks: “Where are the gods of Hamath and Arpad? And where are the gods of Sepharvaim? And where are the gods of the region of Samaria? Did they not31 deliver Samaria out of my hand?” (ποῦ εἰσὶν οἱ θεοὶ Αἰμὰθ καὶ ’Αρφάδ; καὶ ποῦ εἰσὶν οἱ θεοὶ Σεπφαρείμ; καὶ ποῦ εἰσὶν οἱ θεοὶ τῆς χώρας Σαμαρείας; μὴ ἐξείλαντο τὴν Σαμάρειαν ἐκ χειρός μου).32 Among the five cities in 2 Kings 17:24, which Josephus has also mentioned in his Antiquties (cf. Jewish Antiquities 9.288)—although he only referred to Cutha and the Couthaites explicitly—three names (Hamath, Ava/Iva, and Sepharvaim) appear again in the Masoretic Text of 2 Kings 18:34. While the Greek text of the codices Vaticanus and Alexandrinus cancelled the rather cryptic Hebrew hena‘ wə‘iwwāh (‫ֵהנַ ע‬ ‫ )וְ ִעּוָ ה‬and interpreted the ělohîm ‫ )אלהים(‏‬of Hamath, Arpad, and Sepharvaim as a singular (θεός; see also Isaiah 36:19 in both the MT and the LXX), the Antiochene text has inserted the quest for the “gods of the region of Samaria” and understood the foreign religions as polytheistic. Thus the Antiochene text combined religious polemics against polytheism and syncretism with the critique of idolatry.33 Most scholars identify this as a late insertion and interpretation that was motivated by an anti-Samaritan attitude.34 31  The Antiochene reception uses μή instead of ὅτι, which is preferred especially in the codices (cf. Vaticanus and Alexandrinus). 32  2 Kings 18:34. For the text, cf. Natalio Fernández Marcos and José Ramón Busto Saiz, El texto antioqueno de la Biblia griega, II: 1–2 Reyes, Textos y estudios « Cardenal Cisneros » de la Biblia Políglota Matritense 53 (Madrid: Instituto de Filología del CSIC, 1992), 139. See also the apparatus in Alan England Brooke, Norman McLean, and Henry St. John Thackeray, The Old Testament in Greek According to the Text of Codex Vaticanus. Supplemented from Other Uncial Manuscripts, with a Critical Apparatus Containing the Variants of the Chief Ancient Authorities for the Text of the Septuagint, vol. 2, The Later Historical Books, Part II. I and II Kings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1930), 364. 33  Assyrian inscriptions and iconography attest to the idea that the Assyrian occupiers deported the foreign gods as they were represented in their statues; cf., for example, one of the prisms of Sargon II from Nimrud (Calhu), dating from the end of the seventh century BCE, in COS 2.118D: 31–36. 34  Cf., for example, James A. Montgomery and Henry Snyder Gehman, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Kings (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951), 490; Moshe Anbar, “Kai pou eisin oi theoi tēs choras Samareias ‘et où sont les dieux du pays de Samarie?’,” Biblische Notizen 51 (1990): 7–8; József Zsengellér, Gerizim as Israel. Northern Tradition of the Old Testament and the Early History of the Samaritans, Utrechtse Theologische Reeks 38 (Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, 1998), 115. In general, it should be borne in mind that the Antiochene text is of great importance for a reconstruction of the Old Greek, especially in the books of Samuel and Kings; cf. Natalio Fernández Marcos, “The Antiochene Edition in the Text History of the Greek Bible,” in Der antiochenische Text der

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Both sources—Josephus and the Antiochene text—have two things in common: they date to the Hellenistic-Roman period, and they do not point to a historical reality, but rather to a fictional or ideological presence of “IsraeliteSamaritan” relations. Their idea of “Samaritans” as a syncretistic, religiously and ethnically foreign people says a lot about the circumstances of the time of their writings—and it apparently tells us nothing about the Samaritans of that time. Consequently, the questions “when” and “what” come to mind: When did the ideology of “Samaritans as foreigners”—that is, of a religious separation between “Judaeans” and “Samaritans”—originate? And what was the reason— the historical circumstances—out of which this idea arose? Even if these questions cannot be answered properly, two prominent sources, from Ben Sira and the Dead Sea Scrolls, are discussed in this concern. Both texts date to around the early second century BCE. Both texts polemicise against the Samaritans, characterising these people as “foreign” and “foolish.” Both texts represent a Judaean-Jerusalem view of the northern part of “Israel.” In Sirach 50:25–26, the Hebrew version, transmitted from a medieval manuscript from the Cairo Genizah (Ms. B, 20 recto, l. 5–6), reads as follows:35 25 Because of two peoples, or: by two nations my soul is loathed, and the third is not a people. 26 The inhabitants of Seir, and the Philistines, and the foolish people that dwell in Shechem. ‫ ‏והשלישית‏איננו ‏‏עם׃‬ ‫ וגוי נבל ‏הדר ‏‏‏בשכם׃‬

‫‏בשני‏גוים‏קצה נפשי‬25 ‫ יושבי שעיר ופלשת‬26

The Hebrew text of Ben Sira recalls Deuteronomy 32:21 and Genesis 34:7. In the former text, the “Song of Moses,” god’s jealousy was provoked by “Yeshurun’s” (Jacob-Israels’s) apostasy. Thus god himself will “arouse their jealousy with a non-people (‫ )בלא ‏עם‬and provoke them with a foolish nation (‫)בגוי ‏נבל‬.” In Septuaginta in seiner Bezeugung und seiner Bedeutung, ed. Siegfried Kreuzer and Marcus Sigismund, De Septuaginta Investigationes 4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 57–71. What is more, some scholars are convinced that the Antiochene text does not represent a recension, but rather—in its main parts—the original source or a version of the Old Greek; cf. recently Siegfried Kreuzer, “Der antiochenische Text der Septuaginta in seiner Bezeugung und seiner Bedeutung,” in Geschichte, Sprache und Text. Studien zum Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 479 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 404–35. 35  For the text, cf. Pancratius C. Beentjes, The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew. A Text Edition of All Extant Hebrew Manuscripts and A Synopsis of All Parallel Hebrew Ben Sira Texts, Vetus Testamentum Supplements 68 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 90.

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addition, Genesis 34:7 calls Shechem’s humiliation of Jacob’s daughter Dinah a “foolish act” (‫ )‏נבלה‬that was done in Israel. While Sirach 50:25–26 uses a parallelism to combine Shechem as “non-people” or “not a people” with foolishness, the text refers to Jewish hermeneutics: gezera shawa.36 Some scholars argue that Ben Sira does not differentiate between ‘am ‫)עם(‏‬ and gôy (‫)‏גוי‬37 and, consequently, distinguishes between the “arch enemies” of “Israel”—the Philistines or Edomites—and the Shechemites. Therefore, the Hebrew text would not count the Shechemites or “Samaritans” (cf. Josephus, Antiquities 11.340)38 among the heathen.39 Other scholars assess the relationship between ‫‘‏‬am )‫ ‏(עם‬and ‫ ‏‬gôy (‫ )‏גוי‬as an exclusive one: Ben Sira counts Shechem as “not a people” among the gôyim )‫‏(גוים‬the Philistines and Edomites. Consequently, the “Shechemites” are no heathens, but the “foolish part” of Israel and—to some extent—comparable to the foreign nations.40 Be that as it 36  Cf. James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible. A Guide to the Bible As It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 424; Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 142–44. It is obvious, especially in the later Jewish sources, that ‫ ‏נבל‬and ‫ ‏נבלה‬associates “foolish(ness)” with “apostasy”; cf. Torleif Elgvin, “‫ ‏נָ ָבל‬nābāl,” Theologisches Wörterbuch zu den Qumrantexten 2 (2013): 854. See also Dany R. Nocquet, La Samarie, la diaspora et l’achèvement de la Torah, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 284 (Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017), 73. 37  For this differentiation cf. Deuteronomy 7:6; 14:2, and 26:18. 38  Some scholars deny an all-too-readily-assumed connection between “Shechem” and the “Samaritans”; cf. Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 12. 39  Cf. Stefan Schorch, “The Construction of Samari(t)an Identity from the Inside and from the Outside,” in Between Cooperation and Hostility. Multiple Identities in Ancient Judaism and the Interaction with Foreign Powers, ed. Rainer Albertz and Jakob Wöhrle, Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplements 11 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 137 and 146–48; Benedikt Hensel, “Von ‘Israeliten’ zu ‘Ausländern’: Zur Entwicklung anti-samaritanischer Polemik ab der hasmonäischen Zeit,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 126 (2014): 481–82; Benedikt Hensel, Juda und Samaria. Zum Verhältnis zweier nach-exilischer Jahwismen, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 110 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 259–60. 40   Cf. Jürgen Zangenberg, ΣΑΜΑΡΕΙΑ. Antike Quellen zur Geschichte und Kultur der Samaritaner in deutscher Übersetzung, Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter 15 (Tübingen/Basel: A. Francke Verlag, 1994), 42; Matthew Goff, “‘The Foolish Nation That Dwells in Shechem’: Ben Sira on Shechem and the Other Peoples in Palestine,” in The “Other” in Second Temple Judaism. Essays in Honor of John J. Collins, ed. Daniel C. Harlow et al. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 178 and 182–83. See also Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 145–48. Kartveit’s argument in particular deserves attention, because he considers the context of Ben Sira’s Laus patrum, wherein Simeon (i.e., Simon II, 219–196 BCE) is praised for keeping god’s covenant, like Phinehas in Numbers 25. “If the original text of Sir 50:23 prays that God will enable the then high priest [Simeon II] to practice the covenant of Phinehas, verses 25f. become the recipe for the execution of this covenant”; Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 146.

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may, the references and contextualisations of Sirach 50:25–26 attest to intolerance against the “Shechemites” or “Samaritans” because of their apostasy and idolatry (see Deuteronomy 32:21; Genesis 34; and below).41 When it comes to the question of whether the “Samaritans” represented “strangers,” including a foreign religion, the Greek text of Sirach 50:25–26 and the Dead Sea Scrolls (4Q372) are much more concrete. The Ben Sira passage in Greek reads: 25 Because of two peoples my soul is loathed, and the third is no people: 26 Those who live on the mountain of Samaria and the Philistines and the foolish public that lives in Shechem. 25 ἐν δυσὶν ἔθνεσιν προσώχθισεν ἡ ψυχή μου καὶ τὸ τρίτον οὐκ ἔστιν ἔθνος 26 οἱ καθήμενοι ἐν ὄρει Σαμαρείας καὶ Φυλιστιιμ καὶ ὁ λαὸς ὁ μωρὸς ὁ κατοικῶν ἐν Σικιμοις The Greek Ben Sira text, like the Hebrew version, uses two different terms for the “people:” ethnos (ἔθνος) and laos (λαός).42 While the Philistines and “those who live on the mountain of Samaria” are addressed as ethnê (ἔθνη), the “foolish” ones at Shechem are called laos (λαός). Consequently, the “Shechemites” could function as a subgroup of the “Samaritans,” whose status is identical to that of the “Philistines.” All in all, the Greek Ben Sira text further accentuates the polemics of the Hebrew text: a foolish public is linked with the “Shechemites,” seen as counted among the “Samaritans.” They are foreigners, whose life “on the mountain of Samaria” is comparable to the religious and cultic behaviour of those Samaritans that the book of Amos harshly criticises (cf. Amos 3:9; 4:1; 6:1).43 All the references from the book of Amos agree that they verbally attack

41  Goff (“The Foolish Nation That Dwells in Shechem,” 181–82) states: “It is possible to read the combination of the words ‘Shechem’ and ‫‏נבל‬in Ben Sira as an allusion to Genesis 34. […] It is reasonable to think that Ben Sira is alluding to Genesis 34, albeit indirectly.” 42  As the distribution of the Greek terms does not fit with the identified Hebrew terms (‫‏עם‬ and ‫)‏גוי‬, it seems, at the very least, that the Septuagint did not respect a clear-cut differentiation between ‫‏עם‬and ‫‏גוי‬in the Hebrew Vorlage. For a reevaluation of the term ἔθνος, cf. Steve Mason, Orientation to the History of Roman Judaea (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books/ Wipf and Stock, 2016), 97–112. 43  Cf. Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 11; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 260–61.

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the people’s religious or social actions “on the mount of Samaria” (ἐπὶ τὸ ὄρος Σαμαρείας, or ἐν τῷ ὄρει τῆς Σαμαρείας).44 The so-called 4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona–c (4Q371–73; 2Q22),45 identified among the Dead Sea Scrolls, represents another important source for the reconstruction of anti-Samaritan polemics. The fragments combine historical or rather “biblical” narrations with wisdom-like hortatory material. Some passages, especially 4Q372 frg. 1, contain stories and speeches as well as a prayer of Joseph. The manuscripts date from the middle and late Hasmonean eras, respectively the early Herodian era.46 The relevant text is the best preserved among the fragments in 4Q372 frg. 1. In lines 1–10, the Babylonian siege and destruction of Jerusalem is depicted, while lines 10–15 portray “Joseph” as having been deported to a foreign nation. The narration presupposes the myth of the “empty land” (l. 11: ‫ )כל הריהם שממים‏ ֯מהם‬and the dwelling of a deceitful people, who “acted terribly with the words of their mouth to revile against the tent of Zion” (l. 13).47 Here, Levi, Judah, and Benjamin function as adversaries. Finally, lines 16–32 contain Joseph’s prayer, a lament in which the protagonist pleads for deliverance. Many scholars interpret the text, especially lines 10–15, as an encoded pol­ emic against the Samaritans from the early second century BCE—earlier than the Judaean-Samaritan conflict and the destruction of Mount Gerizim by John Hyrcanus.48 To be more specific, 4Q372 could have functioned as a rejection of 44  Despite these observations, Reinhard Pummer recently cast doubt upon whether Sirach 50:25–26, in Hebrew as in Greek, referred to the “Samaritans” at all; cf. Reinhard Pummer, The Samaritans. A Profile (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2016), 47–50. 45  More recently, Eibert Tigchelaar identified a fifth fragment: PAM 43.680 frg. 1–3; cf. Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, “On the Unidentified Fragments of DJD XXXIII and PAM 43.680. A New Manuscript of 4QNarrative and Poetic Composition, and Fragments of 4Q13, 4Q269, 4Q525 and 4QSb(?),” Revue de Qumran 21/83 (2004): 481–83; see also Matthew Thiessen, “4Q372 1 and the Continuation of Joseph’s Exile,” Dead Sea Discoveries 15 (2008): 380–82n2. 46  For the characterisation of the content of fragments and their paleographic date, cf. Eileen Schuller and Moshe Bernstein, “371–373. 4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona–c,” in Wadi Daliyeh II. The Samaria Papyri from Wadi Daliyeh and Qumran Cave 4. XXVIII: Miscellanea, Part 2, ed. Douglas M. Gropp et al., Discoveries in the Judaean Desert 28 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), 152–54. 47  The Hebrew text has: ‫לג ֯דף ע ‏ל אהל ציון‬ ֯ ‫וישעירו ‏בדׁברי פיהם‬. For the text and translation, cf. Schuller and Bernstein, “4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona–c,” 167–70 and pl. xlvi– xlix. For the textual problems in this passage, cf. also ibid., 175. 48  Cf. Zangenberg, ΣΑΜΑΡΕΙΑ, 332–34; Schuller and Bernstein, “4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona–c,” 153–54, 171–72, and 174–75; Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 160– 71; Hanan Eshel, “The ‘Prayer of Joseph’ from Qumran, A Papyrus from Masada, and the Samaritan Temple on Mt. Gerizim,” in Exploring the Dead Sea Scrolls. Archaeology and Literature of the Qumran Caves, ed. Shani Tzoref and Barnea Levi Selavan, Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplements 18 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 152–53

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“the claim made by Jews in Samaria to be the proper descendants of Joseph, the lost tribes of Israel.”49 The associated polemic against the “Samaritans” fits with the anti-Samaritan tendency that is also attested in the above-analysed passages from Josephus and Ben Sira. This tendency proves to be intolerant of idolatry and apostasy:50 4Q372 1.3 mentions “idol-priests” (‫)‏‏כמרים‬, honouring those who serve “idols” (‫‏פסל‬, reconstruction). In 4Q371 1.a–b 10 (4Q372 1.11), it is stated that “fools” (‫ )‏ונבלי]‏ם‬were living in the land wherein Joseph formerly dwelt. They were making themselves a high place (‫ )‏ ׁבמׁה‬upon a high mountain (‫ )‏הר ‏גבה‬to provoke Israel to jealousy (‫‏להקניא את ‏‏ישראל‬: 4Q372 1.12; cf. 4Q371 1.a–b 10–11). All of these aspects of intolerance also appear in two texts from the Tanakh: Deuteronomy 32:21 and Psalm 78:58.51 While Deuteronomy 32 emphasises provocations of jealousy (‫‏קנא‬: Pi‘el and Hiph‘il), apostasy (“the nongod,” ‫)‏בלא אל‬, and vexation (‫)‏כעס‬,52 Psalm 78 refers to jealousy (‫‏קנא‬: Hiph‘il), vexation (‫)‏כעס‬, the high places (‫)‏במות‬, and idols (‫)‏פסיל‬.53 Both biblical references concern the behaviour and acts of “Jacob” in his relationship to god. “Jacob” is also referred to as “Yeshurun,” “Ephraim,” or “Joseph” and is used as a and 159–60 (Eshel assumes a date in the second or first century BCE). For more careful argumentation, cf. Seth Schwartz, “John Hyrcanus I’s Destruction of the Gerizim Temple and Judaean-Samaritan Relations,” Jewish History 7 (1993): 12–13; and further remarks in Pummer, The Samaritans, 52–53. 49  So Robert A. Kugler, “Joseph at Qumran. The Importance of 4Q372 frg. 1 in Extending a Tradition,” in Studies in the Hebrew Bible, Qumran, and the Septuagint Presented to Eugene Ulrich, ed. Peter W. Flint, Emanuel Tov, and James C. VanderKam, Vetus Testamentum Supplements 101 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 271. Esther Chazon and Yonatan Miller (“‘At the Crossroads’: Anti-Samaritan Polemic in a Qumran Text about Joseph,” in The “Other” in Second Temple Judaism, 385–86) emphasise that “Judah” in l. 9 already remains, for now, outside of its borders, but herewith attests to its remaining presence in the land of the foreign nations, while—contrary to that—the “Samarians” could not rely on their Josephite lineage. 50  It is important to bear in mind that “apostasy” or “apostate” is a term used by others to criticise and downgrade a religious group. John M. G. Barclay (“Who Was Considered as Apostate in the Jewish Diaspora?,” in Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity, ed. Graham N. Stanton and Guy G. Stroumsa [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998], 81) states: “One may measure with a degree of objectivity the extent to which Jews were socially assimilated to their Gentile environment, and the evidence which we shall consider suggests that all charges of ‘apostasy’ were somehow related to assimilation. But how they were related could vary greatly from one observer to another.” 51  Cf. Thiessen, “4Q372 1 and the Continuation of Joseph’s Exile,” 384–85. 52  Deuteronomy 32:21 (Jewish Study Bible) reads: “They aroused my jealousy with a non-god and provoked me with their vanities; I will arouse their jealousy with a non-people and provoke them with a vile nation.” 53  Psalm 78:58 (Jewish Study Bible) reads: “They provoked him with their high places and made him jealous with their idols.”

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nomen gentilicium. On the one hand, as Matthew Thiessen has argued, 4Q372 uses Deuteronomy 32 and Psalm 78 to remind the Judaeans that god’s judgment is in effect as long as “Joseph,” the northern people, are in “exile,” rather than formulating an anti-Samaritan polemic from the Judaean or Jerusalemite point of view.54 Robert Kugler, on the other hand, highlighted that 4Q372 could have been reread within the Qumran community in terms of a stabilising self-perception. Kugler pointed out the idealised role of “Joseph,” whose “narrative effectively makes him a fellow traveller in their [i. e., the Qumran community’s] continued or renewed exile. And like the Joseph of 4Q372 frg. 1, their separation from the temple is caused by religious apostates who brazenly and illegitimately occupy the tent of Zion.”55 Thiessen’s and Kugler’s theses reveal that 4Q372 could be joined to different situations in ancient Jewish history. Consequently, 4Q372—like most of the other so-called “anti-Samaritan” sources—recalls the methodological question concerning the distance between literary evidence and historical reality.56 It follows from the analysis above that 4Q372 is a particularly good example of how ancient Jewish literature in the Second Temple period conceptualised an anti-Samaritan polemic on the literary level.57 Here, the Samaritans became foreigners by means of a process of literary “othering.”58 Contrary to the literary strategy,59 the religion-historical reality provided little clear evidence for anti-Samaritan polemics, and this reality can be detected through a look at the Samaritan autographs.

54  Cf. Thiessen, “4Q372 1 and the Continuation of Joseph’s Exile,” 389–95. 55  So Kugler, “Joseph at Qumran,” 276. 56  Cf. Schwartz, “John Hyrcanus I’s Destruction of the Gerizim Temple,” 10–11. 57  In later rabbinic literature, a similar technique or literary strategy can be detected: questions such as whether the Samaritans believed in the resurrection of the dead could be discussed via literary or fictional discourse; cf. Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 90b and Andreas Lehnardt, “Massekhet Kutim and the Resurrection of the Dead,” in Samaritans: Past and Present. Current Studies, ed. Menachem Mor and Friedrich V. Reiterer, Studia Judaica 53/Studia Samaritana 5 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 182–87. 58  Cf. Hensel, “Von ‘Israeliten’ zu ‘Ausländern’,” 489–92; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 396–99. 59  As Reinhard Pummer has shown, several other Jewish sources from Hellenistic-Roman times, suspected by several scholars of carrying anti-Samaritan polemics (cf. Jubilees 30; Judith 5:16; 9:2–4; Testament of Levi 7:2; 2 Maccabees 6:2), do not stand the test of a critical reevaluation: see Reinhard Pummer, “Antisamaritanische Polemik in jüdischen Schriften aus der intertestamentarischen Zeit,” Biblische Zeitschrift, Neue Folge 26 (1982): 224–42.

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129

Judah and Samaria: the Emic Perspective

With regard to the Samaritan texts, the corpus of inscriptions from Mount Gerizim—which dates from the late Persian and Hellenistic period—is of special interest.60 Furthermore, there was a Samaritan community on the Greek island of Delos. Also, Josephus knows of a Jewish community at Delos ( Jewish Antiquities 14.213–216;61 cf. also 1 Maccabees 15:23). The two inscriptions from Delos, cut on marble stelae, were written in Greek capitals and date from the third through the first centuries BCE.62 Some scholars also categorise the socalled “Pseudo-Eupolemus” texts from the second century BCE as being of “Samaritan” provenance. But this can be disputed.63 To start with the Mount Gerizim inscriptions, of which 395 exemplars have been found,64 the languages of these inscriptions are Hebrew and Aramaic. In general, although only one of the inscriptions published so far mentions the Tetragrammaton (no. 383) and two of them refer to ’ădonāy (‫‏אדני‬, nos. 60  For a recent description of the data, cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 51–54. 61  Josephus speaks in Jewish Antiquities 14:213 (for text and translation, cf. Ralph Marcus, Josephus with an English Translation in Nine Volumes, vol. 7, Jewish Antiquities, Books XII– XIV [London and Cambridge, MA: William Heinemann and Harvard University Press, 1957], 560–63) about the “the Jews of Delos and some other/neighboring Jews” (οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι ἐν Δήλῳ καί τινες τῶν παροίκων Ἰουδαίων). Whether those “other Jews” or “some of the neighboring Jews” (καί τινες τῶν παροίκων Ἰουδαίων) could refer to the Samaritans on the island of Delos is open to discussion. Later material from inscriptions attests to other Samaritan communities in the diaspora; cf. Zangenberg, ΣΑΜΑΡΕΙΑ, 323–24. 62  Again, for a recent description of the data, cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 76–85; see also Kartveit (The Origin of the Samaritans, 216–20), who dates both inscriptions by palaeographical means—also with a view to the wreaths, respectively the stonecutters—to the first half of the second century BCE. 63  Cf. the discussion in John J. Collins, Between Athens and Jerusalem. Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids and Livonia: Eerdmans and Dove Booksellers, 2000), 48–49; and further arguments in Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 243–56. 64  Among those inscriptions are four groups: in cursive Aramaic, in Aramaic lapidary or “monumental” script, in mixed (Aramaic and palaeo-Hebrew) script, and also some palaeo-Hebrew fragments. All the inscriptions date to the first half of the second century BCE. For a thorough analysis of the palaeography of the sources, cf. Jan Dušek, Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim and Samaria between Antiochus III and Antiochus IV Epiphanes, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 5–63; cf. also Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, Before the God in this Place for Good Remembrance: A Comparative Analysis of the Aramaic Votive Inscriptions from Mount Gerizim, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 441 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), 78–84; and Pummer, The Samaritans, 82. For a form-critical taxonomy of the Gerizim inscriptions, cf. Rainer Albertz and Rüdiger Schmitt, Family Household Religion in Ancient Israel and the Levant (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012), 406–8.

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150–51), there are a lot of theophoric names—including YHWH or El (e.g., Yehonatan, Elnatan, Eliyahu)—and nothing in the sources hints at a foreign deity.65 Moreover, two inscriptions written in Aramaic lapidary or “monumental” script very likely attest the anthroponyms “Yehûd” (no. 43: ‫‏הוד‬oo[…) and “Judah” (no. 49: ‫)י ‏[הודה‬.66 “If there was a long history of intense rivalry and ongoing enmity between the Jerusalem and Gerizim communities, it would be less likely that one would find individuals named Judah and Yehud making dedications at the Mt. Gerizim shrine.”67 Most texts represent dedication or votive inscriptions, starting with “PN offered” (PN ‫די הקרב‬/‫)זי ‏‬. Some inscriptions add a formula for good remembrance and mention a place for cultic rituals, perhaps a “temple” (“house of sacrifice,” “sanctuary,” “shrine,” “temple,” or “this place”).68 One of the Aramaic lapidary or “monumental” inscriptions (no. 149) reads: …]o ‫ ]‏זי ה[‏קרב ‏‏עמרמ‏בר‬ [That which] ‘Amram son of [PN] offered …]‫ … … על ענתת[ה ועל אבוהי ו‬for] his [wife] and his father and [… … ‫ ‏לדכרנ[‏טב‏קדם אל]‏הא‬ … for] good [remembrance] before Go[d …69 The rather rare Jewish name Amram, a priestly anthroponym that refers to the father of Moses, is connected with an unknown dedication—most probably the stone itself or some money—in favour of members of his family. Another Aramaic inscription mentions “bulls” (‫ )‏פרן‬that were sacrificed in the “house of sacrifice” (no. 199).70 The term “house of sacrifice” reminds one of god’s speech in 2 Chronicles 7:12, in which YHWH reacts to Solomon’s dedication by 65  Cf. Yitzhak Magen, Haggai Misgav, and Levana Tsfania, Mount Gerizim Excavations, vol. I, The Aramaic, Hebrew and Samaritan Inscriptions, Judea and Samaria Publications 2 (Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2004), 22–23; Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 209 and 211–12. Furthermore, Jan Dušek (Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim, 3) hints at a Greek inscription on a sundial naming ΘΕΩΙ ΥΨΙΣΤΩΙ, “the God most High” (cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 62–65; perhaps dating to the third or second century BCE), and to Aramaic letters on a silver ring that cannot be dated:‫‏‬ ‫יהוה ‏אחד‬, “the one YHWH” (no. 391; cf. Magen, Misgav and Tsfania, Mount Gerizim Excavations, 260–61). 66  Cf. Magen, Misgav, and Tsfania, Mount Gerizim Excavations, 81 and 84–85. 67  So Gray N. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans. The Origins and History of Their Early Relations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 127. 68  The Hebrew or Aramiac terms are: ‫ ‏אתרא ‏דנה‬or ‫]ה[‏‏כלה‬, ‫‏‏אגרה‬, ‫מקדש‬, ‫‏בבית ‏דבחא‬. Cf. Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 209 and 213–14; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 57–58. 69  For the text and translation, cf. Magen, Misgav, and Tsfania, Mount Gerizim Excavations, 140–41. 70  Cf. Magen, Misgav, and Tsfania, Mount Gerizim Excavations, 171–72.

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referring to the Jerusalem temple as a “house of sacrifice” (‫)בית‏זבח‏‬.71 The cultic orientation of the dedicatory inscription calls for a sanctuary or a temple. However, the excavated sacred precinct—which goes back to Persian times, and which was expanded in the Hellenistic period, especially under Antiochus III (223–187 BCE)—provides no clear evidence for a temple.72 The rather meagre references to religious habits and ideology, as they are attested in the Mount Gerizim inscriptions, match with “monotheistic” orientations in Jewish traditions. The Samaritans venerated the Jewish god YHWH—and obviously no other gods.73 Their Yahwism can be called “conservative,” especially with regard to the amount of priestly names that appear in the Mount Gerizim inscriptions.74 Mount Gerizim and Jerusalem—Samaritans and Judaeans—had certain forms of “Yahwism” in common. With regard to Samaritan autographs, their cultural and religious contexts show more significant similarities than differences with temple services in Jerusalem. In sum, neither apostasy nor idol­atry characterises the religious habits of the Samaritans, when viewed from the emic perspective of the Samaritans themselves.75 This is also the case when 71  Cf. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans, 128; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 57. 72  Cf. the discussion in Jürgen Zangenberg, “The Sanctuary on Mount Gerizim. Observations on the Results of 20 Years of Excavations,” in Temple Building and Temple Cult: Architecture and Cultic Paraphernalia of Temples in the Levant. Proceedings of a Conference on the Occasion of the 50th Anniversary of the Institute of Biblical Archaeology at the University of Tübingen (28–30 May 2010), ed. Jens Kamlah, Abhandlungen des Deutschen PalästinaVereins 41 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012), 399–418; Stefan Beyerle, “Temples and Sanctuaries within Their Apocalyptic Setting,” in Various Aspects of Worship in Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature, ed. Géza G. Xeravits, Ibolya Balla, and József Zsengellér, Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Yearbook 2016/17 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 42–44; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 35–50. Jan Dušek (“Administration of Samaria in the Hellenistic Period,” in Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans. Studies on Bible, History and Linguistics, ed. József Zsengellér [Studia Judaica 66/Studia Samaritana 6; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011], 83–85) points to the fact that, in Samaria in the third century BCE, two sanctuaries probably existed besides the one on Mount Gerizim—a second one in the city of Samaria that was dedicated to Isis and Serapis. 73  Cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 56–57. 74  Cf. Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans, 129–34. 75  The argument is based on the textual sources. The Samaritan iconography (e.g., coins or cult objects and commodities such as incense burners) reflect multiethnic and multireligious influences. However, concerning the iconography, Samaria and Judaea vary only by degrees and in details. Particularly as regards the coinage, the similarities and differences only reveal different conceptualisations of post-exilic “Yahwism”—or better, “Yahwisms”—in Samaria and Judaea; cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 124–28. A good case in point is the decoration of Samarian and non-Samarian incense burners from the Persian period. Most of these decorations are non-figurative. In Samaria, two exemplars with

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one considers the Greek Delos inscriptions. In general, these inscriptions support the assertion that the Samaritans were “Yahwists.”76 In both inscriptions, “Israelites” are mentioned (as ΙΣΡΑΕΛΕΙΤΑΙ in no. 1 and ΙΣΡΑΗΛΙΤΑΙ in no. 2). It is said that these “Israelites” sent their temple tax to the “sanctuary Argarizein” (no. 1: ΕΙΣ ΙΕΡΟΝ ΑΡΓΑΡΙΖΕΙΝ) or to the “holy sanctuary Argarizein” (no. 2: ΕΙΣ ΙΕΡΟΝ ΑΓΙΟΝ ΑΡΓΑΡΙΖΕΙΝ).77 Inscription no. 2 honours a certain Menippos of Herakleion for constructing and dedicating the “synagogue of god” (ΕΠΙ ΠΡΟΣΕΥΧΗ ΤΟΥ ΘΕ[ΟΥ]). While the term “Israelites” hints at a common religious background—because “Israelites”

animal motifs were found. On the iconography of incense burners, cf. Christian Frevel and Katharina Pyschny, “Perserzeitliche Räucherkästchen. Zu einer wenig beachteten Fundgattung im Kontext der These Ephraim Sterns,” in A Religious “Revolution” in Yehûd? The Material Culture of the Persian Period as a Test Case, ed. Christian Frevel, Katharina Pyschny, and Izak Cornelius, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 267 (Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 165–204; see also Christian Frevel and Katharina Pyschny, “A Religious Revolution Devours Its Children: The Iconography of the Persian-Period Cuboid Incense Burners,” in Religion in the Achaemenid Persian Empire. Emerging Judaisms and Trends, ed. Diana Edelman, Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley, and Philippe Guillaume, Oriental Religions in Antiquity 17 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 91–125. The iconography of the Samaritan coins dating from Persian and Ptolemaic times mingles motifs of Greek, Phoenician, and Persian provenance. As Patrick Wyssmann (“The Coinage Imagery of Samaria and Judah in the Late Persian Period,” in A Religious “Revolution” in Yehûd? The Material Culture of the Persian Period as a Test Case, ed. Christian Frevel, Katharina Pyschny, and Izak Cornelius, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 267 [Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014], 241) puts it: “Within the frame of this cultural participation, depictions of gods, goddesses and numinous beings were adapted, in which Zeus, Baal, Heracles, Bes, Athena and Arethusa can clearly be identified. Obviously, persons with Yahwistic names such as Ḥananyah or Yeho‘anah did not see any motivation to avoid those motifs.” Cf. also the overview in ibid., 223–40. Regarding coins from Yehûd or Judaea, roughly similar phenomena—as compared to the motifs from Samarian coins—can be observed, albeit that the inventory of motifs in Yehûd or Judaea is much smaller; cf. ibid., 244–45 and, 254. Furthermore, Mary Joan Winn Leith (“Religious Continuity in Israel/Samaria. Numismatic Evidence,” in A Religious “Revolution” in Yehûd?, 284–95) discusses the religious-historical background of Samaritan coins with the aim of highlighting a “Yahwism”—both in Yehûd or Judaea and Samaria—that differed regarding the longue durée of the goddess Asherah in Samaria. For further arguments, cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 114–31. 76  Cf. Dušek, Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim, 79–81; Knoppers, Jews and Samaritans, 171–72. 77  For the text and discussion, cf. Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 217 and 251–52; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 78–79; and Pummer, The Samaritans, 93–94, including photographs. Dušek (Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim, 78–79), argues for an understanding of ΙΕΡΟΝ, respectively ΙΕΡΟΝ ΑΓΙΟΝ, as nouns rather than adjectives.

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could refer to “Yahwists” in Samaria and Judah78—“Argarizein” suggests a connection between those “Yahwists” and the Samaritan sanctuary. The dedicatory terminology (ΑΠΑΡΧΟΜΕΝΟΙ) in the Delos inscriptions calls to mind the votive formulas in the Mount Gerizim texts, using the Hebrew and Aramaic qārab ‫‏(קרב‬: Hiph‘il or Aph‘el).79 The second inscription from Delos mentions a synagogue (Greek: ΠΡΟΣΕΥΧΗ). Consequently, a structure in the vicinity of the findings was identified as a synagogue, but the archaeological remains do not clearly hint at such a functional characterisation of the archaeological structures.80 To sum up, the question of intolerance and polemics between Judaeans and Samaritans is finally a question of referring to biased literary stereotypes, such as idolatry and apostasy. Starting with 2 Kings 17:24–41,81 canonical and ancient Jewish non-canonical works construct a religious and cultural antagonism between Judaeans and Samaritans. Furthermore, canonical and deuterocanonical texts—such Sirach 50:25–26, not least in the older Hebrew version—do not identify “Shechemites” with foreign nations, such as the Edomites and the Philistines.82 Being a “foolish nation,” the “Shechemites” are not heathens, and they are merely comparable to foreigners. In contrast, the Greek version of Ben Sira clearly attacks the religious and cultural life of the “Samaritans.” Later on, the intolerance—as attested in the work of Josephus—could address this particular point. With regard to the events in the late second and beginning of the first centuries BCE—the Maccabean era, especially under John Hyrcanus—Mount Gerizim was destroyed, as was Shechem later. “Through this action, if not before, it became clear to the inhabitants of Shechem, who by this time could 78  Cf. Dušek, Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Mt. Gerizim, 77. Cf. also Martina Böhm (“Wer gehörte in hellenistisch-römischer Zeit zu ‘Israel’? Historische Voraussetzungen für eine veränderte Perspektive auf neutestamentliche Texte,” in Die Samaritaner und die Bibel. Historische und literarische Wechselwirkungen zwischen biblischen und samaritanischen Traditionen/The Samaritans and the Bible. Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions, ed. Jörg Frey, Ursula Schattner-Rieser, and Konrad Schmid, Studia Judaica 70/Studia Samaritana 7 [Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012], 196– 98), who argues that two religious communities existed—a Samaritan one and a Jewish one—on the island of Delos, both of which could be designated as “Israel.” 79  Cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 79–81. 80  Cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 83–85; Pummer, The Samaritans, 95. 81  Cf. Ferdinand Dexinger, “Limits of Tolerance in Judaism. The Samaritan Example,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, vol. 2, Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period, ed. Ed Parish Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alan Mendelson (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 89–91. 82  Cf. also Dexinger, “Limits of Tolerance in Judaism,” 103–4.

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be called Samaritans, that no distinction was any longer made between them and the Gentiles.”83 At this point, reinterpretations of 2 Kings 17:24–41 also emerged, which included the basic accusations of intolerant polemics: idol­ atry and apostasy. In contrast, the Samaritan inscriptions found at Mount Gerizim and the Greek Delos inscriptions attest to the “Samaritans” as a religious community in Palestine and the diaspora, who venerated a certain YHWH and referred to themselves as “Israel.”84 In the Second Temple period, “Israel” could refer to “Judaisms” in Samaria, Yehûd, Judaea, and the diaspora.85 In plain language, both the north and the south, Samaria and Yehûd/Judaea, were “Yahwists” referred to as “Israel,” but their religious systems differed in detail.86 Only in late pre-Maccabean and Maccabean times, or even later, did they became “foreigners” in the eyes of the southerners. The reasons for this parting of the ways were likely to be religious rather than political or economic.87 These religious 83  So Dexinger, “Limits of Tolerance in Judaism,” 107. 84  Whether 2 Maccabees 5:21–23 and 6:2 attest to an equal treatment of “Jews” and “Samaritans” by the Seleucids was, in former times, a matter of scholarly controversy. The question is strongly connected with philological problems in 2 Maccabees 6:2—what Seth Schwartz called a “crux” (Schwartz, “John Hyrcanus I’s Destruction of the Gerizim Temple,” 15). The Greek phrase καὶ τὸν ἐν Γαριζιν, καθὼς ἐτύγχανον οἱ τὸν τόπον οἰκοῦντες, Διὸς Ξενίου is usually translated: “and [to call] the one at Gerizim the temple of Zeus Xenios, as were [or: was practiced by] the residents of the place.” That the renaming of the temple at Gerizim was undertaken in accordance with the inhabitants—the “Samaritans”—of this place lead scholars to assume an anti-Samaritan tone in 2 Maccabees 6:2 (cf. also recently Kartveit, The Origin of the Samaritans, 238–40). Against this interpretation, Daniel Schwartz explained—also with regard to philological problems—that the phrase καθὼς ἐτύγχανον οἱ τὸν τόπον οἰκοῦντες represents a late anti-Samaritan insertion, among others, geared towards the “pseudo-Samaritan” decree of Antiochus IV Epiphanes in Josephus, Antiquities 12.258–264.The original reading had: ἐνετύγχανον instead of ἐτύγχανον, “as it appealed to the residents of the place.” Consequently, both texts in 2 Maccabees (5:21–23; 6:2) refer to Judaeans and Samaritans as being Jews in a comparable situation; cf. Daniel R. Schwartz, 2 Maccabees (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 47, 264, 276, and 537–40, as well as appendix 4; cf. also Pummer, The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus, 12–15; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 198–203. 85  Hensel (Juda und Samaria, 160) hints at the fact that there is no external evidence (i.e., non-biblical evidence) for labeling Yehûd or Judaea as “Israel” before the inscriptions on coins reading ‫ ‏שקל ‏ישראל‬and stemming from the First Jewish War. But the biblical account, at the latest in post-exilic times, clearly also used “Israel” to refer to the south; cf. Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 161–62. 86  See also the discussion in Reinhard Pummer, “Samaritanism—A Jewish Sect or an Independent Form of Yahwism?” in Samaritans: Past and Present. Current Studies, ed. Menachem Mor and Friedrich V. Reiterer, Studia Judaica 53/Studia Samaritana 5 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 1–18. 87  Cf. the discussion in Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 218–30.

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separations should be dated to around 200 BCE, when the Ptolemies ceded control over Palestine in favour of the Seleucids.88 Two rival temples in the same territory, Coele-Syria, could have led to dire straits when it came to relig­ ious legitimation. In my view, the hermeneutics of “othering” at work between Judaea and Samaria should inspire us to rethink terminologies and criteria for making distinctions as to what is “foreign” or “genuine,” what is “Umwelt” or “Israel.”89 In the following section, I would like to introduce a group whose religious habits were closely linked with “Israel” in Samaria and Yehûd/Judaea, but whose identity was much more influenced by the multiethnic and multireligious environment.90 The “Yehûdites” on the island of Elephantine lived among Egyptians, Carians, Cilicians, and others. Because of this, the sources reflect more tolerance than intolerance.91 4

The “Jews” at Elephantine

Scholars have known for quite some time that the papyri from the island of Elephantine in southern Egypt contribute to a characterisation of the “Samaritans” which the sources from Samaria may also highlight (the emic view).92 The island of Elephantine, or Jeb, located at the first cataract of the River Nile near Assuan, had marked the southern boundary of the Persian Empire since Cambyses’s conquest of Egypt (525 BCE). The people who called 88  For changes concerning religious tolerance in this period, cf. also Stefan Beyerle, “‘If You Preserve Carefully Faith …’: Hellenistic Attitudes towards Religion in Pre-Maccabean Times,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 118 (2006): 250–63. 89  For questions concerning the construction of Jewish identities in the Second Temple period, see also Stefan Beyerle, “Kriterien jüdischer Identitäten. Am Beispiel von ‘Propaganda’ und ‘Apokalyptik’,” in Die Erfindung des Menschen. Person und Persönlichkeit in ihren lebensweltlichen Kontexten, ed. Stefan Beyerle, Theologie—Kultur—Hermeneutik 21 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2016), 97–134. 90  For a comparison of “Samaritans” from Delos and “Jews” from Elephantine, see Gard Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period. Studies in the Religion and Society of the Judaean Community at Elephantine, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 448 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016), 338. 91  Cf. Bob Becking, “Exchange, Replacement, or Acceptance? Two Examples of Lending Deities among Ethnic Groups in Elephantine,” in Jewish Cultural Encounters in the Ancient Mediterranean and Near Eastern World, ed. Mladen Popović, Myles Schoonover, and Marijn Vandenberghe, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 178 (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 30–43. 92  Cf. the literature quoted and discussed in Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 165–70. Cf. also Zangenberg, ΣΑΜΑΡΕΙΑ, 299–301. For the following remarks, cf. also Beyerle, “Temples and Sanctuaries within Their Apocalyptic Setting,” 44–45.

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themselves “Yehûdites” and “Arameans” in the Aramaic papyri and inscriptions stemming from the fifth century BCE demonstrate several similarities with Yahwism from Persian times and later Judaism: the observance of the Sabbath, the god Yahô or “god/lord of heaven(s),” Mazzot (or Passover), theophoric names with the ending “-yah,” and a temple dedicated to Yahô. Yet, despite such shared characteristics, we are far from being able to describe sufficiently the religious identity of these groups.93 In general, a “Jewish temple” at Jeb left only very meagre archaeological traces.94 Beyond archaeological remains, textual evidence—stemming from the Aramaic papyri—records the ambition to reconstruct the temple of Yahô which, in the fourteenth year of the reign of King Darius (410 BCE), was destroyed by the Egyptian “Khnum priests.” The request for a letter of recommendation, which dates back to 407 BCE, was transmitted in two drafts from the “Jedaniah archive” (TADAE A4.7 and TADAE A4.8).95 In this letter—addressed to the Persian governor of Yehûd, Bagavahya or Bagohi—one reads (TADAE A4.7:18–19): 18 a letter we sent (to) our lord, and to Jehohanan the High Priest and his colleagues the priests who are in Jerusalem, and to Ostares the brother 19of Anani and the nobles of the Jews.96 This letter remained unanswered. Consequently, the second letter was addressed to the governors of Yehûd and Samaria (TADAE A4.7:24–25, 28–29): 24 May a letter from you be sent to them about the Temple of YHW the God 25to (re)build it in Elephantine the fortress just as it had been built formerly. […]

93   Cf. Bob Becking, “Yehudite Identity in Elephantine,” in Ezra, Nehemiah, and the Construction of Early Jewish Identity, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 80 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 130–42. 94  For a very optimistic view, cf. Stephen G. Rosenberg, “The Jewish Temple at Elephantine,” Near Eastern Archaeology 67 (2004): 4–12. For a more detailed and accurate description, cf. Reinhard G. Kratz, “Der Zweite Tempel zu Jeb und zu Jerusalem,” in Das Judentum im Zeitalter des Zweiten Tempels, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 42 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 61–63; Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 102–4. 95  For an English translation with short introduction and commentaries, cf. Bezalel Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English. Three Millennia of Cross-Cultural Continuity and Change, Documenta et Monumenta Orientis Antiqui 22 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 139–47, B19 and B20. 96  Trans. Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English, 142.

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28 About this 29we have sent (and) informed (you). Moreover, all the(se) things in a letter we sent in our name to Delaiah and Shelemiah sons of Sanballat governor of Samaria.97 Particularly in German-speaking scholarship since the time of Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth, the striking difference between the address to Yehûd on the one hand and to Samaria on the other hand has been discussed. Concerning Yehûd, both the government official Bagavahya and the religious leader in Jerusalem, Jehohanan the high priest, are addressed; however, in the case of Samaria, only “Delaiah and Shelemiah sons of Sanballat governor of Samaria” are mentioned. While Albrecht Alt argued that Samaria also ruled over Yehûd in Persian times prior to Nehemiah—which presupposes a political disconnection between “Israel” and “Juda” after Nehemiah—, Samaria and Yehûd still constituted a ritual community; after all, Martin Noth pointed out the Yehûdites’ ignorance of the setting apart of Samaria and Jerusalem after Nehemiah.98 With regard to more recent findings and scholarship, both assumptions are problematic. One of the reasons is that a transmitted “memorandum” (TADAE A4.9) was written by both Bagavahya and Delaiah, the state officials in Yehûd and Samaria, and includes their endorsement to rebuild the temple of YHW.99 Whatever the reason why the Yehûdites, Jedaniah, and the priests of Elephantine did not refer to the priestly aristocrats at Samaria or on Mount Gerizim, it is obvious 97  Trans. Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English, 143–44. 98  Cf. Albrecht Alt, “Zur Geschichte der Grenze zwischen Judäa und Samaria,” in Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel, vol. 2 (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1964), 354–60; Alt, “Die Rolle Samarias bei der Entstehung des Judentums,” in Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel, vol. 2, 331–37; Martin Noth, Geschichte Israels, 6th ed. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 318–19, and 319n1. In his late career, Albrecht Alt also examined the pre-history of Persian times Samaria; on this aspect, cf. Gerhard Wallis, “Jerusalem und Samaria als Königsstädte. Auseinandersetzung mit einer These Albrecht Alts,” Vetus Testamentum 26 (1976): 480–96. For critical evaluations, cf. Sebastian Grätz, “Zu einem Essay von Albrecht Alt, Die Rolle Samarias bei der Entstehung des Judentums” in Kontexte. Biografische und forschungsgeschichtliche Schnittpunkte der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft. Festschrift für Hans Jochen Boecker zum 80. Geburtstag, ed. Thomas Wagner, Dieter Vieweger, and Kurt Erlemann (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008), 171–82, esp. 181; Konrad Schmid, “Die Samaritaner und die Judäer. Die biblische Diskussion um ihr Verhältnis in Josua 24,” in Die Samaritaner und die Bibel. Historische und literarische Wechselwirkungen zwischen biblischen und samaritanischen Traditionen/ The Samaritans and the Bible. Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions, ed. Jörg Frey, Ursula Schattner-Rieser, and Konrad Schmid, Studia Judaica 70/Studia Samaritana 7 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 47–49; Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 168–69. 99  For the translation, cf. Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English, 148–49. See also Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 41–44.

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that they sent their petition to the Persian state officials in Yehûd and Samaria. Consequently, “the idea of a centralised cult was by no means known in all sections of the community of YHW(H)-worshippers, and even less was it accepted by all adherents of Yahwism.”100 In other words, at the end of the fifth century BCE, and under the Persian mandate, Yahwism in ancient Egypt could evaluate “alternative” Yahwisms in Yehûd and Samaria on equal terms, at least insofar as temple affairs were concerned.101 With a view to the Yahwism practiced among the Yehûdites in Elephantine, we know of several other deities in addition to YHW, as recorded in the papyri.102 Among others, there are Bethel, the Queen of Heaven, Marduk, Nabu, Anathyhw, Ḥerem, Ḥerembethel, Eshembethel, Anathbethel, and “the gods of Egypt.” In general, Gard Granerød points to an important insight concerning the gods from Elephantine: “Summing up, there are no fully fledged myths in the form of narratives about the non-Egyptian deities worshipped by the Judaean and Aramaean garrison communities in Elephantine and Syene in the Persian period. To be sure, there are indeed fragments of myths.”103 In the following discussion, I would like to contribute to only one of these “fragments of myths.” Several texts from Elephantine point to the usage of rituals and magic generally—concerning, for example, meals or witchcraft.104 Consequently, it comes as no surprise that the Yehûdites in Elephantine lived within a world of different amalgamated religious concepts. Furthermore, and much more importantly, the Yehûdites in Elephantine adapted these religious concepts to a certain extent. Among them are Syrian-Aramaic traditions—as reflected, for example, in the names of deities. In general, the emic perspective 100  So Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 220. 101  See also Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 170. 102  Cf. Bob Becking, “Die Gottheiten der Juden in Elephantine,” in Der eine Gott und die Götter. Polytheismus und Monotheismus im antiken Israel, ed. Manfred Oeming and Konrad Schmid, Arbeiten zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 82 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2003), 203–26; Angela Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine. Archäologische und schriftliche Zeugnisse aus dem perserzeitlichen Ägypten, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 396 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2014), 126–49; Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 244–56. 103  So Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 252, italics in the original. 104  For the former context of “meals,” cf. the notion on Ostrakon TADAE D7.29 referring to “the silver of marzēaḥ,” denoting a funeral meal, and Bob Becking, “Temple, marzēaḥ, and Power at Elephantine,” Transeuphratène 29 (2005): 37–47. For the latter aspect of “witchcraft,” cf. Ostraka 175 + 185 (Clermont-Ganneau J8) and Giulia Francesca Grassi, “Bemerkungen zu Ostrakon Clermont-Ganneau J8 aus Elephantine,” Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 129 (2017): 84–96. For questions concerning the Ostraka 175 + 185 and a different interpretation, cf. also Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 134–35.

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of the Elephantine pantheon attests to a religious tolerance, while the etic tendency towards the religious hodgepodge of the Yehûdites is difficult to examine, due to the lack of clear evidence from other Jewish sources. Whether the Khnum priests’ devastation of the YHW temple in Elephantine was motivated by religious intolerance, by the need to defend against a “rival temple,” by political considerations, or even by concern over apostasy, that is, from the perspective of the Khnum priests, far from clear. The petition to rebuild the YHW temple points to the Khnum priests as those respon­sible for the destruction of the temple. The YHW temple had been built before Cambyses (525 BCE) captured Egypt. It was destroyed by the Khnum priests under the authority of Vidranga, the governor of Syene (Assuan), in 410 BCE. In that year, the Persian satrap Aršama was on leave for a visit to the Persian king. As Esko Siljanen recently emphasised: “The Aramaic documents seem to imply that the main reason for the destruction of the temple of the Judeans was the evil plan of the Egyptian priests of Khnum and the corrupt mind of the Persian governor, Vidranga. However, it must be noted that this picture is presented by the Judeans themselves and is therefore perhaps biased.”105 Most scholars identify Vidranga as the key person who was responsible for the antiJudean campaign at Elephantine. By contrast, Angela Rohrmoser refers to the archaeological vicinity of the YHW temple and its courtyard wall, which blocked the street called the “Street of the Kings.” A contention arose because the Khnum priests planned to expand their own temple in the neighbourhood. Rohrmoser further explains Vidranga’s decision to pull down the YHW temple with reference to the Ptolemaic Egyptian law code (Codex Hermopolis-West) which states that every wall built on an open, public street must be destroyed.106 Dating from 407 BCE, a “memorandum” (mentioned above) grants permission to rebuild the temple (TADAE A4.9; cf. also the following letter of payment: TADAE A4.10), but with the restriction that only meal and incense offerings—not burnt offerings—were permitted.107 Several reasons were given for this stipulation: the Persian satraps valued the privilege of the Jerusalem temple priesthood, viewing the temple on Mount Zion as the only legal cultic centre and therefore the appropriate place for burnt offerings. Furthermore, the Khnum priests’ religious privileges had to be protected; Khnum was a god of creation with the head of a ram. Finally, the privileges of the Persians were 105  So Esko Siljanen, Judeans of Egypt in the Persian Period (539–332 BCE) in the Light of the Aramaic Documents (PhD diss., University of Helsinki, 2017), 232. 106  Cf. Rohrmoser, Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine, 253 and 287. See also the critical review in Siljanen, Judeans of Egypt in the Persian Period, 232–33. 107  Cf. Siljanen, Judeans of Egypt in the Persian Period, 235–37.

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also under consideration: Persians abhorred blood sacrifices, and they considered fire to be sacred.108 None of the arguments put forward to explain the prohibition of burnt offerings is strongly convincing. But if the prohibition of burnt offerings—whatever the reason behind it—arose directly or indirectly from the destruction of the YHW temple at Elephantine, then the Khnum priests demonstrated religious intolerance when they wrecked the YHW temple. The Yehûdites obviously conceded to these restrictions to some extent, as the memorandum reveals. 5

The Veneration of Eshembethel and Ašīmā in the Levant and in Egypt

Perhaps there are other traces of a critique of religious attitudes preserved in the documents from Elephantine. Here, I would like to refer to a prominent divine name: Eshembethel (‫)‏אשמביתאל‬. The term represents a compound of two words, both of which could refer to divine beings. It is attested on an inscription—a temple tax list dating to 400 BCE—that renders a collection account, wherein Eshembethel and Anathbethel are listed as cultic objects for payment (TADAE C3.15:127–28). While byt’l might also denote a cultic requisite—that is, a “holy stone” (Greek: βαίτυλος)—’šm refers to deities. Consequently, terms like Eshembethel or Anathbethel could allude to hypostatised aspects of the same god (byt’l), or they could also point to cultic representations of different gods.109 With regard to ’šm, the word is also attested on a sarcophagus, a ceramic mummy label, and on an Ostrakon from Elephantine, where it is part of compound proper names.110 In the Bible, 2 Kings 17:30 notes 108  Recently, Granerød (Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 141–50) critically examined these options regarding the motivation for an imposed restriction on burnt offerings. He states (p. 146): “The governors of Judah and Samaria may have vetoed against the resumption of burnt offerings in the rebuilt temple of YHW in Elephantine out of consideration for the inner stability of the multicultural Elephantine and—ultimately—out of concern for Arshama, the Achaemenid satrap of Egypt.” 109  Cf. Sergio Ribichini, “Baetyl,” Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible, ed. Karel van der Toorn, Bob Becking, and Pieter W. van der Horst, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999): 157–59 (hereafter DDD); and Dennis Pardee, “Asham,” DDD, 98–99, who emphasises that the god ‫אשם‬, attested in the Ras-Shamra tablets at Ugarit as iṯm (or: iṯmh), is the only case of a deity associated with “guilt.” Cf. also Mordechai Cogan, “Ashima” DDD, 105–6; and Granerød, Dimensions of Yahwism in the Persian Period, 248; Siljanen, Judeans of Egypt in the Persian Period, 224. 110  Cf. the proper name Eshemram in ‫‏ביתאלזבד בר ‏אשמרם‬and ‫ם‬ ‫ר אשמר ‏‬ ‫‏ברך חור ב ‏‏‬, TADAE D18.7; D19.2; D22.18:1–2. The latter text refers to the Egyptian god Osiris, albeit in an

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that ’ăšîmā’ was an Aramaean deity from Hamath. Even though verse 30 is part of an ideological and polemical passage (verses 29–31[33]) against the gods of foreign nations, dating from post-exilic times,111 the characterisation of ’ăšîmā’ as Aramaean could be historically reliable. Additionally, the connection between ’šm (‫ )אשם‬and ’ăšîmā’ (‫ )אשימא‬seems to be sound.112 The name ’ăšîmā’‫‏‬ (‫)אשימא‬, mostly understood as a goddess, is also attested in Aramaic temple foundation inscriptions from Taimā’ in Arabia, stemming from the end of the fifth century BCE. On the Qar al-Hamra stele, the text reads as follows (l. 5–7): ‫ ]‏ה[‏קים‏כרסאא‏זנה‏קדם‬5 set up this throne before ‫ צלם זי רב למיתב שנגלא‬6 Ṣalm of Rabb as a postament for Sengallā ‫ ‏ואשימא‏אלהי‏תימא‬ 7 and Ašīmā, the gods of Taimā’113

uncertain reading. On an Ostrakon, dating to around 493 BCE, the word ‫‏אשם‬is readable (TADAE D22.33:1). Cf. also Siljanen, Judeans of Egypt in the Persian Period, 150, table 18; 219, table 21; and 349, appendix 11. 111  Cf. recently Hensel, Juda und Samaria, 375–76. 112  If one compares ‫ אשם‬and ‫‏אשימא‬, the letter ‫ ‏י‬could be interpreted as semivowel that indicates a plene reading (“mater lectionis”), while the final ‫ ‏א‬could refer to the status emphaticus in Aramaic; cf. Eduard König, “Die Gottheit Aschima,” Zeitschrift für die alt­ testamentliche Wissenschaft 34 (1914): 17, who obviously interprets the ‫א‬- as referring to the feminine gender of the word. In 2 Kings 17:30, the spelling is ‫ימא‬ ָ ‫‏ ֲא ִׁש‬, while the construct in Amos 8:14 (‫ )באשמת‏שמרון‏‬requires a final ‫‏ה‬-. But in late Aramaic orthography, ’aleph and he could be interchanged; cf. Hans M. Barstad, The Religious Polemics of Amos. Studies in the Preaching of Am 2, 7B–8; 4, 1–13; 5, 1–27; 6, 4–7; 8, 14, Vetus Testamentum Supplements 34 (Leiden: Brill, 1984), 164–65. The ending ‫‏ת‬- in Amos 8:14 could also be explained by an archaic Aramaic reading: in Old Aramaic, the feminine ‫א‬- is phonologically based on the ending -at*. It may be that the reading ‫‏באשמת‏שמרון‬in Amos 8:14 preserved the archaic morphology; on the Old Aramaic morphology of the feminine, cf. Stanislav Segert, Altaramäische Grammatik mit Bibliographie, Chrestomatie und Glossar, 4th ed. (Leipzig: VEB Verlag Enzyklopädie, 1990), 204–5, 5.3.8.1.2. and 5.3.8.1.4. Another possibility would be to identify -at as a marker for a nomen unitatis in biblical Hebrew: “only Ashima of Samaria.” Cf. Joshua Blau, Phonology and Morphology of Biblical Hebrew. An Introduction, Linguistic Studies in Ancient West Semitic 2 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 263, 4.4.2.2. 113  Text and trans. (slightly corrected) Alasdair Livingstone, “New Light on the Ancient Town of Taimā,” in Studia Aramaica: New Sources and New Approaches. Papers Delivered at the London Conference of The Institute of Jewish Studies, University College London, 26th–28th June 1991, ed. Mark J. Geller, Jonas C. Greenfield, and Michael P. Weitzman, Supplements to the Journal of Semitic Studies 4 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 140–41; cf. also Klaus Beyer and Alasdair Livingstone, “Die neuesten aramäischen Inschriften aus Teima,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 137 (1987): 286; Herbert Niehr, “7. Northern Arabia,” in The Aramaeans in Ancient Syria, ed. Herbert Niehr, Handbuch der Orientalistik I/106 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 387.

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Two gods of Taimā’ are mentioned: Sengallā and Ašīmā. Ṣalm (“picture”) is the only deity without a determinative, whose place is at the throne, from where he lords it over Sengallā and Ašīmā. Ṣalm of Rabb is obviously introduced in the sanctuary. The identity of the three gods is currently a matter of scholarly dispute, but identifying them respectively as a sun god, a moon god, and Venus, the morning star, seems to be the most plausible solution.114 These identifications are supported by the iconography. The stele from Qasr al-Hamra, near Taimā’, displays icons at the top representing the three astral deities: a winged sun disk, a crescent, and an eight-pointed star.115 Further evidence of the goddess Ašīmā comes from two Greek inscriptions, found near Aleppo (IGLS II.376, 383: Kafr Nabo and Qal‘at Kâlôta).116 Both dedicatory inscriptions date to the early third century CE. The text reads (IGLS II.376, l. 1): “To Semios, Symbetylos, and Leon, the ancestral gods” (Σειμιω και Συμβετυλω και Λεοντι θεοις πατρωοις).117 Semios and Symbelytos can be identified with Ašīmā and Eshembethel.118 Further evidence for Simia or Simios and Simion should be considered with caution, because their attestations refer to sources in languages such as Greek, Latin, and Syrian. As a consequence, every translation into Aramaic or Hebrew must remain tentative concerning the morphology.119 It is also interesting to see that Ašīmā was not only contextualised philologically with the Hebrew term šem (“name”),120 but could also refer 114  Cf. Niehr, “7. Northern Arabia,” 383–87. 115  Cf. Paolo Merlo, “Ashima,” Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, vol. 2, Anim— Atheism (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), 987; Niehr, “7. Northern Arabia,” 386; and the photo in Michael Marx, “Schriften und Sprachen Arabiens—ein Rundgang,” in Roads of Arabia. Archäologische Schätze aus Saudi-Arabien, ed. Ute Franke et al. (Berlin: Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, 2011), 188, Abb. 6. 116  Barstad (The Religious Polemics of Amos, 179) lists further places for evidence of the deity Simia, resp. Simios. 117  The inscription is engraved on a millstone, located close to the temple at Kafr Nabo. It dates from 224 CE. For the text, cf. Louis Jalabert and René Mouterde, Inscriptions Grecques et Latines de la Syrie, vol. 2, Chalcidique et Antiochène, Nos 257–698, Haut-commissariat de la république Française en Syrie et au Liban, Service des antiquités: Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 32 (Paris: Librairie orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1939), 215. See also the reconstructed lines of IGLS II.383, l. 1–2 in Jalabert and Mouterde, Inscriptions Grecques et Latines de la Syrie, 220. 118  Cf. Jalabert and Mouterde, Inscriptions Grecques et Latines de la Syrie, 215–16; Bezalel Porten, “The Religion of the Jews of Elephantine in the Light of the Hermopolis Papyri,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 28 (1969): 119; Barstad, The Religious Polemics of Amos, 173. 119  This holds true, e.g., for the goddess “Semeion” or “Atargate” in Lucian, De Dea Syria, §§ 30– 33. Cf. also Barstad, The Religious Polemics of Amos, 180. For a summary, cf. also Wolfgang Fauth, “Simia,” Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaften Supplement 14 (1974): 679–701. 120  Cf. Barstad, The Religious Polemics of Amos, 175–77.

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to anti-Samaritan polemics against the (Samaritan) šemah-veneration and the identification of Ašīmā with a dove.121 The evidence for Ašīmā can be summarised as follows: the Yehûdites at Elephantine knew of a masculine god, ’šm (‫)אשם‬. The evidence spreads from compounds in theophoric proper names—which are obviously personal names—to Eshembethel. The latter can be understood as a double deity or a reference to the deity ’šm (‫)אשם‬, combined with a prominent place for cults and sacrifices in the Levantine region: “Bethel.”122 The masculine ’šm (‫)אשם‬ and the—probable123—feminine ’ăšîmā’ (‫ )אשימא‬can be connected to each other. The god or goddess is Aramaean-Syrian and found his or her way to southern Egypt via the trade routes. Scholars have known for decades that Amos 8:14 most probably refers to Ašīmā. A translation on the basis of the consonants of a reconstructed pre-Masoretic text reads as follows: They who swear by Ašīmā of Samaria and say: “As your god, O Dan, is living,” And “As your Derek, O Beer-Sheba, is living,” They shall fall and never rise up again. Even the structure of cola reveals a twofold oath that invokes three gods or goddesses. The oaths are introduced by a vow to Ašīmā. As explained above, Ašīmā is a deity from the Aramaean-Syrian religious and cultural context, known from rather meagre evidence that dates to a period not earlier than Persian and Hellenistic times. The second “god of Dan” is preserved in an AramaicGreek bilingual inscription from Tel Dan, dating to the third or second century BCE.124 The third expression, Derek of Beer-Sheba, finds some parallels in the 121  Cf. Samuel Kohn, Zur Sprache, Literatur und Dogmatik der Samaritaner. Drei Abhandlungen nebst zwei bisher unedirten samaritanischen Texten, Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 4 (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1876), 164–65; and Andreas Lehnardt, “Die Taube auf dem Garizim. Zur antisamaritanischen Polemik in der rabbinischen Literatur,” in Die Samaritaner und die Bibel. Historische und literarische Wechselwirkungen zwischen biblischen und samaritanischen Traditionen / The Samaritans and the Bible. Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions, ed. Jörg Frey, Ursula Schattner-Rieser, and Konrad Schmid, Studia Judaica 70/Studia Samaritana 7 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 293–300. 122  For the discussion, cf. Barstad, The Religious Polemics of Amos, 171–72. 123  See my discussion on the phonology and morphology above, note 112. 124  The inscription is carved on a limestone slab. The Greek inscription, added later, reads as follows: l. 1 ΘΕΩΙ, l. 2 ΤΩΙ·ΕΝ·ΔΑΝΟΙΣ, l. 3 ΖΩΙΛΟΣ·ΕΥΧΗΝ (“to the god who is among the Danites Zoilos [offers] his vow”). In the fourth line, one finds remains of Hebrew letters

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Ugaritic myths, wherein a royal divine being named darkatu is mentioned.125 To sum up, Amos 8:14 obviously combines different local deities in a kind of religious hodgepodge. Among these deities is the Aramaean-Syrian Ešem-Ašīmā (‫‏אשם‬-‫ )‏אשימא‬to whom the Yehûdites from Elephantine were most probably referring in Ešembêtel (‫)אשמביתאל‬. In the Old Greek version of Amos 8:14, a very different picture of religious contexts emerges. Here, one reads:126 Those who swear by the propitiation [sin offering, ἱλασμός; cf. MT: ‫]‏ ַא ְׁש ָמה‬ of Samaria and those who say, “Your god lives, Dan,” And “Your god lives, Bersabee”; And they shall fall, and shall never rise again. The Old Greek mentions only two deities, the “god of Dan” and the “god of Bersabee,” while Ašīmā is neglected. But “the oath by propitiation,” presupposing a Hebrew text—such as the Masoretic ‫אַשׁ ַמת ‏ׁש ְֹמרֹון‬ ְ ‫—‏ ְבּ‬hardly makes any sense. The Old Greek references to the “gods of Dan and Bersabee” are much more reasonable. However, having in mind the ancient Israelite and Near Eastern custom that oaths are articulated to a certain deity, the divine names recorded in the pre-Masoretic text are much more appropriate. Text-critically speaking, the Old Greek text must have interpreted the Masoretic Text, or perhaps it presupposes a slightly different Hebrew original, as compared to the pre-Masoretic text. Ešembêtel and Ašīmā are deities who are rarely mentioned in Aramaic and Greek inscriptions from the Persian and Hellenistic-Roman periods. As to their origin, they stem from an Aramaean-Syrian religious culture that has that compose an Aramaic text. The reconstruction is uncertain: [‫]‏בד[‏ן·‏נדר·‏זילס·‏לא]‏להא‬ (“[in Da]n, vows of zyls to the god”) or [‫[“( ]‏ה[‏ן·נדר‏·זילס·לא]להא·‏דן‏‬Th]is is the vow of zyls to the go[d in Dan]”). For the reconstruction, translation, and interpretation of the socalled Zoilos-inscription, cf. Fergus Millar, Rome, the Greek World, and the East, vol. 3, The Greek World, the Jews, and the East, ed. Hannah M. Cotton and Guy M. Rogers, Studies in the History of Greece and Rome (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 30–31. 125  Cf. Hans M. Barstad, “Way,” DDD, 895–96. 126  For the Greek text of the Codex Vaticanus and the translation, cf. W. Edward Glenny, Finding Meaning in the Text. Translation Technique and Theology in the Septuagint of Amos, Vetus Testamentum Supplements 126 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 173–74; Glenny, Amos. A Commentary Based on Amos in Codex Vaticanus, Septuagint Commentary Series (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 36–37. See also ibid., 144–45, for the identification of a sarcastic undertone in “sin-offering.”

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also left its mark in southern Egypt and the Arabian Peninsula. The deities’ roles, religious functions, and characters are far from clear. The inscriptions from Taimā’ point to astral associations and could suggest a deity such as Anath-Astarte. Furthermore, Ešembêtel and Ašīmā’s resemblances to Simia or Simios and Simion in Greek, Latin, and Syriac sources seem possible, but remain hypothetical. The oracle of prophetic judgment in Amos 8:14 refers to Ašīmā only in the pre-Masoretic version. The critique in Amos 8:14 comes much too early to be a reaction against the religious attitudes of the Yehûdites at Elephantine, ir­ respective of whether the oracle dates to the reign of Jeroboam II—in the middle of the eighth century BCE—or to a later period. Unfortunately, the much later Old Greek versions of the oracle127 did not refer to the Ašīmā of the preMasoretic text.128 The Greek oracle strengthened the anti-Samaritan bias that was already included in the pre-Masoretic version (cf.‫ )באש]י ‏[מת ‏שמרון‏ ‏‬and could have referred to a different Hebrew Vorlage. Concerning Ašīmā in Amos 8:14, the pre-Masoretic version is concerned with anti-Samaritan intolerance rather than polemicising against the Yehûdites from Elephantine. 6 Conclusions When it comes to the question of “tolerance” and “intolerance,” one very important issue is what Michael Walzer called “difference” and what Benedikt Hensel referred to as the process of “othering.” Intolerance emerges from “differences,” but “differences” are also a prerequisite for tolerant behaviour or toleration of the “other.” However, this insight reveals its pitfalls if one considers

127  Glenny, Finding Meaning in the Text, 153–56 and 262–65; Glenny (Amos, 10) dates the Old Greek of the Book of the Twelve to the second century BCE. The Greek book of Amos was written in Egypt and includes anti-Samaritan polemics from the middle of the second century BCE. 128  At this point, the Old Greek versions coincide with the Masoretic version, which reads ‫“(‏ ַא ְׁש ָמה‬guilt”). Amos 8:14 is the only biblical text wherein ‫ ַא ְׁש ָמה‬is translated as ἱλασμός (“propitiation”). Very importantly, the Hebrew Bible uses ‫ ַא ְׁש ָמה‬in late traditions (cf. Leviticus 4:3; 5:26; 22:16; Ezra 9:6–7, 13, 15; 10:10, 19; 1 Chronicles 21:3; 2 Chronicles 24:18; 28:10, 13; 33:23). The Masoretic Text of Amos 8:14 and Psalm 69:6 should, therefore, also be referred to as late traditions. The Old Greek version uses different Greek equivalents for ‫ ַא ְׁש ָמה‬, e.g., ἁμαρτάνω resp. ἁμαρτία (cf. Leviticus 4:3; 2 Chronicles 28:13); ἐλέγχω (cf. Leviticus 5:24); or, most commonly, πλημμελέω resp. πλημμέλεια (cf. Leviticus 5:26; 22:16; Ezra 9:6–7, 13, 15; 10:10, 19; 2 Chronicles 33:23).

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the fact that “religion” in general is basically intolerant to a certain extent.129 This insight applies all the more in the context of this chapter, since it focuses on religion in societies from ancient times. Josephus appears as a dedicated proponent and master of “othering.” He calls the Samaritans “Chouthaioi”—a foreign people who replaced the “Israelites” in the northern state, as also attested in 2 Kings 17. Subsequently, Josephus also accused the Samaritans of deciding whether they were indigenous or foreign. Consequently, and in the eyes of Josephus, the Samaritans could be characterised as foreign from both an etic and an emic perspective. It is “the wrath of the greatest god” ( Jewish Antiquities 9.288) that reacts against apostasy and, therefore, makes the difference. Josephus demonstrates a religiously motivated exclusiveness130 that says a lot about his times and about anti-Samaritan conflicts, but it tells us very little about divine exclusivity in the seventh-century religion of the “Israelites.” Ben Sira and 4QNarrative and Poetic Composition (4Q372) from the Dead Sea Scrolls, which are comparable to Josephus’s account in many respects, “play” with different degrees of foreignness with regard to the Samaritans. Dating from the second century BCE, both sources lay more emphasis on idolatry as that which makes the difference. Furthermore, Josephus and the fragments from the Dead Sea, in particular, used a literary strategy to construct the “otherness” of the Samaritans. Samaritan inscriptions represent the emic perspective with regard to religious convictions and differ to a considerable extent from Ben Sira, 4Q372 or Josephus. The Hebrew and Aramaic inscriptions found on Mount Gerizim refer to a rather conservative form of “Yahwism.” Particularly with regard to priestly proper names and to the dedicatory phrases, the cultic life—which obviously 129  Cf. Michael Walzer, On Toleration (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 52–82, who writes (p. xii and 80): “Toleration makes difference possible; difference makes toleration necessary. […] Should we tolerate the intolerant? This question is often described as the central and most difficult issue in the theory of toleration. But that can’t be right, because most of the groups that are tolerated in all four domestic regimes [multinational empires, consociations, nation-states, and immigrant societies] are in fact intolerant. There are significant ‘others’ about whom they are neither enthusiastic nor curios, whose rights they don’t recognize—to whose existence, indeed, they are neither indifferent nor resigned.” 130  Reinhard Feldmeier (“Biblischer Monotheismus und Toleranz,” in Der Höchste. Studien zur hellenistischen Religionsgeschichte und zum biblischen Gottesglauben, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 330 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014], 285) speaks of “theologische Exklusivität.” This exclusiveness is, however, also known from “pagan” sources—for example, in middle-Platonism (cf. ibid., 286–91).

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also included offerings—is more similar to than it is different from temple services in Jerusalem. The religious and cultural move towards a difference at the core of religious habits and convictions dates to Maccabean times. These differences were caused by various factors, among them a cultic rivalry between Jerusalem and Mount Gerizim and also turbulent strategies among “helle­ nisers” in the second century BCE.131 Going back in time, the “Jews” from the Egyptian island of Elephantine in the Persian era could arrange themselves in an atmosphere of “tolerance,” which is recorded in varying religious contexts in the documents. First of all, the Jedaniah archive includes letters of request, which attest to the fact that the Yehûdites accepted both forms of cultic “Yahwisms”—in Jerusalem and on Mount Gerizim or in Samaria. In addition, the emic perspective of the Elephantine papyri points to a rather syncretistic and polytheistic religion, while the etic tendency found in other sources outside Elephantine towards the Yehûdites is difficult to examine due to the lack of clear evidence from other—especially Jewish—attestations. Concerning the destruction of the YHW temple by the Khnum priests, a religious motivation cannot be ruled out. One point, however, is obvious: from the perspective of the Egyptian priests, it was not YHW or, more generally speaking, apostasy or idolatry that made the difference. Finally, the religious-historical traces left behind by the god or goddess Ašīmā are not evidence of a religiously motivated intolerance against the Yehûdites from Elephantine. The prophetic oracle in Amos 8:14 fits with the anti-Samaritan polemic. A determination of what made the difference in this case is only somewhat better than an educated guess, due to the lack of evidence. Intolerance and toleration both operate on the basis of differences and the concept of “othering.” The Samaritan paradigm demonstrates how literary constructions could lead to differences that did not necessarily reflect the historical reality. The Yehûdites at Elephantine teach us how a lively religious reality could function in a syncretistic environment. In the Second Temple period, different Judaisms existed. The Judaism that lead from the canonical text of the Hebrew Bible to rabbinics was perhaps the major, but not the only Judaism. Moreover, it began rather late—long after the Judaisms of Samaria and Elephantine. 131  On different Jewish attitudes towards Hellenism among Judaism(s) in Second Temple times and beyond, see Jonathan Goldstein, “Jewish Acceptance and Rejection of Hellenism,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, vol. 2, Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period, ed. Ed Parish Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alan Mendelson (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 72–84.

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Bibliography Albertz, Rainer, and Rüdiger Schmitt. Family Household Religion in Ancient Israel and the Levant. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012. Alt, Albrecht. “Die Rolle Samarias bei der Entstehung des Judentums.” Pages 316–37 in Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel, vol. 2. Munich: C. H. Beck, 1964. Alt, Albrecht. “Zur Geschichte der Grenze zwischen Judäa und Samaria.” Pages 346–62 in Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel, vol. 2. Munich: C. H. Beck, 1964. Anbar, Moshe. “Kai pou eisin oi theoi tēs choras Samareias ‘et où sont les dieux du pays de Samarie?’” Biblische Notizen 51 (1990): 7–8. Assmann, Jan. Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997. Assmann, Jan. “Monotheismus der Treue. Korrekturen am Konzept der «mosa­ ischen Unterscheidung» im Hinblick auf die Beiträge von Marcia Pally und Micha Brumlik.” Pages 249–66 in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismus-Debatte zwischen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen. Edited by Rolf Schieder. Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2014. Assmann, Jan. “Monotheismus und Gewalt. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit Rolf Schieders Kritik an «Moses der Ägypter».” Pages 36–55 in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismus-Debatte zwischen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen. Edited by Rolf Schieder. Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2014. Assmann, Jan. Exodus. Die Revolution der Alten Welt. München: C. H. Beck, 2015. Assmann, Jan. Totale Religion. Ursprünge und Formen puritanischer Verschärfung. Picus Verlag: Vienna, 2016. Barclay, John M. G. “Who Was Considered as Apostate in the Jewish Diaspora?” Pages 80–98 in Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity. Edited by Graham N. Stanton and Guy G. Stroumsa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Barstad, Hans M. The Religious Polemics of Amos. Studies in the Preaching of Am 2, 7B–8; 4, 1–13; 5, 1–27; 6, 4–7; 8, 14. Vetus Testamentum Supplements 34. Leiden: Brill, 1984. Barstad, Hans M. “Way.” Pages 895–97 in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Edited by Karel van der Toorn, Bob Becking, and Pieter W. van der Horst. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999. Becking, Bob. “Die Gottheiten der Juden in Elephantine.” Pages 203–26 in Der eine Gott und die Götter. Polytheismus und Monotheismus im antiken Israel. Edited by Manfred Oeming and Konrad Schmid. Arbeiten zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments 82. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2003. Becking, Bob. “Temple, marzēaḥ, and Power at Elephantine.” Transeuphratène 29 (2005): 37–47.

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Archaeology and Literature of the Qumran Caves. Edited by Shani Tzoref and Barnea Levi Selavan. Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplements 18. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015. Fauth, Wolfgang. “Simia.” Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissen­ schaften Supplement 14 (1974): 679–701. Feldmeier, Reinhard. “Biblischer Monotheismus und Toleranz.” Pages 283–98 in Der Höchste. Studien zur hellenistischen Religionsgeschichte und zum biblischen Gottesglauben. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 330. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014. Fernández Marcos, Natalio. “The Antiochene Edition in the Text History of the Greek Bible.” Pages 57–73 in Der antiochenische Text der Septuaginta in seiner Bezeugung und seiner Bedeutung. Edited by Siegfried Kreuzer and Marcus Sigismund. De Septuaginta Investigationes 4. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013. Fernández Marcos, Natalio, and José Ramón Busto Saiz. El texto antioqueno de la Biblia griega, II: 1–2 Reyes. Textos y estudios « Cardenal Cisneros » de la Biblia Políglota Matritense 53. Madrid: Instituto de Filología del CSIC, 1992. Frevel, Christian. Geschichte Israels. 2nd. ed. Kohlhammer Studienbücher Theologie 2. Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer, 2018. Frevel, Christian, and Katharina Pyschny. “Perserzeitliche Räucherkästchen. Zu einer wenig beachteten Fundgattung im Kontext der These Ephraim Sterns.” Pages 111– 220 in A Religious “Revolution” in Yehûd? The Material Culture of the Persian Period as a Test Case. Edited by Christian Frevel, Katharina Pyschny, and Izak Cornelius. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 267. Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014. Frevel, Christian, and Katharina Pyschny. “A Religious Revolution Devours Its Children: The Iconography of the Persian-Period Cuboid Incense Burners.” Pages 91–133 in Religion in the Achaemenid Persian Empire. Emerging Judaisms and Trends. Edited by Diana Edelman, Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley, and Philippe Guillaume. Oriental Religions in Antiquity 17. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016. Glenny, W. Edward. Finding Meaning in the Text. Translation Technique and Theology in the Septuagint of Amos. Vetus Testamentum Supplements 126. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Glenny, W. Edward. Amos. A Commentary Based on Amos in Codex Vaticanus. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Goff, Matthew. “‘The Foolish Nation That Dwells in Shechem’: Ben Sira on Shechem and the Other Peoples in Palestine.” Pages 173–88 in The “Other” in Second Temple Judaism. Essays in Honor of John J. Collins. Edited by Daniel C. Harlow et al. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011. Goldstein, Jonathan. “Jewish Acceptance and Rejection of Hellenism.” Pages 64–87 Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period. Vol. 2 of Jewish and Christian SelfDefinition. Edited by Ed Parish Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten, and Alan Mendelson. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981.

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Kratz, Reinhard G. “Der Zweite Tempel zu Jeb und zu Jerusalem.” Pages 60–78 in Das Judentum im Zeitalter des Zweiten Tempels. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 42. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004. Kratz, Reinhard G. Historical and Biblical Israel. The History, Tradition, and Archives of Israel and Judah. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Kreuzer, Siegfried. “Der antiochenische Text der Septuaginta in seiner Bezeugung und seiner Bedeutung.” Pages 404–36 in Geschichte, Sprache und Text. Studien zum Alten Testament und seiner Umwelt. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 479. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015. Kugel, James L. Traditions of the Bible. A Guide to the Bible As It Was at the Start of the Common Era. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. Kugler, Robert A. “Joseph at Qumran. The Importance of 4Q372 frg. 1 in Extending a Tradition.” Pages 261–78 in Studies in the Hebrew Bible, Qumran, and the Septuagint Presented to Eugene Ulrich. Edited by Peter W. Flint, Emanuel Tov, and James C. VanderKam. Vetus Testamentum Supplements 101. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Lehnardt, Andreas. “Massekhet Kutim and the Resurrection of the Dead.” Pages 175–92 in Samaritans: Past and Present. Current Studies. Edited by Menachem Mor and Friedrich V. Reiterer. Studia Judaica 53/Studia Samaritana 5. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010. Lehnardt, Andreas. “Die Taube auf dem Garizim. Zur antisamaritanischen Polemik in der rabbinischen Literatur.” Pages 285–302 in Die Samaritaner und die Bibel. Historische und literarische Wechselwirkungen zwischen biblischen und samaritani­ schen Traditionen / The Samaritans and the Bible. Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions. Edited by Jörg Frey, Ursula SchattnerRieser, and Konrad Schmid. Studia Judaica 70/Studia Samaritana 7. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012. Leith, Mary Joan Winn. “Religious Continuity in Israel/Samaria. Numismatic Evidence,” Pages 267–304 in A Religious “Revolution” in Yehûd?, The Material Culture of the Persian Period as a Test Case. Edited by Christian Frevel, Katharina Pyschny, and Izak Cornelius. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 267. Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014. Livingstone, Alasdair. “New Light on the Ancient Town of Taimā.” Pages 133–43 in Studia Aramaica: New Sources and New Approaches. Papers Delivered at the London Conference of The Institute of Jewish Studies, University College London, 26th–28th June 1991. Edited by Mark J. Geller, Jonas C. Greenfield, and Michael P. Weitzman. Supplements to the Journal of Semitic Studies 4. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Magen, Yitzhak, Haggai Misgav, and Levana Tsfania. The Aramaic, Hebrew and Samaritan Inscriptions. Vol. 1 of Mount Gerizim Excavations. Judea and Samaria Publications 2. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2004.

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Marcus, Ralph. Jewish Antiquities, Books XII–XIV. Vol. 7 of Josephus with an English Translation in Nine Volumes. London/Cambridge, MA: William Heinemann and Harvard University Press, 1957. Marx, Michael. “Schriften und Sprachen Arabiens—ein Rundgang.” Pages 181–93 in Roads of Arabia. Archäologische Schätze aus Saudi-Arabien. Edited by Ute Franke et al. Berlin: Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, 2011. Mason, Steve. Orientation to the History of Roman Judaea. Eugene, OR: Cascade Books/ Wipf and Stock, 2016. Merlo, Paolo. “Ashima.” Pages 986–87 in Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception, vol. 2, Anim—Atheism. Edited by Choon-Leong Seow and Hermann Spieckermann. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009. Millar, Fergus. The Greek World, the Jews, and the East. Edited by Hannah M. Cotton and Guy M. Rogers. Vol. 3 of Rome, the Greek World, and the East. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006. Montgomery, James A., and Henry Snyder Gehman. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Kings. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951. Niehr, Herbert. “7. Northern Arabia.” Pages 378–90 in The Aramaeans in Ancient Syria. Edited by Herbert Niehr. Handbuch der Orientalistik I/106. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Nocquet, Dany R. La Samarie, la diaspora et l’achèvement de la Torah. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 284. Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017. Noth, Martin. Geschichte Israels. 6th ed. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966. Ofengenden, Ari. “Monotheism, the Incomplete Revolution: Narrating the Event in Freud’s and Assmann’s Moses.” Symplokē 23 (2015): 291–307. Pally, Marcia. “The Hebrew Bible Is a Problem Set.” Pages 218–48 in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismus-Debatte zwischen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen. Edited by Rolf Schieder. Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2014. Pardee, Dennis. “Asham,” Pages 98–99 in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Edited by Karel van der Toorn, Bob Becking, and Pieter W. van der Horst. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999. Porten, Bezalel. “The Religion of the Jews of Elephantine in the Light of the Hermopolis Papyri.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 28 (1969): 116–21. Porten, Bezalel. The Elephantine Papyri in English. Three Millennia of Cross-Cultural Continuity and Change. Documenta et Monumenta Orientis Antiqui 22. Leiden: Brill, 1996. Pummer, Reinhard. “Antisamaritanische Polemik in jüdischen Schriften aus der inter­ testamentarischen Zeit.” Biblische Zeitschrift, Neue Folge 26 (1982): 224–42. Pummer, Reinhard. The Samaritans in Flavius Josephus. Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 129. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009.

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Pummer, Reinhard. “Samaritanism—A Jewish Sect or an Independent Form of Yahwism?” Pages 1–24 in Samaritans: Past and Present. Current Studies. Edited by Menachem Mor and Friedrich V. Reiterer. Studia Judaica 53/Studia Samaritana 5. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010. Pummer, Reinhard. The Samaritans. A Profile. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2016. Ribichini, Sergio. “Baetyl.” Pages 157–59 in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Edited by Karel van der Toorn, Bob Becking, and Pieter W. van der Horst. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999. Rohrmoser, Angela. Götter, Tempel und Kult der Judäo-Aramäer von Elephantine. Archäologische und schriftliche Zeugnisse aus dem perserzeitlichen Ägypten. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 396. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2014. Römer, Thomas. The Invention of God. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015. Rosenberg, Stephen G. “The Jewish Temple at Elephantine.” Near Eastern Archaeology 67 (2004): 4–13. Schieder, Rolf. “Die Monotheismusthese, oder: Ist Mose für religiöse Gewalt verantwortlich?” Pages 15–35 in Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismus-Debatte zwischen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen. Edited by Rolf Schieder. Berlin: Berlin University Press, 2014. Schmid, Konrad. “Die Samaritaner und die Judäer. Die biblische Diskussion um ihr Verhältnis in Josua 24.” Pages 31–49 in Die Samaritaner und die Bibel. Historische und literarische Wechselwirkungen zwischen biblischen und samaritanischen Traditionen/ The Samaritans and the Bible. Historical and Literary Interactions between Biblical and Samaritan Traditions. Edited by Jörg Frey, Ursula Schattner-Rieser, and Konrad Schmid. Studia Judaica 70/Studia Samaritana 7. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012. Schorch, Stefan. “The Construction of Samari(t)an Identity from the Inside and from the Outside.” Pages 135–49 in Between Cooperation and Hostility. Multiple Identities in Ancient Judaism and the Interaction with Foreign Powers. Edited by Rainer Albertz and Jakob Wöhrle. Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplements 11. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013. Schuller, Eileen, and Moshe Bernstein. “371–373. 4QNarrative and Poetic Compositiona–c.” Pages 151–204 in Wadi Daliyeh II. The Samaria Papyri from Wadi Daliyeh and Qumran Cave 4. XXVIII: Miscellanea, Part 2. Edited by Douglas M. Gropp et al. Discoveries in the Judaean Desert 28. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001. Schwartz, Daniel R. 2 Maccabees. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008. Schwartz, Seth. “John Hyrcanus I’s Destruction of the Gerizim Temple and JudaeanSamaritan Relations.” Jewish History 7 (1993): 9–25. Segert, Stanislav. Altaramäische Grammatik mit Bibliographie, Chrestomatie und Glossar. 4th ed. Leipzig: VEB Verlag Enzyklopädie, 1990. Segev, Alon. Thinking and Killing: Philosophical Discourse in the Shadow of the Third Reich. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013.

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Siljanen, Esko. Judeans of Egypt in the Persian Period (539–332 BCE) in the Light of the Aramaic Documents. PhD diss., University of Helsinki. Thiessen, Matthew. “4Q372 1 and the Continuation of Joseph’s Exile.” Dead Sea Discoveries 15 (2008): 380–95. Tigchelaar, Eibert J. C. “On the Unidentified Fragments of DJD XXXIII and PAM 43.680. A New Manuscript of 4QNarrative and Poetic Composition, and Fragments of 4Q13, 4Q269, 4Q525 and 4QSb(?).” Revue de Qumran 21/83 (2004): 477–85. Wallis, Gerhard. “Jerusalem und Samaria als Königsstädte. Auseinandersetzung mit einer These Albrecht Alts.” Vetus Testamentum 26 (1976): 480–96. Walzer, Michael. On Toleration. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997. Wolin, Richard. “Biblical Blame Shift. Is the Egyptologist Jan Assmann Fueling AntiSemitism?” The Chronicle of Higher Education (15 April 2013), http://www.chronicle. com/ article/Biblical-Blame-Shift/138457. Wyssmann, Patrick. “The Coinage Imagery of Samaria and Judah in the Late Persian Period.” Pages 221–66 in A Religious “Revolution” in Yehûd? The Material Culture of the Persian Period as a Test Case. Edited by Christian Frevel, Katharina Pyschny, and Izak Cornelius. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 267. Fribourg and Göttingen: Academic Press and Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014. Zangenberg, Jürgen. ΣΑΜΑΡΕΙΑ. Antike Quellen zur Geschichte und Kultur der Samaritaner in deutscher Übersetzung. Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter 15. Tübingen: A. Francke Verlag, 1994. Zangenberg, Jürgen. “The Sanctuary on Mount Gerizim. Observations on the Results of 20 Years of Excavations.” Pages 399–418 in Temple Building and Temple Cult: Architecture and Cultic Paraphernalia of Temples in the Levant. Proceedings of a Conference on the Occasion of the 50th Anniversary of the Institute of Biblical Archaeology at the University of Tübingen (28–30 May 2010). Edited by Jens Kamlah. Abhandlungen des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 41. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012. Zsengellér, József. Gerizim as Israel. Northern Tradition of the Old Testament and the Early History of the Samaritans. Utrechtse Theologische Reeks 38. Utrecht: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, 1998.

part 2 Discourses with Greek and Roman Powers

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chapter 5

Intolerance and Freedom of Thought in Classical Athens: the Trial of Socrates Paulin Ismard In fifth-century Alexandria, Hypatia was stoned to death upon the orders of Cyril, the bishop of Alexandria; in 1600, Giordano Bruno was burned alive by the Roman Inquisition; in 1633, Galileo got down on his knees before the Holy Office and swore to “abjure, curse, and detest every opinion contrary to Holy Scripture,” before ending his days in the seclusion of his Arcetri villa. The philosophy of the Enlightenment constructed an edifying, grandiose narrative revolving around the clash between reason and superstition, around intellectual freedom caught in the grip of religious fanaticism. When it comes to illustrating this narrative, festooned with its array of martyrs and places of remembrance, the trial of Socrates seems to present something akin to an original model. It symbolised the defeat of the patron saint of philosophers before a primitive religion, still ignorant of the beacon of Christianity. The punishment of Socrates would itself explain the premature failure, during the century of Pericles, of an Aufklärung. It also allowed people to keep the splendours of the classical era at a safe distance and to affirm the unbridgeable character of the gap separating the ancients from the moderns, as if the dividing line between ancient and modern democracy was essentially down to guaranteeing freedom of conscience. The originality of free thought in the eighteenth century may have derived not so much from its actual content as from the fact that it was “conceived as a struggle, not just an intellectual effort, and therefore took into account the very conditions of its publication.”1 If we take this to be the case, then the trial of Socrates presented all the facets of an inaugural scene. It depicted the condition of the intellectual in society as well as the censorship to which his word was subject. In fact, many men of letters presented themselves as simulacra of the philosopher or were identified as such by their contemporaries. Vico, seeing himself as a reflection of Socrates at the end of his Autobiography, hoped to adopt the same composure before death. Voltaire and Diderot both aspired 1  Antoine Lilti, “Comment écrit-on l’histoire intellectuelle des Lumières? Spinozisme, radicalisme et philosophie,” Annales HSC 1 (2009): 171–206, here 183.

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to be the French Socrates, just like Kant, or again like Mendelssohn, who was dubbed the “German Socrates” after the publication of Phaedon in 1767.2 This identification was not primarily fuelled by adhesion to a “Socratic philosophy,” something which remained ill-defined in the first place. It stemmed more from a conviction that the place of the philosopher in eighteenth-century society was comparable to that of Socrates in the Athens of 399—bearing the brunt of censorship and searching for an elusive audience. In 1762, Grimm, invoking Diderot, writes that “Socrates, at the time of his death, was regarded in Athens in much the same way we are, here in Paris.”3 For the men of the Enlightenment, the figure of Socrates allowed the status of the philosophical word to be envisioned and approached in the same way one takes risks and forges commitments in the public arena. The Socratic parrêsia—a vibrant model of which was offered in Plato’s Apology—therefore seemed to sketch the outline of this philosophical ethos. Furthermore, the trial of Socrates raised the delicate question of publishing works in the public sphere. At the time, libertine literature had already come under legal fire, with the pretext of the “civil prudence” which men of letters should display used as a justification in a society where intellectual figures were still under threat from religious and civilian authorities.4 The examination of this trial even fostered the idea, expressed by John Toland as well as Anthony Shaftesbury,5 that the darkness which philosophers of yore found themselves shrouded in—and none more so than Socrates—could be explained by the persecution to which they were subject. “Plato, wisely providing for his own safety, after the poisonous draught was administered to Socrates by profane and impious persons wrote rather poetically than philosophically,” wrote Toland, paving the way for an interpretative stance whose natural conclusion was Persecution and the Art of Writing by Léo Strauss.6 The memory of the trial was said to have forced the Socratics to mask their own philosophy and to elaborate a “double philosophy,” 2  See Miriam Leonard, Socrates and the Jews: Hellenism and Hebraism from Moses Mendelssohn to Sigmund Freud (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 33–42. 3  Friedrich Melchior Grimm, Correspondance littéraire. Tome IX, 1762 (ed. Robert Granderoute, Monica Hjortberg, and Ulla Kölving; Ferney-Voltaire: Centre international d’études du XVIIIe siècle, 2014), 303 (1 August 1762). 4  Jean-Pierre Cavaillé, “Socrate libertin,” in Socrate in Occidente, ed. Ettore Lojacono (Florence: Mondadori, 2004), 33–65, here 48. 5  On Shaftesbury’s idea of penning new Memorablilia in the early eigteenth century, see Laurent Jaffro, “Le Socrate de Shaftesbury. Comment raconter aux Modernes l’histoire de Socrate?” in Socrate in Occidente, 66–90. 6  John Toland, Clidophorus (1720); see also John Toland, Letters to Serena 3.18 (1705); Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing (New York: Free Press, 1952).

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thus hiding undeniable truths under the veneer of a discourse accessible to the greatest number of people. How can we observe the events of 399 from a fresh perspective, now that they have been reinterpreted so many times? As we know, the sources present a paradoxical configuration. This trial is presumably one of the most documented in Athenian history, yet we only have access to a tiny part of the series of works produced on the subject—the visible tip of the logoi sokratikoi. The lion’s share of these documents will remain forever submerged under the waters. There is not one ancient text which presents itself as the minutes of this trial, and the contradictory interpretations of this event have surrounded it with a halo of mystery. The controversy stemming from the trial itself is derived from the existence of one text in particular, Katêgoria Socratous, drafted between 393 and 385 by the rhetorician and logographer Polycrates.7 The text, which justified the sentence administered to the philosopher, was very well known in antiquity, since it is referred to by authors of the classical age, such as Isocrates and Xenophon, as well as those of the Roman imperial era, namely Quintilian and Aelian.8 From the beginning of the third century BCE onwards, certain authors even considered this text to constitute the very accusation Meletus once levelled at Socrates.9 In particular, it seems that Polycrates centred his accusation around the political dimension of the affair as well as the specificities of Socratic educational practices, disregarding the issue of impiety to some extent. Upon reading Polycrates’s fictive address, a historian may have more clearly identified why Socrates faced such accusations. However, the role of this scathing attack is particularly relevant when it comes to the scale of the reactions it triggered, since it led to the “Socrates affair.” The greatest logographer of the early fourth century, Lysias, is said to have drafted a defence (Apologia)

7  Athenian by birth and probably close to Gorgias, Polycrates belonged to the same generation as Isocrates. After having spent some time with the Thessalian tyrant Jason, he is said to have been based in Cyprus. We know, in particular, that he was famous in Athens because of his encomiastic speeches covering subjects which were absurd due to their triviality. It seems that he was responsible for the expression the “Thirty Tyrants” (see Aristotle, Rhetoric 1401a33f). On the date for the writing of the Katêgoria, see Jean Humbert, Polycratès, l’accusation de Socrate et le Gorgias (Paris: Klincksieck, 1930); Anton-Hermann Chroust, “Xenophon, Polycrates and the indictment of Socrates,” Classica et Mediaevalia 16 (1955): 1–77; and Niall Livingstone, A Commentary on Isocrates’ Busiris (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 32–39. 8  The two first books of Memorabilia by Xenophon are a reply to the accusation of Polycrates; see also Isocrates, Discourses 11.4–6; Aelian, Historical Miscellany 11.10; Quintilian, The Orator’s Education 2.17.4; and Libanius, Apology of Socrates. 9  Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers 2.38.

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of Socrates as a response to the attack launched by Polycrates.10 It was also to refute the claims of the “accuser”—that is, Polycrates—that Xenophon penned his Memorabilia and Apology, thus defending the memory of his master. Plato also refers to this work in an indirect manner in Gorgias, Lysis, Menon, and Politics. The controversy between the disciples of Socrates and Polycrates would in fact continue throughout the fourth century, since one of Polycrates’s students, Zoilos from Amphipolis, was to write a treatise entitled Against Plato. But let us make no mistake—the difficulty in the matter at hand does not originate from a lack of reliable sources, a fate shared by all historians of the classical era. Even if we could truly get our hands on Polycrates’s entire text, we would still not be able to determine the reason why the Athenians sentenced Socrates to death. Our difficulties run deeper, with obstacles which are even harder to overcome. In trying to identify one cause likely to explain the fate of the philosopher once and for all, the historian in fact demands that these ancient sources be interrogated on a matter whose principal themes they know little of. When trying to identify the political, social, or religious causes of the trial, we tend to dissect different spheres of activity which, in the city-state, were seen as inherently connected. The asebeia the philosopher was charged with covered a wide field of practices which had one common element—they represented a threat to the community. During each trial, the judges nonetheless updated the list of offences included under the term asebeia. Their verdict was not the fruit of a genuine deliberation and could not lead to appeal procedures on the part of the guilty party. It found its raison d’être not in its conformity to Athenian law, but because it was the result of a sovereign decision made by a political community. In this sense, no one could determine the exact elements which motivated the judges’ decisions—faced with the singular rationality of Athenian law, the historian has no choice but to lay down their arms. Likewise, when Aeschines or Hyperides attributed the accusation against the philosopher to the relationship he fostered with Critias, or to his actual discourse,11 they offered only two—debateable—interpretations, which were also subject to circumstantial rhetorical strategy. In effect, they were reminding us of the rigour demonstrated by our glorious ancestors, all the better to denounce the permissiveness of judges in the mid-fourth century. Neither Aeschines nor Hyperides founded their interpretation on a decision officially recognised as such by the Athenian tribunals. In this context, every attempt to identify an ultimate cause which could explain why Socrates was sentenced to death is clearly an arduous task. 10  Pseudo-Plutarch, Lives of the Ten Orators 836B; Scholiast on Aristides, 3.480. 11  Aeschines, Against Timarchus 1.173; Hyperides, frg. 55.1.

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163

Setting the Stage

All of our sources converge to indicate that the process Meletus set in motion subscribed to a specific procedure: graphê asebeias, or “prosecution for matters of impiety.” Conforming to the procedure selected by Meletus, the act of accusation was registered with the archon basileus, who stood over the Agora, in the Stoa Basileios. The archon basileus was responsible for all accusations relative to acts of impiety. We are unusually lucky in that we have access to the precise legal wording of the affidavit submitted by Meletus. This is thanks to Favorinus of Arelate who had come to Athens from Arles to deploy his talents as a rhetorician. He consulted this document, filed in the Athenian public records, at the beginning of the second century CE: τάδε ἐγράψατο καὶ ἀντωμόσατο Μέλητος Μελήτου Πιτθεὺς Σωκράτει Σωφρονίσκου Ἀλωπεκῆθεν: ἀδικεῖ Σωκράτης, οὓς μὲν ἡ πόλις νομίζει θεοὺς οὐ νομίζων, ἕτερα δὲ καινὰ δαιμόνια εἰσηγούμενος: ἀδικεῖ δὲ καὶ τοὺς νέους διαφθείρων. Tίμημα θάνατος. This indictment and affidavit is sworn by Meletus, the son of Meletus of Pitthos, against Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus of Alopece: Socrates is guilty of refusing to recognize the gods recognized by the state, and of introducing other new divinities. He is also guilty of corrupting the youth. The penalty demanded is death.12 This document initially prompts several important questions regarding formalism—or the absence thereof—a trait which was supposed to have characterised Athenian law. Did Meletus submit a complaint which subscribed to a pre-established and stereotypical style, especially related to cases of impiety? Was this affidavit created from scratch, using the very accusations defined by this asebeia? Do these three charges actually represent technical categories of Athenian law, those ordinarily applied to cases of impiety? Or should we instead consider whether Meletus penned this act of accusation himself? This last question cannot be hastily decided in the absence of information concerning a procedure central to Athenian law that we know little about—the anakrisis. Following the submission of an affidavit, the archon engaged in a procedure akin to a court investigation, which would determine whether he intended to follow through with a trial. This procedural phase was the moment during which elements of legal technique were likely to take shape and 12  Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers 2.40.

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influence the wording of the accusation. Unfortunately, we have no trace of this event, and it would be highly complicated to determine to what extent the act of accusation could have been modified by the archon during the anakrisis. However, it is clear that the magistrate thought the accusation had sufficient grounds for a trial to take place. Though it is difficult to pinpoint the exact location of the lawcourts, the so-called Heliaia, during the classical era,13 a wealth of hypotheses has led certain historians to suggest that specific, major trials, such as the one involving Socrates, could have taken place in a highly symbolic, open-air location situated at the heart of the Agora. In its most central zone, archaeologists have in fact identified four vast marble benches, more than 37 metres long, the construction of which dates back to the mid-fifth century. Situated directly beneath the temple of Hephaestus, and structured around a staircase, each of these benches could feasibly seat up to 100 people. The existence of a fifth row of benches is probable. It is tempting to imagine that this is where Socrates’s 500 judges were seated, especially as we would be hard pressed to imagine what other function this construction could serve.14 Such a site would be rich in meaning—it lies beneath the temple of Hephaestus, close to the Council of 500, and next to the temples of Apollo (Phratrios) and Athena (Phratria), the titular divinities of the Athenian Phratries. The trial would therefore have taken place in the topographical and symbolic heart of the city, so it is not surprising that many spectators witnessed the trial, as suggested in Plato’s Apology. Among them, we would surely have found many partisans of Meletus, whom Socrates must have attempted to address on several occasions,15 but also advocates for Socrates. In addition to these groups of supporters, we suppose that there were numerous spectators who had come to attend the trial without initially belonging to one camp or the other. Capable of interrupting the speech-givers, it is highly probable that they affected the progression of the trial.16 In Plato’s Apology, Socrates addresses an audience whose tumult (thorubos) prevented him from making himself heard. This mention is in fact far from innocent. Yet in the accounts of most of the orators from the classical era, thorubos is nonetheless presented as a means of legitimate control exerted over orators by the people. Their speeches could not reach their full potential 13  On the archaeology of the Heliaia, see Alan L. Boegehold, ed., The Athenian Agora XXVII: The Lawcourts at Athens (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), 91–113; Boegehold, “Philokleon’s Court,” Hesperia 36 (1967): 111–20. 14  See Paul Millett, “The Trial of Socrates Revisited,” European Review of History 12 (2005): 23–62, here 42–43. 15  Plato, Apology of Socrates 33e. 16  Plato, Apology of Socrates 27a–27b (and 17d; 20c; 21a; 27b; 30c).

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without the constant pressure exerted by a popular assembly.17 By referring several times to the din which accompanied the manifestation of the Socratic word, Plato clearly sets the scene for a discrepancy between philosophical expression and a democratic arena, and subsequently, it is not surprising that in the city described in his Laws, the philosopher forbids all thorubos.18 Now that the scene is set, let us turn to its protagonists. Though legally Meletus had launched this accusation in his name alone, Plato, backed up by ulterior sources, speaks of the presence of two individuals by his side—Anytos and Lycon.19 The mention of this famous trio reveals a practice common to the workings of the Athenian legal system—Anytos and Lycon were Meletus’s synegoroi. The procedure by which an orator shared a part of the time allocated to him with others, who came to speak by his side, allowed for the construction of certain forms of group action and collectivised responsibility in an informal manner. Though legally a single individual levelled charges, he could indirectly be supported by two or three allies, who were also accountable for all the fees incurred in the event of their defeat.20 Furthermore, we have every reason to believe Socrates also sought the assistance of synegoroi for his own defence. Xenophon’s Apology mentions that philoi of Socrates may have spoken out before the judges, yet it is unfortunately impossible to attribute any names to these synegoroi.21 This precision is essential—especially as it contradicts some elements of the trial as depicted by Plato. In the opening lines of Plato’s Apology, Socrates defends his right to speak in his own name, without counting on anyone for help. Socrates is actually rumoured to have refused to allow witnesses to intervene in his favour, and here we find one of the most notable elements of what we shall call the “strategy of disruption” Socrates adopted during the trial. Thus Socrates denigrated the very principle of bearing witness, and in a very singular manner. He attacked a practice whereby those close to the accused could stand as witnesses to back up the claims of the defence, irrespective of where the real truth lay. This criticism was far from neutral—Socrates was attacking 17  Demosthenes, Orations 19.340; 58.25–26. On thorubos, see Noémie Villacèque, Spectateurs de parole! Délibération démocratique et théâtre à Athènes à l’époque classique (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2013). 18  See Plato, Laws 876b; 949b. 19  Plato, Apology of Socrates 23e–24a and 36a. 20  See Lene Rubinstein, Litigation and Cooperation: Supporting Speakers in the Courts of Classical Athens (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2000), 143 and 235. Morgens Herman Hansen (The Trial of Socrates from an Athenian Point of View [Copenhagen: Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1995]) suggested that each of the synegoroi had developed one aspect of the accusation. 21  Xenophon, Apology of Socrates 22.

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an essential, agonistic mechanism of Athenian justice. However, if we follow Xenophon’s hints, Socrates—far from standing alone before a hostile crowd— was in fact supported by synegoroi. This was therefore not just an opposition between Meletus and Socrates; the judges also witnessed two groups of advocates lock horns. Athenian law defined two types of trials when it came to establishing a sentence—trials in which the sentence was already defined by a text (agônes atimêtoi), and trials in which judges were to choose between two sentences offered to them by the prosecution and the defence (agônes timetoi). In both cases, the judges voted by placing a psêphos in one of two urns made available to them, according to a little-known procedure guaranteeing the secrecy of their suffrage. The moment at which the judges assessed whether or not the defendant was guilty was therefore mirrored by the one in which the actual sentence was determined. According to the indications of Plato and Diogenes Laertius, we can establish that Socrates was found guilty by a narrow margin, since 280 judges out of 500 (or 501) voted to sentence the philosopher. It was subsequently up to Meletus and Socrates to suggest a punishment. When he submitted his act of accusation, Meletus had already demanded capital punishment. According to Plato, the philosopher asked to be provided with free meals at the Prytaneum, a privilege the city reserved for its most illustrious benefactors. Socrates then retracted this suggestion and agreed to a fine of 30 mines in lieu of a sentence, and his friends, including Plato, would have guaranteed its payment.22 However, in Xenophon’s Apology, Socrates does not offer an alternative to Meletus’s proposed sentence. Whatever his state of mind during the trial, Socrates’s intentions became clearer at this stage in the proceedings. In fact, at the very start, when he was invited to determine his sentence, he refused to do so himself and also forbade his friends to do so, arguing that determining a sentence was an admission of guilt.23 Thus Socrates deliberately placed the Athenian judges in an absurd situation—as they could not offer an alternative sentence to those of the two parties, they had no choice but to sentence him to death, unless they undertook a de facto reversal of their initial vote. Nietzsche, the great reader of Xenophon, could therefore state that, without a doubt, “Socrates wanted to die: not Athens, but he himself who administered the cup of poison; he forced Athens into it.”24 During the second vote, therefore, 80 judges changed sides 22  Plato, Apology of Socrates 38b. 23  Xenophon, Apology of Socrates 23. 24  Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 9.

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and rallied around Meletus—360 of them voted in favour of the death sentence. Such a development may largely be explained by this Socratic act of defiance. Since it was only by a narrow margin (30 votes) that Socrates was found guilty in the first instance, one can suppose that another proposal on his part, such as exile, would have saved his life. In the Laws of the city-state—and in his famous allocution, Crito—Plato confirms this in his own way. This is how Socrates is addressed—“And moreover even at your trial you might have offered exile as your penalty, if you wished, and might have done with the state’s consent what you are now undertaking to do without it. But you then put on airs and said you were not disturbed if you must die, and you preferred, as you said, death to exile (Ἔτι τοίνυν ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ δίκῃ ἐξῆν σοι φυγῆς τιμήσασθαι εἰ ἐβούλου, καὶ ὅπερ νῦν ἀκούσης τῆς πόλεως ἐπιχειρεῖς, τότε ἑκούσης ποιῆσαι. Ʃὺ δὲ τότε μὲν ἐκαλλωπίζου ὡς οὐκ ἀγανακτῶν εἰ δέοι τεθνάναι σε, ἀλλὰ ᾑροῦ, ὡς ἔφησθα, πρὸ τῆς φυγῆς θάνατον)”.25 By refusing to submit to procedural logic, which would have guaranteed his survival in exile, Socrates forced the Athenian judges to vote in favour of his death. The radicality of the judges’ decision can probably be explained by the specificity of Athenian legal procedure and the choice Socrates made not to submit to the logic inherent in the double vote. Yet Socrates’s act of defiance was the last in a long series, and although Xenophon, at the beginning of his Apology, attacks those who criticised the arrogance of his discourse, such criticism was probably quite prevalent among Athenians in the wake of the trial. The philosopher’s attitude did in fact fly in the face of the behavioural norms expected within the confines of the tribunal. Though he was on trial, the philosopher had no qualms about presenting himself as superior to his fellow citizens, even claiming to be a gift that the gods had bestowed upon the Athenians.26 As even Xenophon himself admitted in the conclusion to his Apology, “Socrates, by exalting himself before the court, he brought ill-will upon himself and made his conviction by the jury more certain (Σωκράτης δὲ διὰ τὸ μεγαλύνειν ἑαυτὸν ἐν τῷ δικαστηρίῳ φθόνον ἐπαγόμενος μᾶλλον καταψηφίσασθαι ἑαυτοῦ ἐποίησε τοὺς δικαστάς).”27 A second-century Platonist, Maximus of Tyre, would summarise— in very clear terms—the feeling which must have been shared by most of the spectators: “Whilst the Athenians were judging him, he was judging them himself.”28 Under the quill of Plato or Xenophon, this extravagant behaviour on Socrates’s part also became a denunciation, in concrete terms, of Athenian 25  Plato, Crito 52c. 26  Xenophon, Apology of Socrates 9 and 15–16. 27  Xenophon, Apology of Socrates 32. 28  Maximus of Tyre, Orations 3.2.

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law. Rewritten by the philosopher’s disciples, as it also was by his detractors, the trial in fact lead to a controversy which had never before occurred in the history of the city-state—a debate on the very nature of its law. One may even consider that the period following the trial constitutes a turning point in the history of the divorce of judicial rhetoric from philosophy. In the words of Michel Foucault, it gave birth to the great opposition between “the philosopher, the man of truth,” and “the man who was but an orator: the rhetorician, the man of discourse, of opinion, of seeking to create effects, of chasing after victory.”29 2

Socrates and Intellectual Persecution

Keeping in mind the scene we have just described, should we consider that Athens was an obscurantist democracy, persecuting its own intellectual elite? This is the representation suggested, for example, by Luciano Canfora.30 A superficial reading of Aristophanes’s Clouds would seem to accredit this theory. “They offended against the Gods (τοὺς θεοὺς ὡς ἠδίκουν)”31—it is with these words that Strepsiades sets fire to Socrates’s Phrontisterion at the end of the play. As the promoter of rites of initiation dedicated to the worship of strange divinities, such as the Whirlwind and the Clouds, Socrates appears here as a threat to the democratic city-state. We might therefore be tempted to believe that the accusation of impiety levelled against the philosopher in 399 was already inaugurated on stage at the Theatre of Dionysus in 423. Even Socrates himself seems to hint at this fact in Plato’s Apology, by referring to Clouds as the first accusation of which he was a victim. A series of sources from Hellenistic or imperial Roman times specifically refer to several intellectual figures of the fifth century who were tried for impiety by the Athenians. Socrates would therefore be but the most famous victim of a vast enterprise of persecution aimed at the intellectual elite, one which was set in motion as early as the midfifth century. For example, around 445, Anaxagoras the physician was allegedly accused of impiety and imprisoned, before being—according to different sources—either sentenced to death or saved by the intervention of Pericles. In 440, Damon, the esteemed Athenian teacher and musicologist, was said to have been ostracised by the Athenians. A short while later, Aspasia the cour29  Michel Foucault, Dits et écrits, 2nd ed. (Paris: Gallimard, 2001), 634. 30  Luciano Canfora, Une profession dangereuse. Les penseurs grecs dans la cité (Paris: Desjonquières, 2001). 31  Aristophanes, Clouds 1509.

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tesan was also put on trial for impiety; she was finally acquitted after Pericles, her partner, burst into tears before the court. During the same era, the sophist Protagoras is said to have been forced to leave Athens following his trial for impiety, and, according to Diogenes Laertius and Cicero, his books were burned on the Agora.32 In 415/414, the sophist Diagoras of Melos was supposedly tried for having mocked the mysteries of Eleusis, and four years later, another sophist—Prodicos, originally from Ceos—may have been condemned to drink a poisonous concoction of hemlock for having corrupted the youth. According to Plutarch, all of these cases had solid legal grounds, since a diviner by the name of Diopeithes was rumoured to have been at the root of a decree, issued sometime in the 430s, stating “that those who disputed the existence of the gods, or introduced new opinions about celestial appearances, should be tried (τοὺς τὰ θεῖα μὴ νομίζοντας ἢ λόγους περὶ τῶν μεταρσίων διδάσκοντας)”.33 This decree would therefore have made up the legal backbone of an attack by the city against a portion of its intellectuals. Several historians have nonetheless shown that the accounts of these trials essentially rested on a series of approximations on the part of authors from the imperial Roman era. In some cases, they had perhaps fabricated these events, inspired by the ways in which comic authors mocked certain figures or by certain extracts of the Platonic corpus. In other cases, it is likely that the narration of Socrates’s sentencing was retrospectively projected onto certain characters.34 It is therefore more than probable that the hypothesis concerning Anaxagoras’s trial was inspired by a passage in Plato’s Apology in which Socrates criticises Meletus for getting his own positions mixed up with those of Anaxagoras.35 And as for the trial of Aspasia, this seems to be a simple flight of fancy, founded upon the attacks of the comic poet Hermippos. The most obvious case of such confusion must be that of Prodicos, who was sentenced to drink poison. The only evidence of his trial is an isolated note in the Byzantine encyclopaedia of the Suda,36 which may be explained by the fact that Plato’s Axiochus presents Socrates as a disciple of Prodicos, a character also quoted in Xenophon’s 32  Cicero, De natura deorum 1.63; Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers 9.52; Flavius Josephus, Against Apion 2.266; and Sextus Empiricus, Adversus Mathematicos 9.55–56. 33  Plutarch, Pericles 32. 34  See Kenneth Dover, “The Freedom of the Intellectual in Greek Society,” Talanta 7 (1976): 24–54; and Robert Wallace, “Private Lives and Public Enemies: Freedom of Thought in Classical Athens,” in Athenian Identity and Civic Ideology, ed. Adele C. Scafuro and Alan L. Boegehold (Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), 127–55. 35  Plato, Apology of Socrates 26c–d. 36  Souda P 2365 = I, 4, 201 Adler.

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Memorabilia. The hypothesis concerning the burning of Protagoras’s works probably rests upon the remark of an author from the Hellenistic age, Timon of Phlius, according to whom the Athenians were supposed to have wished to burn his works. When they mention Protagoras, not a single author from the classical era refers to such an event. In the end, it seems that many biographers of the Hellenistic and especially the Roman eras invented these impiety trials. In the same way, we can only be circumspect as to the existence of the decree of Diopeithes, as mentioned by Plutarch: it is highly probable that the biographer simply invented this fact, based upon the jibes of a comic author, known as none other than Diopeithes. Is there nothing left of this house of cards built during the Hellenistic and imperial Roman eras? Two cases remain which seem difficult to question, cases founded upon sources from the classical era. The ostracism of Damon, the musicologist, is confirmed in the works of Aristotle, and his name appears on two of the ostraka discovered at the former site of the Agora.37 However, we know nothing of the reasons which pushed the Athenians to vote in favour of his exile, and nothing could lead us to state that the intellectual positions of his master caused such a sanction. The case of Diagoras, mentioned by Aristophanes as well as by Lysias, seems much more relevant.38 This poet, originally from Melos, was alleged to have spread blasphemous rumours about the ceremony of the mysteries throughout Athens, to the extent that he was described as a model of impiety in Clouds, replacing the rule of Zeus with that of the Whirlwind.39 According to a speech by Lysias, delivered during the trial of Andocides, Diagoras was found guilty of “an offence in words against the sacred things and ceremonies of a foreign city (λόγῳ περὶ τὰ ἀλλότρια ἱερὰ καὶ ἑορτὰς ἠσέβει)”—that is to say, Athens.40 If the words uttered by Diagoras were indeed duly punished, his case can hardly be compared to that of Socrates. The procedure selected was in fact a response to blasphemous words slandering a specific rite—that of the mysteries of Eleusis, whose protection was guaranteed by two religious authorities, the genê of Eumolpidai and Kerykes. If the trial of Diagoras did in fact concern a crime of defamation regarding religious rites, the rites in question concerned two goddesses of Eleusis, whose protection was not really a matter for the civil court system.

37  Aristotle, The Athenian Constitution 27.4. 38  Aristophanes, Birds 1071–73; Lysias, Orations 6.17. See also Melanthius, FGrHist 326 F3; Craterus, FGrHist 342 F16. 39  Aristophanes, Clouds 828–30. 40  Lysias, Against Andocides (Orations 6) 17.

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In conclusion, our records of intellectuals who came under legal fire in fifth-century Athens are limited to two figures—Damon and Diagoras—neither of whom could be compared to Socrates. It would therefore be impossible to accredit the theory of a witch hunt organised against the intellectuals of democratic Athens. The comic sphere probably did express some suspicion towards a group confusedly identified as physicists, cosmologists, and sophists— those who had turned Athens into the intellectual centre of the Greek world. However, the city authorities never seem to have attempted to exert the slightest control over the expression of their thoughts. Even if freedom of religion was never theorised by the authors of ancient Greece, a great permissiveness (one that is nonetheless not really comparable to our modern concept of “tolerance”) seemed to structure spiritual life in the city. As long as sacred spheres such as the great traditional rites were not the object of sacrilegious behaviour, and as long as this freedom did not endanger the relationship the community had fostered with the gods, the city-state was not overly concerned with controlling these practices or managing individual expression. The Christian authors of imperial times condemned the excessive freedom Athenians granted to the most diverse practices. In City of God, Augustine depicts classical Athens as a terrifying Babylon in which the most varied religions were practiced: “Even if some true things were said in it, yet falsehoods were uttered with the same licence; so that it is not improper that such a city has received the title of the mystic Babylon. For Babylon means confusion, as we remember we have already explained. Nor does it matter to the devil, its king, how they wrangle among themselves in contradictory errors, since all alike deservedly belong to him on account of their great and varied impiety.”41 3

Socratic Impiety

The sanction of Socratic impiety, therefore, cannot be compared to any prior events in the Athenian intellectual realm of the fifth century. But in this case, how can we understand the accusation of asebeia levelled against him? This is probably where we touch upon the most enigmatic element of the whole case. The religion attributed to Socrates and his disciples in Clouds was actually a reconstruction, in a comic fashion, of ideas held at the beginning of the fifth century by astronomers and physicists, such as Anaxagoras of Clazomenes. It is nonetheless fruitless to make the slightest link between the ritual practices exposed in Clouds and the Socratic piety that Plato or Xenophon expressed in 41  Augustine, The City of God 18.41.2.

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their works. Criticism of the ritualist foundations of civic religion, especially salient in the Euthyphro, would certainly have upset the Athenians. It is nonetheless difficult to conceive of how this could have provided solid grounds for an affidavit in a city that remained ignorant of the forms of religious persecution common to a more modern age. The specific link the philosopher was said to have with what he called the daimonion occupies an important position in the argumentation of Plato’s Apology, as it does in the works of Xenophon.42 Since the dawn of the Christian era, many have seen this as the foundation of Meletus’s accusation. In Plato’s Apology, Socrates seems to draw a clear connection between Meletus’s accusation and his own speech on the daimonion. In justifying his retreat from public spaces of deliberation in the city, the philosopher argued, “You have often heard me speak of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. (ὑμεῖς ἐμοῦ πολλάκις ἀκηκόατε πολλαχοῦ λέγοντος, ὅτι μοι θεῖόν τι καὶ δαιμόνιον γίγνεται φωνή, ὃ δὴ καὶ ἐν τῇ γραφῇ ἐπικωμῳδῶν Μέλητος ἐγράψατο)”.43 The “new divinity” that Socrates had introduced to Athens, according to his accusers, would have been none other than this odd figure, whose nature was at once divine and demonic, and who regularly manifested itself before his eyes. The precise difficulty in putting forward such an interpretation lies in the meaning we attribute to the term daimonion. Plato and Xenophon attributed two quite different conceptions to Socrates when it came to the manifestations of the daimonion. Whilst Xenophon assimilates this term to a traditional mode of divination likely to prescribe a course of action44—and thus, in this sense, quite close to the oracular practices known to the Greeks—Plato refuses to assimilate the divine sign to a mantic form and specifically insists upon its interpretive aspects. In fact, as Louis-André Dorion stated, the signs (ta semeia) at the origin of the daimonion are specifically used by Plato to represent “an exegetic moment which actually represents the deployment and rationalism of Socrates.”45 Whereas Plato turned the experience of the daimonic sign into a fundamental moment in the expression of philosophic reason, Xenophon, adopting a more apologetic perspective, considerably reduced its scope, to the extent that he compared it to a form of divination like any other. Plato also differed from Xenophon in his refusal to attribute a prescriptive function to 42  See Xenophon, Apology of Socrates 13; and Memorabilia 1.1, 4; Plato, Apology of Socrates 31 c–d; Euthyphro 3b. 43  Plato, Apology of Socrates 31c. 44   Louis-André Dorion, “Socrate, le daimonion et la divination,” in Les dieux de Platon, ed. Jérôme Laurent (Caen: Publications Universite Caen, 2003), 170–80. 45  Dorion, “Socrate,” 188.

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this figure: “The sign is a voice which comes to me and always forbids me from doing something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything,” states Socrates in Plato’s Apology.46 Yet this is not the heart of the matter. Beyond their differences, Plato, much like Xenophon, employed the term daimonion in the sense traditionally expressed in the written material of the classical era. When it comes to Thucydides, as well as the logographers of the fourth century, to daimonion means nothing more than “the divinity” in its most neutral sense, and ta daimonia (“divine things”) in the widest sense.47 Precise research into the way the term was used by the two Socratists reveals that they used this expression in much the same manner. When they wrote daimonion, neither Xenophon nor Plato referred to a demon, but instead to a divinity, one Socrates could claim to hold a specific link with due to the signs (semeia) it sent to him. In the works of Xenophon, the term daimonion even seems interchangeable with theos or theion. There is therefore nothing which allows us to state a priori that the accusation against Socrates directly referenced an original Socratic conception of the daimonion. The act of accusation probably refers to the word daimonion in its most commonplace sense, one which was often identical to the word theos. The famous “Daemon of Socrates” (daimôn, not daimonion)—an intermediary divinity between the man and god, almost a specific attribute of the genius of the philosopher—was a later invention by the Platonist schools of imperial Rome, which finds no echo in the Socratic literature of the classical age. By placing the interpretation of signs sent by the divinity at the heart of Socratic rationalism, later Platonic writings lent a subversive aspect to the daimonion that it probably did not possess. The specific and potentially exclusive link Socrates seemed to foster with the divinity was not unheard of in the polytheist environment of the classical era. Hippolytus—who was almost contemporaneous with Socrates and his trial—as described by Euripides, presented himself as the “hunter, servant, and the knight” of Artemis and the “guardian of her images (ἀγαλμάτων φύλαξ)”48 and addressed the goddess Aphrodite as one would approach a narrow, personal union: “I spend my days with you and speak with you, I hear your voice but never see your face (σοὶ καὶ ξύνειμι καὶ λόγοις ἀμείβομαι | κλύων μὲν αὐδῆς, ὄμμα δ᾽ οὐχ ὁρῶν τὸ σόν).”49 The voice Hippolytus hears can probably be considered a distant relative of the Socratic semeion daimonion, 46  Plato, Apology of Socrates 31d. 47  Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War 2.64; Isocrates, To Philip 149; Xenophon, Hellenica 6.4.3. 48  Euripides, Hippolytus 1397–99. 49  Euripides, Hippolytus 85–86.

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and the ancient authors did in fact establish a parallel between Socrates and Euripides. Should this be taken as a sign of original religiosity, unique to a segment of the cultured elite of the city-state at the end of the fifth century? Possibly, but nothing leads us to conclude that the Athenians saw this as a sign of impiety. 4

A Political Trial?

Since it is difficult to discern the contours of Socratic impiety, historians have often concluded that the trial was essentially connected to changes in the way the city-state was governed. The grounds for the charge of impiety which Meletus levelled against Socrates would therefore have been but a mask—an essential one, due to the pledge of amnesty each Athenian had sworn in 403— for an accusation which was really political. Such a reading is initially plausible due to the rare accounts of the trial originating from outside the sphere of the philosopher’s disciples. To indirectly attack his old enemy, Demosthenes, before the Athenian tribunal more than fifty years after the trial itself, Aeschines stated: “[T]herefore, Athenians, you put Socrates the sophist to death, fellow citizens, because he was shown to have been the teacher of Critias, one of the Thirty who put down the democracy (ἔπειθ᾽ ὑμεῖς, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, Σωκράτην μὲν τὸν σοφιστὴν ἀπεκτείνατε, ὅτι Κριτίαν ἐφάνη πεπαιδευκώς, ἕνα τῶν τριάκοντα τῶν τὸν δῆμον καταλυσάντων).”50 Most of the fragments that enable us to reconstitute the Accusation against Socrates by Polycrates have encouraged such an interpretation. Libanius, for example, indicates that Polycrates accused Socrates, qualified as a misodemos, of “manufacturing idleness,” of encouraging the youth to “fight the law” and to make fun of democracy.51 Under his influence, the partisans of Socrates would even have become “tyrannikoi” and “detractors of legality (to ison).”52 This trial can certainly be included in the political chronology during which the democrats reaffirmed their power over the city. In the summer of 403, Thrasybulus’s soldiers secured a military victory in the Piraeus, slaying the last supporters of the rule of the Thirty Tyrants, who had been abandoned by the Spartans. When democratic institutions were restored, the victorious democrats made a novel decision: instead of trying the final partisans of the Thirty Tyrants, they proclaimed an amnesty. An orator, Andocides, mentions the oath 50  Aeschines, Against Timarchus 1.173. 51  Libanius, Apology of Socrates 127; 38; 54. 52  Libanius, Apology of Socrates 38; 162.

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all the citizens were forced to take: “I will harbour no grievance against any citizen, save only the Thirty, the Ten, and the Eleven: and even of them against none who shall consent to render account of his office (καὶ οὐ μνησικακήσω τῶν πολιτῶν οὐδενὶ πλὴν τῶν τριάκοντα καὶ τῶν δέκα καὶ τῶν ἕνδεκα: οὐδὲ τούτων ὃς ἂν ἐθέλῃ εὐθύνας διδόναι τῆς ἀρχῆς ἧς ἦρξεν).”53 The amnesty therefore stated that, apart from the main leaders of the rule of the Thirty, none of the partisans of the oligarchy could be tried for their actions during the civil war. Athenians could not subsequently accuse their fellow citizens of supporting the Thirty Tyrants. Ou mnesikakein—under this oath, the Athenians proclaimed a necessary and obligatory obliteration of the past. Certain historians do in fact consider that this clause was applied to all acts committed before the civil war, as the democrats intended to radically reshape the city, defining the year 403 as year one of a new Athenian democracy. Nicole Loraux offered a fascinating reading of this amnesty, largely inspired by psychoanalysis, turning the denial of the conflict into the decisive issue in Athenian politics.54 “We govern ourselves in a way that is as beautiful and common as if no disaster has befallen us,”55 wrote the logographer Isocrates in the early fourth century. This amnesty was also amnesia, and the denial of a fratricidal conflict lay at the heart of the rebirth of the city. The proclamation of amnesty nonetheless failed to obfuscate the political violence of the years following the reestablishment of democracy. Beyond the narrative of a reconciled or pacified city, which was fabricated by Athenian works, some of the divisions which were rife at the end of the fifth century clearly persisted. Without constituting the basis for a legal accusation, the behaviour of each Athenian during the civil war could incidentally be the object of recriminations or hostile reminders, thus leading to public or private procedures. Everything effectively indicates that the question of whether individuals had been committed to the oligarchs or the democrats still structured aspects of the prevalent political strategy in 403. There is one very telling source in this field, to be found among the speeches drafted by the great logographer of the time, Lysias. Six out of the 35 speeches which have made their way down to us, though they covered various topics, directly or indirectly referred to the fact that the accuser was a supporter of democracy, who was therefore spearheading a trial against those advocating the rule of the Thirty.56 Moreover, these six 53  Andocides, On the Mysteries 1.90. 54  Nicole Loraux, The Divided City (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001). 55  Isocrates, Discourses 7 (Areopagiticus) 70. 56  Lysias, Orations 6, 12, 13, 25, 30, 40, frg. 9. See Millett, “The Trial of Socrates Revisited,” 32–33.

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speeches are truly contemporary with Socrates’s trial, since they date back to the first two years of the fourth century (400–398). In the years 401–399, the advocates of democracy had reclaimed lost ground, and when we read Lysias’s addresses, we are led to think that many among them took the opportunity to discretely settle final scores with certain political enemies. In fact, the political events of 399 support the notion of such an initiative on the part of the democrats, since two debates which occurred that year took place before an assembly which directly concerned the events of 403. In fact, it was in 399 that an orator suggested the Athenians should extend the support they granted to the orphans of those who had died for the city-state to the orphans of citizens killed in the struggle against the oligarchs. As a result, the victims of 403 were associated with citizens who had died for the fatherland in foreign conflicts. That same year, a certain Theozotides was also said to have suggested that the military pay allotted to horsemen should be reduced, something most historians interpret as an act of revenge at the expense of a category of the military which, in large majority, had rallied around the Thirty. Finally, Socrates was included in a social network that was unusually hostile to the democratic regime, one which was to play a considerable role in opposing it. In the Athenian society of face-to-face relationships during the classical era, individual identity was largely defined by a plurality of circles of membership; the life of each citizen was regulated by their activities within their administrative subdivision (deme or phratry), as well as the different social circles they belonged to, more or less informally. It is probably because he had frequent friendly contact with individuals close to oligarchic circles that Socrates could be called misodêmos by Polycrates, and that Aristophanes, when describing young men in Athenian society afflicted with laconomania (i.e., fascinated by the Spartan oligarchic regime) in Birds, claimed that they were becoming “Socratised (ἐσωκράτουν).”57 The writings of Plato and Xenophon are presented as mimêseis in that they claim to offer a transcript of Socratic thought by projecting it onto a fictitious context. By featuring characters well known to the majority of Athenians, their works nonetheless act as a litmus test of the social environment in which the teachings of Socrates were developed. The thorough study of these sources, as undertaken by Debrah Nails, allows us to shed light on the sociological coherence of these Socratic circles.58 Out of the twenty-odd Athenians who make regular appearances in the dialogues of Plato and Xenophon—those 57  Aristophanes, Birds 1281–82. 58  Debra Nails, The People of Plato: A Prosopography of Plato and Other Socratics (Cambridge: Hackett, 2002).

