Luke As Narrative Theologian: Texts and Topics (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161565502, 9783161569968, 3161565509

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber/Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber/Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) ∙ James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) ∙ Janet Spittler (Charlottesville, VA) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

446

Joel B. Green

Luke as Narrative Theologian Texts and Topics

Mohr Siebeck

Joel B. Green, born 1956; 1985 PhD University of Aberdeen; 1985–92 New College Berkeley; 1986–92 Academic Dean; 1992–97 American Baptist Seminary of the West and Graduate Theological Union; 1997–2007 Asbury Theological Seminary; Professor of New Testament Interpretation; 2002–2006 Vice President of Academic Affairs and Provost; 1999–2004 Dean, School of Theology; 2007–Present Fuller Theological Seminary; Professor of New Testament Interpretation; 2016–2018 Provost; 2014–2018 Dean, School of Theology; 2008–2016, 2018– Present Associate Dean for the Center for Advanced Theological Studies. orcid.org/0000-0003-3593-1676

ISBN 978-3-16-156550-2 / eISBN 978-3-16-156996-8 DOI 10.1628/ 978-3-16-156996-8 ISSN 0512-1604 / eISSN 2568-7476 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020  by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. www.mohrsiebeck.com This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen, printed by Gulde Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Preface One of the pivot-points in my life as a Neutestamentler was a letter I received, serendipitously, from Professor F. F. Bruce in 1987. I had recently completed my PhD, published my thesis in revised form with Mohr Siebeck, written a couple of popular-level books, but had not yet decided in what direction my academic path would next lead. Bruce wrote to inquire into my interest in writing the New International Commentary on the New Testament volume on Luke’s Gospel, and this helped to set my course. I had on my shelf several linear feet of commentary on the Gospel of Luke, of course, so the foremost question confronting me was what more or else might possibly be said. This, together with my proximity to diverse scholars who, like myself at the time, found their home in Berkeley, California, invited my contemplation of and experimentation with some of the methodological commitments that emerge in the chapters gathered here. I had begun my scholarly career as a garden-variety redaction critic, but my interests soon took me in other directions: discourse theory, narratology, various forms of cultural criticism and contextual hermeneutics, cognitive science, and so on. Along the way, I was helped by some of those diverse scholars, but also by my students, especially those early ones at New College Berkeley – graduate students whose interests in the Bible were untethered to ordination exams or sermon preparation, but (to change the metaphor) whose interests grew rather from the deep soil of their workaday lives as Christian disciples. Since then, I have had occasion to teach or present on the Gospel of Luke, the Acts of the Apostles, and Luke-Acts more times than I can count, and in a variety of settings, from summer family camps and adult education classes to postgraduate seminars and scholarly gatherings. Listening to the questions my audiences raised often pushed me for greater clarity and in new directions, and for this, and to them, I am grateful. In most cases, the essays gathered here appear very much in the form in which they were originally published, with alterations introduced to achieve overall consistency of style and, in some cases, to correct small errors or to clarify expression. In a couple of cases (particularly chs. 1 and 10), I have introduced more significant revisions, however. Publication details are provided at the onset of each essay. It remains for me to express my appreciation – to Fuller Theological Seminary, whose determined commitment to scholarly rigor and vibrant faith has provided

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Preface

a welcome setting for living out my professorial vocation in recent years; and to Greg McKinzie who, with his keen editorial eye and indexing prowess, has provided invaluable assistance in the preparation of this collection. Feast of St. Luke 2018

Joel B. Green

Table of Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XIII

Introductory Matters 1. Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts? A Reaffirmation of Narrative Unity . . . . . . 3 Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts: Canon, Reception History, and Authorship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Markers of Narrative Unity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 2. Rethinking “History” for Theological Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Historical Criticism and Theological Interpretation: Defining Terms . . . 25 Historical Inquiry against Theological Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 History as Narrative in Theological Interpretation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Texts 3. The Social Status of Mary in Luke 1:5–2:52: A Plea for Methodological Integration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Mary in “The Social World of Luke-Acts” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 The Portrayal of Mary in Luke 1:5–2:52 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Concluding Remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

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4. The Problem of a Beginning: Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Luke 1:5–2:52 as the “Beginning” of Luke-Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 The Old Testament in Luke 1:5–2:52: Some Programmatic Observations 58 Echoes of Scripture in Luke 1:5–2:52: Concluding Remarks . . . . . . . . . . . 71 5. Jesus and a Daughter of Abraham (Luke 13:10–17): Test Case for a Lukan Perspective on Jesus’s Miracles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 The Unity of the Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Healing and Jesus’s Mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Healing and Eschatology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 6. A Cognitive Narratological Approach to the Characterization(s) of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Labelling Zacchaeus, Mapping Zacchaeus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 7. The Demise of the Temple as “Culture Center” in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49) . . . . . 97 Luke 23:44–49: A Question of Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 The Temple and the Torn Veil in Luke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 8. “He Ascended into Heaven”: Jesus’s Ascension in Lukan Perspective, and Beyond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 From Cosmology to Theology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Ascension Theology: Reading Luke-Acts from the Second Century . . . . . 125 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 9. “In Our Own Languages”: Pentecost, Babel, and the Shaping of Christian Community in Acts 2:1–13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 “Speaking in Other Languages” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 “Other Languages” and Social Geography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

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“Other Languages,” Babel, and Identity Formation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 10. Neglecting Widows and Serving the Word? Acts 6:1–7 as a Test Case for the Promise of “Narrative” in Theological Exegesis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Narrative, History, Identity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Acts 6:1–7: Two Historical Reconstructions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Acts 6:1–7: Theological Dilemma and Theological Response . . . . . . . . . . 154 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 11. “They Made a Calf”: Idolatry and Temple in Acts 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Stephen Indicted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 The Role of the Calf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 12. “She and Her Household Were Baptized”: Household Baptism in the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 10:1–11:18 and 16:11–40) . . . . . . . . . . . 170 Household Baptism: Introductory Questions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 The Baptism of Cornelius and His Household (Acts 10:1–11:18) . . . . . . 173 Household Baptisms in Philippi (Acts 16:11–40) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185

Topics 13. Conversion in Luke-Acts: God’s Prevenience, Human Embodiment . . . 189 Conversion and the Turn of the Ages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 Conversion as Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 Baptism, Conversion, Forgiveness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 Conversion Embodied . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210

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14. Good News to the Poor: A Lukan Leitmotif  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 The Centrality of “the Poor” to Luke’s Gospel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 Good News to Whom? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Finding a Home in Luke’s Gospel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 15. “Was It Not Necessary for the Messiah to Suffer These Things and Enter into His Glory?”: The Significance of Jesus’s Death for Luke’s Soteriology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 Salvation and Jesus’s Exaltation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 224 Salvation and Jesus’s Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226 Jesus and Isaiah’s Servant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232 16. “We Had to Celebrate and Rejoice!”: Happiness in the Topsy-Turvy World of Luke-Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 A Different Kind of Happiness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 Joyous Advent (Luke 1–2) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235 Earthly Unhappiness – Heavenly Happiness (Luke 15) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239 Happy Dispositions (Luke 6) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 17. From “John’s Baptism” to “Baptism in the Name of the Lord Jesus”: The Significance of Baptism in Luke-Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248 Discourse Theory and Some Interpretive Landmarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 The Archetypal Role of John’s Baptism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252 Baptism: John’s and Jesus’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260 18. “Salvation to the End of the Earth”: God as Savior in the Acts of the Apostles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 “My Witnesses” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261

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“The Message of This Salvation” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264 “God Has Brought a Savior” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272 “What Must I Do to Be Saved?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278 “You and Your Entire Household Will Be Saved” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 19. “Persevering Together in Prayer”: The Significance of Prayer in the Acts of the Apostles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283 The Early Church as a People of Prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284 Major Categories of Prayer in the Early Church . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288 Jesus on Prayer – The Disciples at Prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Epilogue: The Practice of Prayer and the Church . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298 20. “Witnesses of His Resurrection”: Resurrection, Salvation, Discipleship, and Mission in the Acts of the Apostles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299 “To This We Are Witnesses”: The “Truth” of the Resurrection . . . . . . . . 300 “God Exalted Him … as Leader and Savior”: Resurrection and Salvation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302 “But God Raised Him Up”: Resurrection, the Paradox of Salvation, and Christology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 “Testimony to the Resurrection”: Resurrection, Discipleship, and Mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 308 “Why Is It Thought Incredible by Any of You That God Raises the Dead?”: Resurrection as Hope and Scandal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314 Scripture Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 Author Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337 Subject Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 344

Abbreviations Unless noted below, abbreviations follow The SBL Handbook of Style for Biblical Studies and Related Disciplines, 2nd ed. (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014). AACFSTT

Annales Academiae scientiarum Fennicae: Suomalainen Tiede­akatemia Toimituksia AMT: BBB Athenaums Monografien: Theologie, Bonner Biblische Beiträge AS Advances in Semiotics BC Beginnings of Christianity BTCB Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible CCJCW Cambridge Commentaries on Writings of the Jewish and Christian World 200 BC to AD 200 CEB Common English Bible COQG Christian Origins and the Question of God CSS Cistercian Studies Series CSLILN Center for the Study of Language and Information Lecture Notes CTL Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics DBM Deltion Biblikon Meleton DJG Dictionary of Jesus and the Gospels. Edited by Joel B. Green and Scot McKnight. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1992. DJG2 Dictionary of Jesus and the Gospels. Edited by Joel B. Green. 2nd ed. Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2013. DTIB Dictionary for Theological Interpretation of the Bible. Edited by Kevin J. Vanhoozer. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005. EDEJ The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism. Edited by John J. Collins and Daniel C. Harlow. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010. ETSMS Evangelical Theological Society Monograph Series GBT Gender and the Biblical Tradition GNS Good News Studies GTS Gettysburg Theological Studies IC Ideas in Context IJST International Journal of Systematic Theology ILLS Interface Series: Language in Literary Studies Int Interpretation JGES Journal of the Grace Evangelical Society JLSM Janua Linguarum: Series Maior JPT Journal of Pentecostal Theology JPTSup Journal of Pentecostal Theology Supplement Series JTI Journal of Theological Interpretation LII Luke the Interpreter of Israel

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Abbreviations

LJS Life of Jesus Series LS Language in Society Mar Marianum MNTS McMaster New Testament Studies MS Mission Studies NAB New American Bible (2011) NC Narrative Commentaries NCB New Century Bible NDBT New Dictionary of Biblical Theology. Edited by T. D. Alexander and Brian S. Rosner. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2000. NES Near Eastern Studies NETS A New English Translation of the Septuagint. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. NRSV New Revised Standard Version NSBT New Studies in Biblical Theology NTC The New Testament in Context NTT New Testament Theology OCD3 Oxford Classical Dictionary. Edited by Simon Hornblower and Antony Spawforth. 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. PBM Paternoster Biblical Monographs PRCS Parallax Re-visions of Culture and Society RSV Revised Standard Version SBET Scottish Bulletin of Evangelical Theology SBLAB Society of Biblical Literature Academia Biblica SBLSymS Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series SE Studia Evangelica SH Scripture and Hermeneutics SHJ Studying the Historical Jesus SHM Studies in the History of Missions SHT Studies in Historical Theology SKP Studien zur Klassischen Philologie SS Studies in Scripture SSG Studies in the Synoptic Gospels ST Studia Theologica TECC Theological Explorations for the Church Catholic TEH Theologische Existenz heute TI Theological Inquiries TME The Making of Europe TNIV Today’s New International Version TW Theologie und Wirklichkeit VEcc Verbum et Ecclesia WLQ Wisconsin Lutheran Quarterly WM World of Man WSTR Walberger Studien, Theologische Reihe ZSNT Zacchaeus Studies New Testament

Introductory Matters

1

Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts? A Reaffirmation of Narrative Unity* Almost two decades have passed since the publication of Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts.1 In the pages of this slim volume, Mikeal Parsons and Richard Pervo set off a fireworks show, the afterglow of which has proven to be surprisingly long-lived. I say “fireworks” because this book is characterized more by question-raising and thought experiments than by thoroughgoing argumentation, with the result that it is surprising that it has achieved the landmark status it now enjoys among some NT scholars. Responses to Parsons and Pervo have been legion, and these have been amply summarized in recent analytical surveys of the ensuing conversation.2 In a certain sense, then, their call for serious attention to issues of unity served well to press Lukan scholars to make explicit the working knowledge many had shared since Cadbury fixed the hyphen between “Luke” and “Acts” in the 1920s.3 Although the bulk of their discussion centered on generic, narrative, and theological unity, contemporary discussion has reintroduced the issue of common authorship, which they took for granted, and the closely related questions of canonical placement and reception history. In this essay, I want to discuss these present issues as a precursor to commenting on the narrative unity of Luke-Acts.

* Much of this essay was originally published as Joel B. Green, “Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts? A Reaffirmation of Narrative Unity,” in Reading Acts Today: Essays in Honor of Loveday C. A.  Alexander, ed. Steve Walton, Thomas E. Phillips, Lloyd Keith Pietersen, and F. Scott Spencer, LNTS 427 (London: T&T Clark [an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.], 2011), 101–19. The final section, “Rethinking the Unity of Luke-Acts,” has been augmented. Adapted and used with permission. 1 Mikeal C. Parsons and Richard I. Pervo, Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993). 2 See Patrick E. Spencer, “The Unity of Luke-Acts: A Four-Bolted Hermeneutical Hinge,” CBR 5 (2007): 341–66; Michael F. Bird, “The Unity of Luke-Acts in Recent Discussion,” JSNT 29 (2007): 425–48. 3  “They are not merely two independent writings from the same pen; they are a single continuous work” (Henry J. Cadbury, The Making of Luke-Acts, 2nd ed., with a new introduction by Paul N. Anderson [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999], 8–9; originally published in 1927).

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1  Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts?

Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts: Canon, Reception History, and Authorship Each in their own way, Robert Wall, C. Kavin Rowe, and Patricia Walters have reanimated interest in the relationship of Luke’s Gospel and the book of Acts and, in some circles at least, begun to reinvigorate a negative assessment of the unity of Luke-Acts. Robert Wall and the Canonical Placement of Acts In the twentieth century, study of Luke’s Gospel, for the most part, focused on the Gospel itself or on the Gospel in its relationship to Acts, without primary reference to its canonical location. Redaction criticism located Luke’s Gospel in relation to the other Synoptic Gospels but pressed backward, behind the text, to presumed literary relations between or among the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke; or to their purported sources, whether literary (Q? L? A Lukan passion source?) or oral; and not to their canonical juxtaposition. Luke’s Gospel has also been read in relation to the book of Acts, an approach that allocated little if any significance to the plain fact that Luke and Acts do not appear side-by-side in the biblical canon. Not without good reason, then, Parsons and Pervo spoke of “canonical disunity” in their complaint regarding scholarly imprecision in claims to the unity of Luke and Acts, and Robert Wall has urged that, from a canonical perspective, Acts must be read in relation to the fourfold Gospel (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) on the one hand, the epistolary collections on the other.4 The 2002 publication of Robert Wall’s commentary on Acts in The New Interpreter’s Bible was a welcome achievement, not least because of Wall’s well-known and longstanding commitment to a canonical approach to engaging biblical texts. Reflecting on this commentary, though, I am puzzled at the status Wall grants to the work of Parsons and Pervo’s book, a status that allows Wall to proceed along his own canon-critical course, having set aside without additional comment the narrative, generic, or theological unity of Luke’s two volumes. As I have already suggested, Parsons and Pervo fired a warning shot across the bow of scholarship that presumed the unity of Luke and Acts, but they hardly sunk the ship. Nevertheless, referring to their work as “a fresh introduction to a vexing issue of Lukan scholarship,”5 Wall operates as though Parsons and Pervo had fully cleared the way for his own undertaking. True, Wall seems to affirm “the narrative unity between the Gospel and Acts,”6 but, like Parsons and Pervo, he never defines 4  E. g., Robert W. Wall, “The Acts of the Apostles in Canonical Context,” in The New Testament as Canon: A Reader in Canonical Criticism, by Robert W. Wall and Eugene E. Lemcio, JSNTSup 76 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 110–28; idem, “The Acts of the Apostles: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” in NIB 10:1–368. 5  Wall, “Commentary,” 34. 6  Wall, “Commentary,” 8.

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“narrative” and so charts a course for reading Acts quite apart from the contribution that the Third Gospel might make to that enterprise. The possibility of theological unity is not really considered. Nor does the issue of genre come in for nuanced consideration. This is unfortunate, since these three – theology, narrative, and genre – are closely related in a text like the one under consideration. After all, if, following Aristotle, “narrative” is characterized by its telos, and if narrative is further characterized by its orientation around a single narrative aim, then one might wonder how Wall can simply claim that Luke’s Gospel concerns “the life story of the Savior from conception to ascension” whereas Acts “sketches the origins of a religious movement.”7 (This is especially true since the origins of this particular religious movement are, according to Acts, explicitly tied to the particularly Lukan account of Jesus’s life and mission; see below.) If Luke and Acts comprise the ongoing narration of the actualization of God’s purpose (βουλή) among his people, then the narrative aim of Luke’s Gospel is really a divine aim – and “the story of the Savior” must account for the reality that, for Luke, the identification of Jesus as Savior must somehow be correlated with the identification of God as Savior (Luke 1:47; 2:11; Acts 5:31; 13:23; cf. Luke 1:69); the theology of Luke and Acts read together, as Luke-Acts, must be examined for its coherence and development; and the easy segregation of Luke and Acts on generic grounds is problematized.8 Of course, it may be that Wall would prefer simply to adopt a reading strategy focused on the canonical placement of the book of Acts between the fourfold Gospel canon and the epistolary collection. This would be a useful move, but I would have hoped he would do so by naming and pursuing relentlessly his own reading strategy, rather than by dismissing other reading strategies on the basis of otherwise unwarranted claims. The interpretive issues at stake here should not be minimized. Let me give two examples. First, forty years ago, James D. G. Dunn complained that Pentecostals based their presumption of a second experience of the Spirit, subsequent to and distinct from the new birth, on a problematic hermeneutic when they read Acts 2 as the “second experience” subsequent to the “first experience” in John 20:22. “This appeal to John’s Gospel raises a basic methodological issue: Are we to approach the New Testament material as systematic theologians or as biblical theologians and exegetes?”9 One might take issue with Dunn’s characterization of systematic theologians, but the point is clear enough. Can we simply flatten these  Wall, “Commentary,” 12. E. Phillips documents ways scholars have navigated the generic unity of LukeActs, especially in terms of history/writing, in his essay, “The Genre of Acts: Moving Toward a Consensus?” CBR 4 (2006): 365–96. 9  James D. G. Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit: A Re-examination of the New Testament Teaching on the Gift of the Spirit in Relation to Pentecostalism Today (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1970), 39. 7

8 Thomas

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1  Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts?

narratives so as to allow us to move easily from John to Acts as though the one were self-evidently the continuation of the other? Note, however, Wall’s apparent claim that Acts provides a sequel better suited to John’s Gospel than to Luke’s: The importance of retaining the final shape of the New Testament rather than combining Luke and Acts as a single narrative is indicated by the significant roles performed by Peter and the Holy Spirit in Acts where Jesus is absent – roles for which Luke’s Gospel does not adequately prepare the reader of Acts. Peter’s rehabilitation at the end of John (John 21:15–17) as well as the teaching about the Spirit’s post-Easter role by John’s Jesus (John 14–16) signify the important role that John’s Gospel performs in preparing the reader for the story of Acts.10

In response to this line of thinking, we might inquire on what basis Luke’s own preparation for Peter’s status in Acts (see Luke 22:28–32) and the coming of the Spirit (Luke 3:16; 11:13; 24:49) are pronounced unsatisfactory. To take another example, what are we to make of the way Wall’s canonical perspective leads him to a reading of Acts that establishes the authority and divine legitimization of the apostles? This is necessary, we discover, because Acts authorizes these early church “pillars” (Gal 2:9) so as to pave the way for canonical readers to heed their voices in the NT epistolary collections. Accordingly, this canonical perspective leads to a reading of Acts according to an interpretive frame in league with the self-legitimation of the church qua institution. A canonical reading thus seems necessarily tied to an authorizing of ecclesial leadership. It is worth recalling, though, that “legitimacy” cuts two ways. It authorizes the status of an institution, leader, or position, but it also sets limits on the exercise of that authority. Without denying the importance of canon, I wonder what would happen if we were to read the narrative of Acts in these terms, in that other sense of canon – that is, as a narrative that takes the measure of the church that sees itself in continuity with the ancient purpose of God as this is recounted in Luke-Acts. What if Acts were read first not as an authorization of Peter, Paul, and the rest, but more basically, and essentially, so as to underscore the legitimating role of God’s word? In this case, the apostolic “pillars” would enjoy divine authorization insofar as their words and practices were congruent with the gospel. In fact, it is arguable that the repetition of a key phrase in the narrative of Acts, namely, “God’s word grew,” provides Acts with a structure and focus that give definition to the gospel that the church and its authorized persons and structures serve. This phrase appears in Acts 6:7, 12:24, and 19:20, each time marking the cessation of opposition, signaling the advance of the missionary movement in the midst of persecution, and anticipating the next major development in the narrative. Taking the reiteration of the word’s progress seriously with reference to the book’s structure brings focus to key phases of the narrative – the mission in Jerusalem (1:15–6:7), expansion from Jerusalem to Antioch (6:8–12:25), expansion from  Wall, “Commentary,” 30.

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Antioch to Asia and Europe (13:1–19:20), and finally the journeys of Paul the missionary prisoner (19:21–28:31) – and underscores Luke’s thematic development of the “word of salvation.” Not coincidently, it also takes seriously Luke’s fundamental concern with the effects of the word – that is, its germinal role in the production and growth of God’s people, a status grounded in Jesus’s message in Luke’s Gospel (8:4–15). If this other, canonical perspective were taken seriously, then we would see that the resolution of conflict within the community of goods, as Wall describes Acts 6:1–7, was not focused on “the problem of supply and demand that growth has created”;11 nor does the successful resolution of the problem signal “the next triumph of [the apostles’] leadership.”12 Recalling that those who were being neglected in the daily distribution of the food were widows, recalling the place of widows both in Israel’s Scriptures and in Luke’s Gospel, and recalling that, everything else being equal, the rules of probability would have it that both Hellenistic Jewish Christian widows and Hebraic Jewish Christian widows would have suffered neglect, it seems reductionistic to suggest that the problem here is practical. It is, rather, profoundly theological. Or, to turn Peter’s words against him, is it possible to serve the word and neglect widows? Far from celebrating apostolic leadership, this scene dismantles their authority with the result that the pioneers of the mission “to the end of the earth” are not the Jerusalem apostles but The Seven.13 Wall has succeeded in identifying canonical placement as an important interpretive context, but the terms of the discussion should not be narrowed too quickly. Other factors merit consideration in a decision whether Luke and Acts ought to be read, as Christian Scripture, as Luke and Acts or as Luke-Acts. If, as I shall demonstrate below, Acts itself invites a reading strategy that ties the narrative of Acts back into Luke’s Gospel, with Acts as a deliberate narratival continuation of Luke, then does this not suggest an important interpretive constraint for making sense of Acts? C. Kavin Rowe and the Reception History of Luke In two recent essays, C. Kavin Rowe calls into question the view that contemporary interpretation of Luke and Acts as a continuous work, Luke-Acts, is modeled on the way Luke and Acts were read historically.14 Earlier, Andrew Gregory had demonstrated that the unity of Luke-Acts is a modern construct, that there is  Wall, “Commentary,” 110.  Wall, “Commentary,” 115. 13  See, more fully, Joel B. Green, Practicing Theological Interpretation, TECC (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), esp. 48–69 (see ch. 10, below). 14  C. Kavin Rowe, “History, Hermeneutics and the Unity of Luke-Acts,” JSNT 28 (2005): 131–57; idem, “Literary Unity and Reception History: Reading Luke-Acts as Luke and Acts,” JSNT 29 (2007): 449–57. 11 12

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little evidence to suggest that these two books were read together.15 Rowe takes this argument further, denying that we have any evidence whatsoever that Luke and Acts were read early on as a single, unified literary whole. He summarizes the situation as follows: “No ancient author exhibits a hermeneutical practice that is founded upon the reading of Luke-Acts as one work in two volumes; no ancient author argues that Luke and Acts should be read together as one work in two volumes; and, there is not a single New Testament manuscript that contains the unity of Luke-Acts or even hints at this unity by placing Acts directly next to the Gospel of Luke.”16 Although Rowe’s argument is not without its problems, even if we were to take it at face value, its ramifications for our interest in the unity of Luke-Acts would be far from clear. As Rowe himself admits, how these two books were received in the early church in no way constrains the range of ways in which they might now be read. We can push further. For example, Rowe insists that the guild of NT studies shares an almost unquestioned assumption, that to read Luke-Acts together is to interpret this literary unity historically. I offer two observations here. First, surprisingly, he provides no grounds for this claim, so we are left to wonder how he reached this determination. Indeed, second, such a claim would not at all be representative of persons who read Luke-Acts as a unity on narratological grounds. Moreover, as Luke Timothy Johnson has observed, we have no evidence of how Luke and Acts were received by their first audiences, and only minimal evidence of how they were read in the second century – facts that mitigate the significance of reception history for addressing the question of the literary unity of Luke-Acts.17 Johnson voices the additional concern that the question put to the evidence is problematic due to its anachronism. On what basis might one query whether Luke and Acts were read as a single literary composition when we have little evidence that any NT writings were read early on as “literary compositions”? Rather than depend on reception history, then, Johnson advises that we account for the composition’s own “rhetorical intentionality”: “To put it simply, the way the composition itself is put together suggests readers with certain characteristics and capabilities. Analysis of the composition’s rhetorical or narrative logic also reveals not only the writing’s argument but also something about the direction in which that argument wishes to turn its intended readers.”18 This does 15  Andrew Gregory, The Reception of Luke and Acts in the Period before Irenaeus: Looking for Luke in the Second Century, WUNT 2/169 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003); cf. idem, “Looking for Luke in the Second Century: A Dialogue with François Bovon,” in Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation, ed. Craig G. Bartholomew, Joel B. Green, and Anthony C. Thiselton, SH 6 (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005), 401–13. 16  Rowe, “Literary Unity,” 451. 17  Luke Timothy Johnson, “Literary Criticism of Luke-Acts: Is Reception-History Pertinent?,” JSNT 28 (2005): 159–62. 18  Johnson, “Literary Criticism,” 160.

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not signal Johnson’s interest in the failed experiment of reconstructing an alleged “Lukan community,”19 but seems more akin to Peter Rabinowitz’s notion of an “authorial audience” – that is, the readers who can be discovered by looking at the text in terms of the literary-historical context within which it arose.20 How the early church might have received Luke and Acts, then, is not necessarily a reliable barometer of the narrative’s own intentionality. In point of fact, this problem with reception history is not limited to the second century, at least not in the case of Luke-Acts, since what indications we have suggest that, for centuries, Luke was read less as a literary composition and more as a library of episodes from which favorites might be borrowed. Luke’s stories of the birth of Jesus or the Emmaus encounter are cases in point, but one could also point to the parables of the Good Samaritan or the Prodigal Son – all texts typically sundered from their narrative service within the Third Gospel. If we search for early commentaries on Luke’s Gospel, we find only four collections of homilies – those of Origen, Ambrose of Milan, Cyril of Alexandria, and the Venerable Bede – a small number when compared to commentary on Matthew and John.21 Early tendencies toward harmonization blossomed in Tatian’s Diatessaron, an effort that remained influential into the fifth century. And they have continued to blossom. In the early eighth century, for example, Bede participated in this enterprise, producing homilies on Gospel texts, working as though each narrative was cut from the same cloth as the other, without attending to the particular perspective of any single evangelist.22 In the sixteenth century, Calvin departed from his own practice of commenting on each of the biblical books when he produced a Commentary on a Harmony of the Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Whether in the nineteenth century or the twenty-first, those engaged in the quest for the historical Jesus bypass the narrative character of the individual Gospels in order to provide their own accounts of what they take to be true of Jesus. In short, the history of interpretation of Luke’s Gospel serves to underscore Johnson’s concern that the nature of Luke-Acts as a literary composition might be assessed on the basis of interpretive practices that generally do not account for its literary nature. It will be clear that I have little confidence in the potential contribution of reception history for informing us how Luke and Acts were intended to be read, 19  See Luke Timothy Johnson, “On Finding the Lukan Community,” in SBLSP (1979), 87– 100; cf. Stephen C. Barton, “Can We Identify the Gospel Audiences?,” in The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences, ed. Richard J. Bauckham (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 173–94 (esp. 186–93). 20  Peter J. Rabinowitz, Before Reading: Narrative Conventions and the Politics of Interpretation (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1987). 21  Cf. Arthur A. Just Jr., ed., Luke, ACCS 3 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003), xvii–xxvi. 22  The Venerable Bede, Homilies on the Gospels, 2 vols., CSS 110–111 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1991).

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how they were received by their first readers, or how they might faithfully be read. Reception history does give us a sense of how Luke and Acts, or Luke-Acts, has been and might still be read, but is only minimally relevant to the question of the unity of Luke’s work. Patricia Walters and Authorial Unity Challenges to the common authorship of Luke and Acts have surfaced before, but Lukan scholarship has moved forward with hardly a side glance at the issue. Questions have centered on the identity of the historical author, not on whether Luke and Acts were authored by the same person. Indeed, Parsons and Pervo devoted no more than two sentences to the question.23 Scholarly nonchalance on this issue is likely to change as a result of the 2009 publication of Patricia Walters’s dissertation, The Assumed Authorial Unity of Luke and Acts.24 In a remarkably well-structured study, Walters urges on statistical grounds that we no longer attribute Luke and Acts to a common author. Her research design is as follows: (1) Avoiding texts that might be attributed to the sources of Luke and Acts, she identifies material within both books that scholars have identified as deriving from the hand of the author, namely, the seams and summaries of the two books. (2) Assuming that the author(s) of Luke and Acts would have been influenced stylistically by the prose compositional conventions familiar to those who learned to write Hellenistic Greek, she surveys the works of ancient literary critics (Aristotle, Demetrius, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Longinus) to identify compositional elements whose patterns might be analyzed in the seams and summaries of Luke and Acts. These include euphony (i. e., hiatus and dissonance patterns), rhythm, and sentence structure. (3) She investigates the presence or absence of these conventions in the seams and summaries of Luke and Acts, determines the characteristic style of the seams and summaries of each book, then evaluates whether the differences in the style between the two books are statistically significant. She concludes: “Because the patterns in one book’s seams and summaries do not repeat the compositional preferences found in the other book – a set of circumstances one reasonably expects in the case of single authorship – it is confirmed with a high degree of confidence and beyond reasonable doubt that the compositional elements analyzed herein actually differentiate Luke and Acts.”25 From here, Walters goes on to argue that the theory and Pervo, Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts, 7–8. Walters, The Assumed Authorial Unity of Luke and Acts: A Reassessment of the Evidence, SNTSMS 145 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Walters ably surveys previous discussion related to authorial unity on pp. 24–35. For what follows, see Joel B. Green, review of Patricia Walters, The Assumed Authorial Unity of Luke and Acts: A Reassessment of the Evidence, Review of Biblical Literature [http://www.bookreviews.org] (2009), . 25  Walters, Unity, 191. 23 Parsons 24 Patricia

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that makes the best sense of the evidence she has garnered is that Luke and Acts did not share a common author. Although her research design seems straightforward, a number of questions linger: 1. Walters’s dependence on seams and summaries is based on the assumption that we find here an author’s hand unbound by source considerations. It should not escape our notice that this assumption is grounded in early-twentieth-century form-critical views about the growth of the Synoptic tradition – views that were then carried over into study of Acts. For the form critics, the evangelists worked with units of tradition that they wove together, so that their particular contributions were to be found in the seams and transitions between traditional units, and in summaries. To proceed on the basis of this assumption is problematic both because our understanding of the growth of the Synoptic tradition has repeatedly been reevaluated and rewritten over the past seven decades, and because one cannot take for granted that Luke would (or could) have executed his narrative craft while writing Acts on the analogy of what he has done in his Gospel. If it is true that NT scholarship has repeatedly found itself questioning form-critical assumptions about the tendencies of the Synoptic tradition, and if it is true that NT scholarship has in the last two decades opened itself to consider again a variety of theories for making sense of Synoptic relationships, then it is even more true that identifying putative sources behind the narrative of Acts has become, if anything, a more vexing problem than it already was. In theory – and on this issue we have little else on which to stand other than theory – there is no reason that Luke might have had less access to traditional material when formulating the summaries of Acts than when formulating other parts of his narrative. The question surfaces, then, whether Walters has built her house on a base of sand. 2. Walters’s study assumes a level of rhetorical education not generally granted the author of Luke and/or Acts among NT scholars and does not account for other stylistic influence (e. g., from the LXX) on the Lukan narrative(s). This raises the question of how pervasively Luke might have been influenced stylistically by the prose compositional conventions developed among ancient literary critics – and, thus, the degree to which issues of authorship can be adjudicated in these terms. 3. Walters moves forward under the assumption that the sort of analysis she has undertaken will provide reliable conclusions. Her analysis would have been more convincing, however, had she been able to demonstrate the success of this kind of analysis with “control” studies. I wonder whether, using this form of analysis, we would find that Josephus’s Antiquities was written by multiple authors – likewise, Polybius, Dionysius, and so on. To turn in a different direction, I wonder whether the author of Luke’s Gospel was consistent with himself, style-wise; in other words, might this sort of study demonstrate the

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need to posit different authors for different segments within a single book? I wonder if some seams and summaries in Acts are stylistically congruent with some seams and summaries in Luke’s Gospel, even if taken as aggregates (per Walters’s study) these books display significant differences. 4. To what degree can the elements of style Walters has identified be trusted to provide the unique fingerprint of an author? Is there widespread evidence that hiatus and dissonance patterns, syntax at the end of a clause or sentence, and clause or sentence segues were in fact markers of the distinctive compositional style of authors of first-century CE narratives? To say that these elements are discussed by ancient “literary critics” is not the same thing as saying that they are the identity markers this study requires them to be. 5. This last point is especially worrisome when we recognize that the stylistic fingerprint unique to the author of Acts (for example) is constructed from a database of only thirty-one verses and four partial verses, with some twothirds of the data deriving from Acts 1–5. Although one might appreciate the predicament Walters finds herself in with respect to the problem of determining which material comes from the author’s sources versus what comes from his unfettered hand, it is nevertheless troublesome to imagine that the authorship of Acts would be determined from so tiny a data pool. 6. Although less pressing in importance, I should also mention the need for more rigor in the way Walters draws conclusions from her data. At several points when discussing possible reasons why the issues of style she addresses might differ between Luke’s Gospel and Acts, she concludes against options consistent with stylistic variation and common authorship when the path of agnosticism seems the more prudent one. For example, her discussion of the possibility that the same author writing in two different genres might adopt different compositional styles is equivocal and, actually, not altogether on point.26 As a result, Walters’s decision firmly to exclude this possibility seems ill-advised. Similarly, she asserts but does not demonstrate her claim that an ancient author’s style remains consistent across that author’s writing career. Another, more general, question nags. This is whether decisions about the authorship of these two books can be made on the basis of so small an evidence pool, with all other data off the table. I refer to the intratextual connections between Luke and Acts, to the way Acts develops narrative-theological interests first broached in Luke’s Gospel, for example, or the patterns of representation by which characters and events in Acts recall Luke’s presentation of Jesus and his career in the Third Gospel, or even the overall narrative pattern of Luke that is recapitulated in Acts; to the patterns of LXX usage in Acts, already familiar to readers of Luke’s Gospel; to theological patterns, such as Lukan pneumatology, 26 The force of this question rests with the internal consistency of Walters’s argument, since she imagines that Luke’s Gospel and Acts represent different genres – a position I do not share.

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his theology of conversion, his perspective on suffering and persecution, or his understanding of the divine plan; to his character-building, and on the list might go – that is, to the kinds of observations that have been the bread and butter of so much Lukan study in recent decades and that have no place in Walters’s study. Of course, in the face of this evidence, Walters might reply that all of these observations, even if they were valid, are nonetheless explicable under the assumption of authorial disunity if we simply admit that the author of Acts purposefully tied his narrative patterns and theology so tightly into the narrative of Luke’s Gospel. But if the author of Acts can so fully take on the persona of the narrator of Luke, then it is hard to know what purpose discussions of authorship might serve. After all, in this instance the identification of the author of Acts would be little more than an epiphenomenal curiosity.

Markers of Narrative Unity Parsons and Pervo identified a range of ways to think about the unity of Luke and Acts – canonical, authorial, theological, narratival, and generic. My comments thus far have been moving toward a proposal that, of these, the most important for interpreting Luke and Acts as literary compositions and, more pointedly, as a narrative representation of historical events (that is, as history/writing), is narrative unity. The issue of genre is less pivotal since (1) biography was a recent outgrowth of historiography and shared many of its essential features and (2) narratology does not distinguish meaningfully among various narrative genres for interpretive purposes.27 I have already suggested that canonical unity holds no trump cards for how Luke and Acts might or must be read as a narrative representation of historical events, and that a case for the significance of authorial unity or disunity cannot be made apart from the question of narrative unity. Theological unity is predicated on a prior decision regarding narrative unity, since how one construes theological positions depends on the body of work one considers. This is not a naive denial of the possibility – indeed, the actuality – of theological tensions within the Lukan corpus. It is, rather, a recognition that human beings have a characteristic ability to find coherence in discourse and, once confronted with the boundaries of a discourse, find themselves able to abstract thematic (we might say, theological) coherence.28 For this reason, we might theorize a “theol27 Despite obvious differences among narrative genres, narrators face the same problems and employ the same literary conventions, and their readers employ the same interpretive protocols – cf. Wallace Martin, Recent Theories of Narrative (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 72–75. 28  It is a staple of discourse analysis that “the natural effort of hearers and readers alike is to attribute relevance and coherence to the text they encounter until they are forced not to” (Gillian Brown and George Yule, Discourse Analysis, CTL [Cambridge: Cambridge University

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ogy” of Luke 4:16–30, or of Luke 4:14–9:50, or of Luke’s Gospel, or of Luke-Acts, or of the NT, or of the two-testament Christian Bible. That is, once a “text” is placed before us – whether it is a single pericope or even a set of biblical books – we are able to discern and discourse intelligibly about its internal coherence. The pivotal question, then, concerns the narrative unity of Luke-Acts, and in what follows I will refer to “Luke” as narrator (and not as the historical author). What Is a Narrative? Any attempt to attribute narrative unity to Luke’s two volumes (or to deny that unity) requires, first, an understanding of “narrative,”29 concerning which four observations are particularly salient. (1) Narrative is a defining feature of the human family by which we make sense of our lives. Scientist-theologian Anne Foeret refers to humans as “Homo Narrans Narrandus – the storytelling person whose story has to be told,” who tells stories to make sense of the world and to form personal identity and community.30 Embodied human life performs like a cultural, neuro-hermeneutic system, locating (and, thus, making sense of) current realities in relation to our grasp of the past and expectations of the future, and to speak thus of past, present, and future is already to frame meaning in narrative terms. This is not so much a statement about genre or interpretive method, but rather about narrativity as an essential and neurologically based aspect of our grasp of the nature of the world and of human identity and comportment in it. “To raise the question of narrative,” observes Hayden White, “is to invite reflection on the very nature of culture and, possibly, even on the nature of humanity itself.”31 Although our recognition that humans are basically hardwired to render events meaningful within a narrative frame does not yet provide for us a definition of “narrative,” it does point toward important ingredients of such a definition. (2) Narrative locates events in a temporal frame characterized by cause-andeffect relations. Aristotle wrote of a narrative “whole” as possessing a beginning, middle, and end (Poet. 1450b). At one level, this assumes narrative progress from one point to the next, organizing the progression of events through time. At another, though, this narrative progression transcends the passing of time in order Press, 1983], 66). On the work of “theming” in narratology, see, e. g., Gerald Prince, Narrative as Theme (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992). 29 On which see, e. g., Gerald Prince, Dictionary of Narratology (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 58–60; Michael J. Toolan, Narrative: A Critical Linguistic Introduction, ILLS (London: Routledge, 1988), 1–11; H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 12–24. 30  Reported in S. Jennifer Leat, “Artificial Intelligence Researcher Seeks Silicon Soul,” Research News and Opportunities in Science and Theology 3, no. 4 (2002): 7, 26 (7). Cf. Kay Young and Jeffrey L. Saver, “The Neurology of Narrative,” SubStance 30 (2001): 72–84. 31  Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 1.

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to claim some sort of meaningful, even necessary, set of relationships among the events that, in narrative, order time. The “beginning” is not simply the first thing to be narrated, but the thing before which nothing is necessary and after which something naturally follows. The “end” is not simply the last thing to be recounted, but something that is naturally after something else (generally as its necessary consequence) and that requires nothing after itself. (3) Narrative is a particular performance of a story. It follows, then, that integral to “narrative” is the particular ordering of events by which significance accrues to those events. This is the classic distinction made by Seymour Chatman between “story” and “discourse” – that is, between the “what” (events, characters, settings) and the “how” (the organization of those events, characters, and settings in a particular telling).32 (4) Narrative progression serves a (single) narrative aim. Finally, a narrative telos guides the selection and organization of the elements of story. The identification of a beginning, middle, and end and the structuring of settings, actors, and events in a web of causal relations are teleologically determined. They serve an overall purpose that presses the narrative forward toward its resolution (or denouement). We may discern within a narrative various currents and countercurrents – and these bear witness to the elasticity of narrative, the hospitality of narrative to multiple agenda – but, in narrative study, these are tamed in relation to the overall purpose of the narrative. Accordingly, a more thoroughgoing discussion of the unity of Luke-Acts would need to account for the overarching purpose at work in and through the narrative, and the division within the text of those characters who embrace (or help) this purpose versus those who are hostile to (or who oppose) that purpose. Key to the question of narrative unity, then, is the initial introduction of a deficit that presses the narrative forward in a moreor-less typical series of movements, a narrative cycle, by which this state of deficiency is addressed (or not). A typical healing story carries us through the entire cycle: a person presents with an illness, Jesus restores the person to health, people respond. Sometimes additional elements are introduced, perhaps heightening the need or developing the motif of resistance, but we nonetheless recognize in the span of only a few verses a complete narrative account – a beginning, middle, and end. If a text such as Luke 13:10–17, the account of the restoration of the woman-bent-over, can thus be characterized as a complete narrative account, we should not be surprised to discover that Luke’s Gospel itself can be understood as a complete narrative account, with its own beginning, middle, and end. Read from this perspective, the Third Gospel follows a plot line whose denouement must be discerned in Jesus’s post-resurrection appearances in Luke 24. In other words, to embrace the unity of Luke-Acts as a narrative is not to deny that this 32 Seymour Chatman, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980).

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fifty-two-chapter account is itself comprised of constituent narrative accounts. The question, rather, is whether the narrative of Acts invites a reading in which it is seen as a self-conscious continuation of Luke’s Gospel – and, then, whether the whole of Luke and Acts comprises a single narrative cycle. Mining Acts 1:1–14 One may formulate multiple possibilities for testing the unity of Luke-Acts. For example, in a complementary proposal, Daniel Marguerat has urged that the text of Luke-Acts guides a certain way of reading, so that its inclusions, prolepsis, narrative chains, and syncrisis lead to a unitary reading of Acts as the “effect” of Luke’s Gospel.33 Another way to address this question is to examine the opening verses of Acts, 1:1–14, where we encounter “the problem of a beginning” ubiquitous among all narratives. How does a narrator indicate the logic whereby the initial events are shown to be the product of forces within the discourse itself rather than a given reported by the narrative?34 Acts locates its beginning in the story of Jesus, particularly (as we will see) as this is represented in Luke’s Gospel. In other words, Acts presents itself as the continuation of a narrative cycle begun elsewhere, in the Third Gospel. For Acts, then, the problem of a beginning is less pressing, since Luke has already demonstrated that “the beginning” of his account is to be found in the story of Jesus, the story of Jesus in the story of Israel, and the story of Israel in the purpose of God.35 Note, for example, the points of contact between the respective openings of the Third Gospel and of Acts – including the presence of a Hellenistic preface in Luke 1:1–4 partnered with the secondary preface in Acts 1:1–14, the fact that both volumes refer to Theophilus as Luke’s literary patron, the analogous geographical focus on Jerusalem, and such parallels as the following: (1) Mary appears by name in Luke-Acts only in Luke 1–2 and Acts 1:1–14; (2) Simeon anticipates Israel’s salvation (i. e., “consolation [παράκλησις],” Luke 2:25), Anna speaks of Jesus to all awaiting Jerusalem’s redemption (2:38), and the disciples inquire of the Lord Jesus whether, at this time, he would restore the kingdom to Israel (Acts 1:6); (3) Anna serves as a witness (Luke 2:38) and the disciples will bear witness (Acts 1:8); (4) the Holy Spirit is prominent in Luke 1–2 and in Acts 33 Daniel Marguerat, The First Christian Historian: Writing the “Acts of the Apostles,” SNTSMS 121 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 43–64. 34  See Aristotle, Poet. 23.1 § 1459a.17–29; Edward W. Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method (New York: Basic Books, 1975). More generally, cf. Dennis E. Smith, “Narrative Beginnings in Ancient Literature and Theory,” Semeia 22 (1991): 1–9; Mikeal C. Parsons, “Reading a Beginning/Beginning a Reading: Tracing Literary Theory on Narrative Openings,” Semeia 22 (1991): 11–31. 35  See Joel B. Green, “Internal Repetition in Luke-Acts: Contemporary Narratology and Lucan Historiography,” in History, Literature, and Society in the Book of Acts, ed. Ben Witherington III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 283–99; idem, “The Problem of a Beginning: Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1–2,” BBR 4 (1994): 61–85 (see ch. 4, below).

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1:2, 4, 5, 8; (5) Gabriel promises Mary, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High …” (Luke 1:35), then Jesus promises the disciples, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you” (1:8);36 (6) angels dot the landscape of Luke 1–2 (1:11, 20, 26–38; 2:9–14), and have a key role in the ascension scene in Acts 1:9–11; and (7) Anna prays “day and night” (Luke 2:37; cf. 1:10, 14), whereas those gathered in the upper room “were all persevering in prayer together” (Acts 1:14). To push further, a series of parallels between the final chapter of Luke’s Gospel and the opening of Acts present themselves: (1) appearances of Jesus to his followers, (2) Jesus eating in front of/with his followers, (3) demonstrations that Jesus is really alive, (4) the directive to remain in Jerusalem, (5) references to the fulfillment of the Father’s promise (of the Holy Spirit), (6) the designation of the disciples as “witnesses,” (7) references to the universal scope of the disciples’ impending mission, (8) ascension accounts, and (9) notes that the disciples remained in Jerusalem in obedience to Jesus’s directive. That is, almost every detail in Acts 1:1–14 finds its antecedent in Luke 24. This degree of repetition internal to the narrative (intratextuality) indicates two things. First, for Luke, there is only one story to tell, namely, the story of God’s gracious activity on behalf of Israel, grounded in God’s ancient plan, fulfilled in God’s gracious visitation in the Spirit-anointed mission of Jesus, and continued by means of the Spirit’s empowerment in the church’s life and mission. Second, Acts 1:1–14 is transitional. It recapitulates the closing of Luke’s Gospel and establishes the need within the narrative for a Spirit-empowered mission “to the end of the earth” – a “state of deficit” rooted not only in Luke 24:47, but even more fundamentally in the opening chapters of Luke’s Gospel (e. g., 2:30–32). These opening verses of Acts constitute an invitation to Luke’s audience to reenter the already-begun narrative and to follow the progress of God’s gracious initiative in Jesus. If in Acts Luke did not face “the problem of a beginning,” he did need to chart for his audience a course that would carry them from Book One to Book Two. Luke invites his readers to adopt again a point of view from within the narrative by the subtle shifts in his opening: from first-person narration (Acts 1:1–3) to third-person (beginning in v. 4), and from indirect discourse (v. 4a) to direct (vv. 4b–8); he also appeals directly to his audience to visualize with the disciples the presence of the heavenly visitors (“Look!,” v. 10). We can trace four motifs in these opening verses of Acts. (1) The ascension (Acts 1:2, 9–11), anticipated since the scene of transfiguration and onset of Jesus’s journey to Jerusalem (Luke 9:28–36, 51), marks Jesus’s departure, but not his absence. (2) The importance of God’s kingdom is signaled both in Luke’s notation that it constitutes the center of Jesus’s instruction to his disciples (Acts 1:3), and in the way the narrative of Acts opens and closes (1:6; 28:23, 31) with  Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts are my own.

36

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reference to God’s redemptive plan configured in kingdom-language.37 What is the relationship between Israel’s hope, imperial Rome, and God’s sovereign presence? This collocation of issues has been on the table since the opening of Luke’s Gospel (e. g., 1:67–79). (3) The Holy Spirit (Acts 1:2, 4, 5, 8) had anointed Jesus at the onset of his ministry (Luke 3:21–22; 4:18–19), so his mission proceeded in the power of the Spirit. Now Jesus promises his followers that he will fulfill John’s prediction and actualize the Father’s promise by baptizing them with the Spirit for the continuation of that ministry. Luke thus sets the stage by anticipating the actualization of John’s prophecy of a messianic Spirit-baptism (Luke 3:15–17; cf. 11:13).38 (4) Jesus’s followers are increasingly in focus as Acts begins. Throughout Luke’s Gospel, the disciples were known mostly for their presence “with” Jesus and, as the Gospel progressed, they were more and more characterized by an acute lack of understanding rooted in their unreconstructed notions of what God might do.39 At the end of the Third Gospel, however, Jesus “opened their minds to understand the Scriptures” (Luke 24:45), and now they are portrayed as those whom Jesus had commissioned and taught, who witness his resurrected life and his departure, and who obey his instructions to wait in Jerusalem. What is more, they do so in persevering prayer – echoing Jesus’s earlier instruction regarding faithfulness in prayer to a God who was ready to give graciously and quickly even the gift of the Holy Spirit to those who ask (11:1–13). The disciples, commissioned to participate in and carry on the mission of Jesus, have yet to perform in ways that signal their competence for the mission; although the closing of the Third Gospel portends transformation in their character, we await the evidence that begins now to unfold. These motifs share a commonality that is integral to the opening of Acts – a gathering up of the past that anticipates a future well-grounded in that past. That is, Acts 1:1–14 is concerned with continuity between the progress of Jesus’s life and ministry (according to Luke) and that of the church (Acts), set within the plotline of God’s faithfulness to his saving promise. Continuity is guaranteed through the commission of Jesus’s witnesses and the promised baptism with the Holy Spirit.40 37  See Alexander Prieur, Die Verkündigung der Gottesherrschaft: Exegetische Studien zum lukanischen Verständnis von βασιλεὶα τοῦ θεοῦ, WUNT 2/89 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 20–117; Costantino Antonio Ziccardi, The Relationship of Jesus and the Kingdom of God according to Luke-Acts, TGST 165 (Rome: Editrice Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 2008). 38 See Hee-Seong Kim, Die Geisttaufe des Messias: Eine compositionsgeschichtliche Unter­ suchung zu einem Leitmotiv des lukanische Doppelwerks: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie und Intention des Lukas, SKP 81 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1993), 94–131. 39  On the characterization of discipleship in Luke’s Gospel as being “with” Jesus, see Luke 6:17; 7:11; 8:1, 22; etc.; Joel B. Green, The Theology of Gospel of Luke, NTT (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 108–9. On the problem of perception, see, e. g., Luke 9:37–50; 18:1–34. 40  Cf. Manfred Korn, Die Geschichte Jesu in Veränderter Zeit: Studien zur bleibenden Bedeutung Jesu im lukanischen Doppelwerk, WUNT 2/51 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 175–92.

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Recurrence and Its Importance Careful students, having worked through the Third Gospel and turned to the Acts of the Apostles, can be forgiven for repeated claims of déjà vu. Interpreters of Acts have long drawn attention to patterns repeated from Luke’s Gospel, and generated lists of parallels (like Jesus, like Stephen, for example, as well as like Peter, Paul, and others) as well as other resonances besides. In this subsection, I want simply to draw attention to a few of these, the effect of which is to demonstrate the significant degree to which Acts extends the narrative of Luke’s Gospel.41 Deep reverberations are found in a range of texts, apart from parallels painting Jesus’s witnesses in Acts in the garb of Jesus himself, as he is depicted in the Third Gospel.42 These include, for example, Jesus’s promise to his followers concerning the Holy Spirit, which recalls Gabriel’s words to Mary: Luke 1:35: πνεῦμα ἅγιον ἐπελεύσεται ἐπὶ σὲ καὶ δύναμις ὑψίστου ἐπισκιάσει σοι The Holy Spirit will come upon you and heavenly power will overshadow you Acts 1:8: ἀλλὰ λήμψεσθε δύναμιν ἐπελθόντος τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος ἐφ᾽ ὑμᾶς But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you

Accordingly, Jesus’s birth and the birth of the church’s mission are collocated through dual references to the work of the Holy Spirit. At the Last Supper, Jesus identifies himself as the “one who serves [ὁ διακονῶν]” (Luke 22:37), at table (τράπεζα, 22:21, 30), while the Seven are appointed “to serve at the tables [διακονεῖν τραπέζαις]” (Acts 6:2) – qualifying the nature of missional leadership and, at the same time, providing an unimpeachable authorization of the missions of Stephen, Philip, and the rest. In Luke’s presentation of Cornelius, it is not hard to hear echoes of his portrait of Zechariah. Comparing Luke 1:5–13, 29, 39, 41 with Acts 10:1–4, 17, 23, we find a set of common elements: – Initial character reference, including vocation and social status – Continued character reference, indicating exemplary piety – Time stamp, angelic visitation, fear – Angelic words of assurance 41  See esp. Susan Marie Praeder, “Jesus-Paul, Peter-Paul, and Jesus-Peter Parallelism in LukeActs: A History of Reader Response,” SBLSP (1984), 23–39; she surveys study of these parallelisms from the nineteenth century through 1983. Cf. C. H. Talbert, Literary Patterns, Theological Themes, and the Genre of Luke-Acts, SBLMS 20 (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974); Walter Radl, Paulus und Jesus im lukanischen Doppelwerk: Untersuchungen zu Parallelmotiven im Lukasevangelium und in der Apostelgeschichte, EH 23, Theology 49 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 1975); Gudrun Muhlack, Die Parallelen von Lukas-Evangelium und Apostelgeschichte, TW (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 1979); G. W. Trompf, The Idea of Historical Recurrence in Western Thought: From Antiquity to the Reformation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), esp. 116–78. 42  This reference to the Third Gospel is as meaningful as it is deliberate. These parallels draw the Acts of the Apostles together with Luke’s Gospel, not with the fourfold Gospel canon or with the Fourth Gospel (contra Wall, above).

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Reflecting on these two accounts, it is clear in this case that Luke wants less to cover Cornelius with a canopy of legitimacy and instead compares how a gentile God-fearer responds positively in contrast to the hesitant response of a Jewish priest – this in spite of their comparable history of devotion and piety. Additionally, in these paired scenes we find God’s intervention on exhibition, displaying both his efforts to further his salvific agenda and his invitation to have human beings – a Jew in the one text, a gentile in the other – participate in bringing that agenda to fruition. We find another brief, but transparent, example in the charges brought against Paul and Silas at Thessalonica, charges that recall those brought against Jesus: Luke 23:2, 5: We found this man leading our nation astray, forbidding us to pay taxes to the emperor, and saying that he is the Christ, a king. … He stirs up the people with his teaching throughout all Judea – beginning in Galilee and even here! Acts 17:6–7: These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also …. They all act in ways contrary to the emperor’s decrees, saying that there is another king named Jesus.

This is only one of several ways in which Luke has paired Paul with Jesus, painting Paul in the likeness of Jesus. In a recent essay, Aaron J. Kuecker urges that Luke’s first narration of Saul’s experience on the road to Damascus (Acts 9) is all the more provocative due to its resonances with the Songs of Mary and Zechariah (Luke 1): – Zechariah sings that the “dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death” (Luke 1:79) and Saul experiences a “light from the heavens” (Acts 9:3) and sight in place of darkness (9:9). – Mary sings that the Lord has “brought down the powerful from their thrones” (Luke 1:52) and Saul “fell to the ground” (Acts 9:3). – Mary sings that God has “sent the rich away empty” (Luke 1:53) and Saul “neither ate nor drank” for three days (Acts 9:9). – Zechariah sings that salvation from enemies and all who hate God’s people will enable the people of God to serve God without fear (Luke 1:71, 74). Luke explicitly demonstrates that the defeat of Saul the enemy allows Ananias (Acts 9:13–14) – and later the Jerusalem apostles (9:26–28) – to serve God without fear. – Mary sings that God will lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things (Luke 1:52–53). Saul, after being brought low, is raised up from the ground for the purpose of his baptism and, after being sent away empty, is filled with food at the table of his former enemies. – Zechariah sings that the dawn from on high will guide the feet of the people of God “into the way of peace” (Luke 1:79), and the resolution of Saul’s encounter with Jesus is that “the church throughout Judea, Galilee, and Samaria had peace and was built up” (Acts 9:31).43

43 Aaron J. Kuecker, “‘You Will Be Children of the Most High’: An Inquiry into Luke’s Narrative Account of Theosis,” JTI 8, no. 2 (2014): 213–28 (220).

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Luke portrays Saul in Acts 9 as the church’s principal adversary (cf. vv. 1–3, 13–14, 21, 26). With these echoes, though, Luke identifies Saul further as “the prototypical conquered enemy of the church” – conquered by Jesus “not through violent destruction but by giving Saul the gift of the Spirit, by baptizing him, and by incorporating Saul into God’s people – who themselves participate in Jesus’ enemy love of Saul through practices of prayer, blessing, baptism, incorporation, and table fellowship.”44 It almost goes without saying that this reading is possible only by following Luke’s narrative from the Third Gospel into the book of Acts. Other, more noticeable parallels can be mentioned. Thus, for example, Luke presents Stephen in ways that recall Jesus, especially Jesus’s suffering and death: Motif

Jesus

Stephen

Filled with the Spirit, wisdom Ministry as “service” (διακονέω) Signs and wonders Rejection by “his own” Impossible to refute Passion (confrontation, agitation, arrest, council) At death: heavens opened At death: location out of the city At death: death cry At death: petition for forgiveness At death: prayer At death: report of death At death: lament, burial by pious

Luke 1:52; 4:1, 14 Luke 22:24–27 (Acts 2:22) Luke 4:16–30 Luke 21:15 Luke 22–23

Acts 6:3, 5, 8, 10; 7:55 Acts 6:3–6 Acts 6:8 Acts 6:9 Acts 6:10 Acts 6:10–12

(Luke 3:21) (Luke 4:29) Luke 23:46 Luke 23:34 Luke 22:41; 23:46 Luke 23:46 Luke 23:27, 48, 50–53

Acts 7:56 Acts 7:58 Acts 7:59 Acts 7:60 Acts 7:59–60 Acts 7:60 Acts 8:2

Luke thus disallows what might otherwise be the default interpretation of Stephen’s demise. Rejected and killed by his own people and the Jerusalem leadership, does not Stephen suffer the ultimate disgrace, his status in the community left in shambles? This cannot be so, for Luke, who goes to great lengths to show how Stephen emulates Jesus – in character, in behavior, and in the manner of his suffering and death. Within the Lukan narrative, Stephen could hardly receive higher honorifics. We could continue much further down this path, as the list of potential patterns and parallels is lengthy. Perhaps this is enough, though. On the one hand, Luke’s Gospel anticipates material found not so much in the Gospel as in Acts – for example, the baptism with or outpouring of the Holy Spirit, fulsome reports of the missional activity of the disciples, a mission to the gentiles, and the decisive

 Kuecker, “Children of the Most High,” 220–21.

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interpretation of God’s work in Jesus’s advent as Israel’s restoration. On the other hand, echoes of Luke’s Gospel in Acts invite, even plead for, a reading of Acts through the refracted light of the Third Gospel. Although the nature of these parallels and resonances indicate that the narrative of Acts has deliberately been woven into the fabric of Luke’s Gospel, we cannot say with any certainty why this is so; authorial motivations are hard to pinpoint, sometimes even for the authors themselves. What we can do, however, is, first, to recognize how these literary phenomena urge a reading of Acts as the continuation of the Gospel of Luke and, second, to puzzle over and reflect together on their narratological effects for Luke’s audiences.

Conclusion An analogy may be helpful as we contemplate what Luke has accomplished. Inspired by a map he had drawn with his stepson, Robert Louis Stevenson set out to write the novel that took its name from what they had drawn: Treasure Island. He began well, writing a chapter a day, with the work appearing serially in Young Folks. But then his inspiration dried up, having written less than one-half of a book that would eventually span thirty-four chapters. Later, wintering in Switzerland, when he was able again to take up his pen, the plot for his story had already been set and it was known widely among those who had begun to read the story, chapter by chapter, as it had unfolded and was published. Although I am not suggesting that Stevenson would like to have taken the novel in a fresh direction, I think we can nonetheless appreciate the fact that he was not free to do so, if he were to remain true to the story as it had already come to life in those initial chapters. The novelist was constrained by what went before. Along similar lines, I am urging that, when turning from the story of Jesus in the Third Gospel to the book of Acts, Luke was similarly constrained. This constraint need not extend to theories of common authorship, shared genre, or adjacent location in the NT canon; the evidence I have begun to explore points rather in the direction of narrative unity. Various approaches to Luke and Acts call for different ways of construing the relationship between these two books. A canonical approach will of necessity concern itself with how Acts provides a bridge between the fourfold Gospel and the letters of Paul, while pushing into the shadows the claims Acts makes regarding Luke’s “first book” (Acts 1:1). A canonical approach has neither need nor basis for denying other interpretive strategies. Historical approaches might want to examine more closely issues of genre or authorship, and these may lead some interpreters to side against certain ways of construing the unity of LukeActs. Interpretation of Luke and Acts as narratives, and particularly as narrative representations of history, however, can scarcely escape the text’s own intention

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to be read not as two discrete accounts, one focused on Jesus and the other on the church, but as a single narrative of the coming of salvation in all its fullness to all people.

2

Rethinking “History” for Theological Interpretation* The problematic nature of “history” for theological interpretation is the inevitable consequence of the segregation of “theology” from “history” in biblical studies in the modern era. This is not to say that “theology” has been completely exorcized from critical biblical studies, because many interpreters continue to write about “the theology of the Yahwist,” “the theology of Thomas,” or “the theology of Matthew’s Gospel.” The sort of “theology” sponsored by critical biblical studies, however, is entirely devoted to the descriptive enterprise, with the result that, at the hands of modern biblical studies, theology is itself a historical enterprise and, as such, is historically determined. If one wants to move beyond the question of what ancient people thought about God or how they understood God to have addressed them, additional work is necessary – work normally done not so much by biblical scholars as by homileticians or theologians, or by biblical scholars who, for the sake of applying the results of historical scholarship, have temporarily donned the hat of the preacher, pastor, or theologian. God can speak today only after history has spoken. Theological interpretation takes a critical stance with respect to this vision of biblical studies, though champions of theological interpretation are not always as clear as they might be regarding the status of historical inquiry in the theological task. In this essay, I want to defend two claims concerned with the role of history in theological interpretation. First, I will argue that historical inquiry grounded in the suppositions and principles of what I shall call the historical-critical paradigm is inimical to theological interpretation of Scripture and, as such, has no place in theological interpretation. Second, I will argue that recent work in the philosophy of history redirects the way we think about history and NT texts in ways that support the aims of theological interpretation of Scripture at the same time that they render problematic the historical-critical paradigm. In order to sketch these arguments, I need first to clarify several terms.

* Originally presented at the session History, Historicisms, and Theological Interpretation at the 2010 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Theological Hermeneutics of Christian Scripture Group; then published as Joel B. Green, “Rethinking ‘History’ for Theological Interpretation,” JTI 5, no. 2 (2011): 159–74. Reprinted by permission of Eisenbrauns/Penn State University Press.

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Historical Criticism and Theological Interpretation: Defining Terms In the best of times, discussion among theological interpreters and, especially, discussion between theological interpreters and its critics have generally been a case study in misperception and miscommunication; in the worst of times, those same conversations have been fraught with caricature and misrepresentation. This is often the result of issues of definition, themselves due to (1) the variety of interpretive interests that parade under the nomenclature of historical criticism and (2) the general lack of an agreed-upon understanding of what constitutes “theological interpretation.” Without claiming to resolve these ambiguities, I want at least to explain how I will use these terms in this essay. Historical Criticism and the Historical-Critical Paradigm Today, historical criticism typically refers to three interpretive projects: 1. The reconstruction of past events in order to narrate the story of the past. Within biblical studies, this is historical criticism proper, and I will refer to it as historical criticism1. Outside biblical studies, this simply is the work of the historian, and this indicates why biblical scholars in the modern era have tended to regard themselves as historians rather than as theologians. 2. Excavation of traditional material in order to explain the process from historical events to their having been textualized within the biblical materials. This work includes a range of methods usually developed under the rubric of historical criticism, from historical criticism proper to tradition criticism, form criticism, source criticism, and redaction criticism. I will refer to this as historical criticism2. 3. Study of the historical situation within which the biblical materials were generated, including the sociocultural conventions they take for granted, to which I will refer as historical criticism3. I claim that theological interpretation has no room for historical criticism1, that theological interpretation is interested in historical criticism2 only insofar as it serves rhetorical interests,1 and that theological interpretation is very much hospitable toward and dependent on historical criticism3. In order to clarify further the target of my concerns with historical criticism, let me go on to acknowledge assumptions and attitudes generally identified with historical criticism1 and historical criticism2, assumptions and attitudes to which I will refer as the historical-critical paradigm. I refer to practices of historical investigation grounded in the following presuppositions: 1  Cf. Klaus Berger, Formgeschichte des Neuen Testaments (Heidelberg: Quelle und Meyer, 1984); idem, “Rhetorical Criticism, New Form Criticism, and New Testament Hermeneutics,” in Rhetoric and the New Testament: Essays from the 1992 Heidelberg Conference, ed. Stanley E. Porter and Thomas H. Olbricht, JSNTSup 90 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 390–96.

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1. that history has existed as an object or sequence of objects outside the historian’s own thought processes 2. that the historian can know and describe this object or sequence of objects as though they objectively existed 3. that historians can remove their own interests – whether theological or philosophical or political or social – as they engage in the task of doing history 4. that historical facts are discovered in a past that exhibits a recognizable structure and 5. that the substances of history can be grasped through intellectual efforts, without recourse to the transcendent.2 In biblical studies, these presuppositions are themselves served by the principles of historical inquiry classically articulated by Ernst Troeltsch. These include: 1. the principle of criticism or doubt, which strips religious inquiry of any claims to unique authority by insisting that its historical claims must be examined with the same method and thoroughness as one might bring to all other historical claims 2. the principle of analogy, which undermines the possibility of miracles because these are unrepeatable, unique events and 3. the principle of correlation, which explains all events in the world fully in terms of other events in the world. Accordingly, God cannot influence or intervene in the world because God is not a material cause.3 These assumptions and principles I take to be both integral to the practice of historical criticism1 and historical criticism2 and hostile to the practice of theological interpretation. Theological Interpretation With the multiplication of attempts at defining theological interpretation,4 the discerning observer may begin to perceive some recognizable patterns emerging from the haziness of former days. My own view is that theological interpretation 2  See Elizabeth A. Clark, History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 14; Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession, IC (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 1–6. 3  Ernst Troeltsch, “Historical and Dogmatic Method in Theology,” in Religion in History, ed. James Luther Adams and Walter F. Bense (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1991), 11–32. 4 Cf., e. g., S. A. Cummins, “The Theological Interpretation of Scripture: Recent Contributions by Stephen E. Fowl, Christopher R. Seitz and Francis Watson,” CBR 2 (2004): 179–96; Stephen E. Fowl, Theological Interpretation of Scripture (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2009); Richard B. Hays, “Reading the Bible with Eyes of Faith: The Practice of Theological Exegesis,” JTI 1 (2007): 5–21; R. W. L. Moberly, “What Is Theological Interpretation of Scripture?” JTI 3 (2009): 161–78; Darren Sarisky, “What Is Theological Interpretation? The Example of Robert W. Jenson,” IJST 12 (2010): 201–16; Daniel J. Treier, Introducing Theological Interpretation of Scripture: Recovering a

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is not and never will be a carefully defined method – and, indeed, that no method, once adopted and faithfully practiced, will inevitably lead to a theological interpretation of a given text. As with other forms of interested exegesis, like Latino/a or African approaches to biblical studies, theological interpretation is marked less by technique and more by certain sensibilities and aims. Above all, theological interpretation is identified by its self-consciously ecclesial location. Thus, theological interpretation concerns the role of Scripture in the faith and formation of persons and ecclesial communities. Theological interpretation emphasizes the potentially mutual influence of Scripture and doctrine in theological discourse and, then, the role of Scripture in the self-understanding of the church and in critical reflection on the church’s practices. This is biblical interpretation that refuses the reduction of the Bible to a disparate collection of historical and/ or literary documents, reading it instead as a source of divine revelation and an essential partner in the task of theological reflection. To push further, theological interpretation is concerned with encountering the God who stands behind and is mediated in Scripture. Christian theological interpretation finds its focus in the church’s two-testament canon of Scripture. On the one hand, this means that theological interpretation emphasizes biblical texts in their final form. On the other hand, this means that theological interpretation recognizes the force of Wilhelm Wrede’s complaint, namely, that those who work with the idea of the canon place themselves under the authority of the bishops and theologians of the first four centuries of the church, while rejecting his conclusion.5 Against Wrede, theological interpreters embrace the ramifications of the ecclesial location of their task. Theological interpreters grapple with the Bible as the church’s Scriptures and, then, as Scripture to be read in relation to the church’s Rule of Faith.6 With the important but preliminary matter of definitions behind us, we are now in a position to rethink “history” for theological interpretation.

Christian Practice (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008); Kevin J. Vanhoozer, “What Is Theological Interpretation of the Bible?,” in DTIB 19–25 (esp. 21–23). 5  Wilhelm Wrede, “The Task and Methods of ‘New Testament Theology,’” in The Nature of New Testament Theology: The Contribution of William Wrede and Adolf Schlatter, ed. and trans. Robert Morgan, SBT, s.s., 25 (London: SCM, 1973), 68–116 (esp. 70–71). 6 I leave open at this juncture how best to construe that relationship, which I have discussed elsewhere, in Practicing Theological Interpretation, TECC (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), ch. 3. Cf. Robert W. Jenson, Canon and Creed, Int (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010); William J. Abraham, Canon and Criterion in Christian Theology: From the Fathers to Feminism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).

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Historical Inquiry against Theological Interpretation My first claim is that historical inquiry grounded in the suppositions and principles of the historical-critical paradigm is inimical to theological interpretation of Scripture and, as such, has no place in theological interpretation. I base this claim on two grounds. Assessing the Historical Data First, in the general absence of corroborative or competing historical evidence to sift and assess, historical criticism1 has little alternative other than to base its evaluation and renarration on presumptions about what its practitioners regard as possible or plausible. These include the assumption that facts and faith can and should be compartmentalized from one another and the assumption that God and God’s activity lie outside the parameters of historical inquiry. Even if someone might wish to argue that these presumptions and protocols make for good historical inquiry, I think we can agree nonetheless that they exclude the interests and commitments specific to theological interpretation, as I have defined it. Let me illustrate the problem with reference to Gerd Lüdemann’s essay, “Acts of Impropriety: The Imbalance of History and Theology in Luke-Acts.”7 Let us put to the side Lüdemann’s naive reading of the claims of ancient historiographers regarding their own aspirations. Let us also set aside his references to the second-century CE treatise How to Write History, penned by the satirist Lucian of Samosata, which Lüdemann reads uncritically as though it were a straightforward instruction manual for Roman historiographers.8 And let us put to the side Lüdemann’s modernist assumption that both Jews and Christians – apparently all of them, always and everywhere – employ their Bibles “as history books so as to establish the historical foundations of their respective faith communities.”9 Let us observe instead that Lüdemann’s fundamental complaint is that Luke is theologically motivated by his conception of “salvation history.” Thus: The history of salvation is reflected in the path of the gospel from Jerusalem all the way to Rome. The worldwide missionary activity, i. e., throughout the Roman Empire, and the person of Paul form the focus of the presentation. Everything else – the beginning in 7 Gerd Lüdemann, “Acts of Impropriety: The Imbalance of History and Theology in LukeActs,” TJT 24 (2008): 65–79. Cf. his earlier book, Early Christianity according to the Traditions in Acts: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989). 8 Lüdemann, “Acts of Impropriety,” 73–75. Contra Lüdemann’s uncritical appropriation of these texts, see, e. g., John Marincola, Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Clare K. Rothschild, Luke-Acts and the Rhetoric of History: An Investigation of Early Christian Historiography, WUNT 2/175 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004). 9  Lüdemann, “Acts of Impropriety,” 65.

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Galilee, the crisis in Jerusalem involving the death and resurrection of Jesus, the church in Jerusalem, and the experimental mission of the Hellenists (in Luke’s perspective) – leads toward this one goal. The Jerusalem Conference is located in the middle of Acts, chapter 15, as the pivotal point. It separates the primitive period of the church from the present and forms the presupposition for Paul’s independent mission that begins after his separation from Barnabas. The Pauline era is meshed with, and legitimized by, the holy past of the primitive Jerusalem church.10

This by itself is not necessarily a bad thing, we are told, because all historians have their biases. In the case of Luke, however, this bias leads to the fabrication of facts. For Lüdemann, this becomes clear in Luke’s apologetic favoring the Roman state. In the ensuing discussion, Lüdemann successfully demonstrates that certain representatives of Rome (for example, the centurion Cornelius) are portrayed in a positive light by the narrator of Acts and less successfully paints with broad strokes his view that Luke is pro-Rome11 but never actually identifies where or how Luke has fabricated “facts” in support of his apologetic. If anything, according to Lüdemann, Luke’s view of salvation history leads him to exclude from his narrative account data concerning the historical veracity of which Lüdemann is certain and which, for Lüdemann, Luke must have known. From here, Lüdemann goes on to “induce from Luke’s work the following assumptions: 1. The Holy Spirit is instrumental in salvation history. 2. All things are predetermined by the will of God. 3. The spread of the Primitive Christian mission is unstoppable. 4. Roman power is sympathetic to Christianity. (A corollary of this is that any pro-Roman traits or characterizations in Acts and the third Gospel are open to historical doubt.) 5. The unbelieving Jews will go to any lengths to thwart Christian goals and purposes. (As with the previous statement, any negative statement about them is likewise open to historical doubt.)12

We might argue that Lüdemann has misconstrued the theology of Acts  – for example, with reference to Luke’s alleged doctrine of predetermination or Luke’s attitude toward the Roman Empire; but this is beside the point. As his own parenthetical glosses suggest, evidence of theological assumptions such as these within the Lukan narrative is directly correlated with a negative assessment of the historical value of that narrative. Here and throughout, then, Lüdemann does little more than assume that Luke is a historian whose work ought to measure up to the standards I have enumerated as the historical-critical paradigm and claim that Luke fails to meet those standards on account of his theological interests.  Lüdemann, “Acts of Impropriety,” 69.  Against this common view, see C. Kavin Rowe, World Upside Down: Reading Acts in the Graeco-Roman Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); and the earlier Richard J. Cassidy, Society and Politics in the Acts of the Apostles (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987). 12  Lüdemann, “Acts of Impropriety,” 72. 10 11

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The sniff of Lukan theology is testimony to the failure of Luke the historian. In short, Lüdemann’s claim that Luke has falsified history “for the sake of piety, politics and power”13 is based not on sifting competing historical data but on the presence of Luke’s theological commitments. A Competing Narrative Someone might reply that, Lüdemann’s essay aside, some data external to Acts can be compared with Luke’s narrative, and on this basis we might take some steps toward an assessment of the historical value of Acts. For example, in his essay “What Is Meant by the Historicity of Acts?” Charles Talbert surveys recent literature regarding the value of Acts for our knowledge of the early church.14 Among the issues he surfaces are some that assume an assessment of the “facts” of Luke’s narrative in relation to sources external to the narrative – for example, the verisimilitude of Acts (that is, whether narrative details related to “contemporary color” cohere with what we find in other sources), the sequence of events (that is, whether the chronology of Acts coheres with the chronology of events known to us from other Greco-Roman, Christian, and Jewish sources), and Luke’s portrait of Paul (that is, whether we can find coherence between the Paul of Acts and the Paul of the Pauline letter corpus). This approach to Acts as history leads to the second basis for my claim that historical criticism1 is no friend to theological interpretation. This is that historical criticism1 evaluates data with the anticipated outcome of an alternative narration designed to replace the one the church has received and valued as Scripture. That is, the attempt to recover what actually happened, which is only an alternative way of referring to historical criticism1, requires a series of interpretive judgments concerning events recounted in the narrative of Acts, which then provide the raw material for the production of a further, competing narrative. This approach, if it has any theological interests, assumes that the object of exegetical study is a new and purportedly more historically accurate account generated by historians today on the basis of which the church might then turn to engage in the theological task. And it assumes that theology and history are different things and that theology is the superstructure built on the historical foundation stones of modern historical investigation. It thus assumes a segregation of history and theology predicated on a dichotomy alien both to premodern thinking and to virtually all religions today. Indeed, writing in History and Theory, C. T.  McIntire has aptly observed that the separation of faith and fact or sacred and secular runs counter to traditions that hold “the religious as a way of life, and not as something that can be confined to a special private realm or removed from life altogeth Lüdemann, “Acts of Impropriety,” 77.  Charles H. Talbert, “What Is Meant by the Historicity of Acts?,” in Reading Acts in Its Mediterranean Milieu, NovTSup 107 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 197–231. 13 14

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er.”15 Failing to account for this reality, historical criticism1 lacks the cognitive categories for making sense of the reality that the church regards the narrative of Acts, set within the canon of Scripture, already as an exemplum of the church’s theological task. Focused as it is on such a different agenda, historical criticism1 cannot conceive of Acts in its role as theological history informing in its present form the church’s faith and life. Of course, theological interpretation has no reason to reject the work of those who want to write a new history of early Christianity. Likewise, theological interpretation has no need to anathematize the attempts of those who want to demonstrate or deny the historical veracity of the Acts of the Apostles. The book of Acts is capable of an array of uses and is hospitable to a constellation of interpretive practices. Theological interpretation simply recognizes those attempts as something other than theological interpretation. What is more, theological interpretation is unwilling to grant those new narratives the status of Scripture or to allow the church’s faith and life to be normed by them. In another context, N. T. Wright has claimed that, “without the real human Jesus of Nazareth, we are at the mercy of anybody who tells us that ‘Christ’ is this, or that.”16 Someone might find in this defense of historical Jesus studies grounds for a parallel claim concerning the early church: Without the real early church, do we not open ourselves willy-nilly to whatever interpretive winds might blow? To both claims, regarding the historical Jesus and the historical early church, we reply, simply, that within the church we do not depend on even our most talented historians to portray reality for us; rather, in the church, we recognize that those interpretive winds are already tamed by canon and creed. To anticipate what is to come, we might go on to recognize that the newly constructed narrative of the early church given us by historical criticism1 does not actually recount for us what really happened. This is because it too bears the imprint of a series of interpretive judgments, each of which is open to criticism. Put sharply, the lofty aims of historical criticism1 deconstruct themselves on account of the subjectivity intrinsic to each stage of historical analysis. The alternative I champion is a theological interpretation that reads Acts (for example) as a narrative representation of historical events, which by definition must focus on the narrative of Acts itself and not on the events to which this narrative can only partially bear witness.

15 C. T. McIntire, “Transcending Dichotomies in History and Religion,” HistTh 45 (2006): 80–92 (86). On theological assumptions in historical inquiry more generally, see, e. g., Murray Rae, History and Hermeneutics (London: T&T Clark, 2005); Alan Torrance, “The Lazarus Narrative, Theological History, and Historical Probability,” in The Gospel of John and Christian Theology, ed. Richard Bauckham and Carl Mosser (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 245–62. 16  N. T. Wright, Who Was Jesus? (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992), 93.

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History as Narrative in Theological Interpretation In reality, study of the NT as NT already refuses to play by the rules of the historical-critical paradigm, as Wrede rightly saw.17 Although it is possible to study, say, Matthew’s Gospel from the standpoint of the historical-critical paradigm, the location of Matthew’s Gospel in the fourfold Gospel canon, in the NT canon, and in the two-testament Christian Bible reflects a theological judgment that in no way arises necessarily or intrinsically from the material vicissitudes that gave rise to Matthew’s Gospel in the latter part of the first century. To employ the phrase “New Testament” is to make a theological judgment to which the historical-critical paradigm gives no quarter. That some NT students continue to imagine that they can operate on the basis of the historical-critical paradigm and read these documents as Christian Scripture is testimony to nothing more than the inconsistencies between “theory” and “practice” that have now begun to show as fault lines in the discipline of biblical studies. To push the matter even further, it is difficult to know on what basis we might embrace study of the NT as part of a two-testament Christian Bible and not also concern ourselves explicitly with the relationship between canon and creed, since, historically, these two, canon and creed, are the product of mutually influencing, interwoven processes; to do so, however, is to have set a firm boundary between ourselves and the sort of interpretive work sponsored by the historical-critical paradigm. However, what is at issue for us at present is how to think about the historical enterprise in ways that support the aims of theological interpretation of Scripture. My second claim, then, is that recent work in the philosophy of history redirects the way we think about history and NT texts in ways that support the aims of theological interpretation of Scripture at the same time they render problematic the historical-critical paradigm. I will argue that what is at issue for theological interpretation of Scripture is not the question of events and their meaning insofar as these can be identified behind the text – because, after all, events do not carry with themselves their own interpretation. What is at issue, rather, is the theological character of these narrative representations of historical events  – representations that are, by definition, oriented toward a theological telos. Some will recognize that, in thus phrasing the issue, I am following Hayden White’s understanding of history-writing as “the narrative representation of historical events”18 – a view that undermines any attempt at historical criticism1 grounded in the historical-critical paradigm. I will construct my argument on the basis of four, closely related observations. 17 Likewise, Heikki Räisänen, Beyond New Testament Theology, 2nd ed. (London: SCM, 2000); contra, e. g., Peter Balla, Challenges to New Testament Theology: An Attempt to Justify the Enterprise (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1997). 18  Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987).

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First, those responsible for history-writing are forever engaged in choice-making concerned with what to exclude and include, and how to relate one event to another. This accounts for the two basic, essential, and distinguishing tasks of the historiographer: selectivity and narrativity. Decisions are required, and not only for the obvious reason that a record of everything would be impossible to produce (cf. John 20:30–31; 21:25), but also to escape the democratization of events whereby nothing has significance because everything is of equal consequence. Yet, decisions involving valuation are inescapably subjective, oriented as they are toward particular interpretive aims and set within particular chains of cause-and-effect. Accordingly, a narrative representation of historical events irrepressibly locates events in a web of significance, events that have themselves been chosen with an eye to their significance within that narrative web. Indeed, even the simple act of dynamic recall is an exercise in the allocation of meaning, according to subjective determinations, whether conscious or unconscious, of a significance plotted in terms of past, present, and future. If this “significance” is grasped in theological terms, this does not make the consequent narrative any less “historical” but instead reflects the ground rules of the community that grasps reality in just this way. As Albert Cook recognizes in his assessment of history in Israel’s Scriptures, “the Old Testament writer … cannot be faulted for regarding as evidence … the relationship of God to the Hebrews. This is so central to his conception of the unfolding of events that he would have been remiss in leaving it out.”19 The same would need to be said of Matthew or John, for whom God is an active agent working sometimes directly but mostly indirectly behind, in, and through these NT narratives. The same would need to be said of those who turn to Matthew and John as Scripture, who not only observe that these narratives assess the Jesus-story in theological terms but who embrace these narratives as the good news that calls for a reorientation of life determined by the God of Abraham and Moses, the Father of Jesus, the God who liberated Israel and raised Jesus from the dead. That it is Cook who makes this argument is of special notice since his comparative literary perspective demonstrates the degree to which the biblical writers are engaged in forms of significance-making possessing analogues throughout the history of history-writing. Second, history-writing is less mimēsis and more diēgēsis, more narrative representation than imitation of unvarnished events. “Memory” of persons and events is being formed long before the historian appears on the scene to take up the twin tasks of research and narration. Oral history represents and shapes the community of memory. History-telling precedes and constrains history-writing. Moreover, memories are in a perpetual state of flux, being surfaced or suppressed, 19 Albert Cook, History/Writing: The Theory and Practice of History in Antiquity and in Modern Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 139.

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shaped and reshaped, in relation to their perceived importance.20 Further, “perceived importance” is measured by how an event or situation is understood as the consequence or cause of an event-sequence. From one perspective, for example, Jesus’s death on a Roman cross has no peculiar significance at all; it is just one in a series of hundreds of these executions. We can easily imagine a late-first-century historian writing the history of the Empire without mentioning it at all. From another perspective, say, that of the author of Mark’s Gospel, Jesus’s death marks the end of the ages and so occupies the centerpiece of Mark’s narrative representation of historical events. The late nineteenth century bequeathed to the twentieth the imperative that historians emulate natural scientists in their pursuit of fixed laws. By the early twentieth century, it was widely agreed, as Ernst Briesach has put it, “that history was an endeavor with the purely theoretical interest of reconstructing the past and without any practical interest, be it lessons, devotion, entertainment, or propaganda.”21 This way of thinking has proven problematic on numerous grounds. Thus, for Wolfgang Iser, “the real” can no longer be separated from the perception of the real.22 “Historical writing,” Brian Stock argues, “does not treat reality; it treats the interpreter’s relation to it.”23 And Hayden White has emphasized the implications of the essential narrativity of historiography; how can promises of or aspirations to objectivity be maintained when it is self-evident that the historian’s

20  This perspective on memory undermines some aspects of the thesis put forward in Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006). Neuropsychology has increasingly observed the degree to which memory is malleable and dynamic – see, e. g., Daniel L. Schachter, “The Seven Sins of Memory: Insights from Psychology and Cognitive Neuroscience,” American Psychologist 54 (1999): 182–203; Elizabeth Loftus, “Our Changeable Memories: Legal and Practical Implications,” Nature Reviews Neuroscience 4 (2003): 231–34; Karim Nader, “Reconsolidation: A Possible Bridge between Cognitive and Neuroscientific Views of Memory,” in The Cognitive Neurosciences, ed. Michael S. Gazzaniga, 4th ed. (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2009), 691–703; Oliver Hardt et al., “A Bridge over Troubled Water: Reconsolidation as a Link between Cognitive and Neuroscientific Memory Research Traditions,” Annual Review of Psychology 61 (2010): 141–67. We typically explain our own and others’ behaviors through the historical narratives by which we collaborate to create a sense of ourselves and others as persons and as a people. Memory, then, is not passive retrieval of information, but a dynamic process of active reconstruction, through which we seek coherence. This is true both of individuals and of collectives (or “institutions” – cf. Mary Douglas, How Institutions Think [Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1986]). Regarding Bauckham’s work, see also Judith C. S. Redman, “How Accurate Are Eyewitnesses? Bauckham and the Eyewitnesses in the Light of Psychological Research,” JBL 129 (2010): 177–97. 21  Ernst Briesach, Historiography: Ancient, Medieval, and Modern, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 323. 22  Wolfgang Iser, The Fictive and the Imaginary: Charting Literary Anthropology (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993). 23  Brian Stock, Listening for the Text: On the Uses of the Past, PRCS (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 80.

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craft is exercised in selecting what events to include and in determining how to order those events in a narrative web of causality?24 With these considerations in mind, the pressing interpretive questions become, on the micro-level, how is this event related causally to that one? And, on the macro-level, what end is served by narrating the story in this way (rather than some other)? To raise the importance of telos, however, is to recognize the inherently subjective – and, for the theologically minded, the inherently theological – nature of the narrative representation of historical events. Thus far, then, we have begun to sketch a view of historiography that runs against the grain of the historical-critical paradigm. History writing is always more and less than the past – more because historiography locates events in a web of significance that gives them an importance they do not inherently possess, and less because historiography is by its nature selective in its choices of what to recount. David Lowenthal summarizes these concerns with three telling observations. No historical account can recover the totality of the past as it really was on account of its virtual infinity. No historical account can recover the past as it was because the past is comprised of events and situations, not accounts. And no historical account can escape the subjectivity inherent in the choices of what and how to remember.25 The work of the historian is never simply “retrieval.” I set out to sketch four considerations that, together, undermine the ongoing history-theology dichotomy. The third recognizes that the Gospels and Acts are cultural products – that is, they are narratives that speak both out of and over against the worlds within which they were written. They participate in, legitimate, perpetuate, and criticize the worlds within which they were generated. As Stephen Greenblatt has observed, texts exist in a relationship of constraint and mobility with their cultural contexts, as authors assemble and shape the forces of their worlds in fresh ways that both draw on and point beyond those cultural elements.26 This means that narratives such as the Gospels and Acts perform like structures for the accumulation, transformation, representation, and communication of the social energies and practices integral to their worlds (“constraint”) but also that these narratives have the capacity to break their worlds’ social boundaries in order to reinterpret accepted conventions, to critique social norms, and to visualize an alternative universe (“mobility”). Indeed, narratives have ongoing significance in part because of their capacity to speak beyond the limitations of their own historical particularity. Yet, as “cultural products,” the fullness of their voice is shaped by that very particularity. Taking seriously this 24  See esp. White, Content of the Form. For an assessment of White’s influence, see the symposium “Hayden White: Twenty-Five Years On,” HistTh 37 (1998): 143–93. 25  David Lowenthal, The Past Is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 214–18. 26  See Stephen Greenblatt, “Culture,” in Critical Terms for Literary Study, ed. Frank Lentricchia and Thomas McLaughlin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 225–32.

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aspect of the “historicity” of Acts, for example, allows us a sharper image of how Luke might have pursued the task of shaping the identity of a people through shaping his narrative at the same time that it militates against our impulses toward domesticating this narrative by locating it within our own cultural commitments, as though they embodied and authorized our cherished dispositions. If the first two considerations counter the segregation of history and theology posited by historical criticism1 and historical criticism2, this third consideration demonstrates the importance of historical criticism3 for the enterprise of theological interpretation. By reminding us of the text’s own status as a cultural product, historical criticism3 protects the text from our tendencies to recruit its words and phrases to our own ends. And from the standpoint of pragmatics, that area of linguistics that studies how context contributes to meaning, historical criticism3 reminds us that entire patterns of behavior and well-known social scripts can be signaled by a few words in the text; in other words, historical criticism3 reminds us that texts are more than words on the page. From this vantage point, then, a fulsome grasp of the socio-religio-cultural complex within which Acts was produced is informative – not so that we might trap Acts within its historical world and not because Acts (or any other text) gives us uninterpreted access to that world, but so that we can see how Acts embraces and undermines its world as it invites its audience to discern and participate in God’s restorative agenda. The fourth consideration is that the Gospels and Acts, as with narratives more generally, have intended effects. Narrative is not just “story” but also “action” – as James Phelan puts it, “the telling of a story by someone to someone on some occasion for some purpose.”27 Of course, in making this claim, I am departing perspectives on historical study and history writing deeply (if often unconsciously) indebted to a philosophy of history motivated by a desire to emulate the investigative commitments and techniques of the natural sciences. And I am recognizing that history writing is not an exercise in the objective retrieval of the past, that history writing invariably serves present agenda such as validation of a people or institution (especially through tracing continuity with the past), identity-formation, and pedagogy.28 In short, history writing is not for us an add-on to the theological task, nor is theology an add-on to the work of historiography. Though one might wish to speak heuristically of Luke’s or Matthew’s theological agenda or historical interests or literary artistry, these are not “parts” of a Lukan or Matthean enterprise. A narrative like Mark’s is not molecular, divisible into three parts history, two parts theology, and one part literary artistry. It simply is a theologically determined narrative representation of historical events. 27  James Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric: Technique, Audiences, Ethics, Ideology (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1996), 8. 28  Lowenthal, Foreign Country.

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Conclusion What we find in Scripture, then, is the theologically potent narrative representation of historical events. It is not an unbiased presentation. It is not a scientific account of what really happened. This is not because of Matthew’s or Mark’s failure as a historian but rather because all history-writing is partial – incomplete and perspectival. Of course, someone might want to write a new history of Jesus of Nazareth or of the early church. Were someone to undertake this task, however, I hope that she or he would recognize the nature of the task. Reading Mark’s Gospel as a “narrative representation of historical events” is simply a different enterprise than reading Mark from the standpoint of historical criticism1 and the related assumptions of the historical-critical paradigm. Historical criticism1 might view Mark as a source for its work of querying what actually happened during the period of Jesus’s public ministry. Reading Mark in this way is not “scientific,” however, but only the first step in the production of another partial narrative. And it is yet another illustration of the inherently anti-textual agenda of historical criticism1 and historical criticism2. One can follow the rubrics of historical criticism1 as a historian of early Christianity or one can read the book of Acts as a formative, theological narrative, but one cannot do both at the same time. One can follow the instincts of those committed to the historical-critical paradigm, but the end result of such an inquiry would not be a theological reading of Acts but rather the substitution of one’s own account for the one the church has received and that it regards as Christian Scripture.

Texts

3

The Social Status of Mary in Luke 1:5–2:52: A Plea for Methodological Integration* Mary in “The Social World of Luke-Acts” In a number of their contributions to the recently published study of The Social World of Luke-Acts, Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey concern themselves with the importance of status, honor, and relative position in a social structure in the ancient Mediterranean world.1 Like others in this volume, their essays aim to provide “a historical-critical reading of a first-century, Mediterranean, biblical document” (i. e., Luke-Acts) – first by presenting interpretive models, then by employing those models in a consideration of “the social dimensions of Luke’s texts and context.” The models presented, including that concerned with the pivotal values of honor and shame, are social-scientific in nature and are explored by way of making “explicit a reader’s ways of assessing cultural differences as well as the specific social and cultural properties of Luke’s audience.”2 Malina and Neyrey define “honor” as “the positive value of a person in his or her own eyes plus the positive appreciation of that person in the eyes of his or her social group.”3 Honor according to the model they deploy may be ascribed or acquired. The former is assigned to the individual by virtue of factors outside his or her control – for example, family of origin, race, age, and sex. Acquired honor results from the efforts of the individual to improve his or her standing in a given social system, often at the expense of others, via educational or professional achievement, for example, or through more direct efforts at challenging

* Originally published as Joel B. Green, “The Social Status of Mary in Luke 1:5–2:52: A Plea for Methodological Integration,” Bib 73 (1992): 457–71. Used with permission. 1 See in particular: Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, “Honor and Shame in Luke-Acts: Pivotal Values of the Mediterranean World,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 25–65; idem, “First-Century Personality: Dyadic, Not Individualistic,” in Social World, 67–96; Neyrey, “The Symbolic Universe of Luke-Acts: ‘They Turn the World Upside Down,’” in Social World, 271–304. See also Malina’s earlier examination of The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 25–50. 2  Jerome H. Neyrey, “Preface,” in Social World, ix–xviii (xi). 3  Malina and Neyrey, “Honor and Shame,” 25–26.

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the status of others in a kind of social tug of war.4 While their model is much more extensively developed, this brief summary of its contours is enough to introduce our concern here, namely, their application of this model to the Lukan portrayal of Mary. Malina and Neyrey observe that the Third Gospel begins with an outline of the honor ascribed to Jesus by virtue of his kinship relations. Thus, his father is of an honorable family, claiming David as an ancestor (1:27; 2:4). What of Jesus’s mother? Because priestly families enjoy honored status and because Mary is the kinswoman of a daughter of Aaron (1:5, 36), Malina and Neyrey suggest that Mary, too, enjoys the status of the priestly line. They even assert that these data imply that Mary is in fact of a priestly clan. Neyrey summarizes his view of things in a comment on Jesus’s purity: Since people can be mapped, it matters where Jesus is situated. His mother was related to priestly stock; Zechariah was “of the division of Abijah” (Luke 1:5) and Elizabeth “of the daughters of Aaron” (1:5). Both were “righteous before God, walking in all commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless” (1:6). They were kin to Mary, the mother of Jesus, which meant that she had blood ties to the priestly clan. His father was “of the house of David” (1:27; 2:4; 3:23, 31–32). Jesus, then, belonged to the two most sacred family lines in Israel, priestly and royal.5

Apparently, then, we are to understand that the Third Evangelist has faithfully reflected the cultural patterns of his world by presenting Mary as a person of honorable status, her honor having accrued to her by ascription, in light of her ancestry. This ascribed status she was able to pass on to her son, Jesus. One important and unfortunate drawback of this discussion – and indeed of a number of the essays of which The Social World of Luke-Acts is comprised – is its unwillingness to grapple with the reality that the traffic of the anthropological enterprise is two-way.6 We are invited to eavesdrop on an ancient conversation, forgetting that in doing so we ourselves have joined the discourse, and that cultural patterns we take for granted in our world may rightly be critically exposed in the process. Is it not of consequence that some currents in contemporary sociology have been taken up with the sometimes overpowering influence of such sources of ascribed honor as race and sex over against the more typical and contemporary sources of acquired status, including vocation and income?7 Or that the individualism that marks contemporary society in the West – which 4  Cf. Charlotte Seymour-Smith, Macmillan Dictionary of Anthropology (London: Macmillan, 1986), 2, 267–69. 5  Neyrey, “Symbolic Universe,” 289; cf. Malina and Neyrey, “Honor and Shame,” 47; idem, “First-Century Personality,” 86. 6  See George E. Marcus and Michael M. J. Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural Critique: An Experimental Moment in the Human Sciences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986). 7  See, e. g., Jill Quadagno, “Race, Class, and Gender in the U. S. Welfare State: Nixon’s Failed Family Assistance Plan,” American Sociological Review 55, no. 1 (1990): 11–28; Seymour-Smith, Anthropology, 2.

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appears as a given in Malina and Neyrey – has itself come under recent, critical scrutiny?8 In other words, the sort of analysis Malina and Neyrey seek to exemplify is influenced by more factors and has more to offer in the hermeneutical discourse than they allow. More to the present point is a second arena in which their analysis is lacking, namely, it is too much concerned with the construction of a model and its application to Luke-Acts and not enough concerned with how such a model might itself be transformed or overturned within Luke’s narrative, or even shown to be irrelevant to Luke’s enterprise. This is not because Luke might somehow have managed to escape the constraints of his own culture, its presuppositions and patterns. All language is embedded in culture,9 the narrative of Luke-Acts included, and Luke’s narrative venture will have arisen within a particular discourse situation. Hence, as Malina and Neyrey recognize, it behooves modern readers to engage as fully as possible in explorations of the cultural assumptions Luke shared with his contemporaries. Nevertheless, it will not do simply to read the results of such an exploration into Luke’s narrative.10 Luke might not, and on occasion certainly does not, re-present the “real world” so straightforwardly. He can, for example, provide an alternative view of that world,11 choose aspects of that world to emphasize while playing others down,12 or parody normal expectations in his culture so as to present a strikingly alternative way of understanding social reality.13 That is, creative figures, including those who produced  8  See, e. g., Robert N. Bellah et al., Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985).  9  Cf. Michael Stubbs, Discourse Analysis: The Sociolinguistic Analysis of Natural Language, LS 4 (Chicago: University of California Press, 1983), 9; Gillian Brown and George Yule, Discourse Analysis, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 27–31. The role of such extratextual concerns (including communal assumptions) for the generation and interpretation of literary meaning has recently been reaffirmed by Richard Freadman and Seumas Miller, Re-Thinking Theory: A Critique of Contemporary Literary Theory and an Alternative Account (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 10 This mistake is also made by Richard A. Horsley, The Liberation of Christmas: The Infancy Narratives in Social Context (New York: Crossroad, 1989). 11  E. g., he can redefine power while undermining a patriarchal ideology – cf. Janice Capel Anderson, “Mary’s Difference: Gender and Patriarchy in the Birth Narratives,” JR 67 (1987): 183–202. 12  E. g., he has little to say about the politico-economic power of the temple, a historical certainty, but accentuates its socioreligious power – cf. Joel B. Green, “The Death of Jesus and the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49): A Window into Luke’s Understanding of Jesus and the Temple,” SBLSP (1991), 543–57 (554) (see ch. 7, below); Halvor Moxnes, The Economy of the Kingdom: Social Conflict and Economic Relations in Luke’s Gospel, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 70–74; contra John H. Elliott, “Temple Versus Household in Luke-Acts: A Contrast in Social Institutions,” in Social World, 211–40. 13  E. g., with regard to “sinners” and “the poor” he has redetermined the canons of social stratification – cf. David A. Neale, None but the Sinners: Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke, JSNTSup 58 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991); Joel B. Green, “Good News to Whom? Jesus and the ‘Poor’ in the Gospel of Luke,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays

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ancient historiography, may exhibit the capacity to engage their cultural systems in critical ways. Narratives in particular enjoy the potential of shaping a cultural world. One of the things narratives do well is to draw their audiences into new worlds so as to undergird or undermine what those audiences have naturally assumed or thoughtfully come to presuppose. More generally, “a text is not simply a communicational apparatus. It is a device which questions the previous signifying systems, often renews them, and sometimes destroys them.”14 Malina and Neyrey have helpfully set a context for reading Luke-Acts, but it is not equally clear that they have read Luke-Acts – that is, that they have sought fully to appreciate how the evangelist has worked with (or against) cultural assumptions regarding (in this case) the definition of status honor in a given social system. Attention specifically to the portrayal of Mary in Luke’s birth narrative will confirm both of these judgments by demonstrating (1) Luke’s hyper-concern with issues of status honor in his opening chapters and (2) how ironic and meaningful his portrayal of Mary actually is. We will show, contra Malina and Neyrey, that Luke is not concerned ultimately with Mary’s ascribed honor, and in fact adopts a narrative strategy that rules out any such emphasis. For Luke, Mary has no claim to positive social valuation whatsoever; what is more, early in the narrative she forfeits ahead of time her future claim to honorable status due to her when she marries a descendent of David. Of preeminent consequence instead is the status allotted to (i. e., neither ascribed via normal channels to nor achieved by) her by God himself, denoted finally by her self-identification as a servant in God’s household. Thus presented is, first, a radical critique of the normal, culturally defined means of social stratification in the Mediterranean world and, second, a harbinger of the coming emphasis on salvation-as-status-transposition in Luke’s narrative.

The Portrayal of Mary in Luke 1:5–2:52 Because of our narrow interest in Luke’s portrayal of Mary’s status, we will not analyze every text in which Mary appears  – for example, those related to her internal reflection (2:19, 51b). In the main, since our point of reference is narratological, we will follow the sequence of Luke’s account, departing from it only to refer to corroborative material elsewhere.15 on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 59–74. 14  Umberto Eco, Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language, AS (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), 25. Cf. Mary Ann Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 303–4. 15  Cf. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “Mary in Lucan Salvation History,” in Luke the Theologian: Aspects of His Teaching (New York: Paulist Press, 1989), 57–85; his analysis has a quite different focus

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The Introduction of Mary: A Girl without a Family Following his introduction of Zechariah and Elizabeth, and the accounts of the annunciation to Zechariah and Elizabeth’s response to her conception, Luke directs our attention from the home and concerns of this priestly couple to a virgin, Mary, in Galilee: “In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary” (1:26–27).16 This introduction of Mary stands in stark contrast to the expectations we have built up by the time we reach this narrative segment. In introducing Zechariah and Elizabeth in 1:5–6, Luke has devoted considerable attention to issues of status, piling up data in an economic way while using such devices as repetition and association to accentuate their socio-religious status, their purity, and their righteousness.17 This is accomplished first by characterizing them as children of Aaron, who share in the advanced honor of the priesthood. The high status afforded to the priesthood derived from their hereditary purity and vocation – that is, their (1) divine legitimation, their indispensable role in temple worship and sacrifice (cf. Exod 28–29; Lev 8–10), to which they were set apart by God so as to have unrivaled access to holy places and paraphernalia and the power to pronounce blessings on God’s behalf; and, therefore, their (2) positions of leadership and roles of scriptural interpretation in local communities. The basis of the priesthood was genealogical, and Zechariah adds to his own ancestral lineage through Aaron (cf. Exod 28:1; 29:9; Num 18) a further qualification, his marriage to a daughter of Aaron. This would not have resulted from caste-like constraints. Daughters of priests like Elizabeth could marry with few restrictions; priests were obliged to conform to more strict limitations, but they were certainly allowed to marry Israelites (i. e., the daughters of non-priests). The primary issue was the genealogical preservation of the purity and dignity of the priesthood, for the male offspring inherited the priestly office from his father, provided his mother was of sufficient status. In the present case, priestly origins and purity, measures of status in Jewish society, have clearly been kept inviolate.18 and lists recent bibliography. For bibliography, see also Raymond E. Brown, “Gospel Infancy Narrative Research from 1976 to 1986: Part II (Luke),” CBQ 48 (1986): 660–80. 16  Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts follow the NRSV. 17  On characterization in the Third Gospel, see David B. Gowler, “Characterization in Luke: A Socio-Narratological Approach,” BTB 19 (1989): 54–62; more generally, see Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 3–20; Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985), 85–89. 18  On these issues, see E. P. Sanders, Judaism: Practices and Belief, 63 BCE–66 CE (London: SCM, 1991), 170–82; Léonie J. Archer, Her Price Is beyond Rubies: The Jewish Woman in Graeco-​ Roman Palestine, JSOTSup 60 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 137–39; Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175B.C.–A. D. 135), rev. ed., ed. Geza

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Elsewhere Luke shows his fondness for brief but sweeping character references (e. g., 2:25, 36–37; 23:50–51; Acts 10:1–2), and he uses one here (Luke 1:6) to advance his portrait of the exemplary character of this priestly couple, emphasizing through the redundancy of parallelism their moral excellence. By means of scriptural echoes, Luke’s characterization of Elizabeth and Zechariah encourages our association of this couple with Abraham and Sarah (cf., e. g., Gen 11:30; 15:16; 16:1; 17:1, 17; 18:11–12), and this adds further to their positive valuation. Moreover, in Luke 1:7, we are informed that Zechariah and Elizabeth are both advanced in years, a note of particular consequence in a culture where honor comes with age. Luke’s concern with status honor in his introduction of these two characters is matched by the way he has shaped the accounts of annunciation and response. We locate Zechariah at the socioreligious center of the Jewish world, on duty in the Jerusalem temple.19 Moreover, he has been chosen by God – for so the casting of lots was understood20 – for the special honor of entering the Holy Place, itself a place of special honor.21 With regard to Elizabeth, it is important to note that, having conceived, her response to God centers on the consequences of her pregnancy for her interaction in the community (1:25). As in Israel’s Scriptures, wherein is firmly embedded the idea that God controls the womb,22 so here childbearing is understood as a manifestation of divine blessing (cf., e. g., Gen 16:4; 29:32; 30:1, 22–23), and so a marker of social status. Her weighty claims to honor reported in Luke 1:5–7 had been compromised by her childlessness; God’s intervention, then, was experienced by her as a way of removing shame, of gaining honor. In all of these ways, Luke shows himself to be a person of the honor/shame-oriented culture of the Mediterranean world, as discussed by Malina and Neyrey. Having accentuated these cultural values so transparently in the opening account of his birth narrative, we expect more of the same when the scene changes. Indeed, even Joseph, who appears infrequently in Luke’s birth narrative and has almost no active role at all, is characterized by his enviable birthright (1:26). As Malina and Neyrey remark, “The stature of important persons in Luke-Acts is communicated Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Matthew Black, vol. 2 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1979), 240–43; L. D. Hurst and Joel B. Green, “Priest, Priesthood,” DJG 633–36. 19  On this understanding of the temple, see David M. Knipe, “The Temple in Image and Reality,” in Temple in Society, ed. Michael V. Fox (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1988), 105–38; Green, “Temple Veil,” 550–57. 20  Cf. Acts 1:17, 26; m. Tamid 3; 5.2; H. Hause, “λαγχάνω,” TDNT 4:1–2; Frédéric Louis Godet, A Commentary on the Gospel of St. Luke, 5th ed., 2 vols. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1870), 1:74. 21 Cf. Philo, Spec. 1.51 § 276; m. Kelim 1.6–9. On purity as a correlate of holiness (so important in this portrayal of Zechariah’s exalted status), see Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1966). 22 Cf. Phyllis Trible, God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978), 34–38.

