Jesus in Continuum (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neun Testament) (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161506833, 9783161522536, 3161506839

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Friedrich Avemarie (Marburg) Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL)

289

Jesus in Continuum Edited by

Tom Holmén

Mohr Siebeck

Tom Holmén, born 1963; 1999 Th.D.; Adjunct Professor of New Testament Exegetics at Helsinki University and Åbo Akademi University.

e-ISBN 978-3-16-152253-6 ISBN 978-3-16-150683-3 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2012 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was printed by Gulde-Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier.

Preface This volume is largely based on papers presented at the seminars of the Study of the Historical Jesus Research Programme arranged during the 2006 Budapest/Piliscsaba and 2007 Vienna meetings of the European Association of Biblical Studies. These seminars, held under the general title ‘Jesus in Continuum’, carried on a project known by the same name and launched a year earlier at the 2005 Dresden meeting of the same organization. Papers read at the Dresden seminars have been gathered and published in T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Perspectives to the Historical Jesus (London: T&T Clark, 2007). I am grateful to the contributors of the present volume for their excellent work and enduring interest in this project. Gratitude is also due to the series editor Prof. Jörg Frey as well as the publishing company Mohr Siebeck and their Editorial Director Dr. Henning Ziebritzki for accepting this volume for publication in Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 1. Reihe. Tom Holmén

Turku (Åbo), 2012

Table of Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V A New Introduction to the Continuum Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IX Tom Holmén Abbreviations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XXIII

Part One: Theoretical Aspects of the Continuum Hermeneutics of Dissimilarity in the Early Judaism–Jesus–Early Christianity Continuum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Tom Holmén Universal and Radical Tendencies in the Message of Jesus: The Historical Jesus and the Continuum between Judaism and Christianity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Gerd Theissen

Part Two: Jesus Meets Christianity The Historical Jesus and the Early Christian Gentile Missions . . . . . . . . 63 Michael F. Bird From Jesus Observing Food and Purity Laws to Some Christians Not Bothering: A Socio-Historical Explanation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 James G. Crossley Jesus, Judas Iscariot, and the Gospel of Judas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 Marvin Meyer Jesus, Gnosis, and the Church. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Riemer Roukema

Part Three: Jesus from Judaism to Christianity Jesus in Utopian Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Mary Ann Beavis

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What Did Jesus Do that Got Him into Trouble? Jesus in the Continuum of Early Judaism–Early Christianity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 Darrell L. Bock The Romans and ‘Enemies’: Reflections on Jesus’ Genius in Light of Early Jewish Thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 James H. Charlesworth Sectarianism, Secret Teaching and Self-Definition: Relational Features between Jesus, the Disciples and the Outsiders . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 André Gagné Verbal Continuity and Conceptual Discontinuity in Jesus’ Discourse: The Case of the Measure-for-Measure Aphorism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 John S. Kloppenborg ‘Wind of Change’ – Jesus as God’s Envoy of Eschatological Transformation: Jesus and the Memory of his Extraordinary Deeds between the Hope of Israel and Early Christian Interpretation . . . . . . 265 Michael Labahn The Hospitality–Inhospitality Dichotomy in Continuum. . . . . . . . . . . . 299 Mary J. Marshall Jesus and Resurrection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 Stanley E. Porter Jesus and Hell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355 Heikki Räisänen Jewish-Christian Trajectories in Torah and Temple Theology . . . . . . . . 385 Markus Tiwald Jesus and the Sabbath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411 Christopher Tuckett List of Contributors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 443 Index of Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447 Index of Modern Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 466 Index of Subjects and Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 474

A New Introduction to the Continuum Approach TOM HOLMÉN

1. What is the ‘Continuum Approach’ For some considerable time, the phrase ‘Jesus within Judaism’ has both epitomized and determined the basic starting and vantage point of all historical Jesus research: Jesus should be studied and understood as within Judaism, not in contrast with it.1 Jesus was a Jew, and any valid scholarly portrait of him should manifest him plausibly as a Jewish inhabitant of first-century CE Palestine. Therefore, any serious historical account of Jesus should also properly account for the relationship between Jesus and Judaism. The phrase ‘Jesus within Judaism’ has served well. In all its succinctness – forming a slogan, sometimes almost a mantra – it has proposed a constructive approach to Jesus as a historical phenomenon, worked flexibly enough, yet also had clear enough implications as to what belongs and what does not belong. For a number of reasons, however, I am now proposing that it be abandoned and replaced by another, namely by ‘Jesus in continuum’, standing for the continuum approach or perspective to the historical Jesus. What does ‘continuum’ mean in this connection? First, ‘continuum’ encompasses a period in history stretching from the Judaism relevant to Jesus’ life and time to the Christianity that bears marks of Jesuanic influence and reception (Wirkungsgeschichte) – in short, a perspective from early Judaism to early Christianity.2 As denoting the specific 

1 See, for example, G. Theissen and A. Merz, Der historische Jesus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), p. 29; N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), pp. 119–20; T. Holmén, ‘The Jewishness of Jesus in the “Third Quest”’, in M. Labahn and A. Schmidt (eds.), Jesus, Mark and Q. The Teaching of Jesus and Its Earliest Records (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 143–62. Cf. also the titles of, for instance, J. H. Charlesworth, Jesus within Judaism. New Light from Exciting Archaeological Discoveries (New York: Doubleday, 1988); C. A. Evans, Jesus and His Contemporaries. Comparative Studies (Leiden: Brill, 1995); B. Chilton, ‘Jesus within Judaism’, in B. Chilton and C. A. Evans (eds.), Jesus in Context. Temple, Purity, and Restoration (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 179–201. 2 For an analysis and itemization of these generalizing concepts, see section 4.1. in my other essay in the present volume.

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approach discussed here, ‘continuum’ always means viewing Jesus in the perspective of this whole period. It is of course possible to regard Jesus only in relation to, on the one hand, early Judaism or, on the other, early Christianity. The whole continuum can be split into two dimensions, early Judaism–Jesus and Jesus–early Christianity, which can be taken and studied one at the time. The study of one dimension must, however, always be coupled with that of the other so that the full continuum early Judaism– Jesus–early Christianity emerges. In this way, the continuum approach maintains that a phenomenon is seriously determinable only in the light of both its anterior and posterior history, antecedents and consequences, context and ‘post context’. Secondly, ‘continuum’ should not be understood as dealing with continuity alone. On the contrary, both continuity and discontinuity are involved as modes of historical transition. On various issues Jesus may have adhered to or departed from early Judaism, and again, early Christianity may have adhered to or departed from the Jesuanic proclamation. In each case, however, scholarship is obliged to account for the elements of both continuity and discontinuity. The continuum approach thus challenges scholars to explain ‘why,’ and besides each dimension, whether the early Judaism–Jesus or the Jesus–early Christianity relationship, this also applies to both the continuity and discontinuity modes of transition. In this way, the continuum approach allows for the width and depth embedded in the interaction and interdependences of the various phenomena of history. Thirdly, there are thus two dimensions of continuum that need to be taken into account and accounted for. These two dimensions, however, entail three different tasks: we need to unearth a Jesus plausible within his context in early Judaism (task a), and we need to unearth a Jesus plausible with respect to his ‘post context’ in early Christianity (task b). But most importantly, we finally need to unearth only one Jesus (task c). The one and the same Jesus which we deem understandable and plausible in relation to early Judaism should also be found understandable and plausible in relation to early Christianity. That is, we, in a way, need to be on our guard and make it so that those ‘Jesuses’ we obtain by observing the two dimensions also match with each other.3 Having accomplished this, we have achieved a continuum perspective to Jesus. In this way, the continuum approach should take its place as the basic starting and vantage point to studying Jesus as a historical phenomenon. ‘Jesus in continuum’ thus means more than ‘Jesus within Judaism’. We are moving from ‘within Judaism’ (alone) to ‘in continuum’ (from early Judaism to early Christianity) so adding to the scholarly purview something very essential: any serious historical account of Jesus should also  3

By calling ‘matching the Jesuses’ a third task I thus wish to emphasize its importance.

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properly account for the relationship between Jesus and early Christianity. As a consequence, the continuum approach means that extra attention is paid to nascent Christianity. 4 In a continuum perspective to the historical Jesus, early Christianity and its writings do much more than merely provide the material for ascertaining historically reliable information about Jesus. Like early Judaism, early Christianity, too, is now considered on its own terms. So even the relation between Jesus and Christianity is paid a conscious and systematic attention. Early Christian views about Jesus or about anything at all cannot naturally have worked backwards and exercised an effect on Jesus during his lifetime (which is quite different from how we depict the effect of the Jewish context on Jesus)5. However, interpretations of Jesus put forward in scholarly discussion are endlessly adjustable; the linearity of events does not prevent scholars from acknowledging new data and insights gained from observing Jesus’ Wirkungsgeschichte. In other words, it is historical reconstruction we are dealing with here, and, for that reconstruction, the matching of the contextually plausible picture of Jesus to the Jesuanic reception history in early Christianity,6 the ‘post context’, is both feasible and very much requisite. The continuum approach thus seeks an understanding of the historical Jesus by means of studying him in relation to both his antecedents and consequences, i.e., his early Jewish context and early Christian ‘post context’. Jesus is placed in that totality, conceived as one continuum, by depicting him so that those relations, involving both continuity and discontinuity, can be plausibly accounted for.

2. Relation to Common Historical Thinking The continuum approach finds its most familiar background in E. Troeltsch’s third principle of historical method, namely correlation: all events and processes are interrelated.7 The concept ‘continuum’ comes close to ‘interrelation’. Just as interrelated phenomena should not be described in terms of continuity alone, but involve elements of both continui 4

That is, compared to what is usually done in scholarship today. The contemporary world naturally formed an immediate and immanent frame of references for Jesus. 6 That is, task c. Cf. above. 7 The first and second principles are criticism and analogy. E. Troeltsch, Gesammelte Schriften 2 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1913), pp. 729–53. See even idem, ‘Historiography’, ERE 6, pp. 716–23. The context of Troeltsch’s thinking in Biblical scholarship and theology is most obvious in these two principles. 5

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ty and discontinuity, so is it with ‘continuum’. Further, as stated by Troeltsch, a historical explanation of a phenomenon (/event/process) must be given in terms of its antecedents and consequences.8 ‘Correlation’ thus lays down a course for research much like the continuum approach. Troeltsch’s views have, of course, been criticized. After all, they represent historical thinking a hundred years ago. Nevertheless, in Biblical scholarship they still basically stand their ground. In a thorough review of Troeltsch’s continuing relevance to historiography and theology, presenting many criticizing remarks,9 G. W. Dawes states in conclusion: ‘Troeltsch’s description of the work of the historian remains unrivaled. His principles of criticism and correlation are today utterly uncontroversial; only his principle of analogy remains subject to ongoing debate.’10 Similar endorsement is also voiced by other prominent scholars of the field.11 Yet, the fact is that in the current historical Jesus research the correlation principle is applied quite one-sidedly. Interrelation is mainly sought in respect to the antecedents of the phenomenon Jesus – Jesus is studied within Judaism – while the consequences of the phenomenon do not come into view at all so much. This is something the continuum approach now seeks to amend by ushering in the tasks b and c (cf. above).12  8

See V. A. Harvey, The Historian and the Believer. The Morality of Historical Knowledge and Christian Belief (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1996), p. 15. See even R. Bultmann, Existence and Faith. Shorter Writings of Rudolf Bultmann (ed. S. M. Odgen; New York: Meridian, 1960), p. 291: ‘The historical method includes the presupposition that history is a unity in the sense of a closed continuum of effects in which individual events are connected by the succession of cause and effects.’ 9 See G. W. Dawes, The Historical Jesus Question (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), pp. 159–202. 10 Dawes, The Historical Jesus Question, p. 196. 11 Similarly, for example, J. J. Collins, ‘Is a Critical Biblical Theology Possible?’, in W. H. Propp, B. Halpern and D. N. Freedman (eds.), The Hebrew Bible and Its Interpreters (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), pp. 1–17; J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 70. 12 I have elsewhere called this finding the ‘missing perspective’. See, T. Holmén, ‘Jesus in Continuum from Early Judaism to Early Christianity: Practical-Methodological Reflections on a Missed Perspective’, in J. Charlesworth (ed.), Perspectives on the Historical Jesus. New Methodologies and Perceptions. The Second Princeton-Prague Symposium on Jesus Research (2 vols.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, forthcoming in 2012). As I point out there, in current scholarship, Jesus’ relation to early Christianity is seen much in the same way as Jesus’ relation to early Judaism used to be seen not so long ago. The fact that Jesus was a Jew and should be studied within Judaism has been known and acknowledged almost for ages (considering the life span of historical Jesus research). Until the 1970’s or 1980’s, however, this perspective was usually suppressed or toned down. Only of late has it become the basic starting and vantage point of all Jesus research. It is that kind of turning of tides that still awaits with respect to viewing Jesus in relation to early Christianity. Even this perspective is known and its importance acknowledged of old. Still, what is lacking is a clear realization and recog-

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The familiarity of the continuum approach with Troeltsch’s historical thinking follows from the common context of Biblical scholarship and theology. More generally in historiography, there is the concept of contextualization or contextualism that should be referred to in the first place. In broad perspective, contextualism denotes the historians’ utilization of political, economic, social and other phenomena adjacent to the studied phenomenon for explanatory purposes of the phenomenon.13 As a mode of historical understanding, contextualism is so basic and universal an idea ‘that it rarely receives explicit formulation except from philosophers and theorists’.14 A case in point is H. White’s formulation in his classical postmodern criticism of historiography: The informing presupposition of Contextualism is that events can be explained by being set within the ‘context’ of their occurrence. Why they occurred as they did is to be explained by the revelation of the specific relationships they bore to other events occurring in their circumambient historical space ... both backward in time, in order to determine the ‘origins’ of the event, and forward in time, in order to determine its ‘impact’ and ‘influence’ on subsequent events.15

As for the relationships mentioned, White does not bring up the concepts of continuity and discontinuity,16 but otherwise, according to this definition, contextualism orders things just like the continuum approach does. White also observes that Contextualism (in addition to ‘Formism’) is what professional historians commonly acknowledge as the valid and legitimate form of historical explanation.17 For White himself, of course, even Contextualism lacks apodictic epistemological grounds.18 As can be fathomed, contextualization has been one of the many bones of contention in the tug-of-war between postmodern history theorists and professional historians.19 While the latter have always underlined its im nition that regarding Jesus’ relation to early Christianity should be applied consistently throughout all Jesus research side by side and in equal measure with regarding him in relation to early Judaism. 13 See E. A. Clark, History, Theory, Text. Historians and the Linguistic Turn (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004), p. 138. 14 R. F. Berkhofer, Beyond the Great Story. History as Text and Discourse (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1997), p. 31. 15 H. White, Metahistory. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1975), pp. 17–18. 16 For a reason, cf. E. Breisach, On the Future of History. The Postmodernist Challenge and its Aftermath (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2003), pp. 74–83. 17 White, Metahistory, pp. 19–20. 18 Therefore Contextualism is, like any other mode of historical explanation in White’s view, mainly based on esthetical and ideological decisions; White, Metahistory, pp. 20–28. 19 The characterizations ‘postmodern history theorists’ and ‘professional historians’ stem from Berkhofer, Beyond the Great Story. Similarly White in Metahistory.

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portance, the former have often, but not always, seen problems in its theoretical basis.20 Indeed, more convenient to handle in this respect is the concept of nexus (Zusammenhang) or, in particular, historical nexus. The idea of a historical nexus as operative for real in history or at least useful in historical descriptions and explanations is known from many phases and branches of the historical discipline. It served as an important conceptual tool for W. Dilthey and H. Rickert,21 among others, and many more, equally, or less prominent figures’ thought is illuminative thereby. 22 Troeltsch’s third principle can also be related to it.23 Recently E. Breisach has made very central use of it both in describing the essence of historical  20

A good collection of criticism of contextualism and its proponents is presented in Clark, History, Theory, Text. More moderately critical towards contextualism is, for example, D. LaCapra, History and Its Limits. Human, Animal, Violence (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009). In favor of a contextualism of some sort are familiarly such figures as Q. Skinner and J. G. A. Pocock and, naturally, professional historians such as R. J. Evans (In Defense of History [London: Granta Books, 1997]) as well as L. Appleby, L. Hunt and M. Jacob (Telling the Truth about History [New York: Norton, 1994]). In my view, contextualism should be seen as a concept of it own, even though it is preferably closely connected with colligation, emplotment and the like. See, for example, A. Munslow, Deconstructing History (New York: Routledge, 1997), pp. 6–7, 41; M. Bentley, Modern Historiography. An Introduction (New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 64; Breisach, On the Future of History, pp. 77–78. Cf. also Berkhofer, Beyond the Great Story, p. 32: ‘colligatory contextualism’. Becoming aware of these and comparable connections breaks the limits of reconstructionism or at least widens them. See, for instance, Appleby, Hunt & Jacob, Telling the Truth, p. 238. I can concur with F. R. Ankersmit (and others): ‘The context is historically no less complex and no less problematically given than the object we want to understand by contextualizing it’; see ‘The Origins of Postmodernist Historiography’, in J. Topolski (ed.), Historiography between Modernism and Postmodernism. Contributions to the Methodology of the Historical Research (Atlanta: Rodopi, 1994), pp. 87–117, esp. 102. However, I cannot understand how this revelation, which never has been kept from professional historians, should lead to abandoning of contextualizing. In particular, I cannot see how decontextualizing, for which postmodernism (according to Ankersmit; p. 103) would rather like to trade off contextualizing, could be possible without contextualist reflections. 21 See, for example, W. Dilthey, The Formation of the Historical World in the Human Sciences. Selected Works 3 (eds. R. A. Makkreel and F. Rodi; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), pp. 277–82 and passim; H. Rickert, The Limits of Concept Formation in Natural Science. A Logical Introduction to the Historical Sciences (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 107–11. See even J. Owensby, Dilthey and the Narrative of History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994) who utilizes the nexus concept as the main analytical tool. 22 For Schopenhauer and Weber, see G. E. McCarthy, Objectivity and the Silence of Reason (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2001), pp. 81, 135; for Kierkegaard, see C. O. Schrag, Philosophical Papers. Betwixt and Between (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), p. 40. 23 Harvey, Historian and Believer, p. 15; D. E. Aune, ‘Historical Criticism’, in D. E. Aune (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to the New Testament (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), pp. 101–15, esp. 111.

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thinking24 and in bringing together different outlooks on history. Breisach characterizes historical nexus inter alia thus: Human life is never simply lived in the present alone but rather in three worlds: one that is, one that was, and one that will be. In theory we know these three worlds as separate concepts but we experience them as inextricably linked and as influencing each other in many ways. Every important new discovery about the past changes how we think about the present and what we expect of the future; on the other hand every change in the conditions of the present and in the expectations for the future revises our perception of the past. That linkage constitutes a nexus in life and hence in the historical study of life. One that is best called the historical nexus. Historians of historiography have discerned the historical nexuses people of the past have shaped in their lives as they have tried to make sense of the human condition – a condition marked by the full dimension of time, that is, change and continuity alike. ... Once we accept that human life is marked both by change as that which makes past, present, and future different from each other and continuity as that which links them together, we begin to understand why historians have played so central a role in Western civilization. They have designed the great reconciliations between past, present, and future, always cognizant of both change and continuity.25

If we interpret Breisach’s nexus not so much as an assessment of human life experience but as applicable to phenomena of history,26 we arrive at a view of history that comes quite close to the continuum perspective. The scheme of three subsequent phenomena with an intimate and intricate interrelation between them is represented. Likewise, the dialectics between continuity and discontinuity (or change) and the aim of trying to explain them are there. As a bonus comes Breisach’s analysis of postmodernism and historiography, which now gives us the opportunity to explore briefly even the relation of the continuum approach to the postmodern. Broadly, Breisach divides the history of postmodernism into two phases, structuralist postmodernism as the first phase and poststructuralist postmodernism as the second, as is usual. In Breisach’s view, structural postmodernism considers continuity as the necessary condition for a posthistoric postmodernity, poststructuralist postmodernism again champions change.27 According to the former, then, the historical nexus being dominated by continuity, future would become an extended present.28 In 

24 Breisach calls it ‘the core of the historicity of human life and historical thought’; Breisach, On the Future of History, p. 18. 25 E. Breisach, Historiography. Ancient, Medieval, and Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), pp. 2, 3. 26 Breisach would allow this application, for this is precisely how he sees history as importantly bearing relevance to human life. See even idem, On the Future of History, pp. 18– 19. 27 Breisach, On the Future of History, pp. 194–96. Breisach notes here relatedness to some theories of Greek philosophers in antiquity. 28 Breisach, On the Future of History, p. 21

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the posthistoric static order, history itself would end as present and future would cease to be two separate things.29 The latter phase with its emphasis on change, however, abandons all grand conceptualizations of history. ‘The proper course of action was not to construct yet another long-range historical nexus claiming universal validity and authoritative truth.’30 Permanence or that historical nexuses would involve continuity is now seen as merely illusory. In a world of total flux, the only continuity being that of change, nexus-building would simply be impossible.31 Hence, if this characterization of postmodernism and history is valid, according to the two main pathways thus delineated, we would have to choose between no history at all or a history with no interrelation whatsoever between its different phenomena. This is extremely elementary, but Breisach’s focusing on the dialectics between continuity and change makes his analysis most convenient with respect to a swift determination of the position of the continuum approach on the postmodern: It is immediately clear that the continuum approach is not of any integrally postmodern design. The continuum approach vouches for both discontinuity and continuity as modes of historical transition so guaranteeing that a genuine concept of interrelation can be seen as operative: phenomena can be held apart from each other (i.e., they are not one and the same phenomenon; cf. ‘extended present’), yet they can also be placed in a continuum (i.e., they are not totally irrelevant to each other either; cf. no nexus-building).32 Indeed, the question can be posed whether the continuum approach actually presents a clearly a-postmodern enterprise. Crucial here is how continuum, involving elements of both continuity and discontinuity, is actualized, rendered material by the means of accounting for the elements. Integral postmodernism would perhaps question the whole pursuit of accounting for, but this does not leave resorting to a plainly modernist or positivistic stance as the only other option. The question ‘why’ (is there continuity/discontinuity) does not – by any necessity at least – entail a mechanistic understanding of history. No ‘scientific’ causality is presupposed of the hermeneutics here, trying to single out distinct individual  29

Breisach, On the Future of History, p. 46. Breisach, On the Future of History, pp. 23–24. 31 Breisach, On the Future of History, p. 24. 32 Naturally, there are also phenomena which are irrelevant to each other, i.e., with no interrelation. The point here is that even genuinely interrelated phenomena do exist, because continuity between certain given phenomena is quite possible, both in theory and in practice. For reasons transcending the merely theoretical ones to preserve genuine concepts of interrelation, continuity and discontinuity as well as nexus, see the short but insightful discussion in J. Rüsen, History. Narration, Interpretation, Orientation (New York: Berghahn Books, 2004), pp. 178–82. 30

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events and their strict causal relations to what preceded and what came after.33 Instead, many different hermeneutical approaches and devices can – or maybe must – be regarded as relevant. This accommodates even a postmodern tack of some sort. In fact, this means a kind of postmodern tack, I believe. The more exact realization of the hermeneutics, however, depends largely on the specifics of the work at hand. Thus much of that problemage must suffice at this stage.34 For I prefer a course of action where theory does not march ahead of practice too much.

3. The raison d’etre of this Volume When publishing on the historical Jesus for first time, I made a personal observation. I found that all those good ideas I had entertained about Jesus research, having considered the task only from a theoretical perspective, that is, before I had done a half page of actual research on the subject, were one after another proven lacking when I finally engaged in the concrete study. Merely having read about historical Jesus research, not having participated in it, had given me all kinds of thoughts about the question itself, the method, what could or then again could not be done, etc. Brilliant as they often seemed to be, how often they were also unrealistic or altogether misplaced was not revealed to me until I had first put on paper some concrete claims about Jesus as a historical figure. Only by testing theory through practice, ‘in the field’, could I start learning to tell a good idea and a good idea in theory alone apart. After that, more informed and experienced, I could return to theorizing. This lesson deepened every time I endeavored to do so. It keeps growing deeper.35 Encouraged by that practicum, I have aspired to develop the theory of the continuum approach simultaneously with concrete application of it. There is no use in merely theorizing about the continuum approach without actually trying to put it into effect. Theory must arise from the experiences gained in ‘fieldwork’, although naturally there is a feedback loop from theory to practice as well. Method building and actual research are best executed reciprocally – and if possible, in collaboration with other scholars of the field. So here is the tale.  33

Cf. Bultmann, Existence and Faith, pp. 291–92. Cf. E. E. Ellis, The Making of the New Testament Documents, (Boston: Brill, 2002), p. 7: ‘The classic Quest of the ‘historical’ Jesus revealed in all its problemage the relationship between history and interpretation.’ 35 Such ‘practicum’ would probably do good whatever one pursues, whether historical Jesus research or historiography in general. 34

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The collaborative volume Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Approaches to the Historical Jesus started almost from scratch.36 The group gathered and worked without much else common to build on than a short note presenting some suggestions about how to study the historical Jesus from a continuum perspective. Insights ensuing from that work were my guidelines when writing ‘An Introduction to the Continuum Approach’ that appeared in the mentioned volume.37 These rather modest theoretical considerations then spurred gatherings under the theme ‘Jesus Meets Christianity’. 38 For even though the notion that both the antecedents and consequences are important when seeking to study Jesus from a historical point of view is endorsed virtually universally, the fact is that still in today’s scholarship the scrutiny of the Jesuanic reception in early Christianity often features as a mere appendage to the more carefully performed study of Jesus within Judaism.39 Therefore, in order to gain a truly comprehensive continuum perspective to Jesus, we placed the demand that Jesus met in a proper way with Christianity, too. Hence, the second part of the present volume. Meanwhile, I continued to reflect upon the continuum approach theoretically. However, my study ‘Jesus in Continuum from Early Judaism to Early Christianity: Practical-Methodological Reflections on a  36

T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Perspectives to the Historical Jesus (London: T&T Clark, 2007). Contributors to this volume include E. K. Broadhead, I. Broer, B. Chilton, S. Freyne, T. Kazen, W. Loader, and A. Merz. Essays of this volume are based on the papers read at the 2005 Dresden meeting of the European Association of Biblical Studies. 37 T. Holmén, ‘An Introduction to the Continuum Approach’, in T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Perspectives to the Historical Jesus (London: T&T Clark, 2007), pp. 1–16. 38 Arranged during the 2006 Budapest/Piliscsaba meeting of the European Association of Biblical Studies. 39 There has naturally always been research which has taken seriously both the antecedents and the consequences. In recent study of the historical Jesus we can, for example, refer to the major projects of N. T. Wright and J. D. G. Dunn. Both Wright’s Christian Origins and the Question of God and Dunn’s Christianity in the Making, comprising volume-length studies on the historical Jesus as well as on early Christianity, seek to adjust, or match, the picture of the historical Jesus with the early Christian picture of him. Naturally, finding Jesus a place within early Judaism also belongs to Wright’s and Dunn’s research programs. However, while Jesus’ position within Judaism is worked out by them within the confines of one distinct investigation, the scrutiny of Jesus’ relation to Christianity falls into separate studies written successively. This mode of procedure cannot properly allow the kind of interplay or movements within the hermeneutical circle that would be necessary to let the Jesus–early Christianity dimension affect the emerging picture of the historical Jesus in a way that corresponds to how the early Judaism–Jesus dimension has been applied. Instead, Jesus the Jew has already been portrayed when Wright and Dunn proceed to present their views of the subsequent early Christianity. Thus Jesus can be no more adjusted in relation to the unfolding picture of early Christianity. See further in Holmén, ‘Practical-Methodological Reflections’.

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Missed Perspective’ produced an idea that was indeed practical as much as it was methodological: we should implement in our studies a course of research, an overall disposition, that would ensure that the reception history of Jesus is given a role equal to that given to his Jewish context.40 I propose the course of research in studies of Jesus be augmented in a way that guarantees the Jesus–early Christianity dimension can and will be given a weight equal to that commonly given the early Judaism–Jesus dimension. Like the early Jewish context, the early Christian ‘post context’ should be dealt with (a) on its own and (b) before turning to a consideration of Jesus. ... I also contend that, in particular, the commonest course of research, the two-part ‘Judaism ĺ Jesus,’ is quite discouraging with respect to allowing for swings of the hermeneutic circle to properly reach all the way to the relation between Jesus and early Christianity – and back. For this reason, given that the Jesus–early Christianity dimension really deserves more attention than what is usually paid to it, the presentation order and course of research that should be applied is Judaism ĺ Christianity ĺ Jesus. ... Most readily such a course of research could be applied when dealing with some particular aspects of Jesus’ teaching and/or life. Thus, if one seeks to find out, for example, Jesus’ views of the Sabbath, after the usual discussion of the Sabbath in early Judaism, one should review early Christian conceptions of the issue. Only then would a treatment of Jesus’ views follow. The treatment would in this way be necessarily subjected to the critical appraisal of the plausibility of the relation between Jesus and what came after him.41

With that idea in mind, we gathered to study Jesus under the general theme ‘Jesus in Continuum’.42 This work can now be found in the third section of the present volume. Accordingly, essays in Part Two mainly deal with their topic following this general outline: discussion of early Christian views, discussion of Jesus’ proclamation, and finally an assessment of continuity vs. discontinuity between Jesus’ and early Christian views.43 Essays in Part Three, again, follow a slightly different general outline in dealing with their topic: discussion of early Jewish views, discussion of early Christian views, and finally discussion of what on the basis of the preceding discussions can be said about Jesus’ views.44 At some points, the topics at issue have called for modifications of these overall dispositions. In other words, in some cases the particularities of the topics dealt with have made it necessary to 

40 See Holmén, ‘Practical-Methodological Reflections’ and there section ‘A Concrete Measure to be Taken: The Imperative Need to Facilitate Movements within the Hermeneutic Circle’. 41 Quotation from Holmén, ‘Practical-Methodological Reflections’, section ‘A Concrete Measure to be Taken: The Imperative Need to Facilitate Movements within the Hermeneutic Circle’. Cf. now, for example, the essay by C. Tuckett in the present volume. 42 Several seminars were arranged during the 2007 Vienna meeting of the European Association of Biblical Studies. 43 In focus here is, as explained earlier above, task b. 44 Aim here is to bring together all three tasks a, b and c. Cf. also the quotation just above.

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try to find alternative ways to realize the given general outlines.45 Such search for designs that would ensure a proper role even for the reception history of Jesus, and thus enable a full continuum perspective, is of course most welcome. All this has now made this new, albeit short, introduction to the continuum approach necessary. There are indeed some new ideas included here while some already previously suggested ones are expressed in more detail and, hopefully, with more clarity. Following this, again hopefully, more concrete research will be done along the lines of the continuum approach and, adjacently, further theoretical reflection, too. Looming on the horizon may also be a widening of the focus of the approach. It would be quite pertinent and, I believe, even novel to apply it in investigations into the whys and hows of the Jesus tradition. Now, as before, I wish to point out the brilliant criteriology developed by G. Theissen and D. Winter in The Quest for the Plausible Jesus. The Question of Criteria.46 Theissen and Winter emphasize the explicability of the contextually plausible Jesus (i.e., with respect to early Judaism) in relation to the subsequent Christianity and, with a view to that, crystallize some important authenticating criteria. The criterion of contextual plausibility dictates that a contextually plausible picture of Jesus contains features some of which are analogous others again distinctive to Jesus’ Jewish context. Correspondingly, the criterion of plausibility of effects consists of two subcriteria, namely the criterion of multiple attestation (and coherence) focusing on continuity between Jesus and early Christianity and the criterion of dissimilarity to Christianity which, obviously, pays attention to discontinuity manifest in the very relationship.47 As I have said here and also previously – indeed, and sought to prove: many of the ingredients of the continuum perspective are already known from a wide range of research and historical thinking.48 The criteriology of Theissen and Winter can be singled out as exceptionally suited for implementation of the approach in what comes to the criteria of authenticity question. However, many kinds of elements leading up to the continuum approach have surfaced all along and widely across the spectrum of Biblical study and other disciplines. The question provoked by this recognition is of course why has the continuum approach or anything comparable not  45

Cf., for instance, D. L. Bock’s essay which treats multiple issues. Here each issue will be carried through the Part Three sequence of discussions. A comparable modification applies, for example, to R. Roukema’s essay in Part Two of the volume. 46 G. Theissen and D. Winter, The Quest for the Plausible Jesus. The Question of Criteria (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002). 47 See my review of these criteria in T. Holmén, ’Review article of G. Theissen & D. Winter: The Quest for the Plausible Jesus’, JTS 55 (2004), pp. 216–228. 48 See now especially section 2. above.

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yet been made good use of more generally. An in principle endorsement of ideas it stands for is clearly discernible. Why then has it not, or something else like it, long since become the basic starting point employed consistently and systematically? What has been lacking is, I believe, a ‘package’ that seeks to put everything relevant together – guidelines for use in practice and actual use in practice, theoretical and methodological reflection focusing clearly on this approach – while still leaving a gracious space even for discussion and development.49 All this is now embodied in the continuum approach with its comprehensive and overarching nature. On the one hand, there is an attempt to bring together all various viewpoints and aspects that could be relevant to placing Jesus on the continuum from early Judaism to early Christianity. On the other, there is an exceptional openness and flexibility in respect to different views and opinions about the historical Jesus and historical Jesus research. For example, even granted the aptness of the criteriology of Theissen and Winter, the continuum approach is applicable to Jesus research quite irrespectively of what kind of criteria of authenticity one wishes to use or how, on the whole, one thinks the question of authenticity/historicity should be solved. In fact, the continuum approach leaves open many such specific questions. There is no particular stance or set of stances that should be considered necessary for application of the approach but, instead, discussion about them is encouraged. Indeed, discussion is encouraged about ‘Jesus in Continuum’. The grand aim of this project is to turn the continuum approach into the standard starting and vantage point of all historical Jesus research. For, as far as I can see, it still is not. And what I cannot see is why it should not.

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Add to that a good name.

Abbreviations Abbreviations for the books of the Bible and other ancient Jewish and Christian writings follow the T&T Clark International Style Guide and Standard Abbreviations for Ancient Sources. In addition, see J. F. Oates, R. S. Bagnall and W. H. Willis, Checklist of Editions of Greek Papyri and Ostraca (Oakville: American Society of Papyrologists, 5th edition, 2001), online: http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/texts/clist.html, and the Soncino Talmud 1952, online http://halakhah.com/tabbrev.html. Other abbreviations used in this volume are as follows: 1 Apol. 2 Apol. ABD Acts John Ag. AHR AJS AJSR Ann. Anton Ap. John Apoc. Per. Apol. Apol. chr. ASR Aug. b. BBR Ben. Bib Bib. hist. BibInt BTB BZ CBQ CBR

Justin, Apologia 1 Justin, Apologia 2 Anchor Bible Dictionary Acts of John Aeschylus, Agamemnon American Historical Review American Journal of Sociology Association for Jewish Studies Review Tacitus, Annales Antonianum Apocryphon of John Apocalypse of Peter Aristides, Apologeticum Tertullian, Apologeticus pro christianis American Sociological Review Suetonius, Augustus (De vita caesarum) Talmud Babli Bulletin for Biblical Research Seneca, De beneficiis Biblica Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca historica Biblical Interpretation Biblical Theology Bulletin Biblische Zeitschrift Catholic Biblical Quarterly Currents in Biblical Research

XXIV CCSA CCSL Cels. CIJ Civ. Colloq Comm. Matt. CSSH CTR Dem. Chr. Dial. Dig. Diss. DSD EC El. Ep. Ep. mor. EvQ EvT Exc. ExpTim frag. GCS Gorg. Gos. Jud. Gos. Mary Gos. Phil. Haer. Hel. Hist. Hist. eccl. Historia HT HTR Il. JAAR JBL JBR JBT JCopS

Abbreviations

Corpus Christianorum: Series Apocryphorum Corpus Christianorum: Series latina Origen, Contra Celsum Corpus inscriptionum judaicarum Augustine, De civitate Dei Colloquium Origen, Commentarium in Evangelium Matthaei Comparative Studies in Society and History Criswell Theological Review Hippolytus, Demonstratio de Christo et antichristo Justin, Dialogus cum Tryphone Digesta seu pandactae Epictetus, Dissertationes Dead Sea Discoveries Early Christianity Sophocles, Electra Pliny the Younger, Epistulae Seneca, Epistulae morales Evangelical Quarterly Evangelische Theologie Clement of Alexandria, Excerpta ex Theodoto Expository Times Hesiod, fragments Die griechische christliche Schriftsteller der ersten [drei] Jahrhunderte Plato, Gorgias Gospel of Judas Gospel of Mary Gospel of Philip Irenaeus, Adversus haereses Euripides, Helena Tacitus, Historiae Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte History and Theory Harvard Theological Review Homer, Ilias Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Bible and Religion Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie Journal of Coptic Studies

Abbreviations

JJS JNES JP JSHJ JSJ

Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal of Philosophy Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods JSNT Journal for the Study of the New Testament JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament JSP Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha JTS Journal of Theological Studies LCL Loeb Classical Library Leg. Athenagoras, Legatio pro christianis LXX Septuagint m. Mishnah m. Yad. Mishnah, Yadaim Mart. ascen. Isa. Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah Med. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations Mor. Plutarch, Moralia MT Masoretic Text of the Old Testament Mus Muséon: Revue d’études orientales NASB New American Standard Bible Nat. Pliny the Elder, Naturalis historia NBL Neues Bibel-Lexikon Nero Suetonius, Nero (De vita caesarum) NHC Nag Hammadi Codices NHMS Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies NovT Novum Testamentum NRSV New Revised Standard Version NTS New Testament Studies Od. Homer, Odyssea Op. Hesiod, Opera et dies Or. Origen, De oratione OT Old Testament PAM Palestine Archaeological Museum Pan. Epiphanius, Panarion Praed. Irenaeus, Praedicatio apostolica Praep. ev. Eusebius, Praeparatio evangelica Praescr. Tertullian, De praescriptione haereticorum Princ. Origen, De principiis PRSt Perspectives in Religious Studies Q Sayings Source Q RB Revue biblique

XXV

XXVI RCT Ref. RefS Resp. ResQ RevQ RevScRel RGG RRJ RTR Sat. SB SC SCI Sent. SJT SNTU SR ST STK t. TDNT Tg. Tg. Isa. Tg. Job Tg. Ps.-J. TheorSoc Thom. Cont. ThWAT TP TRE TWNT TynBul TZ y. Vg. Vit. Apoll. ZAW ZNT ZNW ZPT ZTK

Abbreviations

Revista catalana de teologia Hippolytus, Refutatio omnium haeresium Református Szemle Plato, Respublica Restoration Quarterly Revue de Qumran Revue des sciences religieuses Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart Review of Rabbinic Judaism Reformed Theological Review Juvenal, Satirae Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Aegypten Sources chrétiennes Scripta Classica Israelica Publilius Syrus, Sententiae Scottish Journal of Theology Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses Studia Theologica Svensk Teologisk Kvartalskrift Tosefta Theological Dictionary of the New Testament Targum Targum Isaiah Targum Job Targum Pseudo-Jonathan Theory and Society Thomas the Contender Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament Theologie und Philosophie Theologische Realenzyklopädie Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament Tyndale Bulletin Theologische Zeitschrift Talmud Yerushalmi Vulgate Philostratus, Vita Apollonii Tyanensis Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Neues Testament Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Pädagogik und Theologie Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Part One: Theoretical Aspects of the Continuum

Hermeneutics of Dissimilarity in the Early Judaism–Jesus–Early Christianity Continuum TOM HOLMÉN

1. Introduction This essay inquires into the hermeneutics function of the concept of dissimilarity in its application to the historical Jesus. As of yet, the question thus framed has largely remained unasked in scholarship. Reasons for this are mainly two. One is that the greatest interest in the concept has been due overwhelmingly to another function it can be seen to have: it works as the basis of a criterion of authenticity.1 According to the criterion in question, the socalled criterion of dissimilarity, certain dissimilar aspect or aspects found in the Jesus tradition can be regarded as features suggesting authenticity, historicity.2 Compared with this, it makes all the difference if we instead 1 The standard criteria of authenticity are the criterion of dissimilarity, the criterion of multiple attestation, and the criterion of coherence. These are also the most traditional criteria and are still today employed by scholars, although several variations of them appear. As for the role of the criteria in Jesus research, I prefer this kind of description: Whichever scholar portrays whatever picture of the historical Jesus, he or she will be making a claim regarding the material that picture of Jesus consists of, namely that that material can be deemed useable in portraying the historical Jesus. The arguments that he or she, then, offers in support of the claim, I call ‘authenticity criteria’. Naturally, scholars can offer arguments other than those the standard criteria build on. There are, as is known, even other criteria, and new suggestions are always welcome. See further T. Holmén, ‘Seven Theses on the So-Called Criteria of Authenticity of Historical Jesus Research’, RCT 33 (2008), pp. 343–76, esp. 343–48; see even idem, ‘A Metalanguage for the Historical Jesus Methods: An Experiment’, in T. Holmén and S. E. Porter (eds.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. Volume One. How to Study the Historical Jesus (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 589–616, esp. 594. 2 The so-called criterion of dissimilarity is still one of the most frequently applied methodological devices of the current historical Jesus research. Though often put forward with a supply of critical remarks, the criterion has, in one form or another, been accepted for the use of research by scholars across the spectrum. For instance, G. Theissen and D. Winter in their influential methodology (The Quest for the Plausible Jesus. The Question of Criteria [Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002]) characterize this criterion (labeled by them interchangeably as ‘the CDC’ [criterion of dissimilarity to Christianity], ‘resistance to tendencies of tradition’ or ‘objection to traditional bias’) as important (p.

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pursue a hermeneutical question, i.e., how we should interpret the dissimilarities of the tradition and how we thereby understand Jesus as a historical figure. Nonetheless, discussions and debates that have surrounded the concept in service of authentication have considerably blocked out the role it could have hermeneutically. On the other hand, another reason why the hermeneutics of the dissimilarity concept has not attracted any more thorough and determined analyses may be that in the past decades its foremost yield has been the dubious ‘different Jesus’. For long Jesus’ difference vis-à-vis the Judaism of his time served as the central interpretative element of historical Jesus portraits.3 Jesus’ being ‘a different Jew’, deemed evident, was then also often translated into claims of his superiority.4 Although some time ago tides radically turned in scholarship, gazing back at this legacy there simply seems to be no case for the hermeneutics of dissimilarity apart from dubious value judgments. Indeed, now characterizations of Jesus as different are met with suspicion, regarded as invalid or even considered inappropriate.5 Now, neither of these troubles actually means that there would not be a hermeneutics of the dissimilarity concept with something constructive to give to scholarship. We can put aside the authenticity pursuit and concentrate on hermeneutics. Further, we can try to eschew previous value judgments and see whether anything pertinent remains. Proceeding this way properly and carefully, there is no reason to leave the question unasked any more. After all, dissimilarity is an important relational concept, and relations are all-important in hermeneutics. 179) and holding the first place among the four criteria they distinguish (p. 211). Similarly, they recognize that the criterion is generally practiced in historical studies (p. 177). 3 For instance, E. Käsemann, Exegetische Versuche und Besinnungen, I (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960), p. 206, establishes that Jesus ‘ist wohl Jude gewesen und setzt spätjüdische Frömmigkeit voraus’, but continues then: ‘aber er zerbricht gleichzeitig mit seinem Anspruch diese Sphäre [sc. Judaism]’. See further, for example G. Bornkamm, Jesus von Nazareth (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1960), p. 71; L. Goppelt, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981), p. 148. The paramount importance of the points where Jesus diverged from Judaism is especially underlined by Käsemann: ‘Immerhin ist es für uns ja fast noch wichtiger, wenn wir zu Gesicht bekommen, was ihn [sc. Jesus] von Gegnern und Freunden trennte’ (Exegetische Versuche, p. 205). 4 Jesus research bears the legacy of intentionally differentiating Jesus in order to make him look better than whatever he was confronted with, usually the so-called ‘late Judaism’ (Spätjudentum). So Jesus was often pictured as a different Jew, superior to his peers. See the detailed analysis in E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM Press, 1985), pp. 27–47. 5 See J. H. Charlesworth, ‘Preface’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus’ Jewishness. Exploring the Place of Jesus in Early Judaism (New York: Crossroad, 1996), pp. 13–17, esp. 15–16.

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My way to tackle the issue is to apply the continuum approach. This lends the analysis comprehensiveness and preciseness required with respect to the mentioned troubles as well as the different aspects that go into the dissimilarity concept. At the same time, the continuum approach itself will be further illuminated. As I have explained in the Introduction, the continuum approach can be split in half, forming two dimensions: early Judaism–Jesus, and Jesus–early Christianity. In the following I shall work in an orderly fashion, beginning with the first dimension and then expanding that view with the second one, thus constituting a full continuum perspective to the dissimilarities of Jesus. I shall thus first enter the once trodden area of Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism and encounter its hermeneutical challenges (see section 3). Then I shall turn to a much more novel enterprise which is hermeneutics, not authenticity, of Jesus’ dissimilarity to Christianity (see section 4). However, before engaging these questions a few initial distinctions that allow a more careful control over the concept of dissimilarity need to be explicated. I will also briefly discuss some words, terms and other concepts that feature in a central way in the present essay and therefore require some more clarification.ġ

2. Distinctions and Functions of Dissimilarity At first, it is necessary to single out the hermeneutics of dissimilarity among other possible functions of the concept within Jesus research, for the dissimilarity concept works differently and has different effects depending on which of its functions or roles one applies. For the present purpose, I will make the following three distinctions as to the differences between the functions: • Perceiving an instance of dissimilarity We merely observe that there is dissimilarity between something that is said about Jesus and something that we know of some other phenomenon. • Authentication of a perceived instance of dissimilarity Using any possible means designed for assessing the historicity of the Jesus tradition (for example, the various authenticity criteria), we argue for the authenticity of the instance of dissimilarity we have perceived.6 6

I have explained my understanding of what authentication is in Holmén, ‘Seven Theses’, pp. 343–48. Basically, I focus on the question of the justification and signifi-

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One special case of this is • Authentication on the basis of a certain kind of perceived in stance of dissimilarity7 The instance of dissimilarity we have perceived suggests itself, because of the particular kind of dissimilarity in question (namely, one amounting to the dissimilarity criterion of authen ticity), as an authentic piece of information about Jesus. • Hermeneutics that ensues from an instance of dissimilarity that can on some grounds be deemed as authentic We interpret (that is, ask what this means with respect to our understanding of Jesus) an instance of dissimilarity that has been argued to be authentic – argued by means of whatever criteria, i.e., it does not have to be the special case of authentication mentioned above, namely the dissimilarity criterion, that has been employed when arguing for authenticity. Naturally, these basic functions work and have effect in many ways reciprocally.8 Nevertheless, there are also significant differences between them. ‘Perceiving’ an instance of dissimilarity does not automatically lead to ‘authentication’. For instance, if we perceive dissimilarity between Jesus tradition and early Judaism, no argument for authenticity is thereby generated.9 On the other hand, an instance of dissimilarity perceived between Jecance of scholars labeling their studies as investigations into the historical Jesus. Why do we choose to label it thus and not otherwise? How do we argue for the appropriateness of this label over some other? Any positive and material answer to these questions I would call ‘authentication’. Naturally, I would also call a methodology based on the wellknown criteria of authenticity the same. 7 In question here is, in fact, the so-called criterion of dissimilarity. I have partaken in the discussion regarding this criterion in ‘Doubts about Double Dissimilarity: Restructuring the Main Criterion of Jesus-of-History Research’, in B. Chilton and C. A. Evans (eds.), Authenticating the Words of Jesus, Vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 47–80; idem, ‘Knowing about Q and Knowing about Jesus: Mutually exclusive undertakings?’, in A. Lindemann (ed.), The Sayings Source Q and the Historical Jesus (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), pp. 497–514; ‘Authenticity Criteria’, in C. A. Evans (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 43–54; idem, ‘Seven Theses’, pp. 343–48. See even idem, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 24–36. 8 For instance, interpreting dissimilarities can affect judgment about their authenticity. And, naturally, some kind of assessment is included even in perceiving dissimilarity, that is, in the decision that there is an instance of dissimilarity at hand. 9 A tradition’s dissimilarity to Judaism is in scholarship almost never seen to favor authenticity. Sometimes, admittedly, particularly in second quest studies, dissimilarity to Judaism was in practice regarded as suggesting authenticity, although no theoretical, methodological basis for this had been given (usually the methodological presupposition

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sus tradition and early Christianity is usually in today’s scholarship regarded as favoring authenticity. 10 If this kind of dissimilarity lies at hand, movement from ‘perceiving’ to ‘authentication’ is warranted or at least facilitated or suggested.11 Nonetheless, in principle, when ‘perceiving’ dissimilarities, we do not intend to make anything of them yet. We do not draw conclusions about their authenticity. Also, ‘perceiving’ does not yet mean engaging in interpreting Jesus on the basis of them. ‘Hermeneutics’ naturally presupposes that an instance of dissimilarity has been perceived. Also, in order that the instance of dissimilarity can be discussed as part of the historical figure of Jesus, it needs to have been authenticated. However – and this is very important to observe – hermeneutics is not dependent on authentication of the perceived instance of dissimilarity on the basis of dissimilarity alone (cf. the special case mentioned above)! For there are of course other reasons, too, why we can assume that a piece of information where Jesus displays dissimilarity is authentic. I refer to the other criteria of authenticity (or whatever anyone thinks may suggest that something tells about the historical Jesus; cf. n. 6 above). As stated, the present essay will concentrate upon hermeneutics. The above distinctions are important to knowing what we are not going to talk about here as well as to knowing in what way many issues are closely related to what we are going to talk about. May the distinctions especially make it easier to hear loudly and clearly that we will not here deal with dissimilarity as a basis of authentication (cf. the special case). In other words, this essay does not aim to discuss the criterion of authenticity that builds on the dissimilarity concept, namely the criterion of dissimilarity. 12 Secondly, there are some relationships of words, terms and concepts that should be clarified. In this essay, I have chosen to set out from the term and concept ‘dissimilarity’. Linked to this, however, another word I will be using – and which is likewise used in the scholarly discussion – is ‘disconfor authenticity was a double dissimilarity: authenticity could be assumed when a tradition was found dissimilar simultaneously to both Judaism and Christianity). See Holmén, ‘Doubts about Double Dissimilarity’, pp. 59–74, 77–78. 10 The demand of double dissimilarity, that is, a tradition’s simultaneous dissimilarity to Judaism and Christianity, as a form of the criterion of dissimilarity is receding in scholarship. According to Theissen and Winter, in ‘the Third Quest, the CDJ [sc. dissimilarity to Judaism] is fundamentally rejected ... and the CDC [sc. dissimilarity to Christianity] is applied in a controlled manner’ (Theissen & Winter, Quest for the Plausible Jesus, p. 169). 11 This cautious formulation just seeks to reckon with the complexity involved in every estimation of authenticity. 12 As a matter of fact, I will wholly refrain from discussing authenticity in the present context. So I try to favor focusing on the hermeneutics of dissimilarity. This solution is relevant mainly in section 4 below.

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tinuity’. A few lines are needed to make clear the relation between these two in the present context. ‘Dissimilarity’ and ‘discontinuity’ commonly belong to the historical Jesus methodology and the discussion about the criteria of authenticity where they work virtually synonymously designating one and the same criterion, the criterion of dissimilarity/discontinuity. Although there are several applications of the criterion, varying ways to construe it, this does not pertain to the choice between these two words. I will follow the common practice to alternate rather freely between the words, yet I also wish to be a bit more specific with respect to how they are interchangeable. In principle, ‘dissimilarity’ does not equal ‘discontinuity’ but two things can be similar but discontinuous and they can be continuous although they are dissimilar. It is possible, however, to let the words absorb each other’s import without quite merging them together. For instance, A and B can be discontinuous by being dissimilar or dissimilar by being discontinuous. Discontinuity then counts as a form of dissimilarity and vice versa. Seen this way, the words do not quite empty each other’s meaning but are still widely interchangeable. ‘Difference’ will be employed freely of both something discontinuous and something dissimilar. How do, then, ‘dissimilarity’ and ‘continuum’ go together? As I explain in the Introduction,13 ‘continuum’ should not be understood as focusing on continuous traits alone. Although continuity between two different phenomena is a necessary quality for regarding the phenomena as lying on a continuum, discontinuity is necessary simply for keeping the phenomena apart from each other. ‘Continuum’ thus comprises both continuity and discontinuity; how much of one or of the other and what are the individual traits, that depends on the phenomena at issue. In the present essay, discussing the dissimilarity concept, it is the discontinuous traits that come under the spotlight. We are thus purposely, for the current use, brushing aside the traits of continuity (or similarity). This may prove seminal for learning about the widths and depths of discontinuity that can be embedded in continuum. Still, let it also be clearly remarked that with a focus like this we are indeed not looking at the whole picture. Nor do we pretend that we are. 13 See also these essays: T. Holmén, ‘An Introduction to the Continuum Approach, in T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Perspectives to the Historical Jesus (London: T&T Clark, 2007), pp. 1–16; ‘Jesus in Continuum from Early Judaism to Early Christianity: Practical-Methodological Reflections on a Missed Perspective’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), Perspectives on the Historical Jesus. New Methodologies and Perceptions. The Second Princeton-Prague Symposium on Jesus Research. (2 vols.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, forthcoming).

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Thus, striving after hermeneutics of dissimilarity in the continuum of early Judaism–Jesus–early Christianity, we turn to the first dimension of the continuum: to the relation between Jesus and Judaism.

3. Rehearsing ‘the Different Jesus’ 3.1. The baggage Talk about Jesus as a different Jew comes with baggage. Previously in research, passages of tradition where Jesus appears to diverge from his fellow Jews often gave occasion to value judgments. Jesus was seen as very different and, by extension, promoted as superior, which was then made relevant to Christianity and in turn made Christianity relevant.14 Still in the investigations of the new quest for the historical Jesus,15 Jesus was often pictured as a special case, as a spokesman of better and more enlightened views and values, particularly conspicuous because of his message of love and mercy which contrasted with the alleged harsh legalism of the Judaism of the time.16 14 E. Käsemann, in particular, argued, against his former teacher R. Bultmann, that knowledge about the historical Jesus is essential and requisite for the Christian faith. If the faith is isolated from its historical roots, it may turn into mere docetism. According to Käsemann, if Jesus was in kerygma understood in the light of Easter, the Easter faith could only be understood in relation to Jesus. See Käsemann, Exegetische Versuche, p. 213. Cf., for example, R. Bultmann, Glauben und Verstehen. Gesammelte Aufsätze. Bd. I (Tübingen: Mohr, 1933), p. 101; idem, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (Tübingen: Mohr, 1953), p. 234. 15 The current phase of Jesus research, dating from the beginning of 1980’s, has often received the label the ‘Third Quest’ (for the historical Jesus). See, for example, S. Neill and N. T. Wright, The Interpretation of the New Testament 1861–1986 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), p. 379; B. Holmberg, ‘En historisk vändning i forskningen om Jesus’, STK 69 (1993), pp. 69–76, esp. 72; B. Witherington, The Jesus Quest. The Third Search for the Jew of Nazareth (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 1995); Theissen & Winter, Quest for the Plausible Jesus, pp. 141–52. The characterization derives from a delineation which discerns two previous phases, traditionally named ‘die Leben-Jesu-Forschung’ (which covered the period up to the beginning of the twentieth century) and ‘die neue Frage’ or the ‘New Quest’ from 1950’s onwards till the beginning of 1970’s. This is the common but, admittedly, simplicistic way of describing the continuing quest of Jesus. Some would say it is incorrectly simplicistic; cf. N. T. Wright, ‘Quest for the Historical Jesus’, ABD 3, pp. 796–802, esp. 796; C. Marsh, ‘Quests of the Historical Jesus in New Historicist Perspective’, BibInt 5 (1997), pp. 403–37, esp. 408–16; S. E. Porter, The Criteria for Authenticity in Historical-Jesus Research. Previous Discussion and New Proposals (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), pp. 31–59. 16 This year 1898 estimate by C. W. Votaw is illuminating: ‘Jesus, however, so changed the wording of this principle [the double commandment of love], as to give it a new force and sphere, for He stated it – not negatively, as it everywhere appears – but positively, insisting upon that loving service to others which is peculiar to the Gospel.

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Put tersely, this is the way the dissimilarity concept, dissimilarity being perceived between Jesus and Judaism, has previously ‘served’ hermeneutically. However, this is, of course, not where the present essay seeks to find the hermeneutics of dissimilarity. I am indeed pleading a renewed attention to Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism, but I am not thereby reclaiming that first to new quest encumbrance. How is that so? Simply, rejecting the previous conclusion about ‘the different Jesus’ (i.e., Jesus’ superiority) as misconceived does not mean that we should or even could brand the dissimilarity concept in itself as misplaced when interpreting Jesus. We cannot just postulate his thoroughgoing similarity to Judaism, indeed, not even his similarity on some given point, without first examining the issue. In fact, value judgments attached to dissimilarity can lead in two directions: • When we notice a difference between two phenomena, we conclude that one of them is somehow better that the other. • Since we think none of the phenomena should be tagged as better than the other, we conclude that there can be no difference between them. In both cases, actually, difference or dissimilarity is seen as indicating betterness, and the question is: Why ever should dissimilarity be invested with such a value? Therefore, we must not shy away from searching for and observing dissimilarities between Jesus and Judaism lest we make the old mistake again in a new way. We only need to cease treating dissimilarity as a dispenser of value judgments. Putting such judgments completely aside, then, what is the value of observing Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism? Why is it important? What can the dissimilarity or the dissimilarities tell us?

Legalism says, “Thou shalt not” do this and that – a system of repression; the Gospel of Life says, “Thou shalt” do countless good and helpful things – a system of development.’ Quoted from J. Hastings (ed.), A Dictionary of the Bible. Volume V. Supplement Articles (Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific, 2004 [repr.]), p. 42. As for representative new quest voices to this effect, cf. for instance the following statements of Käsemann and Bornkamm: ‘Aus dieser Gewißheit [i.e., of Jesus] heraus ... wird die Forderungen der sehenden Liebe erhoben, welche derjenigen des blinden Gehorsams im Rabbinat entgegengestellt ist’ (Käsemann, Exegetische Versuche, pp. 209–10). ‘Im Gegensatz zu jüdischem Denken ... löst ihn [sc. man] Jesus völlig auf dieser Verflechtung [reward as motivation for moral behavior]’ (Bornkamm, Jesus von Nazareth, p. 130). Expressions such as petty legalism, cheap grace, or something degenerating into work righteousness – so either accusing or defending Judaism (!) – can even today betray a lapse into value judgments.

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3.2. Why is it important (and how important is it)? In order to grasp the importance of observing Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism, one should first consider the changes in the scholarly picture of Judaism that came about during the 1970’s (also partly in the 60’s and 80’s) and the resultant need to locate Jesus within Judaism.17 In only one or two decades the picture of a homogeneous, almost monolithic, normative late Judaism transmuted into a wholly new concept.18 At the time of Jesus, scholars began to realize, Judaism did not live its later (or last) phases but earlier ones. It was not fading away (from the way of Christianity) but was in the making. So ‘normative’ ‘late Judaism’ became ‘formative’ ‘early Judaism’.19 Judaism at the turn of the eras was heterogeneous, teeming with competing religious groups and their varying views about the Israelite heritage.20 Accordingly, it is nowadays usual to state that this ‘early Judaism appears to encompass almost unlimited diversity and variety’21, that ‘there were only the infinite and diverse Judaic systems’22, and that radical 17 See, for example, G. Theissen and A. Merz, Der historische Jesus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), p. 29; N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), pp. 119–20; T. Holmén, ‘The Jewishness of Jesus in the “Third Quest”’, in M. Labahn and A. Schmidt (eds.), Jesus, Mark and Q. The Teaching of Jesus and its Earliest Records (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 143– 62. Cf. also the titles of, for instance, J. H. Charlesworth, Jesus within Judaism. New Light from Exciting Archaeological Discoveries (London: SPCK, 1990); C. A. Evans, Jesus and His Contemporaries. Comparative Studies (Leiden: Brill, 1995); B. Chilton, ‘Jesus within Judaism’, in B. Chilton and C. A. Evans (eds.), Jesus in Context. Temple, Purity, and Restoration (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 179–201. 18 On the change of attitude, cf. for example, G. W. E. Nickelsburg and R. A. Kraft, ‘The Modern Study of Early Judaism’, in R. A. Kraft and G. W. E. Nickelsburg (eds.), Early Judaism and its Modern Interpreters (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), pp. 1– 30, esp. 9–21; W. Scott Green, ‘Introduction: The Scholarly Study of Judaism and its Sources’, in J. Neusner (ed.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part One. The Literary and Archaeological Sources (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 1–10, esp. 1–5; J. J. Scott, Jr., Customs and Controversies. Intertestamental Jewish Backgrounds of the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 1995), pp. 20–22. 19 See, for instance, J. Neusner, Formative Judaism. Religious, Historical, and Literary Studies. Second Series (Chico: Scholars Press, 1983), pp. 1–6. 20 See, for instance, G. G. Porton, ‘Diversity in Post-Biblical Judaism’, in R. A. Kraft and G. W. E. Nickelsburg (eds.), Early Judaism and its Modern Interpreters (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), pp. 57–80; H. Maccoby, Judaism in the First Century (London: Sheldon Press, 1989); A. I. Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects in the Maccabean Era. An Interpretation (Leiden: Brill, 1997). Porton, ‘Diversity’, p. 73, ascribes the demonstration of the heterogeneousness of early Judaism to M. Smith, M. J. Cook, J. Murphy-O’Connor and J. Neusner. 21 Nickelsburg & Kraft, ‘Modern Study’, p. 2. 22 J. Neusner, The Judaism the Rabbis Take for Granted (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), p. 18.

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pluralism was ‘the order of the day’23. Further, in this ‘swirling dynamo, full of life’24 one should realize ‘the total impossibility of any type of closed, systematic, normative Judaism’25, and that ‘all these movements were in some way unique, controversial, contentious, and convinced of their “orthodoxy”’26. In the face of these deep and radical changes in the scholarly picture of Judaism, effects on picturing Jesus were inevitable. Having earlier been apt to alienate Jesus from his Jewish context, scholars now launched an attempt to decisively and properly integrate him into Judaism.27 In consequence, we hear statements like ‘it is now widely recognized that Jesus stood foursquare within the Judaism of his day’ 28, or that ‘Jesus is now recognized to have been a devout Jew’29, or, again, that he was ‘a vigorous participant’ of Judaism30. In other words, Jesus is no longer placed on the outskirts of Judaism, on the verge of breaking out, but he is clearly regarded as an integral internal phenomenon of Judaism. Thus, as it would appear, the current research situation rather seems to presuppose statements underlining Jesus’ thorough Jewishness and how he was of like mind with his contemporaries, not explications of his differences or dissimilarity. However, the critical findings of the past decades have altered the setting wherein we view Judaism and Jesus and assess their relationship, in ways whose implications are not always so obvious. This can be illuminated by looking closer into some stock statements used to emphasize the now all-important Jewishness of Jesus. 23 B. Chilton, The Temple of Jesus. His Sacrificial Program Within a Cultural History of Sacrifice (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), p. 181. 24 J. H. Charlesworth, ‘From Jewish Messianology to Christian Christology: Some Caveats and Perspectives’, in J. Neusner, W. Scott Green and E. S. Frerichs (eds.), Judaisms and their Messiahs at the Turn of the Christian Era (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 225–64, esp. 227. 25 J. H. Charlesworth, ‘The Foreground of Christian Origins and the Commencement of Jesus Research’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus’ Jewishness. Exploring the Place of Jesus in Early Judaism (New York: Crossroad, 1996), pp. 63–83, esp. 72. 26 H.-D. Betz, ‘Wellhausen’s Dictum “Jesus was not a Christian, but a Jew” in Light of Present Scholarship’, ST 45 (1991), pp. 83–110, esp. 100–01. 27 Charlesworth, ‘The Foreground’, p. 82; D. J. Harrington, ‘The Jewishness of Jesus. Facing Some Problems’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus’ Jewishness. Exploring the Place of Jesus in Early Judaism (New York: Crossroad, 1996), pp. 123–36, esp. 125. 28 J. D. G. Dunn, ‘Judaism in the Land of Israel in the First Century’, in J. Neusner (ed.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part Two. Historical Syntheses (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 229–61, esp. 240–41. 29 J. H. Charlesworth, ‘Jesus Research Expands with Chaotic Creativity’, in J. H. Charlesworth and W. P. Weaver (eds.), Images of Jesus Today (Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1994), pp. 1–41, esp. 9. 30 Chilton, Temple of Jesus, p. 190.

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Jesus was a Jew. Viewed against the background of a heterogeneous and diverse Judaism, this statement does not state much. With the old picture of Judaism it would have carried a message but with the new one it turns into a platitude. In fact, Jesus being a Jew forms now the starting point of research, not its outcome: only when having determined in a more exact fashion what kind of Jew Jesus was, has the scholar said more than trivial things about him. Jesus was very Jewish. This statement presupposes that there was a determinable gist or core in early Judaism. Placement of Jesus very near this core, then, would make him very Jewish. But what if there was no such core or gist, as seems to be suggested by many present day characterizations? Namely, if ‘there were only the infinite and diverse Judaic systems’ (etc.)? One cannot advance the demand that Jesus should be placed near the center of Judaism and at the same time maintain that in Judaism no such center existed. In other words, the endeavor of the current research to emphasize, on the one hand, the thorough heterogeneousness of the Judaism of Jesus’ time and, on the other, the thorough Jewishness of Jesus runs into trouble in that the former emphasis tends to exclude a key presupposition of the latter one. This problem does not apply to Jesus research alone. If there was in the Judaism of the time no distinguishable normative, mainstream or the like form of religiosity, thus no yardstick for measuring what is central and what, again, marginal in Judaism, we cannot in fact say whether anything is very Jewish or, on the contrary, not very Jewish. (Nay, that we cannot do, but this we maybe can: we distinguish between core and periphery in early Judaism and also uphold it as thoroughly heterogeneous.)31 The following stock statement will guide us to appreciation of the need to rehearse ‘the different Jesus’. Jesus was not a different Jew. What does it mean that early Judaism was characterized by heterogeneity and diversity if not the fact that deviation and difference were its central ingredients? Most people differed from each other to some degree and some differed greatly. We arrive at a peculiar configuration: everybody else was ‘controversial, contentious, and convinced of their “orthodoxy”’ but not Jesus. In fact, in this statement Judaism is perceived according to the old conception, namely as a solid and tight entity outside of which Jesus becomes un-Jewish and inside of which he must not be seen as distinct from others. However, considering the new picture of Judaism one not only could but even should claim that Jesus was different and deviant – not being outside of Judaism, as if opposed to it,

31

I put this statement in parentheses because from this, a thread opens that could lead us too far from the main issues of the essay.

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but inside, participating in it: like Judaism (differences as a central hallmark), like Jesus the Jew (in his own way different). As a matter of fact then – and here is the single most important point that necessitates studying Jesus’ dissimilarities to Judaism: even Jesus’ being different must in today’s scholarship be regarded as the starting point, not the upshot, of research. How was Jesus different? How did he differ from other Jews, from other Judaism(s)? These are questions that research recognizing the heterogeneous nature of Judaism simply cannot go without and hope to make progress. That we perhaps implicitly prefer the claim that Jesus was not a different Jew to asking how he was different, results from setting the new picture of Jesus against the old picture of Judaism. In a way, thus, it is a relic from a past research situation. The new picture of Jesus, however, came about just because a new picture of Judaism was engendered. In other words, the new Jesus cannot truly exist without the new Judaism. In this new situation, ‘different Jesus’ loses the dubious character it has had in the past and emerges as the question that holds all or at least most of the promises. There is thus indeed a case for revisiting the hermeneutics of Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism. 3.3. What then can the dissimilarities tell us? The central concept dissimilarity here leads us to – precisely by way of evoking the questions of how Jesus was different, how he differed from other Jews – is identity. Understanding this properly in the present context requires examination of a somewhat wider field of concepts, including those of individuality and originality. Identity was clearly important in the Judaism of Jesus’ time, and applying the concept in studies of early Judaism meets no extraordinary difficulties. For instance, studying how the Jews understood themselves as a people is a perspective quite commonly and readily utilized in scholarship.32 Individuality, however, was perhaps not so important in the Jewish world of Jesus, and it was also conceived differently from how we nowadays would usually perceive it.33 Problems therefore emerge when identity pre32 Cf. for example, B. F. Meyer and E. P. Sanders (eds.), Jewish and Christian SelfDefinition (3 vols.; London: SCM Press, 1982); S. Stern, Jewish Identity in Early Rabbinic Writings (Leiden: Brill, 1994); H. Wettstein (ed.), Diasporas and Exiles. Varieties of Jewish Identity (Ewing: University of California Press, 2002); J. Frey, D. R. Schwartz and S. Gripentrog (eds.), Jewish Identity in the Greco-Roman World (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 33 See R. Sorabji, Self. Ancient and Modern Insights about Individuality, Life, and Death (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006) and for example chapter 7, ‘Bundles and differentiation of individuals’, where he discusses, among others, Socrates, Plato,

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supposes the concept of individuality. Research that wishes to inquire into the identity of one particular person must struggle to find a pertinent approach. Here the concept of dissimilarity can come to our aid in that it offers a means to highlight the individual. Yet, some further qualifications need to be taken into account. In general, a person’s identity is determined by both association and dissociation. In archaic communities in particular, individuals importantly defined themselves by identification with a group.34 The notion of what constitutes one’s ‘own’ identity must therefore be considered carefully. In theory, the individual identifying himself or herself firmly with a group of people, even his or her identity being 100% identical with theirs, could still experience and call it his or her ‘own’ identity.35 From a scholarly perspective, the closer we get to such a case, the more the discrepancy between the individual and the group vanishes. Importantly, then, individuality can be brought into the range of scholarly vision by employing the concept of dissimilarity. Considering dissimilarity, we could speak about ‘one’s own identity’ in distinction to others, to a group. That is, dissimilarity marks off an identity where it is not shared, clearly at least, with others. Dissimilarity envelops a kind of ‘contrasting

Aristotle, Porphyry, and the Stoics (pp. 137–53); see further H. G. Kippenberg, ‘Name and Person in Ancient Judaism and Christianity’, in H. G. Kippenberg, Y. B. Kuiper and A. F. Sanders (eds.), Concepts of Person in Religion and Thought (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1990), pp. 103–24. 34 Dissociative elements as well were naturally embedded here as the individuals at the same time could dissociate themselves from other groups. This, however, they accomplished together with the group of their identification. Such group dissociation enhanced identification with and within the group. This applies particularly well to the formation of Jewish identity. See M. L. Satlow, Creating Judaism. History, Tradition, Practice (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), pp. 79, 100. The unique possessions of the Jews – the Torah, the Temple and the Land – not to speak of beliefs structuring the way of life, for instance the purity rules, can be characterized as critical pieces of the Jewish identity; see E. S. Gruen, ‘Diaspora and Homeland’, in H. Wettstein (ed.), Diasporas and Exiles. Varieties of Jewish Identity (Ewing: University of California Press, 2002), pp. 18–46, esp. 32. 35 For social identity as that part of an individual’s self-concept that comes from knowledge of his or her membership in a group, see for instance H. Tajfel and J. Forgas, ‘Social Categorization: Cognitions, values and groups’, in J. Forgas (ed.), Social Cognition. Perspectives on Everyday Understanding (London: Academic Press, 1981), pp. 113–40. For the complex nature of the relation between individual and group identity, see for example J.-C. Deschamps and T. Devos, ‘Regarding the Relationship Between Social Identity and Personal Identity’, in S. Worchel, J .F. Morales, D. Paez and J.-C. Deschamps (eds.), Social Identity. International Perspectives (London: Sage, 1998), pp. 1–12.

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identity’ or, perhaps better, a ‘distinctive identity’. 36 This we also can call – since we can perceive it – an individual identity. To return to the individual called Jesus, studying Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism can thus highlight and bring within scholarly reach something of his identity as an individual. And as I have tried to formulate it clearly, that something highlighted by dissimilarity is his distinctive identity. He certainly, like anybody, also experienced an identity of his own with others, not only distinct from them (although the view of the Judaism of Jesus’ time as very heterogeneous means we should be cautious not to overemphasize this). Thus, a question leading us forward could be how much do dissimilarities determine Jesus’ identity. Here we are dealing with the proportion of one to the other, in other words, distinctive identity compared with shared identity. This is what in my view appropriately defines the concept of originality in its application to Jesus. Jesus’ originality is also an old scholarly bone of contention.37 Much like Jesus’ dissimilarity it has in the history of research been used to support the claim of Jesus’ superiority.38 Together with the crucial importance that now, in a new situation and in a new way, pertains to the question of how Jesus was different, even originality should be rehabilitated as a hermeneutical concept. Compared to the concept of identity, originality implies more clearly and more inclusively the quality of individuality; there are no obvious applications for it with regard to groups of people. However, originality is a much more trickier concept to handle. As seen, it must not be associated too closely with dissimilarity, identity or individuality, not even with the distinctive identity where dissimilarity is consulted to highlight the identity of an individual. In fact, it presupposes some knowledge of all these concepts, yet dissimilarity alone can already give some important clues about it.

36 Naturally, the concept ‘distinctive identity’ applies to groups as well. The Jews, for instance (or in particular), developed a distinct identity as a people. See Satlow, Creating Judaism, pp. 78–79. 37 See, for example, W. P. Weaver’s history of Jesus research in the first half of the twentieth century which discloses the continuing interest in the topic. Weaver states: ‘That was a question whose luster never seemed to dull.’ W. P. Weaver, The Historical Jesus in the Twentieth Century. 1900–1950 (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1999), p. 214. 38 The following quotation summarizes well some earlier, nineteenth-century thoughts around the topic: ‘Jesus’ originality – and the term is not misapplied – consisted in His Divine ability to separate the true from false, the permanent from the transient, the perfect from the imperfect; and then to carry forward the whole circle of ideas and practices to their ideal expression. ... Jesus’ mission was to clarify and to perfect religious truth.’ Votaw, A Dictionary of the Bible, p. 34.

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As for all these concepts, then, dissimilarity is the most practical and useable one and can be regarded as a key to all others. It does not presuppose any knowledge about the others while the others presuppose knowledge about it and something else.39 My suggestion is therefore that effort first be put into researching anew Jesus’ dissimilarities to Judaism and, following on from that, into unraveling his ‘distinctive identity’. Jesus’ originality, however, should not be abandoned either but set as a goal to be achieved in due course.40 3.4. A short summary I have tried to show that pursuing hermeneutics of Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism can be something more and something other than baggage for scholarship. In fact, I believe that the very shape of the current research renders that pursuit no less than indispensabe. Jesus the different Jew was banned for a good while and for a good reason. Similarly, Jesus’ originality has been long out of fashion. Still, all the time the whole quest for the historical Jesus has been a quest for an individual; naturally, it could not be otherwise. Pursuing such a quest needs the concept of dissimilarity, and even more so now that Jesus’ background is seen as heterogeneous and multifaceted. Next, I will move on to a new issue, the second dimension of Jesus– early Christianity. It is new at least because of how and from which angle it is observed here, namely from the viewpoint of hermeneutics. I will try to show that dissimilarity perceived here can be something more and something other than a basis for the criterion of dissimilarity. As far as the dimension of early Judaism–Jesus is concerned, it will not be ‘shelved’ but will, instead, remain in the background or, rather, will form the starting point or the point onto which the second dimension is grafted. Thereby, the perspective achieved of Jesus grows to span the whole continuum from early Judaism to early Christianity.

39

Originality also requires knowledge about Jesus’ shared identity, i.e., an identity of his own that was shared with others. 40 Among the first signs of revival of the topic is probably P. Bilde, ‘The Originality of Jesus’, in M. Kankaanniemi, S. Byrskog and T. Holmén (eds.), The Identity of Jesus. A 2010 Symposium on the Historical Jesus at Åbo Akademi University under the Auspices of the Åbo Akademi Historical Jesus Workshop (Tübingen: Mohr, forthcoming).

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4. A New Dimension: Jesus and Dissimilarity in Continuum I will now turn to the second dimension of the continuum thus discussing hermeneutics of the dissimilarity that is found between Jesus and early Christianity. Along with this task, things become more complicated. In response, I shall look somewhat deeper into what happens in assessing the dissimilarities and describe that more explicitly. In particular, I shall consider comparison as a presupposition of perceiving dissimilarity and so also of dealing with its hermeneutics. There are different comparisons, different levels of comparison as well as differences as to how comparison is actualized. On the other hand, the more complex situation also requires that the analysis is taken to the concrete stage of traditions about Jesus. I shall therefore go through a number of sample cases seeking to demonstrate the workings of the hermeneutics of dissimilarity within the two dimensions, especially within the second dimension. Finally, I will try to capture some general observations. My emphasis will lie on the demonstrational sample analyses. 4.1. Comparison and continuum Perceiving continuity or discontinuity, which thus both go into ‘continuum’, presupposes comparison of the phenomena involved.41 Comparing 41

What we are dealing with here does not actually call for historical comparison or the comparative method proper. For comparative history, see for example R. Grew, ‘The Case for Comparing Histories’, AHR 85 (1980), pp. 763–78; H.-G. Haupt and Kocka (eds.), Geschichte und Vergleich. Ansätze und Ergebnisse international vergleichende Geschichtsschreibung (Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 1996); H. Kaelble, Der historische Vergleich. Eine Einführung zum 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 1999); A. Tucker, Our Knowledge of the Past. A Philosophy of Historiography (West Nyack: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 151–60. Also, the stronghold of the comparative approach has usually resided in disciplines adjacent to historiography, such as sociology; see P. Burke, History and Social Theory (Cambridge: Polity, 2005), pp. 21– 26. Still, many elementary guidelines of comparative history can be regarded applicable even to our purpose; cf. a rudimentary list in H.-G. Haupt and J. Kocka, ‘Comparative History: Methods, Aims, Problems’, in D. Cohen and M. O’Connor (eds.), Comparison and History. Europe in Cross-National Perspective (New York: Routledge, 2004), pp. 23–40, esp. 26–27. It is also of interest to note that well over a century ago J. S. Mill identified two distinct comparative approaches, a method of difference and a method of agreement, one seeking dissimilarities, the other similarities, and that even today’s discussion hinges on the question whether it is discerning dissimilarities or discerning similarities that should be named as the method’s main aim; see N. L. Green, ‘Forms of Comparison’, in D. Cohen and M. O’Connor (eds.), Comparison and History. Europe in Cross-National Perspective (New York: Routledge, 2004), pp. 41–56, esp. 43. Of the enduring importance of Mill’s distinctions testify, for example, the studies of T. Skocpol

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phenomena with each other, again, can be an intricate procedure. Along with the continuum perspective the act of comparing results in encompassing even more turns than is usual. First, there is the number of comparisons. The continuum perspective forces us to see that there is not only one comparison to be pursued but two. For unlike viewing Jesus within Judaism, studying him in continuum inevitably ushers in three different phenomena that should be dealt with: early Judaism, Jesus, and early Christianity. Consequently, in addition to comparing Jesus and Judaism we need to compare Jesus and early Christianity as well. According to the continuum perspective, seeking to find the continuities and discontinuities of the continuum or as in our particular case now, only discontinuities – Jesus as dissimilar – requires two differently focused inquiries into the source material: (1) How did Jesus depart from early Judaism? and (2) How did early Christianity depart from Jesus? Both questions have come up in Jesus research. Nonetheless, the second as good as exclusively only when considering dissimilarity for the sake of authenticity. 42 Bringing it to bear even on hermeneutics, i.e., interpreting Jesus, is a novelty in historical Jesus research, so also integrating it firmly with the first question. Secondly, there are the levels of comparison, namely the scholarly level and that of real life. In real life, comparison is made possible by concrete confrontations, actual exchange between different human agents, individuals or groups, and/or their ideas. For example, Jesus confronted people. Rather seldom did he confront whole groups of people in a way that would have enabled comparison of ideas. However, the individuals Jesus confronted are in the sources often seen as representatives of a larger group, and their thoughts are seen as representing commonalities of the group. The most relevant individual Jesus confronted was his fellow Jew. The fellow Jew or some fellow Jews Jesus met at a given occasion could then represent ideas of a Jewish group. A Pharisee or two, for example, might have stood for their own distinctly individual thoughts but equally or perhaps even more probably their ideas were representative of Pharisaism. On such and M. Somers, ‘The Uses of Comparative History in Macrosocial Inquiry’, CSSH 22 (1980), pp. 174–97; and A. A. van den Braembussche, ‘Historical Explanation and Comparative Method: Towards a Theory of the History of Society’, HT 28 (1989), pp. 1–24. Cf. also J. Kocka and H.-G. Haupt, ‘Comparison and Beyond: Traditions, Scope, and Perspectives of Comparative History’, in J. Kocka and H.-G. Haup (eds.), Comparative and Transnational History. Central European Approaches and New Perspectives (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009), pp. 1–30, esp. 2: ‘In comparative history, two or more historical phenomena are systematically studied for similarities and differences in order to contribute to their better description, explanation, and interpretation.’ 42 Naturally, early Christianity’s deviation from Jesus can come up as part of early Christian studies.

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occasions and the like Jesus can be said to have confronted and also been compared with shared ideas, such as those of Pharisaism. That is, Pharisaism features as Jesus’ point of comparison. In many cases the ideas were also shared on some level by Judaism as a whole, by all who called themselves Jews. Scholarly comparison is then carried out by distancing, objectifying and even generalizing. The comparing of Jesus with others is distanced from the actual confrontations and exchange and made into an object of scrutiny. Such procedures are simply indispensable in order for a parallel study of two phenomena to become feasible,43 specifically when it comes to a figure so distant in time like Jesus. This also usually leads to seeking the point of comparison on a more general level. In fact, scholarly comparison most often manifests a high level of generalization.44 Scholars frequently compare Jesus with early Judaism taken as a whole (or with early Christianity taken as a whole). Sometimes ‘Jesus’ also denotes a general picture, a kind of totality of knowledge about him, albeit particular aspects of Jesus’ teachings and doings also feature a great deal in comparisons. A fair judgment could be that even when exhibiting such detachment and generalization, scholarly comparisons can mainly be regarded as justified and even relevant to a degree. After all, as just remarked, even the actual confrontations can be seen to involve generalizing, namely through the representative character of the individuals (or even groups) that Jesus confronted. Thirdly and finally, resulting from these two remarks, there are also different ways of carrying out comparison. The scholarly act of comparison that we pursue stands in a certain relation to the real-life level, to actual people actually confronting (and comparing) each other. Here it is important to note that because there are two different comparisons to be conducted due to the continuum perspective, there are also two different real43

Haupt & Kocka, ‘Comparative History’, p. 25. The reference here is naturally not to generalization that aims to discover historical ‘truths’ or ‘laws’ (cf. C. G. Hempel, ‘The Function of General Laws in History’, JP 39 [1942], pp. 35–48; J. Pitt, ‘Generalizations in Historical Explanation’, JP 56 [1959], pp. 578–86), but simply to the ordinary – and still rather rudimentary – classificatory or labeling generalization; see L. Gottschalk, ‘Categories of Historiographical Generalization, in L. Gottschalk (ed.), Generalization in the Writing of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), pp. 113–29, esp. 124. For generalization as indispensable for comparison, see for example M. I. Finley, ‘Generalizations in Ancient History, in M. I. Finley, The Use and Abuse of History (London: Hogart, 1986), pp. 60–74; D. Langewiesche, ‘The Nation as a Developing Resource Community: A Generalizing Comparison’, in H.G. Haupt and J. Kocka (eds.), Comparative and Transnational History. Central European Approaches and New Perspectives (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009), pp. 133–48, esp. 133. 44

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life levels that we must reckon with. There is, on the one hand, Jesus’ life and time, namely when Jesus is compared with Judaism. On the other, when Jesus is compared with early Christianity, we are dealing with the reality and lifetime of Jesus’ followers. The two scholarly comparisons, then, each stand in a different relation to the real-life level, since the reallife level they each interact with is different depending on the comparison at hand. Actually – and this is in my view a convenient way to take account of the varying relations to reality – we can speak about two ‘Jesuses’ with whom the comparisons take place: Jesus himself as a real, living person (question (1)), and Jesus as a phenomenon of history and belief (question (2)). During Jesus’ lifetime, thus, Jesus’ and others’ ideas were in actual fact being compared – by Jesus himself and by others. Scholars then objectify these actual confrontations and comparisons. However, they also objectify the sides which partook in the confrontations. This allows them to pursue comparisons that never actually occurred.45 At the time of Jesus’ followers, however, Jesus was confronted as a phenomenon of history and belief, namely by those who after his death kept his memory alive. We may principally think of group situations, collective gatherings where ideas of Jesus were performed and shared. The confrontation thus took place within a group, when and where stories of and about Jesus were told. A. Kirk’s following description of collective memory theory works well in my view, even as a characterization of the confrontation of Jesus as a figure of history and belief in such contexts: [I]t is by constantly bringing its commemorated past into alignment with its openended series of ‘presents’ that a community maintains continuity of identity across time, a sense of always being vitally connected to its past. ... The past, constellated by the work of commemoration and immanent in the narrative patterns in which it has become engrained in the social memory, provides for a community and its members the framework for cognition and interpretation of the experiences of the present.46

Considering this one of the real-life levels, it is almost exclusively a distanced and objectifying scholarly enterprise to try to compare Jesus as he actually lived, on the one hand, with distinctly early Christian ideas, on the 45 Needless to say perhaps, I do not think pursuing comparison is appropriate only when there is actual historical exchange. It is also certain that under inspection here are very much phenomena of the same system, and the analysis moves clearly on the micro level. We are, for example, not comparing Jesus and Buddha or Jesus and interpretations of him in the mid-twentieth-century liberation theology. Cf. the demands of histoire croisée; M. Werner and B. Zimmermann, ‘Beyond Comparison: Histoire croisée and the Challenge of Reflexivity’, HT 45 (2006), pp. 30–50. 46 A. Kirk, ‘Memory Theory and Jesus Research’, in T. Holmén and S. E. Porter (eds.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. Volume One. How to Study the Historical Jesus (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 809–42, esp. 816, 817.

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other. Consequently, we are here very much dealing with comparisons that never took place in actual fact. Still, perhaps surprisingly, even some traces of early Christians actually comparing themselves with Jesus’ earthly life are distinguishable.47 In both cases scholarly distancing and objectifying understandably also lead to seeking the point of comparison on a more general level. The individual, in particular, tends to vanish.48 For example, as for question (1), it would be easier to objectify and compare Jesus with Hillel’s school than with Hillel himself. The single Jews mentioned in the gospels, whom Jesus may in reality have confronted, are usually too vague as figures to pursue any kind of scholarly comparison between Jesus and them as individuals. Smaller group perspectives are also in jeopardy of remaining beyond reach, although Jesus and the Pharisees have been a common object of study in scholarly works. On the other hand, as regards question (2), we do have better options with Paul, even with some other early Christian figures. All in all, I consider this discussion and the three points worthwhile as such with respect to unraveling the hermeneutics of dissimilarity in continuum. Their purpose is not, specifically or at least solely, to lay the foundation for the sample analyses that will now follow. Still, the discussion above does lend the discussion below some analytical tools not at all uncalled for, with an eye to a better understanding of the concrete cases of dissimilarities. 4.2. Jesus’ dissimilarities in continuum I will now comb through some sample texts making inquiries along the lines of the two questions (1) and (2) that reflect the respective comparisons entailed by the continuum perspective.49 I will also, (3), comment on some immediate observations about the continuum perspective with particular regard to its second dimension, Jesus–early Christianity. Besides analyzing the dissimilarities, central here will be trying to account for them.50 I have purposefully chosen the material to be studied so that same traditions about Jesus serve in both inquiries (1) and (2). In other words, we first ask about a tradition’s dissimilarity to Judaism, then about its dissimilarity to early Christianity. This will highlight the fact that the two dissimilarities indeed have a hermeneutics of their own. In particular, this will 47

See 4.2. below. A related phenomenon was pointed out in section 3.3. above. 49 The questions are thus: (1) How did Jesus depart from early Judaism? and (2) How did early Christianity depart from Jesus? 50 This is one of the elementary duties of scholarship with the continuum perspective. See Introduction. 48

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highlight the novelty of incorporating even the second dimension into the question of hermeneutics thus forming a full continuum perspective. Therefore the most interesting question is perhaps whether we will be able to discern anything that could be called a continuum hermeneutics – the hermeneutics of the two dimensions in interplay – and how it will look. Formally and normally, thus, perceiving dissimilarities should be followed by an assessment of their authenticity.51 In the present essay, however, I will completely abstain from that procedure. In fact, I will try to be as silent as possible about the criteria of authenticity or historicity altogether (in particular about the criterion of dissimilarity). The reason for this is simply the wish to promote focusing on interpreting Jesus, i.e., on the question of hermeneutics, and to avoid as much as possible mixing it up with the particular reasoning that pertains to the authenticity question.52 Therefore, as regards determining Jesus’ authentic views that display dissimilarity, I will rely on scholars’ previous estimations.53 This is an ad hoc methodological solution that applies to this particular subject matter and the way it is discussed in this particular study where the recourse to the source material serves as a demonstration of how dissimilarity manifests itself, not as a proper investigation into the teachings and doings of Jesus per se. We now ask: How did Jesus depart from early Judaism? Then: How did early Christianity depart from Jesus? And thirdly: What can we conclude about the continuum perspective, especially regarding its second dimension? The issues I have chosen to scrutinize are Jesus’ command to love one’s enemies, Jesus’ relationship to sinners, the fasting of Jesus’ disciples, and Jesus’ stance on divorce and remarriage.54 (a) Love of enemies. (1) Jesus’ command to love one’s enemies in Mt. 5.38–48 and Lk. 6.27– 36 (Q) has usually been deemed authentic.55 In it Jesus rewords the Torah 51

Cf. the distinctions made in section 2. Even though the questions of interpretation and authenticity are interlaced, they do have other than connecting threads, too. Sometimes the best way to try to discern what specifically applies to interpretation is to try to keep the question of authenticity completely out of the picture. 53 Obviously, no unanimity exists in scholarship in this respect. Therefore, what is brought forward below is simply based on decisions to follow some certain scholarly arguments. I will also refrain from giving further details about them. 54 The first and the last case here can be called ‘atomistic’. The other two cases pertain to Jesus’ typical behavior and are overarching, comprehensive and holistic questions. 55 See Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 273. So also J. P. Meier in his recent assessment; see J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Volume Four. Law and Love (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2009), pp. 550– 51. 52

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commandment to love one’s neighbor that is found in Lev. 19.18. Putting the issue like this already indicates where I think its point lies. Jesus’ being a different Jew here does not so much rely on the uniqueness of the command to love one’s enemies within Judaism56 but on how it deals with the Leviticus passage.57 For the Jesuanic command utterly confuses keeping the Torah commandment:58 love, strengthening the bond of the people, is to be pursued vis-à-vis the enemy, the one against whom the people is strengthened. The command to love one’s enemies does not directly oppose the commandment to love one’s neighbor but seizes its inherent idea and turns it inside out. While probably many things go into this kind of exposition of the Torah – the command has been characterized as utopian, impractical and unrealistic – it clearly also displays Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism.59 (2) If we take the utopian, impractical, unrealistic and idealistic (inclusively) command to be Jesuanic, the more realistic, practical, concrete and utilitarian (exclusively) echoes of it form part of the early Christian parenesis. For example Romans 12 contains all the hallmarks familiar from contemporary thought pertaining to retaliation and related issues. It presupposes continuation of the world as it is and therefore seeks to come to terms with people (vv. 17–18), it has the utilitarian motive of the repentance of the enemy (vv. 20–21),60 and it is characterized by realism. Other echoes of the synoptic command focus even more tightly on retaliation.61 56 The uniqueness of the command within Judaism is especially highlighted by Jewish scholars; see references in A. Nissen, Gott und der Nächste im antiken Judentum. Untersuchungen zum Doppelgebot der Liebe (Tübingen: Mohr, 1974), pp. 316–17; Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 261. The close parallel to Jesus’ command to love one’s enemies in Epictetus, Diss. 3.22.54–55 (and others that remain farther away, e.g., Seneca, Ben. 4.26.1–3) may be relevant when pursuing classification of Jesus as a religious figure among the religions and cultures of the world, for example in juxtaposition to ancient Greek and Roman thought. 57 U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. I. Mt 1–7 (Zürich: Benziger Verlag, 1992), p. 311, characterizes D JDSD WHWRX?YH [TURX?YXPZ Q as a ‘rhetorische Gegenformulierung’ with respect to Lev. 19.18. The allusion is obvious irrespective of the originality of the antithesis in Matthew; see R. A. Horsley, ‘Ethics and Exegetics. “Love Your Enemies” and the Doctrine of Non-Violence’, JAAR 54 (1986), pp. 3–31, esp. 21. 58 For instance L. E. Vaage, Galilean Upstarts. Jesus’ First Followers According to Q (Valley Forge: Trinity Press, 1994), p. 43, describes the command with phrases like ‘it makes no sense’, and ‘quite impossible’. 59 The dissimilarity becomes even more conspicuous if we juxtapose texts like Lk. 14.26. Jesus could then be seen to have instructed people to love their enemies and hate their neighbor. Such a juxtaposition would, however, be misplaced; see T. Holmén, ‘Love’, in C. A. Evans (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 380–82, esp. 382. 60 Vaage, Galilean Upstarts, p. 46, calls this a ‘put-up-with’ attitude. 61 See 1 Thess. 5.15; 1 Cor. 4.12; 1 Pet. 3.9.

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Likewise, the subsequent early Christian literature attests how the utopian command to love one’s enemies actually turned into a more realistic piece of common wisdom. Texts advancing such an interpretation of the command are available till the middle of the second century.62 They disclose the difficulties faced by the early Christians in dealing with the demanding words. Only after that does the synoptic strictness of the command resurface, now in apologetic connections: the Christians love even their enemies!63 (3) I will start with reflections on the second dimension of the continuum and also largely stay with it. What can we make hermeneutically of the dissimilarity perceived between Jesus and early Christianity? We can explain and understand why the utopian command to love one’s enemies gave place to the more feasible exhortation to do good for those that one still needs to win to one’s side: Jesus’ command was utopian but the congregations had to meet the harsh everyday reality. However, can we explain how the early Christians understood the difference between Jesus’ utopian ideas and their own more realistic formulation? Did they seek to deal with this difference somehow? At least they could, as they also did, back up the realistic parenesis in the Old Testament tradition where, for instance, one is ordered to help one’s enemy.64 But it was precisely that tradition Jesus differed from by his utopian command. Even the reasons for the command related by Matthew and Luke, Jesuanic or not, come from elsewhere.65 The early Christians thus differed from Jesus by not promoting the utopian command to love one’s enemies which Jesus did put forward (while, for instance, the command to love the neighbor is multiply attested)66 and instead promoting argumentation which Jesus did not utilize. That is, they departed from Jesus’ teaching and his being dissimilar to Judaism both negatively (by not 62 See H.-W. Kuhn, ‘Das Liebesgebot Jesu als Tora und als Evangelium. Zur Feindesliebe und zur christlichen und jüdischen Auslegung der Bergpredigt’, in H. Frankemölle and K. Kertelge (eds.), Vom Urchristentum zu Jesus (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1989), pp. 194–230, esp. 196–98. 63 G. Theissen, Studien zur Soziologie des Uhrchristentums (Tübingen: Mohr, 1989), p. 190. 64 Exod. 23.4–5; Prov. 25.21–22. Cf. Rom. 12.20. Further, 1 Thess. 5.15, cf. Prov. 24.29; 1 Cor. 4.12, cf. Ps. 109.28; 1 Pet. 3.9, cf. Prov. 20.22. 65 The command’s motivation (you will become sons of God) as well as its explanation (for he is good to all kinds of people) in Mt. 5.45 and Lk. 6.35 are as such known in the Jewish tradition but do not appear in exhortations to do good to enemies, unrighteous or the like people. For instance, Ecclesiastes resembles in many places the explanation (see, e.g., Eccl. 9.2–3), but instead of encouraging love for all this leads the wise to regard everything as futile. Vaage, Galilean Upstarts, pp. 52–54, incorrectly alleges that this is the point of the Gospels’ teaching too. 66 Mk 12.31 par.; Mt. 19.19; Rom. 13.9; Gal. 5.14; Jas 2.8.

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multiplying the teaching, using it independently) and positively (by being similar to Judaism). Shying away from the utopian command as much as possible67 indicates that they probably had comprehended that there is indeed a difference here. Still, while we thus would seem to be able to infer their sense of difference, no explicit recognition of the difference being at hand or any kind of attempt to account for it can be discerned. So far, so good. However, let us have another look at the issue using some further analytical features outlined in section 4.1. above. Simply the levels of comparison can prove useful in trying to discern matters further, deeper and more accurately. On the distanced scholarly level of comparison, the dissimilarity between Jesus and early Christianity is given. We can also quite readily pinpoint the reason, i.e., we can account for the change that has happened, for the discontinuity, namely by referring to the early Christian need to try to accomplish what is realistic instead of (or besides) aspiring for the utopian. When considering the real-life level, again, and the question whether the early Christians actually compared themselves with Jesus and so recognized and acknowledged that there was a difference, we can answer affirmatively if the inference is sustainable that in the letter to the Romans (and perhaps even elsewhere) we find something of a conscious avoidance of the ‘brutal’68 command to love one’s enemies. Conscious or not, there are no traces of explanations put forward on the real-life level in order to account for the avoidance. If the experienced dissimilarity was not made explicit, manifested, maybe explanations were never entertained explicitly either. How do these considerations concerning the different levels of comparison relate to each other? If we are wrong in our inference regarding the actual confrontation between Jesus and early Christianity, does this make us mistaken even regarding the scholarly level conclusion? No it does not. A difference between the Jesuanic utopian ‘love your enemies’ and the Pauline utilitarian parenesis exists quite independently of whether this was also recognized or acknowledged by Paul, although the thought that Paul had actually skated round the utopian words does make the difference more pointed. Likewise, the scholarly objectifying reason for the difference subsists. The need to resort to a more feasible form of ethical instruction just 67 Meier describes it pertinently: ‘The striking point here is that, for all the close parallels to Jesus’ commands in Lk. 6.27–28 and Mt. 5.44, the one command that is completely absent is the especially-memorable-because-brutally-direct “love your enemies.”’ And: The ‘blunt command stands out by its absence’. (Meier, A Marginal Jew IV, pp. 549, 550.) However, conspicuous by absence are not only the words of the command itself but even its motivation and explanation given in Q 6.35. 68 Meier, A Marginal Jew IV, p. 549.

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makes such good sense and even explains why there is no real-life level explanation given: that a climb-down of some sort had occurred was not something one would have wanted to admit explicitly in words. Actually, then, even if some other explanation came up on the real-life level, it would probably seem suspicious to us because of the compelling character of the distanced, objectifying assessment of the issue. Hence, there seems to be a complete lack of continuity here between Jesus and early Christianity, and finding a continuum appears equally difficult. Yet, the command to love one’s enemies is there! Something69 of what this fact could mean, is disclosed when we just very briefly glimpse the hermeneutics prompted by the dissimilarity perceived above between Jesus and early Judaism. In broad brush strokes, we can picture one feature of the hermeneutics of Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism in this manner: If it is the uniqueness of the command within the framework of the Jewish tradition alone which sets Jesus apart, its particular connection to the Torah commandment makes him altogether conspicuous. Accordingly, this teaching of Jesus worked as a strong identity marker. Specifically, it marked Jesus out not only among his contemporary peers but also in relation to his followers. That is, it remained peculiar to him. Namely, for the early Christians, the command to love one’s enemies formed part of Jesus’ identity in an especial way: making such a demand belonged to his identity, not theirs. In this way, the inability and/or reluctance to cultivate and put the command into practice in the congregational parenesis did not lead to suppressing it on the lips of Jesus himself. So the command is there. Here we can see, if this quick sketch can be sustained, how Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism works hermeneutically meaningfully even besides the question of Jesus’ identity and relation to Judaism. The dissimilarity is, as stated, important for our understanding of Jesus as a Jew of his time and place.70 In addition, however, the dissimilarity was important even for the early Christian understanding, understanding of both Jesus and themselves. Making observations about this, then, helps us further in analyzing and interpreting early Christianity and its relationships to Jesus, to Judaism etc. (b) Sinners. (1) In his book Jesus and Judaism, E. P. Sanders investigated Jesus’ relaxed attitude towards sinners and other kinds of outcasts, in particular Jesus’ assent to dine with these kinds of people. This mode of Jesus’ typical, or at least striking, behavior had, of course, attracted scholars’ interest

69 70

Further reflections on this will follow especially in section 4.3. Cf. the upshot of section 3.

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even earlier.71 Sanders’ interpretation was intended to contrast that of J. Jeremias. In his New Testament theology, Jeremias had suggested that the offence of Jesus behaving this way lies in the purity thinking of his contemporaries and in the rules of the haverim which, in their view, Jesus should have followed.72 Sanders, in contrast, argued that purity or societal rules were not the real or at any rate the main cause of the offence of these situations. Instead, it was Jesus’ acceptance of sinners as they were, namely in their unrepentant state, that caused alarm.73 Sanders proceeded to suggest that, actually, Jesus never required repentance from those sinners.74 Here we certainly find a view that promotes Jesus as being a different Jew. In fact, according to this view, Jesus was in this behavior of his even drastically dissimilar to Judaism.75 (2) Sanders has also argued that ‘a high tolerance for sinners was not a characteristic of the early church, as far as we can know it’.76 This should be an accurate description of the issue at least regarding Paul. 1 Cor. 5.11 reads: But now I am writing to you not to associate with anyone who bears the name of brother or sister who is sexually immoral or greedy, or is an idolater, reviler, drunkard, or robber. Do not even eat with such a one.

Hence, there seems to have been sentiments at least in Paul’s thinking (we may term that to ‘some parts of early Christianity’ – Sanders calls it the early church as we know it)77 that differed from Jesus’ attitude towards sinners in that while he was prepared to dine with them indiscriminately, Paul was not (/ the early Christians were not). However, the quoted passage and this instance of dissimilarity deserve a closer look. The passage contains an interesting qualification: ‘do not even 71 See, for example, H.-W. Kuhn, Ältere Sammlungen im Markusevangelium (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971), pp. 59–62; S. Westerholm, Jesus and Scribal Authority (Lund: Gleerup, 1978), pp. 70–71; H. Merklein, Jesu Botschaft von der Gottesherrschaft. Eine Skizze (Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1983), pp. 78–80. So even J. Jeremias already in ‘Zöllner und Sünder’, ZNW 13 (1931), pp. 293–300. 72 J. Jeremias, New Testament Theology (London: SCM Press, 1971), pp. 108–13. 73 Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, pp. 177–79. As a matter of fact, Sanders has chosen his opponent carefully. I do not know of any other scholar except for J. Jeremias in his New Testament Theology – thus not in his earlier work (cf. n. 71 above) but exclusively to this study – who would not basically agree with Sanders here. 74 Here Sanders has not gained following. See T. Holmén, ‘Sinners’, in C. A. Evans (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 575–76, esp. 576. 75 Theissen & Merz, Der historische Jesus, pp. 246–47. 76 Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, p. 174. 77 This is a prime example of the scholarly generalizing spoken of earlier.

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(PKGH) dine with them.’78 The picture we get is that dining with such kind of people is not the first thing to refrain from but, rather, the last one. This is rather odd compared with the usual contemporary codes of commensalism. Usually, one might perhaps keep up some forms of dealings with sinners, but to dine with them would certainly have been too much.79 That simply could not be done even though other things were allowed.80 In 1 Cor. 5.11, however, dining seems to be the last thing which one still could or perhaps should do with sinners. With respect to this, we can compare a passage from a slightly later period of early Christianity, 2 Jn 10–11: If any one comes to you and does not bring this doctrine, do not receive him into the house or give him any greeting; for he who greets him shares his wicked work.

Here there is no ‘even’ but, instead, a very common explanation why the wrong kind of people must be shunned: one easily becomes part of their wrongness. This is exactly the form of argument that could have been raised against Jesus when he accepted the company of sinners. (3) I will again concentrate on the second dimension of the continuum. In particular, what I would like to ponder is the peculiarity of the Pauline ‘not even’. For, hypothetically and surmising, the Pauline expression could be explicable as a reminiscence of Jesus’ habit of accepting, in contrast to his contemporaries (surely even in contrast to the contemporaries of the early Christians), the company of sinners when dining. Jesus’ conspicuous mode of behavior must have been known in early Christianity, and it probably had also affected the way the early Christians themselves encountered sinners. At the least, dining with the outcasts of society so betokening God’s love and mercy would have featured as the example of the Lord. Hence, even dining is now forbidden, says Paul, and is thus most strict in his formulation, possibly because the rule is somewhat a case apart since it concerns sinners who are brothers and sisters (in name).81 A short time passed and this reminiscence, too, had disappeared (cf. 2 John). 78 J. Schwiebert’s (‘Table Fellowship and the Translation of 1 Corinthians 5:11’, JBL 127 [2008], pp. 159–64) attempt to reject this almost universally accepted translation of the Greek PKGHhere is not convincing. 79 This is because dining was a form of association that brought people into very close contact with each other. See, for example, A. W. Jenks, ‘Eating and Drinking in the Old Testament’, ABD 2, pp. 250–54; P. Garnsey, Food and Society in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 128–38. 80 E.g., commerce, some political activities etc. 81 In 1 Cor. 10.27 an unbeliever and a possible idolater (the food served could have been offered in sacrifice; cf. v. 28; see even W. A. Beardslee, First Corinthians. A Commentary for Today [St. Louis: Chalice Press, 1994], p. 53) can be accepted as table companion.

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Jesus’ view would thus work very conveniently by way of explaining the aspect ‘not even’. If this surmise is tentatively allowed, then – at this point and with all due reservations also resulting from the brevity of the analyses here – we can state: here a Jesus whom we have successfully related to early Judaism82 indeed makes sense and accounts for the history of influence and reception in early Christianity. This is precisely what we try to attain by studying Jesus in continuum.83 In other words, we have succeeded in placing Jesus in the continuum from early Judaism to early Christianity. Nevertheless, this discovery we make in the midst of many elements of discontinuity. Actually, they are everywhere: Jesus departed from the Judaism of his time, early Christianity departed from Jesus, and early Christianity departed even from Judaism. With the presence of these outspoken discontinuities, then, that we still can trace a continuum from Judaism to Christianity is only by courtesy of Jesus’ views! As in the previous case, here, too, Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism proves hermeneutically relevant even outside the question of interpreting Jesus and his relation to Judaism: Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism explains why early Christianity was dissimilar to Judaism in that particular way. These considerations thus concern the actual exchange that would have taken place in early Christianity, namely the early Christian confrontation with Jesus the phenomenon on the real-life level of comparison. In particular, the considerations focus on how that exchange could illuminate the Pauline formulation and instruction regarding sinners. As pointed out, all that is said about this matter remains mere tentative suggestions. And in fact, what prompts the suggestions is the scholarly level comparison. For seen from the scholarly distance, Paul readily appears as having taken a step away from Judaism towards Jesus. Jesuanic influence on Paul thus seems quite reasonable a hypothesis even though no trace thereof can be found on the real-life level. The following two sample analyses present cases analogous to the preceding two. However, what so far has remained mere suggestions or surmises (and perhaps sounded a trifle far-fetched, too) now becomes explicit and tangible. (c) Fasting. (1) The tradition that best discloses the standing of voluntary fasting in Jesus’ life and teaching is Mk 2.18–20. J. P. Meier’s assessment of the text represents a standard solution: Verse 18 and the first part of v. 19 describe 82 According to Sander’s line of interpretation, despite the dissimilarity Jesus displays to Judaism, he comes across as a plausible first-century Palestinian figure. By contrast, Jeremias’ explanation in his New Testament theology stands in an implausible relation to Judaism. 83 See Introduction.

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a situation in Jesus’ actual life. The rest of the pericope is a later commentary on the historical situation.84 Although it is the disciples of Jesus who manifest the deviant pattern of behavior here, Jesus himself is held responsible for it and is, of course, thought of as supporting it. Hence, the one who is challenged to come with an explanation is Jesus. Now, it was usual, among the Jews in general and particularly among those who were affiliated to some grouping especially aspiring to lead a proper Jewish life, to fast a lot.85 Simply that Jesus as a religious teacher and his disciples as his followers did not do so at all was unheard of.86 Obviously, Jesus thought differently about voluntary fasting. Obviously, too, he had his reasons for doing or rather not doing so,87 but that is another question. (2) As Mk 2.20 already evinces, the early Christians did fast voluntarily: The days will come, when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast in that day.

