Studia Patristica: Papers Presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2019; The Second Half of the Fourth Century (25) (Studia Patristica, 128) 9789042947849, 9789042947856, 9042947845

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STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. CXXVIII

Papers presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2019 Edited by MARKUS VINZENT Volume 25:

The Second Half of the Fourth Century

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2021

STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. CXXVIII

STUDIA PATRISTICA Editor: Markus VINZENT, King’s College London, UK and Max Weber Centre, University of Erfurt, Germany

Board of Directors (2019): Carol HARRISON, Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK Mark EDWARDS, Professor of Early Christian Studies, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK Neil MCLYNN, University Lecturer in Later Roman History, Faculty of Classics, University of Oxford, UK Philip BOOTH, A.G. Leventis Associate Professor in Eastern Christianity, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK Sophie LUNN-ROCKLIFFE, Lecturer in Patristics, Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge, UK Morwenna LUDLOW, Professor, Theology and Religion, University of Exeter, UK Ioannis PAPADOGIANNAKIS, Senior Lecturer in Patristics, Department of Theology and Religious Studies, King’s College London, UK Markus VINZENT, Professor of the History of Theology, Department of Theology and Religious Studies, King’s College London, UK Josef LÖSSL, Professor of Historical Theology and Intellectual History, School of History, Archaeology and Religion, Cardiff University, UK Lewis AYRES, Professor of Catholic and Historical Theology, Department of Theology and Religion, Durham University, UK John BEHR, Regius Chair in Humanity, The School of Divinity, History, Philosophy & Art History, University of Aberdeen, UK Anthony DUPONT, Research Professor in Christian Antiquity, Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, KU Leuven, Belgium Patricia CINER (as president of AIEP), Professor, Universidad de San Juan-Universidad Católica de Cuyo, Argentina Clayton JEFFORD (as president of NAPS), Professor of Scripture, Seminary and School of Theology, Saint Meinrad, IN, USA

STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. CXXVIII

Papers presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford 2019 Edited by MARKUS VINZENT Volume 25:

The Second Half of the Fourth Century

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2021

© Peeters Publishers — Louvain — Belgium 2021 All rights reserved, including the right to translate or to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form. D/2021/0602/162 ISBN: 978-90-429-4784-9 eISBN: 978-90-429-4785-6 A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Printed in Belgium by Peeters, Leuven

Table of Contents Manuel MIRA The Understanding of Baptism of the ‘Enemies of the Spirit’ (De Spiritu Sancto 13-5) ............................................................................

1

Alexander H. PIERCE The Burning Bush Theophany in Eunomius of Cyzicus’ Apologia Apologiae: An Exegetical Diagnostic in the Fourth-Century Trinitarian Controversy..........................................................................................

13

T. SCOTT MANOR Did Epiphanius Know the Meaning of ‘Heresiology’? .....................

35

Chiara BORDINO Epiphanius of Salamis and the Cult of Images ..................................

43

Anni Maria LAATO Noah and the Flood in the Cento of Proba .........................................

57

Anthony J. THOMAS Divisibility, Indivisibility, and the Triune God: Ambrose of Milan’s De Abraham and the Dangers of Applying Philosophy to God ........

69

Matthew S.C. OLVER When Praying Does Not Shape Believing: Ambrose and Chrysostom as Test Cases for the Tension between Liturgy and Theology ..........

77

Florian ZACHER The Immanent and Economic Trinity in Marius Victorinus’ Adversus Arium Ib...............................................................................................

87

Thomas BRAUCH Spain and the Young Emperor Theodosius I...................................... 109 Nienke M. VOS Hagiography as Argumentation: Sulpicius Severus’ Narrative Technique in Vita Martini 7........................................................................ 131 Christian T. DJURSLEV Two Greats in the Chronicle of Sulpicius Severus: Cyrus and Alexander as Historical Harmony................................................................... 155

VI

Table of Contents

Michael P. HANAGHAN Christian Visions in Sozomen’s Julian ............................................... 167 Christine MCCANN Climbing Jacob’s Ladder: St Jerome’s Use of Gen. 28:11-3 as a Spiritual Mentor .................................................................................. 181 Marcela CARESSA ‘The Man Who is Angry with a Woman’. Jerome and Rufinus on the Image and the Body ...................................................................... 191 Krystyna-Maria REDEKER Aspects of the ‘Suffering Servant’ in the Commentaries on the Book of Isaiah by Jerome and Haimo of Auxerre ....................................... 205 Ingo SCHAAF Urbs potens, urbs orbis domina, urbs Apostoli voce laudata. Jerome’s Adversus Iovinianum as an Exercise in Christian Romanness ........... 215 Thomas DILBECK Prepositional Metaphysics and Vergil in Jerome’s Exegesis of Ephesians 4:6 .............................................................................................. 223 Dragoş Andrei GIULEA Ousia and Physis in Eunomius’ Trinitarian Language of Apologia apologiae ............................................................................................. 231 Constantine A. BOZINIS John Chrysostom and Democracy....................................................... 245 Nicoleta ACATRINEI The Human Nature of Homo Oeconomicus: An Anthropological Investigation in the Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew by Saint John Chrysostom ................................................................................. 255 Pierre MOLINIÉ Hyphenation in John Chrysostom’s Exegetical Homilies. A Case Study on the Link between Exegesis and Parenesis Taken from the Homilies on Philippians (CPG 4432) ................................................. 269 Pak-Wah LAI Rhetoric and Therapy in John Chrysostom’s Trinitarian Discourse .. 283 Nozomu YAMADA Pelagians’, Chrysostom’s and Augustine’s Different Views on Pain of Childbirth as Revealed through their Counsel to Women ............. 295

Table of Contents

VII

John BEKOS St John Chrysostom on Genealogy and the Later Foucault or How to Read (Early) Christian Texts on Citizenship and Sexuality .......... 309 Francesca P. BARONE Le livre d’Esther dans la Synopsis Scripturae Sacrae attribuée à Jean Chrysostome ........................................................................................ 321 Michael A. TISHEL ‘Suddenly We Have Become Saints and Sons’: The Centrality of the Sudden (Ἐξαίφνης) in John Chrysostom’s Homilies on Romans ..... 337 Beatrice Victoria ANG Examining John Chrysostom’s Ideal of the Ascetic Priest ................ 349 Radu GÂRBACEA A New Indirect Witness to In Transfigurationem Domini (CPG 5807): Codex Romanus Angelicus gr. 125 (T.1.7) .......................................... 363 David Lloyd DUSENBURY The Limits of Punishment: A Critique of (Human-to-Inhuman) Reincarnation in Nemesius of Emesa’s De Natura Hominis ............. 373 Thomas F. HEYNE Nemesius the Neurologist: Dissecting the Brain in De natura hominis 391 Dorothee SCHENK John Cassian on Monastic and Traditional Education ....................... 403 Marianne DJUTH Defending Augustine: How Augustinian is Faustus of Riez’ De gratia? 413 Laura Kathleen ROESCH Envisioning the Interior: Violence, Landscapes, and the Poetics of Christianization in Prudentius and Paulinus of Nola.......................... 425

Abbreviations AA.SS AAWG.PH AB AC ACL ACO ACW AHDLMA AJAH AJP AKK AKPAW ALMA ALW AnalBoll ANCL ANF ANRW AnSt AnThA APOT AR ARW ASS AThANT Aug AugSt AW AZ BA BAC BASOR BDAG BEHE BETL BGL BHG BHL

see ASS. Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen Philologisch-historische Klasse, Göttingen. Analecta Bollandiana, Brussels. Antike und Christentum, ed. F.J. Dölger, Münster. Antiquité classique, Louvain. Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, ed. E. Schwartz, Berlin. Ancient Christian Writers, ed. J. Quasten and J.C. Plumpe, Westminster (Md.)/London. Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge, Paris. American Journal of Ancient History, Cambridge, Mass. American Journal of Philology, Baltimore. Archiv für katholisches Kirchenrecht, Mainz. Abhandlungen der königlichen Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Berlin. Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi (Bulletin du Cange), Paris/Brussels. Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft, Regensburg. Analecta Bollandiana, Brussels. Ante-Nicene Christian Library, Edinburgh. Ante-Nicene Fathers, Buffalo/New York. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, ed H. Temporini et al., Berlin. Anatolian Studies, London. Année théologique augustinienne, Paris. Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English, ed. R.E. Charles, Oxford. Archivum Romanicum, Florence. Archiv für Religionswissenschaft, Berlin/Leipzig. Acta Sanctorum, ed. the Bollandists, Brussels. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments, Zürich. Augustinianum, Rome. Augustinian Studies, Villanova (USA). Athanasius Werke, ed. H.-G. Opitz et al., Berlin. Archäologische Zeitung, Berlin. Bibliothèque augustinienne, Paris. Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, Madrid. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, New Haven, Conn. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, 3rd edn F.W. Danker, Chicago. Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, Paris. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium, Louvain. Benediktinisches Geistesleben, St. Ottilien. Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca, Brussels. Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina Antiquae et Mediae Aetatis, Brussels.

X BHO BHTh BJ BJRULM BKV BKV2 BKV3 BLE BoJ BS BSL BWAT Byz BZ BZNW CAr CBQ CChr.CM CChr.SA CChr.SG CChr.SL CH CIL CP(h) CPG CPL CQ CR CSCO

CSEL CSHB CTh CUF CW DAC

Abbreviations

Bibliotheca Hagiographica Orientalis, Brussels. Beiträge zur historischen Theologie, Tübingen. Bursians Jahresbericht über die Fortschritte der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft, Leipzig. Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, Manchester. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, ed. F.X. Reithmayr and V. Thalhofer, Kempten. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, ed. O. Bardenhewer, Th. Schermann, and C. Weyman, Kempten/Munich. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter. Zweite Reihe, ed. O. Bardenhewer, J. Zellinger, and J. Martin, Munich. Bulletin de littérature ecclésiastique, Toulouse. Bonner Jahrbücher, Bonn. Bibliotheca sacra, London. Bolletino di studi latini, Naples. Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten Testament, Leipzig/Stuttgart. Byzantion, Leuven. Byzantinische Zeitschrift, Leipzig. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, Berlin. Cahiers Archéologique, Paris. Catholic Biblical Quarterly, Washington. Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Apocryphorum, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Graeca, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina, Turnhout/Paris. Church History, Chicago. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin. Classical Philology, Chicago. Clavis Patrum Graecorum, ed. M. Geerard, vols. I-VI, Turnhout. Clavis Patrum Latinorum (SE 3), ed. E. Dekkers and A. Gaar, Turnhout. Classical Quarterly, London/Oxford. The Classical Review, London/Oxford. Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Louvain. Aeth = Scriptores Aethiopici Ar = Scriptores Arabici Arm = Scriptores Armeniaci Copt = Scriptores Coptici Iber = Scriptores Iberici Syr = Scriptores Syri Subs = Subsidia Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, Vienna. Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, Bonn. Collectanea Theologica, Lvov. Collection des Universités de France publiée sous le patronage de l’Association Guillaume Budé, Paris. Catholic World, New York. Dictionary of the Apostolic Church, ed. J. Hastings, Edinburgh.

Abbreviations

DACL DAL DB DBS DCB DHGE Did DOP DOS DR DS DSp DTC EA ECatt ECQ EE EECh EKK EH EO EtByz ETL EWNT ExpT FC FGH FKDG FRL FS FThSt FTS FZThPh GCS GDV GLNT GNO GRBS

XI

see DAL Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, ed. F. Cabrol, H. Leclercq, Paris. Dictionnaire de la Bible, Paris. Dictionnaire de la Bible, Supplément, Paris. Dictionary of Christian Biography, Literature, Sects, and Doctrines, ed. W. Smith and H. Wace, 4 vols, London. Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastique, ed. A. Baudrillart, Paris. Didaskalia, Lisbon. Dumbarton Oaks Papers, Cambridge, Mass., subsequently Washington, D.C. Dumbarton Oaks Studies, Cambridge, Mass., subsequently Washington, D.C. Downside Review, Stratton on the Fosse, Bath. H.J. Denzinger and A. Schönmetzer, ed., Enchiridion Symbolorum, Barcelona/Freiburg i.B./Rome. Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, ed. M. Viller, S.J., and others, Paris. Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, ed. A. Vacant, E. Mangenot, and E. Amann, Paris. Études augustiniennes, Paris. Enciclopedia Cattolica, Rome. Eastern Churches Quarterly, Ramsgate. Estudios eclesiasticos, Madrid. Encyclopedia of the Early Church, ed. A. Di Berardino, Cambridge. Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament, Neukirchen. Enchiridion Fontium Historiae Ecclesiasticae Antiquae, ed. Ueding-Kirch, 6th ed., Barcelona. Échos d’Orient, Paris. Études Byzantines, Paris. Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses, Louvain. Exegetisches Wörterbuch zum NT, ed. H.R. Balz et al., Stuttgart. The Expository Times, Edinburgh. The Fathers of the Church, New York. Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Berlin. Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, Göttingen. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments, Göttingen. Festschrift. Freiburger theologische Studien, Freiburg i.B. Frankfurter theologische Studien, Frankfurt a.M. Freiburger Zeitschrift für Theologie und Philosophie, Freiburg/Switzerland. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, Leipzig/Berlin. Geschichtsschreiber der deutschen Vorzeit, Stuttgart. Grande Lessico del Nuovo Testamento, Genoa. Gregorii Nysseni Opera, Leiden. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, Cambridge, Mass.

XII GWV HbNT HDR HJG HKG HNT HO HSCP HTR HTS HZ ICC ILCV ILS J(b)AC JBL JdI JECS JEH JJS JLH JPTh JQR JRS JSJ JSOR JTS KAV KeTh KJ(b) LCL LNPF L(O)F LSJ LThK LXX MA MAMA Mansi MBTh

Abbreviations

Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, Offenburg. Handbuch zum Neuen Testament. Tübingen. Harvard Dissertations in Religion, Missoula. Historisches Jahrbuch der Görresgesellschaft, successively Munich, Cologne and Munich/Freiburg i.B. Handbuch der Kirchengeschichte, Tübingen. Handbuch zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen. Handbuch der Orientalistik, Leiden. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Cambridge, Mass. Harvard Theological Review, Cambridge, Mass. Harvard Theological Studies, Cambridge, Mass. Historische Zeitschrift, Munich/Berlin. The International Critical Commentary of the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, Edinburgh. Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, ed. E. Diehl, Berlin. Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, ed. H. Dessau, Berlin. Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, Münster. Journal of Biblical Literature, Philadelphia, Pa., then various places. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Berlin. Journal of Early Christian Studies, Baltimore. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, London. Journal of Jewish Studies, London. Jahrbuch für Liturgik und Hymnologie, Kassel. Jahrbücher für protestantische Theologie, Leipzig/Freiburg i.B. Jewish Quarterly Review, Philadelphia. Journal of Roman Studies, London. Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period, Leiden. Journal of the Society of Oriental Research, Chicago. Journal of Theological Studies, Oxford. Kommentar zu den apostolischen Vätern, Göttingen. Kerk en Theologie, ’s Gravenhage. Kirchliches Jahrbuch für die evangelische Kirche in Deutschland, Gütersloh. The Loeb Classical Library, London/Cambridge, Mass. A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, Buffalo/New York. Library of Fathers of the Holy Catholic Church, Oxford. H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, new (9th) edn H.S. Jones, Oxford. Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche, Freiburg i.B. Septuagint. Moyen-Âge, Brussels. Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, London. J.D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, Florence, 1759-1798. Reprint and continuation: Paris/Leipzig, 1901-1927. Münsterische Beiträge zur Theologie, Münster.

Abbreviations

MCom MGH ML MPG MSR MThZ Mus NA28 NGWG NH(M)S NIV NKJV NovTest NPNF NRSV NRTh NTA NT.S NTS NTTSD OBO OCA OCP OECS OLA OLP Or OrChr OrSyr PG PGL PL PLRE PLS PO PRE PS PTA PThR PTS PW QLP QuLi RAC RACh

XIII

Miscelanea Comillas, Comillas/Santander. Monumenta germaniae historica. Hanover/Berlin. Mediaevalia Lovaniensia, Louvain. See PG. Mélanges de science religieuse, Lille. Münchener theologische Zeitschrift, Munich. Le Muséon, Louvain. Nestle-Aland, Novum Testamentum Graece, 28th edition, Stuttgart. Nachrichten der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Nag Hammadi (and Manichaean) Studies, Leiden. New International Version. New King James Version. Novum Testamentum, Leiden. See LNPF. New Revised Standard Version. Nouvelle Revue Théologique, Tournai/Louvain/Paris. Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen, Münster. Novum Testamentum Supplements, Leiden. New Testament Studies, Cambridge/Washington. New Testament Tools, Studies and Documents, Leiden/Boston. Orbis biblicus et orientalis, Freiburg, Switz., then Louvain. Orientalia Christiana Analecta, Rome. Orientalia Christiana Periodica, Rome. Oxford Early Christian Studies, Oxford. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, Louvain. Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica, Louvain. Orientalia. Commentarii editi a Pontificio Instituto Biblico, Rome. Oriens Christianus, Leipzig, then Wiesbaden. L’Orient Syrien, Paris. Migne, Patrologia, series graeca. A Patristic Greek Lexicon, ed. G.L. Lampe, Oxford. Migne, Patrologia, series latina. The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, ed. A.H.M. Jones et al., Cambridge. Migne, Patrologia, series latina. Supplementum ed. A. Hamman. Patrologia Orientalis, Paris. Paulys Realenzyklopädie der classischen Alterthumswissenschaft, Stuttgart. Patrologia Syriaca, Paris. Papyrologische Texte und Abhandlungen, Bonn. Princeton Theological Review, Princeton. Patristische Texte und Studien, Berlin. Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, ed. G. Wissowa, Stuttgart. Questions liturgiques et paroissiales, Louvain. Questions liturgiques, Louvain. Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana, Rome. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Stuttgart.

XIV RAM RAug RBen RB(ibl) RE

Abbreviations

Revue d’ascétique et de mystique, Paris. Recherches Augustiniennes, Paris. Revue Bénédictine, Maredsous. Revue biblique, Paris. Realencyklopädie für protestantische Theologie und Kirche, founded by J.J. Herzog, 3e ed. A. Hauck, Leipzig. REA(ug) Revue des études Augustiniennes, Paris. REB Revue des études byzantines, Paris. RED Rerum ecclesiasticarum documenta, Rome. RÉL Revue des études latines, Paris. REG Revue des études grecques, Paris. RevSR Revue des sciences religieuses, Strasbourg. RevThom Revue thomiste, Toulouse. RFIC Rivista di filologia e d’istruzione classica, Turin. RGG Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, ed. Gunkel-Zscharnack, Tübingen RHE Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique, Louvain. RhMus Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, Bonn. RHR Revue de l’histoire des religions, Paris. RHT Revue d’Histoire des Textes, Paris. RMAL Revue du Moyen-Âge Latin, Paris. ROC Revue de l’Orient chrétien, Paris. RPh Revue de philologie, Paris. RQ Römische Quartalschrift, Freiburg i.B. RQH Revue des questions historiques, Paris. RSLR Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa, Florence. RSPT, RSPh Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques, Paris. RSR Recherches de science religieuse, Paris. RTAM Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale, Louvain. RthL Revue théologique de Louvain, Louvain. RTM Rivista di teologia morale, Bologna. Sal Salesianum, Roma. SBA Schweizerische Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft, Basel. SBS Stuttgarter Bibelstudien, Stuttgart. ScEc Sciences ecclésiastiques, Bruges. SCh, SC Sources chrétiennes, Paris. SD Studies and Documents, ed. K. Lake and S. Lake. London/Philadelphia. SE Sacris Erudiri, Bruges. SDHI Studia et documenta historiae et iuris, Roma. SH Subsidia Hagiographica, Brussels. SHA Scriptores Historiae Augustae. SJMS Speculum. Journal of Mediaeval Studies, Cambridge, Mass. SM Studien und Mitteilungen zur Geschichte des Benediktinerordens und seiner Zweige, Munich. SO Symbolae Osloenses, Oslo. SP Studia Patristica, successively Berlin, Kalamazoo, Leuven. SPM Stromata Patristica et Mediaevalia, ed. C. Mohrmann and J. Quasten, Utrecht.

Abbreviations

SQ SQAW SSL StudMed SVigChr SVF TDNT TE ThGl ThJ ThLZ ThPh ThQ ThR ThWAT ThWNT ThZ TLG TP TRE TS TThZ TU USQR VC VetChr VT WBC WUNT WZKM YUP ZAC ZAM ZAW ZDPV ZKG ZKTh ZNW ZRG ZThK

XV

Sammlung ausgewählter Quellenschriften zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, Tübingen. Schriften und Quellen der Alten Welt, Berlin. Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, Louvain. Studi Medievali, Turin. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, Leiden. Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, ed. J. von Arnim, Leipzig. Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Grand Rapids, Mich. Teologia espiritual, Valencia. Theologie und Glaube, Paderborn. Theologische Jahrbücher, Leipzig. Theologische Literaturzeitung, Leipzig. Theologie und Philosophie, Freiburg i.B. Theologische Quartalschrift, Tübingen. Theologische Rundschau, Tübingen. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, Stuttgart. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament, Stuttgart. Theologische Zeitschrift, Basel. Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, Lancaster, Pa. Theologische Realenzyklopädie, Berlin. Theological Studies, New York and various places; now Washington, DC. Trierer theologische Zeitschrift, Trier. Texte und Untersuchungen, Leipzig/Berlin. Union Seminary Quarterly Review, New York. Vigiliae Christianae, Amsterdam. Vetera Christianorum, Bari (Italy). Vetus Testamentum, Leiden. Word Biblical Commentary, Waco. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen. Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, Vienna. Yale University Press, New Haven. Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, Berlin. Zeitschrift für Aszese und Mystik, Innsbruck, then Würzburg. Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, Giessen, then Berlin. Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins, Leipzig. Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte, Gotha, then Stuttgart. Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie, Vienna. Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche, Giessen, then Berlin. Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte, Weimar. Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche, Tübingen.

The Understanding of Baptism of the ‘Enemies of the Spirit’ (De Spiritu Sancto 13-5) Manuel MIRA, Pontifical University of the Holy Cross, Rome, Italy

ABSTRACT The tractate De Spiritu Sancto shows a discussion between Basil of Caesarea and some anonymous theologians in which the former defends the transformative power of baptism against the later, who do not see in this sacrament anything more than a washing or an external purification. This article aims to look for the relationship between the theories against which Basil fights and the baptismal theology of Eunomius the anomean and Eustathius of Sebaste, and also to uncover a debate on the efficacy of the sacraments that moves forward at the last quarter of the fourth century.

Basil of Caesarea mentions, in De Spiritu Sancto 13-5, the Pneumatomachians, who do not accept his use of the rite of baptism as evidence to demonstrate the divinity of the Third Person of the Trinity. We will begin our study by trying to establish, on the basis of their affirmations, whether they had their own theology of baptism, and then try to find some trace of it in the thoughts of the characters to whom the bishop of Caesarea addresses in the treatise, in order to better understand both their position and Basil’s response. Dörries argues that the De spiritu sancto was drafted according to the same logic that had guided the dialogues undertaken by Basil of Caesarea with Eustathius of Sebaste in order to force the leader of the asceticism of Asia Minor to subscribe a formula of faith that proclaimed the divinity of the Holy Spirit.1 The author takes his cue from the epistola 125, in which the bishop of Caesarea submits to Eustathius the nicene formula, with several pneumatological additions; the epistle bears the signature of Eustathius.2 In this text Basil relies on the baptismal formula to prove the divinity of the Holy Spirit; this attempt can be interpreted as a precedent of the argument made by Basil in De Spiritu Sancto 10-5: And a proof of orthodox opinion is not to separate Him from the Father and the Son (for we must be baptized as we have received the words; and we must believe as we 1 See Hermann Dörries, De Spiritu Sancto. Der Beitrag des Basilius zum Abschluss des trinitarischen Dogmas (Göttingen, 1956), 81-8. Volker Henning Drecoll, Die Entwicklung der Trinitätslehre des Basilius von Cäsarea. Sein Weg vom Homöusianer zum Neonizäner (Göttingen, 1996), 185-6, does some criticism. 2 See H. Dörries, Der Beitrag des Basilius (1956), 88-90.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 1-12. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

M. MIRA

2

are baptized; and we must give glory as we have believed, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit), but to withdraw from the communion of those who call Him a creature, on the ground that they are clearly blasphemers.3

The canons promulgated by the synod of Gangra against Eustathius and the Eustathians inform us about the aspects of their thought and their attitude that their contemporaries saw with suspicion.4 There is no evidence to suggest that the ascetics in question refused a certain conception of baptism, and instead proposed their own. Pouchet proved that in De Spiritu Sancto Basil also targeted Eunomius of Cyzicus,5 Eustathius’ ally in the fight against the Bishop of Caesarea.

Statements of the ‘enemies of the Spirit’ on baptism reported in DSS 13-5 Those against whom Basil of Caesarea wrote the treatise on the Holy Spirit stated that the Holy Spirit should not be numbered with the Father and the Son, because He is of a different and inferior nature.6 Basil, on the contrary, claimed that the Holy Spirit is united to the Father and the Son and must be numbered with them, drawing proof from the fact that the Spirit is placed on an equal level with the Father and the Son in the baptismal formula; from the written formula of faith deposited at the moment of baptism, in which the Holy Spirit is also equal to the Father and the Son; and from the profession of Trinitarian faith made after the renunciation of Satan; the Cappadocian emphasizes that these formulas and these declarations confer salvation and new life on the baptized, and that to distance oneself from them would mean decaying from the salvation obtained through them. His adversaries made several criticisms of this argument. Let’s see some of them: Paul numbers the angels beside the Father and the Son, but from this we cannot deduce that they have the same dignity: It is, however, objected that other beings which are enumerated with the Father and the Son are certainly not always glorified together with them. The apostle, for instance, in his charge to Timothy, associates the angels with them in the words: ‘I charge thee before God and the Lord Jesus Christ and the elect angels’ (1Tim. 5:21). We are not 3

Basilius Caesariensis, Epistola 125,3, in Saint Basile. Lettres, tome II, ed. Yves Courtonne (Paris, 1961), 33-4. Translation from Basil of Caesarea. Letters, volume 1, ed. Agnes Clare Way and Roy J. Deferrari (Washington, 1951), 259. 4 See Giovanni Domenico Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio (Graz, 1960-1961), X 1095-122. 5 See Jean-Robert Pouchet, ‘Le traité de saint Basile sur le Saint-Esprit. Son milieu originel’, Revue des sciences religieuses 84 (1996), 325-50, 329. 6 See De Spiritu Sancto 10,26.

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for alienating the angels from the rest of creation, and yet, it is argued, we do not allow of their being reckoned with the Father and the Son.7

Basil answers by making it clear that Paul, in the passage of the Letter to Timothy, cites the angels beside God and Jesus Christ as witnesses to the truth of his words, a role that the angels, who will be present on the day of judgment, can play very well; in baptism, however, the Spirit is placed on an equal footing with the Father and the Son, with whom he is the author of the fruits that the sacrament produces, that is, liberation from slavery, being adopted as sons of God and the passage from death to life, effects that only God can produce. The second pneumatomachian’s objection sounds: we are baptized also in the cloud and in Moses, but from this we cannot draw the conclusion that the cloud and Moses are not creatures but have divine nature. But even if some are baptized unto the Spirit, it is not, it is urged, on this account right for the Spirit to be ranked with God. ‘Some were baptized unto Moses, in the cloud and in the sea’ (1Cor. 10:2). And it is admitted that faith even before now has been put in men; for ‘The people believed God and in his servant Moses’ (Ex. 14:31). Why, then, it is asked, do we, on account of faith and of baptism, exalt and magnify the Holy Spirit so far above creation, when there is evidence that the same things have before now been said of men?8

Basil responds to this objection by explaining that baptism in the cloud and in Moses was a type that announced baptism that was to be established by Jesus in the future, and that the types do not have the sublimity of the future works of God that they announce. For this reason – he continues – we should not measure the value of Christian baptism, ‘the pride of our hope and the rich gift of God and our Saviour who renews our youth through regeneration, like that of the eagle’ (De spiritu sancto 14,34), starting from the facts described in the book of Exodus. Furthermore, faith ‘in God and in Moses’ is a foreshadowing in faith in God and in the true mediator, that is, in Jesus, and cannot be an instrument to diminish the dignity of the Holy Spirit. We are also baptized in water, the pneumatomachians add, but we do not attribute to it any divine nature, considering it, instead, a creature. What more? Verily, our opponents are well equipped with arguments. We are baptized, they urge, into water, and of course we shall not honour the water above all creation, or give it a share of the honour of the Father and the Son.9

7 De Spiritu Sancto 13,9, in SC 17bis, 348. Translation from A select library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Second Series, volume VIII, ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace (New York, 1895), 18. Basil’s answer is in the same paragraph. 8 De Spiritu Sancto 14,31, in SC 17bis, 354. Translation from A select library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (New York, 1895), 19. 9 De Spiritu Sancto 15,34, in SC 17bis, 364. Translation from A select library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (New York, 1895), 21.

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Basil explains that baptism in water and in the Holy Spirit has not only the function of physically cleansing the body, which water could do on its own, but of forgiving sins and reborn with Christ to a new life, which only God can do. It is absurd, then, to refuse to accept the connumeration of the Spirit with the Father and the Son and the participation in their dignity, for the fact that we are baptized not only in the Holy Spirit, but also in water. Basil took advantage of the objections of his adversaries to explain baptism in depth, focusing in particular on the difference between the role of witness and participation in baptism as a source of new life, on the inferiority of the type with respect to the reality announced by it and, finally, on the novelty that the action of the Holy Spirit introduces into Jewish ablutions. The Cappadocian presents the objections of his rivals as successive to his theses in support of the connumeration of the Spirit with the Father and the Son, considering them as vain attempts to weaken his argument, lacking a rational foundation and guided by anger. Let us ask ourselves this question: do Basil’s rivals propose a certain baptismal theology, or, more simply, do they try to refute Basil’s arguments on the divinity of the Holy Spirit in support of his pneumatological thesis on the ambiguous ontological position of the third Person of the Trinity? The reading of the Basilian texts makes us lean towards the second alternative. Basil, in fact, affirms that his rivals introduce a reasoning of a manifest absurdity (14,29), act guided by anger (15,34), or that they compare realities belonging to different levels, and therefore incomparable (15,36). The impression remains, however, that the Cappadocian highlights the weakness of the baptismal theology of his adversaries, who do not feel the clash between the role of baptism in Christian life and their theology on the Holy Spirit precisely because they understand neither baptism nor, consequently, the Christian life that flows from baptism. Doctrine of Eunomius on Baptism In Contra Eunomium III 9,54, Gregory developed a controversy against the anomean, accusing him of reducing Christianity to the knowledge of a doctrine and of despising Christian behaviour and symbols. In concrete terms, the Nyssen explains that, after having refuted the arguments with which Eunomius prepares the presentation of his doctrine, he also wants to refute the doctrine itself. Eunomius affirms – comments Gregory – that he follows saints and blessed, when he affirms that salvation is not found in divine names, in behavior and symbols, but in doctrines; but – corrects the Nyssen – he rather follows heretics. The Scriptures – Gregory recalls – command us to receive baptism and communion if we want to reach salvation. There are pagans – adds Gregory – who know very well the doctrines of the Church, but do not belong to the

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Church for this reason. When Eunomius subtracts all value from the divine names pronounced in baptism, from the behavior that the Church teaches the faithful and from the symbols with which the Church administers the Christian mystery, Gregory asks himself, what else does he do, if not deny the faith? Even the pagans – remembers the bishop of Nyssa – say that behavior and symbols are ridiculous and that their doctrine on a supreme God, under which all other divine beings are found, is more convincing than the Christian announcement. Eunomius – warns Gregory – should be afraid of the condemnation pronounced against those who deny the faith. The fact that Eunomius omits the baptismal formula of the Lord and introduces another formula: ‘In the name of the Maker and of the Creator and of him who is not only Father, but also God of the only-begotten’, makes us understand that the accusations of denial of the faith made against him are true, and since it reveals the anomean’s attempt to replace Christ, it justifies that he is called ‘anti-Christ’.10 One might think that Gregory reproaches Eunomius for not giving any importance to the reception of baptism and to the commitment to live according to faith, and, moreover, for identifying the Christian life with the knowledge of certain doctrines. If so, this controversy would not have a close relationship with the defense of the divinity of the Holy Spirit starting from the mystagogic teachings of Basil and one should not see the position of Eunomius as a response to the theses of the bishop of Caesarea. Mühlenberg believes that the passage from the Apologia apologiae that Gregory is targeting is an attempt to refute the ideas put forward by Basil in Adversus Eunomium II 22,22-32; in these lines, in fact, the Cappadocian bases his defense of the divinity of the Son on the baptismal formula;11 Mühlenberg also manages to identify the Basilian passages against which the Apologia apologiae is hurled, thus making evident the linear path followed by Eunomius in his criticism of the treatise Adversus Eunomium; this order reinforces the hypothesis that Eunomius refutes AE II 22,20-32. Gregory insists that the names that Eunomius despises are those ‘through which the power of the most divine generation grants grace’, he points out that the anomean does not believe that communion with the behaviour of the Church and with the symbols of the Christian mystery gives strength to salvation, and, above all, accuses him of modifying the formula of baptism and of going ‘against the law of the Lord’ contained in the ‘tradition of divine mystagogy’, proposing a formula that only mentions the Father with three expressions; these three details of the text reinforce the hypothesis that Eunomius attempts to oppose the teachings of Basil in De Spiritu Sancto 10-5. 10

See Gregorius Nyssenus, Contra Eunomium III 9,53-64, in GNO II, 284-8. See Ekkehard Mühlenberg, ‘Gregor von Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III, Tomus IX’, in Johan Leemans and Matthieu Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa: Contra Eunomium III. An English translation with commentary and supporting studies. Proceedings of the 12th International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Leuven, 14-17 September 2010) (Leiden, 2014), 429-41, 440. 11

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Basil affirms that the Holy Spirit possesses the same dignity as the Father and the Son because he is placed beside them in the baptismal formula, in which the minister of the Church makes the catechumen become a Christian; he sees in the harmony of the divinity of the Holy Spirit with the mystagogic traditions a proof of the divine nature of the third Person of the Trinity; does not accept the formula ‘I baptize you in Christ’ as an argument against this thesis, because in saying ‘Christ’, that is ‘Anointed’, reference is made to the one who anoints, to the one who is anointed and to the anointing, thus forcing Eunomius to find another baptismal formula different from that proper to the Eunomians.12 The enumeration of the elements sign of the cross, prayer and baptism as behaviors of the Church also echoes De Spiritu Sancto, 27, 66. So, although Mühlenberg is right when he affirms that the Basilian passage against which Eunomius argues is AE II 22,20-32, Gregory, in his answer, seems aware of the way Basil refers to the unwritten tradition of mystagogy as proof of the divinity of the Holy Spirit. Moreover, it does not seem possible that Eunomius is unaware of the De Spiritu Sancto, since one of Basil’s interlocutors is Eunomius himself. On the other hand, the bold way of arguing about the mystagogic tradition of Basil’s rivals makes it clear that they do not believe in the effectiveness of baptism; this theological position fits well with the statement of Eunomius according to whom ‘not by the peculiarity (…) of the symbols of the mystery the mystery of piety is realized, but by the exactness of the doctrines’. The controversy over baptism in the monastic world at the end of the fourth century In the monastic world of the fourth century there have been several controversies about baptism. Hesse recently described them in an excellent article.13 Basil of Caesarea and Pseudo Macarius In the writings of Pseudo Macarius we find teachings on baptism. Hesse distinguishes them into peaceful and polemical teachings, and describes them in detail.14 Plested, who studied the relationship between Basil and Macarius, explains, first of all, that both had a similar approach to the problem raised by 12

See Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica V 24,6, in SC 505, 244. Otto Hesse, ‘Der Streit über die Wirkung der Taufe im frühen Mönchtum. Die Taufe bei Makarios/Symeon, Markos Eremiten und den Messalianern’, in David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Oyvind Norderval and Christer Hellholm (eds), Ablution, Initiation and Baptism (Berlin, Boston, 2011), 1305-46. 14 See O. Hesse, ‘Der Streit über die Wirkung der Taufe’ (2011), 1306-15. 13

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Eustathian asceticism, not condemning it frontally, because they appreciated its evangelical power, and offering a model of asceticism better integrated into the institutional Church. The author then highlights the common points: both avoid a specific term to designate the monks preferring the word ‘Christians’; they use the term πληροφορία; they understand continuous prayer as an intention directed to the glory of God in all actions and not as the mere repetition of prayers; they defend the divinity of the Holy Spirit. Both his statement that Basil and Macarius, unlike Eustathius, avoided denigrating the sacraments, as well as the observation that both defended the divinity of the Holy Spirit, albeit from different perspectives – Basil from Trinitarian theology, Macarius from the inner experience of victory over the passions that the Spirit confers15 – can be connected with the present research, but remain on a more general level. According to Desprez,16 Macarius considers the action of the Church to be a visible sign of the action of grace on the interior man, the true purpose of the sacramental economy; he conceives baptism as the beginning of the ascetic struggle, without which the baptized person does not achieve the due growth and falls into sin easily, and he emphasizes the action of the Holy Spirit in baptism. The French author also found precedents in earlier works, and parallels in writings of the same period, some of which belonged to Basil of Caesarea. In H 32,4 (Collection II) Macarius, describing the inner growth of the man who received grace, mentions the types of the Old Testament that prefigure the New Testament, and offers some explanations about their relationship: the Old Testament – he says – was a shadow of the New and just as the shadow, unlike the body, cannot heal anyone, so too the Old Testament did not have the capacity to make the darkness of evil in the heart of man disappear; not even Moses could do so, not having, like the Old Testament, the ministry of the Spirit. The New Testament, on the other hand, explains H 32,5, possesses the ministry of the Spirit, and can purify the heart. Macarius establishes also a similarity between the High Priest of the Old Testament and Jesus Christ.17 Basil of Caesarea affirms in De Spiritu Sancto 14,33,17-49 that the types are only the shadow of truth and that God wanted the types to anticipate the gifts of the new covenant, to prepare the eyes of men for the light in a progressive way, accustomed to the dark. Basil refers to the cognitive aspect of the types rather than their inability to heal the moral ‘illness’ of man. Both authors, 15

See Marcus Plested, The Macarian Legacy. The Place of Macarius-Symeon in the Eastern Christian Tradition (Oxford, 2004), 47-52. 16 See Vincent Desprez, ‘Le baptisme chez le pseudo-Macaire’, Ecclesia orans 5 (1988), 121-55. The same author wrote ‘Les relations entre le Pseudo Macaire et Saint Basile’, Studia Anselmiana 70 (1977), 208-21. Hermann Dörries, Die Theologie des Macarios/Symeon (Göttingen, 1978), 43549, also studied this topic. 17 See Hermann Dörries, Erich Klostermann and Matthias Kroeger (eds), Die 50 Geistlichen Homilien des Makarios (Berlin, 1964), 253-4.

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therefore, share the attempt to explain the relationship between the Old and the New Testament.18 The Epistola magna, addressed to the monks to explain the rights and duties of those who devote themselves exclusively to prayer, contains a rich doctrine on baptism. Macarius says that he received it at a mature age, and that by receiving it, he made commitments to many witnesses.19 He dwells very much on the fact that baptism is received in the name of the Trinity (EM 1,3 [88,37-40]), and explains that this sacrament is enlightenment. He makes it clear that it represents the pledge and firstfruits of the ineffable divine perfection and that by receiving it we begin a journey that will end only in the future; he also understands it as the reception of a talent with which we must work to obtain further earnings (EM 2,3 [92,20-9]).20 The Holy Spirit is certainly present in the baptized in different ways, according to the faith with which He was received, but, as children grow to become adults, the baptized must grow to spiritual maturity, must progress, thus fulfilling the will of God; physical growth is a natural process, while spiritual growth must be carried out through persevering effort; obstacles must be overcome, the enemy overcome; grace and human effort are not enough; both elements must work together in synergy to achieve growth (EM 2,3-5; 3,1 [92,20-96,21]). Basil of Caesarea explains in De Spiritu Sancto 10,26, that the Christian is saved by the invocation of the Trinity in the reception of baptism;21 and in De Spiritu Sancto 16,40,1-42 he writes that the Holy Spirit will be present also on the day of judgment, when the history of salvation will find its conclusion with the attainment of eschatological fulfilment. He explains that it will be the crown of those who have done well, and that spiritual glory will be granted to each one in the measure of his good works, since in the celestial dwellings there will be different degrees of splendour. He adds that the Spirit will be taken away from those who have been unworthy and have not been able to negotiate with the talent that was granted them, as a pledge and firstfruits. Desprez finds a parallel to Macarian teaching on talents in De baptesimo II 1 (PG 31, 1581C), and in Protrepticum in sanctum baptismum (PG 31, 436);22 the authenticity of 18 V. Desprez, ‘Le baptisme chez le pseudo-Macaire’ (1988), 141, quotes De Spiritu Sancto 14, 32 as a parallel of C (Collection 3) 28 3, 1-4 (Erich Klostermann and Heinz Berthold, Neue Homilien des Makarius/Symeon I. Aus Typus III [Berlin, 1961], 166), because both characterize baptism as perfect or leading to perfection. 19 See Pseudo Macarius, Epistula magna, 1,3, in Reinhart Staats, Makarios/Symeon. Epistola Magna (Göttingen, 1984), 90, 41. 20 In B (Collection 1) 43, 2 (Heinz Berthold, Reden und Briefe. Die Sammlung I des Vaticanus graecus 694 (B), Bd. I und Bd. II [Berlin, 1973]; here Berthold II 74-5), Macarius explains that this growth is granted to those who struggle to acquire the virtues and pray perseveringly, according to the measure of their faith. In De Spiritu Sancto 16,40, Basil states that each one receive spiritual glory according to the works of virtue (ἀνδραγαθήματα) which he completes. 21 Basil continues to deal with the subject in the following two chapters. V. Desprez, ‘Le baptisme chez le pseudo-Macaire’ (1988), 134, in fact, finds in De Spiritu Sancto 12,28 and 15,35 a parallel to the confession of Trinitarian faith expressed by Macarius in Epistola Magna 2,3. 22 See V. Desprez, ‘Le baptisme chez le pseudo-Macaire’ (1988), 135.

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the treatise De baptesimo is the subject of debate, because of some defects in style unusual in Basilian works; it therefore seems appropriate not to rely on this work to study the thought of Cappadocian. The French scholar, however, does not mention De Spiritu Sancto 16,40. The two authors share four elements in their descriptions of baptism: they mention the germinal way in which the Holy Spirit is received in it with the nouns ‘pledge’ and ‘firstfruits’, they refer to the work with which one obtains spiritual gain by recalling the parable of the talents and they describe the transformation that the coming of the Spirit works in the soul as an enlightenment. At the base of these similarities there is a same conception of baptism, as a seed of grace that must be brought to maturity with the commitment that the very grace received makes possible.23 Basil of Caesarea and the Messalians Hesse identified the Messalians as the only monastic group that rejected the baptism of the Church. The heterodox traits of the Messalian movement have been described by several authors.24 According to these descriptions, Messalians believe that at the moment of birth a devil mixes with the essence of every man and then submits him to temptations; they say that through ascetic exercises and continuous prayer it is possible to purify oneself from passions and to drive out the devil, who, once expelled by spitting, becomes manifest in the form of a serpent or a cloud of smoke; then, the Holy Spirit takes possession in an experiential way of the purified soul, and grants it, among other things, prophetic visions in sleep. Consequently, they consider that the reception of baptism and the 23 Many more parallels can be added to these ones. In B 52, 1, 4-6 (Berthold II 139), Macarius explains that the grace of the Holy Spirit does not help those who do not act in a worthy way; Basil states in De Spiritu Sancto 16,40 that the Holy Spirit does not mix with the unworthy, but remains in them to offer him the grace of conversion while they live. In B 25, 2 (Berthold I 2423) Macarius describes the action of God in the soul of the faithful as the attentions of a doctor who accompanies the growth of the sick person by giving him the appropriate food at every moment and affirms that the Christian can in this way slowly defeat the vices; in De Spiritu Sancto 15,35,64-72 Basil affirms that God wants the baptized to work freely in the defeat of vices, thus preparing themselves for heaven, where this way of life will be possessed by nature. 24 Epiphanius, Panarion 80, in GCS 37, 484-96; Theodoretus, Historia ecclesiastica 4,11, in GCS 19, 229-31; Timotheus Constantinopolitanus, De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt, in PG 86, 45-52; Ioannes Damascenus, De haeresibus compendium 80, in PG 94, 728-37. We deal with polemic literature against heretics, which focuses on the strange aspects of the thought and life of the heterodox communities and understands it in its worst and most deviated sense. It seems clear that polemic literature about the Messalians ‘is really not about them, but against them’ (Columbia Stewart, Working the Earth of the Heart. The Messalian Controversy in History, Texts and Language to AD 431 [Oxford, 1991], 6). Messalians would not have been an influential movement if their spirituality did not have many positive characteristics. Nevertheless, it is not possible to find in the ancient sources a comprehensive description that includes these aspects of their asceticism.

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Eucharist does not help either in the struggle against the devil or for the reception of the Holy Spirit, and they nourish a contempt towards the institutional church that they show by living on the margins, in promiscuous groups of men and women. Timothy of Constantinople effectively sums up what the Messalians say about baptism: They still say that holy baptism does not contribute at all to persecuting this devil; holy baptism, in fact, is not even able to cut the roots of the sins that have been united from the beginning with the substance of men. They say that only continuous prayer can persecute this devil: the devil is put to flight by means of the spitting of the one who is committed, and is seen as smoke or as a snake at the moment of going out; they also say that, when this happens, the presence of the Holy Spirit comes over the one which prays, seen also the Holy Spirit with the senses at the moment of his approach.25

In vain we will search in De Spiritu Sancto for traces of the specific characteristics of the Messalian notion of baptism, but their contempt for the sacrament follows the attitude of the pneumatomachians, with whom Basil enters into debate in De Spiritu Sancto 12-5: since they do not give importance to baptism, Basil’s attempt to defend the divinity of the Holy Spirit based on the baptismal rite appears to their eyes inconclusive; they try, therefore, to remove logical force from the theses of the bishop of Caesarea, proposing other readings of the rite, which in reality prove superficial and deceptive. Their way of understanding continuous prayer as an expression of the true search for the Holy Spirit, to which was connected the contempt for work, also clashes with the conception of Basil of Caesarea, who sees it as a virtual orientation of intention towards the glory of God, compatible with the performance of other actions, including professional work.26 Basil defends from criticism this conception of continuous prayer in his homily De gratiarum actione.27 It seems that these criticisms were directed against the homily In psalmum XXXIII, in which Basil set out the same doctrine on continuous prayer;28 Basil, in fact, in De gratiarum actione defends the thesis that it is always possible to be joyful and give thanks for everything, addressing topics that reflect, in the same order, the topics covered in the homily In psalmum XXXIII.29 John Damascene states that the Messalians celebrated their gatherings on the margins of the liturgical ceremonies of the Church;30 the canons of the Council 25 Timotheus Constantinopolitanus, De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt, in PG 86, 48B. See also Theodoretus, Historia Ecclesiastica 4, 11,7, in GCS 19, 231, and Ioannes Damascenus, De haeresibus compendium 80, 4-6, in PG 94, 729B. 26 See M. Plested, The Macarian Legacy (2004), 49. 27 See Basilius Caesariensis, De gratiarum actione 1, in PG 31, 220B. 28 See Basilius Caesariensis, In psalmum XXXIII 1, in PG 29, 353A-C. 29 We have explained reasons that lead us to think that Basil addresses in De gratiarum actione to Eustathius of Sebaste in Manuel Mira, Ideal ascético y antropología antiarriana en las homilías de Basilio Magno (Frankfurt am Main, 2004), 217-22. 30 See Ioannes Damascenus, De haeresibus compendium 80, in PG 94, 732D.

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of Gangra attribute a similar behavior to the Eustathians.31 The fact that the Eustathians (against whom Basil fights in De Spiritu Sancto), as well as the Messalians, do not attribute any value to baptism, and the similarity of their way of life, is another clue that leads to identify the Eustathians with the Messalians. No information has been preserved on the monastic movement led by Eustathius of Sebaste following the publication of the treatise De Spiritu Sancto. It seems that Eustathius died shortly after, but it appears logical that the followers of Eustathius did not disappear into thin air but remained active at least for some time. Gribomont believed that he had found clues that would allow the identification of the Eustathians with the Messalians;32 his hypothesis, however, did not receive much support, because his arguments were considered weak. Villecourt was the first to show similarities between the Pseudo Macarius and the Messalians.33 Hesse also emphasizes the common points regarding prayer, seen by Macarius and the Messalians as the means to get to possess the Holy Spirit, and the need for the ascetic struggle to defeat the sin that dwells within man; at the same time, Hesse explains that Macarius does not know the doctrine of the existence of a devil who is united to the essence of man since his birth.34 An in-depth study of these parallels can be found in Fitschen.35 Among the most shocking similarities is the description of Eve’s fall: Macarius states that, when the serpent attempts the first woman, she obeys, thus allowing him to enter his soul;36 according to the Messalians, once defeated and driven out by continuous prayer, the devil manifests himself in the form of a snake or a cloud of smoke.37 Perhaps the different evaluation of baptism that distinguishes Macarius from the Messalians derives from the way in which they accepted the teachings of Basil in De Spiritu Sancto. 31 See G.D. Mansi, X 1097-9. The sources mention other bizarre customs of these groups: Gangra points out that the Eustathians wear unusual clothes; Epiphanius, on the other hand, states that the Messalians live in the open, let their hair grow and shave their beards (see Epiphanius, Panarion 80, 7, 1, in GCS 37, 492). Canon 7 of Gangra condemns those who wish to take tithes due to the Church or distribute them at their own discretion (G.D. Mansi, X 1101); Timothy of Constantinople states that the Messalians wanted alms not to be given to the poor nor to the needy, but to them (Timotheus Constantinopolitanus, De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt, in PG 86, 52A); see also Ioannes Damascenus, De haeresibus compendium 80, in PG 94, 732C, and Epiphanius, Panarion 80, 3, 4, in GCS 37, 487, which links criticism with their abandonment of work. 32 Jean Gribomont, ‘Le monachisme au IVe siècle en Asie Mineure: de Gangres au messalianisme’, in Kurt Aland and Frank L. Cross (eds), Studia Patristica. Papers presented to the second International Conference on Patristic Studies held at Christ Church, Oxford, 1955 (Berlin, 1957), II 400-15. 33 Louis Villecourt, ‘La date et l’origine des ‘Homélies spirituelles’ attribuées à Macaire’, Comptes rendus de l’Académie des inscriptions et Belles-lettres (1920), 250-8. 34 See O. Hesse, ‘Der Streit über die Wirkung der Baptism’ (2011), 1337. 35 See Klaus Fitschen, Messalianismus und Antimessalianismus. Ein Beispiel ostkirchlicher Ketzergeschichte (Göttingen, 1998), 179-214 and 219-37. 36 See Pseudo Macarius, Collectio I. Homilia 32, 3.1-2 (Berthold, II 19-20). 37 See Timotheus Constantinopolitanus, De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt, in PG 86, 48B.

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Conclusion Eunomius of Cyzicus (cf. Apologia apologiae) and the Messalians believe that baptism is useless. Their position reflects the views of the rivals to whom Basil of Caesarea addressed in De Spirito Sancto 10-6. In the case of Eunomius, this correspondence is a confirmation of Pouchet’s hypothesis that sees in Eunomius one of the Pneumatomachians against whom Basil of Caesarea fights in the pneumatological treatise. In the case of the Messalians, the correspondence is a further confirmation of the hypothesis that identifies the Messalians with the Eustathians, who, as Dörries has shown, are part of the group of Pneumatomachians; other indications that lead to the same conclusion are given by the fact that the Messalians and Eustathians have the same conception of continuous prayer, celebrate liturgical gatherings on the margins of the institutional Church and want to take possession of the alms paid by the faithful to the Church for the help of the poor. In this way, three very different positions emerge on the Christian life: Eunomius thinks that Christianity consists only in the knowledge of a precise doctrine on God; the Messalians entrust to the ascetic struggle and to prayer the attainment of the possession of the Holy Spirit, and consider baptism and the Eucharist useless38; faced with these two attitudes, which have clear parallels in the pagan world, Basil affirms that baptism in the name of the Trinity confers participation in the death and resurrection of Christ as a talent with which one must negotiate, as a pledge of the fullness that the worthy will receive after the resurrection, and considers that this effectiveness is proof of the divinity of the Holy Spirit. Finally, Basil’s doctrine on the nature of typology, on the incotative effectiveness of baptismal grace and on the procrastination of the Christian fullness at the eschatological stage is shared by Pseudo Macarius, who differs from the Messalians also thanks to these doctrines.

38 According to John Mejendorff, ‘St. Basil, Messalianism and Byzantine Christianity’, St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 24 (1980), 219-34, the Messalians became the representatives of the heresy that oppose the spiritual elements of Christian life to the institutional and sacramental dimension of the Church: in the Byzantine Church in fact the first Sunday of Lent the ‘synodikon’ is recited, a creed in which the rejection of all heresies is renewed, and the Messalians are condemned as those who considered baptism a simple wash with water and the Eucharist a mere feeding on bread and wine.

The Burning Bush Theophany in Eunomius of Cyzicus’ Apologia Apologiae: An Exegetical Diagnostic in the Fourth-Century Trinitarian Controversy Alexander H. PIERCE, University of Notre Dame, South Bend, IN, USA

ABSTRACT In early Christian interpretation of Old Testament theophanies, Exod. 3:14 was a paramount instance. From the burning bush, ‘God’ says to Moses, Ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν. Although Philo of Alexandria and other Jewish interpreters identified Moses’ interlocutor as Yahweh and Justin Martyr, among other Christian interpreters, attributed the voice of God to the Son, it is in the fourth century that the interpretation of this passage becomes a reliable diagnostic for understanding how one conceptualizes divine identity and the relationship between the Father and the Son. An important example of this correlation occurs when Marcellus of Ancyra raises the question to Asterius of Cappadocia of whether the Father, the Son, or both are speaking from the bush. In agreement with Athanasius, Marcellus holds that both Father and Son must be speaking. Marcellus puts Asterius into a difficult position because if he attributes the act of speaking to the Father or to the Son, the implication will be that the other does not share this unique mode of existence. Whereas Asterius would not have wanted to commend such a difference between the Father and the Son, Eunomius of Cyzicus, in his Apologia Apologiae, follows precisely this line, interpreting the voice as that of the Father and not the Son (Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium 3.8-9; see Basil of Caesarea, Adversus Eunomium 1.14-5; Eunomius, Apologia 8, 17, 28; Expositio Fidei 2). As in the context of earlier fourthcentury polemics about the nature of God, Eunomius’ exegetical decision concerning the speaker of Exod. 3:14, locates him in the landscape of fourth-century theological debates, for his interpretation of this theophany corresponds to his understanding of the ontological difference between the Father and the Son.

The controversy that precipitated the Council of Nicaea (325 CE) and the polemics that followed for several decades were politically and theologically complex, but as Joseph Lienhard has shown, the conflicting theological viewpoints can, at least heuristically, be sorted into two traditions – dyo- and miahypostatic theology.1 Those belonging to the former tradition – Eusebius 1 Joseph Lienhard offers helpful discussion of why it is better to refer to these two theological traditions as ‘dyohypostatic’ and ‘miahypostatic’ than as Arian and Nicene, Antiochene and Alexandrian, or Eusebian and Athanasian. Joseph T. Lienhard, S.J., Contra Marcellum: Marcellus of Ancyra and Fourth-Century Theology (Washington, DC, 1999), 30-46. For more recent and more comprehensive studies of the controversies surrounding Nicaea in the fourth-century, see Lewis

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 13-33. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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of Nicodemia, Asterius of Cappadocia, Arius of Alexandria, Eusebius of Caesarea, and Narcissus of Neronias – can aptly be identified as ‘Eusebian’, but those subscribing to the latter – Alexander of Alexandria, Marcellus of Ancyra, Athanasius of Alexandria – have no suitable terminological counterpart.2 The basic theological problem at the beginning of the fourth century was how to speak, in light of the Christian commitments to monotheism and to the divinity of Christ, about singularity and plurality in God. A major part of the debates concerning this central issue revolved around whether there are one or two ὑπόστασεις in God.3 Thus, although it simplifies matters, this two traditions narrative is useful for our present purposes. One of the neglected aspects of fourth-century theological polemics is, as Bogdan Bucur has shown, the function of biblical theophany narratives.4 Between the second and fourth centuries, almost all Christians interpreting biblical theophanies apply what Kari Kloos designates a ‘literal christological reading’ according to which Christ himself ‘actually appeared’.5 In other words, Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2004); Khaled Anatolios, Retrieving Nicaea: The Development and Meaning of Trinitarian Doctrine (Grand Rapids, 2011). Although Ayres departed from Lienhard’s suggestion of this terminology on account of its being too simple for the complex situation during the fourth century and because the ‘[d]ebate over whether God is one or more hypostasis is, in part, only one feature of and, in part, an epiphenomenon of this wider debate’, he still admits the terms are helpful as a ‘heuristic tool’. L. Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy (2004), 41 n. 1. For additional criticism, see K. Anatolios, Retrieving Nicaea (2011), 29, who takes issue with the focus this places on technical language, the putative discontinuity it suggests between Athanasius and the Cappadocians, and the contradiction it suggests between Nicaea, which posits a single hypostasis and Constantinople, which was implicitly dyohypostatic. 2 Ayres describes dyohypostatic theologians as ‘Eusebians’, following Lienhard’s suggestion that this is probably the ‘most accurate’ term. L. Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy (2004), 52-61; for more on the Eusebians, see Mark DelCogliano, ‘Eusebius of Caesarea’s Defense of Asterius of Cappadocia in the Anti-Marcellan Writings: A Case Study of Mutual Defense within the Eusebian Alliance’, in Aaron Johnson and Jeremy Schott (eds), Eusebius of Caesarea: Traditions and Innovations (Washington, DC, 2013), 263-87. 3 As Lienhard explains, there were three Greek nouns available to Christians in the early fourth century for something that subsists – οὐσία, ὑπόστασις, ὕπαρξις – and three correlative verbs for the act of subsisting – εἶναι, ὑφίστασθαι, ὑπάρχειν. J. Lienhard, Contra Marcellum (1999), 36. 4 Bogdan G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot in the Study of Fourth-Century Christian Theology: The Christological Exegesis of Theophanies’, Journal of Theological Studies 69 (2018), 588-610, esp. 591-2. As Bucur rightly notes, the exception to the tendency can be found in Manlio Simonetti, La crisi Ariana nel IV secolo (Rome, 1975), 506-11. Bucur makes a more global claim about the importance of theophanic exegesis to early Christianity as a whole, registering his dissatisfaction with the fact that the majority of analysis has been conducted by scholars of Augustine because of the latter’s hermeneutical shift observable in the first four books of his De trinitate. I am less inclined, however, to follow Bucur’s assessment that the scholarship conducted by such scholars is ‘parti-pris’ and instead find it to have offered some of the most productive inroads for the study of early Christian theophany interpretation. 5 Kari Kloos, Christ, Creation, and the Vision of God: Augustine’s Transformation of Early Christian Theophany Interpretation, The Bible in Ancient Christianity 7 (Leiden, 2011), 2. For a

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Christ figured as the mediator in the revelation of the invisible God in sensible reality. Examining the theophanic or christophanic hermeneutics of early Christian authors can, in turn, shed considerable light upon their conception of the Godhead, their understanding of the relationship between God and creation,6 and even their soteriology. By virtue of these theological implications, theophanic exegesis also operates as a polemical exercise for many early Christian authors. Although he mostly passed over the fourth-century Nicene and Post-Nicene debates, in the first half of the twentieth century Jules Lebreton identified three specific contexts and corresponding functions of early Christian theophany interpretation: (1) anti-pagan and anti-Jewish arguments for the pre-existence of the divine Son (2) anti-Marcionite arguments for the Son’s revelation in the Old Testament (3) anti-Sabellian polemics distinguishing the Son from the Father7

In light of recent scholarship, we might add to this list the debate between pro-Nicene and non-Nicene or dyo- and miahypostatic theologians.8 Among the many biblical theophany narratives, the appearance of God to Moses in the burning bush episode of Exod. 3 was one of the paramount instances of God appearing through a created form.9 Because of the mention of an angel in Exod. 3:2 and God saying to Moses, Ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν, in Exod. 3:14, this passage received extended consideration throughout the developing engagement between the dyo- and miahypostatic traditions as these traditions themselves became more complex and the terminology they deployed became more technical. detailed analysis of the development of this literal christological reading of biblical theophany narratives and the functions it served from Justin Martyr up through Hilary of Poitiers and Ambrose of Milan, see K. Kloos, Christ, Creation, and the Vision of God (2011), 13-97. Kloos’ argument that there is a polemical-theological function as well as a spiritual function is a welcome contribution. Notably absent from Kloos’ typology, however, are many of the Greek authors of the fourth century. 6 E.g., Justin Martyr initiated the tradition of associating Exod. 3:14 with the ‘being’ of God as opposed to the ‘becoming’ of creation. Dennis Minns, ‘Justin Martyr’, in Lloyd P. Gerson (ed.), The Cambridge History of Philosophy in Late Antiquity, vol. 1 (Cambridge, 2000), 263-4. 7 Jules Lebreton, ‘Saint Augustin théologien de la Trinité: son exégèse des théophanies’, in Miscellanea Agostiniana, Vol. 2, Studi Agostiniani (Rome, 1931), 821-36. 8 See Marguerite Harl, ‘Citations et commentaires d’Exode 3:14 chez les Pères grecs des quatre premiers siècles’, in Dieu et l’Être: Exégèses d’Exode 3, 14 et de Coran 20, 11-24 (Paris, 1978), 8-108. Harl surveys Greek Fathers, but does not juxtapose the analyses of various figures on opposing sides of polemical situations. Bucur has shown the importance of the interpretation of Old Testament theophanies for this fourth-century polemical situation in a number of noteworthy articles in which he examines the theophany interpretation of Eusebius of Caesarea, Marcellus, Athanasius, Basil, and Gregory of Nyssa. B.G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot’ (2018), 588-610; B.G. Bucur, ‘“God Never Appeared to Moses”: Eusebius of Caesarea’s Peculiar Exegesis of the Burning Bush Theophany’, Journal of the Bible and its Reception 5 (2018), 235-57. 9 For other noteworthy Old Testament theophanies that received a lot of exegetical attention, see e.g., Gen. 18; 28:12-5; 32:24-30; Exod. 13:21-2; 14:19-22; 24:10-2, 16-7; 34:5-28; Josh. 5:13-5; Ezek. 1:26-8; Isa. 6:1-13; Dan. 7:1-14.

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The present essay shows that as in the context of earlier fourth-century polemics about the relationship between the Father and the Son, the exegetical decisions of Eunomius of Cyzicus concerning Moses’ divine interlocutor in the burning bush theophany locates him within the landscape of the fourth-century trinitarian controversy, for his interpretation of this theophany corresponds to his ‘heterousian’ understanding of the ontological difference between the Father and the Son. In order to show this, I will first sketch how the burning bush theophany functioned in the polemical writings of major representatives from these two opposing theological traditions, taking into account Marcellus, Eusebius, and Athanasius. Second, I will turn to the debate between Eunomius, Basil, and Gregory to analyze how Eunomius’ interpretation of Exodus 3 confirms his position as a heterousian not only relative to the pro-Nicenes with which he is sparring, but more importantly in the light of his own predecessors within the Eusebian tradition. The larger aim of this article, then, is to show how the interpretation of the burning bush theophany can function for the historian of early Christian theology as a diagnostic for understanding how a given fourthcentury theologian conceptualizes divine identity (i.e., the relationship between the Father and the Son) and the God-world relationship, and can thereby shed light upon their position within the trinitarian controversies. I. The Function of Exodus 3 in the Mia- and Dyohypostatic Traditions (ca. 330-62) A. Marcellus of Ancyra Not long after the Council of Nicaea (ca. 330 AD), Marcellus set about to defend it against Asterius the Cappadocian and other dyohypostatic theologians who did not view the Son and the Father as the same ὑπόστασις or οὐσία and subordinated the Son as the lesser divinity, the ontological mediator of the transcendent Father.10 One action he took was to author his Contra Asterium, a polemical treatise directed against Asterius and Eusebians like him, which is preserved in fragments present within Eusebius of Caesarea’s subsequent rejoinder.11 According to Eusebius, Marcellus taught that ‘[the Son] 10 For a fuller timeline of Marcellus’ life and the relevant events surrounding his involvement in the fourth-century Nicene controversy, see J. Lienhard, Contra Marcellum (1999), xvii-xviii. 11 This text remains extant only in fragments contained in Eusebius’ Contra Marcellum (henceforth, Marcell.) and De ecclesiastica theologica (henceforth, E. th.). These fragments have been collected in Erich Klostermann (ed.), Eusebius Werke IV: Gegen Marcell, Über die kirchliche Theologie, Die Fragmente Marcells, rev. Günther Christian Hansen, GCS 14, 3rd ed. (Berlin, 1991). The most recent critical edition to which I will also provide references is Markus Vinzent (ed.), Markell von Ankyra. Die Fragmente, Der Brief an Julius von Rom, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 39 (Leiden, 1997). I follow Vinzent in my numbering of Marcellus’ fragments, and include parenthetically the numbers (nr.) of Klostermann and Hansen. Eusebius penned Marcell.

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is only a word united to God and [that] this is eternal and unbegotten and both one and the same with God, on the one hand being called by different names of Father and Son, while on the other, existing as one in being and hypostasis [οὐσίᾳ καὶ ὑποστάσει] (with the Father)’.12 Marcellus was a strict miahypostatic theologian who taught that there is a single divine reality or ὑπόστασις. Any activity of the Word, who ‘went forth’ (the verb προέρχομαι) from the Father in the divine act of creation or the Son, who is ‘begotten’ (the verb γεννάω) only in the incarnation, has to do with the mediating role between the Father and creation, but even in such instances, the Son is of the same ὑπόστασις as the Father.13 Marcellus’ interpretation of Exod. 3:14 conforms to this view of the relationship of the Father and the Son; he attributes the Ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν to the Father who speaks through the Word that always mediates the Father’s speech.14 The Father is the speaker, but it is under the name of the Word that God is heard by Moses, and so Marcellus’ understanding of the unity of the Father and the Son allows him to speak of both being present in the theophany in such a manner that the Word somehow mediates between the invisible God and the sensible creature, Moses, even though there is only one ὑπόστασις represented by the names Father and Son (and Holy Spirit). Marcellus’ interpretation discloses in broad outline his understanding of the identity of the Father and the Son as a single ὑπόστασις, the relationship of the Son as the mediating Word of the Father, and the corresponding function of the Son as the Word who reveals the invisible and transcendent God to embodied creatures.15 Elsewhere in his Contra Asterium, Marcellus raises to Asterius the exegetical question of whether the Father, the Son, or both are speaking from the bush: immediately following the Synod of Constantinople in 336 at which Marcellus was deposed for heresy and E. th. sometime in the following three years before he died in May 339. For a concise account of the events that precipitated Eusebius’ anti-Marcellan polemics, see Kelley McCarthy Spoerl and Markus Vinzent, ‘Introduction’, in Eusebius of Caesarea: Against Marcellus and On Ecclesiastical Theology, Fathers of the Church 135 (Washington, DC, 2017), 9-18. Eusebius writes a scathing description of Marcellus’ actions in the years following Nicaea. Eusebius, Marcell. 1.1.1-4 (GCS 14, 1-2; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 75-6). 12 Eus., Marcell. 1.1.17 (GCS 14, 4; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 79). 13 Marcellus, fr. 31 (Vinzent, 32; see nr. 14 K./H.); see fr. 48 (Vinzent, 42; see nr. 67 K./H.). For discussion, see J. Lienhard, Contra Marcellum (1999), 51-2. 14 Marcellus, fr. 89 (Vinzent, 76-8; see nr. 62 K./H.) quoted in Eus., Marcell. 2.2.32-3 (GCS 14, 40-1; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 130): ‘To be sure, the Father in this passage says to Moses, “I am who am,” but he clearly says it through the Word. For whatever the Father says, in every case he appears to say it through the Word’; see Marcellus, fr. 64 (Vinzent, 54; see nr. 57 K./H.), 89 (Vinzent, 76-8; see nr. 62 K./H.). On the relationship between Asterius and Arius, with particular attention given to the influence of the former upon the latter, see M. DelCogliano, ‘How Did Arius Learn from Asterius? On the Relationship between the Thalia and the Syntagmation’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 69 (2018), 477-92. 15 See e.g., Marcellus’ description of the Word’s mediating function in creation (fr. 87) and in divine speech (fr. 89).

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Well, then, who does Asterius think it is who says, ‘I am who am’, the Son or the Father? For he said that ‘there are two hypostases of the Father and of the Son’, looking at the human flesh that the Word of God assumed and because of it imagining that this is so, in this way separating [χωρίζων] the Son of God from the Father, just as someone might separate [χωρίσειεν] the son of a man from [his] natural father […] Well then, if [Asterius] will say that the Father said these things to Moses while separating [χωρίζοντα] himself from the Son, he will confess that the Son is not God. For how is it possible for the one who says, ‘I am who am’, not to confess at the same time that “the one who is” is himself in contradistinction [κατὰ ἀντιδιαστολὴν] to him who is not? But if he were to allege that the Son said this ‘I am who am’ while separated [διῃρημένον] in hypostasis, he will be thought to say the same thing again concerning the Father [namely, that the Father is not]. And each of these is impious.16

Marcellus applies pressure here to Asterius’ confession of two hypostases, one under each divine name, Father and Son, attempting to force him into a bind such that if Asterius answers that it was the Son or the Father, separate in ὑπόστασις from the other, the common οὐσία of the two will be compromised and Nicaea transgressed.17 There are two built-in assumptions in Marcellus’ logic, one that follows from the Nicene notion of ὁμοούσιος and one that does not. The Sabellian premise is that to claim the Father and the Son are ὁμοούσιος entails that there is a single hypostasis in God, diversely represented by three names, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, but singular in every other sense. The Nicene premise is that the consubstantiality of the Father and the Son entails that for the Father or the Son to make statements about their ‘being’ involves making a claim about the οὐσία of the other, whether the other is in fact a different hypostasis or not.18 Although we do not have any extant materials from Asterius’ response to Marcellus’ charge, Eusebius of Caesarea comes to his defense in his own Contra Marcellum and De ecclesiastica theologia. B. Eusebius of Caesarea19 Defending Asterius against the rhetorical and logical trap Marcellus had created for him, Eusebius contends in De ecclesiastica theologia 2.20-1 that 16 Marcell., fr. 85-6 (Vinzent, 74; see nr. 63-4 K./H.) quoted in Eus., E. th. 2.19.1 (GCS 14, 123; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 255). 17 For discussion of Marcellus’ polemical intentions, see B.G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot’ (2018), 598. 18 This entailment of Nicaea, which is a premise of Marcellus’ logic, anticipates the principle of the indivisible operations of the three hypostases of the Trinity, which later emerged as a fundamental principle in pro-Nicene theology. For discussion of inseparable operations in pro-Nicene theology, see e.g., L. Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy (2004), 280-4, 296-7. 19 Although focusing solely on Eusebius oversimplifies the diversity among representatives of dyohypostatic theology, that he is defending his compatriot Asterius and that his own theology is prototypical of the dyohypostatic tradition of the Eusebii warrants this decision. See J. Lienhard, Contra Marcellum (1999), 39.