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by special note of their pedigree, both kin and clan, thus extending the honor and identity of the ancestors to the contemporary individual.”23 This is true of Elizabeth, Zechariah, and Joseph; what of Mary? That is, why not Mary? It is important first to take seriously the shift in locale experienced with the introduction of Mary. We have moved from a central focus on the Holy Place, at the heart of the Jewish world, to a relatively unknown town in a region sufficiently distant and racially mixed that it could be called “Galilee of the Gentiles” (1 Macc 5:15). Beyond this, what we know of Mary is her status as a virgin betrothed to Joseph. That “virgin” specifies Mary as a girl of marriageable age,24 and as a virgin in the more narrow, sexual sense, is shown by Mary’s self-assertion in 1:34 and by attention to Jewish marriage regulations. According to contemporary Roman law, the minimum age of marriage for girls was twelve (for boys, fourteen), with the minimum age for betrothal set by Augustus at ten.25 Jewish practices were comparable, so that marriage for a female usually took place before she reached twelve-and-a-half years of age. This was advantageous for her husband, who thus received the benefits of her service over a longer period of time, but also for the girl’s father. Practically speaking, he was able more easily to guarantee his daughter’s purity (i. e., virginity), and thus safeguard his own honor, if he could arrange for her to be married by the time she reached puberty. A marriage was constituted by the drawing up of a deed, the exchange of money to the groom (i. e., the “bride-price”), and sexual intercourse. Earlier practices apparently made no distinction between betrothal and marriage, but before the first century BCE a time lapse of some twelve months had become common. Consequently, a deed of betrothal and the bride-price were exchanged at betrothal, after which bride and groom were legally joined and could be separated only by divorce. During this betrothal period, until the marriage itself was marked by intercourse between the betrothed couple, the daughter remained in her father’s house and under his control.26 Hence, the earlier observation by Malina and Neyrey regarding pedigreed status throws into sharp relief Luke’s characterization of Mary. She is portrayed as a young girl, not yet or only recently having achieved puberty, in an insignificant town in a racially mixed region. Joseph is a son of David, but Mary has not yet joined his household and thus has no current claims on his inherited status.27 Mary’s family is not mentioned. Indeed, she is not introduced in any way that  Malina and Neyrey, “First-Century Personality,” 86.  See Gordon J. Wenham, “BETÛLĀH ‘A Girl of Marriageable Age,’ ” VT 22 (1972): 326–48. 25 Beryl Rawson, “The Roman Family,” in The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. Beryl Rawson (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 1–57 (21). 26  See Archer, Her Price Is beyond Rubies, 151–71; Raphael Loewe, The Position of Women in Judaism (London: SPCK, 1966), 22–23. 27  Cf. Malina and Neyrey, “Honor and Shame,” 61. 23 24

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would recommend her to us as particularly noteworthy or deserving of honor. In light of the care with which other characters are introduced and portrayed as women and men of status in Luke 1–2, this is remarkable. Mary’s insignificance seems to be Luke’s primary point in his introduction of her here. The subsequent characterization of Mary as a “relative” of Elizabeth in 1:36 does not in any way transform this image. συγγενίς is sufficiently vague28 necessarily to imply nothing about Mary’s participation in the priestly line for which Elizabeth is noted; indeed, even if they were first cousins no such implication need be made, for, as we have observed, the hereditary purity of priests is passed through the male. (For this same reason, had Luke made this connection, it would have had no effect on Jesus’s status unless Joseph had been of priestly descent.) Moreover, elsewhere in his narrative Luke makes no attempt at all to associate Mary’s status with that of her kinswoman. Quite the contrary, the opposite seems more to the point, as we will see below. First Greeting and Response: The Favored One – Servant of the Lord (1:28–38) With the onset of the interchange between Gabriel and Mary, the concern with status honor in 1:26–27 is further advanced. Gabriel’s words of greeting and declaration of Mary’s favored status (1:28) and his reassurance of divine favor (1:30) form an inclusio around Mary’s perplexity (1:29). Nothing has prepared her (or us) for a visit from an archangel or for such exalted words of favor. Remembering that the lesser typically travel to the greater, it is extraordinary that God’s personal servant comes to Mary. We have no previous basis for ascribing respect to Mary, but the archangel’s behavior and words of honorable greeting identify the central and lofty place she holds in the world of the birth narrative. Indeed, even though her first “speech” is internal, Mary is presented as the deictic center of this account, with remarkable honorifics granted her – both in terms of what is said and in terms of by whom it is said.29 Gabriel’s opening words, χαῖρε, κεχαριτωμένη, are related by alliteration and by their conjoining of two motifs interwoven throughout the Gospel: God acts graciously, people respond (appropriately) with joy and praise.30 It is possible that χαῖρε should be rendered as a common greeting;31 however, apart from its use in openings to letters for Greek-speaking audiences in Acts 15:23 and 23:26, Luke uses the Semitic εἰρήνη for this purpose (10:5; 24:36).32 Thus, Gabriel’s opening  BAGD 772: “the (female) relative, kinswoman.”  On deixis in general, see Stephen C. Levinson, Pragmatics, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 54–94; on social deixis, 62–64, 89–94. 30 Cf. John R. Donahue, “A Neglected Factor in the Theology of Mark,” JBL 101 (1982): 563–94 (568). 31  Cf. Matt 26:49; 27:29; 28:9; Mark 15:8; John 19:3. 32 Cf. S. Lyonnet, “Χαίρε, κεχαριτωμένη,” Bib 20 (1939): 131–41; Klemens Stock, “Die Berufung Marias (Lk 1,26–38),” Bib 61 (1980): 457–81 (468–71). On the objections of August Strobel, 28 29

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address fills in further the picture of rejoicing that pervades the Third Gospel,33 and is reminiscent of Zeph 3:14–15, Zech 9:9, and Joel 2:21. There the formula is found: rejoice! + address + reference to the divine action or attitude to which joy is the proper response.34 “Favored one,” then, functions as a kind of name for Mary, designating her as the object of divine benefaction. This reality is accented and clarified by its repetition in Luke 1:30, then celebrated (with rejoicing! – 1:47) by Mary in 1:48. God has given his favor to one who had no claim to worthy status, raised her up from a position of lowliness, and chosen and equipped her to have a central role in redemption.35 This message is confirmed by Gabriel’s declaratory promise, “the Lord is with you” – a formula often used with reference to a person chosen by God for a special purpose in salvation history (e. g., Gen 26:24; 28:15; Exod 3:15; Judg 6:11–18; Acts 18:9–10).36 Following Gabriel’s announcement of the birth to Mary of a son of greatly exalted status (“holy,” “Son of the Most High,” “Son of God”), we read Mary’s response. In describing herself as the Lord’s servant (cf. Luke 1:48), she recognizes her submission to God’s purpose, but also her role in the service of that purpose. Moreover, she claims a place in God’s household, so to speak. She who has been given no family heritage by the narrator now affirms her place in God’s family. She has been given no status indications except for God’s favor and election, and it is to this that she holds at the end of this scene. That is, Mary’s words carry with them a fundamental definition of her personhood; indeed, in this socio-historical context, her words relativize and actually jeopardize her status as Joseph’s betrothed. For her, partnership with God transcends the claims (and social position) of family.37 In the Greco-Roman world and the world of mishnaic “Der Gruss an Maria (Lc 1:28): Eine philologische Betrachtung zu seinem Sinngehalt,” ZNW 53 (1962): 86–110, see the rejoinder in John McHugh, The Mother of Jesus in the New Testament (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975), 44–45. Joseph A. Fitzmyer (The Gospel according to Luke, 2 vols., AB 28–28A [Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981–85], 1:344–45; cf. Raymond E. Brown et al., eds., Mary in the New Testament: A Collaborative Assessment by Protestant and Roman Catholic Scholars [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978], 128–32) objects to this reading apparently on the grounds of its association with the related argument that “rejoice” joins other allusions to Zech 3:14–17 to identify Mary as “Daughter of Zion.” This connection is often made (cf. René Laurentin, Struktur und Theologie der lukanischen Kindheitsgeschichte [Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1967], 75–82), but it is not a necessary inference (cf. Heikki Räisänen, Die Mutter Jesu im Neuen Testament, AACFSTT 158 [Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1989], 86–92). 33  See William G. Morris, Joy in the New Testament (Exeter: Paternoster, 1984), 91–104. 34  Cf. Stock, “Berufung Marias,” 469. 35 See Reginald H. Fuller, “A Note on Luke 1:28 and 38,” in The New Testament Age: Essays in Honor of Bo Reicke, 2 vols., ed. William C. Weinrich (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1984) 1:201–6. 36 See further Stock, “Berufung Marias,” 466; W. C. van Unnik, “Dominus Vobiscum: The Background of a Liturgical Formula,” in New Testament Essays: Studies in Memory of Thomas Walter Manson (1893–1958), ed. A. J. B. Higgins (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1959), 270–305 (288–89). 37  See further, 8:19–21; 9:57–62; 12:51–53; 14:25–26; 18:28–30.

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literature, the status of a slave was determined by the status of the householder. The status of the head of the family was extended to all who shared with him a relationship of kinship.38 When Mary asserts her position as the servant of the Lord, we recognize that she derives her status from him, and that Luke is now initiating his representation of a community of God’s people whose fundamental social experience is grounded in their relationship to God. In his characterization of Mary, Luke has begun to undercut the conventional competitive maneuvering for positions of status prevalent in the first-century Mediterranean world. Mary, who seemed to measure low on any status scale – age, family heritage, gender, and so on – turns out to be the one favored by God and the one who finds her status and identity ultimately in her obedience to God and participation in his salvific will. Second Greeting and Response: Status Reversal (1:39–56) The exchange of greetings in the Palestinian culture assumed and represented by Luke is both highly stylized and full of significance. Exodus 18:7 narrates a representative greeting: “Moses went out to meet his father-in-law; he bowed down and kissed him; each asked after the other’s welfare, and they went into the tent.” This text is interesting both for its illustration of the content of the greeting and for the nonchalant way it embodies issues of status honor. Moses is the host yet comes out to initiate the greeting, showing appropriate respect to his elder and guest. Similar concerns are at work in Luke 7:36–50, where Simon the Pharisee insults Jesus by not extending proper greetings (see 7:44–46), and in 20:46, where Jesus critiques the desire of scribes to receive respectful greetings (e. g., first greetings, bows, words of blessing) in the marketplace. And similar concerns are at work in the present pericope. Luke places great emphasis on Mary’s greeting; even though we cannot specify its content, he mentions it three times (1:40, 41, 44). Its primary significance seems to be tied to its results – that is, on the response of Elizabeth’s unborn child to it, mentioned twice (1:41, 44). Unlike Moses, who goes out to welcome his father-in-law and extend first greetings, Elizabeth is clearly the superior, by normal canons at least. She is a daughter of Aaron, the wife of a priest, the elder of these two women. What is more, had she not received divine affirmation in the blessing of a child? What is surprising, then, is Elizabeth’s greeting to Mary. Prompted by the child in her womb, filled with the Holy Spirit, she places herself in the servant’s role, bestowing honor on her guest whom she now recognizes as “the mother of my Lord,” “blessed … among women.” Suddenly the tables have 38  See Dale B. Martin, Slavery as Salvation: The Metaphor of Slavery in Pauline Christianity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 1–49; Paul Virgil McCracken Flesher, Oxen, Women, or Citizens? Slaves in the System of the Mishnah, BJS 143 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 90–94.

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turned, with the result that we have from Elizabeth a second testimony to the favored status of Mary first proclaimed by Gabriel (1:28, 30). Elizabeth’s first words are reminiscent of the greeting and praise given to a superior in recognition of her or his advanced status and of the fact that God had blessed this person.39 Elizabeth’s language here differs, then, from that in 1:45;40 here she acknowledges the superiority of her young relative, a status due to her prior reception of God’s beneficence. In this case, employing language reminiscent of Judg 5:24 and Jdt 13:18, Mary’s motherhood is in primary focus, as it is in her role as mother that she will contribute to the salvation of her people.41 Consequently, Elizabeth’s question (Luke 1:43) is not surprising. As grateful as she may be for God’s favor on her behalf and as sure as she is that her disgrace has been overcome (1:25), still she recognizes the superior role of her young relative. After all, she is the mother of “my Lord.” Elizabeth’s second pronouncement of blessing recognizes Mary as the recipient of divine fortune because of her faith.42 The contrast with Zechariah – a male, an elder, a priest – could scarcely be more stark; he did not believe (1:20) but she did. This status reversal, foregrounding in unexpected ways the role of Mary in the developing narrative, receives implicit support in later material. Thus, in 2:5 Joseph is related to Mary (and not vice versa);43 in 2:16 Mary is named before Joseph; in 2:33–34 Simeon, having blessed “them,” addresses Mary; and in 2:48 Mary speaks for herself and Joseph. Moreover, in the congregation of disciples in Acts 1:14, Mary is specifically named along with the Eleven. Mary’s Song – Mary’s response to Elizabeth’s greeting, or more specifically to the miraculous event confirmed by Elizabeth’s words – is of concern here only for its portrayal of Mary’s new status. Following the normal form of a psalm of praise, Luke 1:48 grounds Mary’s praise in God’s prior act: he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. “Lowliness” (ταπείνωσις) can be used of the humiliation of barrenness (e. g., Gen 16:11; 1 Sam 1:11), but this is not the case here; nor is there any basis for regarding Mary’s virginity as the source of her lowliness.44 It might also refer to the humiliation of the oppressed people of God (e. g., Deut 26:7; 1 Sam 9:16; 1 Macc 3:51; 3 Macc 2:12) and, given the other “εὐλογέω,” NIDNTT 1:206–15 (213).  Cf. Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in Matthew and Luke (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1977), 333. 41  McHugh, Mother of Jesus, 68–71. 42 That ὅτι should be rendered “that” in this instance and not “because” is suggested by Acts 27:25. This translation also furthers the close antithetical parallel Luke has drawn between Zechariah and Mary. 43 Contra Malina and Neyrey, “Honor and Shame,” 61–62, who argue that a gender-based honor system results in the Lukan narrative in the typical naming of women in relation to their husbands. The examples they provide fail to account either for the presence of counter-examples, or, more importantly, for their significance. 44  Contra, e. g., Leonardo Boff, The Maternal Face of God: The Feminine and Its Religious Significance (San Francisco: Collins, 1979), 196. 39 H.-G. Link, 40

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parallels between Mary and Israel in the Song, Mary’s low estate might then be taken as representative of her people’s. ταπείνωσις also belongs to the semantic domain of “poor” in the Third Gospel, a domain associated especially with a negative social valuation of a person based on such criteria as gender, age, purity, economics, and so on.45 Hence, Mary’s characterization of herself as lowly is not only metaphorical and representational but is based in her actual social position in Luke’s narrative.46 Her favorable status – announced by Gabriel, confirmed by the Spirit-inspired Elizabeth, and now embraced by Mary herself – is a consequence of God’s surprising and gracious initiative. Others, too, will recognize her divinely appointed status and call her blessed (Luke 1:48b), thus confirming both her important social position and its divine origins.

Concluding Remarks The recent application of insights from cultural anthropology and social psychology has significant repercussions for our reading of NT documents, including Luke-Acts. We have argued here, however, that social-scientific perspectives and models must be brought to bear on those texts as a part of a larger theory of the generation and interpretation of literary meaning. Without explicitly developing and foregrounding such a theory in this essay, we have insisted on attention to narratological presentation as a potential means of re-presenting or even reversing the social dimensions of the Mediterranean world within which Luke’s narrative was generated. In the case of our narrow concern with the presentation of the social status of Mary in Luke’s birth narrative, we have observed how critical issues of status honor are for the evangelist, and how he can first appear straightforwardly to mimic his social world with its concern with ascribed and acquired honor only then serendipitously to overturn those cultural norms by redefining status vis-à-vis the household of God. Not least in this way, the portrait of Mary in Luke 1:5–2:52 portends the nature of salvation and the norms of the community of God’s people to be developed more fully subsequently in Luke-Acts.

45  See Green, “Good News”; cf. Bruce J. Malina, “Interpreting the Bible with Anthropology: The Case of the Poor and Rich,” Listening 21 (1986): 148–59. 46  See above; also 2:22–24.

4

The Problem of a Beginning: Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1–2* Luke 1:5–2:52 as the “Beginning” of Luke-Acts1 Luke 1:1–4 may be the first point of entry into Luke-Acts, but, in terms of the Lukan narrative as such, the beginning of Luke-Acts is the account of Jesus’s birth and childhood. This means it is here that we gain entry into the social world of Luke-Acts – its understanding of reality, its primary institutions, its social dynamics, and the like.2 Here our focus initially will fall elsewhere, on the function of Luke 1:5–2:52 as a harbinger of the story to come. In doing so, however, we will find reason to question whether Luke really wants to posit the birth of Jesus as the “beginning” of this story after all. To a degree, beginnings set parameters around the nature of the narrative and its concerns. In this sense, beginnings are restrictive, incorporating decisions about what this story might and might not be about. More consequential, though, is the way a narrative beginning opens possibilities, generates probabilities, and otherwise invites its audience to a full hearing in order to discover its outcome.3 Luke accomplishes this not so much by holding back what will happen; angelic and prophetic voices in Luke 1–2 repeatedly address this question. Rather, the reader is left to wonder how these far-reaching visions of redemption will come to

* Originally published as Joel B. Green, “The Problem of a Beginning: Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1–2,” BBR 4 (1994): 61–85. Used by permission of Eisenbrauns/Penn State University Press. 1 Hans Conzelmann’s decision to exclude Luke 1–2 from a consideration of Luke’s theological enterprise (The Theology of St. Luke [London: SCM, 1960], 172) has met with stiff resistance and need not be engaged here – cf., e. g., the early essays by Paul S. Minear, “Luke’s Use of the Birth Stories,” in Studies in Luke-Acts, ed. Leander E. Keck and J. Louis Martyn (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966), 111–30; H. H. Oliver, “The Lucan Birth Stories and the Purpose of Luke-Acts,” NTS 10 (1963–64): 202–26. 2 See Jerome H. Neyrey, ed., The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991); Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 58–62. 3  See Aristotle, Poet. 7; Edward W. Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method (New York: Basic Books, 1975); Gerald Prince, Narratology: The Form and Function of Narrative, JLSM 108 (Berlin: Mouton, 1982), 155–58.

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fruition.4 So, at the same time 1:5–2:52 serves to focus the narrative on Judea and Galilee within the Roman world, it also points forward, anticipating in dramatic ways what is to come. Robert Tannehill aptly refers to this segment of the Gospel as “Previews of Salvation,”5 though one also finds in the beginning more than a hint of coming conflict at both cosmic and human levels. Viewing Luke-Acts on the large canvas of narrative analysis, it is possible to see in its entirety a simple narrative cycle,6 painted in broad strokes. In it we see the working out of God’s purpose to bring salvation to all people. This aim is anticipated by the angelic and prophetic voices in 1:5–2:52 – voices that speak on God’s behalf. And this aim is made possible by the birth and growth of John and Jesus in households that honor God. But, according to the Lukan birth narrative, it is not an aim that will be reached easily or without opposition. It requires the positive responses of people like Zechariah (whose response is hesitant), Mary, and others, for God’s aim necessarily involves the collusion of human actors. Not all will respond favorably to God’s agent of salvation, Jesus, resulting in antagonism, division, and conflict.7 The realization of God’s aim is made probable through the preparatory mission of John and the life, death, and exaltation of Jesus, with its concomitant commissioning and promised empowering of Jesus’s followers to extend the message to all people (Luke 3–Acts 1).8 Jesus himself prepares the way for this universal mission, even if he does not engage much with non-Jews, by systematically dissolving the barriers that predetermine, and have as their consequence, division between ethnic groups, men and women, adults and children, rich and poor, righteous and sinner, and so on. In his ministry, even conflict is understood within the bounds of God’s salvific purpose, Jesus’s death 4  On this means of building narrative suspense, see Michael J. Toolan, Narrative: A Critical Linguistic Introduction, ILLS (London: Routledge, 1988), 49–55; Robert L. Brawley, Centering on God: Method and Message in Luke-Acts, LCBI (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990), passim. 5 He has in mind 1:5–2:40, for he does not regard 1:41–52 as a part of the John-Jesus pattern; cf. Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986–90), 1:15–44. 6 Cf. Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985), 19–23. 7  On conflict in Luke-Acts, see Joseph B. Tyson, The Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1986); idem, “Conflict as a Literary Theme in the Gospel of Luke,” in New Synoptic Studies: The Cambridge Gospel Conference and Beyond, ed. William R. Farmer (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1983), 303–27; Jack Dean Kingsbury, Conflict in Luke: Jesus, Authorities, Disciples (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991). These studies pay insufficient attention to the cosmic realities of this theme in Luke-Acts; for a redress of the balance, cf. Susan Garrett, The Demise of the Devil: Magic and the Demonic in Luke’s Writings (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989). 8  In fulfilling this narrative purpose, the Gospel of Luke is self-contained and does not depend on Acts 1 for its capacity to do so. The opening chapter of Acts recapitulates aspects of the Gospel, especially its closing scenes, so as to underscore the continuity between the mission of Jesus and of the disciples and to highlight how Jesus’s exaltation blazes the way for the expansion of the church.

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as a divine necessity, his exaltation a vindication of his ministry and powerful act of God making possible the extension of salvation to Jew and gentile alike. The subsequent story in Acts consists of a narration of the realization of God’s purpose, particularly in Acts 2–15, as the Christian mission is directed by God to take the necessary steps to achieve an egalitarian community composed of Jews, Samaritans, and gentiles. The results of this narrative aim (Acts 16–28) highlight more and more Jewish antagonism to the Christian movement, and the church appears more and more to be gentile in makeup. This, too, is God’s purpose, according to the narrator, speaking above all through his spokesperson Paul (and through Paul, the Scriptures), even if efforts among the Jewish people at interpreting Moses and the prophets as showing the Messiah is Jesus should continue.9 Luke 1:5–2:52, then, initiates a narrative centered above all on God whose aim it is to bring salvation in all its fulness to all. However, the story of Jesus’s birth and childhood does not really introduce this God or this aim, nor does it pretend to do so. As Jonathan Culler has remarked, the force of a narrative depends essentially on its capacity to show how an event is a product of discursive forces rather than a given reported by discourse.10 Historiography in particular is marked by its teleological agenda, ordering events so as to postulate their end and/or beginning.11 What events or forces lie behind a historical sequence? What  9 This is to suggest neither that either of the two volumes of Luke’s work is without aims particular to it, nor that the final verse of Acts marks the absolute closure (or resolution) of all possibilities. After all, Paul has not yet gone to trial (as anticipated) and, more pointedly, Jesus has not yet returned (as promised). 10  Jonathan Culler, The Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), 175. 11  On the historiographical character of Luke-Acts, cf., e. g., David E. Aune, The New Testament in Its Literary Environment, LEC 8 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1987), chs. 3–4; James L. Bailey and Lyle D. Vander Broek, Literary Forms in the New Testament: A Handbook (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 91–98; Green, The Gospel of Luke, 1–6. The primary dissenting voice has been raised by those who find the closest generic parallels for Luke-Acts in Greco-Roman biography – e. g., C. H. Talbert, Literary Patterns, Theological Themes, and the Genre of Luke-Acts, SBLMS 20 (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974); idem, What Is a Gospel? The Genre of the Canonical Gospels (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977). What is clear is that Luke, perhaps more than the other evangelists, has been influenced by Greco-Roman literary forms – especially those related to the biographical genre, even if other formal features and the fundamentally theocentric focus of his narrative preclude identification of Luke-Acts as “biography” or “biographical succession narrative.” For critiques of the biographical identification of the Gospels in general, see David Aune, “The Problem of the Genre of the Gospels: A Critique of C. H.  Talbert’s What Is a Gospel?,” in Gospel Perspectives, vol. 2, Studies of History and Tradition in the Four Gospels, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981), 9–60; Robert Guelich, “The Gospel Genre,” in Das Evangelium und die Evangelien: Vortäge vom Tübinger Symposium 1982, ed. Peter Stuhlmacher, WUNT 28 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1983), 183–219; Albrecht Dihle, “Die Evangelien und die griechische Biographie,” in Evangelium und die Evangelien, 383–411; Larry W. Hurtado, “Gospel (Genre),” DJG 276–82. The case for the biographical character of the Third Gospel has not been significantly advanced by the recent work of Richard A. Burridge (What Are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography, SNTSMS 70 [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992]). Thus,

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are its causes? For Luke, those discursive forces are God’s promises and acts on behalf of Israel – promises and acts (1) that are themselves narrated in Israel’s Scriptures, (2) to which Luke refers in his account by way of establishing narrative needs for development and resolution in Luke-Acts,12 and (3) that therefore constitute the presupposition, the literal pretext of Luke’s narrative.13 Indeed, as Luke has already informed us in his prologue, the events he will narrate are linked to the past history of God’s salvific acts. According to 1:1, Luke’s purpose is narratological; here in his prologue he addresses the question: What is the content of this narratological proclamation? First, Luke’s emphasis on “events” directs our attention to historiographical rather than biographical interests. Luke-Acts is concerned with particular people – especially Jesus, Peter, Stephen, and Paul – but their stories are related within larger narrative sequences whose interest transcends their individual deeds. Luke is concerned with how these events, those narrated in the Gospel and in Acts, are understood as divine affairs. This is evident from the phrase with which Luke modifies “events”: “that have been fulfilled among us.”14 This clarification of the “events” with which Luke and his forerunners are concerned indicates two matters clearly. First, these events are incomplete in themselves, and must be understood in relation to a wider interpretive framework. As we have already intimated, every writer whose focus is a narrative sequence must struggle with locating an appropriate beginning, a starting point sufficient to show how what follows grows out of narrated exigencies. Luke’s struggle, it would appear, led him to something e. g., his analysis of verb subjects in the Third Gospel, indicating Jesus as by far the primary actor in the Gospel of Luke, proves to be too blunt an instrument, since actants (like Jesus, but also, e. g., Simeon) who expressly operate as empowered or commissioned by God are in fact acting on his behalf and serving his aim. Moreover, such an analysis does not account for the pronounced treatment given in Luke-Acts to such concepts as “divine necessity,” “the Scriptures,” and “God’s purpose.” That is, the aim driving the narrative of the Third Gospel (and also Acts) is not first Jesus’s, but God’s. Burridge’s analysis also assumes without argued basis that the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles can and probably should be divorced for purposes of genre specification. (On the theocentrism of Luke, cf., e. g., Walter Radl, Das Lukas-Evangelium, EF 261 [Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988], 59–77; François Bovon, “Gott bei Lukas,” in Lukas in neuer Sicht: Gesammelte Aufsatze, BThSt 8 [Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985], 98–119.) 12 Cf. Brawley, Centering on God, 104. 13  On logical presuppositions of this sort, cf. Gillian Brown and George Yule, Discourse Analysis, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); Stephen C. Levinson, Pragmatics, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 14 πληροφορέω appears only here in Luke and is a synonym for πληρόω, which he uses repeatedly with a variety of meanings  – e. g., for scriptural fulfillment (4:21; 24:44; Acts 1:6; 3:18; 13:27), for the passing of time (Acts 9:23; 19:21; 24:21), for the process or result of filling (Luke 2:40; 3:5; Acts 2:2, 28), for the completion of a mission or work (Acts 12:25; 13:25; 14:26), and, as here, to describe an event that fulfills the divine purpose (Luke 1:20; 9:31; 21:24; 22:16). The alternative translation, “have been accomplished” (e. g., RSV), is too weak. Cf. the use of πίμπλημι in Luke 1:23, 57; 2:6, 21, 22.

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of an artificial solution. In 1:5–2:52 he will “begin” his narrative with the events surrounding the births of John and Jesus, but for him this is not really the beginning. They relate to something else, something prior. As 1:5–2:52 make clear, they relate to God’s purpose, evident in the OT and the history of God’s people, as its culmination. This same affirmation is continued throughout the Gospel and in the Acts of the Apostles, where Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection, and the shape and progress of the Christian mission are understood as manifestations of God’s will.15 One need not bring to bear on Luke’s prologue the full weight of “prophetic fulfillment”16 to see that Luke is nonetheless concerned to affirm that in these events God’s purpose is realized.17 But this is already to mention, secondly, that this modifier “have been fulfilled” suggests God as its unspoken subject.18 These are events by which God accomplishes his aim. Similarly, as Luke’s employment of Israel’s Scriptures in 1:5–2:52 demonstrates, the proper “beginning” for his narrative is there, in the past, in God’s redemptive purpose as set forth in the Scriptures. Luke is not introducing a new story, but continuing an old one, as if the real “beginning” were the Septuagint. He roots the coming of Jesus and the universal Christian movement in God’s purpose, continuous as one divine story. Hence, Luke does not at this juncture think of segmenting salvation history into “stages” nor even of a hermeneutical pattern of prophecy-fulfillment.19 This is not to deny the important ways in  Cf., e. g., Acts 1:16; 3:18; 10:1–11:18; 13:27, 46–47; 15:6–9, 12–18, 28; et pass.  That Luke is concerned in 1:1 with scriptural fulfillment is explicitly denied by, e. g., Henry J. Cadbury, “Commentary on the Preface of Luke,” in Prolegomena – II: Criticism, BC (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1933), 489–510 (495–96); C. F. Evans, Saint Luke, TPINTC (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1990), 124. 17 Cf. François Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (Lk 1,1–9, 50), EKKNT 3/1 (Zürich: Benziger/Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), 35: “Die Ereignisse, von denen hier die Rede ist, sind nicht nur ‘geschehen,’ sondern ‘erfüllt geschehen,’ d. h. wie Gott sie wollte.” A different approach is taken by Richard J. Dillon, who distinguishes between the events (in the past) and their “coming to fruition” – i. e., properly interpreted and received as “signs of messianic recognition” (From Eyewitnesses to Ministers of the Word: Tradition and Composition in Luke 24, AnBib 82 [Rome: Biblical Institute, 1978], 270–72; idem, “Previewing Luke’s Project from His Prologue (Luke 1:1–4),” CBQ 43 [1981]: 205–27 [211–17]). One need not take this approach in order to see that this “fulfillment” or “fruition” has ongoing implications (suggested by the perfect tense of this participle) – cf. Günter Klein, “Lukas 1,1–4 als theologisches Programm,” in Zeit und Geschichte: Dankesgabe an Rudolf Bultmann zum 80. Geburtstag, ed. Erich Dinkler (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1964), 193–216 (196–99); I. I. Du Plessis, “Once More: The Purpose of Luke’s Prologue (Lk. 1.1–4),” NovT 16 (1974): 259–71 (263–64) – and in any case, the texts on which Dillon rests his case themselves indicate how the story of Jesus becomes clear only when understood in relation to “Moses and all the prophets” (24:27) or “the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms” (24:44; cf. 16:31). 18 That is, we read this perfect, passive participle as a divine passive. 19 Pace Darrell L. Bock, Proclamation from Prophecy and Pattern: Lucan Old Testament Christology, JSNTSup 12 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), esp. 55–90. Cf. also I. Howard Marshall, “Luke and His ‘Gospel,’ ” in Evangelium und die Evangelien, 289–308 (299–300); C. K. Barrett, “Luke/ Acts,” in It Is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture: Essays in Honour of Barnabas Lindars, ed. D. A. Carson and H. G. M. Williamson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 231–44; 15 16

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which 1:5–2:52 (or other portions of Luke-Acts) portray an eschatologically charged environment20 or to suggest that Luke does not regard the OT as essentially forward-looking.21 Rather, it is to affirm that Luke self-consciously begins his narrative in the middle of the story, so to speak. Much later in the narrative, Luke shows this by Paul’s address in the synagogue at Pisidian Antioch (Acts 13:16–41), wherein Paul outlines a litany of divine acts. Again and again, we are told what God did, how God acted, whom God chose, what God made, and so on, until we reach the last divine act in this series, narrated without fanfare as though it were just one more manifestation of God’s redemptive purpose: “God has brought to Israel a Savior, Jesus” (13:23). If this act is then interpreted as the way God has kept his promise, it is only after its fundamental continuity with the history of the God-Israel relationship has been affirmed. The emphasis falls on salvation-historical unity: The God who has been working redemptively still is, now, and especially, in Jesus. This reality is clarified magnificently in the narrative of Jesus’s birth and childhood.

The Old Testament in Luke 1:5–2:52: Some Programmatic Observations That anyone would claim to find in Luke 1:5–2:52 a foundation in Israel’s Scriptures for the continuing story of God’s redemptive purpose may seem odd. After all, especially in contrast to Matt 1:18–2:23, with its famous fulfillment citations, the OT seems conspicuous by its absence from this section of the Third Gospel. No more than three OT citations are identified in Luke 1:5–2:52 by the standard reference works: Luke 1:15b – Num 6:3; Lev 10:9; Luke 2:23 – Exod 13:2, 12, 15; and Luke 2:24b – Lev 5:11; 12:8.22 At the same time, students of Luke are fond of B. J.  Koet, Five Studies on Interpretation of Scripture in Luke-Acts, SNTA 14 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1989); E. Earle Ellis, The Old Testament in Early Christianity: Canon and Interpretation in the Light of Modern Research, WUNT 54 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 77–121; and the earlier essay by Paul Schubert, “The Structure and Significance of Luke 24,” in Neutestamentliche Studien für Rudolf Buhmann zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag am 20. August 1954, ed. Walther Eltester, BZNW 21 (Berlin: Alfred Töpelmann, 1954), 165–86. The distinction between the view espoused by, e. g., Bock, and ours is not great and may only be a matter of emphasis. 20 See, e. g., René Laurentin, Struktur und Theologie der lukanischen Kindheitsgeschichte (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1967), 50–105; idem, The Truth of Christmas: Beyond the Myths: The Gospels of the Infancy of Christ, SS (Petersham, MA: St. Bede’s, 1986), 43–68; J. Bradley Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, and the New Age in Luke-Acts (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1988), 48–56. 21 See, e. g., Jacob Jervell, “The Center of Scripture in Luke,” in The Unknown Paul: Essays on Luke-Acts and Early Christian History (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984), 122–37. 22  The NA26 lists these three. Traugott Holtz (Untersuchungen über die alttestamentlichen Zitate bei Lukas, TU 104 [Berlin: Akademie, 1968]) treats only the citation of the law in 2:23–24 (82–83); similarly, Martin Rese, Alttestamentliche Motive in der Christologie des Lukas, SNT 1 (Gutersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1969), who, however, also treats a selection of allusions.

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referring to what Traugott Holtz calls “the numerous and evident Old Testament expressions and echoes” in Luke 1–2.23 Clearly, any attempt to come to terms with the use of Israel’s Scriptures in the narrative of Jesus’s birth and childhood, and thus with the narrative itself, must account for the range of ways in which those Scriptures are employed – including citations, but also forms and themes, and above all, echoes. Without attempting to analyze the use of Israel’s Scriptures in the whole of 1:5–2:52, Luke’s design can be illustrated with reference to his use of the Abrahamic material of Gen 11–21 in the narration of the stories of John and Jesus. Luke’s interest in Abraham is transparent at two points in the story, specifically in 1:55, 73. There, in the Songs of Mary and Zechariah, God’s merciful activity on behalf of Israel is related directly to his faithfulness to Abraham. A close reading of these two narratives side-by-side suggests a much more pervasive interest, as the following parallels indicate:24 Genesis

Luke

“Now Sarai was barren; she had no child” (11:30).

“But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren” (1:7).

The Lord to Abram: “I will make of you a An angel of the Lord to Zechariah, concerngreat nation, and I will … make your name ing John: “he will be great in the sight of the great” (12:2). Lord” (1:15); Gabriel to Mary, concerning Jesus: “He will be great” (1:32). Elizabeth, full of the Holy Spirit, to Mary: The Lord to Abram: “I will bless you” (12:2); Melchizedek to Abram: “He blessed “Blessed are you among women, and blesshim and said, ‘Blessed be Abram’” (14:19). ed is the fruit of your womb …. And blessed is she who believed” (1:41, 45). Simeon, on whom the Spirit rested, with respect to Jesus’s parents: “Then Simeon blessed them” (2:25, 34). Promises to Abraham: 12:3; 15:5, 13–14, 18–21; 17:2, 4–8.

Promises to Abraham remembered by God (1:55, 73).

The Lord to Abram: “To your offspring I will give this land” (12:7); “all the land that you see I will give to you and to your offspring forever” (13:14–17; cf. 17:7; 18:18; 22:17).

Mary, concerning God, who has helped Israel “according to the promise he made … to Abraham and to his offspring forever” (1:55); Zechariah, concerning God, who has remembered “the oath that he swore to our ancestor, Abraham, to give us” (1:73).

23 Holtz, Untersuchungen, 4; cf. Marina Warner, Alone of All Her Sex: The Myth and Cult of the Virgin Mary, 2nd ed. (London: Pan, 1990), 11: “a veritable labyrinth of Old Testament reminiscence.” 24  Translations are from the NRSV. Material appearing in italics departs from the NRSV in order to provide a more wooden translation of the Greek text, indicating further how these parallels extend even to words and phrases.

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Genesis

Luke

Chronological and geopolitical markers (14:1).

Chronological and geopolitical markers (1:5).

Melchizedek to Abram: “blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into your hand” (14:20; cf. 15:13–14; 22:17).

Gabriel to Mary: “[Jesus] will be called the Son of the Most High … and the power of the Most High will overshadow you” (1:32, 35); Zechariah to John: “And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High” (1:76); Zechariah: God has granted “that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies, might serve …” (1:74).

The Lord to Abram: “Do not be afraid, Abram,” followed by words of God’s gracious act on his behalf (15:1).

The angel of the Lord to Zechariah: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah,” followed by words of God’s gracious act on his behalf (1:13); Gabriel to Mary: “Do not be afraid, Mary,” followed by words of God’s gracious act on her behalf (1:30).

“And [Abram] believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness” (15:6; cf. 18:19; 26:5).

“Both of them [Zechariah and Elizabeth] were righteous before God” (1:6).

“Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, bore him no children” (16:1).

“But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren” (1:7).

The angel of the Lord to Hagar: “Now you have conceived in your womb and shall bear a son; you shall call him Ishmael …. He shall be a wild ass of a man” (16:11– 12).

The angel to Mary: “And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great” (1:31–32).

“When Abram was ninety-nine years old, the Lord appeared to Abram” (17:1).

“[Elizabeth and Zechariah] were getting on in years …. Then there appeared to him an angel of the Lord” (1:7, 11).

God to Abram: “I am God Almighty; walk “Both of them [Zechariah and Elizabeth] before me, and be blameless” (17:1). were righteous before God, walking blamelessly” (1:6). God promises to Abraham: “an everlasting covenant,” “ancestor of a multitude of nations,” “kings shall come from you” (17:4–8; cf. 17:16).

Zechariah, of God: “He has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors and has remembered his holy covenant, the oath that he swore to our ancestor Abraham” (1:72–73); cf. “throne,” “kingdom” (1:32–33); “our ancestor,” “Abraham,” “forever” (1:55).

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Genesis

Luke

“Throughout your generations every male among you shall be circumcised when he is eight days old” (17:12); “And Abraham circumcised his son Isaac when he was eight days old” (21:4).

Of John: “On the eighth day they came to circumcise the child” (1:59); of Jesus: “After eight days had passed, it was time to circumcise the child” (2:21).

God to Abraham: “I will give you a son by [Sarah]” (17:16); “your wife Sarah shall bear you a son, and you shall name him Isaac,” + future role of child (17:19).

The angel of the Lord to Zechariah: “Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John,” + future role of child (1:13); Gabriel to Mary: “And now, you wi ll conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus” (1:31).

“And when he had finished talking with “Then the angel departed from [Mary]” him, God went up from Abraham” (17:22). (1:38). Abraham presents himself as a servant (Gen 18:3–5).

Mary presents herself as a servant (1:38, 48).

Abraham to God: “Can a child be born to a man who is a hundred years old? Can Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?” (17:17); “Now Abraham and Sarah were old, advanced in age …. So Sarah laughed to herself, saying, ‘After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?’” (18:11–12).

Zechariah and Elizabeth “were advanced in age” (1:7); Zechariah to God: “For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in age” (1:18).

The Lord to Abraham: “Is anything impos- Gabriel to Mary: “For nothing will be imsible with God?” (18:14). possible with God” (1:37). Abraham a “prophet” (20:7).

Zechariah “prophesied” (1:67).

“Sarah conceived and bore Abraham a son” (21:2).

“Elizabeth conceived … and she bore a son” (1:24, 57).

“Now Sarah said, ‘God has brought laugh- Elizabeth observes that God has taken away ter for me; everyone who hears will laugh her disgrace (1:25); “Her neighbors and relatives heard that the Lord had shown his with me’” (21:6). great mercy to her, and they rejoiced with her” (1:58). Of Isaac: “The child grew, and was weaned” (21:8); of the son of Hagar: “God was with the boy, and he grew up; he lived in the wilderness” (21:20).

Of John: “The child grew and became strong in spirit, and he was in the wilderness” (1:80); of Jesus: “The child grew and became strong … and the favor of God was upon him” (2:40; cf. 2:52).

With respect to these many points of contact between Gen 11–21 and Luke 1:5–2:52, a number of observations may be made.

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(1) First, at several key points, these narratives share a common repertoire of elements where they intersect with conventional forms found elsewhere in the biblical tradition.25 Some, capitalizing on parallels between Gen 16:7–13; 17:1–21; 18:1–15; Judg 13:3–20; Matt 1:20–21; Luke 1:11–20, 26–37; 2:9–12, have spoken of Luke’s use of an “annunciation” form.26 Others, exploiting points of contact between these Lukan scenes and Exod 3:1–4:16; Judg 6:11–24; 1 Kgs 19:1–19a; Isa 6; Jer 1:4–12; and a number of other texts, have preferred to think of Luke’s use of a conventional commissioning form.27 As they have been articulated in recent studies, these forms are similar: The Annunciation of Birth

The Commission Introduction Luke 1:5–10, 26–27; 2:8

Appearance of an Angel Luke 1:11, 26–28; 2:9a

Confrontation Luke 1:11, 28; 2:9a

Reaction of Fear or Awe Luke 1:12, 29; 2:9b

Reaction Luke 1:12, 29; 2:9b

Announcement of Birth Luke 1:13b–17, 30–33; 2:10–11

Commission Luke 1:13–17, 30–33; 2:10–11

Name of Addressee Luke 1:13b, 30 Conception Luke 1:13d, 31a Name of Child Luke 1:13e, 31b 25  On the foundation of this form of repetition in the constraints of literary convention, see Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981), 47–62, 95–96. 26  Cf., e. g., Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in Matthew and Luke (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1977), 156; idem, “Luke’s Method in the Annunciation Narrative of Chapter One,” in Perspectives on Luke-Acts, ed. Charles H. Talbert (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1978), 126–38 (131); Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, AB (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981–85), 1:318, 336, 396; idem, Luke the Theologian: Aspects of His Teaching (New York: Paulist Press, 1989), 46–47; Raymond E. Brown et al., eds., Mary in the New Testament: A Collaborative Assessment by Protestant and Roman Catholic Scholars (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978), 112–13. 27  Cf. Laurentin, Truth of Christmas, 92–94; Herman Hendrickx, The Infancy Narratives, SSG (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1984), 57–59; Terence Y. Mullins, “New Testament Commission Forms, Especially in Luke-Acts,” JBL 95, no. 4 (1976): 603–14; Benjamin J. Hubbard, “Commissioning Stories in Luke-Acts: A Study of Their Antecedents, Form and Content,” Semeia 8 (1977): 103–26; Fearghus O’Fearghail, “The Literary Forms of Luke 1, 5–25 and 1, 26–38,” Mar 43 (1981): 321–44. These analyses largely depend on Benjamin J. Hubbard, The Matthean Redaction of a Primitive Apostolic Commissioning: An Exegesis of Matthew 28:16–20, SBLDS 19 (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974), 32–67; though see already Xavier Léon-Dufour, “L’annonce à Joseph,” in Études d’Evangile (Paris: Seuil, 1965), 65–81.

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The Annunciation of Birth

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The Commission

Future of Child Luke 1:15–17, 32–33; 2:11 Objection Luke 1:18, 34bc

Protestation Luke 1:18, 34

Reassurance/Sign Luke 1:20, 35b–37; 2:12

Reassurance Luke 1:19–20, 35–37; 2:12–14 Conclusion Luke 1:21–25, 38; 2:15–18

Recent attempts to simplify the annunciation form have been made,28 the most interesting being that of Edgar Conrad. He delineates only three elements  – Announcement of Birth, Name of Child, and Future of Child. His discussion strengthens earlier arguments that the scenes in Luke’s birth narrative are evocative of the patriarchal narratives. Pointing to parallels in 1 Kgs 13:2, Isa 7:14–17, and 1 Chr 22:9–10, he also notes the specifically royal connotations presented by the use of this form. Of course, as we have observed, Gen 17:4–8, 16 already manifest a royal motif. Among the objections to the identification of Luke’s scenes of angelic encounter as stories of annunciation, that of Jane Schaberg is of particular importance.29 She is especially concerned with the encounter between Gabriel and Mary, arguing that it departs from other examples of this literary convention in two significant ways. First, an annunciation is typically a divine intervention in response to the plight of a woman (especially her barrenness), but Mary has no need of this or any other specified intervention. Second, Mary’s consent is unprecedented and therefore unexpected. Schaberg concludes that Luke has in this instance blended the commission story form into the annunciation form. Whatever else is made of Schaberg’s case, the points of contact between the commissioning form elsewhere in the Scriptures and all three Lukan scenes are significant. According to this model, the interpretive focus would fall above all on the recipients of the message – Zechariah, Mary, and the shepherds – and so on their respective roles in the realization of God’s purpose. Particularly in Mary’s case, and thus with Israel whom she comes to represent, God’s design calls for 28  Cf. Edgar W. Conrad, “The Annunciation of Birth and the Birth of the Messiah,” CBQ 47 (1985): 656–68; Robert Alter, “How Convention Helps Us Read: The Case of the Bible’s Annunciation Type-Scene,” Prooftexts 3 (1983): 115–30. Conrad notes his indebtedness to Robert Neff, “The Birth and Election of Isaac in the Priestly Tradition,” BR 15 (1970): 5–18; idem, “The Annunciation in the Birth Narrative of Ishmael,” BR 17 (1972): 51–60. 29  Jane Schaberg, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987), 101–44; followed by Richard A. Horsley, The Liberation of Christmas: The Infancy Narratives in Social Context (New York: Crossroad, 1989), 88–91.

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human response and willing participation through which his will is embraced. But do we really have to do with a commission form in this Lukan passage? Key to an identification of the conventional form followed by Luke is the central section of these encounters – 1:13–17, 30–33; 2:10–11. Are they constitutive of a commissioning story or an annunciation story? Content is crucial, since in broad outline these two forms are very much alike. Clearly, the Lukan material lacks such commission-oriented language as is found in commission scenes – for example, “Go … I hereby commission you” (Judg 6:14) or “you shall go to whom I send you …. See today I appoint you” (Jer 1:7–10). Surely the formal element of commission is essential to the form. But in the first example in Luke, Zechariah is not told to do anything apart from giving his son the name John; otherwise, Gabriel speaks of what John and Elizabeth will do. Likewise, Mary is told to give her son the name Jesus, but thereafter the spotlight is on his future. At the same time, one may discern in the narration of the responses of Zechariah and Mary an implicit interest in their accepting a divine vocation, but this is not at center stage in a way reminiscent of the commissioning story. Nor are the shepherds commissioned in 2:10–11; they receive “good news,” then, without divine prompting, on their own volition, decide to “go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place” (2:15). As becomes apparent throughout Luke-Acts, so Luke’s point here seems to be that the miraculous, redemptive activity of God calls forth response. Nor need we be concerned that Mary’s annunciation does not deal with her own need. As Schaberg recognizes, annunciation scenes only normally begin with the plight of a woman, not always. Moreover, even when barrenness is noted, it is simply not the case that the annunciation is necessarily a response to that plight. In the case of Abraham and Sarah, divine intervention within the narrative is not motivated by Sarah’s need. The pressing question is: How will God fulfill his covenant promise to Abraham and Sarah? That is, the pressing need is God’s. One may point similarly to the annunciation of Isa 7:10–17, where the need is that of God’s people.30 Likewise, the needs addressed by the birth of Jesus are those of Israel and the purpose of God. Luke’s accounts of these divine-human encounters are birth announcements like those in Genesis, which he has shaped to his own ends; they are not encounters of commissioning. Simplifications of the long form of the annunciation scene show the similarity of Luke’s scenes with others in the biblical tradition, and so underscore the relation of Luke 1:5–2:52 to God’s mighty acts of redemption in the past. But they also mask how many elements are shared by the announcements in Genesis and Luke. The fact that this longer form has been detected elsewhere only in Judg 13:3–21 and Matt 1:20–21 raises the question to what degree it is even possible to speak of such an expanded form as a well-known  Cf. Schaberg, Illegitimacy, 106.

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literary convention. This emphasizes all the more the relation of the Abrahamic story and Luke’s birth narrative. (2) Reflecting on the aforementioned parallels between Luke’s birth narrative and Gen 11–21, we may note further that not all suggested points of correspondence are equally convincing. For some, however, there is a surprising linguistic overlap between the Septuagint and the Greek text of Luke, including material unrelated to the literary convention of the relating of a birth announcement or such stock themes as barrenness.31 Moreover, Luke’s clear interest in directing attention to the Abrahamic material is marked by his reference to “our ancestor” “Abraham” and concern with the “covenant” in 1:55, 73.32 Hence, even those parallels that are less certain begin to appear more promising precisely because of the otherwise amply attested concern of Luke with material from this portion of Genesis. That is, since it is transparently obvious that Gen 11–21 has served so fully as a subtext for Luke, even snippets of material in Luke 1:5–2:52 comparable to that of the Abrahamic story, some of which might even be explicable on other grounds, can be seen to have been motivated at least in part by Luke’s interest in Abraham. (3) This is not to say that Luke has created the framework or content of his birth narrative out of the Abrahamic material. Neither has he demonstrated a clearly delineated hermeneutical procedure for his use of Gen 11–21. He can move easily from character to character in his employment of the Genesis story – thus, for example, Zechariah is like Abraham, but so is Mary; Elizabeth is like Sarah, but so is Zechariah; John is like Isaac and Ishmael; and so on. This demonstrates that Luke is making no straightforward typological argument here. 31  For example: Luke 1:6: ἦσαν δὲ δίκαιοι ἀμφότεροι ἐναντίον τοῦ θεοῦ, πορευόμενοι ἐν πάσαις ταῖς ἐντολαῖς καὶ δικαιώμασιν τοῦ κυρίου ἄμεμπτοι. Gen 17:1: καὶ ὤφθη κύριος … καὶ εἶπεν … ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ θεός σου· εὐαρέστει [i. e., “walk pleasingly” – cf. Werner Foerster, “εὐάρεστος, εὐαρεστέω,” TDNT 1:456–57; as elsewhere in the LXX, the hithpael of ‫ הלך‬has been transformed from an action into a quality] ἐναντίον ἐμοῦ καὶ γίνου ἄμεμπτος …. Luke 1:7: … καὶ ἀμφότεροι προβεβηκότες ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις αὐτῶν ἦσαν. Luke 1:18: … ἐγὼ γάρ εἰμι πρεσβύτης καὶ ἡ γυνή μου προβεβηκυῖα ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις αὐτῆς. Gen 18:11–12: Αβρααμ δὲ καὶ Σαρρα πρεσβύτεροι προβεβηκότες ἡμερῶν … ὁ δὲ κύριός μου πρεσβύτερος. [Note that both narrators provide a report of their characters’ advanced age, followed by a character who advances this theme in response to the divine promise of a son.] Luke 1:37: ὄτι οὐκ ἀδυνατήσει παρὰ τοῦ θεοῦ πᾶν ῥῆμα. Gen 18:14: μὴ ἀδυνατεῖ [MT: ‫ ]פלא‬παρὰ τῷ θεῷ ῥῆμα. 32 See further Nils A. Dahl, “The Story of Abraham in Luke-Acts,” in Jesus in the Memory of the Early Church (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1976), 66–86. Dahl both demonstrates the profundity of Luke’s interest in Abraham throughout Luke-Acts, emphasizing especially Abraham’s importance as “the primary recipient of God’s promise to the fathers” (142), and observes that the incorporation of Abrahamic allusions in the Song of Mary and Song of Zechariah “have been modeled upon the patterns of references to Abraham in hymnic and historical texts of the Old Testament” (150).

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Nor does he make use of “fulfillment language” to describe his use of Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1:5–2:52 – either with regard to the Abrahamic narrative or with the OT more generally. Even where the law is quoted (2:22–24), it is not to show its “fulfillment” in a promise/prophecy-completion cycle, but simply to report that Jesus’s parents did what the law required. Instead, what we have with the appearance of the Abrahamic material is evidence of Luke’s own reading of and reflection on the narrative of Abraham, and reflection on the accounts of the births of John and Jesus in light of that narrative.33 To the Abrahamic narrative Luke would have been drawn not only because of the similarities in human situation, but also by the central import of the covenant (reflected in the Lukan account by the use of the term covenant and the motif marked by the repeated covenantal language of mercy, remembrance, favor, promise, oath, et al.). He might also have been motivated by his interest in the universalistic embrace of God’s purpose (present in Abraham’s role as “ancestor of a multitude of nations” [Gen 17:4; cf. 22:17–18]). In his writing, then, Luke has created a text that is itself an interplay of other texts, “a system of references,” “a node within a network”34 – in this case to the story of Abraham, some doubtlessly intentional, others perhaps less so. In this way, Luke’s account participates in a discourse situation in which the Abrahamic material exists as a prominent feature, that is, in which the story of God’s covenantal relationship with Abraham plays a noticeable role in encouraging interpretive possibilities. This does not require of Luke a slavish retelling of the story of Gen 11–21 with new characters; clearly, his use of the Abrahamic material has proceeded without such restrictions as he meditated on that material and shaped it to his own ends, all the while building on its central portrayal of the covenanting God who intervenes on behalf of humanity to accomplish his gracious aim. Luke has thus inscribed himself in tradition, showing his debt to this previous story and inviting his auditors to hear in this story the reverberations and continuation of that story as he attempts to give significance to the present one.35 If the similarities between the Abrahamic material and the accounts of birth in Luke 1–2 manifest immediately Luke’s desire to fix his narrative within the history of the interaction of God and Abraham, these resonances also point in another direction. They parody that history – parody, that is, in the sense of “repetition 33  Cf. James A. Sanders, “Isaiah in Luke,” Int 36 (1982): 144–55 (146): “What is remarkable about Luke’s knowledge of his scripture was that apparently it came from his assiduous reading of it, or portions of it.” 34 Michael Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, WM (London: Routledge, 1972), 23. 35 See Judith Still and Michael Worton, “Introduction,” in Intertextuality: Theories and Practices, ed. Michael Worton and Judith Sill (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1990), 1–44; William Vorster, “Intertextuality and Redaktionsgeschichte,” in Intertextuality in Biblical Writings: Essays in Honor of Bas van Iersel, ed. Sipke Draisma (Kampen: Uitgeversmaatschappij J. K. Kok, 1989), 15–26; Culler, Signs, ch. 5; Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (New York: Routledge, 1988), 80, 120–40.

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with critical distance that allows ironic signaling of difference at the very heart of similarity.”36 Luke not only inscribes himself in the past but also breaks loose from its constraints, taking the story in directions that both (1) show his freedom to employ the familiar narrative sequence in ways that transform it, and thus (2) shed fresh interpretive light on the past. For example, Luke has emphasized much more God’s unannounced graciousness, his unanticipated intervention to bring deliverance, together with its necessary complement, human response to God’s initiative. The note of reaction is accentuated in ways that go beyond the birth announcement convention in general and the relevant parallels in Genesis in particular. Moreover, the need for eschatological consummation of God’s covenant with Abraham is unanticipated in Genesis, but history – at least as Luke understands it – had shown that Abraham had not been made the progenitor of many nations. The actualization of the divine promise would require divine activity that both recalled that covenant making and also gathered up its possibilities in divine consummation. Mary’s Song is an important witness, though not the only one, to the eschatological reality that in the extraordinary conception and birth of Jesus, God had kept his promises and was bringing about a deliverance that would embrace all nations. Importantly, what we have observed with reference to the points of contact between the Abrahamic story of Gen 11–21 and Luke 1–2 has been developed along similar lines with reference to additional OT passages,37 even if the significance of these observations has not always been explored adequately. Special attention has been devoted by others to the appearances of Dan 7–10 and Gen 27–43 throughout Luke 1:5–2:52; Zeph 3:14–17 in Luke 1:26–33; 2 Sam 7:12–16 in Luke 1:32–33; and Micah 4:7–5:5 in Luke 2:1–14, among others.38 In some  Hutcheon, Poetics, 26.  Cf., e. g., Laurentin, Struktur und Theologie, 74–105; idem, Truth of Christmas, 43–60; R. E.  Brown, Birth, 268–75, 319–28, 420–24, 447–51; Hendrickx, Infancy Narratives, 54–56; C. T. Ruddick Jr., “Birth Narratives in Genesis and Luke,” NovT 12 (1970): 343–48. 38  One of the outstanding questions is to what degree it is accurate to credit Luke with these echoes of various segments of Israel’s Scriptures. Thus, for example, Barrett (“Luke/Acts,” 237) has it that, “in the gospel, Luke’s contribution to the christian [sic] use of the OT is very small,” and Anthony Tyrrell Hanson (The Living Utterances of God: The New Testament Exegesis of the Old [London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1983], 78–89) believes that Luke is more a purveyor of the citations of others than one who has, himself, “searched the Scriptures.” In large part, the question of the origin of the OT references in the Lukan birth narrative is one segment within the larger conundrum of the source(s) of the Infancy Gospel as a whole (see esp., R. E.  Brown, Birth; and the bibliography in Anton Dauer, Beobachtungen zur literarischen Arbeitstechnik des Lukas, AMT: BBB 79 [Frankfurt-am-Main: Anton Hain, 1990], 17–18n7; more recently, Daniel J. Harrington, “Birth Narratives in Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities and the Gospels,” in To Touch the Text: Biblical and Related Studies in Honor of Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S. J., ed. Maurya P. Horgan and Paul J. Kobelski [New York: Crossroad, 1989], 316–24; Stephen C. Farris, “On Discerning Semitic Sources in Luke 1–2,” in Gospel Perspectives, vol. 2, Studies of History and Tradition in the Four Gospels, ed. R. T. France and David Wenham [Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981], 201–37; and the brief but helpful surveys of the discussion in John Nolland, Luke 36 37

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instances, such as with the use of the term great to describe John and Jesus, evidence from this other OT material may overlap with what we have described as echoes from the Abrahamic story (cf. Gen 12:2; 2 Sam 7:9; Luke 1:15, 32), but this is not surprising. After all, we are not suggesting Luke’s use of a closely governed hermeneutical technique whereby a particular scene is viewed in the light of a selected scriptural text. Instead, in the story of Jesus’s birth and childhood large portions of the Septuagint have served as a kind of second language for Luke, the birth narrative has become a kind of echo chamber for the interplay of “the old stories” with Luke’s own story.39 Hence, we have much less a need to certify to the exclusion of other probable candidates the precise source of an allusion in the birth narrative (which in any case is not always possible) than to appreciate the many voices from the past given a fresh hearing, and thus to reflect on the significance of their interplay in this new context.40 (4) An instructive parallel to Luke’s use of the Abrahamic story are the linguistic and formal parallels between the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles. Especially apparent among these are the Jesus-Peter, Jesus-Stephen, and Jesus-Paul parallels that span the two halves of Luke-Acts, though others, such as the parallel between Jesus’s baptism and Nazareth address (Luke 3:21–22; 4:16–30) and Pentecost (Acts 2) are also noticeable. Robert F. O’Toole has drawn attention to parallel actions (e. g., baptism, travel, kneeling + prayer, and signs and wonders), geographical places (e. g., Jerusalem, Samaria, and the temple), language descriptive of preaching and its content (e. g., “I teach,” “I proclaim the good news,” “repentance,” and “the kingdom of God”), and parallel descriptions of Jesus and his followers (e. g., full of the Spirit and wisdom, possessed of power and grace, under divine compulsion, and prophetic).41 To these, numerous other echoes of the Gospel in Acts – such as the parallel dying words of Jesus and Stephen (23:34, 46; Acts 7:59–60) – could be added.42 As significant as these parallels are, perhaps more interesting in the present context are points of contact between Luke 1:5–2:52 and the Acts of the Apostles. 1–9:20, WBC 35A [Dallas: Word, 1989], 21–23; Evans, Saint Luke, 140–42). More crucial for our purposes, however, is the query: How has the narrator shaped his story? Or, in this case, given these points of contract with Israel’s Scriptures, what significance do they carry in this new cotext? 39 Cf. John Hollander, The Figure of Echo: A Mode of Allusion in Milton and After (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981). 40 The importance of this interplay is evident in the Song of Mary and Song of Zechariah, where the promises to Abraham and David are combined. 41 R. F. O’Toole, “Parallels between Jesus and His Disciples in Luke-Acts: A Further Study,” BZ 27 (1983): 195–212. 42  See the monograph-length study of the Jesus-Paul parallels by Walter Radl, Paulus und Jesus im lukanischen Doppelwerk: Untersuchungen zu Parallelmotiven im Lukasevangelium und in der Apostelgeschichte, EH 23: Theology 49 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1975); and the survey in Susan Marie Praeder, “Jesus-Paul, Peter-Paul, and Jesus-Peter Parallelisms in Luke-Acts: A History of Reader Response,” SBLSP (1984): 23–39.

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Noting first the material in Acts 1 – prior to the account of the outpouring of the Spirit and public address by Peter, which resembles Luke 3:20–4:30 – we may observe the following: Luke

Acts

“Mary” appears in the Third Gospel only in 1:27, 30, 34, 38, 39, 41, 46, 56; 2:5, 16, 19, 34.

“Mary” appears in Acts only in 1:14.

Simeon is “looking forward to the consolation of Israel” (2:25); Anna speaks “about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem” (2:38).

The apostles to Jesus: “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom of Israel?” (1:6).

Anna serves as a witness (2:38).

The apostles will be “witnesses” (1:8).

The Holy Spirit figures prominently in this story (1:15, 35, 41, 67; 2:25, 26, 27); Gabriel to Mary: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High …” (1:35).

The Holy Spirit figures prominently in this story (1:2, 4, 5, 8); Jesus to the apostles: “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you” (1:8).

Primary characters receive news from angels (1:11–20, 26–38; 2:9–14).

Primary characters receive news from angels (1:11).

Anna prays “day and night” (2:37; cf. 1:10, 14).

The disciples and certain women “were constantly devoting themselves to prayer” (1:14).

To this data we may add the suggestive parallels between the complementary visions of Zechariah/Mary, Saul/Ananias (Acts 9:1–19), and Cornelius/Peter (Acts 10).43 These are “complementary” inasmuch as in each case visionary experiences are related in tandem, and the successful completion of the one act of God through a human agent is related to the response of the other. The points of contact between the stories of Zechariah and Cornelius are most striking: Luke 1:5–13, 29, 39, 41

Acts 10:1–4, 17, 23

“There was a priest named Zechariah, who “There was a man named Cornelius, a cenbelonged to the priestly order of Abijah.” turion of the Italian cohort.” “Both [he and his wife] were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord.”

“He was a devout man who feared God with all his household; he gave alms generously to the people and prayed constantly to God.”

43  Michael D. Goulder, Luke: A New Paradigm, 2 vols., JSNTSup 20 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 1:205–6. Goulder finds in these parallels signs for source-critical examination, but does not explore their narratological significance.

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Luke 1:5–13, 29, 39, 41

Acts 10:1–4, 17, 23

“One afternoon … he had a vision in which “Once when he was serving as a priest he clearly saw an angel coming in ….” … there appeared to him an angel of the “He stared at him in terror.” Lord …. When Zechariah saw him, he was terrified; and fear overwhelmed him.” “But the angel said to him, ‘Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard.’ ”

“The angel answered, ‘Your prayers and your alms have ascended as a memorial before God.”

Taken as a whole, these myriad parallels point to Luke’s literary agenda at the level of the narrative as a whole. These points of contact are reminiscent of those noted above with reference to the Abrahamic story and Luke’s birth narrative, but no one would suggest that Acts “fulfills” the Third Gospel according to a prophecy-fulfillment scheme,44 even if certain possibilities raised in the Gospel are actualized in its sequel. Rather, by means of these data, Luke has built a bridge from one story to the other. He has linked the two together as one story, so that, first, we understand that between Luke and Acts we are concerned with the same, overarching, narrative purpose. Second, and more importantly, we understand that behind this one story stands one divine purpose, one God who is graciously working out his salvific will. In other words, the echoes of the Gospel in Acts serve much the same function as the echoes of Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1:5–2:52. In fact, what we have here is a form of internal repetition – internal, that is, to Luke-Acts – closely modeled on the external repetition we have hitherto observed between Luke’s birth narrative and the Abrahamic material.45 Redundancy of this sort is of particular importance in an oral environment and with a narrative of the length of Luke-Acts, serving concerns of emphasis and needs of memory as the story develops. More significantly given our present interests, repetition of this sort accentuates the unity of narratological and theological aims behind the story; in this case, repetition ties Luke and Acts together as one story, but also binds it to the Scriptures of Israel as a continuation of that story. We are engaged, then, with one continuous story, the story of the covenant-making and covenant-keeping of Yahweh. (5) That Luke is concerned especially to tie his narrative of the advent and growth of the good news into the singular story of God’s redemptive purpose is highlighted also by his interest in the proper interpretation of history.46 It is here that the more explicit use of the Scriptures in Acts is instructive with regard 44  This is not to take issue here with W. C. van Unnik’s suggestion that Acts “proves” the Gospel (“The ‘Book of Acts’: The Confirmation of the Gospel,” NovT 4 [1960]: 26–59). 45  Cf. Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), ch. 3. 46  Cf. Robert G. Hall, Revealed Histories: Techniques for Ancient Jewish and Christian Historiography, JSPSup 6 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991).

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to their more implicit appearance in Luke 1–2. That is, above all in the speeches in Acts, inspired speakers are repeatedly brought forward with the purpose of providing a historical review – beginning with Abraham (7:2–53) or the exodus (13:16–41), or even with more contemporary events such as the death of Judas (1:15–22) or the healing of a crippled man (4:8–12). In each case, either scriptural events are related or the Scriptures are themselves brought to bear on current events, or both, with the result that we understand that what God is doing cannot be understood apart from what God has been doing, of which the present is only the latest but not yet the ultimate chapter.

Echoes of Scripture in Luke 1:5–2:52: Concluding Remarks What, then, can be concluded about Luke’s use of Israel’s Scriptures in this story of Jesus’s birth and childhood on the basis of these observations centered on one specimen example? First, we have found nothing to suggest that our narrator is working yet with a developed notion of “fulfillment” in these events, even if this perspective surfaces later (cf., e. g., 4:18–21; 22:37). Luke does not appear to be reading the Scriptures with the purpose of finding prophecies, latent or otherwise, awaiting their fulfillment in the coming of the Messiah. Nor does he see in Abraham or Isaac a type corresponding to a figure in his birth narrative who might serve as antitype as in a typological hermeneutic.47 Rather, he regards his opening chapters as though they were the continuation of the story rooted in the Abrahamic covenant. The echoes we have heard give subtle but sure indicators that the story of God’s purpose has not drawn to a close but, quite the contrary, is manifestly still being written. This is evident for the narrator in the divine machinations behind the extraordinary births of John and Jesus, workings that themselves constitute evidence that God has remembered his promise and that God is even now working graciously to bring to fruition his purpose. These echoes reverberate in the structure, themes, even language of Luke’s narrative, drawing his account into the interpretive context of Abraham’s story, affirming that the God who has mercifully initiated relationship and acted in surprising and mighty ways is acting in the same way, guided by the same purpose.

47 Some exegetes refer to the use of Israel’s Scriptures in Luke 1:5–2:52 as “midrashic” or “haggadic,” or even as “midrashic-haggadic,” but the effectiveness of such labels depends on our using these terms quite loosely. As a consequence, these labels say too little – pointing only to the interpretive use of the Scriptures in the narrative – while threatening to say too much – that the infancy material is a more or less imaginative commentary on a biblical text(s). See Ben Witherington III, “Birth of Jesus,” DJG 60–74; esp. 60, 64–65; Harrington, “Birth Narrative,” 324; R. E. Brown, Birth, 557–62.

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From this perspective, combined with the explicit language of covenant in Luke’s story, the related vocabulary of remembrance and mercy48 serves both to affirm the direct continuity of 1:5–2:52 with the purpose of God expressed in the Scriptures and to indicate that God’s purposes are being realized in these events. Hence, there is a note of fulfillment among these echoes we have heard, but this “fulfillment” is related more fundamentally to God’s purpose, God’s aim, than to a text-based exegetical maneuver whereby a given passage or set of passages is understood in a prediction-fulfillment scheme with Luke’s story. Luke’s theological agenda is theocentric, centered on God and his purposes, and his story (like Israel’s Scriptures) is the narration of how that purpose is made known and realized. For Luke, then, the “beginning” can be located only in God’s purpose, and his narrative beginning presupposes not only this divine aim, but also the articulation of that aim in the Scriptures and a concern for that aim on the part of his audience. Before concluding this exploration of the use of the Scriptures in Luke 1:5–2:52 a further issue begs for attention. Placing to one side as unanswerable the question whether Luke’s first readers were so proficient in locating Genesis-Luke parallels as our comments might suggest, we may still ask: Did Luke hope that they would be so clever? To put the query differently, we may inquire: To what degree is a fruitful reading of Luke 1:5–2:52 dependent on a hearing of those echoes and their identification as having come to the Lukan narrative via Gen 11–21? On this matter two points deserve brief mention. First, to the degree that this concern is motivated by contemporary apprehensions over our (in)ability to hear and identify these echoes, this line of questioning is itself problematic. Our own Marcionite tendencies to neglect the OT too often rob us of hearing the rich interplay of “old” and “new” as occupants of a common discursive space and we ought not read our losses back into the early Christian communities. We know tantalizingly little about how much intimacy with the Septuagint we might expect of a largely gentile church in the second half of the first century CE. But we do know that what we now call the OT, especially in its Greek translation, served as Scripture for those communities. And we know that the authors of books that eventually made up our NT, not the least of which were Luke and Paul, wrote as if their audiences could hear such echoes and follow sometimes intricate exegetical treatments of those Scriptures. Second, the Italian professor of semiotics Umberto Eco has distinguished two sorts of readers in a way that has bearing on our problem. He observes that “every text is always, more or less consciously, conceived for two kinds of Model Read48  See Francis I. Andersen, “Yahweh, the Kind and Sensitive God,” in God Who Is Rich in Mercy: Essays Presented to Dr. D. B. Knox, ed. Peter T. O’Brien and David G. Peterson (Homebush West, NSW: Lancer/Anzea, 1986), 41–88.

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er. The first is supposed to cooperate in actualizing the content of the text; the second is supposed to be able to describe (and enjoy) the way in which the first Model Reader has been textually produced.”49 The first reader is encouraged by a text to respond in certain ways, specifically, in Eco’s view, to deal interpretively with texts in the same way as the author deals generatively with them. The second reader delights in grasping how the text so encourages that response. That is, the second reader stands, as it were, over the shoulder of the author, observing his or her narrative technique, noting how an account is shaped, appreciating how it is able to effect responses in a reader. In our discussion of the Genesis-Luke parallels, we hoped to function like this second reader, indicating how central aspects of Gen 11–21 have been woven into the fabric of Luke 1:5–2:52. But a first reader (or hermeneutical community) – in this case, a first-century, largely gentile-Christian community with familiarity with the Septuagint – might have heard these connections without having to delineate them one-by-one or charting them. Even had they missed one or two here, another there, they would still have been drawn by the Lukan account to the conclusion to which it points: As with Abraham, so now, God is working graciously and mightily to bring his purpose to fruition. Luke has peppered the account with so many and different levels of allusions that those with even largely untrained ears will still hear. And hearing, they will have been drawn into the discursive space created by the text, thus to aid in the production of its meaning, and thereby they will be shaped by it. If we and our contemporaries are not so shaped, it is not fundamentally because we must all engage in Eco’s “second reading,” but because we have through neglect so far distanced ourselves from the narrative of God’s purpose in Israel’s Scriptures and can thus hardly perform as “first readers.”

49  Umberto Eco, The Limits of Interpretation, AS (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), 136; see 123–36; cf. idem, The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979); idem, Interpretation and Overinterpretation, ed. Stefan Collini (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).

5

Jesus and a Daughter of Abraham (Luke 13:10–17): Test Case for a Lukan Perspective on Jesus’s Miracles* As recently as 1975, Paul J. Achtemeier could observe, “The problem of the way Luke viewed and used the miracles of Jesus is a subject that has remained remarkably innocent of systematic treatment in recent biblical scholarship.”1 Although several related studies have appeared subsequently,2 the place of Jesus’s miracles in Lukan thought remains an interesting lacuna in redaction-critical and literary-theological study of Luke-Acts. The present essay will focus on only one of some twenty miracle stories in the Third Gospel, the healing on the Sabbath of the woman bent over, the importance of which for the study of the Lukan perspective on Jesus’s miracles will quickly become clear.3 Here we will see intersect numerous Lukan motifs  – including Luke’s emphasis on Jesus’s soteriological mission, his attitude toward the disadvantaged, his view of the eschatological conflict, and his treatment of Jesus’s relation to Jewish institutions (i. e., the Sabbath and the synagogue).4 In the span of one essay we will be unable to deal in * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “Jesus and a Daughter of Abraham (Luke 13:10–17): Test Case for a Lukan Perspective on the Miracles of Jesus,” CBQ 51 (1989): 643–54. Used with permission. 1  Paul J. Achtemeier, “The Lucan Perspective on the Miracles of Jesus: A Preliminary Sketch,” JBL 94 (1975): 547. Achtemeier mentions the following related studies: Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke (London: SCM, 1960), 190–93; John M. Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic Tradition, SBT, n.s., 28 (London: SCM, 1974), 87–115; Marvin Henry Miller, “The Character of Miracles in Luke-Acts” (ThD diss., Graduate Theological Union, 1971). 2  See, e. g., Ulrich Busse, Die Wunder des Propheten Jesu: Rezeption, Komposition und Interpretation der Wundertradition im Evangelium des Lukas, FB 24 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1977); Joseph A. Grassi, God Makes Me Laugh: A New Approach to Luke (Wilmington, DE: Glazier, 1986), 38–47; Howard Clark Kee, Miracle in the Early Christian World: A Study in Sociohistorical Method (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 190–220; Walter Kirchschläger, Jesu exorzistisches Wirken aus der Sicht des Lukas: Ein Beitrag zur lukanischen Redaktion, ÖBS 3 (Klosterneuburg: Österreichisches Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1981); Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986–90), 1:75–99; C. H.  Talbert, Reading Luke: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Third Gospel (New York: Crossroad, 1982), 58–60, 241–46. 3 This significance has been suggested and developed along an alternative route by Dennis Hamm, “The Freeing of the Bent Woman and the Restoration of Israel: Luke 13:10–17 as Narrative Theology,” JSNT 31 (1987): 23–44. 4  Whether Luke wrote Luke-Acts is unimportant to the argument of this essay, so the designation of the author of this two-volume work as Luke may be regarded as a matter of expediency; likewise, Mark as the author of the Second Gospel.

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depth with the larger Lukan witness to the miraculous in Jesus’s ministry; nevertheless, we will see that even this more narrowly conceived study will provide significant insight into that larger scheme.

The Unity of the Story When viewing Luke 13:10–17 through the lens of formal analysis, one is immediately impressed with how this pericope departs from the normal form of a miracle story, and, in fact, from all normal form-critical categories. It is true that Luke regularly alters the form of a miracle story – adding to the three-part schema of exposition/history, technique, and success/proof the further stage of impression/response5  – but this Lukan tendency explains only the addition of v. 17, not the inclusion of vv. 14–16. For this reason, Martin Dibelius spoke of this story as a “hybrid form,” a Paradigm transformed by the Tale-like tendency “to show Jesus as the Lord of divine powers.”6 Similarly, Rudolf Bultmann discusses the story under the heading of Apophthegms, naming it a controversy dialogue occasioned by a healing. He goes so far as to critique this story as exhibiting the least skill in composition when compared with the similar stories in 14:1–6 and Mark 3:1–6. Unlike the others, he points out, this one places the healing antecedent to the discussion, effectively sundering the healing episode from its conclusion in v. 17.7 Both Dibelius and Bultmann thus see the weight of 13:10–17 falling on the conflict story (vv. 14–16). With these form critics, many interpreters, including Achtemeier, have presumed that Luke’s real interest is with the dialogue between Jesus and the ruler of the synagogue, and that the miracle is only prefatory and incidental to Luke’s purpose.8 At the narrative level this is supported by the observation that this pericope is placed within the larger “Lukan Journey” (9:51–19:48), which is overwhelmingly didactic in content. Indeed, within this larger division of the Third Gospel, only 9:51–56, 11:24–26, 13:10–17, 14:1–6, 17:11–19, 18:35–43, and 19:29–40 contain material other than sayings. Hence, the participial ἧν δὲ διδάσκων introducing this story (13:10) is well suited to the overall context; it  See Miller, “Character,” 50–55. Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel (Cambridge: James Clarke, 1971), 97–98; followed by Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke, vol. 2, AB 28A (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1985), 1011. 7  Rudolf Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (New York: Harper & Row, 1963), 12–13. 8 E. g., Achtemeier, “Lucan Perspective,” 558; Wilfrid J. Harrington, The Gospel according to St. Luke (London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1968), 182; J. M. Creed, The Gospel according to St. Luke (London: Macmillan, 1953), 181; Vincent Taylor, The Formation of the Gospel Tradition, 2nd ed. (London: Macmillan, 1935), 69; William Manson, The Gospel of Luke (New York: Richard R. Smith, 1930), 164–65; Walter Schmithals, Das Evangelium nach Lukas, ZBK 3/1 (Zurich: Theologischer, 1980), 152. 5

6 Martin

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also prepares the reader for the apparent focal shift to Sabbath controversy in 13:14. Is the miracle story only ancillary, then? In point of fact, several considerations weigh against this view, pointing toward a more integrated understanding of Luke’s purposes here and suggesting the significant place of this story taken as a unity in Luke’s overall theology of salvation. First, we may refer to the general observation already made by Achtemeier that Luke frequently “attempts to balance Jesus’ miraculous activity and his teaching in such a way as to give them equal weight.”9 By way of supporting his argument, Achtemeier refers to his observations regarding Luke’s redactional use of Mark’s Gospel. Thus, Luke structures his parallel to Mark 1:21–28 differently  – first narrating Jesus’s teaching and the crowd’s amazement (Luke 4:31–32), then Jesus’s miraculous act and the crowd’s amazement (4:33–37). Whereas Mark subordinates the miracle to Jesus’s teaching, Luke holds them in balance. Achtemeier further notes how Luke’s narration of Jesus’s miraculous activity focuses attention on the importance of Jesus even more so than is the case with Mark, and he also notes that Jesus’s miracles serve as his validation, and that in Luke Jesus’s miraculous activity can actually serve as the basis of faith.10 In fact, one need not assume Markan priority nor define redaction criticism so narrowly to support Achtemeier’s position.11 The significance of miracles for Luke is clear from two Petrine sermons in Acts (2:22; 10:38), both of which indicate that the miraculous was characteristic of Jesus’s ministry and that miracles were taken as proof of Jesus’s divine legitimacy. Moreover, the balancing of teaching and miracle-working is manifest at the literary level irrespective of Luke’s sources, as is clear from (l) the example cited above without reference to its alleged origins in Mark; (2) such a summary text as Luke 5:15 (διήρχετο δὲ μᾶλλον ὁ λόγος περὶ αὐτοῦ, καὶ συνήρχοντο ὄχλοι πολλοὶ ἀκούειν καὶ θεραπεύεσθαι ἀπὸ τῶν ἀσθενειῶν αὐτῶν), where miracle and teaching are held in balance; and, indeed, (3) Jesus’s programmatic sermon in Luke 4:16–30, where proclamation and healing are both designated as integral to Jesus’s mission. That Jesus is therein named “physician” (4:23) is also suggestive, coming as it does after Jesus’s experience of the Spirit (3:21–22; 4:1, 14) and declaration of his having been anointed with the Spirit (4:18).12 The importance of this connection  Achtemeier, “Lucan Perspective,” 550; cf. 550–59.  Achtemeier, “Lucan Perspective.” Tannehill (Narrative Unity, 1:86–87) rightly points out that the object of faith in Luke-Acts is not thereby the miracle itself or the miracle-worker; rather, miracles point persons to God – e. g., 5:25–26; 7:16; 13:13; 17:15, 18. 11 Achtemeier is concerned only with how Luke has amended his Markan source, and not with larger compositional issues. 12 To be sure, “physician” derives from a well-known proverb and, in the context of the proverbial saying, has no necessarily medical referent. John Nolland (“Classical and Rabbinic Parallels to ‘Physician, Heal Yourself’ (Lk. IV.23),” NovT 21 [1979]: 193–209), however, demonstrates that this proverb had no rigid form or function in its rabbinic and classical parallels, and argues that its meaning receives various nuances in its various contexts. In the present pericope,  9 10

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is manifest from the unmistakable parallel (Spirit anointing + healing) in Acts 10:38: “You know … how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit, and how he went around doing good and healing all who were under the power of the devil, because God was with him.” Finally, although Achtemeier does not himself refer at this juncture to 13:10–17, our own analysis will show that here, too, miracle is central to Luke’s portrayal of Jesus’s mission. Second, turning directly to the pericope in question, we may point to the way the terminology of 13:10–17 suggests that this “hybrid” story must be interpreted as an integrated whole. Frédéric Godet already recognized the contrasts between (1) the ox (or donkey) (v. 15) and the woman (vv. 11, 12, 16); (2) the stall (v. 15) and Satan (v. 16); and (3) the two bonds, “material and spiritual,” to be loosed (vv. 12, 15, 16).13 One should add to this list the parallel uses of δεῖ in vv. 14, 16. In the former verse, the synagogue ruler articulates the necessity of working on the six days before the Sabbath; these, then, are the days for healing. In the latter, Jesus insists that it is necessary for this woman to be freed from Satan on the Sabbath. While all of these contribute to the appearance of the literary integrity of the pericope in question, more significant for showing the internal connection of this apparent two-part story are the following: 1. the location of this scene, ἐν μιᾷ τῶν συναγωγῶν (v. 10), which marks a change of setting in the larger narrative sequence, all the more significant since this is the last appearance of Jesus in a synagogue in Luke’s Gospel; this reference is matched in v. 14 by the introduction of the synagogue leader (ὁ ἀρχισυνάγωγος); 2. the temporal setting of this story “on the Sabbath” (ἐν τοῖς σάββασιν14) – which becomes a leitmotif in what follows (τῷ σαββάτῳ, v. 14; τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τοῦ σαββάτου, v. 14; τῷ σαββάτῳ, v. 15; τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τοῦ σαββάτου, v. 16); 3. the repeated detail regarding the woman’s having been ill for eighteen years (vv. 11, 16); and 4. the language of binding/loosing, a play on words introduced in v. 12 (ἀπολέλυσαι) and made explicit in vv. 15–16 (λύει, ἔδησεν, λυθῆναι ἀπὸ τοῦ δεσμοῦ). Arguing simply from this evidence we might regard as the central point of this story Luke’s intention to develop further and highlight Jesus’s mission as a counterfoil to the synagogue and Sabbath. In any case, that both “halves” of the story are equally significant, indeed, integral to Luke’s purpose, is suggested by the terminology of the story. A third piece of evidence is presented by v. 17 which, with v. 10, frames this whole story. This verse is heavily Lukan, making use of Lukan language and 4:16–30, references to healing abound in 4:18–19, 23c(?), 27, and point out the particular aptness of the vocative ἰατρέ here. 13  Frédéric Louis Godet, A Commentary on the Gospel of St. Luke, 5th ed., 2 vols. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1870), 2:120. 14  For the plural, see also 4:31.

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Lukan motifs. As for the former, Joachim Jeremias points out the redactional character of the phrase πάντες οἱ ἀντικείμενοι αὐτῷ (“all of his opponents,” v. 17), noting that the substantive participle οἱ ἀντικείμενοι + dative of person appears in the NT elsewhere only in Luke 21:15. He also indicates Luke’s preference for expressions with ὁ πᾶς (Luke-Acts 141x, Matthew 48x, Mark 19x, John 19x), and observes that the attributive use of the participle of γίνομαι (v. 17: τοῖς γινομένοις, “the things being done”) occurs in the NT only in Luke-Acts (Luke 2:15; 13:17; Acts 10:37).15 On the level of ideas, the humiliation of Jesus’s opponents is reminiscent of the theme of reversal that threads its way throughout Luke-Acts, showing its fabric already, and decisively, in the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55).16 As Luke often narrates it, so here the crowd/people are portrayed over against Jesus’s opponents, the former set apart by their delight with Jesus’s ministry (e. g., 11:14; 19:48; 20:19; 22:2, 6);17 moreover, as in 7:18, 9:43, and 19:37, the basis for the response is more the totality of Jesus’s amazing works, and not only the immediate healing. Finally, as we have already observed, the inclusion of a response at the close of the miracle story is a way Luke has regularly modified the miracle-story form. The significance of the Lukan flavor of v. 17 rests in its strange position posterior not simply to the miracle story, as one might have anticipated, but to the controversy dialogue as well. Against Bultmann, we must regard this as a sign not of clumsy construction, but of a careful and deliberate attempt to frame the dialogue with the miracle story, so that the two are seen in intimate relationship. Here, then, is evidence that raises serious objections to the form-critical approach, at least in this Gospel context: far from shedding light, it has actually masked the meaning of this pericope.18 Finally, we may refer to the interior shape of the pericope itself: 13:10: The setting   13:11–12: The woman’s condition    13:13: Jesus heals on the Sabbath/woman’s response    13:14: Synagogue ruler’s response/prohibition of healing on the Sabbath   13:15–16: Jesus defends Sabbath-healing/rehearses the woman’s condition 13:17: Summary of responses 15  Joachim Jeremias, Die Sprache des Lukasevangeliums: Redaktion und Tradition im Nicht-Markusstoff des dritten Evangeliums, KEKS (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980), 30, 230. 16 See, e. g., Joel B. Green, “The Death of Jesus, God’s Servant,” in Reimaging the Death of the Lukan Jesus, ed. Dennis D. Sylva, AMT: BBB 73 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Anton Hain, 1990), 1–28, 170–73; Joseph B. Tyson, The Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1986); Tannehill, Narrative Unity. 17  Gerhard Schneider, Das Evangelium nach Lukas, 2 vols., ÖTK 3 (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 1977), 2:300; Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 1:141–66. 18  This was recognized but not argued in detail by Hamm, “Freeing of the Bent Woman,” 23, 26.

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Though 13:10–17 betrays no clear chiastic structure, the parallelism is transparent. The initial description of the woman’s condition (vv. 11–12) and its rehearsal (v. 16) direct the reader’s attention to the juxtaposition of the healing of the woman and her response (praise) on the one hand, the synagogue ruler’s response (indignation) and prohibition of healing on the other. Clearly, the pericope has a dual focus, suggestive of the deliberate contrast between the two foci and of the deep irony at work in this passage. In these four ways, then, we see how the interpreter cannot afford to center on the Sabbath controversy as the real crux of the story – or, for that matter, on the miracle. The two are deliberately juxtaposed, the one informing the other at the level of significance. In establishing this point, we have already hinted at the interpretive importance of this connection, and it now remains for us to exploit this more explicitly.

Healing and Jesus’s Mission Why this healing on this day? Answering this query will provide us with an important window into the significance of Jesus’s miracles in the Third Gospel, as well as take us to the heart of the pericope before us. One helpful point of entry into this matter comes to us from the social sciences, which, in recent years, have underscored the emphatic role of group definition in human existence.19 In his study of “the growth of community in the Bible,” Paul D. Hanson has drawn attention to the ways Jewish ideas of community narrowed in the Hellenistic period – and, indeed, how attempts at self-definition shaped pre-Christian Judaism in its diversity.20 That concerns of this nature are represented in the Lukan narrative is manifest in the far-reaching emphasis on the inclusion of outsiders within the circle of Jesus’s followers – for example, tax collectors and sinners, women, lepers, and the demon possessed; in such passages of the immediate Lukan context as the anonymous question put to Jesus in 13:23 (“Lord, are only a few people going to be saved?”); and in the matter of eating arrangements and invitations in 14:1–24. The question of ritual boundaries raises its head equally in 13:10–17. In our present text, Sabbath and synagogue function as symbols of Jewish exclusivity. Whether the woman was in a state of ritual impurity,21 or under what 19  For this motif in biblical studies, see, e. g., Howard Clark Kee, Christian Origins in Sociological Perspective (London: SCM, 1980); Bruce J. Malina, Christian Origins and Cultural Anthropology: Practical Models for Biblical Interpretation (Atlanta: John Knox, 1986). 20  Paul D. Hanson, The People Called: The Growth of Community in the Bible (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1986), 325–81. 21  So F. W. Danker, Jesus and the New Age according to St. Luke: A Commentary on the Third Gospel (St. Louis, MO: Clayton, 1972), 158.

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conditions a woman might have been present in the synagogue22  – these are issues marginal to the narrative. What is central is that these loci of the sacred, Sabbath and synagogue, actually segregate this needy woman from divine help. Although the role of synagogue and Sabbath is not univocal in Luke-Acts,23 its overall portrayal supports this line of thinking. On the one hand, Jesus regularly goes to the synagogue on the Sabbath (4:16[!], 33; 6:6; 13:10; cf. Acts 14:1; 17:1–2), and Luke associates Jesus’s teaching and preaching with the synagogue in summary statements in 4:15, 44. These texts suggest Jesus’s appreciation for and devotion to his religious tradition. That Jesus heals the servant of a centurion who “loves our nation and has built our synagogue” (7:1–10) and the daughter of a synagogue ruler (8:10–42, 51–56; cf. Acts 18:8) further certifies the existence of a more positive side to Luke’s portrayal of the synagogue. On the other hand, even in the early chapters of Luke, the synagogue as instrument of God’s will is seriously challenged. In 4:16–30, the people of the synagogue respond to Jesus’s proclamation on the Sabbath with anger and rejection. Similarly, Jesus’s healing on the Sabbath in the synagogue in 6:6–11 is met only with opposition from the Jewish leadership. This pattern of ministry – proclamation (often explicitly on the Sabbath) in the synagogue leading to opposition or rejection – is repeatedly witnessed in Acts (13:14–52; 14:1–7; 17:1–9, 10–15; 18:4–7; 19:8–10). Even though this is not the place for a full examination of architectural space in Luke-Acts, one might hypothesize, on the basis of the clear opposition in Luke 4:38 and Acts 18:4–8, 26, that judgment is pronounced against the synagogue in favor of the home. Interestingly, that which results in clear opposition toward Jesus in Luke 6:6–11 and 13:10–17 (Sabbath-healing) silences his opposition in 14:1–6; the former took place in the synagogue, the latter in the home. Moreover, in Corinth, only after Paul leaves the synagogue and enters the home of Titius Justus do Crispus, the synagogue ruler, and his household believe in the Lord (Acts 18:7–8). After the onset of Jesus’s Jerusalem trip, the synagogue loses its ambivalence in Luke’s Gospel. In Luke 12:11 and 21:12 it is explicitly named as a place for the eschatological persecution of the disciples. In 11:43 and 20:46, the synagogue is the place where the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and scribes is manifest. After 9:51, then, the synagogue’s role is contrary to the disclosure of the kingdom in Jesus’s ministry. The consistency of this emphasis with the synagogue scene in 13:10–17 is explicit in the way Jesus addresses the synagogue ruler and other like-minded persons: Hypocrites! (v. 15). The use of this term at this juncture 22 For this concern, see, e. g., Eduard Schweizer, The Good News according to Luke (Atlanta: John Knox, 1984), 22. 23  σάββατον and συναγωγή appear in tandem explicitly or implicitly in 4:16–30, 31–37; 6:6–11; 13:10–17; Acts 13:13–48; 15:21; 17:1–9; 18:1–8. The question of behavior appropriate to the Sabbath as that behavior is related to alleviating human need is raised in non-synagogue contexts in 6:1–5; 14:1–6.

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recalls its introduction in 12:1–3, where Jesus warns his disciples against the yeast of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy. He continues: “Nothing is concealed that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not become known. Accordingly, whatever you said in the dark will be heard in the light, and whatever you have whispered behind closed doors will be broadcast from the housetops.” Jesus had, in fact, exposed the Pharisees’ hypocrisy in 11:39–44; in 12:1–13:9, he applies this attack on hypocrisy to his disciples. With 13:15, Luke returns to this motif, narrating a concrete manifestation of the walls thrown up by the hypocrisy of official religion. The force of the glaring contradiction thus narrated is realized for Luke in Jesus’s reference to the woman as a “daughter of Abraham.” Comparable phrases are found in 1:54–55, 3:7–9, 16:22–31, and 19:1–10 – a reading of which leaves one with the clear sense that persons thus denoted are people in need of God’s mercy, persons defined by others as existing outside the boundaries of God’s chosen, yet the very people to whom God shows his fidelity and brings salvation. Here, then, synagogue and Sabbath provide the topographical and temporal settings for what Joseph Grassi refers to as “the humorous paradox” when “the ‘included’ become the excluded, the ‘excluded,’ the included; when the ‘unclean’ become the clean and the ‘clean,’ the unclean.”24 This interpretation is not only arguable from ideas of group definition, but clearly arises from the language and structure of our pericope, as we have seen. In particular, the wordplay on binding-loosing terminology in 13:12, 15–16, and the contrasting views of what is necessary highlight Jesus’s mission as a counterfoil to the inefficacy of these institutions as God’s salvific instrument. Indeed, the contrasting use of δεῖ – the first tied to the synagogue ruler’s understanding of Exod 20:9 and Deut 5:13, the second to Jesus’s designation of the Sabbath as the day for being loosed from Satan’s bond – draws attention to the redemptive-historical import of Jesus’s act: today is the day of God’s salvation (cf. Luke 4:18–21). This is not to say that Luke is interested here in portraying Jesus as concerned with castigating Judaism or Jewish views of the law. Nor does Luke portray Jesus as intending to provoke opposition. Why does Jesus interrupt his teaching (vv. 11, 13) and initiate redemptive interaction with the woman? He does so as an expression of God’s mercy. A similar argument might be mounted from a discussion of the immediate literary context of our pericope. I. Howard Marshall has drawn attention to the interpretation of 13:10–17 suggested by its proximity to the kingdom parables of 13:18–19: Jesus’s miraculous activity is an expression of the presence of God’s kingdom (cf. 7:6; 11:20).25 Could it be that the point of the preceding parable of the growth of the fig tree (13:6–9) is similar, that in this context the fig tree to 24  Grassi, God Makes Me Laugh, 38; cf. Leonard Doohan, Luke: The Perennial Spirituality (Santa Fe, NM: Bear, 1985), 88–89. 25  I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC 3 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978), 556, 560.

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which special attention (i. e., grace) is extended is the people represented by this neglected daughter of Abraham?26 This much is clear: as a consequence and expression of his mission,27 Jesus places his hands on the woman and pronounces her healing. In this way, in this Lukan story, he moves beyond the boundary lines, just as Elisha and Elijah had done (4:25–27), just as Isaiah had prophesied (4:18–19). The tragic irony of the story, represented centrally in the position of the synagogue ruler, is further underscored in Jesus’s defense of his alleged wrongdoing. He sets up a series of parallels, arguing from the lesser to the greater: 1. If an animal, how much more this daughter of Abraham? 2. If one whom you have bound for a few hours, how much more one whom Satan has bound for eighteen years? 3. If you can loose the bonds of an animal on the Sabbath as well as on the other six days of the week, how much more is it necessary for God to loose this woman’s bond on the Sabbath? With this, Jesus’s opponents turn away in humiliation (v. 17), for their position gave priority of need to the lesser, and rendered Sabbath and synagogue impotent in the face of the greater human need.

Healing and Eschatology Finally, we may observe how Luke’s description of the woman’s malady places this miracle squarely within Jesus’s mission and provides crucial insight into Luke’s understanding of Jesus’s healing. John Wilkinson thinks the woman’s ailment may be explained by means of medical diagnosis,28 but even he is careful to observe that “the primary cause” of this disease is Satan. Likewise, commentators generally interpret the woman’s “spirit of weakness” with reference to the bondage of Satan,29 a connection that receives its justification in the language of binding and loosing in vv. 12, 15–16.30 What is the significance of this ascription? Elsewhere in Luke-Acts, in summarizing Jesus’s public ministry, Peter notes how Jesus went around “healing all who 26  Cf. Gregory the Great, Hom. 31; Marie-Joseph Lagrange, Evangile selon Saint Luc, 4th ed. (Paris: Lecoffre, 1927), 381. 27  A point already made by Robert Banks, Jesus and the Law in the Synoptic Tradition, SNTSMS 28 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 130–31, 247. 28  John Wilkinson, “The Case of the Bent Woman in Luke 13:10–17,” EvQ 49 (1977): 195–205. 29 See, e. g., H. van der Loos, The Miracles of Jesus, NovTSup 9 (Leiden: Brill, 1965), 520; Godet, Luke, 2:120; Marshall, Gospel of Luke, 557; Schneider, Lukas, 2:301; Busse, Wunder, 302; E. Earle Ellis, The Gospel of Luke, rev. ed., NCB (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974), 186. 30 Friedrich Büchsel (“δέω,” TDNT 2:60n30) observes that δέω is a common word, with λύω, for the power exercised over someone by a sorcerer, god, or spirit.

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were under the power of the devil (ἰώμενος πάντας τοὺς καταδυναστευομένους ὑπὸ τοῦ διαβόλου)” (Acts 10:38). The relation of this passage to that presently under investigation is transparent, for in both we have it that physical maladies are rooted in satanic influence. Luke 13:11–13, 16 is not the description of an exorcism per se, yet Jesus is portrayed in conflict with cosmic forces nonetheless. Clearly, Hans Conzelmann’s thesis of a Satan-free period for Jesus’s ministry cannot be sustained.31 This portrait of Jesus’s public ministry as an engagement with opposing cosmic forces is sketched out already in Luke 4. It is no accident that Luke brings together the temptation story (4:1–13) and Jesus’s proclamation of his own missionary program (4:16–30): his ministry will be conducted in the arena of opposition, including battle with nonhuman forces.32 The subsequent narrative only underscores this message: teaching and exorcism in Capernaum (4:31–37), the rebuke of the fever of Peter’s mother-in-law (4:38–39), and the summary of healings and exorcisms (4:40–41). Moreover, the language Luke uses to narrate many of the healing episodes of his Gospel points further to the demonic element of apparently physical ailments; for example, Jesus rebukes a fever (4:39) just as he rebukes demons (4:41). This view is so common in Luke33 that we can almost overlook the overstatement of Ulrich Busse: “Luke sees all diseases as caused by demons.”34 Jesus’s mission agenda and his engagement with opposing forces intersect in a most significant way in 11:14–20, where Jesus asserts not only his superior strength but also claims that his mission activity is a sign that God’s kingdom is present. Significantly, the position of the story of Jesus’s freeing the woman from the bond of Satan (13:10–17) adjacent to the kingdom-parables (13:18–19) communicates this same message, as we have heretofore noted. As Howard Clark Kee has observed, “from a cosmic perspective, Jesus’ healings and exorcisms were regarded by Luke as essential factors in the defeat of the God-opposing powers.”35

31  Conzelmann, Luke, 27–28. See already Schuyler Brown, Apostasy and Perseverance in the Theology of Luke, AnBib 36 (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1969), 5–19; I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1971), 87–88; Fitzmyer, Luke, 2:1013. 32  Cf. Tyson, Death of Jesus, 58–61. 33 Hamm (“Freeing of the Bent Woman,” 32) also refers to 10:9, 18; Acts 26:18. 34  Busse, Wunder, 79: “Lukas betrachte alle Krankheiten als von Dämonen verursacht.” Where is the demonic element in, say, 17:11–19? 35 Kee, Miracle, 204. For a similar, if exaggerated, viewpoint, see Hull, Hellenistic Magic, 87–115. The disciples’ mission, too, is represented as a victorious battle against Satan.

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Conclusion Luke’s narrative of the healing of the woman-bent-over, then, demonstrates Jesus’s healing as central to his mission in Luke-Acts. As Alfred Plummer remarked long ago, the “loosing” of this woman is “a marked fulfillment of the programme of the ministry as announced in the synagogue at Nazareth (iv.18).“36 The focus of the story falls therefore on the role of Jesus’s healing in God’s redemptive plan as an expression of his mission – in contradistinction to those Jewish institutions that threw up a dividing wall restricting access to God’s mercy for this needy woman. This healing, and with it many others in Luke, is set in the context of eschatological battle and is vested with significant sign-value, pointing to the realization of the kingdom of God today, in Jesus’s ministry.

36 Alfred Plummer, The Gospel according to St. Luke, 5th ed., ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1901), 343. See also Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 1:65, 83.

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A Cognitive Narratological Approach to the Characterization(s) of Zacchaeus(Luke 19:1–10)* “It is no exaggeration to think that in the first case readers are moved, in the second they smile and in the third they grimace.” With these words, Daniel Marguerat and Yvan Bourquin summarize readerly reactions to three character portraits in Luke’s Gospel – respectively, the introduction of a widow whose son had died (7:12), the description of the vertically challenged Zacchaeus (19:3), and the reference to money-loving Pharisees who scoff at Jesus (16:14).1 Marguerat and Bourquin thus hint at the possibility of examining the mind-relevant aspects of storytelling practices, including how our grasp of narratives  – and, in this case, characters – surpasses an inventory and analysis of such elements as setting, plot, time, and the like, and therefore moves beyond any notion that characters are constituted simply through narrative artistry. This is true even if, as we will see, Marguerat and Bourquin prematurely judge how actual readers might respond to a Lukan character like Zacchaeus. Building on earlier forms of postclassical study of narratives, cognitive narratology unleashes a wider range of questions, including how textual cues evoke inferences about and experiences of characters on the part of readers as well as how readers actively participate in the construction of characters.2 In fact, an analysis of Luke 19:1–10, Jesus’s encounter with Zacchaeus, provides an unusually rich case study for a character analysis informed by cognitive narratology. On the one hand, this is because of the complex of explicit ways the narrator and characters within Luke’s account label Zacchaeus: ruler among * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “A Cognitive Narratological Approach to the Characterization(s) of Zacchaeus,” in Characters and Characterization in Luke-Acts, ed. Frank Dicken and Julia Snyder, LNTS 548 (London: T&T Clark [an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.], 2016), 109–20. Used with permission. 1 Daniel Marguerat and Yvan Bourquin, How to Read Bible Stories: An Introduction to Narrative Criticism (London: SCM, 1999), 68. They are dependent on Mark Allan Powell’s reduction of readerly reactions to empathy, sympathy, or antipathy (What Is Narrative Criticism?, GBS [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990], 56–58). 2  The best introduction to cognitive narratology is David Herman, “Cognitive Narratology,” in Handbook of Narratology, ed. Peter Hühn et al. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 30–43; idem, “Cognitive Narratology (last modified March 13, 2013),” in The Living Handbook of Narratology, ed. Peter Hühn et al. (Hamburg: Hamburg University). Available online: http://wikis.sub. uni-hamburg.de/lhn/index.php/Cognitive_Narratology.

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tax collectors, rich, short, sinner, son of Abraham, and lost; the ways Luke has Zacchaeus represent himself when he refers to Jesus as “Lord” and claims certain practices vis-à-vis the poor and swindled; and the implicit ways Luke maps Zacchaeus in terms of social space: up, down; in, out; and near, far. Even overt labels can be deceiving, however. After all, it is one thing to identify Zacchaeus in such-and-such a way, but quite another to thicken those identifiers with reference to their source (Whose perspective? How reliable?), their potential complexity, and their encyclopedic development within the narrative itself.3 Luke 19:1–10 serves as a valuable case study, on the other hand, because of the numerous gaps and potential ambiguities characteristic of this narrative account. What did Zacchaeus know of Jesus such that he wanted to see who Jesus was? How did Jesus know Zacchaeus’s name? Who are the onlookers who label Zacchaeus as a “sinner”? Where are Jesus and Zacchaeus located in v. 8 – that is, does Zacchaeus “stand up” (as if they had been sharing a meal in his home) or “stand still” (as if they were still on the way to his home) or “stand firm” (wherever, as if he were taking a stand against those who malign him as a sinner)?4 On what basis does Zacchaeus refer to Jesus as “Lord”? Should we interpret the present active indicative verbs δίδωμι (“I give”) and ἀποδίδωμι (“I repay”) as examples of the futuristic present, signifying “present resolve,” or as examples of the iterative or customary present?5 When Jesus responds to Zacchaeus (εἶπεν δὲ πρὸς αὐτὸν ὁ Ἰησοῦς), why does he speak about him in the third person (καθότι καὶ αὐτὸς υἱὸς Ἀβραάμ ἐστιν), as though he were speaking to others present, perhaps even to Zacchaeus’s hecklers? To crib a concept from Wolfgang Iser, we might say that, with this account at least, Luke has provided us with a particularly gappy text, a text whose deficits can be negotiated in more than one way, with the result that different readers might understandably actualize the text in different ways and thus visualize different Zacchaeuses.6 Indeed, for almost three decades, I have 3  See H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 122–26. 4  These are among the possible translations of ἵστημι in v. 8 (σταθεὶς δὲ Ζακχαῖος εἶπεν). 5  For the former view, see, e. g., Ladislav Tichý, “Was hat Zachäus geantwortet (Lk 19,8),” Bib 92 (2011): 21–38; Robert C. Tannehill, “The Story of Zacchaeus as Rhetoric,” in The Shape of Luke’s Story: Essays on Luke-Acts (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2005), 73–83; Dennis Hamm, “Luke 19:8 Once Again: Does Zacchaeus Defend or Resolve?” JBL 107 (1988): 431–37. For the latter, see, e. g., D. A. S. Ravens, “Zacchaeus: The Final Part of a Lukan Triptych?” JSNT 41 (1991): 19–32; Alan C. Mitchell, “Zacchaeus Revisited: Luke 19,8 as a Defense,” Bib 71 (1990): 153–76; idem, “The Use of συκοφαντεῖν in Luke 19,8: Further Evidence for Zacchaeus’s Defense,” Bib 72 (1991): 546–47; Richard C. White, “Vindication for Zacchaeus?” ExpTim 91 (1979): 21. 6 For the notion of textual gaps to be filled in by the reader, see Wolfgang Iser, The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974). For Iser’s understanding of indeterminacy, see idem, The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 163–231. I am more at home with Umberto Eco’s notion of the “open work,” with its network of possibilities by which readers complete the text (e. g., The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts, AS [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979]).

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regularly involved my students in translating and interpreting Luke 19:1–10, pressing them to clarify for their peers what they regard as patently obvious. Without fail, this has resulted in spirited debates about what is “self-evident” in this narrative account; admittedly, less regularly, this has resulted in students’ growing awareness of the contribution readers make to actualizing Luke’s story – and, especially, to imagining Zacchaeus as a character in that story. Arguably, then, rather than debate whose is the “real Zacchaeus,” we should recognize that the gaps in Luke’s text can be filled in more than one way, so as to promote a limited number of sometimes quite different narrations of the one story. In what follows, then, I have no desire to foreclose ongoing conversation about Zacchaeus, nor to urge that this interpretation is the only correct one. Rather, informed by the construction of characters in cognitive narratology, I want to sketch a particular reading and demonstrate its coherence with the Lukan narrative.