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who can be described as close to Socrates and whose political leanings can be identified—five participated in the regular exchanges of Athenian political life to varying extents. This seems to imply an acceptance, although perhaps minimal, of the workings of democratic institutions. With the exception of Alcibiades, however, none of them seem to have been part of the philosopher’s inner circle. We must also pay close attention to the case of Chaerephon, one of Socrates’s contemporaries. Aristophanes presents this figure as the codirector of the Phrontisterion, and among Athenians, he was high-profile enough for comic authors to mock his sickly appearance on more than one occasion. According to Plato, Chaerephon left Athens in 404, but nothing explicitly indicates that this flight stemmed from a real commitment to the democratic regime. In Aristophanes’s Birds, Chaerephon is compared to a bat and is affected by laconomania, which seems at odds with his reputation as a democrat.59 An obvious pattern is emerging here—none of those close to Socrates seem to have demonstrated a close affiliation to the democratic regime. Drawing up a sociology of Socratic circles therefore largely consists in writing the history of a fringe of the Athenian elite who were quite determined in their opposition to the democratic regime. In fact, every oligarchic episode of the late fifth century quite prominently features individuals belonging to Socratic circles. Debrah Nails determines that 16 members of these circles were involved in the two traumatic events of the year 415—the profanation of the mysteries of Eleusis and the mutilation of the Herms.60 Both episodes clearly embody a protest against traditional piety among certain circles of the Athenian elite. Yet, having read Thucydides, one cannot assert that these two episodes were immediately interpreted by Athenians as an attack wrought by the supporters of the oligarchy who were lashing out against democracy.61 Most of the protagonists of both incidents, several of whom were prominently featured in Platonic dialogues (Phaedrus, Charmide, Alcibiades, and Axiochus), were condemned to exile and only returned to Athens in 407. In all probability, this exile amply contributed to the initial distancing of Socratic circles from the democratic city-state. Amongst these circles, we can also distinguish several participants in the coup of 411: most notably Clitophon, the author of a decree paving the way for the rule of the 400. He was also the Athenian ambassador to Lysander in the year 404—a fact which could betray his closeness to the Spartan leaders; Thucydides of Alopece, the son of Melesias (Pericles’s arch enemy), appears 59  Aristophanes, Birds 1281; 1296. 60  Nails, The People of Plato, 17. 61  See Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War 6.27.

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in Laches and Menon and was one of the members of the 400. He was also forced into exile after the reinstatement of democracy. In particular, two of the citizens who were most active in the events of 404/403, Critias and Charmide, were very close to Socrates. Lending his name to two eponymous dialogues attributed to Plato, and as the protagonist of two others, it seems Alcibiades was the central character of several logoi sokratikoi—by Antisthenes, Aeschines of Sphettus, Euclid of Megara, and Phaedo of Elis.62 It seems that Alcibiades had also, in a way, become a mythologised character in the field of Socratic literature—the son of a well-to-do family, looking forward to the promise of a grand political future, who was brutally converted by the teachings of a seductive Silenus. Yet the subversive aspect of Alcibiades’s character was not so much down to his political positioning on one side or another of the dividing line between democracy and oligarchy. If all the literature of the classical era has depicted Alcibiades as a threat to the democratic regime, capable of “attracting and spellbinding the people,” it was also because of his character, which was comparable to that of a tyrant in many respects.63 In fact, Plutarch wrote that when he returned to Athens in 407, a portion of the Athenian people “wanted to have him as a tyrant.” One can easily understand that, eight years later, the memory of Alcibiades can hardly speak in favour of the man who acted as his teacher. Socratic circles therefore present an undeniable socio-political coherence. Beyond the spectacular cases of Alcibiades and Critias, those mentioned most often in ancient sources, complete sectors of the Athenian elite—usually hostile to the democratic regime, to the extent that they tried to overthrow it several times—made up the ranks of the logoi sokratikoi. In this sense, the works of Plato are presented as a genuine “who’s who” of the oligarchical Athenian elite, drafted at a moment when democracy seemed to have definitively won the game. To accredit the exclusively political dimension of this trial, one must nonetheless identify the political coherence of the group composed of Meletus and his synegoroi. Readers of Plato will note that Anytus, Meletus, and Lycon represented a structured coalition of converging interests tying together orators, poets, and politicians, all at the service of the democratic regime.64 Yet one trial, perfectly contemporary with that of Socrates, counterbalances such a representation. Within six months of the philosopher’s trial, the Athenian orator Andocides—a man with a controversial reputation, since he had participated 62  Xenophon, Hellenica 2.3.42; Isocrates, Discourses 16.40. 63  Plutarch, Alcibiades 23.3. 64  Plato, Apology of Socrates 23c.

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in the profanation of the mysteries in 415—was in fact accused of impiety. Like the case against Socrates, this accusation may indeed have been a cover for political motives, though it is difficult for us to determine precisely which ones. Whilst Andocides adopted the role of a synegoros for this trial, and was flanked by Anytos, the accuser went by the name of Meletus. It is more than probable that this was the same Meletus who accused Socrates.65 In the trial against Andocides, Anytus and Meletus were therefore represented as two ferocious adversaries, whereas within a year, they had both taken part in the accusation against Socrates. This fact reveals the complexity and fragility of alliances on the Athenian political stage. Whatever the case, one cannot consider Socrates’s accusers as a clearly identifiable faction of the Athenian political spectrum. Although the fact that oligarchs who had attempted to overthrow the democratic regime in 411 and 404 were present in the inner sanctum of Socratic social circles played a determining role in the trial, it would nonetheless be impossible to reduce the sentencing of the philosopher to a mere settling of scores among different factions in Athenian political life. 5 Socratic Asebeia: A Hypothesis To further elucidate the subject, let us return to the affidavit filed by Meletus. It contained three grounds for accusation—refusing to recognise the gods recognised by the state, introducing new divinities, and corrupting the youth. These first two grounds seem somewhat unfounded, given our knowledge of Athenian religion. New gods, such as Bendis or Asclepios in the 420s, were integrated into existing civic rites upon the initiative of city-state institutions or even simple individuals without any difficulties. No law specifically forbade the introduction of “new divinities” in Athens. In no way did Socrates’s public behaviour suggest a lack of recognition of the gods of the city-state, and his discourse on piety, as critical and subtle as it could be, was certainly unknown to most Athenians. Above all, there is not a single comparable case of an individual tried for impiety as a result of the affirmation of personal heterodox beliefs in the history of Athens. An additional point is all too rarely mentioned—neither Plato nor Xenophon, in the Apology or in Memorabilia, were really concerned with addressing the primary grounds for Meletus’s accusation. The affidavit, as we know it, does not seem to comprise the main backdrop to the responses of 65  S ee S. C. Todd, A Commentary on Lysias Speeches 1–11 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 409–10.

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the Socratics. In fact, they never tried to disprove the accusation that Socrates introduced new gods to Athens, or that he failed to recognise the gods of the city-state. By pretending to interpret the lack of recognition of the gods of the city as a presumption of atheism, Socrates was in effect refusing to confront Meletus’s accusation head on.66 Xenophon only addresses this indirectly at the beginning of Memorabilia, when he attempts to show that Socrates’s religious practices were extremely conformist.67 One can also wonder to what extent the two motives for the accusation oriented the judgment of the Athenians. Were they supposed to deliberate upon the fact that Socrates had introduced new gods? We have reason to doubt this fact, since this debate is never openly discussed, neither in the works of Plato nor in those of Xenophon, and Socrates could very easily have conjured up the introduction of new gods to fifthcentury Athens. Did the Athenians believe that Socrates did not recognise the gods of the city? The philosopher hardly attempts to refute such an accusation. To sum up, everything seems to have occurred as if the first two motives which made up Meletus’s act of accusation did not genuinely contribute to the final judgement of 399. However, Socrates never for a single moment implies that the accusation Meletus set in motion had no legal grounds. These parallel observations allow us to formulate another hypothesis, which has already been touched upon by Robert Parker.68 It consists in turning the three motives of the act of accusation into three simple technical categories of Athenian law, essential to the wording of all cases involving accusations of impiety, the existence of which the judges were nevertheless not to deliberate upon. It would also be suitable to define the procedural category of impiety upon which the judges were to pronounce their verdict regarding this affidavit. The selection of this category predated the anakrisis of the case before the archon basileus, and the grounds may have quite simply referred to the technical categories of Athenian law. In the same way as in contemporary French law, a legal category described as “coups et blessures” (assault and battery) aims to designate “all the acts that harm the physical integrity of a human being.” The introduction of new gods could have constituted a technical category necessary for the punishment of all offences designated as impiety. Therefore, the judges of 399 may have considered that Socrates had committed acts of impiety without having to establish whether he had introduced new gods to the city or whether he recognised existing gods. 66  Plato, Apology of Socrates 26b–c. 67  Xenophon, Memorabilia 1.1.2. 68  See Robert Parker, Athenian Religion: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 214–16.

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Luckily, another trial, one with its own set of controversies, sheds some light on such a hypothesis—a case initiated by a certain Euthias against his former mistress, the famous hetaira Phryne, in mid fourth-century Athens. This trial also offers the precious advantage of having made itself known thanks to a whole series of sources alien to the Socratic tradition. Unlike the series of presumed trials against intellectuals in the fifth century, one could not conceive of the projection of a Socratic figure upon the famous courtesan. Moreover, everything indicates that the courtesan was tried under graphê asebeias,69 and certain motives for the accusation seem similar to those of 399. The courtesan was also accused of having introduced new divinities to Athens (kainou theou eisêgêtrian)70 and of corrupting the youth.71 Whilst nothing seems to liken this courtesan from Thrace to the Athenian philosopher, the acts of accusation registered against her on the grounds of impiety present troubling similarities. One can therefore wonder whether the three motives of accusation were drafted during the anakrisis—a procedure we know hardly anything about, but during which the archon established the legal grounds for an affidavit. We may also ask ourselves whether these motives constituted habitual legal categories necessary for many cases involving accusations of impiety. If our hypothesis turns out to be correct, then the Athenian judges did not deliberate on the introduction of new divinities or the recognition of the gods of the city, but rather on the presumption of impiety Socrates exhibited. This distinction is important—it encourages us not to take the three grounds for the accusation of 399 at face value, but to turn our attention to the procedure selected by the archon and Meletus, the graphê asebeias. We now understand more clearly why, in our era, we remain so confused by the decision the Athenians made. This decision can be attributed to two elements, stemming on the one hand from the specificities of Athenian law, and on the other from the extension of the very notion of eusebeia. The notion of impiety was in fact not rigorously defined by the legal system, and its appreciation was systematically left to the judges seated on the democratic tribunals, who were under no obligation to justify their decisions. Once again, we touch upon one of the specificities of Athenian law, which—in the name of its “exegetic openness”— had always refused to closely define most of its legal categories.72 In addition, piety encompassed a very large sphere of behaviours and practices and meant 69  Pseudo-Plutarch, Lives of the Ten Orators 849A. 70  L . Spengel, Rhetores Graeci, 1.390 (from a speech from Euthias). 71  See Craig Cooper, “Hypereides and the Trial of Phryne,” Phoenix 49 (1995): 303–18, here 305–6. The Ephesia by the comic author Poseidippos evoked the Phryne’s trial and the corruption of the youth. 72  Edward Harris, “Open Texture in Athenian Law,” Dike 3 (2000): 27–79.

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much more than the behaviours or beliefs of an individual in the sacred realm. Among the rare cases of graphai asebeias which have been handed down to us from the classical era, we find the uncle of the speaker in Demosthenes’s Against Androtion, a man who was sentenced for impiety for having sheltered an individual accused of parricide.73 One could therefore imagine that Socratic impiety belonged less to a specific theoretical position adopted regarding the gods, and more to a whole series of behaviours stemming from social practices and social circles, basically constituting personal involvement in the Athenian political and social spheres—a pattern Athenians perceived as particularly subversive for the city. 6

The Charismatic Master

If the philosopher’s behaviour could be described as impious with regard to the city, it is notably because it was included in the public domain—his teachings were the conduit. At the beginning of Euthyphro, an apologetic dialogue haunted by the events of 399, the following statement is attributed to Socrates: “The Athenians do not care about any man being thought wise until he begins to make other men wise (Ἀθηναίοις γάρ τοι, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, οὐ σφόδρα μέλει ἄν τινα δεινὸν οἴωνται εἶναι, μὴ μέντοι διδασκαλικὸν τῆς αὑτοῦ σοφίας)”.74 In fact, the specific form of Socratic pedagogy is probably the element which expressed Socratic rebellion to the highest degree in the eyes of the greatest number of Athenians. In the city-state of the classical age, teaching was a private affair, managed within the family. Until the mid-fifth century, physical education, conceived as a mirror of personal virtue, was clearly privileged. Beyond rudimentary scraps of reading and writing, the young adolescents of the Athenian elite did not adhere to any specific intellectual training. In this landscape, the sophists initiated a genuine revolution, and Socratic pedagogy followed in its footsteps. The sophists were the first to raise the issue of developing intellectual capacities, placing value upon education in a wide variety of subjects, to the detriment of physical education. And this teaching was readily accessible—anyone who paid the sophists could come and attend their teachings in the courtyards of the dwellings of particular Athenian elite families. The teachings of Socrates directly followed on from these new practices inaugurated by the sophists. Socrates did not have a specific venue for this purpose, and he dispensed his knowledge, which was described as non-specialist, in the 73  Demosthenes, Orations 22.2–3 and 24.7. 74  Plato, Euthyphro 3c.

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public spaces of the city. It is therefore hardly surprising that Aristophanes and Aeschines dubbed him a sophist, one amongst so many others. However, Socratic pedagogy presented several singular traits that made it perfectly identifiable to Athenians. In fact, upon reading the ancient authors, we may hazard a guess that, for Athenians, the issue was the exclusive, charismatic relationship that the philosopher seemed to form with his disciples—a relationship which had never been observed in prior sophist teachings. Through the attraction he held for certain Athenian youth, Socrates seemed to question the established social order, so much so that some individuals could accuse him of turning young Athenians against their own fathers. His disciples did in fact model Socratic companionship upon amorous conversation, in which nothing was expected in return, in which the whole being was engaged, and through which the disciple gave himself unconditionally to his master. Under his master’s spell, Plato’s Charmides could therefore promise, at the conclusion of the dialogue: “you may depend on my following and not deserting him.” Let us suppose that, for many Athenians, these disciples resembled fanatics, and the exclusive love they demonstrated for their master appeared as a potential threat to the city-state. Xenophon himself, though a disciple of Socrates, admitted that because of this closeness—because of the link he established with his disciples—Socrates could be exposed to criticism and unintentionally cause jealousy amongst Pater familias. What were the mechanisms of this absolute, blind faith displayed by Socratic disciples? They seemed to emanate from an original conception of knowledge transmission, shaped to resemble an unlimited gift, which created a debt amongst its beneficiaries. Socrates criticised the way sophist knowledge was remunerated. By selling one’s knowledge, explained the philosopher, a sophist brought it down to the level of pure know-how, measured against a monetary scale, just like the commercial and artisanal activities of the citystate. Above all, this remuneration implied a contractual relationship between master and student, one which reversed traditional hierarchies. The educator then held the position of employee, at the service of his student, whereas the master should be the initiator of this exchange. In Xenophon’s Memorabilia, Socrates facetiously compared these paid masters to pornoi (“prostitutes”). This criticism of remuneration engendered two essential characteristics in Socratic teaching. Firstly, the fact that it was free allowed Socrates to select his audience. Liberated from all contractual constraints, Socrates could build a personal relationship with his students—even an affective one, something which never occurred within the frame of sophist education. Secondly, by administering his knowledge as one would yield a treasure whose distribution generates gratitude and recognition, Socrates maintained his audience in

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a state of infinite debt, and this situation was at the root of his charismatic authority. Remotely inspired by the masters of truth in the archaic era, Socratic pedagogy therefore followed a path akin to genuine intellectual eroticism and created the disciples’ unconditional bond with their master, the only condition for an authentic transmission of knowledge. Through their very form, the teachings of Socrates the philanthropist could only contradict the egalitarian order of the democratic city. Nonetheless, at the heart of the events of 399, there persists a mystery which resists every historical alchemy—that of the behaviour Socrates exhibited before his judges. By submitting the agnostic space of the tribunal to the imperatives of philosophical practice, and by refusing to attribute to the democratic tribunal the legitimate authority to judge him, Socrates turned his trial into the object of a debate centring upon the very nature of institutions in the citystate. Going one step further, Socrates turned his own life into the arena for this struggle. At the heart of the inner workings of the classic city-state, he opened a series of cracks which were to usher in the magnificent lights of posterity. Through his behaviour, Socrates entered into dissidence and offered us a treasure with enormous exegetic potential, drawing up a scene which was to crystallise the polemic relationship that we never ceased to maintain with the Athenian city—from the Fathers of the Church to Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. Bibliography Boegehold, Alan L. “Philokleon’s Court.” Hesperia 36 (1967): 111–20. Boegehold, Alan L., ed. The Athenian Agora XXVII: The Lawcourts at Athens. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995. Canfora, Luciano. Une profession dangereuse. Les penseurs grecs dans la cité. Paris: Desjonquières, 2001. Cavaillé, Jean-Pierre. “Socrate libertin.” Pages 33–65 in Socrate in Occidente. Edited by Ettore Lojacono. Florence: Mondadori, 2004. Chroust, Anton-Hermann. “Xenophon, Polycrates and the indictment of Socrates.” Classica et Mediaevalia 16 (1955): 1–77. Cooper, Craig. “Hypereides and the Trial of Phryne.” Phoenix 49 (1995): 303–18. Dorion, Louis-André. “Socrate, le daimonion et la divination.” Pages 170–80 in Les dieux de Platon. Edited by Jérôme Laurent. Caen: Publications Universite Caen, 2003. Dover, Kenneth. “The Freedom of the Intellectual in Greek Society.” Talanta 7 (1976): 24–54. Foucault, Michel. Dits et écrits. 2d ed. Paris: Gallimard, 2001.

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Grimm, Friedrich Melchior. Correspondance littéraire. Tome IX, 1762. Edited by Robert Granderoute, Monica Hjortberg, and Ulla Kölving. Ferney-Voltaire: Centre international d’études du XVIIIe siècle, 2014. Hansen, Morgens Herman. The Trial of Socrates from an Athenian Point of View. Copenhagen: Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1995. Harris, Edward. “Open Texture in Athenian Law.” Dike 3 (2000): 27–79. Humbert, Jean. Polycratès, l’accusation de Socrate et le Gorgias. Paris: Klincksieck, 1930. Ismard, Paulin. L’événement Socrate. Paris: Flammarion, 2013. Jaffro, Laurent. “Le Socrate de Shaftesbury. Comment raconter aux Modernes l’histoire de Socrate?” Pages 66–90 in Socrate in Occidente. Edited by Ettore Lojacono. Florence: Mondadori, 2004. Leonard, Miriam. Socrates and the Jews: Hellenism and Hebraism from Moses Mendelssohn to Sigmund Freud. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. Lilti, Antoine. “Comment écrit-on l’histoire intellectuelle des Lumières? Spinozisme, radicalisme et philosophie.” Annales HSC 1 (2009): 171–206. Livingstone, Niall. A Commentary on Isocrates’ Busiris. Leiden: Brill, 2002. Loraux, Nicole. The Divided City. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001. Millett, Paul. “The Trial of Socrates Revisited.” European Review of History 12 (2005): 23–62. Nails, Debra. The People of Plato: A Prosopography of Plato and Other Socratics. Cambridge: Hackett, 2002. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Twilight of the Idols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Parker, Robert. Athenian Religion: A History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Rubinstein, Lene. Litigation and Cooperation: Supporting Speakers in the Courts of Classical Athens. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2000. Stone, Isidore. The Trial of Socrates. New York: Anchor Books, 1989. Strauss, Leo. Persecution and the Art of Writing. New York: Free Press, 1952. Todd, S. C. A Commentary on Lysias Speeches 1–11. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Villacèque, Noémie. Spectateurs de parole! Délibération démocratique et théâtre à Athènes à l’époque classique. Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2013. Wallace, Robert. “Private Lives and Public Enemies: Freedom of Thought in Classical Athens.” Pages 127–55 in Athenian Identity and Civic Ideology. Edited by Adele C. Scafuro and Alan L. Boegehold. Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994.

chapter 6

Antiochus IV Epiphanes’s Policy towards the Jews Peter Franz Mittag According to Jewish tradition, in 167 BCE Antiochus IV enacted a decree prohibiting the traditional religious practices of the Jews. This decree led to the Maccabean Revolt and is one of the most prominent examples of religious intolerance in the ancient world. For the Jews, these events are of the highest importance even today, and the Chanukah festival, celebrated every year, is directly connected with the revolt. For this reason, Antiochus’s decree has always been part of Jewish history, and a rich literary tradition on the subject has existed since the second century BCE. But these sources create a lot of problems, because they each tell different and contradictory versions of the same story. In 2011, G. G. Aperghis stated that “the discrepancies in the sources themselves, coupled with what is known of Seleucid practice generally, suggest that the truth might be quite different.”1 And in 2014, Sylvie Honigman drew the most extreme conclusions based on a comparison with standard Seleucid policy and denied the very existence of the decree.2 This drastic conclusion can help to resolve old questions and debates, which derived from the fact that Hellenistic kings did not normally interfere in local affairs in the way suggested by the sources. Hellenistic kings were mainly interested in collecting tribute from and ensuring the loyalty of their subjects. According to the rich documentation available in ancient literature, papyri, and inscriptions, the Ptolemies seem to have perfected the increase of revenue. Due to the lack of papyri, the situation in the Seleucid Empire is less clear, but here as well, money always played an important role—while for the kings, religion was often an instrument to stabilise their relationship with their subjects by privileging local cults or promoting the ruler cult as an aspect of loyalty. 1  G. G. Aperghis, “Antiochus IV and his Jewish Subjects: Political, Cultural and Religious Interaction,” in Seleucid Dissolution: The Sinking of the Anchor, ed. Kyle Erickson and Gillian Ramsey (Philippika: Marburger altertumskundliche Abhandlungen 50; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 67–83, here 81. 2  Sylvie Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes: The Books of the Maccabees and the Judean Rebellion against Antiochos IV (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014). Most scholars still believe in the historicity of the decree; see, for example, Daniel R. Schwartz (2 Maccabees [Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2008], 273), who stresses that “there can be no doubt about the main claim, that Antiochus issued and enforced decrees against the practice of Judaism.”

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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Most problems in trying to reconstruct the series of events derive from the fact that the sources have very different foci. The main source outlining the events leading to the decree, Second Maccabees, tries to demonstrate the legitimacy of the Hasmoneans in contrast to the illegitimacy of the high priests installed by the Seleucids (Jason, Menelaus, and Alcimus). The author, the epitomator of a certain Jason of Cyrene, covers his account of the royal policy with a thick layer describing the struggle within the Jewish elite over the position of the high priest.3 The other sources for the decree and its consequences also focus on matters other than the central Seleucid policy. The key theme of First Maccabees is the Seleucid military settlement in Jerusalem as well as the autonomy of Judea. For this reason, the events leading up to the decree are of minor importance, and the high priests Jason and Menelaus are not mentioned. Flavius Josephus depends on the books of Maccabees and therefore follows similar tracks. The other Jewish sources, especially the book of Daniel, are less detailed concerning the events leading up to the decree. In addition to the distinct focus of each source, which led to very different accounts of the details of the decree in each case (see table 1 below), it is striking that Second Maccabees—which includes quite a few real, modified, and/ or invented royal letters—does not provide the text of the famous decree. Both aspects are reasons to doubt the existence of the decree. When we take into account Seleucid policy towards the indigenous population in general, and the policy of Antiochus IV in particular, more question marks will arise. 1

The King’s Interest in Tribute and Loyalty

The most widespread way to demonstrate loyalty to Seleucid kings was by paying tribute. When Antiochus III (223–187 BCE) came to Armosata during his anabasis (his campaign to regain control over the eastern parts of the Seleucid Empire, the so-called “upper satrapies”), he met the local dynast Xerxes and asked him to pay the phoros (“tribute”), which had remained unpaid in recent years. They agreed on the sum, and Xerxes delivered 300 talents of silver, 1000 horses, and 1000 mules.4 With this payment everything was settled, and the fact that Xerxes obviously had not met his obligations for some time was forgiven. There was no punishment or enquiry when Xerxes demonstrated his loyalty 3  Compare Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 291–94, and 214: “The case against Jason and Menelaus is constructed carefully and systematically”; and Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 45–56. 4  Polybius, The Histories 8.23.4–5.

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with his late payment. But the relationship between tribute and loyalty was also often antipodal. An increase in tribute could quickly endanger loyalty, and vice versa. For this reason, Hellenistic kings often reduced tributes in critical moments but increased them when it seemed to be possible without risking disloyalty. Critical moments could include the moment of conquest or other means of incorporation of territories into the empire, and it is no surprise that Antiochus III granted privileges—including fiscal advantages—to the Jews after his conquest of Judea during the Fifth Syrian War (202–199 BCE).5 Such privileges seem to have been renewed when his successors acceded to the throne, as an inscription from Erythrai demonstrates.6 This kind of confirmation was important when the succession was problematic and/or the subjects could not be forced to remain part of the empire by other means. On the other hand, the reduction of tributes was also terminable. Normally our epigraphic documentation only relates royal privileges, and therefore exemptions or reductions of tributes are quite well known, but the opposite must also have been a normal procedure. If there are indicators for this, they are normally well camouflaged. The few royal letters that might be interpreted as attempts to collect higher tributes always stress the king’s care for his subjects. The most important example related to the affairs in Judea is an inscription found a couple of years ago in Marisē. This inscription documents Seleucus IV’s (187–175 BCE) appointment of a certain Olympiodorus as the person in charge of the shrines of the satrapy of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē (τασσόμενος πρὸς τῆι τῶν ἱερῶν τούτων) in 178 BCE.7 This is not the earliest example of the Seleucid administration’s closer control of local temples. Antiochus III seems to have been the first Seleucid king to establish tighter control of the temples by appointing a certain Nikanor as archiereus or arch-priest (ἀρχιερεύς) for the

5  Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.138–146; Aperghis, “Antiochus IV and his Jewish Subjects,” 24–26. 6  Trans. M. M. Austin, The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest: A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation, Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae 223, Royal Correspondance 15 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 7  Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 57, 1838 Z. 25; Hannah Cotton and Michael Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros: A New Dossier of Royal Correspondance from Israel,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 159 (2007): 191–205; and Dov Gera, “Olympiodoros, Heliodoros, and the Temple of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 169 (2009): 125–55. Interestingly, Olympiodorus is not mentioned in our literary sources, which might be explained by the fact that the second book of Maccabees—our main source— focuses on the high priests and their guilt.

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Seleucid territories in Asia Minor west of the Tauros in 209 BCE8 and by confirming the former Ptolemaic governor of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē, Ptolemy son of Thraseas, as governor and arch-priest (στρατηγός καὶ ἀρχιερεύς).9 Nikanor seems to have been responsible not only for the cult, but also for temple finances in particular.10 Although there is no evidence from other parts of the Seleucid Empire, we can assume that Antiochus III reorganised the cultic topography in the rest of his empire as well. His son Seleucus IV might have followed the same path with the appointment of Olympiodorus, who—like Nikanor—was potentially responsible for temple finances.11 Olympiodorus’s appointment in 178 BCE might have been a reaction to an increase in financial pressure on the king. After Antiochus III’s defeat at the hands of Rome and the subsequent Treaty of Apameia (188 BCE), the Seleucid kings, in addition to other obligations, had to pay 12,000 talents at annual rates of 1000 talents of silver to Rome.12 Seleucus IV must have been unable to make the payments on time, because his successor, Antiochus IV, made the last payment later than arranged in the treaty—in 173 BCE.13 In addition to the probable delay of payment, the relationship between Rome and the Seleucid Empire worsened in 178 BCE, when Seleucus IV married his daughter Laodike to Perseus, king of Macedonia, which did not please Rome.14 The same year, the Seleucid king had to exchange his brother, Antiochus IV, as a Roman hostage in place of his son Demetrius. The relationship between Rome and Seleucus IV reached its lowest point during that time, and for these reasons, in 178 BCE the pressure on Seleucus IV to fulfil the financial obligations of the Apameia Treaty may have increased. The appointment of Olympiodorus as the person 8  Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 54.1237, and Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 54.1353; John Ma, Antiochus III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 288–92; Cotton and Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros,” 197. 9  Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae 230; Cotton and Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros,” 198; Gera, “Olympiodoros, Heliodoros, and the Temple of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē,” 146. 10  S upplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 37.1010. 11  But Olympiodorus did not receive the title archiereus, and this might be a clear signal that his competences differed from those of the archiereus Nikanor in Asia Minor; compare Cotton and Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros,” 198. But this is a matter of dispute; see Gera, “Olympiodoros, Heliodoros, and the Temple of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē,” 137. 12  This aspect was highlighted by Gera, “Olympiodoros, Heliodoros, and the Temple of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē,” 148. 13  Livy, History of Rome 42.6.8. 14  Polybius, The Histories 25.4, Livy, History of Rome 42.12.3; compare Cotton and Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros,” 199.

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in charge of temple finances could be interpreted as a result of this change for the worse. Interestingly, our Jewish sources do not mention Olympiodorus at all,15 but arrange the following events in Jerusalem in a quite different way. 2

Jason and Menelaus as High Priests

According to the author of Second Maccabees, it was not the Seleucid administration’s need for tribute or any increased pressure on local authorities that was the starting point, but a somewhat reversed situation. Simon, who was responsible for the finances of the temple in Jerusalem (προστάτης τοῦ ἱεροῦ),16 got into difficulties with the high priest, Onias III, and addressed himself to the stratēgos of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē, reporting that there was money stored in the temple that belonged to the king.17 Simon used the Seleucid demand for money in an active way to discredit his local rival, Onias III. As a result, the Seleucid “chancellor,” Heliodoros, came to Jerusalem to receive the money. When Onias III prevented this attempt, the high priest had to answer for his

15  Gera (“Olympiodoros, Heliodoros, and the Temple of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē,” 148f.) suggested emending Heliodoros to Olympiodoros in the literary sources. 16  2 Maccabees 3:4. Simon was a member of the Jewish elite and, according to the little information we have about the position of the prostates, seems to have been appointed by the Seleucid king or his administration. His position was a cornerstone between the Seleucid fiscal administration and the local elite. The question of whether Simon was primarily a member of the Seleucid administration (like the paqdu in Babylonia) or a member of the local administration cannot be resolved here; compare Elias J. Bickerman, “Héliodore au temple de Jérusalem,” Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 7 (1939–44); reprint with additions in Bickerman, Studies in Jewish and Christian History, Vol. II (Leiden: Brill, 1980), 161–66; Thomas Fischer, Seleukiden und Makkabäer. Beiträge zur Seleukidengeschichte und zu den politischen Ereignissen in Judäa während der 1. Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Bochum: Brockmeyer, 1980), 15; Niels Hyldahl, “The Maccabean Rebellion and the Question of ‘Hellenization’,” in Religions and Religious Practice in the Seleucid Kingdom, ed. Per Bilde, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Lise Hannestad, and Jan Zahle (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1990), 188–203, here 188f.; Aperghis, The Seleucid Royal Economy: The Finances and Financial Administration of the Seleucid Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 285, and Aperghis, “Antiochus IV and his Jewish Subjects,” 23 (suggesting that Simon “wished to exercise the agoranomos function in place of Onias”); Laurent Capdetrey, Le pouvoir séleucide. Territoire, administration, finances d’un royaume hellénistique (312–129 avant J.-C.) (Rennes: Presses Université de Rennes, 2007), 183f.; Cotton and Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros,” 202 (“position in the Temple administration rather than in the royal service”). 17  2 Maccabees 3:4–7.

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behaviour before the royal court in Antioch.18 Simon’s plan to discredit Onias III was obviously successful. It was in this situation that Antiochus IV ascended the throne in 175 BCE, after Heliodoros had murdered Seleucus IV. Antiochus IV had been absent from the Seleucid Empire for thirteen years and had to secure his new position. Therefore it was not advisable to change too many things or to replace too many officials. But Onias III could no longer remain high priest in Jerusalem, because he had constrained the royal administrators.19 A pragmatic solution was to appoint Onias’s brother Jason as the new high priest. According to Second Maccabees, Jason promised to increase the tribute from 300 (?) talents to 440 talents (360 talents plus 80 more from other sources of revenue) and to increase this amount by another 150 talents when he received the right to establish a Greek politeuma in Jerusalem—to build an ephebeion and a gymnasion.20 The reorganisation of indigenous towns as Greek poleis was a widespread phenomenon in the Seleucid Empire, and Antiochus IV later promoted this trend.21 It is very likely that—as Second Maccabees suggests—the impetus for the creation of polis structures came from the local elite.22 The new politeuma in Jerusalem was not meant to replace the traditional political order, with the temple as the most important centre, but the politeuma could function as an antipode to the temple and the priesthood that had opposed the king’s demands for higher taxes. For this reason, it was a win-win situation for both Jason and the king. Jason, who was interested in hellenisation, became the organiser of the new politeuma and the head of a large group of elite members who shared the same interests, and Antiochus IV benefitted from a counterweight to the traditionalists around Onias III and could be confident of receiving more tribute in the 18  2 Maccabees 4:5 (giving a wrong explanation for the journey to Antioch). 19  Compare Gilles Gorre and Sylvie Honigman, “La politique d’Antiochos IV à Jerusalem à la lumière des relations entre rois et temples aux époches perse et hellénistique (Babylonie, Judée et ègypte),” in Le projet politique d’ Antiochos IV, ed. Christophe Feyel and Laetitia Graslin-Thomé (Paris: De Boccard, 2014), 301–38, here 332. 20  2 Maccabees 4:8–14; compare 1 Maccabees 1:11–15; 4 Maccabees 4:18–20; and Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.237–241. Gorre and Honigmann (“La politique d’Antiochos IV à Jerusalem,” 321) combine the creation of poleis and the replacement of the traditional temple elites—but under Jason this combination does not work that easily, because Jason was a member of the Oniad family. The tribute paid before Jason became high priest is a matter of dispute. According to Seleucus (Chronicon 2.17.5), it was 300 talents in the time of Seleucus Nicator; compare Schwartz 2 Maccabees, 218. On the gymnasion in Hellenistic times, compare Daniel Kah and Peter Scholz, eds., Das hellenistische Gymnasion (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009). 21  Peter Franz Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes. Eine politische Biographie (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2006), 201–8. 22  Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 361–77.

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future. The dramatic increase from 300 talents to 440 talents (if the numbers are correct) can probably be partly explained by an increase under Seleucus IV, who may not have prolonged the privileges granted by Antiochus III, from 300 to 360 talents. For that reason, Jason promised an increase of “only” 80 talents, which might have also been partly financed by ending former fiscal privileges.23 According to Second Maccabees, the Jews willingly made use of the newly introduced Greek institutions, and the priests neglected their temple service.24 This might be an exaggeration, but one thing seems indisputable: there was no real resistance to the new high priest. He had strong backing from important members of the Jewish elite. In this respect, his nomination by Antiochus IV was a success—but in another respect, it was not: Jason could not fulfil his fiscal duties. The reasons for this are unclear, but perhaps—like Simon—he was not willing or able to break the traditional priestly elite’s resistance to redirecting money from the temple to the Seleucid tax administration. This could have been one reason why Antiochus IV replaced Jason with Menelaus two or three years later.25 In contrast to Jason, Menelaus was not a member of the Oniad family, which had supplied the high priests for two centuries. For this reason, his position in Jerusalem was much weaker than Jason’s. The new high priest must have been highly dependent on the Seleucid king. With the help of Menelaus, who became the head of the priestly elite, the Seleucid king could hope to break their resistance. Gilles Gorre and Sylvie Honigman have recently stressed the fact that in Egypt, the Ptolemaic kings also replaced the traditional temple elites in many cases, and in Seleucid Uruk during the reign of Antiochus IV, the leading family of Anu-uballiṭ-Kephalon was replaced by the family of Ḫunzû.26 Replacing Jason—as a member of the traditional temple elite—with Menelaus was therefore not a singular case and might have been a tested method for dealing with problematic local priests. But the new high priest could not pay the increased tribute either. Menelaus and the local Seleucid commander, Sostratus, were ordered to come to Antioch to explain the situation.27 When they arrived at the Seleucid capital, the king 23  Gorre and Honigman, “Kings, Taxes and High Priests: Comparing the Ptolemaic and Seleucid Policies,” in Egitto dai Faraoni agli Arabi, ed. Silvia Bussi (Pisa: Serra, 2013), 105– 19, here 116. According to 2 Maccabees 4:11, Jason abolishes royal privileges; Gorre and Honigman (“La politique d’Antiochos IV à Jerusalem,” 334) interpret this as the end of an “exemption fiscal.” 24  2 Maccabees 4:13–15. 25  2 Maccabees 4:23–24. 26  Gorre and Honigman, “Kings, Taxes and High Priests,” 107–9, 114, and 117; Gorre and Honigman, “La politique d’Antiochos IV à Jerusalem,” 310, 322–28, and 330; Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 358. 27  2 Maccabees 4:27–28

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was occupied with problems in Cilicia, which seem to have been more urgent for him than the affairs of Jerusalem.28 According to Second Maccabees, Menelaus and Sostratus bribed Antiochus’s deputy, Aristonicus, and were also able to get Onias III killed.29 In the meantime, Lysimachus, Menelaus’s brother, entered the temple to take some of the wealth stored there. The result of this insult was a local revolt and the death of Lysimachus.30 This marked a clear violation of a taboo, and it was no wonder that the internal enemies of Menelaus tried to accuse him before the king for this insult. Again according to Second Maccabees, they sent three members of the Jewish council to Tyre, where the king resided at the time. But Menelaus managed to bribe the stratēgos of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē, and the three accusers were sentenced to death.31 Despite this account, the king himself must have had a strong interest in keeping Menelaus in his position, because the king was about to wage war in Egypt and therefore had no chance to visit Jerusalem to settle things in person.32 But when he returned from Egypt in the autumn of 169 BCE, he came to Jerusalem and, together with Menelaus, entered the temple to take 1800 talents of silver—a sum that seems quite high.33 For the Seleucid king, this must have 28  Judea was only of minor importance for the Seleucid kings. According to Aperghis (“Jewish Subjects and Seleukid Kings: A Case Study of Economic Interaction,” in The Economies of Hellenistic Societies, Third to First Centuries BC, ed. Zosia H. Archibald, John K. Davies, and Vincent Gabrielsen [New York: Oxford University Press, 2011], 19–41, here 21): “From the point of view of Antiochus III c. 200, Judaea must have appeared quite a minor province of his empire, representing probably not more than 2 per cent of the population and contributing about as much to the royal treasury.” Victor Parker (“The Date of the Material in ‘II Maccabees’: The Bureaucratic Evidence,” Hermes 141 [2013]: 34–44, here 43) calls Judea a “sleepy district.” 29  2 Maccabees 4:32–34. 30  2 Maccabees 4:39–42. 31  2 Maccabees 4:43–47. 32  Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes, 250. 33  1 Maccabees 1:20–24; 2 Maccabees 5:11–16; 4 Maccabees 4:21–22; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.246–247. On the different versions of the events in the first two books of Maccabees and the reconstruction of these events, see for example Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 380–86; Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, appendix 3; Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes, 250– 56. On the sum, see Édouard Will, Histoire politique du monde hellénistique (323–30 av. J.-C.) vol. 2 (Nancy: Presses Université des Nancy, 1982), 337; Klaus Bringmann, Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa. Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-hellenistischen Geschichte (175–163 v. Chr.) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 119; Otto Mørkholm, “Antiochos IV,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 278–91, here 283; Niels Hyldahl, “The Maccabean Rebellion and the Question of ‘Hellenization’,” in Religions and Religious Practice in the Seleucid Kingdom, ed. Per Bilde, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Lise Hannestad, and Jan Zahle (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1990), 191f.; Aperghis, “Jewish Subjects and Seleukid Kings,” 33f.

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been a normal procedure. The Jews were behind schedule with their tribute, and the only Jewish “state” treasure was in the temple. In the Greek world, temple resources were often used for political purposes.34 But for the Jews, this was a massive religious insult. When Antiochus IV waged war in Egypt again the following year, a rumour arose in Jerusalem that the king was dead, and the internal enemies of Menelaus—lead by Jason—captured Jerusalem.35 The local Seleucid commander, residing in Samaria, was sent to Jerusalem with soldiers. He took the city and built a stronghold, the so-called Akra.36 According to Second Maccabees, the city walls were torn down, the inhabitants were enslaved, and the city was plundered.37 This was the expected reaction of a Hellenistic king and his administration to a local insurrection.38 The new settlers probably received land previously farmed by Jews. The religious taboos connected with the temple, which had been expanded to cover the whole city under Antiochus III,39 were restricted to the temple area again, because the settlers could not be expected to observe these taboos themselves. Their stronghold was built next to the temple area, and they worshipped their own gods and certainly did not change their diet. 3

A Decree of Religious Persecution?

According to the Jewish sources, in about 167 BCE the famous decree of religious persecution was instituted.40 Our main sources for the decree—the book of Daniel, First Maccabees, and Flavius Josephus—tell different versions of the story, as the following table demonstrates:41 34  The most prominent example is the temple of Athena at Athens, which provided the resources for the Peloponnesian War. 35  2 Maccabees 5:5–7. 36  1 Maccabees 1:29–35. 37  2 Maccabees 5:14. 38  Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 387. 39  Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.145f.; Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 400f. 40  For the question of the possible date of the decree, see Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes, 256, with further reading. 41  The non-Jewish sources that mention the decree (Diodorus Siculus, The Library of History 34/35.1.3–4 and Tacitus, Histories 5.8.2) are very problematic. Diodorus relates an unbelievable story about a marble statue found by Antiochus IV in the temple, and Tacitus’s chapter is more than confusing, mixing up a decree by a Antiochus with a rebellion led by the Parthian king Arsaces (probably Arsaces I, who captured Parthia in the mid-third century).

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Details of the decree according to the Jewish sources

holy law disobeyed end of the daily offerings 11:31 impure sacrifices prohibition of circumcision violation of Sabbath and feasts

1:49 1:45 1:47 1:48 1:45

construction of foreign 11:31 altars veneration of foreign gods veneration of the god of 11:38 strongholds veneration of Zeus Olympius veneration of gods venerated by Antiochus IV forced attendance at the Dionysia

1:47

12.253

1:43

12.253

Other details

Against the Torah

Book of 1 Maccabees 2 Maccabees Josephus, Josephus, Daniel The Jewish Jewish Antiquities War

Foreign cults

Details

temple prostitutes monthly celebration of the king’s birthday decree is valid throughout the whole empire

5:61

1.34

6:5

1.34 1.34

6:6

5:62

12.253 12.253 12.253 12.254

12.253

6:7

6:4 6:7 1:41

Many details are obviously inconsistent, and there are some details that do not fit with the otherwise known policy of Hellenistic kings in general, or with that of Antiochus IV in particular. The book of Daniel, which is the source closest to the events chronologically, provides three main aspects that can easily be explained by the recapture of Jerusalem and the erection of the Akra. It is no surprise that the daily offerings ended during the recapture and the turmoil of battle. The construction of foreign altars and the veneration of foreign gods within Jerusalem was a result of the deployment of military settlers next to the temple area. The soldiers must have worshipped their traditional gods within

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the Akra or in the neighbourhood.42 It is not necessary to assume the existence of a special religious decree to explain this situation—but there might have been a decree concerning the installation of a military settlement. First Maccabees contains additional details. The most striking aspect is the assertion that the decree was valid for the whole Seleucid Empire. There are no other sources that confirm this apparent kingdom-wide validity. On the contrary, according to 2 Maccabees 6:8, at a later stage, a decree was issued that the neighbouring Greek cities should adopt the same policy towards the Jews and make them partake of the sacrifices. If this is correct, then the original decree was meant only for Jews in Judea, and First Maccabees must be wrong. This scenario becomes even more likely when we take into account the fact that Hellenistic kings were quite cautious regarding the religious feelings of their subjects, and it would have been very unusual if Antiochus IV had ordered a kingdom-wide decree in the form presented in First Maccabees. Like the aspects provided by the book of Daniel, most other details can be explained by the recapture of Jerusalem and the erection of the Akra. Only the prohibition of circumcision goes beyond the book of Daniel and might reflect the special focus of First Maccabees. Circumcision was a widespread phenomenon in the Near and Middle East and was not restricted to the Jews. For this reason, a prohibition on circumcision would have affected non-Jews who did not partake in the Judaean insurrection. On the other hand, the Maccabees forced conquered people to get circumcised,43 and the author of First Maccabees could have reversed this arbitrary measure and transferred it to the Seleucids. In addition, Second Maccabees tells another story. It is only here that details of a ruler cult are mentioned. For this reason, it seems helpful to take a look at the Seleucid ruler cult in general. Antiochus III, the father of Antiochus IV, ordered a cult to be dedicated to himself and his wife in Asia Minor, and it is very likely that this cult was meant to be celebrated throughout his whole 42  Daniel 11:38 calls the new god the “god of strongholds.” Interestingly, the author claims that this cult was different from the cult the Seleucids practised (Daniel 11:37–39). The local, non-Greek aspects of the new cult sometimes led to the assumption that the new garrison in the Akra had been responsible for the cult; see Viktor A. Tscherikover, Hellenistic Civilization and the Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1959), 189– 200. Cf. also Jonathan A. Goldstein, II Maccabees: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, 2nd ed., Serie Anchor Bible 41A (New York: Doubleday, 1984), 107–9. This god is otherwise totally unknown. Cf. also Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 399 and 402. 43  Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 13.257; cf. Benedikt Eckhardt, Ethnos und Herrschaft: politische Figurationen judäischer Identität von Antiochus III. bis Herodes I (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), 308–25.

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kingdom—although there is epigraphic evidence for Asia Minor only.44 Greeks traditionally had no problem accepting the king as god, but other subjects had problems with this idea. A well-documented example is Babylonia, where the king was traditionally a kind of deputy of the gods or of a particular god. For this reason, the veneration of the king in Babylonia was different from the practice in Greek cities. In Babylon, it was not the king who was worshipped, but sacrifices were made for the life of the king.45 The ruler cult was a medium by which to express loyalty, and it seems to have been no problem for the Seleucid administration if this cult was adapted to local traditions. The monthly celebrations of the king’s birthday in Jerusalem, as related in 2 Maccabees 6:7, might have been a similar variation of the ruler cult. This interpretation could be justified by reference to Porphyry, who relates that a cult statue of Jupiter (Iovis Olympii simulacrum) and statues of the king (Antiochi statua) were erected in the temple area.46 Porphyry clearly distinguishes between cult statues and “normal” statues. If this distinction is correct, then it is further evidence for the assumption that the standard ruler cult might have been adapted to local 44  O  rientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae 224; Louis Robert, Hellenica VII (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient, 1949), 5ff.; Robert, Opera Minora Selecta V (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1989), 469ff. 45  Astronomical Diaries 2–204C rev. 14–19, -187 A ’rev. 4’–18’, and -171 B ’rev. 7’; Amélie Kuhrt, “The Seleucid Kings and Babylonia: New Perspectives on the Seleucid Realm in the East,” in Aspects of Hellenistic Kingship, 47f.; and more generally, Eddy Lanciers, “Die Opfer im hellenistischen Herrscherkult und ihre Rezeption bei der einheimischen Bevölkerung,” in Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the International Conference Organized by the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven from the 17th to the 20th of April 1991, ed. J. Quaegebeur, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 55 (Leuven: Peeters, 1993), 218–20; and Susan M. Sherwin-White, “Ritual for a Seleucid King at Babylon,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 103 (1983): 156–59, here 158f. 46  Porphyry, Fragmente Griechischer Historiker 260 F 51; according to F 53, Antiochus IV ordered a cult statue of himself to be placed in the temple of Jerusalem, which F 51 contradicts in some way and might be wrong; Elias Bickermann, Der Gott der Makkabäer. Untersuchungen über Sinn und Ursprung der makkabäischen Erhebung (Berlin: Schocken, 1937), 112; and Thomas Fischer, Seleukiden und Makkabäer. Beiträge zur Seleucidengeschichte und zu den politischen Ereignissen in Judäa während der 1. Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Bochum: Stud.-Verl. Brockmeyer, 1980), 39; cf. Fritz Taeger, Charisma. Studien zur Geschichte des antiken Herrscherkultes, vol. 1 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1957), 435; Jochen Gabriel Bunge, “Die Feiern Antiochos’ IV. Epiphanes in Daphne im Herbst 166 v. Chr. Zu einem umstrittenen Kapitel syrischer und judäischer Geschichte,” Chiron 6 (1976): 53–71, here 65f.; Johannes Christian Bernhard, Die jüdische Revolution. Untersuchungen zu Ursachen, Verlauf und Folgen der hasmonäischen Erhebung (Berlin/Boston: de Gruyter, 2017), 225f. considers F 53 trustworthy. Compare the monthly celebrations of the birthday of Antiochus I of Commagene; inscription of Sofraz Köy SO 16–17; Mittag, “Zur Selbststilisierung Antiochos’ I. von Komagene,” Gephyra 1 (2004): 1–26, here 11.

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religious feelings in Jerusalem. One question—which cannot be answered—is whether and, if so, how the ruler cult that Antiochus III installed throughout his empire was implemented in Jerusalem. Had there been offerings for the king’s birthday over the last approximately 30 years in Jerusalem? If this was the case, the reign of Antiochus IV probably brought no real change on this point. But for Second Maccabees, which stresses the illegitimacy of Menelaus, it might have been important to connect the ruler cult with this high priest. Another reason for this close connection could have derived from the fact that the temple area in Jerusalem was depredated during the recapture of the city after Jason’s insurrection, and Menelaus had to reestablish the ruler cult as well as the Jewish cult. This might have been a reason for the author of Second Maccabees to “introduce” Zeus Olympius,47 the Dionysia, and temple prostitutes. Zeus Olympius was the Greek god who played the most important role in Antiochus IV’s rule— but there is no evidence that the king actively promoted this cult.48 Required participation in the festivities for Dionysus might be explained by the cultural environment of the author, who lived in the Ptolemaic Empire, where Dionysus was directly linked to a series of Ptolemaic kings and thus related to the ruler cult.49 Both aspects—mentioned only in Second Maccabees—might have been invented by the author to make his story more convincing. His readers knew about the famous temple of Zeus Olympius at Athens, financed by Antiochus IV,50 and were familiar with the Dionysia. But there is no evidence for the promotion of temple prostitutes by Hellenistic kings, although the phenomenon was widespread in the Near East as well as in ancient Greece.51 If 47  According to 2 Maccabees 5:62, the new god was Zeus Olympios; Josephus ( Jewish Antiquities 12.253) is more vague and mentions an introduction of the gods Antiochus IV was accustomed to worshipping. 48  Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes, 139–45. Normally local cults were equalised by Greeks and hellenised subjects with Greek gods (interpretatio Graeca), and it was totally in line with this practice for the inhabitants of Sichem to rename the Jewish god of Mount Garizim as Zeus Xenios (or Hellenios); see 2 Maccabees 6:2 (Zeus Xenios), Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.261 (Zeus Hellenios). This name change did not imply changes to the traditional cult. It was just a kind of superficial hellenisation without any deeper meaning. 49  Dionysus was of some importance during the Ptolemaia (a festival celebrated every fourth year in Alexandria); Athenaeus, The Learned Banqueters 5.197e, 198b–c, 200c–d, and 201c. See Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, appendix 5, with further literature. 50  Renate Tölle-Kastenbein, Das Olympieion in Athen (Köln: Böhlau, 1994), 145–51. 51  Compare the stories about female temple prostitutes in Corinth; Strabo, Geography 8.6.20, 12.3.36; Athenaeus, The Learned Banqueters 13.573f.

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temple prostitution had really been practiced in Jerusalem, we would need to find an explanation for why the book of Daniel and First Maccabees do not mention it. It is not unlikely that the author of Second Maccabees invented this aspect to dramatise his story. As the table above clearly shows, Flavius Josephus—who depended on the older Jewish sources—more or less followed First Maccabees. If this line of reasoning is accepted, then all the aspects of the asserted decree can easily be explained as a result of the aftermath of Jason’s revolt and/ or the distinct focus of each source. In addition, it is not surprising that these sources explicitly assign blame to Menelaus as the initiator of the decree,52 although they state that it was a royal decree. If we therefore reject the existence of a decree, the subsequent events become even more plausible. The first astonishing fact is that, despite the extreme negative judgment on the part of the Jewish sources, there seems to have been no resistance at first. This could be explained by the overwhelming Seleucid military success, but interestingly, our sources show very clearly that many Jews acted in accordance with the rules more or less voluntarily.53 For this reason, Antiochus IV might not have been aware of any potential problems in Judea during this period. He might have hoped that, after the suppression of Jason’s rebellion, the situation in Jerusalem was once again settled. But when the Maccabees—who were members of the elite at least in Modein, if not in Jerusalem as well—and other groups organised an armed resistance, undermined Seleucid control of Judea, and captured Jerusalem (with the exception of the Akra), the local military commanders reacted,54 and Menealos informed the king. Since 165 BCE, Antiochus had been operating in the eastern parts of his empire, reestablishing Seleucid rule in Armenia and visiting Mesopotamia. He might not have been amused about the news from Judea, but once again, he had no opportunity to handle things personally. For that reason, the only reasonable alternative was to offer pardon and to confirm the existing regulations (“just as formerly,” καθὰ καὶ τὸ πρότερον):

52  2 Maccabees 13:3–4; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.384; and Jerome, Commentarium in Danielem 715c (ed. Migne). 53  1 Maccabees 1:43 and 52; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.255 and 270. There are only a few references to persons who refused and fled Jerusalem; 1 Maccabees 2:29–38 und 2 Maccabees 6:11. 54  The military operations are difficult to reconstruct; cf. Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes, 270f., with further literature.

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King Antiochus to the senate of the Jews and to the other Jews, greeting. (28) If you are well, it is as we desire. We also are in good health. (29) Menelaus has informed us that you wish to return home and look after your own affairs. (30) Therefore those who go home by the thirtieth day of Xanthicus will have our pledge of friendship and full permission (31) for the Jews to enjoy their own tribute55 and laws, just as formerly, and none of them shall be molested in any way for what he may have done in ignorance. (32) And I have also sent Menelaus to encourage you. (33) Farewell. The one hundred and forty-eighth year, Xanthicus fifteenth.56 If this letter is genuine, then the king promised to respect the traditional local laws and ordered an amnesty for the insurgents in March 164 BCE.57 If there was no earlier decree of religious prosecution, then the respect for local traditions was never questioned, and the core element of the letter was simply amnesty for the insurgents. But the Maccabees were not willing to return home under these conditions. The main reason might have been that Menelaus still remained high priest. According to the Jewish sources, this was precisely the point of dispute. The Maccabees questioned Menelaus’s legitimacy and wanted him to be replaced. When the war continued, Lysias, the king’s locum tenens, defeated the Maccabees, retook important strongholds, and besieged the Maccabees in Jerusalem.58 But Antiochus’s death in late 164 BCE changed everything. Lysias had to end the siege and face his internal rivals.59 For this reason, the king’s death saved the rebels.

55  The manuscripts have δαπανήμασι (“tribute,” which is normally changed to διαιτήμασι, “food regulations”), but tribute makes much more sense here; see Mittag, Antiochos IV. Epiphanes, 275. 56  2 Maccabees 11:27–33. 57  There are several amnesty decrees known from the Ptolemaic Empire that include quite similar paragraphs; compare the famous Rosetta stone (27.3.196 BCE) 19f.: “he has ordered further that those soldiers who come back, and the others who were rebellious during the period of disturbances, should return and keep possession of their own property”; Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae 90, trans. Austin, 1981, no. 227. 58  1 Maccabees 6:18–54; 2 Maccabees 11:1–12 (but converting the Seleucid victory into a defeat); Josephus, The Jewish War 1.41–45; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.367–378. 59  1 Maccabees 6:14–15; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.360. For Philip, see Ivana SavalliLestrade, Les philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique (Genève: Libraire Droz, 1998), no. 59; Kay Ehling, “Der ‚Reichskanzler’ im Seleukidenreich,” Epigraphica Anatolica 30 (1998): 97–105, here 102.

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4 Conclusions I have tried to reconstruct the circumstances that led to the supposed religious decree and to show that it is not necessary to believe that this decree ever existed. All the sources have different accounts of the events, and it is significant that Second Maccabees—which includes quite a few real, modified, and/or invented royal letters—does not provide the text of this famous decree. All reliable aspects of the alleged decree can easily be explained as “natural” consequences of the Seleucid recapture of Jerusalem after Jason’s revolt. The new military settlers established their own cults in the direct vicinity of the temple area, and Menelaus (who, according to the Maccabees, was an illegitimate high priest) restored the Jewish cult as well as the ruler cult. The ruler cult might have been practiced in Jerusalem since the reign of Antiochus III and was, in any case, adapted to local traditions. The consequences of Jerusalem’s recapture—the building of a citadel and the reinstatement of Menelaus— were totally in line with standard Hellenistic practice. The king could rightly expect to have settled the problem, especially because there were no signs of resistance at first. But with the rise of the Maccabees, the resistance acquired a leader who aspired to the role of high priest. The following insurrection would probably have been suppressed by the Seleucid troops, but the Maccabees were saved by the untimely death of Antiochus IV and the subsequent internal Seleucid quarrels. If this reconstruction is correct, then Antiochus IV was not a madman or a tyrant60 who punished the Jews with the help of a decree prohibiting their traditional religious practices, but quite a “normal” Hellenistic king, who treated the Jews like his other non-Greek subjects. Bibliography Aperghis, G. G. “Antiochus IV and his Jewish Subjects: Political, Cultural and Religious Interaction.” Pages 67–83 in Seleucid Dissolution: The Sinking of the Anchor. Edited by Kyle Erickson and Gillian Ramsey. Philippika: Marburger altertumskundliche Abhandlungen 50. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011. Aperghis, G. G. “Jewish Subjects and Seleukid Kings: A Case Study of Economic Interaction.” Pages 19–41 in The Economies of Hellenistic Societies, Third to First

60  For the characterisation of kings as tyrants in Jewish literature, see Tessa Rajak, “The Angry Tyrant,” in Jewish Perspectives on Hellenistic Rulers, ed. Tessa Rajak, Sarah Pearce, James Aitken, and Jennifer Dines (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 110–27.

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Centuries BC. Edited by Zosia H. Archibald, John K. Davies, and Vincent Gabrielsen. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011. Aperghis, G. G. The Seleucid Royal Economy: The Finances and Financial Administration of the Seleucid Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Austin, M. M., trans. The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest: A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation. Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae 223, Royal Correspondance 15. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981. Bernhard, Joh. Chr. Die jüdische Revolution. Untersuchungen zu Ursachen, Verlauf und Folgen der hasmonäischen Erhebung. Berlin/Boston: de Gruyter, 2017. Bickerman, Elias J. “Héliodore au temple de Jérusalem.” Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves 7 (1939–44). Repr. with additions pages 161–66 in Studies in Jewish and Christian History, Vol. II. Leiden: Brill, 1980. Bickermann, Elias. Der Gott der Makkabäer. Untersuchungen über Sinn und Ursprung der makkabäischen Erhebung. Berlin: Schocken, 1937. Bringmann, Klaus. Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa. Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-hellenistischen Geschichte (175–163 v. Chr.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983. Bunge, Jochen Gabriel. “Die Feiern Antiochos’ IV. Epiphanes in Daphne im Herbst 166 v. Chr. Zu einem umstrittenen Kapitel syrischer und judäischer Geschichte,” Chiron 6 (1976): 53–71. Capdetrey, Laurent. Le pouvoir séleucide. Territoire, administration, finances d’un royaume hellénistique (312–129 avant J.-C.). Rennes: Presses Université de Rennes, 2007. Cotton, Hannah, and Michael Wörrle. “Seleucos IV to Heliodoros: A New Dossier of Royal Correspondance from Israel.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 159 (2007): 191–205. Eckhardt, Benedikt. Ethnos und Herrschaft: politische Figurationen judäischer Identität von Antiochus III. bis Herodes I. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013. Ehling, Kay. “Der ‚Reichskanzler’ im Seleukidenreich.” Epigraphica Anatolica 30 (1998): 97–105. Fischer, Thomas. Seleukiden und Makkabäer. Beiträge zur Seleukidengeschichte und zu den politischen Ereignissen in Judäa während der 1. Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. Bochum: Brockmeyer, 1980. Gera, Dov. “Olympiodoros, Heliodoros, and the Temple of Koilē Syria and Phoinikē.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 169 (2009): 125–55. Goldstein, Jonathan A. II Maccabees: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. 2d ed. Serie Anchor Bible 41A. New York: Doubleday, 1984. Gorre, Gilles, and Sylvie Honigman. “Kings, Taxes and High Priests: Comparing the Ptolemaic and Seleucid Policies.” Pages 105–119 in Egitto dai Faraoni agli Arabi. Edited by Silvia Bussi. Pisa: Serra, 2013.

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Gorre, Gilles, and Sylvie Honigman. “La politique d’Antiochos IV à Jerusalem à la lumière des relations entre rois et temples aux époches perse et hellénistique (Babylonie, Judée et ègypte).” Pages 301–38 in Le projet politique d’ Antiochus IV. Edited by Christophe Feyel and Laetitia Graslin-Thomé. Paris: De Boccard, 2014. Honigman, Sylvie. Tales of High Priests and Taxes: The Books of the Maccabees and the Judean Rebellion against Antiochus IV. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014. Hyldahl, Niels. “The Maccabean Rebellion and the Question of ‘Hellenization’.” Pages 188–203 in Religions and Religious Practice in the Seleucid Kingdom. Edited by Per Bilde, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Lise Hannestad, and Jan Zahle. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1990. Kah, Daniel, and Peter Scholz, eds. Das hellenistische Gymnasion. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009. Kuhrt, Amélie. “The Seleucid Kings and Babylonia: New Perspectives on the Seleucid Realm in the East.” Pages 41–54 in Aspects of Hellenistic Kingship. Edited by Per Bilde, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Lise Hannestad, and Jan Zahle. Aarhus University Press, 1996. Lanciers, Eddy. “Die Opfer im hellenistischen Herrscherkult und ihre Rezeption bei der einheimischen Bevölkerung.” Pages 218–20 in Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East. Proceedings of the International Conference Organized by the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven from the 17th to the 20th of April 1991. Edited by J. Quaegebeur. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 55. Leuven: Peeters, 1993. Ma, John. Antiochus III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor. 2d ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Mittag, Peter Franz. Antiochos IV. Epiphanes. Eine politische Biographie. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2006. Mittag, Peter Franz. “Zur Selbststilisierung Antiochos’ I. von Komagene.” Gephyra 1 (2004): 1–26. Mørkholm, Otto. “Antiochos IV.” Pages 278–91 in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Parker, Victor. “The Date of the Material in ‘II Maccabees’: The Bureaucratic Evidence.” Hermes 141 (2013): 34–44. Rajak, Tessa. “The Angry Tyrant.” Pages 110–27 in Jewish Perspectives on Hellenistic Rulers. Edited by Tessa Rajak, Sarah Pearce, James Aitken, and Jennifer Dines. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007. Robert, Louis. Hellenica VII. Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient, 1949. Robert, Louis. Opera Minora Selecta V. Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1989. Savalli-Lestrade, Ivana. Les philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique. Genève: Libraire Droz, 1998. Schwartz, Daniel R. 2 Maccabees. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2008. Sherwin-White, Susan M. “Ritual for a Seleucid King at Babylon.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 103 (1983): 156–59.

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Taeger, Fritz. Charisma. Studien zur Geschichte des antiken Herrscherkultes, vol. 1. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1957. Tölle-Kastenbein, Renate. Das Olympieion in Athen. Köln: Böhlau, 1994. Tscherikover, Viktor A. Hellenistic Civilization and the Jews. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1959. Will, Édouard. Histoire politique du monde hellénistique (323–30 av. J.-C.), vol. 2. Nancy: Presses Université des Nancy, 1982.

chapter 7

Contesting Oikoumenē: Resistance and Locality in Philo’s Legatio ad Gaium Pieter B. Hartog Philo of Alexandria* was a philosopher, exegete, and politician who lived in the first century CE.1 He belonged to the social and intellectual upper class of Alexandria and played a central role in the Judaean response to the riots between Judaeans,2 Greeks, and Egyptians that occurred in that city in 38 CE. His Legatio ad Gaium is a stylised account of the vicissitudes of the Judaean embassy to the emperor Gaius Caligula, which Philo headed and which sought to convince Gaius of the injustice of the Greek and Egyptian attacks on the Judaeans and their property. The central theme of the Legatio is the relationship between Judaeans and Romans, and the work reads as a political treatise that deals with the place of the Judaeans within the Roman Empire. My point in this chapter is that Philo’s Legatio engages in an intricate and multilayered act of resistance. I argue that Philo’s attitude towards the Romans

* I would like to thank Annette Merz and Sean Adams for their comments on an earlier version of this chapter. 1  On Philo’s biography, see Daniel R. Schwartz, “Philo, His Family, and His Times,” in The Cambridge Companion to Philo, ed. Adam Kamesar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 9–31; Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Philo of Alexandria: A Thinker in the Jewish Diaspora, Studies in Philo of Alexandria 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), esp. 27–89. 2  I will use the English term “Judaean” to render the Greek term Ioudaios. This term has a more explicitly ethnic connotation than its alternative, “Jew,” and this connotation ties in best with what I consider to be Philo’s purpose with the Legatio: to define the position of the Ἰουδαίων ἒθνος (Legatio 210) within the global Roman Empire. On the terms “Jew” and “Judaean” to render Ioudaios, see, for example, Steve Mason, “Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 38 (2007): 457–512; David M. Miller, “The Meaning of Ioudaios and Its Relationship to Other Group Labels in Ancient ‘Judaism’,” Currents in Biblical Research 9 (2010): 98–126; idem, “Ethnicity Comes of Age: An Overview of Twentieth-Century Terms for Ioudaios,” Currents in Biblical Research 10 (2012): 293–311; idem, “Ethnicity, Religion and the Meaning of Ioudaios in Ancient ‘Judaism’,” Currents in Biblical Research 12 (2014): 216–65; Daniel R. Schwartz, Judeans and Jews: Four Faces of Dichotomy in Ancient Jewish History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014). © Pieter B. Hartog, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004411500_009 This is an open access chapter distributed

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is not straightforwardly negative3 or positive,4 but that his portrayal of Romans, Judaeans, and the oikoumenē in the Legatio is complex.5 To explain this complexity, I will employ the concepts of “resistance” and “locality” as they have been developed by scholars who study globalisation, and contend that Philo’s argument in the Legatio proceeds in two complementary directions. Firstly, Philo stresses the dependence of Roman rule on the character and deeds of the emperor. Secondly, Philo presents the Judaeans as a global ethnos and the guardians of traditional Roman values. These directions in Philo’s argument, which I describe below as moves of “localising oikoumenē” and “globalising the Judaeans,” come together in Philo’s assertion that under the rule of the mad emperor Gaius, the stability and future of the Roman Empire depended on the Judaeans. 1

Globalisation and the Roman Empire

The term “globalisation” is highly equivocal. It was first developed in economics to describe the economic effects of the Industrial Revolution, which resulted in an increased interdependence of the various parts of the globe.6 3  This position is associated in particular with Erwin R. Goodenough, The Politics of Philo Judaeus: Practice and Theory (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1938), esp. 21–41. In that work, Goodenough argued that no love was lost between Philo and the Romans, but that Philo could not always speak his mind freely out of fear of retaliations. For a more nuanced proposal—that Philo’s basic attitude towards the Romans was negative, even if he accepted some aspects of Roman rule—see Katell Berthelot, “Philo’s Perception of the Roman Empire,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 42 (2011): 166–87. 4  This has been argued by Maren Niehoff, who wrote that Philo’s writings “are the first detailed expression of a sustained pro-Roman attitude on the part of a Jewish intellectual”; Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 86 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 112. 5  I am not the first to suggest that Philo’s attitude towards the Romans cannot be easily understood in terms of the categories “positive” or “negative.” For earlier suggestions that Philo’s position is complex, see, for example, A. H. M. Jones, review of E. R. Goodenough, The Politics of Philo Judaeus, The Journal of Theological Studies 40 (1939): 182–85; Ray Barraclough, “Philo’s Politics: Roman Rule and Hellenistic Judaism,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung: II: Principat: 21.1: Religion (Hellenistisches Judentum in römischer Zeit: Philon und Josephus), ed. Wolfgang Haasse (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1984), 417–553; Sarah J. K. Pearce, The Land of the Body: Studies in Philo’s Representation of Egypt, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 208 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 2–3. 6  Scholars have debated the extent of interconnectedness that is necessary to speak of “globalisation.” In the earliest years of research on globalisation, scholars concentrated on processes that literally spanned the entire world. Thus Roland Robertson defined globalisation

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Globalisation, according to this view, is a quintessentially modern phenomenon with roots that go back no further than the eighteenth century.7 Yet this understanding of globalisation was soon criticised, both for its economic focus and for its Western bias.8 In response to this critique, scholars became aware of the cultural effects of increases in interconnectedness and the emergence of global spaces.9 Moreover, a historical approach developed, which recognised processes of globalisation in pre-industrial societies.10 What unites these approaches is their focus on rapid increases in connections between cultures, traditions, and persons, as well as the interdependence of these cultures, traditions, and persons within global spaces. as “the compression of the world and the intensification of consciousness of the world as a whole” (Globalization: Social Theory and Global Culture [London: Sage, 1992], 8, my italics). Later studies problematised this focus on “the world” from two directions. Firstly, modern processes of globalisation do not normally affect the entire world: only part of the globe is involved in and profits from processes of globalisation, and globalisation may increase rather than mitigate the inequality between different parts of the world. See Anthony McGrew, “The Third World in the New Global Order,” in Poverty and Development in the 1990s, ed. Tim Allen and Alan Thomas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 255–72. Secondly, processes of globalisation can be recognised in geographical areas that do not span the entire world. For these two reasons, Nederveen Pieterse’s distinction between “globalisation” (as a process) and “globality” (as a geographical range spanning the entire globe) is helpful. See his “Ancient Rome and Globalisation: Decentring Rome,” in Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, ed. Martin Pitts and Miguel John Versluys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 225–39, here 230. 7  So, for example, in Mike Featherstone, ed., Global Culture: Nationalism, Globalization and Modernity: A Theory, Culture & Society Special Issue (London: Sage, 1990); John Tomlinson, Globalization and Culture (Cambridge: Polity, 1999); Anthony Giddens, Sociology, 6th ed. (Malden, MA: Polity, 2009), 108–51. 8  On the Western bias expressed in the close association of globalisation with modernity, see most explicitly Nederveen Pieterse, “Ancient Rome and Globalisation,” 225–28; idem, Globalization and Culture: Global Mélange, 3rd ed. (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2016); also Andre Gunder Frank, ReORIENT: Global Economy in the Asian Age (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 9  Tomlinson, Globalization and Culture; Roland Robertson and Kathleen E. White, “What is Globalization?” in The Blackwell Companion to Globalization, ed. George Ritzer (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2007), 54–66; Nederveen Pieterse, Globalization and Culture. 10  A. G. Hopkins, ed., Globalization in World History (London: Pimlico, 2002); Michael D. Bordo, Alan M. Taylor, and Jeffrey G. Williamson, eds., Globalization in Historical Perspective (Chicago: The University of Chicago University Press, 2003); Øystein S. LaBianca and Sandra Arnold Scham, eds., Connectivity in Antiquity: Globalization as a Long-Term Historical Process, Approaches to Anthropological Archaeology (London: Equinox, 2006); Justin Jennings, Globalizations and the Ancient World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011).

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The attention that theories of globalisation devote to increased interconnectivity and interdependence between different cultures and traditions dovetails neatly with socio-historical circumstances in the Roman world. The Romans united the entire Mediterranean region under a single ruler and developed an advanced infrastructure.11 The Roman Empire was held together by intertwined networks of roads and waterways, which facilitated the travel of goods, persons, and ideas across the empire.12 Theories of globalisation provide an ideal starting point to study the effects of these increases in interconnectedness.13 Even so, the application of globalisation theories to the Roman world has met with the criticism that these theories have little innovative to offer in comparison with concepts already in use in Roman studies. “Globalisation” has been labelled a buzzword, used for its appeal to modern readers rather than for its analytical value.14 It will be necessary, therefore, to be more precise when it comes to the conceptual benefits of globalisation theories. In my opinion, the main advantage of globalisation theories is that they stress the interdependence and complexity of different cultures and traditions and consider the boundaries between them as permeable, negotiable, fluid, and ever-changing in more explicit ways than other concepts and theories. In their conception of cultural traditions as ever-changing negotiations rather than bounded entities, globalisation theories have much in common with 11  Lionel Casson, Travel in the Ancient World (London: Allen and Unwin, 1974); David Abulafia, The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (London: Allen Lane, 2011). 12   Irad Malkin, Christy Constantakopoulou, and Katerina Panagopoulou, eds., Greek and Roman Networks in the Mediterranean (London: Routledge, 2009); Anna Collar, Religious Networks in the Roman Empire: The Spread of New Ideas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); Laurens E. Tacoma, Moving Romans: Migration to Rome in the Principate (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016); Luuk de Ligt and Laurens E. Tacoma, eds., Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Studies in Global Social History 23, Studies in Global Migration History 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2016); Elio Lo Cascio, Laurens E. Tacoma, and Mirjam J. Groen-Vallinga, eds., The Impact of Mobility and Migration in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Twelfth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Rome, June 17–19, 2015), Impact of Empire 22 (Leiden: Brill, 2017). 13  Cf. Pitts and Versluys’s observation that “[w]hereas there has been an undoubted paradigm shift towards identity, connectivity and networks in our understanding of the Roman world, the very concept that is widely discussed and debated in the social and historical sciences to understand all this—globalisation—is largely evaded”; “Globalisation and the Roman World: Perspectives and Opportunities,” in eidem, Globalisation and the Roman World, 3–31, here 20. Cf. Robert Witcher, “Globalisation and Roman Imperialism: Perspectives on Identities in Roman Italy,” in The Emergence of State Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC, ed. Edward Herring and Kathryn Lomas (London: Accordia Research Institute, 2000), 213–25. 14  F rits G. Naerebout, “Global Romans? Is Globalisation A Concept That is Going to Help Us Understand the Roman Empire?” Talanta 38–39 (2006–07): 149–70.

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postcolonial theories.15 For historical reasons, this is not surprising: the history of colonisation is an important pre-history for later globalisation processes.16 Nonetheless, theories of globalisation differ from postcolonial models in two important regards. To begin with, postcolonial models conceptualise intercultural interaction in terms of two cultural traditions which transform into a new, “hybrid” culture. Thus they tend to maintain rather than alleviate the distinction between “coloniser” and “colonised”—or “dominant” and “local” culture.17 Globalisation theorists often approach cultural manifestations in globalised contexts as manifold and multilayered entities, in which not just one dominant and one local culture, but a wide range of global and local cultures interact. Jan Nederveen Pieterse’s concept of “global mélange” is particularly useful in capturing the complexity of cultures in globalised spaces.18 It is thus particularly useful in the study of the Roman world, where cultural interactions were highly complex and involved a variety of different cultures and traditions. Philo’s works exemplify this complexity: Maren Niehoff has demonstrated that this Alexandrian author constructs a complex cultural and religious identity for himself by engaging in dialogues with Roman, Greek, Egyptian, and other traditions.19 A second difference between postcolonial models and theories of globalisation concerns the issue of power. Postcolonial models imply a power difference between interacting cultural traditions, whereas globalisation theories tend to view intercultural interactions less in terms of power differences, and more in terms of interdependence: the global depends on the local, and the local on the global. This involves the risk of overlooking existing power differences (for instance, between the Romans and local cultures), but it has the advantage of emphasising the need for Roman traditions, practices, and discourses to be adapted and adopted on a local level in order to be effective—and the need for local traditions to adopt and inscribe themselves into the global context of which they are a part. As I intend to show in this chapter, we can see this 15  A particularly important work is Homi K. Bhabha’s The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), where he develops the postcolonial concept of “hybridity.” For a postcolonial reading of the Legatio, see Torrey Seland, “‘Colony’ and ‘Metropolis’ in Philo: Examples of Mimicry and Hybridity in Philo’s Writing Back from the Empire?” Études platoniciennes 7 (2010): 11–33. 16  See the contributions to Hopkins, Globalization in World History. 17  For a similar critique of postcolonial models, see Pitts and Versluys, “Globalisation and the Roman World,” 6. 18  See Jan Nederveen Pieterse, “Hybridity, So What? The Anti-Hybridity Backlash and the Riddles of Recognition,” Theory, Culture & Society 18 (2001): 219–45; idem, Globalization and Culture. 19  P hilo on Jewish Identity and Culture. See also below (p. 222) on the Ascalonites.

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process at work in Philo’s Legatio. Philo accentuates the local aspect of Roman rule by making it explicitly dependent on the character of the emperor. At the same time, Philo asserts the global presence of the Judaeans across the Roman Empire. Another reason not to discard globalisation theories as a helpful tool of analysis is that the analytical potential of these theories has not yet been fully explored.20 Previous studies on ancient globalisation have neglected Jewish and Christian evidence,21 which has the potential to broaden the scope of the concept and yield further insight into how it might be useful in the study of the ancient world. Moreover, studies on globalisation in pre-modern societies are not always explicit about which concepts they adopt from the complex array of globalisation theories. General appeals to “globalisation” are problematic due to the different meanings the term may carry,22 but they do not exclude the possibility that specific notions from studies of modern globalisation are useful in the study of the Roman Empire. For that reason, this chapter will focus on two concepts developed in modern globalisation theories—“resistance” and “locality”—and apply these to explain the purpose and argument of Philo’s Legatio. 2

Resistance and Locality in Philo’s Legatio

For many theorists of globalisation, “resistance” is an integral part of any globalisation process. This resistance results from the anxiety of inhabitants of global spaces about participating in a larger, interconnected space. As a reaction to the (real or perceived) imperialistic ambitions of global institutions— which George Ritzer neatly described with his term “grobalisation”23—the inhabitants of potentially global spaces may attempt to reject all aspects of globalisation and retain a strong sense of local culture.24 This is not the most common reaction, however. Most processes of globalisation result neither in 20  See Pieter B. Hartog and Jutta Jokiranta, “The Dead Sea Scrolls in Their Hellenistic Context,” Dead Sea Discoveries 24 (2017): 339–55, here 352–53. 21  See, for example, Pitts and Versluys, Globalisation and the Roman World. 22  So Naerebout, “Global Romans?” 23  T  he Globalization of Nothing (Thousand Oaks: Pine Forge Press, 2007); idem, “Gro­ balization,” in The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Globalization, ed. idem (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2012), online at https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/book/10.1002/97804 70670590 (last accessed 13 June, 2019). 24  On anti-globalisation movements, see Jeffrey M. Ayres, “Framing Collective Action Against Neoliberalism: The Case of the Anti-Globalization Movement,” Journal of WorldSystems Research 10 (2004): 11–34; Janet M. Conway, “Anti-Globalization Movements,” in

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the extinction nor in the unaffected preservation of local traditions. Resistance often takes subtler forms, in which the global changes its shape in the context of the local, and vice versa. In this scenario, the global does not impose itself on the local, but the two are mutually dependent. Roland Robertson adopted the term “glocalisation” to describe these subtler forms of resistance.25 According to Robertson, distinctions between the global and the local are unhelpful, as the two occur side by side. On this view, resistance takes the form of “a desire to maintain at least a modicum of the ‘local’ within the more broadly ‘global.’”26 In other words, the locus of resistance is not with either the global or the local, but in between the two: inhabitants of global spaces will find themselves constantly negotiating the global and the local in their self-perception and self-presentation. Such subtle resistances are not unique to modern times. Tim Whitmarsh and others have shown how local groups in the Roman Empire upheld, developed, and reimagined their local identities in dialogue with the global context in which they found themselves.27 And I have recently argued that the authors and collectors of the Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls participated in globalised intellectual networks but did not adopt the knowledge transmitted via these networks unchanged: they adapted it to their local ends.28 This shows that, in the Roman world as today, processes of globalisation depended on local participation, and local traditions altered as they participated in global processes.29 Philo’s Legatio reflects this same dynamic: as I intend to show in the following The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Gender and Sexuality Studies, ed. Nancy A. Naples (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2016), 1–5. 25  G  lobalization; idem, “Glocalization: Time-Space and Homogeneity-Heterogeneity,” in Global Modernities, ed. Mike Featherstone, Scott Lash, and idem, Theory, Culture & Society (London: Sage, 1995), 25–44. See also Erik Swyndegouw, “Neither Global nor Local: ‘Glocalization’ and the Politics of Scale,” in Spaces of Globalization: Reasserting the Power of the Local, ed. Kevin R. Cox (New York: Guilford Press, 1997), 137–66. 26   Laura Adams, Miguel Centeno, and Charles Varner, “Resistance to Cultural Globalization—A Comparative Analysis,” in Conflicts and Tensions, ed. Helmut K. Anheier and Yudhishthir Raj Isar, The Cultures and Globalization Series 1 (Los Angeles: Sage, 2007), 80–89, here 81. 27  Tim Whitmarsh, ed., Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 28  P  ieter B. Hartog, Pesher and Hypomnema: A Comparison of Two Commentary Traditions from the Hellenistic-Roman Period, Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 121 (Leiden: Brill, 2017). 29  Cf. Kostas Vlassopoulos’s comment that “globalisation can […] provide the means by which a local cultural system can be redefined, elaborated, codified or modified for new circumstances”; Greeks and Barbarians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 21.

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pages, Philo’s argument in this treatise plays with the global and local aspects of the Romans and the Judaeans. The result is a glocalised perception of the Judaean ethnos, which Philo portrays as faithfully maintaining its local laws and customs whilst also engaging the global context of the Roman Empire and adapting Roman traditions and discourses to its own ends. The concept of “locality” is related to that of resistance but has a different focus. Whereas “resistance” describes the reactions of individuals and groups to processes of globalisation, “locality” describes how such groups and individuals define themselves within global spaces. For Arjun Appadurai, who coined the concept, locality is “a structure of feeling” and “an aspect of social life” related to how people create a sense of belonging for themselves.30 In Appadurai’s words, locality can be understood as “a complex phenomenological quality, constituted by a series of links between the sense of social immediacy, the technologies of interactivity, and the relativity of contexts […], which expresses itself in certain kinds of agency, sociality, and reproducibility.”31 Appadurai goes on to point out that, in globalised contexts, locality tends to take the form of translocality: as individuals within a global space become interconnected and interdependent, their self-perception and sense of belonging transcend local boundaries and are redefined in the light of the global spaces in which these individuals participate.32 The effects are similar to those of glocalisation: in both cases, individuals present their local customs and traditions in globalised terms whilst participating in globalising processes by adapting them to their local needs. Appadurai’s insight that locality tends to become translocality in globalised contexts finds confirmation in Philo’s Legatio. To begin with, Philo stresses how good Roman emperors—Augustus and Tiberius—exhibited what can be considered a translocal mindset. These emperors were interested not just in their own affairs, but in the stability of the global empire. To that end, they allowed the ethnē that inhabited the Roman world to uphold their own local customs. In Philo’s presentation, Augustus and Tiberius did not merely condone, but actively promoted local traditions and customs. So Augustus, “when he discovered that the sacred ‘first-fruits’ were being neglected, instructed the governors of the provinces in Asia to grant to the Jews alone the right of 30  M  odernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization, Public Worlds 1 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 178–99. 31  M  odernity at Large, 178. 32  Cf. Witcher’s comment on the Roman world that “[t]he ability of cultural symbols to be reproduced regardless of spatial location permits the development of ‘imagined communities’ which, to some extent, are able to transcend the immediate limitation of spatial locations”; “Globalisation and Roman Imperialism,” 220.

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assembly” (Legatio 311),33 and the same emperor “gave orders for regular sacrifices of holocausts to be offered every day at his expense to the Most High God” (Legatio 317). Tiberius angrily condemns Pilate’s placement of two shields honouring the emperor in the Herodian palace and orders Pilate to remove them (Legatio 299–305). Additionally, Philo’s image of the Judaeans is thoroughly translocal. As the Alexandrian writer points out, Judaeans live across the entire oikoumenē and are a global force for potential resistance to the emperor (e.g., Legatio 214). What is more, the Judaeans are concerned not only with their own laws and customs, but also—through their defence of their own traditions—with the stability of the Roman oikoumenē. In this way, the Judaeans become heirs to the translocal attitude that characterised the praiseworthy predecessors of Gaius—Augustus and Tiberius. 3 Localising Oikoumenē The first thread in Philo’s argument is that of localising oikoumenē. This entails Philo’s emphasis on the local aspects of Roman rule and its dependence on the character and actions of the Roman emperors. As I intend to show, this move on Philo’s part is a response to Roman propaganda, which portrayed the Romans as rulers of the global oikoumenē. Against this promotion of the Romans as global rulers, Philo paints a glocalised portrait of Roman rule, in which Roman global rule depends on the capabilities of the emperor. Under Gaius—whom Philo portrays as a reckless, self-centred ruler—the oikoumenē becomes a contested space, and the Roman Empire is under threat. If it were not for the Judaeans and their defence of their local customs, Gaius’s arrogance would have put an end to Roman rule. The close connection between the Romans and the Greek term oikoumenē, which is reflected in a wide range of sources from the Roman period, is a fruit of the late Hellenistic era.34 Polybius was the first to draw this connection when 33  Translations of the Legatio follow E. Mary Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium (Leiden: Brill, 1970), with small alterations. I have retained the Greek term oikoumenē and replaced “Jews” in Smallwood’s translation with “Judaeans.” 34  In earlier periods, the term referred more generally to the inhabited or known world. On its connotations, see James S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, Exploration, and Fiction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992); Tassilo Schmitt, “Oikoumene,” in Brill’s New Pauly, ed. Hubert Cancik and Helmuth Schneider, online at http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/brill-s-new-pauly/oikoumene-e829080 (last accessed June 13, 2019); Yuval Shahar, Josephus Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus, Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 98 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), esp. 8–11.

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he set himself the goal of explaining “by what means and under what system of polity the Romans in less than fifty-three years succeeded in subjecting nearly the whole oikoumenē to their sole government” (Histories 1.1.5).35 For Polybius, the Romans are unique in consolidating the entire oikoumenē under one ruler,36 and he attributes their success both to the workings of chance or fate (tychē; τύχη) as a force that “has steered almost all the affairs of the world in one direction” (Histories 1.4.2) and to the Romans’ military and political prowess (Histories 1.63.9).37 Polybius’s account of how the Romans gained control over the oikoumenē influenced later authors and laid the basis for portrayals of the Romans as lords of the oikoumenē (or its Latin equivalent, orbis terrarum) and of the Roman Empire as a global space.38 Philo appears to have been familiar with Polybius’s work. As Niehoff points out, Philo accepts Roman global power, as he writes that Gaius ruled “an empire not merely consisting of most of the most essential parts of the world […] but […] an empire stretching from the sunrise to the sunset and comprising lands both within and beyond the Ocean” (Legatio 10).39 But Philo’s tone differs somewhat from that of other Roman authors. Whereas Roman authors may portray the Roman Empire as a lasting entity,40 Philo stresses the volatility of 35  Translations of Polybius follow Paton, Walbank, and Habicht (LCL). I have retained the Greek term oikoumenē where it occurs in Polybius’s text. 36  H  istories 1.2.1; 1.2.7. 37  It has been observed that Polybius is not systematic in his use of tychē. In some passages, the term has the connotation of a divine power steering the course of history and providing retribution for certain wrongdoings; in others, tychē has a much more general meaning and refers to unexpected or inexplicable events. In relation to the Romans, Polybius sometimes thinks of Roman rule in teleological terms, attributing it to the workings of tychē, but in other passages he attributes Roman success to the planning and efficiency of the Romans themselves. On tychē in Polybius, see F. W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius, 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1957/1967/1979), 1:16–26; idem, “Fortune (tychē) in Polybius,” in A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, ed John Marincola (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2007), 349–55; idem, “Supernatural Paraphernalia in Polybius’ Histories,” in Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World: Essays and Reflections (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 245–57; René Brouwer, “Polybius and Stoic Tyche,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 51 (2011): 111–32; Lisa I. Hau, “Tychê in Polybios: Narrative Answers to a Philosophical Question,” Histos 5 (2011): 183–207. 38  Such later claims can be found in works by a wide range of authors, such as Aelius Aristides, Vergil, and Strabo. See Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991); Michael Sommer, “ΟΙΚΟΥΜΕΝΗ: Longue durée Perspectives on Ancient Mediterranean ‘Globality’,” in Pitts and Versluys, Globalisation and the Roman World, 175–97. 39  Cf. Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 113–14. 40  For example, Vergil, Aeneid 1.275–279: “Then Romulus, proud in the tawny hide of the she-wolf, his nurse, shall take up the line, and found the walls of Mars and call the people

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Roman rule and its dependence on the character and abilities of the emperor.41 In Roman propaganda, images of the emperors often portrayed them as embodiments of Roman power and rulers over the oikoumenē.42 Philo subscribes to this rhetoric in his depictions of Augustus and Tiberius. The rule of these emperors, Philo explicates, can be characterised by the term “peace” (εἰρήνη): both Augustus and Tiberius united the oikoumenē under Rome and brought peace across the empire.43 These favourable portraits of Augustus and Tiberius in the Legatio fulfil an important rhetorical function:44 they accentuate the negative traits Philo attributes to Gaius.45 Philo depicts this latter emperor as young and irresponsible,46 mad and foolish,47 exhibiting a burning hatred towards the Judaeans.48 Whereas Augustus and Tiberius brought peace to the oikoumenē, Gaius’s behaviour instigated a “war” (πόλεμος) between the Judaeans and the emperor and his allies.49 Gaius’s self-centredness poses a direct threat to the oikoumenē and the stability of the Roman Empire. For Philo, Gaius’s case illustrates how unstable Roman rule can be and shows that the stability and future of the empire depends on the character and virtue of its rulers. Romans after his own name. For these I set no bounds in space or time; but have given empire without end”; Fairclough, LCL. 41  For that reason I am hesitant to agree with Niehoff that Legatio 10 indicates that “Roman rule […] seemed far more stable to Philo [than that of the Hellenistic kingdoms]”; Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 113. 42  Statues may portray the emperor or high military commanders with the oikoumenē in their hands or under their feet. See Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. Alan Shapiro (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1988); Barbara R. Rossing, “(Re)claiming Oikoumenē? Empire, Ecumenism, and the Discipleship of Equals,” in Walk in the Ways of Wisdom: Essays in Honor of Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, ed. Shelly Matthews, Cynthia Briggs Kittredge, and Melanie Johnson-Debaufre (Harrisburg: Trinity Press, 2003), 74–87, here 76–78. Cf. also how Augustus portrays himself in Res gestae 3: “I undertook many civil and foreign wars by land and sea throughout the world (toto in orbe terrarum)”; P. A. Brunt and J. M. Moore, Res Gestae Divi Augusti: The Achievements of the Divine Augustus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), 19. 43  See Legatio 8 and Legatio 309. 44  Cf. Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 121–28. 45  This negative depiction of Gaius shares many characteristics with the portrayal of Gaius in works by Roman authors, such as Suetonius and Dio Cassius. See Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 111–37; Per Bilde, “Philo as a Polemist and a Political Apologist,” in Alexandria: A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot, ed. George Hinge and Jens A. Krasilnikoff, Aarhus Studies in Mediterranean Antiquity 9 (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2009), 97–114, here 110. 46  L egatio 183, 190, and 218. 47  L egatio 76–77 and 93. 48  L egatio 133 and 201. 49  For polemos used to describe the conflict in Alexandria, see Legatio 119, 121, and 132. For Gaius as an enemy to peace, see Legatio 90, 108, and 301.

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Discussing the difference between chance (tychē) and nature (physis) in the introduction to the Legatio, Philo seems to be reacting to Polybius’s attribution of Roman power over the oikoumenē to tychē: Mentally we are mere babes in our stupidity, regarding Chance (tychē), which is the most unstable of things, as the most reliable, and Nature (physis), which is the most steadfast, as the least secure. For we change and transpose our actions as in games of draughts, looking upon the things of Chance (ta tychēra) as more lasting than the things of Nature (ta physei), and upon the order of Nature as less secure than the things of Chance. The contrast between Philo and Polybius is not absolute,50 but Philo’s treatment of tychē and physis in this passage supports his view that Roman rule was inherently volatile, whereas the Judaean ethnos would remain safe and secure. It has been noted that Philo’s contrast between tychē and physis carries Stoic overtones.51 For the Stoics, tychē often indicated an admission of a lack of understanding by those in want of the highest wisdom.52 So whereas for Polybius the association of Roman rule with tychē indicates that Roman dominance over the oikoumenē is not random,53 for Philo the connection between tychē and the Romans illustrates the volatility of Roman fortunes. He contrasts “the things of tychē” with “the things of physis.” This expression presumably refers 50  Stoic notions of tychē are present in Polybius (Brouwer, “Polybius and Stoic Tyche”), and Philo refers to the tychē or tychai of the Ptolemies (Legatio 140), the Judaeans (Legatio 190), Gaius (Legatio 284), Augustus (Legatio 309), and Agrippa (Legatio 327). It has been pointed out that Polybius was aware of the instability of tychē, as his story on Scipio Africanus indicates (Histories 15.17.3–18.8). Philo’s attitude towards tychē seems to have been close to Josephus’s, for whom Gaius’s death “[was] not only […] of great importance in the interest of all men’s laws and the safeguarding of them, but [… i]t […] will teach a lesson in sobriety to those who think that good fortune (eutychia) is eternal and do not know that it ends in catastrophe unless it goes hand in hand with virtue”; Jewish Antiquities 19.15–16, Feldman, LCL. 51  Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium, 151–52; Lucio Troiani, “Natura e storia politica in Filone d’Alessandria,” in La rivelazione in Filone di Alessandria: Nature, legge, storia: Atti del VII convegno di studi del gruppo italiano di ricerca su Origene e la tradizione Alessandrina, ed. Angela M. Mazzanti and Francesca Calabi, Biblioteca di Adamantius 2 (Villa Verucchio: Pazzini, 2004), 1–8. 52  Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium, 151; Brouwer, “Polybius and Stoic Tyche,” 113–20. 53  For example, Histories. 1.4.5: “For though [tychē] is ever producing something new and ever playing a part in the lives of men, she has not in a single instance ever accomplished such a work, ever achieved such a triumph, as in our own times.”

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to the Judaeans’ observance of their own laws and customs. For the Stoics, true wisdom consisted of living one’s life in accordance with the law of Nature.54 Philo adopts this Stoic principle, but equates the law of Nature with the law of Moses. He writes, for instance, that only Moses’s laws were “stamped, as it were, with the seals of nature (physis) herself.”55 So the Judaeans live their lives according the law of Nature when they follow the Mosaic law.56 “The things of physis” can therefore be understood as the Judaean laws and customs. Along these lines, Philo’s argument is that Roman rule is unstable due to its association with tychē, whereas the Judaeans will remain safe and secure due to their observance of their own law and customs—which equal the law of Nature (physis).57 Philo develops this line of argument in the remainder of the Legatio. He differs from other Roman authors, who attributed Roman rule to some divine power. For Philo, Roman rule is only as good as its emperors.58 For that reason, a large part of the Legatio is devoted to Gaius’s character and actions, which Philo portrays in an unambiguously negative light. An illustrative 54  See, for example, Epictetus, Discourses 1.26.1–2: “But much more important is the following law of life—that we must do what nature (physis) demands”; Oldfather, LCL. See furthermore A. A. Long, Hellenistic Philosophy: Stoics, Epicureans, Sceptics, 2nd ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 120–21 and 147–50; Brad Inwood and Pierluigi Donini, “Stoic Ethics,” in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. Keimpe Algra et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 675–738. On the law of Nature, see also Gisela Striker, “Origins of the Concept of Natural Law,” in Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 209–21; Gerard Watson, “The Natural Law and Stoicism,” in Problems in Stoicism, ed. A. A. Long (London: Athlone, 1971; repr. 1996), 216–38; Jacob Klein, “Stoic Eudaimonism and the Natural Law Tradition,” in Reason, Religion and Natural Law: Plato to Spinoza, ed. Jonathan Jacobs (Oxford University Press, 2012) 57–80. 55  De vita Mosis 2.14. 56  On Philo’s equation of the Mosaic and the Natural law, see Émile Bréhier, Les idées philosophiques et religieuses de Philon d’Alexandrie (Paris: Alphonse Picard & Fils, 1908), 10– 14; Hindy Najman, “The Law of Nature and the Authority of Mosaic Law” and “A Written Copy of the Law of Nature: An Unthinkable Paradox?” in Past Renewals: Interpretative Authority, Renewed Revelation and the Quest for Perfection in Jewish Antiquity, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 53 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 87–106 and 107–18, respectively; Trent A. Rogers, “Philo’s Universalization of Sinai in De decalogo 32–49,” The Studia Philonica Annual 24 (2012): 85–105; Hindy Najman and Benjamin G. Wright, “Perfecting Translation: The Greek Scriptures in Philo of Alexandria,” in Sibyls, Scriptures, and Scrolls: John Collins at Seventy, ed. Joel Baden, Hindy Najman, and Eibert Tigchelaar, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 175 (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 897–915. 57  For a similar argument, see Berthelot, “Philo’s Perception of the Roman Empire,” 179–84. 58  Cf. Berthelot (“Philo’s Perception of the Roman Empire,” 169), who even suggests “a rivalry of election and universalism between Israel and Rome.”

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example is Philo’s use of the term “jealousy” (φθόνος), which occurs only twice in the Legatio, to illustrate Gaius’s illicit conduct and its global implications. In Legatio 48, Philo has Macro—Gaius’s chief advisor—warn the emperor that “[j]ealousy (φθόνος) has never got control of the whole oikoumenē, or even of large sections of it, such as the whole of Europe or Asia.” The warning is wasted on Gaius, and the emperor forces Macro to take his own life. With Macro out of the way, Gaius lets jealousy get the better of him and so, ironically, fulfils Macro’s prophecy. Legatio 80 depicts Gaius’s appropriation of the honours of the demi-gods (and later the Olympic deities) as motivated by his jealousy: “[Gaius’s] jealous (φθόνος) greed appropriated the honours of all of [the demi-gods] alike, or rather, appropriated the demi-gods themselves.” Philo’s response to this behaviour consists of a series of comparisons between Gaius and the gods whose honours he appropriated. These comparisons bring out the global implications of Gaius’s actions: whereas the gods distributed good things throughout the oikoumenē, Gaius is “a universal destroyer and murderer”59 who “showered untold evils […] on all parts of the oikoumenē,”60 “brought disease upon the healthy, mutilation upon the sound, and in general unnatural, premature, and cruel deaths upon the living,”61 and “transformed the settled order into uproar and faction.”62 For Philo, Gaius’s self-glorification reflects not merely a personal defect, but has global consequences and puts the stability of the Roman oikoumenē at risk. Gaius’s main issue is with the Judaeans, who deny him the divine honours he is seeking. As Philo writes: “It was only of the Jews that Gaius was suspicious, on the grounds that they were the only people who deliberately opposed him and had been taught from their very cradles […] to believe that the Father and Creator of the universe is one God” (Legatio 115).63 But Philo’s argument is broader than this. When he contrasts Gaius with Augustus, Philo formulates the latter’s virtues in general terms as caring “as much for the preservation of the customs of the various nations as for the preservation of Roman ones” and “not […] doing away with the practices of a particular people” (Legatio 153). This general point that the stability of the Roman Empire depends on allowing individual ethnē to observe their own customs forms the background of Philo’s defence of the Judaean right to live according to their laws. It is the context in

59  L egatio 88–89. 60  L egatio 101. 61  L egatio 106–07. 62  L egatio 113. 63  Cf. Legatio 198.

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which, for instance, the following remarks in Agrippa’s letter to Gaius must be understood: Therefore, my lord, since you have these striking precedents for a gentler policy than your own, all closely connected with the family from which you were descended and born and in which you have taken such pride, preserve what each of them has preserved. As Emperors they plead the Cause of the laws to you as Emperor, as Augusti to you as Augustus, as your grandfathers and ancestors to you as their descendant, as many people to you who are but one, and they say in effect, “Do not abolish customs which have been maintained at our express wish up to the present day. For even if nothing sinister were to befall you as a result of their abolition, yet the uncertainty of the future is not entirely without terror even for the boldest, unless they despise the things of God.”64 This passage summarises what Philo65 considered to be the main problem with Gaius: as a result of his self-deification and self-centredness, he abolished the customs of local peoples in the Roman Empire—and in particular, those of the Judaeans, whom Gaius hated bitterly. As Philo writes elsewhere, “he regarded himself as the law, and broke the laws of the lawgivers of every country as if they were empty words” (Legatio 119). By so doing, Gaius abandoned the values and mindset of his predecessors and posed a threat to the stability of the Roman oikoumenē. Philo’s portrait of the Romans can be understood as an act of resistance to the grobalising aspirations of Roman rule. In contrast to authors and sculptors who articulated the global claims of the Roman Empire, Philo offers a glocalised picture of the Romans and localises the oikoumenē. Although Philo seems comfortable with Roman rule over the oikoumenē, he simultaneously points out that the future of the Roman Empire is not a given. Roman dominion has a local aspect, in that it depends on the preservation of the laws and customs of local groups within the empire. Rome’s early emperors understood this well, and through their defence and promotion of local—and for Philo, especially Judaean—customs, they were able to build a global empire. At the same time, in Philo’s view, the case of Gaius demonstrates that the assumption of power 64  L egatio 321–22. 65  On Agrippa’s letter as the fruit of Philo’s imagination, see Solomon Zeitlin, “Did Agrippa Write a Letter to Gaius Caligula?” The Jewish Quarterly Review 56 (1965): 22–31; Daniel R. Schwartz, Agrippa I: The Last King of Judaea, Texte und Studien zum Antiken Judentum 23 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1990), 87, 178–80, and 200–202.

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by a local-minded, self-centred emperor puts the stability of the oikoumenē at risk and may even strike the death blow to the Roman Empire. 4

Globalising the Judaeans

The second line of Philo’s argument is the one that globalises the Judaeans. As I have indicated above, Philo’s portrayal of the Judaeans in In Flaccum and the Legatio is thoroughly translocal. Adopting a Greek model, Philo depicts the Judaean communities in Alexandria and elsewhere across the Roman Empire as “colonies” (ἀποικίαι) of the mother-city (μητρόπολις), Jerusalem.66 Philo stresses this global distribution of the Judaeans throughout the oikoumenē time and again in his political works.67 For Philo, the global spread of the Judaeans sets them apart from other ethnē in the Roman world: [Petronius] also had in mind the vast numerical size of the Jewish nation (ethnos), which is not confined, as every other nation is, within the borders of the one country assigned for its sole occupation, but occupies almost the whole oikoumenē. For it has overflowed across every continent and island, so that it scarcely seems to be outnumbered by the native inhabitants.68 The global presence of the Judaeans means that they constitute a potential power that could resist Gaius. Philo occasionally plays with the idea of the Judaeans engaging in violent resistance against Roman officials,69 but in most cases, the resistance he imagines would be peaceful. Their willingness to resist Gaius also sets them apart from other ethnē, as Philo points out in Legatio 116–17:

66  See Aryeh Kasher, “Jerusalem as a ‘Metropolis’ in Philo’s National Consciousness,” Cathedra 11 (1979): 45–56 (Hebrew); Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 17–44; Sarah Pearce, “Jerusalem as ‘Mother-City’ in the Writings of Philo of Alexandria,” in Negotiating Diaspora: Jewish Strategies in the Roman Empire, ed. John M. G. Barclay, Library of Second Temple Studies 45 (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 19–36; Seland, “‘Colony’ and ‘Metropolis’ in Philo.” 67  See In Flaccum 46 and 49; Legatio 283–84 and 330. 68  Legatio 214. 69  For example, In Flaccum 48; Legatio 208, 301, and 334–35; also the Jamnia incident (Legatio 200–203). Bilde speaks of a “menacing undertone” in Philo’s In Flaccum and Legatio. See his “Philo as a Polemist and a Political Apologist,” 111–12.

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All other men, women, cities, nations, countries, and regions of the world—I can almost say the whole oikoumenē—although they deplored what was happening, flattered Gaius none the less, glorifying him more than was reasonable, and so increasing his vanity. […] But one single race, the Judaeans, stood apart and was suspected of being likely to resist, since it was used to accepting death as willingly as if it were immortality in order not to allow any of their ancestral traditions, even the smallest, to be abrogated. A combined reading of these two passages shows how Philo depicts the Judaeans as a global force of resistance against Gaius. This image of the Judaeans is intricately bound up with Philo’s portrayal of Gaius. As I have argued above, Philo’s critique of Gaius is that he is so occupied with his own affairs and glory that he forsakes his imperial responsibilities. By abandoning the laws of local ethnē in the empire, Gaius undermines the peace his predecessors had brought about. As the Judaeans resist Gaius, therefore, they are not only defending their own local laws, but also the stability of the Roman Empire. In Philo’s account, the Judaeans embody the traditional values expressed by Rome’s first emperors. By drawing sharp distinctions between the Judaeans and other ethnē, Philo engages in a cultural competition and argues that the future of the Roman Empire depends exclusively on the Judaeans. At a time when the emperor had abandoned the translocal attitude of Augustus and Tiberius and all ethnē in the empire followed suit, the Judaeans alone resisted and safeguarded the stability of the Roman oikoumenē. These passages show that Philo’s argument in the Legatio is not confined to the Romans and the Judaeans. Even though the conflict between the Roman emperor Gaius and the Judaean ethnos arguably constitutes the main theme of the Legatio, Philo’s argument involves all other ethnē in the empire. Theories of globalisation are helpful in capturing the complexity of Philo’s argument, which involves a cultural competition not just with Gaius and the Romans, but also with other local groups in the empire. Unsurprisingly, the Egyptians and the Greeks take pride of place in Philo’s argument,70 but Philo’s context is broader than this. The Legatio includes negative comments on, for instance, the Ascalonites. Apelles, one of Gaius’s advisors, comes from the city of Ascalon, whose “inhabitants cherish an implacable and irreconcilable hatred for the Jews who live in the Holy Land and with whom they have a common frontier.” 70  On Philo’s portrayal of the Egyptians in the Legatio and his other writings, see Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 45–74; Pearce, The Land of the Body, esp. 54–80 on In Flaccum and Legatio ad Gaium.

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Just as Helicon—Gaius’s other advisor—“injected his Egyptian poison into the Judaeans,” so Apelles exposed the Judaeans to “his poison from Ascalon” (Legatio 205). This shows that Philo is a translocal writer whose argument depends on his engagement with a broad range of local cultures and traditions from across the Roman world. In that sense, Philo’s writings can be taken as a “global mélange” in which the Alexandrian author positions himself vis-à-vis the broad, multicultural background of the Roman Mediterranean.71 Philo’s translocal view of the Judaeans also permeates his descriptions of the Alexandrian riots and of Gaius’s plan to set up his statue in the Jerusalem temple. Philo’s description of the riots in the Legatio proceeds in two stages. In the first stage, Judaean homes are demolished and the Judaeans are forced to live together in a narrow space (Legatio 119–31). In the second, more serious stage,72 the mob, backed up by Flaccus (Legatio 132), attacks Judaean houses of prayer (προσευχαί) (Legatio 132–37). Although destruction of these houses of prayer was not an option “because large numbers of Jews lived crowded together close by” (Legatio 134), the Alexandrians nevertheless erected statues of Gaius in them, effectively turning these Judaean spaces into shrines of the imperial cult.73 Philo’s account of the riots does not portray them as merely an attack on Judaean spaces. Arguing that the riots resulted from the hatred the Alexandrians—like Gaius—felt towards the Judaeans, rather than from a concern for the stability of the empire, Philo imbues these attacks with more-thanlocal significance. In Philo’s narrative, the riots in Alexandria are attacks on the empire as a whole. He illustrates this in two ways. Firstly, he points out that by destroying Judaean houses of prayer, the Alexandrians also destroyed Judaean signs of loyalty towards the emperor: “I say nothing about the simultaneous destruction and burning of the objects set up in honour of the Emperors.”74 It is unclear which objects Philo is referring to here, but they presumably included inscriptions, and perhaps crowns.75 The punishment for destroying such objects was severe: the Acts of Paul and Thecla, for instance, describes 71  Cf. Niehoff’s portrayal of Philo as a “Mediterranean thinker” in her “Wie wird man ein Mediterraner Denker? Der Fall Philon von Alexandria,” in Ein pluriverses Universum: Zivilisationen und Religionen im antiken Mittelmeerraum, ed. Richard Faber and Achim Lichtenberger, Mittelmeerstudien 7 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2015), 355–67. 72  L egatio 132: “They consequently became still more excited and rushed headlong into outrageous plots of even greater audacity.” In In Flaccum, Philo presents a different picture of the riots; see Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium, 220. 73  Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium, 222. 74  L egatio 133. 75  So Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium, 220–21.

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how Thecla is thrown to the lions after disrespecting a crown bearing Caesar’s image.76 Even so, the Alexandrian mob is not concerned with any punishment they might receive, as “they derived confidence from the fact that they had no punishment to fear from Gaius, who, as they well knew, felt an indescribable hatred for the Judaeans.”77 Gaius’s and Flaccus’s reaction to these insults corresponds with Philo’s critique of these officials: when the Alexandrian mob attacks the empire and its symbols, Gaius and Flaccus are more concerned with satisfying their own hatred than with defending the honours of the empire. Secondly, Philo explains that the statues of Gaius erected in Judaean houses of prayer were not meant to honour the emperor,78 but to satisfy the Alexandrians’ hostility vis-à-vis the Judaeans. Philo finds a clear sign of this in a second-hand statue the Alexandrians hastily set up in a former synagogue: So great was their haste and the intensity of their enthusiasm that, since they had no new four-horse chariot available, they took a very old one out of the gymnasium. It was very rusty, and the ears, tails, hooves, and a good many other parts were broken off. According to some people, it had been dedicated in honour of a woman, the earlier Cleopatra, great-grandmother of the last one.79 A greater insult, Philo continues, is hardly imaginable.80 And yet the Alexandrians feared no retaliation, but even “entertained extravagant hopes of being praised and of enjoying even greater and more conspicuous rewards for having dedicated the synagogues to Gaius as new precincts” (Legatio 137). The point here is the same as before: Gaius and the Alexandrians are so blinded by their hatred of the Judaeans that they allow insults to the Roman Empire to pass unpunished. The Judaeans, in contrast, are loyal inhabitants of the empire, who honour the emperor in their houses of prayer and, as Philo writes elsewhere, offer “prayers, the dedication of offerings, and numerous sacrifices” to the emperor.81 This portrayal of events corresponds with Philo’s overall 76  A  cts of Paul and Thecla 26. On the implications of Thecla’s action, see Jaś Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph: The Art of the Roman Empire AD 100–450 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 58. 77  L egatio 133. 78  Philo develops this argument at length when he wonders why the Alexandrians, if they are so concerned with honouring their rulers, never erected statues of the Ptolemaic kings or previous emperors. See Legatio 138–61. 79  L egatio 135. 80  L egatio 136. 81  See Legatio 279–80.

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argument that the Judaeans are key to preserving the stability of the Roman Empire, which Gaius and his associates are putting at risk. Gaius’s hatred of the Judaeans finds its zenith in the emperor’s plan to erect a statue of himself in the Jerusalem temple. In the Legatio, this incident— which historically constituted merely a local conflict82—acquires global relevance. Philo’s argument develops in two directions. Firstly, Philo emphasises the global appeal of the temple. One of Gaius’s reasons for erecting his statue in Jerusalem is because its temple “is the most beautiful temple in the world, and it has been adorned from time immemorial with a constant stream of generous gifts” (Legatio 198). Gaius is not alone in his admiration for the Jerusalem temple: other Romans, including Gaius’s grandfather Marcus Agrippa, had visited the temple83 or were involved in the activities that took place there.84 The difference between Gaius and other Roman officials is that the latter’s admiration for the temple motivated them to protect its Judaean character. Gaius’s impending violation of the temple would therefore entail a tragic break with the policy of his predecessors. Secondly, Philo points to the vast size of the Judaean ethnos and its close attachment to the temple in Jerusalem. In Legatio 210, Petronius—Gaius’s legate in Syria, who had been ordered to erect the statue—fears Judaean resistance: “All peoples are tenacious of their own customs, but the Judaean nation is particularly so. […] But more outstanding and noteworthy is the respect which they all show for the Temple.” Moreover, Petronius is aware of the number and broad geographical spread of Judaeans in the Roman Empire.85 This combination of size and allegiance to the temple makes the Judaean ethnos a powerful potential source of resistance. Thus Gaius’s plan could have disastrous consequences. In his letter to Gaius, Philo’s Agrippa presents a similar argument, but he strikes a more positive tone. Rather than threatening Gaius with the forces of resistance he is likely to unleash, Agrippa writes to the emperor that “if my native city has a share in your kindness, it will not be a single city but countless others set in every region of the world as well […] which will enjoy the benefits […], so that your glory may resound throughout every part of the 82  On the historical ramifications of the temple episode, see E. Mary Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian, Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity 20 (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 174–80; Per Bilde, “The Roman Emperor Gaius (Caligula)’s Attempt to Erect his Statue in the Temple of Jerusalem,” Studia Theologica 32 (1978): 67–93; Erich S. Gruen, “Caligula, The Imperial Cult, and Philo’s Legatio,” The Studia Philonica Annual 24 (2012): 135–47. 83  L egatio 291 and 294. 84  L egatio 298 (Tiberius), 311 and 313 (Augustus). 85  L egatio 214–15.

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world and your praises may re-echo mingled with thanks” (Legatio 283–84). In the Legatio, therefore, the Jerusalem temple is a universal focal point: respecting and promoting its Judaean character will bring peace and praise to the emperor throughout the oikoumenē, whereas its violation will lead to empire-wide war.86 5

Conclusion and Reflections

In this chapter, I have sought to illuminate the general argument of Philo’s Legatio ad Gaium by applying the concepts of resistance and locality, as they have been developed in modern theories of globalisation. In my view, Philo presents a complex argument in his Legatio, in which the interplay between global and local aspects of the Romans and the Judaeans plays a central part. Philo accepts Roman claims to global domination but simultaneously emphasises the dependence of that rule on the character of individual emperors. Additionally, Philo recognises the Judaean ethnos as one of the many ethnē inhabiting the Roman Empire, but also imbues them with a particular importance. They alone reject Gaius’s irresponsible behaviour, and so they alone are heirs to the translocal attitude Augustus and Tiberius exhibited. For Philo, the stability and the future of the Roman Empire depend on the Judaeans. This conclusion invites further reflection on the aims and purposes of Philo’s Legatio as well as on the application of modern theories to the study of the ancient world. Scholars have disagreed about the audience Philo intended for the Legatio. If, as I have argued, Philo’s argument in this work is inherently complex, this would lend support to the view that the intended audience of the Legatio was mixed.87 How exactly we should conceive of this mixed audience will be a fruitful topic for further study. Moreover, I hope to have illustrated the utility of modern theories—and theories of globalisation in particular—in guiding our readings of ancient sources. At first glance, such an application 86  P olemos: Legatio 218, 220, and 226. Cf. above (pp. 215–16) on the contrast between Gaius as promoting war and his predecessors as bringing peace. 87  The intended audience of Philo’s Legatio has been the subject of much discussion. Goodenough argued that Philo was addressing a Roman audience—more precisely, Gaius’s successor, Claudius (The Politics of Philo Judaeus, 19). Niehoff, in contrast, proposed that Philo was addressing a Jewish audience (Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, 39–40). Pieter van der Horst has convincingly argued that In Flaccum addresses a mixed Judaeo-Roman audience. His suggestion can be extended to the Legatio and seems to do more justice to the complexity of the argument Philo develops in these works. See his Philo’s Flaccus: The First Pogrom: Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Philo of Alexandria Commentary Series 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 15–16.

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of modern theories to Philo’s writings may seem uncalled for, due to the cultural divides between modern and post-modern societies and the Roman world in which Philo lived and wrote. Yet the focus of this volume on “cultural resistance”—a term unknown to ancient authors—already demonstrates that in our studies of the ancient world, it is difficult to escape modern models, theories, and interests. In my view, applying modern theoretical frameworks to the ancient world can help us make sense of ancient sources and provide a historical dimension to contemporary debates. This cannot be done uncritically, however, and further reflections on how interactions between modern theories and ancient sources can be developed remains a desideratum. Bibliography Abulafia, David. The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean. London: Allen Lane, 2011. Adams, Laura, Miguel Centeno, and Charles Varner. “Resistance to Cultural Globalization—A Comparative Analysis.” Pages 80–89 in Conflicts and Tensions. Edited by Helmut K. Anheier and Yudhishthir Raj Isar. The Cultures and Globalization Series 1. Los Angeles: Sage, 2007. Appadurai, Arjun. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Public Worlds 1. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Ayres, Jeffrey M. “Framing Collective Action Against Neoliberalism: The Case of the Anti-Globalization Movement.” Journal of World-Systems Research 10 (2004): 11–34. Barraclough, Ray. “Philo’s Politics: Roman Rule and Hellenistic Judaism.” Pages 417–553 in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung: II: Principat: 21.1: Religion (Hellenistisches Judentum in römischer Zeit: Philon und Josephus). Edited by Wolfgang Haasse. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1984. Berthelot, Katell. “Philo’s Perception of the Roman Empire.” Journal for the Study of Judaism 42 (2011): 166–87. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Bilde, Per. “Philo as a Polemist and a Political Apologist.” Pages 97–114 in Alexandria: A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot. Edited by George Hinge and Jens A. Krasilnikoff. Aarhus Studies in Mediterranean Antiquity 9. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2009. Bilde, Per. “The Roman Emperor Gaius (Caligula)’s Attempt to Erect his Statue in the Temple of Jerusalem.” Studia Theologica 32 (1978): 67–93. Bordo, Michael D., Alan M. Taylor, and Jeffrey G. Williamson, eds. Globalization in Historical Perspective. Chicago: The University of Chicago University Press, 2003. Bréhier, Émile. Les idées philosophiques et religieuses de Philon d’Alexandrie. Paris: Alphonse Picard & Fils, 1908.

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Van der Horst, Pieter. Philo’s Flaccus: The First Pogrom: Introduction, Translation and Commentary. Philo of Alexandria Commentary Series 2. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Vlassopoulos, Kostas. Greeks and Barbarians. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Walbank, F. W. “Fortune (tychē) in Polybius.” Pages 349–55 in A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography. Edited by John Marincola. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2007. Walbank, F. W. “Supernatural Paraphernalia in Polybius’ Histories.” Pages 245–57 in Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World: Essays and Reflections. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Walbank, F. W. A Historical Commentary on Polybius. 3 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1957/1967/1979. Watson, Gerard. “The Natural Law and Stoicism.” Pages 216–38 in Problems in Stoicism. Edited by A. A. Long. London: Athlone, 1971; repr. 1996. Whitmarsh, Tim, ed. Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Witcher, Robert. “Globalisation and Roman Imperialism: Perspectives on Identities in Roman Italy.” Pages 213–25 in The Emergence of State Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC. Edited by Edward Herring and Kathryn Lomas. London: Accordia Research Institute, 2000. Zanker, Paul. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Translated by Alan Shapiro. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1988. Zeitlin, Solomon. “Did Agrippa Write a Letter to Gaius Caligula?” The Jewish Quarterly Review 56 (1965): 22–31.

chapter 8

Stranger Danger! Amixia among Judaeans and Others Steve Mason Philo and Josephus were fluent in the common cultural discourse of their world. They explained Judaean laws and customs in ways that resonated with the highest Graeco-Roman values. For both, the laws of Moses embody the very laws of nature (φύσις) and so provide the finest human constitution (πολιτεῖα). The Judaean νόμοι breathe justice and humanity and virtue; they inculcate simplicity of life and contempt for death. Louis Feldman showed in countless studies that Josephus paraphrased the Bible ( Judaean Antiquities 1–11) in such a way as to find common ground with Graeco-Roman values, while dropping or marginalising elements that did not sound right.1 Now Judaeans received relentless criticism from Graeco-Roman intellectuals for their aloofness or non-mixing with other peoples.2 Yet on this one question, far from making any effort to conceal or explain away the perception, Josephus (like Philo) celebrates it as a virtue. How should we explain that, given his general sensitivity to outsider impressions? This chapter can only be an initial probe. To keep it manageable, I shall focus on Josephus and pay special attention to a rare word, which encapsulates the problem: ἀμιξία (“non-mingling,” “aloofness”). It suggests the negation or absence of something normally expected: ἐπιμιξία (“mingling”) or similar. We shall use Josephus’s single ἀμιξία passage (two occurrences of the noun) and two with the cognate adjective ἄμικτος (“unmingled,” “unable to mingle”) as reference points for constructing a literary context, with special attention to Tacitus and Philo. Finally, we shall return to Josephus with clearer criteria for identifying a thematic cluster in his work. My modest proposal is that Josephus 1  Cf. Louis H. Feldman, Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1998) for examples; and Feldman, Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998) for a synthesis. Josephus’s neglect of Septuagintal διαθήκη as “covenant” (using it only for wills) is an obvious case. Paul Spilsbury (The Image of the Jew in Flavius Josephus’ Paraphrase of the Bible [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998]) argues that Josephus reinterprets the covenantal idea in patron-client terms. 2  Cf. Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, 3 vols. (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences, 1974–84); e.g., Diodorus, Strabo, and Tacitus.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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offers an interpretation of what could be seen as ἀμιξία that is in accord with the most elevated reaches of Greek thought. Needless to say, this kind of question is not about the actual lives of Judaeans and their varied real-life interactions in Alexandria, Antioch, or Rome. That would be an entirely different kind of study. We are here trying only to understand an important idea-set in the late first century—friendly exchange with others, perceived aloofness, possible justifications—from different perspectives. 1 Preliminaries In the ethnographical mindset that prevailed throughout pre-Christian antiquity, from Hecataeus of Miletus and Herodotus through the Neo-Platonist Julian—that is to say, in the time “before religion”3—loyalty to one’s ancestral nomoi remained an axiomatic virtue. In attacking the Persian Cambyses for his outrageously impious behaviour in Egypt, Herodotus wrote (3.38): If someone could somehow design an experiment, directing all humans to choose the finest nomoi from all nomoi, even after making a careful examination each would choose their very own. To such a degree do they consider their own nomoi to be the finest. […] It seems to me that Pindar formulated it properly when he said that that “nomos is king of all” (νόμον πάντων βασιλέα). Half a millennium later, Josephus assumes the same virtue in his polemic against the Egyptian-become-Alexandrian Apion (Apion 2.144), though nomos has now hardened to “law”: “It is the duty of thoughtful people to devote themselves to the scrupulous maintenance of their own nomoi in relation to piety, and not to malign those of others (τοῖς μὲν οἰκείοις νόμοις περὶ τὴν εὐσέβειαν ἀκριβῶς ἐμμένειν, τοὺς δὲ τῶν ἄλλων μὴ λοιδορεῖν). This fellow not only abandoned his; he traduced ours!” Similarly, he castigates critics of the Judaeans for contrasting them with other ethnē, because each people’s traditions are sacrosanct and should be respected, no matter how strange they seem. Since his enemies have engaged in odious comparisons, however, he will reluctantly play the same game, contrasting Judaean laws advantageously with those of others 3  Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013); Carlin Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine No Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2016).

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(Apion 2.237): “I certainly would have preferred not to scrutinise others’ legal precepts; for it is our tradition to guard our own and not to bring accusations against others’” (ἐγὼ δ᾿ οὐκ ἂν ἐβουλόμην περὶ τῶν παρ᾿ ἑτέροις νομίμων ἐξετάζειν· τὰ γὰρ αὑτῶν ἡμῖν φυλάττειν πάτριόν ἐστιν, οὐ τῶν ἀλλοτρίων κατηγορεῖν). In a world that runs on the same calendar and with instant global communication, it is impossible for us to imagine the radical diversity, even in a small geographical area, that characterised ancient life. No doubt most people had little time for reflecting on the big picture. But those who did—and Greek thinkers from Herodotus to Stephanus of Byzantium were fascinated by the variety of ethnē—ended up using the same sort of “world-affirming” language. Members of an ethnos were expected to cherish their own ancestral nomoi and, equally, to respect the very different ways of others. Celsus invoked the same view, held by all decent people, to attack the Christians. Recalling Pindar’s pithy phrase, he made a clear distinction between Judaeans and Christians on this issue. Whatever one thinks of Judaean nomoi (he does not care for them), they are ancient, inspire appropriate loyalty among Judaeans, and demand respect from foreigners. Christians, though also born into ethnē with ancient laws and customs, of course, have rejected any such loyalty and turned their backs on society’s basic ordering principles (Origen, Against Celsus 5.34–35, 40–41). 2 Josephus’s Amixia Passage in Its Literary Context The Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (TLG) shows only about ten occurrences of ἀμιξία up to Josephus’s time, and another five by the end of the third century. The most relevant cases for cultural questions—leaving aside the mere mixing or non-mixing of substances in Aristotle and Theophrastus—are as follows. Thucydides (1.3.4) says that the Trojan War first united the Hellenes; before that, they had lived in isolation (ἀμειξία). Isocrates, in the voice of the Spartan Archidamus, commiserates with the Achaeans, who face fearful isolation (Discourses 6.67). Polybius uses ἀμιξία twice in his criticism of the Carthaginians for using mercenary troops from diverse places, for in a crisis their lack of understanding leaves them isolated—in a state of ἀμιξία vis-à-vis the citizens (1.67.3, 11). Plutarch uses ἀμιξία with χαλεπός (“harsh,” “ferocious”) to describe the savagery of Dolopians on the island of Scyros (Theseus 36.2); the horde of Teutons heading towards Italy under Marius, who were mysterious because they would not interact with others (Marius 11.4); and the uncultured ruler in the Moralia, who lives in isolation from his people (Uneducated Ruler 780A). In all of these cases, the negative resonance is clear.

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Lucian, assuming the word’s negative connotation, explains how it came about in the case of the Athenian misanthrope Timon. He says that it was actually Timon’s love of people that caused his withdrawal. Some seemingly close friends had swindled him out of a fortune. When sympathetic gods led Timon to discover gold in compensation, he quite understandably turned to a life of ἀμιξία (Timon 42). This looks like a case study of the origins of misanthropy, as described by Socrates in the Phaedo (89b–91c): people who have been harmed by trusting others naturally resolve to protect themselves by keeping apart in future. Tacitus (Histories 5.3–4) uses a similar logic to explain—at least partly—Judaean aloofness: they had suffered at Egyptian hands. In a section of Philostratus’s marvellous Life of Apollonius of Tyana, the Greek sage and Thespesion of Egypt engage in a good-natured debate about the merits of their respective cultures (Life of Apollonius of Tyana 6.20). Thespesion mentions the Spartan practice of flogging young men at the altar of Artemis Orthia. How can other Greeks—and Apollonius—admire such brutal behaviour? Or the famed Spartan removal of foreigners: ξενηλᾰσία (cf. Thucydides 1.144)? Why is this not as offensive to Greeks as it would be to Egyptians? Would it not be better for Spartans, the Egyptian asks sarcastically, to sacrifice one or two foreigners, rather than ban them all? Apollonius argues that ξενηλᾰσία is indeed admirable (6.20): Let’s not pick on [the Spartan lawgiver] Lycurgus, Thespesion, for we need to understand the man, and that when he excluded strangers from settling in, he did not have ἀμιξία in mind, but wanted to keep the habits of Sparta healthy and free from external debasement (οὐκ ἀμιξίας αὐτῷ νοῦν εἶχεν, ἀλλὰ τοῦ ὑγιαίνειν τὰς ἐπιτηδεύσεις μὴ ἐνομιλούντων τῇ Σπάρτῃ τῶν ἔξωθεν). Thespesion is not impressed. First, real virtue would consist in actually mingling with others and still preserving one’s virtue, not in taking the easy path of isolation. Second, in spite of their vaunted isolation, the Spartans have borrowed much from others! Their fuss about keeping themselves unsullied is nonsense. We soon discover, however, that Thespesion does not mean any of this. His ultimate aim is to expose the folly of rationalising any people’s customs. Thinking about Spartan ξενηλᾰσία, a partner to ἀμιξία, brings us to two passages in Plato. In the Protagoras, Socrates anticipates Apollonius by insisting that Spartan ξενηλᾰσία is necessary for the protection of its wisdom, especially from Laconisers. Laconisers here are Sparta fanboys, who gravitate to the polis because they admire the fitness regime. They fail to understand that Spartan

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strength comes from wisdom about governance and discipline (Protagoras 342c). Such hangers-on, who cannot live the life, must be kept away so that they do not dilute Sparta’s unique effectiveness or potency. Still more important is Plato’s last work, The Laws. Here, three elders from various poleis are planning an ideal new polis: Magnesia on Crete. The Athenian member is appalled to learn that its location will be a mere 80 stadia (16 km) from an excellent sea harbour, because this means constant interaction with foreigners; it will need “a mighty saviour and divine lawgivers” if it is to avoid “luxurious and depraved habits” (704–5). In the final part of the work, the sages ponder the extent to which this polis should isolate itself from foreigners in Spartan fashion. They agree on the premise that a uniquely well-governed polis must protect itself from contamination (950a): “Foreigners interacting with foreigners means novelties being grafted in (καινοτομίας ἀλλήλοις ἐμποιούντων ξένων ξένοις). For those who are well governed by proper laws, this would inflict enormous damage all round—though with most poleis, which are hardly well regulated, it doesn’t matter.” Since their new polis will be uniquely wellgoverned, they must narrowly limit the scope for contamination—without acquiring a reputation for misanthropy. To do this, the committee puts strict limits on citizens’ foreign travel. Only those older than forty may leave, only in pairs or groups, and only in a public capacity. The polis may also send men abroad to seek out the wise elsewhere, but these investigators must be in their fifties, to be incorruptible by foreign customs (951a–c). As for inbound risks, the planners envisage receiving summer tourists, festival-goers, or officials from other poleis on public business. They must all be hospitably received, but restricted to meeting only the necessary citizens and forbidden from introducing any novelties. Anyone who visited the Soviet Union might recognise parallels. Plato thus opens the door to constructive possibilities for ἀμιξία, when common mixing would be dangerous. Porphyry’s On Abstinence makes the point in relation to what is sacred. Shortly after his glowing description of the Judaeans and their Essene masters of discipline, Porphyry reflects on purity (On Abstinence 4.20): “Holy men postulated that purity is the separation [non-mingling] of opposites, whereas mingling means defiling” (ἁγνείαν γὰρ ἐτίθεντο οἱ ἱεροὶ πρὸς τοὐναντίον ἀμιξίαν, μολυσμὸν δὲ τὴν μῖξιν). Since every polis included sacred or specially consecrated areas, and the concept of purity and pollution was ubiquitous, Josephus can expect his audience’s understanding and admiration when he says of the Judaean priests—a hereditary caste, unlike those of Mediterranean poleis (Apion 1.30): “[Our ancestors] from the beginning not only put in charge of these matters the best men and those devoted to the service of God; they also made provision so that the ancestral line of the priests should remain unmixed and pure” (ἀλλ᾿ ὅπως τὸ

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γένος τῶν ἱερέων ἄμικτον καὶ καθαρὸν διαμενεῖ προυνόησαν). The logic is unassailable: if you have something that must be kept pure, you separate it from contamination. The only question was whether a group claiming to require such aloofness deserved it. A gated community with nothing worthy of protection is merely antisocial. 2 Maccabees is germane for the ἀμιξία question because it thematises this language in relation to a crisis of forced mixing under the Seleucid king Antiochus IV. Although it is the royal power that directly threatens Judaeans’ allegiance to their ancestral nomoi, these measures are nevertheless the outcome of energetic “mixing” initiatives by Jerusalem’s disgraceful priestly elite—the very men who should have been at the forefront of championing their nation’s laws. Their designs, summarised as “hellenising” and “foreignising” (Ἑλληνισμός, ἀλλοφυλισμός), are vividly explained: they abandoned their service in the sacred temple court in favour of Greek values, institutions, customs, and even dress (2 Maccabees 4:13). Even though this appears to be an inhouse Judaean text, the disgrace involved would have been clear to any ancient reader. In 2 Maccabees 14, the author refers twice to “the times of ἀμιξία” (ἐν τοῖς τῆς ἀμειξίας χρόνοις). It is a strange construction, both because the “times” obviously refer to a single brief period of testing, and because in this moment the historic apartness of the Judaeans becomes something that must be defended, even at the cost of one’s life. Like his ironic coinage Ἰουδαϊσμός (“Judaising” Jerusalem and its leadership and people), I would suggest, ἀμιξία would not be an issue if the Judaeans had been left to their laws, as common sense required. For long centuries they had followed distinctive ways while managing relations with rulers and neighbours. This chapter contrasts the behaviour of two prominent Judaeans during the crisis. The high priest Alcimus had destroyed his credentials at the altar and among the people by deliberately contaminating himself (ἑκουσίως δὲ μεμολυσμένος ἐν τοῖς τῆς ἀμειξίας χρόνοις; 14.3). His only remaining gambit was to become a puppet high priest of the Seleucid regime, which did not work out well. In sharp contrast, the wise lay elder Razis, otherwise unknown, emerges as a lover of his polis-people (ἀνὴρ φιλοπολίτης), who is so well spoken of that people call him the “father of the Judaeans” (14.37). Any sensible reader of standard ancient virtue should find these traits admirable. But in the absurd crisis, they become capital charges against Razis: he dared to promote Judaean identity in Jerusalem (Ἰουδαϊσμός; 14.38). The premise that the Israelite ‘am or Judaean ethnos must not mingle its laws with those of others taps a deep biblical vein. Before Moses receives the law at Sinai, God declares: “The whole earth is mine, but you shall be for me

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a priestly kingdom and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:5–6). In Numbers 25, God commands the death of those Israelites who have mixed with women of the neighbouring peoples (cf. Deuteronomy 7:3–4). The great scribe Ezra requires Jerusalemites to divorce their foreign wives (Ezra 9:1–10:11). Separation (havdalah) is a profound theme of biblical and post-biblical literature, possibly accounting for the perishut of the Pharisees. From an ancient ethnographic perspective, all of this was fine. Each ethnos was assumed to have its charter myths and laws; they simply had to get along with everyone else. Our interest is in how these questions were playing out for Judaeans in the late first century CE. And so we reach the two occurrences of ἀμιξία in Josephus. The setting is 134 BCE, shortly after the accession of the Hasmonean John Hyrcanus. The Seleucid king Antiochus VII Sidetes, having fallen out with Hyrcanus’s father, Simon, in the preceding years, is fed up and decides to besiege Jerusalem. But when the Feast of Booths arrives and the Jerusalemites request a ceasefire, Antiochus not only allows it, he sends in magnificent sacrifices. This pious gesture encourages Hyrcanus to request more: How about self-rule for Jerusalem? Remarkably, Antiochus agrees—on the condition that Jerusalem hand over its weapons, pay tribute for the territories that Simon has taken, and accept a Seleucid garrison to replace the one Simon expelled (13.215–217). Hyrcanus agrees to the first two proposals. In place of the third, he offers hundreds of hostages and massive compensation, so intolerable was the prospect of the foreign garrison. Still more remarkably, Antiochus agrees to this. This deal becomes crucial for the advance of Hasmonean interests. Ἀμιξία appears twice here in rapid succession. First, Josephus places Antiochus in a long line of rulers, from Cyrus and Alexander the Great to Marcus Agrippa and the legates of Syria in Nero’s time, who have honoured Jerusalem’s temple. In doing so, however, Antiochus ignored the advice of commanders who “urged him to eradicate the ethnos on account of the ἀμιξία of their way of life towards others” (13.245). In the very next sentence, the narrator’s voice confirms that Jerusalemites would not accept a fortress because “they did not intermingle with others on account of their ἀμιξία” (13.247). Josephus has anticipated this ignored advice from anti-Judaean counsellors two volumes earlier, where the Persian official Haman advises King Artaxerxes. Annoyed that the Judaean Mordechai does not prostrate himself before the king, Haman first wants him killed, but quickly extends this into a plan to destroy Mordechai’s whole ethnos on the same charge of ἀμιξία (Antiquities 11.212): So he [Haman] comes to the king and accuses them, saying that there is a certain worthless ethnos, and it is dispersed through the inhabited earth

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under his rule: “separated [unmixed], incompatible, neither having the same worship as others nor following similar laws, hostile to your people and all humanity in customs and practices (ἄμικτον ἀσύμφυλον οὔτε θρησκείαν τὴν αὐτὴν τοῖς ἄλλοις ἔχον οὔτε νόμοις χρώμενον ὁμοίοις, ἐχθρὸν δὲ καὶ τοῖς ἔθεσι καὶ τοῖς ἐπιτηδεύμασιν τῷ σῷ λαῷ καὶ ἅπασιν ἀνθρώποις). This ethnos—if you want to leave some benefaction for your subjects—you should order destroyed down to its roots, with no remainder of it whatsoever left behind, not even under guard in slavery or captivity.” As a motive for Haman’s puzzling escalation from indignation on the king’s behalf to genocide, Josephus explicates what the Bible only hints at: that Haman was an Amalekite, therefore a descendant of the people the Israelites themselves were to eradicate, down to the last infant and animal (Antiquities 3.60; 6.132–33). It is revenge time. Although Haman’s plot is overridden by the wise ruler, and Josephus delights in Haman’s miserable end, he makes the man’s antipathy understandable. The campaign of Antiochus VII appears in works by other authors, sometimes with the more expected conclusion of a final harsh assault on Jerusalem, as in Eusebius, Chronicle 1.255 (Latin from Armenian): “In the third year of the 162nd Olympiad [130 BCE—apparently a mistake] he [Antiochus VII Sidetes] conquered the Judaeans, pulled down the walls [of Jerusalem] after a siege, and put their leaders to death.” An account by Diodorus of Sicily (34/35.1.1–5), however, ends up largely where Josephus does, but not before more fully airing the complaints of the king’s friends:4 Now most of his friends advised the king to take the polis by storm and to destroy completely the genos of the Judaeans, For of all ethnē they alone reject fellowship in the way of mixing in with another ethnos (τῆς πρὸς ἄλλο ἔθνος ἐπιμιξίας) and see everyone as enemies. They pointed out, further, that these people’s ancestors had been forced to flee all of Egypt, as impious and hated by the gods. […] Those who had been banished occupied the spots around Hierosolyma and, after establishing the ethnos of the Judaeans, made the hatred of humanity hereditary. For this reason they laid down utterly bizarre legal precepts: neither to share a table with another ethnos or even to show any good will of any kind. His friends also reminded him of the longstanding hatred among his ancestors for this ethnos. […] Going through all this, his friends implored Antiochus to destroy the ethnos completely or, if not, to abolish their laws and force them to change their ways. But the king, being 4  See Stern, Greek and Latin Authors, 1.181–83.