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Marcellus is mistaken to think he has created a problem for anyone but miahypostatic theologians. First, he explains how the dyohypostatic theologian can describe either the Son or the Father through the Son as the subject of the utterance from the burning bush. He claims that ‘the mystery concerning the Father and the Son’ was not revealed in the Old Testament because of the Jews’ susceptibility to polytheism.20 For Eusebius, then, in the Old Testament the Word proclaims the one true God, the only God to be recognized and worshipped, without explicitly announcing, but also never denying, that the same God is the Father of the Son.21 This is the context in which Eusebius situates his own interpretation of Exod. 3:14, asserting that ‘I am who am’ can in fact be ascribed truly to each hypostasis. This assertion makes sense, Eusebius explains, because the Father is ‘He who is’, God over all things, and the Son is ‘the onlybegotten Son of “He who is”’, the ‘image of the invisible God’ (Col. 1:15).22 Appealing to a general point of common ground with Marcellus, Eusebius cites Jn. 8:56 and 58 to establish the pre-existence of Christ as the Son of God who spoke to Moses before the incarnation.23 Connecting this insight directly to how the Son is ‘He who is’ in Exod. 3:14, Eusebius claims that the Apostle Paul identified the Son of God as the mediator who gave the law to Moses (Gal. 3:19-20) and that he understood the same mediator to be Jesus Christ who before his ‘assumption of flesh’ was already mediating ‘for the salvation of men’ (1Tim. 2:5).24 Eusebius concludes that ‘whether the statement “I am who am” was made to Moses from [Jesus Christ’s] own person [προσώπου] or the Father was the one who uttered this statement through him, in each case the statement would be true’.25 Eusebius considers this to be an apt response to the exegetical and theological conundrum Marcellus posed to Asterius, for the Son can speak as ‘He who Is’ in the place of the Father as his Son and Mediator. Moreover, the dyohypostatic theologian would be happy to allow for the cooperation of the Father and the Son in the theophanic event so long as the transcendence of the Father is not compromised, and were the Son alone or the Father through the Son present in Exod. 3, the Father’s transcendence would not be not in jeopardy. 20

Eus., E. th. 2.20.13-4 (GCS 14, 129; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 263). For a more thorough discussion of the character of this defense, see M. DelCogliano, ‘Eusebius of Caesarea’s Defense’ (2013), 263-87. For a fuller account of the ways Eusebius interprets the burning bush theophany across his literary corpus, with emphasis placed on how Eusebius distinguishes the visual and auditory elements of the episode as a polemical strategy in the Marcellan controversy, see B.G. Bucur, ‘“God Never Appeared to Moses”’ (2018), 235-57, esp. 246-7. Bucur makes extensive use of Eusebius’ Prophetic Extracts to show both the traditional and the distinctive aspects of Eusebius’ interpretation of the burning bush theophany vis-à-vis other interpreters. 21 Eus., E. th. 2.20.13-4 (GCS 14, 129; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 263). 22 Eus., E. th. 2.20.15 (GCS 14, 129; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 263-4). 23 Eus., E. th. 2.21.2 (GCS 14, 130; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 264). 24 Eus., E. th. 2.21.3-4 (GCS 14, 130; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 264-5). 25 Eus., E. th. 2.21.4-5 (GCS 14, 130; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 265).

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Eusebius’ second tactic is to turn Marcellus’ rhetorical question back on him, describing the challenge he has just disarmed as what Marcellus thinks is ‘an inescapable syllogism’ (συλλογισμῷ ἀφύκτῳ).26 Eusebius puts aside the potential concern that might arise from the first commandment in Exod. 20:2-5, concerning having no ‘other gods’ and no ‘graven images’, by affirming the mediation of the Son in creation and in the giving of the Law.27 He concludes that on his own view, when God says in Deut. 32:39 ‘See, see that I am, and there is no God beside me’, ‘it was the Father claiming this through the Son as through an image and mediator’.28 Eusebius proceeds to describe the Son as analogous to an ‘interpreter’ (ἑρμηνέως) through whom the Father speaks to human beings.29 His alternative interpretation of Exodus 3 and similar Old Testament passages is to assert the subordination of the Son to the Father as the mediator between the latter and creation and to eliminate from consideration the idea that to affirm the Father or the Son as the divine speaker in the burning bush theophany is to reject the existence of the other. To the contrary, Eusebius utilizes Exod. 3 as a proof text for his view that the Son is ever and always the image, revealer, and mediator between God and the world. C. Athanasius of Alexandria Athanasius of Alexandria, the arch defender and propagator of Nicaea together with the ὁμοούσιος of the Father and the Son in the ensuing years of the fourth century, was the first to appeal to the ὁ ὤν of Exod. 3:14 to support the use of the extra-biblical term οὐσία.30 Underlying his championing of ὁμοούσιος is his literal christological reading of Old Testament theophanies. Although this exegetical method is consistent with the predominant pre-Nicene strategy for reading theophanies, his hermeneutics exceeds the common subordinationism that perdured in the dyohypostatic tradition of theophanic exegesis31 because for Athanasius the Son not only pre-exists both the incarnation and creation, but also shares his eternal, uncreated divinity with the Father rather than being divine in some lesser fashion.32 The claim of the equal divinity of 26

Eus., E. th. 2.21.5 (GCS 14, 130; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 265 [translation modified]). Eus., E. th. 2.21.10 (GCS 14, 131-2; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 266). 28 Eus., E. th. 2.21.10 (GCS 14, 131; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 266). 29 Eus., E. th. 2.22.1 (GCS 14, 132; trans. Spoerl and Vinzent, FC 135, 267). 30 Ath., De synodis Arimini in Italia et Seleuciae in Isauria (henceforth, Syn.) 35.2 (SC 563, 300); De decretis Nicaenae synodi (henceforth, Decr.) 22.3 (AW 2.1, 18); Epistula ad Afros episcopos 4.2-4 (AW 2.8, 328-9). For discussion of how this move fits into Athanasius’ developing defense of Nicaea, see L. Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy (2004), 140-4, esp. 142. For a thorough analysis of Athanasius’ account of the unity of the Trinity and his use of the term οὐσία, see Xavier Morales, La théologie trinitaire d’Athanase d’Alexandrie, Études Augustiniennes, série Antiquité 180 (Paris, 2006), 235-405. 31 M. Simonetti, La crisi Ariana nel IV secolo (1975), 506. 32 Ath., Orationes contra Arianos (henceforth, Ar.) 2.67 (AW 1.2, 244-5; trans. K. Anatolios, Athanasius [London, New York, 2004], 128-9). Thus, Anatolios writes of Athanasius’ burden in 27

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the Son is the making explicit of the implied assumption operative underneath much of Athanasius’ pro-Nicaea and anti-Eusebian rhetoric, namely, that the most important ontological distinction is between the created and the uncreated and the accompanying conviction that Christ belongs on the uncreated side of the divide.33 In his Orationes contra Arianos, Athanasius condemns the supposition of Arius and Eusebius that the Word of God undergoes change.34 Since he takes them to bend the texts of Scripture to support their understanding of the Son as finite and temporally exalted by God the Father, he resolves to correct their biblical interpretation in order to refute their theological position.35 Keenly aware of the implications of their theology and anticipating the heterousian theology of Aëtius and Eunomius, he remarks, If, however, they speak in this way about the Savior also, it will turn out that he is not true God nor true Son, nor is he like the Father, nor does he have God in any way as the Father of his being, according to essence, but only by a grace given to him and thus, as far as essence, he would have God as the Creator of his being, as do all other things.36

Positively, Athanasius insists upon the eternal pre-existence of Christ and cites numerous theophany passages including Exod. 3 to support his belief that in Christ God became man so that humanity could be made like God.37 Appealing specifically to passages in which God somehow speaks to a human person, he explains that in each case a person receives the ‘Mediator Word’ and ‘Wisdom of God’ who discloses the will of the Father and yet the operation of the Word, Athanasius explains, does not entail or allow for any gap or break from the Father, for ‘the Father is in him and the Word is in the Father’.38 Athanasius holds together here the mediatory function of the Word with the immediate unity between the Father and the Son, agreeing with the consensus position concerning texts such as the Ar., ‘The interpretation against which he is contending is that the figure of Wisdom…, understood by both sides to be the pre-existent Christ, is ‘created’ and therefore not coeternal with the Father.’ K. Anatolios, Athanasius (2004), 57. For discussion of the soteriological importance of this claim to Athanasius in the Ar., see Frances M. Young, From Nicaea to Chalcedon: A Guide to the Literature and Its Background, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, 2010), 61-5. 33 L. Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy (2004), 143. See Ath., Decr. 28-32; see also Epistula ad Serapionem (henceforth, Ep. Serap.) 22 (AW 1.1.4, 506-7; trans. Anatolios [2004], 179-80). 34 For a helpful discussion of the dating of Athanasius’ Ar. 1-2 to around the year 339 and the Ar. 3 to sometime between 357 and 362, see Annick Martin, Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte au IVe siècle (328-373), Collection de l’École française de Rome 216 (Rome, 1996), 388, 556 n. 38, 826. For more recent discussion of this question, see also X. Morales, La théologie trinitaire (2006), 487-90; A. Martin, ‘Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte: un réexamen’, Adamantius 12 (2006), 91-104, esp. 99-103. 35 Ath., Ar. 1.37 (AW 1.2, 146-7; trans. Anatolios [2004], 75). 36 Ath., Ar. 1.38 (AW 1.2, 147; trans. Anatolios [2004], 76). 37 Ath., Ar. 1.39 (AW 1.2, 149; trans. Anatolios [2004], 77). 38 Ath., Ar. 2.31 (AW 1.2, 208; trans. Anatolios [2004], 101).

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the former, but counteracting the Eusebian abrogation of the latter.39 Building on Marcellus, Athanasius contrasts the eternal divine Word with the fleeting word of a human person, explaining that the Word is the speaker in Exod. 3:14 and ‘exists forever’, the Word exists always as with the Father ‘as the radiance of light’ (Wis. 7:26).40 Athanasius’ exegesis of Exod. 3:14 is already attuned to his emphasis on the distinction between God and creation and his commitment to the divine being of the Son as the same as that of the Father. At least a decade after writing his first two orations against the Arians and possibly after the third (ca. 357-9), Athanasius contends in De decretis Nicaenae synodi for the simplicity of God to identify the Father with his οὐσία, reasoning that although we cannot ‘comprehend’ what God’s οὐσία is, biblical passages such as Exod. 3:14 reveal that God is and that the word ‘God’ in Scripture signifies ‘his incomprehensible essence’ (τὴν ἀκατάληπτον αὐτοῦ οὐσίαν).41 This move enables Athanasius to defend the notion that the Son of God is ‘from the being of God’ (ἐκ τῆς οὐσίας τοῦ θεοῦ) because it is ‘equivalent [ἐκ παραλλήλου] to “from God”’. Drawing this parallel, Athanasius intimates that the Word is ‘a genuine son [υἱὸς γνήσιος] who is from his father by nature [φύσει]’ rather than because he was created or adopted according to virtue.42 Later, in De synodis Arimini in Italia et Seleuciae in Isauria 35 (359/60), Athanasius uses the same line of reasoning as an opportunity to point to the difference in Scripture between the Father ‘generating’ (the verb γεννάω) the Son and ‘creating’ (the verb ποιέω) humans and angels (e.g., Gen. 1:1; Ps. 103:4).43 He concludes this discussion by positing that ‘He, the Son, is the proper offspring of His essence [ἴδιον τῆς οὐσίας γέννημα], but they are the handywork of his will [τὰ τοῦ βουλήματος δημιουργήματα]’.44 Before any of these works, in his Epistula ad Serapion (ca. 338/9) Athanasius writes concerning the Trinity that ‘[j]ust as the Father is the “One who is” 39

This is consistent with Athanasius apparently having learned from Eusebius the importance of distinguishing between visual and auditory aspects of Exod. 3, as is evident in his remark that ‘what was seen was an Angel; but God spoke in him’. Ath., Ar. 3.14 (AW 1.3, 322; trans. NPNF 2.4, 402). For discussion, see B.G. Bucur, ‘“God Never Appeared to Moses”’ (2018), 252. 40 Ath., Ar. 2.35 (AW 1.2, 212; trans. Anatolios [2004], 105). 41 Ath., Decr. 22 (AW 2.1, 18; trans. Anatolios [2004], 161-2). A. Martin offered the loose dating of 351/5 in his Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte (1996), 826, but according to X. Morales, Martin has since consented to Morales’ argument for a dating of around 357-9, following the completion of Ar. 1-3. La théologie trinitaire (2006), 285-8. 42 Ath., Decr. 22 (AW 2.1, 18-9; trans. Anatolios [2004], 161-2). In Syn. 35, Athanasius again appeals to the importance of texts such as Exod. 3:14 and Deut. 6:4 as referring to ‘the very simple, and blessed, and incomprehensible essence itself of Him that is’ (αὐτὴν τὴν ἁπλῆν καὶ μακαρίαν καὶ ἀκατάληπτον τοῦ ὄντος οὐσίαν νοοῦμεν). Ath., Syn. 35 (AW 2.1, 262; trans. NPNF 2.4, 469). He follows this affirmation with the same move as in Decr., to defend that the Son is from the Father as from his essence in accordance with the Scriptures (e.g., Matt. 3:17). 43 Ath., Syn. 35 (AW 2.1, 262; trans. NPNF 2.4, 469). For this dating, I am following A. Martin, Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte (1996), 531 n. 292. 44 Ath., Syn. 35 (AW 2.1, 262; trans. NPNF 2.4, 469).

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(Exod. 3:14), so likewise is his Word the “One who is, God over all” (Rom. 9:5). Nor is the Holy Spirit non-existent, but truly exists and subsists’.45 In this passage we can see Athanasius subtly picking up on Marcellus’ tact against Asterius on the interpretation of Exod. 3:14. Like Marcellus, Athanasius holds that for one of the persons to declare ‘I am who is’ to the exclusion of the others is to deny the existence of the others. In this sense, the miahypostatic tradition, from Marcellus onwards, draws upon Exod. 3 to press a logical point against the Eusebians, whose subordinationist account of the Son as Image and Interpreter of the Father anticipates the homoiousian and homoian understandings of the relationship between the Father and the Son, pushing them either towards full heterousianism or into what would become the pro-Nicene fold. Whereas Eusebius and others look to escape the charge and to posit the mediating role of the Son on behalf of the transcendent Father as a way out, Eunomius follows the logic and considers the heterousian perspective more persuasive. II. The Function of Exodus 3 in the Eunomian Controversy (ca. 360-83) Eunomius’ Liber Apologeticus (ca. 360-1) initiated controversy by provoking Basil of Caesarea’s response in his Contra Eunomium (ca. 364). Eunomius doubled down on his position by composing his Apologia Apologiae (henceforth, AA; ca. 378-81) to which Gregory of Nyssa reacted with his own Contra Eunomium (ca. 379-83), which preserves the only fragments we still have of Eunomius’ second apology.46 Since we can only read Eunomius through ‘his adversaries’ eyes’, it is important to exercise some interpretive caution when trying to understand his thought.47 Consider, for instance, the question of how 45 Ath., Ep. Serap. 28 (AW 1.1.4, 519-21; trans. Anatolios [2004], 184). On the dating of the letter, see Appendix 1 in Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge, MA, 1993), 190-1. See also A. Martin, Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte (1996), 826. 46 On the dating of the three books of Gregory of Nyssa’s Contra Eunomium (henceforth, Eun.), see Matthieu Cassin, ‘Contre Eunome III: une introduction’, in Johan Leemans and Matthieu Cassin (eds.), Gregory of Nyssa: Contra Eunomium III: An English Translation with Commentary and Supporting Studies: Proceedings of the 12th international colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Leuven, 14-17 September 2010), Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae: Texts and Studies of Early Christian Life and Language 124 (Leiden, 2014), 3-5. Michel René Barnes argues rightly that to understand what Gregory is doing in Eun. 3.6, one must know the relevant portions of Eunomius’ Apol., Basil’s Eun., and Eunomius’ AA. Thus, to deal with Eunomius’ AA as extant in Gregory’s Eun., we must follow the same tactic of working from the earlier to the later texts in this controversy. Michel René Barnes, ‘Contra Eunomium III 6’, in J. Leemans and M. Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2014), 370. 47 Richard Paul Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford, 1987), xvii. For a list of the phrases Gregory uses to demarcate where he quotes Eunomius’ text verbatim, such as the most commonly used prepositional phrase, ἐπὶ λέξεως, see R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987), 90 n. 80.

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Eunomius understood himself in relation to homoianism. In his Liber Apologeticus, Eunomius rejects the homoian refrain that the Son was ‘similar in essence’ (ὅμοιος κατ᾽οὐσίαν) to the Father.48 His reasoning for rejecting this formula is that to posit similarity of essence is to collapse the requisite difference between the unbegotten God and the realm of the begotten and created.49 However, there is a sense in which, as Lewis Ayres, in Nicaea and its Legacy, intimates, Eunomius’ theology can be taken as ‘the natural term of Homoian theology’, which is itself a branch of the Eusebian or dyohypostatic tradition.50 Likewise, Bucur has submitted that Eunomius generally seems to follow Eusebius, the proto-typical dyohypostatic theologian, and that his Cappadocian interlocutors take up the miahypostatic mantle of Marcellus and Athanasius.51 Without any further analysis, he contends that ‘Eunomius radicalizes the Eusebian reading of Exodus 3’, such that there are two subjects in the burning bush theophany, God who is and the angelic Christ who retains a mediatory function, but is not even like the Father.52 Despite his clear theological and exegetical departure from the standard homoian approach, as Philostorgius attests, Eunomius uses the common homoian phrase ‘likeness according to the scriptures’ (ὅμοιον κατὰ τὰς γραφάς) in the Liber Apologeticus to show that his theology can be conformed to a more typical homoian view.53 Although this may be due more to political exigency than theological conviction, it illustrates the importance of paying closer attention to how Eunomius interprets the theophany of Exod. 3, in what ways his interpretation relates to the mia- and dyohypostatic traditions, and to what extent his reading parallels his heterousian theology. A. Eunomius’ Liber Apologeticus54 Eunomius, in the eighth chapter of his Liber Apologeticus identifies the phrase ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν with the uniquely unbegotten Father, whose divine essence 48 Eun., Apol. 11.6-9; 18.12-3; 20.9-10; 24.26. I depend on R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987) for the text and translation of Eun., Apol. 49 Eun., Apol. 10-1. See R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987), xiv: ‘In [Eunomius’] view, any assertion of a similarity of essence between Father and Son must lead to an assertion of their identity in essence and hence to a denial of the reality of the persons. The only way to avoid this and to guarantee the substantial reality of the persons is to assert that the essence of the Son is not similar (anomoios) to the essence of the Father.’ 50 L. Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy (2004), 149. 51 B.G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot’ (2018), 601-2. 52 Ibid. 602. 53 Philostorgius, HE 6.1 (SC 564, 354; trans. Philip R. Amidon, S.J., Philostorgius: Church History, SBL Writings from the Greco-Roman World 23 [Atlanta, 2007], 79). Although we don’t possess any fragments in which Eunomius uses this phrase exactly, he uses functionally equivalent phrases. For discussion, see R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987), 9-10. 54 For the best account of Eunomius’ interpretation of Exod. 3:14 as the inheritance of the Eusebian tradition, see R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius of Cyzicus and the Nicene Revolution, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2000), 137-40.

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is not like the essence of the Son. Eunomius reasons that we ought to call God ‘Unbegotten’ (Ἀγέννητον) to honor him according to ‘reality’ (ἀλήθειαν), recognizing that God truly ‘is what he is’ (εἶναι ὅ ἐστιν), but not simply according to ‘name’ (ὀνόματι) or ‘conceptualization’ (ἐπίνοιαν).55 What Eunomius is driving towards when he declares his commitment to the application of terms such as ‘Unbegotten’ to God ‘in reality’ becomes clear in chapters 16-9 of his Liber Apologeticus. Eunomius observes two important rules for theological predication at the end of chapter 16.56 First, there are many words (e.g., eye) that can be applied both to human persons and to God, but their ‘meaning’ (τὴν σημασίαν) is vastly different. In this case, it is same word, different referent and meaning.57 Second, many different words used to refer to God bear the same ‘meaning’ (τὴν σημασίαν).58 In the case of strict theological predication, then, it is more commonly different words, same referent and meaning. Eunomius cites the designations ‘I am’ from Exod. 3:14 and ‘only true God’ from Jn. 17:3 as examples for the second observation.59 He then proceeds to explain what must be meant by ‘Father’, concluding that it must follow the logic of the first case according to which the word ‘Father’ applied in the context of humanity involves ‘mutability or passion’ (ῥεῦσιν ἤ πάθος), but when God is the referent, the ‘activity is passionless’ (τὴν ἐνεργειαν … ἡ ἐστιν ἀπαθής).60 After highlighting ‘spirit’ as a parallel example, Eunomius applies the first rule to the description of the Son in Prov. 8:22 as ‘thing made’ (ποίημα) to explain 55 Eun., Apol. 8.1-3 (ed. and trans. Vaggione, 39-43; modified in favor of Andrew RaddeGallwitz’s translation of ἐπίνοια with ‘conceptualizations’ rather than ‘invention’). Eunomius’ use of τοῦ εἶναι ὅ ἐστιν, reminiscent as it is of Exod. 3:14, is similar to Athanasius’ association of the ὁ ὤν of Exod. 3:14 with the divine οὐσία. See Gr. Naz., Or. 30.18. However, for Eunomius, the more important precedent for his reading of Exod. 3:14 seems to be, as Maurice Wiles has suggested, Origen’s identification of the primary name for God as ὁ ὤν or ‘being itself’. Or., De oratione 24.2, cited in Maurice Wiles, ‘Eunomius: Hair-Splitting Dialectician or Defender of the Accessibility of Salvation?’, in Rowan Williams (ed.), The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge, 1989), 165-6. On what Eunomius does and does not mean by ‘Unbegotten’, see A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Transformation of Divine Simplicity, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2009), 97-108. 56 On the heterousian theory of names in the writings of Eunomius, see M. DelCogliano, Basil’s of Caesarea’s Anti-Eunomian Theory of Names: Christian Theology and Late-Antique Philosophy in the Fourth Century Trinitarian Controversy, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 103 (Leiden, 2010), 25-48. 57 Eun., Apol. 16 (Vaggione, 52-3; modified for consistency). 58 Eun., Apol. 17 (Vaggione, 54-5). 59 Eun., Apol. 17 (Vaggione, 54-5). Drobner submits that ‘from this he [Eunomius] concludes (Eun., Apol. 17, as also in chapter 22), that the Son as begotten is not of the same nature, but belongs to the creatures.’ H. Drobner, ‘Die biblische Argumentation Gregors von Nyssa im ersten Buch Contra Eunomium’, in Miguel Brugarolas (ed.), Gregory of Nyssa: Contra Eunomium I: An English Translation with Supporting Studies, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae: Texts and Studies of Early Christian Life and Language 148 (Leiden, 2018), 329: ‘Daraus schliesst er, wie auch in Kap. 22, dass der Sohn als Gezeugter also nicht von gleicher Natur sei, sondern zu den Geschöpfen gehöre.’ See M. Wiles, ‘Eunomius’ (1989), 166. 60 Eun., Apol. 17 (Vaggione, 54-5).

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that although in this case the Son and the rest of creation share the same name, because of ‘the proportionate relationship’ (τὸ ἀνάλογον), his essence is by no means ‘wholly comparable’ (κοινοποιουμένης πάντως) with creation.61 Thus, Eunomius envisions God, the Son, and the remainder of creation in a hierarchy, with a primary distinction between Unbegotten God and everything begotten and created and a secondary distinction between the Only-begotten Son and the rest of creation. Eunomius refuses to grant that the Father begets the Son out of ‘his own essence’ (τὴν ἰδίαν οὐσίαν).62 Contending that because words or names are accommodated to objects – and not the reverse – on the basis of their ‘proper status’ (τὴν ἀξίαν), he finds great fault with those who refer to God as unbegotten and uncreated and the Son as ‘offspring’ and ‘thing made’ while ‘using the phrase “similarity of essence”’ (τῇ κατ᾽οὐσίαν ὁμοιότητι).63 Eunomius therefore reads the Homoians and Homoiousians as mired in an inconsistency because they understand with him that the names of God and of the Son are different, but they fail to recognize that this means the essences also are different and cannot be ‘similar’.64 Although unstated, Eunomius seems to be utilizing a third rule for theological predication, namely, that certain names, such as ‘Unbegotten’ and ‘thing made’, pick out the ‘rank’ or ἀξία of a given subject in the hierarchy of God, Son, creation. Eunomius’ commitment to the view that ‘designations in fact indicate the very essences’ (αὐτῶν εἶναι τῶν οὐσίων σημαντικὰς τὰς προσηγορίας) and his sense that the designations applied in Scripture to God and to the Son are different, then, leads him to read the ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν of Exod. 3:14 as referring to the Father to the exclusion of the Son. He proceeds to argue in chapter 19 that to disagree with the second and third of these rules concerning divine predication would lead, because of divine simplicity, to equivocation such that not only would ‘Father’ and ‘Unbegotten’ have the same meaning, but so would ‘Unbegotten’ and ‘Only-begotten’, which is to attribute a contradiction to God’s very nature.65 While many have read Eunomius to be after a definition of God’s essence, the what question, Wiles has rightly suggested that Eunomius is more concerned with referring to the essence of God meaningfully, describing it with the names or words we apply to it rather than equivocating, and, we might add, ensuring that it is kept intact as fundamentally distinct from that which is caused.66 61 Eun., Apol. 17 (Vaggione, 54-5). As M.R. Barnes notes, ‘In Apology 17 Eunomius argued that God is called “Maker” in a sense that excludes the need for pre-existent material for Him to build with; and that God is called “Father” in a sense that excludes the presence of passion in the act of begetting.’ M.R. Barnes, ‘Contra Eunomium III 6’ (2014), 370. 62 Eun., Apol. 17 (Vaggione, 54-5). 63 Eun., Apol. 18 (Vaggione, 56-7). 64 Eun., Apol. 18 (Vaggione, 56-7). 65 Eun., Apol. 19 (Vaggione, 58-9). 66 M. Wiles, ‘Eunomius’ (1989), 167-8. It is on this basis that Wiles contends that the line between orthodoxy and heresy, even in this case, has not to do with the difference between a

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In addition to his argument that the Son is not similar to, but different than the Father in accordance with the biblical descriptions of each, Eunomius also claims that ‘the Son was begotten when as yet he was not [μὴ ὄντα γεγεννῆσθαι]’.67 Outlining his ontological hierarchy, Eunomius submits that the essence of the Son is begotten out of ‘the will’ (τῇ γνώμῃ) and ‘by the power’ (δυνάμει) of the Unbegotten God, which sets him apart from creation with the ‘pre-eminence’ (τὴν ὑπεροχὴν) characteristic of the one who made all things.68 This account of the derivation of the Son from the Unbegotten God is an alternative, Eunomius contends, to the views according to which God’s unbegotten essence begets or is divided somehow.69 The Son is not a separation from or division of the Unbegotten essence because the οὐσία of God is ‘incorruptible’ (ἀφθάρτου).70 The Son is not begotten of the οὐσία of God because God’s essence is ‘Unbegotten’ (ἀγεννήτου). Eunomius’ reason for rejecting these views is that he considers the ‘communication of essence’ (τῆς μετουσίας) to be a ‘passion’ (πάθος) that cannot be attributed to God simply because of the ‘designation, “Father”’ (τοῦ πατρὸς προσηγορίαν).71 This line of reasoning precipitates Basil of Caesarea to respond by examining the burning bush theophany as the source for a biblical counterargument. B. Basil’s Response to Eunomius’ Liber Apologeticus Basil, in his Contra Eunomium, refutes Eunomius’ account of the Son’s relationship to the essence of God in a number of ways. As he begins to unfold his major rejoinder, he incorporates two minor, but related points. First, he suggests that the consensus interpretation is that the Son of God was the divine speaker in Exod. 3. Second, he submits that only someone who has ‘the veil of the Jews upon his heart’ would suggest that the theophany refers to Yahweh and not the Only-Begotten Son of God.72 Basil’s overarching argument is that the Son of God was the speaker in the burning bush theophany. He begins his account of the burning bush theophany as an illustration of the relationship ‘soteriological and a rationalist concern, between a religious and a philosophical spirit’; to the contrary, at stake in the debate were ‘two understandings of the faith, both of which were equally concerned to offer a reasoned faith as a way of salvation’. M. Wiles, ‘Eunomius’ (1989), 169. See the discussion of whether Exod. 3:14 was thought to refer to the divine essence or to define it in Marguerite Harl, ‘Citations et commentaires d’Exode 3:14’ (1978), 87-108. 67 Eun., Apol. 15 (Vaggione, 52-3). 68 Eun., Apol. 15 (Vaggione, 52-3). For Basil’s response to the linkage of ‘begotten’ and ‘creature’ or ‘created’, see Bas., Adversus Eunomium (henceforth, Eun.) 2.20 (SC 305, 80-4; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 159-61). 69 Eun., Apol. 15 (Vaggione, 52-3). Eunomius includes among the other views a third option, an account that posits that there is some other ‘underlying material’ from which the Son is begotten. However, he does not seem to take the latter view to be a serious option. 70 Eun., Apol. 15 (Vaggione, 52-3). 71 Eun., Apol. 16 (Vaggione, 52-3). 72 Bas., Eun. 2.18 (SC 305, 72; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 155).

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between the Father and the Son by pleading with Eunomius that he should not say that the Son ‘does not exist’ (μὴ ὄντα), since he ‘truly exists’ as ‘the source of life’ and ‘the one who produces being for all that exists’ as is evident in his self-designation as ‘He Who Is’ in Exod. 3:14.73 More specifically, Basil interprets the angel of the Lord speaking in 3:2 and the voice of God in 3:6 (‘God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob’) and 3:14 (‘I am He Who Is’) to refer to the same speaker and therefore to designate a subject who can be called both an angel and God.74 He concludes that this must be the Son of God, the same subject who is called in Isa. 9:5, ‘the angel of great counsel’.75 In the light of Isa. 9:5 and Gen. 31, Basil concludes that it is always the Son of God who is ‘revealed’ (δηλούμενος) when Scripture refers to a single subject as both angel and God.76 This exegetical rule, Basil asserts, holds in the case of Exod. 3, such that this theophany refers to ‘God the Word’, an explicit contradiction of Eunomius’ terms for understanding God and the Son. Following this argument for the Son of God not only as Moses’ interlocutor in Exod. 3, but for the full divinity of the Son, he proceeds to engage Eunomius’ account of the Son being begotten from non-existence.77 Basil criticizes the Eunomian logic of saying that the Son was not in existence at some point because he does not enjoy the property of aseity, because, that is, ‘he does not exist by his own nature [τῇ μὲν ἑαυτοῦ φύσει μὴ ὄντα] but has been brought into being by God through grace’.78 He criticizes Eunomius’ description of the Son through whom all things were created as ‘non-existing’ (μὴ ὄντα).79 Framing Eunomius’ distinction between the Son and the rest of creation as lip service to glorifying the Son of God, Basil calls into question how Eunomius does not commit himself to the idea that the Son and all of creation are ‘necessarily joined in nature’ (ἀναγκαίως … κατὰ τὴν φύσιν συνάπτεται), since God is ‘of necessity distinct’ (ἀναγκαίαν ἔχει τὴν παραλλαγήν) from what is begotten and the begotten ‘have it in common that they subsist from nothing’ (σύμπαντα κοινὴν ἔχει τὴν ἐκ μὴ ὄντων ὑπόστασιν).80 Pushing the point further, Basil suggests that Eunomius and his company contradict themselves when they attribute to the Son and everything else in creation the same amount of honor, the common origin out of non-existence, and a 73

Bas., Eun. 2.18 (SC 305, 70-2; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 155). See B.G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot’ (2018), 602. 75 Bas., Eun. 2.18 (SC 305, 72; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 156). 76 Bas., Eun. 2.18 (SC 305, 74; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 156). 77 On the importance of the eternal existence of the Son as a marker of his true divinity in the fourth century generally, see M.R. Barnes, ‘Contra Eunomium III 6’ (2014), 369-82. 78 Bas., Eun. 2.19 (SC 305, 76; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 157). 79 Bas., Eun. 2.19 (SC 305, 78; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 158). According to Bucur, then, ‘the argument, articulated earlier by Marcellus and Athanasius, that the strict separation between ὁ ὤν and ὁ τοῦ ὄντος ἄγγελος amounts to equating the Son to a μὴ ὤν, is now made by Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nyssa.’ B.G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot’ (2018), 602. 80 Bas., Eun. 2.19 (SC 305, 78; trans. DelCogliano and Radde-Gallwitz, 158). 74

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common nature, yet claim that they maintain a substantial difference between the Son and all things created through the Son. Thus, for Basil, the burning bush theophany enables him to counter Eunomius’ heterousian theology on biblical grounds. C. Eunomius’ Apologia Apologiae (ὑπὲρ τῆς ἀπολογίας ἀπολογία) 3.9-1081 Gregory’s Contra Eunomium 3.8-9 (Vaggione, AA 3.9-10) preserves for us Eunomius’ response to Basil’s argument from Exod. 3,82 a response he begins by drawing together Exod. 3:14 with Jn. 1:1 and 1:18 to declare that the ‘qualification’ (τοῦ διορισμοῦ) and ‘predicate’ (τῆς προσθήκης) that the Son is in God’s bosom, in the beginning, and with God means that he was ‘[n]ot existing [οὐκ ὤν], nor strictly [κυρίως] existing’.83 That the Son is said to be in or with the Father reveals not that the Son exists eternally, but that he does not yet exist when he is not yet begotten according to the will of the Father. Gregory, in his response to this inference, adds that Eunomius also says that the Son is ‘not simply being’ (οὐδὲ ἁπλοῦς ὤν).84 Gregory takes Eunomius to be denying here the divine simplicity of the Son. While Gregory is right that Eunomius does not think divine simplicity includes the Son, that does not seem to be the point Eunomius is making, which is more likely that whatever form of existence the Son would have before being begotten is so contingent that it cannot be called true existence at all.85 This is the logic by which Eunomius suggests: ‘The one who is [ὤν οἰκειοῦται] and lives [ζῶν] because of the Father does not possess rank [τὴν ἀξίαν] as his own, since the being which holds even him under lordship attracts to itself the concept [ἔννοιαν] of that which is’.86 Eunomius’ point here seems to be that God is the truly existent, Unbegotten being on which everything else, including the Son, depends for its inferior mode of existence. Thus, although the Son speaks as an angelic mediator on behalf of the Father in the burning bush theophany, his claim to be ‘one who is’ is derived from the Unbegotten God from whom the Son has existence. This fits well with the hierarchy Eunomius outlined in Liber Apologeticus 15, although it also seems to remain susceptible to the criticism of Basil that there is no substantial distinction between the Son and all other creatures. Gregory himself responds to this line of reasoning by arguing that to deny Christ’s 81 Eunomius’ second apology follows the structure of Basil’s Eun. R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987), 94 82 Werner Jaeger (ed.), Gregorii Nysseni Opera: Contra Eunomium Libri, vol. 2 (Leiden, 1921, 2nd ed., 1960), 251-84; trans. Hall, 195-217. See R.P. Vaggione, Eunomius: The Extant Works (1987), 124-5. 83 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.8.34 (GNO II, 251; trans. Hall, 195). 84 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.8.35 (GNO II, 252; trans. Hall, 196). 85 See A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea (2009), 104 n. 48. 86 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.8.43 (GNO II, 254-5; trans. Hall, 198).

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divinity, one must also deny that of the Father due to the intimate relationship attributed to the two in Scripture. Gregory then cites Eunomius’ subtle appeal to Matt. 19:17 (‘There is none good save one, God’) as a text through which one can better understand the burning bush theophany.87 Eunomius explains that the Son ‘yields’ (ἀποδιδόντος) the title ‘Good’ to the Father to whom alone it is ‘rightly due’ (κατ᾽ ἀξίαν) such that he would never arrogate ‘the rank [τὴν ἐξουσίαν] and the title [τὴν ἐπωνυμίαν] of “Him who is” to anything which at some time came into being’.88 Whereas Gregory frames Eunomius’ logic as an argument against the ‘goodness’ of the Son, Eunomius’ intention is more clearly to read Christ’s words concerning the Father in Matt. 19:17 alongside Exod. 3:14 in order to make a sharp distinction between being and becoming, between the uncaused and the caused, between the Father and the Son. As far as Eunomius is concerned, then, Jesus’ own ascription of the good to the Father alone means that the Father alone is ‘He who is’ and the Son is caused insofar as he is begotten by the will of the Father.89 Gregory understands the thrust of Eunomius’ argument as well as its dependence on Matt. 19:17, proceeding to argue that the Son ought to be included within the Godhead and thereby to have a natural essence that is good in accordance with the words of Jesus in Matt. 19:17.90 Decrying the Word of God being deprived of existence and total goodness, Gregory repeats Eunomius’ same explanation to indicate rhetorically its complete absurdity.91 87 Ekkehard Mühlenberg offers a nice summary of Gregory’s engagement with the argument between Eunomius and Basil on Matt. 19:17 as a text that clarifies the theophany of Exod. 3:14 among others. Ekkehard Mühlenberg, ‘Gregor von Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III, Tomus IX’, in J. Leemans and M. Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2014), 436-8. 88 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.1 (GNO II, 264; trans. Hall, 203). E. Mühlenberg argues that Gregory’s charge against Eunomius in Eun. 3.9 is blasphemy: ‘Gregors Anklage lautet: Blasphemie. So wird Tomus IX eröffnet. Wer nicht bekennt, daß der Gottessohn die gleiche Ehre und Würde besitzt wie Gott Vater, der Seiende nach Exodus 3,14, der begeht Blasphemie. Das ist ganz einfach und ganz eindeutig, und Eunomius wußte auch, daß er den Gottessohn nicht mit Gott Vater gleichstellte. Gregor war sich jedoch bewußt, daß Eunomius als christlicher Theologe auftrat und Anhängerschaft unter Christen hatte und daß eben über das Wesen des Gottseins Christi gestritten wurde, kirchenpolitisch erbittert gestritten wurde. Deswegen weist Gregor in verschiedener Weise nach, wie sich die Anklage auf Blasphemie konkretisieren läßt. Dabei greift er auf allgemeinchristliche Vorstellungen zurück’. E. Mühlenberg, ‘Gregor von Nyssa’, in J. Leemans and M. Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2014), 433. He offers a useful outline of the ways Gregory makes this charge. Ibid. 433-5. 89 For discussion of the distinction between the created and uncreated in Gregory’s Eun., see Père Xavier Batllo, ‘Une évolution de Grégoire? La distinction κτιστόν / ἄκτιστον du CE I au CE III’, in J. Leemans and M. Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa (2014), 489-99. For further discussion, see X. Batllo, Ontologie scalaire et polémique trinitaire: le subordinatianisme d’Eunome et la distinction κτιστόν – ἄκτιστον dans le Contre Eunome I de Grégoire de Nysse, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum. Ergänzungsband, Kleine Reihe 10 (Münster, 2013). 90 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.1-22 (GNO II, 264-72; trans. Hall, 203-8). 91 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.23 (GNO II, 272; trans. Hall, 208).

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In addition to leveraging Matt. 19:17 and Exod. 3:14 to differentiate the Father and the Son, Eunomius also suggests that Exod. 3 reveals the angelic character of Christ. As Eunomius would have it, Exod. 3:2 reveals the Son as an angel and Exod. 3:14 pertains to the Father who is, yet that the Son is, as the mediating subject, ‘addressed’ (προσειρῆσθαι) as God, reveals ‘his own superiority’ (τῆν ἰδίαν ὑπεροχήν) over creation.92 Eunomius draws from his exegesis of Exod. 3 the conclusion that ‘he that is God to the things made by him is an angel to the God over all’.93 Eunomius claims, contrary to the overarching structure of Basil’s exegetical rejoinder, that Exod. 3 discloses the hierarchy of the Father as uncreated, the Son as begotten and created, and all else as created. The Son is introduced as an angel, which he is with reference to the Unbegotten Father, but he is also ‘addressed as God’, which signals his divine status vis-à-vis the rest of creation. The true referent of the ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν is, however, no other than the Father.94 Eunomius confirms this heterousian reading of the burning bush theophany: ‘[t]he one that sent Moses was He who is [αὐτὸς ἦν ὁ ὤν], while the one through whom he sent and spoke, is the angel of Him who is, but God of everything else’.95 Eunomius’ perspectival account of the status of the Son leaves his account wanting as far as a sufficient response to Basil is concerned.96 In a few of the final fragments of Eunomius’ reponse to Basil, Eunomius seems to double down on the positionality of the Son with respect to the rest of creation. First, he even appears to contradict himself, for he affirms that we describe the Son as ‘One who is’ [ὄντα εἶναι τὸν υἱόν], ‘Lord’ (κύριον), ‘Designer’ (δημιουργόν), and ‘God’ (θεόν) of all things.97 Eunomius grants that the Son is or has being in a way that seems directly to contradict his reading of the burning bush theophany wherein he ascribes the address to the Son as the signal of his divine honor with respect to the rest of creation, but explains that the referent of the designation is the Father to the exclusion of the Son. Gregory responds that to apply such titles to the Son should amount to him 92

Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.27 (GNO II, 273; trans. Hall, 209). Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.27 (GNO II, 273-4; trans. Hall, 209). 94 Gregory, for his part, responds by offering the common Judaizing argument levelled against non-christophanic theophany interpretations and the standard miahypostatic response that to attribute the designation of Exod. 3:14 to the Father separate in ὑπόστασις from the Son is to deny οὐσία to the Son altogether. Gr. Nyss., in Eun. 3.9.31 (GNO II, 275; trans. Hall, 210). See also Eun. 3.9.35-6. 95 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.32 (GNO II, 276; trans. Hall, 210). See B.G. Bucur, ‘A Blind Spot’ (2018), 602; Gr. Nyss., Eun. 3.9.34 (GNO II, 276; trans. Hall, 211): ‘he [Christ] is one of the angels’. 96 Gregory goes on to criticize Eunomius’ supposed recognition of the order in the passage, which he takes to confirm his pro-Nicene interpretation, and to conclude apophatically that the passage does not name the essence of the Son because the Son’s essence transcends human understanding (Eun. 3.9.37-41). 97 Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.47 (GNO II, 281; trans. Hall, 214). 93

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actually being God. In the light of his rules for theological predication in Liber Apologeticus 16, Eunomius must mean that these words follow the first rule so that as in the case of the words ‘father’ and ‘eye’, these words bear one ‘meaning’ (σημασία) when applied to the Father and another when applied to the Son or a creature. The value of this apparent contradiction is that it simultaneously confuses and disarms his pro-Nicene interlocutors and it assumes one of the rules for theological predication he has already set out so that these titles do not in fact transgress, but solidify his exegesis of Exod. 3 and his heterousian theology. In addition to this subtle rejoinder, Eunomius adds a final contention in defense of the difference between the Son and what has been created through the Son. Envisioning the Son as having a power (δυνάμεως) from the Father to design (δημιουργίαν), and to exercise providence (πρόνοιαν) over all the rest of creation,98 Eunomius submits that there is an absolute distinction (παραλλαγή) between the Son’s ‘non-existent nature’ (μὴ ὄντος φύσις) and the ‘origins and essences of intelligible things’ because of the ‘action’ (ἐνεργείας) of the Son as ‘Designer’.99 For Eunomius, then, creation is subordinate to the Son because of the power of the Son and the Son is subordinate to the Father because he is caused or begotten and has his being, goodness, and power from the will of the Father. The primary difference between the Father and the Son, for Eunomius, is that the Father is uncaused, Unbegotten, enjoying perfect aseity, incorruptibility, immutability, and perfection, while the Son is caused, begotten, and derived his being, goodness, and power from the Father. This is why Eunomius reads the burning bush theophany as a witness to the distinctive divinity of the Father and the lesser angelic ontological status of the Son. Thus, as in the context of earlier fourth-century polemics about the nature of God, Eunomius’ exegetical decisions concerning the speakers of Exod. 3, locates him in the landscape of the fourth-century trinitarian controversy, for his interpretation of this theophany corresponds to his understanding of the ontological difference between the Father and the Son. III. Conclusion In each of the authors considered above, their polemically directed theological commitments shape how they regard the divine speaker of Exod. 3:14 as well as the relationship between the angel of v. 2 and ‘He Who Is’ in v. 14. For Marcellus and Athanasius, the pre-incarnate Christ appears as the mediating Word of God the Father, but while nevertheless being in an immediate unity of being with the Father.100 For Eusebius, the pre-existent Christ is active in the 98

Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.48 (GNO II, 282; trans. Hall, 215). Gr. Nyss., citing Eunomius’ AA in Eun. 3.9.53 (GNO II, 283-4; trans. Hall, 216). 100 See K. Anatolios, Retrieving Nicaea (2011), 86-92. 99

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burning bush theophany, but as a subordinate ontological agent mediating for the transcendent, Unbegotten Father. For Eunomius, because the Father and the Son are not alike, but different, the angelic and divine references of Exod. 3 indicate two separate referents. Whereas the angelic being of the Son is the referent in v. 2, the fully divine, Unbegotten Father is the referent of v. 14, but because Eunomius wants to maintain the transcendence of the Father and because he recognizes his vulnerability to the criticism that the Son is just another creature, he identifies the angelic Christ as the subject who is ‘addressed’ as ‘He Who Is’ in Exod. 3:14, albeit in a different mode of predication. Moreover, examining Eunomius’ interpretation of the burning bush theophany adds exegetical evidence to the theological basis on which he is divided so neatly from homoian and homoiousian theology. This summary of how the exegesis of the burning bush theophany was indexed to fourth-century theologians’ trinitarian theologies proves that it is worth paying closer attention to the polemical functions of theophany interpretation during this period.

Did Epiphanius Know the Meaning of ‘Heresiology’? T. SCOTT MANOR, Knox Theological Seminary, Fort Lauderdale, FL, USA

ABSTRACT Epiphanius’ Panarion is notoriously difficult to understand, especially when measured against earlier heresiologies like those of Irenaeus, Hippolytus, and others. Clear traces of heresiological predecessors are woven throughout the Panarion, providing some ballast of reliability for a work whose course seems set for uncharted waters. Nevertheless, numerous scholars have characterized the Panarion as sort of imaginative and, at times, fictionalized treatment of theology and history. Recent works have rightly noted that Epiphanius’ loose grip on such particulars may warrant sustained critique, but that the Panarion’s idiosyncrasies may also serve as lenses that, when aligned properly, help bring clarity to some of the authorial eccentricities that lie at the core of who he was and what he wrote. This article assesses key aspects where Epiphanius’ heresiology deviates from those of his forebears in both structure and content, suggesting the Panarion is a unique sub-category of heresiology that functions as a cautionary tale rooted in fear and driven by Epiphanius’ own unique blend of history, hyperbole, and fiction. In so doing, the aim is to make a modest contribution to the portrait of the complex and enigmatic figure Epiphanius and his work that has emerged in recent scholarship.

The title of this communication is an echo and homage to the fascinating inquiry from decades ago by Frances Young, in which she asked the similar but distinct question: ‘Did Epiphanius Know What He Meant by Heresy?’1 Her conclusion was affirmative: in ‘very general terms’ Epiphanius conceived of heresy as essentially a series of divisions originating in the initial rebellion of mankind that ultimately set up a false religion, including everything outside the one, holy, catholic, and orthodox church. The degree to which he successfully worked this definition into a clear and consistently applied thesis, she notes, is another matter. However, underlying her inquiry are other, distinct questions that are the focus of this article. Why did Epiphanius bother to write his own heresiology in the first place?2 And, did he really understand the genre and purpose of heresiology? Assessments of Epiphanius and his works from at least some of his contemporaries tend to run in a different direction from those of modern readers. 1

Frances Young, ‘Did Epiphanius Know What He Meant by Heresy?’, SP 17 (1982), 199-205. This question is infrequently asked in various works on Epiphanius. See Andrew Jacobs, Epiphanius of Cyprus: A Cultural Biography of Late Antiquity (Oakland, 2016), 196. 2

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 35-42. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Jerome describes him as the ‘father of nearly all bishops’ with throngs of people throwing themselves and their children at him, kissing him and longing simply to tug on his clothes.3 Basil of Caesarea refers to him as ‘your holiness’, ‘your wisdom’, and ‘your excellency’,4 while the historian Sozomen declares him the ‘most famous man under heaven’.5 True, Sozomen and Socrates tend to balance praise for his zeal with admission of his simplemindedness, yet even with strong, dissenting voices in his day, an Epiphanian heresiology would have been a treasure to some and of interest to all, if for no other reason than his ‘celebrity’.6 Today, however, for first time readers of the Panarion and those intimately familiar with it, the judgment has typically been negative. He is ‘the most generally disliked’ of all the church fathers: unreliable historically, shallow intellectually, uncritical judgmentally, and intransigent theologically – a fanatical, verbose, and intolerant conservative.7 Thus, it is frequently asserted that, for many, Epiphanius’ heresiology is valuable primarily (if not solely) as a means to other (now lost) materials preserved therein rather than the end in itself. Regardless of the reputation ascribed to him, Epiphanius’ decision to include his own heresiological work alongside those of Irenaeus, Hippolytus, Tertullian, and other predecessors who command respect both then and now is, in a word, curious. Recent explanations or justifications for his composition tend to come from analyses on the structure of his work, the fluid nature of heresiology as a genre,8 the author himself, and the world of late antiquity in which he lived.9 The result is a much more well-rounded picture of the bishop of Cyprus that has brought at least some balance to the portrait of him as an inept, egomaniacal blowhard.10 3

Contra Ioannem Hierosolymitanum 11, 12. Ep. CCLVIII 1, 2, and 4. 5 HE VI 32.4 6 A. Jacobs, Epiphanius (2016), 54-5. See ibid. 33: ‘he was … as much despised as adored’ in his own day, as well as 31-64 where Jacobs addresses Epiphanius’ ‘celebrity’. 7 Frank Williams (trans.), The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis: Book I (Sects 1-46), Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 63, 2nd ed. (Leiden, Boston, 2009), xxxi. See also ibid. xxxi (‘uncritical’); Young R. Kim, Epiphanius of Cyprus: Imagining an Orthodox World (Ann Arbor, 2015), 4 (‘verbose’); Frances Young with Andrew Teal, From Nicaea to Chalcedon, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, 2010), 173 (‘fanatical’). 8 On the flexibility of genre, see Young R. Kim, ‘The Transformation of Heresiology in the Panarion of Epiphanius of Cyprus’, in Geoffrey Greatrex and Hugh Elton (eds), Shifting Genres in Late Antiquity (London, New York, 2016), 53-65. 9 A very helpful summary of recent studies on Epiphanius may be found in Young R. Kim, ‘The Pastoral Care of Epiphanius of Salamis’, SP 67 (2013), 247-9. Three monographs have since appeared: Y.R. Kim, Epiphanius (2015), A. Jacobs, Epiphanius (2016), and T. Scott Manor, Epiphanius’ Alogi and the Johannine Controversy, Vigiliae Christianae Supplements 135 (Leiden, Boston, 2016). 10 Thus, recent scholarship is a good corrective to the point made by F. Young, ‘Did Epiphanius Know’ (1982), 199 that, ‘very little work has treated Epiphanius as interesting in himself’. 4

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However, there is one often-neglected consideration in understanding why he constructed the Panarion as he did: his use of fear to unite and guide his audience. Departing from earlier works, Epiphanius’ approach does not prioritize intellectual, philosophical, or even theological acumen. Those, in fact, are central to the problem. Rather, his concern is that the reader come away with a right reading of scripture and fidelity to the teachings of the holy, catholic church. This he accomplishes by positioning himself as the everpresent, faithful guide and knowledgeable doctor for the perplexed believer on the perilous journey fraught with poisonous evils of heresy lurking around every turn. To understand the distinctive aspects of the Panarion it is first necessary to recognize the points of continuity with other heresiological works. Epiphanius shows a deep knowledge and reliance upon the contributions of his predecessors, which he freely adapts and expands to fit his needs.11 Internal evidence shows he not only knew the genre but appears to have constructed the Panarion to accommodate, albeit uncomfortably, standard conventions that had become fixed by his time.12 Borrowing language from recent scholarship, a working definition of heresiology in the early centuries of Christianity might be: ‘a rhetorical work in which the author describes (in the worst possible terms) bodies, systems, and views (accurate or exaggerated) that the author considered as subversive of true religion, and on which the author claims to have an irrefutable hold’.13 Functionally the inverse of hagiographies,14 heresiologies are heretical taxonomies, creating a line of succession that spawns, typically, from a single origin.15 This infectious disease must be contained, treated, and ultimately eradicated using whatever means necessary, often deploying scripture, reason, and a generous dose of invective. By this measure, the Panarion does indeed function as a heresiology. However, whereas Epiphanius may have understood and adopted many of the standard conventions of the genre, Andrew Jacobs notes the Panarion also represents a, ‘new tradition of intolerant heresiology’ that is ‘formally similar but ideologically rather different from these earlier writings against heresies’.16 This statement hints at the evolutionary aspect of heresiology, which, as Young Kim 11

F. Williams, Panarion (2009), xxiv. Ibid. xxi. 13 I have relied heavily upon a combination of definitions offered by F. Williams, Panarion (2009), xx and Y.R. Kim, ‘Transformation of Heresiology’ (2016), 53. 14 See Aline Pourkier, L’hérésiologie chez Épiphane de Salamine, Christianisme Antique 4 (Paris, 1992), 23, 487-8. 15 On this notion of diadochē, see Y.R. Kim, ‘Transformation of Heresiology’ (2016), 56; Young R. Kim, ‘Reading the Panarion as Collective Biography: The Heresiarch as Unholy Man’, VC 64 (2010), 382-413; A. Pourkier, L’hérésiologie (1992), 20-3, 487-8. 16 A. Jacobs, Epiphanius (2016), 6, 196-7. 12

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notes, shifted as needed with the rhetorical necessities and changing circumstances of a particular community.17 The flexibility of the genre, however, has resulted in a wide range of opinions on how exactly to classify the Panarion within it. For Young Kim, the Panarion is a heresiological apex in which Epiphanius harnessed ‘powerful rhetoric’ used to ‘justify a discursive, imagined (yet potentially realised) violence against heretics’.18 For Andrew Jacobs, the Panarion is less ‘a handbook’ for identifying wrong belief but more a story of the history of humanity progressively moving away from God and one another because of heresy.19 Rebecca Lyman points to asceticism as the general context of the Panarion.20 Jeremy Schott emphasizes the cultural aspect of his totalizing heresy through a survey of human civilization as the foil to an a-temporal orthodoxy,21 a description not terribly distant from Frances Young’s view that it was an, ‘attempt to devise a family tree, to systematize the rise and proliferation of heresy within a world context’.22 These are not mutually exclusive, of course. They are, however, distinct. A significant reason for the lack of consistency in scholarly perspectives is the fact that the Panarion is structurally fairly similar to other heresiologies but ideologically very different.23 Thus, familiar heresies are often reworked, mishandled, or inaccurately reported while others are either partially verified or total fictions created by Epiphanius. His account of the genesis of heresy is anachronistic and his hermeneutical methods are bizarre. It is no wonder that for scholars who assume Epiphanius is playing by the same heresiological rules as everyone else, he comes across as an unreliable dolt. So, why did Epiphanius bother writing his own heresiology? Averil Cameron and others have noted that heresiological works are performative and functional texts that must be understood accordingly.24 It has largely been overlooked that for Epiphanius, the performative role of the text, the ideological underpinning, is uniting a diverse audience through fear of the horrific world of evil all around, counteracted by the safety provided by (and with) him as guide to the truth of scripture, properly interpreted. Fear and the desire for security are universal sentiments. Likewise, when maladies occur, people need a doctor. By portraying himself as ready and waiting to attend to any ills that may arise,

17

Y.R. Kim, ‘Transformation of Heresiology’ (2016), 54. Ibid. 19 A. Jacobs, Epiphanius (2016), 198; see also 7. 20 J. Rebecca Lyman, ‘The Making of a Heretic: The Life of Origen in Epiphanius Panarion 64’, SP 31 (1997), 445-51, 446. 21 Jeremy Schott, ‘Heresiology as Universal History’, ZAC 10 (2007), 546-63, esp. 563; F. Young, From Nicaea (2010), 197. 22 F. Young, From Nicaea (2010), 197. 23 A. Jacobs, Epiphanius (2016), 197. 24 Averil Cameron, ‘How to Read Heresiology’, JMEMS (2003), 471-92, 474. 18

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Epiphanius is able to appeal both to the scholarly and (to a far greater degree) the simple.25 This unique approach is seen straightaway in the title, Panarion, or ‘medicine chest’. He indicates from the outset that his work is part encyclopedia, part pharmacy. He not only catalogs and describes the various sects and their ‘unlawful deeds like poisons and toxic substances’, he also ‘matches the antidotes with them at the same time’.26 The spiritual medicine is his own series of arguments against the heretical serpents, beasts, and venomous reptiles.27 If Epiphanius provides the ‘pound of cure’; his predecessors, the ‘ounce of prevention’. As the title suggests, Irenaeus’ Demonstration and Overthrow of Knowledge Falsely-So-Called invites the reader into an epistemological study in which s/he is equipped with the ability navigate a complex world of truth and falsehood. A generation later, the author of Refutation of All Heresies offers the reader a guide to refuting the erroneous claims of heretics, rooted in the traditions of philosophy and paganism.28 A similar disposition is found in Tertullian’s heresiological work, in which he describes its members as fevers and those who stumble into such error as weak and without stamina.29 Girded with the Canon of Truth, these works prepare and equip the believer for life, providing tools and resources for the perilous journey through a world infected with toxic heresies. In contrast, in the epilogue of the Panarion, known as the De Fide, Epiphanius likens his own work to a ship with himself as the captain. Through his careful navigation, he and the reader have, ‘sailed across the shoreless sea of the blasphemies of each sect’, only to approach in the end the ‘calm lands of the truth’.30 Whereas other heresiologists equipped the faithful and sent them away on their own spiritual expedition, Epiphanius keeps them close and under his protection. He is with them each step of the way, slaying and stomping out the noxious heresies one by one. Epiphanius contrasts this ‘haven of peace’ with the ‘fear, distress, and illness’ of the journey (De Fide 1.3-4).31 He intended this heretical odyssey to quite literally scare the hell out of the reader. 25 Successfully so, at least according to Jerome, who praises Epiphanius’ ability to appeal to the ‘learned’ in terms of subject matter and the ‘more simple’ because of the language he uses (De vir. ill. 114). The result is that Epiphanius held in tension two seemingly incompatible attributes, resulting in what Jacobs calls ‘learned rusticity’ (A. Jacobs, Epiphanius [2016], 54). Jacobs is right to note that, at least for Jerome, ‘the fact that Epiphanius writes in a style that appeals to the “more simple” does not make his work any less “learned”’. Ibid. 53. 26 Proem 1.1.1-2. All quotations from the Panarion derive from the translation of F. Williams, Panarion (2009). 27 Proem 2.3.4. 28 See Book I, Praef. For a summary of various theories as to the motivations behind this work, see Gérard Vallée, A Study in Anti-Gnostic Polemics: Irenaeus, Hippolytus, and Epiphanius, Studies in Christianity and Judaism 1 (Waterloo, 1981), 45-56. 29 Tertullian (De Praescription Haereticorum 7) also lays the blame for heretical views at the feet of pagan philosophy. 30 De Fide I 1-2. 31 Ibid. I 3-4.

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The refuge Epiphanius provides along with his claim to victory at the end of this epic adventure had been forecasted from the beginning. In his introduction, Epiphanius positions the purpose and his motivations for Panarion along the same lines as other authors of scientific catalogs, who detailed dangerous, poisonous creatures. The author Nicander too gave an account of the nature of beasts and reptiles. And other authors the qualities of roots and plants … Those authors made a diligent effort, not to point evil out, but to frighten people and ensure their safety, so that they would recognize the dreadful, dangerous beasts and be safe and escape them by God’s power, by taking care not to engage with such deadly creatures if they encountered them … Thus, dearest, my work too as a defense against them and for your , to reveal the appearance of the dreadful serpents and beasts, and their poisons and deadly bites.32

If indeed Epiphanius was concerned less with equipping his readers for their own battle against real forces of evil and more interested in pulling them close to himself, letting him vanquish each heresy with a violence and vehemence that establishes him as the orthodox hero, then there is no harm in stretching details to fit the rhetorical function of the Panarion.33 This is not to say the Panarion shifts from heresiology to fiction. Epiphanius is clear about his source materials originating from research, hearsay, and firsthand experience.34 However, there is general agreement in recent scholarship that his Panarion also demonstrates his ability to blend imaginative and real worlds if it serves his purposes. For example, Epiphanius imagines and creates an entire pre-Christian era of heresy running back to the time of Adam. In support, he points to Song of Songs 6:8-9 and its mention of eighty concubines, sixty queens, virgins without number, and a singular, perfect dove. In a remarkable feat of hermeneutical gymnastics, he interprets the concubines are the total number of heresies, those who unjustly take on the name of Christ without reciprocation, the queens as the generations from Adam to Christ, and the dove as the one, true church.35 Heresy has always been around, spawning initially in the maternal heretical categories he derives from an equally tortured exegesis of Col. 3:11.36 As humanity and culture developed, so did heterodox traditions.37 Driving this view of history and heresy was Epiphanius’ conviction that the truth was paramount.38 It is the thing that ultimately destroys the positions of the heretics 32

Proem II 3.1-4. Emphasis added. On the role of violence in the Panarion, see Y.R. Kim, ‘Transformation of Heresiology’ (2016), 64-5. 34 Proem II 2.4. 35 Haer. XXXV 3.5-6; De Fide III 1, V 1-6, IX 1-48. 36 Haer. I 1.9. 37 J. Schott, ‘Heresy’ (2007), 555. 38 See Y.R. Kim, Epiphanius (2015), 198-9. 33

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and is only for the church, the one, true bride of Christ, to own and teach.39 This truth stands in opposition to the pernicious heresy, which Epiphanius demonstrates throughout the Panarion does not require or deserve the same careful attention towards accuracy and precision. For example, as John Dechow has established, the whole of Epiphanius’ Panarion can, in fact, be seen as a refutation of the single most dangerous, toxic, and wicked form of heresy possible: Origen.40 This is true even for heresies that predate Origen; historical chronology only gets in the way of the point he is trying to make. For Epiphanius, Origen represents the culmination of all wrong belief beforehand and the inspiration for heterodox theology thereafter.41 What is particularly dangerous and scary in this case is Origen’s slide from right belief into heresy due to misguided steps into the world of Greek paideia. Paideia functioned to divide classes into uneducated (simpliciores) and learned (eruditus). Origen aimed to cultivate the latter to attain a deeper understanding of scriptures. Brushing aside the simpliciores, he essentially ‘mandates’ that would-be interpreters of scripture be educated.42 Epiphanius vehemently disagrees. For him, paideia is central to the problem. It not only blinded Origen but it also resulted in him having spewed the venom of his now-heretical mind onto his innocent followers.43 For Epiphanius, this is precisely the problem that arises when Athens has anything to do with Jerusalem. If Origen was concerned with intellectual elites, Epiphanius’ attended to the ‘simple ones’ left behind. This does not mean Epiphanius was an ‘uneducated lout’.44 Rather, he intentionally communicates not with eloquence, but in plain dialect so that the uneducated could understand what he wrote.45 Epiphanius’ job, then, is to protect those left behind by Origen, who himself has become the epitome of how dangerous thinking for oneself can be. What is even scarier is Epiphanius shows him not as an external threat, but among the earliest heresies to grow within the church.46 Epiphanius would capitalize on this personification of all evil by affiliating Origen with various heresies including one called ‘Origenists’, a trumped-up, manufactured heresy, unknown to any other heresiologist.47 Through various 39

Proem I 1.3. See also, for example, Epiphanius’ argument against Simon, Haer. XXI 5.1. Jon Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism in Early Christianity: Epiphanius of Cyprus and the Legacy of Origen, Patristic Monograph Series 13 (Macon, 1988). 41 F. Young, From Nicaea (2010), 200. 42 See Peter Martens, Origen and Scripture: Contours of an Exegetical Life, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2012), 28-40. 43 Haer. LXIV 72.9. 44 F. Williams, Panarion (2009), xxviii. 45 Proem II 2.5. 46 J.R. Lyman, ‘The Making of a Heretic’ (1997), 451. 47 See T.S. Manor, Epiphanius’ Alogi (2016), 125 and J. Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism (1988), 128-35. 40

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stories, Epiphanius gives the reader reasons to wince at their inappropriate behavior, ungodly knowledge, and iniquities that are ‘diabolically inspired’.48 Likewise, the heresy known as the Alogi is effectively an anti-Origenist screed rooted not in history but rather Epiphanius’ imagination. Here again we have a heresy that appears to emerge within the context of the church, only the sole purpose of the Alogi was banishing the Gospel and Apocalypse of John as heretical forgeries. However, a close study of the views of this heresy reveal that the Alogi are nothing more than a cleverly devised heretical mouthpiece for views that can be traced primarily back to Origen himself.49 In conclusion, the Panarion is fundamentally a cautionary tale of the perils that await those who dare to deviate from the truth. Much like a loving father teaches his children by story rather than argument, so does Epiphanius train his flock in right belief. Through history, hyperbole, fear and fictional tales, the Panarion functionally produces similar results as other heresiologies, but in a qualitatively different way.50

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Haer. LXIII 4.7. T.S. Manor, Epiphanius’ Alogi (2016) and T. Scott Manor, ‘Epiphanius’ Account of the Alogi: Historical Fact or Heretical Fiction?’, SP 52 (2012), 161-70. This possibility was first proposed by Charles E. Hill, The Johannine Corpus in the Early Church (Oxford, 2007), 186-90. 50 Others have recognized Epiphanius’ Panarion stretches or even breaks the genre of heresiology. See, for example, Y.R. Kim, ‘Transformation of Heresiology’ (2016), 53-65. 49

Epiphanius of Salamis and the Cult of Images* Chiara BORDINO, Masaryk University, Center for Early Medieval Studies, Brno, Czech Republic

ABSTRACT A small corpus of writings against images, including three long texts – the letters to the emperor Theodosius and to John bishop of Jerusalem and the so-called Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt – and two minor passages, has been attributed to the name of Epiphanius, who was bishop of Salamis (Cyprus) in the second half of the fourth century. Within the horizon of Early Christian literature, these texts are quite exceptional, since they discuss the issue of Christian images at length and they seem to anticipate the arguments of the Iconomachs in a truly astonishing way. Such anachronistic character and the fact that the iconophobic fragments are preserved only within sources tied to the Iconoclastic Controversy (except for the letter to John of Jerusalem, translated into Latin by Jerome) aroused an extensive and still open scholarly debate about their authenticity. The current article intends to examine these iconophobic writings focusing particularly on a crucial issue, namely the explicit mention of image-worship, a phenomenon that, according to some recent and authoritative studies on Iconoclasm, developed not earlier than the seventh century. The comparative analysis of the texts attributed to Epiphanius and of other testimonies assigned to the late fourth-early fifth centuries can shed further light on the iconophobic writings and on the origins of the Christian cult of images.

Under the name of Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis of Cyprus in the late fourth century, a small body of writings against images has come to us. These include three texts of greater matter, the letters to Emperor Theodosius and John of Jerusalem and the so-called Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, and two briefer passages, the Fragment of dogmatic epistle and the Testament to his fellow citizens.1 Similarly to the Letter to Constantina attributed to Eusebius of * This article was written within the project “mscafellow@muni” (No. cz.02.2.69/0.0/0.0/17 _050/0008496), supported from Operational Programme Research, Development and Education of the Czech Republic. 1 Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Epistula ad Iohannem Hyerosolimitanum, Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, Epistula dogmatica (fragmentum), Epistula ad Theodosium imperatorem, Testamentum ad cives, in Hans G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte der ostkirchlichen Bilderlehre: Texte und Untersuchungen zur Zeit vor dem Bilderstreit (Berlin, 1992), 297, 297-300, 300, 300-2, 302.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 43-55. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Caesarea,2 these writings represent an exceptional case in early Christian literature, for the attention they pay to the question of sacred images and for the way in which they seem to anticipate the debate of the iconoclast era. This anachronistic nature and the fact that these texts are known only through citation in the writings of the iconoclast era, have raised serious doubts about their authenticity.3 Thus, although the iconophobic fragments were judged authentic by Karl Holl, editor of Epiphanius’ main works,4 other scholars, including George Ostrogorskij, have deemed them to be iconoclast forgeries.5 The debate has continued to the present day: the non-authenticity of most of the writings has been reaffirmed by Stephane Bigham6 and by Istvan Bugar.7 Conversely, the iconophobic texts have been judged authentic by Olga Solovieva.8 A detailed examination of this matter is beyond the goals of this article. The current considerations deal with one specific aspect, namely the explicit mention of the cult of images. Relevant studies on the iconoclastic controversy, such as the recent monograph by John Haldon and Leslie Brubaker, suggest that the cult of images developed much later than the time of Epiphanius, beginning with the seventh century.9 Further investigations into this aspect would therefore help to shed light both on the authorship of these texts and on the origins of the Christian cult of images. 2

Jean-Pierre Caillet, ‘Eusèbe de Césarée face aux images: vers une interprétation plus positive – et moins incertaine – de ses attitudes?’, Antiquité tardive 22 (2014), 137-42, 137-9, with previous bibliography. 3 For an overview of the long scholarly debate, see Stéphane Bigham, Epiphanius of Salamis, Doctor of Iconoclasm? Deconstruction of a Myth (Rollingsford, NH, 2008), 47-84. 4 Karl Holl, Die Schriften des Epiphanius gegen die Bilderverehrung, Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kirchengeschichte 2 (Tübingen, 1928). 5 Georg Ostrogorskij, Studien zur Geschichte des byzantinisches Bilderstreites (Breslau, 1929), 67-73. 6 S. Bigham, Epiphanius of Salamis (2008), 85-150. The scholar considers all the texts as forgeries, except for the letter to John of Jerusalem. 7 István M. Bugár, ‘Origenist Christology and Iconoclasm: The Case of Epiphanius of Salamis’, in Ysabel de Andía and Peter Hofrichter (eds), Christus bei den Vätern: Forscher aus dem Osten und Westen Europas an den Quellen des gemeinsamen Glaubens. Pro-Oriente-Studientagung „Christus bei den Griechischen und Lateinischen Kirchenvätern im ersten Jahrtausend“, Wien, 7.-9. Juni 2001 (Innsbruck, 2004), 96-110; id., ‘Epiphanius of Salamis as a Monastic Author? The so-called Testamentum Epiphanii in the Context of Fourth-Century Spiritual Trends’, SP 42 (2006), 72-82; id., ‘What did Epiphanius write to Emperor Theodosius?’, Scrinium. Revue de patrologie 2 (2006), 72-91. According to Bugar, the letter to John is authentic, the Testamentum is problematic, the letter to Emperor Theodosius has been largely interpolated, the Fragment of a dogmatic letter and the Tractatus are forgeries. 8 Olga Solovieva, ‘Epiphanius of Salamis Between Church and State: New Perspectives on the Iconoclastic Fragments’, Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum 16 (2012), 344-67; ead., ‘Epiphanius of Salamis and His Invention of Iconoclasm in the Fourth Century AD’, Fides et Historia 42 (2010), 21-46; ead., Christ’s subversive body: practices of religious rhetoric in culture and politics (Evanston, 2018), 21-58. Nonetheless, Solovieva does not discuss the question of the authenticity of these texts. 9 Leslie Brubaker and John Haldon, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era, c. 680–850: A History (Cambridge, 2011), 32-66.

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The iconophobic writings challenge the legitimacy of the representation of Christ, saints and angels on the basis of theological reasons;10 furthermore, they reject as arbitrary inventions of painters some popular iconographies like those of Christ with long hair, Peter and Paul;11 they advocate whitewash of wall paintings and the removal of movable images.12 In addition, the Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt deals openly with the theme of veneration. In fact, the author observes that none of the patriarchs or holy apostles venerated things made by man, nor ordered the veneration of their own images. On the contrary, the angels and apostles did not want veneration even of themselves, and firmly rejected the proskynesis reserved for their person.13 From the second to the late fourth centuries, Church Fathers and Christian authors blamed frequently the veneration of the statues of the Gods by the pagans.14 More rarely, they condemned also the worship of pictorial portrait images of Christ and the apostles by some Christians considered heretic or still too embedded in the Pagan tradition.15 However, the mention of image-worship by Orthodox, main stream Christians is quite exceptional in the period prior to the sixth-seventh centuries.16 10 Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 298.22-6, 299.41-6. 11 Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 298.14-8; id., Epistula ad Theodosium imperatorem, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 301.22-30. 12 Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Epistula ad Theodosium imperatorem, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 301.36-47. The letter to John of Jerusalem provides a concrete example, the removal of a textile with a Christian image in the church of the village of Anablatha, in Palestine. See Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Epistula ad Iohannem Hyerosolimitanum 9, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 297.10-24. 13 Epiphanius of Salamis, Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 298.5-13, 299.30-9. 14 Paul C. Finney, The Invisible God (Oxford, 1994); Robin M. Jensen, Face to Face: Portraits of the Divine in Early Christianity (Minneapolis, 2005), 9-19; ead., ‘Visuality’, in Barbette Stanley Spaeth (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Mediterranean Religions (New York, Cambridge, 2013), 309-43, 328-9; ead., ‘Aniconism in the first centuries of Christianity’, Religion 47 (2017), 408-24, 412-7. 15 See for example Irenaeus of Lyon, Adversus Haereses I 25,6, in Irenäus von Lyon: Epideixis. Adversus Haereses. Darlegung der Apostolischen Verkündigung. Gegen die Häresien I, ed. Norbert Brox, Fontes Christiani 8/1 (Freiburg, 1993), 314.1-10; Apocryphal Acts of John 26-9, in Acta Iohannis, ed. Éric Junod and Jean-Daniel Kaestli, vol. I, Praefatio-Textus (Turnhout, 1983), 176-81; Eusebius of Caesarea, Historia Ecclesiastica VII 18, 3, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 285.13-7. See also Robin M. Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art (London, 2000), 103-7; ead., Face to Face (2005), 27-8; Katherine Marsengill, Portraits and Icons: Between Reality and Spirituality in Byzantine Art, Byzantios 5 (Turnhout, 2013), 19-46; Thomas F. Mathews, The Dawn of Christian Art in Panel Paintings and Icons (Los Angeles, 2016), 131-7; R.M. Jensen, ‘Aniconism’ (2017), 420-1. 16 Besides to the aforementioned study of Brubaker and Haldon, see Ernst Kitzinger, ‘The cult of images in the age before Iconoclasm’, DOP 8 (1954), 83-150, 89-95; Thomas F.X. Noble, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians (Philadelphia, 2009), 10-44.