Labelling Zacchaeus, Mapping Zacchaeus In the narrative of Luke-Acts,7 Zacchaeus is a decidedly minor character, appearing in a single, brief account. This is important for two reasons. First, people like Zacchaeus otherwise serve as little more than faces in the crowd, one of dozens of character types (e. g., merchants, artisans, minor officials, synagogue leaders, and day workers) that might be assumed to inhabit any urban landscape Luke paints. That he would be mentioned at all is a curiosity. Moreover, since minor characters typically represent well-known scripts, we might assume that this one will simply repeat the expected lines in the scene that unfolds.8 Such assumptions would quickly be frustrated, however, since the script we might predict of Zacchaeus quickly unravels into competing scripts. Second, perhaps because of the brevity of this account, Luke frontloads the scene with an expansive assemblage of character tags, then adds others as the story unfolds. It is as if Luke invites readers to make snap judgments about Zacchaeus – judgments, however, that 7  Albeit with different aims than the current one, I have written of Zacchaeus earlier; consequently, this analysis will inevitably overlap with my other publications – Joel B. Green, “Good News to Whom? Jesus and the ‘Poor’ in the Gospel of Luke,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 59–74; idem, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 666–73; idem, “Hospitality for Kids: A Lukan Perspective on Children and God’s Agenda,” in Exploring and Engaging Spirituality for Today’s Children, ed. La Verne Tolbert (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2014), 25–39; idem, Conversion in Luke-Acts: Divine Action, Human Cognition, and the People of God (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2015), 105–19. 8  Cf. Catherine Emmott, “Constructing Social Space: Sociocognitive Factors in the Interpretation of Character Relations,” in Narrative Theory and the Cognitive Sciences, ed. David Herman, CSLILN 158 (Stanford, CA: Center for the Study of Language and Information, 2003), 295–321 (310).

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would be complicated both by this unprecedented collocation of labels and by the way the account actually progresses. If we think of character development on a continuum between constraint and freedom, more or less determined, we might imagine the Zacchaeus is locked into a character type by the pattern this account follows. Dennis Hamm, for example, finds parallels among three Lukan texts that for him identify a conversion story (5:27–32; 15:1–32; 19:1–10): table fellowship, murmuring against Jesus’s behavior, Jesus’s defense, images of salvation, and rejoicing. David Matson writes of a household evangelism taxonomy (10:5–7; 19:1–10; et al.): entering homes of economically established householders, proclaiming the message of salvation, and remaining in those homes for table fellowship. Fernando Méndez-Moratalla has identified a Lukan conversion paradigm and studies 19:1–10 as one of its exemplars: divine initiative especially among the marginal, conflict or polarized responses to God’s plan, the universal need for a response of repentance, the expression of repentance in the proper use of possessions, the offer of forgiveness (sometimes expressed in joy and table fellowship), and a climactic statement regarding the nature of Jesus’s ministry.9 According to these readings, Zacchaeus can be understood in only one way, a sinner who converts, since his primary function is to fill a slot in a purported Lukan conversionary pattern. Under closer examination, however, this approach falters. On the one hand, the language of conversion is absent from 19:1–10, the salvific message is never proclaimed, and the promise of table fellowship is never actualized. In other words, the pattern fits only if one first assumes the pattern, assumes 19:1–10 belongs to the pattern, and posits the assumed presence of missing components otherwise definitive of the pattern. It is hard not to conclude that Lukan data have been pressed into a preformed mold. On the other hand, Luke’s narrative evidences a quite different “pattern” in relation to which the story of Jesus’s encounter with Zacchaeus might be understood. I refer to a handful of episodes in which people identify themselves through their behavior as having aligned themselves with God’s kingdom, but whose conversion Luke never recounts. For example, when and on what basis were the sins of the woman from the city forgiven (7:36–50)? How does one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus exercise genuine insight into Jesus’s identity, such that Jesus promises him a place with him in paradise (23:40–43)? In these and other instances, it is as if we join the story midstream, with Luke’s narrative logically presupposing encounters with God’s good news, encounters to which the evangelist has given his readers no access. Zacchaeus obviously engages in conversionary behavior (19:8), but, read alongside these accounts, we would remain agnostic regarding when he thus oriented his life in 9  Hamm, “Luke 19:8,” 426–37; David Lertis Matson, Household Conversion Narratives in Acts: Pattern and Interpretation, JSNTSup 123 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996); Fernando Méndez-Moratalla, The Paradigm of Conversion in Luke, JSNTSup 252 (London: T&T Clark, 2004).

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relation to God’s kingdom. My point is simply that appeal to Lukan “patterns” cannot foreclose the question of how Luke portrays Zacchaeus. What, then, of the various labels Luke uses of Zacchaeus? First, he is a ruler (or chief or leader) – in Luke’s world, someone of relatively high status, an overseer with administrative authority, associated in Luke’s Gospel with a company of others similarly designated: high priests (3:2; 22:50, 54), synagogue leaders (8:41, 49; 13:14), chief priests (9:22; 19:47; 20:1, 19; 22:2, 4, 54, 66; 23:4, 10; 23:13; 24:20), the demon-lord (11:15), governmental authorities or sovereigns (12:11, 58; 20:20), a leading Pharisee (14:1), a “certain ruler” (18:18), and the Jerusalem elite as a group (23:35).10 Any honorifics that we might be tempted to give Zacchaeus would be harshly contested by the cultural encyclopedia Luke constructs with his narrative. After all, Luke’s Gospel uniformly portrays “rulers” negatively in relation to Jesus and his message, beginning already in Mary’s poetic celebration of God’s gracious intervention on behalf of his people: “He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones; he has raised up the lowly” (1:52). Any impulse we might have toward allocating elevated status to Zacchaeus on account of his identification as a “ruler” would be militated against, too, by the nature of his “realm”: he is a ruler, yes, but a ruler of tax collectors.11 Tax collecting was perhaps the prototypical form of private enterprise in the Roman Empire. Long before Luke’s Gospel was written, Rome discontinued the practice of collecting its own taxes, instead selling the right to collect taxes to the highest bidder, who himself farmed out the work of collecting taxes to others. By way of analogy, we might imagine a pyramid scheme in which revenues from goods sold make their way up multiple levels of businesspeople, with each along the way taking a share of the profits. A major difference, of course, is that private enterprise in the service of Rome focused on collecting taxes, not selling goods. The tax rate might be set at ten percent, but this varied widely and tax collectors often simply took whatever they could get away with. Recall John the Baptist’s directive to tax collectors: “Collect no more than you are authorized to collect” (3:13) – counsel that suggests a tendency among tax collectors to pad their own pockets. Luke’s tax collectors are typically those who occupy the front lines of the enterprise. People like this served as the public face of the business, and as such were tagged with all sorts of insults: thieves, snoops, and corrupt, the social equivalent of pimps and traitors. In Luke’s Gospel, the generally low public regard for tax collectors is accentuated by their vituperative association with “sinners” (5:30; 7:34; 15:1; 18:13). Even when these entrepreneurs were wealthy (and it is eas10 That is, any character identified as an ἄρχων (“ruler”) or with a compound using the prefix ἄρχι‑ (“ruling, leading”). 11  For details on tax collection, I depend on Ernst Badian, Publicans and Sinners: Private Enterprise in the Service of the Roman Republic (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1983); Fritz Herrenbrück, Jesus und die Zöllner: Historische und neutestamentlichexegetische Untersuchungen, WUNT 2/41 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1990); Otto Michel, “τελώνης,” TDNT 8:88–105.

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ier to imagine wealth accruing to the upper echelons of the hierarchy than to the bottom), they occupied lower rungs on the status ladder than their wealth might suggest. Theirs was “new money,” money gained from work – and widely detested work at that; contrast this with the resources and status of those from old families with vast land holdings. The exception to the typical tax collector in Luke’s Gospel is Zacchaeus, whom Luke introduces with a term otherwise unknown in ancient Greek literature: ἀρχιτελώνης, usually translated “chief tax collector” (e. g., NAB, NRSV, TNIV). As I have already suggested, the job title itself reflects Luke’s widespread interest in “rulers,” though here it apparently also designates Zacchaeus’s role as the head of a group of tax collectors, a kind of “district manager,” responsible for collecting customs on the lucrative trade route between Perea (to the east) and Judea (to the west), which passed through Jericho.12 This would help to explain a further term the narrator uses to characterize Zacchaeus: he was wealthy. If in Luke’s world rulers are elevated and tax collectors are held at arm’s length, it would be difficult to find a simple gloss for those with wealth. We have already seen that wealth has to be parsed with respect to its source – for example, landed wealth versus wealth achieved through business dealings. If we consider the cultural encyclopedia Luke has provided in his narrative, though, wealth is less ambiguous. God “has sent the rich away empty-handed,” Mary proclaims (1:53), and this is only the beginning of an altogether negative portrayal of those who carry the label “rich” or “wealthy.” The fate of the wealthy is a terrible one (6:24–25; 16:19–31), wealth chokes faith (8:14), since it entices people to pursue standing and security apart from God (12:13–21, 33–34), and rich people who want to enter God’s kingdom face insurmountable obstacles, at least from a human vantage point (18:24). Erasing any possible trace of uncertainty on the subject, Jesus announces, “You cannot serve God and wealth” (16:13). Character tags continue. Luke writes that Zacchaeus was unable to see Jesus “because of the crowd” (ἀπὸ τοῦ ὄχλου – using ἀπό in its causal sense). Just as the disciples constructed a barrier between Jesus and infants (18:15), so the crowd walled Zacchaeus off from Jesus. Just as those who led the parade coming into Jericho blocked a blind man’s access to Jesus (18:39), so the crowd has blocked Zacchaeus’s access to Jesus. Luke, it seems, pictures the crowd as it closes ranks against Zacchaeus, a portrait helped along by their subsequent reference to him as a “sinner.” Note, first, that calling Zacchaeus a sinner does not make it so; this is the crowd’s opinion, after all, and crowds in Luke’s Gospel have not proven themselves to be reliable judges of character or identity (e. g., 3:7; 4:42; 5:19; 7:24; 9:18–19). Observe, second, that scholars champion a range of options for communicating the sense of the term “sinner”: the wicked, for example, as well 12 This was suggested long ago by Frédéric Louis Godet, A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke, 5th ed., 2 vols. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1870), 2:216.

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as those who reject the Pharisees’ holiness program, the immoral, and so on.13 Frederick Danker gets us close to how Luke uses the term at this juncture when he recognizes that “being considered an outsider because of failure to conform to certain standards is a [frequent] semantic component.”14 Here, “sinner” is a relative term, measured in relation to a particular group – in this case marking Zacchaeus as a socio-religious leper. What Luke has given us thus far, then, is a baffling presentation of Zacchaeus. If Jesus and his message comprise the landmark by which we measure life’s orientation and trajectory, then Zacchaeus is a man torn in two directions, nothing short of schizophrenic. He is a ruler, but a ruler of tax collectors. He is rich, but regarded by a gallery of onlookers as a sinner. The customary labels fail, their paradoxical complexity undermining any attempt to prejudge Zacchaeus’s character. What of that other set of images Luke uses to tell Zacchaeus’s story, images of verticality: up, down? Zacchaeus was “short in stature,” he “climbed up” a sycamore tree, Jesus “looked up” and told Zacchaeus to “come down,” and Zacchaeus “came down.” As Luke sets the stage, our heads bobble up and down as we follow the action. In fact, Luke’s vertical images compete with each other. Humorously, Zacchaeus elevates himself in his quest to see the one whom he addresses with the high-ranking title, “Lord.” If Zacchaeus is a “ruler,” does this mean that his throne is a sycamore tree? What is a grown man doing in a tree? “How childish!” people might say, both then and now. We must allow for the strong likelihood that others would have looked down on Zacchaeus. This is not because Zacchaeus suffers from dwarfism, as Mikeal Parsons would have it,15 but because he suffers from the ailment accompanying those who are shorter than their peers (not least in a case like Zacchaeus’s, in which his short stature serves as an identifying feature), those for whom diminutive stature is correlated generally with diminutive status. Twenty-five years of psychological research have demonstrated that height is a metaphor for power and status, with those who are taller more likely to acquire respect and 13  Cf., e. g., Marcus Borg, Conflict, Holiness and Politics in the Teachings of Jesus (Lewiston, NY: Mellen, 1984); E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985); David A. Neale, None but the Sinners: Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke, JSNTSup 58 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991); Dwayne H. Adams, The Sinner in Luke, ETSMS (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2008). 14  BDAG 51. Cf. James D. G. Dunn, “Pharisees, Sinners, and Jesus,” in The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism: Essays in Tribute to Howard Clark Kee, ed. Jacob Neusner, Peder Borgen, Ernest S. Frerichs, and Richard Horsley (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 264–89 (esp. 275–80). 15 Mikeal C. Parsons, Body and Character in Luke and Acts (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006), 97–108; Parsons is followed, e. g., by Amos Yong, “Zacchaeus: Short and Un-Seen,” in Christian Reflection: A Series in Faith and Ethics – Disability, ed. Robert B. Kruschwitz (Waco, TX: The Center for Christian Ethics at Baylor University, 2012), 11–17. As Parsons himself admits, the vocabulary of dwarfism is missing from Luke’s account, and the language Luke does use is hardly unique to dwarfism.

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influence.16 This is consistent with the way humans generally correlate “up” with “more” and “down” with “less.” That is, Luke has given us a clear instance of the universal, conceptual metaphor according to which the physical experience of verticality is mapped onto subjective experiences of quantity, leading to a range of novel associations: UP IS POWERFUL, UP IS IMPORTANT, and so on. Zacchaeus is “down,” and so of lesser standing and lower status. Given these conceptual linkages, we cannot help but observe how Luke thus associates Zacchaeus in ch. 19 with infants in ch. 18 – smaller than those around them and spurned either by the disciples or more generally by those looking on (18:15; 19:7), but nonetheless recognized and blessed by Jesus as exemplary (18:16–17; 19:9–10). Imagining each of these labels as “containers,” with each representing a subset of a particular class, we come face to face with the enigma that is Zacchaeus. There are sinners and there are rulers, there are tax collectors and there are little people, and there are the shunned and there are the wealthy. Within the Lukan narrative, some of these subsets have overlapped, but others are quite distinct. We can imagine a rich ruler, for example (18:18–23), and we have seen tax collectors grouped with sinners (5:30; 7:34; 15:1). Zacchaeus perplexes because his identity overflows the available sets. If we think of character construction in terms of the time-honored categories of “flat” and “round,” then we can see how each of these containers, each of these subsets, each of these labels seeks on its own to flatten Zacchaeus, to cast him as a one-dimensional “type”; their unprecedented combination refuses any such reduction, however. He breaks the mold. He is one of a kind. While we have been tracking the explicit tags given Zacchaeus, Luke has been mapping Zacchaeus in other ways as well. As readers infer character traits, they sometimes draw on extratextual assumptions (including their biases regarding people with whom they catalog Zacchaeus) or give in to the allure of referential approaches to character making (that is, they project into the text what they imagine to be true of the historical Zacchaeus). This seems to have been the case with Cyril of Alexandria, who taps into Zacchaeus’s interior life when he describes “a man entirely abandoned to greed, whose only goal was the increase of his gains.”17 Clearly, a single textual clue concerning Zacchaeus unlooses Cyril’s 16  E. g., Donald B. Egolf and Lloyd E. Corder, “Height Differences of Low and High Job Status, Female and Male Corporate Employees,” Sex Roles 24 (1991): 365–73; Timothy A. Judge and Daniel M. Cable, “The Effect of Physical Height on Workplace Success and Income: Preliminary Test of a Theoretical Model,” Basic and Applied Social Psychology 89 (2004): 428–41; Thomas W. Schubert, “Your Highness: Vertical Positions as Perceptual Symbols of Power,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 89 (2005): 1–21; Steffen R. Giessner and Thomas W. Schubert, “High in the Hierarchy: How Vertical Location and Judgments of Leaders’ Power Are Interrelated,” Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes 104 (2007): 30–44. 17  Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on Luke, Sermon 127; cited in Arthur A. Just Jr., ed., Luke, ACCS: New Testament 3 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003), 289–90; emphasis added.

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imagination, so that he sidesteps the possibility of wrestling with the ambiguity of Luke’s portrayal. If, with Cyril, we were to run roughshod over Zacchaeus’s dueling markers of identity, if we were inclined to paint Zacchaeus in negative hues only, then would we not stumble over Luke’s report of Zacchaeus’s quest to see Jesus? Alongside this small window into Zacchaeus’s psychology stands another: his joy at the prospect of welcoming Jesus. Luke’s use of the language of “joy” and “happiness” elsewhere encourages the view that, even at this early stage of the account, Zacchaeus is hardly an outsider to God’s agenda but should be numbered among those who participate in God’s gift of salvation.18 Read together, these two windows into Zacchaeus’s interior life might suggest the need for “cognitive repair” on our part, pressing us, retrospectively, to reimagine Zacchaeus’s place in the story.19 Negative images of Zacchaeus would be countered, again, by his agreement with Luke the narrator concerning Jesus’s identity (19:8): Luke: “Zacchaeus stopped and said to the Lord ….” Zacchaeus: “Look, Lord, I give ….”

Significantly, Luke and Zacchaeus refer to Jesus as “Lord” (κύριος), but Jesus’s disciples sometimes refer to him, inappropriately, as “boss” or “supervisor” (ἐπιστάτης [5:5; 8:24, 45; 9:33, 49]).20 Moreover, Luke provides no basis for assuming that Zacchaeus’s accurate assessment of Jesus as Lord evidences a turnaround in his life, as though his view of Jesus changed between his wanting to see Jesus and his words to him. What of social space in Luke’s account? Since we have solid evidence that, at a preconscious level, humans correlate spatial and social distance, and that our brains are wired to do so,21 we should reflect seriously on how, in character-construction, spatial experience maps onto relational concepts. Using the container schema, we conceptualize others as “in” or “out,” and thus we can speak of the cognitive metaphor CLOSENESS IS BELONGING.22 Turning to 19:1–10, we find both that Zacchaeus is separate from the crowd (shunned) and that the crowd has positioned itself between Zacchaeus and Jesus (obstructed). Zacchaeus seeks 18  Cf., e. g., 1:14; 2:10; 6:23; 8:13; 10:17, 20; 15:5, 7, 10, 32; Joel B. Green, “Joy,” DJG2 448–50 (esp. 449). 19  For “cognitive repair,” see Emmott, “Constructing Social Space,” 307–8. 20  Cf. C. Kavin Rowe, Early Narrative Christology: The Lord in the Gospel of Luke, BZNW 139 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), esp. 84–89. 21  E. g., Carolyn Parkinson, Shari Liu, and Thalia Wheatley, “A Common Cortical Matrix for Spatial, Temporal, and Social Distance,” Journal of Neuroscience 34, no. 5 (2014): 1979–87; Yoshinori Yamakawa et al., “Social Distance Evaluation in Human Parietal Cortex,” PLoS ONE 4, no. 2 (2009) (available online: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih. gov/pmc/articles/PMC2635936); Michael Peer et al., “Brain System for Mental Orientation in Space, Time, and Person,” Proceedings of the National Academic of Science 112, no. 35 (2015): 11072–77. 22  Cf. Mark Johnson, The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 30–40; Emmott, “Constructing Social Space,” 315–19.

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to overcome his exile by climbing a tree – behavior that results in his proximity to Jesus. In stages, then, Jesus closes the space between himself and Zacchaeus – with his directive to Zacchaeus that he come down (and join Jesus at the foot of the tree), his announcement that God’s agenda is served (δεῖ, “it is necessary” [v. 5]) by his sharing Zacchaeus’s hospitality, and his embarking with Zacchaeus on the path to his home (εἰσέρχομαι [v. 7]) – with the result that others are effectively distanced from Jesus and Zacchaeus, reduced to the role of onlookers (v. 7). The progressive closeness (“in”) of this pair, Jesus and Zacchaeus, marks the exclusion (“out”) of these others. This is not because Jesus or Zacchaeus set out to form an exclusive or exclusionary in-group, but because the crowd had separated itself from Zacchaeus. From their perspective, Zacchaeus is “down” and “out.” As Jesus identifies himself with Zacchaeus, their shunning, grumbling displeasure toward Zacchaeus extends to Jesus as well. Setting aside for the moment all labels, we see that Zacchaeus takes extraordinary initiative to seek Jesus out and joyfully extends hospitality to him. Zacchaeus does more than meet Jesus in the streets and share a meal with him – behavior that brings with it no guarantees of sharing in the eschatological feast (cf. 13:23–30). Rather, through his practices of restitution and sharing with the poor, his behavior recapitulates John the Baptist’s exposition of conversionary practices (3:7–14): he shares half of what he has (cf. 3:11), and he acts on a commitment to collect no more than is authorized (cf. 3:13) by repaying any who are cheated under his watch (συκοφαντέω, “to extort,” appears in both 3:14 and 19:8).23 Simply put, Zacchaeus exhibits a life oriented toward God’s purpose – and yet remains on the fringes of his socio-religious world. We turn, finally, to Jesus’s characterization of Zacchaeus. He does not label Zacchaeus as a ruler or a tax collector or a rich man or a sinner or a short man of low status. To Jesus, Zacchaeus is a son of Abraham. This moniker does not identify Zacchaeus simply as a Jew; for Luke, bloodlines do not make Abraham’s 23  Two common objections to the view that Luke thus presents Zacchaeus’s characteristic behavior come into focus here. (1) How can Zacchaeus be wealthy if he gives half of what he has to the poor? I have to admit that I do not understand the force of this objection. Apparently, a wealthy man can dress himself (repeatedly, with ἐνεδιδύσκετο in the imperfect) opulently in fine linen and purple, feast luxuriously every day, and remain wealthy (16:19), just as, today, (relatively) wealthy people practice various forms of wealth redistribution (tithing, gift-giving, etc.) and remain (relatively) wealthy. Is it not imaginable that Zacchaeus’s position in the pyramidal system of collecting taxes could be understood as replenishing his resources so that he was able to keep giving to the poor? (2) How can Zacchaeus’s characteristic behavior be conversionary if he must continuously repay those whom he defrauded? The sting of this objection is mitigated when we remember that Luke presents Zacchaeus as one who oversees frontline tax collectors, not as a frontline tax collector himself. If he takes responsibility for the behavior of those who work under his authority, then he would repay taxpayers when they were charged too much. It is fascinating that neither John the Baptist nor Jesus directs his audience to cease their work as tax collectors, thus suggesting the problem of facile stereotypes and the possibility of faithful life as a tax collector.

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children. “Do not begin to say among yourselves, ‘Abraham is our father,’” John the Baptist warned (3:8). Rather, in Luke’s cultural encyclopedia, Abraham’s descendants are recipients of God’s mercy (1:54–55), they engage in conversionary practices (including those practices that characterize Zacchaeus’s life [3:7–14; 19:8]), they are the marginal loosed from bondage (13:10–17), and they are spurned in this life but blessed in the life to come (16:19–31). Abraham’s children (1) occupy society’s fringes where they are easily ignored, yet God responds to them with fidelity and mercy, or (2) demonstrate their family resemblance with Abraham through their socio-economic relations and hospitality. As though Luke were skilled in double-exposure photography, we see both likenesses in the one image of Zacchaeus. Luke, thus, uses the story of Zacchaeus to deconstruct all labels and all label-making save one. “Abraham’s child” – this is the tag that matters. One final question: What does it mean that Zacchaeus is counted among “the lost” whom the Son of Man has come to seek and to save (19:10)? Jesus’s climactic pronouncement encourages reflection within the interpretive horizons of Luke 15 and Ezek 34. In Luke 15, Jesus responds to the indictment brought against him by the Pharisees and legal experts by telling three parables in which finding the lost leads to heavenly and earthly celebration. In short, Jesus defends his eating with tax collectors and sinners with his claim that his behavior participates in God’s. What does it mean to be “lost”? Luke gives us no straightforward answer. Clearly, the younger son chose a life apart from his family, community, and religious traditions, giving rise to Jesus’s multivalent remark that this son journeyed to “a distant country” (15:13). That he came to his senses and returned home is a textbook example of repentance.24 Nevertheless, it is difficult to imagine how a coin, or even a sheep, might “repent”; they are simply lost, then found, and their finding is celebrated. Ezekiel 34 adds to this overall portrait since here God’s people need to be rescued, or restored, but are not called to repentance. They are lost, not because of sinful choices from which they need to turn but because of the failure of their leaders (34:1–5). Therefore, the Lord stands against the shepherds and announces that he will take their place: “Behold, I will search for my sheep and watch over them.” “This is what the Lord says: I will seek the lost, and I will turn about the one that strayed, and I will bind up the crushed, and I will strengthen the abandoned, and I will watch the strong, and I will feed them with judgment” (34:11, 15–16, NETS). 24  William L. Holladay, The Root Šûbh in the Old Testament: With Particular Reference to Its Usages in Covenantal Contexts (Leiden: Brill, 1958), 53: “Having moved in a particular direction, to move thereupon in the opposite direction, the implication being (unless there is evidence to the contrary) that one will arrive again at the initial point of departure” (original in italics).

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By way of analogy, Luke 15 portrays the Pharisees and legal experts as failed leaders, and tax collectors and sinners as God’s scattered people whom God seeks to shepherd. The “lost” are those spurned by Pharisees and legal experts, and so the lost-but-found sheep, coin, and son signify those tax collectors and sinners with whom Jesus gathers at the table. Similarly, in seeking hospitality with Zacchaeus, who was himself scorned by his townspeople, Jesus identifies himself with Ezekiel’s Lord, who seeks and saves the lost.

Conclusion Is the Zacchaeus Luke portrays simple or complex? Is he a sinner who repents or a lover of peace (as Jesus calls those who welcome his ambassadors [10:5–6])? How we read Luke’s account depends on how we negotiate the many qualities Luke associates with Zacchaeus – through explicit tags, through small windows into Zacchaeus’s interior life, through Zacchaeus’s behavior, and through the many ways Luke maps Zacchaeus in terms of social space. In some cases, I have suggested, the way forward is signposted with insights from cognitive linguistics, including conceptual metaphor theory and cognitive grammar, which pulls the curtains back on some mind-relevant aspects of character construction. In Luke 19:1–10, a man committed (ζητέω) to seeing Jesus finds that Jesus was committed (ζητέω) to finding him. An outsider in relation to his own townspeople, yet a man whose life exhibits his alignment toward God’s purpose, Zacchaeus (and with him, his household), is found by Jesus and restored to the community of God’s people. This is what it means to save the lost.

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The Demise of the Temple as “Culture Center” in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49)* Luke may have been gaining ground as a narrative theologian in the last three decades, but there is much ground to recover. Outside the arena of soteriology, nowhere have scholarly instincts to assume in Luke a Pauline or Markan voice been more apparent than with regard to the theology of the temple and its destruction. This essay focuses on one significant aspect of Luke’s portrait of the temple, namely, the rending of the temple veil (Luke 23:45b), by examining the Lukan account of the tearing of the temple curtain within the context of his account of Jesus’s death (23:44–49), and against the backdrop of his larger treatment of the temple in Luke-Acts. Luke’s account of the rending of the temple veil is curious for two reasons. First, if Luke were following Mark (or Matthew) he has transposed this “event” to an anterior position vis-à-vis Jesus’s expiration. Second, Luke’s overall treatment of the temple is much more positive than Mark’s and, surprisingly (if Mark’s interpretation of the rending of the temple veil as a sign of the temple’s end is presumed), Acts continues this largely positive portrait. These phenomena give rise in this essay first to an examination of two source-critical questions concerning the death scene in Luke 23, and then to a literary-theological and sociological reading of the temple material in Luke-Acts. This essay argues that the rending of the temple veil in Luke is of a piece with the larger Lukan emphasis on the obliteration of the barriers between those peoples previously divided by status and ethnicity.

Luke 23:44–49: A Question of Sources Even though our primary focus is on the report of the rending of the temple veil in Luke 23:45b (ἐσχίσθη δὲ τὸ καταπέτασμα τοῦ ναοῦ μέσον), the question of Luke’s source(s) cannot be so narrowly defined. Assuming Luke’s use of the * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “The Demise of the Temple as ‘Culture Center’ in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49),” RB 101 (1994): 495–515. Used with permission.

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Second Gospel as a source,1 it is easy enough to account for this clause as a Lukan reworking of Mark 15:38 (καὶ τὸ καταπέτασμα τοῦ ναοῦ ἐσχίσθη εἰς δύο ἀπ᾿ ἄνωθεν ἕως κάτω): Luke often substitutes δέ for Mark’s καί, and the adverbial μέσον follows classical and Lukan usage (cf. Luke 22:55; Acts 1:18).2 However, this does not account for (1) the noticeable transposition of this narrative report from its posterior position vis-à-vis Jesus’s death in Mark’s account to its anterior position in Luke’s, nor (2) the slim possibility that this detail would have been available to Luke independent of some sort of more complete, narrative report of Jesus’s death. Although any argument for or against Luke’s use of a non-Markan, continuous passion source must be cumulative,3 for the purposes of this essay, we may restrict our analysis to those aspects of Luke’s account of Jesus’s death (23:44–49) having direct bearing on the literary-theological discussion to follow. The Darkness and the Temple Veil (23:45) Luke’s explanation of the phenomenon of darkness in 23:44  – τοῦ ἡλίου ἐκλιπόντος (23:45a) – and the rending of the temple veil may be treated together since a number of scholars see them as two parts of one interpretive whole, attributable to Luke. Thus, after noting how Luke fails to supply a realistic explanation for the three hours’ darkness (“as eclipses cannot coincide with a full moon”), Michael Goulder writes, “He brings the rending of the Temple veil forward, so as to have the portents together: both signify God’s anger with Jewry, the second the coming destruction of the Temple.”4 Anton Büchele likewise wants to interpret

1  In this essay we presuppose Markan priority; see Christopher M. Tuckett, The Revival of the Griesbach Hypothesis: An Analysis and Appraisal, SNTSMS 44 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). Contra Vincent Taylor (The Passion Narrative of St. Luke: A Critical and Historical Investigation, ed. Owen E. Evans, SNTSMS 9 [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972]) and Joachim Jeremias (Die Sprache des Lukasevangeliums: Redaktion und Tradition im Nicht-Markusstoff des dritten Evangeliums, KEKS [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980]), we do not assume that, if Luke possessed a non-Markan source for his narrative of Jesus’s death, it must have formed an integrated source L with its own characteristic vocabulary. 2  See Taylor, Passion, 95; Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to S. Luke, 5th ed., ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1901), 538. 3  For recent, opposing viewpoints on the question of whether Luke used a non-Markan passion narrative, see (for) Joel B. Green, The Death of Jesus: Tradition and Interpretation in the Passion Narrative, WUNT 2/33 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988), 24–104; (against) Marion L. Soards, The Passion according to Luke: The Special Material of Luke 22, JSNTSup 14 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987); and the series of articles by Frank J. Matera: “Luke 22:66–71: Jesus before the Presbyterion,” in L’Évangile de Luc – The Gospel of Luke, revised and enlarged edition of L’Évangile de Luc: Problèmes littéraires et théologiques: Mémorial Lucien Cerfaux, ed. Frans Neirynck, BETL 32 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1989), 517–33; idem, “Luke 23:1–25: Jesus before Pilate, Herod, and Israel’, in L’Évangile de Luc – The Gospel of Luke, 535–51; idem, “The Death of Jesus according to Luke: A Question of Sources,” CBQ 47 (1985): 469–85. 4  Michael A. Goulder, Luke: A New Paradigm, 2 vols., JSNTSup 20 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 2:769.

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them together – as apocalyptic signs rooted in Joel 3:4 LXX: wonders in heaven, signs on the earth.5 The most sustained argument of this nature, however, is by Frank Matera. On the issue of the transposition of the temple veil, Matera reasons that, because the temple was to have a positive role to play in Acts, Luke wanted to avoid the impression that the death of Jesus signaled the end of the temple and its cult. Hence, Luke altered Mark’s account so as not to give the impression of the temple’s final destruction. Matera also argues that Luke has altered Mark in order to align the report of the torn curtain with that of darkness; together, they serve as portents that the “last days” have been set in motion by Jesus’s death.6 As has now been repeatedly argued, Luke’s attitude toward the temple is more positive than that of Mark;7 hence, Matera is surely correct in his move away from interpreting the torn veil as a portent of temple destruction. But a puzzle remains. If Luke has been motivated by the desire to avoid the impression that the death of Jesus is the end of the temple and its cult, why include any mention of the rending of the temple veil in this context? Just as Luke excised the threat of temple destruction from the account of Jesus before the Jewish council (Mark 14:57–58; Luke 22:66–71; cf. Acts 6:13–14), could he not have chosen to delete this detail here? By simply transposing the order of these two events, Jesus’s death and the rending of the temple veil, has Luke really succeeded in disassociating them? Moreover, what are we to make of Matera’s suggestion that, in its Lukan redaction, the torn curtain has become a portent of the last days? He thus sees here a sign on the earth (cf. Joel 2:30). Elsewhere, Luke clearly reveals his understanding that the fulfillment of Joel’s prophecy signifies the “last days” (see the addition of ἐν ταῖς ἐσχάταις ἡμέραις to the Joel-citation in Acts 2:17). There is, however, no evidence that Luke anticipated any such fulfillment of the rest of Joel 2:30–31,8 and in any case Luke’s concern with signs and wonders lies elsewhere – with the miraculous activity of Jesus (Acts 2:22) and his witnesses (2:43; 4:16, 30; 5:12; 6:8; 8:6, 13; 14:3; 15:12). 5  Anton Büchele, Der Tod Jesu im Lukasevangelium: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Unter­ suchung zu Lk 23, FTS 26 (Frankfurt am Main: Josef Knecht, 1978), 52. So also Gerhard Schneider, Das Evangelium nach Lukas, 2 vols., ÖTK 3 (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1977), 2:486. Joseph B. Tyson (The Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts [Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1986], 108) regards these as apocalyptic signs related to Luke 21:6, 26 and Acts 2:20, and sees in the torn veil a portent of the destruction of the temple. 6 Matera, “Death of Jesus,” 475. 7  See, e. g., Michael Bachmann, Jerusalem und der Tempel: Die geographisch-theologischen Elemente in der lukanische Sicht des judischen Kultzentrums, BWANT 109 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1980); Dennis D. Sylva, “The Meaning and Function of Acts 7:46–50,” JBL 106 (1987): 261–75; Francis D. Weinert, “Luke, the Temple and Jesus’ Saying about Jerusalem’s Abandoned House (Luke 13:34–45),” CBQ 44 (1982): 68–76; idem, “The Meaning of the Temple in Luke-Acts,” BTB 11 (1981): 85–89. 8  I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978), 875.

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Nevertheless, the linguistic parallel between Luke 23:44–45a and Acts 2:20 (σκότος, ὁ ἥλιος, the latter not read in Mark 15:33) is noteworthy, so that even though he has not given a satisfying solution to the problem of the Lukan transposition, Matera may have pointed in a helpful direction. A different approach has been taken by J. Bradley Chance, who believes Luke’s motive for rearranging Mark’s order is obvious on close examination: “Luke wished to bring into close proximity the motif of darkness (representing the satanic character of the Jewish leaders of Jerusalem), the rending of the veil (representing the destruction of Jerusalem), and the death of Jesus (representing the rejection of Jesus by the Jewish leaders). In so doing, he has affirmed once again the direct relationship between the destruction of the temple and Jerusalem and the rejection of Jesus.9 However, after altering the death cry of Mark 15:34 and so deleting the material in 15:35–36, which Luke has done in any case, it is not clear why Luke needed also to rearrange Mark’s order to make his point. Would not these three – darkness, death, and torn veil – thus already be brought into close proximity? Moreover, Luke’s concern to interpret the torn veil as a portent of temple destruction is difficult to square with the continued use of the temple by pious followers of Jesus in the Acts of the Apostles. Indeed, the evidence Chance assembles to show that the tearing of the veil might portend the temple’s destruction is all extraneous to Luke and is relatively late. Chance helpfully points out how the darkness at the cross is related to Jesus’s words about darkness at his arrest (Luke 22:53), as well as how Jesus’s crucifixion must be read against the backdrop of the conflict he encountered throughout his public ministry. Nevertheless, assuming Luke knew no other source for his account of Jesus’s death, his motive for rearranging the Markan order remains elusive. The explanation of the darkness is not so troubling from a source-critical perspective. Cast as a genitive absolute and setting forth the apparent combination of the supernatural (darkness) with the physical (failure or eclipse of the sun), Luke’s insertion in v. 45a is likely just that, Luke’s insertion.10 The transposition of the narrative statement of the rending of the veil is not easily explained, not least because, even in its present position, it seems to work against Luke’s overall understanding of the temple. Not without good reason might someone argue that Luke’s fidelity to his source (Sonderquelle) has gotten in the way of his redactional agenda. That this source-critical escape hatch has not been taken more often seems less a function of the ability of Lukan scholars to correlate the torn veil with Luke’s theology of the temple than their failure to appreciate how their theories about its meaning (e. g., portent of temple destruc 9 J. Bradley Chance, Jerusalem, the Temple, and the New Age in Luke-Acts (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1988), 120. 10  See Taylor, Passion, 96; C. F.  Evans, Saint Luke, TPINTC (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1990), 876. On the conjunction of the supernatural and physical in Luke, see 1:20; 3:22; Acts 2:2–3; 9:18; et al.

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tion) fly in the face of the general force of Luke’s attitude toward the temple. Interestingly, at the same time, narrative critics seem largely to have failed to grapple with this tension at all.11 The Response of the Crowds (23:48) Mark has no parallel for this narrative report in Luke, and Matera believes it stems from Luke’s creativity. He offers two reasons: (1) The linguistic agreement between 23:48 (τύπτοντες τὰ στήθη) and 18:13 (ἔτυπτεν τὸ στῆθος) would be difficult to explain if Luke were following a source at 23:48; and (2) Luke’s interest in showing how repentance is the appropriate response to Jesus’s death is illustrated here.12 Of these two arguments, the first is less significant, as it has long been recognized that Luke consistently stamps his narrative material with his own style. Other words may be added to those Matera noted as indicators of the presence of Luke’s redactional hand, namely, πᾶς, γίνομαι, ὄχλος, συν-, and ὑποστρέφω.13 More substantive is Matera’s observation that, for Luke, “the death of Jesus should and does lead to repentance.”14 Some may doubt whether the connotation of “repentance” is present here.15 ὑποστρέφω, a favorite word for Luke (NT – 35x; Luke-Acts – 32x), should probably be rendered “to return home”; it is not a synonym for μετανοέω in Luke, even if a double entente may be intended here (perhaps also, e. g., 2:20; 17:15, 18). On its own, the report of the crowds’ “beating their breasts” suggests sorrow or mourning, not repentance, and this suggestion is supported both by the contrast between those guards who beat Jesus (δέρω – 22:63) and these people who beat themselves (τύπτω), and by the framing of the execution with acts of grief (Jerusalem’s daughters – v. 27; the gathered crowds – v. 48). At the same time, the linguistic parallel with 18:9–14 invites a positive comparison between the humble, justified tax collector (18:9–14) and the assembled crowds (23:48). Moreover, the structured parallel between vv. 47–48 –

11   Thus, e. g., Luke 23:45 does not appear in the indexes of Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986–90); Robert L. Brawley, Luke-Acts and the Jews: Conflict, Apology, und Conciliation, SBLMS 33 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987). Similarly, Robert J. Karris (Luke: Artist and Theologian: Luke’s Passion Account as Literature, TI [Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1985]) explores the literary art of Luke, but has little to say about Luke 23:44–45 (104–7). For him, “it is inadequate to read Luke 23:45 simply as another reference to the destruction of the temple” (106); this verse should he read in conjunction with v. 46, he asserts, but it is not clear how it thus functions. One outstanding exception is the essay by Dennis D. Sylva, “The Temple Curtain and Jesus’ Death in the Gospel of Luke,” JBL 105 (1986): 239–50 – on which see below. 12 Matera, “Death of Jesus,” 484. 13  Cf. Jeremias, Sprache, 308–9; Taylor, Passion, 95. 14 Matera, “Death of Jesus,” 484. 15  So, e. g., Marshall, Gospel of Luke, 877.

102 v. 47: v. 48:

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δὲ ὁ ἑκατοντάρχης καὶ πάντες οἱ συμπαραγενόμενοι ὄχλοι

v. 47: [ἰδών] v. 48: θεωρήσαντες

τὸ γενόμενον τὰ γενόμενα

v. 47: ἐδόξαζεν τὸν θεὸν λέγων v. 48: τύπτοντες τὰ στήθη ὑπέστρεφον –

places the crowds in a most favorable light in Luke’s story, encourages a reading of their action as penitential, and indicates the importance of seeing these two verses as recording parallel responses to Jesus’s death. However, even if we could be certain in locating a reference to repentance in 23:48, the relationship between Jesus’s death and repentance in Luke-Acts is not as straightforward as Matera assumes. In Acts 2:38, 3:19, and 5:30–31, the notion of repentance is related to Jesus’s death, but also, and more directly, to God’s having exalted the crucified Jesus. Elsewhere (e. g., 17:30; 20:21), repentance is less narrowly focused. Hence, although Luke 23:48 may contribute to the larger theme of repentance, it seems imprudent to make too much of it. Verse 48, then, is difficult to assess from a source-critical standpoint. More dramatic parallels to the response of the crowd appear in the Old Syriac and in Gos. Pet. 7.25, and this may suggest an early tradition,16 but this is speculative. Conclusion This narrow focus on selected portions of the Lukan death scene does not allow for any conclusions regarding Luke’s source(s) for this scene or for the larger passion narrative. We have only been able to show how previous attempts to explain these aspects of the pericope as Lukan redaction of Mark’s Gospel have been inconclusive.17 Even this finding is of interest, however, since, as I. Howard Marshall concedes, “The case for a separate passion narrative used by [Luke] is at its weakest here.”18 For our central purpose, to understand the significance of the rending of the temple veil in 23:45, this brief foray onto the source-critical battlefield has heightened the problem. If Luke followed no alternative tradition in ordering the events related to Jesus’s death, but was himself solely responsible for the transposition of the tearing of the veil, we must ask: Why? Even if he was following another source, however, the question remains, for then Luke has acted in preference to 16 On the possibility that the Old Syriac has been directly influenced by early, non-canonical tradition, see Matthew Black, An Aramaic Approach to the Gospels and Acts, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1967), 262–69. 17  Cf. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke, 2 vols., AB 28–28A (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981–85), 2:1513; although inclined against an alternative source for Luke’s account of the death of Jesus, Fitzmyer leaves open the possibility that Luke knew and preferred another tradition for Jesus’s last words. 18  Marshall, Gospel of Luke, 874.

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this tradition over against the Markan account. Why? In the end, the simple fact that Luke has retained this report, irrespective of source-critical questions, begs for attention, for we must still examine the significance of the rending of the temple veil for the Third Evangelist.

The Temple and the Torn Veil in Luke Torn Veil: Communion with the God of the Temple? What is the significance of the rending of the temple curtain in Luke? In a recent essay, Dennis Sylva proposes a novel thesis that attempts to root Luke 23:45b more firmly in its narrative cotext. After conducting a survey of scholarly opinion on the meaning of the torn curtain in Luke, and noting how disappointingly superficial previous explanations have been, he goes on to construct his alternative thesis. First, he argues that the rending of the veil is linked primarily with Jesus’s death cry in 23:46, and not with the failed sun of 23:44–45a. Then, observing the close parallelism between Luke 23:45b, 46a, and Acts 7:55, 56, 59, Sylva concludes “that Jesus’ commitment of his spirit is an address to the God revealed to him by the tearing of the temple curtain, as Stephen’s commitment of his spirit is an address to the Lord revealed by the opening of the heavens.”19 He finds corroborative evidence in two further observations. First, Luke records Jesus’s death at the ninth hour, an hour that otherwise functions for Luke as a time of prayer (e. g., Acts 3:1; 10:3, 30). Jesus’s final words, then, comprise a prayer to the God of the temple. Second, the centurion’s praise (Luke 23:47) and the crowds’ beating their breasts (23:48; cf. 18:13) establish the relation of the time of Jesus’s death and temple prayer. Sylva’s proposal is commendable for the degree to which it tries to locate the significance of this episode within Luke’s narrative strategy. Others have noted the parallels between Stephen and Jesus in their dying moments, but these have never been exploited with reference to the interpretation of 23:45b. Nevertheless, three questions may be raised against Sylva’s thesis. First, while noting the parallels between Stephen and Jesus, Sylva bypassed any comment on the relation between 23:34 and Acts 7:60, wherein the protagonists intercede before God on behalf of their executioners. In Stephen’s case, this prayer follows his vision of God, but in Jesus’s case it precedes the tearing of the veil. Clearly in the case of Jesus, access to God is available in the passion before the tearing of the curtain (cf. also Luke 22:39–46). Jesus, then, is already communing with “the God of the temple.” Second, Sylva has not dealt definitively with the relation of vv. 45b and 46 as narrative events; as we will show, an alternative way of showing how v. 45b 19 Sylva, “Temple Curtain,” 245. Cf. the related view in Weinert, “Luke, the Temple and Jesus’ Saying.”

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prepares for vv. 46–48 is preferable. Third, Sylva’s proposal restricts rather narrowly the possible meaning of the torn veil for Luke-Acts as a whole. According to this reading it need have no function at all within the larger portrayal of the temple in Luke-Acts. We will argue that this is not the case. In what follows, therefore, we propose to sketch an interpretation of the torn curtain that attends more closely to the local cotext of this note (i. e., 23:44–48). Given Gillian Brown and George Yule’s axiom – “The more co-text there is, … the more secure the interpretation is”20 – as well as the nature of the temple material in Luke-Acts, we will then expand our horizons to see how 23:45b meshes with Luke’s larger portrait of the temple. Torn Veil and Response to Jesus’s Death What is the significance of the rending of the temple curtain in Luke? As Sylva recognized, critical to any attempt to treat this question is the recognition that the tearing of the veil and the death of Jesus are closely related. This is true in spite of the transposition of the Markan order represented in the Lukan account, even if the role of the torn veil vis-à-vis Jesus’s death has consequently been altered. In Mark, Jesus’s death led to the veil’s being torn in two; in Luke, somehow, the torn veil anticipates Jesus’s death and the subsequently narrated responses to that death. The relation between these two events, the tearing of the veil and the death of Jesus, does not depend solely on how one punctuates the relevant clauses (Sylva’s focus), but also, and even more so, on how Luke stages these final events. In the pericope narrating Jesus’s death we have the barest outline of a narrative cycle – the process from (1) “possibility” to (2) “event” to (3) “climax” or “result.”21 Thus, (la) darkness/failure of the sun and (1b) rending of the temple veil prepare for and lead to (2) Jesus’s final outcry and death, which results in (3a) the confession of the centurion and (3b) the response of the gathered crowds. Borrowing the concept of “staging” from recent explorations of discourse analysis – that what comes before prepares for and is assumed by what comes after22 – we can appreciate that vv. 44–45 prepare for, lead to, and already begin interpreting the climax of this scene, vv. 46–48. How do they do so? We may begin by recalling from our earlier discussion the parallelism of the two responses to Jesus’s death in vv. 47–48. Then, we noted the similarity of these two structurally: having observed what had happened, the centurion and the crowds respond – the centurion by glorifying God and proclaiming Jesus’s vindication as the Righteous One, the crowds with acts of penitence. We also noted 20  Gillian Brown and George Yule, Discourse Analysis, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 50. 21  On this delineation of “narrative cycle,” see Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985), 19–23. 22  See Brown and Yule, Discourse Analysis, 133–34.

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that, though in different ways, in both cases the characters respond favorably to Jesus and are presented positively within the narrative with respect to their standing vis-à-vis Jesus. We may go on to observe that, just as in Mark (15:38–39) the death of Jesus has repercussions for both gentile (the centurion) and Jew (the rending of the temple veil),23 so Luke balances gentile and Jew. Unlike Mark, however, whose rending of the temple veil signifies the end of the temple, Luke narrates two positive results: the favorable and far-reaching confession of the centurion and the penitential reaction of the gathered crowds. Both Jew and gentile respond positively, then, and this provides us with a clear reminiscence of Simeon’s prophecy in Luke 2:30–32, that God’s salvation would embrace all peoples, gentile and Jew. In order for salvation to move out beyond the borders of the people of Israel, what would be required? According to Acts, the rejection of Jesus – first by the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem (Acts 1–8), then by some Jews in other locales (e. g., 13:44–49; 14:1–18; 18:2–6; 28:17–29) – leads to the widening of the mission to embrace all peoples, both Jew24 and gentile. This emphasis in Acts is anticipated here, in Luke 23:44–45a, in Luke’s announcement that the sun’s light failed and darkness covered the whole land for three hours. We have been prepared for this “period of darkness” already, at the scene of Jesus’s arrest (22:47–54a). The time when Jesus’s opponents, the Jewish leadership related to the temple,25 come to arrest Jesus is interpreted by Jesus as “your hour, the power of darkness” (22:53). Coming as it does in the wake of Luke’s multiple references to πειρασμός (22:28, 40, 46) and satanic activity in the passion story (22:3, 28, 31), and in light of the identification of “darkness” and “satanic rule” in Acts 26:18, we can only read the activity of the Jewish leaders as the manifestation of satanic power. That is, the rejection of Jesus by the Jewish leadership receives an eschatological interpretation as an expression of the reign of darkness, culminating in the scene of Jesus’s death. At this juncture we may recall Matera’s helpful insight (above) that the darkness of Luke 23:44–45a is related to Acts 2:20 as a sign of the last days. For Luke, “the last days” constitute the epoch wherein the Spirit is poured out “on all people,” when “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved” (2:17, 21). That is, darkness signifies the last days, a time marked by the universalistic 23  Contra David Ulansey (“The Heavenly Veil Torn: Mark’s Cosmic Inclusio,” JBL 110 [1991]: 123–25), who sees in Mark 15:37–39 a linear cause-effect progression: Jesus’s death leads to the torn veil and the torn veil leads to the centurion’s confession. As Mark has it, the centurion responds not to the torn veil, but to how Jesus died (ὅτι οὕτως ἐξέπνευσεν). Thus, v. 37 leads directly to v. 38 (on the parataxical use of καί to introduce a result, see BAGD 392), and v. 37 leads directly to v. 39 (as is clear from the repeated reference to ἐκπνέω). 24  Even if Paul expresses his intention to focus on a Gentile mission, the narration repeatedly shows his continued missionary attempts among Jews. 25  According to Luke, the arresting party consisted of chief priests, officers of the temple, and elders (22:52) – people among whom Jesus had been teaching daily in the temple (v. 53).

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mission. Luke 23:44–48 brings together these motifs by showing how “darkness” leads eventually to the positive response to Jesus’s death of a gentile centurion and the gathered Jewish populace. In order for God’s salvation to embrace all peoples, a further innovation was required, namely, the resolution of the barrier separating gentile and Jew, the temple. For Luke, this did not require the temple’s destruction; indeed, the temple would have important roles to play within the early Christian mission, particularly with regard to matters of piety, teaching, and even the reception of divine revelation. That is, in Luke’s narrative of the early mission the temple still stands; it has not been destroyed. What, then, is its role in salvation history? According to Luke’s perspective, in some way the power of the temple to regulate socio-religious boundaries of purity and holiness had to be neutralized. For him, God’s response to the rejection of Jesus (symbolized in the time of darkness) is the tearing of the temple curtain (reading ἐσχίσθη as a divine passive). This action does not symbolize the destruction of the temple, but the extension of the good news to those outside the social boundaries determined by the temple itself.26 How does the death of Jesus lead to the dual response of the centurion and gathered crowds? What prepares us for this narrative sequence? Verses 44–45 prepare the way by showing, first, that Jesus’s death was the work of the Jewish leadership who rejected him, and second, that with the rejection of Jesus by the Jewish leadership and his subsequent death the way of salvation could be opened to all. That Luke is concerned with the operative symbolism of the temple is not immediately clear in v. 45b even if, under our hypothesis, it is presupposed by vv. 44–48. It now remains, then, for us to examine Luke’s larger portrayal of the temple in order to show the role of v. 45b within that context. We are concerned with the temple as understood within the Lukan social world, manifest in the narrative of Luke-Acts.27 Hence, we will delineate a number of pertinent 26  Chance (Jerusalem, 119) rejects this kind of proposal because, he argues, Luke is not interested in atonement theology. His view of Luke’s position on the question of atonement theology is in need of more nuanced development – cf. Joel B. Green, “The Death of Jesus, God’s Servant,” in Reimaging the Death of the Lukan Jesus, ed. Dennis D. Sylva, AMT: BBB 73 (Frankfurt am Main: Anton Hain, 1990), 1–28, 170–73. Nevertheless, the degree of interest in atonement theology one attributes to Luke is immaterial for our purposes, since (as elsewhere), Luke is more concerned with narrating that the capacity of the temple to determine the boundaries of holiness has been compromised than with describing the mechanism by which this change has occurred. 27  We have in mind, in part, the concept of social reality as developed by Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1967). By drawing attention to Luke’s social world manifest in his narrative, we do not mean simply “narrative world,” however, but refer to the presupposition pools shared by Luke and his (implied) audience. Presupposition pools provide the backdrop of a discourse and are constituted from general knowledge and the situational context of a discourse, along with the information related in the already-complete portion of the discourse itself – cf. Michael Stubbs, Discourse Analysis: The Sociolinguistic Analysis of Natural Language (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983); Brown and Yule, Discourse Analysis, esp. 79–83.

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observations derived from an examination of the temple and related language – ἅγιος, βωμός, θυσιαστήριον, ἱερόν, καταπέτασμα, ναός, οἶκος, σκηνή, τοῖς, and τόπος28 – in the Lukan material. Torn Veil and Lukan Temple Theology In his recent essay on “The Temple in Image and Reality,”29 David Knipe develops the notion of temple as sacred space within three subcategories: as abode of the deity, as nexus between human and divine, and as inviolable territory. He thus builds on Mircea Eliade’s earlier work, wherein Eliade had argued that, for people, space is not homogeneous; that some space is experienced as sacred; and that this sacred space connects and supports earth and heaven, establishes the order of the world, and provides the center point around which human life is oriented.30 Historically, the Jerusalem temple functioned in this way, with its system of restricted spaces, correlating the concepts of holiness and relative purity and thus segregating gentile from Jew, Jewish female from Jewish male, Jewish priest from non-priest, and high priest from other priests. This symbolism is formalized in m. Kelim 1.6–9, which describes degrees of holiness as concentric circles around the Holy of Holies: the land of Israel is more holy than other lands, the walled cities of Israel holier still, the city of Jerusalem holier still, the temple mount holier still, the rampart holier still, the Court of Women holier still, the Court of the Israelites holier still, the Court of the Priests holier still, the area between the porch and altar holier still, the sanctuary holier still, and the Holy of Holies holiest of all. The temple as the abode of God is a notion deeply embedded in Israel’s religion,31 even if there exists a certain, long-recognized tension between the idea 28  The use of ἅγιος and τόπος in Acts 6:3–14 and 21:28 follows the traditional association of holiness with places associated with the cult (cf. Horst Balz, “ἅγιος,” EDNT 1:17). On the use of τοῖς in Luke 2:49, see below. Not every usage of these words in Luke-Acts has significance for this study – e. g., βωμός is used in Acts 17:23 as elsewhere in the Greek Bible for altars of foreign gods (as opposed to θυσιαστήριον). 29  David M. Knipe, “The Temple in Image and Reality,” in Temple in Society, ed. Michael V. Fox (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1988), 105–38 (107–12). 30  Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1959), 20–65. See also, idem, The Myth of the Eternal Return (New York: Pantheon, 1954), 3–48; idem, Images and Symbols: Studies in Religious Symbolism (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1969), 27–56; Kees W. Bolle, “Speaking of a Place,” in Myths and Symbols: Studies in Honor of Mircea Eliade, ed. Joseph M. Kitagawa and Charles H. Long (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), 127–39. 31 See Menahem Haran, “Temple and Community in Ancient Israel,” in Temple in Society, 17–25 (esp. 17–20); Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1961), 325–27. The centrality of the temple in Israel’s religion is also noted in Klaus Baltzer, “The Meaning of the Temple in the Lukan Writings,” HTR 58 (1965): 263–77 (esp. 263–70).

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of a transcendent God and the belief in the temple as God’s house. According to 1 Kgs 8:27 – “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house I have built!” (NRSV) – Solomon already recognized this, and so other conceptions were used to denote the temple as the place wherein God revealed his presence.32 So integral is this understanding of the temple as God’s dwelling to the existence and activity of the temple that we might assume its presence in the Lukan writings. A handful of texts indicate the validity of this assumption, namely, those that identify the temple as a place of service, worship, and sacrifice to God (Luke 1:8–23 [1:9: “house of the Lord”]; 2:22–24, 36–38; 24:53; Acts 2:46–47; 3:1; 21:26; 22:17; 24:18); those that place the reception of divine revelation in the temple (Luke 1:18–23; Acts 22:17); Luke 19:46, where, quoting the voice of God in Isa 56:7, Jesus proclaims, “My house shall be a house of prayer”; and Luke 2:49, where Jesus asks his mother, “Were you not aware that I must be in my Father’s house, caring for his interests?” This last text is of particular interest since the staging of the dialogue between Jesus and his mother is specifically designed to raise the question: Who is Jesus’s father? To whom does he owe loyalty and obedience? Together with this, the locative reference to the temple in v. 46 and the thematic reference to teaching in vv. 46–47 make clear that the ambiguous phrase ἐν τοῖς τοῦ πατρός μου of v. 49 must refer to God’s household – God’s temple and the affairs of God’s temple.33 The identification of the temple in Jerusalem within the Lukan corpus as the locus of God’s presence has important repercussions. Clearly, the temple is the meeting place of God and humanity  – as suggested in the Lukan material by 18:10; 19:46; Acts 21:26; 22:17.34 Moreover, that God “abides” in the temple establishes the temple as inviolable territory, its architecture “a reinforcement of the manifold separation of the ranks of society according to function and status.”35 Hence, although (by this time) Israel’s one temple unified Israel under one God (cf. Philo, Spec. 1.12 § 67), the temple also functioned to segregate people – most fundamentally Jew from non-Jew. As Shaye Cohen observes, the ideology of the temple served as a binding force, relating monism and exclusivity.36 Hints of this 32  See G. Ernest Wright, “The Significance of the Temple in the Ancient Near East: Part III. The Temple in Palestine-Syria,” in The Biblical Archaeologist Reader, vol. 1, ed. G. Ernest Wright and David Noel Freedman (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1961), 169–84. 33  That these “affairs” relate especially for Luke to teaching is clear from 19:47; 20:1; 21:37–38; Acts 5:20–21, 25, 42. Dennis D. Sylva (“The Cryptic Clause en tois tou patros mou dei einai me in Lk 2:49b,” ZNW 78 [1987]: 132–40) argues that Jesus refers above all to “my father’s words,” a prefiguring of Jesus’s teaching ministry in the temple later in the Gospel. 34  Cf. Jacob Neusner (From Politics to Piety: The Emergence of Pharisaic Judaism, 2nd ed. [New York: Ktav, 1979], 3): Even if some might have focused their lives away from or in opposition to the temple, for the most part it represented the nexus between heaven and earth. 35  Knipe, “Temple,” 122. 36 Shaye J. D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, LEC (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1987), 106.

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social reality appear in Luke-Acts, first when Zechariah is chosen by lot to enter the sanctuary and offer incense while the people remain outside to pray (Luke 1:8–10). Later, Paul is accused of bringing Greeks into “this holy place” and thus defiling the temple (Acts 21:27–30). At issue here is the question of the relative purity of different segments of society as a correlate of the relative holiness attributed to the zones within the temple.37 It is at this point that Clifford Geertz’s discussion of “cultural centers” offers an interesting perspective on the phenomenon of the temple in Luke-Acts.38 He draws attention to active centers of social order: “Essentially concentrated loci of serious acts, they consist in the point or points in a society where its leading ideas come together with its leading institutions to create an arena in which the events that most vitally affect its members’ lives take place.”39 He proceeds to explore the development, maintenance, and communication of the inherent sacredness of these social centers. With divine legitimation, he observes, such centers perform a world-ordering function, and it is here that the role of the temple in Luke-Acts as a “cultural center” is transparent. Although the temple was a powerful politico-economic force in antiquity, its exercise of a different form of power is more at issue in Luke-Acts.40 Luke is more concerned with the dominance of the temple as a sacred symbol of socio-reli37  See Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966). 38  Clifford Geertz, Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 121–46. 39  Geertz, Local Knowledge, 122–23. 40  The economic and political import of the temple for Luke is noted by Halvor Moxnes (The Economy of the Kingdom: Social Conflict and Economic Relations in Luke’s Gospel, OBT [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988], 70–74), but he nuances this significance by observing (1) that Luke seems to distinguish between the temple cult as locus of God’s presence and those Jewish leaders who wield the power of the temple, and (2) that certain functions contributing to the economic centrality of the temple historically (on which see Joachim Jeremias, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus: An Investigation into Economic and Social Conditions during the New Testament Period [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1969], e. g., 21–30) go unmentioned by the Third Evangelist. More recently, John H. Elliott has studied the temple-as-social-institution in Luke-Acts (“Temple versus Household in Luke-Acts: A Contrast in Social Institutions,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991], 305–32). He accords the temple in Luke-Acts with a high degree of economic import as an instrument of oppression of the poor and powerless, but is only able to do so by introducing three questionable maneuvers. First, he too easily reads first-century economics as related to Jerusalem and the temple into Luke’s narrative world. Second, he collapses any possible distinction between the Jews whom Jesus critiques and the temple. Thus, e. g., though the Pharisees never appear in the context of the temple in the Third Gospel, their indictment as “lovers of money” (Luke 16:14) is used as evidence against the temple. Third, with respect to the temple itself, the “cleansing” episode (19:45–46) is made to bear such hermeneutical weight that its characterization of the temple as a “den of thieves” is read back into Luke’s earlier chapters. Elliott’s thesis, contrasting temple (and, we might add, synagogue) and household, showing how household replaces temple (and synagogue) as dominant institution, is insightful nonetheless, and to a significant degree does not rest on his portrayal of Lukan economics.

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gious power – a cultural center whose segregating zones extend out from the temple mount to determine social relations and the experience of fictive kinship between Jew and Samaritan, Jew and gentile, male and female. The gravity of this concern for Luke has recently been exhibited by Philip Esler.41 Esler’s argument is too far-reaching to be represented in full here. Painting with broad strokes, however, we can note that he sees Luke’s attitude toward the temple as ambivalent – largely positive, as others have shown, but nonetheless containing a radical interpretation of the idea of God’s dwelling in a temple made by human hands as idolatrous (cf. Acts 7:48; 17:24). For him, then, the basic question revolves around the significance of this ambivalence, not least as related to the experience of Luke’s God-fearers with respect to the temple. Given the temple as a symbol of Jewish election and the temple’s zones of ever-increasing holiness and concomitant narrowing of the type of person who could proceed further to its depths, how might the God-fearer encounter the temple and its cult? His [sic] attitude to the Temple is fundamentally ambivalent. On the one hand, he experiences great satisfaction that he has come to the Temple of his God, and has viewed its overwhelming beauty; on the other, at the same time, he is greatly dissatisfied that he is prevented from approaching as closely to the presence of God on earth and being a full participant in his cult. As he stands there, the very architecture of the place brings home to him that, for all his devotion, he is an outsider and will remain so unless he undergoes circumcision, an operation which is both painful and utterly at odds with his Hellenic distaste for self-mutilation in any form. In sociological terms, such a person is “marginalized.”42

According to Esler, then, Luke was concerned to do away with the barrier between Jew and non-Jew. We agree, and observe again that this theological move had to be made within a narrative wherein the Jerusalem temple is still standing. Although one must wait until Acts 7 and 10–11 for the theological case for this innovation to be developed, it is already present symbolically in the scene of Jesus’s death: “The veil of the temple was torn down the middle” (Luke 23:45b). A second aspect of Luke’s portrayal of the temple is its role as a center of teaching (Luke 19:47; 20:1; 21:37, 38; 22:53; Acts 5:20–21, 25, 42) and pious observance (Luke 2:37; 18:10; 19:46; Acts 3:1–10; 21:26; 22:17). Particularly noteworthy in this regard is the relation between the Gospel and Acts on these points – for example, just as Jesus teaches daily in the temple (Luke 22:53), so do his disciples (Acts 5:42); Jesus insists that the temple is a house of prayer (19:46), and so it is (Luke 24:53; Acts 3:1; 22:17). In this respect, the symbolic action against the temple in 19:45–46 is clearly foundational, for (apart from 2:46–47) it is after this event that activity within the temple becomes the norm for Jesus and his followers.43 41  Philip Francis Esler, Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology, SNTSMS 57 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 131–63. 42  Esler, Community and Gospel, 156. 43  See Chance’s (Jerusalem, 56–58) critique of Hans Conzelmann’s interpretation of this

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Of special interest is Jesus’s citation of Isa 56:7 sans the final clause, “for all peoples” – an omission made even more noteworthy by Mark’s inclusion of these words (11:17). The eschatological vision of all peoples coming to Jerusalem to worship Yahweh is well-established in the era of the Second Temple.44 This, along with Luke’s well-documented bias toward citing OT texts that are universalistic in focus,45 might raise a question about Luke’s redactional activity in Luke 19:45–46. However, according to Luke, the last days have dawned, the time of salvation is present, and, far from serving as a sacred place for the worship of God by gentiles (and Samaritans), the temple functions as a segregating force, symbolizing socio-religious demarcations between insider and outsider. The time of the temple is not over. It will serve as a place of prayer and teaching. But it is no longer the center around which life is oriented. Rather than serving as the gathering point for all peoples under Yahweh, it has now become the point-of-departure for the mission to all peoples. This transformed role for the temple is underscored by a third aspect of Luke’s temple theology, the role of the temple as a place of divine revelation. It is true that two instances of revelation in the temple seem restricted to showing how God’s salvific activity is directed to Israel only (1:8–23 [v. 16]; 2:36–38); given the universalistic strands of some post-exilic anticipation, though, even promises related to Jerusalem’s or Israel’s restoration may be seen to have a more cosmic referent. Others transparently point outward to a universalistic audience, and this is remarkable above all because of its pointed irony. It is within the temple, that segregating culture force, that God’s integrating message of salvation is revealed. Thus, in 2:25–32, the righteous and devout Simeon, looking for Israel’s consolation, prophesies a salvation for all peoples. Similarly, in Acts 2, the outpouring of the Holy Spirit has universalistic implications (cf. 2:5–11, 21, 39).46 Here, the idea event as Jesus’s taking possession of the temple (The Theology of St. Luke [London: SCM, 1960]), 75–78; in his reading of the temple-material, Conzelmann is followed by Baltzer, “Meaning of the Temple,” 271–77). He observes the helpfulness of Conzelmann’s image insofar as it shows how this prophetic act establishes Jesus’s authority in relation to the Jewish leaders, while also noting Conzelmann’s overly negative interpretation of the Jews and the temple. 44  See, e. g., Scot McKnight, A Light among the Gentiles: Jewish Missionary Activity in the Second Temple Period (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 47–48; Joachim Jeremias, Jesus’ Promise to the Nations, SBT 24 (London: SCM, 1958), 57–62. 45  See the extension of Mark’s citation from Isa 40 to include the phrase, “and all humanity will see the salvation of God” (Mark 1:2–3; Luke 3:4–6); and the continuation of Joel’s prophecy in Acts 2:17–21 to include the universalistic thrust of Joel 2:32: “And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” 46 Ernst Haenchen (The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary [Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1971], 168) insists that the location of the Pentecost story cannot be the temple since Luke “always” uses τὸ ἱερόν for “temple.” What, then, does he make of Luke’s use of οἶκος for “temple” in Luke 6:4, 11:51, 19:46, and Acts 7:47–49? F. F. Bruce (The Acts of the Apostles: The Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary, 3rd ed. [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990], 114) thinks that the reference to sitting (τὸν οἶκον οὗ ἦσαν καθήμενοι) disqualifies a reference to the temple here. See, however, Luke 2:46: εὗρον αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ καθεζόμενον ἐν μέσῳ τῶν διδασκάλων.

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of divine revelation is advanced both by the outpouring of the Spirit (of prophecy, cf. 2:17–18) at the outset, and by the use of the verb ἀποφθέγγομαι in 2:4, 14, thus suggesting that in 2:14–36 Peter spoke as he was enabled by the Spirit. Finally, in Paul’s speech of defense in Acts 22:1–21, after recounting his experience on the road to Damascus, he reports: After returning to Jerusalem, while praying in the temple, I fell into a trance. I saw him saying to me, “Hurry, leave Jerusalem quickly, for they will not accept your witness concerning me.” And I replied, “Lord, they themselves know that in every synagogue I imprisoned and beat those who believed in you. They know that, while the blood of Stephen your witness was shed, I was standing by, approving, and watching the coats of those who killed him.” But he said to me, “Go, for I will send you far away to the Gentiles.” (Acts 22:17–21)

On one level, this is a seemingly fail-proof apology: It was in the temple that he (left ambiguous intentionally?) told me twice, against, my protestations, to go to the gentiles. On another, we find here yet one more divine witness to the destruction of the symbolic world that had as its center the Jerusalem temple. Gentiles do not come to the temple to find Yahweh; now, the Lord goes out, through witnesses like Paul, to the gentiles. The veil is torn, the barriers are down, so all, Jew and gentile, may respond on equal footing to “the grace of the Lord Jesus” (15:11). Conclusion The fundamental problem with previous interpretations of the torn veil in Luke is their incapacity to correlate this narrative event and Luke’s overall temple theology. The popular view that the torn veil signifies the destruction of the temple is difficult to square with the continuing, positive function of the temple in Luke 24 and Acts. The less popular but widely held view that the torn veil signifies the opening of the temple to all humanity does not account for the fact that non-Jews do not gain entry into those temple precincts previously denied them, nor does it make sense of Luke’s redaction in Luke 19:46. Close attention to the staging of Jesus’s death scene in Luke, to the portrayal of the temple in Luke-Acts, and especially to the socio-religious function of the temple has pointed to a different perspective that tries to integrate the variety of pertinent data. We have attempted to show that the torn veil works symbolically to neutralize the dominance of the temple as a sacred symbol of socio-religious power predetermining insider and outsider. This is not to suggest that the temple will escape destruction in Luke’s view; he reports direct and detailed oracles against the temple, even if this historical event Hence, while Luke does not specifically designate the “house” of Acts 2:1–2 as the temple, there seems to be no good reason to exclude this interpretation. Given Lukan usage elsewhere, the continued presence of Jesus’s disciples in the temple (see the summaries in Luke 24:53 and Acts 2:46), and the size of the audience that gathers (Acts 2:5–11, 41), the identification of the οἶκος as the temple makes good sense.

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lies outside his narrative. Moreover, as the narrative of Acts progresses, temple-material takes on a more and more menacing tone – with the temple increasingly serving as the context for antagonism between Paul and his fellow-Jews.47 In the closing chapters of Acts, the only positive image of the temple appears in 22:17, where Paul reports on his earlier vision of the temple – a backward-looking reference to a scene belonging, chronologically, to the story at Acts 9. But with the close of the Lukan narrative, the temple is still standing, it has not been destroyed, and Luke has had to work with this reality in the context of his narrative. What is the relationship between the temple as a powerful cultural force and the expanding Christian mission? Luke portrays the rending of the temple veil as symbolic of the destruction of the symbolic world surrounding and emanating from the temple, and not as symbolic of the destruction of the temple itself.

Conclusion We began this investigation with a lament that, in spite of three decades of progress toward letting Luke be Luke, he has still been read through alien eyes with reference to his perspective on the temple. Our source-critical analysis, although inconclusive in uncovering with any specificity the sort(s) of non-Markan tradition(s) Luke might have known, did underscore the responsibility of the Third Evangelist for staging the death scene; hence, one ought not simply retreat into a debate over sources to explain the transposition of the rending of the temple curtain as represented in Luke vis-à-vis the Markan account. Accordingly, we have addressed the question: What is the significance of the tearing of the temple curtain in Luke?, with particular regard to literary-theological and sociological perspectives. Primarily, we have focused on the role of Luke 23:45b in the Lukan death scene and within the larger mural of Luke’s temple theology. Although a full exploration of Luke’s temple theology lies far beyond the scope of one essay, what we have examined indicates a consistent concern with the continued but transformed role of the temple. Even if the temple remains as a place for prayer and teaching, it no longer occupies the position of cultural center, the sacred orientation point for life; its zones of holiness no longer prejudge people according to relative purity. Other stories and speeches in Acts will develop the theological rationale, but in the torn veil Luke has already demonstrated symbolically that the holiness-purity matrix embodied in and emanating from the temple has been undermined.48 47 Cf.

Acts 21:27, 28, 29, 30; 24:6, 12, 18; 25:8; 26:21.  Earlier drafts of this paper were presented to the Passion Narrative and Tradition Group, Society of Biblical Literature 1991 National Meeting; the New Testament Seminar, University of Durham; and the New Testament Seminar, University of Edinburgh. I am grateful to these groups for their stimulating interaction. 48

8

“He Ascended into Heaven”: Jesus’s Ascension in Lukan Perspective, and Beyond* ἀνελθόντα εἰς τοὺς οὐρανούς ascendit in cœlos [He] ascended into heaven … – The Nicene-Constantinople Creed1

According to John’s Gospel, Jesus anticipated his ascension in his first conversation in the garden of the empty tomb, when he advised Mary Magdalene, “Don’t hold on to me, for I haven’t yet gone up to my Father. Go to my brothers and sisters and tell them, ‘I’m going up to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God’ ” (20:17).2 The writer of Ephesians apparently presupposes Jesus’s ascension when he writes, “God has given his grace to each one of us measured out by the gift that is given by Christ. That’s why scripture says, When he climbed up to the heights, he captured prisoners, and he gave gifts to people” (4:7–8). In fact, numerous NT texts presuppose something like an ascension as they bear witness to and celebrate Jesus’s exaltation to the place of honor at God’s side.3

* Originally published as Joel B. Green, “ ‘He Ascended into Heaven’: Jesus’ Ascension in Lukan Perspective, and Beyond,” in Ears That Hear: Explorations in Theological Interpretation of the Bible, ed. Joel B. Green and Tim Meadowcroft (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2013), 130–50. Used with permission. 1  Greek and Latin texts from The Creeds of Christendom, ed. Philip Schaff, rev. David Schaff, 6th ed., 3 vols. (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1983 [1889]), 2:60; the Latin Version of Dionysus reads ascendit in cœlum [cœlos] (2:57), and the Received Text of the Roman Catholic Church reads ascendit in cœlum (2:59). Affirmations of the ascension of Jesus Christ are found already in the old (fourth-century) Roman form of the Apostles’ Creed (1:21; ascendit in cœlos – 2:49) and the Athanasian Creed (ascendit ad [in] cœlos – 2:69). 2 Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts follow the CEB. 3  Representative texts are noted, e. g., by Bruce M. Metzger, “The Meaning of Christ’s Ascension,” in Search the Scriptures: New Testament Studies in Honor of Raymond T. Stamm, ed. J. M. Myers, O. Reimherr, and H. N. Bream, GTS 3 (Leiden: Brill, 1969), 118–23; Douglas Farrow, Ascension and Ecclesia: On the Significance of the Doctrine of the Ascension for Ecclesiology and Cosmology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 275–77. None, however, describe the ascension per se (cf. Gerhard Lohfink, Die Himmelfahrt Jesu: Untersuchungen zu den Himmelfahrts‑ und Erhöhungstexten bei Lukas, SANT 26 [Munich: Kösel, 1971], 81–98). Douglas Farrow urges that Jesus’s ascension is woven into the warp and woof of Scripture itself (Ascension Theology [London: T&T Clark, 2011], 1–14).

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However, the ascension itself is described only twice in the NT, both in Luke’s writings: at the end of Luke’s Gospel (24:51) and the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles (1:9–11).4 As with the virginal conception of Jesus, so with his ascension, what might seem from the perspective of the NT as a whole to be a minor point has itself been exalted so as to occupy a signature place in the Rule of Faith, that “divine economy by which God has put together the mosaic of scripture.”5 Of all the things that could be said of Jesus, how did these words, “he ascended into heaven,” propel themselves from a few lines taken from the entirety of Scripture into a place of prominence within the church’s précis of its own faith? The starring role of Jesus’s ascension is especially startling from the perspective of Lukan scholarship in the modern period. This is because the single most-discussed question regarding Luke’s testimony has to do not so much with its theological ramifications but with its historical veracity. The first obstacle is timing, since Acts 1 envisions a forty-day period between Jesus’s resurrection and his ascension, whereas many scholars think that Luke 24 portrays the ascension as having occurred on resurrection day.6 This issue pales into insignificance, however, when compared with the embarrassment registered over the cosmology of the ascension. Writing in the first half of the nineteenth century, David Friedrich Strauss identified the problem with characteristic scorn:

 See also Mark 16:19, which belongs to the inauthentic “Long Ending” of Mark’s Gospel.  This description of the Rule of Faith is taken from John J. O’Keefe and R. R. Reno, Sanctified Vision: An Introduction to Early Christian Interpretation of the Bible (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), 37. 6  E. g., Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 2 vols., AB 28–28a (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981–85), 2:1588; Hans Klein, Das Lukasevangelium, KEK (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 742; Richard I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 37. Elsewhere, in Luke 24, Luke is careful to mark the chronology of his account (see vv. 1, 13, 21, 33, 36), but the connective in v. 50 (δέ) lacks this specificity; hence, the ascension may not be located temporally as firmly in the Gospel of Luke as scholars have tended to conclude. “Forty days” designates the interval prior to the ascensions of Ezra (4 Ezra 14:23, 40) and Baruch (2 Bar. 76:4). With regard to Jesus’s ascension, other intervals appear in the developing tradition – e. g., Gos. Pet. 5.19: from the cross; Barn. 15:9: resurrection day (that is, “the eighth day,” τὴν ἡμέραν τὴν ὀγδόην); Ep. Apos. 51: 3 days; Ap. Jas. 2: 550 days; the Valentinians, according to Irenaeus, Haer. 1.3.2: 18 months; Pistis Sophia 1:1: 11 years (cf. Kirsopp Lake, “The Ascension,” in The Acts of the Apostles, vol. 5, Additional Notes to the Commentary, ed. F. J. Foakes-Jackson and Kirsopp Lake, BC 1 [London: Macmillan, 1933], 19–20; Morton S. Enslin, “The Ascension Story,” JBL 47 [1928]: 60–73). The apparent tension between Luke 24:50 and Acts 1:3 is neither overcome by source theories like that of C. F. D. Moule (who postulates that Luke came across the tradition of forty days after having completed the Gospel [“The Ascension–Acts i.9,” ExpTim 68 (1956–57): 205–9]; cf., already, Enslin, “Ascension Story,” 72), nor helped by theories of Luke’s ineptness like that of Stephen G. Wilson (who conjectures that Luke had simply forgotten what he had previously written [“The Ascension: A Critique and an Interpretation,” ZNW 59 (1968): 271]). 4 5

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According to a just idea of the world, the seat of God and of the blessed, to which Jesus is supposed to have been exalted, is not to be sought for in the upper regions of the air, nor, in general, in any determinate place; – such a locality could only be assigned to it in the childish, limited conceptions of antiquity …. Thus there would be no other recourse than to suppose a divine accommodation to the idea of the world in that age, and to say: God in order to convince the disciples of the return of Jesus into the higher world, although this world is in reality by no means to be sought for in the upper air, nevertheless prepared the spectacle of such an exaltation. But this is to represent God as theatrically arranging an illusion.7

It is perhaps for this reason that biblical studies, disconcerted by the historical problems Luke presents, has generally moved away from historical criticism in its examination of Jesus’s ascension. This essay is concerned particularly with the account of Jesus’s ascension in Acts 1:9–11, though not with demonstrating its historical veracity. As with almost every line of the Creed, Jesus’s ascension stands outside the realm of the scientifically demonstrable, the sine qua non of modern historical criticism. If Jesus’s ascension is to be studied, then, it will be in terms of its contribution to Luke’s narrative representation of historical events – in this case, Luke’s account of a visionary experience on the part of Jesus’s followers within its narrative cotext.8 First, I will summarize some recent emphases among Lukan scholars attempting to take seriously the theological ramifications of Jesus’s ascension. This will allow me, second, to examine the significance of Jesus’s ascension among selected second-century writings, and thus to show the apparent gap between the recent assessment of Luke’s ascension-theology when compared with its reception in the second century. Finally, I will show that, reading backward, from the perspective of the second century, aspects of the Lukan narrative largely thrust into the shadows by NT study are brought into sharp relief. Accordingly, this essay exemplifies one way of conceiving the relationship between Scripture and the Rule of Faith within a theological hermeneutic, which we can formulate as a question: What do we see as we read Scripture through the prism of the creeds that we would not otherwise see? 7  David Friedrich Strauss, The Life of Jesus Critically Examined, ed. Peter C. Hodgson, trans. George Eliot, LJS (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1972 [1840]), 750–51. 8  I refer to the ascension as a visionary experience because it is told from the perspective of Jesus’s followers. See the brief treatment in John B. F. Miller, Convinced That God Had Called Us: Dreams, Visions and the Perception of God’s Will in Luke-Acts, BibInt 85 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 168–70. In fact, largely missing from the itinerary adopted by biblical scholars in their assessment of Jesus’s ascension are perspectives from the study of the phenomenology of religious experience, an area of study that, if taken seriously, would raise a cautionary flag against indictments against the historical value of Luke’s account. Initial forays into this area of research in biblical studies are collected in Frances Flannery et al., eds., Experientia, vol. 1, Inquiry into Religious Experience in Early Judaism and Early Christianity, SBLSymS 40 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2008).

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From Cosmology to Theology The Limits of Form Criticism Generally, biblical scholarship in recent decades has drifted away from an interest in the historicity of Jesus’s ascension, initially in favor of a form-critical assessment of Luke’s accounts. This has allowed for a deemphasis on the problematic cosmology of the Lukan narrative in favor of reflection on the ascension in literary and mythological terms. Indeed, form-critical study has led to the view among some that Acts 1:9–11 represents a kind of baptism of parallel accounts in Jewish and/or Greco-Roman literature, and thus to the conclusion that Luke has generated a report from traditional themes drawn from the wider literature of antiquity in order to describe how Jesus came to occupy his place at God’s right side.9 Luke’s account has points of contact with OT and Jewish as well as Greco-Roman accounts of “heavenly journeys” and “raptures,” though its closest kin are to be found among Jewish traditions.10 None follow the particular sequence of the Lukan account (death → resurrection → earthly interlude → ascension), however, with the result that its significance can be determined on the basis of literary precedents only in general terms.11 Painting with broad strokes, such accounts bear witness to the exalted status of the one taken up and address the crisis of divine presence, serving to reaffirm the relationship of God to his people. Additionally, in a number of accounts of “ascent” in Jewish apocalypses, ascent signifies investiture and enthronement as a royal priest, sometimes with the character of a scribe and prophet, sometimes in order to share God’s reign.12 These motifs invite further exploration with reference to Luke’s narrative. For example, even though Jesus’s ascension breaks the pattern of the ascended one who typically returns to earth to communicate a divine revelation, this emphasis on divine presence remains important to Luke. This is because Jesus’s relationship  9 E. g., Leslie Houlden, “Beyond Belief: Preaching the Ascension,” Theology 94 (1991): 177– 78. On form-critical and source-critical grounds, Lohfink argued that Luke was the originator of the ascension (Himmelfahrt). 10  For this material, see, e. g., Lohfink, Himmelfahrt; Alan F. Segal, “Heavenly Ascent in Hellenistic Judaism, Early Christianity and Their Environment,” ANRW 23.2:1333–94; Mary Dean-Otting, Heavenly Journeys: A Study of the Motif in Hellenistic Jewish Literature, JU 8 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1984); D. W. Palmer, “The Literary Background of Acts 1.1–14,” NTS 33 (1987): 432–34; Martha Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); James D. Tabor, “Heaven, Ascent to,” ABD 3:91–94; A. W.  Zwiep, The Ascension of the Messiah in Lukan Christology, NovTSup 87 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), esp. 36–79; idem, “Assumptus est in caelum: Rapture and Heavenly Exaltation in Early Judaism and Luke-Acts,” in Auferstehung – Resurrection, ed. Friedrich Avemarie and Hermann Lichtenberger, WUNT 135 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 323–49. 11  Contra Zwiep (Ascension of the Messiah; idem, “Rapture”), who allows his form-critical conclusions (which are themselves problematic, since Luke’s account is both like and unlike those with which he pairs it) to determine what the ascension cannot mean for Luke-Acts. 12 See Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven.

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to the Spirit in Acts is such that it is through the Spirit that Jesus is present with his followers; although enthroned in heaven, Jesus is actively present in the life and mission of the church.13 Beyond these general considerations, form criticism is of limited assistance in our reading of Luke’s account. Mary Dean-Otting, for example, has identified eleven elements that she regards as constitutive of the form of a Jewish heavenly journey, but only two of these are possibly shared with the ascension account in Acts.14 In fact, we find Luke’s ascension account embedded in a far more impressive list of parallels within the Lukan narrative itself, tying together the closing of Luke’s Gospel and the opening of Acts. Both record: – appearances of Jesus to his followers – Jesus eating in front of/with his followers – demonstrations that Jesus is really alive – the directive to remain in Jerusalem – references to the fulfillment of the Father’s promise (of the Holy Spirit) – the appointment of Jesus’s followers as “witnesses” – references to the universal scope of the impending mission – the ascension – the disciples’ return to Jerusalem in obedience to Jesus’s directive That is, almost every detail in Acts 1:1–14 finds its antecedent in Luke 24, strongly indicating that, rather than isolating Acts 1:9–11 from its narrative cotext, the path forward is one that takes seriously the contribution of Luke’s narrative. In the immediate cotext of this episode, this is signaled by the opening of v. 9, “After Jesus said these things ….” Again, far from being an isolated incident reported at the beginning of Acts, Jesus’s ascension has been anticipated as far back as the scene of transfiguration and the onset of Jesus’s journey to Jerusalem in Luke 9, at which points the Third Evangelist speaks of Jesus’s impending “departure [ἔξοδος], which he would achieve in Jerusalem” (v. 31), and of the approaching time when “Jesus was to be

13  Cf., e. g., William J. Larkin Jr., “The Spirit and Jesus ‘on Mission’ in the Postresurrection and Postascension Stages of Salvation History: The Impact of the Pneumatology of Acts on Its Christology,” in New Testament Greek and Exegesis: Essays in Honor of Gerald F. Hawthorne, ed. Amy M. Donaldson and Timothy B. Sailors (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 121–39; H. Douglas Buckwalter, The Character and Purpose of Luke’s Christology, SNTSMS 89 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); idem, “The Divine Saviour,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 107–23. Contra, e. g., Zwiep, Ascension of the Messiah, for whom “Luke advocates an ‘absentee christology’, i. e. a christology that is dominated by the (physical) absence and present inactivity of the exalted Lord” (182; emphasis original). 14  Dean-Otting, Heavenly Journeys, 4–5. The two points of overlap are that the ascent is initiated by God rather than by the visionary and that the journey ends with the visionary returning to earth.

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taken up into heaven” (v. 51). In fact, there is a host of ways in which Luke ties his account of Jesus’s ascension back into the transfiguration story – for example: Luke 9:28–36

Acts 1:9–11

Location on a mountain (εἰς τὸ ὄρος, v. 28)

Location on a mountain (ἀπὸ ὄρους, v. 12)

“After Jesus said these things” (μετὰ τοὺς λόγους τούτους, v. 28)

“After Jesus said these things” (ταῦτα εἰπών, v. 9)

“He … went up” (ἀναβαίνω, v. 28)

“He was lifted up” (ἐπαίρω, v. 9)

“His clothes flashed white [λευκός]” (v. 29) “In white [λευκός] robes” (v. 10) “Two men …” (καὶ ἰδοὺ ἄνδρες δύο, v. 30) “Two men …” (καὶ ἰδοὺ ἄνδρες δύο, v. 10) “Departure” (ἔξοδοs, v. 31)

“Go into heaven” (πορευόμενον εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν, v. 11)

“Cloud” (νεφέλη, v. 34)

“Cloud” (νεφέλη, v. 9)

Visual emphasis (vv. 29, 30, 31, 32)

Visual emphasis (vv. 9 [2x], 10, 11 [2x])

Of course, there are obvious differences in emphasis, perhaps the most important being that, in the transfiguration, the revelatory word is spoken from heaven regarding Jesus on earth, whereas, in the ascension, the revelatory word is spoken on earth regarding Jesus in heaven. If Luke’s account of the transfiguration discloses in unassailable terms the divine honor accorded Jesus in anticipation of human rejection, so the ascension reveals an unimpeachable, heavenly endorsement of the now-crucified-and-resurrected Jesus. Here is the first of many hints in our investigation that Acts 1:9–11 not only marks the literary hinge of Luke’s two volumes but constitutes a theological pivot-point as well. On the Making of Maps (and History) Recognition of the limits of form criticism notwithstanding, historical questions have not altogether disappeared.15 Instead, the veracity of Luke’s account has found its champions among some theologians and philosophers seeking to take seriously the portrait Luke has given us divorced from its literalism. For example, Peter Brunner writes, “It is simply so that if the Bible told us that the Lord Jesus flew into heaven like a balloon, on and on until he reached his heavenly palace, 15  See James D. G. Dunn, “The Ascension of Jesus: A Test Case for Hermeneutics,” Auf­ erstehung – Resurrection, 301–22; as well as the earlier exchange between Dunn and D. W. Gooding: Dunn, “Demythologizing – The Problem of Myth in the New Testament,” in New Testament Interpretation: Essays on Principles and Methods, ed. I. Howard Marshall (Grand Rapids: Eerd­ mans, 1977), 285–307; Gooding, “Demythologizing Old and New, and Luke’s Description of the Ascension: A Layman’s Appraisal,” IBS 2 (1980): 95–119; Dunn, “Demythologizing the Ascension – A Reply to Professor Gooding,” IBS 3 (1981): 15–27; Gooding, “Demythologizing the Ascension – A Reply,” IBS 3 (1981): 46–54.

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that would indeed be only a fairy tale”16 – this before urging that the reality of Jesus’s ascension is God’s exalting the Crucified to divine power and honor. More interesting, perhaps, is Stephen Davis’s argument that Luke speaks in metaphor, that Jesus’s ascension is simply a way of saying that Jesus passed from the presence of his followers to the presence of God: “The Ascension of Jesus was primarily a change of state rather than a change of location. Jesus changed in the Ascension from being present in the realm of space and time to being present in the realm of eternity, in the transcendent heavenly realm.”17 For his part, Robert Jenson wonders, “Can one really – and even if one be the Christ – get to God by space travel?” He then goes on briefly to sketch Calvin’s view of “heaven above” as outside the universe – a view Jenson critiques for its failure to take seriously the embodied nature of the risen Christ and its problematic reading of biblical portraits of heaven.18 What these attempts have in common is their concern to validate Luke’s account in the courtroom of scientific exegesis, and especially in terms appropriate to a historical-critical interest in “what really happened.” For those of us concerned with the theological interpretation of Scripture, this will not do. This is because we are concerned with theological reflection with Scripture, not with theological reflection on the basis of an account reconstructed by even our best historians. N. T. Wright is closer to the mark when he resists reading Luke’s narrative within the framework of a two-decker or a three-decker cosmology and insists that we take note of the theological sophistication of the biblical writers, Luke among them, in their references to earth and heaven as “parallel and interlocking universes inhabited by the creator god [sic] on the one hand and humans on the other.”19 This seems to be close to Jenson’s preferred explanation, that heaven describes not so much a reality “up there” as “ ‘the place in the world from which’ God’s inner worldly movement begins.”20 The point is, puzzling over Luke’s scientific knowledge has masked the way his account underscores Jesus’s heavenly destination, which is itself set within a narrative cotext manifestly concerned with rewriting the disciples’ notions of space (and time). My first claim, regarding Luke’s interest in Jesus’s heavenly destination, is easy enough to document. In Acts 1:9–11, the term heaven (οὐρανός) is found four times – once in v. 10: “as they were staring toward heaven”; and three times in  Peter Brunner, “The Ascension of Christ: Myth or Reality?,” Dialog 1, no. 2 (1962): 38.  Stephen T. Davis, “The Meaning of Ascension for Christian Scholars,” Perspectives 22, no. 4 (2007): 16. Metzger had sketched an analogous understanding in his 1969 essay (“Christ’s Ascension,” 123–25). 18  Robert W. Jenson, “On the Ascension,” in Loving God with Our Minds: The Pastor as Theologian: Essays in Honor of Wallace M. Alston, ed. Michael Welker and Cynthia A. Jarvis (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 334. 19  N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God, COQG 3 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 655. 20  Jenson, “Ascension,” 337. 16 17

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v. 11: “Galileans, why are you standing here, looking toward heaven? This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way that you saw him go into heaven.” This is congruent with Luke’s earlier note about the cessation of Jesus’s earthly career “when he was taken up into heaven” (1:2; cf. Luke 9:51: “when Jesus was to be taken up into heaven”). But Luke’s readers have already been put on notice regarding issues of space-time in the immediately preceding exchange between Jesus and his followers. “Lord, are you going to restore the kingdom of Israel now?” they want to know. Jesus responds, “It isn’t for you to know the times or seasons that the Father has set by his own authority. Rather, you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth” (Acts 1:6–8). From the disciples’ question regarding what will happen now, Jesus underscores their agnosticism regarding the Father’s timetable, and the two angels go on to speak of an indeterminate future time when Jesus will return from his heavenly abode. From a concern with Israel, Jesus goes on to chart the world in terms of the divine plan. But the map he provides cannot be read in terms of so many degrees latitude and longitude, as though Jerusalem or Samaria or the end of the earth might be reduced to places on a cartographer’s map bound at the back of modern Bibles. Geography is not a naive container but a social – and, for Luke, theological – construct that both reflects and configures particular ways of construing the world. Just as Jerusalem calls to mind important social, political, economic, and religious considerations, so Judea (“land of the Jews”), Samaria (“land of the Samaritans”), and the end of the earth reflect the structuring of socio-religious relations – indeed, entire lifeworlds. The result is centrifugal rather than centripetal, less a focus on Jerusalem as the earth’s center and more on the blurring of distant, outer boundaries. Luke has chosen a wide-angle lens rather than a telescopic one, and adopted a distal rather than proximate position from which to view the world. With the immediately adjacent account of Jesus’s ascension, the shift in Luke’s geographical perspective is only compounded. The divine plan and its actualization within Luke’s narration are not determined by earthbound views but by a heavenly perspective. Indeed, the dominion regarding which Jesus’s followers had questioned him in v. 6 is not earthbound but heavenly. It is, after all, God’s kingdom, and God’s throne is heaven itself (7:49; citing Isa 66:1). Earth and heaven are distinguished, so that Jesus’s ascension removes him from their sight (1:9), but this emphasis on Jesus’s heavenly journey now opens the way for earthly history to be grasped in terms of heavenly space and heavenly time. Indeed, the Holy Spirit promised them is none other than “heavenly power” (ἐξ ὕψους δύναμιν, Luke 24:49); the coming of the Spirit is accompanied by “a sound from heaven” (Acts 2:2); and this Spirit empowers them to serve as Jesus’s witnesses (1:8) beginning on the day of Pentecost, in Jerusalem, where “pious Jews from

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every nation under heaven” were living (2:5). Jesus remains in heaven (3:21), where he is seen in Stephen’s visionary experience (7:55–56), and from where he can provide empowerment and direction (e. g., 9:3; 10:11).21 In other words, heaven now becomes the reality that structures and maps the life of Jesus’s followers.22 Whatever else this entails, this means that any attempt to analyze Luke’s account of Jesus’s ascension and its sequelae in ways that reduce Luke’s narrative to what can be scientifically verified or validated on historical-critical grounds is essentially wrongheaded as a reading of Luke’s narrative. For Luke, the ascension undercuts any reductive historicism that assumes that the story of Acts is played out on a human-made map of the cosmos. The terrain on which our understanding of Acts 1:9–11 within the historical narrative of Luke-Acts might be mapped is essentially theological. Ascension Theology in Lukan Studies How has Lukan scholarship articulated the theological significance of the ascension for Luke? In his 1985 Tyndale New Testament Lecture, John Maile focused on the ascension, devoting twenty-five pages to a range of critical issues before turning to a three-and-a-half-page assessment of “The Significance of the Ascension Narratives in Luke-Acts.” He lists six motifs. The ascension (1) confirms Christ’s exaltation and present lordship, (2) explains the continuity between Jesus’s ministry and the church’s ministry, (3) brings to a close the resurrection appearances, (4) introduces the sending of the Holy Spirit, (5) sets the groundwork for Christian mission, and (6) serves as the pledge of Christ’s return.23 How each of these interpretations can be attributed to Luke’s narrative is not always clear, undoubtedly due to the cursory nature of the theological contribution of Maile’s discussion – itself testimony to the backseat generally reserved for theological reflection in biblical studies even with the onset of redaction criticism. Moreover, one of Maile’s points – that the ascension brings to a close the resurrection appearances – assumes what is not in evidence, namely, that Jesus’s typical abode during the forty days after the resurrection was heaven, with the result that we must assume that Jesus came and went, came and went, prior to the ascension. More recent discussion has brought with it different emphases. Consider, for example, an alternative list of theological implications from Steve Walton (2013), 21 For heaven as source of disclosure, cf. Luke 3:21; 10:21; 20:4–5; Acts 2:2; 9:3; 10:11, 16; 11:5, 9, 10; 22:6; as source of judgment, cf. Luke 9:54; 17:29; and as divine residence, cf. Luke 3:21; 9:16; (10:15); 11:13, 16; 15:7, 18, 21; 18:13; 20:4–5; Acts 1:10, 11; 2:2; 3:21 (Jesus’s abode); 7:49 (God’s abode), 55–56 (Jesus’s and God’s abode). For the notion of heavenly perspective, cf. Luke 15:7; 18:22. 22  See now the sophisticated analysis of Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, SNTSMS 146 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 23  John F. Maile, “The Ascension in Luke-Acts,” TynBul 37 (1986): 29–59; similarly, Paul Palatty, “The Ascension of Christ in Luke-Acts,” BiBh 12 (1986): 166–81.

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for whom the ascension marks Jesus’s transition from earth to heaven. This heavenly position (1) implies that Jesus now reigns in heaven alongside God; (2) anticipates Jesus’s return to earth from heaven; (3) identifies Jesus as the Lord of the Spirit, who now pours out the Spirit; (4) implies that Jesus has universal authority, so that he welcomes believers, like Stephen, to heaven; (5) means that Jesus can appear and act from heaven; (6) signifies that the barrier between heaven and earth has been pierced, allowing two-way traffic – for example, angelic activity and the coming of the Spirit; and (7) means that believers may approach God through Jesus with confidence.24 What is interesting about the shift in perspective between these two mile-markers in the discussion is, first, Walton’s renewed emphasis on “heaven,” which takes its cue from the fact that “heaven” is mentioned four times in Acts 1:9–11; and second, the heightened emphasis on Christology in contemporary discussion of Jesus’s ascension among NT scholars. In fact, it is not too much to say that a renewal of interest in the possibility of a divine Christology in Luke-Acts finds its center in Luke’s interpretation of Jesus’s ascension.25 On the one hand, a major current of Luke’s soteriology is grounded in Jesus’s exaltation, a term that summarizes theologically the significance of Jesus’s resurrection and ascension.26 It is on the basis of Jesus’s exaltation to God’s right side, for example, that Jesus is “leader and savior,” enabling Israel’s repentance and forgiveness of sins (5:31).27 This is especially interesting in that, for Israel, divine forgiveness is an act of covenant renewal marking the restoration of God’s people.28 This restoration theme is likewise in view with the outpouring of the Spirit at Pentecost.29 Thus, we learn from Peter’s Pentecost address not only that the outpouring of the Spirit actualizes Joel’s prophecy regarding Israel’s restoration, but also that the outpouring of the Spirit is the consequence of Jesus’s exaltation to God’s right side and concomitant reception from the Father of the promised Holy Spirit (2:16–21, 33). In short, both Lukan pneumatology and soteriology are grounded in Lukan Christology, and Luke’s divine Christology turns on Jesus’s ascension.  Steve Walton, “Ascension of Jesus,” DJG2 59–61.  This is not meant to be an exclusive claim, as some studies have ranged across other evidence in the Lukan narrative; cf., e. g., Buckwalter, Luke’s Christology; C. Kavin Rowe, Early Narrative Christology: The Lord in the Gospel of Luke, BZNW 139 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006). 26  The relationship among these three – exaltation, ascension, and resurrection – is debated. See the critical assessment in Kevin L. Anderson, “But God Raised Him from the Dead”: The Theology of Jesus’ Resurrection in Luke-Acts, PBM (Milton Keyes: Paternoster, 2006), 41–47. 27  On the exaltation as salvific event, see, e. g., Joel B. Green, “ ‘Salvation to the End of the Earth’ (Acts 13.47): God as Saviour in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 83–106 (see ch. 18, below). 28  Cf. Jer 4:14; 31:31–34; 2 Macc 7:1–42; 8:27–29; 1 En. 5.6. 29  This is a major emphasis in Max Turner, Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 9 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). 24 25

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The significance of Jesus’s ascension for Luke’s Christology is the focus of a number of essays by Max Turner in which he puts forward a sophisticated argument that takes seriously the historical-theological milieu within which Luke writes, the character of Luke’s interpretation of Jesus’s exaltation, and a range of possible counter-proposals.30 The primary contours of his thesis are easily traced. (1) God resurrected Jesus and exalted Jesus to God’s right side (2:24–36). Jesus, then, shares with the Father the divine throne itself.31 (2) Even though Luke has it that Peter emphasizes in his Pentecostal address that it is God who says that he will “pour out my Spirit” (2:17), Peter goes on to claim that, at his exaltation, Jesus “received from the Father the promised Holy Spirit” and that it is Jesus who “poured out this Spirit” (2:33). This actualizes Jesus’s earlier promise that he himself would send “what my Father promised” (Luke 24:49). Accordingly, “Jesus is identified as one with Yahweh as the ‘Lord’ (Acts 2:36) upon whose name one is to call for salvation, and in whose name one is baptized (2:38–40).”32 Andy Johnson has taken a different route to reach a similar conclusion.33 First, he observes with others before him the intertextual relationship between the accounts of Jesus’s ascension in Acts 1:9–11 and Elijah’s ascension in 2 Kgs 2:1–18, particularly with respect to the parallel emphases on “seeing” and the connection of “seeing” with the reception of the spirit (or Spirit) of the one ascending. We read in 2 Kgs 2:9–10: “When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha, ‘What do you want me to do for you before I’m taken away from you?’ Elisha said, ‘Let me have twice your spirit.’ Elijah said, ‘You’ve made a difficult request. If you can see me when I’m taken from you, then it will be yours. If you don’t see me, it won’t happen.’” Then, as Elijah is taken up into heaven in a windstorm, “Elisha was watching” until “he could no longer see him” (v. 12). Subsequently, the group of prophets recognizes that “Elijah’s spirit has settled on Elisha!” (v. 15), while 30  See esp. M. M. B. Turner, “The Spirit of Christ and Christology,” in Christ the Lord: Studies in Christology Presented to Donald Guthrie, ed H. H. Rowdon (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1982), 168–90; Max Turner, “The Spirit of Christ and ‘Divine’ Christology,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 413–36; idem, “ ‘ Trinitarian’ Pneumatology in the New Testament? Towards an Explanation of the Worship of Jesus,” AsTJ 57–58 (2002–2003): 167–86. 31  On this point, Turner is dependent on Richard Bauckham, God Crucified: Monotheism and Christology in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), esp. ch. 1; idem, “The Throne of God and the Worship of Jesus,” in Jesus and the God of Israel: God Crucified and Other Studies on the New Testament’s Christology of Divine Identity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 152–81. Cf. Metzger, “Christ’s Ascension,” 127–28. 32 Turner, “Trinitarian Pneumatology,” 178. Whether ὑψόω in v. 33 identifies Jesus’s exaltation with his resurrection or with his ascension is debated. In v. 33, Jesus’s exaltation appears to be the consequence of his resurrection (οὖν, “therefore”), while in v. 34 Jesus’s exaltation is contrasted with David’s failure to ascend into the heavens (γάρ, “for”), which by implication urges an identification of Jesus’s ascension with his exaltation. 33  Andy Johnson, “Resurrection, Ascension and the Developing Portrait of the God of Israel in Acts,” SJT 57 (2004): 149–52.

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also distinguishing Elijah’s spirit from the Lord’s spirit (v. 16). Johnson goes on to observe that, like the account in 2 Kgs 2, Luke’s narration of the ascension is bracketed by promises of receiving the Spirit (Acts 1:4, 5, 8) and a report of the reception of the Spirit (2:1–13). Likewise, Luke emphatically documents that Jesus’s ascension was for the disciples a manifestly visual experience (mentioning sight five times in three verses).34 After a delay of ten days, at Pentecost, we learn in Acts 2, Jesus did pour out a spirit on his followers; indeed, they received the promised Holy Spirit of the Father. That is, even though, on the basis of the story of Elijah and Elisha, we might expect Jesus’s spirit to empower his disciples, according to Luke’s narrative, the identity of the promised spirit who is coming is none other than the Holy Spirit (1:4–5). Moving beyond any parallels with 2 Kgs 2, then, the spirit of the ascended one is the Spirit of the Lord, who is subsequently known to us as “the Spirit of Jesus” (Acts 16:7). Biblical scholarship on Jesus’s ascension according to Acts, then, has largely moved away from issues related to the historical veracity of Luke’s account, its potential sources, and its literary form, underscoring more and more its theological significance. In contemporary study, this significance has been parsed above all in christological terms, including examination of the ramifications of Jesus’s exalted status as Lord and Christ for Luke’s pneumatology and soteriology, set within the overarching narrative of God’s engagement with Israel.

Ascension Theology: Reading Luke-Acts from the Second Century Writing in the last quarter of the second century, Irenaeus locates Jesus’s ascension in his précis of the faith received by the whole church from the apostles and their disciples: [The church believes] in one God the Father Almighty, the Creator of heaven and earth and the seas and all things that are in them; and in the one Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was infleshed for our salvation; and in the Holy Spirit, who through the prophets preached the Economies, the coming, the birth from a Virgin, the passion, the resurrection from the dead, and the bodily ascension into heaven of the beloved Son, Christ Jesus our lord, and His coming from heaven in the glory of the Father to recapitulate all things, and to raise up all flesh of the whole human race, in order that to Christ Jesus, our Lord and God, Savior and King, according to the invisible Father’s good pleasure, Every knee should bow [of those] in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess Him, and he would exercise just judgment toward all …. (Haer. 1.10.1)35 34 The parallel is weakened by our recognition that the condition for their reception of the Holy Spirit was not that they see Jesus’s ascension, but that they wait in Jerusalem (Luke 24:49; Acts 1:4). 35  ET: Irenaeus, Against Heresies, trans. and ed. Dominic J. Unger, rev. John J. Dillon, ACW 55 (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1992), 49 (emphasis original).

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This suggests the secure place the ascension occupied in the church’s kerygma from early on and invites reflection on its significance theologically. I will mention three milestones in the reception of Jesus’s ascension: the writings of Justin Martyr from the mid-second century, the apocryphal Acts of Peter from the second half of the second century, and the work of Irenaeus. Ascension Theology in the Second Century Justin Martyr’s primary contribution to the conversation appears to have been his efforts to secure the ascension within the church’s confession. We find in his work two interrelated strategies. The first is his appeal to Scripture – particularly Pss 19, 24, 47, 68, and 11036 – to prove Jesus’s ascension: “we prove that all things which have already happened had been predicted by the prophets before they came to pass” (1 Apol. 52 [ANF 1:176]). Scripture is recruited as testimony regarding the truth of the christological kerygma, in which Jesus’s ascension figures (1 Apol. 21), over against pagan myths uttered by “the poets” under the influence of “wicked demons” concerning those whose careers were mere imitations of Christ (1 Apol. 54 [ANF 1:181]). These imitations included not only the virginal conception of Jesus but also his ascension: For you know how many sons your esteemed writers ascribed to Jupiter; Mercury, the interpreting word and teacher of all; Aesculapius, who, though he was a great physician, was struck by a thunderbolt, and so ascended to heaven; and Bacchus too, after he had been torn limb from limb; and Hercules, when he had committed himself to the flames to escape his toils; and the sons of Leda, and Dioscuri; and Perseus, son of Danae; and Bellerophon, who, though sprung from mortals, rose to heaven on the horse Pegasus. For what shall I say of Ariane, and those who, like her, have been declared to be set among the stars? And what of the emperors who die among yourselves, whom you deem worthy of deification, and in whose behalf you produce some one who swears he has seen the burning Caesar rise to heaven from the funeral pyre?