This is an interesting point. In Mk 2.18–20 we, actually, have a pericope which shows both that the early Christians clearly could be aware of the fact that they did not always teach or do as Jesus did or follow the example he set and that they also tried to understand and explain the obvious difference between themselves and Jesus, whose followers they purported to be. As far as fasting is concerned, there was a discussion in early Christianity about which days to fast. For Paul it was not at all important which days one chose.88 In Didache we find another opinion (not Mondays and Thursdays but Wednesdays and Fridays).89 However, the setting of fasting (disciples of John) and non-fasting (disciples of Jesus) in Mark 2 does not apply to that early Christian discussion. How, then, does the Markan pericope seek to explain the difference? By voicing the concept of time when Jesus no longer dwells with them. Jesus’ time on earth was one of joy and celebration. How could wedding guests fast while the bridegroom is with them! But if and when he is taken from them – whatever that could mean

84 J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Volume Two. Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York: Doubleday, 1994), pp. 439–46. 85 Since obligatory periods of fasting were fixed, eagerness could be shown in fasting voluntarily. 86 Meier, A Marginal Jew II, pp. 449–50. 87 The first-century Megillat ta‘anit singles out days when fasting is not allowed because of joyful days of remembrance of God’s great deeds. Juxtaposition to this could give a hint of the agenda behind Jesus’ total abstinence from voluntary fasting. 88 Rom. 14.5–6; Gal. 4.10–11. 89 Did. 7.4–8.1.

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in the context of a wedding metaphor90 – there will be plenty or at least enough reason for occasional or even regular voluntary fasting.91 (3) Unlike in the previous case, here Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism cannot be utilized to explain the early Christian attitude. Quite the contrary, Jesus’ complete abstinence from fasting runs openly counter to the regular or free fast of early Christianity. And yet, we cannot say that Jesus as he appears here would not stand in continuum with early Christianity. For here we have a pericope that in fact compares Jesus and early Christianity, puts them in relation with each other and so creates a continuum! It is a continuum characterized by plain discontinuity. That it is being explained by the early Christians (‘when the bridegroom is taken away ... then’) illustrates that they indeed found themselves discontinuous with Jesus here. Yet, by force of the explanation (‘away from them ... then they will fast’) they also experienced they represented a continuum from Jesus. We are not conjecturing or surmising now, but this is a conclusion that can be based on explicit statements in the text. Continuum manifested in plain discontinuity? In order to make a comprehensible analysis of this, we need to consider once again the levels of comparison. Here, thus, we have exchange actually taking place on the real-life level, namely early Christians comparing themselves with Jesus. Thinking of them, it is the experience of continuum that appears in the foreground. They are the regularly fasting followers – true followers – of the nonfasting Jesus. Their understanding of being in continuum with Jesus is perhaps primarily based on their belief of being his genuine representatives and only secondarily on the explanation they offer to retain the continuum. In any case, according to the explanation there is indeed a clear-cut discontinuity between them and Jesus in this matter – but only because the true followership requires this! Hence, continuum presupposes discontinuity in this case. Comparison pursued on the scholarly level, however, highlights discontinuity. There is evidently a clear discrepancy between Jesus as he actually lived and the life of the early Christians. Continuum can be brought into the picture only if quite a particular kind of explanation for the discontinuity is found. To simply say what seems obvious, namely that the early Christians reverted to their Jewish customs, most clearly shown by the Didache, does explain the discontinuity but will not make the continuum perceptible. We may ponder whether the explanation given by the Markan 90

See U. Mell, ‘“Neuer Wein (gehört) in neue Schläuche” (Mk 2,22c)’, TZ 52 (1996), pp. 1–31, esp. 7. 91 Still, the Christians’ fast never became proverbial as the Jews’ (cf. ‘fasting like a Jew’; Tacitus, Hist. 5.4; Suetonius, Aug. 76.3).

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text could be regarded as adequate even for the distanced scholarly perspective or if some other reason or development could be discerned that would also render the continuum material. The question is, however, why we would need to press on finding any further particular explanation than the simple and obvious one. Indeed, there seems to be a lack of continuity and continuum here comparable to that of the case of the command to love one’s enemies: the early Christians do and teach one way while Jesus did and taught another way. Likewise, despite the dissimilarity, Jesus’ way of doing and teaching is explicitly recounted. However, so much fasting is a case apart, on the actual exchange level, that an explanation appears as to why continuity in fact could not even be an option here. Both the presence and substance of this explanation, namely that Jesus being or not being ‘with them’ (Mk 2.19) determines between non-fasting and fasting, would seem to corroborate what I suggested regarding the command to love one’s enemies: Jesus’ identity, prompted by his dissimilarity to Judaism, was highly relevant to early Christians’ understanding of Jesus, of the tradition, and even of themselves. Thus, there are separate hermeneutical yields to be collected from the comparisons between early Judaism and Jesus on the one hand and between Jesus and early Christianity on the other. Furthermore, distinguishing and taking into account even the two different real-life levels where the actual exchange happened, accessing the interplay between the hermeneutics applicable to them, we can make them part of the objectifying scholarly evaluation in a wholly new way. This is what a continuum hermeneutics of the dissimilarity concept most essentially is about. (d) Divorce and remarriage. (1) According to a usual analysis, Jesus’ solution to the question of divorce (and remarriage) was a total prohibition.92 This view is the foundation of all the relevant traditions, Mk 10.2–9; 10.11–12; Q 16.18 and 1 Cor. 7.10(–16). On the other hand, according to some further analyses, that kind of unconditional and categorical prohibition was unknown elsewhere in Judaism. While the main rule was that one should stay in one’s marriage, for certain cases a bill of divorce was ordained. This stands even for Qumran.93 Thus, here Jesus again appears to be dissimilar to Judaism. Meier has put the issue perhaps more emphatically than most characterizations do: ‘Jesus’ prohibition of divorce seems to come out of nowhere in

92

R. Laufen, Die Doppelüberlieferungen der Logienquelle und des Markusevangeliums (Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1980), pp. 573–74. 93 See T. Holmén, ‘Divorce in CD 4:20–5:2 and 11QT 57:17–18: Some Remarks on the Pertinence of the Question’, RevQ 71 (1998), pp. 397–408.

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Judaism and to go nowhere in Judaism.’94 Although one might also choose to coin it a little more moderately, the fact that Jesus differed from Judaism by not allowing divorce (and remarriage) whatever the excuses, is clear.95 (2) A departure of early Christianity from Jesus is clearly visible in this case, too. And strikingly, the curvature that is manifest in the diverging early Christian interpretation here reminds us of what was suggested by Paul’s statement about eating with sinners in our second sample analysis: early Christianity departs from early Judaism and does this in a way that can be explained by taking into account Jesus’ influence. Only now this is not a mere surmise but is explicitly voiced by the early Christians themselves, especially by Paul. In 1 Cor. 7.10–11 Paul first relates the total prohibition furnished with a remark that the rule does not derive from him but from the Lord himself. In 7.12–15 he then proceeds by introducing a teaching which, interestingly, makes an exception to the absolute prohibition and, intriguingly, openly discloses that the exception is not according to what the Lord spoke but that the idea is Paul’s own. According to Paul, there is a situation where divorce (and remarriage?) can be considered a possible course of action, namely in the case that a believer is married to a non-believer. Considering Matthew’s version of the prohibition alongside Paul’s, there is a similar departure from Jesus’ teaching, namely an exception to the total prohibition.96 However, Matthew’s exception concerns unchastity and there is no remark that would set the adaption apart from the original. Of course, such a remark would also have been misplaced in a gospel context. (3) Again we can discern continuum in the midst of multiple elements of discontinuity. Jesus departs from Judaism by his total prohibition of divorce and remarriage. Early Christianity departs from Jesus by introducing exceptions to the total prohibition. And early Christianity departs from Judaism by, on the whole, putting forward a prohibition of divorce.97 We can 94

J. P. Meier, ‘The Historical Jesus and the Historical Law: Some Problems within the Problem’, CBQ 65 (2003), pp. 52–79, esp. 79. 95 The reader is again reminded of the fact that the sample cases here are demonstrational only, resting as regards their analysis and argumentation on some existing scholarship. 96 The ‘exception clauses’ in Mt. 5.32a (SDUHNWR?Y ORJRX SRUQHLDY) and 19.9 (PK? H SL? SRUQHLD_), not appearing in the other sources, are most probably both (that is even in 5.32a; the clause in 19.9 is certainly redactional) due to Matthean redaction; see W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew. Volume I. Introduction and Commentary on Matthew I–VII (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), p. 528. 97 The prohibition comes with a ring of absoluteness even though it is de facto compromised by the adaptations. Also, there is in Judaism no prohibition of divorce except

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also observe that the early Christian adaptation of the Jesuanic departure from Judaism is to a degree curved back towards Judaism and that this curve back is more obvious in Matthew’s exception than in Paul’s. They both probably depend on the struggles their congregations had with the absolute ban on divorce. Still, unchastity was certainly a known factor of Israelite and Jewish jurisprudence (although it did not feature as a reason to make ‘an exception’ to ‘a prohibition’) while Paul’s exception builds on a more exclusively Christian situation. The most remarkable thing here is Paul’s awareness and openness in comparing the teaching of Jesus with his own deviating teaching. Even Matthew would probably have sensed that he was doing something similar when he amended both the Q and the Markan teachings. This lends their involvement a touch of seriousness. Introducing changes is not something Paul does lightly. On the contrary, it has clearly been difficult for him. As for Matthew, we cannot ascertain this for sure, since introducing such things in the gospel narrative would have been complicated. It therefore seems (but perhaps only seems) that the feeling of discontinuity has been greater for Paul than for Matthew. Maybe (but just maybe) Matthew thought he was just putting into words what Jesus actually meant and thus saw himself as being in a clear continuum with Jesus. The exception to the prohibition of divorce was not an exception to the Jesuanic teaching. Paul, however, could maintain continuum with Jesus only by marking off his exception as his own teaching. As for the actual comparison, then, Paul and Matthew can be thought to have seen themselves quite differently although the teaching they put forward is basically the same. Paul saw his own teaching as plainly dissimilar to (the earthly) Jesus.98 Matthew, maybe,99 did not think he was dissimilar to the earthly Jesus, but he surely thought he was dissimilar to an absolute prohibition of divorce.100 A distanced and objectifying scholarly perspec-

for very particular cases: Deut. 22.13–19 deals with a situation where a man claims that his wife was not a virgin when he married her. If the accusation can be shown to be false, the man is subjected to severe punishment consisting, among other things, of a denial of right to divorce. In Deut. 22.28–29, an unengaged virgin is raped by a man. As a penalty the man is fined and compelled to marry the woman without the right to divorce her. 98 Still, he made a move that helped to keep him in some continuum with Jesus. 99 We thus cannot ascertain whether this is more apparent that real, because the gospel context would in any case have prevented Matthew from making the kind of remark Paul did. 100 Those learning about the issue only from Matthew faced Jesus the phenomenon that would not have allowed them to make the comparison Paul and Matthew himself had made.

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tive, again, would label them both dissimilar, namely with respect to the historical Jesus.101 The case here is comparable to that of sinners, only this time explicit comments in the text confirm the influence of the Jesuanic view. In other words, we are not solely dependent on what from the scholarly distance would appear reasonable, namely Jesuanic influence, but we can find concrete indications of this in the actual exchange: that Jesus differed from Judaism as he did explains the early Judaism–early Christianity continuum in the matter at hand. This somewhat corroborates the suggestions made regarding the case of sinners as well. Thus, in the case of divorce and remarriage (just possibly even in the case of sinners), the hermeneutics of Jesus’ dissimilarity to early Judaism, on the one hand, and of the dissimilarity between Jesus and early Christianity, on the other, are engaged in interplay, offering again an example of a continuum hermeneutics of dissimilarity. 4.3. Prominent contours of the new dimension I will now try to outline some distinctive general features of the Jesus– early Christianity dimension of the continuum and the hermeneutics of dissimilarity. Naturally, the dissimilarities that are being traced when exploring this dimension result from early Christian interpretations of Jesus. One can speak of dissimilarity between Jesus and early Christianity, even of Jesus’ dissimilarity to Christianity, but what in reality is being traced is how the early Christians interpreted and departed from Jesus. The hermeneutics of the dissimilarity concept focused here pertains thus most immediately to early Christianity, not to Jesus.102 The most peculiar general feature of this hermeneutics is the complex overall message of the dissimilar traditions: In the last analysis, it is not in fact accurate to say that authentic traditions displaying dissimilarity to Christianity only tell about the early Christian discontinuity with Jesus. For after all, if the traditions are to be considered historically reliable, the 101 Presupposing of course that the picture I have now portrayed of Jesus is basically accurate. While many scholars would share it, the treatment here is, as has been frequently pointed out, scanty and meant for demonstrational purposes alone. 102 As such, confronting Jesus the phenomenon with early Christianity – even by early Christianity itself – is with respect to Jesus’ actual life highly irrelevant. Early Christian views about Jesus or about anything cannot naturally have worked backwards and exercised an effect on Jesus during his life. When seeking to reconstruct a scholarly portrait of Jesus, however, the historically plausible picture of Jesus also needs to be such that it makes sense with respect to its reception in early Christianity. Therefore anything that can be learned about the confrontation of early Christianity with Jesus the phenomenon can be regarded as important knowledge and relevant to studying the historical Jesus. See further Introduction.

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early Christians must, on those points exactly, be seen as upholding continuity with Jesus! In authentic dissimilar traditions, because they are authentic,103 early Christianity actually comes closest to Jesus. There they are right on target. Therefore, what the early Christians in these cases most clearly disagree and are discontinuous with is themselves, their own views and wishes. In order to affirm continuity with Jesus, they forward and present views they would not quite wish or be interested to relate. What are we to make of this peculiarity? First is the one major point that (as an exception to what was just said) has a hermeneutical function directly applicable to Jesus as well: Interpreting Jesus on the basis of traditions that are dissimilar to Christianity does not so much lead to picturing a Jesus detached from early Christianity as to describing those sides of Jesus early Christianity did attach to without finding them desirable, likeable or interesting. At times, such sides could even take a central place within the early Christian message about Jesus. Focusing on Jesus traditions that are dissimilar to Christianity is thus not quite as misplaced hermeneutically, thinking of the picture of Jesus that ensues, as has sometimes been assumed.104 The second point pertains to the interpretation of early Christianity: Considering that early Christianity could house, not only features of Jesus they were in some ways at odds with but even explicit expressions of their own disagreement with and/or disinterest in those features, we should be wary of resorting to too unifying or sweeping hermeneutical guidelines for and concerning all the material. For example, it would be wrong to interpret early Christianity, explain its development and growth, or describe its individual traditions down the line on the basis of principles such as preventive censorship or opportunism (or at least censorship guided by opportunism).105 Further, and on the other hand, we also need to consider the question whether it is realistic and reasonable to think that the early Christians managed to come close to Jesus (i.e., relate historically reliable traditions) only in cases that they found disagreeable or disinteresting. Here common sense 103

Again, the point here is not that they are deemed authentic because they are dissimilar. Instead, we are on the whole considering only authentic, Jesuanic traditions here. Whatever the reasons, then, why these traditions are authentic, since they are that, they must stand in continuity with Jesus despite manifesting dissimilarity between Jesus and early Christianity. 104 See Holmén, ‘Doubts about Double Dissimilarity’, pp. 50–51. 105 Specifically against G. Theissen’s some earlier formulations; see G. Theissen, ‘The Wandering Radicals: Light Shed by the Sociology of Literature on the Early Transmission of Jesus Sayings’, in D. G. Horrell (ed.), Social-Scientific Approaches to New Testament Interpretation (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), pp. 95–120, esp. 97, 118. The article was first published in 1973.

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strongly suggests that cases where early Christians joined Jesus agreeingly and with interest not only existed but probably did so in greater numbers. After all, there has to be a reason why they joined Jesus even regarding disagreeable things. A good one would be that agreeable things they found in Jesus were far more plentiful. The hermeneutical implications of this are also remarkable, for instance as regards the role we need to reserve for free imagination and creativity in the making of early Christian views. The dissimilarities between Jesus and early Christianity in toto – or we could call it the phenomenon of dissimilarity to Christianity – thus witness a complex relationship characterized simultaneously by continuity and discontinuity. As such they also tell of the width and depth of discontinuity that can be embedded in continuum. All in all, the early Christians could differ from Jesus and, as a result of that, from Judaism too, but they could also differ drastically from Jesus while perfectly agreeing with Judaism. Throughout they seem not to have missed or surrendered the conception of being in continuum with Jesus. In some cases pronouncing and pointing out dissimilarity to Jesus even works as their means to retain the continuum.106 Three hermeneutical factors can be distinguished that help to understand this phenomenon of dissimilarity. 107 (A) The distancing, scholarly observation of dissimilarities between early Christian and Jesuanic teachings, messages, practices. This is the commonest way to observe dissimilarities between Jesus and early Christianity. It also serves as the passage to recognition of the other factors but, in reality, the scholarly analysis seldom proceeds further from here except for the possible acknowledgement of arguments for authenticity that are based on the dissimilarities. Yet, the further prospects are interesting and rewarding. (B) Early Christianity’s own experience and awareness of their teaching and doing being different from Jesus’. Within our scholarly observation we can discern traditions revealing that early Christians themselves could sometimes be cognizant of dissimilarities between themselves and Jesus. As for the above sample analyses, we may particularly think of the traditions concerning fasting and divorce. To be sure, early Christians did regard themselves as the true followers of Jesus and the rightful representatives of his message. Would it mean denying 106

Cf. voluntary fasting in Mark, divorce and remarriage in Paul. As can be seen, these partly follow the levels of comparison that were distinguished earlier. 107

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this capacity of theirs if they were to admit that they did not teach or do everything exactly like Jesus was known to have done? Yes it would, and therefore we also have something akin to excuses or explanations in these traditions.108 Several hermeneutically important questions arise from observing this. Why did the early Christians, in the first place, come out in the open with their deviations from Jesus’ teachings and doings? Why did they not keep quiet about those teachings and doings? Or why did they not keep quiet about their own deviating views? Then why did they keep deviating from Jesus instead of altering their ways? Or why did they not at least leave the impression that they would yet alter their behavior? Take the fasting tradition as an example. Mk 2.18–20 is an exceptionally clear mixture of elements both from Jesus’ life and from early Christian communities, the latter elements putting forward comments on the former ones. The reason for the existence of the comments is simply that the early Christians had an evidently different pattern of behavior compared with Jesus when it came to voluntary fasting: they did fast voluntarily; they could even practice a regular voluntary fast. The comments then try to come to terms with the anecdote from Jesus’ life that makes his stance public. The comments, however, cannot be the reason for the publication of the anecdote. Hence, here the early Christians were obviously differing in their teaching and doing from Jesus, and they were aware of this, yet they, on the one hand, openly acknowledged Jesus’ non-fasting as well as their practice of fasting and, on the other, persistently and openly kept to their own practice. What could explain these challenges of the fasting tradition and, at least partly, provide answers to the list of questions presented a bit earlier, is the third hermeneutical factor to be observed: (C) The early Christian experience of Jesus as different, namely as a person and (a human) being. It is Jesus’ distinct identity as an individual that is in question here. Jesus’ dissimilarity to Judaism, his being different from others, was manifest even to his followers. Building on this, an early Christian experience grew that saw Jesus as a unique person, even as a unique being, with whom the Christians just could not equate themselves. In a way, therefore, they even had to be ‘dissimilar to Jesus’: as ordinary human beings the early Chris-

108 We could perhaps say that being dissimilar to Jesus in early Christian theology was tantamount to being heretic. Later, of course, heretic would be someone who was dissimilar to the Church.

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tians could not think of sharing Jesus’ identity in everything.109 Their identity distinct from Jesus thus became a source as well as grounds for differences.110 This early Christian non-equation with Jesus, the factor C, indeed works accounting for some factor B features. In general, it may be the reason why the early Christians just did not keep quiet about Jesus’ teachings and doings they knew differed from theirs. They were not dealing with some ordinary scribal or the like authority but with an extraordinary one. In particular, referring now to the fasting pericope, the factor C actually furnishes the rationale on the basis of which the early Christians’ differing practice of fasting is explained: Even Jesus’ time, namely his time on earth (and in flesh), was different from theirs. During Jesus’ presence on earth they must not fast. During his absence,ġhowever,ġtheyġshould do just that. Thus, what was then no had changed to yes. (And were we to apply this principle to the early Christian attitude towards sinners, we could say: what was for Jesus and during his time on earth yes, became no for the early Christians.)111 One could also put it so: Jesus’ identity, recognized and upheld by his followers, was such that he could not be followed in all things.

5. Concluding Words Our study of the hermeneutics of dissimilarity in the early Judaism–Jesus– early Christianity continuum has yielded diverse results. From the start, the analysis was split in two according to the two dimensions of the continuum, which then produced rather different and discrete sets of hermeneutical questions. Much of this discreteness resulted from paying heed to the history and state of research. First we were at pains to reverse the perverse hermeneutics that of old had been attached to the view of Jesus as a different Jew. Then we needed to break new ground trying not to see Jesus’ dissimilarity to Christianity as relevant to authentication alone. Still, the dimensions did give rise to two different types of hermeneutics even detached from those issues of research agenda. 109

Despite that – or then precisely because of it – sharing in Christ was an important theological notion. 110 I am not suggesting that other such sources would not have existed. Naturally, the situations of the congregations were many and varying. Still, a certain profound difference between the Christians themselves and Jesus was a both a legitimate and necessary conception. 111 However, there are no clear clues in the tradition material suggesting that the principle should or even could be applied to the case of sinners.

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The dimension of early Judaism–Jesus is directly relevant to what attributes we ascribe to Jesus. What kind of continuum, continuities and discontinuities, we can depict here tells us about Jesus as a historical figure living among his contemporaries. Additionally, that we focus on dissimilarity directs us to the person and character of Jesus, to his distinct identity. The issues that hereby come to surface are simply indispensable for a scholarship seeking to study an individual. Naturally, dissimilarities cannot alone constitute the picture of the individual we call Jesus of Nazareth. Yet, they alone can prevent Jesus from disappearing in the diverse and heterogeneous context of early Judaism. It is interesting or, rather, surprising how the recent historical-Jesus-research has often managed to pursue and picture an individual while at the same time keeping at bay the question making Jesus just that.112 The dimension of Jesus–early Christianity does not directly lead to the hermeneutics of Jesus but to that of early Christianity. Methodologically, however, when studying the historical Jesus, this dimension is of equal importance with the first one.113 It challenges the Jesus related to Judaism by requiring, as complement and completement, a plausible relation to Christianity, namely a continuum (comprising both continuity and discontinuity). Via such a route, the second dimension hermeneutics emerges as relevant to the hermeneutics of Jesus as well.114 As for dissimilarity and the second dimension, most overwhelming hermeneutically is, in fact, the concept of dissimilarity to Christianity itself, i.e., the phenomenon of dissimilarity to Christianity. When and where the early Christian tradition maintains something that can be relied upon to represent the teachings or doings of the historical Jesus, we would on all counts expect that to be ‘similar to Christianity’. 115 It cannot be denied, however, that at least some instances exist where such representations are clearly dissimilar to Christianity.116 In the present essay, admittedly, the 112

For example, research that builds exclusively or heavily on sociological approaches cannot furnish contra-contextual information about Jesus. I have examined this in more detail in a Finnish article an enlarged version of which I hope to publish in English soon. Meanwhile, see T. Holmén, ‘Kuinka juutalainen Jeesus oli? Pohdinnan ongelmia’, in T. Holmén and V. Ollilainen (eds.), Juutalainen Jeesus (Åbo: Åbo Akademi Press, 2011), pp. 93–111. 113 This is one of the main contentions of the continuum approach. 114 This shows the benefits of the vantage point to Jesus offered by the continuum approach. Funamentally, the purpose of the present essay has not been to elucidate the continuum perspective but to analyze the hermeneutics of the dissimilarity concept. The continuum perspective was chosen to give structure to the analysis. 115 This is, as a matter of fact, one of the main tenets of the traditional Bultmannian form criticism; see Holmén, ‘Knowing about Q and Knowing about Jesus’, pp. 497, 513– 14. 116 See Holmén, ‘Knowing about Q and Knowing about Jesus’, pp. 511, 512.

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sample cases demonstrating this were few and their treatment rather cursory. Yet I do not doubt the factuality of the phenomenon. The samples could easily be multiplied.117 This alone has deep and far-reaching hermeneutical repercussions some of which I have tried to indicate above as applying both to individual passages of text and to how we on the whole understand the relation between Jesus and the early Christian tradition about him.118 Unfortunately, though I trust also understandably, much and most remains yet to be done and to be investigated in more detail. Among such things is also what I above termed a continuum hermeneutics: hermeneutics of the second dimension is possible only on the strength of the hermeneutics of the first dimension. Sadly, I was able to describe this in but a few lines.119 The fact that the focus in the present essay has been on dissimilarities has understandably restricted the use of the continuum approach. Nevertheless, even the contours of the continuum have probably become a little more distinguishable.

117

See Holmén, ‘Seven Theses’, pp. 357–59 with n. 54. See especially sections 4.2. and 4.3. 119 See the cases of fasting and divorce and remarriage in section 4.2. 118

Universal and Radical Tendencies in the Message of Jesus: The Historical Jesus and the Continuum between Judaism and Christianity GERD THEISSEN

Historical consciousness has transformed our concept of history by three axioms: individuality, analogy and causality.1 The first axiom, individuality, is a presupposition for recognising a historical fact or figure. Only individual historical phenomena are visible for us. If they were not individual, they would disappear in a homogeneous stream of history.2 We become aware of individuality by comparing phenomena with analogies. Therefore, the second axiom is analogy, i.e., the search for similar phenomena both in past and present times. Analogies in distant times protect us from assimilating historical phenomena to our life-world. Analogies in our time enable us to understand them better as part of our life. But analogies are not the only objects for historical understanding. We explain historical phenomena by telling their story of origin as a nexus of antecedents and consequences. The third axiom, causality, emphasises this. Since historical phenomena are individual, representing configurations which cannot be completely derived from the past, they do not only continue a previous development, but sometimes give it a new direction. Therefore, we do not only explain a historical figure from previous developments but explain new developments from historical figures, too. All this is true for Jesus: We describe the individuality of Jesus within his historical context. We understand Jesus by analogies, comparing him with charismatic figures in past times and in our own life-world. We explain him as a product of Jewish history and as the posthumous founder of early Christianity.

1

These three axioms correspond to two theories of historicism, the theory of Friedrich Meinecke focusing on development and individuality and the theory of E. Troeltsch focusing on causality and analogy. Cf. F. Meinecke, Die Entstehung des Historismus. Werke Bd. 3 (München: Oldenburg, 1959); E. Troeltsch, ‘Über historische und dogmatische Methode in der Theologie’, in E. Troeltsch, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 2. Zur religiösen Lage. Religionsphilosophie und Ethik (Tübingen: Mohr, 1922), pp. 729–53. 2 Individuality is therefore the presupposition by which we can identify a historical phenomenon as different from all other phenomena.

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Inspired by these axioms of historical research, D. Winter and I have reformulated the criterion of dissimilarity in Jesus scholarship, avoiding its one-sidedness. Regarding what is dissimilar to the Jewish and early Christian environment as necessarily authentic is a biased approach. Rather, each individual historical phenomenon is to be considered authentic that can plausibly be understood in its Jewish context and that also facilitates a plausible explanation for its later effects on Christian history.3 Thus, the crucial criterion in historical Jesus studies is contextual plausibility in tandem with the plausibility of later effects. Jesus is a product of Jewish history among other historical figures; and together with other factors and figures he has produced the history of early Christianity. Consequently, there is a continuum between Judaism and Christianity.4 In the following, I am going to develop two comprehensive attempts, or models, to assign Jesus a place on a continuum from Judaism to Christianity, applying the double criterion not only to individual Jesus traditions, but also to the comprehensive picture of Jesus as a whole.5 The first model says: Jesus was a liberal Jew. Christianity is universalised Judaism – stressing elements which Jews have in common with nonJews. This is developed in the first part of my paper. The second model says: Jesus was a radical Jew – stressing elements that distinguish Jews from non-Jews. Christianity is radicalised Judaism. This model is discussed in the second part of my paper. The two models seem to contradict each other.6 In the last part of my paper I try to show that they are in fact 3

G. Theissen and D. Winter, Die Kriterienfrage in der Jesusforschung. Vom Differenz- zum Plausibilitätskriterium (Freiburg Schweiz & Göttingen: Universitätsverlag & Vandenhoeck, 1997), p. ix. English translation: The Quest for the Plausible Jesus. The Question of Criteria (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), p. xv. 4 The continuum programme in Jesus research that T. Holmén has developed corresponds to the double criterion of plausibility, namely contextual plausibility and plausibility of effects. Cf. T. Holmén, ‘An Introduction to the Continuum Approach’, in T. Holmén, Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Approaches to the Historical Jesus (Sheffield: T&T Clark, 2007), pp. 1–16. 5 Cf. Theissen & Winter, Plausible Jesus, p. 212: ‘What we know of Jesus as a whole must allow him to be recognised within his contemporary Jewish context and must be compatible with the Christian (canonical and noncanonical) history of his effects.’ We speak of ‘comprehensive plausibility’. Such a comprehensive picture of Jesus is both a heuristic framework of Jesus research at the outset and the result of such research that may correct the previous heuristic picture. The criterion is concerned with whether such a picture of Jesus matches our comprehensive knowledge of Jewish and Christian history of those times. 6 At first glance, we may say that the first model may better explain the tensions between Jews and Christians and that the second one may better explain the tensions between Christians and Gentiles. But we should ask: can we also explain the tensions between the Jews and the first Christians without denying the Jewish heritage of Christianity – and the tensions between Christians and Gentiles without diminishing the universali-

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complementary if we interpret them by means of cognitive religious studies.

1. The Historical Jesus and the Universalization of Judaism The first model says: Jesus was a liberal Jew, and Christianity continued his universalising Judaism by abolishing some rules that separated Jews and Gentiles. Historians who give the historical Jesus a place in this development look above all for Jesus traditions that relativise Jewish norms and make Judaism more accessible for Gentiles. But there lies a hermeneutical danger. From a retrospective view such ‘liberal’ features of the historical Jesus are often interpreted as an exodus from Judaism – anachronistically seen in the light of the later development, when Christianity separated from Judaism. But Jesus did not start an exodus from Judaism, though this was the predominant view in what is known as the New Quest for the historical Jesus. This view is certainly wrong. Jesus was both historically and theologically a Jew. Three great German New Testament scholars agree in this regard: H. S. Reimarus in the eighteenth, D. F. Strauß in the nineteenth, and R. Bultmann in the twentieth century. According to Bultmann, Christianity first started as the post-Easter faith in Jesus’ resurrection.7 It is undisputed that after Easter Christianity abolished some of the rules that separated Jews and Gentiles, above all the three identity markers circumcision, food laws, and Sabbath rules. These identity markers created boundaries within three fundamental social relationships: in marriage, common meals, and the synchronisation of time. The implicit social function of circumcision was to maintain endogamy within Judaism. The functional effect of the food laws was to complicate the participation of Jews in pagan social life, in associations and their meals. Sabbath laws created a social time pattern in Jewish communities that differed from their nonJewish environment. Therefore, we may say that these three sets of rules separated Jews from Gentiles in everyday life. Tacitus states it in this way: Jews are separati epulis, discreti cubilibus ‘separated in their meals, divided when sleeping’ (Hist. 5.5.2). And he comments on the Jewish Sabbath sation of Judaism in Christianity? In this case it would be much easier to assign Jesus a historical place on a continuum between Judaism and early Christianity. 7 Not Bultmann himself but his disciples were looking for a Christological continuity between the historical Jesus before Easter and the post-Easter Christian faith in Jesus Christ. Therefore, they concentrated above all on elements in Jesus’ activity that could be interpreted as an exodus from Judaism and as an implicit Christological claim. At which point we assume the beginning of the universalisation of Judaism to take place is therefore crucial. Did it start with Jesus or in the time of Paul?

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as proof of their alleged tendency to idleness (Hist. 5.4.2). Christianity changed these separating rules that provoked anti-Jewish feelings. And this is a universalising tendency making Judaism more accessible for Gentiles. Our question is now: Can we find this unversalising tendency as early as in the activity of the historical Jesus? There is indeed such a tendency in three fields: in Jesus’ eschatology, in his attitude towards the law and in his healing activity. A certain universalising tendency is visible in Jesus’ eschatology. The expectation of the kingdom of God is a Jewish hope. In other Jewish texts it includes a victory of Jews over Gentiles. But Jesus contradicts such nationalistic hopes. He announces that ‘many will come from east and west and will eat with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven while the heirs of the kingdom will be thrown into the outer darkness...’ (Mt. 8.11–12). It is debated whether the people from east and west are Jews from the Diaspora or Gentiles or both of them. In my view, we should take the spatial dimension of this prophecy literally. It refers to people outside of Palestine, i.e., to Jews and Gentiles. When they gather in the kingdom of God, no food laws will separate them. They are no longer separati epulis (Tacitus, Hist. 5.5.2). The kingdom of God is no longer a victory over the Gentiles but a reconciliation of Jews and Gentiles – Gentiles participating in a common meal with the Jewish patriarchs. A universalising tendency is also visible in Jesus’ ethics. He relativised the ritual norms of the law on the one hand and radicalised its moral norms on the other hand. He violated the Sabbath rules (Mk 2.23–28; 3.1–6; Lk. 13.10–17; 14.1–6) and did not believe in the objectivity of purity norms (Mk 7.15).8 On the other hand, Jesus radicalised some of the moral norms which controlled aggressiveness, sexuality and honesty of speech (Mt. 5.21–22, 27–28, 33–37). True, Judaism did not make a conceptual difference between ritual and moral rules, but nevertheless, the two have (unconsciously) different functions. Ritual symbols create above all a feeling of belonging together; they help to coordinate the motivations and emotions of the members of a group. Ritual symbols mark the difference from other groups.9 Moral rules are much more universal or are believed to be.

8 He did not abolish them but said that other (moral) norms are more important than these ritual norms (Lk. 11.39–41). Cf. G. Theissen, ‘Das Reinheitslogion Mk 7,15 und die Trennung von Juden und Christen’, in K. Wengst and G. Sass (eds.), Ja und Nein. Christliche Theologie im Angesicht Israels (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1998), pp. 235–51; also published in G. Theissen, Jesus als historische Gestalt. Beiträge zur Jesusforschung, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), pp. 73–89. 9 They are arbitrary, i.e., there could be quite different ritual symbols to create group identity. Conflicts about rituals and the development of new rites symbolise tendencies to form new religious groups.

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They allow cooperation between different groups. But we shall see that sometimes they define social identity, too. The miracle activity of Jesus is also marked by a ‘unversalising’ tendency. We hear of two healings of Gentiles from a distance: the healing of the servant of the centurion of Capernaum (Mt. 8.5–13 par.) and of the daughter of the Syrophoenician woman (Mk 7.24–30). Sometimes these healing stories are interpreted only symbolically. The spatial distance could symbolise the social distance between Jews and Gentiles. Therefore these miracle stories would have been created in early Christianity. But I think that healings of this kind can be accepted as historical without denying such a symbolic dimension. To explain these miracles historically it is enough to presuppose that the centurion had told his servant that he would look for a famous Jewish healer in order to ask him for help. Such an announcement is enough to activate faith and confidence in the sick servant. The same is true for the Syrophoenician woman. It is enough to presuppose her to have told her little daughter that she was looking for a powerful Jewish healer to help her. This may be enough to activate faith and confidence. Such faith is the crucial factor in all pre-modern forms of symbolic healing. Comparable healings from a distance by creating faith and confidence are confirmed by experiments in modern times. For an improvement in health, it is sometimes enough to imagine a fictitious famous healer in a distant city who does not know anything of the experiment.10 At all events the two miracle stories reflect encounters of Jesus with Gentiles – even if we may doubt that they happened in this form. In spite of these universalising tendencies Jesus did not depart from Judaism. Jesus did not dissolve Jewish identity.11 He did not abolish Jewish 10 H. Rehder, ‘Wunderheilungen, ein Experiment’, Hippokrates 26 (1955), pp. 577– 80. Cf. G. Theissen, ‘Die Wunder Jesu. Historische, psychologische und theologische Aspekte’, in W. H. Ritter and M. Albrecht (eds.), Zeichen und Wunder. Interdisziplinäre Zugänge (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), pp. 30–52. 11 He did not abolish the separating ritual norms but merely relativised them. This can be demonstrated by his attitudes to ritual norms. Jesus never criticised circumcision, and we do not hear that he ate forbidden food. It is even more important that he did not baptise – in spite of the fact that his teacher John was the baptist par excellence. John the Baptist and the Essenes both separated their adherents from other Jews by rituals – the Essenes by repeated baptisms, the Baptist by a unique and non-repetitive baptism. Creating such new rituals always marks the beginning of a schism or a separation in a religion. But Jesus did not continue this line. It is only with his Last Supper that he perhaps founded the basis for a new ritual. Therefore we may say: the followers of the Baptist and the members of the Essenes are more distanced from common Judaism than Jesus and his followers are. The signs of this distance are ritual demarcations. Since nobody doubts that the Essenes and the adherents of John the Baptist are representatives of Jewish life and theology, we may say that Jesus is more integrated in common Judaism than these groups. He is situated in the midst of Judaism. He was no marginal Jew, though he

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boundary markers but only started a development which led to their abolition for Gentile Christians after his death. And we must not forget that his relativising of ritual norms was balanced by a sharpening of moral norms. This sharpening of moral norms is no contradiction to the relativising of ritual norms. The less ritual norms demarcate Jewish identity, the more ethical demands have to substitute them as identity markers. It is true, moral norms are much more universal than ritual norms; they seem less suitable to demarcate social groups. All societies must find ways to control aggressiveness and sexuality. But nevertheless moral rules become identity markers again and again whenever a community either says: ‘We are the only ones to fulfil these universal moral rules, whereas others fail to fulfil them or only pretend to do so’, or whenever a community says: ‘We are the only ones to follow the true radicalised norms.’ They are sharpened so that the new form becomes an identity marker of the group. Only the ingroup fulfils or pretends to fulfil them. This is exactly what happened in the Jesus tradition. The commandment to love one’s neighbour is radicalised in the commandment to love one’s enemies and in this radicalised form functions as an identity marker: In the Matthean version Jesus asks: ‘For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same?’ (Mt. 5.46–47). In this text love for enemies functions as an identity marker, distinguishing Christians from tax collectors on the one hand and Gentiles on the other hand. So we may say: When Jesus radicalised moral norms and relativised ritual norms he accentuated the universal tendency in Judaism, but he did not dissolve Jewish identity. Instead, he shifted its basis from ritual norms to universal ethical norms. This shift of identity to moral norms endangers the cohesion of a group. The more one sharpens norms, the more one creates sinners – deepening a gap in the community. Therefore, in the Jesus tradition we also encounter a radicalisation of forgiveness. Jesus warns against moral criticism of other people: ‘Do not judge, so that you may not be judged!’ (Mt. 7.1). He cautions against seeing the speck in the brother’s eye and not noticing the log in one’s own eye (Mt. 7.3). His followers should forgive one another so that God may forgive them (Mt. 6.14). When Peter asks: ‘How often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’, Jesus says to him: ‘Not seven times but I tell you seventy-seven times’ (Mt. 18.21–22).

cared for marginalised Jews. But in spite of his position in the midst of Judaism we discover a universalising tendency. Cf. G. Theissen, ‘Jesus im Judentum’, in G. Theissen, Jesus als historische Gestalt. Beiträge zur Jesusforschung, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), pp. 35–56.

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So we may understand the relativising of ritual norms and the sharpening of moral norms as a balanced system in an attempt to define Jewish identity on the basis of universal ethics without dissolving Jewish identity. A historical interpretation must look for analogies to explain these universalising tendencies. Unquestionably there was already a universalising tendency in Judaism. Jews hoped that all people would accept the worship of the one and only God. Such universal tendencies were at home above all in the upper class. The first attempt to enforce a universalising reform of Judaism was the Hellenistic reform in Jerusalem at the beginning of the second century BCE. The God of Israel was identified with the Zeus Olympios. Separating rites were abolished. This reform of an urban elite provoked a fundamentalist rebellion of the countryside among the common people. The reform failed. It was an attempt to assimilate Judaism to its environment and an attempt to deepen the distance between the educated upper class and the common people. Since then all attempts to open Judaism for the Hellenistic culture by abolishing traditional ritual demands have been stigmatised as apostasy.12 In contrast to that, the Jesus movement was a popular movement within Judaism. The relativising of ritual Jewish norms did not have the function to open Judaism for non-Jews but to gather the lost sheep among common people within Israel. Jesus represented a popular inclusive Judaism.13

12 A different and more subtle attempt was the philosophy of Philo at the beginning of the first century CE, giving an allegorical interpretation to the Jewish law which says that Jews are the true cosmopolites. Their law is the law of nature. Therefore, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob observed the law even if they could not yet know of the revelation on Mount Sinai. Philo’s philosophical interpretation of the Bible was an attempt to assimilate educated Gentiles to Judaism in an imaginative space. Earlier than Plato, Moses revealed what Plato thought. Philo did not question the practice of external ritual norms. On the contrary, he opposed those who justified abandoning them by means of an allegorising interpretation (Migr. Abr. 89–90). Moreover, Philo was a member of the upper class. But he represents a Judaism that was attractive for Gentiles: The synagogue attracted many Gentiles who did not convert to Judaism but who accepted Jewish monotheism and ethics. These so-called God-fearers did not observe all the Jewish ritual norms. In the synagogues they were second-class Jews. The Christian mission (represented by Paul and Barnabas) implied an upgrading of them; in Christian communities they possessed equal rights. 13 J. D. Crossan: The Historical Jesus. The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant, (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1991), p. 418, distinguishes an inclusive and exclusive Judaism in the following way: ‘By exclusive I mean a Judaism seeking to preserve its ancient traditions as conservatively as possible with minimal conjunction, interaction, or synthesis with Hellenism on the ideological level. By inclusive I mean a Judaism seeking to adapt its ancestral customs as liberally as possible with maximal association, combination, or collaboraton with Hellenism on the ideological level.’ I think inclusivity and exclusivity are both attitudes vis-à-vis other Jews and Jewish groups, above all marginal groups,

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Therefore, I think Jesus was not himself a marginal Jew14 but he cared for the marginalised parts of Israel: for publicans and sinners, poor and oppressed, women and children, all those ‘lost sheep’. After his death his inclusive Judaism was developed into a Judaism including Gentiles as well. Crossing the borders within Judaism advanced to crossing the borders between Jews and Gentiles. The role of the historical Jesus in this development was to relativise some of the separating rules. He was indeed a liberal Jew. The authority for relativising Jewish norms came through his charisma. Charisma may be defined as authority to change rules. But only Paul took the next step – the step from relativising Jewish norms to abolishing them for Gentiles. He derived his authority to do so from the resurrected Christ, i.e., from an enhanced charismatic authority surpassing all other authorities on earth and in heaven. In Galatians he refers to his call by the resurrected Christ when he defends his missionary practice without circumcision and food laws.15 The resurrection turned Jesus into the posthumous founder of Christianity. At the same time, the exaltation of the resurrected Christ undermined the Jewish identity by giving a human being divine authority beside God so that he was worshipped along with God.16 It was only his divine authority that justified the abrogation of laws which marked the social identity of the Jews: circumcision, food laws and Sabbath. Therefore, it is understandable that Jews opposed the new Christian movement. To sum up the interim result: Jesus was a liberal Jew representing universalising tendencies within Judaism. But he was only the precursor to an opening of Judaism for Gentiles by establishing an inclusive Judaism open for marginal Jews. Jesus remained within the bounds of Judaism, as we have seen. But after his crucifixion and resurrection he became the posthumous founder of Christianity. There was a continuum from Judaism to Christianity expressed by a universalising tendency with deep roots in Jewish traditions. This influenced Jesus’ message and activity and continued in early Christianity.

‘sinners’ and the lost sheep of Israel. An internal inclusivity may secondarily be transformed into an external inclusivity that accepts non-Jewish groups. 14 In this sense we should modify the label that J. P. Meier gave Jesus in his foundational study: A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus (4 vols.; New York: Doubleday, 1991, 1994, 2001; New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2009). 15 Paul underlines that all differences between Jews and Gentiles are overcome in a new creation where the world is crucified to him and he to the world (Gal. 6.14). This new creation is created by God’s resurrecting power. 16 L. W. Hurtado, One God. One Lord. Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (Philadelphia & London: Fortress & SCM, 1988); idem, Lord Jesus Christ. Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003).

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However, this is not the only possibility to reconstruct such a continuum.

2. The Historical Jesus and the Radicalization of Judaism Let us now discuss the second model, which at first glance seems to be the opposite of the first. Jesus was not only a liberal Jew, he was also a radical Jew. Christianity is a radicalised Judaism. The universalising tendency underlines elements that Jews and non-Jews had in common. The radicalising tendency stresses differences between Jews and non-Jews.17 Historians and theologians who give the historical Jesus a place within such a development of radicalisation will above all stress the typical Jewish traditions in the life and work of Jesus. We can indeed observe a Jewish revitalisation in three fields, in Jesus’ eschatology, in his ethics and his whole activity and life. Jesus’ eschatology of the kingdom of God is a radicalised Jewish monotheism: God alone will govern the world and will overcome demonic powers and human sins. It is a revitalisation of old Jewish dreams or a restoration eschatology.18 Considered in the light of Jesus’ temple prophecy, his temple action states: there will be a new temple as the restoration and centre of a new worship of God (Mk 11.15–19; 14.58). The logion on the twelve (Lk. 22.28–30 par.) implies the expectation that the twelve tribes will gather together again. The people of Israel will be restored and common people, among them fishers and peasants, will be their representatives.19 The ethical proclamation of Jesus implies a radicalisation of specific Jewish traditions, too. The two basic Jewish values were love for the neighbour and humility, humility being a virtue that developed between the testaments. Jesus radicalised both values. His ethos of non-violence combines humility and love of enemies. The maxim: ‘If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also!’ (Mt. 5.39) is a strategy of selfstigmatisation in order to exercise influence on an aggressor from a posi17 We have already noticed a radicalisation of universal tendencies in Jewish ethics – a first bridge between these two comprehensive pictures of Jesus. However, particularly Jewish traditions were intensified in early Christianity as well, for example messianism, love for the neighbour and self-humiliation. 18 Cf. the foundational book of E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM Press, 1985). 19 Concerning the question of authenticity, cf. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, pp. 98– 106; H. Roose, Heil als Machtausübung. Zur Traditionsgeschichte, den Ausprägungen und Funktionen eines eschatologischen Motivkomplexes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), pp. 30–95.

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tion of powerlessness. Loving your enemies contradicts a wide-spread maxim in antiquity to love friends and to fight enemies.20 Moreover, we may say that Jesus’ activity as a whole embodied Jewish values. The historical Jesus provoked messianic hopes, even if he did not declare himself the Messiah. The titulus crucis refers to a historical fact behind this tradition: He was executed as a messianic pretender. He did not distance himself from messianic hopes before Pilate. A detachment from his own Messiahship would have been such an effective weapon against his adherents – both in the hands of the Jewish aristocracy and the Romans – that we should be able to find traces of such a detachment in our traditions. It is true, the messianic hopes that Jesus provoked among the people and his disciples were expectations of a victorious Messiah. But Jesus himself probably started combining this Jewish messianism with the tradition of the violent death of the prophets. At all events the historical Jesus consciously risked his violent death by going to Jerusalem. He was aware of the fate of John the Baptist. Prophetic self-stigmatisation had already been a Jewish tradition. So Jesus’ message was not only a foreshadowing of a later universalisation of Judaism in early Christianity, but also a revitalisation and radicalisation of Judaism. Again, we must look for analogies in history. Being a revitalisation of Judaism, Jesus can be compared with millenarian movements.21 These movements originate from a confrontation between imperialism and indigenous cultures in a colonial situation. Native cultures react to the imperial culture by reactivating their own potential. Such movements are generally inaugurated by a charismatic prophet who announces a crucial change in history and the disappearance of the aliens. As far as these movements are directed against the aliens we may call them nativistic movements. Millenarian movements also existed in Palestine in those days. The rebellion against the Romans after the death of Herod I was comparable to such a millenarian movement, their charismatic leaders being Simon, Athronges, and Judas from Galilee. This rebellion failed. The next movement seems to have learnt its lesson from its failure. The movement of John the Baptist proclaimed no violent rebellion against the aliens but an internal renewal by repentance and baptism. Only at first glance does this renewal seem to be apolitical, since John the Baptist criticised the political 20

M. Raiser, ‘Love of enemies in the Context of Antiquity’, NTS 47 (2001), pp. 411–

27. 21

The classical attempt to interpret the Jesus movement as a Millenarian movement is J. Gager, Kingdom and Community. The Social World of Early Christianity (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1975), pp. 19–65; a comprehensive discussion is D. C. Allison, Jesus of Nazareth. Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998).

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elite in a more subtle way: Herod Antipas had violated the Jewish laws by marrying his brother’s wife Herodias during his brother’s life time, but he did not violate Roman or Greek laws. His marriage could be interpreted as an acculturation of the upper class to the norms of the dominant alien culture. So the opposition of John the Baptist was an indirect opposition against the alien culture, too. Now we have a problem: Millenarian movements are not at all universalising! They do not open an indigenous culture to aliens. On the contrary, they defend the native culture against the dominant ‘global’ culture. None of the Millenarian movements succeeded in attracting people from the dominant culture – let alone conquering this culture. But this was exactly what happened later on in early Christianity; above all, it spread among Gentiles and in the long run it conquered Greek and Roman society. 22 As a Millenarian movement it should have had its greatest success among the common Jewish people. But it failed in Judaism. It met hostility among other Jews. How can we explain this Jewish hostility to the first Christians if they only represented radicalised Jewish traditions? I think the first Christians developed and radicalised precisely those Jewish features that were hard to accept in the pagan world. Messianic eschatology endangered the legitimacy of the existent society and rulership. Self-stigmatisation endangered the ethics of honour and shame. Therefore, we should not explain the hostility between Jews and the early Christians only by the universalising tendencies of the Christians but also by the fact that the Christians radicalised Jewish tendencies in a way that other Jews avoided in order to diminish tensions with their pagan environment. There is some historical evidence for Jews indeed suppressing typical Jewish tendencies among other Jews and the Christians in order to reduce conflicts with their non-Jewish environment. To begin with, there is a tendency to suppress a politically dangerous Jewish messianism. Acts 17 tells how the Jews in Thessalonica incited some ruffians in the marketplace to charge the Christians because of their messianism. They say: ‘They (the Christians) are all acting contrary to the decrees of the emperor, saying that there is another king named Jesus’ (Acts 17.7). After the Jewish War the Jewish authorities in the Diaspora cooperated with Roman authorities in order to suppress rebellious and messianic movements. In Alexandria they extradited fugitives from Palestine who refused to accept the Roman Emperor because of their religious conviction (War 7.409–19). In Cyrene they took action against the move22

This is the point in G. Theissen, ‘Jesus – Prophet einer millenaristischen Bewegung? Sozialgeschichtliche Überlegungen zu einer sozialanthropologischen Deutung der Jesusbewegung’, EvT 59 (1999), pp. 402–15; also published in Theissen, Jesus als historische Gestalt, pp. 197–228.

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ment of Jonathan who promised miracles and appearances in the desert (War 7.437–42). The upper-class writers Josephus and Philo play down Jewish messianism and eschatology. Philo spiritualises the Messiah (Praem. Poen. 164–72). Josephus never spells out messianic Jewish hope for his readers. But the Christians openly represented this Jewish messianism, transforming and spiritualising it: The Jewish Messiah became the saviour of the world. Jewish messianism was universalised. Christ is the Messiah, in whom ‘the Gentiles shall hope’ (Rom. 15.12 = Isa. 11.10 cf. Mt. 12.21). But nevertheless, in order to distance themselves from messianic traditions other Jews detached themselves from the Christians – either from a Jewish messianism that endangered the political order or from a universalised messianism that endangered the Jewish identity. But is the same true for Jewish ethics, the ethics of love of neighbour and humility? Are they not universal norms? Why should Jews detach themselves from such human values? What is the problem with love of neighbour? Or with humility? There was indeed a problem. The internal solidarity in Jewish congregations was a problem for non-Jews. In his anti-Jewish statements Tacitus criticises their solidarity among themselves and charges them with hatred of humankind: apud ipsos fides obstinata, misericordia in promptu, sed adversus omnes alios hostile odium (Hist. 5.5.1). He criticises the Jewish ethos of loving one’s neighbour and the Jewish denigration of pagan beliefs and cults. This is why the upper-class writers Josephus and Philo never speak of the central Jewish commandment to ‘love one’s neighbour’ (Lev. 19.18). They avoid this terminology that may be misunderstood as a love limited only to members of one’s own group. They prefer to speak of philanthropía, of a love for all human beings, a love that is explicitly not limited to neighbours or to Jews. The Christians radicalised love of neighbour in their communities and continued the Jewish criticism of pagan traditions. Therefore, they were also charged with an odium humani generis (Tacitus, Ann. 15.44.4) – in spite of the fact that they abolished separating rites like circumcision and food laws. The second basic value of Judaism is humility, the willingness to subordinate oneself to other people. It is a new attitude, witnessed in Qumran writings as willingness to accept a place in a sacred hierarchy. It is striking that Philo and Josephus in their description of the Essenes play down this characteristic feature. Josephus represents the humility of the Essenes only as the obedience to their rulers (War 2.140). Philo is more correct by saying that the Essenes served each other mutually (Omn. Prob. Lib. 79). But both writers above all characterise the Essenes as models of the general virtues of self-mastery and liberty. Self-mastery was an accepted value in antiquity, humility however was a strange virtue for the non-Jewish an-

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cient world. Jesus has given this humility a concise formula: ‘Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all’ (Mk 10.43).23 Such typical Jewish traditions were intensified in early Christianity. Messianism and self-humiliation were combined by Paul in his theologia crucis. For him the Messiah was a crucified divine being. Though equal to God, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, and became obedient to the point of death – even death on a cross (Phil. 2.6, 7, 8). This combination of divine claim and self-humiliation was not acceptable in antiquity. It contradicted the codex of shame and honour which states: you must never renounce your status, your honour, your prestige, but always behave according to your status. Therefore, the cross was foolishness for the Gentiles (1 Cor. 1.18–31). So Paul did not only intensify the previous tendency of universalisation but also the tendency of a radicalisation of particularly Jewish traditions. To explain the history of early Christianity we must further ask: Why was this mixture of universalisation and radicalisation so successful? Why was it able both to transgress the border between Jews and Gentiles – in spite of being a Millenarian movement, and to transgress the border between common people and members with elevated status in Gentile Christianity? How can we explain the missionary dynamics on this continuum between Judaism and early Christianity?

3. The Missionary Dynamics of Universalization and Radicalization: A Cognitive Model to Explain the Missionary Success of Christianity We have seen that the continuum between Judaism and Christianity is formed by two developments: universalisation and radicalisation. The model of an adaptive universalisation seems to have difficulties explaining the hostility of the pagan world. The model of a provocative radicalisation has difficulties explaining the success in the pagan world. But perhaps we can better explain both the success of the Christian mission and the opposition it provoked if we combine the two approaches. According to cognitive studies in religion, the combination of these two tendencies may be the 23

Extreme humility is self-stigmatisation. Jews had developed a theology of martyrdom. In defence of their laws the Maccabean martyrs were willing to give their life. Josephus tells the story of the Maccabees but does not mention the martyrdom of Eleazar and the seven brothers (2 Macc. 6.18–31; 7.1–42). It is unlikely that he did not know of this tradition, which was evoked in 4 Maccabees 2 and 4. Their theology of martyrdom was preserved only in Christian traditions.

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best mixture of ideas to raise attention and to survive in the process of transmission in a pluralistic religious world. If we modify this approach slightly, we may say that functioning religious faith is basically both plausible and paradoxical, adaptive and provocative, intuitive and counterintuitive.24 According to cognitive religious studies we find ‘counterintuitive ideas’ in the centre of a religion, which cross the border between ontological domains. These ontological domains correspond to universal categories of the human mind such as persons, artefacts, animals, inanimate objects, plants.25 God is a person, but without a body. Jesus is a human being, but he is pre-existent. Such ideas violate our ontological category of a person. I think that in addition to such basic ontological domains all cultures develop culturally conditioned basic categories such as the difference between divine and human persons, between pure and impure things, between holy and profane times. Religious concepts violate basic categories, they may be universal or cultural. In order to attract attention it does not matter whether the expectations are conditioned by a quasi-natural ontology or by culturally conditioned categories. In this regard I would like to modify the cognitive approach. As experiments have demonstrated, counterintuitive ideas have more of a chance to be spread if they are only moderately counterintuitive and if they are combined with a network of intuitive ideas that are plausible.26 24

A survey is given by A. W. Geertz, ‘Cognitive Approaches to the study of Religion’, in P. Antes, A. W. Geertz and R. R. Warne (eds.), New Approaches to the Study of Religion, vol. 2. Textual, Comparative, Sociological, and Cognitive Approaches (Berlin & New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004), pp. 247–418. First attempts to introduce a cognitive approach in New Testament Studies are: I. Czachesz, ‘The Transmission of Early Christian Thought, Toward a Cognitive Psychological Model’, SR 36 (2006), pp. 47–59; idem, ‘The Gospels and Cognitive Science’, in A. A. MacDonald, M. W. Twomey and G. J. Reinink (eds.), Learned Antiquity. Scholarship and Society in the Near-East, the Greco-Roman World, and the Early Medieval West (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), pp. 25–36. G. Theissen, ‘Theory of Primitive Christian Religion and New Testament Theology. An Evolutionary Essay’, in C. Rowland and C. Tuckett, The Nature of New Testament Theology (Oxford: Blackwell Pub., 2006), pp. 207–30; also published as ‘Theorie der urchristlichen Religion und Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Ein evolutionärer Versuch’, in Andreas Wagner (ed.), Primäre und sekundäre Religion als Kategorie der Religionsgeschichte des Alten Testaments (Berlin & New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2006), pp. 227–48. G. Theissen, Das Erleben und Verhalten der ersten Christen. Eine Psychologie des Urchristentums (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2007), pp. 40–45, 251–342. 25 P. Boyer, Religion Explained. The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought (New York: Basic Books, 2001); I. Pyysiäinen, How Religion works. Towards a New Cognitive Science of Religion (Leiden: Brill, 2001). These categories are universal, ‘innate ideas’ within our brains as a result of a long evolution. 26 Cf. I. Czachesz, ‘Kontraintuitive Ideen im Urchristentum’, in G. Theissen and P. v. Gemünden (eds.), Erkennen und Erleben. Beiträge zur psychologischen Erforschung des frühen Christentums (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2007), pp. 197–208.

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Only a combination of the two forms an optimal set of ideas that may be successful in the market of religions. The combination of the two is even present in the proclamation of Jesus, but was increased by Paul. What is counterintuitive and paradoxical in the proclamation of Jesus? The future kingdom of God has already become present. This message contradicts the order of time. God defeats Satan through Jesus. Jesus is the finger of God. This crosses the border between God and human beings. Jesus breaks ritual taboos. He negates the difference between purity and impurity, undermines the border between holy and profane time by violating the Sabbath and denies the absolute obligation to bury one’s own father. This is a provocative message.27 At the same time, the proclamation of Jesus is full of intuitive ideas. It is quite plausible to prefer ethical commandments to ritual rules. A change of ritual rules does not endanger survival. But neglecting basic ethical rules like ‘Do not kill!’ threatens the survival of a group. To summarise ethics in the two love commandments is intuitively plausible and corresponds to the canon of the two virtues in antiquity, namely piety toward gods and justice among people. The Golden Rule corresponds to an international wisdom. The similitudes of Jesus are intuitive and plausible. In his parables he avoids the crossing of ontological borders. Plants and animals never speak. We may say: The radicalising tendency often creates paradoxical and counterintuitive ideas; the universalising tendency often creates plausible and intuitive ideas. The mixture of both tendencies gives early Christian ideas an optimal chance to be spread. In the proclamation of Paul both the tendency to universalisation and to radicalisation are increased: God becomes a human being who is crucified. And a crucified human being becomes God. With Paul early Christianity becomes remarkably more paradoxical and counterintuitive.28 Paul is quite aware of this. He states that his proclamation of the cross is provocative foolishness but that God decided to save the world by this foolishness (1 Cor. 1.18–31). It is precisely this foolish proclamation that was a success in the Gentile world. Paul’s mission among the Gentiles attracted more people to the new religion than the mission within Judaism. There must be a connection between Paul’s message being increasingly more paradoxical 27 There is an implicit counter-intuitiveness in such radical demands. Only the authority who has given these rules may be allowed to change them. Here a person is speaking and acting who is more than just a human being. 28 Cf. G. Theissen, ‘Jesusüberlieferungen und Christuskerygma bei Paulus. Ein Beitrag zur kognitiven Analyse urchristlicher Theologie’, in G. Thomas and A. Schüle (eds.), Gegenwart des lebendigen Christus (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2007), pp. 119–38.

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and its success. I think that not much attention is attracted by claiming: Once, there was a sympathetic fellow in Palestine saying: ‘Be fair to your neighbour!’ But it does attract attention if you convey the message: God’s son was present on earth and was crucified. He loved his enemies and was resurrected by God. Paul’s paradoxical theology is combined with a set of very plausible ideas supporting the universalisation of his message. Paul says also: All human beings are equal before the divine judge. Separating rites can be abolished. The essence of the law is love.

4. Conclusions We may sum up: In Judaism before Jesus and in Christianity after Jesus we find a tendency to universalise Jewish traditions and to radicalise them. Universalisation stresses things that Jews and Gentiles have in common. A radicalisation accentuates the difference between Judaism and the pagan world. Both tendencies can explain the hostility among Jews and early Christians but in a different way. The universal opening of Judaism by abolishing separating ritual rules was opposed because it endangered Jewish demarcation from non-Jews; the radicalising of Jewish messianic hopes and ethics was opposed because this endangered the balance between Jews and non-Jews and their mutual acceptance. Both tendencies are able to explain the missionary success of early Christianity. Radicalised and universalised ideas together are an optimal combination of paradoxical and plausible, counterintuitive and intuitive ideas. According to cognitive studies in religion, counterintuitive and radical ideas attract attention, but intuitive and universal ideas give them a sustainable place in the life of a group. What now is the place of Jesus within this double continuum of radicalisation and universalisation between Judaism and early Christianity? Let us consider our findings in the light of the three historical principles mentioned at the beginning: individuality, analogy and causality. Undoubtedly Jesus was an individual figure, combining traditions that we find in Jewish history. He represents a universalising tendency among common people that we otherwise find only in the Jewish upper class. And he represents a millenarian Jewish reaction against a Hellenistic culture that even attracted non-Jews after his death – including people with elevated status. We have seen that both of the tendencies have analogies in Judaism. Jesus does not represent the only universalising approach in Judaism and his movement is only one renewal movement in Judaism among many others.

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But the Jesus movement is an exception among all these movements, combining a top-down transfer of values (by universalisation) with a bottom-up transfer of other values (by radicalisation). The analogies in Jewish history create a causal nexus in which Jesus is embedded. On the one hand Jesus is a product of Jewish history, both the universalising and the radicalising tendencies being deeply rooted in Jewish traditions. On the other hand the combination of universalising and radicalising was the key to the missionary success of early Christianity after Easter. Our comprehensive picture of Jesus with two tendencies in tension with one another matches our knowledge of Jewish and early Christian history. It is historically plausible to give Jesus a place in a historical continuum of Jewish and Christian history. He is the result of Jewish history and at the same time the posthumous founder of early Christianity. 29

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lish.

I am very grateful to Eric Weidner and Dr. Rosemary Selle for reworking my Eng-

Part Two: Jesus Meets Christianity

The Historical Jesus and the Early Christian Gentile Missions MICHAEL F. BIRD

1. Introduction One of the most significant phenomena in the first twenty years of primitive Christianity was that individuals and groups within this messianic movement began to accept Gentiles into their ranks not merely as sympathizers or observers, but as constituent members of its Diaspora congregations. The Pauline epistles, Acts, and even the gospels attest to the existence of debates and divisions within the early Jesus movement posed by the adherence of Gentiles to faith in Jesus Christ, and the subsequent issue of how these Gentile Christians are to relate to Israel, Jewish Christians, the Torah, synagogues, and the land of Palestine. Moreover, a further problem is the relationship of the historical Jesus to the various missions of the early church. In short, what did Jesus believe about the salvation of the Gentiles and to what extent did his own views and actions provide the impetus for a later Gentile mission? Did Jesus sanction or intimate a future Gentile mission? The current consensus of historical Jesus scholarship would probably say, ‘No’.1 Others, such as J. Jeremias, have argued that salvation-history posits a tenable connection between the teaching of Jesus and the early church regarding the salvation of the Gentiles.2 In light of these questions, the objective of this study is to identify elements of continuity and discontinuity between Jesus and the early church regarding the salvation of the Gentiles. This will be achieved by, first, examining the variety of Gentile missions in the early church and paying particular attention to their distinguishing characteristics and distinctive origins. Second, I intend to outline the basic contours of Jesus’ view of the Gentiles that are shaped principally by his restoration eschatology. Third, I will compare and contrast these perspectives with a view to identifying 1 Cf. E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985), pp. 218–19; J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. II. Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York: Doubleday, 1994), p. 315; J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 539. 2 J. Jeremias, Jesus’ Promise to the Nations (London: SCM, 1958).

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how the missionary ethos of the early church was both continuous and discontinuous with the aims and teachings of the historical Jesus.

2. The Mission(s) to the Gentiles in the Early Church If, as the evangelists narrate, Jesus did intimate a future preaching mission orientated towards the nations (Mk 13.10; 14.9 and par.) and if the resurrection experiences of the early Christians included a command to makes disciples of all nations (Mt. 28.19–20; Lk. 24.47; Acts 1.8),3 then we may legitimately ask why there was a significant amount of delay prior to a Gentile mission getting underway? This delay is sometimes thought to imply that Jesus, historical or risen, made no gesture towards the inclusion of the Gentiles into the church and in fact the Gentile mission was launched in order to compensate for the failure of eschatological hopes (such as the Son of Man’s parousia) to materialize. On this view, the early church’s mission arose mainly out of cognitive dissonance.4 C. K. Barrett writes: ‘The mission is not so much a matter of a “realized eschatology” as of a substitute for an eschatology that has been deferred.’5 But things are not quite so simple. The Qumran community exhibited eschatological beliefs similar in many ways to the early Christian community; it wrestled with the problem of the apparent delay of God’s salvation, yet never did this eschatology result in a concerted mission to Gentiles.6 There are also much easier ways of dealing with failed expectations than proselytizing outsiders.7 D. Bosch states: ‘It is not true that, in the early church, mission gradually replaced the expectation of the end. Rather, mission was, in itself, an

3 M. Bockmuehl, This Jesus. Martyr, Lord, Messiah (London: T&T Clark, 1994), p. 123, writes: ‘However one may understand the resurrection appearances, there can be no doubt that the early Church was convinced that the mission to the Gentiles derived from the risen Jesus himself.’ 4 S. G. Wilson, The Gentiles and the Gentile Mission in Luke-Acts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), p. 20; J. Gager, Kingdom and Community. The Social World of Early Christianity (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1975), pp. 37–39; M. Goodman, Mission and Conversion. Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), pp. 166–67; idem, ‘The Emergence of Christianity’, in A. Hastings (ed.), A World History of Christianity (London: Cassell, 1999), pp. 7–24, esp. 18. 5 C. K. Barrett, ‘The Gentile Mission as an Eschatological Phenomenon’, in W. Hulitt Gloer (ed.), Eschatology and the New Testament (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1988), pp. 65– 75, esp. 71. 6 Schnabel, Early Christian Mission I, p. 330. 7 Goodman, Mission and Conversion, p. 167.

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eschatological event.’8 If the mission to the Gentiles does have pre-Easter antecedents in the historical Jesus’ ministry, then cognitive dissonance begins to dissolve as a serious explanation for the origin of the Gentile mission.9 Cognitive dissonance does not explain the missionary activities of Jesus and John the Baptist who prefigure the early Christian mission.10 Nonetheless, the delay of a Gentile mission in the first few years of the Jerusalem church is genuinely problematic if one thinks (as I do) that Jesus was positively disposed towards Gentiles and he spoke not only of their eschatological salvation, but also of the restored Israel’s role in drawing Gentiles into the kingdom. When the Gentile mission did commence it was not with his closest circle of followers, but principally through the efforts of Jewish Christian Hellenists such as Philip, Barnabas, John Mark, and Paul. Yet this delay is explicable for a variety of reasons. First, the early Jewish Christian community that reconstituted itself in Jerusalem after Jesus’ crucifixion (despite having its roots in Galilee) maintained the continuing focus of Jesus’ ministry which was orientated towards the restoration of Israel. This seems apparent given Jesus’ commission of the twelve (Mk 3.13–16), the link between Jesus’ charismatic ministry and the Isaianic script for restoration (Lk. 7.18–23/Mt. 11.2–6 and Lk. 4.16–21), the prediction that the twelve disciples would sit on thrones judging Israel (Lk. 22.30/Mt. 19.28), and Jesus’ restriction of his mission and that of his disciples to Israel (Mt. 10.5; 15.24). Continuity with Jesus on the hope for the restoration of Israel also explains why the theme of ‘restoration’ remained a burning issue in the immediate post-Easter period (Lk. 24.21; Acts 1.6; 3.21; 15.13–18; Rom. 11.26; 15.8–9) and why it was necessary to elect another person to the ‘twelve’ (Acts 1.21–26). The absence of an active Gentile mission in the early years does not require any indifference or disinterest towards Gentiles on part of the first Christians. Like Jesus of Nazareth, they saw as their chief task the reconstitution of the Jewish tribal league, and that hope was revitalized by the belief that God had raised Jesus from the dead and had so vindicated his status as Israel’s Messiah. Jewish Christianity was not characterized by a rejection of 8

D. Bosch, Transforming Mission. Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission (New York: Maryknoll, 1991), p. 41; cf. O. Cullmann, ‘Eschatology and Missions in the New Testament’, in W. D. Davies and D. Daube (eds.), The Background of the New Testament and Its Eschatology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956), pp. 409–21; M. F. Bird, ‘Mission as an Apocalyptic Event: Reflections on Lk. 10:18 and Mk. 13:10’, EvQ 76 (2004), pp. 117–34; N. T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), p. 445. 9 Cf. J. LaGrand, The Earliest Christian Mission to ‘All Nations’ in the Light of Matthew’s Gospel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), pp. 228–30. 10 D. C. Allison, Jesus of Nazareth. Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), p. 111 n. 69.

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Gentiles or of a Gentile mission, but by a continued hope that Israel may yet respond to their message.11 The particularism of Jewish Christianity was inherited from the covenantal context of its parental religion and it did not paralyze trans-ethnic missionary efforts by virtue of that background; nor did Jewish Christians actively prevent a mission from beginning. Rather, their view was in effect that a transformed Israel would transform the world, so the need to serve as witnesses to Israel continued unabated.12 Hence, the continuing mission to the ‘circumcision’ (Gal. 2.9). The mechanics of exactly how Israel’s restoration will impact, affect, attract, or penetrate the Gentile world is not one that Jesus focused a great deal of attention upon and likewise the early church did not find the issue of ‘by what means’ immediately obvious. Second, according to Acts the Jerusalem Christians spent much of their time in the Temple worshipping, praying, and teaching (Acts 2.46–47; 3.1; 5.20–21, 42; 21.24–26; 22.17–18). This could be construed as a mark of Jewish piety, but it might also suggest an implicit universalism.13 In Jewish thinking Jerusalem was the epicenter of the universe, the Temple was the nexus between Yahweh and humankind, and what happens in Zion affects the whole world.14 In nearly every reference to the building of the eschatological Temple in Israel’s sacred traditions there is an anticipation of Gentiles coming to worship God there.15 A common theme in Jewish eschatological hopes was that when the era of restoration dawned, Gentiles would embark on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and worship God at the Temple with gifts and sacrifices.16 It is with good reason that R. J. McKelvey writes: 11

Cf. M. Borg, Conflict, Holiness and Politics in the Teachings of Jesus (Harrisburg: Trinity Press, 1998), p. 230; G. B. Caird, The Apostolic Age (London: Duckworth, 1955), p. 84; J. Munck, Paul and the Salvation of Mankind (London: SCM, 1959), pp. 260, 263– 64. Origen (Princ. 4.22) reports that the Ebionites stressed that Jesus was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel; Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.27) notes animosity towards Paul’s law free Gentile mission by the Ebionites. In neither case is the validity of a Gentile mission questioned, only its terms. 12 I am echoing here T. W. Manson, Only to the House of Israel? Jesus and the NonJews (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1964), pp. 23–24. 13 Cf. F. Hahn, Mission in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1965), p. 48; P. Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews (New York: Vintage, 1999), pp. 93–96; Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul, pp. 58–59. 14 B. Sundkler, ‘Jésus et les païens’, in B. Sundkler and A. Fridrichsen (eds.), Contributions à l’étude de la pensée missionaire dans le Nouveau Testament (Uppsala: Neutestamentliche Seminar zu Uppsala, 1937), pp. 1–38. 15 Isaiah 40–66; Amos 9.11–12 (LXX); Zech. 1.16; 2.11; Tob. 14.5–6; Sib. Or. 3.290– 94, 616–34, 715–20, 772–74; 1 En. 90.33; T. Naph. 8.1–5, 9–13; T. Benj. 9.2. 16 Isa. 2.2–4; 18.7; 56.7; 60.11, 14; 66.18–20; Zech. 8.21–23; 14.16; Jer. 3.17; 16.19; Hag. 2.7; Mic. 4.1–4; Tob. 13.11–13; 14.5–6; 1 En. 10.21; 48.5; 53.1; 90.33; Pss. Sol. 17.31; 2 Bar. 68.5.

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‘Most, if not all, of the Old Testament expressions of universalism are linked to the temple.’17 The early Christian community’s attachment to the Temple is all the more remarkable when juxtaposed with a wide body of traditions that indicate that Jesus was hostile to the Temple establishment and predicted its destruction.18 Thus, continued attachment to the Temple by the Jerusalem Christians was more than a mark of piety but evolved out of their belief that the Temple still had a part to play in bringing to fruition the eschatological program inaugurated by Jesus, a hope that included Gentiles in its scope. Third, several scholars contend that the delay in the commencement of the Gentile mission was not simply due to disparate views of the criteria for the entrance of the Gentiles’ into the church (i.e., with or without Torah observance), but rested on a far more fundamental conviction that the Gentiles would not partake of salvation until the eschaton.19 Yet most quarters of Judaism did not make the Gentiles wait until the arrival of the eschaton before gaining an inheritance in the world to come. Rather, they welcomed Gentiles as proselytes into Jewish communities. We have no reason to think that the Jewish Christian view would have radically deviated from that belief. In fact, Acts 15.1–5 and Gal. 6.12 assume that Jewish Christian elements were active in trying to proselytize Christian Gentiles. R. Gundry comments: In retrospect, the absence of debate over the Gentile mission as such and the limitation of debate to the status of Gentiles in the church and to relations between them and Jewish believers positively support the Jesuanic origin of that mission, for otherwise the debate would probably have started with the question of evangelizing Gentiles versus waiting for them to stream in at the consummation.20

Fourth, environmental factors are a very probable cause of delay. The Jerusalem Christians had to re-organize themselves materially and theologically following the death of their leader. The question of the conversion of the Gentiles was not as immediately pressing as the very survival of ‘the Way’ within Judean Judaism and this absorbed most of their energies and focus. The rarity of Gentile sympathizers in Judea also meant that the first Christian community was probably not confronted in any serious way with the complexities of how to integrate Gentiles into their fellowship. 17

R. J. McKelvey, The New Temple. The Church in the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), p. 15. 18 Lk. 13.34–35/Mt. 23.37–39; Mk 11.15–17; 13.2; 14.58; 15.29; Mt. 26.61; Lk. 19.41–44; 21.20–24; 23.27–31; Acts 6.14; Jn 2.19; Gospel of Thomas 71; Gospel of the Ebionites 6; Gospel of Peter 25–26. 19 Hahn, Mission, pp. 54–59, 68; Wilson, Gentile Mission in Luke-Acts, pp. 27–28; Bosch, Transforming Mission, pp. 42–43. 20 Gundry, Mark, p. 767.

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Fifth, although the concept of centrifugal outreach towards Gentiles is not unprecedented in the Jewish Scriptures,21 the Judaism of the period cannot be appropriately described as a missionary religion.22 Second Temple Judaism did attract proselytes and facilitate the conversion of Gentiles that wished to convert to Judaism, but it was not self-consciously missionary since the role of Israel, the Jewish people and the synagogue was never directed unequivocally towards Gentile recruitment. The ideal level of Gentile adherence and assimilation to Jewish communities remained widely disputed. Even so, efforts to turn pagans into God-fearers or God-fearers into proselytes were spasmodic and opportunistic or else at the request of the Gentile. I do not doubt that virtually every Jewish group thought that being initiated into the commonwealth of Israel and living under the wings of the Torah was good and desirable for Gentiles. Whether it was politically expedient was another matter. Taken together, this would suggest that the primary cause of delay was: (1) The need for a paradigm shift whereby the notion of a centripetal pilgrimage of Gentiles to Jerusalem is replaced by a centrifugal mission of proclamation to the Gentiles erupting from Jerusalem.23 (2) A question had to be answered as to the basis upon which Gentiles would be admitted into salvation and into the church. Did Gentiles have to become proselytes in order to be followers of ‘the Way’? Or can the Gentiles experience salvation and covenant membership as Gentiles? It is hardly surprising that the group within the early church who saw the need to offer tangible responses to these issues were the ‘Hellenists’. In coming to the Hellenists we must pause and ask of Luke’s reliability as a church historian, or more specifically, as a missionary historian. The issue of Luke-as-Historian is beyond the scope of this study; suffice to say that there is a thoroughgoing realism in Luke’s narration of the origins of the early mission. The story of the mission is not a linear and triumphant progression as there are confrontations, setbacks, sideways moves, betrayals, and false starts. Despite Luke’s penchant to smooth things over he

21

Isa. 2.3; 45.18–23; 51.4–5; 66.18–19; Mic. 4.1–2; Dan. 9.6; Pss. 9.11; 18.49; 45.17; 57.9; 67.2–7; 96.3–10; 97.1; 105.1; 108.3; 119.46; 126.2–3; 145.11–12, 21; and of course the Book of Jonah. 22 In support of this conclusion see the following studies: S. McKnight, A Light Among the Gentiles. Jewish Missionary Activity in the Second Temple Period (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991); M. F. Bird, Crossing over Sea and Land. Jewish Missionary Activity in the Second Temple Period (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2010). 23 Cf. J. D. G. Dunn, The Partings of the Ways Between Christianity and Judaism and Their Significance for the Character of Christianity (London: SCM, 1991), p. 118; Kim Huat Tan, The Zion Tradition and the Aims of Jesus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 239; Bird, ‘Apocalyptic Event’, p. 133.

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never shirks from the diversity and complexity of the mission’s beginnings. George Caird wrote: In all this Luke is undoubtedly preserving the authentic quality of primitive Christianity. If he had been disposed to read back into the age he was describing the characteristics of the age in which he wrote, we should presumably have had from him a story of a mission planned and directed from Jerusalem by the Twelve. But of such ecclesiastical theory there is not a trace in his narrative.24

The identity of the Hellenist believers (HOOKQLVWK M) mentioned in Acts 6.1 and their relationship to the Hebrew/Aramaic believers (HEUDLaRM) is another topic that is moot. The Hellenists are probably to be defined linguistically as Greek-speakers and sociologically orientated towards other Greek-speaking Jewish communities.25 The differences between these groups were not necessarily Christological or eschatological.26 Several factors suggest a shared identity among Hellenists and Hebrews. (1) Both groups were Jewish and had a common ethnicity and a single religious heritage in the pillars Judaism: monotheism, Scripture, Temple, election, and land (though it is not to say that they viewed these pillars in the same way or with the same weight). (2) Both groups were Christian and possessed a common allegiance to Jesus as Messiah and eschatological deliverer.27 (3) Hengel’s dictum that all Judaism of the first century is a form of Hellenistic Judaism should be noted and it prevents an absolute bifurcation between these two groups on cultural grounds.28 (4) Hellenists and Hebrews co-existed from the very beginnings of the movement in Jerusalem as Acts 6.1–6 makes clear. (5) Several figures in the Jerusalem church such as Barnabas (Gal. 2.1, 9, 13; Acts 4.36; 9.27; 11.22–26; 13.1) and John Mark (Acts 12.12, 25; 15.37–39; Col. 4.10) moved freely between the Jewish Christian and Hellenistic Jewish Christian circles. Following Luke’s account (perhaps reliant on his ‘Antioch source’) a group of Hellenists in Jerusalem centred on Stephen began to attract opposition based on their views of Torah and the Temple (Acts 6.13–14). We have no reason to think that Luke has invented this accusation. More importantly one should not suppose that Hellenistic Jews of the Diaspora denigrated the Temple and were disinterested in ceremonial law over mor24

Caird, Apostolic Age, p. 66; cf. Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul, p. 55. Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul, pp. 6–11; C. C. Hill, Hellenists and Hebrews. Reappraising Division Within the Earliest Church (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992). 26 Contra Hahn, Mission, pp. 63, 68. 27 Cf. Bosch, Transforming Mission, pp. 44–45; C. Rowland, Christian Origins (London: SPCK, 1985), pp. 202–03. 28 M. Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism. Studies in their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period, I (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974), p. 104; cf. I. H. Marshall, ‘Palestinian and Hellenistic Christianity: Some Critical Comments’, NTS 19 (1972– 1973), pp. 271–87, esp. 274. 25

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al laws. As far as we know Jewish communities of the Diaspora revered the Temple and many Grecian Jews undertook pilgrimages to the various festivals.29 Apart from the fact that Jews did not divide the law into moral and ceremonial parts, Jews of the Diaspora were known for their observance of food laws and the Sabbath.30 It is impossible to determine precisely what the Hellenist’s view of Torah and Temple was and why it precipitated a severe response. Their ethos is unlikely to have included a complete abrogation of Torah as that would have meant an instant parting of the ways with Judaism; more likely, the Hellenists engaged in intraJewish debates over what it meant to be law-obedient and this may have involved some degree of interiorizing and de-nationalizing of Torah and a challenge to pharisaic halakah. Whereas the Aramaic-speaking Christians emphasized those elements of Jesus’ teaching in continuity with Judaism (e.g., restoration of Israel, call for national repentance, true covenantal righteousness, healing ministry, etc.), the Greek-speaking Christians began to emphasize those aspects of Jesus’ teaching that were at variance with the views of his contemporaries. That would include Jesus’ criticisms of the Temple31 and actions by Jesus that provoked accusations that he did what was ‘unlawful’ (Mk 2.24; 3.4).32 This demonstrates that the issue of continuity and discontinuity between Jesus and the early Church will depend exclusively on which group within the early church we are talking about. At this time a pogrom broke out against the Jerusalem church climaxing in the martyrdom of Stephen (Acts 7) and causing a dispersal of believers including the Hellenists (Acts 8.1–3). This became in turn an occasion for mission activity directed towards non-Jews, hence Luke’s claim: ‘Those who had been scattered preached the word wherever they went’ (Acts 8.4). Philip went to Samaria and preached Jesus (Acts 8.5–25) and others associated with Stephen went to Phoenicia, Cyprus and Antioch and did the 29 Contra Harnack, Mission and Expansion I, pp. 56–57, who thinks that attitudes in the Diaspora towards the Temple saw it as ‘relatively useless’. To the contrary, several Hellenistic authors give glowing reports about the Temple (War 5.223; Ep. Arist. 83– 104; Philo, Spec. Leg. 1.67–77; Sib. Or. 3.657–60; cf. Mk 13.1; Lk. 21.5; b. B.B. 4a). 30 (Food laws) Josephus: Apion 2.173–74, 282; Ant. 14.261; Life 13–14; Philo: Spec. Leg. 4.100–20; Agr. 131–32; Flacc. 95–96; Tacitus, Hist. 5.5.2; Diodorus Siculus, Bib. hist. 34.1.1; Philostratus, Vit. Apoll. 33. (Sabbath) Josephus: Ant. 13.252; 14.241–46, 258, 263–64; 16.163, 168; Apion, 2.20–21, 282; Philo: Vit. Mos. 2.21; Leg. Gai. 155–58; Abr. 28–30; Dec. 102; Spec. Leg. 2.59, 70; Col. 2.16; Juvenal, Sat. 14.96.105–06; Eusebius, Praep. ev. 13.12.9–16. 31 See n. 18 above. 32 Cf. M. F. Bird, ‘Jesus the Law-Breaker’, in J. B. Modica and S. McKnight (eds.), Who Do My Opponents Say That I Am? Investigating the Accusations Against Jesus (London: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2007), pp. 3–26.

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same (Acts 11.19). Damascus is another likely locality given Saul of Tarsus’ remit to seize followers of the Way there (Acts 9.2).33 It looks as if Luke has projected the story of the Hellenists at Antioch (Acts 11.19–21) to a later point in Acts in order to prioritize Paul’s conversion (Acts 9.1– 30) and Peter’s conversion of Cornelius (Acts 10.1–11.18). This is plausible given that Acts 9.1–11.18 appears to interrupt a continuous account of a Hellenistic mission. The reason for the insertion by Luke is probably to attribute the Gentile breakthrough to Peter and give the Gentile mission apostolic precedent and to also introduce Paul prior to the Cornelius narrative.34 Luke reports that men from ‘Cyprus and Cyrene’ began to speak to the HOOKQLVWDL (‘Greeks’, i.e., Gentiles)35 in Antioch proclaiming the Lord Jesus and so the Gentile divide was finally crossed once and for all (Acts 11.20). It was in the mixed setting of Antioch that believers were first called [ULVWLDQR L‘Christians’ (Acts 11.26).36 At this juncture (early to mid-thirties CE) certain Hellenists, in contradistinction to their Aramaic counterparts, ceased to require circumcision of Gentiles as a condition for fellowship and as a pre-requisite to salvation.37 33

Cf. Schnabel, Early Christian Mission I, pp. 695–701, 780; Hahn, Mission, p. 59. Cf. Schnabel, Early Christian Mission I, p. 672; R. Riesner, Paul’s Early Period. Chronology, Mission Strategy, Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), p. 108; A. J. M. Wedderburn, A History of the First Christians (London: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2004), pp. 60, 68–69, 71–72. 35 A. M. Schwemer, ‘Paulus in Antiochien’, BZ 42 (1998), pp. 161–80, esp. 167, follows P 74 c A and D in preferring (OOKQDM. She writes: ‘“Griechen” ( (OOKQDM, nicht (OOKQLVWD M) ist hier sicher gegen NA27 die ursprüngliche Lesart.’ The appearance of (OOKQLVWD Mis confusing since previously it is refers to Greek-speaking Jews in Acts 6.1 and 9.29. Here, however, the context surely supports a reference to Gentiles given the contrast with ,RXGDLaRL (‘Jews’) in 11.19. It seems more likely that scribes would change the New Testament hapax (OOKQLVWD Mfor the better known (OOKQDM than the other way around. Objections that (OOKQLVWD Mmeans ‘Greek-speaking Jew’ and is therefore inappropriate overlooks the fact that HOOKQL]HLQsimply means to speak Greek and can apply to Jews and Gentiles alike. See further F. F. Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles. The Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1951), pp. 235–36; B. M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994), pp. 340–42; C. K. Barrett, Acts of the Apostles, I (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), pp. 550–51. Thus, these ‘Greek-speakers’ are not Greek-speaking Jewish Christians (Acts 6.1), or Greek-speaking Jews (Acts 6.9; 9.29), but are Greekspeaking Gentiles (cf., e.g., Rom. 1.14), probably ‘Griechen um heidnische Sympathisanten’ (Schwemer, ‘Paulus in Antiochien’, p. 168). 36 Cf. Acts 26.28; 1 Pet. 4.16; Tacitus, Ann. 15.44; Suetonius, Nero 16; Pliny the Younger, Ep. 10.96.1–5; Josephus, Ant. 18.64; Ignatius, Rom. 3.2. On the authenticity of this designation see G. Lüdemann, Early Christianity According to the Traditions in Acts. A Commentary (London: SCM, 1989), pp. 138–39. 37 Cf. Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul, pp. 13, 23–26, 56; Riesner, Paul’s Early Period, p. 109. 34

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This view probably emanated from several factors. First, proselytism without circumcision does have precedents in the Diaspora even if it was a minority position.38 Second, prophetic hopes for the eschatological pilgrimage of the nations (e.g., Isa. 2.2–4; Zech. 8.23; Mic. 4.1–4) do not make proselytism a precondition for salvation.39 Third, the willingness of the Hellenists to preach to Gentiles or to receive enquirers into Christian gatherings are an emulation of Jesus’ openness towards non-Jews who, on occasion, were supplicants of his healing and exorcism ministry (Mk 5.1–20; 7.24–30; 8.1–10; Lk. 7.1–10/Mt. 8.5–12).40 Thus, Hellenists accepted Gentiles as Gentiles without making them enter the church via circumcision. It understandable then that Paul’s pre-conversion ]K ORM (‘zeal’) in persecuting the church (Phil. 3.6; Gal. 1.14; 1 Cor. 15.9 and Acts 8.3; 9.1–2) was aimed principally against Hellenistic Christians who had vitiated the pillars of Judaism or the boundaries marking off Jews from Gentiles. Paul’s own use of the word ‘zeal’ in his biographical sections resembles Jewish tradition where the word is used to denote a willingness to use violence against fellow-Jews in order to protect the sanctity of the boundaries separating Jews from Gentiles, especially in the case of Phinehas (Num. 25.11) and Mattathias (1 Macc. 2.24–27). The offence of the Hellenists was that to include Gentiles as equal participants in a Jewish community was to lower the currency of Israel’s election, it denied the efficacy of Israel’s covenant, and annulled Jewish superiority over pagans. In any event, the Hellenists were the ‘needle’s eye’ through which the Christian message found a mouthpiece into the Greco-Roman world.41 The Jewish Christian Hellenists were among the first to enjoy open table-fellowship with Jews and non-Jews (Gal. 2.11–14) and the first to launch a mission into the wider Mediterranean (Acts 13.1–3). Another significant feature of the Hellenists is that they constitute the link between the Jerusalem church and Paul. Sometime around 31–33 CE 38 Philo, Quaest. in Exod. 2.2; Josephus, Ant. 20.41; b. Yeb. 46a. Cf. N. J. McEleney, ‘Conversion, Circumcision and the Law’, NTS 20 (1974), pp. 319–41, esp. 328; P. Borgen, ‘The Early Church and the Hellenistic Synagogue’, ST 37 (1983), pp. 55–78, esp. 67; J. J. Collins, ‘A Symbol of Otherness: Circumcision and Salvation in the First Century’, in J. Neusner and E. S. Frerichs (eds.), To See Ourselves as Others See Us. Christians, Jews, Others in Late Antiquity (Chico: Scholars, 1985), pp. 163–86, esp. 174, 178–79. 39 T. L. Donaldson, ‘Proselytes or “Righteous Gentiles”? The Status of Gentiles in Eschatological Pilgrimage Patterns of Thought’, JSP 4 (1990), pp. 3–27; P. Fredriksen, ‘Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles, and Apocalyptic Hope: Another Look at Galatians 1 and 2’, JTS 42 (1991), pp. 544–48. 40 Cf. Wedderburn, First Christians, pp. 50–51; Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul, pp. 57–58. 41 Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul, pp. 26–27, 53–54.

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Paul experienced his Damascus road Christophany which resulted in him becoming the apostle to the Gentiles. Scholars debate whether to label this event a ‘call’ or ‘conversion’ – more likely it was both.42 The extent to which Paul’s Christological, missiological, nomological, soteriological, and doxological beliefs can be traced back to this event is likewise controversial.43 It is very probable that Paul’s call to go to the Gentiles was in some way (however it subsequently developed in this thinking) embedded in his Damascus road experience given his statement in Gal. 1.15–16, ‘in order that I might preach him among the Gentiles’ (cf. Acts 22.15; 26.17– 18).44 This call is formulated in language indicative of the Old Testament prophets (e.g., Isa. 42.1–7; 49.1–7; Jer. 1.5) since it parallels the sudden prophetic call and the scope of Paul’s service is to be a ‘light to the nations’. Paul the convert spent a period of ministry in Damascus and Arabia/Nabatea (Gal. 1.17; 2 Cor. 11.32; Acts 9.19b–25) probably because the Arabians were thought of as ethnic cousins to the Jews much like the Samaritans (ca. 33–37 CE).45 After an initial visit to Jerusalem (ca. 37 CE) to 42

Cf. K. Stendahl, Paul Among Jews and Gentiles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976), pp. 7–25; A. F. Segal, Paul the Convert. The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), pp. 5–7; J. M. Everts, ‘Conversion and Call of Paul’, in G. F. Hawthorne, R. P. Martin and D. G. Reid (eds.), Dictionary of Paul and his Letters (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1993), pp. 153–63, esp. 161; P. T. O’Brien, ‘Was Paul Converted?’ in D. A. Carson, M. A. Seifrid and P. T. O’Brien (eds.), Justification and Variegated Nomism. Volume 2 . The Paradoxes of Paul (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2004), pp. 361–71. 43 Cf. B. Corley, ‘Interpreting Paul’s Conversion – Then and Now’, in R. N. Longenecker (ed.), The Road from Damascus. The Impact of Paul’s Conversion on His Life, Thought, and Ministry (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), pp. 1–17; L. W. Hurtado, ‘Convert, Apostate or Apostle to the Nations: The “Conversion” of Paul in Recent Scholarship’, SR 22 (1992–1993), pp. 273–84. 44 Hahn, Mission, pp. 97–98; E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), p. 152; Seyoon Kim, Paul and the New Perspective. Second Thoughts on the Origin of Paul’s Gospel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), pp. 101– 04; J. D. G. Dunn, ‘“A Light to the Gentiles”: The Significance of the Damascus Road Christophany for Paul’, in L. D. Hurst and N. T. Wright (eds.), The Glory of Christ in the New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), pp. 241–66; idem, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), p. 178; P. T. O’Brien, Gospel and Mission in the Writings of Paul. An Exegetical and Theological Analysis (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1995), pp. 22–25; more cautious is Riesner, Paul’s Early Period, pp. 235–37. This is to be contrasted with others who think that the Gentile mission was a later development in Paul’s thinking, e.g., T. L. Donaldson, Paul and the Gentiles. Remapping the Apostle’s Convictional World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997), pp. 293–307; F. Watson, Paul, Judaism and the Gentiles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 28–38. 45 Cf. J. Murphy-O’Connor, Paul. A Critical Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), pp. 81–82.

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get acquainted with the Jerusalem Christians (Gal. 1.18–20; Acts 9.26–29), Paul then undertook an extended period of ministry in Syria and Cilicia/Tarsus (Gal. 1.21–24; Acts 9.30) which is most likely the time (ca. 41– 42 CE) that Barnabas brought him to Antioch (Acts 11.22–26). From Antioch, Paul launched his missionary activities into the eastern Mediterranean and his mature description of this mission was that it had extended ‘from Jerusalem all the way in a circle to Illyricum’ (Rom. 15.19) and would hopefully soon go as far as Spain (Rom. 15.24). Riesner speculates that Paul’s geographic breadth was partly shaped by his reading of Isa. 66.18– 21.46 Paul probably used synagogues (Acts 9.20–25, 28–30; 13.5, 14–15; 14.1–7; 18.4–7; cf. Rom. 1.16; 1 Cor. 9.20; 2 Cor. 11.24) or his tentmaking business (Acts 18.3) as avenues of contact with non-Jews. As such, Paul was an apostle not only to the Gentiles, but among the Gentiles.47 The demarcation between Diaspora Jews and Gentiles was perhaps not so clear cut, especially when defining the HTQK politically or geographically.48 Rom. 1.5 could be translated: ‘Through him and for his name’s sake, we received grace and apostleship to call people from among all the Gentiles (HQSD VLQWRL MHTQHVLQ) to the obedience that comes from faith.’ In Acts there are references to the ‘devout Jews from every nation’ (LRXGDL RL DQGUHM HX ODEHL M D SR? SDQWR?M HTQRXM) and the ‘Jews living among the Gentiles’ (WRX?MNDWD?WD?HTQKSD QWDMLRXGDLRXM).49 Paul never presents a manifesto for mission, but the purpose of his apostolic call can be discerned in several of his passing remarks.50 In Romans this is spelled out as bringing Gentiles into the ‘obedience of faith’ (Rom. 1.5; 16.26) and making them ‘an offering acceptable to God’ (Rom. 15.16). Salvation for Gentiles includes escape from God’s wrath (1 Thess. 1.10; 5.9; Rom. 5.9), the forgiveness of sins, justification, redemption, and reconciliation (Romans 3–5; 2 Cor. 5.19–21; Gal. 2.15–21). The Gentiles also enter into the Abrahamic family (Romans 4; Galatians 3–4) and join the commonwealth Israel (Rom. 11.26; Gal. 6.16; Phil. 3.3; Eph. 2.19– 3.6). This is achieved through the proclamation of the gospel by Paul, a gospel which centres on the messianic identity and Lordship of Jesus as well as the saving effects of his death and resurrection (Rom. 1.1–4; 1 Cor. 46

Riesner, Paul’s Early Period, pp. 245–53. On Paul as missionary to the Jewish Diaspora, see R. Stark, Cities of God (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2006), pp. 129–39. 48 R. Strelan, Paul, Artemis, and the Jews in Ephesus (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), pp. 303–06. 49 Acts 2.5; 21.21; cf. Acts 9.15. Concurrently in Acts, the Diaspora Jews and their Gentile neighbours are clearly distinguished (Acts 13.46; 14.2, 5; 18.6; 26.23; cf. Gal. 2.7–16). 50 1 Cor. 1.17; 9.19–23; 2 Cor. 5.11, 18–21; Rom. 1.5, 15.15–20; 16.26; Col. 1.28–29; Eph. 3.7–11; 6.19–20. 47

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15.1–8; cf. 2 Tim. 2.8). Paul was also determined to preach the gospel where no apostle had gone before and so not build on anyone else’s foundation (Rom. 15.20; 2 Cor. 10.15–18). He was motivated no doubt by a universal concern to save as many as possible (1 Cor. 9.19–23), but also so that he would not come into conflict with other apostles/missionaries. It appears that there was a Jewish mission underway in the Diaspora that competed with Paul for converts (Phil. 1.15–18) and at times formed a galvanized block of opposition against him. Paul experienced opposition in Antioch from ‘false brothers’ (Gal. 2.4), ‘those of the circumcision’ and ‘certain men from James’ (Gal. 2.11–12, cf. Acts 15.1), the ‘agitators’ and ‘trouble-makers’ in Galatia (Gal. 5.10, 12), the ‘super-apostles’ in Corinth (2 Cor. 11.5; 12.11), the ‘dogs’ and ‘mutilators’ mentioned in Philippians (Phil. 3.2), and the persons who ‘cause divisions’ that Paul warns the Romans to be wary of (Rom. 16.17–18).51 Since F. C. Baur (and more recently with C. K. Barrett, M. Goulder, J. Jervell, and J. Painter)52 the existence of a counter-Pauline mission has been posited to account for this opposition. This theory readily explains the diversity in the early Christian mission as there were groups of Christians who maintained that the arrival of the Messiah had not eroded the architecture of the Mosaic covenant. The dispensations of Moses and Messiah ran parallel. Consequently, a Gentile must become a Jew in order to become a Christian.53 The single greatest fault of the hypothesis that there were two parallel missions in the early church, one law free (associated with Paul) and one law observant (associated with Peter), is that it manages to simultaneously over-emphasize and under-emphasize elements of diversity in the early Christian missions. Within the mission to the Jews and the mission to the Gentiles there were sub-groupings and debates about how best to go about these missions. The disputes between Paul and Barnabas (Gentile mission) and between Peter and James (Jewish mission) are indicative of that division. It is also apparent that other Jewish Hellenistic Christian missionaries were active concurrently and cooperatively with Paul, but independently of

51

Cf. S. E. Porter (ed.), Paul and His Opponents (Leiden: Brill, 2005). C. K. Barrett, ‘How Should History Be Written?’, in B. Witherington (ed.), History, Literature and Society in the Book of Acts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 33–57; M. Goulder, A Tale of Two Missions (London: SCM, 1994); idem, Paul and the Competing Mission in Corinth (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2001); J. Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); J. Painter, Just James. The Brother of Jesus in History and Tradition (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), pp. 73–78. 53 Cf. W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism. Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology (London: SPCK, 1955), p. 67; S. A. Cummins, Paul and the Crucified Christ in Antioch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 158. 52

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Paul’s own mission.54 It is no wonder then that there were a constellation of views pertaining to Torah in various Christian groups in the first century.55 At the same time there was some degree of cross-fertilization between the two missions as Barnabas belonged to both the Jerusalem church and also to the Hellenistic Christian mission to the Gentiles.56 Despite the scholarly penchant for divisions, diversity, and rival factions in early Christianity we are also given a picture of a movement in the New Testament that was in some respects relatively homogenous. P. Trebilco has recently argued for an acute consciousness by Christians of being a worldwide movement that saw itself connected to various groups, both Jewish and Gentile.57 Paul’s collection for the saints in Jerusalem was an olive branch trying to bring Gentile and Jewish Christians together (Rom. 15.25–31). In 1 Cor 15.11, Paul assumes that the Corinthians could have heard the same Gospel from Peter or James and in Gal 1.6–9; 2.1–10 the different ‘gospel’ diverges from the one that he and the Jerusalem pillars agreed on.58 Hill is right to say: ‘Paul assumed that the Jerusalem Christians were Christians, that there was a unity and a consistency to the gospel both they and he preached (Rom. 15.27; Gal. 2.7–10).’59 According to E. E. Ellis, the apostolic missions of James, Paul, Peter and John worked in a cooperative enterprise to ‘promote the messianic person and teaching of Jesus’.60 That means that we are dealing with more than two missions and 54 Barnabas (Acts 15.35–39), Priscilla and Aquilla (Acts 18.2–3, 18, 24–26; Rom. 16.3; 1 Cor. 16.19), Apollos (Acts 18.24–26; 19.1; 1 Cor. 16.12); and the list of names in Romans 16 might also include Jewish Hellenistic Christian missionaries. 55 P. Stuhlmacher, Reconciliation, Law and Righteousness (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), pp. 110–33; R. Brown and J. P. Meier, Antioch and Rome (New York & Ramsey: Paulist, 1983), pp. 1–9. 56 Hahn, Mission, p. 81. 57 P. Trebilco, ‘“Global” and “Local” in the New Testament and in Early Christianity’, Inaugural Professorial Lecture, University of Auckland, 21 September 2006. Cf. also B. D. Ehrman, Lost Christianities. The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 179–80: ‘The proto-orthodox were in constant communication with one another, determined to establish theirs as a worldwide communion ... The proto-orthodox were interested not only in what happened locally in their own communities but also in what was happening in other like-minded communities’. 58 M. Hengel, ‘The Stance of the Apostle Paul Toward the Law in the Unknown Years Between Damascus and Antioch’, in D. A. Carson, P. T. O’Brien and M. A. Seifrid (eds.), Justification and Variegated Nomism. Volume 2. The Paradoxes of Paul (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2004), pp. 75–103, esp. 95–96; J. Peterson, ‘The Extent of Christian Theological Diversity: Pauline Evidence’, ResQ 47 (2005), pp. 1–14. 59 Hill, Hellenists and Hebrews, p. 174. 60 E. E. Ellis, The Making of the New Testament Documents (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 33, 404–05.

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those missions often co-existed, co-operated, clashed, and even coalesced in hybrid form. The gospels are another potential source of information about the early Christian mission. Ellis posits a relationship between each of the Gospels and a particular mission (i.e., Petrine – Mark; Jacobean – Matthew; Johannine – John; and Pauline – Luke).61 We should add the caveat that we cannot be certain of the provenance and audience of the gospels, but it is likely that they were written for both immediate audiences and also for broader circulation. In the course of wider circulation it is quite probable that they functioned (perhaps intentionally) as Missionsshriften. Although the Gentile mission is sometimes regarded as a rather late and obscure development62 it emerged quite rapidly and in a variety of forms. By 70 CE there was a chain of small Christian communities, comprising of Jewish and Gentile adherents, spread across Syria-Cilicia, Cyprus, Laodicea, Galatia, Asia, Mysia, Macedonia, Achaia, Cappadocia, PontusBithynia, Dalmatia, Crete, Damascus and perhaps Egypt.63 In the Didache (ca. 70–110 CE) the gathering of believers to share a eucharistic meal is reckoned to fulfil the promises of Isa. 49.6 and Mal. 1.11 (Did. 9.4; 14.3). In the proto-orthodox Church of the second and third centuries the expansion of Christianity was regarded as part of the very gospel message itself.64 This extended sketch of the early Christian mission has been necessary to set up an entity for contrast and comparison with the historical Jesus to which we now turn.

3. The Historical Jesus and the Gentiles65 Although Gentiles did not feature largely in Jesus’ teaching and ministry, they do appear at particular junctions of the Jesus tradition.66 First, Jesus

61

Ellis, New Testament Documents, p. 33, 251–52. My thanks to Mr. Celucien Joseph of Emory University for bringing these citations to my attention. 62 J. Klausner, Jesus of Nazareth. His Life, Times, and Teachings (London: Allen & Unwin, 1929), p. 367; Wilson, Gentile Mission in Luke-Acts, pp. 27–28. 63 E. J. Schnabel, ‘Mission, Early Non-Pauline’, in R. P. Martin and P. H. Davids (eds.), Dictionary of the Later New Testament and Its Developments (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1997), pp. 752–75, esp. 757. 64 Aristides, Apol. 2 (Syriac); Justin, 1 Apol. 1.39; Tertullian, Apol. chr. 21; Hippolytus, Dem. Chr. 61; Origen, Cels. 3.28; Mart. Asc. Isa. 3.13–21. 65 For a survey of scholarship see M. F. Bird, ‘Jesus and the Gentiles since Jeremias: Problems and Prospects’, CBR 4 (2005), pp. 83–108.

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was thought to have made several negative remarks about pagan ethics and religion (Mk 7.27; 10.41–45; Mt. 6.7; 7.6; 18.17; Lk. 12.30–31/Mt. 6.32– 33). Second, Jesus was remembered for contrasting Gentiles of Israel’s sacred history with the present faithlessness of Israel in response to him. In one unit (Lk 11.29–32/Mt. 12.38–42), Jesus conceives of Gentiles as, at least hypothetically, participating in a future kingdom over and against his recalcitrant audience who have not responded positively to his message. The memory of Jesus’ woes oracles against Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum (Lk. 10.12/Mt. 10.15 and Lk. 10.13–15/Mt. 11.20–24), provocatively proposes that the notorious Gentile cities of Sodom, Gomorrah, Tyre, and Sidon will fair better in the final assize than an unrepentant Israel. The sermon at Nazareth is followed by Jesus’ reference to the ministries of Elijah to the widow of Zarephath and Elisha to Naaman the Syrian (Lk. 4.25–27). The juxtaposition of Isaiah 61 and the Elijah-Elisha narratives represent a form of ‘prophetic criticism’ that seeks to redefine the boundaries of Israel’s election, emphasizes that present opportunities of salvation are going unfulfilled for Israel, and comprises a parabolic defence of Jesus’ willingness to minister to those outside the covenant boundaries because of the new eschatological situation created by the dawning of the kingdom. Third, several parables in the Jesus tradition arguably make a reference to the salvation of the Gentiles. The parable of the mustard seed (Mk 4.30– 32; Lk. 13.18–19/Mt. 13.31–32; Gospel of Thomas 20) compares the growth of the kingdom to a sprouting tree where the birds of heaven nest in its branches. In Jewish tradition, ‘birds’ are often a symbol for Gentiles (Ezek. 17.22–24; 31.6; 1 En. 90.30; 4 Ezra 5.26). The imagery implies, according to N. T. Wright that: ‘The ministry of Jesus, which does not look like the expected coming kingdom, is in fact its strange beginning ... when Israel becomes what her God intends her to become – others presumably Gentiles, will come to share in her blessing.’67 The inter-textual echoes suggest that when Israel was restored (became a great tree), Gentiles (like birds) would participate in the blessings of its arrival. In the parable of the great banquet (Lk. 14.15–24/Mt. 22.1–13/Gospel of Thomas 64) the invitees of the banquet will include those once regarded as being beyond the outer markers of the covenant. The banquet parable constitutes a parabolic defence of Jesus’ table fellowship with sinners and implies that the mission of inviting outsiders to the banquet must continue in the future.

66

See also M. F. Bird, Jesus and the Origins of the Gentile Mission (Edinburgh: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2007); idem, ‘Gentiles’, in C. A. Evans (ed.), Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 213–16. 67 N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (London: SPCK, 1996), p. 241.