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In the Greek East, apart from the iconophobic writings attributed to Epiphanius, only a few texts mentioning veneration of images are known, and their authenticity is controversial. First of all, we must remember the so-called Letter 360 of Basil of Caesarea, ad Iulianum transgressorem.17 Handed down only by sources from the iconoclastic era, it appears as an iconophile forgery, because it contains elements with no counterpart in the known works of Basil: the idea that images are an ancient tradition of the church, from the time of the apostles, and the explicit reference to image worship.18 The second testimony is found in the Commentary on the Psalms by Cyril of Alexandria: in particular the excerpt commenting Psalm 113.19 The author defends the use of images by Christians, who do not adore them as deities, according to the blasphemous pagan practice. The images of the saints are made to stimulate the faithful to imitate their virtuous behaviour, while Christ is depicted as a man because he was incarnated, even if He is at the same time God. In this case too, the evaluation of authenticity is controversial. Cyril’s Commentary on the Psalms is lost to direct transcription and only some portions are known through quotations in later chains.20 While awaiting a critical edition of the Commentary, we must remember that the fragment of interest also appears in the acts of the second Council of Nicaea (787), presented as an anonymous scholium transcribed on a codex commenting Ex. 20:4:21 a scholium that the iconoclasts had tried to delete, but was still legible.22 The episode of the attempted counterfeiting of the manuscript was plausibly invented ad hoc. The scholium has been deemed spurious by Erich Lamberz, editor of the Nicene acts;23 however, albeit nonauthentic, it could have been produced at a quite early stage. While, indeed, the reflection on the image of Christ seems to presuppose the Christological doctrine elaborated by the ecumenical councils of the fifth century, the arguments used to defend the images of the saints appear rather archaic: the author in fact does not resort to the idea of the relative character of the worship, that the honour addressed to the images of the saints is ultimately directed to God, frequent in the anti-Judaic polemic of the sixth-seventh centuries and then in 17 (Ps)-Basil of Caesarea, Epistula CCCLX Ad Iulianum transgressorem, in St. Basil – The Letters, ed. Roy J. Ferrari and Martin R.P. Maguire, Vol. IV, Loeb Classical Library 270 (Cambridge, 1934), 329-30; Saint Basil. Lettres, texte établi et traduit par Yves Courtonne, vol. III (Paris, 1965), 220; Concilium Universale Nicaenum secundum: concilii actiones IV-V, ed. Erich Lamberz, Acta Conciliorum oecumenicorum, Series secunda, Volumen tertium, Pars altera (Berlin, 2012), 402.1-12. 18 St. Basil, ed. R.J. Ferrari and M.R.P. Maguire (1934), 329. 19 Cyril of Alexandria (?), Expositio in Psalmos, In Psalmum CXIII (PG 69, 1268D-1269A). 20 Chiara Ferrari Toniolo, Cyrilliana in Psalmos: i frammenti del commento ai salmi di Cirillo di Alessandria nel codice Laudiano greco 42 (Catania, 2000). 21 Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea (787), Actio Quinta, Scholium in Ex 20, 3-5 vel Deut. 5, 7-9, in Concilium Universale, ed. E. Lamberz (2012), 578.1-8. 22 Concilium Universale, ed. E. Lamberz (2012), 576.18-22. 23 Ibid. 578.

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the iconophile writings,24 but instead stresses the functions of stimulating the memory and educating the faithful in the emulation of the virtues.25 A third reference of controversial dating is offered by the Dialogue of the Monk and Recluse Moschos concerning the Holy Icons, handed down only by codex Parisinus Graecus 1115 and published by Alexander Alexakis.26 Fragmentary, it appears as a fictitious dialogue between the orthodox monk Moschos and a heretic Christian, probably a Sabbatian. The two discuss the veneration of saints, images and other material objects through an extensive use of rare quotations from the Book of Wisdom and other Old Testament books.27 Rejecting the accusations of idolatry brought by the heretic, similar to those that some pagans wrought on the Christians, Moschos defends the legitimacy of the Christian veneration of images, observing that it cannot be confused with pagan idolatry, and placing it on the same level as the veneration of the Gospels and the Eucharist.28 The text dwells in particular on the images of the martyrs, who stimulate the faithful to emulate the virtues of the saints, inspired by the relics and the miracles they perform.29 Alexakis proposed the dating of the dialogue to the middle third of the fifth century, between 425 and 460 AD, in view of historical events that affected the current of the Sabbatians at that time.30 However, the scholar’s proposal did not meet with unanimous consensus, since the discussion of the veneration of material objects in the text has strong thematic affinities with the works of the antiJewish controversy (sixth-seventh centuries), as well as with iconophile sources of the eight-ninth centuries, in particular with the letter of Pope Gregory II to Germanus and with the Nouthesia gerontos.31 While awaiting further studies on the relations between these texts, it can be observed that various elements 24 Henry Maguire, The Icons of their Bodies: Saints and their Images in Byzantium (Princeton, 1996), 138-9; Kenneth R. Parry, Depicting the Word. Byzantine Iconophile Thought of the Eighth and Ninth Centuries (Leiden, 1996), 191-200; Charles Barber, Figure and Likeness: On the Limits of Representation in Byzantine Iconoclasm (Princeton, 2002), 17-9. 25 See for comparison Basil of Caesarea, Homilia in XL martyres Sebastenses (PG 31, 508C509A); id., Homilia in Gordium martyrem 2, 17 (PG 31, 493A); id., Homilia in Barlaam martyrem (PG 31, 489A-B); Gregory of Nyssa, De sancto Theodoro (PG 37, 737D-740A); Gregorii Nysseni Sermones, Pars II, ed. Günter Heil, Johannes P. Cavarnos, Otto Lendle and Friedhelm Mann, Gregorii Nysseni Opera X/1 (Leiden, New York, Köln, 1990), 62.25-63.14. 26 Alexander Alexakis, ‘The dialogue of the monk and recluse Moschos concerning the holy icons, an early iconophile text’, DOP 52 (1998), 187-225. 27 Ibid. 190.30-192.72. 28 Ibid. 192.72-86. 29 Ibid. 193.115-9. 30 Ibid. 209. 31 Such affinities have been highlighted by Alexakis himself: Ibid. 211-2. For the relations with the letter of pope Gregory II and with the Nouthesia Gerontos: Ibid. 220-3. A reconsideration of the chronology of the dialogue has been deemed necessary by L. Brubaker and J. Haldon, Byzantium (2011), 143 n. 269; Karl Heinz Uthemann, Studien zu Anastasios Sinaites: mit einem Anhang zu Anastasios I. von Antiochien (Berlin, 2017), 633-4.

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of the Dialogue find correspondence in sources of the late fourth to early fifth centuries: the reference to accusations of idolatry brought against Christians by pagans and heretics (attested also by the Consultationes Apollonii et Zacchaei,32 the Homily X of Asterius of Amasea and by some writings of Augustine33); the focus on images of the martyrs; the scarce attention to the theme of the miracles performed by the images, which would experience much greater development in later times.34 Given the doubts still open concerning these texts, we should recall that in the late fourth, early fifth centuries, the Christian veneration of the images is attested in the western church by the testimony of Augustine. Apart from the well-known mention of the ‘sepulcrorum et picturarum adoratores’ in De Moribus Ecclesiae Catholicae et Manichaeorum,35 there is also the more developed discussion in the Sermo 198 augm., also known as Dolbeau 26.36 In this sermon, delivered on the occasion of the feast of the Calendae in the year 404 AD, in Carthage, the bishop of Hippo exhorted the faithful to turn aside from the customs of the pagans. To stress his warning, he recalls how some practices of the Christiani imperiti (those ignorant, crude) can attract reproach from their own adversaries: some educated pagans have pointed out that among Christians there are those who worship columns and sometimes even paintings. Confirming and deploring the phenomenon, Augustine observes that, while pagan priests have never ordered the people to desist from idolatry, Christian bishops publicly ask in the name of Christ not to worship stones or columns within holy places, and neither paintings.37 The terms ‘columnae’ and ‘picturae’ 32

Consultationes Zacchaei Christiani et Apollonii philosophi, I, 28, in Questions d’un païen à un chrétien: consultationes Zacchei christiani et Apollonii philosophi, vol. I, ed. Jean-Louis Feiertag and Werner Steinmann, SC 401 (Paris, 1994), 172-6. See also Martin Allen Claussen, ‘Pagan Rebellion and Christian Apologetics in Fourth-Century Rome: The Consultationes Zacchaei et Apollonii’, The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 46 (1995), 589-614; István M. Bugár, ‘Zacchaeus and the Veneration of Images: Image of the Emperor – Image of a Saint’, SP 34 (2001), 11-22; Maijastina Kahlos, ‘The Emperor’s New Images – How to Honour the Emperor in the Christian Empire?’, in ead., Emperors and the Divine – Rome and its Influence (Helsinki, 2016), 119-38. 33 See later in this article. 34 E. Kitzinger, ‘The cult’ (1954), 106-12; H. Belting, Likeness and Presence: a History of Image before the Era of Art (Chicago, 1994), 59-63. 35 Augustine of Hippo, De moribus ecclesiae catholicae et Manichaeorum, I, XXXIV 75 (PL 32, 1341). 36 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., in Augustin d’Hippone. Vingt-six sermons au peuple d’Afrique, ed. François Dolbeau (Paris, 1996), 345-417; Predigten zu Neujahr und Epiphanie (Sermones 196, A - 204, A): Einleitung, Text, Übersetzung und Anmerkungen / Augustinus von Hippo, ed. Hubertus R. Drobner (Frankfurt a.M., 2010), 107-320. On this sermon, see also Peter Brown, ‘Qui adorant columnas in ecclesia. Saint Augustine and a practice of the imperiti’, in G. Madec (ed.), Augustin prédicateur (395-411). Actes du colloque international de Chantilly, 5-7 septembre 1996, Collection des études augustiniennes, Série Antiquité 159 (Paris, 1998), 367-75; Marie-Anne Vannier, ‘L’apport du Sermon Dolbeau 26’, SP 38 (2001), 331-7; Daniel Jones, ‘Relating Christus Sacerdos and Christus Mediator in St. Augustine’s S. Dolbeau 26’, SP 49 (2010), 197-202. 37 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., 16, in Augustin d’Hippone, ed. F. Dolbeau (1996), 379; Predigten zu Neujahr, ed. H.R. Drobner (2010), 138.

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are not linked by a grammatical connector, so one cannot be sure that Augustine had in mind paintings on columns, a type of image particularly suitable for veneration, because it was usually placed at the level of the observer, but which is materially attested in later times, from the sixth century onwards.38 Several examples are known from Coptic Egypt, and among them the figures of Christ, angels and saints painted on the columns of the main church of the monastery of Apa Jeremias in Saqqara (sixth-seventh centuries).39 We can also remember the mosaic panels with saint Demetrius and donors on some pillars of the basilica of saint Demetrius in Thessaloniki (sixth-seventh centuries)40 and the paintings on the pillars and columns of Santa Maria Antiqua in the Roman Forum (seventh-eighth centuries) (fig. 1).41 An earlier example, albeit related to the field of sculpture, is provided by the column with the martyrdom of saint Achilleus in the catacomb of Domitilla (late fourth century) (fig. 2).42 The mention by Augustine cannot be related with confidence to the atria and entrance doors of the ecclesiastical building, as suggested by Peter Brown.43 It seems likely, however, that the veneration criticised by the bishop of Hippo could concern paintings placed within the sacred space, as well as columns or

38 On painted columns and more generally on mural icons, see Per Jonas Nordhagen, ‘Icons designed for the Display of Sumptuous Votive Gifts’, DOP 41 (1987), 453-60; Maria Andaloro, ‘Il sistema-immagine nello spazio cristiano’, in Daniele Guastini (ed.), Genealogia dell’immagine cristiana. Studi sul cristianesimo antico e le sue raffigurazioni (Firenze, 2014), 171-88, 186-7; Beat Brenk, ‘Early frescoed icons: a case of cultural divergence between East and West’, in D. Sakel (ed.), Byzantine Culture: Papers from the Conference ‘Byzantine Days of Istanbul’ held on the occasion of Istanbul being European Cultural Capital 2010, Istanbul, May 21-23, 2010 (Ankara, 2014), 83-92; Per Jonas Nordhagen, ‘The art of recycling fresco-icons at the roots of the cult of images’, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia N.S. 16, vol. 30 (2018), 237-48. 39 James Edward Quibell, Excavations at Saqqara (1905-1910) (Cairo, 1907-1913), II 1-8, IV 1-3; Marguerite Rassart-Debergh, ‘La décoration picturale du monastère de Saqqara. Essai de reconstitution’, in Miscellanea Coptica, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia 9 (1981), 9-124, 120-3; Mahmoud Zibawi, Images de l’Égypte chrétienne: iconologie copte (Paris, 2003), Italian translation L’arte copta: l’Egitto cristiano dalle origini al XVIII secolo (Milano, 2003), 85-91. 40 Robin Cormack, The Mosaic Decoration of S. Demetrios, Thessaloniki: A Re-examination in the Light of the Drawings of W.S. George (London, 1969); H. Belting, Likeness and Presence (1994), 85-7. 41 Per Jonas Nordhagen, The Frescoes of John VII (A.D. 705-707) in S. Maria Antiqua in Rome (= Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia 3) (1968), 75-9, pl. CXXXII,6; id., ‘S. Maria Antiqua: the frescoes of the seventh century’, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia. Series in 4, 8 (1978), 89-142, 103-31, 141-2, pl. XXI-LXVI; Maria Andaloro, ‘Dall’angelo “bello” ai Padri della Chiesa della “parete palinsesto”’, in Maria Andaloro, Giulia Bordi and Giuseppe Morganti (eds), Santa Maria Antiqua tra Roma e Bisanzio. Catalogo della mostra, Roma, Santa Maria Antiqua, 17 Marzo - 11 Settembre 2016 (Milano, 2016), 180-9, 183-9. 42 Umberto M. Fasola, La Basilica dei SS. Nereo e Achilleo e la Catacomba di Domitilla (Roma, 1965), fig. 3; id., Die Domitilla-Katakombe und die Basilika der Märtyrer Nereus and Achilleus, Auflage bearbeitet von Ph. Pergola (Città del Vaticano, 1989), 38, fig. 8. 43 P. Brown, ‘Qui adorant’ (1998), 368.

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Fig. 1. Rome, Santa Maria Antiqua, south-east pillar of the presbytery, Saint Barbara, seventh century.

Fig. 2. Rome, Catacomb of Domitilla, column with the martyrdom of saint Achilleus, late fourth century.

other elements of the building marked by the sign of the cross or by inscriptions praising the martyrs or recording the presence of relics.44 A noteworthy albeit later example is provided by the devotional crosses incised on some columns of Haghia Sophia in Constantinople, studied by Natalia Teteriatnikov.45 A broader consideration of the content of the entire Dolbeau 26 sermon helps us to better understand Augustine’s criticism of the picturarum adoratores. The main theme of the speech seems to be that of ‘true worship’. The bishop 44 Noël Duval, ‘Commentaire topographique et archéologique de sept dossiers des nouveaux sermons’, in G. Madec (ed.), Augustin prédicateur (395-411). Actes du colloque international de Chantilly, 5-7 septembre 1996, Collection des études augustiniennes, Série Antiquité 159 (Paris, 1998), 171-216; Ann Marie Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult, and Community (Cambridge, 2009), 206-8. 45 Natalia Teteriatnikov, ‘Devotional crosses in the columns and walls of Hagia Sophia’, Byzantion 68 (1998), 419-45.

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of Hippo recalls several times that martyrs and angels do not tolerate being worshipped, precisely because they know that worship belongs only to God.46 The exhortations addressed to the faithful on true worship are accompanied by a harsh oration against pagan cults, in particular those dedicated to divinised natural elements. Augustine rejects the allegorical justifications put forward by some educated pagans47 and, taking the words of Saint Paul (Rom. 1:23-5), instead accuses the pagans of having confused and exchanged the worship of the Creator with that of the creature.48 The legitimacy and the forms of worship in the Christian horizon are the object of recurrent attention not only on the part of Augustine, but more generally in the Western Christian world around the turn of the fourth to fifth century. As Peter Brown observed in his fundamental essay dedicated to the cult of the saints, there was at this time a lively ‘debate on the tombs’, or rather on the acts of devotion that were practiced in the funerary sphere, both at the common burials and, in particular, at those of the martyrs. These practices of veneration often appeared dangerously close to the pagan tradition and were censured by the ecclesiastical authorities, albeit with varying degree of intensity.49 Some pastors enthusiastically embraced the cult of the saints, while trying to control the excesses, and promoted the translation of remains and relics and the construction of richly decorated shrines; others rejected it in radical manner, still others sustained more nuanced attitudes, among these Jerome and Augustine himself. The position of Augustine in this matter changed significantly over time, moving from initial distrust to acceptance, in the last phase of life.50 Acceptance extending also to images, as witnessed by Sermo 316, in which he terms a painting that represents the martyrdom of the proto-martyr Stephen as ‘dulcissima’.51 The involvement of images in the debate on the veneration of the saints is also witnessed in canons 34-6 of the Council of Elvira, which 46

See later in this article. Robin M. Jensen, ‘Visuality’ (2013), 317; ead., ‘The invisible Christian God in Christian art’, in April D. De Conick and Grant Adamson (eds), Histories of the Hidden God: Concealment and Revelation in Western Gnostic, Esoteric, and Mystical Traditions (London, 2016), 217-33, 230. 48 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., 33, in H.R. Drobner (ed.), Predigten zu Neujahr (2010), 174. 49 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, Haskell Lectures on History of Religions New series 2 (Chicago, 1981). See also id., ‘Enjoying the Saints in Late Antiquity’, Early Medieval Europe 9 (2000), 1-24; Nathaniel J. Morehouse, Death’s Dominion: Power, Identity, and Memory at the Fourth-century Martyr Shrine (Sheffield, 2016); Alžběta Filipová, Milan sans frontières. Le culte et la circulation des reliques ambrosiennes, l’art et l’architecture (IVe-VIe siècle) (Roma, 2019). 50 Peter Brown, ‘Between imitation and admiration: Augustine and the cult of the saints in late antiquity and the early middle ages’, in R. Barcellona and T. Sardella (eds), Munera amicitiae: studi di storia e cultura sulla tarda antichità offerti a Salvatore Pricoco (Soveria Mannelli, 2003), 51-74. 51 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 316, 5 (PL 38, 1434). 47

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Fig. 3. Rome, Domus under SS. Giovanni e Paolo, martyrdom scene, late fourth century.

according to the studies of Josep Vilella Masana, could refer not to the beginning of the fourth century, but to the late fourth-early fifth centuries.52 Meanwhile, images of martyrdom were becoming more and more popular, as some noteworthy examples preserved up to the present day testify.53 Besides the aforementioned column with the martyrdom of Achilleus, we can mention the martyrdom scenes painted in the domus under the basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo in Rome (late fourth century) (fig. 3),54 the martyrdom of Isaiah included 52

Josep Vilella Masana, ‘In cimiterio: dos cánones pseudoiliberritanos relativos al culto martirial’, Gerión 26 (2008), 491-527; id., ‘Placuit picturas in ecclesia esse non debere: la prohibición del C.36 pseudoiliberritano’, Veleia 34 (2017), 147-62. 53 Fabrizio Bisconti, ‘Dentro e intorno all’iconografia martiriale: dal vuoto figurativo all’immaginario devozionale’, in Mathijs Lamberigts and Peter Van Deun (eds), Martyrium in multidisciplinary perspective, Memorial Louis Reekmans (Leuven, 1995), 247-92; Serena La Mantia, Animus horret tanta saevitia. L’immagine del martirio nella cultura figurativa cristiana fra tardo-antico e altomedioevo: iconografia, simbolo, interpretazione, PhD thesis (University of Udine, 2012-2013); Chiara Bordino, ‘Émpsychoi eikónes: contemplare il martirio attraverso l’immagine e la parola dall’età paleocristiana all’iconoclastia’, Horti Hesperidum 5 (2015), fasc. I, t. I, 183-234. 54 Joseph Wilpert, ‘Le pitture della confessio sotto la basilica dei SS. Giovanni e Paolo’, in Scritti in onore di Bartolomeo Nogara (Città del Vaticano, 1937), 517-22; Beat Brenk, ‘Microstoria sotto la chiesa dei SS. Giovanni e Paolo: la cristianizzazione di una casa privata’, Rivista dell’Istituto Nazionale d’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, 3. Ser. 8 (1995), 169-205; Cristina Ranucci, ‘Scene di martirio nell’oratorio sotto la chiesa dei SS. Giovanni e Paolo’, in M. Andaloro (ed.), L’orizzonte tardo antico e le nuove immagini. La pittura medievale a Roma (312-1431), Corpus, vol. I (Milano, 2006), 108-10.

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Fig. 4. Kharga Oasis (Egypt), Mausoleum of El Bagawat, Chapel of Exodus, Martyrdom of Isaiah, late fourth-early fifth centuries.

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Fig. 5. Sfax (Tunisia), painted altar from Thaenae, martyrdom scene, fourth century.

in the pictorial decoration of the chapel of Exodus in the mausoleum of El Bagawat (Egypt, Kharga Oasis, late fourth-early fifth centuries) (fig. 4)55 and the two episodes of damnatio ad bestias depicted on the painted altar from Thaenae (Sfax, Tunisia, fourth century) (fig. 5).56 The Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt presents surprising affinities with the texts of the ‘debate on adoration’ and in particular with Augustine’s Sermo Dolbeau 26. Besides to the mention of image-worship, there is the fundamental idea that true worship [adoration] belongs only to God and that Christ represents the only true mediator between God and man. Angels and saints act only by the grace of Christ and therefore must not be made the object of worship.57 55 Richard Bernheimer, ‘The martyrdom of Isaiah’, The Art Bulletin 34 (1952), 19-34; Henri Stern, ‘Les peintures du mausolée “de l’Exode” à El-Bagaouat’, Cahiers archéologiques: fin de l’antiquité et Moyen Âge 11 (1960), 98-119, 111; Mahmoud Zibawi, Bagawat: peintures paléochrétiennes d’Égypte (Paris, 2005), Italian translation L’Oasi egiziana di Bagawat: le pitture paleocristiane (Milano, 2005), 86-9; David Rini, ‘Serra lignea. Alle origini dell’iconografia martiriale del profeta Isaia’, Annali della Pontificia Insigne Accademia di Belle Arti e Lettere dei Virtuosi al Pantheon 6 (2006), 257-76. 56 Remo Cacitti, Giuseppina Legrottaglie, Gabriele Pelizzari and Maria Pia Rossignani, L’ara dipinta di Thaenae: indagini sul culto martiriale nell’Africa paleocristiana, con una postfazione di S. Boesch Gajano (Roma, 2011). 57 Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 298.5-13.

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The thesis is also supported by scriptural quotations. Both texts refer to the angel of the Rev. 22 as a model, because he rejected John’s proskynesis and invited him to worship only God (Rev 22:9-10).58 They also use similar passages from Acts to show how the apostles, when they performed miracles in the name of Jesus, rejected any form of veneration addressed to them, firmly restating that they were nothing more than mortal men. Augustine evokes two episodes: Paul and Barnabas, after having healed a paralytic in Lystra (in Lycaonia), refused in horror the worship by a divine cult of the local inhabitants, who greeted them with the names of Hermes and Zeus (Acts 14:10-7); Peter, after he and John had healed a cripple at the Beautiful Gate of the Temple of Jerusalem, urged the people to attribute the miracle exclusively to God (Acts 3:2-10; Acts 4:22).59 The Tractatus recalls how Peter rejected the proskynesis of the centurion Cornelius of Caesarea (Acts 10:25-6).60 In this way, on earth, for both Augustine and the author of the Tractatus, the saints already imitate the behaviour of the angels, even if to all intents, only after the resurrection ‘they will then be like angels of God’.61 The two writings also share the quotation of Rom. 1:23-5, to condemn those who venerate the creature in place of the Creator:62 a quote and an argument frequently used by iconomachs in later times.63 Some Greek-language writings confirm, moreover, that the theme of true worship was also at the same time debated in the Eastern Church. First of all, we must remember that Epiphanius of Salamis himself, as early as the decade of the 370s, in chapter 79 of the Panarion, dedicated to the refutation of the Collyridians, strongly affirms that neither the Virgin, nor the saints, nor the angels should be worshipped, since worship belongs only to God. The exhortation is again supported by the quotation of Rom. 1:25.64 In the same chapter there is also a passage in which the making and veneration of images is condemned, because they represent men divinised after death.65 This passage has traditionally 58 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., 16, in Predigten zu Neujahr, ed. H.R. Drobner (2010), 148; Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 299.30-1. 59 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., 13, in Predigten zu Neujahr, ed. H.R. Drobner (2010), 142, 144. 60 Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 299.32-5. 61 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., 15, in Predigten zu Neujahr, ed. H.R. Drobner (2010), 146, 148. 62 Augustine of Hippo, Sermo 198 augm., 33, in Predigten zu Neujahr, ed. H.R. Drobner (2010), 174; Epiphanius of Salamis (?), Tractatus contra eos qui imagines faciunt, in H.G. Thümmel, Die Frühgeschichte (1992), 299.53-4. 63 Henry Maguire, Nectar and illusion: nature in Byzantine art and literature (Oxford, 2012), 36-7. 64 Epiphanius of Salamis, Panarion 79, 5,1-4, in Epiphanius, ed. Karl Holl and Jürgen Dummer, nd 2 ed., vol. III, Panarion haer. 65-80. De Fide, GCS 37 (Berlin, 1985), 479-80. 65 Ibid. 479.

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been referred to pagan idols, but it cannot be excluded that it refers to Christian images, as recently highlighted by Stephen Shoemaker.66 Further witness is offered by the Homily X of Asterius of Amasea, contemporary to Dolbeau 26.67 In it the Amasene bishop defends the cult of the martyrs from the criticisms made by the pagans,68 but also by the Anomoeans, heretical followers of Eunomius.69 He recognises the saints as having an extraordinary power of intercession, confirmed by many miracles, which however are to be attributed not to the martyrs, but only to God.70 Asterius distinguishes between true worship reserved only for God (προσκυνεῖν), and the honour that is bestowed on the saints as true worshippers of God (τιμᾶν, θαυμάζειν). With due caution, it is right to pay tribute to the saints: in this regard Asterius also recalls the raising of richly decorated buildings.71 Thus, he confirms his positive attitude towards images evident in his Homily XI, where he describes a painted veil showing the martyrdom of St Euphemia.72 In sum, the problem of the authorship of the iconophobic writings remains controversial and must be examined from many different perspectives. However, the aforementioned similarities with texts dealing with the veneration of saints and images leave room for the hypothesis of an early chronology of the Tractatus, which could provide very valuable witness to the start of the Christian image-worship, and particularly of the worship of images of saints.

66 Stephen J. Shoemaker, ‘Epiphanius of Salamis, the Kollyridians, and the Early Dormition Narratives: The Cult of the Virgin in the Fourth Century’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 16 (2008), 371-402, 381-3. 67 Asterius of Amasea, Homilia X, in Asterius of Amasea, Homilies I-XIV: Text, Introduction and Notes, ed. Cornelis Datema (Leiden, 1970), 135-46. See also Lisa Denise Maugans Driver, ‘The cult of martyrs in Asterius of Amaseia’s vision of the Christian city’, Church History 74 (2005), 236-54; Efthymios Rizos, Cult of Saints, E02140 - http://csla.history.ox.ac.uk/record. php?recid=E02140. 68 Asterius of Amasea, Homilia X 8-9 in Asterius of Amasea, ed. C. Datema (1970), 139-40. 69 Asterius of Amasea, Homilia X 10, in ibid. 140-1. 70 Asterius of Amasea, Homilia X 12, 18, in ibid. 141-2, 145-6. 71 Asterius of Amasea, Homilia X 8, 1, in ibid. 139.23-9. 72 Asterius of Amasea, Homilia XI, in ibid. 149-55. See also Lucy Grig, Making Martyrs in Late Antiquity (London, 2004), 111-7; Ruth Webb, ‘Accomplishing the picture: ekphrasis, mimesis and martyrdom in Asterios of Amaseia’, in Liz James (ed.), Art and Text in Byzantine Culture (Cambridge, 2007), 13-32; Efthymios Rizos, Cult of Saints, E00477 - http://csla.history.ox.ac.uk/ record.php?recid=E00477.

Noah and the Flood in the Cento of Proba Anni Maria LAATO, Åbo Akademi University, Finland

ABSTRACT The main topics Faltonia Betitia Proba chose to deal with in her retelling of the Noahepisode in her biblical epic poem Cento Vergilianus de laudibus Christi are the state of the earth and of the people at the time of Noah; the devastation of the world; Noah and Jesus as founders of a new race; and Noah as an example of a just person. Themes that are missing are the Ark and the animals, as well as the interpretation of the Noah-episode as a prefiguration of Baptism or the Church. Proba has structured her poem to demonstrate the connections between Scripture and the classical scheme of the periodization of time. Both Scripture and Vergil tell the same story of an original Golden Age, followed first by its deteriorization and then its eventual return with the birth of a founder of a new race. The purpose of the Noah-episode is to make the Christian salvation-history more understandable and acceptable for Proba’s interpretive community, the Roman aristocrats. In so doing, she joined traditions of earlier Christian theologians, particularly the Apologists and Lactantius.

1. Introduction The story of Noah and the great flood (Gen. 6-9) is one of the four Old Testament scenes retold by Faltonia Betitia Proba in her biblical epic poem Cento Vergilianus de laudibus Christi.1 The four scenes are the Creation (lines 56-159), the Fall (lines 175-284), the story of Cain and Abel and the state of humanity (lines 285-306), and finally, just before she turns to the New Testament, the story of Noah (lines 307-18).2 Scholarly interest has, so far, been directed mainly towards her presentation of the Creation and the Fall but a detailed analysis of 1 Editions: Cento Vergilianus de laudibus Christi, ed. Karl Schenkl, Poetae Christianae minores Pars 1, CSEL 16 (Wien, 1988); Faltonia Betitia Proba. Cento Vergilianus, ed. Alessia Fassina and Carlo M. Lucarini (Berlin, 2015). Translations into English: Elizabeth A. Clark and Diane F. Hatch, The Golden Bough, the Oaken Cross: the Virgilian Cento of Faltonia Betitia Proba (Chico, CA, 1981); Sigrid Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet: the Christian Vergilian Cento of Faltonia Betitia Proba (Leiden, 2015); into German: Wolfgang Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba: Die Heilige Schrift: kurz erzählt mit den Worten des Vergil (Stuttgart, 2017). 2 The titles of the scenes are mine. Proba did not herself use titles, and scholars have structured her poem and labelled the passages in slightly different ways. See Ilona Opelt, ‘Der zürnende Christus im Cento der Proba’, JAC 7 (1964), 106-16; E.A. Clark and D.F. Hatch, The Golden Bough (1981); S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015); W. Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 57-68. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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the Noah-episode is still missing.3 In this article, my aim, therefore, is to identify the main theological topics Proba has chosen to deal with when retelling the Noah-story, to clarify their background and contents, and to explain why Proba focussed precisely on those topics but omitted others, and why she chose to end her retelling of the Old Testament with the story about Noah. After a short presentation of Proba and her poem, I shall present and discuss the main theological themes in her retelling of the Noah episode. I have mapped these out by reading her passage on Noah on two levels, firstly on the plain level (reading the text as it is), and then, secondly, by looking at her intertextual use of both Genesis and Vergil to see what message she gives on that level. To locate Proba theologically, I have compared her Noah-interpretations with that of early Christian authors, especially Justin, Irenaeus and Lactantius, who, based on secondary literature on Early Christian interpretations of Noah, may be seen to be close to her, but also to other Christian and Jewish interpretations.4 Finally, because of her poem’s special character it is also necessary to compare her ideas with Greek and Roman mythology. 2. Proba and her Cento Faltonia Betitia Proba was a well-educated noble woman who lived in Rome in the middle of the fourth century.5 She belonged to one of the most distinguished families of Rome and had several children. There are no traces of ascetic ideals or practices in her text. Proba probably composed her poem in the 360s.6 In this 694 lines long poem she retells some central stories from the Old and the New Testaments. Her poem was rather widely copied and used in Late Antiquity and in the Middle Ages.7 (2017), 88; K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’, Supplements to Novum Testamentum 138 (Leiden, 2011), 144-5. 3 I have presented previous studies on Proba as well as discussed Proba’s methods in rewriting, in Anni Maria Laato, ‘Adam and Eve Rewritten in Vergil’s Words: Cento of Proba’, in ead. and Lotta Valve (eds), Adam and Eve Story in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Perspectives, Studies in the Reception History of the Bible 8 (Winona Lake, 2017), 85-117. 4 See J.P. Lewis, A Study of the Interpretation of Noah and the Flood in Jewish and Christian Literature (Leiden, 1968) and F.G. Martinez and G.P. Luttighuizen (eds), Interpretations of the Flood (Leiden, 1998). 5 For the identity and life of Proba, see S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015), 34-7; Katharina Greschat, ‘Die Römische Dichterin Proba und ihr Cento Vergilianus’, in W. Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba (2017), 1-19, especially 1-2. 6 For the discussion on the time of writing the poem, see R.P.H. Green, ‘Proba’s Cento: its Date, Purpose, and Reception’, Classical Quarterly 45 (1995), 551-63, esp. 551; K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’ (2011), 141; S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015), 37. 7 K. Greschat, ‘Die Römische Dichterin’ (2017), 17-8; Henriette Harich-Schwarzbauer, ‘Von Aeneas bis zu Camilla: Intertextualität im Vergilcento der Faltonia Betitia Proba’, in Danielle van

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Proba’s poem is the first surviving Christian cento.8 A cento is a poem in hexameter, composed with copy-and-paste-method (almost) only using lines or smaller sections of well-known epic poetry, in this case Vergil’s Aeneid, Georgics and Eclogues. The idea was that the audience should recognize at least some of the quotations, and in fact, intertextuality belongs to the idea of a cento. The earliest known centos were meant to be amusing: the combination of recognizing the original meaning and context of a line in a completely different context, can give funny connotations. Proba’s poem, however, is not meant to be funny. Centos have always not been appreciated as highly as other forms of poetry, either in antiquity or later, most probably because it is thought that they lack originality and creativity. Nonetheless, writing a cento requires many skills. The composer of a biblical Virgilian cento needs to know both sources well, i.e. both Scripture and Vergil. The author’s skill and originality becomes apparent in their choice of suitable quotes and the way they create a new, well-structured entity, in which her or his theological emphases become clear. The audience is expected to have a good knowledge of both texts, because only then can the intertextual references and the deeper meaning of the poem be understood.9 The author and the interpretive community need a similar enough background for the references to be understood.10 In Proba’s case, this community was the Roman upper classes. The particular form Proba chose for her poem limits the possibilities to express herself (for example, she could not find the biblical names in Vergil), but it also opens new possibilities through intertextual allusions. By quoting something her audience recognized, Proba could give a deeper or alternative meaning to what she says. For example, earlier scholarship has pointed out that when Proba describes Eve with words that on the surface describe something beautiful, but which were originally used to portray the sea-monster Scylla. Thus, she probably wanted to express both the beauty of the newly-created Eve and hint at future events.11 In a cento both the plain level and the original meaning of Mal-Maeder, Alexandre Burnier and Loreto Núnez (eds), Jeux de voix: Enonciation, intertextualité et intentionnalité dans la littérature antique (Bern, 2009), 331-46, 333. 8 For Christian centos, the idea of intertextuality in them, and Proba’s relation to Vergil, see A.M. Laato, ‘Adam and Eve Rewritten in Vergil’s Words: Cento of Proba’ (2017); K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’ (2011), passim; K. Greschat, ‘Die Römische Dichterin’ (2017), 1-20; S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015), 21-9; H. Harich-Schwarzbauer, ‘Von Aeneas bis zu Camilla: Intertextualität im Vergilcento der Faltonia Betitia Proba’ (2009), 331-46; W. Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba (2017), 82-99. 9 W. Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba (2017), 85; H. Harich-Schwarzbauer, ‘Von Aeneas bis zu Camilla: Intertextualität im Vergilcento der Faltonia Betitia Proba’ (2009), 331-3. 10 M. Mastrangelo, ‘Toward a Poetics of Late Latin Reuse’, in S. McGill and J. Pucci (eds), Classics Renewed. Reception and Innovation in the Latin Poetry of Late Antiquity (Heidelberg, 2016). 11 See S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015), 92, 141.

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the quotations in Vergil, may carry meaning. A reader should, of course, be careful not to read too much into the text.12 Proba has retold the Old Testament stories in such a way that they contain both typological allusions to the New Testament (such as Adam – Jesus) and connections to some individuals, events and thoughts in Vergil (such as Adam – Jesus – Aeneas). She has made these connections by quoting the same Vergilian passages when describing something or somebody in her retelling of the Old and the New Testaments, or pointing out similarities using certain words (e.g., pietas).13 For her, the events in the New Testament fulfill the promises of the Old Testament.14 Proba has also emphasized the connections between the two parts of her poem to Vergil even in the way she has structured her Cento.15 The structure of Proba’s retelling of Noah-story is as follows. Before turning to the Noah-episode, in lines 299-306 she prepares for it by describing the situation of humankind at the time of Noah. Line 307 begins the story of Noah and the Flood, which ends with line 318.16 The rest of the Old Testament-part (lines 319-32) consists of a short mentioning of other Old Testament events as well as a transition to the New Testament. Even these lines contain some material important for the topic of this article. The New Testament begins on line 333, that is, not very far from the Noah-story. 3. Main theological themes 3.1. The state of the earth and of the people at the time of Noah According to Proba, after the Fall there was a gradual worsening of the environment and the people, but after Cain had killed his brother, Abel, everything became even worse. The second change is so clear that Clark and Hatch talk about ‘two falls’ in Proba’s text.17 For Proba, after the Fall but prior to the events with Cain and Abel the people were already ‘a hard race’, durum genus (in line 280). In the following lines (290-306) she describes how the state of both the earth and humanity worsens after the Cain and Abel episode. Snakes become venomous, wolves start to hunt, the sea gets troubled and the wine 12

A.M. Laato, ‘Adam and Eve Rewritten in Vergil’s Words: Cento of Proba’ (2017), 94-5. K. Greschat, ‘Die Römische Dichterin’ (2017), 11. 14 When beginning the New Testament part she states ‘maius opus moveo’. K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’ (2011), 145. 15 See S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015), 115-6; H. Harich-Schwarzbauer, ‘Von Aeneas bis zu Camilla: Intertextualität im Vergilcento der Faltonia Betitia Proba’ (2009), 336; Hagith Sivan, ‘Anician Women, the Cento of Proba, and Aristocratic Conversion in the Fourth Century’, VC 47 (1993), 140-57, esp. 147-50. 16 According to W. Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba (2017), 49, lines 317-8 already belong to the transition. 17 E.A. Clark and D.F. Hatch, The Golden Bough (1981), 177. 13

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stops flowing in streams; there is not enough food and people invent the art of capturing wild animals. Over time, the age turns weaker and paler (line 299). Proba describes humankind at this time as ‘a race of iron’ ferrea progenies (line 300). What characterizes it is a ‘madness of war’ (rabies belli) and ‘greed’ (amor habendi). There is no justice (iustitia excedens). ‘Rage’ (furor) and ‘anger’ (ira) result in ‘reason’ (mens) disappearing; people hide their treasure and gold, they neither take pity on the poor nor help them. Proba’s poem combines the description of humanity in Genesis chapter 6 with that found in Greek and Roman mythology. In fact, her depiction of the state of human beings is more reminiscent of Greek and Roman writers than that of Genesis. In Genesis, only general violence and evilness are expressed,18 but Proba offers the above-mentioned detailed examples taken from Vergil. The expressions Proba used reminded her listeners of the scheme of the periodization of time from the Golden Age to Iron Age, known from Greek and Roman literature, and which she had presented earlier when writing about Paradise as the Golden Age.19 This scheme was first told by Hesiod, then by Vergil and others, and at Proba’s time belonged to common thinking. Hesiod had already called his own generation, the iron generation, the ‘worst of all’, an idea Proba put to good use in her description of the generation of Noah. As a Christian author, Proba was not alone in combining the periodization of time with Genesis. One who had done it before her and by whom she, in my mind, is influenced, was Lactantius.20 In Inst. Div. 5.5-6 Lactantius describes the world after the time of Saturn (that is, after aetas aurea). Proba chooses the same themes as he does and uses exactly the same words when describing the time of the ‘race of iron’. Both state that the iron generation was characterized by war, rage, greed and not helping the poor. Both also say that justice fled the earth at this time.21 One minor difference, which in itself points to a connection, is their use of the word vestigia: Proba quotes Vergil saying that Justice left traces on earth when leaving it, while Lactantius states that in the people of this time, there were no traces of justice (Inst. Div. 5.6). Proba has even quoted the two same lines from Vergil that Lactantius has quoted in his text, both from Div. Inst. 5.5: ‘He gave to the black serpents their noxious poison, and ordered wolves to prowl’ (ille malum virus serpentibus addidit atris/praedarique lupos iussit)22 18 W. Fels, Faltonia Betitia Proba (2017), 48 gives the following passages in Genesis: Gen. 6:5-9; 7:17; 7:21; 7:23. 19 A.M. Laato, ‘Adam and Eve Rewritten in Vergil’s Words: Cento of Proba’ (2017), 109-10. 20 For the use of Vergil in Lactantius, see S. Freund, Vergil im frühen Christentum. Untersuchungen zu den Vergilzitaten bei Tertullian, Minucius Felix, Cyprian, Novatian und Arnobius (Paderborn, 2003). 21 E.A. Clark and D.F. Hatch, The Golden Bough (1981), 172 mention Lactantius, and that Vergil had the disappearance of Justice from Aratus, not Homer. 22 Proba, Cento 290; Verg., Aen. 3.102.

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‘madness of war and desire for ownership followed’ (tum belli rabies et amor successit habendi).23

Lactantius interprets the serpents and wolves as images of people behaving like those animals, Proba apparently does the same. Both Lactantius and Proba emphasize greed (amor habendi, avaritia) and not taking care of the poor as central sins. Genesis mentions neither greed nor poverty in this connection. It is also interesting to note that unlike Genesis, 2Peter, and many Jewish and Christian authors, Proba does not mention the topic ‘sons of God – the giants’. The similarities with Lactantius do not end here. For both authors, the idea of the return of the Golden Age, aetas aurea, is central. I shall return to this topic in a moment. The original meanings of the Virgilian quotations Proba used give the same message as Proba states on the plain level. For example, in Aen. 8.327 Euandros describes the turning of the Golden Age to a Silver Age, and the lines taken by Proba from Georgics describe a world where things are upside-down, and where right and wrong is reversed (Georgics 1.507 and 1.510). When asking why Proba chose to describe the sins of the people in Noah’s times so extensively, at least four reasons can be found, all of which have parallels elsewhere in early Christian literature. First, even in the New Testament, the generation of Noah is portrayed as the worst generation (Matt. 24:37-8; Lk. 17:26-7) and Proba did read the Old Testament in the light of the New. Second, it is also clear that the gradual worsening was the way the change from the Golden Age to the Iron Age was usually depicted in Greek and Roman literature, and Proba was able to follow another Christian writer, Lactantius, in adopting this way of offering a Christian presentation. That the degeneration affects even the environment also belonged to the classical way of depicting the change from the Golden Age to the Iron Age. Thirdly, her dark portrayal of people in Noah’s generation can be a defense of God: it was just of God to let human beings and animals die in the Flood in order to offer humanity a new start. Fourthly, the description of sins could serve as a warning and exhortation for the readers. About this function, I offer some words later. Finally, it is clear that when describing the bad deeds of the people in Noah’s generation, Proba’s point of view is that of the ruling class: central for her are the sins of the madness of war, greed, a lack of justice, the loss of reason caused by anger and rage; and importantly, that people hide their wealth and neither take pity on the poor nor help them. Avoidance of these central sins is good advice, especially for higher-class Romans. The orientation towards traditional Roman virtues from a ruling-class perspective characterizes the whole of Proba’s project.24 23

Proba, Cento 301; Verg., Aen. 8.327. K. Greschat, ‘Die Römische Dichterin’ (2017), 13, 15; J. Curran, ‘Virgilizing Christianity in Late Antique Rome’, in L. Grig and G. Kelly (eds), Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 2012) 327, 338. 24

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3.2. Devastation of the world Proba’s second topic is the devastation of the world caused by the Flood. Even here, it is possible for her to relate to Greek and Roman mythology because the story of a Great Flood was also known there, as it is in the Ancient Middle East. The hero of the story is Deucalion, son of Prometheus. There are many versions of the story, but common for them is that Zeus being angry at the evilness of the people, he sent a heavy rain and the waters covered the earth, or some parts of the earth. Deucalion built an Ark, went in with his wife, or according to another version, with his family and animals in pairs. After some time, the Flood ceased and the passengers could come out.25 The existence of the story of Deucalion and the Ark was known to Jewish and Christian writers, and many of them commented on it. Philo identified Deucalion as Noah as did several apologists and Church Fathers after him too.26 For example, Justin Martyr states that the one Christians call Noah is called Deucalion by the Greeks (2Apol. 7). Other Christian apologists claim that the exposition in Genesis is older than the story of Deucalion. For example, Tatianos mentions the Deucalion-history as a fact but states that Moses is older than Homeros (Address to the Greeks 39) and Theophilus criticizes the Greek stories about Deucalion.27 He says in ad Autolycum 3.18: ‘But others say that there existed Deucalion and Pyrrha, and that they were preserved in a chest’. However, Proba does not quote the only passage where Vergil mentions Deucalion, but uses other texts about other floods and storms. This is a bit strange; as the passage would have suited well to her story particularly because the expression durum genus appears there. In Georgics 1.43-4 (1.62-3) Vergil writes:28 Deucalion vacuum lapides iactavit in orbem, unde homines nati, durum genus. When old Deucalion on the unpeopled earth cast stones, whence men, a flinty race, were reared.

Instead of this text, however, Proba described the Flood using two Vergilian lines taken from Aeneid 12.204-5 where Anchises gives an oath that even if diluvium (and other disasters) happened, his people would not break the covenant. Another diluvium in Proba’s poem comes from a passage (Aen. 7.228) which describes dangers during Aeneas and his friend’s travels on the sea, and the line Aen. 2.306 tells about the storms when Troy is being destroyed. If her audience identified the passages, they would have been able to make the connection between the destruction of Troy and the new beginning with Aeneas, 25 G.A. Caduff, ‘Deucalion’, in Der Neue Pauly. Enzyklopädie der Antike 3 (Stuttgart, Weimar, 1997), 488-90. 26 Philo, De praem. 23. 27 Theophilus has a nice story about Deucalion’s name: according to him, Deucalion received his name from his habit of inviting (kalein) people to come (deute) (Ad Autolychum 2.30-3 and 3.18-9). 28 She does quote it above in line 280 when speaking about the time of Cain and Abel.

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and Probas’ narrative on the destruction of the world and the new beginning through Noah (and eventually Christ). Greek and Roman mythology may have affected Proba’s choice of words, when she says that the Flood was sent by God Almighty (pater omnipotens) who comes down from aether, ‘the Upper sky’, which was the dwelling-place of the gods. The word Tartaros, however, does not necessarily come directly from mythology. According to Proba, the waters came from above and from below, and ‘the sky collapsed into Tartaros’ when God almighty covered the fields and the orchards with water; oxen, cattle and wild beasts were killed. Tartaros, mentioned by Proba in line 309, according to Hesiod and Homer, was the deepest part of Hades and the inverse of the fields of Elysion. The word Tartaros is used already in 2Peter 2:4-5, a passage dealing with Noah and the Flood. Proba’s predecessor, Lactantius, interprets Tartaros as Hell (Div. Inst. 6.4). In Proba’s text, Tartaros appears again when she describes the Crucifixion and Tartaros is opened (lines 625-37). I shall here shortly comment on the character of Noah in Early Christian Art. Living in Rome, Proba most probably saw images of Noah. Noah is often depicted in catacomb paintings, in the sarcophagi and burial inscriptions. He is typically presented alone, in orant-position, and in a box with an open lid. The image is clearly intended to be a symbol; it does not resemble a real person in an Ark. An explanation for this way of presenting Noah has been often thought to belinked to how the story of Deukalion and Pyrrha is presented in preChristian art, because similar chests are found there, too.29 Noteworthy is that the visual presentation of Noah, alone, without a family or animals, and without any emphasis on the Ark, is common to these images and Proba’s poem. As previously stated, Proba often gives typological hints to the New Testament events by her use of certain words or expressions or by quoting same Virgilian passages. In this case, she links two events, stilling the storm in the Sea of Galilee and the situation of the disciples after the crucifixion but before Easter (lines 625-37). This time, Jesus stills the ‘towering waves’ and is the captain of the ship, holding the rudder (line 557). 3.3. Noah and Jesus as founders of a new race As mentioned above, Proba used quite many lines to depict ‘a race of iron’ (line 300). Still earlier, she called humans ‘a hardened race’ (line 280). Noah, in her story, was rescued by God so that he would be able to bring back ‘a race of a new stem’ (line 316). This race even received new laws. Proba states that after the Flood the Almighty gave laws (iura) to ‘the summoned fathers’ (patres vocati) – that is, the governing body of a town, which in Rome would be the 29 Robin Jensen, Baptismal Imagery in Early Christianity. Ritual, Visual, and Theological Dimensions (Grand Rapids, MI, 2012), 18.

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senate. This body should then rule the generation under the ‘great laws’ (sub magnis legibus). Where these patres came from, however, she does not tell. I have shown in a previous paper how Proba connected Aeneas, Adam and Christ with each other by quoting same passages from Vergil: they all have in common that they are presented as origins of a new race and are sent to rule over it.30 For example, a few lines after the Noah-passage, when she has turned to the New Testament, she calls Jesus ‘the origin of the divine race’, divinae stripis origo (line 347). In Proba’s poem Noah is a father of a new race, too. The people after the destruction by the Flood are not like those prior to it, but have new characteristics. Proba calls them ‘the tribe and great people of men’ (323) and an ‘outstanding race’ (329). In my view, her aristocratic Roman ideals become visible when she describes these people and its leaders: the commanders are greathearted, the priests chaste, the pious prophets perished for the sake of freedom (this expression comes from a passage where Aeneas defended the state), the kings were roused to war, the king led cavalry troops and throngs blossoming with bronze (lines 322-30). As a true Roman, she calls these people ‘ancestors’ (line 331). Thus Proba translates the history of the people of Israel to the history of Rome.31 The beginning of a new race is a common theme in Jewish and Christian reception history of the story of Noah. For example, in Dialogue with the Jew Trypho 19, Justin writes: ‘Noah was the beginning of our race; yet, uncircumcised, along with his children he went into the Ark’, and in Dialogue 119, he says: ‘Noah, moreover, was the father of Abraham, and in fact of all men; and others were the progenitors of others’. As a father of a new race, Noah is a prefiguration of Christ. Within the scheme of the return of the Golden Age, the Noah-episode is still not the final phase, but rather points to the future. I shall return to this theme in my conclusions, but nontheless it is useful to see here that in Proba’s cento, both Noah and Christ are pictured as lawgivers; the new race is ruled by new laws.32 3.4. Noah as an example of a just person In Christian use of Scripture, the presention of biblical characters as examples was very common. These exemplary figures demonstrated how to develop virtues and avoid vices. Characterizing Noah as pious and righteous and therefore saved by God, serves that function, even if Proba does not claim that 30

A.M. Laato, ‘Adam and Eve Rewritten in Vergil’s Words: Cento of Proba’ (2017), 99-102. As a comparison can be mentioned that I. Opelt, ‘Der zürnende Christus im Cento der Proba’ (1964), passim has pointed out that Proba’s Jesus on the Cross is not a kind and gentle Christ of the Gospels, but an angry and vengeful Roman hero. 32 See K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’ (2011), 168-9. 31

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directly. Proba’s cry ‘mirabile dictu!’ when stating that Noah was the most righteous on earth emphasizes his exemplary character. Noah is called ‘weighty in piety and worthiness’ (pietate ac meritis gravis), and ‘most heedful of fairness’ (servantissimus aequi) (lines 313-4). Pietas is a Roman virtue, by which Proba characterizes both Adam and Jesus, but also others. In her story of the Creation, Proba has connected Adam with Aeneas and Christ: Adam is the ‘image of such great piety’ (tantae pietatis imago). To be ‘respected for good deeds’ is of course a positive thing. The translation of in terris servantissimus aequi is more interesting. Scottenius Cullhed translates it ‘who on earth was most heedful of fairness’ and Clark and Hatch, ‘on earth most heedful of the right’. These are correct translations in the Virgilian context (where Rifeus was most just of the Teucri/Trojans), but here, I think, Proba tried to express the biblical idea much discussed in both Jewish and Christian theology, namely that Noah was the ‘most righteous’ on earth (cf. Gen. 6:9; 7:1; Hes. 14:14: Sirach 44:17; Hebr. 11:7; 2Peter 4:5). Several Jewish and Christian interpretations point out that he was so righteous only in his own generation and thus speak about Noah’s relative righteousness. On the other hand, in Proba’s poem the people in Noah’s generation are, in my view, examples of how a Christian should not live. Things to be avoided and those practices one should observe are good advice for aristocratic Christians. Greed, in particular, is to be avoided; conversely, one must take care of the poor. This is firmly in line with the advice Proba states that Christ gave in the Sermon of the Mount; she has modified the recommendations and values in Matthew so that they are closer to old Roman values, e.g. the audience must take care of their clients (line 477).33 3.5. Missing themes Firstly, Proba does not mention the Ark. She only states that God snatched Noah from death amongst the great rising waters. Consequently, Proba does not tell of the animals saved in the Ark, only that both cattle and wild beasts were destroyed by the waters (line 312). This leads to the question about possible typological hints to Baptism and the Church, both of which are connected to the Ark in Early Christian interpretation (for example, in Justin, Tertullian, and Hippolytus). Long before Proba, in Justin’s texts and in the earliest visual arts, Noah and the Ark were understood in the context of Baptism – in the same way as eight people were saved from flood in the Ark, so Baptism saves the individual Christian (1Peter 3; Justin Martyr, Dial. 138.1-3).34 Is there, however, any hint of a connection between Noah episode and Baptism or the Church in Proba? 33 Proba, Cento 463-96; S. Schottenius Cullhed, Proba the Prophet (2015), 163-4, K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’ (2011), 167-9. 34 R. Jensen, Baptismal Imagery in Early Christianity (2012), 206.

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When describing the baptism of Jesus (lines 388-428), she does not quote any of the Virgilian verses used in the Noah-story. She talks about fluvium salubre (wholesome stream, line 395) and undae molles (gentle waves, line 396), but this cannot really be seen as a connection. Baptism, therefore, cannot be claimed as a central theme for Proba’s Noah-interpretation. Similarly, even less of a connection can be found to the salvific function of the Church, which was known in Christian theology long before Proba, e.g. in Cyprian’s theology.35 4. Conclusions Why did Proba end her retelling of the Old Testament with the Noah episode and not go on to relate the history of Israel and the prophets? Why did she invest so much time in describing how greedy, violent and selfish the generation of Noah was? I think the structure of Proba’s Cento is important. Proba ends her retelling of the Old Testament with the Noah-episode in order to stress her Christian interpretation of the periodization of time. As we have seen, she tells the Noahstory in line with the classical scheme: first, there is the wonderful Golden Age which is subsequently followed by a deterioration leading to the horrible Iron Age. In her rewriting of the Old Testament, she ends with Noah and the Iron Age. In her poem, however, the New Testament begins only a few lines after the Noah story, starting with explicit promises of the return of the Golden Age. Proba opens the New Testament with a description of the coming of a child and an age that brings aid to all (lines 338-9) and with whom the Golden Age returns. Proba’s lengthy description of the wicked state of humanity is thus immediately contrasted with its restoration in the Golden Age by the child prophesied by Vergil. Already Vergil promises that the Golden Age will return. The most famous of these passages is his fourth Eclogue, a text which Proba quotes seven times. The promised child reverses things Proba has listed: for example, snakes and poisonous plants will die. For Proba, Jesus is tua progenies (your son, 338) and nova progenies (the new generation or new offspring, 613) in opposition to ferrea progenies (the iron generation) of Noah’s times. Above all, the expression nova progenies appears already in line 34, where Proba introduces the main contents of her poem.36 Sandnes calls the phrase nova progenies the ‘hub of Proba’s poem’ and pinpoints the common hope expressed both by Vergil and the Gospel as something Proba is determined to show.37 Proba probably did not 35

J. Ratzinger, Volk und Haus Gottes in Augustins Lehre von der Kirche (St. Ottilien, 1992),

91-4. 36 37

K.O. Sandnes, The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil’ (2011), 153-4. Ibid. 154-8.

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come up with this idea by herself; it is Lactantius who gives materials to her. Before her time, it was he who made the most use of this theme.38 In his version, the promises of the Golden Age are fulfilled not in the birth of the child, but when Christ returns in glory. Even Prudentius, in his Hymn for Christmas Day, uses similar images to express that the birth of Christ brings forth a new time: The Golden Age comes, nature awakes and flowers spread their scent. Proba does not hesitate to make connections to Greek and Roman mythology elsewhere. She talks about waters flooding from Tartaros and uses lines about Neptune or Jupiter when telling about the God in Genesis. Her way of combining Christian Scripture with Greek and Roman mythology and traditional Roman way of living is fascinating.39 To reach all levels of Proba’s Cento, intertextual reading is necessary. Even if it is clear that in key questions it is Scripture which has a decisive role in contents and Vergil mainly just gives the words, in this article I have shown examples of how Proba’s own upper class Roman context has affected the way she interprets the Noah-episode. The story of Noah was popular in the early Church. Living in Rome, Proba might very well have had access to, in addition to Lactantius’ works, the teachings of Justin Martyr, Hippolytos, Irenaeus, and Tertullian, for example. Because her intention was to retell biblical stories rather than to offer interpretations, it is often not possible to prove dependencies. What can be said, however, is that she chose some themes that were important for the above-mentioned authors, while skipping others. Common Christian themes include Noah as the beginning of a new race, Noah as a type of Christ, and the sinful state of humankind just before the Flood.

38

E.A. Clark and D.F. Hatch, The Golden Bough (1981), 175. For different ways Christian poets relate to Classical literature, see S. Freund, ‘Prolectet aures religiosa mulcedo. Beobachtungen zur frühchristlichen Poetologie’, Antike und Abendland 60 (2014), 70-89. 39

Divisibility, Indivisibility, and the Triune God: Ambrose of Milan’s De Abraham and the Dangers of Applying Philosophy to God* Anthony J. THOMAS, The University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN, USA

ABSTRACT Ambrose’s criticism of philosophy in his exegetical treatise the De Abraham has been widely recognized. As scholars have noted of other Ambrosian works, such criticism functions as an attack on Arianism. In De Abraham II 8.45-8.60, Ambrose builds on Philo’s exegesis in Questions on Genesis III to discuss Abraham’s sacrifice and vision in Genesis 15. Specifically, Ambrose presents the manner of the sacrifice as a means of teaching Abraham the fundamental difference between creation and the Triune God. The livestock in the sacrifice represent the material world, which can be divided logically and physically into more basic elements, while the birds sacrificed without division represent the indivisibility of the Triune God. God’s indivisibility serves as the basis of faith, which apprehends God through a simplicity of vision. By contrast with the simple vision of faith, dialectic, which functions by mentally and verbally dividing things into their basic elements, is appropriate for created beings. Consideration of Ambrose’s use of the language of divisibility and indivisibility in the De Abraham, sheds light on this element of his thought that appears throughout his exegetical works. Ultimately, Ambrose’s criticism of using logic in one’s approach to the Trinity is aimed at Eunomians and other ‘Arians’, who would subject the Trinity to philosophical modes of inquiry. In contrast to the false philosophy of the ‘Arians’, Ambrose seeks to form his audience in a particular mode of perceiving the world through the simple vision of faith in the Trinity.

Introduction: Sacred Division in Other Works ‘Others may wish to prove their doctrine (Velint alii doctrinam probare suam), I prefer to seem fearful rather than learned (ego iuxta apostolum timidus malo quam doctus uideri), in accordance with the Apostle, who says: “Take care lest anyone deprive you through philosophy and empty seduction, in accordance with human tradition, in accordance with the elements of this world * This article draws on (and partially corresponds to) the research and discussion in Chapter 3 of my dissertation, Ambrose of Milan Combats the “Crooked Interpreters”: Forming Nicene Identity through Exegesis.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 69-76. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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and not in accordance with Christ”’,1 so says Ambrose of Milan in a passage in the De Abraham in which he also criticizes Origen’s ‘overindulging’ in philosophy. This concern with contrasting the simplicity of faith with the desire to analytically prove one’s ideas is central to many of Ambrose’s works. A recurring theme in these works is that spiritual power (and strength) can come only from preserving the unity of the Trinity. In his Apologia altera, for instance, Ambrose writes: ‘Moses himself, to whom the crossing of the people of the Jews was entrusted, divided the water (aquam diuisit). And he, indeed, divided the elements, because he did not divide the power of the Trinity (non diuisit potentiam trinitatis), he separated the mass of waters, because he did not separate the Father from the Son (patrem non separauit a filio)’.2 In this passage, Moses’ power over the elements as demonstrated in the crossing of the Red Sea is presented as a power of dividing. This power of dividing, in turn, arises from one’s not dividing (i.e., separating) the Father and the Son. In this passage, as in others, Ambrose does not explicitly explain why a lack of one sort of division should result in the power to effect another sort of division, nor is the source of this idea clear. To seek answers to these questions, we must turn to consider select passages from Ambrose’s De Abraham.

Background The De Abraham was composed sometime between 378 and 388 (possibly in 382-383).3 Assigning a definite date is complicated by the fact that the work consists of two somewhat disparate elements, a redaction of a sermon given orally (Book I) and a treatise that was likely never read publicly (Book II). The first book focuses on Abraham’s life, from his call to his death, while the second, taking the same starting point, ends with the promise of Isaac. The first book, moreover, primarily utilizes ethical exegesis, with the second focusing 1 De Abraham, ed. and trans. Franco Gori, Sancti Ambrosii Mediolanensis Opera 2:2 (Milan, Rome, 1984), II 7.54. All English translations of Ambrose’s writings are my own. 2 Apologia David Altera, ed. Karl Schenkl and trans. Filippo Lucidi, Sancti Ambrosii Mediolanensis Opera 5 (Milan, Rome, 1981), 4.24. Some of the other passages where this theme appears include De Cain et Abel II 6.21, De interpellatione IV 4.15, and De Ioseph 3.18. De Isaac 7.59 contains what appears to be a reworking of the passage considered here, with the dove taken as a symbol of the unity of the soul that has faith and associated with the unity of the Trinity. 3 Giuseppe Visonà, Cronologia Ambrosiana / Bibliographia Ambrosiana (1900-2000), Sancti Ambrosii Mediolanensis Opera 25/26 (Milan, Rome, 2004), 60-1. It was composed after the De paradiso, to which it alludes at the beginning of the second book, and before the de Ioseph, which makes mention of the De Abraham. Its dependence on Philo suggests that it belongs to Ambrose’s early works, though the utility of relying on his dependence on Philo as an accurate dating tool is debatable.

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on allegorical and mystical exegesis.4 It should also be noted that this is one of Ambrose’s works with a particularly strong Philonian element, as discussed by Hervé Savon, who argues for Ambrose as adaptor and corrector of Philo, rather than mere plagiarist.5

Criticism of Philosophers Elsewhere in the De Abraham One theme present throughout the De Abraham is philosophy’s dependence on the Old Testament.6 In the beginning of the work, Ambrose contrasts Abraham’s real, lived virtue with the fictions of philosophers in works like Plato’s Republic and Xenophon’s Cyropaedia.7 Building on a common Christian trope, Ambrose argues that the philosophers have obtained several of their doctrines from Abraham’s deeds.8 While using such ‘borrowed’ proofs, philosophers have constructed an elaborate system of logic and rhetoric to explain elements of both the material world and the supernatural world. As Goulven Madec has demonstrated, Ambrose associates such philosophical argumentation with heresy in his anti-Arian treatises.9 Accordingly, when we encounter this theme in the De Abraham, it is worth seeing in it an indirect criticism of ‘Arians’ and of ‘Arianizing’ strategies of understanding God, especially when dealing with passages that specifically emphasize the unity of the Trinity, like De Abraham, 8.45-9.67.

4 Franco Gori, ‘Introduzione’, in De Abraham, Sancti Ambrosii Mediolanensis Opera 2:2 (Milan, Rome, 1984), 9-24, 10-5. Book I addresses an audience of catechumens multiple times, while Book II makes no reference to an audience. While both books focus on a particular type of exegesis, Marcia Colish notes that both books utilize both types of exegesis: Marcia Colish, Ambrose’s Patriarchs: Ethics for the Common Man (Notre Dame, 2005), 47. 5 Hervé Savon, Saint Ambroise devant l’exégèse de Philon le Juif (Paris, 1977), see especially 141-95, where Savon discusses Ambrose’s rejection of Philo’s theme of cosmic religion. 6 See Goulven Madec, Saint Ambroise et la philosophie (Paris, 1974), 356-61, for passages from the De Abraham pertaining to philosophy. F. Gori, ‘Introduzione’ (1984), 21-2, notes the predominance of the question of philosophy in the De Abraham. Andrew Harmon, in the context of a larger discussion considering the role of the discourse of exemplarity in the argument from antiquity in Ambrose’s works, especially the De Officiis, and its utilization against philosophy, discusses this aspect of the De Abraham, Andrew Harmon, ‘History and Virtue: Contextualizing Exemplarity in Ambrose’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 25 (2017), 201-29, 224-5. 7 De Abraham I 1.2. 8 See De Abraham I 2.4, I 9.91, II 2.5, II 5.23, II 7.37, and II 10.70. Ambrose is especially emphatic about biblical derivation in the philosophers in II 2.5. See Arthur Droge, Homer or Moses? Early Christian Interpretations of the History of Culture (Tübingen, 1989) and G.R. Boys-Stones, Post-Hellenic Philosophy: A Study of its Development from the Stoics to Origen (Oxford, 2001) for the theft of the philosophers from the Old Testament. See A. Harmon, ‘History’ (2017) for this theme in Ambrose’s writings. 9 G. Madec, Saint Ambroise (1974), 46-50.

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72 Division and Philosophy

The word ‘division’ from the time of Plato has been intimately associated in the ancient world with dialectical, philosophical argumentation. As Anthony Long and David Sedley note, division is a stage in dialectical reasoning that involves ‘the analysis of a genus into its constituent species … and of these into subspecies’.10 It is used in the formation of a definition since the definition is ‘composed of the genus plus the differentiae used to mark the definiendum from the other species’.11 This becomes pertinent to the Trinitarian controversies of the fourth century because of the (apparent) attempt by Arians, especially the ‘Eunomians’, to subject the godhead to dialectical analysis, by making the term ‘Unbegotten’ part of the Father’s essence, and hence, the definition of what it means to be the Father, as opposed to the Son.12 In the passage at hand, Ambrose is concerned with opposing such attempts to philosophize about the Father and the Son by logically dividing them.13 Divisive Philosophy vs. The Unity of Faith in the De Abraham Ambrose, following Philo’s Questions on Genesis III 3, presents the division – or lack thereof – of various animal victims in the sacrifice of Abraham in Genesis 15 as an image of worldly things that can be divided and are impermanent. This is in distinct contrast to heavenly things that cannot be divided and are 10

A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley, The Helllenistic Philosophers (Cambridge, 1987), 1:193. Ibid. 1:193. 12 Concerning Eunomius, see Richard Paul Vaggione, Eunomius of Cyzicus and the Nicene Revolution (Oxford, 2000); for a response to the idea of Eunomius as ‘logic chopper’, see especially 79-147. For a summary of Eunomius’ theology, see R.P.C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy, 318-381 (Grand Rapids, [1988] 2005), 617-36. See also Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2004), 144-9. Ayres notes that many homoians took up this argument, 146-7. See also Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Transformation of Divine Simplicity (Oxford, 2009), 87-112. 13 Ambrose similarly criticizes Arians for dividing the persons of the Trinity at De fide I 1.10-1, where, as in the De Abraham, he suggests that such division of the Trinity would lead to undesirable consequences for the kingdom of heaven. Jean Doignon notes Ambrose’s association of Arians with the destructive use of rhetoric: ‘les Ariens enferment dans l’étroitesse de formules d’école une pensée figée par des ‘philosophes’: de cet fait, ils ne ‘construisent pas’, mais, selon une antithèse reprise aux rhéteurs qu’ils sont, ils sont animés d’un stadium destruendi’, Jean Doignon, ‘Palladius – Ambroise ou l’affrontement de l’école et de la philosophie’, in Atti del colloquio internazionale sul concilio di Aquileia del 381 (Udine, 1981), 125-33, 133. See Maurice Wiles, ‘Eunomius: Hair-Splitting Dialectician or Defender of the Accessibility of Salvation?’, in Rowan Williams (ed.), The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honor of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge, 1989), 157-72, for the traditional scholarly acceptance of the pro-Nicene portrayal of Eunomius in particular as merely a ‘hair-splitting dialectician’ and for a criticism of this acceptance. 11

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thus permanent. Ambrose begins by allegorizing the fact that several animals of three years of age (trima) are to be sacrificed, proceeding to note that the element symbolized by each animal can be distinguished into three types.14 The heifer stands for earth, the goat for water, and the ram for air. Continuing this thread, earth can be divided into mainland, insulas, and peninsulas. Water into the sea, rivers, and lakes. Air into spring, summer, and winter. Ambrose then refers to this as ‘worldly division (mundana diuisio)’, and departing from Philo, asks what the point of discussing this might be (Quo hoc proficiat?).15 The point is to lead his audience to faith: ‘That we might recognize that God is the creator and governor (auctorem moderatoremque) of all of this, who gave order to all things and distinguished them with this division (ea diuisione distinxerit) in order that you might gather (colligas) that God can grant those things which you ask for reverently and which he promises to fulfill’.16 The goal of noting the different elements that make up the world is to lead one to an awareness of the order provided by the Creator. The sacrifice similarly teaches Abraham that God, rather than being bound by natural laws, governs the world and has power over it: ‘in order that he might believe (credat) that God is beyond the world (supra mundum), (God) who divided everything in the world with his provident act of distinguishing (prouida distinctione) … but that those things which were not divided – for the birds, that is to say the turtledove and the dove, he did not divide – are never destroyed (numquam resolui)’.17 As Marcia Colish notes, Ambrose, in his De Ioseph, takes faith to be Abraham’s primary virtue.18 We here see Abraham being taught this faith. Abraham’s sacrifice, then, is intended to teach him and Ambrose’s audience two things: that God, as Creator, is not bound by the laws of the world, and further, that there are things which are never destroyed, all of which, as we will see, are in some way dependent on the undivided Trinity. Ambrose first focuses on the indivisibility of faith, and specifically, of faith in the Trinity, whose unity is the foundation of the permanence of faith. Ambrose states: ‘For faith remains whole (Fides enim manet integra), which, after the fashion of a dove, is raised up on high, observing (lustrans; or ‘purifying’ or ‘going around’) the things above and, with the spiritual oars 14 De Abraham II 8.55: Diximus supra quia in uitula terram accipimus, in capra aquam, ariete aerem. Quod ipso nomine colligitur, quod trima ad sacrificium sumi iubentur, quia terra ipsa inter tres diuiditur species sui – aut enim continens aut insula aut paeninsula est –, aqua ipsa in tria, quia aut mare est aut fluuii aut lacus … Aer quoque habet diuisiones temporum ueris aestatis hiberni. 15 De Abraham II 8.55. Ambrose also, following Philo’s Quaestiones in Genesim 3.5-6, describes other divisions represented by the sacrifice in II 8.57-8, Philo, Questions and Answers on Genesis, trans. Ralph Marcus, LCL 380 (Cambridge, MA, London, 1953). 16 De Abraham II 8.55. 17 De Abraham II 8.56. 18 M. Colish, Ambrose’s Patriarchs (2005), 48. The association of Abraham and faith has its origins in Gen. 15:6 and is further developed in the Pauline epistles.