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magnanimous and gentle in character, took hostages but dismissed the charges against the Judaeans—after seeing to the tribute owed and dismantling Jerusalem’s walls. If the friends’ advice in Josephus is implausibly abstract, this is even more so. We are hardly surprised that a king facing the rigours of a siege waves off their historical learning as irrelevant. But Josephus shows that he is well aware of such outsider views. Diodorus’s account agrees with him that, no matter how hostile such views were, wise political leaders have, in the practical interest of governing, disregarded such attempts to rationalise cultures. 3

Tacitus and the Allure of the Exclusive

Tacitus’s famous excursus on Judaeans in Histories book 5 implies a similar distinction between intellectuals’ assessments and the imperative of governance: he knows that Jerusalem was a famous and successful city (urbs famosa, 5.2) under Rome’s imperium, in spite of his considerable disenchantment. Notice his use of Latin equivalents for ethnos, polis, and cultic activity. The Iudaei are a gens (11 times in his brief description) among other gentes; he refers 15 times to the urbs Jerusalem, which he calls the head of the gens (5.8: genti caput). He is only pausing his narrative of Flavian rule, after all, to describe the urbs and gens (= the polis and ethnos) that faced Titus in the spring of 70 (5.2, 13), though Tacitus’s account of Jerusalem’s destruction is lost.5 Space does not permit interaction with the divergent readings of this passage—bitter anti-Semitic slander, a warning against proselytism, a onetime only investment to contextualise the Flavian achievement, or merely a bit of rhetorical mischief.6 Our interest is in Histories 5.4–5, where Judaean laws and customs are reviewed with an emphasis on their difference, separateness, and aloofness. René Bloch has shown convincingly that the whole movement in this passage is towards the (missing) destruction of Jerusalem. But I think that he overlooks the implications of Tacitus’s remarks about conversion for the temple and Jerusalem—while he rightly rejects proposals that the passage 5  This point and its importance for understanding the passage are laid out in the exemplary study by René S. Bloch, Antike Vorstellungen vom Judentum: der Judenexkurs des Tacitus im Rahmen der griechisch-römischen Ethnographie (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2002). 6  For the first three, see Bloch, Antike Vorstellungen, 16–26, and his main argument; for the fourth, see Erich S. Gruen, Rethinking the Other in Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011), 179–96.

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was written to warn Jews or Romans about proselytism.7 Tacitus is evidently exercised at the extent to which Romans and others support that foreign people and their world-famous temple. It might seem contradictory to make these two accusations together—the Judaeans isolate themselves from others, and everyone wants to join them!—but that is what Tacitus does. Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin, and that coin (in Tacitus’s imagination) built Jerusalem. One way into this question is to consider Tacitus’s Germania, which speaks glowingly—for the most part—of a large, formidable, and virtuous population beyond the reach of Roman ambition. For example, at 2.1 he writes: “The Germani […] have in no way been mixed by the arrivals and alliances of other peoples” (minimeque aliarum gentium adventibus et hospitiis mixtos).8 Or again at 4.1: “I agree with the views of those who think that the inhabitants of Germania have not been tainted by any intermarriage with other tribes, but have existed as a distinct and pure people, resembling only themselves” (qui Germaniae populos nullis aliis aliarum nationum connubiis infectos propriam et sinceram et tantum sui similem gentem exstitisse arbitrantur). At 9.2, he lauds the Germani for their way of worship, which eschews temples and images of the deity: “They judge it not in accord with the greatness of the gods to confine them with walls or to liken them in appearance to any human countenance.”9 In 19–20, he commends the natural ways they have preserved in marriage and child-raising: one man and one woman mate for life and raise all the children they produce. Whatever specific aims scholars attribute to the Germania, they agree that the isolation of this people and their consequent purity are crucial.10 But each of these has a close parallel in his description of the Judaeans, where similar traits are “perverse, disgusting, and depraved” (Histories 5.5). Thus the Judaeans are reliably loyal and compassionate to one another, though they regard outsiders as hostile. With the admired Germani, the contrast is even sharper between a harmonious home life and the men’s readiness to fight all foreigners (Germania 6–10, 14–16). Whereas the Germani are admirable for 7   See Bloch, Antike Vorstellungen. 8  This translation is by James Rives, Tacitus: Germania (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999). 9  Tacitus was in good philosophical company in applauding natural aniconic worship; cf. Diogenes Laertius 1.6, 9–10; 9.18. According to Plutarch, the Roman king Numa (Numa 87–8), and according to Augustine, the philosopher Varro (City of God 4.31) rejected images. Cicero presents a Stoic as scorning divine anthropomorphism (On the Nature of the Gods 2.28) and relates that Xerxes destroyed the temples of the Athenians “because he considered it impious for the gods, whose home is this entire world, to be held shut up within walls” (Republic 3.14; cf. Laws 2.26). 10  See Rives, Germania, 51–56.

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keeping their stock pure and untainted by foreign marriage (4.1), Tacitus complains that Judaeans eat and sleep apart from foreigners, even practising male circumcision to maintain sexual exclusivity. Just like the Germani, Judaeans produce many children and raise all of those they produce, rather than exposing unwanted offspring. And they are, Tacitus acknowledges, contemptuous of death, especially in battle, because of their belief that brave souls are rewarded after death. Given that contempt for death was arguably the principal aim of philosophical training (e.g., Seneca, Moral Epistles 24), which Josephus will celebrate as a unique attribute of Judaeans,11 we begin to get the sense that Tacitus has trouble finding anything actually deplorable to support the harsh adjectives he uses in describing the Judaeans. Indeed, he seems to give up. The rest of Histories 5.5 is a contrast between Judaean and Egyptian views of subterranean and heavenly matters, where the former have the advantage hands down. Whereas Egyptians worship all kinds of animals and contrived images, Judaeans insist that one can grasp the sole true deity only through the mind (Iudaei mente sola unumque numen intellegunt). This Platonic interpretation is, especially with the gloss that Judaeans understand the Supreme Being to be eternal and subject to neither representation nor decay, a major salute. It distances them from the Egyptians precisely on the point that attracted Roman ridicule: animal worship.12 Tacitus appears to divide his material on Judaean laws and customs into three groups. First, he says, they have customs emerging from their Egyptian origins (5.4): the sabbath, pork-abstention, fasting days, and the choice of sacrificial victims. These are strange enough, he says, but they enjoy the irrefragable defence of being very old (antiquitate defenduntur; 5.5). A seemingly intended third group, beginning halfway through 5.5 (Corpora condere […] caelestium contra), creates an inclusio with 5.4, returning to ancient beliefs and practices that distinguish Judaeans from Egyptians, to the Judaeans’ credit. In between, at the beginning of 5.1, we have this caption: “The rest of their enterprises [or undertakings] receive their vigour from being perverse, disgusting, and depraved” (cetera instituta, sinistra foeda, pravitate valuere). Circumcision,

11  Josephus, Judaean War 2.128, 151, 377; 3.356, 475; 5.458; 6.33, 42; 7.406; Apion 2.294; cf. Epictetus (Arrian, Discourses 4.1.71, 7.33) and Plutarch (Brutus 12.2; Sayings of the Spartans 210F, 216C, 219E). 12  Lina Girdvainytė (“Egypt in Roman Imperial Literature: Tacitus’ Ann. 2.59–61,” Literatūra 57 (2015): 84–97) shows how complex Tacitus’s picture of Egypt was—it was not merely anti-Egyptian. Still, Tacitus shared the common view of animal worship as “the most despicable practice of Egyptian religion in the eyes of the Romans” (p. 92).

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mentioned only here, he must know to be as old as the defensible old customs. Why put it here? Although one could propose various higher-level reasons, as scholars have, for Tacitus’s determination to make things so obviously Germani-like sound bad, in the text itself the Judaeans’ obvious difference from the Germani lies in their attraction of foreigners and Romans to their laws. For those who go over to the Judaeans immediately regard Jerusalem as their homeland and send money to support its temple, while turning their backs on their own proper allegiances to family and the laws of their own native people. As soon as he has spat out the trio of derisive adjectives, Tacitus leaves no confusion about his meaning. He justifies (with “for,” nam) his accusation by fusing in a most unexpected way allegations of both Judaean aloofness and extreme popularity: For the worst element [of other gentes], scorning their ancestral devotions, gathered up for them (illuc congerebant) their contributions and presents. This grew the wealth of the Judaeans [N.B.: the temple now destroyed], as did the fact that among themselves they are steadfastly loyal and ready with compassion, though they regard the rest of humanity with all the hatred of enemies (Nam pessimus quisque spretis religionibus patriis tributa et stipes illuc congerebant, unde auctae Iudaeorum res, et quia apud ipsos fides obstinata, misericordia in promptu, sed adversus omnis alios hostile odium). Tacitus continues with another, even more surprising juxtasposition of this exclusiveness and attraction of foreigners: Holding banquets separate from others, and exclusive in their marriage beds—though as a gens they are singularly prone to lust—they refrain from cohabitation with foreigners; among themselves, nothing is unlawful (Separati epulis, discreti cubilibus, proiectissima ad libidinem gens, alienarum concubitu abstinent; inter se nihil inlicitum). Cutting of the genitals they introduced in order to be recognisable by the difference (Circumcidere genitalia instituerunt ut diversitate noscantur). Those who go over to their way of life quickly grasp the principle, with which they are indeed thoroughly infected, of despising the gods, disowning their patria, and holding in contempt their own parents, children, and brothers (Transgressi in morem eorum idem usurpant, nec quicquam prius imbuuntur quam contemnere deos, exuere patriam, parentes liberos fratres vilia habere).

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This usually pithy writer here takes the trouble to spell out the consequences of adopting Judaean laws. Those who do so instantly become as exclusive as other Judaeans—that is, they forsake their own parents, children, and brothers. Surely there is no more basic violation of respectable values. And now we can see what he is doing with circumcision. Tacitus mischievously makes it a function and a badge of sexual exclusiveness. Stressing that Judaeans are resolutely opposed to sleeping with foreigners but up for anything with each other, he says that they instituted circumcision in order to be identifiable by the difference (ut diversitate noscantur)—when naked, obviously. Tacitus’s entire section on the Judaean ways he finds disgusting therefore consists only of these two symbiotic conditions: exclusiveness and the attraction of foreigners. The force of his claim comes in the governing verb valuere: they enjoy their vigour or strength today because of these disgraceful attributes— stealing foreigners from their home loyalties. So the Judaeans’ exclusiveness is not that of the remote, harmless, and admirable Germani, because Judaeans are found in every Mediterranean centre. Tacitus mentions nothing here about proselytism, in the sense of seeking “converts.” Quite the opposite—he stresses the Judaeans’ propensity to keep entirely to themselves. But this aloofness exercises a profound appeal, as they are the only gens that keeps itself so fully apart. Exclusiveness has its appeal. Why bring this up here, in the narrative of Jerusalem’s destruction? In trying to describe this people (gens) and the mother-urbs about to be destroyed, it makes sense that Tacitus would highlight distinctive traits. He does that throughout the section on laws and customs (5.4–5), though most of these differences (from Egyptians) speak well of Judaeans. What clearly offends him is the defection of others to support Judaea. This is directly relevant to Jerusalem’s post-Herodian glory, because these people then began making regular contributions of tributes and gifts to them—presumably to the temple. Greeks and Romans were familiar with devotion (ζῆλος) to foreign constitutions or poleis, a forgivable tendency if the object were truly worthy of admiration—Sparta rather than Crete, Cilicia, or Egypt—and as long as the attraction was not fanatical enough to cause abandonment of one’s own people. Philo and Josephus, though they share the abhorrence of ethnic disloyalty among their own people, harshly criticising any laxity or defection,13 are proud

13  E.g., Judaean War 7.47–53 (Antiochus of Antioch); Judaean Antiquities 5.98 (Joshua warns army not to follow the ways of other ethnē); 20.100 (Tiberius Alexander of Alexandria), 143 (Drusilla, sister of Agrippa II), 146 (Polemon, who briefly married Berenice—though she is blamed for the contrivance and dirty motives).

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of the magnetism of Judaean laws among thoughtful foreigners. To them we now turn. 4

Philo (with Celsus and Julian)

Philo has a passage that, so to speak, looks Tacitus in the eye. After explicating the kindness and humanity that Moses’s laws enjoin for the treatment of compatriots, his essay On the Virtues continues (102): Having legislated for fellow-members of the ethnos, he [Moses] holds that newcomers must be deemed worthy of every privilege, because they have left behind blood-affiliation, homeland, customs, sacred rites and temples of the gods, the gifts and honours too, having undertaken a noble migration [or transfer] from story-like fabrications to the clarity of truth (καὶ τοὺς ἐπηλύτας οἴεται δεῖν προνομίας τῆς πάσης ἀξιοῦσθαι, γενεὰν μὲν τὴν ἀφ᾿ αἵματος καὶ πατρίδα καὶ ἔθη καὶ ἱερὰ καὶ ἀφιδρύματα θεῶν γέρα τε καὶ τιμὰς ἀπολελοιπότας καλὴν δ᾿ ἀποικίαν στειλαμένους τὴν ἀπὸ τῶν μυθικῶν πλασμάτων πρὸς τὴν ἀληθείας ἐνάργειαν) […] He directs those of the ethnos to love the newcomers, not merely as friends and relatives but as their very selves in body and soul: making common cause in the body while in the mind sharing the same sorrows as well as joys, as reckoning the divided parts to be a single living being. Just as in Tacitus, here we see foreigners abandoning primary ethnos loyalties, indeed completely turning their backs on them to join the tightly knit Judaean ethnos. Philo sublimates every element of scandal in ethnos-betrayal, however, on the grounds that Judaeans are not merely another ethnos, but have unique access to the only truth. In his Rewards and Punishments (152), he speaks likewise of the newcomer’s having “deserted” (αὐτομολέω) his ethnos for God. Desertion is normally and obviously bad, but Philo praises him for it. On the other hand, Judaean resistance to mixing with other ethnē comes through clearly in Special Laws 4.179. Commenting on God’s concern for strangers, orphans, and widows, Philo says: Indeed the whole Judaean ethnos can be spoken of as an orphan when compared with all others everywhere else. For the others, whenever misfortunes swoop down on them from above, have no shortage of help because of their mixing with the other ethnē (διὰ τὰς ἐν τοῖς ἔθνεσιν ἐπιμιξίας) who live the same kind of lives as they do. But no one at all comes

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together to help the other [i.e., the Judaean ethnos], as it follows the most select laws. These laws are necessarily serious because they “anoint” [athletes for] the highest virtue/prowess. But serious means austere, and this the great mass of humanity recoils from, on account of its partiality to pleasure. Philo’s viewpoint mirrors Tacitus, then, from a Judaean perspective. Like every ethnos of the oikoumenē, Judaeans expect loyalty to their laws and customs. But since theirs alone are also true, they are prepared to warmly receive foreigners who come over to Jerusalem, as long as there is no mixing or grafting in of foreign ways. The agreement between Philo and Tacitus reflects a larger common perception. People held different views about it, but they agreed on the phenomenon. A generation after Tacitus, Celsus puts the same issue sharply. He respects Judaean laws for being ancient and grounded in a famous place (in Origen, Against Celsus 5.25). He feels Tacitean indignation, however, at the adoption of Judaean laws by others, who disgracefully turn traitor against their own peoples (5.41): Certainly if the Judaeans protect their own law, in accord with these principles, they have no blame. It lies rather with those who have abandoned their own ways, professing those of the Judaeans. If, as though they now prided themselves on wiser understanding, they reject the fellowship of their peers as though they were not as pure [they will find comparable piety among other ethnē: no need to join the Judaeans!] […] Nor is it the least bit probable that they [Judaeans] are in favour with God or are loved more than these other [ethnē], or that messengers are sent to them alone, or that they had received some chōra [i.e., Judaea] of the blessed. For we can see very well who they are, and what sort of chōra they were thought worthy of [post-135]. Let this chorus [of Judaisers] vanish, then, after paying the penalty for their boasting. For they do not know the great God, but have been lured and cheated by Moses’s deceptiveness, and become its student for no good end. The emperor Julian gets at a similar point (Against the Galileans 306b): I wished to show that the Judaeans agree with the [other] ethnē, except in supposing there to be only one God. That is their peculiar thing, alien to us. But all other matters are in common with us: the sanctuaries, sacred spaces, sacrificial altars, purifications, and particular observances—

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concerning which we [and the Judaeans] differ from one another either not at all or only trivially. The Judaeans have a secure place among the ethnē, as everyone agrees. In considering their God and laws to be the only valid ones and thus holding themselves apart from others, though Julian does not spell out the consequence, they attract and can rationalise welcoming migrants from other ethnē. Spokesmen of other ethnē think that this is not cricket. It is not part of the ethnographical playbook. 5

Back to Josephus

It is time to draw these threads together in relation to Josephus’s view of Judaean exclusiveness. Like Philo, he was immersed in Greek paideia, literature, rhetoric, and historiography. He closes the Antiquities by reflecting on his strenuous efforts to master Greek literature, and Apion 1.51 says that only those with Greek sophia could make sense of his Judaean War. Nevertheless, he rarely misses a chance to make snide remarks about loquacious, lightweight Greeks. He postures from first to last as the spokesman of the Judaean ethnos, the oldest and the best. It seems to me that Josephus takes a sophisticated approach to the place of Judaeans in the oikoumenē. As a baseline, he accepts the ethnographic relativism of “live and let live.” He also understands why Judaeans are criticised for not mingling: because they do not mingle. But this is grounds for accusation only if one assumes that all peoples are governed equally badly, as Plato remarked. Since the Judaeans possess a uniquely sublime and disciplined constitution—like that of the Spartan mirage, only far superior and actually implemented—obviously that must be protected. Judaeans cannot join in the worship or undisciplined customs and diets of others. This does not mean that they are hostile to humanity, however. On the contrary, their benevolence is clear: first in welcoming all foreigners to the public areas of Jerusalem, a trip that many eminent figures have made (even sponsoring sacrifices); and second in the decidedly un-Spartan welcome they extend to foreigners who eventually wish to share their life under Judaean law. I begin with a well-known passage from War, which has been neglected in relation to this kind of question. But a careful reading suggests that Josephus had already formed his views on this matter by the time of the first work, even though he dealt with it most explicitly in the later ones. The passage is famous because it is often treated, especially by scholars who see the outbreak of war

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against Rome as the result of a long build-up, as the popping of the cork when the pressure could no longer be contained: it is the “Judaean declaration of war.” I must quote a generous amount of it, highlighting important lines by supplying the Greek text, to explain my point: (2.409) Meanwhile in the temple, Eleazar, son of the high priest Ananias, a very bold young man serving as commandant at the time, induced those performing the services of worship to accept no gift or sacrifice from any outsider (ἀναπείθει μηδενὸς ἀλλοτρίου δῶρον ἢ θυσίαν προσδέχεσθαι). And this was a foundation of war against the Romans, for they cast aside the sacrifice on behalf of these [the Romans] and Caesar (τοῦτο δ᾿ ἦν τοῦ πρὸς Ῥωμαίους πολέμου καταβολή· τὴν γὰρ ὑπὲρ τούτων θυσίαν Καίσαρος ἀπέρριψαν). (410) Although both the chief priests and the notables kept appealing to them not to jettison this custom on behalf of the rulers, they would not give in […] for the most vigorous element of the revolutionaries were working with them, and they were looking intently to Eleazar as their commandant. (411) At any rate, when the powerful [men] had come together […] they began deliberating about the whole situation. […] (412) First they gave full vent to their anger at the audacity of the rebellion and at their inciting such a great war in the ancestral homeland (τὸ τηλικοῦτον ἐπισείειν τῇ πατρίδι πόλεμον). Then they turned to refuting utterly the irrationality of the justification, stating that their ancestors had furnished the shrine mostly from the foreigners, always welcoming the gifts from outside ethnē (φάμενοι τοὺς μὲν προγόνους αὐτῶν κεκοσμηκέναι τὸν ναὸν ἐκ τῶν ἀλλοφύλων τὸ πλέον ἀεὶ προσδεχομένους τὰς ἀπὸ τῶν ἔξωθεν ἐθνῶν δωρεάς). (413) And not only had they not prohibited the sacrifices of some, which is the height of impiety; they actually set up the votive offerings [of foreigners] around the temple that can be seen and have remained there such a long time (καὶ οὐ μόνον οὐ διακεκωλυκέναι θυσίας τινῶν, τοῦτο μὲν γὰρ ἀσεβέστατον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ βλεπόμενα καὶ τὰ παραμένοντα τοσοῦτον χρόνον ἀναθήματα περὶ τῷ ἱερῷ καθιδρυκέναι). (414) But now they were goading the weapons of the Romans and, while courting war from them, were also grafting in [N.B.: the Platonic term] an alien way of worship. Along with the danger, they had voted to condemn the polis for impiety—if [people knew that] among the Judaeans alone an outsider could neither sacrifice nor make obeisance (καινοτομεῖν θρησκείαν ξένην καὶ μετὰ τοῦ κινδύνου καταψηφίσασθαι τῆς πόλεως ἀσέβειαν, εἰ παρὰ μόνοις Ἰουδαίοις οὔτε θύσει τις ἀλλότριος οὔτε προσκυνήσει.). […]

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(417) While they were saying these things, they brought forward the priests who were experts in the ancestral traditions, who explained that all their ancestors used to accept the sacrifices from strangers (Ἅμα ταῦτα λέγοντες παρῆγον τοὺς ἐμπείρους τῶν πατρίων ἱερεῖς ἀφηγουμένους, ὅτι πάντες οἱ πρόγονοι τὰς παρὰ τῶν ἀλλογενῶν θυσίας ἀπεδέχοντο). No one among the revolutionaries was paying attention. I said above that the passage is usually read as the Judaeans’ moment of declaring war on Rome, which triggered the revolt of 66 by halting the regular sacrifice for the emperor’s welfare. In my view, this is untenable both historically—which is another subject—and as a reading of the passage.14 The episode brings to a head a narrative in which, after the Jerusalemites’ growing frustration with the violent behaviour of Nero’s prefect and his auxiliary garrison (locally recruited from among the Judaeans’ enemies), and given the impotence of King Agrippa II to fix the situation, one Judaean faction arms itself for protection against the auxiliary, while a priestly group in the temple decides to cut Jerusalem off from dealings with foreigners. Josephus, writing in hindsight, indeed brings forward the point that banning dedications and sacrifices from and for foreigners also meant stopping the one for the emperor—obviously the most important concern, as it was a crucial symbol of Judaean loyalty. But both his own wording of the decision itself—“to accept no gift or sacrifice from any outsider”—and the longer part of the response from the elders make it clear that the decision was not to stop the daily sacrifice on the emperor’s behalf. The elders are worried about the implications for that sacrifice, but they are no less concerned with the implications for Judaean relations with foreigners. This move will fundamentally change the temple’s longstanding relationship with foreign peoples. The issue was so important because welcoming foreigners to worship in Jerusalem was the only way in which Jerusalem could show itself as open to the world. Judaeans could not worship elsewhere, but King Herod had vastly expanded the Court of Nations on the temenos to demonstrate Jerusalem’s friendliness, and many eminent foreigners had made obeisance to the Judaean God there, even sponsoring major sacrifices. Cutting Jerusalem off from foreign gifts and sacrifices would terminate this sole route of contact. Josephus notes the irony: in trying to exclude xenoi, the disaffected priests are grafting in a way of worship that is foreign (xenē) to Jerusalem’s tradition.

14  See Mason, A History of the Jewish War, A.D. 66–74 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 276.

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A second kind of neglected passage for our theme comes from Josephus’s presentation of Judaean law to his audiences. Surprisingly enough for us, but illustrative of the principle that the hard and uncorrupted life draws admiration, Josephus delights in the unparalleled severity of Judaean law. Unlike other lawmakers, Moses makes no accommodations for persistent human failure. This is even more remarkable because Josephus charges so confidently in precisely the opposite direction from the Pharisaic-rabbinic tradition, which greatly softened the possible harshness of biblical law. For example, in Antiquities 4.260–64, Josephus elaborates on the biblical law concerning the rebellious son. Deuteronomy 21:18–21 permits a persistently rebellious son to be hauled by his father before the city elders and stoned to death. As Louis Feldman points out in his commentary, the later rabbis qualified the biblical prescription in so many ways as to render it effectively unenforceable (cf. Mishnah, Sanhedrin 8.1–4). They exegeted the text to reveal that the provision concerned only boys in a roughly three-month period of pubescence, who had managed to show themselves gluttons and drunkards, which they could do only by boldly consuming others’ food in a public place, before many witnesses. Both mother and father had to desire such a boy’s death—and both of them had to be perfectly healthy. Even then it was not a simple matter of stoning. The parents had first to beat the boy before three judges, and only if he repeated the same offence (while still in that narrow age-bracket) could they bring him to trial before the court of twenty-three, for capital cases—with the original three judges of the noncapital tribunal also present. The law was honoured, then, but no one was going to be executed in this way.15 We do not know about common practice before 70, but Josephus—no Pharisee himself—insists that the Pharisees’ interpretation of the law held sway, at the insistence of the common people, precisely because it mitigated biblical punishments (Antiquities 13.294, 298; 18.17). We can imagine a degree of movement towards the rabbis’ qualifications. Whatever status the law of the rebellious son had in real-life Jerusalem, Josephus not only fails to limit or soften it; he seizes and rides it as a shining example of the Judaean law’s unique, unapologetic, and inexorable severity— an encounter with truth that no other nation could tolerate. In summarising the law itself, he adds much to the Bible by way of a morality play, with the parents making clear what a violation of the moral order has been committed. The child—for Josephus includes both daughters and sons, with no age

15  See Mishnah Sanhedrin 8.1–4 and Louis H. Feldman, Judaean Antiquities 1–4, vol. 3 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, ed. Steve Mason (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 431.

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restriction—is given a proper chance to repent, but if persistent, faces execution. This is no aberration. In the Apion, where he can choose only a few items to illustrate the admirable severity of Judaean law, which other nations could not bear, he returns to the same example (Apion 2.206): “The one who does not fully reciprocate the favours received from them [parents], but falls short in any way (ἀλλ᾿ εἰς ὁτιοῦν ἐλλείποντα), it [the law] delivers up to be stoned.” This whole work is conditioned by Josephus’s early explanation that Judaeans are not mentioned in works by Greek authors, though they are ancient, because they do not seek the common mixing with others (Apion 1.60): We don’t inhabit a coastal land; nor do we take joy in trade or in the interactions (ταῖς πρὸς ἄλλους διὰ τούτων ἐπιμιξίαις) with others that go with these. […] (61) If one adds what has been said already about the peculiarity of our way of life (τῆς περὶ τὸν βίον ἡμῶν ἰδιότητος), then plainly there was nothing in olden times to make us interact with the Greeks (ποιοῦν ἡμῖν πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας ἐπιμιξίαν). Proud inaccessibility and lack of contamination are strikingly consistent features of this work. Josephus reuses the rebellious-son law as part of a rousing celebration of the exclusive toughness of Judaean law. This section ends (Apion 2.214): In this way he [Moses] took great care to incline us towards reasonable conduct in every respect, by prescribing such laws to be our teachers— and having ordered that those who transgress them be punished without any room for excuse (τοὺς δ᾿ αὖ κατὰ τῶν παραβαινόντων τιμωρητικοὺς τάξας ἄνευ προφάσεως). (215) The penalty facing most transgressors is indeed death (Ζημία γὰρ ἐπὶ τοῖς πλείστοις τῶν παραβαινόντων ὁ θάνατος), whether a man commits adultery or rapes a girl […] The law is inexorable (ὁ νόμος ἀπαραίτητος). As he moves toward Apion’s rousing peroration on the glory and worldwide impact of these laws, Josephus drives home that this unflinching severity is the very thing that makes his people uniquely estimable. At Apion 2.228, he says that “our laws impose on us challenges and labours requiring levels of endurance far greater than those attached to the Spartans by popular imagination.” At 2.234, he allows that even the easy things that Judaeans do would be thought intolerable by others: their personal discipline, restricted diet, rejection of indulgence in food or drink or sexual relations, not to mention the rigid calendar

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of work and rest days. No other ethnos could take this. We get the flavour from Apion 2.276–77, right at the work’s rhetorical climax: I’ll leave aside for now discussion of the punishments that most lawgivers gave from the start as resolutions for the offenders—legislating money as a penalty for adultery, or marriage for rape. And, if anyone should bother to open an inquiry, they create a wall of excuses to deny anything connected with impiety. Look, today the transgression of laws has with most people become an art form. (277) This is not the case with us! […] There is no Judaean, no matter how far removed from his homeland, and no matter how terrified of a harsh despot, who is not more afraid of the law than he is of that fellow. In Josephus’s conceptual world, he is not contrasting Judaean laws with religions, the language for which did not exist, but with the laws of other ethnē and poleis. This is clear as he first cites Plato’s ideals of legal observance but, recognising that people disregard Plato as a fantasist, then turns to Lycurgus, on the grounds that the Spartans are still universally admired. But, Josephus insists, Judaeans have shown death-defying devotion to extremely severe laws for far longer (two millennia) and more convincingly than Spartans, who frequently gave up (Apion 2.220–31). Thus Judaeans alone have realised in practical life the ideal of a whole political community’s commitment to a high legal standard (2.221–22). Not surprisingly, this contrast of Judaean and Greek polities includes Josephus’s most definitive statements about Judaean interaction with foreigners. First, in the middle of the above discussion of the law’s inexorable standard, he comments (Apion 2.210): “All those who want to come over and live under our laws he [Moses] welcomes heartily, reckoning that the kinship bond exists not only through ancestry, but also by virtue of the deliberate choice of life, though he did not want those who came by in a casual way to be integrated in [ἀναμίγνυσθαι] our intimate society.” After another extended critique of Greek views of the gods (2.236–56), which develops Plato’s exclusion of the poets and the prologue to his own Antiquities, Josephus claims that Plato imitated Moses in two respects—first, in requiring that all citizens learn and obey their laws, and second: “He took precautions so that it would not be necessary for outsiders to mix randomly with them, but the politeuma would be pure for those steadfastly following the laws” (καὶ μὴν καὶ περὶ τοῦ μὴ δεῖν ὡς ἔτυχεν ἐπιμίγνυσθαί τινας ἔξωθεν, ἀλλ᾿ εἶναι καθαρὸν τὸ πολίτευμα τῶν ἐμμενόντων τοῖς νόμοις προυνόησεν, Apion 2.258).

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Josephus readily admits the charge made by Apollonius Molon that Judaeans refuse to admit those with different doxai about God and do not seek fellowship with those who follow a different mode of life (2.258). But he is proud of this, on solid Greek principle, for Plato and the Spartans understood this need. He even appeals explicitly to Spartan ξενηλασία and their practice of forbidding their own citizens to travel as practices admired by others (2.259). This allows him to favourably contrast Judaeans, who obviously travel widely, are found everywhere, and, “[a]lthough we have no interest at all in emulating the ways of others, we certainly and gladly welcome those who want to share ours. This should be a decisive proof, I reckon, of our humanity along with our magnanimity” (καὶ τοῦτο ἂν εἴη τεκμήριον, οἶμαι, φιλανθρωπίας ἅμα καὶ μεγαλοψυχίας). Magnanimity (μεγαλοψυχία) unites this endpoint of the corpus with Josephus’s explanation of his motives in the prologue to the Antiquities: he penned that 20-volume account, he said, as a magnanimous gesture—because so many Greek-speakers in Rome, especially the circle of Epaphroditus, had not ceased urging him to write such a clear account of Judaean law and custom (Antiquities 1.10–12). In short, if the Spartans of old deserve the admiration they still attract in Josephus’s day, and receive a pass for holding themselves apart from others, then real-life Judaeans are infinitely more deserving of both recognition and understanding. A large part of the closing volume of Josephus’s Antiquities (20.17–96) concerns the royal house of Adiabene’s embrace of Judaean law. I mention it here because—given the way that Josephus makes it the capstone of his work on the glorious Judaean constitution, the Antiquities—the episode may illustrate what he meant when he wrote in the Apion about “those who come to live under our laws” with full commitment. That is what this story is about: foreigners who so admire Judaean law and custom that they abandon the ancestral ways of their own ethnos to follow them. It is also the scenario that Philo and Tacitus describe, from their very different perspectives. In this case, the royal family of a Parthian principality learn Judaean law through personal contacts. Queen Helena goes to stay in Jerusalem, where she spends vast amounts to relieve a famine in the 40s CE. She establishes a palace there, as do other members of her family, as well as a family mauseoleum. Her two sons adopt Judaean law and send their sons to be educated in Jerusalem. Those young men, in turn, are significant players in the war against Rome. This is a full realignment of one’s life to foreign ways, which incurs the serious danger of assassination by local nobles for treason. The story ends with a reminder that the leading family members would in fact be buried in Jerusalem (20.95–96): this was fully their homeland now, though the laws and customs of

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their upbringing could not have been more different. But they did not attempt a merger or a fusion; they simply came to “live under our laws,” with all the hazards and ruptures that entails. 6 Conclusions It is time to return to our opening question: How is it that Josephus and Philo, so deeply immersed in Graeco-Roman cultural norms, can be so blasé about celebrating Judaean standoffishness? Rather than denying or marginalising it, they fully own it. In their times, Philo and Josephus looked out on an oikoumenē populated by diverse ethnē. They accepted the prevailing pluralism, with the assumption that everyone must be loyal to his or her ancestral ways. But the quest for the best form of governance inevitably gave this pluralism a comparative dimension. Learning from other polities was part of the picture, and admiration for the laws of an admirable polis was understandable. The Spartans were the clearest example, but Athenians, Persians, Egyptians, Germani, and Indians all had their admirers. Most thinkers accepted that a superior society would need to take measures to prevent contamination. It would need to maintain a sharp boundary between those committed to the discipline of its laws and outsiders—like the many Laconisers—who wanted to hang around and cherry-pick attractive elements. In the same way that Spartan ξενηλᾰσία could appear antisocial, as Philo and Josephus understood, Judaeans appeared standoffish—because they were. They accepted the fact of ἀμιξία but rejected the interpretation of concomitant misanthropy. Judaeans’ love of humanity was, on the contrary, proven by their willingness (in sharp contrast to Spartan practice) to welcome foreigners who truly resolved to live under their laws. This is not the feared grafting in (καινοτομία) of foreign contamination, but the wholesome grafting in of new branches from other stalks on the solid trunk of Moses’s laws. A final summary observation is prompted by another neglected passage that is relevant for our question—War 2.487–88. Josephus writes about the Judaeans of Alexandria in Egypt: Now in Alexandreia there was ongoing civil strife among the natives towards the Judaean element—ever since Alexander, after he had used very eager Judaeans against the Egyptians, gave as a reward for their alliance the [privilege of] settling in the city on an equal footing with the Greeks. (488) This honour for them endured with the Successors, who

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also marked off for them a place of their own, so that they might maintain their regimen more purely with less of the foreigners’ intermingling (διέμεινεν δ᾿ αὐτοῖς ἡ τιμὴ καὶ παρὰ τῶν διαδόχων, οἳ καὶ τόπον ἴδιον αὐτοῖς ἀφώρισαν, ὅπως καθαρωτέραν ἔχοιεν τὴν δίαιταν ἧττον ἐπιμισγομένων τῶν ἀλλοφύλων). Rather than apologising for Judaean separateness, Josephus again celebrates it. His point here, as in earlier passages, is that every great and wise ruler has understood Judaean difference and the need for protection of its nomoi. Bibliography Barton, Carlin, and Daniel Boyarin. Imagine No Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities. New York: Fordham University Press, 2016. Bloch, René S. Antike Vorstellungen vom Judentum: der Judenexkurs des Tacitus im Rahmen der griechisch-römischen Ethnographie. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2002. Feldman, Louis H. Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Feldman, Louis H. Judaean Antiquities 1–4. Vol. 3 of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Edited by Steve Mason. Leiden: Brill, 2000. Feldman, Louis H. Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible. Leiden: Brill, 1998. Girdvainytė, Lina. “Egypt in Roman Imperial Literature: Tacitus’ Ann. 2.59–61.” Literatūra 57 (2015): 84–97. Gruen, Erich S. Rethinking the Other in Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011. Mason, Steve. A History of the Jewish War, A.D. 66–74. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Nongbri, Brent. Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013. Rives, James. Tacitus: Germania. Oxford: Clarendon, 1999. Spilsbury, Paul. The Image of the Jew in Flavius Josephus’ Paraphrase of the Bible. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998. Stern, Menahem. Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism. 3 vols. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences, 1974–84.

part 3 Discourses between Greeks, Christians, and Jews

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chapter 9

Difference, Opposition, and the Roots of Intolerance in Ancient Philosophical Polemic George Boys-Stones 1 Introduction1 Intolerance, in the strong sense of the word—the refusal to allow some view of which one disapproves to be articulated within a debate, or to be made available for serious consideration—is not a characteristic of Graeco-Roman philosophical practice. That is not to say that the concept or language of intolerance is alien to Graeco-Roman thought. It is easy enough to find serious, second-order prohibitions on the expression of specific points of view in political contexts; and the negation of the Greek word for “tolerate”—ἀνέχομαι (to “bear” or “put up with”)—is one way in which these prohibitions are phrased.2 But in philosophical contexts, this language is typically only used in praeteritio—the rhetorical trope by which someone lays out some fact or point of view even as they deny that it ought to be given a hearing. “I will not tolerate saying that [the soul] is a mean, in the sense of having something of the corporeal and incorporeal, as Eratosthenes supposed”; so says Proclus, preserving for us a position about which, if he had in fact not said it (and said it with such careful specification and attribution), we would not know anything at all.3 The very purpose of this trope of intolerance, ironically—and the reason Proclus is so fond of it—is precisely that it makes it possible to include in the debate even provocative and countercultural points of view. It is an elegant way of tolerating the expression even of a view whose content one might find unacceptable.4 1  My thanks for discussion and feedback from James Corke-Webster and from participants at the Groningen conference, especially James Carleton Paget. 2  See, for example, Plato, Republic 564d; [Plato], Letter 7, 326d. At Laws 634e, the Athenian approves of the fact that Spartans and Cretans do not “tolerate” public expression of the view that their laws are not the best. 3  Commentary on the Timaeus 2.152.24–8 Diehl. Another example, from the timeframe of this paper, is Cleombrotus in Plutarch (The Obsolescense of Oracles 416A), who cannot “tolerate” the Stoics’ talk of cosmic destruction. 4  As Maximus puts it, without catachresis: “I tolerate the articulation, but I do not accept the fact” (μέχρι μὲν τῆς φωνῆς ἀνέχομαι, τὸ δὲ πρᾶγμα οὐ δίδωμι; Orations 27.8d). © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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At first glance, one might not be surprised to find that philosophers are generally more reluctant to limit debate than politicians. We expect that philosophers operating in good faith ought to be ready to give their reasons for rejecting any given position, and that means allowing it to be aired in the first place. But while that might be true in their private ruminations, the rules were different in their public and published engagements. Insofar as philosophers are in the business of education as well as formal analysis—insofar as they suppose that it matters that their audience should believe what they believe— then they need to be as sensitive to pragmatic considerations as any politician. In the case of ethics in particular, the chances are that one’s audience will be disposed a certain way by habit or emotion, so that a purely rational justification of some position may fall on deaf ears, and part of bringing someone over to one’s own point of view is to deflate the countervailing winds of nonrational inclination.5 All public philosophical discourse inevitably and properly has a rhetorical aspect to it: this might, for example, manifest in a satirical capitulation to the positions of one’s opponents, or simply in choosing words and selecting examples to make one’s own position “resonate” with the experience of one’s audience. Against this background, “intolerance” can be seen as no more than the limiting case of strategies available to remove obstacles— or an exigency that might actually be appropriate against positions which threaten to set someone on a deleteriously wrong-headed path. I said that intolerance might be a temptation especially in the sphere of ethics; but it is by no means restricted to moral positions. Aristotle, for example, gestures in the direction of “intolerance” in his treatment of certain outlying views in physics (people who deny that there is such a thing as nature; Physics 2.1, 193a3–8) and in logic (people who do not accept the principle of non-contradiction; Metaphysics Γ.4). So intolerance is not incompatible with ancient philosophical practice by definition. If we do not find clear examples of it, that might be for no better reason than that the structures of philosophical activity as a matter of fact limited the opportunities for the rise of truly dissident perspectives towards which “intolerance” might have seemed appropriate. And, if this was already the case in the relative melting-pot of fourth-century thought, it becomes more and more true as we enter the Hellenistic age (from the late fourth to the mid-first centuries BCE), when—as far as our evidence allows us to see—the field of

5  So Aristotle famously says that the passions of a child (or of someone childlike) inhibit their ability to engage usefully with ethical philosophy; Nicomachean Ethics 1095a2–11.

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philosophical activity came to be defined by the work of just the four major institutional schools at Athens.6 But the focus of this chapter is what happened at the end of the Hellenistic period and the seismic reshaping of the philosophical landscape that took place during the first and second centuries CE in the light of the effective closure of the Athenian schools. I want to show that a distinctive polemical vocabulary arose hand in hand with new ways of thinking about philosophical identity at this time—in particular, a vocabulary that distinguished a weaker form of disagreement (“difference”) from a stronger and more threatening form (“opposition”). But, as we shall see, the very possibility of using these terms to map the philosophical schools in relation to each other left if anything less of an opening for “intolerance” than there had been before. Exactly insofar as “difference” and “opposition” helped to structure dialogue between schools, they effectively excluded intolerance—at least until Christianity entered the picture. For although Christians adopted just this framework to define themselves in opposition to Graeco-Roman philosophical schools and enter into debate with them, they also brought something new to the argument—something which raised a new question for them about whether it might not be better to do without Graeco-Roman learning altogether. 2

Patterns of Debate in the Post-Hellenistic Era

2.1 Difference vs. Opposition: the Genealogical Model I have made the case in earlier work that there are patterns of debate which seem to be especially characteristic of philosophical interactions in the post-Hellenistic period.7 Greek philosophy had always operated with a historical consciousness—the very notion of “philosophy,” as distinct from other 6  This is not to deny that simple exclusion from the debate is itself an effective form of intolerance: you might refuse to acknowledge that a position you find genuinely objectionable—for example, a position predicated on denying the principle of non-contradiction—is properly or sincerely philosophical in the first place. (It is tempting to compare this with the way in which some contemporary “analytical” philosophers talk about figures in the so-called “Continental” tradition.) As to the philosophical realities of the Hellenistic age: it would be naïve to suppose that the Athenian schools and their satellites exhausted the philosophical options; it is likely, for example, that some of the seeds of the more innovative positions of the post-Hellenistic age must have been propagated earlier on. But they certainly eclipse them in the recorded conversation, and for all we know, this might have been due to something amounting to de facto intolerance. 7  Boys-Stones, Post-Hellenistic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001).

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forms of intellectual endeavour, was forged in intellectual history;8 and as time went on, heated debates started to arise over the origin of particular points of view: the legacies of Socrates and, after him, of Plato were particularly enduring points of contention.9 But with the loss of the institutional centres that defined Hellenistic affiliation to a large degree, the mapping of historical roots and relationships took on new importance as a means of underpinning philosophical identity. Understanding their place in the history of the subject—who they think of as the “founder” of their own system, to take a simple example— was the way in which a philosopher could keep a clear handle on their intellectual identity and relationships with other philosophers. There are even ways in which this has its effect on philosophical practice: most obviously, the choice to “think with” the classic texts of one’s own tradition. The proliferation of the commentary at this period is closely bound up with the new emphasis on philosophical history.10 This “genealogical” approach to philosophical history extended beyond establishing one’s own “lineage” and intellectual patrimony; it was also the way to trace the origins of rival philosophical schools and where they stood in relation to one’s own.11 For this reason, it had a direct influence on the shape of philosophical polemic: not only did it provide the means to judge how far one school stood from another, but it traced the ways of and identified the reasons

8  Not to mention evidence for earlier thought, Plato and Aristotle (esp. Metaphysics A) go to some lengths to trace their own intellectual projects back through Greek intellectual history. Cf. Kendra Eshleman, The Social World of Intellectuals in the Roman Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), ch. 6. For Plato, see my “Hesiod and Plato’s History of Philosophy,” in Plato and Hesiod, ed. G. R. Boys-Stones and J. H. Haubold (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 31–51. 9  For example, David N. Sedley argues that Plato worked hard to establish a position as the true “heir” to Socrates; see The Midwife of Platonism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); later on, Stoics could argue that they were true heirs of Plato (SVF 3, Antipater fr. 56)—and this may have fed into the notorious debate between Antiochus and Philo of Larissa over the nature and unity of the Platonic tradition towards the very end of the Hellenistic period. 10  See esp. P. L. Donini, “Testi e commenti, manuali e insegnamento: la forma sistematica e i metodi della filosofia in età posthellenistica,” ANRW 36.7 (1994): 5027–5100; Sedley, “Plato’s Auctoritas and the Rebirth of the Commentary Tradition,” in Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome, ed. Jonathan Barnes and Miriam Griffin (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 110–29. This phenomenon was not confined to Platonism and Aristotelianism; see Michael Frede, “Epilogue,” in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. Keimpe Algra et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 771–97, esp. 784–85. 11  The sort of “genealogy” I have in mind here is, to that extent, a more expansive project than is sometimes implied in discussions of philosophical “succession lists.”

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for their standing apart at all. The relationships it mapped were both historical and also intellectual. Consider Numenius’s work On the Dissension of the Academy from Plato, substantial extracts of which are preserved for us in Eusebius. In this work (presumably dating from the late second century), Numenius makes the case that the direction taken by Plato’s fourth-century successor as head of the Academy, Arcesilaus, effectively divorced the school from its Platonic roots— as decisively, so he argues, as the direction taken by Zeno, who went on to found the rival ‘Stoic’ school despite his education in the early Academy. The exploration of the complex set of dynamics and debates that occasioned these divisions is Numenius’s way not only of setting out what is wrong with the philosophical scepticism of Arcesilaus, and with the materialist assumptions of the Stoa, but of setting them out in clear comparison with Platonism—that is, of course, Platonism as he understood and championed it.12 The details of Numenius’s argument do not concern us, but one feature of the history he develops is important. Although the purpose of the book is to attack the new direction taken by the Hellenistic schools (the Stoa as much as the Academy) as “betrayals” of Plato, Numenius is far from thinking that there was no disagreement in the Academy before Arcesilaus. This is what he says about the first three successors to Plato—Xenocrates is mentioned in the passage, but the context makes it clear that he has in mind both Plato’s immediate successor, Speusippus, and Xenocrates’s successor Polemo as well (fr. 24.10–18 des Places):13 They dropped some beliefs, distorted others, and did not remain with what was originally passed down to them. They started with Plato, but sooner or later diverged from him, whether through deliberate choice or ignorance—or, in some cases, for some other reason (perhaps not untainted by ambition?). I don’t want to end up sniping just because of Xenocrates—but I do want to speak up for Plato. For it pains me that they were not ready to suffer or do anything to maintain complete agreement with Plato in every way in all aspects of doctrine. Plato deserved this of them. 12  To be precise about this, it was Pythagoreanism that Numenius championed; but insofar as he thought that an accurate reconstruction of Plato was the best guide to this, his interests align with those of contemporary Platonists. See fr. 24 des Places, esp. ll. 18–22 (the immediate continuation of the passage cited below in the text) and 57–79. 13  Translation from my Platonist Philosophy 80 BC to AD 250: An Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018) [B-S]; this texts is 1F[5.1–2] B-S.

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This is strong language: but even so, Numenius is making a distinction between the deviations of the early Academy and the outright dissension of the New Academy, starting with Arcesilaus. For all the faults of the early Academy, “the doctrinal character of the school remained pretty constant,” he says (ἀεὶ τὸ ἦθος διετείνετο τῶν δογμάτων σχεδὸν δὴ ταὐτόν; fr. 24.8–9). To go back to the genealogical analogy, one might say that Numenius recognises a distinction between arguments that can be contained within the family and arguments of the magnitude of those initiated by Arcesilaus and Zeno (both pupils of Polemo, as Numenius emphasises; fr. 25.4–5, 10–11, 83–90), which lead to outright estrangement. This is not a peculiarity of Numenius. Exactly the same distinction can be found in a work written, probably slightly earlier in the second century, by the Platonist Atticus. Like Numenius’s Dissension, Atticus’s work is premised on a historical narrative, which in this case includes the claim that Aristotle diverged from Plato. But its focus is more obviously on the philosophical fallout of this, addressed as it is to people who do not realise the magnitude of Aristotle’s divergence and think that they can use him to help in their understanding of Plato. What is interesting here is that Atticus does not for a moment question the Platonist credentials of his target audience: he does not, for example, say that they are, or risk becoming, Aristotelians. He just says that they are wrong in allowing themselves to be guided by Aristotle in their interpretation of Plato. Here, for example, is what he says in the course of reflection on their belief that the world has always existed (is “ungenerated”)—a belief opposed to what Atticus himself takes to have been Plato’s position (fr. 4.14–16 + 29–35 des Places):14 But let’s hope now that those of our own household who suppose that Plato also thinks the cosmos ungenerated don’t get in our way. […] As I said, we can settle the murmurings of our own camp with calm and friendly refutation, since they are our friends. For Aristotle seems to be behind their change of mind too: they could not stand up to his criticism of Plato’s doctrine, and didn’t want to impute to Plato a doctrine shown to be fallacious. We seem to have here a distinction, very like the one we saw in Numenius, between people with whom Atticus disagrees while recognising affinity with

14  Tr. 7J[3] and [6] B-S. For further texts and discussion, see my Platonist Philosophy, “Introduction,” 16 note 4c.

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them, and someone like Aristotle, whom he views as an enemy “outside the camp.” Another passage from the work gives us the vocabulary we could usefully adopt to describe this distinction (fr. 2.3–9 des Places): It is universally understood among philosophers that philosophy as a whole holds out the promise of human happiness, and that it is divided in three, reflecting the creative distribution of the universe. Our Peripatetic [i.e., Aristotle] will be seen to be so far from teaching any of Plato’s views in these matters that, although there are many who differ from Plato, he stands out for his opposition to him (πλειόνων ὄντων οἳ διαφέρονται Πλάτωνι, μάλιστα ἐναντιούμενος αὐτὸς φανεῖται). This recognition that one can differ without opposing perfectly describes the distinction between the early and “New” Academies in the eyes of Numenius, as well as between the Platonists convinced by Aristotle and actual Aristotelians in the eyes of Atticus. In each case, the latter, but not the former, represents a whole new branch in the wider genealogy of philosophy—a new family, or a new camp.15 But what turns mere difference (diapherein) into opposition (enantiousthai)? Why is Xenocrates’s philosophy merely a distortion, while that of Arcesilaus is a revolution? The question arises with even more force in the case of Atticus than it does in the case of Numenius, because the Platonists he is addressing err in thinking exactly what Aristotle thinks: but how can a Platonist merely “differ” from Plato when he holds that the world is eternal, while an Aristotelian holding that view “opposes” Plato? 2.2 “Subordination”—and “Deflation” It has come to be widely recognised that one characteristic trope of postHellenistic philosophical polemic involves “subordination”: the claim that 15  S . G. Wilson notes this distinction at other periods of Greek philosophy, and suggests that it is a source for the Christian distinction between apostasy and heresy; “Dissidents and Defectors: The Limits of Pluralism,” in Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity, ed. Ismo Dudberg, Christopher Tuckett, and Kari Syreeni (Leiden/Boston/ Köln: Brill, 2002), 441–56 esp. 454. Note that I do not mean to argue the converse case, that every school is distinguished from all others by “opposition.” Pythagoreanism and Platonism, for example, are often—although not always, as my reading of the passage of Justin quoted below suggests—more or less interchangeable, and differentiated only by the extent to which the views of Pythagoras are thought to be recoverable independently of Plato. Cf. Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy, “Introduction,” 21–22 note 6a.

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one’s own philosophy (or some particular theory within it) explicitly or effectively includes everything that is to be found in that of one’s rival, but adds to it relevant extra layers of philosophical context.16 The most clearly attested example of this argument in the literature is in a Platonist text on the topic of fate, which comes down to us in the corpus of Plutarch’s works. Its author ends by reflecting on how his theory relates to that of his principal opponents ([Plutarch], On Fate 574D):17 “This is what, in summary, our argument says; the argument that opposes it (ὁ δὲ τούτων ἐναντίος) [i.e., that of the Stoics] has it that everything is not only in fate but according to fate. But everything speaks for the former [argument]: and obviously what is consistent with the latter [argument] is also consistent with the former.” In other words, there is nothing attractive in the Stoic theory that is not covered by the author’s Platonist theory, and the Platonist theory adds something that allows a better or fuller explanation of the phenomena than the Stoic theory allows. Again, this is not the place to enter into the details of the argument; but it is relevant to emphasise that that by “better or fuller explanation,” the Platonist does not simply mean a—so to speak—“horizontal” extension of the empirical data taken into account. What makes it subordination is that the Platonist goes to a higher explanatory level—the level of the forms and of god. Earlier scholarship tended to read texts in which there is evidence of this move as eclectic or syncretistic; but the move is properly considered oppositional in character. Again, the author of On Fate makes this clear, because it explicitly describes the Stoic theory—all of which is included in the Platonist theory— as one that is nevertheless “opposed” to it (ἐναντίος, the adjective corresponding to the verb ἐναντιοῦσθαι, used of Aristotle by Atticus in the passage quoted above). The point is that, even when the Stoics are right about the details (in this case, about fate), what is philosophically more significant is their refusal to acknowledge the explanatory framework which (for the Platonists) explains why they are right. There is real opposition between Stoicism and Platonism 16  For example, Gretchen Reydams-Schils and Franco Ferrari, “Middle Platonism and Its Relation to Stoicism and the Peripatetic Tradition,” in The Routledge Handbook of Neoplatonism, ed. Pauliina Remes and Svetla Slaveva-Griffin (London/New York: Routledge, 2014), 40–51. I originally argued for this form of argument in Boys-Stones, PostHellenistic Philosophy, ch. 7; for its use by Platonists in attacking both Stoic and Academic epistemology—a relevant context for Numenius’s discussion of the New Academy, discussed below—see my “Alcinous, Didaskalikos 4: In Defence of Dogmatism,” in L’Eredità Platonica da Arcesilao a Proclo, ed. Mauro Bonazzi and Vincenza Celluprica (Naples: Bibliopolis, 2005), 201–34. 17  See my “‘Middle’ Platonists on Fate and Human Autonomy,” in Greek & Roman Philosophy 100 BC–200 AD, ed. Richard Sorabji and Robert W. Sharples (London: ICS, 2007), 431–47.

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for all their agreement: they can both observe and even model the phenomena, but each denies that the other can explain them. The connection in this passage between opposition and the potential for an argument from subordination (properly understood) provides exactly what we need to explain why it is, for example, that Xenocrates, but not Arcesilaus, remains within Numenius’s philosophical “family.” Xenocrates and the other early scholarchs of the Academy, whatever their faults, retained the general shape of Plato’s metaphysics, including the key thought that the ultimate explanatory principles transcended the material world. Arcesilaus, on the other hand (and the same goes for Zeno), did not.18 So Numenius can differ from Speusippus, Xenocrates, and Polemo, but the difference is contained within a broadly shared understanding of what constitutes adequacy in philosophical explanation—perhaps what Numenius means when he says that they preserved, more or less, the school’s doctrinal “character.” But when Arcesilaus neglects or denies the forms altogether, Numenius will think that he has descended to a different and demonstrably inferior understanding of the philosophical project itself. The same model explains the difference in Atticus’s mind between Aristotle and the Platonists he influenced: whatever else they believed, they did not follow him in rejecting the basic explanatory framework of Platonism (Atticus fr. 9.4–16 + 29–34 des Places, tr. 5A[1, 4] B-S): The chief and determinative feature of Platonism, the scheme set out concerning the forms, has met with disdain and insult and has been abused by Aristotle in every way possible for him. He could not understand the theory, since things so great, divine, and transcendent require a like faculty for their comprehension. But he relied on his own feeble and base cleverness, which was able to skulk about in terrestrial matters and see the truth in them, but was not up to surveying the field of genuine truth [Phaedrus 248b]. He appealed to himself as the measure and criterion of things that were greater than him, and did not grasp the particular nature of those things as Plato did. He dared to call the highest entities ‘waffle’ and ‘chatter’ and ‘nonsense’ […] Those who have come together to understand Plato’s philosophy necessarily devote their greatest energies 18  Platonists such as Plutarch, who believed that the New Academy is to be considered part of the Platonist tradition, can note that Arcesilaus never actually denies the existence of forms and god, and if he did not speak about them, it is only because his own polemical tactic was to deal with opponents—principally the Stoics, but also the Epicureans—on their own terms. Cf. Charles Brittain, Philo of Larissa (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 225–36.

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to the arguments on this matter, for nothing of Plato is left if you don’t agree with them (and through them, with Plato) about these principal and primary entities. It is in these matters that Plato far exceeds everyone else. Platonists have energetic arguments among themselves about the forms—but Aristotle rejects them altogether; in doing so, he operates within a philosophical framework flawed by systematic explanatory inferiority (and so subordination) to that of the Platonists. Once the structure of the subordination argument becomes clear, by the way, it should also be clear that a mirror image of it can be run in the other direction. By this I mean to say that Aristotelians, New Academics, and Stoics (accepting for now the premise that they all do in fact lack the paraphernalia of transcendent forms)19 have an obvious response to the Platonists: if Platonists say that they are missing something vital, they will answer that the Platonists are encumbered by something unnecessary—in fact illusory. Call it “deflation”: the argument will be that the forms are precisely “waffle and chatter and nonsense,” fantastical augmentations of reality which are distractions from philosophically robust explanations. This is an old position against Plato, of course (“I see a horse, I don’t see ‘horseness,’” Antisthenes is supposed to have said):20 the genealogical mapping of the post-Hellenistic debate adds aetiology to it, designed to highlight the deviation it identifies. When the Stoics say that what Plato called “forms” are really “conceptions” (ennoēmata; SVF 1.65), they mean to show how Plato misunderstood emergent features of the physical system (conceptions) as entities with their own independent reality (forms). Similarly, Seneca addresses the ontological profligacy which is the result of Plato’s hypostasisation of linguistic terms and classificatory categories.21

19  There are Platonists in the post-Hellenistic era who thought that Aristotle himself had in fact maintained a belief in the forms, even if his followers did not; see my “Are We Nearly There Yet? Eudorus on Aristotle’s Categories,” in From Stoicism to Platonism, ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 67–79. 20  Simplicius, On Aristotle’s Categories 208.28–32 Kalbfleisch = V A 149 SSR; a similar story, albeit with different examples, is told of his pupil Diogenes (“the Cynic”) at DL 6.53 = V B 62 SSR. 21  Or so I have argued for Letter 58 in “Seneca Against Plato: Letters 58 and 65,” in Plato and the Stoics, ed. A. G. Long (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 128–46. Again, though, the similarity highlighted by the aetiology has led other readers to see “rapprochement” between Stoics and Platonists here; see Sedley, “Stoic Metaphysics at Rome,” in Metaphysics, Soul, and Ethics in Ancient Thought, ed. Ricardo Salles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 117–42, esp. 131–32.

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2.3 From Genealogy to Hierarchy Philosophical genealogy, then, maps polemical relationships; the key polemical relationship defining the separation of schools is that of “opposition,” and “opposition” (as distinguished from mere “difference”) rests on disagreements between schools that can be expressed through “subordination” or “deflation” arguments. This reduction of relevant oppositional difference between schools to what is in effect a single factor (roughly: the degree of metaphysical exuberance) has the interesting effect of simplifying transition between them. As far as this way of looking at things is concerned, the conversion from Stoicism to Platonism, for example, should not be conceptualised as the wholesale replacement of one’s belief-set, but simply the adoption of forms as relevant explanatory factors. In fact, put like this, it is quite possible to view even the philosophical training offered by an opposing school as a propaedeutic to one’s own. Certainly, a person stands a better chance of success if they start off attracted to the wrong school than if they are not brought into philosophy at all. We can see this line of thought put to work in Seneca’s Letters. Although a Stoic, Seneca begins his correspondence to Lucilius by working with his apparent susceptibility to Epicurean ideas.22 But the fullest expression of it is to be found in the “intellectual autobiography” described by Justin in his Dialogue with Trypho. For Justin traces an intellectual journey through the schools which is focussed on the search for explanatory principles (or “God,” as he puts it) and tracks an ascending path of metaphysical elevation (Dialogue 2–3, tr. 1J B-S): “I’ll tell you,” I said, “how it seems to me. Philosophy is truly the greatest possession, and most honourable in the sight of God: it alone leads us to him and prepares us for him; and those who apply their intellect to philosophy are truly holy. But most people have forgotten what philosophy is, and why it has been sent to humans—or else they would not be Platonists or Stoics or Peripatetics or Theoretics or Pythagoreans, since it is a single body of knowledge. (2.2) I want to tell you how it grew so many heads. It happened that the first people who engaged with it became famous as a result, and subsequently people followed them, not to inquire into the truth, but just out of admiration for how disciplined and self-controlled 22  Cf. M. Griffin, “Seneca’s Pedagogical Strategy: Letters and De Beneficiis,” in Greek & Roman Philosophy 100 BC–200 AD, 89–113, here 91. Interestingly, Seneca also provides an example operating in the opposite direction, since later on he has to rein Lucilius back from an incipient Platonism by “deflating” the results of his overactive ontological instincts; see again Boys-Stones, “Seneca Against Plato.”

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they were, and how unfamiliar their claims. These people took the truth to be what each learned from his teacher; and then they passed it all on, along with other similar claims, to those who came after them—and they acquired the name that had been held by the father of the position. (2.3) I myself to start with had this desire to join one of them, and put myself in the hands of a Stoic. But after spending a reasonable time with him, I had not learned anything more about God—he did not know anything himself, and said there was no need to learn it. So I left him, and went to someone else, who was called a Peripatetic; very sharp, so he thought. He put up with me for the first few days and then asked me to agree a fee, so that our association should yield a profit. I left him because of that, not reckoning him a philosopher at all. (2.4) My soul was still bursting to hear what was proper and special to philosophy when I met a very well-respected Pythagorean, someone who thought highly of his own wisdom. When I talked with him in the hope of becoming his student and disciple, he said, ‘Oh yes? Are you familiar with music, astronomy and geometry? Or do you think you will get sight of anything that makes for happiness if you haven’t first learned these things, which twist the soul away from the objects of sensation and prepare it for those of the intellect, so that it can discern the beautiful itself and the good itself?’ (2.5) He lavished praise on these, the mathematical sciences, and said they were necessary—and sent me away when I admitted to him that I didn’t have the knowledge. So I was downcast, as you can imagine, being so out of luck—all the more so because I thought he did know something. What is more, when I thought about how much time I would have to spend on all those mathematical sciences, I could not bear putting it off any longer. (2.6) Being at a loss, it occurred to me to try the Platonists—their fame was very great. And in fact a clever man and distinguished Platonist had just recently moved to my city: I spent as much time with him as possible, and was making progress, and adding greatly to it every day. And I was transported by the intellection of incorporeals, contemplation of the forms gave wings to my thought, and soon I supposed that I had become wise; and was so stupid that I expected to gaze on God at any moment—that being the end of Plato’s philosophy. (3.1) And that is how I was when one day I decided to immerse myself in solitude and ‘shun the path of men’ [cf. Homer, Iliad 6.202], and I went to a certain place not far from the sea. When I was getting near to this place, where I was going to be by myself, an old man of distinguished appearance—he looked to have a gentle and solemn character—started following me a little way off. I stopped and turned, and stared hard at him. ‘Do you know me?’ he said. I said I did not.”

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The school with which Justin begins his search—the Stoics—is the most metaphysically parsimonious, and he moves through teachers who recognise first principles increasingly remote from bodies: Aristotelians are realists about universals; Pythagoreans appeal to numbers; and Platonists, of course, have the forms. Justin is not simply knocking on all the doors in his street until he finds what he wants (as if sorting through differences): in his search for the highest principle of all, he is describing an ascent which makes its way through positions, each of which “subordinates” the last.23 (It is not beside the point to ask, by the way, why Justin did not begin with the Epicureans—whose starker materialism did not even allow the causal efficacy of the divine, which was so important to the Stoics. Part of the answer seems to lie in Justin’s manifestation of a pre-philosophical intuition that there is a god responsible for the world. This “intuition” will turn out to be highly significant—and it is something to which I shall presently return.) 3 Christianity Opposition in Celsus 3.1 The possibility of describing the schools of philosophy in this way, explaining their distinction while also highlighting their connection, may explain why “intolerance” is not a feature of the polemical landscape of the post-Hellenistic era—despite the relative proliferation of views and the relative lack of formal structures to police them. The nature of the “opposition” between the schools is never taken to be based in mutually incompatible ways of describing the world. On the contrary, the “opposition” is such that it anchors each to the others—and even describes how each can have a propaedeutic function for the rest. One might have expected that the way in which Christianity disrupted this model when Christians began to debate with philosophers is simply that Christianity had no “genealogical” relationship with the Graeco-Roman schools. But this is not how Christians saw it—and it was not how their Graeco-Roman counterparts saw it either. It is almost as if both sides understood that it was a condition of joining the debate that a genealogical relationship between the 23  These schemes tend to be used by dogmatists and to include only dogmatic positions; indeed, I suspect that one motivation behind them is to limit the purchase of the Sceptical “argument from disagreement” by emphasising agreement where it exists and explaining disagreement where it does not. But Scepticism can be accommodated to such a scheme: a Sceptic could claim that the “master position,” one that truly subordinates all, is one that explores all and suspends judgment over their relative merits.

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two should be established. And, thanks to earlier Greek and Jewish interest in cultural history, in the course of which “genealogical” relationships between world cultures had been traced through much deeper historical timeframes, the means to do just this were to hand.24 The first sustained engagement with philosophers on their own territory for which we have indirect evidence is the Christian position which Celsus answered with his True Account. The very title of this book puts genealogy front and centre: the “true account” which Celsus has in mind is a philosophical understanding held in common between ancient nations—among which are the Egyptians (Contra Celsum 1, esp. 1.14–6); Jewish culture is a divergent branch of Egyptian, says Celsus, with Moses as its head (Contra Celsum 1.21, 3.4), and Christianity is a further branching-off from Judaism (3.4). In hierarchical terms, Christianity is, according to Celsus, twice removed from Egyptian thought, in which Celsus sees a true affinity with his own tradition of thought. This sets the scene for Celsus to be able to talk about and explain Christianity, insofar as it is a philosophy, as one that is opposed to his own—within precisely the “genealogical” framework for understanding opposition in which he was used to working. But here a question forces itself upon us: Why does Celsus represent Christians in these terms? Given that he allows a “genealogical” connection between his own thought and Christianity, and given that—as a matter of principle—he is very happy to see a “familial” relationship between his own thought and other, quite distant cultural traditions (for example, that of Egypt), why does he see opposition rather than difference in Christianity? When one gets into the detail of Celsus’s complaints (and the same is true of Porphyry later on), it is striking, first of all, how limited a range of philosophical views he finds to challenge, and, secondly, how close he stands to many of them. Very many of the live philosophical issues in Celsus’s day were apparently not touched on in the True Account at all: there seems to have been nothing on category theory or syllogistic; nothing on the causes of thunder or the problem of universals; not even anything on the nature of happiness or the treatment of the passions. Conversely, when Celsus voices objections to Christians, he is often able to see resonances between what they think and his own views. So, for example, Celsus objects to the idea of a god made flesh (esp. 4.2–10), but not to the idea of a man made god (3.22–5); he can find Plato’s view of the cosmos (5.47) and divine logos (3.21) in the Christian talk of the “son of God,” and he sees further distortions of Plato (or the wider Greek tradition) in significant aspects of Christian theology (6.15, 19), eschatology (4.11), and ethics (6.16, 7.58). Without wishing to diminish the extent of his disagreement with them, it is 24   Boys-Stones, Post-Hellenistic Philosophy, chs. 3–5 and 8.

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tempting to say that Celsus’s Christians, insofar as they express their position in terms that have traction among philosophers at all, already look something like “Christian Platonists.” So why exactly are they any worse in Celsus’s eyes than the “Aristotelian Platonists” in whom Atticus sees only misguided “difference”? What challenge do Christians offer to Celsus’s philosophical position that is so great that they need to be met with philosophical opposition?25 The answer to this may be that the Christians Celsus had in mind had themselves quite deliberately adopted a strategy of “opposition” in their own engagement with Greek philosophy. 3.2 Opposition in Christianity “Opposition” (in the narrow sense in which I have been defining it) is open to the Christians because Christians typically saw themselves as the true inheritors of the Hebrew tradition—with Jesus as the fulfilment of Hebrew prophecy—and there was an established debate over “genealogical” priority between Greeks and Jews.26 It is certainly the case later on that Christians argue that the Greeks have wandered from the truth that they preserve, and in the absence of evidence to the contrary, it is quite likely that this is how the philosophical Christians by whom Celsus is so bothered were already thinking. That would explain why Celsus saw them as a threat in the first place, and why the issue of genealogy is front and centre in his response. But if so, then it was the Christians who set the tone—in particular, by insisting on opposition to the Greeks. But if this is right, then the first Christian philosophers must also have offered something intended as a threat to Platonism, something comparable to what the Platonists offered to the Stoics—a threat which Celsus, in his turn, was to recognise, and which motivates a response from him as a philosopher. To judge by Justin, who arrives at Christianity as the latest step on a path of increasing metaphysical transcendence, this would mean some form of the subordination argument.27

25  Cf. M. Frede, “Celsus’ Attack on the Christians,” in Philosophia Togata II, 218–40, here 227–29. 26   Boys-Stones, Post-Hellenistic Philosophy, chs. 4–5. 27  Carl Andresen (Nomos und Logos: Die Polemik de Kelsos wider das Christentum [Berlin: De Gruyter, 1955]) famously identified Justin as the target of Celsus’s True Doctrine. His arguments do not bear scrutiny (see G. T. Burke, “Celsus and Justin: Carl Andresen Revisited,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 76 (1985): 107–16), but Justin is certainly useful first-hand evidence to us of the sort of Christian perspective that motivated Celsus to write his book in the first place.

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But what could be more transcendent than the forms? The answer is— nothing; at least, no one suggests anything that could fit the description.28 But Christians still take a run at the subordination argument—only this time, with a twist. Instead of arguing that they have access to principles higher than those recognised by Platonists, they argue that they have access to these principles, which the Platonists do not in fact have. No Greek philosophy, they say, not even Platonism, has real first-hand understanding of the forms. If they seem to know about them—Platonists do talk about forms, after all—it is because, according to the well-known argument, they have “stolen” their knowledge from Christians. Note that the point here is not about priority as such: Christians are not simply making the point that the forms were discovered in their tradition and subsequently taken over by the Greeks. That might occasion some sort of discussion, but it would not be the basis for a claim of opposition. The claim is rather that the language of forms is, in effect, only language for the Platonists. They “understand” the forms in something like the sense that a scientifically illiterate person might be said to “understand” E=mc2 from headline facts about the theory of special relativity. This is what makes their adoption of the theory an act of misappropriation: they cannot take proper ownership of it—that is, they cannot use it to develop adequate explanatory positions. It is speculation to assert that this is the position of the Christians who bother Celsus; but this position is clearly attested in the major Christian thinker of his age, Clement of Alexandria. Clement takes a position against Platonism, but he does not argue that it is wrong in its identification of first principles—“the realm of God, which Plato has called the ‘realm of forms,’” as he puts it (Stromata 5.11.73.3). Rather, Clement makes the case that Platonists lack the intellectual infrastructure needed to grasp (let alone to discover) these realities. If they talk about forms, it is because they have heard others discuss them; but they are incapable of realising their true explanatory role in understanding.29 He makes this case most clearly at Stromata 2.4.13, which draws on the Posterior Analytics to show that there are no logical procedures available to 28  Plotinus arguably found the way in positing a prior cause of existence itself (the One), and precedents for this thought are sometimes identified in pre-Plotinian thought, including Philo of Alexandria (see, for example, On the Contemplative Life 2; Questions and Answers on Exodus 2.68). But neither deployed it as a “subordinating” move, and in any case, there is no sign that such a principle was offered by Christians in debate with Platonists. 29  The accusation of “theft”—in this case by Plato from Moses—is in fact the context of Stromata 5.11.73.3 (δυσάλωτος γὰρ ἡ χώρα τοῦ θεοῦ, ὃν χώραν ἰδεῶν ὁ Πλάτων κέκληκεν, παρὰ Μωυσέως λαβὼν τόπον εἶναι αὐτόν). On the “dependency theme” more generally, see BoysStones, Post-Hellenistic Philosophy, ch. 9.

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the unaided mind which can lead someone who begins from experience of the sensible world to a comprehension of entities completely independent of it. There are four things in which there might be “truth”: perception, intellection, knowledge, supposition. In nature, intellection is prior; but to us, and relative to us, perception [cf. Posterior Analytics 71b33–72a5]. The substance of knowledge is constituted either from perception or intellection, and there is clarity alike in intellection and perception. But perception is [only] a ladder towards knowledge: faith travels through perceptible things, leaves supposition behind, hurries towards what is certain and is fixedly oriented towards the truth. Were one to say that knowledge can be demonstrated by reasoning [e.g., Posterior Analytics 71b17], know that principles are indemonstrable [Posterior Analytics 71b19–22, 26–7; 76a31– 2]; they cannot be cognised either by skill or by wisdom [cf. Nicomachean Ethics 1140b1–4; cf. 1140b33–1141a1]: the latter concerns itself with things that could be otherwise, and the former is only productive, not theoretical. So it is only by faith that one can reach the [first] principle of the universe. For all knowledge can be taught [Posterior Analytics 71a1; cf. Metaphysics 992b31]; but something can be taught only on the basis of something known beforehand, and there was no prior knowledge of the principle of the universe among the Greeks. […] Knowledge is a state concerned with demonstration, but faith is grace [coming] from the indemonstrables which draws one up to the simple universal, which is neither with matter nor matter nor the product of matter. The passage is dense, but Clement’s direction of travel is clear enough once one recognises Aristotle behind it. The Greeks, he says, lack “prior knowledge” of non-material principles (presumably he has in mind both a priori knowledge and sources of revelation). Given this fact, then, as Aristotle has shown us, the “indemonstrable principles” available to the Greeks for demonstration—and so for “knowledge”—are only those available through induction (using perception as a “ladder”); but this means that demonstration, and so the knowledge available to the Greeks, is tied to the senses and to the sensible world, since it is on the basis of sense-data that induction operates.30 30  This may not be an innocent argument against Platonists, by the way. Platonists themselves at this time were aware of the need to bridge the gap between empirical science and what they called dialectic, pure contemplation of the forms, and they developed modified versions of “induction” (and also a procedure, originating in geometry, called “analysis”) which were supposed to “bootstrap” the mind from one realm to the other (Alcinous 10, with Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy, ch. 14.6). One might think of Clement

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To put this another way, Clement’s subordinating move is to say that Platonists are really just Aristotelians talking a bigger game. Christians are the real thing. 3.3 Revelation According to Clement, then, knowledge of the divine realm cannot come from the unaided exercise of human capacities: there must be assistance from above—what he calls here the operation of “grace” acting on “faith.” Another way of putting this is to say that divine revelation is a condition of adequacy in philosophical explanation. Without it, access to the ultimate explanatory principles remains unavailable even in principle to any Greek philosopher in general.31 But Clement may not have been the first Christian thinker to take this position: it explains a lot about Justin as well—beginning with the “intuition” that drives him with such a clear sense of direction in his search for God in the first place, a sense powerful enough to act as a criterion in his assessment of the philosophical schools he encounters. One particular oddity of the “intellectual autobiography” discussed above is the complaint Justin makes about the length of time and the amount of intellectual effort demanded of him by the Pythagorean he encounters in his philosophical quest for God. What justifies the expectation that it ought to be easier and quicker than this? Or, perhaps more to the point: How can Justin expect that anyone would be sympathetic to what could seem like expressions of impatience or laziness on his part? It is certainly relevant to note that the passage resonates with wider contemporary discourse concerning what counts as appropriate exclusivity in the formation of pedagogical communities.32 But, as far as that goes, he might simply have appealed to the arduous pre-selection challenges commonly associated with Pythagoreanism as the means to weed out the “wrong sort” of recruit.33 What Justin instead finds unreasonable in the demands of the Pythagorean is the commitment to the mathematical sciences as a necessary preliminary to the as responding to these moves, which might have appeared to him illegitimate and stipulative. For example, Alcinous is able to make “induction” work for him only by extending its operation, as described by Aristotle, to cover transition “from like to like”—something which is criticised by other contemporaries, including Alexander (On the Topics 86.9–12 Wallies). 31  If he wanted to, Clement could find scriptural backing for this thought in Paul’s claim— also made in front of philosophers—that his teaching concerns the “Unknown God” of the Athenians; see Acts 17:18–20. 32  See Eshleman, Social World, ch. 1, esp. 25 and 44–45. 33  Cf. the wistful description by the Platonist Taurus of Pythagoras’s own practices at Aulus Gellius, Attic Nights 1.9.8–11 (= Taurus 6T Gioè).

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study of the divine. That is odd, because it not a characteristically Pythagorean commitment at all—but rather comes directly from the views of contemporary Platonists, going back to the explicit injunction of Plato himself.34 So it is reasonable to wonder whether there is a principled philosophical reason for Justin’s objection to the Pythagorean procedure alongside more practical worries about exclusivity, and this is just what Clement provides. If Justin is already thinking along the lines spelt out in Clement, then his worry may be precisely that the mathematical sciences, based as they are on empirical and inductive procedures, are something in which it is possible to get bogged down—in which the Greeks do in fact get bogged down. They are the Greeks’ only hope of ascent—but the hope is a false one, for the reasons spelled out by Clement. They know ascent cannot happen quickly, and think it must take a very long time; in fact, it never bears fruit at all. They “suppose they have become wise” and are “so stupid that they expect to gaze upon God at any moment” (cf. again Justin, Dialogue 2.6)—but of course they never do. So Justin is spurning the long engagement with the mathematical sciences not because he is impatient and lazy, but because he can see that it is a distraction. Once your mind is open to the possibility of a non-empirical space for the divine, you can—but can only—enter it with divine help. As Clement puts it, the mathematical sciences are at best propaedeutic, like the school studies which come before them (Stromata 1.5.28.1–3; 1.20.99.1); but actually, faith is perfectly possible without them (1.20.99.1; 5.13). (And why the transposition to the Pythagorean? We could suppose that Justin’s account is loose, or that the particularities of his own experience, allowing that the narrative might have genuine roots in his autobiography, happened to be different from what we would expect in general. But the transposition also confirms the hierarchical sequence of the schools: it helps to make the point that Platonism is a step closer to Christianity and to God than Pythagoreanism is. As such, it promotes the sense of Justin’s upward trajectory towards Christianity and the series of subordinating moves it involves.) Christians, then, enter the debate with philosophers quite deliberately, casting themselves as opponents—specifically, as a school which has an approach that can offer superior philosophical understanding. As such, it can claim to subordinate Platonism, as Platonism in turn claims to subordinate Aristotelianism, Stoicism, and the rest—and so to make it irrelevant. Celsus knew this. I have noted that an interest in philosophical genealogy 34  For example, Albinus, Introduction 5 (= 2C[5] B-S), looking back to Plato, Republic VII (see esp. 540a, where we are told that it will take until the age of 50 to reach the appropriate point).

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(addressed by Origen especially in Contra Celsum 1–3) introduced his critique of Christianity.35 But if there was a common thematic thread running through the rest of the work, it was precisely his interrogation of the possibility of the sort of direct contact between God and humans which the Christian subordination argument requires. Contra Celsum 4 and 5 address the worries Celsus had about the idea of God’s direct intervention in the world (and even the view that he cares especially for humans); book 6 deals with his attack on the Christian demand for “belief without reason”; and book 7 addresses his views on Christian prophecy and Jesus as a vehicle for the Spirit. Celsus’s own views, as they emerge through these encounters, and his exhortation to conventional religious practice, which comes to fore in Contra Celsum 8, point to the broader diffusion of divinity through the universe, especially though divine intermediaries—the condition, in Platonist philosophy, for ascent to the intelligibles without the need for revelation.36 4

Towards Intolerance

So far, I have only shown how the rules of post-Hellenistic polemic distinguish differences which occur within schools from the opposition of one school to another, and I have made the case that Christians quite deliberately present themselves in opposition to Greek schools. I want to end by returning briefly to what is distinctive about the way in which their opposition works, as the feature which arguably opens the way to intolerance at last. In the Graeco-Roman debate, the “hierarchy” of opposing schools is premised on perceived metaphysical excess or deficiency. In one sense, this is exactly how the Christians present themselves when they enter the debate— they have access to the principles of the universe, which the Greeks are incapable of achieving. But as soon as they say that some of the Greeks think they are aware of them (namely, Platonists and Pythagoreans) and think they have a way towards them (namely, through the mathematical sciences), the polemical dynamic undergoes a subtle shift. I noted above that there is little 35  This, as I noted above, seems more or less guaranteed by the title of Celsus’s work. I make the observations that follow without prejudice as to the question of the original structure of Celsus’s work—for discussion of which see now Johannes Arnold, Der Wahre Logos des Kelsos. Eine Strukturanalyse (Münster: Aschendorff, 2016). 36  That is, through Platonist versions of procedures such as “induction” (cf. n. 30 above), or indeed synthesis, analysis, and analogy (Celsus ap. Contra Celsum 7.42, with Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy, ch. 14.6)—all of which can be summarised with the more familiar term “recollection.”

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motivation for intolerance in a field of debate where the different schools viewed each other as, to put it at its most reductive, metaphysically profligate or parsimonious variants of their own positions. As such, and as we have seen above, each school could function as a “propaedeutic” to the next, even as it stood in “opposition” to it. (If someone fails to progress to the “right” school, it will only be through some defect of character—arrogance or contentiousness, for example—or because they just lack the mental acumen for the difficult higher reaches of philosophical explanation, as Atticus says of Aristotle in fr. 9, quoted above.) But the Christian line with the Platonist/Pythagorean tradition is different: it is that their methodology traps them in underachievement. They cannot be put right by pointing them towards a better goal—they already have the right sense of what they want. Nor is it easy to point out the failure of their method, since the method tells them not to expect results until after many decades of hard work. So even the brightest and best-intentioned pupil can easily become “stuck” in Platonism or Pythagoreanism—mired in the empirical sciences and the false promise of elevation they offer to the intellect. Here is where there is room for a new attitude of exasperation on the part of Christians towards the false hope they offer—an exasperation manifested in Justin’s impatience with the “Pythagorean” curriculum. It is also occasionally evident in Clement: while he can talk about philosophy as a propaedeutic to Christianity, he is also capable of saying that people become Christians despite their philosophical training.37 In short, it does not make sense for Platonists to become intolerant of Stoics or Aristotelians, however frustrated they might be by them: they know they are trying their best. But there might be motivation for a Christian to countenance intolerance of non-Christian philosophy—that is, if they think it actually prevents people progressing as far as they might. Whether a systematic policy of intolerance towards pagan philosophy—or pagan literature, which was also viewed as a potential distraction from the path towards God—ever in fact emerged, even in the later, Christian empire, is increasingly open to question.38 But there is no doubt that by the third century, overt consideration of intolerance became part of philosophical discourse in 37  S tromata 5.13.87.1: δεῖ τοίνυν διὰ Χριστοῦ τὴν ἀλήθειαν μεμαθηκότας σῴζεσθαι, κἂν φιλοσοφήσαντες τὴν Ἑλληνικὴν φιλοσοφίαν τύχωσιν. For ambivalence in Clement’s view of Graeco-Roman learning, see Eshleman, Social World, 108 and 202. 38  Justinian, for example, has often been associated with an attempt to suppress pagan philosophy; but cf. E. Watts, “Justinian, Malalas, and the End of Athenian Philosophical Training in A.D. 529,” Journal of Roman Studies 94 (2004): 168–82; and evidence for the relatively liberal atmosphere in which later Platonists felt themselves to be operating is set out by Bram Demulder and Gerd Van Riel, “Au terme d’une tradition: Simplicius, lecteur

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a way it had not been before. It begins precisely in explicit discussions and debates—unparalleled in the Graeco-Roman world, but already foreshadowed in ways we have seen in Justin and Clement—about whether pagan literature and philosophy were capable of playing a constructive propaedeutic role within a curriculum designed to lead to a Christian understanding of the truth.39 Bibliography Andresen, Carl. Nomos und Logos: Die Polemik de Kelsos wider das Christentum. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1955. Arnold, Johannes. Der Wahre Logos des Kelsos. Eine Strukturanalyse. Münster: Aschendorff, 2016. Boys-Stones, George. Post-Hellenistic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Boys-Stones, George. “Alcinous, Didaskalikos 4: In Defence of Dogmatism.” Pages 201–34 in L’Eredità Platonica da Arcesilao a Proclo. Edited by Mauro Bonazzi and Vincenza Celluprica. Naples: Bibliopolis, 2005. Boys-Stones, George. “‘Middle’ Platonists on Fate and Human Autonomy.” Pages 431–47 in Greek & Roman Philosophy 100 BC–200 AD. Edited by Richard Sorabji and Robert W. Sharples. London: ICS, 2007. Boys-Stones, George. “Hesiod and Plato’s History of Philosophy.” Pages 31–51 in Plato and Hesiod. Edited by G. R. Boys-Stones and J. H. Haubold. Oxford University Press, 2010. Boys-Stones, George. “Seneca Against Plato: Letters 58 and 65.” Pages 128–46 in Plato and the Stoics. Edited by A. G. Long. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Boys-Stones, George. “Are We Nearly There Yet? Eudorus on Aristotle’s Categories.” Pages 67–79 in From Stoicism to Platonism. Edited by Troels Engberg-Pedersen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Boys-Stones, George. Platonist Philosophy 80 BC to AD 250: An Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. du Phédon,” in Ancient Readings of Plato’s Phaedo, ed. Sylvain Delcomminette, Pieter d’Hoine, and Marc-Antoine Gavray (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2015), 270–92, esp. 270–74. 39  Origen (as reported in Eusebius, History of the Church 6.3.9) and Jerome (Ep. 22.30) both saw a love of pagan literature as so great a drag on the ability to move closer to God that it led them to occasions of complete renunciation of it. Gregory Thaumaturgus (Panegyric 13) is often cited as evidence for Origen’s more typical belief in the propaedeutic utility of pagan learning—although he says that Origen makes a significant exception for works by atheists, which, he thought, risk “polluting the soul of someone who reads them.”

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Brittain, Charles. Philo of Larissa. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Burke, G. T. “Celsus and Justin: Carl Andresen Revisited.” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 76 (1985): 107–16. Demulder, Bram, and Gerd Van Riel. “Au terme d’une tradition: Simplicius, lecteur du Phédon.” Pages 270–92 in Ancient Readings of Plato’s Phaedo. Edited by Sylvain Delcomminette, Pieter d’Hoine, and Marc-Antoine Gavray. Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2015. Donini, P. L. “Testi e commenti, manuali e insegnamento: la forma sistematica e i metodi della filosofia in età posthellenistica.” ANRW 36.7 (1994): 5027–5100. Eshleman, Kendra. The Social World of Intellectuals in the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Frede, M. “Celsus’ Attack on the Christians.” Pages 218–40 in Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome. Edited by Jonathan Barnes and Miriam Griffin. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997. Frede, Michael. “Epilogue.” Pages 771–97 in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy. Edited by Keimpe Algra et al. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Griffin, M. “Seneca’s Pedagogical Strategy: Letters and De Beneficiis.” Pages 89–113 in Greek & Roman Philosophy 100 BC–200 AD. Edited by Richard Sorabji and Robert W. Sharples. London: ICS, 2007. Reydams-Schils, Gretchen, and Franco Ferrari. “Middle Platonism and Its Relation to Stoicism and the Peripatetic Tradition.” Pages 40–51 in The Routledge Handbook of Neoplatonism. Edited by Pauliina Remes and Svetla Slaveva-Griffin. London/New York: Routledge, 2014. Sedley, David N. “Plato’s Auctoritas and the Rebirth of the Commentary Tradition.” Pages 110–29 in Philosophia Togata II: Plato and Aristotle at Rome. Edited by Jonathan Barnes and Miriam Griffin. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997. Sedley, David N. The Midwife of Platonism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Sedley, David N. “Stoic Metaphysics at Rome.” Pages 117–42 in Metaphysics, Soul, and Ethics in Ancient Thought. Edited by Ricardo Salles. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Watts, E. “Justinian, Malalas, and the End of Athenian Philosophical Training in A.D. 529.” Journal of Roman Studies 94 (2004): 168–82. Wilson, S. G. “Dissidents and Defectors: The Limits of Pluralism.” Pages 441–56 in Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity. Edited by Ismo Dudberg, Christopher Tuckett, and Kari Syreeni. Leiden/Boston/Köln: Brill, 2002.

chapter 10

John’s Counter-Symposium: “The Continuation of Dialogue” in Christianity—A Contrapuntal Reading of John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium George van Kooten 1

Introduction: The “End of Dialogue” in Early Christianity?1

In my contribution to this volume on what appear to be the fluid, rather diffuse boundaries between intolerance, polemics, and debate in antiquity, I would like to re-address the thesis, launched by Simon Goldhill in his 2008 edited volume entitled The End of Dialogue in Antiquity, that the emergence of Christianity within the Graeco-Roman world brought with it the end of dialogue, eradicating and replacing it with the sermon.2 I will do so by calling attention to what I regard to be the earliest example of Christian dialogue, the Gospel of John. Goldhill’s thesis that Christianity constitutes the end of dialogue in antiquity has met with fierce criticism from Averil Cameron in her Dialoguing in Late Antiquity (2014), in which she shows how the genre of dialogue did continue in late antique Christianity.3 Before I argue how John’s Gospel can be seen as the earliest evidence of Christian engagement with and continuation of Platonic dialogue, I briefly mention a few general objections to Goldhill’s thesis. Whilst identifying Christianity with sermons and dogmatism, and contrasting it with GraecoRoman dialogue as the hallmark of Greek democracy, Goldhill seems to leave 1  The first early draft of this paper was read and discussed at a colloquium in Aarhus in 2012, and I am very grateful to those present there, and in particular to Anders Klostergaard Petersen (Aarhus), Christoph Jedan (Groningen), Glenn W. Most (Pisa), and Andrew Smith (Dublin), as well as to all those participating in the Groningen conference, for their stimulating comments and suggestions. 2  Simon Goldhill, ed., The End of Dialogue in Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), see esp. 1–10. In the same volume, this thesis is contradicted, or at least nuanced, in the contributions by Jason König, “Sympotic Dialogue in the First to Fifth Centuries CE,” 85–113, esp. 85–86 and 113; and Gillian Clark, “Can We Talk? Augustine and the Possibility of Dialogue,” 117–34, esp. 117–18, 120, and 134. 3  Averil Cameron, Dialoguing in Late Antiquity (Hellenic Studies 65; Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 2014). Cf. also Alberto Rigolio, Christians in Conversation: A Guide to Late Antique Dialogues in Greek and Syriac (Oxford/ New York: Oxford University Press, 2019). © George van Kooten, 2019 | doi:10.1163/9789004411500_012 This is an open access chapter distributed © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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out elements of Graeco-Roman history that are inconvenient for his historiography, such as the death sentence that democratic Athens passed on the anti-democratic Socrates in 399 BCE, and the Roman emperor Julian’s School Law, which forbade Christian teachers from engaging with classical literature and philosophy in the early 360s CE—an experience that may have motivated Christians, after the short-lived restoration of paganism, to turn the preJulian Constantinian church, which was permitted among the other religions, into a full, official state church to protect its otherwise apparently threatened position. Both issues are revisited in this volume.4 Furthermore, Goldhill also passes over the degree to which Christianity shared its dogmatism with Middle Platonism, as John Dillon and David Sedley have shown: following the scepticism of the Academy after Plato, it experienced a dogmatic turn in the first century CE, as a result of which assimilation to God became the goal of ethics, and the dogmatism of which—as George Boys-Stones shows in his Platonist Philosophy 80 BC to AD 250—was articulated to the detriment of the more “Socratic” and aporetic of Plato’s dialogues.5 Similarly, Goldhill takes no notice of the resemblance that Christian dogmatic polemics bear to the “normal” polemics between the pagan schools, as so well presented in George BoysStones’s Post-Hellenistic Philosophy (2001).6 Emerging Christianity seems part of a broader Graeco-Roman discourse, rather than an outsider to it. John’s Gospel, then, in my view, is not only one of the earliest participants in this discourse, and not only constitutes an ancient biography about Jesus with a strongly dialogical character,7 but is actually also interested in one of the most distinctive examples of Greek dialogue: the dialogues of Plato.8 4  See Paulin Ismard’s paper on Socrates (chap. 5) and Robbert van den Berg’s paper on Julian (chap. 13), respectively. 5  John Dillon, The Middle Platonists: 80 BC to AD 220 (rev. ed.; London: Duckworth, 1996); David Sedley, “Becoming Godlike,” in The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Ethics (ed. C. Bobonich; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 319–37; George Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy 80 BC to AD 250: An Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 53 and 57. 6  George Boys-Stones, Post-Hellenistic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 7  See, at the beginning of John’s Gospel, the discourses with Nicodemus (John 3:1–21; Synopsis #27) and with the Samaritan woman (John 4:4–42; Synopsis #31), neither of which has a parallel in the Synoptic Gospels. Cf. C. H. Talbert, “Biography, ancient,” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary (ed. David Noel Freedman; New York: Doubleday, 1992), 1:745–49. Throughout this chapter, references to the Synopsis refer to Synopsis of the Four Gospels: Greek-English Edition (ed. Kurt Aland; 11th ed.; Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2000). 8  See C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), appendix, 445n1; and idem, “The Dialogue Form in the Gospels,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 37 (1954): 54–67.

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There are both general and specific reasons why such an interest in Plato’s dialogues is not implausible. Firstly, narratologically speaking (as I have already argued elsewhere), the author of John’s Gospel is very much interested in Jesus’s meeting with “the Greeks,” who fulfil an important and consistent role in his Gospel (7:35; 12:20), depicting Jesus as a Greek-style philosopher engaged in the act of walking up and down (περιπατεῖν) in a Stoa (John 10:23) of the Jerusalem temple,9 whilst portraying himself, as the Gospel’s author, as “the beloved pupil,” in imitation of the erastai, the lovers of Socrates in Plato’s dialogues.10 Secondly, among these dialogues (as I have also argued in another essay), he seems specifically interested in the dialogues of the last days of Socrates—that is, in the Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, and Phaedo—which, for a Greek-minded Christian, offer such close parallels to Jesus’s trial and death.11 Even in antiquity, these “biographical” dialogues of Socrates already formed a literary unit (see Albinus, Introduction to the Book of Plato 4.1).12 That John, as a Jew, was interested in and had access to Plato’s dialogues is not surprising, even if he lived in Judaea. His contemporary fellow Jew Justus of Tiberias, who lived in Galilee, was so interested in the figure of Socrates that, according to Diogenes Laertius’s Lives of Eminent Philosophers, he was even the source of the apocryphal anecdote about Plato’s alleged intervention during Socrates’s trial (2.41). Neither is it incredible that John, if he was familiar with Plato’s dialogues, drew a parallel between Jesus and Socrates at such an early stage in Christianity. The pagan Syrian Stoic philosopher Mara bar Serapion also compares Socrates and

9  Cf. the walking up and down a Stoa in Plato, Spuria 392a; Plutarch, Whether an Old Man Should Engage in Public Affairs 796D; Lucian, The Passing of Peregrinus 40. 10  George van Kooten, “Bildung, Religion, and Politics in the Gospel of John: The Erastic, Philhellenic, Anti-Maccabean, and Anti-Roman Tendencies of the Gospel of ‘the Beloved Pupil’,” in Scriptural Interpretation at the Interface between Education and Religion (ed. Florian Wilk; Themes in Biblical Narrative 22; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2019), 123–77. 11  Van Kooten, “The Last Days of Socrates and Christ: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, and Phaedo Read in Counterpoint with John’s Gospel,” in Religio-Philosophical Discourses in the Mediterranean World: From Plato, through Jesus, to Late Antiquity (ed. Anders Klostergaard Petersen and George van Kooten; Ancient Philosophy & Religion 1; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2017), 219–43. 12  R  yan C. Fowler, Imperial Plato: Albinus, Maximus, Apuleius (Las Vegas/Zurich/Athens: Parmenides, 2016), 44. For a commentary on this passage, see Heinrich Dörrie, Der Platonismus in der Antike, vol. 2 (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1990), #48 “Die Anordnung von Platons Werken nach Tetralogien”; #50 “Mit welchem Dialog soll die Lektüre Platons beginnen?”, and esp. #50.1 = Albinus, Eisag. 4–5 (=149.2–150.12 Hermann; 324.17–325.26 Freudenthal), text and German translation, 2:96–101, with commentary, 2:356–58.

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Jesus in a letter to his son that many scholars date sometime after 73 CE.13 John seems to draw on Plato’s dialogues on the last days of Socrates because it allows him to draw a picture of Jesus’s trial, death, and beliefs that is understandable for a Greek audience. That he uses these dialogues seems confirmed by his borrowing of the distinctive Platonic notion of “the true light” from Plato’s Phaedo, which he applied to Jesus (Phaedo 109e–110a; cf. John 1:9 and 1 John 2:8).14 Moreover, the complaint of Socrates’s disciples in Plato’s Phaedo that he will leave them orphaned (Phaedo 116a) is now mirrored in and contrasted with Jesus’s statement that he will not leave his pupils orphaned (John 14:18), and whilst Socrates’s weeping wife, Xanthippe, due to her disruptive behaviour, is taken home by one of his pupils at Socrates’s own request (Phaedo 60a; cf. 116b, 117d–e), Jesus allows his mother to stay and commends her to the care of his beloved pupil (19:26–27). Furthermore, the picture that Plato, throughout the Phaedo, draws of Socrates’s doubtful respondents, Simmias and Cebes, who are uncertain about the immortality of the soul until they finally come to accept Socrates’s argumentation, seems to provide the model for John’s depiction of the unbelieving Thomas, who similarly questions the immortality of (the resurrected) Jesus before he becomes convinced (John 20:24–29; cf. 14:5–6). These notions, phrases, and incidents are all exclusive to Plato’s dialogues on the last days of Socrates and John’s Gospel (and indeed are without parallel in the Synoptic Gospels) and seem to strongly suggest that John was indeed interested in these dialogues and used them. In addition, as I shall argue in this chapter, John’s acquaintance with and interest in Plato’s dialogues also extended to another of Plato’s important dialogues, his Symposium, and he seems to have responded to it both in form and in content. As we shall see, John used Plato’s Symposium with regard to its content—the issue of divine love that determines the speeches the symposiasts deliver, which is arguably also the defining theme of John’s Gospel. In order to address this, I will first briefly place both writings in the context of the genre of sympotic writings (section 2), and then continue with a comparative analysis of the speeches on divine love in Plato’s Symposium, with particular attention 13  R  obert E. Van Voorst, Jesus Outside the New Testament: An Introduction to the Ancient Evidence (Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2000), 53–58. See also the forthcoming text edition, translation, and commentary by David Rensberger, Annette Merz, and Teun Tieleman (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck). 14  See further van Kooten, “The ‘True Light which Enlightens Everyone’ (John 1:9): John, Genesis, the Platonic Notion of the ‘True, Noetic Light’, and the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s Republic,” in The Creation of Heaven and Earth: Re-interpretations of Genesis I in the Context of Judaism, Ancient Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern Physics (ed. van Kooten; Themes in Biblical Narrative 8; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2005), 149–94.

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to Socrates’s own speech and that of Alcibiades, who responds to the figure of Socrates himself (section 3). 2

The Literary Genre of Symposia

In his comments on the discourse “On Symposia,” written by John’s (near-)contemporary, the Greek orator and moralist Dio Chrysostom (ca. 40/50–110/120 CE), J. W. Cohoon gives the following acute definition of a symposium: “The symposium (a drinking together) was the name given the entertainment which followed a δεῖπνον or dinnerparty. In it the pleasure of drinking wine was heightened by agreeable conversation, music, dancing, games, philosophical discussion, etc.”15 The literary genre of symposia is the literary reflection of this social practice, in particular of its philosophical aspects. There seems to have been an ardent interest in (stylised) renditions of such meetings and discussions. This is nicely captured in the eagerness Cicero expresses in one of his letters to his close friend Atticus, in which he urges him to send news of a particular symposium: “I’m ravenous with curiosity. All the same, I don’t mind your not setting out that symposium in writing—I’d rather hear it from your own lips” (Cicero, Letters to Atticus 30.2).16 The first examples of the literary genre of symposia seem to consist of the symposia written by Socrates’s two pupils, Plato and Xenophon, who each wrote their Symposium based on a particular (although different) celebatory sympotic meeting attended by Socrates, and at which he spoke, on both occasions, about two types of love: “carnal” and “spiritual” love, love of the body and love of the soul (Plato, Symposium 201d–212c, esp. 206b–209e; Xenophon, Symposium 8.1–41, esp. 8.6–29).17 Interestingly for our current engagement with debate, polemics, and 15  See Dio Chrysostom, vol. 2: Discourses 12–30 (trans. J. W. Cohoon; Loeb Classical Library 339; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1939), 348n2. 16  Translations of Classical writings, the Bible, and early Christian writings are normally taken from the digital Loeb Classical Library (LCL), the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV), the electronic edition of the New English Translation of the Septuagint (NETS), and the Ante-Nicene Fathers (ANF), unless otherwise indicated, with small modifications where necessary. Chronological and biographical information is usually derived from the online Oxford Classical Dictionary (OCD) and Brill’s New Pauly. 17  For a discussion of Xenophon’s Symposium, see Gabriel Danzig, “Xenophon’s Symposium,” in The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon (ed. Michael A. Flower; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 132–51. For a comparison of Plato’s and Xenophon’s symposia on this issue of love, see Francesca Pentassuglio, “Socrates Erotikos: Mutuality, Role Reversal, and Erotic Paideia in Xenophon’s and Plato’s Symposia,” in Plato and Xenophon: Comparative Studies (ed. Gabriel Danzig, David Johnson and Donald Morrison;

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intolerance in the ancient world, it was already said in antiquity that Plato and Xenophon had written these texts out of competition with each other in an earnest dispute. According to Diogenes Laertius, it seems that Xenophon was not on good terms with him [i.e., with Plato]. At any rate, they have written similar narratives as if out of rivalry with each other (ὥσπερ γοῦν διαφιλονεικοῦντες), a Symposium, a Defence of Socrates, and their moral treatises or Memorabilia. Next, the one wrote a Republic, the other a Cyropaedia. And in the Laws Plato declares the story of the education of Cyrus to be a fiction [see Laws 694c], for that Cyrus did not answer to the description of him. And although both make mention of Socrates, neither of them refers to the other, except that Xenophon mentions Plato in the third book of his Memorabilia. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers 3.34–35

Plato and Xenophon jointly head the list of other, subsequent authors who have written symposia. From The Learned Banqueters (Δειπνοσοφισταί), written by Athenaeus (fl. ca. 200 CE), we learn that not only Plato and Xenophon, but also Plato’s pupil Aristotle and several Epicurean, Cynic, and Stoic authors produced symposia: Epicurus himself (341–270 BCE); the Stoic philosopher Persaeus of Citium (ca. 306–ca. 243 BCE), a pupil of Zeno; and the Cynic philosophers Menippus of Gadara (probably the first half of the third century BCE) and Meleager of Gadara (fl. 100 BCE) are all said to have written symposia or, in the case of Persaeus, Sympotic Dialogues (Συμποτικοὶ Διάλογοι).18 We can Mnemosyne Supplements 417; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2018), 365–90. For a discussion of Plato’s notion of love, see Richard Kraut, “Plato on Love,” in The Oxford Handbook of Plato (ed. Gail Fine; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 286–310; C. D. C. Reeve, “Plato on Eros and Friendship,” in A Companion to Plato (ed. Hugh H. Benson; Blackwell Companions to Philosophy; Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2006), 294–307; G. R. F. Ferrari, “Platonic Love,” in The Cambridge Companion to Plato (ed. Richard Kraut; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 248–76. 18  The symposia of the following philosophers are referred to in Athenaeus, The Learned Banqueters. Most frequently Plato, see 1.23c (LCL; 1.42 edn Kaibel), 5.178a (LCL; 5.5 edn Kaibel), 5.187b (LCL; 5.3 edn Kaibel), 5.192a (LCL; 5.18 edn Kaibel), 5.216f–217b (LCL; 5.56–57 edn Kaibel), 11.502d (LCL; 11.108 edn Kaibel), 11.506c (LCL; 11.114 edn Kaibel); and Xenophon, see 1.23c (LCL; 1.42 edn Kaibel), 5.187b (LCL; 5.3 edn Kaibel), 5.187f (LCL; 5.13 edn Kaibel), 5.216d (LCL; 5.56 edn Kaibel), 5.216e (LCL; 5.56 edn Kaibel), 11.504c (LCL; 11.111 edn Kaibel), 14.614c (LCL; 14.3 edn Kaibel), 15.686d (LCL; 15.34 edn Kaibel). Less frequently Aristotle, see 15.674f (LCL; 15.60 edn Kaibel); Epicurus, see 5.182a (LCL; 5.12 edn Kaibel); Persaeus, see 4.162b–e (LCL; 4.54 edn Kaibel; cf. 13.607a–b [LCL; 13.86 edn Kaibel]); Menippus, see 14.629f (LCL; 14.27 edn Kaibel); and Meleager, see 11.502c LCL (11.107 edn Kaibel).

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also add the Middle-Platonist philosopher Plutarch to such an overview, with his (Books of) Table Talk (Συμποσιακῶν βιβλία or Quaestiones convivales) and his Dinner of the Seven Wise Men (Τῶν ἑπτὰ σοφῶν συμπόσιον or Septem sapientium convivium),19 as well as Athenaeus himself, with his The Learned Banqueters (Δειπνοσοφισταί), the source of many of the above references. As Geert Roskam has argued, both Plutarch and Athenaeus specifically try to emulate Plato’s Symposium.20 The sophistic author Lucian of Samosata (born around 120 CE) is also the author of a Symposium, known under the alternative translation The Carousal or its subtitle The Lapiths, thought to be modelled on the Symposium of Menippus of Gadara, one of the Cynic representatives of the sympotic genre mentioned above.21 Not only is the sympotic genre clearly important and particularly dependant on Plato’s and Xenophon’s examples, but the genre itself, perhaps inebriated by the rowdy and disorderly character of many sympotic gatherings, seems to be particularly competitive. Not only do we already see this in the view that Plato and Xenophon wrote their respective symposia—not to mention their other writings—“out of rivalry with each other,” as Diogenes Laertius suggests (see above), but a specific rivalry with Plato’s Symposium also appears to be the driving force behind the figure of a certain Lexiphanes, who—in Lucian’s second-century CE satire of the same name—is mocked for his pretentious attempts to “counter-banquet” Plato’s Symposium: Lycinus: “But tell me, what is the theme of your work?” Lexiphanes: “I am ‘counter-banqueting’ the son of Aristo in it” (Ἀντισυμποσιάζω τῷ Ἀρίστωνος ἐν αὐτῷ). Lycinus: “There are many ‘Aristos’, but to judge from your ‘banquet’ I suppose you mean Plato.” Lexiphanes: “You read me right, but what I said would have been caviar to the general.” Lucian, Lexiphanes 1

Thus Lucian depicts the literary emulation of Plato’s Symposium with the aid of the neologism ἀντισυμποσιάζειν, “counter-banquet,” to “write a Symposium in 19  For a discussion of Plutarch’s sympotic works, see Frieda Klotz, “The Sympotic Works,” in A Companion to Plutarch (ed. Mark Beck; Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014), 207–22. 20  Geert Roskam, “Plutarch’s ‘Socratic Symposia’: The Symposia of Plato and Xenophon as Literary Models in the Quaestiones convivales,” Athenaeum: Studi Periodici di Letteratura e Storia dell’ Antichità 98 (2010): 45–70. 21  On Lucian’s reliance on Menippus’s Symposium, see A. M. Harmon, Lucian, vol. 1 (LCL 14; Cambridge, MA/London, UK: Harvard University Press, 1913), 411.

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rivalry of Plato” (LSJ). This emulation seems to be specifically literary in nature, perhaps even a parody, similar to the parody of Plato’s Symposium in the socalled “Cena Trimalchionis,” the comic meal hosted by the freeman Trimalchio, in Petronius’s first-century CE Satyrica (26–78).22 Apart from providing a model of literary emulation and the object of parody, Plato’s Symposium also met with fierce criticism. This becomes particulary clear in its reception in one of Philo of Alexandria’s treatises in the first century CE. In his On the Contemplative Life, Philo favourably contrasts the banquet customs of the Jewish sect of the so-called Therapeutae, who have fully embraced “the theoretical, contemplative life,” with the banquets described in Xenophon’s and Plato’s symposia.23 Philo derides Plato’s Symposium and expresses his amazement that Xenophon and Plato thought that the symposia they depicted were worthy of mention, “surmising that they would serve to posterity as models of the happily conducted symposium” (παραδείγματα […] τῆς ἐν συμποσίοις ἐμμελοῦς διαγωγῆς; Philo, On the Contemplative Life 57–58). I will skip a further, detailed treatment of Philo’s criticism of Plato’s Symposium in the rest of his treatise (59–64), but I would like simply to draw attention to how relevant these various receptions of Plato’s Symposium by Philo, Petronius, and Lucian in the first and second centuries CE are for our understanding of John’s Gospel, whose author is their contemporary. Plato’s Symposium was clearly well known at this time, and its popularity can also be deduced from the fact that, together with Xenophon’s Symposium, it was part of the literature recommended in the Progymnasmata of the first-century CE writer Aelius Theon of Alexandria (66, 68–69, 115).24 Just as several sections in Petronius’ Satyrica “contain specific points of contact, but also depend on their intertexts [i.e., from Plato] on a more extensive, structural level,” forming a “combination of individual allusions and allusive patterns,”25 I shall argue that this also applies to the relation between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium, with the Gospel demonstrating its author’s eagerness to compete with Plato’s Symposium in an act of “counter-banqueting” (ἀντισυμποσιάζειν). And just as the symposia of the Jewish Therapeutae constitute for Philo the counter-symposia of Xenophon’s and Plato’s symposia, John’s Gospel seems to argue something similar with 22  Cf. I. D. Repath, “Plato in Petronius: Petronius in Platanona,” Classical Quarterly 60 (2010): 577–95. 23  For Philo’s Therapeutae and his On the Contemplative Life, see M. R. Niehoff, “The Symposium of Philo’s Therapeutae: Displaying Jewish Identity in an Increasingly Roman World,” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 50 (2010): 95–117. 24  For a translation, see George A. Kennedy, Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Writings from the Greco-Roman World 10; Atlanta: SBL, 2003). 25  Repath, “Plato in Petronius,” 578.

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regard to the last symposium of Jesus, which holds such a prominent place in the Gospel of John and is thematically interwoven into the entirity of his Gospel. In John’s Gospel, the Last Supper takes on the characteristics of a symposium. As has been generally noted, John’s Gospel—in contrast to the Synoptic Gospels—does not depict Jesus’s Last Supper with his pupils on the Thursday evening before his crucifixion as a Passover meal, because it does not take place on the eve of Passover. In John’s Gospel, Jesus’s trial before Pilate on Friday morning takes place on “the day of preparation for the Passover” (παρασκευὴ τοῦ πάσχα; 19:14; cf. 19:31, 42).26 Consequently, the Jews who take Jesus to Pilate’s headquarters still need to celebrate their Passover meal (18:28), and for that reason they do not enter Pilate’s Praetorium lest they become ritually defiled. During the Jewish Passover, it is not the priests, but rather the people themselves who sacrifice the paschal lambs; thus all Jews need to be ritually pure on the day of preparation for the Passover, because—as Philo puts it—“on this occasion the whole nation performs the sacred rites and acts as priest with pure hands and complete immunity” (Philo, On the Special Laws 2.145–146; cf. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 11.109–110). According to first-century CE evidence from both Philo and Josephus, on the day of preparation for the Passover, the slaughter of the paschal lambs does take place “from noon till eventide” (ἀπὸ μεσημβρίας ἄχρι ἑσπέρας; Philo, On the Special Laws 2.145) or, more precisely, not “before the ninth hour,” but “from the ninth to the eleventh hour” (ἀπὸ ἐνάτης ὥρας μέχρις ἑνδεκάτης; Josephus, Jewish War 6.423), as it was not thought proper to sacrifice the paschal lambs “before the ninth hour” (Philo, Questions and Answers on Exodus 1.11), the normal time of the daily evening sacrifice in the temple (Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 14.65). It seems then that the paschal lambs were sacrificed on the day of preparation for the Passover “from the ninth to the eleventh hour”—that is, from the middle of the afternoon (around 3 pm) until the hour before sunset (around 5 pm),27 after which the paschal 26  The παρασκευή in the Synoptic Gospels is not a preparation for the Passover (a παρασκευὴ τοῦ πάσχα; John 19:14), but a preparation for the sabbath (Mark 15:42; Matthew 27:62; Luke 23:54), a “pre-sabbath” (προσάββατον) as Mark calls it (15:42), the “eve of the sabbath” (LSJ); cf. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 16.163–64 about the Jews in Asia having been exempted by Augustus from appearing in court “on the sabbath or on the day of preparation for it after the ninth hour” (ἐν σάββασιν ἢ τῇ πρὸ αὐτῆς παρασκευῇ ἀπὸ ὥρας ἐνάτης). Hence, the παρασκευή lemma in LSJ is wrong in mingling the different meanings in the Johannine and the Synoptic Gospels together: LSJ παρασκευή III. “among the Jews, the day of Preparation, before the sabbath of the Passover, Ev.Marc. 15.42, Ev.Jo. 19.14, 31, etc.” 27  This time-reckoning is in accordance with the Graeco-Roman system of time-reckoning, in which the daytime consists of twelve hours “from sunrise to sunset” (ἀπὸ ἀνατολῆς μέχρι δύσεως) (Sextus Empiricus, Against the Physicists 2.182 [=Adversus mathematicos 10.182]),

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meals were eaten that evening in “fraternaties” (φατρία) of between 10 and 20 celebrants (Josephus, Jewish War 6.423–426; cf. Jewish Antiquities 2.311–313; 3.248–249). On that day, the temple only opened to the public at midnight, when “the priests were accustomed to throw open the gates of the temple” (Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 18.29). For that reason, as in John’s Gospel the Friday is the day of preparation for Passover, with the paschal meal held in the evening on the eve of Passover, the sabbath that follows is the first (full) day of the Passover festival—something that John acknowledges by calling this particular sabbath “a great day” (19:31), a “festival day,” a sabbath that falls on the first day of the seven-day festival of Passover.28 Hence, in contrast to the Synoptic Gospels, where Jesus’s Last Supper with his pupils takes place on the eve of Passover and is a paschal meal (Mark 14:12, 14, 16; Synopsis #308), in John’s Gospel this Last Supper takes place on the day before the day of preparation for the Passover and is hence not a paschal meal. In John’s Gospel, Jesus is sentenced to death by Pilate at the sixth hour—at noon29—on the day of preparation for the Passover (19:14), and hence he dies (at an unspecified hour) in the with “the first hour” starting with the dawning light (Apuleius, Metamorphoses 11.20), “the third hour” indicating mid-morning, “the sixth hour” mid-day (meridies, noon), “the ninth hour” mid-afternoon (Varro, On the Latin Language 6.89; cf. the division of the Christian liturgy of the hours in Jerome, Letters 107.9: “ to chant hymns in the morning, at the third, sixth, and ninth hour”), and “the twelfth hour” the end of the twelve-hour day (Plutarch, Crassus 17.1), so that the time “from the first light to the sixth hour of the day” (a prima luce ad sextam horam diei) denotes an entire morning until noon (Livy, History of Rome 40.2). Just as the sixth daytime hour indicates noon, so “the sixth hour of the night” signals the start of the Roman “civil day” (Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.10). 28  John 19:31: “the day of that sabbath was great” (ἦν […] μεγάλη ἡ ἡμέρα ἐκείνου τοῦ σαββάτου). For a “great day” as a festival day, cf. Isaiah 1:13–14 LXX: “Your new moons and sabbaths and great day (καὶ ἡμέραν μεγάλην) I cannot endure. Fasting and holidays, as well as your new moons and your festivals (καὶ τὰς ἑορτὰς ὑμῶν), my soul hates.” For the feast of Passover as a seven-day festival (called the feast of Unleavened Bread) on 15–21 Nisan, following the day of preparation for Passover, with the eve of Passover on 14 Nisan, see Exodus 12:6, 8, 15; 13:6–7; 23:15; and 34:18 LXX; Leviticus 23:5–6 LXX; Numbers 9:3; 28:16–17 LXX; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 3.248–249; 11.109–110. In the Synoptic Gospels, the first full day of the Passover festival, the festival of Unleavend Bread, falls on the Friday, not the sabbath. The Synoptics also give a very garbled account: the Passover and the festival of Unleavened Bread are incorrectly taken together (Mark 14:1), and the slaughtering of the paschal lambs is wrongly placed on the first day of the festival of Unleavened Bread (Mark 14:12: “On the first day of Unleavened Bread, when the Passover lamb is sacrificed” [Καὶ τῇ πρώτῃ ἡμέρᾳ τῶν ἀζύμων, ὅτε τὸ πάσχα ἔθυον]; cf. Matthew 26:17 and Luke 22:1, 7). 29  That John is indeed in agreement with the Graeco-Roman daytime reckoning outlined above in note 27 seems confirmed by the fact that “the sixth hour” also figures in the narrative of Jesus’s meeting with the Samartian woman at the well in the heat of the day (John 4:6).

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afternoon, at the time when the paschal lambs would have been slaughtered.30 For that reason Jesus is depicted as “the Lamb of God” (1:29, 36), and consequently—in line with the procedure regarding paschal lambs (Exodus 12:46; Numbers 9:12)—Jesus’s bones are not broken (19:31–33); before his death, to alleviate his thirst, Jesus is offered a sponge full of wine “on a branch of hyssop” (ὕσσωπος; 19:29), a term absent from the Synoptic Gospels and again reflecting an aspect of the sacrifice of the paschal lambs, namely the Jewish practice at the institution of the Passover of sprinkling the blood of the paschal lambs on the lintels and doorposts of their houses with the aid of bunches of hyssop (Exodus 12:21–22 LXX; Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 2.312).31 Thus we clearly see that, in John’s Gospel, “the Last Supper” preceding these events is not a paschal meal, as in the Synoptic Gospels, but “just” a last δεῖπνον (13:2, 4), a last meal—a word not used in the Synoptic accounts of the Last Supper, as they all use the term “paschal supper” (τὸ πάσχα) instead (Mark 14:12, 14, 16; Matthew 26:17, 19; Luke 22:8, 11, 13, 15; cf. only δειπνέω in Luke 22:20). The reason for this difference between John and the Synoptics, I would suggest, is that the Johannine last meal of Jesus and his pupils draws its significance from Plato’s Symposium. Interestingly, despite the name of this Platonic dialogue, the meeting that is central to this text is never called a συμπόσιον, a symposium (cf. only the term συμπότης, “fellow-drinker” or “symposiast,” in 212e, 213b, 216b; and the verb συμπίνω, “drink together,” in 213a), but rather—similarly to John’s Gospel—a δεῖπνον, a meal (74a, b, e; 175b, e).

30  Remarkably, despite John’s association of Jesus’s death with the sacrife of the paschal lambs on the day of the preparation for Passover, which took place from the ninth hour onwards, the precise hour of Jesus’s death remains unspecified in John’s Gospel, whereas the Synoptics, who do not place Jesus’s death on that day, give the hour of his death as “the ninth hour.” In the Synoptic Gospels, Jesus, following the darkness that lasts from the sixth until the ninth hour (Mark 15:33; cf. Matthew 27:45 and Luke 23:44), cries out at the ninth hour and breathes his last (Mark 15:34, 37; cf. Matthew 27:46, 50 and Luke 23:46). The Synoptics probably have the normal timing of the daily evening sacrifice in the temple “at the ninth hour” in mind (cf. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 14.65), and hence relate the story that precisely at that hour “the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom” (Mark 15:38; cf. Matthew 27:51). For John, it is not the daily evening sacrifice at the ninth hour in the temple, but the specific sacrice of the paschal lambs that is at the forefront of his mind. That he does not mention “the ninth hour,” which was also important in the rituals related to the slaughtering of the paschal lambs, may suggest that he is not familiair with the Synoptic Gospels, as he could have used this timing so well for his own purposes. 31  As on further occasions, John is closer to Paul than to the Synoptics, as Paul also depicts Jesus as the paschal lamb: “our paschal lamb, Christ, has been sacrificed” (τὸ πάσχα ἡμῶν ἐτύθη Χριστός) (1 Corinthians 5:7).

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In this way, I place John’s Gospel within this atmosphere of literary engagement with Plato’s Symposium. It is neither historically nor culturally unlikely that John could be acquainted with Plato’s Symposium. As I will argue in the next section, it is the Symposium’s subject matter—addressing (different sorts of) love (and corresponding modes of generation)—in which John is interested. Not only are there general resemblances between John’s sympotic episodes and the Greek institution of the symposium as well as reflections of the widespread discourse of the ideal symposium, but there are also many specific characteristics of Plato’s Symposium that seem to be consciously echoed. These are absent from the Synoptic Gospels of Mark, Matthew, and Luke but characteristic of the Gospel of John, such as (notably) the very topic of divine love. It seems that John’s Gospel combines the symposium about love that Socrates attended at the home of Agathon with Socrates’s farewell discourses to his pupils in Plato’s Phaedo.32 3

The Correspondences between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium

We will now embark on an inventory of the literary correspondences between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium. The point of this enterprise is not to give a treatment of Plato’s Symposium as such. For instance, I will not comment on the very difficult question of whether the different speeches on love that make up Plato’s Symposium reflect a progressive argumentation. Moreover, my discussion of the dialogue under consideration will not be comprehensive, but will mainly cover those parts that betray literary similarities with John’s Gospel. 3.1 The Introduction to Plato’s Symposium The similarities are already revealed in the introduction to the Symposium, before the speeches commence. The guests who arrive at the symposium are washed by attendants. It is said of Aristodemus, one of the guests and also the informant of the entire narrative retold in Plato’s Symposium (173b–174e, 178a, 185c, 198a, 223b, 223c–d), that “the attendant washed him and made him ready for reclining” (175a). And when Alcibiades arrives during the symposium, “Agathon said to the servants, ‘Take off Alcibiades’s shoes, so that he can recline here with us two’” (213b). In the same vein, although in a remarkable

32  On John’s use of Plato’s Phaedo, see van Kooten, “The Last Days of Socrates and Christ,” 240–42.

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inversion of the master-servant relation, John tells us that Jesus washes the feet of his disciples (13:1–20). Another element of Plato’s Symposium that is described in the introduction, the depiction of Socrates as being delayed, also resonates with John’s Gospel, with the way in which John often depicts Jesus. According to Plato, “they all began dinner, but Socrates did not arrive […]. When he did come, it was after what, for him, was no great delay, as they were only about half-way through dinner” (175c). This motif of a Socrates who takes his time (174d–175a) due to the so-called apotreptic nature of his daemon (cf. Apology 31d, 40a–c), which holds him back and forces him to interrupt his activities, is mirrored in the Johannine theme of a Jesus who takes his time before acting at the wedding in Cana (2:3–5), suspends his departure to a Jewish festival (7:3–10), and puts off his immediate visit to Lazarus after being informed of his life-threatening illness (11:1–7, 17–22).33 This is not to say that these motifs work in the same way, but there seems to be a clear literary resemblance here which is not easily explained otherwise. Other similarities concern the tension portrayed between devoting the symposium to drinking or to conversation, the latter being the hallmark of an ideal symposium. Plato’s symposiasts all consent “not to make their present meeting a tipsy affair, but to drink just as it might serve their pleasure” (176c–e) and decide “that we are to drink only as much as each desires […]. [...] let us seek our entertainment to-day in conversation (διὰ λόγων)” (176e). We find a combination of similar themes in John’s Gospel: heavy wine consumption as the wine runs out at the wedding symposium at Cana, and the symposiarch, the one who presides over the banquet (ἀρχιτρίκλινος), is helped by the additional wine Jesus provides (2:1–10); Jesus’s self-designation at the last symposium (in a kind of anti-Dionysiac polemics) as the “true vine” (15:1–6); and the incessant emphasis laid on “the words,” the conversation of Jesus, who of course, according to John, is the Logos himself (1:1)—and not only the cosmological, but also the hermeneutical Logos.34 33  Cf. George van Kooten, “The Sign of Socrates, the Sign of Apollo, and the Signs of Christ: Hiding and Sharing Religious Knowledge in the Gospel of John—A Contrapuntal Reading of John’s Gospel and Plato’s Dialogues,” in Sharing and Hiding Religious Knowledge in Early Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (ed. Mladen Popovic, Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta, and Clare Wilde; Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—Tension, Transmission, Transformation 10; Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 2018), 145–70, esp. 146–52, 155, 157, 158, 160–63, 165, and 168. 34  On the interplay between the cosmological and the hermeneutical Logos, see George van Kooten, “Christ and Hermes: A Religio-Historical Comparison of the Johannine Christ-Logos with the God Hermes in Greek Mythology and Philosophy,” in Theologie und

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The theme of (divine) love also unites and permeates both writings. Once Plato’s symposiasts have decided that they want to engage in discussion, the suitable topic they select is the god of love, considering as they do that this god has been largely neglected: “while other gods have hymns and psalms indited in their honour by the poets, the god of Love, so ancient and so great (τῷ δὲ Ἔρωτι, τηλικούτῳ ὄντι καὶ τοσούτῳ θεῷ), has had no song of praise composed for him” (177a–b), “not a single man ever essaying till this day to make a fitting hymn to Love! So great a god, and so neglected!” (ἀλλ’ οὕτως ἠμέληται τοσοῦτος θεός; 177c). Interestingly, even the motif of human neglect of this god is paralleled in the opening of John’s Gospel, as the divine Logos, the “only-begotten god (μονογενὴς θεός),” remains ill-comprehended (1:5) and unrecognised (1:10–11). The most remarkable and extensive correspondence between Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel, however, is the theme of (divine) love itself. Compared with the Synoptic Gospels, the Gospel of John is unique in its attention to this theme. Although the Synoptic Gospels do mention the double commandment to love both God and one’s neighbour, derived from the Jewish bible (Mark 12:28–34, Synopsis #282, combining Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18), with an additional commandment to love one’s enemies in the gospels of Matthew and Luke (Matthew 5:43–48 = Luke 6:27–36, Synopsis #59 and #80), and also refer to God’s divine love for Jesus by calling him God’s “beloved” at the moments of his baptism (Mark 1:11, Synopsis #18) and his transfiguration on the mountain (Mark 9:7, Synopsis #161), yet—unlike John’s Gospel— nowhere do they speak about God or Jesus loving human beings, or of human beings loving Jesus. There are only two exceptions in the entire corpus of the Synoptic Gospels, which prove the rule: namely (1) Mark’s reference to Jesus loving a rich (young?) man, which is brushed away in Matthew’s and Luke’s adaptations of this story (Mark 10:21, Synopsis #254), and (2) Luke’s intriguing reference to a woman who, during a meal, showed Jesus her great love for him as she washed his feet “with her tears and dried them with her hair,” kissing them and anointing them with ointment (Luke 7:44–47, Synopsis #114). However, in contrast to the Synoptic Gospels’ almost complete lack of attestation of divine love for human beings, and of human love for Jesus, the Gospel of John continuously speaks of God’s love for humans as expressed through Jesus, and of the replication of this love by human beings. To some extent, this is similar to the notion of divine love in Paul’s letters, which repeatedly communicate his view on the dynamics of divine love, of (i) the divine Father, Religionswissenschaft—eine Standortbestimmung hundert Jahre nach Georg Heinrici (ed. Marco Frenschkowski and Lena Seehausen; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck), forthcoming.

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who is even called “the god of love” (ὁ θεὸς τῆς ἀγάπης; 2 Corinthians 13:11), and whose love is qualified as “the love of God” (ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ; 2 Corinthians 13:13); of (ii) the divine Son, who out of love for human beings has surrendered himself for their sake (Galatians 2:20), and whose love is qualified as “the love of Christ” (ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ Χριστοῦ; 2 Corinthians 5:14, Romans 8:35), who embodies the love of God (Romans 8:39); and of (iii) the Spirit, whose love is called “the love of the Spirit” (ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ πνεύματος; Romans 15:30), which mediates the outpouring of the divine love in the human heart (Romans 5:5). But the Synoptic Gospels express none of these views. Compared with these gospels, it seems that John’s theology of divine love is closer to theologies such as Paul’s, but the scope of divine love is even more comprehensive in John’s Gospel. Time and again, John’s Gospel speaks of the love that God has for the world (3:16) and for human beings (5:42; 14:21–23; 17:23–26), and this emphasis continues in the First Letter of John (2:5, 15; 3:1, 17; 4:9–12, 16, 19). And the divine Son, himself fully a god (1:1, 18; 20:28), similarly shows his divine love for human beings: for all of his pupils (13:1, 34; 14:21; 15:9–12; cf. 1 John 3:16); for Martha, Mary, and Lazarus (11:5); and for “the beloved pupil,” the anonymous “pupil whom Jesus loved” (ὁ μαθητὴς ὃν ἠγάπα ὁ Ἰησοῦς; 13:23; 19:26; 21:7, 20; cf. 20:2). This intense and sustained focus on divine love finally climaxes, in the First Letter of John, in the statement that love is not only “from God” (ἡ ἀγάπη ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ ἐστιν), but that “God is love” (ὁ θεὸς ἀγάπη ἐστίν; 1 John 4:7–8, 16). And, as John emphasises, the mutual love between human beings is grounded in this divine love, which effectuates a comprehensive and mutually reciprocal love between God, the divine Son, and human beings (13:34; 14:21, 23; 15:9–12; 17:23–26; cf. 1 John 4:7–12, 16–21; 5:1–3), so that divine love comes full circle. In its sketch of the full range of divine love, John’s Gospel clearly differs from the Synoptic Gospels. In my understanding, John wishes to express the theme of divine love in his biography of Jesus, and for his narrative model he draws on Plato’s Symposium, which was widely known in antiquity to be a dialogue about love. The author of the Gospel of John, who is actually fully anonymous in the Johannine writings but whom we conveniently refer to as “John” in line with certain early Christian traditions, even identifies himself as the “beloved pupil” (21:20–24) in what seems to be a conscious parallel with the figure of Alcibiades in Plato’s Symposium, who is utterly infatuated with Socrates. There is, however, one small, interesting difference, as Alcibiades complains that Socrates has turned him and others from an object of his love into people who pursue him: “I am not the only person he has treated thus: there are Charmides, son of Glaucon, Euthydemus, son of Diocles, and any number of others who have found his way of loving so deceitful that he might rather be their favourite than their lover” (οὓς οὗτος ἐξαπατῶν ὡς ἐραστὴς παιδικὰ μᾶλλον

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αὐτὸς καθίσταται ἀντ’ ἐραστοῦ; Symposium 222b). Whereas within the erastic educational system of Classical antiquity, the erastic teacher, the admiring lover (ἐραστής), usually eagerly pursues the favourite boy (παιδικός), Socrates makes his pupils love him as if he were their darling boy, thus inverting (and subtly criticising) conventional erastic relations.35 Interestingly, the author of John’s Gospel, by qualifying himself repeatedly and uniformally as “the pupil whom Jesus loved” (ὁ μαθητὴς ὃν ἠγάπα ὁ Ἰησοῦς), actually fully complies with the Classical erastic model, according to which the teacher loves the pupil; nevertheless, it is very clear that Jesus’s love is a manifestation of divine love, and that eventually every love is subsumed in the full reciprocity and circularity of this love. Apart from this detail, the figures of Alcibiades and the anonymous “pupil whom Jesus loved” are very alike. As we shall see, just as in his speech, the seventh and final speech in Plato’s Symposium, Alcibiades sees Socrates as the embodiment of the god of love, so John, in a very similar way, depicts Jesus as the personification of divine love. Moreover, as we shall see presently, just as all the speakers in Plato’s Symposium decide to make up for the neglect suffered by the god of love at the hands of the poets by rendering the god of love a hymn in prose through their discourse (177c–d), each delivering “a speech in turn, from left to right, praising Love as beautifully as he can” (177d), in the same vein the anonymous “pupil whom Jesus loved” also delivers his eulogy on the god of love, who—according to his introduction of the topic—so loved the cosmos that he even gave his only-begotten son, so that all who entrust themselves to him may find eternal life (John 3:16), and who reveals himself not only as the source of love, but as love itself (1 John 4:7–8, 16). He does so in the form of a dramatic biographical narrative, which is full of dialogue and sympotic settings, the subject matter of which is this all-pervasive divine love. Given the spatial constraints of this chapter, I will focus on the sixth speech narrated in Plato’s Symposium (201d–212c)—that of Socrates himself—which can, in many respects, be regarded as the climax of the entire dialogue. Some of its themes have preludes in the speeches of the previous speakers, but this speech is clearly close to Plato’s own liking, and it offers important parallels to some of the main issues in John’s Gospel. Before fixing our attention on this speech, I will give a very brief impression of the preceding five speeches and their respective overlaps with John’s Gospel.