But, Justin goes on to say, “wicked devils perpetrated these things” (1 Apol. 21 [ANF 1:170]). The logic at work here has two steps: Ascension marks one as a god, but the only true ascension is the one predicted beforehand, namely, that of Jesus Christ. Indeed, for Justin Jesus’s ascension evidences his divinity (e. g., Dial. 64). We find in the Acts of Peter a similar interest in ascension as the mark of divine legitimation.37 This document narrates an encounter between Peter and the sorcerer Simon known to us from Acts 8:5–25. Simon claims that he is “the great power of God, and that without God he does nothing,” with the result that people wonder if he might be the Christ. When Simon is acclaimed in Rome as “God 36 See J. G. Davies, He Ascended into Heaven: A Study in the History of Doctrine, Bampton Lectures 1958 (London: Lutterworth, 1958), 71–73. 37  ET: Wilhelm Schneemelcher, “The Acts of Peter,” in New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 2, Writings Relating to the Apostles Apocalypses and Related Subjects, ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, trans. R. McL. Wilson, rev. Edgar Hennecke (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 271–321.

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in Italy,” “savior of the Romans,” he responds with an aerial display by which he arrives at the city gate in a dust cloud (Acts Pet. 4). The ensuing narrative prepares us for a final showdown between Peter and Simon. Simon promises that he will “fly up to God” (Acts Pet. 31[2]), and challenges Peter with these words: “Peter, now of all times, when I am making my ascent before all these onlookers, I tell you: If your god has power enough  – he whom the Jews destroyed, and they stoned you who were chosen by him – let him show that faith in him is of God; let it be shown at this time whether it be worthy of God. For I by ascending will show to all this crowd what manner of being I am.” The story continues, “And lo and behold, he was carried up in to the air, and everyone saw him all over Rome, passing over its temple and hills” (Acts Pet. 32[3]). Peter reacts by crying out to his God, the Lord Jesus Christ, that Simon might fall and be crippled but not die – and this is what transpired, so that the Christian community was rescued from deception and actually increased in number. The collocation of ascension with divine legitimation in Justin and the Acts of Peter is interesting because of the different audiences these writings serve. That is, with regard to discourse both within the church and between the church and its wider world, ascension is a mark of divine sanction. This suggests the ease with which we might consider early readings of Luke’s account of Jesus’s ascension as a means of undermining imperial Rome, with its tales of heavenly assumption or deification on the occasion of death.38 This is true irrespective of the reality that Luke’s narrative is more similar to Jewish than to Greco-Roman accounts of heavenly journey and that Luke himself seems not to have explicitly developed the significance of Jesus’s ascension in anti-imperial terms. What, then, of Irenaeus? The Rule of Truth cited above appears in Book 1, Chapter 10, of Against Heresies. In the preceding chapters, Irenaeus has explicated the Valentinian Gnosticism known to him (chs. 1–8) and critiqued it (ch. 9), accusing his opponents primarily for their bad exegesis. In doing so, he offers this analogy: Someone might glean from Homer phrases and names, recasting them in a poem that the naive might regard as Homeric. In the same way, Gnostics collect expressions and names scattered throughout Scripture, then place them in a narrative of their own construction – but a narrative that could never be confused with the hypothesis (or narrative sense) of Scripture. Their “system” derives not from the words of the prophets, not from the teaching of the Lord Jesus, and not from the traditions delivered by the apostles, but from sources outside the Scriptures; indeed, they disregard “the order and the connection of the Scriptures” (1.8.1).39 Those who retain the Rule of Truth received at their baptism will recognize immediately the proper order and position of scriptural expression and so understand Scripture rightly (1.9.4). It is in this context, then,  Cf. Wright, Resurrection, e. g., 76–77, 656.  Irenaeus, Against Heresies, trans. and ed. Unger, 41.

38 39

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that Irenaeus goes on to articulate the unity of the church’s faith, the Rule of Truth, derived from the apostles and their disciples. His argument, then, is an exegetical one, but one that is ruled in relation to Scripture’s hypothesis.40 Among the issues Irenaeus discusses, anthropology is pivotal, with the human being understood by the Gnostics as comprising three classes: the psychic, the somatic, and the pneumatic. This division of humanity into classes has its counterpart in what we might refer to as their Christology. For them, the Savior had a psychic body, so that, in their formulation, the ascension would have been the return of the spiritual to the spiritual; for Irenaeus, however, this flies in the face of John’s Gospel, which declares that the Word became flesh. As this discussion relates to Jesus’s ascension, then, we can identify three related emphases. First, just as Irenaeus marks the beginning of Jesus’s career with his having been “infleshed for our salvation,” so he marks its end with Jesus’s “bodily ascension.” Irenaeus devotes much of the fifth book of Against Heresies to this claim – arguing, for example: “For, in what way could we be partakers of the adoption of sons, unless we had received from Him through the Son that fellowship which refers to Himself, unless His Word, having been made flesh, had entered into communion with us? Wherefore also He has passed through every stage of life, restoring to all communion with God” (5.18.7 [ANF 1:448]). Second, to reiterate, for Irenaeus Jesus’s ascension was “bodily.” As he notes, “But if the Word of the Father, who descended, is the one who also ascended, namely the Only-begotten Son of the one God, who according to the Father’s good pleasure became flesh for the sake of men, then John is not speaking of anyone else … , but of the Lord Jesus Christ” (1.9.3).41 Third, as Jesus recapitulates the life of human beings in his own career, so now humanity, embodied humanity, may likewise be raised up. That is, the effect of Jesus’s ascension for humanity, in all its physicality, is life in God’s presence, reflecting God’s image and likeness (cf. 5.31.2). Pivotal to this argument is the non-negotiable emphasis on human embodiment, an emphasis that would come to be stated negatively in the Fifteen Anathemas of the sixth century: “If anyone shall say that after the resurrection the body of the Lord was ethereal …: let him be anathema” (§ 10 [NPNF2 14:319]). Luke-Acts, Divine Legitimation, and Human Embodiment An emphasis on human embodiment such as Irenaeus has articulated may seem strange to readers of Luke’s account, and more at home in the work of systematic 40 Cf. his own exegesis of Ps 68:17–18 in Epid. 83; Haer. 2.20.3. See the helpful discussion of Irenaeus’s view of the ascension in Douglas B. Farrow, “The Doctrine of the Ascension in Irenaeus and Origen,” Arc: The Journal of the Faculty of Religious Studies, McGill University 26 (1998): 31–50; Farrow, however, conceptualizes the issue in systematic rather than exegetical terms. 41  Irenaeus, Against Heresies, trans. and ed. Unger, 47.

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theologians. In fact, as we have seen, recent work on Jesus’s ascension in Acts by NT scholars has been concerned to demonstrate Luke’s divine Christology, not Jesus’s humanity; and affirmations that the ascended Christ challenges docetic tendencies and affirms the enduring consequences of the incarnation have come from systematic theologians. Noting that “the Incarnation is no ‘thirty-threeyear experiment,’” Cynthia Rigby speaks for many when she concludes that “the ascended Christ exalts us, via our humanity with him, to participation in the very life of the truine God.”42 New Testament scholar Leslie Houlden has criticized just this sort of theologizing, however, referring to it as an attempt “to slot ‘the Ascension’ as a topic into the systems of theology,” an attempt, he claims, that does not have much to do with Luke’s story.43 My question is not whether these theological emphases might find a foundation in Luke’s account, but whether second-century reflection on the ascension might lead to our reading Luke-Acts in a new light. Of course, whatever else it does, this concern with Jesus’s embodied humanity calls attention to the kinship of Luke’s account with Jewish rapture stories, which typically speak to the somatic nature of the experience – as opposed to those in the Hellenistic tradition, which trace the journey of the disencumbered soul. What more can be said of reading the Lukan account of Jesus’s ascension from the second-century perspective of the developing credal tradition? Do we observe emphases we might not otherwise have noticed? Luke’s account of Jesus’s ascension is no stranger to an interpretation that emphasizes Jesus’s elevated status, and the fact that “he was lifted up” (passive of ἐπαίρω) certifies that his exalted status was God’s doing. In fact, images of upward and downward movement dot the landscape of Luke’s narrative, so much so that we can speak of a Lukan verticality schema. Working only with data from Luke’s Gospel, we see how honor and shame are measured in terms of verticality. For example: – Honor is associated with the head of the table, so that guests of lower status are seated at the lowest seats and guests of higher status are told, “Move up higher” (14:7–10; cf. 20:46). – Attitudes of deference and dispositions of submissiveness are embodied through kneeling or sitting at one’s feet – as in the cases of Simon Peter (5:8), a Gerasene man from whom demons had gone (8:35), Mary (10:39), or the one 42 Cynthia L. Rigby, “Divine Sovereignty, Human Agency, and the Ascension of Christ,” QR 22 (2002): 157, 163. Cf., e. g., Nick Needham, “Christ Ascended for Us – Jesus’ Ascended Humanity and Ours,” Evangel 25, no. 2 (2007): 42–46; Brian K. Donne, “The Significance of the Ascension of Jesus Christ in the New Testament,” SJT 30 (1977): 564–65 (though without reference to this motif in Luke-Acts); Joseph Haroutunian, “The Doctrine of the Ascension: A Study of the New Testament Teaching,” Int 10 (1956): 278–79; Gerrit Scott Dawson, Jesus Ascended: The Meaning of Christ’s Continuing Incarnation (London: T&T Clark, 2004). 43  Houlden, “Beyond Belief,” 179.

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leper who had seen that he had been healed (17:15). On the Mount of Olives, Jesus knelt to pray (22:41). – Reflecting the polarity present already in Mary’s Song (cf. 1:52–53), on two different occasions Luke reports Jesus’s words, “All who lift themselves up will be brought low, and those who make themselves low will be lifted up” (14:11; 18:14). For our purposes, another strand of evidence is even more telling: – Heaven is up, so Jesus looks up (ἀναβλέπω) when he blesses the loaves and fish (9:16), Jesus anticipates his ascension (ἀνάλημψις, 9:51), and at the end of the Gospel Jesus is carried up (ἀναφέρω) into heaven (24:51). The God known as Most High (1:32, 35, 76; 6:35; 8:28) speaks from above (3:22; 9:35). In his humility, the toll collector would not even lift his eyes toward heaven (18:13). – Contrariwise, ᾅδης, the place of the dead, is the underworld – as in Jesus’s pronouncement of judgment: “And you, Capernaum, will you be lifted up to heaven? No, you will be thrown down to Hades” (10:15, my translation). Luke’s verticality schema illustrates conceptual metaphor theory, which operates from the basic premise that semantic structure mirrors conceptual structure, as we conceive the world around us by projecting patterns from one domain of experience in order to structure another domain. The one is a source domain, the other a target domain, and studies have shown that where these two domains are active simultaneously, the two areas of the brain for each are active.44 Borrowing a principle from the neuropsychologist Donald Hebb, known as Hebb’s Rule, we know that neurons that fire together wire together – with the result that conceptual metaphor theory is actually grounded in the embodiment of the conceptual patterns by which we conceive the world, which we share with people across cultures, and which drive our responses to the world around us.45 Essentially all of our abstract and theoretical concepts draw their meaning by mapping to embodied, experiential concepts hardwired in our brains. Cognitive scientist Jerome Feldman puts it like this: “In a general way, the embodied basis for abstract meanings can be seen as inevitable. A child starts life with certain basic abilities and builds on these through experience. Everything the child learns must be based on what she or he already understands.”46 In this case, a child observes the rise and fall of levels of piles or fluids as more of a given substance is added or some is subtracted. That part of her brain concerned with vertical orientation is acti44 E. g., Michael I. Posner and Marcus E. Raichle, Images of Mind (New York: Freeman, 1997), 115; V. S.  Ramachandran, A Brief Tour of Human Consciousness (New York: Pi, 2004), ch. 4; Jerome A. Feldman, From Molecule to Metaphor: A Neural Theory of Language (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006); Raymond W. Gibbs Jr., Embodiment and Cognitive Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 158–207. 45  Cf. Ning Yu, “Metaphor from Body and Culture,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought, ed. Raymond W. Gibbs Jr. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 248. 46  Feldman, Metaphor, 199.

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vated, and is correlated with the subjective experience of changing quantities. In this way, her experience provides a physical basis for an abstract understanding of quantity. Returning to our reading of Luke’s account, then, questions of cosmology aside, at a preconscious level we understand Jesus’s heavenly ascension in terms of God’s granting him the highest status. Whether Jesus’s status is correlated in Acts with an anti-imperial challenge is another matter. One possibility for reflecting on Luke’s interest in this question is raised in Acts 4, where Peter has it that Jesus’s having been chosen by God as the cornerstone opens the way for this claim: “Salvation can be found in no one else. There is no other name under heaven given among humans through which we must be saved” (v. 12, my translation). Given Jesus’s abode in heaven and Luke’s phrase “no other name under heaven,” would these words not counter claims about salvation having come through the emperor,47 as well as claims regarding the heavenly assumption of past emperors upon their deaths? What, then, of the humanity of the one who ascends? We begin with Luke’s portrait of the post-resurrection existence of Jesus in Luke 24, where the evangelist demonstrates Jesus’s corporeality without allowing his physicality to determine exhaustively the nature of his existence. On the one hand, Jesus’s post-resurrection, bodily existence was extraordinary. He disappears and appears suddenly (24:31, 36), as though he were an angel.48 His appearance is elusive to the two disciples on the Emmaus road (24:15–16); his gathered followers in Jerusalem “thought they were seeing a ghost” (24:37), the disembodied residue of the dead. On the other hand, Jesus goes to great lengths to establish his physicality. He grounds the continuity of his identity (“It’s really me!” [24:39]), first, in his physicality – in the constitution of flesh and density of bones: “Touch me and see, for a ghost doesn’t have flesh and bones like you see I have” (24:39). Here is no phantom, no spirit-being. Jesus presses further, requesting something to eat, then consuming broiled fish in the presence of his disciples (24:41–43), proving that he is no angel (cf. Tob 12:15, 19). In Luke’s report, Jesus’s post-resurrection existence is one of transformed embodiment. And it is this embodied Jesus of whom Luke reports, “He was lifted up” (Acts 1:9). Two seemingly minor details within the ascension account itself are also suggestive. The first is the angels’ address to Jesus’s followers in Acts 1:11: “Galileans.” Manifestly, Jesus’s followers are not at home, though paradoxically they are where they should be as members of Jesus’s reconstructed family (cf. Luke 8:21) – and this calls to mind both the long journey they have undertaken from 47  See, e. g., OGIS 2:458 (which has it that, in Augustus, Providence sent a savior); more broadly, Georg Fohrer and Werner Foerster, “σωτήρ,” TDNT 8:1004–12; MM 621. 48  Cf. Acts 10:30. On the connections of this material with angelophanies, see Crispin H. T.  Fletcher-Louis, Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology, WUNT 2/94 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 62–70. Fletcher-Louis helpfully analyzes Luke’s presentation of Jesus in these scenes as both more divine than angels and more human.

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Galilee to Jerusalem (where “Jesus was to be taken up into heaven,” Luke 9:51; cf. Acts 13:31) and the way Luke has designated Galilee as the point of beginning of Jesus’s mission (see Luke 22:59; 23:5, 49, 55; 24:6). The second detail is the angels’ reference to “this Jesus” (Acts 1:11), which inexorably identifies the Jesus of the Galilean ministry, the Jesus of the journey to Jerusalem, the Jesus who was executed and resurrected, the Jesus with whom the disciples had spent the previous forty days after his resurrection – the Jesus of whom Luke had written in his first volume concerning everything he “did and taught from the beginning” (1:1) – “this Jesus,” as the same Jesus whose ascension they had witnessed and the Jesus who would come again.49 These observations, taken together with Luke’s repeated references to the disciples’ having seen Jesus taken from their sight, bring us close to Irenaeus’s emphases on the ascension as the culmination of Jesus’s earthly, bodily career and on the essential physicality of the ascension itself. The Jesus who reigns from heaven may share in God’s own identity, as some Lukan scholars have recently urged, but Luke also has it that, in his ascension, Jesus brings humanity, embodied humanity, to his heavenly place.

Conclusion In the past half-century, NT scholarship on the Lukan accounts of Jesus’s ascension has centered on a range of critical concerns, some historical, some literary, some intertextual, and some theological. On the whole, though, there has been a basic disconnect between the concerns and interests of Lukan scholars and the concerns and interests of those early Christians for whom Jesus’s ascension was a core affirmation of faith. Returning to the Lukan narrative with interests more characteristic of second-century reflection than contemporary scholarship, however, we find emphases very much at home in Luke-Acts. This is interesting, first, because of recent complaints about the creed, that it neglects the ministry of Jesus as it moves from his virginal conception to his crucifixion under Pontius Pilate. To the contrary, we have seen that interest in Jesus’s ascension is profoundly grounded in the embodied life of Jesus of Nazareth, even if this interest is registered differently when comparing Irenaeus and Luke-Acts. It is interesting, second, because we see how the second-century reception of Jesus’s ascension highlights Lukan emphases, even emphases latent from the perspective of contemporary study of Luke-Acts.

49 Cf. Acts 2: The Jesus whom the Jerusalemites, “with the help of wicked men … killed by nailing him to a cross” (v. 23), “this Jesus (τοῦτον τὸν Ἰησοῦν), God raised up” (v. 32).

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“In Our Own Languages”: Pentecost, Babel, and the Shaping of Christian Community in Acts 2:1–13* Not least on account of the phenomenological questions it raises, and their important ramifications for ecclesial communities, the interpretation of Acts 2:1–13 has been especially controversial. “No episode narrated in Acts has received more attention than this one,” writes Robert Wall.1 Specifically at issue is the significance of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit and its expression in the miracle of languages. Almost thirty years ago, I. H. Marshall pushed the conversation in the right direction when he urged: “It has been objected that probably most of the crowd would speak Aramaic or Greek, the two languages which the disciples also would speak, and that therefore the miracle of tongues was unnecessary. But this difficulty must surely have been obvious to Luke also. What was significant was that the various vernacular languages of these peoples were being spoken.”2 This emphasis on the vernacular identifies a crucial theological concern that has not been adequately explored in the study of Luke’s Pentecost account, and it is the purpose of this essay to pursue the matter more fully. My examination of the Lukan account of the outpouring of the Spirit and its immediate sequelae in Acts 2:1–13 will focus on three issues intricately interwoven in this episode: first, the phenomenon of “speaking in other languages” as inspired, doxological speech drawing its raw material from Scripture; second, geographical orientation; and finally, the importance of “speaking in other languages” in identity and identity formation. Attending both to issues of intertextuality and to the larger context of the Pentecost event in Acts, I will urge that Luke’s account constitutes a profoundly theological and political statement displacing Babel‑ and Jerusalem‑ and Rome-centered visions of a unified world in favor of an altogether different sort of community. Unity is found at Pentecost, but not by reviving a pre-Babel homogeneity. With the outpouring of the Spirit, koinonia is * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “‘In Our Own Languages’: Pentecost, Babel, and the Shaping of Christian Community in Acts 2:1–13,” in The Word Leaps the Gap: Essays on Scripture and Theology in Honor of Richard B. Hays, ed. J. Ross Wagner, C. Kavin Rowe, and A. Katherine Grieb (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 198–213. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. 1  Robert W. Wall, “Acts,” NIB 10 (Nashville: Abingdon, 2002), 3. 2  I. Howard Marshall, The Acts of the Apostles: An Introduction and Commentary, TNTC 5 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), 70, emphasis original.

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possible not by the dissolution of multiple languages but rather by embodiment in a people generated by the Spirit, gathered in the name of Jesus Christ.

“Speaking in Other Languages” What requires explanation within Luke’s narrative in Acts 2:1–13, and has also been a source of puzzlement and controversy to Luke’s readers, is the phenomenon of “speaking in other languages” (λαλεῖν ἑτέραις γλώσσαις).3 Indeed, the extraordinary, baffling character of these events is underscored by otherwise redundant references to the reactions of the onlookers – συνεχύθη in v. 6, ἐξίσταντο δὲ καὶ ἐθαύμαζον in v. 7, and ἐξίσταντο δέ … καὶ διηπόρουν in v. 12. “Astonished” and “amazed” (συγχέω, ἐξίστημι, and θαυμάζω) are typical responses to the miraculous or numinous in the Lukan narrative,4 sometimes as a precursor to faith. The use of συγχέω is reminiscent of the Babel story (Gen 11:7, 9 LXX; see also σύγχυσις in Gen 11:9). It shares conceptual affinity with the term Luke introduces in v. 12, διαπορέω, used elsewhere in the Lukan narrative in contexts where further explanation is both required and invited.5 In fact, this need is explicitly stated: “What does this mean?” (v. 12).6 Such reactions indicate the anomalous nature of the phenomena witnessed. Evidently, these events are not self-interpreting; even when the language spoken can be understood, interpretation is necessary. A hermeneut is needed. Not all greet the events of this Pentecost with inquisitiveness, however. Responding with sneering and ridicule, some exhibit the division within Israel presaged by Simeon (Luke 2:34) and John (3:15–17): “But others said sarcastically, ‘They have been filled with new wine’” (Acts 2:13). The disciples of Jesus are thus presented with two motivations to speak – one to address the puzzlement of those gathered, the other to respond to the negative challenge of those who have spoken acrimoniously. The spectacle Luke records has been subjected to a startling array of analyses,7  Unless otherwise indicated, translations of biblical texts are my own.  συγχέω (see also 9:22; 19:32; 21:27, 31), ἐξίστημι (see also Luke 2:47; 8:56; 24:22; Acts 2:12; 8:9, 11, 13; 9:21; 10:45; 12:16), and θαυμάζω (see also Luke 1:21, 63; 2:18, etc.; Acts 3:12; 4:13; 7:31; 13:41) are close semantic kin. 5 Cf. Luke 9:7; Acts 5:24; 10:17. 6 On the form, cf. 17:20. 7 Though dated, a helpful entry point into the discussion is Watson E. Mills, ed., Speaking in Tongues: A Guide to Research on Glossolalia (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986); Mills gathers exegetical, historical, theological, psychological, and sociocultural perspectives. For glossolalia in the NT and Hellenistic world, see Christopher Forbes, Prophecy and Inspired Speech in Early Christianity and Its Hellenistic Environment, WUNT 2/75 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), 44–187. The work of Gerald Hovenden, Speaking in Tongues: The New Testament Evidence in Context, JPTSup 22 (London: Continuum, 2002), 77–94, surveys various interpretations of the 3 4

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though what he describes seems relatively straightforward.8 Luke presents the Spirit as an actor who works to enable speech, specifically “inspired speech” (ἀποφθέγγομαι),9 which the Spirit “gives.” As vv. 5–11 make clear, “other” languages bespeak the extent of the language miracle; it is not only Spirit-inspired discourse but speech using languages other than those familiar to the speakers. Luke’s account also makes clear that the content of these Spirit-inspired utterances is praise to God. That is, in v. 4, people who have been filled with the Spirit are enabled by that same Spirit to speak in languages previously unknown to them,10 and what they speak turns out to be “the great things of God” (v. 11). What astonishes the Jerusalemites is their recognition both that those doing the speaking are Galileans and that these Galileans are speaking in languages that, far from representing the vernacular of Galilee, are native to their own homelands. Subsequent to the military exploits of Alexander the Great in the latter fourth century BCE, all of these persons would have trafficked in Greek, and likely would also have known Aramaic. It would not have been unusual, though, for expatriates to maintain their own, native languages, especially given that multinational cities like Jerusalem generally included areas or districts where immigrants could find (and refresh) languages and customs familiar to their phenomenon in Acts 2 but is oriented primarily around urging that Luke had no theological agenda in introducing what, therefore, must have been a historical event.  8 Luke uses four phrases  – λαλεῖν ἑτέραις γλώσσαις (v. 4), τῇ ἰδίᾳ διαλέκτῳ λαλούντων αὐτῶν (v. 6), τῇ ἰδίᾳ διαλέκτῳ ἡμῶν (v. 8), and λαλούντων αὐτῶν ταῖς ἡμετέραις γλώσσαις (v. 11) – with reference to the same phenomenon. Linguistic differences among these phrases – e. g., διαλέκτος for γλῶσσα – do not signal differences of substance, as the parallel between vv. 8 and 11 makes clear. That Luke portrays glossolalia as xenolalia (speaking in real, unlearned human languages) is widely acknowledged (e. g., Philip Schaff, “The Pentecostal and the Corinthian Glossolalia,” JBL 50 [1931]: xxvii–xxxii; Philip F. Esler, “Glossolalia and the Admission of Gentiles into the Early Christian Community,” BTB 22 [1992]: 136–42; Mark J. Cartledge, “The Nature and Function of New Testament Glossolalia,” EvQ 72 [2000]: 135–50), though some (e. g., Schaff and Esler), using Paul’s portrait of glossolalia in 1 Cor 12–14 as the benchmark, insist that Luke is in error.  9  ἀποφθέγγομαι appears in the NT only in Acts 2:4, 14; 26:25; in the LXX it is used with reference to fortune-telling (e. g., Mic 5:11 [12 Eng.]; Zech 10:2) and prophetic speech (1 Chr 25:1; Ezek 13:9, 19) – cf. LEH 1:58; Gerhard Schneider, “ἀποφθέγγομαι,” EDNT 1:147. 10  In the history of interpretation, some have found in this narrative unit a miracle of “hearing” rather than of “speaking”; see, e. g., Jenny Everts, “Tongues or Languages? Contextual Consistency in the Translation of Acts 2,” JPT 2 (1994): 74–75. But Luke makes no suggestion that the Spirit fell on the crowd, enabling them miraculously to hear; rather, the crowd gathers subsequently, in response to the outpouring of the Spirit. Robert Zerhusen, “An Overlooked Judean Diglossia in Acts 2?” BTB 25 (1995): 118–30, argues that the language problem is grounded in the fact that Jesus’s followers prophesied in a language other than Hebrew – that is, that they used Low language rather than High in a context where anyone claiming to speak with religious authority would have used High language; see also the synopsis of Zerhusen’s argument in David Crystal, “Why Did the Crowd Think St. Peter Was Drunk? An Exercise in Applied Sociolinguistics,” NBf 79 (1998): 72–76. This ingenious argument has almost nothing to commend it in the Lukan text. Most importantly, Jesus’s followers make no claim to speak with religious authority; they are praising God, and, it so happens, they are doing so in languages that others can understand.

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homelands.11 Although the language practices current in the first century CE are not always certain for the peoples mentioned by Luke, the terminology Luke employs to describe what is heard by these Jerusalemites is sufficiently elastic to allow for a variety of phenomena, including not only distinctive languages but also the use of idiomatic expressions of style and even accent. In some cases, such as Pamphylia and Crete, we should think of aberrant Greek dialects, while for Egypt and Phrygia, for example, we may think of a distinct language.12 That is, bystanders, who might just as easily have understood these words of praise had they been expressed in Greek or Aramaic, nonetheless testify to hearing in their own native tongues “the great things of God.” In this way, the scene Luke paints anticipates the nature of things to come – a world-wide mission enabled by the Holy Spirit,13 resulting in the worship of God in locales far removed from the socioreligious center of the Jewish world, Jerusalem and its temple. What those gathered hear is prophetic speech insofar as it is enabled by the Holy Spirit, but not primarily a form of missionary proclamation, articulated in their own native languages as though they could not understand the good news were it preached in Aramaic or Greek (as indeed it will be in 2:14–36).14 Luke regards all sorts of speech acts as “prophetic,” including (as in this case) prayer and praise, provided that they are inspired speech.15 What Luke envisages in this scene, then, is similar to what we read in the Lukan birth narratives: being Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 29; Richard L. Rohrbaugh, “The Pre-Industrial City in Luke-Acts: Urban Social Relations,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 129–37. 12  For διαλέκτος, see LSJ 401. The OCD3 provides readily accessible summaries for many of the regions Luke lists: a western Middle Iranian language was spoken in Parthia (1117), Elamite in Elam (515), Egyptian in Egypt (512), Latin in Rome (817–20), and so on; it is less clear however, regarding patterns of usage over time. Colin J. Hemer, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic History, ed. Conrad H. Gempf, WUNT 49 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 205, summarizes data regarding Phrygian and the Pamphylian dialect. 13  This is emphasized recently by Ju Hur, A Dynamic Reading of the Holy Spirit in Luke-Acts, JSNTSup 211 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 223–26; cf. also Giuseppe Betori, “Luke 24:47: Jerusalem and the Beginning of the Preaching to the Pagans in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Luke and Acts, ed. Gerald O’Collins and Gilberto Marconi (New York: Paulist Press, 1993), 115–16. 14  Contra Robert P. Menzies, Empowered for Witness: The Spirit in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 6 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 177. See Max Turner, Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 9 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 171–72; Jacques Dupont, “The First Christian Pentecost,” in The Salvation of the Gentiles: Essays on the Acts of the Apostles (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), 49–50. Luke does not present Acts 2:1–13 as an occasion of missionary proclamation; we can recognize a rhetorical distinction between what the Galileans utter here and what Peter preaches in 2:14–36. Missionary proclamation begins in v. 14, with Peter’s address (at which point there is no suggestion that he is speaking in an unknown language); prior to that, those filled with the Spirit are extolling God. 15 So rightly Forbes, Prophecy and Inspired Speech, 51. 11 Cf.

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filled with the Spirit leads to praise (Luke 1:46–55, 67–79; 2:25–32).16 The phrase “great things of God” appears to be borrowed from the Psalms, where it is found in the context of doxology (see Pss 106:2; 145:4, 12); elsewhere too God’s mighty acts figure prominently in praise (e. g., Exod 15; Judg 5; 1 Sam 2). In Acts 10:46, speaking in other languages is clearly bundled with doxology; and in light of the collocation of prophesying with “blessing” the Lord in Luke 1:67, we may be justified in imagining that the prophetic speech in Acts 19:6 too is doxological. Finally, we read in Luke 1:49 that Mary lifts her voice in praise: “The Mighty One has done great things for me!” Of course, as in Acts 16:25, for Luke to refer to words of praise (vertical speech, directed to God) does not deny that these words might be heard by and influence those persons nearby; however, it is only in 2:14 that, on behalf of Jesus’s followers, Peter more specifically addresses those gathered (horizontal speech). Any hint of intertextuality in 2:11 is of special interest, since in other episodes of “inspired speech” (ἀποφθέγγομαι) Luke refers to manifestly comprehensible speech concerned with scriptural interpretation (2:14; 26:25). Peter’s Pentecostal address (2:14–41) is identified as Spirit-inspired speech,17 consisting above all of scriptural citation and explication (esp. Joel 2:28–32; Pss 16:8–11; 110:1, but also 1 Kgs 2:10; Ps 132:11; Isa 32:15; 57:19; Deut 32:5, etc.), with the scriptural message comprehended in terms of its actualization in the ministry, death, resurrection, and exaltation of Jesus. We also find the verb in the context of Paul’s speech before Herod Agrippa II and Porcius Festus, where Festus’s outburst, “You have lost your mind!” is countered by Paul’s claim to inspired, sober speech (26:24–25). The basis of Festus’s interruption is not Paul’s ecstatic or hysterical speech (which one might expect, given Festus’s characterization of Paul) but rather Paul’s exposition of Scripture as witness to Jesus. As Joseph Fitzmyer observes: “Festus protests first over Paul’s erudition, his strange way of arguing, and his allusions to Moses and the prophets. Festus has difficulty in following all this argumentation and especially in admitting such a thing as resurrection.”18 That 16 See Leo O’Reilly, Word and Sign in the Acts of the Apostles: A Study in Lucan Theology, AnGr 243 (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1987), 54–57. The one exception is Luke 1:41–45 (Elizabeth, filled with the Spirit, blesses Mary), but this provides no analogue to the present scene. Note that Spirit-inspired utterances in the birth narratives extol God and are said in the presence of others. In terms of the Lukan narrative, those utterances serve primarily as hermeneutical asides to Luke’s own audience – situating the events he narrates within the history of God’s dealings with Israel. In the current scene, it is true that “devout Jews” hear them expressing the great things of God, but the content of these utterances is not specified and so they cannot function as hermeneutical asides for Luke’s audience. 17 Cf. Jacob Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte: Übersetzt und erklärt, KEK 3 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 141–42. 18  Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles, AB 31 (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 763. With reference to Acts 2:1–13, Keith Warrington, Discovering the Holy Spirit in the New Testament (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005), 54, urges similarly that the charge of drunken babbling aimed at Jesus’s followers is not the consequence of their speaking in other languages, since in

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is, lacking the conceptual categories to make sense of Paul’s argument, Festus presumes that Paul is the one lacking in cognitive equipment. Read in relation to these other texts where the verb ἀποφθέγγομαι is found in Acts, Luke’s reference to inspired speech concerning “the great things of God” in 2:11 is best understood as charismatic interpretation of Scripture.19 It is not surprising, then, that in both Acts 2 and Acts 26, the consequence of Spirit-inspired speech is a charge against the speakers that they have lost their mental capacities. In neither case is this due to maniacal or ecstatic behavior but rather to the alien quality of their proclamation, writing as it does the death and resurrection of Jesus into the story of Israel as that story’s culmination. “The great things of God,” accordingly, find their center and meaning in the exaltation of Jesus of Nazareth.

“Other Languages” and Social Geography It is one thing for any group of people to manifest doxological outbursts, and quite another for them to do so in regional languages they have not learned. To add to the prodigious character of this event, Luke notes that the Jerusalemites recognize the speakers as Galileans. This may result from the distinctive speech patterns of Galileans;20 in any case, it is important to note that, for the sophisticates of a city like Jerusalem, and the Holy City at that, Galileans were regarded as “boorish dolts” – that is, as outlanders devoid of intellectual accomplishment who inhabited a region far from the center of religious power and purity.21 As a pilgrim feast, Passover would have attracted huge crowds to Jerusalem, both from Palestine and from the Jewish Diaspora. Luke’s use of κατοικέω in 2:5 apparently includes both those present in Jerusalem for the festival (see 2:9) and those from Palestine and the Jewish Diaspora who had relocated to the city (see 2:14).22 Emphasis thus falls on Jerusalem as a multinational city representative of the world of Jews and proselytes outside Jerusalem. This is not because Luke holds the Jewish people collectively responsible for Jesus’s death. It is not in this way that these Jerusalemites are “representative,” as is made clear in 13:27–29, cosmopolitan Jerusalem a multiplicity of languages would be expected; instead, the content of their speech attracted ridicule. 19  The role of the Spirit in inspired interpretation of Scripture is well known in the literature of Second Temple Judaism (e. g., Josephus, at Qumran, in Sirach, in Philo) – cf. John R. Levison, The Spirit in First Century Judaism, AGJU 29 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 254–59. 20  F. F. Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles: The Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 116. 21 Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, “Conflict in Luke-Acts: Labelling and Deviance Theory,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 104. See Matt 4:15; Acts 4:13. 22 κατοικέω occurs in the Third Gospel twice (11:26; 13:4), twenty times in Acts. “Temporary lodging” is not its typical sense for Luke (see esp. Acts 1:19; 4:16; 9:22; 13:27).

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when in an address to Jews in Pisidian Antioch Paul says that “the residents of Jerusalem and their leaders … asked Pilate to have Jesus killed.”23 Rather, Luke’s characterization of Jerusalem contains the coordinates of a universal, missionary geography.24 Recognition of the place of Luke’s list of nations in relation to the Table of Nations tradition supports this suggestion, since a partial list of the nations might stand in symbolically for the whole.25 Of course, his picture is hyperbolic: “every nation” does not find its way into the list of peoples in vv. 9–11. Nevertheless, “under heaven” (see the parallel “from heaven” in v. 2) portends the divine outlook, of which these nations are illustrative. Luke’s list of nations takes a decidedly Jerusalem-oriented perspective on the Jewish Diaspora and anticipates in interesting ways the missionary activity of Jesus’s witnesses yet to be narrated in Acts.26 The resulting map distributes the nations listed in vv. 9–11 along lines determined by the four points of the compass, reminding us that cartography is a science invested with ideology; mapping is a human enterprise that incorporates heavy doses of social, political, and religious agenda.27 Interestingly, within Acts, once Philip and Paul appear on the scene, the map configured by vv. 9–11 is unmade, or remade; the result is a new way of organizing social space so as to include Samaria and Ethiopia, Macedonia and Achaia. The narrative of Acts often demands a map, but it is a Jack T. Sanders, The Jews in Luke-Acts (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 233–35. See the more nuanced view of Frank J. Matera, “Responsibility for the Death of Jesus according to the Acts of the Apostles,” JSNT 39 (1990): 77–93. 24  Cf. Eberhard Güting, “Der geographische Horizont der sogenannten Völkerliste des Lukas (Acta 2:9–11),” ZNW 66 (1975): 149–69. 25 See Philip S. Alexander, “Geography and the Bible (Early Jewish),” ABD 2:980–85; James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting, ed. David W. J. Gill and Conrad Gempf, BAFCS 2 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 527–28. Calling attention to the analogue in Rudiments of Paulus Alexandrinus (fourth century BCE), some have urged that Luke’s list is comprehensive because it gives one nation for each of the twelve signs of the zodiac; see esp. Stefan Weinstock, “The Geographical Catalogue in Acts ii,9–11,” JRS 38 (1948): 43–46 – followed by, e. g., Gerd Lüdemann, Early Christianity according to the Traditions in Acts: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 40–41. Cf., however, Bruce M. Metzger, “Ancient Astrological Geography and Acts 2:9–11,” in Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to F. F. Bruce on His 60th Birthday, ed. W. Ward Gasque and Ralph P. Martin (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970), 123–33; Güting, “Geographische Horizont,” 151. 26  Cf. Ezek 5:5; Jub 8:19; 1 En. 26:1. See Richard Bauckham, “James and the Jerusalem Church,” in The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting, ed. Richard Bauckham, BAFCS 4 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 417–27; Loveday C. A. Alexander, “‘In Journeyings Often’: Voyaging in the Acts of the Apostles and in Greek Romance,” in Luke’s Literary Achievement: Collected Essays, ed. Christopher M. Tuckett, JSNTSup 116 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 30–31. 27  On geography as social space, see, e. g., Edward W. Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (London: Verso, 1989); Benno Werlen, Society, Action, and Space: An Alternative Human Geography (London: Routledge, 1993). 23 Contra

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map that evolves with the narrative itself, moving away from a Jerusalem-centered perspective and casting such persons as Philip and Paul as persons who advance beyond the boundaries of “the known world.” Of course, such locales as Paul visits, say Corinth or Athens, are prominent on some maps of the Empire – maps of economic or banking centers, for example – but apparently not within the structuring of space determined by the sacredness of Jerusalem and its temple for Jews scattered throughout the Mediterranean as this is conceived in vv. 9–11. Luke’s “map” thus locates those gathered in Jerusalem at the “center of the world,” so it is not surprising to see him characterize them further as “pious (εὐλαβεῖς) Jews” (v. 5). εὐλαβεῖς is always a positive quality for Luke, referring essentially to persons who are blameless before the law and in tune with the will of God.28 The identification of residents of Jerusalem and those present for the pilgrim feast as “Jews” may seem redundant, but it serves Luke’s purpose  – a purpose that becomes all the more clear when the pattern of Acts 2 is juxtaposed with the beginnings of Jesus’s ministry: Jesus in Luke 3:21–4:30

Disciples in Acts 2

Baptized/anointed with the Spirit Filled with the Spirit Genealogy

Table of Nations

Testing in the wilderness

––––––

First public sermon

First public sermon

As Jesus’s genealogy portended the universal significance of his mission, so the catalog of nations throws the net of the good news over all the lands to which the Jewish people had scattered and from which they had gathered. Anticipated here is an interpretation of the Pentecost event as the reconstitution of Israel, from whom a light to the nations would shine forth – an interpretation that will be made explicit in Peter’s address, beginning in 2:14.

“Other Languages,” Babel, and Identity Formation The interrelation of the Table of Nations material with the Babel episode in Gen 10–11 and the clear echoes of the Table of Nations tradition in Acts 2:5–11 are enough to suggest the possibility of reflection on the Babel tradition in Luke’s narrative. This possibility receives further support from linguistic parallels29 and 28 Cf. Luke 2:25 (Simeon); Acts 8:2 (“devout” men buried Stephen [on burying a corpse as a mark of piety, see Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.29 § 211; Tob 1:16–2:10]); 22:12 (Ananias). 29  The data was summarized long ago by J. G. Davies, “Pentecost and Glossolalia,” JTS, n.s., 3 (1952): 228–29. See the use of φωνή (Gen 11:1, 7; Acts 2:6), οὐρανός (Gen 11:4; Acts 2:2), πῦρ (Gen 11:3; Acts 2:3), γλῶσσα (Gen 11:7; Acts 2:4), and συγχέω (Gen 11:7; Acts 2:6; cf. σύγχυσις in Gen 11:9); as well as the contrast between the plan to “make for ourselves a name” and the

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from the centrality in each scene of the divine enabling of languages. Nevertheless, scholars remain divided on the presence of the Babel story in the background of Luke’s scene, differing especially on the possible utility of the Babel scene in Luke’s account. Those who find an allusion to Babel in Acts 2 regard Luke as portraying a kind of “reversal of Babel,”30 and those who deny the influence of Babel in the Lukan narrative typically do so by arguing that in fact Pentecost does not so much reverse the confusion of languages as make use of it for missionary purposes.31 (I have already urged that Spirit-inspired speech in this pericope is doxological rather than missiological in primary aim, however.) The discussion, then, has heretofore been funded by an erroneous presumption, namely, that within the biblical narrative of salvation history Babel required reversal. Given the romantic belief, popular from the early Dark Ages to the Renaissance, that the language spoken in the garden of Eden was the original and perfect language, and that all subsequent languages were its degenerative descendants from the catastrophes of the fall and Babel,32 the idea that Babel needed to be overturned is easy to understand. Indeed, since the British jurist Sir William Jones observed in the late eighteenth century the marked similarity between such diverse languages as Greek, Celtic, and Sanskrit, linguists have largely assumed that most of the 144 so-called Indo-European languages derive from a single ancient tongue, fueling the ongoing search for an original (if not an original, perfect) language.33 Earlier commentators (e. g., Gerhard von Rad) took Gen 11:1 to mean that all of humanity had one language and one vocabulary, whereas Victor Hamilton has more recently suggested that the Genesis account proposes the existence of a single lingua franca.34 proclamation of “the mighty acts of God.” See also Hee-Seong Kim, Die Geisttaufe des Messias: Eine kompositionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zu einem Leitmotiv des lukanishen Doppelwerks: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie und Intention des Lukas, SKP 81 (Bern: Peter Lang, 1993), 158–60. 30 E. g., the Venerable Bede, Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, trans., with introduction and notes, Lawrence T. Martin, CSS 117 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1989), 29; Bruce, Acts, 59; idem, “The Holy Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles,” Int 27 (1973): 171; Stanley Hauerwas, “The Church as God’s New Language,” in Scriptural Authority and Narrative Interpretation, ed. Garrett Green (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 179–98; Geoffrey W. Grogan, “The Significance of Pentecost in the History of Salvation,” SBET 4 (1986): 97–107; John Michael Penney, The Missionary Emphasis of Lukan Pneumatology, JPTSup 12 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 83. 31  E. g., I. Howard Marshall, “The Significance of Pentecost,” SJT 30 (1977): 366; Andrew T. Lincoln, “Theology and History in the Interpretation of Luke’s Pentecost,” ExpTim 96 (1985): 204–9. 32 See Umberto Eco, The Search for the Perfect Language, TME (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995). 33 For example, combining contemporary computational methods from evolutionary biology with the older technique of glottochronology, Russell D. Gray and Quentin D. Atkinson recently concluded that a proto-Indo-European language was spoken more than 8,000 years ago by Neolithic farmers in Anatolia (“Language-Tree Divergence Times Support the Anatolian Theory of Indo-European Origin,” Nature 426 [2003]: 435–39). 34  Gerhard von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary, rev. ed., OTL (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1972), 148; Victor P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis: Chapters 1–17, NICOT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 350.

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In fact, however, the Genesis account does not present the confusion of languages as merely a punitive response on the part of God. Rather, the confusion of languages comprised a divine intervention effecting what had apparently been God’s purpose from the outset. Humanity was to fill the whole earth according to Gen 1:28, and this mandate was reiterated after the flood (9:1, 7); indeed, according to the Genesis record, from Noah’s sons “the nations spread abroad on the earth” (10:32). “Scattering,” then, is integral to the human vocation – a vocation explicitly countered by the unity of language and idolatrous purpose represented by the building project undertaken on the plain of Shinar: “Let us … not be scattered” (11:4). Here is another point of contact between the narratives of Acts and Genesis. According to Gen 1:28 (also 9:1, 7), the human family is “to increase and to multiply” (αὐξάνω and πληθύνω), and after the flood the people are “scattered” (διασπείρω, 10:32). In Acts, the word of God “increased” and the number of disciples “multiplied” (αὐξάνω and πληθύνω in Acts 6:7; 12:24; αὐξάνω alone in 19:20; πληθύνω alone in 9:31), and the “scattering” (διασπείρω) of witnesses is a precursor to proclamation of the word to the end of the earth (8:1, 4; 11:19). The unity of language reported in Gen 11 is only the first of four ways in which the narrator indicates that these human efforts ran counter to the divine will. Second, the articulation of the people’s plan, “Let us make a name for ourselves …” (11:4), belies their hubris. Third, the plan’s “Let us” form is reminiscent of God’s speech concerning humanity  – both in creation (“Let us make humankind,” 1:26) and in response to this building project (“Let us go down,” 11:7); hence, this human-initiated plan is cast in language that parodies God’s own plan, pitting human counsel against divine. Fourth, the Babel-account opens with a reference to “one language” – a metaphor for the subjugation and assimilation of conquered peoples by a dominant nation. This is the finding of Christoph Uehlinger, whose examination of Assyrian royal inscriptions has identified a recurring pattern: “one speech,” building, naming, and world empire. Of special interest is the identification of the motif of “one speech” with oppressively instituted conformity.35 For an illustration of the power of language as an implement of cultural assimilation, one need look no further than the nineteenth-century production of the Oxford English Dictionary, a gargantuan task for which the impetus came not only from the modernist impulse to classify and define but also from colonial concerns. In his narration of the making of the famed OED, Simon Winchester observes with tongue in cheek, “God naturally approved the spread of the [English] language as an essential imperial device.”36 35 See Christoph Uehlinger, Weltreich und “eine Rede”: Eine neue Deutung der sogenannten Turmbauerzählung (Gen. 11,1–9), OBO 101 (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1990). See also David Smith, “What Hope after Babel? Diversity and Community in Gen 11:1–9, Exod 1:1–14, Zeph 3:1–13 and Acts 2:1–3,” HBT 18 (1996): 169–91. 36  Simon Winchester, The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary (New York: HarperCollins, 1998), 78.

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Against the backdrop of Uehlinger’s work, we may read the phrase “one language” in Gen 11:1 as metonymic for conquest and domination; indeed, even prior to Uehlinger’s work the history of interpretation evidences such a reading.37 Recently, for example, G. D. Cloete and D. J. Smit have reminded us that South African apartheid found in Gen 11 a divine mandate and blessing for an oppressively constituted conformity.38 Reaching further into the past, Pieter Brueghel’s striking rendition “The Tower of Babel” (1563) juxtaposes the ascending tower as a failed architectural enterprise with scenes of political subjugation: the gargantuan tower overshadowing the peasant village, a tower that itself seems to suffer the scars and bloodshed of battle, warships anchored off the coast, and the obeisance of common folk to royalty (presumably Nimrod) in the painting’s foreground.39 Pushing back further still, Augustine observed that the city of the Tower of Babel, Babylon, founded by Nimrod, was the head of all other cities of the kingdom (Civ. 16.4), while Chrysostom found in Gen 11 evidence of humanity’s inclination always to long and reach for more and more (Hom. Gen. 30.5). For Josephus, Nimrod opposed the scattering to which God had called the people, transforming their situation “little by little … into a tyranny, holding that the only way to detach persons from the fear of God was by making them continuously dependent upon his own power.”40 As Israel had itself experienced in the aftermath of the conquest of Palestine by Alexander, “one language” – in this case, Greek – was (and is) a potent weapon in the imperial arsenal; integration into a single linguistic community is a product 37  It might be objected, as Terence E. Fretheim observes, that “the text offers no sign of this building project as an imperial enterprise.” “In fact,” Fretheim goes on to urge, “the discourse and motivation are remarkably democratic” (“Genesis,” NIB 1 [Nashville: Abingdon, 1994], 411). Such a view might gain support from the unmistakable images of oppression characteristic of the exodus story, compared with the apparent dearth of such images here. But one of the pillars of interpretive theory is that in any given utterance, most of the discourse meaning remains unverbalized yet is presumptively shared between the model speaker/author and the model audience; see, e. g., John Lyons, Linguistic Semantics: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 234–42; Peter Grundy, Doing Pragmatics (London: Edward Arnold, 1995). In his study of Weltreich und “eine Rede,” Uehlinger has shown that the shared social world (or presupposition pool) would “fill in the gaps” of the significance of “one language” with images of imperialism and dominance. Contra Fretheim, moreover, rather than representing the speech of democracy, the words “Let us” point to the age-old practice whereby those in power speak for all. That images of domination are central to the portrayal of Israel’s life in Egypt is only to be expected, given the importance for Israel’s self-understanding (and for the biblical narrative more generally) of the exodus story – a significance not shared by the Babel account. 38 G. D. Cloete and D. L Smit, “ ‘Its Name Was Called Babel … ,’ ” JTSA 86 (1994): 81–87. 39 See http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/painttauthibruegel/babel.jpg, accessed 13 November 2007. 40 Josephus, Ant. 1.4.1–4 §§ 169–21 (1.4.2 § 114) (trans. Thackeray, LCL alt.). Philo’s interpretation of Babel resembles a collage of allegorical referents and is focused on wickedness within the person and the mob-like wickedness of a people (i. e., the lack of order). He reads the phrase “the earth was all one lip and one voice” as “a consonance of evil deeds great and innumerable,” including “the injuries which cities and nations and countries inflict and retaliate” (Conf. 5 § 15, trans. Colson, LCL).

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of political domination. It is not for nothing that scenes of persecution from and struggle with foreign rule in 2 Maccabees are peppered with references to Jews speaking “in the language of their ancestors” (7:8, 21, 27; 12:37; 15:29; cf. 4 Macc 12:7; 16:15). In the face of powerful imperial forces, maintaining one’s native or ancestral tongue is an instrument of resistance precisely because it is a badge of (minority) identity. Thus, although the building project of Gen 11 is thwarted by Yahweh, to be sure, his scattering the people over all the face of the earth is not so much a curse against the human family as an intervention in reaffirmation of the divine purpose in creation and opposition to coercive human subjugation. This general perspective on “one language” is supported by recent work in sociolinguistics and linguistic anthropology. If contemporary linguists have adopted a descriptive posture vis-à-vis language in use, they also recognize the importance of linguistic prejudice as a powerful social force. As R. A. Hudson observes: “A good deal of evidence shows that people use language in order to locate themselves in a multi-dimensional social space.”41 Language and dialect communicate information about speakers, including their affiliations and social status (whether actual or projected). Thus, language use is a symbol of group membership and may become the site of struggle over the cultural and political values mediated by means of language. Pierre Bourdieu presses further, as do students of political resistance, observing that the adoption, extension, and maintenance of official language are bound up with the genesis and social uses of the state. Language use functions like a market overseen by agents of regulation and imposition, who are empowered to examine and sanction those who depart from the established norm. Conversely, one of the ways that dominated people fashion their own identity apart from alien rule is through dialect and other tactics of language use that construct subgroups within the larger whole.42 What do such considerations have to do with Acts 2:1–13? The ongoing maintenance of native tongues by regional populations long assimilated through Greek, then Roman, occupation is itself symptomatic of the persistent cultivation of regional identities in the face of imperial forces. Against the backdrop of these regional identities, Spirit-inspired doxological speech, engaging scriptural interpretation in the vernacular languages of those gathered at Pentecost, redefines social space in telling ways. That is, divinely enabled, charismatic doxology in the vernacular of those gathered from the four winds in Jerusalem at Pentecost undermines the imperial vision of Alexander the Great and, more recently, that of Rome. The basis of unity among these persons was not to be identified with Sociolinguistics, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 195. Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power, ed. John B. Thompson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). Cf. James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990); idem, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985); Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). 41 R. A. Hudson, 42 Pierre

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the cultural and linguistic assimilation that energizes colonial impulses in any age. Luke’s Pentecost is thus the scene of resistance to a world centered in Rome, or Jerusalem. Jacques Derrida rightly has it that God “deconstructs” false unity in Gen 11,43 but Acts provides no invitation to return to a single language as a divine promise or blessing. Had Luke presented such a “reversal,” this might have suggested the centrality of Jerusalem as the gathering place of the unity of humanity. Pentecost, however, leads away from Jerusalem, to a missionary movement scattered to “the end of the earth”; it decenters (or, at least, portends the decentering of) Jerusalem as the locus of divine worship. Pentecost constitutes, rather, a criticism of an ethics of election focused on the privileged place of those who claim by birth to be descendants of Abraham (see already Luke 3:7–14), but also at least an implicit critique of Rome, whose imperial destiny (so it was said) was to “form one body under the name of Romans.”44 The countervision provided in Acts 2 taken as a whole furthers Luke’s presentation of the social arrangement of the believers in the form of an egalitarian community marked by unpretentiousness and the democratization of the experience of the Holy Spirit. Repeatedly, Luke emphasizes the unity of the community – both in anticipation and as a consequence of the outpouring of the Spirit – and highlights the importance of “each” person within that community.45 In an interesting wordplay, for example, the “division” (διαμερίζω) of tongues, like flames of fire, that alighted on each of them (v. 3) prepares for and leads to the “division” (διαμερίζω) of the community’s property and possessions according to the need of each person (v. 45). In Luke’s summary representation of the community in 2:42–47, considerations typical in an agonistic, status-conscious world like that of the ancient Mediterranean are undermined. No accommodation is allotted status-based factionalism or tribalism in the economy ushered in by the outpouring of the Holy Spirit.46 Even if Palestinian and Diaspora Judaisms are in focus among those who experience the outpouring of the Spirit and its results in Acts 2, the connotations of a worldwide experience of salvation are nonetheless transparent. Indeed, Jesus’s parting words to his followers had been that this – a mission in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the end of the earth – was the purpose of the Spirit’s outpouring (1:8; cf. Luke 24:47–49).  Jacques Derrida, “Des tours de Babel,” Semeia 54 (1991): 7. François Bovon, “Israël, l’Église et les nations dans l’œuvre double de Luc,” in L’Œvre de Luc: Études d’exégèse et de théologie, LD 130 (Paris: Cerf, 1987), 244–51; the citation is from Tacitus, Ann. 11.24 (trans. Jackson, LCL). 45  Cf. Richard P. Thompson, “Believers and Religious Leaders in Jerusalem: Contrasting Portraits of Jews in Acts 1–7,” in Literary Studies in Luke-Acts: Essays in Honor of Joseph B. Tyson, ed. Richard P. Thompson and Thomas E. Phillips (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998), 334–35. 46  Cf. Hefen Schüngel-Straumann, “Ruach, Pneuma and Pentecost,” TD 38 (1991): 334. 43

44 See

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Conclusion The story continues beyond Acts 2:1–13, of course, with Luke’s portrayal of Peter’s interpretation of the coming of the Spirit as the restoration of Israel (2:14–41) and subsequent summary report of the nature of the community of believers (2:42–47). In 2:1–13, though, a primary emphasis has already surfaced, namely, the generation of unity among diverse peoples through means other than dispensing with distinctions among those peoples. Unity is found, but not by reviving a pre-Babel (imperious) homogeneity. Indeed, Pentecost does not reverse Babel but parodies it; that is, Luke’s intertextuality maps distinction in the midst of marked similarity.47 Multiple languages continue to be spoken, and apparently all are appropriate for giving voice to “the great things of God.” With the outpouring of the Spirit, koinonia is possible not as a consequence of the presence of a single, all-pervasive, repressive language, not by the dissolution of multiple languages, nor, indeed, by the dissolution of all social and national distinctives in the formation of cultural uniformity. Koinonia is rather the consequence of the generative activity of the Spirit who is poured out by Jesus, of the capacity of these persons both to grasp that the promise of God’s mighty work is actualized in Jesus and to write themselves into that story of God’s great acts, and then of the location of a new rallying point of identity: “in the name of Jesus Christ” (2:38).

47 This understanding of “parody” is borrowed from Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (New York: Routledge, 1988), 124–40.

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Neglecting Widows and Serving the Word? Acts 6:1–7 as a Test Case for the Promise of “Narrative” in Theological Exegesis* Narrative, History, Identity Whatever else it signifies, narrative theology refers to a constellation of approaches to the theological task typically joined by their antipathy toward forms of theology concerned with the systematic organization of propositions and grounded in ahistorical principles. Joining these two words, narrative and theology, allows for discourse about the theological contribution of biblical materials sometimes excluded from such discourse since, it has often been alleged, one cannot extract theological principles from narrative texts. When theology is known by its propositions, then texts like the Acts of the Apostles apparently contribute little, unless one attempts an approach like that of C. H. Dodd, who attempted to sketch from its missionary speeches the early church’s kerygma.1 Even here, though, it must be admitted that the typical concern has been guided by historical, rather than theological, interests, and in any case Dodd and his kin progressed by systematically excising the material of their interest from Luke’s narrative – and, thus, from a potentially Lukan narrative theology. The impetus for narrative approaches to theology has been associated especially with the name of George Lindbeck, for whom faith is a culture that shapes our individuality, our experience, and our emotions.2 Religion, for Lindbeck, is not primarily a collection of propositions or a deeply personal experience of the transcendent, but a language or culture that enables us to characterize the truth and empowers us to experience the Holy. Being Christian therefore involves learning * This essay was first presented as “Neglecting Widows and Serving the Word? Acts 6:1–7 as a Test Case for the Promise of ‘Narrative’ in Theological Exegesis,” Society of Biblical Literature, Southeast Regional Meeting, New Testament Section, March 2009; it was then published in modified form in ch. 2 of Practicing Theological Interpretation, TECC (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), esp. 48–69. Excerpt from Practicing Theological Interpretation, by Joel B. Green, copyright © 2011. Adapted and used by permission of Baker Academic, a division of Baker Publishing Group. 1  C. H. Dodd, The Apostolic Preaching and Its Developments (1936; repr., Grand Rapids: Baker, 1980), 7–35. 2  E. g., George A. Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984).

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the story of Israel and of Jesus so as to interpret and experience the world on its terms. Hence, the Scriptures are essential in shaping the life-world of God’s people. For Lindbeck, the Scriptures are a “world” that supplies the interpretive framework within which believers seek to live their lives and understand reality. If Lindbeck stimulated early interest in narrative-theological approaches, he also served as a lightning rod for its critics, particularly with reference to his apparent indifference to the historicity of the biblical story  – that is, whether externally referential events comprise the biblical narrative. Whether fictional or historical, what mattered most seemed to be the “meaning” provided within and by narrative. If earlier study of the biblical materials accorded privilege to matters historical at the expense of matters theological, narrative study of the Gospels and Acts reversed things by pressing ahead with theology at the expense of history. What Mark Allan Powell taught us to call “narrative criticism,”3 insofar as it was deployed in the service of theological and not only formalist interests,4 seemed only to perpetuate the problematic and unwarranted dichotomy, history versus theology. I. Howard Marshall’s adroitly entitled volume, Luke: Historian and Theologian, sought to signal a shift in category but, by retaining the coordinating conjunction “and,” allowed the two, history and theology, to remain on parallel tracks.5 In fact, it is not enough to cast Luke’s two volumes under the canopy of “history-like.” They claim more than historical verisimilitude. For Luke’s Gospel it is apparently important that “the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness” at a particular time in the history of the empire: “In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas” (Luke 3:1–2),6 just as it seems to matter that Priscilla and Aquila’s recent relocation from Italy to Rome is tied to Claudius’s having ordered all Jews to leave Rome (Acts 18:2). Nevertheless, it can hardly be doubted that antipathy regarding their historical veracity contributed to the rise of literary approaches to the Gospels and Acts. Elusiveness on issues of historical reference might lead to sometimes perceptive readings of narrative, and even to theological insight, but interest in the possibility of a text’s extratextual reference is sidestepped in the process. Thus, it may not be surprising that, in his massive study  Mark Allan Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism?, GBS (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990). literary approaches need not develop narrative-theological concerns is easily demonstrated – cf., e. g., Andrew T. Lincoln, “The Lazarus Story: A Literary Perspective,” in The Gospel of John and Christian Theology, ed. Richard Bauckham and Carl Mosser (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 211–32; Kasper Bro Larsen, “Narrative Docetism: Christology and Storytelling in the Gospel of John,” in The Gospel of John and Christian Theology, ed. Richard Bauckham and Carl Mosser (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 346–55. 5  I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1971). 6  Unless otherwise noted, biblical quotations follow the CEB. 3

4 That

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of Jesus Remembered, James Dunn locates his discussion of narrative criticism in his chapter on “The Flight from History.”7 Is it possible to read the Gospels and Acts as narratives without uncoupling historical interests? In an important sense, the answer to this question depends on how those historical interests are defined and their pursuit practiced. The holy grail of nineteenth century historicism, the influence of which persists in historical-critical approaches to biblical studies in spite of numerous disclaimers to the contrary, was an account of “what actually happened.” The quest of the historical, defined in this way, fails on numerous fronts, perhaps the most important being the simple reality that those responsible for history-writing are forever engaged in the making of choices of what to exclude and include, and how to relate one event to another. Decisions are required – and not only for the obvious reason that a record of everything would be impossible to produce but also to escape the democratization of events whereby nothing has significance because everything is of equal consequence. Allocating value to this or that event or event-sequence is not an exercise in objectivity, though, since these choices are determined by particular interpretive aims. As Paul Veyne explains, “In history as in the theater, to show everything is impossible – not because it would require too many pages, but because there is no elementary historical fact, no eventworthy atom. If one ceases to see the events in their plots, one is sucked into the abyss of the infinitesimal.”8 Accordingly, historiographical accounts cannot be peeled, layer after layer, as if the interpretive husk could be separated from the historical kernel, since each sentence (each “layer,” so to speak) has both an interpretive and a documentary force.9 Narrative representations of historical events irrepressibly locate events in a web of significance. If this “significance” is parsed theologically, this does not make the consequent narrative any less “historical.” In fact, as C. T. McIntire notes, the segregation of history and theology was and is predicated on a dichotomy alien both to premodern thinking and contemporaneously to virtually all religions, which present “the religious as a way of life, and not as something that can be confined to a special private realm or removed from life altogether.”10 Indeed, to raise the question of the telos of a historical account is to recognize the inherently subjective  – and, for the theologically minded, the inherently theological  – nature of the narrative representation of historical events. From even a minimalist perspective, this is because past occurrences shape the param 7  James D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, vol. 1 of Christianity in the Making (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 94.  8  Paul Veyne, Writing History (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1984), 32–33.  9  Cf. Albert Cook, History/Writing: The Theory and Practice of History in Antiquity and in Modern Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). 10  C. T. McIntire, “Transcending Dichotomies in History and Religion,” HisTh 45 (2006): 80–92 (86). On theological assumptions in historical inquiry more generally, see Murray Rae, History and Hermeneutics (London: T&T Clark, 2005).

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eters within which we visualize and participate in actions, and interpret them in meaningful ways.11 Narratives have ongoing significance in part because of their capacity to speak beyond the limitations of their own historical particularity. Yet, as “cultural products,” the fullness of their voice is determined by that very particularity. Referring to Luke and Acts as cultural products, I mean simply to name these literary productions as narratives that speak both out of and over against the worlds within which they were written. They participate in, legitimate, perpetuate, and criticize the worlds within which they were generated.12 Taking seriously this aspect of the historicity of the Luke-Acts allows us a sharper image of how Luke might have pursued the task of shaping the identity of a people through shaping his narrative at the same time that it counters contemporary impulses toward domesticating this narrative by locating it within our own cultural commitments. We must take seriously, then, Luke’s persuasive art, particularly with regard to what he has chosen to include, how he has ordered his material, and into what plotline he has inscribed the whole. Like any historiographer or biographer, Luke’s work presumes not only the availability of “facts,” but a storyline into which Luke’s story is inscribed; this storyline includes a beginning and end, expectations and presumptions, that tacitly guide the actual narrativizing process. This means that Luke’s narrative, as with narratives more generally, has intended effects. Narrative is not just “story” but also “action” – as James Phelan puts it, “the telling of a story by someone to someone on some occasion for some purpose.”13 Of course, in making this claim, I am departing from approaches to historical study and history-writing deeply (if perhaps unconsciously) indebted to a philosophy of history motivated by a desire to emulate the investigative commitments and techniques of the natural sciences. Indeed, this tradition stands at odds with early Christian sensibilities regarding the narrative representation of historical events derived from the tradition of history-writing in the Greco-Roman world and historical narrative in the Jewish tradition (both OT and Hellenistic Jewish historiography). From their Jewish precursors, Christians like Luke drew especially their interests in the advancement of historical events in the service of God’s purpose, the role of historical narrative in instruction, the repetition of patterns in characters and events, and the punctuation of history-writing with the awareness of God’s continued presence. “Histories,” pioneered by Herodotus but standardized in the work of Thucydides, were concerned not merely with reporting events but with describing and explaining their sequen See Steven G. Smith, “Historical Meaningfulness in Shared Action,” HisTh 48 (2009): 1–9.  Cf. Stephen Greenblatt, “Culture,” in Critical Terms for Literary Study, ed. Frank Lentricchia and Thomas McLaughlin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 225–32. 13  James Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric: Technique, Audiences, Ethics, Ideology (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1996), 8. See further, David Lowenthal, The Past Is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 1985. 11 12

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tial development. Greco-Roman historiographers might present themselves as dispassionate investigators who rejected the place of myth, the supernatural, and the use of rhetorical tools and aims, but their practices reveal their concern to persuade their audiences to a particular reading of the past, and their concomitant employment of a variety of means for sanctioning their accounts – including reference to divine intervention and the supernatural, imitation, and patterns of prediction and recurrence.14 To shape the identity of their audiences, to legitimate a movement, to demonstrate continuity with the past – such aims as these characterize these texts, whose character then must be understood in rhetorical terms, as acts of persuasion, and not simply with regard to either historical objectivity or literary artistry. In such ways, history for a Christian like Luke is not an add-on to the theological task, nor is theology an add-on to the work of historiography. The appropriate metaphor for history-writing à la Luke’s narrative is not mechanical but organic. That is, even if one might wish to speak heuristically of Luke’s theological agenda or historical interests or literary artistry, these are not “parts” of a Lukan enterprise. One does not start with “history,” then augment with an overlay of “theology” in order to assemble a new product; nor does one add “theology” to “history.” Luke’s work simply is a theologically determined narrative representation of historical events. How does this shape our reading of the account he has given us? In what follows, I propose to exhibit this perspective by reading a celebrated text, Acts 6:1–7. My plan is to focus our attention on some neglected features of this text in order to urge that we understand that, in Acts 6:1–7, Luke recounts how a profoundly theological problem related to the nature of the gospel and the church’s mission was resolved in favor of a transfer of leadership from the Twelve to the Seven. In order to do so, I will first interact with two recent attempts at historical reconstruction of the Lukan narrative. This will allow me opportunity to bring to the surface what has troubled biblical scholars about this textual unit, before moving on to suggest the coherence of the account as it presently stands within the larger Lukan narrative.

Acts 6:1–7: Two Historical Reconstructions Acts 6:1–7 may seem to be an odd choice for an exercise in reading theological history. After all, theologians have not employed this textual unit in their discussions of the triune nature of God, for example, or of their pneumatology, 14  Cf., e. g., Mark Bevir, “Why Historical Distance Is Not a Problem,” HisTh 50, no. 4 (2011): 24–37; John Marincola Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Luke Pitcher, Writing Ancient History: An Introduction to Classical Historiography (London: Tauris, 2009).

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anthropology, or eschatology. Why not turn elsewhere in Acts to such low-hanging theological fruit as the potential of, say, 2:33, for reflecting on a Lukan divine Christology? Why not trace the many references to God’s purpose and plan in the book of Acts so as to warrant theological reflection on the “divine attributes”? I am drawn to this text for two reasons, both having to do with interpretive assessments of this passage in recent study. First, it has been common to think of the problem addressed by this text in predominantly “practical” terms. According to this reading, church growth has resulted in an issue related to routines and organization; parsed in this way, the church’s practical problem demands and receives a different organizational structure. I will show that this reading is problematic for its reductionism and that both the problem and solution that Luke recounts are profoundly theological. This text is not (simply) about too many people and too little food; it is about God and, then, the nature of the good news itself. Second, two recent studies, motivated by perceived lack of clarity on Luke’s part, have attempted to get behind Luke’s account in order to renarrate what was really going on. I will show that these readings fail to take seriously the coherence of Luke’s account in its present form within the narrative of Luke-Acts. A survey of both older and several more recent commentaries reveals little interest in questioning the basic historical outline of Luke’s account of the resolution of the problem that surfaced as a consequence of the Jerusalem community’s neglect of its Hellenist widows.15 The question of the identity of the Hellenists and Hebrews has spawned a longstanding scholarly discussion,16 and scholars have also wondered whether Luke has not downplayed the nature and extent of the division he reports. Moreover, some readers have worried over the nature of the “poor relief” envisioned here.17 The account as a whole, however, was often taken more or less at face value as students of Acts quickly moved on to the many questions raised by the Stephen-material beginning in 6:8. Two recent studies have focused their historical concerns more narrowly, however, offering different assessments of certain key aspects of the story behind Luke’s narrative. Among the historical issues on which he focuses, Richard Pervo notices that the resolution offered in this account immediately deconstructs itself, since the 15  Cf., e. g., Richard Belward Rackham, The Acts of the Apostles: An Exposition (London: Methuen, 1906), 81–87; F. J. Foakes-Jackson, The Acts of the Apostles, MNTC (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1931), 50–55; Hans Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 44–46; F. F. Bruce, The Book of Acts, rev. ed., NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 119–22; C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, 2 vols., ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994–98), 1:302–17. See, though, Joseph T. Lienhard, “Acts 6:1–6: A Redactional View,” CBQ 37 (1975): 228–36; his reconstruction of the core Lukan tradition retains only a minimal historical account. 16  The literature is voluminous; see the monograph-length treatment by Craig C. Hill, Hellenists and Hebrews: Reappraising Division within the Earliest Church (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992). 17  Cf., e. g., Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1971), 261–62.

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Seven chosen for “serving tables” appear rather as missionaries. As Henry Cadbury had recognized long before, “It is not clear … why men chosen to allow the Twelve to preach rather than to ‘serve tables’ appear later only as preachers and evangelists.”18 The problem, Pervo asserts, is one of Luke’s own making since he would have been the one to introduce the business of food distribution into the tradition of the Seven. What is more, Luke’s scene is anachronistic; assuming an identifiable body of widows and a group of subordinate ministers, it is reminiscent not so much of the early church but of the organizational structures of the Pastoral Epistles and Polycarp. For Pervo, then, Acts portrays the widows functioning as a group that complains about the treatment they have received.19 In her book Of Widows and Meals, Reta Halteman Finger attempts a different sort of reconstruction of the situation behind Acts 6:1–7. Reading Luke’s account against the background of the earlier summary in 2:42–47, she postulates that shared faith in Jesus had generated a community of believers who shared daily meals. Accordingly, the daily “service” (διακονία) in 6:1–6 is nothing other than the daily table service for which widows had essential roles in the work of food preparation and distribution. The disruption Luke envisions may have occurred because the Hebraic widows received more honor than the Hellenist widows in the organization, preparation, and serving of the daily meal. The decision to appoint a group of men to oversee the daily meals could have been either to quell the quarreling widows or to extend Jesus’s directive to male leaders that they serve others at table.20 Unfortunately, in both of these instances, we find interests in historical reconstruction rushing ahead at the expense of the narrative Luke has given us. For example, Pervo assumes what is not in evidence, namely, that the widows comprise a group sufficiently organized to lodge a complaint. Instead, Acts portrays a complaint registered on behalf of certain widows – not by the widows themselves and not by widows functioning implicitly as a kind of pressure group. Finger envisions widows preparing food rather than receiving it (or not), and focuses on widows quarreling with one another rather than on the situation of Hellenist widows against whom a disservice was being perpetrated.21 Her approach to the social history behind the account in Acts seems less indebted to the narrative of 18  Henry J. Cadbury, “Note VII: The Hellenists,” in Additional Notes to the Commentary, BC 5 (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1933), 59–74 (62). 19 Richard I. Pervo, Dating Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apologists (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge, 2006), 219; idem, Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 151–63. 20 Reta Halteman Finger, Of Widows and Meals: Communal Meals in the Book of Acts (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), esp. 246–75. 21  Key to this reading is the use of παραθεωρέω – that is, the act of failing to account for someone or something worth acknowledging, typically with a bad result, so that this failure puts the person guilty of overlooking in a bad light (e. g., Diodorus Siculus, Bib. hist. 40.5; Dionysius, Is. 18; cf. MM 483; BDAG 763–64).

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Acts than to practices among Anabaptists like herself. Of course, this would not be the first time that an interpreter had looked to 6:1–7 through the lens of later ecclesial practices, as the traditional tendency to find in this text either a general model for leaders to delegate their responsibilities or a specific grounding for the ordination of subleaders known as “deacons” demonstrates.22 Reconstructions like this may be warranted by certain kinds of historical approaches, but not by the sort of approach that I have sketched, and certainly not before the possibility for reading this material as a coherent narrative representation of historical events provided by the text itself has been fully explored.

Acts 6:1–7: Theological Dilemma and Theological Response We have seen that historical questions concerning Acts 6:1–7, and the reconstructions they spawn, are typically grounded in the perception of an incongruence between Luke’s account and the missional activity in which Stephen and Philip are subsequently involved. I will argue that this incongruence is more perceived than real, with the result that, as a narrative representation of historical events, Luke’s account is internally coherent. Most importantly, we must recognize that, contrary to the view of a number of interpreters, the problem Luke presents cannot be understood reductively as a “practical” one.23 Of course, it is true that this textual unit is enclosed by dual references to the growth of the church (πληθύνω, vv. 1, 7) so that the dilemma recounted might be understood as having been precipitated by the expanding numbers of disciples. Five considerations tell against this view, however. First, just as Luke’s repeated emphasis on the unity of the believers is theologically grounded, so we should anticipate that the introduction of any dissension would be theologically grounded. The term with which the narrator has often captured the situation of the disciples is ὁμοθυμαδόν (“with one mind” or “with one accord”), used of these Christ-followers in 1:14; 2:46; 4:24; 5:12; 15:25. Thus far in the narrative, then, Luke has used the term in 1:14, where the disciples are defined by their tenacious orientation toward a common aim, single-minded in their solidarity, giving themselves to prayer; 2:46, where the disciples are “persisting in their unity in the temple”; in 4:24, where Luke declares their solidarity over against their detractors and, again, associates their unity with a community-defining practice: prayer; and finally in 5:12, where the betrayal of community dispositions by Ananias and Sapphira is set in opposition to the disciples’ 22 Cf. Jaroslav Pelikan, Acts, BTCB (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2005), 91–93; Albert Collver, “Deacons: Order of Service or Office of the Word,” Logia 16, no. 2 (2007): 31–35 (33–34); Armin J. Panning, “Acts 6: The ‘Ministry’ of the Seven,” WLQ 93 (1996): 11–17. 23  Contra, e. g., Bruce, Acts, 120: “It was over a practical issue, and not over a matter of theological importance, that disagreement became acute.”

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oneness. We may add to this the phrase ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτό (“together”) in 1:15; 2:1, 44, 47, which Luke uses to underscore the oneness of this company of believers both as a consequence of their obedience to Jesus and as an expression of the Spirit’s generative work. The introduction of dissension within the community in 6:1, then, is startling not only because it disrupts the portrait of the believers’ extraordinary solidarity but also because it raises questions theologically about what has gone amiss. Second, just as Luke has demonstrated that the economic koinonia characteristic of the Jerusalem believers is the Spirit’s work and an expression of the unity of those who together call on the name of the Lord Jesus, so this failure of that same economic koinonia must be read as a disruption of the Spirit’s work. Both of the summaries whereby Luke pictures the economic koinonia of the community of believers follow immediately, sequentially, and generatively, from the outpouring of the Holy Spirit (2:1–41 → 2:42–47; 4:31 → 4:32–35), the consequence of which is that there was “no needy person among them” (4:34).24 Although it makes good sense to characterize the community of goods Luke reports in terms borrowed from economic anthropology, as “generalized reciprocity,”25 it cannot be overlooked that this is the sort of economic exchange expressive among close kin – and that the “family” of believers Luke presents are “kin” in theological and not merely sociological (and certainly not biological) terms. Had not Jesus redefined family when he said, “My mother and brothers are those who listen to God’s word and do it” (Luke 8:21; cf. 3:7–14)? What action or situation has caused a community among whom there were no needy persons now to have this cadre of such persons? How could such need have arisen within the community apart from a failure of the community in terms of its appropriation of the Spirit’s generative work in their midst? Third, it should not escape our notice that, rather than reporting that some widows from among the Hellenists and some from the Hebrews had been overlooked, Luke has it only that the Hellenist widows were slighted. Were this merely a practical problem arising from too many people and too little food, on the basis of probability theory would we not have anticipated the neglect of Hebrew widows as well as Hellenist ones? Fourth, from within the biblical tradition that Luke has both inherited and embraced, to neglect widows at all is offensive theologically. Together with the alien and the orphan, the situation of the widow is synecdoche in Israel’s Scriptures for the plight of the vulnerable and dispossessed who are afforded explicit protection under the law (e. g., Exod 22:22; Deut 10:18). Indeed, we read in the Psalms 24 See Matthias Wenk, Community-Forming Power: The Socio-Ethical Role of the Spirit in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 19 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 259–73. Wenk works primarily with Acts 2:42–47, but an analogous case for a cause-and-effect relationship between the outpouring of the Spirit and economic koinonia can be made with 4:23–35. 25  See Marshall Sahlins, Stone Age Economics (London: Routledge, 1972), 193–94.

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that God is the “father of orphans and defender of widows” (68:5; cf. 146:9). For Luke-Acts, widows are models of faithfulness to God on the one hand, poverty and vulnerability on the other, as well as those to whom the good news is directed (e. g., Luke 2:36–38; 4:25–26; 7:11–17; 20:45–21:4). Thus, as Joseph Tyson summarizes: “In Luke-Acts, widowhood means grief, poverty, vulnerability, and piety. The exclusion of widows from the common meal would, therefore, appear as an act of extreme cruelty and impiety, but also as a condition that underlined the urgent need for a solution. The reader should recognize immediately that here is an intolerable situation, one which can have only one solution: the widows must not be excluded.”26 For widows to be overlooked in this way, then, signals a theological (not just a practical) failure within the community. Fifth, irrespective of scholarly speculation regarding the identity of the Hellenists and Hebrews more generally, for Luke they obviously represent different sides in a dispute.27 In Acts, Ἑβραῖος refers to Aramaic-speaking Jews.28 Luke uses Ἑλληνιστής in 6:1 and 9:29, in both instances to refer to Greek-speaking Jews within Jerusalem. That is, he uses the term where such a distinction would make sense, as outside of a city or region where the majority population would speak Aramaic it would make little sense to qualify Jews as Greek-speaking.29 Given the focus of the present textual unit on “disciples” (v. 1), we should think of two different sets of Christ-followers, Greek-speaking Jews and Aramaic-speaking Jews. As the CEB has it, “Greek-speaking disciples accused the Aramaic-speaking disciples.” Of course, even this is a misnomer since it is hard to imagine Aramaic-speaking Jews in Jerusalem who were not also able to traffic in Greek – an observation that presses for greater clarity.30 First, we should think of these two groups as characterized by their dominant language, Greek and Aramaic, respectively, leaving open the probability of additional language competencies. Second, we cannot think merely in terms of linguistic choice since identification of dominant language necessarily involves long-term formation and affiliations with respect 26  Joseph B. Tyson, “Acts 6:1–7 and Dietary Regulations in Early Christianity,” PRSt 10 (1983): 145–61 (158); cf. F. Scott Spencer, “Neglected Widows in Acts 6:1–7,” CBQ 56 (1994): 715–33. 27  Lienhard urges that the actual identity of the Hellenists and Hebrews is less important to Luke’s presentation than the mere fact that there is dissension (“Acts 6:1–6,” 231). The larger question concerns the basis on which one might accord privilege to reconstructions of the Hellenists based on minimal textual evidence outside of Acts, over against the portrait one finds in Luke’s narrative. He is theologically motivated, but other sources are not? 28  See the pattern in 21:40; 22:2; 26:14; cf. Martin Hengel, “Between Jesus and Paul: The ‘Hellenists’, the ‘Seven’ and Stephen,” in Between Jesus and Paul: Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 1–29 (esp. 9–10). 29 Luke may use the term in 11:20, but the text is disputed. Ἕλληνaς is read by p74 2‫ א‬A D*. BDAG 319: Ἑλληνιστής: “a Greek-speaking Israelite in contrast to one speaking a Semitic [language].” 30 For what follows, I am dependent on the theory of linguistic pragmatics sketched in Alessandro Duranti, Linguistic Anthropology, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).

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to cultural (and, therefore, religious) identification. In 2 Macc 7:8, 21; 12:37; and 15:29, for example, speaking in the ancestral language was integral to boundary maintenance when Jewish identity was threatened. Speech assumes but also builds community, with language and language choices both a product of and involved in the further production of social relations. In other words, however else one might decide to parse the boundaries between Hellenists and Hebrews in 6:1, we cannot reduce the controversy to differences of language. Whatever would have been common among Jesus’s Jewish disciples, differences marked by dominant language would have introduced potential distinctions too at the level of religious structures: myth, ritual, the divine, and systems of purity.31 Even if we cannot determine from Acts with specificity or certainty the nature of those differences, that there were such differences is entailed by the language choices that Luke has made. On the basis of these five considerations, then, I have sought to counter the view that the presenting problem in Acts 6:1 is merely “practical” in nature. I have urged, instead, that Luke has provided not-so-subtle direction for us to understand that the “neglect” depicted here is a symptom with a far more profound etiology, that in fact the problem is deeply theological. It has to do with the nature of the gospel itself and with the embodiment of the gospel in the church. If, from the perspective of Luke’s narrative, the problem introduced in 6:1 must be understood in theological terms, it can hardly be that the solution would be something other than theological. The often-repeated view that the apostles hit on delegation as a key ingredient of effective leadership32 is thus problematic for its failure to work theologically with what Luke has given us. Actually, it is problematic in two other ways as well. First, it assumes without warrant that Luke presents the apostles as authorized representatives of the narrator’s perspective (and, thus, of the divine perspective, which the narrator represents and mediates in Luke-Acts). Accordingly, when the apostles deny the appropriateness of abandoning the word of God in favor of waiting on tables, their words are typically taken as a reasonable assessment of things. We might be tempted to imagine that, as authorized representatives of Jesus (cf., e. g., Luke 22:28–30), the apostles represent God’s agenda faithfully. However, we should not overlook the fact that “authorization,” or “legitimation,” cuts both ways. Legitimacy justifies the position of a person or group, but at the same time it sets boundaries around that person or group’s behavior; their status is legitimate insofar as they operate within the boundaries of their legitimation.33 Rather than representing the nature of 31  For this pattern of religious structures, see William E. Paden, Religious Worlds: The Comparative Study of Religion (Boston: Beacon, 1994). 32  Among recent commentators, this view is supported by, e. g., Mikeal Parsons, Acts, Paideia (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008), 83–84. 33  See Charlotte Seymour-Smith, Macmillan Dictionary of Anthropology (London: Macmillan, 1986), 166.

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the gospel, the apostles, I am arguing, have transgressed the good news.34 That is, rather than presuming that the apostles are above reproach we ought to wonder about the opposite. After all, was it not under their watch that the disciples had digressed from their idyllic state of unity and violated the character of their own community as one in which there was no needy person? Second, the solution the apostles propose ought to strike a sharp note of discord in our hearing. Can one serve the word and not care for widows? Can one serve the word and not serve at table? These may appear to be practical issues, but for Luke they are theological through and through. This is not only due to the status allocated to widows in the narrative of Luke-Acts, as we have noted earlier; it is also because Luke has already developed the language of διακονία in terms that belie the possibility that these phrases – serving the word and serving at table – might refer to segregated responsibilities. Is not Jesus himself one who serves at table (Luke 22:24–27; cf. 12:37) – with διακονέω understood not in its sense of attending to someone at a meal but metaphorically with regard to providing leadership in carrying out a mission that puts into practice the good news of God? That is, even if, in some theoretical world, we might allow for differentiation of kinds of “service,” this is not the case in the world of the narrative of Acts. After all, the apostolic task simply is διακονία (Acts 1:17, 25) and the same is true of Paul’s commission (20:45; 21:19).35 In other words, the apostles are implicated in a failure that can be grasped only in theological terms. Their failure is measured, first, by their neglect of Hellenist widows and, then, in their attempt to fracture the singular ministry (διακονία) modeled for them by Jesus. This failure is not simply the practical one that might lead to a new organizational structure capable of allowing poor relief to be carried out in a more efficient way. Rather, it surfaces in their allowing a wedge to be driven between the Hellenists and Hebrews such that the most vulnerable of their community – doubly marginal, first as Hellenists among an Aramaic-speaking majority and then as widows among the minority group – suffer need at this most basic level of daily sustenance. This is not “good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18). This line of interpretation is furthered by the choice of the Seven to engage in διακονία. First, given their Greek (and Latin) names, their movement into positions of service signifies the decentralizing of the Aramaic-speaking apostles and, then, an affirmation of the Greek-speaking Jewish followers of Jesus. Second, as is widely recognized, their διακονία within Luke’s narrative is manifestly not 34 That the Jerusalem apostles are in need of ongoing conversion is transparent later in the narrative of Acts, in 11:1–18, where their criticism of Peter for sharing in the hospitality of gentiles is overturned by Peter’s explanation. 35  For διακονία in Luke, see the helpful perspective in Turid Karlsen Seim, The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke and Acts (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994), 81–87 (though Seim reads Acts 6:1–7 differently – see 108–12). On the term more generally, see John N. Collins, Diakonia: Reinterpreting the Ancient Sources (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990).

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waiting on tables; it is the διακονία of preaching and evangelism. Rather than dismissing Luke’s narration as incoherent, then, it makes more sense to assume coherence by allowing the actual nature of their διακονία to clarify the nature of the διακονία suffering neglect in Acts 6:1–7. This would be putting into play a gospel that did not allow differences between Hellenist and Hebrew followers of Jesus to resolve themselves into disunity and conflict at the table.36 Accordingly, it is no surprise that, from among the Seven, Stephen goes on to provide the theological bridge that moves the mission outside of Jerusalem and Philip is the first missionary Luke names who takes the gospel to Samaria and, indeed, to the end of the earth.37 The new missionary leadership, drawn from among the Hellenists, receives its authorization from this: they are witnesses, as Jesus had directed, “in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth” (1:8). Having cleared the ground, so to speak, it now remains to ask how best to make sense of Luke’s aim in this narrative account. The inclusio marked by the repetition of πληθύνω in vv. 1 and 7 makes clear the interest of this narrative account in “growth” and allows us to follow its progression in three steps: from growth to impediment to growth, and from impediment to growth to (renewed) growth. Here is a simple illustration of Aristotle’s analysis of a “narrative” as possessing a beginning, middle, and end – a perspective on narrative that includes but transcends the passing of time in order to claim some sort of meaningful, even necessary, set of relationships among the events that, in narrative, order time (Poet. 1450b). We have clarified the nature of the problem and its resolution. This scene is an indictment against the apostles for their failure to practice the διακονία modeled for them by Jesus (Luke 22:24–27), their failure to be the Spirit-generated community of the baptized (which held all things in common so as to care for those in need, Acts 2:42–47), their failure to embody the message of the resurrection of the Lord Jesus (that is, to be a community among whom could be found no needy person, 4:32–35). The result of this theological failure is a fracture in the community, setting Hellenist against Hebrew, which surfaces in the neglect of the widows who now qualify as needy persons among them. By way of resolution, Luke portrays the authorization of fresh leadership, with this leadership drawn from among the minority of the Jerusalem community. The narrative turns its 36  That this is so was signaled already in the Pentecost event, narrated in Acts 2:1–13, in which the outpouring of the Spirit does not diminish but rather enlivens “difference,” marked by language. Ecclesial unity is not dependent on linguistic conformity. See Joel B. Green, “‘In Our Own Languages’: Pentecost, Babel, and the Shaping of Christian Community in Acts 2:1–13,” in The Word Leaps the Gap: Essays on Scripture and Theology in Honor of Richard B. Hays, ed. J. Ross Wagner, C. Kavin Rowe, and A. Katherine Grieb (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 198–213 (see ch. 9, above). 37  Although for Acts, “end of the earth” probably refers more generally to “Gentiles” (see 13:47, with its citation of Isa 49:6; see further Isa 8:9; 45:22; 48:20; 62:10–11), Strabo repeats the view of Homer that Ethiopians live at “the end of the earth” (Geogr. 1.1.6).

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focus on two of their number and the apostles as “the twelve” disappear into the shadows, returning to center stage only sparingly in subsequent chapters.38 This is not to say that, in terms of “what actually happened,” the apostles lost their prominence; rather, it is to say that Luke’s narration of historical events characterizes people and narrates the cycle of events in relation to the missionary mandate that Jesus had set forth in 1:8: “to the end of the earth.”

Conclusion If every narrative representation of historical events is partial – that is, incomplete and oriented toward an aim – then we can hardly fault Luke if we think he has not “told it like it really was.” This is because no such narrative representation could ever do so. In historical narration, choices are both ubiquitous and tied to the objectives of the historiographer. As Albert Cook has observed, then, a key test for any historical narrative is its internal coherence.39 Reading Acts 6:1–7 within its cotext, and particularly in relation to Acts 1–5, we have observed that the disruption Luke has recounted takes its significance from the preceding theological focus on unity and provision for those in need. So too does the resolution to the problem, as Luke recounts it. Historical reconstructions are therefore unnecessary to make good sense of the story as Luke has written it. His account is congruent with a narrative aim oriented to an ecclesial agenda in which the crossing of sociocultural boundaries, including even those boundaries at work within one’s own community, is prioritized. Luke’s theological history has thus characterized people and structured the cycle of events in relation to the mission set forth in 1:8: “to the end of the earth.”

38 Actually, 6:2 contains the only reference to “the twelve” (οἱ δώδεκα) in Acts. References to “the apostles” congregate especially in relation to the Jerusalem council and apostolic decree, though, as a group, they have no particular voice there (15:2, 4, 6, 22, 23; 16:4). In the narrative subsequent to our textual unit (6:1–7), see otherwise 8:1, 14, 18; 9:27; 11:1. 39  Cook, History/Writing.

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“They Made a Calf”: Idolatry and Temple in Acts 7* Within the narrative of Luke-Acts, the (golden) calf is mentioned only once, in Stephen’s famed speech in Acts 7, where it plays a pivotal role in Stephen’s recounting of Israel’s story.1 In this essay, I will argue that Stephen uses the calf-episode in a programmatic way to counter the charges brought against him and, indeed, to redirect those charges on to those who sit in judgment over him. This will require that I attend to the nature of the indictments on the basis of which Stephen is brought before the Jerusalem council and then to the overall development of his speech. I will then be in a position to urge that Stephen uses the calf incident to speak to both charges, the one concerning his position visà-vis Moses and the law and the other concerning “this holy place,” the temple (Acts 6:13).2

Stephen Indicted In his twofold introduction of Stephen, Luke presents him as someone who is “endowed by the Spirit with exceptional wisdom” and “with exceptional faith” (Acts 6:3, 5 CEB) and who is “endowed with grace and power” – a missional leader who “was performing great wonders and signs among the people” (6:8). Luke thus characterizes Stephen in ways that are reminiscent of both the apostles and of Jesus himself (e. g., 2:22, 43; 4:30; 5:12). Moreover, with this phrasing we may hear echoes of the exodus story (e. g., Exod 7:3; Deut 6:22; 26:8; Ps 135:9) in anticipation of that key section of Stephen’s speech devoted to Moses (Acts 7:17–44), * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “ ‘They Made a Calf’: Idolatry and Temple in Acts 7,” in Golden Calf Traditions in Early Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, ed. Eric F. Mason and Edmondo F. Lupieri, TBN (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 132–41. Used with permission. 1  Especially since the publication of Mikeal C. Parsons and Richard I. Pervo, Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), the unity of Luke and Acts has been subjected to scrutiny from a variety of angles. For critical surveys of the literature, see Patrick E. Spencer, “The Unity of Luke-Acts: A Four-Bolted Hermeneutical Hinge,” CBR 5, no. 3 (2007): 341–66; Michael F. Bird, “The Unity of Luke-Acts in Recent Discussion,” JSNT 29, no. 4 (2007): 425–48. I defend the narrative unity of Luke-Acts most recently in Joel B. Green, “Luke-Acts, or Luke and Acts? A Reaffirmation of Narrative Unity,” in Reading Acts Today: Essays in Honor of Loveday C. A. Alexander, ed. Steve Walton, Thomas E. Phillips, Lloyd Keith Pietersen, and F. Scott Spencer, LNTS 427 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 101–19 (see ch. 1, above). 2  Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts are my own.

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wherein we read that Moses had “performed wonders and signs in Egypt, at the Red Sea, and for forty years in the wilderness” (7:36). Additionally, according to Luke, as Stephen stood before the Jerusalem council, his face was like that of an angel’s (6:15), a description that recalls the portrait of Moses in Exod 34:29–35 (cf. 2 Cor 3:13) and that envelops Stephen in an almost incomparable divine endorsement. Contrasting sharply with these positive credentials is the opposition Stephen experiences – first from his own people, so to speak, Hellenistic Jews in Jerusalem synagogues (Acts 6:9), and then from the Jerusalem elite and “the people” (6:12), who are responsible for delivering him to the Jerusalem council. Luke heightens the developing drama, first, by recounting how rapidly the opposition against Stephen is mobilized; and second, by having others report the substance of Stephen’s persistent message sans any direct speech from Stephen himself. On this latter point, we simply have no basis for judging firsthand the content of Stephen’s words until he is finally asked to address his accusers in Acts 7. It is important that we not forget what we do know, however, namely, that Luke has thus far endorsed Stephen with impressive bona fides. The charges brought against Stephen are represented in different ways three times: – “We have heard him speaking blasphemous words against Moses and God” (6:11) – “This fellow speaks against the holy place and the law” (6:13) – “We have heard him saying that this Jesus the Nazarene will demolish this place and amend the customary practices that Moses handed down to us” (6:14). It is easy enough to trace the connection between Moses and the law in LukeActs, and Stephen Wilson has demonstrated further the correspondence between the law and “the customary practices Moses handed down to us.”3 Overall, Luke’s narrative is positively inclined toward maintaining Moses’s law (e. g., Luke 2:22–23; 16:29–30),4 though the reference to Moses may recall for the reader even more directly the association of Moses and Jesus, the prophet like Moses, in Acts 3:22–26 (cf. 7:37). In Second Temple period Judaism, blasphemy against God might include blasphemy against the temple;5 accordingly, the association between God and the temple in the charges against Stephen is also warranted. That is, given the correlation between Moses, the law, and “the customary practices 3 Stephen G. Wilson, Luke and the Law, SNTSMS 50 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 3–11. 4 Cf. Jacob Jervell, The Theology of the Acts of the Apostles, NTT (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 54–61. 5  Darrell L. Bock, “The Son of Man Seated at God’s Right Hand and the Debate over Jesus’ ‘Blasphemy,’ ” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 181–91, esp. 184–90.

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Moses handed down to us”; and between God, “the holy place,” and “this place,” we should understand that the charges against Stephen reduce to two: he speaks against the law and against the temple.6 Insofar as Stephen is a representative of Jesus’s witnesses in their relationship to these mainstays of Jewish theology, identity, and practice, these charges and Stephen’s response to them are crucial. The stakes are high, since they have to do with the basic question of what constitutes faithfulness to Israel’s God. With the high priest’s question “Are these things so?” (7:1), the stage is set for Stephen’s speech, the longest address recounted in the entire Lukan narrative. Stephen’s response takes the form of a selective retelling of Israel’s history, a strategy that takes seriously the rhetorical power of narrative.7 Fashioned around three prominent figures (Abraham, 7:2–8; Joseph, 7:9–16; and Moses, 7:17–44), from beginning to end Stephen’s narrative emphasizes the geographical reach of God’s presence and activity.8 γῆ appears ten times in Stephen’s speech (58 in Luke-Acts as a whole), and Stephen’s speech locates God’s activity in the land of Israel, to be sure (e. g., εἰς τὴν γῆν ταύτην εἰς ἣν ὑμεῖς νῦν κατοικεῖτε, 7:4; cf. 7:7, 11–12, 14, 45–50), but also in Mesopotamia (7:2–3), Haran (7:4), Egypt (7:6, 9–11, 12–13, 15, 17–28, 35–36), Shechem (7:16), Midian (7:29–34), and the wilderness (7:36–44). Among these uses the most interesting for our purposes may be the phrase γῆ ἁγία in 7:33, which recalls the charge against Stephen in 6:13: κατὰ τοῦ τόπου τοῦ ἁγίου [τούτου], and thus that identifies more than one “place” as “holy.”9 Also of special interest is 7:49, where, in a citation of Isa 66:1, God refers to the “land” (γῆ) as “a footstool for my feet” and counters the notion that God’s presence can be restricted to a single “place” (τόπος). Naming “heaven” as God’s throne, Stephen situates his geographical lesson within the even more expansive geographical perspective with respect to which the narrative of Acts has been unfolding since Jesus’s ascension in 1:9–11. In this perspective, the divine plan and its actualization are determined from a heavenly, not earthbound, vantage point, so that heaven becomes the reality that structures 6  Pace Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 31 (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 354–61. 7  Cf., e. g., James Phelan, Narrative as Rhetoric: Technique, Audiences, Ethics, Ideology (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1996); Julien C. H. Smith, “The Rhetorical Function of Refutation in Acts 6–7 and 10–15,” in Contemporary Studies in Acts, ed. Thomas E. Phillips (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 2009), 103–18. 8  Cf., e. g., J. J. Scott Jr., “Stephen’s Speech: A Possible Model for Luke’s Historical Method?,” JETS 17 (1974): 91–97 (93); F. Scott Spencer, Journeying through Acts: A Literary-Cultural Reading (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004), 80–91; Andrew J. Thompson, The Acts of the Risen Lord Jesus: Luke’s Account of God’s Unfolding Plan, NSBT (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2011), 164–72. 9  Gregory E. Sterling, “ ‘Opening the Scriptures’: The Legitimation of the Jewish Diaspora in the Early Christian Mission,” in Jesus and the Heritage of Israel: Luke’s Narrative Claim upon Israel’s Legacy, ed. David P. Moessner, LII 1 (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999), 199–225 (213).

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and maps the life of Jesus’s followers.10 For all of these reasons, any attempt to corral God and God’s purpose within the confined space of a particular place, a particular land, would be rendered theologically problematic.

The Role of the Calf Against this backdrop, we may now inquire into the role the (golden) calf plays in Stephen’s speech. In doing so, we must keep under the spotlight the two questions Stephen has been called to address – concerning Moses and the law, and concerning the temple. As we would expect, the calf is introduced in that part of Stephen’s speech concerned with Moses, the longest subsection of the speech. Like Luke’s presentation of Stephen in 6:5, 8–15, so Stephen’s presentation of Moses is a study in contrasts. God has the highest regard for Moses (ἦν ἀστεῖος τῷ θεῷ, 7:20). Moses was wise and powerful (7:22), defended the oppressed as God’s instrument (7:24–25), and sought peace among his kin (7:26). God visited Moses, spoke to him, and commissioned him as leader and liberator (7:30–35; cf. 5:30–31). Performing wonders and signs, Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt (7:36). Stephen even goes so far as to identify Moses’s law as “living words” (ὃς ἐδέξατο λόγια ζῶντα δοῦναι ἡμῖν, 7:38), thus recognizing the divine origin of the law, emphasized again in 7:53, together with its dynamic and ongoing significance for God’s people. Among his own people, though, Moses was misunderstood, rebuffed (ἀπωθέομαι), and disowned (ἀρνέομαι) (7:25–27, 35). In fact, Stephen says, “Our ancestors were unwilling to obey him, but pushed him aside [ἀπωθέομαι] and, in their hearts, returned to Egypt” (7:39). At this juncture, Stephen makes a series of affirmations, all of which serve his larger purpose of claiming that he is not the one who rejected Moses but “they” are – with “they” identified as the ancient Israelites and those, like the Jerusalem council before whom he now speaks, who align themselves with the ancient Israelites. In fact, on this point Stephen’s account departs from the account in Exod 32 in a significant way, for he names “our ancestors,” and not Aaron, as the party responsible for the fabrication of the calf. The Israelites thus demonstrate their repudiation of Moses and their allegiance to life in Egypt in these ways: they made a calf, they offered a sacrifice to it, and they celebrated their own handiwork (Acts 7:41). In other words, pushing Moses aside was tantamount to pushing God aside, trading the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (7:32) for an idol (7:41). Along the way, Stephen quotes Exod 32:1 (in Acts 7:40, with only minor changes), thus demonstrating his indebtedness to the account in Exodus. 10  See Joel B. Green, “ ‘He Ascended into Heaven’: Jesus’ Ascension in Lukan Perspective, and Beyond,” in Ears That Hear: Explorations in Theological Interpretation of the Bible, ed. Joel B. Green and Tim Meadowcroft (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2013), 130–50 (see ch. 8, above).

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It is not too much of a stretch, then, to see that Stephen’s speech has the effect of recapitulating the division between those who are on God’s side and those who oppose God recounted in Exod 32:25–35. To this end, Stephen even repeats in Acts 7:51 the characterization of “the people” found in Exod 33:3, 5; 34:9 – that they are “stiff-necked” – but now with reference not to “the people” but to their leaders. Here, of course, the change in Stephen’s rhetoric is damning, as he moves away from referring to “our ancestors” (7:2, 11, 12, 15, 19, 38, 44, 45) and refers instead to “your ancestors” (7:51, 52)  – “yours” because “you,” the Jerusalem council, pattern “your” allegiances and behaviors after them. We find that in Stephen’s hands the calf is wielded rhetorically as the very embodiment, the most obvious demonstration, and the ultimate proof of Israel’s rejection of Moses. Abrogation of Moses and the law is realized in the turn to idolatry. There is a sense in which all history-writing is contemporary, and this is clearly the case with Stephen, whose narration of Israel’s history emphasizes the present in which the past has culminated. He thus summarizes, “You received the law through the agency of angels, but you have not kept it” (7:53). As Luke has presented it, Stephen’s interest in the calf-incident extends further, to include the temple. With this claim, however, we enter contested territory, for Luke’s attitude toward the temple and the question of how Stephen’s speech factors into Luke’s overall approach to the temple have been variously assessed.11 Regarding Stephen’s speech, two alternative viewpoints are championed. The first is that Stephen is not so much criticizing the temple as he is affirming God’s transcendence of the temple.12 A corresponding cadre of readers supports the view that Stephen has set himself over against the temple per se.13 The debate 11 For a survey of scholarship on the temple in Luke-Acts, see Michael C. McKeever “Sacred Space and Discursive Field: The Narrative Function of the Temple in Luke-Acts” (PhD diss., Graduate Theological Union, 1999), 2–11; more recently, e. g., N. H. Taylor, “Luke-Acts and the Temple,” in The Unity of Luke-Acts, ed. J. Verheyden, BETL 147 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1999), 709–21; idem, “The Jerusalem Temple in Luke-Acts,” HvTSt 60, nos. 1–2 (2004): 459–85; Peter Head, “The Temple in Luke’s Gospel,” in Heaven on Earth: The Temple in Biblical Theology, ed. T. Desmond Alexander and Simon Gathercole (Carlisle: Paternoster, 2004), 101–19; Steve Walton, “A Tale of Two Perspectives? The Place of the Temple in Acts,” in Heaven on Earth: The Temple in Biblical Theology, ed. T. Desmond Alexander and Simon Gathercole (Carlisle: Paternoster, 2004), 135–49; G. K. Beale, We Become What We Worship: A Biblical Theology of Idolatry (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2008); Thompson, Acts of the Risen Lord Jesus, 145–73. 12  E. g., Dennis D. Sylva, “The Meaning and Function of Acts 7:46–50,” JBL 106 (1987): 261–75; Walton, “Tale of Two Perspectives,” 138–43; James N. Rhodes, “Tabernacle and Temple: Rethinking the Rhetorical Function of Acts 7:44–50,” in Contemporary Studies in Acts, ed. Thomas E. Phillips (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 2009), 119–37; Smith, “Rhetorical Function,” 107–10. 13  E. g., M. H.  Scharlemann, Stephen: A Singular Saint, AnBib 45 (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1968); C. K. Barrett, “Attitudes to the Temple in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Templum Amicitiae: Essays on the Second Temple Presented to Ernst Bammel, ed. William Horbury, JSNTSup 48 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 345–67; N. H. Taylor, “Stephen, the Temple, and Early Christian Eschatology,” RB 110 (2003): 62–85; Todd Penner, In Praise of

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swirls around a standard set of issues, namely, attitudes toward the temple in Luke’s narrative more broadly, the fact that the charges brought against Stephen are put forward by “false witnesses” (Acts 6:13), Stephen’s claim that David (who asked if he might find a dwelling place for Jacob’s house) “found favor with God” (7:46), the significance of the coordinating conjunction δέ (usually translated as an adversative) in 7:47, the common-sense observation that the tabernacle in the wilderness like the temple in Jerusalem would have been “made by human hands,” and the recognition that an emphasis on God’s transcendence is found already at the (first) temple’s dedication (1 Kgs 8:15–53). Although these options are typically cast as mutually exclusive, this may not be the best approach. That the temple is cast in a negative light seems inescapable, given the label Stephen gives it in 7:48, that it is “made with human hands” (χειροποίητος). On this point, Stephen seems to go out of his way to contrast the divine origins of the “tent (or tabernacle) of testimony,” concerning which God gave directions and for which God provided the pattern (7:44). The counterclaim one reads among some contemporary scholars,14 that the tent, too, was human-made, is simply beside the point. This is because it overlooks the septuagintal use of χειροποίητος as an epithet for “idol”; things made with human hands are not necessarily idols, but things labeled as such are idols indeed – as is made clear in Lev 26:1, 30; Jdt 8:18; Wis 14:8; Isa 2:18; 10:11; 19:1; 21:9; 31:7; 46:6; Dan 5:4, 23; 6:28; Bel 1:5 (cf. ἔργα χειρῶν: Deut 4:28; 17:8; 27:15; 2 Kgs 19:18; 2 Chron 32:19; Pss 115:4; 135:15; Isa 2:8; 37:19; Wis 13:10; Ep. Jer. 1:51). This pattern of usage warrants a strong bias toward identifying the idolatrous character of the temple. Luke makes the point with even more potency through his adjacent reference to the calf, certainly an idol (εἴδωλον), as “the works of their hands” (ἔργα χειρῶν) in Acts 7:41 – a reference that anticipates and provides an influential backdrop for the immediately subsequent characterization of Solomon’s temple as having been “made with human hands” (χειροποίητος). The one idol led to exile (7:42–43), and, in Luke’s narrative, the other will lead to destruction: “no stone left on another” (Luke 21:6; cf. 19:44). With the one, the fabrication of an idol leads to a prophetic critique of idolatry in Acts 7:39–43 (citing Amos); with the other, the identification of the temple as idolatrous leads to a prophetic critique of idolatry in 7:48–50 (citing Isaiah). Though not as proximate, the further use of χειροποίητος in 17:24–29 is also germane. Following the example of Stephen standing before the Jerusalem council, Paul now stands before the Athenian council and articulates a sharp contrast between the universal God and human-made (χειροποίητος), idolatrous shrines. Christian Origins: Stephen and the Hellenists in Lukan Apologetic Historiography, ESEC 10 (New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 308–18; Richard I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 191–93; Shelly Matthews, Perfect Martyr: The Stoning of Stephen and the Construction of Christian Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 68–71. 14  Recently, e. g., Walton, “Tale of Two Perspectives,” 140.

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Acts 7:50, 48

Acts 17:24

οὐχὶ ἡ χείρ μου ἐποίησεν ταῦτα πάντα; “Did I [God] not make these things [heaven and earth, 7:49] with my own hand?” οὐχ ὁ ὕψιστος ἐν χειροποιήτοις κατοικεῖ “The Most High does not live in houses made by human hands.”

ὁ θεὸς ὁ ποιήσας τὸν κόσμον καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ, οὗτος οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς ὑπάρχων κύριος οὐκ ἐν χειροποιήτοις ναοῖς κατοικεῖ “God, who made the cosmos and everything in it – he who is Lord of heaven and earth – does not live in sanctuaries made by human hands.”