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of wings (spiritalibus alarum remigiis),19 flying around (circumuolans) heaven’.20 Ambrose attempts to move his audience to desire and choose faith by means of the delight evoked by this sublime image of the dove. Ambrose then makes it clear that belief in the undivided Trinity is what Abraham was taught by his sacrifice and is the type of faith that brings one’s soul permanence: ‘To a turtledove is that mind also compared that in the manner of that bird is fed from hidden sources (quae auis usu istius secretis alitur), seeking that intelligible and undivided substance of the Trinity (intellegibilem illam et indiuisam quaerens trinitatis substantiam), fleeing a certain common folk (plebem) of creatures, not mixing with bodily society (congregationi), and separating from every fall of passions’.21 Ambrose here replaces Philo’s exaltation of ‘the intelligible and incorporeal form (of reason)’ as a means of attaining union with invisible things with faith as the means of attaining union with God.22 Ambrose is rousing his audience to gaze at the Trinity with the eyes of supranatural faith rather than natural, creaturely vision.23 19 Angela Russell Christman discusses this as a Vergilian allusion that transforms the text of the Aeneid (specifically Aeneid VI 19) into one dependent on the Biblical text, Angela Russell Christman, ‘Ambrose of Milan on Ezekiel 1 and the Virtuous Soul’s Ascent to God’, in L’esegesi dei Padri latini: dalle origini a Gregorio Magno. XXVIII Incontro di studiosi dell’antichità cristiana, Roma, 6-8 maggio 1999 (Rome, 2000), 2:547-59. The allusion certainly aids in evoking a lofty feeling. 20 De Abraham II 8.56. 21 De Abraham II 8.56. One wonders if the plebs and congregatio mentioned might be a subtle blow aimed at philosophers and heretics, whom Ambrose presents as seeing the world with merely bodily vision. For the place of delight in Ambrose’s rhetoric, see Allan Fitzgerald, ‘Ambrose at the Well: De Isaac et anima’, Revue des Études Augustiniennes 48 (2002), 79-99, 84-5, who notes that ‘rather than being drawn to prove (probare) his positions by rational proof, Ambrose sought to display the pleasing quality of what he said and, through such delight, he wanted to bring about conversion, to attract his listeners to the goal he describe’. See also Luigi F. Pizzolato, ‘Ambrogio e la retorica: le finalità del discorso’, in id. and Marco Rizzi (eds), Nec timeo mori: atti del Congresso internazionale di studi ambrosiani nel XVI Centenario della morte di Sant’Ambrogio (Milan, 1998), 235-65. 22 Quaestiones in Genesim III 3: ‘For whatever is not disordered and unruly, from that very fact has reason: there is one in nature, by which things in the sense-perceptible world are analysed; and (the other is found) in those forms which are called incorporeal, by which the things of the intelligible world are analysed. With these are compared the dove and the turtle-dove. For the dove (is a symbol) of physical theory, for it is a very tame bird, and sense-perceptible things are familiar to sight. And the soul of the physicist and physiologist leaps up and grows wings and is borne aloft and travels round the heavens, viewing all its parts and their several causes. But the turtle-dove is likened to the intelligible and incorporeal form (of reason); for just as this creature is fond of solitude, so (the reason) by an effort surpasses the forms of sense-perception and is united in essence with the invisible’. Note the apparent confusion of the dove and turtle-dove in Ambrose’s account, since it is faith that flies aloft and goes around the heavens. Ambrose also seems to be subtly critiquing Philo’s account whereby the union with the intelligible world is still accomplished by analysis. 23 I may be making too sharp of a distinction here. The type of reason represented by the turtle-dove in Philo is itself supernatural. To Ambrose’s mind, however, it seems likely that this

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A little further on, Ambrose associates the analytical division of the world with philosophers, and exempts the Trinity from such philosophical analysis: Therefore the Creator (operator) divided these things (ista diuisit), but did not divide … our mind (mentem … non diuisit), because it clings to the Trinity that divides everything, Itself undivided (quia trinitati adhaeret diuidenti omnia, soli indiuisae) … Whence the philosophers want the superior substance of this world, which they call the ether, to be made not from the mixture of the other elements…but assert that it is from a certain fifth usia … For other things are mixed with each other (aliae mixtae sibi) and thickened (concretae sunt). We, moreover, think nothing exempt and foreign from material combination (immune atque alienum) except for that substance of the Trinity alone, which deserves to be venerated (praeter illam solam uenerandae trinitatis substantiam), which is truly pure and simple (pura ac simplex) of genuine and unmixed nature (sincerae inpermixtaeque naturae).24

Ambrose here replaces an association made by Philo between birds and the heavens – composed of the indivisible fifth essence – with an emphasis on the indivisible substance of the Trinity.25 Ambrose, in accordance with his pro-Nicene theology, establishes a clear distinction between the simple, uncreated Trinity, and everything else, which is composite, created beings. While Savon considers this adaptation of the concept of a fifth essence a reaction to the Emperor Julian’s cosmic religion,26 I would like to suggest that the strong Trinitarian focus here indicates that the Trinitarian debates of the fourth century are also an intimate concern for Ambrose in his adaptation of this passage.27 Any indivisibility, as in the case of the mind that Ambrose mentions, is presented as contingent upon the Trinity. Thus, while it is fitting for philosophers to distinguish (and divide) material, created things, since they are composed of multiple elements and are contingent, God, whose nature is simple and not contingent, should not be divided in a like manner by philosophizing heretics, but should rather be approached with the unity of pro-Nicene faith. Subsequently, the indivisibility of faith in the indivisible Trinity is presented as the foundation for the undivided kingdom of heaven. Ambrose, continuing type of reason would still have seemed insufficiently supernatural and too closely connected to philosophy. 24 De Abraham II 8.58. 25 Quaestiones in Genesim III 6: ‘But the fifth essence only is made unmixed and pure, for which reason it is not of a nature to be divided. Wherefore it is well said that ‘the birds he did not divide’, since, as in the case of birds, it is the nature of the celestial bodies, the planets and fixed (stars), to be elevated and resemble both (kinds of) clean birds, the turtle-dove and the dove, which do not admit of cutting or division, since they belong to the simpler and unmixed fifth substance, and therefore this nature, more especially resembling unity, is indivisible’. 26 H. Savon, Saint Ambroise (1977), 178-85, especially 184-5. 27 It might even be suggested that the exclusion of a fifth essence could be intended to avoid the problems caused for the sharp distinction between simple Creator and composite creation by the apparent simplicity of other heavenly, spiritual beings, like the angels.

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with the story of Abraham’s sacrifice, explains why Abraham, though full of faith, was afraid when the sun set: ‘because, with the world now coming to an end (occidente iam mundo), the coming sacrifice was being declared by which the world would be redeemed, that faith would be the sacrificial victim (fides esset hostia), which would not be divided by the sons of Abraham – for those who divide it are not sons of Abraham’.28 Spiritual descent from Abraham is thus connected to simple faith in the Trinity. Ambrose proceeds to make clear that the unity of the kingdom of heaven is based on the unity of the Trinity, which is reflected in the simplicity of faith: ‘Faith is paired with the kingdom of heaven … The kingdom of heaven is undivided because the kingdom of the Trinity is one. For this reason (it is) perpetual and eternal (perpetuum atque aeternum), because undivided (indiuisum); for every divided kingdom will easily be destroyed – the victim would be modesty vowed to the Trinity’.29 Ambrose thus presents his audience with an image of community, the kingdom of heaven, grounded in and made indestructible by faith in the unified, undivided, Trinity. Conclusion To conclude, in De Abraham 8.45-9.67, Ambrose, adapting passages from Philo’s Questions on Genesis III, uses the language of ‘division’ to subtly criticize philosophizing ‘Arians’ for their attempt to ‘divide’ the persons of the Trinity from each other. He constructively sets up the indivisibility of the Trinity as the basis for the indivisibility, and consequent indestructibility, of two interrelated things: faith and the kingdom of heaven. Ambrose, moreover, unites his audience around a common spiritual ancestry by providing his congregation with a faith-lineage stretching all the way back to Abraham. He thus provides his audience with a justification for a pro-Nicene exegetical strategy that privileges ‘simple’ faith in the unity of the Trinity.

28 De Abraham II 9.66. Ambrose makes the same point earlier, contrasting the the kingdom of heaven with the divided kingdom of the devil (those who are divided because they pursue worldly things): De his enim dictum est: Relinque mortuos sepelire mortuos suos, quia sunt de regno diaboli, qui in se ipsum divisum est. Qui autem sunt de regno dei, quibus dicit Iesus: Regnum dei intra uos est, hi non sunt diuisi, quia adhaerent deo, quoniam qui adhaeret meretrici unum corpus est; erunt enim, inquit, duo in carne una. Qui autem adhaeret domino unus spiritus est, II 8.59. 29 De Abraham II 9.66. A similar argument appears at De fide I 1.11, where Ambrose accuses the Arians of desiring to have the Trinity divided so as to make God’s kingdom more easily overthrown.

When Praying Does Not Shape Believing: Ambrose and Chrysostom as Test Cases for the Tension between Liturgy and Theology1 Matthew S.C. OLVER, Nashotah House Theological Seminary, Nashotah, WI, USA

ABSTRACT The appeal to both lex orandi, lex credendi and liturgy as primary theology is often made without recourse to particular liturgical rites and theologians. Thus, these claims deserve to be tested with particular historical instances. This article examines two key examples: Ambrose and John Chrysostom. With both, there is substantial evidence of their eucharistic theology alongside the text of the anaphoras that they used. I will show that for both figures there is a tension between their theology of consecration and the logic of consecration in their respective anaphoras. This forces us to ask what other factors exercised influence on the theology of their catechesis, beyond their ritual texts.

Liturgics is a discipline that is still in its infancy. Many of its early assumptions have been set aside, whether the claim that the early process was from uniformity to complexity or that Jewish liturgy served as a basis for early Christian liturgy. Michael Aune2 has documented another essential development that is still in process, what Paul Bradshaw described as taking ‘the fruits of historical research much more seriously … however inconvenient they may prove to be for prevalent theories of liturgy’.3 One of the liturgist’s most misused and misquoted axioms is Prosper of Aquitaine’s lex orandi, lex credendi,4 which, as Aune puts it, ‘has been used to claim that liturgy is a ‘source’ for 1

The author wishes to express his thanks to Maureen Martin for her assistance in preparing the final version of this article. 2 Michael B. Aune, ‘Liturgy and Theology: Rethinking the Relationship, Part 1: Setting the Stage’, Worship 81 (2007), 46-68; id., ‘Liturgy and Theology: Rethinking the Relationship, Part 2: a Different Starting Place’, Worship 81 (2007), 141-69; id., ‘The Current State of Liturgical Theology: A Plurality of Particularities’, StVTQ 53 (2009), 209-29. 3 Paul F. Bradshaw, ‘Difficulties in Doing Liturgical Theology’, Pacifica 11 (1998), 181-94, 193. 4 ‘… let us look at the sacred testimony of priestly intercessions which have been transmitted from the apostles and which are uniformly celebrated throughout the world and in every catholic church; so that the law of prayer may establish a law for belief [ut legem credendi lex statuat supplicandi]’; Capitula Coelestini 8 (PL 51, 205-12); English translation = Geoffrey Wainwright, Doxology: The Praise of God in Worship, Doctrine, and Life – A Systematic Theology (New York, 1980), 225-6.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 77-85. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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theology, thereby elevating it to the status of a methodological principle’.5 One can find many examples of scholars claiming that the axiom has clear historical purchase, namely, that liturgy has a historical and genealogical priority over doctrine.6 The distinction between primary and secondary theology is itself unproblematic.7 Rather, the problem emerges when one claims both that authorized liturgical texts necessarily precede dogmatic theological reflection and thus are its source. Such claims are interesting, and one may argue that ancient and contemporary liturgical texts should serve as a foundation for future theological reflection. But as a historical claim, it must be tried against specific examples.8 This article examines two key examples: first Ambrose, and then Chrysostom. Both are fourth century contemporaries who share a number of things in common: a. They left a great deal of writing on baptism and the Eucharist; b. We know the texts of the anaphoras they used; 5 M.B. Aune, ‘Liturgy and Theology: Part 1’ (2007), 48. Liturgical theologians do not always use it as a historical claim, however. The claim may be used instead to establish a basic theological assumption, namely, that liturgy both grounds and sets boundaries around theological reflection. 6 For example, see David W. Fagerberg, Theologia Prima: What Is Liturgical Theology? (Chicago, 2012). Aune notes that Robert Daly was one of the first to identify this trend and argue against it in a paper presented to the January 2005 meeting of the Eucharistic Prayer and Theology seminar of the North American Academy of Liturgy entitled ‘Trinitarian Theology in Early Christian Anaphoras’ he argued that no evidence was uncovered to support the common assumption that liturgy shapes doctrine. Rather, what Daly found was that ‘doctrine can have a shaping influence on liturgy’; ibid. 48-9, note 8; see Proceedings of the North American Academy of Liturgy Annual Meeting 2005, ed. Joyce Ann Zimmerman (Notre Dame, 2005), 46-7. Maxwell Johnson’s article on the approaches to lex orandi, lex credendi in the work of Alexander Schmemann, Geoffrey Wainwright and Aidan Kavanagh is a helpful place to start: ‘Liturgy and Theology’, in Liturgy in Dialogue: Essays in Memory of Ronald Jasper, ed. Paul F. Bradshaw and Bryan D. Spinks (Collegeville, MN, 1993), 203-27. See also his more extended treatment in Maxwell E. Johnson, Praying and Believing in Early Christianity: The Interplay between Christian Worship and Doctrine (Collegeville, MN, 2013). 7 Robert Taft explains that ‘[i]t is axiomatic in contemporary liturgical theology to distinguish between theologia prima and theologia secunda. Theologia prima, or first-level theology, is the faith expressed in the liturgical life of the church antecedent to speculative questioning of its theoretical implications, prior to its systématisation in the dogmatic propositions of theologia secunda or systematic reflection on the lived mystery of the church. Liturgical language, the language of theologia prima, is typological, metaphorical, more redolent of Bible and prayer than of school and thesis, more patristic than scholastic, more impressionistic than systematic, more suggestive than probative. In a word, it is symbolic and evocative, not philosophical and ontological’; Robert F. Taft, ‘Mass without the Consecration?: The Historic Agreement on the Eucharist between the Catholic Church and the Assyrian Church of the East Promulgated 26 October 2001’, Worship 77 (2003), 482-509, 495. 8 One of the most notorious examples against this theory, of course, was the replacement of the prepositions with the conjunction ‘and’ in the Gloria Patri, in face of resistance to Nicaean Christology. See Paul V. Marshall, ‘Reconsidering “Liturgical Theology”: Is There a Lex Orandi for All Christians?’, SL 25 (1995), 129-50, 129.

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c. Their theology of consecration is nearly identical, despite living in quite different locales; and d. Finally, in both, there is a strong tension between what they write about what effects consecration and the theology of consecration expressed in the eucharistic prayer that each used. Ambrose Ambrose is singular as the only Latin figure whose full fourth century mystagogies remain accessible to us.9 Book 4 of De sacramentis includes the earliest certain witness of an earlier version of the Roman Canon.10 Furthermore, the theology of consecration that he articulates explicitly and repeatedly in both mystagogies is what would become normative in the Latin West: namely, that the recitation of the words of Christ, ‘This is my Body/This is my Blood’ are the means by which the bread and wine becomes Christ’s Body and Blood. Aquinas specifically cites Ambrose when he makes the same claim in Question 78 of the Tertia Pars.11 When De sacramentis and De mysteriis are considered together, the theological steps in Ambrose’s argument go like this: 1. God is the principal actor in the Sacraments.12 2. The means by which God has ordained to act in the sacraments is through the ministry of Christian priests.13 3. In baptism and the Eucharist, grace elevates and perfects nature (whether water, human beings, bread, wine).14 4. The words of Christ are always powerful and thus effect what they say.15 5. In the Eucharist, Christ consecrated the bread and wine at the Last Supper with the words, ‘This is my body’. 9 And not just one, but two sets of lectures: De sacramentis (henceforth Sacr.) and De mysteriis (henceforth Myst.), both date to approximately 390 AD: Ambrose, Des sacrements, Des mystères, Explication du symbole, ed. Bernard Botte, SC 25bis (Paris, 1961). 10 Sacr. 4.5, 21-2; 6.6, 27; 6.6, 24. 11 ST III 78, 1, sed contra, ad. 1; III 78, 4, sed contra. 12 Sacr. 1.5, 15; ET = Lawrence J. Johnson, Worship in the Early Church: An Anthology of Historical Sources, 5 vol. (Collegeville, 2009), II 43. 13 ‘… the Lord Jesus is present, invoked as he is by the prayers of the priest’; Myst. 5.27; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 33. 14 Myst. 9.51-2; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), 38; Sacr. 2.5, 15; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), 48; Sacr. 4.4, 17, 18; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 56, 57; Sacr. 6.1, 3; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 64. 15 ‘You have read in regard to the works of the whole word, “For he spoke and they came to be; he commanded and they were created”’; Myst. 9.52; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 39; see also Sacr. 2.5, 15; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 48; Sacr. 3.1, 3; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 50-1; Sacr. 4.4, 15, 17-8; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 56, 57; Sacr. 6.1, 3; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 64.

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6. Thus, when the priest uses these same words in the Eucharist, the bread and wine become Christ’s Body and Blood.16 This argument is not strange. It relies on a canonical reading of the Bible which highlights the fact that God is consistent: that the words (and thus, the will) of the divine Logos are effective because, as the Son of God, Christ wills it to be so. In fact, as the divine Logos, it could not be otherwise. While Ambrose uses a great deal of allegorical exegesis (especially of the Song of Songs) in these two sets of catechetical lectures, his argument about the consecratory effects of Christ’s words in the Eucharist do not rely on allegory at all, but on the more straightforward ‘sense of the words themselves’. However, if we were to ask the question, ‘How is consecration effected according to the anaphoral text recounted by Ambrose?’, the answer is clearly NOT the answer that Ambrose gives his catechumens: namely, the recitation of the words of Christ by a priest. Rather, the text of the eucharistic prayer he cites begins in this way: ‘Make this oblation for us approved, ratified, reasonable, and acceptable, for it is the figure of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ’.17 The logic is basically this: the bread and wine are already a figura of Christ’s Body and Blood, and thus we can expect that God will respond favorably to our request that it be blessed. The institution narrative that follows this sentence is introduced with a relative pronoun, qui, which is one of a number of indications that there was likely an earlier version of the prayer that did not contain the narrative (not least because it is situated as a subordinate clause – there are other reasons to think the narrative is a recent introduction). The function of the institution narrative in the prayer is not to consecrate, but to provide a grammatical and theological warrant for the request that God accept 16 Myst. 9.52-4; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 56, 57-8; Sacr. 4.4, 14, 16, 19-23; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 38-9; Patr. 9.38; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 71; Ps. 38.25; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 73. Edward Kilmartin argues that when Ambrose speaks about the consecratory power of Christ’s words, the contrast he is articulating is not between the words of Christ and the rest of the words in the anaphoral prayer, but between the words of Christ and words that a priest might say. Thus, he suggests that the implication of this is that, ‘The words of Christ confer a consecratory power on the prayer as a whole. Ambrose is concerned to attribute the efficacious power of consecration to Christ alone and not to fix the words of Christ as the moment of consecration. It may be significant that he does not say precisely “post verba Christi” the bread and wine become the body and blood’; Edward J. Kilmartin, ‘Sacrificium Laudis: Content and Function of Early Eucharistic Prayers’, TS 35 (1974), 268-87, 286. Kilmartin’s interpretation is one that others have made. John McKenna makes a similar move when he attempts to resolve the tension in Chrysostom’s seemingly contradictory approach, emphasizing the words of Christ at some moments and the epiclesis at others. ‘Chrysostom did indeed stress the role of the institution narrative … but always in a context of the whole eucharistic prayer as “consecratory”’; John H. McKenna, Eucharistic Epiclesis: A Detailed History from the Patristic to the Modern Era (Chicago, 2009), 55. The problem with this approach is that we do not really have any fourth- or fifth-century figure making exactly this argument about the whole of the eucharistic prayer. 17 Sacr. 4.4, 21; author’s translation.

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the sacrifice.18 Thus, a tension exists between the liturgical text available to us, and his catechesis about the Eucharist. We should note also that, contra the common assertion (like that of Bradshaw and Johnson) that Ambrose’s interpretation is ‘more consistent with the later Roman Canon than with the prayer Ambrose knew’,19 the Western theory of consecration does not have any support in the text used by Ambrose or the Roman Canon itself. What the latter actually says is that it is God’s acceptance of the sacrifice that causes them to be Christ’s Body and Blood.20 Thus, Ambrose’s theory of consecration is in tension, not only with the anaphora he used, but also with the final form into which it finally would develop. However, Ambrose is not always in tension with his liturgical texts. In his discussion of baptism in De mysteriis, he is adamant that the sanctification of the water is what enables the water to bring about the effects of baptism, and he argues this through a direct appeal to the epiclesis in the baptismal liturgy.21 But when it comes to the Eucharist, the lex orandi is not his guiding light. Instead, a different logic guides this thinking, a logic that he shares almost completely with Chrysostom,22 and it is to him that I now turn. Chrysostom Robert Taft has convincingly argued that the anaphora that bears his name ‘was introduced into Constantinople from Antioch, probably by St John Chrysostom 18 See Dominic E. Serra, ‘The Roman Canon: The Theological Significance of Its Structure and Syntax’, EO 20 (2003), 99-128. 19 P. Bradshaw and M. Johnson, Eucharistic Liturgies (2012), 105. 20 Serra, ‘Roman Canon’ (2003), 112, 118. 21 ‘Action takes place with water; efficacy comes from the Holy Spirit. Water does not cure unless the Holy Spirit has descended and sanctified this water’; Myst. 5.15; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 43-4. 22 This is noteworthy for a few reasons. First, his argument assumes the necessity of the sanctification of water for baptism to be effective, which is in tension with the longstanding approach that the sanctification of water is fitting but not necessary for water baptism to be a sacrament and effective; for example, see ST III 66. Aquinas assumes that Christ’s descent into the water is what sanctifies all water, thus not requiring a blessing of the water in each instance in order for baptism to be effective. Ambrose seems to allude to this in Myst. 5.15-9, but is not totally clear on the matter. Second, Ambrose makes explicit appeal to the particulars of the baptismal liturgy: he describes the exorcism and then the blessing of the baptismal water by the bishop in Myst. (5.18) and argues based on what is in the rite: ‘Why did Christ descend first and only afterwards did the Holy Spirit do so, whereas in the usual rite of baptism the water is sanctified before the person who is to be baptized goes down into it? For as soon as the bishop enters there, he performs an exorcism over the creature water; then he gives an invocation, praying that the font be sanctified and that the eternal Trinity be present there. Christ descended first, to be followed by the Holy Spirit. And why? Not that the Lord Jesus seem, as it were, to have had the need for the mystery of sanctification, but that he himself might sanctify and that the Spirit also might sanctify’ (Myst. 5.18; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology [2009], II 44).

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[himself] in 398’.23 In Chrysostom’s writings on the Eucharist, there is an even greater prominence of sacrificial language for the Eucharist than in Ambrose;24 he repeatedly uses the language of mystery when speaking of the Eucharist25 and is unambiguous that it is Christ’s Body and Blood.26 Like Ambrose, he is clear that it is Christ who ministers the sacraments and that it is the words of Christ that both sanctified the first Eucharist and continue to do so at every subsequent Eucharist.27 In fact, save for the absence of any language about grace perfecting nature, Chrysostom speaks of consecration in a way that is nearly identical to that of Ambrose, emphasizing the consecratory power of Christ’s words. He writes, ‘The priest is representative when he pronounces those words, but the power and the grace are those of the Lord. “This is My Body,” He says. This word changes the things that lie before us’.28 The logic of the 23 Robert F. Taft, ‘St. John Chrysostom and the Byzantine Anaphora That Bears His Name’, in Essays in Early Eastern Eucharistic Prayers, ed. Paul F. Bradshaw (Collegeville, MN, 1997), 195-226, 195. This is a further development of two earlier articles: Taft, ‘The Authenticity of the Chrysostom Anaphora Revisited, Determining Authorship of Liturgical Texts by Computer’, OCP 56 (1990), 5-51, which subsequently was corrected and new notes were added in Robert F. Taft, Liturgy in Byzantium and Beyond (Aldershot, 1995), Chapter III. 24 Hom. 1 in Is. 1-6; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 176; hom. 25 in. Is. 1-6; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 178; hom. 18 in. Is. 1-6; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 179; hom. 8 in. 1Cor.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 180; hom. 24 in. 1Cor.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 181; hom. 3 in. Phil.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 186 (the benefits of offering ‘the awesome sacrifice’ for the departed); hom. 5 in. Col.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 188; hom. 3 Jud. 4; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 193; hom. 1 in. Prod. 6; ET = Homily 1 on Holy Thursday 6 in L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 194-5 (PG 49, 380); Sac. 3.4 and 6.4; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 209 and 211. 25 Hom. 25 in Mt.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 177; Hom. 46 in Jo.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), 179; hom. 40 in. 1Cor.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 183; hom. 18 in. 2Cor.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 184; catech. 1.6 (Papadopulos-Kerameus); ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 203. 26 Exp. in Ps. 144.1 (PG 55, 464); ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 175; hom. 24 in. 1Cor. (PG 61, 199-205); ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 181; hom. 27 in. 1Cor. (PG 61, 230-1); ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 182; hom. 3 in. Eph.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 185. 27 ‘It is the same that Christ gave to his disciples and which the priests now minister. The present offering is in no way inferior to the former because it is not men who sanctify but Christ himself who sanctifies it. The words are the same. The words spoken by God are the same as the priest now says. And so the offering if the same as is also true for the baptism he gave…’, hom. 2 in. 2Tim.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 189; for Christ acting through the priest in Baptism, see catech. 3.3 and 3.7 (Papadopulos-Kerameus); ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 206, 207. 28 Hom. 1 in. Prod. 6 (PG 49, 380); ET = Johannes Quasten, Patrology, Vol. 3. The Golden Age of Greek Patristic Literature (Westminster, MD, 1960), 481. See also hom. 2 in 2Tim. (PG 62, 612): ‘The offering is the same, no matter who offers, whether it is an ordinary mortal, whether it is Peter or Paul. It is the same that Christ gave to his disciples and which the priests now minister. The present offering is in no way inferior to the former because it is not men who sanctify but Christ himself who sanctifies it. The words are the same. The words spoken by God are the same as the priest now says. And so the offering is the same as is also true for the baptism he

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argument is the same, and like Ambrose, he supports this argument with biblical examples of the power and efficacy of Christ’s words. Chrysostom, however, unlike Ambrose, speaks in more than one way about what effects change in the bread and wine. In fact, as many have noted, Chrysostom also speaks in a way that might appear to directly contradict the ‘Ambrosian’ argument. He describes the words used in the sacrifice as ‘those of the Holy Spirit’; and the effect of the Spirit’s ‘touching’ or ‘taking hold of’ the offerings is that they become ‘heavenly bread’.29 When he speaks in this way, he is basically in theological harmony with the anaphora that he used. Neither the anaphora reproduced by Ambrose nor the Roman Canon contain any invocation of the Holy Spirit, which means Chrysostom’s logic in this case would have no application to Ambrose or his anaphora. The logic of consecration expressed in the Anaphora of St John Chrysostom is straightforward: ‘send down your Holy Spirit upon us and upon these offered gifts, and make the bread the precious body of your Christ, and what is in the chalice the precious blood of your Christ’.30 Thus, Chrysostom sometimes speaks in harmony with his prayer; but most of the time, he sings a different tune. Not surprisingly, there is also connection between these two when they speak of the efficacy of baptism. Like Ambrose, the baptismal liturgy speaks of ‘the Spirit who descends upon you through the hand of the Priest’.31 But it is Chrysostom who states explicitly what the logic of Ambrose’s argument only implies: namely, that that action of Christ in Baptism is through the use of Christ’s words (the words Christ indicates that his followers are to use at the end of gave…’; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 189. McKenna explains these sources: ‘Chrysostom seems to indicate clearly that it is the words of institution which are responsible for the transformation of the offerings. Perhaps the most famous of these two texts are two Maundy Thursday instructions dealing with the institution of the Lord’s Supper and the treason of Judas. In the course of these instructions, which are entitled hom. 1 and De proditione Judae and which are almost identical recensions of the same work, Chrysostom compares the power contained in the words, “Increase and multiply…” with that contained in the words, “This is by body…”’; J.H. McKenna, Eucharistic Epiclesis (2009), 54. 29 Hom. 17 in Heb.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 190. He also likens the invocation of the Spirit, ‘falling upon the victim’ (i.e. the sacrifice bread and wine) so that it ‘might thereby inflame the souls of all, rendering them more brilliant than purified silver’ to when Elijah prayed for fire to come on his sacrifice; Sacr. 3.4; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 209. See also In coemeterii (PG 49, 397-8); hom. 45 in Jo. (PG 59, 253); Sacr. 3 (PG 48, 642) and 6 (PG 48, 681); cited in J.H. McKenna, Eucharistic Epiclesis (2009), 54 (and the last part of the sentence is drawn from McKenna’s summary). 30 Translation by R. Taft from ‘Byzantine Anaphora’ (1997), 195-226, 202. 31 Catech. 1.10; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 198; see also 2.25-6; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 201; Catech. 1.8 (Papadopulos-Kerameus); ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 204. Ambrose writes: ‘The bishop comes, says a prayer at the font, invokes the name of the Father, the presence of the Son and the Holy Spirit, and uses heavenly words. The words are heavenly because they are the words of Christ who says that we are to baptize “in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit”’; Sacr. 5.14; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 47-8.

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Matthew’s gospel) which invoke the Holy Trinity.32 While we can assume that there was just such a Trinitarian invocation in the Milanese baptismal liturgy, Ambrose’s argument about what makes water effective in baptism in De sacramentis is actually closer to that of his consistent argumentation about how the words of Christ are what effect the change in the bread and wine. The effect of Christ’s words is principally not on the water, but upon the person being baptized with the formula, ‘in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit’. In other words, Ambrose argues in the same way about the work of Christ in baptism and the Eucharist. With baptism, his argument conforms to his liturgical text (both about the effects of the epiclesis and the trinitarian formula); but with the Eucharist, his argument is mostly in a tension with his anaphora (though occasionally in union with it). Conclusion What can we conclude from this? First, and most clearly, a plain reading of the anaphoras used by Ambrose and Chrysostom does not set the parameters for their theologies of consecration that they articulate in their teaching and preaching. Sometimes, like in the case of baptism, they appeal to the liturgical text and it guides their thought. And for Chrysostom, sometimes his anaphora guides his thought. Thus, the liturgical text is an occasional source for their theological reflection; but they also write in ways that are in clear tension with it. Why this is the case is not clear. While both authors have left us catechetical lectures, it would be unfair to expect the kind of systematization in them that we find, say, in the scholastics. It is also certain that there was much more to the liturgies they used than has come down to us as textual evidence. It is possible that other prayers in Milan and Constantinople reinforce Ambrose and Chrysostom’s shared logic of consecration. But one should be careful, as this is an argument from silence. However, the fact that Ambrose and Chrysostom so closely share a logic of consecration may point to a different source. There is wide agreement that institution narratives did not enter Christian anaphoras until sometime in the fourth century, possibly as a pedagogical response to a radical influx of converts (though we should consider other possibilities).33 Might the shared logic of consecration that centers on the use of Christ’s words have been a catechesis that accompanied the introduction of the institution narratives into anaphoras, possibly from the geographic locale in which it emerged? 32

Catech. 2.14; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 199. See Paul F. Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship: Sources and Methods for the Study of Early Liturgy, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 2002), 219; P. Bradshaw and M. Johnson, Eucharistic Liturgies (2012), 123-9. 33

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Finally, while I think that an over-emphasis on either the institution narrative or the epiclesis as a ‘consecratory formula’ can result in treating either in a semi-magical way, the location of consecration within an anaphora does have important effects on other related Eucharistic issues, most notably on the question of what (or who) is offered in the Eucharist. If we look to the text of almost every single extant anaphora, the logic of them all is that bread and wine are offered and that they are consecrated or changed when they come into contact with the divine: whether expressed in the Roman Canon’s language of begging God’s acceptance of the offering or the Eastern formula of epiclesis. However, if consecration occurs before the bread and wine are offered, then it is Christ that is offered. Both Ambrose34 and Chrysostom35 speak about Christ being offered, which points to another place where both are united in being in tension with the prayers they prayed.

34 ‘In days past a lamb or a calf was offered. Not it is Christ who is offered, offered as a man and as one who suffered. Now, as a priest, he offers himself to that our sins be forgiven’; Off. I.L.239; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), 70. 35 ‘He has changed the sacrifice itself; he commands not the butchering of dumb animals but the offering up of himself. […] What is the bread? It is the Body of Christ. What do those who partake of it become? They become the Body of Christ’; hom. 24 in 1Cor.; ET = L. Johnson, Anthology (2009), II 181. ‘Do we not offer the sacrifice daily? Indeed we do offer it daily, re-presenting his death. How then is it one sacrifice and not many? … We offer the same person, not one sheep one day and tomorrow a different one, but always the same offering. … There is one sacrifice and one high priest who offered the sacrifice that cleanses us. Today we offer that which was once offered, a sacrifice that is inexhaustible. This is done as a remembrance [anamnesis] of that which was done then, for he said, “Do this in remembrance of me.” We do not offer another sacrifice as the priest offered of old, but we always offer the same sacrifice. Or rather we re-present the sacrifice’; John Chrysostom, Hom. 17 in Heb.; ET = Robert Louis Wilken, The Spirit of Early Christian Thought: Seeking the Face of God (New Haven, 2003), 35.

The Immanent and Economic Trinity in Marius Victorinus’ Adversus Arium Ib Florian ZACHER, Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg, Erlangen, Germany

ABSTRACT This article shows that Marius Victorinus develops his Trinitarian theology in Adversus Arium Ib to explain the connection between the immanent and the economic Trinity. He conceptualises the three hypostases as three distinct activities that constitute the single substance of God. This interdependence of three immanent activities is the model for God’s economic activity. By parallelizing the immanent and economic activities, Victorinus shows that Trinitarian theology is not pure speculation, but the necessary foundation to explain God’s activities towards the world. Thus, Victorinus deeply connects Trinitarian theology, anthropology, and soteriology. Therefore, the soteriological and anthropological passages of Adv. Ar. Ib are no digressions, but the endpoint of this writing. An exemplary comparison to Plotinus’ Ennead VI 8 [39] and the contemporary theologies of Marcellus of Ancyra and Eunomius of Cyzicus tries to give a more nuanced understanding of Victorinus’ Trinitarian theology. The goal is to demonstrate that he is not merely copying Platonic philosophy, but carefully employing philosophical methods and insights to further the theological debate of his time. It is likely that Victorinus knows Marcellus’ miahypostatic theology and considers its criticism to formulate his own concepts. This article interprets Victorinus as a Christian philosopher of his own right who is not simply Christianizing Platonic sources. His main motivation are soteriological questions that shape his peculiar concept of the Trinity, which is best understood within the framework of the Western miahypostatic theology of the fourth century.

1. Victorinus and his Relationship to Philosophy As the city of Rome’s professor for rhetoric during the reign of Constantius II, Marius Victorinus was a prominent figure among his contemporaries. He was widely esteemed not only as a rhetorician, but also as a learned philosopher, and he even earned an honorary statue for his accomplishments in Trajan’s Forum.1 Because of this reputation, his public conversion to Christianity in old age was a highly celebrated event in Rome’s Christian community. 1

Our main sources for the life of Victorinus are Jerome and Augustine. See Jerome, Vir. ill. 101: Victorinus, natione Afer, Romae sub Constantio principe rhetoricam docuit et in extrema senectute Christi se tradens fidei scripsit adversus Arium libros more dialectico valde obscuros, qui nisi

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 87-107. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Victorinus’ relationship with pagan philosophy has been an issue for commentators since antiquity. In the eighth book of his Confessions, Augustine makes theological use of Victorinus’ reputation as a philosopher to mark distinctly the contrast between the pagan and the Christian phase in Victorinus’ life. Simplicianus, the narrator of Victorinus’ story, describes Victorinus’ learnedness with superlative expressions to exaggerate the contrast between pagan pride and Christian humility.2 He designs this narrative as a protreptic to humility to incite Augustine’s decision to adopt an ascetic lifestyle.3 In this story, Victorinus’ success in the fields of rhetoric and philosophy are a sign of the worldly quest for glory. Thus, Victorinus’ conversion to a humble Christian life shows the irresistible power of God’s grace. Augustine clearly assigns the occupation with philosophy to the pagan phase of Victorinus’ life and uses it to mark the contrast between a Christian and a pagan lifestyle. In a similar vein, Jerome criticises Victorinus for being too concerned with philosophical teachings. While he censures his dogmatic writings for being too difficult to understand and elitist, he even denies that Victorinus could have understood and correctly interpreted the epistles of Paul, because he occupied himself too much with worldly literature.4 This clear separation between pagan philosophy and Christian theology made in antiquity has also had its impact on modern research of Victorinus. In his dissertation from 1880, Koffmanne calls Victorinus a Christian philosopher who is not ‘an insipid follower and servant’ of Neoplatonic philosophy.5 He ab eruditis non intelliguntur, et Commentarios in Apostolum. Jerome, Chron. a. Abr. 2370 (354 AD): Victorinus rhetor et Donatus grammaticus praeceptor meus Romae insignes habentur. E quibus Victorinus etiam statuam in foro Traiani meruit. For the conversion narrative see Augustine, Conf. VIII.2.3-5.10. For a brief overview on Victorinus’ life and work see Lenka Karfíková, ‘Victorinus (Marius —)’, Dictionnaire des philosophes antiques VII (2018), 153-66. 2 See e.g. Augustine, Conf. VIII.2.3: Habet enim magnam laudem gratiae tuae confitendam tibi, quemadmodum ille doctissimus senex et omnium liberalium doctrinarum peritissimus quique philosophorum tam multa legerat et diiudicaverat, doctor tot nobilium senatorum, qui etiam ob insigne praeclari magisterii, quod cives huius mundi eximium putant, statuam Romano foro meruerat et acceperat, […] non erubuerit esse puer Christi tui et infans fontis tui subiecto collo ad humilitatis iugum et edomita fronte ad crucis opprobrium. 3 Simplician’s protreptic intention and its effect on Augustine is signalled in Augustine, Conf. VIII.2.3, 5.10: Deinde, ut me exhortaretur ad humilitatem Christi sapientibus absconditam et revelatam parvulis, Victorinum ipsum recordatum est […]. exarsi ad imitandum: ad hoc enim et ille narraverat. 4 See Jerome, Vir. ill. 101, and Jerome, Comm. Gal. praef.: [A]dgrediar opus intemptatum ante me linguae nostrae scriptoribus et a Graecis quoque ipsis vix paucis, ut rei poscebat dignitas, usurpatum. Non quo ignorem Gaium Marium Victorinum, qui Romae me puero rhetoricam docuit, edidisse Commentarios in Apostolum, sed quod occupatus ille eruditione saecularium litterarum Scripturas omnino ignoraverit et nemo possit, quamvis eloquens, de eo bene disputare quod nesciat. For an interpretation and contextualization of this statement see Giacomo Raspanti, ‘Adgrediar opus intemptatum: l’Ad Galatas di Gerolamo e gli sviluppi del commentario biblico latino’, Adamantius 10 (2004), 194-216. 5 See Gustav Koffmanne, De Mario Victorino philosopho Christiano (Breslau, 1880), 28: insipidum asseclam atque pedisequom fuisse eum negamus.

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acknowledges Victorinus’ endeavours for a biblical foundation of his theology, but confirms the ultimate failure of this project, because Victorinus just could not free himself from his lifelong occupation with philosophy. Thus, Koffmanne transforms the external distinction between philosophy and theology employed by Jerome and Augustine into an internal strife within Victorinus: ‘He wants to be a purely biblical theologian. However, he unwillingly forces the thoughts and teachings, which he has received in his mind since his youth, upon the scripture and he introduces arguments, which are taken from pagan doctrine’.6 Building up on Koffmanne’s work, later researchers tried to identify the philosophical sources of Victorinus’ thought, focussing mainly on a comparison with Plotinus.7 This distinction between philosophy and theology lies also at the foundation of Pierre Hadot’s important contribution to the research of Victorinus. Observing the differences between Victorinus’ thought and the works of Plotinus, he assumes Porphyry as the main source of Victorinus. In contrast to his predecessors, Hadot applies the methods of the contemporary Quellenforschung and searches for literary sources used by Victorinus. He looks for passages that are alien in doctrine and language to Victorinus’ way of writing and thinking and attributes these ‘badly integrated parts’ to an original source written by Porphyry.8 Although Hadot overcomes Koffmanne’s psychological assumption of an inner conflict in Victorinus, he nevertheless employs the same dichotomy between philosophy and Christian theology. Ultimately, Victorinus borrows his main thoughts from Neoplatonic philosophy and uses them to illustrate Christian Trinitarian philosophy. Hadot’s ground-breaking works initiated further research, which has in many aspects broadened and even considerably altered Hadot’s view on Victorinus and Porphyry. There has since been a debate on some of Hadot’s basic assumptions, which led him to identify Porphyry as Victorinus’ main source. One main point of discussion has been an anonymous Commentary on Plato’s Parmenides, which Hadot attributed to Porphyry and identified as a main source of Victorinus’s thought. Hadot’s attribution again sparked the debate on the authorship and dating with very differing results.9 More importantly for the 6 Ibid. 12: Volt theologus esse mere biblicus. Sed ipse invitus, quas a iuventute animo conceperat cogitationes et placita, Scripturae obtrudit atque argumenta e gentili doctrina repetita infert. See also ibid. 29: Idem vero post baptismum acceptum, quem penitus imbiberat Neoplatonismum etiam invitus retinuit: Christianus factus est Platonizans magis, quam illis temporibus orthodoxum decuit. 7 See e.g. Godhard Geiger, C. Marius Victorinus Afer: Ein neuplatonischer Philosoph, 2 Teile, Beilage zum Jahres-Berichte der Studien-Anstalt Metten für 1887/88 und 1888/89 (Landshut, 18881889); Gerhard Huber, Das Sein und das Absolute: Studien zur Geschichte der ontologischen Problematik in der spätantiken Philosophie, Studia Philosophica Supplementum 6 (Basel, 1955). 8 See P. Hadot, Porphyre et Victorinus (1968), I 62-102. 9 See e.g. Gerald Bechtle, The Anonymous Commentary on Plato’s ‘Parmenides’ (Bern, 1999), who judges the Commentary to be a preplotinian, whereas Alessandro Linguiti, ‘Sulla datazione

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study of Victorinus, Václav Němec shows striking differences between the Commentary and Victorinus, leading him to deny the Commentary’s role as a source of Victorinus’ theology.10 A further point of debate has been Victorinus’ relationship with gnostic texts and traditions, which made it plausible that he might have used gnostic texts to form his own theology.11 In a paper published in 2010, Volker H. Drecoll argues that Victorinus has used a much wider variety of sources than Hadot assumed and concludes: ‘Perhaps the character of Victorinus as a creative and independent thinker who was inspired by several different philosophical and even Gnostic texts has to be reaffirmed’.12 Whereas the last decades of research on Victorinus have been primarily focused on his sources, it is time to shift the debate according to Drecoll’s dictum. In looking for possible sources of Victorinus’ thought, his own creative dealing with philosophical and theological traditions has been mostly out of view. It is my goal to show how Victorinus tries to articulate fundamental theological concepts with his philosophical knowledge and method in the background. I want to demonstrate that Victorinus is a Christian philosopher in his own right trying to express basic insights of a Christian theology in a philosophically solid way.13 To achieve this goal, I will first analyse Victorinus’ presentation of the immanent and economic Trinity in Adversus Arium Ib, then look into some concepts of Plotinus, Marcellus of Ancyra, and Eunomius of Cyzicus. This del Commento al Parmenide di Bobbio. Un’analisi lessicale’, Symbolon 24 (2002), 307-22, argues for a postporphyrian date of the Commentary. 10 See Václav Němec, ‘Die Theorie des göttlichen Selbstbewusstseins im anonymen ParmenidesKommentar’, RhMus 154 (2011), 185-205. 11 Chiara O. Tommasi, ‘Tripotens in unalitate spiritus: Mario Vittorino e la gnosi’, Koinonia 20 (1996), 53-75, has already argued for gnostic influences on Victorinus. The discovery of parallels between Adversus Arium Ib and the gnostic Zostrianos intensified this debate. See Michel Tardieu, Recherches sur la formation de l’apocalypse de Zostrien et les sources de Marius Victorinus / Pierre Hadot, ‘Porphyre et Victorinus’: Questions et hypotheses, Res Orientales IX [one series volume containing two studies] (Bures-sur-Yvette, 1996). Tardieu and Hadot have argued in different modes that the parallels stem from a common philosophical source. Whereas e.g. Abramowski and Drecoll have in different ways argued for a direct use of gnostic texts by Victorinus. See Luise Abramowski, ‘Nicänismus und Gnosis im Rom des Bischofs Liberius: Der Fall des Marius Victorinus’, ZAC 8 (2005), 513-66; and Volker H. Drecoll, ‘The Greek Text Behind the Parallel Sections in Zostrianos and Marius Victorinus’, in John D. Turner and Kevin Corrigan (eds), Plato’s Parmenides and its Heritage, vol. 1, History and Interpretation from the Old Academy to Later Platonism and Gnosticism, SBL Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplement Series 2 (Atlanta, 2010), 195-212. 12 Volker H. Drecoll, ‘Is Porphyry the Source Used by Marius Victorinus?’, in J.D. Turner and K. Corrigan (eds), Plato’s Parmenides and its Heritage, vol. 2, Its Reception in Neoplatonic, Jewish, and Christian Texts, SBL Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplement Series 3 (Atlanta, 2010), 65-80, 80. 13 Similarly, John Voelker, The Trinitarian Theology of Marius Victorinus: Polemic and Exegesis (Dissertation, Milwaukee, 2006), 41-4, has already lamented the anachronistic distinction of philosophy and theology made in the history of research on Victorinus.

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comparison should help to show that Victorinus presents the immanent relationship of the Trinity in a way that lays the foundation for God’s economic activities. This shows that the primary motivation behind his Trinitarian speculation are questions of soteriology. The basis of Victorinus’ Trinitarian theology is shaped by the question how God can and wants to save the whole of creation. A comparison with contemporary Trinitarian concepts will further affirm John Voelker’s interpretation that Victorinus has not been an isolated thinker, but has taken part in the contemporary theological debate.14 I try to show that it is likely that Victorinus has knowledge of the Western miahypostatic tradition and tries to develop it further by considering its criticism.

2. Immanent and Economic Trinity in Antiquity By now, Karl Rahner’s Trinitarian axiom has become almost proverbial to articulate the inseparable connection of God’s being and his actions towards and in the world: ‘The “economic” Trinity is the “immanent” Trinity and vice versa’.15 While Rahner’s terminology is modern, the underlying issue is not.16 Not only Ancient Christian theologians, but also pagan philosophers have already pondered the question of God’s being, will, power, activity, and their mutual interdependence. Thus, Victorinus can draw from a long line of discourse on these subjects. The Emperor Julian gives a very striking example for philosophical debate of the connection of a god’s being, will, power and activity in his Hymn to the King Helios. He divides the praise of Helios by first describing his substance (οὐσία), then his powers (δυνάμεις) and his activity (ἐνέργεια). However, he cautions the reader against a too strict division of these perspectives on Helios: ‘For a god’s substance is not one thing, his power another, and his activity, by Zeus, a third thing besides these. For all he wills he is, he can do, and acts. For he does not will what is not, nor does he lack the power to do what he wills, nor does he desire to act what he cannot do’.17 14

See ibid. passim, especially the conclusions 222-8. Karl Rahner, ‘Der dreifaltige Gott als transzendenter Urgrund der Heilsgeschichte’, in Johannes Feiner and Magnus Löhrer (eds), Mysterium salutis: Grundriss heilsgeschichtlicher Dogmatik, vol. II, Die Heilsgeschichte vor Christus (Köln, 1967), 317-401, 328: ‘Die „ökonomische“ Trinität ist die „immanente“ Trinität und umgekehrt’. 16 The term οἰκονομία and its Latin equivalents, of course, play a decisive role in Ancient theology, but the expression ‘economic trinity’ is unknown to antiquity. See Ulrich Dierse, ‘Ökonomie II’, Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 6 (1984), 1153-62, 1153-6. The term ‘immanent’ seems to have come into usage in Trinitarian theology as a translation of περιχώρησις, coined by Faber Stapulensis. See Ludger Oeing-Hanhoff, ‘Immanent, Immanenz’, Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie 4 (1976), 220-37, 222-3. 17 Emperor Julian, In Solem 20, 142CD: Οὐ γὰρ ἄλλο μέν ἐστιν οὐσία θεοῦ, δύναμις δὲ ἄλλο, καὶ νὴ Δία τρίτον παρὰ ταῦτα ἐνέργεια. Πάντα γὰρ ἅπερ βούλεται, ταῦτα ἔστι καὶ δύναται καὶ ἐνεργεῖ· οὐδὲ γὰρ ὅ μὴ ἔστι βούλεται, οὐδὲ ὅ βούλεται δρᾶν οὐ σθένει, οὐθ᾿ ὅ 15

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Thus, the discussion on god’s substance, power and activity seems to be the philosophical background to which Victorinus’ theology should be compared. 3. The Character of the Book Adversus Arium Ib Victorinus’ writing Quod trinitas ὁμοούσιος sit, traditionally called Adversus Arium Ib, has been in the centre of attention in the last decades of research on Victorinus for various reasons.18 Indeed, it is one of the most fascinating and multifaceted writings of Victorinus, as it develops not only interesting aspects of Victorinus’ Trinitarian theology, but also anthropological and soteriological questions. These two important aspects of Adversus Arium Ib rarely are examined together, as most studies focus on either the Trinitarian aspects or the anthropological remarks.19 The reason for this division could lie in Hadot’s analysis of the structure of this writing. In his outline, he calls the last chapters, in which Victorinus broadly discusses questions of anthropology and the salvation of soul and body, a postlude, which again brings up the main motifs of the writing.20 This classification could lead to the assumption that chapters 60-4 are nothing but an appendix to the writing, without adding something new to the discussion. In contrast, I suggest reading the chapters 60-4 as the endpoint of Adversus Arium Ib, in which Victorinus draws the final soteriological consequences from his Trinitarian theology. Victorinus designs this book to demonstrate that Trinitarian theology is no abstract speculation, but the necessary foundation of anthropology and soteriology. Thus, the chapters 60-4 are only the logical conclusion drawn from the Trinitarian speculation in 48-59. μὴ δύναται ἐνεργεῖν ἐθέλει. Text according to Emperor Julian, Opera, ed. Heinz-Günther Nesselrath (Berlin, Boston, 2015), 154.5-9. 18 This is where we find the parallels to the Coptic Zostrianos and it is one of the main points of reference for the debate of Victorinus’ relationship with Gnosticism in general. In addition to the articles mentioned in n. 11, see e.g. John Voelker, ‘Marius Victorinus’ Use of a Gnostic Commentary’, SP 96 (2017), 21-8. The close interpretation of Adversus Arium Ib has led Němec’s to criticize Hadot’s attribution of the anonymous Commentary to Porphyry. He has also criticized Hadot’s interpretation of Adversus Arium Ib 48, see Václav Němec, ‘Zum Problem der Gattung des Seienden bei Marius Victorinus und im antiken Platonismus’, RhMus 160 (2017), 161-93. Its anthropological and soteriological passages have been examined by Arjo Vanderjagt, ‘Mysterium magnum: Marius Victorinus on Man’s Corporeal Relationship with God’, SP 28 (1993), 130-4, and Massimo Stefani, ‘L’antropologia di Mario Vittorino’, in Excerpta e Dissertationibus in Sacra Theologia XIV n. 2 (Pamplona, 1988). 19 But see the judgement by Mary Clark, ‘The psychology of Marius Victorinus’, AugSt 5 (1974), 149-66, 149: ‘In this work Victorinus gives the Pauline “Mystery”, God’s salvific plan for the world’s future revealed in Christ, an ontological and metaphysical framework’. 20 See Hadot’s commentary in Marius Victorinus, Traités théologique sur la trinité II, ed. Pierre Hadot, SC 69 (Paris, 1960), 840.

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4. The Immanent Trinity as ‘Model’ for the Economic Trinity in Adversus Arium Ib21 In Adversus Arium Ib, Victorinus sets out to demonstrate that the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost are ‘different in sameness’. This concept stresses the unity of the three hypostases, while also confessing their difference, whereas a conception of the Trinity as ‘same in difference’ would put an emphasis on the hypostases’ difference.22 In chapters 49-53 Victorinus tries to show how the three hypostases are the same, in 55-9 he demonstrates their difference, chapters 60-4 draw soteriological conclusions from this conception.23 At the beginning, Victorinus conceptualizes the Trinity as a double dyad summarizing the relationship between the Father and the Son as ‘one which are two’, and the relationship between the Logos and the Holy Ghost as ‘in one two’.24 It has to be noted that Victorinus does not always distinguish terminologically between Christ and the Holy Ghost. He mostly uses Logos to reference the pre-existent Christ, but he can also call the Holy Ghost Logos. The reason for this seeming confusion is that Victorinus advocates a unity between the two in the strongest terms possible. Thus, he can even call Christ and the Holy Ghost together the Father’s only begotten Son.25 This means that even when Victorinus does at times not expressively consider the Holy Ghost in his Trinitarian treatises, he always implies its existence and role within God because of this 21 I use the Latin texts established in the Vienna Corpus: Marii Victorini opera. Pars prior: opera theologica, ed. Paul Henry and Pierre Hadot, CSEL 83/1 (Vienna, 1971), Marii Victorini opera. Pars posterior: opera exegetica, ed. Franco Gori, CSEL 83/2 (Vienna, 1986). 22 Adv. Ar. Ib 48.26-7: Sed si eadem in alteritate, magis in alteritatem vergunt, si autem altera in identitate, maxime identitas apparet. 23 I have tried to show that Victorinus’ works are best analysed by rhetorical categories, see Florian Zacher, ‘Marius Victorinus, Opus ad Candidum: An Analysis of its Rhetorical Structure’, SP 95 (2017), 127-35. With this in mind, Adv. Ar. Ib 48 can be considered as the propositio, where Victorinus gives his argumentative goal, 49-59 are a first argumentatio arguing for the hypostases as different in sameness with a conclusio 59.13-29. Chapters 60-4 are a second argumentatio on soteriological questions. The propositio of the second argumentatio is somewhat hidden after the first part of the first argumentatio in 53.26-30: Credendum igitur in filium dei, ut vita in nobis fiat, quae est vera et aeterna vita. Si enim habebimus fidem in Christum Nazaraeum incarnatum de Maria, in filium dei fidem habebimus, qui fuit et effectus est spiritus incarnatus. 59.23-9 takes the soteriological question up again with reference to an allegorical interpretation of the parable of the prodigal son. In Victorinus’ interpretation, the Son leaving his Father and wasting his substantia in Luke 15:12-3 is the soul moving away from the Father, thus giving up its original potency. This leads to a detailed explanation of the fall and salvation of the soul and the salvation of the body in 60-4. 24 Adv. Ar. Ib 49.1-3: De deo et λόγῳ, hoc est de patre et filio, dei permissu, sufficienter dictum, quoniam unum quae duo. Dictum et de λόγῳ, hoc est de filio et de sancto spiritu, quod in uno duo. 25 For the application of the term ‘son’ to both see e.g. Adv. Ar. Ib 63.25. See especially Adv. Ar. III 2.21-31. In III 1-2 Victorinus summarizes some conceptions of Adv. Ar. Ib as a basis for a detailed treatment of the Holy Ghost. He calls the Logos and the Holy Ghost both the only begotten son, because they are one movement within and from the Father’s substance.

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inseparable unity between the Logos and the Holy Ghost. Victorinus integrates the Holy Ghost from the beginning in his systematic thoughts, although pneumatology is just starting to get in the focus at the end of the 350s.26 Modern interpreters have judged this close association of Christ and the Holy Ghost as too modalistic.27 However true that might be, this is an anachronistic judgement. From beginning on, Victorinus considers the Holy Ghost an equal hypostasis of the Trinity, his concept of the immanent Trinity and his soteriological focus lead him to an emphasis on the near identity of the Logos and the Holy Ghost. Thus, he sees the Trinity as a double dyad, expressed in the two definitions, unum quae duo and in uno duo: The Father and the Son are the same, and the term Son encompasses the Logos and the Holy Ghost, who are the same. As in his other writings, Victorinus operates with two basic concepts in Adversus Arium Ib. Firstly, he conceptualizes the Father, the Logos and the Holy Ghost as a triad of being (esse), living resp. life (vivere, vita), and thinking, thought, wisdom or beatitude (intellegere, intellegentia, cognoscentia, sapientia, beatitudo). Secondly, he articulates the relationship between the Father and the dyadic Son, as a relation of power (potentia) and activity (operatio, actio, operari, agere): The Father’s being encompasses Life and Thinking in power, which are his internal activities and actualize themselves as distinct hypostases out of their ‘potential’ status in the Father’s being. However, it is important to understand that Victorinus does not use potentia in the sense of a passive potency. Although the Father is resting being, he has qua being and internal movement inside of him. This internal movement is the cause of the Father’s being and is the ‘potential’ state of Life and Wisdom inside of the Father.28 The outwards movement of the internal Life and Wisdom are not motivated by an alien force or by chance, but ‘because all power is a natural will’.29 Therefore, the internal movement, which is the Son, is identical 26 Against Anton Ziegenaus, Die trinitarische Ausprägung der göttlichen Seinsfülle nach Marius Victorinus, Münchener Theologische Studien. II Systematische Abteilung 41 (München, 1972), 71, 313, 319-20. He considers the mentioning of the Holy Ghost in Ad Cand. 31 as a later addition by Victorinus himself. However, there is no valid proof for this suggestion. See also ibid. 138, n. 106 where Ziegenaus restates his idea that Victorinus himself altered his own early writings by adding later thoughts without giving profound textual evidence. 27 See A. Ziegenaus, Die trinitarische Ausprägung (1972), 116. 28 See e.g. Adv. Ar. IV 16.29-17.10: Nec mirum, cum illud esse primum ita sit ut, cum esse sit, sit et moveri, quamquam dicatur quies, movetur, movetur autem intus motu unde vivit sibi et intellegit semet ipsum. Ergo a motu interno extra et quod est foris natus est motus, ab eo quod est intus esse et foris esse, et ab eo quod est intus vivere foris vivere, ab eo quod est intus intellegere foris intellegere, movente se vita et intellegentia. Sunt enim motus, eodem exsistente simul eo quod est esse, ut et intus esset et foris ista trinitas, intus, cum deus unus et solus, foris, cum Iesus Christus, intus et foris, cum ambo deus unus. 29 See Adv. Ar. Ib 52.22-5: Et quoniam omnis potentia naturalis est voluntas, voluit vita movere semet ipsam, insita iuxta substantiam motione inpassibiliter erecta in id quod est. Naturalis enim voluntas non passio.

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to God’s will. It lies within its being to actualize Life and Wisdom, and is not a passion he suffers. In Adversus Arium Ib, Victorinus wants to demonstrate how this process of the son’s self-actualization from his state of power can be imagined in detail. This generative process must not be mistaken as temporal, but is only a logical explanation of the eternal relationship between the Father and the son.30 Victorinus uses the scheme of μόνη, πρόοδος, and ἐπιστροφή to illustrate the generation of the son. Within the Father’s being there is Life as an infinite motion that has the natural will to go forth and pass on the Life within the Father’s being. By moving outwards of the Father, the potential Life actualizes itself as full Life with its own being. As Life is an infinite motion and needs an object for its vivifying activity, its going out of the Father can be described as a deficient status compared to the unified rest in its potential status in the Father. However, Life and Wisdom are one and the same motion, with Wisdom being a backwards motion towards the Father. Wisdom turns the infinite Life back to the Father’s being, thus stabilizing the hypostasis of Life and the whole Trinity.31 Life is a descending movement (descensio), Wisdom in contrast an ascending movement (ascensio).32 This account of the generative process has been suspected to be of Gnostic origin, as Victorinus gives it a quasi-mythological tone.33 He calls the descending movement of Life a feminine power, because it has a desire to pass on life. Within the gender discourse of antiquity, this has also the function to characterize Life as deficient once it has gone forth from the Father.34 Consequently, the backwards turning motion of Wisdom is characterized as making Life male which is equivalent to a perfect status.35 Victorinus calls it necessary for Life to pass on to a ‘virginal power’ and describes this process of Life going forth 30 See Adv. Ar. Ib 57.17-21: In isto igitur sine intellectu temporis tempore, ab eo quod erat esse veluti egrediens in inspiciendum ipsum quod erat, quoniam ibi omnis motus substantia est, alteritas nata cito in identitatem revenit. For similar precautions against a temporal understanding, see Ad Cand. 21.2f, 22,.1-3; Adv. Ar. IV 7.30-3, 21.16-8. 31 See Adv. Ar. Ib 51.1-38. 32 Adv. Ar. Ib 51.27: descensio enim vita, ascensio sapientia. 33 See M. Tardieu, Recherches (1996), 10f. I will explore the Gnostic influences in these passages in my dissertation. 34 See Marius Victorinus, In Epistolam Pauli ad Galatas II, 4.3.72-3: quod omnia quae perfecta sunt vir dicitur, omnia quae inperfecta femina. 35 Hadot rightly conjectures virificata and translates it as ‘ayant alors reçu la force virile du Père’. See his comment in Marius Victorinus, Traités théologiques sur la Trinité I, ed. Paul Henry and Pierre Hadot, SC 68 (Paris 1960), 349. Clark’s translation misses the point by omitting the gender imagery, she translates ‘having been fortified by that’, see Marius Victorinus, Theological Treatises on the Trinity, FC 69 (Washington, DC, 1981), 174. However, I would agree with her to translate ab ipso neutrally, not taking it as a reference to the Father, as the Father is not imagined as being active in this passage.

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and Wisdom returning as Life being ‘born as man by the manly birth of a virgin’.36 It becomes clear why Victorinus uses this mythological language to describe the internal begetting of the son, when he parallelizes it with the virgin birth of Jesus: In this way, the economy had to be after this model, i.e. when the spirit was in the body, i.e. in the Son Christ, it also had to suffer a diminution and had to be born by a virgin, and because of this quasi-diminution, by its power from the Father, i.e. its more divine existence, it had to rise again, to be renewed and to return into the Father, i.e. into the existence and power of the Father.37

Victorinus here interprets the virgin birth of Jesus, his resurrection and assumption to heaven as an image of the immanent descent of Life and ascent of Wisdom. The immanent activity of Life and Wisdom is the model for their economic activity. It is important to observe closely the parallelism between the immanent and the economic activity to understand Victorinus’ intention here. Just as Life descends within the Father, the Son descends economically to be born by a virgin. Just as Wisdom prevents Life from losing itself to infinity and ascends within the Father, the Son arises from death and ascends to heaven. Victorinus attempts no allegorical interpretation of the myth of the virgin birth, but draws conclusions from God’s economic activity on his immanent activity.38 This shows how closely related God’s substance and God’s activity are in Victorinus’ thought: The immanent activity is the typus for the 36

Adv. Ar. Ib 51.28-31: Et sicut exsistente vita prima exsistentia necessitas fuit in virginalem potentiam subintrare et masculari virginis partu virum generari filium dei. Hadot understands masculari as a form of the adjective mascularis, see comment in M. Victorinus, Traités II (1969), 349, as does TLL 8.425.25-28 s.v. mascularis. Whereas Albert Blaise’s and Henri Chirat’s Dictionnaire latin-français des auteurs chrétiens (Turnhout, 1957), 517 s.v. masculo considers it to be a verbal form meaning ‘rendre mâle’. It cannot be decided which is right, as the word seems to be a hapax legomenon. 37 Adv. Ar. Ib 51.38-43: sic secundum typum oportuit ordinem esse et cum est in corpore spiritus, hoc est filio Christo, et quasi deminutio pati et a virgine nasci et in ipsa veluti deminutione sua patrica virtute, hoc est exsistentia diviniore et prima, resurgere et renovari et reverti in patrem, hoc est in exsistentiam et potentiam patricam. For the sense of ordo as economy Hadot refers to a similar expression in Adv. Ar. IV 32.14, see his comment in M. Victorinus, Traités II (1969), 858, ad loc. Typus should not be associated with the generatio secundum typum in Cand. I 9, as done by A. Ziegenaus, Die trinitarische Ausprägung (1972), 109. Victorinus uses it here in its basic Greek sense: secundum typum as a Latin equivalent to ‘κατὰ τὸν τύπον’ means ‘after the model’, see for this usage in Greek e.g. Exod. 25:40 LXX (and Acts 7:44), translated in Latin by Rufinus as secundum typum, see Rufinus, Orig. Hom. Num. XVII.4 in Origen, Werke, vol. 7, Homilien zum Hexateuch in Rufins Übersetzung, part 2, Die Homilien zu Numeri, Josua und Judices, GCS 30, ed. Wilhelm Adolf Baehrens (Leipzig, 1921), 162.13-4. 38 Benz has read this passage in such a way. He interprets it as an expression of the polar opposition of the masculine Logos as form principle of the world and matter as the feminine material principle of the world. See Ernst Benz, Marius Victorinus und die Entwicklung der abendländischen Willensmetaphysik, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Geistesgeschichte 1 (Stuttgart,

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economic activity. God’s immanent substance is constituted by the activity of three distinct hypostases, which makes it possible for him to act as creator and saviour of the world. This parallelization of the Trinity’s immanent interaction and its economic activity becomes even clearer in a second treatment of the generative process. As the Holy Ghost and the Logos are one movement, Victorinus can also start from the procession of the Holy Ghost out of the Father when describing the generation of the Son. Just as Life needs an object, which it can vivify, Thinking needs an object, which it can think. The Holy Ghost is going forth and actualizes itself from its potential state within the Father in order to be able to think and understand itself. This process of self-actualization creates a certain distinction between the thinking subject and the object of thinking, but in this process of thinking itself the Holy Ghost immediately returns to his unity with the Father. Simultaneously, this procession of Thinking from the Father begets Life. After this description of the immanent activities of the Trinity, Victorinus proceeds in the same way as above moving on to their parallel economic activity: Consequently, one is not mistaken if one gains the understanding that the Holy Ghost is the mother of Jesus above and in the events directed downwards, above, as I have said, in the events directed downwards in the following way: It was necessary for the liberation that the universal divine […] is incarnated by the inferior matter and all corruption in order to destroy all corruption and sin. The darkness and ignorance of soul torn asunder by material powers needed the help of the eternal light, so that the Logos of the soul and the Logos of the flesh, after driving away corruption by the mystery of death, could raise up souls and flesh to new life through the operation of the Holy Ghost to divine and vivifying thoughts, by knowledge, faith, and love. Thus, the angel answers Mary and tells her: ‘The Holy Ghost will come to you and the power of the most high will overshadow you’. These two in motion, which are the Logos and the Holy Ghost, came to make Mary pregnant, so that flesh from flesh could be built, a temple and house of God.39 1932), 245-8. However, the Son himself is clearly shown to be male and female himself. The androgony of the Logos is explicitly stated in Adv. Ar. Ib 64.25-6. 39 Adv. Ar. Ib 58,11-29: Non falletur ergo, si quis subintellexerit sanctum spiritum matrem esse Iesu et supra et deorsum, supra quidem, ut dictum, deorsum autem isto modo. Necesse fuit liberationis gratia omne divinum […] ab inferiore hyle et corruptione omni incarnari in mortificationem omnis corruptionis et peccati. Tenebrae enim et ignoratio animae direptae ab hylicis potentiis eguerunt lumine aeterno in auxilium, ut λόγος animae et λόγος carnis, mysterio mortis detrusa corruptione, in reviviscentiam et animas et carnes per sanctum spiritum administratorem ad divinas et vivefacientes intellegentias erigerent cognoscentia, fide, amore. Respondit igitur angelus Mariae et dixit ipsi: spiritus sanctus adveniet in te et virtus altissimi inumbrabit tibi. Haec duo in motu quae sunt λόγος et spiritus sanctus, ad id ut gravida esset Maria, ut aedificaretur caro a carne, dei templum et domicilium, advenerunt. My translation of deorsum is more complicated, but stresses the connotation of a downwards movement to emphasize the parallelization between the immanent and economic activity. Clark translates it just as a locative opposite of supra: ‘both there above and here below’. See M. Clark, Marius Victorinus (1981), 184. Hadot’s understanding is the same: ‘aussi bien là-haut qu’ici bas’. See his comment in M. Victorinus, Traités I (1960), 369.

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Similarly as above, Victorinus describes the economic activity as parallel to the immanent activity. Proceeding from its potential state in the Father, the Holy Ghost begets Life, both come forth in one single motion. In the exact same way the Holy Ghost begets the incarnated Christ by coming down on Mary, they both come down in one single motion on Mary. The immanent activity is the exact model for the economic activity.40 It has become clear that in Adversus Arium Ib Victorinus models the constitution of the immanent Trinity precisely in such a way to explain the Trinity’s economic activity. The immanent interaction of three distinct activities is necessary to constitute God’s inner substance, in the same way the interaction of the three hypostases is needed to create and redeem the world. God’s being is itself constituted by activity and thus the foundation and model of the economic activity. 5. Plotinus, Ennead VI 8 [39] In Ennead VI 8 [39], On the Voluntary and Free Will of the One, Plotinus speaks unusually boldly of the One in a cataphatic manner developing perspectives on the One, which are of great interest for a comparison to Victorinus.41 In this treatise, Plotinus is concerned with refuting the idea that the One is subjected to any form of necessity or chance. For the sake of argument, Plotinus is ready to leave the proper discourse about the One and to assume it has something like a substance, an activity, an intellect and will.42 He makes it very clear that the reader should understand these predications as if they were put in quotation marks. If the One has an activity (ἐνέργεια), a will (βούλησις) and a substance (οὐσία), these must all coincide with one another and be absolutely identical: ‘Its activities are the same as its “substance”, its will is the same as its substance. If this is the case, then it is exactly what it wanted to be’.43 If there was any difference between the One’s substance, activity or will, one part of it would dominate over another, thus making it 40

It is also important to consider this immanent process in discussions of the being-life-mind triad in Victorinus. Because of the substantial identity of the Logos and the Holy Ghost, Victorinus can use both the order being-life-mind, as above, and being-mind-life as in this example. 41 Already Benz has pointed to this Ennead, see E. Benz, Marius Victorinus (1932), 293-309. See for this Ennead, Plotinus, Ennead VI.8: On the Voluntary and on the Free Will of the One, ed. and trans. Kevin Corrigan and John D. Turner (Las Vegas, Zurich, Athens, 2017). 42 See Plotinus, Enn. VI 8 [39], 13.1-5: Ἀλλ’ εἰ καὶ τὰ ὀνόματα ταῦτα ἐπάγειν δεῖ οὐκ ὀρθῶς τοῦ ζητουμένου, πάλιν αὖ λεγέσθω, ὡς τὰ μὲν ὀρθῶς εἴρηται, ὅτι οὐ ποιητέον οὐδ’ ὡς εἰς ἐπίνοιαν δύο, τὰ δὲ νῦν τῆς πειθοῦς χάριν καί τι παρανοητέον ἐν τοῖς λόγοις’. Ibid. 47-50: ‘Δεῖ δὲ συγχωρεῖν τοῖς ὀνόμασιν, εἴ τις περὶ ἐκείνου λέγων ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἐνδείξεως ἕνεκα αὐτοῖς χρῆται, ἃ ἀκριβείᾳ οὐκ ἐῶμεν λέγεσθαι· λαμβανέτω δὲ καὶ τὸ οἷον ἐφ’ ἑκάστου. 43 Ibid. 13,6-9: αἱ δὲ ἐνέργειαι ἡ οἷον οὐσία αὐτοῦ, ἡ βούλησις αὐτοῦ καὶ ἡ οὐσία ταὐτὸν ἔσται. Εἰ δὲ τοῦτο, ὡς ἄρα ἐβούλετο, οὕτω καὶ ἔστιν.