35  Cf. further van Kooten, “Bildung, Religion, and Politics in the Gospel of John,” 124–40.

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3.2 The Speeches Preceding Socrates’s Speech The first speech, that of Phaedrus, explores the love that expresses itself in a noble death. According to Phaedrus, “only such as are in love will consent to die for others” (Καὶ μὴν ὑπεραποθνῄσκειν γε μόνοι ἐθέλουσιν οἱ ἐρῶντες; 179b). Although absent from the Synoptic Gospels, this notion of a self-sacrificial death motivated by love also occurs in John’s Gospel, when Jesus tells his pupils: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (μείζονα ταύτης ἀγάπην οὐδεὶς ἔχει, ἵνα τις τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ θῇ ὑπὲρ τῶν φίλων αὐτοῦ; 15:13). In the second speech, Pausanias, in his turn, distinguishes between two sorts of love: heavenly, persistent, “abiding” love that directs itself towards the soul, versus transient, bodily love (180d–e; 183d–e). It is this motif of the abiding, lasting nature of the positive love that characterises the morally good lover who “remains throughout life” (διὰ βίου μένει) that resonates with the Johannine motif of “remaining in the love” (μένειν ἐν τῇ ἀγάπῃ) of Christ (15:9– 10). Again, this notion of enduring love is missing from the Synoptic Gospels. The third speech, that of Eryximachus, has only a very remote similarity with John’s Gospel. It focuses on the cosmic, cosmological dimensions of love. This type of love is absent from John’s Gospel. Although its author is interested in the constitution of the cosmos by the Logos (1:3), he never connects this explicitly with divine love, although God’s love is explicitly said to extend to “the cosmos,” in the sense of the inhabited world (3:16). However, the fourth speech, by Aristophanes, again has significant resonance with the themes of John’s Gospel, in the notion of the unifying nature of love. According to Aristophanes, this unification restores human beings’ original, sexually composite, androgynous, hermaphrodite unity (189e), which—after it was split along gender lines—is again re-established through the operation of love (191a–b), “reuniting the ancient constitution (καὶ τῆς ἀρχαίας φύσεως συναγωγεὺς), endeavouring to combine two in one (καὶ ἐπιχειρῶν ποιῆσαι ἓν ἐκ δυοῖν) and heal the human constitution (καὶ ἰάσασθαι τὴν φύσιν τὴν ἀνθρωπίνην)” (191d). In John’s Gospel, this unification takes place in the relation between human beings and God, through which they come to share in the divine unity (17:20–23) “so that they,” as Jesus tells his divine Father in his prayer at the end of the last symposium, “may be one, as we are one (ἵνα ὦσιν ἓν καθὼς ἡμεῖς ἕν), I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one (ἵνα ὦσιν τετελειωμένοι εἰς ἕν), so that the cosmos may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me” (17:22b–23). As in Aristophanes’s speech, the operation of divine love and the unification of humankind are closely connected.

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Finally, the fifth and last speech prior to Socrates’s speech, that of Agathon, also exhibits similarities with John’s Gospel. Both Agathon and John praise the divine love “for what he is and […] for what he gives” (194e–195a) and regard the latter, “his acts” (τὰ ἔργα αὐτοῦ; 199c; cf. John 4:34; 5:20, 36; 7:3–5; 9:3–4; 10:25, 32–33, 37–38; 14:10–12; 15:24; 17:4–5), as the reflection of what he is. Furthermore, according to both Agathon and John, human beings assimilate themselves to this divine love (195a–b; 1 John 3:1–2). Such similarities between Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel extend right into the speech of Socrates himself, to which we now turn. 3.3 Socrates’s Speech In many ways, the sixth speech (201d–212c), that of Socrates himself, is the climax of the entire dialogue. The only speech to follow, that of Alcibiades, underlines the singularity of Socrates’s speech by focussing on the uniqueness of Socrates himself: as we shall see in the next section, it is a laudatory speech by a pupil who is madly in love with his teacher, and which will be matched by the entire Gospel of the beloved pupil, with John mirroring himself in the figure of Alcibiades. As regards Socrates’s speech about love, it is interesting that Socrates does not deliver his speech on his own account, but takes the opportunity to report the speech that a Mantinean prophetess—with the (symbolic) name of Diotima (Διοτίμα, “holding Zeus in honour,” or conversely, “honoured by Zeus”)—once made to him. This speech is cast in the form of a dialogue between Diotima and Socrates. It appears that John fully engages with this speech in particular, to an even higher degree than with the other speeches, covering the following main issues, which Diotima also addresses in her dialogue: i) the status of love, which, according to Diotima, is not that of a god but of a (“daemonic”) intermediary between immortal gods and mortal human beings; ii) the duality of love, which manifests itself in the duality of two kinds of generation; iii) the understanding of (the higher form of) love as an “initiation” into the (higher) mysteries; and iv) the understanding of (the progression of) love as (the ascent on) a “ladder,” at the end of which those who have scaled the ladder attain a) full purification, b) contemplation of the divine unity, c) truth, and d) immortality. I will elaborate on these points and show how much John’s discourse resembles the speech of Socrates–Diotima. 3.3.1 The Intermediary Character of Love First of all, in contrast to the previous speeches, which had all delivered eulogies on love as a god, Diotima’s speech convinces Socrates that, strictly speaking, love is not a god (θεός), because in order to fulfil his function, love needs

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to hold an intermediary position between gods and mortals. He is a “great daemon” (δαίμων μέγας), a great “divine power,”36 occupying a place “between divine and mortal” (μεταξύ ἐστι θεοῦ τε καὶ θνητοῦ; 202d–e), possessing the power of “interpreting and transporting human things to the gods and divine things to men” (Ἑρμηνεῦον καὶ διαπορθμεῦον θεοῖς τὰ παρ’ ἀνθρώπων καὶ ἀνθρώποις τὰ παρὰ θεῶν) so that, “being midway between, it makes each to supplement the other, so that the whole is combined in one” (ἐν μέσῳ δὲ ὂν ἀμφοτέρων συμπληροῖ, ὥστε τὸ πᾶν αὐτὸ αὑτῷ συνδεδέσθαι; 202d–e). According to Diotima, the reason love must fulfil such an intermediary role is that God himself is not to be brought into contact with human beings: God with man does not mingle (θεὸς δὲ ἀνθρώπῳ οὐ μείγνυται): but the daemonic is the means of all society and converse of men with gods and of gods with men (ἀλλὰ διὰ τούτου πᾶσά ἐστιν ἡ ὁμιλία καὶ ἡ διάλεκτος θεοῖς πρὸς ἀνθρώπους), whether waking or asleep. Whosoever has skill in these affairs is a daemonic man (καὶ ὁ μὲν περὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα σοφὸς δαιμόνιος ἀνήρ). (203a) This is a fundamental statement about God, which is echoed throughout Platonic tradition. Apuleius, for instance, in his reference to this passage of Plato’s Symposium, rehearses this view in his On Socrates’s God and gives as his explanation that God would otherwise become contaminated by contact with humans: For as again Plato says, no god consorts with humans, but the supreme sign of their sublimity is this—that they are not defiled by any contact with us (Nam, ut idem Plato ait, nullus deus miscetur hominibus, sed hoc praecipuum eorum sublimitatis specimen est, quod nulla adtrectatione nostra contaminantur). Apuleius, On Socrates’s God [De Deo Socratis] 6–7

Yet this statement does not remain entirely uncontested, as Plutarch, in the reworking of Plato’s Symposium in his Dialogue on Love (Amatorius), does not repeat this difference between gods and daemons, but generally refers to “gods and daemons” (757E–F, 771C) in one breath, whilst Plotinus continues to call love a god, although with some differentiations (Plotinus, Enneads 3.5.1, 3.5.4– 7, 3.5.9). 36  Cf. LSJ δαίμων, ονος, [...], ὁ, ἡ, god, goddess, of individual gods or goddesses [...]; but more freq. of the Divine power (while θεός denotes a God in person).

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It is precisely here that John, despite sharing in the same discourse, squarely and fundamentally disagrees with Diotima. Although he does emphasise the intermediary function of Christ—for instance in his statement, “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man” (3:13)—his view is that God himself does mingle with humankind as the divine Logos, who was not only with God, but was also god (καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος; 1:1) and became flesh (Καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο; 1:14) so that, whereas nobody had ever seen God, the only-begotten god expounded him (θεὸν οὐδεὶς ἑώρακεν πώποτε· μονογενὴς θεὸς […] ἐκεῖνος ἐξηγήσατο; 1:18).37 It seems that this insistence on the fully divine nature of the intermediary is one of the distinctive “counterpoints” that John weaves into his “CounterSymposium.” And perhaps it is no coincidence that, in contrast to the Synoptic Gospels, John’s Gospel explicitly and repeatedly mentions accusations that Jesus possesses a daemon, to which Jesus emphatically responds that he does not: “I do not have a daemon (Ἐγὼ δαιμόνιον οὐκ ἔχω); but I honour my Father” (8:49).38 There seem to be two reasons why John is intent on denying that Jesus possesses a daemon. Firstly, it must be denied for a Jewish public, which would have had a categorically negative understanding of “daemons” as “develish” entities, similar to the Greek notion of “bad, foul, evil daemons”: φαῦλοι δαίμονες39

37  For different Neo-platonic responses to the notion of incarnation or “embodied divine presence,” see Ilinca Tanaseanu-Döbler, “Neo-Platonic Readings of Embodied Divine Presence: Iamblichus and Julian,” in Religio-Philosophical Discourses in the Mediterranean World: From Plato, through Jesus, to Late Antiquity (ed. Anders Klostergaard Petersen and George van Kooten; Ancient Philosophy & Religion 1; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2017), 338–74. 38  Although the statement in Mark 3:22 that Jesus “has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the daemons he casts out daemons” (Βεελζεβοὺλ ἔχει, καὶ ὅτι ἐν τῷ ἄρχοντι τῶν δαιμονίων ἐκβάλλει τὰ δαιμόνια) comes close to accusing him of having a daemon, it is not explicitly said that Jesus has a daemon. Interestingly, both Matthew and Luke tone down the Markan statement further by depicting Jesus as accused not of having Beelzebul, but of using Beelzebul (see Synopsis #117: Luke 11:15 and Matthew 12:24; cf. Matthew 9:34), whereas they do report such an accusation of having a daemon in relation to John the Baptist (Luke 7:33 and Matthew 11:18; see Synopsis #107). In John’s Gospel, however, there is an explicit and repeated accusation that Jesus has a daemon: in 7:20 (ἀπεκρίθη ὁ ὄχλος, Δαιμόνιον ἔχεις); 8:48–49 (Ἀπεκρίθησαν οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι καὶ εἶπαν αὐτῷ, Οὐ καλῶς λέγομεν ἡμεῖς ὅτι Σαμαρίτης εἶ σὺ καὶ δαιμόνιον ἔχεις; ἀπεκρίθη Ἰησοῦς, Ἐγὼ δαιμόνιον οὐκ ἔχω, ἀλλὰ τιμῶ τὸν πατέρα μου); 8:52 (εἶπον [οὖν] αὐτῷ οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι, Νῦν ἐγνώκαμεν ὅτι δαιμόνιον ἔχεις); and 10:20 (ἔλεγον δὲ πολλοὶ ἐξ αὐτῶν, Δαιμόνιον ἔχει καὶ μαίνεται). 39  Plutarch, The Obsolescense of Oracles 417C (=Xenocrates, Fragm. 230 edn Parente), 418F, 419A (=Xenocrates, Fragm. 226 edn Parente; Chrysippus, SVF 2.1104), 420D; On Stoic SelfContradiction 1051D (=Chrysippus, SVF 2.1178); (Ps-)Alexander of Aphrodisias, Problemata 2.46 edn Ideler.

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and φαῦλα δαιμόνια.40 And secondly, it must equally be renounced for a Greek (reading) public, which—when following the thrust of Plato’s differentiation between gods and daemons—would have run the risk of understanding Jesus merely as a daemon (however important such a divine intermediary may be), and not as the incarnation of a full god. According to John, the incarnate Logos is fully divine and, moreover, as he emphasises in 1 John, God himself is love: ὁ θεὸς ἀγάπη ἐστίν (4:8, 16), and hence, if we are permitted to invert this statement, love is God, and not merely a daemon. 3.3.2 The Duality of Love and the Duality of Generation Another important issue that Diotima addresses in her dialogue with Socrates, and that also resonates with John’s Gospel, is the duality of love, which expresses itself in a duality of generation. As we have already briefly noted, Pausanias’s speech distinguished between two types of loves: heavenly, abiding love versus transient, bodily love. These two kinds of love, the heavenly Eros and the vulgar Eros, accompany the two different Aphrodites: the heavenly Aphrodite and the vulgar Aphrodite (180d–e). As Richard Hunter has suggested, it is Pausanias’s speech “to where we may perhaps also trace the very notion of a duality of love in pagan and Christian traditions.”41 In line with this differentiation between two types of love, Plato has Socrates relate how Diotima distinguishes between two modes of generation, a “begetting […] by means of both the body and the soul” (τόκος […] καὶ κατὰ τὸ σῶμα καὶ κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν; 206b). According to Diotima, “All men are pregnant […] both in body and in soul” (κυοῦσιν […] πάντες ἄνθρωποι καὶ κατὰ τὸ σῶμα καὶ κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν; 206c). The first form of begetting, “according to the body” (κατὰ τὸ σῶμα), is the result of “the conjunction of man and woman” (ἡ γὰρ ἀνδρὸς καὶ γυναικὸς συνουσία; 206c) through physical generation (γέννησις; 206e). By contrast, the second form of begetting, “according to the soul” (κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν), takes place in education, when teachers—who are themselves full of practical wisdom (φρόνησις) and virtue (ἀρετή), and in particular of moderation (σωφροσύνη) and justice (δικαιοσύνη; 209a)—generate metaphorical offspring in their appreciative pupils and readers (209a–d). Examples of such teachers include Homer, Hesiod, the Spartan lawmaker Lycurgus, and his Athenian counterpart Solon, the latter of whom—as Diotima tells the Athenian Socrates— 40  Plutarch, Dion 2.6; The Roman Questions 276F–277A, with reference to “the philosophic school of Chrysippus,” whose members “think that evil spirits stalk about whom the gods use as executioners and avengers upon unholy and unjust men”; On Stoic SelfContradiction 1051C, with a quotation of Chrysippus, SVF 2.1178. 41  Richard Hunter, Plato’s “Symposium” (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 129.

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is highly esteemed among you for begetting his laws (τίμιος δὲ παρ’ ὑμῖν […] διὰ τὴν τῶν νόμων γέννησιν); and so are diverse men in diverse other regions, whether among the Greeks or among Barbarians (καὶ ἄλλοι ἄλλοθι πολλαχοῦ ἄνδρες, καὶ ἐν Ἕλλησι καὶ ἐν βαρβάροις), for the number of good deeds shown forth in them (πολλὰ καὶ καλὰ ἀποφηνάμενοι ἔργα). (209d–e) Quite astonishingly, several of these topics resonate with John’s Gospel. The most important parallel that presents itself consists in the similar differentiation in John’s Gospel between literal, physical generation and metaphorical, spiritual, divine generation. I will deal with this in my fourth and last observation below, but first I will make three other brief observations about the passages just quoted. Just as the poets Homer and Hesiod and the lawmakers Lycurgus and Solon are “pregnant” with, conceive, and bring forth the virtues of practical wisdom (φρόνησις) and virtue (ἀρετή), and in particular the virtues of moderation (σωφροσύνη) and justice (δικαιοσύνη; 209a), so Christ is “full of kindness and truth” (πλήρης χάριτος [LSJ χάρις II.1 grace, kindness, goodwill] καὶ ἀληθείας; 1:14), whilst Moses—who, as a lawmaker, was the Jewish counterpart of the Spartan Lycurgus and the Athenian Solon—indeed represents the law: “The law indeed was given through Moses; kindness and truth came through Jesus Christ” (ὁ νόμος διὰ Μωϋσέως ἐδόθη, ἡ χάρις καὶ ἡ ἀλήθεια διὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐγένετο; 1:17). Moreover, in doing so, the author of John’s Gospel seizes an opportunity that Diotima herself offers in Plato’s Symposium. According to Diotima, the figures of Homer, Hesiod, Lycurgus, and Solon are Greek examples of those who beget “according to the soul” (κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν), but such figures also exist among the barbarians. Just as Solon is highly esteemed among the Athenians, “so are diverse men in diverse other regions, whether among the Greeks or among Barbarians (καὶ ἄλλοι ἄλλοθι πολλαχοῦ ἄνδρες, καὶ ἐν Ἕλλησι καὶ ἐν βαρβάροις), for the number of good deeds shown forth in them (πολλὰ καὶ καλὰ ἀποφηνάμενοι ἔργα)” (209d–e). This reminds us of a similar passage in Plato’s Phaedo, in which Socrates, in his farewell speech to his pupils and in response to his pupil Cebes’s plea to reassure them, draws their attention to the possibility that “Socratic” figures exist among the barbarians, who could offer them guidance when he himself is no longer there: “Then where, Socrates,” he [i.e., Cebes] said, “are we going to get a good enchanter to charm away these sorts of fears, since you,” he said, “are abandoning us?” “Greece is a large country, Cebes,” he [i.e., Socrates] said, “where I imagine there are some good men (Πολλὴ μὲν ἡ Ἑλλάς, ἔφη, ὦ Κέβης, ἐν ᾗ ἔνεισί που ἀγαθοὶ ἄνδρες), and there are many barbarian people

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too, all of whom you must track down in your search for such an enchanter (πολλὰ δὲ καὶ τὰ τῶν βαρβάρων γένη, οὓς πάντας χρὴ διερευνᾶσθαι ζητοῦντας τοιοῦτον ἐπῳδόν), sparing neither money nor effort, since there’s nothing more opportune you could spend your money on. You must also look for them among yourselves. You see you probably couldn’t easily find people more able to do this than yourselves.” Phaedo 78a

As I have argued elsewhere, the author of John’s Gospel is also acquainted with the dialogues of the last days of Socrates,42 which include the Phaedo, and it seems as if the author of John’s Gospel makes the best use of the openings offered in Plato’s Symposium and Phaedo, presenting Jesus as just such a “Socratic” figure among the “barbarian” Judaeans. It seems that, for this very reason, John’s Gospel emphasises Jesus’s potential to “teach the Greeks” (διδάσκειν τοὺς Ἕλληνας; 7:35) and points to “some Greeks” (Ἕλληνές τινες) who, as Greek religious visitors (theōroi), attend the Passover festival in Jerusalem and, hearing about Jesus, express their wish to see him (12:20–21). From a Johannine perspective, these Greek visitors are Socrates’s wandering pupils, who are lost in “the dispersion of the Greeks” (ἡ διασπορὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων; 7:35), trying to track down Socrates’s successor. They are to be included in Jesus’s mission, since he died “not for the [Judaean] nation only, but to gather into one the dispersed children of God” (οὐχ ὑπὲρ τοῦ ἔθνους μόνον ἀλλ’ ἵνα καὶ τὰ τέκνα τοῦ θεοῦ τὰ διεσκορπισμένα συναγάγῃ εἰς ἕν; 11:52). This message in John’s Gospel seems to anticipate the view that is later explicitly voiced by early Christians such as Justin Martyr (who almost embodies the Johannine figures of Samaritans and Greeks, as he was born ca. 100 CE to pagan parents at Flavia Neapolis, the Shechem in Samaria, close to the Sychar mentioned in John 4:5)43 and Clement of Alexandria (born ca. 150 CE, probably in Athens, also to pagan parents), both of whom converted to Christianity as the end of their philosophical quests. As Clement explicitly says: Perchance, too, philosophy was given to the Greeks directly and primarily, till the Lord should call the Greeks (τάχα δὲ καὶ προηγουμένως τοῖς Ἕλλησιν ἐδόθη τότε πρὶν ἢ τὸν κύριον καλέσαι καὶ τοὺς Ἕλληνας). For this 42  See van Kooten, “The Last Days of Socrates and Christ.” 43  For the geographical proximity of Sychar to Flavia Neapolis, see Eusebius, Onomasticon (edn Klostermann 1904), 164, line 1: Συχάρ (Joh 4:5): πρὸ τῆς Νέας πόλεως πλησίον τοῦ χωρίου.

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was a schoolmaster to bring “the Hellenic mind,” as the law, the Hebrews, to Christ (ἐπαιδαγώγει γὰρ καὶ αὐτὴ τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν ὡς ὁ νόμος τοὺς Ἑβραίους εἰς Χριστόν). Philosophy, therefore, was a preparation, paving the way for him who is perfected in Christ (προπαρασκευάζει τοίνυν ἡ φιλοσοφία προοδοποιοῦσα τὸν ὑπὸ Χριστοῦ τελειούμενον). Clement of Alexandria, The Stromata or Miscellanies 1.5.28; trans. ANF

Again as Clement says, this time with reference to Peter as the supposedly authentic author of the Kerygma Petrou (The Preaching of Peter), he showed that the one and only God was known by the Greeks in a Gentile way (ἐθνικῶς, “in the way of the nations”), by the Jews Judaically, and in a new and spiritual way by us (ἐδήλωσεν τὸν ἕνα καὶ μόνον θεὸν ὑπὸ μὲν Ἑλλήνων ἐθνικῶς, ὑπὸ δὲ Ἰουδαίων Ἰουδαϊκῶς, καινῶς δὲ ὑφ’ ἡμῶν καὶ πνευματικῶς γινωσκόμενον). And further, that the same God that furnished both the Covenants was the giver of Greek philosophy to the Greeks, by which the Almighty is glorified among the Greeks, he shows. And it is clear from this. Accordingly, then, from the Hellenic training, and also from that of the law are gathered into the one race of the saved people those who accept faith (ἐκ γοῦν τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς παιδείας, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐκ τῆς νομικῆς εἰς τὸ ἓν γένος τοῦ σῳζομένου συνάγονται λαοῦ οἱ τὴν πίστιν προσιέμενοι): not that the three peoples are separated by time, so that one might suppose three natures, but trained in different Covenants of the one Lord, by the word of the one Lord. [… A]t the fit time were the Law and the Prophets given to the Barbarians, and Philosophy to the Greeks, to fit their ears for the Gospel (κατὰ καιρὸν ἐδόθη νόμος μὲν καὶ προφῆται βαρβάροις, φιλοσοφία δὲ Ἕλλησι, τὰς ἀκοὰς ἐθίζουσα πρὸς τὸ κήρυγμα). Ibidem 6.5.41–42, 44, trans. ANF; cf. further 6.17.159

This view of the concurrence of the Mosaic-Jewish law and Greek philosophy seems already implicit in John’s Gospel, and if John had read Plato’s Symposium and Phaedo, we can see how he could indeed construe Jesus as Socrates’s successor among the barbarian nations on the basis of Plato’s dialogues. Furthermore, these “Socratic” figures “among Greeks and among Barbarians” are so well respected—as Diotima says—because of “the number of good deeds shown forth in them” (πολλὰ καὶ καλὰ ἀποφηνάμενοι ἔργα; 209d–e). Only the Gospel of John, in contrast to the Synoptic Gospels, explicitly states that Jesus performs “good deeds” (καλὰ ἔργα; 10:32–33), an expression that is ubiquous in

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Greek literature but never occurs in the Jewish Septuagint.44 In John’s Gospel, at the festival commemorating the renewal of the Jerusalem temple after its desecration by the Hellenistic-Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes, Jesus ironically asks the Jews who try to kill him for which good work they intend to do this: The Jews took up stones again to stone him. Jesus replied, “I have shown you many good deeds from the Father (Πολλὰ ἔργα καλὰ ἔδειξα ὑμῖν ἐκ τοῦ πατρός). For which of these are you going to stone me? (διὰ ποῖον αὐτῶν ἔργον ἐμὲ λιθάζετε;)” The Jews answered, “It is not for a good deed that we are going to stone you, but for blasphemy (Περὶ καλοῦ ἔργου οὐ λιθάζομέν σε ἀλλὰ περὶ βλασφημίας), because you, though only a human being, are making yourself God.” (10:31–33) The charge they bring against Jesus is reminiscent of the indictment of “making” new gods, which the Athenians bring against Socrates (Plato, Euthyphro 3b).45 Whereas these Jews reject their own “Socrates” at this decisively anti-Hellenistic temple festival, at the next temple festival of Passover, the travelling Greeks wish to meet their “Socrates” among the Barbarians (12:20–21). In John’s view, they fulfil the quest for Socrates’s successor, as announced in Plato’s Phaedo. And just as in Diotima’s speech those notable figures among Greeks and Barbarians who beget “according to the soul” are depicted as people in whom “many good deeds are being shown forth” (πολλὰ καὶ καλὰ ἀποφηνάμενοι ἔργα; 209d–e), so similarly in John’s Gospel are these “good deeds” predicated of Jesus. Finally, as briefly indicated above, the last and most important parallel concerns this differentiation between spiritual begetting “according to the soul” (κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν) and physical begetting “according to the body” (κατὰ τὸ σῶμα). This differentiation is also made in John’s Gospel and is introduced 44  Cf. only the statement in Ecclesiasticus (The Wisdom of Jesus Sirach) 39:16, probably with reference to God’s deeds of creation (cf. 39:17): “All the deeds of the Lord, that they are very good” (Τὰ ἔργα κυρίου πάντα ὅτι καλὰ σφόδρα). In the New Testament, the phrase “good deeds” is also used in the Gospel of Mark 14:6 (with a parallel in Matthew 26:10; see Synopsis #306), when Jesus praises the woman who anoints him; and in the Gospel of Matthew in Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, as a depiction of the works of those who follow him (5:16). The phrase is frequent in the New Testament letters, underlining the strongly ethical character of the Christian movement (1 Timothy 3:1, 5:10, 5:25, 6:18; Titus 2:7, 2:14, 3:8, 3:14; Hebrews 10:24; and 1 Peter 2:12). But only in John’s Gospel is the phrase used to qualify Jesus’s own deeds. 45  Cf. the analysis in van Kooten, “The Last Days of Socrates and Christ,” 227–28, 230–1, and 232.

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when, in the prologue, the author contrasts the sad human failure to recognise the all-pervading divine Logos (1:10–11) with the great reward given to those who do recognise it: “But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were begotten, not from blood or from the will of the flesh or from the will of man, but from God” (ὅσοι δὲ ἔλαβον αὐτόν, ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς ἐξουσίαν τέκνα θεοῦ γενέσθαι, τοῖς πιστεύουσιν εἰς τὸ ὄνομα αὐτοῦ, οἳ οὐκ ἐξ αἱμάτων οὐδὲ ἐκ θελήματος σαρκὸς οὐδὲ ἐκ θελήματος ἀνδρὸς ἀλλ’ ἐκ θεοῦ ἐγεννήθησαν; 1:12–13)—thus distinguishing between physical and divine-spiritual begetting. Similarly, during his nighttime encounter and dialogue with a Jewish Pharisee with a remarkably Greek name, Nicodemus (Νικόδημος; John 3:1–2), Jesus discusses the difference between these two modes of begetting. Responding to Jesus’s statement that “no one can see the kingdom of God without being begotten ‘from above, from on high’ (LSJ ἄνωθεν I.1), or ‘over again, anew’ (LSJ ἄνωθεν II.3) (ἐὰν μή τις γεννηθῇ ἄνωθεν, οὐ δύναται ἰδεῖν τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεοῦ)” (3:3), Nicodemus assumes that Jesus is talking at the level of physical generation, which will take place “over again,” and raises the following apposite questions: “How can anyone be begotten and born after having grown old? (Πῶς δύναται ἄνθρωπος γεννηθῆναι γέρων ὤν;) Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be begotten and born? (μὴ δύναται εἰς τὴν κοιλίαν τῆς μητρὸς αὐτοῦ δεύτερον εἰσελθεῖν καὶ γεννηθῆναι;)” (3:4). To these questions, Jesus responds with a statement about the difference between the two modes of generation, contrasting a physical begetting and birth from the waters of birth with a spiritual begetting and birth from the divine pneuma: no one can enter the kingdom of God without being begotten and born from water and Spirit (ἐὰν μή τις γεννηθῇ ἐξ ὕδατος καὶ πνεύματος, οὐ δύναται εἰσελθεῖν εἰς τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεοῦ). What is begotten and born from the flesh is flesh (τὸ γεγεννημένον ἐκ τῆς σαρκὸς σάρξ ἐστιν), and what is begotten and born from the Spirit is spirit (καὶ τὸ γεγεννημένον ἐκ τοῦ πνεύματος πνεῦμά ἐστιν). Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be begotten and born from above (μὴ θαυμάσῃς ὅτι εἶπόν σοι, Δεῖ ὑμᾶς γεννηθῆναι ἄνωθεν).” (3:5–7) This differentiation between two modes of generation is entirely absent from the Synoptic Gospels, and it seems that John’s Gospel here clearly resonates with Plato’s Symposium.46 The author of John’s Gospel accommodates this 46  However, the notion of dual generation has a parallel in the Pauline letters, but there also a resonance with Platonic philosophy may be at play, as Platonic and Pauline anthropologies agree in their depiction of a tripartite differentiation between spirit/reason,

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notion of dual generation in his prologue (1:12–13) and in his depiction of Jesus’s dialogue with Nicodemus (3:3–7). There is nothing inherently implausible in John calling a Jewish Pharisee in Jerusalem (2:13, 23) by the distinctively Greek name of “Nicodemus” (Νικόδημος). The name, which occurs frequently in Greek sources, is also attested of another Jew, one of the Jewish envoys who visit the Roman general Pompey upon his annexation of Syria in 64 BCE, with the request to settle their internal strife, leading to Pompey’s subsequent reorganisation of the Jewish state (Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 14.37).47 A Jew bearing the Greek name Nicodemus seems to reflect a certain openness towards the surrounding Graeco-Roman environment, which would particularly qualify this person to act as an envoy or to engage in a particular type of dialogue. That John’s Nicodemus is a Pharisee does not contradict this, as two other wellknown, historical Pharisees of the first century CE, Paul of Tarsus and Flavius Josephus, also show a high level of acquaintance with Graeco-Roman culture. John’s interest in such figures as Nicodemus seems to reflect his own philhellenic attitude which, as I have argued elsewhere, also shines through in his depiction of Jesus at the Hannukah festival of the renewal of the temple, at which—according to John—Jesus provocatively identifies himself with the Hellenistic ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes (John 10:22–39).48 It could also be the case, however, that John’s reference to Nicodemus has a fictive literary meaning. When read against the background of Plato’s Symposium, and taking into account the setting of Plato’s dialogue, which is the meal at Agathon’s house to celebrate his victory in a tragedy contest the soul, and body. Compare Paul’s differentiation between “the one begotten according to the flesh” (ὁ κατὰ σάρκα γεννηθείς) and “the one according to the Spirit” (ὁ κατὰ πνεῦμα) in Galatians 4:29, and between “those who exist according to the flesh” (οἱ κατὰ σάρκα ὄντες) and “those according to the Spirit” (οἱ κατὰ πνεῦμα) in Romans 8:5, with that between “those who are pregnant according to the soul/in the souls” (οἱ κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν / οἳ ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς κυοῦσιν) and “those who are pregnant in the bodies” (οἳ ἐν τοῖς σώμασιν κυοῦσιν) in Plato, Symposium 208e–209a. This differentiation is also applied to Christ himself in Romans 1:1–4, when Paul introduces “the gospel of God” as “the gospel concerning his Son, who came into being from the seed of David according to the flesh (τοῦ γενομένου ἐκ σπέρματος Δαυὶδ κατὰ σάρκα) and was marked out as Son of God with power according to the spirit of holiness (τοῦ ὁρισθέντος υἱοῦ θεοῦ ἐν δυνάμει κατὰ πνεῦμα ἁγιωσύνης) by resurrection from the dead, Jesus Christ our Lord.” For the similarities between Pauline and Platonic anthropology, see van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilaton to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), esp. 269–312 and 340–92. 47  Cf. also the extensive historical, prosopographical analysis in Richard Bauckham, The Testimony of the Beloved Disciple: Narrative, History, and Theology in the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2007), chap. 7, 137–72. 48  See van Kooten, “Bildung, Religion, and Politics in the Gospel of John,” 146–61.

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day before (173a), and considering the subject matter of Nicodemus’s dialogue with Jesus, which is the differentiation between two sorts of generation, the name “Nico-demus” (Νικό-δημος) could easily be a product of John’s jeu d’esprit. The term “victory” (νίκη) in the name’s first syllables, “Nico,” could then be an allusion to the symposium that took place “on the occasion of Agathon’s victory with his first tragedy (τῇ πρώτῃ τραγῳδίᾳ ἐνίκησεν Ἀγάθων): the day after that of the dedicatory feast which he and his players held for its celebration (τῇ ὑστεραίᾳ ἢ ᾗ τὰ ἐπινίκια ἔθυεν αὐτός τε καὶ οἱ χορευταί)” (173a). The symposium thus takes place in the shadow of the sacrifice for Agathon’s victory and the feast honouring it (τὰ ἐπινίκια [sc.ἱερά]) the day before (174a). Interestingly, Alcibiades, who arrives late to the symposium, in his competition with Agathon, decides to bestow some of the laudatory ribands that he had brought to honour Agathon on Socrates instead, explaining to Agathon that whereas he has been victorious only in the tragedy contest, Socrates is in fact always victorious: Agathon, give me some of your ribands, that I may also deck this person’s head, this astonishing head. He shall not reproach me with having made a garland for you and then, though he victoriously conquers all human beings in discourse (αὐτὸν δὲ νικῶντα ἐν λόγοις πάντας ἀνθρώπους)—not once in a while, like you the other day, but always—bestowing none upon him. (213e) It seems to be for this reason that the author of John’s Gospel has Jesus, in the very last words of his speech at the last symposium, just before his final prayer, portray himself as having victoriously conquered the entire (human) world: “I have victoriously conquered the cosmos!” (ἐγὼ νενίκηκα τὸν κόσμον; 16:33), expressing a notion that is absent from the Synoptic Gospels. Just as Alcibiades, at the symposium at Agathon’s house, proclaims Socrates as the victor who is even more victorious than Agathon—inasmuch as Socrates victoriously conquers all people, and not just the jury of the tragedy contest—so the author of John’s Gospel portrays Jesus at the last symposium as the actual victor over the entire inhabited world. Both the symposium at Agathon’s house and the last symposium are symposia celebrating a victory. If Nicodemus’s name is fictive, it could be a playful allusion to the victories of Agathon, Socrates, and Jesus. The second part of Nicodemus’s name, which consists of the term δῆμος (“the “people” or “inhabitants”; LSJ I.2), could also allude to one of the shared features between Plato’s Symposium and Jesus’s dialogue with Nicodemus— namely the differentiation between two types of generation. These two types are the consequence of two types of love: heavenly love and the “vulgar,”

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“popular” (πάν-δημος) form of love (180d–181c), the latter performed by the figure of “the vulgar lover, who passionately loves the body rather than the soul” (ὁ ἐραστὴς ὁ πάνδημος, ὁ τοῦ σώματος μᾶλλον ἢ τῆς ψυχῆς ἐρῶν; 183d–e), just as the figure of Nicodemus can only think of physical generation and birth, and is unacquainted with the notion of spiritual, divine generation and birth. In this way, the composite name “Nico-demus” could skilfully and playfully synthesise some of the main terminology of Plato’s Symposium, referring to its formal occasion and setting as well as to its content, thus capturing them in one extant forename. It is also possible that the second part of Nicodemus’s name merely bears an acoustic resemblance to the name Aristodemus (Ἀριστόδημος) in Plato’s Symposium. As we have already briefly seen in our comments on the introduction of the Symposium, Aristodemus is the informant of the narrative of Plato’s Symposium; he was present at the symposium, and he fulfils the same role as the beloved pupil in John’s Gospel, who is equally present at the (last) symposium (13:23; 21:20) and is not only the informant, but even the author of the text (21:24). Given this conscious resemblance between himself and the figure of Aristodemus in the authentication of his narrative, the author of the Gospel was well aware of this figure in Plato’s Symposium, so that his name, “Aristo-demus” (Ἀριστό-δημος), may have given rise to the name of Nico-demus (Νικό-δημος), with the first part of the name “Aristo-demus” replaced with an allusion to the theme of victory (νίκη) that characterises the specific occasion of each symposium—either the celebration of Agathon’s victory in the tragedy contest (173a) or the anticipatory celebration, at the last symposium, of Jesus’s victory (16:33). Although there is no inherent link between the figures of the Platonic Aristodemus and the Johannine Nicodemus—as the former is in no respect the counterpart of Nicodemus, but rather of the figure of the beloved pupil—, the general acoustic similarity of their Greek names helps to make the Gospel of John accessible to Greek readers. Or perhaps, at second glance, there is even a degree of resemblance between Aristodemus and Nicodemus, as it is Aristodemus who, in his case together with others, passes the night following the symposium with Socrates (223b–d), just as Nicodemus passes the night with Jesus (3:2), with one great difference: whereas Nicodemus is fully engaged in discussion with Jesus, Aristodemus, as he himself confesses, falls asleep and has no recollection of Socrates’s final discussion with the other two remaining symposiasts, Agathon and Aristophanes (223c). It is difficult, however, to decide whether the name of Nicodemus in John’s Gospel is fictive and literary, or simply correctly reported. The historically attested example of a Jewish envoy to the Romans by the name of Nicodemus should make us hesitate to exclude the latter possibility. The way in which this

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figure functions, however, seems to indicate that the mind of the author of John’s Gospel was saturated with Plato’s Symposium and that its narrative and contents shaped the way in which he presented Jesus’s biography, with the apparent intention of communicating Jesus’s relevance for the Greeks. If read with Plato’s Symposium in the background, the Johannine characters of Nicodemus and the author of John’s Gospel himself seem to be two possibily compromising and mutually competitive figures, calling to mind the potentially equally embarrassing and antagonistic figures of Agathon and Alcibiades in the narrative of Plato’s Symposium. It is Nicodemus who visits at night, as John makes clear: “Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night” (οὗτος ἦλθεν πρὸς αὐτὸν νυκτὸς; 3:1–2), and the subject matter of their dialogue, revolving around (the difference between) sexual and spiritual generation, adds to the sensitivity of their nightly encounter. Narratologically speaking, Nicodemus resembles the figure of Alcibiades who, in his impromptu speech following Socrates’s speech, confesses amidst the entire sympotic company that, in the past, at his initiative, on one particular occasion he had gone on talking with Socrates “far into the night” (πόρρω τῶν νυκτῶν) with the sole intention of forcing Socrates to spend the night with him (217d–219d), in the hope of a sexual encounter, only to discover that Socrates refuses such an exchange of his “genuine” beauties for Alcibiades’s “reputed beauties” (218e). Jesus similarly reproaches Nicodemus for confusing physical and spiritual generation (3:6), and earthly (τὰ ἐπίγεια) and heavenly things (τὰ ἐπουράνια; 3:12). Similarly sensitive is the figure of the author of John’s Gospel himself, who consistently portrays himself as Jesus’s beloved pupil (13:23; 19:26; 20:2; 21:7, 20) and even as having been granted the privilege of reclining at Jesus’s bosom during the final symposium (13:23; 21:20). From a narratological perspective, this figure mirrors the figure of Agathon who, at his symposium, invites Socrates to sit next to him (175c–d) before Alcibiades, upon his chaotic arrival, takes a (temporary) seat between Agathon and Socrates (213a–b), after which Agathon moves back next to Socrates again, further provoking the already incited jealousy of Alcibiades (222e–223a). The tension between Agathon, Alcibiades, and Socrates thus seems echoed in the relation between Nicodemus, the beloved pupil, and Jesus. As in Plato’s Symposium, however, it is spiritual generation and spiritual love that transcends physical love and physical generation. It seems that only by bringing them both so closely together can the qualitative difference between them be made clear. That they differ qualitatively, however, does not mean that these forms of generation and love are antithetically and dualistically opposed.

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This is also clear in John’s Gospel. The duality of two types of generation and the duality of two types of love does not imply a depreciation of physical love. It seems no coincidence that the Gospel of John starts with Jesus attending a wedding symposium (2:1–11), replenishing the cups with a new, abundant, superior stock of wine when the president of the (reclining) banquet, the ἀρχιτρίκλινος (2:8–9), fails to achieve this task. Furthermore, Jesus also talks of the joy of bringing a human being into the world: “When a woman is in labour, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world” (διὰ τὴν χαρὰν ὅτι ἐγεννήθη ἄνθρωπος εἰς τὸν κόσμον; 16:21). Therefore, it is not the case that physical generation, “being begotten from blood (ἐξ αἱμάτων) or from the will of the flesh (ἐκ θελήματος σαρκὸς) or from the will of man (ἐκ θελήματος ἀνδρὸς)” (1:13), being born from “the mother’s womb” (3:4) and “from (the birth) water(s)” (ἐξ ὕδατος; 3:5), is wrong. The sole point is that having only experienced a physical generation is insufficient, and that spiritual generation should come in addition to physical generation: “to all who received him [i.e., the incarnate Logos], who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were begotten, not from blood or from the will of the flesh or from the will of man, but from God” (1:12–13); “no one can enter the kingdom of God without being begotten and born from water and Spirit. What is begotten from the flesh is flesh, and what is begotten from the Spirit is spirit” (3:5–6). The way in which the Gospel of John understands dual generation is (still) a far cry from a dualistic, ascetic depreciation of physical generation, but it regards both modes of generation as supplementary, only declaring that physical generation is insufficient for reaching the full potential of a person’s well-being. It only proves itself very critical of an extreme, aphrodisiac form of love, which is criticised in the First Letter of John and is identified as a superficial love for “the world or the things in the world”: Do not love the world or the things in the world (Μὴ ἀγαπᾶτε τὸν κόσμον μηδὲ τὰ ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ). The love of the Father is not in those who love the world; for all that is in the world—the desire of the flesh (ἡ ἐπιθυμία τῆς σαρκὸς), the desire of the eyes (ἡ ἐπιθυμία τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν), the false pretension of the world we live in (ἡ ἀλαζονεία τοῦ βίου)—comes not from the Father but from the world. And the world and its desire are passing away (καὶ ὁ κόσμος παράγεται καὶ ἡ ἐπιθυμία αὐτοῦ), but those who do the will of God live forever. 1 John 2:15–17

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It is the goddess Aphrodite whom the Greeks identify with this kind of desire,49 and who comes very close to the figure of the vulgar Aphrodite in Plato’s Symposium. For John, this vulgar Aphrodite desire stands in stark opposition to God, who is love (ὁ θεὸς ἀγάπη ἐστίν; 4:8). Interestingly, John combines his criticism of the vulgar Aphrodite with a critique of “the false pretension (LSJ ἀλαζονεία) of the world we live in (LSJ βίος III),” the false pretension of “the world,” of “all ordinary folk” (cf. Sextus Empiricus, Against the Ethicists 2.49 [=Adversus mathematicos 11.49] 11.49: πάντες οἱ ἀπὸ τοῦ βίου), as opposed to the life of the philosophers, just as Apollodorus, the speaker of the frame narrative in Plato’s Symposium, criticises his companions for their association with the wealthy and with men of business, and for thinking that they are doing a great deal when they really do nothing at all (173c). Thus John and Plato share a very specific discourse of two types of love and generation, a differentiation that is first coined in Plato’s Symposium. 3.3.3 The Initiation into the Highest Mysteries (209e–210a) Apart from the intermediary character and duality of love, Diotima’s speech also brings out another aspect of love that is echoed in John’s Gospel, namely the colouring of love in the tones of initiation into the mysteries. According to Diotima, the successive stages of spiritual generation constitute a progressive initiation into the mysteries, an initiation that takes the form of a gradual ascent on “the ladder of love,” from physical love to spiritual love, at the end of which—as we shall see shortly—awaits the full attainment of purity, contemplation of the divine unity, truth, and immortality. With an allusion to the difference between lower and higher mysteries in the contemporary mystery cults, the higher levels of this ladder are seen as “the final perfection (i.e., initiation, τὰ τέλεα)50 and full vision (καὶ ἐποπτικά)”51—that is, “the highest 49  Theagenes of Rhegium (fl. ca. 525 BCE), Fragm. 2, lines 12–14, apud Porphyry, Quaestionum Homericarum ad Iliadem pertinentium reliquiae 20.67sqq, lines 13–16; Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1149b15–16; Plutarch, Amatorius 757B; Vettius Valens (writing between 152 and 162 CE), Anthologies (edn Pingree), 1.1 lines 69 and 130–31, 6.3 lines 23–25; Apollodorus (2nd cent. CE), The Library 3.141. For a discussion, see van Kooten, “Christ and Hermes.” Cf. also David Wolfsdorf, Pleasure in Ancient Greek Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 9, 18–19, and 38. 50  See LSJ τέλειος and τέλεος I.1a perfect; performed with all rites; or LSJ τέλος, εος, τό, I.6 services or offerings due to the gods [...]; of the Eleusinian mysteries [...]; called μεγάλα τ. (Plato, Republic VIII 560e). 51  See LSJ ἐποπτικός, of or for an ἐπόπτης; LSJ ἐπόπτης, ου, ὁ, (ἐπόψομαι [fut. of ἐφοράω]) I.1 overseer, watcher, esp. of a god; II. one admitted to the highest grade of the mysteries.

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mysteries” (τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά; 209e–210a).52 By implication, the instruction about spiritual generation that Socrates has received from Diotima up to this point represents “the lower mysteries.” Strangely, Diotima, reflecting on Socrates’s initiation into the lower mysteries of love, expresses her doubt as to whether Socrates himself can eventually master the higher mysteries: “Into these love-matters even you, Socrates, might haply be initiated; but I doubt if you could approach the final perfection and full vision (τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά, “the highest mysteries”) to which these, for the properly instructed, are merely the avenue. However I will speak of them,” she said, “and will not stint my best endeavours; only you on your part must try your best to follow.” (209e–210a) Perhaps there is an implicit criticism here of the “sceptic,” “aporetic” Socrates. As we will see, those who are properly instructed finally ascend to the attainment of truth, among other values. Could it be that Plato here indirectly portrays the insufficiency of his own teacher,53 Socrates, whilst depicting himself as the pupil who surpasses him in the positive attainment of truth? Remarkably, even in John’s Gospel there is a difference between the teaching that Jesus brought to his pupils and the further, more far-reaching teaching of the Holy Spirit, “the spirit of truth” (τὸ πνεῦμα τῆς ἀληθείας), who will guide the pupils “in all truth” (ἐν τῇ ἀληθείᾳ πάσῃ; 16:13)—a truth of which the author of John’s Gospel is the communicator, just as Plato is the communicator of the narrative of the entire Symposium. The mystery cults Plato refers to here are most likely the mystery cults that were especially well known in Athens: the Eleusinian mysteries at Eleusis, one of the demes of Athens, ca. 21 kilometres west of Athens54 and connected with it via “the Sacred Way” (ὁδὸς ἱερά; Pausanias, Description of Greece 1.36.3), with its sanctuary of Demeter and Persephone/Kore, which was the center of—as Kevin Clinton concisely puts it—“the annual festival of the mysteries, which attracted initiates from the entire Greek-speaking world.”55

52  On Plato’s use of mystery language, see Christoph Riedweg, Mysterienterminologie bei Platon, Philon, und Klemens von Alexandrien (Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 26; Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 1987), 1–69. 53  Cf. William J. Prior, “The Portrait of Socrates in Plato’s Symposium,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 31 (2006): 137–66, esp. 146–48 and 150. 54  Hans Lohmann, “Eleusis [1] A. Location,” Brill’s New Pauly, online. 55  Kevin Clinton, “Eleusis,” OCD, 4th ed., online.

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As I will now indicate, this language of “perfection” and “vision,” as expressed in the phrase τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά (“the final perfection and full vision”) and denoting “the highest mysteries,” is also present in John’s Gospel. Firstly, with regard to the language of perfection, in his final prayer at the conclusion of the last symposium, Jesus states his intention to his divine Father, that his pupils “will be perfected into one” by experiencing the same divine love that the Father has for Jesus: The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may be perfected into one (ἵνα ὦσιν τετελειωμένοι εἰς ἕν), so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me (ἵνα γινώσκῃ ὁ κόσμος ὅτι σύ […] ἠγάπησας αὐτοὺς καθὼς ἐμὲ ἠγάπησας). (17:22–23). As those who ascend the ladder of love in Plato’s Symposium become perfected—that is, initiated into the mysteries—so the pupils at the last symposium are also perfected into one, and into the divine love. This view is also expressed in the First Letter of John, where it says, in an inverse way, that the divine love becomes “perfected” in those who keep Jesus’s words and love one another: “whoever obeys his word, truly in this person the love of God has reached perfection (ἀληθῶς ἐν τούτῳ ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ τετελείωται) […] if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us (καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη αὐτοῦ τετελειωμένη ἐν ἡμῖν ἐστιν)” (1 John 2:5, 4:12). This is finally linked with the (Platonic) notion of divine assimilation: “Love has been perfected among us in this (ἐν τούτῳ τετελείωται ἡ ἀγάπη μεθ’ ἡμῶν): […] as he is, so are we in this world (καθὼς ἐκεῖνός ἐστιν καὶ ἡμεῖς ἐσμεν ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ τούτῳ)” (1 John 4:17). In the Johannine corpus, all of these instances—of a perfecting into one that conveys the experience of comprehensive divine love, and of the perfection of divine love in those who love—seem to resonate with the notion of perfection through initiation into the higher mysteries of love on the ladder of love. This combination of perfection and love is altogether absent from the Synoptic Gospels. Is it a coincidence that Lazarus, who is described to Jesus as “him whom you love” (ὃν φιλεῖς; 11:3), is also ambiguously described as “the one who has finished” (ὁ τετελευτηκώς; 11:39)—meaning “the one who has finishined life, who has died,” “the deceased”—but, in a sense, only apparently so, because he “has fallen asleep” and needs to be awoken from his sleep, as Jesus says (11:11–14), and thus seems to be the one who is initiated into death and resurrection? Hence the beloved pupil (inasmuch as he seems to be identical with Lazarus) is not expected to die again (21:21–23), and he is also the first who,

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seemingly from his own experience (if he is indeed identical with Lazarus), understands upon seeing the empty tomb (and especially because he notices the separate position of the σουδάριον, the facial covering that he himself had worn when he walked out of his tomb; 20:7, cf. 11:44) that Jesus has been brought to life again (20:8). Consequently, there seems to be a wordplay between “being perfected” or “initiated” (τετελειωμένος; 17:23) and “having finished” or “died” (τετελευτηκώς; 11:39), between τελειόω and τελευτάω. A similar wordplay between τέλειος / τέλεος (“perfect,” “initiated”), τελευτάω (“to finish,” “to come to an end”), and τὸ τέλος (“the end”) is made in Diotima’s speech, as the final perfection (τὰ τέλεα; 210a) and full vision of the highest mysteries consist in the fact that those who are initiated into them and ascend the ladder of love “end” their former forms of knowledge and love, “come to an end,” “issue in,” and are thus fully initiated into the highest form of knowledge and love, which focuses on the very essence of beauty itself: So when a man by the right method of boy-loving ascends from these particulars and begins to descry that beauty, he is almost able to lay hold of the end (σχεδὸν ἄν τι ἅπτοιτο τοῦ τέλους). Such is the right approach or induction to love-matters. Beginning from obvious beauties he must for the sake of that highest beauty be ever climbing aloft, as on the rungs of a ladder, from one to two, and from two to all beautiful bodies; from personal beauty he proceeds to beautiful observances, from observance to beautiful learning, in order to reach the end (τελευτῆσαι) by proceeding from learning to that particular study which is concerned with the beautiful itself and that alone; so that he, at the end, comes to know the very essence of beauty (καὶ γνῷ αὐτὸ τελευτῶν ὃ ἔστι καλόν). (211b–c) A similarly playful combination of cognate forms such as τελέω, τελειόω, τελευτάω, and τὸ τέλος also occurs in the Gospel of John, not only with regard to the pupils who are perfected and initiated into one, and with regard to Lazarus, but also with respect to Jesus himself: he loves his pupils “till the end” (εἰς τέλος), as the author notes in his description of the last symposium (13:1), and it is at this symposium that he talks about his pupils’ perfection and initiation into one (17:23) before he finishes his life by exclaiming, again in marked difference from the Synoptic Gospels: “It has been finished, it has been perfected” (Τετέλεσται; 19:30). Both Lazarus’s and Jesus’s deaths are described in the ambiguous terminology of finishing, perfection, and initiation, and thus understood as initiations into a death that is followed by a resurrection, just as in the mystery religions. It seems that Jesus’s final exclamation, “It has been finished” (Τετέλεσται), signals the end of such an initiation, thus putting the

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event of his death on a par with the place of initiation at the Eleusinian mysteries, which—as becomes clear in Plutarch’s description of the building of the Eleusinian sanctuary—is called a τελεστήριον, a place for initiation: it was Coroebus who began to build the τελεστήριον (the place for initiation into the mysteries) at Eleusis (τὸ δ’ ἐν Ἐλευσῖνι τελεστήριον ἤρξατο μὲν Κόροιβος οἰκοδομεῖν), and he planted the columns on the floor and yoked their capitals together with architraves; but on his death Metagenes, of the deme Xypete, carried up the frieze and the upper tier of columns; while Xenocles, of the deme Cholargus, set on high the lantern over the shrine. Plutarch, Pericles 7

This is by no means the only allusion to the Eleusinian mysteries in John’s Gospel. Just before his death, at the beginning of the last festival that he attends in the Jerusalem temple, it is the very Greeks who wish to see Jesus whom he answers with a reference to his approaching death, cast in a hidden allusion to the Eleusinain mysteries, which revolve around the contemplation of an ear of wheat that was seen as the fruit of the resurrection of Aphrodite/ Kore:56 “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (12:24). Interestingly, in the appropriation of the Eleusinian mysteries by the Christian sect of the Naassenes, as described in the anonymous early thirdcentury CE Refutation of All Heresies (which used to be ascribed to Hippolytus), the hierophant who officiates at the Eleusinian mysteries is said to be a eunuch, who is “detached from all fleshly generation” (πᾶσαν ἀπηρτημένος τὴν σαρκικὴν γένεσιν). Announcing that “the Lady” (i.e., Persephone) has given birth to a child means that “the higher, spiritual, celestial generation” (ἡ γένεσις ἡ πνευματική, ἡ ἐπουράνιος, ἡ ἄνω) has given birth to “the one celestially begotten” (ὁ οὕτω γεννώμενος, i.e., Dionysus; Refutation of All Heresies 5.8.40–41; trans. Litwa).57 In this account of the Eleusinian mysteries, important themes of Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel come together, including notably the interest in non-physical, spiritual generation. This either shows that Plato drew this theme from the (secret) Eleusinian mysteries, or that interpretations of 56  See the description of the Eleusinian mysteries in the Refutation of All Heresies 5.8.39–40 (163.207–222 edn Marcovich 1986), previously ascribed to Hippolytus, with a new translation available in M. David Litwa, Refutation of All Heresies: Translated with an Introduction and Notes (Writings from the Greco-Roman World 40; Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016), 253–55. 57  Cf. Claudio Zamagni, “The Elenchos and the ‘Mysteries’: Constructing Heretical Identity in Ancient Christianity,” Religion in the Roman Empire 4 (2018): 289–302, esp. 298–99.

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the Eleusinian mysteries have become Platonised. Intriguingly, the probably second-century CE Naassene source summarised in the Refutation of All Heresies connects this notion of dual generation explicitly with the Gospel of John.58 What the Gospel of John reveals is that its author follows Diotima’s speech even in its use of initiation terminology and its reference to the Eleusinian mysteries. Whereas the annual festival of the Eleusinian mysteries at the τελεστήριον of the sanctuary of Demeter and Persephone/Kore at Athens attracted religious seekers from the entire Greek-speaking world, the author of John’s Gospel mirrors and inverts this festival in the annual Passover festival at the Jerusalem temple, which is visited by Greeks who seek Jesus and see the Eleusinian mysteries accomplished in him, whose very body is a temple (2:19–21) and a place of initiation (τελεστήριον; 19:30). Furthermore, it is not only the language of “perfection” from Diotima’s depiction of the higher mysteries as “the final perfection and full vision” (τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά) that is present in John’s Gospel, but also the language of “vision.” The mysteries not only involve an initiation, but also offer a full vision (ἐποπτικά)—the kind of vision acquired by an ἐπόπτης, an “overseer, watcher, esp. of a god” (LSJ ἐπόπτης I), a term that also applies to “one admitted to the highest grade of the mysteries” (LSJ ἐπόπτης II). Together this “final perfection and full vision” constitute “the highest mysteries” (τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά), the end (τὸ τέλος) of which is reached by completing the full ascent of the ladder of love, on the rungs (ἐπαναβασμοί) of which those who scale the ladder are climbing aloft (211c). I will comment on this metaphor of the ladder shortly, but before doing so, I will now draw attention to the visual terminology that is used here and is also connected with a ladder in the Gospel of John. At the beginning of John’s Gospel, Jesus tells one of his first pupils, Nathanael (1:45–49) of Cana (21:2), after Nathanael is impressed by a particular action which Jesus performed: “You will see greater things than these (μείζω τούτων ὄψῃ). […] Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man (ὄψεσθε τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀνεῳγότα καὶ τοὺς ἀγγέλους τοῦ θεοῦ ἀναβαίνοντας καὶ καταβαίνοντας ἐπὶ τὸν υἱὸν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου)” (1:50–51). And it is at the final symposium that Jesus indicates what this full 58  The notion of dual generation—constrasting “the generation in the world below” (ἡ κάτω γένεσις; 5.7.40; 5.8.37) or “the fleshly generation” (ἡ σαρκικὴ γένεσις; 5.8.40, 44) on the one hand with “the generation on high, in heaven” (ἡ ἄνω γένεσις; 5.7.40), “the spiritual generation” (ἡ πνευματικὴ γένεσις; 5.7.40), and “the spiritual, heavenly generation on high” (ἡ γένεσις ἡ πνευματική, ἡ ἐπουράνιος, ἡ ἄνω; 5.8.41) on the other—is supported by a quotation of John 3:5–6 in Refutation of All Heresies 5.7.40 (cf. 5.8.37) and is connected with the Eleusinian mysteries in 5.8.39–42.

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vision consists of the divine Father himself. As Jesus explains to his pupils, “No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him (καὶ ἀπ’ ἄρτι γινώσκετε αὐτὸν καὶ ἑωράκατε αὐτόν). […] Whoever has seen me has seen the Father (ὁ ἑωρακὼς ἐμὲ ἑώρακεν τὸν πατέρα)” (14:6–7, 9). In this way, “the final perfection and full vision” (τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά) of the highest mysteries resonate through John’s Gospel in its thematisation of the pupils’ perfection and initiation into the divine love and of their contemplation of God himself in the figure of Jesus. 3.3.4

Spiritual Generation as a Gradual Ascent of the Ladder of Love, Leading to the Attainment of Purity, Unity, Truth, and Immortality We have already seen that the image of a ladder—the ladder of love that is scaled by those who are initiated, and which leads them gradually, “as using (the) rungs (of a ladder)” (ὥσπερ ἐπαναβασμοῖς χρώμενος; 211c), from the admiration of physical bodies to the ultimate contemplation of the beautiful itself, the very essence of beauty—is inextricably linked with the notion of a gradual initiation into the mysteries in Diotima’s speech. As Diotima had already told Socrates in the preceding lines of her speech, this ascent is indeed regular and leads to “a wondrous vision”: “When a man has been thus far tutored in the lore of love, passing from view to view of beautiful things, in the right and regular ascent (ἐφεξῆς τε καὶ ὀρθῶς), suddenly he will have revealed to him, as he draws to the end (πρὸς τέλος) of his dealings in love (τῶν ἐρωτικῶν), a wondrous vision, beautiful in its nature” (210e). The end (probably in its ambiguous meaning of both “the end” and “the goal”) of the entire erotic quest, of the full erotic ascent, is the beautiful itself. As we have just seen at the end of the previous subsection, this notion of a ladder connected with the attainment of a “wondrous vision” is also present in John’s Gospel, in the form of an allusion to the ladder of Jacob. Jesus’s statement to Nathanel that he “will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man” (1:51) is a reference to the story of Jacob’s ladder in the book of Genesis (28:12 LXX). Any mention of the ladder of Jacob—or any use of the imagery of a ladder, for that matter—is absent from the Synoptic Gospels, and it seems not unwarranted to assume that the author of John’s Gospel, by referring to the ladder of Jacob, indeed simultaneously applied the notion of Diotima’s ladder of love from Plato’s Symposium. This is not inconceivable, as a contemporary fellow-Jew, Philo of Alexandria, did precisely the same in his interpretation of Jacob’s ladder. In his On Dreams, Philo gives the following symbolic interpretation of Jacob’s ladder, which

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resonates with Plato’s Symposium, in this case applying the lader imagery to the human soul: If we consider that which is symbolically called “ladder” in human beings we shall find it to be soul. Its foot is sense-perception (αἴσθησις), which is as it were the earthly element in it, and its head, the mind which is wholly pure (ὁ καθαρώτατος νοῦς), the heavenly element, as it may be called. Up and down throughout its whole extent are moving incessantly the “words” of God (οἱ τοῦ θεοῦ λόγοι), drawing it [i.e., the soul] up with them when they ascend and disconnecting it with what is mortal (τοῦ θνητοῦ διαζευγνύντες; cf. Plato, Symposium 211e–212a), and exhibiting to it the contemplation of the only objects worthy of our gaze (καὶ τὴν θέαν ὧν ἄξιον ὁρᾶν μόνων ἐπιδεικνύμενοι); and when they descend not casting it (i.e., the soul) down, for neither does God nor does a divine Word (οὔτε […] θεὸς οὔτε λόγος θεῖος) cause harm, but condescending out of love for man (συγκαταβαίνοντες διὰ φιλανθρωπίαν) and compassion for our race, to be helpers and comrades, that with the healing of their breath they may quicken into new life the soul which is still borne along in the body as in a river (cf. Plato, Timaeus 43a). Philo, On Dreams 1.146–147

The first part of this passage is clearly dependent on Diotima’s speech in Plato’s Symposium, with its attention to the gradual ascent to the contemplation of ultimate reality, and at the same time also on the same passage about Jacob’s ladder that is quoted in the Gospel of John, with the ascending and descending movements of angels upon this ladder. Whereas Philo understands these angels as “the words of God” (οἱ τοῦ θεοῦ λόγοι), the author of John’s Gospel, in a rather similar vein, understands them as the messengers that are “ascending and descending upon the Son of Man” (John 1:51)59—that is, upon the incarnate Logos (1:14), who speaks “the word of God” (ὁ λόγος τοῦ θεοῦ; 10:35), the word(s) of and about the divine Father (8:37–38; 14:23–24). Thus both Philo and John seem to associate the imagery of Diotima’s ladder of love with that of Jacob’s ladder. Philo’s use of Plato’s Symposium here remains in sharp contrast to his explicit criticism of the Symposium in his On the Contemplative Life (De vita contemplativa 57–64).60 On the other hand, despite 59  Cf. 3:13 and 6:62, where it appears to be the Son of Man himself who descends and ascends. 60  For Philo’s other applications of the ladder imagery, see On Rewards and Punishments 43, commenting on those who recognise in nature the work of a divine “Maker and Ruler of

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the equally positive application of Plato’s ladder imagery in John’s Gospel, there may nevertheless be some latent criticism here—in his nocturnal dialogue with Nicodemus, the Johannine Jesus apodictally states, “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man” (καὶ οὐδεὶς ἀναβέβηκεν εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν εἰ μὴ ὁ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καταβάς, ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου; 3:13). If read against the background of Plato’s Symposium, the passage sounds like a polemic against the possibility of ascending Diotima’s ladder from earth to heaven. The ascent of the Johannine Jesus to heaven (cf. 20:17) is preceded by his descent from heaven (cf. 6:62), and from a narratological perspective, Jesus’s last symposium signals the end of his descent and the beginning of his ascent back to heaven. Jesus’s rising up at the beginning of the last symposium to wash his pupils’ feet not only signals the opening of the symposium, but is at the same time the start of his ascent back to the heavenly realm: And at the beginning of the meal (καὶ δείπνου γινομένου) Jesus, knowing […] that he had come from God and was going to God (εἰδὼς […] ὅτι ἀπὸ θεοῦ ἐξῆλθεν καὶ πρὸς τὸν θεὸν ὑπάγει), got up from the meal (ἐγείρεται ἐκ τοῦ δείπνου), took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. (13:2–5) Jesus’s ascent (ἀνάβασις) is thus a re-ascent, a return (almost in the sense of a Plotinian ἐπιστροφή or reditus of the soul) that follows his prior descent (κατάβασις, rather similarly to the Plotinian πρόοδος or exitus of the soul) from heaven,61 and Jesus’s statement that “No one has ascended into heaven all”: “They have […] advanced from down to up by a sort of heavenly ladder and by reason and reflection happily inferred the Creator from his works.” Cf. also his comments on the descent of the ladder in his Questions and Answers on Genesis 4.29. 61  The πρόοδος and ἐπιστροφή of the soul in Plotinus’s philosophy is remarkably similar to the circular movement of the Johannine Christ-Logos. The similarity between John’s Christology and Platonic theories of the soul has also been noted by Marco Frenschkowski, “Hinabgestiegen in das Reich der Toten: Jenseitsmythen, Christologie und der Weg der Seele,” in Die Rede von Jesus Christus als Glaubensaussage: Der zweite Artikel des Apostolischen Glaubensbekenntnisses im Gespräch zwischen Bibelwissenschaft und Dogmatik (ed. Jens Herzer, Anne Käfer, and Jörg Frey, with Nicole Oesterreich; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2018), 255–86, esp. 283–84. For the Plotinian descent and ascent of the soul, see for example, Plotinus, Enneads 3.7.11 (regarding the διέξοδος, the exitus of the soul from eternity into time), 3.7.12 (regarding the ἐπιστροφή, the reditus of the soul “back to the intelligible world and to eternity”), and 4.8.4 (about the descent and return of individual souls). Cf. also Corpus Hermeticum, Fragm. 26.4 (edn Festugière and Nock), on descending

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except the one who descended from heaven” (3:13) seems to polemicise against Socrates’s ascent on the ladder of love. Interestingly, however, as we have already seen, in Plato’s Symposium even Diotima herself doubts whether Socrates is able to progress further into the higher mysteries and make the final ascent on the ladder of love: “Into these love-matters even you, Socrates, might haply be initiated; but I doubt if you could approach the final perfection and full vision (‘the highest mysteries’) to which these, for the properly instructed, are merely souls. Previously, in Plato’s philosophy, the “ascent of the soul” was a metaphor for its ascent out of the cave; see Plato, Republic VII 517b: “If you take the upward journey and the seeing of what is above as the upward journey of the soul to the intelligible realm (τὴν δὲ ἄνω ἀνάβασιν καὶ θέαν τῶν ἄνω τὴν εἰς τὸν νοητὸν τόπον τῆς ψυχῆς ἄνοδον τιθεὶς), you will not mistake my intention.” Likewise, in Alcinous, The Handbook of Platonism 10.3, the ἐπιστροφή of the cosmic soul to the divine Father only involves its orientation, not its actual return. And for Plotinus, too, it is a matter of dispute whether he really thinks that the soul comes from and returns to heaven; see Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy, 294–95, and 299–300n7. This may rather be the view of Numenius, who has been assumed “to defend the union and absolute identity of the soul with its principles [i.e., after re-ascending];” see Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy, Text 10J = Numenius, Fragm. 42, with a commentary on pp. 467–68. In the fifth-century Neo-platonist Hierocles’s In aureum carmen, however, the ἄνοδος seems to be a real ascent of the soul to its original source (LSJ ἄνοδος III; Hierocles, In aureum carmen 24.4; trans. Schibli). In John’s Gospel, the upward ascent made by the Christ-Logos also determines the destiny of the pupils: they will settle with him in the heavenly realms (14:2–3; cf. 12:32). And as in Neo-platonic thought, the phase of μονή (LSJ I.1 abiding) exists in addition to (and is superior to) the phases of πρόοδος and ἐπιστροφή (see e.g., Proclus, Theologia Platonica, passim; Damascius, De principiis, passim; cf. also Plotinus, Enneads 3.7.11, with n2, in LCL 442, p. 339), so in John’s Gospel the notion of “remaining” (μένω) is also very important: whereas in the Synoptic Gospels the dove at Jesus’s baptism is said to descend on Jesus, in John’s Gospel it is explicitly said to descend and remain on him (John 1:32–33; Synopsis #18); the anthropological ideal is that human beings have the divine Logos “remaining in them” (5:38; 8:31); they remain in him (and in his love), and he remains in them (6:56; 15:4–10), with the divine Father remaining in the Son (14:10) and the Spirit of truth remaining in the pupils (14:17). The pupils’ final destiny is indeed their abiding μονή (LSJ I.1 abiding; II.1 stopping-place, station; apartment; John 14:2, 23) with Christ: “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling-places (μοναὶ πολλαί εἰσιν). If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also” (14:2–3), Christ being “the way” (ἡ ὁδὸς) (14:4–6) to this μονή. Are the Johannine and Plotinian reflections on the dynamics of exitus and reditus similar, independent developments of Platonic philosophy? Or it is perhaps conceivable that Plotinus, who was familiar with Christians, was acquainted with John’s Gospel? On the personal associations between Plotinian and Christian circles, see Stephen R. L. Clark, “Late Pagan Alternatives: Plotinus and the Christian Gospel,” Religious Studies 52 (2016): 545–60, esp. 547–48.

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the avenue. However I will speak of them,” she said, “and will not stint my best endeavours; only you on your part must try your best to follow.” (209e–210a) In this way, John makes use of Diotima’s portrayal of Socrates to highlight the superiority of Jesus, and this seems to be very much part of his reason for “counter-banqueting” (ἀντισυμποσιάζειν) Plato’s Symposium. In their depiction of what can be attained at the top of the ladder of love, at the end of the initiation into the higher mysteries of love, when the initiate “is coming to the end (and goal and purpose) of the Erotics” (πρὸς τέλος […] ἰὼν τῶν ἐρωτικῶν; 210e), Plato and John are in astounding consonance. All the attainments Plato lists occur throughout John’s Gospel, but especially in John’s depiction of Jesus’s speech at the last symposium. Even the notion of “the end” of love plays a role here, as Jesus’s ascent is directly connected with loving his pupils “till the end” (εἰς τέλος): “Jesus knowing that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end” (εἰδὼς ὁ Ἰησοῦς ὅτι ἦλθεν αὐτοῦ ἡ ὥρα ἵνα μεταβῇ ἐκ τοῦ κόσμου τούτου πρὸς τὸν πατέρα, ἀγαπήσας τοὺς ἰδίους τοὺς ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ, εἰς τέλος ἠγάπησεν αὐτούς; 13:1). This end is not only an end in the temporal sense, but also an end in the sense of the final purpose. The pupils are brought to the end, to their perfection in the divine unity, which is so closely connected with the divine love. As Jesus tells his divine Father in the final prayer that concludes the last symposium, the destiny of his pupils is “that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may be perfected into one (ἵνα ὦσιν τετελειωμένοι εἰς ἕν), so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me” (17:22–23). Thus the final end (τέλος) to which Jesus has loved his pupils (13:1) appears to be their being perfected (τετελειωμένοι) in the divine unity (17:23)—a notion that, in this manner, spans the entire episode of the last symposium (13:1–17:26). Speaking of Plato, the four attainments that the initiates may arguably achieve upon reaching the end of the ladder of love in Plato’s Symposium are: i) full purification, ii) divine unity, iii) truth, and iv) immortality. These goals also feature in John’s Gospel, particularly in the episode of the last symposium. Due to the contraints of the present chapter, I must be brief here, and will only be able to provide a short sketch. Firstly, at the end of Diotima’s ladder, the initiate will “look upon essential beauty entire, pure and unalloyed (αὐτὸ τὸ καλὸν ἰδεῖν εἰλικρινές, καθαρόν, ἄμεικτον); not infected with the flesh (μὴ ἀνάπλεων σαρκῶν) and colour of humanity, and ever so much more of mortal trash” (211e). According to Jesus in his speech at the last symposium, such a state of purity is also attained by the

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pupils: “you are pure” (ὑμεῖς καθαροί ἐστε; 13:10), he says, and ascribes this purity to the effect of his divine Logos: “You have already been purified by the Logos that I have spoken to you (ἤδη ὑμεῖς καθαροί ἐστε διὰ τὸν λόγον ὃν λελάληκα ὑμῖν). Abide in me as I abide in you” (15:3–4). Never in the Synoptic Gospels is Jesus said to have purified his pupils. In these gospels, it is lepers who are cleansed from their leprosy and hence purified.62 Again, we see here a distinctive similarity between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium. Secondly, by ascending the ladder of love, the initiate will attain the divine oneness and unity. As we have seen, the theme of unification through love was already the topic of the fourth speech, that of Aristophanes. In his narration of Diotima’s speech, Socrates also refers back to Aristophanes’s speech (205e), and as soon as Socrates has finished his speech, Aristophanes comments on Socrates’s allusion to his own speech (212c). But whereas the unification of human beings in Aristophanes’s speech concerns the reunion that love achieves with their other human half (191a–b, d), the unification that Diotima has in view is the process (outlined in 210a–211e) by which the initiates—through their successive love for the beauty of one particular body, the beauty of bodies in general, the beauty of souls, and the beauty of the various branches of knowledge—finally attain the beauty that is “existing ever in singularity of form, independent, by itself” (αὐτὸ καθ’ αὑτὸ μεθ’ αὑτοῦ μονοειδὲς ἀεὶ ὄν; 211b), “the very essence of beauty”; then the initiate is able “to behold the divine beauty itself, in its unique form” (αὐτὸ τὸ θεῖον καλὸν […] μονοειδὲς κατιδεῖν; 211e). This unification with the divine is also one of the defining themes of the last symposium. In his final sympotic prayer, Jesus asks the divine Father to protect his pupils, “so that they may be one, as we are one” (ἵνα ὦσιν ἓν καθὼς ἡμεῖς; 17:11). Furthermore, he prays not only on behalf of his present pupils, but also on behalf of all of his pupils in the future, that they may all be one (ἵνα πάντες ἓν ὦσιν), as you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one (ἵνα ὦσιν ἓν καθὼς ἡμεῖς ἕν), I in them and you in me, that they may be perfected into one (ἵνα ὦσιν τετελειωμένοι 62  On the cleansing and purification of lepers, see Mark 1:40–44, Synopsis #42; Matthew 11:5 = Luke 7:22, Synopsis #106; Matthew 10:8; Luke 4:27 and 17:12–14, 17. The phrase “pure in heart” in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:8, “Blessed are the pure in heart [μακάριοι οἱ καθαροὶ τῇ καρδίᾳ], for they will see God”) derives from the notion of a “pure heart” or “pure in heart” in the Septuagint (Genesis 20:5–6; Psalms 23:4, 50:12; Job 11:13, 33:3).

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εἰς ἕν), so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. (17:21–23) The issues of divine unification, perfection, and divine love clearly intersect here. Once again, the terminology of unification with the divine is entirely absent from the Synoptic Gospels. Thirdly, at the end of their ascent, the initiate has left the world of illusions and mediated beauty behind and reached the world of unmediated beauty, the truth itself: “there only will it befall him, as he sees the beautiful through that which makes it visible, to breed not illusions but true examples of virtue, since his contact is not with illusion but with truth (τίκτειν οὐκ εἴδωλα ἀρετῆς, ἅτε οὐκ εἰδώλου ἐφαπτομένῳ, ἀλλὰ ἀληθῆ, ἅτε τοῦ ἀληθοῦς ἐφαπτομένῳ)” (212a). Similarly, in his speech during the last symposium, Jesus talks about truth, identifying himself with it (14:6) and referring to “the Spirit of truth” which will guide the pupils “in all truth” (16:13), through which they will be made sacred (17:17–19). Such a close identification of Jesus with the truth is missing from the Synoptics. Jesus is acknowledged to be “truthful” (ἀληθής) and to “teach the way of God in accordance with truth” (ἐπ’ ἀληθείας; Mark 12:14, Synopsis #280), but nothing comes close to the establishment of the identity of the Johannine Jesus, who, at the final symposium, is depicted as “the true grapevine” (ἡ ἄμπελος ἡ ἀληθινή)” (15:1), just as he is identified as “the true light” (τὸ φῶς τὸ ἀληθινόν; 1:9; cf. Plato, Phaedo 109e) in the prologue, and, in another sympotic setting prior to the last symposium, as “the true bread from heaven” (ὁ ἄρτος ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ὁ ἀληθινός; 6:32), the “true, real meat” (ἀληθής βρῶσις; 6:55), and the “true, real drink” (ἀληθής πόσις; 6:55). It is this differentiation between what is true and what is illusionary and not true (cf. 1 John 5:20–21) that the Johannine corpus shares with Plato’s Symposium and other Platonic dialogues.63 Fourthly and finally, upon completing the ascent, the initiate is also rendered immortal: “So when he has begotten a true virtue and has reared it up he is destined to become dear to the gods (τεκόντι δὲ ἀρετὴν ἀληθῆ καὶ θρεψαμένῳ ὑπάρχει θεοφιλεῖ γενέσθαι); he, above all men, is immortal (καὶ εἴπέρ τῳ ἄλλῳ ἀνθρώπων ἀθανάτῳ καὶ ἐκείνῳ)” (212a). It is a characteristic of those who have finished the ascent that they become immortal. This again resonates with the Gospel of John’s strong interest in the human acquisition of divine immortality. Unlike the Synoptic Gospels, in John’s view, within this lifetime, before the end of time and the eschatological judgment, it is possible for human beings to start partaking in eternal life: 63  Plato, Symposium 212a; cf. Theaetetus 150a–151d; Sophist 234c, 236a, 240a; and Republic VII 520c; IX 586a–c, 587c–d; X 605b–c.

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Very truly, I tell you, anyone who hears my Logos and believes him who sent me has eternal life (ὁ τὸν λόγον μου ἀκούων καὶ πιστεύων τῷ πέμψαντί με ἔχει ζωὴν αἰώνιον), and does not come under judgment, but has passed from death to life (μεταβέβηκεν ἐκ τοῦ θανάτου εἰς τὴν ζωήν). Very truly, I tell you, the hour is coming, and is now here (ἔρχεται ὥρα καὶ νῦν ἐστιν), when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live. For just as the Father has life in himself (ὥσπερ γὰρ ὁ πατὴρ ἔχει ζωὴν ἐν ἑαυτῷ), so he has granted the Son also to have life in himself (οὕτως καὶ τῷ υἱῷ ἔδωκεν ζωὴν ἔχειν ἐν ἑαυτῷ). (5:24–26; cf. 6:50–51, 58; 8:51; 11:26; 12:24–25) Eternal life, which is an essential characteristic of the divine Father and is shared by the divine Logos–Son, is a quality that can also be obtained by human beings in their present lifetime if they heed the logoi of the Logos–Son, who himself is the very ladder of love (cf. 1:51), on whom the logoi–angels ascend and descend (cf. Philo, On Dreams 1.146–147). He incorporates these logoi within himself, as he is the one who has descended from heaven and ascended back to it (3:13). According to Jesus, in his final prayer following his speech at the last symposium, eternal life realises itself in human beings when they attain the knowledge of “the only true God,” as disclosed by the one whom he has sent (17:1–3): “this is eternal life, that they may know you (αὕτη δέ ἐστιν ἡ αἰώνιος ζωή, ἵνα γινώσκωσιν σὲ), the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent” (17:3)—a knowledge that ultimately consists in the awareness of the unifying, comprehensive power of divine love (17:22–26). Hence, all four attainment goals achieved at the top of Diotima’s ladder—purity, divine unity, truth, and immortality—are also found separately throughout the Gospel of John, whilst being altogether absent from the Synoptic Gospels. Jointly, these four achievements even occur side by side in Jesus’s speech at the last symposium, suggesting that this symposium is indeed the immediate parallel to the symposium that Socrates attended at Agathon’s house. More precisely, Jesus’s speech appears to be the closest parallel to Socrates’s speech. Of course, despite the strong thematic commonalities, there is at the same time an important difference. Diotima’s speech, which Socrates recapitulates in his own speech, contains a rather abstract methodology of ascent to divine love, whereas John’s Gospel is fully centred not on an abstract methodology, but on the figure of Jesus Christ, whose life, in his descent and ascent, is seen as the method, for at the last symposium the Johannine Christ identifies himself as “the way (ἡ ὁδός), the truth and the life” (14:16). This figure is seen as the embodiment of the divine love. Yet, upon closer scrutiny, there is in fact a remarkable similarity here with the final speech in Plato’s Symposium,

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which immediately follows Socrates’s speech—that is, the speech unexpectedly delivered by Alcibiades, to which we now finally turn. 3.4 Alcibiades’s Speech about Socrates as the Embodiment of Divine Love After Socrates concluded his rehearsal of Diotima’s speech on divine love, during the applause and the ensuing response from one particular member of the gathering, there came the sudden, tumultuous enterance of Alcibiades—who, in a drunken state, asked permission to join those present, seating himself next to Agathon, the symposium’s host, and taking up the place that Socrates had quietly vacated to grant him space (212c–213b). Noticing that he had actually seated himself between Socrates and Agathon, and learning of the agreement that each symposiast would eulogise the god of love, Alcibiades conforms to this obligation by delivering a eulogy on the figure of Socrates instead (213b–214d). According to Alcibiades, Socrates has superhuman, divine qualities and shows himself to be disinterested in physical love, prompting his lovers to embrace him in a different manner. For Alcibiades, Socrates seems to be the embodiment of divine love. Interestingly, whereas Diotima, according to Socrates himself, still doubted whether Socrates would be able to climb the ladder of the higher mysteries of divine love (209e–210a), Alcibiades’s speech is actually testimony to the fact that Socrates proved himself capable of scaling the ladder of love from the physical to the spiritual.64 Several remarkable similarities between Alcibiades’s eulogy on Socrates and John’s eulogy on Jesus present themselves, and I will now briefly outline these. Firstly, Alcibiades emphasises the enormous power of Socrates’s words and discourses. As he tells Socrates: “so soon as we hear you, or your discourses (λόγοι) in the mouth of another—though such person be ever so poor a 64  I agree with those Classicists who emphasise the convergence between the speeches of Alcibiades and Socrates-Diotima; see C. J. Rowe, Plato: Symposium—Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary (Aris & Phillips Classical Texts; Oxford: Oxbow, 1998), 205–6; Dominic Scott, “Socrates and Alcibiades in the Symposium,” Hermathena 168 (2000): 25–37; Frisbee C. C. Sheffield, “Alcibiades’ Speech: A Satyric Drama,” Greece & Rome 48 (2001): 193–209; M. C. Howatson and Frisbee C. C. Sheffield, Plato: The Symposium (Cambridge: Cambridge Univesity Press, 2008), xxvi–xxviii; and Yancy Dominick, “Images for the Sake of the Truth in Plato’s Symposium,” Classical Quarterly 63 (2013): 558–66; pace Martha Nussbaum, “The Speech of Alcibiades: A Reading of Plato’s Symposium,” Philosophy and Literature 3 (1979): 131–72. See also Harold W. Attridge, “Plato, Plutarch, and John: Three Symposia about Love,” in Beyond the Gnostic Gospels: Studies Building on the Work of Elaine Pagels (ed. Eduard Iricinschi, Lance Jenott, Nicola Denzey Lewis, and Philippa Townsend; Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity 82; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 367–78, esp. 374 on Socrates “illustrating in action the principle articulated in Diotima’s discourse.”

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speaker, and whether the hearer be a woman or a man or a youngster—we are all astounded and entranced” (215d). This response is rather similar to the effect of Jesus’s words and discourses as John describes them in his Gospel (2:22; 4:41, 50; 5:24; 7:40; 8:31, 51; 14:23; 15:3), although his words can also remain difficult to grasp (6:60). Socrates’s speeches are normally cast in everyday language and imagery, concealing a deeper meaning (221e–222a), just as Jesus’s speeches avail themselves of rich imagery and riddles (10:6; 16:25, 29). Socrates’s speeches can be taken as ridiculous and ironic, for according to Alcibiades “he spends his whole life in chaffing and making game of his fellow-men” (216d–217a; cf. 221d–e), rather similarly to the much-discussed “Johannine irony” that Jesus employs in the Gospel of John.65 As in the case of Jesus, the conversion-like effect of the words of Socrates, according to Alcibiades, is that they throw him “into such a state that I thought my life not worth living on these terms” (215e–216a), compelling him “to admit that, sorely deficient as I am, I neglect myself while I attend to the affairs of Athens” (216a), and bringing home to him “that I cannot disown the duty of doing what he bids me, but that as soon as I turn from his company I fall a victim to the favour of the crowd” (216b). Secondly, according to Alcibiades, in defiance of his unattractive outward appearance, Socrates’s inner being is full of soundness of mind and moderation in sensual desires (σωφροσύνη; 216d–e), with due neglect of the superficial attractions of beauty and wealth, counting all his possessions as worth nothing (216e). By contrast, his inner wealth is that of divine images hidden in an outer casing: “I saw them one day, and thought them so divine and golden, so perfectly fair and wondrous, that I simply had to do as Socrates bade me” (217a). In a similar way, the author of John’s Gospel deems Jesus to be “full of kindness and truth” (1:14). Thirdly, according to Alcibiades, this attitude means that Socrates, quite to Alcibiades’s disappointment, is not suspectible to the expectations that govern the stereotypical relations between teachers and their pupils, allowing teachers to be their pupils’ lover (ἐραστής) and exchange their learning for physical gratification (217a–219e). In this way, Alcibiades testifies that Socrates proves himself able to scale Diotima’s ladder of full unification with the divine love. As Alcibiades relates, intent on sexually gratifying his teacher, he tried to come 65  See for example, R. Alan Culpepper, “Reading Johannine Irony,” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith (ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 193–207. On Socratic irony, see John Lombardini, The Politics of Socratic Humor (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018); cf. Gregory Vlastos, “Socratic Irony,” Classical Quarterly 37 (1987): 79–96. See also David Sedley, “Socratic Irony in the Platonist Commentators,”, in New Perspectives on Plato: Modern and Ancient (ed. J. Annas & C. J. Rowe; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 37–57.

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close to Socrates, either by dismissing “the attendant whom till then I invariably brought to my meetings with Socrates” and going out to meet Socrates alone, in private (217a–b), or by inviting his teacher to dine with him, “talking with him far into the night” and constraining him to stay overnight (217d). Alcibiades call Socrates “the only worthy lover (ἐραστής) I have had” and wants to gratify him sexually (218c–d). Yet it is Socrates who turns this physical expectation upside down and fills his pupils with a passion for his philosophical words (218d), preventing them from exchanging their physical, reputed beauty for genuine beauty (218e), warns them against deception, and differentiates between two different kinds of sight: “Remember, the intellectual sight begins to be keen when the visual is entering on its wane; but you are a long way yet from that time” (219a). In appreciation, during his nightly encounter with Socartes, Alcibiades wrapped his “own coat about him, as it was winter (καὶ γὰρ ἦν χειμών),” and wound his “arms about this truly daemonic and miraculous creature (τούτῳ τῷ δαιμονίῳ ὡς ἀληθῶς καὶ θαυμαστῷ); and lay thus all the night long” (219b–c), “marvelling at the moderation and integrity of his nature” (219d). In this way Socrates transforms the normal erastic relationship between teachers and their pupils, as a result of which, as Alcibiades indicates at the very end of his speech, the pupils become the lovers, with Socrates as the object of their love (222b). The parallels with John’s Gospel are particularly close here. In the Gospel, it is Nicodemus who visits Jesus at night (3:2), discusses a topic that is also sexually loaded and ambiguous—the issue of physical (and spiritual) reproduction (3:4–6)—and is critically reproached by Jesus in a rather similar fashion, in terms of an instruction about the difference between earthly and heavenly things that parallels Socrates’s distinction between visual and intellectual sight (219a) and between reputed and genuine beauties (218e–219a): “If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things?” (3:11–13). Moreover, the figure of Alcibiades, who enjoys the intimacy of sitting right next to Socrates (213a–b) and refers to Socrates as his lover (218c), whilst Socrates indeed refers to Alcibiades as the object of his love (213c–d), resonates not only with the figure of Nicodemus, but also with the figure of the beloved pupil, who reclines next to Jesus (13:23; 21:20) in the same way, and who identifies himself—in the same way as Alcibiades depicts Socrates as his lover (ἐραστής; 218c)—as the pupil whom Jesus loved (13:23; 19:26; 20:2; 21:7, 20). Furthermore, it seems that the competition between Alcibiades and Agathon is similarly mirrored in the relation between the beloved pupil and Nicodemus. Just as Agathon and Alcibiades are competing lovers of Socrates (213b–e; 222b–223a), so there exists an intimate relation not only between Jesus and the beloved pupil, but also between Jesus

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and Nicodemus, the special nature of which is confirmed by the latter’s lavish burial gifts after Jesus’ death, narrated in an episode in which the author of John’s Gospel indeed reminds his readers of this nighttime encounter (19:39). Both John and Alcibiades believe that their teachers have truly superhuman, divinely empowered characteristics and are the embodiment of a different, divine love. And just as Socrates receives this teaching on the duality of love from Diotima, a woman prophet, Jesus, in his turn, spreads this insight to men and women alike. He demonstrates this different type of spiritual love not only in encounters with male pupils during nocturnal and sympotic meetings, but also with women, as the narrative of his meeting with the Samaritan woman— in rather compromising circumstances (4:27)—indicates (4:1–42). Apart from this parallelism between the Johannine Jesus and the Platonic Socrates, there are also instances of narratological resonance with Plato’s Symposium in John’s Gospel. A small detail, in one of the passages just discussed, may illustrate this. In his sketch of the circumstances in which Alcibiades wrapped his coat around Socrates, Plato adds this small explicatory sentence: “because it was winter” (καὶ γὰρ ἦν χειμών; 219b). The very same sentence is used by John, although in a different context, to explain why Jesus took shelter in the Stoa of Solomon: “It was winter (χειμὼν ἦν), and Jesus was walking up and down in the temple, in the Stoa of Solomon” (10:22–23). This very simple sentence, in this form, occurs surprisingly infrequently in all extant Greek literature, and is only attested a few times—in Plato, Xenophon, Aesop, and Dio Cassius.66 This is reminiscent of another short temporal statement in Plato’s Phaedo, when Socrates encourages his pupils in prison to make use of his instruction “while there is still light” (ἕως ἔτι φῶς ἐστιν; 89c), a passage that seems to resonate in John’s depiction of the last teaching of Jesus in the Jerusalem temple, when Jesus similarly encourages his audience by stating, “The light is still with you for a little longer” (Ἔτι μικρὸν χρόνον τὸ φῶς ἐν ὑμῖν ἐστιν; 12:35). This sentence, with the assertion “still […] the light […] is” (ἔτι φῶς ἐστιν) at its heart, is only attested in Plato’s Phaedo and John’s Gospel, out of all extant Greek literature. These examples may sufficice to suggest that there are also merely narratological, stylistic resonances between John’s Gospel and Plato’s dialogues, including the Symposium. It is intruiging to inquire into the author’s primary motivation for this. To establish these resonances, it is relevant to pay attention to the ways in which John’s Gospel relates to the Septuagint, the Jewish Scriptures in Greek. In his analysis of this relation, Richard Hays reached the following interesting conclusion: 66  Plato, Symposium 219b; Xenophon, Hellenica 6.5.50–51 and Anabasis 7.6.24; Aesop, Fables 1 (edn Hausrath & Hunger); Dio Cassius, Roman History 12.49.7 and 36.11.1.

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there is […] a surprisingly low number of obvious verbal allusions to Israel’s Scripture in John’s Gospel. Or, to put the point more precisely, John’s manner of alluding does not depend upon the citation of chains of words and phrases; instead it relies upon evoking images and figures from Israel’s Scripture. For example, when he writes, [here follows the quotation of a passage from John’s Gospel], John is clearly alluding to the episode narrated in [here follows a passage from the Septuagint], but the only explicit verbal links between the two passages are [two terms]. His intertextual sensibility is more visual than auditory.67 If this is (even) the case in John’s relation to the Jewish Scriptures, which belonged to his own tradition, and the intertextuality of which is so much more obvious in his Gospel than his acquaintance and interaction with Platonic writings, then it is no surprise that his intertextuality with the latter corpus would follow the same pattern, and that only occasional verbal parallels emerge, although—as the examples show—they are present, and seem to confirm John’s acquaintance with Plato’s dialogues, which we have mainly established through distinctive similarities in content. Finally, in the conclusion of his speech, Alcibiades remarks that he could refer to many other “wonderful things” in praise of Socrates, things he has not covered in his speech: “There are many other quite wonderful things that one could find to praise in Socrates” (Πολλὰ μὲν οὖν ἄν τις καὶ ἄλλα ἔχοι Σωκράτη ἐπαινέσαι καὶ θαυμάσια; 221c; cf. 220b). Rather similarly, “the beloved pupil,” the author of John’s Gospel, at the very end of his text, alludes to many other things (Πολλὰ […] καὶ ἄλλα) that Jesus did: Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his pupils, which are not written in this book (Πολλὰ μὲν οὖν καὶ ἄλλα σημεῖα ἐποίησεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς ἐνώπιον τῶν μαθητῶν [αὐτοῦ], ἃ οὐκ ἔστιν γεγραμμένα ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ τούτῳ). But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name. […] This is the pupil who is testifying to these things and has written them, and we know that his testimony is true. But there are also many other things that Jesus did (Ἔστιν δὲ καὶ ἄλλα πολλὰ ἃ ἐποίησεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς); if every one of them were written down, I suppose that the

67  R  ichard B. Hays, Reading Backwards: Figural Christology and the Fourfold Gospel Witness (London: SPCK, 2015), 78, emphasis in the original. The example Hays gives concerns the allusion to Numbers 21:8–9 in John 3:14.

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world itself could not contain the books that would be written. (20:30–31; 21:24–25) Similarly for Alcibiades, the criterion for what he has selected and included in his speech is that which renders Socrates truly unique in comparison with all other human beings, and even demonstrates the divine nature of his words. According to Alcibiades, Socrates as a person is without comparison: I select his unlikeness to anybody else, whether among the ancients or among the living (τὸ δὲ μηδενὶ ἀνθρώπων ὅμοιον εἶναι, μήτε τῶν παλαιῶν μήτε τῶν νῦν ὄντων), as calling for our greatest wonder. [… W]ith the extraordinary nature (ἀτοπία) of this person, both in himself and in his words (καὶ αὐτὸς καὶ οἱ λόγοι αὐτοῦ), you would not come anywhere near finding a comparison if you searched either among the living or among the ancients (οὔτε τῶν νῦν οὔτε τῶν παλαιῶν), unless perhaps you borrowed my words (cf. 215a–b) and matched him, not with any human being, but with the Silenuses and satyrs, in his person and his words. (221c–d) No other words are “so divine” (θειότατοι; 222a), Alcibiades says. The author of the Gospel of John similarly emphasises Jesus’s incomparability with distinctive Jews from the past—Abraham (8:52–58), Jacob (4:12–14), and Moses (1:17; 6:32–33)—and equally points to his superhuman, divine status (1:1; 5:18; 10:33; 19:7; 20:28). It seems that the Johannine beloved pupil closely identifies himself with Alcibiades and tries to argue that Socrates has finally found his (fuller) counterpart in the “modern,” contemporary world in the figure of Jesus. It seems to be this message that he sets out to communicate in his “Counter-Symposium.” 4

The Reception of Plato’s Symposium by (Other) Early Christian Authors

There is nothing unlikely about such a relation between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium. We have already noted that John’s Jewish contemporary, Philo of Alexandria, was also acquainted with Plato’s Symposium and interacted with it. Here, I would like to draw attention to the fact that the earliest extant manuscripts of both John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium happen to have been found in the same place—among the surviving papyri from Oxyrhynchus—illustrating that, at least geographically and chronologically, both writings had become part of the same reality. Both the only surviving

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manuscript of Plato’s Symposium from antiquity, Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 843 (containing large portions of the second half of the Symposium), and one of the earliest manuscripts of John’s Gospel, 𝔓90 (Pap. Oxy. 3523, containing John 18:36–19:7), date from the second century CE and were found in the rubbish mounds of the Egyptian city of Oxyrhynchus, exemplifying the simultaneous interest of its population in Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel.68 They clearly inhabit the same cultural world. Hence, it is no surprise that, apart from John’s Gospel itself, Plato’s Symposium was certainly used by early Christians from the second century CE onwards. Among the most notable examples are the following: Clement of Alexandria (ca. 150–211/16 CE) and his pupil Origen (184/85–254/55 CE) are both acquainted with Plato’s Symposium and make positive use of it in their writings. In support of his statement that Greek philosophy has largely been derived from the barbarians, Clement refers to Plato, saying that “in the Symposium, Plato, lauding the barbarians as practising philosophy with conspicuous excellence, truly says: ‘And in many other instances both among Greeks and barbarians, whose temples reared for such sons are already numerous’” (Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 1.15.67.2, quoting Plato, Symposium 209e). And later on, arguing that the Christian notions of faith, hope, and love correspond to similar notions among the Greeks, and commenting on love more generally, Clement again refers to Plato’s Symposium: “And in the Symposium he says, ‘That there is instilled into all the natural love of generating what is like, and in men of generating men alone, and in the good man of the generation of the counterpart of himself. But it is impossible for the good man to do this without possessing the perfect virtues, in which he will train the youth who have recourse to him’” (Clement, Stromata 5.2.15.1–2, paraphrasing Plato, Symposium 209b–c). Moreover, Clement’s pupil Origen, in his Against Celsus, refers to Plato’s Symposium in order to demonstrate the respectability of particular biblical views that he finds are unjustly caricatured by Celsus: “But as Celsus makes a jest also of [a particular biblical story], taking the narrative to be an old wife’s fable, […] let us contrast with this the words of Socrates regarding Eros in the Symposium of Plato, and which are put in the mouth of Socrates as being more appropriate than what was said regarding him by all the others at the symposium” (Origen, Against Celsus 4.39). And in his Commentary on “The Song of Songs,” which he stipulates as a writing about love, “written in dramatic form and […] with dialogue between the characters,” Origen alludes to the symposia of Plato and Xenophon, saying that 68  Cf. A. K. Bowman, R. A. Coles, N. Gonis, D. Obbink, and P. J. Parsons, eds., Oxyrhynchus: A City and Its Texts (Graeco-Roman Memoirs 93; London: Egypt Exploration Society, 2007).

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[a]mong the Greeks, indeed, many of the sages, desiring to pursue the search for truth in regard to the nature of love, produced a great variety of writings in this dialogue form, the object of which was to show that the power of love is none other than that which leads the soul from earth to the lofty heights of heaven, and that the highest beatitude can only be attained under the stimulus of love’s desire. Moreover, the disputations on this subject are represented as taking place at meals, between persons whose banquet, I think, consists of words and not of meats. Origen, Commentary on “The Song of Songs,” Prologue69

In one breath with Clement and Origen, one could also mention Eusebius of Caesarea (ca. 260–339 CE), who is immensely indebted to Origen’s library in Caesarea in Palestine. In his Preparation for the Gospel (written after 313 CE), he refers to the same passage in Plato’s Symposium, about “the Garden of Zeus” (Symposium 203b), which, according to both Origen and Eusebius, offers a parallel for the biblical account of the Garden of Eden: As Moses in some mystic words says that in the beginning of the constitution of the world there had been a certain Paradise of God, and that therein man had been deceived by the serpent through the woman, hear now what Plato, all but directly translating the words, and on his part also speaking allegorically, has set down in the Symposium. Instead of the Paradise of God he called it the Garden of Zeus. EUSEBIUS OF CAESAREA, Preparation for the Gospel 12.11; trans. Gifford

Similarly, according to Eusebius, the biblical story of the creation of Eve from the ribs of Adam finds its parallel, although in a garbled version of the story, in Plato’s narration of Aristophanes’s speech about the combination of the male and female sexes in a third, hermaphrodite type (Preparation for the Gospel 12.12; cf. Symposium 189c–193d). But positive use of Plato’s Symposium is not only made in the succession of Clement, Origen, and Eusebius. We also find it in the work of Marcus Minucius Felix (fl. 200–40 CE), the author of a dialogue (!), written in Latin, between Octavius, a Christian, and a pagan counterpart whose views represent the criticism that M. Cornelius Fronto levelled against Christianity. According to Minucius Felix’s Octavius, the Greeks also acknowledge the existence of angels and daemons, and for this he refers to Plato, among others: 69  From Rufinus’s Latin translation; see Origen, The Song of Songs, Commentary and Homilies (trans. R. P. Lawson; Ancient Christian Writers 26; New York: Paulist Press, 1957). I owe this reference to the kind advice of Ilaria Ramelli.

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And in his Symposium also, does not he endeavour to explain the nature of daemons? For he will have it to be a substance between mortal and ­immortal—that is, mediate between body and spirit, compounded by mingling of earthly weight and heavenly lightness; whence also he warns us of the desire of love, and he says that it is moulded and glides into the human breast, and stirs the senses, and moulds the affections, and infuses the ardour of lust. Minucius Felix, The Octavius 26; cf. Symposium 202e–203a

Most remarkably of all, there is the third-century CE Christian author Methodius of Olympus, who is the writer of the Greek Symposium of the Ten Virgins, or On Chastity, a dialogue (!) which is modelled on Plato’s Symposium.70 According to Jerome’s letter to Magnus, an Orator of Rome, Methodius’s Symposium answers Porphyry’s criticism of Christianity (Jerome, The Letters 70: “To Magnus an Orator of Rome, Section 3”; Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, series 2, vol. 6, 368–74 at 369–70). In this case, one could say that this is not merely a positive use of Plato’s Symposium, but also a critical engagement with it, comparable with that of Philo.71 One also encounters echoes of Plato’s Symposium in the writings of Gregory of Nyssa (ca. 330–95 CE), who models 70  For a recent discussion, see Katharina Bracht, ed., Methodius of Olympus: State of the Art and New Perspectives (Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 178; Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2018), esp. Dawn LaValle Norman, “Coming Late to the Table: Methodius in the Context of Sympotic Literary Development,” 18–37; and Katharina Bracht, “Eros as Chastity: Transformation of a Myth in the Symposium of Methodius of Olympus,” 38–62, with reference to Plato and/or his Symposium on 18–27, 29–32, 34–35, 38, 47–55, and 57–60; cf. also Katharina Bracht’s introduction to the same volume, 8–9; Jason König, Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 151–76; and Alexander Bril, “Plato and the Sympotic Form in the Symposium of St Methodius of Olympus,” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 9 (2006): 279–302. See the translation in ANF, vol. 6 (trans. William R. Clark) and in Ancient Christian Writers (The Symposium: A Treatise on Chastity, trans. Herbert Musurillo; New York: Paulist Press, 1958). For a Synoptic comparison between Methodius’s Symposium and Plato’s dialogues, including notably Plato’s Symposium, see A. Jahn, S. Methodii Opera et S. Methodius Platonizans (Halle: Pfeffer, 1865), vol. 2, S. Methodius Platonizans sive Platonismus SS. Patrum Ecclesiae Graecae S. Methodii Exemplo Illustratus, 1–72, indicating how full of Platonic references Methodius’s Symposium is. This synopsis is now accessible online at https://archive.org/ details/smethodiioperae00methgoog, pp. 170–243. 71  William R. Clark, the translator, captures the atmosphere of Methodius’s writing: “The idea [of the Symposium of the Ten Virgins], and some of the ideas [have been] borrowed from the Symposium of Plato, but designed to furnish a contrast as strong as possible between the swinish sensuality of false ‘philosophy’ in its best estate, and the heavenly chastity of those whom the Gospel renders ‘pure in heart,’ and whose life on earth is

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the figure of Macrina in his On the Soul and the Resurrection on Socrates’s Diotima.72 And like Origen in his Commentary on “The Song of Songs” before him, Gregory also associates the subject matter of love in his Homilies on the Song of Songs with a Platonic understanding of love.73 Finally, in the first half of the fifth century CE, Theodoret of Cyrrhus, in Syria, refers to Plato’s Symposium in his Graecarum affectionum curatio (A Cure for Greek Maladies), in its Twelfth Discourse “On Practical Virtue”.74 In this discourse, Theodoret makes a contrast between Plato himself, who is said to be largely in agreement with Christians (12.19–32, 43, 53, 55), and the figure of Socrates, whose conduct, such as his (re)lax(ed) social mingling at symposia, is criticised (12.57–69). For this critique of Socrates, Plato’s Symposium is adduced as a source (12.26, 59–60) alongside Porphyry’s History of Philosophy (12.61–69). These examples may suffice to demonstrate direct Christian engagement with Plato’s Symposium from the second through the fifth centuries. Together with the example of Jewish engagement in Philo’s On the Contemplative Life in the first century (see section 2 above), this demonstrates a direct acquaintance, dialogue, and debate with Plato’s Symposium in Hellenistic Judaism and early Christianity throughout the first five centuries, thus rendering my reading of John’s Gospel against the background of Plato’s Symposium not at all impossible from a historical or a cultural point of view.75 controlled by the promise, ‘they shall see God.’ ” (Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, series 2, 6:701n2494; see further 815n2816, 819, and 872n2996.) 72  See Ilaria L. E. Ramelli, “Gregory of Nyssa on the Soul (and the Restoration): From Plato to Origen,” in Exploring Gregory of Nyssa: Philosophical, Theological, and Historical Studies (ed. Anna Marmodoro and Neil B. McLynn; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), chap. 7, 110–41 at 115. 73  Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Song of Songs, Homily 1, 6:22.18–23.12, edn Langerbeck. On the resonance of Plato’s Symposium here, cf. Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on the Song of Songs, translated with an introduction and notes by Richard A. Norris Jr. (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2012), 25n11. On the early Christian engagement with Platonic love, see also John M. Rist, Eros and Psyche: Studies in Plato, Plotinus, and Origen (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1964); and Catherine Osborne, Eros Unveiled: Plato and the God of Love (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). 74  A modern translation with introduction and notes is offered in Thomas Halton, Theodoret of Cyrus: A Cure for Pagan Maladies (Ancient Christian Writers 67; New York/Mahwah, NJ: The Newman Press, 2013). On Theodoret’s programme, see Yannis Papadogiannakis, Christianity and Hellenism in the Fifth-century Greek East: Theodoret’s Apologetics Against the Greeks in Context (Hellenic Studies Series 49; Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2013); and Niketas Siniossoglou, Plato and Theodoret: The Christian Appropriation of Platonic Philosophy and the Hellenic Intellectual Resistance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 75  For resonances of Plato’s Symposium in early Christian literature, see also Richard Hunter, Plato’s Symposium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 129 and 132–35.

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In addition to the specific engagement of these Jewish and Christian authors with Plato’s Symposium, there is of course also the more general, broader use of sympotic genres and themes in early Christianity. Lactantius (ca. 240– ca. 320 CE), for instance, who taught rhetoric under Emperor Diocletian in Nicomedia—the chief city of the Roman province of Bithynia in Asia Minor— until he converted to Christianity and lost his position, is also said to be the author of a Symposium (see Jerome, On Famous Men 80). According to Anne Friedrich, this Symposium is probably to be identified with (the Symposium of the) XII Sapientes, which is characterised as “a jocular work in the ancient literary tradition of the symposium […] produced at the turn of the 4th century AD by a rhetorically skilled author already versed in Christian discourses, probably by the rhetor and later Christian apologist Lactantius.”76 However, according to Friedrich, whereas Methodius (whose Symposium of the Ten Virgins we have just discussed above) consciously links to Plato’s Symposium, Lactantius’s Symposium follows a more general sympotic tradition.77 This seems to hold true also for Nonnus of Panopolis (fl. 450–70 CE), the author of both the Dionysiaca and the Paraphrase of John’s Gospel, a hexameter version of the Gospel of John.78 Recent research has also enquired into the cross-connections between the two writings, now both attributed to Nonnus.79 In the Paraphrase of John’s Gospel, as Jason König notes, Nonnus renders the Johannine wedding 76  Anne Friedrich, Das Symposium der “XII Sapientes”: Kommentar und Verfasserfrage (Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2002), esp. 479–508. Quotation from the publisher’s English flyer; cf. Friedrich, Das Symposium der “XII Sapientes,” 450, 484, 494, 497–98, 506, and 507–8. 77  Friedrich, Das Symposium der “XII Sapientes,” 496n857: “Methodios lehnte sich in seinem Werke eng an Plato an, während die lockerere Form des Xenophon Wegbereiter für die grammatisch-enzyklopädischen Symposien eines Plutarch oder Athenaios war, in deren Entwicklungslinie […] auch die XII sapientes einzuordnen sind.” See esp. her argument on pp. 438–48. 78   For a detailed commentary on Nonnus’s treatment of John 11, see Konstantinos Spanoudakis, Nonnus of Panopolis: Paraphrasis of the Gospel of John XI (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 79  Herbert Bannert and Nicole Kröll, eds., Nonnus of Panopolis in Context II: Poetry, Religion, and Society (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2017), esp. Domenico Accorinti, “Die Versuchung des Nonnos: Der Mythos als Brücke zwischen Heiden- und Christentum,” 327–54. See also Domenico Accorinti, ed., Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2016), esp. the contributions by Roberta Franchi, “Approaching the ‘Spiritual Gospel’: Nonnus as Interpreter of John,” 240–66; Robert Shorrock, “Christian Themes in the Dionysiaca,” 575–600; Konstantinos Spanoudakis, “Pagan Themes in the Paraphrase,” 601–24. See further Filip Doroszewski, “Judaic Orgies and Christ’s Bacchic Deeds: Dionysiac Terminology in Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St. John’s Gospel,” in Nonnus of Panopolis in Context: Poetry and Cultural Milieu in Late Antiquity with a Section on Nonnus and the Modern World (ed. Konstantinos Spanoudakis; Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter, 2014), 287–302;

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at Cana into a fully sympotic event.80 It is here that we see an application of the sympotic tradition to John’s Gospel which, in my understanding, is already characteristic of the author of John’s Gospel itself, the main difference being that in the latter case, there is a specific connection with Plato’s Symposium, as in the cases of the other authors discussed above, and not just with broader, more general sympotic traditions. Admittedly, however, the early Christian authors who did specifically engage with Plato’s Symposium betray no awareness that it also constitutes the literary context of John’s Gospel, as I have been arguing. It would probably be academically anachronistic to expect them to be able to detect such a specific link, but as a matter of fact, some early Christians who refer to pagan GraecoRoman philosophers do notice that there is a link between John’s Gospel and Plato in general. According to Augustine, who refers to Simplician—the later bishop of Milan—as his source, a particular pagan Platonist was very positive about (the opening of) the Gospel of John, although critical of its (subsequent) claim about the Logos’s incarnation (Augustine, The City of God 10.29). Similarly, as Eusebius of Caesarea relates, one of Plotinus’s pupils, Amelius, was familiar with the Gospel of John, the beginning of which he approvingly quotes and adapts, even as he calls its author a Hebrew and a barbarian theologian (Eusebius of Caesarea, Preparation for the Gospel 11.18.26–11.19.3); I will return to Amelius below.81 This closeness between John’s Gospel and Plato is also felt by Christians such as Cyril of Alexandria (d. 444 CE), who, in his commentary on the Gospel of John, attributes the preliminary motivation of the Greeks who want to see Jesus (John 12:20–21) at least partly to their Platonic identity.82 In this chapter, however, I go one step further by arguing that there is not only an affinity between John’s Gospel and Plato in general, but also a connection between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium in particular. This link between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium has been insufficiently recognised in modern scholarship, although some quite powerful attention has been paid to it. In modern scholarship and literary criticism, the link between these two texts has been made predominantly on the grounds of phenomenological themes, literary criticism, or literary genre. First, phenomenological thematic connections between Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel were drawn in Anders Nygren’s well-known Agape and Robert Shorrock, The Myth of Paganism: Nonnus, Dionysus and the World of Late Antiquity (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011). 80  König, Saints and Symposiasts, 178–79; on Nonnus, cf. also 181 and 202. 81  Cf. George Boys-Stones, Platonist Philosophy, 167. 82  Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on John (Commentarii in Joannem), Book 8 (Fragments); edn Pusey, trans. Randell, 2:308.8–309.24.

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Eros, originally published in Swedish in the 1930s and soon translated into English.83 In this book, Nygren develops a stark contrast between pagan erōs and Christian agapē, and against that background also compares the notion of love in Plato’s Symposium with that of “the Christian Symposium of the Fourth Gospel.”84 Nygren’s antithesis elicited strong responses, including those of historians such as Robert Markus. In an article expounding “the dialect of Eros in Plato’s Symposium,” Markus objects to Nygren’s thesis, which, as Markus summarises it, “sees in the seduction of Christian reflexion on love by Platonic influences the besetting temptation to which it has yielded, the corruption, sometimes amounting to betrayal, of the unique Christian ἀγάπη revealed in Christ.”85 Others were similarly unconvinced, including literary critics such as C. S. Lewis and religious studies scholars such as Julius Lipner.86 Secondly, and entirely independent of this, George Steiner, with his characteristic literary-critical approach, offered a magisterial treatment of Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel in his enigmatic “Two Suppers” (1995),87 the fruit of great narratological intuition, demonstrating considerable cultural sensitivity towards the symbolic importance of both writings as representatives of different constitutive traditions of Western culture. In this essay, Steiner compares, as he phrases it, “the two suppers, the Symposium in the house of Agathon the tragedian, and the Last Supper of Jesus and his disciples as told

83  Anders Nygren, Agape and Eros (London: SPCK, 1932–38/39), Part One: A Study of the Christian Idea of Love (trans. A. G. Hebert; 1932), Part Two: The History of the Christian Idea of Love (trans. Philip S. Watson; 1938/39); revised, in part retranslated, and published in one volume in 1953 (trans. Philip S. Watson; London: SPCK, 1953); originally published in Swedish under the title Eros och agape in 1930–36. 84  See the 1953 edition of Nygren, Agape and Eros (London: SPCK), 231. 85  R. A. Markus, “The Dialectic of Eros in Plato’s Symposium,” The Downside Review 73 (1955): 219–30, esp. 219; included in Gregory Vlastos, ed., Ethics, Politics and Philosophy of Art and Religion (vol. 2 of Plato: A Collection of Critical Essays; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1978), 132–43. 86  C. S. Lewis, The Collected Letters (ed. Walter Hooper; 3 vols.; New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 2000/2004/2006), 2:158, 165; 3:537, 555, 980. Lewis also set out his own (nuanced) views on different types of love in his The Four Loves (London: G. Bles, 1960), engaging with Platonic and Johannine concepts of love, and providing his own categorisations of types of love. Cf. also his The Allegory of Love: A Study in Medieval Tradition (London: Oxford University Press, 1936); Julius Lipner, “Love,” in Fields of Faith: Theology and Religious Studies for the Twenty-first Century (ed. David F. Ford, Ben Quash, and Janet Martin Soskice; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 90–103. 87  George Steiner, “Two Suppers,” Salmagundi 108 (1995): 33–61.

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in the Gospel of John.”88 He calls the writings relating these symposia “two treatises on love”89 and uses the term “counterpoint” to define their relation: Obviously, however, it is the counterpoint of the two trials and capital punishments which urges a double-view. It is the violence done to Socrates in 399 BC and that inflicted on Jesus in c. 33 AD which […] posit a lasting malaise in our culture. They have irremediably deepened and made sorrowful the soul of the thoughtful. We can neither escape nor abide the questions they put. Compelled by his divinely inspired conscience, Socrates puts in doubt the validity of secular law and public interest. Sent about his business by God the Father, the rabbi out of Nazareth challenges the order of immanence in the world; his “folly” unnerves reason. Between these two provocations, there is a crucial connection. They expose our common humanity to the blackmail of perfection. They thrust on us demands of the ideal which we clearly recognize to be so, but cannot meet.90 According to Steiner, “It is out of the reticulation of these two texts, their meshing, that will originate the immensely formative and various mysticism of divine and human love in western religious feeling, metaphysical argument, literature, music and the arts.”91 In his essay, he explores what he calls “the legacy of two suppers.”92 Neither Nygren’s nor Steiner’s comparison between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium, however, seems to have had any impact on modern New Testament scholarship. Thirdly, and finally, another approach connecting John’s Gospel with Plato’s Symposium, this time from the perspective of literary genre, is Harold Attridge’s excellent 2013 article on this issue, first delivered as a paper in a seminar at the annual meeting of the SBL in 2011, which I attended and which influenced my thinking.93 After previous genre comparisons of John’s account of Jesus’s Last Supper in John 13–17 with testamentary, consolatory, and ancient dramatic literature, Attridge’s work is the first to systematically broaden the literary genres considered by adding the sympotic genre. In passing, Attridge refers to the work of Jewish scholars who have started to compare (the development 88  Steiner, “Two Suppers,” 42. 89  Ibid., 46. 90  Ibid., 41, emphasis mine. For the term “counterpoint,” see also ibid., 48, on passages in Plato’s Symposium that are “in counterpoint to the Fourth Gospel” (emphasis mine). 91  Steiner, “Two Suppers,” 46. 92  Ibid., 60. 93  Attridge, “Plato, Plutarch, and John.”

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of the rituals of) the Jewish Passover meals (after the destruction of the Jerusalem temple in 70 CE) with Graeco-Roman sympotic practices.94 In his paper, Attridge sets out to “test the hypothesis that there may […] be some relationship to Greek symposiast literature.”95 To investigate this, he selects “two potential intertexts,”96 “two examples of symposiast literature”97 that, like John’s Gospel, also “deal with the theme of love”:98 Plato’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Amatorius. The latter text Attridge considers particularly relevant to his enquiry, because it “is clearly indebted to Plato and is roughly contemporary with the Fourth Gospel”;99 it is a writing that “has a significant structural similarity to the classical text that is clearly on the literary horizon”—that is, to Plato’s Symposium.100 In his text, Plutarch is Plato’s “imitator.”101 Strictly speaking, Attridge’s inclusion of Plutarch’s Amatorius among the sympotic literature (also highlighted in the subtitle of his article, which mentions “Three Symposia”) is slightly deceptive, as this reworking of Plato’s Symposium, in contrast to John’s strongly sympotic Gospel, loses the original sympotic setting almost entirely. Only the setting of the main part of the dialogue on Helicon—a hill in Boeotia, the seat of the Muses, in the vicinity of Thespiae—is slightly reminiscent of it. After a few days in Thespiae, the dialogue partners “shifted their quarters to Helicon (ἀνέζευξαν […] εἰς τὸν Ἑλικῶνα; LSJ Ἑλικών) […] and sheltered in the court of the shrine of the Muses (καὶ κατηυλίσαντο παρὰ ταῖς Μούσαις)” (749C), where the conversation takes place “on Helicon in the shrine of the Muses” (748F), while they are “at the Muses’ shrine” (762F); the dialogue apparently also continues during their walk back to Thespiae (771D). No mention is made of any sympotic activity. Although Plutarch’s Amatorius is indeed a reworking of Plato’s Symposium, and also of Plato’s discussion of love in his 94  See ibid., 370, with reference to, among others, Siegfried Stein, “The Influence of Symposia Literature on the Literary Form of the Pesah Haggadah,” Journal of Jewish Studies 8 (1957): 13–44. One might also refer to Baruch M. Bokser, The Origins of the Seder: The Passover Rite and Early Rabbinic Judaism (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1984), with thanks to Evan Zimroth (Queens College, City University of New York), who kindly referred me to this book. For further discussion of this issue, see also Enric Cortès i Minguella, “The Passover Meals and Greek Symposia,” Revista Catalana de Teologia 40 (2015): 101–17. 95  Attridge, “Plato, Plutarch, and John,” 368. 96  Ibid., 372. 97  Ibid., 377. 98  Ibid., 369. 99  Ibid., 374. For Plutarch’s Amatorius as a literary imitation of Plato in subject and form, see Richard Hunter, Plato and the Traditions of Ancient Literature: The Silent Stream (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), chap. 5, 185–222. 100  Attridge, “Plato, Plutarch, and John,” 375. 101  Ibid., 378.

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Phaedrus and other dialogues,102 and although it focuses on the topic of love (it is a dialogue—although not a symposium—about love), it drops the sympotic narrative,103 unlike Plutarch’s Table Talk, which does follow the literary model of Plato’s and Xenophon’s symposia, but is not devoted to love.104 Yet whereas Attridge clearly sees a genealogical, historical relation between Plutarch’s Amatorius and Plato’s Symposium, he is more ambiguous about the nature of the relation between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium. On the one hand, Attridge indeed seems to imply that John, like Plutarch, was involved in a conscious intertextuality. Before discussing his “two potential intertexts” from Plato and Plutarch, he states that the beginning of John’s account of the last symposium in John 13 “is not simply a description of a historical event, whatever reminiscences may lie behind the story, but an artful account of a meal that enshrines a conversation about love and that evokes other meals with a similar focus. [… T]here is some ‘gesture’ toward the genre of the symposium.”105 And after his discussion of the two texts from Plato and Plutarch, he proceeds to noting “structural elements” of John 13–17 that, moving beyond some more subtle gestures, “do suggest a more substantive relationship between these chapters and texts such as the Symposium or the Amatorius.” The commonalities Attridge finds concern (1) the fundamental topic of love; (2) the view that “what is said at dinner […] does not stay at dinner, but is carried out in action” (in Socrates’s embodiment of the ideal of love set out in Diotima’s speech, and in the emulation of Jesus’s love by his pupils); (3) the use of irony in the depiction of this love; and (4) the similar “hieratic, revelatory quality” of Diotima’s and Jesus’s words.106 On the other hand, and to some extent also in the passages just discussed, Attridge never explicitly says that John was acquainted with Plato’s Symposium, or that his Gospel has a specific relation to Plato’s text in particular. Plato’s Symposium and Plutarch’s Amatorius are the Gospel’s “distant generic cousins”; they “have some intriguing literary features in common”; they “frame the 102  See John Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius: A Commentary on Plato’s Theories of Love?” Classical Quarterly 51 (2001): 557–75. 103  Naturally it does, because, as Rist argues, “though there are frequent echoes of the Symposium” in the Amatorius, “the seminal Platonic dialogue […] is the Phaedrus” (Rist, “Plutarch’s Amatorius,” 558), which renders Plutarch’s Amatorius a commentary on Plato’s theories (plural) of love. 104  Cf. Roskam, “Plutarch’s ‘Socratic Symposia’.” 105  Attridge, “Plato, Plutarch, and John,” 372, emphasis mine. 106  Ibid., 376–77, emphasis mine. In contrast to Attridge, I do not believe that the notion of “divine unity,” which Attridge mentions under his fourth point and which undergirds Jesus’s appeal for the sanctification of his pupils in John 17:17–19, is absent from Plato’s Symposium; see section 3.3.4 above.

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dialogue with a narrative that exemplifies in a concrete way what the theory means in very human terms”; and they “all share a common technique, expressing their ideal of love through a conversation at a dinner party tied to a story of love in action.”107 Apart from Steiner’s reflective-philosophical piece, Attridge’s paper was the first, and to date the only, systematic comparison between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium and has entirely fulfilled its groundbraking objective “to test the hypothesis that there may indeed be some relationship to Greek symposiast literature.”108 As I have argued in this chapter, I think we can be even more assertive about this relationship and place John’s Gospel in the context of the conscious reception and reworking of Plato’s Symposium, similar to other contemporary writers, such as Philo and Plutarch. I will summarise the reasons for assuming John’s acquaintance with Plato’s Symposium and reflect on the intentions of his dialogue with this text in the next and final section. 5

Concluding Reflections on John’s Gospel as a “Counter-Symposium”

I believe that this chapter has now demonstrated that the relation between Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel is even more specific than suggested in the predominantly generic argument Attridge makes. Most importantly, they share the phenomenon of symposia and the issue of love. But even more specifically, and again in contrast to the Synoptic Gospels, they share the notions, themes, metaphors, and language of i) divine love (as part of the duality of heavenly and vulgar love, for which cf. also Xenophon’s Symposium);109 ii) dispersion and reunification (and grafting together); iii) the duality of generation; iv) the ladder (of Diotima and of Jacob); v) purification and the mysteries; vi) truth (τὸ ἀληθές); vii) immortality (and eternal life, already before the end of time); and viii) the figures of beloved pupils, namely Alcibiades and the anonymous Johannine beloved pupil, the former coming to Socrates at night, similarly to the Johannine Nicodemus. According to both Alcibiades (in his speech about Socrates) and the Johannine beloved pupil, divine love is not only abstract, but is embodied in the figures of Socrates and Jesus. Moreover, apart from these remarkable similarities in content between these two 107  Attridge, “Plato, Plutarch, and John,” 377–78. 108  Ibid., 368. 109  See Xenophon, Symposium 8.6–41; on the chronological priority of Xenophon’s Symposium over Plato’s, see Gabriel Danzig, “Apologetic Elements in Xenophon’s Symposium,” Classica et Mediaevalia 55 (2004): 17–48.

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writings, the way their two narrators authenticate themselves is also strikingly similar: the authenticity of Plato’s Symposium and of John’s Gospel is built upon the presence of each of their beloved pupils at the symposium. Aside from these many commonalities, which can only be convincingly explained through John’s acquaintance with and emulation of Plato’s Symposium, there are indeed also notable, significant differences, which, however, still seem to be part of the same discourse. Whereas according to Socrates’s Diotima, “God with man does not mingle” (θεὸς δὲ ἀνθρώπῳ οὐ μείγνυται; 203a), John emphatically and provocatively states that “the [divine] Logos became flesh (ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο), became incarnate, and lived among us” (1:14) and, in full contradiction of the ascent envisioned upon the ladder of Diotima, asserts that “no one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man” (οὐδεὶς ἀναβέβηκεν εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν εἰ μὴ ὁ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καταβάς, ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου; 3:13), who is not only the one descending, but also the very ladder itself (1:51). Yet these differences, expressing as they do John’s “incarnationalism,” emerge from a shared discourse and continue the same dialogue, although expressing disagreement. To some extent, John’s “incarnationalism” is no problem for the Greeks. According to Alcibiades, the daemon of love is also embodied in Socrates, but then indeed, as Diotima states, love is a daemon that functions as the intermediary between gods and human beings, but is itself no god. As Troels EngbergPedersen has claimed, there may be an analogy between the incarnation of the divine Johannine Logos in the figure of Jesus at his baptism and the embodiment of the Stoic Logos in the Stoic sage,110 but it seems that John’s view cannot be sufficiently explained as a case of Stoic adoptianism, in which the human figure of Jesus “adopts” the Logos. Rather, the incarnation is a second, physical generation and birth that follows the Logos’s previous, primordial spiritual generation and birth from the divine Father, in reverse order to the dual generation of human beings, who are first physically generated “from blood” (ἐξ αἱμάτων), “from the will of the flesh” (ἐκ θελήματος σαρκὸς), and “from the will of man” (ἐκ θελήματος ἀνδρὸς), and only then, ideally speaking, also spiritually “from God” (ἐκ θεοῦ; 1:13). Platonists, however, as the case of Amelius—Plotinus’s pupil—shows, are prepared to accept the incarnation of the Logos, if this incarnation is understood, in a less extreme way, as an

110  Troels Engberg-Pedersen, John and Philosophy: A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 60–63.

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epiphany. This is how Amelius interpreted the descent of the Logos, which he identifies with the Logos of Heraclitus of Ephesus:111 And this then was the Logos (ὁ λόγος), on whom as being eternal depended the existence of the things that were made, as Heraclitus also would maintain (ὡς ἂν καὶ ὁ Ἡράκλειτος ἀξιώσειε), and the same indeed of whom, as set in the rank and dignity of the beginning (John 1:1–2), the Barbarian [i.e., the non-Greek, Jewish, hence barbarian author of the Gospel of John] maintains that he was with God and was God (1:1–2): through whom absolutely all things were made (1:3); in whom the living creature, and life, and being had their birth (1:3–4): and that he fell down into [the realm of] the bodies and, having clothed himself in flesh (1:14), was presented to the eye as human being (καὶ εἰς τὰ σώματα πίπτειν καὶ σάρκα ἐνδυσάμενον φαντάζεσθαι ἄνθρωπον), yet showing even under these circumstances the majesty of his nature (1:14); and indeed, even after dissolution he was again deified, and is a god (1:18), such as he was before he was led down to the body, and the flesh, and Man (πρὸ τοῦ εἰς τὸ σῶμα καὶ τὴν σάρκα καὶ τὸν ἄνθρωπον καταχθῆναι). Amelius apud Eusebius of Caesarea, Preparation for the Gospel 11.19.1–3

In this way, the Logos’s “incarnation” is perceived as a φάντασμα, a φάσμα, an apparition, a (at least partially) deceptive appearance that is so characteristic of the anthropomorphic epiphanies of the Greek gods or beings such as Helen, who exists as “the true Helen” and also as a “fake Helen,” as a phantom 111  For interpretations of this passage, cf. Samuel Vollenweider, “Der Logos als Brücke vom Evangelium zur Philosophie: Der Johannesprolog in der Relektüre des Neuplatonikers Amelios,” in Studien zu Matthäus und Johannes: Festschrift für Jean Zumstein zu seinem 65. Geburtstag / Études sur Matthieu et Jean: Mélanges offerts à Jean Zumstein pour son 65e anniversaire (ed. Andreas Dettwiler and Uta Poplutz; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009), 377–97. See further John Dillon, “St John in Amelius’ Seminar,” in Late Antique Epistemology (ed. S. Vassilopoulou and S. R. L. Clark; Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 30–43; Luc Brisson, “Amélius: Sa vie, son oeuvre, sa doctrine, son style,” ANRW 2.36.2 (1987): 793–860 (and cf. his “Amelius Gentilianus,” Brill’s New Pauly online, accessed January 22, 2019); H. Dörrie, “Une exégèse néoplatonicienne du prologue de l’évangile de Saint Jean,” in Platonica Minora (München: Wilhelm Fink, 1976), 491–507; and, most recently, J. M. Zamora Calvo, “The Christ-Logos Question in Amelius,” ΣΧΟΛΗ 12 (2018): 365–79. Cf. also Clark, “Late Pagan Alternatives,” 547; Jörg Frey, “Between Torah and Stoa: How Could Readers Have Understood the Johannine Logos,” in The Prologue of the Gospel of John: Its Literary, Theological, and Philosophical Contexts: Papers read at the Colloquium Ioanneum 2013 (ed. Jan G. van der Watt, R. Alan Culpepper, and Udo Schnelle; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 189–234, esp. 203; and John Granger Cook, The Interpretation of the New Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 149–50.

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(φάσμα; Euripides, Helen 569) of the real Helen.112 If so understood, it could be argued that Amelius has a positive, although reductionistic-epiphanic understanding of Johannine incarnation. Yet, this reductionist understanding of the incarnation seems to be exactly what is criticised elsewhere in the Johannine corpus, in the letters of John, which criticise those who do not confess that “Jesus Christ has come in the flesh” (Ἰησοῦν Χριστὸν ἐν σαρκὶ ἐληλυθότα; 1 John 4:2–3; cf. 2 John 7). So Johannine incarnationalism takes the incarnation in a maximalist way and does not simply take issue, in an intra-Christian mode, with Christian-Gnostic Docetism, but is best understood as disagreeing with the general Greek understanding of incarnation in the weaker sense of a divine epiphany. It is in this maximalist sense that the Platonists to whom Augustine refers take offence at Johannine incarnationalism, despite their general appreciation for the beginning of John’s Gospel (The City of God 10.29). So indeed, in the end, despite all the extensive agreements with Plato’s Symposium, the author of the Gospel of John differs from Plato in his radical understanding of divine incarnation, although Amelius confirms that he maintained a discourse with Platonism even here. It seems that John’s ultimate purpose is to present Christ as the Socrates among the non-Greek, barbarian nations—who, even after his own departure, and in contrast to Socrates’s pupils who think “like those deprived of a father, that we would live the rest of our lives as orphans” (Phaedo 116a), does not leave his pupils orphaned (14:18), but sends his Spirit as their advocate and intercessor (14:16–17), similarly to the intermediary figure of the daemon of love (Symposium 202e–203a), but depicted as “the spirit of truth” (τὸ πνεῦμα τῆς ἀληθείας; 14:17; 15:26; 16:13). This Jesus, according to John, is also the object and fulfilment of pagan longing, as the completion of the religious quest of the Greeks in Jerusalem illustrates; they now wish to “see Jesus” and find in him the true fulfilment of the meaning of the Eleusinian mysteries (12:20–26). In this way, the Greeks return from their spiritual dispersion (7:35) and are gathered into one as the dispersed children of God (11:52), included into the “one flock” (μία ποίμνη) of all God’s children (10:16)—a metaphor that is part of the imagery of God in the Jewish Scriptures as the true shepherd of Israel (Isaiah 40:10–11; Jeremiah 31:10; Ezekiel 34:11–16) but also matches Plato’s image of the kingly and political art of herding the “two-footed flock” (ποίμνη δίπους) 112  Cf. Verity Platt, Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art, Literature and Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); and the excellent study by my former student, Stefan Mulder, Early Christian Christology Contextualised: The Graeco-Roman Context of “Christian” Docetism (MA thesis, University of Groningen, 2016).