It is difficult, then, not to agree with Richard Pervo’s conclusion: “By inference, innuendo, and insinuation, the temple of Solomon (and its successors) is drawn into the belly of the calf.”15 The chief problem that confronts this negative assessment of the temple in Acts 7 is its reductive understanding of “the temple,” as though the temple were simply a thing that could be classified as intrinsically good or bad, or somewhere on a continuum between these two poles. That this is a reductive assessment is transparent already within the Lukan narrative as a whole, where we find enough ambiguity to question any facile categorization of Luke’s attitude toward the temple in positive or negative terms. It is also apparent when we take seriously perspectives on spatiality that move beyond older notions of geography or architecture and account for space as it is interpreted and lived. From this vantage point, just as Herod’s temple underwent seemingly unending brickand-mortar construction with something like a street address on an ancient city map, so also it underwent constant cultural construction in relation to the various populations that related to it. In this latter sense, the temple of which Luke’s narrative speaks is the site of powerful interpretive forces, grounded in its status as sacred space – divine abode, nexus between human and divine, and inviolable territory.16 Luke’s own narrative affirms the significance of the temple in these terms (cf., e. g., Luke 1:8–23; 2:22–24, 36–38; 24:53; Acts 2:46–47; 3:1; 21:26; 22:17; 24:18), with the result that, at whatever juncture we encounter the temple in his narrative, we must ask whose interests are being served in and by the temple. After all, the temple can just as easily serve as the domain of startling abuse (e. g., Luke 19:46; 20:45–21:4) as it can be the locus of exemplary piety (2:25–27, 36–37). Luke can affirm the importance of the temple as sacred space without validating the temple ideology of every group that occupies or relates to it. And he can embrace the sacred character of the temple without drawing from it the conventional corollaries. Generally speaking, the temple’s vertical axis (God-human) authorizes a horizontal one, concerned with human affairs, so that the temple is the focal point for ordering the world. But what kind of world  Pervo, Acts, 189.  For these categories, see David N. Knipe, “The Temple in Image and Reality,” in Temple in Society, ed. Michael V. Fox (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1988), 105–38 (esp. 107–12). 15 16

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order? The temple can serve for Luke as a place to meet God and to hear God’s voice without the temple’s sanctioning thereby a social order concerned with demarcating who is in, who has authority, or who has elevated status – the very social order promoted by and among the Jerusalem elite in Luke’s narrative.17 The question is: Who wields the temple’s socio-religious power, and to what end? Earlier, in the Third Gospel, Jesus brings his message of divine renewal and disclosure of God’s kingdom to the temple courts (Luke 19:45–48). His aim is restorative, to reclaim the temple for its legitimate use as a center of prayer and revelation concerning God’s restorative purpose. Such an aim has both negative and positive sides, however. This is because actions and words aimed at restoration carry with them a judgment, implied or transparent, regarding the illegitimacy of those who presently oversee the affairs of the temple and shape its politics. Beginning with his entry into the temple in 19:45–46, then throughout chs. 20–21, Jesus delegitimizes those whose authority is bound up with the temple and who use the temple system to tyrannize and oppress society’s marginal and vulnerable. His efforts at reform and message of divine salvation rebuffed by the temple elite, he goes on to pronounce the destruction of the temple itself. In the same way, Jesus’s witnesses locate their ministry in the temple courts (Acts 2–5, esp. 2:46; 3:1; 5:20–21, 25, 42), which leads to their being arrested and silenced, twice. Called before the Jerusalem council, Peter and John twice introduce contrasts between God’s activity and the activity of the Jerusalem leadership (4:10–11; 5:30–32) and between God’s aims and authority and the aims and authority of the Jerusalem leadership (4:19–20; 5:29). At the second hearing, ironically, Gamaliel warned his colleagues on the Jerusalem council against positioning themselves against God (5:38–39). Accordingly, Stephen’s appearance before the council is the third in the series, and here the recurring question surfaces again: Whose aims and activities are aligned with God’s purpose? Building on his interpretation of the calf incident, Stephen’s historical narrative reaches its climax as it casts the Jerusalem leadership as idolaters and the temple they hold in their clutches as the center of idolatry. Having rejected the prophet-like-Moses, Jesus, they had turned to idolatry. Accordingly, not the temple per se, but the temple-as-constructed-by-the-Jerusalem-elite is idolatrous, for it seeks to conscript to its own localized ends the God whose “hand made all these things,” both heaven and earth (7:49–50).

17  See Joel B. Green, “The Demise of the Temple as Culture Center in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49),” RB 101 (1994): 495–515 (see ch. 7, above); more generally, John H. Elliott, “Temple versus Household in Luke-Acts: A Contrast in Social Institutions,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 211–40.

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Conclusion Luke’s narrative refers to the calf incident only once, in Stephen’s speech in Acts 7. Stephen has been brought up on two charges, with both introduced into the story by false witnesses. Stephen counters these charges through a selective retelling of Israel’s history, a retelling that reaches its highpoint in Stephen’s reference to the peoples’ fabrication of a calf. In Stephen’s hands, this incident becomes the basis for denying both charges, since it proves (1) that Israel’s ancestors and those who follow them have rejected Moses and the law in favor of idolatry and (2) that references to the temple cannot be taken uncritically as references to God, since God is bigger than the temple. Stephen can speak against the temple while at the same time aligning himself with God’s purpose.

12

“She and Her Household Were Baptized”: Household Baptism in the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 10:1–11:18 and 16:11–40)* Apparently, the time has passed when the central question addressed to episodes of “household baptism” in the Acts of the Apostles is whether one might find here a biblical-theological foundation for infant baptism. The cul-de-sac into which this discussion led is well-represented in the debate between Kurt Aland and Joachim Jeremias a half-century ago, and summarized in George R. Beasley-Murray’s discussion, from the same period, of the question, “Infant Baptism a New Testament Institution?”1 Although Beasley-Murray, himself a Baptist, regarded the practice of infant baptism as one of those areas in which the cleavage between biblical scholarship and ecclesiastical belief was most on display,2 it might be truer to say that the whole enterprise of attempting to tie the baptism of little children to explicit biblical precedent and/or warrant itself belies an overly simplistic approach to theological-hermeneutical method.3 In any case, recent discussion of baptism in Acts has scarcely raised the question of the baptism of infants.4 * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “ ‘She and Her Household Were Baptized’ (Acts 16:15): Household Baptism in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Dimensions of Baptism: Biblical and Theological Studies, ed. Stanley E. Porter and Anthony R. Cross, JSNTSup 234 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press [an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.], 2002), 72–90. Reprinted with permission. 1 G. R. Beasley-Murray, Baptism in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1962), 306–52; Kurt Aland, Did the Early Church Baptize Infants? (London: SCM, 1963); idem, Die Stellung der Kinder in den frühen christlichen Gemeinden – und ihre Taufe, TEH 138 (München: Kaiser, 1967); Joachim Jeremias, Infant Baptism in the First Four Centuries (London: SPCK, 1960); idem, The Origins of Infant Baptism: A Further Study in Reply to Kurt Aland, SHT 1 (London: SCM, 1963). 2  Beasley-Murray, Baptism, 306. 3  For an alternative account to a biblicist approach of this kind, see William J. Abraham, Canon and Criterion in Christian Theology: From the Fathers to Feminism (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998). For more nuanced reflection on the interface of biblical exegesis and constructive theology, see Joel B. Green and Max Turner, eds., Between Two Horizons: Spanning New Testament Studies and Systematic Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000). 4 Cf., e. g., Lars Hartman, “Into the Name of the Lord Jesus”: Baptism in the Early Church, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 127–45. Interestingly, Geoffrey Wainwright surveys the message of Acts on baptism (pp. 113–16) without taking up the question of infant baptism, turning to the latter issue under a separate heading, “The Baptism of Young Children” (pp. 123–24)

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It is tempting once again to return to centerstage the issue of the baptism of small children. This is because of an observation like that of Thomas Wiedemann, that to baptize small children would have been to signal within Christian communities that the lives of the young were just as significant as those of adults.5 Within the horizons of the Roman world – in which children were the weakest, most vulnerable of the populace, and possessed little implicit value as human beings6 – this would have marked a stunning innovation. This novelty would also be fully coherent with the larger Lukan narrative in which conventional concerns with status are often subverted.7 Nevertheless, the Aland-Jeremias debate itself is enough to demonstrate the ambiguity of the evidence of Acts; indeed, we can scarcely conclude anything but that, if Luke were interested in scoring theological points with regard to the baptism of young children, he might have done it in a more conclusive and transparent way. If accounts of household baptism are not particularly concerned to demonstrate the ritual inclusion of infants within the community of God’s people, however, the question remains: How do household baptisms function within the narrative of Acts? In this essay, I want to argue that episodes of “household baptism” in the Acts of the Apostles appear at two crucial crossroads of the gentile mission in order to demonstrate the incontrovertible geosocial progress of the mission, and especially to show how the mission thus established the household as the new culture center for the people of God. In employing the expression “culture center,” I am following Clifford Geertz’s definition: an active center of social order, consisting in that point or points in a society where “its leading ideas come together with its leading institutions to create an arena in which the events that most vitally affect its members’ lives take place.”8 A culture center, for Geertz, is inherently sacred and serves to develop, maintain, and broadcast that world-order that (“Baptism, Baptismal Rites,” DLNTD 112–25). Similarly, in his examination of Die Taufe in frühchristlicher Zeit, BThSt 4 (Neukirchener-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981), Gerhard Barth deals with the evidence of Acts primarily under the headings, “Der Ursprung der christlichen Taufe” (pp. 1–43) and “Taufe und Geist” (pp. 60–72), and only later takes up “Die Frage nach der Taufe von Kindern in neutestamentlicher Zeit” (pp. 137–45). My own earlier contribution to this topic (“From ‘John’s Baptism’ to ‘Baptism in the Name of the Lord Jesus’: The Significance of Baptism in Luke-Acts,” in Baptism, the New Testament and the Church: Historical and Contemporary Studies in Honour of R. E. O. White, ed. Stanley E. Porter and Anthony R. Cross, JSNTSup 171 [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999], 157–72 [see ch. 17, below]) did not broach the significance of household baptisms per se – hence, this follow-up essay. 5  Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 6–7. 6  See, e. g., Beryl Rawson, ed., The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986); idem, ed., Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). 7  With regard to the status of children in particular, cf., e. g., Luke 9:46–48; 18:15–17. 8  Clifford Geertz, “Centers, Kings, and Charisma: Reflections on the Symbolics of Power,” in Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 122–23.

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comes to its loftiest, most undefiled, and unimpeachable expression within its borders. I am employing Geertz’s work in a parodic way, however, since each of the instances of household baptism appears in the Lukan narrative at points where the “household” is masterfully juxtaposed with what one would normally regard as the authentic “active center of social order,” those institutions that serve a world-ordering function, exemplifying and radiating divinely sanctioned dispositions and behaviors, namely, Jerusalem (for the Jewish world) and Rome (for the οἰκουμένη). In short, I will argue that the effect of Luke’s narration of household baptisms is to subvert the ideologies of Jerusalem temple and Roman empire, replacing both with the house church – an institution generated in the episodes in question through household baptism, and that embodies and heralds the commitments and practices of the people of God.9 After a few introductory comments concerning the presence and importance of the data on household baptisms in Acts, I will turn to an exploration of two sections of the narrative of Acts, 10:1–11:18 and 16:11–40.

Household Baptism: Introductory Questions Wiedemann’ s impression, that “the Acts of the Apostles frequently tells us that St. Paul baptised someone ‘with his whole household,’ ”10 however widespread, is not reflective of a close reading of the book of Acts. The Lukan narrative does relate a number of household conversions, and these have been profitably examined by David Lertis Matson.11 Household baptisms form a subset of the household conversion accounts in the Lukan narrative, and there are only three: the baptism of Cornelius and his household (see esp. 10:2, 24, 27, 33, 44–48), the baptism of Lydia and her household (see esp. 16:14–15), and the baptism of the Philippian jailor and his household (see esp. 16:31–34).12 Readers of Acts have long noted that the idea of household baptism is not itself extraordinary. This is because, in Roman antiquity, the household was represented by its head, and the household was to follow him (for the head was  9  Although at some points his analysis needs further nuance, John H. Elliott has demonstrated well how Luke contrasts temple and household (“Temple versus House-hold in Luke-Acts: A Contrast in Social Institutions,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991], 211–40; that Elliott has exaggerated the economic import of the temple for the Lukan narrative, cf. Joel B. Green, “The Demise of the Temple as Culture Center in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49),” RB 101 [1994]: 510 [see ch. 7, above]). Many of Elliott’ s observations are equally relevant to the Lukan portrayal of the synagogue, though he does not develop this point. 10  Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 191; emphasis added. 11  David Lertis Matson, Household Conversion Narratives in Acts: Pattern and Interpretation, JSNTSup 123 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). 12  If the Corinthian episode were included (cf. 18:8b), this would only further support my thesis.

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typically, though not invariably, a male) in his religion.13 In his “Advice to Bride and Groom,” Plutarch wrote: “A woman ought not to make friends of her own, but to enjoy her husband’s friends in common with him. The gods are the first and most important friends. Hence, it is becoming for a wife to worship and to know only the gods that her husband believes in, and to shut the door tight upon all strange rituals and outlandish superstitions. For with no god do stealthy and secret rites performed by a woman find any favor.”14 That a household’s embracing the (new) religion of its head would have been a commonplace in Roman antiquity underscores the importance of exploring the significance of these episodes in Acts. What might the inclusion of a detail so expected, so mundane, contribute to the narrative?

The Baptism of Cornelius and His Household (Acts 10:1–11:18) It is unnecessary to name Cornelius and his household as the first gentile converts in order to measure the import of this narrative sequence within the book of Acts. If, as I think more probable, the first gentile conversion episode is found rather in 8:26–40, in the encounter between Philip and the Ethiopian, it remains no less true that, from the vantage point of the Jerusalem community of Jesus’s followers, the episode with Cornelius and his household poses the real dilemma. This is because, first, within the Lukan narrative, Jerusalem never learns of the baptism of the Ethiopian; the Ethiopian returns to his home and Philip, snatched up by the Spirit of the Lord and having “found himself in Azotus,” moves up the coast to Caesarea where he apparently remains (8:39–40; 21:8).15 Second, the obstacle that must be overcome is not the legitimacy of bringing good news to gentiles (which would be consistent with Jesus’s practice [Luke 7:1–10] and directives [24:46–48; Acts 1:8]), but rather table fellowship among Jews and gentiles.16 And issues of fellowship or hospitality are not on the table in Luke’s account of 13  Cf., e. g., Richard Belward Rackham, The Acts of the Apostles: An Exposition (London: Methuen, 1906), 283; E. A. Judge, The Social Pattern of Christian Groups in the First Century (London: Tyndale, 1960), 35; Michael Green, Evangelism in the Early Church (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970), 210; Nicholas H. Taylor, “The Social Nature of Conversion in the Early Christian World,” in Modelling Early Christianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New Testament in its Context, ed. Philip F. Esler (London: Routledge, 1995), 132. 14 Plutarch, “Advice to Bride and Groom,” § 19 (140D); translation adapted from Plutarch, Moralia, II, trans. Frank Cole Babbitt, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928), 311. See further, Karl Olav Sandnes, “Equality within Patriarchal Structures: Some New Testament Perspectives on the Christian Fellowship as a Brother‑ or Sisterhood and a Family,” in Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as a Social Reality and Metaphor, ed. Halvor Moxnes (London: Routledge, 1997), 153–56. 15  Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts are my own. 16   Contra, e. g., S. G.  Wilson, The Gentiles and the Gentile Mission, SNTSMS 23 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 171–78.

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the Ethiopian episode, but rather occupy centerstage in the account of Peter’s encounter with Cornelius. At the climax of the Cornelius episode stands the baptism of this gentile household by the Holy Spirit and their subsequent baptism with water. It is here, with reference to the household, that the juxtaposition of the Jerusalem/temple-centered ideology with the boundary-crossing mission of God comes into sharpest focus. By the shorthand of Jerusalem‑ or temple-centered ideology, I am referring to the role of the temple as the premier institutional context of the social world of Second Temple Judaism, and particularly to its central function of defining and organizing the life-world of the Jewish people. Using the categories of sacred space, Luke treats the temple as sacred center (axis mundi), the navel of the earth, an institution with two axes. The vertical axis marks the temple as the meeting place of God and humanity, the juncture of the layers of the cosmos. Here is God’s own abode; the location of service, worship, prayer, and sacrifice to God; the point of divine revelation; the locus of the divine presence.17 The horizontal axis emphasizes the temple’ s capacity to structure and orient social life. What Shaye Cohen says of the ideology of the temple historically is also true of Luke’s narrative representation of the temple, namely, that it serves as a binding force, relating monotheism and exclusivity: the one temple unified the one people under the one God.18 This horizontal axis, then, signals how the temple establishes the order of the world, providing the center point around which human life is oriented. The architecture of the temple – with its system of restricted spaces correlating the concepts of holiness and purity, segregating gentile from Jew, Jewish female from Jewish male, priest from non-priest, and so on – both embodies and radiates this socio-religious matrix, generating social maps that segregate persons along lines of ethnicity and gender and, thus, with respect to relative status measured in terms of religious purity.19 As we follow Peter into and through the Lukan narrative of his encounter with Cornelius, we recognize that Peter stands in an ambiguous relation to this Jerusalem-centered ideology. On the one hand, he manifests his awareness of and allegiance to such an ideology. This is self-evident in his interaction with the Lord in his vision: “By no means, Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is profane or unclean” (10:14). Later, when relating this vision at Jerusalem, Peter’s recollection is even more emphatic: “By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.” Moreover, as Peter readies himself to enter Cornelius’s house, he voices a social script arising out of the temple ideology: “It  Cf. Luke 1:8–23; 2:22–24, 36–38; 18:10; 19:46; 24:53; Acts 2:46–47; 3:1; 21:26; 22:17; 24:18.  Shaye J. D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, LEC (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1987), 106. 19  See further Michael Colin McKeever, “Sacred Space and Discursive Field: The Narrative Function of the Temple in Luke-Acts” (PhD diss., Graduate Theological Union, 1999). 17 18

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is unlawful for a Jew to associate with or to visit a gentile” (10:28). Indeed, when he returns to Jerusalem after his encounter with Cornelius, he is castigated precisely at this point, for sharing the hospitality of gentiles (11:2–3).20 On the other hand, two lines of evidence suggest that Peter is on a collision course with this temple-based ideology. First, from 9:32–43 he has not only departed Jerusalem but has been moving progressively away from the city – from Jerusalem to “here and there among all the believers,” to Lydda, to Joppa, and on to Caesarea. His geographical movement is mirrored in his crossing boundaries of another kind as well, as he takes on the mantle of healer (who of necessity must move among the sick), acquires corpse impurity in order to restore a dead woman to life (cf. Num 19), and finally takes up lodging with a tanner (whose livelihood implicated him perpetually in ritual impurity). Thus, when we find Peter on a tanner’s roof arguing with the Lord over issues of ritual purity (10:9–16), we can only wonder at Peter’s apparent sanctimony.21 Indeed, it is perhaps not surprising that, when Peter relates his story to the Jerusalem believers, he admits only to staying in Joppa (11:5), dropping the not-insignificant detail that he had been enjoying the hospitality of a tanner. From his perch on the roof of a tanner’s home, the symbolic distance represented by crossing the threshold of the house of a gentile centurion is not so far to traverse. If concerns with purity are correlated with the three matrices of persons, spaces, and foods, then all three are contravened in this narrative sequence, for Peter has moved outside the land of the Jews, is interacting personally with gentiles, and is directed by the Lord to eat all kinds of animals. For good reason, study of the Cornelius episode has, in recent years, shifted away from a narrow focus on Cornelius’s conversion in favor of an emphasis on Peter’s.22 20  Philip Francis Esler has helpfully discussed the literary and historical evidence for the Jewish ban on dining with gentiles (Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology, SNTSMS 57 [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987], 76–86). Relevant primary sources sketching Greco-Roman views toward Jewish food laws are conveniently gathered in Molly Whittaker, Jews and Christians: Graeco-Roman Views, CCJCW 6 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 73–80. 21  Peter’s sanctimony is only “apparent” because he (and with him, others of the Jerusalem community of Jesus’s followers, according to Acts) is himself deeply embedded in the temple-centered ideology expressed in his challenge to the Lord’s instructions. His own transformation is ongoing. 22  See esp. Beverly R. Gaventa, From Darkness to Light: Aspects of Conversion in the New Testament, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 107–22; Esler, Community and Gospel, 93–97; Mark A. Plunkett, “Ethnocentricity and Salvation History in the Cornelius Episode (Acts 10:1– 11:18),” in SBLSP (1985), 465–79. This shift in interpretive focus is underscored by the many points of contact between Peter and Jonah, both reluctant messengers sent to bring good news to the Gentiles – see Robert W. Wall, “Peter, ‘Son’ of Jonah: The Conversion of Cornelius in the Context of the Canon,” in The New Testament as Canon: A Reader in Canonical Criticism, by Robert W. Wall and Eugene Lemcio, JSNTSup 76 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 129–40.

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Second, throughout this section, 9:32–11:18, the landscape of Luke’s narrative is dotted with references to houses, households, and household hospitality:23 – the saints “make their homes” (κατοικέω) in Lydda (9:32); – Aeneas was “bedridden” (κατακείμα), presumably homebound (9:33); – the residents (κατοικέω) of Lydda and Sharon turn to the Lord (9:35); – Tabitha is laid in an upstairs room (ὑπερῷον, 9:37), and this setting becomes a place of effective prayer (9:40; cf. Luke 19:46); – Peter lodges with and enjoys the hospitality (μένω [cf. Luke 10:7] + ξενίζω) of Simon the tanner, whose house (οἰκία) is by the sea (9:43; 10:5–6, 17–18, 32); – as the narrative unfolds, Peter will pray from the rooftop of this house (ἀνέβη … ἐπί τὸ δῶμα, 10:9) and extend the hospitality of the house (εἰσκαλέομαι + ξενίζω) to Cornelius’s ambassadors (10:23); – Cornelius “feared God with all his household” (οἶκος, 10:2), a household that includes, at least, household slaves (οἰκέτης, 10:7) and a devout soldier (10:7); – Cornelius prays in his house (οἶκος, 10:3, 30); – Cornelius gathers together into his house both “relatives and close friends” (10:24),24 welcomes Peter and his entourage into his home (10:23, 25, 27; 11:12), and asserts that God is present in his house (10:33); – Cornelius and his household invite Peter to stay (ἐπιμένω) with them for ­several days; – On returning to Jerusalem, Peter is upbraided for entering Cornelius’s home and sharing his hospitality (11:3); – Peter and his companions entered Cornelius’s household (οἶκος, 11:12); and, finally, – Peter reports that an angel had preceded him into the house (οἶκος, 11:13) and had instructed Cornelius to send for Peter, who would bring a message that would be effective for “your salvation” as well as that of “your household” (πᾶς ὁ οἶκος σου, 11:14). That the household functions so clearly as the deictic center of this narrative sequence is crucial for several reasons. Matson is quick to point out how this emphasis locates the Cornelius episode in interpretive relation to Jesus’s instructions regarding the missionary endeavor in Luke 10:1–20, thus indicating how Peter is following the pattern Jesus had set out. In addition to this important observation, we should notice how the house(hold) has become the substitute for the temple as a place of prayer, a place of divine revelation, a place of instruction, and even as the locus of God’s presence (Acts 10:33: πάντες ἡμεῖς ἐνώπιον τοῦ 23 This is noted in Gaventa, From Darkness to Light, 113; Matson, Household Conversion Narratives, 103: “The story of Cornelius is striking for the way it makes the spatial setting of the house a central component of its plot.” 24  In fact, although the focus is initially on Cornelius, by the end of the story Luke has employed a wide-angle lens – emphasizing that the Spirit had fallen on “all who heard the word” (10:44) and, indeed, “on the gentiles” (10:45; 11:18).

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θεοῦ πάρεσμεν). If the movement of the vertical axis from Jerusalem temple to house(hold) marks the house(hold) as sacred space, what of the horizontal axis? What life-world is embodied there? What social maps radiate from this place? The social interaction on display and broadcast here is one in which acceptance and friendship are extended and embraced across socio-religious lines. In the exchange between Peter and Cornelius, such a life-world develops by means of a progression of steps – in Peter’s insistence that he is “only a human being” (10:26), in Peter’s decision to forego the Jewish ban on sharing hospitality with gentiles (10:28–29), in Cornelius’s testimony to the vision he has received from God (10:30–33), in Peter’s recognition that Jesus Christ is indeed “Lord of all” (10:36), in the Spirit’s coming upon Cornelius and his household (10:44), in the water baptism of those who had received the Spirit (10:47–48a), and in the sharing of household hospitality over the ensuing days (10:48b). Represented here is the conversion of Peter, who experiences a profound transformation of theological and moral imagination; and of Cornelius and his household, who join and are embraced within the Christocentric community of God’s people.25 Interestingly, what happens here is anticipated in and prepared for by the Pentecostal outpouring of the Spirit, which Luke locates also in a house, though one of a different sort. The location of the Pentecostal event, “the house where they were sitting” (2:2), is often understood to be the upstairs room of 1:13. Luke’s phrase is far more likely a reference to the temple, however,26 and this introduces a paradox of significant import. The temple stands as a segregating cultural force that divides Jew from non-Jew, priest from non-priest, male from female, and so on, whereas the outpouring of the Spirit falls on all who are unified around the purpose of God. Though expressed in the temple, this divine revelation portends the democratization of the Spirit – and, if the Spirit, then of salvation and membership among the people of God – and is precursor to a mission with sights set on 25  Linda M. Maloney objects to attributing “conversion” to Cornelius and his household (“All That God Had Done with Them”: The Narration of the Works of God in the Early Christian Community as Described in the Acts of the Apostles, AUS 7, Theology and Religion 91 [New York: Peter Lang, 1991], 83n2), but this is because she is working with an overly narrow notion of conversion; cf. Taylor, “Social Nature of Conversion”; Joel B. Green, “ ‘ To Turn from Darkness to Light” (Acts 26:18): Conversion in the Narrative of Luke-Acts,” in Conversion in the Wesleyan Tradition, ed. Kenneth J. Collins and John H. Tyson (Nashville: Abingdon, 2001), 103–18. 26  Ernst Haenchen insists that the location of the Pentecost story cannot be the temple since Luke “always” uses τὸ ἱερόν to designate the temple (The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary [Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1971], 168). However, οἶκος denotes the temple in Luke 6:4; 11:51; 19:46; Acts 7:47–49. F. F. Bruce thought that the reference to sitting (τὸν οἶκον οὗ ἦσαν καθήμενοι) disqualified a reference to the temple (The Acts of the Apostles: Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary, 3rd ed. [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990], 114), but cf. Luke 2:46: εὗρον αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ καθεζόμενον ἐν μέσῳ τῶν διδασκάλων. Hence, although Luke does not specifically designate the οἶκος of v. 2 as “temple,” there is no good reason to exclude this reading and good reasons to support it – e. g., the continued presence of the disciples in the temple (e. g., Luke 24:53), the variety of Lukan usage elsewhere, and the size of the audience that gathers (vv. 5–11, 44).

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“the end of the earth” (1:8). By locating this scene in the house/temple, Luke helps to provide these happenings with a kind of unimpeachable apologetic for the message and mission that are set in motion within these architectural confines – a message and mission, we might say, that reaches their acme in the outpouring of the Spirit in that other house, the one shared by Cornelius and his household. What role does household baptism play in this scene? Within the narrative of Acts, as the community of God’s people discerns God’s acceptance of persons, those persons are incorporated into the community through baptism, signifying forgiveness and acceptance.27 Household baptism in this case thus signifies that Peter and his associates have cast off their allegiance to a temple-centered ideology in light of a series of divine interventions that culminate in the spontaneous, autonomous outpouring of the Spirit. The gift of the Spirit is an irrefutable sign of God’s acceptance of these persons (cf. 15:6–9), and in this narrative cotext, household baptism both demonstrates the incontrovertible geosocial progress of the mission and establishes the household as the new culture center for the people of God.28

Household Baptisms in Philippi (Acts 16:11–40) The narrative sequence Luke provides of Paul’s proclaiming good news in Philippi is punctuated by two scenes of household baptism, a remarkable coincidence that begs for explanation. I will argue that, in the same way the Cornelius-episode establishes the household as “culture center” over against a Jerusalem/temple-centered ideology, so what takes place in Philippi undercuts the unqualified power of Rome. That Rome is particularly on display is evident from the descriptive detail with which Luke presents these interlocking accounts: – Philippi and Neapolis were important Roman settlements in the area Luke portrays (16:11–12); – Philippi is a Roman colony (κολωνία, 16:12) – that is, “Rome in microcosm”;29  Cf. Green, “Significance of Baptism.”  It is also possible that household baptism establishes a center from which the mission might advance further (cf., e. g., Judge, Social Pattern, 36; Matson, Household Conversion Narratives, 110), but this possibility is not developed by Luke in the case of Cornelius (with regard to the tradition that Cornelius’s house became the site of a church, Brad Blue refers to Jerome’s Letter 108 to Eustochium [“The Influence of Jewish Worship on Luke’s Presentation on the Early Church,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 408n24]). Instead, what happens here serves to demonstrate theologically that the mission of God is not grounded in a Jerusalem-based ideology (see esp. 15:7–11). 29  Thus Ben Witherington III, The Acts of the Apostles: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 488. 27 28

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– Luke reflects civic pride common in Roman antiquity by referring to Philippi as “a leading city”;30 – Paul and Silas are taken to the agora (ἀγορά, 16:19); – Roman officials appear repeatedly (ἄρχοντες, 16:19; στρατηγοί, 16:20, 22, 35, 36, 38; ῥαβδοῦχοι, 16:35, 38), as do concerns with Roman legal proceedings (e. g., 16:37 [ἀκατάκριστος]);31 and – Paul refers to his and Silas’s Roman citizenship (16:37–38). Moreover, in 16:20–21 Paul and Silas are said to be charged specifically as persons “disturbing our city,” “Jews,” who “are advocating customs that are not lawful for us as Romans to adopt or to observe.” This contributes to the overall portrait Luke is painting by emphasizing the degree to which Paul and Silas have entered alien territory. The first charge reflects the well-known Roman concern with peace and public order. The second and third derive not from an outright ban on Jewish religion or practices but more probably from the sort of “judeophobia” that is well-documented in the ancient world – in Alexandria and Rome, as well as more broadly.32 Jeffrey Staley has suggested other elements of this narrative sequence that mark Philippi as “foreign territory” for the Pauline mission in Acts. These include (1) Paul’s vision (16:9–10) followed by an exorcism (16:16–18), signifying a territorial gain for the kingdom of God; (2) the importance of the introduction of first-person plural narration at this juncture, positing for Paul and his companions and for Luke’s readers a group identity (“we”) over against the Macedonians (“they”); (3) the designation of the demon-possessed girl as a “pythonic” (16:16), evoking the ancient worldview centered on the Greek hieropolis of Delphi; and (4) the lack of Jewish opposition to the mission at this locale, a first in Luke’s nar30  See Jerome H. Neyrey, “Luke’s Social Location of Paul: Cultural Anthropology and the Status of Paul in Acts,” in History, Literature and Society in the Book of Acts, ed. Ben Witherington III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 269; Richard S. Ascough, “Civic Pride at Philippi: The Text-Critical Problem of Acts 16:12,” NTS 44 (1998): 93–103; and for the text-critical question also, C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, 2 vols., ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994–98), 2:778–80. 31  Brian Rapske examines a number of elements regarding legal processes and imprisonment in this episode, and especially underscores both how disorderly the Roman process has advanced in this instance and how concerned Luke’s narration is with issues of honor and shame (Paul in Roman Custody, BAFCS 3 [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994], 299–307). 32  See Peter Schäfer, Judeophobia: Attitudes toward the Jews in the Ancient World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997). Cf. also Whittaker, Jews and Christians – for Alexandria (pp. 99–103) and Rome (pp. 103–4). The legal issues are helpfully discussed in A. N. Sherwin-White, Roman Society and Roman Law in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1978), 78–83. Bede notes, “The Romans had already decreed that no god was to be accepted unless approved by the senate” (Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, ed. Lawrence T. Martin, CSS 117 [Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1989], 137; cf. Cicero, Leg. 2.8.19); however, from a perspective within the Lukan narrative, Paul and his companions proclaim nothing other than the authentic faith of Israel.

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ration of Paul’s missionary travels.33 Not all of these are equally impressive. Paul’s vision, for example, is more likely to be explained within the narrative world of Luke-Acts (and, indeed, the Scriptures of Israel) than in relation to Hellenistic accounts of the transfer of power. And the presence of the pythian servant-girl need not be read as a throwback to the ancient Greek world but can simply be read within the horizons of popular superstition in the Roman world. Taken together, these various streams of evidence nevertheless point to an incontrovertible conclusion, namely, that for Luke the shift of the mission to Europe cannot be understood merely or even primarily in spatial terms, narrowly defined. This move onto European soil marked the encounter of the gospel with a symbolic universe at the center of which stood Rome. It is difficult to think in these terms without taking seriously the realities that accrue to the image of Rome as empire. As Edward Said has noted, “Neither imperialism nor colonialism is a simple act of accumulation and acquisition. Both are supported and perhaps even impelled by impressive ideological formations that include notions that certain territories and people require and beseech domination, as well as forms of knowledge affiliated with domination.”34 Roman historians may debate the complex of stimuli that spawned imperial Rome, but there is no escaping the central role of Rome (the city) in defining the life-world of even the far reaches of Roman rule (the empire).35 Here is the center, the navel of the universe. “As a rock creates radiating waves when thrown into a still pond, so the Roman world had circles of radiating spiritual energy.”36 How this interest relates to household baptism is immediately clear when it is remembered that, for Rome, the household was regarded, as Cicero put it, as “the seed-bed of the state”;37 that the orderliness of household relations was both a model for and the basis of order within the empire (with persons “assigned a precise place in a vast system of orders, classes, tribes, and centuries”38); and that Rome regarded itself as a household with the emperor as paterfamilias. That is, the center of the Roman world was, first, the home, from whence the world took shape; by extension, Rome performed this function, ordering life, setting boundaries: everyone with a place, everyone in their place. Importantly, then, with Paul and Silas’s entry into Philippi, order is disestablished, and a new order is baptized, figuratively and literally. 33  Jeffrey L. Staley, “Changing Woman: Postcolonial Reflections on Acts 16:16–40,” JSNT 73 (1999): 122–26. 34 Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Knopf, 1993), 9 (emphasis original). 35  Cf. Miriam Griffin, “Urbs Roma, Plebs and Princeps,” in Images of Empire, ed. Loveday Alexander, JSOTSup 122 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 19–46. 36  John Helgeland, “Time and Space: Christian and Roman,” ANRW 23.2:1299. 37  Cicero, Off. 1.53–55; cited in Jane F. Gardner and Thomas Wiedemann, eds., The Roman Household: A Sourcebook (London: Routledge, 1991), 2. 38  Claude Nicolet, “The Citizen: The Political Man,” in The Romans, ed. Andrea Giardina (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 26.

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An important key to Luke’s strategy here is the careful movement from public to household space in 16:11–40, and indeed the contrast set up between the two. Public Space/City

Private Space/Household

16:12: Summary statement, without event

16:13–15: Paul and his companions depart the city to locate a “place of prayer,” possibly a house,39 where they are heard eagerly, and the Lord opens Lydia’s heart. Lydia and her household are baptized. Paul and companions share the hospitality of Lydia’s household.

16:16–30: On the roadway, then in the ἀγορά, Luke paints scenes of power-encounters – first with a demonized slave girl, then before the magistrates. Although the demon is exorcized, the consequence for Paul and Silas is the abuse and humiliation of being stripped, beaten, and imprisoned.

16:31–34: Paul and Silas receive care for their wounds and hospitality within the jailor’s house, and the jailor and his household believe, rejoice, and are baptized.

16:35–39: In communication with the magistrates, Paul and Silas seek to recover their honor, but are nonetheless asked to depart the city.

16:40: Lydia’s house is portrayed as a center of gathering for Jesus’s followers, a place of encouragement, and a center from which Paul and Silas are sent forth.

Evidently, the good news is effective within the household context in Phillipi but is not yet transformative in the public square. This is not to deny that Paul and his companions have a prophetic role in the latter context, but rather to ap39  The referent of προσευχή is debated. Some take its appearance in 16:13, 16, as a reference to “the synagogue” – a reading for which there is some evidence outside of Luke-Acts (thus Donald D. Binder’s translation, “where we supposed there was a synagogue” [“God-Fearers in Synagogues,” n.p. (cited 15 June 2000); online: http.//www.smu.edu/~dbinder/god-fearers. html]; cf., e. g., Martin Hengel, “Proseuche und Synagoge: Jüdische Gemeinde, Gotteshaus und Gottesdienst in der Diaspora und in Palästina,” in The Synagogue: Studies in Origins, Archaeology and Architecture, ed. Joseph Gutmann [New York: Ktav, 1975], 27–54; cf. Irina Levinskaya’s discussion of “The Meaning of ΠΡΟΣΕΥΧΗ,” in The Book of Acts in Its Diaspora Setting, BAFCS 5 [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996], 207–25; Ivoni Richter Reimer, Women in the Acts of the Apostles: A Feminist Liberation Perspective [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1995], 78–92). However, Luke elsewhere uses συναγωγή (34x), so a linguistic shift at this point would be unprecedented and inexplicable. The absence of any mention of Jewish men – or, indeed, of further evidence of a Jewish presence – in this context also speaks against regarding this occurrence of προσευχή as a reference to a synagogue. On the basis of his survey of the relevant evidence, Peter Pilhofer concludes, “Im ersten Jahrhundert bestand in Philippi allenfalls eine kleine jüdische Gemeinde” (Philippi, 1, Die erste christliche Gemeinde Europas, WUNT 87 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995], 231–34). I. Howard Marshall proposes that a house is in view (The Acts of the Apostles, TNTC [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980], 267); similarly, Bradley Blue, “Acts and the House Church,” in The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting, ed. David W. J. Gill and Conrad Gempf, BAFCS 2 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 152–53.

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preciate what François Bovon calls the “important mediatory role” of the home: “The disciples or apostles have it as their mission to reach the city; but if the city is to believe, the home must be converted.”40 This is true for two reasons: (1) as we have already noted, the household is the seedbed for the larger world, so that the transformative values that take root in the household will propagate transformation beyond its boundaries; and (2) perhaps more pragmatically speaking, apparently Lydia’s home provides a base for the community and for missionary sending-forth. Read against this backdrop, the Lukan recounting of the household baptisms of Lydia and the jailor play significant, strategic roles. Luke goes to great lengths to characterize Lydia – first so as to underscore the ambiguity of her status in this Roman colony. Commentators have generally assumed that her position as head of a Philippian household is due to the death of her husband. On this detail the text is unclear, and it is just as likely, perhaps more so, that she was divorced.41 Husband and wife in the empire were not a single economic unit, and whatever she brought into the marriage, including the dowry itself, was hers to reclaim should the marriage dissolve. Divorces brought with them no expectation of alimony, and this underscores the woman’s relative independence vis-à-vis material holdings. Children, if they were considered legitimate, typically but not always went to the father; of course, Luke’s account of Lydia and her household mentions no children. Involvement in the purple trade reflects the wealth needed to deal with material of this luxury,42 and Luke’s attribution to Lydia of a house of no mean proportions supports the portrait of Lydia as a woman of some means. This is not to say, however, that Lydia was a person of status, since, in a society where the currency of status was not money but honor, Lydia would still be marked as a woman (and thus of lower status by accident of gender), as a single woman (who, thus, would not have enjoyed whatever benefit might have accrued to her on ac40  François Bovon, “The Importance of Mediations in Luke’s Theological Plan,” in New Testament Traditions and Apocryphal Narratives, PTMS 36 (Allison Park, PA: Pickwick, 1995), 55. 41  The suggestion that Lydia is divorced is advanced in D. C. Barker, “Census Returns and Household Structures,” NewDocs 4 (1987) § 21.87–93; and summarized in Blue, “Acts and the House Church,” 184–85. Barker notes that property owned by the paterfamilias was almost always bequeathed to the children, not his surviving wife, with the wife given the right to occupy the house. On the following, brief summary of issues related to economics and children, cf. Suzanne Dixon, “Family Finances: Terentia and Tullia,” in The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. Beryl Rawson (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 93–120; J. A. Crook, “Women in Roman Succession,” in The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. Beryl Rawson (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 58–82; Beryl Rawson, “The Roman Family,” in The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. Beryl Rawson (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 19, 32–37. 42  Cf. David W. J. Gill, “Acts and the Urban Elites,” in The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting, ed. David W. J. Gill and Conrad Gempf, BAFCS 2 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 114–15; Gladas Hamel, Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, First Three Centuries C. E., NES 23 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 81, 87–91.

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count of her husband), and, perhaps, as a laborer.43 Adding to Lydia’s ambiguous status, she is described as a God-fearer (σεβομένη τὸν θεόν; 16:14) – that is, as a sympathizer who was nonetheless marginal to the Jewish community. If Luke emphasizes Lydia’s ambiguous status, he also presents her as the first and model convert on European soil, and this accentuates her crucial role in the Christian mission. Her transformation is deep-rooted and multifaceted, a transference of orientation and allegiance represented in the metaphor of the Lord’s “opening her heart” (16:14), manifest in practices appropriate to that new allegiance (receiving baptism and offering hospitality), and confirmed by Paul and his companions (who incorporate her into the multiethnic community of God’s people through baptism and accept her offer of hospitality).44 What is more, the introduction of the response of her household marks Lydia’s response as representative, metonymic of the others. In a narrative sequence where issues of civic pride, honor and shame, and Roman custom and order are so much emphasized, it is surely extraordinary that Lydia, together with her household, who in no way exemplify these Roman values, serve as exemplars. The introduction of the jailer is so abrupt that it provides us with little by way of interpretive help. Told to confine Paul and Silas securely (16:23), he imprisoned them “in the innermost cell and fastened their feet in stocks” (16:24) – that is, with maximum discomfort, as though they were “dangerous low class felons.”45 Clearly, then, the jailor is numbered among the enemy,46 one who acts, however, not on his own accord but who fills a slot at the bottom rung of an 43  Richter Reimer, Women in the Acts of the Apostles, 98–109, argues that, as a dealer, Lydia would also have been involved in production, but on this point she rests her case, surprisingly, on no primary sources. Whether Reimer is correct on this matter, it remains significant that Lydia is in no way characterized as a person who enjoyed the status of landed wealth. Having noted that purple was a badge of wealth, luxury, and prestige, Frederick W. Danker goes on to observe that purple cloth could be achieved through a combination of dyes from a variety of animals, vegetables, and minerals resulting in a less costly product. Hence, “from the text of Acts 16:14 it is not possible to determine that Lydia limited her sale to luxury items or to a specific clientele” (“Purple,” ABD 5:558). For Luke’s purposes, it remains important that (1) elsewhere in the Lukan narrative πορφύρα signifies wealth (Luke 16:19) and (2) the mission of Paul elsewhere in this section of Acts is effective among prominent women (cf. 17:4, 12, 34). 44  Cf. Luke 10:1–9. Nothing sinister should be read into Lydia’s urging Paul and his companions to accept her hospitality, as though Lydia’s faith were in doubt – contra Luise Schottroff, Lydia’s Impatient Sisters: A Feminist Social History of Early Christianity (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 110. Rather, the terminology Luke uses here invites comparison with the Emmaus-episode narrated in Luke 24:13–32. Hospitality is an important indicator of authentic faith in Luke-Acts, as is the (closely related) appropriate use of money; note the contrast with the collocation of economic concerns with charlatanism in the next scene, Acts 16:16–19 (cf. 8:18–24; 20:33–35). 45  Rapske, Paul in Roman Custody, 126–27. 46  Cf. Luke 6:22: “Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man.” This point is well-made by Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986–90), 2:204.

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oppressive system. Thus, thinking that those under his charge have escaped, he apparently fears his own death (cf. 12:18–19) and opts for the honor of suicide over the shame of execution (16:27).47 How should we read his question to Paul and Silas, κύριοι, τί με δεῖ ποιεῖν ἵνα σωθῶ; In spite of parallels in Luke 3:10–14 and Acts 2:37, it is doubtful that we should hear in his voice a request for salvation in the full, Christian sense as this is developed in the Lukan narrative. And his address to Paul and Silas as κύριοι is hardly an attempt at polite address, given their status only hours ago as humiliated, beaten prisoners. Rather, the jailor has had to reconsider his evaluation of them on account of the supermundane character of their escape. Either he fears them, as though they were more than human, or he sees in them a power capable of rescuing him from his certain fate in the service of the emperor. Thus, he addresses them with a term, κύριος, prominently used in the imperial cult of the emperor.48 The message he receives, which Luke characterizes as “the word of the Lord [κύριος]” (16:32), names Jesus as Lord (κύριος, 16:31), and this serves to render unambiguous the source both of the power behind the spectacular events and of authentic deliverance. The effect is that an enemy – who because of his own oppressed status must fear for his life even though he has made a livelihood as the instrument of oppression for others – and with him his whole household, are transformed. They believe, rejoice, extend hospitality to Paul and Silas, and are baptized. The true Lord is named, such that this household comes under the lordship of Jesus rather than that of Caesar.49 We would like to know the rest of the story perhaps – for example, what shape “repentance” might take in the everyday life of this jailor (cf. Luke 3:10–14) – but this is not the narrative Luke has provided. The focus falls rather on the validation of the faith and accompanying practices of this jailor and his household. Within the narrative of Acts, as the community of God’s people discerns God’s acceptance of persons, those persons are incorporated into the community through baptism, signifying forgiveness and acceptance. Household baptism in this case thus signifies God’s acceptance of these persons, authenticates their faith and hospitable practices as markers of the new order over which Jesus is Lord, and, together with the experience of Lydia and her household, demonstrates the incontrovertible geosocial progress of the mission.

 Cf. Tacitus, Ann. 6.29.  Cf. Donald L. Jones, “Christianity and the Roman Imperial Cult,” ANRW 23.2:1031. 49  The jailor’s offer of hospitality is itself an illegal act, according to Rapske (Paul in Roman Custody, 390–92), and this underscores the shift in his allegiances. 47 48

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Conclusion Because of the pervasive expectation that the household would follow its head in religious matters, that Luke elected to record any household baptisms is the puzzle. Why mention household baptism at all? Why these three instances only? One indicator is the consistent pattern we have observed of the collocation of household baptism with hospitality. Another is the status of those baptized as marginal to the Jewish community as this is defined by Jerusalem (Cornelius and his household) or according to both Roman and Jewish conventions (Lydia, the jailor, and their households). Another still is the strategic location of these episodes at crucial junctures in the spread of the gentile mission. It is not enough to mark the geographical progress of the mission, though this is not without interest in the Lukan narrative. More is at stake with the movement of the Christian message than might be signified by crossing Roman mile markers. Geography is socially defined space, so that genuine progress entails theological conversion manifest in transformed allegiances and behaviors. The three episodes Luke recounts appear on the missionary frontier, where the crossing of ideological/theological borders is a prerequisite of missionary advance. At these junctures, Luke takes special pains (1) to demonstrate the hand and choreography of God in the events that unfold, (2) to indicate that the gospel is proclaimed, (3) to validate the authentic reception of the gospel by gentiles, (4) to show how, in baptism, God’s emissaries embrace these gentile households as God’s people, and (5) to posit their homes as world-defining centers at odds with the dominant ideology (whether Jerusalem temple‑ or Rome-based). The baptism of households entails the unequivocal embrace of the household as the new culture center for the people of God, an active center of social order that embodies and radiates a world-order within which Jesus is Lord of all, hospitality is shared across socio-ethnic lines, and hierarchical lines that define the empire are erased.

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Conversion in Luke-Acts: God’s Prevenience, Human Embodiment* As a number of scholars have recognized, conversion is ubiquitous in the Lukan narrative. With reference to Luke’s second volume, for example, Thomas Finn has detected twenty-one conversion accounts in the Acts of the Apostles and claimed, “Conversion is the major theme in Luke’s second volume.”1 Charles Talbert identified only ten such accounts in Acts, but refines Finn’s overarching judgment only slightly: “Conversion is a central focus of Acts, maybe the central focus.”2 Earlier, Beverly Gaventa devoted just over half of her important study of “aspects of conversion in the New Testament” to the Lukan narrative.3 For Guy Nave, repentance is “a keynote of the message in Luke-Acts,” and the book of Acts is “full of conversion stories.”4 The importance of conversion for Luke’s soteriology has led to the publication of several recent studies, examination of which reveals a series of fault lines in how best to understand Luke’s emphasis.5 Among these controverted issues are the following: Is conversion a cognitive category, a moral category, or both? Is conversion a crossing of religious boundaries and rejection of one manner of life, embracing more fully the life one has chosen, or both? What is the relationship between conversion as a “change of * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “Conversion in Luke-Acts: God’s Prevenience, Human Embodiment,” in The Unrelenting God: Essays on God’s Action in Scripture in Honor of Beverly Roberts Gaventa, ed. David J. Downs and Matthew L. Skinner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), 15–41. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. 1  Thomas M. Finn, From Death to Rebirth: Ritual and Conversion in Antiquity (New York: Paulist Press, 1997), 27. 2 Charles H. Talbert, “Conversion in the Acts of the Apostles: Ancient Auditors’ Perceptions,” in Reading Luke-Acts in Its Mediterranean Milieu, NovTSup 107 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 133. 3  Beverly Roberts Gaventa, From Darkness to Light: Aspects of Conversion in the New Testament, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 52–129. 4  Guy D. Nave Jr., The Role and Function of Repentance in Luke-Acts, SBLAB 4 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature 2002), 3; idem, “Conversion,” NIDB 1:729. 5  In addition to those already mentioned, see Babu Immanuel, Repent and Turn to God: Recounting Acts (Perth: HIM International Ministries, 2004); Fernando Méndez-Moratalla, The Paradigm of Conversion in Luke, JSNTSup 252 (London: T&T Clark, 2004); Robert C. Tannehill, “Repentance in the Context of Lukan Soteriology,” in God’s Word for Our World, vol. 2, Theological and Cultural Studies in Honor of Simon John De Vries, ed. J. Harold Ellens et al., JSOTSup 389 (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 199–215; Mihamm Kim-Rauchholz, Umkehr bei Lukas: Zu Wesen und Bedeutung der Metanoia in der Theologie des dritten Evangelisten (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008).

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mind” and behavioral transformation? Is conversion an event or a process? Does Luke’s narrative support a “pattern” of conversion? What catalyzes conversion in Luke-Acts? Although we cannot hope to put all of these questions to rest in this essay, we can make a beginning by means of an analysis of Luke 3:1–14, which serves as an important staging point for any exploration of Luke’s perspective on conversion. What we see here anticipates much of the larger development of this motif in the Lukan narrative, namely, the dynamic action of God that opens the way and calls for people to embody in their lives “the way of the Lord.”

Conversion and the Turn of the Ages With its prominent geopolitical and chronological markers, Luke 3:1–2 signals a fresh beginning in the Lukan narrative. After recounting the births and summarizing the childhoods of John and Jesus, Luke moves John onto center stage, sketching the character of his prophetic ministry in preparation of Jesus’s public ministry (3:1–20). John’s ministry of renewal and transformation comes into focus in the précis Luke provides: “He went throughout the region of the Jordan, declaring a repentance-baptism for the forgiveness of sins” (3:3);6 in words descriptive of John’s work, borrowed from Isaiah: “Prepare the way for the Lord; straighten his paths …” (3:4; cf. Isa 40:3); in John’s words to the crowds: “produce fruit that demonstrates repentance” (3:8); and in John’s spelling out for the crowds behaviors that would in fact demonstrate repentance (3:10–14). Key to grasping the significance of Luke’s introduction to John’s mission is the structure of 3:1–6, and particularly the juxtaposition of sociopolitical (vv. 1–2) and redemptive-historical (vv. 4–6) contexts. These are mutually interpretive, and together they provide the frame for our viewing of Luke’s summary depiction of John’s ministry in v. 3. Verses 1–2 provide geopolitical markers reminiscent of Greco-Roman historiographers (e. g., Thucydides 2.2; Polybius 1.3; Josephus, Ant. 18.106), as well as OT figures – national leaders (Isa 1:1; Amos 13) and especially prophets (Jer 1:1–4; Ezek 1:1–3; Hos 1:1; Joel 1:1; Jonah 1:1; Mic 1:1; Zeph 1:1; Hag 1:1; Zech 1:1). If Luke’s primary agenda in vv. 1–2 had been to provide us with a precise dating for the onset of John’s ministry, then he has not been very successful. The collocation of rulers he mentions supports only a rough estimation for dating the beginning of John’s ministry: from 27 to 29 CE. This raises suspicions against the view that 3:1–2 was written primarily to locate John’s ministry on the calendar.

6 Unless otherwise noted, translations of the Lukan material are my own and other biblical citations follow the NRSV.

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Rather, Luke uses this synchrony to situate John’s prophetic appearance in a particular sociopolitical setting.7 Whatever else it is, then, the list of rulers in v. 1 is a stark reminder of the situation in which Israel finds itself: under foreign rule. And given the judgment on the powerful and wealthy portended in Mary’s Song (1:52–53), it is surely damning that the temple dynasty represented by Annas and Caiaphas (v. 2a) is mentioned in the same breath with Rome’s rulers. This narrative assessment coheres with the political power exercised historically by the high priesthood until the Roman era and, during the Roman era, with the twin facts that the Romans appointed and dismissed high priests (who, then, served at the behest of the Romans) and that high priests continued to preside over the nation’s civil affairs.8 The scene John enters is thus characterized as oppressive, top-heavy. Nevertheless, he enters as God’s representative, God’s prophet. It is to him – not rulers, nor even ruling priests – that God’s word comes. And he is in the wilderness, not the urban centers of the civilized world where an emperor or a governor might make his home. Intimations of what is to come are found in Luke’s reference in v. 2b to John’s presence “in the wilderness.” Luke thus recalls John’s wilderness location in 1:80 – a geographical note that might suggest that, with the onset of his ministry, John would have departed the wilderness. Thus it reads in the NRSV: “he was in the wilderness until the day he appeared publicly to Israel.” Similarly, one might imagine that, in 3:3a, John departed “the wilderness” before going throughout the region of the Jordan River. This reading seems pivotal to Michael Fuller’s thesis that, for Luke, “wilderness” is a metaphor for Israel’s sinful and exilic situation, requiring that John exit the wilderness at the outset of his ministry.9 But this reading is problematic in that it actually seems important to Luke that John exercised his prophetic commission “in the wilderness” (3:4); moreover, when people came out to see the prophet John, they did so by going “into the wilderness” (7:24). The preposition ἕως in 1:80 could signify that John was in the wilderness “until” his public ministry (i. e., and not thereafter), but it need not do so. Indeed, 1:80 need not be read as saying anything about John’s whereabouts 7  The emphasis here is on “prophetic setting”; that is, although, like Greek and Roman historiographers, Luke situates his story in world history, he is closer to Israel’s Scriptures in his emphasis on what God is doing in this world. Cf. Daniel Marguerat, The First Christian Historian: Writing the “Acts of the Apostles,” SNTSMS 121 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 1–25; Kazuhiko Yamazaki-Ransom, The Roman Empire in Luke’s Narrative, LNTS 404 (London: T&T Clark, 2010), 74–78. 8 See Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, vol. 2, rev. and ed. Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Matthew Black (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1979), 227–28, 230. 9  Michael E. Fuller, The Restoration of Israel: Israel’s Re-gathering and the Fate of the Nations in Early Jewish Literature and Luke-Acts, BZNW 138 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), esp. 222–23. “Luke’s most important means of describing Israel’s continual exile is his characterization of Israel as a ‘wilderness’ (ἔρημος),” he writes (211), but where in Luke-Acts is Israel thus designated?

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after he appeared publicly to Israel. Similarly, the phrase “he went” in v. 3 does not signify John’s departure from the wilderness, but his traffic in the vicinity of the Jordan River. Throughout his ministry, then, he is located in a space, the wilderness, symbolically related to Israel’s formative experience of exodus. This persistent connection of John with the wilderness is important for the association of this prophet with earlier, exuberant visions of God’s intervention in the wilderness to lead a second exodus through the wilderness. Consider, for example, these words from Isaiah, which explicitly tie expectations of deliverance from Babylon into memories of Israel’s formation as a people and liberation from Egypt: Thus says the Lord,   your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: For your sake I will send to Babylon   and break down all the bars,   and the shouting of the Chaldeans will be turned to lamentation. I am the Lord, your Holy One,   the Creator of Israel, your King. Thus says the Lord,   who makes a way in the sea,   a path in the mighty waters, who brings out chariot and horse, army and warrior;   they lie down, they cannot rise,   they are extinguished, quenched like a wick: Do not remember the former things,   or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing;   now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness   and rivers in the desert. The wild animals will honor me,   the jackals and the ostriches; for I give water in the wilderness,   rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people,   the people whom I formed for myself so that they might declare my praise. (Isa 43:14–21)

God may be about “to do a new thing,” as Isaiah puts it, but at key points, this new thing resembles the old – including making Israel a people, Israel’s sea-crossing, and divine provision in the wilderness (cf. Exod 15, 17, 19). Similarly, imagining the return from exile as a new exodus, Isaiah has it that God provides for his people in the wilderness just as before (e. g., Isa 48:20–21; cf. Exod 17:1–7). Restoration from exile thus recapitulates exodus from Egyptian slavery. The wilderness was to become the site of rejoicing, the land would be fertile and the people safe from wild animals, and God’s people restored would see the Lord’s glory (e. g.,

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Isa 35; Ezek 20:33–44; Hos 2:14–23). These and related texts ground wilderness thematically in expectations of restoration from exile.10 “Wilderness” could signify rebellion, danger, testing, and punishment, to be sure (e. g., Num 14:32–33; 27:14; Sir 8:8–16; 13:19; 1QM 1:3; Heb 3:7–11), but this is hardly the only interpretive option available to us. Philo clearly states what may be implicit in Luke, namely, that “wilderness” is the antithesis of “city,” the latter characterized by distractions and corruption that make withdrawal to the wilderness a prerequisite to purification and new life (see Decal. 10–13). John is made a prophet in the wilderness, and he conducts his ministry in the wilderness; the crowds encounter him in the wilderness and in the wilderness hear his message of transformation. As in Philo, might it be in Luke that cleansing and purification are unimaginable unless people first remove themselves from the ways of their hometowns? “Wilderness” could also be understood as the venue of divine revelation – the locus of God’s past deliverance as well as the space within which God would reveal and enact liberation.11 So profoundly was this the case that the Qumran sectarians made their home in the wilderness.12 This space allowed them to pursue a lifestyle marked by religious purity (cf. 1QS 8:12–16) and thus to cultivate among themselves a community that embodied the Isaianic call to prepare the way of the Lord.13 A similar correlation of a theologically charged notion of “wilderness” with geophysical space occurs in both Josephus and Luke in references to failed efforts at the prophetic restoration of God’s people in the wilderness (see Josephus, Ant. 20.97–99, 167–72; J. W. 2.258–63; 7:438–39; Acts 21:38). Verses 1–2 locate John on a map, in a place conducive to John’s asceticism (cf. 1:15) and growth in the Spirit (1:80).14 It is a place conducive to his formation as one who, having been “filled with the Holy Spirit even before his birth” (1:15), would “go before the Lord to prepare his ways” (1:76). Moreover, his wilderness 10 Cf. Ulrich W. Mauser, Christ in the Wilderness: The Wilderness Theme in the Second Gospel and Its Basis in the Biblical Tradition, SBT 39 (London: SCM, 1963), 44–58; Shemaryahu Talmon, “The ‘Desert Motif’ in the Bible and in Qumran Literature,” in Biblical Motifs: Origins and Transformation, ed. Alexander Altmann (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 31–63. 11  On these three uses of “wilderness” in Second Temple Judaism, see Hindy Najman, “Towards a Study of the Uses of the Concept of Wilderness in Ancient Judaism,” DSD 13 (2006): 99–113; cf. Alison Schofield, “Wilderness,” EDEJ 1337–38. 12  This self-understanding depends on the Hebrew text of Isa 40:3, in which a voice announces that the way of the Lord is to be prepared “in the wilderness”; compare the LXX, which has it instead that the wilderness marks the location of the voice crying out. 13 See James C. VanderKam, “The Judean Desert and the Community of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Antikes Judentum und Frühes Christentum: Festschrift für Hartmut Stegemann zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Bernd Kollmann et al., BZNW 97 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999), 159–71; cf. Carl Judson Davis, The Name and Way of the Lord: Old Testament Themes, New Testament Christology, JSNTSup 129 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 78–82. 14  François Bovon, Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1–9:50, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 77: “πνεύματι (‘in spirit’) is perhaps intentionally ambiguous, i. e., in his human spirit and in God’s Spirit.”

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venue participates in a wider discourse regarding Israel’s hoped-for liberation. This underscores the theological potency of Luke’s geographical markers in vv. 1–2. These hints regarding the significance of John’s wilderness location are like sparks that, when tended, erupt into a blaze in vv. 4–6. This means that Luke introduces his citation from Isa 40 not as a counter to but as an interpretive correlate of the synchrony of Luke 3:1–2a. John’s prophetic ministry is thus contextualized with reference to the exilic situation of God’s people. Or, to be more specific, John’s prophetic ministry marks the conclusion of exile and so introduces the anticipated restoration. What is more, the introduction of Isa 40:3–5 in Luke 3:4–6 certifies that the shape of the events Luke will relate is determined by the outworking of God’s saving purpose.15 Although the use of Isa 40 with reference to John’s ministry is witnessed in the four canonical Gospels (Matt 3:3; Mark 1:1–3; Luke 3:4–6; John 1:23), Luke’s citation is the most extensive of the four. The Isaianic material on which he draws is found in the prologue of this new section of the prophet, in which God announces a new era for his people – the cessation of exile and, then, restoration, forgiveness, salvation, the coming of the Lord in strength. Issues concerning the authorship of this section of Isaiah aside, recent scholarship has underscored the thematic coherence of Isa 40–55, particularly vis-à-vis a constellation of images drawn from Israel’s memory of exodus now recast in anticipation of new exodus.16 Max Turner summarizes this pattern with reference to the following motifs in Isa 40–55: 1. God calls for a “way” for the Lord to be prepared in the wilderness for his saving activity (40.3–5; 43.19). 2. His advent “with might” as the divine warrior will defeat Israel’s oppressors and release the oppressed (40.10–11; 42.13; 51.9–16; 49.9, 24–25). 3. The Lord will lead the glorious procession out of captivity along “the way” through the wilderness, his presence before and after them (52.11–12), through water and fire (43.1–3), and he will shepherd them along the way (40.11). 4. He will sustain them in the wilderness more fully than in the Exodus, ensuring they do not hunger, and providing streams in the desert (41.17–20; 43.19–21; 49.9–10). The very wilderness will be transformed to celebrate the release of God’s people (43.19; 49.10–11; 55.12–13). 5. God will pour out his refreshing and restoring Spirit on his people so that they own him as their Lord (44.5); he himself will teach them and lead them in “the way” (54.13; 48.17), so opening the eyes of the blind and the ears of the deaf. 6. The final goal of this New Exodus is God’s enthronement in a restored Zion/Jerusalem (44.26; 45.13; 54.11–12). The announcement of this “good news” to her is her “comfort,” the occasion for her bursting into song to celebrate her salvation (40.1, 9–10; 52.1–10).

 Cf. Bovon, Luke 1, 124; Yamazaki-Ransom, Empire, 77–78.  See the brief summary of historical-critical study of Isaianic unity in Brevard S. Childs, Isaiah, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 289–91. 15 16

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7. These things will be accomplished at least in part through a somewhat enigmatic servant figure with “Israel,” kingly and prophet-liberator traits.17

This constellation of images, most of which are anticipated already in Isa 40:1–11, serves as the backdrop by which Luke orients John’s ministry in Luke 3. Compared with the quotation of Isa 40 in the other three NT Gospels, the inclusion of additional material in Luke’s extended citation highlights three emphases. First, it sketches what takes place in the wilderness in terms of reversal: Every ravine shall be filled up,   and every mountain and hill be made low, and all the crooked ways shall become straight,   and the rough place shall become plains. (Isa 40:4, NETS)

Elsewhere, Luke will interpret such images in terms of status transformation and ethical comportment (see already Luke 1:52–53; 2:34), and this is how he develops those images in the present context as he shines the spotlight on what a “people prepared” (1:17) looks like. Second, the Isaianic citation names the consequence of these preparations as salvation. Third, it extends the scope of this salvation universally.18 Luke’s dependence on Isaiah is programmatic for his portrayal of John. This is established primarily by the formulaic phrase “as it was written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah” (Luke 3:4a). For Luke, John’s mission as it is spelled out in 3:3 must be understood within the framework of Isaiah’s pronouncement of restoration. We easily identify the correlations between John’s repentance-baptism (v. 3) and the messenger’s summons to “prepare the way of the Lord” (v. 4), and between John’s proclamation of the forgiveness of sins (v. 3) and the messenger’s promise of salvation (v. 4). A case could be made, too, that the prologue of Isa 40:1–11 shapes the broad contours of the whole of Luke’s précis of John’s ministry – with Isa 40:3–5 used explicitly to introduce the nature of John’s call for conversion (Luke 3:1–14), and with the proclamation of good news (εὐαγγελίζω, Isa 40:9) and the coming of God in strength (Isa 40:6–11) standing behind both John’s words regarding the coming, powerful one (Luke 3:15–18) and Luke’s summary of John’s mission as one of “proclaiming good news” (εὐαγγελίζω, 3:18).19 17  Max Turner, Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 9 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 247. Presumably, the obscurity surrounding the servant-figure rests at least in part in the postponement of new exodus, with the servant replacing Cyrus as agent of liberation; cf. Rikki Watts, “Consolation or Confrontation? Isaiah 40–55 and the Delay of the New Exodus,” TynBul 41 (1990): 31–59. 18  Compared to the present version of the LXX, Luke’s citation appears sans Isa 40:5a and 40:5c (“Then the glory of the Lord shall appear,” “because the Lord has spoken,” NETS), presumably in order to highlight all the more the climactic phrase in Isa 40:5b (“and all flesh shall see the salvation of God,” NETS). 19  This way of construing the potential influence of Isa 40:1–11 on Luke 3:1–18 turns on

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Against this backdrop, it remains to discuss more fully the metaphor of “the way” Luke introduces with his dependence on Isa 40 and the nature of John’s ministry. Before turning to these issues, however, we should underscore what we have seen thus far, namely, that Luke has situated John’s ministry, including his conversionist rhetoric, in a world of earthly expectation and divine restoration.

Conversion as Journey Luke’s understanding of John’s baptism comes through the collocation of baptism with “repentance” or “conversion” (μετάνοια). John’s is a repentance-baptism. Etymologically, μετανοέω refers to “knowing after” and, early on, took its significance from a change of mind that resulted from this afterthought.20 This might lead one to think of μετάνοια primarily in terms of a change-of-mind, an abstract, cognitive act. Such a move would be shortsighted, however. On the one hand, more generally, a conversion between philosophies was not simply a change in worldview or “internal realignment of the intellect,” as C. Kavin Rowe has recently reminded us, but rather a transformation of life patterns.21 On the other hand, Luke’s own concept of conversion as it has thus far been developed in his narrative refuses this sort of reductive approach. The first time Luke presents John’s mission, he invokes a journey frame.22 The journey frame encompasses the entire process of movement from one place to another, and includes a range of constituent features – for example, a path, a traveler, an itinerary, fellow travelers, mode of transportation, obstacles encountered, starting point and destination, and traveling paraphernalia. The journey frame is integral to a range of common metaphors, such as LOVE IS A JOURNEY, which

Luke’s christological reading of the Isaianic text in which the LXX phrase εὐθείας ποῖετε τὰς τρίβους τοῦ θεοῦ ἡμῶν (“make straight the paths of our God,” Isa 40:3) is transformed in Luke as εὐθείας ποῖετε τὰς τρίβους αὐτοῦ (“make straight his paths,” Luke 3:4), so that the antecedent of αὐτοῦ (“his”) is the ambiguous κύριος (“lord”), which identifies the way of the Lord (Jesus) with the way of the Lord (YHWH). For incontrovertible references to Jesus as κύριος (“lord”) thus far in the Lukan narrative, see Luke 1:43; 2:11. Similarly, then, the identity of “the Lord [who] comes with strength” (κύριος μὲτα ἰσχύος ἔρχεται, Isa 40:10) would for Luke embrace the one more powerful than John who is coming (ἔρχεται … ὁ ἰσχυρότερος, Luke 3:16). 20 Cf. MHT 2:318; TLNT 2:472. 21 C. Kavin Rowe, “The Grammar of Life: The Areopagus Speech and Pagan Tradition,” NTS 57, no. 1 (2011): 37–50 (45; see 44–49). 22 “Frame” refers to “a schematisation of experience (a knowledge structure), which is represented at the conceptual level and held in long-term memory. The frame relates the elements and entities associated with a particular culturally embedded scene from human experience” (Vyvyan Evans and Melanie Green, Cognitive Linguistics: An Introduction [Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006], 222).

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capitalize on the primary metaphor, LIFE IS A JOURNEY.23 The metaphor LIFE IS A JOURNEY invites correspondences such as the following: Source Domain: Journey

Target Domain: Patterns of Life

Traveler

→ Person living a life

Destination

→ Purpose

Road, way

→ Means of achieving purpose

Obstacles

→ Impediments to achieving purpose

Landmark

→ Metric for measuring progress

Crossroad

→ Choice in life

This chart exemplifies mapping between two conceptual domains on the basis of conceptual metaphor theory, for which metaphor is characteristic of thought itself. Semantic structure mirrors conceptual structure as we conceive the world around us by projecting patterns from one domain of experience in order to structure another domain. The one is a source domain, the other a target domain, and studies have shown that where these two domains are active simultaneously, the two areas of the brain for each are active. Indeed, brain imaging has shown that when we use auditory-related words we experience increased blood flow to the areas of our brains implicated in auditory processing, and the same is true of sight-related terms or words related to speech, and so on.24 Borrowing a principle from the neuropsychologist Donald Hebb, known as Hebb’s Rule, we know that neurons that fire together wire together – with the result that conceptual metaphor theory is actually grounded in the embodiment of the patterns by which we conceptualize and respond to the world around us.25 Essentially all of our abstract and theoretical concepts draw their meaning by mapping to embodied, experiential concepts hardwired in our brains. In this case, I am claiming that Luke portrays conversion in a way that triggers the journey frame and then conceptualizes conversion in terms of the metaphor LIFE IS A JOURNEY. In Luke 1, John’s mission and its anticipated outcomes are articulated above all in terms of movement. Thus, in 1:16 the key verb is ἐπιστρέφω, “to turn back” or “to return,” with the extended sense “to change belief or course of conduct, with focus on the thing to which one turns” (in this case, “to the Lord their God”).26 Thus: “He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God.” Luke 1:17 23  Cf. George Lakoff and Mark Turner, More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 3–6. 24  Cf. Michael I. Posner and Marcus E. Raichle, Images of Mind (New York: W. H. Freeman, 1997), 115. On this point more generally, see, e. g., Jerome A. Feldman, From Molecule to Metaphor: A Neural Theory of Language (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006). 25  Cf. Ning Yu, “Metaphor from Body and Culture,” in The Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought, ed. Raymond W. Gibbs Jr. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 47–61. 26  BDAG 382.

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then functions epexegetically, sketching with three clauses how John will effect the commission summarized in v. 16: – he will go before [προέρχομαι] him, endowed with the spirit and power of Elijah, – to turn [ἐπιστρέφω] the hearts of fathers to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous, – to make ready [ἑτοιμάζω] a people prepared for the Lord. Of these three, the first articulates John’s purpose in terms of a journey: “to go before.” Since the third is related intertextually to Isa 40:3–5, cited in Luke 3:4–6, we will return to it shortly; it too is tied to the journey frame: people prepare for travel. The second is central in terms of identifying the anticipated outcome of John’s mission in journey-related terms: ἐπιστρέφω, “to turn back,” with reference first to the hearts of fathers returned to their children and then to the “disobedient” returned “to righteous patterns of thinking.” Here, change is cast in directional terms that assume motion toward an objective. It is worth noting that ἐπιστρέφω is explicitly collocated with patterns of thought, thus denying in Lukan usage an easy distinction between conversion-as-motion and conversionas-change-of-mind. A similar move is found in Luke 3:3–6, where a noticeable consequence of Luke’s use of Isa 40 is that the language of repentance or conversion (μετάνοια) is parsed with reference to “the way of the Lord” (v. 4) and developed in terms of “paths” (v. 4) and “roads” (v. 5). On the one hand, then, we have the frame change of direction, which assumes a turn, a new direction, and continued travel in this new direction. On the other hand, Luke’s language engages the frame of the traveler – someone on a journey, typically planned in advance with a purpose in mind, perhaps accompanied by fellow travelers, and so on. This leads to a consideration of “conversion” in relation to the metaphor CHANGE IS MOTION and the metaphor system LIFE IS A JOURNEY. An outstanding question is how Luke’s dependence on Israel’s story and especially Isaiah’s vision of restoration thickens his description of repentance in Luke 3:3–6. In Israel’s story we find both a basic image for portraying the ongoing character of one’s life (traveling or journeying, or simply walking) and a strong paradigm identifying the destination of God’s people in terms of liberation from oppression and taking up residence in the promised land. First, with regard to the conventional metaphor LIVING IS WALKING, we may observe frequent references in Israel’s Scriptures to life itself as a “journey” or a “walk.” “Way” (‫ )דרך‬is the most common term for lexicalizing the concept of “life,” and “walk” (‫הלך‬, rendered in the LXX by πορεύομαι [“to walk”] in about two-thirds of its 1500 occurrences in the Hebrew Scriptures) is the most common term for “the act or process of living” in Israel’s Scriptures.27 This usage is hardly  Eugene H. Merrill, “‫הלך‬,” NIDOTTE 1:1032–35 (1032).

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surprising among a nomadic people: “They live ‘on the move.’ ”28 Human life is a journey. What is more, since the outcome of the journey depends on the manner of the travelers’ conduct, “to walk” can refer more broadly to “the process of living according to behavioral norms congruent with a particular goal.” Several hundred of the more than 1,500 occurrences of the verb carry this metaphorical sense – famously with reference to lives of obedience and disobedience vis-à-vis YHWH (e. g., Lev 18:3; 1 Kgs 3:3). What does the Lord require, “but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk (MT: ‫ ;הלך‬LXX: πορεύομαι] humbly with your God” (Mic 6:8)? This metaphor is not limited to Israel’s Scriptures but is also pervasive in early Christianity. For example, Paul articulates the Christian life as a step-by-step affair – that is, as walking (περιπατέω) “by the Spirit” (Gal 5:16; cf. Rom 8:4). In Luke’s birth account, the evangelist echoes biblical usage when he writes of Zechariah and Elizabeth: “They were both righteous before God, walking (πορεύομαι) blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord” (1:6). Second, exodus is ubiquitous as a paradigm of salvation for God’s people in Israel’s Scriptures.29 In the Scriptures, exodus is alive in the memory of God’s people, not only as historic event but also as a lens through which to make sense of present experience and as the matrix within which to shape future hopes. In the Psalms, for example, hymns of praise celebrate exodus (e. g., Pss 66, 68, 105), and psalms of lament appeal to God’s mighty act of deliverance (e. g., Pss 74, 77, 80). The prophets paint Israel’s infidelity with patterns taken either from Egypt or from Israel’s rebellion in the wilderness, while portraying YHWH as the liberating God who would restore Israel. Efforts at casting Israel’s hope as a new exodus reach their zenith in Isaiah. In Isa 40 we find a message centered on the imagery of the highway: “prepare the way,” “make straight a highway” for the coming of “our God.” Appropriating the language of the exodus from Egypt (e. g., 11:16; 51:9–11; 52:3–15), the prophet envisions a road for the return of the exiles. The return of YHWH marks the return of his people. Earlier, the prophet had imagined a road through the wilderness: A pure way shall be there,   and it shall be called a holy way; and the unclean shall not pass by there,   nor shall be there an unclean way, but those who have been dispersed shall walk on it,   and they shall not go astray.  F. J. Helfmeyer, “‫הלך‬,” TDOT 3:388–403 (389).  Cf., e. g., Göran Larsson, Bound for Freedom: The Book of Exodus in Jewish and Christian Traditions (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999); Rikki E. Watts, “Exodus,” in NDBT 478–87. 28 29

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And no lion shall be there,   nor shall any of the evil beasts come up on it or be found there,   but the redeemed shall walk on it. (Isa 35:8–9 NETS)

Five times in these two verses the adverb “there” (ἐκεῖ) designates the wilderness as the place where God saves.30 This coheres with our earlier observation concerning the transformation of wilderness in a number of texts, from a place of judgment to one of blessing. Note that these verses are closely tied intratextually to, and anticipate, the material on which Luke explicitly draws in Isa 40:3–5. Note, too, how Isaiah draws on the hoary image LIVING IS WALKING to portray God’s people as walking in God’s holy way.31 One might imagine a certain tension between Isa 35 and Isa 40 since, in the former, the “way” (ὁδός) is simply “there,” whereas in the latter the “way” (ὁδός) requires preparation. Although there are differences of emphasis, to be sure, in the end the distinction is not dramatic. Isaiah 40 also assumes the presence of a “way” or a “road”; however, this road is an obstructed one. It is uneven and crooked, when what is needed is a road that is smooth and straight (cf. 26:7; 33:15; 40:3, 4; 42:16; 45:13; 59:14). Roadwork is needed, and this is the significance of the call for preparations to be made. What form might this road construction take? It is none other than repentance, following the pattern of sin leading to exile, and repentance leading to restoration.32 Accordingly, Isaiah’s reference to the Lord’s way can signal simultaneously God’s restoration of his people and the way of life embraced by those people whom God restores. The same is assumed in the case of Isa 35, however, where we are told that the road in question is for those who return from the dispersion, a holy way on which only the “clean” shall walk.33 In both instances, the road is not for everyone but only for those who have adopted God’s ways as their pattern of life and continue to live according to God’s ways.34 Accordingly, conversion refers to an ongoing journey on an obstructed path requiring ongoing roadwork: CONVERSION IS A JOURNEY. Building on Isaiah, Luke’s portrait is not simple; it can be understood in terms of walking the wrong path, or of walking on a path that needs reconstruction, or of walking in the wrong direction. However the problem is conceived, the point is that a change is required, and this change is not simply from one state to another, but from one kind of journey to another. That is, conversion signifies a continued  Cf. John D. W. Watts, Isaiah 34–66, WBC 25 (Waco, TX: Word, 1987), 15–16.  Childs, Isaiah, 298–99. 32  On this pattern, cf. Fuller, Restoration. 33 It is hard to understand why it would be necessary, with Øystein Lund, to choose between these two options (Way Metaphors and Ways: Topics in Isaiah 40–55, FAT 2/28 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007]). 34 Cf. J. Alec Motyer, Isaiah: An Introduction and Commentary, TOTC 18 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1999), 219–20. Cf. the further development of these images in Isa 57:14–21. 30 31

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journey in the right direction down a road under reconstruction. Borrowing from and building on Isaiah’s portrait, repentance entails roadwork (that is, engaging in transformed patterns of life) as well as journeying along the road (that is, ongoing life oriented toward God’s ways). Conversion thus exemplifies the metaphor LIFE IS A JOURNEY. We can provide a partial map of this metaphor:35 Source Domain: Journey

Target Domain: Patterns of Life

Journey, path, way

→ Pattern of life

Straight, level path

→ Path of conversion

Crooked, uneven path

→ Path refusing conversion

Traveler

→ People (or community of people)

Movement

→ Purposeful action toward a destination

Destination

→ For the repentant, salvation; for the unrepentant, divine wrath

According to Luke’s presentation, the current path on which God’s people are walking is uneven and crooked, and they are moving in the wrong direction – which is to say, they are engaging in ways of life in pursuit of life-goals antithetical to the life purposed for them by God. If Luke presents conversion as a journey, then we might expect the ensuing Lukan narrative to underscore this journey motif. In fact, the importance of journeying for Luke is incontrovertible. Statistically, this is illustrated by the prominent use of such terms as πορεύομαι (“to walk”– 88 of 153 uses in the NT) and ὁδός (“way” – 40 of 101 uses in the NT) in Luke-Acts.36 Even more compelling are: – Luke’s thematic use of ὁδός (“way”) in Luke 3:4 (cf. 7:27) to identify obedience as a “going” and God’s will as a “path”; – Luke’s identification of God’s purpose as “the way” (ὁδός; Luke 20:21; Acts 18:25, 26); – Luke’s use of the language of traveling with reference to Jesus’s journey to Jerusalem in the service of God’s saving agenda (Luke 9:52; 10:38; 13:22, 33; 17:11; 19:4; cf. Acts 20:22), including Jesus’s assessment of his journey through rejection and death to his exaltation as an ἔξοδος (“departure”; Luke 9:31); – Luke’s identification of the community of Jesus’s followers as ἡ ὁδός: “The Way” (Acts 9:2; 19:9, 23; 22:4; 24:14, 22); and – Luke’s identification of the gospel as “way of salvation” (ὁδός σωτηρίας) in Acts 16:17, and related references to “the way of the Lord” in 18:25 (ἡ ὁδὸς τοῦ κυρίου) and to “the way of God” in 18:26 (ἡ ὁδὸς τοῦ θεοῦ).  The map is partial because I am excluding features that are less relevant to Luke’s portrait.  Since Luke constitutes some 27 % of the NT, in terms of word counts, these statistics are telling. Luke is responsible for 58 % of the uses of πορεύομαι and 40 % of the uses of ὁδός. 35 36

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If Jesus’s life and mission constituted a journey, so also would that of his followers. Indeed, the coming of a powerful savior is to this end: “to guide our feet in the way of peace” (Luke 1:79). As Robert Maddox rightly observed, for Luke “the story of Jesus and of the church is a story full of purposeful movement.”37 Although our survey has taken us beyond the boundaries of Luke’s presentation of John’s mission, we have seen that “the way,” programmatically introduced with reference to John’s ministry and tied to his mission of proclaiming repentance, is paradigmatic for the narrative as a whole. Luke’s understanding of conversion is thus framed in terms of travel and builds on metaphors grounded in common, embodied human experience. Conversion entails movement, so it is conceptualized as a journey. What is more, Luke roots his presentation in Isaiah’s anticipation of new exodus, which is itself rooted in pervasive scriptural portraits of exodus and of walking in God’s ways. The way of conversion follows in the well-worn pattern from sin to exile, from exile to repentance, and thus to restoration. Luke thus imaginatively shapes his readers’ understanding of conversion so as to participate in the identity-forming history and hope of God’s deliverance from exile and promised restoration.

Baptism, Conversion, Forgiveness John is known throughout the Lukan narrative as one who baptizes. This conclusion takes seriously John’s moniker, “John the Baptizer” (Luke 7:20, 33; 9:19); the identification of John with his baptism (Luke 20:4; Acts 1:22; 10:37; 18:25; 19:4); and the contrast between John and Jesus articulated in terms of their respective baptisms (Luke 3:16; Acts 1:5; 11:16; cf. 19:4–5). This emphasis coheres with Luke’s observation in Luke 3:7 that it was in order to be baptized by John that the crowds journeyed out to him. Recognition of baptism as John’s characteristic activity has led to ongoing discussion concerning the particular historical antecedent(s) of John’s baptism, an inquiry stymied by the lack of any clear parallel in contemporary Jewish practice. The significance of this general lack of definitive, precursory practice should not be overdrawn, however, since one might justifiably postulate a common experience underlying all such practices. I refer to embodied cognition, and particularly to the grounding of relatively abstract concepts like morality in concrete experiences of physical cleanness. In fact, in recent years, a growing literature has highlighted the embodiment of the moral-purity metaphor in expressions of physical cleanness. For example: (1) A series of experiments conducted by Simone Schnall and her colleagues has demonstrated that surreptitiously activated cognitive concepts related to purity influenced moral de Robert Maddox, The Purpose of Luke-Acts, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1982), 11.

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cisions, that exposure to physical dirtiness shaped moral evaluations, and that physically cleansing oneself after experiencing disgust modulated the severity of moral judgments.38 (2) Reporting in 2010 on two related experiments concerned with how embodiment shapes cognition, Katie Liljenquist, Chen-bo Zhong, and Adam D. Galinsky demonstrated that clean smells motivated virtuous behavior.39 (3) Zhong and Liljenquist collaborated on other studies that demonstrated that the simple act of copying an immoral story increased the participants’ desire for cleaning products, that those who thought about moral transgressions were more likely than those who thought about morally upright behavior to request an antiseptic cloth, and that using an antiseptic cloth after recollecting one’s own past immoral behavior resulted in the apparent alleviation of guilt. They concluded that exposure to one’s own or another’s moral failure posed a moral threat and stimulated the need for physical cleansing.40 (4) Spike W. S. Lee and Norbert Schwarz have taken a further step, demonstrating that physical cleansing removes traces of past decisions, reduces the need to justify those decisions, and can have the effect of wiping the slate clean.41 In their analytical inventory of their own and others’ recent work, Lee and Schwarz concluded: “These findings show that the psychological impact of cleansing goes beyond the conceptual metaphor of moral cleanliness. The metaphoric notion of washing away one’s sins seems to have generalized to a broader conceptualization of ‘wiping the state clean.’ This allows people to remove unwanted residues of the past, from threats to a moral self-view to doubts about recent decisions and worries about bad luck …. In sum, physical cleansing removes not only physical contaminants but also moral taints and mental residues.”42 Given these basic observations concerning embodied cognition, we should not be surprised to find in Israel’s literature the correlation of washing with ethical comportment. In the opening chapter of Isaiah, for example, we read, “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before 38  E. g., Simone Schnall, Jennifer Renton, and Sophie Harvey, “With a Clean Conscience: Cleanliness Reduces the Severity of Moral Judgments,” Psychological Science 19, no. 12 (2008): 1219–22; Simone Schnall, Jonathan Haidt, Gerald L. Clore, and Alexander H. Jordan, “Disgust as Embodied Moral Judgment,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 34, no. 8 (2008): 1096–1109. 39  Katie Liljenquist, Chen-Bo Zhong, and Adam D. Galinsky, “The Smell of Virtue: Clean Scents Promote Reciprocity and Charity,” Psychological Science 21, no. 3 (2010): 381–83. 40  Chen-Ba Zhong and Katie Liljenquist, “Washing away Your Sins: Threatened Morality and Physical Cleansing,” Science 313 (2006): 1451–52. Cf. Spike W. S. Lee and Norbert Schwarz, “Dirty Hands and Dirty Mouths: Embodiment of the Moral-Purity Metaphor Is Specific to the Motor Modality Involved in Moral Transgression,” Psychological Science 21, no. 10 (2010): 1423–25. 41 Spike W. S. Lee and Norbert Schwarz, “Washing away Postdecisional Dissonance,” Science 328 (2010): 709. 42  Spike W. S. Lee and Norbert Schwarz, “Wiping the Slate Clean: Psychological Consequences of Physical Cleansing,” Current Directions in Psychological Science 20, no. 5 (2011): 307–11 (309–10; emphasis added).

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my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow” (1:16–17). External cleansing is internally efficacious and leads to new behaviors – a reformation not only for individuals but for Israel as a people. Ezekiel envisions the regathering of God’s people with these words: I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your uncleannesses, and from all your idols I will cleanse you. A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you, and make you follow my statutes and be careful to observe my ordinances. Then you shall live in the land that I gave to your ancestors; and you shall be my people, and I will be your God. (36:25–28)

External cleansing is collocated with a religious-ethical new beginning, completing the pattern: sin-exile-conversion-restoration. The clearest evidence for this phenomenon in Luke-Acts comes in Ananias’s words following Paul’s visionary experience on the road to Damascus: “Why delay? Get up! Have yourself baptized and your sins washed away, as you call on his name!” (Acts 22:16).43 This emphasis on moral cleansing is precisely what we might have anticipated from our reading of Luke 3, where John’s proclamation serves to specify the nature of the “washing” he practices. His is a repentance-baptism whose aim is forgiveness of sins (3:3). In Luke’s presentation, this purpose is juxtaposed to the closing phrase of the Isaianic citation that follows in vv. 4–6 – “All humanity will see God’s salvation” – so that “forgiveness of sins” and “salvation” stand in parallel. Interestingly, the only reference to “forgiveness of sins” found earlier in the Lukan narrative is likewise collocated with “salvation” (1:77). Importantly, Zechariah’s song (1:68–79) and the introduction to Luke 3 call for an eschatological reading centered on the restoration of God’s people. The new era of salvation is dependent on, and inaugurated by, God’s forgiving the people’s sins, and this is the object of John’s baptism. That “forgiveness of sins” ought to be understood in such a wholistic way and, indeed, as a virtual stand-in for “God’s act by which Israel is restored” has been documented by N. T. Wright. For him, “ forgiveness of sins is another way of saying ‘return from exile.’ ” 44 This conclusion takes seriously the widespread view among the exilic prophets that Israel’s exile was divine punishment for its sins – a state of affairs, then, that could be overturned only by God’s forgiveness of Israel’s sins. In support of these associations, Wright refers to Lam 4:22 (“The punishment 43 βάπτισαι (“to baptize) and ἀπόλουσαι (“to wash”) stand in parallel: middle imperative verbs with a causative or permissive force; cf. 1 Cor 6:11; F. F. Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles: Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 457– 58; BDF § 317; A. T. Robinson, A Grammar of Greek New Testament in the Light of Historical Research, 4th ed. (New York: Hodder & Stoughton, 1923), 808. 44  N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, COQG 2 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 268; emphasis original; see 268–71.

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of your iniquity, O daughter Zion, is accomplished, he will keep you in exile no longer”) and Jer 31:31–34: The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt – a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, says the Lord. But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the Lord,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more. (emphasis added)

Wright concludes, “Since covenant renewal means the reversal of exile, and since exile was the punishment for sin, covenant renewal/return from exile means that Israel’s sins have been forgiven – and vice versa.”45 For our present purposes, this identification of forgiveness and restoration is secured above all by the intertextual frame within which Luke has sketched John’s appearance and mission. As we have seen, in myriad ways Luke has underscored the significance of John’s prophetic aims in terms of Israel’s restoration. The words Luke borrows from Isa 40 to describe John follow and are predicated on God’s announcement that the time of Israel’s punishment is over, and that Israel’s sins are forgiven (Isa 40:2; cf. 51:17). And, although “salvation” can refer to a range of benefactions, for Isaiah, as for Luke 1–2, the focus is above all on Israel’s restoration from exile.46 One more line of evidence points in the direction of understanding “forgiveness of sins” and its correlate “salvation” in terms of Israel’s restoration. Luke’s citation of Isa 40 extends to 40:5: “all flesh shall see the salvation of God, because the Lord has spoken” (40:5 NETS). Read against the backdrop of Isa 35:4–5, this reference to “seeing” actually signifies a return of vision, since God’s judgment was experienced as blindness. As quickly becomes evident, in Luke’s understanding the “all” who will “see salvation” is parsed in two interrelated ways. First, as in Isaiah so in Luke, “all” refers to a faithful remnant (cf., e. g., Isa 12–13; 56) – or, perhaps better in Luke, the remnant that displays faithfulness through undergoing a repentance-baptism and living conversionary lives. Although Isaianic influence is self-evident in this presentation, it should not be overlooked that Luke’s portrait actually inverts the Isaianic pattern. For Isaiah, judgment gives way to 45 Wright, Jesus, 269; emphasis original. Cf. Jer 33:4–11; Ezek 36:24–26, 33; 37:21–23; Isa 40:1–2; 43:25–44:3. 46 Cf. Horst Dietrich Preuss, Old Testament Theology, trans. Leo G. Perdue, vol. 2, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 274–77; J. Richard Middleton and Michael J. Gorman, “Salvation,” NIDB 5:45–61: “Beneath the OT’s use of explicit salvation language lies a coherent worldview in which the exodus from Egyptian bondage, followed by entry into the promised land, forms the most important paradigm or model” (45).

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salvation, whereas for Luke the advent of salvation occasions judgment.47 John addresses all Israel (cf. Luke 3:3, 15, 18, 21), even if his doing so segregates the repentant from those who fail to flee “the coming wrath” (3:7; cf. 3:9). Second, as in Isaiah so in Luke, “all” includes gentiles (e. g., Isa 49:6; 51:5; 60; 62; Luke 2:14, 31–32; Acts 11:18; 13:47). John’s mission is more narrowly directed toward God’s people, Israel, but it is integral to God’s larger salvific agenda for all humanity. Accordingly, the central emphasis in John’s ministry on conversion cannot be segregated from its twofold embodiment – in the physical act of baptism and in the sociopolitical ramifications of God’s restoration of his people. Regarding the former, Luke’s epitome of John’s ministry participates in a universal exemplar of embodied cognition: the embodiment of the moral-purity metaphor in expressions of physical cleanliness. Regarding the latter, “forgiveness of sin” and its correlate “salvation” cannot be reduced to an interior, subjective experience, but must be understood eschatologically and in terms of God’s faithfulness to Israel.

Conversion Embodied In Luke 3, Luke expends far more energy disclosing the character of John’s proclamation than sketching the nature of the baptismal act or experience itself. This highlights John’s identity as the Isaianic harbinger of good news (cf. Isa 40:1–9; Luke 3:18). From the standpoint of ritual studies, it is easy to find in Luke’s presentation a portrait of baptism as an initiatory rite of passage.48 Thus, people (1) temporarily withdrew into the wilderness, away from their life routines and habitations, in order to participate in John’s ministry through baptism (i. e., separation); (2) underwent a repentance-baptism signifying their (re)new(ed) devotion to God’s aims (i. e., transition); and (3 ) returned to their everyday lives as pilgrims together on a conversionary journey (i. e., incorporation). This locates conversion in human practices that are more than activities arising from covenant relationship but that themselves comprise the very character of that relationship. Accordingly, the practices Luke describes in 3:7–14 are means by which God’s restorative aims are brought to expression within human community. One’s status (baptized or not) is inseparable from one’s practices, with covenantal membership constituted by conversionary behaviors. And, according to John’s proclamation, conversionary lives provide the basis on which judgment will be executed.

47  This is also observed in David W. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus, WUNT 2/130 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 108. 48  The classic study, written in 1909, is Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960).

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Klaus Berger’s work represents one path into this decidedly non-Cartesian way of seeing the world.49 His investigation into the historical psychology of NT texts repeatedly underscores the problem of anachronistic assumptions about the nature of humanity, particularly the ease with which modern people assume of these ancient texts a conventional, but modernist, separation between being and doing, identity and behavior, internal and external. It will not do, then, to think of the behaviors John countenances as though they were supplementary to conversion or conversion’s accessories. Behavior is not an add-on to conversion. Rather, conversionary practices are constitutive of conversion; this is because conversion refers to transformed patterns of human life. Practices serve not only as the window through which one’s deepest commitments are on display, therefore, but also as the per se embodiment of those commitments. In the present case of the Lukan narrative, perhaps this is no more transparent than in the reality that judgment is tied to conversion’s fecundity: “Every tree that fails to produce good fruit will be chopped down and thrown into the fire” (3:9). John’s message turns on an organic metaphor, not a mechanical one. The resulting frame has no room for prioritizing inner (e. g., “soul” or “mind” or “heart”) over outer (e. g., “body” or “behavior”), nor of fitting disparate pieces together to manufacture a “product,” nor of correlating status and activity as cause and effect. An organic metaphor conjures no images of hierarchical systems but invites images of integration, interrelation, and interdependence. Practices do not occupy a space outside the system of change but are themselves part and parcel of the system. Accordingly, John’s agricultural metaphor inseparably binds “is” and “does” together. What is more, we find here no hint of keeping an account of who has or has not been baptized. The act of baptism is thus integral to the ritual of status transformation, but not its sum. The shape of conversionary life as this is related to John’s mission takes multiple forms, two of which we will develop here. The first is only implicit in Luke 3 but becomes increasingly visible later in the Lukan narrative: the community that forms in relation to John’s baptism. The second is more explicit, grounded as it is in the words of the crowds, toll collectors, and soldiers – all variations on the question, “What should we do?” (vv. 10, 12, 14). Conversion and Community Lars Hartman observes that the NT evidence presupposes a community of John’s followers, however loosely organized those followers might have been.50 This 49  Klaus Berger, Identity and Experience in the New Testament, trans. Charles Muenchow (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003). 50  Lars Hartman, “Into the Name of the Lord Jesus”: Baptism in the Early Church, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 15.

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is certainly true with regard to the narrative Luke has provided, which refers to John’s disciples (e. g., Luke 7:18); recognizes that John’s disciples engage in characteristic behaviors by which they are identified (fasting, for example, and prayer [5:33; 11:1]); assumes of John’s disciples that they share, or ought to share, a hopeful expectation of the coming of a Messiah who will baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire, and, so, that John’s followers ought to become members of the community of Jesus’s disciples (3:15–16; 7:18–20; Acts 1:5; 11:16; 13:25; 19:3–4); and presupposes a geographically expansive Baptist movement (Acts 18:25; 19:1–4). The present importance of this Baptist community is grounded in two related observations. First, it points to a communal context for identity and moral formation. As conversionary practices are communally based, a community’s common practices help to give it its identity and identify those associated with that community as its members. Even if the general practices of prayer and fasting characteristic of John’s disciples are hardly unique to this apparently loosely organized cadre, they nonetheless serve as identity markers. How such practices might actually distinguish these persons as John’s (as opposed, say, to the Pharisees’) disciples is unclear; according to Luke 5:33, for example, both sets of disciples are unlike Jesus’s followers in that followers of the Baptist and of the Pharisees “fast frequently” and “pray often.” At the same time, Luke 11 at least opens the possibility of prayer patterns peculiar to John’s community. That John’s mission expresses itself communally gains significance, second, insofar as this is congruent with the accent in recent work on the sociology of conversion, which identifies conversion in part as incorporation into a new community, including adopting the rituals and practices peculiar to or definitive of that new community.51 In this case, incorporation is marked by the initiatory act of undergoing John’s baptism. These observations are fully at home with the emphasis thus far in our discussion of conversion relative to the eschatological restoration of a people whose common life puts into practice the aims of YHWH. A Conversionary Life In Luke 3:7–9, 15–17, the need for readiness is set against the backdrop of impending judgment. Abraham’s children will escape the coming wrath, so the critical question is: Who are Abraham’s children? Familial status in this instance is determined, not by genealogical record, but by how one responds to God’s gracious initiative in bringing salvation. We recognize Abraham’s children by means of their family resemblance measured in terms of embodied character. 51  Cf., e. g., Nicholas H. Taylor, “The Social Nature of Conversion in the Early Christian World,” in Modelling Early Christianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New Testament in Its Context, ed. Philip F. Esler (London: Routledge, 1995), 128–36.

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“Good fruit” (3:9) in this context is fruit that has a conversionary quality about it (3:8).52 Eschewing any possibility that “conversion” might remain an abstraction (or be reduced to an interior decision), Luke’s account elucidates conversion in terms of performance. The result is a focus on life at the local level in which one’s routine network of relationships is touched by an ethical vision that makes conversion visible in the everydayness of human existence. “What should we do, then?” The question posed by the crowds to John (3:10) is repeated by toll collectors in 3:12, soldiers in 3:14, a legal expert in 10:25, a rich ruler in 18:18, a Jerusalem audience in Acts 2:37, a jailor in Acts 16:30, and a zealous Jew in Acts 22:10. With one possible exception (Luke 18:18), the question arises as a response to proclamation or to a miracle, underscoring the importance of human performative response to divine initiative. In the present context, John has made clear the pivotal significance of conversionary performance over against any other attempt to define oneself as Abraham’s child. John thus articulates the character of that performance with his charge that the converted, all of them, share what they have with those who lack the basic necessities of life. The apparently conventional character of John’s directive (conventional, that is, among the converted) becomes clear elsewhere in Luke’s Gospel, where we discover that care for the hungry and naked is nothing more or less than heeding Moses and the prophets (e. g., 16:19–31). Should anyone imagine that John has thus singled out these behaviors as the basis of membership among God’s restored people, this would be due to a fundamental misunderstanding of a psychology, such as we find in Luke 3, that refuses to drive a wedge between one’s character and commitments, on the one hand, and one’s practices, on the other. A life oriented toward the way of the Lord is one in which the way of the Lord – in this case, care for the have-nots – is in play. From the general counsel directed to the crowds (3:10–11), the focus moves more narrowly to toll collectors who have come out to be baptized (3:12–13). This scene is an amplification of the first – one that presents a further, concrete instantiation of the words directed to the crowds and that turns attention to a particularly offensive subgroup of those who have journeyed out to participate in John’s ministry, toll collectors. “Collect no more than you are authorized to collect” (3:13). How much is this? What percentage? We are told only that, for them, conversion is on display when they do not exceed the amount set by those in authority over them.53 Apparently, a conversionary life is possible for toll collectors qua toll collectors. Emphasis falls on day-to-day life as the venue within which conversion is performed. 52  That is, καρπὸς ἄξιος τῆς μετανοίας, fruit “corresponding to” or “worthy of” conversion (BDAG 94). 53  Elsewhere, Luke uses διατάσσω for activity performed under the authority of another (cf. Luke 8:55; 17:9–10; Acts 18:2; 23:31).

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In 3:14, soldiers are similarly cast as an assemblage of surprising participants in John’s mission, and their inquiry sets the stage for another concrete instantiation of John’s call to bear fruit characteristic of a conversionary life. As with the toll-collecting system, so here John’s response is not directed against the military complex per se. Instead, he calls for the cessation of behaviors by which soldiers manipulate the local populace to their advantage. Routine interactions provide the setting for an exegesis of conversion. It is worth repeating that the behaviors John urges among his audience are not themselves the basis for covenantal restoration; it is better to say that they enact the covenant whose restoration God has initiated. Nor should we imagine that John’s directives constitute the grand sum of conversionary behavior as this will be developed in the Lukan narrative. What Luke records here are nothing more than exemplars. If crowds and toll collectors and soldiers, what of synagogue leaders and jailors and dealers in purple dye? If John does not specifically address such persons in their day-to-day circumstances, this does not mean that they are left without guidance. John has begun to map the patterns of life that deserve the label “conversionary.” Such patterns reflect the way of the Lord who brings salvation, who restores his people. Such patterns reach into the day-to-day interactions and affairs of life. Conversion is “the way of the Lord” embodied.

Conclusion In this essay, I have urged that Luke presents conversion as integral to the grand mural of God’s redemption of Israel and concomitant extension of salvation to all people. In doing so, I have targeted attempts to read conversion in Luke 3:1–14 in ways that reduce conversion to an interior decision, to individualistic decision making, or, indeed, to a (single) event. In their place, I have attempted to grapple with Luke’s theology of conversion in ways that take seriously the plotline according to which God initiates his restoration of his people through the forgiveness of sins. Conversion is first the story of God’s prevenience, God’s gracious visitation that provides the basis for and opens the way for human responses of repentance. Moreover, I have urged that the language by which Luke sketches the character of conversion highlights human embodiment, an emphasis further underscored by the human, bodily experience of washing, the windows Luke provides into the community of those being converted, the nature of conversion as a journey, and the importance of conversionary practices constitutive of covenant renewal. In the end, Luke emphasizes the dynamic action of God that opens the way and calls for people to embody in their lives “the way of the Lord.”

14

Good News to the Poor: A Lukan Leitmotif * As pastor of a church in the northeast of Scotland, I was repeatedly instructed by some of our church members, “Just preach ‘the gospel’!” I recall this happening with increased frequency during the week after I preached one Sunday morning from the commandment, “Do not steal” (Exod 20:15),1 interpreting the notion of “stealing” broadly as a directive against taking for oneself what God had given to God’s people. For several of my congregants, “the gospel” had to do with “salvation,” not with possessions, breaches of trust, or neighborly love. My typical response to the reminder that I stick to the gospel was a reminder of another sort, concerning how regularly issues of faith and wealth surfaced in Scripture. This is nowhere more true than in the Gospel of Luke. In this essay, I want to document Luke’s concern with poverty and the poor, then turn to the critical question of the identity of “the poor” in Jesus’s mission and instruction. This will lead to some programmatic comments on the nature of “good news to the poor” as this is developed in the Third Gospel.

The Centrality of “the Poor” to Luke’s Gospel It almost goes without saying that possessions and the poor are central to Luke’s Gospel.2 After all, quoting words from Isaiah, Jesus interprets his baptismal anointing by the Holy Spirit in vocational terms: “to preach good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18; cf. Isa 61:1–2). This job description is repeated in Luke 7:22. Having been asked by John the Baptist’s followers whether Jesus was “the one * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “Good News to the Poor: A Lukan Leitmotif,” Review & Expositor (111, no. 2): 173–79. Copyright © 2014 (Joel B. Green). Reprinted by permission of SAGE Publications. DOI: 10.1177/0034637314524374. 1  Unless otherwise noted, all translations of biblical texts follow the CEB. 2  Among the many treatments of the theme in Luke, see, e. g., Christopher M. Hays, Luke’s Wealth Ethics: A Study in Their Coherence and Character, WUNT 2/275 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010); Luke Timothy Johnson, Sharing Possessions: Mandate and Symbol of Faith, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981); Kyoung-Jin Kim, Stewardship and Almsgiving in Luke’s Theology, JSNTSup 155 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998); Halvor Moxnes, The Economy of the Kingdom: Social Conflict and Economic Relations in Luke’s Gospel, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988). Thomas E. Phillips surveys recent literature in his essay, “Reading Recent Readings of Issues of Wealth and Poverty in Luke and Acts,” CBR 1, no. 2 (2003): 231–69.

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who is coming,” Jesus responds by detailing the character of his mission, concluding with this summary: “And good news is preached to the poor.” Luke shares with the other synoptic evangelists a range of material concerned with wealth and possessions – for example, Jesus’s instruction to the wealthy man (in Luke, the rich ruler) that he sell everything and give to the poor (Matt 19:21 // Mark 10:21 // Luke 18:22), Jesus’s statement regarding the hopelessness for the rich to enter God’s kingdom (Matt 19:24 // Mark 10:25 // Luke 18:25), and Jesus’s observation to his disciples concerning the temple offerings made by the wealthy and by a poor widow (Mark 12:41–44 // Luke 21:1–4). Luke’s Gospel also includes a series of texts without parallel in the other NT Gospels. These include Mary’s Song, with its alarming assertion regarding God: “He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty-handed” (1:52–53); Luke’s version of the beatitudes, with its corresponding words for the poor and rich: “Happy are you who are poor, because God’s kingdom is yours …. But how terrible for you who are rich, because you have already received your comfort” (6:20, 24); instruction on giving freely, as this is how God’s children reflect God’s own character (6:27–36); the story of the rich fool (12:16–21); coaching regarding banquet invitations (14:13, 21); the parable of the clever manager (16:1–13); the story of the rich man and Lazarus (16:19–31); and the encounter between Jesus and Zacchaeus (19:1–10). Also telling is the way the language of poverty has congregated in Luke’s Gospel: πενιχρός (“poor, needy”) appears in the NT only in 21:2, whereas Luke’s narrative accounts for ten of the thirty-four uses of the term πτωχός (“poor”) in the NT.3 Moreover, Luke’s second volume, the Acts of the Apostles, provides the only instance of the related term ἐνδεής (“poor, impoverished”; 4:34).

Good News to Whom? What are we to make of such an abundance of evidence regarding the centrality to the good news of those in need, as Luke tells the story? The first question is definitional: Who are the poor to whom Jesus’s mission and message are directed? To those of us living in the early decades of the twenty-first century the need for definitions may be surprising. After all, is it not obvious that Jesus refers to those who are economically deprived? We can illustrate the problem by returning to Mary’s Song, and particularly to its history of interpretation in the twentieth century. Writing toward the close of 3  That is, Luke’s Gospel, which accounts for some 14 % of the total words of the NT, accounts for almost 30 % of the uses of this term in the NT: Matthew, 5x; Mark, 5x; John, 4x; James, 4x; Galatians, 2x; Revelation, 2x; Romans, 1x; 2 Corinthians, 1x.