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Fourth, the logion in Lk. 13.28–30/Mt. 8.11–12 (‘many will come from the east and the west and will recline with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven’) is the primary text used for inferring the historical Jesus’ view of the future of the Gentiles.68 Scholars frequently privilege the Matthean version which places the logion as the climax of Jesus’ encounter with the centurion at Capernaum (Mt. 8.5–13). However, the Lukan version occurs in a non-Gentile context in Lk. 13.22–30 and there is no substantial proof that the ‘many/they’ are Gentiles. Consequently several scholars argue that the imagery correlates more properly to traditions in Jewish literature hoping for the return of the Diaspora to Israel (Ps. 107.2– 3; Isa. 43.5–6; Zech. 8.7–8; Bar. 4.36–37; 5.5; 1 En. 57.1; Pss. Sol. 11.1– 3). Even so, the motifs of Israel’s regathering and the eschatological pilgrimage of the Gentiles are sometimes combined where the Gentiles converge on Jerusalem on the back of the regathered Israel or else the return of the exiles is itself contingent upon the repentance and worship of the Gentiles (Jer. 3.17–18; Isa. 66.20–21; Zech. 8.7–8, 20–23; T. Benj. 9.2; 1 En. 90.33; Pss. Sol. 17.26, 31; Tob. 13.5, 11; 14.5–7). The presence of Abraham at the banquet may also imply diverse ethnic groupings that constitute the ‘many’ who participate in the banquet since Abraham was regarded as the link between Israel and the Gentiles (Genesis 15–21; Rom. 4.1–25; Gal. 3.6–29; Josephus, Ant. 1.161–67; T. Benj. 10.5–6; b. Hag. 3a; Gen. R. 14.6). The logion is a dire warning to Jesus’ audience about exclusion from the kingdom, but at another level it is description of what is already happening in his ministry. In the call of the twelve disciples, in Jesus’ proclamation to the poor and lame, in his healing and exorcism of the afflicted, the kingdom is coming and restoration is budding, and so many already are coming from near and far (Jews and non-Jews) and experiencing the saving power of the kingdom. Fifth, the Temple episode (Mk 11.15–17), assuming its authenticity, represents a symbolic act of judgment against the institution. One of the reasons for the prophetic action was to attack the role of the Temple in promoting an ethos of nationalism and the limitation placed on Gentile participation in cultus. Instead of being a magnet to the nations the Temple had become a talisman thought to guarantee victory over Rome. The juxtaposition of Isa. 56.7 and Jer. 7.11 imply that the current Temple has failed to realize its universal role in drawing the nations to worship God (cf. 1 Kgs 8.41–43) and it had degenerated into an ‘cave’ of zealous nationalism.69 C. Evans notes: ‘If this interpretation is correct, then we may have 68

Cf. M. F. Bird, ‘Who Comes from the East and the West? The Historical Jesus and Matt 8.11–12/Luke 13.28–29’, NTS 52 (2006), pp. 441–57. 69 Cf. M. F. Bird, ‘Jesus and the Revolutionaries: Did Jesus Call Israel to Repent of Nationalistic Ambitions?’ Colloq 38 (2006), pp. 127–39.

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here an important piece of evidence that suggests that Jesus’ messianic mission included the Gentiles and that part of his criticism of the Temple establishment was in response to its failure to maintain a proper witness for the Lord.’70 Sixth, there are several reported encounters between Jesus and Gentile figures: the demoniac in the Decapolis (Mk 5.1–20; Mt. 8.28–34; Lk. 8.26–39), the deaf and mute man (Mk 7.31–37; Mt. 15.29–31), the feeding miracle on the Gentile side of the Sea of Galilee (Mk 8.1–10; Mt. 15.32– 39), the Syrophoenician/Canaanite woman in Tyre (Mk 7.24–30; Mt. 15.21–28), the centurion in Capernaum (Lk. 7.1–10/Mt. 8.5–13 = Jn 4.46– 54?), and the request of Greeks to meet Jesus (Jn 12.20–23). Although these narratives are often regarded as projections of the mission theology of the early church onto Jesus, this seems unlikely because: (1) Jesus never seeks out Gentiles and the Gentile characters usually take the initiative in approaching him. (2) None of the Gentiles that Jesus meets becomes a disciple (in some cases they are refused admittance to discipleship, e.g., Mk 5.19). (3) In most cases, the healed person remains at a distance from Jesus. (4) Several of the stories contain features that were potentially embarrassing such as Jesus’ stern reply to the Syrophoenician woman (Mk 7.27), Jesus’ initial reluctance to go to the house of the Centurion (Mt. 8.7), and he does not grant the request of the Greeks to meet him (Jn 12.20–23). (5) None of these narratives deals with the question of circumcision, lawobservance for Gentiles, or disputes over Jew-Gentile fellowship. This confirms the words of Schnabel that ‘this nexus between Jesus and mission among the Gentiles cannot simply be ascribed to the aetiological interests of the gospel writers’.71 Although these encounters are exceptional and ad hoc they demonstrate that the saving power of the kingdom can already be extended to Gentiles prior to the eschatological consummation. The overall impression derived from the references to Gentiles in the Jesus tradition is that Jesus was open to receiving Gentiles when they exhibited faith in Israel’s God and regarded him as a prophet of God. Jesus affirmed the basic contours of Jewish restoration eschatology whereby a restored Israel would have a positive impact upon the salvation of the Gentiles.72 70 C. A. Evans, ‘From “House of Prayer” to “Cave of Robbers”: Jesus’ Prophetic Criticism of the Temple Establishment’, in C A. Evans and S. Talmon (eds.), The Quest for Context and Meaning (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 417–42, esp. 440. 71 E. J. Schnabel, ‘Jesus and the Beginnings of the Mission to the Gentiles’, in J. B. Green and M. Turner (eds.), Jesus of Nazareth, Lord and Christ (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), pp. 37–58, esp. 47. 72 Cf. Bird, Origins of the Gentile Mission, pp. 125–72; Schnabel, Early Christian Mission, I, pp. 327–82; B. Pitre, Jesus, the Tribulation and the End of the Exile (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), pp. 253–377.

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4. Continuities and Discontinuities on Mission Any attempt to posit continuity and discontinuity between Jesus and the early church on the subject of Gentiles or a Gentile mission must face the questions: Which mission and which group within that mission are we talking about? The answer will depend upon whether we are referring to the mission of Jewish Christian Hellenists, Paul (early or late?), Peter, James, or the Christian proselytizers. Furthermore, what one believes of these groups will likewise impact the conclusion. For instance, if we were to suppose that the early Jerusalem church sustained intense eschatological expectations which had no concern for Gentiles in their eschatological forecast then it could be possible to make that a point of continuity with Jesus who is similarly understood to be an apocalyptic seer waiting for the triumph of Israel over the pagan world. Alternatively, if one were to think of Jesus as offering a more inclusive brand of Judaism that broke with ethnic, economic, and patriarchal norms, then such a Jesus might stand in closer proximity to the religion of Stephen and the Hellenists who (purportedly) chose compassion over purity. That being said, we can still propose several patterns of continuity and discontinuity between Jesus and the early church concerning the salvation of the Gentiles by making some generalized comments as a whole. In reference to discontinuity, a close reading of the Pauline corpus and Acts shows that the Gentile mission did not spring immediately from Jesus’ teaching, but emerged out of the experience of the out-pouring of the Holy Spirit and from reading the Septuagint in light of a belief that the eschatological age had burst upon the world in Jesus Christ’s resurrection.73 There is no defence of the Gentile mission in first-century Christianity that invokes pre-Easter dominical sayings of Jesus, e.g., ‘As the Lord Jesus commanded us...’ The commission of Mt. 28.19–20 is an utterance of the risen Christ and speaks to a post-Easter situation, and the same is true of Lk. 24.47 and Acts 1.8. The social space of Galilee was also different to that of the Jewish Diaspora. Galilee was still in its infancy of Hellenization and it was not swarming with Gentiles.74 The historical Jesus did not periodize history in the same way that his followers did. The evangelistic vision that the gospel is for the Jew first 73

Caird, Apostolic Age, pp. 64–66. M. A. Chancey, The Myth of Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); J. L. Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus (Harrisburg: Trinity Press, 2000), p. 65: ‘It is clear that most on the inhabitants of Galilee, including the cities of Sepphoris and Tiberias, were Jews. Although Sepphoris and Tiberias had Hellenistic leanings and influenced Galilee in cultural ways, these cities and their impact should not be treated solely in terms of Hellenistic culture.’ 74

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and then the Gentile (Rom. 1.16) was not elaborated by Jesus who focused on the lost sheep of the house of Israel (Mt. 10.5b; 15.24). Mark’s ‘first’ in 7.27 (‘let the children first be fed’) and 13.10 (‘the gospel must be preached first to the nations’) is redactional.75 Jesus did not predict a forthcoming Gentile mission as a sequel to a failed Jewish mission. The mission to Israel was not a salvation-historical bottleneck that had to be traversed, before the real mission to the Gentiles could get underway. Jesus’ mission to Israel cannot be reduced to a matter of form as if Jesus was politely giving Israel the first bite of the salvation-historical pie.76 More likely, Jesus viewed Israel as simultaneously the object of salvation and the agent that would extend salvation to the ends of the earth in fulfilment of the promises in Israel’s sacred literature. Unlike the Lukan Paul in Acts 13.46; 18.6 and 28.25–28, there is no abandoning of the mission to Israel. The missiological axiom of ‘Jew then Gentile’ is made only in retrospect as it describes how the gospel traversed ethnographic boundaries in divine providence and, therefore, must have been predetermined in the divine economy; but the program as a whole cannot be read back into Jesus’ aims. Balancing this out we should be prepared to admit that continuity exists on several plains. Indeed, the Gentile missions of the early church are part of the effective history of Jesus. Jesus shares with the early church a belief in the missional imperatives created by monotheism and election. The prerequisite of mission is monotheism, if there is one God then he is God of all.77 God sends his rain on the righteous and the unrighteous (Mt. 5.45) and the same God is not the God of the Jews only (Rom. 3.29–30). The election of Israel also generates a host of corollaries. The first is that Israel was called to be separate from the surrounding nations. Election necessitated the avoidance of idolatry, intermarriage with foreigners, and the maintenance of national purity. Israel had to be religiously, socially, and ethically insulated from the surrounding nations so as to protract her capacity to serve God. An additional implication of Israel’s election was that she was called to be God’s agent to rescue all of creation. In terms of Israel’s precise role vis-à-vis the nations, J. Wellhausen quirked: ‘There is no God but Yahweh, and Israel is his prophet.’78 The prime example of this comes from the book of Exodus: ‘Although the whole earth is mine, you 75

On the authenticity of Mk 13.10 see Pitre, Jesus, pp. 264–92. Cf. E. P. Sanders, ‘Jesus and the Kingdom: The Restoration of Israel and the New People of God’, in E. P. Sanders (ed.), Jesus, the Gospels, and the Church (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1987), pp. 227–32. 77 R. Stark, One True God. Historical Consequences of Monotheism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). 78 Cited in R. Martin-Achard, A Light to the Nations. A Study of the Old Testament Concept of Israel’s Mission to the World (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1962), p. 9. 76

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shall be for me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation’ (Exod. 19.5–6).79 Similarly, Isa. 42.6 and 49.6 speak of the Servant (i.e., Israel) as a ‘light to the nations’. Freyne surmises from these Isaiah passages: ‘Thus Israel’s fate and that of the nations are intimately connected from the outset, and the image of “light” plays an important role throughout the book [of Isaiah] as expressive of Yahweh’s presence in the world, since as the creator God, Yahweh is the source of light for all (42.16; 45.7; 51.4; 60.3).’80 Mt. 5.13–16 invokes several images used by Jesus for his followers to aspire to including a call to be ‘the light of the world’. Light arguably has a direct connection with Isa. 42.6 and 49.6.81 Manson and Jeremias both see in this saying an echo of the Isaiah ‘light’ passages and interpret the logion in the context of God’s light reaching the nations.82 By casting the exhortation in Isaianic terms, Jesus was suggesting that his disciples would have an impact that would reach out beyond the borders of Israel. Florian Wilk detects a similar thought in Matthew’s Gospel (a view that I think is consistent with or generated from Jesus) where the disciples are ‘Israels Stellvertreter unter den Völkern, sofern sie die von Israel nicht ausgefüllte Rolle übernehmen, als Gemeinschaft der Kinder Abrahams das “Licht für die Völker” zu sein und Menschen aus den Völkern in jene Gemeinschaft zu integrieren’.83 It is hardly surprising then that early Christianity possessed an acute universal perspective that shone through the prism of the election of Israel. This is evident in how passages like Isa. 42.6; 49.6 and Exod. 19.6 were applied in primitive Christian exegesis. The ‘light’ metaphor of Isaiah appears in a steady stream of Christian tradition from Paul to Luke to John to the Apostolic Fathers to Justin Martyr and predicates the illuminating function of both Jesus and Christians.84 By the end of the first century, Exod. 19.6 was used to designate the role of Christians in the world.85 The result is that many of the first Christians understood Jesus and themselves as enacting and fulfilling the universal and eschatological purposes that

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Cf. Vit. Mos. 1.149; Spec. Leg. 1.97. S. Freyne, Jesus, a Jewish Galilean. A New Reading of the Jesus-Story (London: Continuum, 2005), p. 98. 81 Cf. Evans, ‘House’, p. 422. 82 T. W. Manson, The Sayings of Jesus (London: SCM, 1949), pp. 92–93; Jeremias, Jesus’ Promise, pp. 66–67. 83 F. Wilk, Jesus und die Völker in der Sicht der Synoptiker (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 2002), p. 132; cf. Schnabel, Early Christian Mission I, p. 314. 84 Lk. 2.32; Acts 13.47; 26.22–23; Jn 8.12; 9.5; Barn. 14.7–9; Justin, Dial. 121–22. 85 1 Pet. 2.9; Rev. 1.6; 5.10; 20.6. 80

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God had intended for Israel – a belief that was probably generated from Jesus himself.86 We can add that Jesus’ call to discipleship was a call to mission as several complexes make clear.87 J. Riches comments that the invitation to discipleship entailed participation in a ‘missionary eschatological community’. 88 The mission discourses known to Mark and Q are of further significance.89 The existence of a ‘Q’ version may attest a group of itinerant charismatics in Galilee-Syria who continued proclaiming the kingdom to Israel and the necessity of turning to God. Paul similarly knows of synoptic-like material similar to the mission discourse in 1 Cor. 9.1–27. Didache also attests the existence of itinerant prophets and apostles who arguably worked in Syria in similar style to Jesus (Did. 11.3–4). Hence, Jesus’ itinerant mission was probably imitated by groups known to Q, Paul, and the Didache, and applied in a variety of settings such as Galilee-Syria (Q), the eastern Mediterranean (Paul, Mark), and Syria/Egypt (Didache). The settings of Paul and the Didache evidently applied the mission discourses of the Jesus tradition to their own Gentile settings. This is evidence that the mission discourses did in some way influence the character and conduct of the Gentile mission. The itinerant nature of the mission of Jesus and his disciples means that: ‘Christianity’s missionary impulse goes back to the pre-Easter period.’90 The Pauline mission with its preoccupation with Gentiles never forfeited the priority and advantages of the Jewish people (Rom. 1.16; 2.9–10; 15.8–9). Paul himself probably engaged in a period of ministry to the Jews either prior to or concurrent with his apostolate to the Gentiles (cf. 1 Cor. 9.20; 2 Cor. 11.24; Gal. 1.17; Acts 9.19b–23, 28–29). The burden of Romans 9–11 is to indicate that Israel’s failure is terrible, but temporary; and at any there is already a ‘remnant’ of Jewish believers who have accepted the Messiah. The ingathering of Gentiles does not indicate God’s rejection of Israel, but is the means of provoking Israel to jealousy to accept Jesus as Messiah. For this reason is it crucial that the mission to Israel continues (Gal. 2.8–9; Rom. 10.14–15). The Pauline mission may not find enormous parallels in the Jesus tradition, but Paul’s theological architecture of covenant and creation finds a corresponding parallel in Jesus’ mission to Israel 86

M. F. Bird, ‘“A Light to the Nations” (Isa. 49.6): Inter-textuality and Mission Theology in the Early Church’, RTR 65 (2006), pp. 122–31. 87 Mk 1.17/Mt. 4.19; Mk 3.13–19; Lk. 10.2/Mt. 9.37–38; Lk. 9.60. 88 J. Riches, Jesus and the Transformation of Judaism (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1980), p. 107. 89 Mk 6.7–13, 30–31 (= Mt. 10.5–14; Lk. 9.1–6); Lk. 10.1–12/Mt. 10.1–42. 90 D. C. Allison, Resurrecting Jesus. The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its Interpreters (London: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2005), p. 32.

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and his belief that the renewal of Israel would be accompanied by the eschatological ingathering of Gentiles.91 The continuity between Jesus and the early church is not to be found in a periodizing of mission history along the lines of a Jewish mission supplanted by a Gentile mission, but rather, in the unfolding eschatological drama whereby the story of Israel’s restoration marks the beginning of God’s plan to renew all of creation. In Rom. 15.8–9, Paul writes: ‘For I tell you that Christ has become a servant of the Jews on behalf of God’s truth, to confirm the promises made to the patriarchs so that the Gentiles may glorify God for his mercy.’ The presupposition for the Gentile mission is not a Jewish rejection of the Messiah, but Jesus’ ministry to the Jewish nation resulted in the formation of a new Israel who would bring Gentiles into the Abrahamic family as God had always intended. In Acts 15.13–18, Luke presents James as citing Amos 9.11 to the effect that Gentiles appear as participants in the restoration of David’s tent and the remnant. The point is spelled out by J. Jervell: ‘Die Bekehrung der Heiden ist die Erfüllung der Verheissungen an Israel ... Dies stimmt mit dem jüdischen Gedankengang überein, nachdem die Heiden in der Endzeit sich dem wiederaufgerichteten Israel anschliessen warden.’92 Amos 9.11– 12 refers to the rebuilding of David’s booth (BEM, dynasty or Temple?) so that Israel can ‘possess’ (LS) Edom and the nations. Yet the Septuagint more perspicuously denotes a Temple (VNKQK ) where the ‘Gentiles upon whom my name is called, may earnestly seek me’. The Septuagint exchanges conquest for attraction. While it might be true that Acts 15.16–18 more readily reflects the Septuagint than the MT, that is no firm argument against the authenticity of James’ pronouncement. Richard Bauckham is correct to say that ‘the Jewish Christian exegete who created the text in Acts 15.16–18 [Amos 9.11] understood the eschatological temple, not as a literal building, but as the eschatological people of God composed of both Jews and Gentiles’.93 In sum, the discontinuities between Jesus and the Gentile missions of the early church are derived primarily from the post-Easter setting where the first Christians, sporting fresh Christological convictions, eschatological fervour, and religious experience have appropriated Jesus’ aims in a transformed context. The continuity is to be understood in light of Jesus’ 91 Cf. D. Wenham, Paul. Follower of Jesus or Founder of Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), pp. 177–81. 92 J. Jervell, ‘Das gespaltene Israel und die Heidenvolker: Zur Morivierung der Heidenmission in der Apostelgeschichte’, ST 19 (1965), pp. 68–96, esp. 80–81. 93 R. Bauckham, ‘James and the Gentiles (Acts 15.13–21)’, in B. Witherington (ed.), History, Literature and Society in the Book of Acts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 154–84, esp. 164.

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aims to restore Israel so that a restored Israel would effect the incorporation of Gentiles into Abraham’s family. In this latter sense it is fair to speak of Jesus as providing the germinal roots of the Gentile mission.

From Jesus Observing Food and Purity Laws to Some Christians Not Bothering: A Socio-Historical Explanation JAMES G. CROSSLEY

1. Introduction An alien observer of the scholarly study of Christian origins might be mistaken for thinking that Christianity happened almost spontaneously through great individuals arguing their case against a largely ignorant world. In the case of N. T. Wright we go one gigantic step further in invoking the supernatural (i.e., the resurrection) to help explain the emergence of Christianity! 1 To explain otherwise (e.g., social and economic factors), it could be argued, is to dangerously flirt with that old bogeyman ‘reductionism’, an allegation still frequent despite no-one, as far as I know, actually reducing everything to ‘social and economic factors’.2 Yet, like the story of the bogeyman, if repeated enough times presumably it will scare some people. But we could turn this story on its head: cannot explanations resorting to history of ideas and theology be labelled ‘theological reductionism’, explanations that are alienated from broader social and economic factors that have featured so prominently in mainstream historical works outside biblical studies and theology? In many ways there is nothing wrong with doing theological history. Moreover, most scholars of Christian origins either are, or were, practising 1

N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (London: SPCK, 2003), p. 718 (e.g.). 2 Compare the discussions in, e.g., J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Volume One. The Roots of the Problem and the Person (New York: Doubleday, 1991), pp. 10–11; S. C. Barton, ‘Historical Criticism and Social-Scientific Perspectives in New Testament Study’, in J. B. Green (ed.), Hearing the New Testament. Strategies for Interpretation (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), pp. 61–89; D. G. Horrell, ‘Social-Scientific Interpretation of the New Testament: Retrospect and Prospect’, in D. G. Horrell (ed.), Social-Scientific Approaches to New Testament Interpretation (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), pp. 3–27; J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 522; J. G. Crossley, Why Christianity Happened. A Sociohistorical Analysis of Christian Origins 26–50 CE (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), chapter 1.

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Christians and consequently theological history is very much part of their social context and social interests. This does not make ‘theological’ history inaccurate or wrong but given the constant rhetoric of ‘history’ in works on the historical Jesus and Christian origins (especially those of Wright), then a case for providing a historical explanation grounded in various conventional historical methodologies perhaps ought to be made. Indeed, in terms of explaining why Christianity happened, something other than simply a history of ideas is needed to explain how we get from A to B. We could ‘do a Wright’ and resort to the supernatural but this is far from satisfactory, not least because any number of alternative explanations can be given for the resurrection, suggesting that we should not be engaging in such stunningly speculative supernatural ‘jokers in the pack’ to explain how we get from A to B.3 For all the widespread rhetoric of ‘good history’ and ‘being good historians’, it should be striking that socio-economic causal explanations have been around for decades and decades in the discipline of history. 4 It might be countered that social scientific criticism of the New Testament does this but this would only be partially true. Much use of social sciences remains descriptive, used to find out what groups or this or that text really ‘meant’ in an ancient social context, most extremely in the Orientalism of B. Malina and some of those associated with the Context Group.5 There have of course been attempts at socio-economic causal explanations. There has been a little known Marxist tradition of explaining the rise of Christianity in socio-economic terms, from the days of F. Engels and K. Kautsky 3

Cf. E. H. Carr, What is History? (London: Penguin, 1987), pp. 74–75: ‘Of the relation of history to religion I shall say only the little that is necessary to make my own position clear. To be a serious astronomer is compatible with belief in a God who created and ordered the universe. But it is not compatible with a belief in a God who intervenes at will to change the course of a planet, to postpone an eclipse, or to alter the rules of the cosmic game. In the same way, it is sometimes suggested, a serious historian may believe in a God who has ordered, and given meaning to, the course of history as a whole, though he cannot believe in the Old Testament kind of God who intervenes to slaughter the Amalekites, or cheats on the calendar by extending the hours of daylight for the benefit of Joshua’s army. Nor can he invoke God as an explanation of particular historical events ... I find it hard to reconcile the integrity of history with belief in some super-historical force on which its meaning and significance depend ... history is a game played, so to speak, without a joker in the pack.’ Given that no historian outside biblical studies and theology resorts to the supernatural explanation, it is intellectually dubious that the rhetoric of ‘doing good history’ should be used in explanations such as those of Wright. Wright cannot have his cake and eat it. To use a significant analogy: his resort to the supernatural is doing Intelligent Design not science. 4 Cf. Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapter 1. 5 For further discussion see J. G. Crossley, Jesus in an Age of Terror. Scholarly Projects for a New American Century (London & Oakville: Equinox, 2008), pp. 57–142.

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through to virtually unknown and often peculiar Marxists, some from behind the Iron Curtain.6 Yet not even the approaches of Engels and Kautsky have been remotely influential, never mind the Cold War Marxists. Perhaps the most famous attempt at a socio-economic causal explanation, and one that has some echoes of the Marxist tradition, is that of J. D. Crossan.7 Crossan creatively uses a range of social historians but the reception of Crossan – and to some extent this was among Crossan’s aims – shows that it is the portrait of Jesus and the early Christians that is the problematic issue, not the socio-economic explanation of why Christianity emerged. We simply need to note that Crossan repeatedly gets associated with the Cynic-like Jesus thesis while his creative use of social sciences gets comparatively little attention.8 Perhaps the most significant sociological explanation of Christian origins in general, especially the use of social networks and conversion, has come from R. Stark. While Stark has little concern for the historical Jesus and largely concentrates on Christianity its first centuries, his models have plenty to say about the formative decades.9 Developing the insights of Stark and Crossan, this essay will attempt to offer a socio-economic causal explanation for the emergence of Christianity but with particular application to the food and purity laws. But, in analyzing continuum issues, there is an important point discussed at length by B. Mack, namely, that the very quest for the historical Jesus as a significant figure in the emergence of later Christian myth-making is misguided.10 Mack’s suggestion is important because we should not simply assume that Jesus caused everything that followed and there may well be strong discontinuity between Christian self-understanding and the activities of the historical Jesus. A similar point is made by D. Allison (and on the issue of Jesus and the Law): One should freely confess that there need be no necessary continuity between what Jesus taught about the law and what some of his followers taught about it. We cannot 6 For an overview see, e.g., P. KowaliĔski, ‘The Genesis of Christianity in the Views of Contemporary Marxist Specialists of Religion’, Anton 47 (1972), pp. 541–75. 7 J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus. The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York & Edinburgh: HarperCollins & T&T Clark, 1991); J. D. Crossan, The Birth of Christianity. Discovering What Happened in the Years Immediately after the Execution of Jesus (New York & Edinburgh: HarperCollins & T&T Clark, 1998). 8 For further discussion of Crossan’s methodology see D. L. Denton, Historiography and Hermeneutics in Jesus Studies. An Examination of the Work of John Dominic Crossan and Ben F. Meyer (London & New York: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2004). 9 R. Stark, The Rise of Christianity. A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). 10 B. Mack, The Christian Myth. Origins, Logic, and Legacy (New York & London: Continuum, 2001). See also R. Cameron and M. Miller, Redescribing Christian Origins (Atlanta: SBL, 2004).

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An extreme development of this view might be that the very concept of Jesus and Christianity in continuum is inappropriate other than the development of a movement and movements using his name. Although not quite the direction taken by Mack, and certainly not by Allison, if anything, this approach could accentuate the idea of using social and economic trends to explain the rise of the new religious movement. While the idea of there being no continuity – or discontinuity – between Jesus and earliest Christianity ought to be at least a theoretical possibility in all subjects, areas and topics in the study of the historical Jesus and earliest Christianity, it does need some nuance when discussing the issue of food and purity. What the rest of this essay will do is to elaborate upon such concerns. I will try to provide an explanation of how we get from Jesus who observed food and purity laws, and expected all Jews to do likewise, to certain Christians not bothering within fifteen years of his death. I will look at the ways in which with the historical Jesus we have the seeds of some of the major developments of food and purity laws in earliest Christianity while also looking at some significantly dissimilar social and cultural circumstances faced by the earliest Christians and leading to decisions which simply would have been alien to the historical Jesus. Whether Jesus would have ‘approved’ of such changes are tricky questions but it does seem as if at least some of the decisions Jesus made became significant when tied in with broader social trends and later Christian reactions to these broader social trends.

2. Early Church on Law and Food Laws The role of the Law in the early church brings its own problems and specific controversies. I have argued elsewhere that about ten years or so after Jesus’ death we get the first signs of people associated with the ‘Christian’ movement visibly not observing biblical laws such as food laws.12 To make matters complex, the primary evidence comes from Acts and Paul’s letters, both of which involve the potentialities of reading later issues back into earlier issues. That said, even if we take such evidence at face value it remains that there are no explicit indications of overriding biblical laws in 11

D. C. Allison, Resurrecting Jesus. The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its Interpreters (London: T&T Clark, 2005), p. 150. 12 J. G. Crossley, The Date of Mark’s Gospel. Insight from the Law in Earliest Christianity (London: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2004), chapter 5.

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particular or overriding the biblical Law in general. I now summarise arguments that I have defended in detail elsewhere. Given all the conflicts over the specifics of legal interpretation in the gospels, it is perhaps surprising to find that the conflicts in the early chapters of Acts are not said to involve legal disputes. If there were, we would never know from Acts. The earliest potential example given in Acts involves Stephen and the ‘Hellenists’ which we can approximately date to the early thirties. Stephen is charged with blasphemous words ‘against Moses and God’ (Acts 6.11) and speaking against ‘this holy place and the law’ because he allegedly said that Jesus would destroy the Temple and ‘the customs that Moses handed on’ (Acts 6.13–14). This is the kind of language associated with the interpretation and expansion of biblical law (cf. Mk 7.5; Ant. 13.297). Moreover, we should note that some Jews attributed their expansions and interpretations of Temple laws to Moses (e.g., Jubilees; 11QT; m. Pe‘ah 2.6; m. ‘Ed. 8.7; m. Yad. 4.3). It hardly follows, therefore, that Stephen according to Acts 6 is to be understood as attacking any biblical law. According to Acts, Stephen makes some claims about the Temple in his lengthy speech (Acts 7.45–50). This is often thought to contradict the very building of the Solomonic Temple but this view is not necessarily supported by Acts 7. Acts 7.47 is not necessarily a strong contrast (e.g., ‘But [GH] it was Solomon who built a house for him) because GH is weak enough to be translated ‘and’ or not translated at all. If the continuous interpretation is taken, then the building of the Temple only has to be another episode in Stephen’s history of Israel. It is worth noting in this context that Stephen is entirely positive about the ideals of biblical Israel, including, significantly, Moses and the giving of the Torah (e.g., Acts 7.20, 22, 38, 53). Needless to say, this is not the kind of commentary designed to show the Torah in a negative light. At the same time there is clearly conflict according to Acts and there are problems when Stephen says that God does not dwell in ‘houses made with hands’ (Acts 7.58). This by itself does not mean that the ideal function of the Temple is rejected and we should not forget that Stephen’s speech refers to biblical views of the Temple (Acts 7.49–50, quoting Isa. 66.1–2; cf. also 1 Kings 8; 2 Chronicles 6 and Psalm 132). So should we really suggest that the scriptural background would have been read as automatically opposed to the ideal function of the Temple? The conflict suggests that Stephen is in fact endorsing the ideal function of the Temple. The mention (Acts 7.48) of God not dwelling in a temple/house/place ‘made with hands’ ([HLURSRLK WRLM) refers to a phrase associated with idolatry in the LXX. If read from this perspective and the context outlined above, it is possible to read Stephen’s attack as an attack

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on the present Temple system, perhaps even accusing the Temple system of engaging in idolatrous practices, and consequently arguing that God does not dwell in such a place. This may well be very similar to the historical Jesus’ criticism of the Temple system.13 Importantly, the scriptural background to Acts 7 would also back this view up because a major feature in these scriptural passages dealing with God not dwelling in houses is the importance of observing the commandments (e.g., 1 Kgs 8.2/2 Chron. 6.16; Ps. 132[131].12; Isa. 66.2). Moreover, when Solomon dedicated the Temple it is quite clear that God would punish ‘this house’ and cast out the people from the land should they not observe the commandments (2 Chron. 7.19–22). It is entirely plausible that this is the kind of reasoning in Stephen’s speech, and note that Stephen’s history of Israel more or less ends at the dedication of Solomon’s Temple. Bearing in mind that Stephen endorses Moses and the giving of the Torah, it is perhaps most plausible to think of Stephen accusing his opponents of not observing the commandments and not treating the Temple as it deserves. Consequently, the Temple will be destroyed. Given the conclusion of Stephen’s speech, would it not be sheer hypocrisy for Stephen to accuse his opponents of not observing the commandments if he was in the business of overriding them himself? We might also add that for all the claims made about the Hellenists overriding commandments (especially Hengel),14 there is absolutely no evidence whatsoever for any Hellenist overriding a single commandment. Moreover, the common claim that Jesus’ death made the Law and/or Temple unnecessary for the Hellenists and others in the 30’s is also without evidence and we should recall that sacrificial/redemptive death and Law observance could go hand-in-hand (e.g., 2 Maccabees 7). If Acts is more or less accurate then we have no serious evidence for Stephen and the Hellenists overriding any aspect of the biblical Law. If Acts invented it all and has no use for reconstructing events of the 30’s, then we simply have no evidence for questions of observance/non-observance. Another related argument for the rise of non-observance in the earliest years is that Paul persecuted the first Christians out of ‘zeal for the law’ (Gal. 1.13–14; Phil. 3.6; cf. Gen. 34; Num. 25.11; 1 Kgs 19.10, 14; Sir. 45.2; 1 Macc. 2.26, 54, 58; 4 Macc. 18.12; Spec. Leg. 2.253; 1QS 9.23; m. Sanh. 9.6). Yet, once more, we simply lack the evidence to make the leap to the origins of non-observance of biblical commandments and we know that Jewish groups/individuals could react violently against other Jewish 13

See also Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapter 2. E.g., M. Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul. Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity (London: SCM Press, 1983); M. Hengel and A. M. Schwemer, Paul between Damascus and Antioch. The Unknown Years (London: SCM, 1997), pp. 88, 198, 377 n. 465. 14

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groups/individuals who do not agree with their interpretations of the Law (e.g., Ant. 13.296–98, 408–11; 1QpHab 11.2–8; 4Q171 4.8–9), including the use of the language of zeal (e.g., Spec. Leg. 2.253). And we should note in this context that Paul talks of being ‘far more zealous for the traditions of my ancestors’ (Gal. 1.14), again the language of interpretation and explanation (e.g., Mk 7.5; Ant. 13.297). The available evidence would, therefore, suggest clashing over interpretation and not the biblical commandments themselves, just as was seen in Jesus’ ministry just a couple of years earlier. Evidence from Paul’s earliest years also shows little sign of nonobservance in the 30’s. Contrary to commonly held interpretations, accounts of Paul’s conversion (Acts 9.1–19; 26.12–18; Gal. 1.15–17) say nothing of the issue of law observance in contrast to the big stress on the salvation of Gentiles. For all we know Paul may have developed his views on justification without works of the law in the months and years immediately following his conversion. But, once again, we simply have no serious evidence with which to come to such a conclusion. The first concrete evidence from Paul’s letters for Paul endorsing non-observance in someway comes in Paul’s account of the Jerusalem conference (Gal. 2.1–10), echoed in Acts 15. This already assumes that there were people already not observing the Law prior to this but it is important to note that it took until the late 40’s CE for this issue to be addressed which would suggest that it was a relatively new issue at the time and not one occurring on any significant scale in the 30’s. Moreover, the evidence from Acts would suggest a general date of around the same period (Acts 13.38–39). Significantly, the earliest specific evidence for non-observance in earliest Christianity involves food laws. Though very difficult to date precisely in Acts’ chronology (even assuming for the moment that there is a historical core), Peter’s vision concerning abandonment of food laws (Acts 10– 11.18) seems to be sometime in the 40’s. There is also concrete evidence for those observing food laws in Rome in the 50’s being a minority (Rom. 14.1–6). Prior to this, the major piece of evidence concerning food laws is Paul’s recounting of the Antioch controversy (Gal. 2.11–14). While it is increasingly common to argue that the problem at Antioch involved Gentiles not being circumcised and Gentile association with idolatry, this, I argued, is unlikely. 15 In Jewish sources the constantly recorded problem for table fellowship between Jews and Gentiles involves food laws and/or idolatry (e.g., Dan. 1.3–17; Jdt. 12.17–19; Add. Est. C, 14.17; Tob. 1.11; Joseph and Asenath 7–8; Jub. 22.16–17). If the circumstances were right then table fellowship was possible. As Egyptian king says to his Jewish hosts in the Letter of Aristeas: 15

Crossley, Date, chapter 5.

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Given these views, we can rule out idolatry being an issue at Antioch (and note it seems to arise first for Paul in 1 Corinthians 8, 10). Food, on the other hand, would make much better sense. While previously agreeing to Paul’s mission to Gentiles, those from James and Peter would have been concerned at the movement looking increasingly Gentile (which included Jewish figures such as Peter) when food banned in the Torah was being served. It is much more difficult to see how this would have been a problem if circumcision had been an issue. In the context of Galatians, the story of the Antioch controversy would be an excellent example for Paul of the dangers of imposing the Law. We can reasonably conclude that non-observance of the Law, and nonobservance of the food laws in particular, began in the early 40’s. This also implies that there was no ‘big bang’ moment when suddenly the gospel of non-observance was announced to all. This further implies that nonobservance seems to have been something that would develop over years. Of course, even when non-observance was a notable feature of earliest Christianity, there were some people who continued to observe laws and push for their validity. Moreover, some important arguments have been made in favour of the issue of law observance being a Gentile issue rather than a Jewish one among the first Christians.16 This doesn’t affect my argument too much if I am right that all ‘Christians’ (Jewish or Gentile) were Law observant in the 30’s and possibly early 40’s: we still have the problem of how we get to a number of non-observant Gentiles being a significant part of early Christianity.

3. Jesus on Food and Purity Laws Let us make this blunt: Jesus observed the biblical food laws and never advocated that Jews should do anything different. The standard general argument that Paul would not have faced the problems he faced (e.g., at Antioch) if Jesus had allowed food laws to be overridden is sound. This is also supported by the synoptic tradition. There is no criticism of Jesus overriding food laws and there would have been outcry if he had done so, not 16

P. J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law. Halakah in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles (Assen & Maastricht & Minneapolis: Van Gorcum & Fortress, 1990), pp. 221– 58; M. Bockmuehl, Jewish Law in the Gentile Churches. Halakah and the Beginning of Christian Public Ethics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), pp. 70–83.

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just from Jews in general but at least from some of his disciples. The one passage which discusses the validity of food laws, Mk 7.1–23, almost certainly, as I have argued elsewhere, originated as a hand-washing dispute. I am also not convinced that Mk 7.18–19 is a rejection of food laws as I also argued in detail.17 Not only does Jesus’ dismissal fit the dismissal of the logic of hand-washing (as we will see) but Mk 7.18–19 is far too grammatically clumsy and ambiguous to take the interpretative weight scholars place on it.18 Moreover, even if Mk 7.19 does reject food laws, in light of the arguments already mentioned, particularly those arguments which stress that the early church would not have faced problems over food if the historical Jesus declared the end of food laws and that there would be evidence of an outcry if he had done so, Mk 7.19 would not be a strong enough piece of evidence because it would have the hallmarks of a secondary addition to justify later church disputes in the light of the Gentile mission. Contrary to much of recent scholarship,19 I do not think that Jesus overrode any biblical purity law, or at least in any way that was unparalleled in 17 Crossley, Date, chapter 7; idem, Why Christianity Happened, pp. 127–32. See also D. A. J. Cohen, ‘The Gentiles of Mark’s Gospel: A Jewish Reading’ (Ph.D. Thesis, Australian National University, 2006), pp. 150–71; D. I. Brewer, ‘Review of J. G. Crossley, The Date of Mark’s Gospel’, JTS 57 (2006), pp. 647–50, esp. 649–50; S. Moyise, Evoking Scripture. Seeing the Old Testament in the New (London & New York: T&T Clark/Continuum, 2008), p. 27; M. Bockmuehl, ‘God’s Life as a Jew: Remembering the Son of God as Son of David’, in B. R. Gaventa and R. B. Hays (eds.), Seeking the Identity of Jesus. A Pilgrimage (Grand Rapids & Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2008), pp. 60–78, esp. 69–70 n. 19; R. Bauckham, ‘In Response to My Respondents: Jesus and the Eyewitnesses in Review’, JSHJ 6 (2008), pp. 225–53, esp. 233–35. 18 Cohen, ‘Gentiles’, pp. 162–71; J. G. Crossley, ‘Introduction: Identity, Judaism, and the Gospel Tradition’, in J. G. Crossley (ed.), Judaism, Jewish Identities and the Gospel Tradition (London: Equinox, 2010), chapter 1. 19 Compare, e.g., B. Witherington III, The Gospel of Mark. A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids & Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2001), p. 104: ‘that Jesus was willing to incur uncleanness in order to help others [is] an inadequate assessment because we are nowhere told that Jesus, like the man he heals, ever went through ritual cleansing after this encounter.’ More extreme still is Wright who suggests that in the Parable of the Good Samaritan, a parable with obvious allusions to corpse impurity, ‘the whole system of Temple and sacrifice would itself be called into question’ (N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God [London: SPCK, 1996], p. 307). For a brief but incisive critique of Jesus and purity in this sort of scholarship see E. P. Sanders, ‘Jesus, Ancient Judaism, and Modern Christianity: The Quest Continues’, P. Fredriksen and A. Reinhartz (eds.), Jesus, Judaism, and Christian Anti-Judaism. Reading the New Testament after the Holocaust (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), pp. 31–55. On the related but subtly different issue of Jesus and a disinterested attitude towards purity, see: in T. Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 221–37; T. Kazen, Jesus and Purity Halakhah. Was Jesus Indifferent to Impurity? (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2002).

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Judaism. If we make a not always helpful distinction between biblical purity law and expanded purity law, it is fair to say that Jesus did not observe various expanded purity laws. He did not wash his hands or immerse himself before ordinary meals. This meant Jesus rejected the relevance of the view that impurity passed from hands to food to eater via the crucial liquid and so in turn rejected the view that the insides could be made unclean (see below). But none of this is in contradiction with any biblical law. It is often argued that Jesus’ contracting of impurity is somehow earth shatteringly radical. Yet once again we are faced with the problem that no one thinks it is worth criticising Jesus for doing something supposedly outrageous. The reason for this is the brute fact that many Jews were unclean most of the time. Impurity would not have been easy to avoid. Given these details I think we must assume that Jesus acted in a fairly uncontroversial way when made unclean (e.g., immersing himself when possible). Not unrelated to this is the popular suggestion that Jesus overrode or replaced the Temple system in some way.20 Again, no such sentiments are advocated in the synoptic tradition and nowhere is Jesus ever criticized for saying such a thing, something for which we would surely have some evidence if it were the case. As Jesus is said to have upheld the Temple system and restitution in the synoptic tradition (Mk 1.40–45; Mt. 5.23; Lk. 19.1–9; cf. Mt. 23.16–22), and is never criticized for not upholding the Temple system and restitution, the idea that the historical Jesus thought he was overriding or replacing the Temple system perhaps says more about modern scholarship than the historical Jesus. Mk 14.68 probably has the strongest claim to be the exception here but I am not convinced. While it is significant that the opponents are deemed false witnesses, even if we took Mk 14.68 as a fair representation of Jesus’ teaching, it could still imply a replacement and a ‘better’ physical temple in Jerusalem (cf. 1 En. 90.28– 29). If we do read Mk 14.68 as Jesus replacing the Temple (and as a fair allegation by those deemed false witnesses), then it is difficult to avoid the issue of the resurrection or, more precisely, that this is a post-resurrection reading from the early church. Notice that when Jesus discusses issues surrounding the destruction of the Temple at length (Mark 13) he does not mention that he will do the destroying so we should be highly sceptical whether Mark thought those deemed false witnesses were accurate in their allegations. There are, of course, further serious historical difficulties underlying the narrative location of this saying in the trial scene, a scene with

20 For critique see, e.g., Crossley, Date, chapters 3–4. See also D. Catchpole, Jesus People. The Historical Jesus and the Beginnings of Community (London & Grand Rapids: Darton, Longman and Todd & Baker, 2006).

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famous historical problems, most significantly those concerning a night trial for capital offences (cf. m. Sanh. 4.1).21 The cleansing of the Temple might be suggested as a candidate in support of Jesus overriding the Temple system, but Mk 11.15–17 fires at perceived economic exploitation – hence the attack on the moneychangers and dove sellers – and this is, crucially, paralleled elsewhere in early Judaism (e.g., m. Ker. 1.7).22 In the general context of Jesus’ actions and words in the Temple, it is worth noting that Mk 11.27–28 does have questions over Jesus’ authority. But there is no indication that this questioning was about authority to run an alternative Temple system or replace the Temple with himself. The questioning comes after some fairly general teaching with no mention that this teaching meant a replacement for the Temple. Moreover, the issue of Jesus’ authority is important in Mark, and maybe in the lifetime of the historical Jesus too. Jesus is, for instance, asked from where he has the authority to heal and exorcise, with polemic taking this to the extreme in the suggestion that Jesus is in league with Beelzebub and Satan (Mk 3.22–30), a debate not dissimilar to the discussion of authority to forgive/release/heal sins in Mk 2.1–12.23

4. Getting from A... That’s all very nice, descriptive and theological. But niceness, description and theology only get us so far. So now for the big question: why did Jesus’ specific approach to the Law emerge in the Galilee of the 20’s? Firstly, looking at the general picture helps, in particular a socio-economic explanation for the emergence of the Jesus movement in the Galilee of the 20’s can be put forward.

21 For further discussion, including the possibility that Mk 14.58 retains a critique of the Temple as being perceived to be in the clutches of idolatry, see Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapter 2. There is a similar saying in Acts 6.13–14 but these verses concern the raised Jesus returning so is of limited value for the historical Jesus. As I argued above, Acts 6.13–14 is located in a dispute over the details of running the Temple and so, significantly, the criticisms are of Jesus destroying ‘this place’ and changing ‘the customs that Moses handed on to us’. As I mentioned above, this is the language of halakic disputes and differences (e.g., Jubilees; 11QT; m. Pe‘ah 2.6; m. ‘Ed. 8.7; m. Yad. 4.3) rather than an indication that Jesus would replace the Temple. 22 See further, e.g., C. A. Evans, ‘Jesus’ Action in the Temple: Cleansing or Portent of Destruction?’, CBQ 51 (1989), pp. 237–70; Jesus and His Contemporaries. Comparative Studies (Leiden: Brill, 1995), chapter 9; M. Casey, ‘Culture and Historicity: The Cleansing of the Temple’, CBQ 59 (1997), pp. 306–32. 23 See further Crossley, Date, chapter 4.

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In basic cross-cultural language, social historians often see social change in peasant contexts (and indeed virtually all contexts) as a result of perceived socio-economic irregularities. Looking at the Zapatista movement, E. Hobsbawm noted that the significance of the building of new haciendas led to the beginnings of rare peasant unrest. Then, accompanied by a study of a range of other peasant societies, Hobsbawm makes the important point that peasant unrest, including land occupations, occurs when peasant land ‘may belong to the peasants, but [has] been alienated, legally or otherwise, in a manner which they do not regard as valid’.24 Note here the important qualification of perception. What is important for unrest and historical change is that changing socio-economic circumstances can give rise to unrest, irrespective of the validity of the disquiet and irrespective, to some extent, of the realities of the standard of living: unrest is not necessarily about people simply becoming poorer or vigorously exploited. This is a particularly important point because M. Hørning Jensen’s work on Galilean archaeology questions the conflict based approach, suggesting that there is more evidence for a prosperous Herodian economy in Galilee at the time of Jesus.25 The way in which I would use the conflict based model would be to focus on localized change where at least some among the populace (rightly or wrongly) do not perceive that this is for the better. The role of the land is significant for J. Kautsky who analysed a range of examples of peasant unrest in cultures closer to the time of Jesus. Kautsky looked at hints of commercialising activity in certain aristocratic or agrarian empires such as Rome.26 This commercialising activity includes an increase in commerce, trade and parasitic urban centres which can result in demands for greater labour surplus from the peasantry and an increase in peasant indebtedness. This is all tied in, crucially, with the alienability of land and its sale as a commodity, resulting in an increasing number of landless peasants. One of the most useful aspects of Kautsky’s analysis is that it can help explain why peasant unrest occurs in agrarian or aristocratic empires: it is in reaction to commercialising activities.27 There is increasing awareness that this was the case in Palestine at the time of Jesus. The synoptic tradition points to there being large landowners alongside traditions of absentee landlords, day labourers, tenant farmers or

24

E. J. Hobsbawn, Uncommon People. Resistance, Rebellion and Jazz (London: Abacus, 1998), p. 224. 25 M. Hoerning Jensen, Herod Antipas in Galilee (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006). 26 J. H. Kautsky, The Politics of Aristocratic Empires (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1982), pp. 3–48. 27 Kautsky, Politics, pp. 278–92.

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slaves, and beggary, all of which assume economic conditions of the Galilee of the 20’s.28 All this is also complemented by the key urbanisation projects around the time of Jesus: the rebuilding of Sepphoris when Antipas gained Galilee and the founding of Tiberias in ca. 18/19 CE. As with other cities and towns in agrarian empires such as Rome the relationship with the countryside is essentially parasitic29 and so these two major building projects would have thrown up new and distinctive issues for the peasantry just as Jesus was growing up. At the very least there was the perception that these urban centres were no good thing, hence extensive Galilean hatred aimed at these two urban centres is at the time of the Jewish war (e.g., Life 30, 39, 99, 374–80, 381–86). The emergence of Tiberias and Sepphoris so close to the time of Jesus ought to be regarded as one of the most important reasons for the emergence of the Jesus movement in the Galilee of the 20’s, and more specifically Jesus’ hostility to wealth.30 In general we can see how legal reactions to socio-economic problems can emerge in a closely related context: banditry. The analytical category of ‘social banditry’ has come under some criticism is recent times but I think it is worth using if qualifications are kept in mind. There is enough evidence from Josephus and other sources to argue that bandits tended to emerge in the context of economically deprived backgrounds (perceived or otherwise), had some support among the peasantry and were sometimes involved in some kind of political or pre-political acts. Of course we should not romanticize them as nice Robin Hood types because some were more than capable of behaving like gangsters or plain robbers, attacking rich and poor alike (cf. Lk. 10.30). The role of the Law among bandits and ‘revolutionary’ figures is clear and grounded in popular support. One example might be the revolutionary John of Gischala who is recorded as being concerned, for legal reasons, that pure oil, and not Greek oil, was provided for the Jewish inhabitants of Caesarea Philippi. Given that Josephus puts this concern down to little more than entrepreneurial greed but still records popular support for John (Life 70–76), suggests that we might be dealing with a story that is historically accurate at its core. Jesus the leader of ‘the party of sailors and destitute class’ who looted Tiberias and set the palace on fire seeing it had a 28

See, e.g., Mk 10.17–22; Mk 12.1–12; Mt. 25.14–30/Lk. 19.11–27; Mt. 18.23– 34/Lk. 7.41–43; Mt. 9.37–38; 13.24–30; 18.21–35; 20.1–15; Lk. 12.16–21, 42–43; 13.27; 15.11–32; 16.1–12; 16.20–22. Cf., e.g., J. F. Strange, ‘First-Century Galilee from Archaeology and from the Texts’, SBL 1994 Seminar Papers, (Illinois: SBL, 1994), pp. 81– 90, esp. 89. 29 See also the classic text, M. I. Finley, The Ancient Economy (London: Penguin, 1985), pp. 123–49. 30 See further Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapters 2 and 3.

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gold roof (Life 66), could counter Josephus with explicit reference to the Law and a speech that was, apparently, ‘loudly applauded’: With a copy of the laws of Moses in his hands, he now stepped forward and said: ‘If you cannot, for your own sakes, citizens, detest Josephus, fix your eyes on your country’s laws, which your commander-in-chief intended to betray, and for their sakes hate the crime and punish the audacious criminal.’ (Life 134–35.)

Other examples of the close connection between law and bandits or ‘revolutionary’ figures could be cited (e.g., War 2.195, 231; Ant. 18.269–75). Consequently the links in such social circumstances should be obvious enough. Of course, Jesus was not a bandit. However, the line between bandit and prophet could be blurry. Let us not forget that those responsible for Jesus’ death did not waste their time drawing a significant boundary between prophet and bandit: Jesus was bandit enough for them. John the Baptist, though not a violent revolutionary as far as we know, was killed as a political subversive just in case (Ant. 18.118), as was the unfortunate prophetic figure Theudas (Ant. 20.97–99). Unsurprisingly, then, this blurring of the boundary between prophet and bandit is attested elsewhere in first century Palestine. The situation under Felix led to prophetic-type figures being closely associated with bandits and the ruthless sicarii (War 2.254–68; Ant. 20.161–74). We now have an important context in which we can analyse the emergence of Jesus’ specific take on the Law. This involved interpreting the Law through the eyes of the poor and, following Jewish traditions such as those in 1 Enoch (e.g., 1 Enoch 92–105), this meant that the rich were not really being blessed for supposedly observing the commandment and the poor were really being damned here on earth. Instead, in the after life, the true reward for observance would be made manifest: the poor would be rewarded and the rich would be damned unless they repented and observed the commandments properly. The rich man of Mk 10.17–31 has as much chance of getting into heaven as a rich man as the camel has going through the eye of the needle, i.e., none at all. The commandments he has observed are not good enough because he will inevitably sin by virtue of being rich, a tradition found in early Judaism.31 In the vitriolic parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Lk. 16.19–31) none other than Abraham tells the rich man the stark reason for the role reversal of rich and poor: ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony’ (Lk. 16.25). Once again the Torah must be interpreted through the eyes 31

On this see further J. G. Crossley, ‘The Damned Rich (Mark 10.17–31)’, ExpTim 116 (2005), pp. 397–401.

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of the poor as the end of the parable makes clear (Lk. 16.29–31). Notice that this is not Jesus sent back from the dead, and so this is not a reference to the resurrection, but rather the dead Lazarus, following in the tradition of supernatural warnings to the living, also found in traditions which parallel the Rich Man and Lazarus (Lk. 16.19–31).32 These views reflect a general tendency independently attested in the synoptic tradition of reversing rich and poor and so points to an early tradition and one which may well reflect the historical Jesus. In further support of this argument, we might add that Jesus’ teaching on worrying about clothing and food etc. reflects the problems rich people face not poor people (e.g., Mt. 6.25–34/Lk. 12.22–32; 1 En. 97.8–10; 98.2). This teaching is therefore intimately tied in with Jesus’ audience. Furthermore, the historically important ‘sinners’ of the synoptic tradition fit neatly into the approach outlined here in that they would have been understood as being law breakers of some variety and wealthy. With such thoughts in mind, I have looked elsewhere at all examples of the terms for ‘sinner’ from the Hebrew Bible and the LXX to rabbinic literature.33 Whenever their socio-economic status is mentioned, the ‘sinners’ are rich, or, better, oppressive and unpleasant rich types.34 They are also law breakers (be it biblical law or someone’s interpretation of the law), beyond the covenant, people who act as if there was no God and so on.35 Significantly, the ‘sinners’ of the synoptic tradition are associated with the oppressive rich (tax collectors; cf. Mk 2.13–17; Mt. 11.19/Lk. 7.34; Lk. 15.1–2; 19.7) and perhaps also people who did not observe certain purity laws (cf. Mk 2.13–17). There were two stark ways of dealing with such sinners. On the one hand, they could be converted. On the other hand, and almost certainly the more practical view, they could be left alone to their wealth and would, supposedly, receive their comeuppance. The grounds for converting could be found in Ezekiel 33 and was in fact taken up in a particularly hopeful, and predictably minority, strand in early Judaism (cf. T. Abr. [A] 10.13– 32 See further R. J. Bauckham, ‘Rich Man and Lazarus: The Parable and the Parallels’, NTS 37 (1991), pp. 225–46. 33 Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapter 3. 34 E.g., Pss. 9.24 [10.3]; 9.17–18; 36[37].21; 72[73].3–12; 81[82].2, 4; 93[94].3–5; 111[112].10; Sir. 9.11; 11.21; 27.30; 28.9; 29.19; 39.26–27; 1 En. 100.2–3; 102.9–11; 103.5, 11, 15; 104.5–7; 106.18; Pss. Sol. 17.5; 4Q171 2.9–16; CD 8.3–10; m. Sanh. 8.5; m. Ab. 4.15; 5.1. 35 Cf. Pss. 119.53, 61, 95, 110, 118–19; 155; Sir. 15.7, 9; 1 Macc. 1.34; 2.44, 62; 1 En. 104.10; Pss. Sol. 1.1; 2.1; 4.8; 14.6; 15.5, 8; 1QpHab 5.5; 1QM 1.2; 1Q27 1.1, 5–6; CD 1.19; 2.3; 11.21; 4Q171 3.12; 4Q174 frag. 1, 1.14; 4Q511 frag. 63, 3.4; 11Q5 18.12– 15; 4Q504 frag. 1–2, 2.10; 4Q504 frag. 1–2, 5.19; t. Ned. 1.1; t. Sot. 7.4; t. Yeb. 1.13/t. ‘Ed. 2.3.

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15; Tob. 13.6; Wis. 19.13; T. Ben. 4.2; Pr. Man. 5–8; t. Kid. 1.16). In contrast the condemnation of the unpleasant rich and their damnation in the life to come is more widely attested.36 Given that this condemnation was a well-known view, Jesus’ association with people deemed dangerous outsiders, people who did not observe Pharisaic law and were not turning to Pharisaic law, could lead to criticism of Jesus.37 It is also easy enough to make a case that Jesus’ association with people deemed oppressive and rich is not the best way to win friends. Indeed, any controversy over association with people deemed ‘sinners’ is further explicable if the Jesus movement is a reaction against perceived socio-economic injustices: why associate with those mixed up in it all? Moreover, Jesus’ opponents may have genuine worries that Jesus would be led astray by the tainted glamour of the unpleasant rich (cf. Sir. 28.9; 41.5). After all, as Sirach put it, ‘Who pities a snake charmer when he is bitten, or all those who go near wild animals? So no one pities a person who associates with a sinner (D QGULB DPDUWZOZa_) and becomes involved in other’s sins’ (Sir. 12.13–14). This context helps explain further Jesus’ particular spin on purity. People deemed both rich and poor could be found under a general construction of those who, for whatever reason, did not observe expanded non-Temple purity laws associated with groups like the Pharisees. Closer to Jesus’ home, the population of Tiberias are a notable example: Tiberias ... The new settlers were a promiscuous rabble, no small contingent being Galilean, with such as were drafted from territory subject to him [Herod Antipas] and brought forcibly to the new foundation. Some of these were magistrates. Herod accepted as participants even poor men who were brought in to join the others from any and all places of origin. It was question whether some were even free beyond cavil. These latter he often and in large bodies liberated and benefited imposing the condition that they should not quit the city, by equipping houses at his own expense and adding new gifts of land. For he knew that this settlement was contrary to the law and tradition of the Jews because Tiberias was built on the site of tombs that had been obliterated, of which there were many there. And our law declares that such settlers are unclean for seven days. (Ant. 18.36–38.)

36

Cf. Pss. 36[37].10, 14, 17, 20, 34; 57[58].10; 90[91].8; 91[92].7; 100[101].8; 105[106].18; 144[145].20; 145[146].9; 146[147].6; Sir. 5.6; 7.16; 12.6; 16.13–14; 25.19; 40.8; 41.5; 1 Macc. 2.62; 1 En. 1.9; 22.10, 12,13; 97.7; 100.2–3, 9; 102.3, 5–6; Pss. Sol. 2.34–35; 3.11–12; 4.2, 8, 23; 12.6; 13.2, 5–8, 11; 14.6; 16.5; 17.23, 25, 36; 1QpHab 5.5; 13.4; 1QM 4.4; 1QS 8.7; 1Q34 frag. 3, 1.5, 2.5; CD 1.19; 4.7; 7.9; 19.6; 20.26; 4Q171 3.12; 4Q212 4.16; 4Q398 11–13.5; 4Q511 frag. 63, 3.4; 11Q10 3.6; 7.4; 11.3; 34.8; cf. 1QM 14.7; 15.2; 1Q28a 1.3; m. ‘Ed. 2.10; m. Sanh. 10.6; m. Ab. 5.1, 19; t. Sot. 10.2–3; t. Sanh. 13.1–2, 6. 37 Cf. J. D. G. Dunn, ‘Jesus, Table-Fellowship, and Qumran’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls (New York: Doubleday, 1992), pp. 254–72, esp. 254–55, 259–68.

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Another important example of a sub-group of people defined in relation to expanded purity law is the rabbinic ‘people of the land’. Given the sheer socio-economic imbalance in the ancient world and the regular reference to agricultural work in the relevant traditions, it is quite possible that the majority of the ‘people of the land’ were of the lowest classes. Yet, despite a long history of scholarship on the socio-economic definition of the ‘people of the land’, it is important to note that this group of people are not defined in terms of economic class. Like the impure of Tiberias, we know that the ‘people of the land’ could include wealthier members of society. 38 This is clear in the assumptions of the following examples: A haber who leased from an ‘am ha-aretz fig-trees and vine branches... (t. Dem. 3.5.) They purchase from an ‘am ha-aretz slave boys and slave-girls whether adults or minors. They sell to an ‘am ha-aretz slave-boys and slave girls, whether adults or minors. (t. ‘A.Z. 3.9.)39

What we are dealing with here is a class of people defined in terms of purity and tithing laws, particularly in terms of non-observance of rabbinic laws (t. ‘A.Z. 3.10; b. Ber. 43b; b. Git. 61a; b. Ned. 90b; A.R.N. [A] 41) and Pharisaic laws (cf. m. Hag. 2.7):40 It has been taught, ‘Who is an ‘am ha-aretz? Anyone who does not eat his secular food in ritual purity.’ This is the opinion of R. Meir. The Sages however said, ‘Anyone who does not tithe his produce properly.’ (b. Ber. 47b.)

While the ‘people of the land’ is a category long abused in historical Jesus scholarship,41 they do provide a potentially important analogy for Jesus’ audience. For example, the ‘people of the land’ can be regarded as suspect in the transmission of impurity, a key feature of Jesus’ teaching on impurity as we will later see: He who gives over his key to an ‘am ha-aretz – the house is clean, for he gave him only [the charge of] guarding the key. (m. Toh. 7.1.) He who leaves an ‘am ha-aretz inside his house awake and found him awake, asleep and found him asleep, awake and found him asleep – the house is clean. [If he left him] sleeping and found him awake – ‘the house is unclean’, the words of R. Meir. And the sages say, ‘Unclean is only [the space] up to the place to which he stretch out and touch his hand and touch.’ (m. Toh. 7.2.) 38

See further A. Oppenheimer, The ‘Am Ha-aretz. A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Leiden: Brill, 1977), pp. 18–22. 39 Significantly for the gospel tradition, tax collectors can be described in similar terms to the ‘people of the land’, namely in terms of impurity (m. Toh. 7.6). 40 Cf. D. A. Neale, None but the Sinners. Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), pp. 40–67. 41 Cf. E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London & Philadelphia: SCM & Fortress, 1985), pp. 174–211.

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R. Simeon says, ‘He who gave a key to an ‘am ha-aretz – the house is unclean.’ (t. Toh. 8.1.)

There are notable differences over interpretation of the details but such passages assume that the ‘people of the land’ transmit impurity. An important passage, sometimes cited in historical Jesus scholarship, is m. Hag. 2.7. Among other things, here we get the well-known contrast between the Pharisees and the ‘people of the land’ and it is defined in terms of food defilement: The clothing of ‘am ha-aretz is in the status of midras uncleanness for Pharisees [who eat ordinary food in a state of uncleanness], the clothing of Pharisees is in the status of midras uncleanness for those who eat terumah [priests]. The clothing of those who eat heave offering is in the status of midras uncleanness for those who eat Holy Things [officiating priests] etc ... (m. Hag. 2.7.)

The impurity of clothes of the ‘people of the land’ is comparable to that which has contracted impurity from one with a discharge (and consequently a father of impurity). The Pharisee, by contrast, and by analogy with the other relationships described in the passage, is assumed to eat ordinary food in a state of purity. This kind of impurity is attributed to the ‘people of the land’ elsewhere in rabbinic literature. One of the most significant contexts involves ‘utensils’, perhaps with the assumption that a menstruating wife has come into contact with them: ‘He who deposits utensils with an ‘am-ha-aretz – they are unclean with corpse uncleanness and unclean with midras uncleanness’ (m. Toh. 8.2). The ‘people of the land’ are deemed careless with their utensils and are not liable to take proper care with their liquids: An ‘am-ha-aretz is believed to testify, ‘These pickled vegetables did I pickle in a state of uncleanness, and I did not sprinkle liquids [capable of imparting susceptibility to uncleanness] upon them.’ But he is not believed to testify, ‘These fish I caught in a state of cleanness, and I did not shake the net over them.’ (t. ‘A.Z. 4.11.) The water which comes up (1) on the snares, (2) on the gins, and (3) on the nets is not under the law, ‘If water be put’. And if he shook [them to remove the water], it [the water which is detached] is under the law, ‘If water be put’. (m. Maks. 5.7.) He who undertakes to be a haber ... does not purchase from him [‘am-ha-aretz] wet [produce, produce which has been rendered susceptible to uncleanness ... (m. Dem. 2.3.) ...this implies that it is permitted [for the haber to purchase from the ‘am-ha-aretz] dry [produce], since ‘ammei ha-aretz are deemed trustworthy with respect to rendering produce susceptible to impurity. (y. Dem. 2.22d.)

These sentiments involve the laws of liquids – laws based on Lev. 11.34 – which are deemed in Jewish law to take on an intensifying role in the transmission of impurity. The intensification of impurity through liquid is

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a particularly important issue in the laws of hand-washing and the laws of utensil-washing, both of which occur in the synoptic tradition. This halakic background allows us to see more precisely the function of passages such as and Mark 7. As I have argued elsewhere, the tradition underlying Lk. 11.37–41/Mt. 23.25–26 is a critique of certain complex (to Gentiles and non-rabbis anyway) legal expansions involving the transmission of impurity to utensils and involving liquids, unclean hands and the purity of the inside of the human body (cf. m. Kel. 25).42 There are even stronger criticisms of expanded non-Temple table purity and hand-washing in Mk 7.1–23/Mt. 15.1–20 which I have argued in detail is a critique of the transmission of impurity from unclean hands to food (via a liquid) to the eater and the purity of the inside of the human body. 43 Both Lk. 11.37– 41/Mt. 23.25–26 and Mk 7.1–23/Mt. 15.1–20 are independently attested traditions and both have, at least underlying the gospel versions, an interest in the details of Jewish law, something which, as far as we know, was not discussed in Gentile churches. This would suggest that we are dealing with traditions that reflect the interests of the historical Jesus. If so, Jesus’ critique of this expanded non-Temple table purity law, associated with figures such as Pharisees, justifies the interaction with a broad range of people who could not or would not observe expanded purity. In general we can say, then, that there would have been people among Jesus’ followers or audience who would not have been known for keeping themselves in a state of purity very often at all. Jesus’ teaching recorded in the synoptic tradition reflects this.

5. ... to B So there’s how we might get to A. This teaching sowed the seeds for getting to B. Jesus’ audience was crucial for the connection with Gentiles. The language of ‘sinners’, unsurprisingly, does not only imply that ‘sinners’ are like Gentiles but it could be used directly and consistently, from the Psalms through to rabbinic literature, to refer to Gentiles as Gentiles (1 Macc. 1.10; Tob. 13.6; Wis. 19.13; 1 En. 99.6–7; 104.7–9; Pss. Sol. 1.1; 2.1; 1QpHab 13.4; 1QM 1.2; 11.14; CD 8.8–12; 4Q169 frag. 3, 1.1–2; cf. 1QM 14.7; 15.2; Gal. 2.15; m. Ned. 3.11). Jesus’ mission to Jewish sinners can therefore provide a crucial link to the inclusion of Gentiles in earliest Christianity. 44 Moreover, it seems that there was an audience of Gentiles 42

Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, pp. 104–12. Crossley, Date, chapter 7. 44 For a more detailed discussion see Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapters 3–4. 43

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attracted to Judaism, including attraction to food laws. Here is the famous passage from Juvenal: Some who have had a father who reveres the Sabbath, worship nothing but the clouds, and the divinity of the heavens, and see no difference between eating pig’s flesh, from which their father abstained, and that of man; and in time they take to circumcision. Having been wont to flout the laws of Rome, they learn and practise and revere the Jewish law, and all that Moses handed down in his secret tome, forbidding to point out the way to any not worshipping the same rites, and conducting none but the circumcised to the desired fountain. For all which the father was to blame, who gave up every seventh day to idleness, keeping it apart from all the concerns of life. (Juvenal, Sat. 14.96–106.)

Irrespective of the historicity of the Lukan stories of God-fearers there were Gentiles attracted to Judaism who were to be found at synagogues and so the general Lukan scenario is plausible, even if individual stories are invented. Indeed, P. Harland develops the idea of dual and multiple affiliations and gives evidence of Jews being attached to synagogues and associations not usually associated with Judaism (cf. Flacc. 57; CIJ 745, 755, 777). This alone suggests varying degrees of mixed meetings with Jews and Gentiles present and it might also suggest that the idea of Gentiles associated with synagogues among other associations is a plausible scenario. We might also add that even in post-70 CE Roman Palestine, there is evidence of socio-religious interaction between Jews and Gentiles focused on the synagogue (cf. y. Meg. 3.1–3, 73D–74A; t. ‘A.Z. 3.6–7; t. Meg. 2.16).45 Lest this seem too speculative, there are plenty concrete examples of broader Jewish-Gentile socio-religious interaction and I will mention only a few.46 Josephus gives examples of Gentiles looking for conversion to Judaism, most famously in the interaction between the House of Adiabene and the Jewish merchant Ananias and the strict Galilean Jew Eleazar (Ant. 20.34–48). According to John’s Gospel, ‘Greeks’ were among those who went up to worship at Passover (Jn 12.20). There is also the famous ‘Godfearer’ inscription from Aphrodisias. In this inscription the Gentile figures have differing relationships with the Jewish community, ranging from general support to closer relationships with Jews and proselytes.47 45 S. Fine, ‘Non-Jews in the Synagogues of Late-Antique Palestine: Rabbinic and Archaeological Evidence’, in S. Fine (ed.), Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue. Cultural Interaction during the Greco-Roman Period (London & New York: Routledge, 1999), pp. 224–42, esp. 225–31. 46 For further examples with bibliography see Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapter 5. 47 See further, e.g., J. Reynolds and R. Tannenbaum, Jews and God-Fearers at Aphrodisias (Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society, 1987); I. Levinskaya, ‘The Inscription from Aphrodisias and the Problem of God-Fearers’, TynBul 41 (1990), pp.

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This general context also suggests the kinds of places where Gentiles might come into contact with Jewish thought: e.g., synagogues, the workplace, social meetings, and/or associations (cf. Flacc. 57; CIJ 745, 755, 777).48 There should be no doubt that the earliest Jewish Christians used the pre-existing social networks established by Jews to spread the message as R. Stark, J. T. Sanders and others have shown.49 An important point to note here is that we can assume that in the presence of Jews, such Gentiles would have been law observant and kosher, at least in predominantly Jewish contexts such as the synagogue. This would have provided the initial contexts for Gentile interaction with Jewish law in the spread of earliest Christianity. In such contexts, the issue of purity law and Gentiles is, paradoxically, both complicated and simple. The view deeply embedded in contemporary scholarship that Gentiles had a special kind of defiling ‘Gentile impurity’ has been vigorously challenged by J. Klawans and C. E. Hayes.50 While there are differences between Klawans and Hayes, both push the idea that Gentiles were thought to have a tendency towards moral corruption and idolatry (cf. Exod. 34.15– 16; Lev. 18.24–30; Deut. 7.2–4, 16; 20.18; Jub. 9.15; Ep. Arist. 152; Spec. Leg. 1.51; Sib. Or. 3.492, 496–500; 5.168; Tob. 14.6).51 They were people who would lead the righteous astray, hence the hostility toward intermar312–18; J. Murphy-O’Connor, ‘Lots of God-Fearers?’ RB 99 (1992), pp. 418–24; M. Williams, ‘The Jews and Godfearers Inscription from Aphrodisias’, Historia 41 (1992), pp. 297–310. 48 E.g., P. A. Harland, Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations. Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), pp. 200–10; P. A. Harland, ‘Spheres of Contention, Claims of Pre-eminence: Rivalries among Associations in Sardis and Smyrna’ in R. S. Ascough (ed.), Religious Rivalries and the Struggle for Success in Sardis and Smyrna (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2005), pp. 53–63, esp. 59–61. 49 See further Stark, Rise; J. T. Sanders, Charisma, Converts, Competitors. Societal and Sociological Factors in the Success of Early Christianity (London, SCM, 2000); cf. P. A. Harland, ‘Social Networks and Connections with the Elites in the World of the Early Christians’, in A. J. Blasi, P.-A. Turcotte and J. Duhaime (eds.), Handbook of Early Christianity and the Social Sciences (Walnut Creek: AltaMira, 2002), pp. 385–408, esp. 388–89; W. A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians. The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2003), pp. 27–31. 50 J. Klawans, ‘Notions of Gentile Impurity in Ancient Judaism’, AJSR 20 (1995), pp. 285–312; J. Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 43–60, 134–35; C. E. Hayes, Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities. Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). For the classical case for ‘Gentile impurity’ see G. Alon, ‘The Levitical Uncleanness of Gentiles’, in G. Alon, Jews, Judaism and the Classical World. Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple and Talmud (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1977), pp. 146–89. 51 Hayes, Gentile Impurities, e.g., pp. 22–34, 53–59, 145–92.

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riage in early Jewish sources (e.g., Lev. 18.26; Deut. 7.1–4; 1 Kgs 11.1–2; Ezra 9.1–3, 10–12; Neh. 13.26; 4Q381 frag. 69, 1–2; Jub. 22.16–20; m. Ber. 7.1; m. ‘A.Z. 5.5). Ideas of some inherent ‘Gentile impurity’ are notably absent from early Jewish sources or the notion of Gentile impurity is used as a point of comparison (Gentiles are like an unclean x, y, or z). As Gentiles are allowed to handle priestly food (m. Ter. 3.9) and offer sacrifices (e.g., m. Shek. 7.6; m. Zeb. 4.5; m. Men. 5.3; 5.6; 6.1; 9.8), this would suggest that the idea of Gentiles as defiling agents is mistaken.52 This helps explain the stress on morality in earliest Christianity and the use of vice lists in context of Gentile conversion or misbehaviour of the pagan world in general (e.g., Mk 7.21–23; Gal. 5.19–21; 1 Cor. 6.9–11; 1 Pet. 4.3–6; Rev. 9.20–21; cf. Wis. 14.25–26; T. Dan 5.5). This also explains why there is so little stress on literal defiling impurity outside the gospels. If uncircumcised Gentiles interested in law observant Jewish Christianity were present at meals then impurity simply would not have been an issue. If Jews, and Gentiles who had converted as far as circumcision, were present at such meals then impurity would not have been an issue if Jesus’ teaching were being followed. In Christian gatherings, therefore, literal defiling ‘ritual’ impurity ceases to be a significant issue and should be ruled out as a possible issue behind the Antioch controversy (Gal. 2.11–14), for instance. Many Jewish Christians would still be able to follow biblical purity laws but it would have minimal effect on earliest Christian meetings. Once more and more Gentiles become involved in Christianity then purity, unlike food, simply is not an issue. We have seen how socio-economic and ideological reasons can combine to provide a greater inclusion of Gentiles. But if everyone is happy about food laws how do we get to some Christians not bothering? Here conversion and social networks analyses come in particularly handy. R. Stark along with a host of sidekicks have shown conclusively that affective ties (friends, family etc.) are central to religious conversion and that on the whole theology comes later.53 For all the critiques of the classic LoflandStark approach to religious conversion, this idea has been consistently shown to be accurate though numerous independent empirical examples.54 This can be developed further. We now need to see how such studies of 52

Hayes, Gentile Impurities, pp. 107–44, 199–221. See classically, R. Stark and W. S. Bainbridge, ‘Networks of Faith: Interpersonal Bonds and Recruitment to Cults and Sects’, AJS 85 (1980), pp. 1376–95, esp. 1387. 54 For a major synthesis of various views on conversion see L. R. Rambo, Understanding Religious Conversion (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1993). Cf. L. L. Dawson, ‘Cult Conversions: Controversy and Clarification’ in C. Lamb and M. D. Bryant, Religious Conversion. Contemporary Practices and Controversies (London & New York: Cassell, 1999), pp. 287–315, esp. 287. 53

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conversion relate to shifting practices and commitment levels in the relevant scholarly literature. There are varying degrees of conversion, ranging from the verbal and loosely attached convert to the total convert who shows dedicated commitment in word and deed.55 It is therefore no surprise that there are examples of mixed behaviour, competing attachments and different loyalties among converts as a whole. A particularly interesting example given by Lofland and Stark involves the spouses of recruits and the tension between two bonds of affection. In one case given, a wife of a Moon convert struggled at meetings and, with a heavy heart, the husband chose his wife over the Moon cause even though he still thought the Moon cause was probably the truth. Yet, the sheer strength of the competing affective bond of the wife meant that he lost the faith within months.56 Among the early Christians there would have been competing loyalties among the families of Gentiles attracted to Judaism and/or earliest Christianity, though Paul made sure that a stark choice between family and faith was not required of converts (1 Cor. 7.12–16). One point needs to be addressed here: the material on conversion through social networks involves converts changing from their old ways to the new whereas the emergence of Christianity involves eventually shifting away from a Law observant movement. Here we must recognize that even in the case of conversions, cultural influences are regularly two-way. Moreover, we should not impose models at the expense of historical peculiarities and particularities. It is of some significance that earliest Christianity began as a law observant movement which also involved a significant interaction with Gentiles. With more and more Gentile friends of friends of friends becoming involved in earliest Christianity provides the historically peculiar situation of Gentiles attached to Christianity in some degree who are not bothered about keeping the food laws and other commandments, a point I have made in more detail elsewhere.57 This leaves a situation of non-observant Gentiles attached to Christianity in varying degrees. Someone had to make a decision about such people. As it happens, these kinds of cultural mixtures are standard features of conversion studies. L. Rambo brings together numerous examples and studies, showing how both converts and the movement to which they convert can change in a given cultural context.58 Rambo gives examples from Christian missionaries where indigenous cultures are seen to have worth 55 See classically, J. Lofland and R. Stark, ‘Becoming a World-Saver: A Theory of Conversion to a Deviant Perspective’, ASR 30 (1965), pp. 862–75, esp. 871. 56 Lofland and Stark, ‘Becoming a World-Saver’, p. 873. 57 Crossley, Why Christianity Happened, chapter 5. 58 Rambo, Conversion.

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and aspects of the indigenous culture are adopted by the missionary. Rambo also gives the example for the development of Islam in sub-Saharan Africa where conversion is more ‘adhesion’ to Islam. Indeed, it is noted that it is not uncommon in parts of sub-Saharan Africa for a convert to be involved in multiple cults and where a simple confession of ‘There is one God and Mohammad is God’s prophet’ is all that is ‘required’.59 On one level this is really all basic common sense. Tolerance, assimilation and acculturation have been endlessly documented across countless cultures, including the important documentation by J. Barclay on Diaspora Judaism.60 A significant and highly relevant cross-cultural example of both conversion through social networks and shifting levels of observance has been given by J. T. Sanders. He points to the work done on Nichiren Shoshu in America and compares a conference with the Jerusalem conference (Gal. 2.1–10; Acts 15). The Nichiren Shoshu conference was held to discuss the issue of accommodation and a decision was reached that ‘foreign practices’, such as the flying of the American flag and statues of the Virgin Mary at home, were permitted so long as the ‘essence of the religion’ remained.61 The social networks associated with the spread of early Christianity would hardly be immune from analogous countervailing influences and clearly similar kinds of decisions were made. For those more at home with cross-cultural parallels from peasant societies, we might point to J. Scott’s studies of radical parties in Indonesia. Scott notes that in the Communist Party of Indonesia (PKI) in the 1950’s and 1960’s the peasantry were able to gain access through social networks of patronage, kinship and traditional respect. Though this was denounced by the PKI leaders, it was only a matter of years before peasants became the majority of PKI membership with local wealthy elements heavily influencing decisions. Ideas would also change, such as shifts from nationalism to millenarianism. This example highlights neatly the ways in which ideas shift, transform, accommodate and change as they move away from the intellectual ‘centre’.62 These are all useful analogies for understanding the spread of earliest Christianity. While Gentiles obviously converted, we can hardly assume that they all became full converts immediately.63 Of course, we have to engage in historical speculation for the situation prior to Paul’s letters. It is 59

Rambo, Conversion, p. 94. J. M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE–117 CE) (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996). 61 Sanders, Charisma, Converts, Competitors, p. 88. 62 J. C. Scott, ‘Protest and Profanation: Agrarian Revolt and the Little Tradition, Part II’, TheorSoc 4 (1977), pp. 211–46, esp. 221–22. 63 Cf. Sanders, Charisma, Converts, Competitors, p. 102. 60

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not difficult to imagine Gentile converts confused over the relevance of certain commandments and, when away from predominantly Jewish contexts, we can hardly assume that they would have kept food laws.64 In fact we know that avoidance of pork was seen by certain Gentiles as distinctive or even distinctively odd (cf. Juvenal, Sat. 14.96–106). Compare also the surprised question – ‘Why do you refuse to eat pork?’ – reported as being raised when Philo’s contingent met with Caligula (Leg. Gai. 361–62). Indeed, from the perspective of a Gentile carnivore, pigs are presumably most useful for chopping up in some way or other, most obviously for food. These kinds of countervailing influences were powerful. As early as the 50’s we find a Christian context where those who wanted to keep the biblical food laws were no longer deemed normative (Rom. 14.1–6). We have other important evidence of countervailing influences within earliest Christianity, notably the continuing connections with pagan movements. This meant the very real possibility of people behaving differently in different social contexts. 1 Jn 5.21 still has to warn believers to keep themselves from idols (cf. Gal. 4.8). Paul still has to deal with the issue of Christians eating food sacrificed to idols in a non-Christian setting (1 Cor. 8–10). We should not imagine that his was uncommon either. For a start, honouring the Emperor would have been part of everyday life for many Christians.65 An important aspect of the approach to conversion through social networks and shifting legal practices involves household conversions. We know from Paul and Acts in particular that conversion of households was one notable conversion method (e.g., 1 Cor. 1.16; 16.15–16; Phil. 4.22; Acts 11.14; 16.14–15, 31–34; 18.8; cf. Jn 4.46–54). Would all members really convert with all their heart, mind and soul? Onesimus would be an obvious example of differing levels of commitment in a Christian household.66 In terms of earliest Christian law observance we have the important examples of conversion of households to Judaism which could involve conversion as far as circumcision (cf. m. Bik. 1.5; m. Kid. 4.7; t. Kid. 5.11– 12; y. Yeb. 8.8d; Mekilta 15; P.R.E. 10; Dig. 48.8.11), not to mention the problems some people had with this. As S. Cohen points out: ‘These slaves, even if they assented to their conversion ... cannot have been motivated by a deep or sincere love for the God of Abraham. They were con64

It is worth noting that Paul’s missionary work involved changing behaviour from context to context (1 Cor. 9.19–23; cf. Acts 16.1–3). 65 P. A. Harland, ‘Honouring the Emperor or Assailing the Beast: Participation in Civic Life among Associations (Jewish, Christian and Other) in Asia Minor and the Apocalypse of John’, JSNT 77 (2000), pp. 99–121, esp. 116–21. 66 N. H. Taylor, ‘The Social Nature of Conversion in the Early Christian World’, in P. F. Esler (ed.), Modelling Early Christianity. Social Scientific Studies of the New Testament in its Context (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), pp. 128–36, esp. 133.

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verted to Judaism for the religious convenience of their owners.’67 So, in the case of converted households, we have another crucial area where there was serious potential for non-observance of commandments.68 In fact we can see the problems of law observance and countervailing influences in several concrete examples of conversion. Izates and the house of Adiabene (Ant. 20.34–48) is a particularly good example of countervailing influences. Although Izates converted and was circumcised it is clear that the women of the royal household knew that there would be problems with the Gentile populace. Various royal marriages recorded in Josephus also show that Gentile individuals and Gentile populations had serious problems with rulers converting to Jewish religion. The mass conversion of the Idumeans seems to have gone relatively smoothly yet individuals like Costobarus were still around a century later, trying to get people to return to the true faith. Unsurprisingly, then, we find rabbinic suspicions concerning the genuineness of Gentile conversion and adherence to Jewish practices (e.g., m. Nid. 7.3; Exod. R. 42.6; b. B.M. 59b; b. Yeb. 47b). But such suspicions are also reflected in first-century material. As Josephus puts it, ‘The Greeks ... many of them have agreed to adopt our laws; of whom some have remained faithful, while others, lacking the necessary endurance, have again seceded’ (Apion 2.123).

6. Conclusions The approach I have outlined here shows how we can provide an explanation, grounded in both ideas and social history, for the shift from the law observant historical Jesus to the beginnings of non-observance in earliest Christianity. This approach helps explain the origins of Jesus’ particular take on food and purity in its Galilean context and how these ideas could – intentionally or, more likely, unintentionally – tie in with broader social issues and help create a movement which included a significant number of non-observant Gentiles. The first Gentile converts would no doubt have been law observant in the company of Jews and kept the food laws and, in this sense, in direct continuity with the teaching of Jesus. But there would have been strong countervailing influences, not least the strangeness (for some Gentiles) of avoiding pork. When not in the company of Jews, maybe the pressure to not keep kosher was too much. When more and more friends of friends of friends became associated with earliest Christianity this problem would 67 S. J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness. Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press, 1999), p. 155. 68 Cf. Meeks, First Urban Christians, p. 77.

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only have become more pronounced. There is the problem of hard evidence from the first two decades of Christian origins, but with a little historical imagination the situation outlined here is at least plausible. With the approach outlined here suggesting that the earliest Christian movement was faced with the issue of people attracted to the new movement but with varying commitment levels, it is not difficult to see that something needed to be done to deal with the situation. The Jerusalem council (ca. 50 CE) was one attempt. Superficially, it might be fair to say that this is in discontinuity with the teaching of Jesus but we should not forget that this is a situation in discontinuity with Jesus’ situations where, obviously, there were not a significant number of Gentiles for him to worry about. We simply do not know how Jesus would have reacted in the circumstances in which someone like Peter, Paul, or James found themselves so in this instance we cannot press the continuity/discontinuity too hard. The major theological attempt to deal with this issue was of course Paul, in particular his stunningly influential idea of justification by faith instead of works of the law, an idea in turn being a justification of the messy social reality on the ground very different from the situation of Jesus. It is this messy social reality on the ground that has too often been ignored in the study of Christian origins and it leads to explanations that resort to the genius Paul conveniently finding something wrong with Judaism. The explanation I have offered suggests that history does not move in such theologically convenient ways. Indeed, if mainstream historical explanations and historians of Christian origins continue to analyze continuity and discontinuity with ideas and theology alone then they will remain enchanted by that strangely one-dimensional world, ignorant of the longer trends and causes which have plenty of additional explanatory power to explain the changes and shifts that brought about a new religion.69

69

I am echoing F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Volume I (London: Collins, 1972), p. 21.

Jesus, Judas Iscariot, and the Gospel of Judas MARVIN MEYER

One of the most enigmatic, elusive, and fascinating figures in the entire biblical narrative is Judas Iscariot. Judas finds his place in the very center of the passion narrative, and it is he who turns Jesus of Nazareth over to the authorities, so that Jesus in the end is crucified. Judas accomplishes this deed with a kiss – the infamous Judas kiss. Yet Judas, it is maintained in the New Testament gospels, was a disciple of Jesus, one of the Twelve, perhaps one of those closest to Jesus. Scholars have debated who Judas Iscariot really was and what his deed was meant to do, and the debate continues to the present day. Was Judas the most despicable disciple imaginable, the traitor who turned against and betrayed his master? If so, it is no wonder that Dante places Judas in the lowest circle of hell, with Brutus and Cassius, the betrayers and assassins of Julius Caesar. Or was Judas misunderstood and blamed, unjustly, for something he never did, so that he becomes the unfortunate fall guy on whom the guilt is placed in the story of the crucifixion of Jesus? The debate about Judas has become more intense and interesting with the discovery and publication of the Gospel of Judas.1 The third tractate in 1

On the Gospel of Judas, cf. A. D. DeConick, The Thirteenth Apostle. What the Gospel of Judas Really Says (New York & London: Continuum, 2007); A. D. DeConick (ed.), The Codex Judas Papers. Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008 (Leiden: Brill, 2009); B. D. Ehrman, The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); R. Kasser, M. Meyer and G. Wurst (eds.), The Gospel of Judas (Washington: National Geographic, 2006, 2nd edn, 2008); R. Kasser, G. Wurst, M. Meyer and F. Gaudard (eds.), The Gospel of Judas, Together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and a Book of Allogenes, from Codex Tchacos. Critical Edition (Washington: National Geographic, 2007); H. Krosney, M. Meyer and G. Wurst, ‘Preliminary Report on New Fragments of Codex Tchacos’, EC 1 (2010), pp. 282–94; M. Meyer, Judas. The Definitive Collection of Gospels and Legends about the Infamous Apostle of Jesus (New York: HarperOne, 2007); M. Meyer (ed.), The Nag Hammadi Scriptures. The International Edition (New York: HarperOne, 2007); E. H. Pagels and K. King, Reading Judas. The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity (New York: Viking, 2007); J. M. Robinson, The Secrets of Judas. The Story of the Misunderstood Disciple and His Lost Gospel (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2006); M. Scopello (ed.), The Gospel of Judas in Context. Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Gospel of Judas, Paris, Sorbonne, October 27th–28th, 2006 (Leiden: Brill, 2008).

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Codex Tchacos, the Gospel of Judas was discovered with the other texts in the codex – along with additional codices – in the 1970’s, according to reports. H. Krosney has pieced together much of the story of the discovery of the Codex Tchacos.2 According to his account, the codex was discovered by local fellahin in Middle Egypt, near al-Minya, in a cave that had been used for human burial. Krosney reports that the cave was located at the Jabal Qarara, and it contained Roman glassware in baskets or papyrus or straw wrappings. He describes the discovery as follows: The burial cave was located across the river from Maghagha, not far from the village of Qarara in what is known as Middle Egypt. The fellahin stumbled upon the cave hidden down in the rocks. Climbing down to it, they found the skeleton of a wealthy man in a shroud. Other human remains, probably members of the dead man’s family, were with him in the cave. His precious books were beside him, encased in a white limestone box.3

Thereafter, the Gospel of Judas and Codex Tchacos were displayed, stolen, and recovered; brought to Europe for possible sale; stored in a safe-deposit box in Hicksville, New York for sixteen years; and put in a freezer in order to try (unsuccessfully and nearly disastrously) to separate the papyrus pages. Finally the Maecenas Foundation and the National Geographic Society were able to secure the Gospel and the codex for conservation and scholarly study, and the Gospel of Judas was published provisionally in 2006 and in a critical edition in 2007. Additional recovered fragments of the Gospel of Judas were published in 2010.4 Now, with the ancient Gospel of Judas being made available, at last, after being lost for more than sixteen hundred years, scholars may turn once again to Judas Iscariot and accounts of Judas, including the account in the Gospel of Judas, and inquire into the character and the deed of this provocative figure.

1. Judas Iscariot and the Gospel of Judas in Early Christianity Judas Iscariot plays a prominent if fairly negative role in all the New Testament gospels. When the gospels are laid out in their probable chronological order, we may observe a process at work whereby Judas is presented in an increasingly negative way and his character is subjected to more and more vilification and even demonization.5 In the Gospel of Mark (as else2 H. Krosney, The Lost Gospel. The Quest for the Gospel of Judas Iscariot (Washington: National Geographic, 2006). 3 Krosney, The Lost Gospel, p. 10. 4 Krosney, Meyer & Wurst, ‘Preliminary Report on New Fragments of Codex Tchacos’. 5 Cf. Ehrman, The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot; Meyer, Judas.

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where), Judas is one of the Twelve, and he agrees to hand Jesus over (SDUDGLGRQDL) to the high priests. Judas says, ‘The person I shall greet with a kiss is he. Take him into custody and lead him away safely’ (14.44). The motivation of Judas, however, is unclear in Mark, as is the precise nature of his deed. In the Gospel of Matthew, Judas asks for money if he is going to hand Jesus over, and the high priests agree to pay him thirty silver coins (a traditional price for a slave, or for the shepherd king of Zechariah; compare Exod. 21.32, Zech. 11.12–13). At the Last Supper Judas is singled out as the one who will hand Jesus over, and after he does so, he confesses his guilt, hurls the blood money back in the Temple, and goes out and commits suicide by hanging himself. According to Matthew, Judas cries out, ‘I have sinned by handing over a man of innocent blood’ (27.4), and the money he throws back is used to buy the Potter’s Field, called ‘the Field of Blood’, as a cemetery for foreigners (27.7–10). In the Gospel of Luke, Judas is said to be possessed by the devil (‘Satan entered into Judas’, 22.3), and that is why he does his nefarious deed. According to Acts, the end of the life of Judas is horrific. He takes the money he got from handing Jesus over, buys a piece of land, but falls, is disemboweled, and dies. As Luke puts it in Acts, ‘He fell face first, and his body burst open and all his intestines spilled out’ (1.18). According to Acts, that is why the field is called ‘the Field of Blood’ (1.19). In the Gospel of John, Jesus says that Judas is a devil (6.70), and at the Last Supper, after he gives Judas the bread, Satan enters into him (13.27). According to Jesus in John, the only disciple that is lost is Judas, ‘the son of perdition’ (17.12). In the New Testament stories of complaints about wasted perfume, it is said in the Gospel of Mark that ‘some’ complain and in the Gospel of Matthew that ‘the disciples’ complain. (In Lk. 7.36–50, a pericope with a number of similarities and differences, mention is made of Simon the Pharisee.) In the Gospel of John it is Judas who complains, and he voices his objections, John charges, because he is not only a betrayer but a thief as well. ‘Now, he said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief, and as the keeper of the money bag, he would help himself to the money that was put in it’ (12.6). This process of the progressive defamation of Judas Iscariot continues unabated in the subsequent literature of Christianity.6 In the Arabic Infancy Gospel, young Judas is portrayed as filled with the devil as a child, and so he tries to bite Jesus, and when he cannot, he hits Jesus on the right side. Jesus cries, Satan flees, and the text observes with an anti-Jewish flourish, ‘the same side on which Judas hit him is where the Jews pierced him with 6

The following citations and translations of literature on Judas Iscariot are taken from Meyer, Judas, pp.109–38.

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a spear’ (35).7 Papias, in Expositions of the Sayings of the Lord, depicts Judas as bloated and repulsive in appearance, and the piece of his property on which he eventually dies is plagued with a putrid smell from his disgusting bodily fluids (Book 4, fragment 4). In the Narrative of Joseph of Arimathea, Judas is presented as a phony follower of Jesus who accuses Jesus of stealing the law. Sedulius, who aspired to be a Christian Virgil, composed a Paschal Hymn in which he calls Judas ‘bloody, savage, rash, insane, rebellious, faithless, cruel, deceitful, bribable, unjust, cruel betrayer, vicious traitor, merciless thief’ (5.59–61).8 In the Gospel of Bartholomew, Judas’s wife prods him to betray Jesus, so that the money he will get for such a betrayal can finance their life and their house. She in turn is denounced by the baby son of Joseph of Arimathea, who refuses to nurse from her. The little boy cries and says, ‘My father, come here. Take me from the hands of this monster of a woman, for at the ninth hour yesterday they received the price...’ According to the Gospel of Nicodemus, Judas comes home after turning Jesus over to the authorities and asks his wife to help him find a rope to hang himself, since Jesus will certainly come back from the dead and be furious at Judas for what he has done. Judas’s wife, who is roasting a cock over a fire, replies: ‘Don’t speak or think like that. For it is just as possible for this cock roasting over the charcoal fire to crow as for Jesus to rise again, as you are saying.’ At once the cock spreads its wings and crows – and Judas gets a rope and hangs himself. In the Acts of Andrew and Paul, Judas in hell repents and is forgiven by Jesus. (Judas reminds Jesus of his saying to Peter that forgiveness should be extended seven times seventy times, and the betrayal was only a single sin.) When Judas proceeds to worship the devil, he is given his final condemnation (119–22). In the Book of the Resurrection of Christ by Bartholomew the Apostle, Jesus descends into hell and asks, ‘Tell me, Judas, what did you [gain] by handing me, [your master], over to the Jewish dogs?’ The punishments, woes, and torments heaped upon the damned figure of Judas are enumerated in fiendish detail, along with the names of the thirty merciless serpents who devour Judas in hell (3b–5a). Such is the bitter end of Judas ‘the Jew’, whose life and death are described in terms that exhibit a growing desire to interpret Judas as the embodiment of evil, terms that also mirror the rising anti-Semitic sentiments of the Christian church. Meanwhile, sometime around the middle of the second century, a gospel was composed in the name of Judas Iscariot – the Gospel of Judas – and it caused a stir in certain Christian circles. Writing his tract Adversus haereses (Against Heresies) in about 180 CE, Irenaeus of Lyon, bishop of Lyon and a prominent heresiologist, refers to a text, entitled the Gospel of 7 8

In Jn 19.34 it is said that one of the Roman soldiers pierces Jesus’ side with a spear. Translated by P. McBrine, in Meyer, Judas, p. 121.

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Judas, that he found to be an especially pernicious piece of heresy. We may surmise that the text very likely was composed in Greek (the evidence of the Coptic translation of the Gospel of Judas in Codex Tchacos also suggests such a conclusion), and although Irenaeus may not have actually seen or read a copy of the Gospel of Judas, he knew of it, and hence its composition must be dated to a period of time prior to his heresiological account. We would expect that the Gospel of Judas would be subjected to a certain amount of additional modification over the years and that the Coptic translation would vary to an extent from the Greek original. Nevertheless, the Coptic translation of the Gospel of Judas coheres quite well with the admittedly polemical comments of Irenaeus, and Irenaeus’ description outlines scenes that appear especially in the last pages of the Coptic version of the Gospel of Judas, and in the same order: Others say that Cain was from the superior realm of absolute power, and confess that Esau, Korah, the Sodomites, and all such persons are of the same people as themselves; for this reason they have been hated by their maker, although none of them has suffered harm. For Wisdom (Sophia) snatched up out of them whatever belonged to her. And Judas the betrayer was thoroughly acquainted with these things, they say; and he alone was acquainted with the truth as no others were, and so accomplished the mystery of the betrayal. By him all things, both earthly and heavenly, were thrown into dissolution. And they bring forth a fabricated work to this effect, which they entitle the Gospel of Judas.9

As in Irenaeus’s précis, so also in the Gospel of Judas, Judas Iscariot is the recipient of revelation about the mysteries of the universe, and he more than any of the disciples understands the true nature of things. In both Irenaeus and the Gospel of Judas, Judas is said to hand Jesus over with a new and different understanding of the deed, and in both sources this is followed by an apparent end of the affairs of the world, with the overthrow of the archon of this world. The Gospel of Judas, Ireaneus maintains, represents a ‘Gnostic’ point of view – that is the perspective of those people most scholars now refer to as Sethians – and Irenaeus seems to have been quite right, even if he vigorously rejects the Gospel of Judas as heresy. As we now read The Gospel of Judas, it appears to offer an early example of Sethian gnosis, and the portrait of Judas in the Gospel of Judas is essentially positive.10 While the text incorporates Jewish mystical materi9

Translated by Gregor Wurst, in Kasser, Meyer & Wurst, The Gospel of Judas, p.

123. 10

See the discussion in Kasser, Meyer & Wurst, The Gospel of Judas, and Meyer, Judas. On Sethian gnosis, see H.-M. Schenke, ‘Das sethianische System nach NagHammadi-Handschriften’, in P. Nagel (ed.), Studia Coptica (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1974), pp. 165–72; J. D. Turner, ‘Sethian Gnosticism: A Literary History’, in C. W. Hedrick and R. Hodgson, Jr. (eds.), Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity (Peabody, Massachusetts: Hendrickson, 1986), pp. 55–86; J. D. Turner, Sethian Gnosti-

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als, probably representative of Jewish Sethian gnosis, and Greek perspectives, chiefly recalling Plato and Platonic thought, as it currently stands the Gospel of Judas is a Christian Gnostic text which features an exalted Jesus as a revealer of knowledge and Judas Iscariot as the recipient of Jesus’ teachings. The Gospel of Judas opens with an incipit that discloses what the text is and who the protagonists within the text are: ‘The secret revelatory discourse that Jesus spoke with Judas Iscariot in the course of a week, three days before he observed Passover’ (33).11 The Gospel account goes on to set forth a scene in which Jesus happens upon the disciples as they are celebrating a holy meal reminiscent of a Jewish meal or even the Christian Eucharist, and he laughs. Jesus laughs a great deal in the Gospel of Judas, as he laughs in other Gnostic texts, such as the Secret Book of John, the Sophia of Jesus Christ, the Second Treatise of the Great Seth, the Revelation of Peter, the writings of Basilides according to Irenaeus, and perhaps the ‘Round Dance of the Cross’ in the Acts of John (but never in the New Testament gospels). In the Gospel of Judas Jesus seems to laugh at the foibles and absurdities of life as they come to expression, in particular, among the disciples. In this instance the disciples protest against the laughter of Jesus, but Jesus responds by stating, as he does elsewhere in the Gospel of Judas, that he is not laughing at them. Rather, he is laughing at their actions, which are undertaken in order to please their God and do his will. The disciples answer, ‘Master you . . . are the son of our God’ (34), but the reply of Jesus implies that they are unaware of who he truly is. At this rejoinder of Jesus, the disciples become infuriated, and Jesus invites them to step forward and stand face to face with him. They all are unable to face Jesus, however, except for Judas Iscariot, who stands before Jesus but averts his face in respect. Then Judas utters the correct (Sethian) confession of who Jesus is. He says to Jesus, ‘I know who you are and from what place you have come. You have come from the immortal realm of Barbelo, and I am not worthy to pronounce the name of the one who has sent you’ (35). In the following scenes in the Gospel of Judas, Jesus speaks privately with Judas and also appears to and converses with the disciples as a group. Earlier in the text Jesus laughs at the celebration of the holy meal with eucharistic features; now he offers a resounding critique of sacrifice, as that is advocated in the emerging orthodox church. These portions of the Gospel seem to oppose a sacrificial understanding of the death of Jesus in the faith and life of Christians as it manifests itself in the Christology and sotecism and the Platonic Tradition (Québec: Presses de l’Université Laval; Louvain: Peeters, 2001). 11 The translation of passages from the Gospel of Judas is from Meyer, Judas, pp. 45– 66, slightly updated and revised.

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riology of the great church, the celebration of the holy Eucharist, and – according to E. Pagels and K. King – the experience of martyrdom as a sacrifice that emulates the sacrifice of Christ on the cross.12 In the strongly worded charges of the Gospel of Judas, the church officials who proclaim a sacrificial ideology are ministers of error. Jesus is made to declare, [Your minister (?)]13 will stand and use my name in this manner, and generations of pious people will cling to him. After him another man will come forward from [those who are immoral], and another [will] come from the child-killers, and another from those who have sex with men, and those who abstain, and the rest of those who are impure and lawless and prone to error, as well as those who say, ‘We are like angels’; they are the stars that bring everything to its end (40).

Several other encounters between Jesus and Judas occur in the Gospel of Judas. In one scene Judas recounts his own vision of the end of his life, and he describes another – third – way (after Matthew and Acts) in which his life may come to an end: he sees himself being stoned to death (44–45). Judas asks about his own fate, and Jesus answers, You will be the thirteenth, and you will be cursed by the other generations, but eventually you will rule over them. In the last days they to you, and you will not ascend up to the holy [generation] (46–47).14

In the longest single scene of the Gospel of Judas, Jesus takes Judas aside and reveals to him cosmological secrets of the world and the place of the divine in the evolution, or devolution, of the divine light. (It is evident that the cosmological revelation is Jewish in origin, and it has been lightly Christianized and put on the lips of Jesus in the Gospel of Judas.)15 In the Gospel Jesus opens the revelation by inviting Judas to contemplate the glory of the infinite realm: [Come], that I may teach you about the things ... [that] no person (?) will see. For there is a great and infinite realm, whose dimensions no angelic generation could see, [in] which is the great invisible [Spirit], which no eye of angel has seen, no thought of the mind has grasped, nor was it called by a name (47).16

In the long revelation that ensues, Jesus depicts the unfolding of the universe in a series of emanations and creations of divinity from the exalted world above down to our world below. The divine light shines down into 12

Pagels & King, Reading Judas, pp. 59–75. The restoration of the lacuna remains tentative. 14 The restoration of the conclusion of this passage is difficult. It may be that here Jesus is telling Judas that the others will attempt to do something to him to keep him from ascending to the holy generation, but there are problems in the proposals for restoration. The suggestion that the passage, though difficult, is corrupt and requires emendation should please no one. More scholarly attention needs to be given to this passage. 15 See the discussion in Meyer, Judas, pp. 47–49. 16 Cf. 1 Cor. 2.9; Gospel of Thomas 17; etc. 13

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this world, and Jesus explains how the transcendent deity, the great invisible Spirit (a Sethian designation of the highest manifestation of the divine) reveals itself through Autogenes (the Self-Generated or Self-Conceived), as well as a host of heavenly angels, luminaries, aeons, heavens, and firmaments, and among the glorious beings is Adamas, heavenly Adam. At last the creation of the universe extends to the corruptible world, the cosmos, called ‘corruption’, and the demiurgic powers responsible for the shaping of this world are named Nebro, Yaldabaoth, and Sakla (or Saklas), all names derived from Aramaic and all familiar from other Sethian texts. In this way the light from above enters this dim world and finds its place, it seems, in the generation of Seth, called ‘that generation’ in the Gospel of Judas. Yet there is hope for the light and for people of light in this world. As Jesus tells Judas in the Gospel of Judas, ‘God caused knowledge (gnosis) to be [granted] to Adam and those who are with him, so that the kings of chaos and the underworld might not dominate them’ (54). Near the end of the Gospel of Judas, in the middle of a papyrus page on which recovered fragments have filled a number of significant lacunae, Jesus turns to Judas and says, ‘But you will exceed all of them. For you will sacrifice the man who bears me’ (56). While alternative interpretations of this passage have been proposed by a few scholars,17 the most likely interpretation seems to be that Jesus says Judas will hand him over the authorities, but what he will hand over – or sacrifice, in the language of the Gospel of Judas and the great church – is only the mortal man who bears the true inner person of Jesus. The real Jesus will not be crucified at all. In the text Judas lifts up his eyes and envisions the cloud of light, and Jesus enters the light.18 (The final fate of Judas remains somewhat uncertain in the text, I grant, largely on account of obscure passages throughout the Gospel.) In an understated conclusion to the Gospel of Judas, Judas does exactly what Jesus says he will do: ‘Judas received some money and handed him over to them’ (58). Thus, without further ado, ends the Gospel of Judas. In stark contrast to most of the other early Christian texts dealing with Judas Iscariot, the Gospel of Judas announces that Judas is the only disciple who understands Jesus, the main disciple who receives revelatory wisdom from Jesus, and the disciple who, at the conclusion of the account, 17

Cf. DeConick, The Thirteenth Apostle; Scopello, The Gospel of Judas in Context; discussion in Meyer, Judas, pp. 50–52. 18 Here the text reads, ‘Judas lifted up his eyes and beheld the cloud of light, and he entered it’ (57). The antecedent of the pronominal subject of the verb in the clause ‘he entered it’ (% $!") could conceivably be Judas, but most likely it is understood to be Jesus (also suggested by S. Arai, G. Schenke Robinson, and B. Pearson, in conversations). Now, on the basis of the recovered fragments of the Gospel of Judas, the conclusion that it is Jesus who enters the cloud of light is confirmed.

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does what Jesus says he will do. To be sure, questions remain about the interpretation of Judas in the Gospel of Judas, but the portrait of Judas in this gospel is surprisingly positive. It may be possible that the thoroughly positive portrayal of a disciple simply referred to as Judas in the Nag Hammadi Dialogue of the Savior may also designate Judas Iscariot as a disciple close to Jesus, but, as I have argued elsewhere, it is more likely that the Judas of the Dialogue of the Savior is thought to be Judas Thomas, the twin of Jesus in the Gospel of Thomas, the Thomas the Contender, and the Acts of Thomas.19 Be that as it may, the figure of Judas in the Gospel of Judas provides us the opportunity to turn back to the presentation of Judas in the New Testament gospels, and examine hints found there which suggest that in a number of respects the Gospel of Judas may agree with very early Christian traditions in assuming a more positive role for the much maligned Judas Iscariot.