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of humankind (Plato, The Statesman 267c). In this sense, through the medium of the Gospel written by Jesus’s beloved pupil, the question raised by Jesus’s opponents, whether Jesus intends “to go to the Diaspora of the Greeks and teach the Greeks” (7:35), is answered in the affirmative. On the basis of the many parallels between John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium, both with regard to the importance of the symposium and its subject matter—love—as well as many specific issues, phrases, and notions that occur in both texts, I am inclined to characterise John’s Gospel as a “CounterSymposium,” an “Anti-Symposium,” with all the different meanings of the Greek ἀντί attached. There is, on the one hand, a clear negative sense of opposition and replacement, with John’s Gospel placing itself “opposite” and “over against” (LSJ ἀντί A.I) Plato’s Symposium, and even “instead of” or “in the place of” Plato’s dialogue (LSJ ἀντί A.III.1). On the other hand, however, there is also a more positive sense of John’s Gospel “set against” Plato’s Symposium, “compared with” it, and “in preference to” it, expressing the feeling that it is “equal to” and “like” (LSJ ἀντί C.6) Plato’s dialogue, in the sense of “corresponding” to it as type and anti-type, the anti-type being the reproduction or copy of the other one. In that latter sense, John’s Gospel becomes an “Anti-Symposium,” and it is very interesting—as we have already seen at the beginning of this chapter—that the second-century CE writer Lucian knows this phenomenon of ἀντισυμποσιάζειν, of “writ[ing] a Symposium in rivalry of Plato” (LSJ ἀντισυμποσιάζω). In his dialogue Lexiphanes, Lucian has Lycinus, who finds Lexiphanes writing, ask the latter about the theme of his work, and Lexiphanes answers: “I am counter-banqueting (LSJ ἀντισυμποσιάζω “writ[ing] a Symposium in rivalry of ”) the son of Aristo in it,” to which Lycinus responds: “There are many “Aristos,” but to judge from your “banquet” I suppose you mean Plato” (Lucian, Lexiphanes 1). This term, I think, is rather useful to describe John’s intention: he writes his Gospel, with its strong emphasis on the last symposium and its theme of love, as a Symposium to rival Plato’s, in a similar way as his contemporary Philo of Alexandria did in his On the Contemplative Life, and as Methodius of Olympus did in his Symposium, written in the third century CE. This competitive rivalry implies both appreciation and critique. John’s Gospel becomes the counterpart of Plato’s Symposium, encompassing the whole variety of positioning itself as its equal and an equivalent, but also as a supplement and an improvement. This ambiguity is part of John’s strong supersessionism, his conviction that the incarnate Logos is so “full of kindness and truth” (πλήρης χάριτος καὶ ἀληθείας; 1:14) that it both answers and supersedes all existing human expectations and longings—of Jews, Samartians, and Greeks. Firstly, with regard to Judaism, Jesus, as the true paschal lamb, performs the essence of the Passover

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festival, as he does with all other Jewish temple festivals; yet there is also the sense of the polemic, the point where debate and discourse spill over into (violent) polemics. When the Johannine Christ, although crediting the Jews with the origins of the salvation that he bestowes (4:22), nevertheless—in line with current intra-Jewish polemics113—in the course of a dialogical exchange (8:31–58), traces the origins of his opponents’ behaviour and yearnings back to the devil (8:44), he provokes their demonisation of him in return (8:48–49, 52; cf. 7:20), as well as their expulsion of his followers from the synagogue (9:22; 12:42; 16:2). Secondly, with regard to Samaritanism, Jesus is the prophet and Messiah that the Samaritans expect (4:19, 25, 29), but he also ends their locative religion, which is centered on Mount Gerizim, by replacing it with a non-locative worship of God “in spirit and truth” (4:20–24). This will end the Samaritan-Jewish controversy, as it will also simultaneously replace the locative religion of the Jews, which is centered on Jerusalem (4:21). Thus he exceeds all Samaritan expectations, as he proves to be “the saviour of the world” (ὁ σωτὴρ τοῦ κόσμου; 4:42). Thirdly, with regard to Hellenism, Jesus is Socrates’s successor from among the barbarians (Phaedo 78a; cf. Symposium 209d–e), the one who effortlessly descends and ascends on the ladder of Diotima. The discourse gets polemical here, as it explicitly states, “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven” (3:13), thus tying in with Diotima’s own doubt about whether Socrates himself could scale the full ladder of love (Symposium 210a), but also categorically excluding the idea that such a full ascent is possible for anyone, and thus eventually replacing Diotima’s ladder with the ladder of the Christ–Logos (1:51). Jesus’s death also reveals the full significance of the mysteries of Eleusis, thus ending the religious quest of the Greeks, who have come to Jerusalem and wish to see him (12:20–26). So indeed, ambiguity is a hallmark of John’s supersessionism, and the “anti” in John’s “Anti-Symposium” carries all the meanings of juxtaposition, comparison, emulation, and replacement, in a sustained discourse with Plato’s Symposium. Weighing it all up, the balance of John’s Gospel is perhaps tipped more in favour of harmony than antithesis, and for that reason perhaps it is best, borrowing a musicological term, to speak of a contrapuntal relation, inasmuch as counterpoint is the harmonisation of various voices into an interdependent polyphony, thus entailing both interdependence and independence, the hallmarks of true dialogue. George Steiner has already used the term “counterpoint” to characterise the relation between the two writings, although 113  See for example, the Community Rule among the Dead Sea Scrolls, in which the sons of light, the members of the community, are contrasted with the sons of darkness, who belong to the devil-figure Belial (1QS III,13–IV,25).

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still sparingly.114 The term has become particularly important in Edward Said’s contrapuntal readings, where it is used to describe the ambiguity of the relation of an emerging sub-culture in relation to the dominant culture, the appropriation of which is marked by both congeniality and criticism, thus enabling a critical appropriation of the leading culture.115 Thus, John’s Gospel is clearly a case of the continuation of (sympotic) dialogue, adding to the evidence of Christian dialogues in antiquity. It seems wrong to compare the (supposed demise of) dialogue in early Christianity with (the strong rise of) the sermon, as if they belong to the same field, whereas in fact they occupy different social levels. The sermon reflects the success of the Christian movement as a movement, which renders dialogue impossible in that context, but (sympotic) dialogue was maintained in different settings: in (the readings of) the gospels, including the Gospel of John, but also the Gospel of Luke, as Jason König and Gillian Clark have noted;116 in the sympotic works of Methodius and Lactantius; in Augustine’s Cassiacum retreats; and in the development of the interior dialogue, the soliloquy. A comparison between a sermon and a dialogue is therefore a change from one genus into another, comparing the incomparable, because it confuses elitist and popular forms of gathering, conflating high table dialogue with large, more socially inclusivive, stratified gatherings of men and women, cultured and non-cultured, slaves and masters (cf. Galatians 3:28), which, due to their size, were no longer organised around a “real meal,” but found their place in basilicas. Interestingly, this social development of meeting formats is still visible in some early Christian churches, such as in the fifth-century CE Christian basilica with auxiliary buildings on the precincts of the sanctuary of Asclepius at Epidaurus in the Peloponnese, where on the southern side of the complex, there is still a row of stone

114  See Steiner, “Two Suppers,” 41 and 48. 115  With thanks to Alissa Jones Nelson (Berlin), for drawing my attention to Said’s theory. For a discussion of Said’s theory of counterpoint, see May Telmissany and Stephanie Tara Schwartz, eds., Counterpoints: Edward Said’s Legacy (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010). For an application of this theory in biblical studies, see Alissa Jones Nelson, “Contrapuntal Hermeneutics: Semantics, Edward W. Said, and a New Approach to Biblical Interpretation,” in Thinking Towards New Horizons (ed. Matthias Augustin and Hermann Michael Niemann; Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2008), 203–12; and idem, Power and Responsibility in Biblical Interpretation: Reading the Book of Job with Edward Said (Abingdon/New York: Routledge, 2014), esp. 53–86. 116  See König, Saints and Symposiasts, 14, 130–34, and 137; and Clark, “Can We Talk?,” 117–18, both with reference to the Gospel of Luke.

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couches.117 Though these were possibly only added for ornamental reasons, yet in any case, they are reminiscences of the importance of sympotic dialogue. Bibliography Aland, Kurt. Synopsis of the Four Gospels: Greek-English Edition. 11th ed. Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2000. Accorinti, Domenico, ed. Brill’s Companion to Nonnus of Panopolis. Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2016. Accorinti, Domenico. “Die Versuchung des Nonnos: Der Mythos als Brücke zwischen Heiden- und Christentum.” Pages 327–54 in Nonnus of Panopolis in Context II: Poetry, Religion, and Society. Edited by Herbert Bannert and Nicole Kröll. Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 2017. Attridge, Harold W. “Plato, Plutarch, and John: Three Symposia about Love.” Pages 367– 78 in Beyond the Gnostic Gospels: Studies Building on the Work of Elaine Pagels. Edited by Eduard Iricinschi, Lance Jenott, Nicola Denzey Lewis, and Philippa Townsend. Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity 82. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013. Bannert, Herbert, and Nicole Kröll, eds. Nonnus of Panopolis in Context II: Poetry, Religion, and Society. Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2017. Bauckham, Richard. The Testimony of the Beloved Disciple: Narrative, History, and Theology in the Gospel of John. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2007. Bokser, Baruch M. The Origins of the Seder: The Passover Rite and Early Rabbinic Judaism. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1984.

117  On the Christian basilica complex at Epidaurus, see Robert Milburn, Early Christian Art and Architecture (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988), 158–59 (with illustration #104, taken from the next publication); Richard Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture (4th ed., rev. by Richard Krautheimer and Slobodan Ć určić; New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1986), 118–19 (with illustration #72), although without mention of the presence of couches. Nor are they mentioned in Rebecca Sweetman, “The Christianization of the Peloponnese: The Topography and Function of Late Antique Churches,” Journal of Late Antiquity 3 (2010): 203–61. I owe the observation of their presence to Prof. Henk Jan de Jonge (Leiden), who kindly shared this information with me. For the development of the Christian Eucharist from its sympotic form— with real meals—to a ritualised form, see Henk Jan de Jonge, “The Origins of the Sunday Eucharist,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 92 (2016): 549–79. There is also evidence of couches in the nearby gymnasium of the same Asclepius sanctuary at Epidaurus; see R. A. Tomlinson, “Two Buildings in Sanctuaries of Asklepios,” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 89 (1969): 106–17.

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Bowman, A. K., R. A. Coles, N. Gonis, D. Obbink, and P. J. Parsons, eds. Oxyrhynchus: A City and Its Texts. Graeco-Roman Memoirs 93. London: Egypt Exploration Society, 2007. Boys-Stones, George. Post-Hellenistic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Boys-Stones, George. Platonist Philosophy 80 BC to AD 250: An Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Bracht, Katharina, ed. Methodius of Olympus: State of the Art and New Perspectives. Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 178. Berlin/ New York: De Gruyter, 2018. Bracht, Katharina. “Eros as Chastity: Transformation of a Myth in the Symposium of Methodius of Olympus.” Pages 38–62 in Methodius of Olympus: State of the Art and New Perspectives. Edited by Katharina Bracht. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, 2018. Bril, Alexander. “Plato and the Sympotic Form in the Symposium of St Methodius of Olympus.” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 9 (2006): 279–302. Brisson, Luc. “Amélius: Sa vie, son œuvre, sa doctrine, son style.” In ANRW 2.36.2: 793– 860. Edited by H. Temporini and W. Haase. New York: De Gruyter, 1987. Cameron, Averil. Dialoguing in Late Antiquity. Hellenic Studies 65. Cambridge, MA/ London: Harvard University Press, 2014. Clark, Gillian. “Can We Talk? Augustine and the Possibility of Dialogue.” Pages 117–34 in The End of Dialogue in Antiquity. Edited by Simon Goldhill. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Clark, Stephen R. L. “Late Pagan Alternatives: Plotinus and the Christian Gospel.” Religious Studies 52 (2016): 545–60. Cook, John Granger. The Interpretation of the New Testament in Greco-Roman Paganism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000. Cortès i Minguella, Enric. “The Passover Meals and Greek Symposia.” Revista Catalana de Teologia 40 (2015): 101–17. Culpepper, R. Alan. “Reading Johannine Irony.” Pages 193–207 in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith. Edited by R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996. Danzig, Gabriel. “Apologetic Elements in Xenophon’s Symposium.” Classica et Mediaevalia 55 (2004): 17–48. Danzig, Gabriel. “Xenophon’s Symposium.” Pages 132–51 in The Cambridge Companion to Xenophon. Edited by Michael A. Flower. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. De Jonge, Henk Jan. “The Origins of the Sunday Eucharist.” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 92 (2016): 549–79. Dillon, John. The Middle Platonists: 80 BC to AD 220. Rev. ed. London: Duckworth, 1996.

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Van Kooten, George. “Bildung, Religion, and Politics in the Gospel of John: The Erastic, Philhellenic, Anti-Maccabean, and Anti-Roman Tendencies of the Gospel of ‘the Beloved Pupil’.” Pages 123–77 in Scriptural Interpretation at the Interface between Education and Religion. Edited by Florian Wilk. Themes in Biblical Narrative 22. Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2019. Van Kooten, George. “Christ and Hermes: A Religio-Historical Comparison of the Johannine Christ-Logos with the God Hermes in Greek Mythology and Philosophy.” Forthcoming in Theologie und Religionswissenschaft—eine Standortbestimmung hundert Jahre nach Georg Heinrici. Edited by Marco Frenschkowski and Lena Seehausen. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Van Voorst, Robert E. Jesus Outside the New Testament: An Introduction to the Ancient Evidence. Grand Rapids, MI/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2000. Vlastos, Gregory. “Socratic Irony.” Classical Quarterly 37 (1987): 79–96. Vollenweider, Samuel. “Der Logos als Brücke vom Evangelium zur Philosophie: Der Johannesprolog in der Relektüre des Neuplatonikers Amelios.” Pages 377–97 in Studien zu Matthäus und Johannes: Festschrift für Jean Zumstein zu seinem 65. Geburtstag / Études sur Matthieu et Jean: Mélanges offerts à Jean Zumstein pour son 65e anniversaire. Edited by Andreas Dettwiler and Uta Poplutz. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2009. Wolfsdorf, David. Pleasure in Ancient Greek Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Zamagni, Claudio. “The Elenchos and the ‘Mysteries’: Constructing Heretical Identity in Ancient Christianity.” Religion in the Roman Empire 4 (2018): 289–302.

chapter 11

Valentinian Protology and the Philosophical Debate regarding the First Principles Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta Taking Irenaeus’s report of Ptolemy’s Great Notice (Against Heresies 1.1–8), this chapter will delve into Valentinian protology, as also witnessed by the Refutatio, Heracleon’s fragments, Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora, Excerpta ex Theodoto, and some texts from Nag Hammadi. The comparative analysis of the Valentinian system will firstly show that sectarian views on the Demiurge, matter, and creation are much more positive than the church fathers would be ready to admit. Secondly, it will demonstrate that Valentinian mythologoumena should be placed in the wider context of the religious-philosophical discussion regarding first principles in the first two centuries, in which Neo-Pythagoreans, Platonists, Stoics, and Gnostics alike were engaged. Thirdly, it will confirm that Ptolemy’s equation of the Logos with the demiurgic cause anticipates the split between a divine intellect and a demiurgic intellect that we find in Numenius. In this sense, the analysis of Valentinian protology allows us to see Valentinians as actors in their own right, who not only participated, but also dared to innovate in the lively philosophical discussion that involved different philosophical schools, Jews, and Christians alike. Until quite recently, Gnostic thought was exclusively understood vis-à-vis proto-orthodox Christianity. Mainly due to the bias of our sources, until the discovery of the Nag Hammadi treatises in the 1940s, our views regarding Valentinian protology relied on the partial understanding of the church fathers, who voluntarily or involuntarily transmitted a rather distorted version of it.1 The publication and translation of and commentaries on the numerous treatises, however, would still require four or five more decades to be completed. It is not surprising, therefore, that it is only recently—since the last decades of the twentieth century—that we have begun to understand that Gnostic thought was not simply to be understood as a parasite on orthodox Judaism or Christianity.2 Gnostics were important actors in the cultural context in which 1  See David Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 1–6 and 29–36. 2  April DeConick, The Gnostic New Age (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016); Roelof van den Broek, Gnostic Religion in Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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they lived, and the stature of their thought can only be properly understood as part and parcel of the ongoing discussion among philosophical and religious groups in the first centuries CE.3 Slowly but surely, studies have begun to sketch a new picture in which old clichés are superseded one by one.4 Not only are we beginning to understand that their views cannot be taken as simple reactions, we now know that essential conceptual developments in both Christian and pagan worldviews were due to their innovative contributions.5 In this chapter, I would like to exemplify this by delving into Valentinian protology. The analysis of Ptolemy’s Great Notice and its comparison with other versions of the Valentinian system will highlight points of contact with contemporary discussions regarding first principles in philosophical circles. In so doing, my goal is not the analysis of the “sources” of Valentinian views.6 As I will argue, Valentinians do not slavishly follow philosophical precedents, but are instead important participants in these ongoing discussions, to which they made important contributions. In the framework of the present book on intolerance, polemics, and debate, I consequently intend to show that in developing their views, their interlocutors were both fellow Christians and those engaged in debates in the wider cultural context of the first two centuries.

Karen King, What is Gnosticism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Michael A. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996, repr. 2001). 3  See the volume edited by John D. Turner and Ruth D. Majercik, Gnosticism and Later Platonism: Themes, Figures, and Texts (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000); and Turner, Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition (Québec: Presses De L’Université Laval, 2001). 4  See, in general, King, What is Gnosticism, 20–54; on anthropological determinism, see Einar Thomassen, “Saved by Nature? The Question of Human Races and Soteriological Determinism in Valentinianism,” in Zugänge zur Gnosis. Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft 02.–05.01.2011 in Berlin-Spandau, ed. Christoph Markschies and Johannes van Oort (Leuven/Walpole, MA: Peeters, 2013), 129–50; on human classes, see lsmo Dunderberg, “Valentinian Theories on Classes of Humankind,” in Zugänge zur Gnosis, 113–28; on ethics, see Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism,” 163–88; King, What is Gnosticism, 201–8; on anticosmic-dualism, see Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism,” 96–103. 5  See Zeke Mazur, “The Platonizing Sethian Gnostic Background of Plotinus Mysticism” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2010); Jean-Marc Narbone, Plotinus in Dialogue with the Gnostics (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Mazur, “‘Those Who Ascend to the Sancturaries of the Temples’: The Gnostic Context of Plotinus First Treatise,” in Gnosticism, Platonism and the Late Ancient World: Essays in Honour of John D. Turner, ed. K. Corrigan and T. Rasimus (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 329–68, here 329–30 and n5. 6  On this issue, see Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians” (Leiden: Brill, 2006); see also more recently Giuliano Chiapparini, Valentino Gnostico e Platonico: Il Valentinianesimo della ‘Grande Notizia’ di Ireneo di Lione: fra esegesi gnostica e filosofia Medioplatonica (Milano: Vita e Pensiero, 2012).

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In order to do so, I will focus on Valentinian views on the relationship between God, Achamoth, and the Demiurge, and also sketch their views concerning the appearance of matter and the creation of the cosmos. My chapter is divided into three sections. The first focuses on Valentinian protology, as presented mainly in Irenaeus’s exposition of Ptolemy’s Great Notice (Against Heresies 1.1–9), but also in other sources—such as Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora, the Valentinian exegesis of John 1:3 mentioned by Irenaeus (1.8.5), PseudoHippolytus’s Refutatio, and some texts from Nag Hammadi, such as the Gospel of Truth. The second contextualises these views by placing them primarily in the context of the debate with Middle Platonic and Neo-Pythagorean interlocutors, and less with the Stoics, regarding first principles. Despite recent attempts to highlight the influence of Stoicism on Early Christianity,7 my intention is to re-evaluate the Platonic background of Valentinian views by placing them at the core of the discussion regarding first principles. The third section provides some preliminary conclusions. 1

Valentinian Protology according to Ptolemy’s Great Notice (Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.1–8)

1.1 The Father According to the monistic system of the Great Notice, after the transcendent, invisible, and incomprehensible divinity (ἀχώρητον καὶ ἀόρατον, ἀΐδιόν τε καὶ ἀγέννητον)8—called Forefather and portrayed as a duality9—we have the Father, which is a nous, also called “Monogenes, Father, and Beginning of all things” (τὸν δὲ Νοῦν τοῦτον καὶ Μονογενῆ καλοῦσι, καὶ Πατέρα, καὶ Ἀρχὴν τῶν πάντων). The Intellect’s double orientation explains (a) his internal activity, namely his 7  See, for example, the articles collected in the volume edited by Tuomas Rasimus, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg, Stoicism in Early Christianity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2010); see also Engberg-Pedersen, “A Stoic Understanding of the Pneuma and Resurrection in 1 Corinthians 15,” Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010-02-25), Oxford Scholarship Online, 2010-05-01. 8  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.1. Greek text according to Adelin Rousseau and Louis Doutreleau, Irénée de Lyon. Contre les hérésies. Livre 1, vol. 2 (Paris: Cerf, 1979), 28–29 (74–86). English translations follow Dominic J. Unger and John J. Dillon, St. Irenaeus of Lyons: Against the Heresies (New York, N.Y., etc.: Paulist Press, 1992): “They claim that in the invisible and unnamable heights there is a certain perfect Aeon that was before all, the First-Being, whom they also call First-Beginning, First Father, and Profundity. He is invisible and incomprehensible. And, since he is incomprehensible and invisible, eternal and ingenerate, he existed in deep quiet and stillness through countless ages.” 9  Since he also has a feminine aspect (Ennoia, Sige, Charis).

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introspective contemplation of the first principle (θεωρῶν τὸν Πατέρα καὶ τὸ μέγεθος τὸ ἀμέτρητον αὐτοῦ κατανοῶν),10 and (b) his activity “ad extra.”11 After a process of emanation, the Father condescends to produce the Aeons12 that will form the divine realm.13 The last one to be created is Sophia.14 It is the latter’s inferior part, or Achamoth, that is responsible for the creation of the lower levels of reality.15 1.2 Achamoth Due to her (defective) spiritual nature, Achamoth inhabits the intermediate place (mesotes), “above the Demiurge indeed, but below and outside of the Pleroma.”16 This is due to the formlessness and weakness of her feminine spirituality.17 In this mythological exposition, Achamoth—or “exterior Sophia”—is the inferior part of Sophia, resulting from the process of 10  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.2.1; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 36–37 (143–44). 11  For an excellent treatment of this section, see Antonio Orbe, La teología del Espíritu Santo (Rome: Universitatis Gregorianae, 1966), 121–38. 12  Admittedly the Intellect (Nous) is sensu stricto only responsible for the emission of the first Ogdoad, since he delegates the rest to Logos (and Zoe) and Anthropos (and Ecclesia). However, Irenaeus (1.1.1) clearly states that he is ultimately “Father of all who were to come after him and the beginning and formation of the entire Fullness.” 13  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.1; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 29–30 (85–89): “After She (scil. Sige) had received this ‘seed’ and had become pregnant, she gave birth to Mind, who was both similar and equal to his Father who emitted him; and He alone comprehended his (Father’s) greatness. This Mind they also call Only-begotten, Father and Beginning of all things.” 14  I am aware that I am simplifying the myth. I do that on purpose, focusing on those aspects that will facilitate a better comparison with contemporary philosophical parallels in the second part of this chapter. In contrast to the case of Nous, Sophia and Achamoth show no double orientation. We see rather an internal cleavage (horismos), with the superior Sophia oriented upwards, towards Nous, and the lower one (Achamoth) oriented towards the “places of shadow and emptiness” (1.4.1, ἐν σκιᾶς καὶ κενώματος τόποις). 15  See Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta, “Achamot, el Alma del mundo valentiniana, y su relación con el Demiurgo (Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 1.5).” In Jornadas sobre la Filiación VII: Cultura pagana, religión de Israel, orígenes del cristianismo. Gnosis, Valentín, valentinianos, edited by Andrés Sáez Gutiérrez, Guillermo Cano Gómez and Clara Sanvito, 313–38 (Madrid: Trotta, 2018). For the distinction between upper and lower Sophia, see Orbe, La teología del Espíritu Santo, 399–402. 16  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.3; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 82–83 (522–26). 17  The fact that Achamoth is not purely spiritual (but rather defectively spiritual) nor completely psychic seems to imply the attempt in Irenaeus’s account to find a proper place for above the psychic region of the Demiurge and outside the Pleroma sensu stricto. Thomassen (Spiritual Seed) concludes from this affirmation and the different use of mesotes in the Letter to Flora, where it is applied to the Demiurge, that Ptolemy cannot be the author of the Great Notice.

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division described in the previous chapters of Irenaeus’s account.18 Only the Monogenes can know the Father, as we saw above. All the other Aeons are ignorant of him, since they lack the degree of communion that characterises the relationship between the Forefather and the Father. All knowledge of the Father is no longer immediate and is from now on marked by an intrinsic lack—namely ignorance, which the last Aeon (Sophia) attempts to overcome by her own means.19 Although there are other versions of her motivation,20 in Irenaeus’s report, Sophia’s attempt to know the Father is apparently based on love for him, but was actually due to her audacity (tolma)—which in Irenaeus’s account is manifestly negative, but in other contexts was considered either a positive or, in any case, a neutral passion.21 It is this step that generates the process of substantialisation, so to speak— of passions that gives rise to matter, so graphically described in the Gospel of Truth:22 “This ignorance of the Father brought about terror and fear. And terror became dense like a fog, so no one was able to see. Because of this, error became strong. But she worked on her material substance vainly, because she did 18  Known both as Achamoth and Enthymesis, this inferior Sophia is the result of the intervention of Horos, which purifies Sophia by separating her from her Intention (Enthymesis) and passion (pathos). As a result, Sophia remains in the Pleroma, but Achamot is kept outside (Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.2.4). Valentinian sources are hesitant regarding the existence of one or two Sophias. For an overview of the systems including either one or two, see Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 248–62. For a detailed explanation of the relationship between the higher and lower Sophias, see Orbe, La teología del Espíritu Santo, 235–69 (Sophia) and 305–29 (Achamoth). 19  See Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.2.1–5. On this issue, see Zlatko Pleše, “Evil and its Sources in Gnostic Traditions,” in Die Wurzel allen Übels Vorstellungen über die Herkunft des Bösen und Schlechten in der Philosophie und Religion des 1.–4. Jahrhunderts, ed. Fabienne Jourdan and Rainer Hirsch-Luipold (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 101–32, here 112–17. 20   Pseudo-Hippolytus (Refutatio 6.30.6–8) attributes it to her audacity in trying to imitate the Father. Audacity also plays an important role in the Tripartite Tractate (NHC I,5) 75.17– 80.11. See Thomassen, “The Derivation of Matter in Monistic Gnosticism,” in Gnosticism and Later Platonism, 1–17, esp. 1–2; and Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 283–88, which underlines the contacts between Irenaeus and Tripartite Tractate. See the excellent analysis by Mariano Troiano, “Plotine et les gnostiques: L’audace du démiurge,” Journal of Coptic Studies 15 (2013): 209–35. 21  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.2.2: “The passion began in Mind and Truth but spread as by infection to this estranged Aeon [Wisdom] under the pretense of love, but in reality out of temerity, because he had no fellowship with perfect Father, as even Mind did. The passion consisted in seeking after Father; for he wished, so they say, to comprehend his greatness.” See also Tripartite Tractate (NHC I,5) 75.19–28; see the same background in Gospel of Truth (NHC I,3) 17.8–18.11. For an excellent and exhaustive analysis of Sophia’s miscarriage in the Apocryphon of John and beyond, see Zlatko Pleše, Poetics of the Gnostic Universe Narrative and Cosmology in the Apocryphon of John (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 142–60. 22  Gospel of Truth (NHC I,3) 17.10–20.

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not know the truth. She assumed a fashioned figure while she was preparing, in power and in beauty, the substitute for truth.”23 Both the first division mentioned above and the resultant appearance of passions indicate that what we see before us is the fall of the soul, something which seems to be confirmed by both the Tripartite Tractate (if here Sophia is called Logos) and the Exegesis on the Soul, which describes the soul’s incarnation in vivid terms.24 Both Irenaeus and Hippolytus present exterior Sophia as deficient, but her deficiency or privation is eventually corrected by Christ, who “then formed for her the formation that is according to knowledge and healed her passions”—which, in my view, should be interpreted as the transmission of his rationality.25 This rectification enables her repentance and conversion,26 as a result of which Achamoth acquires the rational principle behind the creative impulse that will account for the creation of the cosmos. After referring to the three kinds of substance distinguished by Valentinians in the constitution of the universe—material, proceeding from passion; psychic, proceeding from conversion; and spiritual27—Irenaeus focuses on Achamoth’s creative impulse. While she herself is spiritual, the following two substances appear in two steps. In the first one, as we have just seen, matter arises from her passions. At this point, being the result of passion, matter is simply a formless material.28 In the second step, after her repentance, the 23  English translation following Harold W. Attridge and George W. MacRae, “The Gospel of Truth,” in Nag Hammadi Codices. I [,1], (the Jung Codex): Introductions, Texts, Translations, Indices, ed. H. W. Attridge (Leiden: Brill, 1985), 55–122. 24  T  ripartite Tractate (NHC I,5) 77.19–29; Exegesis on The Soul (NHC II,6) 127.18–128.25. On the latter text, see Roig Lanzillotta, “‘Come out of your Country and your Kinsfolk‘: Allegory and Ascent of the Soul in The Expository Treatise on the Soul (NHC II,6),” in Abraham, the Nations, and the Hagarites, ed. Martin Goodman, George van Kooten, and Jacques van Ruiten (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 401–20; idem, “Platonism and The Expository Treatise on the Soul (NHC II,6),” in Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society, ed. Luc Van der Stockt, Frances Titchener, Heinz Gerd Ingenkamp, and Aurelio Pérez Jiménez (Logan & Malaga, 2010), 345–62. 25  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.4.5; Pseudo-Hippolytus, Refutatio 6.32.4–6. 26  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.4.5; Pseudo-Hippolytus, Refutatio 6.31.7; 32.4–6. 27  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.1; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 76 (468–71). 28  Admittedly, the process is more complex than the overview I give in the body of the text. This formless “material” is incorporeal. It is thanks to the Saviour’s intervention that it is endowed with aptitude (epitedeiotes) to “enter” (constitute) bodies and compounds (bodily compounds). Out of this incorporeal and adaptable matter there will arise two substances: evil (phaule) corporeal matter, coming from passions, and animate/psychic matter, coming from conversion and subject to passions. I thank my colleague Professor Zlatko Pleše for pointing out to me the need to clarify this aspect, which, due to the

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psychic appears.29 What we see before us is a monistic view of matter that, in contrast to the Platonic model, assumes that matter derives from the One.30 1.3 Achamoth and the Logos The descent of the Saviour allows her to eradicate her affections31 and gives rise to her enthymesis or “intention,” which accounts for the creation of the sensible world:32 For when Intention wished to make all things to the honor of the Aeons, she, or rather, the Savior through her, made images of them [the Aeons]; and she preserved the image of the invisible Father from the fact that she was not known to the Demiurge; but he [Demiurge] preserved the image of the Only-begotten Son, and the Archangels and Angels who were made subject to him preserved the image of the rest of the Aeons (Tὴν γὰρ Ἐνθύμησιν ταύτην βουληθεῖσαν εἰς τιμὴν τῶν Αἰώνων τὰ πάντα ποιῆσαι, εἰκόνας λέγουσι πεποιηκέναι αὐτῶν, μᾶλλον δὲ τὸν Σωτῆρα δι’ αὐτῆς. καὶ αὐτὴν μὲν τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ ἀοράτου Πατρὸς τετηρηκέναι μὴ γινωσκομένην ὑπὸ τοῦ Δημιουργοῦ, τοῦτον δὲ τοῦ μονογενοῦς υἱοῦ, τῶν δὲ λοιπῶν Αἰώνων τοὺς ὑπὸ τούτου γεγονότας ἀρχαγγέλους τε καὶ ἀγγέλους).33 This is something more than an interesting play with images and reflections. As a matter of fact, the text describes in a mythological fashion the different levels of reality, which in turn reflect those of the intelligible world.34 For the theology of the Great Notice, it is interesting to note, in the first place, that it is the Saviour who is first responsible for the appearance of the visible cosmos. It intentional simplification of the line of the mythical story for comparative purposes in the second part of the chapter, may create confusion. 29  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.1; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 76 (472–76). 30  On this monistic view, see Thomassen, “The Derivation of Matter”; see also below 379–80. 31  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.4.1; 1.4.5. 32  The term enthymesis in the present passage is extremely difficult to translate. Scholars present a wide range of renderings, from “thought” and “consideration” to “deliberation,” “intention,” or even “imagination.” Later on, Irenaeus will attempt to explain it (Against Heresies 2.13). On this issue, see Orbe, La teología del Espíritu Santo, 261–67; Pleše, Poetics of the Gnostic Universe, 130–31 with footnote; Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 211–13. 33  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.1; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 78–79 (486–93). English translation following Unger and Dillon, St. Irenaeus of Lyons: Against the Heresies, vol. 1. 34  This tiny but crucial difference disappears, however, in Chiapparini’s reconstruction of the text in Valentino gnostico e platonico, 153–54 and notes 3–4. Rousseau and Doutreleau (Irénée 1.2, 77 ad loc), in contrast, accept Holl’s conjecture, which is supported by the Latin version (Q) imaginem, in order to solve the crux of the passage.

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is the Saviour, by means of the instrument of Achamoth, who provides the first impulse for creation—so much so that, according to Irenaeus, Valentinians taught that the Saviour was the real Demiurge (καὶ διὰ τοῦτο δυνάμει τὸν Σωτῆρα δεδημιουργηκέναι φάσκουσι), something that is also affirmed by the Excerpta ex Theodoto.35 The Logos and the Demiurge are also the main actors in Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora. Admittedly, the passage is disputed, but the Letter also seems to agree with this basic Valentinian tenet regarding the Logos as the first impulse behind creation. In any case, Antonio Orbe, Giles Quispel, and Einar Thomassen36 agree—against Winrich A. Löhr and Christoph Markschies, and more recently Pier Franco Beatrice37—that the same scheme underlies the texts of both Irenaeus and Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora. However, the fact that the status and function of the Logos was not completely settled in Valentianism can be seen later on in Irenaeus, where a different Valentinian exegesis of John 1:3 is discussed.38 This version, apparently a more primitive version of the myth,39 goes even further than the Great Notice, since it makes the Logos accountable for the creation of the Aeons as well.40 Fragment 1 from Heracleon seems to be reacting against this view. In his commentary of John 1:3, Heracleon agrees that the Word was the cause of the activity of the creator God, but explicitly denies that his creation could have included the Aeons that were prior to him: The sentence: “All things were made through him” means the world and what is in it. It excludes what is better than the world. The Aeon (i.e., the Pleroma), and the things in it, were not made by the Word; they came into existence before the Word. […] “Without him, nothing was made” of what is in the world and the creation […].” All things were made through Him,” means that it was the Word who caused the Creator (Demiurge) to make 35  See Irenaeus’s remark in 1.4.5 (Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 74–75 [460–61]) that Valentinians believed that the Saviour was the real demiurgic cause. See also Clement of Alexandria, Excerpta ex Theodoto 45.2–47.1. 36  Antonio Orbe, En los albores de la exégesis Iohannea (Rome: Universitatis Gregorianae, 1955), 253–54; Giles Quispel, Ptolémée: Lettre à Flora, 2nd ed. (Paris: Cerf, 1966), 77; Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 123.  inrich A. Löhr, “La doctrine de Dieu dans la lettre à Flora de Ptolémée,” Revue d’his37  W toire et de philosophie religieuses 75 (1995): 177–91, esp. 181–82; Christoph Markschies, “New Research on Ptolemaeus Gnosticus,” ZAC 4 (2000): 225–54, esp. 239–44; Pier Franco Beatrice, “Greek Philosophy and Gnostic Soteriology In Heracleon’s ‘Hypomnemata’,” Early Christianity 3 (2012): 188–214, esp. 197–200. 38  See Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.8.5; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 129–37 (908–73). 39  Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 213–18. 40  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.1.2.

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the world, that is it was not the Word “from whom” or “by whom,” but the one “through whom (all things were made).” […] It was not the Word who made all things, as if he were energized by another, for “through whom” means that another made them and the Word provided the energy (τὸ “πάντα δι’ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο” ἐξειληφέναι τὸν κόσμον καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ, ἐκκλείοντα τῶν πάντων, τὸ ὅσον ἐπὶ τῇ ὑποθέσει αὐτοῦ, τὰ τοῦ κόσμου καὶ τῶν ἐν αὐτῷ διαφέροντα … οὐ τὸν αἰῶνα ἢ τὰ ἐν τῷ αἰῶνι γεγονέναι διὰ τοῦ λόγου, ἅτινα οἴεται πρὸ τοῦ λόγου γεγονέναι. […] “Καὶ χωρὶς αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο οὐδὲ ἕν,” τῶν ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ καὶ τῇ κτίσει […] “Πάντα δι’ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο” […] Τὸν τὴν αἰτίαν παρασχόντα τῆς γενέσεως τοῦ κόσμου τῷ δημιουργῷ, τὸν λόγον ὄντα, εἶναι οὐ τὸν ἀφ’ οὗ, ἢ ὑφ’ οὗ, ἀλλὰ τὸν δι’ οὗ, […] “Ὅτι οὐχ ὡς ὑπ’ ἄλλου ἐνεργοῦντος αὐτὸς ἐποίει ὁ λόγος, ἵν’ οὕτω νοηθῇ τὸ δι’ αὐτοῦ, ἀλλ’ αὐτοῦ ἐνεργοῦντος ἕτερος ἐποίει.”).41 As Antonio Orbe affirmed many years ago, Heracleon’s model reduces the elements involved in the process of creation to the minimum, even if omitting Sophia does not deny her specific role:42 The Logos (that is, the Saviour), as the intellective principle, is behind Achamoth’s impulse, which in turn instigates the demiurgic activity. This is the reason why Heracleon’s fragment 22 criticises those who worshipped the creation “and not the true creator, who is Christ, since ‘all things came into being through him, and apart from him nothing came into being.’”43 Let us now return to Irenaeus’s text. Also interesting in the passage of the Great Notice quoted above is the mention that after the Saviour’s descent, Achamoth preserves the image of the invisible Father, while the Demiurge preserves that of the Only-begotten-Son.44 The sentence not only properly expresses the transmission of impulses from the first principle, but also brings the demiurgic cause back to the Father. Unable to give form to spiritual existence, since she was consubstantial to it, Achamoth gives form to psychic substance. Consequently, and contrary to general belief, it is not the Demiurge, but rather Achamoth who is the real maker of the cosmos and everything in it.45 41  Heracleon, fragment 1; English translation following Peter Kirby, “Fragments of Heracleon.” Early Christian Writings. 2019. 12 June 2019. 42  Orbe, En los albores, 252–53. 43  See also Manlio Simonetti, Testi gnostici in lingua greca e Latina, 3rd ed. (Rocca San Casciano: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla- Mondadori, 2001), 459n32. 44  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.2.5. On this issue, see Simonetti (Testi gnostici, 484), who thinks that this son is the Intellect (Nous). 45  Achamoth is the main responsible power behind the whole process of creation, a point which is repeatedly assessed in Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5. See Irenaeus, Against

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1.4 Achamoth and the Demiurge In any case, the first result of this creative impulse is the appearance of the Demiurge, whose main characteristics are not as negative as one might expect:46 First, they say, she gave form out of her ensouled substance to the God, Father and King of all things, also of those who are of the same nature as he, that is, of the ensouled substances—which they also call the right-handed—and of the substances [that came] out of passion and matter—which they also call left-handed. For, they assert, he gave form to all things that exist after him, to which he was secretly urged by his Mother. Hence they also call him Mother-Parent, Fatherless, Demiurge and Father. They call him Father of the right-handed, that is, of the ensouled substances; but Demiurge of the left-handed, that is, material substances; and King of the universe47 (καὶ πρῶτον μεμορφωκέναι αὐτὴν ἐκ τῆς ψυχικῆς οὐσίας λέγουσι τὸν Πατέρα καὶ βασιλέα πάντων, τῶν τε ὁμοουσίων αὐτῷ, τουτέστιν τῶν ψυχικῶν, ἃ δὴ δεξιὰ καλοῦσι, καὶ τῶν ἐκ τοῦ πάθους καὶ τῆς ὕλης, ἃ δὴ ἀριστερὰ λέγουσι. πάντα γὰρ τὰ μετ’ αὐτὸν φάσκουσιν μεμορφωκέναι, λεληθότως κινούμενον ὑπὸ τῆς Μητρός· ὅθεν καὶ Μητροπάτορα καὶ Ἀπάτορα καὶ Δημιουργὸν αὐτὸν καὶ Πατέρα καλοῦσι, τῶν μὲν δεξιῶν Πατέρα λέγοντες αὐτὸν, τουτέστιν τῶν ψυχικῶν, τῶν δὲ ἀριστερῶν, τουτέστιν τῶν ὑλικῶν, δημιουργόν, συμπάντων δὲ βασιλέα).48 Far from presenting him in a negative way, this section names the Demiurge “Father and King of all things,” which makes of him lord of his creation. All of his titles cover diverse aspects of his divine person. While from a biomorphic perspective, Metropator describes him as a generative cause of the reality below him, Apator—or “without Father”—focuses in turn on his own origin in Achamoth, due to the parthenogenesis that made him possible. Finally, Demiurge and Father (Demiurgum et Patrem) take on the perspective

Heresies 1.5.1: “For they affirm that he formed all the things which came into existence after him, being secretly impelled thereto by his mother” (481–82, λεληθότως κινούμενον ὐπὸ τῆς μητρός); and 1.5.3, “while he in reality made them in conjunction with the productive power of Achamoth” (518–19, Αἰτίαν δ’αυτῷ γεγονέναι τὴν μητέρα … φάσκουσι). It is also true, however, that the Saviour is the real instigator and is consequently behind the whole process of creation, acting through Achamoth. 46  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 76 (476–86). 47  English translation following Unger and Dillon, St. Irenaeus of Lyons: Against the Heresies, vol. 1. 48  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.1; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 76–77 (476–86).

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of creation in order to explain how he is God of his creatures: as father of the consubstantial ones and creator of the material ones.49 Irenaeus then describes the Demiurge’s ignorance, which—according to Ptolemy’s Great Notice—concerns both the creative impulse and the model of the things created:50 Demiurge imagines, they assert, that he made the totality of these things by himself, whereas he made them inasmuch as Achamoth [his Mother] emitted them. He made the heavens without knowing the heavens; he fashioned man without knowing Man; he brought the earth to light without understanding the Earth. In like manner, they assert, he was ignorant of the images of the things he made, even of his Mother herself. He imagined that he himself was all things. His Mother, they say, was the cause of that false notion of his (Ταῦτα δὲ τὸν Δημιουργὸν φάσκουσιν ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ μὲν ᾠῆσθαι κατασκευάζειν, πεποιηκέναι δ’ αὐτὰ τῆς Ἀχαμὼθ προβαλλούσης. οὐρανὸν πεποιηκέναι μὴ εἰδότα Οὐρανόν, καὶ ἄνθρωπον πεπλακέναι ἀγνοοῦντα [τὸν] Ἄνθρωπον, γῆν τε δεδειχέναι μὴ ἐπιστάμενον [τὴν] Γῆν· καὶ ἐπὶ πάντων οὕτως λέγουσιν ἠγνοηκέναι αὐτὸν τὰς ἰδέας ὧν ἐποίει καὶ αὐτὴν τὴν Μητέρα, αὐτὸν δὲ μόνον ᾠῆσθαι πάντα εἶναι. Αἰτίαν δ’ αὐτῷ γεγονέναι τὴν Μητέρα τῆς ποιήσεως ταύτης φάσκουσι).51 The opening lines of the passage associate the Demiurge’s ignorance with the models inspiring the things created: the whole creation relies on a paradeigma or divine model,52 which is here conceived of as the thoughts of God. This might be seen as a veiled reference to the Logos—which is, in the final analysis, the primary demiurgic cause behind Achamoth53—but also to the Father or Intellect from whom the Logos emanates, and of course to the first principle of everything as well, the God beyond thought and being. While the topos of 49  As we will see below, this mention echoes the Middle Platonic interpretation that understood the expression of Timaeus 28c as a reference to two different aspects of the creative activity of God. Interestingly, Irenaeus substitutes the term ποιητής for δημιουργός, which seems to associate the Demiurge’s activity with manual labour and consequently presents it as hierarchically inferior to the activity of the highest God. 50  On the terms used for the creation in the Corpus Hermeticum, see J. P. Mahe, “La creation dans les Hermetica,” Recherches augustiniennes 21 (1986): 3–53. 51  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.3; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 81–82 (511–19). English translation following Unger and Dillon, St. Irenaeus of Lyons: Against the Heresies, vol. 1. 52  See below 369–70. 53  See note 35 above for the references on the issue by both Irenaeus and Clement of Alexandria in Excerpta ex Theodoto; see also Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 123.

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the Demiurge’s ignorance serves different purposes in various texts,54 in the present section, it simply exonerates him of any responsibility for the creative process, presenting the Demiurge as the last link in a causal chain that brings the first creative impulse back to the transcendent God. 1.5 The Demiurge and the Cosmos After mentioning Achamoth’s creation of the Demiurge, the latter’s relationship with his creation, and the model inspired by the mother, the Great Notice describes the creation of the cosmos by the Demiurge: Accordingly, they assert that he became Father and God of all things outside the Fullness, inasmuch as he is the Maker of all the ensouled and material beings. For it was he who distinguished the two substances that were confused and made corporeal out of incorporeal things. He made the heavenly and earthly things, and became the Maker of the material and ensouled beings, of the right-handed and the left-handed, of the light and the heavy, of those that tend upwards and of those that tend downwards (Πατέρα οὖν καὶ θεὸν λέγουσιν αὐτὸν γεγονέναι τῶν ἐκτὸς τοῦ Πληρώματος, ποιητὴν ὄντα πάντων ψυχικῶν τε καὶ ὑλικῶν. Διακρίναντα γὰρ τὰς δύο οὐσίας συγκεχυμένας καὶ ἐξ ἀσωμάτων σωματοποιήσαντα, δεδημιουργηκέναι τά τε οὐράνια καὶ τὰ γήϊνα, καὶ γεγονέναι ὑλικῶν καὶ ψυχικῶν, δεξιῶν καὶ ἀριστερῶν Δημιουργόν, κούφων καὶ βαρέων, ἀνωφερῶν καὶ κατωφερῶν).55 With an obvious empirical tone, this text once again presents the Demiurge as the only lord of the created world—of both eternal and transient perceptible substances.56 The Demiurge of the Great Notice mixes, cuts, combines, unites, and separates. At the same time, the mythical language of the previous section is replaced with a more scientific tone: in the current passage, the reference to the mythical origin of the substances—to wit, conversion and passion— leaves room for a description of their character and origin that focuses on their 54  The Demiurge’s ignorance is a topos of most Gnostic texts, but not all of them conceive of it in the same way: while in some cases it highlights the Demiurge’s foolishness (PseudoHippolytus, Refutatio 6.33.1; Gospel of Philip [NHC II,3] 55.14–19), in other cases it intends to emphasise his arrogance (Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.30.6 [Ofitas]; Pseudo-Hippolytus, Refutatio 7.23.3 [Basilides]; Hypostasis of the Archons [NHC II,4] 94.21–28; Origin of the World [NHC II,5] 103.6–15). 55  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.2; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 79–80 (494–500). English translation following Unger and Dillon, St. Irenaeus of Lyons: Against the Heresies, vol. 1. 56  Plato, Timaeus 32d–36d.

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primordial state. Both substances are separated in order to create corporeal beings out of incorporeal ones. Heavenly and earthly realms appear as a result of decantation: while the lighter bodies ascend, the heavier ones descend.57 We arrive then at the creation of the sublunary world. What the previous section already insinuated is now explicitly stated: the lower world is made out of the four elements. We find again the same scientific tone, while the mythical echoes might be explained as the result of Irenaeus’s repetition, which once again refers to the passions as the origin of matter: The corporeal elements of the world, as we already remarked, came from consternation and distress, as from a more ignoble source. Thus they teach, the earth came into being according to the condition of perplexity; the water came into being according to the movement of fear; air, according to the consolidation of her grief; while fire, which causes death and corruption, was inherent in all these elements, according to their teaching, just as ignorance lay hidden in these three passions (Ἐκ δὲ τῆς ἐκπλήξεως καὶ ἀμηχανίας ὡς ἐκ στασιμωτέρου τὰ σωματικὰ καθὼς προείπαμεν τοῦ κόσμου στοιχεῖα γεγονέναι· γῆν μὲν κατὰ τὴν ἐκπλήξεως στάσιν, ὕδωρ δὲ κατὰ τὴν φόβου κίνησιν, ἀέρα δὲ κατὰ τὴν λύπης πῆξιν· τὸ δὲ πῦρ ἅπασιν αὐτοῖς ἐμπεφυκέναι θάνατον καὶ φθοράν, ὡς καὶ τὴν ἄγνοιαν τοῖς τρισὶ πάθεσιν ἐγκεκρύφθαι διδάσκουσι).58 The hierarchy of being (spiritual—psychic—hylic) and the gradual devaluation of its levels as we approach the sublunary world might seem to imply a negative evaluation of the cosmos. The opposite is true. Interestingly, in the Great Notice, the physical world retains a clearly positive character, and nothing points to dualistic depreciation. As far as the hebdomad or planetary region is concerned, Irenaeus not only describes the heavens as intelligible, but also connects them with angels: there is no reference to scary guardians stopping souls in their ascents and descents though the spheres. The sublunary world, in turn, formed by the four elements and far removed from the divine region, is obviously characterised by an inherent deficiency or privation (steresis). This does not imply, however, the blanket condemnation of matter: significantly, evil does not proceed from matter, but from the spirit of wickedness, which

57  The background is again Plato, Timaeus 53a, which distinguishes between heavier and lighter elements in primordial matter and allots them a different place in the created cosmos. 58  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.4; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 85–86 (549–56).

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originates from grief—evil’s existence is attributed to the devil or the ruler of the world (Cosmocrator), and not to matter.59 1.6 The Cosmos and the Appearance of Matter As already noted above, matter in this system proceeds from Achamoth’s passions Achamoth—more specifically, from her “fear and sorrow” (ἐκ δὲ τοῦ φόβου καὶ λύπης).60 Given that Achamoth proceeds from the Father and, through him, from the transcendent principle beyond any thought, matter in this system also necessarily proceeds from the invisible and incomprehensible divinity. In contrast to other dualistic systems, which set spiritual and material principles in opposition—be it God versus matter, form versus matter, or the active (τὸ ποιοῦν) versus the passive (τὸ πάσχων)61—we have before us a monistic system in which everything emanates from the first principle. 2

Valentinian Protology in the Context of the Philosophical Discussion regarding the First Principles

It is now time to try to place these ideas in the context of the contemporaneous philosophical debates regarding first principles. That Gnostics were part of this active philosophical discussion can be seen in numerous texts. Most of the time, we find a tacit integration of philosophical notions. This is the case with numerous theological, cosmological, and anthropological ideas—inherent to the body of Gnostic thought—that are well-established current philosophical notions. Sometimes the author takes a positive stance towards the tradition of which he is a part. A good case in point is the Exegesis of the Soul, the beginning of which places its account in the long tradition regarding the soul’s character and nature, we read: “wise men of old gave the soul a feminine name.”62 At other times, the writer presents a more polemical attitude, such as the attack on philosophy in the Treatise on Resurrection: “Some there are, my son 59  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.5.4; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 84–85 (537–45). As Pleše (“Evil and its Sources in Gnostic Traditions”, 107–08 and n. 14) affirms, matter is not intrinsically evil (as it is in Plotinus) and is not a sufficient cause of evil. It is, however, a concomitant cause, because the spirits of wickedness and their ruler are inherent in matter and proceed from the same source as matter—namely, Achamoth’s passions. 60  Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.4.2; Rousseau and Doutreleau, Irénée 1.2, 66–67 (387–99). See also 1.2.3, in which the passions are “sorrow, fear and perplexity.” 61  See Roig Lanzillotta, “Spirit, Soul and Body in Nag Hammadi Literature: Distinguishing Anthropological Schemes in Valentinian, Sethian, Hermetic and Thomasine Texts,” Gnosis: Journal of Gnostic Studies 2 (2017): 15–39, here 38–39. 62  E xegesis on the Soul (NHC II,6) 127.19–20.

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Rheginus, who want to learn many things. They have this goal when they are occupied with questions whose answer is lacking. If they succeed with these, they usually think very highly of themselves.”63 However, independently of their positive or negative attitudes towards received knowledge, appropriation, integration, adaptation, use, or whatever name we want to give it, the presence of philosophical notions and ideas is a fact and is always perceptible—whether visibly or less visibly—in the text. In some cases, the author deliberately takes a position regarding a given tenet. Thus, for example, at the beginning of the Origin of the World—which not only clearly positions itself in the discussion regarding first principles, but also claims to know them better and to be able to demonstrate the errors of others—we read: “Seeing that everybody, gods of the world and mankind, says that nothing existed prior to chaos, I, in distinction to them, shall demonstrate that they are all mistaken, because they are not acquainted with the origin of chaos, nor with its root. Here is the demonstration.”64 In my view, this is precisely the context in which we have to place Valentinian protology. Not only the views outlined in Ptolemy’s Great Notice, but also those of Heracleon, Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora, and the “other exegesis” of John 1:3 quoted by Irenaeus (1.8.5), mentioned above, should be seen as (different) Valentinian attempts to offer a proper response to issues that were being raised in the philosophical discussion regarding first principles in the second century. When seen against this background, the complex mythological expositions become more understandable. 2.1 The Father The fact that the view of the first unborn God beyond thought and essence which we find in the Great Notice replicates that of the intellectual and philosophical environment of the historical period in which it was written should not surprise anyone. After E. R. Dodds’s seminal article, published in 1928, and John Whittaker’s “Epekeina nou kai ousias,”65 there can be little doubt regarding the influence of Plato’s Republic 509b and the first hypothesis in the Parmenides on the development of the notion of a divinity beyond thought 63  T  reatise On Resurrection (NHC I,3), with Luther H. Martin, “Anti-Philosophical Polemic and Gnostic Soteriology in the Treatise on the Resurrection (CG I, 3),” Numen 20 (1973): 20–37. 64  O  rigin of the World (NHC II,5) 97.24–29. 65  E  . R. Dodds, “The Parmenides of Plato and the Origin of the Neoplatonic One,” Classicsal Quarterly 22 (1928): 129–42; John Whittaker, “Epekeina nou kai ousias,” Vigiliae Christianae 23 (1969): 91–104.

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and essence in that historical period.66 This transcendent, stationary divinity was better adapted to the criticism generated by Plato’s Demiurge, as presented in the Timaeus, and had been released from all contact with the world below him. The bibliography on this issue is vast.67 As far as the view of the God below it—Ptolemy’s Father or Intellect—is concerned, the notion is also well established in the philosophical and religious currents of the first centuries CE, even if it is not always subordinated to a higher, transcendent God. In fact, Middle Platonists show some hesitation regarding the existence of one or two Gods—an indecision which, according to Whittaker, can be traced back to the discussions in the Old Academy regarding the question of whether the ultimate godhead was to be identified with the nous or was beyond it.68 While first-century authors tend to posit one single God,69 in the second half of the second century, the discussion regarding first principles timidly begins to distinguish two: the transcendent principle and a lower intellect proceeding from him.70 Interestingly enough, Ptolemy’s Great Notice shows no hesitation and is clear as to both the number of divinities and the relationship between them: the two Gods appear in a clear hierarchy that subordinates the Father or the Intellect to the first transcendent principle. 2.2 Achamoth Moreover, the relationship between God and Achamoth as well as between Achamoth and the Demiurge in the Great Notice can only be understood as a part of the wider discussion regarding God’s relationship to the world, which also intended to respond to Aristotelian and Epicurean criticism of a God

66  Numenius, fragment 5 explicitly gives the one all the attributes of the One of the first hypothesis of Plato’s Parmenides. See also Numenius fragments 16 and 19. 67  See John Whittaker, “Neopythagorean and Negative Theology,” Symbolae Osloenses 44 (1969): 109–25; Turner, Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition (Quebec: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2001); Michael A. Williams, “Negative Theologies and Demiurgical Myths in Late Antiquity,” in Gnosticism and Later Platonism, 277–302. 68  Whittaker, “Epekeina,” 103–4. 69  For Atticus (fragments 12 and 28.7–8), the first God is an intellect. According to Plutarch (Isis and Osiris 352A), God is One and Intellect. See also Platonic Questions 1003A. 70  Numenius, fragment 15, calls this divine intellect “Demiurge”; in the Chaldean Oracles, fragments 1, 3, and 7 (Des Places), the Father is called the Second Nous; Alcinous (Didaskalikos 164.19–28) distinguished between two Intellects, the first transcendent intellect and the intellect of the whole heaven.

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engaged in labour,71 such as the Demiurge of the Timaeus or the Stoic immanent deity.72 More specifically, Ptolemy’s theology should be placed in the context of the reception of Plato’s Timaeus 28c2–5, which—as is well known—is among the most-cited passages in ancient theological literature.73 Plato’s passage describes God as “Maker and Father,” and most Middle Platonic authors comment upon it: Philo of Alexandria, Plutarch, Numenius, Atticus, Harpocration,74 and Alcinous all mention the passage explicitly.75 Here we see the hesitation 71  See Aristotle’s criticism of Plato’s World Soul in On the Heavens 284a27–35: “for such a life as the soul would have to lead could not possibly be painless or blessed.” See the Epicurean criticism in Cicero, De natura deorum 1.49–52, on which see P. Merlan, “Aristoteles und Epikurus müssige Götter,“ Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 21 (1967): 485–92; Strato of Lampsacus (fragment 32 [Wehrli] [ap. Cicero, Academica II 121]) argues that the gods should have holidays at least, as priests also do; see Matthias Baltes, Die Weltentstehung des platonischen Timaios nach den antiken Interpreten, Teil I (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 24; Jan Opsomer, “Demiurges in Early Imperial Platonism,” in Gott und die Götter bei Plutarch, ed. R. Hirsch-Luipold (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005), 51–100, esp. 56–63. 72  Cf. Cicero, De natura deorum 1.52; Diogenes Laertius 7.88; 7.134–36; Cleanthes, Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta 1.537; Philodemus, On Piety, col. 11 (= SVF 2.1076). See also Hans Joachim Krämer, Der Ursprung der Geistmetaphysik. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Platonismus zwischen Platon und Plotin (Amsterdam: Grüner, 1964) 296n407; Gretchen Reydams-Schils, Demiurge and Providence. Stoic and Platonist Readings of Plato’s Timaeus, Monotheismes et philosophie (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 42–51 and 55–56. 73  For the reception of Plato’s sentence, see A. J. Festugière, La révélation d’Hermès Trismegiste, vol. 4, Le Dieu inconnu et la gnose (Paris : Librairie Lecoffre, 1954); Alcinoos, Enseignement des doctrines de Platon, ed. John Whittaker, trans. Pierre Louis (Paris: Budé, 1990), 104; Heinrich Dörrie, Matthias Baltes, and Christian Pietsch, Die philosophische Lehre des Platonismus, vol. 7.1: Theologia Platonica (Bad-Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 2008), 572–80; see also Franco Ferrari, “Gott als Vater und Schöpfer. Zur Rezeption von Timaios 28c3–5 bei einigen Platonikern,“ inThe Divine Father: Religious and Philosophical Concepts of Divine Parenthood in Antiquity, ed. F. Albrecht and R. Feldmeier (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 57–71, here 60. 74  As is well known, Philo quotes Plato’s sentence indifferently, preserving the same order as Plato (in 21 passages) or inverting the terms of the sentence (also in 21 cases). See D. T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 103–13. For Plutarch, see Platonic Questions 1001A–B, with Roig Lanzillotta, “Dios como padre y artífice en Moralia de Plutarco,” in Filiación V. Cultura pagana, religión de Israel, orígenes del cristianismo, ed. Patricio de Navascués, Manuel Crespo, and Andrés Sáez (Madrid, 2013), 139–56, here 150–54. For Numenius, see fragment 26, with Baltes, “Numenios von Apameia und der Platonische Timaios,” Vigiliae Christianae 29 (1975): 241–70, here 264. See Proclus, In Timaeum 1.305.6–16. On Harpocration’s split of the divine unity in the wake of Numenius and against his teacher, Atticus, see Proclus, In Timaeum 1.304.22–305.6. 75  See Pierluigi Donini, “La connaissance de dieu et la hiérarchie divine chez Albinos,” in Commentary and Tradition. Aristotelianism, Platonism, and Post-Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. P. L. Donini and M. Bonazzi (Berlin : De Gruyter, 2011), 423–36.

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I mentioned above: while for Philo and others, the sentence refers to one single divinity,76 according to Numenius, Harpocration, Alcinous, (perhaps Galen),77 Porphyry, and Plotinus, this passage clearly distinguishes two divinities. In this case, the term “father” (πατήρ) referred to the highest God, the transcendent divinity, while the term “maker” (ποιητής) referred to a second divinity, the Demiurge or “creator” God. Situated between these groups, Plutarch of Chaeronea tends to maintain God’s unity, like the first group, but attributes the two terms to different aspects of the divinity, in line with the second group. A brief overview of the reception of Timaeus 28c in the first and second centuries will help us clarify the issues at stake in the Great Notice as well as the innovative character of Ptolemy’s theological developments. Plato’s passage appears repeatedly in Philo,78 who interprets the expression ποιητὴς καὶ πατήρ as a reference to one single divinity,79 even though he was certainly aware of the biomorphic and technomorphic aspects of the sentence.80 For Philo, the two aspects are different sides of the same divine coin.81 As to the first, in line with Genesis 1–3, where God’s activity is described using the verb ποιεῖν (“to make”), God is first of all the maker of the universe. As to the second aspect, for

76  Maximus of Tyre, Orations 11.12, with Festugière, La révélation, 4:112–13; see also Opsomer, “Demiurges,” 77n139; Apuleius, De Platone et dogmate eius 1.5.190, with Festugière, La révélation, 4 :102–9; Opsomer, “Demiurges,” 77–78n140. See also Apuleius, Apologia 64; De Deo Socratis 123, 124; on Longinus, see Michael Frede, “La teoría de la ideas de Longino,” Methexis 3 (1990): 85–98, here 91–92; and Irmgard Männlein-Robert, Longin. Philologe und Philosoph. Eine Interpretation der erhaltenen Zeugnisse (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2001), 538–39; on Longinus’s views on God and the Demiurge, see also Opsomer, “Demiurges,” 78, with n. 143; and Atticus, fragment 9.35–43; see also 28.7–8. 77  Opsomer, “Demiurges,” 78n143. 78  See Runia, “Philo and the Early Christian Fathers,” in The Cambridge Companion to Philo, ed. Adam Kamesar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 210–30, here 212. 79  See, for example, De Abrahamo 57ff., on which Arthur D. Nock, “The Exegesis of Tim. 28C,” Vigiliae Christianae 16 (1962): 79–86, here 82; also De Opificio 36; 68; 138–39; Legum allegoria 1.77; 2.3; 3.76; De mutatione nominum 47. 80  Philo, de opificio 10: “For it stands to reason that what has been brought into existence should be cared for by its Father and Maker. For, as we know, it is a father’s aim in regard to his offspring and an artificer’s in regard to his handiwork to preserve them, and by every means to fend off from them aught that may entail loss or harm”; See Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus, 109–10. See also Roig Lanzillotta, “Plutarch of Chaeronea, Clement of Alexandria and the Bio- and Technomorphic Aspects of Creation,” in Plutarch and the New Testament Revisited, ed. Rainer Hirsch-Luipold (Leiden: Brill, 2020), forthcoming. 81  See also Philo, De specialibus legibus 1.41; De aeternitate 15.

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Philo—also in line with the Septuagint (LXX), even if the Pentateuch does not provide much support for it—God is the Father.82 Plutarch also thought that Plato was indicating one single divinity. As I have shown elsewhere,83 however, he also believed there was a reason Plato used two terms: “father” and “maker” were in fact meant to refer to different aspects of the same divine person.84 The second Platonic Question states that the first element of Plato’s sentence, “maker,” equates God’s creative act with his “ordering” activity, when he imparted order to chaotic matter.85 As for the second element, “father,” this is explained by his biological relationship to the World Soul. In fact, after bringing order to the chaotic, pre-cosmic Soul, he shared with her his intellect (νοῦς) and rationality (λογισμός), as a result of which the World Soul can be considered a part of him—namely, his daughter.86 Plutarch was more aware of the debate concerning a divinity engaged in labour—even though he ascribed the terms “father” and “maker” to the same divine person—in the first half of the second century, and he goes a step further than Philo, distinguishing divine functions and prefiguring the theological dualism we will find later in Middle Platonism, with the development of a Demiurge figure. According to Plutarch, it is by means of his “daughter”—namely, the World Soul—that the Father creates, by transmitting his order to matter.87 This shows that Plutarch is attempting to free God from all direct contact with the tangible world—that he is attempting to elevate him to the transcendent realm beyond the generation and corruption of the lower physical world.88 This was necessary given Epicurean criticism in the wake of Aristotelian theology, as formulated in the Metaphysics against 82  See Philo, De Ebrietate 30, 42 on Deuteronomium 21.18–21; 32.6. On the notion of God as father in Philo, see David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 110–11. 83  See Roig Lanzillotta, “Dios como padre y artifice.” 84  On Plutarch, see also Ferrari, “Dio padre ed artifice. La teologia di Plutarco in Pla. Qu. 2,” in Plutarco e la religione, ed. I. Gallo (Naples: M. D’Auria, 1996), 395–409, here 402; idem, “Der Gott Plutarchs und der Gott Platons,” in Gott und die Götter bei Plutarch. Götterbilder—Gottesbilder—Weltbilder, ed. R. Hirsch-Luipold (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005), 13–26; Opsomer, “Demiurges,” 87–96. 85  Plutarch, Platonic Questions 1001A–B. 86  Cf. Roig Lanzillotta, “Dios como padre y artífice,” 150–54. 87  Plutarch, On the Generation of the Soul 1013E; Platonic Questions 1003A. 88  According to John Dillon (“The Role of the Demiurge in Platonic Theology,” in Proclus et la theologie platonicienne. Actes du Colloque International de Louvain (13–16 mai 1998) en l’honneur de H. D. Saffrey et L. G. Westerink, ed. A. P. Segonds and C. Steel [Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2000], 339–49, here 341–42), Plutarch seems to endow the World Soul— the pre-cosmic Soul “ordered” by the “Maker and Father”—with a demiurgic function.

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Platonic and Stoic views of God, which seemed to present him as “grievously overworked.”89 2.3 Achamoth and the Logos However, it is in Ptolemy that we see a definitive step in this direction. Ptolemy’s introduction of the Logos—the Son and Saviour—to fulfil the Father’s ordering activity succeeds in freeing God from labour even more than Plutarch did, since the Logos puts the Father’s plan into practice. Consequently, in Ptolemy we seem to see (though not quite, since the Logos “is the Father and was with the Father”) a split in the Father that prefigures the similar distinction made by Numenius in the Demiurge of becoming (below), who is divided into two: a genuinely divine intellect and a demiurgic intellect that brings his plan into practice. The Valentinian emphasis on Christ being the real demiurgic principle90 was not only intended to voice Valentinian concerns regarding a God engaged in ordering activity, but especially to underline the Valentinian innovation. Apart from this aspect, however, both Plutarch’s and Ptolemy’s myths coincide point for point. In fact, the way in which God is the Father in Plutarch— namely, transmitting his intelligibility to the pre-cosmic Soul, making her intelligible and consequently transforming her into the World Soul proper— helps us to understand the relationship between the Saviour and Achamoth. The process by means of which the Saviour, after his descent, eradicates Achamoth’s passions is equivalent to the ordering activity of the Father with regard to the pre-cosmic Soul. Similarly, both the Logos (in Irenaeus) and the intelligibility of the Father (in Plutarch) give rise to Achamoth’s and the World Soul’s creative impulse, respectively. This equivalence is perhaps even more visible in Heracleon’s version of the myth, since for him, the Logos is the equivalent of Sophia-Achamoth.91

89  Cicero, De natura deorum 1.52. See the references in notes 65 and 66 above. See also, Dillon, “Plutarch and God: Theodicy and Cosmogony in the Thought of Plutarch,” in Traditions of Theology: Studies in Hellenistic Theology, Its Background and Aftermath, ed. D. Frede & A. Laks (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 228; Michael Frede, “Numenius,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, part 2, vol. 36.2, Philosophie, Wissenschaften, Technik, ed. Wolfgang Hasse (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1987), 1034–75, here 1060; Krämer, Der Ursprung der Geistmetaphysik, 69. 90  See Heracleon’s fragment 22, above 366. 91  See Heracleon, fragment 22, and note 43 above.

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2.4 Achamoth and Demiurge Consequently, Plutarch helps us understand numerous aspects of the theology of the Great Notice, such as the relationship between God and Achamoth, the role of God’s Son, the Saviour or the Logos, and the rapport between the Demiurge and his creation. Particularly interesting for the latter is Irenaeus’s assertion that the “Demiurge is Father of the psychic ones and creator of the material ones”: while he shares something of his own nature with the former, his relationship with the latter equates to that of a sculptor to his sculpture.92 However, Plutarch is not enough: while in Plutarch we have God and the World Soul, in the Valentinian system—notably in Heracleon—we have not two, but three divine figures: God, the Logos/Achamoth, and the Demiurge, which means that the Demiurge’s role in creation is not secondary, but tertiary. Numenius provides a better framework to help us understand the Valentinian concept. According to Proclus’s report on Numenius’s theology, the latter distinguished three Gods: the transcendent God, the Demiurge, and the World.93 Given the reception of Plato’s Timaeus 28c under Neo-Pythagorean influence, even since Eudorus, John Dillon and Michael Frede have already pointed out that what we have here is in fact a split in the second God.94 To quote Jan Opsomer, Numenius’s three Gods referred to “(1) the first intellect as the demiurge of being; (2) the second intellect, the demiurge of becoming. The latter then divides into (2a) a truly divine intellect and a (2b) a demiurgic intellect.”95 While the first is inactive with respect to all works and is a king, the second is in spiritual motion and directs his activity towards both the intelligible and the sensible realms.96 In my view, it is precisely Numenius’s distinction—between a pure intellect and a demiurgic intellect putting his plan into practice—that allows us to understand the relationship between God, Logos/Achamoth, and the Demiurge. If my interpretation is correct, we not only see Valentinians participating in the hot but wider discussion regarding the first principles, which involved numerous schools in that period, we also see them engaging in the much more specific debate around God’s relationship to the world and taking the initiative in explaining how God interacted with the world. Admittedly, the date of Numenius is difficult to determine. But if Chiapparini is correct in assuming an early composition date between 150 and 160 for Irenaeus’s Against

92  See Plutarch, Platonic Questions 1001A–B. 93  Proclus, In Timaeum 3.103.28–32. 94  Dillon, The Middle Platonists, 366–72; Frede, “Numenius,” 1060. 95  Opsomer, “Demiurges,” 64–65 and 69–73. 96  Numenius, fragments 12, 15, and 16; with Dillon, The Middle Platonists, 368–69.

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all Heresies, Ptolemy’s views may have already been developed by 150, a date considerably earlier than both Numenius and Alcinous. 2.5 The Demiurge and the Cosmos We come then to the creation of the cosmos. The activity of the Valentinian creator God shaping the world, as we saw above, was modelled on the basis of Plato’s Demiurge in the Timaeus, which is perhaps the reason why Ptolemy’s Demiurge lacks the negative traits with which he was described in other Valentinian versions of the myth. In fact, in the wake of Plato’s Demiurge and his creation of the heavens, when he mixed “the revolution of the Same and of the Other,”97 Ptolemy’s Demiurge measures, cuts, combines, unites, and separates—activities which reflect the employment of a subaltern divinity engaged in labour. As noted above, the figure of the creator God in Plato’s Timaeus had already been the target of philosophical criticism, perhaps among Aristotelians, but certainly among Epicureans,98 and later among NeoPythagoreans.99 By equating the figure of the lower creator God with Plato’s Demiurge, Ptolemy tacitly and implicitly sided with those philosophers who criticised the idea of a working God: the Demiurge described in the Timaeus could not be the highest God, but had to be a lower divinity who, with the help of younger Gods, was in charge of the creation of the lower realms—namely, the astral and earthly regions. 2.6 The Cosmos and the Appearance of Matter Something similar may be seen in Ptolemy’s conception of matter as arising from the passions of Achamoth. While Pythagoreans opposed the Monad to the Indefinite Dyad, Plato worked with a two-principle model that opposed the Demiurge to pre-existent chaotic matter, as did the Aristotelians with their form and matter; later Platonists, such as Plutarch and Alcinous, in turn moved towards a three-principle system, with God, the ideas, and matter. However, as André-Jean Festugière demonstrated many years ago, on the basis of the

97  C  ontra Thomassen, “The Platonic and Gnostic Demiurge,” in Apocryphon Severinin Presented to Soren Giversen, ed. Per Bilde and Helge Kjaer Nielsen (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1993), 226–44, here 241. 98  Cicero, De natura deorum 1.21; Lucretius 5.168–173; Pseudo-Plutarch, Placita philosophorum 881B–D. 99  See. Paul Moraux, Der Aristotelismus bei den Griechen: von Andronikos bis Alexander von Aphrodisias, Bd. 2: Der Aristotelismus Im I. und II. Jh. n. Chr. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1984), 636–37; David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 444.

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testimony of Alexander Polyhistor, Eurorus, and Moderatus of Gades,100 there was also a trend in Neo-Pythagoreanism that proposed a monistic system in which the Monad and the Indefinite Dyad were seen as arising from a superior One. This issue—which has received the attention of Hans Joachim Krämer, John Rist, John Dillon, and Jens Halfwassen—is extremely important in placing Ptolemy’s thought in the context of the philosophical discussion regarding first principles.101 In contrast to Philo, who tacitly accepts a two-principle model, for which he probably found some support in Genesis,102 Ptolemy seems to stick to a strictly monistic system that derives matter from the first, single principle. It seems reasonable to accept, with Einar Thomassen, that Ptolemy’s views arise from the Neo-Pythagorean monistic current that proposed a monistic system in which derivation accounted for the appearance of all the levels of being. According to Simplicius, in Moderatus’s account “Matter is nothing other than the deviation of sensible forms from intelligible ones, as they turn away from that region and are borne down towards Non-Being.”103 Not only Ptolemy’s but also other Valentinian views on matter allow us to assume this influence; in particular, the Neo-Pythagorean character of the vocabulary used in Valentinianism to describe this derivation process shows clear Neo-Pythagorean provenance.104 3 Conclusions Valentinian protology can only be understood vis-à-vis the philosophical discussion regarding first principles in the first two centuries. The relationship between God and Achamoth, and between the latter and the demiurge, on the one hand, helped to solve the implicit problems of an improbable technomorphic God, as accepted in Jewish and proto-orthodox Christian beliefs. On 100  Festugière, La révélation 4 and 36–40. 101  Krämer, Geistmetaphysik, 229–337; John M. Rist, “Monism: Plotinus and Some Predecessors,” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 69 (1965): 329–44; Dillon, The Middle Platonists, 126–29; Jens Halfwassen, “Einheit und Vielfalt bei Plotin: Das Eine als Absoluter Grund der Vielheit,” in Einheit und Vielheit als Metaphysisches Problem, ed. Johannes Brachtendorf and Stephan Herzberg (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 61–81; idem, Der Aufstieg zum Einen: Untersuchungen zu Platon und Plotin, 2nd rev. ed. (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 2012). 102  Philo, Heres 160; De opificio 7–9. 103  Simplicius, In Physica 230.34–231.27 Diels. On which, see Thomassen, Spiritual Seed, 271– 75; Pleše, “Evil and its Sources in Gnostic Traditions”, 115–16. 104  Thomassen, “The Derivation of Matter.”

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the other hand, it seemed to provide an appropriate response to the problems raised by Aristotelians and Epicureans regarding a divinity engaged in labour. In my view, Ptolemy’s Great Notice reflects both the creative reception of Plato’s Timaeus and the transformation of Plato’s theology, which was also taking place in Middle Platonic and Neo-Pythagorean circles. On the one hand, Plato’s definition of God as “Father” (28c) articulates the relationship between God the Father and Achamoth (the World Soul), with whom he shares his intelligibility. On the other hand, God is the “maker” of the world through the instrument of the rationalised World Soul, or Achamoth. However, Ptolemy and other Valentinians went further than Middle Platonists such as Plutarch, who interpreted the Timaeus as a reference to one single God but distinguished different divine aspects within him. As a matter of fact, by placing the Logos between God and Achamoth, they show the beginning of the process that we see fulfilled in Numenius’s second God: an internal division between a divine intellect and a demiurgic intellect that brought the former’s plan into practice. As far as the notion of the Demiurge is concerned, it was formed on the basis of the description of the Demiurge and the younger Gods shaping higher and lower parts of the human soul in the Timaeus (90). Ptolemy’s description of a God engaged in manual labour was intended to highlight the lower status of this divinity and should be seen as an implicit criticism of the idea of a working God—a criticism that was also levelled by Aristotelians, Epicureans, and Neo-Pythagoreas against Plato’s creator God. Ptolemy’s conception of derivational matter is also an answer to contemporary philosophical debates regarding the existence of one, two, or three principles. Moderatus of Gades, Alexander Polyhistor, Eudorus of Alexandria, and Sextus Empiricus are just a few of the witnesses to the existence of similar monistic trends in Neo-Pythagoreanism. This may also explain the positive view of both creation and matter which we find in the Great Notice. Both the early date and the character of Valentinian protology, as it echoes many of the central aspects of the discussion regarding first principles in that historical period, show that Valentinian protology was shaped vis-à-vis contemporary philosophical discussions and in close interaction with various interlocutors in the wider cultural context of which Valentinians were a part, rather than exclusively reacting to proto-orthodox views. The use of myth to convey philosophical content, as Plato and Plutarch did; the scientific and empirical tone of the descriptions; the inclusion of hot topics in philosophical interschool polemics; the derivational conception of matter; and the rather neutral character of the latter, defined as στέρησις or “privation”—all of these factors present Valentinians as actors in their own

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right in the lively philosophical discussion that involved different philosophical schools, Jews, and Christians alike.105 Bibliography Alcinoos. Enseignement des doctrines de Platon. Edited by John Whittaker. Translated by Pierre Louis. Paris: Budé, 1990. Attridge, Harold W., and George W. MacRae. “The Gospel of Truth.” In Nag Hammadi Codices. I [,1], (the Jung Codex): Introductions, Texts, Translations, Indices, edited by Harold W. Attridge, 55–122. Leiden: Brill, 1985. Baltes, Matthias. “Numenios von Apameia und der Platonische Timaios.” Vigiliae Christianae 29 (1975): 241–70. Baltes, Matthias. “Zur Philosophie des Platonikers Attikos.” In Platonismus und Christentum. Festschrift für Heinrich Dorrie, edited by H. D. Blume and F. Mann, 38–57. Münster: Aschendorff, 1983. Baltes, Matthias. Die Weltentstehung des platonischen Timaios nach den antiken Interpreten, Teil I. Philosophia antiqua 30. Leiden: Brill, 1976. Beatrice, Pier Franco. “Greek Philosophy and Gnostic Soteriology in Heracleon’s ‘Hypomnemata’.” Early Christianity 3 (2012): 188–214. Brakke, David. The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010. Chiapparini, Giuliano. Valentino Gnostico e Platonico: el Valentinianesimo della ‘Grande Notizia’ di Ireneo di Lione: fra esegesi gnostica e filosofia medioplatonica. Milano: Vita e Pensiero, 2012. DeConick, April D. The Gnostic New Age. New York: Columbia University Press, 2016. Dillon, John. “The Role of the Demiurge in Platonic Theology.” In Proclus et la theologie platonicienne. Actes du Colloque International de Louvain (13–16 mai 1998) en

105  This chapter profited from discussions with and feedback from numerous colleagues, friends, and students during the last two years. Debates and conversations following my presentation at various conferences, in which I exposed diverse aspects of this chapter, helped me to develop numerous views regarding Valentinian protology. Some colleagues, however, took on the more onerous work of reading and discussing in person or by mail numerous particular aspects of my discussion. In this sense, my most warm thanks are due to my friends and colleagues April DeConick, Juan Carlos Alby, and Zlatko Pleše, whose comments have enriched this chapter considerably. Also very useful were the comments of several of my PhD students, such as Petru Moldovan, Luisa Lesage Gárriga, and Fryderyk Kwiatkowski. Needless to say, any remaining errors are only due to my hand.

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Religion des 1.–4. Jahrhunderts, edited by Fabienne Jourdan and Rainer HirschLuipold, 101–32. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014. Pleše, Zlatko. Poetics of the Gnostic Universe Narrative and Cosmology in the Apocryphon of John. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Quispel, Giles. Ptolémée: Lettre à Flora. 2nd ed. Paris: Cerf, 1966. Rasimus, Tuomas, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg, eds. Stoicism in Early Christianity. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2010. Reydams-Schils, Gretchen. Demiurge and Providence. Stoic and Platonist Readings of Plato’s Timaeus. Turnhout: Brepols, 1999. Rist, John M. “Monism: Plotinus and Some Predecessors.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 69 (1965): 329–44. Roberts, Alexander, et al. The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1867. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. “‘Come out of your Country and your Kinsfolk’: Allegory and Ascent of the Soul in The Expository Treatise on the Soul (NHC II,6).” In Abraham, the Nations, and the Hagarites, edited by M. Goodman, G. van Kooten, and J. van Ruiten, 401–20. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. “Platonism and The Expository Treatise on the Soul (NHC II,6).” In Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and History of Religions in Plutarch’s Works. Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk by the International Plutarch Society, edited by L. Van der Stockt, F. Titchener, H. G. Ingenkamp, and A. Pérez Jiménez, 345–62. Logan, UT/Malaga: Utah State University/Universidad de Malaga, 2010. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. “Dios como padre y artífice en Moralia de Plutarco.” In Filiación V. Cultura pagana, religión de Israel, orígenes del cristianismo, edited by Patricio Navascués, Manuel Crespo, and Andrés Sáez Gutiérrez, 139–56. Madrid: Trotta, 2013. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. “Achamot, el Alma del mundo valetiniana, y su relación con el Demiurgo (Ireneo, Adv. Haer. 1.5).” In Jornadas sobre la Filiación VII: Cultura pagana, religión de Israel, orígenes del cristianismo. Gnosis, Valentín, valentinianos, edited by Andrés Sáez Gutiérrez, Guillermo Cano Gómez and Clara Sanvito, 313–38. Madrid: Trotta, 2018. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. “Spirit, Soul and Body in Nag Hammadi Literature: Distinguishing Anthropological Schemes in Valentinian, Sethian, Hermetic and Thomasine Texts.” Gnosis: Journal of Gnostic Studies 2 (2017): 15–39. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. “Plutarch of Chaeronea, Clement of Alexandria and the Bio- and Technomorphic Aspects of Creation.” In Plutarch and the New Testament Revisited, edited by R. Hirsch-Luipold. Leiden: Brill, 2020. Forthcoming. Rousseau, Adelin, and Louis Doutreleau. Irénée de Lyon. Contre les hérésies. Sagesses chrétiennes 264. Paris: Cerf, 1979.

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Runia, D. T. Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato. Philosophia antiqua 44. Leiden: Brill, 1986. Runia, D. T. “Philo and the Early Christian Fathers.” In The Cambridge Companion to Philo, edited by A. Kamesar, 210–30. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Simonetti, Manlio. Testi gnostici in lingua greca e Latina. 3rd ed. Rocca San Casciano: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla-Mondadori, 2001. Thomassen, Einar. “The Platonic and Gnostic Demiurge.” In Apocryphon Severinin presented to Soren Giversen, edited by Per Bilde and Helge Kjaer Nielsen, 226–44. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1993. Thomassen, Einar. “The Derivation of Matter in Monistic Gnosticism.” In Gnosticism and Later Platonism, edited by J. D. Turner and R. Majercik, 1–17. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000. Thomassen, Einar. The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians.” Leiden: Brill, 2006. Thomassen, Einar. “Saved by Nature? The Question of Human Races and Soteriological Determinism in Valentinianism.” In Zugänge zur Gnosis. Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft 02.–05.01.2011 in Berlin-Spandau, edited by Christoph Markschies and Johannes van Oort, 129–50. Leuven/Walpole, MA: Peeters, 2013. Troiano, Mariano. “Plotine et les gnostiques: L’audace du demiurge.” Journal of Coptic Studies 15 (2013): 209–35. Turner, John D., and Ruth D. Majercik, eds. Gnosticism and Later Platonism: Themes, Figures, and Texts. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000. Turner, John D. Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition. Québec: Presses De L’Université Laval, 2001. Van den Broek, Roelof. Gnostic Religion in Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Williams, Michael A. Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996, repr. 2001. Williams, Michael A. “Negative Theologies and Demiurgical Myths in Late Antiquity.” In Gnosticism and Later Platonism: Themes, Figures, and Texts, edited by John D. Turner and Ruth D. Majercik, 277–302. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000. Whittaker, John. “Epekeina nou kai ousias.” Vigiliae Christianae 23 (1969): 91–104. Whittaker, John. “Neopythagorean and Negative Theology.” Symbola Osloenses 44 (1969): 109–25.

chapter 12

Celsus’s Jew and Jewish Anti-Christian Counter-Narrative: Evidence of an Important Form of Polemic in Jewish-Christian Disputation James Carleton Paget The figure referred to by Origen,1 and also in modern scholarship, as “Celsus’s Jew” (ὀ παρὰ τͅῷ Κέλσῳ Ἰουδαῖος)2 has been the subject of much discussion.3 The figure was employed by the little-known Platonist philosopher Celsus in his anti-Christian work, True Word. This work only survives in quotations in the third-century Christian scholar Origen’s Contra Celsum, which constitutes a partial response to Celsus’s work. The Jew remains an intriguing, if anomalous, character in the history of ancient anti-Christian Jewish polemic. This chapter asks questions about his authenticity, the nature of the polemic he employs, and his importance as a witness to types of attack upon Christians made by Jews in antiquity. As a scene-setting exercise, the chapter begins with some brief observations on ancient anti-Christian Jewish polemic and the complexities associated with its study.

1  This contribution is based upon James Carleton Paget, “The Jew of Celsus and adversus Judaeos literature,” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 21 (2017): 201–42. Some of the emphases differ to conform with the concerns of the current volume, but important elements of the content of the article reappear here, although differently stated. 2  See 1.51, 56, 57, 58, 66, 67, and 71; 2.4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 13, 18, 24, 25, 26, 34, 39, and 44. 3  For recent discussions, see Ernst Bammel, “Der Jude des Celsus,” in idem, Kleine Schriften 1: Judaica (Tübingen: Mohr, 1986), 265–83; Horacio Lona, Die ‘Wahre Lehre’ des Kelsos (Freiburg: Herder, 2006), 172–77; Lincoln Blumell, “A Jew in Celsus’ True Doctrine? An Examination of Jewish Anti-Christian Polemic in the Second Century C.E.,” Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 36 (2007): 297–315; Albert I. Baumgarten, “The Rule of the Martian in the Ancient Diaspora: Celsus and His Jew,” in Jews and Christians in the First and Second Centuries: How to Write their History, ed. Joshua Schwartz and Peter Tomson, Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum 13 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 398–430; Maren Niehoff, “A Jewish Critique of Christianity from the Second Century: Revisiting the Jew Mentioned in Contra Celsum,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 21 (2013): 151–75; and Johannes Arnold, Der Wahre Logos des Kelsos. Eine Strukturanalyse (Münster: Aschendorff, 2016), esp. 85–90, 215–20, 341–87, and 454–57.

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The Problem of Reconstructing Ancient Jewish Anti-Christian Polemic

Apart from Celsus’s anonymous Jew—whose authenticity, as we shall see, has been questioned—no Jew in the ancient world, as far as we know, wrote a work adversus Christianos. Certainly no Christian or Jew explicitly mentions such a work, at least one that is definitely genuine, until the bishop of Lyons, Abogard, who, in 826 CE, refers to what appears to be a version of the Toledot Yeshu, a polemical and satirical retelling of the life of Jesus, which appeared in many different forms and whose date of origin is disputed.4 This contrasts with the pagan evidence, which boasts anti-Christian works attributed to Celsus, Porphyry, Hierocles, and Julian, to name some of the best known. What evidence exists of anti-Christian comment in ancient Jewish texts comes from rabbinic sources, mainly in the Tosefta, the Talmudim, and the Midrashim. The number of instances, however, which can be shown to be unambiguously anti-Christian is small—some traditions aimed specifically against Jesus, a few of which may betray knowledge of the canonical Gospels, to which reference will be made below, are found mainly in the Babylonian Talmud.5 But such references are never dedicated discussions of Jesus (they appear in order to illustrate an halakhic or broadly interpretive point and possess no textual autonomy, in contrast with the Toledot Yeshu, referred to above,

4  The reference in Abogard’s de iudaicis superstitionibus has recently been discussed by Peter Schäfer, “Agobard’s and Amulo’s Toledot Yeshu,” in Toledot Yeshu (“The Life of Jesus”) Revisited, ed. Peter Schäfer, Michael Meerson, and Jacob Deutsch (Tübingen: Mohr, 2011), 27–48, esp. 31–39. Schäfer also discusses the two places in the work of Agobard’s successor as bishop of Lyons, Amulo, where similar material is referred to. The debate as to the date of the Toledot is complicated and dependent upon the way some of the ancient material I shall review in this article, including that associated with the Jew of Celsus, is assessed. For a skeptical view of this material and a defence of the thesis that the appearance of the Toledot is late, see Peter Schäfer, “Introduction,” in Toledot Yeshu, 1–12. For a defence of an earlier date, see, in the same volume, P. Piovanelli, “The Toledot Yeshu and Christian Apocryphal Literature,” 89–100; and at much greater length, William Horbury, A Critical Examination of the Toledoth Yeshu (Ph.D diss., Cambridge University, 1970). 5  For an older work, which takes a more optimistic approach to this material, see R. T. Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash (London: Williams and Norgate, 1903), esp. 1–96. For a recent appraisal of this material, see Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton: Princeton University Press 2007). Although more sceptical than Herford, Schäfer rejects the thoroughgoing scepticism of Johann Maier (see esp. J. Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung [Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978]). For the most recent assessment of this material, see Thierry Murcia ( Jésus dans le Talmud et la littérature rabbinique ancienne [Turnhout: Brepols, 2014]), who takes issue with aspects of Schäfer’s work.

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which is a narrative dedicated to Jesus)6 and form a tiny fraction of the vast corpus of rabbinic literature. There are also a series of comments on “minim” and “minuth,” generic terms approximating to “heretics” and “heresy,” respectively, some of which appear to be references to Christians.7 But they, too, are brief and cannot always be shown to have Christians as their reference. Some scholars are not deterred by the dearth of direct evidence of antiChristian material, but argue that the same rabbinic sources contain exegetically oriented passages which imply a Christian opponent.8 Criteria for the identification of such passages have been constructed, and volumes have been produced in which it is argued that the rabbis were more conversant with Christian opinions, as expressed through Scripture, and keener to argue against them than at first appears to be the case. Attempts to unlock the “loud silence” of the rabbis regarding Christianity will continue.9 Inevitably, however, the conclusions of such work remain conjectural and open to criticism.10 Moreover, insofar as this material exists, it is difficult to know in what context it may have originated and what form it originally took. While Jewish evidence relating to ancient anti-Christian traditions can appear threadbare, Christian evidence is potentially more voluminous. From the time of the New Testament until late antiquity and beyond, Jews are portrayed as active opponents of Christianity.11 By the middle of the second century, a 6   See, for example, b.Shabb. 104b, where a reference to Jesus ben Pandira occurs in a discussion dedicated to words in the Mishnah which forbid different forms of writing to be done on the Sabbath. On the general context of such material, see Yassif, “Folk-Narrative,” 104. 7  See Herford, Christianity, esp. 211–91 and 315–43; and William Horbury, “Rabbinic Perceptions of Christianity and the History of Roman Palestine,” in Rabbinic Texts and the Story of Late-Roman Palestine, ed. M. Goodman and P. Alexander (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 353–76. 8  See E. Grypeou and H. Spurling, eds., The Exegetical Encounter between Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2010); and E. Grypeou and H. Spurling, The Book of Genesis in Late Antiquity. Encounters between Jewish and Christian Exegesis (Leiden: Brill, 2013). 9  See Philip Alexander, “ ‘In the Beginning’: Rabbinic and Patristic Exegesis of Genesis 1:1,” in Exegetical Encounter, 4. 10  See G. Stemberger, “Exegetical Contacts between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire,” in Hebrew Bible/Old Testement: The History of Its Interpretation, vol. 1.1, ed. M. Saebø (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1996), 569–86; and Hanneke Reuling, After Eden: Church Fathers and Rabbis on Genesis 3:16–21 (Leiden: Brill, 2005). 11  For a careful and nuanced assessment of New Testament material, taking account of a range of issues, see Terence L. Donaldson, Jews and Anti-Judaism in the New Testament. Decision Points and Divergent Interpretations (London: SPCK, 2010) For an important assessment of this later material (excluding the NT), which draws on a range of primary and secondary literature, see L. Lahey, “Evidence for Jewish-Christian Believers in ChristianJewish Dialogues through the Sixth Century (excluding Justin),” in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries, ed. Oskar Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik (Peabody: Hendricksen,

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Christian adversus Judaeos tradition had begun to develop, seen in texts such as the Epistle of Barnabas; the now-lost Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus, which some attribute to Ariston of Pella; and Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho the Jew. As is indicated by these and other texts, such literary productions took on different forms: some were simply tracts adversus Judaeos, which is the case with the probably early second-century Barnabas, and is definitely the case with Tertullian’s adversus Judaeos. Others were dialogues, like the abovementioned Trypho by Justin or the anonymous Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus, a form which was to proliferate from the fourth and fifth centuries in such works as The Dialogue of Simon and Theophilus and The Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila.12 Added to this are Christian collections of biblical testimonia, often produced as responses to what can seem like Jewish objections to Christian beliefs, involving the exegesis of well-known proof texts taken almost exclusively from the Jewish Bible. Here mention could be made of the works attributed to the third-century African church father Cyprian, with the title “Against the Jews,” and the fourth-century work probably wrongly attributed to Gregory of Nyssa, with a similar title.13 Characteristic of these texts is their presentation of the argument between Jews and Christians as fundamentally exegetical—that is, they are all centred on the interpretation of texts from what the Christians termed the Old Testament. Well-known objections have been raised to using such texts as a means of constructing anti-Christian Jewish polemic.14 Many years ago, Adolf von Harnack, noting the repetitive and stereotypical nature of their presentation of Jewish objections, argued that these writings had little to do with actual Jewish objections to Christianity—in fact, Jews took little interest in Christians, and the kinds of arguments found in such texts were designed either for internal Christian consumption or to convince pagans, who were already half-disposed to Christianity, an aim which would have been helped by arguments from 2007), 581–639. See also Sébastien Morlet, Olivier Munnich, and Bernard Pouderon, Les Dialogues adversus Judaeos. Permanences et mutations d’une tradition polémique (Paris: Instiutes d’études augustiniennes, 2013). 12  See Lahey, “Evidence,” 585–619. 13  M  artin C. Albl, ‘And Scripture Cannot be Broken’: The Form and Function of the Early Christian Testimonia Collections (Leiden: Brill, 1999). See also Martin C. Albl, trans. and ed., Pseudo-Gregory of Nyssa: Testimonies against the Jews (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004). 14  For a summary of these objections, see J. Carleton Paget, “Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity”, in idem, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity (Tübingen: Mohr, 2010), 43–76; and S. Morlet, “Les dialogues aduersus Iudaeos: origine, caractéristiques et réferentialité,” in Dialogues, 21–45.

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Scripture.15 Harnack’s almost complete dismissal of these texts as evidencing Jewish-Christian interaction was opposed some 60 years later by Marcel Simon, who pointed firstly to their proliferation—Does one rail, the Frenchman asked, so frequently against a corpse?—and secondly to the plentiful evidence, as he saw it, of a vibrant Jewish polity in the period following the fall of Jerusalem, which involved forms of proselytism and thus inevitable competition with Christians, necessitating polemical encounter.16 Where Harnack’s thesis had been predicated upon a view of an ossified and solipsistic Judaism, uninterested in interacting with Christians, Simon’s was based on a contrary vision, and these divergent presuppositions in part account for their very different readings of this material. The debate, precipitated by Harnack, has continued,17 influenced by shifting changes in academic discussion, such as the so-called linguistic turn, in which texts are viewed as primarily literary products, which provide the reader with little insight into a supposed reality beneath.18 Variant positions continue to be taken,19 and there is certainly no consensus which would allow one to say that the Christian adversus Judaeos material provides a solid foundation for the reconstruction of ancient anti-Christian Jewish polemic.20 15  A  . Harnack, Die Altercatio Simonis Iudaei et Theophili Christiani nebst Untersuchungen über die antijüdische Polemik in der alten Kirche (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1883). For a discussion of the influence of Harnack’s viewpoint, see Carleton Paget, “Anti-Judaism,” 43–45. For a helpful account of the debate surrounding this literature and the questions it raises, see Andrew S. Jacobs, “Jews and Christians,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 169–85. 16  Marcel Simon, Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire AD 135–425 (London: Littman Library, 1996), 137–41. 17   Latter-day supporters of a Harnack-like position are plentiful. One of the most thoroughgoing is Miriam Taylor, Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity: A Critique of the Consensus (Brill: Leiden, 1995). Her criticism of what she understood as a Simon-inspired consensus is overdone, as Carleton Paget, “Anti-Judaism” sought to show. Carleton Paget, Jews, Christians, 1–24, summarises much recent discussion. 18  See Pierluigi Lanfranchi, “L’image du judaïsme dans les dialogues adversus Judaeos,” in Dialogues, 226–27. For a classic study reflecting aspects of this linguistic turn as it relates to the subject under discussion, see Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: Partition of JudaeoChristianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). See also idem, “Justin Martyr Invents Judaism,” Church History 70 (2001): 427–61. 19  See Morlet, Munnich, and Pouderon, Les Dialogues, for an array of opinions, especially the essays by Bernard Pouderon, “La source de l’argumentation de Tryphon dans le Dialogue de Justin: confrontation de deux theses,” 67–93; and Olivier Munnich, “Le judaïsme dans le Dialogue avec Tryphon: une fiction littérraire,” 95–156. 20  For a complex engagement with this question, see, inter alios, Judith M. Lieu, Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T&T

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Against this rather lean background, this chapter now turns to a consideration of Celsus’s Jew—the first unambiguous example of a pagan showing knowledge of Jewish association with Christians and exploiting this fact for his own purposes.21 How might this figure impact upon the debate described above, if at all? 2 Celsus’s True Word 2.1 Introductory Issues As noted above, knowledge of Celsus’s True Word comes exclusively through Origen’s Contra Celsum, probably dating from the 240s.22 Origen was reluctantly responding to a request from his patron, Ambrosius, who sensed that Celsus’s work, entitled True Word, needed a full and vigorous refutation. The request seemed strange on one level, as the work dated from at least 70 years before the time of Origen’s response23 and had never been the subject, as far as we know, of any urgent discussion prior to Origen24—indeed, one struggles to find any footprint of True Word before the writing of the Contra Celsum.25 Some have suggested that the late 240s were a time marked by escalating dislike of Christians just before the advent of the so-called Decian persecution,26 Clark, 1996); and Andrew S. Jacobs, Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christians in Late Antiquity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004). 21  For a discussion of relevant evidence, running from Pliny to Galen, see John M. G. Barclay, “‘Jews’ and ‘Christians’ in the Eyes of Roman Authors,” in Jews and Christians in the First and Second Centuries: How to Write Their History, ed. Joshua Schwartz and Peter Tomson (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 313–26. 22  For a defence of the traditional date, see Henry Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1953). 23  This dating is based upon a statement in Contra Celsum 8.71, where Celsus refers to “those who rule over us now,” taken by some to refer to the shared rule of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus from 161–69, or of the former with Commodus between 177 and 180. But the “now” may only be a general reference to the imperium. The only definite terminus a quo lies in references to the cult of Antinoos (see 3.36 and 5.63), which postdates the death of Hadrian’s lover in 130 CE. 24  Note Michael Frede, “Origen’s Treatise Against Celsus,” in Apologetics in the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians, ed. Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman, and Simon Price (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 155, who comments: “It was a text which had waited for a response for too long.” 25  On this, see Karl Pichler, Streit um das Christentum: Der Angriff des Kelsos und die Antwort des Origenes (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1980), 61–85. 26  See Chadwick, Celsus, xv, n5, for support of the view that persecution appeared to be threatening at this time. See Frede, “Origen’s Treatise,” 154–55, for a neutral discussion of this thesis.

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but there is little evidence of this. Whatever the explanation for Ambrosius’s request, Origen accepted it reluctantly. He had probably not read the Contra Celsum before and hence had only a vague view of who this Celsus was whose work he was attacking, thus making guesses which are clearly erroneous. So, at one point, he describes Celsus as an Epicurean, mentioning two individuals with the same name who lived at the time of Nero and Hadrian, identifying his Celsus with the latter (see 1.8). Yet Origen himself admits that the Celsus to whom he is responding likes to follow Plato (see 4.83 and 6.47). Attempts to identify him with a man by the same name to whom Lucian dedicates his work against the religious charlatan Alexander, and who apparently wrote a work against magic (Alexander 1.21 and 61), seem unwarranted.27 Origen’s response in eight books, which is the longest of his extant Greek works, consisted in part of quotations from the original work and their refutation, reflecting a modus operandi we find in other writers of the Second Sophistic, such as Galen and Plutarch.28 How accurately Origen conveyed these quotations and the structure of the work in which they appear is an ongoing subject of dispute;29 but most agree, with gradations of difference, that we can gain a good sense of the material Origen was dealing with. 2.2 Celsus’s Jew 2.2.1 Introductory Remarks As already stated, what is striking about Celsus’s True Word is not only its length, but also the fact that Celsus links Christianity to Judaism and makes use of this link to further his polemical aims. In fact, so frequently does he mention the Jews that one scholar has argued that True Word was originally an attack upon Jews as well as Christians.30 This a reasonable argument—Jews and Christians are often mentioned together in Celsus’s writing, with Christianity referred to 27  On this, see John Granger Cook, “Celsus,” in The Reception of Jesus in the First Three Centuries, vol. 3, From Celsus to the Catacombs: Receptions of Jesus in Pagan, Visual, and Liturgical Sources of the Second and Third Centuries CE, ed. Chris Keith, Helen K. Bond, and Jens Schröter (London/New York: T&T Clark, forthcoming), 3–4 in the author’s typescript, who notes that a scholiast to Lucian identifies the Celsus of Lucian’s Alexander with Origen’s Celsus. 28  See Sharon Weisser, “The Art of Quotation: Plutarch and Galen against Chrysippus,” in Strategies of Polemic in Greek and Roman Philosophy, ed. Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 205–29, esp. 225. 29  See Chadwick, Celsus, xxii–xxiv. See now, for a much more detailed appraisal, Arnold, Kelsos, 1–202. 30  See Marco Rizzi, “Some Reflections about Origen, Celsus and Their Views on the Jews,” in Jews and Christians in Antiquity: A Regional Perspective, ed. P. Lanfranchi and J. Verheyden (Leuven: Peeters, 2018), 37–61.

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as the second chorus on one occasion;31 they are both portrayed as rebellious;32 Celsus can, on one occasion, mention the apparent attractiveness of Judaism for some pagans;33 and he can refer to distinctive Jewish beliefs.34 Moreover, if the work had been aimed against both, then it is understandable that it would have been overlooked by Christian authors before Origen—its aims were not exclusively anti-Christian. The claim, however, seems unlikely—not least because, according to Origen, Celsus began his work with a set of objections raised by a nameless Jew against Christian beliefs, making clear, it would seem, that the Jewish dimension of his work was linked to his anti-Christian aims. It is to this subject—Celsus’s Jew and the way in which his polemical attack upon Christianity is presented—that I want to turn in the rest of this chapter. Before turning to the question which Origen himself raises—namely, the extent to which Celsus’s Jew is a “real” Jew or, at the minimum, represents Jewish opinion and is not Celsus’s own, polemically helpful creation—I shall outline the contents of Celsus’s Jew’s attack upon Christianity. I shall then address the question of the genuineness of the presentation, making some remarks on the nature of the attack and why it might be important. 2.2.2 Celsus’s Jew’s Attack The attack of Celsus’s Jew falls into two sections. In Contra Celsum 1, there is a direct assault upon Jesus; in book 2, the assault is extended to his followers, who are portrayed as rebelling against their original Jewish allegiance (2.1f.). The reality, however, is that both sections constitute attacks upon Jesus, and there are intersections and links between them, though explicit cross-referencing is absent, except in one case.35 As presented by Origen, Celsus’s Jew begins his attack by focusing on the birth of Jesus. The Christian story that Jesus was born of a virgin is taken to be a fabrication by Jesus. His mother was in fact an impoverished adulterer and a figure unworthy of the attention of God (1.28). Jesus’s real father was a Roman soldier called Panthera (1.32). As a result of her illicit relationship, Mary was driven out by her husband, and Jesus was forced to go and hire himself out as a workman in Egypt (1.28). There he learnt the arts of magic and, as a 31  See especially Contra Celsum 4.47, where Origen claims that True Word contains no positive doctrines but just criticises Jews and Christians. See also 3.1 and 14; 4.3, 20, and 48; 5.1, 2, 14, 33, and 41, and passim for mentions of Jews and Christians together. 32  See Contra Celsum 3.5; 8.2 and 14. 33  See Contra Celsum 5.41. 34  See Contra Celsum 5.6 and 14. 35  See 2.1, where the Jew refers to “that man whom we were just addressing” (ὃν ἄρτι διειλέγμεθα), i.e., Jesus in book 1.

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result of these activities, returned to his homeland and declared himself God (Θεὸν αὐτὸν ἀνηγόρευσε). In a way not entirely consistent with this story, the Jew doubts other facets of the nativity stories, both found in Matthew’s Gospel, including the story of Herod’s attempts to kill Jesus, questioning the purpose of this action given that, when Jesus grew up, he did not become king (1.58 and 61). He also casts doubt upon the flight to Egypt, asserting that such an action was not consistent with Jesus’s supposed divine origins (1.66: Θεὸν γὰρ οὐκ εἰκὸς ἦν περὶ θανάτου δεδιέναι), a persistent theme of the Jew’s attack, which extends even to consideration of Jesus’s body, which is seen to be incompatible with that of a god (1.69: Θεοῦ οὐκ ἂν εἴη τοιοῦτον σῶμα οἷον τὸ σόν). Jesus’s ministry is also subjected to scrutiny. The events surrounding his baptism are unbelievable and are only witnessed by Jesus and John (1.41). His miracles, consistent with what the Jew asserted about Jesus’s activities in Egypt, are seen as little more than the work of a sorcerer, comparable to actions associated with others who have learnt the magic arts in Egypt, men who in no way can be associated with the sons of god (1.66 and 68; see also 2.30: “No one gives proof of a god by such signs and false stories”). Moreover, their validity as evidence of Jesus’s divine status is, according to the Jew, questioned by Jesus himself, who asserts at one point in the Gospel that the disciples should beware of those who will follow him, performing similar miracles to the ones he has performed (“Is it not a miserable argument to infer from the same works that he is a god and they are in fact sorcerers?”; 2.49). His immediate disciples, whose paltry number is proof of his failed persuasive powers (2.46), are portrayed as infamous men, the most wicked tax collectors and sinners, fleeing hither and yon, intent upon earning a living in the most disgraceful manner (1.62; 2.46). Jesus’s relationship with these individuals, who are never named, is severely criticised, not least for what it says about Jesus’s own status and authority—after all, in contrast to a general or even a leader of a robber band (2.12 and 21), he was unable to persuade them to follow him to the end, with betrayal more in evidence than loyal attachment (2.9, 11, 12, and 45; see also 2.39). Emphasis upon Jesus’s lack of persuasiveness does not, however, lead to any analysis of his teaching, though there are hints that this is regarded negatively (2.7).36 While Jesus may have begun his ministry as an observant Jew (2.6), he comes to be seen as a lawbreaker (2.1 and 4).37 He is also described as arrogant and a liar (2.1, 7, and 49), and it is implied that he is lazy (1.61, 62; 2.9, 24, and 33). None of these accusations, however, are used to justify his trial and execution, the substance of which is barely covered, and the responsibility 36  The reference is to τὰ ἀνοσία. 37  The ways in which Jesus breaks the law are not discussed.

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for which is willingly accepted by the Jews (2.10: “we convicted him and condemned him and decided that he should be punished” [ἐλέγξαντες αὐτὸν καὶ καταγνόντες ἠξιοῦμεν κολάζεσθαι]).38 The Jew focuses his attack on Jesus’s passion (see 2.9 for the introduction) and resurrection. The former demonstrates that Jesus could not be the divine Logos, the son of God (“we do not bring forward as evidence a pure and holy Logos, but a man who was arrested most disgracefully and crucified”; 2.31)— not only is suffering inappropriate for such a figure, but also the way the events surrounding Jesus’s crucifixion are portrayed shows Jesus to be cowardly (his attempted flight from the scene at Gethsemane, as understood by Celsus’s Jew in 2.9), unseemly (“He rushed greedily to drink and did not bear his thirst patiently”; 2.37), and inappropriately helpless (his failure to deliver himself or to be delivered from this “shame” and take his revenge on those who insulted him; see 1.54; 2.35), all of which contrasts with some of the gods, who take healthy revenge on their opponents (the example of Dionysus and Pentheus is cited at 2.34). Attempts by his followers to exculpate all of this by noting that Jesus foresaw these events (2.15) raise more problems than they solve and, in the end, can be seen as inventions (2.17–20). Jesus’s resurrection is unbelievable at many points. The Jew compares it with other mythical accounts of people coming back to life and finds these more credible (2.55); the unreliability of the resurrection account is evidenced in the fact that it was witnessed by what the Jew calls a hysterical female (2.55). The account contains odd lacunae, which lead one to question its validity still further (“If Jesus really wanted to show forth divine power, he ought to have appeared to the very men who treated him despitefully and to the man who condemned him and to everyone everywhere”; 2.63). At best, it can be stated that Jesus’s resurrection is the result of hallucinations or dreams (2.55) or tricks played by Jesus himself (2.61). The claim that such a figure was prophesied in the Scriptures is an absurdity (1.49–50; 2.4 and 28–29), for that figure was meant to be princely in a manner Jesus certainly was not (“The prophets say that the one who will come will be a great prince, lord of the whole earth and of all nations and armies”; 2.29). In fact, one could argue that there are many people like Jesus who could be thought to be a messiah if he is (1.50; 2.28; see also 2.44 for a similar claim, but made without reference to Scripture), and the prophecies could be applied to many others more plausibly than to him (2.28). The Jew’s conclusion is clear: Jesus is not the Son of God, 38  See also 2.5, where—in a quotation from Celsus, which implies his rather than the Jew’s comment—he notes that “as an offender he was punished by the Jews.” But see the reference at 2.63 to the man who convicted him, which must be a reference to Pilate.

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but a person hated by God (1.71), a mere man, and of such a character as the truth itself makes obvious and as reason shows (2.79). Those Jews who follow him by rebelling against their previous Jewish affiliation have been deceived (2.1 and 4; note also 2.8 and its claim that “many others of the same type as Jesus have appeared to people who are willing to be deceived”), and the fact that the vast majority of Jews have rejected him is further proof that he could not be the person he claims to be, for surely God would have made it plain to his own people that their messiah had arrived (“But how would we despise him when he came when we declare plainly to all men that the one who will punish the unrighteous will come from God”; 2.8). Before discussing the content of the Jew’s attack upon Jesus and his followers, the question of its historical integrity must be addressed. This, after all, was a question raised by Origen himself, who saw Celsus’s Jew as little more than an invention, a childish exercise on the part of Celsus in prosopopeia—a rhetorical exercise in which one imitated the style of another writer or historical character.39 The Authenticity of Celsus’s Jew 2.2.3 Peter Schäfer has stated that there is no way of establishing whether Celsus’s Jew is a “fictive” character or not.40 Strictly speaking that is true, if what we want is absolute certainty—after all, we are dealing with a figure mediated to us by the pagan Celsus (potentially), and then mediated through Celsus by Origen, making direct access to some original, if there was one, difficult. Moreover, developing criteria for the establishment of genuine Jewish tradition is equally testing, not least because scholars, like Origen before them, will have different assumptions about what is possible and not possible for a Jew at this date—whatever that might be—to say.41 Nevertheless, some things of substance can be argued. 39  See 1.28, 37, 43, 48, and 67; 2.31, 34, and 55. 40  Peter Schäfer, “Toledot Yeshu as a Tool of Polemic,” in Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus. Two Volumes and a Database, vol. 1, Introduction and Translation, ed. Michael Meerson and Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: Mohr, 2014), 7n25. 41  For the most systematic discussion of possible criteria, see Marc Lods, “Étude sur les sources juives de la polémique de Celse contre les chrétiens,” Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie Religieuses 21 (1941): 4–5. Authenticity, pace Lods, is established if: (a) antiJesus traditions in Celsus converge with known anti-Jewish traditions in other Jewish literature, including rabbinic material and the Toledot Yeshu; (b) if material attributed to the Jew contradicts material reported in the rest of the Contra Celsum; (c) if the same material contradicts or ignores Gospel tradition. These criteria can operate separately and are not true only in combination. None of these criteria are water-tight, but they have some validity and will be alluded to in arguments below.

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First, the negative arguments arraigned against the idea that the Jew could be genuine are not overwhelming. While, for instance, it is helpful to Celsus’s cause to have a Jew speak out against the Christians,42 it is likely that Celsus came to this view through being in contact with Jews himself and hearing their own criticisms of Christianity. His use of a Jew as a means with which to bash his Christian opponents is, as already stated, a novum and is not, as far as we know, connected to a developing tradition43—in principle, it is likely that it was inspired by genuine knowledge, however tendentiously such knowledge was used. Attempts to argue that Celsus’s Jew can be accounted for by arguing that Celsus knew of Christian presentations of Jewish opponents (e.g., in the Dialogue with Trypho or the lost Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus) and then gave them an anti-Christian twist seem unconvincing, not least because the works mentioned above differ from what we find in Celsus, both in content and in form.44 It is possible, of course, that they were a source for Celsus’s presentation of the Jew, and he has simply adapted what he found there. He certainly knew the Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus,45 though what would appear to be the exclusively scriptural character of that work is, with its concentration on polemic aimed directly at Jesus, only very partially reflected in the attack of the Jew.46 Proving that Celsus knew the Dialogue with Trypho is more difficult. Again, the absence of a strongly scriptural component in the Jew’s attack

42  When Niehoff writes: “Why, however, would Celsus have invented a Jewish mouthpiece for his own ideas or admitted to engaging in προσωποποιία? Explanations for such behavior on the part of Celsus do not suggest themselves” (Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 156), she is not convincing. It was precisely the “first-hand” character of Jewish arguments against Jesus which must have made them appealing witnesses against the Christians, especially because Christians claimed that Jesus was the fulfillment of Scriptures which belonged to the Jews. On this, see Arnold (Wahre Logos, 342), who lists a number of additional reasons for the use of a Jewish voice. For further discussion of the advantages to Celsus of using Jewish accusations, see Lona, Wahre Lehre, 176–77, here emphasising the fact that the Jew is able to confirm Celsus’s repeated point that Christians form a “stasis” from Judaism. 43  It is interesting to note that Celsus’s decision to use a character in the manner he uses the Jew (essentially because he is well placed to criticise his chief opponent) has no parallel in known pagan or Jewish literature. 44  For a presentation of this argument, without much detail, see Lona, Wahre Lehre, 175–76, who argues that precisely the interest shown by Celsus’s Jew in scriptural arguments points in this direction. But, as will be demonstrated, the interest in this subject seems undeveloped. 45  See Contra Celsum 4.52. 46  Origen makes no claim that Celsus has created his Jew from this source.

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makes it less likely that it was a source, even if they share some traditions in common.47 Claims that the Jew appears inappropriately hellenised—as argued initially by Origen,48 but by modern scholars, too—are unconvincing. Important here is 1.67, where the Jew, in the context of a discussion of Jesus’s virginal conception, cites other figures from Greek myths whose births have been thought of in divine terms, stating that, while he does not believe them, these at least do not appear to be lacking in plausibility (even if the Jews do not believe them), on account of the wonderful things that these individuals did on behalf of humankind.49 Significantly, Philo made similar remarks when describing the activities of the emperor Caligula when a Jewish delegation, of which Philo was a member, visited him, contrasting the emperor’s own absurd behaviour with the excellent character of the gods he purported to incarnate (Legatio 84f.).50 It would also be odd for Celsus to attribute such knowledge to Jews if Celsus’s Jew had not possessed such views. When speaking about the Jews in general, Celsus himself portrays them as taken up with the Bible and as

47  The claim that Celsus knew Justin’s Dialogue, most vigorously argued for by Carl Andresen (Logos und Nomos. Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum [Berlin: De Gruyter, 1955]), has come under steady attack (see Pichler, Streit, 48–49, for early critics of Andresen). Lods (“Études,” 31), in his nuanced view of the relationship of Celsus to pre-existing Jewish sources, argues that Justin might be a source on the grounds that real parallels exist between the two—see, for example, Dialogue 67.2 and Contra Celsum 1.67; Dialogue 67.5 and Contra Celsum 2.6; and Dialogue 102.3 and Contra Celsum 1.66. The first is a real parallel in that Perseus’s virgin birth is likened to that of Jesus, though the nature of the attack is different, and the three other mythical figures mentioned by Celsus’s Jew (Amphion, Aeacus, and Minos) are not mentioned by Justin. The other two are less specific: the first relates to the fact that both Justin and Celsus’s Jew affirm that Jesus observed the Jewish law (the claim is too general to be striking), and the other two passages dealing with Jesus’s parents’ flight from Egypt following the slaughter of the innocents by Herod. Here, however, the points made are different (for Justin, the claim of the anonymous critic is that God could have killed Herod; the clam of Celsus’s Jew is that a god, like Jesus, would not have fled, and God could have protected him). 48  See Contra Celsum 1.37 (relating to knowledge of Greek myths); 1.67 (relating to knowledge of Greek myths); 2.31 (relating to his bringing together of the Logos and the son); 2.34 (relating to a quotation from Euripides’s Bacchus 498); and 2.55 (relating to knowledge of Greek myths). The most recent expression of this comes in Cook, “Celsus,” 4–5, but it is also found in Lona, and even in Lods (“Études,” 30), who, as noted, is broadly convinced by the genuineness of the Jew but thinks that originally Jewish sources have sometimes been adapted to suit Celsus’s pagan audience. 49  See the parallel in Justin, Dialogue 67.2, already noted above. 50  On this point, see Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 168, noting the similar contexts of reference found in Philo and Celsus’s Jew.

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unphilosophical.51 While it is true that Greek poetry/mythology and philosophy are not the same, we would not expect Celsus’s Jew to show the kind of “Greek” knowledge he demonstrates, if we consider the views Celsus explicitly holds concerning Jews apart from the views he attributes to his Jew, as presented in Contra Celsum 1–2.52 It is possible, though some have doubted this, that Origen’s failure to believe that a Jew could express such opinions arose from the kind of Judaism with which he was familiar at the time he wrote the Contra Celsum—namely, Palestinian/rabbinic Judaism.53 This might be true, but it should be remembered that Origen had asked the advice of Jews in Alexandria as he sought to construct his own version of the Christian Greek Old Testament, Jews who must have boasted some degree of hellenisation.54 Perhaps the doubts emerged from a desire to ridicule the reliability of Celsus, which is a consistent refrain in Origen’s response. But whatever the explanation, the claim that the Jew makes inappropriately “Greek” comments is not in itself a compelling reason to argue against his genuineness. The fact that there are similarities between ideas attributed to the Jew and ideas which occur in the passages attributed to Celsus later in the Contra Celsum need not support the idea that the Jew is an invention.55 Recently, Johannes Arnold has argued that chapters one and two form a kind of narratio 51  In support of the view that Celsus assumes the Jews to be excluded from the wise nations of the earth, see 1.14c and 16a. Also see 1.26. Pertinent, too, is the fact that Celsus does not make the Jew repeat his own criticism that the Christians advertise their wares among the uneducated (see 3.44–55 and 72–78). 52  Celsus mentions Jewish allegorisers of the Old Testament at 4.51 (see also 4.48 and 50). Origen, commenting on the passage, thinks that Celsus is referring to Philo and Aristoboulos, though he claims that Celsus has not read these writers. Whatever the truth of Origen’s remark, the fact that Celsus may have been acquainted with such writers points to a knowledge of a more sophisticated Jewish culture upon which he could have based his Jew. It seems unlikely, however, that he would have attributed knowledge of Greek poetry and Greek mythology to a Jew of his own invention. 53  Origen’s view could be said to chime, at least in part, with those scholars who think that there was no such thing as Hellenistic Judaism after about 150. But few would now hold this opinion. On this, see James Carleton Paget, “The Enigma of the Second Century,” in idem, Jews, 384–425. 54  Nicholas de Lange, Origen and the Jews (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 41–44, 49–61, and 111–12. 55  For a discussion of these similarities, see Arnold, Strukturanalyse, 342–64. These include the rejection of the idea of Jesus as God (see 3.41 and 2.38); comparing Jesus to those who worship Zamolxis after his death (see 3.34 and 2.54–55); the Christian proclivity for sinners (3.59–71 and 2.71); attribution to the Jews of a hope in the resurrection (5.14 and 2.5, 55, and 77); Jews as observers of a law (5.25, 34, and 2.1); Christianity’s origins as rebellious (5.33 and 2.1 and 4); prophetic predictions about the son of God (6.80–7.2; 7.12–18, and 2.29). See also comments on Jesus’s taking a drink on the cross (at 7.13 and 2.37).

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in the overall argument of the Contra Celsum, introducing readers to themes which will be taken up in later discussions.56 What is included in Contra Celsum 1–2 is the tendentious and polemical element of Celsus’s attack upon the Christians, with which Celsus does not want to be associated,57 and the way in which these attacks are taken up in the main part of the text is generally in a more philosophical vein. Some of the material found in Contra Celsum 1–2 is not included in the later part of the work, and vice versa, but this is explained by reference to the purposes of each part.58 Arnold’s argument is not made either to impugn the authenticity of Celsus’s Jew or to support it, but rather as a means of illuminating the structure of Celsus’s work. Even if it is true, it need not detract from the idea that the Jew represents authentic opinion—Celsus’s use of the Jew for a particular purpose could have been suggested to him by what he knew of Jewish criticisms of Jesus and his followers, and some of the criticisms he goes on to develop may have been suggested to him by what he had gleaned from his knowledge of anti-Christian Jewish polemic. What of the positive arguments for asserting the likelihood that genuine Jewish opinion lies behind Celsus’s Jew? 2.2.3.1 Form There is something striking about the manner in which Celsus presents Jewish opposition to Jesus in books 1 and 2 of the Contra Celsum—namely, by direct speech. This method of attack is not repeated in the other books of the work, but this could be conceived of as another way of emphasising that what Celsus is asserting is first-hand information—it comes directly from the mouth of a Jew; but this need not mean that it does not reflect the style of a source he has inherited. Moreover, the fact that Celsus introduces the Jew at what would appear to be precise points in his text,59 and that he is clearly aware of where 56  Without using the word “narratio,” Pichler (Streit, 132) had already suggested a similar role for Contra Celsum 1–2. 57  See Arnold, Strukturanalyse, 344, where he lists the material from chapters 1–2, which is omitted from subsequent discussion. This includes: the virgin birth, the absence of witnesses at Jesus’s baptism, the flight, imprisonment, betrayal and denial of Jesus by his disciples, leading his disciples astray, Jesus’s false genealogy, and the unbelievable character of events relating to Jesus’s death. Celsus’s characterisation of the dispute between the Jews and the Christians as about “the shadow of an ass” (see 3.1) implies a low view of the character of the debate. 58  As we have noted, more philosophical discussions—such as those relating to Christian ideas of cosmogony (6.47–61), anthropomorphisms (6.61–65; 7.27 and 34), discovery of God (7.36–45), and so forth—are not found in Contra Celsum 1–2, where the aim is to engage in more straightforward attacks upon Jesus. 59  See 1.66; 2.19 and 55.

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the text begins and where it ends,60 may, as Maren Niehoff has recently argued, add to this sense of a unified source—but it need not.61 2.2.3.2 Content Insofar as parallels to some of the Jew’s assertions about Jesus exist, these are Jewish. Such traditions include the claim that Mary was an adulterer, that her profession was a lowly one, that Jesus’s biological father was a Roman soldier called Panthera,62 that Jesus was a sorcerer who learnt his magical tricks in Egypt,63 that his followers were wicked,64 that he was executed with John the Baptist,65 that he endeavoured to escape when first arrested,66 and that the Jews put Jesus to death.67 Admittedly, these traditions are contained within the Tosefta and Talmudim, and others are witnessed in the Toledot Yeshu, the latter two of which are much later than Celsus (the Tosefta could be contemporary with Celsus). It is difficult to imagine these later Jewish sources deriving such criticisms from Celsus or pagans68 and more likely to think of this happening the other way round. Related to this are indications in what Celsus’s Jew asserts of knowledge of a more comprehensive counter-narrative of Jesus’s life, implying that Celsus or his Jew had access to more material than he gives—material which is most likely to have been of Jewish origin (see my comments on content above). In this regard, one might pinpoint Jesus’s flight after his arrest (2.9), his execution with the Baptist (1.41), and statements about his followers and their activities (1.62). 2.2.3.3 Introduction to Book 2 (Contra Celsum 2.1) The introduction to book 2 carries with it three markers which imply its origins in a Jewish source: (a) the negative passion with which the Jew represents the “conversion” of his fellow Jews who became followers of Jesus;69 (b) the way in 60  See 1.28 and 2.79. 61  Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 156–58. 62  See bShabb 104b. 63  See tShabb 9.15; bShabb 104b; bSanh 107b. 64  See bSanh. 43a. 65  This appears in the Toledot Yeshu (Schäfer/Meerson, Toledot 1.135 and 1.164). 66  Also found in the Toledot Yeshu (Schäfer/Meerson, Toledot 1.175). 67  See bSanh 43a. 68  It is striking, for instance, that at no point does the Jew accuse Christians of Thyestean feasts or incestuous activity, accusations which became standard among pagans (his focus is upon their perfidy as Jews who have become Christians). 69  “What was wrong with you (Τί παθόντες), citizens, that you left the law of our fathers, and, being deluded by that man whom we were addressing just now, were quite ludicrously deceived (ψυχαγωγηθέντες πάνυ γελοίως ἐξηπατήθητε) and have deserted us

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which the Jew describes the “desertion” of those Jews who become Christians, which is not as a stasis—a term which, whether in its substantive or its verbal form, is used regularly by Celsus in book 3 onwards to describe Christian desertion from the Jews70—but rather makes reference to leaving the ancestral law (καταλιπόντες τὸν πάτριον νόμον),71 language which is only paralleled in Jewish Greek writings, in this case the LXX and Josephus;72 and (c) in 2.1 and 2.4, Celsus’s Jew states that Jews who join the Christian church cease to observe the Jewish law. Subsequently, Origen will quote Celsus referring to Jews who become Christians but continue to observe the Jewish law (Contra Celsum 5.61),73 a phenomenon which is not implied by what he says at Contra Celsum 2.1 or 2.4, betraying a contradiction between words attributed to the Jew and those attributed to Celsus himself—a phenomenon which supports the authenticity of the former’s view.74 2.2.4 Did Celsus Have a Single Jewish Source? If it is accepted that the Jew reflects authentic Jewish opinion, the question arises as to whether he is a character in a single written source. Lods, for instance, while clearly stating that elements of the polemic are too precise to have originated in anything other than a written Jewish document, argues (ἀπηυτομολήσατε) for another name and another life”; Contra Celsum 2.1. What should be noted here is both the ongoing identification of the author with those he is addressing and the directness and passion of his plea that they should desist from their desertion. 70  See Contra Celsum 3.5. According to Celsus, the Jews were Egyptians by race, and left (interestingly rendered by καταλελοιπέναι, the verb which the Jew is presented as using to describe abandonment of Jewish customs by Jewish Christians in Contra Celsum 2.1) Egypt after “revolting” (στασιάσαντας) against the Egyptian community and despising the religious customs of Egypt. Celsus asserts, pace Origen, “that what they did to the Egyptians, they suffered in turn through those who followed Jesus and believed him to be the Christ; in both cases a revolt against the community led to the introduction of new ideas” (ἃπερ ἐποίησαν Αἰγυπτίοις πεπονθέναι ὑπὸ τῶν προσθεμένων τῷ Ἰησοῦ καὶ πιστευσάντων αὐτῷ ὡς Χριστῷ, καὶ ἀμφοτέροις αἴτιον γεγονέναι τῆς καινοτομίας τὸ στασιάζειν πρὸς τὸ κοινόν); Contra Celsum 3.5. For further references to stasis, see Contra Celsum 3.5, 8, and 14; 8. 71  Contra Celsum 2.1. Note also the way in which Celsus represents departure from Judaism in Contra Celsum 2.3, where again the term stasis is missing and καταλείπω is used. 72  See 1 Maccabees 2:22; 10:14; 2 Maccabees 6:28; Ecclesiasticus 49:4; and Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 12.240. In the last of these passages, Josephus is referring to the Maccabean Revolt, possibly aping vocabulary in 1 and 2 Maccabees. His reference to πατρίους νόμους καταλιπόντες comes closest to Contra Celsum 2.1 and 2.3. 73  The reference in 5.61 is to those “who still want to live according to the law of the Jews” (ἔτι δὲ κατὰ τὸν Ἰουδαίων νόμον ὡς τὰ Ἰουδαίων πλήθη βιοῦν ἐθέλοντες), thought by Origen to be a reference to the Ebionites (whom Origen mentions in 2.1 as a means of contradicting Celsus’s view that all Jewish converts cease observing the Torah). 74  Bammel, “Jude,” 277n60e.

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that the varied character of the material (there are passages which seem to show knowledge of popular legend, and some which show more evidence of technical disputation—for example, passages about scriptural interpretation) and the range of topics discussed may point to multiple sources. Some of this material, he contends, may have reached Celsus through oral channels.75 Moreover, Lods is clear that insofar as Celsus has used Jewish sources, he has often summarised them or mentioned information in passing.76 It is also the case, he contends, that on occasion Jewish sources were the starting point for ideas Celsus has gone on to develop in particular ways.77 There are also indications in the text of tensions78 and, as noted above, evidence of knowledge of longer narratives from which material may have been derived79—though there is, as Niehoff has argued, a broad consistency to what the Jew says.80 The fact that Origen transmits no name for the Jew could lead one to think that, in Celsus’s original work, he represented general Jewish opinion, gathered from a number of sources (see 2.4 and the reference to “our prophets”). On occasion, for instance, Celsus addresses a Christian (see 8.39 and 48), who is nameless and could be taken to represent a general form of Christianity. If Celsus was making use of one source, Origen makes no mention of a title—as, for instance, he does when mentioning another source apparently referred to by Celsus, namely the Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus (see 4.51)—and there are very few attempts in book 2 to refer back to criticisms made in book 1, save the one occasion in 2.1 where it is asserted that the Jews who have deserted to Jesus have been “deluded by that man with whom we have just now argued” (ὃν ἄρτι διειλέγμεθα), thus confirming what is said earlier in 2.1 about a twofold division in the Jew’s work.81 One could construct a scenario in which the two 75  See Contra Celsum 6.40; 7.11; also 1.12 and 6.8. 76  Lods, “Études,” 29–33. 77  Lods argues, for instance, that Celsus has taken a genealogical argument against Jesus’s Davidic origin, mentioned in 2.32, and turned it into an argument against the royal origins of Mary. See Lods, “Études,” 32–33. Similarly, the Jewish argument about Jesus as the leader of a group of brigands, finally betrayed by his own followers, becomes, in the hands of Celsus, an attack upon the baseness of Jesus’s personality and the disreputable nature of his followers. 78  Jesus is thought to have observed the law (2.6), but also to have apparently broken it (2.4); John the Baptist is described as pious (2.5), but also seen as an unacceptable witness (1.41); Jesus first goes to Egypt as a young man to learn magic (1.28), but elsewhere visits Egypt (1.66), as in Matthew’s Gospel, as a newborn baby. At 1.32, Mary is described as betrothed to the unnamed carpenter, at 1.28 as married. 79  For example, the double arrest of Jesus (2.9); the reasons for his condemnation (2.1, 4, 5, 7, and 9); and the death of Jesus with John the Baptist (1.41). 80  See Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 157. 81  On this, see Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 157.

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books make sense together, but no one view of this matter has been arrived at.82 Assuming, however, that Celsus created his Jew from an amalgam of sources, as Lods does, over two books in which the Jew’s views are broadly consistent, not least when there was no tradition among pagans of using Jews to criticise Christians, might be thought unlikely. In the end, all one can say is that Celsus’s Jew is credible, whether he emerges from an amalgam of sources, written and oral, or from a single one. Differentiating between the authentic and the inauthentic, the adapted argument and the non-adapted, in the way Lods does is a less than precise exercise. What is probably clear is that it would have made little sense for Celsus to attribute to his Jew ideas that were inappropriate.83 The polemical effect of his attack may well have relied upon the authentic character of the Jew’s criticisms.84 2.2.5 Characteristics of Celsus’s Jew’s Polemic What to say, then, about the content and form of the Jew’s criticisms? 1. The attack does not allow the reader to gain a sense of a Christian response. So when some describe the apparently lost work of Celsus’s Jew as a dialogue, this is a misrepresentation of the contents of books 1 and 2. True, there are many places where Jesus and his followers are directly addressed (see 2.1, 4, 13, 17, 38, 44, 55, and 58), but responses are negligible 82  Lona argues for a clear connection between books 1 and 2. Book 1 constitutes a vituperatio or an assault on the person of Jesus, and book 2 a disputatio, in which the Jewish Christians, Jesus’s followers, are accused in a legal setting of following Jesus, and in which the accuser (the non-Christian Jew) must justify why he is not a believer (Contra Celsum 2.38). Elements of the vituperatio inevitably manifest themselves in the disputatio, but the logic of having the two together is clear. After vituperatio, one would expect no one to believe in Jesus, but such people do exist, thus the need for the disputatio and the inevitability of overlap between the two (Lona, Wahre Lehre, 173–75). Bammel assumes the existence of at least two sources—one a straightforward attack upon Jesus, which combines material based upon the synoptic Gospels and pre-existing Jewish material about Jesus, and the other based much more on dialogic engagement (on the dialogic character of Contra Celsum 2, see Pichler, Streit, 128), implied at Contra Celsum 2.8 and 2.47, and in the references to “you” and “we,” in which there is an attempt to persuade the Christian Jew to return to his or her former politeia. Bammel, “Jude,” 278–81, describes this source as a Glaubenswerbung and compares it to Jewish works like 4 Maccabees and Pseudo-Philo’s De Sampsone and De Jona, which may be synagogue sermons. 83  See Lona, Wahre Lehre, 172, for a broad endorsement of this view. 84  In correspondence, Arnold has argued that Celsus can misrepresent Christian opinion, not least through parody (e.g., Contra Celsum 5.64, in what looks like a parody of Galatians 6:14). Celsus is capable of parodying the Jews in a number of places (e.g., 1.23), but there is no sense in which he is parodying the Jews in his presentation of “his” Jew.