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the twentieth century, David Scholer observes how, early on, historical-critical interests overwhelmed concerns to develop thematically the topsy-turvy nature of Mary’s Song, with its good news for the poor and hungry, and bad news for the powerful and rich. From about 1900 to 1950, NT scholarship expended little energy in drawing out the social and/or theological ramifications of Mary’s vision. Through the mid-1970s, when such concerns surfaced, her words were often either spiritualized or projected into the eschatological future. From the 1970s forward, however, Scholer discerns a decided shift toward material definitions of wealth and poverty.4 Accordingly, the earlier spiritual-literal dichotomy persisted, though the earlier preference for spiritual descriptions of poverty and the poor gave way to material ones. The influx of social-historical approaches in NT studies turned the spotlight less on the condition of the heart, so to speak, and more on dollars and cents, as it were. The turn toward a materialist interpretation of Luke’s instruction concerning wealth and poverty does not resolve our definitional problem, however. By way of orientation, consider the contemporary problem of defining “the poor.” According to the 2012 Poverty Guidelines set by the United States Department of Health and Human Services, a household consisting of one person in the United States is poor when that household’s annual income falls below $11,170; for a household of two people, $15,130; for three, $19,090; and so on.5 The United States Census Bureau uses a different calculus, one that accounts for the presence of the elderly and children in a household, but the numbers are roughly the same: one person, $11,011–11,720; two people, $13,892–15,825; three people, $17,959–18,498.6 In 2010, the World Bank, whose motto is “Working for a World Free of Poverty,” set the “extreme poverty rate” at $1.25 a day and estimated that 21 % of people living in the developing world lived in extreme poverty.7 The disparity between these numbers is startling, and this alone might suggest the need for a more nuanced understanding of “the poor” in Luke’s Gospel. More to the point, though, is the perspective offered by the World Health Organization, according to which “poverty” is always relative to one’s context and involves a complex range of key human attributes, one of which is access to healthcare.8 Such attempts at definition already begin to introduce factors other than hard numbers into the discussion: 4  David M. Scholer, “The Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55): Reflections on Its Hermeneutical History,” in Conflict and Context: Hermeneutics in the Americas, ed. Mark Lau Branson and C. René Padilla (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 210–19. 5  “2012 HHS Poverty Guidelines,” accessed 20 December 2013, http://aspe.hhs.gov/poverty/12poverty.shtml#guidelines. 6  “Poverty,” accessed 20 December 2013, http://www.census.gov/hhes/www/poverty/data/ threshld/index.html. 7  “Poverty Overview,” accessed 20 December 2013, http://www.worldbank.org/en/topic/ poverty/overview. 8 “Health Topics: Poverty,” accessed 20 December 2013, http://www.who.int/topics/poverty/ en/.

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children and the elderly factor differently than working adults, location must be considered, and one’s poverty status is intractable from issues of health. Of course, it is possible to think of Luke’s world in more narrowly defined economic terms. For example, Steve Friesen has developed a “poverty scale” to help with reflection on wealth distribution in the Roman economy.9 According to his calculations, approximately 90 % of the population of the Roman Empire lived at or below the subsistence level. Among the more fortunate of these would have been many merchants, traders, artisans, large shop owners, and some farming families, whereas the lower end would have consisted of widows, orphans, beggars, the disabled, and day laborers. Although this kind of social-historical work is important for our understanding of first-century conditions, it can easily mask a range of significant factors that remain pivotal to a reading of Luke’s Gospel. Complaining about earlier, materialist perspectives on the Roman economy, the classicist M. I. Finley observed decades ago that scales based on ownership of the means of production or that resulted in segregating the super-wealthy 2–3 % from the rest of Roman society had little utility in helping us grasp the nature of social stratification in the ancient Mediterranean world.10 Although appreciative of Friesen’s model, John Barclay goes on to wonder how power circulated in early Christian communities, and Peter Oakes associates the experience of poverty with a lack of perceived necessities (e. g., living space, provision of a dowry, access to the range of medical interventions available in Roman antiquity, land ownership), implicitly raising the question of whether we must push beyond narrow economic definitions.11 The easiest way to gain our bearings for a Lukan perspective on such matters is to see how he has actually used the language of poverty. This includes accounting for the semantic rule that words are often known by the company they keep or abandon, that is, the terms with which they are collocated or contrasted. Nine of the eleven instances of the language of poverty in Luke’s Gospel appear in lists:12

 9  Steven J. Friesen, “Poverty in Pauline Studies beyond the So-called New Consensus,” JSNT 26, no. 3 (2004): 323–61 (esp. 340–47). 10 See M. I. Finley, The Ancient Economy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973). 11  John Barclay, “Poverty in Pauline Studies: A Response to Steven Friesen,” JSNT 26, no. 3 (2004): 363–66; Peter Oakes, “Constructing Poverty Scales for Graeco-Roman Society: A Response to Steven Friesen’s ‘Poverty in Pauline Studies,’ ” JSNT 26, no. 3 (2004): 367–71. 12 On what follows, see Joel B. Green, The Theology of the Gospel of Luke, NTT (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 79–84; more fully, idem, “Good News to Whom? Jesus and the ‘Poor’ in the Gospel of Luke,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 59–74.

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4:18

6:20

7:22

14:13

14:21

16:20, 22

21:2–4

Poor

Poor

Blind

Poor

Poor

Poor (2x)

Poor widow

Captive

Hungry

Lame

Maimed

Maimed

Ulcerated

Poor widow

Blind

Mournful

Leper

Lame

Blind

Hungry

Need

Deaf

Blind

Lame

Oppressed Harassed

Dead Poor

Accumulations of terms like these are interesting for the way each term amplifies the others, here by associating what might appear at first glance to be a narrowly economic term, poor, with other measures: health-related status, free versus enslaved, networks of relationships, power and prestige, religiously defined purity, and so on. The poor include those who are misused, enslaved, or tyrannized by others (e. g., 4:18–19; 6:20; 20:45–21:4). They are the unexpected recipients of good news (e. g., 4:16–30; 7:18–23), the unwelcome-cum-invited guests (e. g., 14:12–14, 15–24; 16:19–31), and those conventionally understood as unlucky or unwanted who turn out to be the happiest of all (e. g., 6:20–23). With good reason, contemplation of these lists might leave one with the impression that, in his references to “the poor,” Luke is concerned above all with a subset of people distinguished by their dishonorable status and miserable treatment, their locations on the margins of acceptable society, and their positions on the lower rungs of the ladder of power and privilege. Consider how Jesus exegetes his mission to the poor, as Luke relates his inaugural sermon (4:16–30). Interpreting one Scripture with another, Jesus identifies his mission to the poor with Elijah’s mission to a woman, a non-Israelite, a hungry widow; and with Elisha’s mission to a non-Israelite, leprous, enemy commander. We can grant that Jesus articulates his mission with Isaianic words that speak to God’s long-anticipated restoration of Israel while at the same time recognizing that the circle of “the poor” whom God has acted in Jesus’s advent to restore has expanded beyond God’s repentant people to include people categorized by most any attribute as “them.” Our impressions thus far receive further support from how Luke identifies those people with whom the poor stand in contrast. In 1:51–53, the arrogant, the proud, the powerful, and the rich are juxtaposed with the lowly and hungry. In 12:16–21 a wealthy man has significant resources at his disposal, including more land than is needed to support his crop-growing enterprise, yet uses his wealth without concern for others. In 14:12, “rich neighbors” appear alongside one’s friends and family, the inner circle with whom one enjoys relationships of equality and mutuality and, most importantly, with whom one shares relationships characterized by reciprocation. Similarly, in 16:27–28, a man noted for

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his conspicuous consumption, surely among the top 1 % of the ancient world’s wealthiest, expresses the compassion for his family that he habitually withheld from the ulcerated beggar who daily lay at the gate of his compound. Plainly, the term “rich,” like the term “poor,” has to do not only with the economic resources usually associated with the word, but also with questions of power and privilege, and life vis-à-vis society’s inner and outer circles. Economic status is deeply embedded in qualities of human society we might not readily associate with “the economy” – gender, marital status, and age, for example, as well as health, religious purity, and, of course, land ownership. To whom is God’s good news proclaimed, according to Luke’s Gospel? Who are “the poor”? The obvious answer is correct, as far as it goes: “the poor” include those who make their lives at or below what is required to sustain life. For Luke’s Gospel, though, the measure of life’s sustenance of life cannot be reduced to one’s financial wherewithal. Wealth and poverty, rich and poor – these terms are worked out in terms of a social stratification grounded in experiences of belonging (or exclusion), in the distribution and exercise of power (or abuse), in being labeled with reference to religious purity (or contamination). Reflecting on Luke and Jesus’s mission to the poor, then, invites a surprisingly wide range of sensibilities not limited to such categories as annual income or daily caloric intake, or the presence of stable or surplus resources. For Luke, “good news to the poor” is nothing less than God’s gracious word of invitation and welcome to the dispossessed.

Finding a Home in Luke’s Gospel What shape might this “good news to the poor” take? It might help to note, first, what good news to the poor does not entail, in Luke’s accounting. If Jesus’s advent marks good news for the poor, this is not because the rich and poor simply trade places, one on top of the other. This would only perpetuate the system against which Jesus’s mission is directed. In fact, Jesus’s dependence on the benefaction of others (8:1–3) forbids our portraying Jesus as an ascetic who rejects wealth on principle. Similarly, his presence with prominent people at festive meals – dinner parties where his behavior leads to his being branded as a glutton and a drunk (7:34; cf. 7:36; 11:37; 14:1–24; 19:1–27) – ensures that his openhandedness to the poor does not signal a practiced exclusion of the rich. To borrow a metaphor from Luke’s portrait of John’s ministry, “every valley will be filled, and every mountain and hill will be leveled” (3:5; cf. Isa 40:4). That is, the good news has a flattening or leveling effect, so that one’s status before God and among God’s people is determined not by relative wealth or health or gender, but simply by God’s kindness and compassion for all (cf. 6:35–36).

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The point remains, though, that the good news comes with its demands regarding faith and wealth. No one can serve both wealth and God (16:13), for example, the wealthy wanting to enter God’s kingdom face insurmountable obstacles, at least from a human point of view (18:24), and would-be disciples must give up everything (14:33). This is because, for Luke, wealth lures people to pursue prestige and security apart from God (e. g., 12:13–21, 33–34), and because the disposition of one’s possessions is a gauge of one’s faithfulness to the good news. Again, then, we ask, what shape might this “good news to the poor” take? Among the emphases we could develop, two are especially central to Luke’s portrait. Revisioning the World At the outset of the Sermon on the Plain, “Jesus raised his eyes to his disciples and said: ‘Happy are you who are poor, because God’s kingdom is yours’” (6:20). The CEB thus translates the Greek term μακάριος in an untraditional way as “happy.” This reflects ancient interest in choosing a way of life that leads to happiness, understood among the Stoics, for example, as a life lived in harmony with the way things are; it also reflects contemporary happiness studies that identify happiness in terms of growth (progress on the path toward realizing one’s life purpose), integrity (the internalization of one’s cultural conventions and practices), and well-being (flourishing and contentment).13 Accordingly, Jesus’s pronouncements of blessing and woe in 6:20–26 function ascriptively rather than prescriptively; they relate not so much how things ought to be as how things in fact are. They define the life-world and associated dispositions of God’s kingdom as these are revealed in Jesus’s coming. Granted, it is a strange world when the poor are labeled “happy” rather than “unfortunate” or even “cursed.” But this only underscores the degree to which Jesus’s mission serves as the decisive disclosure of God’s kingdom, in contradistinction to those institutions and empires that oppose God’s sovereign rule. Jesus invites people to evaluate life in ways characteristic of God’s kingdom, and so to embrace patterns of life harmonious with his disclosure of God’s ways. Jesus’s statements of happiness and distress thus sketch a vocation of embodying God’s salvation while at the same time communicating hope to people whose lives are eked out at (or beyond) society’s margins: the demonized, tax collectors, women, lepers, sinners, and so on. Held at arm’s length in the status-minded world of everyday existence determined by 13  Cf., e. g., Richard M. Ryan and Edward L. Deci, “On Happiness and Human Potentials: A Review of Research on Hedonic and Eudaimonic Well-Being,” Annual Review of Psychology 52 (2001): 141–66; Kent C. Berridge and Morten L. Kringelbach, “Affective Neuroscience of Pleasure: Reward in Humans and Animals,” Psychopharmacology 199 (2008): 457–80. In this section, I have adapted material from Joel B. Green, “ ‘We Had to Celebrate and Rejoice!’: Happiness in the Topsy-Turvy World of Luke-Acts,” in The Bible and the Pursuit of Happiness: What the Old and New Testaments Teach Us about the Good Life, ed. Brent Strawn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 169–85 (see ch. 16, below).

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generally recognized social conventions, in the world disclosed in Jesus’s mission those people are not only tolerated but welcomed with celebration. What is more, those who appear to share “the happy life” in the present – they have plenty, they laugh, they have good reputations, that is, those who measure the goodness of their lives according to the now-outdated order of things – are (or will be) caught off guard. As Father Abraham explained to the rich man in Jesus’s story, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received good things, whereas Lazarus received terrible things. Now Lazarus is being comforted and you are in great pain” (16:25). Those who indulge their pleasures and hoard their possessions may think they are happy, but they stand under divine judgment (12:15–21; cf. 16:19–31). And those who live their lives in search of recognition from others and so fail to practice God’s justice and love are the antithesis of happy people (see 11:42–52). Again, everything depends on how one measures happiness. Good food and plenty of it, a fashionable wardrobe, a good name in the marketplace, a secure financial future – who could be happier? According to conventional standards at work in Luke’s world, these were elements of the happy life. That Jesus says the opposite is not a sign that he is out of touch with reality. It indicates rather the degree to which Luke’s Gospel draws on and calls for an alternative construal of reality. In Jesus’s mission, God’s kingdom is among you, so nothing can ever be the same. Discipleship, Redistribution, and Friendship with the Poor I have claimed that, for Luke, one’s use of possessions serves as a measure of one’s faithfulness to the good news. How is this so? In the ancient Mediterranean world, economic sharing was embedded in social relations.14 For example, to share with others without expectation of return, as Jesus counsels in the Sermon on the Plain (6:27–36) and as the Samaritan exemplifies in his treatment of the injured man (10:30–35), was tantamount to treating them as one’s kin. Contrariwise, refusing to share with others was equivalent to cataloging them as strangers. When Jesus asked the rich ruler to sell what he had and give the proceeds to the poor (18:18–23), Jesus was not condemning wealth per se but inviting the rich ruler to take the next step in his religious quest through practices that were at once economic and relational. Had not John the Baptist already characterized life oriented toward God’s agenda in terms of economic sharing and hospitality: “Whoever has two shirts must share with the one who has none, and whoever has food must do the same” (3:11)? People with family connections to faithful Abraham are recognized through such practices. Though himself a wealthy ruler (of tax collectors), Zacchaeus exhibits conversionary behavior by giving half of what he has to the  The classic study is Marshall Sahlins, Stone Age Economics (New York: Routledge, 1972).

14

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poor and making restitution to anyone defrauded under his supervision. That is, Zacchaeus behaves toward the poor and maltreated as if they were his friends, his neighbors, his kin, and for this he is recognized by Jesus as a child of Abraham (19:1–10; cf. 3:7–14). From this perspective, Luke’s subsequent portrait of the early church comes into sharp relief. In Acts 2:42–47, “community” is amplified especially in economic terms, with economic sharing both enacting and expressing the believers’ unity (cf. 4:32–35). Selling what one has is customary within the community Luke depicts, with such giving voluntary and oriented toward addressing the plight of the needy, quite apart from the usual webs of exchange that turn gifts into a never-ending cycle of repayment. Similarly, on a larger scale, the prediction of a severe famine across the Roman world motivates Christians in Antioch to support their brothers and sisters in Judea (11:27–30). Read within this frame, Luke’s Gospel presents “almsgiving” as friendship with the poor. Accordingly, Jesus censures Pharisees and legal experts for practices of non-sharing, which exhibit their greed and malice (Luke 11:39–41; 20:46–47). Similarly, the rich man who never welcomed Lazarus to his daily feasts finds in the afterlife that he is separated from Abraham’s side by a great chasm (16:19–31). Those who really are God’s children demonstrate in their lives God-like graciousness, giving freely to even the ungrateful and wicked (6:35).

Conclusion Luke’s material on faith and wealth, the rich and poor, is thus implicated in issues of belonging, power, and social privilege. This is because Jesus’s advent marks the decisive disclosure of God’s kingdom, which exposes as false all competing attempts to shape and evaluate human life. Good news to the poor levels the playing field, so that the dispossessed, widows, children, and the disabled are honored and, indeed, are welcomed at the table. Necessarily, then, discipleship raises immediate and pressing questions concerning possessions, with Luke calling for forms of distribution in which the needy receive care and friendship and the wealthy give without expectation of return.

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“Was It Not Necessary for the Messiah to Suffer These Thingsand Enter into His Glory?”: The Significance of Jesus’s Death for Luke’s Soteriology* From the early days of redaction criticism, during which it can be said that Luke began to be appreciated as a theologian in his own right, up to and including literary and narratological approaches to Luke’s narrative, scholars have recognized Luke’s dearth of interest in the soteriological significance of Jesus’s suffering and death. Writing at the onset of modern study of Luke, for example, Hans Conzelmann had summarized with respect to Luke’s theology of Jesus’s passion “that there is no trace of any Passion mysticism, nor is any direct soteriological significance drawn from Jesus’s suffering or death. There is no suggestion of a connection with the forgiveness of sins.” He goes on to observe that, when Luke echoes Isa 53, “he is not thinking of atonement and substitution.” “It should be noted,” he avers, “that the idea of the Cross plays no part in the proclamation. Even when Luke uses the word παραδιδόναι there is no trace of the idea of atonement.” According to Conzelmann, the absence of the soteriological significance of Jesus’s death determines Luke’s account of Jesus’s passion.1 Ulrich Wilckens similarly found no immediate witness to the saving significance of Jesus’s death in the missionary sermons in the Acts of the Apostles – thus echoing the earlier view of C. H. Dodd, based on the early chapters of Acts, that “the Jerusalem kerygma does not assert that Christ died for our sins.”2 Turning the clock forward, Joseph B. Tyson wrote in the first major literary-critical study of Luke’s presentation of Jesus’s death, “The conviction of divine necessity constitutes Luke’s main contribution to the theological discussion of Jesus’s death. But he seems uninterested in piercing through to an understanding of the theological reason for the death or in analyzing what it was intended to accomplish. The * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “ ‘Was It Not Necessary for the Messiah to Suffer These Things and Enter into His Glory?’: The Significance of Jesus’ Death for Luke’s Soteriology,” in The Spirit and Christ in the New Testament and Christian Theology: Essays in Honour of Max Turner, ed. I. Howard Marshall, Volker Rabens, and Cornelis Bennema (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 71–85. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. 1  Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke (London: SCM, 1960), 201. 2 C. H. Dodd, The Apostolic Preaching and Its Developments: With an Appendix on Eschatology and History (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1936; repr. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1980), 25; cf. Ulrich Wilckens, Die Missionsreden der Apostelgeschichte: Form‑ und traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen, 3rd ed., WMANT 5 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1974), 185.

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benefits of forgiveness of sins and the Spirit are more closely connected with the resurrection than the death.”3 These testimonies could easily be multiplied, but none would speak with more authority than the ever-prescient Henry J. Cadbury. In his magisterial work, The Making of Luke-Acts, he observed Luke’s omission of “all references to vicarious death” and claimed that Luke’s dependence on Isa 53 does not prove that Luke interpreted Jesus’s death in substitutionary terms borrowed from Isaiah; indeed, Luke’s use of Isa 53 noticeably bypasses all of the latter’s “ ‘vicarious’ phrases.”4 Although Conzelmann’s view is pervasive in Lukan scholarship, it is not universal. Indeed, it is worth reflecting on the degree to which the terms for the discussion have often been set by Mark or by Paul, with the result that, actually, scholars have sometimes affirmed little more than that Luke’s theology is not like Mark’s or Paul’s. “It is without doubt a serious failing that Luke does not take up the Pauline theology of the cross,” wrote Martin Hengel in 1979, exemplifying the problem.5 Indeed, Werner Georg Kümmel had already warned against using Paul as the canon against which to measure Luke: “Thus from its beginnings it has been characteristic of the redaction-critical investigation of Luke’s theology that the description of this theology has been accompanied by a sharp criticism based primarily on comparison with Paul.”6 (On the other hand, given his tendency to read the whole of the NT through a Pauline lens, at least with regard to the atonement, it is not surprising that a scholar like Leon Morris would find substitutionary atonement lurking in the shadows of Luke’s witness to the kerygma.7) In fact, attempts to read Luke on his own terms have in some cases led scholars to identify a particularly Lukan atonement theology. Given the state of the discussion after Conzelmann, for example, the title of Richard Zehnle’s study from 1969 must have seemed provocative: “The Salvific Character of Jesus’ Death in Lucan Soteriology.”8 Zehnle refers to attempts to void Jesus’s death of soteriological value in Luke-Acts as “serious accusations.”9 He is able to do so, however, only by adopting a more nuanced vocabulary. Agreeing with previous scholarship that Luke has no “doctrine of satisfaction,” Zehnle does not regard this as 3  Joseph B. Tyson, The Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1986), 170. 4  Henry J. Cadbury, The Making of Luke-Acts, with a new introduction by Paul N. Anderson, 2nd ed. (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999), 280–81. 5  Martin Hengel, Acts and the History of Earliest Christianity (London: SCM, 1979), 67. 6  Werner Georg Kümmel, “Current Theological Accusations against Luke,” ANQ 16 (1975): 131–45 (132). 7  E. g., Leon Morris, The Cross in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1965), 63–143; cf. George Eldon Ladd, A Theology of the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974), 330. 8  Richard Zehnle, “The Salvific Character of Jesus’ Death in Lucan Soteriology,” TS 30 (1969): 420–44. 9  Zehnle, “Salvific Character,” 220.

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a wholesale denial of the soteriological significance of Jesus’s death for Luke. Instead, for Zehnle, we must understand Jesus’s movement from life to death, from death to resurrection, and from resurrection to ascension and glorification as a complex of events – events that find their full meaning only in relation to the whole. This allows him to speak of the relationship between Jesus’s death and human salvation in terms of formal or exemplary causality rather than in terms of efficient causality. Accordingly, Jesus’s death for Luke is part of a life-death-resurrection-ascension composite that demonstrates God’s favor toward humanity and motivates people to trust in him. Whatever one makes of Zehnle’s analysis, it has clearly paved the way for others to let Luke be Luke, rather than to find his theological perspective lacking when measured against a predetermined (especially Pauline) perspective on the atonement. These have been helpfully surveyed by Hermie C. van Zyl, who aptly observes that, in recent scholarship, the Lukan writings have been scrutinized more with the view of a positive valuation of the soteriological meaning of Jesus’s death.10 Taking a different route, George Heider has recently reminded us to think of a plurality of atonement models not only in the Christian theological tradition, not only in the NT, but among the Gospels themselves.11 Following Heider, then, we might ask whether the problem of locating a theology of atonement in Luke-Acts is grounded less in the Lukan narrative itself and more in the definition of atonement one brings to the task. When “atonement” is defined in sacrificial terms, such as are prominent in the Pauline writings, then we might find that evidence for atonement theology in Luke-Acts is not altogether lacking, but it is markedly sparse. For Heider, however, each of the NT Gospels bears witness to a different atonement model: – Gospel of Matthew – Objective Atonement – Gospel of Mark – At-one-ment in Baptism – Gospel of Luke – Subjective Atonement – Gospel of John – Christus Victor This is not to say that Heider reduces the witness of each Gospel to these four models, but he does regard them as characteristic of each. Heider’s claims are more suggestive than exegetically documented, but it is nonetheless clear that he has helped to turn attention appropriately on a Lukan atonement theology. And it is striking that his characterization of Luke’s atonement theology in terms of “subjective atonement” coheres with Zehnle’s analysis.

10  Hermie C. van Zyl, “The Soteriological Meaning of Jesus’ Death in Luke-Acts: A Survey of Possibilities,” VEcc 23 (2002): 533–57. 11  George C. Heider, “Atonement and the Gospels,” JTI 2 (2008): 259–73.

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Salvation and Jesus’s Exaltation One of the largely underdeveloped questions in discussions of atonement theology, whether those discussions are related to Luke or Paul or some other NT writer, has been the meaning of salvation itself. This is likely due to prior assumptions about the doctrine of salvation, regarding which the NT author is then required to speak. For example, if one were to adopt a view of salvation that coheres with modern understandings of the human self, then one might think primarily in spiritual and individualistic terms.12 Accordingly, the question for us would be how best to articulate the means by which people are saved in just these terms. However, this is not a particularly Lukan approach to the soteriological question. In the NT, the language of salvation congregates especially in Luke-Acts, where it pervades both the Third Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles. The hymns of Luke’s infancy narrative set the terms for what will follow especially with regard to transformations in human social interaction grounded in the gracious intervention of God. Salvation would be realized in the coming of status transposition, liberation from Israel’s enemies in order to worship God, and the actualization of God’s promise to Abraham regarding all peoples (Jew and gentile) – that is, in the eschatological restoration of God’s people. God’s saving activity is realized in the person and ministry of Jesus of Nazareth, who raises up the lowly, restores persons to full health, and calls everyone to embody God’s good news. Salvation is then the work of God, the almighty and compassionate one, who summons and liberates his people, calling them to align themselves with his restorative purpose; Jesus’s advent, then, is nothing less than the revelation of God’s royal rule and, then, the exposure and fall of those powers that stand against God’s kingdom. For Luke’s Gospel, salvation is social and concrete – healing, exorcism, restoration, cleansing, and more – resisting dichotomies like social versus individual, material versus spiritual. This vision is not lost in the book of Acts. Instead, images of salvation and restoration swirl around two expressions of salvation, both of which are synecdoches for salvation. The first of these is forgiveness of sins and the second is the reception of the Holy Spirit. Importantly, in Second Temple Jewish literature and in Luke-Acts, both forgiveness of sins and the reception of the Spirit signify Israel’s restoration. For Luke-Acts, moreover, forgiveness of sins and the outpouring of the Spirit have as their sequel the multi-ethnic community of Christ-followers known for prayer, economic koinonia, witness, and mission. How does Luke develop in his narrative the means by which salvation, understood in these terms, is realized? According to three texts in the Acts of the Apostles, this salvation is poured out or given by Jesus on account of his resurrection and ascension – that is, on account of his exaltation to the right hand of 12 I base this example on the analysis of Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989).

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God. The first is the Pentecost speech in Acts 2. Luke portrays the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, leading eventually to the question of the gathered crowds, “What does this mean?”13 Peter replies in terms of the expected era of salvation sketched in Joel 2:28–32, which he interprets in relation to Pss 16 and 110. First, he insists that what has happened on this day of Pentecost (Acts 2:1–13) is nothing less than the fresh work of the Holy Spirit, poured out in fulfillment of Joel’s promise of restoration. Second, he urges that the phenomena recounted in 2:1–13 testify, together with the Psalms and the followers of Jesus, that Jesus has divine prerogatives so that he is able to dispense the blessings of salvation, the gift of the Holy Spirit being chief among these. Finally, Peter claims, these events comprise the onset of “the last days,” which are marked by the universal offer of salvation and threat of judgment, so that all are called to contrition and repentance. For the present discussion, the central point in Peter’s logic is pivotal. Borrowing words from the prophet Joel, he proclaims that “all who call on the name of the Lord will be saved.” Who is this “Lord”? For Joel, of course, the Lord is YHWH, Israel’s God. For Peter, however, Jesus’s exaltation to God’s right hand proves that “God has made him both Lord and Christ, this Jesus whom you yourselves crucified” (2:36). Raised up, the Lord Jesus now serves as coregent with God and in this capacity administers the Father’s promise, the gift of the Spirit. In the ensuing narrative, Luke cultivates further the soteriological ramifications of this association of Jesus’s acclamation as Lord with his exaltation. Thus, in Acts 3, Luke reports that Peter rehearses the theological significance of Jesus’s resurrection in order to attribute the “complete health” of the man born lame to the potency of “the name” (3:13–16). A few verses later, Luke summarizes the content of Peter’s speech with the phrase, “proclaiming in Jesus the resurrection of the dead” (4:2). And in 4:11–12, a statement regarding God’s vindication of Jesus (that is, Jesus’s resurrection; see 4:10) prepares for the declaration of the universal significance of Jesus’s name for salvation. This association of salvation with resurrection is not at all surprising, given the intimate association in Israel’s Scriptures and Second Temple Judaism of “resurrection” with a larger complex of motifs: the restoration of Israel, including Israel’s triumph over its enemies (and thus Israel’s experience of conclusive and end-time salvation), God’s vindication of the righteous who have suffered unjustly, and the decisive establishment of divine justice.14 Indeed, Peter’s speech in Solomon’s Portico (3:12–26) is centrally concerned to assert that, with the resurrection of Jesus, the restoration of Israel is presently underway, with the healing of the lame beggar a case exhibit. 13 Unless

otherwise indicated, translations of biblical texts are my own. background, see Kevin L. Anderson, “But God Raised Him from the Dead”: The Theology of Jesus’ Resurrection in Luke-Acts, PBM (Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2006), 48–91; and the summary in Richard Bauckham, “Life, Death, and the Afterlife in Second Temple Judaism,” in Life in the Face of Death: The Resurrection Message of the New Testament, ed. Richard N. Longenecker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 80–95. 14 For

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We find a second affirmation of the soteriological significance of Jesus’s exaltation in Peter’s speech to the Jerusalem council in 5:30–31: “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus …. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior, to give repentance to Israel and the forgiveness of sins.” This is a straightforward assertion that Jesus’s exaltation has as its consequence his confirmation as Savior and that it is as Savior that he “gives” repentance and forgiveness of sins. As the gift of the Holy Spirit represented the whole of salvation in Acts 2, so here repentance and forgiveness of sins do the same. Finally, in the midst of his preaching at Cornelius’s residence, Peter proclaims, “All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name” (10:43). Again, forgiveness of sins is a synecdoche for salvation. The logic of Peter’s claim depends on our recognizing the ramifications of Jesus’s resurrection and ascension. The prophets (like the OT as a whole) do proclaim the forgiveness of sins but identify the Lord, Israel’s God, as the one who offers pardon. How is it that prophetic testimony concerning YHWH is transferred to Jesus? The answer can only be that, according to the view that pervades the book of Acts, Jesus, confirmed as Lord on account of his exaltation, possesses the divine prerogative to administer the benefits of salvation, here represented as forgiveness of sins. Here, then, are three clear affirmations that Luke’s soteriology is grounded in Jesus’s exaltation. What, then, of Jesus’s death? The sheer frequency of times that we read in Luke-Acts of the divine necessity of the suffering and death of Jesus the Messiah is warning enough that salvation has not come in spite of the crucifixion. Can more be said?

Salvation and Jesus’s Death Students of Luke-Acts have tended to draw attention to three points in order to support their claim that Luke does not hold to a soteriological interpretation of the significance of Jesus’s death. (1) Redaction critics have long noted that, in his use of Mark’s Gospel, Luke does not replicate the ransom-saying found in Mark 10:45. Accordingly, the Third Evangelist excludes this most explicit witness to the atoning death of Jesus. (2) The sermons in Acts highlight the salvation-historical necessity of Jesus’s death, but seem more interested in the that of Jesus’s crucifixion than in the why. In particular, they draw no immediate connection from the cross to the offer of salvation. (3) Although Luke is heavily dependent in his Christology on Isaianic texts concerned with the Servant of YHWH (including Isa 52:13–53:12; cf., e. g., Luke 22:37; Acts 8:32–33), no Lukan text draws on any Isaianic text concerned explicitly with the vicarious, atoning significance of the Servant’s suffering.

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At the same time, two Lukan texts point clearly to Luke’s awareness of an interpretation of Jesus’s death in soteriological terms, suggesting that Luke has placed “his stamp of approval”15 on the sort of atonement theology we find in Mark’s Gospel or in Paul. Even if it remains true that Luke has done little in his narrative to develop or expound this kind of atonement theology, the presence of these two texts nonetheless undermines scholarly hyperbole regarding Luke’s alleged rejection of such references. First, the words of Jesus at the Last Supper, in Luke 22:19–20, speak to the atoning significance of Jesus’s death: Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.”

As is well known, however, 22:19b–20 – and thus those parts of the Eucharistic tradition identifying Jesus’s death “for you” and developing its significance in relation to the “new covenant in my blood” – is missing in a minority of textual witnesses; additionally, the language of 22:19b–20 is uncharacteristic of Lukan usage.16 Consequently, some interpreters have argued against their originality.17 This is now very much a minority opinion, however, even if it remains the case that Luke has done little to draw this way of reflecting on Jesus’s death into his theology more fully. Indeed, altogether missing from the narrative of Acts is any reference such as we find in 1 Cor 11:17–34 to the use of Jesus’s Eucharistic words or reflection on the salvific import of Jesus’s death in the context of community meals. The atoning death of Jesus is also apparent in Acts 20:28. In the context of Paul’s farewell speech to the Ephesian elders we find a troubled text the sense of which is not straightforward – as a quick comparison of different translations might illustrate.18 Does Paul refer to “the church of the Lord” or “the church of God”? Is that church purchased with “his own blood” or with “the blood of his own”? If “the blood of his own,” then is this a reference to Jesus? To Paul himself? 15  This phrase is borrowed from Reginald H. Fuller, “Luke and the Theologia Crucis,” in Sin, Salvation and the Spirit: Commemorating the Fiftieth Year of The Liturgical Press, ed. Daniel Durken (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1979), 214–20 (219). 16  Cf., e. g., Joachim Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966), 154–55; idem, Die Sprache des Lukasevangeliums: Redaction und Tradition im Nicht-Markusstoff des dritten Evangeliums, KEKS 3 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980), 287–88 (the text “ist völlig frei von Lukanismen” [287]); G. D. Kilpatrick, The Eucharist in Bible and Liturgy, The Moorhouse Lectures 1975 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 31–32. 17  See, e. g., Kilpatrick, Eucharist, 28–42. 18  I say “troubled” because of variant renderings and stylistic/theological ambiguity. See the helpful discussion in Steve Walton, Leadership and Lifestyle: The Portrait of Paul in the Miletus Speech and 1 Thessalonians, SNTSMS 108 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 94–98.

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The difficulty here is that a plain reading of the text would have Paul affirming that God purchased the church with his (God’s!) own blood – a theological infelicity addressed by ancient scribes and contemporary translators alike. After all, stated in this way, this expression would be without precedent or analogy in any other biblical text. Not surprisingly, then, Eduard Schweizer once observed that “[Luke] quotes this phrase as if it were some foreign language.”19 In the end, the sense of this text in Acts is most likely to be something like the rendering we find in the NRSV: “Keep watch over yourselves and over all the flock, of which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers, to shepherd the church of God that he obtained with the blood of his own Son.” Although Acts 20:28 uses a term not otherwise used in this sense in the NT, περιποιέω (“to acquire,” “to obtain”), we do find references elsewhere to God’s acquiring (περιποίησις – e. g., Eph 1:14; 1 Pet 2:9–10) or “purchasing” (ἀγοράζω – 1 Cor 6:20; 7:23; cf. 2 Pet 2:1) a people. These few words in Acts 20:28 provide little sure ground on which to construct a full-blown atonement theology, but the metaphor Paul uses seems to turn on an economic exchange rooted in Jesus’s sacrificial death.

Jesus and Isaiah’s Servant More promising for making sense of the salvation-historical necessity of Jesus’s death is Luke’s dependence on material in Isaiah related to the Servant of YHWH. In fact, some have urged that, given the importance of the portrait of Isaiah’s suffering servant for Luke’s Christology, room must be made within his soteriology for the substitutionary suffering of YHWH’s Servant.20 In spite of claims about what “must” have been in Luke’s mind as he drew on Isa 53 in such Christological statements as we find in Luke 22:37 and Acts 8:32–33, however, it is hard to escape the reality that the material from Isaiah that makes explicit the servant’s substitutionary death (see Isa 53:4, 5, 6b, 10b, 11b, 12) is altogether missing in Luke.21 Cadbury was right to observe, as we saw earlier, that Luke noticeably circumvents all of the “ ‘vicarious’ phrases” in Isa 53.  Eduard Schweizer, Luke: A Challenge to Present Theology (London: SPCK, 1982), 45.  Recently, e. g., David Peterson, “Atonement Theology in Luke-Acts: Some Methodological Reflections,” in The New Testament in Its First Century Setting: Essays on Context and Background in Honour of B. W. Winter on His 65th Birthday, ed. P. J. Williams et al. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 56–71; Hermie C. van Zyl, “The Soteriology of Acts: Restoration to Life,” in Salvation in the New Testament: Perspectives on Soteriology, ed. Jan G. van der Watt, NovTSup 121 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 133–60; Ulrike Mittmann-Richert, Der Sühnetod des Gottesknechts: Jesaja 53 im Lukasevangelium, WUNT 2/220 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). 21 On the one hand, then, one might wish to argue that Luke’s ample dependence on Isa 52:13–53:12 draws into Luke’s narrative theology this emphasis on substitutionary atonement. On the other hand, though, it is hard to understand (1) why Luke can draw on Isa 52:13–53:12 repeatedly and explicitly without using Isaiah’s substitutionary phraseology, (2) why Luke can emphasize the necessity of Jesus’s passion repeatedly and explicitly without drawing on Isaiah’s 19 20

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It may be that the theological utility of Luke’s dependence on Isaiah’s portrait of the Servant of the Lord lies elsewhere. Rather than turning our focus on substitutionary models of the atonement, Luke’s use of Isaiah’s Servant helps us to hold together what, for Luke, must not be pulled apart. It is precisely the collocation of Jesus’s life, death, and exaltation that funds for Luke a robust soteriology – and Luke interprets Jesus’s career thus imagined in Isaianic terms. It is easy enough to urge that, for Luke, the character of Jesus’s death must be grasped in relation to the character of his life.22 That is, the crucifixion of Jesus on a Roman cross cannot for Luke be understood apart from the wider context of the narrative of Luke-Acts. Jesus is brought before Pilate as one whose life and ministry stood in opposition to the Roman empire. Jesus came to save, it is true, but this is worked out in purpose statements like these: “to bring good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18), “to proclaim the good news of the kingdom of God in the other cities” (4:43), “to call … sinners to repentance” (5:32), and “to seek and to save the lost” (19:10). Jesus’s life thus oriented leads eventually to a series of charges brought against him: “We found this man perverting our nation, forbidding us to pay taxes to the emperor, and saying that he himself is the Messiah, a king” (23:2); “He stirs up the people by teaching throughout all Judea, from Galilee where he began even to this place” (23:5); and “You brought me this man as one who was perverting the people” (23:14). And these allegations, especially the claim that Jesus “perverts our nation/the people” (vv. 2, 14), dovetail well with the case put forward by Graham Stanton and August Strobel, that Jesus had to be eliminated as a religious deceiver and false prophet.23 That is, reference to “perverting” would not only draw the attention of a Roman proconsul concerned with keeping the peace, but would also constitute a formal allegation against Jesus as a false prophet, rooted in Deut 13 and 18.24 In other words, the crucifixion of Jesus points in Luke’s Gospel to the nature of Jesus’s life as a life of faithfulness wording, and (3) why, when Luke does identify in unmistakable terms a salvific event, he does so with reference to Jesus’s exaltation rather than to Jesus’s substitutionary death. As I have already argued, it is not that Luke voids his narrative of all references to the substitutionary death of Jesus, but rather that we have no firm basis to argue that we find further evidence for the substitutionary death of Jesus in Luke’s references to the Isaianic Servant. 22  Cf. Stephen J. Patterson, Beyond the Passion: Rethinking the Death and Life of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004). Patterson’s basic concern with interpreting Jesus’s death “as an inevitable part of his life, and end fitting of the kind of life Jesus lived” (123) stands in spite of his skepticism regarding the historical veracity of the Gospels and his too-easy rejection of the potential of some atonement theologies to aid our understanding of Jesus’s passion. 23 Graham N. 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, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 164–80; August Strobel, Die Stunde der Wahrheit: Untersuchungen zum Strafverfahren gegen Jesus, WUNT 21 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1980). 24  In fact, using the same verb (διαστρέφω), Luke recounts in Acts 13:6–8 that “a Jewish false prophet … tried to turn the proconsul away from the faith.”

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to his mission in the service of God’s kingdom and, thus, as a life of resistance to alternative kingdoms. Similarly, one of the key features of Luke’s presentation of Jesus’s life and death in the missionary speeches of Acts is the contrast between the character of God’s affirmation of Jesus and the rejection of Jesus by those responsible for his crucifixion. The first of several examples appears in Peter’s address at Pentecost: “Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you, as you yourselves know – this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law” (Acts 2:22–23; cf., e. g., 3:13–15; 4:10–12; 13:23–29). That is, the character of Jesus’s death for Luke is inseparable from the character of his fidelity to God. Even if we might put the emphasis somewhat differently, then, there is some truth to what must be one of the most-quoted footnotes in the history of scholarly study of Jesus’s death: “To state the matter somewhat provocatively, one could call the Gospels passion narratives with extended introductions.”25 Martin Kähler penned these words more than a century ago (1896) in order to emphasize the concern of the Gospels with the nature of Jesus’s ministry rather than his self-consciousness. Luke 1–21 is hardly an “introduction,” of course, but it remains that these chapters set the stage and the conditions for understanding the significance of Jesus’s death in chs. 22–23. The claim that the resurrection and ascension  – that is, the exaltation  – of Jesus is well-integrated theologically into Luke’s portrayal of the significance of Jesus’s death is also easily observed. Jesus’s own words on the road to Emmaus locate the Messiah’s suffering and death together with the Messiah’s entering into his glory under a singular heading of divine necessity: “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” (Luke 24:26). The correlation of messianic suffering and messianic glory, we are then informed, is what Israel’s Scriptures teach (24:27; cf. 24:46). The same can be said of Jesus’s prediction of his passion and resurrection toward the end of Luke’s journey narrative in 19:31–33. Moreover, the contrast-formula to which I pointed earlier – God’s affirmation of Jesus’s ministry versus the rejection of Jesus by those responsible for his death – continues with God’s validation of Jesus: God affirmed Jesus’s credentials, the Jerusalem leadership rejected Jesus and had him killed, but God raised him up (e. g., Acts 2:22–24; 3:13–15). What is critical to observe at this juncture is the correlation of Luke’s soteriology, understood in terms of status transposition, with the path of Jesus’s career, from humiliation to exaltation, and the correlation of both of these with Luke’s interest in Isaiah’s Servant of YHWH. Let me document briefly this last interest.26 25  Martin Kähler, The So-Called Historical Jesus and the Historic Biblical Christ (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1964), 80n11. 26  More fully, cf. Joel B. Green, “The Death of Jesus, God’s Servant,” in Reimaging the Death of the Lukan Jesus, ed. Dennis D. Sylva, AMT: BBB 73 (Frankfurt: Anton Hain, 1990), 1–28, 170–73.

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First, Luke draws on Isaiah’s Servant as he sketches the universal ramifications of Jesus’s salvific mission. Jesus, according to Simeon, was to be “a light for revelation to the Gentiles” (Luke 2:32; Isa 49:6). Moreover, at Jesus’s passing he is declared the Righteous One (Luke 23:47) by a gentile – an allusion to Isa 53:11.27 Note the related collocation of “righteous” with Jesus’s passion in Acts 3:13–14, where Jesus’s death and exaltation are developed in relation to Isa 52:13–53:12: Acts 3

Isa 52:13–53:12

v. 13 ὁ θεός … ἐδόξασεν τὸν παῖδα αὐτοῦ (“God … has glorified his servant”)

52:13 ὁ παῖς μου … δοξασθήσεται (“my servant … will be glorified”)

v. 13 ὅν ὑμεῖς μὲν παρεδώκατε (“whom you handed over”)

53:6 παρέδωκεν αὐτόν (“he handed him over”) 53:12 παρεδόθη [2x] (“he was handed over”)

v. 14 τόν … δίκαιον (“the righteous one”)

53:11 δίκαιον (“righteous one”)

Second, Luke identifies Jesus in his passion with the Suffering Servant. Thus, Jesus cites Isa 53:12 as a general allusion to his suffering and death (Luke 22:37). As we have just seen, Jesus is declared “righteous” in relation to his suffering and death in 23:47, a note sounded even more clearly in Acts 3. Moreover, Jesus refuses to speak in his own defense (Luke 23:9; cf. Isa 53:7) and is mocked in the language of Isa 42:1: “the Chosen One” (Luke 23:35). Third, outside Luke’s passion account we find other references to the Servant, not least in the citation of Isa 53:7–8 in Acts 8:32–33. If, as has been repeatedly observed, Luke’s use of Isa 52:13–53:12 not only fails to draw out the substitutionary nature of the Servant’s demise in relation to Jesus but actually bypasses every indication of such an interpretation we might draw from the Isaianic text, then the question remains what soteriological significance Luke’s use of Isaiah’s Servant might have. At last we have in place the elements that allow us to speak of Luke’s emphasis on the salvation-historical necessity of the cross at the same time that we highlight Jesus’s exaltation as the grounds of the offer of salvation. The Isaianic portrait of the Suffering Servant holds in tandem these two motifs, suffering and vindication. We read this particularly in Isa 53:11 where, following his death, “my righteous servant will justify many.” Taking this interpretive path, Luke shows the necessity of Jesus’s death as the Servant of the 27 Cf. Robert J. Karris, “Luke 23:47 and the Lucan View of Jesus’ Death,” JBL 105 (1986): 65–74.

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Lord who, through his being raised up, brings salvation – and he demonstrates this without depending on an interpretation of the Servant’s or Jesus’s suffering as a substitutionary sacrifice. In his fidelity to his mission, Jesus, by embracing the career of the Servant, both exemplifies the way of salvation for those who would come after him and opens the way of repentance, forgiveness, and Spirit-endowed life and mission. In his suffering and exaltation, Jesus embodied the fullness of salvation interpreted as status reversal; rejecting self-glorification, he embraced humiliation and was exalted by God. Though anointed by God, though righteous before God, he is rejected by people. Rejected by people, he is raised up by God – and with him those who occupy society’s margins are also raised up. Accordingly, Jesus’s death and resurrection, read together, are exemplary and effective.

Conclusion In the end, two scholarly impulses related to Luke’s soteriology are problematic. The first denies any interest in the substitutionary death of Jesus on the part of Luke. To the contrary, in Luke 22:19–20 and Acts 20:28, the Third Evangelist has at the very least allowed to stand in his narrative two references to Jesus’s substitutionary death. These data cannot be overlooked even when it is admitted that Luke has not also recounted the ransom-saying we find in Mark 10:45/Matt 20:28 nor developed this model of the atonement in the sermons and addresses recounted in Acts. The second scholarly impulse attempts to find evidence for the substitutionary death of Jesus in Luke’s dependence on the Isaianic Servant. To the contrary, in spite of the ample number of possible phrases in Isa 53 from which Luke might have borrowed, he has failed to signal in any way that he was drawn theologically to Isa 53 for its understanding of vicarious suffering as the grounds of salvation. The way forward for those interested in exploring the nature of the soteriological significance of Jesus’s death in Luke-Acts is not thereby barricaded, however. To the contrary, I have drawn from a number of Lukan emphases to paint with broad strokes an understanding of Jesus’s death, correlated with his exaltation, that does draw on Isaiah’s Servant. In doing so, I have tried to take seriously some of the indications the evangelist himself has provided in understanding the career of Jesus in messianic terms shaped by the humiliation and exaltation of the servant. No doubt, Luke’s narrative invites discussion of other models of the atonement as well.28 The important question is what we find as we teach ourselves to explore in Luke’s narrative models of the atonement that are not predetermined by Markan or Pauline categories. 28  E. g., I have briefly sketched a Lukan understanding of atonement as revelation in Joel B. Green, “A Kaleidoscopic View,” in The Nature of the Atonement: Four Views, ed. James K. Beilby and Paul R. Eddy (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2006), 157–85. See further, e. g., Zehnle, “Salvific Character”; Heider, “Atonement and the Gospels.”

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“We Had to Celebrate and Rejoice!”: Happiness in the Topsy-Turvy World of Luke-Acts* A Different Kind of Happiness At the end of Acts 5, we find a startling observation concerning the apostles. These witnesses to the resurrection of Christ had already been jailed by the high priest and Sadducees for carrying out their work of preaching and healing in public. Having been miraculously released from prison, the apostles obeyed the angel of the Lord and returned to the area of the temple where they engaged in proclamation. This resulted in their being brought before the Sanhedrin, which in turn concluded its deliberations regarding the apostles by silencing them, flogging them, and dismissing them. At this juncture, the narrator, whom I will call Luke, writes of the apostles, “As they left the council, they rejoiced that they were considered worthy to suffer dishonor for the sake of the name” (Acts 5:41 NRSV).1 Even in the NRSV, the oxymoron is clear, but a less polished translation brings out the emphasis even further: “they were counted worthy enough to have their honor deprived of them.” Dishonor suffered for the sake of the name of Christ is honor. Luke thus documents an inversion of values native to the whole of his two-part narrative, the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles, or Luke-Acts. Drawing on proleptic intimations of persecution in the Gospel of Luke,2 Luke identifies these followers of Christ as the embodiment of the words of Jesus spoken earlier in the Gospel: “Happy are you when people hate you, reject you, insult you, and slander you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice when that happens! Leap for joy! You have a great reward in heaven” (Luke 6:22–23). Although Luke’s narrative thus bears witness to strange values, this should not surprise us. In another context, the anthropologist Marshall Sahlins observes the plurality of cultures, then draws an important corollary: “Each people knows * Extract from pp. 169–185, “’We Had to Celebrate and Rejoice!’: Happiness in the Topsy-Turvy World of Luke-Acts,” by Joel B. Green, from Bible and the Pursuit of Happiness: What the Old and New Testaments Teach Us about the Good Life, edited by Strawn, Brent A. (2012). By permission of Oxford University Press. 1 Unless otherwise indicated, translations of biblical texts are my own, though I have often had an eye on the CEB. 2  On this motif more generally, see Scott Cunningham, “Through Many Tribulations”: The Theology of Persecution in Luke-Acts, JSNTSup 142 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997).

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their own kind of happiness: the culture that is the legacy of their ancestral tradition, transmitted in the distinctive concepts of their ancestral language, and adapted to their specific life conditions. It is by means of this tradition, endowed also with the morality of the community and the notions of the family, that experience is organized, since people do not simply discover the world, they are taught it. They come to it not simply as cognitions but as values.”3 Sahlins is concerned with the potential imposition of, say, European culture as the universal condition of Homo sapiens. To follow this pattern of thinking, though, is to recognize that what might be identified as “happiness” among one group might be evaluated differently by another. Or, said differently, how or even whether one seeks happiness cannot be universalized.4 These initial ruminations frame important windows into Luke’s perspective on happiness. First, with the Stoics and against the Epicureans, Luke sees happiness as the effect or byproduct of living in harmony with the way things are. The apostles in Acts 5 did not go in search of happiness, but sought rather to carry out the missionary mandate they had received and so identify themselves as servants of God’s kingdom. Nor should it escape us that they did not go in search of the humiliation and beating they sustained at the hands of the Sanhedrin, as though the route to pleasure was through pain. Again, their happiness was a byproduct of their faithful service. Second, Luke has a particular perspective on “the way things are,” and thus what it might mean to live, as the Stoics might put it, in harmony with the natural order of things. Luke’s perspective would have found a ready home in other NT materials, even if its general tenor would undoubtedly have seemed strange to those outside the community that followed Christ. Third, as Sahlins’s observation might hint, the canons of happiness assumed in Acts 5 belong to the register of the community Luke portrays – in this case, the community over which at this point in the narrative the apostles themselves exercise oversight. Although the language of happiness is dispersed widely throughout the narrative of Luke-Acts, happiness plays a heightened role at three points: (1) in Luke 1–2, Luke’s narrative of birth announcements and celebration, with its anticipations of a new way of construing the world; (2) in Luke 15, a veritable battleground over what constitutes happiness, centered on Jesus’s recounting of the parables of the lost sheep, lost coin, and lost son; and (3) in Luke 6, the Sermon on the Plain, where Luke sketches the dispositions of those for whom happiness thus defined is reserved. Some contemporary happiness studies identify happiness in terms of growth (intrinsic motivation and progress on the path toward realizing 3  Marshall Sahlins, How “Natives” Think: About Captain Cook, for Example (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 12. 4  This is suggested, too, in B. Grinde, “Happiness in the Perspective of Evolutionary Psychology,” Journal of Happiness Studies 3 (2002): 331–54.

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one’s life purpose), integrity (the internalization and assimilation of one’s cultural conventions and practices), and well-being (flourishing and contentment).5 If we assume that kind of typology, then Luke’s contribution lies particularly in the context within which happiness thus understood might be cultivated, modulated, and experienced. This context is defined by God’s eschatological intervention to bring salvation in all its fullness to all and, then, by the invitation to persons to order their lives accordingly. My identification of Luke’s contribution in terms of eschatology does not mean that Luke’s narrative is bereft of interest in what we might call the psychological and relational aspects of happiness. It is, rather, that with the advent, death, and exaltation of the Messiah the times have changed, and that humans who orient their lives to the divine purpose disclosed in the Messiah will experience the pleasure and meaningfulness associated with human flourishing within this eschatologically determined world.

Joyous Advent (Luke 1–2) Luke’s readers might be forgiven for imagining that, at the turn of the era, the whole Jewish world was characterized not only by oppression under the heavy hand of Rome but also by pervasive anticipation of divine intervention on Israel’s behalf. Indeed, in the context of Luke’s presentation of John’s ministry, the narrator reports that God’s people were filled with expectation to the point that everyone wondered whether John might be God’s agent of salvation (3:15). Historically, both of these images of the Jewish world would be exaggerated in the simplicity with which they portray the complex of contextual factors and responses characteristic of life in the early empire. Nevertheless, this is the world situation as the Third Evangelist has actualized it in the opening of his narrative, and this is the context within which happiness is both foretold and proleptically experienced. A People in Despair and Anticipation Luke’s portrait of a people in despair is colored with hues both intense and subtle. For example, when Simeon and Anna appear in tandem as male and female prophets, we learn that the one lived in anticipation of the restoration of Israel and the other bore witness to all those longing for Jerusalem’s liberation (2:25, 38). Because both are dressed in prophetic garb and are presented as persons

5  Cf., e. g., Richard M. Ryan and Edward L. Deci, “On Happiness and Human Potentials: A Review of Research on Hedonic and Eudaimonic Well-Being,” Annual Review of Psychology 52 (2001): 141–66; Kent C. Berridge and Morten L. Kringelbach, “Affective Neuroscience of Pleasure: Reward in Humans and Animals,” Psychopharmacology 199 (2008): 457–80.

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of exemplary piety, we are justified in evaluating their perspectives in the most positive light – indeed, in thinking that they represent the very best of Israel’s faithfulness. Perhaps even more to the point, Zechariah, whose prophetic speech is Spirit-empowered (1:67), expresses the need for a powerful savior by drawing attention to Israel’s need for “salvation from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us,” and anticipating the time when “we would be rescued from the hands of our enemies so that we could serve God without fear, in holiness and righteousness in God’s eyes, for as long as we live” (1:71, 74–75). The brush strokes of Mary’s Song are perhaps the strongest of all. She interprets the gracious, powerful work of Israel’s savior in these terms: He has shown strength with his arm.
He has scattered those with arrogant dispositions. He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty handed. (1:51–53)

Representations of imperial power are never far from the center of Luke’s mural, and these provide the immediate backdrop for his representations of Israel’s life-setting. For example, Luke devotes more space to the census mandated by Caesar Augustus than to an actual accounting of Jesus’s birth. The census is mentioned four times in 2:1–7, hammering home the significance of this registration of persons and property for purposes of enrollment for taxation. Here is a transparent reminder of the concrete reality of the overlordship of Rome, with its demand of tribute as a sign of allegiance to the emperor, which for many stood in conflict with fidelity to the God of Israel. What is more, the angel of the Lord designates Jesus’s birth as “good news,” associates his birth with earthly peace, and refers to the newborn baby as “Lord” (2:10–14). Granted that each of these terms has precedent in Israel’s Scriptures, it is also the case that they are reminiscent of imperial rule. We should think of Luke’s exploiting the social, political, and religious depth of these terms against the backdrop of both Roman imperial propaganda and Jewish hope in order to highlight the significance of this child. It is not for nothing that the narrator locates both the births of John and Jesus and the opening of John’s ministry within the politics of Rome: – “In the days of King Herod of Judea …” (1:5) – “In those days Emperor Augustus …” (2:1) – “In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, Herod was ruler of Galilee, his brother Philip was ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias was ruler of Abilene …” (3:1) Within this setting, hope is grounded in God’s mercy and memory and focused on divine intervention to set things right. As Mary’s Song has it, when God comes to the aid of Israel, God remembers his mercy, “just as he promised to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever” (1:54–55).

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The Births of John and Jesus: Happy Occasions In his appearance to the shepherds, the angel of the Lord bears witness to what happiness might look like in the mural of oppression and expectation Luke has painted: “Do not be afraid! I am bringing good news to you – wonderful, happy news for everyone: Your savior is born today in the city of David; he is Christ the Lord” (2:10–11). That is, Jesus’s birth, and John’s before him, signals a world transformation, the consequence of which is the context for renewed happiness. Given Zechariah and Elizabeth’s childlessness, and particularly the shame of childlessness that would have been Elizabeth’s lot (1:25), their pregnancy alone is a happy occasion – both for them and for their extended family and friends. Thus, Gabriel announced to Zechariah that he and Elizabeth would have a son and that “he will be a joy and delight” for them (1:14). And on the occasion of John’s birth, Elizabeth’s “neighbors and relatives celebrated with her because they had heard that the Lord had shown her his great mercy” (1:58). As Gabriel goes on to say, though, the ripple effect of John’s birth will extend much further, so that “many people will rejoice at his birth” (1:14). This is because his birth marks the coming of God to set things right, for John’s role was to prepare the way of the Lord, to begin the work of the renewal of God’s people. Mary: Exemplar of Happiness In what are otherwise scenes of joy and celebration, the place Luke carves out for Mary’s happiness is especially significant. Joy and happiness are pronounced over her and celebrated by her four times in Luke 1 and once further later in the narrative, in ch. 11. For the sake of convenience, I will take as my point of departure the brief dialogue between Jesus and an unnamed woman from the crowd regarding Mary’s status as “the blessed one,” found in 11:27–28 – a text that brings forward earlier references to Mary in the Gospel. This will allow some insight into how the fresh context generated by the coming of the Savior in Luke 1–2 marks not only a time of celebration but also portends the new order of conventions and values that determine the canons of happiness. In the midst of Jesus’s interaction with those who sought to test him in Luke 11, an unnamed woman interrupts with this declaration: “Happy is the mother who gave birth to you and who nursed you!” (v. 27). Her words bring to the surface conventional values regarding the status and role of women in a near-proverbial way. For example, Petronius had written, “How happy is the mother who gave birth to such a one as you” (Satyricon, 94.1; mid-first century CE).6 This unnamed woman’s announcement is enmeshed with two intertwined perspectives regarding women: (1) that she finds her place in traditional society in terms of her relatedness to her husband; and (2) that she finds value in childbearing  See also Ovid, Metam. 4.320–24; Gen 30:13; 49:25; 2 Bar. 54:10.

6

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and may be regarded as blessed through being the mother of a son who is granted great honor. This kind of cultural value, whereby honor is obtained through bearing children, is on display in Israel’s Scriptures too, such as in the account of the rivalry between Leah and Rachel, for whom steps on the ladder of status and happiness are counted in numbers of pregnancies (Gen 29:31–30:24). The ideal of fecundity and the value for women of bearing children were also largely taken for granted in Rome, not least so as to maintain the family name and to propagate the potency of the empire.7 Read against such a backdrop, this woman’s pronouncement of happiness seems only fitting and, one might think, marks her as a woman of keen insight into Jesus’s character. By referring to his mother in this way, has she not characterized him with high honorifics too? Jesus’s reply, though, moves in a different direction: “Happy rather are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice” (11:28). Although it is possible, grammatically, to read his words as a contradiction of the woman’s pronouncement,8 the fact that Elizabeth had spoken similar words, and done so under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit (1:41–42), makes this option doubtful. Neither is it appropriate to imagine that Luke thus narrates Jesus’s simple agreement with this woman’s assessment.9 Simply because a statement was made earlier in the narrative by a woman under the guidance of the Spirit does not mean that such a statement is incapable of further nuance. More likely is the view that the words of this woman are not altogether wrong, but need modification.10 That is, Jesus amends both her pronouncement and the pervasive cultural values to which she gives voice. He engages in cultural criticism, calling into question one of the primary means by which women would have found happiness in Luke’s world. To grasp the depth of this criticism, we might ask on what basis Mary would have been a candidate for this happy pronouncement. Luke has portrayed Mary as one who hears and reflects on the divine word, who embraces it positively, and who proclaims it in the fashion of a prophet (cf. 1:26–38, 46–55; 2:19, 51). Although Jesus’s words generalize concerning how anyone might achieve a state of happiness (“happy are those who …”), Elizabeth had already declared Mary as happy or blessed on account of her faith (1:45). Taking seriously the criterion Elizabeth and Jesus introduce is important because the alternative has the potential of restricting Mary’s happiness (and, with her, that of other women) to  7  Cf. Beryl Rawson, “The Roman Family,” in The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives, ed. Beryl Rawson (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 1–57.  8 E. g., James Malcolm Arlandson (Women, Class, and Society in Early Christianity: Models from Luke-Acts [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1997], 123–24) regards the unnamed woman as an outsider, contradicted by Jesus.  9  Contra Darrell L. Bock, Luke, 2 vols., BECNT 3 (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1994–96), 2:1094; M. Philip Scott, “A Note on the Meaning and Translation of Luke 11:28,” ITQ 41 (1974): 235–50. 10  Cf. Raymond E. Brown et al., ed., Mary in the New Testament: A Collaborative Assessment by Protestant and Roman Catholic Scholars (Philadelphia: Fortress; New York: Paulist Press, 1978), 171–72.

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her role as mother – that is, to the fruitfulness of her belly and breasts.11 Jesus’s beatitude thus allows no room for conventional notions of happiness in God’s economy, for his message works to construct a new world that undermines present conventions. Mary’s happiness is not simply the consequence of the promise of motherhood. What, then, is its basis? To this question, Luke’s answer is as profound as it is subtle. Unlike Luke’s introduction of other characters in the birth narratives – Zechariah, Elizabeth, Joseph, Simeon, and Anna – in the case of Mary we find no prefatory hints of family pedigree or unassailable character (cf. 1:5–7, 27; 2:4, 25–27, 36–7), both typical measures of social standing in most any world. These are conspicuously absent in the case of Mary. She is presented as a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, not yet or only recently having achieved puberty, resident in an insignificant town far removed from the Jewish and Roman centers of power and purity. Her family of origin is never mentioned. She is betrothed to Joseph but has not yet joined his household and, thus, has no claims to his status. In fact, she is not introduced in any way that would commend her to us as one particularly noteworthy or deserving of honor. Yet she is granted the highest status allocated anyone within this narrative, an honorable greeting by the archangel of the Lord, and an invitation both to celebrate and to participate in the realization of God’s saving purpose. As Mary herself states, God has looked on her lowly position with the result that all generations will recognize her happiness; indeed, in the depths of her inner being, Mary herself knows happiness on account of the Savior God (1:47–48). Here already is the inversion of the social realities of the world Mary occupies. Luke has begun the process of undercutting the conventions of happiness that characterize his world. In these ways, Luke has begun to cultivate an understanding of happiness congruent with the changing of the times announced in these first chapters of his narrative.

Earthly Unhappiness – Heavenly Happiness (Luke 15) Luke 15 presents a tightly organized contrast between two ways of construing the world, documented in the juxtaposition of unhappy Pharisees and legal experts in 15:1–2 and repeated references to happiness throughout the remainder of the chapter (15:5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 23, 24, 29, 32). This last list of texts culminates in a declaration of the necessity of happiness when the dead are returned to life and the lost are found: “We had to celebrate and rejoice!” (15:32). The opening of this scene in 15:1–2 makes it clear that the subject of concern is Jesus’s table habits, 11 This is noted by Luise Schottroff, Let the Oppressed Go Free: Feminist Perspectives on the New Testament, GBT (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 116.

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and particularly the question of table companions: “All the tax collectors and sinners gathered around Jesus to hear him, but the Pharisees and legal experts were grumbling, ‘This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.’ ” In this way Luke introduces yet again the concern that occupies him throughout this larger section of the Gospel, which runs from 13:10 to 17:10: Who will participate in the kingdom of God? “Will only a few people be saved?” A bystander addresses this question to Jesus during his long journey up to Jerusalem (13:23). Rather than tallying the number of those who would be saved, Jesus focuses instead on the number of those who would be disqualified: “Make every effort to enter through the narrow gate,” he replies. “Many, I tell you, will want to enter and won’t be able to” (13:24). Ultimately, end-time curiosity about “how many” turns into a call to demonstrate in the present that one is well-suited for future salvation. Jesus’s response turns to the end-time meal, when “people will come from east and west, north and south, and sit down to eat in God’s kingdom” (13:29). He thus builds on the longstanding notion that the consummation of the kingdom is a great feast (e. g., Isa 25:6–9; 55:1–2; 65:13–14; Zech 1:7). In the world of Luke more generally, meals played a further role. Sharing bread signified acceptance, hospitality entailed the offer of friendship, and people were united in goodwill and camaraderie at the dinner table. The intersection of these ways of understanding meals is striking because Jesus clearly anticipates the inclusion of gentiles at the end-time banquet, as though Jesus expected that Abraham would extend hospitality even to them. Isaiah had promised as much, observing that, in the end-time, all the nations will exult, “Let us celebrate and rejoice in our salvation” (Isa 25:9). The combination of table and kingdom resurfaces in Luke 14, where Jesus’s teaching on eating habits and dining invitations is interrupted by another onlooker: “Happy are those who will eat bread in God’s kingdom!” (14:15). “Yes,” we can almost hear Jesus say, “but who will eat the kingdom bread?” Who participates in the kingdom of God? This is important because Jesus has just pulled the rug out from under two taken-for-granted aspects of the wider world. The first is the importance of social status and social stratification, the maintenance and broadcasting of one’s relative prestige in the community. The second is the gift-and-obligation system that tied together every person – slave or free, male or female, emperor or child – into an intricate web of reciprocal relations. Jesus turns upside down practices tied to these social conventions through his teaching in 14:7–14 about finding one’s place at the table and invitation lists. Clearly, Jesus has a different understanding of meals and dining conventions than those shared by his contemporaries. Meals, in his view, were opportunities for the extension of mercy to the hungry and hospitality to the outsider, without reference to the enhancement of one’s prestige. They were gifts to be given, without strings attached. In 14:16–24, Jesus goes so far as to relate the story of a wealthy householder who models this instruction by extending hospitality to the blind, the lame, the

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crippled, and the poor. The wealthy householder does not enhance his prestige, nor does his action provide him with monetary or social reward. Instead, he has embraced an altogether different social order in which the community of God’s people is founded in gracious, uncalculating hospitality. Jesus’s instruction at the table revolves around the related motifs of table fellowship, celebration with shared meals, and the extension of hospitality. Compared to conventions held by many of his contemporaries, though, his message calls for a tectonic shift in how happiness is measured. As we will see, this shift is itself grounded in his understanding of God’s character and purpose. It is not too much to say that Jesus’s practices and instruction reflect God’s own practices. Jesus urges happiness at a table shared with the poor, the crippled, the blind, the lame – and, indeed, with tax collectors and sinners – because God himself is happy to welcome such people to salvation’s banquet table. Conversion to such ways of thinking, believing, feeling, and behaving is hard, and it is obvious with the beginning of Luke 15 that, thus far, the Pharisees and legal experts have been blind and deaf to Jesus’s example and instruction. Hence, they “were grumbling, ‘This man welcomes sinners and eats with them’ ” (v. 2). Here is evidence of Jesus’s unequivocal rejection of widespread, contemporary interests and norms. Evident, too, is that Jesus has created a problem for himself. His own practices at the table have begun to shape a community whose existence and openness to the least and left-out of society raise an unflattering, even threatening voice against the attitudes and practices embraced by his adversaries. Jesus has a lot to answer for, and the parables of Luke 15 are cast as his defense of the nature of his entire ministry. In fact, in the parables of the lost sheep, lost coin, and lost son, Jesus highlights the disposition of his own ministry as the necessary complement to God’s own character. To put it differently, Jesus raises the stakes in his encounter with these legal experts and Pharisees. The positive response of tax collectors and sinners as they gather around Jesus constitutes a restoration of the lost that results in heavenly joy and calls for earthly celebration, including feasting at the common table. In welcoming such persons as these social and religious outcasts to the table, Jesus is only giving expression to God’s expansive grace and inviting earthbound tables to mirror the divine table. By calling Jesus’s behavior into question, then, these legal experts and Pharisees have actually called into question God’s character – at least, that is the way Jesus presents things. There is an obvious parallelism among these three parables, even though the third, concerning the lost son, is more complex. Each follows a threefold pattern: something is lost, what is lost is found, the finding of the lost results is the occasion of heavenly and earthly happiness. Recovery of what was lost leads to joyous repast (see vv. 6, 9, 23–24, 27). It is easy to discern the psychological and relational aspects of happiness in these texts, but we must also see that these are

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themselves reflections of God’s own happiness; in fact, the father elevates such joyous celebration to the level of divine necessity (see vv. 7, 10, 32).12 Why should Jesus focus in this way on response? Recall that Luke 13–17 repeatedly underscores the importance of the boundaries of the people of God, with Pharisees, legal experts, the wealthy, and those who act like them excluding those who live on or beyond the social and religious margins of community life. For his part, though, Jesus has repeatedly surprised his audiences by his list of guests. Who will sit down at the table of the kingdom banquet? Not those who assumed that the end-time banquet was included among their just deserts – not the “first,” but the “last.” Who should one invite to one’s luncheons? Not those whose very presence at the table might bolster one’s status in the community. Not those capable of reciprocating with invitations of their own. But the marginal, the crippled, the blind, the lame, and others whose diseased state and low status had relegated them to life beyond the walls of the community. Use what you have to include peripheral folk among your closest friends, Jesus advises, so that you may be welcomed into eternal homes (16:1–9). Care for those like Lazarus – that beggar covered with sores whose hunger and sorry state place him at risk from the rogue dogs that patrol the village streets – and so hear and heed Moses and the prophets (16:19–31). The father of Jesus’s third parable models appropriate response. He looks on the young man returning to his former household with compassion. His responses are all emblematic of the honorable restoration to the family of this one who had snubbed, abandoned, and cut himself off from them. Running through the middle of the village, kissing the boy again and again as a sign of reconciliation and forgiveness, instructing the servants to dress his son in a manner befitting a king, and throwing a feast large enough for the whole village – these behaviors give expression to depth and breadth of heart that can only signal restoration and reconciliation. Within the Third Gospel, this can only mean that this father has adopted a renewed set of commitments and attitudes grounded in God’s own character. His practices of hospitality reflect the very image of God that Jesus has articulated in word and deed throughout the Gospel. Those who believe – those who really believe – that God is the gracious Father whose beneficence is turned toward his people are liberated to give freely even to those who have no claim on our love or care (cf. 12:32–34). In contrast, the elder son responds with anger and refuses to join the gala. Like the Pharisees and scribes who grumble about Jesus’s table fellowship with tax collectors and sinners, he stands outside the house and complains. Though he has counted his father’s estate as his place of dwelling, he has learned little 12  In each case, Luke uses the term δεῖ, which typically refers to “divine necessity” within the narrative of Luke-Acts. See already Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke (London: SCM, 1960), 151–54; Charles H. Cosgrove, “The Divine Δεῖ in Luke-Acts,” NovT 26 (1984): 168–90.

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about his father or from his father. In his behavior toward this fellow, his former brother who had cut himself off from his family so dramatically, he exhibits his own need for revitalization. His commitments have him predisposed in all the wrong ways. Although his behavior makes perfect sense in the world in which he lives, they are markedly out of step with the life-world Jesus’s ministry parades. Jesus, indicted for his receptivity to those who have come near to hear and heed his words, thus responds by asserting the divine necessity of joyous responses to the recovery of the lost. Just as God finds happiness in the discovery and return of what was lost, so do God’s people. Like the father of this parable, Jesus recognizes the gravity of receiving as a table intimate the lost who are recovered – whether the lost come in the guise of a son whose behavior has divorced him from his family or of those identified by social and religious conventions as beyond the reach of divine grace. “But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. You will be happy! Because they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous” (14:13–14). “We had to celebrate and rejoice! Your brother was dead but has returned to life! He was lost and has been found” (15:32). Jesus’s parable is cast in the form of a defense, but it is also a challenge and invitation. Will these Pharisees and legal experts embrace this renewed image of God? Will they so identify with God’s character and purpose that they are willing to join with sinners at the table? Will they accept as members of God’s family those whom God accepts? Will they share God’s happiness? Luke tells us neither how the elder son finally responded, nor how the legal experts and Pharisees responded. The parable is open-ended, and so is the invitation. In Luke 15, then, we find in narrative form a presentation of an order of things that bears immediately on how a people might organize and interpret its experience. Jesus has pulled back the veil on God’s character – and, then, for those with ears to hear and eyes to see, he has pulled back the veil on what really is. Happiness is grounded in growing conformity to the character of this God, so that one’s inclinations and behaviors are reflections of his. Internalization and assimilation of these dispositions is elemental to the flourishing and contentment associated with kingdom happiness. Taking seriously the wider context within which Luke 15 appears, we can see how reality as Jesus interprets it is both a sign and foretaste of the eschatological reality, just as table fellowship in the present was for him a sign and foretaste of the kingdom banquet. Literarily and theologically, this is known as backshadowing. In backshadowing, we have glimpses of a future – in this case, God’s future – that casts its shadow back on the present. These give us a sense of God’s aims for the future and, in this way, show us what is of real consequence in the present. These visions of the future not only lay a claim on our lives but also materialize around us as we order our lives in accordance with them. The end points the way

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forward but also draws us forward into it, and in this way the end determines the character of well-being in the present. This is true in the Third Gospel, as we have seen, but it also extends into the second part of Luke’s narrative, the Acts of the Apostles. There we find joy in restoration and health, celebration at a shared table and related expressions of hospitality, and rejoicing at the inclusion of gentiles among God’s people (e. g., Acts 2:46; 3:8–9; 8:8; 13:52; 15:3; 16:34) – all of which are responses congruent with God’s own initiative and joy.

Happy Dispositions (Luke 6) Contemporary readers of Luke’s series of blessings in 6:20–22 are likely to be reminded of its perhaps more famous cousin, the beatitudes in Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, in Matt 5:3–12. The more immediate framework for grappling with Luke’s list is the Lukan narrative itself, which presents two features that distinguish Luke’s version from Matthew’s. The first is that Luke’s version sets out a series of blessings and corresponding woes: Jesus raised his eyes to his disciples and said, “Happy are you who are poor, because God’s kingdom is yours. Happy are you who hunger now, because you will be satisfied. Happy are you who weep now, because you will laugh. Happy are you when people hate you, reject you, insult you, and slander you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice when that happens! Leap for joy because you have a great reward in heaven. Their ancestors did the same things to the prophets. But how terrible for you who are rich, because you have already received your comfort. How terrible for you who have plenty now, because you will be hungry. How terrible for you who laugh now, because you will weep and cry. How terrible for you when everyone speaks well of you. Their ancestors did the same things to the false prophets.” (Luke 6:20–26)

Reading these blessings (“Happy are you!”) alongside their counterparts, the woes (“How terrible for you!”) reminds Luke’s readers of a relatively stable set of elements that appear throughout the Lukan narrative, by which Luke portrays a topos of reversal. This is the second of the two features that distinguish Luke’s version from Matthew’s. Topos refers to a relatively consistent set of motifs that recur in a narrative. In this case, a topos of reversal refers to the transposition of peoples’ fortunes as a consequence of the unveiling of God’s kingdom in Jesus’s mission and message. A list of reversal texts would include, for example, Jesus’s instructions regarding table fellowship (14:7–24), the story of the rich man and Lazarus (16:19–31), and the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector (18:9–14). Programmatic in this regard is the reversal proclaimed in Mary’s Song (1:46–55): “He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty-handed” (1:52–53). Most

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significant of all, though, would be the reversal sounded in Luke’s account of the exaltation of the crucified Jesus (Luke 22–24), summarized in Peter’s address in Jerusalem early in Acts: “You rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked to have a murderer given to you. You put to death the author of life, whom God raised from the dead” (Acts 3:14–15). For interpretive help, we should also notice how well integrated the language of Luke 6:20–26 is with earlier material in the Third Gospel. Jesus’s blessings and woes echo Mary’s Song, for example: “happy” (see 1:45, 48; 6:20–22), “hungry” versus “filled” (1:53; 6:21, 25), and “rich” (1:53; 6:24). Likewise, in Jesus’s inaugural address (4:18–19), he promised “good news to the poor” while using language similar to his words here at the outset of the Sermon on the Plain. That is, images of salvation declared in Mary’s Song to have accompanied Jesus’s birth are now repeated and embraced by Jesus as he sets out his understanding of the eschatological reality present in his mission. Luke’s series of blessings is distinguished from its cousin in Matt 5 in yet one more way. In Matthew, pronouncements are made in the third person: “Happy are those who ….” For Luke, however, pronouncements of both happiness and judgment are in the second person: “Happy are you who ….” This immediately raises the question: Who is the “you” to whom Jesus has addressed these declarations? We might be tempted to say that Jesus’s pronouncements of happiness are aimed at his disciples. This is a happy thought (!), of course, but it does not make sense of the fact that Luke gives us no indication at all that one set of pronouncements is aimed at one group, with the other aimed at another. Instead, both blessings and woes seem to be pronounced over the same people. How can we make sense of this? Clearly, in this opening to the Sermon on the Plain, Jesus is asking his audience to make a decision. That is, he is calling on his listeners to identify themselves either as the poor (the marginal, those who have not and do without, those lacking a good name and the power that comes with it) or as the rich (the inner circle, those with power and prestige, the well fed, the secure). He is not asking whether some in his audience feel happiness. Happiness is not a fleeting condition based on one’s good fortune. Rather, as Jesus defines life’s working assumptions and the values that shape day-to-day life before God, he speaks to the dispositions out of which people live their lives. He addresses the patterns of thinking, feeling, behaving, and believing that shape how people experience day-to-day life. Under the category of “happy” he locates the dispositions of those who have embraced life away from the corridors of power and privilege, a life of dependence, a life whose service in God’s kingdom has as its corollary misunderstanding, disappointment, and even harassment from those who have not embraced God’s kingdom. In this sense, the blessings and woes in Luke 6 are not so much prescriptive as they are ascriptive. That is, they relate not so much how things ought to be as how things in fact are. They define the life-world disclosed in the coming of Jesus.

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To be sure, it is a topsy-turvy world when, for example, the poor can be declared “happy” rather than “down on their luck” or even “cursed.” But this only underscores the degree to which Jesus’s vision of the world is eschatological – not a vision of life relegated to a future bliss, but to the present disclosure of God’s kingdom. Jesus’s message is thus an invitation to align oneself with the valuation of things characteristic of God’s kingdom, and so to embrace ways of being in the world congruent with the end. Accordingly, Jesus’s blessings and woes signal a vocation to embody God’s salvation, at the same time that they communicate hope to people whose lives are eked out on the frontiers of socioreligious acceptance: the demonized, tax collectors, women, lepers, sinners, and so on. These types are held at arm’s length in the status-minded world of everyday life determined by generally recognized social conventions, but in the world disclosed in Jesus’s ministry and message, they are not only tolerated but celebrated. What is more, those who appear to live “the happy life” in the present – they are rich, they have plenty, they laugh, they have good reputations – that is, those who measure the goodness of their lives according to the now-outdated order of things – will be caught unawares. As Father Abraham explained to the rich man in Jesus’s story, “Child, remember: you received good things during your lifetime, but Lazarus received dreadful things. But now Lazarus is comforted, and you are in agony” (16:25). If we were to expand our search for blessings and woes in the Lukan narrative, what we have begun to see would be highlighted all the more, and our understanding of the nature of the happy life  – and its opposite, the life on which judgment is pronounced  – would be thickened. Thus, for example, happiness is grounded not in one’s rank or one’s power, not even in one’s power over demons, but in having a share in eternal life (10:17). Happiness is the experience of those whose eyes have been opened to see the significance of Jesus’s mission as the disclosure of God’s royal rule (10:23–24). Happy are those engaged in the seemingly pedestrian activity of fulfilling their responsibilities in this life, rather than taking advantage of the apparent absence of divine judgment by oppressing or mistreating those under their care (12:37, 38, 43). Those who practice self-indulgence and give themselves to amassing more for themselves may think they are happy, but in fact they stand under divine judgment (12:15–21; cf. 16:19–31). And those who live their lives to gain recognition from others and so fail to practice God’s justice and love – they are the antithesis of happy people (11:42–52). Again, everything depends on how one measures happiness. Good food and plenty of it, fine clothes, a good name in the community, and a secure financial future – who could be happier? In fact, according to conventional standards at work in Luke’s world, these were elements of the happy life. That Jesus says the opposite is not an indicator of how out of touch with reality Luke’s account might be. It is, rather, an indicator of the degree to which Luke’s Gospel draws on and calls for an alternative construal of reality. Salvation has come. Here comes God’s kingdom! And nothing can be the same.

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Conclusion In this essay I have been concerned especially with the Gospel of Luke, the first half of Luke’s two-part narrative. It is here that we find the conditions for happiness most on display. Luke’s vocabulary of happiness is diverse, including especially the language of joy, celebration, and blessing. Although this language is scattered through the narrative, happiness comes into particular focus in three sections of the Gospel. In Luke 1–2, the births of John and Jesus are happy occasions that warrant celebration not only for their parents and immediate circle of family and friends, as would be expected, but for all people. As the angel announces to the shepherds after Jesus is born: “I am bringing good news to you – wonderful, happy news for everyone: Your savior is born today in the city of David; he is Christ the Lord” (2:10–11). The times have changed and, with them, what constitutes and cultivates happiness. The contest over what constitutes and cultivates happiness breaks out into the open most vividly in Luke 15. Here Jesus’s pattern of behavior is criticized by Pharisees and legal experts. They are unhappy with Jesus for his table fellowship with such outcasts as tax collectors and sinners. Jesus responds with three parables describing the finding of something lost – a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son. The punch line comes at the end of each of these parables, where Jesus observes that celebration at the table is the appropriate response because it mirrors heavenly celebration. Ought not human happiness to be grounded in and to reflect God’s own happiness? Finally, Luke 6:20–26 is the focal point for what I have called “happy dispositions” – that is, the dispositions of those over whom happiness thus defined is pronounced. The particular way that Jesus’s message is framed in Luke 6 clarifies the degree to which happiness is a choice. This is not because people go in search of happiness, but rather because God describes as happy those who fully align themselves with God’s royal rule revealed in the mission and message of Jesus. The perspective we have developed underscores the degree to which Luke sees happiness not as the goal of living but as the outcome or byproduct of living in harmony with the way things are. Of course, “the way things are” is itself perspectival and it is clear that not everyone will see it the way Luke does. This is true already within the narrative itself, as Jesus engages his adversaries on questions related to what it might mean genuinely to serve God’s kingdom. Luke’s contribution, then, lies especially in his narrative articulation of the context within which the happy life might be understood. This context is defined by God’s eschatological intervention to bring salvation in all its fullness to all and, then, by the invitation to persons to order their lives accordingly. With Jesus’s advent, death, and exaltation the times have changed; those who orient their lives to the divine purpose disclosed in Jesus will experience the pleasure and meaningfulness associated with human flourishing within this eschatologically determined world.

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From “John’s Baptism” to “Baptism in the Name of the Lord Jesus”: The Significance of Baptism in Luke-Acts* What is the significance of baptism for Luke-Acts? This is a crucial question, given the pride of place the Acts of the Apostles has occupied in discussions of baptism in the twentieth century,1 but it is also a knotty one. Given its variegated nature, it has not been easy to resolve the evidence into a consistent pattern. Most readers of Luke-Acts have regarded Peter’s instructions in Acts 2:38 – “Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit”– as paradigmatic for Luke’s theology of baptism in the book of Acts.2 Even this verse has not escaped controversy, however,3 and attempts to read the remainder of the data in Acts within the interpretive horizons it provides have immediately brought to the surface apparent exceptions to the rule, especially the accounts in 8:4–25 and 19:1–7.4 * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “From ‘John’s Baptism’ to ‘Baptism in the Name of the Lord Jesus’: The Significance of Baptism in Luke-Acts,” in Baptism, the New Testament and the Church: Historical and Contemporary Studies in Honour of R. E. O. White, ed. Stanley E. Porter and Anthony R. Cross, JSNTSup 171 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press [an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.], 1999), 157–72. Used with permission. 1  See such earlier treatments as, e. g., Oscar Cullmann, Baptism in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1950); George R. Beasley-Murray, Baptism in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1962); and, more recently, e. g., Gerhard Barth, Die Taufe in frühchristlicher Zeit, BibThSt 4 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981); Geoffrey Wainwright, “Baptism, Baptism Rites,” in DLNTD 112–25. 2 Max Turner’s treatment of Acts 2:38 as normative is representative (Power from on High: The Spirit in Israel’s Restoration and Witness in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 9 [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996], e. g., 397–98). Unless otherwise indicated, translations of biblical texts follow the NRSV. 3  See, e. g., J. C. Davis, “Another Look at the Relationship between Baptism and Forgiveness of Sins in Acts 2:38,” ResQ 24 (1981): 80–88; Luther B. McIntyre Jr., “Baptism and Forgiveness in Acts 2:38,” BibSac 153 (1996): 53–62; Lanny Thomas Tanton, “The Gospel and Water Baptism: A Study of Acts 2:38,” JGES 3 (1990): 27–52. 4  The literature is voluminous  – e. g., N. Adler, Taufe und Handauflegung: Eine exegetisch-­ theologische Untersuchung (Münster: Aschendorff, 1951); C. K. Barrett, “Apollos and the Twelve Disciples of Ephesus,” in The New Testament Age: Essays in Honor of Bo Reicke, 2 vols., ed. William C. Weinrich (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1984), 1:29–39; Beasley-Murray, Baptism, 93–125; Schuyler Brown, “ ‘Water Baptism’ and ‘Spirit Baptism’ in Luke-Acts,” ATR 59 (1977): 135–51; Ellen Juhl Christiansen, “Taufe als Initiation in der Apostelgeschichte,” ST 40 (1986): 55–79; A. Andrew Das, “Acts 8: Water, Baptism, and the Spirit,” ConcJ 19 (1993): 108–34;

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In this essay, I will argue that previous study of the baptism-motif in Acts has reached this quagmire largely on methodological grounds and, therefore, that the way forward is marked by the appropriation of a different way of construing the problem. More specifically, study of baptism in Acts has suffered because of a tendency to treat Luke5 like a systematician – organizing his references to baptism into a single, coherent “theology of baptism” that must then posit a struggle between Luke’s “rule” and the “exceptions” he allows. Those who practice redaction criticism, even when they do not fall prey to the problems of the earlier “biblical theology,” have tended to work without serious recourse to the way the Lukan narrative unfolds for the reader, a particularly debilitating maneuver when it is accompanied by the widespread tendency to ignore the perspective on baptism first developed in Luke’s first volume, the Third Gospel;6 in fact, previous study has tended to treat John’s baptism in Luke 3 as an item for discussion separate from baptism in the Acts of the Apostles. A discourse-oriented approach,7 one that correlates narrative‑ and culture-critical issues, moves us beyond the old debate toward a more coherent portrait of baptism in the Lukan narrative – one that helps to account for the apparent variety of data on the topic and that has provocative, contemporary relevance. In particular, we will show that the “standard” for baptism in Acts is provided first not by Peter in Acts 2:38, but by John the Baptist in Luke 3. The contours of John’s values and practices as they relate James D. G.  Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit: A Re-examination of the New Testament Teaching on the Gift of the Spirit in Relation to Pentecostalism Today (London: SCM, 1970), 55–72, 90–102; Gordon D. Fee, “Baptism in the Holy Spirit: The Issue of Separability and Subsequence,” Pneuma 7 (1985): 87–99; Lloyd David Franklin, “Spirit-Baptism: Pneumatological Continuance,” RevExp 94 (1997): 15–30; Lars Hartman, “Into the Name of the Lord Jesus”: Baptism in the Early Church, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 127–45; Robert P. Menzies, Empowered for Witness: The Spirit in Luke-Acts, JPTSup 6 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 202–25; Robert F. O’Toole, “Christian Baptism in Luke,” RevRel 39 (1980): 855–66; J. E. L. Oulton, “The Holy Spirit, Baptism, and Laying on of Hands,” ExpTim 66 (1955): 236–40; F. Scott Spencer, The Portrait of Philip in Acts: A Study of Roles and Relations, JSNTSup 67 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), esp. 211–41. 5  Whatever one makes of the actual author of Luke-Acts, in this essay I refer to “Luke” as its narrator. Additionally, contra Mikeal C. Parsons and Richard I. Pervo (Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993]), this essay proceeds on the assumption of the narrative and theological unity of Luke-Acts (from different perspectives, cf. Robert F. O’Toole, The Unity of Luke’s Theology: An Analysis of Luke-Acts, GNS 9 [Wilmington, DE: Glazier, 1984]; Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997], 1–25). 6  See the helpful remarks, with reference to redaction and narrative criticism of the Gospel of Matthew, in Mark Allan Powell, “Toward a Narrative-Critical Understanding of Matthew,” in Gospel Interpretation: Narrative-Critical and Social-Scientific Approaches, ed. Jack Dean Kingsbury (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1997), 9–15 (esp. 12). 7 On which see Joel B. Green, “Discourse Analysis and New Testament Interpretation,” in Hearing the New Testament: Strategies for Interpretation, ed. Joel B. Green (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 175–96; more broadly, cf. Robert de Beaugrande, “Discourse – 1: Discourse Analysis” (207–10) and George L. Dillon, “Discourse – 2: Discourse Theory” (210–12), in The Johns Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory and Criticism, ed. Michael Groden and Martin Kreiswirth (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994).

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to baptism very much set the agenda for what follows in the Lukan narrative. Of course, this thesis raises a pivotal question: If the baptism of John sets the pattern for how baptism will be understood throughout Luke-Acts  – both for John’s ministry and for Christian experience – what distinguishes John’s baptism from that of the early church as this is portrayed in Acts? As we will see, the answer to this question is fundamentally christological and pneumatological, with the result that this inquiry into the significance Luke attributes to baptism will participate cursorily in the ongoing discussion of Luke’s understanding of the role of the Holy Spirit. Three interrelated questions thus present themselves: How might discourse theory contribute to study of the Lukan narrative? What is the substance of the “baptism of John” according to Luke (and what importance does this have for “Christian” baptism)? What, then, is baptism “in the name of Jesus,” according to the Third Evangelist?

Discourse Theory and Some Interpretive Landmarks Discourse analysis, the study of “language in use,” brings to the surface at least four issues whose status is crucial for our enterprise. (1) Discourse analysis assumes the normality of the world – in other words, that what is about to happen will be consistent with what has been experienced as typical, and therefore that interruptions to familiar patterns will be marked as such. With respect to a narrative, what is normal will be derived in part from the presuppositions brought to the generative and interpretive tasks and in part from the unfolding world of the narrative. This emphasis on normality also means that the natural effort of an audience (in this case, Luke’s audience) is to attribute coherence to Luke’s narrative unless it is forced to infer otherwise. Even in those cases where a change in normal practice is perceived, the analysis of “language in use” presumes that change to be minimal.8 With respect to the study of baptism in Luke-Acts, this implies that we adopt a bias toward regularity in Luke’s portrait, that our perceptions of incoherence ought to push us toward further efforts at discerning coherence, and that we not attempt to explain alleged incoherence with immediate recourse to theories of competing sources or charges of incompetence on Luke’s part.9 (2) Crucial to discourse analysis is the concept of “presupposition pools” – those pools of knowledge one assumes on the part of one’s audience. Presuppo8 See the helpful discussion in Gillian Brown and George Yule, Discourse Analysis, CTL (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 58–67. 9  See, however, J. C. O’Neill, “The Connection between Baptism and the Gift of the Spirit in Acts,” JSNT 63 (1996): 87–103; his treatment of Acts 19:1–7 accords privilege to the discernment of independent sources and to text-critical conjecture.

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sitions derive partially from one’s experience before and outside of the text, but these are sometimes negated, reformed, and/or replaced by a narrative text, and always expanded as the narrative unfolds. Privilege of meaning is consequently allocated to the lexicon that is supported by and developed within the narrative as one proceeds in the narrative from start to finish. What comes before constrains the possible meaning of what comes after, within the text. Assuming at the very least that Acts is the sequel to the Third Gospel, this requires that “baptism” as this is portrayed in Luke 3:1–20 figure prominently in our analysis of baptism in Acts  – a predisposition that is supported by repeated references to “John’s baptism” in Acts. As we will observe, for Luke “Christian” baptism is certainly no less than John’s baptism in its claims and significance. This also entails taking with the greatest seriousness the pattern-setting words of Peter in Acts 2:38 – so that even when Luke does not enumerate each item of human response and salvific promise comprised in Peter’s pronouncement (and Luke rarely does), those responses and salvific gifts are to be presumed present unless we are given explicit reason to think otherwise.10 (3) According to discourse analysis, the process of meaning-making depends on the recognition of “intertextual frames.” We make sense of the Lukan portrait of baptism in Acts on the basis of what we have seen and heard before.11 Sometimes “what we have seen and heard before” consists of evidence internal to Luke-Acts; hence, for example, we read the accounts of baptism in Acts 8 or Acts 10 or Acts 19 against the horizons of baptismal references in Acts 1 or Luke 7 or Luke 3. Especially for the Lukan narrative, which is so pervasively inscribed into the LXX, external frames are also operative. Pertinent evidence from the LXX cannot be overlooked, and if we knew more of the Jewish precedents for John’s baptism12 or of baptism among Luke’s audience this would also be useful. (4) It follows, too, that discourse analysis is concerned with the purposeful nature of language-in-use, and thus with the cognitive, affective, and volitional reception of discourse. At one level, discourse theorists would be concerned with how persons within the narrative respond to the message of baptism. At another level, the question arises: What responses might Luke’s narrative (and in particular his perspective on baptism) effect among his audience? In narrative texts, which invite readerly identification with characters within the text, these two horizons often merge. The urgency of response is eloquently conveyed, for example, by the division of persons on the basis of their comportment vis-à-vis John’s  This point has been helpfully made by O’Toole, “Christian Baptism.”

10

11 See Deborah Tannen, “What’s in a Frame? Surface Evidence for Underlying Expectations,”

in Framing in Discourse, ed. Deborah Tannen (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 14–56. 12  Our conundrum is typified by the competing conclusions reached in two recent examinations of the evidence – Robert L. Webb, John the Baptizer and Prophet: A Socio-Historical Study, JSNTSup 62 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), esp. 96–162; Joan E. Taylor, The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism, SHJ (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), esp. 15–100.

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baptism: Some thus “justify God” (i. e., demonstrate the truth of God’s redemptive project) while others “reject God’s purpose for themselves” (Luke 7:29–30). Although other interpretive avenues might be opened through further consideration of the potential contribution of discourse theory to Luke’s portrait of baptism, enough has been said to establish a research agenda of sorts. In particular, we have seen the import of beginning an exploration of baptism in Acts with an examination of the baptism of John. As we turn to this issue, we will see how the narrative of Acts actually invites such an interpretive point of departure.

The Archetypal Role of John’s Baptism The Puzzle of John’s Baptism Nothing in the Synoptic Tradition, nor in the NT as a whole, prepares us for the place of John, and especially his baptism, in the Lukan narrative. The fact that we actually gain in Luke some hint of the content of John’s message, beyond its characterization as one of repentance and his anticipation of the Messiah, is almost beside the point. More consequential is the extraordinary parallelism Luke develops between John and Jesus in 1:5–2:52,13 and the continued evidence of John’s influence in Acts. Also of consequence in exhibiting the central role of John in Luke’s narrative is Luke 7:29–30, which points to the division of Israel with respect to John’s mission, correlating refusal of John’s baptism with rejection of God’s purpose. In Acts, the baptism of John is highlighted in 1:5, 22; 10:37; 11:16–18; 13:24– 25; 18:24–26; and 19:1–7. What purpose do these continued references serve? At one level, they evidence what is for Luke the extensive base and influence of John’s ministry and serve in some fashion to name the baptism of John as a precursor for the work of the Messiah. More specifically, within the Lukan narrative, this form of internal repetition signals a form of parodic interplay – mapping distinction in the midst of similarity – within Luke’s understanding of baptism.14 Continued references to the baptism of John indicate how highly esteemed was the ministry of John (cf. Luke 7:18–35; 20:1–7), while hammering away at the continuity from John’s baptism to baptism among Jesus’s disciples in Acts.15 Difference is signaled, too, as we shall see below. 13 This parallelism has been noted often, but not with respect to the whole of the Lukan birth narrative – on which see Joel B. Green, The Theology of the Gospel of Luke, NTT (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 51–55. 14  This understanding of “parody” is borrowed from Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (New York: Routledge, 1988), 124–40. 15  It is difficult to understand, then, why James B. Shelton asserts that Luke deemphasizes John’s role as baptizer (Mighty in Word and Deed: The Role of the Holy Spirit in Luke-Acts [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991], 42).

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The Baptism of John in Luke 3:1–20 The ministry of John in the wilderness is rich with significance – partially due to the many scriptural and covenantal motifs that reverberate in Luke’s account, partially on account of the association of John’s activity with Second Temple Jewish motifs of new exodus and divine deliverance, and partially because of the high degree to which this précis of his ministry has been anticipated and interpreted in the opening chapter of the Third Gospel. In Luke’s portrayal, the ingredients of John’s ministry – proclamation, repentance, and forgiveness – come to expression centrally in the baptism of John. The current lack of scholarly consensus concerning the immediate precedents of John’s baptism within Judaism does not detract from a striking point of similarity. This is the metaphorical role of water as a human cleansing agent, leading to the correlation of washing and ethical comportment.16 According to the Lukan account, what interpretive aspects of John’s baptismal practices surface as especially critical? (1) Perhaps most obviously, John’s baptism is a “repentance baptism” in which cleansing and moral uprightness are tied together. Submitting to baptism, persons indicated their surrender to God’s will – thus reorienting their lives around the divine aim and professing their renewed, fundamental allegiance to God’s purpose. According to the model proposed by Arnold van Gennep,17 people thus participated in a ritual of initiation the result of which was identification within a new community marked by a transformed social network and group-sanctioned practices. Later references highlight the pivotal role of repentance/embracing God’s will in John’s baptismal ministry (cf. Luke 7:29–30; Acts 13:24; 19:4). For John, repentance is a thoroughgoing realignment with God’s purpose that blossoms in repentance-appropriate behavior  – “fruits worthy of repentance” – that demonstrate one’s genuine kinship with Abraham (Luke 3:7–9). In the examples of response provided by Luke, repentance is evidenced especially in one’s socio-economic relations. Extra food and clothing, possessions that lift one beyond subsistence – these are to be deployed on behalf of those in need, as though they were members of one’s extended family. Even toll collectors and soldiers are to demonstrate their alignment with God’s aim in this way, by reflecting God’s justice in their refusal to participate in economic misappropriation or to use their positions of power to manipulate others. (2) John’s message had a prophetic edge, according to which he challenged persons to put aside competing loyalties and align themselves fully with the divine purpose, but he also held out the promise of deliverance and restoration in the forgiveness of sins. Inasmuch as forgiveness was the means by which persons  Cf. Lev 14–15; Isa 1:16–17; Zech 13:1; Jub. 1:22–25; Sib. Or. 4.162–70; 1QS 3:6–9.  Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1960); cf. the helpful discussion of this and related issues in Christiansen, “Taufe als Initiation.” 16 17

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who had excluded themselves or been excluded from the community of God’s people might (re)gain entry into the community, the promise of forgiveness has an obvious social dimension. More important still is the centrality of divine forgiveness to the restoration of Israel in contemporary Jewish thought. (3) This means that John’s baptismal ministry was very much about the character and reformation of the people of God. Indeed, by addressing the Jewish crowds as he does (3:7–9), John clarifies his understanding that the definition of God’s people would not be worked out along ethnic lines. That category of people known as “children of Abraham” comprised those who demonstrate their full embrace of God’s project through “fruits worthy of repentance” – even if this required God’s raising up “stones” or the inclusion of soldiers, who quite likely would not have been Jewish (3:7–9, 13–14). The Baptism of John and “Christian” Baptism The anachronism, “Christian” baptism, refers here to baptism as this is recounted in the book of Acts. Given our preliminary comments about narrative staging, we should not be surprised to discover in the narrative of Acts that the central elements of John’s baptism are not lost in Christian baptism. In fact, Luke seems actually to highlight the impressive continuity from John’s baptism to the practices of the early church in Acts. Thus (1), just as the baptism of John is intimately associated with repentance in Luke-Acts, so does Luke portray the correlation of Christian baptism with repentance. This is true of their juxtaposition in Peter’s remarks at Pentecost – “Repent and be baptized” (Acts 2:38) – but also subsequently. For example, after Luke’s record of their initial misgivings, the Jerusalem community is said to have praised God in light of the response of Cornelius and his household to Peter’s message. Why? Because they had been persuaded through Peter’s testimony that “God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life” (11:18). That the narrative recounts no “event” in which Cornelius is said to have repented is consistent with the message of John in Luke 3. Repentance may be marked in the event of baptism, but repentance is otherwise attested best in day-to-day existence. Cornelius, according to Luke’s overwhelmingly positive character reference (cf. 10:2),18 has already been living a life consistent with repentance; all that is required is that he be embraced within the people of God – a possibility made available for this gentile (as we shall see) only through the exaltation of Jesus. Even when the language of repentance is absent, the evidence of it can be present, particularly when it is remembered that Luke has exegeted the concept of repentance with reference to socio-economic sharing and faithfulness (Luke 3:10–14). Baptism in Acts has as its immediate consequence, among other things,  Cf. Joel B. Green, “Cornelius,” in DLNTD 243–44.

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economic koinonia (Acts 2:41–47) and the extension of hospitality (10:47–48; 16:14–15, 28–34). The relationship assumed here – that is, that repentance leads to and is evidenced in these behaviors – is underscored by a fundamental axiom of narratology. This is that what precedes not only comes before but also exists in a causal relationship with what follows.19 (2) The particular experience of Peter, Cornelius, and Cornelius’s household points as well to the importance of baptism in the definition of God’s people. Indeed, what takes place for Cornelius’s household is variously described as “repentance that leads to life” (11:18), “being saved” (11:14), and “being received by God” (10:35, my translation). Acts 2:38 may depict baptism as an appropriate response to the message of the gospel, but the sequelae Luke narrates add to this picture. One submits to baptism, to be sure, but also, in baptizing persons, the community of God’s people embraces the baptizand as a member integral to this growing kin group. To be baptized is to be accepted.20 In the case of Cornelius and his household, the sequence of events one might have expected from a reading of Acts 2:38  – that is, baptism and repentance followed by the giving of the Spirit – has been reversed. Why this is so is evident from the texture of the Lukan narrative. The misgivings subsequently voiced against Peter by the Jerusalem community (11:1–3) are clearly identified first with Peter in Acts 10. His own religio-ethnic imperialism (e. g., 10:14, 28–29) must be compromised by a vision from God (10:9–16), by Cornelius’s own testimony (10:30–34 – which leads Peter to proclaim, “I truly understand that God shows no partiality …. Jesus Christ is Lord of all!” [10:34–36]), and, finally, by the spontaneous, autonomous outpouring of the Holy Spirit (10:44–46). Only as a consequence of this extraordinary sequence of events is Peter of a mind to baptize these gentiles “in the name of Jesus Christ.” For him, the gift of the Spirit is an irrefutable sign of God’s acceptance of these persons within the community of God’s people (cf. 15:6–9). This apparent departure from the “norm” of 2:38 is thus easily rationalized on narratological grounds. This is because the more crucial narrative logic of LukeActs is oriented around the fundamental aim of God to restore Israel and, in doing so, to open the doors of salvation in all of its fulness to all. Because Jesus’s followers are slow to discern and embrace fully this aim, God must go to extraordinary lengths to move this aim toward its consummation. In 10:1–11:18, this is signified by the intricate choreography of events involving Peter and Cornelius,21 19  See Gerald Prince, Dictionary of Narratology (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 11–12; cf. Wallace Martin, Recent Theories of Narrative (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 73–74. 20  See Howard Clark Kee, To Every Nation under Heaven: The Acts of the Apostles, NTC (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1997), 111. 21  See the insightful discussion in Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1986–90), 2:128–45.

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the gradual openness of Peter to God’s disclosure concerning purity and holiness, and the unmistakable parallels between the outpouring of the Spirit in Jerusalem with that in Caesarea (2:1–4; 10:44–48). If baptism signifies the believing community’s welcome of new members, what of those times when the community is hesitant to welcome? In such cases, God himself intervenes in order to convince the community and its leaders that the restoration of Israel carries as its corollary the acceptance of all who are credentialed by their faith and faithfulness as “children of Abraham.”22 That the community of Jesus’s disciples is slow to accept this expansive vision of salvation not only within the narrative but also outside of it is evident from 11:1–18, wherein the Cornelius-episode must be repeated yet again – this time from Peter’s “converted” perspective (cf. 15:7–9). Additional indications of Luke’s interest in the character of God’s people and the association of this interest with baptism are solidified earlier in the narrative, in 2:38–47; 8:12, 16, 35–39; and developed further in 16:14–15, 28–34; 19:1–7. (3) Finally, as with the baptism of John so with Christian baptism, baptism is closely identified with forgiveness of sins, or “cleansing.” Again, Acts 2:38 is basic, with its transparent association of baptism and forgiveness. In this instance, however, these two elements are related by means of their mutual association with a third, namely, repentance. Accordingly, baptism functions, on the one hand, as the medium by which repentance comes to expression and, on the other, as the sign that forgiveness has been granted.23 To put it differently, it is self-evident that for Luke repentance leads to forgiveness (cf. Luke 24:47; Acts 3:19; 5:31; 8:22; 26:18); baptism, then, serves a community-defining role – communicating on the part of the baptized an unswerving loyalty to the Lord and on the part of the church the full incorporation of the baptized into the community. Baptism is both response and gift. According to Luke 3, John’s baptism had already drawn on the tightly interwoven motifs of cleansing and moral uprightness. The OT matrix within which one might understand the role of baptism as a medium for identity-definition has thus been carefully established. We are thus well-prepared for the instructions of Ananias to Paul, according to the account in Acts 22:16: “Get up, be baptized and have your sins washed away, calling on his name!” In this instance, the rite of community incorporation appears even more stylized, with baptism said to be a “calling on his name” with the effect of the washing away of sins.