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unfree. In this case, it would have a different substance than it wanted or would act differently from what it is. If the One were not free and above every difference and possibility of chance, it would not really be the One. Consequently, as the One, it is what it wants to be and it acts according to its own substance and will. This matches exactly the caveat given by the Emperor Julian in his Hymn to the King Helios: a god’s substance, activity, power and will are congruent without any division. Interestingly, Plotinus also tentatively applies his theory of double activity on the One in this ennead. Otherwise, Plotinus is content to call the One as the source and cause of everything the δύναμις πάντων. His concept of δύναμις is very different from an Aristotelian sense of a passive potency. The One as power of everything transcends the opposition of activity and potency and is itself the dynamic source of all things.44 In VI 8 [39] Plotinus expounds this function of the One more detailed with the concept of the double activity.45 He describes the One as an activity that constitutes itself so that the One becomes the cause of itself in order to exclude the idea that it is what it is by chance.46 The One is ‘an activity above intellect, thought, and life: these are from him and not from another. He has is being from himself and out of himself’.47 Plotinus describes the One as an activity that constitutes its own being, while simultaneously being the cause of the things after it. However, the causation of intellect, life, and thought is not the primary aim of the One’s activity, but a by-product of its self-causation. This concept of the One as an absolute activity constituting its own being by self-actualization strongly recalls Victorinus’ conception of the Father as potentia with an internal activity inside. However, the decisive differences between both are obvious: Plotinus is only concerned to demonstrate the One’s absoluteness. He coordinates its substance, activity and will in a way that they are identical in order to exclude any differentiation within the One. Plotinus is not concerned with explaining how the hypostases after the One came into existing. They are merely a side effect of the One’s turning to itself. In contrast, Victorinus is determined to explain the Father’s relationship with the world, thus emphasizing the differentiated relationship within God as the foundation of his relationship with the created world. 44 See Plotinus, Enn. II 5 [25]. See in general Hans Buchner, Plotins Möglichkeitslehre, Epimeleia 16 (München, 1970). 45 See Eyjólfur Kjalar Emilsson, Plotinus on Intellect (Oxford, 2007), 22-68 46 See Plotinus, Enn. VI 8 [39], 16.12-8: ὁ δ’ εἰς τὸ εἴσω οἷον φέρεται αὐτοῦ οἷον ἑαυτὸν ἀγαπήσας, αὐγὴν καθαράν, αὐτὸς ὢν τοῦτο, ὅπερ ἠγάπησε· τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶν ὑποστήσας αὐτόν, εἴπερ ἐνέργεια μένουσα καὶ τὸ ἀγαπητότατον οἷον νοῦς. Νοῦς δὲ ἐνέργημα· ὥστε ἐνέργημα αὐτός. Ἀλλὰ ἄλλου μὲν οὐδενός· ἑαυτοῦ ἄρα ἐνέργημα αὐτός. Οὐκ ἄρα ὡς συμβέβηκέν ἐστιν, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἐνεργεῖ αὐτός. 47 Ibid. 16.35-7: Αὐτὸς ἄρα ἐστὶν ἐνέργεια ὑπὲρ νοῦν καὶ φρόνησιν καὶ ζωήν· ἐξ αὐτοῦ δὲ ταῦτα καὶ οὐ παρ’ ἄλλου. Παρ’ αὐτοῦ ἄρα αὐτῷ καὶ ἐξ αὐτοῦ τὸ εἶναι.

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6. The Miahypostatic Theology of Marcellus of Ancyra During his exile at the end of the 330s, Marcellus of Ancyra exercised considerable influence on the Trinitarian debate in the West.48 Jörg Ulrich has shown that Western protagonists of the Trinitarian controversy viewed the Western Creed of the Synod of Serdica in 343 as the authentic interpretation of the Nicene Creed.49 The authority of the Western Synod helped to make Marcellus’ miahypostatic theology the standard of ‘Nicene’ orthodoxy among Western theologians.50 It is therefore very probable that Victorinus has known Marcellus’ miahypostatic theology better than his passing polemical remarks seem to indicate.51 Victorinus does not only follow Serdica’s miahypostatic theology, but he also works with the same key concept as Marcellus, when he distinguishes power (δύναμις) and activity (ἐνέργεια) within God. It seems in many aspects that Victorinus is accepting many basic decisions of Marcellus, while trying to avoid some problematic conclusions of his.52 It is therefore helpful to consider some aspects of Marcellus’ Trinitarian theology to bring out the characteristic differences to Victorinus. Stressing the unity of God, Marcellus rejects talking of two hypostases or persons, because in his eyes this leads to a division within God.53 Instead, he tries to explain the begetting of the Son with concepts from the Neo-Pythagorean

48 For Marcellus see the collection of fragments in Eusebius, Werke, vol. 4, Gegen Marcell über die kirchliche Theologie. Die Fragmente Marcells, GCS 14, ed. Erich Klostermann and Günther Christian Hansen (Berlin 1989), 183-215. For the order of fragments, a German translation and commentary see Klaus Seibt, Die Theologie des Markell von Ankyra, Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 59 (Berlin, New York, 1994), 203-459. 49 See Jörg Ulrich, Die Anfänge der abendländischen Rezeption des Nizänums, PTS 39 (Berlin, New York, 1994). For the debate on the date of the Council of Serdica and the arguments in favour of 343, see Sara Parvis, Marcellus of Ancyra and the Lost Years of the Arian Controversy 325-345, OECS (Oxford, 2006), 210-7. For the text of the Creed, see Athanasius, Werke, vol. 3, part 1, Dokumente zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streits, issue 3, Bis zur Ekthesis makrostichos, ed. Hanns Christof Brennecke et al. (Berlin, New York, 2007), Dokument 43.2, 205-12. 50 For the miahypostatic character of the Western Creed see ibid. Dok. 43.2.3f, 207.11-7: μίαν εἶναι τὴν ὑπόστασιν, ἥν αὐτοὶ οἱ Ἕλληνες οὐσίαν προσαγορεύουσι, τοῦ πατρὸς καὶ τοῦ υἱοῦ καὶ τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος. Καὶ εἰ ζητοῖεν, τίς τοῦ υἱοῦ ἡ ὑπόστασις ἐστιν, ὁμολογοῦμεν, ὡς αὕτη ἦν ἡ μόνη τοῦ πατρὸς ὁμολογουμένη. 51 He briefly dismisses Marcellus as a heretic in Adv. Ar. I 22.20-2, 28.33-40, 45.7-14; Adv. Ar. II 2.15-9. 52 E.g. his exegesis of 1Cor. 15 seems very similar to Marcellus’, while trying to avoid the suspicion that the reign of the Son comes to an end, see n. 68. In Ad Cand. 9 he refutes the concept of a generatio secundum typum that could be connected with Marcellus’ theology, see Pierre Hadot, ‘Typus. Stoïcisme et Monarchianisme au IVe siècle d’après Candide l’Arien et Marius Victorinus’, RTAM 18 (1951), 177-87. For a critical assessment of Hadot’s interpretation, see K. Seibt, Markell von Ankyra (1994), 469-70. 53 See e.g. fr. 61 Klostermann (196.20-2) = fr. 87 Seibt; fr. 63 Klostermann = fr. 85 Seibt, fr. 77 Klostermann = fr. 91 Seibt.

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metaphysics of numbers.54 He describes this process as the broadening of the monad into a triad without division, thus being the beginning of the triad.55 There can be no distinction in power (δύναμις) or being (ὑπόστασις) within God, as this would mean division, but only a distinction in activity (ἐνέργεια).56 From an exegesis of John 1:1, Marcellus derives the distinction of the Logos in power (δυνάμει) and in activity (ἐνεργείᾳ): [s]o that by saying ‘in the beginning was the Logos’ he can show that the Logos is in the Father with respect to power (for God, ‘from whom everything is’, is the beginning of all things that came into being), and that by saying ‘the Logos was with God’ he can show that the Logos was with God with respect to activity (for ‘everything was made through him, and without him not one thing was made’), and that by saying ‘the Logos was God’ he can show that the Godhead is not divided, because the Logos is in him and he is in the Logos, for he says: ‘In me is the Father and I am in the Father’.57

Before the creation, God remained in a state of rest and there was no activity in him.58 The Logos was ‘as a power’ (δυνάμει) within the monad, he only goes forth with respect to his activity (ἐνεργείᾳ) to create the world and to fulfil the economy in the flesh.59 From First Corinthians 15 Marcellus concludes that the economy is fulfilled with the final judgement. This means that the 54 See K. Seibt, Markell von Ankyra (1994), 460-76. Seibt argues for the Neo-Pythagorean background of Marcellus’ teaching and makes the compelling case that Marcellus takes up this concept of δύναμις and ἐνέργεια from Constantine himself, who has already used it at the Council of Nicaea according to Eusebius of Caesarea. See Athanasius, Werke, vol. 3, part 1, Urkunden zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streites 318-328, issue 1 and 2, ed. Hans-Georg Opitz (Berlin, 1941), Urkunde 22,16. 55 See fr. 66 Klostermann (197.23f) = fr. 47 Seibt: ἀδύνατον γὰρ τρεῖς ὑποστάσεις οὔσας ἑνοῦσθαι μονάδι, εἰ μὴ πρότερον ἡ τριὰς τὴν ἀρχὴν ἀπὸ μονάδος ἔχοι’. Fr. 67 Klostermann (197.32f) = fr. 48 Seibt: ‘[…] ἡ μονὰς φαίνεται, πλατυνομένη μὲν εἰς τριάδα, διαιρεῖσθαι δὲ μηδαμῶς ὑπομένουσα. 56 See fr. 61 Klostermann (196.20-2) = fr. 87 Seibt: οὐδὲ γὰρ τὸν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου λόγον δυνάμει καὶ ὑποστάσει χωρίσαι τινὶ δυνατόν· ἕν γάρ ἐστιν καὶ ταὐτὸν τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ὁ λόγος, καὶ οὐδενὶ χωριζόμενος ἑτέρῳ ἤ μόνῃ τῇ τῆς πράξεως ἐνεργείᾳ. 57 Fr. 52 Klostermann = fr. 70 Seibt: ἵν’ ἐν μὲν τῷ φῆσαι “ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος” δείξῃ δυνάμει ἐν τῷ πατρὶ εἶναι τὸν λόγον (ἀρχὴ γὰρ ἁπάντων τῶν γεγονότων ὁ θεὸς, “ἐξ οὑ τὰ πάντα”), ἐν δὲ τῷ “καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεὸν” ἐνεργείᾳ πρὸς τὸν θεὸν εἶναι τὸν λόγον (“πάντα” γάρ “δι’ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο καὶ χωρὶς αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο οὐδὲ ἕν”), ἐν δὲ τῷ θεὸν εἶναι τὸν λόγον εἰρηκέναι μὴ διαιρεῖν τὴν θεότητα, ἐπειδὴ ὁ λόγος τε ἐν αὐτῷ καὶ αὐτὸς ἐν τῷ λόγῳ· “ἐν ἐμοὶ γάρ φησιν ὁ πατήρ, κἀγὼ ἐν τῷ πατρί”. 58 See fr. 103 Klostermann (207.25f) = fr. 76 Seibt: πρὸ γὰρ τῆς δημιουργίας ἁπάσης ἡσυχία τις ἦν, ὡς εἰκός, ὄντος ἐν τῷ θεῷ τοῦ λόγου. For a discussion of possible origins of the concept of God’s primordial state of quietness, see K. Seibt, Markell von Ankyra (1994), 388-90. 59 See fr. 60 Klostermann (196.3-5) = fr. 110 Seibt: πρὸ γὰρ τὸν κόσμον εἶναι ἦν ὁ λόγος ἐν τῷ πατρί. ὅτε δὲ ὁ παντοκράτωρ θεὸς πάντα τὰ ἐν οὐρανοῖς καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ποιῆσαι προέθετο, ἐνεργείας ἡ τοῦ κόσμου γένεσις ἐδεῖτο δραστικῆς […]. For Marcellus’ concept of the economy in the flesh (ἡ κατὰ σάρκα οἰκονομία) see frs 3-8 Seibt = 43.1.48.53.42.49 Klostermann. Marcellus insists that the only appropriate title for the Son before his descent is Logos, while the other Christological titles are used for the incarnated Son.

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Logos reverts to his state as power within the monad, thus restoring the complete unity and quiet of God.60 Marcellus’ opponents have interpreted his teachings in a way that the Logos’ reign has a beginning and end.61 However, it is important to note that Marcellus carefully distinguishes an eternal kingdom of the Logos from the incarnated Son’s partial reign as king over the Church. Only the partial kingdom has a beginning with the incarnation of the Son and an end when the Son deposits the flesh he has assumed.62 In contrast, in his potential state within the Father the Logos reigns eternally together with the Father and Holy Ghost.63 Similarly, the distinction of the Logos’ being potentially within the Father and his procession in activity has given rise to misconceptions.64 Yet, already Theodor von Zahn has shown that Marcellus does not use δύναμις and ἐνέργεια in an Aristotelian sense.65 Marcellus does not understand δύναμις as a passive potency or transitional state that has to be transferred into an active state, but as an eternal state of being of the Logos. The being in power stresses the eternal unity of God and his Logos that has no beginning and no ending, while his being in activity characterizes his state as the active power of God. The distinction between the Logos’ being in power and in activity does neither suggest that he has only temporary existence while being activated nor that he is a mere activity without real being. The two terms describe two ‘real ways of being’ for the Logos, ‘the Logos’ being as effective power’ (ἐνεργείᾳ εἶναι) and his ‘being as a resting power in God’ (δυνάμει εἶναι).66 Thus, Marcellus’ 60 For the exegesis of 1Cor. 15 see frr. 99-112 Seibt = frs 111-121.60.41.122 Klostermann. See especially fr. 116 Klostermann (209.27-9) = fr. 104 Seibt: οὐκοῦν ἐνεργείᾳ μόνῃ διὰ τῆν τῆς σαρκὸς πρόφασιν ἄχρι τοσούτου κεχωρίσθαι τοῦ πατρὸς φαίνεται, ἄχρι οὗ ἄν ὁ προσιὼν τῆς κρίσεως ἀναφανῇ καιρός […]. Πάντων γὰρ ἐν τῷ καιρῷ τοῦ τέλους ὑποτάσσεσθαι μελλόντων τῷ Χριστῷ, ὡς ὁ ἀπόστολος ἔφη, τηνικαῦτα “αὐτὸς ὑποταγήσεται τῷ ὑποτάξαντι αὐτῷ τὰ πάντα”. Fr. 121 Klostermann (212.9-12) = fr. 109 Seibt: […] ἵν’ οὕτως ᾖ ἐν θεῷ ὁ λόγος, ὥσπερ καὶ πρότερον ἦν πρὸ τοῦ κόσμον εἶναι. Οὐδενὸς γὰρ ὄντος πρότερον ἤ θεοῦ μόνου, πάντων δὲ διὰ τοῦ λόγου γίγνεσθαι μελλόντων, προῆλθεν ὁ λόγος δραστικῇ ἐνεργείᾳ, ὁ λόγος οὗτος τοῦ πατρὸς ὤν. 61 See e.g. the Ekthesis makrostichos from 345, in Athanasius, Werke, vol. 3, part 1, ed. H.C. Brennecke (2007), Dokument 44.9. 62 See fr. 116-7 Klostermann = 104-5 Seibt, where Marcellus explains that the Son takes up the flesh for our sake and has no need to keep it in the eschaton. 63 For a detailed analysis, see K. Seibt, Markell von Ankyra (1994), 418-41. See e.g. fr. 117 Klostermann (210.23-5) = fr. 105 Seibt: οὐκοῦν ἐπειδὰν τοῦς ἐχθροὺς σχῇ ὑποπόδιον τῶν ποδῶν οὐκέτι χρῄζει τῆς ἐν ταύτης βασιλείας, πάντων καθόλου βασιλεὺς ὑπάρχων· συμβασιλεύει γὰρ τῷ θεῷ καὶ πατρί, οὗ ὁ λόγος ἦν τε καὶ ἐστίν. 64 See e.g. the Ekthesis makrostichos, in Athanasius, Werke, vol. 3, part 1, ed. H.C. Brennecke (2007), Dokument 44.10. 65 See Theodor von Zahn, Marcellus von Ancyra: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Theologie (Gotha, 1867), 121-30. 66 Th. von Zahn, Marcellus von Ancyra (1867), 123, 124, 127: ‘daß beide Ausdrücke zwei wirkliche Existenzweisen bezeichnen’. ‘Es bezeichnet also das ἐνεργείᾳ εἶναι keineswegs ein vom Logos ausgehendes, ihn selbst von sich ausschließendes Wirken […], sondern ein Sein des Logos als wirkende Kraft’. ‘Aber während alles dessen bleibt er mit Gott geeint, sofern er δύναμις

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Logos ‘leads a double life, one that is turned towards God, one that is turned towards the world’.67 In my opinion, we can explain some of the peculiarities of Victorinus’ Trinitarian theology best if we suppose that he knew Marcellus’ concept of the Logos being in power and being in activity and its contemporary criticism. The first key difference is that Victorinus tries very hard to avoid any misconceptions when he distinguishes between the potential state of the Logos and his procession to activity. Victorinus stresses the fact that the potential state of the Logos is not a state of passive potency, but a state of power. The Logos is already movement within God, before he actualizes himself outwards. In fact, the concept of the Logos begetting itself is motivated by the desire to avoid the misunderstanding that the Son is a passive potency within the Father. The second difference is that Victorinus stresses the fact that the Son proceeds eternally from the Father’s being and not only to create the world and to fulfil the economy. The actualized state of the Son does not end in Victorinus’ theology, but he is eternally an actualized substance of his own. Thus, Victorinus is arguing implicitly against Marcellus’ view that 1Corinthians 15 is suggesting an end of the Son’s actualized state. Although in an exegesis of 1Corinthians 15 Victorinus can say that ‘after all enemies are destroyed, the active power rests’, he stresses the fact that everything continues to exist, yet in a different state: The creation continues with God being spiritually in it, as far as everything is capable to be full of God according to its substance and power. The Son continues to exist with God existing in his essence and resting.68 This means, that the Son’s being remains unchanged, as he is substantially God from eternity, only his activity towards the world comes to an end.69 Of course, from an ‘orthodox’ point of view, Victorinus comes dangerously close to Marcellus in this exegesis. However, as he stresses the eternal character of the Son’s actualized being, he can use similar ideas as Marcellus without fearing to be misunderstood.

7. The Heterousian Theology of Aetius and Eunomius Although it seems unlikely that Victorinus had to a great extent first-hand knowledge of the Heterousian theology of Aetius and Eunomius, it is a useful point of comparison to highlight some differences. The Heterousians treat it as ist, das heißt also, sofern er die in Gott ruhende Kraft ist, das Vermögen zu der Wirkung, welche er als ἐνέργεια δραστική wirkt’. 67 Ibid. 128: ‘Er führt ein Doppelleben, ein Gotte und ein der Welt zugekehrtes’. 68 Adv. Ar. I 39.26-34: Evacuatis enim omnibus, requiescit activa potentia, et erit in ipso deus secundum quod est esse et secundum quod est quiescere, in aliis autem omnibus spiritaliter secundum suam et potentiam et substantiam. Et hoc est: ut deus sit omnia in omnibus. Non enim omnia in unoquoque, sed omnia in omnibus. Manebunt igitur omnia, sed deo existente in omnibus, et ideo omnia erit deus, quod omnia erunt deo plena. 69 See the commentary of P. Hadot, in M. Victorinus, Traités I (1960), 820 ad 39,27.

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a basic axiom of their theology that the name of a thing gives evidence to its substance. Applying this principle to the Father and the Son, one must conclude that they are different in substance. When the Father is rightly called unbegotten and the Son begotten, they cannot be of the same substance.70 Thus, the Heterousians develop a Trinitarian theology that radically stresses the difference of the Father and the Son with a clear subordination of the Son. In contrast to all other theological tendencies in the 4th century AD, the Heterousians teach a very optimistic epistemology.71 Their theology is decidedly a speculation about God’s substance and they are very optimistic that men can fully know God’s substance.72 In his Apology, Eunomius sets out two methodological ways to attain this knowledge of God: There are two roads marked out to us for the discovery of what we seek: one is that by which we examine the actual essences and with clear and unadulterated reasoning about them make a judgement on each, the other is an enquiry by means of the actions, whereby we distinguish the essence on the basis of its products and completed works – and neither of the ways mentioned is able to bring out any apparent similarity of essence.73

In Eunomius’ opinion, one can conclude the dissimilarity of the substances either top-down by examining them directly or bottom-up by examining their respective activities. The unbegotten substance of the Father is different from 70 See for this principle the Syntagmation of Aetius, in Athanasius, Werke, vol. 3, part 1, Dokumente zur Geschichte des Arianischen Streits, issue 4, Bis zur Synode von Alexandrien 362, ed. Hanns Christof Brennecke et al., Dokument 61.1,17 (511.2-4): Εἰ τὸ ἀγέννητον οὐσίας ἐστὶ δηλωτικόν, εἰκότως πρὸς τὴν τοῦ γεννήματος οὐσίαν ἀντιδιαστέλλεται’. See also Eunomius, Liber apologeticus 12: ‘Γέννημα τοίνυν φαμὲν τὸν υἱὸν κατὰ τὴν τῶν γραφῶν διδασκαλίαν, οὐχ ἕτερον μὲν τὴν οὐσίαν νοοῦντες, ἕτερον δέ τι παρ’ αὐτὴν τὸ σημαινόμενον, ἀλλ’ αὐτὴν εἷναι τὴν ὑπόστασιν ἣν σημαίνει τοὔνομα, ἐπαληθευούσης τῇ οὐσίᾳ τῆς προσηγορίας. Text in Eunomius, The Extant Works, ed. and trans. Richard Paul Vaggione, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford, 1987), 48.6-10. See further Ekkehard Mühlenberg, ‘Die philosophische Bildung Gregors von Nyssa in den Büchern Contra Eunomium’, in Marguerite Harl (ed.), Écriture et culture philosophique dans la pensée de Grégoire de Nysse: Actes du Colloque de Chevetogne (22-26 Septembre 1969) (Leiden, 1971), 230-51, 230-2. 71 This optimism is expressed in a quotation of Aetius that Epiphanius relates in Epiphanius, Pan. 76.4.2: οὕτως, φησί, τὸν θεὸν ἐπίσταμαι τηλαυγέστατα καὶ τοσοῦτον αὐτὸν ἐπίσταμαι καὶ οἶδα, ὥστε μὴ εἰδέναι ἐμαυτὸν μᾶλλον ὡς θεὸν ἐπίσταμαι. Text according to the edition Epiphanius, Dritter Band: Panarion haer. 65-80, De fide, ed. Karl Holl and Jürgen Dummer, GCS 37 (Berlin, 1985), 344.20f. 72 Philostorgius criticizes Arius, because of his more pessimistic view and a reluctance to speak of God’s substance or hypostasis, see Philostorgius, Historia ecclesiastica X 2. Text in Philostorgios, Kirchengeschichte, ed. and trans. Bruno Bleckmann and Markus Stein, Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der Spätantike E7 (Paderborn, 2015), 398. 73 Eunomius, Liber apologeticus 20 (58.5-10): δυεῖν γὰρ ἡμῖν τετμημένων ὁδῶν πρὸς τὴν τῶν ζητουμένων εὕρεσιν, μιᾶς μὲν καθ’ ἣν τὰς οὐσίας αὐτὰς ἐπισκοπούμενοι, καθαρῷ τῷ περὶ αὐτῶν λόγῳ τὴν ἑκάστου ποιούμεθα κρίσιν, θατέρας δὲ τῆς διὰ τῶν ἐνεργείων ἐξετάσεως, ἣν ἐκ τῶν δημιουργημάτων καὶ τῶν ἀποτελεσμάτων διακρίνομεν, οὐδετέραν τῶν εἰρημένων εὑρεῖν ἐμφαινομένην τὴν τῆς οὐσίας ὁμοιότητα δυνατόν. English translation by R.P. Vaggione, in Eunomius, The Extant Works (1987), 59.

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the begotten substance of the Son, just as their activities are different. Following the bottom-up way, one can conclude that the Holy Ghost is a thing made by the Son, and the Son a thing made by the Unbegotten. Thus, a lower hypostasis is a product made by the activity of the higher hypostasis and different from its producer. Although Eunomius follows the Neoplatonic order that derives activities from their substances, he firmly rejects the identification of substance and activity. If the activity were a motion of God’s substance, one would have to conclude that his activity is eternal like his substance. However, his creative activity has stopped, so in contrast to his substance, his activity has a beginning and an end.74 God’s foremost activity is his will, by which he brings forth everything that has come into existence.75 The background for Eunomius’ teaching is the rejection of the eternity of the creation: If God’s activity and will were united to his substance, the product of his activity would be eternal, too. Thus, the created world would be eternal. Eunomius separates God’s activity and will from his substance in order to safeguard the temporal existence of the world.76 He then draws the consequences of this insight for the relationship of the Father and the Son: The Son is a product of God’s will, therefore has a beginning and is different from the Father’s unbegotten substance. In radical contrast to Eunomius, Victorinus conceptualizes the substance of God as an activity. In Victorinus’ opinion the Son as God’s will is an internal activity of the Father and coeternal to his substance. However, Victorinus does not draw the same conclusions from his identification of substance and activity as Eunomius would have. The immanent activity of God is coeternal with his substance, as the Son is always going forth from the Father. However, the economic activity is not a direct emanation of God’s substance, but after the model of the immanent activity. Thus, it is not necessarily coeternal with God’s substance. Victorinus does not necessarily teach the eternal existence of the material world, as Baltes assumes.77 Baltes identifies the immanent and economic activity of God in Victorinus and draws the conclusion that the economic activity is in the same way eternal as the immanent activity. Of course, this is to a great extent Victorinus’ fault who often parallelizes the activities in a way that it is difficult to distinguish them. However, it is important to acknowledge 74 See Eunomius, Liber apologeticus 20-2; E. Mühlenberg, ‘Die philosophische Bildung’ (1971), 233-4. 75 See Eunomius, Liber apologeticus 23 (64.16-8 Vaggione): ἀληθεστάτην δὲ καὶ θεῷ πρεπωδεστάτην ἐνέργειαν ἡγεῖσθαι τὴν βούλησιν, ἀρκοῦσαν πρός τε τὸ εἶναι καὶ σώζεσθαι τὰ πάντα. 76 See ibid. 22. The context for this is a debate on Origen, see Llyod G. Patterson, ‘Methodius on Origen in De creatis’, in Robert J. Daly (ed.), Origeniana Quinta: Papers of the 5th International Origen Congress, Boston College, 14-18 August 1989, BETL 105 (Leuven, 1992), 497-508. 77 See Matthias Baltes, Marius Victorinus: Zur Philosophie in seinen theologischen Schriften, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 174 (München, Leipzig, 2002), 87.

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this difference in Victorinus and not to confuse the immanent and economic activities. 8. Conclusions The comparison of Victorinus to two other big players in the theological field of the 4th century and to Plotinus should help to see the peculiarities of his conception of the Trinity. In Victorinus’ eyes, the interaction of three different activities constitutes God’s substance. They are all necessarily needed to make up the one substance of God. The Trinitarian God then can interact with the world in the way he does, because he interacts with himself. Victorinus conceptualizes God’s relationship with himself in a way that it can explain how God can have a relationship with the temporal creation without ceasing to be what he is. In contrast, Plotinus’s main concern is to safeguard the One’s absoluteness and simplicity. He does not aim his speculation on the One at an explanation how and why the One brings forth anything, but an explanation of the One’s transcendence. Eunomius and Marcellus distinguish God’s substance and activity in different ways: Eunomius supposes a clear distinction between God’s being and his activity in order to guarantee that neither the world nor the Son as products of God’s activity are coeternal with his substance. In contrast, Marcellus sees the Logos’ role as God’s effective activity only as temporal. While he rests eternally within the Father in the state of power, he goes forth as an activity only to create and redeem the world. In the end time, the active state of the Logos reverts to its resting state in God. In contrast, Victorinus tries at the same time to show how the Son as God’s will and activity is coeternal to the Father’s substance and how God’s economic activity can have a beginning and an end. God is an active being, because the Son goes eternally forth from the Father as activity, but God’s economic activity is a function of his substance, not identical to his substance. However, we can conclude from God’s economic actions on his immanent substance, because the economy is modelled after the immanent activity. Marcellus has taken up philosophical concepts and remodelled them to develop the difference and unity in God within his miahypostatic framework, thus furthering the theological debate of his time. Eunomius, in the same way, has remodelled philosophical categories already used in the theological discourse to safeguard his theological interest. I hope to have shown that Victorinus in the same way is connected to the theological and philosophical discourse of his time. He is not simply Christianizing a given Platonic philosophy, but developing the theological debate of his time, his main motive being to explain the connection between the speculations on the Trinity and man’s salvation. For that he uses philosophical thoughts and concepts from his lifelong study of

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philosophy and expands on terms that are already in use. He is not the first to bring up the concept of power and activity to explain the relationship between the Father and the Son, but he gives these concepts new nuances gained from his philosophical studies. In further studies, it will prove useful to take more contemporary influences into account to get a more detailed idea of Victorinus’ undertaking. Besides Marcellus, he shows knowledge of Athanasius’ Orations against the Arians, maybe works by Origen, possibly the pseudo-Athanasian Fourth Oration against the Arians, and he shows some striking similarities to Gnostic works in the Nag-Hammadi-Corpus.78 Comparing his theology to these texts and ideas will further sharpen his profile as a Christian philosopher.

78 I will give a detailed discussion of this thesis in my dissertation on Marius Victorinus. I thank Markus Vinzent for referring me to Pseudo-Athanasius. On Victorinus’ possible knowledge of this text see Markus Vinzent, Pseudo-Athanasius, Contra Arianos IV. Eine Schrift gegen Asterius von Kappadokien, Eusebius von Cäsarea, Markell von Ankyra und Photin von Sirmium, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 36 (Leiden, 1996), 61, 310-2.

Spain and the Young Emperor Theodosius I Thomas BRAUCH, Central Michigan University, Mount Pleasant, MI, USA

ABSTRACT Modern research no longer considers Theodosius I to be a Spanish emperor. According to revisionist opinion, Theodosius grew up outside Spain in army camps following his father’s military career. Hence, Spain’s religious atmosphere did not influence Theodosius nor did Spain contribute to his religious program as emperor. Against this view the present writer argues that Theodosius spent his formative years as a civilian in Spain and that his youthful Spanish experience affected his religious policy as emperor. Theodosius came from Spanish provincial aristocracy for whom the family estate and its society were the focus of boyhood preparation for aristocratic life. At his Spanish birthplace near Cauca, Theodosius received a formal education and learned the customs of elite Roman society, including amicitia. Ancient sources testify to Theodosius’ civilian formation, especially his education. Theodosius entered the Roman army in his late teens as the son of a veteran. This conclusion has several negative consequences for the revisionist picture of Theodosius. Because of his rearing in Spain, Theodosius should once more be considered a Spanish emperor. Theodosius should also be given a Spanish aristocratic civilian persona that is denied him by the revisionists. Theodosius’ youth in Spain is most likely the origin of his Nicene attitude in religion and politics rather than episcopal influence after he became emperor as the revisionists assert. Spain also influenced Theodosius’ imperial religious policy in specific ways. As emperor, Theodosius favored the Novatians and the Luciferians because they accepted the Nicene Creed and because he admired their Christian rigorism. Theodosius defended these schismatic sects from his laws against Christian dissidents and permitted a Luciferian prelate to teach his family. The best explanation for Theodosius’ favoritism of these two groups is that he grew up in Spain where the contemporary Nicene Church and laity displayed rigorist attitudes. Spanish Nicene rigorism also influenced Theodosius’ religious legislation in subtle ways. Historians have failed to access properly Theodosius’ interests in Nicene rigorism. There is a need for a new revisionary account of the emperor Theodosius I’s life, career and reign. Many older notions about Theodosius currently believed to have been superseded by recent scholarship must be reinvestigated. The true nature of his Spanish background and its effects on Theodosius and his rule will be important concerns of this new description of the emperor.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 109-129. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Recent research has significantly changed the traditional view of the emperor Theodosius I.1 Theodosius is no longer seen as the great Nicene champion who began his reign with the intention of establishing Nicene orthodoxy. The revisionist view is that Theodosius was neutral in his religious faith and had no religious policy as emperor until influenced by Nicene bishops to adopt a pro-Nicene policy that he only provisionally accepted.2 In an essay included in Volume 96 of Studia Patristica, the present writer argues that Theodosius was a Nicene partisan before he became emperor and as emperor followed a consistent pro-Nicene policy.3 This essay will challenge the argument underlying the revisionist view. The revisionists claim that Theodosius’ native Spain and its official Nicene religious atmosphere did not influence him or his religious program as emperor. The revisionists deny Theodosius any connection to Spain by maintaining that he grew up outside Spain in army camps following his father’s military career.4 Against this view, the present speaker argues that Theodosius spent his formative years as a civilian in Spain and that his youthful experience in Spain affected his religious policy as emperor. The notion that Theodosius grew up in Roman army camps raises several problems. First, there is no evidence in any ancient source that substantiates this idea. Second, the church historian Theodoret expressly states that Theodosius was born and raised in Spain.5 Although the revisionists denigrate this report as late and unreliable,6 there is no reason to doubt Theodoret on this point. Theodoret wrote within sixty years of Theodosius’ death,7 and his reference to 1 Much of the new outlook on Theodosius I is presented in Gonzalo Bravo, Teodosio: último emperador de Roma, premier emperador católico (Madrid, 2010), esp. 83-193. See also Javier Arce, ‘La Hispania de Teodosio: 379-395’, Antiquité Tardive 16 (2008), 9-18. 2 Neil B. McLynn, Ambrose of Milan: Church and Court in a Christian Capital, Transformation of the Classical Heritage 22 (Berkeley, 1994), 106-24; id., ‘Theodosius, Spain and the Nicene Faith’, in Ramón Teja and Cesáreo Pérez (eds), Congreso Internacional La Hispania de Teodosio, 2 vol. (Burgos, 1997), I 171-8; id., ‘“Genere Hispanus”: Theodosius, Spain and Nicene Orthodoxy’, in Kim Bowes and Michael Kulikowski (eds and trans.), Hispania in Late Antiquity: Current Perspectives, The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World 24 (Boston, 2005), 77-120; id., ‘Moments of Truth: Gregory of Nazianzus and Theodosius I’, in Scott McGill et al. (eds), From the Tetrarchs to the Theodosians: Later Roman History and Culture 284-450 CE (Cambridge, New York, 2010), 215-39; R. Malcolm Errington, ‘Church and State in the First Years of Theodosius I’, Chiron 27 (1997), 21-72. 3 Thomas Brauch, ‘The Emperor Theodosius I and the Nicene Faith: A Brief History’, SP 96 (2017), 175-88. 4 N.B. McLynn, ‘Theodosius, Spain’ (1997), 171-4; id., ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 100-8. 5 Hist. eccl. V 5.1: Θεοδόσιος … ἐν ταῖς Σπανίαις διἐτριβεν · ἐν ἐκείναις γὰρ ἔφυ τε καὶ ἐτράφη. 6 N.B. McLynn, ‘Theodosius, Spain’ (1997), 172 and note 18; id. ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 100. 7 Theodoret wrote his church history roughly 440 to 448: Annick Martin and Pierre Canivet (eds), Theodoret de Cyr: Histoire ecclésiastique, Tome I (Livres I-II), SC 501 (Paris, 2006), 36.

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Theodosius’ youth comes from either a written source or oral tradition.8 Evidence soon to be cited corroborates Theodoret. A third problem is that the revisionist view is based on an error. In support of their position that Theodosius grew up in a military context, the revisionists refer to the common practice of Roman army officers to raise their sons with them in active service. They cite the examples of the emperor Valentinian I who accompanied his father as a youth when his father was a military officer in North Africa in the 320s or 330s and Martin of Tours’ father who kept his son with him on active military duty in northern Italy in the 320s.9 The difficulty for the revisionists is that Theodosius’ father and Valentinian’s and Martin’s fathers came from different social classes. Theodosius’ father was a Spanish aristocrat whose position in Roman society was based on large estate landholding;10 as the son of such a father, Theodosius was expected to grow up on the family estate to learn its management and the responsibilities of local social prominence.11 Valentinian’s father came from the lower orders of Roman society,12 and he did not own a large estate at the time he was an officer in North Africa;13 he obtained an estate after he left office in Africa.14 Thus, it was not unusual for Valentinian to grow up in military quarters with his father in Africa. Martin of Tours’ father was also not an aristocrat by birth or while in active military service.15 Hence, Theodosius’ aristocratic and Valentinian’s and Martin’s common soldier upbringing cannot be compared. It should be added that the cultural disparity between Roman aristocratic society and army life would make rearing the young Theodosius on the family estate a more socially acceptable option than raising him in military society.16 Status-conscious provincial aristocrats were concerned about family honor,17 and it is doubtful

8 For Theodoret’s use of sources, see ibid. 57-92. This note is difficult to trace. Theodoret may have gotten the reference to Theodosius’ Spanish upbringing from a source that he found in the city library of Antioch: ibid. 83. 9 N.B. McLynn, ‘Theodosius, Spain’ (1997), 172; id., ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 102-4. 10 Michele R. Salzman, The Making of a Christian Aristocracy (Cambridge, MA, London, 2002), 24-5 and note 24. 11 Ibid. 52, 71-3. This was a filial duty to the family: Dennis E. Trout, Paulinus of Nola: Life, Letters and Poems, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 27 (Berkeley, 1999), 27-8. 12 Epit. de Caes. 45.2: Huius [Valentinianus I] pater Gratianus mediocre stripe ortus Cibarus; Amm. Marc., Res Gest. XXX 7.2: Natus apud Cibalas, Pannoniae oppidum, Gratianus maior ignobili stirpe. 13 Noah Lensky, Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century AD (Berkeley, 2002), 38. 14 Ibid. 38-9, 46-7. 15 Martin’s father did not have the aristocratic status needed to advance beyond his last appointment as military tribune: Christopher Donaldson, Martin of Tours: Parish Priest, Mystic and Exorcist (London, Henley, 1980), 12. 16 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 23, 129. 17 Ibid. 13-9, 85.

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that Theodosius’ father would have blemished or impaired his son’s future advancement by raising him in Roman army camps. However, the revisionists question that Theodosius’ family were aristocratic landholders. Their doubts have no substance. The proposal that Theodosius’ father was a regular officer who received his estate as a reward for loyal service to Valentinian I has no evidence to support it.18 The passage in Pacatus’ panegyric to Theodosius that refers to his family as ‘a good family’19 does not disqualify the Theodosii as aristocrats as suggested.20 The panegyric was delivered in the Roman senate whose members held the highest aristocratic status in the Empire;21 any reference in the oration to elites of a lower status, including the Spanish provincial aristocracy that the Theodosii have traditionally been thought to have belonged, would have been politely qualified. The suggestion that Theodosius the Elder came from the Spanish curial or municipal order22 likewise does not disprove his aristocratic status. Many aristocratic families originated in the curial class23 and through local office holding and provincialbased patronage gained entry into the provincial aristocracy and finally access to Roman senatorial status by obtaining a high military or civilian position in the imperial administration.24 In fact, Theodosius the Elder and his brother Eucherius passed from the Spanish provincial aristocracy into the Roman senatorial aristocracy by holding high military and civilian appointments in the 370s, Theodosius as Magister equitum and Eucherius as Comes sacrarum largitionum.25 It is certain that the two brothers were large landholders because such high offices could only be achieved if the incumbent had the large landed wealth that was the basis of social status in late Roman society.26 The younger Theodosius himself passed from Spanish into senatorial aristocracy when he was appointed dux Moesiae 374; this office had senatorial status.27 Thus, it should be accepted that the Theodosii were large landowning Spanish aristocrats in the 370s. Evidence that supports Theoderet’s report of Theodosius’ civilian upbringing in Spain can now be presented. A young Spanish aristocrat would receive formal

18

N.B. Mclynn, ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 100-1. Pac., Pan. XII 5.4. The text reads tantum una familia ostenderet et triumphorum. 20 J. Arce, ‘Hispania de Teodosio’ (2008), 11. 21 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 69-71. 22 N.B. McLynn, ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 102. 23 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 96. 24 Hagith Sivan, Ausonius of Bordeaux (London, New York, 1993), 10-1. 25 PLRE I, ‘Flavius Eucherius 2’, 288; ‘Flavius Theodosius 3’, 902-4, 903. See M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 37, 41, 128. 26 Ibid. 22, 24-8, 36-7; H. Sivan, Ausonius (1993), 10. On the necessity of such resources for high army command see Wolf Liebeschuetz, ‘Warlords and Landlords’, in Paul Erdkamp (ed.), A Companion to the Roman Army (Malden, MA, 2007), 479-94, 488-9. 27 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 128; H Sivan, Ausonius (1993), 3. 19

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schooling as a necessary preparation for his career.28 A Latin source affirms that Theodosius obtained a civilian education in Spain. The Epitome de Caesaribus relates that the emperor Theodosius had substantial training in literature and enjoyed reading history (48.11). This suggests, first, that a grammarian, the teacher in the Roman educational system who instructed literature,29 taught Theodosius. This is confirmed by the letter that Ausonius, the famous Latin orator and poet, wrote around 388 in answer to a letter of Theodosius asking for a copy of his poetry.30 Ausonius’ letter contains several literary allusions, including three Virgilian examples, that Ausonius thought the emperor would appreciate.31 Virgil was the most important poet taught by Latin grammarians.32 Theodosius’ interest in history should also be ascribed to his formal education. In late antiquity history was not taught as a subject but as an auxiliary study for the grammarian to explain literature.33 In addition, the genre of history that the Epitome de Caesaribus says Theodosius favored was Roman exempla literature meant for improved personal conduct by presenting historical examples of virtuous actions (48.12-3). Such literature was an established component of late ancient Roman education.34 In addition, such literature was used in school for oratorical training.35 Thus, it may be possible to follow Theodosius’ schooling through the two higher stages of Roman education: grammar and rhetoric.36 However, it is difficult to trace the influence of rhetorical training on Theodosius, especially because a grammarian often gave oratorical instruction.37 Nevertheless, Theodosius would most likely have had some training in public speaking considering the importance of rhetoric in Roman culture and the need of an aristocrat for some rhetorical ability to exercise local leadership.38 The only other known detail about Theodosius’ education that is that he ended his literary training early.39 This was a common concession to practicality in 28 M.R Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 42. For late Roman education see Henri I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, trans. Charles Lamb (London, 1982), 306-13; Samuel Dill, Roman Society in the Last Century of the Western Empire, 2nd ed. rev. (New York, 1958), 385-451; Pierre Riché, Education and Culture in the Barbarian West, Sixth Through the Eighth Centuries, trans. John J. Contreni (Columbia, SC, 1976), 3-13, 17-51. 29 H.I. Marrou, Education (1982), 274-83. 30 Praef. 3, Theodosio Augusto Ausonius: R.P.H. Green, The Works of Ausonius (Oxford, 1991), 4-5, 240-1. This letter answers the Epistula Theodosi Augusti: R.P.H. Green, Works (1991), 707; see H. Sivan, Ausonius (1993), 150-1. 31 R.P.H. Green, Works (1991), 240-1. 32 H.I. Marrou, Education (1982), 277-8; S. Dill, Last Century (1958), 420-1. 33 H.I. Marrou, Education (1982), 279-81. 34 H.W. Bird, Sextus Aurelius Victor: A Historiographical Study, ARCA, Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers and Monographs 14 (Liverpool, 1984), 100. 35 H.I. Marrou, Education (1982), 285; P. Riché, Education and Culture (1976), 5, 43. 36 Ibid. 3-5. 37 Ibid. 25. 38 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 26-8, 71-3. 39 Epit de Caes. 48.11.

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Late Roman antiquity:40 higher education in literature was not to every person’s liking and not necessary for advancement in some careers. Those in high military commands were not expected to have a highly developed literary preparation as did those in high civilian office.41 Perhaps Theodosius’ father made the decision that the younger Theodosius should follow a career in the army and did not need literary education beyond a certain point. 42 But the ‘plethora’ of literary allusions in Ausonius’ letter to Theodosius43 shows that Theodosius had a good amount of the better education expected of an aristocrat.44 It should be noted that Theodosius’ education as a youth in Spain influenced his activities as emperor. The emperor tried to gain the acceptance of his rule by the educated eastern and western elites through favoring education and men of letters.45 His letter to Ausonius referred to above46 is an example; in the letter, Theodosius praises the genius of the poet and asks for a copy of his poetry. Theodosius also honored the two outstanding contemporary Eastern teachers, Themistius of Constantinople and Libanius of Antioch, as he did Christians with a strong literary education such as Gregory of Nazianzus.47 Theodosius particularly promoted history. Flavius Nicomachus the Elder dedicated his Annales to the emperor,48 and Claudian the panegyrist claims that Theodosius personally taught his young son Honorius the lessons of Greek and Roman history to prepare him for proper rulership.49 Other activities of Theodosius as emperor reflect his early civilian preparation for aristocratic life in Spain. One consideration is the letter that Theodosius wrote to Ausonius referred to above.50 In this letter Theodosius reminds Ausonius of their former friendship at the court of the emperor Valentinian I when Theodosius was a young officer in the early 370s.51 The reference to friendship and the polite language used by the emperor make this letter an example of Roman amicitia, the highly stylized exercise of friendship cultivated by Roman aristocrats between themselves.52 Amicitia, particularly as expressed in letters, 40

P. Riché, Education and Culture (1976), 5. M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 128. 42 For the role of the aristocratic father in determining his sons’ careers, see Geoffrey S. Nathan, The Family in Late Antiquity (London, New York, 2000), 140, 144, 158. 43 ‘[There is] in the poem [Ausonius’ verse letter to Theodosius] a plethora of verbal echoes of classical poets…’: R.P.H. Green, Works (1991), 240. 44 G.S. Nathan, Family (2000), 188; M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 42, 48. 45 Epit. de Caes. 48.9; Pierre Maraval, Théodose le Grand (379-395): le pouvoir et la foi (Paris, 2009), 77-8. 46 Supra note 30. 47 P. Maraval, Théodose (2009), 77-8. 48 Ibid. 77. 49 Panegyric on the Fourth Consulship of Honorius, vss 396-418. 50 Supra note 30. 51 Text: R.P.H. Green, Works (1991), 707. 52 John F. Matthews, Western Aristocracies and Imperial Court, AD 364-425 (Oxford, 1975), 5-9. 41

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was an important feature of Roman aristocratic manners and was a necessary element of training a young aristocrat for manhood.53 A related consideration is Theodosius’ reported amiability and openness to others as emperor.54 Such affability was a necessary component in the aristocratic code of social interaction with aristocratic colleagues and with social inferiors, especially in instances of patronage.55 Family and teachers were responsible for the training needed for the successful exercise of such aristocratic social conventions.56 It is difficult to see how a formal education or the training in amicitia and the other aristocratic social graces could have been accomplished in Roman military camps.57 Modern historiography should abandon the idea of Theodosius’ growing up in a military context. Theodosius entered the Roman army in his late teenage years as was customary for a son of a veteran.58 This conclusion has important implications. One is that Theodosius should once more be considered a Spanish emperor. Considering the sixteen or so years that he grew up in Spain and the two or three years that he spent in exile in Spain after his father’s execution, Theodosius spent more time in Spain than in any other Roman province or in Constantinople.59 Defining Theodosius as Spanish is in line with his own understanding of himself as seen in his claimed decent from the Spanish emperor Trajan featured in the propaganda of his reign.60 It also verifies his Spanish origin transmitted in later historical record.61

53 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 53-4; Stanley K. Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity, Library of Early Christianity 5 (Philadelphia, 1986), 58-60. 54 E.g. Pac., Pan. XII 21.2-5; Epit. de Caes. 48.9,18; Zos., Hist. nov. IV 25.1, 27.1; see Stephen Williams and Gerard Friell, Theodosius: The Empire at Bay (London, 1994), 25. 55 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 26-8, 44-7, 52-3. 56 Ibid. 58; G.S. Nathan, Family (2000), 154-5. 57 The revisionists make the same observation while insisting on Theodosius’ rearing in the Roman army: N.B. McLynn, ‘Theodosius, Spain’ (1997), 173; id., ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 103. 58 Gabriele Wesch-Klein, ‘Recruits and Veterans’, in P. Erdkamp (ed.), A Companion to the Roman Army (2007), 435-50, 438-9; see A.H.M. Jones, The later Roman Empire, 284-602, 2 vol. (Norman, 1964), I 615 for the obligatory recruitment of the sons of Roman officers. 59 Theodosius spent less than thirteen years in Constantinople considering his absence for his campaigns in the Western provinces against the usurpers Maximus and Eugenius: J.F. Matthews, Western Aristocracies (1975), 114. 60 Literary statements: Them., Or. 16, 204d-205a; Pac., Pan. XII 16.1; Epit. de Caes. 48.1, 8-10; Oros., Cont pag. VII 34.2-4; see J.F. Matthews, Western Aristocracies (1975), 108-9; P. Maraval, Théodose (2009), 70-1. Architectural promotion: early in his time in Constantinople Theodosius built a forum and raised a column emulating Trajan’s forum and column in Rome; see J.F. Matthews, Western Aristocracies (1975), 109 note 1, 119; P. Maraval, Théodose (2009), 288-9. 61 Pac., Pan. XII 4.2; Epit. de Caes. 47.3, 48.1; Soc., Hist. eccl. V 2.2; Soz., Hist. eccl. VII 2.1; Theod., Hist. eccl. V 5.1; Oros., Cont. pag. VII 34.2; Hyd., Chr. 379; Zos., Hist. nov. IV 24.4; Marcel., Chr. 379; John Mal., Chr. 343-4, 348; Theoph., Chr. AM 5871 (AD 378/79); and Zon., Hist. XIII 17. Brian Croke cites a Byzantine source stating that statues of ‘Theodosius the Spaniard’ existed in the eighth and ninth centuries at Constantinople: Count Marcellinus and his

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Another deduction is that Theodosius was not solely a military man as far as preparation for becoming emperor as the revisionists claim.62 Theodosius indeed had a decade of military service as his father’s protégé and as an independent officer before he became emperor.63 But Theodosius also had significant civilian preparation. He grew up as a civilian in Spain, and the two or three years that he lived in Spain during his exile would have been an important influence on the more mature Theodosius. He would have been making contacts with other aristocrats that were important later when he recruited his administrative personnel as emperor.64 Theodosius’ marriage would have would have extended his networking and range of contacts during this time.65 In addition, the latitudinarian religious atmosphere of the Roman army was not the source of his religious policy; this would have had a civilian origin.66 Lastly, Theodosius as emperor advertised several civilian attributes like an appreciation of literary culture and amicitia that he learned as a youth in Spain and before he entered the Roman army.67 Another consideration is the possibility that Spain influenced Theodosius’ religious policy as emperor. This writer argues that it did. Spanish Christian aristocrats espoused a strong sense of orthodoxy and a hostility to pagans and to Christians whom they considered heretics.68 These are the basic elements of Theodosius’ imperial religious policy.69 Theodosius’ strong adherence to the Nicene Creed that he expressed in the famous Thessalonica edict of 38070 derives from his civilian membership in a Nicene community in Spain before he became emperor in 379.71 This community centered on Theodosius’ estates and the villas of allied Spanish aristocrats, many of whom accompanied him to the East early in his reign.72 Such elite Christian societies became visible in Spain during the Chronicle (Oxford, 2001), 206-7. The source is the Παραστάσεις σύντομοι χρονικαί (77): Theodorus Preger, Scriptores Originum Constantinopolitanarum, 2 vol. (Leipzig, 1901), I 70. 62 N.B. McLynn, ‘Theodosius, Spain’ (1997), 171-4; id., ‘Genere Hispanus’ (2005), 100-8; R.M. Errington, ‘Church and State’ (1997), 33; J. Arce, ‘Hispania de Teodosio’ (2008), 11. 63 T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 177. 64 S. Williams and G. Friell, Theodosius (1994), 25. 65 Cristiana Sogno, ‘Roman Matchmaking’, in S. McGill et al. (eds), From the Tetrarchs to the Theodosians (2010), 55-71, esp. 63-6. 66 T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 177-8. 67 Supra notes 45-58 and accompanying text discussion. 68 T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 176-7. 69 Noah Q. King, The Emperor Theodosius and the Establishment of Christianity (London, 1961). 70 CTh. 16 1.2; see T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 181-2. 71 This reconstruction is based on Kim Bowes’ discussion of the rise of Christian aristocratic communities is Spain in the late fourth century presented in ‘“Une coterie espagnole pieuse”: Christian Archaeology and Christian Communities in Fourth- and Fifth-Century Hispania’, in K. Bowes and M. Kulikowski (eds and trans.), Hispania in Late Antiquity (2005), 189-258, esp. 234-58. The present writer adds that some of these elite communities would have been Nicene. On this point see also Gonzalo Bravo, Hispania: la epopeya de los romanos en la Península (Madrid, 2007), 270. 72 K. Bowes, ‘Une coterie’ (2005), 245.

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last quarter of the fourth century and overshadowed by their greater resources the nascent and institutionally weak Spanish episcopacy that provided basic Christian church service for these communities.73 Ties of communication (especially correspondence), patronage and amicitia unified such a group; Nicene bishops such as Pacian of Barcelona would have been among the parties connected to Theodosius’ community.74 The Spanish church was officially Nicene,75 and the ecclesial atmosphere would augment any Nicene influence that Theodosius absorbed at the Nicene court of Valentinian I that he sometimes visited as a young officer in the 370s.76 This suggests that the two or three years of Theodosius’ Spanish exile before he recalled to military service in 378 were crucial in the formation of Theodosius’ Nicene faith that he maintained throughout his reign. Spanish influence is also visible in specific aspects of Theodosius’ religious policy as emperor. An example is his treatment of certain Nicene schismatics, the Novatians and the Luciferians. This is an important consideration because it involves an element of Theodosius’ personal faith outlook overlooked in scholarship. The Novatians77 and the Luciferians78 were two schismatic Nicene sects in late Roman antiquity. They were schismatic in that, although Nicene in theological disposition, they separated themselves from the main Catholic Church over ecclesiastical issues.79 Both arose as protest movements by leaders who gave their names to their followers. The Novatians under the Roman presbyter 73 Ibid. 235. K. Bowes exaggerates the separation between the Spanish villa and the episcopal Christian communities: local bishops would have ordained villa clergy and exercised clerical and liturgical jurisdiction over them; see Isabel Sánchez Ramos, Topografίa cristiana de las ciudades hispanas durante la Antigüedad tardίa, BAR International Series 2606 (Oxford, 2014), 201-4. 74 T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 180 note 46. 75 Ibid. 179; Pedro Barceló and Juan José Ferrer, Historia de la Hispania romana, 2nd ed. (Madrid, 2016), 365-6. 76 T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 178-9. 77 For the Novatians, see Hermann Josef Vogt, Coetus Sanctorum: Der Kirchenbegriff des Novatian und die Geschichte seiner Sonderkirche (Bonn, 1968); Timothy E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism: A Rigorist Sect in the Christian Roman Empire,’ Byzantine Studies/Études Byzantines 2 (1975), 1-18; Vera Hirschmann, Die Kirche der Reinen: Kirchen- und Sozialhistorische Studie zu den Novatianern im 3. bis 5. Jahrhundert, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum/Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity 96 (Tübingen, 2015). 78 For the Luciferians, see Gustav Krüger, Lucifer, Bischof von Calaris, und das Schisma der Luciferianer (repr. Hildesheim, 1969); Giuseppe Corti, Lucifero di Cagliari: Una voce nel conflitto tra Chiesa e impero alla metà del IV secolo, Studia Patristica Mediolanensia 24 (Milan, 2004); Javier Pérez Mas, La crisis Luciferiana: Un intento de reconstrucción histórica, Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum 110 (Rome, 2008); Colin M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities in Late Antiquity: Luciferians and the Construction of Heresy’ (UC Riverside Electronic Theses and Dissertations, 2015); id. (trans.), Documents from the Luciferians: In Defence of the Nicene Creed, Writings from the Greco-Roman World 43 (Atlanta, 2019). 79 For early Christian schism in general and for the Novatians and Luciferians in particular, see S.L. Greenslade, Schism in the Early Church, 2nd ed. (London, 1964), passim, esp. 223-5 (entry on the Novatians) and 228-9 (entry on the Luciferians).

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Novatian broke with the regular church over its readmission of apostatizing Christians after the third century Decian persecution.80 The Luciferians followed the example of the Sardinian Bishop Lucifer of Cagliari who sundered ties with the mainstream Catholic Church over its lenient terms for the readmission of former Arian churchmen as approved by the Council of Alexandria in 362.81 Once severed from the main church, these schismatic sects developed attitudes that furthered their distance from the main Nicene church. Both groups castigated the regular church for moral laxity and worldliness and each insisted that it was the ‘true church’ that alone maintained apostolic standards of faith and discipline.82 Both groups promoted a more stringent notion of personal conduct than the regular Nicene church upheld and both groups assimilated asceticism.83 Because both sects idolized earlier Christian life and personal sanctity, moderns refer to them as ‘rigorists’.84 Beyond these basic attitudes, the Novatians and the Luciferians maintained separate traditions with regard to themselves and to the Nicenes. The Novatians developed an important theological distinction from the mainstream Nicene church. They claimed that serious sins, such as murder, apostasy, and adultery, could not be forgiven by the church but only by God directly.85 This doctrine undermined the traditional church’s insistence that its penance sufficed for all sins. The regular church answered this challenge by individual bishops composing treatises defending its view of penance against Novatian arguments.86 Thus, Bishop Pacian of Barcelona in the latter half of the fourth century wrote several works against Novatian views.87 Because they accepted the Nicene formula, the emperor Constantine exempted the Novatians from his laws against heretical Christians;88 for the same reason, the Novatians suffered persecution under Arian emperors.89 The Novatians and the Nicenes of Constantinople cooperated 80 Ibid. 37-42; H.J. Vogt, Coetus Sanctorum (1968), 37-56; T.E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism’ (1975), 2-4. 81 G. Krüger, Lucifer Bischof von Calaris (1969), 9-96; C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 49-51; id., Documents (2019), 10-4. 82 S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 18, 108, 197. 83 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 275-81 (Luciferian asceticism), 281-7 (Novatian asceticism). 84 T.E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism’ (1975), 8-9; S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 124. 85 T.E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism’ (1975), 9-10. This attitude replaced the original issue of the readmission of lapsi into the church after the end of pagan persecution of Christians: S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 197, 224. 86 For Nicene anti-Novatianist literature, see H.J. Vogt, Coetus Sanctorum (1965), 200-35. 87 For Pacian and the Novatians, see ibid. 227-34. Pacian wrote three letters against the views of the Spanish Novatian proponent Sympronianus that survive and Jerome reports that Pacian composed a treatise against the Novatians that has not survived (De vir. il. 106). 88 For Constantine and the Novatians, see V. Hirschmann, Die Kirche der Reinen (2015), 87-97. 89 T.E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism’, (1975), 6-7; S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 197; C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 331-2.

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in the face of Arian persecution,90 but in general relations between the two sects were antagonistic.91 Individual Nicene bishops such as Damasus of Rome harried Novatians by their own resources.92 The relationship of the Luciferians and the Nicenes was more negative. Although the Luciferians did not develop doctrinal views at odds with those of the regular Nicene church,93 some Nicene authors wrote against Luciferian schismatic arguments, such as Jerome of Stridon in his treatise Dialogue with a Luciferian written in 379.94 The Luciferians’ hostile attitude toward Nicene bishops, particularly those Arian bishops who came over to the Nicene cause after the death of the last Arian emperor, Valens, caused a severe reaction; many orthodox bishops charged the Luciferians with heresy and committed violence against Luciferian clerics and their churches.95 Nicene clerics sometimes used civil officials against Luciferians even without the active participation of the imperial government.96 Damasus of Rome conducted a severe Nicene persecution of the Luciferians with the help of Roman judges that ended in the death of a Luciferian ascetic and the exile of several Luciferians from Rome.97 The regular Nicene church was particularly hostile to the Luciferians,98 and the Luciferians suffered far more than the Novatians in their persecution by the Nicenes.99 What exactly were Theodosius’ relations with these two schismatic rigorist groups? Evidence for Theodosius’ dealings with the Novations appears in the Ecclesiastical History of Socrates Scholasticus, a Nicene Greek historian who wrote in the middle of the fifth century.100 One of the distinguishing characteristics of Socrates’ church history is the large amount of information that concerns the Novatians.101 Within this material is specific information about Theodosius’ relations with contemporary Novatians.102 He says that the emperor appreciated 90 Socrates Scholasticus reports that the two groups furnished churches for each other: Hist. eccl. II 38.5-26: Martin Wallraff, ‘Socrates Scholasiticus on the History of Novatianism’, SP 29 (1997), 170-7, 173. 91 Ibid. 174. 92 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 116. 93 Ibid. 174-99; id., Documents (2019), 14-23. 94 See Aline Canellis (ed.), Jérȏme: Débat entre un luciférien et un orthodoxe, SC 473 (Paris, 2003), esp. 36-69. 95 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 325-94, passim. 96 Ibid. 327, 336-8. 97 Ibid. 335-7. 98 Ibid. 39, 43. 99 Ibid. 355. 100 Martin Wallraff, Der Kirchenhistoriker Sokrates: Untersuchungen zu Geschichtsdarstellung, Methode und Person, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 68 (Göttingen, 1997), esp. 235-57 for Socrates’ coverage of the Novatians and 210-2 for the 440s as the general date of composition of Socrates’ history. 101 Id., ‘Socrates Scholasiticus’ (1997), 170-7. 102 For Theodosius and the Novatians, see V. Hirschmann, Die Kirche der Reinen (2015), 86 note 8, 109-17, 137.

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that they were Nicene Christians who espoused the homoousios formula.103 He gave them privileges equal to the Nicenes104 and issued laws to ensure that these schismatic Christians could keep their churches.105 He treated Novatian clerics with great honor. An example is his permitting the Novatian bishop of Rome, Leontius, to intercede successfully for the pardoning of the pagan senator Symmachus who had supported the cause of the defeated usurper Maximus.106 Socrates claims that during Theodosius’ sixteen-year reign the Novatians flourished under the emperor’s favor, especially in Constantinople.107 Theodosius showed the Novatians his partiality at a critical point in his reign. In 383, Theodosius suspended his pro-Nicene policies because his laws against dissident Christians were creating dangerous discord in the eastern Roman realm. He called a council of the leaders of the various Christian groups, both Nicene and non-Nicene, in the hope that they would resolve their differences through negotiation and compromise. However, by the time that the council convened, the emperor’s Nicene proclivity returned to shape the course of this unusual conclave. He asked the leaders of the various Christian sects assembled to write a statement of faith. Socrates claims that the emperor on his own and without the help of Nicene bishops examined these statements. He accepted only the orthodox and the Novatian statements because they featured the homoousios formula.108 The emperor renewed his pro-Nicene policy and his laws against non-Nicene Christians with the Novatians being exempt from these laws.109 Theodosius’ recorded interactions with the Luciferians are restricted to a group of four documents produced in the mid-380s that centered on a Luciferian embassy’s visit to the court of Theodosius at Constantinople.110 The Luciferian presbyter Faustinus wrote three of these texts. One is the Libellus precum, a petition that he authored with another Luciferian presbyter, Marcellinus, asking Theodosius for better treatment of their persecuted Luciferian colleagues throughout the Empire. A second document is the Confessio fidei, a statement of faith addressed to Theodosius in which Faustinus certifies his Nicene orthodoxy. The third document is a theological treatise, the De Trinitate, addressed to empress Flaccilla, Theodosius wife. The fourth document is Theodosius’ formal answer to the petition of Faustinus and Marcellinus known as the Lex 103

Hist. eccl. V 10.28, 14.7; see Soz., Hist. eccl. VII 12.10. Soc., Hist. eccl. V 10.28. 105 Ibid.; see also V 20.6. 106 Soc., Hist. eccl. V 14.4-9. 107 Hist. eccl. V 10.27. 108 Soc., Hist. eccl. V 10.1-28. Soz., Hist. eccl. VII 12.1-12, gives a version of this council that emphasizes the cooperation of the Nicene and orthodox bishops of Constantinople at the assembly. 109 Soz., Hist. eccl. VII 12.11-2. 110 The four documents had varying manuscript traditions and became a collection in the modern period: Migne, PL 13, 29-108; see M.L. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 20-2. 104

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Augusta.111 The documents are securely dated to the years 383 to 386 from the citation of the members of the imperial college at the beginning of the Libellus precum, the reference to the praetorian prefectship of Cynegius Maternus in the Lex Augusta, and the death of the empress Flaccilla in 386.112 What is less clear is the chronological sequence of the texts, particularly the Confessio fidei, which gives rise to varying reconstructions of the order of their appearance.113 The petition of Faustinus and Marcellinus provides the modern reader with the context for the interactions of Theodosius and the Luciferians in the mid-380s.114 Faustinus and Marcellinus115 were presbyters and associates of Ephesius, the Luciferian bishop of Rome (84), who followed Ephesius into exile imposed by the orthodox bishop of Rome, Damasus. They accompanied Ephesius in his travels through the East until they separated from him when the bishop went to Africa to visit rigorists there (104-7). It appears that the two presbyters were delegated by Ephesius to travel to the Eastern imperial court to petition Theodosius for the cessation of Nicene persecution of members of the sect. How Faustinus and Marcellinus got to Constantinople and to the court of Theodosius is not clear, but it seems that some intermediary party, perhaps the co-author Marcellinus, successfully introduced the two to the emperor to make their petition.116 The petition of Faustinus and Marcellinus is fairly well known and studied.117 In this long document, an official appeal to the emperor for the redress of 111 Recent research has produced several aids for the study of these four documents. Aline Canellis (ed.), Faustin (et Marcellin), Supplique aux Empereurs, SC 504 (Paris, 2006) provides the Latin text and French translation of the Confessio fidei, the Libellus precum and the Lex Augusta (101-243), an introductory discussion of the historical background and the presentation of the three texts (11-65), and a bibliography (85-93). C.M. Whiting’s doctoral dissertation ‘Christian Communities’ (2015) compares the Luciferians to two other Nicene rigorist schismatic groups, the Novatians and the Donatists, on a number of topics, particularly their ability to survive as sects (1-406). This text also provides a bibliography (407-42) and appendices for English translations of each of the four documents written by Faustinus and Theodosius (443-586). C.M. Whiting’s Documents (2019) discusses the Luciferians as a ‘sect’ (1-57) and gives English translations of Faustinus’ four documents along with two other Luciferian texts, Pseudo-Athanasius’ Letters 50 and 51 (58-329). A bibliography is also included (331-44). 112 For the dating of these documents, see C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 15-20. The imperial formulary in the address reads Valentinian II, Theodosius and Arcadius, so the petition was made after the death of Gratian in August of 383. 113 Infra note 127 and accompanying text discussion. 114 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 18-9. 115 For Faustinus and Marcellinus, see Prosopographie chrétienne du Bas-Empire. 2: Prosopographie de l’Italie chrétienne (313-604), ed. Charles Pietri and Luce Pietri, Volume 1 (Rome, 1999), 747-9, ‘Faustinus 2’, and Volume 2 (Rome, 2000), 1368-70, ‘Marcellinus 3’. 116 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 19 note 58. 117 See id., Documents (2019), 24-39 for introductory discussion and 62-169 for English translation; see also J. Pérez Mas, La crisis luciferiana (2008), 53-115; José Fernández Ubiña, ‘El “Libellus precum” y los conflictos religiosos en la Hispania de Teodosio’, in R. Teja and C. Pérez

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issues,118 the two authors outline the twenty-year history of the Luciferian movement within the broader fourth century Arian controversy (5-67). The text then recounts the experiences of Luciferian communities in Spain, Germany, Rome, Eleutheropolis in Palestine and Oxyrhynchus in Egypt and their persecutions by Nicene bishops (72-110). The latter had often used Theodosius’ laws suppressing other Christian dissidents against the Luciferians, sometimes with the help of civil officials (e.g. 83, 85 at Rome; 97, 101 at Oxyrhynchus; 110 at Eleutheropolis; and 106 in general). This section of the treatise is an extensive attack on the praevaricatores, those formerly Arian bishops now Nicene under Theodosius who are persecuting the Luciferians and whom the latter wish Theodosius to remove from office. Through the presentation the two petitioners make two requests of the emperor: to end the Nicene persecution of the Luciferians and to acknowledge the Luciferians as representing the true Catholic Church.119 The Luciferian prelates were successful in their first request. Theodosius’ reply, appended to the Libellus precum as the Lex Augusta,120 is a rescript that officially answers a petition from imperial officials and subjects.121 The emperor declares that that Faustinus and Marcellinus’ petition for his ending Nicene persecution of their sect was worthy of his approval (3). He thanks the priests for informing him of the misuse of his religious laws (3) and he promises punishments for those responsible (4-5). He instructs his Praetorian Prefect Cynegius to end all Nicene persecutions of the Luciferians in his realm (8). Much of this response parallels Theodosius’ relations with the Novatians. It appears that the Catholic rigorism of the Luciferians appealed to the emperor as much as the Novatian rigorism. The amendment to his regime’s practices concerning the Luciferians was the same as with the Novatians: exemption from his laws against other dissident Christians. This policy also positively affected the Luciferians: there are no further reports of persecution of the Luciferians under Theodosius.122 The other two documents written by Faustinus demonstrate Theodosius’ close connection to the Luciferians.123 Faustinus’ statement of faith addressed to Theodosius shows a direct personal contact with the emperor.124 The prologue of this text reports that the emperor asked Faustinus to return to him a (eds), Congreso Internacional La Hispania de Teodosio (1997), I 59-68; Victoria Escribano, ‘Heresy and Orthodoxy in Fourth-Century Hispania: Arianism and Priscillianism’, in K. Bowes and M. Kulikowski (eds and trans.), Hispania in Late Antiquity (2005), 121-49. 118 C.M. Whiting, Documents (2010), 30-1. 119 Ibid. 30. 120 Ibid. 40-3 for introductory discussion and 170-5 for English translation. 121 Ibid. 40-1. 122 Id., ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), passim, esp. 46, 327, 393-4. 123 Id., Documents (2019), 26. 124 See ibid. 24 for introductory discussion and 58-61 for English translation.