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(see 2.8, 38 [more of a hint?], and 47–48 [here a voice of Jewish Christians can be heard]).85 It may simply be that these responses were omitted, either by Celsus or by Origen; the remnants of some kind of dialogue—as seen in 2.8, 38, and 47—could be taken to hint at this. Christianity is presented as a threat to Judaism. This comes out, as already indicated, in the way in which the Jew presents Jews who have become Christians—they are deserters who threaten the Jewish polity, of which the author still considers them members.86 In this respect, the tone of the Jew’s criticism recalls passages from the New Testament (e.g., 1 Thessalonians 2:14 or Acts 21:21 and 24:5). Such anxiety can be contrasted with that of Trypho, as presented by Justin, where the former is presented in Dialogue with Trypho 47 as being more concerned with the treatment of Christian Jews who continue to observe the law after their conversion than with the fact of their conversion. The polemic has Jesus’s character and actions as its main subject, even when attacking his followers—this is what one scholar has called “biographical calumny,” as opposed to a form of attack which concentrated on teachings (or philosophical doctrines).87 Its principal purpose is to show that there is a striking disjunction between the claims made for Jesus’s divinity and the reality of his life (see 2.8). Moreover, aside from referring to their failure to observe the Jewish law (2.1 and 4), Christian practices are never directly discussed—what is of principal interest is their belief in Jesus as divine, which is attacked not on technical grounds—which might touch upon the nature of God, points hinted at later by Celsus himself—but simply upon the basis of the incompatibility of Jesus’s life with such a claim. The concerns of the Jew are intensely christocentric.

85  “What argument led you to regard this man as Son of God?” He has made us reply that “we were led by this argument, because we know that his punishment was meant to destroy the father of evil.” 86  See n. 80 above. 87  The term “biographical calumny” comes from Mauro Bonnazzi, “The Perfidious Strategy: Or, the Platonists against Stoicism,” in Strategies, 167–68. In differentiating between biographical calumny and polemic, which concentrated on the ideas of one’s opponent (Bonnazzi is addressing the question of ancient philosophical polemic), Bonnazzi notes that the two were related, for in ancient philosophy, the connection between doctrines and life was stronger. But this latter connection does not seem operative in the case of Jesus. An attack upon his character and actions is significant because of the elevated clams Christians make about Jesus’s identity. To some extent, actions (the life of Jesus) and ideas (Christology) coalesce, but not in the same way they do for philosophers.

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4. The tone of the attack is unremittingly hostile, closer to Lucian’s Alexander than to Justin’s Dialogue.88 Its strategy manifests itself as an inversion of the Christian Gospels’ accounts of Jesus’s life in a kind of counter-narrative.89 To some, the counter-narrative originates exclusively in a reading of the Gospels and nothing else. So, for instance, Maren Niehoff has recently argued that Celsus’s Jew manifests the traits of a welleducated Hellenistic literary critic—equivalent to those, like Aristarchus, who sought to recover the original text of Homer—but conducted with polemical intent. The author himself is clear that the Christian Gospels have been fabricated (1.28 and 2.13)90 and that there is a kind of recoverable development of Gospel literature (2.27; see also 2.16),91 a development which has led to “ideological revision and text manipulation.”92 By using well-honed critical methods, such as the test of plausibility, and by showing up contradictions in the text—strategies evidenced by text critics of Homer and copied by Jewish exegetes of the LXX—the Jew seeks to recover an original story, which is quite different from its Christian retelling in the four Gospels.93 Niehoff tries to show how the Jew’s engagement 88  See also Lods, “Études,” 126, for similar remarks. Also on Trypho and Celsus’s Jew, see L. Troiani, “Il giudeo di Celso,” in Discorsi di verità: Paganesimo, giudaismo e cristianesimo a confronto nel Contro Celso di Origene, ed. Lorenzo Perrone, Studia ephemeridis Augustinianum 61 (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1998), 115–28 at 123; and Timothy J. Horner, Listening to Trypho: Justin Martyr’s Dialogue Reconsidered (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 189–93, who plays up the more negative aspect of Celsus’s Jew’s attack over against the more dialogical Trypho. 89  See Philip Alexander’s definition of counter-narrative as “a narrative which retells a story in a way that contradicts an earlier telling of the same events, and negates its claims”; Philip Alexander, “Jesus and his Mother in the Jewish Anti-Gospel,” in Infancy Gospels: Stories and Identities, ed. Claire Clivaz et al. (Tübingen: Mohr, 2011), 593. Counter-narrative could be seen as the same as counter-history, as defined by L. Funkenstein: “[Counterhistory’s] function is polemical. [Its] method consists of the systematic exploitation of the adversary’s most trusted sources against the grain […] Its aim is the distortion of the adversary’s self-image, of his identity, through the deconstruction of his memory”; L. Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History, (Berkeley/Oxford: University of California Press, 1993), 36. 90  Note the use in both of these passages of the participle πλασάμενος. 91  “Some believers, as though from a drinking bout, go so far as to oppose and alter (μεταχαράττειν) the original text of the gospel (τῆς πρώτης γραφῆς τὸ εὐαγγέλιον) three or four times or several times over, and they change its character to enable them to deny difficulties in the face of criticism.” The sense of this passage has been much disputed. On the various interpretations, see Carleton Paget, “Jew of Celsus,” 233n133. 92  Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 162. 93  Alexander, in his own discussion of counter-narrative, apes some of what Niehoff asserts from a technical perspective, by stating that it (counter-narrative) “tends to offer a new

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with a number of Gospel stories—including the virgin birth and the resurrection, together with the genealogies (2.32)94—betray the use of such text-critical strategies, revealing at the same time the types of assumptions which lead the Jew to deem these stories implausible.95 Niehoff’s thesis, which vindicates the claim of the Jew that he has gathered all of his material from the Christian Gospels themselves (2.74),96 rightly accepts knowledge of the Gospels on the part of the Jew,97 something which Origen himself asserts (2.34). She also picks up on references to accusations of fabrication, glossed in the claim that the stories have been somehow modified from a known original (2.27), as well as references to the issue of plausibility (see 2.26). But Niehoff has exaggerated her case in assuming that all parts of the Jew’s counter-narratival endeavour are the result of close textual analysis. After all, while the Jew betrays definite knowledge of the Gospels, he never quotes from them; and where (for instance, in his discussion of the genealogies) he might have made obvious textual points, he does not98—in fact, quotation from the Gospels is almost completely absent.99 Moreover, on occasion, he shows knowledge of more popular Jewish stories about Jesus, which can only with difficulty be derived from the kind of reading of the Christian Gospels assumed by

interpretation of the facts. Counter-narrative is revisionist, usually in a negative direction”; Alexander, “Jesus,” 596. 94  Ibid., 170. 95  See Horner’s characterisation of Celsus’s Jew’s critique: “The accusations […] represent polemical midrash”; Horner, Listening, 191. 96  “However, these things (objections understood) come from your own writings (ἐκ τῶν ὑμετέρων συγγραμμάτων), and we need no other witness, for you provide your own refutation.” 97  See Lona, Wahre Lehre, 175, pointing out knowledge of Matthew in particular (see 1.34, 58, 66; 2.24, 32, 34, 37, and 54); and John (1.67; 2.31, 36, 55, 70, and 71). For further discussion, see Carleton Paget, “Jew of Celsus,” 224n135. 98  See 2.32. The contradiction highlighted here is the incompatibility of Mary’s own low status and the kind of status assumed by the genealogies. There is no attempt, as there would be later on, to highlight the contradictions between the genealogies themselves, which would surely have struck such a textually-minded individual as Niehoff’s version of Celsus’s Jew. Her claim that the “author clearly assumes the later fabrication of the genealogies, presumably in the light of the Gospel of Mark where they are lacking altogether,” seems unwarranted; see Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 170. 99  Weisser’s claim (in “Quotation”) that the use of quotation from one’s opponent was becoming a polemical tool among philosophers of the Second Sophistic is not borne out by Celsus’s Jew or by Celsus (assuming the two to be different). Origen, in his use of Celsus, better reflects the perceived trend, as Weisser indicates.

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Niehoff.100 In this context, one might consider his account of the birth of Jesus,101 where he mentions the name of Jesus’s mooted father, Panthera (1.32); his claim that Jesus was put to death with John the Baptist (1.41); the number of his followers and their occupations (1.66); Jesus’s escape from his captives when he was arrested (2.9); and the accusation that he was killed by the Jews (2.9).102 It is difficult to derive these from the Gospels in the way proposed by Niehoff. Indeed, the Jew may even hint at knowledge of such material precisely in the denial of his use of it (see 2.13),103 even if the predominant claim is that he has derived all he has said from the Gospels (which is, in itself, a polemically-motivated claim). Here we are in the presence of a kind of popular retelling of the story of Jesus, which may ultimately be derived from the Gospels but has begun to take on a life of its own—closer to what we find in the Toledot Yeshu— rather than a polemically motivated rereading of the canonical Gospels (or material based upon polemically motivated exegesis). This is not to say that there is no evidence of critical engagement with the Gospels, in which questions of implausibility and contradiction play a role—the

100  Origen (Contra Celsum 2.10) would seem to admit this in his assertion that Celsus will be unable to prove his claim that Jesus promised things he did not perform, not least because he thinks that he can reproduce the stories he has misunderstood, from his reading of the Gospels and from Jewish tales (ἐκ διηγμάτων ἰουδαϊκῶν). See also Origen, Commentary on Matthew, ser. 28, for a similar claim (reference in Bauer, “Leben Jesu,” 454). 101  Niehoff (“Jewish Critique,” 163–64) argues that the Jew has derived the “true” story of Jesus’s conception and subsequent early life from the Gospel accounts as these are found in Matthew and Luke. Some of the claims are plausible, such as that the Jew may have derived the accusation of adultery against Mary from the implications of Matthew’s account of Mary’s pregnancy (Matthew 1:19), but these become less plausible when it is claimed that Luke 1:39’s reference to Mary going to the hills after the annunciation could be interpreted to imply adulterous behavior. The best that Niehoff can do after that is cite the reference to Jesus as the son of a carpenter, which might well come from the Gospel. But the other details are only with difficulty derived from the Gospels—for example, Mary as someone who practices spinning, Jesus’s flight to Egypt and his learning magic there. The combination of these details and the reference to Panthera make it more likely that the material came from pre-existing Jewish tradition, which is evidenced in later Jewish sources. 102  A Jew created by Celsus might have made much of the fact that Jesus was put to death by the Roman governor—it had polemical value; but to say that he was killed by the Jews seems odd, although at 2.63 it is implied that Jesus is killed by Pilate—“the man who condemned (καταδικάσαντι) him.” 103  “Although I could say much about what happened to Jesus which is true, and nothing like the account which has been written by the disciples of Jesus, I leave that out intentionally.” See Baumgarten, “Martian,” 421, for the idea that this is paralepsis.

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author does engage in straightforward critique of Gospel stories.104 It is rather to say that these kinds of arguments mix with pre-existing, polemically oriented stories about Jesus, which may have boasted a relatively long history prior to their use by Celsus’s Jew. If the Jew is a real person and the author of a unified work, represented in Contra Celsum 1–2, then perhaps he was inspired to turn to the Gospels precisely because he had heard these kinds of popular tales among his fellow Jews. 3

Celsus’s Jew and the Jew of Christian Polemic

There is a sense in which the Jesus-centred focus of Celsus’s Jew’s polemic against Christianity contrasts sharply with the content of that polemic, as presented in Christian adversus Judaeos literature. There, as we have noted, the primary subject of discussion relates to Scripture, that is, the extent to which Christian claims—about Jesus; about his birth, ministry, death, and resurrection; and indeed about the church and its practices, claims, and self-assertions—converge with scriptural promises. Celsus himself implies as much—not only in his assertion at 3.1 that the principal argument between Jews and Christians is about the question of Jesus’s identity as the Messiah, as this relates to the Scriptures (what he terms an argument about the shadow of an ass), but also in his acquaintance with the Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus, which Origen describes as taken up with arguments about Scripture (4.52).105 It is the case that Celsus’s Jew makes reference to arguments from Scripture in his own attacks upon Jesus and his followers,106 culminating in the claim that the Scriptures predicted a princely messiah, with whom Jesus cannot be said to conform (2.29).107 And yet he makes no specific reference to a scriptural passage. Origen notices this when he asserts, a propos of the discussion of the circumstances of Jesus’s birth, that “it would have been appropriate to the words he has put into the mouth of the Jew to have quoted that Emmanuel shall

104  See especially his discussion of Jesus’ foreknowledge at 2.17f.: “Who, whether god or daemon, or sensible man, if he foreknew that such things would happen, would not avoid them if at least he could do so, instead of meeting with just the events he had foreseen.” On this see Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 171. 105  “In it a Christian is described as disputing with a Jew from the Jewish Scriptures (ἀναγέγραπται Χριστιανὸς Ἰουδαίῳ διαλεγεόμενος ἀπὸ τῶν Ἰουδαϊκων γραφῶν) and as showing that the prophecies about the Messiah fit Jesus (ἐφαρμόζειν τῷ Ἰησοῦ)”; 4.52. 106  See p. 396 above for references. 107  See also 1.49, 57, and 2.28.

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be born of a virgin”108 (here referring to Isaiah 7:14), assuming that Celsus was either ignorant of the quotation or intentionally omitted it. Such a response comported with Origen’s experience of discussions with Jews (1.45). Elsewhere, Origen objects to the idea that a Jew would assert that the prophecies could be applied to countless other people with greater probability than to Jesus. Rather the Jew, in Origen’s opinion, would state his own explanation of each prophecy in responding to the Christian interpretation.109 This stands in contrast to the much more detailed engagement, in the depiction of Celsus’s Jew, with stories and traditions concerning Jesus himself, which almost never feature in the Christian adversus Judaeos literature. For instance, although there is much interest in proving that Jesus is born of a virgin in the adversus Judaeos literature, there is no mention in such passages of the accusation that Jesus was born out of wedlock.110 Along similar lines, although there are occasions in Christian literature where the accusation is presented that Jesus was a sorcerer, there is rarely any attempt to attack such a view by referring to the Gospel accounts of Jesus’s miracles.111 Arguments about Jesus in the Christian adversus Judaeos literature, then, are not related to the kinds of accusations we find in Celsus (and indeed, in other Jewish literature), which are ad hominem and depend upon forms of counter-narratival readings of the Gospels and of stories based upon the Gospels. Such an observation becomes more striking when we notice that there are indications in the works of Christian writers, both among those who penned adversus Judaeos literature and those who did not, that they knew of these kinds of ad hominem Jewish anti-Christian arguments. So Justin draws attention to rumours spread abroad by some Jewish leaders, which include the accusation that Jesus was a “Galilean deceiver, whom we crucified,” and whose corpse was stolen by night from the tomb by his disciples, who “now deceive men by asserting that he has risen from the dead and ascended to heaven.”112 But these are never directly the subject of Trypho’s objections to Christianity; Trypho speaks positively about Jesus’s teaching (Dialogue with Trypho 10.2). 108  See 1.34. 109  C  ontra Celsum 2.28. 110  Justin (Dialogue 33, 66, 67, 84, 100, and 102) and Tertullian (Against the Jews 9) mention the virgin birth, but never allude to accusations of adultery on the part of Mary. Many other examples could be given. 111  See Justin, First Apology 1.31. 112  See Justin, Trypho 108.2: ὅτι αἵρεσίς τις ἄθεος καὶ ἄνομος ἐγήγερται ἀπὸ Ἰησοῦ τινος Γαλιλαίου πλάνου, ὃν σταυρωσάντων ἡμῶν, οἱ μαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ κλέψαντες αὐτὸν απὸ τοῦ μνήματος νυκτός, ὁπόθι κατετέθη ἀφηλωθεὶς ἀπὸ τοῦ σταυροῦ, πλανῶσι τοὺς ἀνθρώπους λέγοντες ἐγηγέρθαι αὐτὸν ἐκ νεκρῶν καὶ εἰς οὐρανὸν ἀνεληλυθέναι, κατειπόντες δεδιδαχέναι [καὶ] ταῦτα, ἅπερ κατὰ τῶν ὁμολογοῦντων Χριστὸν καὶ διδάσκαλον καὶ υἱὸν θεοῦ εἶναι παντὶ γένει ἀνθρώπων ἄθεα καὶ ἄνομα καὶ ἀνόσια λέγετε.

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Tertullian’s de Spectaculis 30.6 presents a more detailed insight into a Jewish counter-narrative about Jesus, in a depiction of Jewish reactions to the returning Christ: “This is he […] the son of the carpenter or of the whore, the desecrator of the Sabbath, the Samaritan and the one possessed of a demon; this is he whom you purchased from Judas, this is the one struck with a rod and fists, disgraced with spittle, given a draught of vinegar and gall; this is he whom, you say, they stole away secretly so that he may be said to have risen or else that the gardener removed him lest his lettuces be damaged by the throng of visitors.”113 But again, none of these accusations appear directly in his adversus Judaeos. The passages referred to above, when combined with the evidence from Celsus, might suggest a greater importance for counter-narrative as a tool of anti-Christian assertions by Jews. But why then the absence of direct reference to such claims in what one might term the official record of Christian records of such polemic? 1. Philip Alexander has distinguished between three different types of anti-Christian Jewish polemic—counter-narrative, counter-exegesis, and counter-argument.114 The first of these is, in his opinion, the earliest, with clear signs of it in the New Testament.115 Could it be the case that counter-narrative petered out, to be replaced by an argument which concentrated much more on counter-exegesis, and then subsequently on counter-argument? Such a thesis might be supported by the fact that Origen appears bemused by the absence of scriptural arguments on the part of Celsus’s Jew. Although his work is full of attacks upon the Jews, Origen almost never refers to counter-narratival polemic directed by Jews against Christians.116 In such an argument, the Toledot constitutes evidence for the revival of an older tradition of polemic. But as will be noted, there is more evidence than some think for the persistence and longevity of Jewish counter-narratival arguments in antiquity, and Alexander himself nowhere suggests such a decline and subsequent revival in the use of counter-narratival arguments. 113  Tertullian, De Spectaculis 30.6: hic est ille, dicam, fabri aut quaestuariae filius, sabbati destructor, Samarites et daemonium habens; hic est quem a Iuda redemistis, hic est ille harundine et colaphis diverberatus, sputamentis dedecoratus, felle et aceto potatus; hic est, quem clam discentes subripuerunt, ut surrexisse dicatur, vel hortulanus detraxit, ne lactucae suae frequentia commeantium adlaederentur. On the passage more generally, see William Horbury, “Tertullian on the Jews in the Light of De Spect. XXX, 5–6,” in idem, Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 176–79. 114  See Alexander, “Jesus”, 593–94, for a brief discussion of these three types of polemic, which he rightly wants to see as interconnected as well as different. 115  See Alexander, “Jesus,” 596–97. 116  For a few exceptions, see n. 106 above.

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Another answer lies in considering the audience of Christian adversus Judaeos literature. As noted above, this could well have been internal, aimed at Christians in need of scriptural education or even reassurance against Jewish attack. Such an internal audience might have been uninterested in the kind of counter-narrative arguments which are articulated by Celsus’s Jew117—or, put another way, from an internal Christian perspective, the debate over the status of the Old Testament Scriptures may have been more urgent and more undermining, whereas that over Jesus’s parentage and related matters were “background noise.” In this context, one might highlight the extraordinary importance and popularity of scriptural proof in early Christianity and the sense of its authoritative power. Augustine, commenting on Luke 24:24–27, noted that our Lord expected the disciples not to be convinced by his resurrection appearances, but by the fact that the sequence death-resurrection was to be found in the law, the prophets, and the psalms.118 There was also a sense that it was pointless to attempt to out-narrate the Jews using texts whose truth the latter doubted (in this respect, note Celsus’s claim that they were fabricated) and better to use texts whose authority was assumed by both parties.119 Would it be right, then, to assume that counter-narrative arguments of the type advanced by Celsus’s Jew were more popular than might at first seem to be the case? A few points should be considered. Firstly, the rabbinic evidence, though meagre insofar as it uses stories about Jesus in halakhic and midrashic contexts, hints at a wider dissemination of such material—after all, such traditions would only be used in these broadly pedagogic contexts if they were stories known to readers of the rabbinic material. Secondly, some Christian apocryphal gospels could be understood as responses to Jewish counter-narratives. This case was argued, in an exaggerated

117  The Jewish opponents in adversus Judaeos literature might be thought to play a particular role—they are foils to Christians who seek to prove the truth about Jesus and the Christian church from Scripture. In being created to play such a role, they are not expected to argue in a non-scriptural way. 118  Augustine, Epistula ad Catholicos 50 (xix). The passage is referred to by Horbury, “Jews and Christians on the Bible,” in idem, Jews and Christians, 215. 119  See First Apology 30, admittedly in a work ostensibly addressed to Gentiles. Here, Justin is faced with the accusation that Jesus is a sorcerer, but rather than attempting to defend Jesus’s miraculous activity through a defence of the stories in the Gospels, he proceeds to appeal to Scripture, “the strongest and truest evidence.”

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way, by Schonfield,120 but has been advanced more soberly by Hillel Newman121 and Piurluigi Piovanelli, amongst others.122 Most of the relevant texts are late (fourth century and beyond), and it is difficult to establish which Jewish sources they might have known.123 Moreover, where Jewish sources seem to reflect the content of such works, priority cannot always be established—Jewish sources could reflect Christian traditions, rather than Christian traditions being responses to them. Thirdly, adversus Judaeos literature could be seen to reflect a Jewish counternarrative about Jesus, best answered by reference to Old Testament Scripture. After all, many of these texts contain strong defences of the virgin birth; Jesus’s miraculous activity; his death, in particular his crucifixion; and his resurrection—themes which loom large in Jewish counter-narrative, insofar as we have evidence for it.124 If this evidence supports the existence of such counter-narrative traditions, it does not prove that these existed in the form of complete narratives. So Walter Bauer’s view, expressed many years ago, that anti-Gospel traditions would have taken the form of “disiecta membra,” replying to individual points of polemic, has carried support.125 One might respond in a number of ways 120  J . Schonfield, According to the Hebrews (London: Duckworth, 1937), esp. 87–101 and 106–31. 121  See Hillel Newman, “The Death of Jesus in the Toledot Yeshu Literature,” Journal of Theological Studies New Series 50 (1999): 66–68, mentioning in particular the Gospel of Peter, the Acta Pilati, and the Book of the Resurrection of Christ by Bartholomew. 122  Piovanelli, “Apocrypha,” with special reference to the Book of the Cock. 123  Note Alexander’s point (“Jesus”, 604) that the Toledot should be understood as an apocryphal gospel, as it is in Hans-Josef Klauck, Apocryphal Gospels: An Introduction (London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 211–20. Markus Bockmuehl (Ancient Apocryphal Gospels [Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2017], 129–30) understands the Toledot in the same way, but dates it to the medieval period. 124  Note the words of Justin, First Apology 31: “In these books, then, of the prophets we found Jesus our Christ foretold, as coming, born of a virgin, growing up to man’s estate, and healing every disease and every sickness, and raising the dead, and being hated, and unrecognized, and crucified, and dying, and rising again, and ascending into heaven, and being, and being called, the son of god. We find it also predicted that certain persons should be sent by him into every nation to publish these things, and that rather among the gentiles men should believe on him.” In a text that is not ostensibly adversus Judaeos but contains within it adversus Judaeos themes, Scripture defends the narrative of Jesus’s life. 125  See Walter Bauer, “Das Leben Jesus bei den jüdischen u. heidnischen Gegnern des Christentums,” in idem, Das Leben Jesu im Zeitalter der neutestamentlichen Apokryphen (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftlche Buchgesellschaft, repr. 1967), 453. This view might be given more general support by Markus Bockmuehl’s assertion that, aside from the canonical Gospels, there is no evidence of gospels covering all of Jesus’s life, but rather of works which cover aspects of that life (infancy, passion, etc.). See Bockmuehl, Ancient Apocryphal Gospels, 29–30. Bockmuehl’s view is not strictly true, if we accept that

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to this thesis. Firstly, in discussing the contents of Celsus’s Jew’s attack upon Jesus, while there was evidence of straightforward polemical inversion of the Christian Gospels (a kind of polemically oriented exegesis), there was also evidence of a more extensive counter-narrative—knowledge of which, on the part of Celsus’s Jew, appeared not to be derived exclusively from a reading of the canonical Gospels. This material related to Jesus’s birth; aspects of his ministry, including the choice and activity of his disciples; and his passion, including reference to his escape from his Jewish captors and his execution with John the Baptist. Secondly, further support for the existence of something more than “disiecta membra” is found not only in the passages from Justin and Tertullian,126 referred to above (especially the latter), but also in the passage from Lactantius (Divine Institutes 5.3.4) in which Christ is presented as driven out by the Jews and gathering together a band of 900 followers, who commit acts of brigandage,127 and in the possibly fourth-century Martyrdom of Conon.128 Here, during the Decian persecution of the Christians in the middle of the third century, the unnamed governor of Magydus addresses the soon-to-be martyred Conon, stating that he has learnt accurately from the Jews what Jesus’s family was, the works he performed in front of his people, and how he died on the cross. He asserts that the Jews have brought his (αὐτοῦ) accounts and read them to him (see 4.6).129 The term for accounts (ὑπομνήματα) is a known and possibly early way of referring to the Gospels,130 and the accusations made against Jesus, Tatian’s Diatessaron and Marcion’s Gospel are whole gospels, though Bockmuehl dismisses their importance—at least the importance of the former (Marcion’s Gospel is not discussed)—on the grounds that they are heavily based upon the canonical Gospels. But one wonders why such a point should be so significant (the epiphenomenal nature of the apocryphal gospels, argued for so strongly by Bockmuehl, shows up the importance of the canonical Gospels, a significance which might lead to the writing of a variety of gospels). Also, Bockmuehl does not pay attention to a fragmentary gospel such as the Gospel of the Hebrews, which contains baptismal and post-resurrection scenes, implying a whole narrative; see Andrew Gregory, ed., The Gospel according to the Hebrews and The Gospel of the Ebionites (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 98–106 and 110–17, respectively. 126  S . Krauss, Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen (Berlin: S. Calvary, 1902), 3. 127  For discussion of this passage and the extent to which it implies a longer narrative, see William Horbury, “Christ as Brigand in ancient anti-Christian polemic,” in Jesus and the Politics of his Day, ed. Ernst Bammel and Charles F. D. Moule (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 183–96. 128  For further discussion, see Newman, “Death of Jesus,” 61; and John Gager, “Simon Peter, Founder of Christianity or Saviour of Israel,” in Toledot, 242–43. 129  The one difficulty with this reference is the personal pronoun αὐτοῦ, which goes with ὑπομνήματα and appears to refer to Jesus, and might lead one to think that we have a reference to the Christian Gospels rather than a Jewish anti-gospel, though one could venture the translation “about him.” 130  See Eusebius, Church History 2.15.1; 3.24.5 and 3.39.15, here referring to Papias’s description.

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which are well-evidenced in a number of Jewish sources or sources claiming to represent Jewish opinion, imply a complete narrative of Jesus’s life.131 Thirdly, and more speculatively, one could argue that the canonical Gospels were themselves apologetic, composed with attention to existing biographical polemic, because both Christians and Jews appealed to a story for justification of their views. So, for some, Matthew could be taken to presuppose a polemical account, citing at the end of his Gospel the rumour about the theft of Jesus’s body, implying polemic about the circumstances of Jesus’s birth at the beginning, and in the middle providing proof texts for various aspects of Jesus’s life, including what could look like his flight in Matthew 12:15–17.132 What, finally, of the context in which such narratives arose and came to be used? Might it have been in direct disputation with Christians, possibly Christian Jews, as is implied by Celsus’s Jew in Contra Celsum 2.1, where an assault upon Christian belief in Jesus as the Son of God becomes a means to prevent desertion “to another life and another name”? The threat of such desertion could have led to a developed sense of the need to attack the central figure of this movement, and such attacks may have proved more effective than scripturally-based ones, especially when we consider the importance of biography for early Christian catechesis (implied, in particular, by the importance of the Gospels). The christocentric assertions of such an early and articulate follower of Jesus as Paul indicate at what point the weaknesses of the Christian message lie—precisely in the heightened claims about a man whose life might have seemed incompatible with such assertions. As time moved on and Christians began to attract more Gentiles than Jews and developed a more scripturally oriented defence of their founding figure, such narratives became more internally oriented, told by Jews to each other amongst themselves. But such a schema is too neat. Justin implies the presence of individuals during his own time who spread negative tales about Jesus abroad (though he says nothing about their audience), and whether his assertion is believable or not, he gives evidence of knowing such traditions. The writer of the Martyrdom of Conon implies a willingness on the part of Jews to share their anti-Christian

131  Schäfer (“Tool of Polemic,” 5–9) reviews these passages (excluding those from Lactantius and Conon) but remains sceptical about the degree to which they witness to a complete narrative. 132  I am indebted to Prof. William Horbury for this point. For similar sentiments, see Alexander, “Jesus,” 596–97, who suggests that the Gospels themselves could be seen as “counter-narratives” of pre-existing Jewish stories about Jesus. For Alexander, it is clear that right from the start of “Christian” history, both sides were involved in a battle of narratives, with each side trying to out-narrate the other.

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narratives with pagans, and it may well be the case that such counter-narrative continued to have a role in disputation between Jews and Christians.133 4 Conclusion Reconstructing the fault lines of ancient Jewish polemic against Christians is a difficult task—pertinent Jewish sources are late and afford little detail, and where potential plenitude exists, this comes from the hands of Christians in texts aimed against Jews, which throw up complicated interpretative difficulties, to which reference has briefly been made above. I have contended in this chapter that, in our attempts to reconstruct Jewish anti-Christian polemic, greater attention should be paid to the evidence of Celsus’s Jew. There are, I have claimed, good reasons for accepting the view that the Jew represents genuine Jewish opinion about Jesus and the movement he spawned, however incomplete, and cannot be regarded as the invention of Celsus, although questions about the single or multiple nature of the sources from which Celsus may have constructed his Jew remain open.

133  For a discussion of context, see Yassif, “Folk-Narrative,” 104–5. He is sceptical about the existence of dedicated anti-Gospel material among Jews before the eighth century. In seeking to create a scenario for the development of such material, as seen in the Toledot Yeshu, he argues that the creation of scholarly convocations (majlis) in the Geonic period, held between individuals of different religious origins, has a claim to being the setting in which the Toledot came into being: “it may very well have been at cultural events like the majlis that exposition of the Christian doctrine gave birth to the sporadic motifs that were later brought together in what we know as the TY (Toledot Yeshu). Viewing it as a narrative that took shape largely in oral form in the course of debate with agents of the Christian narrative and Muslim scholars, rather than the work of a Jewish writer taking one of the Gospels and deliberately distorting it to create counter-history, may well explain the existence of such a wide variety of different versions of TY.” In this reconstruction, interestingly, such narratives have a real and significant role in public disputation. But one might respond by arguing that Yassif’s view takes too little account of: (a) the importance of biography in ancient Christian apologetic and catechesis (seen in the writing of the canonical Gospels between approximately 80 and 130 and their growing importance as sources of Christian life, seen in writers like Justin and Irenaeus, and in the writing of apocryphal Gospels, which could be taken, as Bockmuehl suggests, as “epiphenomena” of the canonical gospels [Bockmuehl, Apocryphal, 30]); and (b) the potential vigour of Jewish-Christian disputation between the time of Trajan and that of Constantine, precisely the period in which we know that the canonical Gospels became important for Christian life, and the period in which a number of Christian sources hint at the existence of such Jewish anti-Gospels. Both points make it as likely that Toledot-like traditions could have arisen in a much earlier period than Yassif posits.

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What is striking about this Jewish opponent of Christianity is the extent to which he engages in ad hominem attacks upon Jesus, mixing more popular, polemically oriented stories about Jesus with more forensic but equally polemical exegesis of the Gospels—giving evidence, potentially, of the oldest extant engagement with the canonical Gospels. Above all else, and without any concessions, the Jew is keen to show that Jesus is a charlatan and a fraud, a man whose actions are entirely incompatible with his and his followers’ claims that he is divine, and that he even falls short of pagan standards. In this vein, the Jew engages in a kind of “biographical calumny,” avoiding, at least as transmitted by Celsus, an engagement with Jesus’s ideas or the more detailed ideas Jesus’s followers had about him. This form of attack upon Christianity, which focuses on Jesus’s life to produce a counter-narrative, no doubt in varied forms,134 contrasts with the way in which Christian adversus Judaeos literature seeks to represent the JewishChristian encounter—where Scripture, specifically the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, is the focus of discussion. Juxtaposing these two forms of polemic, the counter-narratival and the counter-exegetical, raises questions about the relationship between them, their function, and their relative significance. It has been suggested that counter-narrative preceded counter-exegesis, and that the latter somehow reflects, without stating it, the contours of the former. It is unsurprising that Origen presents debates between himself and the Jews as based upon Scripture, or that constructed formal dialogues, written by Christians, concentrate on the Old Testament—this was agreed terrain and reflected a strong apologetic concern among Christians. Some might argue that Jews were more inclined to reserve scriptural matters for public discussion, but relegated polemic about Jesus to internal audiences—a phenomenon which may have increased once Christianity became the official religion of the empire (and may be supported by the relative absence of Jesus-oriented traditions in the Talmud Yerushalmi).135 Celsus’s Jew, however, could be taken to imply an almost proselytic aim in his denunciation of Jesus, as seen in Contra Celsum 2.1, in which the Jew writes passionately of the desertion of Jews to “another name and another life” (εἰς ἄλλο ὂνομα καὶ εἰς ἄλλον βίον). In the end, perhaps too neat 134  Just as we find in the Toledot Yeshu. 135  See Schäfer, Jesus, who argues that the relative absence of anti-Jesus traditions in the Yerushalmi is best explained by the fact that Palestine was a Christian land from the mid-fourth century onwards. See also Alexander, “Jesus,” 604: “The polemical encounter between Judaism and Christianity in the west was fundamentally an exegetical encounter. In the east, however, exegesis was far less developed in Jewish circles, and there they relied for their defence more on counter-narrative, as represented by such works as the Toledot Yeshu. There can be little doubt, however, that the Toledot originated in the west.”

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a distinction between the apparently appropriate contexts for these forms of polemic should be avoided. Questions remain. Why does Celsus’s Jew leave almost no footprint in the history of Christian adversus Judaeos literature, and this in spite of the evident popularity of the Contra Celsum? Why does the direct presentation of Jewish opinion, in this form or in any other form, not present itself more frequently in anti-Christian pagan literature, not least given the interest shown by some pagans in criticising the Gospels? Whatever the answers to these (and other) questions, they do not lie in arguing that Celsus’s Jew is an anomaly—an erratic block whose mode of criticism fell out of favour. Celsus’s Jew, then, presents the historian of anti-Jewish Christian polemic with a potentially vital witness to a phenomenon which, though given only passing significance in extant ancient Christian and Jewish literature, was a significant feature of Jewish arguments against the claims of Christians in a variety of contexts. Bibliography Albl, Martin C. ‘And Scripture Cannot be Broken’: The Form and Function of the Early Christian Testimonia Collections. Leiden: Brill, 1999. Albl, Martin C., trans. and ed. Pseudo-Gregory of Nyssa: Testimonies against the Jews. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2004. Alexander, Philip. “‘In the Beginning’: Rabbinic and Patristic Exegesis of Genesis 1:1.” Pages 1–29 in The Exegetical Encounter between Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity. Edited by E. Grypeou and H. Spurling. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Alexander, Philip. “Jesus and his Mother in the Jewish Anti-Gospel.” Pages 588–616 in Infancy Gospels: Stories and Identities. Edited by Claire Clivaz et al. Tübingen: Mohr, 2011. Andresen, Carl. Logos und Nomos. Die Polemik des Kelsos wider das Christentum. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1955. Arnold, Johannes. Der Wahre Logos des Kelsos. Eine Strukturanalyse. Münster: Aschendorff, 2016. Bammel, Ernst. “Der Jude des Celsus.” Pages 265–83 in Kleine Schriften 1: Judaica. Tübingen: Mohr, 1986. Barclay, John M. G. “ ‘Jews’ and ‘Christians’ in the Eyes of Roman Authors.” Pages 313–26 in Jews and Christians in the First and Second Centuries: How to Write Their History. Edited by Joshua Schwartz and Peter Tomson. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Bauer, Walter. “Das Leben Jesus bei den jüdischen u. heidnischen Gegnern des Christentums.” Pages 453–86 in Das Leben Jesu im Zeitalter der neutestamentlichen

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Apokryphen. Edited by W. Bauer. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftlche Buchgesellschaft, repr. 1967. Baumgarten, Albert I. “The Rule of the Martian in the Ancient Diaspora: Celsus and His Jew.” Pages 398–430 in Jews and Christians in the First and Second Centuries: How to Write their History. Edited by Joshua Schwartz and Peter Tomson. Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum 13. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Blumell, Lincoln. “A Jew in Celsus’ True Doctrine? An Examination of Jewish AntiChristian Polemic in the Second Century C.E..” Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 36 (2007): 297–315. Bockmuehl, Markus. Ancient Apocryphal Gospels. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2017. Boyarin, Daniel. “Justin Martyr Invents Judaism.” Church History 70 (2001): 427–61. Boyarin, Daniel. Border Lines: Partition of Judaeo-Christianity. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004. Carleton Paget, James. “Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity.” Pages 43–76 in idem, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity. Tübingen: Mohr, 2010. Carleton Paget, James. “The Enigma of the Second Century.” Pages 384–425 in idem, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity. Tübingen: Mohr, 2010. Carleton Paget, James. “The Jew of Celsus and adversus Judaeos literature.” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 21 (2017): 201–42. Chadwick, Henry. Origen: Contra Celsum. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1953. Cook, John Granger. “Celsus.” In From Celsus to the Catacombs: Receptions of Jesus in Pagan, Visual, and Liturgical Sources of the Second and Third Centuries CE. Vol. 3 of The Reception of Jesus in the First Three Centuries. Edited by Chris Keith, Helen K. Bond, and Jens Schröter. London/New York: T&T Clark, forthcoming. de Lange, Nicholas. Origen and the Jews. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Donaldson, Terence L. Jews and Anti-Judaism in the New Testament. Decision Points and Divergent Interpretations. London: SPCK, 2010. Frede, Michael. “Origen’s Treatise Against Celsus.” Pages 131–56 in Apologetics in the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians. Edited by Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman, and Simon Price. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Funkenstein, L. Perceptions of Jewish History. Berkeley/Oxford: University of California Press, 1993. Gager, John. “Simon Peter, Founder of Christianity or Saviour of Israel.” Pages 221–46 in Toledot Yeshu (“The Life of Jesus”) Revisited. Edited by Peter Schäfer, Michael Meerson, and Jacob Deutsch. Tübingen: Mohr, 2011. Gregory, Andrew, ed. The Gospel according to the Hebrews. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Gregory, Andrew, ed. The Gospel of the Ebionites. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017.

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Grypeou, E., and H. Spurling, eds. The Exegetical Encounter between Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Grypeou, E., and H. Spurling. The Book of Genesis in Late Antiquity. Encounters between Jewish and Christian Exegesis. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Harnack, A. Die Altercatio Simonis Iudaei et Theophili Christiani nebst Untersuchungen über die antijüdische Polemik in der alten Kirche. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1883. Herford, R. T. Christianity in Talmud and Midrash. London: Williams and Norgate, 1903. Horbury, William. A Critical Examination of the Toledoth Yeshu. Ph.D diss., Cambridge University, 1970. Horbury, William. “Christ as Brigand in ancient anti-Christian polemic.” Pages 183–96 in Jesus and the Politics of his Day. Edited by Ernst Bammel and Charles F. D. Moule. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Horbury, William. “Jews and Christians on the Bible.” Pages 200–25 in idem, Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998. Horbury, William. “Rabbinic Perceptions of Christianity and the History of Roman Palestine.” Pages 353–76 in Rabbinic Texts and the Story of Late-Roman Palestine. Edited by M. Goodman and P. Alexander. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Horbury, William. “Tertullian on the Jews in the Light of De Spect. XXX, 5–6.” Pages 176–79 in Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy. Edited by W. Horbury. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998. Horner, Timothy J. Listening to Trypho: Justin Martyr’s Dialogue Reconsidered. Leuven: Peeters, 2001. Jacobs, Andrew S. “Jews and Christians.” Pages 169–85 in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies. Edited by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. Jacobs, Andrew S. Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christians in Late Antiquity. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004. Klauck, Hans-Josef. Apocryphal Gospels: An Introduction. London: T&T Clark International, 2004. Krauss, S. Das Leben Jesu nach jüdischen Quellen. Berlin: S. Calvary, 1902. Lahey, L. “Evidence for Jewish-Christian Believers in Christian-Jewish Dialogues through the Sixth Century (excluding Justin).” Pages 581–639 in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries. Edited by Oskar Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik. Peabody: Hendricksen, 2007. Lanfranchi, Pierluigi. “L’image du judaïsme dans les dialogues adversus Judaeos,” Pages 226–27 in Les Dialogues adversus Judaeos. Permanences et mutations d’une tradition polémique. Edited by Sébastien Morlet, Olivier Munnich, and Bernard Pouderon. Paris: Instiutes d’études augustiniennes, 2013. Lieu, Judith M. Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996.

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Lods, Marc. “Étude sur les sources juives de la polémique de Celse contre les chrétiens.” Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie Religieuses 21 (1941): 4–5. Lona, Horacio. Die ‘Wahre Lehre’ des Kelsos. Freiburg: Herder, 2006. Maier, Johann. Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978. Morlet, S. “Les dialogues aduersus Iudaeos: origine, caractéristiques et réferentialité.” Pages 21–45 in Les Dialogues adversus Judaeos. Permanences et mutations d’une tradition polémique. Edited by Sébastien Morlet, Olivier Munnich, and Bernard Pouderon. Paris: Instiutes d’études augustiniennes, 2013. Morlet, Sébastien, Olivier Munnich, and Bernard Pouderon, eds. Les Dialogues adversus Judaeos. Permanences et mutations d’une tradition polémique. Paris: Instiutes d’études augustiniennes, 2013. Munnich, Olivier. “Le judaïsme dans le Dialogue avec Tryphon: une fiction littérraire.” Pages 95–156 in Les Dialogues adversus Judaeos. Permanences et mutations d’une tradition polémique. Edited by Sébastien Morlet, Olivier Munnich, and Bernard Pouderon. Paris: Instiutes d’études augustiniennes, 2013. Murcia, Thierry. Jésus dans le Talmud et la littérature rabbinique ancienne. Turnhout: Brepols, 2014. Newman, Hillel. “The Death of Jesus in the Toledot Yeshu Literature.” Journal of Theological Studies New Series 50 (1999): 59–79. Niehoff, Maren. “A Jewish Critique of Christianity from the Second Century: Revisiting the Jew Mentioned in Contra Celsum.” Journal of Early Christian Studies 21 (2013): 151–75. Pichler, Karl. Streit um das Christentum: Der Angriff des Kelsos und die Antwort des Origenes. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1980. Piovanelli, P. “The Toledot Yeshu and Christian Apocryphal Literature.” Pages 89–100 in Toledot Yeshu (“The Life of Jesus”) Revisited. Edited by Peter Schäfer, Michael Meerson, and Jacob Deutsch. Tübingen: Mohr, 2011. Pouderon, Bernard. “La source de l’argumentation de Tryphon dans le Dialogue de Justin: confrontation de deux theses.” Pages 67–93 in Les Dialogues adversus Judaeos. Permanences et mutations d’une tradition polémique. Edited by Sébastien Morlet, Olivier Munnich, and Bernard Pouderon. Paris: Instiutes d’études augustiniennes, 2013. Reuling, Hanneke. After Eden. Church Fathers and Rabbis on Genesis 3:16–21. Leiden: Brill, 2005. Rizzi, Marco. “Some Reflections about Origen, Celsus and Their Views on the Jews.” Pages 37–60 in Jews and Christians in Antiquity: A Regional Perspective. Edited by P. Lanfranchi and J. Verheyden. Leuven: Peeters, 2018.

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Schäfer, Peter. “Agobard’s and Amulo’s Toledot Yeshu.” Pages 27–48 in Toledot Yeshu (“The Life of Jesus”) Revisited. Edited by Peter Schäfer, Michael Meerson, and Jacob Deutsch. Tübingen: Mohr, 2011. Schäfer, Peter. “Introduction.” Pages 1–12 in Toledot Yeshu (“The Life of Jesus”) Revisited. Edited by Peter Schäfer, Michael Meerson, and Jacob Deutsch. Tübingen: Mohr, 2011. Schäfer, Peter. Jesus in the Talmud. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007. Schäfer, Peter and Michael Meerson. “Toledot Yeshu as a Tool of Polemic.” Pages 3–124 in Introduction and Translation. Vol. 1 of Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus. Two Volumes and a Database. Edited by Michael Meerson and Peter Schäfer. Tübingen: Mohr, 2014. Schonfield, J. According to the Hebrews. London: Duckworth, 1937. Simon, Marcel. Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire AD 135–425 (ET). London: Littman Library, 1996. Stemberger, G. “Exegetical Contacts between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire.” Pages 569–86 in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation, vol. 1.1. Edited by M. Saebø. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1996. Taylor, Miriam. Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity: A Critique of the Consensus. Brill: Leiden, 1995. Troiani, L. “Il giudeo di Celso.” Pages 115–28 in Discorsi di verità: Paganesimo, giudaismo e cristianesimo a confronto nel Contro Celso di Origene. Edited by Lorenzo Perrone. Studia ephemeridis Augustinianum 61. Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1998. Weisser, Sharon. “The Art of Quotation: Plutarch and Galen against Chrysippus.” Pages 205–29 in Strategies of Polemic in Greek and Roman Philosophy. Edited by Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Yassif, E. “ ‘Toledot Yeshu’: Folk-Narrative as Polemics and Self Criticism.” Pages 101–35 in Toledot Yeshu (“The Life Story of Jesus”) Revisited. Edited by P. Schäfer, M. Meerson and Y. Deutsch. Tübingen: Mohr, 2011.

chapter 13

The Emperor Julian, Against the Cynic Heraclius (Oration 7): A Polemic about Myths Robbert M. van den Berg From its earliest beginnings onwards, Greek philosophy was a highly competitive enterprise. Greek philosophers thought of themselves as partaking in a contest (agôn) and of their fellow-philosophers as opponents to be bested. Within this context, exchanges between philosophers tended to take the shape of polemics—that is, aggressive attacks on both the position and the person of the opponent—rather than of constructive dialogues. Good illustrations of this point are the early Presocratics Xenophanes and Heraclitus, who both vehemently attack such figures of note as Homer, Hesiod, and Pythagoras in an attempt to make a name for themselves.1 Philosophical polemic gained extra momentum from the Hellenistic period onwards, when philosophers began to organise themselves into schools that competed with each other for pupils. Polemics proved a useful tool for self-promotion and hence for luring potential students away from other schools. Somewhat paradoxically, given its importance, the ancients did not theorise about polemical discourse. It is not discussed, for example, in the many ancient treatises about rhetoric. Even though the modern word polemic is derived from the ancient Greek words polemos (“war”) and polemikos (“related to war”), these words are hardly ever used in ancient texts to denote polemics.2 A student of ancient polemical texts thus 1  For Heraclitus as an early polemicist, cf. for example H. Stauffer, “Polemik,” in Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik, vol. 6, Must—Pop, ed. Gert Ueding (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2003), 1403– 15, here 1405. For Heraclitus’s sharp criticism of other Greek poets and intellectuals, see, for example, Heraclitus in Hermann Diels and Walther Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 11th ed. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1964) 22 B 42: “Heraclitus said that Homer deserved it to be driven out of the competitions (ek tôn agônôn) and beaten and Archilochus likewise”; and further A 22 (against Homer); 22 B40 (against Hesiod, Pythagoras, Xenophanes, and Hecataeus); B57 (against Hesiod); and B129 (against Pythagoras). On the public competition (agôn) between Xenophanes and Homer and Hesiod, see, for example, Glenn W. Most, “The Poetics of Early Greek Philosophy,” in The Cambridge Companion to Early Greek Philosophy, ed. A. A. Long, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 332–62, here 352–53. 2  For the absence of the concept of polemic in antiquity, see Stauffer, “Polemik,” 1403–06. André Laks (“The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means?” in Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy, ed. Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler [Leiden: Brill, 2016], 16–30, here 17) likewise observes that the Greek words polemos and polemikos hardly ever apply to © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 201

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has to take recourse to modern literary theories about polemics. In the present contribution, I intend to discuss the oration of the emperor Julian (Oration 7) against the Cynic Heraclius on myths, with the help of a model of polemical discourse that has been developed by Jürgen Stenzel,3 and to which André Laks has recently drawn the attention of students of ancient philosophy in a stimulating essay introducing a volume about the role of polemics in ancient philosophy.4 Julian’s speech is a response to another speech that was delivered in the spring of 362 in Constantinople by the aforementioned Cynic philosopher Heraclius before an audience that consisted of Julian and other members of the imperial court. If we are to believe Julian’s no doubt biased summary of the speech—which itself has not been preserved—it revolved around a myth of Heraclius’s own making about Zeus and Pan. To his public, it must have been clear that in this myth, Zeus represented Heraclius himself, whereas Pan stood for the emperor Julian. There must have been more than a slight hint of mockery involved. Julian, now that he had become the sole ruler of the Roman world, tried to undo the politics of his uncle Constantine and Constantine’s successor, Constantius, which had made Christianity the official religion of the empire at the expense of the traditional Graeco-Roman pagan cult. In the context of his programme of pagan restoration, Julian presented himself both as a scion of the sun-god, King Helios, and as a Neo-Platonic philosopher—in particular, as a follower of Iamblichus of Apamea and his version of Neo-Platonism, which combined philosophy with pagan religious rituals. As part of this selffashioning, Julian sported a philosophical beard, which attracted a lot of literary or philosophical polemics. As an exception, he quotes Eusebius, Preparation for the Gospel 14.8.10, in which Carneades is said to be fighting (prospolemein) against the other philosophers. Laks adds, however, that this is specifically linked to Carneades’s sceptic position, and therefore does not exactly correspond to the general phenomenon that we call “polemics.” Note, however, that Numenius Fr. 25 ed. Des Places, a fragment from On the Dissension of the Academics towards Plato that is quoted by Eusebius in Preparation for the Gospel (14.5.10– 6.14), portrays the polemical exchange between the Academic Arcesilaus and the Stoic Zeno as a Homeric battle. Below, we shall find a similar comparison to Homeric battles in descriptions of polemical situations. Admittedly, Arcesilaus is another sceptic philosopher. In the same fragment, however, Numenius compares the polemics of Cephisodorus, a pupil of Isocrates, against Aristotle with warfare. Cephisodrus got angry with Aristotle because the latter had criticised his master, Isocrates. Cephisodorus, however, mixed up Aristotle’s philosophy with that of Plato. As a result, “he did not fight (machomenos) with the person against whom he waged war/polemicized (epolemei), but fought (emacheto) against whom he did not wish to wage war/polemicize (polemein).” 3  Jürgen Stenzel, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus. Vorschläge zu einer Theorie der Polemik,” in Formen und Formgeschichte des Streitens. Der Literaturstreit, ed. Franz J. Worstbrock and Helmut Koopman (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1986), 3–11. 4  Laks, “The Continuation of Philosophy.”

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attention and ridicule. Heraclius’s speech is unfortunately lost to us. By presenting Julian as Pan—the least attractive god in the classical pantheon, because he combined the looks of a human being with those of a hairy goat— Heraclius presumably intended to poke fun at both Julian’s claims about his divine ancestry and his unkempt appearance.5 Julian’s extremely hostile response may have come as a surprise to both Julian’s public and to Heraclius in particular. The traditional role of the Cynic philosopher was that of the court jester to the high and mighty. One has only to think of the famous anecdote about the Cynic Diogenes asking Alexander the Great to stand out of his sunlight. The person at the receiving end of Cynic mockery was supposed to take it graciously, as in fact Alexander reportedly did. Such restraint would reflect well on him. I assume that Heraclius intended to play the role of Diogenes, thus indirectly comparing Julian to Alexander. The fact that, as Julian mentions (Oration 7.224a–225a), Heraclius and other Cynics who came to the imperial court expected to be rewarded for their frankness suggests as much. Julian, however, lashes out violently at Heraclius, accusing him of being a fake Cynic, no better than Christian wandering monks. He takes particular issue with Heraclius’s mythmaking, which he claims is offensive to the gods, and goes on to describe in some detail when and how philosophers should compose myths. He concludes his speech with a myth of his own making, in which he presents himself as a man on a divine mission. In his model of polemics, which can be presented as a pyramid (see figure 13.1), Jürgen Stenzel distinguishes between four elements: (1) the polemical subject, who aggressively attacks (2) a polemical object on (3) a polemical theme in front of (4) an audience (which Stenzel refers to as polemische Instanz).6 The intention of the polemical subject is to persuade the audience of the importance of the polemical theme and hence to share in the subject’s dislike of and aggression against the polemical object. In the present case, this corresponds to (1) Julian, who attacks (2) Heraclius about (3) the issue of the (ab)use of myths in front of (4) an audience of courtiers, whom he hopes to convince of the importance of the correct use of myths and hence of the need to resist people like Heraclius. Below, I shall discuss these four elements in this order. 5  Susanna Elm (Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome, Transformation of the Classical Heritage 49 [Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012], 109–12) argues that Heraclius compared Julian to Pan as an allusion to Julian’s rather restricted sex life. After the death of his wife in 360, Julian remained ostensibly unmarried in order to devote himself to the administration of the empire. Pan was the god who had reputedly invented masturbation, a practice highly valued by Cynics as an easy way to satisfy natural urges. There is, to my mind, little direct evidence for this titillating suggestion. 6  Stenzel, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus,” 5.

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(4) Public

(3) Polemical Theme

(1) Polemical Subject figure 13.1

(2) Polemical Object

The polemical pyramid (arrows indicate hostility)

Stenzel quite rightly stresses both the aggressive and the public nature of polemics: the goal of the polemical subject is to destroy the polemical object and his position—hence the title of Stenzel’s essay, “Rhetorischer Manichaïsmus.” In a recent paper, André Laks raises the intriguing question of whether, if such is the nature of polemics, there can be something like a philosophical polemic at all.7 While such polemics resemble a heated boxing match, fought out in front of an audience and aimed at the destruction of one’s opponent, philosophy is about exchanging arguments with others in a shared effort to uncover the truth. In this contribution, I shall argue that the problematic nature of philosophical polemics plays an important role in Julian’s oration. Julian uses the public nature of polemics as a suitable platform to advertise his own religious-philosophical program. However, in doing so, he lays himself bare to the accusation that he is not a real philosopher, precisely because he engages in polemics. My suggestion is that Julian is actually engaged in two polemics: one with the Cynic Heraclius about myths, and a second with his Christian enemies about the polemical nature of Greek philosophy. 1

The Polemical Subject: Julian

Since there is something intrinsically problematic about philosophical polemics, the subject of a philosophical polemic may feel the need to justify his undertaking at the outset. In this section, I suggest that, in the Platonic tradition, there was some sort of format for how to do this, and that Julian here follows that format. I shall demonstrate this by comparing Julian’s opening passages to 7  Laks, “The Continuation of Philosophy.”

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two other examples of Platonic polemics: one from Plutarch’s Against Colotes, and another from Porhyry’s Life of Plotinus. 1.1 Passage 1: Plutarch, Against Colotes 1107F–1108A The first passage concerns the opening of the treatise of Plutarch of Chaeroneia, Against Colotes. Colotes (ca. 320–after 268 BCE) had been a student of Epicurus and was infamous for his harsh polemical treatises, in which he sought to establish the superiority of Epicurus’s philosophy by attacking any other great philosopher—Socrates, Plato, and Parmenides included. Some three centuries later, Plutarch thought it necessary to write a reply to Colotes. In the introduction to this work, he informs his readers how this came about. One day, Plutarch and his friends were listening to one of Colotes’s books being read aloud: While the book was being read not long ago, one of our company, Aristodemus of Aegium (you know the man: no mere thyrsus-bearer of Academic doctrine, but a most fervent devotee of Plato), with unusual patience somehow managed to hold his peace and listen properly to the end. When the reading was over he said: “Very well; whom do we appoint our champion to defend the philosophers against this man? For I hardly admire Nestor’s plan of leaving the matter to the chance of the lot when the thing to do was to choose the best of the nine.” “But you observe,” said I, “that he also appointed himself to cast the lots, so that the selection should take place under the direction of the most prudent of the company, and Out of the helmet leapt the lot of Ajax, that all desired. (Iliad 7.182–83) But since you direct that a choice shall be made, How could I then forget godlike Odysseus? (Iliad 10.43/Odyssey 1.65) Look to it then and consider what defence you will make against the man.” Aristodemus replied: “But you know how Plato, when incensed at his servant, did not beat him personally but told Speusippus to do it, saying that he himself was angry; do you too then take the fellow in hand and chastise him as you please, since I am angry.” Plutarch, Against Colotes 1107F–1108A8

8  Plutarch, Moralia, Volume XIV: That Epicurus Actually Makes a Pleasant Life Impossible. Reply to Colotes in Defence of the Other Philosophers. Is “Live Unknown” a Wise Precept? On Music, trans. Benedict Einarson and Phillip H. De Lacy, Loeb Classical Library 428 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967).

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Aristodemus is clearly the most senior member of this group of Platonists (“no mere thyrsus-bearer of Academic doctrine”). He calls for an appropriate response to Colotes’s irreverent attack on the founding fathers of the Academy. He urges his comrades to choose a champion of the Platonic cause to reply to Colotes, rather than to appoint one by lot, as had happened in the Iliad, when Hector challenged the Greeks to decide the war by means of a duel between himself and a Greek champion. On the advice of Nestor, the most prominent among the Greek heroes cast lots to decide who would be that champion. This turns out to be Ajax (cf. Iliad 7.170–81). Plutarch then reminds Aristodemus that Nestor, who oversaw the lottery, was the most prudent of men, thus suggesting that Nestor somehow ensured the desired outcome (“the lot of Ajax, that all desired”). On the other hand, if Aristodemus insists on choosing a champion rather than selecting one by lot, Plutarch suggests that Aristodemus might best do the job himself. In that case, Aristodemus would play the role of Odysseus, another Greek hero reputed for his wisdom and, in the Platonic tradition, often interpreted as a proto-Platonist. Aristodemus elegantly declines Plutarch’s invitation to do so, citing his anger as an excuse. Plutarch describes how Aristodemus becomes infuriated when listening to Colotes’s slander of Plato, yet with great effort manages to restrain himself and listen to the reading of Colotes’s text until the end. From a Platonic view, Aristodemus’s anger is quite justifiable. Colotes shows no respect for Plato and his divinely inspired philosophy, as can only be expected from an Epicurean who was, whether he admitted it or not, for all intents and purposes an immoral atheist, and whose goal in life was pleasure rather than truth. While he and his fellow Epicureans claim to be the only true philosophers, in the eyes of a Platonist, they are fake philosophers, since they completely dissociate themselves from the entire philosophical tradition. Although justifiable, Aristodemus’s anger rules him out as a candidate to reply to Colotes, since such a reply requires a cool head. He reminds his audience of the story of how Plato himself, when he got angry with a slave, asked his nephew Speusippus to punish him in his stead, precisely because he was in the grip of his emotions. It is thus that he passes the job of refuting Colotes on to Plutarch. This assignment suits Plutarch. As an instrument of Aristodemus’s anger, he is made to play the part of Speusippus, which elevates him to the rank of number two in the pecking order of the group. After all, Speusippus was Plato’s nephew and was to succeed the latter as head of the Academy. It is especially relevant in this context that we are dealing here with a public reading of Colotes’s text: there are others present to witness Plutarch’s election to this position of prominence. The public aspect is also underscored by the Homeric colouring of the passage. In the Iliad, the duel between Hector and

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Ajax is fought with the entire Trojan and Greek armies present as spectators. Since Aristodemus declines Plutarch’s second option—that is, Aristodemus/ Odysseus taking on Colotes/Hector himself—we are now back at the first option, that of Aristodemus/Nestor assigning the role of champion to Ajax. This makes Plutarch the Platonist Ajax, fighting a very public duel.9 1.2 Passage 2: Porphyry, Life of Plotinus c. 15 We see a similar pattern in an episode taken from Porphyry’s Life of Plotinus. Porphyry, who had edited the works of his master, Plotinus, added a biography of Plotinus by way of introduction to his edition. Porphyry uses this opportunity to position himself as Plotinus’s favourite pupil—his Speusippus, if you like—at various places, including in the following passage: The rhetorician Diophanes read a defence of Alcibiades in Plato’s Banquet in which he asserted that a pupil for the sake of advancing in the study of virtue should submit himself to carnal intercourse with his master if the master desired it. Plotinus repeatedly started up to leave the meeting, but restrained himself, and after the end of the lecture gave me, Porphyry, the task of writing a refutation. Diophanes refused to lend me his manuscript, and I depended in writing my refutation on my memory of his arguments. When I read it before the same assembled hearers I pleased Plotinus so much that he kept on quoting during the meeting, “So strike and be a light to men” (Iliad 8.282). Porphyry, Life of Plotinus c. 1510

Plotinus’s anger is, once again, quite understandable. Diophanes uses the divine Plato to justify debauchery. That much is perhaps to be expected from a rhetorician. As any reader of Plato knows, these rhetoricians and sophists are fake philosophers. Diophanes, like the Epicurean Colotes, uses philosophy to legitimate his pursuit of bodily pleasures. Plotinus, however, being a genuine philosopher, does not allow anger to get the better of him. He restrains himself and leaves it to Porphyry to deal with Diophanes, an indication of the special 9  Pierre-Marie Morel and Francesco Verde (“Le Contre Colotès de Plutarque et son Prologue,” Aitia 3 [2013]: http://aitia.revues.org/602, here 15), in their instructive analysis of the present passage, identify Plutarch with both Nestor and Ajax, but that seems to me less likely. Rather, since Plutarch suggests that Nestor somehow influences the lottery, I take it that Plutarch here tacitly encourages Aristodemus to play the role of Nestor and to select him, Plutarch, to be the Ajax of the Platonists. 10  Plotinus, Ennead, Volume I: Porphyry on the Life of Plotinus. Ennead I, trans. A. H. Armstrong, Loeb Classical Library 440 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969).

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position Porphyry holds within the school. Once again, the public character of the accession guarantees that Plotinus’s preference for Porphyry is noted by many. The verse (Iliad 8.282) with which Plotinus encourages Porphyry is taken from a passage in which Teucer fights the Trojans and thus casts Porphyry, like Plutarch before him, in the role of a Homeric champion defending the Greeks—that is, Platonism. 1.3 Passage 3: Julian, To the Cynic Heraclius 204a–c Let us now look at the beginning of Julian’s speech against the Cynic Heraclius. “Truly with the lapse of time many things come to pass!” This verse I have heard in a comedy and the other day I was tempted to proclaim it aloud, when by invitation we attended the lecture of a Cynic whose barking was neither distinct nor noble; but he was crooning myths as nurses do, and even these he did not compose in any profitable fashion. For a moment my impulse was to rise and break up the meeting. But though I had to listen as one does when Heracles and Dionysus are being caricatured in the theatre by comic poets, I bore it to the end, not for the speaker’s sake but for the sake of the audience, or rather, if I may presume to say so, it was still more for my own sake, so that I might not seem to be moved by superstition rather than by a pious and rational sentiment and to be scared into flight by his miserable words like a timid dove. So I stayed and repeated to myself the famous line “Be patient my heart, you have put up with worse things in the past.” Endure for the brief fraction of a day even a babbling Cynic! Julian, Oration 7.204a–c11

Once again, we are dealing here with a public occasion. Julian takes great care to explain to his audience that his decision to engage in a polemical exchange with Heraclius is prompted by the sort of emotions that befit a philosopher. He is angry with Heraclius for the right reasons: by telling a sort of comical myth about Zeus and Pan, Heraclius commits an act of blasphemy that cannot fail to enrage the pious Julian. At the same time, he manages to control his anger: he sits through the entire event and only replies later, thus demonstrating that his misgivings about the speech are pious and rational. He places himself in the role of a Homeric warrior by quoting the words that Odysseus speaks to himself in the Odyssey (20.18). As we shall see in the next section on the polemical 11  Julian, The Works of the Emperor Julian, Volume II, trans. (adapted) Wilmer Cave Wright, Loeb Classical Library 29 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913).

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object, Heraclius—like Colotes and Diophanes—is framed as the sort of fake philosopher who uses philosophy as a pretext to pursue financial gain. In one further respect, Julian’s case differs from those of Plutarch and Porphyry. The latter act at the instigation of the leaders of their groups, thus marking them out as the trusted lieutenants of the masters themselves. Here, such a master-figure is missing. Julian appears to be acting on his own initiative. In a way, this raises questions about Julian’s philosophical attitude. As we have seen, the reason philosophical masters appointed someone to punish a wrongdoer was precisely because they did not want to do so themselves in an angry state of mind. As we shall see, however, when we come to discuss the audience of the oration, Julian also acts on the instruction of a master—albeit a divine one. 2

The Polemical Object: Cynics and Christians

Who is or are the polemical object(s)? Heraclius is obviously Julian’s prime target. It has been suggested, however, that this oration is also directed against Julian’s archenemies, the Christians. In fact, as we shall see shortly, Heraclius is even explicitly compared to a Christian wandering monk. We should not, however, too readily conclude from this that Julian does not differentiate between Cynics and Christians.12 I suggest that the situation is somewhat more complex. As we noted, polemics were a traditional tool used by ancient philosophers for self-presentation and self-promotion. As I shall explain below, this is precisely the purpose of Julian’s oration. Nevertheless, in Julian’s time, polemics—however useful they might once have been in the competition between various philosophical schools—had become a liability. Christian authors exploited the polemical activities of pagan philosophical schools in their own polemics against their pagan opponents. The disagreements (diaphônia) among pagan philosophers, which they themselves had so enthusiastically underscored in their public polemical exchanges, compared unfavourably to the harmony among Christians in doctrinal matters—or so the Christian authors claimed. Eusebius of Caesarea, to give but one example, compares the quarrelsome pagan philosophers to “boxers who eagerly exchange blows as on a stage 12  For an argument against the suggestion that Heraclius was a covert Christian, see J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, “Julian’s Hymn to the Mother of the Gods: The Revival and Justification of Traditional Religion,” in Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian the Apostate, edited by Nicholas Barker-Brian and Sean Toughers (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003), 213–27, here 218–19.

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before the spectators” and to warriors who strike and are struck “by the spears and various weapons of their wordy war.” The latter image evokes the duels of Homeric warriors, which were fought with spears. Thus Eusebius, no doubt quite consciously, evokes the language in which Platonic polemicists—such as Numenius, Plutarch, and Porphyry—had described the polemical confrontations between Greek philosophical schools.13 Julian, as an experienced combatant in pagan-Christian polemical warfare, knew this anti-pagan line only too well. He must have realised that, in attacking a philosopher from another pagan school of thought, he made himself vulnerable to his Christian critics, especially against the background of the longstanding feud between Platonists and Cynics. I suggest that the way in which he portrays his opponent, Heraclius, is meant to forestall this move. First, Julian establishes that Heraclius is not a real Cynic, but an imposter who is only playing the part of a true Cynic philosopher: What strenuous discipline have you ever embraced? What have you ever done to make you worthy of the staff of Diogenes or still more of Zeus, of his freedom of speech? Do you really think it so great an achievement to carry a staff and let your hair grow, and haunt cities and camps uttering calumnies against the noblest of men, and flattering the vilest? Julian, Oration 7.223c–d14

Thus far, Julian, by exposing his polemical object as a fake philosopher, follows the pattern we found in other polemics. Moreover, in distinguishing between true, ancient Cynics (like Diogenes) and their fake, latter-day namesakes, he follows in the footsteps of other ancient authors—such as the satirist Lucian of Samosata, who in various works pokes fun at these modern cynics, even while he greatly admires the original ones. Next, however, Julian throws those fake cynics together with Christian hermits who lived on alms, the so-called apotaktikai:

13  Eusebius, Preparation for the Gospel 14.2.1–3.5 (I borrow this example from Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler, eds, Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy. [Leiden: Brill, 2016], 1–2). One of Eusebius’s sources of inspiration is no doubt Numenius Fr. 25 (=Preparation for the Gospel 14.5.10–6.14), discussed in note 2 above, in which the polemical dissent between Greek philosophers is compared to Homeric warfare. On the argument against pagan philosophers from diaphônia in Christian auteurs, see, for example, Sébastien Morlet, Christianisme et philosophie. Les premières confrontations (Ier–VIe siècle) (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2014), 37–42. 14  Julian, The Works, Volume II, 121.

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Long ago I gave you a nickname and now I think I will write it down. It is apotaktitai, a name applied to certain persons by the impious Galilaeans. They are for the most part men who by making small sacrifices gain much or rather everything from all sources, and in addition secure honour, crowds of attendants and flattery. Julian, Oration 7.224a–b15

While the comparison of Heraclius to these wandering monks is clearly meant as an insult, I suggest that it serves yet another purpose in the present polemical context. As we have seen, in the hands of Christian polemicists, the inter-pagan polemics had become a dangerous weapon. Julian here seeks to disarm them. His polemics with Heraclius is not a duel between two pagan philosophers, but one between a champion of the Greek philosophical tradition and someone who, like the Christians, has placed himself outside of that tradition in order to make a quick buck. At the same time, Julian stresses the harmony within the pagan camp. He even tries to turn Diogenes—somewhat unconvincingly, one feels—into a respectful worshipper of the pagan gods. Why else, Julian asks rhetorically (Oration 7.213c–d), would Diogenes have left Athens, where he clearly preferred to live, and gone to Olympia, if not to worship Zeus? 3

The Polemical Theme: Myth

One does not begin a polemic on just any odd theme. As Jürgen Stenzel puts it in his analysis of polemics, a polemical theme “has to be controversial and an abundant source of energy for aggression, so it has to be able to activate intensely held values.”16 Likewise, André Laks, in his meditation on philosophical polemics, stresses the role of values in philosophical polemics: “Philosophical polemics” (as distinct from philosophical argumentation) enter the philosophical scene when ultimate convictions are at stake. 15  Julian, The Works, Volume II, 123. Elm (Sons of Hellenism, 110) argues that Julian compares Heraclius to these Christian apotaktikai (renunciators) because both rejected the gods and the laws of society. In his speech, however, Julian does accuse Heraclius of rejecting the gods. Neither does he do so here. The point of comparison between the Christian apotaktikai and Cynics like Heraclius is that they both renounced personal possessions in exchange for other, more attractive benefits. 16  Stenzel, “Rhetorischer Manichäismus,” 6 (“muss kontrovers sein und eine ausgiebige Energiequelle für Aggressionen, es muss also intensive Wertgefühle aktievieren können”).

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Under these circumstances, it is fully understandable that individuals come under attack. For values are always embodied in certain individuals or groups of individuals, and what is at stake is not only the preservation of one’s life but, even, especially in the Christian world, the salvation of one’s soul. These are topics where dispassionate critical argumentation reaches its limits, where minds divide and you have to choose your camp.17 Julian responds so aggressively to Heraclius—and believes that he is justified in doing so—because, for him, something truly essential is at stake. Heraclius may have intended to criticise Julian’s own pompous self-presentation as a self-styled philosopher and a son of Helios. Julian, however, frames Heraclius’s oration as an attack on the pagan gods that undercuts Julian’s crusade against Christianity. Let me elaborate. Julian’s problem with Heraclius’s myth particularly concerns the fact that he applies divine names—those of Zeus and Pan—to human beings: “What need to speak of Phaeton instead of So-and-So? What need to sacrilegiously profane the title of King Helios? Who among men that walk here below is worthy to be called Pan or Zeus, as though we would ascribe to these gods our human understanding?” (Julian, Oration 7.208b–c).18 Later on in his oration, Julian goes on to prove that reverence for divine names was common among all Greek philosophers, citing in support not just Pythagoras and Plato, but even Aristotle (cf. Julian, Oration 7.236d–237d). In Julian’s mind, a lack of respect for divine names is bound up with what he sees as the great problem of his time—the replacement of ancient paganism with Christianity. For Julian and his followers, Christianity is synonymous with atheism. The issue of atheism is discussed by one Salustius in his treatise On the Gods and the Cosmos. This Salustius was a fervent supporter of Julian’s pagan restoration. In fact, Julian explicitly mentions him as one of his friends, who was present when both Heraclius and Julian delivered their orations (223b). Salustius explains the rise of atheism—that is, of Christianity—as follows: “Furthermore, it is not unlikely that atheism is a sort of punishment. For it is reasonable that people who knew the gods and spurned them will be deprived of that knowledge in a next life. And justice demanded that those who honoured their own kings as gods became unaware of the gods themselves” (Salustius, On the Gods 18.3). Salustius here hints at the theory of the (pagan) author Euhemerus of Messene (third to fourth century BCE), who had suggested that the gods of

17  Laks, “The Continuation of Philosophy,” 26. 18  Julian, The Works, Volume II, 83.

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old were divinised human rulers.19 Christian authors had a field day with this well-known theory, pointing out that even the pagans themselves admitted that their gods were not gods after all.20 Salustius here kills two birds with one stone. On the one hand, he “demonstrates” that Euhemerus’s blasphemous views are wrong, as is evident in the punishment inflicted upon him and his followers by the gods. On the other hand, Salustius turns the tables on his Christian critics. The impious Euhemerus and his followers were not part of the pagan community at all; they were in fact future Christians. In this context, it is understandable why divine names are a thing of value for Julian and his pagan friends. It is one thing to claim to be a mortal descendent of the immortal gods, as Julian did; it is quite another thing to identify oneself with the immortal gods when one is merely human. It is precisely this error that has caused—in Julian’s analysis, at least—the decline of paganism and hence the sorry state in which the Roman world presently finds itself. 4

The Polemical Audience: Julian’s Court

Let me finally turn to the audience of the oration. As Stenzel put it, polemic is a form of Manichean rhetoric, aimed at persuading the public to join the polemicist in his fight against the forces of darkness. But what exactly does Julian’s audience need to be persuaded of? And who counts as his public, anyway? Let us reflect on these issues on the basis of the myth that Julian himself crafts towards the end of the oration (227e–234c) as a substitute for Heraclius’s flawed one. The myth starts in the style of a New Testament parable, about a “certain rich man” who made his fortune by hook or by crook, since he did not think much of the gods. Upon his death, his many children, who had not been taught virtue, each wanted to be the sole inheritor of their father’s fortune and started killing each other. At the same time, they started demolishing the ancestral pagan temples and replacing them with sepulchres. (One assumes that here Julian is referring to the Christian veneration of the relics of saints and martyrs.) The chaos becomes such that the (pagan) gods decide to interfere. Zeus instructs Helios and Athena to care for a young cousin of the rich man. This young man then finds himself at a deserted spot, wondering what path to take 19   Arthur Darby Nock (Sallustius: Concerning the Gods and the Universe. Edited with Prolegomena & Translation [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1926], lxxxix) picks up the critique of euhemerism in this passage. He does not, however, connect it to the role that euhemerism plays in the pagan-Christian polemics of late antiquity. On this topic, see, for example, Morlet, Christianisme et philosophie, 85–87. 20  On Euhemerus fostering atheism, cf., for example, Plutarch, Isis and Osiris c. 11 and 23.

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in life. This situation alludes to the famous myth of the young Heracles at the crossroads—one of the myths that Julian had previously held up to Heraclius as an example of a good myth, as opposed to Heraclius’s own blasphemous story. Whereas Heracles is made to choose between two ladies, Vice and Virtue, the young man in Julian’s myth is guided towards Mount Olympus by Hermes himself, where he meets Helios and Athena. They explain to him that his mission in life is to put the house of the rich man in good order again. They warn him to choose his friends carefully and not to be taken in by flatterers, especially not very cunning flatterers “who assume the frankness (parrhêsia) of a friend.” His true friends, however, the young man should treat as equals, not as mere servants or slaves. Above all, the young man should venerate the gods, who, in their turn, will be his friends and benefactors (233a–d). Julian ends his story (234c) with the somewhat puzzling remark that he does not know whether this is a true story (alêthês logos) or a myth (mythos). It is quite clear to us, as it must have been to Julian’s audience, that the rich man refers to Constantine, and that his young cousin is none other than Julian himself. Surely, Julian must have known whether he had ever had a tête-à-tête with the gods. One Italian scholar, Maria Carmen De Vita, recently described this myth of Julian’s as a Platonic “noble lie.”21 This would help make sense of the question Julian leaves dangling in the air regarding the truth of this story. As is well known, in the Republic (414b–415d), Plato defends the idea that the state may tell lies in the public interest. Such tales are false, in the sense that they never happened, yet they resemble the truth in that they contain valuable moral lessons. Julian’s learned public will no doubt have picked up the allusion and worked out for themselves that even though the event as such did not take place, the story supposedly contained some truth. In Plato, the function of the noble myth is to make the population of Plato’s ideal state accept its rather undemocratic arrangement. Julian’s myth appears to have a similar purpose. Julian clearly believes that he is on a divine mission to cleanse the house of Constantine. In the passage on the polemical subject above, we found that there exists a certain pattern in philosophical polemics— the most senior member of a school assigns the polemical task to a more junior member of the school, who is thus raised to a place of prominence within the school. We noted that, by contrast, Julian seemed to engage in a polemical encounter on his own initiative. With this myth, Julian suggests that this was

21  Maria Carmen De Vita, “Giuliano e l’arte della ‘nobile menzogna’ (Or. 7, Contro il Cinico Eraclio),” in L’imperatore Giuliano. Realtà storica e rappresentazione, ed. Arnaldo Marcone (Firenze: Le Monnier, 2015), 119–48.

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not the case. His polemics against Heraclius are part of his divine assignment, which, at the same time, indicates his position as a favourite of the gods. With this attack on the Cynic Heraclius, Julian addresses the fence-sitters at court, rather than hard-core Cynics and Christians. These members of the imperial court are urged to pick sides in a Manichean battle between pagan light and Christian darkness. Are they willing to join Julian’s campaign, not just for a pagan restoration, but indeed for a wholesale reformation of classical culture along the lines that Plato prescribes in his Republic? As is well known, Plato had argued that, in a well-run state, literature had to be brought under state control because of its potentially corruptive influence on the young. It is no coincidence that the Homeric verse Julian quotes at the beginning of the oration—“Be patient my heart, you have put up with worse things in the past”—is also quoted by Plato (Republic 390d) as an example of good, healthy poetry. The emperor warns the members of his entourage—the intellectuals and the orators in particular—that it will not suffice merely to pay lip service to some version of Greek philosophy and pagan mythology to win his favour, as Heraclius may have hoped. Instead, they should aim for a purified version of Greek literature and philosophy. If not, they are no better than the Christians, with whom Julian associates Heraclius. He is the cunning flatterer “who assumes the frankness (parrhêsia) of a friend,” against whom the gods warned Julian. To wholehearted supporters of his politics, however, Julian promises a friendship of equals. I like to think that when he spoke those words, he looked in Salustius’s direction. Bibliography De Vita, Maria Carmen. “Giuliano e l’arte della ‘nobile menzogna’ (Or. 7, Contro il Cinico Eraclio).” In L’imperatore Giuliano. Realtà storica e rappresentazione, edited by Arnaldo Marcone, 119–48. Firenze: Le Monnier, 2015. Elm, Susanna. Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome. Transformation of the Classical Heritage 49. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012. Julian. The Works of the Emperor Julian, Volume II. Translated by Wilmer Cave Wright. Loeb Classical Library 29. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913. Laks, André. 2016. “The Continuation of Philosophy by Other Means?” In Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy, edited by Sharon Weisser and Naly Thaler, 16–30. Leiden: Brill, 2016. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. “Julian’s Hymn to the Mother of the Gods: The Revival and Justification of Traditional Religion.” In Emperor and Author: The Writings of Julian

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the Apostate, edited by Nicholas Barker-Brian and Sean Toughers, 213–27. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003. Morel, Pierre-Marie, and Francesco Verde. “Le Contre Colotès de Plutarque et son Prologue.” Aitia 3 (2013): http://aitia.revues.org/602. DOI: 10.4000/aitia.602. Morlet, Sébastien. Christianisme et philosophie. Les premières confrontations (Ier–VIe siècle). Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2014. Most, Glenn W. “The Poetics of Early Greek Philosophy.” In The Cambridge Companion to Early Greek Philosophy, edited by A. A. Long, 332–62. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Nock, Arthur Darby, ed. Sallustius: Concerning the Gods and the Universe. Edited with Prolegomena & Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1926. Plotinus. Ennead, Volume I: Porphyry on the Life of Plotinus. Ennead I. Translated by A. H. Armstrong. Loeb Classical Library 440. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969. Plutarch. Moralia, Volume XIV: That Epicurus Actually Makes a Pleasant Life Impossible. Reply to Colotes in Defence of the Other Philosophers. Is “Live Unknown” a Wise Precept? On Music. Translated by Benedict Einarson and Phillip H. De Lacy. Loeb Classical Library 428. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967. Stauffer, H. “Polemik.” In Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik, vol. 6, Must–Pop, edited by Gert Ueding, 1403–15. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2003. Stenzel, Jürgen. “Rhetorischer Manichäismus. Vorschläge zu einer Theorie der Polemik.” In Formen und Formgeschichte des Streitens. Der Literaturstreit, edited by Franz J. Worstbrock and Helmut Koopman, 3–11. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1986. Weisser, Sharon, and Naly Thaler, eds. Strategies of Polemics in Greek and Roman Philosophy. Leiden: Brill, 2016.

part 4 Discourses between Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Greeks

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chapter 14

Qurʾanic Anti-Jewish Polemics Reuven Firestone 1

Jews in the Qurʾan

I recently set out to collect all qurʾanic references to Jews and found that the total number of pages required to record all the material was twenty-four. That is a lot of space, and it does not include all the stories and references in which Jews or Israelites appear but are not identified specifically as such—in stories about Abraham, Noah, the Exodus, Moses, David and Solomon, and Job, among others. It is quite clear that the Qurʾan has a lot to say about Jews, and it uses a number of different terms to refer to them. The most common is “Children of Israel” (banū isrāʾīl),1 which appears forty-three times and often refers to the ancient Israelites in narrations of stories with clear parallels in the Hebrew Bible. The term can also refer to Jews living contemporarily with the Qurʾan, but when it does, the use of banū isrāʾīl is evocative of their biblical origins—usually in relation to Israelite opposition to or rebellion against Moses and God. Parallel to this appellation are such terms as “the people of Abraham” (qawm ibrāhīm; 2 times) the people of Moses” (qawm mūsā; 3 times),2 “those who have Judaized” (al-ladhīna hādū; 10 times), “Jews” (al-yahūd; 8 times), and “Jew” or “Jewish” (yahūdī; once). The last three terms, all constructed from yahūdī, seem to refer to Jews living in the period of the Qurʾan’s emergence—which is usually taken to be seventh-century Arabia. Another common locution is various forms of “People of the Book” (ahlū al-kitāb), which occurs thirty-three times: “[those] who have been given the Book” (al-ladhīna ūtū al-kitāb; 19 times), “[those] whom We have given the Book” (al-ladhīna ātaynā al-kitāb; 6 times), “[those] who have been given a portion of the Book” (al-ladhīna ūtū naṣīban min al-kitāb; 3 times), and occasionally other locutions, such as “[those] who read/recite the Book” (al-ladhīna 1  Qurʾan translations are based on A. J. Droge, The Qurʾān: A New Annotated Translation (Sheffield: Equinox, 2012). 2  “The people of” is a common term referring to other characters known in the Bible who may or may not have been associated with the ancient Israelites, such as “the people of Lot” and “the people of Noah.”

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yaqra‌ʾūna al-kitāb) or “successors who have inherited the Book” (khalfun warithū al-kitāb), and “People of the Reminder” (ahlu al-dhikr; twice), in which “Reminder” (dhikr) becomes a synonym (as it does elsewhere) for Scripture, meaning divine writ. This last set of designations refers in general to people who are in possession of pre-qurʾanic Scripture (al-kitāb = “the Book”), so they actually refer to both Jews and Christians. Sometimes ahlū al-kitāb refers only to Jews, sometimes only to Christians, and sometimes to both simultaneously. But the contexts in which they appear most often reflect reference specifically to Jews. The distinctive language of the references is sometimes purposeful, such as the locution “those who were given a portion of the Book,” in which “the Book” may refer generically to all of God’s scriptural revelations, including the Qurʾan. The Qurʾan uses still other terms, such as “[those] who have been given the Knowledge beforehand” (al-ladhīna ūtū al-ʾilm min qablihi, 17:107) and the collective “one who has knowledge of the Book” (man ʾindahu ʾilmu al-kitāb, 13:43), which probably refers not only to Jews and Christians, but also to followers of Muhammad. Other appellations include “People of Abraham” (āl ibrāhīm, 4:54), who were given “the Book and the wisdom and […] a great kingdom,” and “the tribes” (al-asbāṭ), which always (4 times) occurs in the expression “Abraham, Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob, and the tribes.” The Qurʾan also refers to two additional categories within the community of Jews. One refers to rabbis—rabbāniyūn (3:79; 5:44, 63) and perhaps rabbiyyūn (3:14)—and the other to scholar-colleagues—aḥbār (sing: ḥabr, 5:44, 63; 9:34). The latter category is known in the Talmud as ḥaver/ḥaverim—learned Jews who are somewhat less accomplished than rabbis.3 The Qurʾan calls on sceptics to consult with the “People of the Reminder” to learn the truth about revelation and Scripture (16:43–44) and even instructs the Prophet to consult “[those who] have been reciting the Book before you” (10:94) if he has any doubts about the revelation he himself received. The large number of references to Jews and their ancestors, the Israelites, demonstrates the important status Jews held in the region from which the Qurʾan emerged in late antiquity.4 It also attests to the literary complexity of 3  Marcus Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (Jerusalem: Chorev, n.d.), 421–22; Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic (Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University, 2002), 428–29. 4  The best source for information about the Jews during the earliest period of emerging Islam is Michael Lecker’s many studies, including The Banū Sulaym: A Contribution to the Study of Early Islam (Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1989); Muslims, Jews and Pagans: Studies on Early Islamic Medina (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Jews and Arabs in Pre- and Early Islamic Arabia (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998); The Constitution of Medina: Muḥammad’s First Legal Document

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the use of these references, for it is likely that the different ways of referring to Jews carry different cultural meanings that might be recovered with further in-depth research. The Qurʾan cannot avoid the Jews, nor does it wish to, yet it nevertheless expresses a clear ambivalence. In some contexts it expresses admiration and esteem: “Surely We sent down the Torah, containing guidance and light. By means of it the prophets who had submitted (al-nabīyūn al-ladhīna aslamū) rendered judgment for the Jews, and [so did] the rabbis and the teachers (wal-rabbāniyyūn wal-aḥbār), with what they were entrusted of the Book of God, and they were witnesses to it” (5:44). More often, however, the Qurʾan is highly critical of Jews. Jews are accused of refusing to accept their own divinely inspired prophets and even going to the extreme of killing many of them (2:87, 92; 3:52, 112, 183; 5:70).5 They are cursed by God in the Qurʾan for their unbelief and refusal to accept God’s messages (2:88; 4:51–52). God is angry with them (3:112). They consistently disobey God (2:93), reject their own divine covenant (2:100; 3:187; 4:155; 5:12–13), and fail to follow their own Torah (5:66). They (or some of them) hide or distort and twist the very revelation they received from God (2:101, 174; 3:78; 4:46; 5:13, 41). They claim that Ezra (ʾUzayr) is the son of God (9:30). They lack true commitment to God (2:246), speak lies against God (3:78, 93; 6:20–24, 28; 61:6–7), and followed the words of the satans (al-shayāṭīn) in the time of Solomon (2:102). As a result of their stubbornness and evil behaviour, God ordained that they observe strict behavioural laws (4:160–161; 6:146–147; 16:118) and punished them in various ways, including exile from their land (59:2–4).6 Particularly relevant to the purpose of this collection of contributions treating cultural resistance in the ancient world and late antiquity, the Qurʾan complains that the Jews refuse to accept the prophethood of Muhammad and the revelation he was given (2:105; 5:59; 61:6). Jews wish to turn believers into disbelievers and lead them astray (2:109; 3:98; 5:77). Jews (and Christians) will never accept anyone who does not follow their creed (2:120, 135; 3:69), nor will they ever accept the leadership or believe the revelations of Muhammad, even though they recognize their validity and truth (2:145–146; 3:98). They mix truth with falsehood and conceal the truth (3:71). They demand that the prophet bring down a book from the sky to prove the authenticity of his mission (4:153). (Princeton: Darwin Press, 2004); People, Tribes and Society in Arabia around the Time of Muḥammad (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005); and Muḥammad and the Jews (Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 2014, in Hebrew). 5  Some of the negative references that follow may be directed to both Jews and Christians, though they are usually directed specifically against Jews. 6  Some of these criticisms are also found in the New Testament, and many can be observed in the self-critical nature of the Hebrew Bible itself.

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Of all the opponents of the prophet, the Jews (along with the idolaters) are among the most violent in their enmity (5:82).7 The Qurʾan recognises that not all Jews (or not all Jews and Christians) are alike. Some are believers and behave properly by doing good deeds and acting righteously (2:62; 3:113, 199; 4:54, 155; 5:69; 22:17; 28:52–55). Such references may refer to those Jews who recognise the prophethood of Muhammad and accept his revelation (3:199; 4:162). 2

Contextualising Polemic in the Emergence of New Religion

If we were to organise the qurʾanic references to Jews on a continuum from positive to negative, the great majority would fall into the negative category. Of this there can be no doubt, but in order to truly understand and appreciate the anti-Jewish polemic of the Qurʾan, it needs to be put into context in three ways. First, the Qurʾan’s view of Jews needs to be examined in relation to its positions on other communities that contested its self-proclaimed status as a divinely revealed text. These include Christians, as mentioned above, but also practitioners of indigenous Arabian religion, usually designated specifically as mushrikūn—literally “associaters,” who associate other beings or divinities with God. Perhaps the most threatening to the early community were those who joined up with Muhammad but were later perceived by the Qurʾan as undermining him. These are designated as munāfiqūn or “hypocrites.”8 Sorting out these complex views would require a much larger study than is possible in this chapter. Suffice it to say here that the Qurʾan, like the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, rails mightily against all those who oppose its authority and the community that it represents. For readers of the Qurʾan to single out only one community as the singular victim while ignoring all others creates a distorted picture and fails to consider the important phenomenology of scriptural polemic in general, which must be taken into account in a fair and scholarly inquiry. Second, the Qurʾan’s view of Jews must be observed historically in relation to the emergence of the Qurʾan in late antiquity. What was the position of Jews in the historical context of qurʾanic emergence? How were Jews perceived 7  “The closest […] in affection to the believers are those who say, ‘We are Christians’” (5:82). 8  This Arabic root is associated with the Aramaic/Syriac n.f.q., the basic meaning of which is “to go out” (the closest parallel is between the causative forms in the two languages), and which can mean “to change from one status to another” (Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 764). I find that a better translation in the context of the Qurʾan may sometimes be “dissenter.”

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in general at the time? What was their influence on contemporary religious communities in general? While I will take these questions into consideration in what follows, any comprehensive illumination would also require a much larger and deeper study, which is not possible here. Finally, the qurʾanic attitude towards Jews must be considered phenomenologically in reference to the emergence of Scripture and the birth of religion in general. It is this third aspect that I will attempt to treat here. Sacred Scripture can be described in many ways, and it serves many purposes. Among them is its function as a recorded testimony chronicling a community’s experience of the transcendent. It is generally understood as a communication from beyond normal human experience and is often referred to as a documentation and record of divine revelation. In fact, the very term “Scripture”—used in the West to describe these testimonies of divine communication—connotes their nature as proof of God’s will in written form.9 Among the scriptural monotheisms, because the “One Great God” is presumed to be the one and only source of ultimate power and authority, every religious community attributes its own revelation to the same divine source. As Jan Assmann and others have pointed out, this creates an immediate problem, because the obvious dissimilarities and disparities between revelations in their fixed scriptural form raises the question of which proclaimed rendering of the divine will actually and truly reflects the authentic will of God.10

9  It has proven difficult to offer a succinct and inclusive definition of Scripture because it appears in a variety of forms among various world communities. Because the conference for which this essay was written concentrated on polemics within the historical-religiousgeographical context of the “scriptural monotheisms”—meaning Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and their offshoots—I limit my comments to this particular series of expressions. See Frederick Denny and Rodney Taylor, eds., The Holy Book in Comparative Perspective (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1985), 2–4; Wilfred Cantwell Smith, What is Scripture (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 1–20 and 212–42; Miriam Levering, “Rethinking Scripture,” in Rethinking Scripture: Essays from a Comparative Perspective, ed. Miriam Levering (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989), 1–24; William Graham, Beyond the Written World: Oral Aspects of Scripture in the History of Religion (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 5–8. Current scholarship insists on the existence and importance of oral-aural “scripture” (see Smith, 7–9; Levering, 5; Graham). 10  Jan Assmann, Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel, and the Rise of Monotheism (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2008); idem, The Price of Monotheism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010); Martin Jaffee, “One God, One Revelation, One People: On the Symbolic Structure of Elective Monotheisms,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 69 (2001): 753–75; Reuven Firestone, “A Problem with Monotheism: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam in Dialogue and Dissent,” in Heirs of Abraham: The Future of Muslim, Jewish, and Christian Relations, ed. Bradford Hinze (New York: Orbis, 2005), 20–54.

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Although new religions tend to emerge fluidly and develop, adjust, and grow organically, responding to stimuli in a manner comparable to a living organism, at some point in their growth and development they institutionalise.11 Institutionalisation does not stop change and development, but it does create leaderships and hierarchies as power becomes concentrated among various parties within communities of believers. As part of this institutionalisation process, the record of divine dispensation becomes canonised in a discrete and delimited sacred written text.12 Canonisation is a process that determines which material is authentic, and thus sacred, and which is not. Only what is deemed to be authentic material can be included in the official canon of Holy Scripture. Once canonisation occurs, it is virtually impossible for any new communication or message to be added to it, nor is it possible to remove anything from it (Deuteronomy 4:2, 13:1; Revelation 22:18; Qurʾan 33:40).13 The act of canonisation is highly political and institutional. It is carried out by the leaders of a religious community, who claim authority over interpretation of the divine message and responsibility for articulating Scripture’s meaning for the community of believers. In the scriptural monotheisms, it is God who is the ultimate authority for religion. But God’s transcendence requires the medium of interpretation in order to clarify the divine message for the common people. That interpretation is typically controlled by religious leaders, who inevitably differ over who 11  This is not to suggest that religions necessarily experience any particular evolution. My point is that, as humanly constructed communal institutions, religions tend to undergo the same kinds of processes as other social institutions. This inevitably includes the development of structures and hierarchies as they reach a particular critical mass. 12  Lee Martin McDonald and James A Sanders, The Canon Debate (Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2002); Craig A. Evans and Emanuel Tov, Exploring the Origins of the Bible: Canon Formation in Historical, Literary, and Theological Perspective (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008); Lee Martin McDonald, Forgotten Scriptures: The Selection and Rejection of Early Religious Writings (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 2009). 13  Cf. David Powers, Muḥammad is not the Father of Any of Your Men: The Making of the Last Prophet (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). A possible exception to this rule might be Judaism’s “Oral Torah,” which emerged after the destruction of the Second Temple and after the canonisation of the Hebrew Bible. In fact, however, this “new” expression—contemporaneous with the Torah of Moses—of what is claimed by rabbinic Jews to have been given to the Israelites as an oral divine message, provides authority and authenticity for a new religion: the religion of rabbinic Judaism. This development parallels the development of a new “testimony” of the divine will in the New Testament. In each case, the new Scripture authorises new religious practice, liturgy, theology, and creed. In the case of the New Testament, this new Scripture is celebrated as a new divine dispensation for legitimising reasons. In the case of the Oral Torah, however, the newness was hidden, also for legitimising reasons, as it is its ancient status of text in its ancient oral form, given at Sinai, that provides its authority.

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has the most accurate and thus most legitimate interpretation of God’s word.14 Whenever an establishment or hierarchy develops within a religious community, some oppose it. When the basis for religious authority is knowledge of Scripture (and thus knowledge of God’s will and design), those who oppose the establishment may argue over interpretations of Scripture and ultimately over the religious establishment’s authority to proclaim its meaning. As noted above, the most powerful religious authorities in scriptural monotheisms act at some point in their history to control the canon by defining what is included within it and then fixing it. Making an absolute and definitive determination of what lies within the canon also defines what lies without. The establishment of a canon is a foundational act of institution-building. Fixing a canon also represents a declaration that God’s direct revelation has ceased.15 After that moment, knowledge of the divine will can continue to develop through the interpretation of canonised Scripture, but no new revelation will be accepted as a means of learning the will of God. Despite the power of religious establishments to fix a canon of revealed Scripture, however, they cannot actually control future revelation. It is always theoretically possible that God will reveal again. Even powerful religious establishments cannot control or inhibit the possibility of God’s return to immanence through the provision of new revelation. And in every generation, some individuals believe that they experience God through a variety of means: visions, voices, feelings, dreams, and so forth. In many cases, people with such experiences are accorded a certain level of credence within religious communities, as soothsayers, clairvoyants, or psychics. But it is extremely rare for them to be considered seers or prophets, because these latter offices tend to be associated with the authority of God and therefore challenge the authority of religious establishments over the communities of believers they represent. The appearance of a new prophet is a statement which represents a direct challenge to established religious authorities. Nevertheless, the assertions of new prophetic claimants are usually initially ignored by members of established religions, and most prophetic aspirants falter and disappear as a result of their failure to convince enough people of their authenticity. However, 14  This divide may produce sectarian movements and even, eventually—if the divide is great enough—a new religion. 15  This is codified in rabbinic Judaism in the Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 9b (with slightly different wording in Sanhedrin 11a; Jerusalem Talmud Sota 9:24; Tosefta Sota 13:2): “The rabbis taught: when [the last biblical prophets] Haggai, Zachariah, and Malachi died, the Holy Spirit left Israel, though they could still use the bat kol.” The New Testament and the Qurʾan also reflect anxiety about the likelihood that some in the future may claim prophethood (Matthew 7:15, 24:24; Acts 20:28–30; 2 Peter 2:1–2; Qurʾan 33:40).

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when the new candidate for divine representative succeeds in attracting a sizable following, he or she inevitably draws the attention of representatives of religious establishments.16 Thus we observe how Jesus is tested by Pharisees and Sadducees in the New Testament,17 and the Israelites as a whole are in effect tested by a Moabite holy man, Balaam, in the Hebrew Bible.18 The Sīra or official biography of Muhammad, first written by Muhammad ibn Isḥāq, also records a series of attestation narratives in which Muhammad was tested by Jews and Christians.19 Attestation narratives may not be simple tests. They are often portrayed as attempts to trip up the prophetic claimant in order to prove that he or she is not credible and that the alleged revelation is not a truly divine revelation.20 The qurʾanic polemic against Jews and Judaism must be understood in relation to this phenomenology of scriptural and religious emergence. The Qurʾan provides a great deal of evidence that Jews tested the Prophet’s authority in a variety of ways, such as by their insistence that he bring down a new revelation in their presence (4:153). 3 Scripture Is Polemic One must bear in mind that the appearance of a new revelation conveyed by a prophet claiming the authority of God is a very powerful message. The Qurʾan’s appearance as a divine disclosure occurring after the closure of Jewish and Christian scriptural canons represents a criticism of prior Scripture and the religious communities and practices that prior Scripture authorises. In other 16  I recognize that a prophet can be male or female in the scriptural monotheist tradition. Some female prophets in the Hebrew Bible are Miriam (Exodus 15:20), Deborah (Judith 4:4), Huldah (2 Kings 22:14; 2 Chronicles 34:22), “Noʾadiah the prophetess” (Nehemiah 6:14); and “the prophetess” (haneviʾah) (Isaiah 8:3). But English still relies on gendered pronouns. Because we are treating Muhammad’s prophethood here, I feel it is legitimate to use the male pronoun. 17  Matthew 16:1, 19:3, 22:23–46; Mark 10:2–12. 18  Numbers 22–24. The Samaritan Pentateuch and Syriac Peshitta identify Balaam as an Ammonite, while the Talmud (Baba Batra 15b) identifies him as a prophet. 19  See Reuven Firestone, “The Problematic of Prophecy: 2015 IQSA Presidential Address,” Journal of the International Qurʾanic Studies Association 1 (2016): 11–22; Barbara Roggema, The Legend of Sergius Baḥīra (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 37–60. 20  As Barbara Roggema points out, the same basic attestation narratives may appear differently among different parties. A classic case is the tests of Muhammad’s prophethood. While the Muslim versions show Jewish and Christian religious authorities attesting to the authenticity of Muhammad’s prophetic status, Jewish and Christian versions of the same basic story show the opposite.

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words, the very existence of the Qurʾan is a polemical statement. Its appearance conveys the message that prior religion is inadequate or incomplete, and that prior Scriptures, practices, and beliefs are flawed. Why else would God cleave the heavens to provide a new revelation when a Scripture already exists? This is a fundamental characteristic of emergent Scripture and religion. They cannot avoid representing a critique of the practices and assumptions of the religions that came before. Since according to Jews and Christians their Scriptures are sufficient for carrying out God’s will,21 any new divine dispensation is burdened with the need to justify its existence. At the same time, emergent Scripture is inevitably criticised by members of established religions for being inauthentic and false, even deceptive. Thus the motivating factors that produce the polemic in emergent Scripture derive not only from its very existence as critique, but also in reaction to attacks by members of established religions. Regarding this last point, it is worth considering the difference between the polemics of sectarian movements that share a Scripture with an established religion and the polemics of new religions that emerge in conjunction with a new Scripture. New sectarian movements within established religions criticise practices or beliefs of the religious establishment while maintaining what they claim to be the authentic truth and meaning of its established Scripture. That is, sectarian movements critique the faith and practice but not the Scripture of an established religion. In fact, they criticise the way in which Scripture is understood and interpreted by the establishment while insisting that their ideals and/or practices reflect the true intent of the commonly recognised Scripture. New religions claiming a new revelation, however, critique both the faith and practice and the sacred Scripture of established religions. New religious movements that justify their existence through new prophecy and revelation must demonstrate that these are authentic and authorised by God. But for God to make the extraordinary move of cleaving the heavens by bringing a new dispensation is in itself a statement that it is not only the faith, practice, and prior claims to ownership of divine communication that are faulty, but that the established divine communication itself is defective. In the case of the New Testament’s critique of the “Old” Testament, it argues that a new dispensation came with the arrival of God’s new revelation in the person of Jesus, the “walking revelation” of Christ as God incarnate. The prior testimony of God in the Old Testament represented an earlier and subsequently outmoded, transcended stage. 21  On this Jews and Christians can agree in general, but of course, they do not customarily agree over the validity of each other’s respective scriptural canon, theology, and practice.

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The Qurʾan likewise justifies its existence in relation to prior Scripture. It claims, for example, that the words of former Scriptures are inaccurate and do not represent the complete and unadulterated will of God because they have been physically altered and/or their meaning has been distorted (2:75; 4:44–46; 5:13, 41). It also argues that Jews (and Christians) do not practice religion properly, so they need a new divine dispensation (4:160–61).22 They hold improper beliefs (9:30–31). The details of these critiques reflect a significant knowledge of Jewish and Christian Scripture, religious practice, and belief, though some references—such as the condemnation of Jews for claiming that Ezra is the son of God—have perplexed Jews for centuries (9:30: qālat al-yahūd ʾuzayr ibnu Allāh). And as I will demonstrate below, specific details within the verses in question suggest that some or even many of the qurʾanic critiques represent reactions to Jewish critiques of Muhammad and the message he claimed to have brought. I will attempt to reconstruct some of these criticisms below. Knowledge of prior Scripture and religious practice is not obvious, or perhaps not deemed particularly important, in what are generally considered the early parts of the Qurʾan.23 While I do not uncritically accept the standard chronological assumptions of Islamic tradition regarding the order of revelation (which have been accepted in general by most modern critical scholarship), it does appear that little to no anti-Jewish polemic occurs in presumably early sūras. This observation would seem reasonable, given our general view of scriptural and religious emergence. What are identified as the earliest utterances of the new revelation are generally exhortative, directed at the local audience, which is mostly made up of practitioners of indigenous Arabian religion(s), but likely includes a smattering of Jews and Christians of one sort or another, along with people who hold other religious beliefs as well (perhaps deriving from Zoroastrian or African milieus). These exhortations represent innocent calls to respond to the newly articulated divine message delivered by the new prophet. Any polemics are directed against the presumably common practice of polytheism, along with the call to worship the One Great God. They are not directed at monotheists, but rather call on all the indigenous Arabian polytheists to abandon their traditions and become monotheists themselves. 22  The Qurʾan often notes exceptions and is often careful not to condemn all practitioners of established religions (Q.2:62; 3:113–115, 199; 4:162; 5:69; 22:17?). 23  On the chronology of revelation, see W. Montgomery Watt and Richard Bell, Introduction to the Qurʾan (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1970), 108–20; Theodor Nöldeke, Friedrich Schwallz, Gotthelf Bergsträßer, and Otto Pretzl, The History of the Qurʾān, ed. and trans. Wolfgang Behn (Leiden: Brill, 2013).

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When such prophetic messages become known to the larger community, members or representatives of religious establishments inevitably come to test these assertions. Moreover, Jewish tradition awaits the coming of a redemptive messianic figure, and the Hebrew Bible cautions its audience that God will continue to send prophets. It is quite logical, therefore, that some Jews would test Muhammad’s claims, for there is always the possibility that a new prophetic figure may indeed be the one they are waiting for.24 Testing includes questioning and critiquing the new messages and claims pronounced with alleged divine authority. In such a situation, it can safely be assumed that argument would naturally ensue, and those investigators who were unconvinced would predictably criticise the authority of the new prophet and the validity of the new revelation. Subsequent revelations could then be received in response to these critiques and attacks, serving as countermeasures in the form of polemics directed against the claims of the critics or the critics themselves. Qurʾanic polemic indeed includes much material that appears to be reactive to arguments directed against it and to the authors of those arguments. It sometimes preserves portions of the arguments within its own ripostes. Polemics and apologetics are closely related. As the adage teaches, “the best defence is a good offense,” and the Qurʾan clearly contains both. 4 Examples As noted above, polemical references in the Qurʾan often suggest, indicate, or allude to criticisms and challenges to which they are responding. This observation is not new, but in the following I will try to organise these references in relation to what are most likely Jewish critiques of the new prophet and his message. Because Jewish criticism of Muhammad and the Qurʾan is alluded to but rarely recorded verbatim, it is not always clear which particular issues the Jews were attempting to critique. Nevertheless, trends can be noted, and they fit into a few basic categories.

24  One of the most provocative sections is Deuteronomy 18:15–22. For a history of messianic Jewish movements, see Aharon Ze’ev Aescoly, Jewish Messianic Movements. Sources & Documents on Messianism in Jewish History: From the Bar Kokhba Revolt until the Recent Times, 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1956, in Hebrew); Abba Hillel Silver, A History of Messianic Speculation in Israel: From the First through the Seventeenth Centuries (Boston: Beacon, 1927); Gershom Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1971); Marc Saperstein, Essential Papers on Messianic Movements and Personalities (New York: New York University Press, 1992).

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It should be kept in mind that criticisms can fit into more than one category, and it should also be noted that polemical statements in the Qurʾan are not always applied indiscriminately. They are sometimes directed only to a portion of the identified group—that portion likely made up of those who opposed or critiqued Muhammad and his message. 6:160, for example, begins with: “So for the evildoing of those who are Jews [an idiom for Jews in general], We have made [certain] good things forbidden to them […] for keeping many [people] from the way of God. And for their taking usury […] their consuming the wealth of the people by means of falsehood.” But the tone changes in verse 162: “But the ones who are firm in knowledge among them […] who observe prayer and give alms […] We shall give them a great reward.” In the following survey, the headings represent categories of critique levelled against the new prophet and his message, to which the Qurʾan seems to be responding. Because of the great volume and complexity of the material, I have included only those parts of the qurʾanic arguments that relate to the specific category under which they are listed. Sometimes, therefore, the sections that identify the criticising party as Jews are missing. These can easily be identified, however, by reading the verses that precede those cited. The schema and samples in this preliminary exercise are not exhaustive, and the categories could be altered significantly. 4.1 Jewish Rejection of the New Revelation 2:91: “When it is said to them,25 ‘Believe in what God has sent down,’ they say, ‘We believe in what has been sent down on us,’ but they disbelieve in anything after that, when it is the truth confirming what is with them. Say: ‘Why did you kill the prophets of God before, if you were believers?’” 2:105: “Those who disbelieve among the People of the Book, and the idolaters, do not like [it] that anything good should be sent down on you from your Lord. But God chooses whomever He pleases for His mercy, and God is full of great favor.” 3:70: “People of the Book! Why do you disbelieve in the signs of God, when you are witnesses [to them]?” 3:98: “Say: ‘People of the Book! Why do you disbelieve in the signs of God, when God is a witness of what you do?’”26 25  This is a continuation of an argument begun much earlier, in which Jews are identified as “Children of Israel” in 2:83. I will not provide the identifying verses in the following examples. 26  See also 3:110, 199. In the idiom, “Why do you disbelieve in the signs of God?” (limā takfurūna biʾayātil-Lah), “signs” in Arabic is the same word used to refer to qurʾanic verses

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4:155: “So for those breaking their covenant, and their disbelief in the signs of God, and their killing the prophets without any right, and their saying, ‘Our hearts are covered’—No! God set a seal on them for their disbelief, so they do not believe, except for a few.” 6:20–21: “Those to whom We have given the Book recognize it, as they recognize their own sons. Those who have lost their [own] selves, they do not believe. Who is more evil than the one who forges a lie against God, or calls His signs a lie? Surely the evildoers will not prosper.” 6:157: “Or you would say, ‘If [only] the Book had been sent down to us, we would indeed have been better guided than them.’ Yet a clear sign has come to you from your Lord, and a guidance and mercy. Who is more evil than the one who calls the signs of God a lie, and turns away from them? We shall repay those who turn away from Our signs [with] an evil punishment for their turning away.” 62:5–7: “Those who have been loaded down with the Torah, [and] then have not carried it, are like a donkey carrying books. Evil is the parable of the people who have called the signs of God a lie. God does not guide the people who are evildoers. Say: ‘You who are Jews! If you claim that you are the allies of God to the exclusion of the people, wish for death, if you are truthful.’ But they will never wish for it because of what their [own] hands have sent forward. God knows the evildoers.” 4.2 Jewish Criticism of the New Revelation 3:65–66: “People of the Book! Why do you dispute about Abraham, when the Torah and the Gospel were not sent down until after him? Will you not understand? There you are! Those who have disputed about what you know. Why do you dispute about what you do not know? God knows, but you do not know.” 3:71: “People of the Book! Why do you mix the truth with falsehood, and conceal the truth, when you know [better]?” 3:78: “Surely [there is] indeed a group of them who twist their tongues with the Book, so that you will think it is from the Book, when it is not from the Book. And they say, ‘It is from God,’ when it is not from God. They speak lies against God, and they know [it].” 5:15: “People of the Book! Our messenger has come to you, making clear to you much of what you have been hiding in the Book, and overlooking much. Now a light and a clear Book from God has come to you.”

(ayāt), so at the very least, this serves as a subtext—if not a direct accusation—of refusing to accept the new divine utterance.

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4.3 Jewish Rejection and Undermining of the Authority of the Prophet 2:109: “Many of the People of the Book would like [it] if you turned back into disbelievers, after your believing, [because of] jealousy on their part, after the truth has become clear to them. So pardon and excuse [them], until God brings His command. Surely God is powerful over everything.” 2:120: “Neither the Jews nor the Christians will ever be pleased with you until you follow their creed. Say: ‘Surely the guidance of God—it is the [true] guidance.’ If indeed you follow their [vain] desires, after the knowledge which has come to you, you will have no ally and no helper against God.” 2:145–146: “Yet even if you bring every sign to those who have been given the Book, they will not follow your direction. You are not a follower of their direction, nor are they followers of each other’s direction. If indeed you follow their [vain] desires, after the knowledge which has come to you, surely then you will indeed be among the evildoers. Those to whom We have given the Book recognize it, as they recognize their [own] sons, yet surely a group of them indeed conceals the truth—and they know [it].” 3:69: “A group of the People of the Book would like to lead you astray, but they only lead themselves astray, though they do not realize [it].” 3:72–73: “A contingent of the People of the Book has said, ‘Believe in what has been sent down on those who believe at the beginning of the day, and disbelieve at the end of it; perhaps [then] they may return.’ And: ‘Do not believe (anyone) except the one who follows your religion.’ Say: ‘Surely the [true] guidance is the guidance of God—that anyone should be given what you have been given, or [that] they should dispute with you before your Lord!’ Say: Surely favor is in the hand of God. He gives it to whomever He pleases. God is embracing, knowing.” 3:81–85: “[Remember] when God made a covenant with the prophets: ‘Whatever indeed I have given you of the Book and wisdom, when a messenger comes to you confirming what is with you, you are to believe in him and you are to help him.’ He said, ‘Do you agree and accept My burden of that [condition]?’ They said, ‘We agree.’ He said, ‘Bear witness, and I shall be with you among the witnesses.’ Whoever turns away after that, those—they are the wicked. Do they desire a religion other than God’s, when whoever is in the heaven and the earth has submitted to Him, willingly or unwillingly, and to Him they will be returned? Say: ‘We believe in God, and what has been sent down on us, and what has been sent down on Abraham, and Ishmael, and Isaac, and Jacob, and the tribes, and what was given to Moses, and Jesus, and the prophets from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and to Him we submit.’ Whoever desires a religion other than Islam, it will not be accepted from him, and in the Hereafter he will be one of the losers.”

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3:99: “Say: ‘People of the Book! Why do you keep those who believe from the way of God, desiring [to make] it crooked, when you are witnesses? God is not oblivious of what you do.’” 3:110–112: “You are the best community [ever] brought forth for humankind, commanding right and forbidding wrong, and believing in God. If the People of the Book had believed, it would indeed have been better for them. Some of them are believers, but most of them are wicked. They will not cause you any harm, except for a [little] hurt. And if they fight you, they will turn their backs to you, [and] then they will not be helped. Humiliation will be stamped upon them wherever they are found, unless [they grasp] a rope from God and a rope from the people. They have incurred the anger of God, and poverty will be stamped upon them. That is because they have disbelieved in the signs of God and killed the prophets without any right. That is because they have disobeyed and transgressed.” 3:183–184: “Those [are the same people] who said, ‘Surely God has made us promise not to believe in any messenger until he brings a sacrifice which fire devours.’ Say: ‘Messengers have come to you before me with the clear signs, and with that which you spoke of. So why did you kill them, if you are truthful?’ If they call you a liar, [know that] messengers have been called liars before you, who brought the clear signs, and the scriptures, and the illuminating Book.” 4:51–56: “Do you not see those who have been given a portion of the Book? They believe in al-Jibt and al-Ṭāghūt,27 and they say to those who disbelieve, ‘These are better guided [as to the] way than those who believe. Those are the ones whom God has cursed […] Or are they jealous of the people for what God has given them of His favor? Yet We gave the house of Abraham the Book and the wisdom, and We gave them a great kingdom. [There are] some of them who believe in it, and some of them who keep [people] from it. Gehenna is sufficient as a blazing [fire]. Surely those who disbelieve in Our signs—We shall burn them in a Fire. Whenever their skins are completely burned, We shall exchange their skins for others, so that they may [continue to] feel the punishment. Surely God is mighty, wise.” 4:150–51: “Surely those who disbelieve in God and His messengers, and wish to make a distinction between God and His messengers, and say, ‘We believe 27  These appear to be the names of gods. Jibt occurs in the Qurʾan only in this verse, but Ṭāghūt appears elsewhere in the Qurʾan as well. The Hebrew-Aramaic cognate, ṭāʿūt / ṭāʿūtā, carries the meaning of “error,” but can also denote a spirit or false god in the Jewish targumim (Aramaic translations of the Bible), such as Deuteronomy 4:28: “And there you will serve gods, the work of men’s hands.” Targum Onkelos renders it: vetifliḥūn tamān leʾamemāya pālḥey-ṭa‍ʾvātā ʾavad yedey anāshā. See also Jer. Talmud San.10:4; Sifrei Bamidbar 131: uleṭāʾūtkhem.

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in part, but disbelieve in part,’ and wish to take a way between [this and] that, those—they in truth are the disbelievers. And We have prepared for the disbelievers a humiliating punishment.” 4:153: “The People of the Book ask you to bring down on them a Book from the sky. They have already asked Moses for [something] greater than that, for they said, ‘Show us God openly!’ So the thunderbolt took them for their evildoing. Then they took the calf after the clear signs had come to them. But We pardoned them for that, and We gave Moses clear authority.” 4:156–159: “and for their disbelief, and their saying against Mary a great slander, and for their saying, ‘Surely we killed the Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, the messenger of God’—yet they did not kill him, nor did they crucify him, but it [only] seemed like [that] to them. Surely those who differ about him are indeed in doubt about him. They have no knowledge about him, only the following of conjecture. Certainly they did not kill him. No! God raised him up to himself. God is mighty, wise. [There is] not one of the People of the Book who will indeed believe in him before his death, and on the Day of Resurrection he will be a witness against them.” 4:160: “So for the evildoing of those who are Jews, We have made [certain] good things forbidden to them which were permitted to them [before], and [also] for their keeping many [people] from the way of God.”28 6:25: “[There are] some of them who listen to you, but We have made coverings over their hearts, so that they do not understand it, and a heaviness in their ears. If they see any sign, they do not believe in it, so that when they come to dispute with you, those who disbelieve say, ‘This is nothing but old tales.’” 6:147: “If they call you a liar, say: ‘Your Lord is full of abundant mercy, but His violence will not be turned back from the people who are sinners.’” 4.4 Jewish Criticism of New Religious Practices (?) 3:93–94: “All food was permitted to the Children of Israel, except for what Israel forbade itself before the Torah was sent down. Say: ‘Bring the Torah and read it, if you are truthful.’ Whoever forges lies against God after that, those—they are the evildoers.” 5:57–59: “You who believe! Do not take those who take your religion in mockery and jest as allies, [either] from those who were given the Book before 28  The section continues with the accusation of Jewish usury: “And [for] their taking usury, when they were forbidden [to take] it, and [for] their consuming the wealth of the people by means of falsehood, We have prepared for the disbelievers among them a painful punishment.”

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you, or [from] the disbelievers. Guard [yourselves] against God, if you are believers. When you make the call to prayer, they take it in mockery and jest. That is because they are a people who do not understand. Say: ‘People of the Book! Do you take vengeance on us [for any other reason] than that we believe in God and what has been sent down to us, and what was sent down before [this], and because most of you are wicked?’” 5 Conclusion As I noted above, these verses appear to represent responses to arguments and criticisms levelled against the new community of believers, its revelation, and its prophet. While qurʾanic criticism is also directed against Christians and indigenous practitioners of Arabian religions, the prominent and respected status of Jews living in Arabia in the seventh century seems to have made them a particularly important target for rebuttal. Early Muslim traditions refer to the highly respected status of Jews living among native Arabian peoples, so it is likely that Jewish critiques of Muhammad and the revelation he brought had to be countered vigorously.29 The Jewish community as a whole clearly did not accept Muhammad’s prophetic claims, though some individuals certainly did, which then defined those Jews who followed the Prophet and his revelation as apostates from the Jewish perspective. Islamic tradition depicts some Arabian Jews as anticipating the coming of a prophetic or redemptive leader from somewhere in Arabia.30 If it is true that some Jews were expecting a redemptive figure, then it would be likely that those Jews who did not consider Muhammad to be the awaited one would have been particularly unhappy with their fellow religionists who did, and thus likely to level strong criticisms both against them and against Muhammad and his message.31 29   Reuven Firestone, “Muslim-Jewish Relations,” in the Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), published online January 2016, http://religion.oxfordre.com/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199340378.001.0001/acrefore -9780199340378-e-17. 30  A  l-Sīra al-nabawiyya liʾibn hishām, 2 vols., Dār al-thiqāfa al-ʾarabiyya (Beirut, n.d.), 1:213–14, 513–14, 527; 2:522–23; Alfred Guillaume, The Life of Muhammad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), 93–95 and 239–41. 31  This sentiment seems to be reflected in the story of ʾAbdullah b. Salām, a learned Jew who converted to Islam according to Muslim sources, for which he was harshly attacked by his fellow Jews (Al-Sīra al-nabawiyya, 1:516–517; Guillaume, The Life of Muhammad, 240–41). The story may not be historical, but it certainly reflects a historically accurate Jewish

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The concerns of Jews considering the possible redemptive status of Muhammad are intrinsic to all the scriptural monotheisms, which are sceptical (at the very least!) when evaluating the authenticity of prophetic claimants. The problematic revolves around the tension between scriptural canonisation on the one hand and the possibility of new divine communication on the other. As noted above, centres of religious power, at some point in their institutional development, determine that all the revelation that can be recorded into an official repository of divine communication has come to an end. The decision becomes institutionalised through the act of canonisation—that is, determining what is official divine revelation and what is not, recording the official material, and then excluding all else from the official canon. The official, accredited material is eternalised in the form of an official document, which we refer to today as Holy Scripture. All other material must then be rejected as false claims to divine disclosure. Yet while a religious body can designate and limit an official canon, it does not have the authority to proclaim that henceforth God can never provide any new communication to humanity. There is always the possibility of more, but it is also always in the interest of the religious establishment to limit that possibility, because new divine revelation carries with it a higher authority than that of any institutional religious establishment. It is impossible for claims to new revelation to be approved or endorsed by religious establishments, because such an approval would invalidate the authority of their own religion. This tension is evident among the three traditional scriptural monotheisms, all of which reject the authenticity, reliability, or relevance of competing Scriptures. Most new religious movements fail, but some that claim the authority of divine revelation do indeed succeed in establishing new religions. When this occurs, they remain forever threatening to the authority of previously established religions. Earlier scriptural monotheisms therefore continue to disparage newer religions even after they become established. The newer religions, in turn, carry within their sacred Scriptures the institutional memory of those early attacks and their own defensive reactions in the form of invective directed against their accusers. As a result, the hostility becomes embedded in both religions’ worldviews, as it is eternalised in theology, ritual, law, and practice. Qurʾanic anti-Jewish polemics cannot be properly understood without taking into account the historical and phenomenological context of their origin. Given the phenomenology of religious emergence, it should not be surprising that religious resentment, fear, and prejudice is so difficult to transcend. sentiment directed against those Jews who apostatised and then used their knowledge of Judaism to attack their former religious brethren.

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Bibliography Aescoly, Aharon Ze’ev. Jewish Messianic Movements. Sources & Documents on Messianism in Jewish History: From the Bar Kokhba Revolt until the Recent Times. 2 vols. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1956 (in Hebrew). Assmann, Jan. Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel, and the Rise of Monotheism. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2008. Assmann, Jan. The Price of Monotheism. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010. Denny, Frederick, and Rodney Taylor, eds. The Holy Book in Comparative Perspective. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1985. Droge, A. J. The Qurʾān: A New Annotated Translation. Sheffield: Equinox, 2012. Evans, Craig A., and Emanuel Tov. Exploring the Origins of the Bible: Canon Formation in Historical, Literary, and Theological Perspective. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008. Firestone, Reuven. “A Problem with Monotheism: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam in Dialogue and Dissent.” Pages 20–54 in Heirs of Abraham: The Future of Muslim, Jewish, and Christian Relations. Edited by Bradford Hinze. New York: Orbis, 2005. Firestone, Reuven. “Muslim-Jewish Relations.” In the Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Online: http://religion.oxfordre. com/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199340378.001.0001/acrefore-9780199340378-e-17. Firestone, Reuven. “The Problematic of Prophecy: 2015 IQSA Presidential Address.” Journal of the International Qurʾanic Studies Association 1 (2016): 11–22. Graham, William. Beyond the Written World: Oral Aspects of Scripture in the History of Religion. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Guillaume, Alfred. The Life of Muhammad. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955. Jaffee, Martin. “One God, One Revelation, One People: On the Symbolic Structure of Elective Monotheisms.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 69 (2001): 753–75. Jastrow, Marcus. A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature. Jerusalem: Chorev, n.d. Lecker, Michael. Jews and Arabs in Pre- and Early Islamic Arabia. Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998. Lecker, Michael. Muḥammad and the Jews. Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Institute, 2014 (in Hebrew). Lecker, Michael. Muslims, Jews and Pagans: Studies on Early Islamic Medina. Leiden: Brill, 1995. Lecker, Michael. People, Tribes and Society in Arabia around the Time of Muḥammad. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005. Lecker, Michael. The Banū Sulaym: A Contribution to the Study of Early Islam. Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1989.

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Lecker, Michael. The Constitution of Medina: Muḥammad’s First Legal Document. Princeton: Darwin Press, 2004. Levering, Miriam. “Rethinking Scripture.” Pages 1–24 in Rethinking Scripture: Essays from a Comparative Perspective. Edited by Miriam Levering. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989. McDonald, Lee Martin, and James A. Sanders. The Canon Debate. Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2002. McDonald, Lee Martin. Forgotten Scriptures: The Selection and Rejection of Early Religious Writings. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 2009. Nöldeke, Theodor, Friedrich Schwallz, Gotthelf Bergsträßer, and Otto Pretzl. The History of the Qurʾān. Edited and translated by Wolfgang Behn. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Powers, David. Muḥammad is not the Father of Any of Your Men: The Making of the Last Prophet. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009. Roggema, Barbara. The Legend of Sergius Baḥīra. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Saperstein, Marc. Essential Papers on Messianic Movements and Personalities. New York: New York University Press, 1992. Scholem, Gershom. The Messianic Idea in Judaism. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1971. Silver, Abba Hillel. A History of Messianic Speculation in Israel: From the First through the Seventeenth Centuries. Boston: Beacon, 1927. Smith, Wilfred Cantwell. What is Scripture. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993. Sokoloff, Michael. A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic. Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University, 2002. Watt, W. Montgomery, and Richard Bell. Introduction to the Qurʾan. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1970.

chapter 15

Christian-Muslim (In)tolerance? Islam and Muslims according to Early Christian Arabic Texts Clare Wilde The plight of Christians (and other religious minorities) living under Muslim rule is an oft-debated topic in contemporary discussions about Islamic societies.1 Critics of contemporary (and historical) treatment of non-Muslims, especially Christians, in Muslim-majority societies are quick to point out the second-class status of dhimmīs (those non-Muslims granted the “protection” of the Islamic government in exchange for a tax, the jizya, loosely based on Qur’ān 9:29). A classic formulation of the stipulations of life under Muslim rule is found in the provisions of the Covenant of Umar,2 according to various recensions of which Christians should wear distinguishing clothing; should not build churches close to, or bigger than, mosques; should not ring bells; and should not teach the Qur’ān to their children, among other stipulations. Today, these debates are reflected in very real concerns for the existence and safety of Christian communities in Muslim-majority areas (including the ability of Christianity to survive in the land of Christ’s birth).3 But, much like fifteenth-century artists setting the Annunciation in the Tuscan countryside, scholars reading classical or Middle Arabic texts4 about Islam or Christian-Muslim relations often read their own situations, problems, or challenges into the historic narrative. Such writings often ignore the preIslamic history of the Christians and others who came to live under Islamic rule. For example, a century before Muhammad’s lifetime, the emperor Justinian promulgated a number of laws regulating (and, often, restricting) the rights 1  A concern reflected in the Marrakesh Declaration, the result of discussions among various Muslim intellectuals in January 2016. It is available at http://www.marrakeshdeclaration.org/. 2  On this, see, for example, Milka Levy-Rubin, “Shurūṭ ʿUmar and Its Alternatives: The Legal Debate on the Status of the Dhimmīs.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 30 (2005): 170– 206; Mark R. Cohen, “What Was the Pact of ‘Umar? A Literary-Historical Study,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 23 (1999): 100–57. 3  As exemplified by articles such as Eliza Griswold’s 26 July 2015 piece for the New York Times, “Is This the End of Christianity in the Middle East?” available at https://www.nytimes .com/2015/07/26/magazine/is-this-the-end-of-christianity-in-the-middle-east.html. 4  For further discussion of Middle Arabic, see Benjamin Hary, “Middle Arabic: Proposals for New Terminology,” al-’Arabiyya (1989): 19–36.

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of Jews, pagans, and also Christians whose beliefs were deemed heretical by the ruling authorities.5 Under these laws, the construction or repair of places of worship by non-Christians (and those deemed unorthodox) was regulated; they were not allowed to possess Christian slaves; Jews and heretics were not allowed to be witnesses against Christians. Similarly, later Islamic practice resembles aspects of the tax and class system of the earlier Sasanian Empire.6 When the regulations and restrictions that Christian and other non-Muslim communities faced under Muslim rule are read against the background of previous legislation in the region, they resonate differently than when one reads the same rules against the backdrop of contemporary constitutions that, in theory, view minority communities as the legal equals of other members of society. In addition to legal and social-political history,7 another means of gaining insight into the realities of Christian life under Muslim rule is the body of literature that Christians produced, in Arabic and other languages, as subjects of the caliphate.8 In order to understand this literature, however, the contemporary reader should be alert to both the literary genre and the author’s theological orientation. For, as Michael Penn has recently observed in his masterful survey of early Syriac Christian writings on Islam, “the greatest challenge in remembering the conquests was explaining their results: good things happened to other people.”9 Rather than taking early Christian descriptions of the Arab conquests at face value, he argues for a reading of such conquest accounts as

5  For an overview, see John Tolan, “The Legal Status of Religious Minorities in the Medieval Mediterranean World: A Comparative Study,” in Hybride Kulturen im mittelalterlichen Europa: Vorträge und Workshops einter internationalen Frühlingsschule/Hybrid Cultures in Medieval Europe: Papers and Workshops of in International Spring School (Ed. Michael Borgolte, Bernd Schneidmüller; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010), 141–49. 6  For further discussion, see M. A. S. Abdel Haleem, “The Jizya Verse (Q. 9:29): Tax Enforcement on Non-Muslims in the First Muslim State,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 14 (2012): 72–89; LevyRubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (Cambridge/ New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 7  See, for example, Jan J. Van Ginkel, “The Perception and Presentation of the Arab Conquest in Syriac Historiography: How Did the Changing Social Position of the Syrian Orthodox Community Influence the Account of Their Historiographers?” in The Encounter of Eastern Christianity with Early Islam, ed. Emmanouela Grypeou and David Richard Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 171–84. 8  For an excellent introduction to and overview of the history of Christians under Muslim rule, see Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012). 9  Michael Philip Penn, Envisioning Islam: Syriac Christians and the Early Muslim World (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 17.

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a form of collective memory.10 While such a reading does not necessarily deny the accuracy of the details preserved in Syriac Christian accounts of the Arab conquests, it “acknowledges that contemporary concerns more often shaped the ways these writers transmitted this information than did their actual knowledge of the early seventh century.”11 1

Early Christian Writings on Islam

By the seventh century, Christians had a richly developed triumphal theology. Although Christianity was, for its first three centuries, a politically marginalised religion in the Roman Empire, by the early fourth century it was officially recognised with the Edict of Milan (313).12 With the eventual adoption of Christianity by Roman emperors and as the religion of the empire, Christian theology was increasingly public—both in its triumph over Judaism and in assertions of “correct” belief.13 Although Christianity was far from uniform, ecclesiastical councils, summoned by the emperors, attempted to define correct belief, often restricting the rights of those who were deemed erroneous or heretical.14 For example, the fifth century witnessed acrimonious debates among Christians over how to understand and express Christ’s humanity and divinity. Two major ecclesiastical councils were convened, at Ephesus (431) and Chalcedon (451), and those who did not agree with the conciliar christological definitions were, to varying degrees and in various ways, marginalised or excluded from the public life of the empire.15 10  See Penn, Envisioning Islam, 189n1, for an extensive bibliography of the literature on collective memory. 11  Penn, Envisioning Islam, 16. 12  For the development of Christian discourse in the context of the Roman Empire, see Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). 13  For one example, see Margaret R. Miles, “Santa Maria Maggiore’s Fifth-Century Mosaics: Triumphal Christianity and the Jews,” Harvard Theological Review 86 (1993): 155–72. 14  For a recent overview of these ecclesiastical and imperial politics, see Michael Gaddis, “The Political Church: Religion and the State,” in A Companion to Late Antiquity, ed. P. Rousseau (West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 512–24. For a non-theological interpretation, see also Arnold Hugh Martin Jones, “Were Ancient Heresies National or Social Movements in Disguise?” The Journal of Theological Studies 10 (1959): 280–98. 15  For further details, see, for example, Susan Wessel, Cyril of Alexandria and the Nestorian Controversy: The Making of a Saint and of a Heretic (Oxford: Oxford University Press on Demand, 2004); Nikolai N. Seleznyov, “Nestorius of Constantinople: Condemnation, Suppression, Veneration,” Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 62 (2010): 165–90; Jan Jacob

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In order to understand the nuances of early Christian writings on Islam, therefore, the theological orientation of the Christian author should be borne in mind. For example, one ninth-century Syriac world history explains the Arab/Muslim conquests as follows: the God of vengeance, who rules the kingdom of men on earth, who gives it to whom He wants and appoints the lowest of men over it—when He saw that the measure of the Romans’ sins was overflowing and that they were using every sort of cruelty against us and our churches and [that] our confession was close to being destroyed, He rose, persuaded and brought the Sons of Ishmael up from the land of the south, those indeed who had been despised and scorned and unknown among the nations of the world. And by them we gained deliverance. In this way, we profited not a little. For we had been ransomed from the tyrannical kingdom of the Romans.16 As Penn points out,17 scholars who take this account at face value and use this chronicle (of Dionysius of Tel Mahre) to illustrate the complicity of Syriac Christians in the success of the Arab Muslim conquests misrepresent the larger body of Syriac writings on the conquests. For the author of this account was a Miaphysite, a member of one of the Christian groups that did not agree with the Chalcedonian christological definition. As he was from a Christian group that was not granted full rights or freedoms under Roman rule, was his description of Arab rule intended as a faithful depiction of the Arab conquests, or a rhetorical device to emphasise his community’s disagreements with the theology and policies of late antique Byzantine ruling elites? Additionally, was this ninth-century account intended to convey events of the seventh century, or was it composed in such a way as to speak to the realities of the ninthcentury Miaphysite community, which was desirous of being in the good graces of the contemporary (Muslim) ruling elite? Although these questions may not be fully resolved, knowledge of both the situation of the Miaphysite Christian community at the time of the chronicle’s composition (and that of

Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus on Emperors: The Perception of the Byzantine Empire by a Monophysite,” Orientalia christiana analecta 247 (1994): 323–33. 16  As quoted by Penn, Envisioning Islam, 15. See ch. 1 of Envisioning Islam for a detailed discussion of this and other early Syriac conquest accounts. 17  Penn, Envisioning Islam, 49.