2. Judas Iscariot and the Historical Jesus The New Testament gospels, we have noted, interpret the person and the deed of Judas Iscariot with escalating negativity and hostility as time passes, and this interpretive tendency is maintained through early Christian literature on into subsequent periods of time, but within the New Testament accounts there are subtle hints that would suggest a different, more positive Judas in earlier Christian traditions. Judas Iscariot is listed as one of the Twelve in the New Testament lists of the twelve male disciples in the inner circle around Jesus (Mk 3.13–19; Mt. 10.2–4; Lk. 6.14–16), and he is said to be the son of Simon Iscariot and one of the Twelve in the Gospel of John (6.70–71). Although I judge that the concept of the Twelve is a theological construct of the early church rather than an organizational feature of the kingdom movement in the life of the historical Jesus and the young men and women following him, the consistent mention made of Judas Iscariot as one of the Twelve is an admission that Judas was traditionally considered to be a favorite disciple and friend of Jesus. In the New Testament Judas is chosen, or called, to be a special disciple of the master, with eleven other special disciples. The Gospel of John goes on to mention that within this inner group of disciples Judas is entrusted with the care of whatever funds Jesus and the disciples had access to, even though John as-

19

M. Meyer, The Gnostic Discoveries. The Impact of the Nag Hammadi Library (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2005); M. Meyer, The Gnostic Gospels of Jesus. The Definitive Collection of Mystical Gospels and Secret Books about Jesus of Nazareth (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2005).

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sumes the worst when he charges that Judas would help himself to the coins in the money bag (12.6). Judas Iscariot is present at the Last Supper in all the New Testament gospel accounts (Mk 14.17–21; Mt. 26.20–25; Lk. 22.14, 21–23; Jn 13.21– 30). It may also be implied that he has his feet washed by Jesus, with the other disciples, in the footwashing scene in Jn 13.1–20. According to Mark and Matthew, at the Last Supper Jesus notes that Judas, the one who will hand him over, is dipping into the bowl with him (Mk 14.20; Mt. 26.23); Luke has Jesus say that Judas’s hand is with him on the table (Lk. 22.21), and John states that Jesus dips the bread and gives it to Judas (Jn 13.26). Do these accounts of the Last Supper presuppose that Judas is sitting close to Jesus, maybe next to Jesus, perhaps as one of his very closest friends? John continues in his account by pointing out that Jesus turns to Judas and says, ‘What you are going to do, do quickly’ (13.27). Could this intimate some knowledge of the plans for Judas to hand Jesus over, and possibly complicity on the part of Jesus? If Judas kissed Jesus in the garden, is that nothing more – and nothing less – than a greeting between good friends, as such a greeting continues to be practiced to the present day, but a greeting that has been interpreted in Christian literature, from the New Testament gospels to modern literary works, as a kiss of betrayal? The deed of Judas, understood as betrayal in many texts and traditions, is ordinarily described in Greek texts (including those in the New Testament) with the Greek verb SDUDGLGRQDL, and as W. Klassen reminds us in his important study on Judas Iscariot, Judas. Betrayer or Friend of Jesus?, SDUDGLGRQDL does not necessarily, or typically, carry the negative connotation of the suggested English translation ‘betray’.20 Literally SDUDGLGRQDL means ‘give over’ or ‘hand over’, in the sense of giving or handing over teachings, values, traditions, opinions, people, or oneself, without any assumption of betrayal. After surveying the evidence in classical literature, the Septuagint, Josephus, and patristic sources, Klassen judges that there is no linguistic foundation for translating SDUDGLGRQDL as ‘betray’ in order to depict the deed of Judas. Klassen states that ‘whatever Judas did, the earliest Christians did not view it as a betrayal of Jesus or of their faith community’.21 The evidence of Paul and his usage of the verb SDUDGLGRQDL may substantiate this analysis. Paul never mentions Judas by name in his letters, but he does refer, without qualification, to the Twelve, as if he may not know of the tradition about the elimination of Judas and the addition of Matthias to complete the circle of the Twelve (compare Acts 1.13–26). In 20 W. Klassen, Judas. Betrayer or Friend of Jesus? (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), pp. 41–61. 21 Klassen, Judas, p. 58.

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his repetition of the Christological creed in 1 Cor. 15.3–5, Paul admits that he ‘handed over’ to the Corinthian Christians what he also received, and the verb he employs for this act of handing over the Christian creedal formulation is SDUHGZND. Paul says the same sort of thing earlier, in 1 Cor. 11.23–24, when he states that he ‘handed over’ what he received from the Lord, and again the verb is SDUHGZND. In the same passage (v. 23), Paul declares that ‘on the night when he was handed over (SDUHGLGHWR)’ Jesus celebrated the Last Supper, but although Paul continues to make use of the verb in question, he does not indicate who, in his belief, handed Jesus over. In other passages Paul does clarify this point. According to Gal. 2.19–20, Jesus handed himself over (SDUDGRQWRY), and according to Rom. 8.31– 32, God handed Jesus over (SDUHGZNHQ). In Paul there is no obvious sense of Judas handing Jesus over, and certainly no sense of betrayal. For Paul, the act of handing over, described with the verb SDUDGLGRQDL, is a positive act in the story of salvation. If for Paul and perhaps other early Christian authors the handing over of Jesus may not be attributed after all to an infamous act of betrayal on the part of Judas Iscariot, what if anything did Judas do? In his close reading of the New Testament texts, done before he had access to the Gospel of Judas, Klassen outlines five historical conclusions that he suggests may help us understand the nature of the deed of Judas with regard to the historical Jesus. I quote Klassen at some length: 1. Judas officially met the high priest and his associates and agreed to assist them in meeting Jesus. 2. Both parties wanted to minimize the risk of open conflict in any showdown between Jesus and the authorities, a showdown that appeared more and more inevitable. 3. It is certainly possible that Judas became convinced, after discussion with Jesus himself, that an opportunity to meet with the high priest and those in authority in the Temple needed to be arranged. Jesus’ own teaching had stressed that when a fellow Jew sins, one speaks to him directly about it (Matt 18.15–20//Luke 17.3). Jesus had practiced this manner of collegial rebuke with his disciples, most notably with Peter (Matt 16.23), but also with James and John (Luke 9.56). Had the time come for him to confront the high priest? Perhaps Judas knew the high priest well enough to be able to arrange such an encounter, or had the courage to bring together two of God’s appointed leaders. Possibly he assumed that such an encounter could and would resolve their differences. If Judas was indeed a disciple concerned about financial matters, he would have been sensitive to the financial needs of the Temple in a way that Jesus might not have been. He may have thought that, by meeting Temple authorities, Jesus could become better disposed toward the traditional way in which changes were made in the Temple and that Caiaphas could get a better understanding of the reform program Jesus had in mind for the renewal of Israel. 4. Judas would have no difficulty justifying this approach on the basis of Jewish practice, which not only allowed but also encouraged such an approach, if not an informer system. The high priest needed to know what Jesus was teaching, especially if

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threats, even veiled threats, had been made against the Temple or the establishment that ran it. 5. Judas brought to the high priests the message that Jesus himself was now ready for an encounter and that he was speaking more often about his impending ‘handing over’ to death. Having been told by Jesus to do what he had to do quickly, Judas could have assured the high priests that Jesus would not offer resistance, nor would he encourage his followers to resist his arrest.22

Klassen brings his discussion to a close with a strong statement of the seemingly benign character of the deed of Judas and the negative way that deed has been interpreted in the life of the church: What precisely was Judas’s contribution? I submit that in the grand scheme of things, it was quite modest. In discussions with Jesus, he had often heard Jesus criticize the Temple hierarchy. When Judas reminded Jesus that his own advice had always been to rebuke the sinner directly, Jesus may have said that an occasion to confront the high priest directly had not appeared. Perhaps at that point Judas offered to arrange it, hoping that the process of rebuke would work. At the same time, he may have questioned Jesus about his own faithfulness to his mission. All of this could have led to a plan whereby Judas would arrange a meeting with Jesus and the high priest, each agreeing to that meeting on their own terms and with their own hopes for the outcome. This role in the ‘handing over’ was later transformed into a more sinister one, especially after Judas died at his own hand. Whether the reader is able to accept this interpretation of the earliest traditions available to us, I submit that it is at least as plausible as the very negative view of Judas that still pervades the church but rests on a very shaky foundation.23

Whether or not we choose to embrace this scenario proposed by Klassen, even as he himself states – and I for one am reluctant to buy into some of the details of his hypothetical reconstruction of historical events – a reasonable case can be made for Judas as a good and faithful disciple of Jesus in a number of the earliest Christian traditions, perhaps going back to the historical Jesus. It may well be that Jesus himself had a disciple and friend named Judas, Yehuda, ‘praised’, even as he seems to have had a brother of the same name. Within the lists of the Twelve, however, in Lk. 6.16 and Acts 1.13 (and only in Luke and Acts), there is another Judas, Judas the son of James, and the presence of two disciples named Judas in these lists may in fact raise questions about whether Judas Iscariot was an actual disciple of the historical Jesus or a literary creation in the gospel accounts.24 22

Klassen, Judas, pp. 68–69. Klassen, Judas, p. 74. 24 B. Pearson reports (‘Judas Iscariot and the Gospel of Judas’ [Claremont: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 2007], p. 2): ‘In a forthcoming commentary on the Gospel of Mark Dennis R. MacDonald argues that Mark based his list of the twelve on an earlier list found in the sayings source Q (cf. Luke 6:12–16), to which he added the name Iscariot and the phrase “who betrayed him”.’ Thus there never was a Judas Iscariot, according to MacDonald, only another Judas and a reworked Melanthius (see below). 23

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Still, as Klassen proposes, the figure of Judas may be thought to have originated in a more positive fashion as an historical or a literary figure in the company of the disciples gathered around Jesus in the earliest Christian traditions. What occurred, then, to transform this positive figure of Judas into the wicked betrayer of Jesus in so much of Christian literature? I submit that there may be three sets of considerations that help to account for the marginalization of Judas Iscariot within early Christian and later Christian literature: literary, Christological, and political considerations. Literarily speaking, the developing story of Judas the betrayer of Jesus is a gripping tale of intrigue, passion, and treachery that has much in common with other such dramatic takes in world literature. The Gospel of John cites Psalm 41 (Jn 13.18) as the literary precedent for Judas sharing food with Jesus and turning against Jesus. D. MacDonald is convinced that the story of the traitor Melanthius the goatherd in the Odyssey lies behind the story of Judas the betrayer.25 Doubtless one of the traitors most likely to come to mind among early Christian authors who were trying to recall traditional betrayers would be Judah the brother of Joseph, who in Genesis 37 is said to have come up with the idea of selling Joseph to the Ishmaelites for twenty shekels of silver. In Hebrew Judah is named Yehuda, in the Greek of the Septuagint he bears the name Judas. Indeed, I am convinced a strong argument can be made that substantial elements of the story of Judas Iscariot as betrayer have been adopted and adapted from the tale of Judah brother of Joseph as betrayer. Such a memorable story of betrayal, also featuring a person named Judah or Judas, must have helped to shape – or even create – the story of Judas Iscariot as betrayer of Jesus.26 The Christological issues surrounding the passion narrative are extraordinarily complex, and one of these issues has to do with how Jesus approaches his death. Paul, we have seen, maintains that God hands Jesus over to death or Jesus hands himself over – ‘for me’, Paul writes (Gal. 2.20), or ‘for all of us’ (Rom. 8.32). That the death of Jesus was considered by many early Christians to be in accordance with the will of God and the 25

D. R. MacDonald, The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000). 26 Cf. the discussion in J. S. Spong, Liberating the Gospels. Reading the Gospels with Jewish Eyes (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), 257–76. Here it may be noted, on these two figures named Judas, that A. DeConick has suggested that a green gem (conserved at the Cabinet des Médailles, Paris) with a leontocephalic power in Roman military garb holding a sword and the Gorgon’s head, with the name IOUDAS on the reverse side, might designate Judas Iscariot and be linked to the Gospel of Judas, but the gemologist A. Mastrocinque has definitively shown (‘Studies in Gnostic Gems: The Gem of Judah’, JSJ 33 [2002], pp. 164–70) that the Judas in mind on the gem must rather be Judas or Judah son of Jacob, the lion-like warrior in whose name such green stone gems were engraved.

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words of the Jewish Scriptures may be taken for granted. But Jesus willingly going to death, for whatever inspiring reasons, may require careful theological reflection, lest the death of Jesus take on features of suicide. If Jesus is an innocent victim, as is emphasized in Lk. 23.47 and throughout much of Christian theological thought, there must be some compelling reason that caused him, historically, to be delivered up to be crucified. Part of the answer to such concerns is provided by the figure of Judas the betrayer. Jesus was crucified because his own good friend Judas turned him in. The Christological tension that remains in this narrative account – Jesus went willingly, yet Judas turned him in – is already alluded to in the New Testament gospels, where Mark has Jesus say that ‘the Son of Humanity is departing, as it is written of him, but woe to that person (meaning Judas) by whom the Son of Humanity is handed over. It would have been better for that person if he had not been born’ (Mk 14.21). In terms of political considerations, the author of the Gospel of Mark and the other authors of the gospels and early Christian texts faced a difficult and uncomfortable dilemma. The historical Jesus was executed by the Roman officials who employed the Roman means of capital punishment – crucifixion – to put Jesus to death. This was a political fact. As the years passed, early Christians found themselves living and working more and more in the cities and towns of the very Roman Empire that was ultimately responsible for the crucifixion of Jesus. I believe, with other scholars, that the solution to this dilemma may be recognized in what is written in the New Testament gospel accounts of the passion of Jesus. In these texts, the blame for the crucifixion of Jesus is shifted from Pilate the Roman procurator and the rest of the Romans to the Jewish leaders or, in John, simply ‘the Jews’.27 Pilate listens to the words of his sensitive wife, washes his hands of the whole situation, and pronounces Jesus, and himself, to be innocent. In Mt. 27.25, all the Jewish people in the crowd are made to utter the outrageous and inflammatory words against Jesus, and themselves, ‘His blood be upon us and on our children’. I suggest that the role of Judas the betrayer, whose very name recalls the word for ‘Jew’, is meant to address the same issue, and it does so in a similar way. Already in the New Testament, Judas, the bad ‘Jew’, is blamed for betraying his master because of his malice and his greed, and as the years and centuries pass, Judas becomes more and more of a focal point in Christian art and literature for anti-Semitic sentiments.

27

Cf. J. D. Crossan, Who Killed Jesus? Exposing the Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Gospel Story of the Death of Jesus (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1995).

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3. From Jesus and Judas to the Gospel of Judas: Continuity or Discontinuity? In the Judas traditions we have explored, from the New Testament texts through other early Christian literature, including the Gospel of Judas, we have seen a number of points of continuity and discontinuity. Beginning, somewhat subtly, with the Gospel of Mark, going on through the other New Testament gospels, and becoming more accentuated in later traditions, as in Dante and beyond, the presentations of Judas as the fickle friend of Jesus who does his master wrong form a continuous but intensifying set of interpretations within the religion and culture of developing Christianity, and eventually Judas becomes the poster boy for antiSemitism. A rather different line of interpretation seems evident in the Gospel of Judas, and this interpretation, conceded by Irenaeus in his exposé of the Gospel of Judas, may also be detected in early traditions lurking in the lines of the New Testament gospels. The question of whether a more positive interpretation of the disciple named Judas in the Dialogue of the Savior informs the figure of Judas Iscariot is, as noted, quite uncertain. It is not at all clear that the author of the Gospel of Judas was directly acquainted with the written texts of the New Testament gospels – for example, the Gospel of Judas seems to suggest an altogether different cause of death for Judas from either of the accounts of Judas’s demise in the New Testament – but the conclusion of the Gospel of Judas resembles fairly closely aspects of the New Testament stories of the handing over of Jesus, so that the author of the Gospel of Judas must have been familiar with earlier Christian accounts known from oral traditions if not from written texts. The Gospel of Judas was written with the knowledge that Judas Iscariot was rejected by other disciples (the Twelve, or the Eleven) and by other early Christians, and that factor may be one of the reasons why Judas is dubbed ‘the thirteenth’ in the Gospel of Judas (44–46).28 The Gospel of Judas also seems to cite an aphoristic saying reminiscent of the parable of the sower (‘Nobody can sow seed on [rock] and harvest its produce’, 43– 44), known from the New Testament synoptic gospels, the Gospel of 28

Judas as the thirteenth may also be related to the Sethian tradition (cf. the Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit and Zostrianos) of the world below as the realm of thirteen aeons, with the ruler of the world, or demiurge, being understood as holding court from the thirteenth aeon. The thirteenth aeon is referred to, dozens of times, in the Pistis Sophia and the Books of Jeu, where the thirteenth aeon functions in a much more positive way as the home of Sophia and ‘the place of righteousness’, for which Sophia longs and to which she is destined to return. The connection between Judas and Sophia in Gnostic literature, alluded to in Irenaeus of Lyon, merits further study.

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Thomas, and other Christian sources, and the Coptic text of the Gospel of Judas preserves the same Greek word (#$) for the ‘guest room’ (58) as Mark (14.14) and Luke (22.11), and the same Greek word (!$, a form of SDUDGLGRQDL) for ‘hand over’ to denote the deed of Judas (58) as the New Testament gospels and many early Christian documents. Whatever might be the literary relationship between the Gospel of Judas and the New Testament gospels, this recently recovered gospel continues to proclaim themes regarding Jesus and Judas that may derive from some of the earliest Christian traditions. Three such themes may be mentioned here. First, before there was a crucifixion or any gospel of the cross, there was Jesus of Nazareth, ‘just “Jesus”’,29 the teacher, rabbi, and exorcist from the Galilee, and this person of Jesus apart from the cross reflects the historical Jesus and the Jesus of the Gospel of Judas. A theology of the cross is imposed as the interpretive key to understanding Jesus in all four of the New Testament gospels, and these gospels all function, with their differences, as passion stories with long introductions (to repeat the famous line).30 In the New Testament gospels we are well on the way to understanding the death of Jesus as the decisive point in the life of Jesus, as a sacrifice for the sins of people. The Gospel of Judas disagrees vigorously with any such gospel of the cross, and it polemicizes strongly against the thought that salvation is based on sacrifice. Instead, the Gospel of Judas presents Jesus as the ‘rabbi’ ([ !], 43, a restoration made somewhat more secure by the other instances of this Jewish title in Codex Tchacos) and ‘master’ (" , perhaps a Coptic translation of ‘rabbi’?) who teaches the disciples and especially Judas the mysteries of the kingdom and the secrets of the universe. The career of Jesus as a whole is summarized in these terms at the beginning of the Gospel of Judas, and it is said in the incipit and opening paragraph that Jesus is a teacher and wonder-worker. According to the Gospel, Jesus conversed with Judas Iscariot in particular during the last week of his earthly life, and he said and did things ‘for the salvation of humankind’ (33). When in the text he is about to be crucified, the Gospel of Judas states, Judas will perform the deed of handing Jesus over, only what is to be handed over is not the real, inner Jesus but the man of flesh who bears Jesus. The handing over of Jesus will result in sacrifice, to

29 The phrase is from S. J. Patterson, in S. J. Patterson, J. M. Robinson and H.-G. Bethge, The Fifth Gospel. The Gospel of Thomas Comes of Age (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1998), p. 45. 30 M. Kähler, Der sogenannte historische Jesus und der geschichtliche, biblische Christus (Leipzig: Deichert, 1956), p. 60.

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be sure, but this sacrifice has no salvific value, and Jesus does not die for the sins of the world in the Gospel of Judas. Second, in recent discussions of the historical Jesus, many scholars, including myself, have opted for the model of Jesus as a teacher of wisdom, and that is the way Jesus is presented in much of the Gospel of Judas. The word ‘wisdom’ (Greek, VRILD) is used only once in the Gospel of Judas (44), and there is no full-blown Sophia myth on the surviving pages of the text, but the Gospel of Judas may be said to proclaim a gospel of wisdom with a Sethian Gnostic emphasis. The central message of the Gospel of Judas is to be located in the revelatory teaching of Jesus about the origin of the divine light and the expansion of that light into this world. To the extent that Jesus is first and foremost an exalted teacher of wisdom and gnosis in the Gospel of Judas, Judas’s Jesus has much in common with the Jesus of Q, the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Mary, and other texts with wisdom (and Gnostic) perspectives – and this Jesus may resemble to an extent the historical Jesus as Jewish sage. (In previous publications I have attempted to trace more fully the development from the wisdom interests of the historical Jesus and the wisdom literature of Jewish traditions on to the personified figure of Wisdom in Jewish and Christian contexts and Sophia and friends in Gnostic texts.31) Further, in the Gospel of Judas we may be able to identify possible agrapha, as a few colleagues have already noticed (compare, for example, ‘A baker cannot feed all of creation that is under [heaven]’, 41–42, in the form of an aphorism32; compare also the aphoristic saying, mentioned above, ‘Nobody can sow seed on [rock] and harvest its produce’, 43–44), and the common introduction to sayings of Jesus (‘I tell you the truth’, often with ) is reminiscent of the style of speech commonly assumed to be characteristic of Jesus the teacher. In his conversations Jesus frequently laughs in the Gospel of Judas, and although he is not depicted laughing in the New Testament gospels, the humor and wit of his sayings and his demeanor are evident, and have been commented upon by scholars. The Sethian Gnostic content of much of the teaching of Jesus in the Gospel of Judas recalls features of Jewish Sethian gnosis and Jewish mysticism, for example as Jewish mysticism is known from the later traditions of Kabbalah. The presence of Jewish mystical expressions coming from the mouth of Jesus in the Gospel of Judas may serve to reopen the discussion of whether the historical Jesus may be seen finding his place, to an extent, within the world of first-century Jewish mystical piety. Third, the more positive place of Judas Iscariot in the Gospel of Judas (recall also Irenaeus) and the insinuations of a positive Judas in the world 31

See, for example, Meyer, The Gnostic Discoveries. In the recovered fragments of the Gospel of Judas the lines that precede this aphoristic saying are of a similar form. 32

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of the New Testament gospels may suggest a fresh interpretive approach to the study of the passion narratives and the last days in the life of the historical Jesus. This fresh approach may have important theological implications. Could the author of the Gospel of Judas have fashioned the portrayal of Judas from hints he or she perceived in the New Testament gospels or similar sources or oral tradition? It may well be as likely, probably more likely, that the place of Judas in the Gospel of Judas is part of the Sethian Gnostic strategy to select marginalized figures from biblical antiquity and promote them as the heroes of radical gnosis. Any figures – Cain, Esau, Korah, the people of Sodom, Judas Iscariot – who were despised by the archon of this world must be worthy of praise and admiration! In his comments on the Gnostics and the Gospel of Judas, Irenaeus implies that this is the case. Judas Iscariot in the Gospel of Judas is the focus of the Sethian Gnostic interests of the text, and Jesus is the exalted revealer of Sethian gnosis. However these figures in the Gospel of Judas may show continuity with Jesus and Judas in very early Christian traditions, even going back, it may be, to the world of the historical Jesus, they have been employed by the author of the Gospel of Judas to address key issues faced within the brave new world of second-century Sethian thought.33 Thus, the Gospel of Judas takes its place as a valuable text for our knowledge of second-century Christianity and Christian beginnings. Known until recently only by title and brief heresiological critique, the Gospel of Judas may now be read and studied and used for our evaluation of the early history of the Christian tradition. The end result of such research should mean that light will be produced – light shed on the early history of Sethian gnosis, the first couple of centuries of the Christian movement, and the development, with both continuity and innovation, from Jesus of Nazareth to the early church. That, from a gospel that features the central place of light and enlightenment, may turn out to be the greatest deed of Judas Iscariot.

33

A. DeConick, in The Thirteenth Apostle, has provided a revisionist interpretation of Judas Iscariot in the Gospel of Judas, and she proposes that Judas is actually the thirteenth demon and a lackey of the demiurge Yaldabaoth in the text. As such, DeConick suggests, the portrait of Judas in the Gospel of Judas is thoroughly negative, and it may be based on the presentation of the demons in the Gospel of Mark, where the demons, like Judas in the present text, know who Jesus is. This is the reason, DeConick concludes, that Jesus laughs sardonically at Judas and the other disciples in the Gospel of Judas. DeConick thus sees the Gospel of Judas as an ancient Gnostic parody, and she posits that it is Judas who ends up in the cloud of light, with the demiurge, at the end of the text – a point refuted by the recovered fragments. Needless to say, her argument is difficult to maintain.

Jesus, Gnosis, and the Church RIEMER ROUKEMA

In western countries it is often suggested that the ‘Gnostic’ portrayal of Jesus is, historically speaking, as reliable or as probable as the early mainstream (‘catholic’) view of Jesus, or even more reliable and more probable. This suggestion is being put forward both by authors who work on a popular level and by scholars who popularize the results of their academic research. Since the influence of authors who only publish papers and books on a popular level is often limited to the countries in whose languages they write, I will react to two scholars, E. Pagels and B. Ehrman, who publish in English both on an academic and a popular level, and whose books are translated in other languages. Thus they exert an influence on a worldwide audience.1 In reaction to their suggestive interpretations of some Gnostic texts, I intend to investigate briefly how we should evaluate the continuity as well as the discontinuity between the historical Jesus and the different traditions – ‘catholic’ and ‘Gnostic’ – which referred to him.

1. Definitions First I will provide some rough definitions of the terms Gnosticism (or: Gnosis) and ‘mainstream’ or ‘catholic’ Christianity. On the one hand, we must be aware of the elusiveness of the terms ‘Gnosis’, ‘Gnostic’, and ‘Gnosticism’. In the second and third centuries there was no such thing as an organized ‘Gnostic religion’, until Mani founded his religion in the late third century – and even Manichaeans did not characterize themselves as ‘Gnostics’. On the other hand, early mainstream Christianity which emerged in the second and third centuries and which was organized in the catholic Church also displayed an impressive diversity. But in spite of the fluidity of the boundaries I still think that the general distinction can be made. One may appreciate M. Williams’s penetrating book, Rethinking

1 For a broader argument of this paper I refer to my book Jesus, Gnosis and Dogma (London: T&T Clark, 2010); in Dutch: Jezus, de gnosis en het dogma (Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2007).

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“Gnosticism”. An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category,2 but it appears that his proposal to use the term ‘biblical demiurgical’ traditions, as an alternative for the traditions usually called ‘Gnostic’,3 was not received with open arms by other scholars. 1.1. ‘Gnosticism’ There are two important aspects which characterize Gnosticism or Gnosis. First, Gnostics are often critical about the Old Testament and its God and angels, called Yahweh, Yaldabaoth, Sabaoth, Samael, or Saklas (‘Fool’); in their view, this God or his angels created the world and the material bodies of human beings. Instead, they refer to a higher, far more transcendent God who was not involved in the creation of this material world, who is merely spiritual, and who is characterized by his eternal or noetic light. Second, next to this theological dualism there is an anthropological dualism, for in the Gnostic view a human being consists of a material body created by the Old Testament Creator or Demiurge, or by his angels, and of a divine element, the mind or the soul, sometimes called a spark, which originates from the high, true God. In Christian Gnosticism, Jesus is considered a messenger or the Son of the true God who is interested in the salvation of all the divine elements that have been scattered in the bodies of human beings, whereas he is mostly rather critical about the Old Testament God. These traditions come to light in various forms in many of the Nag Hammadi writings, e.g., the Apocryphon of John, the Testimony of Truth, the Hypostasis of the Archons, and the Origin of the World. They are confirmed by the testimonies of Church Fathers like Irenaeus of Lyons, Clement of Alexandria, and Hippolytus of Rome. We also find these characteristics in the newly discovered Gospel of Judas. It is a matter of dispute whether the Gospel of Thomas also belongs to the Gnostic tradition. Although the Gospel of Thomas does not contain any explicit reference to the Old Testament God as an inferior deity, it does contain a very critical saying about the Old Testament in which Jesus calls the prophets ‘the dead’ 2

M. A. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”. An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). Another critical approach of the term Gnosticism can be found in K. L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge & London: Harvard University Press, 2003). She expects that in the end the term will most likely be abandoned (p. 218). A. H. B. Logan, The Gnostics. Identifying an Early Christian Cult (London, T&T Clark, 2006), argues on the basis of descriptions of contemporaries like Irenaeus, Celsus and Porphyry, that the term ‘Gnostics’ should be reserved to those who formed a deviant non-schismatic cult movement, like the Sethians, and that those who formed a schismatic religious movement although remaining within the church (‘the non-deviant religious tradition’), like the Valentinians, are not to be called ‘Gnostics’. 3 Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”, p. 265.

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(Gospel of Thomas 52). This strong devaluation of Israel’s prophets shows that as far as criticism of the Old Testament is concerned, this Gospel aligns with other Gnostic texts. In Gospel of Thomas 21, the owners of the field represent the archons who reclaim authority over the material world, and logion 50 contains a dialogue of the souls of the deceased who have to face the archons who want to prevent them from ascending to the living Father. Even though the Gospel of Thomas does not contain a fully-fledged Gnostic theology, it is my conviction that it is related to the more elaborate Gnostic traditions;4 at least one can say that it is an esoteric Gospel which generally has a negative view of the human body and the material world.5 For this reason I will include it in my argument. A common element in all these texts is that they present or allude to an esoteric, mystical knowledge into which ordinary Christians have not been initiated. 1.2. ‘Mainstream’ or ‘Catholic’ Christianity The outline of the beliefs of mainstream or ‘catholic’ Christianity6 is quite different. It is characterized by a positive connection between Jesus and the Old Testament and its God. Jesus is often called the Lord, which refers to God’s name in the Old Testament, implying that he is considered the manifestation or incarnation of Yahweh.7 He is also called God’s Son, God’s Logos, God’s Wisdom, and the Christ. Numerous Old Testament texts are interpreted as prophecies of Jesus’ life and teachings. As a consequence, the God in whom mainstream Christians believe is considered the Creator of both the material and the spiritual world and thus also of human beings, both of their bodies and their souls. In mainstream Christianity, Jesus is believed to be the Saviour who died and has risen, which implies that by putting one’s faith in him one can be saved from sin and perdition. Moreover, mainstream Christians believe that God will eventually bring about the resurrection of the dead, establish his kingdom and restore his creation. These views are not only voiced in the New Testament writings; they are shared by a variety of authors such as Justin Martyr, Theophilus of Antioch, Irenaeus of Lyons, Tertullian of Carthage, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen of Alexandria. A summary of these beliefs was formulat4 In this respect I agree with B. D. Ehrman, Lost Christianities. The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths we Never Knew (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 59–65. 5 See A. Marjanen, ‘Is Thomas a Gnostic Gospel?’, in Risto Uro (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads. Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), pp. 107–39. 6 Also called ‘proto-orthodox’ or ‘apostolic’ Christianity. 7 See, e.g., R. Roukema, ‘Jesus and the divine Name in the Gospel of John’, in G. H. van Kooten (ed.), The Revelation of the Name YHWH to Moses. Perspectives from Judaism, the Pagan Graeco-Roman World, and Early Christianity (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 207–23.

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ed in the ‘rule of faith’ which was transmitted orally but has also been written down by Irenaeus, Tertullian, and Origen.8 As for the eschatological tenets, however, it should be added that both Clement of Alexandria and Origen had a more spiritualistic view of the future of mankind and the consummation of the world.9

2. Continuity and Discontinuity How should we evaluate the continuity and the discontinuity between these rather differing traditions and the historical Jesus? Methodologically speaking, it is not so easy to answer this question. For what do we really know about the historical Jesus? If one accepts the assumption that the most important and oldest sources about Jesus can be found in the oldest traditions in the synoptic gospels and, to a lesser extent, in the Gospel of John, we must be aware that these are precisely the writings that have been selected by mainstream Christians as authoritative testimonies to him. Therefore it would be no wonder that the result of our investigation were that there is a basic continuity between the historical Jesus and mainstream Christianity. Even though non-canonical testimonies like the Gospel of Thomas and the agrapha may add some authentic sayings to our knowledge of Jesus’ teachings, such sayings are generally in line with the synoptic gospels.10 However, sometimes it is assumed that the synoptic gospels and the Gospel of John present an image of Jesus that has been so heavily adapted to later beliefs, that the historical Jesus has become almost unrecognizable and therefore practically unknowable. If one assumes that one has to give more credit to the image of Jesus as a mystical teacher of secret, esoteric knowledge, this would tremendously influence the outcome of one’s research into the early Christian testimonies. Since the methodological question can only be answered by studying and interpreting the individual texts, this is what I intend to do now. I will 8 Irenaeus, Haer. 1.10.1 (SC 264); Praed. 6 (SC 406); Tertullian, Praescr. 13.2–5 (CCSL 1); Origen, Princ. I praefatio 4–10 (SC 252). 9 See, e.g., K. Schmöle, Läuterung nach dem Tode und pneumatische Auferstehung bei Klemens von Alexandrien (Münster: Aschendorf, 1974) and R. Roukema, ‘La résurrection des morts dans l’interprétation origénienne de 1 Corinthiens 15’, in J. M. Prieur (ed.), La résurrection chez les Pères (Strasbourg: Université Marc Bloch, 2003), pp. 161–77; also published as ‘Origen’s interpretation of 1 Corinthians 15’, in T. Nicklas, A. Merkt and J. Verheyden (eds.), Gelitten gestorben auferstanden. Passions- und Ostertraditionen im antiken Christentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck), pp. 329–42. 10 For the agrapha, see R. Roukema, ‘Jesus Tradition in Early Patristic Writings’, in T. Holmén and S. E. Porter (eds.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, vol. 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 2119–47.

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deal with four issues concerning Jesus, by comparing the canonical testimonies that were authoritative in catholic Christianity with some of their Gnostic counterparts. In all four sections the question of the historical reliability of the different traditions will come up.11 2.1. Jesus’ identity As a first example I will compare some texts from the synoptic gospels and the Gospel of Thomas. In a key passage of the Gospel of Mark (8.27), Jesus asks his disciples who people say he is. They answer that some say he is John the Baptist, others Elijah, others one of the prophets. Then Jesus asks his disciples who they say he is. According to Mark, Peter answers: ‘You are the Christ’ (or: ‘Messiah’; Mk 8.28–29). In the Gospel of Matthew, Peter’s answer has been expanded to ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God’ (Mt. 16.16), and the Gospel of Luke reads, ‘The Christ of God’ (Lk. 9.20). The Gospel of Thomas 13 contains a dialogue that is clearly related with the synoptic account. Because it is the only passage in which Thomas, who allegedly composed this Gospel, plays an explicit role, this is a significant text, characteristic of the whole collection. It reads: Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Compare me to someone and tell me whom I am like.’ Simon Peter said to him: ‘You are a righteous angel.’ Matthew said to him: ‘You are a wise philosopher.’ Thomas said to him: ‘Master, my mouth is wholly incapable of saying whom you are like.’ Jesus said: ‘I am not you master. Because you have drunk, you have become intoxicated from the bubbling spring which I have measured out.’ And he took him and withdrew and told him three things [or: words, ]. When Thomas returned to his companions, they asked him, ‘What did Jesus say to you?’ Thomas said to them, ‘If I tell you of the things [or: words] which he told me, you will pick up stones and throw them at me; a fire will come out of the stones and burn you up.’12

It seems indisputable that this version of the dialogue is a secondary adaptation of the synoptic account. In the synoptic version Peter is the one who gives the ‘right’ answer by confessing that Jesus is the Christ. The fact that 11

I deviate here from the format of discussing first in one block early Christian views on a certain issue moving then to considering Jesus’ views on the same issue. This is because I will deal with several (i.e., four) issues which each will contain the mentioned sides of discussion. 12 Translation T. O. Lambdin, ‘The Gospel according to Thomas’, in B. Layton (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P.Oxy. 1, 654, 655. Volume One. Gospel according to Thomas, Gospel according to Philip, Hypostasis of the Archons, and Indexes (Leiden: Brill, 1989), pp. 53–93, esp. 59.

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it is Peter who gives the ‘right’ answer corresponds with his prominent position in mainstream Christianity. In the Gospel of Thomas, Peter is still the first one to answer Jesus’ question, but it is obviously not presented as the best answer; Peter only says that Jesus is a righteous angel (or: messenger, "). This implies that in the Gospel of Thomas Peter is less important than in ‘catholic’ Christianity. Next, Matthew says that Jesus is a wise philosopher. This seems an interesting characteristic, but it is not the ultimate answer. The fact that Matthew is introduced here, whereas he is absent from the accounts in the synoptic gospels, is probably due to the prominent position of the Gospel of Matthew in early ‘catholic’ Christianity.13 Matthew’s imperfect answer implies that his Gospel is considered inferior to the Gospel of Thomas.14 The ‘best’ answer is given by Thomas, who confesses not to be capable of saying whom Jesus is like. This acknowledgment apparently alludes to Jesus’ celestial provenance and identity which cannot be adequately expressed in human words. We see here an early Christian example of negative, apophatic theology. In his answer Jesus denies that he is Thomas’s master but paradoxically he confirms that Thomas has drunk from the spring Jesus has measured out. Next, Jesus initiates Thomas into a mysterious knowledge that the other apostles cannot understand, so that it has to remain secret even to them. This refers to the alleged superior religious knowledge of Thomas and of those Christians who appeal to him.15 Although several scholars agree that this important passage in the Gospel of Thomas is secondary to the synoptic gospels,16 it is remarkable that E. Pagels discusses this text as if one can claim that, historically speaking,

13 See E. Massaux, Influence de l’évangile de saint Matthieu sur la littérature chrétienne avant saint Irénée (Louvain & Gembloux: Publications Universitaires de Louvain & Duculot, 1950); reprinted by F. Neirynck (ed.) with a supplement by B. Dehandschutter (Louvain: Peeters, 1986). 14 See R. Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses. The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids & Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2006), p. 236. 15 Cf. Jesus’ saying in Gospel of Thomas 108: ‘He who will drink from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become he, and the things that are hidden will be revealed to him’ (translation Lambdin, ‘The Gospel according to Thomas’, p. 91). 16 E.g., J. Doresse, L’Évangile selon Thomas ou les paroles secrètes de Jésus (Paris: Plon, 1959), pp. 140–41; R. Schippers and T. Baarda, Het Evangelie van Thomas. Apocriefe woorden van Jezus (Kampen: J. H. Kok, 1960), pp. 72–74; B. Gärtner, The Theology of the Gospel of Thomas (London: Collins, 1961), pp. 125–26; R. Uro, Thomas. Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London & New York: T&T Clark, 2003), p. 92; L. W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ. Early Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids & Cambridge, Eerdmans, 2003), pp. 461–63; R. Nordsieck, Das Thomasevangelium. Einleitung – Zur Frage des historischen Jesus – Kommentierung aller 114 Logien (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2004), p. 72.

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it is as reliable and as probable as the synoptic account.17 Although she does not say so explicitly, she is clearly suggesting it. In contrast, my conclusion is rather that we should not give any credit to the historical reliability of the Thomasine version, nor, therefore, to the special position of Thomas as a disciple who had been initiated more fully into Jesus’ teachings than his fellow disciples. However, this critical interpretation of Thomas’s version of the episode on Jesus’ identity gives rise to the question whether one can claim any historical reliability for the synoptic account. R. Bultmann was of the opinion that this tradition went back to a legend that was considered to have taken place after Jesus’ resurrection.18 Nevertheless, there are some arguments against this verdict. J. D. G. Dunn provides four reasons why he thinks that Mark has been able to draw on a well-rooted memory. First, he notes the unusual feature that Mark’s version has recalled the locale where this teaching took place (i.e., on the way to Caesarea Philippi). Second, without any literary interdependence, the Gospel of John also recalls such a turning point in Galilee which drew a confession from Peter (‘You are the Holy one of God’, Jn 6.69). Third, it is quite understandable that at the end of Jesus’ life the question arose whether he was the Messiah, and it would be in keeping with other indications of Peter’s character that he was the one to formulate their hope and expectation. Fourth, in the sequel to this passage Peter is called ‘Satan’ by Jesus; Dunn thinks that it is hard to credit that such a rebuke of Peter emerged in the following decades, and still harder to believe that it in that case would have gained a place in the Jesus tradition.19 I think that these are solid arguments in favour of the reliability of this tradition. As a consequence, there are no reasons to give any historical credit to the esoteric version of the Gospel of Thomas. 2.2. Jesus and the Old Testament As a second example I would like to focus on Jesus’ relationship to the Old Testament and his Jewish background. According to the canonical gospels Jesus often referred to the Old Testament in a positive manner. According to the Gospel of Mark, which may be considered the oldest gospel, when Jesus heals a leper, he sends him to the priest and tells him to offer for his cleansing what Moses commanded (Mk 1.40–44; Lev. 13.49; 14.2–4). He appeals to David who ate the bread of the Presence, which only the priests 17

E. Pagels, Beyond Belief. The Secret Gospel of Thomas (New York: Random House, 2003), pp. 46–47. 18 R. Bultmann, Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970), pp. 275–78. 19 J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids & Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2003), pp. 644–45.

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were allowed to eat, as an argument against the Pharisees that his disciples were entitled to pluck heads of grain on the Sabbath (Mk 2.23–26; 1 Sam. 21.1–7). He refers to God’s creation of male and female, for which reason a man shall leave his father and mother, and be made one with his wife (Mk 10.6–8; Gen. 1.27; 2.24). With regard to the temple in Jerusalem he quotes, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’ (Mk 11.17; Isa. 56.7). In Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount Jesus criticizes contemporary interpretations of the Mosaic law, but not the Mosaic law itself; he says that he has not come to abolish the law and the prophets but to fulfil it (Mt. 5.17–48). In a text from Q he predicts that ‘many will come from east and west and will eat with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven, while the heirs of the kingdom will be thrown into the outer darkness’ (Mt. 8.11–12). Although this saying is critical about contemporary Jews, it is positive about Israel’s patriarchs. With approval Jesus quotes the shema Yisrael from Deut. 6.4, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength’, and as the second commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’ (Mk 12.29–31). Likewise, he quotes the commandment from the Decalogue to honour your father and your mother (Mk 7.10). When he speaks about God or the heavenly Father (e.g., Mt. 5.45; 5.48; 6.1), there is no hint at all that he refers to a deity that transcends the God of Israel. There is no reason to doubt the overall, general historical reliability of such testimonies. When we turn to the Gospel of Judas, however, we read that Jesus mocks his disciples because they worship their traditional God (i.e., the God of Israel), and he implicitly denies that he is the son of this God.20 Only Judas is said to be initiated by Jesus into the mysteries of the kingdom (Gos. Jud. 35.21–25) and into the realm of the invisible Spirit (the highest God) and his angels (Gos. Jud. 47.1–51.1). Only Judas comes to know Jesus’ teaching that the angels who reign over the chaotic cosmos and who created the human being are very inferior to this Great Spirit (Gos. Jud. 51.4–54.12). The doctrine that Jesus expounds here corresponds with Gnostic texts from the Nag Hammadi Codices and deviates strongly from the synoptic view of God and from the Old Testament. However, although it is absolutely out of the question for Jesus to have really taught such things, Bart Ehrman comments on the Gospel of Judas that ‘It will open up new vistas for understanding Jesus and the religious movement he found20

Gos. Jud. 33.22–34.16; R. Kasser, G. Wurst, M. Meyer and F. Gaudard (eds.), The Gospel of Judas. Together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and a Book of Allogenes from Codex Tchacos. Critical Edition (Washington: National Geographic, 2007), pp. 184–87.

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ed’.21 He admits that the four gospels in the New Testament are the oldest ones to survive, but he subjoins that many others were written soon after these four, among which he also mentions the Gospel of Judas, to be dated to 140–160 CE.22 Although it is quite clear that, because of its very deviant theology, this secret Gospel never had any chance to be accepted into the canon of New Testament writings, Ehrman asks the question, ‘why was it, and other books like it, eventually excluded from the canon of Christian scripture?’,23 suggesting that it was only after a long period of uncertainty that this Gospel and similar writings were excluded from the canon.24 This suggestion also comes to light in his remark that ‘only one side won. This was the side that decided which books should be considered Scripture, and that wrote the Christian creeds that have come down to us today’. He then quotes the beginning of the Nicene creed, ‘We believe in one God, the Father, the almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible.’25 Although in 325 CE the council of Nicaea had not been convoked to refute the ‘Gnostics’ and the Marcionites, this opening line of the Nicene creed is clearly directed against them, since they denied the belief in one God, the Creator of heaven and earth. It is remarkable that in his essay Bart Ehrman does not admit that this opening line of the Nicene creed is undoubtedly in line with the convictions of the historical Jesus. As a matter of fact, this statement faithfully corresponds with Jesus’ Jewish and Old Testament beliefs. 2.3. Jesus as an apocalyptic preacher A third example. In the synoptic gospels, Jesus is presented as an apocalyptic preacher who announced the coming of God’s kingdom (Mk 1.15), the resurrection of the dead, and God’s judgment (Mt. 11.21–24; 12.41; Lk. 11.31–32; 14.14). According to some texts this kingdom has already come, since Jesus’ drives out the devils (Mt. 12.28; Lk. 11.20, from Q; Lk. 17.21), but there are other texts that suggest that it may last a long time before the Lord will come (Mt. 24.48; 25.5). However, the synoptic gospels also contain several texts according to which the coming of the Son of 21

B. D. Ehrman, ‘Christianity Turned upon its Head: The Alternative Vision of the Gospel of Judas’, in R. Kasser, M. Meyer and G. Wurst (eds.), The Gospel of Judas from Codex Tchacos (Washington: National Geographic, 2006), pp. 77–120, esp. 80. 22 Ehrman, ‘Christianity Turned upon its Head’, pp. 81, 91. 23 Ehrman, ‘Christianity Turned upon its Head’, p. 91 (italics by R. Roukema). 24 For a broader treatment of initial, enthousiastic evaluations of the Gospel of Judas, see R. Roukema, ‘The Historical Context of the Gospel of Judas and its Presentation to the Wider Audience. With an Appendix on its Dependence on the Canonical Gospels’, JCopS 12 (2010), pp. 1–18; a previous version was published in RefS 103 (2010), pp. 7– 19. 25 Ehrman, ‘Christianity Turned upon its Head’, p. 103.

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Man and of God’s kingdom can be expected soon, within one generation (Mt. 10.23; Mk 9.1; 13.24–30; 14.62). This apocalyptic coming of God’s kingdom from heaven and God’s judgment is not an easy element among the early Christian beliefs. It is difficult to imagine that these were realistic expectations. Belief in God’s apocalyptic judgment may be considered a harsh tenet (although the poor and oppressed may be looking forward to it), and, most importantly, as we know these expectations did not come true. 2 Pet. 3.4 informs us that Christians were mocked because of this. Therefore, it is not so strange that some of the Christians emphasized the mystical coming and presence of God’s kingdom and spiritual resurrection in their own lives. This can be seen both in texts from mainstream Christianity and in texts that are now called ‘Gnostic’.26 However, mainstream Christianity maintained the original confession of this difficult aspect of Jesus’ teaching, i.e., the future resurrection of the dead, the final judgment, and the coming of God’s kingdom.27 This is quite different from Gospel of Thomas 3, where Jesus allegedly mocks and contradicts the opinion of those leaders who assert that the kingdom is in heaven. In this Gospel Jesus teaches that the kingdom is inside and outside his disciples and that it has to do with self-knowledge. Although the Gospel of Thomas is not totally devoid of an apocalyptic expectation in the future,28 and apparently places a heavenly kingdom above the first two heavens, from which Jesus’ elect disciples originate,29 it is clearly polemical toward the Christian belief of a future kingdom. E. Pagels sympathizes with the Gospel of Thomas’s view of an inner kingdom (which is understandable and legitimate), but she does not say that its explicit and implicit polemic against the original apocalyptic view cannot go back to the historical Jesus. In any way, she is suggesting that the Gospel of Thomas’s view of an inner kingdom is as reliable as, or even more reliable than the synoptic texts about a future kingdom. With some regret, as it seems, she admits that in the Gospel of Luke Jesus not only says that the kingdom of God is within you (Lk. 17.21), but also presents the Son of Man as a terrifying judge who is com-

26

E.g., in Jn 5.25; 11.25; Eph. 2.4–6; Gospel of Thomas 22, 113, 114; Treatise on the Resurrection (NHC 1.48.3–49.36); Gos. Phil. 23 (NHC 2.56.26–57.19). 27 E.g., Mt. 4.17; 19.28; 25.31–46; Jn 5.28–29; 1 Cor. 15.12–57; 1 Thess. 4.13–18. 28 Thus, ‘The heaven will pass away, and the one above it will pass away’ (Gospel of Thomas 11); ‘The heavens and the earth will be rolled up in your presence’ (Gospel of Thomas 111). Translation Lambdin, ‘The Gospel according to Thomas’, pp. 57, 93. Cf. A. L. A. Hogeterp, ‘The Gospel of Thomas and the Historical Jesus: The Case of Eschatology’, in A. Hilhorst and G. H. van Kooten (eds.), The Wisdom of Egypt. Jewish, Early Christian, and Gnostic Essays in Honour of Gerard P. Luttikhuizen (Leiden: Brill, 2005), pp. 381–96. 29 Gospel of Thomas 49.

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ing to summon everyone to the day of wrath (Lk. 21.34–36).30 Jesus’ mystical teaching about an inner kingdom as it occurs in the Gospel of Thomas may seem more acceptable to modern and post-modern religious readers, but this does not imply that its polemic against the apocalyptic view of this kingdom has been pronounced by the historical Jesus. It would be far more understandable for the original portrayal of Jesus as an apocalyptic preacher to be changed into the image of Jesus as a mystical teacher than the other way round. In general, an apocalyptic expectation of the future world plays a subordinate role in ‘Gnostic’ texts; what mattered to their authors is that their divine element was saved and that it could reach into the high sphere of the true God. In this respect, mainstream Christianity was more faithful to Jesus’ apocalyptic preaching, in that it maintained the tenets of the resurrection of the dead and the future kingdom of God, unbelievable though they might be. 2.4. Jesus and Christ My fourth and final example is related to the first one, for it also deals with Jesus’ identity. It is a well-known matter of dispute what Jesus thought about himself. Did he consider himself a preacher and a prophet who was called to restore and purify the Jewish religion? Was he convinced that he was the Messiah? Can we give any credit to the gospel stories according to which he considered himself the very special Son of God? In my view we should not be overly pessimistic about the general historical reliability of the synoptic accounts of Jesus’ own awareness of being ‘the Son’ and of his vocation to be the Messiah. Several times he spoke about – or alluded to – himself as ‘the Son’.31 He applied Psalm 110 to himself, saying that he was David’s Lord (Mk 12.35–37), which hints at his pre-existence. He also accepted the title ‘son of David’, and we may assume that Peter’s recognition that Jesus was the Christ most probably goes back to Jesus’ life, as we could read in § 2.1. E. Schüssler Fiorenza tried to demonstrate that the historical Jesus was initially considered a messenger and prophet of Sophia, Divine Wisdom, but this view has been contested as well. She maintains that the second level of theological reflection identifies Jesus with Divine Wisdom, and as such this is correct.32 However Jesus’ stance toward Sophia may be, in my opinion we may conclude that he had a high awareness of his own mission and identity. Apparently he believed that even his death would not stop but indeed serve the 30

Pagels, Beyond Belief, pp. 49–51. E.g., Mt. 11.25–27//Lk. 10.21–22, from Q; Mk 12.6; 13.32 32 E. Schüssler Fiorenza, Jesus. Miriam’s Child, Sophia’s Prophet. Critical Issues in Feminist Christology (New York: Continuum, 1995), pp. 139–62. 31

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coming of God’s kingdom. Such views have been accepted and elaborated in mainstream Christianity. In Gnostic texts Jesus is also a divine person who taught a heavenly doctrine, and often enough he is also called ‘Christ’. According to several testimonies, however, the title of ‘Christ’ was disconnected from its Jewish meaning of the ‘anointed one’ who would bring about salvation, and was considered the name of a heavenly aeon. According to Irenaeus, Cerinthus taught that after Jesus’ baptism the Christ descended upon him from the highest Power, and that it was this Christ who proclaimed the unknown Father and performed miracles; but when Jesus suffered and had risen, this pneumatic Christ had withdrawn from him, since he was not able to suffer.33 The view that Christ was a heavenly power who descended on the man Jesus also occurs in Irenaeus’s description of a group that may be identified as Ophites. Like Cerinthus, they denied that the heavenly Christ died.34 A different opinion is voiced in Clement of Alexandria’s Excerpta ex Theodoto, excerpts from the Valentinian Theodotus. According to one of the views presented there, Jesus was the Saviour who was united with the Father. When he came to the world, he was clothed with the invisible and psychic (\X[LNR M) Christ who came from the realm of the Old Testament Demiurge, whereas the Holy Spirit that descended upon him at the Jordan was the pneumatic element (WRB SQHXPDWLNR Q) that came from the true Father. When Jesus announced that the Son of Man would suffer and be crucified he meant someone else, to wit the psychic Christ. At the moment of his death the Spirit withdrew from him, but it is considered unthinkable that death had prevailed over the Saviour.35 Irenaeus relates that according to Basilides Simon of Cyrene was crucified instead of Christ, who was the firstborn QRX M sent by the Father. At the same time, Jesus took the form of Simon and ridiculed the archons.36 A similar tradition occurs in the Second Treatise of the Great Seth from Nag Hammadi. This writing does not say explicitly that Simon of Cyrene was crucified instead of Christ, but after referring to Simon who bore his cross, Christ denies there that he really suffered death. Instead, he says that they 33

Irenaeus, Haer. 1.26.1; 3.11.1 (SC 264; 211). Irenaeus, Haer. 1.30.13; the attribution to the Ophites follows A. Rousseau’s and L. Doutreleau’s heading over Irenaeus, Haer. 1.30.1–14 (SC 264, p. 365). 35 Clement of Alexandria, Exc. 59.2–61.6 (SC 23); cf. Irenaeus, Haer. 1.7.2 (SC 264) and E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the ‘Valentinians’ (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 62–76. 36 Irenaeus, Haer. 1.24.4 (SC 264). This view was inspired by the formal lack of clarity of Mk 15.21–24, which reads after the introduction of Simon of Cyrene that they brought ‘him’ to Golgotha to crucify him (Mk 15.20, however, makes it clear that the one to be crucified is Jesus). 34

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crucified ‘their man’, who – if Simon is not intended here – may also be Jesus’ body.37 Likewise, the Acts of John account that, when people thought they were crucifying Jesus, he revealed to John at the mount of Olives that it was not he who was being crucified.38 In the Apocalypse of Peter from Nag Hammadi, Jesus, who is presented as the son of the cosmic powers of the Demiurge, suffers at the cross, whereas at the same time Christ explains to Peter that ‘the living Jesus’, the true Saviour, could be seen above the cross, glad and laughing.39 The Gospel of Judas announces Jesus’ death in other terms. There Jesus says to Judas: ‘For you will sacrifice the man who bears me’, which means that by handing Jesus over to the high priests and the scribes, Judas would bring about the death of his body but not of his true spiritual self (Gos. Jud. 56.19–21). We can see that Gnostic authors and groups invented different kinds of Christologies that obviously deviated from the rather simple presentation of the canonical gospels, which narrate that Jesus, who was called the Son of God and the Christ, was crucified and died. It is told in the Gospels of Matthew and John that right before his death he ‘gave the Spirit’,40 and although only in the Gospel of John this expression may perhaps be interpreted as an allusion to the Holy Spirit that left him, this is obviously not meant in terms of a Gnostic Christology. 41 Instead, we can conclude that the Gnostic views are revisionist interpretations of the older gospels that the church accepted as authoritative Scripture.

37

Second Treatise of the Great Seth (NHC 7.2) 55.9–56.19 (NHMS 30). For ‘Christ’ as subject of the discourse, see Second Treatise of the Great Seth 65.18. See L. Painchaud, Le deuxième traité du Grand Seth (NH VII, 2) (Québec & Louvain: Laval & Peeters, 1982), pp. 38–41; 101–07, and G. Riley, ‘Second Treatise of the Great Seth’, in B. A. Pearson (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex VII (Leiden: Brill, 1996), pp. 129–99, esp. 137–38. 38 Acts John 97–99 (CCSA 2); see G. P. Luttikhuizen, Gnostic Revisions of Genesis Stories and Early Jesus Traditions (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 145–51. 39 Apoc. Pet. (NHC 7.3) 81.3–83.15 (NHMS 30); see Luttikhuizen, Gnostic Revisions, pp. 133–36. 40 Mt. 27.50; Jn 19.30; cf. Mk 15.37; Lk. 23.46. 41 J. Gnilka, Das Matthäusevangelium II (Freiburg, Basel & Wien: Herder, 1988), p. 476, and U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus IV (Düsseldorf, Zürich & NeukirchenVluyn: Benzinger Verlag & Neukirchener Verlag, 2002), pp. 345–46, do not connect ‘spirit’ with the Holy Spirit; C. K. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John. An Introduction with Commentary and Notes (London: SPCK, 1978), p. 554, thinks that it is possible that the Holy Spirit was in John’s mind here, but R. Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium III (Freiburg, Basel & Wien: Herder, 1975), pp. 332–33, denies that the divine Spirit can be intended here.

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3. Conclusion The conclusion of this paper can be brief. When looking for continuity and discontinuity between Jesus and the various traditions that claimed to go back to him, there are good reasons to argue that the continuum between Jesus and early mainstream, ‘catholic’ Christianity is more easily explainable than the relationship between Jesus and the various traditions of Christian Gnosticism. It is true that the early church gave rise to dogmatic discussions about the way in which Jesus was the Son of God. Was he adopted as God’s Son at his baptism, when the Spirit descended upon him, as the Adoptianist Theodotus the Cobbler said? Or had God the Father manifested himself in the Son, as Monarchians like Noetus of Smyrna said, so that as a consequence the Father was crucified? Or was he God’s Son from the beginning, but as a creature, as Arius put it, or was he eternally with the Father, as the church decided in Nicea? How did Jesus’ humanity and his divinity relate to each other? By means of such questions ‘catholic’ Christians tried to solve the same problems as Gnostic Christians had tried to do, for both branches of Christianity were challenged to explain how Jesus’ human origin and his divine identity related to one another. However, because of the Gnostics’ division of God in a lower and a higher deity, and all the consequences that emanated from this view, Gnostic Christians worked within a framework that displays an important discontinuity with regard to the historical Jesus. For in spite of the doubts that one may have with regard to the historical reliability of the individual Jesus traditions preserved in the canonical gospels, it seems undisputable, to my sense, that the historical Jesus positively referred to the law of Moses and the prophets, relied on the God of Israel, and did not preach a higher, unknown deity. Therefore we can safely conclude that, by sticking to Jesus’ Old Testament background and to his dependence on the God of Israel, early ‘catholic’ Christianity kept closer to the historical Jesus than the authors of the aforementioned Gnostic texts did. This basic insight of the church with regard to Jesus’ Jewish origin and orientation is also decisive for our evaluation of the other issues and texts discussed in this paper concerning Jesus’ identity as the Christ and his apocalyptic preaching. The Gnostic interpretations of these themes as discussed above were based on the denial of the church’s convictions that Jesus was the Christ sent in the Old Testament tradition and that he preached the kingdom of the Old Testament God. Once this connection was broken, these issues had to be reinterpreted in a new, esoteric context. Even though a mystical reinterpretation of the coming of God’s kingdom also occurred in the church,42 it was not related 42

See, e.g., Origen, Or. 25.2 (GCS 3); Comm. Matt. 12.14 (GCS 40).

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there to another, previously unknown deity. Therefore the Gnostics’ new theology was decisive for their deviating Christology.

Part Three: Jesus from Judaism to Christianity

Jesus in Utopian Context MARY ANN BEAVIS

In keeping with the mandate of the Jesus in Continuum project, this paper will consider Jesus in the context of early Jewish and Christian utopian traditions, beginning with biblical and extra-biblical Jewish utopias. For heuristic purposes, the writings of the earliest Christian writer, Paul, will be mined for evidence of continuity with the utopianism of Jesus, followed by a discussion of the utopianism of Jesus as proclaimer of the reign of God in the context of the Jewish and Pauline material.

1. Jewish Utopias Utopian thinking has a history that goes back thousands of years, and it was very much a part of Hellenistic/Greco-Roman political theorizing and literary expression. Scholars of utopian studies have sometimes classified biblical conceptions of the kingdom of God as among the many utopian traditions of antiquity. 1 However, since most utopian scholars have limited knowledge of biblical scholarship, they tend to portray the kingdom of God as a universally understood and undifferentiated expression of a uniquely Jewish ‘messianism’, without sufficient awareness of the range of meanings of the phrase within Judaism or of possible connections with other Hellenistic/Greco-Roman conceptions of ideal societies. In fact, the tendency of the Jewish scriptural tradition generally is to portray the history of Israel in utopian terms: as the divinely promised ‘land flowing with milk and honey’, as the powerful tribal federation established under the leadership of Joshua, as the golden age of David and Solomon, or as the ethnically uniform hierocracy of Ezra-Nehemiah. This utopian propensity is carried through in the varied prophetic expressions of hope for a future ideal age. In Hellenistic/Greco-Roman times, Jewish utopianism is often expressed in apocalyptic terms, although other expressions are possible. For example, Jesus Sirach’s discourse (Sir. 44.1–50) in praise 1

E.g., L. Mumford, The Story of Utopias (New York: Boni and Liveright, 1922), pp. 59–60; F. E. Manuel and F. P. Manuel, Utopian Thought in the Western World (Cambridge: Belknap), pp. 46–48; J. Ferguson, Utopias of the Classical World (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975), pp. 146–55.

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of ‘famous men’ (v. 20) is a litany of utopian moments in Israel’s history, culminating in the glorious reign in Jerusalem of the high priest Simon son of Onias (219–196 BCE), the sage’s near contemporary. The anti-messianic author of Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum (ca. 70 CE) presents the charismatic leadership of the Judges as a foil for the Israelite monarchy.2 In most cases, early Jewish hopes for a future utopian age hark back to idealized eras in the sacred history, interpreted as models of divinely sanctioned rule to be implemented perfectly in the future. As J. Z. Smith observes, Jewish hopes for the future are typically locative, envisioning the land of Israel or Jerusalem and its environs, rather than some remote isle of the blessed, as the ultimate ‘good place’.3 The most frequently evoked template for the future is the united monarchy of David and (especially) Solomon, when ‘Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vine and under his fig tree, from Dan to Beer-Sheba, all the days of Solomon’ (1 Kgs 5.5; cf. Mic. 4.4). However, the future idyll can be portrayed as a return to Eden; as an eschatological state of Jubilee (Lk. 4.16–21; 11QMelch 2.1–9; Jub. 23.26–31); as the restoration of the land promised to the children of Israel in the time of Moses (Jer. 31; 32.40–41; Mal. 3.17–4.6); or in terms of return from exile (e.g., Dan. 9.2). The prophetic tradition eulogizes even the period of Israel’s wilderness wanderings as a time of covenant faithfulness (Jer. 2.2; 31.2; Hos. 2.14; Ezek. 34.25; Hos. 2.14; 9.10; 13.5–6; Amos 2.10; cf. Neh. 9.21). In early Judaism, both the Essenes and the Zealots seem to have imagined themselves as ‘wilderness’ communities, as did the Therapeutai/Therapeutrides – perhaps in anticipation of the imminent restoration of the Promised Land (cf. Josephus, War 2.258–63; Philo, De vita contemplavita 2).4 Philo does not harbour any hopes for a renewal of Jewish sovereignty, but idealizes the ‘kingship’ of certain figures in Israel’s remote past: Adam, Melchizedek, Abraham, and especially Moses (Vit. Mos. 1.148–54). Arguably, the oldest reported utopian communities are Jewish: the Essenes in Judea and the Therapeutai/Therapeutrides in Egypt. D. Mendels has argued that not only did the Essenes regard themselves as the ‘New Israel’, but they were founded under the direct influence of Hellenistic 2 See the discussion in D. Mendels, The Rise and Fall of Jewish Nationalism. Jewish and Christian Ethnicity in Ancient Palestine (New York: Doubleday, 1982), pp. 261–75. 3 J. Z. Smith, Map Is Not Territory. Studies in the History of Religions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), p. 101. Smith contrasts the ‘locative’ worldview with the ‘utopian’, which seeks to transcend limits and boundaries (see pp. 100–03, 130–42, 147– 51, 160–66, 169–71, 185–89, 291–94, 308–09). For Smith, the locative worldview is associated with archaic, place-bound modes of thought, whereas the utopian outlook is Hellenistic. 4 See Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 273.

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utopian literature, especially Iambulus’s fictional Islands of the Sun.5 A good case can also be made that the Therapeutai/Therapeutrides were similarly influenced by the Hellenistic utopian romantic tradition, as well as by scriptural ideals.6 One part of the matrix out of which Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom of God emerged, then, is the Jewish utopian tradition. Another element in the mix is the concept of theocracy. The idea that divine rule was exercised through the medium of human kingship (EDVLOHLDWRX THRX) was a commonplace of Greco-Roman political thought, for the king was considered to be the god-like representative and revealer of the divine law of nature in his realm. The ideology of divine kingship has deep roots in the ancient Middle East and finds Israelite expression in the tradition that the Davidic king is the adopted son of YHWH (1 Sam. 7.14; Ps. 2.7). Philo develops this tradition by interpreting the ‘kingdom of God’ (EDVLOHLDWRX THRX) as the imprint of the divine Torah on the soul of the wise king; thus the human king/sage reflects the image of the divine archetype (Spec. Leg. 4.164; cf. Wis. 6.17–21; 10.10). Philo could also use the term EDVLOHLDto refer to the mind’s or wisdom’s control over the sage and his affairs (EDVLOHLD WRX VRTRX ) or to God’s control over the mind of the wise man (Abr. 261; Mut. Nom. 135; Vit. Mos. 2.241; Spec. Leg. 1.207). As B. Mack observes, this Hellenistic Jewish language of the kingdom emanates from wisdom circles, not apocalyptic tradition, which (according to Mack) never explicitly uses the ‘kingdom of God/heaven’ formula.7 However, it could also emanate from the Deuteronomistic history and the covenantal hope associated with it (cf. Deut. 17.14–20; 1 Kgs 5.5–15; see also Exod. 19.6). Surprisingly, the term theocracy was not coined by an ancient political philosopher or by a contemporary social scientist, but by a first-century Palestinian Jew. In the course of explaining the unique polity of the Jewish people for Gentile readers, Josephus coins a new word, ‘theocracy’ (THRNUDWLD): There is endless variety in the details of the customs and laws which prevail in the world at large. To give but a summary enumeration: some peoples have entrusted the supreme political power to monarchies, others to oligarchies, yet others to the masses. Our lawgiver, however, was attracted by none of these forms of polity, but gave to his

5

D. Mendels, ‘Hellenistic Utopia and the Essenes’, in D. Mendels (ed.), Identity, Religion and Historiography. Studies in Hellenistic History (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), pp. 420–39. 6 M. A. Beavis, Jesus and Utopia. Looking for the Kingdom of God in the Roman World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), pp. 58–68. 7 B. L. Mack, ‘The Kingdom Sayings in Mark’, Forum 3 (1987), pp. 3–47, esp. 16– 17. However, cf. Pss. Sol. 17.3; D. Duling, ‘Kingdom of God, Kingdom of Heaven’, in ABD 4, pp. 49–69, esp. 50–52.

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constitution the form of what – if a forced expression be permitted – may be termed a ‘theocracy’ [THRNUDWLD], placing all sovereignty and authority in the hands of God.8

This law governs the Jewish people dispersed throughout the world, who voluntarily follow its precepts no matter where they may be (Apion 2.220). Josephus suggests that if the Jewish nation and its laws were not known to exist by ‘all the world’, they are so exalted that a Greek audience would regard an account of them as a figment of the lecturer’s imagination (Apion 2.221). Josephus may be implicitly contrasting the Jewish nation with fictional utopias like Panchaïa, Hyperborea, the Islands of the Sun, or even Atlantis; he explicitly refers to Plato, whom, though widely admired, is often scoffed at by ‘expert statesmen’ for the ‘futile, brilliant but very fanciful’ nature of his dialogues (Apion 2.224–25). Although the Jews of Josephus’s time were stateless, they continued to obey their ancestral laws, an ideal polity that neither Greek romancers nor philosophers were able to imagine. For Josephus, writing in the last decades of the first century, the best mediator of theocratic rule in the sacred past had been ‘aristocratic’ rule by a council of elders (JHURXVLD) as practiced in the time before Saul (Ant. 4.223–24; 5.135),9 as opposed to the corrupt, unqualified, and foolish priests who had held that position in the decades preceding the Jewish rebellion (see Ant. 15.22; 20.180–81, 199–203, 213–14, 216–18, 224–51).10 The destruction of the Temple by the Romans had been divinely mandated (War 5.288–315), and kingship over the Jews had been handed on by God to Vespasian, the Roman emperor acclaimed in Judea (War 6.312–13; cf. 3.399–408; 4.585–629).11

8 Apion 2.164–65. All quotations of Against Apion are from H. St. J. Thackeray (ed.), Josephus. The Life, Against Apion (Cambridge & London: Harvard University Press & William Heinemann, 1976). Cf. Josephus’s statement in Ant. 18.23 that Jews of the ‘fourth philosophy’ held that there should be ‘no king [GHVSRWKM, KJHPZQ] but God’. 9 See D. R. Schwartz, ‘Josephus on the Jewish Constitution and Community’, SCI 7 (1983–1984), pp. 30–52, esp. 33–34. Josephus’ attitude to Jewish monarchy is too complex to discuss in detail here. He elaborates on the Deuteronomistic historian’s negative appraisal of the Israelites’ wish for a king in the time of Samuel (Ant. 6.38–44), and paints an unflattering portrait of Aristobulus, the first Hasmonean king (Ant. 13.301–19). While his portrayals of David and Solomon are generally positive, his source is the Deuteronomistic history, with its ambivalence toward the Israelite monarchy (Ant. 7.1– 8.211). The one king he eulogizes is the ill-fated Saul (Ant. 6.343–50), for his courage in fighting for his subjects in the face of divinely mandated death. 10 On Josephus’s ‘contemptuous’ attitude to the high priests prior to the rebellion, see S. Schwartz, Josephus and Judaean Politics (Leiden: Brill, 1990), pp. 92–96. 11 S. J. D. Cohen argues that Josephus’s prophecy that Vespasian would rule the world constitutes the divine authorization of the Roman victory (‘Josephus, Jeremiah, and Polybius’, HT 21 [1983], pp. 366–81, esp. 369–77).

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Although like other Jews of his time, Josephus looks back to a (in Josephus’s case, premonarchic) ‘golden age’ of divine rule over Israel, in his late work, Against Apion (ca. 95–100 CE), the historian portrays his Jewish contemporaries in highly idealized terms as an international community regulated by the Mosaic law. The Jews dispersed throughout the world, claims Josephus, are a people whose law teaches them to love and not to hate each other; to share with one another; to oppose injustice and practice righteousness; to be hard-working, frugal, and content with their labours; to make war not for gain, but only to defend the law; to punish evildoers; to avoid sophistry; and to let their actions speak for themselves, since they are ‘convinced that everything in the whole universe is under the eye and the direction of God’ (2.291–93). For Josephus, theocratic rule, whether humanly mediated by Moses himself, by the elders of Israel, or by the Jewish nation dispersed throughout the Roman Empire, was the unique contribution of the Jewish people to the world, admired by others and epitomized by the Jews of the Diaspora. Josephus’s invention of the term theocracy may be interpreted as a Jewish response to a concrete political reality that Josephus knew all too well: the recent Jewish attempt to restore native rule to the homeland had failed, and the Jewish state was truly defunct. If God’s rule over the Jewish people was going to endure, it would have to be without a Jewish ruler, Temple, or state. The idea that the legitimate leadership of Israel is imparted by divine authority is so ubiquitous in the biblical and postbiblical tradition that it is difficult to conceive of a Hellenistic Jew denying that the kingship of Israel, however it might be practically implemented, ultimately belonged to God.12 Josephus’s distinctive conception of the Jewish polity as a theocracy, either at home or in Diaspora, epitomizes an ancient Israelite precept: ‘Indeed, all the earth is mine, but you shall be to me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation’ (Exod. 19.6; cf. Deut. 7.6; 14.2; 26.18). As Talmon notes, taken as a whole, the Jewish biblical tradition represents universalism (‘all the earth is mine’) and particularity (‘you shall be to me a priestly kingdom’) not as opposites but as complementary: ‘Israel is God’s chosen people in the community of nations.’13 In virtually all of the ‘utopian eras’ remembered by the biblical and extrabiblical Jewish authors, and in the prophetic and apocalyptic hopes for an ideal future Israel, God’s rule is the source and authorization for le12

See O. Cullmann, The State in the New Testament (New York: Scribner, 1956), pp. 10–23; M. Buber, Kingship of God (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967), pp. 136– 63; S. Talmon, King, Cult, and Calendar in Ancient Israel. Collected Studies (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986); R. A. Horsley, Sociology and the Jesus Movement (New York: Continuum, 1997), pp. 90–96. 13 Talmon, King, Cult, and Calendar, p. 142.

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gitimate political leadership, whether it be prophetic, charismatic, priestly, kingly, gerontocratic, or messianic. While Josephus agreed that the human right to rule over Israel was divinely ordained, God’s mandate to rule both Israel and the known world had now been granted to a Roman, Vespasian. Under this legitimate human authority, God still reigned over the Jews (through the medium of Torah) and over the universe. Josephus’s particular interpretation of THRNUDWLD approaches an early expression of the principle of the separation of religion and state; the polity of the Jews dispersed throughout the world, governed by their ‘sacred laws’, is purely religious, exercised through the nonpolitical medium of the SURVWDVLD (‘collegium’) led by priests.14 The historian’s description of Jewish theocracy as an ‘invisible kingdom’ dispersed throughout the world is also somewhat reminiscent of the present-oriented EDVLOHLD sayings attributed to Jesus.15 Such sayings about the presence of God’s EDVLOHLD in the world can also be compared with the Pharisaic havurah, which took on the discipline of divine rule through strict Torah observance while functioning within the larger Jewish society.16

2. Paul and Utopia The utopian traditions of the Hebrew bible, early Judaism and the EDVLOHLD movement also find expression in the early Christian scriptures. As the most prolific and influential of extant first-century Christian writers, Paul is of particular interest as an interpreter of the Jewish utopian tradition to which both he and Jesus belonged. However, if Jesus’ ‘utopian propensity’ (Manuel and Manuel) is summed up in the phrase the kingdom of God, the situation with Paul is more complex. As K. P. Donfried remarked: ‘To deal with the kingdom and kingdom of God references in the Pauline corpus is no simple task for it raises very profound and complicated issues with regard to the relationship of Paul to Jesus in general as well as Paul’s use of the Jesus tradition in particular.’17 Paul’s references to K EDVLOHLDWRX THRX are scant; a mere six passages, four of which occur in 1 Corinthians (Gal. 5.21; 1 Cor. 4.20; 6.9–10; 15.24, 50; Rom. 14.17; cf. 1 14

See Schwartz, ‘Josephus’, pp. 49–52. Lk. 17.20b–21; Gos. Thom. 113.2–4; Mt. 13.33//Lk. 13.20–21//Gos. Thom. 96.1–2; Mk 4.30–32//Mt. 13.31–32//Lk. 13.18–19//Gos. Thom. 20.2–4; Mt. 13.44–45//Gos. Thom. 109.1–3; 76.1–2; Mk 4.26b–27; Mk 4.26b–27; Gos. Thom. 97.1–4. 16 See Beavis, Jesus and Utopia, pp. 68–70. 17 K. P. Donfried, ‘The Kingdom of God in Paul’, in W. Willis (ed.), The Kingdom of God in the in 20th-Century Interpretation (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1987), pp. 175–90, esp. 175. 15

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Thess. 2.12) – a stark contrast with the consensus view of Jesus as the consummate preacher of the kingdom. Complicating Paul’s understanding of the nature of the EDVLOHLDare the related categories of baptism, justification, the body of Christ and existence ‘in Christ’, all of which are part of his mystical ecclesiology and soteriology. These are matters that cannot adequately be addressed in a single essay. Here, I shall confine myself to a sketch of the overlap between Paul’s understanding of H NNOKVLD and the characteristics of Hellenistic Jewish utopian communities, and an attempt to link these with the Pauline iteration of the kingdom. D. Mendels has identified seventeen characteristics shared by Hellenistic utopias (e.g., Iambulus’ Islands of the Sun) and the Essenes, most of which, as I have argued elsewhere, are also found in Philo’s account of the Therapeutai/Therapeutrides.18 Fifteen out of seventeen of these characteristics also find expression in Paul’s instructions on church order, particularly in 1 Corinthians: 1. Secluded location. Paul’s churches differ significantly from the sectarian Jewish utopian communities, in that they are small groups of devotees, located in cities scattered throughout the Roman empire, who mostly live in separate households and continue to pursue their pre-conversion livelihoods, meeting regularly for worship and instruction in house churches. Thus the kind of physical solitude and seclusion from worldly influences enjoyed by the Essenes and the Therapeutai are not possible for the members of the Pauline communities. However, Paul repeatedly exhorts members of his churches to holiness and contrasts ‘fleshliness’ (VDUNLQRM) with the ‘spirituality’ (SQHXPDWLNRM) that distinguishes them from ‘the world’ (R NRVPRM). The sentiment of the phrase ‘in the world, but not of the world’ (cf. 1 Cor. 2.12; 3.3; 7.31; 2 Cor. 1.12, 17; 5.16; 7.10; 10.3; Gal. 2.3; 6.14) characterizes Paul’s ecclesial ideal. In light of Paul’s Pharisee background, it is striking that this description conforms well to another Jewish utopian group, the Pharisaic havurah, which, as J. Neusner observes: formed a ‘separate society’, grounded in the conviction that ‘all Israel is to be a kingdom of priests and a holy people (and this was understood to mean at the very least a people ritually pure and holy), and second, that every individual Jew everywhere was himself to be as ritually fit as a priest to perform the sacrificial act in the Temple’.19 By their example 18 M. A. Beavis, ‘Philo’s Therapeutai: Philosopher’s Dream or Utopian Construction?’, JSP 14 (2004), pp. 30–42; Beavis, Jesus and Utopia, pp. 58–68. 19 J. Neusner, ‘Qumran and Jerusalem: Two Jewish Roads to Utopia’, JBR 27 (1959), pp. 284–90, esp. 285. It should be noted that Neusner’s view has been criticized, e.g., by E. P. Sanders, Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah (London & Philadelphia: SCM & Trinity Press, 1990), pp. 236–42, who holds that the Pharisees were less exclusivistic than Neusner maintains.

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and teachings, members of the havurah endeavoured both to transform and to transcend society, ‘to live Utopia in an unredeemed world’.20 2. Simple, natural diet. The Pauline churches are not bound by the kinds of dietary requirements and limitations as the Jewish sectarians, but Paul’s letters contain extensive instruction on food and drink (Rom. 14.1–22; 1 Cor. 8.1–13; 10.18–11.1; cf. Gal. 2.12), indicating that while Paul may claim not have been concerned with diet (Rom. 4.14), members of Gentile Christian communities he corresponded with were. For Paul, ‘the kingdom of God is not food and drink (EUZaVLM NDL? SRVLM) but righteousness and peace and joy in the holy spirit’ (Rom. 14.17; cf. 1 Cor. 3.2; 6.13; 10.3; 12.13). 3. Distinctive dress. While literal clothing is not an issue for Paul, the metaphor of spiritual attire appears quite often in his letters, signaled by the verb H QGXZ, to ‘put on’ or ‘clothe’ – with ‘the armour of light’ (Rom. 13.12); ‘incorruption’ and ‘immortality’ (1 Cor. 15.53–54); and, in a baptismal context, ‘Christ’ (Gal. 3.27). 4. Rejection of marriage / communal child rearing. Paul does not categorically reject marriage, but his teaching in 1 Corinthians 7 clearly prefers celibacy for both men and women, and continued widowhood for those whose spouses have died. While members of the Pauline churches live in separate households (Rom. 16.10, 11; 1 Cor. 1.11, 16; 16.15; Phil. 4.22), they come together in house churches (Rom. 16.3–5; 1 Cor. 16.19; Phlm. 2) where all members are regarded as ‘children of God’ and ‘brothers and sisters’. For those believers who marry, equal sexual access for husband and wife is advised, and divorce is prohibited (1 Corinthians 7), perhaps hinting at the kind of near-gender equality depicted in the accounts of the (fictional) Heliopolitans and the (real) Therapeutai/Therapeutrides. 5. Testing of children / neophytes. Although Paul does not mention any period of pre-baptismal testing, he does stipulate high ethical standards for all of those who have ‘put on Christ’ (Gal. 3.27), and, in extreme cases, advises excommunication (1 Cor. 5.3–5).21 He frequently recommends the self-testing of believers, including himself (Rom. 12.2; 2 Cor. 13.5–7; Gal. 6.4; 1 Thess. 5.21). He also mentions ‘tests’ or ‘ordeals’ (GRNLPK GRNLPD]Z) set by himself to try the perseverance of his addressees (2 Cor. 2.9; 8.8; cf. Rom. 16.10). The Day of the Lord will be the ultimate trial for believers and non-believers (Rom. 2.15; 13.12; 1 Cor. 1.8; 3.13; 5.5; 2 Cor. 1.14; Phil. 1.6, 10; 2.16; 1 Thess. 5.2). 6. Dining habits. While members of the Pauline churches (unlike the Essenes) normally eat at home (1 Cor. 11.34), like the Therapeutai, the 20

Neusner, ‘Two Jewish Roads’, p. 286. See V. G. Shillington, ‘Atonement Texture in 1 Corinthians 5.5’, JSNT 71 (1998), pp. 29–50. 21

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churches meet for communal ritual meals, probably at seven-day intervals (1 Cor. 11.17–34), where Paul sternly advises believers to maintain decorous and spiritual behaviour. 7. Leadership by elders. Unlike the Jewish sectarian groups and the fictional Hellenistic utopians, Paul’s letters show no evidence of leadership by elder members of the community (SUHVEXWHURL). Rather, as 1 Corinthians 12 (cf. Rom. 11.19; 12.6) attests, ‘first apostles, second prophets, third teachers’ (v. 28) exercise their functions in concert with other spiritually gifted ‘members’ of the body of Christ. Later, the deutero-Pauline letters and other early Christian documents do presuppose an important role for elders in church leadership (1 Tim. 4.14; 5.17, 19; Tit. 1.5–6; 2.1–5; cf. Jas 5.14; 1 Pet. 5.1; 2 Jn 1.1; 3 Jn 1.1). 8. Love of learning. Teaching and learning are important issues in Paul’s letters,22 and the apostle’s concern that his addressees hold fast to his instruction and shun that of other Christian teachers evidences a strong interest in the pursuit of learning among members of Pauline churches, if not wholesale approval of this interest on the part of the apostle. 9. Association with healing. The ‘gifts of healing’ ([DULVPDWD L DPDWZQ) are mentioned as among the activities of the Corinthian church (1 Cor. 12.9, 28, 30), and the healing of the sick is associated with Paul in Acts (19.12; 28.8–9). Philo’s description of the Therapeutai as practicing ‘an art of healing better than that current in the cities which cures only the bodies, while theirs treats also souls oppressed with grievous and well-nigh incurable diseases, inflicted by pleasures and desires and griefs and fears’ (De vita contemplativa 2–3) might well be applied to the mission of the Pauline churches. 10. Absence of slavery. Slaves appear to be absent among the Heliopolitans, who ‘take turns ministering to the needs of one another’ (Diodorus Siculus, Bib. hist. 2.59.6). Philo notes that the Therapeutai repudiate slavery ‘as they consider the ownership of servants to be entirely against nature’ (Life 70a; cf. 71), as did the Essenes, according to Josephus (War 11.14). Unlike his sectarian Jewish counterparts, Paul does not condemn slavery, although it is clear that there are slave members of the Pauline churches (Gal. 3.28; 1 Cor. 7.21–22; 12.13; Phlm. 16). 11. Association of the divine with the sun. The Pauline churches obviously do not worship the sun and other heavenly bodies like the Heliopolitans (Diodorus Siculus, Bib. hist. 2.59.2); nor do they philosophize only during the daylight hours, like the Therapeutai, since this is

22

E.g., Rom. 12.7; 15.14; 16.17; Phil. 4.9; 1 Cor. 1.17–3.21; 4.17; 11.2; 12.28–29; 14.6, 19, 26, 31; Gal. 6.6; 1 Thess. 4.1, 2, 8.

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work worthy of the light (Life of Josephus 34).23 However, the motif of divine light is a frequently mentioned by Paul (Rom. 2.19; 13.12; 2 Cor. 4.4, 6; 6.14). Reminiscent of the Qumran sectarians, Paul refers to ‘sons of the light and sons of the day’ who do not ‘belong to the night or to the darkness’ (1 Thess. 5.5). 12. Hymn singing. Like the Heliopolitans, the Essenes and the Therapeutai, hymn-singing was undoubtedly a feature of worship in the Pauline churches, although it is explicitly mentioned only in 1 Cor. 14.26 (cf. Rom. 15.9, 11; 1 Cor. 14.15; and the Paulinist Eph. 5.19 and Col. 3.16). 13. Love of harmony. Paul’s many calls for unity, sharing and agreement among the members of his churches (Rom. 12.16; 15.5; 1 Cor. 1.10; 12.2; Gal. 3.28; Phil. 2.2; 4.2) indicate that the freedom from rivalry attributed to the utopian communities were highly valued by the churches, but frequently eluded them. Also relevant here are the metaphor of the body of Christ (Rom. 7.4; 12.5; 10.16; 12.12, 27), and Paul’s instructions to believers to be transformed into the image of Christ (Rom. 8.29; 2 Cor. 3.18; Phil. 3.21; 1 Cor. 15.49; cf. Col. 3.9). 14. Simplicity and self-control. The kinds of self-control (or spiritual control) and discipline (IURQKPD, H JNUDWHLD) characteristic of the utopian groups are also valued by Paul (Rom. 8.6–9; 1 Cor. 7.5, 37; Gal. 5.23; 1 Thess. 4.4; 5.6, 8). 15. Blessed existence. Donfried notes that ‘Precisely because justification for Paul is not simply a point in past time but is a continuing event, he makes it clear that the one who is in Christ must now lead a life congruent with the gift that has been given in baptism and which continues to be given in the Spirit through the congregation’.24 Life ‘in Christ’ is an existence of death to sin and life before God (Rom. 6.11), sanctified and holy (1 Cor. 1.2), guaranteeing a share in the resurrection (2 Cor. 1.21; 1 Cor. 15.22) – a state in which ‘all the nations’ are ‘blessed’ (HQHXORJKWKVRQWDL) by sharing in the faith of Abraham (Gal. 3.8–9, 14). It should be noted that the picture of ‘the Pauline church’ that emerges from this sketch is in itself utopian in that it envisions the organization and conduct of the small, sometimes unreceptive and widely dispersed communities within Paul’s sphere of influence in terms of the apostle’s own preferences, ideals and hopes. Taken individually, none of these Pauline ‘commonalities’ with the Hellenistic and Jewish utopias would be probative, but in aggregate, they point to common utopian patterns of thought shared by Paul and his audiences. Rather than forming communities, like 23 Josephus goes so far as to imply the symbolization of YHWH by the sun to the Essenes (War 2.128, 148). See Mendels, ‘Hellenistic Utopia’, pp. 218–19. 24 Donfried, ‘Kingdom of God’, p. 185.

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the Essenes and Therapeutai, that lived out their utopian ideals in literal ways (e.g., by adopting certain modes of clothing, dining habits and social organization), the utopianism of the Pauline churches, dispersed throughout the Roman empire, tends to spiritualize the demands of life ‘in Christ’, possibly as a concession to their status as ‘in the world, not of the world’ (cf. 1 Cor. 2.12; 3.3; 7.31; 2 Cor. 1.12, 17; 5.16; 7.10; 10.3; Gal. 2.3; 6.14).

3. Jesus in Utopian Context D. Mendels, who considers the career of Jesus within the context of Jewish nationalism prior to 70 CE, remarks on the ‘non-political’ tenor of his preaching of the kingdom.25 In fact, with very few exceptions (e.g., Lk. 22.30; cf. Mt. 19.28), the EDVLOHLD sayings attributed to Jesus by the evangelists – whether they express a present, futurist, or inaugurated eschatology – are remarkably free of nationalistic content: they do not associate the kingdom of God with ‘Israel’ as a hoped-for national, political entity.26 The few sayings that seem to equate kingship with Israel’s rulers predict its demise (Mt. 21.43; Lk. 13.28–29//Mt. 8.11–12) or are critical of it (Lk. 6.16//Mt. 11.12; Mk 12.35–38//Mt. 22.41–46//Lk. 20.41–44).27 Unlike many Second Temple Jews, Jesus does not hark back to any of the utopian eras in the history of Israel as a template for the EDVLOHLD. This is not to say that the announcement of the kingdom was not conceived by Jesus as continuous with and in fulfillment of the sacred history of Israel. Nor does it mean that Jesus denied the sanctity of the Temple28 or of the land. However, the evidence suggests that Jesus’ interpretation of the kingdom stressed the comprehensiveness of divine rule rather than its par25 Especially Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, pp. 223–30; Cullmann, State, pp. 8–23; see also G. Vermes, The Authentic Gospel of Jesus (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2003), p. 401. 26 For an inventory of EDVLOHLD sayings, see J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus. The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992), pp. 457–60. The passages listed in the paragraph above are adduced to make the general point that K EDVLOHLDWRX THRX / WZaQ RXUDQZaQ is not identified with Israel in the Jesus tradition; it is not assumed that any or all of them can confidently be attributed to the historical Jesus. 27 See Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, 227–29. Lk. 22.29–30 (//Mt. 19.28) is an exception; it will be argued below that the authenticity of this saying is highly questionable. 28 On Jesus’ attitude to the Temple, see B. Chilton, Pure Kingdom. Jesus’ Vision of God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), pp. 115–23; P. Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth. King of the Jews (New York: Vintage, 2000), pp. 197–214, 225–32; cf. W. R. Herzog, Jesus, Justice, and the Reign of God. A Ministry of Liberation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), pp. 11–143.

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ticularity. Even more than Josephus, Jesus seems to have emptied what Oscar Cullmann called the ‘Jewish theocratic solution’ of concrete political overtones.29 Mendels interprets this as implying that, for Jesus, the EDVLOHLDWRX THRX was a transcendental kingdom, to be ruled by him as a purely spiritual messiah: ‘He wanted to be some kind of spiritual king, not a physical or political one. ... He wanted it to remain as vague as possible.’30 Mendels contrasts the nebulousness of Jesus’ EDVLOHLD with ‘concrete plans’ devised by Hellenistic utopian writers31 and the Davidicmessianic hopes of some of his contemporaries.32 It can also be contrasted with the tendency of the early Jewish utopists to conceptualize the kingdom of God in terms of the nation of Israel in some idealized historical era. Mendels situates Jesus historically in the context of Jewish attitudes to EDVLOHLD from the Roman occupation (63 BCE) to the end of the Bar Kochba Revolt (135 CE),33 a period marked by ‘the accelerating decline of Jewish kingship’.34 In Jesus’ time, the idea that an actual ‘king of the Jews’ was a viable option had been undermined by the civil strife that marked the end of the Hasmonean dynasty, by the Roman occupation, and by the disreputable reign of the Hellenizer Herod, who damaged his slender claim to legitimate rule by murdering the last of the Hasmoneans.35 Even in Herod’s time, Mendels observes, there were ‘a great many Jews who preferred peace, even under Roman aegis, to any sort of political unrest’;36 after Herod’s death, a delegation to Rome supported by more than eight thousand Roman Jews wanted to abolish the kingship and create a Roman-ruled state: ‘In fact, many groups in the Diaspora were unhappy with Jewish kingship altogether, and even felt embarrassed at certain junctures by the Jewish state.’37 The 4 BCE riot in Jerusalem over the succession to the Herodian throne, crushed by the Romans in that year, added to the skepticism regarding native kingship.38 Jesus lived in a partitioned Palestine, where a certain amount of local patriotism had supplanted Jewish nationalism, although Jerusalem maintained its religious and spiritual significance.39 After the death of Agrippa I (44 CE), the last EDVLOHXM of Judaea,

29

Cullmann, State, p. 10. Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 229. 31 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 229. 32 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, pp. 225–28. 33 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, pp. 209–42. 34 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 214. 35 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 214–17. 36 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 216. 37 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 217. 38 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 218. 39 Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p, 219. 30

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the idea that native Jewish sovereignty was a live issue seems to have fallen into abeyance until the disastrous revolt of 66–70 CE.40 Jesus, then, lived during the low point in a decline of popular regard for Jewish kingship as a desirable political reality or source of spiritual leadership. The lack of concrete political content in Jesus’ EDVLOHLD sayings – the stress on the universality of God’s rule, the absence of allusions to any of the ‘ideal’ periods in Israel’s past as templates for the kingdom, the vagueness of its temporal referents – bespeaks not a political or ‘restorationist’ Jesus, or even (contra Mendels) an apolitical Jesus, who wanted to be the messiah of a spiritual kingdom. Rather, it suggests an anti-political Jesus, who used the phrase in a manner that deliberately downplayed explicitly nationalistic, restorationist, and particularistic overtones and aspirations,41 although, to be sure, to be ‘anti-political’ is to take a political stand much as to be an atheist is to make a theological statement. In postcolonial terms Jesus’ paradoxical conception of a nonpolitical ‘kingdom of God’ could be described as his attempt to grapple with (or elide) Israel’s complex history as both colonizer and colonized; as L. Gandhi observes, ‘the postcolonial dream of discontinuity is ultimately vulnerable to the infectious residue of its own unconsidered and unresolved past’.42 If, as some interpreters assert, Jesus used the language of the kingdom to subvert Roman imperialism,43 he may have wished to disavow Jewish dreams of EDVLOHLD as well. Needless to say, Mendels’s assumption that Jesus regarded himself as a kingly or messianic figure, spiritual or otherwise, does not fit the evidence; no EDVLOHLDsaying of Jesus that has any claim on authenticity implies that Jesus regarded anyone but God as the legitimate king of Israel. One element in Jesus’ praxis that seems to negate the argument for a non-nationalist Jesus is his calling of the twelve (Mk 3.13–19; Mt. 10.1–4; Lk. 6.12–16). The symbolism behind Jesus’ selection of a core group of 40

Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 222. One of the referees for the article on which this essay is based raised the issue of how the eschatological ‘son of man’ hope fits in with the anti-political tenor of the kingdom of God argued for here. For the purposes of this argument, I am following Crossan’s analysis of the son of man sayings, which finds that this strand is much less deeply embedded in the Jesus tradition than the kingdom of God material, implying that the historical Jesus did not view himself as the eschatological XLR?MWRX D QTUZSRX (son of man / human being); Crossan, Historical Jesus, pp. 454–56. 42 L. Gandhi, Postcolonial Theory. A Critical Introduction (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1998), p. 7. 43 E.g., Crossan, Historical Jesus, pp. 265–302; R. W. Funk, A Credible Jesus. Fragments of a Vision (Santa Rosa: Polebridge, 2002), pp. 21–28, 133–39, 147–62. On the opposition between the EDVLOHLD movement and the golden age ideology of the Roman Empire, see J. D. Crossan and J. H. Reed, In Search of Paul. How Jesus’s Apostle Opposed Rome’s Empire with God’s Kingdom (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2004). 41

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twelve disciples seems obvious: ‘Twelve symbolizes the twelve tribes of Israel, which represent the descendants of Jacob. The twelve disciples of Jesus would thus have symbolized the new “Israel” being created by Jesus.’44 However, the evidence for the historicity of the twelve is equivocal On the one hand, the tradition does pass the criteria of multiple attestation (Mk 3.13–19; Lk. 22.30//Mt. 19.28; 1 Cor. 15.5) and of ‘embarrassment’, since members of the twelve are portrayed negatively, notably Judas.45 On the other hand, there are many reasons to be skeptical about the twelve: they are not mentioned in the earliest stratum of Q or in the Gospel of Thomas; the designation appears in the title of the Didache but not in the text; the letters of Clement and Ignatius do not mention them. Paul mentions the twelve (1 Cor. 15.5) but does not seem to recognize them as a special group of leaders, although he does (sarcastically) speak of the three ‘pillars’ (Cephas, James and John) in Jerusalem (Gal. 2.1–10).46 Perhaps most damagingly to the historicity of the twelve, they are never mentioned in the sayings of Jesus. Furthermore, the notion that the tribes of Israel needed to be ‘restored’ presupposes that Second Temple Jews considered the ten northern tribes to be ‘lost’, an assumption that is challenged by, e.g., Josephus’ assertion that the ten tribes dwell beyond the Euphrates in huge numbers (Ant. 11.133; cf. Letter of Aristeas 39; Tob. 1.1, 4, 5; Jdt. 8.1–2; Lk. 2.36; Acts 26.7; Jas 1.1; see also Paul’s references to himself as belonging to the tribe of Benjamin [Phil. 3.5; Rom. 11.:1], indicating that at least some first-century Jews maintained their ancient tribal identities).47 In view of these arguments, there is good reason to doubt that Jesus designated an inner circle of twelve disciples.48 Rather, the tradition of the twelve originated with the early church: ‘the role of the twelve is associated with the eschatological self-consciousness of the Christian community, which thought of itself as the new Israel living at the end-time, just before 44

R. W. Funk and the Jesus Seminar, The Acts of Jesus. The Search for the Authentic Deeds of Jesus (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), p. 71. 45 Funk & the Jesus Seminar, Acts of Jesus, p. 71. Other reasons to doubt the historicity of the twelve are: the association of the twelve with the eschatological self-awareness of the early church; all of the Markan references to the twelve are redactional; the lists of the twelve are not consistent among the gospels (pp. 71–72). 46 Funk & the Jesus Seminar, Acts of Jesus, p. 71. 47 For a survey of the evidence that the ten tribes endured into the Second Temple period, see P. Barmash, ‘At the Nexus of History and Memory: The Ten Lost Tribes’, AJSR 29 (2005), pp. 207–36. 48 J. P. Meier notes that many distinguished German scholars (‘notably Julius Wellhausen, Rudolf Bultmann, Philipp Vielhauer, Walter Schmithals, and Günter Klein’) have taken the position that the twelve did not feature in Jesus’ mission, although Meier himself disagrees with this position (‘The Circle of the Twelve: Did it Exist During Jesus’ Public Ministry?’, JBL 116 [1997], pp. 635–72, esp. 636).

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the final judgment.’49 However, even if they were a feature of Jesus’ ministry, this does not necessarily mean that Jesus anticipated the literal restoration of the tribes of Israel under the leadership of the twelve. There is no reference to the tribal affiliations of these disciples, and no saying refers to an eschatological leadership role for them, apart from a single Q saying (Lk. 22.30//Mt. 19.28), which speaks of the disciples judging the twelve tribes of Israel.50 Because the theme of the kingdom of God is so prominent in Jesus’ sayings, the appointment of the twelve could symbolize the pre-monarchic theocratic constitution of Israel, when Israel was ruled by God alone rather than by a human king (cf. the harsh divine and prophetic indictment of the imposition of human kingship over Israel in 1 Sam. 8.4– 18). Jesus, then, did not subscribe to the kind of nationalistic, restorationist theology attributed to him by some scholars. This does not mean that the historical Jesus would not, under ideal circumstances, have welcomed a return to native rule over the traditional territory of Israel, that he was not in favour of the Jews of the Diaspora returning to their homeland, or that he did not subscribe to the ancient doctrine that Israel was God’s chosen people. However, for Jesus, the kingdom of God was not a hoped-for restoration of political independence to the Jewish nation but an evocation of the myth of God as king.51 As such, the kingdom was preexistent, since God had ruled the world since its creation; it was a present reality, since God’s kingship was eternal; it would be manifested perfectly in the future, as the prophets had foretold. God’s rule was exercised over the entire earth, but especially over Israel, God’s chosen people. As Josephus’ account of THRNUDWLD illustrates, divine rule did not have to be exercised through a Jewish prophet, priest, or king; even a Roman emperor could be designated by God to rule Israel, in the homeland or in Diaspora (cf. Isa. 44.28). Jesus’ emphasis on the universal aspect of the rule of God fits well within the range of Jewish political sentiments in his lifetime, which, as Mendels has shown, were inclined to be suspicious of native Jewish aspirations to kingship. The lack of any consistent portrayal of the kingdom in terms of some idealized age in Israel’s past complements the cosmic interpretation of God’s rule and suggests that Jesus’ utopianism emphasized the ‘no-place’ (RX WRSRM) – or even better, ‘everyplace’ or ‘pantopian’ – character of the kingdom. For Jesus, although God is the rightful and only true king of Israel and of the earth, the kingdom is 49

Funk & the Jesus Seminar, Acts of Jesus, p. 71. Only the Matthean version has the twelve sitting on ‘twelve thrones’; in Luke, the disciples are enthroned and judge the tribes, but they are not explicitly designated as ‘the twelve’. 51 See N. Perrin, Jesus and the Language of the Kingdom (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976); Beavis, Jesus and Utopia, pp. 48–52. 50

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not simply Israel, past, present, or future,52 but, similarly to Josephus’s portrayal of the Jewish polity in Against Apion, it is everywhere and nowhere, not ‘here’ or ‘there’ but present to those who recognize it (Lk. 17.21; Gos. Thom. 3.3; 113.2). If the conduct of those in the EDVLOHLD movement can be taken as indicating how life under divine rule ought to be lived, then the teachings of Jesus regarding the ‘constitution’ of KEDVLOHLDWRX THRX suggest the contours of the kingdom. If, as many scholars argue, Jesus’ message was in continuity with John the Baptist’s, then the kingdom of God was characterized by repentance and the pursuit of righteousness (Mk 1.4; Mt. 3.2; Lk. 3.3; Ant. 5.2).53 Children and childlike behaviour were paradigmatic of the kingdom (Mk 10.14–15//Mt. 19.14//Lk. 18.16; Mt. 18.3; cf. Gos. Thom. 22.2);54 wealth was an impediment to ‘entering’ it (Mk 10.25//Mt. 19.24//Lk. 18.25). The patriarchal family was rejected in favour of the community of disciples (Mk 3.33–35; Mt. 8.22; 22.48–50; Mk 3.33–35; Lk. 8.21; 9.59–60; 14.26; Gos. Thom. 99.2–3; 55.1–2a; 101.1–3), with God as their ‘father’ (Mt. 6.9; Lk. 11.2b; cf. Mt. 23.9). And more than twenty years of feminist biblical scholarship have made it clear that women were an important part of the EDVLOHLDmovement.55 The EDVLOHLDmovement of Jesus’ time, like other Jewish utopian sects, was Torah-observant. As Jewish biblical scholar P. Fredriksen notes, Jesus’ attitude to the law of Moses, as illustrated by his ethical teachings, is both more lenient and more stringent than the attitudes of some of his contemporaries.56 Contrary to Mendels’s assertion that the kingdom pro52

Again, Jesus may well have subscribed to the prophetic notion that divine rule of the world would some day emanate from Zion, as the ‘temple incident’ (Mk 11.15–18 and parallels) implies. For the debate as to the historicity of Jesus’ Temple act, see D. Seeley, ‘Jesus’ Temple Act’, CBQ 55 (1993), pp. 263–83; P. M. Casey, ‘Culture and Historicity: The Cleansing of the Temple’, CBQ 59 (1997), pp. 306–32; and D. Seeley, ‘Jesus’ Temple Act Revisited: A Response to P.M. Casey’, CBQ 65 (2003), pp. 275–76. 53 On the continuity between John and Jesus, see, e.g., Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, pp. 184–97. 54 While the sayings about children are usually interpreted as referring to the innocence, powerlessness, and simplicity of the young (see, e.g., J. Francis, ‘Children, Childhood’, in D. N. Freedman (ed.), Eerdmans Dictionary of the Bible [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], pp. 234–35, esp. 235), Chilton (Pure Kingdom, pp. 83–85) sees the child symbolizing the single-minded pursuit of a desired object: ‘Making the kingdom one’s sole object of interest, the way a child fixes on a toy or a forbidden object, makes one pure enough to enter the kingdom’ (p. 84). Another possibility is that the EDVLOHLD movement, like the Pharisaic havurah, accepted children as members. 55 The bibliography on this topic is vast; the foundational work is E. Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her. A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York: Crossroad, 1983). 56 Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, p. 104. Cf. Vermes, Authentic Gospel, pp. 406–08.

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claimed by Jesus was ‘vague’ by comparison with those of Hellenistic utopian writers,57 the EDVLOHLD, grounded as it is in the Hebrew scriptures, nonetheless shares many characteristics with Hellenistic utopias, including the accounts of the Essenes and Therapeutai/Therapeutrides in Philo and Josephus. Of course, as with the Essenes and Therapeutai, it is difficult to gauge the extent to which the sayings tradition has been given a utopian cast by the Hellenized authors who describe it. Luke-Acts portrays the earliest church in utopian terms (cf. especially Acts 4.32–37), and Matthew depicts Jesus as the second Moses (Mt. 5.1–7.28); obviously, the gospel writers could, like Philo and Josephus with the Essenes and Therapeutai, paint the ministry of Jesus in terms influenced by scriptural and Hellenistic utopias. However, unlike the Therapeutai and possibly the Essenes, we do have a body of sayings that have been mined by the Jesus Seminar and others for authentic Jesus material. Further, if Jesus is conceived as part of a larger EDVLOHLD movement (perhaps initiated by the preaching of John the Baptist and extending past Jesus’ lifetime), then a broader range of sayings can be admitted as indicative of their ethos at an early stage. First and most obviously, the very notion of K EDVLOHLD WRX  THRX is utopian in and of itself. As noted earlier, Josephus, coining the similar term THRNUDWLD, admits that this distinctively Jewish system of governance is so sublime that Greeks would mistake it for a romantic fantasy. In the famous ‘reversal’ sayings, beatitudes, and similar traditions, the kingdom has a Saturnalian quality: the first will be last and the last first (Mk 10.31//Mt. 19.30; 20.16//Lk. 13.30//Gos. Thom. 4.2–3; cf. Mt. 20.1–15); leaders must be slaves to all (Mt. 23.11; Mk 9.35; 10.44);58 the poor, hungry, and dejected are blessed (Lk. 6.20//Mt. 5.3; Gospel of Thomas 54; Lk. 6.21a//Mt. 5.6//Gos. Thom. 69.2; Lk. 6.21b//Mt. 5.4); enemies are loved (Mt. 5.44b; Lk. 6.27b, 32, 35a).59 Several of the most significant of the utopian themes shared by the Therapeutai, the Essenes, the Heliopolitans and by Paul can also be detected in the words of Jesus about the EDVLOHLD. As discussed above, the rejection of biological family ties in favour of the community of disciples characterized the EDVLOHLD way of life (cf. Mt. 19.12).60 Simplicity in food, drink, and clothing are recommended (Lk. 12.22–31//Mt. 6.25– 57

Mendels, Jewish Nationalism, p. 229. The Jesus Seminar attributes these sayings to Mark’s concerns about relationships within his own community; however, the reversal theme and the radical social ethos of the sayings bespeak an early stage in the development of the EDVLOHLD movement. 59 The parable of the Good Samaritan (Lk. 10.30–35) would also fit this theme; however, contra the Jesus Seminar, the parable is arguably a Lukan composition: it is found only in Luke; the ministry to Samaria is a particularly Lukan interest (Acts 1.8; 8.1, 14, 25; 15.3). 60 See Crossan, Historical Jesus, pp. 299–302. 58

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34//Gospel of Thomas 36; Mt. 6.11//Lk. 11.3). What J. D. Crossan calls ‘open commensality’ – table fellowship that disregarded class, gender, and other social distinctions – was practiced (Lk. 14.15–24//Mt. 22.1–14//Gos. Thom. 64.1–12; Mk 2.15–17; Mt. 9.10–13; Lk. 5.29–32).61 A simple, serene lifestyle, dependent on divine providence, was a stated ideal (Lk. 12.6–7//Mt. 10.29–31).62 Harmony within and outside the community was cultivated (Mt. 5.39//Lk. 6.29a).63 Miraculous healings heralded the EDVLOHLD.64 While slavery is taken for granted – for example, in the parables65 – there is no evidence that slavery was condoned by the EDVLOHLD movement or that its earliest members owned slaves; rather, mutual service is a metaphor for right relationships within the community (e.g., Mk 10.45; Mt. 20.28; Gal. 5.13; 1 Pet. 4.10; 1 Pet. 5.2–3). Like (in different ways) the Essenes, Therapeutai, and Pharisees, the early EDVLOHLD movement was concerned about the purity of Temple worship (Mk 11.12–17//Mt. 21.12– 17//Lk. 19.45–48//Jn 2.13–22).66 As with other utopian movements, the countercultural aspects of the EDVLOHLDmade becoming what the Matthean evangelist calls ‘children of the kingdom’ (XLRL? WKM EDVLOHLDM) difficult and demanding (Mt. 8.12; 13.38), setting them apart from other Jews of their time as the Essenes, 61

See Crossan, Historical Jesus, pp. 261–64; R. H. Brawley, ‘Open Table Fellowship: Bane and Blessing for the Historical Jesus’, PRSt 22 (1995), pp. 13–31; McKnight, New Vision, pp. 41–49. 62 Cf. Lk. 21.18; Mt. 7.9–11//Lk. 11.11–13; Lk. 12.25//Mt. 6.27; Mt. 7.7–8//Lk. 11.9– 10//Gos. Thom. 94.1–2; cf. Gos. Thom. 2.1; cf. Lk. 10.7–8; Gos. Thom. 14.4; Lk. 12.22– 23//Mt. 6.25; Gos. Thom. 36.1; Lk. 12.16–20; Gos. Thom. 63.1–6. 63 Cf. Mt. 5.40//Lk. 6.29b; Mt. 5.41; Mt. 18.23–34; Mt. 7.3–5//Lk.6.41–42//Gos. Thom. 26.1–2; Mt. 6.12//Lk.11.4a–b; Lk. 6.37c//Mk 11.25//Mt. 6.14–15; Lk. 6.32//Mt. 5.46; Mt. 5.43–48//Lk. 27–28, 32–35. The association of the divine with the sun noted in the Therapeutai, Essenes, and Heliopolitans is found in one saying of Jesus classified as ‘pink’ by the Jesus Seminar. Of course, like the Therapeutai, the children of the EDVLOHLD knew better than to worship the sun; however, in Mt. 5.45 the sun is connected with divine providence. The metaphorical association of God with the sun is found frequently in the Psalms (e.g., Pss. 19.4; 37.6; 50.1; 72.5; 74.16; 84.11; 136.8; 148.3; cf. Lk. 1.78). 64 That the historical Jesus cured some people of their illnesses is accepted even by the skeptical criteria adopted by the Jesus Seminar (see Funk & the Jesus Seminar, Acts of Jesus, p. 531). The six healing narratives considered by the Seminar to have some claim on historicity are Mk 1.29–31; 1.40–45; 2.1–12; 5.24b–34; 8.22–26; and 10.46–52. 65 See M. A. Beavis, ‘Ancient Slavery as an Interpretive Context for the New Testament Servant Parables with Special Reference to the Unjust Steward (Lk. 16.1–8)’, JBL 111 (1992), pp. 37–54. 66 On the Essenes as priestly community, see J. E. Taylor, ‘The Women “Priests” of Philo’s De Vita Contemplativa: Reconstructing the Therapeutae’, in J. Schaberg, A. Bach and E. Fuchs (eds.), On the Cutting Edge. The Study of Women in Biblical Worlds (New York: Continuum, 1994), pp. 102–22.