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short statement of faith because parties at court had accused him of Sabellianism, a heretical view that the members of the Trinity were aspects of the same God. In his statement, Faustinus renounces Sabellianism and argues the Nicene view of three distinct persons within one Godhead. He carefully associates the term substantia with the common nature of the three members of the Trinity and not to the separate characters of each member. Faustinus also repudiates Apollinarianism, another heresy opposed to Nicene Trinitarianism and often charged to the Luciferians that taught that Christ had only a divine mind and not a human and divine mind. Faustinus’ theological defense suggests that he had spent some time at the imperial court of Constantinople and that he had incurred the jealousy of Eastern Nicene Christians who regularly charged the Luciferians with Sabellianism.125 This implies that Faustinus enjoyed Theodosius’ patronage for some time;126 there is no other explanation for a Luciferian being attached to a Nicene court. This also suggests the Confessio fidei was written after the Libellus precum and the Lex Augusta.127 The theological treatise De Trinitate addressed to Flaccilla,128 Theodosius’ wife and empress, witnesses to Faustinus’ continued patronage at the Eastern imperial court. This text seems to be the last written of these four documents.129 The prologue announces that the empress had encountered some Arian texts and had requested from Faustinus an account of anti-Arian arguments so that she herself could oppose the Arians (1). Faustinus responds with a lengthy Nicene counterargument to Arianism that exhibits a sophisticated doctrinal presentation based on several fourth-century orthodox writers. Most of the text covers theology concerning the Father and the Son (2-47 [I 1-VI 5]), but a section ending the treatise proper deals with views of the Spirit (48-50 [VII 1-3]). Faustinus closes the treatise with an attack on the praevaricatores (51 [VII 4]). It appears that Theodosius was attentive to and supportive of the Novatians and the Luciferians. Was the emperor Theodosius then a Nicene rigorist? It is clear from Socrates’ history that the Novatians’ espousal of the homoousios formula was the basis of Theodosius’ positive treatment of the sect. Socrates’ statement that the emperor shared with the Novatians ‘sentiments precisely identical … in faith’130 seems to refer to this attitude. Nevertheless, contemporary rigorist groups were popular among all Christians, including regular Nicene 125

Ibid. 16. Ibid. 50. 127 Ibid. 24 presents a different sequence for these documents: the Confessio was written before the Libellus precum to ensure that Faustinus was properly orthodox to make his and Marcellinus’ petition. 128 For Flaccilla, see RE Band VI.2, ‘Flaccilla 3’, 2431-3. 129 See C.M. Whiting, Documents (2019), 43-50 for introductory discussion and 176-315 for English translation. 130 Hist. eccl. V 20.6: Ναυατιανοὑς δὲ ὡς ὁμόφρονας τῇ αὐτοῦ πίστει. 126

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Christians, for their sanctity and asceticism.131 Rigorism seems to be the interest of the historian Socrates in the Novatian sect.132 Theodosius is another example of this interest as he honored Novatian clerics, many of whom had reputations for rigorist spirituality.133 Nevertheless, there is no basis for considering him to be a possible Novatian. The question of Theodosius’ personal alignment to Nicene rigorism is more meaningful when discussing Theodosius’ dealings with the Luciferians. The fact that Fausinus enjoyed Theodosius’ patronage over an extended period implies the emperor’s tacit respect for the Luciferians and their cause, and his positive response to the Libellus precum shows that the emperor was willing to put his respect into action. In addition, Faustinus includes an attack on the praevaricatores, the former Arian prelates who became Nicene under Theodosius, in both the Libellus precum and the De Trinitate with the expectation that the imperial couple would be sympathetic to their position on this issue. Flaccilla’s seeking out Faustinus to provide her with proper theology shows that Luciferian interpretation of orthodoxy was ascendant at the Eastern imperial court. That Theodosius permitted Faustinus to teach his wife is significant: in the fourth century, the instruction of women was a closely guarded process.134 The husband or father would have had the greatest confidence in both the doctrine presented to their womenfolk and to the religious authority of the person who taught them. Considering the many Nicene clerics resident in Constantinople at the time, the choice of Faustinus to teach Flaccilla illustrates Theodosius’ preference for Luciferian theology and instruction over regular Nicene teaching. The clearest evidence of Theodosius’ personal association with the Luciferian cause comes from his response to the Libellus precum. The usual interpretation of the Lex Augusta is in terms of Theodosius’ political program: Theodosius acceded to the Luciferian appeal because he needed the support of all Nicene groups in his realm to make his pro-Nicene policy successful.135 However, the Lex Augusta is not a regular chancery document drawn up by his quaestor but is a response to the Luciferian petition written in his own words.136 This indicates a personal concern for the Luciferians rather than a political one. Theodosius shows his bond with the authors of the appeal by his reference to them as ‘faithful priests’ (2). Theodosius’ promise to protect the Luciferians certainly shows his support of their cause with the resources of his regime. Yet 131

T.E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism’ (1975), 10-1. S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 198; C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 283 and note 40. 133 T.E. Gregory, ‘Novatianism’ (1975), 10. 134 R.M. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2002), 147-61, esp. 158-60. 135 E.g. C.M. Whiting, Documents (2019), 42. 136 Tony Honoré, Law in the Crisis of Empire, 379-455 AD: The Theodosian Dynasty and Its Quaestors (Oxford, 1998), 53. Honoré suggests that Theodosius may have had a legal advisor assisting him in the writing of the Lex Augusta. 132

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Theodosius goes much further. Without the approval of any Nicene bishop, he declares the Luciferian leaders Gregory of Elvira and Heraclides of Eleutheropolis and those in communion with them to be true Catholics to be protected from harm (6). This is a stunning reversal of the usual practice of emperors following the decisions of episcopal councils on issues of orthodoxy.137 In addition, Theodosius’ exhortation of the Luciferians to live their own way of Catholicism recommends their Nicene rigorism (7). Hence, Theodosius answers positively the second Luciferian request made of him in the Libellus precum: to acknowledge Luciferianism as true Catholocism. Theodosius only asks that the Luciferians not amend or innovate anything in the traditional Catholic faith (2). After examining the four documents above, it is difficult not to believe that Theodosius was a Luciferian sympathizer or a Luciferian partisan in the mid380s. This is not a breach of Theodosius’ pro-Nicene program; it is an aspect of the emperor’s own religious disposition that did not affect his general religious policy.138 Theodosius did not accede to the Luciferian appeal that he remove the praevaricatores from office because his religious policy depended on them.139 Theodosius maintained his pro-Nicene policy until the end of his reign. Unfortunately, there is no evidence of Theodosius’ dealings with the Luciferians after the middle of the 380s. However, Theodosius encountered another pro-Nicene rigorist sect after he defeated the usurper Maximus in 388, the Priscillianists of Spain and Gaul.140 Theodosius took advantage of the rehabilitation in the western church of the Priscillianist leaders executed by Maximus to establish his rule in the place of Maximus’s regime, but there is no evidence that Theodosius favored the Priscillianists as he did the Novatians and the Luciferians.141 Theodosius and his party remained faithful to the regular orthodox church in the West.142 137

Ibid.: S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 144. N.Q. King, Emperor Theodosius (1961), 54: ‘… during these years he [Theodosius] showed favor … to the Luciferians…’ 139 C.M. Whiting, Documents (2019), 41. 140 For the early orthodoxy of the Priscillianists, see V. Escribano, ‘Heresy and Orthodoxy’ (2005), 127, 143. The Priscillianists were not definitively condemned as heretics until the Council of Toledo in 400: Alberto Ferreiro, ‘Pope Siricius and Himerius of Tarragona (385): Provincial Papal Intervention in the Fourth Century’, in Geoffrey D. Dunn (ed.), The Bishop of Rome in Late Antiquity (Farnham, Burlington, 2015), 73-85, 79. 141 M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2005), 92; Juliana Cabrera, ‘Estudio sobre la Priscilianismo en la Galicia antigua’, tesis doctoral (Granada, 1983), 93-7; María Victoria Escribano Paño, Iglesia y Estado en el certamen priscilianista: causa ecclesiae y iudicium publicum (Saragossa, 1988), 315. 142 A recent prosopographical study of the Priscillianist movement found no member of the emperor Theodosius I’s party among the number of known Priscillianists: Diego Piay Augusto, El priscilianismo: arqueología y prosopografía, Studia archaeologica 222 (Rome, 2018), 53-65, esp. 55-7. 138

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Theodosius’ support for Nicene schismatics raises several questions. The popularity of rigorism among Nicene Christians explains the contradiction of Theodosius being both the political champion of Nicene orthodoxy and a Luciferian by personal inclination.143 The response of the regular Nicene Church is another question. The Nicene faction owed its ultimate victory to Theodosius, and there are no recorded complaints from Nicene bishops about the emperor’s favorable treatment of Nicene schismatics. However, time was on the Nicene side: Theodosius’ imperial successors were not interested in rigorism and the political conditions of the reigns of Theodosius’ sons and grandsons permitted the Nicene Church to persecute earnestly the Novatians;144 by this time, the Luciferians had disappeared on their own from history.145 The best explanation for Theodosius’ favoritism of these two sects is that he grew up in Spain where the official Nicene church exhibited rigorist tendencies throughout the fourth century.146 Scholars often cite as examples of this rigorism the severe penitential sentences imposed at the Council of Elvira in 303147 and at the Council of Saragossa in 380148 that often included permanent excommunication. In addition, a letter of Pope Siricius written in 385 to Bishop Himerius of Terraconensis discloses that some rigorist Nicene churchmen in Spain refused the admission of former Arian clerics into the church except through rebaptism and punished apostasy by capital punishment.149 Siricius in his letter enjoins more moderate sentences: Arians, other heretics and schismatics should be returned to the church with a simple laying on of hands and apostates should suffer excommunication with deathbed penance. The letter of Pope Innocent I sent to Spain in 405 defends the Spanish church against rigorists who rejected its decision to accept Priscillianist clerics without the loss of office.150 143 Other contemporary rigorist groups existed in addition to the Novatians, Luciferians and Donatists: S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 114-5, 124. 144 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), passim, esp. 116-8, 393; S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 142, 198. 145 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), passim, esp. 395-406. Low numbers and small distribution are among several factors in the disappearance of the Luciferians in the early years of the fifth century. 146 This point is especially made by Spanish writers: Severino Gonzalez Rivas, La penitencia en la primitiva Iglesia española (Salamanca, 1950), 50-4, esp. 51; José Fernández Ubiña, ‘La Iglesia y formación de la jerarquía eclesiástica’, in Ramón Teja (ed.), La Hispania del siglo IV: administración, economía, sociedad, cristianización (Bari, 2002), 161-203, 201; Javier Arce, El último siglo de la España romana, 284-409, 2nd ed. rev. (Madrid, 2009), 188-93. 147 S. Gonzalez Rivas, Penitencia (1950), 44-9; Alfred Dale, The Synod of Elvira and Christian Life in the Fourth Century: A Historical Essay (London, 1882), passim, esp. 89-110. 148 S. Gonzalez Rivas, Penitencia (1950), 51, 97; A. Dale, Synod of Elvira (1882), 99. 149 V. Escribano, ‘History and Orthodoxy’ (2005), 134-5; A. Ferreiro, ‘Pope Siricius’ (2015), 78-9. 150 Geoffrey D. Dunn, ‘Innocent I and the First Synod of Toledo’, in id. (ed.), Bishop of Rome (2015), 89-107, 96-100.

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In fact, Nicene rigorism characterized the religious atmosphere of Theodosius’ Spain.151 This particular outlook inhabited Spain since Nicene bishops opposed Ossius of Codova and other bishops who had conceded to Constantius II at Sirmium in 357.152 The number and influence of rigorists in Spain developed in the 370s and 380s.153 The rise of the Priscillianist movement in the 370s is an extension of Spanish rigorism under the direction of a talented and inspired leader.154 Two parties were important rigorist Nicene voices in Spain: Gregory of Elvira and the Luciferians.155 Gregory156 was independent of the Luciferians157 but shared their extreme views: he would have nothing to do with former Arians and would not return apostates to the church.158 Gregory appears to have belonged to the regular Nicene church, but there were a number of Luciferian communities in Spain of varying allegiance to the Spanish Nicene church.159 The strength of Luciferianism in Spain is exemplified by the so-called ‘pseudoLuciferian literature’ that appears to have originated in Spain.160 Contemporaries like Ausonius of Bordeaux considered religious attitudes in Spain to be extreme161 and moderns who emphasize the general cultural similarity between Gaul and Spain admit the uniqueness of Spanish rigorism.162 All of this has relevance to Theodosius. Theodosius shows a special interest in Gregory of Elvira in the Lex Augusta and promotes his rigorist outlook as ‘true Catholicism’.163 In addition, Theodosius came from Galicia, a Spanish province that converted to the Priscillianist movement while he was emperor.164 151 G. Corti, Lucifero di Cagliari (2004), 170; J. Pérez Mas, La crisi luciferiana (2008), 330, 365; S.L. Greenslade, Schism (1964), 197, 229; C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 54-64. 152 Virginia Burrus, The Making of a Heretic: Gender, Authority and the Priscillianist Controversy, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 24 (Berkeley, 1995), 17. 153 V. Escribano, ‘History and Orthodoxy’ (1975), 135. 154 Ibid., passim, esp. 136. 155 J. Pérez Mas, La crisis luciferiana (2008), 326-30. 156 For Gregory see Frank J. Buckley, ‘Gregory of Elvira’, Classical Folia 18 (1964), 3-23; Angel Custodio Vega, ‘Una gran figura literaria española del siglo IV: Gregorio de Elvira’, La Ciudad de Dios 156 (1944), 205-58. 157 F.J. Buckley, ‘Gregory of Elvira’ (1964), 13-6; Karl Shuve, ‘The Episcopal Career of Gregory of Elvira’, JEH 65 (2014), 247-62, passim, esp. 250-1. 158 V. Escribano, ‘Heresy and Orthodoxy’ (1975), 136 note 53; J. Pérez Mas, La crisis luciferiana (2008), 326-7. 159 Ibid. 328, 330. 160 Ibid. 339. This literature comprises of a few letters and a theological treatise forged under the name of Athanasius of Alexandria: Louis Saltet, ‘Fraudes littéraires des schismatiques lucifériens aux IVe et Ve siècles’, BLE 27 (1906), 300-26, esp. 319. 161 Aus., Epis. 21.50-2 and 69-72, cited by K. Bowes, ‘Une coterie’ (2005), 189. 162 Jacques Fontaine, ‘Société et culture chrétiennes sur l’aire circumpyrénéene au siècle de Théodose’, BLE 75 (1974), 241-82, 267-78, contrasts the severe anti-paganism of Prudentius and the stringent asceticism of Priscillianism in Spain to the more moderate outlook on these issues found in Gallic Christianity. 163 Supra note 137 and accompanying text discussion. 164 J. Cabrera, ‘Estudio sobre el Priscilianismo’ (1983), 93-100.

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Although Theodosius did not become a Priscillianist, he came from the same cultural atmosphere that fostered this mainly Spanish rigorist sect. 165 It is therefore not surprising that modern observers have detected the influence of contemporary Nicene rigorism on Theodosius’ religious legislation.166 His laws against Christian apostates to paganism certainly show the influence of Spanish anti-pagan rigorism.167 Other laws threatening death to heretics went far beyond the judicial norm.168 Although Theodosius’ early religious policy was moderate,169 his later policy was more aggressive;170 this is seen in his legalization of the role of the informer into the enforcement of his suppression of Christian dissidents171 and of the cooperation of provincial governors’ staff, curiales and city officials in the curtailment of pagan sacrifice by provincial governors.172 Theodosius’ religious legislation extended imperial authority to its limits.173 Theodosius’ legislation reveals his personal interests, and one of these is a desire to improve the moral character of his subjects.174 Again, the best explanation for this attitude and use of law is Theodosius’ Spanish background before he became emperor. Findings and Conclusion This study dissents from the current revisionist view of Theodosius I on one important point. Evidence shows that Theodosius was not raised in Roman army camps outside Spain but in a Spanish civilian context. Since the revisionist picture of Theodosius is based on the so-called ‘army brat’ notion of Theodosius’ upbringing, this finding is a significant undermining of the revisionist picture of the emperor. This study has also postulated a basic Spanish persona for the emperor Theodosius: aristocratic civilian upbringing, a strong Nicene religious view, and a willingness to allow his Spanish religious background to influence his imperial policy. This study has also established a connection between Theodosius and Nicene rigorism that derives from his youth in Spain. This finding is important in three ways. First, Nicene rigorism, especially Luciferian rigorism, is an element of the emperor’s personal religious outlook that has not been sufficiently brought out in previous scholarship. Second, 165

Ibid. 95. N.Q. King, Emperor Theodosius (1961), 50-3; A.H.M. Jones, Later Roman Empire (1964), I 166; M.R. Salzman, Christian Aristocracy (2005), 183. 167 CTh. 16. 7.1-5; see supra note 158 and accompanying text discussion. 168 CTh. 16. 5.9-11; see N.Q. King, Emperor Theodosius (1961), 51 and note 4. 169 T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 186-7. 170 C.M. Whiting, ‘Christian Communities’ (2015), 19 and note 60. 171 CTh. 16. 5.9-11. 172 CTh. 16. 10.10-2. 173 T. Honoré, Crisis of Empire (1998), 5. 174 Ibid. 33-8. 166

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Theodosius’ association with Nicene rigorism ensures that he was pro-Nicene before he became emperor and not after he became emperor as the revisionists claim. Third, Theodosius’ personal interest in Luciferian rigorism gives him a Spanish identity that is denied him by the revisionists. A fourth finding concerns Theodosius’ conduct of his religious policy as emperor. We have seen two instances in which Theodosius intervened in church affairs to determine issues on his own initiative and at the expense of episcopal prerogative. In the first instance, the Council of Constantinople of 383, Theodosius compelled the leaders of various Christian sects to compose statements of faith and then without the assistance of any bishop selected the ones that he thought acceptable. In the second instance, his response to the Luciferian embassy of 383, Theodosius determined the orthodox catholicity of the Luciferians without the support of Nicene bishops and ordained restrictions on the activities of Nicene bishops against Luciferians. These actions demonstrate that Theodosius was at all times in control of his religious policy and that he accepted episcopal advice at his discretion. This is another aspect of Theodosius’ activity that is not well known and contradicts the revisionist view of Theodosius as reliant on episcopal advice for his religious policy. The overall conclusion of this essay is based on the above findings and on the findings of the present writer’s essay included in Volume 96 of this journal.175 There is now a need for a new revised account of the emperor Theodosius I and his reign. This new model should include elements of the traditional picture of Theodosius such as his upbringing in Spain as a civilian and as a Nicene Christian. But it should also assimilate the better results of recent scholarship on Theodosius and his age. A more complete picture now exists of the context and issues confronting Theodosius in the critical first years of his reign as a Roman ruler176 and in his early stay in Constantinople.177 We have a better understanding of the party that Theodosius took with him to the East at the beginning of his reign178 and the roles that its members played in Eastern Roman government and society.179 Spain’s religious dimensions are better known.180 This new account of Theodosius should be a nuanced synthesis of older and newer views of the emperor. It should also take into serious consideration the contribution of Spain to both the emperor’s imperial policy and to his personal faith.

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T. Brauch, ‘Emperor Theodosius I’ (2017), 175-88. R.M. Errington, ‘Church and State’ (1997), 21-72. 177 N.B. McLynn, ‘Moments of Truth’ (2010), 215-39. 178 J.F. Matthews, Western Aristocracies (1975), 94-100. 179 Gonzalo Bravo, ‘Prosopographia theodosiana (I): en torno al llamado “clan hispano”’, Gerión 14 (1996), 381-98; id., ‘Prosopographia theodosiana (II): el presunto “Clan Hispana” a la luz del análisis prosopográfico’, in R. Teja and C. Pérez (eds), Congreso Internacional La Hispania de Teodosio (1997), I 21-30. 180 K. Bowes, ‘Une coterie’ (2005), 189-258. 176

Hagiography as Argumentation: Sulpicius Severus’ Narrative Technique in Vita Martini 7 Nienke M. VOS, Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlands

ABSTRACT Intuitively, hagiographical texts are often qualified primarily as ‘stories’. And they may present remarkable stories indeed, including spectacular miracles. The question is, however, whether such basic categorization of hagiography as narrative is fully justified. In this article, it is argued that hagiography, in this case Sulpicius Severus’ Vita Martini of the late fourth century, is often fundamentally argumentative in nature. It is not simply a matter of telling a story but equally, if not more so, one of arguing a case. The narrative episodes in which the vita as a whole consists are, in fact, subordinate to a wider argument that is being made. In recent years, a methodology that combines both discourse linguistics and narratology has been developed that allows for a type of textual analysis that differentiates between argumentative and narrative modes of discourse. In this contribution, such a discourse-linguistic/narratological analysis of Sulpicius Severus’ narrative technique is presented. The analysis focuses on the exciting tale of Saint Martin’s miraculous resuscitaton of a catechumen. It will be demonstrated that a closereading of this episode sheds new light on the persuasive character of this rich and famous sample of ancient storytelling.

Introduction In this article, I will offer a combined discourse-linguistic and narratological analysis of a small sample of hagiographical text: a story of resuscitation. Before presenting the necessary methodological background in the following section, I will sketch the development of the methodology employed here and indicate why, in my opinion, this approach has much to offer with respect to the interpretation of early Christian literature. During the past twenty-five years important contributions were made to Latin linguistics in the classics departments at Amsterdam (both at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam and the University of Amsterdam).1 In 1995, Caroline Kroon published her dissertation entitled Discourse Particles in Latin: A Study

1 This is also true for Greek linguistics: the work of Rutger J. Allan is a case in point (cf., for instance, the references in footnotes 5, 18, 24, and 26).

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 131-153. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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of nam, enim, autem, vero and at.2 In this study, Kroon analyses the functions of various particles. A particle may function primarily on an intra-textual level, creating connections between segments, thereby forging textual coherence, but it may also apply to the communicative situation, that is, to the interaction between the ‘speaker’ in the text and its addressee. While nam, for instance, may indicate a causal connection between sections in the text, enim reaches out beyond the text, aiming to arouse a response in the audience as it is a particle that may express a claim to shared consensus. Thus, Kroon distinguishes between different levels of discourse, in terms of both its intra-textual and extra-textual dimensions, and she explains the function of particles in signalling such levels of discourse. In subsequent years, Kroon supervised the dissertations of Suzanne Adema and Lidewij van Gils on Vergil’s epic and Cicero’s speeches, respectively. Adema’s research was on the use of the tenses and integrated the theory of the so-called discourse modes, or text types, such as narrative, comment, argument and description (see below, the sections on methodology and the actual analysis of Vita Martini 7).3 While Adema focused on a text that is generally regarded as primarily narrative in nature, Vergil’s Aeneid, van Gils wrote her dissertation on the function of narrative in the context of fundamentally argumentative texts, the speeches of Cicero, thus shedding light on the role of embedded stories in their wider context.4 In addition to these and related projects, linguistic research in classics increasingly forged connections with another, earlier approach to the study of literature in general and classics in particular: narratology.5 In Amsterdam, such cooperation was exemplified in a major NWO-funded project on Ancient War Narrative,6 which has recently resulted in the publication of the volume Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative: Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond.7 The 2

C.H.M. Kroon, Discourse Particles in Latin: A Study of nam, enim, autem, vero and at, Studies in Classical Philology 4 (Leiden, 1995). Her dissertation was supervised by the prominent Latin linguist Harm Pinkster, author of The Oxford Latin Syntax, vol. 1: The Simple Clause (Oxford, 2015). 3 Adema’s dissertation was entitled Discourse Modes and Bases. A Study of the Use of Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid (2008). It was adapted and published as Suzanne M. Adema, Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid. Narrative Style and Structure, Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology 31 (Leiden, 2019). 4 This is demonstrated by Lidewij van Gils in her discussion of Cicero’s rhetoric: Argument and Narrative. A Discourse Analysis of Ten Ciceronian Speeches (Amsterdam, 2009; independent publication of dissertation). 5 One significant fruit of such collaboration was the following publication: Rutger J. Allan and Michel Buijs (eds), The Language of Literature: Linguistic Approaches to Classical Texts, Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology 13 (Leiden, 2007). 6 NWO stands for The Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research (Nederlandse Organisatie voor Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek). 7 Lidewij W. van Gils, Irene J.F. de Jong and Caroline H.M. Kroon (eds), Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative: Thermopylae, Cannae and Beyond, Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology 29 (Leiden, 2018). See the preface and the opening chapter for the background to both

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two methodologies complement one another: while narratology has traditionally focused on narrative, discourse linguistics considers linguistic phenomena in a broader sense, taking into account spoken language expression but also written communication that is non-narrative. When discourse linguistics and narratology are combined, attention is paid to linguistic features, such as the use of particles and the tenses, as well as to specifically narratological categories such as the narrator, the narratee, focalization, and the presentation of space and time.8 The first to apply such a combined approach to an early Christian text was Paula Rose, who did doctoral research on Augustine’s tractate on the care for the dead: De cura pro mortuis gerenda.9 This work by Augustine had often been criticized for its apparently fragmented and incoherent structure. Based on a discourse-linguistic approach, however, Rose demonstrated how the various parts of the tractate cohere and how the embedded stories function within the argumentation of the work as a whole. Another example of a valuable application of discourse linguistics and narratology to the field of early Christian studies is the dissertation by Math Osseforth, which analyses the role of embedded stories in Augustine’s Confessions.10 This study offers a clearer understanding of the way in which the bishop of Hippo constructed his text to maximize its persuasive power. Again, attention is paid to the manner in which the text transitions between the various modes of discourse, such as narrative and argumentation. Such transitioning is also of crucial importance in the research carried out by Gerben Wartena on a sample of biblical epic, Sedulius’ Carmen Paschale.11 While Sedulius was clearly inspired by classical epic, such as Vergil’s Aeneid, his text is also surprisingly ‘un-classical’, in that it is far more explicitly the project and the edited Brill volume. The first chapter addresses various methodological concerns and presents the scholarly consensus in this field of research: see footnote 13. 8 See, for a compact introduction, I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics: A Practical Guide (Oxford, 2014), 73-103. See also the Brill series entitled ‘Ancient Greek Narrative’, with four volumes published (Mnemosyne, Supplements, vol. 257, 291, 339 and 411): I.J.F. de Jong, R. Nünlist and A. Bowie (eds), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden, 2004); I.J.F. de Jong and R. Nünlist, Time in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden, 2007); I.J.F. de Jong (ed.), Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden, 2012); K. de Temmerman and E. van Emde Boas (eds), Characterization in Ancient Greek Literature (Leiden, 2018). 9 Paula J. Rose, A Commentary on Augustine’s De cura pro mortuis gerenda: Rhetoric in Practice, Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology 20 (Leiden, 2013). The dissertation was supervised by Jan den Boeft, famed Dutch Latinist, now sadly deceased (2019), and Caroline Kroon. 10 Math Osseforth successfully defended his dissertation in 2017 (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam): Friendship in Saint Augustine’s Confessions: Between Social Convention and Christian Morals (independent publication, 2017). See for his work also Math Osseforth, ‘Augustine’s Confessions: A Discourse Analysis’, SP 98 (2017), 545-52. 11 Gerben Wartena is preparing a dissertation on Sedulius’ Carmen Paschale book 5, in which he pays special attention to the discourse-linguistic aspects of this text. Cf. Gerben F. Wartena, ‘Epic Emotions: Narratorial Involvement in Sedulius’ Carmen Paschale’, SP 97 (2017), 193-202.

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argumentative than its earlier counterpart. As a result, this Christianized type of epic acquires a more didactic or catechetical flavour. When such adaptation and transformation of a familiar genre are clarified, this deepens our understanding of the ways in which early Christians appropriated cultural models of communication. Because Christianity was – and is – a fundamentally missionary religion, communication and persuasion are at its heart. Therefore, any theoretical framework that sheds light on communicative and persuasive strategies offers a welcome contribution to a deeper insight into its development. In what follows, I will not focus on a tractate, spiritual autobiography, or a sample of biblical epic, but on a hagiographical text. This type of literature gained popularity in the early Christian period and its function may be interpreted in different ways. What we observe in the Vita Martini, is the overarching story of Martin’s life that consists in many short stories, or vignettes, strung together like beads.12 The result of this variety is that while reading the vita, we move in and out of narrative. Simultaneously, we are invited to transition between various modes of discourse, from modes in which we participate in stories in an either more immersed or more detached manner, to modes in which we become involved in interaction that aims to convince us of an idea or to motivate us into action. In short, when the perspectives of discourse linguistics and narratology are combined, this allows us to read familiar texts with new eyes. It sensitizes us to the oscillation between different modes of communication, such as narrative and argumentation, which are the focus of this contribution. We are able to reflect more profoundly on the function of embedded stories within the wider context as we become more aware of the various levels of discourse that are operative. A linguistic and narratological approach also alerts us to the building up of tension within narrative segments as well as its release. Thus, we may gain a deeper understanding of the ebb and flow of a text, its rhythm, and therefore its power to entice and persuade. Methodological Prolegomena Before discussing the argumentative substructure of Sulpicius Severus’ Vita Martini as indicated in the opening chapter of the work and presenting a closereading of Vita Martini 7 in the following sections, I will briefly introduce the methodology employed. As stated above, my interpretative framework is defined by a combination of narratological and discourse-linguistic perspectives. This approach also includes a specific model of storytelling that was initially introduced 12 I offer an analysis of Vita Martini 21 and 24 in Nienke M. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil: A Discourse-Linguistic Reading of Sulpicius Severus’ Vita Martini 21 and 24’, in Eva Elm and Nicole Hartmann (eds), Demons in Late Antiquity: Their Perception and Transformation in Different Literary Genres, Transformationen der Antike 54 (Berlin, 2020), 135-50.

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by William Labov.13 Taking a chronological perspective, I will comment on the following three elements respectively: Labov’s model, narratology, and discourse linguistics.14 First, it is important to note that Labov, in a study on contemporary storytelling, developed a model that included different narrative elements: abstract, orientation, complication, resolution, evaluation, and coda.15 Together, these elements form the story: the abstract announces the basic plotline, the orientation sets the scene for the dramatic action, while in the complication the dramatic action starts to develop and comes to a head. Subsequently, the dramatic action is resolved in the resolution and commented upon in the evaluation. This means that conclusions are drawn and/or lessons are learned. The coda forms and thus signals the closure of the story and, in the case of embedded stories,16 a transition to higher levels of discourse. The model does not function in an absolute way: elements may be omitted or they can occur in a different order. Also, the scheme was elaborated upon by other scholars who introduced the element of the peak or climax.17 This element forms the high point of the dramatic action after which the narrative tension that has been built up, decreases. The second methodological perspective relevant to my proposed reading of Vita Martini 7 is that of narratology. Important narratological notions are the 13 A summary of this methodology, based on the current scholarly consensus, is presented by L.W. van Gils, I.J.F. de Jong and C.H.M. Kroon in the Introduction to their edited volume Textual Strategies in Ancient War Narrative (2018), 1-16. 14 I offer a similar theoretical introduction in N. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil’ (2020), 137-41. 15 William Labov, Language in the Inner City. Studies in Black English Vernacular (Oxford, 1972). See for the use of Labov in the context of classical studies: I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 39-41; P.J. Rose, A Commentary on Augustine’s De cura (2013), 56-8; Rutger J. Allan, ‘Sense and Sentence Complexity. Sentence Structure, Sentence Connection, and Tense-Aspect as Indicators of Narrative Mode in Thucydides’ Histories’, in R.J. Allan and M. Buijs (eds), The Langugae of Literature (2007), 93-121, esp. 110-3; Rutger J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek. Text Types and Narrative Structure in Euripidean Messenger Speeches’, in Stéphanie J. Bakker and Gerry C. Wakker (eds), Discourse Cohesion in Ancient Greek, Amsterdam Studies in Classical Philology 16 (Leiden, 2009), 171-99, esp. 186-9; David Stienaers, ‘Linguistic features of PEAKS in Latin narrative texts’, in Paolo Poccetti (ed.), Latinitatis Rationes. Descriptive and Historical Accounts for the Latin Language (Berlin, Boston, 2016), 902-16. In his article, Stienaers includes a section entitled ‘The prototypical narrative structure of an episode’ as well as an appendix that is similar to the one included in this article which is based on a lecture given by Caroline Kroon at Yale University in 2010: ‘Narrating the Unnarratable: Narrative Structure in the Pisonian Conspiracy (Tacitus, A. 15.47-74)’. This appendix is also included in N. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil’ (2020), 150. 16 See for embedded narratives, for instance, I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 34-7. 17 The original pattern did not include the element of the ‘peak’; this term (also referred to as ‘the climax’) was introduced by Robert E. Longacre in his study The Grammar of Discourse, 2nd ed. (New York, London, 1996) and taken up by Suzanne Fleischman in her study Tense and Narrativity: From Medieval Performance to Modern Fiction (Austin, 1990). Cf. also Michael Toolan, Narrative: A Critical Linguistic Introduction, 2nd ed. (London, 2001).

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distinction between author and narrator and the qualification of the audience or readership as ‘narratees’. A narrator can be either overt, operating as ‘one who clearly manifests himself … throughout the text’,18 or covert, narrating ‘in a more implicit way, without commenting or reflecting.’19 Fundamentally, narration implies ‘focalization’, since a story is always told from a particular perspective. A special instance is ‘embedded focalization’: a technique by which elements in the story are presented from the viewpoint of a specific character. When events are focalized in an embedded sense, we ‘see’ them through the eyes of a distinct character in the text.20 A related phenomenon is that of ‘immersion’, which means that the audience has an experience of being immersed in the story: they identifty with its characters, participating in actions and emotions via the imagination. Such immersion may be facilitated by a variety of narrative techniques.21 In instances of both embedded focalization and immersion, the narrator tends to be covert: it is a matter of ‘showing’, rather than ‘telling’.22 Finally, the representation of time must be mentioned, as narratologically informed analyses pay attention to the way in which time is represented: how it speeds up and slows down, at which point pauses occur, etc.23 Thirdly, I need to discuss the theory of discourse modes. This theory states that different modes of communication, such as narrating and arguing, are defined by certain linguistic features. Analysis of these features enables reseachers to recognize the occurrence of various text types, as the discourse modes are also called, and to observe how they cohere in more complex texts and textual units.24 18

I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 26, cf. 30. See footnote 8. I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 27, cf. 30. 20 For ‘focalization’, see I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 47-72, esp. 50-6 (‘embedded focalization’). 21 See Rutger J. Allan, Irene J.F. de Jong and Casper C. de Jonge, ‘From Enargeia to Immersion: The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51.1 (2017), 34-51; for a discussion in Dutch, see Rutger J. Allan, Irene J. F. de Jong and Casper C. de Jonge, ‘Homerus’ narratieve stijl: enargeia en immersion’, Lampas 47 (2014), 202-23. Cf. also Rutger J. Allan, ‘Experientiality and Immersion: Linguistic and narratological aspects of immersive narrative’; paper delivered at the conference Narrative and Experience in Greco-Roman Antiquity, Heidelberg, 2015. 22 I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 27. 23 See footnote 8 for narratological studies on narrators/narratees/narrative, time, space, and characterization. 24 The terms ‘discourse mode’ and ‘(local) text type’ were developed by Carlota Smith in her study Modes of Discourse. The Local Structure of Texts, Cambridge Studies in Linguistics 103 (Cambridge, 2003). For classics, the concept was adapted by Suzanne Adema in her dissertation of 2008: Discourse Modes and Bases. A Study of the Use of Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid. See also the monograph based on this dissertation: Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid. Narrative Style and Structure (Leiden, 2019; see footnote 3). In chapter 2 of her Tenses in Vergil’s Aeneid, ‘Latin Tenses in Narrative Texts’ (8-42), Adema includes an exposé on the application of the theory of discourse modes to Vergil’s famous epic. Three other relevant contributions are included in R.J. Allan and M. Buijs (eds), The Language of Literature (Leiden, 2007, see footnote 5): Suzanne M. Adema, ‘Discourse Modes and Bases in Vergil’s Aeneid’ (2007), 42-64, with a useful table on 44; Caroline H.M. Kroon, ‘Discourse Modes and the Use of Tenses in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ (2007), 65-92, 19

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Particularly exciting is the correlation which has been suggested between the narrative elements of Labov and the different discourse modes.25 Thus, it has been observed that the orientation, complication, and resolution generally appear in narrative mode, while evaluative sections display the characteristics of what has been called ‘the discursive mode’, that is, a mode in which the narrator enters into more direct communication with the narratee. An additional distinction can be made with respect to the narrative mode as the narrator can choose different standpoints from which to tell the story: (s)he may narrate events either from within the story world, as a kind of eyewitness, or from the ‘here and now’ of the discourse situation. I will return to these subcategories and related matters below, when we will consider the narrative dynamics of Vita Martini 7.26 Vita Martini 1: Argumentative Clues As said, the focus of this article is on a close-reading of chapter 7, with attention being paid to its internal dynamics as well as to its connections with higher levels of discourse. It is therefore important to consider the wider context of chapter 7 and to refer back to chapter 1 especially, since it provides the with a helpful table on 72; Rutger J. Allan, ‘Sense and Sentence Complexity’ (2007), 93-121. See also David Stienaers, ‘Tense and Discourse Organization in Caesar’s De Bello Gallico’, in Gerd Haverling (ed.), Latin Linguistics in the Early 21st Century. Acts of the 16th International Colloquium on Latin Linguistics, Uppsala, June 6th-11th, 2011 (Uppsala, 2015), 208-20, 211, and R.J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009), 171-3. 25 This combining of narrative elements and discourse modes was introduced by Caroline Kroon and Rutger J. Allan: Caroline H.M. Kroon, ‘How to Write a Ghost Story? A Linguistic View on Narrative Modes in Pliny Ep. 7.27’, in L. Sawicki and D. Shalev (eds), Donum Grammaticum. Studies in the Latin and Celtic Linguistics in Honour of Hannah Rosén (Leuven, 2002), 189-200 and R.J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009), 171-99. See also appendix 1 of this article (borrowed from Kroon, 2010, see footnote 15). 26 As the theory is still developing, terms and definitions continue to be under debate. Some scholars do not speak of a ‘discursive mode’ but may use other, more specific, terminology such as ‘report mode’, ‘comment mode’ or ‘argument mode’. These modes can be understood as specifications of the more general notion of the ‘discursive mode’; common denominator is the fact that the narrator communicates from the standpoint of ‘discourse now’ as opposed to ‘story now’. See for the notions of ‘discourse now’ and ‘story now’: R.J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009), 173-4, 181-2. Depending on the term chosen, a different semantic value is attributed to the discourse mode. ‘Report mode’ signals that an author reports in a non-narrative manner (giving the facts from the standpoint of ‘speaker’s time’ without paying attention to the sequence of events), ‘comment mode’ refers to the fact that the narrator/author includes comments that can be distinguished from the story proper. The term ‘argument mode’ emphasizes that there is an argumentation going on within the text. Other modes are: informative/ information mode (providing generally valid information), descriptive/description mode (describing persons, objects, places in the story world), and direct mode (representing direct speech). See for the definitions regarding the different modes also the publications mentioned in footnotes 3, 5, 7, and 24. See also C.H.M. Kroon’s article ‘Discourse Modes and the Use of Tenses in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ (2007), 67-71, with a helpful reference to the categories of C. Smith on 67.

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argumentative framework for the vita as a whole. When we are conscious of the author’s stated aim, this enables us to correlate such information to the embedded stories in the text, of which Vita Martini 7 is one of many. The vita begins with a letter of dedication and a preface, chapter 1, in which the author gives us some information about the aim of the work. We read in Vita Martini (VM) 1.3: For what use to them was the acclaim – which will vanish with this world – accorded to their writings? Or what benefit did posterity gain from reading about Hector’s battles or about Socrates’ philosophy? It would be foolish to imitate these men – indeed it would be madness not to combat them most energetically, seeing that as they estimate human life by present actions alone, they have entrusted their hopes of immortality to fables and their souls to tombs.27

Thus, we can deduce that Sulpicius is concerned with the souls of his readers: these should not end up in the grave. Rather, as we may read in VM 1.4, one should strive for ‘everlasting life’ (perennem vitam), which is achieved by ‘living in a pious, saintly and religious manner’ (pie sancte religioseque vivendo): Indeed, they believed that they should seek perpetuity for themselves only with regard to human memory although it is man’s duty to seek everlasting life rather than everlasting renown, and not by writing or fighting or playing the philosopher, but by living in a pious, saintly and religious manner.28

Subsequently, the author writes in VM 1.6: For these reasons I think it would be useful if I were to write a detailed record of the life of this most saintly man (vitam sanctissimi viri) as an example (exemplo) to others in the future. It would serve to rouse the enthusiasm of its readers for the true wisdom (veram sapientiam), for heavenly military service (caelestem militiam) and for divine heroism (divinamque virtutem).29 27 Translation by Carolinne White, Early Christian Lives (London, 1998), 129-59, 135. The Latin of Vita Martini (VM) 1.3 reads: Quid enim aut ipsis occasura cum saeculo scriptorum suorum gloria profuit? aut quid posteritas emolumenti tulit legendo Hectorem pugnantem aut Socraten philosophantem, cum eos non solum imitari stultitia sit, sed non acerrime etiam inpugnare dementia, quippe qui, humanam vitam praesentibus tantum actibus aestimantes, spes suas fabulis, animas sepulcris dederint? The Latin quotations from Sulpicius Severus’ Vita Martini are taken from Jacques Fontaine (ed.), Sulpice Sévère. Vie de Saint Martin, SC 133 (Paris, 1967). In the context of the research for this article I have only sporadically worked with the following study, which nevertheless deserves mentioning since it represents an important contribution to current Martinian scholarschip: Philip Burton, Sulpicius Severus’ Vita Martini (Oxford, 2017). 28 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 135. The Latin of VM 1.4 reads: Siquidem ad solam hominum memoriam se perpetuandos crediderunt, cum hominis officium sit perennem potius vitam quam perennem memoriam quaerere, non scribendo aut pugnando vel philosophando, sed pie sancte religioseque vivendo. 29 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 135-6. In Latin we read in VM 1.6: Unde facturus mihi operae pretium videor, si vitam sanctissimi viri, exemplo aliis mox futuram, perscripsero, quo utique ad veram sapientiam et caelestem militiam divinamque virtutem legentes incitabuntur.

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Note the choice made by the translator here to render virtutem, from virtus, as ‘heroism’. Virtus is a central category in this vita and it has different connotations: virtue, miraculous power, and – closely related to this – ‘miracles’, the meaning of the plural virtutes. The ambiguity of virtus as meaning both virtue and miracle power is fundamental to this hagiographical work.30 From these passages we can infer that Sulpicius (or, strictly speaking, the narrator) expects God to reward him for his literary activity. He himself may be unable to lead an exemplary and saintly life as Martin did, but at least he will have recorded one for the benefit of others.31 This implies that, in a sense, Sulpicius himself acts as an apostle. Like Martin, as we shall see, he may be considered an apostolic figure (apostolicus; cf. VM 7.7 below) albeit in a different way. In my view, this means that not only Martin but also Sulpicius appears in a heroic role: by recording the ‘divine heroism’ of his saint, he himself is carrying out an heroic action. Thus, one could describe him as ‘a hero by implication’. Significantly, it is this type of heroism he also hopes to elicit in his readers, trying to arouse their enthusiasm ‘for the true wisdom (veram sapientiam), for heavenly military service (caelestem militiam) and for divine heroism (divinamque virtutem)’.32 What follows in the vita, then, is a record of the Life of Martin, which bears Sulpicius’ signature. By performing a close reading of chapter 7, I aim to shed new light on that signature of Sulpicius, on his narrative technique, that is, the specific way in which he tells his story. In addition, I will reflect on the value of such insight into narratorial decision-making.

Vita Martini 7: Orientation, Complication, and Peak When we start reading chapter 7, we can see that the first few lines are directly related to the end of chapter 6. In a condensed way Sulpicius takes us from one scene to the next, explaining how Martin finally met Hilary of Poitiers and founded a monasterium, a monastic cell, for himself in the area. We read at the end of chapter 6, in paragraph 7:

30 See Clare Stancliffe, St. Martin and his Hagiographer. History and Miracle in Sulpicius Severus (Oxford, 1983), 6, 9, 161-2, and 248; I also discuss this issue in my dissertation of 2003: Biblical Biography: Scripture and Ascetic Change in Early Christian Vitae (Utrecht, 2003; independent publication, available through the Dutch University Library System), 147-8. 31 Similar notions regarding the importance of hagiographical writing are found in the prologue to Gregory of Nyssa’s Vita Macrinae; see also Derek Krueger, Writing and Holiness. The Practice of Authorship in the Early Christian East (Philadelphia, 2004). Chapter 6 is devoted to the Life of Macrina: ‘Hagiography as Liturgy: Writing and Memory in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina’ (110-32). 32 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 135-6, quoted above.

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Not long afterwards, when he learnt that the emperor had now repented and had granted St Hilary permission to return from exile, Martin set out for Rome to try and meet Hilary there.33

The narrative continues organically in chapter 7: As Hilary had already passed through, Martin followed in his footsteps to Poitiers where he was most warmly welcomed by Hilary. Martin then erected a monastic cell for himself not far from the town.34

Then, with the Latin words quo tempore, ‘at that time’, the scene is set for the story that is about to unfold. We may call this ‘the orientation’: the scene is set. In this orientation, one of the main characters of the scene is introduced: quidam catechumenus, a certain catechumen, who attached himself to Martin. At this point, let us consider the English and the Latin in conjunction: At that time a certain catechumen attached himself to him, wishing to learn how to live according to the teachings of such a holy man.35 Quo tempore se ei quidam catechumenus iunxit, cupiens sanctissimi viri institui disciplinis.

A crucial term here is sanctus, which is linked to the notion of lifestyle, disciplina. These concepts are closely related to two earlier statements by Sulpicius in his preface, namely that one should strive for eternal life (perennem vitam) by living a saintly life (sancte … vivendo).36 Next, the drama of the story begins to develop as the catechumen falls ill: laborabat. The illness persists over time which can be deduced from the use of the imperfect tense. This is the beginning of ‘the complication’, or ‘the dramatic development’, that is being described.37 The narrator continues in VM 7.2, and again I include the Latin: It happened that Martin had just gone away: after an absence of three days he returned to find a lifeless body. Death had come so suddenly that the man had departed this mortal life without being baptized.38 Ac tum Martinus forte discesserat. Et cum per triduum defuisset, regressus exanime corpus invenit: ita subita mors fuerat, ut absque baptismo humanis rebus excederet. 33 Ibid. 141. In Latin the passage, VM 6.7, reads as follows: Nec multo post, cum sancto Hilario comperisset regis paenitentia potestatem indultam fuisse redeundi, Romae ei temptavit occurrere profectusque ad urbem est. 34 Ibid. 141. In the Latin edition we read in VM 7.1: Cum iam Hilarius praeterisset, Pictavos eum est vestigiis persecutus; cumque ab eo gratissime fuisset exceptus, haut longe sibi ab oppido monasterium conlocavit. 35 Ibid. 141. 36 See the previous section. 37 The story continues: ‘A few days later this man fell sick, suffering from violent attacks of fever’; C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 141; in the Latin of VM 7.1: Paucisque interpositis diebus, languore correptus vi febrium laborabat. 38 Ibid. 141.

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Interestingly, the focus in this passage shifts to Martin, who, the narrator informs us, had just gone away. After three days of absence, he finds the body of the catechumen dead. Thus, as narratees, we now learn the aftermath of the illness, from the perspective of Martin. Death had come so suddenly, the narrator explains in a kind of running commentary, there hadn’t even been time to baptize him. Because the story is constructed in this way, a suggestion of haste and suddenness is made, as if the narrator wants to convey the impression that death happened so suddenly that even he himself had no time to narrate it, as if he had also been taken by surprise.39 The fact that the catechumen had died in a state of sin, ‘without baptism’, may remind us of Sulpicius’ concern with ‘souls being saved’ as mentioned in chapter 1 (see the previous section) and the importance of an everlasting life which – in the context of the church at that time – could only be obtained through baptism.40 It is significant that earlier in the story, Martin himself had rushed to baptism after his famous interaction with the poor beggar at the gate of Amiens and the subsequent dream in which Jesus revealed himself as the one who had been present in the beggar. In VM 3.5 we read in Latin: … bonitatem Dei in suo opere cognoscens, cum esset annorum duodeviginti, ad baptismum convolavit. White translates as follows: ‘[H]e acknowledged God’s goodness in his deed and now that he was eighteen years old, he was impatient to be baptized.’41 I would, however, render ad baptismum convolavit as ‘he rushed to baptism’,42 confirming the actual fact of receiving the sacrament. Returning to our story in chapter 7, we must be aware that – within the narrator’s belief system – things don’t look good for the catechumen without baptism. After the editorial comment about the absence of baptism, the complication (or drama) continues. The narratees have already been informed that Martin finds the lifeless body (exanime corpus invenit), but it seems that the narrator retraces his steps somewhat: we move back in time, to re-experience the moment of Martin’s appearance on the scene. We read: The grieving brothers were performing their sorrowful duties around the body laid out in their midst when Martin came running up (accurrit), weeping and wailing.43 39 This observation was made by my colleague Suzanne Adema in private conversation. I thank her for her willingness to discuss this section of the Vita Martini with me and for her sharp and inspiring observations. 40 This is a reference to the necessity of baptism. Compare the famous statement made by Cyprian, the bishop of Carthage, in the third century: salus extra ecclesiam non est – outside of the church (that is, without being a member of the church through baptism) there is no salvation (Epistula 73.21). 41 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 138. 42 Burton’s translation is close to this rendering as he opts for the more literal: ‘he flew to baptism’, see Ph. Burton, Sulpicius Severus (2017), 99. 43 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 141. The last sentence of VM 7.2 reads in Latin: Corpus in medio positum tristi maerentium fratrum frequentabatur officio, cum Martinus flens et eiulans accurrit.

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In this sentence, the narrator then begins to zoom in, adding more details: the body is positioned in the middle of a group of brothers who are mourning the deceased. Then enters Martin: crying and wailing. The use of the historical present accurrit here (not translated as such by White nor Burton) signals that we are in, what Suzanne Adema calls, ‘pseudo-simultaneous narrative mode’. This means that the narrator has positioned himself in the here and now of the story, telling the story ‘from within’, so to speak, rather than looking back from the present of a later point in time and narrating retrospectively.44 It is as if we have entered the story world and are witnessing what is being narrated with our own eyes. Tum vero, ‘But then’, the story continues in 7.3, creating a sense of urgency: But then, as his whole mind became filled with the Holy Spirit, he told the others to leave the little room where the body lay. He locked the door and threw himself down upon the lifeless limbs of the dead brother. And when Martin had lain in prayer for a while and felt that the power of the Lord was present through the spirit, he raised himself a little and stared into the dead man’s face, fearlessly awaiting the outcome of his prayers and the Lord’s mercy. Two hours had scarcely passed when he saw the dead man slowly move each limb and open his eyes, blinking to regain his sight.45 Tum vero, tota sanctum spiritum mente concipiens, egredi cellulam, in qua corpus iacebat ceteros iubet, ac foribus obseratis super exanimata defuncti fratris membra prosternitur. Et cum aliquandiu orationi incubuisset sensissetque per spiritum Domini 44 S. Adema explains these two modes of narration in her article ‘Discourse Modes and Bases in Vergil’s Aeneid’ (2007), in which she employs, however, a terminology from which she has now departed. In her most recent study (2019) on tense in Vergil (see footnote 3), Adema speaks of retrospective versus pseudo-simultaneous narrative mode. C.H.M. Kroon, in her article ‘Discourse Modes and the Use of Tense in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ (2007), refers to ‘a retrospective narrative discourse mode’ (77), but the contrasting term ‘pseudo-simultaneous’ is not yet employed. This term is used in an article by D. Stienaers entitled ‘Tense and Discourse Organization in Caesar’s De Bello Gallico’ (2015), 212. Stienaers, however, does not use the term ‘retrospective narrative mode’ for the counterpart of the pseudo-simultaneous narrative mode. Rather, he speaks of ‘subsequent narrative mode’ (212). In the context of Greek narrative, R.J. Allan makes a similar distinction referring to ‘immediate diegetic mode’ (for pseudo-simultaneous mode) and ‘displaced diegetic mode’ (for retrospective/subsequent narrative mode); see R.J. Allan, ‘Sense and Sentence Complexity’ (2007) and ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009). In R.J. Allan, ‘Sense and Sentence Complexity’ (2007), 102, the term ‘mimetic mode’ is included as a synonym for ‘immediate mode’ with a reference to C.H.M. Kroon, ‘How to Write a Ghost Story?’ (2002); the latter is preferred by the author. The difference between the two types of narrative mode are visualized by C.H.M. Kroon, ‘Discourse Modes and the Use of Tense in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ (2007), 70, and R.J. Allan, ‘Sense and Sentence Complexity’ (2007), 100. One basic distinction concerns the position of the narrator: either he tells his story from the here and now of the narration (also referred to as ‘speaker’s time’, see C.H.M. Kroon, ‘Discourse Modes and the Use of Tense in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ [2007], 70, 72) or – alternatively – he takes the perspective of the story world, which term is used, for instance, ibid. 81. Synonyms for the dimension of the ‘story world’ are ‘reference time’ employed by S. Adema, ‘Discourse Modes and Bases in Vergil’s Aeneid’ (2007), 42, and ‘story now’ used by R.J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009), 173-4. 45 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 141.

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adesse virtutem, erectus paululum et in defuncti ora defixus, orationis suae ac misericordiae Domini intrepidus expectabat eventum. Vixque duarum fere horarum spatium intercesserat, videt defunctum paulatim membris omnibus commoveri et laxatis in usum videndi palpitare luminibus.

Sulpicius narrates what happens after Martin has ordered everyone to leave the room: the saint prostrates himself on top of the lifeless body (prosternitur).46 After accurrit (he came running) and iubet (he ordered), this is the third time the present tense is used in this section: it is a historical present. As noted above, this present is rendered in both White’s and Burton’s translation as a past tense. Significantly, the present tense in the Latin suggests that the narratees are with Martin in this situation. It is also a sign that the story is reaching its peak. Apart from the use of the present tense, the peak is underscored by the adding of detail and the slowing down of narrative pace. All of these features encourage the reader to enter the story more intensely.47 Thus, while the brothers in the text are ordered out, the narratees are invited in by way of the narrator’s choice of tense. Subsequently, a period of waiting is described: expectabat eventum (imperfect tense), he was waiting for the outcome. He had been lying on the dead man in prayer (orationi) and had sensed that the power (virtutem) of the Lord was present. He raised himself a bit and focused on the face of the dead man. This is all described by forms of the pluperfect and by perfect participles. Martin waited fearlessly, intent on the outcome of ‘his prayer and the Lord’s mercy’. Remarkably, the saint’s prayer and God’s mercy are mentioned in one breath: oratio and misercordia. The two are inextricably connected here and this close connection between the human realm (oratio) and the divine (misericordia) is exactly what makes the saint holy and heroic: he channels divine power into the human world. In a monotheistic context that aims to clearly demarcate the boundaries between an all-powerful God and mere humans, however, such 46 Intertextual connections with biblical stories are found in: 1Kings 17:19-24 (Elijah and the son of the widow of Zarephath); 2Kings 4:18-37 (Elisha and the son of the Shunnamite woman); Mark 5:22-4; 35-43 (Jairus’ daughter; with parallels in Luke 8:41-2; 49-56, and – much condensed – in Matthew 9:18-9; 23-6); Luke 7:12-7 (the boy at Nain); John 11:1-44 (Lazarus); Acts 9:36-42 (Tabitha/Dorcas); Acts 20:7-12 (Eutychus). Clearly, resuscitations are quite rare in Scripture: two instances in the Hebrew Bible, in which the prophets Elijah and Elisha are involved; three stories from the gospels in which Jesus figures as the person performing the miracle; and finally, two scenes in which the apostles, Peter and Paul, raise someone from the dead. While we can clearly observe how the prophetic stories inform the gospel scenes, and how these in turn influence the narrations in Acts, the narrative from the Hebrew Bible provides the most detail. In the end, the intertextual links between Vita Martini 7 and the episodes in 1-2Kings are the strongest. See also N. Vos, Biblical Biography (2003), 159-65 (cf. footnote 30) and Ph. Burton, Sulpicius Severus (2017), 184-8. For an analysis of the Elisha story in context, see Bob Becking, From David to Gedaliah: The Book of Kings as Story and History, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 228 (Fribourg, Göttingen, 2007), 66-87 (the chapter entitled ‘“Touch for Health…” Magic in 2 Kings 4:31-37 with a Remark about the History of Jahwism’). 47 Cf. footnote 21 on immersion.

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apparent fusion of divine and human capacity also causes tension because when humans start to act as gods idolatry is never far away. In biblical blueprints of this scene,48 therefore, an instrumental element is generally included to mediate between the human and the divine, such as actions, words or objects relating to ritual and prayer.49 In this way, the exertion of human power is relativized, the source of life-giving energy attributed to God, and the holy (wo-)man presented as fundamentally dependent on the deity. Next in the story, a paradoxical statement is made: ‘scarcely two hours had passed’. The average reader might well consider two hours quite a long time to be waiting in such a situation, but Sulpicius inserts the word vix, ‘scarcely’, into the sentence, suggesting that things actually happened fast. Faster, perhaps, than one would expect? Or maybe the narrator is trying to raise the curiosity of the narratees at this point. The reader may start to wonder: What happened during those two hours? It seems that one is supposed to wonder what was going on with the deceased at this time on some other level. The reference to the ‘two hours’ thus creates a narrative gap that will be filled in later. Indeed, the reader will learn what happened in a parallel world at a later point in the story, but not yet. Now the high point of this story is reached as videt, ‘he sees’, allows us to see what Martin sees, which means the narrator is using the technique of focalization:50 slowly the dead man is beginning to move his limbs; he opens his eyes and blinks to regain his sight. The combination of the present and the use of even more detail, such as the slowly moving limbs and the blinking eyes, draws the audience further into the story. This is what we call ‘a peak’, the climax of the story, and in this particular case, the peak is linguistically marked where we would expect it. That is: the high point of the story in terms of content, the actual resuscitation, is also the peak on a linguistic level.51 I mention this coincidence explicitly, 48

See footnote 46. The connection between the human and the divine is not without tension in Christian theology. See, for instance, Wolfgang Speyer, ‘Heros’, in Ernst Dassmann et al. (eds), Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum: Sachwörterbuch zur Auseinandersetzung des Christentums mit der antiken Welt, Band 14 (Stuttgart, 1988), 861-77. Speyer discusses the fact that in order to mediate between the divine and the human identity of the saint, Christian interpretations of holiness would emphasize the notion that holy men and women were completely dependent on God for their power (870-1). This dependence manifested itself in the centrality of prayer. See also N. Vos, Biblical Biography (2003), 234, for a discussion of this issue in the context of Saint Benedict and his ability to work miracles. (In chapter 30 of the second book of the Dialogues by Gregory the Great, the question is raised whether Benedict was able to perform miracles autonomously or only on the basis of prayer.) Both in the christological debates (see, for instance, H. Cunliffe-Jones, A History of Christian Doctrine [Edinburgh, 1978], 121-48) and in hagiographical traditions, we see Christian thinkers wrestling with the tensions inherent in discourse that represents the presence of divine power in human agents. 50 For ‘focalization’, see I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 47-72. 51 In this regard, R.E. Longacre, The Grammar of Discourse (1996), 296-308, makes the important distinction between notional structure (this concerns roughly speaking the plot of the story) and surface structure (which pertains to the linguistic features of the discourse). 49

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because it is not always the case. Sometimes a narrator creates a peak linguistically where we would not expect one. Indeed, at other points in his vita, Sulpicius uses this technique for rhetorical, argumentative purposes.52 The narrative continues in 7.4: ‘Then he turned with a great cry to the Lord, filling the tiny cell with shouts of thanksgiving’53 (Tum vero, magna ad Dominum voce conversus, gratias agens cellulam conpleverat). In this sentence, Tum vero again marks a moment of urgency and excitement. The resuscitated man, magna ad Dominum voce conversus, ‘turned with a great cry to the Lord’, as White translates. We can take this ‘turning’ literally, but in the case of the catechumen conversus is, because of his unbaptized state, an ambiguous term: thus, it also seems to mark the catechumen’s ‘actual conversion’ in the sense of his salvation. His shouts of thanksgiving are reminiscent of the expressions of praise in the Scriptures uttered when ill, possessed, and even dead human beings are healed or raised, and – either figuratively or literally – brought back to the fullness of life.54 Subsequently, attention shifts to what is going on outside the cell: On hearing this those who had been standing outside immediately rushed in. It was an extraordinary sight: they saw the man whom they had left as dead now alive.55 Quo audito, qui pro foribus adstiterant statim inruunt. Mirum spectaculum, quod videbant vivere quem mortuum reliquissent.

Outside, the brothers are waiting, when they suddenly hear the cries of thanksgiving and immediately rush in – the final historical present used in this story: inruunt. After this, one last sentence rounds off the story proper and it has an evaluative character: Mirum spectaculum, it says, ‘what a remarkable spectacle’. The word mirum, in my opinion, functions as the mantra of the vita as a whole: time and again it is used to point to the miraculous nature of Martin’s life, thus resonating with the important notion of virtus mentioned earlier.56 With these words, the narrator uses the technique of focalization again, now taking the perspective of the brothers: ‘for they saw alive the one who had been dead when they had left’.57 52

I discuss one such case of ‘peak displacement’ in N. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil’ (2020), 135-50, esp. 141-2 and 145. Peak displacement occurs in Augustine’s tractate on the care for the dead (De cura pro mortuis gerenda) as well, see P.J. Rose, A Commentary on Augustine’s De cura’ (2013), 57-8, 517-55. Cf. M. Osseforth, Friendship in Saint Augustine’s Confessions (2017), 90-1, with a discussion of a ‘bipolar peak’. The issue is also discussed by G. Wartena, ‘Epic Emotions’ (2017), 193-202; in his abstract, the author observes that ‘[i]t is remarkable that a Peak … does not always occur at a climactic moment in the story’ (193). 53 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 142. 54 See, for instance, the shouts of thanksgiving uttered in Luke 17:16 by the leprous Samaritan who had been healed; cf. also the resuscitation stories from the Bible referred to in footnote 46. 55 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 142. 56 See footnote 30. 57 My translation. Cf. also footnote 50 (‘focalization’).

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Vita Martini 7: Resolution and Evaluation Next follows the resolution (marked by ita), informing the narratee what happened afterwards: ‘Thus, restored to life, he was baptized immediately and lived for many years afterwards’58 (Ita redditus vitae, statim baptismum consecutus, plures postea vixit annos). In a very compact way, the narrator rounds off the story. Sulpicius uses a perfect tense here, vixit, creating what can be called a ‘retrospective narrative mode’.59 This retrospective narrative mode is different from the pseudo-simultaneous narrative mode because we have now left the story world and we have entered, with the narrator, what is usually referred to as ‘discourse now’. From the standpoint of ‘discourse now’, the narrator looks back.60 The shift from the pseudo-simultaneous narrative to the retrospective narrative mode, marked by a shift in the use of the tenses (namely, from the present to the perfect), suggests to the narratees that they have left the story world, in which the narrator had immersed them,61 and have entered the ‘here and now’ in which the narrator can now engage more directly in communication with his audience. Such direct communication is expressed in what is called ‘the discursive mode’.62 In what follows, then, the narrator moves from the retrospective narrative mode, in which he has presented the resolution of his tale and which is rooted in the ‘here and now’ of the discourse situation, to a discursive mode in which he presents his evaluation, that is, the meaning of the narrative that he proposes. Thus, he continues with the term primusque, introducing an evaluative remark which is firmly rooted in ‘discourse now’ by use of the words apud nos, ‘among us’. The second half of VM 7.5 reads: ‘And he was the first among us (apud nos) who was both proof (materia) of Martin’s miracles (virtutum) and a witness (testimonium) to them.’63 White translates the word virtutum very aptly as 58

My translation. See footnote 44. 60 See footnote 26. 61 See footnote 21. Cf. also N. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil’ (2020), 140. 62 See, for instance, R.J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009), 181-6. Note that there is no temporal progression in discursive mode. See for this particular aspect ibid. 183 and the table on 186. This lack of temporal progression also applies to the description mode: see, for instance, S. Adema, ‘Discourse Modes and Bases in Vergil’s Aeneid’ (2007), 51, C.H.M. Kroon, ‘Discourse Modes and the Use of Tenses in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ (2007), 71-2, and R.J. Allan, ‘Towards a Typology of the Narrative Modes in Ancient Greek’ (2009), 179-81. Significantly, R.J. Allan (ibid. 186) mentions the narratological term ‘pause’ with reference to both the descriptive and the discursive mode. 63 My translation. The Latin of VM 7.5 reads: Ita redditus vitae, statim baptismum consecutus, plures postea vixit annos, primusque apud nos Martini virtutum vel materia vel testimonium fuit. I have included my own translation here because White divides up the sentence differently. Because of my argumentation in this article, I have offered a different division of the sentence, namely, one that clarifies the distinction between resolution and evaluation as well as the transition of the one into the other. 59

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‘spiritual powers’,64 which allows for the fact that virtutes is a broad and layered concept that should not be interpreted narrowly. I, however, have rendered it here as ‘miracles’ because in this context we are dealing with an exceptional miracle, namely, a resuscitation. In this evaluative section, the catechumen is called both materia and testimonium of Martin’s miracles/spiritual powers. On the one hand, he is materia, proof of Martin’s powers because he has come back life. He is quite literally ‘living proof’. His living body attests to what has happened and in that sense everything that has been narrated so far in this episode is encapsulated in the word materia: it functions as a summary. On the other hand, the resuscitated man is testimonium, ‘a live witness’, which term functions as an announcement of what is to follow in the text. Because the story isn’t over yet: the readers learn from the catechumen himself, albeit in indirect speech, what happened to him when he was dead! A proper flashback (analepsis) is included here, and unlike the biblical stories on which this story is modelled,65 the narratees get to see things from the perspective of the deceased – after the fact.66 Finally, the narrative gap, created by the statement that Martin waited for two hours for something to happen as he lay on the dead man’s body, is filled in, as we read: He used to relate how when he left the body he was taken to the court of the Judge and that he heard the grim sentence that he was to be condemned to the dark places and to the hordes of common people. Then two angels pointed out to the Judge that this was the man for whom Martin was praying and so the order was given for him to be taken back by the two angels, handed over to Martin and restored to his former life.67

Once more, the picture is painted with much detail, albeit in indirect speech, which creates a measure of distance between the secondary/reported narrator, the catechumen, and the narratee.68 Also, within this section of indirect speech, another instance of indirect speech is embedded (creating two tertiary narrators that speak with one voice), namely, the words spoken by the angels. These angels informed the judge, that is, God himself, that this was the man for whom 64

C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 142. See footnote 46. 66 For the literary device of ‘flashback’ or analepsis, see I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 78-87. Stancliffe, St. Martin (1983), 198-200, includes references to other stories about individuals who returned from the dead and reported back about their experiences, including the story about the two Curma’s related in Augustine’s De cura pro mortuis gerenda. In A commentary on Augustine’s De cura (2013), P.J. Rose provides an analysis of this complex narrative (326-9, 354-76, 380-1). 67 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 142. The Latin of VM 7.6 reads: Idem tamen referre erat solitus se corpore exutum ad tribunal iudicis ductum, deputandumque obscuris locis et vulgaribus turbis tristem excepisse sententiam; tum per duos angelos iudici fuisse suggestum, hunc esse pro quo Martinus oraret; ita per eosdem angelos se iussum reduci, et Martino redditum vitaeque pristinae restitutum. 68 See I.J.F. de Jong, Narratology and Classics (2014), 19-26. 65

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Martin was praying, whereupon the order was given for him to be taken back. This aspect of the narration is particularly suggestive of the enormous power of the saint: his prayer saves a man from death and from hell.69 Thus, while the notion of prayer as such implies a fundamental dependence of the human on the divine,70 this story about the tribunal, which is itself embedded in the embedded story about the resuscitation, presents the act of prayer not to relativize the power of the saint but rather to enhance his supernatural abilities. This ambiguity raises questions concerning the relationship between God and the saint, as well as – by implication – between the saint and other humans. Implicitly, these theological discrepancies call for some measure of coherence which can only be reached with reference to the broader argumentative framework, that is, to a higher level of discourse where the basic and partly tacit assumptions behind the vita have been laid out. I will discuss this issue more elaborately below. Returning to the text, we may recall that the previous segment of chapter 7, section 5, opened with the resolution of the story, stating that the man was ‘given back to life’, redditus vitae,71 which words are echoed now by redditus Martino, he was given back to Martin – the man to whom he had attached himself, iunxit, in section 1 of chapter 7. This personal statement adds a touch of intimacy, which keeps the audience involved with the main characters of this episode. Then, finally, Sulpicius closes this chapter with a general evaluation. He writes: ‘From that time the name of the blessed man first shone forth, so that he who was already considered by everyone to be a holy man (sanctus), was now also considered truly worthy of the apostles (potens et vere apostolicus).’72 It is clear that the latter phrase, potens et vere apostolicus, sets Martin apart from ordinary humans and applies specifically to his miracles: he has the potential to perform these and when he does so, he follows in the footsteps of the apostles who were able to heal and – in some very special cases – to perform resuscitations.73 It is critical that this qualification of potens et vere apostolicus is correlated with the term sanctus. In fact, taking into account the earlier chapters of Vita Martini, especially the argumentative framework of chapter 1, which spoke of ‘living in a pious, saintly and religious manner’ (pie sancte religioseque vivendo),74 but also Martin’s famous act of charity in chapter 3 69 I give credit to Suzanne Adema for this succinct and summarizing formulation (part of a private conversation) that neatly captures the power of Martin as depicted by Sulpicius. 70 See above for the problematic nature of the notion that a human may exert power generally reserved for the divine, footnote 49. See also footnote 46, which includes references to biblical stories, some of which include gestures of dependence such as prayer. 71 See above, the opening of this section on resolution and evaluation (and coda). 72 C. White, Early Christian Lives (1998), 142, slightly adapted. The Latin of VM 7.7 reads: Ab hoc primum tempore beati viri homen enituit, ut qui sanctus iam ab omnibus habebatur, potens etiam et vere apostolicus haberetur. 73 See footnote 46 for references to apostolic cases of resuscitation. 74 See footnote 28.

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(sharing his clothing with the beggar at the gate of Amiens), we must conclude that being sanctus is the prerequisite for acting as an apostolic figure who is potens. Thus, the notion of sanctus recalls the fact that sanctity is defined by acts of charity, that is, by virtue. In this way, the fundamental notion of virtue, virtus, is presented as the basis for the virtutes, the miracles, worked by Martin. In a profound sense, these two categories of the virtuous and the miraculous relate to fundamental ambiguities that tend to be present in works of hagiography, and that were touched upon above. Generally speaking, hagiographical narrative includes paradoxes relating to the demarcation between human and divine power and, by implication, to the ways in which human readers envisage their connection to the saint. For instance, when Martin works his miracle of resuscitation, he is depicted as larger-than-life, superhuman, almost divine. He is idealized, and as such becomes the object of admiration. Consequently, this dynamic has a double function vis-à-vis the reader, for on the one hand the saint becomes an ideal for which to strive, but on the other hand, the saint’s perfection creates a measure of distance, as one can never attain his stature.75 It seems, then, that the evaluative phrase in which the terms sanctus and potens are correlated, addresses – albeit implicitly – these issues. This correlation of terms mediates between the unattainability of the saint’s idealized character and his role as exemplum to be imitated. Significantly, imitation of the saint’s sanctity by the envisaged audience is the communicative aim presented in the argumentative framework of chapter 1.76 Thus, the questions that are raised by the thaumaturgical abilities of the saint (‘How does his power relate to the power of God?’; ‘How can ordinary humans follow in his footsteps?’) are addressed by reference to the notion of ‘sanctity’, via the correlation of potens and sanctus. For this sanctity is built upon Martin’s ascetic lifestyle of poverty, simplicity, humility, and charity. These qualities come to the fore in the famous story of Martin’s encounter with the beggar at the gate of Amiens and, unlike the performance of resuscitations, these do lend themselves to emulation by ordinary humans. In short, the evaluative coda that rounds off the embedded narrative about the resuscitation does not only apply to that particular story, but functions on a higher level, in terms of the narration of Martin’s life as a whole (the entire string of beads, so to speak) as well as on the highest, or rather ‘most basic’, argumentative level of the work, as explicated in its opening chapter. Based on the embedded story of the resuscitated catechumen, Sulpicius seems to make the following argument: the miracles prove the power of Martin’s 75 In my dissertation of 2003 (Biblical Biography: Scripture and Ascetic Change in Early Christian Vitae; see footnote 30), I discuss this dynamic of nearness and distance (in section 4.4 entitled ‘Two Sides of the Saint’, 50-8). See also Nienke M. Vos, ‘Individuality, Exemplarity and Community: Athanasius’ Use of Two Biblical Characters in the Life of Antony’, in Marcel Poorthuis and Joshua Schwartz (eds), Saints and Role Models in Judaism and Christianity, Jewish and Christian Perspectives 7 (Leiden, 2004), 205-25, esp. 218-25. 76 Cf. footnote 29.