 See Hartman, Into the Name of the Lord Jesus, 134–35.  See I. Howard Marshall, The Acts of the Apostles, TNTC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), 81; James D. G. Dunn, The Acts of the Apostles, NC (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), 33; Hartman, Into the Name of the Lord Jesus, 130. 22 23

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Baptism: John’s and Jesus’s No less than three times in the Lukan narrative, the baptisms of John and of Jesus are set in apposition (Luke 3:16; Acts 1:5; 11:16). These two are in this way not so much contrasted as set in relation to one another. In fact, as we have seen, much of the substance associated with John’s baptism is continued in Acts, in the baptismal practices of the early church. It is not, for example, that John’s baptism is distinguished from this new form of baptism in that the latter (as opposed to the former) brings with it “forgiveness of sins,” or that one finds in the church’s rite an emphasis on the role of baptism in community formation unparalleled in John’s baptismal ministry.24 At the same time, numerous Lukan texts point beyond John’s baptism to a “something more” associated with the ministry of Jesus (e. g., Luke 3:15–18; Acts 1:4–8; 13:23–25; 19:1–7). As John himself makes clear in Luke’s account, his baptismal ministry anticipates and prepares for that of the Messiah, so that Jesus’s baptism with the Spirit is seen by Luke as the full actualization of the promise of John’s ministry. What distinguishes the baptism of John and the baptism of Jesus, then, is grounded in the resurrection and ascension of Jesus. As a consequence of his exaltation, Jesus is the Lord in whose name people are to be baptized and who administers the Spirit. Baptism in Acts is “in the name of Jesus Christ” (2:38; 10:48), “in the name of the Lord Jesus” (8:16; 19:5), “calling on his name” (22:16). This “name”  – whether signifying Jesus’s status as “Lord” or “Christ” – has been given Jesus by the God who raised him from the dead, and it is as “Lord and Christ” that Jesus saves those who call on his name (2:21) and pours out the Holy Spirit (2:33). If John’s baptismal ministry is fully actualized in the Spirit-baptism of Jesus, this means that John’s baptism is not inherently lacking, as though it required re-administration. It means, rather, that John’s baptism had as a primary purpose the leading of persons in a christological direction – indeed, as it seems to have done in the case of Apollos (18:24–28). That it might not do so is exemplified in Acts as well, in 19:1–7. As Robert Tannehill has helpfully observed, though both Apollos and the party of disciples in Ephesus know only the baptism of John, they nonetheless differ at two crucial points. First, although the Spirit is manifest in Apollos’s speech, these disciples at Ephesus seem altogether ignorant concerning the Holy Spirit. Second, even if Apollos knows only the baptism of John, he is nonetheless able to teach accurately concerning Jesus, whereas Paul must instruct the Ephesian disciples that John’s baptism was to have moved them along toward faith in Jesus. The Ephesian disciples, then, represent “a degenerate form of John’s heritage” – degenerate because the promise of John’s baptism had

24 Nor is it that the two were separated by two distinct “ages” in salvation history, as suggested by Barth (Taufe, 62).

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not been realized through faith in Jesus and reception of the Spirit.25 The crucial implication of Luke’s narrative is that the coming of the Spirit must be viewed as fulfillment, so that John’s baptism and what it signified offer a genuine archetype and precursor of the experience that would be enabled by the Spirit. That is, in the Spirit-baptism proffered by Jesus we see the divine affirmation, empowerment, and confirmation of the experience of the people of God to which John called people by way of preparation. It is worth mentioning more specifically that, within the narrative of Acts, the Spirit-baptism of Jesus provides in part a divine imprimatur of the missionary portfolio advanced in 1:8. True, the activity of the Spirit in directing the mission points already in this direction. It is also true, though, that Luke sees the experience of Spirit-reception as proof that the good news has found residence among persons and in locales that come as a surprise to God’s people.26 Luke’s dilemma is to show how the boundaries between Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and “the end of the earth” might be breached. His answer revolves around the Spirit, whose missionary presence and soteriological role is thus pivotal. Peter draws attention to this reality at the Jerusalem conference; reflecting on the theological significance of his experience with Cornelius (10:1–11:18; see esp. 11:16), he announces that the coming of the Spirit on gentiles signifies God’s refusal to distinguish “between them and us,” for he cleanses their hearts (15:8–9). If the church becomes convinced of this divine act, what response is possible other than that of baptism, a rite signifying hospitable inclusion of others within the family of God’s people? Viewing Luke’s concern in this way mollifies the need to struggle with key texts in Acts as though they were “problems of consistency.” In our reading of Luke, we may rightly draw attention to the autonomous character of the Spirit, with the result that we should steer clear of imagining that Luke would allow that the church somehow possesses or dispenses the Spirit as the church wishes.27 But one need not appeal to our ignorance of the ways of God to explain a so-called problem text like that relating the ministry of Philip in Samaria (8:4–25). Why did the Holy Spirit come on the Samarian believers only on the arrival of Peter and John? And, in contrast to the apparent ideal of 2:38, why are water‑ and Spirit-baptism segregated? Long regarded as an anomaly within the Lukan narrative, in fact this progression of events is shown in 8:16 to have been regarded by Luke himself as an anomaly; in a parenthetical note to his audience, the narrator comments, “For as yet the Spirit had not come upon any of them; they had only been 25  Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 2:233–34; cf. John M. Penney, The Missionary Emphasis of Lukan Pneumatology, JPTSup 12 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 108; William H. Shepherd Jr., The Narrative Function of the Holy Spirit as a Character in Luke-Acts, SBLDS 147 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 1994), 227–29. 26  See, e. g., Penney, Missionary Emphasis, 77, 102–3; Shepherd, Narrative Function, 230. 27  This point is helpfully made in Barth, Taufe, 60–72; cf. Beasley-Murray, Baptism, 120; Hartman, Into the Name of the Lord Jesus, 134–35.

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baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus.”28 Was Philip’s ministry deficient? This is difficult to argue, given the positive characterization of Philip and his mission within this episode, the coherence of Philip’s work with the agenda articulated in 1:8, and the apparent lack of an analogous problem in the subsequent narrative (8:26–40). Was the faith of the Samarians inadequate? This has been argued by James Dunn29 – a position that deserves more positive consideration than it has received, but one that ultimately falters in light of the narrator’s own report that the Samarians had been baptized “in the name of the Lord Jesus” (8:16).30 Still others read this as an issue of succession and legitimation from Jerusalem, as though, from Luke’s vantage point, the Holy Spirit could not be poured out except through authorized representatives of the Jerusalem community.31 But this view allocates to Jerusalem greater status than it actually possesses for Luke, whose narrative critiques the Jerusalem community for not taking seriously enough the implications of the programmatic 1:8. Instead, the so-called delay in the outpouring of the Spirit in Samaria serves to assist in the “conversion” of Peter and John, so that they, finally, engage in a ministry among the Samaritans (8:25), and to prepare for the Jerusalem Council, where it is allowed that the chasm between Jews and gentiles (and thus also between Jews and Samaritans) is bridged ultimately by God (15:8–9). That is, the particulars of water baptism and Spirit-reception in 8:4–24 continue to underscore the programmatic function of 2:38–39, while providing narrative sanction, for the Jerusalem community especially but also for Luke’s audience, of the centripetal mission (which is then underscored all the more in 10:1–11:18). An analysis that takes seriously the status of Luke-Acts as narrative – and thus that accords privilege to narrative plot, staging, and order – need not view the episode recounted in 8:4–24 as an enigma, therefore. Attending as well to Luke’s narrative as discourse underscores further the persuasive aims of the Third Evangelist – and requires of us not simply that we ask what sort of information about (for example) baptism he hopes to convey. The more substantive questions are: What does Luke expect of his audience? How does he want them to alter their  See Das, “Acts 8,” 126; Turner, Power from on High, 360, 373–74.  See Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit, 55–72; cf. idem, Acts, 110. 30  Other aspects of the case against Dunn’s reading are sketched in Menzies, Empowered for Witness, 207–10; Turner, Power from on High, 362–67. 31  See, e. g., O’Toole, “Christian Baptism,” 861–62; Shepherd, Narrative Function, 181–82; Hartman, Into the Name of the Lord Jesus, 136–37. Das (“Acts 8,” esp. 127–31) goes further to suggest that the chasm “between Samaritan and orthodox Jews” required bridging, and that this requirement was met by the laying on of the apostles’ hands and the Samaritans’ reception of the Spirit. The key issue is the centrality of Jerusalem, according to Das. Das helpfully raises the importance of bridging chasms, but he does not clarify why Peter and John were required to come down from Jerusalem; after all, Philip is an authorized representative of the Jerusalem leadership as well (Acts 6:1–7). Moreover, Das overemphasizes the importance of Jerusalem for Luke, who will also allow (e. g.) Antioch to serve as a center from which the mission can move forward. 28 29

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views and practices? How has he shaped his narrative so as to achieve that end? Read in this light, his baptismal puzzles seem less puzzling.

Conclusion It is clear, then, that Luke’s “theology of baptism” belongs to a constellation of motifs related to his larger concern with plotting the fulfillment of the divine purpose to restore Israel – and, in doing so, to transform Israel so that its borders are broadened in expansive ways to include “the nations.” Baptismal practices in Acts, then, must cohere with this purpose fundamentally, and it is the need for this coherence that determines the progress of baptismal practices in Luke-Acts. On the one hand, this means that the baptism of John sets the pattern for the substance of how baptism will be understood within Acts, focusing, then, on repentance, forgiveness, and community formation. “John’s baptism” continues its importance in Acts because it is centrally focused on human response to the will of God. John’s baptism is also forward-looking, anticipating and preparing for the full realization of its promise following the exaltation of Jesus. This means that John’s baptism should lead persons in a christological direction; in the case of Apollos, but not in the case of the Ephesian elders, the baptism of John fulfills this role. On the other hand, within the Acts of the Apostles, water-baptism and Spirit-­ baptism are indeed correlated, but their correlation is not one of simple priority of order; rather, they are viewed as interrelated community and divine responses to human repentance. As the community of God’s people discerns God’s acceptance of persons, they are incorporated into the community through the rite of baptism, signifying forgiveness and acceptance. Generally, this happens as persons make themselves available for baptism, thus manifesting their will to ­(re)orient themselves around the will of God – that is, to repent and to demonstrate repentance in day-to-day existence. On account of longstanding religio-ethnic barriers, within Acts the community is not always prepared to recognize divine acceptance of persons, however, and must be convinced through the divine initiative of Spirit-baptism experienced, as it were, anachronistically. That is, when Spirit-baptism occurs in instances temporally distant from water-­ baptism, this manifests within the narrative a need on the part of the community for a metamorphosis in its understanding of the divine purpose. This is clearly the case in the episodes involving Peter, John, and the Samaritans; and Peter and the household of Cornelius. As Peter himself inquires, “Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these persons who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?” (10:47).

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“Salvation to the End of the Earth”: God as Savior in the Acts of the Apostles* This essay takes as its point of departure the observation that salvation is the theme of Acts that unifies other textual elements within the narrative. After briefly setting the parameters of salvation within the larger world of Greco-Roman antiquity and, more especially, within the Gospel of Luke, it examines this theme in Acts with particular reference to three questions: What does salvation mean for Luke? How is Jesus Savior in Acts? How might salvation be appropriated? Along the way, attention is also directed to the query: To whom is salvation available? This examination demonstrates Luke’s ability to draw on notions of salvation familiar to gentiles and Jews of the Mediterranean world in a way that also challenges, sometimes even overturns, those notions. This essay concludes that the God of Israel is portrayed in Acts as the Great Benefactor, Jesus is Lord of all, and the salvific nature of his lordship embodies, enables, and inspires new ways for living in the world.

“My Witnesses” Rather, you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth. (Acts 1:8)1

This outline of God’s purpose in Acts has occasioned significant debate, especially around the location or other referent of the “end of the earth” to which Jesus directs his followers. Not the focus of an equivalent amount of scholarly discussion, though related and of comparable importance, is a second question: To what are these followers to be “witnesses”? Distinguishing objective genitive from subjective in the phrase μου μάρτυρες (“my witnesses”) is unnecessary and probably impossible: those who serve God’s aim in the Spirit-empowered mission have Jesus (μου) as the content of their witness, and they serve as his envoys. But with what concerning Jesus will this testimony be occupied? An answer lies * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “ ‘Salvation to the End of the Earth’ (Acts 13:47): God as Saviour in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 83–106. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. 1 Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts are my own.

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close at hand in 1:22: What is needed is a “witness to the resurrection.”2 Closer examination confirms that such witnesses serve as more than “guarantors of the resurrection,”3 however, for talk of the resurrection in Acts leads regularly and immediately into the blessings available to people as its consequence.4 For Acts, witness is concerned not only with the that of Jesus and his resurrection, but also with its significance, and in Acts this significance is developed especially in salvific terms. This view of things has already been prefigured at the close of Luke’s Gospel,5 where the “things” to which Jesus’s followers are declared “witnesses” include not only Jesus’s death and resurrection, but also the consequent offer of salvation “to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem” (Luke 24:49). That this witness is especially concerned with salvation is underscored again in Acts 13:47 where the phrase “to the end of the earth” appears again; here, substituting for the earlier phrase “you will be my witnesses” are the words, “you may bring salvation.”6 Accordingly, Acts will be occupied with followers of Jesus who are designated and equipped as witnesses to the salvation of God, available through Jesus. 2 Even closer to hand is the ascension account in 1:9–11, with its pronounced emphasis on witnessing Jesus’s ascension: βλεπόντων αὐτῶν (“while they were watching”), ἀπὸ τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν αὐτῶν (“out of their sight”), ὡς ἀτενίζοντες ἦσαν (“as they were gazing”), [ἐμ]βλέποντες (“looking”), and ἐθεάσασθε αὐτόν (“you saw him”). Jesus’s elevated status is thus identified as a, if not the, primary subject matter of their “witness.” 3  Contra, e. g., John B. Polhill, Acts: An Exegetical and Theological Exposition of Holy Scripture, NAC 26 (Nashville: Broadman, 1992), 85. 4  See, e. g., 2:32–33; 3:15–16; 5:30–32; 10:39–43; 22:14–16; 26:16–18. Cf. Rudolf Pesch, Die Apostelgeschichte, 2 vols., EKKNT 5 (Zürich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1986), 1:69. 5  Without prejudice concerning actual authorship, I refer to the narrator of Luke and Acts as “Luke.” 6 That is, 1:8 and 13:47 are mutually interpretive. According to its usage in, e. g., Strabo’s Geography, ἕως ἐσχάτου τῆς γῆς (“to the end of the earth”) is polysemous. Cf. the examination of this phrase in the literature of Roman antiquity in E. Earle Ellis, “‘The End of the Earth’ (Acts 1:8),” BBR 1 (1991): 123–32, esp. 126–28; W. C. van Unnik, “Der Ausdruck ἙΩΣ ἘΣΧΑΤΟΥ ΤΗΣ ΓΗΣ (Apostelgeschichte 1:8) und sein alttestamentlicher Hintergrund,” in Studia Biblica et Semitica: Theodoro Christiano Vriezen, ed. W. C. van Unnik and A. S. van der Woude (Wageningen: H. Veenman, 1966), 335–49. We need not assume, with Ellis and others, that Luke must have in mind a purely geographical connotation (e. g., Ethiopia, Spain, Rome, or “Israel”), for geography is itself a social enterprise; geographical markers such as Judea and Samaria (Acts 1:8) are social products that reflect and configure ways of being in the world (cf. m. Kelim 1.6–9; Allan Pred, Making Histories and Constructing Human Geographies: The Local Transformation of Practice, Power Relations, and Consciousness [Boulder, CO: Westview, 1990]; Edward W. Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory [London: Verso, 1989]). At this early juncture in the narrative of Acts, Luke has hardly provided the semantic means by which we might localize its referent. The possibilities are narrowed considerably on reading Acts 13:47, however, with its citation of Isa 49:6, where the more transparent sense of “everywhere,” “among all peoples,” is evident. Luke’s dependence on the Isaianic eschatological vision is manifest throughout his writings (cf. David Peter Seccombe, “Luke and Isaiah,” NTS 27 [1981]: 252–59), and this further encourages our finding in Acts 1:8 a deliberate echo of the Isaianic text (cf. Isa 8:9; 45:22; 48:20; 62:11).

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The centrality of the theme of salvation to the Lukan project has already been signaled numerous times by the Third Evangelist.7 One of the most prominent of the Lukan summaries of Jesus’s mission occurs immediately after Jesus announces the coming of salvation to the household of Zacchaeus: “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10). The birth narrative introduced the miraculous and eschatological work of God specifically as oriented toward salvation (1:5–2:52). Mary celebrates “God my savior” (1:47); Zechariah speaks of the God who “has raised up a mighty savior (ἔγειρεν κέρας σωτηρίας)” (1:69), so that “we would be saved from our enemies” (1:71); the angel of the Lord announces the birth of Jesus, “a Savior” (2:11); and, praising God, Simeon confesses, “My eyes have seen your salvation” (2:30). In Luke’s second volume, the salvation theme is sounded in an explicit and programmatic way in Peter’s sermon at Pentecost.8 Citing Joel 2:32 (Acts 2:21: “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved”) and summarizing Peter’s message as a call to “save yourselves from this corrupt generation” (2:40), this text accords privilege to the offer of salvation in missionary preaching. This scene closes with Luke’s summary: “The Lord added daily to [the number of the fellowship] those who were being saved” (2:47). It has long been noted that the NT vocabulary of salvation – σωτήρ (“savior”), σωτηρία (“salvation”), σωτήριος (“salvation”), and σῴζω (“to save”) – congregates especially in Luke-Acts, occurring twenty-one times in Acts, both in narrative and speech material.9 To these terms, others may be added – for example, διασῴζω (“to save”), ἐξαιρέω (“to rescue”), θεραπεύω (“to heal”), ἰάομαι (“to heal”), and ὁλοκληρία (“complete health”)10 – by way of indicating not only the importance of this theme in Acts, but also its breadth in the Lukan perspective. When, momentarily, we move to an examination of the content of salvation in Acts, we will see even more abundantly how appropriate it is to speak of salvation as the theme of Acts – that is, in narrative terms, of salvation as that which unifies other textual elements within the narrative.11 In this analysis, we are working with certain handicaps. First, we must recognize the inherent artificiality of the task of describing Luke’s understanding of  7  In this essay, we assume at least the theological unity of Luke-Acts. On this problem, see I. Howard Marshall, “Introduction,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 1–16.  8  Cf. Joel B. Green, “ ‘Proclaiming Repentance and Forgiveness of Sins to All Nations’: A Biblical Perspective on the Church’s Mission,” in The World Is My Parish: The Mission of the Church in Methodist Perspective, ed Alan G. Padgett, SHM 10 (Lewiston, NY: Mellen, 1992), 13–43, esp. 33–41.  9  Acts 2:21, 40, 47; 4:9, 12; 5:31; 7:25; 11:14; 13:23, 26, 47; 14:9; 15:1, 11; 16:30, 31; 27:20, 31, 34, 43; 28:28. 10  διασῴζω – 7:10, 34; 12:11; 23:27; 26:17; ἐξαιρέω – 23:24; 27:43, 44; 28:1, 4; θεραπεύω – 4:14; 5:16; 8:7; 17:25; 28:9; ἰάομαι – 9:34; 10:38; 28:8, 27; ὁλοκληρία – 3:16. 11 On theme, as distinct from, say, plot or motif, see Gerald Prince, Narrative as Theme: Studies in French Fiction (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992), 3–7.

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salvation. In order to do so, we must turn his narrative art into a more systematic presentation of its major theme. Narrative is more accustomed to inviting reflection, provoking contemplation, and raising questions, but an analysis such as this one of a narrative theme is more oriented toward explanation and assertion. Second, this study is focused above all on the Acts of the Apostles. Hence, we must often leave to ancillary notes what is not so ancillary to the Lukan soteriology, namely, the important witness of the Third Gospel on this theme.12 In addition, we will not be able to pursue as fully as we might the degree to which Luke’s soteriology is woven with fabric borrowed from the LXX and from the wider Jewish-Hellenistic world. What is more, we will not be able to explore a number of related motifs.13 Nevertheless, we may address such pivotal questions as: What does salvation mean for Luke? How is Jesus savior in Acts? How might salvation be appropriated? In addressing these, we will also address the question: To whom is salvation available?

“The Message of This Salvation” What does salvation mean for Luke? By way of addressing this question, we will first attempt briefly and at a necessarily high level of abstraction to see 12 Cf. Joel B. Green, The Theology of the Gospel of Luke, NTT (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 13  In the volume Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), see John Nolland, “Salvation-History and Eschatology” (pp. 63–81); Chrisoph Stenschke, “The Need for Salvation” (pp. 125–44); and Max Turner, “The ‘Spirit of Prophecy’ as the Power of Israel’s Restoration and Witness” (pp. 327–48). Recent studies of salvation in Luke-Acts include François Bovon, “Das Heil in den Schriften des Lukas,” in Lukas im neuer Sicht: Gesammelte Aufsätze, BThSt 8 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985), 61–74; Michael Dömer, Das Heil Gottes: Studien zur Theologie des lukanischen Doppelwerkes, BBB 51 (Köln: Hanstein, 1978); Neal Flanagan, “The What and How of Salvation in Luke-Acts,” in Sin, Salvation, and the Spirit, ed. Daniel Durken (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1979), 203–13; Augustin George, “L’emploi chex Luc du vocabulaire de salut,” NTS 23 (1977): 308–20; idem, “Le vocabulaire de salut,” in Études sur l’œuvre de Luc, SB (Paris: Gabalda, 1978), 307–20; Kevin Giles, “Salvation in Lukan Theology,” RTR 42 (1983): 10–16, 45–49; R. Glöckner, Die Verkündigung des Heils beim Evangelisten Lukas, WSTR 9 (Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald, 1975); Joel B. Green, “ ‘The Message of Salvation’ in Luke Acts,” ExAud 5 (1989): 21–34; G. Mangatt, “The Gospel of Salvation,” BibBh 2 (1976): 60–80; I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian, rev. ed. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1989); Ralph P. Martin, “Salvation and Discipleship in Luke’s Gospel,” Int 30 (1976): 366–80; Jerome H. Neyrey, The Passion according to Luke: A Redaction Study of Luke’s Soteriology, TI (New York: Paulist Press, 1985); Robert F. O’Toole, The Unity of Luke’s Theology: An Analysis of Luke-Acts, GNS 9 (Wilmington, DE: Glazier, 1984); Walter E. Pilgrim, “The Death of Christ in Lukan Soteriology” (ThD diss., Princeton Theological Seminary, 1971); Mark Allan Powell, “Salvation in Luke-Acts,” WW 12 (1992): 5–10; Walter Radl, Das Lukas-Evangelium, ErFor 261 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988), esp. 105–11; B. H. Throckmorton, “σῴζειν, σωτηρία in Luke-Acts,” SE 6 (TU 112) (1973): 516–26; Richard Zehnle, “The Salvific Character of Jesus’ Death in Lucan Soteriology,” TS 30 (1969): 420–44.

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how this concept might have been understood in his discourse situation. What range of meaning might Luke and his first-century audience have understood by salvation? What nuances were more or less taken for granted in their shared presuppositions? Then, prior to examining the evidence of Acts, we will provide a synopsis of how Luke presents salvation in the Third Gospel. This will assist us in our attempt to see how he might have drawn on as well as transformed wider notions of salvation. Salvation in Luke’s World In the wider Greco-Roman world of the first century CE, the world in which Luke writes and within which his narrative is set, salvation was a semantic cousin of benefaction.14 As such, salvation had to do with the exercise of beneficent power for the provision of a variety of blessings, “a general manifestation of generous concern for the well-being of others, with the denotation of rescue from perilous circumstances.”15 This might include the health of the state, including its internal safety and the security of its borders, being rescued from a disaster at sea, the healing of physical malady, and more.16 The example of Augustus, who plays a special role in the Lukan narrative (Luke 2:1–20), is instructive. In spite of Roman reticence vis-à-vis the imperial cult in the early empire, Augustus permitted the worship of powers operating through him – for example, peace, victory, harmony, liberty, security, and so on. Augustus received such titles as “Savior” and was revered as the one who had brought peace to “all the world.”17 Thus, when Paullus Fabius Maximus, proconsul of Asia, proposed beginning the new year on Augustus’s birthday, he observed: “(It is hard to tell) whether the birthday of the most divine Caesar is a matter of greater pleasure or benefit. We could justly hold it to be equivalent to the beginning of all things … ; and he has given a different aspect to the whole world, which blindly would have embraced its own destruction if Caesar had not been born for the common benefit of all.” In their decision to honor Augustus in this way, the provincial assembly explained: “Whereas the providence which divinely ordered our lives created with zeal and munificence the most perfect good for 14  Cf. Josephus, Life 47 § 244: ἐβόων ἅπαντες εὐεργέτην καὶ σωτῆρα τῆς χώρας αὐτῶν καλοῦντες; similarly, e. g., Herodotus 3.12.2. 15  Frederick W. Danker, Benefactor: Epigraphic Study of a Graeco-Roman and New Testament Semantic Field (St. Louis, MO: Clayton, 1982), 324 (with reference to σωτήρ and cognates). 16  See MM 620–22; Danker, Benefactor; Werner Foerster and Georg Fohrer, “σῴζω κτλ,” TDNT 7:965–1024, esp. 966–69; TLNT 3:344–49; and, more broadly (and somewhat dated), E. M. B.  Green, The Meaning of Salvation (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1965), ch. 4. 17 David C. Braund (Augustus to Nero: A Sourcebook on Roman History 31 BC–AD 68 [London: Crook Helm, 1985]) provides English translations of numerous inscriptions describing Augustus as son of a deity (§§ 2, 6, 10, 11, 13 et pass.), progenitor of his country and/or the world (§§ 19–21, 28, 44 et pass.), bringer of peace and savior of the world (§§ 10, 36, 38, 44, 66, 123 et pass.), and as divine (§§ 75, 94).

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our lives by producing Augustus and filling him with virtue for the benefaction of mankind [sic] sending us and those after us a saviour who put an end to war and established all things; and whereas Caesar when he appeared exceeded the hopes of all who had anticipated good tidings … ; and whereas the birthday of the god marked for the world the beginning of good tidings through his coming ….”18 As already intimated, however, Augustus was not the only one known as savior; this appellation fell to others as well – gods, rulers, physicians, and so on. In Luke’s Scriptures (i. e., the LXX), savior is used especially of the God who helps or delivers his people (e. g., 1 Sam 10:19; Isa 45:15, 21; Wis 4:30; 1 Macc 4:30; Sir 51:1). If Yahweh is not savior, then this role is performed by his designated envoy; even in those cases, however, divine agency remains paramount, for salvation is the coming of divine help to those in trouble. Salvation in the OT is preeminently defined in Yahweh’s delivering Israel from slavery and, so, as rescuing Israel from the hands of its enemies, victory in battle, and security as a nation surrounded by other peoples.19 Central to the OT notion of election and covenant is the immutable relationship between God’s gracious acts of deliverance on behalf of his people and their faithful response to him as divine deliverer. In later periods, this relationship remains pivotal to Israel’s articulation of its faith in God as the only Savior (e. g., Philo, Spec. 1 § 252). Only God would rescue his people from those who would oppress them (e. g., 1 Macc 3:18–22; 4:11; 9:46; 2 Macc 1:11, 25; 2:17–18; 8:27; 1QM [e. g., 4; 10.4–5; 14.4–5]), protect them from the multitudinous pressures to conform to increasing foreign influences,20 and renew the covenant through forgiveness for Israel’s unfaithfulness (cf. Jer 4:14; 31:31–34; 2 Macc 7:1–42; 8:27–29; 1 En. 5:6). Salvation in the Third Gospel The terminology of salvation is widespread in the Third Gospe1,21 and Luke uses this and related language in a variety of cotexts to give salvation broad meaning. As outlined in the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55), and worked out through the Lukan narrative, salvation is concerned with a fundamental redefinition of human social interaction, which has its basis in the wide embrace of the graciousness 18  OGIS 2:458; ET: S. R. F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 54–55. 19 See Gerald O’Collins, “Salvation,” ABD 5:907–14, esp. 907–10; J. F. Sawyer, “‫יׁשע‬,” TDOT 6:441–47. 20 E. g., Louis H. Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World: Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); Foerster and Fohrer, TDNT 7:982. 21  σῴζω and related nouns appear in Luke 1:47, 69, 71, 77; 2:11, 30; 3:6; 6:9; 7:50; 8:12, 36, 48, 50; 9:24; 13:23; 17:19; 18:26, 42; 19:9, 10. As in Acts, however, the Third Gospel employs a range of semantically related terms. On what follows, see J. B. Green, Theology of Luke, ch. 4

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of God. Salvation entails status-inversion and the reversal of conventional values as God accepts those who have otherwise been rejected. “Human values are reversed by God not for the destruction of the wicked but for the saving of the lost.”22 God’s activity embraces the raising up of lowly persons whom Jesus encounters in the Gospel, and also of the people of Israel promised liberation from the oppressive hand of Rome; it also encompasses the bringing down of the powerful as all are invited to appropriate salvation for themselves and to serve God’s salvific aim. Salvation is the coming of the kingdom of God to displace other kingdoms and entails membership in the new community God is drawing together around Jesus. Salvation, then, can appear in many guises. For example, the Galilean crowds see in Jesus’s ability to raise a dead man to life the coming of the eschatological prophet and the gracious intervention of God to bring salvation (7:16). Salvation is evident in the offer of forgiveness (1:77; 3:1–6; 7:36–50), the advent of peace (2:11; cf. 1:69–70), healing and restoring the sick to their community and kin (7:11–17; 8:26–39, 40–56), the overcoming of the devil and the demonic (8:26– 39; 13:10–17; cf. Acts 10:38), the cleansing of the leprous (5:12–16; 17:11–19), and so on. It is important to realize the profoundly social ramifications of what may appear on the surface as (merely) spiritual or physical blessings. To be forgiven, for example, is to be (re)admitted into the community from which one has been ostracized on account of sin, just as the former demoniac and leper, in being “saved,” are restored to their families. Note, for example, how Zacchaeus, held at arm’s length by the crowds as a “sinner,” is recognized and embraced as “son of Abraham,” a member of the family of God (cf. 3:7–9), when salvation comes to his house (19:1–10).23 Throughout the Gospel of Luke, salvation is represented in concrete terms – refusing any boundaries between social/communal, material/ physical, and spiritual/religious. Mary identifies God as savior (1:47), and this is true throughout the Gospel. It is God who initiates this new chapter in the story of salvation wherein his redemptive purpose moves toward consummation (Luke 1–2), and it is God whose redemptive purpose is being served throughout Luke’s narrative. Jesus is also designated savior, of course, and that by a divine spokesperson (2:11). Ultimately, however, salvation comes from God. This Lukan emphasis is evident from the way the evangelist has deployed the Scriptures and in the wide array of terms expressive of God’s design at work in his narrative.24 Jesus is savior, then, 22 Luke

23.

Timothy Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, SP (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991),

23 See Joel B. Green, “Good News to Whom? Jesus and the ‘Poor’ in the Gospel of Luke,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on New Testament Christology and the Historical Jesus, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 59–74, esp. 69–72. 24  See esp. βουλή (“purpose”), βούλομαι (“to want”), δεῖ (“it is necessary”), θέλημα (“will”), θέλω (“to will”), ὁρίζω (“to determine”), πληρόω (“to fulfill”), and προφήτης (“prophet”). Cf. Charles H. Cosgrove, “The Divine ΔΕΙ in Luke-Acts,” NovT 26 (1984): 168–90; Gerhardus

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as God’s representative (i. e., as God’s Son), having been anointed for service as God’s regal prophet and having embraced fully the divine aim (cf. 3:21–4:30). Salvation in the Book of Acts In a linear text like the Acts of the Apostles, what appears first influences the interpretation of everything that follows. By way of organizing our exploration of the meaning of salvation in Acts, then, we will take as our point of departure Acts 2, where the salvation-theme is first sounded in an overt and extended way. Acts 1 is not devoid of relevant material, and we will have occasion to look there as well as in subsequent material as we examine four motifs related to the content of salvation that surface in Acts 2. (1) Salvation as incorporation and participation in the Christocentric community of God’s people. When we first encounter the community in Acts 2, it consists already of those who had followed Jesus during his earthly ministry. The word “they” in 2:1 refers back to those “persevering in prayer together” (1:14; cf. 1:24), those “with one mind” (ὁμοθύμαδον);25 in 2:1, they are characterized with the phrase ὁμοῦ ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτό (cf. 1:15: ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτό; 14:1: κατὰ τὸ αὐτό) – signifying the unity and concord of the community.26 The emphatic oneness of the community (or, its status as a kinship group) is illustrated vividly in the Lukan characterization of their economic koinonia (2:44–45; 4:32–5:11).27 That this is a community oriented around Jesus is suggested by earlier material (1:1, 21–22); by the Christocentric character of Peter’s address, especially the extension of the citation from Joel to include the phrase, “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord (i. e., Jesus – cf. 2:36) will be saved”; and by the directive that people should respond to the message of salvation by being baptized “in the name of Jesus Christ” (2:38), appropriating the blessings available through him and signaling one’s allegiance to him. Subsequently in Acts, Christians heal (3:6, 16; 4:10, 30; 19:13), preach (4:12; 5:28, 40), and are baptized in the name of Jesus (8:16; 10:48; 19:5); suffer for his name (5:41; 9:16; 21:13); and are those “who call on the name” of Jesus (9:14, 21; 22:16). Petrus Viljoen du Plooy, “The Narrative Act in Luke-Acts from the Perspective of God’s Design” (ThD diss., University of Stellenbosch, 1986); John T. Squires, The Plan of God in Luke-Acts, SNTSMS 76 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); J. B. Green, Theology of Luke, ch. 2. 25  In Acts, ὁμοθύμαδον refers to the single-minded harmony either of the company of believers (1:14; 2:46; 4:24; 5:12; 8:6; 15:25) or of those who oppose them (7:57; 12:20; 18:12; 19:29). 26  Cf. Luke 17:35. In the LXX, the phrase appears frequently for “together” (‫ יחדו‬,‫ ;)יחד‬cf. Max Wilcox, The Semitisms of Acts (Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), 93–100; H.-J. Fabry, “‫יחד‬,” TDOT 6:40–48 (esp. 43–44); cf. 1QS 8.19; CD 13.11. 27 On this emphasis, cf., e. g., 6:1–6; 9:36; 11:27–30; 16:15; Plato, Resp. 5.46.2c; Cicero, Off. 1.16.51; Aristotle, Eth. nic. 9.8.1168b; Josephus, J. W. 2.8.3 §§ 122–23; S. Scott Bartchy, “Community of Goods in Acts: Idealization or Social Reality?,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester, ed. Birger A. Pearson, A. Thomas Kraabel, George W. E. Nickelsburg, and Norman R. Petersen (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 309–18.

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The directive to be baptized is not only to signify one’s response to the message, however; baptism, understood in its local cotext (2:37–42), also marks one of the blessings comprising salvation.28 Salvation is being incorporated into (“added to”) the number of believers. Readers of the Third Gospel will not be surprised by this emphasis, for discipleship had already been worked out, in part, as kinship in the circle of those who follow Jesus. Nor is this emphasis extraordinary in Greco-Roman antiquity, where status was grounded in group definition and the stress on belonging was acute. What may be surprising is the identification of those who are said to belong. Acts 2 portends the expansiveness of the community of “those being saved” in a number of ways: (1) the notation regarding people “from every nation under heaven” present in Jerusalem (2:5); (2) the enumeration of the nations of origin of those present (2:9–11); (3) the Joel-citation, with its emphasis on the outpouring of the Spirit on “all humanity” (2:17) and invitation to “everyone” (2:21); and (4) the redemptive promise for “you, your children, and all who are far off ” (2:39; cf. Isa 57:19). Even if those present in this scene are specified as “devout Jews” (2:5), then, the progress of the mission toward “the nations” is anticipated (cf. 1:8; 10:1–11:18; et al.). This move toward a multiethnic community is God’s doing, whose salvific activity according to Luke sometimes runs ahead of the thinking and practices of those within the church. By proving himself to be the savior of the gentiles too – that is, by pouring on them the blessing of forgiveness and the gift of the Spirit – the Lord both testifies to the authenticity of their membership in the number of God’s people and confirms that “he has made no distinction between them and us” (15:7–8; cf. 11:15–18). Jesus is “Lord of all” (10:43).29 Perhaps it is enough to say that gentiles are included in the new community of God’s people, but Luke says more. Also “saved” are those who are set apart from normal social discourse by their maladies  – for example, lameness and paralysis (3:1–4:12; 8:7; 14:8–10), sickness and demon-possession (5:12–16; 8:7), even death (9:36–43; 20:7–12). This emphasis, which continues and parallels the healing ministry of Jesus in Luke’s Gospel, reminds us that the Lukan soteriology knows no distinction between the physical, spiritual, and social; that in the larger Graeco-Roman world “salvation” would be recognized in the healing of physical disorders (cf. the response to healing in 14:11); and that physical restoration had as one of its ramifications restoration to social intercourse. (2) Salvation as rescue from our enemies. This second way of construing salvation deliberately borrows language from Zechariah’s Song (Luke 1:68–79; esp. 28 This

motif is suggested in George, “Vocabulaire de salut,” 314–15, 319.  Cf. Peder Borgen, “Jesus Christ, the Reception of the Spirit, and a Cross-National Community,” in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on New Testament Christology and the Historical Jesus, ed. Joel B. Green and Max Turner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 220–35, esp. 229–33. 29

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vv. 71, 74). The promise of divine deliverance from “the hands of our enemies” early in Luke has seemed to many interpreters to have gone unfulfilled in LukeActs;30 as a consequence, it deserves some attention in an exploration of the soteriology of Acts. Of course, at one level it is important simply to remember that narratives function in part by the interplay of anticipations (progressive discovery) and their redefinition (retrospective recovery). Hence, one must allow Luke to introduce, then alter visions of divine rescue. Can more be said? Acts 2 contains important hints that Zechariah’s vision has not been completely forgotten or waylaid. In the intertextual interplay of Joel’s prophecy and its appropriation by Peter, salvation has not been denuded of its apocalyptic connotations – a reminder that the coming of God signifies the downfall of those who oppose God’s purpose. Acts 2:40, with its plea to “save yourselves from this corrupt generation,” also assumes a division between those who align themselves with a just God and those who are rebellious toward him (cf. Deut 32:5). Along these lines, one can also point to the use of exodus typology to characterize salvation in Acts 3:17–26 and 7:25.31 Salvation as rescue from peril takes on concrete form elsewhere in Acts also. One thinks immediately of the use of the specific terminology of salvation to signify safe travel in spite of the threat of ambush (23:16–24) or storms at sea (27:31, 43–28:6). This sense is also preserved in the repeated episodes of escape from prison and mob action in Acts (e. g., 5:17–21; 12:1–19; 16:19–40; 19:23–41). Clearly, the notion of “rescue from enemies” has not been removed from Luke’s soteriology.32 At the same time, these scenes of rescue do not report or even symbolize the deliverance from foreign domination one might expect from Zechariah’s prophecy. Three observations are of interest. First, although Luke does not report the dismantling of Roman overlordship, he does narrate the relativizing of the sovereignty Rome wielded. Richard J. Cassidy has suggested how Acts encourages in its Christian readership an ultimate allegiance to Jesus that has as its corollary

30  E. g., J. Massyngbaerde Ford (My Enemy Is My Guest: Jesus and Violence in Luke [Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1984) argues that Luke establishes a revolutionary portrait of redemption in Luke 1–2 only to counter it in subsequent material; and Robert C. Tannehill (“Israel in LukeActs: A Tragic Story,” JBL 104 [1985]: 69–85) suggests that Luke guides his readers to experience the story of Israel and its messiah as a “tragedy”  – raising expectations in Luke 1–2 that go unfulfilled in the larger Lukan narrative. 31 Note the significant interweaving of titles and language of deliverance in Acts 3:13–15; 5:31; 7:35. 32 It is inappropriate to relegate such uses of the vocabulary of salvation to Luke’s employment of its “profane” meaning (pace, e. g., George, “Vocabulaire de salut,” 308–9, who thinks such usage is a result of the narrative genre of Acts and its gentile setting). The term “profane” in this context is already anachronistic; in addition, even these instances of rescue are the outworking of God’s aim.

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a critical sociopolitical stance vis-à-vis the Empire.33 More subtle and for this reason more threatening to the Roman order is the fundamental criticism Luke lodges against the patronal ethic that served as the glue of the Empire, fixing people of all status levels within a network of relationships of obligation and allegiance and providing divine legitimation to the universal patronage and claim of allegiance exercised by the emperor himself.34 For example, Acts 4:32–5:11 encourages practices that ignore status disjunctions  – promoting sharing as though all were kin while condemning in the most acute terms those who attempt to present themselves as brokers or patrons to the community. Second, though limited, there are passages in Acts that portray salvation as life (e. g., 2:21, 28; 3:15; 13:47–48), including eternal life, or otherwise point to salvation in its future consummation (e. g., 1:11; 3:19–21). This suggests that expectations for deliverance not fulfilled within the Lukan narrative are not necessarily thereby negated, for the story of divine redemption continues to be written beyond the close of Acts 28. Finally, when it is observed that, for Luke, the real enemy from which deliverance is needed is not Rome but the cosmic power of evil resident and active behind all forms of opposition to God and God’s people, it is plain that Zechariah’s hope has not been dashed but clarified and, indeed, radicalized. This form of salvation – from the power of darkness, of Satan – is prominent in Acts.35 (3) Salvation as forgiveness of sins. Luke presents the mission of Jesus especially in terms of release (Luke 4:18–19), then develops this concept along three lines. Typically in the Third Gospel, the terms ἀφίημι and ἄφεσις have to do with forgiveness of sins, as in the Lord’s Prayer (11:4a; cf. 5:17–26). It is also clear that the release made available via Jesus’s ministry is set in opposition to the binding power of Satan. Especially in Luke 13:10–17 and Acts 10:38, healing is not only physical but signifies wholeness, as well as freedom from both diabolic and social restrictions.36 A third way of construing release in the Lukan narrative, also present in the Lord’s Prayer, is “release from debts” (Luke 11:4).37 We have already noted how salvation in Acts is developed with reference to healing and 33  Richard J. Cassidy, Society and Politics in the Acts of the Apostles (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1987). Cf. Marie-Eloise Rosenblatt, Paul the Accused: His Portrait in the Acts of the Apostles, ZSNT (Collegeville, MN: Glazier, 1995). 34  I have discussed this more fully in J. B. Green, Theology of Luke, 119–21. 35  See, e. g., 26:17–18; 5:16; 13:4–12; 16:16–18; 19:8–20; Susan R. Garrett, The Demise of the Devil: Magic and the Demonic in Luke’s Writings (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1990). 36  Cf. Joel B. Green, “Jesus and a Daughter of Abraham (Luke 13:10–17): Test Case for a Lucan Perspective on Jesus’ Miracles,” CBQ 51 (1989): 643–54 (see ch. 5, above); Ulrich Busse, Die Wunder des Propheten Jesu: Rezeption, Komposition und Interpretation der Wundertradition im Evangelium des Lukas, FB 24 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1977). 37  Philip Francis Esler thinks that “release” must be taken literally, so that the holding of thousands of Jewish slaves following the Roman conquest of 70 CE provides the Sitz im Leben for this mandate (Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology, SNTSMS 57 [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987], 181–82). But Luke does not develop this meaning anywhere in Luke-Acts.

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to economic koinonia. Similarly, salvation as forgiveness is continued in Luke’s second volume. In Acts 2, for example, Peter promises those who undergo a repentance-baptism “forgiveness of sins” (2:38; cf. Luke 3:3), and this anticipates the further development of a major emphasis in Acts (see 3:19; 5:31; 10:43; 13:38; 15:9; 22:16; 26:18). Indeed, “forgiveness” can appear in balanced apposition with “salvation” in Acts, or as a synecdoche for “salvation.”38 This signals a renewed/ new relationship with God, of course, but also with God’s people. As sin is the means by which persons exclude themselves or are excluded from the community of God’s people, so forgiveness marks their restoration to the community. (4) Salvation as reception of the Holy Spirit. Peter also promises those who respond to the message that they will receive “the gift of the Holy Spirit” (2:38), an emphasis that will resurface repeatedly (9:17; 10:43–44; 11:15–17; 15:8). The gift of the Spirit marks persons, whether gentile or Jew, as members of the community of God’s people, and thus clarifies the status of those, especially gentiles, who believe. God has received them into the community quite apart from the self-understanding or strategy of that community (esp. 10:45, 47; 11:15–18; 15:8). The gift of the Spirit also signifies empowering for missionary involvement, for in Acts the Spirit directs and empowers the mission. This brief exploration of the content of salvation in Acts has underscored how pervasive soteriology is for Acts, so that salvation can properly be called the theme of Acts. From its content we move easily into a discussion of its basis.

“God Has Brought a Savior” Most now agree that, though Luke does not oppose the attribution of atoning significance to Jesus’s death, the cross does not figure prominently as the basis for his soteriology.39 Instead, Luke presents Jesus’s exaltation (i. e., resurrection and ascension) as the salvific event.40 After surveying representative evidence for this emphasis in Acts, we will go on to suggest how this interpretation of Jesus’s 38  See 13:26//38; 4:10–12//10:43; 10:43/11:14; 5:31; Throckmorton, “Σώζειν,” 518. This does not mean the expressions “forgiveness of sins” and “salvation” are synonymous; salvation in Acts includes but is not defined narrowly as forgiveness. 39  See Luke 22:19b–20; Acts 20:28. See the discussion in Joel B. Green, “The Death of Jesus, God’s Servant,” in Reimaging the Death of the Lukan Jesus, ed. Dennis D. Sylva, AMT: BBB 73 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Anton Hain, 1990), 1–28, 170–73. The significance of these texts is downplayed by Pilgrim, “Death of Christ,” who insists, e. g., that Acts 20:28 is not an expression of Luke’s own thought. From the standpoint of a narrative analysis, however, such a distinction cannot be drawn so carefully – cf. Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction, 2nd ed. (Harmonds­ worth: Penguin, 1983), 18. 40  Cf. I. Howard Marshall, “The Resurrection in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to F. F. Bruce on His 60th Birthday, ed. W. Ward Gasque and Ralph P. Martin (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970), 92–107; idem, Luke: Historian and Theologian, 169–75; Augustin George, “La sense de la Mort de Jesus pour Luc,” RB

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exaltation is coordinated with Luke’s theology and to comment briefly on the role of Jesus’s death in Luke’s soteriology. Exaltation as Salvific Event It will be helpful once again to take as our point of departure material from Acts 2, for already here Luke sets forth the logic of his soteriology. In this respect, the citation from Joel 2 is paramount, as it contains at its beginning and end two central aspects of the Lukan soteriology – respectively, the universalistic reach of salvation identified above all as reception of the Spirit on the one hand, and the identification of “the Lord” as the agent of salvation on the other. Not every detail of the Joel citation is actualized within its new context in Acts 2, but this accent on “the Lord” anticipates the christological climax of Peter’s speech in v. 36: “Therefore, let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.” As Lord, Jesus is the one on whom people call for salvation. How did Jesus come thus to be acknowledged as Lord? The exegesis represented in Peter’s use of Pss 16 and 110 is crucial, demonstrating that it is via his exaltation to God’s right hand (vv. 29– 35).41 What is more, v. 33 makes plain the answer to the question arising in v. 12: “What does this mean?” The phenomena under question are only the sequelae of the outpouring of the Spirit, itself the consequence of Jesus’s exaltation. That is, a corollary of Jesus’s being raised up is that he now administers the promise of the Father (cf. Luke 11:13; 24:49; Acts 1:4), the gift of the Spirit,42 that is, salvation. Having established the connections among the phrase “the name of the Lord,” Jesus’s exaltation, and salvation, the narrator proceeds to build on this understanding in various ways.43 For example, in the next dramatic episode, the “complete health” of the man born lame is attributed to the efficacy of “the name” (3:16); importantly, this conclusion is reached via a rehearsal of the theological significance of Jesus’s having been raised up (3:13–15). Later, in 4:11–12, a statement regarding God’s vindication of Jesus (i. e., the resurrection – cf. v. 10, to which v. 11 is set in parallel) leads into a declaration of the universal significance of Jesus’s name for salvation.44 80 (1973): 186–217; and, more recently, Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986–90), 2:27–40. 41  Cf. Donald Juel, Messianic Exegesis: Christological Interpretation of the Old Testament in Early Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 146–47. 42  Max Turner, “The Spirit of Christ and Christology,” in Christ the Lord: Studies in Christology Presented to Donald Guthrie, ed. Harold H. Rowdon (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1982), 168–90, esp. 179–81. 43  Cf. C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, 2 vols., ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994–98), 1:200. 44 Cf. Marion L. Soards, The Speeches in Acts: Their Content, Context, and Concerns (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 46–47; Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 2:39–40.

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Perhaps the clearest affirmation in Acts of the soteriological significance of Jesus’s exaltation comes in 5:30–31: “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus …. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader (ἀρχηγός45) and Savior, to give repentance to Israel and the forgiveness of sins.” This is a straightforward affirmation that Jesus’s confirmation as Savior, as the one who “gives” repentance and forgiveness, is grounded in his resurrection and ascension. Of course, Jesus was designated Lord and Savior already, in Luke 2:11, and throughout his public ministry he engaged in a ministry of “release,” bringing repentance and forgiveness to Israel. Hence, it would be inaccurate to suggest that, with his exaltation, Jesus becomes Lord, Leader, Savior. Rather, “just as there are several important stages in the life of a king, from birth as heir to the throne to the anointing … , to actual assumption of the throne, so in the life of Jesus according to Luke.”46 As the enthroned one (Messiah) and Benefactor of the people (Lord), the exalted Jesus now reigns as Savior, pouring out the blessings of salvation, including the Spirit with whom he was anointed at the outset of his ministry, to all. Jesus as Savior, God as Savior For Luke, however, this is not the whole story. As much as it is important in his soteriology to accord privilege to Jesus’s role as Savior, it is of greater consequence to affirm that salvation is first and always from God. This is evident above all in the way Acts continues the theme begun in the Third Gospel of the divine purpose at work (e. g., 2:23; 3:18; 4:28; 13:27; 17:31). The fundamental narrative aim of the Lukan narrative is God’s. This attracts opponents (e. g., the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem) as well as helpers (e. g., those who are witnesses “to the end of the earth”). Throughout the Gospel, Jesus manifests a radical commitment to God’s redemptive aim, in spite of competing agenda (e. g., Luke 4:1–13; 22:39–46). As God’s Son, Jesus serves God’s aim and is God’s agent of salvation. God initiates salvation. What is more, even in the salvific activity of Jesus, God is the (often silent but nonetheless) primary actor. In the Pentecost address, e. g., Jesus’s powerful deeds are attributed to God (Acts 1:22), just as in the speech to the household of Cornelius Jesus is said to have gone about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, “having first been anointed by God with the Holy Spirit and power … for God was with him” (10:38). God appointed him Lord and Messiah; God glorified him, sent him, raised him, and so on. Though Jesus is the agent of salvation, God’s redemptive plan was operative prior 45 Given the parallel in 3:15 and Jesus’s role here as the one from whom the blessings of salvation are available, ἀρχηγός – a lexeme with “an extremely polyvalent spectrum of meaning” (Paul-Gerd Müller, “ἀρχηγός,” EDNT 1:163–64 [163]) – apparently belongs in the same semantic field for Luke as Lord. 46  Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 2:39.

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to Jesus’s birth and subsequent to his ascension (cf. 13:16–41); before Luke’s soteriology is Christocentric, it is theocentric.47 Given the strength of this emphasis, it is not surprising that those who align themselves with God’s salvific aim in Acts are never credited with possessing the power to minister salvation. The signs and wonders that partially constitute their missionary activity are effected by God, granted by the Lord (cf. 3:12, 16; 4:10, 29–30; 5:12, 38–39; 8:18–24; 14:3, 14–15; et al.). The Death of Jesus and the Soteriology of Acts What, then, is the place of the crucifixion in Lukan soteriology? Among recent attempts to find a “theology of the cross” in Luke, two are representative. First, Reginald H. Fuller has insisted that efforts to deny a Lukan interest in atonement theology are unfair; after all, statistically speaking, Luke has as many explicit references to the salvific meaning of the cross (Luke 22:19–20; Acts 20:28) as does Mark (10:45; 14:24).48 Statistically speaking, however, this is a glaring overstatement, for Luke-Acts is not only much longer than Mark, but, in the speeches in Acts, the Third Evangelist also has many more opportunities than does Mark to outline what he regards as “the Christian kerygma.” The most that can be said from Fuller’s discussion, but this ought to be said, is that Luke neither opposes nor particularly emphasizes the salvific interpretation of the cross. Second, Joseph A. Fitzmyer has attempted to rehabilitate a soteriological interpretation for the death of Jesus by an engaging exegesis of Jesus’s saying from the cross, “Today, you shall be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43).49 He insists that Luke portrays God’s plan as coming to fruition through, not in spite of, the crucifixion of Jesus, that Luke portrays Jesus exercising his regal power of salvation from the cross, and that Jesus’s “transfer to paradise,” from his death and burial to glory, has soteriological effect. What is missing here is any discussion of the instrumentality of the death of Jesus as a soteriological event, though Fitzmyer’s essay helpfully reminds us that, to say that Luke does not accord soteriological significance to Jesus’s death is not to say that Jesus’s death is without meaning in redemption history.50  The primacy of God in Luke’s theology is emphasized in Soards, Speeches.  Reginald H. Fuller, “Luke and the Theologia Crucis,” in Sin, Salvation, and the Spirit, ed. Daniel Durken (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1979), 214–20. 49  Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Luke the Theologian: Aspects of His Teaching (New York: Paulist Press, 1989), 203–33. 50 Cf. Joseph Enuwosa, “ἡφύση τοῦ θανατοῦ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ στή σωτηριολογία τοῦ Λουκᾶ,” DBM 22, no. 13 (1993): 49–65; Glöckner, Verkündigung des Heils; Jerome Kodell, “Luke’s Theology of the Death of Jesus,” in Sin, Salvation, and the Spirit, ed. Daniel Durken (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1979), 221–30; Susan R. Garrett, “The Meaning of Jesus’ Death in Luke,” WW 12 (1992): 11–16; David L. Tiede, “Contending with God: The Death of Jesus and the Trial of Jesus in Luke-Acts,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester, ed. 47 48

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The sheer frequency of times that we read in Acts of the divine necessity (δεῖ) of the suffering of Jesus is warning enough that salvation has not come in spite of the crucifixion of Jesus. What is more, the specifically covenantal language employed in 20:28 (περιποιέομαι, “to acquire” – cf. Exod 19:5; Isa 43:21), and in 20:32 and 26:18 (ἁγιάζω, “to sanctify” – cf. Deut 33:3) reminds us of Luke’s record of Jesus’s last meal with his disciples wherein he grounds the “new covenant” in his own death (Luke 22:19–20).51 Although sparsely mentioned, the salvific effect of the cross is not absent from Luke, even if it is not woven fully into the fabric of Luke’s theology of the cross.52 Luke’s perspective on the suffering of the Messiah can be outlined along three interrelated lines. We may gain our bearings, first, by noting how Luke has staged the episode of Jesus’s death in Luke 23:44–49, indicating how opposition to Jesus (symbolized for Luke in the darkness/failure of the sun [cf. 22:53]) led to Jesus’s death, the results of which are the repentance of the Jewish crowds and the exemplary confession of the gentile centurion. That is, the rejection of Jesus by the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem leads to the widening of the mission to embrace all peoples, Jew and gentile.53 Earlier in the Gospel, we are informed (cf. 21:13– 19) that suffering and rejection foster the propagation of the word.54 Similarly, in Acts, the rejection of Jesus – first, by the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem, then by some Jews in other locales (e. g., Acts 13:44–49; 14:1–18; 18:26; 28:17–29) – leads to the spread of the mission. The missionary program of 1:8 is grounded in this: Jerusalem is the place of Jesus’s passion and the first locus of hostility toward the apostolic mission, and this hostility will foster the spread of the gospel. As Luke is fond of narrating, struggle and opposition do not impede but seem actually to promote the progress of the gospel: “It is through many hardships that we must enter the kingdom of God” (14:22; cf. 6:1–7; 8:1–3, 4). Second, this citation of the words of Paul in the narrative of Acts, set as it is in the immediate aftermath of the stoning of Paul, urges a reading of the passion of Jesus as in some way paradigmatic for all of those who follow Jesus. As C. K. Barrett has demonstrated, Jesus’s words to his disciples, “If any want to become my Birger A. Pearson, A. Thomas Kraabel, George W. E. Nickelsburg, and Norman R. Petersen (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 301–8. 51  On the originality of vv. 19b–20, see Joel B. Green, The Death of Jesus: Tradition and Interpretation in the Passion Narrative, WUNT 2/33 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988), 35–40. 52  One might argue that Luke thus everywhere assumes an atonement theology, but this does not account for his choice to emphasize much more fully and explicitly other ways of construing the significance of Jesus’s death. 53 See Joel B. Green, “The Demise of the Temple as ‘Culture Center’ in Luke-Acts: An Exploration of the Rending of the Temple Veil (Luke 23:44–49),” RB 101 (1994): 495–515 (see ch. 7, above). 54  See Richard J. Dillon, From Eye-Witnesses to Ministers of the Word: Tradition and Composition in Luke 24, AnBib 82 (Rome: Biblical Institute, 1978), 210–15; Frieder Schütz, Der Leidende Christus: Die angefochtene Gemeinde und das Christuskerygma der lukanischen Schriften, BWANT 89 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1969), 109–12.

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followers, let them … take up their cross daily” (Luke 9:23), portend a lifetime of discipleship as cross-bearing, exemplified in the life of people like Paul in the narrative of Acts (cf. Acts 9:16). For Luke, the theologia crucis is rooted not so much in a theory of the atonement as in a narrative portrayal of the life of faithful discipleship as the way of the cross.55 Third, in describing Jesus’s crucifixion, Acts echoes the words of Deut 21:22– 23: “When someone is convicted of a crime punishable by death and is executed, and you hang him on a tree, his corpse must not remain all night on the tree; you shall bury him that same day, for anyone hung on a tree is under God’s curse.” Thus: Acts 5:30: “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus, whom you had killed by hanging him on a tree.” Acts 10:39: “The Jewish leaders in Jerusalem had Jesus put to death by hanging him on a tree.” Acts 13:29: “They took him down from the tree.”

Luke-Acts accounts for four of the six NT uses of κρεμμάνυμι (“to hang” – see also Luke 23:39; cf. Gal 3:13; 1 Pet 2:24), also employed in the Deuteronomic text, suggesting the formative influence of the LXX of Deut 21:22–23 on Luke’s understanding of the cross.56 No doubt in conversation with early Christian use of Deut 21:22–23 in the interpretation of the cross of Jesus, Luke thus signaled his awareness of the disgrace of Jesus’s execution. He does not employ Deut 21:23 in order to repudiate this shame, however, but in order to acknowledge it. These allusions serve to locate Jesus’s death firmly in the necessity of God’s purpose. The ultimate disgrace, the curse from God, is antecedent to exaltation. The Deuteronomic text is thus used in a parodic way, transforming the earlier passage beyond what one might regard as its original aim by applying it to God’s Anointed One. The execution of Jesus on a cross, then, was shameful in every way, and from both Roman and Jewish points of view.57 55 C. K. Barrett, “Theologia Crucis – in Acts?,” in Theologia crucis – signum crucis: Festschrift für Erich Dinkler zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Carl Andresen and Günter Klein (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1979), 73–84. Cf. Manfred Korn, Die Geschichte Jesu in Veränderter Zeit: Studien zur bleibenden Bedeutung Jesu im lukanischen Doppelwerk, WUNT 2/51 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 242–59; John T. Carroll and Joel B. Green, The Death of Jesus in Early Christianity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995), ch. 4; Pilgrim, “Death of Christ.” 56  This passage from Deuteronomy does not envision crucifixion per se, but rather impalement of the body of the executed after death. Nevertheless, in pre-Christian times, it was already being applied to the victims of crucifixion. See, e. g., Philo, Spec. 3.152; Post. 61; Somn. 2.213; 4Q169 [4QpNah] 3–4.1.7–8; 11Q19 [11QTa Temple Scrolla] 64.6–13; cf. Johannes Schreiber, “ξύλον,” TDNT 5:37–41; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “Crucifixion in Ancient Palestine, Qumran Literature, and the New Testament,” in To Advance the Gospel (New York: Crossroad, 1981), 125–46; Max Wilcox, “ ‘Upon the Tree’ – Deuteronomy 21:22–23 in the New Testament,” JBL 96 (1977): 85–99. 57  Carroll and J. B. Green, Death of Jesus in Early Christianity, ch. 9.

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These two – the cross of Jesus and the cross-bearing of those who follow him – are intimately related. In his suffering and resurrection, Jesus embodied the fullness of salvation interpreted as status reversal; his death was the center point of the divine-human struggle over how life is to be lived, in humility or self-glorification. Though anointed by God, though righteous before God, though innocent, he is put to death. Rejected by people, he is raised up by God – and with him the least, the lost, the left-out are also raised. In his death, and in consequence of his resurrection by God, the way of salvation is exemplified and made accessible to all those who will follow.

“What Must I Do to Be Saved?” The unfortunate predicament Luke faces in his narration of Acts is directly related to his presentation of the theme of salvation. All, Jew and gentile, are called to welcome gladly the good news of divine intervention in history, but not all do, and some, especially from among the Jewish people, actively oppose the Way. It is not too much to say that the proclamation of the Christian message demands response in Acts, but a positive response, one in which people actually accept for themselves the gracious offer of salvation and so (re)orient themselves around God’s purpose, is not guaranteed. The necessity of response is set forth programmatically in the narration of the Pentecost address where Peter is interrupted by his audience. “Cut to the heart,” they ask, “Brothers, what shall we do?” (2:37). This is only the first of many occasions on which speakers in Acts will be similarly interrupted, though not always with such openness to the message. In 4:1 certain Jewish authorities break off the speech of Peter and John in order to arrest them. Speeches by Stephen and Paul are terminated prematurely by those who react in anger and wish them harm (7:54; 22:22; cf. 13:44–45; 26:24). Others, however, respond more positively. Indeed, at one point it is the Holy Spirit who interrupts Peter in a scene that registers dramatically the openness of Cornelius and his household to the message (10:44). The record of reactions to Paul’s preaching at Athens is representative: having heard, some scoffed, others expressed their willingness to hear more from Paul, and some joined him, becoming believers (17:32–33). Such texts witness to the pervasiveness of the motif of response in Acts, while exhibiting the diversity of ways in which the message of salvation might be greeted.58 58  Luke marks the possibility of negative responses early on in Acts – e. g., we hear that Judas “turned away” (Luke 22:4: ἀπελθών; Acts 1:25: παρέβη; cf. Robert L. Brawley, Centering on God: Method and Message in Luke-Acts, LCBI [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990], 180–81) and that some Jews in Jerusalem sneered when they heard Jesus’s disciples proclaiming God’s mighty deeds in other languages (2:13).

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Why some sort of response is necessary is also clear in the Pentecost address. According to Peter, the exaltation of Jesus and the consequent outpouring of the Holy Spirit have signaled a dramatic transformation in history. Because these are “the last days” (2:17), life can no longer be the same. To put it somewhat differently, the message of Jesus’s witnesses calls for a radically different understanding of the “world” than that held previously.59 Within the speeches of Acts, Jewish people might hear the stories of their ancestors, to be sure, but these stories have been cast so as to encourage a reading of that history that underscores the fundamental continuity between the ancient story of Israel, the story of Jesus, and the story of the Way.60 Israel’s past (and present) is correctly understood and embraced fully only when understood vis-à-vis the redemptive purpose of God, but this divine purpose can be understood only as articulated by authorized interpretive agents  – first, Jesus of Nazareth, and then his witnesses.61 Thus, for example, Paul’s question to King Agrippa, “Do you believe the prophets?” (26:27), concerns not simply a commitment to the prophets but to the prophets as they have been expounded by Paul. The coming of Jesus as Savior may signal the fresh offer of repentance and forgiveness of sins to Israel (e. g., 5:31; 13:38–39), but the acceptance of this offer by Jewish people is dependent on their embracing this interpretation of God’s salvific activity.62 Greek audiences, too, are asked to adopt a new way of viewing the world. Note how, at Athens, Paul distinguishes between how God worked in the past (17:30a; cf. 14:16) and how he will now operate (17:30b) – a distinction that calls for repentance. This way of construing conversion in Acts is developed in a variety of ways within the narrative itself. Late in the narrative, for example, Paul recounts his commission from Jesus, who sends him “to open their eyes so that they might turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God” (26:17–18). In this case, Luke draws on the familiar language of religious conversion,63 but interprets it so as to situate the redemptive purpose of God within the cosmic battle whereby one kingdom gives way to the other. It is an important component of this text that gentiles and Jews alike are regarded as in need of deliverance from 59  Our employment of the term world is informed by Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966), and refers to the socially constructed way reality is understood. Thus, the eschatological work of God in Jesus Christ has rendered obsolete old ways of viewing the world while opening new ways in conformity with God’s eternal purpose. 60  Cf. Robert G. Hall, Revealed Histories: Techniques for Ancient Jewish and Christian Historiography, JSPSup 6 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991). 61  Cf. J. B. Green, Theology of Luke, 75. This points to the nature of the fundamental struggle between representatives of the Way and other forms of Judaism, but also provides a rationale for the opposition faced by Jesus’s witnesses (and, we may presume, by Luke’s audience as well). 62  Note, therefore, the characterization of the Beroean Jews as “more noble” (or “more open-minded”) as evidenced by their willingness to examine the Scriptures in light of the message of Paul and Silas (17:11). 63  Cf. Dennis Hamm, “Sight to the Blind: Vision as Metaphor in Luke,” Bib 67 (1986): 457–77.

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darkness (cf. Luke 1:78–79). Elsewhere the Christian mission can be represented as one of debate and dialogue – a battle of interpretation, as it were, as Paul calls for receptivity: “You Israelites, and others who fear God, listen! … Let it be known to you, therefore, my brothers …. Beware, therefore, that what the prophets said does not happen to you” (Acts 13:16, 38, 41; cf. 17:3; 19:8–10). Among Greek audiences, Paul calls for people to leave the way of idolatry and turn to “the Living God” (14:15–16). In the account of the conversion of the Philippian jailor, the question revolves at least in part around the question of allegiance. Having failed at the task of guarding his prisoners (on behalf of Lord Caesar), the jailor referred to Paul and Silas as “lords” (κύριοι), requesting “salvation” from them. They directed him to place his faith in “the Lord (κύριος) Jesus” instead, then spoke “the word of the Lord (κύριος)” to him and his household (16:27–32). Although Luke is concerned with conversion from one form of life to another, then, he outlines no “typical” way of understanding the nature of that conversion. In effect, the necessary response to the salvific message is initial and ongoing identification with God’s purpose, manifest in the Way. Beyond this, the Lukan narrative supports no technique or pattern of conversion.64 It is true that two texts in particular seem to present a paradigm of response, following as they do the direct questions, “What shall we do?” (2:37–38) and “What must I do to be saved?” (16:30–34). In the first case, though, Peter counsels his audience to repent and be baptized. In the second the jailor is told (simply) to believe, although he and his household respond also with hospitality and baptism. If these texts were to be understood as establishing a pattern of response, then, they do so poorly, since the instructions given in the one case may complement, but certainly do not mimic, the other. If one were able to discern an “order of salvation” in these accounts, it would be this: God initiates → people hear the message of salvation → people respond. This is the heart of Peter’s defense of the inclusion of gentiles in the community of God’s people (15:7–11): “God made a choice” → “gentiles hear the message of the good news” → they become “believers.” To deny that Luke presents a particular pattern of response is not to deny that some forms of response might be regarded as typical in some sense. (1) “Baptism in the name of Jesus” is a normal response, as suggested by the Ethiopian’s question (quite apart from any explicitly narrated prompting from Philip), “Look, here is water; what is to prevent me from being baptized?” (8:36; cf. 2:41; 8:12; 9:18; 10:47–48; 16:15; et al.). Within the Lukan narrative, baptism takes its meaning in part from the ministry of John (Luke 3:1–20), with the result that it expresses a desire to embrace God’s purpose anew and to be embraced into the community of those similarly oriented around the way of God. (2) Repentance 64  This point is underscored in Beverly Roberts Gaventa, From Darkness to Light: Aspects of Conversion in the New Testament, OBT (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 52–129. Cf. also O’Toole, Unity of Luke’s Theology, 191–224.

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(or “turning to God”) is often mentioned explicitly as an appropriate response to God’s salvific work (cf. 2:38; 3:19; 5:31; 11:18; 17:30; 20:21; 26:20). Again, Luke’s portrayal of this response is rooted in his account of the ministry of John (esp. Luke 3:1–14), where repentance is marked by behavior that grows out of and demonstrates that one has indeed committed oneself to service in God’s purpose (cf. Luke 3:10–14; Acts 26:20). (3) That Christians are sometimes called “believers” signals the importance of faith in Luke’s understanding of salvation (cf. 2:44; 3:16; 11:17; 13:39; 14:9; 15:7; 16:30–31; 18:8). Indeed, another name given Jesus’s disciples in Acts, “those who call on the name” (9:14, 21), though rooted exegetically in the citation of Joel 2:32 in Acts 2:21, marks those disciples as those who believe in the name and have identified with the name of Jesus in baptism (2:38; 3:16; 8:12, 16; 9:48; 19:5; 22:16). What is the appropriate response to the good news of salvation? Luke addresses this question with an arsenal of possibilities – for example, believe, be baptized, turn to God, listen, see, repent, and so on – but singles out no particular pattern of response as paradigmatic. God has acted graciously in Christ to bring salvation to all humanity. All are called to welcome the good news, to respond with receptivity, and thus to share in that salvation not only as recipients – but also as those who serve God’s redemptive aim.

“You and Your Entire Household Will Be Saved” In this essay, however implicitly, we have tried to indicate the degree to which traditional ways of characterizing salvation in Acts have often been the product of readings by nineteenth‑ and twentieth-century moderns for whom individual-oriented and segregating ways of thinking have become natural. Divisions between social and ecclesial, sacred and profane, politico-economic and spiritual, material and ethereal  – these would not have come so easily for Luke, as our analysis has confirmed. That Paul and Silas can speak these words, “You and your household will be saved,” to a Philippian jailor (Acts 16:31) is itself indicative of the inherent polysemy of salvation in Acts, for it suggests the absence of barriers between people and their kin groups, gentiles and Jews, the spiritual well-being of people and their relation to the empire, and so on. On the face of it, this expansiveness of meaning is hardly out of step with salvation as broadly understood in the Greco-Roman world, where everyday life was not separated from the assumed divine legitimation of the Roman structures and relationships by which the world “worked.” Nor were Luke’s emphases likely to astonish persons more steeped in a septuagintal understanding of the content of salvation as Yahweh acting on behalf of his people – whether materially or with respect to forgiveness and restoration. What is of particular interest, then is how the narrative of Acts can articulate with those wider nuances, presupposed within

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the fabric of this socially constructed world, while at the same time challenging, even working to overturn that world.65 The inclusion of gentiles as full and equal partners within the community of God’s people, rooted in the affirmation that God has made no such distinction (e. g., Acts 10:15, 34–36; 11:12; 15:9), would certainly have worked against the sensibilities of those who reasoned that the Jewish people shared among themselves a privileged election. The very notion that the lowly, the humiliated, those without power and privilege (among whom Jesus, not least in light of his crucifixion, must be counted) might be the recipients of divine benefaction (beginning with the exaltation of Jesus himself) – this too must have played against the sensibilities of a Greco-Roman people for whom honor was carefully measured and rationed by longstanding, unbending canons. All of this is to say, though, that the God of Israel is portrayed in Acts as the Great Benefactor, Jesus as Lord of all; and that the nature of this benefaction, of this lordship, embodies, enables, and inspires new ways of living in the world.

65  On the problem of “articulation” informing this discussion, see Robert Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse: Ideology and Social Structure in the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and European Socialism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 1–22.

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“Persevering Together in Prayer”: The Significance of Prayer in the Acts of the Apostles Luke’s portrayal of Jesus’s followers at prayer in the Acts of the Apostles presents the early church as a collective poster child and exemplar of the theological formation expected of those who embrace the gospel. By “theological formation” I mean that, having been shaped in relationship with Jesus – either in the context of his earthly ministry or subsequently by means of the mediating presence of the Holy Spirit, or both – his disciples experienced a deep-seated conversion in their conception of God, and therefore a radical conversion in their commitments, attitudes, and everyday practices. This transformation comes into sharp focus in Luke’s portrayal of their practices of prayer. Throughout Luke’s narrative in Acts we see – though, admittedly, at one or two key points the comparison somewhat fails  – the perspectives articulated and modeled by Jesus in the Third Gospel coming to life in the experience of Jesus’s followers. Put sharply, Jesus’s followers in Acts are people of prayer. The adjective prayerful functions as a descriptive character quality, a behavior common to those of the Christian movement. This assessment is not based on the use of terminological preferences alone – as though Luke’s interest in prayer could be limited to the appearance of the noun prayer (προσευχή) or the verb to pray (προσεύχομαι), though such terms are plentiful. Luke, in fact, uses more than a dozen expressions to draw attention to the prayer practices of the early Christians. More important are the strategic ways in which prayer is introduced into the narrative, and especially the ways prayer texts in Acts cohere with and build on Jesus’s perspective on prayer as displayed in the Third Gospel. In this essay I want to demonstrate the centrality of prayer in Luke’s presentation of faithful discipleship in Acts. First, I want to highlight certain key features in Luke’s portrayal of the early church as a people of prayer. Second, I want to explore particular moments of prayer in the life of the early church, dealing with these episodes under a few major categories. Third, I want to sketch the relationship between the picture of prayer in Acts and the material on prayer in the Third Gospel  – asking, in essence, what the disciples learned from Jesus regarding * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “ ‘Persevering Together in Prayer’ (Acts 1:14): The Significance of Prayer in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Into God’s Presence: Prayer in the New Testament, ed. Richard N. Longenecker, MNTS 5 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 183–202. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

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the character and practice of prayer. All of this will lead, finally, to an epilogue in which I set out some conclusions and questions on the nature of prayer as a “practice” that embodies the church’s deepest convictions, its essential commitments, and, in fact, even identifies the church as the church.

The Early Church as a People of Prayer Over thirty times in the Acts of the Apostles, Luke characterizes Jesus’s followers as being at prayer or narrates episodes of prayer. These scenes are most prevalent in the first half of the book, as though, having established a pattern of pervasive prayer, Luke has no need to repeat himself again and again. This strategy is consistent with the character of narrative generally, since narratives (including historical narratives like Acts) seek to establish what is typical – in this case, a devotion to prayer – and treat it subsequently as a presupposition. This means that we can assume from the early chapters of Acts not only the pervasiveness of prayer within the early church, but also that the general patterns of prayer established there pertain to the whole of the narrative of Acts. What patterns of prayer, then, does Luke develop? Prayerfulness: A Character Quality of Disciples On a number of occasions, instances of the disciples praying are reported by Luke without any reference to the content of their prayers. More often than not, these reports serve to portray the disciples as people who habitually engage in prayer. Prayerfulness, thus, is presented in the Acts of the Apostles as a distinguishing mark of their character. The first reference to prayer in Acts comes in the summary statement of 1:12–14 and is expressed as follows: “All were united in devoting themselves to prayer” (v. 14).1 The appearance of these words in a summary statement is significant because it is the nature of summaries to indicate what is typical and emblematic. In the opening verses of Acts, the disciples are portrayed as those whom Jesus had commissioned and taught, who witnessed his resurrected life and his departure, and who obeyed his instructions to wait in Jerusalem. All of this was in the context of “persevering prayer.” The disciples are thus defined in v. 14 by their tenacious orientation toward a common aim – that is, they were single-minded in giving themselves to prayer. The verb Luke uses to depict this tenaciousness is προσκαρτερέω (“continue,” “persevere in”), which appears in the NT only ten times, six in Acts (1:14; 2:42, 46; 6:4; 8:13; 10:7). A second important term in this verse is ὁμοθυμαδόν (“with one mind, purpose, or impulse”), an adverb that appears in Acts ten times and  Unless otherwise noted, translations of biblical texts are my own.

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otherwise in the NT only in Rom 15:6. In Acts it characterizes the single-minded unity either of the company of believers (1:14; 2:46; 4:24; 5:12; 8:6; 15:25) or of those who opposed them (7:57; 12:20; 18:12; 19:29). Although taught to pray (cf. Luke 11:1–13) and instructed to pray (cf. Luke 22:40, 46), heretofore in the narrative of Luke-Acts the disciples have not been depicted as persons who engaged in prayer. Yet, one of the characteristic activities of Jesus was prayer, and throughout the Third Gospel prayer had been the means by which Jesus’s identity was manifested, God’s plans were revealed, and people aligned themselves with God’s plans. Prayer on the part of Jesus’s followers – especially the habitual prayer reported in this text as characterizing the disciples – is, therefore, clearly of consequence. Though Luke does not sketch the content of this ceaseless prayer, the close ties of this summary statement to the opening of the Pentecost account in 2:1 suggest that this is prayer in anticipation of the promised Spirit. There may also be here an echo of Jesus’s earlier instruction regarding faithfulness in prayer to a God who is ready to give graciously and quickly, even the gift of the Holy Spirit to those who ask (Luke 11:1–13). The second summary, Acts 2:42–47, also lists prayer as a characteristic activity of the early church, for here the growing company of believers is said to have “held diligently to the teaching of the apostles and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to the prayers” (v. 42). “Diligence” is developed with reference to four distinctive activities, the last being “the prayers” (cf. also “praising God” in v. 47). Luke does not state where the disciples engaged in prayer, though the mention of the temple in v. 46 is suggestive in this regard (cf. Luke 24:53). At the same time, there is no reason to limit prayer to the temple, especially given the explicit mention of homes as centers of Christian activity in this same verse (cf. also 4:24–31). Since these first believers are depicted by Luke as Jewish, we may justifiably assume that “the prayers” refers to the patterns of prayer associated with Jews during this period. Unfortunately, however, we know little of the specifics of those patterns, though we may imagine the daily recitation of the Shema and participation in prayers of petition along with other Jews in the temple.2 One innovation may already be recognized, namely, the probability that prayers were offered to the Lord Jesus, since his is the name on which persons are to call for salvation. At this juncture, however, more important for our purposes than specifying the exact content of their prayers is this affirmation that the believers were devoted to prayer. 2 See Daniel K. Falk, “Jewish Prayer Literature and the Jerusalem Church in Acts,” in The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting, ed. Richard Bauckham, BAFCS 4 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 267–301; Brad Blue, “The Influence of Jewish Worship on Luke’s Presentation of the Early Church,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 473–97; James H. Charlesworth, “A Prolegomena to a New Study of the Jewish Background of the Hymns and Prayers in the New Testament,” JJS 33 (1982): 265–85.

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Elsewhere in Acts a similar perspective is maintained, not least on account of the sheer quantity of references to prayer in the narrative. Nowhere is the disciples’ devotion to prayer more clearly set forth, however, than in texts such as these two summary statements (1:12–14; 2:42–47), where it seems important to Luke simply to highlight the fact that the disciples of Jesus devoted themselves to prayer without even mentioning the content of those prayers (see also 3:1; 10:9; cf. 10:2). Furthermore, their devotion to prayer is evident in such expected contexts as scenes of farewell (cf. 20:36; 21:5–6) and at meals (cf. 27:35). Continuity and Discontinuity with Judaism As we have already begun to see, Luke portrays the early church in continuity with Judaism on the matter of prayer. One prominent example of this continuity has to do with the Jerusalem temple. The Third Gospel emphasizes the function of the temple as a house of prayer (cf. Luke 1:8–23; 2:27–32, 36–38; 18:10–14; 19:46; 24:53), and the temple continues to serve this role in the Book of Acts (cf. Acts 2:47; 3:1; 21:20–26; 22:17–21). Nevertheless, as will become increasingly obvious in our study of the prayer texts of Acts, the practice of prayer in the early church also signals discontinuity with Judaism. In his speech of defense in Acts 22:1–21, for example, having recounted his experience on the Damascus road, Paul reports: After returning to Jerusalem, while praying in the temple, I fell into a trance. I saw him saying to me, “Hurry, leave Jerusalem quickly, for they will not accept your witness concerning me.” And I replied, “Lord, they themselves know that in every synagogue I imprisoned and beat those who believed in you. They know that, while the blood of Stephen your witness was shed, I was standing by, approving, and watching the coats of those who killed him.” But he said to me, “Go, for I will send you far away to the Gentiles.” (vv. 17–21)

Here is a fail-safe apologetic for Paul’s mission. It was in the Jerusalem temple, while praying, that Paul received the divine mandate to take the gospel to the gentile world. What is equally clear, though, is that this experience of prayer in the temple served to undermine for Paul the centrality of the temple for faith and life. Thus, a form of continuity with Judaism – that is, prayer to God in the temple in Jerusalem – has resulted in a divine mandate that subverts the central role of the temple for Jewish life. Discontinuity with Judaism is clear at another key point: that prayers were offered by the early church to Jesus. “God” is the object of prayer in a number of the reports of the church at prayer in Acts (e. g., 4:24–31; 10:2,4; 12:5; 16:25), though more often the narrative does not specify to whom prayers were offered (e. g., 1:14; 2:42; 3:1; 6:4, 6; 9:11; 10:9). On several occasions, however, Luke specifically notes that prayers were offered to Jesus, beginning with the prayer regarding Matthias’s replacement in 1:24–25.

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Some interpreters have argued that Yahweh is the object of the apostles’ prayer in 1:24–25, for God is the “knower of hearts” in 15:8 and so should be seen as the referent of “Lord” in 1:24 (“Lord, you know everyone’s heart”). Other factors in the immediate context, however, are more pressing and encourage an identification of Jesus as the one addressed in this prayer. One factor is that Luke 6:12–13 and Acts 1:2 present Jesus as the one who chose the apostles, so it would follow that he would choose this latest apostle as well. Another is that Jesus has just been addressed as “Lord” in vv. 6 and 21, and the title “Lord” is used of Jesus throughout Acts (cf. esp. 2:21, 36). Similarly, although the identity of “the Lord” to whom Peter advises that prayer be made in 8:22 (“Pray to the Lord”), and the identity of “the Lord” in Simon’s reply in 8:24 (“Pray for me to the Lord”), may be seen as somewhat ambiguous, the fact that elsewhere in this scene “the Lord” is explicitly identified by Luke as “the Lord Jesus” (8:16) means that we may assume in the exchange between Simon and Peter throughout 8:14–25 that Jesus is in view. Furthermore, Stephen offers prayer to Jesus (7:59–60), as does Ananias (9:10–17; see esp. v. 17, where “the Lord” is directly specified as “Jesus”). So routine, in fact, is Christocentric prayer to the identity of the early Christians that they can be known as “those who call on the name” of Jesus (cf. 2:21; 7:59; 9:14, 21; 22:16). The prayer practices of the early church, therefore, highlight important christological affirmations that move beyond what was characteristic of Judaism. According to Peter’s sermon at Pentecost, Jesus is God’s coregent who dispenses the blessings of salvation to all who “call on the name of the Lord” (2:14–41). In this capacity, he has become an object of devotion and a source of salvation – roles more reserved for God within Jewish tradition. The patterns of prayer in Luke’s narrative that came to characterize Jesus’s early followers, though similar in many ways to Jewish patterns of the day, also distinguished those followers of Jesus from their contemporaries within Judaism. Continuity with Jesus The Lukan picture of the early disciples as people of prayer serves to demarcate the church’s relationship to Judaism as one of both continuity and discontinuity. Within the Lukan narrative, however, it is also clear – particularly with regard to the practice of prayer – that the early disciples are to be seen in continuity with Jesus. Some parallels seem quite deliberate: (1) prayer in anticipation of the outpouring of the Spirit (cf. Luke 3:21; Acts 1:14; 2:1–4; 8:15–17); (2) prayer in relation to the selection of apostles (cf. Luke 6:12; Acts 1:24); and (3) prayer for forgiveness of one’s persecutors in the face of death (cf. Luke 23:34; Acts 7:60). A close reading of the Gospel of Luke (not least in comparison to the other canonical Gospels) provides a portrait of Jesus as a person of prayer, who was regularly

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in deep communion with God. In Acts this portrait is expanded into a mural that includes the disciples similarly in prayer.3 From early on in his second volume, then, Luke establishes Jesus’s followers as persons who continue to model the piety of Jesus. Even when the content of prayer is unspecified or undeveloped, the devotion of these disciples to prayer speaks volumes about their fundamental orientation to the purpose of God, their alignment with the will of God, and their conviction that God will hear and respond to their prayers. Prayer thus serves for Luke as a means of legitimating these early believers – that is, of affirming their role as heirs of the power and ministry of Jesus and sanctioning their role as his faithful witnesses. As people of prayer, they serve an agenda that is not their own but God’s, act as instruments of God who exercise God-given authority, and minister with the confidence of those who have learned from their leader the boundless graciousness and faithfulness of God.

Major Categories of Prayer in the Early Church As we move from the more general characterization of the disciples as a people of prayer to explore particular moments of prayer in the early church, a number of episodes in Acts come immediately to mind. These can be grouped into a small number of categories. Prayer at the Selection and Commissioning of Leadership One such category of prayer is where prayer is intimately associated with the selection and/or commissioning of leadership, as in 1:24–25, 6:6, 13:3, and 14:23. The first of these episodes, which has to do with Matthias’s replacement of Judas in 1:15–26, is of special interest, since it suggests an important relationship between the purpose of God and human participation in that purpose. Judas’s own defection from his appointed place among the original disciples of Jesus demonstrates that God’s aim can be opposed – that the divine will is not simply a fait accompli but invites and needs human partnership. Prayer is put forward as one of the ways God’s will becomes manifest, both in the sense that, in prayer, the divine will is disclosed, and in the sense that, in prayer, humans align themselves with God’s will. Verses 23 and 24 narrate parallel actions on the part of the early church: “they put forward” and “they prayed.” This is significant for two reasons. First, it follows an emphasis that Luke has already established regarding the unity of the community (see esp. vv. 14–15), which is now shown to act as a collective body. Second, it demonstrates the partnership of believers with God, for “they put forward” and “they prayed, ‘Lord, … show us clearly.’ ” 3 Cf. Stephen C. Barton, The Spirituality of the Gospels (London: SPCK, 1992), 87–91; Peter T. O’Brien, “Prayer in Luke-Acts,” TynBul 24 (1973): 111–27.

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The Lord is addressed as “the one who knows the heart” (καρδιογνώστης). This is an expression used only twice in the NT (here and in 15:8), but one that points to a concept almost proverbial in biblical literature  – that God is omniscient, the one who knows the innermost being of humans and foreordains human destiny. In this prayer, there is the consciousness that the Lord is all-knowing and has already chosen Judas’s replacement. This understanding is closely bound up thematically with the prior choosing of the apostles by Jesus (cf. Luke 6:12–16; Acts 1:2) and the prescience of God involving these events, as represented in the interpretation of the OT Psalms in Acts 1:16, 20. By way of categorically dismissing any possibility for the intrusion of human volition in the process of selection, the prayer of the apostles is followed by the casting of lots. “The lot” had come to serve as a metaphor for divine decision in Jewish thought, and earlier in his Gospel Luke recorded Zechariah’s having received by lot the unsurpassed honor for priests of offering incense in the Holy Place (Luke 1:8–9). The selection of Zechariah was not an arbitrary decision nor a matter of chance. Neither was the choice of Matthias. As a consequence, Matthias was counted together with the other eleven apostles, and, in preparation for the outpouring of the Spirit, the apostolic circle was again complete. This first recorded prayer of Acts in 1:24–25, therefore, functions at multiple levels. Within the narrative, this collective prayer acknowledges God’s continuing control of the progress of history. More specifically, it works together with other indications of the divine will at work in these events to certify that the choice of Matthias was the outworking of God’s purpose. Furthermore, it demonstrates the early church’s commitment to discerning and putting into action God’s will. Prayer in the Face of Persecution and Hardship Jesus in the Third Gospel had predicted that his followers would encounter hostility (cf., e. g., Luke 6:22–23; 10:1–16; 12:4–10; 21:12–19; 22:35–38). At the same time, he insisted that nothing  – not even life-threatening opposition  – could happen to them that was outside of God’s attentiveness and compassion. In one scene, he urged his disciples, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet God does not overlook any of them. Even the hairs of your head are all counted. Do not be afraid. You are more valuable than many sparrows” (12:6–7). That sparrows are not forgotten by God does not keep them from being sold in the marketplace. Likewise, God’s knowledge of the number of hairs on “your head” is not a pronouncement of divine protection from all harm. But such statements do indicate the presence and unsurpassed knowledge and care of God in all of life. Given this perspective on God and his working, we should not be surprised to discover that prayers related to persecution and hardship in Luke’s second volume, the Acts of the Apostles, are not necessarily for divine rescue (see 4:24–31; 7:59–60; 12:5, 12; 16:25).

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One important episode of prayer in the face of persecution in Acts, recounted in 4:24–30, takes place on the occasion of Peter and John’s release from trial by the Jewish authorities. This episode brings to closure a narrative section in Acts that began in 3:1 with a healing in the vicinity of the Jerusalem temple of a man crippled from birth. The healing scene gives way to Peter’s address to the gathered crowds, which itself becomes the occasion for Peter and John to be arrested, called before the Jerusalem authorities, and threatened against speaking further in the name of Jesus. “After they had been released,” Luke records, Peter and John “went to the other believers and reported what the chief priests and the elders had said to them.” And when the believers in Jerusalem heard it, Luke goes on to say, “they raised their voices together to God and said”: Master, who made the heaven and the earth, the sea, and everything in them, it is you who said by the Holy Spirit through our ancestor David, your servant, “Why did the Gentiles rage, and the peoples imagine vain things? The kings of the earth took their stand, and the rulers have gathered together against the Lord and against his Messiah.” For indeed in this city both Herod and Pontius Pilate, with the Gentiles and the Israelites, gathered together against your holy servant Jesus, whom you anointed, to do whatever your hand and your plan had predestined to take place. And now, Lord, look on their threats, and grant to your servants to speak your word with all boldness, as you stretch out your hand to heal, and signs and wonders are performed through the name of your holy servant Jesus. (4:24–30)

The structure of this prayer is suggested by the dual address to God first as “Master” (δέσποτα, v. 24) and then as “Lord” (κύριε, v. 29). The first half of the prayer affirms God as Creator and Lord of history, whose purpose was not thwarted but actualized in the opposition encountered by his Messiah. The power and authority of God revealed in all of history, but especially and most recently in the events related to the death of Jesus, serve thus as the warrant for the request addressed to him. The second half of the prayer requests divine intervention for the purpose of the continuation of the church’s mission. This prayer demonstrates, first, how the church read its own experience of opposition against the backdrop of the hostility that Jesus had encountered  – and, indeed, within the ongoing revelation of God’s redemption. Persecution is hardly a sign of God’s disfavor. This truth is underscored by the divine portents that follow the prayer: “When they had prayed, the place where they were gathered was shaken; and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke the word of God boldly” (4:31). This perspective on persecution is developed further in 7:54–60, where Stephen, in the face of enraged opposition, visualizes the glory of God and sees Jesus standing at the place of honor with God. Jesus appears as Stephen’s intercessor or advocate, and as his intercessor he stands ready to receive Stephen.4 Opposition, therefore, is not a contradiction of, but is to be taken into account within, the redemptive plan of God (cf. 14:22). 4  On Jesus as “heavenly intercessor,” see David M. Crump, Jesus the Intercessor: Prayer and Christology in Luke-Acts, WUNT 2/49 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 176–203.

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Second, this prayer suggests that the disciples have learned from Jesus the importance of prayer in the midst of trials. On the Mount of Olives, when urged to pray lest they fail in the time of testing, they had slept (Luke 22:39–46). Now, however, in the context of opposition, they pray, with the result that they are emboldened for mission. It is crucial to observe that prayer was offered not for the cessation of threats but to ask God not to allow his redemptive aim to be thwarted. Prayer in Moments of Missional Innovation Throughout Acts, prayer provides an opportunity for the disclosure of God’s purpose. Given Luke’s overall focus on the progress of “the word” in his Gospel and his Acts, however, the presence of divine revelation at pivotal points in the mission receives heightened attention. Of course, God has a variety of ways of communicating his will – for example, through angelic visitation, interpretation of Scripture, and the intervention of the Holy Spirit. Within such a list, however, prayer figures prominently. This is especially true at those points at which Luke correlates prayer with visions (e. g., 9:10–12; 10:3–4, 9–16, 30–31; 11:5; 22:17–21). In his account of the encounter of Philip with the Ethiopian eunuch in 8:26–40, Luke goes to great lengths to show that Philip’s evangelistic activity was simply a manifestation of God’s purpose: “An angel of the Lord said to Philip,” “the Spirit said to Philip,” and “the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away” (vv. 26, 29, 39). The inclusion of the Ethiopian within the people of God constituted a theological and missional departure of such magnitude that it was important to stress that this innovation bore the divine imprimatur. The same can be said of Peter’s encounter with Cornelius in 10:1–11:18. Indeed, Luke’s narration of the Cornelius episode virtually brims with confirmation of the divine hand at work. This can be seen not only in the intervention of divine messengers (as in the episode with the eunuch) but more especially in the strategic role prayer plays in the story. Cornelius, though a gentile, was a man of prayer (10:2); and on a certain day he had a vision at three o’clock in the afternoon, which Luke has already identified as a time for prayer at the Jerusalem temple (3:1). That the vision took place in the context of prayer is suggested by the angel’s words to Cornelius, “Your prayers … have ascended as a memorial before God” (10:4), and confirmed in Cornelius’s report to Peter of this episode in 10:30–31: “Four days ago, at this very moment, three o’clock in the afternoon, I was praying at home.” Furthermore, what occurred with Cornelius was paralleled in the experience of Peter, who also had a vision while praying (10:9) and later had opportunity to speak of his prayer and vision (11:5). In both cases, the will of God was revealed both with regard to those individuals who were praying and, more significantly, with regard to the make-up of the people of God.

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At stake in the Cornelius-episode of 10:1–11:18 was not the legitimization of the communication of the gospel to gentiles. That had already been mandated by the risen Lord in 1:8 and performed by Philip in ministering to the Ethiopian eunuch in 8:26–40. Instead, full and open hospitality was at stake (cf. the protestations of the Jewish believers at Jerusalem in 11:2–3 [cf. 10:28]). In this case, then, prayer was the means by which God’s will for full fellowship between Jewish and gentile believers was revealed and enacted – just as the actualization of God’s purpose among Jesus’s followers and in the Christian mission had earlier been demonstrated by an expression of prayer, namely, the doxological speaking in tongues (2:1–13). This does not mean that the purposes of God are somehow set loose by prayer, or otherwise placed in motion. Rather, these episodes reveal that God is already at work redemptively. The question is whether people will recognize and, having recognized, embrace and serve God’s purpose. In Acts, prayer is a means by which God’s aim is disclosed and discerned, and by which people get in sync with and participate in what God is doing. Prayer for Salvation Other aspects of prayer are developed in Acts, including, for example, those texts where prayer is bundled together with kneeling (7:60; 9:40; 20:36; 21:5–6) and fasting (13:3; 14:27) – that is, where prayer is related to dispositions of humility and dependence before God. The final category I want to develop here, however, has to do with that roster of texts in Acts in which prayer is related to salvation. Salvation comprises, above all, a person’s incorporation into and participation in the community of God’s people, whose life is drawn from and focused on Christ. Salvation includes the forgiveness of sins and the gift of the Holy Spirit, but it must also be understood wholistically to include other blessings as well – for example, physical healing and divine rescue.5 In a sense, salvation is always related to prayer, since salvation comes to all “who call on the name of the Lord.” One of the names given to Jesus’s disciples in Acts is “those who call on the name” (9:14, 21). Rooted exegetically in the citation of Joel 2:32 in Acts 2:21, this descriptive label identifies those who believe in the name of Jesus and have identified with his name in baptism (cf. 2:38; 3:16; 8:12, 16; 9:48; 19:5; 22:16). At its most basic level, “to call on” refers in biblical language to prayer in times of need. By using this designation for followers of Jesus, Luke thus indicates how fundamental prayer is to Christian experience, for it marks the beginning of one’s incorporation into the messianic community and designates one of the practices that speak of faithfulness within that community. 5  Joel B. Green, “ ‘Salvation to the End of the Earth’ (Acts 13:47): God as Saviour in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 83–106 (see ch. 18, above).

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Additionally, in a handful of scenes in Acts we read of specific petitions being made on behalf of others for salvation and its blessings. Peter, for example, prays for the resuscitation of Tabitha (9:40), and Paul prays for the physical healing of Publius’s father (28:8). In these episodes we have reminders that the power to heal does not reside with men and women – not even with heroes of faith like Peter and Paul – but that healing is from the Lord (cf. 3:12–16; 14:8–15). In one text, but only one, prayers are made that others might receive the Holy Spirit (8:15). This is unusual in the Book of Acts, for the Spirit’s outpouring is not dispensed by human hands but through the agency of the exalted Jesus (cf. 2:33). Likewise, before Festus, Agrippa II, and Bernice, Paul uses the language of prayer to express his desire that Agrippa – and, indeed, all who had gathered to hear Paul’s testimony– might become believers (26:29). Paul thus expresses a hope reminiscent of the words of Jesus (cf. Luke 23:43) and of Stephen (cf. Acts 7:59–60), who responded to persecution by intercession on behalf of their persecutors. And in other scenes in Acts, even when the content of the prayers is not given, prayer is nonetheless intimately associated with manifestations of the saving activity of God (cf., e. g., 2:1–4; 16:25–34). Conclusion Because of the importance of prayer at the most fundamental levels of Christian experience in the Lukan narrative, it is difficult to summarize the significance and features of prayer as these are developed in the Acts of the Apostles. Prayer is a practice that brings to expression a renewed understanding of God, together with a belief in the exalted lordship of Jesus. It is also a practice that reveals one’s confidence in a God who is graciously present and who will act to bring to fruition his redemptive purpose. Episodes of prayer comprise some, though not all, of the contexts in which God chooses to reveal his purpose and to invite human participation in it. And it follows that prayer is a practice through which Jesus’s disciples seek to know the aim of God and to commit themselves to its service. With his emphasis on prayer in Acts, Luke establishes Jesus’s followers as persons who continue to model the piety of Jesus, and who bear the power and ministry of Jesus.

Jesus on Prayer – The Disciples at Prayer Having highlighted a number of central features of the experience of prayer in the early church as presented by Luke in Acts, I now take up the third part of my agenda. Here I will deal with the relationship between the depictions of the disciples at prayer in Acts and the portrayals of Jesus regarding prayer in the Third Gospel. My concern here is the theological unity of Luke’s two volumes. Given

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that Jesus modeled prayer for his disciples and that he repeatedly instructed them regarding prayer, we may now ask: How have the practices of the disciples been shaped under Jesus’s tutelage? The Prayer Practices and Instructions of Jesus in the Third Gospel Risking oversimplification, we begin this discussion with a few summary remarks about the contours of Luke’s presentation of prayer in the Third Gospel. Because I am interested in possible points of coherence between Jesus and his disciples, my focus will be on what we learn from Jesus’s instructions about prayer. These can be reviewed under four headings. First, Luke’s presentation of Jesus at prayer is noteworthy not only for the way he stresses the centrality of prayer to Jesus’s life, but also, and especially, for the revelatory function of prayer.6 This emphasis begins as early as Jesus’s baptism (3:21–22), where Jesus’s prayer provides the immediate context for God’s disclosure of Jesus’s identity: “You are my son” (cf. also 2:36–38; 9:18–27, 28–36; 10:21–22; 23:34, 46; 24:30–31). Second, and of equal significance, Jesus’s teaching is oriented fundamentally around the “ fatherhood” of God. In Luke 10:21–22, Jesus speaks of his unique capacity to reveal the Father to those whom he chose, and this is exactly what he seeks to do in his teaching on prayer. This is most evident in 11:1–13, where Jesus teaches his disciples to address God as “Father” and then undertakes to teach them in what sense God is “Father.” Jesus’s instruction on prayer, however, does not emphasize a certain technique. His concern is much more basic: that those who pray know the One to whom they are praying. The disciples’ request, “Lord, teach us to pray” (11:1), is in Luke’s Gospel not an invitation for Jesus to provide a kind of “technology of prayer” – that is, to teach them to pray like this, in this manner, on this timetable, following these steps, or whatever. Rather, it is an opportunity to identify God as the Father whose graciousness is realized in his provision of what is needed – indeed, far beyond what might be expected – to those who join him in relationship. Because the disciples have to do with such a God, Jesus insists, they are liberated to ask, to search, to knock, knowing that God will answer prayer in accordance with his graciousness and goodness (cf. 11:9–10). Third, prayer in Jesus’s teaching is always more than an isolated “act of piety.” It is a practice that grows out of one’s dispositions – that is, one’s attitudes, convictions, and commitments – indeed, one’s innermost beliefs. This is the essence of Jesus’s instruction on prayer in 18:1–8 and 18:9–14, which comprise two, back-to-back instances of Jesus’s parabolic teaching. In these scenes, prayer is metonymic for one’s character, for Jesus here uses prayer to speak to the issue  For this motif, see esp. Crump, Jesus the Intercessor.

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of what sort of people, with what sort of commitments and character as well as behaviors, are fit for the kingdom of God. In the “Parable of Faithfulness in Anticipation” (also known as the “Parable of the Unjust Judge” or “Parable of the Persistent Widow,” 18:1–8), Jesus observes, first, that God is not like some unjust judge who must be badgered into assisting those in great need, like the widow who had been denied justice; and, second, that praying and crying out to God are exemplified in the whole life of believers engaged in the active quest for justice under the reign of God. In the “Parable of the Pharisee and the Toll Collector” (18:9–14), how one prays is inseparably wrapped up with one’s comportment before God and others, in light of the inbreaking kingdom of God. Praying, fasting, tithing – these pious acts performed by the Pharisee were all admirable. In his case they were unacceptable, however, for they flowed out of a heart filled with self-aggrandizement, self-justification, and self-reliance. The toll collector’s prayer, however, in which he recognized his state of unworthiness before God, bespeaks the humility that God desires and that attracts God’s compassion and restoration. Fourth, in anticipation of times of hostility, Jesus urges his disciples in the Third Gospel “to be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man” (21:36). In the face of diabolic opposition, faithful perseverance comes through prayer (22:40, 46). Jesus not only instructed his disciples concerning this reality, but he also demonstrated it on the Mount of Olives, where his faithfulness in a crucial time of testing was paralleled by their failure (22:39–46). The Prayer Practices of the Disciples in Acts When the prayer practices of the disciples in Acts are read against the backdrop of the Third Gospel, three points of interest emerge. First, and perhaps most obviously, the disciples seem to have taken to heart the message of Jesus concerning prayer in the face of trials. Their failure on the Mount of Olives contrasts sharply with their faithfulness in Acts, both with regard to the fact of their praying in the face of opposition and with regard to the substance of their prayers. Even if Jesus’s prayer on the eve of his execution raised the possibility of rescue from death, it was more focused on his discerning, and submitting to, the will of his Father. The “time of testing,” as Jesus’s encounter with the devil in Luke 4:1–13 plainly shows, was not about survival but about faithfulness to God’s purpose. And this concern about being faithful to God’s purpose is clearly in evidence in the scenes of persecution in Acts. Second, however, although Jesus’s example and instruction on prayer are centered on the fatherhood of God, the prayers of his followers in Acts do not provide even one instance in which God is addressed as “Father.” Indeed, God is referred to as “Father” only three times in Acts – twice with reference to the promised

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Holy Spirit (1:4; 2:33) and once in reference to God’s sovereignty with regard to the consummation of history (1:7). Neither is Jesus identified as the Son of God, apart from 9:20 and 13:33. Prayers in Acts are addressed to God as “Master,” “Lord,” or simply as “God,” but never to God as “Father.” As we have already noted, prayer is also addressed to the Lord Jesus. Why is it that Jesus made so much of God’s character as Father in the Gospel of Luke, only for this emphasis to disappear in Acts? Three related answers may be proposed. One is that, more important than identifying God as Father is the recognition of what the ascription “Father” suggests about his identity. In the Gospel there is a marked contrast between notions of “fatherhood” that were current in Roman antiquity, which conjured authoritarian images practically devoid of compassion, and Jesus’s portrait of God as the Father who both cares for his children and is Lord of history, so that he can act compassionately and redemptively on their behalf. In this respect, it is perhaps of interest that God is sometimes represented in Acts as Creator (cf. 4:24; 14:15; 17:24–28), a depiction that underscores in a related way God’s sovereignty over the cosmos and over history. A second answer might have to do with Luke’s Christology: on account of his resurrection and ascension Jesus is coregent with God, so the blessings of salvation are available through him. A third reason for the lack of the address “Father” in their prayers, however, is that most of the prayers in Acts have “the Lord” as their object. Luke’s readers today are fond of finding in this term a reference to Yahweh in the Greek OT. In the world of the early church, however, the title “lord” would have had wider connotations related to benefaction. Roman political economy consisted of stairstepped levels of dependents and obligations. At the top were “the gods,” from whom Caesar himself had received benefaction. As such, Caesar was the benefactor of “the whole world,” the father of the Roman “household,” the “lord” of the empire. To refer to Jesus as “Lord,” then, was also a political and soteriological statement, one that underscored one’s ultimate loyalty not to Caesar but to the Lord Jesus. Addressing Jesus as “Lord” signified the early believers’ expectation that as Lord Jesus would provide for his people the gracious benefaction of God. In short, though the term “Father” is missing in the prayers of Acts, the vision of God presented by Jesus in Luke’s Gospel is pervasive in Acts. The disciples, unable at first to see beyond their own preconceptions of the nature of God, had their minds opened after the resurrection of Jesus (cf. Luke 24:44–49). Consequently, they were able to relate to God in fresh ways that were consistent with God’s own character, and to grasp the significance of Jesus’s status as the unique agent of divine beneficence. This transformation of relationship and thought is manifest in their prayers. When assessing the portraits of prayer in Acts vis-à-vis the prayer practices and teaching of Jesus in Luke’s Gospel, it is important to observe, third, how

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prayer as an expression of the character of the church comes into sharp focus in Acts. In order to appreciate this aspect of Luke’s presentation, it is necessary to see how prayer serves in Acts as much more than simply a characteristic quality or distinguishing mark of the disciples, as important as this is. It also serves as a boundary marker in community formation. In Luke’s Gospel it was used in this way by some Pharisees to identify themselves over against others. But prayer also came to identify the early church and to express the church’s essential commitments. The practice of prayer is a catalyst for many types of community formation. The question always to be asked, however, is: What sort of community? As depicted in Luke 5:27–39 and 18:9–14, prayer functioned among certain Pharisees as an identity marker, the purpose of which was to maintain clear boundaries between groups – in these instances, as behaviors that separated Pharisees from toll collectors and sinners. Jesus’s response to that use of prayer is reminiscent of the OT prophets’ criticism of pious acts when those acts are segregated from acts of justice and mercy: “I tell you, this man went to his home justified before God, rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will he exalted” (18:14; cf. Isa 58:3–9; Jer 14:12; Zech 7:5–6). In this context, acts of piety and mercy included the humility necessary to extend hospitality and other signs of God’s care to those who are marginalized in society. What is fascinating, then, is that the Book of Acts portrays prayer as a community-defining practice that invariably leads to the expansion of the community – that is, to the possibility of boundary dissolution rather than to boundary maintenance. Prayer among the disciples, as Acts presents it, leads to the inclusion of both Samaritans and gentiles among the Spirit-anointed followers of Jesus. This is because the habits of prayer, as counseled by Jesus in the Third Gospel, serve as an ongoing catalyst for the conformation of the community to the unlimited mercy of God (cf. Luke 6:35–36). And prayer of this sort allows for the infusion of a worldview centered on the graciousness of God, dependence on God, the imitation of God, and God’s purpose for humanity – with all of these emphases understood against an eschatological horizon in which the coming of God in sovereignty and redemption figures prominently. What have the disciples learned from Jesus about prayer? According to the narrative of Acts, apparently a great deal. Most importantly, they seem to have recognized that prayer grows out of a recognition of God’s character, as his character is manifest in history and especially in the person and ministry of Jesus. Prayer is fundamentally a matter of recognizing to whom one is praying. Furthermore, they seem to have been aware that prayer has as a consequence the transformation of a community’s moral and theological imagination, as well as a greatly expanded understanding of God’s sovereignty and character, which has significant repercussions for the lives and practices of the people of God. Prayers for God’s purpose not to be thwarted, for strength in the midst of testing, for

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discernment in the church’s mission, for the healing and redemption of others, and for the commissioning of leadership in the church and its mission, coupled with confidence that God will act in these ways, have at their root a radical commitment to the gracious God who is Lord of history.

Epilogue: The Practice of Prayer and the Church There are, undoubtedly, a number of ways by which one could assess the validity and strength of the church. For the Book of Acts, however, chief among all the canons that might be championed is the nature of the church’s prayer life. It is here that the church’s deepest convictions and commitments about God come most fully to expression. It is here that the church’s own proclamation of Jesus as Lord and Messiah is manifest within the community of believers. It is here that the church locates its rallying point. It is here that we are able to take the measure of its orientation to the purposes of God. And it is here that a number of evaluative questions begin to emerge. Primary among such questions for the church and for Christians today are these: To what extent is the church operating along the lines reflected by some Pharisees in the Gospel of Luke, whose understanding of God and of faithfulness before God was so anemic that prayer functioned only to separate them from those for whom God’s graciousness is especially oriented? To what extent is the church allowing its own moral and theological imagination to be challenged and transformed in prayer, so that its understanding of mission is constantly renewed? To what extent is the church devoting itself to prayer on behalf of those who are in the midst of trial and persecution, in order that God’s purpose will not be thwarted, and the witness of Christ will move forward? To what extent can it be said that Jesus’s followers model the piety of Jesus, thereby proving themselves to be his faithful witnesses and heirs of his ministry?