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Therapeutae and Pharisees were separate. ‘The tribe of the Christians’, as Josephus later called them (Ant. 18.3.3), like the other utopian Jewish movements, sought divine EDVLOHLDin their own, distinctive way. Unlike the other sectarian groups, the EDVLOHLD movement to which Jesus belonged has, as Josephus put it, endured to the present day (Ant. 18.3.3).

4. Jesus in Continuum The Jewish utopian communities (Essenes, Therapeutai, Havurot), the EDVLOHLD movement to which Jesus belonged, and the HNNOKVLD as conceptualized by Paul show many commonalities: all share characteristics of Hellenistic utopias; all have precedents in the Hebrew scriptures and early Judaism; all are theocratic; none advocates active resistance to secular authorities. With respect to commonalities between Jesus and Paul particularly, both share what J. Z. Smith terms a ‘utopian’ rather than a ‘locative’ propensity in that they emphasize the (scripturally grounded) cosmic dimension of divine rule (God is ruler over all the earth/universe) over the (equally scriptural) particularity of the EDVLOHLD (Israel’s status as ‘a priestly kingdom and a holy nation’).67 With respect to the relationship between Jesus’ proclamation and Paul’s utopian vision, it is tempting to cite Alfred Loisy’s famous observation that ‘Jesus foretold the kingdom, and it was the Church that came’68 to make an easy distinction between the dynamic, theocentric EDVLOHLDmovement of Jesus’ time and Paul’s network of Christ-centred HNNOKVLDL. However, although Paul’s references to the kingdom are few, as Donfried observes, Paul does use the phrase in a manner reminiscent of the synoptic tradition: like Jesus, Paul refers to the kingdom as ‘consummated in the future’ but having ‘already achieved an 67 Exod. 19.6; cf. Deut. 7.6; 14.2; 26.18. In a review of Jesus and Utopia (Journal of Utopian Studies 18 [2007], pp. 281 –84), J. Meggitt observes that The History of the Rechabites / Story of Zozimus ‘makes a nonsense’ of Smith’s claim that Jewish utopias are characteristically locative, envisioning an idealized Israel as utopia. If the History were indeed relevant to the argument of the book, its existence would hardly invalidate Smith’s (or my) case, but rather be the exception that proves the rule. However, contrary to Meggitt’s description of the text as a first-century CE Jewish pseudepigraphon, recent scholarship identifies it as a Christian text, dating between the fourth and seventh centuries. Moreover, the Rechabites of the tale are descendants of a single family divinely transported to a paradisical island where they live virtuous and ascetical lives, not a utopian vision of Judaism. See J. H. Charlesworth, ‘History of the Rechabites’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Vol. 2 (New York: Doubleday, 1985), pp. 443–63; C. Knights, ‘Rechabites Ancient and Modern: A Study in the Use of Scripture’, ExpTim 113 (2002), pp. 333–37; R. Nikosky, ‘The History of the Rechabites and the Jeremiah Literature’, JSP 13 (2002), pp. 185–207. 68 A. Loisy, The Gospel and the Church (London: Isbister, 1903), p. 166.

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anticipatory reality in the present’, albeit with the decisive difference that for Paul the presence of the kingdom is experienced ‘through the resurrection and reign of Christ’.69 This ‘kingdom plus Christ’ quality is typical of early Christianity; for Paul, it is perhaps not an exaggeration to say that existence ‘in Christ’ is eutopia (in the sense of the ultimate ‘good place’), or at least a foretaste of the blessed existence to come. Although he would have been taken aback at Paul’s Christological obsession and his abandonment of Torah, the historical Jesus might have been impressed by Paul’s community-building activities shaped by the utopian patterns of thought he shared with Jesus and other Jewish sectarians of his time. Finally, there is an interesting ‘continuum’ between Jesus’ non-nationalistic proclamation of the reign of God (the kingdom importantly includes but is not exclusive to Israel – all the earth is the Lord’s, including Israel especially), Josephus’ conception of the law as a THRNUDWLD that binds Israel together wherever Jews are located throughout the RLNRXPHQK (Israel retains its status as a ‘kingdom of priests and an holy nation’ without a nation-state), and Paul’s ‘grafting’ of the world into Israel so that ‘all the world’ has the potential to share in Israel’s holy estate (Romans 9–11). These three early Jewish utopian expressions turn Smith’s adage that ‘[if] there was no native king, then even the homeland was in diaspora’ on its head;70 for Jesus, Paul and Josephus, to varying degrees, the homeland is conceived as a sort of invisible empire contiguous with the world and ruled by God so that even the Diaspora is ‘in Israel’.

69

Donfried, ‘Kingdom of God’, p. 187. Donfried identifies Rom. 14.17, 1 Cor. 4.20– 21 and 1 Thess. 2.12 as expressing an inaugurated eschatology, and 1 Cor. 6.9, 15.24, 50 and Gal. 5.21 expressing the futurity of the kingdom. 70 Smith, Map is not Territory, p. xiv.

What Did Jesus Do that Got Him into Trouble? Jesus in the Continuum of Early Judaism–Early Christianity DARRELL L. BOCK

Understanding the life of Jesus generally takes two tacks. One emphasizes a focus moving unit by unit and applying criteria of authenticity, standards which are much discussed. Another, more recent approach has been to focus on the coherence of an overall, synthetic understanding of the Jesus story. N. T. Wright’s project may be the most well known example, although the work of B. Meyer also fits here.1 Is there a way to try and fuse these two approaches? Could such a fusion protect against weaknesses of each of the two tacks? That is what I shall try to sketch in this short essay. In doing so I will also look for what might be called a ‘middle’ Jesus, a Jesus who represents a transition from roots in Judaism to what emerged later in the early church of the disciples as reflected in our earliest Christian sources.2 Perhaps such a ‘middle’ Jesus helps to clear the way across Lessing’s famous, supposedly uncrossable ditch. A key to appreciating the survey we are about to undertake is to see Jesus’ ministry as a connected unit. Actions in one area also reflect and refract off of activity in another. Often critics take the Jesus story and cut it up into pieces of individual traditional units. This atomistic investigation attempts to ‘divide and conquer’ by suggesting that a given piece of evidence can only be pushed to say so much about Jesus. By disconnecting the single strand of action from others, the full impact of all Jesus did and how it correlates is lost, as pieces and actions become isolated from one another, largely lacking any context. We argue here for a more synthetic understanding of what Jesus did and said. We hope to show the benefit of 1 B. F. Meyer, The Aims of Jesus (London: SCM, 1979); N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1996). 2 This description acknowledges the application of such a description to Judaism by Gabriele Boccaccini in his overview of the history of Jewish thought, Middle Judaism. Jewish Thought 300 B.C.E. to 200 C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991). For him the description represents the move from ancient Judaism to rabbinic Judaism in the same period of intense change. This essay also owes a debt to the work of seeking a continuum approach to Jesus. See T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Approaches to the Historical Jesus (London: T&T Clark, 2007).

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fitting the pieces together. In doing so, however, we shall not assume the historicity of the material but will try to argue for its historical likelihood before putting it to use. For this step we shall appeal to the criteria, but we shall keep a special eye on evidence of transition or continuum with Judaism, where Jesus appears as a transitional figure in a development moving from Second Temple Judaism into a new sect of Judaism possessing its own distinctive elements. Is it possible that a ‘middle’ Jesus reflects an authentic figure of transition? I hope to consider many factors that contributed to official irritation with Jesus. Is there evidence that such irritants also share this ‘middle’ Jesus picture? Might such a middle position suggest that these irritants are authentic, at least in the gist of what they represent? In addition, did such factors combine to lead to full fledged opposition against Jesus? Did these irritants culminate in Jesus being brought before Pilate sometime in the early thirties? Some of these factors serve as minor irritants that produced initial discomfort and suspicion. Others, particularly a series of events in the last portion of his ministry, were seen as challenges that could not be ignored, reflecting major disagreements and incidents. We focus on events that had a public dimension to them in most cases involving those who could help to decide what should happen to Jesus. I divert somewhat from the normal format of these essays of moving from Judaism to early Christianity and back to Jesus, because I am treating multiple events. So each event will carry this sequence within its discussion. I also move quickly, especially in early church matters, because of the synthetic ground I am covering.

1. Getting Into Trouble: Minor Irritants Leading to Opposition 1.1. Minor Irritant 1: Association with tax collectors and sinners In Judaism. The first cause of tension comes from Jesus’ welcome of tax collectors and sinners. The opening up to the fringe of society stood in contrast to the kind of separatism of the Qumran community of the Dead Sea, as well as the emphasis of the Pharisees. It may even eventually have stepped on the more elitist, social orientation of the Sadducees, although it is not clear they were engaged with Jesus at this point in his work and they would have supported the collection of taxes unlike many other Jews. The issue of a distinction between the righteous and sinners is built into the core of Jewish thinking about faith, purity, and sin. Even access to the temple was restricted to those who were clean and in some cases without defect. E. P. Sanders argues for this element of Jesus’ work as an irritant in

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his Jesus and Judaism.3 J. Klawans next notes that at Qumran there was not a clear distinction between moral and ritual purity as we often see in the rabbis, probably because of the loss of the temple.4 At Qumran, he argues that ritual purity was absorbed into being associated with sin; rather than being distinct from it. The linkage with sin can be made because purity was associated with cleanliness for worship, a category somewhere between sin and righteousness. He appeals Community Rule 2.25–3.6; 4.9– 11; 5.13–14, 18–19; 6.24–26; 8.16–18, and 4Q512 (Ritual of Purification) 29–32, lines 8–10. Klawans makes the case that for the rabbis, the heirs of Pharisaism, there was a distinction, but that they regarded both ritual and ethical purity as equally important. In sum, Judaism was not unified on matters of purity. Jesus fits into this backdrop but with his own take. His position expresses itself with some ambiguity with regard to the position of those questioning him (at least initially where the Pharisees are called righteous in the text [Mk 2.17]). In the Early Church. Yet his remarks also operate in a manner distinct from how the early church expressed itself on vices and the unrighteous (1 Cor. 6.9–11; Eph. 5.5–6). In some contexts, Jesus highlights the vice that is unrighteousness; the early church pointed to groups that were unrighteous. The early church points to the ‘former’ condition of those who reside in the community. The gospels emphasize how Jesus sought such people out. Jesus. Numerous texts point to this feature of Jesus’ ministry and who he associates with as he reached out to those on the fringe (Mk = Mk 2.13– 17 = Mt. 9.9–13 = Lk. 5.27–32; Mk 7.24–30 = Mt. 15.21–28; L = Lk. 18.13; 7.36–50; 10.29–37; 19.1–10; Q = Mt. 11.19 = Lk. 7.34). The collection of texts shows the theme is multiply-attested, being in more than one layer of the gospel tradition. It also is in multiple forms as parables, sayings, and narratives are involved. All of this points to authenticity at a historical level. M. E. Boring adds the note in support for authenticity that the detail about the location of the tax collector booth in Capernaum also points to an early tradition, before this Galilean region came under the authority of Philip in 39 CE.5 No account makes the point more vividly in terms of Jesus’ motivation than the anointing by the sinful woman in Lk. 7.36–50. The reaction of the hosting Pharisee to the action Jesus permits 3

E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), pp. 204–07. J. Klawans, ‘Moral and Ritual Purity’, in A.-J. Levine, D. C. Allison, Jr. and J. D. Crossan (eds.), The Historical Jesus in Context (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 266–84, esp. 278 and 281. 5 M. E. Boring, Mark. A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), p. 80 n. 26. 4

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from the woman speaks to a difference in perspective between Jesus’ host and the teacher. Jesus is suggesting that God is open to accepting a wide array of people, if they will turn to him and respond to his grace, which is the point of the parable he tells within the scene (7.41–47). The pronouncement of Mk 2.17 coheres with this understanding. Jesus, like a physician, had come to deal especially with the sick, to bring them to a place of healing. Some see concern about proper rules regarding purity in this Mk 2.17 scene, much like what appears in Mk 7.1–23.6 Klawans goes on to argue the ambiguity in the statement of Mark 7 is for its possible historicity. The same ambiguity applies to Mark 2, especially as it includes those as ‘righteous and healthy’ who in the later church were seen as opponents and unrighteous. There is a transitional feel to this text’s portrayal of Pharisees and scribes. What does this event show? It shows someone making a judgment about who is acceptable to God and who is able to enter into His blessing, an acceptance that does not require any stop at the temple or any offer of sacrifices. This is the remark of a prophet at the least, if not one bearing more authority. A.-J. Levine says it this way as she discusses the way similar texts like the Good Samaritan or the Tax Collector and the Pharisee work. These passages had a sting to them before there was two thousand years of good public relations for tax collectors and Samaritans: When the parable is heard with first-century Jewish ears, however, the response is by no means so simple. The idea that a tax collector would receive approval over a Pharisee should, instead, shock. To see the tax collector as justified is tantamount to a member of the local population claiming that an agent of a foreign, invading government, an agent whose job it is to take money from the local population and funnel it to the capital of the invading empire, is the one to be admired and to serve as a moral exemplar.7

6

Klawans, ‘Moral and Ritual Purity’, p. 281, notes that Mk 2.17, like Mark 7, is not a strict contrast, but a prioritized emphasis. Boring, Mark, p. 82, notes the purity view as one of two options here. Jesus is seen as walking into a situation of likely impurity. The other option is that such people were simply seen as sinners and as unconcerned about God and his standards, as well as his people. The remarks about Jesus’ teaching apply no matter which option is taken. Such people were seen as unacceptable to God, or at least unwelcome in their current state. 7 A.-J. Levine, The Misunderstood Jew. The Church and the Scandal of the Jewish Jesus. (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 2006), p. 38. Her later defense of the prayer of the Pharisee as being Luke’s anti-Jewish construction is not a likely explanation for this text. She claims that the Pharisee’s prayer is a ‘there I go but for the grace of God’ prayer. However this fails to see the prayer’s distortion of the praise psalm form where one thanks God for what the deity has done, not for what one has done for God.

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Jesus is indicating who can belong to God’s community in surprising ways as he explains how righteousness that transforms is received. His claim is that such righteousness can come to anyone, but not on the basis of our own strength and effort or social role. Rather it comes in grateful response to an invitation, received as God’s grace. So grace leads to righteousness, not righteousness to grace. Jesus as one called to heal and preach the gospel of the kingdom defines who can have access to God on the basis of his own teaching, authority, and ultimately, his person. This claim of authority over righteousness and forgiveness was an irritant to the Jewish leadership as their reaction in the similarly directed scene of Lk. 7.48–50 shows. The woman was not asked to make individual restitution in order to receive forgiveness, but Jesus offered her forgiveness directly. That direct approach brought initial reaction against him. Jesus and Judaism compared Again. This was different from many strands of Judaism that required restitution and repentance. The principle of paying back an extra ‘fifth’ came from Lev. 6.1–5. B.K. 9.6 in the Mishnah makes the point: ‘[If the thief] paid him back the principal but did not pay the added fifth, [if the victim] forgave him the value of the principal but did not forgive him the value of the added fifth, [if] he forgave him for this and for that, except for something less a perutah out of the principal, he need not take it back to him. [If] he [the thief] gave him back the added fifth and did not hand over the principal, [If the victim] forgave him the added fifth but did not forgive him the principal, forgave him for this and for that, except for an amount of the principal that added up to a perutah, then he has to go after him [to make restitution, wherever he may be].’ In the same work, B.M. 4.8 says: ‘He who steals from his fellow that which is worth a perutah and takes a [false] oath to him [when he wishes to confess and effect restitution] adds a fifth.’ The first passage shows that forgiveness of the ‘fifth’ does not nullify the need to make financial restitution of the principle. The second shows that to lie about the promise of restitution is grounds to add to the restitution required. Jesus’ direct declaration might well have raised the question over who has the right to fiddle with God’s Law. Now one may object that these Mishnaic texts have to do with how people treat other people, but the point is that this principle was grounded in making restitution for any act of wrongdoing. Restitution was the principle on which sacrifice was built, where sin cost and an act of restitution was required before God. Later this restitution, the church will claim, is what Jesus paid (Rom. 3.21–31; Hebrews 8–10). In addition, in Judaism, how one treats others is tied to how one responds to God. Many strands of Judaism saw a relationship between how one relates to God and to others as the Ten Words shows in its two sec-

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tions and as the description of Elijah as a prophet of restoration indicates (Mal. 4.5–6). The Jewish religious leaders perceived Jesus as reconfiguring such a priority, a cause of potential irritation to those who wanted to be sure a distinction would remain between the righteous and sinners.8 1.2. Minor Irritant 2: Forgiveness of sins Two texts are important with regard to Jesus’ claim to forgive sins. They connect to the previous category as well. In both Mk 2.1–12 and par. and in Lk. 7.36–50, Jesus forgives sins. This concept is multiply-attested in terms of authenticity with its appearance in a tradition reflected in Mark and one that Luke alone uses. In both places the instant reaction is the same by the Jewish theologians present. They object, ‘Who can forgive sins but God?’ In Judaism. The best we can tell there are only two potential parallels to this kind of an act in Judaism. One is in 2 Sam. 12.13, where Nathan as a prophet declares to David: ‘The Lord has taken away your sin.’ The second is a text found at Qumran known as 4QPrNab (= 4Q242) 1.4. In this work known as the Prayer of Nabonidus, an exorcist is said to have forgiven sin. No rabbinic texts make such an association. Forgiveness is seen as God’s business. Nathan merely announces what God has done with a direct mention of God that Jesus’ statement lacks. This is also in contrast to such claims in the early church where forgiveness in the name of Jesus or variations on such ideas appear. The Nabonidus text simply summarizes the impact of what the exorcist helps to facilitate on the basis of a principle explicitly expressed later in the Jewish Talmud of the fifth century CE: ‘No one gets up from his sickbed until all his sins are forgiven’ (b. Ned. 41a). In the early Church. In this context forgiveness takes place not directly in the declaration of a follower of Jesus, but through his name or some other act related to him (Acts 2.38; 10.43; 13.38; 26.18: ‘through faith in me’; Eph. 1.7: through his blood). The authority of the name shows the central role the now risen Jesus has with regard to an authority that was normally attributed to God. Jesus. Jesus declares sins forgiven directly. Now he does say, ‘your sins are forgiven’ with a passive verb, suggesting God does the forgiving, since this is what is often seen as a ‘divine’ passive. However, in Mk 2.10 Jesus says far more than this when he says: ‘That you might know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins, I say to you get up and walk.’ The lack of explicit mention of God and the ‘team’ ministry this implies in directly declaring a forgiveness God permits would have been 8

The text does not show what Jesus thinks of sacrifice here. The mere direct act would be the irritant.

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an irritant to Jewish sensibilities about God’s unique glory and authority over sin. There is more than an interpretive dispute here; the issue is authority. Here Jesus links an act that cannot be seen (forgiveness) with an act that can and that requires God’s work (healing a paralytic). God is said to act in response to Jesus’ initiative in a text where the authority Jesus claims is his own as Son of Man. This is precisely the reverse of what one would expect in terms of the declaration of authority for the action. Yes, God has given authority to forgive sins, but such authority comes through the Son of Man, Jesus’ favorite name for himself, a position Jesus will ultimately associate with the imagery of judgment and ruling authority in Daniel 7.9 So Jesus has authority to forgive sin, an authority closely linking him to God and the divine work. Such authority coheres with the right Jesus exercises about who can associate with God, our first category. 1.3. Minor Irritant 3: Sabbath incidents and healings Yet another area of authority that touches on the law is Jesus’ healing activity tied to the Sabbath, as well as Jesus’ defense of the disciples’ Sabbath activity. Once again the collection of texts is impressive in terms of distribution (Mark: Mk 2.23–3.6 = Mt. 12.1–14 = Lk. 6.1–11; Luke: Lk. 13.10–17; 14.1–6; John: Jn 5.1–18; 7.22–23). In Judaism. Some question these events arguing that there was no set Sabbath policy in Judaism and that the idea that some followed Jesus around to see what he would do is ludicrous.10 The point about no set Jewish policy is correct, but Boring is correct to note that in the passage the view is ‘unless there is a life threatening situation, Sabbath laws should be observed’. The Essenes at Qumran were more strict than others, not even permitting help to an animal in trouble on the Sabbath (CD, 4QDamascus Documente 11.13–14 = 4Q270 [= 4QDe] frag. 10, 5.17–18: ‘Let no beast be helped to give birth on the Sabbath day; and if it fall into a cistern or into a pit, let it not be lifted out on the Sabbath’), whereas the Pharisees and Sadducees allowed such help except on a feast day (m. Shab. 18.3).11 This text 9

The debate over the authenticity of the Son of Man expression is almost endless. I have defended its authenticity in my Jesus according to Scripture (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2002), pp. 601–05. Of course for those who reject such healings or miracles, this scene and the saying linkage is a creation of the church. It is interesting, however, that Josephus in reporting about Jesus recognizes he did unusual works (Ant. 18.61–64). 10 Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, pp. 264–67. For the variety of Jewish views on Sabbath labor, see Boring, Mark, p. 94 n. 39, who notes how moderate later rabbinic teaching became, even allowing for the treatment of a sore throat lest it become more serious (m. Yom. 8.6, cited below). 11 We have followed the translation of the Cairo Geniza text from A. DupontSommer, The Essene Writings of Qumran (Glouchester: Peter Smith, 1973), p. 153. The

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reads, ‘They do not deliver the young of cattle on the festival, but they help out. And they do deliver the young of a woman on the Sabbath. They call a midwife for her from a distant place, and they violate the Sabbath on her [the woman in childbirth’s] account. And they tie the umbilical cord. R. Yose says, “Also: They cut it. And all things required for circumcision do they perform on the Sabbath.”’12 However, the key point is that on some things there was agreement, such as the fact that Sabbath rest was required when life was not at risk. So, for example, reads m. Yom. 8.6: ‘And any matter of doubt as to danger to life overrides the prohibitions of the Sabbath, where if there is a matter of life and death, then The Sabbath can be overridden.’ Otherwise, one would assume there is no override. The fact that there was no life or death situation in these Sabbath healings or events meant that they could wait for another day (Lk. 13.14). In the early Church. The New Testament epistles make no explicit reference to any Sabbath dispute other than a few general remarks. In Col. 2.16 there is an allusion to a dispute about ‘Sabbaths’. Is this a reference to calendrical issues (since new moons is also in the list) or to the day of worship? In addition Rom. 14.6 speaks about some who observe the day, a likely reference to keeping Sabbath (or, perhaps, the day of Christian worship, something 1 Cor. 16.2 might also allude to).13 There are notes in Acts about Sabbath attendance at the synagogue, but none of these texts indicates a problem with the day (Acts 13.27, 42; 15.21; 18.4). The point is that there are no examples of disputes over labor on the Sabbath in the church as an issue. If there is an issue it seems to be over what day should be kept and whether it should be regarded as different from other days. Jesus. It is important to note that these Sabbath texts record a variety of events that raised an objection from Jewish observers. The list includes more than one healing, as well as the plucking grain on the Sabbath incident. The incident in John 5 is the most developed with claims that Jesus defended himself on the basis that he and the Father were working on the Sabbath (vv. 17–18). This is precisely what the ultimate theological significance was. Either Jesus was healing through God’s enablement on the Sabbath or Jesus’ power came from elsewhere, as opponents raised the alQumran fragment is found in D. W. Parry and E. Tov (eds.), The Dead Sea Scroll Reader, Part 1 Texts Concerned with Religious Law (Leiden: Brill, 2004), pp. 156–57. This version reads: ‘[Let no one deliver the young of an animal on the Sabbath day;] and if it falls into a pit or a ditch let him not [raise it on the Sabbath].’ A few lines later one is also not supposed to pull up a human with a ladder, rope or utensil (lines 19–20). 12 Citations of the Mishnah are from Neusner’s version. 13 The evidence of gathering on Sunday is not unanimous, as the Ebionites and Nazareans are said to still gather on the Sabbath and 1 Corinthians is not clear whether the Sabbath is being kept or not. However, according to Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.27.5; Epiphanius, Pan. 29, the Jewish Christian groups did continue to gather on the Sabbath.

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ternative option of Beelzebul’s authority in Lk. 11.15. The leadership clearly understood the implication of Jesus’ action here. The more Jesus repeated the act, the more it would intensify the irritation. In sum, for the evangelists these events indicate that (1) God’s action stands behind Jesus and his claims and (2) Jesus has an authoritative take on Torah versus his opponents, especially given that Jesus restores by God’s help and his opponents challenge such work, even if it comes because of issues tied to the Sabbath. One should not miss the significance of this set of acts, some of which are tied to miracles but others are not. Who has the authority to determine what is appropriate on the Sabbath, a day sanctified by one of the Ten Words and around which the creation story itself is built (Exod. 20.8–11; seven days of Creation followed by God’s rest in Genesis 1, esp. Exod. 20.11)? In addition, Deuteronomy 5 argues that Sabbath observance as part of the Ten Words is related to covenant and to honoring God’s deliverance through the Exodus. Who has authority over the sacred calendar, not to mention the core of the law as summarized in the key commandments? Jesus does not appeal to a tradition here; he simply raises issues from Scripture and then appeals to his own authority. Again, in the end, more than interpretation is in view. Here is where the ‘divide and conquer’ approach of more skeptical critics does its work as it severs the connection and integration of healing, association, acceptance, forgiveness, and the challenging act of repeated healings on the day of rest and reflection. As B. Witherington has argued, these acts show that the category of teacher or prophet is inadequate to explain who Jesus is or the scope of his actions. Either he is a lawbreaker or one who sits adjudicating the law with an individual authority to declare its scope (i.e., not an authority that simply assesses by appeal to tradition, but issues an independent assessment).14 It is no accident then, nor is it insignificant that Jesus claims that ‘the Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath’ (Mk 2.28). The one who represents humanity has been given ruling authority. He even has authority over the Sabbath. Much in the same manner as Jesus claimed to be able to forgive sin, so he claims to have authority over the divine calendar. Although many like to challenge the portrait in John’s Gospel, this particular event runs down the same conceptual track as the synoptics when it comes to articulating the roots and significance of Jesus’ Sabbath authority. Let us consider an important challenge to the historicity of such scenes. Some have explained such a scene by an appeal to the retrojecting of Passion concerns into an account Mark is said to have stylized for such polem14

B. Witherington, The Christology of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1990), p. 69.

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ical reasons.15 Boring argues that what we have here is an attempt to raise the issue of blasphemy earlier than it really arose and to root later conflict into an earlier timeframe. The text for him is symbolic of what became an issue later. I do not find persuasive such a suggestion when one analyzes the five reasons Boring gives, as I shall do shortly. This opposition of history and symbol is an ‘either-or’ standard to something that can reflect a ‘both-and view’ of Jesus and his ministry. Something moved the church to reject the traditions surrounding the Sabbath as the last day of the week. It is more than a move in a Gentile direction, as Gentiles could be related to Judaism and the Jesus movement without such a move being necessary. Moreover as our look at our earliest sources shows this dispute does not turn up in any significant way in the early church materials. In fact, many of those materials affirm Sabbath involvement at the synagogue. It is important, however, to make the argument and not only claim the possibility. Let us consider the five points of Boring’s argument for a retrojection. The five alleged points of contact with the Passion in such scenes do not necessarily point to a retrojection. (1) His claim that the scene in Mk 3.1–6 assumes a political charge reads too much into the mention of the Herodians in v. 6 alongside the Pharisees. In Jesus’ challenges there would be both a political destabilizing dimension to his work as well as religious concerns. A religion changing views on how the Sabbath was observed would create public tension Herod would have to keep his eye on.16 (2) That ‘blasphemy’ is the charge in each case (Passion and here) fails to see that Jesus’ act of blasphemy in offering forgiveness is an implied theological deduction (Mk 2.1–10) more than a directly insulting word that impinges upon God’s uniqueness as appears in Mk 14.62–64 where Jesus claims the Son of Man sits at God’s side. This is why we have applied the description of an irritant to Jesus’ claim to forgive. (3) The mixture of wrath and grief in both reflects emotions tied to conflict with people one might hope would have been more responsive. Such emotional mixtures do not belong exclusively to either time frame of Jesus’ ministry or the Passion. (4) The fact that terms of destroying Jesus and plotting to do so overlap between Mk 3.6; 11.18, and the Passion scene are also reflections of conflict and resolution acts that are often tied to the world of escalating or expanding opposition. (5) The ethical issues of doing good or doing harm in the polemics of the conflict does not merely ‘proleptically portray what is at stake as the Jerusalem religious and political leaders make their decision in response to Jesus’, it also coheres with the irritations Jesus’ actions 15

Boring, Mark, p. 96. But again note that the issue in the synoptics is not a problem with the day of the Sabbath, but what can be done on that day. So the connection to the later situation is not transparent. 16

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and teachings introduced into the debate that arose between the leadership and Jesus. Those debates did not emerge out of a religious vacuum. Surely, when pressed, Jesus defended such ‘irritating’ acts on religious, ethical lines. Such events are too widely attested in being attached to him to evolve out of thin air after the fact. Something beyond mere concern for Gentiles created these new views. So a consideration of Boring’s points shows the conclusion of retrojection does not follow. This portrait about Jesus’ attitude toward the Sabbath is coherent and does run along the historical continuum, given that the church did not observe the Sabbath on the same day as Judaism did, at least perhaps from the time of the mid-fifties for some Christians, if the gathering for the church collection takes place on the first day of each week (1 Cor. 16.1–2). In contrast, Jesus both affirms the Sabbath as sacred while also questioning how acts of compassion fit into that sacred day, a claim that does not fit normal Jewish views.17 However, the key difference between the Sabbath controversies involving Jesus and the early church is that ‘working on the Sabbath’ does not appear as an early church dispute, only the day being special seems to be the issue (Romans 14; Colossians 2). So the issues Jesus raised appear to be unique to his time and distinct from early church concerns. Again, Jesus appears to be in the ‘middle’ of a transition. 1.4. Authority Pictured 1: Exorcisms John’s Gospel has no exorcisms, but the category is widely attested in the synoptics (Mark: Mk 1.21–28 = Lk. 4.31–37; Mk 5.1–20 = Mt. 8.26–39 = Lk. 8.26–39; Mk 7.24–30 = Mt. 15.21–28; Mk 9.14–29 = Mt.17.14–20 = Lk. 9.37–43; Mk 3.22 (one of a few Mark only texts); Mk 9.38–40 = Lk. 9.49–50; summaries include Q: Mt. 12.24 = Lk. 11.15; Luke: Lk. 13.32). The key text, however, is Mt. 12.24–28 = Lk. 11.14–20, which is from Q. This is one of the few events that Q presents. This text also cuts against the normal grain of Q in that it points in a Christological direction, something that speaks for the passage’s authenticity in that a Christologically driven passage has adhered to a tradition that normally does not exploit such

17 Again Boring (Mark, p. 95) is correct to note that Jesus does not ‘break’ the Sabbath, as he claims no violation and there is a Christological point to such scenes. However, Jesus does ‘break’ the Sabbath in the more traditionally grounded view of his opponents who do not recognize his authority. An even more comprehensive case for authenticity of these Sabbath accounts is found in C. Tuckett’s essay in this volume. Tuckett speaks of Jesus’ seeming indifference to the Sabbath would have been seen as provocative. He also notes that Jesus’ willingness to do good on the Sabbath would also have been provocative. He speaks of a possible ‘implicit Christology’ here as being important here, even a ‘saving of life’.

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themes.18 The dispute here is about the source of Jesus’ actions. Are they from God or from Beelzebul, from above or below? This final passage from Matthew 12 and Luke 11 comes in a deviation from normal form for a miracle account, a literary deviation that shows the text’s importance. Usually a miracle story gives much detail about the circumstances of the healing and summarizes the reaction. This miracle does the reverse, spending only one verse on the healing and the rest of the time on the reaction. This unique manner of presenting the miracle points is important because the controversy reflects a summary about Jesus’ activity about the source of Jesus’ authority. Only two options are possible. Either Jesus works with the power of God and divine kingdom authority or his authority is from the devil. In Judaism. It is significant to note that the one category not contemplated here is that nothing has taken place. This fits the first-century worldview where the spirit world and the need for exorcism was common place. So, this category is not so unprecedented. Many figures were said to be able to perform exorcisms. By the time of Jesus, Solomon in particular was associated with such power as Josephus notes in Ant. 8.42–49. This text defends the powers of a figure named Eleazar and reads, Now the sagacity and wisdom which God had bestowed upon Solomon was so great, that he exceeded the ancients, insomuch that he was no way inferior to the Egyptians, who are said to have been beyond all men in understanding; nay, indeed, it is evident that their sagacity was very much inferior to that of the king’s. He also excelled and distinguished himself in wisdom above those who were most eminent among the Hebrews at that time for shrewdness: those I mean were Ethan, and Heman, and Chalcol, and Darda, the sons of Mahol. He also composed books of odes and songs, a thousand and five; of parables and similitudes, three thousand; for he spoke a parable upon every sort of tree, from the hyssop to the cedar; and in like manner also about beasts, about all sorts of living creatures, whether upon the earth, or in the seas, or in the air; for he was not unacquainted with any of their natures, nor omitted inquiries about them, but described them all like a philosopher, and demonstrated his exquisite knowledge of their several properties. God also enabled him to learn that skill which expels demons, which is a science useful and sanative to men. He composed such incantations also by which distempers are alleviated. And he left behind him the manner of using exorcisms, by which they drive away demons, so that they never return, and this method of cure is of great force unto this day; for I have seen a certain man of my own country whose 18 By saying this, I do not commit myself to Q as a document or as the reflection of a single community. My point is only that such material, whether oral or written in origin, is out of character with the normal material Matthew and Luke share together.

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name was Eleazar, releasing people that were demoniacal in the presence of Vespasian, and his sons, and his captains, and the whole multitude of his soldiers. The manner of the cure was this: He put a ring that had a root of one of those sorts mentioned by Solomon to the nostrils of the demoniac, after which he drew out the demon through his nostrils; and when the man fell down immediately, he abjured him to return into him no more, making still mention of Solomon, and reciting the incantations which he composed. And when Eleazar would persuade and demonstrate to the spectators that he had such a power, he set a little way off a cup or basin full of water, and commanded the demon, as he went out of the man, to overturn it, and thereby to let the spectators know that he had left the man; and when this was done, the skill and wisdom of Solomon was shown very manifestly; for which reason it is, that all men may know the vastness of Solomon’s abilities, and how he was beloved of God, and that the extraordinary virtues of every kind with which this king was endowed may not be unknown to any people under the sun; for this reason, I say, it is that we have proceeded to speak so largely of these matters. This text shows that it was not unusual to tie exorcism to the activity of humans. However, one point about this text on Eleazar in comparison with Jesus should not be missed. Exorcists like Eleazar relied on formulae and incantations, as well as acts to invoke their exorcisms in ways Jesus did not. Even the tradition about Jesus made it into Jewish discussion. The firstcentury Jewish historian Josephus in his testimony about Jesus observes that the Jews acknowledged Jesus performed unusual works (Ant. 18.61– 64). This recognition runs for centuries through the Jewish reaction to Jesus. The later Jewish suggestion that Jesus was a magician appears in b. Sanh. 43a.19 This magician charge accepts the unusual nature of his works while challenging its source. The Talmudic text, censored from many versions of the Talmud reads: ‘On the eve of the Passover Yeshu was hanged. For forty days before the execution took place, a herald went forth and cried, “He is going forth to be stoned because he has practiced sorcery and enticed Israel to apostasy. Any one who can say anything in his favor, let him come forward and plead on his behalf.” But since nothing was brought forward in his favor he was hanged on the eve of the Passover! Ulla retorted: “Do you suppose that he was one for whom a defense could be made? Was he not a Mesith [enticer], concerning whom Scripture says, ‘Neither shall you spare, neither shall you conceal him (Deut. 13.9)?’”’ To call someone an enticer is to charge them with sorcery and is to put them in

19

Sanh. 6.1 JII C–D in J. Neusner’s versification. See J. Neusner, The Babylonian Talmud. A Translation and Commentary (22 vols.; Peabody: Hendrickson, 2010).

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connection with the authority of evil forces (Mt. 9.34; 10.25; 12.24, 27).20 Justin Martyr in the mid-second century notes this is a Jewish charge when he says in Dial. 69.7: ‘They said it [his miracle power] was a display of magic art, for they even dared to say he was a magician and a deceiver of the people.’ So by the end of the first century, it is affirmed from a widely attested array of sources that Jesus was recognized as having performed unusual deeds, an affirmation that later sources on both sides of the debate also affirm. In this, he was like others, at least at one level.21 In the early Church. With an activity viewed as rather common, it is not surprising to see exorcisms in the early church as well. Perhaps the most famous example is the exorcism of the bewitched Philippian slave girl in Acts 16.18. We see here a phenomena we also saw with forgiveness of sins, where the authority to exorcize does not come directly from the one performing the exorcism, neither is God invoked, but rather it takes place ‘in the name of Jesus Christ’. The authority of Paul is clearly a mediated one, even as he acts as a divine agent. Jesus. The passage in Q has Jesus explain his authority this way: ‘If I cast out demons by the finger (Lk.) / Spirit (Mt.) of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.’ Jesus presented his acts as tied to the kingdom and the authority and power he bore.22 Others saw the power but saw its source as destructive. Jesus’ power comes from beyond, either for good or for ill. The polemic of positive or negative ethical import shows itself here, just as it did in the Sabbath debate. Again one can speak of coherence. The careful study of the context of Jesus’ miracles by E. Eve makes this distinction of approach clear.23 Eve makes an important distinction between different kinds of healer-exorcists that in turn is dependent on work by W. Kahl.24 There are those who are (1) ‘bearers of numinous power’ (BNP), (2) those who are ‘petitioners of numinous power’ (PNP) and (3) 20 On this association of Jesus with the devil, sorcery or false prophecy, see G. Stanton, ‘Jesus of Nazareth: A Magician and a False Prophet who Deceived God’s People?’, in Jesus of Nazareth Lord and Christ. Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), pp. 164–80, esp. 166–71. 21 For how the exorcism theme in Judaism combines with the defeat of Satan theme in Judaism that Jesus ties to the healings, see the end of the Jesus section on this event. 22 For a vigorous defense of the authenticity of this particular saying, see J. D. G. Dunn, ‘Matthew 12:28 / Luke 11:20 – A Word of Jesus?’, in W. H. Gloer (ed.), Eschatology and the New Testament (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1988), pp. 29–49. 23 E. Eve, The Jewish Context of Jesus’ Miracles (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), pp. 15–16. 24 W. Kahl, New Testament Miracle Stories in Their Religious-Historical Setting. A Religionsgeschichtliche Comparison from a Structuralist Perspective (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994).

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those who are ‘mediators of numinous power’ (MNP). Mediators use formulae, some other name, and/or some other means as an aid in their work. Petitioners simply pray for the healing. Bearers of numinous power act directly with no intermediary elements. They ‘incorporate healing power in themselves’.25 What is crucial to see is that Jesus is a bearer of such power, while Eleazar is a mediator of such power, as is Paul. Eve notes a parallel in Greco-Roman works with a later figure Apollonius of Tyana (He is a figure from 150 years later). Otherwise Eve says that Jesus is, ‘virtually unique in being an immanent BNP’.26 In his conclusion, Eve sees that Jesus is unique in the surviving Jewish literature of his time in being portrayed as performing a large number of healings and exorcisms. Eve notes that, Kahl is correct that he [Jesus] is virtually unique in Jewish literature in being portrayed as an immanent BNP in these acts of power, with two provisos. First, some Jewish texts can appear to make human figures act as immanent BNPs where the context suggests they are really only mediators of God’s numinous power. Secondly, whatever may be true of individual miracles stories, the gospels show some tendency to indicate it is God’s power at work in Jesus, not merely his own (e.g., Mt. 12.28/Lk. 11.20; Lk. 5.17). If Jesus is a BNP, it is because he is a bearer of God’s Spirit, which is the source of Jesus’ power. Indeed, if God were not in some sense behind Jesus’ acts of power, they would not count as miracles.27 Now Eve’s conclusion is solid, but his provisos need probing. Yes, Jesus was tied to the kingdom and the Spirit. God is behind his work. Jesus made these connections (Luke: Lk. 4.16–18; Q: Mt. 12.28 = Lk. 11.20). Yes, narrative can simplify events and these narratives do ultimately point to God’s work. This essay, however, is raising questions that comes to us again and again as we add to these categories of authority. They include: (1) How did Jesus understand the nature and scope of his role? (2) Why does he express his actions by not only mentioning God but including himself? In other words, how do we explain the kind of authority Jesus claims for himself without backing off its potential offense in relationship to sin, Sabbath and law, unless there is a very tight linkage between Jesus and God? The very ambiguity of how these texts express this connection, while insisting on it, and the uniqueness of the way they present Jesus’ acts may suggest that Eve’s provisos risk qualifying the gospels’ portrait of Jesus too much, making them appear more like the parallels than perhaps they are.

25

Kahl, Miracle Stories, p. 76. Eve, Jewish Context, p. 16. 27 Eve, Jewish Context, pp. 378–79. 26

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That the gospels’ only real point is that God is really at work in Jesus may well be a variation of the ‘divide and conquer’ approach by looking only at miracles as bearing on the question of the source of Jesus’ actions. This essay prefers to argue that what we see in this set of exorcism texts is a claim that adds yet another element that reflects Jesus’ ‘irritating’ claims of his own authority. With this element in place, miracles as a whole also need to be considered, while noting that many figures in Scripture performed miracles so the issue is not the performance of miracles per se, but their scope, role, and connection to the person of Jesus. Jewish texts confirm a kingdom-defeat of Satan association. In the T. Mos. 10.1–2, the significance of the devil’s defeat is stated this way: ‘Then his kingdom will appear throughout the whole creation. Then the devil will have an end. Yea, sorrow will be led away with him. Then will be filled the hands of the messenger, who is in the highest place appointed. Yea, he will at once avenge them of their enemies.’28 This juxtaposition of an avenging victory and the defeat of Satan reflects the picture of total victory of the Old Testament with a little more detail (Isaiah 65–66). However, there is a difference between Jesus and this Jewish portrait. The victory over Satan for Jesus comes in stages, one represented by his ministry, the other after Jesus has suffered and then been vindicated. In Judaism, this was a once for all expectation, a package deal. In Christianity after Jesus, this demarcation was made even clearer in the movement to a second, delayed coming (Acts 3.19–23; 1 Thess. 4.16–17). Again, Jesus occupies a ‘middle’ position. Jesus’ enemy is not a particular race or the nations, but sin, wickedness and destruction, often tied to Satan and the spirits of evil. This element of his work sought to reveal that the victorious hope Judaism expressed was now present and evidenced in a powerful way that pointed to a new era, an era he called the inbreaking of God’s promised kingdom. On this theme, the early church simply took up this emphasis rather than developing it. For the church the kingdom had come initially, even as the church also awaited its full coming. 1.5. Minor Irritant 4: Purity in association with other legal practices The issue of purity involves mainly one set of texts (Mark: Mk 7.1–23 = Mt. 15.1–20). These are the only Gospel texts where the question of what is ‘common’ or ‘profane’ (NRLQRY [i.e., unclean]) comes up. What is disputed is the disciples’ failure to keep ‘the tradition of the elders’. They fail

28

Translation of the Pseudepigrapha are from J. H. Charlesworth, Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, I (New York: Doubleday, 1983), pp. 931–32.

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to wash their hands to prevent uncleanness in their handling of food.29 The objection leads Jesus into the larger category of legal practices in general. In Judaism. This area of Judaism is so large that it would take a monograph to cover it.30 Along with monotheism, the Sabbath, circumcision and food laws, purity was a distinctive and very detailed feature of Jewish faith, part of the indication of sacredness associated with relating to Israel’s God. A series of washings tied to clean and unclean issues, mostly noted in Leviticus, were related to keeping ritually pure. For example, handwashing discussion reflects work with Leviticus 15. The complicating factor came when Gentiles nations moved into the land, raising the issue of how space, both the temple and public space of the Holy Land in general, could remain clean when so much of space was occupied by people who did not seek to be so careful. This led to the build up of tradition to try and specify how to remain clean, as well as types of uncleanliness. Much of this practice is still seen in individual tractates of the Mishnah, as well as the entire order of the twelve tractates that make up Tohorot. What we are saying here is that for pious Jews, purity was a mentality to be maintained, even if it required adding to the Law to protect its presence. In the early Church. What is amazing is how little space is given to such issues in the rest of the New Testament. The picture of being clean and unclean becomes a metaphor for spiritual faithfulness (1 Cor. 5.7; 2 Cor. 6.17; Heb. 10.22), but we do not have any dispute that touches on this theme directly. In other words, the issue has gone from being a key concern to being almost no concern. The closest we get to such issues is the dispute tied to food and fellowship with Gentiles in Galatians, a major dispute to be sure, but one where the question was what the correct practice should be in a mixed ethnic environment, not how scrupulously to determine how to be clean or unclean in a plethora of settings. In fact, in numerous texts the church’s claim is that all things are clean (Acts 10.14–15; 11.9; Rom. 14.14, 20).31 In one text where the mixture of potentially clean

29

For discussion of the Jewish practice here, see R. Booth, Jesus and the Laws of Purity. Tradition History and Legal History in Mark 7 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1986), pp. 155–87. 30 So we have the Mishnah which in a post-fall of Jerusalem environment begins to work with the wide array of issues on which purity touches. See E. P. Sanders, Judaism. Practice and Belief 63 BCE–66CE (London: SCM, 1992), which is a monograph attempting to summarize the unique elements of Second Temple Judaism and the many issues tied to purity, one of the major features of this period. 31 It may be that the church’s move taking uncleanliness in a more spiritual direction was influenced by the sayings tied to Jesus’ rebuke of the religious leadership, remarks found in texts like Lk. 11.37–52 and Mt. 23.1–36. By spiritual uncleanliness I mean that

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and unclean people exists, the presence of the clean spouse cleanses the unclean spouse, a view the reverse of Judaism (1 Cor. 7.14). Jesus. The uniqueness of this dispute in the Jesus tradition should probably not be separated too greatly from other ‘legal practice’ texts over halakah. In other words, although this dispute is unique in treating the washing of hands, it coheres with other halakic debates Jesus had with the leadership. This suggests the scene’s authenticity of the kind of dispute Jesus may have engaged in. Other ‘legal practice’ texts address Jesus’ practice in relationship to fasting or point to Jesus’ critique of the religious practices of the Jewish leaders (Luke: Lk. 5.33–39; Q?: Lk. 11.37–54 = Matthew 23, unless one sees Luke 11 and Matthew 23 as distinct scenes in which case M and L are present).32 These texts do not so much challenge purity practices as reprioritize and redefine them, making true piety a reflection of more than one’s ability to follow detailed legal practices, something that various strands of Judaism also saw as important, given the prophetic tradition that made it clear that sacrifices alone are not what God requires but sacrifices offered from a genuine heart (Isaiah 58). This class of texts shows Jesus making a serious challenge to a major stand of Jewish legal or halakic tradition that probably tracked with Pharisaism and practices like those of the Essenes or Enochic Judaism.33 Jesus’ response and actions the remarks do not refer to the specific practices related to legal ritual purity, but are references to the spiritual condition of the heart. 32 The relationship of Luke 11 to Matthew 23 is complex. It may be the same tradition. However, I prefer to view the settings as distinct enough that one cannot be sure. At the least, this is Q tradition. At the most, it may represent two distinct controversies, one from M and the other from L. Either way, this means this category is also multiply attested. Regardless of how this particular tradition is assessed in terms of sources, the category of ‘legal practices’ as a whole is multiply attested in Mark, Q, and L, if not Mark, M and L. One of the difficulties here is that the oral tradition and law were so closely identified that it was hard to see what came from one source and what came from the other. What drove the connection was the understandable effort for Jews to live in ways faithful to the Law that showed distinct Jewish identity in contrast to the polytheism of the surrounding nations. Jesus’ remarks challenge aspects of this tight linkage and with the tradition’s inherent tendency to grow. 33 Here one can appeal to the argument of Meyer, Aims of Jesus, pp. 137–53, on eschatological Torah, where he makes the case that Jesus’ most vigorous challenge was against the halakah or the tradition that was becoming attached to the Law and that Jesus treated such rulings as the ‘tradition of men’ versus the ‘commands of God’ (Mark 7.8). Meyer goes on to say (pp. 150–51): ‘The ritual order received neither the accent nor development in the proclamation of Jesus. On the contrary, his central themes of eschatological consummation repeatedly cross the grain of ritual tradition and so violated religious sensibilities (Mk 2.15 par., 19–21 par., 23–28 par.; 3.4 par.; 7.1–23 par.; 10.3–9 par.; Matt. 8.21–22 par.; 11.16–19 par.; 17.24–26 Lk. 15.1–2; 19.5–7; Jn 2.19 [= Mk 14.58 par.; 15.29 par.]).’ I would add that it was so hard for many in this period to sort out the law from the tradition because the two were often perceived as indistinguishable

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showed a kind of indifference to the efforts to prop up support of the law through the development of tradition. His more tradition sensitive opponents read his approach as indifference to the law at best and unfaithfulness to Jewish identity and Israel’s God at worst. The other side of this dialectic about legal practices is that Jesus claims an authority over how to understand the law that pointed to his own authority, especially when he did not appeal to Scripture or to any other authorities but to his own logic or personal position in making the case. In Matthew, Jesus replies in kind to the charges of law breaking made against him, by noting that the tradition of the Pharisees and scribes breaks the ethical side of the law by violating the command to honor mother and father. He then goes on to assert that it is not what goes into a person that defiles but what comes out of the mouth. When the disciples note that the Pharisees were offended by his statements, Jesus drives the point home: ‘Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be rooted up.’ Then he calls the Pharisees blind guides. Jesus’ final remark on the topic is that what comes out of the mouth and out of the heart is what defiles, ‘but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile’. Mark goes a similar route, even describing the custom for his Gentile audience in 7.3–4. When asked, Jesus challenges his opponents for their hypocrisy with regard to honoring mother and father. Then he tells the crowd that defilement does not involve what comes from outside but what comes out of a person. Mark stresses that impurity comes from what emerges from the heart. He alone also adds the implication of Jesus’ remarks (although this was not immediately recognized at the time): Jesus ‘declared all foods clean’. This very note shows that what Jesus said here ended up eventually yielding a radical reconfiguring in the early church that had not yet taken place in the time of Jesus’ ministry or even in the

and as an expression of faithfully living before God as one who embraced the practice of the Law that made a Jew distinct from the practices of the non-monotheists that surrounded them in the larger culture. For those who see Jesus directly challenging the law with an emphasis on Mk 7.19, it is important to remember two things. (1) The early Jewish-Christian church appears to have been careful to keep the law, if the early chapters of Acts and Matthew are a worthy guide, and had to discuss how Gentiles relate to that law in Acts. Nonetheless, they appear to have been comfortable with a move toward Gentiles that allowed some freedom in such matters when one moved outside of an Israeli audience. This kind of allowance does not cohere with pious Jewish practice either. (2) Mk 7.19, if original to Mark as is likely, is a remark by Mark as the narrator, not a remark of Jesus, so that what is present is an implication of what Jesus said that was probably crystallized much later. What this means is that Jesus’ statements and actions relative to purity and practice look to challenge not so much the law as the tradition that surrounds it.

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earliest church, if Acts is of any help in informing us of early church practice.34 All of this tradition about hand-washing reflected a scrupulous Jewish concern to be faithful to Leviticus 15, where being made unclean by a discharge required a washing. Although the body was still considered unclean for a time after the washing, a rinsing by ‘living water’ rendered the hands clean. The Jewish tradition sought to explain and guarantee that no violations of cleanness took place. Thus it expanded the teachings of Leviticus 15. The entirety of this expansion took centuries to develop and codify, ending in the collection of the Mishnah in ca. 180 CE and the production of an elaborate commentary of it called the Talmud in the fifth century. This is a direction Jesus did not go in pursuing issues of the law and legal practices. What Jesus responds to, then, is mostly the tradition treating uncleanliness, not the Torah per se. Jesus’ response makes it clear that he rejected the use of oral law in this way. However, when Jesus goes on to elaborate his response, he does comment on matters of ‘defiling’ that Torah does treat. Here he opts for a focus on the ethical dimensions of the law in terms of personal behavior. Both the rebuke that confronts the Jewish leaders on how parents are dishonored and the emphasis on defiling coming from the heart show this ethical priority as the law interacts in one’s relationships. In force, this is little different from the ‘do good versus do harm’ argument we saw earlier concerning Sabbath practices. There is a coherence to the logic applied here. When Mark adds the narrative comment that the effect of Jesus’ remarks was to make all foods clean (Mk 7.19), the import is that Jesus, by the emphasis he gave, has reconfigured how the law is seen. He read it as less about issues of form and more about questions pointing to the heart, an appeal to ‘eschatological Torah’ that Meyer suggests is present, at the least for the Gentile believers who are Mark’s key audience. Reading Matthew gives one the same sense, but with a lesser degree of contrast. The emphasis on the interpersonal relationships is still there, but the explicit statement of foods being declared clean is lacking.35 Nonethe34

Without some recognition of the authenticity of Acts on these points, we cannot say much about early church practice or its variety. In that case, we are left to Paul’s epistles, which themselves also give evidence of this break but with less specificity of the variety that existed in the early church. The evidence of a clear Jewish oriented believing community in various chapters of Acts is the context I have in mind here (Acts 2–4, 15, 21 [Paul’s vow]). 35 There is a complex issue of how Jewish Christians saw and related to the Law wrapped up in this observation. Matthew is written with Jewish concerns especially in mind. His lack of this implication may well reflect the difference in audience and in application at an ethnic level. Such differences reflect the other side of the continuum that sees Jesus in the ‘middle’. For some there is enough connection that Law is still in play.

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less, it appears the practice of the early church ended up far down the road from what Jesus says here by making his remarks into a kind of prioritized paradigm for the topic. Jesus’ comments are not merely those of a prophet commenting on the law, nor are they the work of a scribe interpreting the law. Rather, the point is that Jesus, in light of his authority, has the right to comment and even prioritize on matters tied to purity. There is no ‘thus says the Lord’ in Jesus’ answers, but the clear statement of what the standard is. As already noted, Meyer speaks of an ‘eschatological ethic’ at work here as the arrival of the new age brings a fresh look at the law and its priorities. A standard of righteousness is being more effectively worked out in conjunction with the promise of the new era.36 Jesus’ remark in defense of his lack of fasting – that new wine requires new wineskins – makes the point explicitly (Mk 2.22 = Mt. 9.17 = Lk. 5.38). It is important that this statement is retained even in a more Jewish oriented gospel like Matthew. This kind of prioritizing and the authority to declare some kind of distinction in the application of the law also must point to the revealer, when the revealer does not point explicitly to God’s revelation as the basis for the judgment. As Meyer states: ‘Since the Mosaic code was conceived to have been divinely revealed, any code claiming to supersede it had somehow to include the claim to be equally revealed – indeed, to belong to a superior revelation.’37 I might want to question the judgment that the claim is of a superior revelation here, since Jesus does appear to have embraced Moses and Torah. However, what is key about the observation is that the response represents the arrival of a new era, which is what makes the ‘newness’ eschatological. In other words, Jesus is not teaching that Moses is inferior, but that God is introducing a fresh emphasis as he calls people to righteousness, something the new dynamics of the eschaton makes possible. The presence of the eschaton seems to be tied to the acts and presence of Jesus. Once again personal authority is central. So this consistent exercise of interpretive authority over the law also has implications for the revelator. Who could emphasize and reveal the scope of the law and practice that God gave through Moses? It is someone For others, the direction of Jesus’ teaching has implications for the Law, at least in terms of some practices and some audiences. 36 Meyer, Aims of Jesus, pp. 138–39. He goes on to say, ‘Jesus was not a rabbi but a prophet and, like John, “more than a prophet.” He was the unique revealer of the full final measure of God’s will’ (p. 151). What is harder to determine is whether the new Torah is intended as a new standard or as what the goal was of God’s standard all along. The very ambiguity of Jesus’ response to the question posed this way and the variety of responses his teaching seems to have provoked also adds to the likelihood we are dealing with Jesus as a bridge figure in this area. 37 Meyer, Aims of Jesus, p. 152.

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through whom God was introducing a time that transcended that of Moses and who transcended Moses himself. Here, Jesus did not claim to go up to the mountain to get the revelation of God as Moses had. Rather, he spoke directly of what ‘my Father’ would do and what divinity requires. Thus, these acts inherently present a claim of inherent authority and divine insight. This is yet another colorful tint in the self portrait of authority Jesus’ actions painted, stones that were tossed one by one serving as irritants and threats to what Judaism must be according to his opponents. Jesus’ handling of other issues tied to the law work in a similar manner and thus coheres to what we have seen, but perhaps not with the edge of these already treated legal practice texts. He prioritizes the commandments so that loving God and neighbor are the two on which the law is summarized (Mk 12.28–34 = Mt. 22.35–40 = Lk. 10.25–28). Rabbi Hillel is said in later sources to have taught something like this declaring, ‘What seems to you to be hurtful, do not do to your neighbor; that is the whole Torah. All the rest is commentary’ (b. Shab. 31a). On this point, Jesus is not so distinctive. Perhaps the most revealing texts in this regard are what are called the ‘antitheses’, which interestingly enough come right after Jesus declares that no one should teach anyone to ignore the least of the commandments of the law while also noting that not one dot or iota of the law will pass away until all is accomplished (Mt. 5.17–48).38 The juxtaposition of a saying teaching fulfilling all the law with Jesus’ exposition of the antitheses must mean that to understand the saying, one must read the exposition of these six contrasts. These contrasts are revealing. Sometimes it is argued that Jesus is merely rejecting oral law in his ‘you have heard it said, but I say to you’ remarks. Appeal is made to Mt. 5.17–20 to justify this distinction. This argument is not entirely satisfying, given that the contrasts appear right after the affirmation of the law. The juxtaposition must indicate that what Jesus means relates to how Jesus handles the topics that follow his declaration. Jesus’ contrasts intensify each command, pressing it in terms of its internal intent. So the issue is not just murder but also anger that leads to murder. The issue is not just adultery but also lust that leads to adultery. The issue is not thinking through how one can get out of marriage, but taking one’s vow seriously in order to keep it, recognizing also that God is involved in bringing a couple together. The issue is not how an oath is worded, but the integrity that makes oath taking unnecessary. The issue is not eye-for-eye 38

Whether ‘antitheses’ is the best name for 5.20–48 is debatable if one is only thinking of the Torah. What is clear is that Jesus is challenging how the law was being applied and sets up six contrasts to how it was being read and how elements of it were being emphasized or prioritized at the time.

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retribution, but a kind of non-retaliation that keeps the spiral of violence from spinning out of control.39 This last example is particularly instructive, showing Jesus’ emphasis on the law’s relational dimension, pointing to a fresh hub for law, so that relationships do not break down. Absence of retribution again is the point in Jesus’ stepping back from the call to hate one’s enemy. The standard may not be what is ‘fair’ or ‘equal’, but what goes beyond the call of normal duty to reverse the cycle that causes relationships to be destroyed. The outcome is that the standard of righteousness that Jesus’ reading of the law calls for exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees. This righteousness operates at a standard greater than that which the world or the Jewish leadership lives by, and reflects God’s character in the process. It reads the law not in terms of conformity to standards of external measurement, but from the inside in terms of heart motivation. It takes the law and focuses it on its theological-ethical roots. It is also in this light that Jesus’ remarks about coming to fulfill the law in Mt. 5.17–20 must be read. Here, Jesus is not discussing a casuistic reading of legal detail and scribal ruling, but a reading that looks at the law’s scope and intended goal to enhance relationships and reflect God’s gracious character and righteousness. All of this raises the question of who has the authority to expound the inner intent of the law in this manner, discerning what is to be kept and what is less important, as well as revealing when certain legal limitations apply and when they do not. Once again, Jesus makes no appeal to outside authorities. The authority comes in his personal declaration. In this, Jesus is unlike Judaism or anything one sees in the Old Testament. Jesus speaks with a ‘but I say to you’.40 A quotation from Witherington pulls all the strands of this section together: ‘All of this suggests that Jesus did not see himself as a Galilean Hasid [‘holy man’] or another prophet, even one like Elijah. He saw himself in a higher or more authoritative category than either of these types familiar to Jewish believers.’41 This summary is well stated and correctly surfaces the question of what kind of person Jesus saw himself to be that he could arrogate to himself such authority, including the array of authority we have already traced that got him into so much hot water. Jesus had no doubt that he could serve as the revelator of God, speaking and revealing the divine way and will as he 39 Note how this contrast simply cites Exod. 21.24 or Lev. 24.20. There is no oral law being appealed to here. It is the law that is being elaborated and intensified. 40 When Paul faces a similar kind of judgment about issues tied to marriage in 1 Corinthians 7, the apostle’s consciously making a distinction from what the Lord teaches and speaking by appealing to wisdom shows the difference in approach in the early church. 41 Witherington, Christology of Jesus, p. 65.

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taught of the eschaton’s approach. He and the Father were one when it came to understanding what Law and divine will required. Jesus’ response in John 5 to the ‘breaking’ of the Sabbath proceeds in exactly this way. Once again John’s Gospel is shown to be parallel in its conception to what the synoptics reveal, even though the form of expression differs and is stated more explicitly. Jesus’ attitude to the law set a direction that later was taken up in the early church’s insistence that circumcision was not required for Gentile believers even though it had been so central a sign for all covenant participants in the law. It took a while for this emphasis to make itself clear to the early church, as Acts 10–15 testifies. In the meantime, two other points are clear from Jesus’ teaching: (1) compassion and accountable character are what the law was designed to help form and serve; (2) Jesus’ reading of the law shows his authority over it. If I may paraphrase, it shows that the Son of Man is not simply Lord of the Sabbath; he is Lord over the reading of the law. In this, Jesus reveals not only his authority, but also his wisdom as the interpreter of the law par excellence. We have surveyed issues tied to the law and Israel, but nothing was more sacred to Judaism than the most holy space Israel had, the temple and its representation of the presence of God located in Jerusalem. The sense of God being in the midst of His people was more visibly manifest here than in any other spot on the globe. We turn to events in Jerusalem next and ask about Jesus’ temple act as well as other activity associated with it. In doing so, we still are operating in the context of Jewish law and rite, a context that Jesus is working to impact. What we have observed about Jesus’ handling of associations, forgiveness, Sabbath, purity, and legal practices is that Jesus is a ‘middle’ figure between Judaism as it otherwise was and what came to emerge in the early church of his disciples. All these controversies took place in public. The manner of the challenges also seem to have a coherent connection to them in terms of raising kingdom associations already present in key strands of first-century Judaism. At the same time, Jesus also challenged some practices and attitudes associated with extant Jewish views. The synthetic reading of Jesus as part of a historical continuum moving from Judaism to the practice of the early church has a cohesion to it that makes cultural sense for a first-century Judaism finding its way in the Greco-Roman world. These challenges irritated Jesus’ opponents. They were seen as giving away too much and as reflecting an unfaithfulness to the God who had revealed the Torah. In the leaders’ view, Jesus’ position destroyed Jewish identity, built as it was in the unique practices of her people. However, Jesus’ practice of ministering in the hinterlands of Galilee, the Decapolis, and the Jordan did not elevate his work to a threat level that required radi-

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cal action. The leaders only needed to keep a keen eye on developments. All of that changed when Jesus entered Jerusalem for the last time and went quite public. These earlier irritants set the stage for his reception by those who held power and contributed to the reaction to similar kinds of acts that raised tensions to a confrontation level in Jesus’ last week. These events no longer took place in Israel’s hinterlands, but in the most sacred of national spaces, Jerusalem and her temple. When such claims and acts invaded Israel’s religious hub and confronted some of Israel’s most sacred locales and liturgy, these irritants set a perceptual backdrop, an official preunderstanding about Jesus that likely had filtered to the religious leaders of Jerusalem and that then escalated the trouble to new heights when he acted out his priorities in Jerusalem. The combination got Jesus killed. Jesus’ invasion of sacred space combined with earlier perceived irreverent acts produced major incidents and forced a reaction that could no longer be ignored. The combination resulted in his opponents’ decision to act. The portrait has cultural coherence, but with a twist if one looks carefully at the ‘middle’ position Jesus occupies between Jewish and later Christian practice.

2. Trouble Solidified: Major Incidents Leading to Jesus’ Death 2.1. Major Incident 1: Temple and temple cleansing Jesus displayed a mixed relationship to the temple in his various remarks and activities associated with it. In many ways, that mix is much like his approach to issues of law in general. Some things are affirmed, while other remarks show that the temple would not remain the center of activity that it had been. In Judaism. Jewish background is important here. Many Jewish texts reflect a view that the temple would be part of what would be renewed in the last times. This eschatological belief appears to be part of the backdrop of Jesus’ action (1 En. 90.28–30; Zech. 14.21; Shemoneh Esre, benediction 14).42 These factors appear to suggest that the temple was being prepared 42

1 En. 90.28–29 reads: ‘And I stood up to see till they folded up that old house; and carried off all the pillars, and all the beams and ornaments of the house were at the same time folded up with it, and they carried it off and laid it in a place in the south of the land. And I saw till the Lord of the sheep brought a new house greater and loftier than that first, and set it up in the place of the first which had beer folded up: all its pillars were new, and its ornaments were new and larger than those of the first, the old one which He had taken away, and all the sheep were within it.’ It looks to building of a new house of God in the end. Tob. 14.5–7a anticipates a rebuilt temple and reads: ‘But God

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by a prophetic-like call to the nation to behave appropriately and prepare for the coming of the new era. Of course, the expectation of Second Temple Judaism is that the temple would remain a hub of religious activity. God would dwell with his people. Only sects like the Essenes had doubt about the current status of the temple, regarding it as corrupt and in need of a complete reworking (The Temple Scroll). In the early Church. As was the case with religious practice, the early church sees a shift of emphasis, with some Jews keeping elements of practice, as the early chapters of Acts show, while other challenge making too much of the temple (Stephen in Acts 7) or in making the new community of the faithful into a metaphor for the temple (1 Cor. 3.16–17; Eph. 2.21; 1 Pet. 2.5–11). Despite this, there does appear to be a belief by some that there is a role of the temple in Jerusalem as well in the end-time scenario (2 Thess. 2.3–4), while in Rev. 21.22, the Lord God and the Lamb are called the temple in the end. All of this shows a diminution of the role of the physical temple in the early church, a reversal from its general status in Second Temple Judaism. Jesus. It is debated whether Jesus’ act in clearing out the temple’s money changers was a (1) call of cleansing, (2) a prophetic reform for the temple, (3) a symbolic picture of its destruction pointing to the arrival of the eschaton, or (4) some type of combination where renewal and a messianic claim on the temple are made (Jn 2.13–22; Mt. 21.12–13 = Mk 11.15–17 = Lk. 19.45–46).43 will again have mercy on them, and God will bring them back into the land of Israel; and they will rebuild the temple of God, but not like the first one until the period when the times of fulfillment shall come. After this they all will return from their exile and will rebuild Jerusalem in splendor; and in it the temple of God will be rebuilt, just as the prophets of Israel have said concerning it. Then the nations in the whole world will all be converted and worship God in truth. They will all abandon their idols, which deceitfully have led them into their error; and in righteousness they will praise the eternal God.’ Psalms of Solomon 17–18 points to a powerful figure who is a part of such a renewal. 43 For the destruction view see Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, pp. 413–28; for that of a prophetic declaration of a destruction with the expectation of a renewed temple, see Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, pp. 61–76; for the view ‘more probably’ of a symbolic cleansing as a messianic act tied to entry, see Witherington, Christology of Jesus, pp. 107–16. As the above studies show, even more disputed is why the cleansing/destruction was required. Was it for economic reasons (Sadducees taking unfair economic advantage), purity reasons (sacrifices did not really belong to the worshipper but merely were purchased, or sacrifices were moved into the holy space of the court of the Gentiles), both, or a challenge to the temple as a national symbol for Israel’s nationalism? This is less than clear, although I prefer the option that both economic and worship ideals were being compromised by the recent move of the money changers into the court. See discussion of the passage in Bock, Jesus according to Scripture. Meyer, Aims of Jesus, p.

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In favor of a symbolic act picturing destruction are (1) the following fig tree incident; (2) the remarks of John 2.19, which suggest a concern about another temple more important to God’s plan than the physical temple; and (3) Jesus’ predictions in the Olivet discourse of the temple’s coming destruction (Matthew 24 = Mark 13 = Lk. 21.5–37). However, in support of symbolism tied to a cleansing reform are the remarks about the temple being either a place of prayer (Mt. 21.13) or a place for the nations (Mk 11.17), as well as the early church’s indication that the temple still had some role for Christians in Jerusalem. Such remarks appear to foresee a time when the temple will continue to function. In addition, the early church’s attachment to the temple raises questions about whether it ceased to have value or was totally obsolete. As the range of views discussed about this event shows, it is usually regarded as an authentic act of Jesus. What is debated is its significance. No doubt there was a threat under the Jewish covenantal model and mindset that if covenantal unfaithfulness continued, then judgment would come (Mk 13.2 = Mt. 24.2 = Lk. 21.5–6). The lessons of the blessings and cursing in the Law (Deuteronomy 28–32), plus those of past exile experiences with Assyria and Babylon pointed in such a direction for Jews concerned about the potential impact of unfaithfulness. The event means one must be aware of the risk of this threat at the least. However, once again, there is more than what appears at the surface. It is better to see Jesus acting as a messianic claimant. He is making his statement about the need for reform of the temple to prepare for the new era. This is like the prayer in benediction 14 of Shemoneh Esre, which links together messianic hope and the temple, just as the later inquiry of Jesus before the council moves from temple to messiahship. The fact that this, according to the synoptics, is Jesus’ first act after entering the city with messianic associations surrounding him from his followers also makes this view likely. Once again, understanding these events means not ‘dividing and conquering’ events but keeping the link and sequence of the context of these tightly compacted, final, climactic events in place. If Jesus’ claim of a need for temple alteration meets with rejection, then the nation stands culpable of covenantal unfaithfulness tied to her most holy space, not to mention rejection of the potential arrival of the new era that both he and John the Baptist preached (Mk 11.27–33 par.). Jesus’ act in the temple would have been seen as most provocative by the Jewish leadership. In addition, these leaders had the most to lose from his action. Where the other areas already mentioned would have been irri197, rightly calls it several things: a demonstration, a prophetic critique, a fulfillment event, and a sign of the future. The temple cleansing pledges the ‘perfect restoration of Israel’ (p. 198). Where there is restoration there very likely is the invocation of Messiah.

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tants, to the extent they were public claims, this act on the most sacred space overseen by the high priest, Sadducees and Sanhedrin could not be ignored. It was too direct a challenge to the authority of the leadership in the most sensitive of locations and social contexts. Again, to make such a move by itself could have been seen as merely prophetic, but placed alongside and linked to Jesus’ eschatological claims and other actions that touched on legal questions, a more messianic, restorative association is present with implications for the kingdom’s arrival. Jesus is challenging holy space by what he does here. To see oneself as having the authority to exercise judgment over the nation’s central religious symbol was to perform an act that assumed a claim to divinely connected authority as well as to undercut the leadership’s role as the entity responsible for such sacred space. This leadership authority was so great and sensitive that Rome even allowed the leaders to control and keep the peace in this sacred space. This is precisely why the cleansing raises the leaders’ question after the event about the source of Jesus’ authority (Mt. 21.23–27 = Mk 11.27–33 = Lk. 20.1–8). It was exactly the right question – and so is Jesus’ response pointing to the independent, eschatologically oriented ministry of John the Baptist. The nature of Jesus’ act both fits and is distinguished from both the Jewish and later Christian views about the temple. We see the ‘middle’ Jesus again. He does not enter the city to declare his reform with the power of a military leader who conquers. His tone is very distinct from both Jewish eschatological and Greco-Roman political expectation, what one writer has called an ‘atriumphal’ entry.44 This ‘humble’ element to his entry also stands in contrast to the eventual emphasis of the early church on the unreserved glory of the Messiah, not to mention how by the time the gospels are written the temple has moved in a more irrelevant direction for many followers of Jesus, a direction that predated the temple’s destruction. So, like the handling of the law, Jesus’ treatment of the temple suggests an authority over the most sacred of Israel’s sites, the very place where God dwells. At the least we have a figure confident of how closely he works with God, one who expresses the divine will in the face of the seeming authority of those who oversaw the temple before Rome.

44 The work of B. Kinman is alluded to here. He defends the authenticity of the event most recently in an essay in the Bulletin for Biblical Research entitled ‘Jesus’ Royal Entry into Jerusalem’, BBR 15 (2005), pp. 223–60. Kinman’s work is now updated in B. Kinman, ‘Jesus Royal Entry into Jerusalem’, in D. L. Bock and R. L. Webb (eds.), Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus. A Collaborative Exploration of Context and Coherence (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), pp. 383–427. On the temple scene in the same work, see the article by K. Snodgrass, ‘The Temple Incident’, pp. 429–80.

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Now if this temple act is linked to other actions associated with Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, then claims beyond that of a prophet are more likely. He is an eschatological-messianic claimant exercising authority over the temple, functioning as the hub of what the promised restructuring requires. One could perhaps debate whether the picture is of a messiah or an eschatological prophet. However, if it is an eschatological prophet, then the model is of a leader-prophet like Moses, who himself functioned as the people of God’s prime leader, much as a Messiah was anticipated to do in the eschaton. Such a core role for Jesus within God’s plan coheres with what our next event also shows, an event that took place in private but that gives insight into how Jesus saw what was taking place. 2.2. Key Explanation: Redesigning liturgy for a new era45 Underscoring what has been said about the law is how Jesus handles sacred liturgy rooted in the law as evidenced in the Last Supper (Mt. 26.17– 30 = Mk 14.12–26 = Lk. 22.7–23). This event is also multiply attested as it is found in Mk 14.22–25 and in a tradition that Paul’s report reflects in 1 Cor. 11.23–26 that is followed by Luke. In Judaism. There is not much to say here. The Passover rite, a pilgrim feast was an annual event observed in the home in the Jerusalem area. The tractate of Pesahim is devoted to the entire discussion of practices tied to this observance. The meal is rooted in Exod. 12.1–13. Certain parts of this liturgy were specified, namely, explaining to sons in a specific terms why this night was different than any other night (m. Pes. 10.4), as well as referring to Passover, Unleavened Bread, and Bitter Herbs (m. Pes. 10.5).46 45

This is the one private event this essay covers. However, it is not presented as a ‘trouble-making’ event. Rather this event gives insight into how Jesus saw events unfolding in this critical culminating period of his ministry and how he ritualized what was about to happen for his disciples. This rite came to take on so much meaning that it became memorialized among early believers as the one regular practice they would engage in as a community act. Surely the event’s explanatory and solemn context helped to give it such ongoing life and memory for the church. 46 This text states the obligation this way: ‘Rabban Gamaliel did state, “Whoever has not referred to these three matters connected to the Passover has not fulfilled his obligation, and these are they: Passover, unleavened bread, and bitter herbs. Passover – because the Omnipresent passed over the houses of our forefathers in Egypt. Unleavened bread – because our forefathers were redeemed in Egypt. Bitter herbs – because the Egyptians embittered the lives of our forefathers in Egypt. In every generation a person is duty-bound to regard himself as if he personally has gone forth from Egypt, since it is said, And you shall tell your son in that day saying, it is because of that which the Lord did for me when I came forth out of Egypt (Exod. 13.8). Therefore we are duty-bound to thank, praise, glorify, honor, exalt, extol, and bless him who did for our forefathers and for us all these miracles. He brought us forth from slav-

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The point to see here is how much the focus is on the event in Egypt. In 10.6–7, the singing of the Hallel begins, something not completed until the fourth and final cup is prepared. In the early Church. The key point that a meal in the home tied to a sacred site is now observed anywhere the church gathered (1 Cor. 11.23–26). This is no longer a family meal, but one observed by a gathered community. In addition, the connection to Passover and Egypt is lost, as is any need to observe it on a specific date of the year. In other words, this rite has been thoroughly recast. Jesus. What appears to be a Passover meal is reinterpreted in terms of Jesus’ approaching death (Mk 14.2 with 22–25; Lk. 22.15: makes a clear identification with the Passover meal). It is chronological questions between John and the synoptics that most contribute to raising the question of what type of meal is present, since John seems to place Jesus’ crucifixion at the time of the sacrifices for this Passover meal (Jn 18.39; 19.14). At the least we have a meal offered during Passover season that evokes the establishing of a new relationship with God on terms that Jesus creates. The connection to Passover imagery is likely, given that they are eating the meal as Jerusalem pilgrims there for Passover, even if we cannot be absolutely sure that a Passover meal was the occasion.47 A sacred meal, or at

ery to freedom, anguish to joy, mourning to festival, darkness to great light, subjugation to redemption, so we should say before him, Hallelujah.”’ The citation is from J. Neusner, The Mishnah. A New Translation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), Pes. 10.5, 250. 47 There is debate whether a Passover meal is at the base of the Last Supper, although this does seem likely. The gospel texts we have make the connection. Even if it is not, the event took place so close to Passover that these associations would exist. The classic work arguing for a Passover meal is J. Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus (New York: Scribner, 1966). In contrast stands the thesis of B. Chilton, who argues that the Passover connection is anachronistic and favors seeing the meal in terms of Jesus’ view of cultic purity and his practice of forgiveness as seen in his meals and associations (see B. Chilton, The Temple of Jesus. His Sacrificial Program within a Cultural History of Sacrifice [University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992], pp. 148–54). This approach seems to me to ignore the background inevitably raised by the festal occasion, regardless of what we can or cannot know exactly about the form of a Passover meal at the time. To speak of a death at Passover time in the context of a work of deliverance naturally would lead to this association. Thus, a Passover backdrop is still more likely here. So L. Goppelt, Theology of the New Testament, I (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1981), p. 215. Arguing against a Passover connection as well is S. McKnight, The Death of Jesus (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2005), pp. 253–312. As we argue above, the point we make is possible regardless of the precise historical scenario. For this scene as a whole, see the article by I. H. Marshall, ‘The Last Supper’, in D. L. Bock and R. L. Webb (eds.), Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus. A Collaborative Exploration of Context and Coherence (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), pp. 481–588.

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least imagery tied to a sacred season and event, the exodus, is reshaped into a message about the new era of eschatological deliverance.48 So what does this recasting in terms of sacrifice and covenant mean about Jesus? The remarks about the meal clearly present Jesus as a sacrifice opening up the way to the new covenant relationship with God. As such, it fits the eschatological and kingdom emphasis in Jesus’ teaching.49 But there is more. He is the means through which forgiveness is given. That this result is associated with the kingdom is clear from Jesus’ remark about not drinking of the cup again until he drinks it anew in the kingdom of God, a look at the kingdom at the time of the full consummation of God’s promise which will come sometime after God’s vindication of Jesus. The bread (body) and cup (blood) imagery emphasizes the issues tied to what Jesus provides through his death (covenant, forgiveness). So Jesus stands at the hub or base of a new era and makes provision for the establishment of a fresh way of relating to God in a fresh context of forgiveness. Both the bread and the cup picture what Jesus offers ‘on your behalf’. The blood pictures what is ‘poured out for many’ (Mt. 26.28 = Mk 14.24; Lk. 22.19–20; 1 Cor. 11.24: ‘for you’). Here Isa. 53.12 stands in the background, while the Passover stands as the illustrative event. The meal was a promise that what Jesus was to do would provide a context for a new relationship with God that had been promised long ago.50 Thus Jesus and his upcoming death are portrayed as the authoritative basis for the opening of the new era. As great a role as that is, there is even more here. That Jesus could take sacred exodus imagery and refill it speaks to his view as interpreter of both God’s law and plan. The portrait here also reinforces the point made under the discussion of the law. Jesus claims an ability to take on a creative role in that plan, to author and perfect a traditional act of worship that was rooted in God’s action in saving Israel and tied to the law (Exodus 12). He acts as the unique sent revelator of God. Jesus exercises authority over worship tied to the law. It is also like the authority he asserts in the temple. Jesus is expanding and reforming most of the major images of Judaism – 48

For other details about the event, see Bock, Jesus according to Scripture, unit 264. The remarks noted about this event are deeply rooted in the church’s tradition, despite the slight variations in wording between the Markan-Matthean version and the Lukan-Pauline version. The general topics this paragraph addresses are covered no matter which wording is chosen. 50 When one adds the portrait of John’s Gospel here, the results are interesting. John does not depict the Last Supper with its bread and cup, but what he does highlight in this time frame is the announcement of the coming of the Paraclete (the Holy Spirit), yet another key dimension of the new covenant promise. John’s role in supplementing wellknown tradition is seen here. Most see John as understanding that Jesus taught a supper theme because of imagery present in John 6. 49

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and he is very much part of the point. The question that is raised by all of this legal and Jewish halakic activity is, What sort of person is this that he is able to recast old sacred rites?51 Jesus is not merely establishing a new rite, which Judaism often did; he is modifying one of the most sacred rites of Israel, the picture of Passover that stood for the nation’s salvation. To believe that he can do this shows how in tune Jesus was with God’s way and will. The one sent by God alters a God-given sacred rite. It is interesting that the church did not limit this celebration only to the anniversary of the event. It was celebrated periodically, unlike events in the Jewish calendar, which were part of a regular annual worship schedule. This difference may well indicate a move where Jesus again is the middle figure in the development of the practice. 2.3. Major Incident 2: Jesus’ declaration before the Jewish leadership – a claim of vindication to come Jesus’ hope and confidence of vindication occurs in the gospels during his Jewish examination, leading to his being condemned to the cross. The moment of seeming defeat is the very moment of disclosure of how God will bring him victory. When Jesus appeals to Ps. 110.1 upon being asked if he is the Christ, he is claiming that rather than being the defendant before the council, he one day will be their judge, operating from the very side of God.52 One day, they will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of the Father. Matthew and Luke intensify this remark, noting that ‘hereafter’ (Matthew) or ‘from now on’ (Luke) they will see this exercise of authority. This remark becomes the reason Jesus is sent to Rome to be crucified. To the Jewish leadership he has claimed a level of equality with God that is seen as blasphemous. The leadership turns this into a political charge for Pilate leading to Jesus’ death. A careful look at this text shows that it represents the clash of two judgments about Jesus. The Sanhedrin 51 Goppelt, Theology of the New Testament, p. 220, says it this way: ‘Jesus now vouchsafed forgiving fellowship by giving himself as the One who died for the benefit of all others. It is not a heavenly body, not a pneumatic substance, that was given, and also not only an atoning power, but Jesus as the One who died for all.’ 52 The detailed explanation and defense of the historicity of this scene is the burden of D. L. Bock, Blasphemy and Exaltation in Judaism and the Final Examination of Jesus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998). This has now been updated to trace the more recent discussion in D. L. Bock, ‘Blasphemy and the Jewish Examination of Jesus’, BBR 17 (2007), pp. 53–114. Both these works present a detailed case of the essential authenticity of this scene, working through the series of objections raised against the scene one at a time. The most recent update appears in D. L. Bock, ‘Blasphemy and the Jewish Examination of Jesus’, in D. L. Bock and R. L. Webb (eds.), Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus. A Collaborative Exploration of Context and Coherence (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), pp. 589–667.

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thinks he has blasphemed, while Jesus makes a claim that God will exalt him to a status that allows him to share in divine judgment and rule. How does this fit with the cultural background on blasphemy and exaltation in Judaism and the early church? In Judaism. In Second Temple Judaism, blasphemy covered a wide range of activity. There is little discussion of trials of blasphemy, though m. Sanh. 7.5 does define a procedure for examining a charge and limits the offense to speaking the very Name of God. Lev. 24.10–16 is discussed where blasphemy is presented (note Ant. 4.202). Its ambiguities made defining blasphemy, especially where euphemisms were used, a subject of some rabbinic debate. Num. 15.30–31 is often cited as an analogous situation to blasphemy with its Sabbath violation followed by a death penalty. To use the divine Name in an inappropriate way is certainly blasphemy and is punishable by death (Lev. 24.10–16; m. Sanh. 6.4 and 7.5; Philo, Vit. Mos. 2.203–06). At the base of these ideas about blasphemy lies the command of Exod. 22.27 not to revile God nor the leaders he appointed for the nation. Later rabbis debated whether the use of an alternative name qualifies as blasphemy, though some sentiment existed for including it (m. Shebu. 4.13; b. Shebu. 35a; b. Sanh. 55b–57a, 60a). Warnings were issued in such cases, but it does not appear, at least in the rabbinic period, to have carried an automatic death sentence. What happened if a warning was ignored seems easy to determine, given the parallel with another warning involving the incorrigible son in m. Sanh. 8.4. Unheeded, potential liability came with the second offence. The official rabbinic position is that the use of the divine Name constitutes the only clear case of capital blasphemy (m. Sanh. 7.5). One is even to avoid blaspheming foreign deities as a sign of respect for the name of God (Josephus, Ant. 4.207; Philo, Vit. Mos. 2.205; Spec. Leg. 1.53). There are acts of blasphemy. These include the use of substitute titles and a whole range of actions offensive to God. Their existence suggests a category of cultural blasphemy representing an offense against God. Acts of blasphemy concentrate on idolatry, a show of arrogant disrespect toward God, or the insulting of his chosen leaders. Often those who blasphemed verbally also acted on their feelings. God manages to judge such offenses. Examples in Jewish exposition are Sisera (Judg. 4.3 and Num. R. 10.2; disrespect toward God’s people), Goliath (1 Samuel 17 and Ant. 6.183; disrespect towards God’s people and worship of Dagon), Sennacherib (2 Kings 18–19 = Isa. 37.6, 23; disrespect for God’s power), Belshazzar (Dan. 3.29 Q [96] and Ant. 10.233, 242, disrespect for God’s presence in the use of temple utensils at a party), Manasseh (acting against the Torah; Sifre on Numbers § 112) and Titus (b. Git. 56 and A.R.N. B 7; who

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enters and defames the temple by slicing open the curtain and taking the utensils away). Acting against the temple is also blasphemous (1 Macc. 2.6; Ant. 12.406). Significantly, comparing oneself to God is also blasphemous reflecting arrogance according to Philo (Somn. 2.130–31; Dec. 13–14, 61–64). At Qumran, unfaithfulness in moral action by those who pretend to lead the people (CD 5.12) or the act of speaking against God’s people (1QpHab 10.13) are blasphemous. Within Israel, the outstanding example is the golden calf incident (Vit. Mos. 2.159–66). Blasphemy represents an offense against God and a violation of a fundamental principle of the faith. Sometimes God alone punishes the blasphemer (e.g., Pharaoh, Korah, Titus), while at other times the community executes judgment (the Israelite woman’s son). Attacking God’s people verbally is a second class of blasphemy (Sennacherib; Goliath). Those who challenge the leadership God has put in place for his people are also seen as attacking God himself. So blasphemy refers to a wide range of insulting speech or activity, crucial background to how blasphemy relates to Jesus. Seen in this light by those who rejected Jesus’ claim, Jesus’ remarks could be seen both as an affront to the unique glory of God and as a challenge to God’s leadership. The reaction fits the milieu. As for exaltation, the issue here relates to discussions in three texts. First of all, we have the portrait of 1 Enoch 37–71, where Enoch serves as the Son of Man, who sits at God’s side and shares in judgment. Second we have the example of Moses’ dream in Ezek. Trag. 68–85, where he sits on the thrones of God (note the plural from Dan. 7.9). This text is noneschatological as it is a midrash in Exod. 7.1 and the claim Moses will be ‘god’ to Pharoah. The proximate access Moses has is visualized as a proximate seating in heaven. What is important here is that such a conceptualization could be made and this texts comes from two centuries before Christ. Third, we have the portrait of Metatron in 3 Enoch 12–16, where his claim to be ‘little YHWH’ at his side is met with punishment by God. These texts show that the idea of a figure who serves in proximate position to God existed in some sections of Judaism for certain special figures. However, this role was tied variously to an exalted Enoch, to a noneschatological Moses, or to an angel (with a clear rejection of the claim). It was not attached to a coming luminary, but to a great saint of old or a transcendent figure from above. The Jewish background indicates the conflict that Jesus’ claim of vindication to the side of God would have had with those who did not see Jesus as a special divinely sent figure. Nonetheless, the manner of Jesus’ appeal and his claim tied to a contemporary is without precedent. We may have an example here of Wright’s criterion of double similarity/dissimilarity. 53 53

Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, pp. 132–33.

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In the early Church. Neither an exalted Enoch nor a exalted Moses plays any role in early church Christology, not even as a type for Jesus. What we do see is the frequent appeal to Ps. 110.1 and the idea of exaltation (Acts 2.33–35; 5.31; 7.55–56, standing at the right hand; Rom. 8.34; Eph. 1.20; Col. 3.1; Heb. 1.3, 13; 8.1; 10.12; 12.2; 1 Pet. 3.22; Revelation 4–5). This is presented in almost creedal terms, which suggests that the story of how this took place is known in the churches. Less prevalent is any allusion to the Son of Man, which is a title that is only found on Jesus’ lips except at Acts 7.55–56, as part of Stephen’s vision, where the Son of Man stands, and the picture of Rev. 1.13 and 14.14 (both, ‘one like a son of man’). What is amazing is how rare this key title for Jesus is in the language of the early church, almost as if it has a very special place and role. Although one cannot speak of the title having a different understanding, its role in independent use within the early church is distinct from its use associated with Jesus himself. How might this background relate to this key confrontation between Jesus and the leadership? Jesus. Now the problem the leadership appears to have had with this remark is probably not that such a figure existed. The portrait of Enoch’s Son of Man shows that such a category was contemplated within Judaism. To expect such a glorious figure in the future was possible. What would have caused the offense was that Jesus was making this identification with himself in a self-claim to share authority with God. He, as a Galilean preacher, or a wonder worker, or as an eschatological prophet, or even as one making a messianic claim, was extending the claim to the right to share in God’s final judgment as the sent heavenly ruler and possibly even the final judge from heaven. It is the juxtaposition of seating and coming on the clouds that makes clear the transcendant function Jesus gives himself here, with the reference to clouds, making it apparent that more than a pure human and earthly messianic claim is present. There is an implication in this remark as well. If they are contemplating judging him now, he will eventually rule or judge them later. What does Jesus mean besides referring to the fact that he will possess judgment authority one day and gather his elect for their final redemption (the apocalyptic Son of Man texts, esp. Mark: Mt. 24.29–31 = Mk 13.24– 27 = Lk. 21.25–28; Matthew: Mt. 25.31–46)? 1 En. 62.5–9 gives us a clue of how Jews saw such imagery. It reads: And one portion of them shall look on the other, and they shall be terrified, and they shall be downcast of countenance, and pain shall seize them, when they see that Son of Man sitting on the throne of his glory. And the kings and the mighty and all who possess the earth shall bless and glorify and extol him who rules over all, who was hidden. For from the beginning the Son of Man was hidden, and the Most High preserved him in the presence of His might, and revealed him to the elect. And the congregation of the elect and holy shall be sown, and all the elect shall stand before him

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on that day. And all the kings and the mighty and the exalted and those who rule the earth shall fall down before him on their faces, and worship and set their hope upon that Son of Man, and petition him and supplicate for mercy at his hands.

So clearly, even in Jewish terms, Jesus presents his authority in relationship to final judgment and the position he shares with God in anticipation of vindication. An important overview of this scene and its use of Daniel 7 and Psalm 110 comes from J. D. G. Dunn, who summarizes well the current state of discussion on the authenticity of this passage.54 After all, one needs to consider authenticity before making use of this scene. Dunn defends the likelihood that Jesus expected some form of vindication by this point in his ministry drawn from Dan. 7.13–14. In analyzing Psalm 110.1, he argues that the use of the term ‘Power’ is neither a Jewish or Christian way of speaking about God. Now I have challenged this idea elsewhere with respect to Judaism, noting how numerous texts in the midrashim consistently used the phrase of God’s Power as a shorthand way to refer to God’s saving acts and power in Exodus.55 Dunn notes three possible origins for this expression: (1) a Philonic type Christian innovation, (2) an early rabbinic formulation taken over by Christians, or (3) an innovation by Jesus. He argues there is little to choose from these options, but also notes that in combination with Ps. 110.1 the balance may be tipped in favor of an early Jewish Christian use versus one from Jesus, a remark I take as his preference for the second option. Our evidence suggests a fourth option. ‘Power’ was one of many ways to refer indirectly to God without using his sacred name, a reference that also looked to his power to deliver, something that fits the setting here. Given the numerous such references in this scene, Jesus’ reply shows respect for God equal to the manner in which the question to him was raised. This touch shows a sensitivity to the significance of the context and the delicate nature of the question being raised about Jesus at the examination. Dunn goes on to argue that the seating and coming on the clouds combination assumes a second coming and likely demonstrates early Christian influence, yet another argument against authenticity. He sees Ps. 110.1 as inserted into the exchange. However, Psalm 110.1 is a text that gives evidence of being part of a messianic dispute between Jesus and his oppo54

J. D. G. Dunn, ‘“Are You the Messiah?”: Is the Crux of Mark 14:61–62 Resolvable?’, in D. G. Horrell and C. Tuckett (eds.), Christology, Controversy and Community. New Testament Essays in Honour of David R. Catchpole (Leiden, Brill, 2000), pp. 1–21, esp. 11–21. 55 Bock, Blasphemy and Exaltation in Judaism, pp. 217–20. The distribution of the expression among these later texts suggests its potential age. It appears in Sifre on Numbers (§ 112 on 15.31) and Deuteronomy (§ 319 on 32.18), as well as in Tg. Job 5.8, A.R.N. A (37.12), and numerous texts in Mekilta.

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nents in the last week of Jesus’ ministry where second coming plays no part (Mk 12.35–37 par.). In the earlier public dispute over this text, Jesus simply raises a dilemma between the Messiah being the Son of David and being Lord – and does so in a very Jewish rhetorical manner, posing as an opposition something that needs prioritizing. The ambiguous manner of this challenge and its form suggest authenticity and also point to the likelihood that Jesus had already thought of this text as an important one in his own messianic understanding. The extensive use of this text far more explicitly in the early church also suggests this passage may well be one rooted in Jesus’ own initial reflections. The ambiguous nature of Jesus’ remark at the trial also suggests an earlier, not a later usage. Even more interesting is that the key allusion to Psalm 110 and the idea of seating appears in all forms of the tradition to this scene. It is not the coming on the clouds that is omnipresent, as Luke’s version lacks a reference to the clouds. So one could argue the addition of the clouds is added later to draw more out of the Son of Man allusion without arguing that Ps. 110.1 is the later insertion by the church. All Jesus needs for the Ps. 110.1 allusion is to believe in his and God’s close linkage and the hope of vindication, something Dunn already has affirmed as likely. The activity of Jesus in his ministry and the nature of his argument, multiply attested, shows he very likely understood himself as in a unique, close relationship to his Father. In other words, all the elements here reflect coherence with the larger tradition and point to the likelihood of authenticity for a Daniel 7-Psalm 110 linkage by Jesus, even if not every element was present in that linkage. This is especially the case when there has not been, at the time of the writing of any of the gospels, any actual seeing of the Son of Man on the clouds, as Jesus’ claim makes. So either we have an allusion to the near coming of Jesus, as yet unfulfilled, or seeing need only extend to the effects of Jesus’ being seated, which is more likely. This alternative, pointing to authenticity, is an option Dunn does not raise. A strong case can be made for it being the more likely option. Dunn’s article does argue that (1) something like blasphemy probably did come out of the real scene as the charge framed in Jewish terms and (2) that debate about why Jesus was killed makes it likely something about this scene did get out into public venues. The point in pursuing this discussion in some detail is that it is more likely that Jesus did use a Psalm 110-Daniel 7 combination in his reply than only one text or the other. For Jesus, the key point was the picture of the Son of Man seated by God, a key summary of his understanding of his authority uttered at the most crucial moment of all and a view that explains the hope of vindication he had as he faced the prospect of his martyrdom for his view of the kingdom. Our comparison of the use made here

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with uses in Judaism and in the early church also indicate distinctive emphases in the title’s use here versus those other settings. When one adds to this all the irritants in terms of Jesus’ claims of authority, then one can see why those who did not believe Jesus’ claims thought him worthy of death. If he was not who he claimed to be, one sent by God and able to sit with the Glory in heaven, then he was guilty of blasphemy. In sum, Jesus’ claim of vindication points to Jesus’ being given a place at the side of God in line with his own earlier claims of authority tied to righteousness, the Law, the Sabbath, the divine calendar, the liturgy, and forgiveness of sin. This vindication, seen explicitly by the church as confirmed in the resurrection and given a central place in the heart of the church’s kerygma meant that for early Christians there was life after death and a judgment to come. This seating and the vindication it represented meant that all people are accountable to the vindicated one, a point that also opened up the proclamation of the kingdom to all nations. The reception of this act also pointed to the identity of the one who sits at God’s side mediating God’s blessing (John 14–16; Acts 2). He is the one qualified to share in God’s very presence, brought there by God’s act. As a result Jesus can distribute God’s blessing, bring in God’s kingdom in even more fullness, and execute God’s judgment.56 As we have seen throughout this essay, the stress is not on understanding who Jesus is through his verbal claims; the key is to appreciate what his array of actions and God’s acts tell us about his unique identity as the Son of Man.

3. Summary of Events and Acts of Jesus It is the scope and ultimate unity of all of these acts that point to Jesus’ uniqueness. Taking most of these categories one by one, we see that paral56

This view of resurrection fits Jewish background from groups like the Pharisees and some Jews at Qumran, as well as possibly the Essenes as noted by Hippolytus, Ref. 9.27: ‘they acknowledge the flesh will rise again and that it will be immortal, in the same manner that the soul is already imperishable.’ For a survey of Jewish views, see É. Puech, ‘Jesus and Resurrection Faith in Light of Jewish Texts’, in J. Charlesworth (ed.), Jesus and Archaeology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans 2006), pp. 639–59. He notes the following relevant texts: Isa. 26.14–19; Ezek. 37.1–14; Dan. 12.1–3; 4Q385 2–3; Sir. 48.11; 4Q504 frag. 1–2, 6.14–15; 4Q548 frag. 1–2, 2.12–14; 1 En. 22; 104.5; 2 Maccabees 7, esp. v 23; Wis. 3.1, 3; 5.17–23; 4Q416; 4Q418; CD 7.6; 1QS 3.13–4.26; 1QH 24.6–13, so along with long portions of 1QH 11, 14, 5, 19, 25 and 24; and 4Q521 frag. 2, 2.12; 7.5–6. The Christian appeal to resurrection has one very important distinction from all of this. Jesus is raised within history, rather than at the end of history as Jewish expectation had it. Apparently the event tied to Jesus led to this variation.

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lels with activity by other human divine agents can be found. However, no one attempted or achieved the combination of acts that Jesus performs. It is the scope of these acts that establishes his uniqueness. If one takes the whole of this tradition one sees claims that include authority over demons, authority over the sacred calendar (Sabbath), authority over sacred space (Temple), authority to alter completely imagery tied to a feast (Last Supper), authority over relationships (associations), authority to perform activity pointing to arrival of the kingdom, and, finally, the claim of authority to sit with God and judge in the end. This final claim is what got Jesus crucified. The sum of these claims was that Jesus is more than a human agent commissioned with divine authority. The gospels argue that the full array of Jesus’ acts explain that Jesus the promised Messiah is also the divine Lord. So Jesus shares not only in divine authority but also occupies a place with God in heaven at the instigation of the God of Israel. All this is done in very Jewish terms in the gospels and in terms distinct from early church usage. The crucifixion is the ground from which God builds his plan of redemption through a uniquely worthy sacrifice. The miracles, and especially the exorcisms, show the scope of Jesus’ authority extending into heaven. They also indicate against whom he is primarily battling to bring victory. The reconfiguring of imagery tied to feast (from Exodus to Jesus’ death) shows that a new era has come. Jewish background gives a context for such claims, but Jesus’ acts show a contrast between what Judaism’s expectations in these areas were and the more explicit declarations the church later made on these same issues. Jesus is the ‘middle’ figure in the transition. Most sensitive of all these claims of authority was the claim to be able to share directly in God’s presence through vindication. The resurrection-ascension came to serve as the ultimate vindication of these claims. Resurrection becomes God’s vote in the dispute between the rejection of the Jewish leaders and Jesus’ claims, serving as the ‘irritant par excellence’ leading to claims about who Jesus is and where he was residing that eventually led to the split between Judaism and what became Christianity. 57 For these original Jewish messianics, Jesus’ seated position at the side of God shows that he shares completely in divinity. He is the one who is both Lord and Christ. He has brought God’s promised new era and with it a new community filled with new promise and enablement. It is the combination of all these acts by Jesus that got him into trouble and led to his crucifixion. The Christian tradition tied to Jesus is honest about this cause of conflict, especially when seen against the backdrop of Jewish expectation. That tradition’s final claim, however, is that in resurrection God showed which side of the conflict and which set of claims the deity fa57

I owe this phrase and observation to my colleague, Mike Burer, who made this point when he graciously read the draft of this essay.

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vored. These irritants and conflicts have a solid claim to be historical. The ‘middle’ Jesus helps us find the historical Jesus, even using the standards applied to testing the distribution and quality of that tradition at individual points. In this way synthesis and analysis can both be honored as we consider the continuous links between who Jesus was in his Jewish context and how he was preached in the early church.

The Romans and ‘Enemies’: Reflections on Jesus’ Genius in Light of Early Jewish Thought JAMES H. CHARLESWORTH

1. Introduction Is Jesus’ concept of enemies and love in a continuum with Second Temple Judaism or discontinuous with it? As C. G. Montefiore reported in 1910 in his influential Some Elements of the Religious Teaching of Jesus According to the Synoptic Gospels, many Jewish experts claimed that Jesus’ teaching to ‘love your enemies’ is ‘impracticable’ and ‘undesirable’ and even ‘harmful’. Over fifty years later, another Jew, David Flusser, surmised that Jesus’ exhortation to love our enemies was brilliantly new but anticipated by some Jews who lived before him.1 Jesus’ genius should not be an embarrassment to historians; in fact, to begin with such a presupposition violates the canons of historiography developed long before Jesus, and especially in Polybius, book twelve. Christian theologians should be open to the exploration of the context of Jesus’ mind, and the possibility that some of his brilliant thoughts may be adumbrated in Jewish statements that antedate him. Scientific methodology demands, on the one hand, that we scholars allow for foreshadowing of Jesus’ genius within Second Temple Judaism, and on the other hand, that we proceed with a relaxed openness to Jesus’ creative new utterances that might have shocked those who heard his words.

2. Early Jewish Perception on Love: Enlightened View of the Other Long before Hillel and Jesus, Israelites knew that God wanted his creatures to love others. The key text is Lev. 19.18: ‘Love your fellow ((3:+) as 1 D. Flusser, ‘A New Sensitivity in Judaism and the Christian Message’, in B. Young (ed.), Judaism and the Origins of Christianity (Jerusalem: Magness Press, 1988), pp. 469–89. See now D. Flusser with R. S. Notley, The Sage from Galilee. Rediscovering Jesus’ Genius (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), with an introduction by J. H. Charlesworth.

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yourself.’ This passage, which was influential to many Jews during the Second Temple Period, was sometimes understood to mean that Jews should love (!) a fellow human because of the love one should have for oneself. Certainly, in light of the factionalism that distorted Jewish thought before the burning of Jerusalem in 70 CE, many Jews, and not only the Qumranites, interpreted Lev. 19.18 to mean that one should love only those Jews in one’s own sect or special group. This diversity within Second Temple Judaism caused extremely different interpretations of ‘Love your fellow ((3:+) as yourself’. The Hebrew of ‘fellow (3:)’ is often understood today to mean ‘neighbor’. The noun, however, has more than one meaning. It can mean ‘a friend’, ‘a neighbor’, and ‘a fellow human being’. In Second Temple Judaism, due to factionalism within Judaism and the appearances of numerous groups and sects, the noun often was understood to mean ‘comrade’. Antigonus of Socco is a Jewish sage who flourished in the early second century BCE. He reputedly received the tradition from Shimon the Just, and was remembered to have said repeatedly: ‘Be not like servants who minister to their master for the sake of receiving a reward, but be like servants who minister to their master not for the sake of a reward, and let heaven’s wonder be upon you’ (m. Ab. 1.3).2 The theological implication of Antigonus’ exhortation is to serve God only because those faithful to God live to serve God; that implies, to love God’s creatures as God loves them. As S. R. Hirsch stated, Antigonus urged us to serve God, our master, so as ‘to call us into His presence, before His countenance, in order to perform, within His sight, a service pleasing to Him’.3 Thus, according to Antigonus, the homo religiosus knows that God is watching and thus receives exquisite happiness by living the richest reward of doing God’s will. Thus, our love for God enables us to love others. The hermeneutical wisdom behind Antigonus’ injunction are the first two commandments in the Decalogue. The above interpretation seems to represent the intention in Antigonus’ teaching, even though his disciples, Zadok and Boethus, allegedly took his teaching to mean a denial of any afterlife. Subsequently, they established the groups known as the Sadducees and the Boethusians. Wisdom of Ben Sira 27–28. A contemporary of Antigonus, Jesus ben Sira, who lived in Jerusalem, supplies a commentary on Lev. 19.18. He exhorted: ‘Love your friend (6WHUFRQ ILORQ), and be faithful to him (27.17).’ Ben Sira is thinking about Lev. 19.18, since he cautions not to lose ‘the love of your neighbor (WK?QILOLDQWRX SOKVLRX)’ (27.18). In the 2 My translation. For the Hebrew text, see S. R. Hirsch, Chapters of the Fathers (Jerusalem: Feldheim Publishers, 1989), p. 8. 3 Hirsch, Chapters of the Fathers, p. 9.