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its later dissemination), as well as the intra-Christian dynamics, help nuance the reading of this account.18 Although many of the first Christians who encountered Muslims were Syriac speakers, Christians who came under Muslim rule wrote in a variety of languages, including, eventually, Arabic. In fact, in ninth-century Baghdad, the caliph employed multi-lingual Christians (and others) to translate Greek and other works into Arabic.19 The Arabic writings of Christians who came under Muslim rule20 provide particular insights into the (in)tolerance that existed in the early centuries of the caliphate. For, unlike compositions in Syriac or other languages that were used by non-Muslim communities, Christians who wrote in Arabic were using a language that was easily accessible to their Muslim overlords, based as it was on the language of the Qur’ān itself.21 Given the power dynamics, one might expect to find cautious or obsequious language in Christian Arabic writings that touched on political or theological matters involving Muslims. But, much as with the Syriac literature that Penn has surveyed, Christian Arabic texts comprise a range of genres and widely varying approaches to Islam and Muslims.22 2

Early Christian Arabic Texts: Two Examples

The following section uses two Christian Arabic texts from the early Islamic period as an initial investigation into what these writings might tell us of the (in)tolerance present in early Islamic societies. Both depict a Christian in conversation with a Muslim (or Muslims). One takes the form of a letter, while the 18  Yet another dynamic is the redeployment of ancient “types” to meet the needs of the new situation. See, for example, Griffith, “Jews and Muslims in Christian Syriac and Arabic Texts of the Ninth Century,” Jewish History 3 (1988): 65–94. See the study by Dmitri Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: The Graeco-Arabic 19   Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early’Abbasaid Society (2nd–4th/5th–10th c.) (London: Routledge, 1998, repr. 2012). 20  For a concise overview, see Griffith, “The Monks of Palestine and the Growth of Christian Literature in Arabic,” The Muslim World 78 (1988): 1–28. 21  On the complex dynamics of Christians who came to write, speak, and think in Arabic, see Griffith, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the “People of the Book” in the Language of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013). 22   See, for example, Alexander Treiger, “Christian Graeco-Arabica: Prolegomena to a History of the Arabic Translations of the Greek Church Fathers,” Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 3 (2015): 188–227. For sources on one of the Christian communities that came to use Arabic, see Samuel Noble and Alexander Treiger, eds., The Orthodox Church in the Arab World, 700–1700: An Anthology of Sources (DeKalb, IN: Northern Illinois University Press, 2014).

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other is framed as a debate text. Debates and debate texts as a genre of literature have a long history in Mesopotamia23—one that was continued under the caliphs, in Baghdad and beyond. For Christians who would come to write in Arabic, debate texts likely served as a catechetical tool—and one that promoted in-group pride.24 They are often constructed as a Christian debating a Muslim or a group of Muslims—and, in the Christian texts, the Christian (of course) “wins” the debate, but in a respectful manner. Although the manuscript tradition is often later than the historical setting the manuscripts purport to represent, such texts preserve items of interest to historians and other scholars.25 The debate text from which the following examples are drawn is attributed to the early ninth-century bishop of Harran, Theodore Abū Qurra.26 He was summoned by the caliph al-Ma‌ʾmūn (r. 819–33)27 to debate a number of Muslim notables on the veracity of the Christian religion. The discussion ranges from points of Christian doctrine that are not compatible with Islamic belief (e.g., the divinity of Christ) to pointed attacks on the weaknesses of Islamic faith (e.g., if God is just, what is the eschatological reward for Muslim women if their husbands are promised houris in paradise?). In this debate, the Muslim notables are vanquished—and not just because of Abū Qurra’s familiarity with points of Christian doctrine and his ability to explain their validity. His victory 23  See, for example, the collection of essays in Gerrit Jan Reinink and Herman L. J. Vanstiphout, eds., Dispute Poems and Dialogues in the Ancient and Mediaeval Near East: Forms and Types of Literary Debates in Semitic and Related Literatures (Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 1991). 24  For further discussion of this genre, see Griffith, “The Monk in the Emir’s Majlis: Reflections on a Popular Genre of Christian Literary Apologetics in Arabic in the Early Islamic Period,” in The Majlis: Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam, ed. Hava Lazarus-Yafeh et al. (Wiesbaden: Harrossowitz Verlag, 1999), 13–65. 25  As, for example, with the discussion of Qur’ān 108 and Qur’ān 111, preserved in Theodore Abū Qurra’s debate (one of the texts discussed below). See Clare Wilde, “The Qur’an: Kalām Allāh or Words of Man?: A Case of Tafsir Transcending Muslim-Christian Communal Borders,” Parole de l’Orient 32 (Actes du 7e congrès international des études arabes chrétiennes [Sayyidat al-Bir, septembre 2004]) (2007): 401–18. 26  Ignatius Dick, ed., La discussion d’Abū Qurra avec les ulémas musulmans devant le calife alMa‌ʾmūn (Aleppo: n.p., 1999). Twenty-six manuscripts of the text are known, dating from the fourteenth to the nineteenth centuries, in two recensions: Melkite and Jacobite. For the manuscript history of the text, see Griffith, “Monk in the Emir’s Majlis,” 38–39. A student of Fr. Samir has produced an English translation and edition of this text: see Wafik Nasry, The Caliph and the Bishop: A 9th Century Muslim-Christian Debate; al-Ma‌ʾmūn and Abū Qurrah (Beirut: CEDRAC, 2008). 27  On the historicity of the encounter between Abū Qurra and al-Ma’mūn, see Griffith, “Reflections on the Biography of Theodore Abū Qurrah,” Parole de l’Orient 18 (1993): 143– 70, esp. 156–58.

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is also attributable to a deep knowledge of the Qurʾān itself—and an ability to employ it in defence of Christian doctrines and to critique it.28 The other text is a letter, preserved in a unique manuscript (Sinai Arabic 434, ff. 171r–181v, copied in 1138), a microfilm copy of which is housed in the Library of Congress in Washington, DC. As with debate texts, letters are an ancient literary device through which an author can put forth a set of ideas in a relatively concise form, but—conveniently—without the expectation of a response: a letter is used when the two parties are at a distance. The letter can be anonymous, or it can carry a semblance of an actual epistolary exchange through allusions to places, events, or individuals known to a wider audience.29 This manuscript contains the response of an anonymous Melkite monk in Jerusalem to three questions posed by a Muslim sheikh. The sheikh has read a “Refutation of the Christians” and wants the monk’s expert opinion on three questions concerning 1) the relationship of the eternal being of God to the three persons of the Trinity; 2) the hypostatic union of God and man in the person of Christ; and 3) the proof of this hypostatic union in the actions of Christ. In his response, this monk, who lived in pre-Crusader Jerusalem,30 employs both biblical and qurʾānic “proof” in support of Christian doctrines. That a scribe would transcribe an anonymous letter, decades if not centuries after the date of the purported correspondence, argues that this “letter” be read in the genre of literary epistles, rather than (primarily) as a record of an actual exchange. Finally, a comment on the nature and dissemination of these two texts. That only one manuscript of this letter survives (as opposed to the rich manuscript tradition of Theodore Abū Qurra’s debate) indicates that it may have had a more limited audience or been a less effective teaching tool. Perhaps its topics were too specialised to appeal to the general population, or the anonymous epistolary format was too dry (akin to an academic essay), as opposed to the debate text, which had historic characters (the caliph al-Ma’mūn, the bishop of Harrān, Theodore Abū Qurra, and his interlocutors, who—while not mapping 28  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 80. 29  For the Greek genre, see Patricia A. Rosenmeyer, Ancient Greek Literary Letters: Selections in Translation (London: Routledge, 2006); for Greek and Latin letters, see Michael Trapp, ed., Greek and Latin Letters: An Anthology with Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 30  Robert Haddad, La Trinité divine chez les théologiens arabes 750–1050 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1985), 38. He dates the text to 780 (see Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It, 504–05). A ninth-century date is suggested by Mark Swanson, “Beyond Prooftexting: Approaches to the Qur’ān in Some Early Arabic Christian Apologies,” The Muslim World 88 (1988): 297– 319, esp. 301n25.

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directly onto historic actors—have names that resonate with readers familiar with Islamic history: e.g., “al-Hāshimī” or “the company of the Quraysh”) and dialogue, much like a stage play. The relatively “academic” and non-polemical nature of the anonymous monk’s letter may have contributed to its obscurity, while the lively language of Abū Qurra’s debate may explain its popularity. 2.1 Official Intolerance? The highly stylised and formulaic nature of Christian-Muslim debate texts, in Arabic or other languages, argue against their “true-to-life” depiction of the actual encounters they purport to represent. For example, after one of Abū Qurra’s rejoinders, the caliph is depicted as saying, “O ‘Abū Abbās, Abū Qurra has made us listen to a speech. I am afraid that our minds will veer away from the truth and we will enter into his religion.”31 He goes even further, dismissing this same man after Abū Qurra has defeated him in the debate: “Be quiet, God shame you and curse you! You have spoken nonsense and silliness out of ignorance, all the while thinking that you are one of the modest godfearers. By God, were it not for the malicious pleasure those present would take in your lot, I would put you in a place in which your worth would be lower and your influence smaller. Leave us. There is no good in you, nor in anything connected with you.”32 Although this debate text is adept at showing the flaws and weaknesses of the arguments made by Abū Qurra’s Muslim interlocutors, it is quite careful to depict the caliph in benign (if slightly insipid) terms. The caliph is described as delighted with Abū Qurra33 and even laughs when Abū Qurra triumphs over his Muslim interlocutors.34 But, as opposed to any of the Muslim debate partners, the caliph is also treated with great deference. For example, after one of his interlocutors criticises the Christian doctrine of the Incarnation, Abū Qurra is silent until the caliph asks why he is not responding. Abū Qurra says that he is waiting until “the Commander of the Faithful gives me the command.”35 Their nature as a literary construction does not, however, mean that the events they purport to relay did not occur. A range of sources attests to the 31  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 81. 32  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 81–82. 33  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 73, 86, and 119. 34  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 70, 91, and 123 (for Abū Qurra’s laughter). 35  While this caliphal title has a military connotation, it may also be translated as “prince of the believers.” Did the author of the text choose this honorific to designate the caliph because of the use of “believers” (mu’minīn), rather than of “Muslims” (muslimīn)? For a revisionist reading of Islamic origins that focuses on the concept of “believer,” see Fred M. Donner, Muhammad and the Believers (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012).

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phenomenon of debates both within and across confessional lines, as attested to by the description of such a session by a fourth-/tenth-century Andalusian visitor to Baghdad: When the meeting was jammed with its participants, and they saw that no one else was expected, one of the infidels said, “You have all agreed to the debate, so the Muslims should not argue against us on the basis of their scripture, nor on the basis of the sayings of their prophet, since we put no credence in these things, and we do not acknowledge him. Let us dispute with one another only on the basis of arguments from reason, and what observation and deduction will support.36 The surprise registered by this visitor at the respect accorded to all the participants gives a sense of the relative comfort of the various religious minorities in the Islamic East—while also suggesting that religious minorities in the western part of the Islamic world at that time might not have been accorded the same freedoms. But, as discussed below, factors other than attestations to the participation of religious minorities in public debates are needed in order to establish the nature or extent of the tolerance of the caliphate. Islamic literature also includes guidelines for the proper conduct of the participants in a debate. According to al-Ashʿarī (d. 324/936), the eponym for what would become normative (Sunni) theology: In dialectical debates and disputations one should seek to get closer to God, the exalted. They should serve as a way to worship Him and to fulfil his commands. Their motive should be the desire to achieve His reward and to avoid His punishment. When these are lacking, disputations have no reason except greed, obstinacy, or glee in defeating the opponent and over-coming him. Other animals, such as the stallions of camels, rams and roosters, share this drive to conquer.37 That such behaviour was not unheard of is indicated by Ibn Ḥaẓm’s (d. 456/1064) including “bad manners” among the conditions for one participant “losing” a round of a debate: “If one of the participants is making insinuations 36  Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Ḥumaydī, Jadhwat al-Muqtabis, ed. Muḥammad b. Ṭāwīt al-Ṭanjī (Cairo: Dār al-Miṣrīyya, 1953), 101–02, emphasis mine. 37  Cited by Sarah Stroumsa, “Ibn al-Rāwandī’s sūʾ adab al-mujādala: The Role of Bad Manners in Medieval Disputations,” The Majlis. Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam, ed. Hava Lazarus-Yafeh et al. (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz Verlag, 1999), 66–83, here 70–71.

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by smiling to himself, or if he yells; if he imitates the other, or makes jest, or treats the other as a fool, or treats him rudely; or when he insults the other and calls him an infidel, curses and reviles him or makes foul accusations about his mother or father, let alone if this is accompanied by slapping and stamping the feet.”38 The debate text attributed to Abū Qurra echoes these concerns. For example, the caliph assures Theodore that his is a majlis of justice, equity and proof. No one will treat you unjustly in it. So loosen your tongue, put forth your question, make clear what is on your mind. There is no one here who will respond to you in any but the best way (cf. Qur’ān 29:46), nor will anyone frighten you, or loom large in your eyes, nor should you be afraid of anyone. This is a day of proof (burhān, cf. Qur’ān 2:111), on which the truth is to be made clear. So whoever is in possession of the verification of his religion, let him speak.39 This promise, coming from the mouth of the caliph, is in stark contrast to Abū Qurra’s description of Muslim-Christian interactions (discussed in the next section), which alludes to Muslim dominion (over Christians) as well as Muslim defamation of, and disdain and contempt for, Christians. For, while the text is fairly free in its mentions of Muslim mistreatment of Christians or disrespect for Christianity, it is very careful to exempt both the figure of the ruler (the Muslim caliph)40 and the Qur’ān and Muḥammad from these charges. In other words, it is not the Qur’ān or even the teachings of the Prophet that are to blame, but (wilful) Muslim misinterpretation of their tradition. In fact, Abū Qurra frequently reminds his Muslim interlocutors of qur’ānic passages that can be read as in agreement with Christian theology41 or passages that 38  Cited in Stroumsa, “Role of Bad Manners,” 73. 39  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 72. 40  The figure of al-Ma’mūn as the sympathetic caliph is surely no accident, especially in the light of his ultimately unsuccessful “inquisition” (mihna) and attempted imposition of “rationalist” Mu’tazila theology on state officials. For more on al-Ma’mūn and these policies, see John A. Nawas, “A Reexamination of Three Current Explanations for al-Ma‌ʾmun’s Introduction of the Miḥna,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994): 615–29; and Michael Cooperson, Al Ma’mun (London: Oneworld Publications, 2012). 41  A frequently exploited practice of Christian Arab apologists, and one that did not go unnoticed, or uncriticised, by Muslims. For further discussion of prooftexting, see Swanson, “Beyond Prooftexting,” and the comments of a later Christian Arab apologist, Paul of Antioch, in P. Khoury, ed. and trans., Paul d’Antioche. Évêque melkite de Sidon (XIIe s.), Recherches publiées sous la direction de L’Institut de Lettres Orientales de Beyrouth 24 (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique Beyrouth, 1965), esp. the Risāla, pars. 45–47.

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encourage respectful engagement with Christians, such as the exhortation in Qur’ān 29:46 to address the People of the Book in the “best way.” Thus, while Theodore Abū Qurra alludes to Muslim ill-treatment of Christians in the course of his debate, the environment of the debate itself is carefully depicted as one of equity and fairness, largely thanks to the presence and patronage of the person of the caliph. And in this fair, equitable environment, the Christian can easily best his Muslim opponents. However, the text also emphasises the distinction between this majlis of fairness and the hostile, arrogant, disrespectful, and unjust treatment that Christians are accustomed to receiving at the hands of Muslims. 2.2 Societal Intolerance? Even if Christian debate texts are literary constructions, the fact of their circulation, in Arabic, is potentially significant for our understanding of the (in)tolerance of those societies. It is worth noting that, despite the text’s frequent and facile use of qur’ānic passages, Abū Qurra does not employ the two qur’ānic passages that frequently appear in contemporary arguments for a qur’ānic (and Islamic) religious tolerance42 (Qur’ān 109: “to you your religion, and to me, mine”; and Qur’ān 2:256: “there is no compulsion in religion”). And, although Arabic terms for “intolerance” are not found in the texts under discussion here, related concepts—such as (in)justice—do occur, as do allusions to Muslims’ preferred societal status. For example, Theodore Abū Qurra asserts that “[w]ere I to have any justice from you, O Muslim, you would not have any favor over me, nor power, nor right, due to what God has accorded me before you, by means of which He gave me preference instead of you, in witness of which your own scripture testifies in my behalf.”43 There are also allusions to Muslim power—frequently as a proof of God’s love (for Christians), since God tests (or disciplines) those he loves (cf., e.g., Proverbs 3:12)44—as well as the means by which Muslims came to power: the apostles (ḥawāriyyūn), God’s anṣār, […] brought to very ignorant nations, without sword or rod or money or men, a difficult madhhab, leading them from this world (dunya) to the next (ākhira), and they responded obediently, in their life and after their death. And, in the name of 42  For a survey of this topic, see Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 43  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 90. 44  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 123.

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the crucified [one], they raised the dead and worked every miracle. That shows the divine power—that of the Messiah, to whom was testified.45 These two passages are illustrative of the frequent and oblique allusions to Muslim dominion found in Christian Arabic texts. Often, Muslim maltreatment of Christians is implied, rather than explicitly stated, as in the suspicion of the author of Sinai Arabic 434 that the three questions challenging the veracity of the Christian faith were initially put forth out of malice. (But, much like the figure of the caliph in Abū Qurra’s debate, the Muslim who sought his views is presented as fair-minded, genuinely wanting to understand the Christian position. He therefore addresses a respectful reply to a sheikh “pre-eminent in his Islam,” whose “noble lineage” prevents him from asking his questions about Christianity out of “malice.”) Alternatively, it is found in a passing reference as a contrast to the (correct) behaviour of Christians. Sometimes, however, Muslim maltreatment is clearly stated. Abū Qurra tells his Muslim interlocutors that it is Muslim bad behaviour, rather than a dearth of Christian arguments on behalf of their faith, that prevents Christians from defending their beliefs: Do not suppose, O Abū ‘Abd Allāh, that we do not have any argument that we could use to argue in behalf of the verification of our religion. Your dominion (tasalluṭ) over us is the only thing imposing it, then your disdain (izdirā’) for us, and your defamation (qadhf) of us, to the point that all of you suppose that there is no religion and no argument we could use to argue in our own behalf, and that due to the frequency of our keeping away from you in silence, we have according to you, among the lowest estate (aḥqar al-manāzil), indeed the most despicable (adhill) one in your eyes. No one comes close to the rush to anger (al-ḍajar), the impudence (al-salāṭa), the audacity (al-tajāsur) and the conceit (al-i’jāb) that is in you. But now my lord and master, the Commander of the Faithful, has given me permission to speak, and I must answer for my religion and set forth the argument in its behalf, by means of which I will find my way to it. And if in your unfairness (ẓulm) and hostility (ta’addī) you harbor feelings of hatred against me (taḥqad ‘alayy), and you will not listen, then listen now to what your own scripture utters. Do not act haughtily against me (tatajabbar ‘alayy), or disdainfully (ta’anaf), out of concession (mina l-i’tirāf), once it is clear to you from your scripture you should address me “only in the best way,” just as your prophet commanded you 45  Sinai Ar. 434, ff. 178r–178v.

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in your scripture, speaking of Christians whom he had met earlier: “We believe in what He sent down to us and to you; our God and your God are one.” (Qur’ān 29:46) But you, due to your conceit (i’jāb), have not accepted what he said, nor have you obeyed his command. Rather, in the place of his commandment to you, you have put your contempt for our religion (izdirā’ikum bi-dīninā), and your defamation of us (qadhfakum lanā bi-l-qabīḥ).46 But how do we understand allusions, in Arabic, to Muslim injustice? That Muslims were not expected to read these texts? Or that Muslims would not be bothered by such allusions, somewhat belying the accusations levelled at them? Although in the light of current events, some may be tempted to take the allusions to Muslim maltreatment of Christians at face value, the existence of a multi-confessional debate as a literary genre indicates a level of intercommunal interaction that argues against a uniformly hostile Muslim attitude towards Christians, particularly at the official level. And there are also favourable depictions of Muslims, such as the caliph in Abū Qurra’s text as well as the addressee of the monk. Furthermore, many texts written by Christians under Muslim rule, in Arabic and other languages, evidence intimate familiarity with Muslim beliefs and practices. Even the language used (e.g., books of God, kutub Allāh47—including, seemingly, the Qur’ān) indicates a high degree of assimilation into Arab, Muslim society—on the part of the authors as well as, presumably, their audiences. This leads to the possibility that the hostile Muslim could, to some degree, be yet another literary trope, as it were. But this hypothesis raises the question of why such a trope would be needed—or successful. Pace Penn’s discussion of Syriac accounts of the Arab Muslim conquests, Christians had to explain why “good things happened to other people.”48 For Christians had, by the seventh century, developed both a triumphal and a supercessionist theology, especially vis-à-vis “vanquished” Judaism. With the emergence of Islam as both a new and also a militarily and politically victorious religious player, neither of these categories was particularly applicable. Christians who came under Muslim rule had to develop new categories, or revisit old ones, not just 46  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 74–75. 47  Sinai Ar. 434, ff. 171r; 181v; 174r: kutub allāh taʿāla; 175r: kutub allāh al-munazzala, kutub allāh rabbī. While Abū Qurra’s debate does not speak of the Qur’ān in these terms, it contains numerous references to the Qur’ān, Islamic theology, and even obscure intraMuslim debates. See, for example, Wilde, “Kalām Allāh.” 48  See ch. 1 of Penn, Envisioning Islam, which uses this phrase as its title.

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to explain their subjugation to this new religion, but also to justify the continued validity of their Christianity—even when, in the new political order, they were the social equals of both Jews and other Christians whom they deemed heretical. One recurring theme was that God tests those he loves. The power of this explanation would increase in direct proportion to the villainy of the rulers.49 Theodore Abū Qurra’s debate text demonstrates with particular clarity how Christians managed their new situation. On the one hand, he states (in defence of Christian veneration of the cross): there is no king who goes out to do battle with his enemies, having the sign of the cross with him, goes without victory and triumph being his, and he comes to rule over his enemies. There is not one of the kings of the earth, who does not have a banner by means of which he is recognized as who he is, the son of whom he is, and what his strength is, by means of which one distinguishes between him and his enemies. The sign of our master, Jesus the Messiah, is the sign of the cross. Just as we accept the Messiah with a truthful intention and a sincerely genuine creed, so also do we accept his cross, extol it, and embrace it in all our affairs.50 But this same text refuses to interpret Muslim dominion over Christians as a sign of divine favour for Islam. Rather, the political dominance of Islam is seen as a sign of divine favour for Christians (and not as a punishment for Christian infidelity or a foreshadowing of the antichrist).51 Just like the Israelites, God’s umma (community) that lived under Pharaoh’s yoke for 400 years, “[w]e, the people of the religion of Christianity, He put the lash of punishment upon us. That is a benefit for us, according to the reckoning of the saying of Solomon, son of David, ‘Whom the Lord loves, He puts to the test; He disciplines the men with whom He is well pleased.’”52 Finally, despite the frequent allusions to Muslim mistreatment of Christians, actual or threatened, Christian Arabic texts contain sometimes-strong criticisms of Muslim beliefs or practices. That these criticisms survived, and circulated in Arabic, belies (or perhaps accounts for) the description of Muslim 49  Yet another tactic was to “downgrade” Islam to either a Christian heresy, or to depict Muslims as the new Jews or even pagans. For further discussion, see Griffith, “Jews and Muslims.” 50  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 92–93. 51  For more on the characterisations of Islam in early Christian texts, see Robert G. Hoyland, “The Earliest Christian Writings on Muhammad: An Appraisal,” in The Biography of the Prophet, ed. Harald Motzki (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 276–97. 52  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 123.

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hostility to Christians.53 While an argument could be made for such communal separation that Muslims would not have read Christian Arabic texts, the familiarity that Christian and Muslim texts show with the beliefs and practices of the other community argues strongly for porous communal borders.54 2.3 Christian Intolerance? In addition to the implied (or explicit) criticisms of Muslim rule, or the means by which Muslims came to power, Christian Arabic texts also criticise Muslim beliefs and practices. As with Christian criticisms of Islam in other languages, Muslim sexual freedom—in this world (polygamy and divorce) and the next (houris)—is criticised, as in Abū Qurra’s query as to who will be the partners of your wives in the hereafter, since you will have disowned them and replaced them with houris? You will have left them in sadness and great distress, while you are in happiness and delight with the houris. God will be made the cause of injustice and wrongdoing, since He will have provided partners for the men, but He will not have provided partners for the women. He will have committed an injustice against them and done them a wrong.55 As this criticism indicates, Christians writing in Arabic were familiar with points of Muslim belief that extended beyond daily practices. Although such paradisiacal delights attracted the attention of Christians who wrote in other languages, Christian Arabic texts evidence particular familiarity with the Qur’ān. And, although Christian Arabic texts frequently mine the Qur’ān (and even Islamic tradition) for arguments to support Christian beliefs, especially regarding Christology and the Trinity, criticisms of the Qur’ān and also Muḥammad himself do appear. This is true even of texts such as the two under discussion here, which tend to avoid directly criticising the Qur’ān or the Prophet and, instead, level their critique at Muslim misinterpretation—and even corruption56—of the text and teachings of Muḥammad. For example, Abū Qurra’s debate text notes the discrepancy in marriage rules between what was permitted for Muḥammad and what was allowed for others (other men): 53  See, for example, the provisions of the Covenant of Umar, as discussed by Cohen, “What Was the Pact of ‘Umar?” 54  See, for example, ch. 4 of Penn, Envisioning Islam, and the overview of Islamic exegesis on a selection of verses found in Jane Dammen McAuliffe, Qur’anic Christians: An Analysis of Classical and Modern Exegesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 55  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 77–78. 56  On this, see Wilde, “Kalām Allāh.”

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he provided four wives for you and he died with fourteen wives. That man could not manage without marriage. Even more than this, when he saw Zayd’s wife he became infatuated with her and he said that inspiration came down upon him. It said, [“When Zayd has consummated desire with her, We will marry you to her in a new marriage.”] (Qur’ān 33:37) God, mighty and exalted be He, was the broker and Gabriel was the witness! He made Zayd divorce his wife and he married her at his Lord’s command! You tell this repulsive thing about your prophet and in your prayers you pray on his behalf and you ascribe to him the speech of God, may He be exalted!57 In addition to criticisms of the Qur’ān and Muḥammad, including Muslim misinterpretations,58 Christian Arabic texts also criticise Islam as both religion and polity. For, in addition to the aforementioned criticisms of the means by which Muslims came to power, Muslim claims of Islamic supercession are also disputed through claims of the intellectual superiority of the older tradition. In the words of one of Abū Qurra’s Muslim interlocutors, “Abū Qurra’s religion is genuinely old and you its adherent are neither weary nor too tired to give an answer. The religion of Salam is young, tender and mild; its adherent is content with faith, too rich in the love of God for giving replies in matters from which my intellect falls short, about which my thinking is baffled, and for which I have no answer.”59 That this argument for the superiority of an older religious tradition could be applied to Judaism vis-à-vis Christianity is not addressed. Rather, Christian Arabic texts repeat ancient Christian polemics against Judaism, some of which are also found in Islamic tradition (e.g., God’s anger at the Jews): You even say he vilified us, which we do not believe, nor do we see it. It is not proper for you, O Muslim, to disavow your prophet’s ennoblement of our religion and of its merits, in his command to you to seek from the master of the Day of Judgment that He guide you from error to “the straight path which He graciously bestowed on those at whom He was not angry, who were not going astray.” (cf. Qur’ān 1:6–7) Who were those with whom He was angry, if not the Jews and the worshipers of idols? Those going astray were the ones asking God to guide them to the straight path. Those on whom He had graciously bestowed [it] were the 57  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 86. 58  See, for example, Abū Qurra’s discussion of Qur’ān 108 and 111, in Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 108; discussed in Wilde, “Kalām Allāh.” 59  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 80.

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“Christians” (al-naṣārā), who believed in Him and in His Messiah, while being obedient to Him, submitting to His precepts, and following His practices. But you, in your unfairness and your hostility to us, associate us with the worshipers of idols, comparing us with them and likening us to them. Yet your scripture testifies in our behalf that we were “Scripture People” before you, believing in the Gospel and in the One Who sent it down to us. You even confess that our Lord the Messiah in Heaven has precedence over all the prophets. Therefore, those who follow him have precedence over all religions.60 This passage demonstrates the ease with which Christian Arab apologists could weave ancient Christian polemics against Judaism into their arguments against Islam. It also shows Christian familiarity with Muslim exegesis of the Qur’ān. For the opening chapter of the Qur’ān alludes to those with whom God is angry and those who have gone astray. Although neither Jews nor Christians are mentioned in this qur’ānic chapter, a common gloss is that the former are the Jews, and the latter are the Christians—an interpretation with which the Christian text is clearly familiar, given its rebuttal. But the final assertion, that followers of Christ have precedence over all religions, raises interesting questions about “tolerance” in Christian responses to Islam, especially when the Christians are living under Muslim rule. How ought we to understand the claim that the followers of one religion should have precedence over all other religions, particularly in the light of the texts’ disrespectful allusions to Islam and Judaism? Is this a philosophical assertion, akin to the idea present in Latin theology, that “error has no rights” and only truth has rights—but that error might be tolerated if circumstances dictate?61 Or is this wishful thinking, an expression of a desire for a return to an earlier situation? For Christians were not a uniform entity. The texts discussed here came from the Melkite community—Chalcedonian Christians who came to write in Arabic. For the former subjects of the Roman Empire, this had been the preferred form of Christianity.62 As such, it had enjoyed privileges that

60  Dick, La discussion d’Abū Qurra, 74–75. See pp. 117–18 for a further example of contraIudaeos argumentation. This passage is notable both for its casual mention of jihād and the presumption, on the part of the Muslim interlocutor, of Christian anti-Jewish sentiments. 61  See John Courtney Murray’s discussion of this classical position of the Roman Catholic Church at https://www.library.georgetown.edu/woodstock/murray/1965ib. 62  For a discussion of the analogous situation of Sunni Islam and its history of association with state power, see Khaled Abou El Fadl, “Islam and the Theology of Power,” Middle East Report 221 (2001): 28–33.

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Jews and even other Christians had not had. Might, then, this statement be an expression of a desire to return to its former position (of power)? “Tolerance” connotes the permission or allowance of beliefs or behaviour with which one disagrees. Is “intolerance” therefore the refusal to accept such beliefs or behaviours, or the active prevention of them? In other words, are tolerance and intolerance only the provenance of those who hold political power or the means of enforcing their rules? As Christian Arabic texts contain both anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim rhetoric, can they be labelled as intolerant, even if their authors wielded little or no political power? If not, does that mean that minorities—religious or political—cannot be intolerant? The case of Christians who came under Muslim rule problematises the association of (in)tolerance with power on three levels. Firstly, Christians had been in power prior to Muslim rule, and their writings reflect a desire for a return to their former glory, either in this world or the next. Secondly, their refusal to recognise the truth claims of other religious communities did have consequences for those who wished to transgress the communal borders: excommunication or refusal of marriage, among others. Thirdly, the refusal to accept (as true) the beliefs and practices of others was not restricted to a rejection of the religion of the ruling elites; it also extended to socio-political peers (Jews and also other Christian groups). 3

Conclusion: Minority Religion Truth Claims—an Acceptable Intolerance?

Unlike their Muslim neighbours, the first Christians who wrote in Arabic did not have the power of the state to enforce their desire for “precedence” over “all other religions.” But church teachings, in Arabic-speaking and other Christian communities under Muslim rule, did attempt to influence and, often, restrict interactions between Christians and others. Although Islamic law would permit a Muslim man to marry a Christian or Jewish woman, church canons attempted to prevent such interactions: as one example from a Miaphysite council in 785 reveals, priests who allowed their daughters to marry pagans, Muslims, or Nestorians (a Christian group deemed heretical by the council) were to be expelled from the priesthood. Lay parents who permitted such intermarriage were not to receive the Eucharist or enter a church. This same council also ruled that Christian wives of Muslims should be excluded from the Eucharist and the church.63 Similarly, Muslims are prevented from attend63  Penn, Envisioning Islam, 152.

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ing the Christian Eucharist.64 Are such rules examples of intolerance, even though Christianity was not the religion of the ruling power? Or does the lack of political power give greater licence for “intolerant” attitudes and actions on the part of religious minorities? Does the tolerance of a ruling power ironically create space for intolerant minorities? If the writings of some of the first Christians who came under Muslim rule are read with an ear attuned to the genre and tone of the text, both the definition and the extent of “intolerance” is problematised. For, despite numerous allusions to social disadvantages, Christian Arabic texts also depict benevolent Muslims, particularly Muslim officials. And Christian Arabic texts also contain disrespectful remarks about Islam, the Qur’ān, Muḥammad, Muslims, Jews, and others with whom they disagree. Christian criticisms of these—in their view, erroneous—beliefs, in Arabic, undermine claims about the restrictive or oppressive nature of Muslim rule. Finally, in addition to being reduced to a subordinate status by the Islamic state, Christians themselves were also intolerant of the errors of Islam, and of Muslims, and of Jews—not just in their literary productions, but also in their attempted regulation of cross-communal interactions. With the rise of Islam, a new Abrahamic, monotheistic, self-defined “religion” with a book from God in a “clear” Semitic tongue had entered the scene. And, in this world, Christians were no longer the definitive earthly victors (not only over Jews, but also over pagans). Rather, under Islam, Christians and Jews were equally “protected” “People of the Book.” Theological justifications of earthly power (such as Eusebius’s) would have to be revisited, as would the seemingly already solidified distinctions between Christianity and Judaism (as found, for example, in Athanasius, Aphrahat, Augustine, Gregory Nazianzus, Theodoret of Cyr, and John Chrysostom). What light might Christian Arabic texts shed on how this “complete Christianity” that was “glorified over [its] enemies”65 dealt with its re-equation (in political terms) with “vanquished Judaism” under Islam? The very fact of a harsh criticism of Muslim rule posed—and preserved—in Arabic, by Christians, may caution against a literal reading of the words on the pages. Instead, these Christian criticisms of their new overlords may be understood as wistful laments over their own loss of power, rather than depictions of the actual circumstances in which they found themselves. This may be likened to Christian Arabic apocalyptic discussions of the “beast” with reference to Arab/ Muslim conquests. They rarely intend an actual horned animal, but rather 64  Penn, Envisioning Islam, 160. 65  Sinai Ar. 434, f. 181r.

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an allegorical explanation for a new set of political circumstances, variously attributed to the impiety of different Christian groups or a temporary spell of “infidel” rule before the restoration of the rule of Christ.66 For would rulers as tyrannical as those portrayed by some Christian Arab texts have allowed such criticisms to circulate under their very noses? The numerous—but woefully understudied—works written by Christians who came under Muslim rule are a potentially rich source of information. But, like any other body of literature, Christian Arabic texts also contain their own interpretive conundra and demand a careful reading—one that takes into account the genre, tone, and purpose of their composition as well as the interests of later scribes in transcribing and/or circulating these accounts. Christian Arabic texts merit further attention from scholars of Christian and Islamic history as well as social and political historians. A close reading of such texts may be particularly helpful in discussions focusing on the (in)tolerance of Islamic states, broadening our understanding of (in)tolerance and its relation to the power of the state or other institutions. Finally, attention to the genre of literary sources encourages a careful reading of the past in the light of the present, and vice versa.67 Bibliography Abdel Haleem, M. A. S. “The Jizya Verse (Q. 9:29): Tax Enforcement on Non-Muslims in the First Muslim State.” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 14 (2012): 72–89. al-Ḥumaydī, Abū ʿAbd Allāh. Jadhwat al-Muqtabis. Edited by Muḥammad b. Ṭāwīt alṬanjī. Cairo: Dār al-Miṣrīyya, 1953. Cameron, Averil. Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. Cohen, Mark R. “What Was the Pact of ‘Umar? A Literary-Historical Study.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 23 (1999): 100–57. Cooperson, Michael. Al Ma’mun. London: Oneworld Publications, 2012.

66  See, for example, Jason R. Zaborowski, “Egyptian Christians Implicating Chalcedonians in the Arab Takeover of Egypt: The Arabic Apocalypse of Samuel of Qalamūn,” Oriens christianus 87 (2003): 100–15; F. Javier Martinez, Eastern Christian Apocalyptic in the Early Muslim Period: Pseudo-Methodius and Pseudo-Athanasius (PhD diss., Catholic University of America, Washington, DC, 1985). 67  I would like to thank the conveners of and participants in the Intolerance, Polemics and Debate conference. The event and the helpful comments on my paper have given me the chance to think about Christian Arabic texts from a new angle. Any errors are my own.

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Dick, Ignatius, ed. La discussion d’Abū Qurra avec les ulémas musulmans devant le calife al-Ma‌ʾmūn. Aleppo: n.p., 1999. Donner, Fred M. Muhammad and the Believers. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012. El Fadl, Khaled Abou. “Islam and the Theology of Power.” Middle East Report 221 (2001): 28–33. Friedmann, Yohanan. Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Gaddis, Michael. “The Political Church: Religion and the State.” Pages 512–24 in A Companion to Late Antiquity. Edited by P. Rousseau. West Sussex: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009. Griffith, Sidney H. “Jews and Muslims in Christian Syriac and Arabic Texts of the Ninth Century.” Jewish History 3 (1988): 65–94. Griffith, Sidney H. “Reflections on the Biography of Theodore Abū Qurrah.” Parole de l’Orient 18 (1993): 143–70. Griffith, Sidney H. The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the “People of the Book” in the Language of Islam. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013. Griffith, Sidney H. The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012. Griffith, Sidney H. “The Monk in the Emir’s Majlis: Reflections on a Popular Genre of Christian Literary Apologetics in Arabic in the Early Islamic Period.” Pages 13–65 in The Majlis: Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam. Edited by Hava LazarusYafeh et al. Wiesbaden: Harrossowitz Verlag, 1999. Griffith, Sidney H. “The Monks of Palestine and the Growth of Christian Literature in Arabic.” The Muslim World 78 (1988): 1–28. Griswold, Eliza. “Is This the End of Christianity in the Middle East?” New York Times, 26 July 2015. Online: https://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/26/magazine/is-this-the-end -of-christianity-in-the-middle-east.html. Gutas, Dmitri. Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: The Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early’Abbasaid Society (2nd–4th/5th–10th c.). London: Routledge, 1998, repr. 2012. Haddad, Robert. La Trinité divine chez les théologiens arabes 750–1050. Paris: Beauchesne, 1985. Hary, Benjamin. “Middle Arabic: Proposals for New Terminology.” al-’Arabiyya (1989): 19–36. Hoyland, Robert G. “The Earliest Christian Writings on Muhammad: An Appraisal.” Pages 276–97 in The Biography of the Prophet. Edited by Harald Motzki. Leiden: Brill, 2002. Jones, Arnold Hugh Martin. “Were Ancient Heresies National or Social Movements in Disguise?” The Journal of Theological Studies 10 (1959): 280–98.

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Khoury, P., ed. and trans. Paul d’Antioche. Évêque melkite de Sidon (XIIe s.). Recherches publiées sous la direction de L’Institut de Lettres Orientales de Beyrouth 24. Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique Beyrouth, 1965. Levy-Rubin, Milka. Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence. Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Levy-Rubin, Milka. “Shurūṭ ʿUmar and Its Alternatives: The Legal Debate on the Status of the Dhimmīs.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 30 (2005): 170–206. Martinez, F. Javier. Eastern Christian Apocalyptic in the Early Muslim Period: PseudoMethodius and Pseudo-Athanasius. PhD diss., Catholic University of America, Washington, DC, 1985. McAuliffe, Jane Dammen. Qur’anic Christians: An Analysis of Classical and Modern Exegesis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Miles, Margaret R. “Santa Maria Maggiore’s Fifth-Century Mosaics: Triumphal Christianity and the Jews.” Harvard Theological Review 86 (1993): 155–72. Nasry, Wafik. The Caliph and the Bishop: A 9th Century Muslim-Christian Debate; alMa‌ʾmūn and Abū Qurrah. Beirut: CEDRAC, 2008. Nawas, John A. “A Reexamination of Three Current Explanations for al-Ma‌ʾmun’s Introduction of the Miḥna.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994): 615–29. Noble, Samuel, and Alexander Treiger, eds. The Orthodox Church in the Arab World, 700–1700: An Anthology of Sources. DeKalb, IN: Northern Illinois University Press, 2014. Penn, Michael Philip. Envisioning Islam: Syriac Christians and the Early Muslim World. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015. Reinink, Gerrit Jan, and Herman L. J. Vanstiphout, eds. Dispute Poems and Dialogues in the Ancient and Mediaeval Near East: Forms and Types of Literary Debates in Semitic and Related Literatures. Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 1991. Rosenmeyer, Patricia A. Ancient Greek Literary Letters: Selections in Translation. London: Routledge, 2006. Seleznyov, Nikolai N. “Nestorius of Constantinople: Condemnation, Suppression, Veneration.” Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 62 (2010): 165–90. Stroumsa, Sarah. “Ibn al-Rāwandī’s sūʾ adab al-mujādala: The Role of Bad Manners in Medieval Disputations.” Pages 66–83 in The Majlis. Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam. Edited by Hava Lazarus-Yafeh et al. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz Verlag, 1999. Swanson, Mark. “Beyond Prooftexting: Approaches to the Qur’ān in Some Early Arabic Christian Apologies.” The Muslim World 88 (1988): 297–319. Tolan, John. “The Legal Status of Religious Minorities in the Medieval Mediterranean World: A Comparative Study.” Pages 141–49 in Hybride Kulturen im mittelalterlichen Europa: Vorträge und Workshops einter internationalen Frühlingsschule/Hybrid

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Cultures in Medieval Europe: Papers and Workshops of in International Spring School. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010. Trapp, Michael, ed. Greek and Latin Letters: An Anthology with Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Treiger, Alexander. “Christian Graeco-Arabica: Prolegomena to a History of the Arabic Translations of the Greek Church Fathers.” Intellectual History of the Islamicate World 3 (2015): 188–227. Van Ginkel, Jan Jacob. “John of Ephesus on Emperors: The Perception of the Byzantine Empire by a Monophysite.” Orientalia christiana analecta 247 (1994): 323–33. Van Ginkel, Jan Jacob. “The Perception and Presentation of the Arab Conquest in Syriac Historiography: How Did the Changing Social Position of the Syrian Orthodox Community Influence the Account of Their Historiographers?” Pages 171–84 in The Encounter of Eastern Christianity with Early Islam. Edited by Emmanouela Grypeou and David Richard Thomas. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Wessel, Susan. Cyril of Alexandria and the Nestorian Controversy: The Making of a Saint and of a Heretic. Oxford: Oxford University Press on Demand, 2004. Wilde, Clare. “The Qur’an: Kalām Allāh or Words of Man?: A Case of Tafsir Transcending Muslim-Christian Communal Borders.” Parole de l’Orient 32, Actes du 7e congrès international des études arabes chrétiennes (Sayyidat al-Bir, septembre 2004) (2007): 401–18. Zaborowski, Jason R. “Egyptian Christians Implicating Chalcedonians in the Arab Takeover of Egypt: The Arabic Apocalypse of Samuel of Qalamūn.” Oriens christianus 87 (2003): 100–15.

chapter 16

The Intolerance of Rationalism: the Case of al-Jāḥiz in Ninth-Century Baghdad Paul L. Heck During the early part of the ninth century, a period often seen as a cultural high point in the history of the Abbasid Caliphate, the caliph al-Ma‍ʾmūn (r. 813–33) instituted what is known as the Inquisition (miḥna in Arabic) in the last year of his reign.1 The goal of this institution was to test the religious scholars and juridical authorities of the realm and to verify that they were in line with the caliph’s position that the Qurʾan (God’s speech) is created and not uncreated. The debate over the nature of divine revelation in early Islam was complex, involving questions of religious authority and political sovereignty, which I will discuss in what follows only in relation to the Inquisition and questions of what I will call political intolerance. The two successors to al-Ma‍ʾmūn— the caliphs al-Muʿtaṣim (r. 833–42) and al-Wāthiq (r. 842–47)—pursued the Inquisition, which would come to its end under al-Mutawakkil (r. 847–61). Is it right to speak of intolerance, the theme of this collection, in relation to the Inquisition? If so, what exactly is meant by intolerance in this case? A good deal of ambiguity surrounds the very notion of intolerance. One point raised during the conference that preceded this volume is that intolerance was actually seen as a virtue up until our modern period. To promote the cause of one’s own tribe or nation, it was at one point seen as necessary, natural, and even virtuous to take a position of hostility towards other groups. One should even be ready to kill members of other groups if necessary, simply as a function of protecting the interests of one’s own group. This is a significant point, but in my view, it is possible to speak of intolerance as a negative concept that spans human history—and not only from the reference point of post-modern sensibilities, where in principle there is no reason to take a stance of hostility towards any idea or set of ideas. It is certainly true 1  The literature on the miḥna is extensive. Among many studies on al-Ma‍ʾmūn’s Inquisition, see John Abdallah Nawas, Al-Ma‍ʾmūn, the Inquisition, and the Quest for Caliphal Authority (Atlanta: Lockwood Press, 2015); John P. Turner, Inquisition in Early Islam: The Competition for Religious and Political Authority in the Abbasid Empire (London/New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013); and Hayrettin Yücesoy, Messianic Beliefs and Imperial Politics in Medieval Islam: The ʿAbbāsid Caliphate in the Early Ninth Century (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2009).

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to say that there is something natural about intolerance in the organisation of a human community. The great fourteenth-century scholar Ibn Khaldūn (1332–1406) spoke of “fanaticism” (ʿaṣabiyya) in his analysis of tribal life. We might call it communalism, something at play in human societies past and present, where commitment to one’s tribe, ethnic group, or religion requires hostility towards others. That kind of intolerance continues to be manifest in our post-modern age, and it is natural in the sense of being intrinsic to group dynamics past and present. However, is it also right to speak of intolerance as something natural at the political level—that is, when it comes to state policymaking? Certainly, one group might have power and use it to suppress other groups for its own benefit. At the same time, one could argue that imperial (pre-modern) states were considerably more tolerant of a diversity of minority communities under their rule than national (modern) states have been. The legal recognition of minority communities was a way to preserve stability and also ensure a wide tax base. What benefit would the state have derived from pursuing official policies of intolerance against one group or another? And yet there are examples of it, the Inquisition being one of many across history. It is thus possible to speak of political intolerance, where the ruling power seeks to eliminate ideas and the communities holding them, even when the existence of such alternative viewpoints is not manifestly detrimental to the political health of the realm or threatening to the dynasty in power. We are not speaking about a state being asked to tolerate transgressions of the law. It is rather about a policy of suppressing ideas in the public space. And in the case before us, it is also a debate about the purpose of human rationality. Does it exist so that we can all agree on fundamental beliefs? If so, those who do not see the rationality of such beliefs are to have their views suppressed. Or, in contrast, does human rationality exist not so that we can all agree, but to enable us to communicate (sometimes strikingly) different beliefs? If so, space is to be provided so that contradictory ideas can exist in (sometimes discordant) conversation. This notion of intolerance, I contend, is applicable to the Inquisition, which can be viewed as a political miscalculation on the part of al-Ma‍ʾmūn—that is, it failed. And its failure did not have a noticeable effect on the political health of the realm, the prestige of the Abbasid Dynasty, or public commitments to Islam. It is therefore right to speak of the Inquisition as a policy intended not to advance the common welfare or maintain order, but to eliminate theological ideas that the ruling elite found philosophically distasteful and even considered a disgrace to Islam, but that did not actually threaten the interests of the empire. Thus, for the ruling elite to cast such ideas as philosophically distasteful, it was essential to present the Inquisition in the cloak of rationalism. At stake was rationality itself! Only a scholar bereft of a fully sound mind would

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espouse the idea that the Qurʾan is uncreated! This is not to suggest a conspiracy on the part of the ruling elite. The caliph and his coterie were genuinely committed to the idea that the Qurʾan is created because they were committed to the idea of the power of rationality to decisively adjudicate beliefs. Also, for reasons to be discussed below, they were troubled at the fact that those promoting the idea of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan were exposing Islam to mockery at a time when philosophical categories were ascendant in scholarly circles, largely due to the Abbasid Dynasty’s considerable encouragement of the translation of philosophical works into Arabic, including those of Plato, Aristotle, and Galen, among others. The point is that, even if the Inquisition was a miscalculation and ultimately a failure, driven in part by what we have termed political intolerance, the caliphal court was still very much committed to the Inquisition as a method to establish the rational certainty of the beliefs of Islam on the basis of philosophically demonstrative proofs. Again, the goal of the Inquisition was to ensure that religious scholars and juridical authorities confessed the caliph’s view that the Qurʾan is created. Those who did not do so were persecuted and sometimes subject to physical violence and threatened with death. One figure who was heavily invested in this controversy on the side of the Inquisition was a brilliant scholar and prolific essayist by the name of al-Jāḥiz (d. 869; henceforward Jāḥiz). He is rightly remembered as a penetrating thinker, a literary master, and a proponent of Islam as a global culture that could embrace the wisdom of the Greeks and the Persians along with the Arabs as well as the revelation given to and embodied by Muhammad: his was a cosmopolitan and even universal vision of religion that included the sayings of philosophers and sages along with those of the prophets.2 It is therefore not easy to ascribe intolerance to Jāḥiz, and yet in his writings, in which he forcefully advanced the rational clarity of Islam’s beliefs, he displays a marked streak of intolerance, notably in his opposition to those who professed that the Qurʾan is uncreated. Some have referred to him as a mere mouthpiece for the interests of the state, but it is not possible to overlook his entrenched commitments to scholastic rationality as a criterion of truth. He supported the Inquisition because its goal reflected his goal of establishing a clear method for ascertaining theological truths (and thus was also useful for attributing irrationality to opposing views). Jāḥiz is a remarkable case study in intolerance. His intolerance was rationalist in its claim to be based upon the sound workings of human rationality 2  The literature on the writings and ideas of Jāḥiz is extensive. For a study that speaks to his global outlook, see James E. Montgomery, Al-Jāḥiz: In Praise of Books (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013).

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in alignment with philosophical assumptions about what all humans should recognise as true. Moreover, it is also describable as a kind of elite intolerance. We often like to assign intolerance as a characteristic of irrational masses, but Jāḥiz’s intolerance was rooted in the rationalist pretensions of the ruling elite, and it was intolerance of the political kind. Jāḥiz’s rhetoric aligned with that of the caliph al-Ma‍ʾmūn, which called for the persecution of scholars whose views differed from official doctrine and yet did not pose a clear threat to the well-being of society under Abbasid rule. Therefore, the case of Jāḥiz also offers us material for considering the ongoing relation of theological reasoning to public life under the aegis of the state. I suggest that this issue is still with us today. Even in the context of the Western secular state, the question of theological reasoning is always at play. The ghost of Carl Schmitt is always at hand when a state—religious or secular in its constitutional identity—claims sovereignty over human life and also over the ways of life of its citizens. This is not to suggest that the Inquisition and Jāḥiz’s role in it can teach us a lesson which we can implement today, but they can offer insight. Questions of political theology, it is clear, never ultimately go away. Why did the caliph care about such a fine theological point? Did it matter to his realm whether religious scholars and juridical authorities (judges) believed the Qurʾan is created? What motivated him to persecute non-conformists who believed the Qurʾan is uncreated (i.e., is divine, and thus has no beginning)? Was this question not sufficiently abstruse that a variety of responses and interpretations (ta‍ʾwīlāt) could be reasonably accommodated? After all, how was it possible to prove one view as opposed to another? The letters al-Ma‍ʾmūn composed to institute the Inquisition and to manage it during his last days are recorded in al-Ṭabarī’s (d. 923) The History of Apostles and Kings. They do offer some evidence of the caliph’s motivations and concerns. The following selection comes from one of al-Ma‍ʾmūn’s letters to Isḥāq Ibn Ibrāhīm, who was the lead inquisitor in the first days of the Inquisition. The caliph writes: The Commander of the Faithful has come to know that the vast majority of the subjects and the lowly masses throughout the regions of the realm have no ability to inquire, deliberate, or make deductions either by the evidence and the guidance given by God or by illumination through the light of knowledge and demonstrative proof. They are ignorant of God and blind about Him. They’ve strayed from the truth of His religion and His oneness [i.e., monotheism] and the faith in Him. They’ve deviated from the clear signs of Him and the obligation that His path requires. They’ve fallen short of the truth of God’s stature and real knowledge of Him and of distinguishing between Him and His creation, on account of

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their weak judgment, deficient minds, and aversion to reflection and contemplation. All that is because they have equated God the Blessed and Exalted with the Qurʾan that He sent down, all of them agreeing that it is eternal (qadīm) and primordial and that God didn’t create it, originate it, or invent it.3 In the same letter, the caliph speaks of those who equate God with the Qurʾan (i.e., seeing both God and the Qurʾan as equally divine) as evil and satanic, accusing them of polytheism. And he adds a noteworthy policy statement: “One can undertake public action [i.e., hold public office] only after certainty (lā ʿamal illā baʿd yaqīn), and certainty comes only by having complete knowledge of the truth of Islam and of pure monotheism.”4 In other words, there is to be no theological equivocation in the political order governed by Caliph al-Ma‍ʾmūn. It is worth highlighting three points in relation to the above excerpt and subsequent policy statement: firstly, the caliph is asserting that he is the one who enjoys authority over definitions of acceptable belief. Secondly, he is establishing a policy of confessional uniformity in his realm as regards the nature of God and the nature of the Qurʾan (as divinely revealed speech). And thirdly, he is presenting his viewpoint as the position supported by rational inquiry. It is worth dwelling on this last point. The language of the above passage contains a number of terms of a decidedly scholastic character. The terms translated as inquiry, deliberation, deduction, reflection, and contemplation are rich in philosophical meaning, no less than the reference to demonstrative proof. The caliph, as the voice of political power in Islam, is thus making a very important point: questions of belief—chiefly the belief that the Qurʾan is created—can be affirmed with philosophical certitude. Hence, having theological certainty about that belief is to be a criterion for holding public office, including the juridical positions which, at that time, would have been held by scholars trained in the religious sciences. The point the caliph is making is that there can be no official confusion about the beliefs of the power ruling in the name of Islam. After all, the officials of a realm with a religious dispensation cannot pretend to be confused or agnostic about a belief as fundamental as the nature of the Qurʾan. It would raise questions about the legitimacy of their rule. The caliph

3  Abu Djafar Mohammad Ibn Djarir at-Tabari, Annals of the Prophets and Kings, ed. M. J. De Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 2010), third series, 15.2:1112–13. 4  Ibid., 1115.

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seeks to establish a vision of religious uniformity with a pretension to rational certainty to serve as the foundation of the political order.5 What was the point of doing so? Islamic rulers before and after al-Ma‍ʾmūn did not feel the need to ground a particular belief so thoroughly in a claim to rational certainty of the philosophical kind. Moreover, the belief in question here—on the nature of the Qurʾan—was particularly divisive. The Qurʾan itself does not state decisively whether it is created or uncreated. The caliph would argue that the Qurʾan does support the idea of its being created and not uncreated, but the fact that he is self-consciously indebted to philosophical terminology underscores the fact that his claim assumes the power of scholastic reasoning to arrive at certainty about divine affairs, even where Scripture itself is silent. By way of comparison, it is worth remembering that Constantine convened the Council of Nicaea to bring about theological uniformity regarding the nature of Christ as the Word of God, but he was generally more interested in imperial unity, which was shaken by christological divisions, and he did not take as theologically decisive a position as that attributed to al-Ma‍ʾmūn, nor did he set up a body to interrogate church leaders on their views and to persecute non-conformists. This is where al-Ma‍ʾmūn seems to step over the threshold of intolerance. For Constantine, it was a matter of ensuring the imperial good. In contrast, al-Ma‍ʾmūn defined a particular belief by caliphal decree as a rational benchmark of political order and willingly persecuted those who diverged from it. He may have had his reasons for doing so. It was a highly complex moment in the cultural matrix that existed within the abode of Islam. Massive questions of acculturation were at play. Christians, who at the time formed the majority population in the Abode of Islam, had begun to undertake theology in the language of the Qurʾan, and to do so persuasively.6 (They had been doing so largely in Greek and Syriac prior to the Islamic conquests.) What feelings did this evoke for Muslims, to be challenged by Christians in the language of the Arabs, which was also the language of Islamic rule? Did the caliph seek to put Christianity in its place—or at least defend Islam against the refutations of philosophically astute Christian scholars—by asserting the rational certainty 5  For further discussion of the relation of philosophy to assumptions of the rationality of rule by Islam at this time, see Paul L. Heck, “This World and the Next: al-Jāḥiz (d. 255/869) on the Wisdom of Rule by Islam,” in Prophets, Viziers and Philosophers, ed. Emily Cottrell (Groningen: Roelf Barkhuis), forthcoming. 6  On such developments in Christianity under Islam, see Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008).

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of Islam in terms and conventions that met the scholastic standards of the day, which Christians were seeking to claim as their own, and that in Arabic no less than Greek and Syriac? (It is worth noting that Jāḥiz penned a lengthy refutation of Christianity, in which he associates Christians with faulty reasoning, similarly to those Muslims who claim that the Qurʾan is uncreated.) On the other hand, Muslims were rapidly assimilating the philosophical and medical heritage of the Greeks, as this had been translated into the language of the Arabs, challenging assumptions about the way Muslims were to undertake inquiry into the truths of existence.7 Was the caliph, in that regard, with his theological project on the created nature of the Qurʾan, seeking to signal that the thought of Aristotle—even if in Arabic—was now a constitutive element of Islam? It is worth noting that he purportedly had a dream in which he encountered Aristotle, who informed him that the intellect is superior to revealed law in determining what is good.8 Thus, overall, it was a time of massive cultural change, in which Christians and Muslims alike sought to gain the upper hand through scholastic argumentation. To get a fuller sense of what was at stake for both sides—both the caliphal position and that of his opponents—it is important to explore the theological dimension of the question in greater depth. Much has been written about those who resisted the Inquisition by maintaining that the Qurʾan is uncreated. The chief figure was a pious scholar by the name of Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal (d. 855), who continues to be revered by many Muslims today for his willingness to suffer for what is now seen as orthodox belief, rather than submitting to the theo-political doctrine of the caliph (which is now seen as theologically deficient, according to Sunnism). Much has been written on Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal and his complex position on the uncreated or eternal character of the Qurʾan.9 The Inquisition certainly targeted him in a special way, and I will make reference to him as a leading spokesman of those who advocated the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan, but it should be emphasised that he was but one prominent figure within larger circles of scholars who were variously 7  For the theological perplexity to which this and other scholarly developments gave rise during this period, see Paul L. Heck, “Contested Fields, Knowledge Mobility, and Discipline Crystallization,” in The Wiley-Blackwell History of Islam, ed. Armando Salvatore (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2017), 177–94. 8  See John W. Watt, “The Strategy of the Baghdad Philosophers: The Aristotelian Tradition as a Common Motif in Christian and Islamic Thought,” in Redefining Christian Identity: Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam, ed. J. J. Van Ginkel et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), 151–65. 9  See Christopher Melchert, “Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal and the Qurʾan,” Journal of Qurʾanic Studies 6 (2004): 22–34; and Wilfed Madelung, “The Origins of the Controversy concerning the Creation of the Qurʾan,” in Orientalia Hispanica, ed. J. M. Barral (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 504–25.

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committed to that position (or at least resistant to the idea that divine speech is created).10 For this reason, in what follows, I will focus on what we can glean about the theological motivations that led such communities (and not only a leading scholar) to reject the attempts by scholars in the caliph’s employ—or aligned with official theological views (Jāḥiz was never actually employed by the caliphal state)—to define the beliefs of Islam according to philosophical categories. One point that has been underemphasised in the scholarly literature is the connection between the belief that the Qurʾan is uncreated and anthropomorphist belief (tashbīh in Arabic)—that is, the idea that God has a body. The two beliefs actually went together. Indeed, at one point in his letters supervising the Inquisition, Caliph alMa‍ʾmūn explicitly links those who claim that the Qurʾan is uncreated to anthropomorphist belief.11 It is worth explaining the link: to assert that the Qurʾan is uncreated is to put it beyond human inquiry and speculation. In other words, the point is not to think about what it means, but to accept its wordings as God’s speech, whether those wordings are immediately comprehensible to the human mind or not. After all, it is God who reveals who and what God is, not the human mind. Thus, when the Qurʾan speaks of God as having a hand, a face, and eyes, it must be concluded that God has a body. No to do so is to suggest that the prophet who communicated the Qurʾan is lying—whether knowingly or unwittingly—in his communications about God. A particularly troubling conundrum to this day is the reference in the Qurʾan to God mounting his throne. This makes it seem that God is localised in a particular space—namely, his throne—which implies physical dimensions. Questions of divine anthropomorphism in Islam have a long and varied history and remain controversial today. It is worth pointing out that these questions are very different from questions around the Christian incarnation. When it comes to the anthropomorphism of Islam, the issue is not the humanity of the Word of God. Rather, in Islam, the idea that God has a body flows out of scriptural terminology that describes God in corporeal forms. Since Scripture is true, God must have a body of some kind, but it is not a human body, as in the case of the incarnation. Such a distinction does not make the question any less complex, but it is important not to think of anthropomorphism in Islam as if it is a Muslim version of the Christian incarnation. The idea that God has a body was apparently common in early Islam, much more than one might

10  For the characteristics of such communities, see Christopher Melchert, “The Piety of Hadith Folk,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002): 425–39. 11  A  nnals of the Prophets and Kings, 15:1125, see also 1120.

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imagine.12 But the idea that God has a body was generally not seen as a threat to monotheistic belief. There is only one God, and he has a body. Such anthropomorphist belief was able to hold in balance the corporeal descriptions of God in the Qurʾan and its insistence on the singular power of God apart from other forces. This did not mean that anthropomorphist belief was not seen as wholly irrational by the likes of Jāḥiz. Caliph al-Ma‍ʾmun, as we saw above, attributed polytheism to those who espoused the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan, but he did so against the idea of two possible divine entities (God and the Qurʾan) that results from the belief in the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan, rather than against anthropomorphism in itself. It is also worth noting that this anthropomorphist position involved a kind of pious scepticism regarding the power of scholastic reasoning (kalām) to say things about God beyond the apparent wordings of Scripture. This is not to speak of a common-sense approach to Scripture among the partisans of anthropomorphist belief. Rather, when subject to interrogation, the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan refrained from being drawn into making dogmatic assertions on issues where, in their view, Scripture is not clear. And this was not simply to save their skins by pleading scholastic ignorance. Their silence represented one position on a range of scholastic viewpoints—one that was not averse to scholastic argumentation per se, but that clung more robustly, at least in principle, to the apparent wordings of Scripture, thereby refusing, as a scholastic principle, to say anything about divine affairs that God had not clearly revealed. This arguably made the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan more open to theological diversity. If one holds to the principle that the human mind is limited in what it can claim with certainty about divine affairs, one may actually be willing to accept a wider range of viewpoints on a particular theological issue. And the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan seem to have maintained that that very issue—that is, the nature of the Qurʾan—is open to interpretation (ta‍ʾwīl) and disagreement (ikhtilāf). It is possible that they made such a claim in the hopes of receiving caliphal accommodation of their viewpoint, but it is also possible that they were open—on the basis of their own scholastic convictions—to multiple interpretations on a point that, in their view, was not clearly spelled out in Scripture. Indeed, once the Inquisition was terminated, there does not seem to be evidence that the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan sought vengeance against their scholastic opponents, or that rationalist scholars were 12  See Wesley Williams, “Aspects of the Creed of Imam Ahmad Ibn Hanbal: A Study of Anthropomorphism in Early Islamic Discourse,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002): 441–63.

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marginalised from theological dispute.13 Rationalist theology, associated with a school of thought known as Muʿtazilism (Jāḥiz belonged to this school), did eventually die out, but not as a result of any policy of official persecution. The point is that commitment to the apparent wordings of Scripture does not necessarily make one more inclined to be intolerant than those committed to a philosophical reading of Scripture. All that said, the controversy over the nature of the Qurʾan cannot be reduced to two sets of exegetical preferences. Both sides claimed the support of Scripture. How therefore are we to explain the different conclusions? It is important to emphasise that exegesis is influenced by the nature of religious experience. The beliefs people hold do not come from Scripture so much as from the character of their religious experience, which in turn shapes the way they read Scripture. One can speak of theological presuppositions originating from the manner in which one either understands God through philosophical inquiry or encounters God through prayer, which are then brought to one’s reading of Scripture. How one prays determines what one believes— recalling the Christian motto: lex orandi lex credendi. This is not to undervalue the autonomy of exegesis. There is doubtless something of a two-way street informing the relation of exegesis and religious experience, but it is worth highlighting the distinction between the two, since it is at play in the controversy over the nature of the Qurʾan. As far as I know, this point has not been brought to light in analysis of the Inquisition. It was not so much a question of scholastic theology over against scriptural literalism, although that tension was at play. Nor was it a simple matter of two exegetical arguments competing for theological prestige. It was much more a question of two very distinct understandings of the religious experience that, in turn, resulted in two visions of how the community of Muslims (the umma) should be ordered: one group exalted scholastic argumentation of a philosophical kind in its theological approach, making that understanding of religious experience more deployable as an emblem of political order. The other can be characterised as a pious and even mystical encounter with the body of God that lent itself to a view of religious community apart from the political order under the caliphal aegis. In other words, commitment to the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan was partly a means to put it beyond human control and thereby ensure that it would not be reduced to a tool of the political order. (One sees echoes of this today, where communities organise around 13  For religious developments after the end of the Inquisition, see Christopher Melchert, “Religious Policies of the Caliphs from al-Mutawakkil to al-Muqtadir, AH 232–295/AD 847–908,” Islamic Law and Society 3 (1996): 316–42.

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the divine agency of Scripture apart from and sometimes over against a state that claims sovereign rationality to determine and even dictate true and false belief.) Evidence for the existence of these two kinds of religious experience amidst the controversies involved in the Inquisition can be found in the writings of Jāḥiz, a strong proponent of the caliph’s vision. Jāḥiz wrote fiercely against anthropomorphist belief and its partisans across the various genres of his writings. In theological treatises, he mocked their views as irrational, devoid of a clear method and scholastic principles of argumentation. And in his literary writings (i.e., writings that depend on literary imagery and not only on scholastic argumentation), he satirised the idea that God has a body with highly effective wit. Significantly, he argued that anthropomorphist belief cannot enjoy the status of theological certainty—the very point that the caliph had set as a criterion for holding public office. In brief, Jāḥiz maintained that anthropomorphist Muslims do not know how to think. They look before they leap when it comes to theological reasoning. They are driven more by their passions than by reason, accepting whatever is presented to them, no matter how absurd, without first subjecting it to rational scrutiny. In other words, Jāḥiz is calling the caliph’s opponents to scepticism about their own anthropomorphist belief. He is calling them to suspend judgment before affirming or denying a theological claim that is not to be accepted as true without a clear proof to back it up.14 And yet, at various points across his writings, Jāḥiz reveals his frustrations that his theological opponents stubbornly reject plain argumentation. No matter how clearly the inquisitors present compelling argumentation to the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan against their position, they stubbornly refuse to accept it. Again, this is the point. When it comes to divine affairs, the question is much more complex than a simple application of standards of rational argumentation. A person will not necessarily change their views as a result of theological debate and exegetical argument. In other words, it is invariably the case that not all people will be rationally convinced by the prevailing doctrines in any society. The reality of a cacophony of belief raises important questions—in all times and places—about the importance of accommodating, within a single polity, very different visions within a single religion (to say nothing of other traditions) and very different assumptions about religious experience that do not pose a clear threat to the welfare of political society. It is this that is at the heart of the discussion of tolerance and intolerance, both then and now. Can we all remain together, even in disagreement? 14  See Paul L. Heck, “Signs of Skepticism in Early Abbasid Literature: The Case of al-Jāḥiz (d. 255/869),” Journal of Abbasid Studies 2 (2015): 220–44.

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As noted above, at various places in his writings, Jāḥiz refers to the two types of religious experience at play in the Inquisition. Certainly, since Jāḥiz is the one relating these types, a bias shapes the way each is presented, but behind his words one can still glean the nature of these two types of piety, which were involved not simply in the controversies around the Inquisition, but also in the larger contestation over the character of religious authority in Islam. One type can be called rationalist piety, the other anthropomorphist. But as we will see, this was not a simple debate over the nature of God’s speech—deeper spiritual sentiments were at play. Jāḥiz, a partisan of the first type, discloses his own assumptions in the following passage from “The Createdness of the Qurʾan” (Khalq al-Qurʾān), a treatise in which he derides his opponents’ lack of method: The partisans of prophetic texts and the commoners accept religious claims without inference and deduction or selection. Taking religion on the authority of others is not acceptable in rational argumentation and is prohibited by the Qurʾan. They thus oppose the nature of things and invalidate the customary way of things. We have no doubt that those who inquire, investigate, and compare and contrast [i.e. weigh things out], have a greater claim to intelligible clarity (tabayyun) and proof (ḥujja). […] They [his opponents] say the Qurʾan has a heart, hump, tongue, and two lips; that it sanctifies, intercedes, wipes out [sin]; and that all this could be metaphorical (mathal) just as it could be that God rendered it as such, if it [the Qurʾan] is a body—and God is capable of that, and it is not impossible for Him! (So, they say:) Every act (from Him) is not shameful, unjust, miserly, deceitful, or wrong by His governance, and so it’s permissible. But being astonished by that is not permissible! How many, who compose responsa to questions and compose books according to whatever they suppose and however they imagine things in that state of theirs, do not follow a base method (aṣl) or, if they do follow a method, are not aware of how that method is constructed.15 It is not easy to discern the references in this excerpt to the complex theological debates of the day. For example, the reference to a body here is not about the possibility of God having a body, but rather the possibility of the Qurʾan being a created body. In that regard, Jāḥiz is concerned that some of his rationalist colleagues (who seem to be the addressees of this treatise) have taken on 15   al-Jāḥiẓ, Khalq al-Qurʾān, in Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn, 4 vols. in 2 (Beirut: Dār al-Jīl, 1991), 3:285–300, here 289–99.

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a willingness to accommodate the viewpoint of the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan, at least partially, by allowing that its created nature need not be taken as a reality, but only as a metaphor. It is a highly complex idea: the point behind the idea of the Qurʾan being created metaphorically is that it has been created as a body directly by God, and not as a result of natural causality—as, for example, sound is created when two material bodies strike each other. In contrast, in this view, the Qurʾan is created directly by God, without such intervening secondary causes. Its created stature is thus only metaphorical. In this way, some rationalist scholars sought common ground with the defenders of the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan. They can continue to maintain that it is created, even if those opposing them see that as merely a metaphor. Jāḥiz had no tolerance for this development among his own partisans. Such fine theological disputation is beyond our purposes here, but the above does convey a sense of the intense scholastic acrobatics surrounding the Inquisition. For our purposes, it is important to emphasise a number of points regarding the above passage. First, its rhetoric echoes that of the caliphal letter discussed earlier. Second, it highlights the author’s assumption that there are parameters—circumscribed by scholastic reasoning—to what can be said about God’s attributes. It is not rational to say that God can do anything, even if in principle God can do anything. In the author’s view, this would lead to absurdities in theological reasoning, including a kind of theodicy in which even injustice can be attributed to God’s actions. In other words, in this view, there would be no rhyme or reason in thinking about God. God’s qualities would not be comprehensible to the rational workings of the human mind—rational workings that, for Jāḥiz, are trained through a cultural education in language and literature and the study of the natural world. (It is only by first training the human mind in such a fashion that one can hope to understand the message of the Qurʾan with clarity.) Finally, the above passage suggests that, as far as Jāḥiz is concerned, most scholars do not follow a clear method in advancing their arguments and do not even seem to be aware of the lack of methodological reasoning in their scholastic engagements. This passage, while deriding Jāḥiz’s opponents, discloses the assumptions of the first (rationalist) type of piety about how God is to be understood. For the sake of theological certainty, one should think through every question involving divine affairs by means of a rational process, which is possible only with a clear method. Thus this text conveys a sense of one set of theological presuppositions— rationalist piety—shaping the debates around the Inquisition. Jāḥiz offers insight into the second kind of piety, the anthropomorphist one, in a treatise called “The Proofs of Prophecy” (Ḥujjaj al-Nubuwwa). Here, too, he mocks

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anthropomorphist belief, but the passage reveals something very important about the theological commitments of anthropomorphist belief—namely, a manner of encountering God. The commitment to the uncreated nature of the Qurʾan is part and parcel of a more profound reality—namely, the desire for a more emotional piety, as indicated here: Every group that builds its religion on love of similarities and the likeness of men [i.e., anthropomorphism], its ardour and love for its religion will intensify, until love turns to (erotic) passion (ʿishq), ardour into fervent longing (ṣabāba), due to the similarity between temperaments and the affinity between souls. In the same way hatred and spite occur. And so Christians, when they made their Lord a man like themselves, their souls were filled with awe of Him due to what they fancied lordship to be; and they were given over to affection due to what they fancied humanity to be. And so they were able to undertake devotions others could not. For the same reason, anthropomorphist believers among us [the Muslims] are more ritually devoted than those who deny anthropomorphism. You might have seen such a one sighing out of desire for Him, groaning when at the mention of visiting Him, weeping at the mention of seeing Him, fainting at the mention of the lifting of the veils (rafʿ al-ḥujub) before Him. What do you think of the desire of one who craves to sit with his Lord the Mighty and Majestic and to carry on conversation with his Creator, Whose name is Mighty!?16 At first glance, this might seem to be a sympathetic portrayal of anthropomorphist belief. Its partisans are depicted as highly devoted to prayer. However, in truth, Jāḥiz is mocking the instability of this theological outlook. This is clear in the sentence that speaks of such believers having spite and hatred for God, no less than intense love. His point is that when one’s approach to God is a human one, it will be subject to all the emotional vagaries of human relations—spite and hatred, no less then impassioned love. And the idea of carrying on an intimate conversation with one’s Creator, as seen in the last sentence of the passage, is for Jāḥiz a mark of madness. For our purposes, it is important to note the type of religious sensibility behind Jāḥiz’s words: there is spiritual purpose to anthropomorphist belief. It might not be about deliberative reasoning or deductive inference of the kind that a rationalist scholar would expect of the religious experience. It is not about setting rationalist parameters for what can be said about God. Rather, 16   al-Jāḥiẓ, Ḥujjaj al-Nubuwwa, in Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ, 3:223–81, here 253.

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it is about the possibility of emotional engagement with God that the bodily representation of God in the Qurʾan makes possible. Thus, if one confesses that the Qurʾan is created, as demanded by the Inquisition, one loses more than just a definition of the nature of Scripture. One loses a communal way of life that is, firstly, animated by a sense of the divine agency of Scripture (as seen in the earlier passage from “The Createdness of the Qurʾan,” which speaks of the Qurʾan as sanctifying, interceding, and wiping out sin) and, secondly, characterised by a distinctly emotional piety, which is not only richly spiritual—at least as far as one can surmise from the above passage—but also capable of bringing into being a community whose sense of religious purpose and authority stands apart from the political order. The object of reverence here is scripturally-based experience of God, not the ruler’s definitions of God. Thus questions of religious authority were very much at stake in debates over the character of the Qurʾan. The Inquisition involved much more than theological debate. At a deeper level, it was about contestation between two types of piety over assumptions of religious authority in the umma. In this case, and in many cases today, it is the state’s claim to rationality that is intolerant of and even targets so-called irrational forms of piety in the name of political discipline. Was anthropomorphist piety a threat to the interests of the empire? Or, as suggested above, was this policy of suppression by means of the Inquisition a case of political intolerance—that is, a refusal to accommodate communal beliefs that did not align with official doctrine, even if these were not a threat to the welfare of the caliphal polity? In his letters, al-Ma‍ʾmūn suggests that the scholarly defenders of the uncreated character of the Qurʾan are a cause of volatility in society. Jāḥiz also suggests that anthropomorphist scholars are capable of mobilising society’s underclasses. But it is more accurate to see such accusations as a rhetorical ploy to discredit the caliph’s theological opponents. This is not to overlook the reality that beliefs, along with material interests, can inspire destructive behaviour in society. However, in our case, questions of epistemological certainty (yaqīn) in matters of belief (and not just material interests) exercised political no less than theological circles, and it is worth noting that elite circles of the day saw in the philosophical method a means to establish certainty for both theological and political claims. Jāḥiz himself sought to tie political order to philosophical certainty in a treatise called “This World and the Next” (Kitab al-Maʿāsh wa-l-Maʿād).17 Briefly, this was a call for obedience to the ruling authority, argued in terms of 17  I analyse this treatise in my forthcoming article, “This World and the Next,” in Prophets, Viziers and Philosophers.

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philosophical assumptions of causality (the consequences to be expected from one’s actions) combined with scriptural ideas of reward and punishment. The point for our purposes here is not so much the call to obey the ruling authority, which is quite common (even if not uncontested) across the history of Islam. Rather, the point is the assumption that political order is a function of philosophical certainty about the rational ordering of society. Again, this obsession with certainty suggests that the rationality of rule driving the Inquisition was not about a prudential decision to maintain peace and order in the caliphal realm, which had long been a persistent concern for ruling powers, but actually went beyond that to what we are calling the intolerance of rationalism. In this sense, the obsession with scholastic certainty casts the Inquisition as more than just a policy to ensure the political health and stability of the realm, as Constantine aimed to do in calling the Council of Nicaea, but rather as a real case of political intolerance towards anthropomorphist beliefs. That is more akin to the ways in which many a regime today justifies its authoritarianism based on a claim to state rationality over the irrational masses, which makes it vital to have a ministry overseeing beliefs. What insight, if not lesson, does this story of intolerance have for us today? Some might see in it further evidence for the need to separate religion from the state, but there is a “secular naïveté” in thinking it is possible to separate theological assumptions from state power. As suggested in the beginning of this chapter, political theology demonstrates that the state invariably has a tendency to claim to be the Leviathan, with its pretension to demand silence from those who act in society in bodily terms out of a love for God. But at the same time, there are moments when the state does need to manage theologically inspired volatility in society. The challenge, then, is to be able to distinguish a position that seeks to manage beliefs for the sake of the welfare of the polity as a whole versus one that is inspired by political intolerance towards odd but still harmless beliefs. In my view, the insight here is the need to recognise that we cannot conceal theological issues in modern society, and that we need to enable richer and more robust theological reflection in the public space. Here, rationality would not function as the pretension or the privilege of one view (the state or society’s established elite), to be deployed as a weapon against other views. Rather, in such a robust, “open-society” theological process, all parties would see rationality not as a tool for claiming truths to lord over others, but as a means to search for truths we all pursue, and which have yet to be fully defined. After all, history never ends. As noted above, it would seem that some of Jāḥiz’s rationalist partisans wanted to move in the direction of a common rationality shared with the adherents of anthropomorphist belief. Jāḥiz, however, would

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have none of this. He condemned such Muslims as infidels for failing to distinguish between the Creator and something created (i.e., the Qurʾan), making them so foolish as to proclaim in public that God is in some way like humans (anthropomorphism). Despite his vast erudition and cultural sophistication, Jāḥiz was, in this regard, quite intolerant and even bigoted. He did not consider the possibility of sharing a common human rationality with his opponents. He persisted in what might be called a rationalist supremacism, with ambiguous results for theological reasoning in Islam. Bibliography Griffith, Sidney H. The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008. Hārūn, ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad, ed. Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ. 4 vols. Beirut: Dār al-Jīl, 1991. Heck, Paul L. “Contested Fields, Knowledge Mobility, and Discipline Crystallization.” Pages 177–94 in The Wiley-Blackwell History of Islam. Edited by Armando Salvatore. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2017. Heck, Paul L. “Signs of Skepticism in Early Abbasid Literature: The Case of al-Jāḥiz (d. 255/869).” Journal of Abbasid Studies 2 (2015): 220–44. Heck, Paul L. “This World and the Next: al-Jāḥiz (d. 255/869) on the Wisdom of Rule by Islam.” In Prophets, Viziers and Philosophers. Edited by Emily Cottrell. Groningen: Roelf Barkhuis, forthcoming. Ibn Djarir at-Tabari, Abu Djafar Mohammad. Annals of the Prophets and Kings. Edited by M. J. De Goeje. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Madelung, Wilfed. “The Origins of the Controversy concerning the Creation of the Qurʾan.” Pages 504–25 in Orientalia Hispanica. Edited by J. M. Barral. Leiden: Brill, 1974. Melchert, Christopher. “Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal and the Qurʾan.” Journal of Qurʾanic Studies 6 (2004): 22–34. Melchert, Christopher. “Religious Policies of the Caliphs from al-Mutawakkil to al-Muqtadir, AH 232–295/AD 847–908.” Islamic Law and Society 3 (1996): 316–42. Melchert, Christopher. “The Piety of Hadith Folk.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002): 425–39. Montgomery, James E. Al-Jāḥiz: In Praise of Books. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013. Nawas, John Abdallah. Al-Ma‍ʾmūn, the Inquisition, and the Quest for Caliphal Authority. Atlanta: Lockwood Press, 2015. Turner, John P. Inquisition in Early Islam: The Competition for Religious and Political Authority in the Abbasid Empire. London/New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013.

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Watt, John W. “The Strategy of the Baghdad Philosophers: The Aristotelian Tradition as a Common Motif in Christian and Islamic Thought.” Pages 151–65 in Redefining Christian Identity: Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam. Edited by J. J. Van Ginkel et al. Leuven: Peeters, 2005. Williams, Wesley. “Aspects of the Creed of Imam Ahmad Ibn Hanbal: A Study of Anthropomorphism in Early Islamic Discourse.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34 (2002): 441–63. Yücesoy, Hayrettin. Messianic Beliefs and Imperial Politics in Medieval Islam: The ʿAbbāsid Caliphate in the Early Ninth Century. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2009.

chapter 17

The Law of Justice (šarīʿat al-ʿadl) and the Law of Grace (šarīʿat al-faḍl) in Medieval Muslim-Christian Polemics Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella Those who are familiar with medieval Muslim-Christian polemics know that the arguments can be tediously repetitive. We hear the same points repeated continually, with little sense of a real meeting of minds. At times, the matters under discussion seem trivial, but they are discussed at length because the aim is to reassure one’s co-religionists that any argument that the members of the rival religious community raise against the author’s community can be defeated. At other times, however, the matters at stake are important philosophical and theological questions, such as the ontological possibility of the union of the Creator with the creature or the limits of human language to describe the divine reality. In what follows, I will concentrate on one such issue—namely, the very aim and purpose of religion. Regrettably, we know little about Paul of Antioch, the Melkite Bishop of Sidon, whose apology for Christianity, written in Arabic around the year 1200, initiated one of the most fruitful episodes in the history of Christian-Muslim relations.1 Known in English as the Letter to a Muslim Friend, this short letter-treatise (risāla) became popular among Christians living in the world of Islam, who adapted it to their own apologetic needs.2 The Letter presents 1  From his writings, we know that he was a Melkite (Arab Orthodox), native to Antioch, who embraced the monastic life and later became Bishop of Sidon, in today’s Lebanon. But when did this happen? See the discussion in Paul Khoury, Paul d’Antioche, évêque melkite de Sidon (XII è s.) (Beirut: Imprimerie catholique, 1964), 8–18. See also David Thomas, “Paul of Antioch,” in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History [=CMR], ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett, vol. 4 (1200–1350) (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 78–82. 2  Risāla ilā baʿḍ aṣdiqāʾihi allaḏīna bi-Ṣaydā min al-muslimīn (lit. “Letter to One of His Muslim Friends in Sidon”), Louis Buffat, ed. and trans., “Lettre de Paul, évêque de Saïda, moine d’Antioche, à un musulman de ses amis demeurant à Saïda,” Revue de l’Orient chrétien 8 (1903): 388– 425; Louis Cheikho, ed., Vingt traités théologiques d’auteurs arabes chrétiens, IXe–XIIIe siècles, rev. 2nd ed. (Beirut: Imprimerie catholique, 1920), 15–26; Khoury, ed. and trans., Paul d’Antioche, 59–83 (Arabic), 169–87 (French); Jean-Marie Gaudeul, trans., Paul of Antioch: Letter to Muslim Friends, pro manuscripto (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Studi Arabi e d’Islamistica, 1988), published partially (§§ 1–24, 45–48) in J.-M. Gaudeul, Encounters & Clashes: Islam

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itself as a written report of the conversations its author supposedly had with Christian scholars during a journey that took him to the Byzantine Empire, Constantinople, Amalfi, the land of the Franks, and Rome.3 Those eminent people whom Paul of Antioch met, thanks to his status as a bishop, told him: “When we heard that a man whose name was Muḥammad had appeared among the Arabs saying that he was God’s messenger and that he brought a book, mentioning that it was sent down to him from God, may He be exalted, we set about getting possession of the book for ourselves” (§ 4). The Letter then proceeds to recount the questions Paul of Antioch asked his interlocutors and the replies he obtained from them. Whether real or fictitious, it is clear that the journey motif plays a literary role in the work. It creates a protective barrier by ascribing what in all likelihood are Paul of Antioch’s own interpretations of the Qurʾān to these learned people living in distant lands. Approximately a century later, sometime around 1315, an anonymous Nestorian Christian in Cyprus revised Paul of Antioch’s original work. Known in English as the Letter from the People of Cyprus,4 this revision was sent to two Muslim scholars in Damascus—first to the controversial Ḥanbalī jurist and theologian Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328), and then, in a slightly amended version, to the lesser-known Ṣūfī author Šams al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Abī Ṭālib al-Dimašqī (d. 1327)—each of whom responded with a voluminous and Christianity in History (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Studi Arabi e d’Islamistica, 2000), 2:271–75; Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella, trans., “Carta a un amigo musulmán de Sidón de Pablo de Antioquía,” Collectanea Christiana Orientalia 4 (2007): 189–215; Sidney H. Griffith, trans., Letter to a Muslim Friend, in The Orthodox Church in the Arab World, 700–1700: An Anthology of Sources, ed. Samuel Noble and Alexander Treiger (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2014), 219–34. Henceforth all quotations from the Letter to a Muslim Friend will be based on Griffith’s translation. The paragraph numbers refer to Khoury’s edition. 3  See Letter to a Muslim Friend, § 3. 4  Risālat ahl ǧazīrat Qubruṣ (lit. “Letter from the People of the Island of Cyprus”), Rifaat Y. Ebied and David Thomas, ed. and trans., Muslim-Christian Polemic during the Crusades: The Letter from the People of Cyprus and Ibn Abī Ṭālib al-Dimashqī’s Response (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 55–147. See also David Thomas, “The Letter from Cyprus or Letters from Cyprus?,” in Cultures in Contact: Transfer of Knowledge in the Mediterranean Context: Selected Papers, ed. Sofía Torallas Tovar and Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala (Cordoba: CNERU; Beirut: CEDRAC; Oriens Academic, 2013), 263–74. Henceforth all references to the Letter from the People of Cyprus will be to Ebied and Thomas’s division of the Letter into 18 sections, indicated by Roman numerals. Alexander Treiger has recently challenged the earlier presumption that this anonymous revision originated from the Arabic-speaking Melkite community in Cyprus by examining several christological passages of the Letter from the People of Cyprus and comparing them to Paul of Antioch’s original work, on the one hand, and to earlier and contemporary Nestorian authors, on the other, particularly ʿAbdishoʿ of Nisibis (d. 1318). See Alexander Treiger, “The Christology of the Letter from the People of Cyprus,” Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 65 (2013): 21–48.

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refutation. Ibn Taymiyya’s response is his well-known and widely available The Correct Reply to Those who Have Changed the Religion of Christ, a work whose title summarises the classical Muslim position concerning the alleged corruption of Christianity.5 Al-Dimašqī’s response is more prosaicly entitled Reply to the Letter from the People of Cyprus.6 Before the Cypriot revision was sent to Damascus, however, Paul of Antioch’s original composition (or at least a summary of it) had already captured the attention of Šihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Idrīs al-Qarāfī (d. 1285), the head of the Mālikī school in Cairo, who composed his own extensive response, entitled Splendid Replies to Insolent Questions.7 Paul of Antioch’s Letter was also summarised by the famous Coptic polymath al-Ṣafī ibn al-ʿAssāl (d. ca. 1260), in a work that he wrote in answer to an earlier Muslim refutation of Christianity.8 5  Al-Ǧawāb al-ṣaḥīḥ li-man baddala dīn al-Masīḥ, ed. ʿAlī ibn Ḥasan ibn Nāṣir et al., 7 vols. (Riyadh: Dār al-ʿĀṣima, 1993–99); partial trans. in Thomas F. Michel, A Muslim Theologian’s Response to Christianity: Ibn Taymiyya’s al-Jawab al-sahih (Delmar, NY: Caravan, 1984). See also the extensive summary in Italian by Ignazio Di Matteo, Ibn Taymiyyah o Riassunto della sua opera al-Ǧawāb al-ṣaḥīḥ li-man baddala dīn al-Masīḥ (Palermo: Domenico Vena, 1912); and the excellent entry by Jon Hoover, “Ibn Taymiyya,” in CMR 4, 824–78, esp. 834–44. Henceforth all references to Ibn Taymiyya’s work will be to ʿAlī ibn Ḥasan ibn Nāṣir’s edition. 6  Ǧawāb risālat ahl ǧazīrat Qubruṣ, ed. and trans. Ebied and Thomas, Muslim-Christian Polemic during the Crusades, 150–497. Henceforth all references to al-Dimašqī’s work will be to Ebied and Thomas’s edition, divided into 100 sections. On al-Dimašqī’s work, see also Rifaat Ebied, “Inter-Religious Attitudes: Al-Dimashqi’s (d. 727/1327) Letter to the People of Cyprus,” ARAM Periodical 9–10 (1997–98): 19–24; David Thomas, “Idealism and Intransigence: A ChristianMuslim Encounter in Early Mamluk Times,” Mamlūk Studies Review 13, no. 2 (2009): 85–103; and idem, “Abī Ṭālib al-Dimashqī,” in CMR 4, 798–801. For a comparison of these two refutations of the Cypriot reworking of Paul’s Letter, see David Thomas, “Christian-Muslim Misunderstanding in the Fourteenth Century: The Correspondence between Christians in Cyprus and Muslims in Damascus,” in Towards a Cultural History of the Mamluk Era, ed. Mahmoud Haddad, Arnin Heinemann, John L. Meloy, and Souad Slim (Beirut: OrientInstitut; Würzburg: Ergon, 2010), 13–30. 7  Al-Aǧwiba al-fāḫira ʿan al-asʾila al-fāǧira, ed. Bakr Zakī ʿAwaḍ, 2nd ed. (Cairo: Maktabat Wahba, 1987). On this work and its author, see Maha El Kaisy-Friemuth, “Al-Qarāfī,” in CMR 4, 582–87; and, more extensively, Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella, Muslim-Christian Polemics across the Mediterranean: The Splendid Replies of Shihāb al-Dīn al-Qarāfī (d. 684/1285) (Leiden: Brill, 2015). Henceforth all references to al-Qarāfī’s work will be to ʿAwaḍ’s edition. 8  See Khalil Samir, “La réponse d’Al-Ṣafī ibn al-ʿAssāl à la réfutation des chrétiens de ʿAlī alṬabarī,” Parole de l’Orient 11 (1983): 281–328. On this author, a member of a distinguished Coptic family, some of whose members played an important role in the Arabic literary renaissance of the Copts during the thirteenth century, see Wadi Awad, “al-Ṣafī ibn al-ʿAssāl,” in CMR 4, 538–51. See also Gregor Schwarb, “The Coptic and Syriac Receptions of Neo-Ashʿarite Theology,” in The Oxford Handbook of Islamic Theology, ed. Sabine Schmidtke (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 553–55. On Ibn al-ʿAssāl’s borrowing from Paul of Antioch, see Sarrió Cucarella, Muslim-Christian Polemics, 71–72.

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Indeed, at the beginning of this reply, Ibn Taymiyya himself testifies to the popularity of the Letter to a Muslim Friend among Christian scholars who were engaged in arguing for the integrity and superiority of their religion: That which they state in this piece of writing [arrived from Cyprus] is the basic support upon which their scholars depend, both in our time and in previous ages, although some of them may elaborate further than others depending upon the situations. We have found them making use of this letter before now; their scholars pass it around among themselves, and old copies of it still exist. It is attributed to Paul of Antioch, the monk, Bishop of Sidon. He wrote it to one of his friends, and had previously written works in support of Christianity.9 What made the Letter to a Muslim Friend so attractive to Christians living in close contact with Islam and, at the same time, so provocative in Muslim eyes, to the point of provoking no less than three major refutations? David Thomas has described it as “one of the most accomplished and disconcerting works from the history of Christian-Muslim relations,” pointing out that “beneath its irenic surface it reveals a logic that threatens to subvert the whole basis of Islam.”10 As remarked by Thomas Michel, the strength of Paul of Antioch’s argument lies in not accusing Islam of being a false religion, the work of a pseudo-prophet, but of being irrelevant and superfluous to Christianity—and this is in sharp contrast to earlier Christian polemics against Islam.11 Paul of Antioch apparently accepts Muḥammad’s claim to prophethood, although restricted to the pagan Arabs of his time, to whom he came bearing a book written in their language. This concession allows the Melkite bishop to present a number of qurʾānic proofs for the permanent validity and even the superiority of Christianity, effectively turning the Qurʾān into a “crypto-Christian document” that confirms the central affirmations of the Christian faith.12 Thus one 9  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 1:99–100; trans. A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 140–41, modified. 10  Thomas, “Paul of Antioch,” in CMR 4, 79. 11  Michel, A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 88. 12  The expression is from Thomas, who explains how Paul of Antioch achieves his purpose by carefully selecting verses of the Qurʾān, or even parts of verses, and isolating them from their original context. See examples of this exegesis in David Thomas, “Paul of Antioch’s Letter to a Muslim Friend and The Letter from Cyprus,” in Syrian Christians under Islam: The First Thousand Years, ed. David Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 208–11; and idem, “Apologetic and Polemic in the Letter from Cyprus and Ibn Taymiyya’s Jawāb al-ṣaḥīḥ li-man baddala dīn al-Masīḥ,” in Ibn Taymiyya and His Times, ed. Yossef Rapoport and Shahab Ahmed (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2010), 248–49. See also Clare Elena Wilde, Approaches

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can understand why this letter-treatise, which al-Dimašqī described as “exemplary in politeness but alien in intention and shocking in purpose,”13 should have occasioned such important reactions on the Muslim side. 1

Theological Implications

The fruitfulness of the exchange occasioned by the Letter to a Muslim Friend is sufficient to make it worthy of attention. Beyond its historical interest, however, this exchange is also worth exploring in connection to the theological issues raised within it. Indeed, from the perspective of today’s Christian theology of religions, the Letter to a Muslim Friend can be said to anticipate some features of the so-called “inclusivist” position, which remains by and large the favoured position among Christian theologians. Unlike others, who saw Islam and its prophet as part of Satan’s ploy to oppose God’s true religion, Paul of Antioch appears to grant a qualified prophetic role to Muḥammad. And yet, not unlike Christian inclusivists today, Paul of Antioch could not possibly admit the universal and decisive character of Muḥammad’s message, which he clearly saw as falling short of God’s self-disclosure in Christ. What further revelation of God is there in Muḥammad’s preaching, Paul seems to ask his potential Muslim readers, which should require Christians to pay attention to the Meccan prophet? Although the term “Christian theology of religions” is recent, the question is as old as Christianity itself, which, from its very inception, had to confront the question of its relationship with the Jewish matrix from which it emerged and with the plurality of religions, philosophies, and cults that it found in the Roman world. The arrival of Islam in the seventh century posed a new, formidable challenge, even though the first Christian intellectuals who took notice of it might not have taken it too seriously, perhaps viewing it as yet another Christian heresy.14 However, it did not take long before Christian thinkers, particularly those living in contact with an increasingly self-assertive Islam, were forced to integrate the new religion into their own theological thinking, to the Qurʾān in Early Christian Arabic Texts (750–1258 C.E.) (Bethesda, MD: Academica Press, 2014), 57–104. In addition to these qurʾānic arguments, the Letter to a Muslim Friend also includes a series of biblical proofs of the Trinity (considerably expanded in the Cypriot revision) and various rational arguments for the truth of Christianity. 13  Ebied and Thomas, Muslim-Christian Polemic, 155. 14  See Sidney H. Griffith, “The Melkites and the Muslims: The Qurʾān, Christology, and Arab Orthodoxy,” Al-Qanṭara 33 (2012): 417–22; David Thomas, “Changing Attitudes of Arab Christians towards Islam,” Transformation 22 (2005): 10–13.

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especially since Muslims were developing their own version of religious history, in which Jesus played a significantly different role from that accorded to him in Christianity. In fact, Paul of Antioch’s Letter to a Muslim Friend can be said to be a treatise of a Christian theology of religions, devoted to explaining the relationship between Islam and Christianity.15 The Letter begins and closes with what are arguably the main questions of a Christian appraisal of Islam: the prophetic status of Muḥammad and the relationship between the law of the Gospel and Muḥammad’s dispensation, respectively. I will briefly say something about the first question and then concentrate on the second question, which is the focus of this chapter. 2

Muḥammad as a Prophet

The Letter to a Muslim Friend opens with the crucial question of Muḥammad’s claim to prophethood, upon which the very credibility of Islam rests. It is not difficult to find examples of Christian polemicists who found no easier way of denigrating Islam (and at the same time avoiding its theological challenge) than to portray the Meccan prophet as a fraud. In contrast, Paul of Antioch chose to acknowledge a divine initiative in Muḥammad’s mission. Nonetheless, accepting his religious mission required explaining why Christians were not compelled to follow him, especially after the qurʾānic proclamation that “[w]hoever wants a religion other than Islam, it will not be accepted from him; in the hereafter he will be among the losers” (Q 3:85). Although Paul of Antioch never states directly that Muḥammad was sent by God, this seems to be implied when he writes, “he was not sent to us, but to the pagan Arabs” (§ 7; lam yursal ilaynā bal ilā al-ǧāhiliyya min al-ʿarab).16 15  Indeed, as Sidney H. Griffith has abundantly shown, a preoccupation with the response to the religious challenge of Islam is one of the twin intellectual concerns that characterise the Melkites, the other one being the articulation and defence of Byzantine, conciliar orthodoxy against the objections of their Christian adversaries in the caliphate. See, among others, “The Church of Jerusalem and the ‘Melkites’: The Making of an ‘Arab Orthodox’ Christian Identity in the World of Islam (750–1050 CE),” in Christians and Christianity in the Holy Land: From the Origins to the Latin Kingdoms, ed. Ora Limor and Guy Stroumsa (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), 176–204; and “‘Melkites,’ ‘Jacobites’ and the Christological Controversies in Arabic in Third/Ninth-Century Syria,” in Syrian Christians under Islam, 9–55. 16  As David Thomas observes, in his conscious choice of the verb arsala, repeatedly used in the Qurʾān in connection with the sending of prophets and messengers, the Melkite writer appears “if indirectly, to be according a measure of validity to Muḥammad’s status”; Thomas, “Paul of Antioch’s Letter,” 208.

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Was this only a calculated concession in order to use the Qurʾān in defence of Christianity, a strategic recognition that arguments drawn from the book of a false prophet are useless? Or was this a genuine acceptance of Muḥammad’s mission? We can only speculate. The fact is that, as it reached its Muslim readers, Paul of Antioch’s Letter appeared to acknowledge the prophet of Islam as a messenger sent by God, but with a mission restricted to the pagan Arabs of his time, to whom he brought knowledge of the one true God. This nuanced acknowledgment did not correspond with the Muslim view of Muḥammad, but at least it did not preclude the debate by portraying him as a scoundrel or, worse, as part of a satanic plan. Moreover, it was an assertion based on a plausible reading of several qurʾānic verses that stressed the Arabic character of Muḥammad’s proclamation and his being the first messenger raised up from among his people. After listing these passages,17 Paul of Antioch summarised his argument as follows: When we considered [these quotations], we knew that he was not sent to us, but to the pagan Arabs, to whom, he said, no one had come to give a warning before him. We are not bound to follow him because messengers have already come to us before him, addressing us in our own languages. They warned us and they handed over to us the Torah and the Gospel in our own vernaculars. It is clear from the book [i.e., the Qurʾān] that he was sent only to the pagan Arabs. So, according to the demand of justice, the quotation, “Whoever wants a religion other than Islam, it will not be accepted from him; in the hereafter he will be among the losers,” would mean Muḥammad’s own people, to whom he came in their own vernacular, and not anyone to whom he did not come—and this according to the book’s own testimony.18 Paul of Antioch’s argument is that, unlike the pagan Arabs of Muḥammad’s time, Christians had already received messengers—Christ’s apostles—who proclaimed the good news about Christ in their own languages and who brought them the Gospel and the Torah in their languages.19 This reception of the Gospel and the Torah does not depend upon whether those Scriptures 17  Q 12:2 (20:113); 14:4; 62:2; 32:3; 42:7; 36:6; 26:214. See Letter to a Muslim Friend, § 6. 18  L etter to a Muslim Friend, § 7. That the Melkite writer is referring to Christ’s apostles with the word “messengers” (rusul) in this paragraph is clear from a later passage (§ 13). 19  In this respect, Paul of Antioch is heir to a long apologetic tradition, going back at least to Theodore Abū Qurra (d. ca. 830), the first Christian writer of theology in Arabic whose name we know. See Sidney H. Griffith, “The Gospel in Arabic: An Inquiry into its Appearance in the First Abbasid Century,” Oriens Christianus 69 (1985): 165.

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were revealed in those vernacular languages, as al-Qarāfī will misunderstand.20 The argument is consistent with what the Melkite bishop writes in another of his undisputed works, known in English as Exposition to the Nations and the Jews.21 At a certain place, to justify his claim that God had rejected the religion of Moses on account of the rebelliousness of the Jews, he explains that this rejection was possible because God did not choose the Mosaic religion for all humankind. Such universal religion must necessarily possess three characteristics. The first and the third are the most important for our discussion: The first is that its messengers are sent to all nations, for there is no special bond of friendship between Him and one nation and enmity between Him and another.22 God is just (ʿadl), and it would not befit His justice to demand on the day of resurrection that any nation should have followed a religion to which He had not called them. […] The third is that the messengers address each nation in its own language and give it the commandments and prohibitions in its vernacular, so that they understand what is incumbent upon them and abandon what they should beware of.23

20  See The Splendid Replies, 71–72. 21  Š arḥ al-ḥāl al-mūǧib li-l-umam ʿalā iḫtilāf alsinatihā wa-tašāsuʿ buldānihā al-duḫūl maʿa al-yahūd fī dīn al-naṣrāniyya ṭawʿan (lit. “Explanation of the reason why the Nations, together with the Jews, should of their own embrace the Christian religion, despite the diversity of their languages and the remoteness of their countries”), ed. and trans. Khoury, Paul d’Antioche, 34–58 (Arabic), 147–68 (French). On this work, see the study and partial translation by Herman G. B. Teule, “Paul of Antioch’s Attitude towards the Jews and the Muslims: His Letter to the Nations and the Jews,” in The Three Rings: Textual Studies in the Historical Trialogue of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, ed. Barbara Roggema, Marcel Poorthuis, and Pim Valkenberg (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), 91–110. 22  See Romans 3:29. 23  Exposition to the Nations and the Jews, §§ 64–66 (trans. Teule, “Paul of Antioch’s Attitude,” 105, modified). Here, Paul of Antioch is summarising a short treatise by the abovementioned Theodore Abū Qurra, entitled by its English translator On the Characteristics of the True Religion. See John C. Lamoreaux, Theodore Abū Qurrah (Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 2005), 55–57. See also Ignace Dick, “Deux écrits inédits de Théodore Abuqurra,” Le Muséon 72 (1959): 62–67 (Arabic ed. with French trans.). The same three marks of the true religion are mentioned in The Disputation of Jirjī the Monk, a Melkite work written around 1217, which enjoyed immense popularity, to judge from the extant manuscript copies. See Alexander Nicoll, “Account of a disputation between a Christian monk and three learned Mohammedans, on the subject of religion,” Edinburgh Annual Register 9 (1816): 409–10.

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Thus, after quoting additional qurʾānic support for Christian doctrine and practice, Paul of Antioch concludes his Letter to a Muslim Friend in terms very similar to those just quoted from the Exposition to the Nations and the Jews: Because we know that God is just (ʿadl), and it does not befit His justice to demand on the day of resurrection that any nation should have followed a messenger whom He had not sent to them, nor had they happened upon his book in their own language, neither from himself or from a herald coming from him, we will not follow this messenger [i.e., Muḥammad], nor jettison what we have in our possession.24 3

Two Kinds of Revealed Law

I now move on to Paul of Antioch’s second important theological claim, which is developed in the closing paragraphs of his Letter to a Muslim Friend. The argument begins with the axiomatic claim that revealed laws—the Arabic word here is šarīʿa—are of two kinds: šarīʿat al-ʿadl, the law of justice; and šarīʿat al-faḍl, the law of grace. Let me say immediately that, in this context, ‘justice’ is understood as equality in repaying good with good and evil with evil, in other words, what is usually called retributive justice: to make right by returning like for like; while ‘grace’ refers to any act of beneficence which is done not by reason of any obligation—for instance, forgiving someone who wrongs you. The argument goes on to explain the relationship between the Mosaic law and the law of the Gospel, as well as the necessity of the incarnation. The text is important for our purposes, and it is worth quoting in full: Then [the Christian scholars whom Paul of Antioch met during his travels] said, “We are amazed at these people [i.e., the Muslims], with their culture and the graciousness they possess. How do they not know that there are [only] two kinds of revealed law: the law of justice and the law of grace? Because the Creator, exalted be He, is both just (ʿadl) and bountiful (ǧawād), it was necessary that He manifest His justice (ʿadl) to His creatures, so He sent Moses the prophet to the Israelites to institute the law of justice and He bade them to carry out its mode of conduct until it became established in their souls. Then, since it is only the Most Perfect of the perfect who can institute the [law of] perfection (kamāl), which is grace ( faḍl), it was necessary 24  L etter to a Muslim Friend, § 24.

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that He, hallowed be His names and exalted be His gifts, be Himself the One who would institute it; for there is none more perfect than He. And because He is bountiful, it was necessary that He exercise His bountifulness (ǧūd) by means of the most exalted of beings, and among beings there is none better than His Word (kalima), that is, His reason (nuṭq). Therefore it was necessary that He exercise His bountifulness by means of His Word, so that He would be the Most Bountiful of the bountiful in virtue of the fact that He exercised His bountifulness by means of the best of beings. For this it was necessary that He should take on an essence perceptible to the senses through which His power (qudra) and His bountifulness would become manifest. And since there does not exist among beings created by Him anyone nobler than the human being, He took on the human nature of the Lady Mary, the one purified and chosen “over all the women of the worlds” (Q 3:42). No further [law] remains to be instituted consequent upon this perfection! Whereas everything that preceded it demanded this perfection, there would be no need for anything to come after it, because nothing could come after perfection and be superior in excellence. Rather, it would be beneath it or derived from it; and the derivative is a kind of excellence for which there is no need. With this said, enough! Peace be on whoever follows right guidance!25 As is often the case with this type of literature, the Melkite author uses a line of reasoning based on philosophical premises that are already familiar to his intended readership, which results in a very condensed argument, which is not immediately understandable to a modern audience and requires unpacking. As already noted, Paul of Antioch begins with the axiomatic claim that there are only two kinds of prophetic religion: the law of justice and the law of grace. Both are expressions of God’s own nature, for God is both just (ʿadl) and

25  L etter to a Muslim Friend, §§ 59–63. One of the surviving witnesses to the Letter from the People of Cyprus—Paris MS arabe 204, copied at Famagusta in 1336—expands Paul of Antioch’s original argument concerning the two types of revealed law and the necessity of the incarnation with further biblical and qurʾānic references, to show that the rank of the perfect man born from Mary outstrips the ranks of all humans in exaltedness, including the prophets and even the angels, to the point that the creative Word of God and his Spirit (a reference to Q 4:171) united with him. The perfect man born from Mary is himself the perfection after which there was nothing left to institute. See the text in Ebied and Thomas, Muslim-Christian Polemic, 138–45.

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bountiful (ǧawād).26 God’s justice was manifested in the Mosaic law, calling the Israelites to imitate divine justice until it became an established habit in their souls. This was not, however, God’s final summons to humanity. Because God is bountiful, he could not fail to call human beings to their perfection— namely, to imitate God’s faḍl, God’s graciousness and unconditional favour.27 According to Paul of Antioch, this perfection, which is God’s faḍl, transcends any human mediation. In other words, no human prophet could institute the religion of grace. It could only be instituted by the most grace-filled of existent beings, which is God’s Word—his reason (nuṭq) or logos.28 God’s Word needed to assume a created essence in order to manifest itself in the phenomenal 26  “The Just” (al-ʿadl) is one of the ninety-nine Most Beautiful Names (al-asmāʾ al-ḥusnā) of God listed in the famous ḥadīṯ which al-Tirmiḏī (d. 892, al-Ǧāmiʿ al-ṣaḥīḥ, Kitāb aldaʿawāt) narrates on the authority of Abū Hurayra (d. ca. 679), and which became the authoritative list of divine names in the Sunnī world (see Samer Akkach, “Beautiful names of God,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE [=EI3]). Although “the Bountiful” (al-ǧawād) does not figure in this list or in the Qurʾān, it is nonetheless mentioned as a divine name in two other traditions collected by al-Tirmiḏī (in Kitāb ṣifat al-qiyāma and Kitāb al-adab, respectively). It can also be found in the list of divine names transmitted by al-Aʿmaš (d. 764). See Daniel Gimaret, Les noms divins en Islam. Exégèse lexicographique et théologique (Paris: Cerf, 1988), 402–4. As Gimaret explains, ǧawād is a term used by Muslim theologians and philosophers to emphasise God’s generosity or, put differently, God’s lack of avarice (buḫl). Whereas some Muslim theologians (the Muʿtazilites) held that God’s generosity leads him to act necessarily in the best interest of human beings, others (the Ašʿarites) maintained that God does not owe anyone anything, and therefore his refusal to grant his favour to any creature does not necessarily constitute an act of avarice. 27  On the range of meanings of faḍl, see Edward W. Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon (London: Williams and Norgate, 1863–93; repr. Beirut: Librairie du Liban, 1968), 2412. On the use of the root f-ḍ-l in the Qurʾān, see Elsaid M. Badawi and Muhammad Abdel Haleem, ArabicEnglish Dictionary of Qurʾanic Usage (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 715–16. As Gimaret remarks (Les noms divins en Islam, 389–91), the Qurʾān repeatedly uses the term faḍl, together with niʿma and raḥma, to speak of God’s beneficence. God is explicitly described as ḏū al-faḍl (possessor of bounty, grace, favour). All Muslim theologians understand faḍl (sometimes tafaḍḍul) as unmerited benefit bestowed by God, but they disagree regarding what should be counted as faḍl and what should be counted as justice. 28  Elsewhere in the Letter to a Muslim Friend (see § 41), Paul of Antioch identifies the second and third Trinitarian persons with two attributes—reason (nuṭq) and life (ḥayāt)— subsisting in the divine essence (ḏāt). Essence—reason—life is only one among the several triads which Arab Christian writers had employed to explain the Trinity since early ʿAbbāsid times. See the list in Rachid Haddad, La Trinité divine chez les théologiens arabes: 750–1050 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1985), 232–33. Haddad explains the use of nuṭq in this context on pages 216–17. Another triad, first attested in the writings of the Christian scholar Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī (d. 974), refers to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit as the Bountiful (al-ǧawād), the Wise (al-ḥakīm), and the Powerful (al-qadīr), respectively (see Haddad, 218–19). On the use by Arab Christian writers of the terms ǧawād and ǧūd to express the biblical idea of a loving and bountiful God, see Samir Khalil, “Une lecture de la foi

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world. So the Word united with the most excellent of perceptible beings, which is the human being. Nothing superior could come after this self-manifestation of the Word—the Incarnate One who exemplifies the divine faḍl in Himself, for nothing can be above perfection itself. Even though Paul of Antioch does not explicitly mention Islam in the conclusive argument of the letter-treatise, his point is clear enough—namely, that Muḥammad’s religion, “being either inferior to Christianity or derivative from it (or both), is superfluous for Christians who, he argues, follow the higher religion of grace.”29 And indeed, this is how his Christian and Muslim readers understood him. In his summary of the Letter to a Muslim Friend, the above-mentioned Coptic scholar al-Ṣafī ibn al-ʿAssāl refers to the Mosaic law as “the initial law of justice” (šarīʿat al-bidāya wa-l-ʿadl) and to the Gospel as “the perfect law of grace” (šarīʿat al-kamāl wa-l-faḍl). Unlike Paul of Antioch, al-Ṣafī does not refrain from explicitly mentioning Islam in this context, stating that what Muḥammad brought must either agree with the Mosaic law or the Gospel—in which case Christians can only agree with him—or else contradict both of them, in which case Christians must reject it.30 Paul of Antioch never precisely explains the meanings of ‘justice’ and ‘grace’ in the Letter to a Muslim Friend. However, in his Exposition to the Nations and the Jews, he summarizes in more concrete terms the contrast between the Mosaic dispensation and the new dispensation inaugurated by Christ. This allows us to understand what he means by these terms: “The new law (sunna ǧadīda) which God has given to the nations in Zion through us, the disciples, consists of Baptism instead of circumcision, the Sunday instead of the Sabbath, bread and wine instead of animal offerings, praying toward the east instead of toward the Temple, and grace ( faḍl) instead of the lex talionis (qiṣāṣ).”31 It seems to me, therefore, that Damian Howard misrepresents the contrast between the religion of faḍl and the religion of ʿadl when he portrays it as an opposition between grace and law, declaring Paul of Antioch to be a “proto-Lutheran.”32 The Melkite bishop is in fact contrasting two types of law, understood as ways chrétienne dans le contexte arabo-musulman,” Proche Orient Chrétien 42 (1992): 65–75. I owe this reference to Teule, “Paul of Antioch’s Attitude,” 108n49. 29  S idney H. Griffith, The Orthodox Church in the Arab World, 234n2. 30  See Samir, “La réponse d’Al-Ṣafī,” 324–25. 31  E xposition to the Nations and the Jews, § 60. Compare with Theodore Abū Qurra, Muǧādalat Abī Qurra maʿa al-mutakallimīn al-muslimīn fī maǧlis al-ḫalīfa al-Ma‌‌ʾmūn, ed. and trans. David Bertaina, “An Arabic Account of Theodore Abū Qurra in Debate at the Court of Caliph al-Ma’mūn: A Study in Early Christian and Muslim Literary Dialogue” (PhD diss., Catholic University of America, Washington DC, 2007), 391. 32  Damian Howard, “Islam and Christianity: On ‘Religions of Law’,” Islam and ChristianMuslim Relations 24 (2013): 174.

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of conduct: the law of justice, by which he means “eye for eye and tooth for tooth,” and the law of grace, by which he means Christ’s commandment to his followers to be merciful, gracious, and forgiving, as God is merciful, gracious, and forgiving. As noted above, in his Exposition to the Nations and the Jews, Paul of Antioch explains that the Mosaic Law was not intended for all humankind. Rather, it was limited in scope and provisional, meant to prepare the Israelites in view of the incarnation of God’s Word. And it is within this manifestly Christian view of religious history that Paul of Antioch attempts to locate Muḥammad’s religion theologically. 4

Arab Christian Theology and Muslim-Christian Polemics

In fact, by characterising the Mosaic law as the religion of justice and the Gospel as the religion of grace, the Melkite bishop demonstrates his familiarity with earlier Arab Christian writings. Variations of this argument had been used by writers both within his ecclesiastical tradition and beyond it. Perhaps the most well-known instance is found in the letter that the Jacobite (Syrian Orthodox) philosopher and distinguished translator from Baghdad, ʿĪsā ibn Isḥāq ibn Zurʿa (d. 1008),33 addressed to a Jewish scholar of the day, Bišr ibn Finḥās ibn Šuʿayb.34 In this composition, written in the year 997, we find 33  For an introduction to the thought of Ibn Zurʿa and his relationship with his master, the abovementioned Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī, see Cyrille Haddad, ʿĪsā ibn Zurʿa, philosophe arabe et apologiste chrétien du Xe siècle (Beirut: Dār al-Kalima, 1971). See, more briefly, Peter Starr, “Ibn Zurʿa, Abu ʿAli ʿIsa Ishaq,” in Medieval Islamic Civilization: An Encyclopedia, ed. Josef W. Meri (New York: Routledge 2006), 376–77; Joel L. Kraemer, Humanism in the Renaissance of Islam: The Cultural Revival during the Buyid Age (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 116–23; George C. Anawati, Al-Masīḥiyya wa-l-ḥaḍāra al-ʿarabiyya, 2nd ed. (Cairo: Dār al-Ṯaqāfa, 1992), 331– 37; Ephrem-Isa Yousif, La floraison des philosophes syriaques (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003), 215–19; and Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala, “Ibn Zurʿa,” in CMR 1 (600–900), ed. David Thomas and Barbara Roggema (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 570–74. 34  The Arabic text of the Risāla ilā al-Yahūdī Bišr ibn Finḥās is found in Paul Sbath, ed., Vingt traités philosophiques et apologétiques d’auteurs arabes chrétiens du IXe au XIVe siècle (Cairo: H. Friedrich, 1929), 19–52. An English translation is provided in Herbert F. Thomson, “Four treatises by ʿĪsā ibn Zurʿa, tenth century Jacobite Christian of Baghdad” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1952). A more recent edition with an English translation is found in Peter J. Starr, “The Epistle to Bišr b. Finḥās (Maqālah ʿamilahā ilā Bišr b. Finḥās) of Ibn Zurʿah (d. a.h. 398 / a.d. 1008): Edition, Translation, and Commentary” (PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2000). Henceforth all references to Ibn Zurʿa’s letter will be to Starr’s edition, divided into 548 verses. See also the important study of Shlomo Pines, “La loi naturelle et la société: la doctrine politico-théologique d’Ibn Zurʿa,

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arguments similar to those employed two centuries later by Paul of Antioch, most crucially the idea that nothing is more remote from God than avarice, so that it would be inconceivable that this bountiful God would not call human beings to attain their highest possible perfection—namely, to imitate their Creator, in whose image and likeness they were created.35 Ibn Zurʿa’s letter also reflects the patristic view of revelation as a gradual process adapted to the circumstances of the people36 and a teleological understanding of the cosmos, in which things that have a beginning must necessarily reach their intended end, as befits an intelligent Creator.37 In Ibn Zurʿa’s letter to Bišr ibn Finḥās, as part of his argument for the abrogation of the Mosaic law, Ibn Zurʿa distinguishes three laws or ways of life: (1) the natural law (al-sunna al-ṭabīʿiyya), (2) the rational law (al-sunna al-ʿaqliyya), and (3) the positive law (al-sunna al-waḍʿiyya).38 The natural law envisioned by Ibn Zurʿa is not what Christians today customarily describe as “natural law theory,” the concept of a moral order inscribed in human nature. Rather, Ibn Zurʿa imagines nature as the survival of the fittest, “la loi du plus fort.”39 By rational law, he means the Aristotelian idea of the happy medium. As for the positive law, Ibn Zurʿa describes it as the law enacted by God by means of revelations.40 This last type of law comprises the law of ʿadl—justice—promulgated through Moses, and the higher law of tafaḍḍul, instituted by Christ. The higher law calls human beings to imitate God’s tafaḍḍul, which is a higher virtue than justice— indeed, the utmost limit of virtue, since it is a divine trait (ḫuluq ilāhī), a distinguishing quality, typically belonging to God.41 For Sidney Griffith, Ibn Zurʿa’s distinctive use of tafaḍḍul in this context can be adequately translated into English as “clemency” or even “unconditional favour” or “mercy.” In contrast, philosophe chrétien de Bagdad,” in Studies in Islamic History and Civilization, ed. Uriel Heyd (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1961), 154–90; and Sidney H. Griffith, “ʿĪsā ibn Zurʿah on the Abrogation of Mosaic Law and the Redundancy of the Islamic Sharīʿah,” in Orientalia Christiana: Festschrift für Hubert Kaufhold zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Peter Bruns and Heinz Otto Luthe (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 173–94. 35  E pistle to Bišr ibn Finḥās, vv. 113–25. 36  E pistle to Bišr ibn Finḥās, vv. 75–79. 37  E pistle to Bišr ibn Finḥās, vv. 85–87. 38  E pistle to Bišr ibn Finḥās, v. 50. 39  Pines, “La loi naturelle et la société,” 181. 40  In other words, as Peter Starr explains, for this Arab Christian philosopher, the innate principles of social organisation are (1) the natural desire to obtain pleasant and useful things and to subjugate others, and (2) reason, which submits desire to the different code of sufficiency, forethought, and moderation. The positive law establishes a precise path to obtaining those pleasant and useful things. See Starr, “The Epistle to Bišr b. Finḥās of Ibn Zurʿah,” 26. 41  E pistle to Bišr ibn Finḥās, v. 143.

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Starr prefers to translate sunnat al-tafaḍḍul as “the law of excellence,” in the sense of excellence in the utmost pursuit of virtue. I agree with Griffith that in the present context, Ibn Zurʿa is referring to one specific virtue—namely, “the preference for graciousness, mercy, and love in human affairs over justice,” which is, in the Christian tradition, the apogee of virtuous excellence indeed.42 Unlike Ibn Zurʿa, however—whose main purpose was to justify Jesus’s abrogation of the Mosaic law rationally and assert the impossibility of Jesus’s law, given its perfection, being abrogated in turn by a later one43—other Arab Christian writers had used the contrast between justice and grace to make explicitly polemical attacks on Islam. The clearest example is found in the apology attributed to a certain ʿAbd al-Masīḥ ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī, composed in all likelihood by a ninth-century Christian writer in the East, but also circulated widely in the medieval West, after a Latin translation was made in the twelfth century.44 At a certain point, the author of the apology states that all laws and injunctions (al-šarāʾiʿ wa-l-aḥkām) are of three sorts: divine (ilāhī), natural (ṭabīʿī), and satanic (šayṭānī). The divine law, which is above nature and reason, is the injunction to grant clemency, mercy, and forgiveness and to imitate God the compassionate, the clement (ḥukm al-tafaḍḍul wa-l-raḥma wa-l-ʿafw wa-tašabbuh bi-llāh al-raḥīm al-ra‌ʾūf ). This law was revealed by Christ, who asked his followers to love their enemies and pray for those who persecute them, “so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his 42  Griffith, “ʿĪsā ibn Zurʿah on the Abrogation of Mosaic Law,” 185–86; Starr, “The Epistle to Bišr b. Finḥās of Ibn Zurʿah,” 28n1. See also Paul Khoury, Matériaux pour servir à l’étude de la controverse théologique islamo-chrétienne de langue arabe du VIIIe au XIIe siècle, vol. 1 (Würzburg: Echter; Altenberge: Telos, 1989), 235–36 and 324. 43  This second claim is more extensively developed in a treatise that Ibn Zurʿa wrote in response to the refutation of Christian beliefs and claims found in a now-lost theological compendium, entitled Awāʾil al-adilla fī uṣūl al-dīn, written by the Baghdad Muʿtazilite Abū al-Qāsim al-Balḫī (d. 931). See Ibn Zurʿa’s Arabic text in Sbath, Vingt traités, 52–68. See also Monferrer Sala, “Ibn Zurʿa,” 573–74; David Thomas, “Abū l-Qāsim al-Balkhī,” in CMR 1, 188–91; and Griffith, “ʿĪsā ibn Zurʿah on the Abrogation of Mosaic Law,” 188–90. 44  The literature on this work and the Muslim letter to which it allegedly replied has attracted much scholarly attention. See Laura Bottini, “The Apology of al-Kindī,” in CMR 1, 585–94. A complete English translation based on the unpublished draft prepared by Anton Tien, who edited the Arabic text of al-Kindī’s apology for the Turkish Mission Aid Society in 1880, is provided by Neal A. Newman in The Early Christian-Muslim Dialogue: A Collection of Documents from the First Three Islamic Centuries (632–900 A.D.): Translations with Commentary (Hatfield, PA: Interdisciplinary Biblical Research Institute, 1993), 365– 545. A French translation can be found in George Tartar, Dialogue islamo-chrétien sous le calife al-Ma‌ʾmūn (813–834). Les épîtres d’Al-Hāshimī et Al-Kindī (Paris: Nouvelles éditions latines, 1985). On the Latin translation of al-Kindī’s apology, see Fernando González Muñoz, Exposición y refutación del Islam. La versión latina de las epístolas de al-Hāšimī y al-Kindī (A Coruña: Universidade da Coruña, Servizo de Publicacións, 2005).

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sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:45 nrsv). The natural law, based on reason, is the injunction to practice justice and equity (ḥukm al-ʿadl wa-l-naṣafa), to repay good with good and evil with evil. This is a law that resonates in the instincts of human beings. Moses referred to it when he wrote, “eye for eye and tooth for tooth.” Finally, there is the satanic law, which is the injunction to act wrongfully and to commit pure evil (ḥukm al-ǧawr wa-l-šarr bi-ʿaynihi)—in other words, the reign of violence and wrongdoing. Al-Kindī then asks his Muslim interlocutor to reflect on the precepts promulgated by Muḥammad, and his argumentation leads to the following choice: either he accepts that the Qurʾān is a contradictory patchwork of phrases taken from the Torah and the Gospel, sometimes sanctioning the return of evil for evil, sometimes inviting forgiveness of the wrongdoer; or he accepts that Muḥammad promulgated a new type of law, in which case, given that Moses and Christ had already instituted the natural and divine laws respectively, only the law of Satan is left.45 A more concise version of the argument is advanced by an anonymous Mozarabic priest, active in Toledo in the mid-twelfth century, whose attacks on Islam led Aḥmad ibn ʿAbd al-Ṣamad al-Ḫazraǧī (d. 1187), a Cordovan Muslim who found himself in Toledo after the collapse of Almoravid power in Cordoba, to write an important work of anti-Christian polemic, entitled Hammers for Crosses.46 This Toledo priest, apparently in the habit of confronting Muslims living in the city with objections to their religion, writes: 45  See the relevant passage in Newman, Christian-Muslim Dialogue, 449–52; Tartar, Dialogue islamo-chrétien sous le calife al-Ma‌ʾmūn, 175–79. See also Khoury, Matériaux, 266 and 323. 46  Aḥmad ibn ʿAbd al-Ṣamad al-Ḫazraǧī, Maqāmiʿ al-ṣulbān, ed. ʿAbd al-Maǧīd al-Šarfī (Tunis: Markaz al-dirāsāt wa-l-buḥūṯ al-iqtiṣādiyya wa-l-iǧtimāʿiyya, 1975). On al-Ḫazraǧī and the circumstances of the composition of his work, see Fernando de la Granja Santamaría, “Milagros españoles en una obra polémica musulmana (El ‘Kitāb Maqāmiʿ al-ṣulbān’ del Jazrayī),” Al-Andalus 33 (1968): 311–31; Thomas E. Burman, Religious Polemic and the Intellectual History of the Mozarabs, c. 1050–1200 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 80–84; Abdelilah Ljamai, Ibn Ḥazm et la polémique islamo-chrétienne dans l’histoire de l’Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 145–52; Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala, “Al-Khazrajī,” in CMR 3 (1050–1200), ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 526–28; and Daniel Potthast, Christen und Muslime im Andalus: Andalusische Christen und ihre Literatur nach religionspolemischen Texten des zehnten bis zwölften Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 237–41. The letter that occasioned al-Ḫazraǧī’s response has survived only in the refutation it occasioned (Hammers for Crosses, §§ 2–10). See an abridged English translation by Thomas E. Burman, “Mozarabic Refutation of Islam (ca. 1140),” in Medieval Iberia: Readings from Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Sources, ed. Olivia R. Constable, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 190–94. For an analysis of its contents and a complete English translation, see Diego R. Sarrió Cucarella, “Corresponding across Religious Borders: The Letter of al-Qūṭī,” Islamochristiana 43 (2017): 149–71.

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Many of our bishops have written books discrediting your religion (dīn). The bishops mention your lawgiver (ṣāhib šarīʿatikum) and they describe things in such a way that we see that you [Muslims] do not follow the truth; the truth is rather with us. And there is no benefit in [following] your religious law (šarīʿa) because we find that there are two kinds of religious injunctions (aḥkām šarʿiyya). The first is from the Torah: “Whoever strikes you, strike him.” The second is from the Gospel: “Whoever strikes you on your right cheek, present him your left one.” You see that the second is superior to the first, and you will not find any other third injunction that is not already included in these two.47 Even if Paul of Antioch had articulated it in less confrontational terms, this reduction of all religious dispensations to either the law of justice or the law of grace, as instituted by Moses and Christ within a general scheme of progressive perfection, left Islam in a theologically awkward position, something that his Muslim readers immediately sensed.48 At best, Muḥammad’s religion would be a later version of the Mosaic dispensation, meant to bring refractory, pagan Arabs to knowledge of the one God and to discipline them to imitate God’s retributive justice, hoping that one day they will be ready for the revelation of God’s grace. Surely, this was better than excluding Islam from God’s designs, yet it was far below Islam’s self-understanding as the final and clearest expression of God’s offer of guidance to humankind. Not surprisingly, all three Muslim respondents to the Letter to a Muslim Friend specifically address Paul of Antioch’s argument on the two types of revealed law, and thus merit brief summary here.

47  H  ammers for Crosses, § 6. 48  A similarly non-polemical use of the dichotomy between šarīʿat al-ʿadl and šarīʿat al-faḍl is found in the untitled appendix that the little-known twelfth-century (or perhaps earlier) Coptic author Yūḥannā ibn Mīna wrote to the treatise Kayfiyyat idrāk ḥaqīqat al-diyāna (“How to discern the truth of a religion”), by the Nestorian scholar Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq (d. 873). According to Yūḥannā ibn Mīna, revealed laws are reducible to two types—namely, the law of justice, which was brought by Moses and the prophets who followed him, and the superior law of grace, which was instituted by Christ. The law of grace perfects and partly abrogates what preceded it. The law of justice was exclusive to the Israelites, since the Gentile nations were capable of prescribing for themselves a way of conduct based on justice, unlike the law of grace, which is beyond human imagination. On this author, see Mark N. Swanson, “Yuḥannā ibn Mīnā,” in CMR 3, 720–23. The Arabic text of the appendix is found in Sbath, Vingt traités, 186–200. The passage on the two types of šarīʿa is on pages 196–98.

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Muslim Responses to Paul of Antioch

After summarising Paul of Antioch’s argument,49 al-Qarāfī begins his reply by stating that the law of Moses was an expression of both divine justice (ʿadl) and divine grace ( faḍl), and not only of justice, as the Christian author had claimed. In fact, he goes on to say that it is rare for pure justice or pure grace to occur in this world; God reserves these for the inhabitants of hell and paradise, respectively.50 The Mosaic law also contained elements of divine grace, such as the prohibition of homicide, the wrongful appropriation of the property of others, unlawful sexual intercourse, and false accusation of unlawful sexual relations, and its permission of marriage, certain types of meat, fruits, and other things. According to al-Qarāfī, Jesus confirmed these prescriptions, adding only admonitions (mawāʿiẓ) and the commandment to be humble, meek, and compassionate. He did not bring a new šarīʿa that can be said to be “the law of faḍl,” but followed the Torah.51 Actually, al-Qarāfī continues, if a revealed law could claim to embody perfection, it would be Muḥammad’s šarīʿa, which does not follow or imitate other revealed laws.52 Al-Qarāfī does not examine the claim that Jesus’s command to love one’s enemies is a revelation of God’s own perfection and an invitation to be like God. On this particular point, Ibn Taymiyya’s reply is more developed.53 He begins by arguing that revealed laws are actually of three kinds: (1) the law of justice alone, (2) the law of grace alone, and (3) the law which combines both justice 49  See The Splendid Replies, 154–55. 50  Nonetheless, being an Ašʿarite in his theological persuasion, al-Qarāfī in keen to emphasise that God, who is the possessor of all, can freely dispose of any creature in whichever way he pleases, without ever being unjust, for injustice by definition can only be done to what belongs to someone else. See The Splendid Replies, 156. 51  See The Splendid Replies, 161–62. In a later passage (p. 390), al-Qarāfī observes that the Gospel consisted only of admonitions and not of a new religious code, quoting in support Jesus’s words: “It is easier for heaven and earth to pass away, than for one stroke of a letter in the law to be dropped” (Luke 16:17 nrsv), by which Jesus meant the prescriptions of the Torah. 52  See The Splendid Replies, 163. Al-Qarāfī’s reply includes a brief rebuttal (he has already dealt with these points elsewhere in his work) of the proof of the incarnation that was included in Paul of Antioch’s argument on the two types of religious law. Al-Qarāfī concedes that God is bountiful (ǧawād), but God’s bountifulness cannot justify that which is impossible per se, such as that God’s Word should leave the divine essence and be transferred to Mary. 53  Ibn Taymiyya’s reply to the argument on the two types of revealed law extends over several pages and is structured in twelve sections. See Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:57– 113; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 350–69. Here, I offer only a summary presentation of the most relevant points.