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“Witnesses of His Resurrection”: Resurrection, Salvation, Discipleship, and Mission in the Acts of the Apostles* The resurrection of Jesus by God is the central affirmation of the Christian message in the Acts of the Apostles. Paul’s proclamation among the Athenians, for example, is summarized as “good news about Jesus and the resurrection” (17:18),1 while much earlier in the narrative Peter and John come under investigation by the Jerusalem authorities on account of their message that “in Jesus there is the resurrection of the dead” (4:2). Indeed, the portfolio assigned to Jesus’s followers according to 1:8 is that they serve as “witnesses” from Jerusalem to the end of the earth. And we need not wait long to discover more precisely the substance of their testimony: they are to be “witnesses of his resurrection” (1:22). The chord thus struck is sounded repeatedly in the subsequent narrative, as Jesus’s disciples disclose their roles as witnesses to God’s having raised Jesus from the dead. The importance of the resurrection for Luke is rivaled only by the significance of the death of the Messiah within the divine purpose, alongside which it often appears. Luke wants his readers always to keep in view the nexus between Jesus’s death and his resurrection. It is also true, however, that the Book of Acts is especially concerned with the latter – that is, with Jesus’s resurrection and its redemptive implications. Furthermore, one may without hyperbole go on to say that Acts is not only a narrative about the propagation of the testimony to Jesus having been raised up by God but is also itself a witness to the resurrection and its significance for the realization of the ancient plan of God. Our study of Acts here is concerned not so much to demonstrate that this is the case as it is to show how Luke has constructed his second volume to function as such a witness. Two provisos, however, must initially be registered. The first is that, although our assumption is that the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles together constitute one continuous narrative with a single theological outlook, our primary focus will be on part two of Luke’s writing, that is, the Acts of the Apostles. The second proviso is that, because we will be attempting to * Originally published as Joel B. Green, “‘Witnesses of His Resurrection’: Resurrection, Salvation, Discipleship, and Mission in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Life in the Face of Death: The Resurrection Message of the New Testament, ed. Richard N. Longenecker, MNTS 3 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 227–46. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. 1 Unless otherwise indicated, biblical citations follow the NRSV.

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sketch matters having to do with the significance of Luke’s theology of resurrection, it is important to recognize the inherent artificiality of the task before us. In order to accomplish our aim, we must turn Luke’s narrative art into a more systematic presentation of its perspective than Luke has himself provided. Narrative is better suited to inviting reflection, raising questions, and shaping the imagination. An analysis such as we will be undertaking in this essay, however, is more oriented toward explanation and assertion. With these two caveats, we may turn to discuss (1) Luke’s understanding of the “truth” of the resurrection, (2) the pivotal role of resurrection within the more encompassing Lukan theme of salvation, (3) the relationship between the resurrection message and Luke’s Christology, (4) the relationship between the resurrection message and Luke’s emphases on discipleship and mission, and (5) the resurrection message as both hope and scandal. An analysis of Luke’s theology of resurrection along these lines will take us far toward grasping in what sense it is appropriate to describe his narrative as providing a witness to the resurrection.

“To This We Are Witnesses”: The “Truth” of the Resurrection What does it mean to be “a witness of his resurrection” (1:22)? Insofar as this phrase accurately depicts Luke’s understanding of those who continue and extend the ministry of Jesus, it is critical that we understand its meaning (as in 2:32; 3:15; 4:33; 5:32; 10:39–41; 13:30–31; 22:15; 26:16; see also Luke 24:48).2 On this point, Luke is remarkably forthcoming. Luke is interested, at least at the outset of Acts, in the that of the resurrection. He principally wants to certify the truth of its status as an event, though he is also concerned with its nature as an event. The question of the character of the resurrection is important on account of the variety of ways in which “the afterlife” could have been understood within Greco-Roman and Hellenistic Jewish traditions of that day.3 Earlier, in his Gospel (Luke 24:36–43), the evangelist addressed this matter by recounting how Jesus offered proof of his own materiality as evidence of his resurrected existence.4 Luke’s portrayal negates two possible categories, among many, for conceptualizing the afterlife – the one barbaric, the other more sophisticated: first, by showing that Jesus’s disciples did not mistake him for a resusci2  Cf. Robert Maddox, The Purpose of Luke-Acts, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1982), 74–76; Allison A. Trites, The New Testament Concept of Witness, SNTSMS 31 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 128–53; Howard Clark Kee, Good News to the Ends of the Earth: The Theology of Acts (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1990), 95–107. 3  See George W. E. Nickelsburg Jr., Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism, HTS 56 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972). 4  Cf. Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 851–59.

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tated corpse; then, by certifying that Jesus’s resurrected life is not that of an “immortal soul” freed from bodily existence. Jesus is represented in Luke’s Gospel as being alive beyond the grave as a fully embodied person. Jesus’s affirmation is emphatic – “It is I myself! Touch me and see” (v. 39), or, more colloquially, “It is really me!” – intimating continuity between the phases of Jesus’s life before crucifixion and after resurrection. He demonstrates this declaration, first, with reference to his hands and feet, flesh and bones; and second, by his capacity to eat food. Repeated references to “seeing” and the important notation that Jesus ate “in their presence” signify that the apologia being provided here is for the sake of the authentic witness that the disciples would subsequently be called to give. Luke’s account of Jesus’s appearance at the close of the Third Gospel, then, indicates that Luke was not working with such anthropological dualisms as advocated by some Greek philosophers (like Plato) or some Hellenistic Jews (like Philo).5 Rather, Luke lays stress on Jesus’s embodied existence beyond the grave, highlighting the radical continuity between the humiliated, crucified Jesus of Nazareth and the resurrected, exalted Messiah and Lord.6 This emphasis on the status of Jesus’s resurrection as an event is continued in Acts, first with reference to the “many convincing proofs” (πολλοῖς τεκμηρίοις) with which “Jesus presented himself alive” to his followers (1:1–3). τεκμήριον appears nowhere else in the NT and only three times in the LXX.7 Using this term, Aristotle designated evidence as irrefutable, proven, and conclusive (Rhet. 1.12.16–17 [1357b]), and here in Acts 1:3 it has the similar force of “credible proof.” This concern with the that of Jesus’s resurrection – and particularly its corporeal nature – is also marked in Acts with references to Jesus’s eating with his disciples (1:4; 10:41). In a different way, it comes to the fore by an interest in Jesus’s capacity to avoid physical deterioration in the tomb (2:25–28; 13:35–37, with reference to Ps 16:10). Data available in the speeches in Acts indicate that, from the Lukan perspective, confirmation of Jesus’s resurrection was not limited to evidence of the material nature of Jesus’s resurrected body.8 As if these “convincing proofs” were somehow insufficient, Luke further notes that the Holy Spirit witnesses to Jesus’s exaltation (5:32). In the account of Peter’s defense before the Jerusalem council, Peter’s logic seems to be that the gift of the Spirit to those who obey God is itself a sign of the reality of the resurrection. His logic depends on his earlier assessment of the Spirit-empowered phenomena under scrutiny in 2:1–13, namely,  Cf. Dale B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 3–37.  Cf. Gerhard Schneider, Die Apostelgeschichte, 2 vols., HThKNT 5 (Freiburg: Herder, 1980), 1:219 7  Cf. esp. Wis 5:11 and 3 Macc 3:24, where it is used for “convincing evidence”; see also Josephus, Ant. 5.39; 17.128. 8  Cf. H. Douglas Buckwalter, The Character and Purpose of Luke’s Christology, SNTSMS 89 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 115–16. 5 6

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that God’s having raised Jesus from the dead was a necessary precondition to the general outpouring of the Spirit (2:32–33). Thus, if the Spirit has been poured out, Jesus must have been raised from the dead. Additional testimony for the resurrection of Jesus is drawn in Acts from the Scriptures – for example, in 2:22–36, where Pss 16:8–11 and 110:1 are read as portending Jesus’s resurrection; similarly, in 13:26–37, with the use of Ps 2:7, Isa 55:3, and Ps 16:10. Thus, the witness of the Spirit and the witness of Scripture – divine performance and the divine voice – are brought to bear in the resurrection apologetic of Acts. In drawing attention to Luke’s interest in the nature of Jesus’s resurrection as an event, our discussion has already begun to spill over into another way of putting the question of the meaning of Luke’s phrase “a witness of his resurrection” in Acts 1:22. Read against the backdrop of Luke’s narrative-theological concerns, the claim that the resurrection of Jesus actually took place is not nearly so interesting or important as is its significance. This is because the resurrection of Jesus is precisely the raising to life by God of one who had been utterly rejected both by the Jewish leaders – that is, by persons whose own legitimacy was tied up with their status as interpreters of the will of God – and by the Roman leadership – that is, by persons whose elevated social and political positions were maintained and broadcast by their carefully scripted attention to issues of honor and status. The exaltation of one who had thus suffered what in the Roman world would have been the ultimate humiliation, being publicly executed naked on a cross, constitutes a profound irony that calls into question the existing world order as that order was conceived and practiced by the Jewish and Roman elite alike. And here we have, graphically put, the paradox of Luke’s vision of salvation and discipleship.

“God Exalted Him … as Leader and Savior”: Resurrection and Salvation Although Luke does not oppose the attribution of atoning significance to Jesus’s death (e. g., Luke 22:19–20; Acts 20:28), the cross does not figure prominently as the basis of his soteriology. This is not because Luke has no “theology of the cross.” Rather, it is because he places the primary importance of the cross elsewhere than on a theory of the atonement. What Luke does, in fact, is to present the resurrection of Jesus, together with his ascension, as the basis for the offer of salvation.9 9  Cf., e. g., I. Howard Marshall, “The Resurrection in the Acts of the Apostles,” in Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to F. F. Bruce on His 60th Birthday, ed. W. W. Gasque and R. P. Martin (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1970), 92–107; Augustin George, “Le sens de la mort de Jésus pour Luc,” RB 80 (1973): 186–217. On what follows, see Joel B. Green, “ ‘Salvation to the End of the Earth’ (Acts 13:47): God as Saviour in the Acts of

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Luke sets forth the logic of his soteriology early in Acts, in his portrayal of Peter’s Pentecost sermon in Acts 2:14–40. The citation of Joel 2:28–32 (LXX) in vv. 17–21 is particularly important, for it contains at its beginning and end two central aspects of the Lukan soteriology: at its beginning, the universalistic outreach of salvation, which is identified as the reception of the Spirit (vv. 17–18); at its end, the identification of “the Lord” as the agent of salvation (v. 21). This accent on “the Lord” anticipates the christological climax of Peter’s sermon in v. 36: “Therefore let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.” As Lord, Jesus is the one on whom people are to call for salvation. How did Jesus come to be regarded as Lord? The exegesis represented in Peter’s use of Pss 16 and 110 is crucial, for it demonstrates that it is because of his exaltation to God’s right hand that Jesus is Lord (vv. 29–35). What is more, v. 33 makes it plain that the phenomena under question are only the outcome of the outpouring of the Spirit, itself the consequence of Jesus’s exaltation. That is, a corollary of Jesus’s having been raised up from the dead by God is that he now administers the promise of the Father (cf. Luke 11:13; 24:49; Acts 1:4), which is the gift of the Spirit. Having established the relationship of the phrase “the name of the Lord,” Jesus’s exaltation, and divine salvation, Luke builds on this understanding in various ways. For example, in 3:1–26 the “complete health” of a man born lame is attributed to the efficacy of “the name” (v. 16); this conclusion is reached by means of a rehearsal of the significance of Jesus’s having been “glorified” (v. 13) and “raised from the dead” (v. 15). And later in 4:10–12, a statement regarding God’s vindication of Jesus (v. 11) – which is stated as having been accomplished through resurrection (v. 10) – leads in v. 12 to a declaration of the universal significance of Jesus’s name for salvation.10 It needs to be noted, however, that Luke’s development of the soteriological importance of Jesus’s resurrection lacks precision at this point. Sometimes he appears to give salvific meaning to his resurrection and at other times to his ascension. This is because, though separated temporally by forty days (cf. 1:3), the resurrection and ascension of Jesus share for Luke a single theological interpretation. In fact, in 2:31–34 Luke moves easily from resurrection to ascension, referring to both as Jesus’s exaltation at the right hand of God. And in 5:30–31 he parallels Jesus’s resurrection and his ascension, with both having God as their subject and both being interpreted as God having “raised up” (v. 30) or “exalted” (v. 31) Jesus to the position of disseminating beneficently on God’s behalf the blessings of salvation. the Apostles,” in Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, ed. I. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 83–106 (see ch. 18, above). 10  Cf. Jacob Jervell, The Theology of the Acts of the Apostles, NTT (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 97–98.

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Perhaps the clearest affirmation in Acts of the soteriological significance of Jesus’s exaltation comes in 5:30–31 (the passage just alluded to): “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus …. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior, to give repentance to Israel and the forgiveness of sins.” This is a straightforward claim that Jesus’s confirmation as Savior  – that is, as the one who “gives” repentance and forgiveness – is grounded in both his resurrection and his ascension. Already in Luke 2:11, of course, Jesus was designated as “Lord” and “Savior.” And throughout his portrayal of Jesus’s public ministry in his Gospel, Luke has presented Jesus as engaged in a ministry that conveyed repentance and forgiveness to Israel. Hence, it would be inaccurate to suggest that only with his exaltation did Jesus become Lord, Leader, and Savior. Rather, as Robert Tannehill has helpfully observed: “Just as there are several important stages in the life of a king, from birth as heir to the throne to the anointing … , to actual assumption of the throne, so in the life of Jesus according to Luke.”11 Nonetheless, now as the enthroned one (i. e., Messiah) and benefactor of the people (i. e., Lord), the enthroned Jesus reigns as Savior, pouring out the benefits of God’s salvation.

“But God Raised Him Up”: Resurrection, the Paradox of Salvation, and Christology The story of Jesus is woven into the narrative of Acts in sometimes subtle ways that demonstrate how Luke’s understanding of God’s salvific purpose is both grounded in his portrait of Christ and manifest in the experience of those being saved. In particular, we may observe how the paradox of Jesus’s career – stretching, as it does, from utter dishonor to divine vindication and exaltation – portends the Lukan notion of salvation as status reversal and transposition. This is witnessed early on in Luke’s Gospel in the reversal of fortune experienced by the childless Elizabeth (1:24–25), and it is documented in prophetic terms in Mary’s Song (1:52–53). As an exemplar of this Lukan theme within the Bock of Acts, the account of the Ethiopian eunuch in 8:26–40 bears careful scrutiny. The Three Intertwined Stories of Acts 8:26–40 In the narrative section of 8:26–40, Luke introduces his readers to three stories. Each of the three stories is intertwined with the others around a common configuration of motifs, which can be related to social status and acceptance in the socio-religious life of the ancient Mediterranean world. 11 Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, 2 vols. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1986–90), 2:39.

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The first story is about an Ethiopian eunuch. In the agonistic world of Luke, where people were generally concerned with the exotic and with social rank, the Ethiopian eunuch is presented initially as a man of acclaim. He is a person of enviable power in his native land, tasked with oversight of his country’s treasury. He merits a chariot (i. e., a wagon), which undoubtedly came with a driver and attendants. He is able, it seems, to read the unconventional Greek of the LXX. Even his appearance was probably alluring, with his dark skin making him an object of wonder and admiration among people of the Greek and Roman worlds. Among the people of God, however, with whom the eunuch wanted to identify (cf. v. 27c: “he had come to Jerusalem to worship”), he was an outcast. His black skin may have made him seem somewhat exotic, but it also differentiated him from others. Moreover, as a castrated male, while he could appreciate the beauty of the Jerusalem temple, he could never have full access to it or its rituals (cf. Deut 23:1). He lived religiously, in Jewish eyes, at the edge of the world – one might say at “the end of the earth,” as some ancient geographers referred to Ethiopia. Scholars continue to debate whether he was also a gentile. In some ways, given the many other strikes against him, the ethnic question is not key. Having just visited the temple, he had been again reminded that he could never be a full participant in the temple cult or a full member of the people of God – that for all his devotion, he would always be to Jews an outsider or, in sociological terms, a “marginalized” person. The second character in the narrative of 8:26–40 is Philip, and his story is also a mixed one. He is hardly known to us, being only first introduced into the narrative of Acts at 6:1–7 because of problems related to food relief. There he is cast as a Greek-speaking Jewish Christian – that is, one from among a minority group within the Christian community at Jerusalem – who was appointed to serve in that community. His position does not seem, at first, to have been one of prominence. Yet the reader of Acts quickly comes to realize that Luke has portrayed Philip as a significant leader and prophet in the early church. Philip’s significance is highlighted by Luke in a number of ways. First, the role he is given, as one who “serves at table,” has already been recast by Jesus as being one of leadership among the people of God – a leadership, in fact, like that of Jesus himself (cf. Luke 12:37; 22:24–27; Acts 6:2). Second, he is characterized as a person of “good standing,” who was “full of the Spirit and of wisdom” (6:3). Third, in the immediately preceding account of 8:4–25, Philip proclaims Jesus Christ in Samaria, thereby fulfilling Jesus’s instructions to his followers in 1:8. Finally, in the present narrative of 8:26–40, he shows himself to be one who listens to the voice of God, follows the prompting of God’s Spirit, and interprets the Scriptures correctly. The story of Philip, therefore, is the story of one whose status as a relative outsider among the people of God was overturned so that his role in the realization of God’s plan would be a prominent one. Might his status reversal portend hope for the Ethiopian eunuch?

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At the climax of the dialogue between the eunuch and Philip, we hear the story of Jesus, which also is presented as a mixed story. From one perspective, Jesus is the humiliated one, who had been denied justice according to the words of Isa 53:7–8 being read by the eunuch. Indeed, Jesus’s crucifixion is depicted in Luke’s Gospel as a heinous act in which Jesus suffered the extremes of debasement. Yet Jesus is also portrayed as God’s Anointed One, whom God raised up, exalting him as Lord and Savior. This reversal is documented in Luke 22–24. It is also summarized repeatedly in the speeches in Acts; as Peter and the others declare, “You killed the author of life, but God raised him from the dead” (e. g., Acts 3:15). In 8:33, as the eunuch cites Isa 53, we hear a comparable transition from somber tones to celebration: The one who has suffered humiliation – who can describe his family? It is so numerous, for he has been raised up from the earth. Having read from Isaiah, the eunuch inquires, “About whom … does the prophet say this?” This is an important query, because it underscores the importance for Luke of a proper interpretation – both of Scripture and of the events that he recounts. It is also important because the eunuch thus points to the scope of possible referents for the text he has read. Who will experience the reversal Isaiah describes? Does Isaiah write about himself or about someone else? Does he write, perhaps, about the eunuch? What of the many persons who help to make up the Lukan narrative – such as the demon-possessed, the leprous, the crippled, the diseased, the poor – regarding whom Mary’s Song in the Lukan infancy narrative portends that they have been “lifted up” (Luke 1:52)? Is there hope for persons like the eunuch, the outcast, the marginal? About whom did Isaiah speak? Philip’s answer is clear: Isaiah wrote of Jesus. As important to Luke’s understanding of the good news as this particular identification may be, its wider implications should not be overlooked. In Luke’s account, what is true of Jesus has the further consequence that, though the eunuch is a socio-religious outcast, he has not been forgotten by God. Jesus’s humiliation on the cross has led to his being exalted by God. And in his being raised up he has made possible and opened the way for others, too, to experience this salvation-as-reversal. Indeed, Philip’s proclamation of the good news of Jesus, in which the preaching of “good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18–19) as well as the story of Jesus’s own death and resurrection must have been paramount, has as its effect the reversal of the eunuch’s marginal status. He embraces the good news and is baptized – that is, he is embraced within the community of God’s people. These three stories, which focus respectively on an Ethiopian eunuch, a Greek-speaking disciple, and Jesus – with each sharing a common configuration of motifs – together form a single tapestry in this narrative of Acts. The effect of Luke’s presentation is to exhibit, in a way that is unique to narrative, that Jesus’s resurrection, when understood as exaltation, portends the nature of salvation for others.

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Resurrection and Christology This reading of Acts 8:26–40 points to a number of important affirmations regarding Jesus’s person and his message that are developed throughout the Acts of the Apostles. Perhaps the most important of these affirmations is that the resurrection of Jesus was God’s own act (2:22, 32; 3:15, 26; 4:10; 5:30; 10:41; 13:33–34; 17:3, 31; 26:8; see also Luke 9:22; 24:34).12 This is consistent with the overwhelmingly theological orientation of Luke-Acts, where always and everywhere it is God’s own purposes that are being worked out – first in the story of Israel, then in the life and ministry of Jesus, and now in the collective life of those who follow him. In contrast to this act of God, Luke sets the acts of human agents, especially those of the Jerusalem elite, who have pronounced the verdict against Jesus. The resurrection of Jesus, therefore, is God’s renunciation of all human verdicts against Jesus, as Peter and the other apostles are depicted as saying in 5:30: “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus, whom you had killed by hanging him on a tree” (see also 2:23–24; 3:13–15; 4:10; 10:39–40; 13:27–31).13 By this vindication of Jesus and his message, Luke declares the continuity between Jesus of Nazareth and Jesus the exalted Lord. This is important within the Lukan narrative precisely because the identity of Jesus as God’s Son was not universally recognized, nor his message universally embraced. It was important for Luke’s audience, too, as they struggled with their own questions concerning the authenticity of their faith. Luke’s readers, it seems, were faced with the question: In following Jesus as Lord and Messiah, have we truly aligned ourselves with the ancient purpose of the God of Israel? Angelic and divine voices notwithstanding (cf. Luke 1:32, 35; 3:21–22), the legitimacy of Jesus’s authority is presented as being perpetually in the dock in Luke’s Gospel – with scribes sometimes joined by Pharisees in an attempt to monitor Jesus’s practices in order to ascertain whether they cohered with conventional understandings of the divine will. Jesus’s endeavor to wrestle the temple away from the Jerusalem leaders and to restore it to its role within God’s purpose (19:45–48) served only to exacerbate their hostility against him. In effect, Israel was left with only two choices – either to follow their triedand-true leaders at Jerusalem, or to adopt the way of Jesus the Galilean. At the eleventh hour, when Jesus most needed their backing, the people of Israel (ὁ λαός, “the people”; also οἱ ὄχλοι, “the crowds” or “multitude”) repealed their support of him and joined their leaders in calling for his execution (23:13–25). Repudiated by the Jewish leaders, who drew their authorization from their key Jervell, Theology of the Acts of the Apostles, 31–32.  Cf. Everett F. Harrison, “The Resurrection of Jesus Christ in the Book of Acts and in Early Christian Literature,” in Understanding the Sacred Text: Essays in Honor of Morton S. Enslin on the Hebrew Bible and Christian Beginnings, ed. John Reumann (Valley Forge, PA: Judson, 1972), 223. 12 Cf. 13

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roles in relation to God’s temple, how could Jesus be seen as one who spoke on God’s behalf? Suffering disgrace at their hands, how could Jesus be accepted as having the divine imprimatur, as being God’s own Son? Luke’s answer is grounded in a profound irony: those who opposed Jesus, though they believed they were serving God, were unwittingly serving a diabolic purpose. This is evidenced by God’s response to the execution of Jesus. In raising him from the dead, God demonstrated in a tangible fashion that it was Jesus, and not his opponents, who rightly comprehended and fully embodied the divine purpose. God’s exaltation of one so thoroughly spurned by Israel’s leaders had the further effect of vindicating Jesus’s message concerning the nature of God’s kingdom. Jesus had represented the coming of the kingdom as the coming of God’s reign of justice, which means the deconstruction of worldly powers and worldly systems of valuation. In raising Jesus from the dead, God verified the truth of Jesus’s message. Status within the people of God would no longer be calculated according to socially determined norms, such as Abrahamic lineage, family heritage, economic resources, gender, religious purity, and the like. Rather, it would be determined, most fundamentally, by the beneficence of God, and then by one’s comportment vis-à-vis God’s redemptive purpose. Jesus taught that the coming of the kingdom had transposed the world order, so as to accord privilege in the divine economy to the poor, the hungry, those who weep, the reviled, and the excluded (cf. 4:18–19; 6:20–26). His rejection, sealed in the ignominy of his death, might have been understood as the negation of his message. Instead, Jesus’s message found its definitive vindication in his having been raised by God from the dead. Resurrection is not for Luke, then, simply a matter of speculative affirmation. Rather, it is intimately associated with his Christology and his understanding of the means and nature of salvation. In the resurrection, God has provided for Jesus’s ministry an unassailable sanction, so that Jesus’s message of salvation-as-reversal and his career as the one whose humiliation has been overturned in exaltation might become paradigmatic for the redemptive experience of those who follow him. In his being raised up, so are the least, the last, the lost, and the left out raised up – not so that they might bask in their newly found experience of status among the people of God, but so that they might embody and witness to his message of reversal.

“Testimony to the Resurrection”: Resurrection, Discipleship, and Mission Our examination of the Lukan account of the Ethiopian eunuch and Philip in Acts 8:26–40 also suggests that Christian discipleship and Christian mission are to be understood as being based on and determined by Jesus’s resurrection. This

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means that the power of God manifested in Jesus’s ministry and on full display in his resurrection is to be folded into the daily life of the believing community. The very existence of believers, in fact, is to be one that matches the story of Jesus – a movement in life that incorporates both suffering and glory. The first healing recorded in Acts – in 3:1–26, with its aftermath then depicted in a trial before the Jewish leaders in 4:1–22 – is appropriately picturesque. A man over forty years old, who had been crippled from birth, is “raised up” by Peter and John, who were proclaiming the “raising up” of Jesus (cf. 3:7, 15; 4:2). In so doing, the apostles establish themselves as “witnesses of the resurrection.” Furthermore, in Luke’s portrayal of this healing there is the suggestion that the power of the divine presence is also to be manifest in the lives and through the ministries of those who derive their identity “from the ongoing life and reality of the One who lived, died, and was raised.”14 The nexus between Jesus’s resurrection and the mission of the apostles (and that of all subsequent believers) runs deeper still. Jesus’s resurrection, as Luke presents it, is the necessary precursor to the mission of the disciples. Notwithstanding the two accounts of Jesus sending out his followers for mission in Luke 9:1–6 and 10:1–20, the primary characterization of the disciples in Luke’s Gospel is as persons who are “with” Jesus (e. g., 6:17; 7:11; 8:1, 22; 9:10; 22:11, 14, 28, 39). Though being “with” Jesus entailed companionship with him – sharing in his successes and failures, in his acceptance and rejection – the disciples initiated little and seem often to have understood even less. Their role throughout Luke’s Gospel is surprisingly undeveloped. Indeed, toward the end of the lengthy journey from Galilee to Jerusalem, which constitutes the central section of the Gospel (9:51–19:48), the disciples almost disappear from view altogether. Nor do they play an active role during the Lukan narrative of Jesus’s teaching in the temple but seem instead to have faded into the crowds (cf. 20:1–21:38). Their ongoing lack of perception of Jesus’s identity is typified by the witness of the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, whose hopes for redemption were dashed by Jesus’s crucifixion (24:19–21). Whatever skepticism about the disciples we may bring from Luke’s first volume is almost immediately countered by their overwhelmingly positive characterization at the onset of his second volume. The source of this transformation is not difficult to discern. Having been encountered by the Holy Spirit at Pentecost and subsequently, they hear the voice of the Spirit, follow the leadership of the Spirit, and are empowered by this same Spirit. Accordingly, they speak boldly in mission and defense. Yet, as we have seen, in the Lukan formulation Jesus’s capacity to disseminate the Spirit derives from his exaltation – that is, from his 14  Thorwald Lorenzen, Resurrection and Discipleship: Interpretive Models, Biblical Reflections, Theological Consequences (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1995), 212; cf. Jacques Dupont, The Salvation of the Gentiles: Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), 72–76.

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resurrection and ascension. Without the resurrection, there is no outpoured Spirit, and without the outpoured Spirit there is no divine mission. The transformation experienced by Jesus’s followers is also evident in Luke’s writing in a second way. At the root of the disciples’ lack of comprehension in Luke’s Gospel is their incapacity to correlate Jesus’s messianic status with the prospect of his cruel and shameful death (cf., e. g., Luke 9:44–45; 18:31–34). Misunderstanding at this fundamental level, however, has as its corollary an even more pervasive problem – the disciples’ ineptitude in grasping the overall nature of God’s redemptive work in its focus on the elevation of those of lowest status in society (e. g., 18:15–17; 22:24–27; cf. 1:46–55). Against this backdrop, it is easy to understand why the disciples would experience the resurrection of Jesus as the validation of his topsy-turvy message. God does indeed raise up the disgraced. What is more, following his resurrection, Jesus opens both his disciples’ minds and the Scriptures in order that his disciples might fathom anew the shape of his ministry together with the whole of the history of God’s people (24:25–27, 44–47; Acts 1:1–3). The light of the resurrection, therefore, casts its shadow back on previous events – that is, the resurrection serves as the hermeneutical key by which the past is interpreted as having contained signs pointing to what has now begun to unfold. The present, understood as the future of the past, is seen to have been immanent in the outworking of God’s purpose in the past.15 With the resurrection itself as proof of Jesus’s interpretation of the Scriptures and of God’s purpose, the disciples were well-equipped to engage in mission. Certainty at this level was necessary, since their message was one that could only have attracted opposition – both because of the nature of its religious claims, which were extraordinary within the Roman empire, and because of its departure from conventional understandings of Scripture within contemporary Judaism. Likewise in Acts, Jesus’s own humiliation and resurrection prepare for and legitimize the experience of those involved in Christian mission as persons who themselves experience rejection. One of the most transparent illustrations of the parallelism between Jesus and his followers on this point is recounted in 14:19–20, where Paul, having been trailed by Jews from one city to the next, finally becomes their victim at Lystra. His Jewish opponents win over the crowds, and together they stone Paul and drag him out of the city – where he is left for dead. But “when the disciples surrounded him, he arose and went into the city” (14:20, my translation), and then continued his missionary journey. Paul thus recapitulates in his mission the career of Jesus, from death to life. As Paul himself interpreted the experience, “It is through many persecutions that we must enter the kingdom of God” (14:22). 15 On backshadowing, cf. Gary Saul Morson, Narrative and Freedom: The Shadows of Time (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 234.

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In a different way, the stoning of Stephen had earlier validated Stephen’s character and message. Rejected by the Jewish council at Jerusalem (just as Jesus had been), he nonetheless had a vision of the glory of God (7:54–56). Seeing the Son of Man at God’s right hand, he was therefore a witness of the resurrection in a most literal way. And having been granted such a vision, he is portrayed as one who had extraordinary access to God  – this in spite of his rejection by those whose self-identity was as the official interpreters and spokespersons of God. The account of Peter and John raising up the crippled man at the gate of the temple (3:1–10) also suggests that the power exercised in Christian mission is none other than the power that raised Jesus from the dead. It would be too much to say, of course, that Jesus’s followers called people into a full realization of resurrected life. After all, a handful of texts in Acts point to a future resurrection and a resultant future life (see below). Nevertheless, the Lukan eschatology is focused primarily on “today,” and therefore on the invitation to participate in a new existence in the present. Luke has multiple ways of speaking about the concept of salvation – for example, by the use of such expressions as “healing,” “rescuing,” and “forgiving.” But all of these expressions are oriented toward human restoration. The engine of a restoration of this magnitude can only be the divine power that was focused on the raising up of Jesus in resurrection. With respect to manifestations of resurrection power in the Christian mission, Luke sets forth an important interpretive symbiosis: miracles done at the hands of Jesus’s disciples are possible only because Jesus has been raised from the dead, yet these selfsame miracles verify that Jesus has been raised up by God. As recipients of the outpouring of the Spirit, Jesus’s witnesses are able to perform “signs and wonders” in a way consistent with the Lukan portrait of Jesus as the Savior who made available through his presence and ministry the beneficent, miraculous power of God (e. g., Acts 2:22, 43; 4:30; 5:12; 6:8; 8:6, 13; 14:3; 15:12). As Luke summarizes: “With great power [i. e., through ‘signs and wonders’] the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus” (4:33). Manifestations of apostolic power, therefore, verify that Jesus has been raised from the dead and indicate the continuing presence of divine power through his disciples. The text just cited, Acts 4:33, is significant in an additional way. Situated within the heading of one of the notable Lukan summaries of the life of the early community of believers, this reference to the apostles’ “testimony to the resurrection” is also important for what it suggests about the connection between Jesus’s resurrection and the nature of the life of the community. The summary in Acts 4 begins as follows: “Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them” (vv. 32–34a). It is possible, of course, to read this dual emphasis on economic fellowship or sharing (κοινωνία)

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and the proclamation of the resurrection as simply two consequences of the disciples’ having been filled with the Spirit following their prayer in 4:23–31. In this case, one would understand the text to be saying that the empowering of the Spirit was visible in both the common life of the community and the resurrection witness of the apostles. Undoubtedly, this is at least part of what Luke wants to affirm. We should not, however, overlook the fact that the apostles’ testimony to the resurrection in v. 33 is not given in list form as merely one of two such effects but, rather, is situated between two references to economic sharing within the community in vv. 32 and 34. Thus Luke’s construction of this summary suggests some sort of interpretive relationship between the proclamation of the resurrection and care for the needy in the community. Such a correlation is supported by the many times in Luke-Acts that resurrection and hunger/nourishment are held in tandem. For example, Jesus raises a little girl from the dead and then commands that she be given something to eat (Luke 8:49–56). The gracious father says of his lost-but-found son, “This son of mine was dead and is alive again” – with this rationale used to justify the preparation of a feast (15:24; see 15:11–32). The resurrected Jesus shares table fellowship with the Emmaus travelers (24:13–35). Peter notes that, following the resurrection, Jesus ate and drank with his followers (Acts 10:41). The eschaton itself is portrayed as a banquet (e. g., Luke 13:29; 14:15). Other examples could be cited – all demonstrating that, for Luke, Jesus’s resurrection is intertwined with the Lukan motif of table fellowship and, then, with such quintessentially Lukan themes as nourishment for the hungry, inclusion of those who are needy and outcast, redemptive fellowship, and the negation of conventional concerns with honor and status. The community of goods envisioned by Luke, with its care for the needy, is itself, therefore, a tangible demonstration and substantiation of the resurrection of Jesus from the dead. Again, resurrection is not for Luke a matter of speculative affirmation. Rather, Jesus’s resurrection is intimately associated – as was also Luke’s Christology and his understanding of the means and nature of salvation – with Christian discipleship, the Christian’s mission, and the life of the believing community. The continuation of “signs and wonders” and care for those in need are but two prominent features on the landscape of Luke’s narrative portrayal of the significance of the resurrection for the lives of the believing community.

“Why Is It Thought Incredible by Any of You That God Raises the Dead?”: Resurrection as Hope and Scandal We have seen that the narrator of Acts is transparently concerned not only with the actuality and nature of the resurrection, but also with its wider ramifications for the experience of salvation and the character of Christian community and

“Why Is It Thought Incredible by Any of You That God Raises the Dead?”

313

mission. We may explore in yet one more way how God’s raising Jesus from the dead relates to the overarching plan of God. This has to do with a future resurrection of the dead, which is affirmed by the apostles in Acts even in the face of controversy. Paul, for example, is portrayed as asserting before his interlocutors that he had been indicted for holding to the message of “the resurrection of the dead” (Acts 23:6; 24:21), just as Peter and John had been taken into custody by the Jerusalem elite on account of their proclamation that “in Jesus there is the resurrection of the dead” (4:2). Clearly for Luke, the resurrection of Jesus, although a past event, portends the future resurrection of all humanity to face judgment. The resurrection of Jesus, therefore, constitutes God’s promise of a future resurrection of humans. And this places humanity in a new situation in the present (cf. 10:42; 17:31; 23:6; 24:15, 21; 26:6–8).16 On the subject of the resurrection, Jesus’s followers and the Pharisees were in agreement – so much so that Paul could articulate the nucleus of his message as “the hope of the resurrection of the dead” and expect to gain a favorable hearing before many of the Jewish leaders at his trials (cf. 23:6–8; see also 26:6–8). Resurrection, therefore, is not only the center of the Christian message in Luke-Acts; it also functions as the distinguishing mark of faithful Israel. Those among Israel’s “twelve tribes” who “worship earnestly day and night” have this hope, and so they look forward to attaining the promise that God made to their forebears – “that God raises the dead” (26:6–8). In their proclamation of a future resurrection, then, Jesus’s witnesses in the Acts of the Apostles testify that God’s ancient promises have been fulfilled in Jesus’s resurrection, and that those who embrace this viewpoint also share in Israel’s hope. At the outset of Luke’s Gospel, Simeon predicts the divisive role that Jesus will have within Israel: “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed” (Luke 2:34–35a). This divisive role is played out in graphic terms in the Third Gospel, leading finally to the cross. Yet even Jesus’s heinous death does not signal the ultimate expression of his role as the one over whom Israel will divide. Division continues in Acts, energized especially by the opposing views people take toward Jesus’s resurrection. The division will culminate in “the resurrection of both the righteous and the unrighteous” (24:15) – that is, in the final judgment, an event still future that finds its guarantee in Jesus’s own resurrection (17:30–31). Jesus’s resurrection makes available repentance and the benefits of salvation. To this claim may now be added that Jesus’s resurrection invites repentance; it summons people to reorient their lives toward the purpose of the God who raised Jesus from the dead. This summons constitutes the call to response that is  Cf. Harrison, “Resurrection of Jesus Christ,” 224–25; Dupont, Salvation of the Gentiles, 76.

16

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20  “Witnesses of His Resurrection”

enunciated in the early Christian mission. In Acts, the summons to repentance is grounded in Jesus’s resurrection in two ways. First, his resurrection pledges the advent of a future judgment of all people, which ought to provide the impetus necessary for repentance on their part. Second, his resurrection points emphatically and incontrovertibly to the fact that God’s purpose has been made manifest in the ministry of Jesus and in the ministries of those who serve in his name. Those who resist Jesus and his witnesses, therefore, together with those who have been ignorant of God’s purpose for the world, have proof in the resurrection of Jesus that they have erred in their allegiances and behaviors, and so need to repent. The logic of the resurrection message as Luke portrays it pivots on the actuality of the resurrection of Jesus, and this explains the care with which the evangelist organizes diverse witnesses to it. This also explains why Jesus’s followers in Acts continue to attract hostility. Not everyone embraces the idea of resurrection (e. g., 17:32; 23:8), and among those who do, not everyone is prepared to grant that Jesus has been raised from the dead. Because of the way Luke presents the centrality of the resurrection for Israel’s own life, a decision on this point becomes all the more crucial. Those who oppose the resurrection message segregate themselves from the genuine people of God.17

Conclusion The signal importance of the resurrection message for Luke is marked, above all, by his decision to continue his first volume with a second that takes as its immediate cause and point of departure the resurrection of Jesus – which, together with his ascension, is interpreted as his exaltation as Lord and Christ. On the basis of Jesus’s resurrection, Luke can affirm the ongoing, dynamic activity of God among Jesus’s followers and emphasize that their resurrection message is nothing less than the realization of Israel’s hope. In this way, the resurrection message serves Luke’s larger aim to tie the story of the early church into the story of Jesus, and the story of Jesus into the story of Israel – with these three stories together constituting the one story of the outworking of God’s redemptive purpose. In Luke’s hands the resurrection (and ascension) becomes decisive for his portrayal of Jesus. God’s having raised Jesus from the dead is viewed as the definitive sanctioning of Jesus and the character of his mission, as well as the divine affirmation of Jesus’s status – regardless of alternative, less sanguine interpretations that might accrue to Jesus on account of his opposition to the Jerusalem leadership and his shameful execution. What is more, not only is Jesus installed as Lord, Leader, and Savior on the basis of his having been raised up, but the res Cf. Jervell, Theology of the Acts of the Apostles, 90–91.

17

Conclusion

315

urrection itself – this “being raised up” – helps to define the substance of Luke’s soteriology. Although “salvation” takes many forms in the Lukan narrative – such as healing, forgiveness of sins, restoration, the gift of the Spirit, and so an – all of these represent ways in which the metaphor of “raising up” comes to concrete expression. Jesus is lifted up. And with him so also are those who, for whatever reason, live on the margins of God’s people. The christological and soteriological focus of Luke’s perspective on the resurrection of Jesus also undergirds his depiction of the community of Jesus’s followers and the mission that they undertake. Jesus’s resurrection serves as the centerpiece of their proclamation. At the same time, it provides unassailable confirmation of the veracity of the early Christians’ understanding of God’s purpose and of their interpretation of Scripture. Furthermore, the signs and wonders that accompany the mission of Jesus’s followers provide evidence that Jesus has been raised by God, just as they demonstrate the ongoing presence of the resurrection power of God within and through the Spirit-led mission. Thus, Luke in his Gospel and in Acts affirms the “truth” of Jesus’s resurrection  – both its actuality as an event in history and its significance within the divine plan.

Scripture Index Genesis 1:26 142 1:28 142 9:1 142 9:7 142 10–11 140 10:32 142 11–21 59, 61, 65–67, 72–73 11 142–45 11:1 140–41, 143 11:3 140 11:4 140, 142 11:7 134, 140, 142 11:9 134, 140 11:30 46, 59 12:2 59, 68 12:3 59 14:1 60 14:19 59 14:20 60 15:1 60 15:5 59 15:13–14 59–60 15:16 46, 60 15:18–21 59 16:1 46, 60 16:4 46 16:7–13 62 16:11– 12 60 16:11 51 17:1–21 62 17:1 46, 60, 65 17:2 59 17:4–8 59–60, 63 17:4 66 17:12 61 17:16 60–61, 63 17:17 46, 61 17:19 61

17:22 61 18:1–15 62 18:3–5 61 18:11–12 46, 61, 65 18:14 61, 65 18:19 60 21:2 61 21:4 61 21:6 61 20:7 61 21:8 61 21:20 61 22:17–18 66 22:17 60 26:5 60 26:24 49 27–43 67 28:15 49 29:31–30:24 238 29:32 46 30:1 46 30:13 237 30:22–23 46 49:25 237 Exodus 3:1–4:16 62 3:15 49 7:3 161 13:2 58 13:12 58 13:15 58 15 137, 192 17 192 17:1–7 192 18:7 50 19 192 19:5 276 20:9 81

318

Scripture Index

20:15 211 22:22 155 28–29 45 28:1 45 29:9 45 32:1 164 32:25–35 165 33:3 165 33:5 165 34:9 165 34:29–35 162

6:11–24 62 6:11–18 49 6:14 64 13:3–21 64 13:3–20 62

Leviticus 5:11 58 8–10 45 10:9 58 12:8 58 14–15 253 18:3 199 26:1 166 26:30 166

2 Samuel 7:9 68 7:12–16 67

Numbers 6:3 58 14:32–33 193 18 45 19 175 27:14 193 Deuteronomy 4:28 166 5:13 81 6:22 161 10:18 155 13 229 17:8 166 18 229 21:22– 23 277 23:1 305 26:7 51 26:8 161 27:15 166 32:5 137, 270 33:3 276 Judges 5 137 5:24 51

1 Samuel 1:11 51 2 137 9:16 51 10:19 266

1 Kings 2:10 137 3:3 199 8:15–53 166 8:27 108 13:2 63 19:1–19a 62 2 Kings 2 125 2:1–18 124 2:16 125 19:18 166 1 Chronicles 22:9–10 63 25:1 135 2 Chronicles 32:19 166 Psalms 2:7 302 16 225, 273, 303 16:8–11 137, 302 16:10 301–2 19 126 24 126 47 126 66 199 68 126, 199 68:5 156

Scripture Index

68:17–18 128 74 199 77 199 80 199 105 199 106:2 137 110 126, 225, 273, 303 110:1 137, 302 115:4 166 132:11 137 135:9 161 135:15 166 145:4 137 145:12 137 146:9 156 Isaiah 1:1 190 1:16–17 204, 253 2:18 166 6 62 7:10–17 64 7:14–17 63 8:9 159, 262 10:11 166 11:16 199 12–13 205 19:1 166 21:9 166 25:6–9 240 25:9 240 26:7 200 31:7 166 32:15 137 33:15 200 35 193, 200 35:4–5 205 35:8–9 200 37:19 166 40–55 194 40 111, 194–96, 198–200, 205 40:1–11 195 40:1–9 206 40:1–2 205 40:1 194 40:2 205 40:3–5 194–95, 198, 200 40:3 190, 193, 196, 200

40:4 195, 198, 200, 216 40:5 198, 205 40:5a 195 40:5b 195 40:6–11 195 40:9–10 194 40:9 195 40:10–11 194 40:10 196 40:11 194 41:17–20 194 42:13 194 42:16 200 43:14–21 192 43:19–21 194 43:19 194 43:21 276 43:25–44:3 205 44:5 194 44:26 194 45:13 194, 200 45:15 266 45:21 266 45:22 159, 262 46:6 166 48:17 194 48:20–21 192 48:20 159, 262 49:6 159, 206, 231, 262 49:9–10 194 49:9 194 49:10–11 194 49:24–25 194 51:5 206 51:9–16 194 51:9–11 199 51:17 205 51:60 206 51:62 206 52:1–10 194 52:3–15 199 52:11–12 194 52:13–53:12 226, 228, 231 52:13 231 53 222, 228, 232, 306 53:4 228 53:5 228 53:6 231

319

320 53:6b 228 53:7–8 231, 306 53:7 231 53:10b 228 53:11 231 53:11b 228 53:12 228, 231 54:11–12 194 54:13 194 55:1–2 240 55:3 302 55:12–13 194 56 205 56:7 108, 111 57:14–21 200 57:19 137, 269 58:3–9 297 59:14 200 61:1–2 211 62:10–11 159 62:11 262 65:13–14 240 66:1 121, 164 Jeremiah 1:1–4 190 1:4–12 62 1:7–10 64 4:14 123, 266 14:12 297 31:31–34 123, 205, 266 33:4–11 205 Lamentations 4:22 204 Ezekiel 1:1–3 190 5:5 139 13:9 135 13:19 135 20:33–44 193 34 95 34:1–5 95 34:11 95 34:15–16 95 36:24–26 205 36:25–28 204

Scripture Index

36:33 205 37:21–23 205 Daniel 5:4 166 5:23 166 6:28 166 7–10 67 Hosea 1:1 190 2:14–23 193 Joel 1:1 190 2 273 2:21 49 2:28–32 137, 225, 303 2:30–31 99 2:30 99 2:32 111, 263, 281, 292 3:4 99 Amos 13 190 Jonah 1:1 190 Micah 1:1 190 4:7–5:5 67 5:11 135 6:8 199 Zephaniah 1:1 190 3:14–17 67 3:14–15 49 Haggai 1:1 190 Zechariah 1:1 190 1:7 240 7:5–6 297 9:9 49

Scripture Index

10:2 135 13:1 253 Tobit 12:15 131 12:19 131 Judith 13:18 51 8:18 166 Wisdom 4:30 266 5:11 301 13:10 166 14:8 166 Sirach 8:8–16 193 13:19 193 51:1 266 1 Maccabees 3:5 51 4:30 266 5:15 47 2 Maccabees 1:11 266 1:25 266 2:17–18 266 7:1–42 123, 266 7:8 144 8:27–29 123, 266 8:27 266 7:8 157 7:21 144, 157 7:27 144 12:37 144, 157 15:29 144, 157 Bel and the Dragon 1:5 Matthew 1:18–2:23 58 1:20–21 62, 64 3:3 194

321

4:15 138 5 245 5:3–12 244 19:21 212 19:24 212 20:28 232 Mark 1:1–3 194 1:2–3 111 1:21–28 76 3:1–6 75 10:21 212 10:25 212 10:45 226, 232, 275 11:17 111 12:41–44 212 14:24 275 14:57–58 99 15:33 100 15:34 100 15:35–36 100 15:37–39 105 15:38–39 105 16:19 115 Luke 1–21 230 1–2 16, 17, 48, 53, 59, 66–67, 71, 205, 234–35, 237, 247, 267 1 197, 237, 270 1:1 56 1:1–4 53 1:5–2:52 44, 52–55, 57–59, 61, 64, 65–68, 70–73, 252, 263 1:5–2:40 54 1:5–13 19, 69, 70 1:5–10 62 1:5–7 46, 239 1:5–6 45 1:5 42, 60, 236 1:6 16, 42, 46, 60, 65, 199 1:7 46, 59–61, 65 1:8–23 108, 111, 167, 174, 286 1:8–10 109 1:8–9 289 1:8 16, 17 1:9 108

322 1:10 14, 69 1:11–20 62, 69 1:11 17, 60, 62 1:13–17 64 1:13 60–61 1:13b–17 62 1:13b 62 1:13d 62 1:13e 62 1:12 62 1:14 17, 69, 93, 237 1:15–22 71 1:15–17 63 1:15 59, 68–69, 193 1:15b 58 1:16 111, 197–98 1:17 78, 195, 197 1:18–23 108 1:18 61, 63, 65 1:19–20 63 1:20 17, 51, 56, 63, 100 1:21–25 63 1:21 134 1:23 56 1:24–25 304 1:24 61 1:25 46, 51, 61, 237 1:26–38 17, 69, 238 1:26–37 62 1:26–33 67 1:26–28 62 1:26–27 45, 48, 62 1:26 46 1:27 42, 69, 239 1:28–38 48 1:28 48, 51, 62 1:29 19, 48, 62, 69–70 1:30–33 62, 64 1:30 48–49, 51, 60, 62, 69 1:31–32 60 1:31 61 1:31a 62 1:31b 62 1:32–33 60, 63, 67 1:32 59–60, 68, 130, 307 1:34 47, 63, 69 1:34bc 63 1:35–37 63

Scripture Index

1:35 17, 19, 60, 69, 130, 307 1:35b–37 63 1:36 42, 48 1:37 61, 65 1:38 61, 63, 69 1:39–56 50 1:39 19, 69–70 1:40 50 1:41–52 54 1:41–45 137 1:41–42 238 1:41 19, 50, 59, 69, 70 1:43 51, 196 1:44 50 1:45 51, 59, 238, 245 1:46–55 78, 137, 238, 244, 266, 310 1:46 69 1:47–48 239 1:47 5, 49, 263, 267 1:48 49, 51, 61, 245 1:48b 52 1:49 137 1:51–53 215, 236 1:52–53 130, 191, 195, 212, 244, 304 1:52 20, 21, 89, 306 1:53 20, 90, 245 1:54–55 81, 95, 236 1:55 59, 60, 65 1:56 69 1:57 56, 61 1:58 61, 237 1:59 61 1:63 134 1:67–79 18, 137 1:67 61, 69, 137, 236 1:68–79 204, 269 1:69–70 267 1:69 5, 263 1:71 20, 236, 263, 270 1:72–73 60 1:73 59, 65 1:74–75 236 1:74 20, 60, 270 1:76 60, 130, 193 1:77 204, 267 1:78–79 280 1:79 20, 202 1:80 61, 191, 193

Scripture Index

2:1–20 265 2:1–14 67 2:1–7 236 2:1 236 2:4 42, 239 2:5 51, 69 2:6 56 2:8 62 2:9–14 17, 69 2:9–12 62 2:9a 62 2:9b 62 2:10–14 236 2:10–11 62, 64, 237, 247 2:10 93 2:11 5, 63, 196, 263, 267, 274, 304 2:12–14 63 2:12 63 2:14 206 2:15–18 63 2:15 64, 78 2:16 51, 69 2:18 134 2:19 44, 69, 238 2:20 101 2:21 56, 61 2:22–24 52, 66, 108, 167, 174 2:22–23 162 2:22 56 2:23 58, 274 2:24b 58 2:25–32 111 2:25–27 167, 239 2:25 16, 46, 59, 69, 140, 235 2:26 69 2:27–32 286 2:27 69 2:30–32 17, 104, 137 2:30 263 2:31–32 206 2:32 231 2:33–34 51 2:34–35a 313 2:34 59, 69, 134, 195 2:36–38 108, 111, 156, 167, 174, 286, 294 2:36–37 46, 167, 239 2:37 17, 69, 110

323

2:38 16, 69, 102, 235 2:40 56, 61 2:42–47 219 2:46–47 108, 110 2:46 111, 177 2:47 134 2:48 51 2:49 107–8 2:51 238 2:51b 44 2:52 61 3 206, 209, 249, 251, 254, 256 3:1–20 190, 251, 253, 280 3:1–18 195 3:1–14 190, 195, 210, 281 3:1–2 190, 193, 194 3:1–2a 194 3:1 190, 236 3:2 89 3:2a 191 3:2b 191 3:3 192, 195, 204, 206, 272 3:3a 191 3:3–6 198 3:4–6 111, 194, 198, 204 3:4 191, 195, 196 3:4a 195 3:5 56, 216 3:7–14 94–95, 145, 155, 206, 219 3:7–9 81, 253–54, 267 3:7 90, 202, 206 3:8 95, 209 3:9 206–7, 209 3:10–14 184, 254, 281 3:10–11 209 3:10 207, 209 3:11 94, 218 3:12–13 209 3:12 207, 209 3:13–14 254 3:13 89, 94, 209 3:14–15 245 3:14 94, 207, 209–10 3:15–18 195, 257 3:15–17 18, 134, 208 3:15 206, 235 3:16 6, 196, 202, 257, 267 3:18 195, 206, 274

324

Scripture Index

3:19 102 3:20–4:30 69 3:21–4:30 140, 268 3:21–22 18, 68, 76, 307 3:21 21, 122, 206, 287, 294 3:22 100, 130 3:23 42 3:31–32 42 4:1–13 83, 274, 295 4:1 76 4:8–12 71 4:14 76 4:14–9:50 14 4:15 80 4:16–30 14, 21, 68, 76–77, 80, 83, 215 4:16 80 4:18–21 81 4:18–19 18, 77, 215, 245, 271, 306, 308 4:18 76, 82, 84, 158, 211, 215, 229 4:21 56 4:23 76 4:23c 77 4:25–27 82 4:25–26 156 4:27 77 4:28 274 4:29 21 4:31–37 80, 83 4:31–32 76 4:31 77 4:32–35 219 4:33–37 76 4:33 80 4:34 212 4:38–39 83 4:38 80 4:39 83 4:40–41 83 4:41 83 4:42 90 4:43 229 4:44 80 5:5 93 5:8 129 5:12–16 267

5:15 76 5:17–26 271 5:19 90 5:25–26 76 5:27–39 297 5:27–32 88 5:30–31 102 5:30 89, 92 5:32 229 5:33 208 5:35–36 297 6 234–45, 247 6:1–5 80 6:4 111, 177 6:6–11 80 6:6 80 6:12–16 289 6:12 287 6:17 18, 309 6:20–26 217, 245, 247, 308 6:20–23 215 6:20–22 245 6:20 212, 215, 217 6:21 245 6:22–23 289 6:22 183, 233 6:23 93 6:24–25 90 6:24 212, 245 6:25 245 6:27–36 212, 218 6:35–36 216 6:35 130, 219 7 162, 251 7:1–10 80, 173 7:2–53 71 7:6 81 7:11–17 156, 267 7:11 18, 309 7:12 85 7:16 76, 267 7:18–35 252 7:18–23 215 7:18–20 208 7:18 78, 208 7:20 202 7:22 211, 215 7:24 90, 191

Scripture Index

7:27 201 7:29–30 252–53 7:33 202 7:34 89, 92, 216 7:36–50 50, 88, 267 7:36 216 7:44–46 50 8:1–3 216 8:1 18, 309 8:4–15 7 8:10–42 80 8:13 93 8:14 90 8:19–21 49 8:21 131, 155 8:22 18, 309 8:24 93 8:26–39 267 8:28 130 8:35 129 8:40–56 267 8:41 89 8:45 93 8:49–56 312 8:49 89 8:51–56 80 8:55 209 8:56 134 9 118 9:1–6 309 9:7 134 9:10 309 9:16 122, 130 9:18–27 294 9:18–19 90 9:19 202 9:22 89, 307 9:23 277 9:28–36 17, 294 9:31 56, 118, 201 9:33 93 9:35 130 9:37–50 18 9:43 78 9:44–45 310 9:46–48 171 9:49 93 9:51 130, 132

9:51–19:48 75, 309 9:51–56 75 9:51 17, 80, 121 9:52 201 9:57–62 49 10:1–20 309 10:1–16 289 10:1–9 183 10:5–7 88 10:5–6 96 10:5 48 10:7 176 10:15 122, 130 10:17 93, 246 10:20 93 10:21–22 294 10:21 122 10:23–24 246 10:25 209 10:30–35 218 10:30 131 10:38 77, 201 10:39 129 11 237 11:1–13 18, 285, 294 11:1 208, 294 11:4a 271 11:9–10 294 11:13 6, 18, 122, 273, 303 11:14–20 83 11:14 78 11:15 89 11:16 122 11:18 206 11:20 81 11:24–26 75 11:26 139 11:27–30 219 11:27–28 237 11:27 237 11:28 238 11:37 216 11:39–44 81 11:39–41 219 11:42–52 218, 246 11:43 80 11:51 111, 177 12:1–13:9 81

325

326

Scripture Index

12:1–3 81 12:4–10 289 12:6–7 289 12:11 80, 89 12:13–21 90, 217 12:15–21 218, 246 12:16–21 212, 215 12:32–34 242 12:33–34 90, 217 12:37 158, 246, 305 12:38 246 12:43 246 12:51–53 49 12:58 89 13–17 242 13:4 138 13:6–9 81 13:10–17 15, 75, 77, 79–81, 83, 95, 267, 271 13:10 75, 77–78, 80, 240 13:11–13 83 13:11–12 78–79 13:11 77, 81 13:12 77, 81–82 13:13 76, 78, 81 13:14–16 75 13:14 76–78, 89 13:15–16 77–78, 81–82 13:15 77, 80–81 13:16–41 71 13:16 77, 79, 83 13:17 75, 77–78, 82 13:18–19 81, 83 13:22 201 13:23–30 94 13:23 79, 240 13:24 240 13:27 274 13:29 240, 312 13:33 201 13:47 206 14 240 14:1–24 79, 216 14:1–6 75, 80 14:1 89 14:7–24 244 14:7–14 240 14:7–10 129

14:11 130 14:12–14 215 14:12 215 14:13–14 243 14:13 212, 215 14:15–24 215 14:15 240, 312 14:16–24 240 14:21 212, 215 14:25–26 49 14:33 217 15 95, 96, 234, 239, 241, 243, 247 15:1–32 88 15:1–2 239 15:1 89, 92 15:2 241 15:5 93, 239 15:6 239, 241 15:7 93, 122, 239, 242 15:9 239, 241 15:10 93, 239, 242 15:11–32 312 15:11 112 15:13 95 15:18 122 15:21 122 15:23–24 241 15:23 93, 239 15:24 239, 312 15:27 241 15:29 239 15:32 239, 242–43 15:38 98 16:1–13 212 16:1–9 242 16:13 90, 217 16:14 85 16:19–31 90, 95, 215, 218–19, 242, 244, 246 16:19 94 16:20 215 16:22–31 81 16:22 215 16:25 218, 246 16:27–28 215 16:29–30 162 17:9–10 209

Scripture Index

17:10 240 17:11–19 75, 267 17:11 201 17:15 76, 101, 130 17:18 76, 101 17:30 102 17:31 274 17:35 268 18 92 18:1–34 18 18:1–8 294–95 18:9–14 101, 244, 294–95, 297 18:10–14 286 18:10 108, 110, 174 18:13 89, 101, 103, 130 18:14 130, 297 18:15–17 171, 310 18:15 90, 92 18:16–17 92 18:18–23 92, 218 18:18 89, 209 18:22 122, 212 18:24 90, 217 18:25 212 18:28–30 49 18:31–34 310 18:35–43 75 18:39 90 19 92 19:1–27 216 19:1–10 81, 85–88, 93, 96, 212, 219, 267 19:3 85 19:4 201 19:5 94 19:7 92 19:8 86, 88, 94–95 19:9–10 92 19:10 95, 229, 263 19:29–40 75 19:31–33 230 19:37 78 19:44 166 19:45–48 168, 307 19:45–46 109–11, 168 19:46 108, 110–12, 174, 176–77, 286 19:47 89, 108, 110

19:48 78 20–21 168 20:1–21:38 309 20:1–7 252 20:1 89, 108, 110 20:4–5 122 20:4 202 20:17 114 20:19 78, 89 20:20 89 20:21 102, 201 20:45–21:4 156, 215 20:46–47 219 20:46 50, 80, 129 21:1–4 212 21:2–4 215 21:2 212 21:6 99, 166 21:12–19 289 21:12 80 21:13– 19 276 21:15 21, 78 21:17 78 21:24 56 21:26 99, 108 21:36 295 21:37–38 108 21:37 110 21:38 110 22–24 245, 306 22–23 21, 230 22:2 78, 89 22:3 105 22:4 89, 278 22:6 78 22:11 309 22:14 309 22:16 56 22:17 108, 113 22:19–20 227, 232, 275–76, 302 22:19b–20 272, 276 22:21 19 22:24–27 21, 158–59, 305, 310 22:28–32 6 22:28–30 157 22:28 105, 309 22:30 19 22:31 105

327

328 22:35–38 289 22:37 19, 71, 226, 228, 231 22:39–46 102, 274, 291, 295 22:39 309 22:40 105, 285, 295 22:41 21, 130 22:46 105, 285, 295 22:47–54a 105 22:50 89 22:52 105 22:53 100, 105, 110, 276 22:54 89 22:55 98 22:59 132 22:63 101 22:66–71 99 22:66 89 23 97 23:2 20, 229 23:4 89 23:5 20, 132, 229 23:9 231 23:10 89 23:13–25 307 23:13 89 23:14 229 23:27 21, 101 23:34 21, 68, 103, 287, 294 23:35 89, 231 23:39 277 23:40–43 88 23:43 275, 293 23:44–49 97–98, 276 23:44–48 104, 106 23:44–45 104–5 23:44–45a 100, 103, 105 23:44 98 23:45 98, 101–2 23:45a 98, 100 23:45b 97, 103–5, 110, 113 23:46–48 104 23:46 21, 68, 101, 103, 294 23:46a 103 23:47–48 101–2, 104 23:47 103, 231 23:48 21, 101–3 23:49 132 23:50–53 21

Scripture Index

23:50–51 46 23:55 132 24 15, 17, 112, 115, 118, 131 24:1 115 24:6 132 24:13–35 312 24:13–32 183 24:13 115 24:15–16 131 24:19–21 309 24:20 89 24:21 115 24:22 134 24:25–27 310 24:26 230 24:27 230 24:30–31 294 24:31 131 24:33 115 24:34 307 24:36–43 300 24:36 48, 115, 131 24:37 131 24:39 131, 301 24:41–43 131 24:44–49 296 24:44–47 310 24:44 56 24:45 18 24:46–48 173 24:46 230 24:47–49 145 24:47 17, 256 24:48 300 24:49 6, 121, 124–25, 262, 273, 303 24:50 115 24:51 115, 130 24:53 108, 110, 112, 167, 174, 177, 285, 286 John 1:23 194 14–16 6 20:22 5 20:30–31 33 21:15–17 6 21:25 33

Scripture Index

Acts 1–8 105 1–5 12, 160 1 20, 54, 69, 251 1:1–14 16–18, 118 1:1–4 16 1:1–3 17, 301, 310 1:1 22, 132, 268 1:2 17–18, 69, 121, 287, 289 1:3 17, 115, 301, 303 1:4–8 257 1:4b–8 17 1:4–5 125 1:4 17, 18, 69, 125, 273, 296, 301, 303 1:4a 17 1:5 17, 18, 69, 125, 155, 202, 208, 252, 257 1:6–8 121 1:6 17, 56, 69, 121, 287 1:7 296 1:8 17–19, 69, 121, 125, 145, 159–60, 173, 178, 258–59, 261, 262, 269, 292, 299 1:9–11 17, 115–24, 163, 262 1:9 117, 121, 131 1:10 17, 122 1:11 69, 122, 131–32, 271 1:12–14 284, 286 1:13 177 1:14–15 288 1:14 51, 69, 154, 268, 284–87 1:15–6:7 6 1:15–26 288 1:16 57, 289 1:17 46, 158 1:18 98 1:19 138 1:20 289 1:21 287 1:21–22 268 1:22 202, 252, 262, 274, 299–300, 302 1:23 288 1:24–25 286–89 1:24 268, 287–88 1:25 158, 278 1:26 46

329

2–15 55 2–5 168 2 5, 68, 111, 125, 135, 138, 140–41, 225–26, 268–70, 272–73 2:1–41 155 2:1–13 125, 133–34, 144–45, 159, 225, 292, 301 2:1–4 256, 287, 293 2:1–2 112 2:1 155, 268, 285 2:2–3 100 2:2 56, 121–22, 139–40, 177 2:3 140, 145 2:4 112, 135, 140 2:5–11 111–12, 135, 140, 177 2:5 122, 138, 140, 269 2:6 135, 140 2:8 135 2:9–11 139, 140, 269 2:9 138 2:11 137–38 2:12 134, 273 2:13 134, 278 2:14–40 303 2:14–41 137, 145, 287 2:14–36 112, 136 2:14 112, 135, 137–38, 140 2:16–21 123 2:17–21 111, 303 2:17–18 112, 303 2:17 99, 105, 124, 269, 279 2:20 99, 100, 105 2:21 105, 111, 257, 263, 269, 271, 281, 287, 292, 303 2:22–36 302 2:22–24 230 2:22–23 230 2:22 21, 76, 99, 161, 307, 311 2:23–24 307 2:23 132 2:24–36 124 2:25–28 301 2:28 56, 228, 271 2:29–35 273, 303 2:31–34 303 2:32–33 302 2:32 132, 262, 300, 307

330 2:33

Scripture Index

123–24, 152, 257, 273, 293, 296, 303 2:36 124, 225, 268, 273, 287, 303 2:37–42 269 2:37–38 280 2:37 184, 209, 278 2:38–47 256 2:38–40 124 2:38–39 259 2:38 145, 248–49, 251, 254–55, 257–58, 268, 272, 281, 292 2:39 111, 269 2:40 263, 270 2:41–47 255 2:41 112, 280 2:42–47 144–45, 153, 155, 159, 285, 286 2:42 284–86 2:43 99, 161, 311 2:44–45 268 2:44 155, 177, 281 2:45 145 2:46–47 108, 167, 174 2:46 112, 154, 168, 244, 268, 284–85 2:47 155, 263, 285–86 3 225, 231 3:1–4:12 269 3:1–26 303, 309 3:1–10 311 3:1 103, 108, 110, 167–68, 174, 286, 290–91 3:6 268 3:7–9 208 3:7 309 3:8–9 244 3:12–26 225 3:12–16 293 3:12 134, 275 3:13–16 225 3:13–15 230, 270, 273, 307 3:13–14 231 3:13 231, 303 3:14 231 3:15–17 208 3:15–16 262 3:15 271, 274, 300, 303, 306–7, 309

3:16

263, 268, 273, 275, 281, 292, 303 3:17–26 270 3:18 56, 57 3:19–21 271 3:19 256, 272, 281 3:21 122 3:22–26 162 3:26 307 4:1–22 309 4:2 225, 299, 309, 313 4:9 263 4:10 268, 273 4:10–12 230, 272, 303 4:10–11 168 4:10 275, 303, 307 4:11–12 225, 273 4:11 303 4:12 131, 263, 268, 303 4:13 134, 138 4:14 263 4:16 99, 138 4:19–20 168 4:23–35 155 4:23–31 312 4:24–31 285–86 4:24–30 290 4:24 154, 259, 268, 285, 290, 296 4:29–30 275, 290 4:29 290 4:30 99, 161, 268, 311 4:31 155, 290 4:32–5:11 268, 271 4:32–35 155, 159 4:32–34a 311 4:32 312 4:33 300, 311–12 4:34 155, 312 5 233–34 5:12 99, 154, 161, 275, 285, 311 5:16 263, 269, 271 5:17–21 270 5:20–21 108, 110, 168 5:24 134 5:25 108, 110, 168 5:28 268 5:29 168 5:30–32 168, 262

Scripture Index

5:30–31 5:30 5:31

164, 226, 274, 303, 304 277, 303, 307 5, 123, 256, 263, 270, 272, 279, 281, 303 5:32 300–301 5:33 208 5:38–39 168, 275 5:40 268 5:41 233, 268 5:42 108, 110, 168 6:1–7 7, 151, 153–54, 158–60, 259, 276, 305 6:1–6 268 6:1 155–57 6:2 19, 305 6:3–14 107 6:3–6 21 6:3 21, 161, 305 6:4 284, 286 6:5 21, 161, 163 6:6 286, 288 6:7 6, 142 6:8–12:25 6 6:8–15 164 6:8 21, 99, 152, 161, 311 6:9 21, 162 6:10–12 21 6:10 21 6:11 162 6:12–13 287 6:12 162 6:13–14 99 6:13 161–63, 166 6:14 162 6:15 162 7 110, 161, 168 7:1 163 7:2–8 163 7:2 165 7:9–16 163 7:10 263 7:11 165 7:12 165 7:15 165 7:17–44 161, 163 7:19 165 7:20 164 7:22 164

7:24–25 164 7:25–27 164 7:25 263, 270 7:26 164 7:30–35 164 7:31 134 7:32 164 7:34 263 7:35 164, 270 7:36 162, 164 7:37 162 7:38 164–65 7:39–43 166 7:39 164 7:40 164 7:41 164, 166 7:42–43 166 7:44 165–66 7:45–50 163 7:45 165 7:46 166 7:47–49 111, 177 7:47 166 7:48–50 166 7:48 110, 167 7:49–50 168 7:49 121–22, 163 7:50 167 7:51 165 7:52 165 7:53 164–65 7:54–60 290 7:54–56 311 7:54 278 7:55–56 122 7:55 21, 103 7:56 21, 103 7:57 268, 285 7:58 21 7:59–60 68, 287, 289, 293 7:59 21, 103, 287 7:60 21, 103, 287, 292 8 251 8:1–3 276 8:1 142 8:2 21, 140 8:4–25 248, 258, 305 8:4 142, 276

331

332

Scripture Index

8:5–25 126 8:6 99, 268, 285, 311 8:7 263, 269 8:8 244 8:9 134 8:11 134 8:12 256, 280–81, 292 8:13 99, 134, 284, 311 8:14–25 287 8:15–17 287 8:15 293 8:16 256, 258–59, 281, 287, 292 8:18–24 183, 275 8:22 256, 287 8:24 287 8:25 259 8:26–40 259, 291–92, 304–5, 307–8 8:26 291 8:27c 305 8:29 291 8:32–33 226, 228, 231 8:33 306 8:35–39 256 8:36 280 8:39–40 173 8:39 291 9 20, 113 9:1–19 69 9:2 201 9:3 20, 122 9:9 20 9:10–17 287 9:10–12 291 9:11 286 9:13–14 20 9:14 268, 281, 287, 292 9:16 268, 277 9:17 272, 287 9:18 100, 280 9:20 296 9:21 134, 268, 281, 287, 292 9:22 134, 138 9:23 56, 9:26–28 20 9:28–36 119 9:29 156 9:31 20, 142 9:32–11:18 176

9:32–43 175 9:32 176 9:33 176 9:34 263 9:35 176 9:36–43 269 9:36 268 9:37 176 9:40 176, 292, 293 9:43 176 9:48 281, 292 10–11 110 10 69, 251, 255 10:1–11:18 57, 170, 172–73, 255, 258–59, 269, 291–92 10:1–20 176 10:1–4 19, 69–70 10:1–2 46 10:2 172, 176, 254, 286, 291 10:3–4 291 10:3 103, 176 10:4 286, 291 10:5–6 176 10:7 176, 284 10:9–16 175, 255, 290 10:9 176, 286, 291 10:11 122 10:14 174, 255 10:15 282 10:16 122, 258 10:17–18 176 10:17 19, 69–70, 134 10:23 19, 69–70, 176 10:24 172, 176 10:25 176 10:26 177 10:27 172, 176 10:28–29 177, 255 10:28 175, 292 10:30–34 255 10:30–33 177 10:30–31 291 10:30 103, 176 10:32 176 10:33 172, 176 10:34–36 255, 282 10:35 255 10:36 177

Scripture Index

10:37 78, 202, 252 10:38 76, 83, 263, 267, 271, 274 10:39–43 262 10:39–41 300 10:39–40 307 10:39 277 10:41 301, 307, 312 10:42 313 10:43–44 272 10:43 226, 269, 272 10:44–48 172, 256 10:44–46 255 10:44 177 10:45 134, 176, 272 10:46 137 10:47–48 255, 280 10:47–48a 177 10:47 260, 272 10:48 257 10:48b 177 11 208 11:1–18 158, 256 11:1–3 255 11:2–3 175, 292 11:3 176 11:4 271 11:5 175, 291 11:12 176, 282 11:13 176 11:14 176, 255, 263, 272 11:15–18 269, 272 11:15–17 272 11:16–18 252 11:16 202, 208, 257 11:17 281 11:18 176, 254–55, 281 11:19 142 11:20 156 11:27–30 268 12:1–19 270 12:5 286, 289 12:11 263 12:12 289 12:16 134 12:18–19 184 12:20 268, 285 12:24 6, 142 12:25 56

13:1–19:20 7 13:3 288, 292 13:4–12 271 13:6–8 229 13:13–48 80 13:14–52 80 13:16–41 58, 275 13:16 280 13:23–29 230 13:23–25 257 13:23 5, 58, 263 13:24– 25 252 13:24 253 13:25 56, 208 13:26–37 302 13:26 263, 272 13:27–31 307 13:27–29 137 13:27 56–57, 138 13:29 277 13:30–31 300 13:31 132 13:33–34 307 13:33 296 13:35–37 301 13:38–39 279 13:38 272, 280 13:39 281 13:41 134, 280 13:44–49 105, 276 13:44–45 278 13:46–47 57 13:47 159, 262–63, 271 13:52 244 14:1–18 105, 276 14:1–7 80 14:1 80 14:3 99, 275, 311 14:8–15 293 14:8–10 269 14:9 263, 281 14:11 269 14:14–15 275 14:15–16 280 14:15 296 14:16 279 14:19–20 310 14:20 310

333

334 14:22 276, 290, 310 14:23 288 14:26 56 14:27 292 15:1 263 15:3 244 15:6–9 57, 178, 255 15:7–11 178, 280 15:7–9 256 15:7–8 269 15:7 281 15:8–9 258–59 15:8 272, 289 15:9 272, 282 15:11 263 15:12–18 57 15:12 99, 311 15:21 80 15:23 48 15:25 154, 268, 285 15:28 57 16–28 55 16:7 125 16:9–10 179 16:11–40 170, 172, 178, 181 16:11–12 178 16:12 178 16:14–15 172, 255, 256 16:14 109, 183 16:15 268, 280 16:16–19 183 16:16–18 179, 271 16:16 179 16:17 201 16:19–40 270 16:19–31 209 16:19 179, 183 16:20–21 179 16:20 179 16:22 179 16:23 183 16:24 183 16:25–34 293 16:25 137, 286, 289 16:27–32 280 16:27 184 16:28–34 255–56 16:30–34 280

Scripture Index

16:30–31 281 16:30 209, 263 16:31–34 172 16:31 57, 184, 263, 281 16:32 184 16:34 244 16:35 179 16:36 179 16:37 179 16:38 179 17:1–9 80 17:1–2 80 17:3 280, 307 17:4 183 17:6–7 20 17:10–15 80 17:11 279 17:12 183 17:18 299 17:20 134 17:23 107 17:24–29 166 17:24–28 296 17:24 110, 167 17:25 263 17:30–31 313 17:30 281 17:30a 279 17:30b 279 17:31 307, 313 17:32–33 278 17:32 314 17:34 183 18:1–8 80 18:2–6 105 18:2 209 18:4–8 80 18:4–7 80 18:7–8 80 18:8 80, 281 18:8b 172 18:9–10 49 18:12 268, 285 18:18 209 18:24–28 257 18:24–26 252 18:25 201–02, 208 18:26 80, 201, 276

Scripture Index

19 251 19:1–7 248, 250, 252, 256–57 19:1–4 208 19:3–4 208 19:4–5 202 19:4 202, 253 19:5 281, 292 19:6 137 19:8–20 271 19:8–10 80, 280 19:9 201 19:13 268 19:20 6, 142 19:21 56 19:21–28:31 7 19:23–41 270 19:23 201 19:29 268, 285 19:32 134 20:7–12 269 20:21 281 20:22 201 20:28 227–28, 232, 272, 275–76, 302 20:32 276 20:33–35 183 20:36 286, 292 20:45 158 21:5–6 286, 292 21:8 173 21:13 268 21:19 158 21:20–26 286 21:26 108, 110, 167, 174 21:27–30 109 21:27 113, 134 21:28 107, 113 21:29 113 21:30 113 21:31 134 21:38 193 21:40 156 22:1–21 112, 286 22:2 156 22:4 201 22:10 209 22:12 140 22:14–16 262

335

22:15 300 22:16 204, 256–57, 268, 272, 281, 287, 292 22:17–21 112, 286, 291 22:17 108, 110, 167, 174 22:22 278 23:6–8 313 23:6 313 23:8 314 23:16–24 270 23:24 263 23:26 48 23:27 263 23:31 209 24:6 113 24:12 113 24:14 201 24:15 313 24:18 108, 113, 167, 174 24:21 56, 313 24:22 201 24:27 57 24:44 57 25:8 113 26 138 26:6–8 313 26:8 307 26:14 156 26:16–18 262 26:16 300 26:17–18 271, 279 26:17 263 26:18 105, 256, 272, 276 26:20 281 26:21 113 26:24–25 137 26:24 278 26:25 135, 137 26:27 279 26:29 293 27:20 263 27:25 51 27:31 263, 270 27:34 263 27:35 286 27:43–28:6 270 27:43 263 27:44 263

336 28 271 28:1 263 28:4 263 28:8 263, 293 28:9 263 28:17–29 105, 276 28:23 17 28:27 263 28:28 263 28:31 17 Romans 8:4 199 15:6 285 1 Corinthians 6:11 204 6:20 228 7:23 228 11:17–34 227 12–14 135

Scripture Index

2 Corinthians 3:13 162 Galatians 2:9 6 3:13 277 5:16 199 Ephesians 4:7–8 114 1:14 228 Hebrews 3:7–11 193 1 Peter 2:9–10 228 2:24 277 2 Peter 2:1 228

Author Index Abbott, H. Porter ​14, 86 Abraham, William J. ​27, 170 Achtemeier, Paul J. ​74–76 Adams, Dwayne H. ​91 Adler, N. ​248 Alexander, Loveday C. A. ​139 Alexander, Philip S. 139 Alter, Robert ​62, 63 Andersen, Francis I. ​72 Anderson, Kevin L. ​123, 225 Anderson, Paul N. ​3, 222 Archer, Léonie J. ​45, 47 Arlandson, James Malcolm ​238 Ascough, Richard S. 179 Atkinson, Quentin D. ​141 Aune, David E. ​55 Bachmann, Michael ​99 Badian, Ernst ​89 Bailey, James L. ​55 Bal, Mieke ​45, 54, 104 Balla, Peter ​32 Baltzer, Klaus ​107, 111 Balz, Horst ​107 Banks, Robert ​82 Barclay, John ​214 Barker, D.  C. ​182 Barrett, C. K. ​57, 67, 152, 165, 179, 248, 273, 277 Bartchy, S. Scott ​268 Barth, Gerhard ​171, 248, 257 Barton, Stephen C. ​288 Bauckham, Richard ​34, 124, 139, 225 Beale, G.  K. ​165 Beasley-Murray, George R. ​170, 248, 258 Bellah, Robert N. ​43 Berger, Klaus ​25, 207 Berger, Peter L. ​106, 279 Berridge, Kent C. ​217, 235

Betori, Giuseppe ​136 Bevir, Mark ​151 Binder, Donald D. ​181 Bird, Michael F. ​3, 161 Black, Matthew ​102 Blue, Brad ​178, 181–82, 285 Bock, Darrell L. ​57, 162, 238 Boff, Leonardo ​51 Bolle, Kees W. ​107 Booth, Wayne C. ​45, 272 Bourdieu, Pierre ​144 Borg, Marcus ​91 Borgen, Peder ​269 Bourquin, Yvan ​85 Bovon, François ​56–57, 145, 182, 193–94, 264 Braund, David C. ​265 Brawley, Robert L. ​54, 56, 101, 278 Bream, H.  N. ​114 Briesach, Ernst ​34 Brown, Gillian ​13, 43, 56, 104, 106, 250 Brown, Raymond E. ​45, 49, 51, 62, 67, 238 Brown, Schuyler ​83, 248 Bruce, F. F. ​111, 138, 141, 152, 154, 177, 204 Brunner, Peter ​119–20 Büchele, Anton ​98–99 Büchsel, Friedrich ​82 Buckwalter, H. Douglas ​118, 123, 301 Bultmann, Rudolf ​75 Burridge, Richard A. ​55–56 Busse, Ulrich ​74, 82–83, 271 Cable, Daniel M. ​92 Cadbury, Henry J. ​3, 57, 153, 222 Capel Anderson, Janice ​43 Carroll, John T. ​277 Cartledge, Mark J. ​135 Cassidy, Richard J. ​271

338

Author Index

Chance, J. Bradley ​58, 100, 106, 110 Charlesworth, James H. ​285 Chatman, Seymour ​15 Childs, Brevard S. 194, 200 Christiansen, Ellen Juhl ​248 Clark, Elizabeth A. ​26 Cloete, G.  D. ​143 Cohen, Shaye J. D. ​108, 174 Collins, John N. ​158 Collver, Albert ​154 Conrad, Edgar W. ​63 Conzelmann, Hans ​53, 74, 83, 110–11, 152, 221, 242 Cook, Albert ​33, 149 Cosgrove, Charles H. ​242, 267 Creed, J.  M. ​75 Crook, J.  A. ​182 Crump, David M. ​290, 294 Crystal, David ​135 Culler, Jonathan ​55, 66 Cullmann, Oscar ​248 Cummins, S.  A. ​26 Cunningham, Scott ​233

Donaldson, Amy M. ​118 Donne, Brian K. ​129 Doohan, Leonard ​81 Douglas, Mary ​34, 46, 109 du Plooy, Gerhardus Petrus Viljoen ​ 267–68 Dunn, James D. G. ​5, 91, 119, 149, 249, 256, 259 Dupont, Jacques ​136, 309, 313 Duranti, Alessandro ​156

Dahl, Nils A. ​65 Danker, Frederick W. ​79, 90, 183, 265 Das, A. Andrew ​248, 259 Dauer, Anton ​67 Davies, J. G. ​126, 140 Davis, Carl Judson ​193 Davies, J.  G. ​248 Davis, Stephen T. ​120 Dawson, Gerrit Scott ​129 de Beaugrande, Robert ​249 de Certeau, Michel ​144 de Vaux, Roland ​107 Dean-Otting, Mary ​117–118 Deci, Edward L. ​217, 235 Derrida, Jacques ​145 Dibelius, Martin ​75 Dihle, Albrecht ​55 Dillon, George L. ​249 Dillon, Richard J. ​57, 276 Dinkler, Erich ​57 Dixon, Suzanne ​182 Dodd, C. H. ​147, 221 Dömer, Michael ​264 Donahue, John R. ​48

Fabry, H.-J. ​268 Falk, Daniel K. ​285 Farris, Stephen C. ​67 Farrow, Douglas ​114, 128 Fee, Gordon D. ​249 Feldman, Jerome A. ​130, 197 Feldman, Louis H. ​266 Finger, Reta Halteman ​153 Finley, M.  I. ​214 Finn, Thomas M. ​189 Fischer, Michael M. J. ​42 Fitzmyer, Joseph A. ​44, 49, 62, 75, 83, 102, 115, 137, 163, 275, 277 Flanagan, Neal ​264 Flannery, Frances ​116 Flesher, Paul Virgil McCracken ​50 Fletcher-Louis, Crispin H. T. ​131 Foakes-Jackson, F.  J. ​151–52 Foeret, Anne ​14 Foerster, Werner ​65, 131, 265 Fohrer, Georg ​131, 265 Forbes, Christopher ​134, 136 Foucault, Michael ​66 Fowl, Stephen E. ​26

Eco, Umberto ​44, 72–73, 86, 141 Egolf, Donald B. ​92 Eliade, Mircea ​107 Elliott, John H. ​43, 109, 168, 172 Ellis, E. Earle ​58, 82, 262 Emmott, Catherine ​87, 93 Enslin, Morton S. 115 Enuwosa, Joseph ​275 Esler, Philip Francis ​110, 135, 175, 271 Evans, C. F. ​57, 68 Evans, Vyvyan ​196 Everts, Jenny ​135

Author Index

Franklin, Lloyd David ​249 Freadman, Richard ​43 Fretheim, Terence E. ​143 Friesen, Steven J. ​214 Fuller, Michael E. ​191, 200 Fuller, Reginald H. ​49, 227, 275 Gardner, Jane F. ​180 Garrett, Susan R. ​54, 271, 275 Gaventa, Beverly R. ​175, 189, 280 Geertz, Clifford ​109, 171–72 Genette, Gérard ​70 George, Augustin ​264, 269–70, 272, 302 Gibbs, Raymond W. Jr. ​130 Giessner, Steffen R. ​92 Giles, Kevin ​264 Gill, David W. J. ​182 Glöckner, R. ​264, 275 Godet, Frédéric Louis ​46, 77, 82, 90 Gooding, D.  W. ​119 Gorman, Michael J. ​205 Goulder, Michael D. ​69, 98 Gowler, David B. ​45 Grassi, Joseph A. ​74, 81 Gray, Russell D. ​141 Green, E. M. B. ​265 Green, Joel B. ​3, 7, 10, 16, 18, 24, 41, 43, 46, 52–53, 55, 74, 78, 85, 87, 93, 97–98, 106, 114, 123, 133, 147, 159, 161, 164, 168, 170, 172, 177–78, 189, 211, 214, 217, 221, 230, 232–33, 248–49, 252, 254, 261, 263–64, 266–68, 271–72, 276–77, 279, 283, 292, 299–300, 302 Green, Melanie ​196 Green, Michael ​173 Greenblatt, Stephen ​35, 150 Gregory, Andrew ​7 Griffin, Miriam ​180 Grinde, B. ​234 Grogan, Geoffrey W. ​141 Grundy, Peter ​143 Guelich, Robert ​55 Güting, Eberhard ​139 Haenchen, Ernst ​111, 152, 177 Hall, Robert G. ​70, 279 Hamel, Gladas ​182 Hamilton, Victor P. ​141

339

Hamm, Dennis ​74, 78, 83, 86, 88, 279 Hanson, Anthony Tyrrell ​67 Hanson, Paul D. ​79 Haran, Menahem ​107 Hardt, Oliver ​34 Haroutunian, Joseph  129 Harrington, Daniel J. ​67 Harrington, Wilfrid J. ​75 Harrison, Everett F. ​307, 313 Hartman, Lars ​170, 207, 249, 256, 258 Hays, Christopher M. ​211 Hays, Richard B. ​26 Hauerwas, Stanley ​141 Hause, H. ​46 Head, Peter ​165 Heider, George C. ​223 Helfmeyer, F.  J. ​199 Helgeland, John ​180 Hemer, Colin J. ​136 Hendrickx, Herman ​62, 67 Hengel, Martin ​156, 181, 222 Herman, David ​85 Herrenbrück, Fritz ​89 Hill, Craig C. ​152 Himmelfarb, Martha ​117 Holladay, William L. ​95 Hollander, John ​68 Holtz, Traugott ​58–59 Horsley, Richard A. ​43, 63 Houlden, Leslie ​117, 129 Hovenden, Gerald ​134 Hubbard, Benjamin J. ​62 Hudson, R.  A. ​144 Hull, John M. ​74, 83 Hur, Ju ​136 Hurst, L.  D. ​46 Hutcheon, Linda ​66–67, 252 Immanuel, Babu ​189 Iser, Wolfgang ​34, 86 Jenson, Robert W. ​27, 120 Jeremias, Joachim ​78, 98, 101, 109, 111, 170, 227 Jervell, Jacob ​58, 137, 162, 303, 307, 314 Johnson, Andy ​124 Johnson, Luke Timothy ​8, 267 Johnson, Mark ​93

340

Author Index

Jones, Donald L. ​184 Judge, E. A. ​173, 178 Judge, Timothy A. ​92 Juel, Donald ​273 Just, Arthur A., Jr. ​9, 92 Kähler, Martin ​230 Karris, Robert J. ​101, 231 Kee, Howard Clark ​74, 79, 83, 255, 300 Kilpatrick, G.  D. ​227 Kim, Hee-Seong ​18, 141 Kim, Kyoung-Jin ​211 Kim-Rauchholz, Mihamm ​189 Kingsbury, Jack Dean ​54 Kirchschläger, Walter ​74 Klein, Günter ​57 Klein, Hans ​115 Knipe, David M. ​46, 107, 108, 167 Koet, B.  J. ​58 Korn, Manfred ​18, 277 Kringelbach, Morten L. ​217, 235 Kuecker, Aaron J. ​20, 21 Kümmel, Werner Georg ​222 Ladd, George Eldon ​222 Lagrange, Marie-Joseph ​82 Lake, Kirsopp ​115 Lakoff, George ​197 Larkin, William J., Jr. ​118 Larsen, Kasper Bro ​148 Larsson, Göran ​199 Laurentin, René ​49, 58, 62, 67 Leat, S. Jennifer ​14 Lee, Spike W. S. 203 Léon-Dufour, Xavier ​62 Levinskaya, Irina ​181 Levinson, Stephen C. ​48, 56 Levison, John R. ​138 Lienhard, Joseph T. ​152, 156 Liljenquist, Katie ​203 Lincoln, Andrew T. ​141, 148 Lindbeck, George A. ​147 Link, H.-G. ​51 Liu, Shari ​93 Loewe, Raphael ​47 Loftus, Elizabeth ​34 Lohfink, Gerhard ​114, 117 Lorenzen, Thorwald ​309

Lowenthal, David ​35–36 Luckmann, Thomas ​106, 279 Lüdemann, Gerd ​28, 139 Lund, Øystein ​200 Lyonnet, S. 48 Lyons, John ​143 Maddox, Robert ​202, 300 Maile, John F. ​122 Malina, Bruce J. ​41–44, 46–47, 51–52, 79, 138 Maloney, Linda M. ​177 Manson, William ​75 Marcus, George E. ​42 Marguerat, Daniel ​16, 85, 191 Marincola, John ​28, 151 Marshall, I. Howard ​57, 81–83, 99, 101–2, 133, 141, 148, 178, 181, 256, 263, 272, 302 Martin, Dale B. ​50, 301 Martin, Ralph P. ​264 Martin, Wallace ​13, 255 Massyngbaerde Ford, J. ​270 Matera, Frank J. ​98–99, 101, 139 Matson, David Lertis ​172, 178 Matthews, Shelly ​166 Mauser, Ulrich W. ​193 McHugh, John ​49, 51 McIntire, C. T. ​30–31, 149 McIntyre, Luther B. Jr. ​248 McKeever, Michael C. ​165, 174 McKnight, Scot ​111 Meeks, Wayne A. ​136 Méndez-Moratalla, Fernando ​88, 189 Menzies, Robert P. ​136, 249, 259 Merrill, Eugene H. ​198 Metzger, Bruce M. ​114, 120, 124, 139 Michel, Otto ​89 Middleton, J. Richard ​205 Miller, John B. F. ​116 Miller, Marvin Henry ​74–75 Miller, Seumas ​43 Mills, Watson E. ​134 Minear, Paul S. 53 Mitchell, Alan C. ​86 Mittmann-Richert, Ulrike ​228 Moberly, R. W. L. ​26 Morris, Leon ​222

Author Index

Morris, William G. ​49 Morson, Gary Saul ​310 Motyer, J. Alec ​200 Moule, C. F. D. ​115 Moxnes, Halvor ​43, 109, 211 Muhlack, Gudrun ​19 Müller, Paul-Gerd ​274 Mullins, Terence Y. ​62 Myers, J.  M. ​114 Nader, Karim ​34 Najman, Hindy ​193 Nave, Guy D., Jr. ​189 Neale, David A. ​43, 91 Needham, Nick ​129 Neff, Robert ​63 Neusner, Jacob ​108 Neyrey, Jerome H. ​41–44, 46–47, 51, 53, 138, 179, 264 Nicolet, Claude ​180 Nickelsburg, George W. E., Jr. ​300 Nolland, John ​67, 76, 264 Novick, Peter ​26 Oakes, Peter ​214 O’Collins, Gerald ​266 O’Fearghail, Fearghus ​62 O’Keefe, John J. ​115 O’Neill, J.  C. ​250 O’Reilly, Leo ​137 O’Toole, Robert F. ​68, 249, 251, 259, 280 Oliver, H.  H. ​53 Oulton, J. E. L. ​249 Paden, William E. ​157 Palatty, Paul ​122 Palmer, D.  W. ​117 Panning, Armin J. ​154 Pao, David W. ​206 Parkinson, Carolyn ​93 Parsons, Mikeal ​3–4, 10, 13, 16, 91, 157, 161, 249 Patterson, Stephen J. ​229 Peer, Michael ​93 Pelikan, Jaroslav ​154 Penner, Todd ​165 Penney, John Michael ​141, 258

341

Pervo, Richard ​3–4, 10, 13, 115, 153, 161, 166, 167, 249 Pesch, Rudolf ​262 Peterson, David ​178, 228 Phelan, James ​36, 150, 163 Phillips, Thomas E. ​5, 211 Pilgrim, Walter E. ​264, 272 Pilhofer, Peter ​181 Pitcher, Luke ​151 Plummer, Alfred ​84, 98 Plunkett, Mark A. ​175 Polhill, John B. ​262 Posner, Michael I. ​130, 197 Powell, Mark Allan ​85, 148, 249, 264 Praeder, Susan Marie ​19, 68 Pred, Allan ​262 Preuss, Horst Dietrich ​205 Price, S. R. F. ​266 Prieur, Alexander ​18 Prince, Gerald ​14, 53, 255, 263 Quadagno, Jill ​42 Rabinowitz, Peter J. ​9 Rackham, Richard Belward ​152, 173 Radl, Walter ​19, 55, 68, 264 Rae, Murray ​31, 149 Raichle, Marcus E. ​130, 197 Räisänen, Heikki ​32, 49 Ramachandran, V. S. 130 Rapske, Brian ​179, 183–84 Ravens, D. A. S.  86 Rawson, Beryl ​47, 171, 182, 238 Redman, Judith C. S. 34 Reimherr, O. ​114 Reno, R.  R. ​115 Rese, Martin ​58 Rhodes, James N. ​165 Richter Reimer, Ivoni ​181, 183 Rigby, Cynthia L. ​129 Robinson, A.  T. ​204 Rohrbaugh, Richard L. ​136 Rosenblatt, Marie-Eloise ​271 Rothschild, Clare K. ​28 Rowe, C. Kavin ​7–8, 123, 196 Ruddick, C.  T. ​67 Ryan, Richard M. ​217, 235

342

Author Index

Sahlins, Marshall ​155, 218, 234 Said, Edward W. ​16, 53, 179 Sailors, Timothy B. ​118 Sanders, E. P. ​45, 91 Sanders, Jack T. ​139 Sanders, James A. ​66 Sandnes, Karl Olav ​173 Sarisky, Darren ​26 Saver, Jeffrey L. ​14 Schaberg, Jane ​63, 64 Schachter, Daniel L. ​34 Schäfer, Peter ​179 Schaff, David ​114 Schaff, Philip ​114, 135 Scharlemann, M.  H. ​165 Schmithals, Walter ​75 Schnall, Simone ​203 Schneemelcher, Wilhelm ​126 Schneider, Gerhard ​78, 82, 99, 135, 301 Scholer, David M. ​213 Schottroff, Luise ​183, 239 Schreiber, Johannes ​277 Schubert, Paul ​58 Schubert, Thomas W. ​92 Schüngel-Straumann, Hefen ​145 Schürer, Emil ​45, 191 Schütz, Frieder ​276 Schwarz, Norbert ​203 Schweizer, Eduard ​80, 228 Scott, J. J., Jr. ​163 Scott, James M. ​139, 144 Seccombe, David Peter ​262 Segal, Alan F. ​117 Seim, Turid Karlsen ​158 Seymour-Smith, Charlotte ​42, 157 Shelton, James B. ​252, 259 Shepherd, William H., Jr. ​258 Sherwin-White, A.  N. ​179 Sleeman, Matthew ​122 Smit, D.  L. ​143 Smith, David ​142 Smith, Dennis E. ​16 Smith, Julien C. H. ​163, 165 Smith, Steven G. ​150 Soards, Marion L. ​98, 273, 275 Soja, Edward W. ​139, 262 Spencer, F. Scott ​156, 163, 249 Spencer, Patrick E. ​3, 161

Squires, John T. ​268 Staley, Jeffrey L. ​180 Stanton, Graham N. ​229 Stenschke, Chrisoph ​264 Sterling, Gregory E. ​163 Still, Judith ​66 Stock, Brian ​34 Stock, Klemens ​48–49 Strauss, David Friedrich ​115–16 Strobel, August ​48, 229 Stubbs, Michael ​43, 106 Sylva, Dennis D. ​99, 101, 103, 165 Tabor, James D. ​117 Talbert, Charles H. ​19, 30, 55, 62, 74, 189 Talmon, Shemaryahu ​193 Tannehill, Robert C. ​54, 74, 76, 78, 84, 86, 101, 183, 189, 255, 258, 270, 273–74, 304 Tannen, Deborah ​251 Tanton, Lanny Thomas ​248 Taylor, Charles ​224 Taylor, Joan E. ​251 Taylor, Nicholas H. ​165, 173, 177, 208 Taylor, Vincent ​75, 98, 100–1 Thompson, Andrew J. ​163, 165 Thompson, Richard P. ​145 Throckmorton, B. H. ​264, 272 Tichý, Ladislav ​86 Tiede, David L. ​275 Tolbert, Mary Ann ​44 Toolan, Michael J. ​14, 54 Torrance, Alan ​31 Treier, Daniel J. ​26 Trible, Phyllis ​46 Trites, Allison A. ​300 Troeltsch, Ernst ​26 Trompf, G.  W. ​19 Tuckett, Christopher M. ​98 Turner, Mark ​197, 259, 273 Turner, Max ​123–24, 136, 170, 195, 248, 264 Tyson, Joseph B. ​54, 78, 83, 99, 156, 222 Uehlinger, Christoph ​142–43 Ulansey, David ​105 van der Loos, H. ​82 van Gennep, Arnold ​206, 253

Author Index

van Unnik, W. C. ​49, 70, 262 van Zyl, Hermie C. ​223, 228 Vander Broek, Lyle D. ​55 VanderKam, James C. ​193 Vanhoozer, Kevin J. ​26 Veyne, Paul ​149 von Rad, Gerhard ​141 Vorster, William ​66 Wainwright, Geoffrey ​170, 248 Wall, Robert W. ​4–7, 133, 175 Walters, Patricia ​10–13 Walton, Steve ​123, 165–66, 227 Warrington, Keith ​137 Watts, John D. W. ​200 Watts, Rikki E. ​195, 199 Webb, Robert L. ​251 Weinert, Francis D. ​99, 103 Weinstock, Stefan ​139 Wenham, Gordon J. ​47 Wenk, Matthias ​155 Werlen, Benno ​139 Wheatley, Thalia ​93 White, Hayden ​14, 32, 35 White, Richard C. ​86 Whittaker, Molly ​175, 179

343

Wiedemann, Thomas ​171–72, 180 Wilckens, Ulrich ​221 Wilcox, Max ​268, 277 Wilkinson, John ​82 Wilson, Stephen G. ​115, 162, 173 Winchester, Simon ​142 Witherington, Ben, III ​71, 178 Worton, Michael ​66 Wrede, Wilhelm ​27 Wright, G. Ernest ​108 Wright, N. T. ​31, 120, 127, 204–5 Wuthnow, Robert ​282 Yamakawa, Yoshinori ​93 Yamazaki-Ransom, Kazuhiko ​191, 194 Yong, Amos ​91 Young, Kay ​14 Yu, Ning ​130, 197 Yule, George ​13, 43, 56, 104, 106, 250 Zehnle, Richard ​222, 232, 264 Zerhusen, Robert ​135 Zhong, Chen-Ba ​203 Ziccardi, Costantino Antonio ​18 Zwiep, A. W. ​117, 118

Subject Index Abraham ​46, 59, 64–68, 71, 73, 163, 218 Ananias ​20, 69, 140, 204, 256, 287 Anna ​16–17, 69, 235, 239 Apostles (see also Twelve, the) ​157–60, 233–34, 287, 289 Ascension ​17, 114–32, 223–24, 226, 230, 302–4 Atonement (see also Forgiveness, Salvation) ​221–24, 227–29, 232, 275–77, 302 Baptism ​170–85, 202–8, 248–60, 280–81 Canonical criticism ​4–7, 27, 31–32 Cognitive studies – Cognitive linguistics (see also Metaphor[s]) 196–97 – Cognitive narratology ​85–96 – Cognitive science ​34, 87, 130, 197 Conversion ​88, 94–95, 172–78, 189–210, 279–80 Cornelius ​19–20, 29, 69, 172–78, 185, 226, 254–56, 258, 261, 274, 278, 291–92 Creed (see also Rule of Faith) ​31–32, 116 Culture (see Sociocultural criticism) Death of Jesus ​104–6, 226–32, 275–78 Disciples and discipleship ​16–18, 154–58, 217–19, 276–78, 281, 283–98, 299–302, 308–12 Discourse analysis ​104–6, 250–52 Elizabeth ​42, 45–48, 50–52, 59–61, 64–65, 199, 237–39, 304 Embodiment ​128–31, 134, 189, 197, 202–4, 206–7, 210 Forgiveness (see also Atonement, Salvation) ​123, 178, 184, 194–95, 204–6, 224, 226, 253–54, 256–57, 266–67,

269, 271–72, 274, 279, 281, 292, 304, 315 Form criticism ​11, 25, 75, 117–19 Gabriel ​17, 19, 45, 48–49, 51–52, 60–61, 63–64, 237 Happiness (see also Joy) ​93, 233–47 Healing ​74–84, 224–25, 267–71, 290–93, 309, 311 Heaven ​114–32, 163–68, 239–44 History (see also Narrative – History, representation of) – Historical criticism ​24–37, 116 – Historiography ​28, 34–36, 55, 151 Holy Spirit ​16–17, 18, 19, 21, 123–25, 135–38, 140, 145, 155, 174, 177–78, 193–95, 198–99, 204, 208, 224–28, 236, 238, 248–60, 261, 269, 272–75, 278–79, 283, 285, 287, 289–93, 301–5, 309–12 Honor and shame (see also Status) ​ 41–52, 182–84, 215, 233, 237–39, 277, 310 Idolatry ​161–69 Intertextuality (see also Old Testament, Luke’s use) ​66, 124, 137, 146, 198, 205, 251, 270 Jewish leaders, conflict with ​79–82 John (the Apostle) ​168, 290, 299, 309, 311, 313 John the Baptist ​18, 54, 57, 59–61, 64–66, 68, 71, 89, 94–95, 134, 148, 190–99, 202, 204–11, 217–18, 235–37, 248–60, 280–81 Joseph ​45, 47–49, 51, 163, 239 Joy (see also Happiness) ​48–49, 93

Subject Index

Kingdom of God ​17–18, 80–83, 217–18, 240–46 Lazarus ​212, 218–19, 242, 244, 246 Lost, the ​95–96, 241, 243 Luke-Acts – Authorial unity ​10–13 – Narrative unity ​3–23, 69–70 – Reception history ​7–10 Lydia ​172, 181–85 Markan priority ​76, 97–98 Mary ​16–17, 19, 20, 42–52, 54, 59, 63–67, 69, 137, 237–39, 263, 267 Metaphor(s) (see also Cognitive studies – Cognitive linguistics) – Economic exchange ​228 – Height (see also Verticality schema) ​ 91–93, 130–31 – Journey (Movement, Walking, Way) ​ 196–202 – Lots, casting ​289 – Organic ​207 – Purity (Cleanness, Washing) ​202–4, 253 – Raising up ​315 – Slavery (Service) ​50–51, 158 – Wilderness ​191 Mission – Church’s ​17–19, 54–57, 105–6, 111, 113, 136–37, 139, 151, 154, 158–60, 171, 174, 176–85, 276, 290–92, 308–15 – Jesus’s ​17–18, 74, 76–77, 79, 81–84, 140, 211–18, 230–32, 244–47, 263, 271 – Spirit’s ​258, 272 Model reader ​72–73 Narrative – Cognitive narratology ​85–87 – Definition of ​14–16 – History, representation of ​32–36, 148–51, 153, 147–60 – Human narrativity ​14 – Intratextuality ​12, 17, 200 – Pattern ​12–13, 88–89 – Recurrence ​19–22 – Story ​15 – Structure ​53–56

345

– Telos (Aim) ​5, 15, 35, 54–58, 70, 160, 274 – Theology ​147–48 – Time ​14–15 Old Testament, Luke’s use (see also Intertextuality) of ​46, 58–68, 71–73, 111, 161–69, 190–206, 228–32, 267, 302 Paul (Saul) ​6, 7, 19, 20, 21, 22, 30, 55–56, 58, 69, 72, 80, 105, 109, 112–13, 135, 137–40, 158, 166, 172, 178–81, 183–84, 199, 204, 222, 227–28, 256–57, 276–81, 286, 293, 299, 310, 313 Peter ​6, 7, 19, 56, 69, 123–24, 137, 140, 158, 174–78, 225–26, 230, 245, 248–49, 251, 254–56, 258–60, 263, 268, 270, 272–73, 278–80, 287, 290–91, 293, 299–301, 303, 306–7, 309, 311–13 Philip ​19, 139–40, 154, 159, 173, 258–59, 291–92, 305, 308 Poor (Poverty; see also Rich) ​52, 86, 94, 152, 158, 211–19, 229, 241, 243–46, 306, 308 Prayer ​283–98 Purpose (Aim), God’s ​5–6, 16, 54–58, 64, 66, 70–73, 94, 142, 144, 152, 168, 177, 201, 206, 235, 243, 247, 252–53, 260–61, 267, 270, 274, 279–81, 288, 290, 292–93, 295, 297–98, 304, 307, 310, 313–15 Reception, history of ​125–28 Redaction criticism ​4, 25, 76, 78, 99–103, 111–12, 221–22, 226–27, 249 Resurrection ​115–32, 299–315 Rich (Wealth; see also Poor) ​20, 90, 92, 94, 212–13, 215–19, 236, 244–46, Rule of Faith (Rule of Truth; see also Creed) ​27, 115–16, 127–28 Salvation (see also Atonement, Forgiveness) ​ 44, 54–55, 76–77, 105–6, 111, 131, 176– 77, 194–95, 204–6, 221–32, 235–36, 245–47, 261–82, 292–92, 299–315 Seven, The ​7, 19, 151, 153, 158–59 Silas ​20, 179–81, 184, 279, 280–81 Simeon ​16, 51, 56, 59, 69, 105, 111, 134 140, 231, 235, 239, 263, 313

346

Subject Index

Sociocultural criticism ​41–44 – Cultural encyclopedia ​89–90, 95 – Cultural world ​43–44 – “Culture center” 97–113, 171–72, 177–79 – Social geography ​138–40 – Social space ​86, 93–94, 139, 144 – Sociolinguistics ​144 Source criticism ​10–12, 25, 76, 97–103 Status (see also Honor and Shame) ​89–92, 129–31, 144–45, 157–58, 168, 171, 182–84, 214–17, 230–32, 237–42, 267–72, 304–12 Stephen ​19, 21, 56, 103, 159, 161–69, 278, 286–87, 290, 293, 311

Temple ​97–113, 161–69, 172–78, 285–86 Theological interpretation ​24–37, 116, 120 Tongues (Languages) ​133–46 Twelve, the (see also Apostles) ​151, 153, 160 Verticality schema (see also Metaphor[s] – Height) ​91–92, 129–31 Widow(s) ​7, 152–60, 215 Zacchaeus ​85–96, 218–19, 267 Zechariah ​19, 20, 42, 45–47, 51, 54, 59, 63–65, 69