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same chapter, Ben Sira urges those who listen: ‘Forgive your neighbor the hurt he has done unto you, so shall your sins be forgiven when you pray’ (28.2). Such thoughts adumbrate Jesus’ teaching in the Lord’s Prayer. Ben Sira continues: ‘Remember the commandments, and bear no malice against your neighbor’ (28.7; also see 29.1–2). As one of the great minds in Second Temple Judaism, Hillel has an apparent commentary on the love of oneself, the basis for love of others. He advised that we must be for ourselves now. Recall the words attributed to Hillel: ‘He repeatedly said, “If I am not for myself, who (is) for me? And if I am for myself alone, what am I? And if not now, when?”’ (m. Ab. 1.14).4 Hillel’s wisdom about respecting, and loving, oneself should be perceived in light of other enlightening teachings attributed to him, especially his repeated insight: ‘Be of Aaron’s disciples, loving peace ('QF RS; 1QS 2.24, 26), a Community of his (God’s) counsel (QN= >RS; 1QS 3.6), an everlasting Community ('SGFQ >RS; 1QS 3.12), the Community of the eternal covenant (>RS 'FQNSLMRNSLLMB QFQ vacat FQFQEG21

16 vacat He should not reprove nor argue with the men of the pit 17 but instead hide the counsel of the law in the midst of the men of sin; he should reprove (with) truthful knowledge and (with) just judgement those who choose 18 the path, and each according to his spirit, according to the order of the time; he should lead them in knowledge and in this way teach them the mysteries of the wonder and of truth, in the midst of 19 the men of the Community, so that they walk in perfection, each one with his fellow, in all that has been revealed to them. This will be the time for making ready the path 20 in the desert, and he will teach them about all that has been discovered so that they can carry it out in this time and so they will be separated from anyone who has not withdrawn his path 21 from all injustice vacat

Here we find several ideas in line with the sectarian mindset. The maskil is to purposely hide the counsel of the law from men of sin. The revealed mysteries – also referred to as ‘all that has been discovered’ (1QS 9.20) – are only destined to the men of the Community. The reference to the ‘mysteries’ (STL) is found in a number of places in 1QS (3.23; 4.6, 18; 9.18; 11.5, 19), and its use is reminiscent of the knowledge of the ‘mysteries’ of God mentioned in the Aramaic portion of Daniel (Dan. 2.18–19, 27–29, 30, 47; 4.6), where only the righteous receive insight into the mysteries of God. According to the Rule, the reason for such discrimination seems to come from the belief that only the upright can truly understand the knowledge of the Most High (1QS 4.22b–23a). Evil men, however, have no concern for God’s decrees and for knowledge of the hidden matters; they treat such revelation with contempt (1QS 5.10b–12a). As a result, members of the Community are to separate themselves from those who have not turned away from their wickedness. In the concluding prayer of the Rule, the maskil attests that wisdom, knowledge and understanding were hidden to mankind, but given as an everlasting possession to the elect (1QS 9.5– 7). 1QS is a classic example of a text exhibiting a sectarian mindset. The Qumran sect was still around at the time of Jesus, and it is just one example of the many diverse factions that existed during the Second Temple period. Flavius Josephus mentions several other sects that were in existence at the turn of the Common Era, groups such as the Sadducees, the Phari-

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sees, the Essenes and the Fourth philosophy. 14 All these parties exhibited a sectarian mindset, which on certain points was similar to that of the Qumran community.15 If such practices and beliefs were embraced by individuals in Israel in the first century CE, it is quite possible that these tendencies could have colored Jesus’ own religious perspective; they were unquestionably part of his world.

3. Sectarianism, Secret Teaching and Self-Definition in Early Christianity In some cases, early Christian communities have exhibited a sectarian attitude. This was most often coupled with an emphasis on secret knowledge and self-definition. An example of this can be seen in some non-canonical gospels.16 As most scholars are aware, these texts give insight into the beliefs and practices of groups who considered themselves Christians. Today, several scholars are of the opinion that research on the historical Jesus cannot bypass the information contained in extra-canonical texts such as the Gospel of Thomas.17 But how are we to understand a text such as this? Can scholars expect to find therein sayings that have some validity with respect to the Jesus-of-history and the reception of his teaching in the early church? And how is one to understand the relationship between the Gospel of Thomas and the canonical tradition18 or with other non-canonical writ-

14

See for example, Ant. 18.1.1–5. Josephus also mentions John the Baptist and his followers who can be seen as a faction within Judaism; Ant. 18.5.2. 15 See Baumgarten, Flourishing of Jewish Sects, p. 11–12. 16 Many texts from Nag Hammadi and from the Church Fathers are also replete examples of sectarianism, secret knowledge and self-definition; see M. Metzger, ‘Les chrétiens des premiers siècles et “ceux du dehors”’, RevScRel 80 (2006), pp. 155–66. Some years ago, Scroggs had also noticed sectarian elements in early Christian communities; see R. Scroggs, ‘The earliest Christian communities as sectarian movement’, in J. Neusner (ed.), Christianity, Judaism and Other Greco-Roman Cults (Leiden: Brill, 1975), pp. 1–23. 17 See T. Kazen, ‘Sectarian Gospels for Some Christians? Intention and Mirror Reading in the Light of Extra-Canonical Texts’, NTS 51 (2005), pp. 561–78. 18 For more on the relationship between Thomas and the canonical tradition see for example W. Schrage, Das Verhältnis des Thomas-Evangeliums zur synoptischen Tradition und zu den koptischen Evangelienübersetzungen. Zugleich ein Beitrag zur gnostischen Synoptikerdeutung (Berlin: Töpelman, 1964); C. Tuckett, ‘Thomas and the Synoptics’, NovT 30 (1988), pp. 132–57; S. J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus (Sonoma: Polebridge Press, 1993); R. Nordsieck, Das Thomas-Evangelium (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2004).

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ings?19 Even if most scholars are of the opinion that the final version of the Gospel of Thomas can be dated to the first half of the second century20, there are some indications that it most probably went through various stages of growth.21 The Oxyrhynchus Papyri also testify to a very early date of 19 G. Quispel is one of the first scholars to posit for the independence of the Gospel of Thomas from the canonical tradition. According to Quispel, the author of the Gospel of Thomas used three sources in his work: a Jewish-Christian source, an Encratite source and a Hermetic source; for more details, see G. Quispel, ‘The Gospel of Thomas Revisited’, in B. Barc (ed.), Colloque international sur les texts de Nag Hammadi, Québec, 22– 25 août 1978 (Québec & Louvain: Presses de l’Université Laval & Peeters, 1981), pp. 218–66. 20 The only complete version of the Gospel of Thomas available to us is the Coptic text dating around 350 CE. For most scholars, however, the original Greek version of the Gospel of Thomas was completed in the middle of the second century CE.; see F. T. Fallon and R. Cameron, ‘The Gospel of Thomas: A Forschungsbericht and Analysis’, in W. Hasse (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt, II 25.6 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1988), pp. 4196–4230; H. W. Attridge, ‘The Gospel of Thomas. The Greek Fragments’, in B. Layton (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2–7, together with XIII, 2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4946(1) and P.Oxy 1, 654, 655. Vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), pp. 96–128. A different perspective on the dating of the Gospel of Thomas is that of Nicholas Perrin. He believes that the Diatessaron had a profound influence on the Gospel of Thomas (such an idea is found in the previous work of G. Quispel and T. Baarda) and assigns the composition of the Gospel of Thomas after 170 CE; see his Thomas and Tatian. The Relationship between the Gospel of Thomas and Diatessaron (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002). 21 In 1960, R. McL. Wilson mentioned how the Gospel of Thomas probably grew over time, the process being some kind of ‘snowball’ effect; see ‘“Thomas” and the Growth of the Gospels’, HTR 53 (1960), pp. 231–50 and Studies in the Gospel of Thomas (London: Mowbray, 1960). J.-D. Kaestli also clearly stated that the Gospel of Thomas cannot be ‘une œuvre unitaire, composée en une fois par un seul et même rédacteur [...] le receuil n’a pas été composé en une fois, mais résulte d’un processus de croissance’, see ‘L’utilisation de l’évangile de Thomas dans la recherche actuelle sur les paroles de Jésus’, in D. Marguerat, E. Norelli and J. M Poffet (eds), Jésus de Nazareth. nouvelles approches d’une énigme (Genève: Labor et Fides, 1998), pp. 373–95. The most recent attempt to uncover the original Gospel of Thomas is that of A. D. DeConick. She understands the Gospel of Thomas to be the product of a community building on a traditional core; the Gospel of Thomas should be seen as a ‘rolling corpus’. According to DeConick, the kernel gospel was composed in Jerusalem between 30–50 CE. She also identifies three stages of accretions that correspond to different episodes in the life of the Thomasine Community: (i) accretions dealing with relocation of the community and its leadership crisis (50–60 CE); (ii) accretions concerned with the acceptance of Gentiles and eschatological crisis (60–100 CE); (iii) accretions which incorporate encratic and hermetic traditions (80–120 CE). DeConick’s model for uncovering the history of the Thomasine tradition is more sophisticated than the ones proposed by J. D. Crossan and W. E. Arnal; see J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus. The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York: Harper San Francisco, 1991), p. 427; W. Arnal, ‘The Rhetoric of Marginality: Apocalypticism, Gnosticism, and Sayings Gospels’, HTR 88 (1995), pp. 471–94; see A.

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some of the Thomasine material (P.Oxy. 1 = logia 26–33; 77a around 200 P.Oxy. 654 = incipit + logia 1–7 around 250; P.Oxy. 655 = logia 24; 36–39 between 200–250 CE).22 The instability of the Thomasine tradition is also seen in P.Oxy. 1 where sayings 30 and 77b are grouped together, as well as in the differences between the Coptic version of logia 2; 3; 6 and P.Oxy. 645; logia 26; 30; 31; 32 and P.Oxy. 1; logia 37; 39 and P.Oxy. 655.23 One can possibly favor an early date for some of the Thomasine sayings which exhibit a more primitive form than those found in the canonical gospel tradition.24 For example, scholars have noted how the Parable of the Sower (Gospel of Thomas 9) differs from the version found in Mk 4.3–9.25 Mark’s account of the parable heavily relies on the allegorical interpretation given by Jesus in 4.14–20, whereas the Gospel of Thomas does not give the interpretation and presents the parable in a most simplified manner.26 Other elements such as the use of Semitisms and the similarities beCE;

D. DeConick, Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas. A History of the Gospel and Its Growth (London: T&T Clark, 2005), pp. 97–98. 22 At the time of the discovery, Grenfell and Hunt thought that some of the Greek fragments came from a gospel which had been composed in Egypt before 150 CE and probably well into the first century CE. For more details see, B. P. Grenfell and A. S. Hunt (eds.), The Oxyrhynchus Papyri Part IV (London, Egypt Exploration Fund, 1904), p. 28, and more recently C. W. Hedrick, ‘An Anecdotal Argument for the Independence of the Gospel of Thomas from the Synoptic Gospels’, in H.-G. Bethge, S. Emmel, K. King and I. Schletterer (eds.), For the Children, Perfect Instruction (Leiden, Brill, 2002), pp. 113–28. 23 For all the details concerning the differences between the Coptic version and Greek fragments of Thomas, see Attridge, ‘The Gospel of Thomas. The Greek Fragments’, pp. 99–101. 24 A less convincing argument would be the presence of doublets as proof of an earlier tradition embedded in the Gospel of Thomas (Gospel of Thomas 5//6; 6//14// 21//113; 38//92; 48//106; 55//101; 56//80; 87//112). According to Plisch, the statement on fasting, prayer and alms (Gospel of Thomas 6) is also repeated in logia 14 and 104. He also believes that logia 38//92 are found in saying 94. For lists of ‘doublets’, see A. D. DeConick, Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas, p. 38 and U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas. Original Text with Commentary (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2008), p. 23. 25 J. D. Crossan, In Parable. The Challenge of the Historical Jesus (New York: Harper and Row, 1973), pp. 39–44; R. Cameron, Parables and Interpretation (Sonoma: Polebridge Press, 1986), pp. 20–21; H. Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels. Their History and Development (Philadelphia & London: Trinity Press International & SCM Press, 1990), pp. 102–03. 26 DeConick mentions that the allegorical interpretation of Mk 4.14–20 is also absent from the version of the Parable of the Sower found in 1 Clem. 24.5. The writer of 1 Clement ends the parable with the following remark: ‘These are the things which the good teacher spoke in a parable, when he would point out the different attitudes, which are not like each other’; see A. D. DeConick, The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (New York: T&T Clark, 2007), pp. 72–73.

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tween Gospel of Thomas 9 with 1 Clement, Justin Martyr’s Dialogus cum Tryphone, the Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions, and Aphraates’ Demonstrations, shows that the Gospel of Thomas possibly contains an early eastern Semitic version of the Parable of the Sower, independent from the synoptic tradition.27 It would be surprising (and strange!) that the Gospel of Thomas would purposefully omit the allegorical interpretation of the parable, if it was available to him. There is nothing in the Gospel of Thomas that warrants such an omission; there are no Thomasine sayings that contradict the synoptic allegorical interpretation of the Sower. This being said, it is interesting to note that the Gospel of Thomas does contain a saying closely related to the synoptic Parable of the Sower: (62) "ï% $"#![#  #    [ ]$"#!  % %$"#! $"#!  #]   $"#! $"#! (62) Jesus said: ‘It is to those [who are worthy of my] 28 mysteries that I tell my mysteries.’

This is comparable to Jesus’ answer to his disciples found after the Parable of the Sower in Mk 4.11: NDLB HOHJHQ DXWRL M XPL Q WRB PXVWKULRQ GHGRWDL WK M EDVLOHLDM WRX  THRX  HNHLQRLMGHBWRL MHFZH QSDUDERODL MWDBSDQWDJLQHWDL He said to them: ‘To you the mystery of the kingdom of God has been given, but to those outside everything comes in parables.’

The idea that Jesus’ words where understood by his disciples as being clouded with mystery is also present in other texts such as Lk. 9.44–45.29 It is quite possible that aspects of Jesus’ teaching were perceived as mysterious and cryptic.30 It is interesting to note how an early authentic Pauline letter such as 1 Corinthians (pre-synoptic) presents Jesus and his teaching as the hidden Wisdom of God revealed to the perfect (1 Corinthians 1–4). Hidden wisdom granted to a select few is also found in the Gospel of 27

For more details see, DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, pp. 72–75. I follow Layton’s reconstruction in his critical edition; see his ‘Gospel according to Thomas’, in B. Layton (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2–7, together with XIII, 2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4946(1) and P.Oxy 1, 654, 655. Vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), p. 52–93. 29 ‘You, put these words (WRXMOR JRXMWRX WRXM) into your ears: For the Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men. But they did not understand this saying (RL GH? K JQRRXQWRB U K PDWRX WR) and it was hidden (SDUDNHNDOXPPHQRQ) from them, so that they could not perceive the meaning of it (PK DLVTZQWDLDX WR ), and they feared to question him about this saying.’ 30 J. M. Robinson, ‘LOGOI SOPHON: On the Gattung of Q’, in J. M. Robinson and H. Koester (eds.), Trajectories through Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1971), pp. 85–95; also M. Meyer, ‘The Beginning of the Gospel of Thomas’, in Secret Gospels. Essays on Thomas and the Secret Gospel of Mark (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2003), pp. 39–53. 28

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Thomas. For example, logion 62 speaks of the revelation of hidden things to those who are worthy. What is striking is that the saying is followed by a short collection of parables (logia 63, 64, 65). A series of different parables also follow the saying in Mk 4.11. Logion 62 clearly introduces the subsequent parables as $"#!, $"#! but contrary to Mark’s account, the Thomasine parables are different and do not speak of the mysteries the Kingdom of God; rather, they focus on the special revelation given to the elect.31 Logia 63, 64, 65 are devoid of the features found in their synoptic versions such as allegory, moral instruction, eschatology and history. 32 It is quite possible that logion 62 is independent from the canonical tradition,33 and would most probably be pre-synoptic.34 If Jesus of Nazareth stands at the crossroads of Judaism and Christianity, it can well be that some texts from the early Christian tradition, which exhibit the above-mentioned sectarian characteristics, are in continuum with an attitude of Jesus. The authors of these marginalized texts must have felt the need to preserve, collect or create sayings that reflected the way in which they understood who Jesus was and how he was to be remembered. He was assuredly remembered for his demeanor and his way with people. His manner of teaching must have also made an impact on

31 J. M. Robinson, ‘On Bridging the Gulf: From Q to the Gospel of Thomas (or Vice Versa)’, in H. W. Attridge, R. Hogdson Jr., and C. W. Hedrick (eds.), Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity. Fourteen Leading Scholars Discuss the Current Issues in Gnostic Studies (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1986), pp. 127–75. 32 J.-M. Sevrin favors the idea that these Thomas parables depend on the synoptics while still noticing that the Thomasine versions lack the above-mentioned features; see J.-M. Sevrin, ‘Un groupement de trois paraboles contre les richesses dans l’Évangile selon Thomas: EvTh 63, 64, 65’, in J. Delorme (ed.), Les paraboles évangéliques. Perspectives nouvelles. XIIe congrès de l’ACFEB, Lyon 1987 (Paris: Cerf, 1989), pp. 425– 39. 33 For example, Quispel was of the opinion that the source of logion 62 was most probably a primitive Jewish-Christian gospel, independent from the synoptics; see G. Quispel, ‘The Gospel of Thomas Revisited’, in B. Barc (ed.), Colloque international sur les texts de Nag Hammadi, Québec, 22–25 août 1978 (Québec & Louvain: Presses de l’Université Laval & Peeters, 1981), pp. 218–66. 34 Even if he considers Gospel of Thomas 62 as less likely to have come from the Historical Jesus, Crossan nevertheless places this logion in the ‘first stratum’ (30–60 CE). It is to be found in the double independent attestation category; see J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus. The Life of Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1992), p. 439; see also H. Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels. Their History and Development (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1990), pp. 100–01 and DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, pp. 204–06. S. L. Davies is of the opinion that the entire Thomasine tradition is independent from the canonical tradition and is pre-synoptic; see S. L. Davies, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom. Second Edition (Oregon House: Bardic Press, 2005).

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those who hold dear to such traditions. Logion 62 is an example of this; it clearly seems to be in tune with the spirit of Jesus. As one reads the Gospel of Thomas, the realization that such an ‘exclusivist’ attitude permeates the whole of the Gospel might be surprising. It is even found in the subsequent strata/accretions of the Gospel of Thomas.35 Therein, Jesus is portrayed as a master who shares his secret knowledge with those who are worthy. The reader is warned in the incipit as follows:   1

# " # $$%"  # $$%" ï"$ "$ $" $" #" "$$"ï$" $" %"(1) $%#  !  $ $ %" !    $

These are the hidden sayings which the living Jesus spoke and which Didymus Judas Thomas wrote down. (1) And he said: ‘Whoever finds the interpretation of these sayings will not taste death.’

It is interesting that salvation, which is understood as the privilege of not tasting death (    $ results from the correct interpretation of  $), $ the hidden sayings. The relative clause #  !  ! constructs the audience to whom the Gospel is intended: people on a quest for the interpretation of the sayings. But the emphasis is mainly on the search ( 



!)

  -) and not strictly on the interpretation ( !

! of the logia. The use of the future tense clearly indicates that the reader is on interpretative journey which leads to salvation.36 The revelation is given to Didymus Judas Thomas ($" $" ï$" $" %" %").37 The Gospel of Thomas characterizes this ‘twin’ of Jesus as the ideal disciple and interpreter of the hidden sayings. The twinship motif is of primary significance with respect to the self-definition of Jesus and of those who are considered to be true followers. An example of this is seen in logion 13, where Thomas gives an adequate answer to Jesus’ inquiry:  (13) 1   "  #"  # ##%# #%#  ##" "      2 " ## ##  3  "%#!"  "%#!"  $"  $"  "  "     "%#!" $"

35

For the most part, the following references belong to what Quispel understands to be an encratite source (for logion 13) and the work of the author of the Gospel of Thomas (for logia 1 and 108). For Crossan, sayings 1, 13 and 108 are to be found in the second stratum (60–80 CE) and Arnal places them in the secondary Gnostic strand. DeConick has these sayings fall under a third series of accretions (80–120 CE); see Quispel, ‘The Gospel of Thomas Revisited’, pp. 218–66; Crossan, The Historical Jesus, p. 428; W. Arnal, ‘The Rhetoric of Marginality: Apocalypticism, Gnosticism, and Sayings Gospels’, HTR 88 (1995), pp. 471–94; DeConick, Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas, p. 98. 36 The idea of ‘not tasting death’ is found in several other texts (Mt. 16.28; Mk 9.1, Lk. 9.27; Jn 8.52; 2 Esd. 6.26). 37 The names ‘Didymus’ and ‘Thomas’ both mean ‘twin’; see J. J. Gunther, ‘The Meaning and Origin of the name “Judas Thomas”’, Mus 93 (1980), pp. 113–48; G. J. Riley, Resurrection Reconsidered. Thomas and John in Controversy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), p. 110; R. Uro, Thomas. Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (New York: T&T Clark, 2003), pp. 10–11.

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  "    $!%  ""  ! # 4      $!% "" !  %""  %"##!#!" 5  %""  %"##!#!" " " "%   !# " "%   ##! ##!!# !# #  7 #! %" ##" $%# &%!% &%!%# # ##" 6 $%#     ! $$   # "  "  $  8  $   # %" % # # $ 

    #$ #$  ## %  ## ## ## $!$% #$% # % %"!%  "!% %# %# $!$%#$% #  #$% #  % "!%  %# (13) 1 Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Compare me and tell me whom I am like.’ 2 Simon Peter said to him: ‘You are like a righteous angel.’ 3 Matthew said to him: ‘You are like a wise philosopher.’ 4 Thomas said to him: ‘Master, my mouth absolutely refuses to say whom you are like.’ 5 Jesus said: ‘I am not your master, for you have drunk and have become intoxicated from the bubbling spring which I have measured out.’ 6 And he took him and withdrew, and he told him three words. 7 But when Thomas returned to his companions, they asked him: ‘What did Jesus tell you?’ 8 Thomas said to them: ‘If I tell you one of the words that he told me, you will take stones and cast them at me, and a fire will come out of the stones and will burn you.’

Thomas is the recipient of such illumination because he drinks ("% "%) "% from the bubbling spring (# # #! ! of knowledge that Jesus measures #!!) ! out. Thomas is then informed of his new status: Jesus is not his master. The disciple had reached an elevated sense of perception. As a result, Thomas will be given an additional revelation: ‘And he (Jesus) took him (Thomas) and withdrew, and he told him three words.’ Logion 13 is better understood if placed alongside logion 108. There, Jesus says that those who drink from his mouth will receive the revelation of mysteries: (108) 1   "  #"%   #  "

 ##! %  #  %#3 $% $% ! $% !

2

 %

(108) 1 Jesus said: ‘He who will drink from my mouth will become like me. 2 I myself shall become he, 3 and the things that are hidden will be revealed to him.’

The action of ‘drinking from Jesus’ mouth’ resonates with what was said about Thomas in logion 13. We can establish a connection between the bubbling source of knowledge measured out by Jesus and the idea of drinking from his mouth: they are both sources of revelation. This clearly speaks of the hidden words given to Thomas by Jesus; and it could well be a reference to the content of this Gospel, that is, the hidden sayings – as mentioned in the incipit.38 The theme of twinship is also found in logion 108: ‘He will become like me. I myself shall become he.’ This clearly explains the statement in logion 13 where Jesus says that he is not Thomas’ master, for the disciple had now become like his master. Jesus and Thomas have now become one and

There seems to be an obvious link between ‘the things that are hidden’ (  )  in logion 108 and ‘the hidden words’ (    )  in the incipit. 38

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the same.39 This is how twinship is to be understood in the Gospel of Thomas. And here we have the ingredients for self-definition. Those who ingest the hidden words of Jesus are united to him.40 All who drink from the mouth of Jesus can become like Thomas, a twin of Jesus. This is actually what constitutes the Thomasine community. To be an ‘insider’, one must go through this process. Only those who are part of this community can receive the revelation of mysteries. This outlook certainly explains such exclusive statements as the one found in logion 62. Who then qualifies as being worthy of Jesus’ mysteries? Those who drink from the mouth of Jesus in order to become like him. According to the incipit, salvation is linked to the interpretation of the hidden sayings. Those who seek this secret knowledge, who are on the quest for the interpretation of the words of Jesus, will find salvation. This is precisely what happens to Thomas in logion 13; it is also what awaits the reader who seeks for the meaning of Jesus’ secret sayings. But those who do not drink from the mouth of Jesus are unworthy of his mysteries. These are the ‘outsiders’ who will not reach the elevated sense of perception needed for salvation.

4. Sectarianism, Secret Teaching and Self-Definition in the Ministry of Jesus of Nazareth There are some aspects of Jesus’ ministry as reported in the canonical gospels that seem to be in continuum with the sectarian attitude found in 1QS and in the Gospel of Thomas. The text mentioned earlier in relation to the Gospel of Mark (4.10–12) will serve to illustrate such a perspective: .DLB RWHHJHQHWRNDWDB PRQDMKUZ WZQDXWRBQRL SHULB DXWRBQVXBQWRL MGZ GHND WDBM SDUDERODMŒ 11 NDLB HOHJHQ DXWRL M XPL Q WRB PXVWKULRQ GHGRWDL WK M EDVLOHLDMWRX THRX HNHLQRLMGHB WRL MHFZH QSDUDERODL MWDB SDQWDJLQHWDL 12

10

39 Oneness or singularity is also expressed in logion 106: Jesus said: ‘When you make the two one, you will become the sons of man (   "  # ## ! "$ " ##! ! $ ##%  !  !% It is interesting to see that Jesus is called ‘Son of  ! !%).’ !% Man’ in logion 86 as is the case of those who ‘make the two one’ (-! !  "$$) "$$ and become ‘sons of man’. There seems to be a link between sayings 86, 106 and 108. The one who drinks from Jesus’ mouth becomes like him (logion 108), that is, ‘son of man’ (logia 86 and 106). It is quite possible that the disciple who ‘makes the two one’ unites himself to Jesus by drinking from his mouth or ingesting his hidden words. 40 A. Gagné, ‘Connaissance, identité et androgynéité. Conditions du salut dans l’Évangile selon Thomas’, in M. Allard, D. Couture and J.-G. Nadeau (eds.), Pratiques et constructions du corps en christiansime. Actes du 42ieme congrès de la Société canadienne de théologie (Montreal: Fides, 2009), pp. 131–47.

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LQD EOHSRQWHM EOHSZVLQ NDLB PKB LGZVLQ NDLB D NRXRQWHM D NRXZVLQ NDLB PKB VXQLZ VLQPKSRWHH SLVWUH\ZVLQNDLBD IHTK _DX WRL MΠ10

And when he was alone, those around him with the Twelve asked him about the parables. 11 He said to them: ‘To you the mystery of the kingdom of God has been given, but to those outside everything comes in parables, 12 in order that, seeing they see but do not perceive, and hearing they hear but do not understand, for fear that they turn back and be forgiven.’

Some understand this passage as the recollection of a genuine perception ‘outsiders’ had of Jesus’ ministry in general (and not only in reference with his teaching in parables).41 The writer of Mark could have thought that people generally understood Jesus’ teaching as being enigmatic.42 Others are of the opinion that this passage refers to the struggle the early church had with its mission, especially since the Christian message was rejected by Judaism.43 The fact that other texts such as Jn 12.40; Acts 28.27 and Rom. 11.3 appeal to Isa. 6.9–10 as a way to explain Israel’s rejection of the Christian message, proves that the famous Isaiah quote was interpreted in this fashion by the early church.44 In the context of Mark 4, it seems that the expression ‘outsiders’ designates those who reject Jesus’ ministry and mission, rather than Judaism as a whole. The ‘mystery of the kingdom’ is hidden from the ‘outsiders’. We notice thatWRL MHFZis used only here in Mark’s Gospel. In other New Testament texts, it usually characterizes all people – Jews and Gentiles – who fail to believe in Jesus as the Messiah (i.e., 1 Cor. 5.12; Col. 4.5; 1 Thess. 4.12).45 In the allegorical interpretation of the parable of the seed, they would represent those who had not adequately received and kept the word of God (Mk 4.14–20). As for the ‘outsiders’ in Mark 4, we can establish an intra-textual link with the immediate context of Mk 3.31–35, where Jesus’ family is seen standing ‘outside’ (HFZ) waiting to speak to him.46 Jesus reacts by saying 41

See for example, J. Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1963), pp. 15–18, and W. Marxsen, Der Exeget als Theologe. Vorträge zum Neuen Testament (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1968), p. 27. Dunn also seems to think that this could certainly reflect something of Jesus; see Dunn, Jesus Remembered, pp. 495–96. 42 P. Patten, ‘The Form and Function of Parable in Select Apocalyptic Literature and Their Significance for Parables in the Gospel of Mark’, NTS 29 (1983), pp. 246–58. 43 See for example H. Räisänen, Die Parabeltheorie im Markusevangelium (Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 1976), pp. 115–20, and W. R. Telford, The Theology of Mark (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 65. 44 R. A. Guelich, Mark 1—8:26 (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1989), p. 210. See also C. A. Evans, To See and Not to Perceive. Isaiah 6.9–10 in Early Jewish and Christian Interpretation (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989). 45 J. Behm, ‘HFZ’, in TDNT 2, pp. 575–76. 46 Marcus has noticed the link between the ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ in Mk 3.31–35 and 4.10–12; see J. Marcus, The Mystery of the Kingdom of God (Atlanta: Scholars Press,

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that the members of his true family are those with him inside the house. His biological family, however, thought he was out of his mind and wanted to take hold of him (Mk 3.21). Their attitude shows that they were incapable of accepting Jesus’ mission. But those who followed Jesus embraced his mission; his disciples were now his true family.47 Also in Mk 3.22, the scribes from Jerusalem accuse Jesus of casting demons by the authority of Beelzebub. They too are depicted as rejecting Jesus’ ministry. At this point of the narrative, all those who had rejected Jesus’ mission are considered to be ‘outsiders’. In what camp should we then classify the crowd in Mark 4? Are they characterized as ‘outsiders’? Mark usually depicts Jesus’ relationship with the crowds in positive terms.48 He is seen as teaching the crowds (Mk 2.13; 4.1–2; 6.34; 7.14; 10.1; 11.18; 12.37) and having compassion for them (Mk 6.34; 8.2). However, in Mark 4 the crowd is clearly set in opposition to the inner circle.49 The ‘insiders’ are labeled as RL SHULB DXWRQ VXBQ WRL M GZGHND (those around him with the Twelve). This also resonates with the immediate context of Mk 3.31–35, where Jesus’ true spiritual family, that is, those who do the will of the Father, are called WRXBMSHULB DXWRQ. As for the Twelve, it is clear that Jesus chose them to be with him (Mk 3.14) and to share in his mission (Mk 6.7).50 This dichotomy between the crowd and his disciples is reiterated in the summary found in Mk 4.33–34: .DLB WRLDXWDLM SDUDERODL M SROODL M H ODOHL DX WRL M WRBQ ORJRQ NDTZBM K GXQDQWR D NRXHLQ 34 [ZULBM GHB SDUDEROK M RX N H ODOHL DX WRL M NDW  L GLDQ GHB WRL ML GLRLMPDTKWDL MH SHOXHQSDQWDŒ

33

33

With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; 34 he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.

It seems that for Mark, anyone who is not a disciple of Jesus is to be seen as an ‘outsider’. His biological family and the scribes from Jerusalem are

1986), pp. 89–96; also B. W. Henaut, Oral Tradition and the Gospels. The Problem of Mark 4 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), pp. 168–69. 47 See G. D. Kilpatrick, ‘Jesus, His Family and His Disciples’, in C. A. Evans and S. E. Porter (eds.), The Historical Jesus. A Sheffield Reader (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), p. 13–28. 48 G. Bonneau, Stratégies rédactionnelles et fonctions communautaires de l’Évangile de Marc (Paris: Gabalda, 2001), p. 208. 49 There is no reason to deny the historical plausibility of the crowds as being ‘outsiders’ even if they also serve some theological purpose; see J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol 3. Companions and Competitors (New York: Doubleday, 2001), pp. 19–39. 50 E. Best, Mark. The Gospel as Story (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983), pp. 44–50.

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not his disciples, since both groups reject or misunderstand his message.51 And even if the crowds are attracted to Jesus’ teaching, they are not yet disciples. A demarcation between the two groups would not be necessary if they adhered to his message. But why does Jesus withhold information from ‘outsiders’? Maybe he considers them unworthy of his mysteries.52 The ‘mystery’ is the revelation of what was hidden; the secret knowledge or exclusive teaching given to a chosen few. This clearly corresponds to the ‘mystery’ (STL) motif in the book of Daniel and in 1QS. There, the revelation of the mysteries of God was given to the righteous. In Mk 4.11, the idea of ‘mystery’ is found in the context of the parables of the Kingdom. Few would disagree with the fact that Jesus of Nazareth spoke in parables.53 It is even quite possible that Jesus uttered something close to the parable of the seed.54 Since those who are with the Twelve ask Jesus to interpret the parable, it could have been difficult to understand. We notice that the interpretation is not given to the crowd, but only to the ‘insiders’. How can we explain such exclusiveness on the part of Jesus? This kind of exclusive teaching is seen elsewhere in the Markan tradition (Mk 7.17–23; 9.28; 10.10–12; 13.3). Jesus and the disciples even take some time away from the crowds (Mk 6.31–32). It is worth noting that this ‘private teaching’ motif is also found in other non-canonical gospels. In some cases, the revelation is given after Jesus takes a disciple away from the others (&%! &%!; &%! Gospel of Thomas 13; see also Gos. Mary 10.1–9) or asks a disciple to separate himself from the others (%! %! $ Gos. Jud. $; $ 35.23–2455). It is interesting to see how such independent traditions have 51

Jesus’ family is temporarily in this category; see W. E. Moore, ‘“Outside” and “Inside”: A Markan Motif’, ExpTim 98 (1986–1987), pp. 39–43 and J. F. Williams, Other Followers of Jesus. Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), pp. 105–07. 52 Mark uses here the word PXVWKULRQ. Scholars have noticed the parallel with Gospel of Thomas 62; Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, p. 88 and Dunn, Jesus Remembered, p. 495. 53 For more details on the meaning of SDUDEROK, see D. Otto Via, The Parables. Their Literary and Existential Dimension (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1967) and B. B. Scott, Hear Then the Parable. A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989). Important work has been done on the notion of parable in Mark’s Gospel by E. Cuvillier, Le concept de 3$5$%2/+ dans le second évangile (Paris: Gabalda, 1993). 54 We find a close parallel of this parable in Gospel of Thomas 9 without the allegorical interpretation; see J. D. Crossan, ‘The Seed Parable of Jesus’, JBL 92 (1973), pp. 244–66. 55 This is what one reads in the Kasser and Wurst critical edition of the Tchacos Codex; see R. Kasser, G. Wurst, M. Meyer and F. Gaudard, The Gospel of Judas Together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and A Book of Allogenes from Codex Tchacos. Critical Edition (Washington: National Geographic Society, 2007), pp. 188–89.

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preserved the memory of an exclusive Jesus and without offering any apologies for it. And maybe this is what lies behind the use of Isa. 6.9–10 in Mk 4.12. Mark most probably felt the need to justify a real attitude of Jesus by referring to Scripture. If other New Testament references to Isa. 6.9–1056 serve as a theological explanation behind the historical reality of Israel’s rejection of the Christian message, it can certainly serve as an explanation for a historical attitude of Jesus towards ‘outsiders’. Mark had to give a theological reason as to why Jesus acted the way he did. This portrait of Jesus might have been incompatible with some streams of the early Christian tradition. A church in the process of opening up to the world, that is, to the ‘outsiders’, probably found it difficult to identify itself to a sectarian Jesus. The reference to Isa. 6.9–10 explains Jesus’ action and serves as a safeguard against the possible rejection of the Christian message by ‘outsiders’ in the near future. But their impetus to turn towards ‘outsiders’ might also have come from Jesus, since it seems clear that he was willing to teach the crowds and had a general impact on people (Mk 4.1–2; 6.34; 7.14, etc.). Jesus did, however, maintain an ‘exclusive teaching’ mentality. Deeper teachings were only for those who embarked on the journey of discipleship. As for the allegorical interpretations of the parables in Mark 4, they are without any doubt the product of the early Church.57 The original audience of the parables could not have come up with this kind of understanding, nor would have the historical Jesus. The allegorical interpretations were most obviously supplied because the original interpretations of the parables given by Jesus were unknown. The gospel writers did not have access to what Jesus said in private. The allegorical interpretations are clearly out of touch with the plausible historical context of Jesus. Other episodes of Jesus’ ministry could have been mentioned (i.e., his separation from the Baptist; his instructions to preach only to Israel; his strange attitude toward the Syrophoenician woman, etc.). As we examined some aspects of Judaism at the time of Jesus, we uncovered a contextual plausibility for the ideas of sectarianism, secret teaching and selfdefinition at Qumran. The way Jesus is remembered and portrayed in the Markan tradition is partially in continuum with what we read in 1QS. The Markan Jesus and the Dead Sea sect both delimited their social boundaries: ‘insiders’/‘outsiders’. For the Qumran Community, the ‘insiders’ had entered into a covenant with God; they had adhered to the teachings of the 56

As mentioned above: Jn 12.40; Acts 28.27; Rom. 11.3. See S. Brown, ‘The Secret of the Kingdom of God (Mark 4:11)’, JBL 92 (1973), pp. 60–74; G. Lüdemann gives a detailed explanation as to why the allegorical interpretation of the parable of the seed cannot come from the historical Jesus in his Jesus After 2000 Years (Amherst: Prometheus Books, 2001), pp. 25–27. 57

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group as revealed to the sons of Zadok. The ‘outsiders’ refused to become members of the Community. For the Markan Jesus, ‘insiders’ were people who accepted his message and mission; they basically represented those who became disciples. ‘Outsiders’ had either rejected/misunderstood Jesus’ message and mission or had not yet become his followers (i.e., crowds). There is, however, some discontinuity between the Dead Sea sect and the Markan Jesus at this point. According to Mark, Jesus was willing to teach the crowds. At Qumran, members embraced a more radical sectarianism and wanted nothing to do with those who did not share their views. There is some continuity between the Qumran sect and Jesus on the question of secret teaching and self-definition. In both instances, the revelation of the ‘mysteries’ of God (or the Kingdom) is strictly reserved for the righteous. This exclusive teaching is purposely hidden from ‘outsiders’. It is only destined for those who are worthy (members of the Community or disciples). As a result, salvation will also be destined to the ‘insiders’. The fact that Jesus was remembered as teacher of ‘mysteries’ most probably explains why independent non-canonical texts speak of him as one who dispensed ‘secret knowledge’ to those worthy of his teaching.

5. Conclusion In early Christianity, orthodox and heterodox believers delimited their social boundaries and had the pretence of being the true guardians of the teachings of Jesus. ‘Insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ are determined categories of people in both early Judaism and Christianity. The ‘insiders’ seek the revelatory knowledge that God has given to their group. The ‘outsiders’ are denied such knowledge. Most of the time, this secret knowledge or teaching is closely related to soteriology. Salvation is exclusive and strictly reserved for ‘insiders’ or disciples. An examination of the plausibility of effects shows that there are obvious parallels with respect to secret teaching and self-definition between Judaism and early Christianity. But there is also, however, an element of discontinuity between the Qumran sect and Jesus: the prophet of Nazareth was in some cases willing to teach the crowds, those who were not yet his disciples and were still ‘outsiders’. Many non-canonical texts present Jesus as a teacher who imparts secret knowledge to a select few. Usually, this exclusive revelation is linked to salvation. As for sectarianism, it also seems that some of these groups delimited their social boundaries. Revelation was strictly granted to the elect and salvation was for those who belonged to the group (we could think of the gnostic anthropological classification of pneumatics, psychics and

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hylics).58 Christians remembered Jesus as someone who taught ‘mysteries’ to his followers in private. But the gospel writers also paint the picture of a Jesus who was partially open to crowds. In some cases, he showed willingness to lead them to repentance in preparation for what he believed to be the imminent manifestation of the Kingdom of God.59 Maybe this is what inspired his followers to share the gospel message of salvation with ‘outsiders’, those who would become members of the ecclesia.

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For more on this Gnostic classification, see K. Rudolph, Gnosis. The Nature & History of Gnosticism (New York: Harper San Francisco, 1987), pp. 91–92. 59 According to Sanders, it is a certain fact that, for Jesus, ‘outsiders’ could be saved if they heeded to his call; see E. P. Sanders, ‘Jesus and the Sinners’, JSNT 19 (1983), pp. 5–36; see also J. Becker, Jesus of Nazareth (New York: Walter De Gruyter, 1998), pp. 49–80.

Verbal Continuity and Conceptual Discontinuity in Jesus’ Discourse: The Case of the Measure-for-Measure Aphorism JOHN S. KLOPPENBORG

One of the concerns of the last two decade of historical Jesus research has been to construct a picture of the historical Jesus that is plausible in the context of what is known of Jewish Palestine in the late second Temple period.1 Of course the canons of plausibility differ from one scholar to another and hence, there remains plenty of room for disagreement. Yet much of recent scholarship on the historical Jesus continues to stand under the influence of E. P. Sanders and G. Vermès, who argued forcefully against the incipiently or explicitly supersessionist accounts of their day, that scholarship must offer a Jesus who is historically credible in the range of beliefs, attitudes, and practices attributed to him: he must appear as a Judaean of the late second Temple period, whether his attitudes and beliefs be judged commonplace or striking and unusual.2 The effort more intentionally to locate Jesus and the early Jesus movement within the fabric of Second Temple discourse and practice has had the effect of undermining the utility of at least some applications of the criterion of dissimilarity.3 The search for the way in which Jesus differed from ‘Judaism’ has been made significantly more complicated, if not defeated, by the recognition that there were multiple ‘Judaisms’ in the Second Temple period and that much of what earlier generations of scholars pronounced as distinctive and ‘unjewish’ turns out to be represented by 1 This paper was written with the support of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. It uses the standard abbreviations for papyri found in J. F. Oates, R. S. Bagnall and W. H. Willis, Checklist of Editions of Greek Papyri and Ostraca (Oakville: American Society of Papyrologists, 2001), online: http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/ texts/clist.html. 2 G. Vermès, Jesus the Jew. A Historian’s Reading of the Gospels (London: Collins, 1973; 2d edn: London & Philadelphia: SCM Press & Fortress Press, 1983) and later, idem, The Religion of Jesus the Jew (London & Minneapolis: SCM Press & Fortress Press, 1993); E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM Press, 1985). 3 T. Holmén, ‘An Introduction to the Continuum Approach’, T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus from Judaism to Christianity. Continuum Approaches to the Historical Jesus (London & New York: T&T Clark International, 2007), pp. 1–16.

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one or other form of Judaeanism. Another way of putting this observation is to say that the construction of ‘Judaism’ employed in earlier quests of the historical Jesus has often been a Christian theological construction of what Judaeans ‘typically’ believed. The entire project is thrown into doubt if it is acknowledged that most early forms of the Jesus movement (and of course, Jesus himself) represented various forms of Judaean belief and practice.4 ‘Christianity’ as a construct belongs to a much later period. In place of ‘dissimilarity from Judaism’ several have proposed a criterion of contextual plausibility.5 Whatever is attributed to Jesus must belong to a repertoire of beliefs and practices that can credibly be ascribed to a first-century Galilean. This does not, of course, mean that Jesus must be slotted into one of the known first-century Judaean groups, as Seán Freyne rightly argues. Contextual plausibility does not exclude the possibility that Jesus made distinctive, even unusual, selections from and interpretations of the available cultural lexicon.6 At the same time, G. Theissen and A. Merz insist that historical plausibility must both reckon ... with influences of Jesus on early Christianity and his involvement in a Jewish context. Whatever helps to explain the influence of Jesus and at the same time can only have come into being in a Jewish context is historical in its sources.7

Essential to Theissen and Merz’s criterion of historical plausibility is the effectiveness with which anything ascribed to the historical Jesus accounts for the shape and complexion of the later Jesus movement. This also replaces a narrow understanding of the other half of dissimilarity, that ‘Sayings and parables may be accepted as authentic if they can be shown to be dissimilar to characteristic emphases of ... early Christianity’, 8 the effect of which is to construct Jesus as an idiolect, whose teachings and sayings were either ignored or misunderstood by his followers. In place of dissimilarity, T. Holmén has proposed what he calls a ‘continuum approach’, which takes for granted neither dissimilarity and discon4 I use the somewhat cumbersome terms ‘Judaean’ and ‘Judaeanism’ in order deliberately to avoid the anachronistic connotations of ‘Jew’ and ‘Jewish’. The terms Ioudaios and Ioudaismos were first and foremost ethnic designators rather than narrowly ‘religious’ designations. On this, see S. N. Mason, ‘Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History’, JSJ 38 (2007), pp. 457–512. 5 G. Theissen and D. Winter, The Quest for a Plausible Jesus. The Question of Criteria (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), chapter 3; S. Freyne, Jesus, a Jewish Galilean. A New Reading of the Jesus Story (London & New York: T&T Clark International, 2004), pp. 171–72. 6 Freyne, Jesus, a Jewish Galilean, p. 171. 7 G. Theissen and A. Merz, The Historical Jesus. A Comprehensive Guide (London & Minneapolis: SCM Press & Fortress Press, 1998), p. 116. 8 N. Perrin, The New Testament. An Introduction. Proclamation and Parenesis, Myth and History (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1974), p. 281.

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tinuity nor continuity, but calls for a plausible historical account to be offered wherever marked discontinuities are posited. Jesus may have departed from or adhered to Judaism, and again, early Christianity may have departed from or adhered to the Jesuanic proclamation. In each case, however, scholarship is obliged to account for the elements of discontinuity and continuity. The continuum approach challenges scholars to explain ‘why’, and this applies to each phase of transition, whether Judaism – Jesus or Jesus – Christianity, as well as to both the continuity and discontinuity modes of transition. ‘Continuum’ thus denotes the attempt to take note of the interaction and interdependence of the various phenomena of history, and to avoid treating them as isolated from each other. In particular, the continuum approach maintains that a phenomenon is seriously determinable only in the light of its anterior and posterior history. 9

In this paper I wish to explore not the grand theological ideas that normally concern scholars of the historical Jesus, but rather a single instance of agrarian discourse – allusion to ordinary agrarian practices and principles and track how theses are deployed at various stages of tradition. In this I am concerned with both verbal continuity and ideological discontinuity and to account for the ideologically freighted reshaping of agrarian discourse in the literature of the later Jesus movement.

1. Measure for Measure: Q 6.38c || Mk 4.24b The measure-for-measure aphorism, which is part of Mark’s cluster of sayings concerning the revelation of the kingdom (Mk 4.21–25) and which in Q and 1 Clement 13 serves to buttress the admonition against judging and in support of kindness (Q 6.37–38a; 1 Clem. 13.2), is not often treated as an authentic saying of Jesus. It is not that it is routinely rejected as inauthentic; more often than not it is simply not discussed at all.10 The Jesus Seminar argued that Mk 4.24 was common wisdom, though placing at a ‘gray’ rather than ‘black’ rating and noting that ‘without some modification the saying appears inimical to Jesus’ fundamental announcement of God’s unlimited love and expansive mercy’.11 Michael Steinhauser concludes that Mk 4.24b–25 contributes little to our understanding of the

9

Holmén, ‘An Introduction to the Continuum Approach’, p. 2. J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus. The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1991), p. 438, inventories the saying as a triply attested saying at the ‘first stratum of tradition’, but does not discuss it further. 11 R. W. Funk and R. W. Hoover, The Five Gospels. What Did Jesus Really Say? (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993), p. 57, cf. p. 297. 10

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historical Jesus.12 Few others even comment on the saying and its possible authenticity. As long as the criterion of dissimilarity implicitly or explicitly controls the discussion of the historicity of sayings ascribed to Jesus, it is easy to see why Q 6.38c || Mk 4.24 is not ranked highly among authentic sayings. Examples abound of maxims which express a symmetry between action and reaction, whether the relation is deemed to be a matter of natural law, of human justice or of divine recompense. Both Proverbs and Hesiod appear to imply that evil deeds produce their own punishment13: (Q LQ=KSBFQLQT(MT) RVSHLUZQIDXaODTHULVHLNDND (LXX) qui seminat inquitatem metet mala (Vg.) Who sows injustice will harvest calamity (Prov. 22.8) HLNDND WLMVSHLUDL, NDNDBNHUGHD  D PK VHLHQ HLNHSD TRL, WD W’HUHFH, GLNKN’LTHL DJHQRLWR If one sows evils, let him also reap evils; if he suffers what he did, true justice may occur. (Hesiod, frag. 286)

Other formulations articulate principles of human or divine justice, the lex talionis: QFB S(EB L E (MT) ZYHSRLKVHQDX WZ_a, ZVDX WZYD QWLSRLKTK VHWDLDX WZ_a (LXX) sicut fecit fiet ei (Vg.) As one does, so let it be done to him. (Lev. 24.19)

Still other sayings turn the ‘law’ of human action into an admonition: Ab alio expectes, alteri quod feceris. Expect from another what you have done to him. (Publilius Syrus, Sent. 2) NDL?NDTZBMTHOHWHLQDSRLZaVLQXPL QRLDQTUZSRL, RXWZMSRLHL WHDX WRL M As you wish that people to do you, do also to them. (Q 6.31)

On the principle of dissimilarity, Q 6.38c || Mark 4.24b scarcely rises above common wisdom and fails to meet the bar of the distinctiveness usually expected of Jesus. If, however, one privileges not dissimilarity but multiple attestation, the case of the authenticity of Q 6.38c || Mk 4.24 improves somewhat. There are at least three independent attestations of the admonition: PKBNULQHWH, ... PKBNULTKaWH[[HQZ^_JDBUNULPDWLNULQHWHNULTK VHVTH,]] 38 [[NDL?]] HQ Z^_PHWUZ_PHWUHL WHPHWUKTK VHWDLXPL Q (Q 6.37–38; see also Mt. 7.2; Lk. 6.37–38.) 12

M. G. Steinhauser, ‘The Sayings of Jesus in Mark 4.21–22, 24b–25’, Forum 6 (1990), pp. 197–217. 13 For more examples, see J. P. Brown, ‘From Hesiod to Jesus: Laws of Human Nature in the Ancient World’, NovT 35 (1993), pp. 330–43.

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NDL? HOHJHQDX WRL M, %OHSHWHWL D NRX HWHHQZ_^ PHWUZ_PHWUHL WHPHWUKTK VHWDLXPL Q NDL?SURVWHTK VHWDLXPL Q(Mk 4.24.) RXWZM JDBU HL`SHQ HOHDaWH LQD HOHKTKaWH D ILHWH LQD D IHTK_a XPL Q ZM SRLHL WH RXWZSRLKTK VHWDLXPL QZMGLGRWHRXWZMGRTK VHWDLXPL QZMNULQHWHRXWZM NULTK VHVTH ZM [UKVWHX HVTH RXWZM [UKVWHXTK VHWDL XPL Q Z_^ PHWUZ_ PHWUHL WH HQDX WZ_aPHWUKTK VHWDLXPLQ. (1 Clem. 13.2.)

To this Polycarp, Phil. 2.3 might be added: PQKPRQHX RQWHM GH? Z^Q HL`SHQ R NX ULRM GLGD VNZQ PKB NULQHWH, LQD PKB NULTKaWH D ILHWH, NDL? D IHTK VHWDL XPL Q HOHDaWH, LQD HOHKTKaWH Z_^ PHWUZ_ PHWUHL WH, D QWLPHWUKTK VHWDL XPL Q NDL? RWL PDND ULRL RL SWZ[RL? NDL? RL GLZNR PHQRL HQHNHQ GLNDLRVX QKM, RWLDX WZaQHVWL?QKEDVLOHLDWRXaTHRXa.

Polycarp’s version of the saying, however, is so close to Clement’s that it seems likely that Polycarp is dependent upon 1 Clement, perhaps with some influence of Matthew’s (or Q’s) PKBNULQHWH, LQDPKBNULTKaWH.14 In the case of 1 Clem. 13.2, however, the consensus, as confirmed most recently by Andrew Gregory, is that Clement ‘refers there to a collection of sayings that is independent of and earlier than the broadly similar sayings of Jesus that are preserved also in Matthew and/or Luke’.15 Assuming, then, that Mark is not dependent on Q – Mark’s usage of the maxim is completely different from Q’s – and that 1 Clement is not directly dependent upon Q, we have three independent attestations of the measure-for-measure saying. This datum should at least provide a caution against too quick a dismissal of Q 6.38c from potentially authentic sayings of Jesus.

14 M. W. Holmes, ‘Polycarp’s Letter to the Philippians and the Writings that later formed the New Testament’, in A. Gregory and C. M. Tuckett (eds.), The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 187–227, esp. 191–92, considered various possibilities – direct dependent of Polycarp on 1 Clement; dependence on 1 Clement corrected against Matthew or Luke; citation of 1 Clement from memory with the influence of Matthew and/or Luke; dependence on a catechism influenced by Matthew and which formed a source for 1 Clement; use of Q or a similar document; and dependence on oral tradition – but concludes that there is insufficient grounds for deciding. 15 A. Gregory, ‘1 Clement and the Writings That Later Formed the New Testament’, in A. Gregory and C. M. Tuckett (eds.), The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 129–57, esp. 134, referring to A. J. Carlyle’s contributions to The New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Clarendon, 1905), pp. 59–61 and Donald A. Hagner, The Use of the Old and New Testaments in Clement of Rome (Leiden: Brill, 1973), p. 151.

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2. The Aphorism in Judaean and Mediterranean Context It is usual in discussing Q 6.38c || Mk 4.24 to cite Mishnaic and Targumic parallels.16 m. Sot. 1.7 cites the principle ‘in the measure with which a man measures, they measure it to him’ (QF (S>>QG B>QG '>  B>GG) in the context of a discussion of the particular punishments appropriate to an adulteress.17 Tg. Neofiti to Gen. 38.25 cites the same principle in an expansion of the story of the imminent execution of Tamar on the charge of harlotry. As she was being taken away she declared that the things Judah had given her would serve as witnesses and cause Judah to exonerate her. When these articles were produced Judah indeed understood that it was he who had slept with Tamar and declares: I beg you brothers and men of my father’s house, listen to me: it is better for me to burn in this world with extinguishable fire, that I may not be burned in the world to come whose fire is inextinguishable. It is better for me to blush in this world that is a passing world, that I may not blush before my just fathers in the world to come. And listen to me, my brothers and house of my father: In the measure in which a man measures it shall be measured to him, whether it be a good measure or a bad measure. ( NQFEG (SG) has not ceased. R. Huna said in R. Yosé’s name: From the very beginning of the world`s creation the Holy One, blessed be He, foresaw that man will receive measure for measure (B>G>AHEB>G); therefore Scripture said, AND, BEHOLD, IT WAS VERY GOOD, meaning, behold, there is a fitting dispensation.’ 20 BGU III 1005.6 (third century BCE); P.Adl. G15.14 (100 BCE); P.Amh. II 47.9–10 (113 BCE): PH(WUZ_) Z^LNDL? SDUHLOKIHQ; P.Grenf. I 10.14 (174 BCE); P.Grenf. I 18.18 (131 BCE); P.Grenf. I 23.13–14 (118 BCE); P.Grenf. I 28 (108 BCE); P.Lond. II 218.8 (111 BCE); P.Lond. II 225.10–11 (118 BCE). The same formula is attested in Demotic agreements: ‘And I will give you your wheat 45 artabae of wheat... by your measure whereby you have measured it to me (n t3.t md‘.t)’ (Field Papyrus, lines 9, 12–13, see N. J. Reich, ‘The Field Museum Papyrus [A Promissory Note of the Year 109/8 B.C.]’, Mizraim 2 [1936], pp. 35–51 + 1 plate); P.Adl. D3.5 (116/5 BCE): ‘by the measure with which you measured it to me’ (n t m‘d a.‫ه‬y-k n-y m’m-s); P.Adl. D5.11–12 (108–107 BCE): ‘by the measure with which you measured it to me’ (n t m‘d.t a.‫ه‬y[-k] n-y n’m-s); P.Adl D6.10 (107 BCE); P.Adl. D11.10 (100–99 BCE).

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By the early Imperial period we find a slightly different formula, but the sense remained the same. P.Berl.Möller 4 (13 CE) records a loan of barley of the brand of Hermophantos, stipulating that it be repaid with the same brand and using the same measuring container that had been used for the initial loan: 15 D SRGLGRXBMNULTKB(Q) QHDQNDTDUDBQSURBMWRB(UPRID QWRXGHL JPD PHWUZ_WHWD UWZ_[H]QSR UZQWZ_aWRXa+UDNOH[RXM] PHWUK VHLWHNDL?VN[XWD ]OK_GLNDLD_NDTLV WZaQHLMWRBQHQWK_aNZ PK_URXTKVDXURBQ 20 DX WRXaGLGRXaQWRM[WRB] WRXaTKVDXURXaHQRLNLRQ ... paying it back in new unadulterated barley of the brand of Hermophantos, measuring it back to the agent of Herakles, by the fourth metron of the merchants (of Philadelphia), with fair measure and strickle at the village granary, paying the granary fee himself.

Similar formulae are attested well into the third century CE.21 In some instances both the granary to which repayment was to be made and the precise grain vessel (PHWURQ) were stipulated, as in P.Mich. XII 634.12–15 (25/26 CE): 12 WRXaSDQWRBM SXURXaD UWDEZaQWHVVDUD NRQWDPHWUZ_WHWUD[RL  QLNZ_TKVDXURXa ,RXOLDM6HEDVWKaMNDL?WHN  15 QZQ*HUPDQLNRXa.DL[V]DURM.DLVD [UZQ] ...the entire forty artabae of wheat measured by the four-choinix measure (PHWURQ) of the granary of Julia Augusta and the children of Germanicus Caesar.

That Luke understood Q 6.38c to concern the measurement of agricultural products is indicated by his expansion of Q. Luke prefaces his measurefor-measure saying with GLGRWH, NDL? GRTK VHWDL XPL Q PHWURQ NDORBQ SHSLHVPHQRQ VHVDOHXPHQRQ XSHUHN[XQQR PHQRQ GZ VRXVLQ HLM WRBQ NR OSRQXPZaQ (give and it will be given to you, a good measure [PHWURQ], pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap’). 0HWURQ NDOR Q is probably an equivalent for the phrase PHWUZ_ GLNDLZ_, ‘with a just measure’, encountered frequently in provisions for repaying loans or paying rent.22 The remainder of Luke’s expansion refers to the 21

See BGU II 538.13 (100 CE); BGU XI 2033.14 (94 CE); BGU XIII 2330.14 (89 CE); BGU XIII 2331.12 (91 CE); P.Athens 14.14, 25 (22 CE); P.Dubl. 7.5 (first or second century CE); P.Fay. 89.15 (9 CE); P.Lond. II 216.15 (94 ce); P.Mert. 6.21 (77 BCE); P.Oxy. XVIII 2118.8 (107 CE); 2189.39 (220 CE); P.Oxy. XXXVIII 2874.29 (108 CE); P.Oxy. XLVII 3352.2 (68 CE); PSI I 31.13 (164 CE); PSI VIII 921.10 (143/4 CE). 22 BGU VI 1268.16 (third century BCE): PHWUZL GLNDLZL PHWUK [VHL GLNDLDL; BGU X 1951.4 (221–203 BCE): PHWUZL [GLNDLZL PHWUK VHL GLNDLDL; P.Amh. II 43.9 (173 BCE): PHWUZLGLNDLZLWZaLSURBMWRBEDVLOLNRBQ[DONRXaQPHWUK VHL; P.Lille I 24 Fr. 4.9 (third cen-

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pressing and shaking of grain in the measuring container to ensure the fullest measure possible (a practice that would benefit the lender), and Luke adds ‘overflowing’ even though it does not accord with the principle of the equality of exchange that is the point in the measure-for-measure maxim. Indeed, each of the performances of the measure-for-measure aphorism suggests that what is in view is the standard agricultural practice of repayment of loans with the same measure used to dispense them.23 The context in Q is a series of admonitions concerning love of enemies (6.27–28), nonretaliation (6.29), lending without expectation of return (6.30), and treating persons in ways that one also would wish to be treated (6.31), asserting that in this way JHQKVTH XLRL? WRXa SDWURBM XPZaQ, RWL WRBQKOLRQDX WRXa D QDWHOOHL HSL? SRQKURXBM NDL? [[D JDTRXBM NDL? EUH[HL HSL? GLNDLRXM NDL? D GLNRXM]] (Q 6.35). The smaller unit of which Q 6.38c is part features a binary contrast between the admonition to be merciful ([[JLQ]]HVTH RLNWLUPRQHM ZM R SDWKBU XPZaQ RLNWLUPZQ HVWLQ, 6.36) and the contrasting prohibition of judging. In such a context the buttressing measurefor-measure aphorism probably does not appeal to the lex talionis, since the majority of the imperatives concern the encouraging of positive practices which spark reciprocal treatment rather than avoiding certain proscribed behaviors. The well-known agrarian practice of equality of exchange was a perfectly appropriate way to buttress these admonitions. In 1 Clem. 13.2 it is even clearer that the argument is not based on the principle of lex talionis, since the measure-for-measure admonition is preftury BCE): PHWUZL GLNDLZL NDL? VNX[WD OKL GLNDLDL; P.Tebt. III/1 824.16 (171 BCE): [PH]WUZLGLNDLZLN[DL? VNX]|[WD OKLGLNDLDL; P.Yale I 51 B.23 (184 BCE): PHWUZLGLNDLZL PHWUK VHLGLNDLDL, etc. In rabbinic texts the ‘perfect and just measure’ appears in the context of a discussion of the regulation of shopkeepers: b. B.B. 88b, 89a: ‘A perfect and just measure [you shall have]’, citing Deut. 25.15, (GF &FBSBS K>=Q BGF BJS &FBSBS K>=Q BGF (<  &F(NHESBF BQBSL BG> BFESGSQESL S, VWD TPLRQD OKTLQRBQNDL? GLNDLRQ HVWDL VRL, NDL? PHWURQ D OKTLQRBQ NDL? GLNDLRQ HVWDL VRL, LQD SROXK PHURM JHQK_ HSL? WKaM JKaM, K^M NX ULRM R THR M VRX GLGZVLQ VRL HQ NOK UZ_. The term ‘good measure’ and ‘bad measure’ appear in Deut. R. 11.9 in a complaint against the divine: ‘In all your acts [one sees] measure for measure; [then why do you repay me] a bad measure for a good measure, a short measure for a full measure, a grudging measure for an ample measure?’ 23 B. Couroyer, ‘De la measure dont vous mesurez il vous sera mesuré’, RB 77 (1970), pp. 366–70, esp. 370: ‘Il ne s’agit pas de talion, encore que, dans les deux cas, on retrouve la stricte égalité: “mesure pour mesure” comme “oeil pour oeil”. Le logion de Jésus, sous le forme où nous le livrent les synoptiques, pouvait déjà avoir cours de son temps comme, s’il en est l’auteur, il a pu le formuler en s’inspirant de stipulations juridiques dont la stabilité est proverbiale. Prêteurs et emprunteurs de grains devaient avoir, de son temps, les mêmes exigences que celles qu’on retrouve dans les contrats cités plus haut. L’interdiction de juger était au mieux justifée par le rappel de cette loi des échanges. C’était non une menace, mais une mise en garde par le rappel d’une coutume bien connue.’

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aced by the entirely positive admonition, ZM [UKVWHX HVTH, RXWZM [UKVWHXTK VHWDL XPL Q (‘as you show kindness, thus kindness will be shown to you’). The ‘fit’ of the measure-for-measure aphorism with the logic of Mark’s unit is not especially good, since Mark’s next aphorism, RM JDBU H[HL, GRTK VHWDL DX WZ_a NDL? RM RX N H[HL, NDL? R H[HL D UTK VHWDL D S’ DX WRXa, stresses not equality of exchange but the privilege afforded to those who ‘have’; nevertheless, Mark’s point in 4.24 appears to be that cultivation of a positive response to Jesus and his proclamation of the kingdom will be repaid in kind by further divine revelation. Mark’s supplementation of the basic form with NDL? SURVWHTK VHWDLXPL Q moves the logic beyond one of strict equality of exchange to one of divine beneficence. Still it is not the lex talionis that best accounts for the logic of Mk 4.24, but the agricultural practice of measuring out and repaying loans with the same vessel. Considerations of dissimilarity notwithstanding, Q 6.38c || Mk 4.24 || 1 Clem. 13.2 presents a reasonable case for authenticity based, first, on multiple attestation and, second, on contextual plausibility. The saying depends for its imagery and compelling rhetoric on appeal to an agrarian practice that we know to have been a contemporary practice of lending in late Ptolemaic and early Imperial Egypt, and have every reason to suppose that similar practices were in use in Jewish Palestine.24 Other sayings and parables ascribed to Jesus take for granted a wide range of ordinary practices in agrarian society: owners’ worries about being defrauded by their estate managers; hiring practices at harvest time; absenteeism as a standard feature of large-scale viticulture; and the practice of communicating with tenants via slave-agents,25 for example. We presume that such images were ready-to-hand because Jesus and the earliest Jesus movement in Galilee was thoroughly embedded in the agrarian economy of village and small town life. That the Jesus tradition here invokes a standard agrarian practice does not, of course, mean that Jesus was a ‘peasant’. That term is best restricted to smallholders and tenants. Jesus was neither. But one did not need to be a smallholder to know how loans and loan repayments were managed. In the sense that the entire ancient economy was agrarian, it can be assumed that most of the rural population (the majority) and a good part of the urban The use of a ‘leveler’ (KQRG ,KRG), equivalent to the Greek VNXWD OK, points to the same practice. See t. Shab. 1.7 ‘R. Eliezer says, “On that day they overfilled the se’ah measure”. R. Joshua sayis, “On that day they leveled (QKRG) the se’ah measure. For so long as the measure is full and one puts more into it, in the end it will give up part of what [already] is in it.”’ See further, B.-Z. Rosenfeld and J. Menirav, Markets and Marketing in Roman Palestine (Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2005), pp. 79–81. On the VNXWD OK, see below n. 42. 25 See J. S. Kloppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard. Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), chapter 9. 24

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population knew of such practices. And in particular, the lower scribal sector, responsible for the drafting of loan agreements, knew perfectly well of the practice, since it belongs to the repertoire of legal formulae that they used in drafting their documents.

3. Point of View: Borrower or Lender? At this point it is important to inquire more deeply into the logic and the perspective of the measure-for-measure admonition. All three performances of the aphorism agree in framing it as a second person plural, in contrast to the usual framing of the lex talionis which is a third person principle. We do find a second person formulation of an admonition concerning ‘measuring’ and the use of both the verb and the substantive in Hesiod: HX`PH?QPHWUHL VTDLSDUDBJHLWRQRM, HX`G’D SRGRXaQDL, DX WZ_aWZ_aPHWUZ_, NDL?OZ LRQDLNHGX QKDL, ZMD#Q[UKL]ZQNDL?HMXVWHURQDUNLRQHXUK_M. (Hesiod, Op. 349–51) Take fair measure from your neighbour, and pay him back fully by the same measure, or more, if you are able; so that when you are in need you will find him something to rely on.26

Hesiod’s phrase DX WZ_a WZ_a PHWUZ_ appears to refer to the same practice later described in documentary papyri, of paying back loans with the same measuring vessel. What is noteworthy in Hesiod’s formulation is that it is framed from the point of view of the borrower, and recommends a borrowing practice designed to ensure access to loans in the future: borrowing ‘fairly’, that is, by means of an accurate measure, and returning the loan in such a way that the lender is assured of the borrower’s absolute honesty, even generosity. Hesiod implicitly assumes a social practice where borrower and lender are more or less of the same status and that the care in measurement and the equivalence of borrowing and repayment are not imposed by the terms of the debt instrument. This will not be the case with the documents to which we now turn. In Greco-Egyptian documentary papyri, PHWUHL Q and PHWURQ, sometimes in combination, are found in several specific contexts. First are sitologoi receipts in which the sitologos acknowledges receipt of grain in payment of rent or taxes. For example BGU XIII 2299 (Tebtynis; 162 CE): ([]DWLRM NDL?RLPH[WR[(RL) VLW]RO(R JRL) NZ (PKM) 7HEW(X QHZM) PHPHWUK (PHTD) D SRBWZaQJ[HQK(PD WZQ) WRXaDX W]RXaHWRXMHLM3[DZa]SLQ >QGB>QG'>  B>GG.43 Naturally, Matthew has no need for Mark’s expansion, NDL? SURVWHTK VHWDL XPL Q, or for Luke’s invoking of the notion of surplus.

5. Conclusion On the basis of multiple attestation and contextual plausibility, the measure-for-measure aphorism offers a good case for authenticity. It invokes the standard and widespread practice of agricultural marketplaces in which loans are repaid using the same measuring vessel with which they were originally dispensed. The peculiarity of the formulation of Q 6.38c || Mk 4.24 || 1 Clem. 13.2 is that it is framed not from the point of view of the borrower, but from that of the lender – surprising, perhaps, if one were to suppose that Jesus’ audience was restricted to the nonelite. This framing suggests that the aphorism was employed to encourage those with resources to distribute them more widely, on the understanding that the more they gave, the more they would recoup – an adventuresome though not wholly unrealistic expectation. This social strategy is consistent with a series of other sayings and admonitions which, on the one hand, counsel against hoarding (Q 12.16–21), and on the other, encourage forgiveness (including debt forgiveness) on the understanding that this will redound to the agent’s benefit (Mk 11.25; Q 11.3). Insofar as the ‘measure for measure’ principle was integral to the operation of the economy of Jewish Palestine, there is little problem in imagining that Jesus might have employed it – in fact, shifted its point of view – in order to appeal to those who were in a position to lend. By citing the principle of market exchange by which they benefited in loans and lease agreements, Jesus could suggest that other forms of exchange could be conceived along the same lines: generous actions, mercy, forgiveness would also redound to their benefit. And of course one did not need to be a 43

R. H. Gundry, Matthew. A Commentary on His Literary and Theological Art (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), p. 121.

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lender to understand how the application of this market principle might work in forms of human action. As the aphorism was deployed in the literature of the early Jesus movement, we can see both continuities and discontinuities. Both 1 Clement and Q use the aphorism to encourage the re-evaluation of conventional expectations of social exchange, nudging the hearer to imagine social experimentation in the interaction with enemies, debtors, and fellows and the creation of a new ethos of reciprocity. Luke’s deployment continues this usage, but has in view the cultivation of benefactors with promises of surplus gain. But the aphorism was also shifted in two other ways and made to serve different social interests. On the one hand, Mark evidences a process of abstraction whereby the original agrarian exchange is eclipsed and its register is shifted from simple agricultural exchange to the acquisition of knowledge, where the importance of surplus and accumulation replace the principle of equity of exchange. The other transformation is that of Matthew, where the aphorism has been relocated to another discursive realm, that of law and retribution, where the aphorism through verbal imitation is assimilated to the lex talionis. In the history of deployment of the measure-for-measure aphorism verbal continuity is strong. At the level of the discourse of Jesus – best represented I think by Q and 1 Clement – the aphorism strongly reflects the realities of agrarian exchange in Jewish Palestine, even if Jesus shifted the point of view of the principle from that of the borrower to that of the lender. But the witnesses of Luke, Mark, and Matthew indicates how a single saying was serviceable in other discursive situations and was refashioned to serve very different conceptual and ideological interests.

‘Wind of Change’ – Jesus as God’s Envoy of Eschatological Transformation: Jesus and the Memory of his Extraordinary Deeds between the Hope of Israel and Early Christian Interpretation1 MICHAEL LABAHN

1. Introduction The message and model of Jesus as a man doing extraordinary deeds called ‘miracles’ is not an invention of early Christian missionary propaganda founded upon Hellenistic theios aner-concepts or Hellenistic-Roman story telling. The following essay draws attention to Jesus as a worker of extraordinary deeds who understands himself within the symbolic world of Jewish eschatological hope and expectation. Such a hope is taken up in his message of God’s coming kingdom, which manifests itself in both his actions and proclamation. The stories and texts from early Christian memory that re-tell Jesus’ deeds as a miracle worker are in continuity and discontinuity with the actions and proclamation of Jesus himself. By understanding Jesus as God’s Son and as the resurrected Kyrios, early Christian memory narrates what Jesus has done, and it does so in order to understand his meaning for the present belief of the intended audience. The narratives serve to form meaning within the current life and to develop future hope. By this, they re-tell what has happened in a manner that denies us access to distinct historical events without further methodological and hermeneutical reflection. I propose a point of departure for the interpretation of Jesus’ extraordinary deeds as the formation of meaning. Such an approach can be very useful insofar as it relates to the matter of continuity and discontinuity between Jesus himself, his Jewish heritage, and subsequent Christian interpretation of his words and deeds during his lifetime. Later re-tellings of Jesus as God’s envoy of eschatological transformation still permit us to draw a line back to Jewish eschatological hope, which the Galilean preacher has reshaped in his own proclamation. 1

I am grateful to Juan Hernández, jr., for revising my English.

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2. Preliminary Remarks on Method and Hermeneutics ‘Miracles’2 are usually qualified as incidents which supersede the boundaries of natural and physical laws.3 The modern understanding of miracles that are narrated in different situations and in different genres is very often reduced to the question of the events that lie behind the stories. Questions are raised about the historicity of miracle stories or their physical possibility or about the explanations of such incidents within certain natural laws and worldviews. This is a narrow understanding of miracles. Miracle stories are part of the re-construction of reality and of the interpretation of remarkable incidents that either took place before the narrators or are a part of public memories.4 Furthermore, stories and incidents are told against the background of certain portrayals of reality and according to the experience of the narrators themselves. This is a rather general statement, but it makes clear that miracle stories in antiquity need to be understood differently in 2 On the interpretation of miracles in changing systems of thought cf. the surveys given by S. Alkier, ‘Wen wundert was? Einblicke in das Wunderverständnis von der Aufklärung bis zur Gegenwart’, ZNT 7 (2001), pp. 2–15; idem, Wunder und Wirklichkeit. Ein Beitrag zu einem Wunderverständnis jenseits von Entmythologisierung und Rehistorisierung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), pp. 23–54; H. Bee-Schroedter, Neutestamentliche Wundergeschichten im Spiegel vergangener und gegenwärtiger Rezeptionen. Historisch-exegetische und empirisch-entwicklungspsychologische Studien (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1988), pp. 63–110; B. Bron, Das Wunder. Das theologische Wunderverständnis im Horizont des neuzeitlichen Natur- und Geschichtsbegriffs (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979), pp. 28–30; E. Keller and M.-L. Keller, Der Streit um die Wunder. Kritik und Auslegung des Übernatürlichen in der Neuzeit (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1968); see further B. Kollmann, ‘Images of Hope. Towards an Understanding of New Testament Miracle Stories’, in M. Labahn and B. J. Lietaert Peerbolte (eds.), Wonders Never Cease. The Purpose of Narrating Miracle Stories in the New Testament and Its Religious Environment (London: Continuum, 2006), pp. 244–64. 3 Cf. classically the critical hermeneutic of miracles by R. Bultmann, ‘Zur Frage des Wunders’, in R. Bultmann, Glauben und Verstehen. Gesammelte Aufsätze. Erster Band (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1964), pp. 214–28, esp. 214 (‘Das Wunder ist ein wunderbares Ereignis contra naturam, wobei als Natur das in regelmäßiger Ordnung verlaufende Naturgeschehen gedacht ist’), who recommends the approach of demythologization as an appropriate hermeneutic answer; cf. his own basic contribution: R. Bultmann, Neues Testament und Mythologie. Das Problem der Entmythologisierung der neutestamentlichen Verkündigung (München: Kaiser, 1984; originally published in 1941). 4 Cf., e.g., J. Schröter, ‘Konstruktion von Geschichte und die Anfänge des Christentums. Reflexionen zur christlichen Geschichtsdeutung aus neutestamentlicher Perspektive’, in J. Schröter, Von Jesus zum Neuen Testament. Studien zur urchristlichen Theologiegeschichte und zur Entstehung des neutestamentlichen Kanons (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), pp. 37–54.

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contrast with how they might be understood in modern times and by modern readers5 for whom such narrative forms may provoke indignation and even rejection since they do not fit recent constructions of reality or because they are understood as being part of a Christian worldview that suppresses free intellectual human thinking. Taking an event and its re-telling together, however, we need to arrive at a different definition of miracles. A miracle is something that is made into a miracle – it is part of a story that narrates and evaluates an event using distinct forms of communication and narration.6 According to this definition, a miracle is not focused on an event which could be described as an abolition of physical laws or of any other boundary assumed by rational thought. A miracle, rather, is an achievement of interpretation and of building meaning from an incident that is described in the miracle story according to the narrator’s line of thought. Such a story could be inspired by any kind of event – be it factual or fictional, as is often the case in a novel, romance, etc. Narrative depictions interpret events – again these may be factual or fictional – as miracles that exceed or contradict human knowledge. They claim to deal with extraordinary powers7 and have the potential (possibly but not necessarily) to supersede the boundaries of the natural environment. The source of such an extraordinary power can be ascribed to different agents: God, divine being(s), human being(s), or even anti-divine powers. The choice for a depiction is due to an interpretative process that qualifies the interpreted event even while presenting it. There are multitudes of events that can be interpreted and classified as miracles. At any rate, the events themselves cannot be approached by any debate over miracles. After they have ‘occurred’ they are only part of memory and part of its narrative representation in speech acts. There is no need to deny that certain events lie in the background of such memory but 5 Even if there is already a certain skepticism concerning miracles and their performance in temples: cf., e.g., Lucian of Samosata‘s Alexandras or the False Prophet. See also the rationalistic critique of myths and miracles by Palaiphatos (fourth century CE). See also the critical skepticism on magic and magical rites; e.g., F. G. Downing, ‘Magic and Scepticism in and around the First Christian Century’, in T. Klutz (ed.), Magic in the Biblical World. From the Rod of Aaron to the Ring of Salomon (London & New York: T&T Clark, 2003), pp. 86–99; H. C. Kee, Miracle in the Early Christian World. A Study in Sociohistorical Method (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1983), pp. 265–73, referring to texts from second until fourth century CE. 6 A description of the form of early Christian miracles stories is given by G. Theissen, Urchristliche Wundergeschichten. Ein Beitrag zur formgeschichtlichen Erforschung der synoptischen Evangelien (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1990). 7 Cf. Alkier, ‘Wen wundert was?’, p. 2: ‘Aussagen, die ... das Wirken menschliche Möglichkeiten übersteigender Kraft behaupten.’

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once those events have occurred, they are now lost and can only be reconstructed from that memory. Even with respect to Jesus’ extraordinary deeds, one can only reach the meaning given to or formed out of such miraculous events, meaning which is itself bound to the construction of reality operative in the individual who constructs that very meaning. That does not mean that there is no possibility for historical re-construction but, rather, that any re-construction can only be a methodologically argued hypothesis that never can arrive at any particular event.8 In a miracle story, the ‘formation of meaning’9 is provided through the mode of narration.10 A miracle is enclosed in a miracle story that narrates an interpreted event or re-narrates its interpretation. A miracle story is a narrative effort that results in the construction of meaning, which combines the memory of an – either historical or fictional – event with the actual need of a narrator and his or her addressees in order to make the interpreted event useful for their contemporary horizons. Fact and fiction are, thus, linked to one another within a narration. A narration may presuppose historical memory, although it does not need to. It creates its own world of meaning and its own system of symbols that generate meaning from the memory of the recent communicative situation. With regard to miracle stories, like any other memory of the past, it is only possible to trace the memorized event back to what we can find in memory and to gain insights from it. An approach that deals with this step will be taken with regard to Jesus’ tradition in section 5, where we will first inquire about the interpretation and subsequently about the interpreted event itself, since the author does not deny that historical events were in the background of New Testament miracle stories. Historical events, as well as real experiences, are present in narrative interpretations but how close we can come to certain events beneath the literary surface is a matter of dispute. How much reliable historical data about single events in the life of Jesus someone can discover and how many of its oldest interpretations are due to his or her method and hermeneutics regarding the historical, lit-

8 See also my considerations in M. Labahn, Der Gekommene als Wiederkommender. Die Logienquelle als erzählte Geschichte (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2010), pp. 123–29. 9 On the conception of ‘construction of meaning’ (Sinnbildung) from the perspective of exegesis, cf. U. Schnelle, Paulus. Leben und Denken (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2003), pp. 11–18. 10 Cf. M. Labahn, ‘Fischen nach Bedeutung – Sinnstiftung im Wechsel literarischer Kontexte. Der wunderbare Fischfang in Johannes 21 zwischen Inter- und Intratextualität’, SNTU 32 (2007), pp. 115–40, esp. 137–40.

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erary, and religious background of early Christian Jesus’ tradition are also disputed.11 It has to be taken seriously that all different genres of miracle stories, including healing stories, exorcisms, and summaries of Jesus’ healing activity, are important modi of thinking and reflection within the early Christian memory of Jesus by which certain narrators articulated their religious experiences, hopes, responsibilities, and by which they tried to give answers to conflicts within their own groups as well as with other groups in their environment. Taking this for granted, both the question of what happened and what is made of it by the Christian formation of meaning are important for our essay which places the idea of Jesus as miracle worker in the continuum between his Jewish background and his impact (Wirkung) on early Christian Jesus memory.

3. Miracles and Miracle Stories in the Old Testament and Jewish Texts – Legitimation, Liberation and Hope Miracles and miracles stories are a natural part of ancient narrative12 and play an important role within narrative passages in the Old Testament writings and early Jewish literature, but they do not represent a central literary phenomenon like they do in the early Christian Jesus tradition. We will

11 From the broad range of literature discussing the historical question of the ‘miracles’ of Jesus with very different hermeneutical, theological, and historical presuppositions, only a few references may be given: B. L. Blackburn, ‘The Miracles of Jesus’, in B. Chilton and C. A. Evans (eds.), Studying the Historical Jesus. Evaluations of the State of Current Research (Leiden, New York & Köln: Brill, 1994), pp. 353–94; J. Frey, ‘Zum Verständnis der Wunder Jesu in der neueren Exegese’, ZPT 51 (1999), pp. 3–14; J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. 2. Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York: Doubleday, 1994); G. Theissen, ‘Die Wunder Jesu. Historische, psychologische und theologische Aspekte’, in W. H. Ritter and M. Albrecht (eds.), Zeichen und Wunder. Interdisziplinäre Zugänge (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), pp. 30–52; G. H. Twelftree, ‘The Miracles of Jesus: Marginal or Mainstream?’, Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 1 (2003), pp. 104–24; idem, ‘The Message of Jesus I: Miracles, Continuing Controversies’, in T. Holmén and S. E. Porter (eds.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. Vol. 3. The Historical Jesus (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 2517–48; H. Weder, ‘Wunder Jesu und Wundergeschichten’, in H. Weder, Einblicke ins Evangelium. Exegetische Beiträge zur neutestamentlichen Hermeneutik. Gesammelte Aufsätze aus den Jahren 1980–1991 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), pp. 61–93. 12 For selections of ancient miracles stories cf., e.g., W. Cotter (ed.), Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity. A Sourcebook for the Study of New Testament Miracle Stories (London et al.: Routledge, 1999).

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focus on certain parts of the Old Testament miracle tradition.13 These passages show the liberating activity of God on behalf of his people (in Egypt and the wilderness) and God’s help and power in his messengers (Elijah/Elisha). They also play some part in the expectation and presentation of future events.14 In all these aspects, the narrative miracle tradition, with its presentation of the liberating activity of God, God’s power in his messengers and the future hope, are part of cultural memory in the time of Jesus. (a) There is great importance in the story of God’s miraculous activity towards Israel in the exodus and wilderness tradition, including miracles which have a particular meaning for interpreting Israel’s history. Israel’s exodus from Egypt became a basic ‘event’ for the foundation of identity within the cultural memory of Ancient Israel.15 The miracles of Moses and Aaron (Exod. 4.2–4, 6–7, 9) and the miraculous crossing of the Dead Sea (Exodus 14) prepared the events and started the journey through the wilderness, accompanied by God’s ‘signs and wonders’ (Exod. 7.3; Deut. 4.34; 6.22; 7.19; 13.2–3; 26.8; 28.46; 29.2; 34.11).16 God’s signs (cf. Exod. 3.19–20)17 legitimized the claim of Moses and God to free his people off 13

Further miracle stories could be found in Jonah, 1 Maccabees, Daniel 1–6. Cf. the introductory remarks by M. Becker, ‘Wunder III. Judentum’, TRE 36, pp. 386–89, esp. 386. On the Old Testament Miracles Stories: M. A. Klopfenstein, ‘Wunder im Alten Testament’, in W. Dietrich (ed.), Leben aus dem Wort. Beiträge zum Alten Testament (Bern et al.: Peter Lang, 1996), pp. 191–98; R. H. Isaacs, Miracles. A Jewish Perspective (Jerusalem & Northvale: Jason Aronson Inc, 1997); E. Otto, ‘Eine Theologie der Wundererzählungen im Alten Testament’, in W. H. Ritter and M. Albrecht (eds.), Zeichen und Wunder. Interdisziplinäre Zugänge (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), pp. 17–29; L. Schwienhorst-Schönberger, ‘Wunder (1) AT’, NBL 3 (2001), pp. 1133–35; W. Thiel, ‘Wunder II. Altes Testament’, TRE 36, pp. 383–86. On early miracle stories in early Judaism cf., e.g., E. Koskenniemi, The Old Testament Miracle-Workers in Early Judaism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), to rabbinic Judaism (which I do not focus on in the current essay although there are some formal parallels to the early Christian miracle tradition) cf. Becker, ‘Wunder III. Judentum’, pp. 387–88; idem, Wunder und Wundertäter im frührabbinischen Judentum. Studien zum Phänomen und seiner Überlieferung im Horizont von Magie und Dämonismus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002); idem, ‘Miracle Traditions in Early Rabbinic Literature: Some Questions on their Pragmatics’, in M. Labahn and B. J. Lietaert Peerbolte (eds.), Wonders Never Cease. The Purpose of Narrating Miracle Stories in the New Testament and Its Religious Environment (London: T&T Clark, 2006), pp. 48–69. 15 Cf., e.g., Schwienhorst-Schönberger, ‘Wunder (1) AT’, p. 1134. 16 Cf., e.g., J. A. Soggin, ‘Das Wunder am Meer und in der Wüste (Exodus, cc.14– 15)’, in A. Caquot (ed.), Melanges bibliques et orientaux en l’honneur de Mathias Delcor (Kevelaer & Neukirchen-Vluyn: Butzon u. Bercker & Neukirchener Verlag, 1985), pp. 379–86. On the term ‘signs and wonders’ cf. F. Stolz, ‘Zeichen und Wunder. Die prophetische Legitimation und ihre Geschichte’, ZTK 69 (1972), pp. 125–44. 17 Focusing on Exod. 3.19–20, the miracles of Moses are part of God’s salvific action. 14

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from slavery (e.g., Exod. 4.21, 23). These narrative events, carried out by human beings with the power of God or by God himself, reflect the liberating function of these miracles. Furthermore, Israel in the wilderness is sustained by the power of God, who provided miraculous nourishment by water from a rock (Exod. 15.22–26; 17; Num. 20.1–13) and Manna and quails (Exodus 16; Numbers 11; cf. Wis. 11.2–19.22). And finally, the story of the conquest of the land is narrated by the inclusion of miracle stories (Josh. 3–6; 10.12–13) that illustrate the support and care of God by the presence of his power.18 These miracles serve to strengthen Israel’s identity as far as they happen on behalf of Israel and against the adversaries of God’s people (Exod. 4.21, 23). According to the story-line, the miracles helped to inaugurate the exodus events and the wanderings through the wilderness, which finally led Israel to become a sovereign and independent people. Taking the episode of Exodus 14 as an example, the early written version of this story (possibly from the time of the Assyrian empire), re-narrates the miracle from earlier memory to serve an actual purpose, as did a later revision under the threat of Babylonian oppression, both of which heighten the miraculous character of the episode: they are about strengthening Israel’s faith in God as the power to trust in and they thereby shape the identity of the people under foreign pressure and danger.19 Re-narration serves the current interests/needs of the addresses and is not simply a reminder of the past: it inspires confidence in a God who is about to help his people now and in the future – if the people only rely on their God. Subsequently, the stories from the Exodus-wilderness tradition were taken up by ancient Jewish exegetical tradition, especially in the rewritten bibles, when they were re-narrated and newly interpreted. Under different circumstances, these re-narrated stories serve to ground Israel in its traditional and yet newly expressed identity. 20 We can see that, according to the collective memory of Israel, the narratives about God’s deeds in ‘signs and wonders’ assure the people of Israel 18

Thiel, ‘Wunder II. Altes Testament’, p. 384: ‘Israel verstand offenbar im Rückblick seine Etablierung im Kulturland als eine Wundertat Gottes und brachte dies durch entsprechende Gestaltung der Überlieferung zum Ausdruck.’ 19 Cf. e.g., Otto, ‘Theologie der Wundererzählungen’, pp. 19–25. He concludes with reference to the version under Babylonian threat: ‘Wieder wird eine Wundererzählung gegen die politische Realität gesetzt im Vertrauen darauf, dass der Gott Judas noch diese Realität in Händen habe und als das bestimmende Subjekt in der Geschichte transzendiere. Diese Wundererzählungen stellen in ihrer Erzählzeit wie noch heute vor die Frage, worauf man das Vertrauen setzen wolle: auf die vorfindlichen Mächte dieser Welt oder gegen den Augenschein auf Jahwe, den Gott Israels.’ 20 See also Becker, ‘Wunder III’, p. 386.

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of their identity as it came to be reckoned during exodus. Wonders still play an important role during exilic times, when the people faced destruction and foreign domination. Under such circumstances, it is no wonder that the memory of these traditions is also transformed into the formation of hope for yet another and better future. Later on, some of the so-called sign-prophets,21 like the ‘prophet from Egypt’, 22 Jonathan the weaver,23 about whom Josephus writes in his works (War. 2.261–63; 7.437–42; Ant. 20.97–99, 167–72), interpreted these past memories and actualized them by trying to inaugurate a new exodus in signs and wonders for a social and political liberation of their people from Roman domination with the power of God. These prophets offer a possible background for understanding Jesus and his proclamation, as far Jesus is connected with the wilderness by his baptism (Mk 1.4; Mt. 3.1; Lk. 3.2) and the stories about his temptation (Q 4.1– 11; Mt. 4.1–13 par. Lk. 4.1–11; Mk 1.12–13). Furthermore, he is called a prophet (e.g., Mk 6.4; see also 6.15; 8.28).24 However, we cannot detect traits of the political aims of the so-called sign-prophets in the proclamation of Jesus nor find a special emphasis in his work/proclamation indebted to the Exodus miracle-cycles. The religious, social and political dimensions of the exodus miracle stories and their narration has no significance for Jesus as a doer of miraculous deeds, nor does it have any major significance for the interpretation of his deeds in later early Christian interpretation.

21

Cf. H. Lichtenberger, ‘Messianische Erwartungen und Messianische Gestalten in der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels’, in E. Stegemann (ed.), Messias-Vorstellungen bei Juden und Christen (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1993), pp. 9–20, esp. 18–19. Cf. also M. Hengel, Die Zeloten. Untersuchungen zur jüdischen Freiheitsbewegung in der Zeit von Herodes I. bis 70 n. Chr. (Leiden et al.: Brill, 1976), pp. 235–37; K.-S. Krieger, ‘Die Zeichenpropheten – eine Hilfe zum Verständnis des Wirkens Jesu?’ in R. Hoppe and U. Busse (eds.), Von Jesus zum Christus. Christologische Studien (Berlin et al.: de Gruyter, 1998), pp. 175–88; R. A. Horsley, ‘“Like One of the Prophets of Old”: Two Types of Popular Prophets at the Time of Jesus’, CBQ 47 (1985), pp. 435–63; R. A. Horsley and J. S. Hanson, Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs. Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988). 22 War 2.261–62: ‘But there was an Egyptian false prophet that did the Jews ... mischief...; these he led all around from the wilderness to the mount which was called the Mount of Olives.’ 23 War 7.438: He ‘prevailed with no small number of the poorer sort to listen to him; he also led them into the desert (SURKJDJHQHL MWK?QHUKPRQ), upon promising them that he would show them signs and apparitions (VKPHL DNDL?IDVPDWD)’. 24 M. Öhler, ‘Jesus as Prophet: Remarks on Terminology’, in M. Labahn and A. Schmidt (eds.), Jesus, Mark and Q. The Teaching of Jesus and its Earliest Records (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 125–42.

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(b) In the narratives of the Old Testament, there are also a few humans portrayed as miracle workers who are acting alongside God and in the power of God. Next to Moses and Aaron, there are Elisha25 and Elijah. The narrative stories about these two prophets are re-told and are a part of Jewish public memory during the times of Jesus26 (and beyond) and present a number of common issues compared to the stories about Jewish rabbis27 and about Jesus in the New Testament. This may be taken as a starting point for interpreting the New Testament stories and their characterizations of the appearance of Jesus and his deeds.28 It is of special interest that the narrative cycle of the Elijah-Elisha stories (1 Kings 17 to 2 Kings 4) deals with the subject of the one who works a miracle performed by a human being. Once such a story is read using a diachronic method, the Elijah-Elisha stories show a development, insofar as God himself is increasingly presented as the agent of these miracles, and that the humans take their place in God’s work by prayer. In such a series, the primitive stories are presented in a more naïve way, insofar as they show an earlier narrative concept that accepts human miracles as humanlyeffected deeds, whereas in a later stage the ‘source’ of the human action is identified with God. At any rate, once we read the stories in a synchronic manner, God appears as the true miracle-worker, despite the fact that a human being is involved at the practical level. Those prophetic, extraordinary actions change a hopeless situation, turning it from misery to better circumstances in life. An example of such a turn is evident in the case of the resurrection of the widow’s son, 1 Kgs 17.17–24. In the later Elijah narrative, the contact of the prophet with the dead body is subordinated to the prayer performed by Elijah; in the earlier version, the power of the prophetic healer himself transfers the dead back 25

H.-C. Schmitt, Elisa. Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur vorklassischen nordisraelitischen Prophetie (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1972). 26 Cf., e.g., T. Begg, ‘Elisha’s Great Deeds according to Josephus (AJ 9,47–94)’, Henoch 18 (1996), pp. 69–110; L. H. Feldman, ‘Josephus’ Portrait of Elisha’, NovT 36 (1994), pp. 1–28; G. G. Xeravits, ‘The Wonders of Elijah in the Lives of the Prophets’, in H. Lichtenberger and U. Mittmann-Richert (eds.), Biblical Figures in Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature (Berlin et al.: de Gruyter, 2009), pp. 231–38. 27 Cf. H. Lichtenberger, ‘Elia-Traditionen bei vor- bzw. frührabbinischen Wundertätern’, in H. Lichtenberger and U. Mittmann-Richert (eds.), Biblical Figures in Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature (Berlin et al.: de Gruyter, 2009), pp. 547–63; see also J. Blenkinsopp, ‘Miracles: Elisha and Hanina ben Dosa’, in J. C. Cavadini (ed.), Miracles in Jewish and Christian Antiquity. Imagining Truth (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1999), pp. 57–81. 28 References to Elijah within the New Testament gospel miracle stories are discussed in M. Öhler, Elia im Neuen Testament. Untersuchungen zur Bedeutung des alttestamentlichen Propheten im frühen Christentum (Berlin et al: de Gruyter, 1997), pp. 135–37, 173, 199–202, 244–45.

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to life (v. 21a). Later, touching the dead one goes along with a prayer, which becomes the central device for the fate of the widow’s son (vv. 21b– 22).29 As E. Würthwein stated: Für unsere Stelle ist charakteristisch, daß sie das Gebet in den Mittelpunkt stellt und diesem, nicht den Manipulationen Elijas, die Wiederbelebung zuschreibt.30

The prayer in 1 Kgs 17.21 is distinguished from the story in 2 Kgs 4.33 in that it lacks any link between the prayer to God and the magical action. That is why Würthwein suspects a secondary gloss31 that underscores that the prophet owes his power to God to raise someone from the dead. In the narrative story, the prayer does not belong to the core that transmits the power of resurrection; it is, rather, a secondary element within an originally magical scene.32 From the Elijah-Elisha cycle one can gather that there is a growing hesitation within Scripture to ascribe miraculous power to human agents of God directly, especially the power to raise people from the dead. That God is the primary source of life is clearly underscored in the later version of the raising of the dead son of the widow. Human agents are participating in God’s power, which they can access by praying to God. We can detect the influence of the Elijah-Elisha cycles on early Christian storytelling about Jesus but they do not appear to be formative influences on Jesus’ own understanding of his deeds. Nonetheless, there is an analogy in the interpretation of his ability as God’s agent: His power is from God and not a human ability (cf. Q 7.22; 11.19).33 29 The original rank of the double call for God’s help is not undisputed; it is doubted, e.g., by S. M. Fischbach, Totenerweckungen. Zur Geschichte einer Gattung (Würzburg: Echter, 1991), p. 47, and G. Hentschel, Die Elijaerzählungen. Zum Verhältnis von historischem Geschehen und geschichtlicher Erfahrung (Leipzig: St. Benno-Verlag, 1977), p. 84, who regards v. 20 as a strange and secondary element; Hentschel, Elijaerzählungen, pp. 83–84, even assumes that v. 21c might be a simple miracle saying. 30 E. Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige II. 1. Kön. 17 – 2. Kön. 25 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), p. 223. 31 Würthwein, Bücher der Könige 2, p. 290 n. 5. 32 Reservations against magical practices is shown by, e.g., Tobit (cf. B. Kollmann, ‘Göttliche Offenbarung magisch-pharmakologischer Heilkunst im Buch Tobit’, ZAW 106 [1994], pp. 289–99; L. T. Stuckenbruck, ‘The Book of Tobit and the Problem of “Magic”’, in G. S. Oegema and H. Lichtenberger [eds.], Jüdische Schriften in ihrem antikjüdischen und urchristlichen Kontext [Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Mohn, 2002], pp. 258–69), on the other hand examples of magical or exorcistic thinking and action could be found around the turn of the era in Qumran (cf. 11QapPsa; 4Q510 and 4Q511) and other Jewish texts. 33 Once again, the cycle of prophetic narratives might also be used to foster Jewish identity in time of distress: S. Otto, ‘The Composition of the Elijah-Elisha Stories and the Deuteronomistic History’, JSOT 27 (2003), pp. 487–508, opting for a post-exilic integration of the Elijah cycle in Deuteronomistic history.

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(c) God’s liberating actions in the past are re-used for developing hope in the future. That is also true for prophetic speeches about the change of bodily disease and existential needs, which can already be found in Old Testament texts that look for a new beginning for Israel, inaugurated by God: LXX Isa. 26.19: The dead shall rise, and they that are in the tombs shall be raised, and they that are in the earth shall rejoice: for the dew from thee is healing to them (D QDVWKVRQWDL RL QHNURL NDL? H JHUTKVRQWDL RL H Q WRL M PQKPHLRLM NDL? HX IUDQTKVRQWDLRLH QWK_ JK_ KJD?UGURVRMKSDUD?VRX LDPDDX WRL MH VWLQ): but the land of the ungodly shall perish.34 Isa. 35.5–6: Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert. (NRSV) Isa. 61.1: The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners. (NRSV)

The discussion, as to whether these lists must be understood in a metaphorical sense or not – if, for instance, the promise of getting sight has to be interpreted as gaining insight – shortens the depth of these portrayals of salvation by limiting them to an aspect that is more amenable to a modern worldview. Such catalogues need to be read in a wider sense since they take up various elements and turn them into statements of hope about true healing from any kind of disease – both as a metaphor for a lack of trust in God and of political oppression, as well as bodily disease – and therefore refer to full salvation in the future brought about by God. In this way they include a ‘symbolic’ meaning because they embrace ideas that are more comprehensive and more fundamental than the narrative plot of the short exemplary stories in the lists such as those of resurrecting the dead or healing the blind. These lists are very important in that they provide an idea about matters of continuity and discontinuity between ancient Jewish understanding of miracles, the appearance of Jesus in deeds and words, and their interpretation in early Christian public memory. The words of Second Isaiah’s prophecy seem to play an important role in Jesus’ preaching,35 so that the eschatological expectation provided by these catalogues represent a basic source for Jesus’ own interpretation of his deeds. It is of additional im34

See L. C. L. Brenton, The Septuagint with Apocrypha. Greek and English (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2003). First published: London, 1851. 35 See, e.g., H. Frankemölle, ‘Jesus als deuterojesajanischer Freudenbote? Zur Rezeption von Jes 52,7 und 61,1 im Neuen Testament, durch Jesus und in den Targumim’, in H. Frankemölle and K. Kertelge (eds.), Vom Urchristentum zu Jesus (Freiburg et al.: Herder, 1989), pp. 34–67.

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portance that most of the miraculous events mentioned in the words of Jesus, which seem to be part of his appearance and that are narrated about him by early Christian story tellers and theologians, can be found within these catalogues. (d) The famous and much discussed eschatological catalogue in 4Q52136 is an extraordinarily important text which uses material from Scripture to articulate an eschatological hope for a better future for its current addressees and to strengthen their religious faith and identity. According to K. Koch, the text is ‘dem Messiasbild der Evangelien näher als jeder andere Qumrantext’.37 4Q521 derives from a Hebrew text of Essenian or proto-Essenian origin from the second half of second century BCE.38 It announces eschatological events. Fragment 2 deals with eschatological gifts of salvation handed over to pious people (frag. 2 lines 5–14[?]), who are previously exhorted to

36

Among the many titles about 4Q521, see next to the literature quoted by J. Zimmermann, Messianische Texte aus Qumran. Königliche, priesterliche und prophetische Messiasvorstellungen in den Schriftfunden von Qumran (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), p. 343 n. 84, also Zimmermann, Messianische Texte, pp. 343–89; M. Becker, ‘Die “messianische Apokalypse” 4Q521 und der Interpretationsrahmen der Taten Jesu’, in J. Frey and M. Becker (eds.), Apokalyptik und Qumran (Paderborn: Bonifatius, 2007), pp. 237–303; K.-W. Niebuhr, ‘Die Werke des eschatologischen Freudenboten (4Q521 und die Jesusüberlieferung)’, in C. M. Tuckett (ed.), The Scriptures in the Gospels (Leuven: Peeters, 1997), pp. 637–46; É. Puech, ‘Some Remarks on 4Q246 and 4Q521 and Qumran Messianism’, in D. W. Parry and E. Ulrich (eds.), The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls. Technological Innovations, New Texts, and Reformulated Issues (Leiden et al.: Brill, 1999), pp. 545–65, esp. 551–63. Textedition: É. Puech, ‘4QApocalypses messianique’, in M. Baillet (ed.), Qumrân Grotte 4, III (4Q482–4Q520) (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), pp. 1–38. For photographs, see PAM 41.676 and 43.604. The relation of 4Q521 to the New Testament is discussed in C. A. Evans, ‘Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls from Qumran Cave 4’, in C. A. Evans and P. W. Flint (eds.), Eschatology, Messianism, and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids & Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1997), pp. 91–100, esp. 96–97; idem, ‘The New Quest for Jesus and the New Research on the Dead Sea Scrolls’, in M. Labahn and A. Schmidt (eds.), Jesus, Mark and Q. The Teaching of Jesus and its Earliest Records (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), pp. 163–83, esp. 170–72. 37 K. Koch, ‘Heilandserwartungen im Judäa der Zeitenwende’, in S. Talmon (ed.), Die Schriftrollen von Qumran. Zur aufregenden Geschichte ihrer Erforschung und Deutung (Regensburg: Pustet, 1998), pp. 107–35, esp. 116. 38 Puech, ‘Remarks’, p. 552; Puech dates the manuscript 4Q521 to the beginning of the first century BCE. G. Vermes opts against an Essene origin, ‘Qumran Forum Miscellanea I’, JJS 43 (1992), pp. 303–04. Another option is articulated by C. A. Evans, ‘Qumran’s Messiah: How Important is He?’, in J. J. Collins and R. A. Kugler (eds.), Religion in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2000), pp. 135–49, esp. 137 n. 17, who points at many common terms sharing 4Q521 with other Dead Sea documents.

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prove their piety (line 3); this appeal is motivated by the gift of salvation that follows in the text.39 Translation of frag. 2, 2.1–14:40 1 [for the heav]ens and the earth will listen to his Messiah, 2 [and all] that is in them will not turn away from the holy precepts. 3 Be encouraged, you who are seeking the Lord in his service (SH>  SK< SE) will observe the devout, and call the just by name, 6 and upon the poor he will place his spirit, and the faithful he will renew with his strength. 7 For he will honour the devout upon the throne of eternal royalty, 8 freeing prisoners, giving sight to the blind, straightening out the twisted (LSNG  'SJQJE*KQT'SLQRKQJ'S>QM ) 9 Ever shall I cling to those who hope. In his mercy he will jud[ge,] 10 and from no-one shall the fruit [of] good [deeds] be delayed, 11 and the Lord (SH> ) will perform marvelous acts such as have not existed, just as he sa[id] 12 for he will heal the badly wounded and will make the dead live, he will proclaim good news to the meek (>QNB S G, by works of thanksgiving and praising God.29

2. Temple and Torah in Early Christianity 2.1. Stephen, the ‘Hellenists’ (Acts 6.1), and Paul First, I will here discuss persons like Stephen and the ‘Hellenists’ mentioned in Acts 6. They fit perfectly into the picture we have just seen. They did not seek to abolish the temple, but rather to reform temple worship in a 28 29

Cf. Ådna, Tempel, p. 364. Cf. Ådna, Tempel, p. 105.

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spiritualized way, i.e., by turning temple worship into a sort of synagogue prayer/worship which also granted access to Gentiles, as G. Theissen has already stated.30 They adopted Jesus’ temple criticism (cf. the cleansing of the temple in Mk 11.15–17 and the temple logion in Jn 2.19; cf. Mk 14.58, where the logion is placed in the mouth of Jesus’ adversaries) and added their own theology, as we find it in Mk 11.17: ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations.’ This quotation of Isa. 56.7 (LXX) presents Gentiles with access to the temple and allows for a reinterpretation of temple worship in a spiritual sense. These ‘Hellenists’ also interpreted the purity laws and ritual prescriptions in the same way as Philo describes the position of the ‘radical allegorists’ – living out these prescriptions only in an ethical, and no longer in a ritual way. In Acts 6.13–14 Stephen is accused of ‘talking against this holy place (= the temple) and the law’. He is charged further with ‘changing the traditions (HTK) which Moses gave to us’. Even when the accusers of Stephen tried to present his position as amounting to an abrogation of the law and the temple, it is historically more probable that Stephen only intended a new interpretation of temple worship. When Luke uses the word HTK he always refers to cultic traditions (Lk. 1.9: priests; 2.42: Pascha; Acts 15.1: circumcision). It is therefore very likely that in Acts 6.14 only the ritual aspects of temple worship are criticized, but not the temple itself.31 This proves true when we read Acts 7.42. Here Stephen quotes Amos 5.25–27 with the purpose of postulating a temple service without sacrifices: in its forty years of wandering in the desert, Israel did not offer any sacrifices to God. Hence, sacrifices might not be necessary for God. Then, Stephen’s reasoning based on Act 7 connects this argument to a second one: a temple worship consisting of sacrifices is 30 Cf. G. Theissen, ‘Hellenisten und Hebräer (Apg 6,1–6). Gab es eine Spaltung der Urgemeinde?’, in H. Lichtenberger (ed.), Geschichte – Tradition – Reflexion III (M. Hengel; Tübingen: Mohr, 1996), pp. 323–43, esp. 335. Cf. also W. Kraus, Zwischen Jerusalem und Antiochia. Die ‘Hellenisten’, Paulus und die Aufnahme der Heiden in das endzeitliche Gottesvolk (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1999), p. 46. As for the historical implications of Jesus’ temple prophecy, cf. Theissen & Merz, Jesus, p. 381. Cf. also A. Weiser, ‘Zur Gesetzes- und Tempelkritik der “Hellenisten”’, in K. Kertelge (ed.), Das Gesetz im Neuen Testament (Freiburg: Herder, 1986), pp. 146–68, esp. 159–63. 31 Cf. the argumentation of W. Kraus, Jerusalem, pp. 48–49, and Theissen, ‘Hellenisten’, pp. 335 and 334 n. 26. But cf. the directly opposed interpretation of U. Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer I (Zürich: Benziger, 1987), pp. 240–41, who mentions the ‘abrogation of the Jewish temple-service in early Christianity’ and in the ‘Hellenistic Christian traditions’ (meaning especially the Hellenists around Stephen and Paul; author’s translation). For my part I cannot see such an ‘abrogation’ by Paul and Stephen – this would also be unique in early Judaism! The main concern in early Judaism was the authentic interpretation of the Torah and the temple, the question of an ‘abrogation’ never arises (not even in the temple-critique of Qumran). We strictly have to distinguish between a harsh critique of the temple and a so-called ‘abrogation’.