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and grace by prescribing justice while inviting people to be gracious. “This last one is the most perfect of the three,” writes Ibn Taymiyya, “and it is the law of the Qurʾān.”54 In fact, according to him, both the Torah and the Gospel prescribed justice and called people to show graciousness; however, because of the historical circumstances, each of these laws emphasised one aspect. Ibn Taymiyya makes the point several times over that Jesus did not oblige people to forgive the wrongdoer, but only invited them to do so. Obligating the victims to forgive their oppressors would amount to a second act of injustice committed against them.55 In short, all the revealed laws forbid wrongdoing, prescribe justice, and invite people to show graciousness and goodness, but these three elements are present in the Qurʾān in a more perfect way.56 Like al-Qarāfī before him, Ibn Taymiyya emphasises that the Gospel did not in fact bring with it an independent šarīʿa, in the sense of a complete set of regulations governing the lives of believers. Jesus only allowed people some of what had been forbidden to them by Moses and invited them to goodness, forgiveness, and renunciation in this life. But, Ibn Taymiyya insists, all of this is also present in the Qurʾān in a more perfect way.57 So even if later Jews and Christians had not distorted the original message of Moses and Jesus, the religions of these two prophets were destined nonetheless to be abrogated by Muḥammad’s revelations.58 In another section of his long rejoinder, Ibn Taymiyya says that the law of the Torah is primarily severity (šidda), while that of the Gospel is leniency (līn). Instead, the law of the Qurʾān is moderate (muʿtadila), combining both of these qualities. That is why the Qurʾān describes Muḥammad’s followers as “a middle community” (Q 2:143), “harsh towards the disbelievers and compassionate towards each other” (Q 48:29). According to Ibn Taymiyya, these two qualities—severity and leniency, harshness and compassion—were embodied by Muḥammad, who in one of his reported sayings described himself as both “the prophet of mercy (nabī al-raḥma) and the prophet of the apocalyptic battle (nabī al-malḥama).”59 As will be remembered, Paul of Antioch had claimed not only that faḍl should be considered a more perfect quality than justice, but that the religion of grace required God’s special intervention and could not have been instituted 54  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:58; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 351. 55  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:110–11; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 368. 56  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:62. 57  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:72–73; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 355. 58  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:73; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 355. 59  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:79–80; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 357.

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by a human prophet. Ibn Taymiyya, of course, rejects this, arguing that God is no less the legislator of justice in the Torah than he is the legislator of grace in the Gospel.60 Furthermore, if anything, the law of justice would be more deservingly ascribed to God, for while the command to pardon and do good is within everyone’s reach, only a few individuals are capable of truly judging people with justice. As for al-Dimašqī, while accepting the dichotomy between ʿadl and faḍl, he denies that these two divine attributes should be identified with the laws of Moses and of Jesus, respectively. Rather, they are to be associated with God’s will (irāda) and with God’s command (amr). According to this Ṣūfī scholar, God has two universal, general, and comprehensive laws: (1) God’s volitional law (šarīʿatuhu al-irādiyya) and (2) God’s commanding law (šarīʿatuhu alamriyya).61 God’s volitional law comprehends God’s decrees with respect to the existence and the material support of the world and everything in it. This law, which encompasses all creatures, originates from God’s lordship.62 And so God brings forth human beings according to the decrees of this law, which determine “what they should do, say and produce, the good, bad, benefit, harm, belief, unbelief, obedience, disobedience, success, misery, wealth, poverty, strength, weakness, health, sickness, bodily build, personal character, knowledge, action, confession, religion, opinion, creed, death and life.”63 This is the true law of faḍl, claims al-Dimašqī, and not the Christian religion, as alleged. He does not say it explicitly, but his point is clear enough: because God does not owe us anything, whatever we receive from God, beginning with our very existence, is unmerited favour.

60  Ibn Taymiyya, The Correct Reply, 5:107–8; A Muslim Theologian’s Response, 367. 61  R  eply to the Letter from the People of Cyprus, § 89. Let us briefly mention that behind alDimašqī’s distinction between God’s volitional law and God’s commanding law is the qurʾānic distinction between God’s creation (ḫalq) and God’s command (amr) (Q 7:54), which triggered much debate among Muslim theologians. As Schwarb explains, the Ašʿarites typically insisted on the fundamental distinction between God’s amr and his creative will. While the later comprehends all existent things—including all human acts, good or evil—God can, in fact, command acts which he does not will to be carried out. The opposing view, held by the Muʿtazilites, was that God commands only what he wills and that God wills only what is good. See Gregor M. Schwarb, “Amr (theology),” in EI3. See also Jon Hoover, Ibn Taymiyya’s Perpetual Optimism (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 103–35, ch. 3: “God’s Creation and God’s Command.” 62  Or, more exactly, “from the Presence of Lordship” (ḥaḍrat al-rubūbiyya). On the use of the word ḥaḍra (“presence”) in Ṣūfī parlance, see Earle H. Waugh, “Ḥaḍra in Ṣūfism,” in EI3. 63  Reply to the Letter from the People of Cyprus, § 89 (trans. Ebied and Thomas).

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As for God’s commanding law, which al-Dimašqī describes as the law of ʿadl, it originates from God’s divinity.64 This is the law brought by the prophets and envoys as a way for humankind to follow. It is promulgated for those with understanding, and all that it contains can be confirmed by reason. The law of Moses and the law of Jesus are two instances of God’s commanding law and therefore expressions of divine justice. Al-Dimašqī concludes: These two laws [i.e., God’s volitional law and God’s commanding law] have been instituted by God, may He be exalted, as justice and grace from the beginning of creation to its returning [to the Creator], not the portion you have condensed down from what Moses and Jesus each delivered, nor what you have schemingly conceived in saying, “There is no need for anyone to be sent after these two,” meaning to repudiate what was delivered by our Prophet Muḥammad (may God bless him and give him peace).65 6

Concluding Reflections

To sum up and conclude, Paul of Antioch’s argument regarding the two types of revealed law challenged his Muslim readers to reflect in turn on their own understandings of religious history—that is, to think theologically of Islam alongside other monotheistic traditions and to respond to the Melkite bishop’s implicit question: What does Muḥammad’s prophetic message bring to those to whom the divine Word had already been addressed? We have seen how all three Muslim respondents to Paul of Antioch’s Letter to the Muslim Friend— al-Qarāfī, Ibn Taymiyya, and al-Dimašqī—specifically addressed the Melkite bishop’s argument. The differences between their responses are subtle and significant and could be considered different expressions of an Islamic theology of religions, which each assert Islam’s superiority over Christianity. These figures show, as does Paul of Antioch, that medieval Muslim-Christian polemics deserve the attention not only of historians, but also of theologians and, more generally, of anyone interested in the complex processes of religious thinking and identity formation, which always include moments of contradistinction from other religious groups.

64  Lit. “from the Presence of Divinity” (ḥaḍrat al-ilāhiyya). 65  R  eply to the Letter from the People of Cyprus, § 89 (trans. Ebied and Thomas, modified).

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Sarrió Cucarella, Diego R. “Corresponding across Religious Borders: The Letter of alQūṭī.” Islamochristiana 43 (2017): 149–71. Sarrió Cucarella, Diego R. Muslim-Christian Polemics across the Mediterranean: The Splendid Replies of Shihāb al-Dīn al-Qarāfī (d. 684/1285). Leiden: Brill, 2015. Schwarb, Gregor. “The Coptic and Syriac Receptions of Neo-Ashʿarite Theology.” Pages 547–66 in The Oxford Handbook of Islamic Theology. Edited by Sabine Schmidtke. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Starr, Peter J. “The Epistle to Bišr b. Finḥās (Maqālah ʿamilahā ilā Bišr b. Finḥās) of Ibn Zurʿah (d. A.H. 398 / A.D. 1008): Edition, Translation, and Commentary.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2000. Starr, Peter. “Ibn Zurʿa, Abu ʿAli ʿIsa Ishaq.” Pages 376–77 in Medieval Islamic Civilization: An Encyclopedia. Edited by Josef W. Meri. New York: Routledge 2006. Swanson, Mark N. “Yuḥannā ibn Mīnā.” Pages 720–23 in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 3 (1050–1200). Edited by David Thomas and Alex Mallett. Leiden: Brill, 2011. Tartar, George. Dialogue islamo-chrétien sous le calife al-Ma‌ʾmūn (813–834). Les épîtres d’Al-Hāshimī et Al-Kindī. Paris: Nouvelles éditions latines, 1985. Teule, Herman G. B. “Paul of Antioch’s Attitude towards the Jews and the Muslims: His Letter to the Nations and the Jews.” Pages 91–110 in The Three Rings: Textual Studies in the Historical Trialogue of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Edited by Barbara Roggema, Marcel Poorthuis, and Pim Valkenberg. Leuven: Peeters, 2005. Thomas, David. “Abī Ṭālib al-Dimashqī.” Pages 798–801 in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 4 (1200–1350). Edited by David Thomas and Alex Mallett. Leiden: Brill, 2012. Thomas, David. “Apologetic and Polemic in the Letter from Cyprus and Ibn Taymiyya’s Jawāb al-ṣaḥīḥ li-man baddala dīn al-Masīḥ.” Pages 247–68 in Ibn Taymiyya and His Times. Edited by Yossef Rapoport and Shahab Ahmed. Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2010. Thomas, David. “Changing Attitudes of Arab Christians towards Islam.” Transformation 22 (2005): 10–19. Thomas, David. “Christian-Muslim Misunderstanding in the Fourteenth Century: The Correspondence between Christians in Cyprus and Muslims in Damascus.” Pages 13–30 in Towards a Cultural History of the Mamluk Era. Edited by Mahmoud Haddad, Arnin Heinemann, John L. Meloy, and Souad Slim. Beirut: Orient-Institut; Würzburg: Ergon, 2010. Thomas, David. “Idealism and Intransigence: A Christian-Muslim Encounter in Early Mamluk Times.” Mamlūk Studies Review 13, no. 2 (2009): 85–103. Thomas, David. “Paul of Antioch.” Pages 78–82 in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 4 (1200–1350). Edited by David Thomas and Alex Mallett. Leiden: Brill, 2012.

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Thomas, David. “Paul of Antioch’s Letter to a Muslim Friend and The Letter from Cyprus.” Pages 208–11 in Syrian Christians under Islam: The First Thousand Years. Edited by David Thomas. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Thomas, David. “The Letter from Cyprus or Letters from Cyprus?” Pages 263–74 in Cultures in Contact: Transfer of Knowledge in the Mediterranean Context: Selected Papers. Edited by Sofía Torallas Tovar and Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala. Cordoba and Beirut: CNERU and CEDRAC, Oriens Academic, 2013. Thomson, Herbert F. “Four treatises by ʿĪsā ibn Zurʿa, tenth century Jacobite Christian of Baghdad.” PhD diss., Columbia University, 1952. Treiger, Alexander. “The Christology of the Letter from the People of Cyprus.” Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 65 (2013): 21–48. Wilde, Clare Elena. Approaches to the Qurʾān in Early Christian Arabic Texts (750–1258 C.E.). Bethesda, MD: Academica Press, 2014. Yousif, Ephrem-Isa. La floraison des philosophes syriaques. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003.

part 5 Modern Cinematic Reflection

∵

chapter 18

Writing History with Lightning: D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance and the Imagined Past James C. Oleson In 1916, the film director D. W. (David Wark) Griffith debuted the feature film Intolerance, alternatively subtitled A Sun Play of the Ages or Love’s Struggle throughout the Ages. It was an epic on a hitherto unimagined scale. With a run time of three or three and a half hours, Intolerance told not one, but four historical stories: (1) an ancient story, recounting the fall of Babylon (539 BCE); (2) a sacred story, culminating in the crucifixion of Jesus Christ (27 CE); (3) a medieval story, depicting the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre of French Huguenots (1572 CE); and (4) a modern story (1914 CE), involving a fictional representation of the Ludlow Massacre and the struggle of a young couple against ruthless capitalists and urban gangsters. The four narratives are dialectically crosscut, drawn together with the visual refrain of an eternal mother rocking a cradle. The costumes and sets of Intolerance are detailed, intricate, and majestic—rivalling the ambition of the film’s story. Its budget was the biggest Hollywood had ever seen. But Intolerance was too long for its audiences and too confusing. The film was a financial failure, bankrupting its production company and ruining Griffith.1 But although Intolerance did not succeed at the box office in the way Birth of a Nation, Griffith’s controversial 1914 film, had done, critical acclaim for Intolerance has continued to grow over time, while Birth of a Nation increasingly draws repudiation and scorn. Intolerance has been ranked by the American Film Institute as the 49th greatest American film of all time,2 listed as one of the 45 greatest films by the Vatican,3 and critics have compared it favourably to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and Michelangelo’s

1  William M. Drew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance: Its Genesis and Its Vision (London: McFarland & Co., 1986), 12. 2  American Film Institute, “AFI’S 100 Years … 100 movies—10th Anniversary Edition,” http:// www.afi.com/100years/movies10.aspx. 3  United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, “Vatican Best Films List,” http://web.archive. org/web/20131029191543/http://old.usccb.org/movies/vaticanfilms.shtml. Intolerance is one of the 15 films that were selected in 2005 as exemplars of the category values, to celebrate 100 years of cinema. The other categories are religion and art.

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paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.4 Of course, the film is important as a landmark piece of cinema, but it is also noteworthy for historians and theologians, since it has shaped—and continues to shape—contemporary understandings of ecclesiastical and secular struggles for power.5 This chapter begins with a discussion not of Intolerance, but of Griffith’s previous film, Birth of a Nation, which is essential to an understanding of the genesis of Griffith’s Intolerance. Second, the various versions of Intolerance are identified, and film historians’ struggle to identify an authoritative cut of the film is explained. Their endeavour has parallels with textual scholars who, confronted with discrepant manuscripts, search for an urtext. Third, each of the four narrative arcs are briefly described, along with the significance of the motif of the mother rocking the cradle. Instead of telling these stories seriatim, they are crosscut, moving back and forth across time and place to emphasise common themes between the stories. This modern form of film editing is analysed in the fourth part of the chapter. Fifth, the scholarly and artistic foundations of Intolerance are explored. Although the film is not presented as a documentary, Griffith used historical source materials in conceiving and realising his opus. Sixth, the financial and critical reception of Intolerance is briefly described. Seventh, the central claim of Intolerance—that hatred and intolerance are the antitheses of love and charity—is examined in some detail. Griffith’s suggestion that seemingly benign interventions can produce evil and misery as unintended consequences is assessed in the light of Robert K. Merton’s article, “The 4  Theodore Huff, Intolerance: The Film by David Wark Griffith: Shot-by-Shot Analysis (New York: MoMA, 1966). 5  See David Chidester, Authentic fakes: Religion and American popular culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) 30: “In American popular culture, the secular and commercial productions of Hollywood films have played a powerful role in shaping public perceptions of religion.” The scale of Hollywood’s influence on the public understanding of religion is difficult to estimate, but—writing about an analogous field (the influence of popular culture on public perceptions of crime)—Rafter and Brown suggest that if you were to represent influence by the relative size of circles in a Venn diagram, the sphere of academic criminology could be represented by a “pinhead” while “popular culture and its ideas about crime” would “fill the page.” Nicole Rafter and Michelle Brown, Criminology goes to the movies: Crime theory and popular culture (New York: NYU Press, 2011), 3. Given that Intolerance played for audiences who were “almost illiterate” (Claire M. S. Dupré la Tour, “Intertitles in Intolerance,” in The Griffith Project, Vol. 9, Films Produced in 1916–18, ed. Paolo Cherchi Usai [London: British Film Institute, 2005]: 82), it is safe to say that Griffith’s Intolerance exposed more members of the public to images of ancient Babylon and sixteenth century France, as well as ancient Judaea, than all of the academic archaeology, history, and theology of these eras. The film’s critical acclaim perpetuates its enduring influence. Modern viewers who have never read Herodotus or his description of the Babylonian marriage market nevertheless have glimpsed it in Griffith’s representation.

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Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action.”6 Finally, a brief conclusion recapitulates the key points of the chapter and argues that Intolerance deserves to be studied by scholars of history and religion, as well as by film historians and media studies researchers. 1

Birth of a Nation and the Genesis of Intolerance

When Birth of a Nation premiered in 1915, it appeared under the title The Clansman.7 Based on Thomas Dixon’s 1905 novel The Clansman: A Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan,8 Griffith’s epic film chronicles the intertwined lives of the (Northern) Stoneman family and the (Southern) Cameron family during the American Civil War and the subsequent Reconstruction. The film was controversial because of its racist depiction of African Americans (who were represented—often by white actors in blackface—as stupid, dissolute, and violent) and its sympathetic, even romantic depiction of the Ku Klux Klan (which appeared as a necessary corrective undertaken by Southern gentlemen to redress the usurpation of Northern carpetbaggers and lazy blacks). Because of these negative and inaccurate portrayals, the film was met with disapprobation by individuals and organisations.9 In particular, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) demanded that it be censored. At a screening in Boston, a skirmish between black protestors and police led to a handful of arrests; soon thereafter, more than a thousand protestors— black and white—gathered at the Massachusetts State House to call for a ban on Griffith’s “immoral” film.10 But the accounts of Birth of a Nation stirring mob violence and inciting controversy wherever it played are hyperbolic. Although some Negroes and a few vocal whites disapproved of the film— the more militant of them indeed did try to stop its exhibition—The Birth of a Nation when it first came out in both North and South was generally extolled for being an accurate and stirring dramatization of America’s past and was almost universally praised by film reviewers, editorial 6  R obert K. Merton, “The Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action,” American Sociological Review 1, no. 6 (1936): 894. 7  Arthur Lennig, “Myth and Fact: The Reception of The Birth of a Nation,” Film History 16, no. 2 (2004): 117. 8  Thomas Dixon, The Clansman: A Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan (New York: Doubleday Page & Co., 1905). 9  Lennig, “Myth and Fact,” 120–37. 10  Ibid., 129.

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writers, historians, clergymen, politicians, union leaders, socialists, and the public at large. These viewers seemed to have had no trouble with its content and accepted it with few reservations.11 Indeed, perhaps in part because of the controversy that surrounded it, Birth of a Nation was a wildly successful film. The film, which had cost a seemingly extravagant $110,000 to produce, generated upwards of $20 million in revenues at the box office—a figure that might actually be closer to $50 million or even $100 million.12 It was also one of the first films—although not the first, as is sometimes reported—to be screened at the White House.13 It also was screened at the US Supreme Court.14 Such displays were powerful tacit endorsements of the film. After viewing it, President Woodrow Wilson purportedly commented, “It is like writing history with lightning. And my only regret is that it is all so terribly true.”15 The quote, although one of the more famous utterances attributed to Wilson (along with “making the world safe for democracy”), is likely apocryphal—at least in part.16 But the first part of the quote might have inspired Griffith to write another historical story—Intolerance—with lightning. Certainly the attacks on Birth of a Nation roused in Griffith a compulsion to assert the freedom of the press and to rebuff censorship and intolerance. In 1916, Griffith published The Rise and Fall of Free Speech in America,17 a brief book about the importance of free expression, peppered with cartoons. Repeating the phrase “intolerance: the root of all censorship” throughout its 60 pages, Griffith points out that intolerance “murdered Socrates,”18 “martyred Joan of Arc,”19 “put Columbus in chains,”20 “caused Kishenef Massacres,”21 and— anticipating two of the four intersecting narratives of Intolerance—that 11  Ibid., 137. 12  James Monaco, How to Read a Film, 4th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 262. 13  Lennig, “Myth and Fact,” 120. 14  Michael Rogin, “‘The Sword Became a Flashing Vision’: DW Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation,” Representations 9 (1985): 154. 15  M  ark E. Benbow, “Birth of a Quotation: Woodrow Wilson and ‘Like Writing History with Lightning’,” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 9, no. 4 (2010): 509. 16  After tracing this quotation and eight more of its variants over 90 years, Benbow suggests that Wilson might indeed have said something to D. W. Griffith to the effect of writing history with lightning. The second half of the quotation, however, is unlikely to have originated with Wilson, and might have been created by Thomas Dixon. See ibid., 528. 17  David Wark Griffith, The Rise and Fall of Free Speech in America (Los Angeles: n.p., 1916). 18  Ibid., 4. 19  Ibid., 16. 20  Ibid., 12. 21  Ibid., 22.

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Intolerance Resumes Its Time-Honored Mask Source: David Wark Griffith, The Rise and Fall of Free Speech in America, Los Angeles: n.p., 1916, p. 3, downloaded from https://archive.org/details/ riseandfallfree00grifgoog

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“intolerance crucified the Christ”22 and “destroyed Assyria’s civilization.”23 The cartoon that opens The Rise and Fall of Free Speech in America neatly embodies these assertions and heralds the vision of Griffith’s 1916 masterpiece, Intolerance: Love’s Struggle throughout the Ages (see Figure 18.1). 2

The Multiplicity of Intolerance

Of course, to speak of Intolerance is problematic—it is to grasp at confetti. There is, after all, not one version of the film, but a multitude. First, there is the Intolerance that was registered for copyright on 24 June 1916, after about two months of film editing.24 It consists of a 53-page album containing 2203 photogram clips—one image per shot in the edited film—including 309 text-based intertitles.25 Second, there is the Intolerance that was shown on 4 August 1916 at its first preview screening in Riverside, California.26 It played under the title The Downfall of All Nations—or—Hatred the Oppressor, and the director listed in the credits was not Griffith, but Dante Guilio. Ten days later, it screened again in Pomona, California. Audience members who attended these previews complained that the rhythm of the film was too fast, and that the film’s intertitles were too lengthy and too pedantic.27 Many of the intertitles dealt with fine details of history, which meant Griffith was “asking an audience, some of whom are almost illiterate, to absorb points beyond their grasp.”28 In response, Griffith made extensive changes, thereby creating another Intolerance and screening two more previews before assembling a final cut.29 The negative for this Intolerance was stored in California and differed again from the Intolerance that officially premiered in New York City on 5 September 1916. The debut version of Intolerance was lost; in 1989, however, the New York Museum of Modern Art and the United States Library of Congress created a reconstruction of the New York debut, using Joseph Carl Breil’s original score as a key to its substance and pacing.30 Some hailed the reconstruction as a triumph of 22  Ibid., 8. 23  Ibid., 26. 24  Russell Merritt, “DW Griffith’s ‘Intolerance’: Reconstructing an Unattainable Text,” Film History 4, no. 4 (1990): 342. 25  Dupré la Tour, “Intertitles in Intolerance,” 82. 26  Ibid. 27  Ibid. 28  Ibid., 83, quoting Joseph Henabery, a costume and set researcher on Intolerance. 29  Merritt, “Unattainable Text,” 343. 30  G  illian B. Anderson, “DW Griffith’s Intolerance: Revisiting a Reconstructed Text,” Film History: An International Journal 25, no. 3 (2013): 60.

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scholarship,31 while others mocked the conservation effort for using an overly slow frame rate; relying upon awkward correctives, such as freeze-frames and step printing; and perversely “helping to rescue the film from its own creator, putting back what he has taken out, disassembling his changes, working to identify and prune out everything not shown to New York first nighters.”32 Russell Merritt argues that the resources invested in the approximation of the premiere might have been much better spent on the creation of a standard print.33 Long after its premiere, Griffith continued to edit Intolerance as he presented it—in new iteration after new iteration—during a 25-week United States road show that stretched from 5 September 1916 to 27 February 1917.34 Along the way, Griffith added new footage—the racy “Temple of Love” and “Dance of Tammuz” sequences, for example—and continued to tinker with adjustments to the intertitles. Claire Dupré la Tour likely understates the matter when she writes, “It is complicated to retrace precisely the modifications he made during the film’s road show.”35 Additional versions of Intolerance then appeared after the 1917 print of the film was distributed internationally—to Cairo, Copenhagen, London, Rome, and Rotterdam.36 Although the war blockade prevented the distribution of Intolerance to most European nations, bootleg copies nevertheless found their way into Germany, Russia, Mexico, and Japan, where they were further edited and modified.37 Russell Merritt explains, “What happened to these prints when they finally reached their targets and went through the grinders of local exhibition customs, provides a juicy tangent and need concern us only in passing. All evidence points to drastically altered editions that were reedited not only by foreign censor bodies, but also by individual foreign distributors and exhibitors as well.”38 Intolerance also continued to undergo changes domestically. In late 1918, Griffith used the negative for Intolerance—using two of the four story lines (the Babylonian story and the modern story)—to produce two new roadshow film attractions. The first of these, The Fall of Babylon, premiered on

31  Ibid., 61. 32  Merritt, “Unattainable Text,” 338. 33  Dupré la Tour, “Intertitles in Intolerance,” 83. 34  Ibid. 35  Ibid. 36  Merritt, “Unattainable Text,” 350. 37  Ibid. 38  Ibid.

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19 January 1919.39 The Babylonian sequences from Intolerance were used, along with a new prologue, and the film sequences were interspersed with live singers, dancers, and a narrator dressed as a Babylonian priest.40 The second feature Griffith carved out of Intolerance (using footage from the modern story) was entitled The Mother and the Law.41 However, because the negative for Intolerance was used to cut these new stories at the same time that foreign orders for Intolerance continued to pour in, and because orders went unfilled, a pervasive narrative emerged: that Griffith had butchered his masterpiece, making compulsive edits to such a degree that it was impossible for him to reassemble his original.42 In actuality, after Griffith finished his Fall of Babylon and Mother and the Law projects in 1921, he was able to edit a new tenth-anniversary edition of Intolerance, which premiered in 1926, and which is today the best-known and most widely studied version of the film.43 The protean nature of Intolerance is of interest to many film historians, but it should also be of interest to historians, theologians, and other scholars who study texts, for within the tangled chronology of Intolerance’s distribution lie difficult, thorny questions about the authenticity and authority of documents. Griffith’s reliance on intertitles for audiences who were “almost illiterate” presents a mirror image for the case of an author who distils an oral account into written form. Griffith had to simplify his text, allowing the imagery of Intolerance to tell his story. For authors who move in the other direction, what is gained in collapsing the spoken word into written characters, and what is lost? As Intolerance was distributed around the world, through channels both legitimate and clandestine, different audiences saw different versions of the film. The good people of Riverside who viewed The Downfall of All Nations saw a very different film from the Intolerance New Yorkers saw on opening night. And they in turn saw a different movie than those New Yorkers who, generations later, saw the 1989 reconstruction. And all of them saw something different from the bootleg copies in Germany, Mexico, and Russia, with intertitles translated into the local languages. It is only slightly hyperbolic to imagine Intolerance as a tower of Babel, broken and scattered around the world in unintelligible, incommensurable forms. The cities in which Intolerance played can be likened to communities possessing variant manuscripts of philosophical or religious texts. What did Griffith intend? Which versions of the film can rightly 39  Ibid., 351. 40  Ibid. 41  Ibid. 42  Ibid. 43  Dupré la Tour, “Intertitles in Intolerance,” 84.

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be attributed to him as the “author”? The previews, released under a different title and attributed to an imaginary director? Or were these mere drafts of his final product? What about the 5 September 1916 premiere, or the slightly modified version that he screened in the next city on his road show? And what about the 1989 reconstruction? Do the Museum of Modern Art and the Library of Congress possess the authority to name D. W. Griffith as Intolerance’s posthumous author? Indeed, the contemporary focus on the 1989 reconstruction might illustrate the processes by which some texts become prioritised and privileged—canonical—while others are relegated to the margins of history. All of this—the proliferation of versions, the question of authorship, and the search for an authoritative, standard version—has occurred in less than a century. For scholars who work with (often fragmentary) records from late antiquity or the ancient world, the challenges are much greater, but the pluriform history of Intolerance demonstrates how quickly assertions of authorship and authority can become problematic. 3

The Story Arcs of Intolerance

There are certainly differences between the available versions of Intolerance. Slight differences in the speed at which the film is projected produce sizable discrepancies in run times, and as noted above, there are differences between versions in terms of footage and intertitles. But the versions have much more in common than they differ. All the versions are silent. All have a musical score (though not all the versions use Breil’s score). All employ intertitle cards to provide background and narrative explanation. And all the versions are epic, both in terms of the length of the film—cuts of Intolerance range from 163 minutes (the version released by Public Domain Flicks) to 210 minutes (the 1989 reconstruction print, making the film three times longer than the average feature film in 1916)44—and in terms of the scale and grandeur of its narratives. All the available versions of Intolerance recount four stories: an ancient story (the fall of Babylon), a sacred story (the crucifixion of Christ), a medieval story (the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre of French Huguenots), and a modern story (a variation on the Ludlow Massacre and its unintended consequences). Originally, each story had a different tint: grey-green for the ancient 44  Examining the run time of all the films in the Internet Movie Database reveals that the mean length of films in 1916 was approximately 63 minutes. See Randy Olson, “Movies Aren’t Much Longer Than They Used to Be,” http://www.randalolson.com/2014/01/25/ movies-arent-actually-much-longer-than-they-used-to-be/.

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story, blue for the sacred story, sepia for the medieval story, and amber for the modern story. The stories are knitted together with more than 50 crosscutting transitions that accelerate, becoming faster and faster during the second act, sweeping the stories to a frenetic climax. “No other film has ever matched the dizzy exhilaration of the film’s final 20 minutes, in which its four sequences are crosscut at a constantly increasing, ever more alarming tempo.”45 The stories are further drawn together via the recurring motif of an eternal mother rocking a cradle. Each of these five elements are described briefly below. 3.1 The Ancient Story Griffith’s vision of the fall of Babylon is the most dazzling of the four sequences and—like the modern story—was adapted as a 1919 stand-alone production. The sets for Babylon are the stuff of Hollywood legend: although the walls Griffith constructed were not 300 feet high (as suggested by an intertitle card),46 they were 90 feet tall—the height of an eight-storey building—and were wide enough at their summits to accommodate a chariot drawn by two horses.47 Motifs of lions, eagle-headed creatures, winged bulls, and elephants adorned the set. Thousands of extras—the American Movie Channel numbers them at 16,00048—crowded the spectacular scene of Belshazzar’s feast. After filming, the Babylon set stood for years near the corner of Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, until it fell into disrepair and was eventually dismantled. The set, however, was such an iconic Hollywood landmark that it was later replicated in the central courtyard of the modern Hollywood and Highland Center.49 The story recounts the 539 BCE victory of Cyrus the Great over Prince Belshazzar and the people of Babylon. Belshazzar is depicted in glowing terms: as a humane and peaceful ruler and a staunch defender of religious liberty. When the walls of Babylon are attacked by Cyrus and the Persian armies, Belshazzar prays to Ishtar, who aids the faithful. Cyrus’s siege towers are repelled by a fire-breathing engine akin to a modern tank. But the jealous High Priest of Bel-Marduk, Ishtar’s rival god, betrays Babylon to the Persians. An intertitle describes his act as “the greatest treason in all history by which a civilization of countless ages was destroyed and a universal written language (the cuneiform) was made to become an unknown cipher on the face of the 45  Vincent Canby, “Seeing Intolerance is Hard Work,” New York Times, 29 October 1989, H15. 46  The card read, “300 feet in height and broad enough for the passing of chariots.” 47  Drew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, 59. 48  Tim Dirks, “Filmsite Movie Review: Intolerance (1916),” http://www.filmsite.org/into.html. 49  Jan Goggans and Aaron Difranco, The Pacific Region: The Greenwood Encyclopedia of American Regional Cultures (London: Greenwood Press, 2004), 189.

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Belshazzar’s feast. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story

earth.” Thus in the second act, after Belshazzar and his Princess Beloved celebrate Babylon’s victory with a great feast, he is surprised by another Persian attack. Mountain Girl, a quirky tomboy who adores Belshazzar, tries valiantly to raise the alarm, but she is too late. With only a few soldiers, Belshazzar cannot defend Babylon against the Persian hordes, and he commits suicide upon his throne to avoid the humiliation of capture. 3.2 The Sacred Story The account of Jesus Christ, whom Griffith calls “the Nazarene” (27 CE), is the briefest of the four story lines. Unlike the other three stories in Intolerance, the sacred story does not incorporate a drama of fictional characters (e.g., Mountain Girl) against its historical backdrop. On the contrary, it recounts only a few episodes from the gospels: the denunciation of Christ by the Pharisees, the wedding at Cana, the salvation of an adulterous woman, and images from the way of the cross and the crucifixion. As Drew notes, the sacred story is used only as a foil for the modern story, “to comment on the injustice and intolerance of the religious establishment in Christ’s time as it is paralleled with

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The crucifixion of Christ. Still image from Intolerance, the sacred story

the self-righteous morality in twentieth century America.”50 When one of the Pharisees gives hubris-filled thanks (“Oh Lord, I thank thee that I am better than other men. Amen.”), it enables audiences to better see the same smug self-satisfaction in the modern story. Although the sets for the sacred story are neither massive nor ornate, they nevertheless contain some very powerful imagery. Griffith’s vision of Calvary, for example, combines inky darkness and brilliant lighting to terrific effect. 3.3 The Medieval Story The medieval story weaves a doomed Romeo-and-Juliet-style romance into the historic warp and weft of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre (1572 CE). The wellsprings of intolerance presented in this epoch are the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, and her son, King Charles IX of France. The opulence and grandeur of the medieval story’s sets and costumes rival those of the ancient story. Afraid of losing power to the leader of the Protestant Huguenots, Admiral Coligny, Catherine, and other advisors urge Charles to slaughter the Huguenots. When Charles refuses to kill his subjects, Catherine warns him, “We must destroy or be destroyed.”51 Charles vacillates, mad with anxiety, and when he 50  D  rew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, 23. 51  In a New York Times essay on climate change, Timothy Snyder, Professor of History at Yale University, began with similar zero-sum game thinking: “Before he fired the shot, the Einsatzgruppe commander lifted the Jewish child in the air and said, ‘You must die

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The Court of King Charles IX. Still image from Intolerance, the medieval story

signs the order, he does so with vicious zeal. “By God’s death, since you wish it, kill them all! Kill them all! Let not one escape to upbraid me.” Upon his order, all the Huguenot houses are marked with chalk crosses upon their doors, and on St. Bartholomew’s Day, soldiers attempt to kill all the Protestant inhabitants so marked. Against this historic backdrop, Griffith invents the story of a young Huguenot couple, Brown Eyes and Prosper Latour, who are to be married on St. Bartholomew’s Day. While royalist soldiers kill Protestants across Paris, Latour—who has secured badges of safety that allow him to travel unharmed—struggles to reach the marked home of Brown Eyes and her family. But, like Mountain Girl trying to warn Babylon, he is too late. A lecherous mercenary has already attacked and killed her. After cradling her in his arms, Latour carries her body into the street and demands that the soldiers shoot so that we can live.’ As the killing proceeded, other Germans rationalized the killing of Jewish children in the same way: them or us”; Timothy Snyder, “The Next Genocide,” New York Times, 13 September 2015, SR7. Construing a situation in terms self-defence can be a way to justify even extreme acts of violence, a viewpoint which finds authority in early Roman law (vim vi repellere licet, or “it is permitted to repel force by force”).

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him so he might die with his beloved. A number of soldiers happily oblige him in his request. 3.4 The Modern Story The modern story is the central narrative of Intolerance and—along with the ancient story—was one of the two stories adapted as a 1919 stand-alone production. It differs from the other three narratives in that the historical backdrop plays a much more modest role, and the fictional characters in the foreground assume the dominant role. The modern story begins with a fictionalised account of the Ludlow Massacre,52 a battle between Colorado coal miners and private detectives (supported by National Guard militiamen) that left at least 19 people dead and turned public opinion against the mine’s owner, John D. Rockefeller, Jr. With the congressional hearings on the events at Ludlow still fresh in recent memory,53 Griffith’s audiences would have seen an obvious echo of Rockefeller in the rapacious character of Mr. Jenkins. Jenkins, after all, dispatches state militia and (armed) company guards to clear his factory grounds of strikers. The militia fire only blanks, but the company guards use live ammunition, and among their casualties is an elderly employee, who dies in the arms of his son (the character known as the Boy). After the massacre, the Boy makes his way to the nearby city in search of new employment. He is joined by an exodus of others, including a young woman who is alone because of the strike (the Friendless One) as well as another young woman (the Dear One) and her ailing father. Life in the city is difficult. Hungry and alone, the Friendless One becomes the mistress of a crime boss (the Musketeer); the Boy resorts to stealing and soon joins the ranks of the Musketeer’s criminal gang; the father of the Dear One dies. Love, however, draws the Dear One and the Boy together, and undergoing a conversion experience and turning away from crime, the Boy returns his pistol to the Musketeer, telling him that he will no longer need it. The two men argue and fight over this, and the Boy knocks the Musketeer to the floor before throwing down the gun and hurrying away. The Musketeer, afraid that the Boy might betray him, has the Boy beaten unconscious and left with a gun and a 52  The event is well described by Thomas G. Andrews, Killing for Coal: America’s Deadliest Labor War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008). 53  Subcommittee of the Committee on Mines and Mining, Conditions in the Coal Mines of Colorado: Hearings before a subcommittee of the Committee on mines and mining, House of Representatives, Sixty-third Congress, second session, pursuant to H. res. 387, a resolution authorizing and directing the Committee on Mines and Mining to make an investigation of conditions in the coal mines of Colorado (Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office, 1914).

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stolen wallet on the sidewalk—getting rid of him by framing him for theft. The Boy is sent to prison. Of course, this leaves the Dear One, now a mother, alone in their apartment in the slum. And when the Dear One falls ill and takes a bit of whisky as a curative, three busybody reformers (led by Mr. Jenkins’s sister) denounce the Dear One as alcoholic, negligent, and unfit—the wife of a criminal. They seize her baby and take it to the Jenkins Foundation Hospital. The Musketeer, sensing an opportunity, promises the Dear One that he can get the baby back. Soon after the Boy returns home from prison, an old associate from the gang warns him that the Musketeer has gone up to see the Dear One. The Boy rushes home, but the door to his apartment is locked. He can hear the Musketeer inside, attacking his wife on the bed. The Boy breaks down the door, but the Musketeer knocks him and the Dear One unconscious. The Musketeer is about to strike them again, this time with a chair, when the Friendless One—who has followed the Musketeer—shoots him and runs away. The Musketeer staggers into the hallway and collapses, dead. The Boy picks up the pistol just in time to be arrested by the policemen who arrive on the scene. In the courtroom, he is tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death.54 While the Dear One pleads unsuccessfully with the Governor, the Boy is prepared for his execution. The Friendless One, however, admits her crime, and a frenetic race ensues to avert the execution of the Boy. It is one of the iconic scenes in prison film.55 The Dear One arrives with the Governor’s pardon only seconds before the executioner gives the signal, but the noose and the hood are quickly removed, and amid congratulations, the Boy is reunited with the Dear One. The modern story is the only one of the four narratives with a happy ending. Intolerance ends with utopian imagery of a day “when cannon and prison bars wrought in the fires of intolerance” will no longer divide human beings. Another intertitle reads, “Instead of prison walls—Bloom flowery fields,” and austere prison walls are depicted dissolving away. 3.5 The Eternal Mother Rocking a Cradle The opening and closing images of Intolerance do not relate to any of the four story lines. Instead, they are the recurring image of a woman, Eternal Motherhood, rocking a cradle, while three figures—the Fates, perhaps—stand together in the background of the shot (see Figure 18.6). 54  An intertitle card quotes Oscar Wilde’s “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” (“And wondered if each one of us/ Would end the self-same way,/ For none can tell to what red Hell/ His sightless soul may stray”). See Oscar Wilde, Poems by Oscar Wilde with the Ballad of Reading Gaol (London: Methuen & Co., 1913), 280. 55  James C. Oleson, The Prison in Popular Culture (Oakland: University of California Press, forthcoming 2020).

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The execution of the Boy is stopped just in time. Still image from Intolerance, the modern story

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The Cradle Endlessly Rocking. Still image from Intolerance

The image is repeated throughout Intolerance as a bridging device to connect the four story arcs and is combined with language from a Walt Whitman poem, “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.”56 Despite its title, the poem is about neither motherhood nor babies. Rather, it is a lengthy elegy about the eternal cycle of death and rebirth. The poet, now an old man—a “chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter”57—remembers a transformative episode from his childhood. As a boy, he made daily visits to a pair of nesting mockingbirds at the seashore until, one day, the female failed to return. The male, bereft, called out to his mate—lost or dead—in a forlorn “aria.”58 The bird’s song awakens a love, a longing, in the heart of the boy. The awakening of desire is wonderful, but it is also cruel, a “sweet hell within,”59 and the boy accuses the bird: 56  Walt Whitman, “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/ poem/out-cradle-endlessly-rocking. 57  Ibid. 58  Ibid. 59  Ibid.

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Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,) Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me? For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, now I have heard you, Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,60 Filled now with a hunger, with “cries of unsatisfied love,”61 the boy pleads with the mockingbird to give him a clue. “[I]f I am to have so much, let me have more!”62 The boy then hears a word—“the word final, superior to all”— whispered by the sea, which has been whispering it always. The word is “death,”63 repeated over and over and over. In a moment of enlightenment, the poet fuses the aria of the mockingbird, the awakening of his own heart, and the key offered up by the waves. Whitman’s poem would have been familiar to many viewers of Intolerance64 and, for them, would have infused Griffith’s sun play of the ages with an additional teleological dimension. 4

The Staggering Modernity of Intolerance

Quentin Tarantino’s iconic 1994 black comedy, Pulp Fiction, has been hailed as the film that resurrected film noir.65 It earned the 1994 Palm D’Or award as well as the 1994 Academy, BAFTA, and Golden Globe awards for Best Original Screenplay. Part of the reason the story proved to be such a phenomenon is that it told three intertwined stories in a radically nonlinear fashion. Its circular, reflexive narrative is unmistakably modern. Or is it? After all, Griffith was there almost 80 years before, tying together not three, but four discrete stories. The film writer Glenn Kenny rightly describes “the staggering modernity of Intolerance.”66 Griffith himself explained the rationale for his editing style in the programme for the 5 September 1916 premiere of Intolerance: 60  Ibid. 61  Ibid. 62  Ibid. 63  Ibid. 64  The critic Armond White explains that “Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking” would have been a reference almost as common as a biblical quotation during the early twentieth century. See Armond White, “Intolerance is the Greatest Movie Ever Made,” National Review, 6 October 2016, http://www.nationalreview.com/article/440749/intolerance-dw -griffith-film-was-greatest-movie-ever. 65  Paula Rabinowitz, Black & White & Noir: America’s Pulp Modernism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 15. 66  Glenn Kenny, “The Staggering Modernity of ‘Intolerance’,” Some Came Running, 1 August 2013, http://somecamerunning.typepad.com/some_came_running/2013/08/the-staggering-modernity-of-intolerance.html.

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The purpose of the production is to trace a universal theme through various periods of the race’s history. Ancient, sacred, mediaeval, and modern times are considered. Events are not set forth in their historical sequence or according to the accepted forms of dramatic construction, but as they might flash across a mind seeking to parallel the life of the different ages.67 Making use of crosscutting, Griffith relates not only the four cornerstone stories that appear on screen, but also a larger, invisible story that emerges from the implicit linkages between the narrative fragments. The figure below represents the intersplicing of the four stories and the Eternal Mother:

figure 18.7

Blocks indicating (right to left) the sequence of crosscut narrative fragments in the 2002 Kino Video release of Intolerance, freely available at: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=vgylj-1tzBQ. Intertitle cards not represented

67  “Intolerance Impressive: D. W. Griffith’s New Picture is a Stupendous Spectacle,” New York Times, 6 September 1916, http://www.nytimes.com/movie/review?res=9501E1DF143 BE633A25755C0A96F9C946796D6CF&pagewanted=print.

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There is no simple repeating pattern to Griffith’s editing. The rocking cradle motif appears 14 times, usually—though not always—before or after modern story sequences. The sacred story is also usually—though again, not always—used between modern sequences. The oscillation across stories permits Griffith to use parallel imagery, narrative, or action to contrast the hypocrisy and intolerance of the modern story with that of the past. For example, when the Dear One’s baby is taken away to the Jenkins Foundation (block 21 in figure 18.7), Griffith—without using an intertitle or a rocking cradle image— shifts to a scene of Christ surrounded by children, with the superimposed title, “Suffer little children.”68 His application of biblical verse and imagery is used to terrific effect in unmasking the conduct of modern, “Christian” reformers. Similarly, when the court finds the Boy guilty, an intertitle card reads: “Outside the Roman Judgment Hall, after the verdict of Pontius Pilate: ‘Let Him Be Crucified,’” and the image shifts to a brief scene of Christ collapsing under the weight of the cross upon the Via Dolorosa. The story then reverts back to the courtroom, where the stern judge reads out the sentence of death (blocks 31–33 in figure 18.7). In a third example, imagery of the crucifixion (see figure 18.3 above) appears after the Boy is led from his cell to the gallows and before the Dear One rushes in to prevent the execution (blocks 62–64 in figure 18.7). Griffith’s epic was decades ahead of its time; it was pioneering, and not just in terms of its nonlinear editing. Pauline Kael, the film reviewer for The New Yorker, wrote that one can find in Intolerance “the source of most of the major traditions of the screen—the methods of Eisenstein and von Stroheim, the Germans and the Scandinavians, and, when it’s bad, De Mille.”69 Defying the prevailing gender stereotypes of his era, Griffith created Mountain Girl—a nutty proto-feminist who simultaneously embodies sexuality, humour, and a fierce sense of independence. Modern heroic females (e.g., Gal Gadot in the 2017 film Wonder Woman) can trace their genealogy back to Mountain Girl. The cinematography is modern, too. The famous shot of the feast of Belshazzar—the first crane shot employed in cinema, called “one of the grandest scenes in movie history”70—is a staple of film studies even today,71 but 68  The language invokes Matthew 19:14 and Luke 18:16 in the King James Version of the Bible. All biblical quotations in this chapter are taken from the KJV, unless otherwise noted. 69  Pauline Kael, 5001 Nights at the Movies (New York: Picador, 1991), 367. 70  Bernard Hanson, “D. W. Griffith: Some Sources,” The Art Bulletin 54, no. 4 (1972): 506. 71  Tim Lanza, the archivist for the Cohen Film Collection, explained, “This is a film that’s been around for almost a hundred years, and it’s a textbook”; see Nicolas Rapold, “Birth of Another Spectacle, and Its Life,” New York Times, 28 July 2013, AR11.

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Handmaidens of the Temple of Love. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story

many of Griffith’s images feel strangely contemporary. For example, after the Boy is sentenced to death and the last appeal is denied, the Dear One returns to their empty apartment and stares into space, seemingly understanding that they really are going to kill him. Despair rolls off her in waves, and the actress, Mae Marsh, moves forward—directly towards the camera—so that she shifts out of focus and her face fills the screen.72 It is an effect that one might very well see in a movie theatre today, and it is frankly hard to believe it is more than 100 years old. Intolerance also includes images of sex and violence that seem more contemporary than historic. Although the 1989 reconstruction print does not include them,73 most versions of Intolerance contain the “infamous footage”74 of the Temple of Love. Women draped in translucent gossamer recline languidly; others run through a spray of water and swim naked in a bathing pool. Perhaps Griffith included these racy images to generate controversy (and thereby revenue); perhaps he included them as a kind of challenge to the intolerance of his own era (indeed, the film was attacked by censors in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia); or perhaps, as 72  Kenny, “Staggering Modernity.” 73  The images of “the Handmaidens of Ishtar’s Temple of Love and Laughter” were added after the New York premiere, when “some of the powers-that-be said, ‘You ought to have more sex in it’”; see Miriam Hansen, “Griffith’s Real Intolerance,” Film Comment 25, no. 5 (1989): 28. 74  Ibid.

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Russell Merritt argues, they were incorporated as tactical distractions and bargaining chips—to keep the censors away from scathing scenes involving the labour strike and industrialist violence.75 The violence of Intolerance is also remarkably vivid. It is probably most obvious in the Babylonian battle scenes, which include people cast down from the great walls, impalements, and decapitations. But extreme violence permeates all four of the story lines of Intolerance: all Babylon’s heroes, great and small, die violent deaths—Prince Belshazzar and Mountain Girl alike are slain; Christ and two others are crucified in a vast darkness; Brown Eyes is murdered by a rapist with a sword, and her entire Huguenot family is killed around her; and—even in the relatively optimistic modern story—factory workers are gunned down. Griffith’s special effects are clumsy: the sword-fight decapitations of papier-mâché heads look a lot like the injuries inflicted upon the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. But it is noteworthy that Griffith was not at all squeamish about showing the beauty of courage and the ugliness of violence. 5

The Scholarly Foundations of Intolerance

Intolerance is worthy of study because D. W. Griffith was a visionary filmmaker. James Agee described him in exceptional terms: “To watch his work is like being witness to the beginning of melody or the first conscious use of the lever or the wheel; the emergence, coordination, and first eloquence of language; the birth of an art: and to realize that this is all the work of one man.”76 But Intolerance also merits study for another reason: for generations, it has shaped—and still shapes—popular understandings of ecclesiastical and secular struggles for power. The professional historian might have the capacity to recreate a coherent vision of the living past in his or her mind’s eye, but for most people, Griffith’s spectacular epic is as powerful a glimpse of history as they will ever know. Griffith took his job as a historian seriously. In 1915, he wrote, “If it is right for historians to write history, then by similar and unanswerable reasons it is right for us to tell the truth of the historic past in motion pictures.”77 Griffith invested enormous time and energy in ensuring the historical accuracy of Intolerance. 75  Merritt, “Unattainable Text,” 349. 76  James Agee, Agee on Film (Boston, MA: McDowell, Obelensky Inc., 1958), 313. 77  The quotation comes from a letter to the editor of The American. It is reproduced in Lennig, “Myth and Fact,” 117.

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In fact, he established the first research department in the US film industry.78 He explained its function: “In dealing with an historical subject […] which is placed in a certain distant period of history, months and sometimes years of research work of a regular department is given to obtaining the correct idea of the manners, customs, costumes and settings of the period in which you are placing your story.”79 To be sure, Griffith emphasised some aspects of his stories so as to underscore the pernicious effects of intolerance across human history, while downplaying (or ignoring altogether) elements of history that did not support the central narrative he was proposing;80 of course, the same might be said of many academics. It is worth noting that Intolerance drew upon multiple source traditions, including—inter alia—archaeology, written history and theology, and visual art. The intertitle cards of Intolerance are often used to convey dialogue or action, but they are sometimes used like footnotes, as a way of documenting sources and of deriving authority from their scholarly expertise. For example, intertitles appearing during the ancient story make reference to the Code of Hammurabi (“The first known court of justice in the world: NOTE— Babylonian justice according to the code of Hammurabi, protecting the weak from the strong”), which was discovered by archaeologists in 1901,81 and to the Cyrus Cylinder (“In this last act the events portrayed in Babylon are according to the recently excavated cylinders of Nabonidus and Cyrus, that relate Babylon’s betrayal by the priests of Bel”), discovered in 1879.82 Griffith was 78  D  rew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, 31. 79  F loyd W. Martin, “DW Griffith’s ‘Intolerance’: A Note on Additional Visual Sources,” Art Journal 43, no. 3 (1983): 231. 80  Griffith’s selective use of facts is neatly described by William M. Drew. See Drew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, 32–62. 81  Claude Hermann Walter Johns, “The Code of Hammurabi,” The Journal of Theological Studies 18 (1904): 313. 82  Griffith’s negative depiction of the Persian, Cyrus, as a warrior-marauder, and his sympathetic representation of Belshazzar, son of King Nabonidus, as an enlightened and peace-loving sovereign squared neatly with the running theme of intolerance, but deviated dramatically from biblical accounts of Belshazzar as decadent and impious (e.g., Daniel 5:1–30). However, it did find support in contemporary archaeology. Michael Seymour explains: “The discovery in 1879 of the Cyrus Cylinder, and the subsequent translation of other texts relating to Nabonidus, had given rise among Assyriologists to the theory that Cyrus was able to conquer Babylon with the support of a disaffected priesthood of Marduk inside the city, and that much of his positive image for posterity could be attributed to a masterful propaganda campaign. Griffith took this novel interpretation, which ran almost counter to the biblical tradition, and portrayed it on screen. Though lighting on an event familiar through the Bible, Griffith’s portrayal is as far removed from the perspective of the biblical accounts as is possible to imagine.”

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lauded by leading scholars for his depiction of the ancient world. For example, the author of Babylonians and Assyrians,83 the Oxford Professor of Assyriology A. H. Sayce, wrote, “I had the pleasure of seeing Intolerance last night. It is an astounding piece, and it is not wonderful that it should have been so successful […] The Babylonian scenes are magnificent, as well as true to facts. I was much impressed by the attention that had been paid to accuracy in detail.”84 Morris Jastrow, Professor of Assyriology at the University of Pennsylvania, also lauded the film for its accuracy: “You have succeeded in conveying to the audience a remarkably vivid picture of the art, architecture, costumes, public and private life of Babylonia. I was amazed to see how carefully you reproduced our knowledge of the enormous walls of the city, with their battlements and gates, the palace, the battle towers, the battering rams and other instruments of ancient warfare.”85 Griffith also made extensive use of written history and theology. In the ancient story, for example, he plunges Mountain Girl into the Babylonian marriage market described by Herodotus86—an annual auction in which the fortunes paid for the most beautiful women subsidise the dowries of the least attractive. In the ancient story, he also incorporated elements from A History

 See Michael Seymour, “The Babylon of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance,” in Imagining Ancient Cities in Film: From Babylon to Cinecittà, ed. Marta García Morcillo, Pauline Hanesworth, and Óscar Lapeña Marchena (London: Routledge, 2015), 29. 83  A  . H. Sayce, Babylonians and Assyrians: Life and Customs (London: John C. Nimmo, 1900), https://ia600307.us.archive.org/5/items/babyloniansandas25080gut/25080-pdf.pdf. 84  Hanson, “Griffith: Some Sources,” 498. 85  Hanson, “Griffith: Some Sources,” 502. 86  Herodotus describes the market as follows: “Once a year in every village all the maidens as they came to marriageable age were collected and brought together into one place, with a crowd of men standing round. Then a crier would display and offer them for sale one by one, first the fairest of all; and then when she had fetched a great price he put up for sale the next comeliest, selling all the maidens as lawful wives. Rich men of Assyria who desired to marry would outbid each other for the fairest; the commonalty, who desired to marry and cared nothing for beauty could take the ill-favoured damsels and money therewith; for when the crier had sold all the comeliest, he would put up her that was least beautiful, or crippled, and offer her to whosoever would take her to wife for the least sum, till she fell to him who promised to accept least; the money came from the sale of the comely damsels, and so they paid the dowry of the ill-favoured and the cripples.”  See Herodotus, The Persian Wars: Books 1–2, trans. A. D. Godley (London: Heinemann, 1960), 248–49.

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of Art in Chaldaea and Assyria87 and The Civilization of Babylonia and Assyria,88 as well as Friedrich Hottenroth’s 1884 costume book.89 As shown in figures 18.9 and 18.10, Griffith’s High Priest of Bel was a near-identical embodiment of the illustration of the Babylonian priest in Hottenroth’s book.90 In the sacred story, biblical sources are employed to foreground the role of intolerance in the persecution, prosecution, and execution of Christ. Sometimes intertitle cards cite specific verses, such as: “Behold a man gluttonous, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners.—St. Matthew XI-19,” or “Now Moses in the law commanded us that such should be stoned; but what sayest thou?—John VIII.” But the quotations are sometimes uncredited, such as when Christ responds, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,”91 or tells the adulterous woman, “Neither do I condemn thee; go thou and sin no more.”92 Griffith identifies other scholarly sources in another intertitle: “There was a marriage in Cana of Galilee.—John 2:1. Note: The ceremony according to Sayce, Hastings, Brown and Tissot.” A. H. Sayce is the same Oxford professor who—as described above—shaped Griffith’s depiction of Babylon; James Hastings was the author of The Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics,93 A Dictionary of the Bible,94 and the Dictionary of Christ and the Gospels;95 Francis Brown was a Semitic scholar at the Union Theological Seminary; and James Joseph Jacques Tissot was the artist who illustrated The Life of Our Saviour Jesus Christ.96 The imagery of Tissot’s work

87  Georges Perrot and Charles Chipiez, A History of Art in Chaldaea and Assyria, 2 vols. (London: Chapman & Hall Ltd., 1884). 88  Morris Jastrow, Jr., The Civilization of Babylonia and Assyria (London: J.B. Lippincott Co., 1915). 89  Friedrich Hottenroth, Trachten, Haus-, Feld- und Kriegsgeräthschaften der Völker alter und neuer Zeit (Stuttgart: Gustav Weise, 1884). 90  This comparison was made by Martin, “Additional Visual Sources,” 232, figs. 3 and 4. 91  John 8:7. 92  John 8:11. The quotation in the King James Version does not include the word thou: “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” 93  James Hastings, Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics, vols. 1–12 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1908). 94  James Hastings, Dictionary of the Bible, vols. 1–5 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1909). 95  James Hastings, Dictionary of Christ and the Gospels, vols. 1–2 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1908). 96  J. James Tissot, The Life of Our Saviour Jesus Christ, trans. Mrs. Arthur Bell (New York: The Werner Company, 1903).

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High Priest of Bel. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story

figure 18.10 Costume of a Babylonian priest. Source: Friedrich Hottenroth, Trachten, Haus-, Feld- und Kriegsgeräthschaften der Völker alter und neuer Zeit, Stuttgart: Gustav Weise, 1884, plate 13, downloaded from http://digi.ub.uni -heidelberg.de/diglit/ hottenroth1884bd1/0211

was the “standard reference” for Griffith’s visualisation of the sacred story.97 Figure 18.11 (below) is an image from the scene in which Christ confronts the scribes and Pharisees who intend to stone the adulterous woman. Figure 18.12 (below figure 18.11) is a monochrome reproduction of James Tissot’s painting The Adulterous Woman—Christ Writing upon the Ground, currently held by the Brooklyn Museum. The similarities between figures 18.11 and 18.12 are compelling. The vantage point of the artist/camera, the crowd of robed figures before and behind Christ, the massive quarried blocks in the walls, the stone ledge on the step, and the inky shadows that conceal the right-hand side of the image—all of these are consistent between Tissot’s painting and the composition of Griffith’s scene. 97  Martin, “Additional Visual Sources,” 231, quoting Karl Brown.

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Griffith also used historical works to support the medieval and modern stories. Hanson proposes that there is no evidence to suggest that systematic research was conducted for the visual aspects of the medieval story;98 however, Drew indicates that Griffith did refer to standard scholarly works, including François Guizot’s eight-volume History of France,99 and authenticated the features of his visual design by consulting “old pictures in books in the public library.”100 Brown also reported that illustrations of sixteenth-century France were used to authenticate settings and costumes.101 For the modern story, Griffith drew upon elements from a 1915 strike in Bayonne, New Jersey, and particularly on the 1914 Ludlow Massacre.102 The Bayonne strike involved workers at the Standard Oil and Tidewater Oil refineries who demanded increased pay and better working conditions. Violent altercations between strikers and strikebreakers (those who took over the work of the strikers) soon escalated into serious rioting, involving the police, armed plant guards, the Industrial Workers of the World, and federal labour negotiators.103 During three weeks of boiling insurrection, five men were killed104 and 130 plant guards were arrested for inciting a riot,105 collectively costing the city and the county approximately $33,000 (the equivalent of $774,000 in 2017).106 The Ludlow Massacre was even bloodier. On 20 April 1914, armed conflict broke out between a tent city of striking coal miners in southern Colorado and strikebreaking private detectives (abetted by Colorado National Guardsmen). During the day-long battle, militiamen set fire to the Ludlow tents, thereby causing the deaths of two women and 11 children who were in hiding. Estimates vary, but between 19 and 26 people died. In retaliation for Ludlow, strikers associated with the United Mine Workers of America sabotaged mine equipment and engaged mine guards and militiamen for

98  Hanson, “Griffith: Some Sources,” 498. 99  François Guizot, The History of France from the Earliest Times to 1848, 8 vols. (New York: H. M. Caldwell, 1895). 100  D  rew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, 37. 101  Ibid., 42. 102  Ibid., 32. 103  Department of Labor, Thirty-Eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of Industrial Statistics of New Jersey For the Year Ending October 31 1915 (Camden, NJ: S. Crew & Sons, 1916), 210–31, https://archive.org/stream/annualreportofbu38newj#page/n1/mode/2up. 104  Ibid., 231. 105  Ibid., 227. 106  Ibid., 231.

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The woman taken in adultery. Still image from Intolerance (image reversed), the sacred story

10 days—the so-called Colorado Coalfield War.107 The situation was quelled only when President Woodrow Wilson dispatched federal troops to disarm the groups on both sides of the conflict. In addition to using archaeology, written history, and theology to construct the worlds of Intolerance, Griffith also drew upon the visual arts. For the ancient story, he borrowed from two paintings from the British academic tradition. The first of these works—the massive Belshazzar’s Feast by the English scenographic painter John Martin, reproduced in figure 18.13 below—depicts the grand, open-roofed halls of Babylon. Phantasmagorical writings predicting the fall of the kingdom burn upon the left wall.108 Overhead the famed Hanging Gardens of Babylon can be glimpsed, and against the moonlit skies the outlines of the Tower of Babel and a nearby ziggurat can be seen. Atop the great walls and in the distance, the figures of a thousand lords crowd the

107  Andrews writes: “Upwards of thirty people had lost their lives in the Ten Days’ War, the deadliest, most destructive uprising by American workers since Southern slaves had fought for their emancipation during the Civil War. Together with Ludlow’s dead and the dozens killed in scattered assassinations, ambushes, and gun battles that had begun the previous August, the victims of the Ten Days’ War pushed the total death toll for the Colorado coalfield war of 1913–1914 to at least seventy-five and perhaps as many as a hundred.”  See Andrews, Killing for Coal, 14. 108  Daniel 5:5–28.

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figure 18.12 James Tissot, The Adulterous Woman—Christ Writing Upon the Ground (1886–94), watercolour over graphite on paper, 24.0 × 19.2 cm, Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn, NY Source: Wikimedia Commons

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figure 18.13 John Martin, Belshazzar’s Feast (1820), oil on canvas, 90.2 × 130.2 cm, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, CT Source: Wikimedia Commons. This is a half-sized “sketch” of the original painting (160 × 249 cm), rejected by the National Gallery for being too large, which is now privately owned

scene;109 in the front courtyard—its right hand aloft, holding what looks like twin swords—a massive humanoid statue towers over other revellers. In the foreground, Daniel—cloaked in black so as to draw the viewer’s eye— interprets the writing on the wall for Belshazzar,110 who (at right, surrounded by his court) recoils in shock. The image below the painting (figure 18.14) is a still from Griffith’s ancient story, depicting Princess Beloved and Prince Belshazzar gazing upon Babylon. Although the vantage point and the overall composition of the film still are very different from Martin’s painting, the Babylon glimpsed through the portal is indebted to Martin’s work. Similar open-roofed halls, supported by massive columns, can be seen in the foreground. An enormous statue of Ishtar, seated and wearing a headdress like that of Princess Beloved, can be seen immediately to the left of Princess Beloved’s chest. Farther off, towers and ziggurats dot the horizon. 109  Daniel 5:1. 110  Daniel tells Belshazzar, “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting”; Daniel 5:27.

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figure 18.14 Princess Beloved and Prince Belshazzar looking upon Babylon. Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story

The view of Babylon from Griffith’s iconic crane shot (reproduced in figure 18.2 above) also contains massive columns, a massive statue of Ishtar on the centre-right, and—like Martin’s painting—highlights the immense scale of the walls by dotting them with tiny human figures. The second work from the British academic tradition is Edwin Long’s The Babylonian Marriage Market (reproduced in figure 18.15). Long’s Victorian painting is based upon Herodotus’s Histories, described above (in this section). At the centre of the painting, a woman—with her back to the viewer—stands in a diaphanous gown atop a raised platform, an attendant adjusting her train. She looks out onto a crowd of male viewers peppered through the background of the painting, while in the foreground, a line of women—potential brides for sale—await their respective turns upon the platform. Long’s image is orientalist: exotic, erotic, and—with its banquet of painted women sprawled upon animal pelts—containing features typical of harem illustrations.111 Critics have commented upon its racialised representation of beauty: in the foreground, the women on the left-hand side of the painting (the beautiful) have pale complexions and European features, while those on the right (the plain) have darker, less European features.112 Others have remarked upon the man on the right-hand side of the picture; some see his raised hands 111  Carla Coco, Secrets of the Harem (Paris: Vendome Press, 1997). 112  Imogen Hart, “The Politics of Possession: Edwin Long’s Babylonian Marriage Market,” Art History 35, no. 1 (2012): 90.

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figure 18.15 Edwin Long, Babylonian Marriage Market (1875), oil on canvas, 172.6 × 304.6 cm, Royal Holloway College, London Source: Wikimedia Commons

as a symbol of horror at the ugliness of the women at the end of the line, while others interpret his gesture as love for one of the least beautiful women.113 Griffith has closely replicated Long’s scene as a tableau vivant. Figure 18.16 (below) depicts a potential bride atop the raised platform, standing before a crowd of male bidders. The platform is rotated 45 degrees from Long’s image, but the grouping of brides-to-be are seated exactly where they should be: in the foreground, at the base of the platform. Although there is no man with upraised hands in this particular film still, Griffith does invoke the image during his “Babylonian Marriage Market” scene. Imogen Hart explains: [W]hen the “incorrigible” Mountain Girl is put up for sale on the stage, there are several shots of the Rhapsode, who is in love with her, reeling with anguish as he waits to see if she will be purchased. In his separation from the crowd, and in his emotional response to the auctioning of a woman deemed by the majority to be undesirable as a wife—a response expressed in gestures rather than words due to the silent nature of the film—the Rhapsode echoes the man with raised hands in Long’s painting.114 113  Ibid., 91–92. 114  Ibid., 92.

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figure 18.16 Woman for auction at the marriage market (on platform). Still image from Intolerance, the ancient story

6

The Reception of Intolerance

Despite Griffith’s meticulous attention to historical detail, his massive sets and elaborate costumes, and his revolutionary filmmaking techniques, Intolerance proved to be a financial failure.115 Audiences initially packed the theatres, but its production costs were high (certainly relative to other films of the era), and the expenses associated with special lighting and orchestral accompaniment made it an expensive film to screen.116 Intolerance bankrupted its production company and ruined Griffith, who—out of financial necessity—accepted a staff director job at Paramount in 1924.117 There are many potential reasons for the film’s failure. For example, Griffith might have misjudged the Zeitgeist of his time: the pacifist message of Intolerance did not square with the US entry into the First World War in 1917,118 and its anti-temperance vision was rejected through the enactment of Prohibition in 1920.119 Critics have suggested that 115  D  rew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, 115. 116  Ibid., 63. 117  Ibid., 12 and 16. 118  Ibid., 123. 119  Ibid., 129–32. Griffith famously remarked that “should Christ reappear in Prohibition America, he would be jailed as a bootlegger”; ibid., 129.

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Griffith may have expected too much from his audience: the film was too long, and its crosscutting narrative was too confusing for many viewers.120 However, as Orson Welles decreed, “that failure remains one of the great successes of cinema.”121 The critic Pauline Kael echoes Welles’ sentiment, citing Intolerance as “perhaps the greatest movie ever made and the greatest folly in movie history.”122 But they are not alone in lauding the film, whose acclaim has continued to grow over time.123 The film historian Theodore Huff raved about Intolerance, calling it: [T]he greatest motion picture ever produced. In its original form and properly presented, it is a masterpiece of creative conception and execution which ranks with such works of art as Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Rembrandt’s Descent from the Cross, Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, the sculptures at the Parthenon, or with works of literature such as Tolstoy’s War and Peace, the poetry of Walt Whitman or Shakespeare’s Hamlet.124 Dave Kehr, a critic for the Chicago Reader, described it as “the Ulysses of the cinema.”125 In 2007, the American Film Institute identified Intolerance as the 49th best American film of all time,126 edging out popular favourites such as The Lord of the Rings (50th), Taxi Driver (52nd), North by Northwest (55th), Rocky (57th), Raiders of the Lost Ark (66th), and A Clockwork Orange (70th). The film blog Cinema Revisited ranks it as number five in film history,127 and in The National Review, Armond White hailed Intolerance as the single greatest film ever made.128 Although the film did not make money, it unquestionably made an enduring mark upon the history of cinema.

120  Ibid., 119. However, in 1919, when Griffith released two single-story films recut from Intolerance footage—The Mother and the Law and The Fall of Babylon—audience reception was merely lukewarm. 121  Orson Welles, “The Silent Years—Orson Welles Discussing the 1916 Silent Film Intolerance,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yc5eQwoj4qE. 122  Kael, 5001 Nights, 367. 123  Phillip Lopate, “D. W. Griffith Masterworks,” Cineaste 28, no. 3 (2003): 50. 124  D  rew, D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance, x. 125  Dave Kehr, “D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance Journeys through Time and Space,” Chicago Reader, 17 October 2013, https://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/intolerance-gene -siskel-film-center/Content?oid=11197424. 126  American Film Institute, “AFI’S 100 Years.” 127  Cinema Revisited, “The Greatest Films of All Time. 5: Intolerance,” http://www.cinemarevisited.com/the-greatest-films-of-all-time/the-greatest-films-of-all-time-3-intolerance/. 128  White, “Greatest Movie.”

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567

Love versus Intolerance

As an influential film, Intolerance has shaped the way audiences understand the ancient, the sacred, the medieval, and the early twentieth-century worlds. But the film also asserts a bold, unifying philosophy, arguing that intolerance is—in all times and places—the antithesis of understanding. Specifically, the second intertitle card of the film reads, “Each story shows how hatred and intolerance, through all the ages, have battled against love and charity.”129 In this way, the film purports not only to teach audiences about the veiled histories of Babylon, Jerusalem, Paris, and the modern American metropolis, but also to serve as a cautionary tale about prohibiting certain conduct for the “betterment” of society. The tension between (in)tolerance and love reveals a deep and enduring fissure in theological and philosophical thought, mirroring the classical tension between justice and mercy.130 Some thinkers have argued that tolerance— voluntarily indulging the objectionable and/or wrong beliefs or practices of others—is no kindness, but complicity in error and sin. For example, Augustine warned that “[n]ot every one who is indulgent is a friend; nor is every one an enemy who smites,”131 citing Scripture to support the view that when coercion might deliver people from the consequences of error, intolerance becomes a Christian obligation.132 Yet intolerance of error is not strictly a Christian 129  This is indeed the core message of Intolerance, as evidenced by the film’s subtitle, “Love’s Struggle throughout the Ages.” 130  This tension between justice and mercy can be traced to Aristotle. See Aristotle, “Nicomachean Ethics,” trans. W. D. Ross, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: Modern Library, 1941), Bk. 5:1137b1–6. The justice-mercy paradox is artfully stated by Jeffrie Murphy: “[I]f we simply use the term “mercy” to refer to certain of the demands of justice (e.g., the demand for individuation), then mercy ceases to be an autonomous virtue and instead becomes a part of … justice. It thus becomes obligatory, and all the talk about gifts, acts of grace, supererogation, and compassion becomes quite beside the point. If, on the other hand, mercy is totally different from justice and actually requires (or permits) that justice sometimes be set aside, it then counsels injustice. In short, mercy is either a vice (injustice) or redundant (a part of justice).”  See Jeffrie G. Murphy, “Mercy and Legal Justice,” in Forgiveness and Mercy, ed. Jeffrie G. Murphy and Jean Hampton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 169. Similarly, the paradox of moral tolerance is that it can be morally right, even morally required, to tolerate what is morally wrong. See Rainer Forst, “Toleration,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta, last updated autumn 2017, https://plato.stanford.edu/ archives/fall2017/entries/toleration. 131  Augustine, Letter 93 (AD 408). Letters of St. Augustine, ch. 2, part 4, http://www.newadvent.org/fathers/1102093.htm. 132  Ibid.

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obligation: the Qur’ān and Islamic tradition also enjoin believers to “command the right” and “forbid the wrong.”133 On the other hand, other thinkers have characterised tolerance as a virtue, albeit an elusive one,134 and have rejected efforts to improve people by legislating and policing them as futile. As Benedict de Spinoza explained: Trying to control everything by laws will encourage vices rather than correcting them. Things which cannot be prevented must necessarily be allowed, even though they are often harmful. How many evils arise from extravagance, from envy, greed, drunkenness, and so on! These are nevertheless tolerated because they cannot be prevented by authority of the law, even though they really are vices.135 D. W. Griffith casts his lot with Spinoza. When the reformers in his modern story insist, “We must have laws to make people good,” they speak as buffoons. Beneath the veneer of benevolent reform, Griffith warns, egoism often lurks, such as when the Pharisees demand that all actions cease whenever they pray, or when Miss Jenkins—the spinster sister of the Rockafelleresque industrialist—resents the fact that young men invite young women to dance rather than her, and is consequently mobilised to have the dance halls closed. Griffith particularly implicates women in this form of hypocrisy;136 an intertitle card from the modern story reads, “When women cease to attract men they often turn to Reform as a second choice.” Sometimes it is not ego that drives the moral entrepreneurs of Griffith’s narratives, but advantage. When the treacherous Priest of Bel colludes with Cyrus and betrays Babylon, it is because his own god, Bel-Marduk, has been passed over by Belshazzar in favour of Ishtar. An explanatory intertitle reads, “The jealous priest of Bel sees in the enthronement of Ishtar loss of his religious power. He angrily resolves to re-establish his own god—incidentally himself.” Similarly, in the medieval story, Catherine de Medici plots the mass extermination of Huguenot subjects to consolidate her own political power, not because Protestant ideology is unbearably objectionable. 133  Michael Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 134  John Horton, “Toleration as a Virtue,” in Toleration: An Elusive Virtue, ed. David Heyd (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 28–43; Bernard Williams, “Toleration: An Impossible Virtue?” in Toleration. An Elusive Virtue, 18–27. 135  Benedict de Spinoza, Theological-Political Treatise, ed. Jonathan Israel, trans. Michael Silverthorne and Jonathan Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 254. 136  Hansen, “Griffith’s Real Intolerance,” 28.

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Sometimes, Griffith suggests, the problem with reform is neither the egotism of its crusaders nor their pursuit of their own advantage, but the undesirable consequences that can flow from actions—even those which appear to be benevolent. For example, when Miss Jenkins’s temperance campaign shuts down the city’s taverns, patrons who formerly consumed (relatively mild) wine and beer quickly resort to distilling their own (much stronger) spirits—an example which vindicates Spinoza’s belief that legal prohibitions breed not rectitude, but vice.137 When intolerant authorities impose a rule (say, the prohibition of alcohol), but this action produces a different result than what was intended (say, the private distillation of spirits rather than abstinence), the result is said to be an unintended consequence. In a classic paper,138 Robert K. Merton identifies five bases of unintended consequences. First, there is lack of knowledge (ignorance), particularly of the kind described by Henri Poincaré: “small differences in the initial conditions produce very great ones in the final phenomena […]. Prediction becomes impossible, and we have the fortuitous phenomenon.”139 Second, there is error. Specifically, actors may fail to understand that “procedures which have been successful in certain circumstances need not be so under any and all conditions.”140 Third, there is immediacy of interest, such as when concern with the foreseen, immediate consequences excludes the consideration of further or other consequences of the same act.141 Fourth, and relatedly, basic values can prevent the consideration of further consequences when certain actions are enjoined by non-negotiable beliefs.142 And fifth and finally, in the human sphere, there is reflexivity, in which the act of prediction itself can become a concrete element in a situation, thereby altering the course of future events.143 Thus, when intolerant actors—sovereigns, priests, industrialists, or others—prohibit objectionable conduct or beliefs, they might succeed in producing the benevolent situation they desire. But, as illustrated by Griffith and analysed by Merton, these individuals sometimes reap the whirlwind:144 for a variety of reasons, the result might prove to be wildly incongruous from their objective.

137  Spinoza, Theological-Political Treatise, 254. 138  Merton, “Unanticipated Consequences,” 894. 139  Ibid., 899. 140  Ibid., 901 141  Ibid. 142  Ibid., 903. 143  Ibid., 903–4. 144  Hosea 8:7.

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8 Conclusion The director D. W. Griffith released Intolerance: Love’s Struggle throughout the Ages in 1916, just over one hundred years ago. His film was epic, both in its conception and in its realisation—a three-hour extravaganza laden with iconic sets and sumptuous costumes. The film was also visionary—employing the first crane shot in cinema and tying together not one story, but four discrete narratives in an asynchronous, crosscut edit that feels fresh even a century later. However, Intolerance was like Friedrich Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, arriving too soon to be understood:145 although Intolerance has been singled out as one of the greatest films of all time by critics, the AFI, and the Vatican, the film failed at the box office and precipitated the financial ruin of its production company and its director. Due to its originality and its ambition, Intolerance remains an object of attention for film historians and filmmakers. For example, the 1989 MoMA restoration print, recreating the 1916 opening night premiere, was an enormous labour of love. But Intolerance is a film that also deserves to be studied more widely—by historians, political scientists, philosophers, and theologians. It is, after all, a cultural artefact that breathed life into the archaeological record, conjuring the ghosts of ancient Babylon, ancient Judaea, and renaissance France from the dust of history, as well as fixing in time the urban underbelly of 1914 America. Much more than primary written accounts or archaeological findings, the much-lauded imagery of Intolerance framed the vision of the ancient world for its audiences. Of course, the film does more than describe a series of historical episodes; it also asserts a normative argument, insisting that intolerance is diametrically opposed to charity in the same way that hatred is opposed to love. And from the roots of intolerance, Griffith warns, sprout thickets of human misery and moral evil. This claim, echoing the perennial tension between justice and mercy, deserves closer analysis. For example, does intolerance exist in universal tension with charity, as Griffith suggests? Or are there particular catalysts—social, political, economic, or ideological—which precipitate the quashing of dissident or objectionable thought and/or action? Does the act of prohibition produce compliance (right thought and right action)? Or does it merely drive dissidence underground, thereby making vice and error even more intractable? Griffith’s Intolerance provides an effective stepping-off point in undertaking such an important analysis. 145  Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None, ed. Adrian del Caro and Robert B. Pippin, trans. Adrian del Caro (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 5.

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Bibliography Agee, James. Agee on Film. Boston, MA: McDowell, Obelensky Inc., 1958. American Film Institute. “AFI’S 100 Years … 100 movies—10th Anniversary Edition.” http://www.afi.com/100years/movies10.aspx. Anderson, Gillian B. “DW Griffith’s Intolerance: Revisiting a Reconstructed Text.” Film History: An International Journal 25, no. 3 (2013): 57–89. Andrews, Thomas G. Killing for Coal: America’s Deadliest Labor War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008. Aristotle. “Nicomachean Ethics.” Translated by W. D. Ross. In The Basic Works of Aristotle, edited by Richard McKeon, 935–1126. New York: Modern Library, 1941. Augustine. Letter 93 (AD 408). In Letters of St. Augustine, chapter 2, part 4. http:// www.newadvent.org/fathers/1102093.htm. Benbow, Mark E. “Birth of a Quotation: Woodrow Wilson and ‘Like Writing History with Lightning’.” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 9, no. 4 (2010): 509–33. Canby, Vincent. “Seeing Intolerance Is Hard Work.” New York Times, 29 October 1989, H15. Chidester, David. Authentic Fakes: Religion and American Popular Culture. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Cinema Revisited. “The Greatest Films of All Time. 5: Intolerance.” http://www .cinemarevisited.com/the-greatest-films-of-all-time/the-greatest-films-of-all-time -3-intolerance/. Coco, Carla. Secrets of the Harem. Paris: Vendome Press, 1997. Cook, Michael. Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Department of Labor. Thirty-Eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of Industrial Statistics of New Jersey For the Year Ending October 31 1915. Camden, NJ: S. Crew & Sons, 1916. Dirks, Tim. “Filmsite Movie Review: Intolerance (1916).” http://www.filmsite.org/into .html. Dixon, Thomas. The Clansman: A Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan. New York: Doubleday Page & Co., 1905. Drew, William M. D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance: Its Genesis and Its Vision. London: McFarland & Co., 1986. Dupré la Tour, Claire M. S. “Intertitles in Intolerance.” In The Griffith Project. Vol. 9, Films Produced in 1916–18, edited by Paolo Cherchi Usai, 81–88. London: British Film Institute, 2005. Forst, Rainer. “Toleration.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta. Last updated autumn 2017. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/ fall2017/entries/toleration.

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Martin, Floyd W. “DW Griffith’s ‘Intolerance’: A Note on Additional Visual Sources.” Art Journal 43, no. 3 (1983): 231–33. Merritt, Russell. “DW Griffith’s ‘Intolerance’: Reconstructing an Unattainable Text.” Film History 4, no. 4 (1990): 337–75. Merton, Robert K. “The Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action.” American Sociological Review 1, no. 6 (1936): 894–904. Monaco, James. How to Read a Film. 4th ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Murphy, Jeffrie G. “Mercy and Legal Justice.” In Forgiveness and Mercy, edited by Jeffrie G. Murphy and Jean Hampton, 162–86. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. New York Times. “Intolerance Impressive: D. W. Griffith’s New Picture is a Stupendous Spectacle.” 6 September 1916, http://www.nytimes.com/movie/review?res=9501 E1DF143BE633A25755C0A96F9C946796D6CF&pagewanted=print. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Edited by Adrian del Caro and Robert B. Pippin. Translated by Adrian del Caro. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Oleson, James. The Prison in Popular Culture. Oakland, CA: University of California Press, forthcoming. Olson, Randy. “Movies Aren’t Much Longer Than They Used to Be.” http://www.randal olson.com/2014/01/25/movies-arent-actually-much-longer-than-they-used-to-be/. Perrot, Georges, and Charles Chipiez. A History of Art in Chaldaea and Assyria. 2 vols. London: Chapman & Hall Ltd., 1884. Rabinowitz, Paula. Black & White & Noir: America’s Pulp Modernism. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002. Rafter, Nicole and Michelle Brown. Criminology Goes to the Movies: Crime Theory and Popular Culture. New York: NYU Press, 2011. Rapold, Nicolas. “Birth of Another Spectacle, and Its Life.” New York Times, 28 July 2013, AR11. Rogin, Michael. “‘The Sword Became a Flashing Vision’: DW Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation.” Representations 9 (1985): 150–95. Sayce, A. H. Babylonians and Assyrians: Life and Customs. London: John C. Nimmo, 1900. Seymour, Michael. “The Babylon of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance.” In Imagining Ancient Cities in Film: From Babylon to Cinecittà, edited by Marta García Morcillo, Pauline Hanesworth, and Óscar Lapeña Marchena, 18–34. London: Routledge, 2015. Snyder, Timothy. “The Next Genocide.” New York Times, 13 September 2015, SR7. de Spinoza, Benedict. Theological-Political Treatise. Edited by Jonathan Israel. Translated by Michael Silverthorne and Jonathan Israel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

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Indices 1

Index of Modern Authors

Agee, James 554 Alexander, Philip 407n89, 407n93, 412, 414n123, 416n132, 418n135 Alt, Albrecht 137 Andresen, Carl 273n27, 399n47 Andrews, Thomas G. 560n107 Aperghis, G. G. 186, 193n28 Appadurai, Arjun 212 Arnold, Johannes 398n42, 400–401, 405n84 Assmann, Jan 116–119 Attridge, Harold 340–343 Azize, Joseph J. 65n47 Bammel, Ernst 405n82 Barclay, John M. G. 127n50 Bauks, Michaela 63 Beatrice, Pier Franco 365 Berg, Robbert van den 11–13 Beyerle, Stefan 4 Bhabha, Homi K. 209n15 Bilde, Per 220n69 Bloch, René 240 Bockmuehl, Markus 414n125, 417n133 Bonnazzi, Mauro 406n87 Boys-Stones, George 7–8, 9, 283 Breil, Joseph Carl 538, 541 Brown, Francis 557, 559 Brown, Karl 558n97 Brown, Susanna Shelby 65 Canby, Vincent 542 Canfora, Luciano 168 Carleton Paget, James 10 Chidester, David 534n5 Clark, Gillian 349 Clark, William R. 335n71 Clinton, Kevin 314 Cogan, Mordechai 40 Cohoon, J. W. 286 Derchain, Philippe 60–61, 62, 63 Dewrell, Heath 64n41, 67 Dexinger, Ferdinand 133–134

Dijkstra, Meindert 24n2 Dillon, John 283, 376n88, 378, 380 Dixon, Thomas 535 Dodds, E. R. 372 Dorion, Louis-André 172 Drew, William M. 543–544, 559 Eißfeldt, Otto 66n53 Elm, Susanna 426n5, 434n15 Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 344 Eph’al, Israel 63n41 Feldman, Louis 232 Feldmeier, Reinhard 146n130 Firestone, Reuven 13–14 Foucault, Michel 168 Frede, Michael 378 Friedrich, Anne 337 Funkenstein, L. 407n89 Girdvainytė, Lina 242n12 Goldhill, Simon 282–283 Goodenough, Erwin R. 206n3 Gorre, Gilles 191n20, 192n23 Granerød, Gard 138, 140n108 Griffith, David Wark 16, 533–546, 550–566, 568–570 Griffith, Sidney H. 509n15 Guizot, François 559 Haberman, Jim 17 Halfwassen, Jens 380 Hanson, Bernard 552, 559 Harnack, Adolf von 390–391 Hart, Imogen 564 Hartog, Pieter 6 Hastings, James 557 Hays, Richard 330–331 Heck, Paul L. 14–15 Hensel, Benedikt 134n85, 145 Hillers, Delbert 60 Honigman, Sylvie 5, 186, 187n3, 191n20, 192n23 Horbury, William 416n132 Horner, Timothy J. 408n95

576 Horst, Pieter van der 225n87 Hottenroth, Friedrich 557 Howard, Damian 515 Huff, Theodore 566 Hunter, Richard 302 Ismard, Paulin 4 Jastrow, Morris 556 Jones Nelson, Alissa 349n115 Kael, Pauline 552, 566 Kartveit, Magnar 120, 124n40, 129n62, 130n65 Keel, Othmar 61–62, 63 Kehr, Dave 566 Kenny, Glenn 550 König, Jason 349 Kooten, George van 8 Korpel, Marjo 3 Krämer, Hans Joachim 380 Kugler, Robert A. 127, 128 Laks, André 11–12, 425, 427, 434–435 Lange, A. 64n41, 66n51 Leith, Mary Joan Winn 132n75 LeMon, Joel 42 Lennig, Arthur 535–536 Lewis, C. S. 339 Lilti, Antoine 159 Lincoln, Bruce 23n1 Lipner, Julius 339 Lods, Marc 397n41, 399n47, 403–404, 405 Löhr, Winrich A. 365 Lona, Horacio 405n82 Long, Edwin 563–564 Loraux, Nicole 175 Magness, Jodi 17–18 Maier, Johann 388n5 Mariner, William 60 Markl, Dominik 3 Markschies, Christoph 365 Markus, Rober 339 Martin, Floyd W. 555, 558 Martin, John 560, 652 Mason, Steve 6

Indices Merritt, Russell 539, 554 Merton, Robert K. 534–535, 569 Michel, Thomas 507 Mittag, Peter Franz 5, 18 Morel, Pierre-Marie 430n9 Murcia, Thierry 388n5 Murphy, Jeffrie 567n130 Najman, Hindy 95n12 Nederveen Pieterse, Jan 207n6, 209 Newman, Hillel 414 Niehoff, Maren 206n4, 209, 214, 215n41, 225n89, 398n42, 402, 404, 407–409 Nietzsche, Friedrich 570 Nock, Arthur Darby 436n19 Nongbri, Brent 233 Not, Martin 137 Nygren, Anders 338–339, 340 Ofengenden, Ari 116–117 Oleson, James 16 Opsomer, Jan 378 Orbe, Antonio 365, 366 Pally, Marcia 118 Parker, Robert 180 Penn, Michael 464–467, 475 Piovanelli, Piurluigi 414 Pitts, Martin 208n13 Pleše, Zlatko 363n28, 371n59 Poincaré, Henri 569 Pongratz-Leisten, Beate 23n1 Pummer, Reinhard 120, 121n27, 126n44, 128n59 Quispel, Giles 365 Repath, I. D. 289 Rist, John 380 Ritzer, George 210 Robertson, Roland 206n6, 211 Roggema, Barbara 450n20 Rohrmoser, Angela 139 Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro 9 Roskam, Geert 288 Ruiten, Jacques van 3 Rung, Eduard 47

577

Indices Said, Edward 9, 349 Sarrió Cucarella, Diego R. 15 Sayce, A. H. 556, 557 Schäfer, Peter 388n4, 397, 416n131, 418n135 Schmitt, Carl 489 Schonfield, J. 414 Schwarb, Gregor M. 523n61 Schwartz, Daniel 134n84, 186n2 Schwartz, Seth 134n84 Sedley, David 283 Seymour, Michael 555n82 Siljanen, Esko 139 Simon, Marcel 391 Smelik, Klaas 79 Smith, M. S. 64n41; 65n48 Snyder, Timothy 544n51 Spalinger, A. J. 62, 63 Spek, Bert van der 47 Starr, Peter 517n40, 518 Steiner, George 339–340, 343, 348–349 Stenzel, Jürgen 425, 426–427, 434, 436 Tarantino, Quentin 550 Thiessen, Matthew 128 Thomas, David 507, 509n16 Thomassen, Einar 365, 380 Tigay, Jeffrey H. 27 Tissot, James Joseph Jacques 557–558, 561 Verde, Francesco 430n9 Versluys, Miguel John 208n13 Walzer, Michael 145, 146n129 Weippert, Manfred 45 Weisser, Sharon 408n99 Welles, Orson 566 White, Armond 550n64, 566 Whitman, Walt 549–550 Whitmarsh, Tim 211 Whittaker, John 372, 373 Wilde, Clare 14 Wilson, Woodrow 536, 560 Witcher, Robert 212n32 Wolin, Richard 117n12 Wyssmann, Patrick 132n75 Yassif, Eli 417n133

2

Index of Ancient Sources

2.1 Ancient Near-Eastern Sources Keilschrifttafeln aus Ugarit 1.1:IV.13–15 33 1.2:I.30–32 34 1.2:I.25–29 30 1.2:III 34n35 1.2:III.20 28 1.4:VII.7–11 37 1.6:I.56–67 28 1.14:VI.31–32 par. 37 1.15:II.13–16 30 1.15:V.40–43 par. 37 1.17:VI.9–16 25 2.2 Graeco-Roman Sources Aelian Historical Miscellany 11.10 161n8 Aelius Theon of Alexandria Progymnasmata 66 289 68–69 289 115 289 Aeschines Against Timarchus 1.173

162n11, 174

Aesop Fables 1 330n66 Albinus Introduction to the Book of Plato 4.1 284 5 277n34 Alcinous Didaskalikos / The Handbook of Platonism 164.19–28 373n70 322n61 165.1–4 (ch. 10.3) Alexander of Aphrodisias On the Topics 86.9–12 276n30

578 Alexander of Aphrodisias (cont.) Problemata 2.46 301n39 Andocides, On the Mysteries 1.90 175 Apollodorus, The Library 3.141 313n49 Apuleius Metamorphoses 11.20 291n27 On Socrates’s God 6–7 300 Aristophanes Birds 1071–1073 170n38 1281 177n59 1281–1282 176 1296 177n59 Clouds 171 828–830 170n39 1509 168 Aristotle Metaphysics Γ.4 260 992b31 275 Nicomachean Ethics 1059a2–11 260n5 1137b1–6 567n130 1140b1–4 275 1140b33–1141a1 275 1149b15–16 313n49 On the Heavens 284a27–35 374n71 Physics 260 2.1, 193a3–8 Posterior Analytics 71a1 275 71b17 275 71b19–22 275 71b19, 26–27 275 76a31–32 275 The Athenian Constitution 27.4 w170n37

Indices Athenaeus The Learned Banqueters 1.23c 287n18 4.162b–e 287n18 5.178a 287n18 5.178b 287n18 5.182a 287n18 5.187b 287n18 5.187f 287n18 5.192a 287n18 5.197e 198n49 5.198b–c 198n49 5.200c–d 198n49 5.201c 198n49 5.216d 287n18 5.216e 287n18 5.216f–217b 287n18 11.502d 287n18 11.504c 287n18 11.506c 287n18 13.573–574 198n51 13.607a–b 287n18 14.614c 287n18 14.629f 287n18 15.674f 287n18 15.686d 287n18 Celsus True Word 10, 272, 387, 392, 393, 394n31 Cicero De natura deorum / On the Nature of the Gods 1.21 379n98 1.49–52 374n71 1.52 374n72, 377 1.63 169n32 2.28 241n9 Laws 2.26 241n9 Letters to Atticus 30.2 286 Republic 3.14 241n9 Cleanthes Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta 1.537 374n72

579

Indices Corpus Hermeticum 26.4 321n61 Demosthenes Orations 19.340 165n17 22 (Against Androtion) 182 22.2–3 182n73 24.7 182n73 58.25–26 165n17 Dio Cassius Roman History 12.49.7 330n66 36.11.1 330n66 Diodorus Siculus The Library of History 34/35.1.1–5 239 34/35.1.3–4 194n41 Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 1.6 241n9 1.9–10 241n9 2.38 161 2.40 163 2.41 284 3.34–35 287 7.88 374n72 7.134–136 374n72 9.18 241n9 9.52 169n32 Epictetus Discourses 1.26.1–2 217n54 4.1.71 242n11 7.33 242n11 Euripides Bacchus 498 399n48 Helen 596 346 Hippolytus 1397–1399 173 85–86 173

Gellius Attic Nights 1.9.8–11 276n33 Gregory Thaumaturgus Panegyric 13 280n39 Herodotus The Persian Wars 556n86 3.38 233 Hierocles In aureum Carmen 24.4 322n61 Homer Iliad 7.170–181 429 7.182–183 428 8.282 430, 431 10.43 428 Odyssey 1.65 428 20.18 431 Hyperides frg. 55.1

162n11

Isocrates Discourses 6.67 234 7.70 175 11.4–6 161n8 16.40 178n62 Julian Against the Galileans 306b 246–247 Oration 7 425 7.204a–c 431 7.208b–c 435 7.213c–d 434 7.223c–d 433 7.224a–b 434 7.224a–225b 426 7.227e–234c 436

580 Julian Oration (cont.) 7.233a–d 437 7.234c 437 7.236d–237d 435

Indices Maximus of Tyre Orations 3.3 167 11.12 375n76 27.8d 259n4

Libanius Apology of Socrates 161n8 38 174n51 54 174n51 127 174n51 162 174n52

Pausanias Description of Greece 1.36.3 314

Livy History of Rome 40.2 291n27 42.6.8 189n13 42.12.3 189n14

Philodemus On Piety col. 11

Lucian Alexander 1.21 393 1.61 393 Lexiphanes 288, 347 1 Timon 42 234 The Passing of Peregrinus 40 284n9 Lucretius, On the Nature of Things 5.168–173 379n98 Lysias Orations 6 175n56 6.17 170n38 12 175n56 13 175n56 25 175n56 30 175n56 40 175n56 Macrobius Saturnalia 1.10 291n27

Petronius Satyrica 289

374n72

Philostratus Life of Apollonius of Tyana 6.20 235 Plato 172, 284 Apology of Socrates 17d 164n16 20c 164n16 21a 164n16 23c 178n64 165n19 23e–24a 26b–c 180n66 26c–d 169n35 27a–27b 164n16 30c 164n16 31c 172 31c–d 172n42 173, 294 31d 33e 164n15 36a 165n19 38b 166n22 40a–c 294 Crito 284 52c 167 284 Euthyphro 3b 172n42, 306 3c 182 Laws 634e 259n2 694c 287

581

Indices 704–705 236 876b 165n18 949b 165n18 950a 236 951a–c 236 Letter 7 259n2 326d 259n2 Phaedo 284 60a 285 78a 303–304, 348 89b–91c 235 89c 330 109e 325 109e–110a 285 116a 285, 346 116b 285 117d–e 285 209d–e 306 Phaedrus 342, 342n103 248b 267 Protagoras 342c 235–236 Republic Book II 12 Book III 12 Book VII 277n34 390d 438 414b–415d 437 509b 372 517b 322n61 520c 325n63 540a 277n34 560e 313n49 564d 259n2 586a–c 325n63 587c–d 325n63 605b–c 325n63 Sophist 234c 325n63 236a 325n63 240a 325n63 Spuria 392a 284n9 8, 9, 12 Symposium 74a 292 74b 292

74e 292 309, 310 173a 173b–174e 293 173c 313 174a 309 174d–175a 294 175a 293 175b 292 175c 294 175c–d 311 175e 292 176c–e 294 177a–b 295 177c 295 177c–d 297 178a 293 179b 298 180d–e 298, 302 180d–181c 310 183d–e 298, 310 185c 293 189c–193d 334 189e 298 191a–b 298, 324 191d 298, 324 194e–195a 299 195a 299 198a 293 199c 299 201d–212c 286, 297, 299 202d–e 300 202e–203a 335, 346 203a 300, 344 203b 334 205e 324 206b 302 206c 302 206b–209e 286 206e 302 208e–209a 308n46 209a 303 209a–d 302 209b–c 333 209d–e 303, 305, 348 209e–210a 314, 322–323, 327 316, 348 210a

582 Plato Symposium (cont.) 210a–211e 324 319, 323 210e 211b 324 211b–c 316 211c 318, 319 211e 323, 324 211e–212a 320 212a 325 212c 324 212c–213b 327 212e 292 213a 292 213a–b 311 213b 292, 293 213b–e 329 213b–214d 327 213e 309 215d 328 215e–216a 328 216b 292, 328 216d–e 328 216d–217a 328 217a–b 320 217a–219e 328 217d 329 217d–219d 311 218c–d 329 218e 311, 329 219a 329 219b 330 219b–c 329 219d 329 220b 331 221c 331 221c–d 332 221d–e 328 221e–222a 328 222a 332 222b 296–297, 329 222b–223a 329 222e–2223a 311 223b 293 223b–d 310 223c 310 223c–d 293

Indices Theaetetus 150a–151d 325n63 The Statesman 267c 347 9 Timaeus 28c 368n49, 375, 378, 381 28c2–5 374 32d–36d 369n56 43a 320 53a 370n57 90 381 Pseudo-Plato Axiochus 169 Plotinus Enneads 3.5.1 300 3.5.4–7 300 3.5.9 300 3.7.11 321n61 3.7.12 321n61 4.8.4 321n61 Plutarch Against Colotes 1107F–1108A 428 Alcibiades 23.3 178 Amatorius / Dialogue on Love 749C 341 748F 341 757B 313n49 757E–F 300 762F 341 771C 300 771D 341 Brutus 12.2 242n11 Crassus 17.1 291n27 Dion 2.6 302n49 Isis and Osiris ch. 11 436n20 ch. 23 436n20

583

Indices 352A 373n69 Marius 11.4 234 Numa 87–88 241n9 On Fate 574D 266 On Stoic Self-Contradiction 1051C 302n40 1051D 301n39 On the Generation of the Soul 1013E 376n87 Platonic Questions 1001A–B 376n85, 378n92 373n69, 376n87 1003A Sayings of the Spartans 210F 242n11 216C 242n11 219E 242n11 The Obsolescense of Oracles 416A 259n3 417C 301n39 420D 301n39 Theseus 36.2 234 Pericles 7 317 32 169 The Roman Questions 276F–277A 302n40 Uneducated Ruler 780A 234 Whether an Old Man Should Engage  in Public Affairs 796D 284n9 Pseudo-Plutarch Lives of the Ten Orators 836B 162n10 849A 181n69 Placita philosophorum 881B–D 379n98 Polybius The Histories 1.1.5 214 1.2.1 214n36 1.2.7 214n36

1.4.2 214 1.4.5 216n53 1.63.9 214 1.67.3 234 1.67.11 234 8.23.4–5 187 15.17.3–18.8 216n50 25.4 189n14 Porphyry Fragmente Griechischer Historiker 197 260 F 51 260 F 53 197n46 Life of Plotinus 430 ch. 15 On Abstinence 4.20 236 Quaestionum Homericarum ad Iliadem  pertinentium reliquiae 313n49 20.67sqq, lines 13–16 Proclus Commentary on the Timaeus / In Timaeum 1.304.22–305.6 374n74 1.305.6–16 374n74 2.524.24–28 259n3 3.103.28–32 378n93 Quintilian The Orator’s Education 2.17.4 161n8 Salustius On the Gods and the Cosmos 18.3 435 223b 435 Scholiast On Aristides 3.480 162n10 Seleucus Chronicon 2.17.5 191n20 Seneca Moral Epistles 24 242

584 Sextus Empiricus Adversus mathematicos 9.55–56 169n32 10.182 290n27 11.49 313 Against the Ethicists 2.49 313 Against the Physicists 2.182 290n27 Simplicius In Physica 230.34–231.27 380n103 On Aristotle’s Categories 208.28–32 268n20 Strabo Geography 8.6.20 198n51 12.3.36 198n51 Tacitus Germania 2.1 241 4.1 241, 242 6–10 241 9.2 241 14–16 241 Histories 6 5.1 242 5.2 240 5.3–4 235 5.4 242 5.4–5 240, 244 5.5 241, 242, 243 5.8 240 5.8.2 194n41 5.13 240 Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian War 1.3.4 234 1.144 235 2.64 173 6.27 177n61 Varro Apud Augustine, City of God 4.31 241n9

Indices On the Latin Language 6.89 291n27 Vergil Aeneid 1.275–279 214n40 Vettius Valens Anthologies 1.1 313n49 6.3 313n49 Xenophon Anabasis 7.6.24 330n66 Apology of Socrates 9 167n26 13 172n42 15–16 167n26 22 165 23 166n23 32 167n27 Hellenica 2.3.42 178n62 6.5.50–51 330n66 Memorabilia 170, 180, 183 1.1 172n42 1.1.2 180n67 1.4 172n42 Symposium 289 8.1–41 286 8.6–29 286 8.6–41 323n109 2.3 2.3.1

Biblical Sources Jewish Scriptures, including LXX

Genesis 1 94 1–3 375 1–11 94n7 11:27 100 11:28 100 12–25 94n7 20:5 324n62 20:9 82n109 22:1 67–68 22:1–19 67n60 22:2 68

585

Indices 22:12 68 22:16–17 68 28:12 319 34 125 34:7 123, 124 43:32 83n112 44:14 44n73 46:34 83n112 Exodus 8:22 83n112 12:6 291n28 12:8 291n28 12:15 291n28 12:21–22 292 12:46 292 13:2 67 13:6–7 291n28 13:11–16 66n52 15:7 40n62 15:20 450n16 19 94 19:5–6 237–238 20 27 27, 34 20:5 22:28–29 66n52, 67n59 23:15 291n28 23:31–32 117 24 94 32:9 82n109 82n109, 123 32:21 32:30 82n109 32:31 82n109 33:3 82n109 33:5 82n109 34:9 82n109 34:14 27 34:18 291n28 34:19–20 66n52 Leviticus 4:3 145n128 5:26 145n128 83n112 18:22–30 19 27 19:18 295 20:13 83n112 22:16 145n128 23:5–6 291n28 26 27

Numbers 8:16 66n52 9:3 291n28 9:12 292 18:15–18 66n52 22–24 450n18 23:16–17 291n28 25 238 32:13 81n103 Deuteronomy 3, 83 4 83 4:2 448 4:24 27 4:25 80 4:25–28 81 4:28 457n27 5 27 5:9 27 6:5 295 6:15 27 7:1–4 80 7:1–6 117 7:3–4 238 7:5 78n96 7:6–8 92 7:25 40 7:25–26 70, 80 8:20 79–80 9:6 82n109 9:13 82n109 80, 81 9:18 10:16 82n109 73, 84 12–18 12:2–3 71 12:3 78n96 12:4 71 12:5 71, 82n111 12:11 71 12:14 71 12:18 71 12:21 71 12:26 71 12:29–31 71, 83n113 12:29 70 12:29–30 73 12:30–31 70 12:31 69, 71, 76, 83n112 13:1 448 15:19–23 66n52

586 Deuteronomy (cont.) 16:18–18:22 72 84 17:14–20 18:9 73, 78, 79, 83n112 18:9–12 79n97 18:9–14 70, 71, 83n113 18:10 69 76, 77n92 18:10–11 18:11 79 18:12 73, 78, 83n112 18:15–22 453n24 19–25 73n82 20:15–18 117 20:18 70 21:18–19 78n96 250, 376n82 21:18–21 27 27 27:15 81n107, 97 31 83 31:25–29 81 31:27 82n109 80, 81n107 31:29 32:16 81n107 32:21 81n107, 125, 127, 128 Joshua 83n112 5:14 44n73 7:6 44n73 24:2–3 109 24:14–15 109 24:19 27 Judges 1:6–7 43 13:20 44n73 Ruth 2:10 44n73 83n112 1 Samuel 5 44 15:19 81n103 15:33 43 25:23 44n73 2 Samuel 83n112 4:7–8 43

Indices 5:18–21 40 14:22 44n73 1 Kings 14:21 82n111 14:22–24 82n111 14:23 78n96 14:24 78, 79n98, 83n112, 83n113 14:25–26 82n111 16:32–33 38n54 18 30 18:26–27 30–31 2 Kings 3:27 63 13:6 38n54 16:3 69, 70, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 79n98, 83n112, 83n113 120, 146 17 17–25 84 17:1–6 74n86, 77n94 17:7–17 81 17:7–23 74n86, 77n94, 82 17:8 79 17:10 38n54 79, 81n104 17:11 17:13 77 17:14 82 17:15 82n109 17:16 38n54, 82n109 17:17 69, 73, 74, 75, 76, 80, 81n104 17:18 75 17:19 75 17:20 75 17:21 82n109 119, 120, 122 17:24 17:24–28 121 17:24–41 74n86, 133, 134 17:29–33 121 17:30 119, 140–141 17:31 69, 70, 73, 74 74n86, 121 17:34 17:41 74n86 18:12 77 18:34 122

587

Indices 21–25 82n110 21:1–16 82 21:1–18 75n88 21:2 73, 75, 78, 79, 83n112, 83n113 21:2–9 78, 81 21:6 69, 70, 74, 76, 79n97, 80, 81n104 73, 82n111 21:7 21:7–8 77n94 21:8 77 79, 83n113 21:9 21:10–15 75n88 75, 83n112 21:11 21:15 81n104 22:14 450n16 22:17 81n104 69, 70, 74 23:10 23:12 75 75, 83n112 23:13 23:26 81n104 23:26–27 75 24:3–4 75 1 Chronicles 21:3 145n128 2 Chronicles 7:12 130 12:13 82n111 24:18 145n128 25:14–16 40–41 25:20 41 28:3 78n95, 79n98 28:10 145n128 28:13 145n128 33:2 78n95, 79n98 33:6 69n67, 80n102 33:23 145n128 34:22 450n16 36:14 78n95 Ezra 9:1–10:11 238 9:6–7 145n128 9:13 145n128 9:15 145n128

10:10 145n128 10:19 145n128 Nehemiah 6:14 450n16 10:37 66n52 Judith 4:4 450n16 5:6–9 109 5:16 128n59 6:8 110 8:18 103 9:2 128n59 1 Maccabees 196, 199, 201 1:11–15 191n20 1:20–24 193n33 1:29–35 194 195, 199n53 1:43 1:45 195 1:47 195 1:48 195 1:49 195 1:52 199n53 2:22 403n72 2:29–38 199n53 6:14–15 200n59 6:18–54 200n58 10:14 403n72 15:32 129 2 Maccabees 5, 196, 198, 199, 201 3:4 190 3:4–7 190 4:5 191 4:8–11 191 4:11 192n23 4:13 237 4:13–15 192 4:23–24 192 4:27–28 192 4:32–34 193 4:39–42 193 4:43–47 193 5:5–7 194 5:11–16 193n33

588 2 Maccabees (cont.) 5:14 194 5:21–23 134n84 5:61 195 5:62 195, 198 6 94 6:2 128n59, 134n84, 198n48 6:4 195 6:5 195 6:6 195 6:7 195, 197 6:8 196 6:11 199n53 6:28 403n72 11:1–12 200n58 11:27–33 200 13:3–4 199n52 14 237 14:3 237 14:37 237 14:38 237 3 Maccabees 4:16 103 4 Maccabees 4:18–20 191n20 4:21–22 193n33 Job

11:13 324n62 33:3 324n62

Psalms 23:4 324n62 69:6 145n128 78:58 127, 128 79 57 115 103 115:8 106n44 118:10–12 42 135 103 135:18 106n44 137 46 139:19–22 48 139:23–24 48–49

Indices Proverbs 3:12 473 14:1 49n91 Song of Songs 8:6 26 Wisdom of Solomon 13–15 103 13:11–19 105 13:17–19 106 14:1–7 105 15:7 105 15:8 106 15:10 105 15:16 106n44 Ecclesiasticus / Ben Sira / Sirach 4, 122, 146 39:16 306n44 39:17 306n44 49:4 403n72 50:25–26 123, 124, 125, 133 Isaiah 1:13–14 291n28 7:14 411 8:3 450n16 10:11 38n54 36:19 122 40:10–11 347 40:19–20 103, 105, 107, 108 41:6–7 103, 107 42:17 107 44:9 107 44:9–20 103 44:10 106 44:11 106, 107 44:11–13 107 44:12–13 105 44:14–17 105 44:15 27, 106 44:17 27, 106 44:18–20 108 44:19 105 44:20 106

589

Indices 45:16 107 105, 106 45:20 46:1–2 103 46:5–8 103 46:6 27n18, 107 46:6–7 105n43, 108 46:7 106 Jeremiah 7:31 69n64 10 103 10:2 108 10:3 107 10:3–4 105 10:4–5 105n43 10:8–9 105 10:9 105n43, 107 10:12–16 106–107 10:14 107, 108 10:16 107 19:5 69n64 19:5–6 69n69 31:10 346 32:35 69n64, 69n69 51:17 107 52:2 81n103 Lamentations 1:10 46 2:1 46 2:6–7 46 4:11 46 Baruch 6 103 Ezekiel 20:25–26 66n52 20:31 69n67 34:11–16 346 Daniel 196, 199 5:1 562n109 5:5–28 560n108 5:27 562n110 11:31 195 11:37–39 196n42 195, 196n42 11:38

Hosea 8:5–6 38n54 8:7 560n144 10:5 38n54 Amos 3:9 125 4:1 125 5:21 38n54 6:1 125 8:14 141n112, 144, 145, 147 Micah 6:7 66n52 Nahum 1:2 27 Habakuk 2:18–19 103 2.3.2

New Testament Writings

Matthew 1:19 409n101 5:8 324n62 5:16 306n44 5:43–48 295 5:45 519 7:15 449n15 9:34 301n38 10:8 324n62 11:5 324n62 11:18 301n38 12:15–17 416 12:24 301n38, 449n15 16:1 450n17 19:3 450n17 22:23–46 450n17 26:10 306n44 26:17 291n28, 292 26:19 292 27:45 292n30 27:46 292n30 27:50 292n30 27:51 292n30 27:62 290n26

590 Mark 1:11 295 1:40–44 324n62 3:22 301n38 9:7 295 10:2–12 450n17 10:21 295 12:14 325 12:28–34 295 14:1 291n28 14:6 306n44 14:12 291, 292 14:14 291, 292 14:16 291, 292 15:33 292n30 15:34 292n30 15:37 292n30 15:38 292n30 15:42 290n26 Luke 1:39 409n101 4:27 324n62 6:27–36 295 7:22 324n62 7:33 301n38 7:44–47 295 11:15 301n38 16:17 521n52 17:12–14 324n62 17:17 324n62 22:1 291n28 22:7 291n28 22:8 292 22:11 292 22:13 292 22:15 292 22:20 292 23:44 292n30 23:46 292n30 23:54 290n26 24:24–27 413 8, 9, 10 John 1:1 294, 296, 301, 307, 332 1:1–2 345 1:3 298, 345, 360, 365, 372

Indices 1:3–4 345 1:5 295 1:9 285 1:10–11 295, 307 307, 308, 312 1:12–13 1:13 312, 344 1:14 301, 303, 320, 328, 344, 345, 347 303, 323 1:17 1:18 296, 301, 345 1:29 292 1:32–33 322n61 1:36 292 1:45–49 318 1:50–51 318 1:51 319, 320, 326, 344, 348 2:1 557 2:1–10 294 2:1–11 312 2:3–5 294 2:8–9 312 2:13 308 2:19–21 318 2:22 328 2:23 308 3:1–2 307, 311 3:1–21 283n7 310, 329 3:2 3:3 307 3:3–7 308 3:4 307, 312 3:4–6 329 3:5 312 3:5–6 312 3:5–7 307 3:6 311 3:11–13 329 3:12 311 3:13 301, 320n59, 321, 322, 326, 344, 348 3:16 296, 297, 298 4:1–42 330 4:4–42 283n7 4:5 304 4:6 291n29 4:8 313

Indices 4:12–14 332 4:19 348 4:20–24 348 4:22 348 4:25 348 4:27 330 4:29 348 4:34 299 4:41 328 4:42 348 4:50 328 5:18 332 5:20 299 5:24 328 5:24–26 326 5:36 299 5:38 322n61 5:42 296 6:32 325 6:32–33 332 6:50–51 326 6:55 325 6:56 322n61 6:58 326 6:60 328 6:62 320n59, 321 7:3–5 299 7:3–10 294 7:20 301n38, 348 7:35 284, 304, 346, 347 7:40 328 8 557 8:7 557n91 8:11 557n92 322n61, 328 8:31 8:31–58 348 8:37–38 320 8:44 348 8:48–49 301n38, 348 8:49 301 8:51 326, 328 8:52 301n38, 348 8:52–58 332 9:3–4 299 9:22 348 10:16 346 10:20 301n38 10:22–23 330

591 10:22–39 308 10:23 284 10:25 299 10:31–33 306 299, 305 10:32–33 10:33 332 10:37–38 299 11:1–7 294 11:3 307, 315 11:5 296 11:11–14 315 11:17–22 294 11:26 326 11:39 315, 316 11:44 316 11:52 304, 346 12:20 284 12:20–21 304, 306, 338 346, 348 12:20–26 12:24 317 12:24–25 326 12:32 322n61 12:35 330 12:42 348 13–17 340, 342 13:1 296, 316, 323 13:1–20 294 13:1–17:26 323 13:2 292 13:2–5 321 13:4 292 13:10 324 13:21 311 13:23 296, 310, 311, 329 13:34 296 14:2–3 322n61 14:4–6 322n61 14:5–6 285 14:6 325 14:6–7 319 14:9 319 14:10 322n61 14:10–12 299 14:16–17 346 14:16 326 14:17 322n61 285, 346 14:18 14:21–23 296 14:23 322n61, 328

592 John (cont.) 14:23–24 320 15:1 325 15:1–6 294 15:3 328 15:3–4 324 15:4–10 322n61 15:9–10 298 15:9–12 296 15:13 298 15:24 299 15:26 346 16:2 348 16:13 314, 325, 346 16:21 312 16:33 309, 310 17:1–3 326 17:4–5 299 17:17–19 325 17:20–23 298 17:21–23 324–325 17:22–23 315, 323 17:22–26 326 17:23 316 17:23–26 296 18:28 290 18:36–19:7 333 19:7 332 19:14 290, 291 19:26 296, 311, 329 19:26–27 285 19:29 292 19:30 316 19:31 290, 291 19:31–33 292 19:39 330 19:42 290 20:2 296, 311, 329 20:7 316 20:8 316 20:24–29 285 20:28 296, 332 20:30–31 332 21:2 318 21:7 296, 311, 329 21:20 296, 310, 311, 329 21:20–24 296 21:21–23 315

Indices 21:24 310 21:24–25 331–332 Acts 7:2–4 110n57 17:18–20 276n31 20:28–30 449n15 21:21 406 24:5 406 Romans 1:1–4 308n46 5:5 296 8:5 308n46 8:35 296 8:39 296 15:30 296 1 Corinthians 5:7 292n31 2 Corinthians 5:14 296 13:11 296 13:13 296 Galatians 2:20 296 3:28 349 1 Thessalonians 2:14 406 1 Timothy 3:1 306n44 5:10 306n44 5:25 306n44 6:18 306n44 Titus 2:7 306n44 2:14 306n44 3:8 306n44 3:14 306n44 Hebrews 10:24 306n44

593

Indices 1 Peter 2:12 306n44 2 Peter 2:1–2 449n15 1 John 296, 315 2:5 2:8 285 2:15 296 2:15–17 312 3:1 296 3:1–2 299 3:16 296 3:17 296 4:2–3 346 4:7–8 296, 297 4:8 302 4:9–12 296 4:12 315 4:16 296, 297, 302 4:16–21 296 4:17 315 4:19 296 5:1–3 296 5:20–21 325 2 John 7 346 Revelation of John 22:18 448 2.4

Jewish Sources

Apocalypse of Abraham 1–8 103, 105, 110n57 Aramaic Document of Levi 94 Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 104b 389n6, 402n62, 402n63 Yoma 9b 449n15 Sanhedrin 11a 449n15

43a 402n64, 402n67 90b 128n57 107b 403n Book of Dreams

93n5

Cairo Genizah Ms.B, 20 recto, l. 5–6

123

1 Enoch 93n5, 109n55 99:7 103 105 Epistle of Jeremiah 7 105n43 8–9 105 19 105 23 105 26 106 29–51 110 46–47 106n44 50 106 53 110n57 105, 110 54 59–61 110 Flavius Josephus 4, 6, 7 Against Apion 1.30 236 1.51 247 1.60–61 251 2.144 233 2.206 251 2.210 252 2.214–215 251 2.220–231 252 2.221–222 252 2.228 251 2.234 251 2.236–256 252 2.237 234 252, 253 2.258 2.259 253 2.266 169n32 2.276–277 252 2.294 242n11 Jewish Antiquities / Judaean Antiquities /  Antiquitates judaicae 1–11 232

594 Flavius Josephus Jewish Antiquities / Judaean Antiquities /  Antiquitates judaicae (cont.) 1.7.1–2 110n57 1.10–12 253 2.311–313 291 2.312 292 3.248–249 291n28 3.60 239 3.248–249 290 4.260–264 250 5.98 244n13 6.132–133 239 120 9.278–279 9.288 120, 122, 146 9.288–291 120 9.291 121 10.183–185 10.184 119 11.19 120 11.109–110 290, 291n28 11.174 121 11.212 238–239 11.302–347 120 11.325–339 18 11.340 124 11.344 120 12.138–146 188n5 12.145–146 194n39 12.237–241 191n20 12.240 403n72 12.246–247 193n33 195, 198n47 12.253 12.255 199n53 12.258–263 120 12.258–264 134n84 12.261 198n48 12.270 199n53 12.360 200n59 12.367–378 200n58 13.215–217 238 13.245 238 13.247 237 13.257 196n43 13.294 250 13.298 250 14.37 308 14.65 292n30

Indices 14.213–216 129 14.65 290 16.163–164 290n26 18.17 250 18.29 291 19.15–16 216n50 20.17–96 253 20.95–96 253–254 20.100 244n13 143 244n13 146 244n13 The Jewish War / Judaean War 1.34 195 1.41–45 200n58 2.128 242n11 2.151 242n11 2.377 242n11 2.409–414 248 2.407 249 2.487–488 254–255 3.356 242n11 3.475 242n11 5.458 242n11 6.33 242n11 6.42 242n11 6.423 290 6.423–426 291 7.47–53 244n13 7.406 242n11 Jerusalem Talmud Sota 9:24 449n15 Sanhedrin 10:4 457n27 Joseph and Asenath

103

Jubilees 2–10 94n7 3:15 97 4:15 97 4:15–26 94 4:18 97 4:21 97 5:1–12 94 6:22 94 7:20–39 94

595

Indices 8:2 97 8:3–4 97 10:1–17 94 10:10–12 97 11–12 3, 4, 95, 108, 109, 111 11–23 94n7 95, 101 11:3–6 11:4 95, 98, 108, 109 11:5 98 11:7 108, 109 11:8 97 11:11–13 98 11:14–12:31 96, 103 11:14–15 96 11:16 99, 108 11:16–17 95, 96, 98, 99, 109 11:17 98 11:18–24 98 11:23 98 12:1 108 12:1–8 95, 98–99, 100, 110 12:2 108 12:3 108 12:4 108 12:5 108 12:6–8 110 12:9–11 99 12:12 100n28, 108 12:12–14 95, 99, 110 12:13 108 12:15 109 12:16–18 100, 110 12:19–21 100–101 12:21 109, 110 12:25–27 97 12:27 97 15:30–32 102 108, 109 20:7 20:8 95n15, 108 21:3 108 21:5 95n15, 108, 109 21:10 97 22:16–19 92 22:18 95n15, 108 22:20–22 92

22:22 108 30 128n59 30:12 94 31–32 94 Letter of Aristeas 134–138 103 Mishnah Sanhedrin 8.1–4 250 Mount Gerizim Inscriptions no. 1 no. 2 no. 43 no. 49 no. 149 no. 150–151 no. 199 no. 383

132 132 130 130 130 130 130 129

Orphica 25–31 110n57 7 Philo of Alexandria De Abrahamo 57ff. 375n79 68–88 110n57 De aeternitate 15 375n81 De ebrietate 30 376n82 42 376n82 De migratione Abrahami 176ff. 110n57 De mutatione nominum 47 375n79 De opificio 7–9 380n102 10 375n80 36 375n79 68 375n79 138–139 375n79 De praemiis and poenis /  On Rewards and Punishments 43 320n60 152 245

596 Philo of Alexandria (cont.) De somniis / On Dreams 1.44ff. 110n57 1.146–147 320, 326 De specialibus legibus /  On the Special Laws 1.41 375n81 2.145–146 290 3.110–119 65n47 4.179 245–246 De virtutibus / On the Virtues 102 245 De vita contemplativa /  On the Contemplative Life 2 274n28 57–58 289 57–64 320 59–64 289 De vita Mosis 2.14 217 Heres 160 380n102 In Flaccum 222n72 46 220n67 48 220n69 49 220n67 Legatio ad Gaium 6, 205–225 Introduction 216 8 215n43 10 214 48 218 76–77 215n47 80 218 84f. 399 88–89 218 90 215n49 93 215n47 101 218 106–107 218 108 215n49 113 218 115 218 116–117 220–221 119 215n49, 219 119–131 222 121 215n49 132 215n49, 222 132–137 222 133 215n48, 222, 223

Indices 134 222 135 223 136 223 137 223 138–161 223n78 140 216n50 153 218 183 215n46 190 215n46, 216n50 198 218n63, 224 201 215n48 205 222 208 220n69 210 205n2, 224 214 213, 220 214–215 224n85 218 215n46, 225n86 220 225n86 226 225n86 279–280 223n81 283–284 220n67, 224–225 284 216n50 291 224n83 294 224n83 298 224n84 299–305 213 301 215n49, 220n69 309 215n43, 216n50 311 212–213, 224n84 313 224n84 317 213 321–322 219 327 216n50 330 220n67 334–335 220n69 Legum allegoriae 1.77 375n79 2.3 375n79 3.76 375n79 Questions and Answers on Exodus 1.11 290 2.68 274n28 Questions and Answers on Genesis 4:29 321n60 Pseudo-Philo, Liber antiquitatum biblicarum 6–7 110n57 25 103 44 103

597

Indices Sibylline Oracles III 103 V 103 Qumran texts / Dead Sea Scrolls Damascus Document (CD) xvi.2–4 93n5 2Q22 126 4Q216 93n5 4Q371 127 4Q371–373 (4QNarrative  and Poetic  Compositiona–c) 126 4Q372 125, 126–127, 128, 146 4QVisions of Amram 94 Sifrei Bamidbar 131 457n27 Syriac Oracle

97

Targum Neofiti 1 110n57 Targum Onkelos

457n27

Targum Pseudo-Jonathan

110n57

Testament of Levi 7:2 128n59 Tosefta Shabbat 9.15 402n63 Sota 13:2 449n15 2.5

Christian Sources

Acts of Paul and Thecla 262 223n76 Augustine City of God 338, 346 10.29 18.41.2 171

Epistula ad Catholicos 50 (xix) 413n118 Martyrdom of Conon 10 Clement of Alexandria Stromata 1.5.28 304–305 1.5.28.1–3 277 1.15.67.2 333 1.20.99.1 277 2.4.13 274–275 5.2.15.1–2 333 5.11.73.3 274 5.13 277 5.13.87.1 279n37 6.5.41–42 305 6.5.44 305 6.17.159 305 Cyril of Alexandria Commentary on John / Commentarii  in Joannem 2.308.8–309.24 338n82 Book 8 338n82 Eusebius of Caesarea Chronicle 1.255 239 History of the Church / Church History 2.15.1 415n130 3.24.5 415n130 3.39.15 415n130 6.3.9 280n39 Onomasticon 164 304n43 Preparation for the Gospel / Praeparatio  Evangelica 1.10.44 61 9.17.2–9 110n57 9.18.2 110n57 11.18.26–11.19.3 338 11.19.1–3 345 12.11 334 12.12 334 14.2.1–3.5 433n13 14.5.10–6.14 425n2 14.8.10 425n2

598 Gregory of Nyssa Homilies on the Song  of Songs On the Soul and the  Resurrection

Indices

336 335–336

[Hippolytus], Refutation of All Heresies 5.7.40 318n58 5.8.37 318n58 5.8.39–42 318n58 5.8.39–40 317n56 5.8.40–41 317 5.8.40 318n58 5.8.41 318n58 5.8.44 318n58 6.30.6–8 362n20 6.31.7 363n26 6.32.4–6 363n25, 363n26 6.33.1 369n54 7.33.2 369n54 ibn Zurʿa, ʿĪsā ibn Isḥāq Epistle to Bišr ibn Finḥās v. 50 vv. 75–79 vv. 85–87 vv. 113–25 v. 143

517n38 517n36 517n37 517n35 517n41

Irenaeus Against Heresies 1.1 361 1.1.1 361n12 1.1–8 358 1.1–9 360 1.1.2 365n40 1.2.1 361 1.2.1–5 362n19 1.2.3 371n60 1.2.4 362n18 1.2.5 366n44 1.4.1 361n14, 364n31 1.4.2 371 1.4.5 363n25, 363n26, 364n31, 365n35 1.5 366n45 1.5.1 363n27, 364, 367 1.5.2 369

1.5.3 361, 367n45, 368 370, 371n59 1.5.4 1.8.5 360, 365n38, 372 2.13 364n32 Jerome Commentarium in Danielem 715c 199n52 Ep. / The Letters 280n39 22.30 70 335 107.9 291n27 On Famous Men 80 337 Justin Martyr Dialogue with Trypho 2.1–3.1 269–270 2.6 277 10.2 411 33 411n110 47 406 66 411n110 67 411n110 67.2 399n47, 399n48 67.5 399n47 100 411n110 102 411n110 102.3 399n47 108.2 411n112 First Apology 1.31 411n111 30 413n119 31 414n124 Lactantius Divine Institutes 5.3.4 415 Symposium 337 Methodius of Olympus Symposium of the Ten Virgins / 335, 337  On Chastity Minucius Felix, Marcus The Octavius 334 26 335

Indices Nag Hammadi Codex Gospel of Truth (NHC I,3) 17.8–18.11 362n21 17.10–20 362–363 Treatise on Resurrection (NHC I,3) 372n63 Tripartite Tractate (NHC I,5) 75.17–80.11 362n20 75.19–28 362n21 77.19–29 363n24 Gospel of Philip (NHC II,3) 55.14–19 369n54 Hypostasis of the Archons (NHC II,4) 94.21–28 369n54 Origin of the World (NHC II,5) 97.24–29 372 103.6–15 360n54 Exegesis on The Soul (NHC II,6) 127.18–128.25 363n24 127.19–20 371n62 Nonnos of Panopolis 337 Dionysiaca Paraphrase of  John’s Gospel 337 Origen Against Celsus / Contra Celsum 400, 401, 410 1–2 1–3 278 1.8 393 1.12 404n75 1.14–16 272 1.14c 400n51 1.16a 400n51 1.21 272 1.23 405n84 1.26 400n51 1.28 394, 397n39, 402n60, 404n78, 407 1.32 394, 404n78, 409 1.34 408n97, 410–411 1.37 397n39, 399n48 1.41 395, 402, 404n78, 404n79, 409 1.43 397n39

599 1.45 411 1.48 397n39 1.49 410n107 1.49–50 396 1.54 396 1.57 410n107 395, 408n97 1.58 1.61 395 395, 402 1.62 1.66 395, 399n47, 401n59, 404n78, 408n97, 409 1.67 397n39, 399n47, 399n48, 408n97 1.68 395 1.69 395 1.71 397 2.1 394n35, 395, 397, 402, 403, 404, 405, 406, 416, 418 2.3 403n71 2.4 396, 397, 403, 404n78, 404n79, 405, 406 2.5 396n38, 404n78, 404n79 2.6 399n47, 404n78 2.7 395, 396, 404n79 2.8 397, 405n82, 406 2.9 395, 396, 402, 404n78, 404n79, 409 2.10 396, 409n100 2.11 395 2.12 395 2.13 405, 407, 409 2.15 396 2.16 407 2.17 405 2.17–18 410n104 2.17–20 396 2.19 401n59 2.21 395 2.24 395, 408n97 2.26 408 2.27 407, 408 2.28 410n107, 411n109

600 Origen Against Celsus / Contra Celsum (cont.) 2.28–29 396 2.29 410 2.30 395 2.31 396, 397n39, 399n48, 408n97 2.32 408 2.33 395 2.34 396, 397n39, 399n48, 408 2.35 396 2.36 408n97 2.37 396, 408n97 2.38 405, 406 2.39 395 2.44 396, 405 2.45 395 2.46 395 2.47 405n82 2.47–48 406 2.49 395 2.54 408n97 2.55 395, 396, 397n39, 399n48, 401n59, 405, 408n97 2.58 405 2.61 396 2.63 396, 409n102 2.70 408n97 2.71 408n97 2.74 408 2.79 397, 402n60 3.1 394n31, 410 3.4 272 3.5 394n32, 403n70 3.8 403n70 3.14 394n31, 403n70 3.21 272 3.22–25 272 3.36 392n23 3.44–55 400n51 3.72–78 400n51 4–5 278 4.2–10 272 4.3 394n31 4.11 272

Indices 4.20 394n31 4.39 333 4.47 394n31 4.52 398n45, 410n105 4.48 394n31, 400n52 4.50 400n52 4.51 400n52, 404 4.52 410 4.83 393 5.1 394n31 5.2 394n31 5.6 394n34 5.14 394n31, 394n34 5.25 246 5.33 394n31 5.34–35 234 5.40–41 234 5.41 246, 394n31, 394n33 5.47 272 5.61 403 5.63 392n23 5.64 405n84 6 278 6.8 404n75 6.15 272 6.16 272 6.19 272 6.40 404n75 6.47 393 6.47–61 401n58 6.61–65 401n58 7 278 7.11 404n75 7.27 401n58 7.34 401n58 7.36–45 401n58 7.42 278n36 7.58 272 8 278 8.2 394n32 8.14 394n32 8.39 404 8.48 404 8.71 392n23 Commentary on the  “Song of Songs” 336 Prologue 333–334

601

Indices Paul of Antioch Exposition to the  Nations and the Jews 516 515 § 60 §§ 64–66 511 Letter from the  People of Cyprus 505 Letter to a  Muslim Friend 15, 504, 507, 508, 509 § 3 505n3 § 4 505 § 6 510n17 § 7 509, 510 § 13 510n18 § 24 512 § 41 514n28 §§ 59–63 512–513 Sinai Arabic 434 ff. 171r ff. 171r–181v ff. 174r ff. 178r–178v ff. 181r ff. 181v

475n47 469 475n47 473–474 481 475n47

Tertullian Against the Jews 9 411n110 De Spectaculis 30.6 412 Theodoret of Cyrrhus Graecarum affectionum curatio /  A Cure for Greek Maladies 12.19–23 336 12.26 336 12.43 336 12.53 336 12.55 336 12.57–69 336 2.6 Qur’anic and Islamic Sources 2.6.1 Qur’an Qurʾan 1:6–7 478 446, 452n22 2:62

2:75 452 2:83 454n25 2:87 445 2:88 445 2:91 454 2:92 445 2:93 445 2:100 445 2:101 445 2:102 445 2:105 445, 454 2:109 445, 456 2:111 472 445, 456 2:120 2:135 445 2:143 522 445, 456 2:145–146 2:174 445 2:246 445 2:256 473 3:14 444 3:42 513 3:52 445 3:65–66 455 3:69 445, 456 3:70 454 3:71 445, 455 3:72–72 456 445, 455 3:78 3:79 444 3:81–85 456 3:85 509 3:93 445 3:93–94 458 3:98 445, 454 3:99 457 3:110 454n26 3:110–112 457 3:112 445 3:113–115 452n22 3:113 446 3:183 445 3:183–184 457 3:187 445 3:199 446, 452n22, 454n26 4:44–46 452 4:46 445 4:51–56 457

602 Qurʾan (cont.) 4:51–62 445 4:54 444, 446 4:150–151 457–458 4:153 445, 450, 458 4:155 445, 446, 455 4:156–159 458 4:160 458 445, 452 4:160–161 4:162 446, 452n22 4:171 513n25 5:12–13 445 5:13 445, 452 5:15 455 5:41 445, 452 5:44 444, 445 5:57–59 458–459 5:59 445 5:63 444 5:66 445 5:69 446, 452n22 5:70 445 5:77 445 5:82 446 6:20–21 455 6:20–24 445 6:25 458 6:28 445 6:146–147 445 6:147 458 6:157 455 6:160 454 6:162 454 7:54 523n61 9:29 463 9:30 445 9:30–31 452 9:34 444 10:94 444 12:2 510n17 13:43 444 14:4 510n17 16:43–44 444 16:118 445 17:107 444 20:113 510n17 446, 452n22 22:17 26:214 510n17

Indices 28:52–55 446 29:46 472, 473, 475 32:3 510n17 33:37 478 33:40 448, 449b15 36:6 510n17 42:7 510n17 48:29 522 59:2–4 445 61:6–7 445 61:2 510n17 62:5–7 455 108 468, 478 109 473 111 468, 478 2.6.2

Islamic Sources

Abū ʿAbd Allāh al-Ḥumaydī Jadhwat al-Muqtabis 471 al-Dimašqī, Šams al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Abī   Ṭālib Reply to the Letter from  the People of Cyprus 506 § 89 523, 524 al-Ḫazraǧī, Aḥmad ibn ʿAbd al-Ṣamad Hammers for Crosses § 6 519 al-Jāḥiẓ Ḥujjaj al-Nubuwwa 499 Khalq al-Qurʾān 497 Kitab al-Maʿāsh  wa-l-Maʿād 500 al-Qarāfī, Šihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Idrīs Splendid Replies to Insolent Questions 511n20 71–72 154–155 521n49 156 521n50 161–162 521n51 163 521n52 ibn Hishām, Al-Sīra al-nabawiyya 1:213–214 459n30 1:513–514 459n30

603

Indices 1:516–517 459n31 1:527 459n30 2:522–523 459n30 ibn Taymiyya, Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad The Correct Reply to Those  who Have Changed the  Religion of Christ 506 1:99–100 507

5:57–113 521n53 5:58 522 5:62 522 5:72–73 522 5:79–80 522 5:107–108 523 5:110–111 522