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sanctity which is in and of itself something to strive for, because only the path of virtue will lead to eternal life (perennem vitam).77 The ultimate focus, then, is on this sanctity that is grounded in virtue and in the ascetic lifestyle that underpins it. This means that the spectacular, miracle working heroism of Martin is narrated in the service of an ethical argumentation. To Conclude In this contribution, I have argued that it is important to view hagiography not only as a narrative genre but rather to interpret it as a complex mode of communication in which storytelling and argumentation alternate. A methodological approach that combines both discourse-linguistic and narratological perspectives offers an effective instrument to analyse such oscillation between narrative and discursive modes of discourse. In addition, it allows us to differentiate between different types of narrative mode, such as retrospective and pseudo-simultaneous narrative mode. Similarly, distinctions can be made between various types of discursive mode, such as argument, comment, and report. Analyses based on this methodology have proved valuable, for instance, in the research of Math Osseforth, who has clarified the protreptic function of embedded stories in Augustine’s Confessions.78 Gerben Wartena is working on a commentary on Sedulius’ Carmen Paschale book 5, which will demonstrate that this sample of biblical epic is far more argumentative than its classical counterparts.79 Paula Rose, in turn, has shown that the embedded stories in Augustine’s tractate on the care for the dead do not disrupt the argumentative structure of the text, but rather play a vital role to support it.80 My own research in the field of hagiography, of which I can only share a limited sample within the scope of this article, is set in the context of these promising results.81 Hagiography, as such, is fundamentally paradoxical because the saint is an ambiguous figure. On the one hand, he is pictured as larger-than-life, that is, as the embodiment of an ideal for which the recipient of the text may strive. On the other hand, it is precisely such idealization that may become an impediment to imitation.82 Therefore, if the hagiographer is to instill not only admiration but also a sense of motivation in the audience, he has to construct his text carefully. In this contribution, I have offered a discourse-linguistic/narratological analysis 77

See footnote 28. See M. Osseforth, Friendship in Saint Augustine’s Confessions (2017), 263. Cf. footnote 10. 79 See footnote 11 for a bibliographic reference to the work of Wartena. 80 Cf. P.J. Rose, A Commentary on Augustine’s De cura (2013), in which embedded stories are discussed: one about the visions of an ill man on the verge of death (354-404) and another regarding the appearance of John of Lycopolis (480-555). 81 Cf. N. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil’ (2020), see footnote 12. 82 Cf. footnote 75. 78

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of how this works out in Sulpicius’ Vita Martini, focusing on chapter 7, with references to chapters 1 and 3. In chapter 1, then, Sulpicius presents a few crucial clues to his intentions: he writes about Martin in terms of an exemplum and envisages a response of imitatio in the recipient of his text.83 The ultimate aim of earthly living is presented as ‘life eternal’, which can be attained by a life of piety, sanctity and service to God.84 A telling example of such piety and sanctity is included in chapter 3: the famous scene of Martin sharing his cloke with the poor man at the gate of Amiens. A few chapters on, Martin’s first miracle is narrated, and this is a remarkably bold instance of miracle working for the saint brings a dead man back to life. As we move through the textual fabric of this story, we become aware of its careful construction: the narrator transitions from a retrospective mode of narration to a pseudo-simultaneous mode, building up tension, adding details, and thereby drawing in his audience. As the episode reaches its peak, the narratee is immersed, sharing in the emotions and actions of the main character by way of his or her imagination. For a moment, the reader may identify with Martin as he prays his powerful prayer and carries out his thaumaturgical actions. Next, the tension decreases, as we move back into a retrospective narrative mode. Surprisingly, another story is embedded in the episode about the resuscitation: the near-death experience of the catechumen, narrated in indirect speech, fills in a narrative gap. In this respect, the narrative deviates fundamentally from its biblical models. Because the narration by the catechumen suggests that God acted on the basis of Martin’s prayer, at least one compelling question is raised: What makes his prayer so powerful that even God is impressed? This question opens up two avenues of thought: on the one hand it enhances the stature of the saint, creating the image of a superhuman being, on the other hand it paves the way for imitation, that is, for narratees following in the footsteps of the saint. How, then, does the hagiographer bring these two divergent paths together? He manages this in his closing statement of the episode: transitioning into a discursive mode, he characterizes the saint as both sanctus and potens, thereby making the term sanctus the hinge that allows a linking back to the argumentative framework established earlier. In this way, an intimate connection between storytelling and ethical teaching is forged, for Martin’s power (potens) is predicated on his moral perfection (sanctus), his compassion and 83

Cf. imitari used in VM 1.3 and exemplo mentioned in VM 1.6; in the latter passage Sulpicius’ focus is on true wisdom (veram sapientiam), heavenly military service (caelestem militiam), and divine heroism (divinamque virtutem). His hope is that the readers of his text will acquire wisdom and thus become members of the heavenly militia along with Martin, the miles Christi par excellence. See footnote 29. 84 VM 1.4; see footnote 28. Thus, as readers come into contact with the life of a most holy man (sanctissimi viri; VM 1.6), this enables them to live holy lives themselves (sancte vivendo; VM 1.4).

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goodness, expressed by the action of sharing his robe with the freezing, naked beggar. Thus, while Martin’s sanctity is exceptional, it is a sanctity that calls for imitation in the narratees, who may mirror actions of charity such as those exemplified in chapter 3. Because of their immersion in the story of the catechumen’s resuscitation, a sense of engagement has been generated in the narratees. It is this involvement that may subsequently drive their willingness to participate in the ascetic project of virtue envisaged by the author. In the end, a combined discourse-linguistic and narratological analysis provides the tools to distinguish between various levels of discourse. It clarifies transitional moments in the text: between (sub-)types of narrative, between primary and secondary narrators, and between narrative and discursive modes of discourse. Such transitioning forces us to reflect upon the internal logic of a text. In other words, it heightens our awareness of the layered structure of textual compositions. In the Vita Martini, for instance, we observe an argumentative substructure underlying the narration of Martin’s life from youth until old age, which in turn consists in a myriad of vignettes, embedded stories, that may include embedded stories themselves, thus adding to the complexity of the composition. By paying attention to the linguistic features of a text, we may become aware of the narrative choices authors have made, for a multitude of options were open to them when they decided to compose their stories. At each turn in the text, we are called to question the use of the tenses, of particles, of vocabulary in general as well as of specific narratorial perspectives. Such reflections enable us to bring the communicative aims of authors into sharper focus. In the context of early Christianity, this elucidates how hagiographers, in response to the saints who inspired their narrations, played a defining role in communicating the Christian message and forging strategies of spiritual formation.

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Appendix 1: Schematic Overview of the Correlation between Narrative Elements (based on W. Labov, Language in the Inner City [1972]), Discourse Modes, the Tenses, and Other Features (based on C.H.M. Kroon, 2010, see footnote 15)85 Narratological function

Dominant Dominant tenses discourse mode

Other features

Abstract

announcement & discursive outline of the story

perfect tense for past events; (actual) present & future tenses

1st person references; particles

Orientation

setting the scene, narrative & specifying description participants, building up tension

imperfect pluperfect

presentational sentences; topic confirmation by is, hic, or qui participles

Complication development of narrative action; advancement of narrative time

narrative

alternations of perfect & imperfect

Peak

climax or ‘hinge’ of story

(pseudosimultaneous) narrative

historical present ‘covert’ narrator; slowing down of tempo; non-complex sentences; direct speech; visual details

Evaluation

e.g. comment on discursive the content of the story and its significance; often contains the ‘ideological point’

perfect; (actual) present tense

Resolution

outcome of story; aftermath

discursive & narrative

perfect

Coda

e.g. summary of story; comments

discursive

perfect tense for past events; (actual) present & future tenses

85

1st & 2nd person pronouns and verb forms; interactional particles; non-indicative modi; evaluative vocabulary

1st person references; particles

This appendix is also included in N. Vos, ‘The Ambiguity of the Devil’ (2020), 150.

Two Greats in the Chronicle of Sulpicius Severus: Cyrus and Alexander as Historical Harmony Christian T. DJURSLEV, Aarhus University, Denmark

ABSTRACT This article argues that Sulpicius Severus represented the great kings, Cyrus II of Persia and Alexander III of Macedon, in a way that suited the purposes of his major historiographical project, the Chronica or Historia Sacra. It demonstrates that Sulpicius Severus altered pre-exisiting stories about the two monarchs, so that the pair became juxtaposed historically in the manner that they treated the Jews of the Old Testament. To this end, Sulpicius uses the translatio imperii tool not only to bring Cyrus and Alexander closer together, but also to make a claim for how the distant past had been structured by divine providence. The royal pairing thus becomes important for understanding Sulpicius’ overall purpose of the work, namely his representation of the history of God’s people.

1. Introduction Saint Martin, a Roman soldier who became the third bishop of Tours (ca. AD 371), owes much of his legacy to his biographer Sulpicius Severus (ca. 360-420).1 The saint received much attention in Sulpicius’ works: he stars not only in the famous Vita Martini, but also features across Sulpicius’ other literary output, consisting of letters,2 dialogues,3 and a historiographical text, the Chronica from after 403.4 This extensive literary production represented Martin as nothing short of the ideal holy man, a message that resonated with 1 One of many examples of Sulpicius’ representation is in fact Martin’s problematic military career, briefly revisited by Timothy D. Barnes, ‘Early Christian biography and the Roman historian’, in Peter Gemeinhardt and Johan Leemans (eds), Christian Martyrdom in Late Antiquity: History and Discourse, Tradition and Religious Identity (Berlin, Boston, 2012), 15-33, 25. 2 For Martin’s presence, see Anne-Marie Taisne, ‘Saint Martin dans la correspondance de Sulpice-Sévère’, in Patrick Laurence and Francois Guillaumont (eds), Epistulae antiquae 5: Actes du Ve colloque international ‘L’épistolaire antique et ses prolongements européens’ (Leuven, 2008), 229-37. For a new reading of Martin’s role, see Zachary Yuzwa, ‘Reading genre in Sulpicius Severus’ Letters’, Journal of Late Antiquity 7 (2014), 329-50. 3 For a literary analysis, see Susana González Marín, ‘Los “Dialogi” de Sulpicio Severo, un ejercicio literario’, in Gregorio Hinojo Andrés and Jose Carlos Fernández Corte (eds), ‘Munus quaesitum meritis’: homenaje a Carmen Codoñer (Salamanca, 2007), 415-24. 4 All available in new translations by Richard J. Goodrich, Sulpicius Severus: Complete Works (Mahwah, NJ, 2016). All translations from the Chronica are adapted from this translation, unless

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 155-166. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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contemporary and later Christian views of him. Indeed, in the present day, Saint Martin ranks among the most familiar figures of the church. In short, he was fortunate to have a lettered advocate like Sulpicius to promote him in writing. Since Sulpicius was clearly invested in preserving the best version of the saint for posterity, his method and means of representing such major figures become an important subject of study.5 The task extends far beyond Sulpicius’ work on Martin: when he undertook the enterprise of abridging all of Christian history until his own times, as he did in the Chronica, he needed to sift through the life stories of many characters from past and present. These all involved historiographical considerations, and Sulpicius was aware of the issues. For example, he stated explicitly in the preface that he was not including anything from the Gospels, nor Acts, because he did not want to detract from these important events (Chron. 1.1.3, 2.27.3). By making this choice, he deftly dodged the question of the ‘historical’ Jesus and the Apostles (chronicling the ‘true’ story of New Testament is dangerous territory). But that was his project: to provide a brief but truthful account of ‘holy’ history, that is, the history of God’s people, evidently with significant exceptions.6 The present study offers a case study of Sulpicius Severus’ method in representing historical characters in the Chronica. I focus on two great kings, Cyrus II of Persia (601-530 BC) and Alexander III of Macedon (356-323 BC). These personages would have posed immediate problems to a historian at the time. For example, both monarchs figured in Old Testament texts,7 but they also had immense literary traditions, which supplied a panoply of contradictory information, even about essential episodes, such as Cyrus’ death.8 Sulpicius was a well-educated writer, and he needed to make choices in synthesising this diverse material. During the creative process, he made his own collection of stories, rearranged them and subjected them to further refinement – in this task otherwise specified. For a recent edition of the Latin text, see Sulpicii Seueri, Chronica, ed. P. Parroni, CChr.SL 63 (Turnhout, 2017), which I have consulted. 5 This aspect of Sulpicius’ method has not been adequately explored, but see e.g. Richard G. Tanner, ‘The historical method of Sulpicius Severus’, SP 19 (1989), 106-10. 6 For a general overview of the work, see S. Weber, Die Chronik des Sulpicius Severus: Charakteristika und Intentionen (Trier, 1997); of the sources and format, see S. Isetta, ‘Un tascabile del V secolo: la “compendiosa lectio” della storia in Sulpicio Severo’, in Serta antiqua et mediaevalia 2: Tradizione enciclopedica e divulgazione in età imperiale (Rome, 2001), 165-204; and of Sulpicius as an authoritative writer of history, see Michael S. Williams, ‘Time and authority in the Chronicle of Sulpicius Severus’, in A. Lianeri (ed.), The Western Time of Ancient History: Historiographical Encounters with the Greek and Roman Pasts (Cambridge, 2011), 280-97. 7 Cyrus’ presence in the OT: 2Chr 36:22-3; Ezra passim; Isa. 44:28, 45:1; Dan. 1:21, 6:28, 10:1. Alexander’s presence in the OT: 1Macc 1:1-10. Christians also read Cyrus and Alexander into the writings of several OT prophets, most prominently the book of Daniel. 8 The third-century apologist, Theophilus of Antioch, Autol. 3.25-8 provides one example of Christian criticism of Cyrus’ Graeco-Roman tradition as opposed to biblical truth. For further problems with the location of Cyrus’ death in the literary tradition, see e.g. Daniel Beckman, ‘The many deaths of Cyrus the Great’, Iranian Studies 51 (2018), 1-21.

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lay the greatness of any budding historian from the ancient world. As I will demonstrate, Sulpicius endeavours to connect the two kings by telling similarly ordered narratives about them. This parallelism is useful for detecting creative alterations in the monarchs’ respective traditions, and it can also help to explain some organisational features of his historiographical project, primarily the translatio imperii. I end with some general observations on Sulpicius and the writing of Old Testament (hi)story. 2. Great Representations: Cyrus and Alexander according to Sulpicius Neither Cyrus nor Alexander feature in any of Sulpicius’ other works, so the present enquiry will focus on relevant passages in the Chronica. Both characters appear in the second of the two books, that is, the one concerned with the events after the Babylonian Captivity up to Sulpicius’ own days. The author devotes a long narrative to Cyrus (Chron. 2.8), as well as alludes to the king in several instances,9 whereas he narrates Alexander’s reign and its aftermath in a shorter paragraph (Chron. 2.17).10 These central narratives on Cyrus and Alexander contain a number of similarities, which will be highlighted in emboldened letters for exposition. Before I turn to analysis of these points, I offer brief overviews of each narrative. Sulpicius introduces the reign of Cyrus by mentioning the previous king that Cyrus conquered, namely his grandfather, Astyages the Mede.11 Then the writer recounts the following information: (A) Hunc Cyrus, ex filia nepos eius, regno expulit, Persarum usus armis; unde (B) summa imperii ad Persas translata est. (C) Babylonii quoque in potestatem ditionemque eius concessere. igitur initio regni, propositis (D) publice edictis, dat potestatem Iudaeis in solum patrium redeundi, sacra etiam vasa, quae Nabuchodonosor de templo Hierosolymae abstulerat, (E) reddidit. itaque pauci tum in Iudaeam regressi; ceteris redeundi animus an facultas defuerit parum comperimus.12 Cyrus, a grandson of Astyages through his daughter, used the Persian armies to drive (A) this man from his kingdom. Because of this rebellion, (B) the greatest power was transferred to the Persians. (C) The Babylonians also came under Cyrus’ power and 9 Sulp. Sev., Chron. 2.3.3 (Cyrus’ ascendancy is signified by the silvery arms of the idol in Dan. 2:32), 2.5.7 (Cyrus ends the Babylonian Captivity after 70 years), 2.14.3 (Cyrus mentioned as the father of Cambyses, conqueror of Egypt and Ethiopia), 2.17.1 (Cyrus’ rule is juxtaposed with the conquest of Alexander). 10 Sulp. Sev., Chron. 2.3.4 also notes Alexander in the context of Dan. 2:31-45; the brass of the dream idol signifies the coming of the Macedonian ascendancy heralded by Alexander’s conquest of Persia. 11 Sulp. Sev., Chron. 2.7.6. Darius duodeviginti annos regnasse traditur; qua tempestate Astyages Medis imperabat, Darius is said to have reigned eighteen years; during this time, Astyages was ruling the Medes. 12 Sulp. Sev., Chron. 2.8.1-2 (CChr.SL 63, 66).

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jurisdiction. And so, from the beginning of his reign, (D) in edicts that were publicly distributed, he gave the Jews the right to return to the land of their fathers, and he (E) even returned the sacred vases that Nebuchadnezzar had taken from the temple in Jerusalem. At that time, a few men returned to Judea. As for the others, I have discovered little about whether they lacked the courage or the opportunity to return.

Following this rich Judaeo-centric narrative, Sulpicius recounts a short episode known from the apocryphal book of the Bible about Bel and the Dragon, which I label (F).13 The Hebrew prophet Daniel, a favourite in the Babylonian court of Cyrus, uses a clever trick to expose the fraud of the local priests of Bel. Upon the discovery of the deception, Cyrus executes the offenders and permits the prophet to destroy their temple. The narrative of Cyrus’ reign ends with the above vignette of Daniel, but it does not provide closure. Sulpicius records Cyrus’ death at the closing of the next paragraph, which I label (G). He is listing Persian rulers from Cyrus onwards (Chron. 2.9.4-5): Post Darium Medum, quem duodeviginti annos regnasse significavimus, Cyrus uno et triginta annis rerum potitus est. Scythis bellum inferens in proelio cecidit, secundo anno postquam Tarquinius Superbus Romae regnare coeperat. Cyro Cambyses filius eius successit; regnavit annos VIIII. After Darius the Mede, whom I indicated had reigned eighteen years, Cyrus was the master of affairs for thirty-one years. While fighting the Scythians, he fell in combat, during the second year after Tarquinius Superbus had begun to rule in Rome. Cambyses, Cyrus’ son, succeeded him. Cambyses ruled for nine years.

Sulpicius’ passing synchronism of the seventh Roman king Tarquin the Proud (r. 535-509 BC) is noteworthy. It provides computational structure for his account of Persian history in that the first Persian king died as the last Roman king began to rule. The synchronism establishes a link between Babylon and Rome, but not in the explicitly negative sense that had disgusted other Christian writers, like Theophilus of Antioch (3.27), nor the grand narrative of the rise of the west at the expense of the east, as popularised by Augustine (Civ. 18.27).14 Sulpicius makes another synchronism in his introduction of Alexander. By juxtaposing him with Cyrus as the founder of Persia (Chron. 2.17.1-3), he makes Alexander the herald of a new age: Adversum (A) hunc Alexander Macedo acie conflixit. eo victo (B) Persis imperium ademptum, quod ab initio Cyri steterat annos CC et L. Alexander (C) victor fere omnium gentium adiisse (F) Hierosolymae templum dicitur ac (E) dona intulisse, (D) edixitque per omne imperium, quod sui iuris effecerat, ut Iudaeis ibidem degentibus esset liberum in patriam reverti. exacto duodecimo imperii anno, (G) septimo posteaquam 13 14

Sulp. Sev., Chron. 2.8.3-8 reworking Bel 1-23. See also Oros., Hist. 2.2.10.

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Darium devicerat, apud Babylonam defunctus est. regnum amici eius, qui simul cum illo maxima illa bella gesserant, partiti sunt. Alexander of Macedonia fought against (A) this king (i.e. Darius III) in battle. When Darius was conquered, Alexander took (B) the empire away from the Persians. It had stood for 250 years from its beginning with Cyrus. (C) Alexander conquered nearly all the nations, and (F) he is said to have gone up to the temple in Jerusalem and (E) to have brought gifts. (D) He proclaimed throughout the entire empire he had brought under his rule that the Jews living in his empire were to be allowed to return freely to their fatherland. When he had finished his twelfth year in power, (G) in the seventh year after he conquered Darius, he died in Babylon. His friends, who earlier had carried out those very great wars alongside him, divided his kingdom.

For the sake of clarity, the emboldened points may be summarised as follows: (A) conquest of a foreign king; (B) transfer of empire; (C) conquest of place and peoples; (D) publication of edicts on behalf of the Jews; (E) donation of gifts; (F) ‘conversion’ narrative; and (G) death and succession. Even if the points do not appear in the exact same order as in the Cyrus narrative, Sulpicius uses all of them to construct the reigns of the two kings. Each point will receive further comment to expose patterns and parallels in the representation. (A) Royal conquest. Stylistically and content-wise, Sulpicius makes similar introductory remarks about the rulers. He introduces both Cyrus and Alexander by making them conquer another king through force of arms. He names both enemy kings, Astyages and Darius, in one sentence before the relevant passage (Chron. 2.7.6, 2.16.8). The respective opponents are then referred back to by the word ‘hunc’ in opposition to the victorious kings, who become the grammatical object at the start of the passage. (B) Translatio imperii. Immediately after the introduction of each ruler, Sulpicius emphasises the transfer of power from one kingdom to another. This feature is dictated by Sulpicius’ interpretation of Daniel’s prophecy concerning the metallic idol (Chron. 2.2-3), which shall concern us below. (C) Spatial conquest. Sulpicius takes a general interest in the geographical area conquered by each king: Babylon for Cyrus; almost everywhere for Alexander. It is of course no surprise that the monarchs are defined by their dominion of massive territories. Equally unsurprising is the fact that Sulpicius defines this space in Judeo-centric terms. He only focuses on Judea within that large space; in fact, he mentions no other plot of land than Jerusalem and Judea, save for Babylon. This city is important. Babylon represents the diasporic area of the exilic period in which Daniel proved his worth to Cyrus and, in this case, the city is also the place of Alexander’s death. Sulpicius thus magnifies the special interest each figure took in Judea, as opposed to their entire domain. This focus is fully consistent with Sulpicius’ attention to Jewish affairs. (D) Edict publication. Sulpicius refers to several royal edicts regarding the Jews, most of these unfavourable. For example, the edicts of Nebuchadnezzar (e.g. Chron. 2.5.2-4) and Darius I (e.g. 2.7.2-3) are openly hostile, calling for

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persecution of the Jews. By contrast, those of Cyrus and Alexander stand out for being positive. Cyrus’ edict ends the period of Babylonian Captivity, whereas Alexander’s edict makes a more general promise of a homecoming in case any Jews desired to return to Judea. While we know that Sulpicius rehashes Cyrus’ edict from 2Chronicles and Ezra, it is harder to pin down his knowledge of Alexander’s edict. For example, the opening of 1Maccabees records a narrative on Alexander without reference to such a decree. To the best of our knowledge, the ‘historical’ Alexander did indeed publish an Exiles Decree at the Olympic Games of 324 BC.15 Among the Christian historians, Orosius is the only one to mention this particular decree,16 and his awareness of it can be traced to Justin’s Epitome of Pompeius Trogus’ Philippic History. Sulpicius may also have found this piece of information in Justin’s popular work,17 but he has clearly adapted it because the edict now concerns the Jews rather than the exiled Greeks. He may also have invented it on the basis of Cyrus’ literary tradition. In my view, it seems that Alexander’s edict simply meant to reiterate the promise of Cyrus. This makes perfect sense in context, for Sulpicius notes that few Jews returned home with the publication of Cyrus’ edict. Alexander’s reiteration gave the Jews another opportunity. (E) Donation. In addition to granting the Jews special privileges through laws, both rulers aid the temple of Jerusalem financially. Sulpicius has good reason to devote more words to Cyrus’ gifts than Alexander’s contribution: Cyrus’ returning the spoils that Nebuchadnezzar’s army took actually appears in the account of Ezra 1:7. Alexander’s donation, however, is not attested in the biblical texts; in fact, no extant source refers to these gifts, although Alexander’s visit to Jerusalem was a popular episode in Jewish and Christian circles.18 This minor alteration reveals that Sulpicius made full use of the authorial license to modify his characters’ actions. We may explain this particular change by the same line of argument as in the previous entry: Sulpicius knows Cyrus’ biblical tradition well and makes adjustments to Alexander’s in order to present an alignment between the two rulers. (F) ‘Conversion’ narrative. I noted above that Sulpicius appropriates the story of Bel, Cyrus and Daniel, a standard tale of Jewish excellence over pagan 15 The decree affected the more than 20000 Greeks, who lived in political exile. For the principal literary sources, see Din. 1.82; Hyp. 5, col. 18; Diod. Sic. 17.109.1, 18.8.2-7; Curt. 10.2.4; Just., Epit. 13.5.2-3; Ps.-Plutarch, Mor. 221a. 16 Oros., Hist. 3.23.14. 17 For Sulpicius’ use of Trogus-Justin, see S. Constanza, ‘I Chronica di Sulpicio Severo e le Historiae di Trogo-Giustino’, in S. Calderone (ed.), La storiografia ecclesiastica nella tarda antichità (Messina, 1980), 275-312. 18 Modern scholarship engages with this legend through the extensive version in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities (11.304-45), but Christians from Origen onwards had also appropriated it for apologetic purposes. For a general overview of the extra-Josephan Christian tradition of this story, see now Christian T. Djurslev, Alexander the Great in the Early Christian Tradition: Classical Reception and Patristic Literature (London, 2020), 129-36.

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folly. Cyrus is won over by Daniel’s display of his intelligence, and the prophet destroys the traditional Babylonian religion, symbolised by a temple housing a bronze statue of the oldest deity.19 The elaborate story is paralleled by Sulpicius’ brief notice of Alexander’s visit to the Jerusalem temple. This entry is significant. While many Christian writers knew the Jerusalem tale, few Christian writers acknowledged that Alexander had actually visited the temple himself. Of those few authors, Jerome offers the longest version on the authority of Eusebius’ Greek Chronici canones.20 He states that Alexander went to the temple, sacrificed to God, honoured the high priest and installed a governor of the area. Sulpicius maintains only one of these details,21 adding the gifts instead of the sacrifice, implicitly aligning Alexander’s actions with Cyrus’ return of the temple’s vessels. (G) Death and succession. Sulpicius records the deaths of both rulers and makes a brief note of the succession. For Alexander, he may be using the narrative of death and succession from the opening verses of 1Maccabees (1:9-10). The Old Testament does not refer to Cyrus’ death, and so Sulpicius must have found the data point elsewhere, perhaps from Jerome’s rendition of the Eusebian chronological tables or Justin’s Epitome of Pompeius Trogus. We know that Sulpicius took no issue in using non-Christian sources for his account (Chron. 1.1.4). In any event, the violent version of Cyrus’ demise was widely known.22 It is also possible to view the points analysed above at a more structural level. The introductory units A and B introduce the two protagonists in similar fashion, as successful kings who bring about political change. Point C segues to their interactions with the Jews, with points D, E and F stressing the respect for, and promotion of, the small religion within much grander empires. G provides closure in that, upon the death of each monarch, their rule is maintained by lesser successors, who eventually expire. In this way, Sulpicius turns the reigns of Cyrus and Alexander into two central moments in Christian history by making the founders of the Persian and Greek empires seem virtually the same. He achieves this effect by streamlining existing stories about the pair, or inventing new ones on the basis of either monarch’s tradition. 19

Sulp. Sev., Chron. 2.8.3 citing Verg., Aen. 1.729. Jerome, Chron., GCS 47, 121-2 (PL 27, 399-400, GCS 20, 197-8 Karst Armenian). 21 Sulpicius may have the story on the authority of Jerome, whose Latin rendition of Eusebius’ Chronici Canones is explicitly used by Sulpicius in several instances (e.g. Chron. 1.36, 1.42, 1.46, 2.5). 22 The story of Cyrus’ death was clearly a topos, given the number of references to it: Hdt. 1.20114; Phot., Bibl. 72.37a.13-24 citing Ctesias of Cnidus Persian History book 11; Berossus FGrH/ BNJ 680 F 10 De Breucker via Euseb., Chron., GCS 20, 15; Diod. Sic. 2.44.2; Just., Epit. 1.8.13-4; Joseph., AJ 11.19-20; Polyaenus, Strat. 8.28.1; Lucian, Charon §§ 13-4. For Christian testimonies, see e.g. Theoph., Ad Autol. 3.27; Euseb., Vit. Const. 1.7; Ambrose of Milan, Ep. 18.36; Macarius Magnes, Apocriticus 4.11; Chronicon Paschale p. 269 Dindorf; Suda s.v. Τόμυρις T 757 Adler. 20

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Of course, appropriating the two conquerors in this way was nothing new. Consider book 11 of Flavius Josephus’ Antiquitates Judaicae. It begins with Cyrus’ re-foundation of the Jerusalem temple after which King Cyrus consults the writings of the prophet Isaiah, who proclaims him the ‘Messiah’ (AJ 11.1-21). It ends with Alexander visiting in person the now built temple at which he reads the book of Daniel – apparently prophesying his own victory over Persia (AJ 11.304-45). Both high-profile foreign kings are thus the subject of the most important prophets, their achievements preordained by scripture. In this way, Josephus fully appropriate the pair for his own purposes. While Sulpicius does not go to such great lengths, he acknowledges the royal connections not only to the Jewish diaspora, but also to the very heart of Israel, and this is somewhat further than many Christian historiographers had deigned to venture. 3. Alike in translation: a harmony of empires We may now ask for what purpose Sulpicus chose to present the pair of kings in this way. In this section, I will argue that the historiographical tool of translatio imperii can explain Sulpicius’ juxtaposition of Cyrus and Alexander, two imperial movers (as demonstrated by point B above). Sulpicius makes good use of the standard tool of translatio imperii, like many of his contemporaries did. Unlike other Christian historiographers, however, he explicitly organises the past by scriptural prophecy. This choice is significant. The prophetic framework gives the second book of the Chronica a particular coherence in that the Jewish past and Christian present become one.23 The framework suspends the sense of time, so that Sulpicius can justify passing over events or speed up his narrative, as he does with Hellenistic history to ‘get to Christ’ faster (Chron. 2.25.5). He is thus licensed to make his own connections between events, but he can claim that they were the events preselected by prophecy, which equals the word of the Lord. In this sense, exegesis fuels Sulpicius’ historiography,24 adding additional padding to his account. Sulpicius made a specific choice of prophecy from the book of Daniel, namely, the statue of Daniel 2 (Chron. 2.2-3).25 A short summary of the Danielic prophecy 23 Also observed as a general historical concept by G.K. Van Andel, The Christian Concept of History in the Chronicle of Sulpicius Severus (Amsterdam, 1976), 55-60. 24 For Sulpicius’ Chronica as exegesis, see further D. Bertrand, ‘Chronologie et exégèse chez Sulpice Sévère’, in B. Pouderon, Y.-M. Duval and M. Quesnel (eds), L’ historiographie de l’Église des premiers siècles (Paris, 2001), 451-67. 25 It is noteworthy that Sulpicius does not refer to any other of the many strange prophecies of Daniel, such as the jousting of a ram and he-goat (Daniel 8). Daniel 2 seems the most accessible of the lot and enjoys a prominent place at the start of Sulpicius Severus’ second book, for which see G. Zecchini, ‘Jerome, Orosius and the western chronicles’, in G. Marasco (ed.), Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity (Leiden, 2003), 317-48, 337.

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will suffice. In a dream vision, King Nebuchadnezzar sees a troubling image (Dan. 2:1), and Daniel is the only one at court who knows what the king had seen and is able to interpret it (Dan. 2:26-30). The image is a metallic statue, which is shattered by a rock (Dan. 2:31-5). Daniel interprets the dream in the following way: the statue symbolises worldly empires through its different body parts, which are made of various precious metals; gold, silver, bronze, iron (Dan. 2:36-42). The rock represents the future and final kingdom of God, which will remove all earthly empires (Dan. 2:44-5). In his historicising exegesis of this prophecy, Sulpicius maps the following empires onto the metals of Daniel’s massive idol: Chaldean – head of gold (2.3.2); Medo-Persian – chest and arms of silver (2.3.3); Macedonian – lower torso of bronze (2.3.4); and Roman – legs of iron and feet of iron mixed with clay (2.3.5-6). His interpretation suggests that Sulpicius saw the imperial powers as distinct entities forming a united whole, i.e. the metallic body, that would be broken at the right historical moment when the rock destroyed the ‘pagan’ idol. Of course, the prophecy had yet to be fulfilled, because Sulpicius interpreted the destructive rock as Jesus Christ at the Second Coming (Chron. 2.3.7). He nevertheless expected that the end times were close.26 Indeed, much of book two of the Chronica can be read as Sulpicius’ attempt to persuade critics that the past had conformed to his version of Daniel’s prophecy, and so the future probably would too (Chron. 2.3.8). I have argued that Sulpicius combined the empires of Cyrus and Alexander into a two-part unit, and we may also observe this effect in his use of the statue imagery. Sulpicius fuses the empires of the two figures in the torso: Cyrus is the upper area (Chron. 2.3.4, pectus et brachia), whereas Alexander constitutes the lower part (Chron. 2.3.4, in ventre aereo). In Daniel’s prophecy, by contrast, the third empire comprises both belly and thighs (Dan. 2:32-3), thus leading into the legs and the fourth empire. This slight edit of the original prophecy points to the association of the founders of Persia and Macedon. In addition to the bodily imagery, Sulpicius makes another computational link to forge the imperial framework in which Cyrus and Alexander appear. He creates a similar unity in his account of the first and fourth empires. Babylon and Rome run parallel insofar they both besiege Jerusalem. The former takes the important position at the very end of the first book (Chron. 1.53-4); for Sulpicius, the sack proves the impiety of the Jews, and they are duly punished with enslavement. The second sack also has an exclusive focus on the Jewish situation and their impious conduct. According to Sulpicius (Chron. 2.30.7-8), 26 The eschatological aspect of the Chronica emphasised by Jos Vaesen, ‘Sulpice Sévère et la fin des temps’, in Werner Verbeke, Daniel Verhelst and Andries Welkenhuysen (eds), The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages (Leuven, 1988), 49-71; Jacques Fontaine, ‘La perception du temps chez Sulpice Sévère: contradictions et coherence’, Revue des Études Anciennes 90 (1988), 163-76.

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while Nebuchadnezzar’s sack led to temporary exile, that of Titus meant permanent banishment because the Jewish temple was destroyed during the sack and never rebuilt.27 So, if the two ‘outer’ empires in the cycle of empires – Babylon and Rome – are linked by the sack of Jerusalem, it makes sense for Sulpicius to represent the two ‘inner’ empires – Persia and Macedon – as a unit. The logic of Sulpicius’ narrative seems to depend on it: at the end of the first book, God ordered Nebuchadnezzar to sack Jerusalem after the impious acts of the Jews in the first book; the second books then opens with the Jews proving their mettle in Babylon, for which they are rewarded the rebuilding of the temple by Cyrus. After his world-conquest, Alexander maintains the privileges conferred upon the Jews by Cyrus.28 Through the two kings, God had thus given the Jews a second chance at pious living. He then deploys Titus when the Jews had actively transgressed beyond redemption by killing Jesus. The punishment is endless exile. This neat symmetry called for a synthetic interpretation of the reigns of Cyrus and Alexander. Sulpicius’ juxtaposition of Cyrus and Alexander may become clearer if we compare his work with those of two contemporaries, Quintus Julius Hilarianus and Paulus Orosius.29 The former was a bishop, who wrote De cursu temporum (ca. 397) some years before Sulpicius’ Chronica (dated after 403). The latter wrote at the behest of Augustine the Historiae adversus paganos in seven books around 416/7. Both belong to the context of a North African literary milieu, as an alternative Christian setting to Sulpicius’ Gaul. Both writers engage with the literary traditions of Cyrus and Alexander, and so provide a sidelight to Sulpicius’ historiographical activity. Hilarianus explicitly refers to the book of Daniel, whereas Orosius does not. It is noteworthy that Hilarianus does not use Daniel 2, as Sulpicius does, but rather extracts material from the so-called ‘prophecy of seventy weeks’, a notoriously difficult passage.30 The prophecy concerns the desolation of Jerusalem for seventy weeks – flexibly interpreted as seventy units of seven years in the style of one day of Creation symbolizing a thousand years – and Hilarianus 27

Sulpicius uses this event to close the case on the Jews, which justifies the undivided attention to the Christians for the remainder of the Chronica. 28 It is also possible to read Sulpicius’ sequence as continuous narrative: God moves Nebuchadnezzar to enslave the Jews for their wickedness (outlined in book 1); He moves Cyrus to restore the temple in order that the Jews may worship Him after their ‘short’ punishment of seventy years (Chron. 2.30.8); He moves Alexander to maintain Jewish privileges; and He moves the Romans to exact the final penalty for the Jews’ killing of Jesus, noted twice (Chron. 2.30.4, nimirum ita Deo placitum, ut eo tempore, quo Dominum cruci affixerat, gens impia internecioni daretur; 2.30.8, non ob aliud eos quam ob illatas Christo impias manus fuisse punitos). 29 See also the comparison with Augustine in R.G. Tanner, ‘Three Christian Latin authors and the late Roman Empire: Augustine, Orosius and Sulpicius Severus’, in T.W. Hillard (ed.), Ancient History in a Modern University (North Ryde, NSW, 1998), 401-5. 30 Hilarianus De cursu temporum pp. 166-9 Frick, citing Dan. 9:22-7.

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understands this period as ending at the time of the persecutions of Antiochus IV (d. 164 BC). In order to confer authority upon his calculations, he draws up a list of Persian kings from Cyrus down to Alexander, who overthrew Darius III; he thus initiated the Greek age described by the Maccabean books (p. 169 Frick). Hilarianus’ computation assumes the passing of one empire to another, as in Sulpicius’ narrative, but his concern is rather with Alexander’s importance in the rise of Antiochus, whose actions led to the Maccabean revolt. In this way, the narrative has a linear progression that sees Alexander as a break with the previous Persian power rather than a return to times past, i.e. from Cyrus to Alexander. As already said, Orosius does not seem to engage with the Danielic prophecies, at least not explicitly, and he uses the translatio imperii schema in a rather idiosyncratic fashion (Hist. 2.1, 7.2).31 He ranks Babylon (comprising every eastern nation including Persia) at the first position, Macedon second, Carthage third and Rome fourth; the sequence depends amongst other things on geographical position (east-north-south-west). He makes explicit connections between Babylon and Rome (e.g. Hist. 7.2.1-2), seeing the rise of Rome as starting at Babylon’s death by Cyrus’ invasion. East and west are more closely aligned, as is north and south. Macedon and Carthage are intermediate kingdoms that Orosius associate with men of paideia, i.e. a ‘tutor’ and a ‘curator’, or an attorney (Hist. 2.1.6). These empires are thus not real successor kingdoms, but rather custodians of the power as Babylon dies (old man) and Rome matures (young son). While Sulpicius does not use the same, or even similar, anthropomorphic imagery as Orosius, I have argued that he does associate empires one and four, two and three. Orosius’ model makes this interpretation more plausible in the sense that the translatio imperii could have a disjointed reading as the one proposed above, instead of the straightforward narrative passing from empire one through to four. If this association of Cyrus and Alexander is accepted, it is also necessary to comment on what this means for Sulpicius’ account of Jewish history.32 As argued above, Sulpicius represented Cyrus and Alexander as benevolent kings who promote Jewish interests, but the Jews themselves squandered the opportunities offered to them. Sulpicius uses the standard theme of eastern luxuria to explain Jewish immorality: after Cyrus (Chron. 2.8-10, esp. 2.10.5), the Jews gradually became corrupted by the peace enjoyed while building the temple; after Alexander (Chron. 2.17.5), the priesthood slowly fell into ‘lust, avarice, 31

Peter Van Nuffelen, Orosius and the Rhetoric of History (Oxford, 2012), 46-53, 146-9. There is a general scholarly understanding of Sulpicius’ OT history as exempla for edification, for which see G.K. Van Andel, The Christian Concept of History (1976), 76-83. S. Isetta, ‘Un tascabile del V secolo’ (2001), 200, argues that the Jewish corruption is calqued on Christian bishops from Sulpicius’ day. 32

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and the desire to dominate others’, libidine, avaritia et dominandi cupidine. Sulpicius’ application of the theme is noteworthy because Cyrus and Alexander, as foreign kings of eastern empires, are themselves often subject to this criticism.33 This reversal is innovative for Old Testament history,34 which makes two important periods of Jewish history highly negative.35 Of course, this representation ties into the overall focus on decline in the Chronica, and it simply reinforces Sulpicius’ well-earned reputation as a ‘Christian Sallust’, a Classical writer from the Roman Republic who also deployed the trope of moral decline with great effect.36 4. Conclusion When Jerome initiated the boom in Christian chronicling of the Latin west, 37 many Christians seized the opportunity to reinvent history. In Gaul, Sulpicius Severus took on a major, if potentially risky, project that presented the history of God’s people in a sombre light. During this process, he chose to represent the two great kings, Cyrus and Alexander, in an innovative fashion that bolstered his Christian interpretation of Jewish history. On the preceding pages, I have sought to flesh out Sulpicius’ juxtaposition of this pair, as well as arguing for their importance in his structuring of the past. The two historical characters are by no means saints, but in Sulpicius’ Chronica, they share a positive reputation that is not often found in Christian circles in the fifth century Latin west.

33 Andrew Scheils, Babylon under Western Eyes: A Study of Allusion and Myth (Toronto, 2016), 129-31, 221. 34 Orosius is considered the first Christian user of the luxuria in narrating Old Testament history by Eoghan Ahern, ‘Abundance, luxuria, and sin in late antique historiography’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 25 (2017), 605-31. By applying this theme to the Jews of Old Testament history, Sulpicius anticipates Orosius’ use of trope by more than a decade. 35 For the more positive representations of the period in ancient sources, see Benedikt Eckhardt, ‘Memories of Persian rule: constructing history and ideology in Hasmonean Judea’, in Rolf Strootman and M.J. Versluys (eds), Persianism in Antiquity (Stuttgart, 2017), 249-65. 36 Studied extensively and in detail by Benjamin Biesinger, Römische Dekadenzdiskurse: Untersuchungen zur römischen Geschichtsschreibung und ihren Kontexten, 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bis 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. (Stuttgart, 2016), 93-173. 37 Mark Vessey, ‘Reinventing history: Jerome’s Chronicle and the writing of the post-Roman West’, in S. McGill, C. Sogno and E. Watts (eds), From the Tetrarchs to the Theodosians. Later Roman History and Culture, 284–450 CE (Cambridge, 2010), 265-89.

Christian Visions and Sozomen’s Julian Michael P. HANAGHAN, Australian Catholic University, Melbourne, Australia

ABSTRACT This article proposes that the visions in Sozomen’s account of Julian’s reign may be read as an attempt to narrativize a response to Julian’s criticisms of Christianity. This overarching claim is supported by broader considerations of how Sozomen’s history contradicts or confronts other Julianic claims. These include Sozomen’s repeated reference to Julian’s persecutions, despite Julian’s expressed interest in not overtly persecuting Christians, his wide-ranging interest in the localization of miracles at the martyrs’ tombs or in connection with relics, and his marked interested in the ethnography of conversion, evident in his detailed accounts of the conversion to Christianity of whole people groups (ἔθνη). The latter amounts to an implicitly barbed attack on Julian’s claims that the members of different peoples had different natures so that they could not be changed by external legislation.1

I. Introduction In the first book of his history Sozomen frames his inclusion of stories of conversion as a rejoinder to criticism (Soz., HE 1.1): Οὐ μὴν οὐδ ̓ οὕτω παρὰ λόγον δόξειε, διὰ τῶν ἄλλων ἐθνῶν εἰς τὰ μάλιστα τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ἐπιδοῦναι (let it by no means be hence accounted contrary to reason that the church should have been mainly built up by the conversion of other nations).2 Sozomen’s remarks imply that there had been criticism of ἔθνη converting to Christianity, which the composition of his history would make redundant. Julian’s repeated attacks on the conversion of ἔθνη to Christianity are a likely target of Sozomen’s remarks.3 In his Contra Galilaeos, at least in the fragments that are extent, Julian asserts that knowledge of God cannot be taught but it is acquired ‘by nature’ (φύσει), and that this is true for individuals as well as 1

I am grateful to Aaron Johnson for his invitation to present this work in a panel and his response to the paper that I presented in Oxford. I would also like to thank Matthew Crawford, Alan Ross and Peter Van Nuffelen for their suggestions. 2 Conversion narratives are scattered throughout the work, some involving individuals, or small groups, others whole ethne like the Armenian and Persians, whose conversion is described at Soz., HE 2.8. 3 The phrase παρὰ λόγον is consistent with Sozomen’s characterisation of Julian’s rhetorical persecution strategy at Soz., HE 5.3 λόγῳ δὲ καὶ παραινέσεσι πείθειν.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 167-179. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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ἔθνη.4 This claim is central to Julian’s cosmology, as the nature of each ἔθνος correlates with the nature of the deity that presides over them.5 This cosmology explicitly precludes Christians, which Julian considers a choice (αἵρεσις) rather than an intrinsic group.6 Sozomen’s characterisation of the conversion of ethnic groups to Christianity thus directly contradicts Julian’s claims regarding the nature and form of Christian conversion. There is clear evidence for the importance of Julian’s Contra Galilaeos among Christian, and especially Antiochian, thinkers of the early fifth century. Julian’s polemic was subjected to detailed Christian criticism by Theodore of Mopsuestia, Philip Sidetes, and Cyril of Alexandria, all of which predate Sozomen’s history, and a part was quoted verbatim in Socrates’ ecclesiastical history at 3.23.34-5. Sozomen clearly knew Socrates’ history in detail, and borrowed from it extensively,7 so it is highly likely that Sozomen knew of the existence of Julian’s major polemic against Christianity, either directly, or indirectly through one of the Christian responses to it.8 Moreover, as Van Nuffelen has shown, Sozomen clearly used some of Julian’s letters to inform his account of Julian’s reign, including several letters falsely attributed to the emperor.9 So, given the interest in responding to Julian’s claims among fifth century Christians, a compelling, circumstantial case may be made that Sozomen was familiar with Julian’s treatise. Scholarly approaches to Sozomen’s engagement with texts have however largely preserved the positivism of Quellenforschung with little regard for the more complex and subtle forms of allusive interplay that may arise in a text, especially when the target text is as controversial as Julian’s polemical treatise against Christians. Buck, for example, relies on the paucity of direct quotation of Julian’s work in Sozomen’s history to infer that Sozomen was unfamiliar with most of what Julian wrote.10 This argument is part of Buck’s broader claim that Sozomen was unfamiliar with any evidence that contradicted

4

Julian, CG 52B. Julian, CG 115D. For discussion of which see Ari Finklestein, The Specter of the Jews, Emperor Julian and the Rhetoric of Ethnicity in Syrian Antioch (Berkeley, 2018), 45-65. 6 Julian, CG 43A. 7 For discussion of their similarities and differences see Theresa Urbainczyk, ‘Observations on the Differences between the Church Histories of Socrates and Sozomen’, Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 46 (1997), 355-73, and specifically for their differing approaches to Julian see David Rohrbacher, The Historians of Late Antiquity (New York, 2004), 257. Theresa Urbainczyk, ‘Vice and Advice in Socrates and Sozomen’, in M. Whitby (ed.), The Propaganda of Power, The Role of Panegyric in Late Antiquity (Leiden, 1998), 315. For a catalogue showing specific points of contact between the two historians see P. Van Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et piété. Étude sur les histoires ecclésiastiques de Socrate et de Sozomène (Leuven, 2004), 475ff. 8 Harmut Leppin, Von Constantin dem Grossen zu Theodosius II., das christliche Kaisertum bei den Kirchenhistorikern Socrates, Sozomenus und Theodoret (Göttingen, 1996), 273. 9 Peter Van Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et piété (2004), 485. 10 David F. Buck, ‘Sozomen on Julian the Apostate’, Byzantion 76 (1999), 53-73. 5

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his account (and largely avoided non-Christian sources).11 He finds support for this claim – with specific regard to Sozomen’s account of Julian’s death – from a plain reading of Sozomen’s framing of the narrative (Soz., HE 6.2.2): ὡς δὲ συμφωνοῦντες οἱ λέγοντες ἰσχυρίζονται, ἀψευδὴς λόγος εἰς ἡμᾶς ἦλθε κατὰ θεομηνίαν αὐτὸν ἀναιρεθῆναι. (The sources however, concur, the true account has come to us that he [i.e. Julian] died as a result of Divine wrath.)12 It is difficult to separate the denial of any competing tradition from the rhetorical benefit Sozomen derives from claiming his account is widely accepted, especially since Sozomen shows a direct knowledge of Libanius’ account of Julian’s death, which predictably makes no mention of θεομηνία.13 This article argues that Julian’s criticism of Christianity in his Contra Galilaeos looms behind Sozomen’s stories of the emperor.14 At Contra Galilaeos 339E-340A Julian criticizes Christians for soliciting dream visions and cites Isaiah 65:4 in support of his condemnation. For Julian solicited dream-visions (ἐνύπνια) are a form of trickery (μαγγανεία). Sozomen’s inclusion of a story where a dream vision is solicited makes Julian’s friend the proxy target of Julian’s criticism for his conscious decision to spend another night in the church so that a revelatory dream could complete itself. In Contra Galilaeos 358D-E Julian cites Genesis 15 to show that the appearance of God to Abraham occurs after sacrifice and darkness. In Sozomen’s account darkness descends on the battle just before Julian’s sacrificial throwing of his own blood in reaction to his vision of Christ. Lastly it considers how Sozomen uses Gallus in comparison to Julian, to show that Julian’s ill-will towards Christianity was innate, rather than learnt, and predicted.

II. Sozomen’s Dreams and Julian’s friend Following his account of Julian’s demise at the Battle of Samarra while on campaign in Persia in 363, Sozomen offers a divine vision as proof that Julian’s 11

David F. Buck, ‘Did Sozomen use Eunapius’ “Histories”?’, Museum Helveticum 56 (1999), 17 claims Sozomen’s use of Olympiodorus in book nine as an exception, but such assertions have not gained widespread critical support. See, for example, the index of likely sources in P. Van Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et piété (2004), 475ff which lists non-Christian sources, including specific letters written by Julian himself among Sozomen’s likely sources. 12 See Soz., HE 3.4 where Arius’ death is also understood to be the result of divine wrath (κατὰ θεομηνίαν) for discussion of which see Garry W. Trompf, ‘The Golden Chain of Byzantism: The Tripartite Ecclesiastical Histories of Socrates, Sozomen and Theodoret, Part 1’, Phronema 9 (1994), 24. See also Sozomen, HE 5.8 where Julian’s uncle Julianus’ death is similarly described. 13 G.W. Trompf, ‘The Golden Chain of Byzantism, Part 1’ (1994), 32. 14 Georg Schoo, Die Quellen des Kirchenhistorikers Sozomenos (Berlin, 1911), 82 claimed that a non-Christian source informed several of the omens in Sozomen’s fifth book, for discussion of which see D.F. Buck, ‘Did Sozomen use Eunapius’ “Histories”?’ (1999), 22-3.

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death was the result of divine wrath.15 The story involves the visionary experiences of one of the emperor’s friends, as he journeyed to join the emperor’s campaign.16 Unable to find somewhere suitable to overnight, the friend of the Emperor is forced to sleep (καθευδῆσαι) in a church (Soz., HE 6.2.3-4): […] ἀπορίᾳ οἰκήματος, ἐν τῇ ἐνθάδε ἐκκλησίᾳ καθευδῆσαι· καὶ ὕπαρ ἢ ὄναρ ἰδεῖν, ὡς εἰς ταυτὸν συνελθόντες πολλοὶ τῶν ἀποστόλων καὶ τῶν προφητῶν ἀπωδύροντο τὴν εἰς τὰς ἐκκλησίας τοῦ κρατοῦντος ὕβριν, και ὅ τι χρὴ ποιεῖν ἐβουλεύοντο. Ἐπὶ πολὺ δὲ περὶ τούτου διαλογιζομένων καὶ ὥσπερ διαπορουμένων, ἀναστάντες ἐκ μέσων δύο, θαρρεῖν τοῖς ἄλλοις παρεκλεύσαντο· και ὡς ἐπὶ καθαιρέσει τῆς Ἰουλιανοῦ ἀρχῆς ὁρμῶντες, σπουδῇ τὸν σύλλογον κατέλιπον. […] far from any housing he slept in a church, and saw either a dream or a vision, in which many apostles and prophets assembled together and lamented the outrage which the emperor had inflicted on the Church, and consulting as to what they should do. And after they had discussed the matter and found themselves, as it were, at a loss [about what to do] two individuals arose from the midst of the assembly, encouraged the others to be of good cheer, and, as if they were incited to overthrow Julian’s rule, left the company hastily.

Rather than continue the journey, Julian’s friend decides to stay put (Soz., HE 6.2.5): Ὁ δὲ ἄνθρωπος ὃς τῶν παραδόξων τούτων ἐγεγόνει θεατὴς, τῆς μὲν ὁδοιπορίας ὠλιγώρει λοιπόν· ὀρρωδῶν δὲ πῇ ἄρα ἐκβήσεται τὸ τέλος τῆς τοιαύτης ὄψεως, πάλιν ἐνθάδε καθεύδων, τὸν αὐτὸν ἰδεῖν σύλλογον, ἐξαπίνης τε ὡς ἀπὸ ὅδοῦ εἰσεληλυθότας οἳ τῇ προτεραίᾳ νυκτὶ ἐπεστράτευσαν Ἰουλιανῷ, καὶ ἀναγγειλαῖ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀνῃρῆσθαι τοῦτον. He who was the spectator of this marvel forsook the remainder of his journey, but instead shrank back with dread at how the fulfillment of this vision might come to pass. He laid himself down to sleep again, in the same place, and again, he saw the same assembly; the two individuals who the previous night had marched out to make war on Julian, suddenly entered as though from the road and announced to the others that he had died.

Sozomen’s language stresses the repetition of the friend’s actions by using the same adverb (ἐνθάδε) twice and verb (καθευδῆσαι, καθεύδων) in both instances, and adding the adverb πάλιν to remind the reader of the recurrence involved. The action of Julian’s friend is akin to incubation, which Julian criticises in his polemic against Christians (Julian, CG 339D-340A): […] ὑμεῖς ὑπερ τίνος προσκαλινδεῖσθε τοῖς μνήμασι; ἀκοῦσαι βούλεσθε τὴν αἰτίαν; οὐκ ἐγὼ φαίην ἄν, ἀλλ᾿ ῾Ησαΐας ὁ προφήτης. “Ἐν τοῖς μνήμασι καὶ ἐν τοῖς 15 P. Van Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et piété (2004), 374-6 notes Sozomen’s sustained focus on Julian’s claims to be able to divine the future and the prevalence of omens in Sozomen’s description of Julian’s life and reign. 16 Norman H. Baynes, ‘The Death of Julian the Apostate in a Christian Legend’, The Journal of Roman Studies 27 (1937), 22-3 notes similarities between Sozomen’s account to an episode in Faustus of Byzantium’s history.

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σπηλαίοις κοιμῶνται δι᾿ ἐνύπνια.” σποπεῖτε οὖν, ὅπως παλαιὸν ἧν τοῦτο τοῖς Ἰουδαίοις τῆς μαγγανείας τὸ ἔργον, ἐγκαθεύδειν τοῖς μνήμασιν ἐνυπνιών χάριν. […] καὶ τεχνικώτερον ὑμῶν αὐτοὺς [τοὺς ἀποστόλους] μαγγανεῦσαι, τοὶς δὲ μεθ᾿ ἑαυτοὺς ἀποδεῖξαι δημοσίᾳ τῆς μαγγανείας ταύτης καὶ βδελυρίας τὰ ἐργαστήρια. […] why do you grovel among tombs? Do you wish to hear the reason? It is not I who will tell you, but the prophet Isaiah: “They lodge among tombs and in caves for the sake of dream visions.”17 You observe, then, how ancient among the Jews was this work of witchcraft, namely, sleeping among tombs for the sake of dream visions […] [the Apostles] performed their spells more skilfully than you do, and displayed openly to those who came after them the places in which they performed this witchcraft and abomination.

Julian’s initial criticism is aimed at the cult of martyrs. The negative tone of προσκαλινδεῖσθε (grovel) may be inferred by Julian’s deployment of this charge elsewhere (Jul., Misopogon 344A: … τοῖς περὶ τοὺς τάφους καλινδουμένοις γρᾳδίοις (to those hags who grovel at tombs), where the same verb features in an uncompounded form.18 Other pro-Julianic sources repeated this criticism against Christians, including Libanius, Or. 62.10 τοὺς θεοῖς ἐχθρούς, τοὺς περὶ τοὺς τάφους (those who hate the gods, who hang around tombs), and Eunapius, VS 472: … προσεκαλινδοῦντο τοῖς [μνήμασι] (they grovel among [tombs]).19 Julian’s specific use of the noun μνήμασι rather than τάφοις creates two important intertexts. The first is a subtle gesture at Socrates’ criticism, in Plato’s Phaedo, that the phantasmata that one communes with are the souls of evil beings.20 The second is more explicit: Julian quotes from Isaiah 65:4: ἐν τοῖς μνήμασι καὶ ἐν τοῖς σπηλαίοις κοιμῶνται δι᾿ ἐνύπνια (They lie down to sleep in the tombs and in the caves for the sake of dreams). The relevancy of Julian’s quotation hinges on an interpolation not found in the Hebrew; this is the prepositional phrase (δι᾿ ἐνύπνια), which becomes the main focus of Julian’s exegetical turn as he clarifies – beyond any doubt – that δι᾿ ἐνύπνια should be understood causally.21 This point is frequently found in Greek commentaries on Isaiah, including in Theodoret’s, and so suggests that Julian may have had some familiarity with Christian exegesis of Isaiah.22 Critics of Julian certainly 17

Isaiah 65:2 [Septuagint]. See also Julian, CG 335C: καίτοι οὐκ εἴρηται παρ᾿ ὑμῖν οὐδαμοῦ τοῖς τάφοις προσκαλινδεῖσθαι (and it is not written anywhere in your texts that you should grovel among tombs). 19 There is a lacuna in Eunapius’ text after τοῖς. This is usually reconstructed with the noun τάφοις but μνήμασι seems more likely given Eunapius’ word order follows Julian, CG 339D more closely than CG 335C. 20 Plato, Phaedo 81d [ἡ ψυχὴ] μνήματά τε καὶ τοὺς τάφους κυλινδουμένη, περὶ ἃ δὴ καὶ ὤφθη ἄττα ψυχῶν σκιοειδῆ φαντάσματα, […] καὶ οὔ τί γε τὰς τῶν ἀγαθῶν αὐτὰς εἶναι, ἀλλὰ τὰς τῶν φαύλων [the soul] flits about the monuments and the tombs, where shadowy shapes of souls have been seen […] and these are not the souls of good men, but evil men. 21 Gil Renburg, Where Dreams May Come: Incubation Sanctuaries in the Greco-Roman World (Leiden, 2017), 19. See also Cyril of Alexandria, Contra Julianum 10.18-9 where Cyril also comments on Julian’s use of these terms. 22 Theodoret, Commentaria in Isaiam 182a: Σφᾶς αὐτοὺς ἐκδεδωκότες τῇ πλάνῃ καὶ ταῖς καθ’ ὕπνον γινομέναις φαντασίαις ἀκολουθοῦσι καὶ τούτου χάριν καὶ παρὰ τοὺς τάφους 18

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did, and used Isaiah against the emperor with a vindictiveness that may betray their nuisance and frustration at Julian’s preference for this book in his criticism of Christianity.23 With his authority established as a scriptural commentator, of sorts, Julian characterises this religious practice near tombs as a form of sorcery (μαγγανεία) which he then develops into an accusation against the ecstatic experience of Christ by the Apostles whom he charges with performing similar acts of sorcery, including Christ’s appearance to the apostles. Julian thus develops the significance of his criticism from a relatively insignificant point, supported by scripture, biblical exegesis, and Platonic philosophy, into an attack on the cornerstone of Christianity. There are three similarities between Sozomen’s story at HE 6.2-5 and Julian’s criticism at CG 339D-340A: Sozomen’s use of καθευδῆσαι, καθεύδων comes close to Julian’s ἐγκαθεύδειν; the experience that Sozomen describes as ὕπαρ ἢ ὄναρ is a fair reflection of ἐνύπνια, and the apostles feature explicitly in both cases. The behaviour of Julian’s friend is critical. His decision to remain where he is and ‘lie down again’ represents a deliberate act, aimed at enabling the completion of the dream. This is the kind of behaviour that Julian uses Isaiah to critique. The inclusion of this story, unattested in any other sources, fulfils Sozomen’s purpose of supporting his claim that divine wrath caused Julian to be killed, while also making Julian’s friend into the proxy target of the emperor’s withering critique of Christian attempts to create prophetic dreams by sleeping close to tombs. More broadly the story supports Sozomen’s claim that Christian divination was more effective than pagan alternatives. III. Julian’s Vision of Christ Julian’s penchant for sacrifice was a repeated focus of Christian criticism of the last pagan emperor.24 In Gregory’s second oration against Julian, for example, he turns Julian’s death into an ironic joke (Gregory Nazianzen, Or. 5.13): Ὃ καὶ θαυμάζω, πῶς, πάντα γινώσκειν ὁ μάταιος ἐντεῦθεν οἰόμενος, ἕν τοῦτο τὴν κατὰ τῶν ἑαυτοῦ σπλάγχνων πληγὴν ἠγνόησεν. (But what surprises me, καθεύδειν ἀνέχονται καὶ ἐν τοῖς ἀφωρισμένοις σπηλαίοις τοῖς δαίμοσιν (‘They give themselves up to wandering and they follow apparitions which appear at night and to this end they gather together to sleep near tombs and in caves marked out for daemons’). 23 Gregory Nazianzen, Or. 4.2: Ἄκουε, οὐρανὲ, καὶ ἐνωτίζου, γῆ·καιρὸς γάρ μοι τὰ αὐτὰ τῷ μεγαλοφωνοτάτῳ τῶν προφητῶν Ἠσαΐᾳ συμφθέγξασθαι. Πλὴν ὅσον ὁ μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ Ἰσραὴλ ἀθετήσαντι ταῦτα καλεῖ καὶ μαρτύρεται· ἐγὼ δὲ ἐπὶ τυράννῳ, καὶ ἀθετήσαντι καὶ πεσόντι πτῶμα τῆς ἀσεβείας ἄξιον (‘Listen, Heaven, and pay attention, Earth, for it is timely for me to shout the same with that loudest voice of the prophets, Isaiah. While he calls out and bears witness to disobedient Israel; I criticise a tyrant who was also disobedient, and has deservedly fallen victim to his own impiety’). 24 Even according to the largely sympathetic account by Ammianus Marcellinus, the extent and expense of these sacrifices were excessive, for which see Amm. Marc. 25.4.17.

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is how the vain man [Julian] that fancied he learnt the future from that means, knew nothing of this one thing, the wound on his own entrails!) Such criticism can usefully be interpreted as responding to Julian’s praxis, and intellectual justification of sacrifice in his Contra Galilaeos, where he used Abraham’s actions, depicted in Genesis 15, to defend pagan animal sacrifice and divination (Julian, Contra Galilaeos 358D): “κατέβη δὲ ὄρνεα ἐπὶ τὰ διχοτομήματα καὶ συνεκάθισεν αὐτοῖς Ἁβαάμ.”25 Τὴν τοῦ φανέντος ἀγγέλου πρόρρησιν ἤτοι θεοῦ διὰ τῆς οἰωνιστικῆς ὁρᾶτε κρατυνομένην, οὐχ, ὥσπερ παρ᾿ ὑμῖν, ἐκ παρέγου, μετὰ θυσιῶν δὲ τῆς μαντείας ἐπιτελουμένης; “And the birds came down on to the divided carcasses and Abraham sat among them.” You see how the announcement of the angel or god that appeared was strengthened by the augury of birds, and how the prophecy was completed, not at haphazard as happens with you, but with the accompaniment of sacrifices?

Julian’s quotation from Genesis is selectively cut short, to highlight the role that sacrifice plays, and to diminish the significance of Abraham’s ecstatic experience of God, which takes places after the sun has set, and a great thick darkness has enveloped him.26 Both Theodore of Mopsuestia and Cyril of Alexandria felt compelled to respond to Julian’s attempted use of this passage of Genesis to portray Abraham as a practitioner of traditional divinatory practice, which suggests that his criticism may have been somewhat effective, or at least, widely known.27 Sozomen’s description of Julian’s death blurs sacrificial imagery with typically theophanic features to produce the appearance of Christ (Soz., HE 6.2.10): Οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὸς μετὰ τὴν πληγὴν ἀμωσγέπως συνῆκεν ὅθεν ἐβλάβη, καὶ τὸ αἴτιον τῆς συμφόρας οὐ παντελῶς ἠγνόησε. Λέγεται γὰρ ὅτε ἐτρώθη, αἷμα ἐκ τῆς ὠτειλῆς ἀρυσάμενος, εἰς τὸν αἰθέρα ἀκοντίσαι, οἷά γε πρὸς φαινόμενον τὸν Χριστὸν ἀφορῶν, καὶ τῆς ἰδίας σφαγῆς αὐτὸν ἐπαιτιώμενος. But he [Julian] after the blow also understood one way or the other whence he had been hit, and he was by no means unaware of the cause of the disaster; for, it is said, when he was wounded, having taken some of the blood that flowed from the wound, he threw it up into the air, like he had seen Christ appearing, and blamed him for his own slaughter.

Three aspects act in concert to conjure this imagery: αἷμα (blood);28 εἰς τὸν αἰθέρα (to heaven) – theurgy typically involved an invocation to the Gods, 25

Genesis [Septuagint] 15:11. Genesis [Septuagint] 15:12-3: περὶ δὲ ἡλίου δυσμὰς ἔκστασις ἐπέπεσεν τῷ Αβραμ καὶ ἰδοὺ φόβος σκοτεινὸς μέγας ἐπιπίπτει αὐτῷ καὶ ἐρρέθη πρὸς Αβραμ […] And as the sun was setting a deep sleep overcame Abraham and a thick and frightening darkness came upon him, then the Lord spoke to Abraham […]. 27 Theodore Mopsuestia, CJ fr. 2.5.20-7; Cyril of Alexandria, CJ 10.39. 28 Era Benedikt Eckhardt, ‘“Bloodless Sacrifice”: A Note on Greek Cultic Language in the Imperial Era’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 54 (2014), 167-83 usefully shows the emergence of the language of ‘bloodless sacrifice’ but this should be considered as a development that contradicts the otherwise dominant role of the spilling of blood in animal sacrifice. 26

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which would be consistent with looking skywards; and σφαγῆς which can refer to a sacrifice, or specifically to an open wound, both of which operate here.29 Theodoret’s account also includes the claim that Julian threw his blood at the sky and adds Julian’s infamous concession to Christ.30 A detail in Ammianus’ account supports Sozomen’s claim that Julian’s hand was spurting blood (Amm. Marc. 25.3.7): quam [hastam] dum avellere dextra manu conatur, acuto utrimque ferro digitorum nervos sensit excisos… (When he tried to remove the spear with his right hand, he realised that the tendons of his fingers had been cut by the spear point which was sharp on both sides…) A double-bladed spear severing the tendons and capillaries in Julian’s fingers would likely cause blood to spurt from the wound, and thus provide the opportunity for interpretation as a deliberate throwing of blood into the air and the ensuing explanations as to why Julian may have decided to do so. Sozomen ultimately is equivocal as to whether or not Christ was really there and offers another interpretation that Julian may have been attempting to curse the Sun for abandoning him.31 Clearly Sozomen’s historiographical position is opposed to those, like Libanius, who tried to tie the struggles faced by the empire after 363 to divine displeasure at the killing of Julian and the failure of imperial authorities to investigate.32 Immediately prior to Julian’s death Sozomen describes the darkness that descended over the battle (Soz., HE 6.1.13): Καρτερᾶς δὲ μάχης συστάσης, ἐξαπίνης βίαιος ἀνακινηθεὶς ἄνεμος, τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὸν ἥλιον τοῖς νέφεσιν ἐκάλυψε· τῷ δὲ ἀέρι τὴν κόνιν ἀνέμιξε· σκότους δὲ καὶ πολλῆς ἀχλύος οὔσης, παραδραμών τις ἱππεὺς φέρει ἐπὶ τὸν βασιλέα τὸ δόρυ, καὶ παίει καιριαν· In the heat of the conflict which ensued, a violent wind suddenly was stirred up; and concealed the sky and the sun with clouds, while it mixed the air with dust. During the darkness and abundant haze, a horseman, riding at full gallop, directed his spear against the emperor, and struck his vital organs.

The shrouding of the sky and sun with clouds is critically important to Julian’s demise, as it provided his assassin with the cover of darkness to escape without being apprehended. In point of contrast, Ammianus, whose account of 29

LSJ s.v. A and 2. Theodoret, HE 3.20: Ἐκεῖνον δέ γέ φασι, δεξάμενον τὴν πληγὴν, εὐθὺς πλῆσαι τὴν χεῖρα τοῦ αἵματος, καὶ τοῦτο ῥίψαι εἰς τὸν ἀέρα, καὶ φάναι· Νενίκηκας, Γαλιλαίε (For they say that, once he received the wound, immediately he filled his hand with blood, and threw it at the sky, and said, “You have won, Galilean”). 31 See Ellen Muehlberger, ‘The Legend of Arius’ Death: Imagination, Space and Filth in Late Ancient Historiography’, Past & Present 27 (2015), 11, who (with specific regard to Sozomen’s account of the death of Arius) notes that “Sozomen was willing to share with his readers a range of interpretations that he either had heard or deemed plausible”. 32 Libanius, Or. 24.32: οὐκ ἐποίησε χαλεποὺς Ῥωμαίοις τοὺς θεοὺς οὕτω μὲν πεσὼν Ἰουλιανὸς οὕτω δὲ ἀμεληθείς (‘Has not the manner of Julian’s death and this neglect of it aroused the anger of the gods against the Romans […]’). 30

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the battle is the most detailed, also describes the dust blinding the soldiers, but only after Julian is wounded.33 By positioning the darkness in his narrative account prior to Julian’s death, Sozomen effectively foreshadows the killing of the emperor, and portrays a setting that is broadly suggestive of divine endorsement for the assailants’ actions.34 The latter is further supported by the possibility that Julian saw a vision of Christ after he was mortally wounded. Sozomen enhances this foreshadowing effect by using two words to refer to darkness, which may also suggest death: σκότος which in Homer’s Iliad exclusively is use for the darkness of death, and elsewhere is used in reference to the underworld; and ἀχλύς which specifically conveys the removal of sight, often from the dying or someone cursed by a divine power.35 The presence of darkness in Sozomen’s account of Julian’s death – immediately prior to the fatal wound – is thus broadly consistent with an impending ecstatic experience. Ultimately the circumstances in Sozomen’s account of Julian’s slaying confirm the divine aetiology of his death.

IV. The Julianic ‘Persecution’ and Julian’s Death Following the completion of the dream revelation to Julian’s friend, Sozomen circles back on his claim that Julian’s death was the result of divine wrath (θεομηνία) and expands this explanation. The θεομηνία arose from Julian’s persecution of the Church, a claim which draws on the expanded definition of persecution that Sozomen makes in book five.36 That persecution is Sozomen’s main concern in this book is apparent from how he frames the beginning of Julian’s reign as sole emperor (5.2): Κωνσταντίου δὲ τελευτήσαντος, εἰς δέος διωγμῶν ἡ ἐκκλησία καθίστατο “Immediatedly after the death of Constantius, the dread of a persecution arose in the Church.” Sozomen presents this fear as a rationale response to Julian’s hatred of Christians, but to make the charge of persecution Sozomen is compelled to expand its definition beyond the physical (5.4.7): 33

Amm. Marc. 25.3.10. The atmospheric features, namely darkness, cloud, thunder, and lightning are typically associated with apotheosis scenes in classical historiography, e.g. Livy 1.16: … subito coorta tempestas cum magno fragore tonitribusque tam denso regem operuit nimbo ut conspectum eius contioni abstulerit (‘suddenly a storm arose, with great crashing and thunder, and cover him in a cloud so thick it snatched him from the sight of the assembly…’), and gospel accounts, e.g. Matthew 27:45, Mark 15:33. 35 TLG s.v. P. Van Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et piété (2004), 475 list Homeric texts as likely sources for parts of Sozomen’s dedication, which suggests that Sozomen had a good working knowledge of them. 36 For consideration of Julian’s presentation as a persecutor in Sozomen see P. Van Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et piété (2004), 366. 34

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Ὅθεν δόξης αὐτοῖς φθονῶν, οὐ φειδόμενος, πυρὶ μὲν χρῆσθαι, ἢ σιδήρῳ, ἢ τοῖς τοῦ σώματος αἰκισμοῖς, ἢ τῷ καταποντῶσαι καὶ ζῶντας κατορύττειν, ἃ τὸ πρὶν ἐσπουδάζετο, οὐκ ἀναγκαῖον εἶδεν εἰς μετάστασιν γνώμης: λόγῳ δὲ καὶ παραινέσεσι πείθειν ἡγεῖτο τὰ πλήθη εἰς Ἑλληνισμὸν μεταβαλεῖν: καὶ τοῦ σκοποῦ περιέσεσθαι ῥᾳδίως, εἰ βιάσασθαι μὴ ἀξιώσας, ἐκ παραδόξου φιλάνθρωπός τις εἶναι δόξει περὶ αὐτούς. Because he was envious of their glory, he did not refrain from employing fire or the sword against them, or abusing their bodies or casting them into the sea, or burying them alive, which was eagerly done in the past, and he did not think was necessary to change their judgement. Instead he thought it necessary to use argument and exhortations to persuade them to convert to Hellenism; not supposing it to be any easier to attain his goal if he used force, he decided to be unexpectedly a benevolent person when it came to them.

Sozomen claims Julian’s rhetoric as a form of persecution, which Julian combines with a rigorous politicised agenda against Christian interests that involves the recall of Christians exiled by Constantius II.37 Sozomen’s conviction that Julian’s attack on Christianity was akin to physical persecution, is consistent with Julian’s own claims that it was better to teach than torture Christians.38 In a rare moment of self-description Sozomen reveals a personal reason for his historiographical position; during Julian’ reign his grandfather was forced to flee from ‘city to city and village to village.’ This forced movement was Julian’s fault (5.15): … τῷ κρατοῦντι τὴν αἰτίαν τις ἀναθήσει τῶν γεγενημένων: οὐ γὰρ ὑπῆγε τοῖς νόμοις τοὺς ὧδε παρανομοῦντας: ἀλλὰ μίσει τῷ πρὸς τὴν θρησκείαν, μέμφεσθαι λόγοις δοκῶν, ἔργοις προὐτρέπετο τοὺς τὰ τοιαῦτα δρῶντα … someone will attribute blame for these happenings to the ruler; for he did not bring the transgressors to legal justice, but out of his hatred towards their worship, he decided to censure them with verbal rebukes, while, by his actions, he promoted those who did such things.