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also unnecessary, for – as Acts 7.48–50 states (with a quotation of Isa. 66.1–2) – ‘the Most High does not dwell in temples made with hands (HQ [HLURSRLKWRLM), as the prophet says: “Heaven is my throne, and earth is my footstool. What house will you build for me? says the Lord, Or what is the place of my rest? Has my hand not made all these things?”’ Therefore – according to this twofold argument – sacrifices in the temple are not necessary a) because God did not wish for them in the forty years of wandering in the desert and b) because God does not even dwell in a handmade temple. It is very likely that the other ‘Hellenists’ shared this opinion. They were driven out of Jerusalem (Acts 8.1) because of their reinterpretation of the Torah and of temple worship, but not because they believed in Jesus: the ‘Hebrews’, in contrast to the ‘Hellenists’, could stay in Jerusalem and were not persecuted. Later on, the ‘Hellenist’ Philippus begins the mission of the Samaritans and baptizes the Ethiopian. All of these events prepare the way for the mission of Gentiles without circumcision, which according to Acts 11.20 was begun in Antioch by the ‘Hellenists’ driven out of Jerusalem. It seems quite likely that the ‘Hellenists’ were convinced already in their pre-Christian period that ritual laws – like temple sacrifices and circumcision – should be interpreted in a spiritual way and not be practiced as a cultic reality. Their belief in Christ now triggers the last stage in this trajectory: belief in Christ now replaces a cultic understanding of the Torah and the temple and opens up the possibility of a spiritualized interpretation. It is obvious that in this setting the temple and the Torah were reinterpreted – but not abrogated! Indeed, such a reinterpretation was an actual possibility already in pre-Christian Judaism. In Acts 11.26 and 13.1 we read that it was in Antioch that the apostle Paul obtained his Christian formation and adopted the ideas of the ‘Hellenists’. And indeed, Paul’s theology fits exactly into this trajectory: according to Rom. 3.25 the true LODVWKULRQ32 which brings us justification can no longer be found in the temple of Jerusalem but in Jesus Christ. The temple itself is thus not abolished but replaced by the living community of Christians, as stated in 1. Cor. 3.16–17 and 1. Cor. 6.19–20. This clearly finds a parallel in the Qumran community. And – as in Qumran too – the offerings in this temple are spiritualized: in Qumran the temple of Jerusalem is replaced by a sanctuary consisting of the living members of the Qumran community ('> >KG), who no longer sacrifice animals, but offer God their ‘works of thanksgiving’ (B>QNB S G). In the same way Rom. 12.1 argues that a ‘reasonable service’ (ORJLNK? ODWUHLD) consists in the presenting of ‘your bodies as a living, holy sacrifice, acceptable unto

32

Kraus, Jerusalem, p. 53, puts forward the opinion that Rom. 3.25–26 was a prePauline hymn, derived from similar circles as the ‘Hellenists’.

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God’. Here we also find a parallel to Philo, who states that the reasonable soul (ORJLNK?\X[K) is the real temple of God. These trajectories can be traced up to Eph. 2.19–21, where the Gentiles are integrated into the temple of living men, and to 1 Pet. 2.5, where the temple of living men offers SQHXPDWLNDBM TXVLDM (‘spiritual sacrifices’). 2.2. Paul and the law It is often stated that Paul’s theology was based on an ‘abrogation of the Torah’33 and broke with ‘Jewish self-understanding’,34 with the ‘Jewish consensus’35 or with ‘Jewish way of thinking’36. Sometimes such statements still refer to the (anachronistic) idea of a ‘normative Judaism’, maintaining the opinion that rabbinic Judaism was the normative way of thinking already in the second temple period. This opinion must be rejected, for as B. Chilton points out: The rabbis themselves believed their ideal reached all the way back to the biblical exposition of Ezra (cf. Neh. 8.1–8). But until the destruction of the Temple in A.D. 70 there was more variety in Judaism than the adjective ‘rabbinic’ would suggest. Teachers such as Jesus might be called ‘rabbi’, while deviating from the practice of exposition developed in the rabbinic academies of a later period. Moreover, the groups responsible for intertestamental literature and the writings discovered near the Dead Sea appear to have pursued ideals of interpretation which were not rabbinic, and the priestly aristocracy had yet other ideals. The Judaism from which the rabbinic movement emerged as the dominant force was characterized by more ferment and variety than is evident in the rabbinic corpus.37

The question thus remains as to whether or not something we could describe as ‘mainstream Judaism’ can be defined for the time of the late se-

33

U. Schnelle, Wandlungen im paulinischen Denken (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1989), p. 74 (author’s translation). 34 H.-W. Kuhn, ‘Die drei wichtigsten Qumranparallelen zum Galaterbrief: Unbekannte Wege der Tradition’, in R. Bartelmus, T. Krüger and H. Utzschneider (eds.), Konsequente Traditionsgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), pp. 227–54, esp. 229, mentions that Paul’s theology is ‘against Jewish self-understanding’ (author’s translation). 35 F. Siegert, Argumentation bei Paulus. Gezeigt an Röm 9–11 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1985), p. 164, thinks that it ‘can be seen, how far away from Jewish consensus Paul has come’ (author’s translation). 36 U. Schnelle, Wandlungen, p. 68, points out that Paul ‘left the Jewish way of thinking’ (author’s translation) and D. Zeller, ‘Zur neueren Diskussion über das Gesetz bei Paulus’, TP 62 (1987), pp. 481–99, esp. 497, underlines Paul’s ‘un-Jewish’ way of argumentation (author’s translation). 37 B. Chilton, The Isaiah Targum. Introduction, Translation, Apparatus and Notes (Edinburgh: Clark, 1987), pp. XX–XXI. Cf. also G. Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch (München: Beck, 1992), p. 15.

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cond temple period. Such a ‘mainstream Judaism’ would have agreed on at least one ‘common denominator’, as L. V. Rutgers wishes to see it: Arguing against the view that holds that Judaism in first-century Palestine was divided into a variety of parties, including the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and the Essenes, ... the different parties were too peripheral and not powerful enough to be able to impose their particular views on sizeable portions of the Jewish population ... Thus according to Sanders’ definition, the term ‘common Judaism’ is a convenient concept to indicate that in first-century Palestine (and probably in the Greek-speaking Diaspora during this period) most Jews agreed what were the most fundamental characteristics of their religion.38

But it seems impossible to find such a ‘common denominator’ because – as J. Neusner says – the criteria are ‘either too general to mean much (monotheism) or too abstract to form an intelligible statement’.39 Hence we can conclude with G. Stemberger: ‘We could reduce such a basic unity beyond all possible differences to a few elementary items, one of them ... Judaism as a “biblical religion”...’40 But even here we have to admit: ‘Nothing separated the individual currents of Judaism more than the common Bible.’41 There thus remain no criteria to define in a strict way the Jewish ‘mainstream’ of the late second temple period. And, as we have already seen in the texts of the Letter of Aristeas, Josephus and Philo, there was no consensus in early Judaism as to what a ‘real Jew’ (EHEDLZM ,RXGDL RM) needed to believe and to practice. The pluriformity of early Judaism must not be underestimated. There simply was no overall accepted ‘Jewish way of thinking’ or ‘Jewish self-understanding’. We therefore cannot declare that Paul broke up with the ‘Jewish consensus’ or with ‘Jewish way of thinking’. On the other hand, we can discern a clear connection between Paul and a number of Jewish concepts. There is a link between Paul and the ‘Hellenists’, as mentioned in Acts 6.9, where persons coming from ‘Cilicia’ try to argue against Stephen, and Paul is depicted as one of them in Acts 7.58. It seems very likely that Paul in his pre-Christian time obtained a Pharisaic education in Jerusalem and not in Tarsus, for we have no evidence of Pharisees living in the Diaspora. This is the position of G. Stemberger: ‘Although the phenomenon of Diaspora Pharisees is frequently mentioned in scholarly literature, we have no evidence that there ever existed Pharisaic groups in the Diaspora. ... as for Paul, he probably joined the Pharisees while living in Jerusalem and thus would not be an example 38 L. V. Rutgers, The Jews in Late Ancient Rome. Evidence of Cultural Interaction in the Roman Diaspora (Leiden: Brill, 1995), p. 208. 39 J. Neusner, Rabbinic Literature and the New Testament. What We Cannot Show, We Do not Know (Pennsylvania: Trinity Press, 1994), p. 119. 40 G. Stemberger, ‘Was there a “Mainstream Judaism” in the Late Second Temple Period?’, RRJ 4 (2001), pp. 189–208, esp. 202. 41 Stemberger, ‘Mainstream’, p. 203.

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of a Diaspora Jew.’42 Paul in his youth might thus have been a liberal Hellenistic Jew, perhaps similar to the ‘radical allegorists’ mentioned by Philo or the ‘Hellenists’ mentioned in Acts. During his pre-Christian stay in Jerusalem he possibly experienced his first conversion and became a Pharisee in order to observe the law in a very strict manner: he persecuted the ‘Hellenists’ because they reminded him of his own positions before his Pharisaic conversion. With the Damascus event he then had his second ‘conversion’. Here he ‘converted’ to Christ, but regarding his attitude towards the law and the temple this represented a ‘re-version’: he returned to the ‘liberal’ views of his youth – now presented to him in the position of Christians like the ‘Hellenists’ in Acts 6. These ‘Hellenists’ had a firm link to Antioch in Syria (cf. Acts 6.5; 11.19–20), where Paul also received his Christian formation (cf. Acts 11.26, confirmed by Gal. 1.21 and 2.11). The ‘Hellenists’ did not intend to abolish the law, but to interpret it symbolically, concentrating on an ethically correct behavior (as did the radical allegorists, Zimri, Ananias and as is discernible in some passages by Aristeas and Philo). The same was now intended by Paul. In this respect, Rom. 10.4 does not talk about the end of the law, but about the fulfilment of the law in Jesus Christ: WHORM JDBU QRPRX ;ULVWRBM. Paul, the apostle of Christ, still remained a Jew, and felt like a Jew, and argued like a Jew (at least like ‘liberal’ Jews of his time). In his own opinion, he never abandoned his Jewish identity (cf. Rom. 11.1; 1 Cor. 9.20; 2. Cor. 11.22; Phil. 3.5). Instead, he simply adopted a different mode of interpreting the law and temple worship. Through the Damascus event he did not change his religion from Jewish to Christian, but rather changed his inner-Jewish position.

3. The Historical Jesus: Apocalyptical Aspects 3.1. Torah versus basileia? It has been repeatedly observed that for Jesus the imminent basileia43 had more importance than the Torah as a legislative document. The order of the now approaching basileia finds a parallel in the order of God’s creation, for in apocalyptic times a correspondence was perceived between protology (the time of creation) and eschatology (the time at the end of the world). In early Jewish thought, God as creator of the world will restore the lost integrity of his creation in the end of the times.44 Eschatology thus 42 G. Stemberger, ‘The Pre-Christian Paul’, in J. Pastor and M. Mor (eds.), The Beginnings of Christianity (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi Press, 2005), pp. 65–81, esp. 67. 43 On behalf of Jesus and the basileia cf. H. Merklein, Jesu Botschaft von der Gottesherrschaft (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1989). 44 Cf. J. Becker, Jesus von Nazaret (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996), pp. 155–68.

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corresponds to protology. J. Becker lists some cases in which the basileia and its protologic order of creation comes into conflict with aspects of the Torah.45 For example, the fifth of the Ten Commandments (following early Jewish enumeration), ‘honor your father and your mother’ (Exod. 20.12 and Deut. 5.16), seems to be repealed in the gospel source Q 14.26, according to which the disciple of Jesus has to ‘hate’ father and mother for the sake of discipleship and – in one special case – even is denied the duty of burying his dead father according to Q 9.59. These sayings fulfill all the criteria for an authentic Jesus tradition: the breaking up of family structures in eschatological times is an often repeated pattern in Jesus’ teachings (cf. Q 9.59; Q 14.25–27 and its parallel in Mk 10.29–31 and in Gos. Thom. 55.2; Mk 3.35; Mt. 10.35) and fits well into early Jewish theology: in eschatological times God will create his own new family (cf. Mk 3.35) that is not bound to human duties, but to the will of God.46 But do these verses really indicate an abrogation of the Torah by the basileia – as Becker suggests?47 It is more likely that here a new interpretation of the ‘Torah’ is suggested (as also a new interpretation of ‘family’ is proposed). As a parallel, we also can refer to Q 6.35 (also an authentic saying of the historical Jesus48): the new commandment to love one’s enemies is bolstered by the argument that one should become ‘sons of your Father who is in heaven’ and further developed by the argument ‘for He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous’.49 God is thus the father of the new eschatological family (cf. the Lord’s Prayer) and the order of this eschatological family is established by the (protologic) order of nature: God who causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good. But this order of nature is nothing else than the Torah. It is necessary to consider that in early Judaism ‘Torah’ was never seen as a narrow legislative prescription, but as the living will of God, as it had been manifested at the beginning of the world (protology) and as it would be manifested in the end of days (eschatology). For the Qumran community, 45

Cf. Becker, Jesus, pp. 353–56. As proof of this conception in early Judaism cf. S. Bieberstein: Verschwiegene Jüngerinnen – vergessene Zeuginnen. Gebrochene Konzepte im Lukasevangelium (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), p. 120, esp. n. 399, and K. Berger, Die Gesetzesauslegung Jesu. Ihr historischer Hintergrund im Judentum und im Alten Testament. Teil I (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1972), p. 508. 47 J. Becker (Jesus, p. 356) asserts that there are situations for Jesus in which basileia and Torah oppose one other diametrically, with the basileia breaking the dominance of the Jewish law in those cases. 48 Cf. D. Kosch, Die eschatologische Tora des Menschensohnes. Untersuchungen zur Rezeption der Stellung Jesu zur Tora in Q (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), p. 367. 49 Cf. Kosch, Tora, p. 367. 46

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at least, ‘Torah’ is nothing other than the fulfilment of God’s cosmological law, as we have already seen. And for Philo, ‘Torah’ corresponds to the order of the creation. Here Jesus can be located along the same trajectory. He does not abolish the Torah by referring to the basileia, but rather the approaching basileia reveals the true meaning of the Torah as established by God at the beginning of time and as it will be restored at the end of times. This proves right when we look at the question of divorce (Mk 10.2–12), where Jesus seems to revoke Deut. 24.1–3 (bill of divorce). This tradition must also be judged as being authentically Jesuanic.50 Yet if we read the text carefully, we must acknowledge that Jesus actually does not repeal a commandment of the law, but only that he confronts Deut. 24.1–3 by referring to Gen. 2.24. Opposing two different traditions in the Torah and deciding which one is authentic clearly does not mean an abrogation, but rather an interpretation of the Torah. When Jesus argues explicitly by referring to the Torah (by quoting Gen. 1.27; 2.24; 5.2), then the Torah is obviously still valid for him.51 He is simply replacing one interpretation of the Torah with another. The question is not whether the Torah is still valid, but rather how the Torah as the will of God needs to be interpreted in the eschatological reality of the basileia. And here – as we have already seen – the protologic order that God has established in his creation (as we read in Gen. 2.24) prevails over the later tradition of Deut. 24.1–3. Now, in eschatological times, the true meaning of the Torah – as God established it at the beginning of the world – is being restored (but obviously not abolished). The same is valid for Mk 7.1–23 (which – perhaps not in its wording but in its core – is also an authentic Jesus tradition52), the question of pure and impure. Jesus is not intending to challenge the laws of the Torah. His scope is to reveal the authentic meaning of the laws of God. ‘You abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition’ says Jesus in v. 8 criticizing the practice of offering sacrifices in the temple instead of caring for one’s parents. Then he cites the Torah, i.e., the Decalogue (Exod. 20.12 and Deut. 5.16), the commandment to honor father and mother. Thus, he refers to the Torah and replaces a wrong interpretation with the right understanding. 50 Cf. T. Holtz, ‘“Ich aber sage euch“. Bemerkungen zum Verhältnis Jesu zur Tora’, in I. Broer (ed.), Jesus und das jüdische Gesetz (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1992), pp. 135–45, esp. 140. 51 Q 16.18 offers a shorter version without quoting Gen. But it is likely that the original Jesuanic saying contained the citation of Gen. So for example CD 4.21 also quotes Gen. 1.27 in the context of remarriage and gives us the proof that Jesus here might have adapted an already existing interpretation of the Tora. Cf. Theissen & Merz, Jesus, pp. 181, 209, 330, 333, 517. 52 Cf. Berger, Gesetzesauslegung, pp. 461–507; and W. Loader, Jesus’ Attitude towards the Law (Tübingen: Mohr, 1997), p. 71.

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Likewise, reducing the numerous commandments of the Torah to the great commandment to love God and one’s neighbor in Mk 12.29–31 or reducing the Torah commandments to the ethical parts of the Decalogue in Mk 10.19 – also two authentic traditions of the historical Jesus53 – are always based on quoting and interpreting the Torah – and do not intend to abrogate the Torah. The Great Commandment to love cites Deut. 6.4–5 and Lev. 19.18, while Mk 10.19 cites Exod. 20.12–16 and Deut. 5.16–20; 14.14. The same can be demonstrated with regard to the conflicts about keeping the Sabbath. Here Jesus does not oppose the prescriptions of the Torah, but reveals their true meaning. When he declares in Mk 2.27, ‘the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath’, he is alluding to Exod. 23.12 and Deut. 5.14, where both texts use the important word RQH (to have rest).54 In 1QpHab 11.8 and 1QM 2.9, this word indicates the gift of God’s peace on the day of the Sabbath and denotes in 4Q174 3.7 God’s gift of eschatological peace by saving mankind from the demonic influence of Belial. For Jesus, therefore, the eschatological salvation of God should become manifest especially on the day of Sabbath. It could therefore have been deliberate that Jesus expelled demons and healed persons on the Sabbath, in order to show on this very day that the power of Satan was now broken.55 By acting like this, he does not abrogate the law, but suggests a new, eschatological interpretation of the Torah. We can thus conclude: Jesus does not seek a confrontation between the Torah and the basileia, but rather pursues an eschatological interpretation of the Torah as the living expression of God’s will. This point of view also helps us bridge the gap between two opposing, fundamental alternatives: did Jesus accentuate and intensify the commandments of the law or did he alleviate the burden of the Torah?56 Presumably, his intention was to carry out neither the one nor the other, but simply to put forward an eschatological interpretation of the Torah. ‘Torah’ here, of course, does not denote a legislative corpus, but – as we have seen in Qumran and in Philo’s theology – is perceived as the cosmological order of the world revealed in eschatological times. For Jesus, this cosmological order implies a universalistic perspective: when Q 6.35 tells us that God ‘raises his sun on the bad and good, and rains on the just and unjust’, this implicit universalism finds a parallel in Philo’s work, whose law of nature is evident and valid for Jews 53

Cf. Berger, Gesetzesauslegung, pp. 56–257. Cf. H. Preuß, ‘RQH’, ThWAT 5, pp. 297–307. 55 Cf. Becker, Jesus, p. 377: ‘Sind nicht Jesu Endzeit und der erwartete endzeitliche Sabbat darin gleich, daß sie Tag des Segens für die Menschen sind? Also können Jesu Sabbatheiligungen nicht unter den Einspruch des Sabbatinstituts gestellt werden.’ 56 Cf. Theissen & Merz, Jesus, p. 323: ‘Normverschärfung’ and ‘Normentschärfung’. 54

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and Gentiles alike – as Paul states in a similar way in Rom. 1.20 and 2.14, by referring to the natural way of understanding God’s law. 3.2. Jesus’ temple criticism Jesus’ criticism of the temple is not directed against the temple itself, as the great number of positive Jesus traditions linked to the temple clearly show.57 But when worship in the temple conflicts with the approaching basileia, then the temple service has to be corrected.58 Therefore, the reason for Jesus’ cleansing of the temple might have been a criticism of the false security it offered to the believers. They thought that their sacrifices would automatically work for their salvation according to the principle of ‘do ut des’. This wrong self-assuredness might have led persons to neglect the urgency of the basileia and of conversion. Perhaps Jesus argued in similarity to Jer. 7.4–7: ‘Trust not in lying words, saying: “The temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord is here.” For only if you thoroughly amend your ways and your doings... then will I cause you to dwell in this place...’ The temple logion in Mk 14.58, announcing the destruction of the temple, shows no intention of abolishing the temple, but of replacing the temple made with human hands (WRBQ QDRBQ WRX WRQ WR?Q [HLURSRLKWRQ) by a temple which is D[HLURSRLKWRY (not wrought by human hands). This fits in well with the ideas of early Judaism, as we have seen in the temple theology of Qumran, Philo, the book of Jubilees and many others. In all these early Jewish traditions, there is no doubt that in eschatological times the temple in Jerusalem, built with human hands, will be replaced by the eschatological temple of God and an eschatologically renewed temple community. In Q 13.29 Jesus announces that ‘many shall come from the east and west, and shall sit down with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the basileia’. This is the concept of God’s eschatological gathering of his holy people (Isa. 43.5; 49.12; 59.19) combined with the pilgrimage of Gentile nations to the holy Zion (Isa. 2.3). In Jesus’ thought, the new eschatological community of the universalistic basileia fulfils the biblical prophecies about a new, eschatological temple and an eschatologically renewed temple community. Now – at the time of inaugurating the basileia – not the man-made institution of a human temple is necessary, but instead the living community of believers in God’s reign. This does not lead to an abol57

Cf. Ådna, Tempel, pp. 130–31 and 434–40, who mentions Mk 1.40–44 (‘show thyself to the priest, and offer for your cleansing those things which Moses commanded’) and 12.41–44 (Jesus in the temple seeing the widow’s offering) as well as Jesus’ repeated visits in the temple as reported in the Gospel of John. 58 Cf. Paesler, Tempelwort, p. 262. The different scientific opinions in the history of research on this topic are highlighted by Ådna, Tempel, pp. 364–76.

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ishment of the temple itself, but rather, the living community of believers now substitutes the man-made temple. The same concepts can be found in Paul’s theology (1. Cor. 3.16–17; 1. Cor. 6.19–20 and 2 Cor. 6.16; as already stated above) but also in Rev. 21.22, where we find the notion that there will be no temple in the eschatological city of Jerusalem, ‘for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it’. In Revelation the temple is not abolished, but replaced by the presence of God and Jesus and the whole town now becomes a temple – similar to the conception of Paul.59 The fact that this idea was obviously widespread in early Christianity – there are not many convergences between Paul and Revelation – indicates that these concepts might have their roots in the historical Jesus himself. Rev. 21.22 might have understood Jesus’ intention quite well: in the basileia now beginning there is no need for a temple-building, because the living presence of God is transforming the whole city of Jerusalem into a temple. Such a theology does not abrogate the idea of the temple but opens up the horizon for a new interpretation: in the basileia everybody is now living in the direct presence of God (cf. Joel 3.1–5). And all people – including the Gentiles – are invited to experience God’s presence. The prophecy of the Gentile pilgrimage in Isa. 2.2–3 seems to be important for Jesus’ own theology (cf. also Rev. 21.24). He reflects such concepts in sayings like Q 13.29: ‘And many shall come from Sunrise and Sunset and recline with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of God...’ It is quite possible that Jesus also expected an eschatological ‘temple’ as the new centre of God’s basileia. But this ‘temple’ is now no longer reduced to a special building, but to the living presence of God. Thus, according to Rev. 21.22 there will be no temple in the eschatological city of Jerusalem, because the living presence of God will transform the whole city of Jerusalem into a temple. In Jn 4.20–23 as well we can read that God’s presence transforms every place in a temple: the presence of God is not restricted to a special place because ‘the true worshipers shall worship the Father in spirit and truth; for such people the Father seeks to be His worshipers’. And in Jn 2.19–21, the logion of destroying the temple and rebuilding it in three days is interpreted as referring to the ‘temple of his body’. This is clearly an interpretation in the light of Jesus’ resurrection, but already Rom. 3.25 talks about Jesus as LODVWKULRQ – the place of atonement is now replaced by the presence of Jesus himself. All these ideas may have their roots in Jesus’ theology: The historical Jesus 59 Cf. J. Roloff, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1987), p. 203: ‘Johannes will herausstellen, daß die endzeitliche Gottesstadt selbst zum Tempel geworden ist. ... Die Verschmelzung von Tempel und Stadt ist von besonderer Tragweite im Rahmen des Kirchenverständnisses der Apk.’ Roloff also points out that the two conceptions of Paul and Revelation seem to converge here.

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saw his ministry for the basileia as a sign of God’s forgiveness, which now at the end of times is no longer limited to the place of the temple, but connected to belief in God’s reign. According to Jesus, in his own message and in his own person people were capable of encountering the forgiveness of sins in God’s basileia. Jesus therefore legitimately claimed the right to forgive sins in his own name (cf. Mk 2.10). This finds a parallel in the ministry of John the Baptist:60 although John was the son of a temple priest (if Lk. 1.5 is accurate), he announced forgiveness of sins outside of, and in contrast to, the temple – but not by presupposing an abrogation of the temple.61 The same is true for Jesus in so far as he replaces the sign of baptism with the coming basileia. God’s forgiveness is no longer restricted to a place, but is open to the hearts of all persons believing in Jesus’ message. For Jesus, the eschatological temple might also have been a temple of living men standing in the direct eschatological presence of God – the eschatological community in the centre of the approaching basileia in Jerusalem sanctified by this direct presence of God. This could fit well to Jesus’ concepts of purity and impurity. These concepts do not correspond with a ritualistic interpretation, but follow another theological assumption. The all pervading purity of the coming basileia is now cleaning away all impurity. Gerd Theissen has called this the concept of ‘offensive purity’:62 it is not impurity that is contagious, but the purity of the basileia is transforming the whole world, as a small piece of leaven leavens the whole meal in Q 13.21. In the same way, the purity laws are not abolished by Jesus, but reinterpreted in an eschatological sense: in the coming basileia the whole world will be purified by God’s holy presence that transforms everything into holiness and purity. It is in this sense that Jesus himself acted when he did not avoid the presence of sinners, but believed in the contagious spirit of conversion and holiness triggered by the now coming basileia. Normally Israelites obtained purity, atonement and salvation in the temple. Now Jesus and his message of the coming basileia are the place, where all this can be obtained – not only for Israel but also for the Gentiles.

60

Cf. Merklein, Botschaft, pp. 31–32. Cf. I. Broer, ‘Jesus und das Gesetz. Anmerkungen zur Geschichte des Problems und zur Frage der Sündenvergebung durch den historischen Jesus’, in I. Broer (ed.), Jesus und das jüdische Gesetz (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1992), pp. 61–104, esp. 99. 62 G. Theissen, ‘Das Reinheitslogion Mk 7,15 und die Trennung von Juden und Christen’, in K. Wengst and G. Sass (eds.), Ja und nein. Christliche Theologie im Angesicht Israels (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1998), pp. 235–51, esp. 242 n. 19. 61

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4. Conclusions: Trajectories The main concern of early Judaism can be seen in the correct interpretation of God’s will – and here a wide range of different positions was possible, especially in the interpretations of the Torah and the temple service. Sadducees, Pharisees, Qumran manuscripts, Philo, Josephus and apocryphal writings testify to this diversity. The historical Jesus fits into this picture very well. He never thought of abrogating the Torah or of abolishing the temple. His intention was to put forward the right understanding of the Torah and of temple worship in accordance with the coming basileia. For the right understanding of the Torah and of the temple can only be derived from the eschatological proclamation: the approaching basileia is the all-dominating fact in Jesus’ theology. The vicinity of the basileia places an urge in us to read God’s will, the Torah, in a new light. This finds a parallel in the Qumran community. On the other hand, the concentration on the great commandment to love God and one’s neighbor and on the ethical commandments of the Decalogue instead of ritual laws is paralleled by authors like Philo or by the letter of Aristeas. Perhaps this is one point where the view of Gerd Theissen should be formulated more precisely: he states that Jesus neither interpreted nor criticized nor abolished the Torah, but rather that he simply ‘transcended’ the Torah.63 This would be an accurate statement if the Torah had been a legislative corpus of well-formulated laws. But as we have seen, ‘Torah’ in early Judaism primarily meant the authentic will of God, a cosmological order of kinds, which would be revealed especially in eschatological times (and for Jesus in the now approaching basileia). Therefore, the basileia leads to the correct understanding of the ‘Torah’, i.e., God’s fulfilment of his eternal plan with this world and the appropriate behavior of mankind according to God’s eschatological intentions. Jesus likewise did not intend to abolish temple worship but to interpret his understanding of the temple according to his eschatological view. In early Judaism, the idea was widespread that in eschatological times a new temple would replace the cultically insufficient old temple. In Qumran (4Q174 3.7) and in Philo’s theology (Somn. 1.215) the temple in Jerusalem can be replaced by a temple of living men. As we have seen, the historical Jesus might have had a similar conception. In the so-called ‘cleansing’ of the temple Jesus does not ‘abrogate’ the temple. More likely the exact opposite is the case: Jesus – as the eschatological messenger of God – claims his right to the temple and puts its correct eschatological understanding at 63

Cf. Theissen & Merz, Jesus, p. 325: ‘Die Thora wird nicht interpretiert, nicht kritisiert, nicht aufgehoben, sie wird transzendiert.’

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the centre of the now approaching basileia. It must be seen as a prophetic sign that Jesus deliberately seeks the decision for his own fate and the further fate of the basileia not in Galilee, but directly in the temple of Jerusalem. Now he himself and his message from the coming basileia replace (but not abolish!) the temple. Now he and the community of the basileia stand in the direct presence of God, as concepts like Rev. 21.22 later on have correctly interpreted the intention of Jesus. In Jesus himself and in his message of the basileia Jews and Gentiles now can experience atonement and salvation. Jesus’ theological concepts were entirely oriented towards the coming basileia. This is also the case with the first Christians, but in the later traditions of the New Testament the expectation of an immediately approaching basileia was no longer urgent. Accordingly, the aspect of spiritualizing temple service and the Torah begins to dominate the picture. Generally, the idea of such spiritualization can also be found in eschatologically-oriented groups of Palestinian Judaism – as we have seen in the Qumran texts and in Jesus himself. But even non-eschatological authors of the Diaspora, like the author of the Letter of Aristeas and Philo, saw the need for spiritualizing the ritual laws and temple worship. Hence, Jesus’ interpretation of the Torah as an order for a new eschatological world found a parallel in the demands of liberal Hellenistic Jews who preferred a more allegoric and ethic interpretation of the Torah and the institution of the temple. This allegoric and ethic interpretation of the Torah – which is still valid in Christianity up to our present days – could therefore endure even when the eschatological hopes of an immediately approaching basileia failed. This trajectory therefore spans the entire stretch of time from early Judaism to Jesus, the ‘Hellenists’ and Paul up to our times. We can thus finally conclude that Jesus, the ‘Hellenists’, and even Paul still remained Jews and were participants in an inner-Jewish discourse: the quest for the correct interpretation of God’s will. They each assumed specific points of view, but there is no moment at which we can attest them to have broken with Judaism in a definite way. Even in their critique of special Jewish laws and of temple worship they remained Jews in their theology and reasoning. The beginning of ‘Christianity’ as a religion separate from Judaism is the result of later developments which could not be foreseen at the time of Jesus and Paul (both expected the end of history in their own lifetimes). But it is not legitimate to judge Jesus and Paul on the basis of the subsequent developments of history. The ‘birth of Christianity’ was a long process starting with the above mentioned trajectories. In the strict historical sense, there is no concrete person who ‘founded’ Christianity as a group separated from Judaism. Neither Jesus nor Paul did so. But they

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were milestones in this trajectory which in the end – as a matter of historical fact – led to a distinct Christian religion.

Jesus and the Sabbath CHRISTOPHER TUCKETT

The issue of ‘Jesus and the Sabbath’ has been debated many times before, so much so that one may legitimately question whether yet another discussion of the issue can throw any new light on such a ‘hoary old chestnut’. Generally, the question of Jesus and the Sabbath has been assumed to be a part – perhaps a key part – of the broader question of ‘Jesus and the Law’ and the issue of whether Jesus adhered to the Jewish Law, ‘challenged’ the Law, ‘abrogated’ the Law, or whatever; and in the case of the Sabbath, the ‘law’ in question has been assumed – almost without any discussion – to be simply and solely the command not to ‘work’ on the Sabbath. Hence the discussion has revolved around the question of whether Jesus did perform ‘work’ on the Sabbath and, if so, how he might have justified this and/or what the significance of such activity might be. In line with the general approach of the ‘Jesus in Continuum’ project, I consider first question of the Sabbath in Judaism, then the Sabbath in early Christianity, before turning to the question of Jesus and the Sabbath. Whether the following remarks have any validity and/or whether they can throw any new light on this (by now) very old topic within Jesus studies is for others to say. Suffice it to say maybe that, at least for the present author, a fresh approach to the so-called problem might be suggested by a (potentially) slightly broader approach to the significance of the Sabbath, going beyond an exclusive focus on the issue of ‘work’ on the Sabbath. I have no startlingly new evidence to offer, and all the relevant evidence here has been culled from well-known modern secondary literature. Nevertheless, it may be that a slightly broader approach, looking (in line with the ‘Continuum’ perspective) at the Jesus tradition in the context of both Judaism and early Christianity, may cast a little new light on the gospel evidence.

1. The Sabbath in Judaism The ‘story’ of the significance of the Sabbath and Sabbath observance in Judaism has been told many times before and so, in rehearsing it yet again,

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one is going over very familiar territory.1 Nevertheless, it is important to be aware of the broad picture in relation to the question of the importance of the Sabbath in Judaism, especially as it impinges on the issue of Jesus and the Sabbath. It is universally agreed that the Sabbath was regarded as of fundamental significance for Judaism at the time of Jesus and the start of the early Christian movement. The law about doing no work on the Sabbath was part of the Decalogue (Exod. 20.8–11; Deut. 5.12–15) and it is referred to at a number of places elsewhere in the Pentateuch (Exod. 31.13; 34.21; Lev. 19.3), being noted as well in the creation story (Gen. 2.2–3). Exod. 31.13 speaks or of the Sabbath as a ‘sign’ of the covenant between God and his people (cf. too Deut. 5.15, as well as the whole section in vv. 13– 17; Ezek. 20.10–13, 18–21). So too Jub. 2.17 calls the Sabbath one of the ‘signs of the covenant’.2 The biblical legislation about the Sabbath focuses primarily (even exclusively) on the command to keep the day ‘holy’ by not working. In the Pentateuch, this is worded in a very general way: above all it is not specified what should, and should not, constitute ‘work’. And much of the subsequent development of the tradition within Judaism focuses on precisely this question. It seems evident that, over the course of time, a very considerable amount of detailed case-law and/or greater specification was developed to clarify more precisely what was deemed to constitute ‘work’.3 Some of these debates we see taking place; others may have taken place as explicit discussions of which we are unaware; in other cases requirements to keep within the Sabbath legislation may have evolved without any explicit discussion. We see, for example, in Jer. 17.19–27 the Sabbath law being interpreted as forbidding the carrying of a burden through the gate of Jerusalem or

1 For other reviews of the evidence, see E. Lohse, ‘VD EEDWRQ’, TWNT 7, pp. 1–20; C. C. Rowland, ‘A Summary of Sabbath Observance in Judaism at the Beginning of the Christian Era’, in D. A. Carson (ed.), From Sabbath to Lord’s Day. A Biblical, Historical and Theological Investigation (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1982), pp. 43–55; E. P. Sanders, Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah (London: SCM, 1990), pp. 6–23; idem, Judaism. Belief and Practice 63BCE – 66CE (London: SCM, 1992), pp. 208–11; also the comprehensive recent study of L. Doehring, Schabbat. Sabbathalacha und -praxis im antiken Judentum und Urchristentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). 2 On the importance of ‘signs’ of the covenant, especially the Sabbath in this context, see T. Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 74–75. Cf. too J. D. G. Dunn, The Partings of the Ways. Between Christianity and Judaism and their Significance for the Character of Christianity (London: SCM, 1991), pp. 29–30. 3 See, for example, the list of 39 main classes of activity deemed to be work set out in the Mishnah in Shab. 7.2.

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even out of one’s house.4 Neh. 10.31 extends Sabbath legislation to trading with Gentiles as well as insisting on letting land lie fallow and not claiming debts every seventh year. Neh. 13.15–22 records steps taken to prevent all trading on the Sabbath by both Jews and Gentiles. There is too the well known example of Jews refusing to engage in military activity on the Sabbath.5 At the time of the Maccabean revolt, this led to disastrous results when some pious Jews refused to fight on the Sabbath and were slaughtered (see 1 Macc. 2.29–41).6 As a result, it was agreed that fighting in self defence could be regarded as a legitimate breach of Sabbath law (v. 41). Later in 63 BC, Pompey succeeded in exploiting the Jews’ refusal to work upon the Sabbath by using the day to build earthworks up around the city of Jerusalem: direct action against the Jews would have allowed Jews with firm beliefs about the Sabbath to retaliate as a matter of self defence; but the indirect action, not involving a outright attack, was not felt to be a situation which justified breaking the command not to ‘work’ and thus allowed the Romans to bring battering rams into service against the city (War 1.145–47). Military action was never specifically mentioned in the biblical legislation. It would appear then that the presumption that such action was included in the definition of ‘work’, and hence to be avoided on the Sabbath, had evolved over the course of time and, by the time of the Maccabean revolt, was simply presumed without question. At the time of Jesus and the start of the early church, it is clear that specific details about Sabbath observance were matters of considerable debate amongst different Jewish groups. We know from various pieces of evidence that different groups at the time evidently interpreted Sabbath Law in different ways. It seems, for example, that the Essenes (at least according to Josephus’ description) and the Damascus Document (if we should distinguish between these two), and perhaps Jubilees, interpreted Sabbath law even more strictly than others.7 Thus Josephus says of the Essenes that they

4 It was this that led to the later practice of ‘Erub, effectively counting a number of houses as a single house for the purposes of Sabbath law and hence allowing things to carried from one place to another. See Rowland, ‘Sabbath Observance in Judaism’, p. 49; Sanders, Jewish Law, pp. 8–9. 5 For the general issue, see Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 537–65. 6 Full discussion in Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 547–54. 7 See Rowland, ‘Sabbath Observance in Judaism’, p. 45: ‘These two works [Jubilees and the Damascus Document] represent a rather strict and uncompromising attitude toward the observance of the Sabbath.’ Also Sanders, Jewish Law, p. 6; Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 117 (on Jubilees), 281 (on CD/Qumran).

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are stricter than all Jews in abstaining from work on the seventh day; for not only do they prepare their food on the day before, to avoid kindling a fire on that one, but they do not venture to remove any vessel or even to go to stool (War 2.147).8

And in CD 10.14–11.18 there is a long list of instructions about observing Sabbath law, at times being even more rigorous than other Jews appear to have been.9 (The very fact that these rules and regulations are spelt out in such detail is perhaps an indication that the specific stipulations here were not universally accepted.) Similarly, E. P. Sanders highlights disagreements between Pharisees and Sadducees, and between different ‘houses’, on the interpretation of Sabbath law, in particular in relation to problem cases of what to do when a festival fell on Sabbath and instructions about what to do when action required for proper celebration of the festival (e.g., offering a sacrifice) might involve doing what was deemed to be ‘work’.10 It is clear then that Sabbath observance was taken very seriously. Even among those who might be described as the most ‘liberal’, or the least ‘strict’, in relation to Sabbath law, the very existence of the detailed debates and discussions testifies to the seriousness with which the law was held.11 Doing ‘work’ on the Sabbath could, in the eyes of some, be justified at times – but it is clear that it could (only) be allowed on the basis of a positive attempt to defend and justify such action, e.g., by referring to competing demands within Scripture and/or having a discussion about which of two commands might have precedence (in the case of conflicting commands). The issue of how far Sabbath law related to more general human needs seems to have been universally accepted at this period: namely, if human life was in danger, then this would justify the doing of ‘work’ on the Sabbath. The saying attributed to R. Mattithiah b. Heresh (perhaps early second century) in m. Yom. 8.6 is frequently cited in this context: ‘whenever there is doubt whether life is in danger, this overrides the Sabbath’. In relation to study of the Jesus tradition in the gospels, this does of course raise problems since Jesus is portrayed there as performing miracles, and assumed as such to be breaching Sabbath law by doing ‘work’, in contexts that are not apparently life-threatening. One may also note here the evident widespread awareness of Sabbath observance by all parties concerned, both Jews and non-Jews, in the first century. We have already noted some of the ways in which Jews took seri8

For preparing food the day before, cf. Jub. 2.29; CD 10.22–23; see also Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 70–71, 155–61. 9 Full discussion in Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 119–214. 10 Sanders, Jewish Law, p. 10; cf. too Rowland, ‘Sabbath Observance in Judaism’, pp. 47–48. 11 On the general point, see T. Holmén, ‘Jesus, Judaism and the Covenant’, JSHS 2 (2004), pp. 3–27, esp. 8 (in relation to legal debates generally): the very engagement in debate signifies the seriousness with which the issues are taken.

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ously the command not to work. This was also evidently known to, and noted by, those who were not Jews. For some, it seems that Sabbath observance of a day free from work was an attractive feature of Judaism for many non-Jews.12 Josephus claims (with perhaps just a touch of exaggeration!) that there is not one city, Greek or barbarian, nor a single nation, to which our custom of abstaining from work on the seventh day has not spread (Apion 2.282).13

Other Greco-Roman writers are not necessarily quite so complimentary or positive, though such comments still testify to the fact that Sabbath observance was widely known about by non-Jews as well as Jews.14 For example, Seneca condemns the religious observance of the Jews, especially the Sabbath, he asserts that this is an unprofitable practice, because by the interruption of a weekly day of leisure they lose a seventh of their lives and suffer injury by leaving much pressing business undone (Augustine, Civ. 6.11).15

Similarly Tacitus refers to Jewish Sabbath observance as idleness: They [the Jews] say that a rest was instituted on the seventh day because that brought an end to their labours; then because of the pleasures of idleness, the seventh year was also given to indolence (Hist. 4.11).16

On a more positive note, Jewish sensibilities were acknowledged by other non-Jewish authorities to the extent of granting the Jews special dispensations. During the Roman civil wars, Julius Caesar granted various favours in return for Jewish support; and to show their loyalty to Caesar, a number of cities in Asia Minor legislated to allow Jewish respect for the Sabbath to be maintained. Thus the city of Ephesus stated that ‘no one shall be prevented from keeping the Sabbath days nor be fined for doing so, but they shall be permitted to do all those things which are in accordance with their laws’ (Ant. 14.264). Other decrees exempted Jews from military service so 12

Cf. Doehring, Schabbat, p. 286. In similar vein, see Philo, Vit. Mos. 2.21: ‘For who has not shown his high respect for that sacred seventh day, by giving rest and relaxation from labour to himself and his neighbours, freemen and slaves alike, and beyond these to his beasts?’ 14 See M. Whitaker, Jews and Christians. Graeco-Roman Views (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 63–73; also Lohse, ‘VD EEDWRQ’, pp. 17–18; W. Rordorf, Sunday. The History of the Day of Rest and Worship in the Earliest Centuries of the Christian Church (London: SCM, 1968), pp. 32–33; J. M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE – 117 CE) (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), pp. 296–97 (especially on the situation in Rome); Doehring, Schabbat, p. 287. 15 Whitaker, Jews and Christians, p. 67. 16 Whitaker, Jews and Christians, p. 66. 13

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that they would not have to bear arms or march on the Sabbath (Ant. 14.226). Clearly then Sabbath observance was a very public, and visible, mark of Jewishness at this time. Thus Sanders states: ‘Gentiles viewed Sabbath observance as a chief characteristic of the Jews’;17 and ‘it [Sabbath] thus serves as a principal identity-marker, establishing one not only as Jewish, but also indicating publicly one’s party affiliation’.18 Thus any debate about Sabbath observance would have been interpreted by a wide range of people as a debate about a fundamental aspect of Jewish identity, both social and religious (insofar as the two are distinguishable). A final point to be noted here is the Sabbath observance was not just about abstaining from work. It appears from all our extant sources also to have been the day and the occasion when Jews came together publicly to the synagogue. Thus Josephus refers to the synagogue at Caesarea and at one point says: ‘on the following day, which was a Sabbath, when the Jews assembled at the synagogue...’ (War 2.289), apparently assuming as virtually self-evident that the synagogue was the place of public meeting for Jews on the Sabbath.19 Several passages in Philo confirm this picture, with the further detail that the purpose of coming together was for study of the Law.20 Thus Philo states that Jews assembled on the Sabbath to study their ‘philosophy’ (Op. Mund. 128). Similarly Josephus states that, in the Jewish religion, ‘once every week men should desert their other occupations and assemble to listen to the Law and to obtain a thorough and accurate knowledge of it’ (Apion 2.175). In Spec. Leg. 2.62, Philo states that each seventh day ‘there stand wide open in every city thousands of schools (GLGDVNDOHL D) of good sense’, to provide instruction and teaching (of the Law). In Omn. Prob. Lib. 82–83, he describes the practice of the Essenes coming together to learn and study the Law: ‘For that day (the seventh day) has been set apart to be kept holy and on it they abstain from all other work and proceeded to sacred spots which they call synagogues’ (and Philo then proceeds to describe the activity than in terms of the teaching 17

Sanders, Judaism, p. 209. Sanders, Jewish Law, p. 16; for Sabbath as one of the ‘identity markers’ of Judaism at this time, see too Dunn, Partings, p. 29; idem, Romans 9–16 (Dallas: Word Books, 1988), p. 805; M. Casey, From Jewish Prophet to Gentile God (Cambridge: James Clarke, 1991), p. 12; Barclay, Jews, pp. 440–42 (esp. on the situation in the Diaspora); Doehring, Schabbat, p. 1; Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 90: ‘Throughout the literary history of Israel, keeping the Sabbath features ... as a status confessionis, as an inalienable duty for all Jews to carry out ... We may assume that a Jew who persisted in ignoring the Sabbath was in due course of time no longer considered a Jew but an apostate, a violator of the covenant.’ 19 See Sanders, Judaism, p. 198. 20 See Barclay, Jews, pp. 416–17; Doehring, Schabbat, p. 488. 18

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and expounding of the Law).21 Similarly, in Leg. Gai. 156 he refers to the ‘houses of prayer’ (SURVHX[DL ) of Jews who ‘meet together in them, particularly on the sacred Sabbath, when they receive as a body a training in their ancestral philosophy’.22 There is of course a well-known debate about the names of such buildings, but it may be worth also noting here just in passing that as well as VXQDJZJK  and SURVHX[K , the word VDEEDWHL RQ is occasionally used (Ant. 16.164), apparently then implying that such a building was a ‘Sabbath meeting house’.23 Whether such activity of teaching, expounding and learning about the Law would be appropriately described as ‘worship’ is another matter. Suffice it to say here that Sabbath observance was thus not just a matter of negatively abstaining from work: it also evidently included a more positive, and very public, display of one’s being part of the Jewish community in any one location. Further, there is no evidence for any sense of Sabbath being a joyless occasion. Certainly it does not seem to be an occasion for fasting. Although interpreted as such by some non-Jewish authors (presumably on the grounds that Jews did not actually cook on the Sabbath), it seems likely that Sabbath included a celebratory meal.24 Food was left to cook from the previous day (thus avoiding ‘work’ by cooking), but the eating of the food was evidently regarded as essential. Josephus at one point records an account of an important meeting in a synagogue in Tiberius which was broken up in order to go and eat the Sabbath meal (Life 279; cf. too Jdt. 8.6).25 Sabbath observance for Jews thus was (and is!) by no means a restrictive observance which perhaps an exclusive focus on the command not to ‘work’ might imply. The command not to work was seen in part as enabling Jews positively to do other important things, including assembling publicly for teaching and learning, and for celebrating with the Sabbath meal. As Sanders says in relation to Sabbath practice, ‘virtually all Jews

21

Sanders, Judaism, p. 199. Cf. too Rowland, ‘Sabbath Observance in Judaism’, p. 46: ‘Although nothing is said in the Manual of Discipline (1QS) about the Sabbath practice of the Qumran community, it may be assumed that the communal gatherings described in 1QS 6 typify what happened on the Sabbath.’ 23 See L. I. Levine, ‘The Second Temple Synagogue. The Formative Years’, in L. I. Levine (ed.), The Synagogue in Late Antiquity (Pennsylvania: America Schools of Oriental Research, 1987), pp. 7–31, esp. 13. 24 See Sanders, Jewish Law, p. 13, and Judaism, p. 210; also Lohse, ‘VD EEDWRQ’, pp. 15–16. Cf. Jub. 2.21, 31; 50.9–10; Doehring, Schabbat, p. 67. 25 Cf. Rowland, ‘Sabbath Observance in Judaism’, p. 50: ‘The Sabbath itself was a day of festivity, and meals formed an important part of the day. Fasting was not appropriate to it.’ 22

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abstained from the most obvious forms of work, had a special meal and went to synagogue’.26 With this broader perspective in mind, we may now turn to the evidence of early Christianity.

2. Sabbath in Early Christianity In one way, it is perhaps surprising that the issue of Sabbath observance does not surface more often as an explicit issue which is discussed in the texts which have survived for us from the earliest years of the Christian movement. Given the function of Sabbath observance as a very public ‘identity marker’ of Judaism in the first century, and given the prominence which the broader issue of how Jewish practice and Jewish Law (especially focused on the issues of circumcision and [though perhaps to a lesser extent] food laws) should relate to Christian existence and identity, especially in Pauline churches, it is surprising that Sabbath is not explicitly mentioned more often as a contentious issue. It is mentioned occasionally, but only it seems in passing. 2.1. Pauline literature Within the undisputed Pauline corpus, Paul refers to Sabbath observance explicitly on at most two occasions only. In Gal. 4.10, he attacks the Galatians, saying ‘you are observing special days, and months, and seasons, and years’. The prime issue in Galatians is of course the question of circumcision, and whether the Gentile Galatian Christians need to, or should, be circumcised. Most commentators agree that in 4.10, the reference to ‘special days’ etc. probably includes a reference to Sabbath.27 This is evidently not the main issue in Galatians (the present tense ‘you are observing’ is usually taken as an implied future referring to the situation that will pertain if the Galatians are circumcised and then take on all the obligations of the whole Law – at least in Paul’s view!).28 Nevertheless Paul appears to 26

Sanders, Judaism, p. 211. See J. D. G. Dunn, The Epistle to the Galatians (London: A&C Black, 1993), p. 227; R. N. Longenecker, Galatians (Dallas: Word Books, 1990), p. 182. It is however not immediately clear why, if Paul is referring to Sabbath observance, he does not mention ‘Sabbath’ explicitly. One possibility is that he is using vocabulary which would have been prevalent in the Hellenistic world, to be intelligible to his readers: cf. H. D. Betz, Galatians (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), p. 210: ‘Paul describes the typical behaviour of religiously scrupulous people’ (with reference to the earlier work of Bultmann). 28 Although this view may not have been shared by the so-called ‘agitators’ in Galatia who may have been much more concerned with the issue of circumcision alone, perhaps 27

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presume that genuinely ‘Christian’ existence for the Gentile Galatian Christians will not involve observing Sabbath. Given the crucial significance of Sabbath as an identity marker for Jewish existence and selfidentity, such an assertion by Paul must presumably have implied a radical breach between (non-Christian) Jewish and ‘Christian’ identity (at least in Galatians – pace Romans 11!).29 A similar end result may be implied by what Paul says in Rom. 14.5–6: ‘Some charge one day to be better than another, while others judge all days to be alike. Let all be fully convinced in their own minds. Those who observe the day, observe it in honour of the Lord.’ Although it is debated, it seems likely that (a) the discussion in Romans 14 is about Jew-Gentile distinctions and how these are being exhibited in concrete practical terms in the Roman communities’ situation, and (b) the reference here to different ‘days’ is probably a reference to Sabbath.30 At one level, Paul is apparently more irenic, perhaps more ‘easy-going’, than in Galatians. Here observance of Sabbath (and food regulations) is not implicitly banned by Paul for Christians: Paul leaves it open to individual Christians to decide for themselves whether or not they wish to observe such practices and does not condemn observance. Nevertheless, as J. M. G. Barclay shows, the implications of Paul’s stance here are fundamentally extremely radical.31 The very fact that Paul regards Sabbath observance as ‘optional’ means that it can for Paul no longer function as any kind of identity marker for Christian communities. At one level Paul is affirming the right of Jewish Christian groups to maintain their distinctively Jewish self-identity by observing Sabbath, and insisting that Gentile Christians accept this. However, the converse is equally true: the Jewish Christians addressed by Paul here are urged to accept as a way of alleviating threats from ‘zealot’-like non-Christian Jews in Palestine. For the issue of the identity of the ‘agitators’, and their possible motivations, see the commentaries on Galatians. 29 The issue of how far Paul regarded himself, and his version of Christian existence, as separate from Judaism, is a much debated issue, and it may well be that Paul himself is not fully consistent within his letters: thus, in Romans 11, he seems much more concerned to stress the very real continuities between Christian identity and Judaism, whereas in Galatians, all the stress seems to be on discontinuity (though cf. also above on Romans 14). 30 See the full discussion in J. M. G. Barclay, ‘“Do we undermine the Law?” A Study of Romans 14:1–15:6’, in J. D. G. Dunn (ed.), Paul and the Mosaic Law (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), pp. 287–308, esp. 288–93. 31 See Barclay, ‘Do we undermine the Law?’, pp. 306–08. Hence, even here in the same letter as Romans 11, Paul appears to be giving a rather different answer than in that chapter to the question of how Christian identity relates to its Jewish roots. Any problems about Paul’s self-consistency are not just about the possible tensions between one letter and another letter: the problems arise even within a single letter such as Romans.

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the right and freedom of their fellow Gentile Christians not to observe the Sabbath. Moreover Paul also evidently expects that Law-observant Jewish Christians will associate regularly with Gentile Christians who may not be observing food laws, Sabbath or other key parts of the Jewish Law. And in any case, Paul makes it very clear that he himself, despite being a Jewish Christian, does not share the viewpoint of those he calls (somewhat pejoratively) ‘weak’! Thus, as Barclay says, ‘while allowing the expression of the Jewish cultural tradition, Paul relativizes its significance and undermines key aspects of its theological and intellectual foundation’.32 A further example from the Pauline corpus occurs in Col. 2.16,33 though here the reference to Sabbath observance is clearer and quite explicit: ‘Therefore do not let anyone condemn you in matters of food and drink or of observing festivals, new moons, or sabbaths.’ The complex, and much debated, issues surrounding the possible ‘Colossian heresy’ addressed in this letter need not be discussed here. Whatever else may have been involved, the writer (probably an imitator of Paul rather than Paul himself) evidently regards Jewish Sabbath observance as one of the ‘dangers’ which threaten what he regards as the authentic nature of Christian existence.34 By implication, Sabbath is regarded as something which Christians should not be observing. The evidence from the Pauline corpus in relation to the Sabbath is mixed. On the one hand, Paul himself evidently regarded Sabbath observance as, at best, an option which some could maintain if they wished but which was by no means obligatory for all Christians (Romans); at worst, it was a danger which threatened the very essence of valid Christian existence (Galatians). And in this the author of Colossians seems to follow in the footsteps of the Paul of Galatians. On the other hand, the very existence of such comments in both Pauline and deutero-Pauline letters indicates that the issue was to a certain extent controversial with no uniformity. Whilst maybe not constituting a ‘flashpoint’ in the way that, for example, issues about circumcision or table fellowship may have done (cf. Galatians 2), the question of Sabbath evidently led to differing practices and beliefs even within Pauline churches. Thus Colossians seems to imply that Sabbath observance (probably tied up with other speculations) was regarded as a key demand which some Christians (opposed by the author of Colossians) wished to insist upon. (Galatians is perhaps less clear and it is 32

Barclay, ‘Do we undermine the Law?’, p 307. Here assumed to be deutero-Pauline, rather than by Paul himself. 34 This is the way the verse is usually interpreted: see, e.g., E. Lohse, Colossians and Philemon (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971), pp. 115–16; J. D. G. Dunn, The Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), p. 174, though there is the possibility that the writer is opposing the banning of Sabbath observance. 33

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uncertain whether the issue was explicitly raised by the ‘agitators’ in Galatia or whether this was brought into the discussion solely by Paul.) And from Romans we may deduce that a number of Roman Jewish Christians appear to have wished to maintain Sabbath observance, a practice which Paul here allows but insists should not be mandatory for other Christians. Clearly then some Christians within Pauline communities wished to maintain observance of the Sabbath and perhaps also promote it more widely amongst other (Gentile?) Christians. We should however note that the principle of Sabbath observance by Christians would have manifested itself in practical terms in potentially different ways. Two such ways may be – and perhaps should be – distinguished: respecting and observing the Sabbath by not working, and marking the Sabbath by assembling with other Jews as an expression of religious and/or community identity. Connected with the latter may also have been the issue of whether Christians had their own assemblies and the relationship of these meetings to Jewish assemblies. It is worth noting that in the evidence from the Pauline corpus, no mention is ever made of the issue of ‘working’ on the Sabbath. Much more important may have been the issue of whether Christians should join, and/or be seen to join, with the Jewish community in its communal gatherings and meetings which typically took place on the Sabbath. The situation in relation to the question of meetings is of course complex. For example, when mention is made of Christian groups meeting, it is not always clear whether any such meeting was regarded as additional to, or a replacement of, assembling with the non-Christian Jewish community on the Sabbath. It is perfectly possible, logically, that a Christian group might have had its own special meeting (for ‘worship’, prayer, study, perhaps a ‘Eucharist’) on one day (perhaps a Sunday) and also participated in synagogue gatherings on the Jewish Sabbath. On the other hand, any such Christian gatherings (perhaps on a Sunday) may have replaced synagogue attendance on a Saturday. Thus references to Christian meetings on a day other than Sabbath may not tell us anything immediately about attitudes to the Sabbath.35 2.2. Other early Christian literature Explicit discussions of the principle and/or the issue of Sabbath observance are rare in other extant early Christian writings.36 As noted al35 Cf. R. J. Bauckham, ‘The Lord’s Day’, in D. A. Carson (ed.), From Sabbath to Lord’s Day. A Biblical, Historical and Theological Investigation (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1982), pp. 221–50, esp. 237. 36 I leave aside the more ‘theological’ argument of Hebrews and its discussion of the eschatological ‘Sabbath’ which is the claimed goal of Christian existence: it is not clear

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ready, the issue of working on the Sabbath is not raised explicitly in the Pauline corpus and this same phenomenon continues on in the early Christian literature of the second century. 37 What is more uncertain is the day on which any weekly assembly by the Christian community took place and the significance given to this in relation to the Jewish Sabbath. By the midsecond century it would seem that, for some Christians at least, Sunday had replaced the Jewish Sabbath as the day on which the Christian community assembled for worship and communal activity. Justin 1 Apol. 67.7 talks of ‘Sunday as the day on which we hold all our common assembly, because ... Jesus Christ our saviour on the same day rose from the dead’; and Barn. 15.9 talks of the eighth day as the regular day on which Christians come together and celebrate (Jesus’ resurrection). Further, the context in which ‘Barnabas’ makes this statement is one where there is an explicit contrast with the celebration of the Sabbath: Furthermore, he says to them ‘your new moons and the sabbaths I cannot away with’. Do you see what he means? The present sabbaths are not acceptable to me, but that which I have made, in which I will give rest to all things and make the beginning of an eighth day, that is the beginning of another world. Wherefore we also celebrate with gladness the eighth day in which Jesus also rose from the dead and was made manifest, and ascended into heaven.38

how this might relate to concrete Sabbath observance in the present – though a possible implication might be that, if the ‘true’/‘genuine’ Sabbath is part of an eschatological hope for the future, present observance of the Sabbath now would be perhaps premature and/or incomplete in some sense; whether it would be invalid is not so clear. 37 From about the second half of the second century on, one gets claims made by some Christian writers that the Sabbath law about not working should be interpreted as a command to avoid all sinful acts on all days of the week, not just on one day. Cf., e.g., Justin, Dial. 12.3. On this see Rordorf, Sunday, p. 102; R. J. Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday in the Post-Apostolic Church’, in D. A. Carson (ed.), From Sabbath to Lord’s Day. A Biblical, Historical and Theological Investigation (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1982), pp. 251– 98, esp. 265–66. But this is relatively late in relation to the time of the writings of the New Testament. 38 There is however some tension in Barnabas 15 between what is said at the end of the section (in 15.9) and the previous part of the section, where ‘Sabbath’ observance is put in terms of moral holiness which is unattainable in the present age but which may be attained in a future, eschatological ‘rest’. On this see Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday’, pp. 262–64. Thus Bauckham claims that ‘Barnabas’’ ‘real’ view is not that the Christian Sunday replaces the Jewish Sabbath, but that the Christian Sunday now exists to express this hope for future moral perfection. Nevertheless, 15.9 is still part of the text, and it would appear that at least a part of what ‘Barnabas’ wants to claim is that Sunday meetings have for Christians replaced the meetings which had taken place on the Jewish Sabbath.

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Clearly then here, it would seem, Christian assembly on the eighth day (Sunday) is regarded as contrasting with, and perhaps superseding, the observance of the Jewish Sabbath. The same may be implied in Ignatius, writing at the beginning of the second century. Thus Ignatius, Magn. 9.1–2 speaks of those who have come into a new life ‘no longer keeping the Sabbath (PKNH WL VDEEDWL ]RQWHM) but living in accordance with the Lord’s Day (DOODB NDWDB NXULDNKBQ ]ZaQWHM)’.39 Whether Sabbath observance had been explicitly raised as an issue, and propounded, by others in the community, or whether it is introduced into the discussion by Ignatius himself, is not clear.40 Nevertheless, it seems clear from here that, for Ignatius at least, Sabbath observance has been replaced by life focused on ‘the Lord’s day’.41 At the very least, it would seem that Sabbath is no longer observed and significant parts of things that had previously (in Judaism) taken place on the Sabbath have now been transferred to another day of the week (Sunday). Presumably then the Christian community is now assembling on a Sunday, not a Saturday, and Sabbath observance as such seems to be rejected. On the other hand, there is evidence that Sabbath observance continued among some Christian groups well beyond the time of ‘Barnabas’ and Justin. Jewish Christian communities in Syria and Palestine appear to have continued to keep the Sabbath.42 Thus according to Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 3.27) and Epiphanius (Pan. 30.2.2), the Ebionites continued to observe the Sabbath, as did the so-called ‘Nazarenes’ (according to Epiphanius Pan. 29.7.5).43 Other references to Christian gatherings are less clear in this context if only because there is no explicit reference to the Jewish Sabbath and no indication as to whether the Christian assembly was seen as a rival to, or replacement of, Jewish assembly on the Sabbath. For example, 1 Cor. 16.2 and Acts 20.7 appear to refer to significant gatherings of the Christian

For discussion of the text here (some MSS add ]ZK Q, though this is usually taken as a secondary attempt to ease a difficult text), see Bauckham, ‘The Lord’s Day’, pp. 228–29; W. R. Schoedel, Igantius of Antioch (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), p. 123. 40 See Schoedel, Igantius of Antioch, p. 123. 41 See Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday’, p. 260. 42 Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday’, pp. 257–59. 43 Further examples given in A. DeConick, Seek to See Him. Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 1996), pp. 130–31; also her Rediscovering the Original Gospel of Thomas (London: T&T Clark International, 2005), p. 91; also Rordorf, Sunday, p. 147, and see n. 49 below on a possible resurgence of Gentile observance of the Jewish Sabbath from the third century onwards. 39

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community together on the ‘first day of the week’.44 In 1 Cor. 16, it is for setting aside money for a common collection; in Acts 20 it is for the ‘breaking of bread’. And Rev. 1.10 refers to the seer of Revelation having a significant vision ‘on the Lord’s Day’, usually taken as a Sunday. Whether these gatherings were regarded as the replacement of the Jewish Sabbath is however not clear: if they were, then such a claim is at best implicit. Similarly Did. 14.1 also refers to assembling on the Lord’s Day (NDWDB NXULDNKBQ GHB NXUL RX)45 to ‘break bread’ and to ‘give thanks’. There is no explicit reference here to the Jewish Sabbath and commentators on the Didache vary in their interpretations of whether what is said here is intended as an effort to differentiate Christian practice from the Jewish Sabbath observance as the day for public assembly.46 However, one could say that Sunday appears to have established itself as of particular significance as the day on which Christians met together to share in significant ‘religious’ practices, at least for the community for which the Didache was written. At the very least, the seeds are here for the (later?) ‘replacement’, or supersession, of the Jewish Sabbath by the Christian Sunday, though how far this development has gone here is not clear. We may also note here the difficult saying in the Gospel of Thomas 27: ‘if you do not observe the Sabbath as a Sabbath, you will not see the father.’47 The saying has been interpreted in many different ways. However, it appears as the second half of what seems to be a double saying, after the first half ‘if you do not fast from the world, you will not find the kingdom’. The parallelism suggests that the two sayings are similar in meaning. Further, the fasting saying seems to refer to an implied demand to abstain from the ‘world’, i.e., to adopt an ascetic, world-denying lifestyle. The same may thus be implied by the Sabbath saying: ‘Sabbath’ may then be in almost synonymous parallelism with ‘world’; and to ‘sabbatize’ may thus mean to ‘rest from’ metaphorically, i.e., to abstain from or to shun. 44

It is though striking that the way in which days are reckoned in Christian texts still presuppose the Jewish Sabbath as the baseline of reference: see Lohse, ‘VD EEDWRQ’, pp. 32–33. 45 For discussion of the somewhat unusual phrase, see Bauckham, ‘The Lord’s Day’, pp. 227–28; also K. Niederwimmer, The Didache (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), p. 195. 46 Cf. the differing views of W. Rordorf and A. Tuilier, La doctrine des douze apôtres (Didachè) (Paris: Cerf, 1978), p. 65, and Niederwimmer, The Didache, p. 195. 47 This is the translation of the Coptic text as given in B. Layton (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), p. 65. The translation of the Greek fragment (P.Oxy. 1) by H. W. Attridge is similar; H. W. Attridge, ‘The Gospel of Thomas. The Greek Fragments’, in B. Layton (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2-7 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), pp. 96–128, esp. 127. The Greek is literally ‘if you do not sabbatize the Sabbath’ (HDBQ PKB VDEEDWLVTK WHWRBVD EEDWRQ). For the interpretation, see above.

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Hence the saying maybe ‘no longer has anything to do with concrete sabbath observance. Rather, it symbolises abstinence from the world and from worldly values’.48 Overall the evidence provided from many of these early Christian sources is unclear and ambiguous. Some of the dates of the texts are notoriously uncertain, e.g., of the Gospel of Thomas and Didache 14; and it is not clear how the dates of the various pieces of evidence might relate to the dates of the writing of the New Testament gospels. (Ignatius is to be dated in the early second century, and hence relatively late for the present purposes; Colossians may be a relatively early Pauline pseudepigraphon.) Overall there seems to be a trend developing, at least in some circles, whereby Christian ‘liturgical’ (or quasi-liturgical) gatherings are taking place on ‘the Lord’s Day’, i.e., probably Sunday, and hence not on the Jewish Sabbath. But whether this means that Christians were not participating in Jewish assemblies on the Jewish Sabbath is not always certain. Clearly though an element of differentiation was already taking place if Christian groups were having their own quasi-liturgical weekly gathering, whether it be alongside or instead of a similar Jewish gatherings on a Saturday. However, some of the evidence noted here (e.g., from Paul and Ignatius) implies that the impetus to give up observing the Sabbath was one that had to be ‘pushed’ quite hard by the Christian author of the text concerned. This in turn suggests that other Christians at the time may have seen no problem at all in maintaining Sabbath observance alongside their Christian convictions. But equally one cannot say that any drive to call into question Sabbath observance is a later development: as far as we can tell such calls are there from the earliest period of Christian history (Paul). All this suggests that the issue of the Sabbath was one of considerable flux in the documents we have examined, and no clear or universal ‘Christian’ viewpoint emerges.49 We may however note in passing that, in none 48

See A. Marjanen, ‘Thomas and Jewish Religious Practices’, in R. Uro (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads. Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), pp. 163–82, esp. 177–78; also W. R. G. Loader, Jesus’ Attitude towards the Law. A Study of the Gospels (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), p. 495 (with reference to others, e.g., Fieger, Meyer, for a similar interpretation). So too Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday’, p. 265, at least for the saying in its present form, though he claims that originally the saying about the Sabbath stemmed from a strict Jewish-Christian milieu and advocated full observance of the Sabbath. For the latter as still the intended meaning at the level of Thomas, see DeConick, Seek to See Him, pp. 126–43, and Rediscovering the Original Gospel of Thomas, p. 91. 49 The variety of views on Sabbath (and on Sunday) in the post-New Testament period is emphasised strongly by Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday’, pp. 253, 255. Bauckham also refers elsewhere (p. 261) to the later period in Christian history and the apparent

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of the discussions which have survived for us, any appeal is ever made to the activity or the practice of Jesus himself as any kind of precedent for breaking Sabbath law.50 Nor indeed does the question about Sabbath observance ever really seem to focus on the issue of working or not working. Much more significant may have been the issue of when and where Christians did – or did not – assemble together for communal meetings. 2.3. The Gospel of John Still under broad heading of the Sabbath in the early Christianity, it may be appropriate to consider here the presentation of Jesus in relation to the Sabbath in the Gospel of John.51 The issue of ‘Jesus and the Sabbath’ is of course part of the much broader question of ‘Jesus and the Law’ in John, a topic which demands a far fuller treatment than can be given here.52 In fact the issue of Sabbath observance specifically (as opposed to broader questions about the status of the Law) is raised only three times in John: in 5.9– 18; 7.22–24; 9.14–16. In each case it is arguable that Sabbath observance as such is not really the central issue as far as John is concerned, nor is it central in the debate between John’s Jesus and ‘the Jews’. In John 5, John tells the story of the healing of the crippled man by the pool called Bethzatha. The account of a healing is given in vv. 1–9a without any mention of Sabbath. It is only at the end of v. 9 that there is a sudden note that ‘that day was a Sabbath’.53 This then leads on to a dispute with ‘the Jews’ who first accuse the man who has been healed (not Jesus!) resurgence then of Gentile Christians’ observance of the Jewish Sabbath in the third and fourth centuries. 50 See Bauckham, ‘Sabbath and Sunday’, p. 257. 51 This is in part assuming that information about the historical Jesus is more likely to be found in the synoptic gospels rather than in John, and that John’s Gospel is more a witness to the views of its author and his own community situation. This is of course something of a sweeping generalisation: John may at times contain reliable information about the historical Jesus; and the synoptics no less than John attest to the context of their own time of writing quite as much as to that of the historical Jesus. 52 For major studies, see, e.g., S. Pancaro, The Law in the Fourth Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 1975); also Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, chapter 5, with full bibliographical references to works of others; also Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 468–76. 53 It is debated whether the Sabbath motif here is part of John’s tradition, or represents a secondary (redactional) addition to the story. For the latter, see, e.g., R. Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), pp. 115–17; Pancaro, The Law in the Fourth Gospel, pp. 11–12. For the latter, see M. Labahn, ‘Eine Spurensuche anhand von Joh. 5.1–18. Bemerkungen zum Wachstum und Wandel der Heilung eines Lahmen’, NTS 44 (1998), pp. 159–79, esp. 168; R. Metzner, ‘Der Geheilte von Johannes 5 – Repräsentant des Unglaubens’, ZNW 90 (1999), pp. 177–93, esp. 179. But in any case, even if redactional, it could still be the secondary addition of a traditional motif.

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of breaking Sabbath law by carrying his mat (v. 10). This issue is not pursued: the man refers the Jews to Jesus and they accost him later, ‘persecuting’ him because he [Jesus] has breached Sabbath Law (v. 16). Jesus’ response in v. 17 is to appeal to the activity of God his Father as ‘working’ and he (Jesus) is continuing that same work.54 This then provokes the Jews to seek to kill Jesus, not only because he was breaking Sabbath law, but because he was calling God his Father ‘thereby making himself equal to God’ (v. 18). The rest of the dialogue and dispute then focuses on the unity of action between Jesus and God, akin to that between a son and a father. It would appear that the Sabbath issue plays very little part in the overall argument of the chapter as a whole. Its function seems to be, in narrative terms, a rather subsidiary one, namely to generate a dispute between Jesus and the Jews arising out of his healing the crippled man; but once the existence of a dispute has been established, the issue of Sabbath seems to be dropped, and the main focus of the debate is on the person of Jesus himself and his relationship to God. The dispute is thus primarily Christological, and not to do with legal halakic matters. Jesus’ right to break Sabbath law is justified on the basis of the unity of his action with that of the Father. As with so much of John, the prime issue is the issue of Christology.55 The Sabbath question is raised again, briefly and in passing, in Jn 7.22– 24, which appears to hark back to the context of the healing in chapter 5. Now Jesus justifies his action in healing by appealing to the phenomenon of circumcision, and claiming that, since performing circumcision is accepted as a legitimate breach of Sabbath law, healing a man’s body should be equally acceptable. The argument functions as a typical Jewish legal argument.56 But again the issue of Sabbath as such is not pursued. Whether John himself shared the presuppositions implied in the argument (presuming that circumcision and Sabbath observance were both valid) is not clear. For example, the language of v. 22 – ‘Moses gave you cir54

This seems to reflect the issue, discussed by Philo and also in later rabbinic writings, of whether God himself obeyed the Sabbath command or whether his activity, in creation and elsewhere, continues even on the Sabbath. See all the commentaries, e.g., E. Haenchen, John 1 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), pp. 248–49; A. T. Lincoln, The Gospel according to St John (London: Continuum, 2005), p. 197, and others. 55 See J. Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), p. 139: ‘John ... is no longer interested in this kind of legal debate. Questions of halakah ... are totally remote from his concern. For him the Sabbath healing is just a stepping-stone to the affirmation of Jesus’ divinity.’ Similarly, Haenchen, John 1, pp. 246–47; Metzner, ‘Geheilte’, pp. 178–79, 181. 56 Cf. m. Shab. 18.3; 19.2–3; m. Ned. 3.11. See C. K. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John (London: SPCK, 1978), p. 320; Pancaro, The Law in the Fourth Gospel, pp. 163– 64; Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, p. 467.

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cumcision’ – could be interpreted as implying that Jesus, the speaker, is not to be included in the recipients of this ‘gift’. And the status of the figure of Moses in John is notoriously ambiguous, with at least a possibility that the figure of Moses is presented somewhat negatively (cf. 1.17; 6.32).57 This may be a slight over-interpretation, though the overall impression remains that the issue of Sabbath observance is primarily a matter for the Jews, not necessarily for Jesus – hence ‘the debate over Sabbath law reflects the stance of an outsider exposing inconsistencies, rather than a serious discussion of its application’.58 The Sabbath issue arises again in the story of the healing of the blind man in chapter 9. The structure of the story in this respect is very similar to that in chapter 5. Again the miracle is recounted initially without any reference to the Sabbath (vv. 1–13). It is only in v. 14 that there is the note that this has happened on Sabbath.59 And again, just as in chapter 5, it is this that provides the initial impetus for a dispute to be generated, here between Jesus and the ‘Pharisees’ (rather than ‘the Jews’). The issue then is raised whether Jesus, who as one who breaks Sabbath law must be a ‘sinner’, can do such signs. Yet the issue of Sabbath itself then gets quickly left behind as the ensuing dialogue and conversations (involving variously the man born blind, his parents, the Pharisees, and Jesus) lead on to broader issues about who Jesus is and who is ‘really’ ‘blind’. Further, the stakes involved in the debate are shown to be very high in the note of the fear of the man’s parents that they would be ‘put out of the synagogue’ (v. 22). However the explicit reason for such expulsion is said not to be because of any breach of Sabbath law, but rather because of the confession of ‘Jesus as the Messiah’. As in chapter 5, the key issue is the Christological question of who Jesus is, not so much the issue of Sabbath observance. In conclusion it seems that issues about Sabbath observance are not very high on any list of priorities for John. John maybe knows that disputes about Jesus’ actions on the Sabbath were present in his tradition, focusing on the command not to work. And John exploits these in his narrative in the two stories (in chapters 5 and 9) to generate from otherwise nonantagonistic healing stories disputes between Jesus and the ‘Jews’/Pharisees. But on each occasion, the dispute over Sabbath is quickly lost to sight and the debate moves quickly on to focus more on what is 57 For a recent discussion of the presentation of the figure of Moses in John, see S. Schapdick, ‘Religious Authority Re-Evaluated. The Character of Moses in the Fourth Gospel’, in A. Graupner and M. Wolter (eds), Moses in Biblical and Extra-Biblical Traditions (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), pp. 181–209. 58 See Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, p. 468, and cf. R. E. Brown, The Gospel according to John (New York: Doubleday, 1966–1970), p. 312 (on v. 19). 59 See Lincoln, John, p. 194.

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clearly the central issue for John, namely the Christological issue about Jesus’ identity and his relationship to God. And it is this, rather than Sabbath halakah, that is the main issue between Jesus and his opponents. Whether John’s Christian community observed the Sabbath is not explicitly said. We have already noted that the debate in chapter 7, about circumcision on the Sabbath, reads more as if it comes from an outsider’s perspective than from a Sabbath-observant community. However, we should also note what was said here earlier about the significance of the Sabbath in Judaism: Sabbath was not only a day on which no work was to be done; it was also the day on which Jews gathered together in the synagogue. It is now universally agreed that the community situation of John is one where the Christian group has been ‘put out of the synagogue’ (9.22; 12.42; 16.2).60 If so, then Johannine Christians have been excluded (or excluded themselves) from participating in synagogue gatherings, and as such they have been excluded from one of the most significant aspects of Sabbath life. Whether they maintained the command not to work on the Sabbath or not, a highly significant part of Sabbath activity is now denied them. However, any move to expel the Johannine Christians from the synagogue implies that they were in the synagogue before being expelled. Moreover, it is widely agreed that, whatever the precise ‘legal’ instrument used by the non-Christian Jews for expelling Johannine Christians may have been,61 such action probably reflects a situation relatively late in the first century and not the earliest years of the Christian movement.62 Thus Johannine Christians must have been part of the synagogue community for some time before being expelled (or ‘expelling’ themselves). As such one presumes that they would have obeyed Sabbath law and/or assembled communally with other Jews on the Sabbath as a matter of course. Certainly there is no evidence that disputes about Sabbath were an issue before this. And the expulsion itself seems to have been because of the Christians’ claims about Jesus (cf. 9.22), not because of their stance on Sabbath observance. But whether, in the post-expulsion era, Sabbath was still observed by Johannine Christians outside the orbit of a synagogue is perhaps unlikely. Indeed in a real sense, such an idea would be verging on being a self-contradiction: precisely by virtue of being excluded from 60

The importance of this for the situation of the Johannine community has become standard critical orthodoxy, especially in light of the work of J. L. Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (Nashville: Abingdon, 1979). 61 Whether this was due to the so-called birkath ha-minim is debated. For a full recent discussion of many of the relevant issues, see J. Marcus, ‘Birkat ha-Minim Revisited’, NTS 55 (2009), pp. 523–57. 62 See J. D. G. Dunn, ‘Let John be John’, The Christ and the Spirit. Volume 1. Christology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), pp. 345–76, esp. 354–57.

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the synagogues, the Christian group would ipso facto be excluded from participating in an integral part of Sabbath activity.63 John thus knows of Sabbath disputes in his tradition. He uses them to develop his own story to highlight disputes between Jesus and the (nonChristian) Jews but shifts the focus of the dispute to the Christological issue. Certainly in John’s day, his own Christian community seems cut off from Jewish life, and from celebration of the Sabbath, including presumably the significant element of synagogue gathering. Perhaps too it has given up any idea of not working on the Sabbath. But that seems marginal to its concerns.64 2.4. Acts and Paul In relation to synagogue involvement and participation (much of which, as we noted earlier, related to activity on the Sabbath), a very similar general picture to that presupposed in John’s gospel (at least about the possible situation of the Johannine Christian community prior to its expulsion from the synagogue) emerges from Acts and the Pauline corpus. The evidence of Acts does of course raise acute issues of historicity; and the issue of how far the presentation of Acts reflects reliable historical information, or is primarily a reflection of Luke’s idealised picture, is much disputed. Acts presents the Christian movement as always starting in and from the Jewish institutions of temple (in Jerusalem) or synagogues (in other cities): and only when the message is rejected in that context (by Jews) does the Christian mission move out to address non-Jews (cf. the well-known programmatic statements in Acts 13.46; 18.6; 28.28). In part, the highly schematic picture may reflect to a significant degree Luke’s own influence. But in general terms, it is surely not implausible that the Christian mission started off working fully within the Jewish religious/liturgical system. Any formalized breach between the Christian movement and the Jewish authorities seems to have come not immediately. Even in relation to Paul himself, a similar picture emerges. Luke’s picture of Paul and the Pauline mission always starting to preach in the context of a Jewish synagogue, and then experiencing rejection from the Jews leading to a decision to ‘go to the Gentiles’, may be heavily stylized; nevertheless the evidence of Paul’s own letters indicates that Paul was active 63 One might also note here in passing that the ethic of John’s Christian community is based solely on the ‘new’ command to love and such an ethic appears to bear no explicit relationship to Old Testament ethical teaching: see Luz in R. Smend and U. Luz, Gesetz (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1981), p. 124. For all John’s indebtedness to Jewish scripture and Jewish tradition, there is a real sense in which, for practical purposes of day-to-day living, John’s community is quite separate from Judaism. 64 Cf. too Doehring, Schabbat, p. 478.

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in his missionary activity among Jews (cf. 1 Cor. 9.20). Thus Luke’s picture, at least in very broad outline, may not be entirely fictitious. The earliest Christian groups thus appear to have functioned within, and operated from, a context that was integrally related to synagogue activity; 65 and as this activity was focused primarily on activity occurring on the Sabbath, it seems likely that the earliest Christians were working within a set of assumptions and parameters that presumed Sabbath observance in some shape or form. Further, for all the undoubted conflict which arose at various stages and in various forms between Christian and non-Christian Jewish groups at this period, we hear nothing to suggest that any failure to observe the Sabbath on the part of Christians was ever an issue. In Luke’s account, schematic as it may be, there is never a hint that Christians were expelled from Jewish synagogues because of failure to observe what were regarded as standard proprieties in relation to the Sabbath (or, more generally, synagogue activity). The issue of working on the Sabbath is never raised. It is the content of the Christians’ teaching and preaching that causes offence and this is almost always focused on the significance and person of Jesus himself. And even in relation to the latter, it is never implied that Jesus’ activity, or teaching, in relation to Sabbath law was ever an issue raised, let alone one which led to the Christians arousing opposition from their non-Christian Jewish contemporaries. Similarly, from the Pauline corpus, we certainly know of Paul himself experiencing opposition and/or disciplinary action from the Jewish authorities (cf. the reference in 2 Cor. 11.24 to Paul’s receiving the thirty-nine stripes five times66) – but we are not told why, and no mention is made of having broken Sabbath law.67 2.5. Conclusions The general picture that emerges from this (admittedly somewhat superficial) survey, at least in relation to synagogue involvement, is that early Christians appear to have operated within and from a Jewish context, uti65

Rordorf, Sunday, pp. 124–25, argues that, from its very inception, the early Christian movement had an ‘inner detachment’ from Judaism, and Christians ‘could no longer feel at home in the synagogues’. This seems unjustified by the evidence available and perhaps draws too sharp a line between Christians and Jews, seeking implicitly to trace any ‘parting of the ways’ right to the very start of the Christian movement. 66 For the significance of this as implying that both Paul and the Jewish authorities presumed that Paul was still operating within the parameters of Judaism, see E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), pp. 190–92. 67 It is however not quite clear how all this relates to the more explicit references in the Pauline corpus to the Sabbath discussed earlier, which seem to imply that Sabbath observance was at best optional, or a worst a denial of authentic Christian existence for Paul. Could Paul have developed and changed his modus operandi over the course of his missionary activity as a Christian?

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lising the opportunity which communal gatherings on Sabbath in synagogues afforded to develop and promulgate their own message. Nowhere do we find evidence that early Christians challenged the principle of not working on the Sabbath, either by claiming the right to work themselves or by appealing to the example or teaching of Jesus to justify such activity. Over the course of time, Christians found themselves excluded (or excluded themselves) from synagogue activity and hence from participating in the characteristic Sabbath activity of assembling in the synagogues with the Jewish community. Such exclusions however seem to have started only after some time and not immediately. As part of that process, some Christians evidently developed the practice of having their own particular assembly68 and changing the day of their regular communal meeting (whether for study or for ‘worship’) from Saturday to Sunday, in part no doubt as a process of identity formation and as a way of distinguishing themselves as a group from their Jewish neighbours. But once again the issue of whether or not to work on this special day (and/or whether or not to work on the Jewish Sabbath) rarely if ever arises explicitly. Against this background then I turn to the evidence of the synoptic gospels to see what light the analysis so far may throw on the problem of ‘Jesus and the Sabbath’.

3. Jesus and the Sabbath Just as has been noted in relation to the fourth gospel, and to Luke’s account in Acts, we cannot necessarily take the synoptic gospels as verbatim transcripts of things said and done by the historical Jesus. In any case the three synoptic gospels are different, and each may reflect as much the interests and concerns of its evangelist-author as it does the situation of the historical Jesus. Hence an analysis of the Sabbath stories in each synoptic gospel could – and probably should – belong with the discussion of ‘The Sabbath in early Christianity’. However, constraints of space preclude such a detailed analysis in this essay.69 Certainly, however, it is well known that Matthew especially has a strong propensity to try to tone down any potential radicalness of Jesus in relation to aspects of the Old Testament Law and to show Jesus as operating as far as possible within the parameters of

68

Although this practice may have arisen alongside simultaneous participation in Jewish synagogue assemblies as well. 69 For this, see the recent comprehensive study of Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, with full references to earlier literature.

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Torah observance.70 The Sabbath stories are no exception to this: here Matthew regularly seeks to tone down any possible offensiveness to Lawobservant sensibilities by showing Jesus as acting, as far as possible, within the parameters of an overall respect for the Law; and if he strays outside the letter of the Law at times, this is shown to be for reasons that are both reasonable and, in principle, justifiable according to patterns of argumentation appropriate at the time to justify breaking Sabbath law by working in a particular situation (at least apparently in Matthew’s eyes!)71 Certainly too the (almost certainly redactional) note in Mt. 24.20, in the middle of Matthew’s version of the eschatological discourse, where the Matthean Jesus urges his followers to pray that their flight ‘may not be on the Sabbath’, has been taken by many to imply that Matthew’s own community was still observing the Jewish Sabbath.72 However, Matthew’s gospel can be mostly left on one side insofar as it relates to any search for the historical Jesus in the present discussion: on the assumption of Markan priority, Matthew’s main Sabbath stories (Mt. 12.1–14) derive from Mark and Matthew has no extra material of much substance (Mt. 12.11 may be from Q; Mt. 12.5–7, 12; 24.20 are probably redactional). Thus the primary evidence (on the Two Document hypothesis) derives from Mark and Luke and probably Q. Here of course it may well be that Mark and/or Luke, and perhaps the Q editor/compiler,73 have 70

See, e.g., G. Barth, ‘Matthew’s Understanding of the Law’, in G. Bornkamm, G. Barth and H. J. Held (eds.), Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew (London: SCM, 1963), pp. 58–164; R. Mohrlang, Matthew and Paul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 7–26, and many others. 71 There are, of course, notorious problems at times, e.g., in Mt. 12.11 where Matthew has Jesus presume (apparently) that dragging a sheep out of a pit on the Sabbath would have been regarded as a legitimate breach of the law, when the direct evidence that we have implies that it was not. However, the situation is complex and by no means clear: the explicit rulings to this effect (in CD 11.13–14 and b. Sanh. 128b: see Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 193–95, for full discussion) may have been given precisely because the issue was disputed and differing views were current; so, e.g., Dunn, Partings, p. 108, claiming that Jesus’ saying here presupposes the Pharisees’ ruling over against that of the Essenes; cf. too J. Meier, A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus 3 (New York: Doubleday, 2001), p. 527: Jesus is ‘arguing with fellow Jews who, like himself, would consider the Essene rules on sabbath observance as too strict’. For others, Jesus is appealing to the practice of Galilean farmers rather than to legally determined exceptions to the law: cf. T. W. Manson, The Sayings of Jesus (London: SCM, 1961), p. 189. 72 See the commentaries; though for the possible problems raised by such an interpretation, see also U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (Mt 18–25) (Zürich & Neukirchen-Vluyn: Benziger & Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), pp. 428–29, who ascribes it to a pre-Matthean stage in the tradition when Sabbath was still observed, rather than to the situation of Matthew’s own community. 73 For the possibility that the Q editor has a strong tendency to make Jesus appear more Torah observant, and to tone down potentially ‘radical’ elements in the tradition,

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influenced the tradition. But it is still striking that a broadly similar picture emerges from both gospels. In both Mark and Luke Jesus is portrayed in at least four stories as provoking opposition, apparently flouting Sabbath law by doing ‘work’ (either himself, cf. Mk 3.1–6; Lk. 13.10–17; 14.1–6, or his disciples, cf. Mk 2.23– 28). In addition, there is what appears to be the vestige of a Sabbath controversy story in Q where, in Q 14.5, Jesus appears to provide some kind of justification for performing work on the Sabbath by appealing to the precedent of drawing an animal (or possibly a human being) which had fallen into a pit on the Sabbath.74 Further, in all the stories it appears to be assumed without question by all parties in the debate that Jesus or his disciples is/are doing ‘work’: the issue is simply whether what is being done can be regarded as a legitimate breach of a Sabbath Law. 75 Hence attempts to explain the stories on the grounds that Jesus is not really doing any work, and hence is actually not breaching the command about not working, seem beside the point.76 A variety of different responses is given in the difsee my Q and the History of Early Christianity (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), pp. 404– 24. 74 For the issue of whether this verse belonged to Q, see my Q and the History, p. 414, with further references, though it is not included in Q in the reconstruction offered by J. M. Robinson, P. Hoffmann and J. S. Kloppenborg, The Critical Edition of Q (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), pp. 428–29 (though the verse was included in earlier reconstructions of Q by the International Q Project). For further discussion of the implications for this verse in relation to broader issues about Jesus and the Sabbath, arguing in particular against the views of J. S. Kloppenborg, ‘The Sayings Gospel Q and the Quest of the Historical Jesus’, HTR 89 (1996), pp. 307–44, who claims that Q has no Sabbath controversies and uses this to cast doubt more generally on the authenticity of all the Sabbath controversies in the gospels (see esp. 332–34), see my ‘Q and the Historical Jesus’, in J. Schröter and B. Brucker (eds.), Der historische Jesus (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2002), pp. 213–42, esp. 228–33. 75 The evidence from the Q saying is much less clear since only the vestige of the defence of Jesus remains and the fuller context of the story as a whole in which it presumably originated has not survived (unless of course that context is one of the existing Sabbath stories in the gospels (possibly, e.g., Lk. 14.1–6 in which the saying now appears in Luke – but Matthew does not appear to know this story and hence it is difficult to claim that the story as a whole derives from Q). 76 Cf. too Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 445–46. Hence contra those who argue that Jesus in fact does no work in these stories and hence there is no question of his breaking the Law: see, e.g., A. E. Harvey, Jesus and the Constraints of History (London: Duckworth, 1982), p. 38: Jesus ‘does nothing which could be regarded as a transgression of any known regulation’; similarly G. Vermes, Jesus the Jew (London: Collins, 1973), p. 25; E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985), pp. 265–66: the stories in Mark 3, Luke 13 and Luke 14 ‘reveal no instance in which Jesus transgressed the Sabbath law. The matter is quite simple: no work was performed’. Also Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, pp. 52–53 (on Mk 2.23–28 and 3.1–6): on 2.23–28 ‘there is no law or law interpretation known to us which Jesus’ disciples would be contravening’; and on 3.1–6 ‘only the most

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ferent stories but none take the form of a claim that no ‘work’ is in fact being done. On the surface, therefore, it seems that a picture is given of Jesus at times breaking Sabbath law by undertaking activity which appears is agreed by all to constitute ‘work’, though then seeking to justify this in various ways. In turn, this can be seen to cohere with the evidence from John’s gospel where, as we saw, the motif of Jesus either engaging himself, or encouraging others, in doing ‘work’ on the Sabbath seems to be one that was available and firmly present in John’s tradition: John himself uses it to enable at least two of his narratives to progress – from a miracle engendering a positive reaction to a scene of opposition from Jewish opponents. In each case, John seems relatively uninterested in the issue of Sabbath observance as such: once it has been introduced to enable the opposition to arise in the first place, the issue itself is quickly forgotten and the ensuing debate focuses, in a typically Johannine way, on the theme of Christology, i.e., Jesus’ claims about himself. But the theme of Jesus breaking Sabbath law by doing ‘work’ is evidently available in the tradition for John to exploit. Yet alongside this part of the gospel tradition, there is another theme which is equally widespread across the tradition. This is the series of notices that Jesus went into a synagogue on the Sabbath and taught. This is said in Mk 1.21; 6.2; Lk. 4.16 (‘as was his custom’); 13.10. It may also be implied by the (almost certainly) redactional summaries in Mt. 4.23; 9.35; Mk 1.39; Lk. 4.44 and perhaps Jn 6.59, which refer to Jesus teaching in synagogues, if Sabbath was the prime occasion when synagogue teaching took place. In the present context, these notices are all the more remarkable because so little is made of them. Indeed in one way they might seem to be in some tension with the overall Tendenz of (at least some of) the evangelists in whose gospels they occur. They appear to imply that Jesus is thoroughly at home in the characteristically Sabbath activity of synagogue gathering, i.e., teaching and learning, thus taking a full and active role in the Sabbath activity of the Jewish community.77 If we now raise the issue of the authenticity of the Jesus tradition in relation to the material considered here, seeking to apply some of the standard criteria for authenticity to this Jesus material,78 the evidence is in one

rigorous extremists would object [to Jesus’ actions here]’, On this, see however Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 102. 77 For this as part of a more general picture of Jesus’ conformity with Jewish piety, see J. Jeremias, New Testament Theology. Volume One. The Proclamation of Jesus (London: SCM, 1971), p. 187 (with reference to Luke 4.16). 78 I presume that the terms of the discussion suggested by the Jesus in Continuum project have been determined, at least in part, in a significant way by the authenticity question, and especially by the terms of the dissimilarity criterion (on which see below).

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way striking in that it seems to be very clearly in favour of the substantial authenticity of this material (at least in general terms). In relation to ‘multiple attestation’, the twin themes in the gospels – of Jesus apparently performing actions which may have (or were seen as having) contravened the Sabbath law on work, and of Jesus participating regularly in synagogue teaching activity (which was typically associated with the Sabbath and in any case is explicitly said at times in the gospels to have been on the Sabbath) – are both amply attested across the various strands of the synoptic gospel tradition (as well as in John). Actions appearing to breach Sabbath law are attested directly in Mark and L, and implicitly in Q.79 Synagogue teaching activity on the Sabbath is also attested in Mark and L, as well as occurring in a number of summary statements by the different evangelists. In relation to any criterion (or criteria) of ‘dissimilarity’,80 the situation is also striking. In relation to early Christianity (insofar as we can recover information about early Christians’ attitudes to the Sabbath), the Jesus tradition in the gospels appears to be almost the direct opposite of what one might expect if the gospel tradition were being aligned in any way to conform to early Christians’ understandings, beliefs or practices. As far as we can tell, (at least some) early Christians might if anything have sought to develop any tendency in the tradition which had Jesus move away, or be moved away, from synagogue activity.81 Yet in the gospel traditions, involvement in synagogue activity, as often as not on the Sabbath, is taken as read. On the other hand, there is no evidence that early Christians would have been at all interested in developing or exploiting the issue about working on the Sabbath in any way; and yet it is this which forms the main focus of attention in the synoptic Sabbath stories themselves. Further, if one looks in more detail, it is striking in this context that the actual stories themselves (about Jesus working on the Sabbath) do not relate very readily 79

Cf. also Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 91, and his ‘Jesus, Judaism and the Covenant’, p. 11. 80 The criterion of dissimilarity has been debated over many years. Recently a powerful case has been made for distinguishing clearly between its two traditional parts, namely dissimilarity in relation to Judaism and dissimilarity in relation to the early church, and for arguing that really only the latter is important in discussions of authenticity of Jesus materials in the gospels. See T. Holmén, ‘Doubts about Double Dissimilarity. Restructuring the Main Criterion of Jesus-of-History Research’, B. D. Chilton and C. A. Evans (eds), Authenticating the Words and Activities of Jesus. Volume 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 47–80, G. Theissen and D. Winter, Die Kriterienfrage in der Jesusforschung. Vom Differenzkriterium zum Plausibilitätskriterium (Freiburg & Göttingen: Universitätsverlag & Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997). 81 And indeed this might be reflected in the synagogue rejection stories of Mark 6 or Luke 4; yet both of these are often regarded as reflecting a significant measure of redactional influence from their respective evangelists (or their prior sources).

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to any particular activities which were known to be ones in which early Christians were engaged (or if they were, very often). Thus the issue of plucking/rubbing ears of corn does not seem to have exercised the minds of any other early Christians that we know of! Similarly, healings of nonchronically ill people would appear to be very much the exception within the lives of early Christian communities.82 It therefore one were to adopt any kind of ‘hermeneutic of suspicion’ that the gospel traditions about Jesus and the Sabbath reflected in some way the possible influence of early Christians developing the tradition in some way to reflect their own vested interests, it would seem that the gospel tradition is the exact opposite of what one might have expected (with the possible exception of scenes like Luke 4 and Mark 6, where one has stories of Jesus being rejected by his local synagogue). The material thus appears to pass any criterion of dissimilarity very well. There is then nothing really to support the theory that the Sabbath stories in the gospels are inauthentic and/or reflect the interests and concerns of early Christian communities.83 Rather, it seems that, by applying the various ‘criteria’ of historical Jesus studies, this part of the material does go back to Jesus himself. This may not be a very startling view in relation to contemporary scholarship,84 but may nevertheless be worth stating in light of at least some influential contrary views (cf. n. 83 above). We should maybe also note here that the gospel traditions about Jesus and the Sabbath also pass the (perhaps now dated) criterion of double dissimilarity with flying colours as well (as indeed has been noted many times before). Issues about ‘dissimilarity’ are now often divided into two separate categories of dissimilarity to the early church and dissimilarity to Judaism (see n. 80 above), with only the former being regarded as significant in discussions of authenticity. Nevertheless, the issue of ‘dissimilarity to Judaism’ may be of significance within a broader discussion of the evidence and the significance which the Sabbath stories might have in relation to study of Jesus himself. In relation to the material here, it is striking that Jesus appears to be implicitly questioning the principle of not working on 82

Stories about miracles performed by some (usually ‘special’) early Christians are attested at times, though withered hands, women bent double, and sufferers from dropsy, are, as far as I am aware, noticeable by their absence from such stories! 83 Contra, e.g., R. Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (Oxford: Blackwell, 1972), pp. 12–13, 16; Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, p. 264: ‘It is very probable that the issues of food and Sabbath are so prominent in the Gospels because of the importance which they assumed in the church’ (the issue of food may be rather different from Sabbath in this context). 84 Cf. Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 100, who refers to ‘a scholarly consensus’, also with reference to S.-O. Back, Jesus of Nazareth and the Sabbath (Åbo: Åbo Akademi Press, 1995), pp. 1–13 (the book of Back was however unavailable to me).

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the Sabbath in a way that comes into considerable tension (to say the least) with all that we know of other Jews’ beliefs and practices at the time. Such a claim must of course be hedged around with all the usual (but still essential) qualifiers and expressions of uncertainty: just as ‘the early church’ is not a monolithic unity, so too ‘Judaism’ in the first century CE was not a uniform, monolithic entity, and it has become standard orthodoxy to stress the wide variety in beliefs and practices amongst Jews at this period.85 Nevertheless, there is no evidence that any Jews seriously questioned the validity of the law about not working on the Sabbath in any way. As we saw, there were innumerable debates and disagreements about precisely how it was to be applied and obeyed; but the assumption that it was to be obeyed appears to have been unquestioned by all. In this light, one has to say that the Sabbath stories in the gospels are quite startling. T. Holmén has recently discussed these stories in general terms and argued that a decision between two extreme views at opposite ends of the exegetical spectrum – either Jesus deliberately challenged and flouted Sabbath law, or Jesus never opposed the Law and acted in conformity with it – is not possible and the dichotomy may be too simplistic.86 He argues persuasively that virtually all the stories in the tradition presuppose an assumption, by both Jesus’ opponents and Jesus himself, that he has transgressed Sabbath law. On the other hand, Holmén argues that all the stories of Jesus’ breaking Sabbath law appear to be occasional, ‘on the spur of the moment. They do not look like conscious acts of provocation’.87 The cornfields incident ‘can be considered a casual incident’,88 and indeed ‘according to vv. 27 and 28 [of Mk 2] Jesus would have in principle regarded the Sabbath as a good thing’.89 The healings on the Sabbath seem similar in this respect: thus Holmén quotes S.-O. Back: A fair assumption would be that he [Jesus] cared for the sick for their own sake (in order to cure them), and not for the sake of the healthy (in order to provoke them).90

Thus Holmén argues that Jesus’ attitude to the Sabbath was one of ‘indifference’: ‘he simply was not particularly concerned at keeping the com85

Leading some to talk about ‘Judaisms’ (plural) at this time. Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, pp. 100–06. 87 Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, pp. 104–05. 88 Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 105, cf. p. 102. 89 Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 102. However, the saying in Mk 2.27 is notoriously ambiguous and the precise significance of it is hugely debated and disputed. Cf., e.g., F. Neirynck, ‘Jesus and the Sabbath. Some Observations on Mark II.27’, Evangelica (Leuven: Peeters, 1982), pp. 637–80, esp. 656–64, for a survey of some past opinions. 90 Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 105, citing Back, Jesus of Nazareth and the Sabbath, p. 159. 86

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mandment’; ‘his behaviour reflects a strikingly indifferent attitude towards the command’.91 Holmén’s discussion is in many ways persuasive and at one level his claims about Jesus’ ‘indifference’, as well as his arguments about authenticity (against Sanders in particular), seem to me to be very plausible conclusions to draw from the evidence available in the gospels. However, in the light of the evidence we have from Judaism, an attitude of ‘indifference’ should not be seen as staking any claim to occupy a ‘middle ground’ or ‘neutral territory’ between opposing positions. As we saw, Sabbath observance was universally accepted by all Jews of the time, as far as we can discern. Hence an attitude of indifference, or casual dis-interest, would surely be a far more provocative act than staking a claim to some neutral middle ground between two extremes.92 All the evidence we have from Jewish sources suggests that any position of ‘indifference’ would not have been regarded as ‘middle’ or ‘neutral’ at all! Any ‘middle ground’ within Judaism at the time would surely have been one which accepted the principle of Sabbath observance as an unquestioned given.93 And it is this which seems to be called into question by the stories in the gospels where Jesus appears ‘not particularly concerned about keeping the commandment’.94 It may be, as Holmén suggests, that the incidents recorded in themselves do not suggest any systematic attempt to challenge the validity of Sabbath law: for example, in the cornfields story, ‘the incident evolves quite accidentally’. 95 On the other hand, the healing stories do seem to be somewhat more provocative acts (pace Back above). For example, as is regularly noted, the people who are healed on the Sabbath are not suffering lifethreatening conditions (which is precisely the reason why the actions of Jesus provoke debate and opposition). Nothing in any of the stories gives any indication that Jesus is not going to be present in the same place 24 hours later; nothing indicates that the healing concerned could not have been delayed by a day to respect the Sabbath legislation. Further, the ‘justification’ given by the Markan Jesus in Mk 3.4 in the form of the blunt two-fold rhetorical question (‘Is it lawful to do good on the Sabbath or to 91

All from Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 105. Holmén himself makes this particularly clear in his later article, ‘Jesus, Judaism and the Covenant’: in relation to Sabbath, and indeed to other matters regarding the Law, Jesus is shown to be not engaged in any kind of (what Holmén calls) ‘path searching’, seeking to work out how covenant loyalty should be worked out in practice. 93 So, e.g., recently J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), pp. 568–69, in relation to Jesus: ‘the question under debate is not whether the Sabbath should be observed, but how it is to be observed.’ Holmén shows well that this does not really match the Jesus tradition! 94 Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 105, as above. 95 Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, p. 102. 92

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do evil? To save life or to destroy it?’) is highly provocative if intended as any kind of justification for doing work in this context on the Sabbath.96 Making any deductions about the specific historical settings of individual stories in the gospels is of course a highly hazardous and speculative enterprise. Nevertheless it does seem to be the case that the Sabbath healings by Jesus, however unsystematic and ‘occasional’ in one way they may have been, do seem to have been used to provide the focus for a fairly sharp polemic against Sabbath legislation and/or its enactment at the time. Certainly if Mk 3.4 is to be taken as reflecting the views of the historical Jesus, then the startling implication is almost that ‘doing good’ overrides Sabbath obligations, in which case not working on the Sabbath is by implication excluded from the category of the ‘good’ (whereas from a Jewish perspective, presumably the very presence of the command not to work on the Sabbath within the Torah [and the Decalogue!] defines not working as the primary ‘good’ on the Sabbath). Seeking to generalise on the basis of (what is at the end of the day) a relatively small number of individual stories concerning Jesus and the Sabbath is of course inherently difficult and potentially dangerous. We only have effectively responses by Jesus to the challenges posed to him and nothing by way of a sustained argument on the matter.97 Nevertheless, the evidence does seem to suggest that, on a number of occasions, Jesus used what may have been ‘occasional’, even relatively ‘trivial’, events to focus the attention of his hearers.98 Further, as already noted, nothing in the tradition suggests that any of the controversial actions by Jesus on the Sabbath were in response to any kind of ‘emergency’ of human need. It would appear then that Jesus not only adopted an attitude of ‘indifference’ to the Sabbath; at the very least he seems to have gone out of his way to make quite public and prominent any such ‘indifference’ and dis-interest by allowing – possibly even provoking – specific instances to make this clear. What precisely lies behind this (in relation to the historical Jesus) is probably impossible for us to say with any certainty on the basis of the available evidence. A fundamental appeal to human need as having an absolute priority over against Sabbath legislation appeals to (some) modern 96 For the ‘provocative’ nature of Mk 3.4, see also Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, pp. 46, 130. For Mk 3.4 as also crucial but less provocative, see Doehring, Schabbat, pp. 441–57 and the summary on p. 477, claiming that Jesus’ argument here is firmly anchored in the halakic discussions of the day, and arguing (against Pharisees) that ‘doing good’ equated with ‘saving life’ can be applied to these situations. Yet, as Holmén argues (‘Jesus, Judaism and the Covenant’, pp. 12–13), the debate does not seem to be conducted at this level, at least in the form Mark presents it: Jesus is not engaged in halakic debate about how to keep Sabbath law – rather he simply dismisses the Sabbath law almost in toto. 97 Though of course the same applies to almost everything in the Jesus tradition! 98 By ‘trivial’ I mean trivial in relation to Sabbath law itself.

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sensibilities and can certainly be read out of some of the evidence.99 However, the fact that the incidents concerned are almost all accounts of miracles by Jesus may suggest, at least by implication, that what is at stake for Jesus is not necessarily human need alone but also the status and claims of his own actions and ministry. Thus built into the tradition may be an ‘implicit Christology’.100 If Mk 3.4 (in its entirety) can be taken as going back to the historical Jesus,101 one could perhaps argue that the saying, when put into its context of Jesus’ action of healing (on the Sabbath) is to be regarded not just as on a par with other ‘miracles’ of the time: rather, Jesus’ actions are to be seen as bestowing and/or ‘saving’ ‘life’ – and hence his actions override even Sabbath law.102 They thus represent a challenge to the reader/hearer on how he or she will respond to the implicit claims of this man. Sabbath law as such may not be the prime issue (and the firmly embedded tradition of Jesus taking part in the typically Sabbath activity of meeting in the synagogue would suggest that any ‘quarrel’ is not with the institution of Sabbath as such); rather, the Sabbath is exploited to focus

99

It is more easily read out of the healing stories, less easily out of the cornfields incident. 100 Such a trend is perhaps more explicit in some of the later developments of the tradition, especially in Mark: cf. Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, p. 131 (writing on the Law more generally): ‘Implicit appeals to human need (e.g., 2:9; 2:17a; 2:27; 3:4) become in Mark appeals to human need on Jesus’ authority, which, in end effect, become claims to Jesus as rival authority (2:10; 2:17b; 2:28).’ But perhaps what are, at the surface level, ‘appeals to human need’ are in context also implicitly claims about the significance of Jesus himself. 101 This is by no means guaranteed since some have argued that Mk 3.4b may be a later (Markan) addition to an earlier saying in the tradition containing only 3.4a: see, e.g., Loader, Jesus’ Attitude, p. 46. 102 This would then perhaps be similar to the claims implicit in the saying in Q 11.20: the exorcisms of Jesus are not just like the exorcisms of others in the contemporary world: rather, the claim is that they represent the in-breaking of the Kingdom of God itself. Holmén, Jesus and Jewish Covenant Thinking, pp. 335–37, and ‘Jesus, Judaism and the Covenant’, pp. 24–26, tentatively suggests that Jesus’ refusal to engage in ‘path searching’ on how to put into practice ‘covenant loyalty’ might be because he was drawing on the prophetic tradition of the hope of a ‘new covenant’ (cf. Jeremiah 31) with the idea expressed there that everyone would know instinctively how to express their loyalty and obedience (with the Law ‘written in their hearts’: cf. Jer. 31.33–34). If this could be established (and, as Holmén notes, there are very few explicit references to the ‘covenant’ (old or new) in the Jesus tradition), it is still the case that this is being implicitly claimed by Jesus in relation to his own activity, hence perhaps making the claim that the conditions of the eschatological ‘new age’ have arrived in the events of his own ministry. Whether it is ‘kingdom’ language, or ‘covenant’ language, the net result may be very similar.

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and to sharpen this challenge by Jesus to his contemporaries about the nature and status of his activity.103

103 Supplementary Note. This essay was originally written in 2007 for a session at the SBL International meeting in Vienna. I have left the essay mostly unchanged from the form it was in when submitted shortly after the meeting. Since then, and prior to publication, John Meier has published the 4th volume of his massive work on Jesus: A Marginal Jew. Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Volume Four. Law and Love (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2009). In this volume, Meier deals with the whole question of Jesus and the Law, including a detailed discussion of Jesus and the Sabbath (pp. 235– 341). I have not tried to add extra footnotes to the detailed discussion above to engage with Meier’s work, but simply offer a few brief comments here. Meier offers a slightly different interpretation of the evidence with perhaps a rather different overall interpretation of the general issue of ‘Jesus and the Sabbath’. He is rather more sceptical (or at least agnostic) about the historicity of the actual stories in the gospels of Jesus healing on the Sabbath, and certainly of the story about plucking corn. He is more positive about the occasional sayings preserved in the gospels: and here he sees Jesus as fitting in well with contemporary Jewish teachers who discussed various options in relation to particular situations about how to obey the Sabbath law about work in detail. Rather than any confrontational Jesus challenging the basis of Sabbath Law, he sees Jesus as the ‘halakic Jesus’, fully at home in a first-century Jewish context. Readers will be able to decide for themselves. Meier’s work (as is thoroughly typical) is outstanding in its attention to detail and exhibiting massive study and learning. However, the decision to leave the essay as it stands is not entirely due to laziness and an unwillingness to rethink, as I would still wish to propose the ideas as stated there. Meier is generally unwilling to accept positively (though he does not necessarily wish to deny) the historicity of the healing stories, primarily on the grounds that there is no evidence that Jews at the time would have regarded healing on the Sabbath as controversial in relation to Sabbath legislation. But the alleged lack of any convincing Sitz im Leben within the ministry of Jesus for such stories may mean that they lack equally any historically plausible Sitz im Leben within early Christianity as well. As far as we know, early Christians did not go about healing on the Sabbath and claiming that this was legitimate activity within Jewish legislation in the context of opposition by contemporary Jews. Hence it is hard to see these stories as early Christian productions. More broadly, as argued above, Sabbath observance (in relation to ‘work’) does not generally seem to have been one of the ‘flashpoints’ in relation to conflicts between early Christians and non-Christian Jews. It remains at least plausible then to see the controversies in the gospel stories as reflecting debates, and real controversies (perhaps going beyond simply exegetical and/or case law discussions about individual situations) within the ministry of the historical Jesus. Nevertheless, Meier’s massive study is to be thoroughly welcomed and will undoubtedly form the basis for much future discussion of these (and related) issues.

List of Contributors MARY ANN BEAVIS Professor St. Thomas More College University of Saskatchewan Saskatoon, Canada MICHAEL F. BIRD Lecturer in Theology and New Testament Crossway College Brisbane, Australia DARRELL L. BOCK Senior Research Professor of New Testament Studies Dallas Theological Seminary Dallas, USA JAMES H. CHARLESWORTH Director and Editor, Princeton Dead Sea Scrolls Project George L. Collord Professor of New Testament Language and Literature Princeton Theological Seminary Princeton, USA JAMES G. CROSSLEY Professor of Bible, Culture and Politics Department of Biblical Studies University of Sheffield Sheffield, UK ANDRÉ GAGNÉ Associate Professor of Early Christian Literature and History Department of Religion Department of Theological Studies Concordia University Montreal, Canada

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List of Contributors

TOM HOLMÉN Adjunct Professor of New Testament Exegetics Faculty of Theology Åbo Akademi University Turku, Finland JOHN S. KLOPPENBORG Professor of Christian Origins Department for the Study of Religion University of Toronto Toronto, Canada MICHAEL LABAHN Privatdozent Theological Faculty, Seminar of Biblical Exegesis University of Halle-Wittenberg Halle, Germany External Research Collaborator Faculty of Theology North-West University, South Africa MARY J. MARSHALL Honorary Research Associate Murdoch University Perth, Australia MARVIN MEYER Griset Professor of Bible and Christian Studies Department of Religious Studies Chapman University Orange, USA STANLEY E. PORTER President and Dean Professor of New Testament McMaster Divinity College Hamilton, Canada HEIKKI RÄISÄNEN Professor Emeritus of New Testament Studies University of Helsinki Helsinki, Finland

List of Contributors

RIEMER ROUKEMA Professor of New Testament Protestant Theological University Groningen, the Netherlands GERD THEISSEN Professor Emeritus of New Testament Theology University of Heidelberg Heidelberg, Germany MARKUS TIWALD Professor of New Testament Studies Institute for Catholic Theology University of Duisburg-Essen Essen, Germany CHRISTOPHER TUCKETT Professor of New Testament Studies Faculty of Theology University of Oxford Oxford, UK

445

Index of Sources Old Testament Genesis 1.27 2.24 3.24 5.2 10 18 19 37 38.25

140, 402 140, 402 367 402 312 n92 306 306 127 248

Exodus 4.2–4, 6–7, 9 7.1 8.15 12 12.1–13 13.8 14 15.22–26 16 17 19.6 20.8–11 20.9–11 20.12 20.12–16 21.24 22.27 23.12 31.13 34.21

270 204 290 201 199 199 n46 270 271 271 271 155, 169 n67 412 179 401, 402 403 193 n39 203 403 412 412

Leviticus 4.3 6.1–5 10.10–16 11.34 13.49 14.2–4

213 175 403 104 139 139

19.18 19.34 24.20 24.20–16 24.29

23–24, 54, 212, 213 322 193 n39 203 246

Numbers 11 15.30–31 20.1–13 25.11

271 203 271 72

Deuteronomy 5 5.12–15 5.14 5.16 5.16–20 6.4 6.4–5 10.19 13.9 14.14 22.13–19 22.28–29 24.1–3 28–32

179 412 403 401 402 140 403 322 183 403 35 n97 35 n97 402 197

Joshua 3–6 10.12–13

271 271

1 Samuel 7.14 8.4–18 21.1–7

153 165 140

2 Samuel 12.13

176

448

Index of Sources

1 Kings 5.5 17.17–24

152 273–274

2 Kings 4.33

274

2 Chronicles 7.19–22

92

Nehemiah 10.31 13.15–22

413 413

Job 22.7, 9 31.32 Psalms 2.7 88.10 110.1

307 n52 307 n52

153 327 202, 205–207, 206–207, 348

Proverbs 22.8 25.21

246 319, 322

Isaiah 2.2–3 2.3 6.9–10 11.10 26.14 26.19 26.29 35.5–6 43.5 49.12 52–53 56.7 58 59.19 61 61.1

405 404 240 54 327, 329 327, 329 275 275, 330 404 404 334 140, 396 188 404 279 275

61.1–2 66.1–2 66.23–24 66.24

330 91 366 358, 374, 379

Jeremiah 2.2 17.17–27 31 31.2 32.40–41

152 412 152 152 152

Ezekiel 33 34.25 37

101 152 333, 334, 335

Daniel 2.18–19, 27–29, 30, 47 4.6 7 7.13–14 12 12.13 12.2 12.2–3

228 228 348 206–207 330, 350–351 328–329 334 328–329

Hosea 2.14 6.1–2 6.2 9.10 13.14 13.5–6

152 334 329 152 334 152

Amos 2.10 4.1–5 5.21–6.14 5.25–27

152 393 393 396

Malachi 3.17–4.6 4.5–6

152 176

449

Index of Sources

Old Testament Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Ahiqar 214 Apocalypse of Abraham 31.2 359 Apocalypse of Zephaniah 2.8–9 367 4.7 367 6.2 367 2 Baruch 30.1 30.2 30.4–5 44.12 44.15 48.43 50.2 57.2 59.10–11 59.2 78.6 83.8 85.12–13 1 Enoch 1.1 1.9 5.6–7 10.6 22 37–71 48.4–10 48.9–10 51.1 51.1–2 53.4–5 54.1–2 56.1–4 56.8 61.5 62.5–9 62.11 63.1, 5–8 69.28

367 333 367 367 367 367 334 388 367 367 369 369 367

369 358 358 n13 366 366 204, 363 365 363 332 363 364 363 363 363 363 205 363 363 364

90 90.28–29 90.28–30 91 91–107 92–105 96.6 98.10–13 99.6–7 99.9 99.11 100.9 102.1 103 108

360 394 195 361 332 100, 362 362 362 105 362 362 362 362 379 363, 379

2 Enoch 10 40.12–13 41.2 42.2

368 368 368 368

3 Enoch 12–16

415 n13

4 Ezra 7.32 7.36 7.61 7.75–76 7.80 8.59 10.46–55

333 365 365 365 365 365 394

Jubilees 1.29 2.17 22.22 23.21b 23.26–31 23.30–31 30.22

394 412 364 394 152 329 n20 364

Judith 16.17

366

450

Index of Sources

Letter of Aristeas 128 143 144–50 1 Maccabees 1.10 1.11–15 2.24–27 2.29–41 2 Maccabees 4.9–13 7 350–351 7.14 12.44–45 4 Maccabees 9.9 12.12 13.14–15

214 390 388 388–389

105 392 72 413

392 329–330, 359 330

367 367 367

Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 4.14–18 373 Psalms of Solomon 1.1 2.1 2.34 3.11–12 3.12 13.11 14.9 14.10 15.10–13 15.13 17–18

2.283–310 2.330–38 4.179–90

368 373 n87 359

Sirach 12.13–14 27–28 29.22–27 31.12–30 44.1–50

101 212 308 n61 308 n61 151

Syriac Menander 2.587–88

215

Testament of Asher 6.5 368 Testament of Benjamin 3.1–3 213 10.6–8 331 Testament of Job 307 Testament of Joseph 2.2 369 Testament of Judah 25.1 331

105 105 361 361 332, 333 332 361 332–333 361 333 196

Testament of Moses 5.5 393–394 6.1 393–394 10.1–2 186 10.8–9 329 n20 Testament of Reuben 5.5 369 Testament of Simeon 6.7 331

Pseudo–Philo 3.10 18.12 23.6 Sibylline Oracles 1.100–03 2.221–26

214 365 365 365

368 333

Testament of Zebulun 10.2 331 10.3 359 Tobit 4.15 13.6 13–14

214 105 358

451

Index of Sources 14.5–7a

195 n42

Wisdom 19.13

105

Dead Sea Scrolls 1QH 12.27–29 9.7–14 9.13

386 386 386

1QpHab 10.13 11.8 13 13.4

204 403 359 105

1QM 1.2 2.9 11.14

225–229 105 403 105

1QS 4.12–14 5.13

365 359

4Q169 frag. 3, 1.1–2

105

4Q174 3.7

395, 403, 407

4Q180

386

4Q385–388

331

4Q391

331

4Q512

173

4Q521 frag. 2

293 276, 283, 296

4Q521 (Messianic Apocalypse) 330, 331 4QEnoch 361 4QPrNab 1.4

176

11Q19 (Temple Scroll) 196 56.3–4 385 11QMelch 21.1–9

152

Damascus Document 2.2–10 386 2.5–7 359 5.12 204 8.8–12 105 10.14–11.18 414 Rule of the Community 173, 219

New Testament Matthew 3.1 3.2 4.13 4.23 5.1–7.28 5.3

272 166 317 n122 435 167 167

5.4 5.6 5–7 5–15 5.17–20 5.17–48 5.20

167 167 282 312 n92 193 140, 192 375

452 5.21–22 5.22 5.23 5.28 5.29–30 5.32a 5.38–48 5.39 5.43–48 5.44 5.44b 5.45 5.48 6.9 6.11 6.14 6–25–34 7.1 7.3 7.3–5 7.12 7.13 7–15 8.1–4 8.5–12 8.5–13 8.11–12 8.12 8.12–13.38 8.13 8.20 8.22 9.10–13 9.17 9.22 9.33–37 9.34 9.35 10.1, 5–15 10.1, 7–15 10.1–4 10.2–4 10.5 10.14–15 10.23

Index of Sources 382 n122 375, 376 n100 96 375 376 n100, 382 n122 34 n96 23–24, 215, 217 51, 168, 218 319 n135 26 n67, 219– 220 167 25 n65, 168 n63 218 166 168 48 167–168 48 48 263 217 372 316 n114 285 72 47 46, 140, 161 374 168 282 317 n124 166 168 191 283, 284 319 184 312 n92, 316 n114, 435 312 n92 316 n114 163 123 65 316 n119 142

10.25 10.28 10.29–31 10.34 11.2 11.2–6 11.5 11.6 11.12 11.19 11.21–24 12.1–14 12.11 12.11–12 12.21 12.24, 27 12.28 12.41 12.44 13.42 13.50 14.13–21 14.22–33 15.1–20 15.24 15.28 15.32–39 16.16 16.23 18.3 18.8–9 18.15–20 18.21–22 18.34–35 19.14 19.24 19.28 19.30 20.16 21.12–17 21.21–13 21.23–27 21.31b 21.43 22.1–14 22.11 22.11–14 22.13 22.35–40 22.41–46

184 379 168 215, 216 282 65, 281–282 282 283 161 318 n129 141 433 433 286 54 184 141, 185 141 350 376 376 321 287 105, 186 65 283–284 321 137 125 166 375 125 48 376 n101 166 166 65, 164, 165 167 167 168 196 198 319 n134 161 168 216 215 375 192 161

453

Index of Sources 22.48–50 23 23.11 23.15 23.25–26 23.33 24 24.2 24.48 24.51 25.30 25.31–46 25.46 25.5 26.17–30 26.20–25 26.23 26.28 27.4 27.25 27.50 27.7–10 28.19–20

166 188 167 376 105 376 197 197 141 376 376 322, 376 372 n86 141 199 124 124 201 117 127, 215, 216 145 117 64

3.4 3.6 3.13–16 3.13–19 3.33–35 3.22 3.22–30 3.24–27 4.11 4.14–20 4.24 258–259, 263 4.24b 261–262 4.24b–25 4.35–41 4.3–9 5.1–20 6.35–44 6.45–52 6.6b–13

232–241 166, 272 141 315 317 n122, 435 435 139 96, 285 174 180 97, 176 176 168, 319 174 30–31 39 33 31 191 140 70 403, 438 n89 179 286 180

7.3–4 7.8 7.10 7.18–19 7.19

7 7.1–23

Mark 1.4 1.15–17 1.16–17 1.21 1.39 1.40–44 1.40–45 2 2.1–10 2.1–12 2.10 2.15–17 2.17 2.18–2.19 2.18–20 2.19 2.20 2.22 2.23–26 2.24 2.27 2.28 3.1–3 3.1–6

7.24–30 8.1–10 8.27–29 8.31 9.1–19 9.31 9.33–37 9.35 9.43–47 10.2–12 10.6–8 10.14–15 10.17–31 10.19 10.25 10.31 10.33–34 10.43 10.44

70, 439–441 180 65 123, 163, 164 166 288 97 291 232–233 231 247, 252, 245–253, 245 287 231 72 286 287 312 n92, 316 n114 105 95, 105, 174, 186, 402 189 188–189 n33 140 95 188–189 n33, 190–191 47, 72 72 137 349–350 142 349–350 321 167 381 402 140 166 100 403 166 167 349–350 55 167

454 10.52 11.12–17 11.15–17 11.15–19 11.17 11.17–33 11.18 11.25 11.27–28 11.27–33 12.1–12 12.28–34 12.29–30 12.29–31 12.35–37 12.35–38 13 13.2 13.10 13.24–30 13.27 14.2, 22–25 14.9 14.12–16 14.12–26 14.14 14.17–21 14.20 14.21 14.22–25 14.24 14.44 14.58 14.61 14.62 14.62–64 14.68 15.20 15.21–24 15.40–41 16.6 Luke 1.9 3.2 3.3 4.16–18 4.16–21 4.44

Index of Sources 284 168 97, 196, 396 51 140 197 180 263 97 198 262 n39 192 403 140 143 161 96, 197 197 64, 435 142 374 200 64 320–321 199 130 124 124 127 199 201 117 51, 97 n21, 404 348 142 180 96 144 n36 144 320 351

396 272 166 185 65, 152 435

5.12–16 5.29–32 5.33–39 5.38 6.12–16 6.14–16 6.16 6.20 6.21a 6.21b 6.27, 35 6.27b, 32, 35a 6.27–28 6.27–36 6.29 6.29a 6.31 6.35 6.38 7.1–10 7.10 7.11–17 7.14–47 7.18–23 7.21 7.21–22 7.34 7.36–50 7.48–50 8.21 9.1–6 9.20 9.44 9.44–45 9.52–53 9.56 9.58 9.59–60 10.1–16 10.10–12 10.12–16 10.13–15 10.18 10.25–28 11 11.2b 11.2b–4

285 168 188 191 163 123 126, 161 167 167 167 219–220 167 26 n67 23–24, 215, 217, 319 n135 218 168 217 25 n65 262 72 282 283 174 65, 281–282 283 283 318 n129 117, 173, 176 175 166 312 n92, 316 n114 137 350 232 317 n126 125 317 n124 166 312 n92, 316 n114 215, 216 316 n119 215, 216 291 192 182 166 316 n121

455

Index of Sources 11.3 11.15 11.20 11.31–32 11.37–41 11.37–54 12.4–4 12.5 12.6–7 12.22–31 12.49 12.51 13.14 13.28 13.28–29 13.30 13.32 14.5 14.12–14 14.14 14.15–24 14.26 16.5 16.19–31 16.28 16.38 17.3 17.11–19 17.21 18.16 18.25 19.1–9 19.9 19.27 19.45–46 19.45–48 20.1–8 20.41–44 21.5–6 21.5–37 21.11 21–23 21.34–36 22.3 22.7–23 22.14 22.15 22.19–20 22.21 22.28–30

168 179 141, 185 141 105 188 373 377 168 167 215, 216 215, 216 178 377 161 167 290 n83 286 320 141 168 24 n59, 166 373 100–101 377 377 125 285 141, 142, 166 166 166 96 318 215, 216 196 168 198 161 197 197 130 124 143 117 199 124 200 201 124 51

22.29–30 22.30 23.47 24.21 24.47

161 n27 65, 164, 165 127 65 64

John 2,13 2.13–22 2.19 2.19–21 3.16 3.18 4.20–23 5 5.9–18 5.25–29 6 6.5–15 6.16–21 6.59 6.70 7.22–24 9.14–16 9.22 12.6 12.20 12.42 13.1–20 13.18 13.21–30 13.26–27 13.27 13.34 14–16 16.2 17.12 18.39 19.14 19.30

196 168 350, 396 405 371 371 405 194 426 371 201 n50 287 n73 287 435 117 426–427 426 429 117, 124 106 429 124 127 124 124 117 215, 216, 217 208 429 117 200 200 145

Acts 1.6 1.13 1.21–26 1.8 1.8–19 2 2.10

178 65 126 65 64 117 208 350

456 2.38 2.46–47 3.13–16 3.19–23 3.21 5.20–21, 42 6.1 6.1–6 6.9 6.11 6.13–14 7 7.45–50 7.48–50 7.55–56 7.58 8.1 8.1–3 8.3 8.5–25 9.1–2 9.1–19 9.1–30 9.2 9.20–25, 28–30 9.26–29 9.29 9.30 10.1–11–18 10–11.18 10.14–15 10–15 10.43 11.9 11.19 11.19–21 11.20 11.22–26 11.26 13.1 13.1–3 13.5 13.38 13.38–39 14–15 15.1 15.1–5 15.13–18

Index of Sources 176 66 66 186 65 66 71 n35, 395– 396 69 399 91 69, 91, 97 n21, 396 70, 196 91–92 397 205 91, 399 397 70 72 70 72 93 71 71 74 74 71 n35 74 71 93 187 194 176 187 71, 71 n35 71 71, 397 74 71, 397 397 72 74 176 93 74 75, 396 67 65

15.16 17 18.4–7 19.12 20.7 21.24–26 22.15 22.17–18 26.12–18 26.17–18 26.18 28.8–9

110 53 74 159 423–424 66 73 66 93 73 176 159

Romans 1.1–4 1.3–4 1.5 1.16 1.20 2.14 2.15 2.19 3.21–31 3.25 3–5 4 4.14 6.11 7.4 8.6–9 8.11 8.25 8.29 8.31–32 9–11 10.16 11.26 12 12.1 12.2 12.5 12.12, 27 12.13 12.20a 13.12 14 14.1–6 14.1–22 14.5–6 14.6

74 344 74 74 404 404 158 160 175 397, 405 74 74 158 160 160 160 345 127 160 125 170 160 65, 74 24 397 158 160 160 312 n86 319 n137 158, 160 181 93, 111 158 419 178

457

Index of Sources 14.14, 20 14.17 14.17–21 15.8–9 15.12 15.16 15.19 15.20 15.24 16.1–2 16.3–5 16.10 16.17–18 16.26

187 158 156 65 54 74 74 75 74 312 n88 158 158 75 74

1 Corinthians 1.2 1–4 1.8 1.10 1.11, 16 1.18–31 3.13 3.16–17 4.20 5.11 5.3–5 5.5 5.7 5.19–20 6.9–10 6.9–11 6.19–20 7 7.5, 37 7.10–11 7.12–15 7.12–16 7.14 7.21–22 8 8.1–13 8–10 9.14 9.19–23 9.20 10 10.18–11.1 10.27

157 160 232 158 160 158 55, 57 158 196, 397, 405 156 28–29 158 158 187 74 156 173 397, 405 158 160 34 34 109 188 159 94 158 111 313 n93 75 74 94 158 29 n81

11.17–34 11.23–24 11.23–26 11.24 11.34 12 12.2 12.9, 28, 30 12.13 13.13 14.26 15 15.1–8 15.3–5 15.5 15.9 15.22 15.23 15.24, 50 15.35–54 15.44 15.49 16.1–2 16.2 16.15 16.19

159 125 200 74, 201 158 159 160 159 159 215 160 346–347 74–75 125 164 72 160 370 156 158 350 160 181 178, 423–424 158 158

2 Corinthians 1.14 1.21 2.9 3.18 4.4, 6 4.14 5.3–4 6.14 6.16 6.17 8.8 10.15–18 11.5 12.11 13.5–7

158 160 158 160 160 345 345 160 405 187 158 75 75 75 158

Galatians 1.13–14 1.14 1.15–16 1.15–17 1.18–20

92–93 72 73 93 74

458 1.21–24 12.21 2.1–10 2.11–12 2.11–14 2.1–20 2.15–21 2.19–20 2.20 2.4 2.9 3–4 3.8–9, 14 3.28 3.27 4.10 5.10 5.21 5.23 6.4 6.12 6.16

Index of Sources 74 75 93, 110 75 72, 93, 108 164 74 125 127 75 66 74 160 159, 160 158 417 75 156 160 158 67 74

Ephesians 1.7 2.19–21 2.19–3.6 2.21 5.5–6

176 398 74 196 173

Philippians 1.6, 10 1.15–18 2.2 2.6, 7, 8 2.16 3.2 3.3 3.6 3.21 4.2

158 75 160 55 158 75 74 72, 92 160 160

Colossians 2 2.164–65

181 420

1 Thessalonians 1.7–9 1.10 4.4

371 74 160

4.14 4.16 4.16–17 5.2 5.5 5.6, 8 5.9 5.21

344 370 186 158 160 160 74, 344 158

2 Thessalonians 2.3–4

196

1 Timothy 3.2 4.14 5.9–10 5.17, 19

312 n87 159 312 n87 159

2 Timothy 2.8 2.8–9

75 345

Titus 1.5–6 1.7–8 2.1–5

159 312 n87 159

Philemon 2 16 22

158 159 312 n89

Hebrews 8–10 10.22 11.31 13.2

175 187 312 n85 312 n86

James 2.25

312 n85

1 Peter 2.5 2.5 –11 4.9

398 196 312 n86

2 Peter 2.17 3.4

378 142

459

Index of Sources 1 John 1.18–25 2.18–27 3.14 4.1–6 4.7 5.21

215, 216 314 n102 215, 216 314 n102 215, 216 111

2 John 7–10 10–11

314 n103 29

3 John 3–8

314 n104

9–10

314 n105

Jude 13

378

Revelation 1.10 1.13 14.9–11 14.14 21.22

424 205 378 205 196, 405, 408

Ancient Authors Aeschylus

Epiphanius

Agamemnon 1019–21 1023–24

326 326

Eumenides 646–48

326

Panarion 29 29.7.5 30.2.2

178 n13 423 423

Euripides Supplices 228–31

338

Augustine De civitate dei 6.11

Alcestis

338–340

Eusebius

415

Historia ecclesiastica 3.27 423 3.27.5 178 n13

Clement of Alexandria Hesiod Excerpta ex Theodoto 59.2–61.6 144

Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca historica 1.25.6 341 2.59.2 159 2.59.6 159

fragments 286

246

Opera et dies 110–26 141–42 349–51

337 337 253

460

Index of Sources

Homer Ilias 20.232–35

337

Odyssea 4.561–69 7.148–50 11.51–56 11.568–635 17.354–55 17.475–76

337 305 n36 336 336 305 n36 305 n36

Ignatius Letter to the Ephesians 16.2 379 Letter to the Magnesians 9.1–2 423

Irenaeus Adversus haereses

1.10.1 1.24.4 1.26.1 1.30.13 1.31.1–14 3.11.1

118–119, 129, 132 136 144 144 144 144 144

Praedicatio apostolica 6 136

Antiquities of the Jews 4.145–49 391 4.202 203 4.223–24 154 5.2 166 5.135 154 8.42–49 182 11.133 164 14.226 415–416 14.264 415 16.164 417 18.118 100 18.13 367 18.14 342 18.3.3 169 18.36–38 102 18.61–64 177 n9, 182 20.17–53 391–392 20.34–48 106, 112 20.97–99 100 20.97–99, 167–72 272 The Jewish War 1.145–47 2.140 2.147 2.154–55 2.163 2.164–65 2.254–68 2.261–63 2.289 2.814 3.374 5.288–315 6.312–13 7.409–19 7.437–42 11.14

412 54 413–414 342 342 342 100 272 416 367 342 154 154 53 54, 272 159

Life of Josephus 34 66 70a 70–76 134–135 279

160 100 159 99 100 417

Josephus Against Apion 2.175 2.218 2.282 2.220–21 2.224–25 2.291–93 2.123

416 342 415 154 154 155 112

461

Index of Sources Justin Martyr Apologia 1 8.4 12.1–2 19.6 28.1 45.5 52.3–9 67.7

91–94 98 379 379 379 379 379 379 422

Dialogus cum Tryphone 69.7 184

389–390 389

De mutatione Nominum 135 153 De opificio Mundi 128 416 De posteritate Caini 39 364 De praemiis et poenis 69 364 164–72 54

Juvenal Satirae 14.96–106

106

De somniis 1.215

Origen De principiis I praefatio 4–10 4.22

136 66 n11

Ovid Metamorphoses 8.618–724

395, 407

De specialibus legibus 1.66–67 394–395 1.207 153 2.62 416 De vita contemplativa 2–3 159

302 n19

Philo De Abrahamo 6 261

Quod omnis probus liber sit 79 54 82–83 416

De vita Mosis 1.148–54 2.21 2.37 2.159–66 2.241

152 415 n13 387 204 153

387 153 Plato

De congressu eruditionis gratia 57 364 Legatio ad Gaium 91 364 156 417 361–62 111 De migratione Abrahami 89–90 49 n12

Gorgias 524

338

Respublica 340

462

Index of Sources

Pliny the Elder

Tacitus

Naturalis historia 340

Polycarp Letter to the Philippians 2.3 247

Annales 15.44.4

54

Historiae 4.11 5.5.1 5.5.2

415 54 45–46

Tertullian Publius Syrus Sententiae 2

De praescriptione haereticorum 13.2–5 136 246

Papyri Oxyrhynchus Papyri 230–231

P.Hib I 74

254 n28

P.Amh. II 46

249

P.Lond. III 1213 III 975

254 257

P.Amst. I 42.7–13

255

P.Mert I 14

256

P.Mich XII 634

250

P.Sarap. 16

256–257

P.Athens 14 P.Berl.Möller 4 P.Fay 16

255

250

254–255

Rabbinic Writings Mishnah Aboth 1.3 1.5 1.12 1.14 5.20

212 369 213 213, 222 369 n70

‘Eduyyoth 2.10

366

Hagigah 2.7

104

Makshirin 5.7

104

463

Index of Sources Pesahim 10.4 10.5 Sanhedrin 7.5

199 199

183

Shabbath 31a

192, 214

Sotah 8b

248 n17

203

Shabbath 18.3

177

Sotah 1.7

248

Talmud Yerushalmi Demai 2.22d

Terumoth 3.9

108

Tohoroth 7.1 7.2 7.6 8.1 8.2

103 103 103 n 39 104 104

Yoma 8.6

Sanhedrin 43a

104

Tosefta ‘Abodah Zarah 3.9 4.11

103 104

Demai 3.5

103

Shabbath 1.7

252 n24

178, 414

Talmud Babli Baba Mezi’a 9.6

Other Rabbinic Works 175 Aboth Rabbi Nathan 41 103

Berakoth 43b 47b

103 103

Gittin 61a

103

Nedarim 41a 90b

176 103

Rosh Hashanah 16b–17a

365

Deuteronomy Rabbah 11.9 251 Genesis Rabbah 9.11

248–249 n19

Shemoneh Esre 12 14

360 195, 197

464

Index of Sources

Other Ancient Texts 1 Clement 10.7 11.1 12.1 13 13.2

14.2 14.5 21.1 22.6 24.5 26.1 28.1 59.2 2 Clement 17.5–7

312 n90 312 n90 312 n90 245 245, 247, 249, 251, 252, 259–261, 263 371 n80 371 n80 371 n80 371 n80 231 n26 371 371 n80 371 n80

Didache 11.1–2, 3–6, 7–12 11.3–5 12.1–2 12.3–5 14.1 16.5

313 313 313 313 424 371

Diognetus 10.7

380

n95 n97 n98 n99

Gospel of Bartholomew 118 379

Acts of Andrew and Paul 119–22 118 Acts of John 145 Apocalypse of Peter 81.3–83.15

Dialogue of the Savior 123, 129 127.16–17 374 130.2 379

378–379 145 n39

Apocryphon of John 25.16–27.30 373 26.33–27.11 373 Arabic Infancy Gospel 35 117–118

Gospel of Judas 33 33–35 35.21–25 35.23–24 40 43 43–44 44 44–46 44–47 47.1–51.1 51.4–54.12 54–58 56.19–21 58

130 120 140 239 121 130 129–130 131 129 121 140 140 122 145 130

Gospel of Mary Barnabas 67.7

315 422

Book of the Resurrection of Christ by Bartholomew the Apostle 3b–5a 118 The Concept of Our Great Power 46–47 373

Gospel of Nicodemus 118 Gospel of Philip 66.27–67.1

379

Gospel of Thomas 229–236

465

Index of Sources 3 3.3 4.2–3 13 21 27 36 52 54 55.1–2a 64.1–12 65–66 69.2 70 86 99.2–3 101.1–3 113.2

142 166 167 137, 239 135 424 168 135 167 166 168 262 n39 167 371 317 n124 166 166 166

Hermas, Mandate 12.2

371

6.27–31 6.27–38 6.31 6.35 6.35–36 6.37–38 6.38c 258–259, 6.39–42 7.1–[[10]] 7.18–23 7.22

251 260–262 246 26 n67, 403 251, 401 246 245–253, 247, 263 263 282 282 290, 290 n83, 293–294, 296–297 294 401 294 288 290, 291, 292 440 n102 291 263 263 372 372 406 374 404, 405 434 401 33

Martyrdom of Polycarp 11.2 379

7.23 9.59 10.10–16 11.15 11.19–20 11.20 11.21–23 11.3 12.16–21 12.4–5 12.8–9 13.21 13.28 13.29 14.5 14.26 16.18

Narrative of Joseph of Arimathea 118

Second Treatise of the Great Seth 144

Q Source

Targum Neofiti

Hermas, Similitude 4.4 371 n81 6.3–5 372 n81 Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum 152

3.17 6.20b–21

23, 84, 126 n24, 165, 181, 184, 185, 188 374 n95 282, 296

367 Thomas the Contender 142.2 379

Index of Modern Authors ǖdna, J. 393, 394, 395, 404 Albrecht, M. 47, 269, 270 Alcott Kogel, L. 310 Alkier, S. 266, 267 Allard, M. 236 Allison, D. C. 34, 52, 65, 84, 90, 282, 317, 382 Alon, G. 107 Andrews, H. T. 388 Ankersmit, F. R. XIV Appleby, L. XIV Arai, S. 122 Arnal, W. E. 230, 234 Arndt, W. F. 299 Arterbury, E. 299, 300, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 312, 313, 314 Ascough, R. S. 107 Ashton, J. 427 Attridge, H. W. 230, 233, 424 Aune, D. E. XIV, 364 Avery–Peck, A, J. 359, 363, 364, 367, 369 Baarda, T. 138, 214, 215, 230 Bach, A. 168 Backhaus, K. 286 Bagnall, R. S. 243 Baillet, M. 276 Bainbridge, W. S. 108 Barclay, J. M. G. 110, 415, 416, 419, 420 Barmash, P. 164 Barrett, C. K. 64, 71, 75, 145, 427 Bartelmus, R. 398 Barth, G. 433 Barton, S. C. 87 Bauckham, R. 85, 95, 101, 138, 323, 325, 328, 334, 421, 422, 423, 424, 425, 426 Bauer, W. 299 Baumgarten, A. I. 223, 229 Beardslee, W. A. 29 Beavis, M. A. 153, 156, 157, 168

Beck, D. M. 214 Becker, J. 292, 382, 400, 401, 403 Becker, M. 270, 271, 276, 277, 278 Bedard, S. J. 334, 340 Bee–Schroedter, H. 266 Begg, T. 273 Behm, J. 237 Bentley, M. XIV Berger, K. 280, 401, 402, 403 Berkhofer, R. F. XIII, XIV Bernstein, A. E. 361, 363, 370, 371, 375, 377, 378 Best, E. 238, 361 Bethge, H.–G 130, 231 Betz, H.–D. 12, 418 Bieberstein, S. 401 Bilde, P. 17 Bird, M. F. 65, 68, 70, 77, 78, 79, 80, 84 Black, M. 360, 366 Black, S.–O. 437, 438 Blackburn, B. L. 269, 285 Blasi, A. J. 107 Blenkinsopp, J. 273 Boccaccini, G. 171 Bock, D. L. XX, 196, 198, 200, 201, 202, 206 Bockmuehl, M. 64, 94, 95 Boers, H. 323, 324, 328 Bonneau, G. 238 Booth 187 Borg, M. 66 Borgen, P. 337 Boring, M. E. 173, 174, 177, 180, 181 Bornkamm, G. 4, 10, 433 Bosch, D. 65 Bousset, W. 360, 366 Bovon, F. 262 Boyer, P. 56 Brandon, S. G. F. 338 Braudel, F. 113 Brawley, R. H. 168

Index of Modern Authors Breisach, E. XIII, XIV, XV, XVI Brenton, L. C. L. 275 Broadhead, E. K. XVIII Broer, I. XVIII, 281, 406 Brown, J. P. 246 Brown, R. E. 313, 314, 320, 428 Brown, S. 240 Bruce, F. F. 71, 330, 342 Brucker, R. 368, 434 Bryant, M. D. 108 Buber, M. 155 Bultmann, R. XII, XVII, 45, 139, 164, 266, 437 Burke, P. 18 Burkert, W. 336 Busse, U. 272, 282, 285 Byrskog, S. 17 Cadbury, H. J. 311 Caird, G. B. 66, 69, 81, 378 Cameron, R. 89, 230, 231 Carlyle, A. J. 247 Carr, E. H. 88 Carson, D. A. 73, 76, 412, 421, 422 Casey, P. M. 97, 166, 416 Catchpole, D. 96 Cavallin, H. C. C. 361, 362, 363, 364, 368 Chalcraft, D. J. 224 Chancey, M. A. 81 Charles, R. H. 332, 388 Charlesworth, J. H. IX, XII, 4, 8, 11, 12, 102, 169, 186, 208, 213, 214, 215, 217, 218, 220, 307, 323, 324, 328, 329, 331, 332, 333, 358, 368, 372, 393, 394 Chilton, B. IX, XVIII, 6, 11, 12, 161, 166, 200, 269, 398, 436 Clark, E. A. XIII, XIV Clark–Soles, J. 323 Cohen, D. 18 Cohen, D. A. J. 95 Cohen, S. J. D. 111, 112, 154 Cohn, L. 387 Collins, A. Y. 337 Collins, J. J. XII, 72, 276, 278, 328, 330, 333, 362, 363, 368, 369, 373 Cook, M. J. 11 Corley, B. 73 Cotter, W. 269, 285, 337 Coulot, C. 225

467

Couroyer, B. 251 Couture, D. 236 Crenshaw, J. L. 323, 324, 328 Crim, K. 214 Crossan, J. D. 49, 89, 128, 161, 163, 167, 168, 173, 230, 231, 233, 234, 239, 245, 258, 316, 317 Crossley, J. G. 87, 88, 90, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 105, 109 Cullmann, O. 65, 155, 161, 162 Cuvillier, E. 239 Czachesz, I. 56 Danby, H. 310, 311 Danker, F. W. 299 Daube, D. 65 Davies, P. R. 359, 364 Davies, S. L. 233 Davies, W. D. 34, 75, 282 Dawes, G. W. XII Dawson, L. L. 108 de Boer, E. 315 DeConick, A. D. 115, 122, 127, 132, 230, 231, 232, 234, 423, 425 Dehandschutter, B. 138 Dermerath, N. J. 223 Deschamps, J.–C. 15 Devos, T. 15 Dietrich, W. 270 Díez Macho, A. 248 Dilthey, W. XIV Dines, J. M. 329 Dochhorn, J. 291 Doehring, L. 412, 413, 414, 415, 416, 417, 426, 430, 433, 434, 440 Donaldson, T. L. 72, 73 Donfried, K. P. 156, 160, 170 Doresse, J. 138 Downing, F. G. 267 Duhaime, J. 107, 225, 226 Duling, D. 153 Dunn, J. D. G. XII, XVIII, 12, 63, 68, 73, 87, 102, 139, 184, 206, 207, 224, 237, 239, 380, 412, 416, 418, 419, 420, 429, 433, 439 Dupont–Sommer, A. 177 Ehrman, B. D. 76, 115, 116, 133, 135, 141 Eisele, W. 281 Elledge, C. D. 323, 324, 328, 329, 330 Elliott, M. A. 361

468

Index of Modern Authors

Ellis, E. E. XVII, 76, 77 Emmel, S. 231 Esler, P. F. 111 Evans, C. A. IX, 6, 11, 24, 28, 78, 79, 80, 83, 97, 237, 238, 269, 276, 278, 282, 323, 348, 349, 351, 393, 436 Evans, R. J. XIV Eve, E. 184, 185, 281 Everts, J. M. 73 Fabry, H.–J. 386 Feldman, L. H. 273 Ferguson, J. 151 Fine, S. 106 Finley, M. I. 20, 99 Fishbach, S. M. 274, 280 Flint, P. W. 276 Flusser, D. 211 Forgas, J. 15 Fortna, R. 426 Francis, J. 166 Frankmölle, H. 25, 275 Frazer, J. G. 342 Fredriksen, P. 66, 72, 95, 161, 166 Freedman, D. N. XII, 166 Frenschkowski, M. 280 Frerichs, S. 12, 72 Frey, J. 14, 269, 276, 278 Freyne, S. XVIII, 83, 244, 310 Fridrichsen, A. 66 Fuchs, E. 168 Funk, R. W. 163, 164, 245, 381 Funk & the Jesus Seminar 164, 165, 167 Gager, J. 52 Gagné, A. 227, 236 Gandhi, L. 163 García Martínez, F. 227, 277, 330, 331, 359, 385 Garnsey, P. 29 Gärtner, B. 138 Gathercole, S. 291 Gaudard, F. 140, 239 Gaventa, B. R. 95 Geertz, A. W. 56 Georg–Zöller, C. 281 Gingrich, F. W. 299 Giversen, S. 337 Gnilka, J. 145, 282 Goldstein, J. A. 329 Goodman, M. 64

Goppelt, L. 4, 200, 202 Gottschalk, L. 20 Goulder, M. 75 Grabbe, L. L. 367 Graupner, A. 428 Green, J. B. 80, 87 Green, N. L. 18 Greenstone, J. H. 307, 308, 310 Gregory, A. 247 Grene, D. 326 Grenfell, B. P. 231, 254 Gressmann, H. 360, 366 Grew, R. 18 Gripentrog, S. 14 Grosvenor, M. 317 Gruen, M. L. 15 Grundmann, W. 375 Guelich, R. A. 237 Gundry, R. H. 67, 263 Guthrie, D. 356 Guthrie, W. K. C. 338 Haase, W. 219 Haenchen, E. 382, 427 Häfner, G. 286 Hagner, D. A. 247 Hahn, F. 66, 67, 69, 71, 73, 76 Halpern, B. XII Hamerton–Kelley, R. R. 214 Hammond, P. E. 223 Hanson, J. S. 272 Harland, P. A. 107, 111 Harnack, A. 70 Harrington, D. J. 12, 215 Harvey, A. E. 434 Harvey, V. A. XII, XIV Hastings, J. 10, 64 Haupt, H.–G. 18, 19, 20 Hawthorne, G. F. 73 Hayes, C. E. 107, 108 Hayes, M. A. 323, 325, 344, 349 Hays, R. B. 95 Hedrick, C. W. 119, 231, 233 Held, H. J. 433 Hempel, C. G. 20 Henaut, B. W. 238 Hengel, M. 66, 69, 71, 72, 76, 92, 272, 362, 396 Hentschel, G. 274 Herzog, W. R. 161 Herzog, Y. D. 309, 310, 311

Index of Modern Authors Hilhorst, A. 142 Hill, C. C. 69, 76, 98 Hirsch, R. S. 212, 213 Hobsbawn, E. J. 98 Hodgson, R., Jr. 119, 233 Hoerning, M. 98 Hoffmann, H. 388 Hoffmann, P. 282, 293, 434 Hogan, J. C. 326 Hogeterp, A. L. A. 142 Holmberg, B. 9 Holmén, T. IX, XII, XVIII, XIX, XX, 5, 7, 8, 11, 17, 21, 23, 24, 28, 33, 37, 41, 42, 44, 95, 136, 171, 243, 244, 245, 269, 288, 289, 412, 414, 416, 435, 436, 437, 438, 439, 441 Holmes, M. W. 247 Holtz, T. 402 Hooker, M. D. 321, 381 Hoover, R. W. 245 Hoppe, R. 272 Horrell, D. G. 37, 87, 206 Horsley, R. A. 24, 155, 272 Hunt, A. S. 231, 254 Hunt, L. XIV Hurst, L. D. 73 Hurtado, L. W. 50, 73, 138 Isaac, E. 332 Isaacs, R. H. 270 Jacob, M. XIV Jenks, A. W. 29 Jeremias, J. 28, 30, 63, 77, 83, 200, 237, 435 Jervell, J. 75, 85 Jesus Seminar 164, 165, 167 Johns, L. L. 214 Johnson, A. 223 Jokiranta, J. 225 Jones, H. S. 301 Juel, D. H. 215 Kaelble, H. 18 Kaestli, J.–D. 230 Kahl, W. 184, 185 Kähler, M. 130 Kankaanniemi, M. 17 Karrer, M. 296 Käsemann, E. 4, 9, 10, 258 Kasser, R. 115, 140, 141, 199, 239 Kautsky, J. H. 98 Kazen, T. XVIII, 95, 229

469

Kee, H. C. 213, 267, 331, 332 Keller, E. 266 Keller, M.–L. 266 Kellett, E. E. 329 Kertelge, K. 25, 275, 285 Kierkegaard XIV Kilpatrick, G. D. 238 Kim Huat Tan 68 King, K. L. 107, 115, 121, 134, 231, 315, 373 Kinman, B. 198 Kippenberg, H. G. 15 Kirk, A. 21, 260 Klassen, W. 124, 125, 126, 127 Klausner, J. 77 Klawans, J. 107, 173, 174 Klein, G. 164 Klijn, A. F. J. 333, 334 Kloppenborg, J. S. 252, 259, 262, 278, 434 Klutz, T. 267 Knights, C. 169 Koch, D.–A. 285 Koch, K. 276, 278 Kocka, J. 18, 19, 20 Koenig, J. 300, 304, 305, 306, 310, 311 Koester, H. 231, 232, 233 Kollmann, B. 266, 274, 284, 286, 288, 290 Kosch, D. 401 Koskenniemi, E. 270, 281 Kowalinski, P. 89 Kraft, R. A. 11, 267, 284, 356, 378 Kraus, W. 396, 397 Krieger, K.–S. 272 Krosney, H. 115, 116 Krüger, T. 398 Kugler, R. A. 276 Kuhn, H.–W. 25, 28, 398 Kuiper, Y. B. 15 Kysar, R. 314 Labahn, M. IX, 11, 265, 266, 268, 270, 272, 274, 276, 278, 280, 281, 282, 284, 285, 286, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 294, 296, 426 LaCapra, D. XIV LaGrand, J. 65 Lamb, C. 108 Lambdin, T.O. 137 Lang, M. 281

470

Index of Modern Authors

Lange, A. 386 Langewiesche, D. 20 Lattimore, R. 326 Laufen, R. 33 Layton, B. 137, 230, 232, 424 Lee, D. A. 320 Lehtipuu, O. 358, 377 Lesky, A. 326, 338 Levine, A.–J. 174 Levine, L. I. 417 Lichtenberger, H. 272, 273, 274, 396 Liddel, H. G. 301 Lietaert Peerbolte, B. J. 266, 270, 285 Lincoln, A. T. 427, 428 Lindemann, A. 6, 290 Lindenberger, J. M. 214 Loader, W. XVIII, 402, 425, 426, 428, 432, 434, 440, 441 Lofland, J. 109 Logan, A. H. B. 134 Lohse, E. 296, 412, 415, 420 Loisy, A. 169 Longenecker, R. N. 73, 323, 325, 418 Lüdemann, G. 71, 240 Luttikhuizen, G. P. 145 Luz, U. 24, 145, 356, 372, 374, 376, 377, 381, 430, 433 Maccoby, H. 11 MacDonald, A. A. 56 MacDonald, D. R. 126, 127 Mack, B. L. 89, 153 Maier, J. 386 Makkreel, R. A. XIV Malherbe, A. J. 314 Manson, T. W. 66, 83, 433 Manuel, F. E. 151 Manuel, F. P. 151 Marcus, J. 237, 429 Marguerat, D. 230 Marjanen, A. 135, 315, 425 Marshall, I. H. 69, 200, 356 Marshall, M. J. 301, 302, 303, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312, 316, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321 Marshall, P. 303 Martin, R. P. 73 Martin–Achard, R. 82 Martyn, J. L. 429 Marxen, W. 237 Mason, S. N. 244

Massaux, E. 138 Mayordomo, M. 356 McBrine, P. 118 McCarthy, G. E. XIV McEleney, N. J. 72 McKelvey, R. J. 67 McKnight, S. 68, 70, 200 McNamara, M. 248 Mearns, C. 296 Meeks, W. A. 107, 112 Meggitt, J. 169 Meier, J. P. 23, 26, 31, 33, 34, 50, 63, 76, 87, 164, 238, 269, 288, 289, 315, 317, 320, 433, 442 Meinecke, F. 43 Mell, U. 32 Mendels, D. 152, 153, 161, 162, 163, 167 Menirav, J. 252, 258 Merklein, H. 28, 400, 406 Merz, A. IX, XVIII, 11, 28, 244, 385, 396, 402, 403, 407 Metzger, B. M. 71, 229, 333, 394 Metzner, R. 426 Meyer, B. F. 14, 171, 188, 190, 191, 196 Meyer, M. 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 126, 128, 130, 131, 132, 140, 141, 232, 239 Milikowski, C. 373 Mill, J. S. 18 Miller, M. 89 Mittmann–Richter, U. 273 Modica, J. B. 70 Mohler, R. A., Jr. 356 Montefiore, C. G. 211, 355, 375 Moore, G. F. 369 Moore, W. E. 239 Morales, J. F. 15 Morgan, C. W. 356 Moxnes, H. 262 Mumford, L. 151 Munck, J. 66 Munslow, A. XIV Murphy, R. E. 308, 366 Murphy–O’Connor, J. 11, 73, 107 Murray, O. 303 Nadeau, J.–G. 236 Nagel, P. 119 Neale, D. A. 103

Index of Modern Authors Neill, S. 9 Neirynck, F. 278, 438 Neusner, J. 11, 12, 72, 157, 158, 178, 183, 200, 229, 359, 363, 365, 367, 369, 399 Newson, C. 225 Neyrey, J. H. 262 Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 11, 323, 329, 362, 364, 365, 366 Nicklas, T. 136 Niebuhr, H. R. 223, 278, 279 Niederwimmer, K. 424 Niese, B. 391 Nikosky, R. 169 Nissen, A. 24 Nolland, J. 317 Nordsieck, R. 138, 229 Norelli, E.. 230 Notley, R. S. 211 Oates, J. F. 243 O’Brien, P. T. 73, 76 O’Connor, M. 18 Oegema, G. S. 274 Öhler, M. 272, 273 Ollilainen, V. 41 Onuki, T. 288 Oppenheimer, A. 103 Osiek, C. 312 Otto, E. 270, 271 Otto, S. 274 Owensby, J. XIV Paesler, K. 393, 394, 404 Paez, D. 15 Pagels, E. H. 115, 121, 133, 138, 139, 142, 143 Painchaud, L. 145 Painter, J. 75 Pancaro, S. 426, 427 Parry, D. W. 178, 276 Patten, P. 237 Patterson, S. J. 130, 229, 239 Pearson, B. 122, 126 Pelletier, A. 388 Perelman, C. 294 Perkins, P. 323 Perneden, L. 372 Perrin, N. 165, 230, 244 Peterson, R. A. 356 Plisch, U.–K. 231 Pocock, J. G. A. XIV

471

Poffet, J. M. 230 Popoviü, M. 227 Porter, S. E. 21, 75, 136, 269, 288, 323, 325, 327, 328, 344, 347, 349 Porton, G. G. 11 Powys, D. 357, 359, 360, 362, 364, 366, 374, 375, 377, 378 Preuß, H. 403 Priest, J. 393 Propp, H. XII Prostmeier, F. R. 281 Puech, É. 208, 276, 277, 278 Quispel, G. 230, 233, 234 Räisänen, H. 237, 356, 377, 383 Raiser, M. 52 Rambo, L. R. 108, 109, 110 Ranke, L. 286 Reed, J. H. 163 Reed, J. L. 81 Rehder, H. 47 Reich, N. J. 249 Reichardt, M. 282 Reid, D. G. 73 Reimarus, H. S. 45 Reinhartz, A. 95 Reinink, G. J. 56 Reiser, M. 357, 362, 364, 368 Resch, G. 215 Reynolds, J. 106 Riches, J. 84 Rickert, H. XIV Riesner, R. 71, 73, 74 Riley, G. J. 234 Ritter, W. H. 47, 269, 270 Robinson, J. M. 115, 130, 232, 233, 282, 434 Rodi, F. XIV Rohrbaugh, R. L. 261 Roloff, J. 405 Roose, H. 51 Rordorf. W. 415, 422, 423, 424, 431 Rosenfeld, B.–Z. 252, 258 Roukema, R. XX, 133, 135, 136, 141 Rowland, C. 56, 412, 413, 417 Rudolph, K. 243 Ruger, H. P. 248 Rusam, D. 291 Rüsen, J. XVI Rutgers, L. V. 399 Sanders, A. F. 15, 107

472

Index of Modern Authors

Sanders, E. P. 14, 27, 28, 51, 63, 73, 82, 157, 172, 173, 177, 187, 196, 242, 243, 307, 309, 310, 317, 372, 399, 412, 413, 414, 416, 417, 418, 431, 433, 434, 437 Sanders, J. T. 107, 110 Sass, G. 46, 406 Satlow, L. 15, 16 Schaberg, J. 168, 315 Schapdick, S. 428 Schenke, H.–M. 119 Schenke, L. 284 Schenke Robinson, G. 122 Schippers, R. 138 Schletterer, I. 231 Schmidt, A. IX, 11, 272, 276, 289 Schmithals, W. 164 Schmitt, H.–C. 273 Schmöle, K. 136 Schnabel, J. 64, 71, 77, 80, 83 Schnackenburg, R. 145 Schnelle, U. 268, 281, 285, 398 Schoedel, W. R. 423 Schopenhauer XIV Schrag, C. O. XIV Schröter, J. 266, 368, 434 Schüssler Fiorenza, E. 143, 166 Schwartz, D. R. 14, 154 Schwartz, S. 154, 156 Schweizer, E. 372 Schwemer, A. M. 71, 93 Schwiebert, J. 29 Schwienhorst–Schönberger, L. 270 Schwindt, R. 291 Scopello, M. 115 Scott, B. B. 239 Scott, J. C. 110 Scott, J. J., Jr. 11 Scott, R. 300, 301 Scott Green, W. 11, 12 Scroggs, R. 229 Seeley, D. 166 Segal, A. F. 323, 329 Seifrid, M. A. 76 Seligman, E. R. A . 223 Sevrin, J.–M. 233 Seyoon Kim 73 Shillington, V. G. 158 Shutt, R. J. H. 214 Siegert, F. 390, 398

Skinner, Q. XIV Skocpol, T. 18 Smend, R. 430 Smith, J. Z. 152, 169, 170 Smith, M. 11 Smith, P. 177 Soggin, J. A. 270 Somers, M. 19 Sorabji, R. 14 Spittler, R. P. 307 Spong, J. S. 127 Stählin, G. 300 Stanford, W. B. 336 Stanton, G. 184 Stark, R. 74, 82, 89, 107, 108, 109 Stegemann, E. 272 Steinhauser, M. G. 246 Stemberger, G. 364, 390, 398, 399, 400 Stendahl, K. 73 Stolz, F. 270 Strange, J. F. 99 Strauss, D. F. 45 Strelan, R. 74 Stuckenbruck, L. T. 274 Stuhlmacher, P. 76 Sundkler, B. 66 Tabor, J. D. 278, 296 Tajfel, H. 15 Talmon, S. 80, 155 Tannebaum, R. 106 Taylor, J. E. 168 Telford, W. R. 237 Thackeray, H. St. J. 154, 342 Theissen, G. IX, XX, XXI, 3, 7, 9, 11, 25, 28, 37, 44, 46, 47, 48, 50, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 224, 244, 267, 269, 280, 381, 385, 396, 402, 403, 406, 407, 436 Theobald, M. 282, 292 Thiel, W. 270, 271 Thielman, F. 356 Thomassen, E. 143 Tigchelaar, E. J. C. 330, 331, 385 Tiwald, M. 385 Tombs, D. 323, 325, 344, 349 Tomson, P. J. 94 Topolski, J. XIV Tov, E. 178 Trebilco, P. 76 Troeltsch, E. XI, XII, XIII, XIV, 43

Index of Modern Authors Trunk, D. 285 Tucker, A. 18 Tuckett, C. M. XIX, 56, 181, 206, 229, 247, 276, 278, 282, 315, 381 Tuilier, A. 424 Turcotte, P.–A. 107 Turner, E. G. 254 Turner, J. D. 119 Turner, M. 80 Twain, M. 355 Twelftree, G. H. 269 Twomey, M. W. 56 Ulrich, E. 276 Uro, R. 138, 234, 425 Utzschneider, H. 398 Vaage, L. E. 24, 25 van Belle, G. 282 van der Braembussche, A. A. 19 van Kooten, G. H. 135, 142 van Oyen, G. 285 Van Segbroeck, F. 282 Verheyden, J. 282 Vermès, G. 161, 243, 434 Via, D. O. 239 Vielhauer, Ph. 164 Vollenweider, S. 292 Volz, P. 360, 362, 363, 364, 367, 368 von Gemünden, P. 56 von Haehling, R. 281 Votaw, C. W. 9, 16 Wagner, A. 56 Warne, R. R. 56 Watson, F. 73 Weaver, P. 12, 16 Webb, R. L. 198, 200, 202 Weber XIV Wedderburn, A, J. M. 71, 72, 323 Weder, H. 269, 292 Weiser, A. 396 Weiss, J. 355, 375 Wellhausen, J. 164 Wendland, P. 387

473

Wengst, K. 46, 406 Wenham, D. 85 Wenham, J. 356 Werner, M. 21 West, M. L. 253 Wettstein, H. 14, 15, 281 Whiston, W. 391 Whitaker, M. 415 White, H. XIII Wick, P. 281 Wilckens, U. 396 Wilk, F. 83 Williams, J. F. 239 Williams, M. A. 134 Willis, W. 156 Willis, W. H. 243 Willis, W. W. 323, 324, 328 Wilson, B. 223 Wilson, R. McL. 230 Wilson, S. G. 64, 77 Winter, D. XX, XXI, 3, 7, 9, 44, 224, 244, 381, 436 Wintermute, O. S. 394 Wise, M. O. 278, 296 Witherington, B, III 9, 75, 85, 95, 179, 193, 196, 289, 317, 382 Witt, R. E. 341 Wolter, M. 292, 368, 374, 428 Worchel, S. 15 Wright, N. T. IX, XVIII, 9, 11, 65, 73, 78, 87, 88, 95, 171, 196, 204, 323, 325, 328, 329, 333, 334, 335, 336, 338, 339, 341, 345, 346, 347, 352 Wurst, G. 115, 116, 119, 140, 141, 239 Würthwein, E. 274 Wüst, E. 308 Young, B. 211 Zangenberg, J. 281 Zeller, D. 283, 398 Zerwick, M. 317 Zimmermann, B. 21 Zimmermann, J. 276, 277, 278

Index of Subjects and Names Aaron the Priest/Levite 270 Abraham – hospitality of 302, 306–307 – and the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus 100 Admetus 338–339 Adversus haereses (Against Heresies, Irenaeus) 118–119 Aeneid (Virgil) 341 Aeschylus 338 afterlife 337, 338, 340, 341, 343, see also hell agrapha 131 agricultural products, measurements of 249–257 Alcestis (Euripides) 338–339 analogy, in historical research 43–44 Ananias 391 animals, sacrifice of 397 annihilation, see also damnation, eternal – and fire 358–362 – of sinners 358–366, 370–372 – and torment 364–366 Antigonus of Socco 212 Antioch 71 Antioch controversy 93–94, 108 anti–Semitism – and the betrayal of Jesus 128 – and Jesus’ love message 216, 221– 222 aphorisms/sayings – action/reaction form of 246 – of Jesus, in Matthew and/or Luke 247 – and the lex talionis principle 246, 249, 251, 258, 263 – measure–for–measure 245–264 Apollo 338–339 apostasies 49 apostates 358, 360, 361 n26, 367–368, 373, see also outsiders; sin/sinners apostles, see disciples/apostles of Jesus Aristobulus 154 n9

Asclepius 281, 326, 338–339 Athronges 52 authenticity, see also criteria of authenticity – of Jesus 218 – of measure–for–measure aphorism 252 – of perceived instance of dissimilarity 5–7, 23 banditry 99–100 bandits, boundary between prophets and 100 banquets, see meals/banquets baptism 47 n11 basileia, see God’s kingdom Baucis 302 begging 316 Ben Sira 151–152, 212–213 Benjamin (12th son of Jacob and Rachel) 213 betrayal (handing over) – of Jesus 118, 119, 122, 127–128 – of Jesus, Klasssen on 124, 125–126 – of Jesus, Paul on 124–125 – negative connotations of 124 blasphemy 180, 203–204 blessed existence 160 blessings – and eternal damnation 368–369 – and hospitality 304–305 Boethus 212 Boethusians 212 borrower/lender 253–259 bread – in hospitality 313 – at the Last Supper 201, 321 – in the Lord’s Prayer 316 – in Passover meal 199 Caiaphas 125–126 causality, in historical research 43–44

Index of Subjects and Names children 158 Christianity/Christians – connections, with pagan movements 111 – conversions to 68, 108, 111 – eschatological beliefs of 64–65, 370– 372 – and hospitality 311–314, 316–322 – and inhospitality 313–315 – interpretation of 37–38 – and Jesus – – deviation from teaching of 38–40 – – dissimilarities between 22, 37–38, 40–42 – – – divorce 34, 35 – – – enemies 26 – – – fasting 32–33 – – – sinners 28–30 – – memory of, in 285–286, 289, 295 – – as posthumous founder of Christianity 43, 50 – – understanding of miracle activities of 281–283 – and Jesus traditions, dissimilarities between 7 n9, 7 n10, 36–38 – laws/rules in 435–442 – – on food 50, 93–94 – – and gathering on Sunday 178 n13, 422–425 – – non–observance of 93, 431 – – on the Sabbath 178, 180–181, 286, 418–432, 436–437 – as a Millenarian movement 53 – miracles/miracle stories in 280–287 – missions of – – to Gentiles 63, 64–68, 73–74 – – Luke on 70–71 – – and miracle stories 284 – – by Paul 49 n12, 71, 73–74 – – rejection of 237, 240 – – success of 55–57 – morality in 108 – persecution of, by Paul 72 – persecutions of 92–93 – as post–Easter faith 45 – as radicalised Judaism 51–55, 57–59 – relevance of 9 – rise of 87–89 – sectarianism in 229–236 – and synagogue participation 430–431

475

– texts, and portrayal of Jesus 137–147 – as universalised Judaism 45–51, 55, 57–59 – utopian traditions of 156–161 – views of – – on divorce 34 – – on enemies 24–26 – – on exaltations 205 – – on exorcisms 184 – – on fasting 31 – – on food laws 50, 93–94 – – on forgiveness 176 – – on God of the Old Testament 135– 136 – – on God’s kingdom 142–143 – – on hell 356–357, 370–380 – – on laws/rules 90–91 – – on purity/purity laws 187–188 – – on resurrections 87–88, 208 n56, 324, 344–347 – – on Sabbath rules 178, 180–181, 286 – – on sacred meals 200 – – on Temple/Temple system 196, 396 Christians, see Christianity/Christians Christology, Gnostic 147 circumcision – and conversion to Judaism 391–392 – Gentiles and 66, 71–72, 108, 397 – and Sabbath rules 427–428 – views on – – of Jesus 47 n11 – – by Paul 50 Clement of Rome 251, 260–261, 264 Codex Tchacos 116 collective memory 21 commandments 91–92, 100, 192 communicative relevance, of miracle stories 284 Communist Party of Indonesia (PKI) 110 Community Rule 173, 225–229, 364– 365 comparisons – in continuum approach 18–22 – in early Judaism–Jesus continuum 19, 22 – generalization in 19–20 – in Jesus–early Christianity continuum 19, 21

476

Index of Subjects and Names

– real life, of Jesus of Nazareth 19–21, 26, 30, 32, 35 – scholarly, of Jesus of Nazareth 20– 22, 26, 32–33, 35–36 Context Group 88 contextual plausibility XX, 44, 240, 244, 252, 263, 381 continuity, see also discontinuity – Christological 45 n7 – in continuum approach 8, 27, 37–38, 41, 63, 70 – between Jesus and John 166 – between Jesus and Paul 169–170, 215 continuum, see early Judaism–Jesus continuum; Jesus–early Christianity continuum; Judaism–Jesus– Christianity continuum continuum approach IX–XXI – comparisons in 18–22 – continuities in 8, 27, 37–38, 41, 63, 70, 244–245 – discontinuities in 8, 18, 30, 32–33, 34–35, 38, 41, 63, 70, 244–245 – dissimilarities in 22, 244–245 – and hermeneutics of dissimilarity 5, 8 conversions, see also missions – to Christianity 67, 108 – of Gentiles 67, 68, 108, 111–112 – influence of indigenous culture on 110 – to Islam 110 – to Judaism 68, 111–112 – of Paul 71, 73 – by Peter 71 – of sinners 101–102 – social aspects of 108–112 cosmological order 385–393, 403–404 cosmological relevations, of Jesus 121– 122, 131 counterintuitive/intuitive ideas 56–57 criteria of authenticity 3, 5–6 n6, 7, 23, see also authenticity criterion of coherence 3 n1 criterion of dissimilarity 3–4 n2, 3 n1, 6 n7, 7, 23, 43, 244, see also dissimilarities crucifixions 120–121, 128, 144–145 damnation, eternal, see also annihilation – concept of 356–357

– and darkness 361–362 – and fire 367–368, 374–380 – and insiders 368–369 – in the OT Pseudepigrapha 366–368 – and outsiders 368–369 – and worms 358–359, 364, 366, 375 Dante Alighieri 115, 129 darkness, and eternal damnation 361– 362 David, kingship of 152, 154 n9 Dead Sea Scrolls, resurrections in 330– 331, 334 death/dead, see also resurrections/revivifications – embodiment of 337, 338, 340, 341, 342, 343, 348 – of Jesus 209 – – and Christ 144–145 – – Jews and 128 – – sacrificial understanding of 120– 121 – Jesus’ prediction of own 349–351 – views on – – by Greco–Romans 326–327, 336 – – in Judaism 326, 327, 336, 369 deities, and hospitality 301 destruction, see annihilation Devil, see Satan Didymos Judas Thomas – and Jesus’ identity 137–139, 234–235 – or Judas Iscariot 123 Dionysos 281 Diotrephes 314 disciples – of Antigonus 212 – communal life of 166, 167 disciples/apostles of Jesus, see also under specific disciples – differences between Jesus and 31 – drinking from his mouth 235–236 – and God’s Kingdom 374 – and hospitality/inhospitality 313, 316 – and Jesus’ laughter 120 – rejection of Judas by 129 – relations with Jesus 224, 238–239 – tribal affiliation of 164–165 discontinuity, see also continuity; criterion of dissimilarity – concept of 8

Index of Subjects and Names – in continuum approach 8, 18, 30, 32– 33, 34–35, 38, 41, 63, 70, 90 dissimilarities, see also criterion of dissimilarity – hermeneutics of 3–9, 10, 36–37 – – of the early Judaism–Jesus continuum 10–14, 16–17, 27 – – of the Jesus–early Christianity continuum 18, 22, 25–26, 36–39, 41–42 – – in views on divorce 36 – – in views on enemies 27 – – in views on fasting 33 – – in views on sinners 30 – and individuality and identity 15–16 of Jesus to Christianity, see Jesus of Nazareth, and Christianity/Christians – of Jesus to Judaism, see Jesus of Nazareth, and Judaism/Jews – of Jesus traditions to Christianity 7 n9, 7 n10, 36–37 – of Jesus traditions to Judaism 6–7 n9, 7 n9, 7 n10 – and originality 16 – and scholarly observations 38–39 – values invested in 10 dissimilarities/similarities 18 n41, 204 divine light, and Jesus’ cosmological teachings 121–122, 131 divine sun 159–160 divorce (and remarriage), views on 33– 36 double dissimilarity 7 n9, 7 n10, see also dissimilarities drinking, from Jesus’ mouth 235–236 early Christianity, see Christianity/Christians early Christians, see Christianity/Christians early Judaism, see Judaism/Jews early Judaism–Jesus continuum – comparisons in 19, 22 – and Hebrews 70 – hermeneutics of 10–14, 16–17, 27, 41 – and Jesus’ preaching 296 – and love for enemies 221 Ebionites 178 n13, 423 economic conditions, in Galilee 98–99 Egypt 301 Ehrman, B. 140–141

477

Eleazar 391–392 Eleazar (exorcist) 182–183 Elijah 273–274, 304 Elisha 273, 304 endogamy 45 enemies – and hospitality 319 – love of 24–26, 48, 51–52, 216, 217– 218, 260, 319, 401 Er (son of Armenius) 340–341 eschatological beliefs – of Christians 64–65, 370–372 – family structures in 167, 382–383, 401 – of Jesus 46, 51, 67, 198–199, 294, 401–404, 405–406 – of Jews 66–67, 198, 265, 276, 357– 370 – in the Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 275–276 – in miracle stories 272, 273, 275, 277– 279, 283 – and protology 400–401 – of the Qumran community 64, 386 – in Qumran texts 276–278 – and salvation 276–277, 287 Essenes – baptism rituals of 47 n11 – dining habits of 158–159 – hymn–singing of 160 – utopian traditions of 152–153, 157 – views of – – on humility 54 – – on resurrections 208 n56, 342 – – on Sabbath rules 177–178, 416 – – on Temple/Temple system 195–196 exaltations 204–205 existence, blessed 160 exodus miracle stories 271–272 exorcisms/exorcists – Christian views on 184 – by Jesus 184, 185–186, 290–292, 294 – Jewish views on 182–184 – kinds of 184–185 extinction, see annihilation family structures, in eschatological beliefs 167, 382–383, 401 fasting 30–33, 191 Felix (Claudius Felix) 100

478

Index of Subjects and Names

Field of Blood 117 fire – and annihilation of sinners 358–362 – and torment of sinners 363, 364–365, 374–380 food, see also meals/banquets – for the multitudes 286 – for the poor 310 food laws, see also food – views on – – of Christians 50, 93–94 – – of Gentiles 106, 107, 111 – – of Jesus 47 n11, 94–95 – – of Jews 70 – – of Paul 50, 158 foot–washing 124 forgiveness – Jesus’ authority over 174–175, 176– 177, 406 – views on – – of Christians 176 – – of Jesus 48, 175, 176–177 – – of Jews 175–176 Gaius 314 Galilee – economic conditions in 98–99 – inhabitants of 81 Ganymedes 337 Gehenna 355, 360, 366, 369, 372, see also hell Gehinnom, see Gehenna; hell gem of Judas/Judah 127 n26 generalization, scholarly 20, 28 n77 generosity, and the measure–for– measure aphorism 260, 262 Gentiles – Christian missions to – – delay in 64–68 – – Luke on 70–71 – – by Paul 49 n12, 73–74, 93 – contact between Jews and 49 n12, 106–107 – conversions of – – to Christianity 67, 111 – – to Judaism 68, 391–392 – impurity/uncleanness of 107–108 – in Jesus’ eschatology 46 – laws/rules – – circumcision 66, 71–72, 108, 397

– – and Sabbath observance 178, 180– 181, 419–420 – – separating Jews from 50, 58 – prophecy of pilgrimage of 405 – rules separating Jews from 46 – salvation of 63, 67, 68, 71, 74 – and sinners 105 – and synagogues 49, 68, 106 – and the Temple 66, 395–396 – views of, on food laws 106, 107, 109, 111 – views on, of Jesus 65 Gnosis, see Gnosticism/Gnostics Gnosticism/Gnostics – definitions of 133–134 – and the Gospel of Thomas 134–135 – Manichaean 133 – Sethian 119–120, 122, 131–132 – texts, and portrayal of Jesus 137–147 – views of – – God of the Old Testament 134–135 – – God’s kingdom 142–143 God’s judgment, see Last Judgment God’s kingdom – Jesus’ sayings about 290–292, 374 – Jesus’ teachings on 141–142, 161– 162, 163, 165–167, 201, 296, 400, 405–406, 407–408 – as a Jewish utopian tradition 151, 153–156, 161–162, 163, 165–169 – in Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 408 – and salvation 293–294 – versus Torah 400–404 God’s Power 206 God’s Rule 220 God/Yahweh – and blasphemy 202–204 – miracle activities by 270–272, 277– 278 – miracle activities by, through agents 273–274, 278–279, 294–295 – of the Old Testament – – Christian views on 135–136 – – Gnostic views on 134–135 – – Jesus’ views on 139–140 – and resurrection 277–278, 279, 359– 360 Golden Rule 214–215, 260 Gorgias (Plato) 338

Index of Subjects and Names Gospel of Judas 115–132, see also Judas Iscariot – agrapha in 131 – content of 120–122 – discovery of 115–116 – Ehrman on 140–141 – as Gnostic parody 132 n33 – Irenaeus on 118–119, 129 – and Jesus’ views about God of the Old Testament 140 – and the Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 129–132 – knowledge of writer of 129 – lacunae in 121 n13, 121 n14, 122 – and Sethian gnosticism 119–120, 122, 131–132 Gospel of Mark, and Jesus’ identity 139 Gospel of Thomas – dating of 230–231 – and the Gnostic tradition 134–135 – and God’s kingdom 142–143 – and Jesus’ identity 137–139 – and the Parable of the Sower 231–232 – parables/logions in 233–236 – relation with canonical traditions 229–230, 233 – sectarianism in 234 gospels, see also under specific gospels legal interpretations in 91 – of the New Testament and the historical Jesus 136, 139 – as passion stories 130 – relations to the Gospel of Judas 131 Greco Romans, and divine kingship 153 Greek religion – and hospitality 302–303 – and views on death 326–327, 336 – and views on resurrection 326–327, 336–343, 348 guest rooms 130 guest–friendship 303–304 guest–kinship 304 Hades, see hell hand–washing 95, 105, 189 harmony 160, 168 Hasmoneans 162 hatred, of outsiders 54, 212, 216–218, 225–226

479

havurah 156, 157, 158 healing of the sick – and eschatological beliefs 277, 283 – by Jesus 47, 168, 282–286 – by Jesus, on the Sabbath 178–179, 426–427, 428, 438, 442 n103 – by Paul 159 – prophetic speeches about 275 – on the Sabbath 178–179, 426–427, 428, 438, 442 n103 – by Therapeutai 159 Hebrews, shared identity with Hellenists 69 Helena (queen of Adiabene) 391–392 Heliopolitans 159–160 hell, see also annihilation; damnation, eternal; underworld – condemnations to 378–379 – in the Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 355, 380–383 – sayings about, of Jesus 374–375, 381–382 – views on – – in Christianity 356–357, 370–380 – – of Jesus 374–376, 378, 380–381 – – in Judaism 357–370 – – traditional 356 Hellenists – and circumcision of Gentiles 71–72 – and the commandments 91–92 – Jewish identity of 408 – and Paul 399–400 – shared identity with Hebrews 69 – utopian traditions of 151, 152–153, 157, 159 – view of Torah and Temple 69–70 heretics, see sin/sinners hermeneutics – of dissimilarity 3–9, 10, 36–37 – – in views on divorce 36 – – in views on enemies 27 – – in views on fasting 33 – – in views on sinners 30 – of the early Judaism–Jesus continuum 10–14, 16–17, 27, 41 – of the Jesus–early Christianity continuum 18, 22, 25–26, 36–39 Hermes 302 Herod Antipas (20 BCE to 40 CE) 53

480

Index of Subjects and Names

Herod the Great (73 or 74 BCE to 4 BCE) 162 Hesiod 253 Hillel the Elder 22, 192, 213, 214 Hippolytus 326 historical research, axioms of XI–XVII, 43–44 historiography XI–XVII historicity – and ideas of sectarianism 240 – of Jesus 44, 209–210, 224, 244–245 Histories (Tacitus) 45–46 hope, and eschatological beliefs 265, 276–277, 283, 287 hospitality, see also inhospitality – of Abraham 306–307 – abuse of 308, 313, 318 – and blessings 304–305 – characteristics of 308–309 – in Christianity 311–314, 316–322 – definition of 299–300 – and disciples/apostles 313, 316 – and enemies 319 – and guest–friendship 303–304 – and guest–kinship 304 – of Job 307 – in Judaism 303–311 – in the Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 322 – and Judaism/Jews 322 – and the Last Supper 320–321 – in the Mediterranean 301–305 – and missionaries 313–314 – and outsiders 318, 319–321, 322 – of the Pharisees 309–311 – and righteousness 309–310 – role of deities in 301–302 – and salvation 318–319 – and strangers/travellers 300–302 – towards Jesus 316–317 – and the uninvited 318, 319–321, 322 – and women 312 n91 households, conversions of 111–112 humility 51, 53, 54 identity – and dissimilarity 15–16 – and individuality 14–15 – in/of Judaism/Jews 14, 15 n34, 49

– of Jesus, see Jesus of Nazareth, identity of identity markers, Jewish laws/rules as 45–46, 48, 416 n18, 418 immortality – of the body 340–341 – of the soul/spirit 332, 333, 334 – – in Greek Archaic period 336–337 – – in Greek Classical period 337–338, 348 – – in Judaism 342, 348 impious, see sin/sinners impurity/uncleanness, see also purity/purity laws – contracting/transmitting of 96, 104– 105, 107–108 – of inhabitants of Tiberias 102 – of ‘people of the land’ 103–104 individuality – and dissimilarity 15–16 – in historical research 43–44 – and identity 14–15 – in Judaism 14 inhospitality, see also hospitality – and abuse of hospitality 313 – in Christianity 313–315 – and disciples/apostles 313, 316 – and outsiders 314–315 – of the Sodomites 302, 306 insider/outsider motive 223, 241–242 insiders, see also disciples/apostles of Jesus; outsiders; righteousness/righteous – depiction of 227 – and hatred against outsiders 225–226 – and Jesus’ ministry 236–240 – qualifications of 236, 241 – salvation of 234, 236, 241 Instructions on the Two Spirits (Community Rule) 227 interpretations – of Christianity 37–38 – of laws/rules, in Judaism 92–93 intuitive/counterintuitive ideas 56–57 Irenaeus of Lyon 118–119, 129, 132 Isaiah, prophecy of 275, 279 Isis 341–342 Islam, conversions to 110 Israel

Index of Subjects and Names – in Jewish utopian tradition 151–152, 161–162, 163, 165–166, 169–170 – restoration of 65–66 Izates (son of Helena, queen of Adiabene) 112, 391–392 Jerusalem – Christian community in 65, 66, 67 – Hebrews in 69–70 – Hellenists in 69–70 – in Jewish utopian traditions 152 Jerusalem conference 93, 110 Jerusalem council (ca. 50 CE) 113 Jesus and Judaism (Sanders) 27–28 Jesus ben Sirach 151–152, 212–213 Jesus of Nazareth, see also Jesus tradition/movement – authenticity of 218 – authority of – – and final judgment 205–206 – – from God or the devil 181–182, 184 – – Mark on 97 – – over divine calendar 179 – – over forgiveness 174–175, 176– 177, 406 – – over laws 191–194 – – over the Temple 198–199 – – scope of 209–210 – – as Son of Man 176–177, 179, 194, 205–208 – in Christian memory 285–286, 289, 295 – and Christianity/Christians – – dissimilarities between 22, 37–38, 40–42 – – – about divorce 34, 35 – – – about enemies 26 – – – about fasting 32–33 – – – about sinners 28–30 – comparisons of – – real life 19–20, 26, 30, 32, 35 – – scholarly 20–22, 26, 32–33, 35–36 – death/crucifixion of 120–121, 128, 144–145, 209 – disciples/apostles of – – differences between Jesus and 31 – – drinking from his mouth 235–236 – – and laughter of Jesus 120 – – rejection of Judas by 129 – – relations with 224, 238–239

481

– – tribal affiliation of 164–165 – eschatological beliefs of 46, 51, 67, 198–199, 294, 401–404, 405–406 – examination by Jewish leadership of 202–203, 206–207 – God’s vindication of 201, 202, 204, 206–208 – historicity of 44, 224, 244–245, 289 – and hospitality 316–318 – identity of – – according to Gospel of Thomas 137–139, 234–235 – – awareness of own 143, 193–194 – – in Christian and Gnostic texts 137– 139, 143–147 – – in Christian experience 39–40, 41 – – and dissimilarities 16–17 – – and dissimilarity to Judaism 27 – – Jewish 12–13, 14, 47–48, 58–59, 408 – influenced by – – Judaism 219 – – sectarianism 229 – and John the Baptist 166, 283 – and Judaism/Jews – – dissimilarities between 4, 9–10, 13– 14, 16–17 – – – about divorce 33–35 – – – about enemies 23–24, 25, 27 – – – about fasting 32 – – – about forgiveness 176–177 – – – about laws/rules 191–194 – – – about love 218 – – – about Sabbath rules 178–179, 180–181 – – – about sinners 28, 173–176 – – inclusive form of 49–50 – and the Last Supper 200–201, 320– 321 – and martyrdom 350–351 – miracle activities by – – exorcisms 184, 185–186, 290–292, 294 – – feeding of the multitudes 286 – – as God’s agent 274, 294–295 – – healings 47, 139, 168, 178–179, 282–286, 426–427, 428, 438 – – historicity of 288 – – interpretation of 265, 268 – – stories about 280–287

482

Index of Subjects and Names

– missions of, to Jewish sinners 105– 106 – and Paul 169–170, 215 – personal traits – – harshness 381–383 – – laughter of 120, 131 – – originality of 16–17 – portrayal/image of – – in Gnostic versus Christian texts 137–145 – – as healer 282 – – as a helper of the needy 287 – – as inventor of hell 355 – – as a liberal Jew 45, 50 – – as a magician 183–184 – – as messianic pretender 52, 196, 199, 205–208 – – as a non–nationalistic figure 163– 164 – – as a parasite 318 – – as a peasant 252 – – as a phenomenon of history and belief 20–22 – – as posthumous founder of Christianity 43, 50, 59 – – as preacher 141–143, 282, 291 – – as rabbi 130, 398 – – as a real living person 20–22, 41 – – as a rebel 221 – – as a result of Jewish history 59 – – as revelator of God 201 – – as teacher of wisdom 120, 130–131, 136, 282 – – as uninvited 320 – resurrection/ascension of 209 – – gospel accounts of 352 – – and Greco–Roman traditions 348 – – Paul on 344–347, 352 – – prediction of his own 349–351 – role in emergency of Christianity 87– 90 – sayings of – – about God’s kingdom 290–292, 374 – – about hell 374–375, 381–382 – – in Matthew and/or Luke 247 – – measure–for–measure 245–247, 263–264 – – political content of, lack of 163 – self–knowledge of 274, 275, 279, 290 – and Sophia 143

– superiority of 4, 10, 16 – table fellowship of 318–319 – teachings/revelations of – – cosmological 121–122 – – creativity in 219–220, 221–222 – – deviations from 38–40 – – exclusiveness of 232, 234, 235– 236, 239, 241 – – on God’s judgment 141–143 – – on God’s kingdom 141–142, 161– 162, 163, 165–167, 201, 296, 400, 405–406, 407–408 – – on the Golden Rule 214 – – on humility 55 – – on impurity 103, 105 – – on inner kingdom 142–143 – – and intuitive/counterintuitive ideas 56–57 – – to love enemies 24–26, 48, 51–52, 217–222, 319, 401 – – and outsiders 223, 236–240 – – on resurrection of the dead 141–142 – – in synagogues 435 – – and twinship motive 123, 234–236 – views of – – on circumcision 47 n11 – – on divorce 33–36 – – eschatological 46, 51, 67, 198–199 – – on fasting 30–33, 191 – – on food laws 47 n11, 94–95 – – on forgiveness 48, 175, 176–177, 317 – – on Gentiles 65 – – on harmony 168 – – on hell 374–376, 379, 380–381 – – on the Last Judgment 205–206, 382 – – on laws/rules 46–47, 48, 70, 191– 194 – – on the Old Testament 134–136, 139–141 – – on the Old Testament, God of 140 – – on outsiders 321 – – on purity/purity laws 28, 46, 95, 102, 188–190 – – on resurrections 141–142 – – on Sabbath rules 178–179, 180– 181, 194, 432–435, 436–442 – – on sacrifice 120 – – on simplicity 167–168 – – on sinners 27–30, 102, 172–173

Index of Subjects and Names – – on tax collectors 172–173 – – on Temple system 67, 70, 92, 96– 97, 126, 196–198, 396, 404–406, 407–408 – – on the Torah 401–403, 407 – – on wealth/wealthy 99 Jesus tradition/movement XX – concept of love in 215–217 – dissimilarities to Christianity 7 n9, 7 n10, 36–37 – dissimilarities to Judaism 6–7 n9, 7 n10 – within Judaism 49 – the measure–for–measure aphorism in 258–263 – as a renewal movement 52, 58 Jesus–early Christianity continuum – comparisons in 19, 21 – and Hellenists 70 – hermeneutics of 18, 22, 25–26, 36– 38, 41–42 – and the historical Jesus 136 – and Jesus’ identity 146–147 – and Jesus’ love message 221–222 – lack of 90 Jewish identity – and group dissociation 15 n34 – of Hellenists 408 – of Jesus 12–13, 14, 47–48, 58–59, 408 – of Paul 408 Job, hospitality of 307 Johannine Community/School 216– 217, 221, 426–430, 435 John of Gischala 99 John the Baptist – baptism rituals of 47 n11 – death of 100 – and Jesus 166, 283 – views of, on laws/rules 52–53 Joseph of Arimathea 118 Josephus – on Abraham’s hospitality 306 – on circumcision 391–392 – on Gentiles 106 – on God’s kingdom 165–166, 167 – on humility 54 – on immortality of the soul 342 – on John of Gischala 99 – on love 54

483

– on the Maccabees 55 n23 – on messianism 54 – on sects 228–229 – on sign–prophets 272 – and theocratic rule 153–156 Judah (brother of Joseph) 127 Judah (Genesis) 248 Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum IX–XI – and concepts of hell 355, 380–383 – and eschatological hopes in miracle stories 275–276 – and God’s kingdom 408 – and the Gospel of Judas 129–132 – and hospitality 322 – and insider/outsider motive 241–242 – and Jesus’ miracle activities 269 – and a ‘middle’ Jesus 171, 181, 186, 194, 210 – and radicalization of Judaism 51–55, 57–59 – and resurrection 323–324 – and Sabbath observance 435–442 – sectarianism in 224 – and Torah interpretation 407 – and universalization of Judaism 45– 51, 55, 57–59 Judaism/Jews – Christian mission, rejection of 237, 240 – and cosmological order 385–393 – eschatological beliefs of 66–67, 198, 265, 276, 357–370 – and Gentiles – – conversions of 49 n12, 68, 391–392 – – relations with 106–107, 180 – the Golden Rule in 214–215 – Hellenistic reform of 49 – and hospitality 302, 303, 306–307, 309–311, 322 – humility in 51, 53, 54–55 – identity in/of the, see Jewish identity – inclusive form of 49–50 – individuality in 14 – and Jesus – – dissimilarities between 4, 9–10, 13– 14, 16–17, 183 – – – about divorce 33–35 – – – about fasting 32 – – – about forgiveness 176–177

484

Index of Subjects and Names

– – – about laws/rules 191–194 – – – about love for enemies 23–24, 25, 27 – – – about purity/purity laws 188–190 – – – about Sabbath rules 178–179, 180–181 – – – about sinners 28, 173–176 – – integration of, into 12–13 – – responsibility for death of 128 – – starting exodus from 45 – in Jesus’ eschatology 46 – and Jesus tradition – – dissimilarities between 6–7 n9, 7 n10 – – popularity of 49 – laws/rules in – – on circumcision 45, 47 n11, 50, 391–392 – – on food, see food laws – – interpretation of 92–93 – – moral and ritual 46–47 – – and Moses 391 – – Philo on 49 n12 – – on purity 173–174, 187, 190, 388– 390 – – on the Sabbath 45, 46, 50, 70, 177– 179, 180–181, 311, 411–418 – – and separation from Gentiles 46, 50, 58, 390 – leadership of 188, 194–195, 197–198, 202–204 – legalism in 9 – miracle traditions in 276–279 – miracles/miracle stories in 269–279 – missions of, lack of 68 – mysticism in 131 – pluriformity of 11–14, 398–399 – radicalisation of 51–55, 57–59 – revitalization of 51 – rites/practices of, for Passover 199– 202 – Tacitus on 45–46 – universalism in 66–67 – universalization of 45–51, 55, 57–59 – utopian traditions of 151, 153–154 – views of – – on acts of blasphemy 203–204 – – on death 326, 327, 336 – – on divorce 33, 34–35 n97 – – on exaltations 204

– – on exorcisms 182–184 – – on fasting 31 – – on forgiveness 175–176 – – on hell 357–370 – – on love 23–24, 51, 54, 212–217, 220 – – on purity/purity laws 173–174, 187, 190 – – on resurrections 208 n56, 278, 328– 336, 342, 348 – – on sinners 28, 172–173 – – on Temple/Temple system 162, 195–196, 393–395 – – and Torah 385–393 – – on the wealthy 100–102 – and wisdom literature 131 Judas (the son of James) 126 Judas. Betrayer or Friend of Jesus (Warren) 124 Judas from Galilee 52 Judas Iscariot 115–132, see also Gospel of Judas – and cosmological teachings of Jesus 121–122 – death of 118, 121, 129 – as favorite disciple 123 – handing over of Jesus 118, 119, 122, 124–126, 127–128, 130–131 – non–existence of 126 – portrayal of – – negative 116–118 – – – Christological reasons for 127– 128 – – – literary reasons for 127 – – – political reasons for 128 – – positive 120, 123, 131–132 – relation with Jesus 121–122, 123 – and Sophia 129 n28, 131 – as thirteenth demon 132 n33 Judas Thomas, see Didymos Judas Thomas kingdom of God, see God’s kingdom Kingdom of God 165–166 kingship, divine – of the Greco Romans 153 – in Jewish utopian traditions 153–156 kingship of the Jews, see God’s kingdom

Index of Subjects and Names

the Lamb 378 language, in texts about Jesus’ resurrection 346–347, 350 Last Judgment, see also annihilation; damnation, eternal – portrayals of 355–358, 361–367, 371, 374–380 – and Satan 378 – views on, of Jesus 141–143, 205–206, 382 Last Supper 47 n11, 117, 124, 200– 201, 320–321 laughter, of Jesus 120, 131 laws/rules – in Christianity – – on food, see food laws – – non–observance of 93, 431 – – on the Sabbath, see Sabbath laws/rules – in Judaism – – on food, see food laws – – as identity markers 45–46, 48, 416 n18, 418 – – interpretation of 92–93 – – of the Pharisees 102–103, 105 – – Philo on 49 n12, 386–390 – – on purity, see purity/purity laws – – ritual and moral norms of 46–47, 48, 388–390 – – on the Sabbath, see Sabbath laws/rules – – separating Jews and Gentiles 46, 50, 58, 390 – views on – – among bandits 99–100 – – among Christians 90–91, 91–93 – – of Jesus 46–47, 48, 70, 191–194 Lazarus 100–101 leadership, by church elders 159 learning, Paul on 159 die Leben–Jesu–Forschung (phase in Jesus research) 9 n15 legalism, in Judaism 9 lender/borrower 253–259 leper, healing of 139, 285–286 Letter of Aristeas 93–94 Letters from the Earth (Twain) 355 lex talionis principle 246, 249, 251– 252, 253, 258, 263, 264

485

liquids, and transmitting impurity 104– 105 literature, Jewish wisdom 131 loans 249–259 logions, see parables/logions Lord’s Day 178 n13, 422–425 Lord’s Prayer 316 Lot 302, 307 love – of enemies 24–26, 48, 51–52, 216, 217–218, 260, 319, 401 – of fellow believer 54, 212, 216–217 of God 212, 213 – Jesus on 24–26, 48, 51–52, 217–222 – Jesus tradition/movement on 215–217 – the Johannine Community and 216, 221, 430 n63 – Luke on 2, 216, 221 – Matthew on 215–216, 221 – of neighbours 23–24, 51, 54, 212–213 – of oneself 213–215 – of others 211–212, 213–215 – Paul on 215 Luke the Evangelist – and the measure–for–measure aphorism 250–251, 262–263, 264 – reliability as historian 68–69 – views of – – on Jesus and Sabbath rules 433–434 – – on love 216, 221 – – on mission activity 70–71 Maccabees 55 n23 Maecenas Foundation 116 Mark the Evangelist – and the measure–for–measure aphorism 251–252, 261–262, 264 – views of – – on Jesus and purity 189, 190 – – on Jesus and Sabbath rules 433–434 – – on Jesus’ authority 97 marriage 158 martyrdom/sacrifices – and death of Jesus 120–121 – of the Maccabees 55 n23 – and resurrection 329, 350–351 – salvation based on 130–131 – of Stephen 70 – and Temple/Temple system 396–397 Marxists 88–89

486

Index of Subjects and Names

Mary Magdalene 314–315, 352 maskilim 225–228 Matthew the Evangelist – on Jesus and purity 189 – and Jesus’ identity 137–138 – and the measure–for–measure aphorism 263, 264 – views of – – on divorce 34–35 – – on love 215–216, 221 – – on Sabbath rules 432–433 meals/banquets, see also food; Last Supper; Passover meal – communal form of 158–159 – as part of hospitality 306–307 – on the Sabbath 417, 437 n83 – and sinners 27–30 – and table fellowships 309–311 – and the uninvited 318 measure–for–measure aphorism 245– 264 – agrarian context of 258–264 – authenticity of 252 – and benefiting enemies 260 – borrower/lender perspective in 253– 259 – Clement of Rome and 264 – Clement of Rome on 251, 260–261 – and generosity 260, 262 – and grain loan formulae 249–250 – Judaean context of 248 – Luke and 250–251, 262–263, 264 – Mark and 251–252, 261–262, 264 – Matthew and 263, 264 – Mediterranean context of 249–250, 253–258 – multiple attestations of 246–247 – Q source and 251, 259–260, 263, 264 and reciprocity 260–262 – as threat 259 measurements, of agricultural products 249–257 Mediterranean region, hospitality in 301–305 memory, Jesus in Christian 285–286, 289, 295 Menelaus 337 messianism 51 n 17, 52–54, 55 military activities, during Sabbath 413, 415–416

millenarian movements 52–53 miracle workers – Aaron 270 – Elijah as 273–274 – Elisha as 273 – God as 270–272, 277–279 – humans as 273 – Jesus of Nazareth, see Jesus of Nazareth, miracle activities of – Moses as 270 miracles/miracle stories, see also exorcisms/exorcists; healing of the sick; miracle workers aims of 283–284 – in Christianity 280–287 – common features of 280 – communicative relevance of 284 – construction of meaning in 268, 279 – definitions of 266–268 – and eschatological hopes 272, 273, 275, 277–278, 283 – and ethics and rules 280, 284 – faith as foundation of 283–285 – historicity of 288 – in Judaism 269–279 – narration/re–narration of 268, 271, 283, 285 – in the Old Testament 270–275 – in Qumran texts 276–279 – and social classes 279–280 – sources of 281 – transformation of 295–296 – understanding of 281–283 missionaries, and hospitality 313–314 missions, see also conversions – Christian – – to Gentiles 49 n12, 63, 64–68, 71, 73–74, 93–94 – – success of 55–57 moral rules 46–47 Moses 91–92, 270, 391 multiple attestation 3, 164, 217–218, 246, 252, 263, 436 mysteries, see secret knowledge/mysteries mysticism, Jewish 131 narration/re–narration, of miracle stories 268, 271, 283, 285 National Geographic Society 116

Index of Subjects and Names nativistic movements 52 nature, written and unwritten laws of 387–388 Nazareans 178 n13, 423 neighbours, commands to love 23–24, 51, 54 neophytes, pre–baptismal testing of 158 ‘New Quest’ (phase in Jesus research) 9 n15, 45 Nicaea, council of 141 Nichiren Shoshu 110 non–believers, see outsiders ‘Normenwunder’ 280, 284 norms – function of moral and ritual 46–47 – radicalising of 46–47, 48 – relativising of 46–47, 48, 49, 50 observations, scholarly 38–39 Odysseus 305 n 36 Odyssey (Homer) 127, 336–337 Old Testament – God of – – Christian views on 135–136 – – Gnostic views on 134–135 – – Jesus’ views on 139–140 – miracles/miracle stories in 270–275 – prophetic speeches in 275 – resurrections in 328–329 Old Testament Pseudepigrapha – and eternal damnation 366–368 – resurrections/revivifications in 331– 334 oneness motive 236 n39 Onesimus 111 ontological domains, and counterintuitive ideas 56 Ophites 144 originality, of Jesus 16–17 outsiders – depiction of 227 – and eternal damnation 368–369 – hatred of 225–226 – and hospitality 318, 319–321, 322 – and inhospitality 314–315 – and Jesus’ ministry 223, 236–240, 321, 322 – salvation of 242, 297 Oxyrhynchus Papyri 230–231, 257

487

pagan movements, and Christianity 111 pain, and eternal damnation 366 Papyri, on grain loans 249–250, 253– 258 Parable of the Sower 231–232 Parable of the Unjust Steward 317 parables/logions – in the Gospel of Thomas 233–236 – in Mark 236–240 Paraclete (the Holy Spirit) 201 n50 parasites 308, 318 passion stories, gospels of the New Testament 130 Passover meal 199–202, 320–321 Paul (Saul) of Tarsus (d. c. 64–65) – and the Antioch controversy 93–94 – call/conversion of 71, 73, 93, 397 – continuity between Jesus and 169– 170, 215 – and early Christian utopian tradition 156–161 – education of 399–400 – on the handing over of Jesus 124– 125, 127 – healings by 159 – and the Hellenists 399–400 – on Jesus’ resurrection 352 – Jewish identity of 408 – mission activities of 49 n12, 71, 73– 74, 93–94, 430 – persecution of Christians by 72, 92– 93 – proclamation of, and intuitive/counterintuitive ideas 57 – theology of 398 – views of – – blessed existence 160 – – child rearing 158 – – circumcision 50 – – communal meals 159 – – conversions 109 – – divorce 34–35 – – enemies 26 – – fasting 31 – – food/food laws 50, 158 – – on God’s kingdom 169–170 – – on harmony 160 – – on humility 55 – – on leadership 159 – – learning 159

488

Index of Subjects and Names

– – on love 215, 221 – – marriage 158 – – on messianism 55 – – on pre–baptismal testing of children/neophytes 158 – – purity 157 – – on resurrections 344–347, 370–371 – – on Sabbath rules 418–421 – – on self control/discipline 160 – – sinners 28–29, 30 – – on slavery 159 – – on the Temple 398–400 peasant unrests 98–99 ‘people of the land’ 103–104 persecutions, of Christians 72, 92–93 Peter (Simon Peter, the apostle) – conversions by 71 – on food laws 93 – and Jesus’ identity 137–139, 143 Pharisees, see also Qumran community/sect – contrasted with ‘people of the land’ 104 – havurah of 156, 157, 158 – laws of the 102–103, 105 – living in the Diaspora 399 – separatism of 172–173 – and table fellowships 309–311 – and Temple criticism 393–395 – views of – – on resurrections 208 n56, 342 – – on Sabbath rules 177, 311, 414 Philemon 302 Philo Judaeus – on Abraham’s hospitality 306 – and cosmological order 49 n12, 387, 403–404 – on humility 54 – on kingship 152 – on love 54 – on messianism 54 – on the Temple 394–395 PKI (Communist Party of Indonesia) 110 Plato 338, 339–340 plausibility 23 political thoughts – Hellenistic/Greco–Roman 151, 153 – of Millenarian movements 52 – of sign–prophets 272

Polycarp 247 pork 111, 112 prohibition, of divorce 33–35 prophetic speeches, about healing 275 prophets, boundary between bandits and 100 proselytes 67, 68, 72 protology 400–401 Psalm 10 143 purity/purity laws, see also impurity/uncleanness – expanded non–Temple 102–103, 105 – non–observance of 102–104 – and sinners 101, 173–174 – and the Temple 393–394 – and Torah 388–390 – views on – – by Christians 187–188 – – of Jesus 28, 46, 95, 102, 188–192 – – by Jews 173–174, 187, 190, 388– 390 – – of Paul 157 Q editor/compiler 433–434 Q source – and the measure–for–measure aphorism 251, 259–260, 263, 264 Qumran community/sect, see also Pharisees – and annihilation of sinners 359 – divorce in 33 – eschatological beliefs of 64, 386 – humility in 54 – purity and sin in 173 – separatism of 172–173, 225–229, 240–241 – views of, on resurrections 208 n56 Qumran texts – and eschatological beliefs 276–278 – miracle stories in 276–279 rabbis 130, 173, 220, 360, 398 raising of the dead, see resurrections/revivifications real life comparisons, of Jesus of Nazareth 19–20, 26 realm of the dead, see underworld rebellions 52–53 reductionism 87–88

Index of Subjects and Names religion, and intuitive/counterintuitive ideas 56–57 remarriages, see divorce (and remarriage) Republica (Plato) 340–341 resurrections/revivifications, see also death/dead – and apostates 361 n26 – of the body 331, 333, 335, 352 – – in Christianity 344–347 – – in Greek Classical period 338–341 – in the Dead See Scrolls 330–331, 334 – definitions of 323–324 – God and 277–278, 279, 359–360 – of Jesus – – gospel accounts of 352 – – and Greco–Roman traditions 348 – – and Judaism 348 – – Paul on 344–347 – – prediction of his own 349–351 – in the Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 323–324 – and martyrdom 350–351 – in the Old Testament 328–329 – in the OT Pseudepigrapha 331–334 – and the righteous 332, 360, 363, 370– 371 – role in emergency of Christianity 87– 88 – and salvation 341, 344, 347 – in the Septuagint 329, 334 – of the soul/spirit 332, 333, 334 – – in Greek Archaic period 336–337 – – in Greek Classical period 337–338 – – in Roman thought 341–342 traditions about 335 views on – – by Greco–Romans 326–327, 336– 343 – – of Jesus 141–142 – – in Judaism 208 n56, 278, 328–336, 342 – – of Paul 352 revivifications, see resurrections/revivifications Rich Man and Lazarus (parable) 100– 101 riches/the rich, see wealth/the wealthy righteousness/righteous, see also insiders; outsiders

489

– and divorce 34 – and eternal damnation 368–369 – and hospitality 309–310 – in Jesus’ views on laws 192–193 – and resurrection 332, 360, 363, 370– 371 ritual rules 46 Roman religion 341–342 Romans, responsible for death of Jesus 128 Sabbath laws/rules – and celebration of festivals 414 – and circumcision 427–428 – and healings 426–427, 428, 438, 442 n103 – interpretations of 413–414 – and Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 435–442 – and meals 417, 437 n83 – and military activities 413, 415–416 – non–observance of – – by Jesus 178–179, 180–181, 432– 435, 436–442 – – by Jesus, as provocative act 439– 442 – observance of – – by Essenes 177–178, 416 – – by Gentiles 178, 180–181 – – by Jews 45, 46, 50, 70, 177–179, 180–181, 311, 411–418 – – and the Johannine Community 426– 430, 435 – – by Pharisees 311, 414 – – by Sadducees 414 – – undermining of 419–420 – observance/non–observance of, by Christians 178, 180–181, 286, 418– 432, 436–437 – respect for 414–416 – and self defence 413, 414 – significance of 411–412, 429 – versus Sunday gathering 422–424 – and synagogue participation 178, 180, 416–417, 430–431, 435 – views on – – of Ignatius 423 – – of Luke 433–434 – – of Mark 433–434 – – of Paul 418–421

490

Index of Subjects and Names

– and work 412–413, 433–435, 437– 438 sacrifices, see martyrdom/sacrifices Sadducees 172, 177, 212, 334, 342, 414 salvation – and apostates 373 – based on sacrifice 130–131 – and eschatological beliefs 276–277, 283, 287 – of Gentiles 63, 67, 68, 71, 74 – and God’s kingdom 293–294 – and hospitality 318–319 – and resurrection 341, 344, 347 – shared with insiders 234, 236, 241 – shared with outsiders 242, 297 Satan – fall of 186, 291–292, 294 – and the fire of the Last Judgment 378 sayings – of Jesus – – about God’s Kingdom 290–292 – – in Matthew and/or Luke 247 – – measure–for–measure 245–247, 263–264 – – political content of, lack of 163 scholarly comparisons, of Jesus 20–22, 26, 32–33, 35–36 Second Temple Judaism, see Judaism/Jews Second Treatise of the Great Seth 144 secret knowledge/mysteries, and Jesus’ teachings 232, 234, 235–236, 239 sectarianism – in Christianity 229–236 – depiction of outsiders in 227 – in the Gospel of Thomas 234 – hatred of outsiders in 225–226 – in the Judaism–Jesus–Christianity continuum 224 – in Qumran 171–173, 225–229 – and secret knowledge/mysteries 232, 234, 235–236, 239 – and teachings of Jesus 224, 239–240 sects, see sectarianism; under specific sects Seduliud 118 self control/discipline 160 self defence, and Sabbath rules 413, 414 self–humiliation 51 n17

self–mastery 54 self–stigmatisation 53, 55 n23 Sepphoris 81 n74, 99 Septuagint 85, 329, 334 Sermon on the Mount 140, 282 Sethian gnosis 119–120, 122, 131–132 Shema Yisrael 140 Sheol, see hell Sibylline Oracles 333 sign–prophets 272 similarities/dissimilarities 204 Simon (son of Onias) 152 Simon of Cyrene 144–145 Simon of Peraea 52 sinners, see sin/sinners sin/sinners, see also outsiders – annihilation of 358–366, 370–372 – conversions of 101–102 – and forgiveness 48, 175, 176–177, 317 – forgiveness of 175–177 – and Gentiles 105 – Jesus’ missions to Jewish 105–106 – Jesus’ views on 27–30, 102, 172–176 – and purity/purity laws 101, 173–174 – and sharpening of norms 48 – torment of – – eternal 366–368, 373–380 – – temporary 364–366, 373 – unrepentant 28 – views on 27–30 – and the wealthy 101 sitologoi 253–255 slavery 159 social classes, and miracles/miracle stories 279–280 social sciences, explaining rise of Christianity 88–89 Sodom/Sodomites 302, 306 Solomon – and exorcism 182 – kingship of 152, 154 n9 – and the Temple 91, 92 Son of Man – Enoch as 204, 205 – and Jesus’ authority 176–177, 179, 194, 205–208 sons of justice/sons of injustice 227 sons of light/sons of darkness 225–226, 227

Index of Subjects and Names Sophia (Divine Wisdom) 129 n28, 131, 143 soul/spirit – immortality of 332, 333, 334 – – in Greek Archaic period 336–337 – – in Greek Classical period 337–338 – – in Roman thought 341–342 spirit, see soul/spirit Stephen – endorsing of Moses 91–92 – martyrdom of 70 – and Temple reform 395–396 – views on Temple system 91–92 strangers/travellers, and hospitality 300–301 sub–Saharan Africa 110 sun, divine 159–160 Sunday, gathering on 178 n13, 422–425 superiority, of Jesus 4, 10, 16 Symposium (Plato) 339 synagogues – and Gentiles 49, 68, 106 – Jesus’ teachings in 435 – participation in 178, 180, 416–417, 430–431 table fellowship 309–311, 318–319 Tacitus 45–46, 54 Tamar (Genesis) 248 tax/toll collectors 48, 101, 103 n39, 318–319 Temple/Temple system – cleansing of, by Jesus 196–198 – and the commandments 91–92 – and Gentiles 395–396 – and purity/purity laws 393–394 – ritual aspects of 393–394, 396 – Solomon and the 91, 92 – spiritual aspects of 394–396, 397–398 – Stephen and the 395–396 – views on – – in Christianity 196, 396–400 – – of the Hellenists 69–70 – – of Jesus 67, 70, 92, 96–97, 126, 196–198, 396, 404–406, 407–408 – – in Judaism 126, 195–198, 393–395 – – of Paul 398–400 – – of the Pharisees 393–394 – – of Stephen 91–92 – worship of Gentiles at 66

491

theocracy 153–154 Therapeutai/Therapeutrides – dining habits of 159 – and the divine sun 159–160 – healings by 159 – hymn–singing of 160 – and slavery 159 – utopian traditions of 152–153, 157, 158–159 Theudas 100 ‘Third Quest’ (phase in Jesus research) 9 n15, 289 Thomas the Apostle, see Didymos Judas Thomas Tiberias 81 n74, 99, 102 tithing laws 103 toll collectors, see tax/toll collectors Torah – and cosmological order 385–393 – versus God’s kingdom 400–404 – interpretation of 407 – interpretations of 389–393, 400–404 – on purity/purity laws 388–390 – views on – – of the Hellenists 69–70 – – of Jesus 401–403, 407 – – of Jews 385–393 torment – of sinners – – eternal 366–368, 373–380 – – by fire 363, 364–365, 374–380 – – temporary 364–366, 373 torture, see torment traditions, see also Gnosticism/Gnostics; Jesus tradition/movement; utopian traditions – about miracles 276–279 – about resurrections 335 – biblical demiurgical 134 travellers, see strangers/travellers Twain, M. 355 twinship motive 123, 234–236 umbrae 318 unchastity 34 unclean, see impurity/uncleanness underworld 337, 338, 340, 341, 343, see also hell uninvited 318, 319–320, 322 universalism, in Judaism 66–67

492

Index of Subjects and Names

utensils, and impurity 105 utopian traditions – early Christian 156–161, 169–170 – God’s kingdom as 151, 153–156, 161–162, 163, 165–169 – Hellenistic 151, 152–153, 157, 159 – Jewish 151, 153–154, 166, 169–170 – shared characteristics of 157–160, 167 utopias 151, 154, 157 Vespasian 156, 281 views – on divorce (and remarriage) 33–36 – on enemies 24–26 – on fasting 30–33 – on sinners 27–30 Virgil 341 washing – of feet 124

– of hands 95, 105 – of utensils 105 wealth/the wealthy – Jesus’ views on 99, 102 – Jewish views on 100–102 – and sinners 101 wicked, see sin/sinners women, and hospitality 312 n91 work, during Sabbath 412–413, 433– 435, 437–438 worms 358–359, 364, 366, 375 Yahweh, see God/Yahweh Zadok 212 Zapatista movement 98 Zealots 152 Zeus 301–302, 326, 338–339 Zimri 391–39