Julian’s death at Sammara becomes then a result of divine wrath stemming from his persecution of the Christians which resulted from his hatred of them, a hatred that manifested itself in the words and deeds he used against their interests. Julian may well have disputed the first claim, and quibbled over Sozomen’s expanded definition of persecution, but he probably would have had little to say regarding Sozomen’s explanation of Julian’s intentions towards 37 Soz., HE 5.5. Similar claims are made by other Christian authors, for discussion of which see Hans C. Teitler, ‘Avenging Julian. Violence Against Christians in the Years 361-363’, in Albert Geljon and Riemer Roukema (eds), Violence in Ancient Christianity, Victims and Perpetrators (Leiden, 2014), 76-81. See also Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius, Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge, MA, 2001), 154. 38 Julian, Ep. 61c, 424b Bidez: καὶ γάρ, οἷμαι, διδάσκειν, ἀλλ᾿ οὐχι κολάζειν χρὴ τοὺς ἀνοήτους, for which see H.C. Teitler ‘Avenging Julian’ (2014), 82.

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Christians. Sozomen’s account of Julian’s death is a narrative capstone to his account of Julian’s reign and agenda, which adopts a contrary historiographical position to Julian’s own claims regarding his deeds and words. V. Sozomen’s Gallus and the Defence of the Cult of Martyrs In two episodes, analysed in detail below, Sozomen uses the cult of martyrs to form a contrast between Julian’s brother Gallus and Julian.39 The first, at 5.2, follows Gregory Nazianzen’s account at Or. 4.25-6 of how the brothers attempted to repair the tomb of St Mammas when they were both boys; the second, at 5.19, describes Gallus’ efforts to preserve the remains of St Babylas by relocating them to a permanent shrine and Julian’s attempted reversal of this move. These episodes may be read as an attempt to create a historical narrative that repudiates Julian’s sustained critique of the cult of martyrs. Sozomen relates how both boys survived the vicious attacks on Constantine’s extended family after the emperor died, and then were raised at an imperial palace in Cappadocia. There they were raised as Christians. Sozomen specifically indicates that both boys (5.2.11) ταῖς προσηκούσαις τιμαῖς τὰς τῶν μαρτύρων θήκας γεραίροντες (rendered due homage to the tombs of the martyrs.) Sozomen’s account of their attempt to place the tomb of St Mammas into a large shrine immediately follows this remark. Despite dividing the labour evenly, the respective parts of the shrine turn out very differently. Gallus’ quickly stands tall, while Julian’s partly fell over, partly came up out of the earth, and another part fell back upon being touched. Sozomen dwells on the significance of this moment, both for Julian’s reign and his account (5.2.14-5): εἰκότως τεράστιον ἐδόκει τὸ πρᾶγμα. καὶ τοῖς μὲν πολλοῖς τῇ ἀποβάσει ἐκρίθη, οἱ δὲ καὶ ἐξ ἐκείνου συνέβαλλον μὴ ὑγιῶς ἔχειν τὸν ἄνδρα περὶ τὴν θρησκείαν, ἀλλ’ εὐσεβεῖν πλάττεσθαι Χριστιανὸν ὄντα τὸν τότε κρατοῦντα ὑποκρινόμενον καὶ εἰς τὸ προφανὲς ἐξάγειν τὴν γνώμην οὐκ ἀσφαλὲς ἡγούμενον. This occurrence was naturally deemed a portent. And it was judged by many as the starting point, some subsequently conjectured that the man was not wholesome in his worship, but suspected that he was pretending to be pious playing the part for the emperor, who was then a Christian, and supposing that it was not safe for him to bring his own sentiment out into the open.

The prodigious movements of the martyr’s shrine are ominous in the moment, but take on far greater significance in Sozomen’s account given Julian’s open criticism and repeated efforts against the cult of martyrs, and specifically the spaces that such worship requires. For example, in his criticism of Christians 39

H. Leppin, Von Constantin dem Grossen zu Theodosius II. (1996), 85 notes how Sozomen connects with the tradition of considering Gallus ‘die rechtgläubige Gegenfigur zu Julian’ (the right-thinking counter figure to Julian).

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‘grovelling at tombs’, cited above, Julian interpolated Matthew 23:27 as critical of martyr worship, asking (CG 335D) εἰ τοίνυν ἀκαθαρσίας Ἰησοῦς ἔφη πλήρεις εἶναι τοὺς τάφους, πῶς ὑμεῖς ἐπ᾿ αὐτῶν ἐπικαλεῖσθε τὸν θεόν… (If, then, Jesus said that sepulchres are full of uncleanness, how can you invoke God at them?) Sozomen’s inclusion of Julian’s adverse interaction with a martyr’s tomb at the beginning of book five prioritises the interpretative significance of the scene, as a proleptical marker of Julian’s subsequent abuse of the cult of martyrs, and for its underlying rationale that Julian’s aversion to Christianity was not the result of higher learning and philosophical reflection, but an intrinsic part of his perverted nature, evident to some even when the future emperor was still a child.40 The scene is all the more significant in Sozomen’s account as visionary phenomena occurring at the tombs of martyrs occurs at only one other point in his history, and there it is only mentioned in passing.41A further contrast between Gallus and Julian follows; the former came to take up residence in Ephesus, while the latter went to study in Constantinople, where, Sozomen claims, Julian fell under the influence of Maximus the philosopher who corrupted him against Christianity. Sozomen thus places martyrdom front and centre in his account of how Julian came to hate Christianity. Sozomen also contrasts Gallus and Julian’s actions regarding the tomb of St Babylas in Antioch.42 When Gallus as Caesar established his imperial residence in Antioch he set about erecting a shrine for the martyr’s remains. He did this, Sozomen tell us (5.19.12): Χριστιανὸς ὢν καὶ ἐς τὰ μάλιστα πρεσβεύων τοὺς ὑπὲρ τοῦ δόγματος μεμαρτυρηκότας (as he was Christian and greatly respected the martyrs for their teaching). Julian’s actions as emperor are almost the exact opposite. Convinced the presence of the martyrs’ remains were affecting the ability of Apollo to offer predictions in the temple at Daphne he ordered them relocated. Once this was done, Julian order the praetorian prefect Sallust to arrest Christians, but Sallust quickly came to see that the suffering that the imperial authorities were causing for the imprisoned was only enhancing their glory, and so convinced Julian to release them. Sozomen directly linked the removal of the martyr’s remains to the burning of the temple of Apollo at Daphne, which prompted Julian, once he had heard that Christians believed the martyr to have caused the fire, to command that the houses of prayer which now held the remains be burned. In both cases Sozomen uses Gallus as a comparandum to accentuate his criticism of Julian’s relationship to the cult of the martyrs. 40 By presenting Julian as the cursed child in contrast to Gallus, Sozomen account contradicts Julian’s claim in his letter to the Athenians 271C that his brother was the most ill-omened of all (δυστυχῶς, εἴπερ τις ἄλλος τῶν πώποτε) whereas he was blessed by fate (εὐτυχῶς), although it should be noted that Julian’s claims relate directly to his fortune in escaping from imperial confinement. 41 Soz., HE 8.28. 42 John Chrysostom, De S. Babyla 3.

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VI. Conclusion This article has proposed that specific details in Sozomen’s account of Julian’s reign present as a narrative response to Julianic arguments.43 Scholars have avoided consideration of any direct intertextual relationship between Sozomen’s history and Julian’s works, understandably given the limited textual evidence, but this should not deter consideration of how Sozomen’s work responds to Julianic claims, especially as Sozomen clearly knew about his criticisms, and feasibly had access to his polemic against Christianity, either directly, or mediated through other sources, whether contemporary responses to Julian such as Gregory Nazianzen or the fragments preserved as quotations by Christian apologists of the early fifth century, or in other, more indirect ways. Caution is still warranted; that the same passages seem to be relevant to Sozomen’s counter-Julianic narrative as are preserved in formal Christian responses to Julian’s arguments by Cyril and Theodore cannot be taken as evidence that Sozomen knew of Julian’s arguments through these texts, as our knowledge of Julian’s Contra Galilaeos is limited to the fragments quoted by these apologists. Nevertheless, a useful comparison may be drawn between how Theodore and Cyril engage with Julianic thought, by providing somewhat abstract, philosophical commentary-like responses to Julian’s arguments, and Sozomen’s confrontation with Julian’s anti-Christian polemic, which effectively presents a narrative of Julian’s interaction with Christianity that directly undermines his extant criticisms. If the overall premise, that Sozomen’s Julianic narrative is a historiographical response to Julian’s criticisms of Christianity, is accepted, this would indicate that Julian’s criticisms of Christianity continued to linger well into the mid fifth century, such that when Sozomen came to write the history of Julian’s reigns, Julian’s attacks on martyrdom, conversion, and Christian belief and practice presented as important targets for his criticism.

43 This may account for why Sozomen’s account includes details that are wholly absent from other sources, for which see G.W. Trompf, ‘The Golden Chain of Byzantism’ (1994), 30.

Climbing Jacob’s Ladder: St Jerome’s Use of Gen. 28:11-3 as a Spiritual Mentor Christine MCCANN, Norwich University, Northfield, VT, USA

ABSTRACT St Jerome refers to the patriarch Jacob’s dream of a ladder stretching from heaven to earth, and on which angels ascend and descend, in letters of spiritual advice over a long range of years. This article analyzes how Jerome uses the story to praise and to motivate some of his correspondents. Ep. 58 to Paulinus of Nola describes Paulinus as almost easily climbing the ladder, while in letters addressed to Furia, Geruchia, and Julian, Jerome focuses on Christ himself at the top of the ladder, reaching out to help those who are climbing up, yet varies his emphasis for each recipient. What accounts for the differences in Jerome’s ways of utilizing this Biblical story? Examining the individual context of where Jerome places the story of Jacob’s ladder in each letter in conjunction with what Jerome perceived to be the needs of his correspondents explains some of the variations. Additional context can also be found by comparing them to Jerome’s Tractate on Psalm 119. In general, Jerome keeps the focus in these letters and in the homily on the upward climb towards Christ and the rewards to be found for continuing the struggle. He reminds his audiences that the consequences of failing to strive are real, too. Jerome’s use of Jacob’s ladder helps his correspondents to visualize themselves as part of the grander narrative of salvation history and emphasizes both the Christian’s need for endurance and an empathetic Savior.

Like other Christian exegetes, Jerome uses Jacob’s ladder as a metaphor for the spiritual life.1 In his letters of spiritual advice and exhortation there are a number of ways that he interprets these verses in Genesis.2 1 In her analysis of Jerome’s Ep. 118, Aline Canellis notes that Jerome derives much inspiration from Origen’s interpretation of Jacob’s ladder in his Homilies on Genesis. Aline Canellis, ‘Jêrôme et l’exhortation à Julien (Lettre 118)’, in Élisabeth Gavoille and François Guillaumont (eds), Perspectives littéraires (Tours, 2017), 385-400, 396. 2 The Vg renders Gen. 28:11-3 as cumque venisset ad quendam locum et vellet in eo requiescere post solis occubitum tulit de lapidibus qui iacebant et subponens capiti suo dormivit in eodem loco viditque in somnis scalam stantem super terram et cacumen illius tangens caelum angelos quoque Dei ascendentes et descendentes per eam et Dominum innnixum scalae dicentem sibi ego sum Dominus Deus Abraham patris tui et Deus Isaac terram in qua dormis tibi dabo et semini tuo. Gen. 28:11-3; Biblia Sacra iuxta vulgatam versionem, 5th ed., ed. Roger Gryson, (Stuttgart, 2007). The LXX reads: 11 καὶ ἀπήντησεν τόπῳ καὶ ἐκοιμήθῃ ἐκεῖ· ἔδυ γὰρ ὁ ἥλιος· καὶ ἔλαβεν ἀπὸ τῶν λίθων τοῦ τόπου καὶ ἔθηκεν πρὸς κεφαλῆς αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐκοιμήθη ἐν τῷ

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 181-189. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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One is found in Ep. 58 where Jerome links Jacob’s ladder to Christ’s cross.3 In three others, Ep. 54, 118, and 123, Jerome focuses on the angels ascending and descending the ladder, and specifically refers to Christ leaning over the ladder to those below him to help those rising. However, the three later letters also warn of the possibility of falling down off the ladder. A Christian cannot be careless or complacent, cautions Jerome. It at first seems that Jerome’s main interpretation of Jacob’s ladder in the later three letters can be summarized as: ‘What goes up, might come down’.4 Jerome, however, skillfully uses the story of Jacob’s ladder to encourage his recipients to continue the challenging climb to salvation, varying his emphasis to suit their circumstances. Elizabeth Clark has demonstrated that Jerome, like his contemporaries, often uses intertextual readings of Biblical verses to press his ascetic agenda.5 Stefan Rebenich and Andrew Cain have investigated how Jerome’s letters helped to create an aura of the Biblical and ascetic expert.6 Aline Canellis examines τόπῳ ἐκείνῳ. 12 καὶ ἐνυπνιάσθη, καὶ ἰδοὺ κλίμαξ ἐστηριγμένη ἐν τῇ γῇ, ἧς ἡ κεφαλὴ ἀφικνεῖτο εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν, καὶ οἱ ἄγγελοι τοῦ Θεοῦ ἀνέβαινον καὶ κατέβαινον ἐπ᾿ αὐτῆς. 13 ὁ δὲ Κύριος ἐπεστήρικτο ἐπ᾿ αὐτῆς καὶ εἶπεν· ἐγὼ κύριος ὁ θεὸςʹ Ἀβραὰμ τοῦ πατρός σου καὶ ὁ Θεὸς ᾿Ισαάκ· μὴ φοβοῦ· ἡ γῆ, ἐφ᾿ ἧς σὺ καθεύδεις ἐπ᾿ αὐτῆς, σοὶ δώσω αὐτήν καὶ τῷ σπέρματί σου. Genesis, ed. John William Wevers, Septuaginta: Vetus Testamentum Graecum (Göttingen, 1974). 3 Jerome’s letters are in Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae, ed. Isidore Hilberg, CSEL 54-6 (Vienna, 1996). Jerome also refers to Jacob’s ladder in Ep. 22.4; CSEL 54, 149, which is addressed to Eustochium, and again in Ep. 108.13. See Andrew Cain (ed.), Jerome’s Epitaph on Paula: A Commentary on the Epitaphium Sanctae Paulae, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford, 2013). Jerome’s interpretations in Ep. 22 and 103 are strikingly different from those discussed in the present article. Time and space considerations have prompted their omission. In Ep. 18A.14.2-3 to Damasus, Jerome briefly refers to Jacob’s ladder in interpreting the tongs mentioned in Isaiah 6:6-7. CSEL 54, 91-2. 4 Jerome links together Jacob’s ladder and the cross in the Tractate on Ps. 91/92. In the Tractate on Ps 119/120, his focus is on the angels on the ladder and Christ at the top of the ladder. These two tractates were possibly composed in 401-402. If so, they would post-date the letters to Rufinus, Eustochium, Furia, and Paulinus, while the letters to Julian and Geruchia would have been written after the tractates. A third tractate, on Ps. 133, focuses mostly on Jacob’s use of a stone for a pillow, and equates the stone with Christ. Tractatus sive homiliae in Pss, ed. D. Germanus Morin, CChr.SL 78, rev. ed. (Turnhout, 1958). In the preface, Morin argues for a date of 401-402, CChr.SL 78, xi, n.1. The other works where Jerome utilizes Gen. 28:11-3 are Commentariorum in Hiezechielem Libri XIV 1.1.488; ed. F. Glorie, CChr.SL 75 (Turnhout, 1964), 20 which repeats what Jerome said to Damasus in Ep. 18A. Contra Iohannem 19, ed. J.-L. Feiertag, CChr.SL 79A (Turnhout, 1999), 31 briefly refers to how Origen interpreted the ladder. In Adversus Ioviniaum 2.27, Jerome is arguing the superiority of the ascetic life over marriage, and uses the fact that angels are ascending and descending the ladder to help support his claim of a hierarchy of virtue, PL 23, 338. 5 Elizabeth Clark, Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in early Christianity (Princeton, 1999). Clark analyzes a number of these interpretive techniques, 104-52, and provides a case study of Jerome’s methods, 162-9. 6 Stefan Rebenich, Hieronymus und Sein Kreis: Prosopographische und Sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchungen (Stuttgart, 1992), as well as Rebenich’s Jerome, The Early Church Fathers (London, New York, 2002). A. Cain, ‘Vox Clamantis in Deserto: Rhetoric, Reproach, and the Forging

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Jerome’s letters in a series of essays, offering detailed analysis of Jerome’s techniques of advising and instructing his correspondents.7 This article builds on their insights to evaluate Jerome’s deployment of Gen. 28:11-3 in letters that provide spiritual advice and exhortation to the ascetic life. Jerome links the ascetic life to climbing Jacob’s ladder and Christ’s cross in two letters: Ep. 3 and Ep. 58. Jerome’s first spiritual mentoring letter where he connected carrying a cross and climbing the ladder to heaven is addressed to Paulinus of Nola, the former senator, a monk and newly ordained priest in 395, when Jerome wrote Ep. 58 to him. Ep. 3, addressed to Rufinus in the mid-370s, partially reports Jerome’s experiences in Syria, but much of the letter praises their mutual friend Bonosus, who had become a hermit on an island in the Adriatic. Jerome uses the imagery of Jacob’s ladder at the beginning of the exhortatory part of his letter to Paulinus, as he praises Paulinus for his conversion to the ascetic life. Even if Paulinus’ conversion is recent, it has been a complete renunciation: ‘When you hear the Savior’s will: “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell all that you have, and give it to the poor, and come, follow me”, you transform words into activity, and naked, you follow the bare cross. Thus, more quickly and smoothly you are ascending Jacob’s ladder’.8 Jerome’s focus in this part of Ep. 58 is on Paulinus’ renunciation of his enormous wealth and how it improves Paulinus’ pursuit of salvation. Thus, Jerome follows his reference to Jacob’s ladder and the crux nuda with praise for Paulinus who has truly divested himself of his wealth, so that he can be a faithful and true disciple of the poor Christ (Ep. 58.2; CSEL 54, 529-30). Two decades earlier, Jerome had described Bonosus thus: ‘Bonosus … now climbs the ladder presaged in Jacob’s dream: he carries the cross thinking neither of tomorrow nor looking back behind himself’.9 In both letters, Jerome describes the men as actively climbing the ladder. There are no references to anyone descending the ladder, or even of any need to concern oneself with such a possibility, which differs from the remaining letters’ interpretation of Gen. 28:11-3. Although Jerome does not mention Christ as being at the top of the ladder, Jerome describes both men as focused on Christ; Bonosus carries a cross, while Paulinus is following it.10 The two of Ascetic Authority in Jerome’s Letters from the Syrian Desert’, Journal of Theological Studies NS 57 (2006), 500-25 and id., The Letters of Jerome: Asceticism, Biblical Exegesis, and the Construction of Christian Authority in Late Antiquity, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford, 2009). 7 A. Canellis, ‘Jêrôme et l’exhortation à Julien’ (2017), 385-400. Canellis provides a helpful bibliography that includes several of her other essays on Jerome’s letters. 8 Denique et tu audita sententia saluatoris: si vis perfectus esse, vade, vende omnia, quae habes, et da pauperibus et veni, sequere me, verba vertis in opera et nudam crucem nudus sequens expeditior et levior scandis scalam Iacob. Ep. 58.2.1; CSEL 54, 529. 9 Bonosus … scalam praesagatam Iacob somniante iam scandit: portat crucem suam nec de crastino cogitat nec post tergum respicit. Ep. 3.4.1; CSEL 54, 15. 10 Jerome makes similar exultant remarks linking the cross and the ladder in his Tractate on Ps 91(92). There, Jerome equates Christ’s cross with the ladder that Jacob saw, proclaiming, ‘on

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men are also depicted as focusing on the moment at hand: Bonosus thinks ‘neither of tomorrow nor of looking back behind himself’, and Jerome implies a similar immediacy to Paulinus’ actions: he hears Christ’s message, acts, and ascends. Jerome expresses no explicit warning that Paulinus should be wary about the possibility of descending down the ladder.11 Although in Ep. 3 and Ep. 58, Jerome focuses only on the men climbing up Jacob’s ladder, in his other advisory letters that use the ladder as a motif for the spiritual life, Jerome is more forthright in stating that there are dangers in climbing the ladder. One can never be certain in this life that one might not slip. Jerome in these later letters wants to encourage his recipients, but also admonishes those who might read his letters that there is always a possibility of danger. He also makes more explicit references to Christ at the top of the ladder in these later letters. Ep. 54, which was addressed to Furia, was written in either 394 or 395, close in time to Ep. 58 which was addressed to Paulinus. Furia was connected to Paula’s family as the sister-in-law of Paula’s daughter Blesilla.12 It is a treatise on widowhood, as Furia was embracing the ascetic life upon the death of her husband. Jerome weaves together several Biblical texts with the passage from Gen. to argue that for Christians, it is how one finishes one’s life that matters, not how one starts. Thus, Jerome asks Furia to consider the examples of Paul and Judas.13 He next quotes Ezek. 33:12 which says that the righteous person’s righteousness will not save him if he does sin, and when a sinner turns away from sinning, his former sin will not be held against him, blending this with Gen. 28:12-3, and Rev. 3:16. Jerome asserts that choosing the ascetic life, is Jacob’s ladder, on which angels ascend and descend, on which the Lord leans, stretching out his hand to the weary, and by the contemplation of Himself, supporting the cross, He was in fact crucifying the demons. It was not a cross; rather it was a triumph, a military banner’ (Xristus quidem crucifixus erat in corpore, sed vere crucifigebat ibi daemones. Non fuit crux: sed triumphus fuit, sed vexillum fuit). Jerome goes on to equate Christ’s cross with Jacob’s ladder. Christians are the angels ascending the ladder, and Jews those descending the ladder. Propterea conscendit in crucem, ut nos de terra in altum tolleret. Ego puto crucem Saluatoris istam esse scalam, quam vidit Iacob. In ista scala descendebant angeli, et conscendebant; in ista scala, hoc est cruce, descendunt Iudaei, et conscendunt gentiles. Tractatus de Ps 91.11; CChr.SL 78, 139. 11 Dennis Trout has argued that when Jerome discusses Biblical models for the monastic life in Ep. 58, he implicitly criticizes Paulinus’s depiction of John the Baptist as a ‘demigod’ in one of his poems. This is because Jerome does not mention John in Ep. 58, although Jerome did describe him as a monastic model elsewhere. Dennis Trout, Paulinus of Nola: Life, Letters, and Poems, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 27 (Berkeley, 1999), 96-101. 12 Blesilla died in 385. For Furia see The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire Volume 1 A.D. 260-395, ed. AH.M. Jones, J.R. Martindale and J. Morris (Cambridge, 1971), s.v. ‘Furia’. 13 Jerome makes the same remark regarding Judas and Paul in Ep. 58 to Paulinus. Ep. 58.1; CSEL 54, 528.7-13.

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the feeble steps of those who rise up. But, as much as he does not wish for the death of the sinner, but only that he should return and live, so much does he hate the lukewarm and they quickly make him ill.14

Jerome caps this off with an inversion of Jesus’ statement regarding the actions of the woman in Luke 7:47, who had washed his feet with her tears. The Biblical text says that ‘the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little’. Jerome tells Furia: ‘The one who is forgiven more, loves more’.15 This final remark of the passage circles back to Jerome’s statement about the Apostle Paul. Here the mixture of warning and encouragement still ends on the positive note. Jerome wrote Ep. 118 in 407 to Julian, a vir clarissimus. Jerome here emphasizes the circumstances in which Jacob saw his vision: Jacob, whose father was very wealthy, went alone and poor, using his staff, into Mesopotamia. Exhausted, he lay along the roadside. He had been very delicately nurtured by his mother Rebecca, yet he used a stone under his head for a pillow. He saw a ladder reaching from earth to heaven and angels ascending and descending upon it and above it the Lord was leaning over, so that he was reaching his hand to the exhausted and the sight of Him was challenging those ascending to keep working… And still holy people can fall if they become careless and sinners can regain their previous rung if they wash with tears their sordidness. On this account I say this, not that those descending frighten you, but that those rising challenge you. Models of behavior are never to be taken from the wicked; even in worldly matters, incentives to virtue always come from the better kind.16

In this passage, Jerome’s emphasis is on encouraging Julian. Jerome emphasizes that the Lord Himself is both reaching out to help the exhausted and allowing Himself to be seen in order to encourage or to challenge those climbing upwards. Jerome immediately counters his remark about those descending Jacob’s ladder by shifting focus to those ascending.

14 Ista est scala Iacob, per quam angeli conscendunt atque descendunt, cui dominus innitur lassis porrigens manum et fessos ascendentium gressus sui contemplatione sustentans. Sed, sicut non vult mortem peccatoris, tantum ut revertatur et vivat, ita tepidos odit et cito ei nausiam faciunt. Ep. 54.6.4-5; CSEL 54, 472. 15 Cui plus dimittitur, plus diligit. Ep. 54.6.5; CSEL 54, 472. 16 Iacob, ditissimi patris filius, solus et nudus in baculo suo pergit Mesopotamiam, iacet lassus itinere et, qui delicatissime a Rebecca matre fuerat educatus, lapide ad caput pro puluillo utitur vidit scalam de terra usque ad caelum et ascendentes per eam angelos et descendentes et desuper innitentem dominum, ut lassis manum porrigeret, ut ascendentes suo ad laborem provocaret aspectu… Et sancti enim conruunt, si fuerint neglegentes et peccatores pristinum recipiunt gradum, si sordes fletibus laverint. Hoc ideo dico, ut non te terreant descendentes, sed provocent ascendentes. Numquam exemplum a malis sumitur; etiam in saeculi rebus semper a meliore parte incitamenta virtutum sunt. Ep. 118.7.2-3; CSEL 55, 444-5. Immediately preceding this, Jerome urges Julian not to look at Judas denying Christ, but at Paul confessing him.

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The third letter that Jerome wrote was Ep. 123 to Geruchia. It was composed in 409.17 Like the letter to Furia, it is a treatise on widowhood.18 As he had for Julian, Jerome emphasizes the circumstances in which Jacob saw the ladder. Fleeing his brother, Jacob left behind great riches in his father’s house and went destitute into Mesopotamia, providing us with a model of enduring hardship. Having placed a stone under his head, he saw a ladder stood up all the way to heaven and the Lord was leaning over it. Angels were ascending and descending upon it; thus, neither should the sinner despair of deliverance nor should the righteous be secure in his virtuousness.19

Just as he had advised Furia over a decade earlier, Jerome points out that the Christian can go both up and down the ladder. Here, however, Jerome uses the passage from Gen. 28 to advocate for spiritual security over material security. Jerome tells Geruchia that Jacob eventually returned home a wealthy man. Jerome equates Jacob’s change in circumstances to that of the apostles who ‘likewise’ traveled about without any possessions, and were thus worthy to see the Lord (Ep. 123.14.5; CSEL 56.1, 90-1). Jerome’s reference to Jacob’s ladder in Ep. 123 is placed as Jerome prepares to launch into a lengthy description of the troubled times, asserting that ‘countless wild peoples have occupied the whole of Gaul’ where Geruchia lives.20 Although Jerome had long recommended renunciation of wealth, the uncertain circumstances of Gaul in the early 400s meant that some might find themselves leaving home and wealth behind unwillingly. Jerome suggests that there is an opportunity for salvation here, in the midst of current troubles, but one must have one’s attention focused properly on Christ and salvation. The letter to Julian has the most strongly positive emphasis of the three later letters. Its tone of encouragement seems much closer to that in found in the letters about Bonosus and to Paulinus. Jerome does seem to use more cautionary motivators in the letters to Furia and Geruchia than to Julian. For example, he ends his letter to Furia with the terse statement that if she thinks of death every day, she will never consider a second marriage.21 Furthermore, in the last 17 Jerome is well-informed about Geruchia’s family and commends her mother, grandmother and aunt for their practice of widowhood. Ep. 123.1.2; CSEL 56.1, 73. Rebenich characterizes Jerome’s letter to Geruchia as part of his effort to obtain patronage for his monastery. St. Rebenich, Hieronymus und Sein Kreis (1992), 289. 18 By 409, Jerome had already written two previous letter-treatises on holy widowhood, Ep. 54 to Furia and Ep. 79 to Salvina. CSEL 55, 87-101. Jerome tells Geruchia that she could read those works, too, besides what he has written her. Ep. 123.17.3; CChr.SL 56.1, 95. 19 Iacob fratrem fugiens magnis in patris domo divitiis derelictis nudus pergit in Mesopotamiam et, ut nobis fortitudinis suae praeberet exemplum, lapide capiti subposito videt scalam ad caelum usque subrectam et dominum innitentem super eam; per quam ascendebant angeli et descendebant, ut nec peccator desperet salutem nec iustus in sua virtute securus sit. Ep. 123.14.4; CSEL 56.1, 90. 20 Innumerabiles et ferocissimae nationes universas Gallias occuparunt. Ep. 123.15.2; CSEL 56.1, 92. 21 Cogita te cottidie esse morituram, et numquam de secundis nuptiis cogitabis. Ep. 54.18.3; CSEL 54, 485.

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portions of his work addressed to Geruchia, Jerome warns that the Antichrist is coming, and remarks extensively on the miseries of the barbarian invasions in southern Gaul, and laments the losses of the old liberty.22 Why would Geruchia wish to marry in such a time, he asks (Ep. 123.17.1; CSEL 55, 94). What is known about the recipients’ personal circumstances that might help to explain some of the differences? Geruchia, Furia, and Julian had all lost their spouses, and both Geruchia and Julian had experienced disruptions caused by invasions (Ep. 118.2; CSEL 55, 436). Julian, however, had already lost two daughters, ages eight and six, within twenty days of each other, when his wife Faustina, died suddenly.23 Thus, Jerome compares Julian to someone who escapes a shipwreck only to be attacked when he reaches the shore. Jerome also compares Julian’s experiences with that of Job in the Old Testament. Yet Jerome tells Julian that he has not suffered as much as Job; this is because he has not yet reached such a level of spiritual maturity that the Devil has to try to take everything from him to break him. (Ep. 118.2; CSEL 55, 435-7). Jerome later reminds Julian that he is of an age (unspecified) where he cannot expect to live much longer (Ep. 1118.6.2; CSEL 55, 443). So there are cautionary remarks in the letter to Julian, too. Perhaps Julian’s string of bereavements caused Jerome to soften, although not omit, his references to descending the ladder.24 Another difference between the recipients (besides gender) that may help to explain some of the relative amount of warning and encouragement is whether Jerome’s correspondents had already chosen the kind of ascetic life of which Jerome approved. Jerome asserts that Furia and Geruchia are already committed to widowhood, and that some of his remarks are designed to demonstrate its superiority are not addressed directly to them, but those that oppose his ideas.25 Julian, however, although interested, seems not yet to have made that

22 Qui tenebat, de medio, fit, et non intelligimus adpropinquare antichristum, quem dominus Iesus interficiet spiritu oris sui. Ep. 123.15.1; CSEL 56.1, 91. Sections 15 and 16 eloquently rehearse the troubles of the Roman Empire. CSEL 56.1, 91-4. 23 Julian still had a married daughter, but her husband was evidently not a source of comfort or pride for Julian. Ep. 118.2; CSEL 55, 436. 24 Jerome’s source of information about Julian seems to have been Ausonius, who Jerome says is filius meus, frater tuus. Ep. 118.1; CSEL 55, 434. If Ausonius is not Julian’s brother, he is someone who knows both men. See The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire Volume 2 A.D. 395-527, ed. J. Martindale (Cambridge, 1980), s.v. ‘Ausonius 1’ and ‘Iulianus 4’. Jerome also indicates that he and Julian have possibly exchanged letters before as he says that he is breaking a ‘long silence’ and is writing only as a friend (and not an orator). This suggests that Jerome had a good idea of how to adjust his tone to Julian. Ep. 118.1.1-2; CSEL 55, 434-5. Jerome likewise would have known more about Furia because of her familial connections to Paula and Eustochium. 25 Furia asked Jerome for a letter of advice on the best way to live as a widow. Ep. 54.1.1; CSEL 54, 466 and Ep. 54.6.1; CSEL 54, 471. Jerome says that he has heard that Geruchia seeks the church to avoid suitors. Ep. 123.2.2; CSEL 56.1, 73-4.

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choice, since Jerome tells Julian that it is good that he is already supporting monks financially, but it will be better to join them.26 In addition, Jerome’s reference to Jacob and the ladder comes as Jerome makes his final effort to convince Julian. This also helps to explain the greater emphasis on the challenge or upward ascent in that letter. In Ep. 54 to Furia, Jerome utilizes the passage from Gen. in the first half of the letter, after he has exhorted Furia to follow the example of her mother, Titiana, then warned her against the loving but misguided recommendations of her father that she remarry. Jerome here wants to emphasize what will please or displease God, not what might please one’s earthly father. And, as already discussed, Jerome’s interpretation of Jacob’s ladder in the letter to Geruchia focuses on showing how in times of strife, one can come close to God. Despite these differences in the way he interprets Gen. 28:11-3 in the three later letters, Jerome mostly seeks to use it as a source of encouragement, always seasoned with a note of warning. Although this essay has focused upon Jerome’s letters of spiritual advice, perhaps his comments in Tractate on Ps 120 give the best sense of Jerome’s efforts to balance between encouragement and warning.27 In this sermon addressed to an audience of monks, Jerome also invokes Gen. 28:11-3 to encourage them to strive for salvation. After quoting verse 1 ‘When I was in distress I have called on the Lord and he has listened to me’,28 Jerome offers a lengthy analysis of the spiritual life as comprising fifteen steps to salvation. At the top is where the apostles and martyrs are, along with Christ. Even though it is very difficult and even demoralizing to consider going from the first step (which is fasting) to the fifteenth, Jerome insists that it is necessary to keep moving, and not to remain static. Much of what Jerome says about the ladder is similar to the letters: he tells how Jacob saw the ladder and angels ascending and descending; that is, Jacob saw the Apostle Paul ascending and Judas falling headlong; again, the angels are holy men going up to heaven, while the angels descending are the devil and his army thrown down from heaven.29 26 Ep. 118.5.6; CSEL 55, 443.1-3. Jerome holds up Pammachius and Paulinus as examples of aristocratic men who gave not just their wealth, but themselves to the Lord (Ep. 118.5.1; CSEL 55, 440). 27 Tractatus de Ps 119 (120), CChr.SL 78, 246-61. Jerome’s remarks about the fifteen steps and Jacob’s ladder are found as he comments on verse 1. This article can only summarize generally and briefly what Jerome says. 28 Jerome follows the LXX here: Ad Dominum cum tribularer clamavi et exaudivit me. Ps 119:1. In Jerome’s Psalterium iuxta Hebraeos verse 1 is rendered: Ad Dominum in tribulatione mea clamavi et exaudivit me. Ed. Henri de Sainte-Marie, Collectanea Biblica Latina 11 (Rome, 1954), 183. 29 Jerome also refers to the Devil and his army being thrown down from heaven as the angels descending Jacob’s ladder in Ep. 22.4.3 to Eustochium. CChr.SL 54, 149. Unlike in his other spiritual mentoring letters that use Gen. 28:11-3, Jerome does not make any reference to Eustochium or any other Christians climbing the ladder.

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Here, Jerome comments that, ‘we fall easily, rising up the ladder requires great labor, a great amount of sweat’.30 Further on, Jerome exhorts the monks not to look down at the rungs of the ladder, but up at the Lord. Jerome particularly stresses the point that Scripture says not that the Lord was standing up right, but that Jacob saw him leaning over ladder: ‘See what [Scripture] says, from where he was standing, he bent himself over and lowered Himself so that we can climb up. The Lord bent down, for your sake he lowered himself. Climb up free from fear’.31 Here Jerome focuses on the positive motivation of envisioning divine Love, divine humility in a Savior who cares for the individual and the community of Christians. Yet a few sentences later, as Jerome concludes his meditation on verse 1, he asserts that as long as one hasn’t reached the top, ‘I should not be secure, I ought to ask urgently for God’s help on the other steps’.32 Jerome’s use of the first person makes the audience and/or readers identify with Jerome and envision themselves as always in need of God’s aid. ‘What goes up, might come down’, is an important part of Jerome’s interpretation of Gen. 28:11-3 and Jerome points this out in the letters to Furia, Julian, and Geruchia. He also reminds them that the Lord wants to aid those who are on the ladder and climbing up it.33 Bonosus and Paulinus are climbing Jacob’s ladder, according to Jerome, and he urges Furia, Geruchia, and Julian to resolve to do so as well.

30 Facile ruimus: in ascendendo grandis labor est, grandis sudor est. This passage can be found in CChr.SL 78, 248.59-82. 31 Et videte quid dicat. Non dixit, Vidi Dominum stantem in quinto decimo gradu: nos enim ad stantem et erectum Dominum pervenire non poteramus. Sed vide quid dicat: vidit eum innitentem super scalam. Vide quid dicat: de eo quod stabat, incuruavit se et humiliavit, ut nos possemus ascendere. Dominus incurvus est, propter te humiliavit se: securus ascende. Tractatus de Ps 119; CChr.SL 78, 250.127-33. 32 Ergo non debeo esse securus: in ceteris gradibus debeo auxilium dei postulare. Tractatus de Ps 119; CChr.SL 78, 251.149-51. 33 Indeed, in his Tractate on Ps. 83(84), Jerome again refers to Jacob’s ladder to interpret verses 6 & 7 of the psalm. Here Jerome asserts that the righteous person will meditate daily on how to ascend the ladder; the sinner does the opposite. Jerome says this is why Jacob saw angels going up and down the ladder. Jerome then adds that we can plan our good works but God is the one who will carry them through to completion. Tractatus de Ps 83.6; CChr.SL 78, 392-3.

‘The Man Who is Angry with a Woman’. Jerome and Rufinus on the Image and the Body Marcela CARESSA, Buenos Aires, Argentina

ABSTRACT In the midst of the Origenist controversy, Jerome of Stridon and Rufinus of Aquileia confronted two distinct views on the nature of the resurrected body. Whereas Rufinus supported the apostolic notion of incorruptibility and spirituality, Jerome asserted that the flesh was indeed to be preserved. The debate that ensued led to mutual charges of indecency, where they accused each other of having betrayed the ascetic ways. Jerome called Rufinus a blind mole and brought the charge of heresy against his former youth friend. In this regard, the analysis of Rufinus’ defence helped reveal the preoccupations that both Jerome and Rufinus purposely omitted in their dispute. Late fourth-century debates on the image of the divine, and a growing concern about the physical representation of the saints will surface from Jerome and Rufinus’ resulting argumentations. As this article suggests, the ascetic perception of female and male companionship in the dispute about the resurrected body contributed to shape the role of mental and material images in prayer.

The strategy of omission was relevant to Jerome and Rufinus when they debated the resurrection of the flesh at the turn of the fifth century. Not only did they omit the name of the person they were confronting – that is to say, each other’s name – but, in fact, they also failed to mention the precise reasons for their dispute. Indeed, though not uncommon in literary Late Antique sources, omissions have not been sufficiently studied. The omission of the person’s name could be a sign of antipathy and disapproval, but could also serve as an excuse to preserve her or his identity. Events and names that probably a few readers were aware of, are unmentioned or vaguely evoked in treatises, letters, and apologies. In 400, Rufinus of Aquileia wrote a reply to ‘a man who is angry with a woman’. The treatise is known as The Apology of Rufinus, addressed to Apronianus in reply to Jerome’s Letter to Pammachius and Oceanus, written at Aquileia, AD 400.1 And the title ‘in reply to Jerome’s Letter to Pammachius and Oceanus’ is a later interpretation because Rufinus did not mention Jerome’s name in his Apologia. Likewise, Jerome’s Letter to Pammachius and Oceanus 1

Apologia contra Hieronymum, CChr.SL 20 (NPNF 2/3).

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 191-203. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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(Ep. 84)2 has been understood as an anonymous attack to Rufinus. In the same line of omissions, Jerome and Rufinus discussed the resurrection of the flesh from two opposit standpoints that they did not explicitly reveal to their audience. As we will see, their position progressed in the years that followed their debate. The reasons why Rufinus claimed that Jerome was ‘a man who is angry with a woman’ (Apol. I, 7) can be found in his Ep. 84.6 more precisely in the paragraph that we will call, from now on, ‘Jerome’s paragraph on women’. And this woman that Rufinus evoked in his Apologia presumably was Melania the Elder, his long-term companion in Jerusalem. On this line of thought, I will argue that Rufinus’ phrase ‘a man who is angry with a woman’ meant that Jerome disapproved of Melania’s teachings. While keeping her name unmentioned, following a long list of omissions in Jerome and Rufinus’ epistolary, Melania’s identity was preserved from undesired criticism. At least, it was what Rufinus would have unmistakably wanted. Finally, Rufinus’ Apology against Jerome reflected his concerns about the role of mental and physical images in prayer. Rufinus rejected the notion of representations of the resurrected body, and in that sense he opposed Jerome’s defence of the resurrection of the flesh. The journey Jerome and Rufinus became acquainted when they were young students in Rome approximately between the years 359 and 368.3 They cultivated a close friendship that continued after having both finished their studies. By that time, Jerome had already received the Christian baptism in Rome. Later on, from Trier, he joined his friend Rufinus who was back in his hometown in Aquileia. In the second half of the fourth century, Aquileia benefited from a strong Christian leadership. Commissioned by bishop Theodore, the basilica’s floor was decorated in beautiful mosaics where the elements of nature played a symbolic role.4 In one of the corners, a magnificent peacock was a sign of eternal life. The fight between good and evil was depicted as a rooster and a turtle facing each other. Without resourcing to human portraits, Christian values and teachings were shown to people visiting the basilica in allegorical scenes. Depictions of holy men and women were intriguingly missing. Inspired by stories of self renunciation in the desert lands of the East, an influential community of ascetic Christians was active those days in the city.5 Around 371, Rufinus was baptized in Aquileia by bishop Chromatius. 2

Epistulae, CSEL 54-6 (NPNF 2/6). Lorenzo Dattrino (ed.), Storia della Chiesa de Rufino (Roma, 1986), Intr. 4 See Gisella Cantino Wataghin, ‘Aquileia, metropoli della Venezia’, Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana (Venezia, 1992), I 321-63. 5 Giorgio Fedalto, ‘Rufino de Concordia, Elementi di una biografia’, Antichità Altoadriatiche 39 (1992), 19-44, 25. 3

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The following year, Melania secretly embarked from Rome to Alexandria. A widow in her early twenties, Melania the Elder is said to have been one of Rufinus’ acquaintances. She had sold part of her estate, and left her own son behind.6 After a short pilgrimage through the East, Melania finally settled in Jerusalem where she founded a monastery by Mount of Olives. In 372, Rufinus arrived in Alexandria where he stayed for seven years. In his quest for a spiritual guidance, he became acquainted with Dydimus, Macarius and the desert monks. As he would later recall, he was persecuted by the Arian bishop charged with being a Nicene Catholic. Rufinus remained in Alexandria for seven years however, as we will see, he made it fairly clear that he disapproved of the city’s persistent idolatry. In the meantime, according to Palladius, Melania the Elder gave hospitality to pilgrims at her expense. Fifty virgins had settled in her monastery and were following her lead.7 In 380 Rufinus left Alexandria for Jerusalem, and stayed in Melania’s monastery until 397 when he returned to Rome, in times of the condemnation of Origen’s doctrines in the East. Around 372, Jerome parted to Antioch in search of a life of renunciation. In his Ep. 3 he reported to posterity of his close friendship to Rufinus. However, the prophetic tone of his words was indeed intriguing: ‘A friend is long sought, hardly found, and with difficulty kept. (…) The friendship which can cease has never been real’. In 375, Jerome alluded to his friend in his Ep. 5 for the last time. He would never mention Rufinus by his name again. Surprisingly, Jerome’s attitude towards Melania was similar. At first, Jerome admired Melania’s self-punishment when she became a widow and how she had left her loved ones behind in search of a life of renunciation. According to Rufinus, Jerome called her a new Saint Thecla in his Chronicle (Apol. II, 26). The fact that Melania was the first lady of the Roman nobility to visit Jerusalem sufficed to consider her a woman of a kind. As for Rufinus, he was mentioned among insignes monachos of his time in the same Chronicle in 381.8 Nonetheless, Jerome mysteriously left Melania’s name out of the Chronicle in a later edition of this work.9 Jerome spent the decade of 380 between Constantinople and Rome. He forged a strong reputation as a mentor of the Roman Christian nobility until he settled in Jerusalem with his benefactor Paula in 386. The reasons why he left Rome remain unclear. Apparently, a certain animosity against Jerome was felt among Paula’s relatives after her daughter Blesilla’s death.10 Jerome’s detractors 6 From Elizabeth Clark’s transcription of Palladius’ Lausiac History, in Elizabeth Clark, Women in the Early Church (Wilmington, DE, 1983), 213. 7 E. Clark, Women (1983), 214. 8 Francis Murphy, Rufinus of Aquileia (345-411): His Life and Works (Washington, 1945), 59. 9 Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (London, 1989), 281-2. 10 See Andrew Cain, The Letters of Jerome (Oxford, 2009), 102-3.

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considered that young Blesilla had died because of a strenuous fasting and sleep deprivation. Her body could not resist the harsh discipline Jerome was promoting among his followers. In his epistle of consolation to Paula, Jerome referred to anonymous individuals who wished to drive some unnamed ‘detestable monks’ out of Rome (Ep. 39.6). If Jerome was effectively blamed for Blesilla’s death, it was his ascetic fervor and his relentless attitude towards the body what forced him to leave Rome. At his arrival in Jerusalem in 386, Jerome must have surely met his old friend Rufinus, but there are no accounts of their reunion. If they effectively met in Jerusalem, chances are that Jerome had mentioned the circumstances that forced him to abandon Rome.11 Paula and Jerome established a monastery in Bethlehem with their travel companions, a priest called Vincent, Jerome’s brother Paulinus, Paula’s daughter Eustochium, and some women who lived under Paula’s mentoring.12 Jerome and Paula remained in Bethlehem for the rest of their lives. As for their relationship with Rufinus and Melania, there might have been tensions between them.13 Jerome would frequently complain about his detractors without mentioning their names.14 His attacks to an individual which he called ‘a scorpion’ (Ep. 127) and ‘Nero’ (Ep. 125) have been interpreted as veiled allusions to Rufinus. Coincidentally, in Ep. 54 Jerome mentioned a dissolute woman who indulged in delicious meals and behaved like the bride of a Nero. As said before, omitting a person’s name was a strategy in itself, however it is not completely clear if Jerome wanted to preserve the identities of his so-called adversaries or, on the contrary, if his readers were aware of them. Jerome will not mention Rufinus in his Viris Illustribus. Moreover, not only was Jerome’s name omitted, but the whole Origenist confrontation was left out by Rufinus in his most ambitious work, the continuation to Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica.15 The condemnation of Origen Dated in 396, Jerome’s Ep. 61 addressed an unnamed recipient who accused Jerome of heresy. Bearing a recommendation from Paulinus of Nola, this new disciple had arrived at the monastery in Bethlehem. By the name of Vigilantius, 11

As Cain has observed in A. Cain, The Letters (2009), 120, footnote 86. Pierre Lardet, Saint Jerome, Apologie contre Rufin (Paris, 1983), 11-2. Lardet has suggested that there could have been a conflict of interests in Jerusalem, and for that reason Paula and Jerome finally settled in Bethlehem. 13 For the rivalry between both monasteries, see Chapter 5, ‘Bethlehem’, in Stefan Rebenich, Jerome (London, 2002). 14 See F. Murphy, Rufinus (1989), 59. 15 Elizabeth Clark, The Origenist Controversy (Princeton, 1992), 54. On Rufinus’ authorship, and a comprehensive study of the Church History, see Françoise Thelamon, Païens et chrétiens au IVe siécle. L’apport de l’Histoire eclésiastique de Rufin d’Aquilée (Paris, 1981). 12

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he will later become a priest in Aquitaine, and a fervent critic of monastic practices. On his return, he claimed to have found an Origenist heretic in Jerome, which brought about his harsh response in Ep. 61. An accusation of heresy was not to be taken lightly, and Jerome made a specific point to account for the legitimate grounds of his faith. In this sense, he explicitly stated that Origen was a heretic and erred on the resurrection of the body (Ep. 61.2). Years later, Rufinus would be involved by Jerome as the orchestrator of Vigilantius’ visit to Bethlehem.16 Origen’s teachings were being questioned in the East long before Jerome’s letter to Vigilantius. Indeed, Theophilus of Alexandria played an important role in Origen’s condemnation, but it was Epiphanius of Salamis who requested monastic and church leaders to take a stand on the controversy. Forced by circumstances, John of Jerusalem pronounced a homily explaining the proper institutions of the Catholic faith,17 whereas Jerome, in his correspondence, condemned the errors attributed to Origen. Apparently, Paula and Melania did not need to formally abjure of Origen’s teachings. Both were prominent figures in the female ascetic movement; however Melania will carry the heavy burden of having been branded a heretic. Not only was she suppressed from the Chronicle, she was also not mentioned in her granddaughter’s Vita. As Elizabeth Clark has observed, Melania the Elder became a nonperson for her contemporaries.18 As for Rufinus, he seemed to have never declared that Origen was a heretic. In his own writings, Rufinus made it clear that he was a Nicene orthodox catholic, being the Expositio Symboli the best example for this. Rufinus and Jerome never had the chance to express their orthodoxy in public sermons as, for one, John of Jerusalem. From Augustine of Hippo to Paulinus of Nola, every influential person in the Church around them was a bishop.19 And the fact that Jerome and Rufinus never became bishops was an important factor in their quest to become renowned Christian authors, and also explained their need to be surrounded by a sophisticated network of benefactors, and a respectable number of disciples in their monasteries. For reasons that remain unclear, in 395 an order of expulsion was issued against Jerome and his monks in the monastery of Bethlehem. Allegedly, John of Jerusalem and Melania the Elder were behind this destitution, and a prefect by the unexpected name of Rufinus was supposed to make sure that the orders were fulfilled.20 In the end, the inconvenience must have been solved, as Jerome and Paula remained in Bethlehem, as we have seen, for the rest of their lives. In 397, Theophilus interceded in the reconciliation between John and Jerome. 16 17 18 19 20

Jerome, Apologia contra Rufinum (CChr.SL 79), 19. F. Murphy, Rufinus (1989), 69-70. Elizabeth Clark, The Life of Melania the Younger (New York, 1984), 150-2. As Cain has observed in A. Cain, The Letters (2009), 142-3. A. Cain, The Letters (2009), 142.

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Rufinus was also among the party who held each other in a fraternal embrace in Jerusalem at the Church of the Resurrection.21 However, the same year of 397 Rufinus left Jerusalem for Rome. Shortly afterwards, Melania would follow. They had lived in Mount of Olives for many years under the mentoring of their frequent companion Evagrius Ponticus.22 An occasional correspondence with Paulinus of Nola, as well as Palladius’ records, bear testimony of Melania’s strong commitment to a life of charity and contemplation. As for Rufinus, in view of the prolific literary activity he displayed later on, it has been argued that he directed a group of copyists in Jerusalem.23 This would explain his access to invaluable works of Greek Christian literature that he translated back in Rome. Leaving Jerusalem for Rome was a strenuous enterprise. According to Palladius, Melania was prompted by her desire to persuade her relatives to accompany her back to the East, as she had foreseen the dangers that awaited if they remained in Rome. Palladius reported that those times were ‘the last hour’.24 Similarly, in the Preface to his Church History, Rufinus wrote that Aquileia was at the mercy of the invaders.25 Though her relatives would eventually move South, Melania did not succeed in convincing them to leave Rome immediately. Therefore, after a moving visit to Augustine in Hippo where she learnt of the death of her son, Melania returned to the East and spent her remaining days in the monastery which was situated in Mount of Olives. Nevertheless, Rufinus stayed in Rome and started his career as a translator from Greek to Latin with the Apology for Origen by Pamphilus of Cesarea. Immediately afterwards, he wrote On the Falsification of Origen’s Books, his first of a small handful of writings as an author. In the monastery of Pinetum, commissioned by abbot Ursacius in 398, Rufinus translated the Rule of St Basil, the same that governed the monastery in Jerusalem. Also in 398, this time by the request of a certain Roman nobleman Macarius, Rufinus released his Latin translation of Origen’s On First Principles. Aside from the occasional interventions to the Greek original that he confessed to have made in order to avoid misinterpretations of the author’s teachings, Origen’s work was appealing enough for Rufinus to decide to circulate it among Latin readers. As for the fact that Origen was considered by some as a heretic, Rufinus maintained that he was a mere translator, and translators should not be to blame for the faults in the texts they translate (Apol. I, 12). 21

Jerome’s Apologia contra Rufinus III 24. See G. Fedalto (1992), 40. On Evagrius’ influence on Melania and Rufinus, see E. Clark, The Origenist (1992), 84. 23 E. Clark, The Origenist (1992), 189. 24 E. Clark, Women (1983), 216. Also, Paulinus of Nola reported on Melania’s trip to Campania in his Ep. 29 (CSEL 29). 25 Rufinus, Historia Ecclesiastica, in Manlio Simonetti (ed.), Scripta Varia (Rome, 2000), Prol., 5-7. 22

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This must have been a solid argument, as Rufinus was not condemned as a heretic in Rome. Even confronted with the accusation of heresy, Rufinus did not stop translating Origen’s works. Moreover, the influence of Greek Christian authors in Rufinus must have been strong in his quest for the divine and also in his personal battle against idolatry, as he described it as a threat and a source of conflict in the Church History.26 With the certainty that idolatry was everywhere, Rufinus released the information that Macarius – the Roman citizen who commissioned the Latin translation of On First Principles –, expected to find in Origen’s Principles the desperately needed arguments to refute pagan astrologers (Apol. I, 11). In telling his readers that Macarius was debating with idolaters, Rufinus also presented himself as addressing a growing interest in Origen’s writings in Rome. Not surprisingly, in the Preface, Rufinus mentioned that Origen was admired by an unnamed friend. Jerome on the body When Rufinus’ Latin version of On First Principles started to circulate in Rome, Jerome received a letter from his friends Pammachius and Oceanus informing about some person’s translation of Origen. They claimed that the Preface suggested ‘much subtlety but without mentioning your holiness’s name’ that Jerome was an Origenist (Ep. 83.1). As the parties involved knew exactly what they meant and who they were referring to, Pammachius and Oceanus’ letter seemed to have only exacerbated a conflict between Rufinus and Jerome.27 If that conflict had not existed, Pammachius and Oceanus would have never thought of Jerome as the person mentioned by Rufinus in his preface to Origen’s On First Principles. Moreover, had it not been because of Jerome and Rufinus’ resentment, Pammachius and Oceanus would have never read Rufinus’ translation of Origen. In 399, Jerome released his own Latin version of On First Principles and a letter in reply to Pammachius and Oceanus where he accused a certain person of defending and spreading Origen’s heresy in Rome. Though this letter never mentioned Rufinus’ name, there are good reasons to conclude that Jerome was attacking Rufinus. As we will see, he was also attacking Melania and her female companions in her monastery in Jerusalem. In his letter, Jerome wrote: The present is not a time to speak rhetorically against a perverse doctrine. Neither the rich vocabulary of Cicero nor the fervid eloquence of Demosthenes could adequately 26 See Marcela Caressa, ‘La idolatría en la Historia Ecclesiastica de Rufino de Concordia’, Tesis de Licenciatura, Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad de Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires, 2019). 27 As Hammond has observed, there were personal reasons for the dispute between Jerome and Rufinus. C. Hammond, ‘The Last Ten Years of Rufinus’ Life and the Date of his Move South from Aquileia’, The Journal of Theological Studies 28 (1977), 372-429, 384-5, 374.

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convey the warmth of my feeling, were I to attempt to expose the quibbles by which these heretics, while verbally professing a belief in the resurrection, in their hearts deny it. For their women finger their breasts, slap their chests, pinch their legs and arms, and say: What will a resurrection profit us if these frail bodies are to rise again? No, if we are to be like angels, we shall have the bodies of angels.

Jerome’s paragraph on women in Ep. 84 has been left uncommented in general. Kelly has observed the anonymity with which Jerome attacked heretics as unnamed,28 while Clark suggested that Jerome was mocking at Origenist women.29 In this regard, the above paragraph could be not only referring to Melania the Elder, but also to her female disciples in Mount of Olives as well. Although the English translation reads ‘women’, Jerome used the term mulierculae. This noun can be found in Cicero with the connotation of meretricula or meretrix. As for muliercula as a diminutive of mulier, it is unlikely that Jerome would have used it in this sense, as in his Ep. 22 he referred to Eustochium as mulier, which suggests that muliercula was not a term of choice when he wanted to address a young lady. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Rufinus definitely used the term mulier, and not muliercula, in his reply to Jerome. With regards to the accusation of heresy, the question remains whether Rufinus had ever effectively denied the resurrection of the flesh. In fact, Jerome did not say that. The phrase ‘while verbally professing a belief in the resurrection, in their hearts deny it’ denotes that Jerome knew that Rufinus did not believe in the resurrection and was not going to admit it. Therefore, the paragraph on women implied that Jerome disapproved of the teachings imparted in the monastery of Mount of Olives. Again, there were elements in the dispute that had been left out by both former friends. As we have seen, Rufinus had not abjured of the Origenist heresy, on the contrary, he was translating and circulating this doctrine. Moreover, in doing so, he claimed that Jerome was an admirer of Origen, namely a heretic for some. Origen’s teachings on the fluidity of the body were extrapolated by Jerome and Rufinus to their own time and circumstances. Rather than the resurrection in itself, it was their regard for the ascetic body what they were debating. From Jerome’s standpoint, the denial of the body was contrary to the path of spiritual perfection that was intended to continue in the afterlife. Moreover, as we will see in Rufinus’ Apologia, carnality was a central accusation in the dispute. Contrary to Paula, Eustochium, and the late Brescilla, Melania and her female disciples loathed their own body. In other words, Melania and Rufinus’ way of life was outrageous from the perspective of Jerome’s reverence of the ascetic body. This is what Jerome was telling Rufinus in his paragraph on women in Ep. 84. 28 29

John N.D. Kelly, Jerome: His Life, Writings and Controversies (London, 1975), 238. E. Clark, The Origenist (1992), 176.

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A year passed since Jerome’s letter, when Rufinus released his Apologia. Rufinus defined this work in particular as Apologiae nostrae (Apol. I, 17, 42). The plural was rhetoric. However, if Rufinus considered that not only himself was attacked, but also Melania and her female disciples, then the plural nostrae assumes a different meaning. Rufinus’ Apologia becomes a defence of his companion as well as of himself against an unnamed accuser, whom Rufinus referred to as ‘our good friend and brother’. In this regard, the intervention of a complicated social network of benefactors and protégées was critical in Rufinus’ decision to write his Apologia. He must have heard about Jerome’s letter somehow. In his Apologia, Rufinus addressed the dispute on the resurrection, and reminded his readers of what he had been accused, ‘I am called a heretic, and the name of mole is applied to me because of the slowness of my mind, or indeed my blindness, (…) I am called a carnal man who lives in luxury’ (Apol. I, 1). A preference for mundane pleasures and sophisticated meals as this paragraph seems to imply, again reveals Jerome’s main concern about how men could become pray of their bodies’ fragility and carnality. This would explain why Rufinus subsequently accused Jerome of giving too much preference to the body in detriment of the spirit: ‘You tell us that we live amidst carnal delights: but I perceive that it is your belief that we are not to give up such things even in the resurrection’ (Apol. I, 8). However, the fact that Rufinus and Jerome accused each other of betraying the ascetic ways is indeed intriguing. Rufinus and Melania had been the heads of a double monastery in Jerusalem for more than a decade and supposedly they shared the same lifestyle and observed similar ascetic rules as Jerome and his companion Paula in Bethlehem. Therefore, there might have been other reasons for their resentment. Melania’s displeasure with Jerome In these fragments where Rufinus and Jerome debated the discipline of their double monasteries, their concerns about the image and the body remained unmentioned. They might have thought that their benefactors, friends and disciples were fully aware of the topics that were being debated. Or perhaps they decided not to disclose certain sensitive issues, and consequently they did not address each other by their names. In his Apologia, Rufinus criticized the description that his ‘good friend and brother’ had made of heretic women: ‘It is evident that the man who is angry with a woman because she says that she hopes not to have a frail body in the resurrection is of the opinion that the frailties of the body will remain’ (Apol. I, 7). In this case, the Italian version of this paragraph is clearer about Rufinus’ stance: Ma, come vedo, se costui non approva la donna la quale afferma che risorgendo

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non avrà più un corpo corruttibile, senza dubbio egli è d’avviso che la corruttibilità del corpo sussistera.30 In the Latin phrase isti cui displicet mulier, ‘displicet’ was translated as non approva in the sense of ‘being displeased’. If we consider that Jerome’s paragraph on women in Ep. 84 was referring to Melania, we can replace her name in Rufinus’ Apologia and assert that Melania could be this woman that Jerome was displeased with. In fact, if we go back to Rufinus’ phrase ‘our Apology’, then we can conclude that Jerome was displeased with both Melania and Rufinus because they despised their bodies. Just as they omitted the name of Melania the Elder in debating the resurrection body, Rufinus and Jerome’s real preoccupations remained unspoken. Rufinus used this verbal form displicet when he claimed that a woman was displeased with Jerome and disapproved of his behavior (Apol. II, 26). Rufinus did not mention this woman by her name, but he revealed that she was consul Marcellinus’ daughter. Most probably his readers could recognize Melania as Marcellinus’ daughter, as she effectively was. Most importantly, this proves that when Rufinus referred to ‘a man who is angry with a woman’ he meant that Jerome was angry with Melania. Moreover, Rufinus maintained that Melania was displeased with Jerome in the first place. Finally, though Rufinus omitted any mention to it, if we followed the chronology of the events, Brescilla’s death could have been the cause of Melania’s bitterness. As we have seen, Jerome had left Rome when his strict discipline was questioned, and he decided not to settle in Jerusalem or was not invited to the monastery where Melania and Rufinus were renowned for their hospitality. Rufinus on the image In his paragraph on women in Ep. 84, Jerome pointed to Origen’s principles on the spiritual resurrection as a cause for hatred towards the aging or decadence of the body. As a reply, in his Apologia, Rufinus wrote: ‘Those who are now our accusers’ in fact are the same as ‘those who believe that God has a bodily shape and describe Him as clothed with human members and dress’ (Apol. I, 17). These remarks alluded to the Anthropomorphist doctrine. Influenced by Origenists as Evagrius Ponticus and similarly by antiorigenists as Epiphanius of Salamis and Teophilus of Alexandria,31 here Rufinus’ defence of the fluidity of the body consisted of a refutation of the image of the body. This is why he wrote: ‘We do not assert that the flesh or body will rise, as you put it, with some of its members lost or amputated’ (Apol. I, 8), almost certainly referring to a 30

Manlio Simonetti (ed.), Apologia contro Girolamo (Rome, 2000), I 7. On how Evagrius and Epiphanius coincided in their rejection of images, see E. Clark, The Origenist (1992), 103. 31

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martyr’s torture and suffering. Rufinus rejected the physical representation of saints and martyrs as human beings in drawings and small figures,32 whereas he favoured the allegorical representations of the divine. Cunningly, Rufinus introduced the question of the image in his dispute with Jerome. And in the lapse of only a few years, as we will see, Jerome’s reflections on idolatry and the cult of saints will challenge Rufinus’ rejection of the image. Rufinus’ disapproval of the flesh was rooted in his unspoken opposition to the representation of the body. In the Church History, he included a detailed report of idolatry in Alexandria, however he did not mention the Christian iconography that circulated in the city.33 Rufinus started his Church History in Aquileia a few months after his Apologia, so we can presume that his personal interests and preoccupations at the time were reflected in both. Specifically in the chapters that described the religious life in Alexandria, Rufinus’ Church History suggested, as in the Apology against Jerome, a connection between the image of the body and the weaknesses of the body. Therefore, the same cult statues that were considered as mediators with the divine would lead to an improper behaviour within Alexandria. Among the fragments that bear testimony of this, Rufinus claimed that there was a certain priest of Saturn named Tyrannus who would hide behind the cult statue and convincingly seduced the wives of notable citizens (HE II 25). Consequently, the destruction of cult statues had a prominent place in Rufinus’ Church History. He recalled that a shrine of Venus was torn down in mount Golgotha, because ‘if any Christian wished to worship Christ in that place, he would seem to be worshiping Venus’.34 And Rufinus maintained that Christians not only tore down the statue in the great Serapeum of Alexandria, but also the cult figures kept in private shrines in all the households of the city (HE II 29). Moreover, in his account of the Battle of the River Frigidus, Rufinus claimed that the Christian Emperor did not carry images to battle, which allegedly made people wonder ‘Where is your God?’ (HE II 33). As for Jerome, he was convinced that idolatry existed without idols,35 and that, conversely, the veneration of holy men and women did not make a Christian into an idolater. Five years had passed since Ep. 84 when Jerome wrote a treatise Contra Vigilantium, where he developed a defence of the act of devotion. Among others, this fragment stands out: ‘For we are not born Christians, but become Christians by being born again. And because we formerly worshipped idols, does it follow that we ought not now to worship God lest we seem to pay 32 Paulinus’ church in Nola was decorated with images of saints. See Robin Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art (London, 2000), 94. 33 See David Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt. Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity (Princeton, 2018), 160. 34 HE I 7. See Philip Amidon (translation and commentary), The Church History of Rufinus of Aquileia (Oxford, 1997). 35 On this subject, see Paul Finney, The Invisible God (Oxford, 1994), 54.

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like honour to Him and to idols?’36 In this manner, Jerome was refuting Rufinus’ rejection of Christian images. Moreover, the Contra Vigilantium had other aspects in common with Ep. 84. Jerome referred to Vigilantius’ teachings as ‘your heresy’ (C. Vig., 8) and evoked the same metaphor of the blind mole – as he had called Rufinus in his letter to Pammachius and Oceanus –, when he contended that Vigilantius was blind and lived in darkness (C. Vig., 7). Allegedly, Vigilantius had shown contempt for Christian rites of worship, which made Jerome wonder: ‘Are the people of all the Churches fools, because they went to meet the sacred relics?’ (C. Vig., 5). Jerome acknowledged that images were a legitimate vehicle to veneration, and his refutation of Vigilantius was also a refutation of Rufinus and an endorsement of the ars sacra. Final words As the analysis of the debate shows, Rufinus did not openly mention his worries about the representation of the human body that he considered as a form of idolatry, neither was Jerome explicit about the prominent position that he attributed to the ascetic body as opposed to the mundane practices of other Christians. However, as we have seen, these were authentic concerns in them. The allusion to Melania the Elder as consul Marcellinus’ daughter demonstrated that it was Melania the woman that Jerome was displeased with, and that Melania was displeased with Jerome in the first place, as maintained by Rufinus. The reason for their confrontation – the circumstances of Blesilla’s death, as we have theorized – remained omitted in Rufinus’ Apologia and Jerome’s Ep. 84, as well as Melania’s name. Whenever these omissions appear in literary sources – and survive later interventions by copyists along the centuries – the names and events that remain unmentioned can be traced in the circle of benefactors and protégées that surrounded the authors. It is likely that those omissions were not mere literary constructions, but real events and concerns related to individuals that a privileged audience was aware of. Advocating for a rigorous discipline, in his Ep. 84 Jerome pondered the acts of prayer, contemplation and fasting as vehicles to an authentic Christian life. As not only the spirit but also the flesh was to resurrect after death, Jerome claimed that a conscientious care for the body was crucial for women and men. However, Jerome’s reverence for the body was challenged by Rufinus’ rejection of the human flesh. This was Jerome’s main recrimination to Rufinus in Ep. 84, which started their debate. Soon after the Apology against Jerome, Rufinus’ scrupulous description of Alexandrian idolatry in his Church History 36

Jerome, Contra Vigilantium, CChr.SL 79, 7 (NPNF 2/6).

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will express more elaborately his disapproval of the image. And years later, as we have seen, Jerome comments on idolatry in his Contra Vigilantium could be read as a response to Rufinus rejection of the representation of the body. Jerome’s assessment of Christian iconography and his unconfronted defence of the image, unmistakably resulted from years of methodical consideration and inspired his refutation of Rufinus’ resistance to the image. The role of mental and material images in the act of worship that was at the core of Rufinus and Jerome’s dispute requires an in-depth examination. Moreover, Jerome’s quest of the spiritual perfection through the ascetic body, and Rufinus’ opposition to the notion of a material resurrection, indeed merit further analysis. In this sense, assessing how Rufinus and Jerome’s devotional experiences – and their bonds with their female and male companions – shaped their perception of images as mediators with the divine, would provide a reasonable starting point.

Aspects of the ‘Suffering Servant’ in the Commentaries on the Book of Isaiah by Jerome and Haimo of Auxerre Krystyna-Maria REDEKER, Georg-August-Universität Göttingen, Germany

ABSTRACT This article aims at investigating aspects of reception between Late Antiquity and the Carolingian Era. For this purpose, I am using the interpretations of the ‘songs of the suffering servant’ that are contained in the commentaries on the Book of Isaiah by Jerome († 419) and Haimo of Auxerre († prob. 865). Both commentaries have in common that they show – each of them – a powerful impact history in the Western tradition of bible interpretation. My article targets Christological aspects in the interpretation of the ‘servant’ from both epochs. A comparative analysis of four selected passages shows diverging Christological aspects, which the two scholars focus on, when they interpret these famous texts: Even though Haimo’s Annotatio libri Isaiae Prophetae uses Jerome’s commentary on Isaiah as its major source, when he interprets the prophetical announcements, the Carolingian scholar knows very well to select and highlight single aspects from the authoritative material. By adding Christological aspects that are of particular significance to him, Haimo offers an interpretation of the ‘servant’ that does not only emphasise his pure humbleness but also calls his full divinity to mind. This observation leads to the assumption that Haimo’s interpretation of the ‘servant’ might be influenced by the Christological debates around the turn of the 9th century as well as by the institutional background of a schoolmaster’s writing.

I. Introduction: Isaiah in the Western tradition of the Church – the commentaries by Jerome († 419) and Haimo of Auxerre († prob. 865) Beside Genesis and the Book of Psalms, the Book of the Prophet Isaiah is one of the most frequently cited references from the Old Testament in the history of Christian literature and theology.1 Already at the time of the formation of the New Testament, early Christian authors are convinced that the prophetical announcements refer to Christ and the forthcoming Church since Isaiah offers a number of links: his announced birth from a virgin (Isa. 7:14), his power and 1 See Peter Gemeinhardt, ‘Glauben und Verstehen: Jesaja 7,9b LXX in der patristischen Exegese und Theologie’, in Constanza Cordoni and Gerhard Langer (eds), “Let the Wise Listen and Add to Their Learning” (Prov 1:5). Festschrift for Günter Stemberger on the Occasion of his 75th Birthday, Studia Judaica 90 (Berlin, Boston, 2016), 457-80, 470.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 205-214. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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miracles (9:6), his suffering and death (50:4-9; 52:13-53:12) as well as his and the Church’s mission to the nations (42:1-4, 49:1-6).2 In particular, there is a broad agreement between early Christian scholars that the ‘songs of the suffering servant’ from the second half of the Book of Isaiah announce the election, assignment and passion of Christ, as evidenced by an abundance of quotations from and allusions to these poems.3 Alongside numerous references to these famous passages4 in the Western tradition of the Church, especially the interpretation by Jerome shows a powerful impact history since his writing is the only complete passage-by-passage commentary on Isaiah in Latin.5 Jerome divides his commentary into 18 books. At the beginning of each book, he starts with a short introduction that sums up the results of the preceding book as well as anticipates the content of the following part. Before providing his actual interpretation, he divides the prophetical text into small units of meaning. By doing so, he does not offer only the text form of the Vulgate6 but he also presents the Latin translation of the text form of the Septuagint.

2 See Robert Louis Wilken, Isaiah. Interpreted by Early Christian and Medieval Commentators, Translated and Edited with Angela Russell Christman and Michael J. Hollerich, The Church’s Bible (Grand Rapids MI, 2007), XX. 3 For instance, Isa. 53:7-8 is of crucial significance already for the conversion story in Acts 8:26-40; subsequently, there is a widespread dissemination of references to this chapter in early patristic literature. For the diversity of ancient authors and their purposes see Christoph Markschies, ‘Jesus Christ as a Man before God: Two Interpretive Models for Isaiah 53 in the Patristic Literature and Their Development’, in Bernd Janowski and Peter Stuhlmacher (eds), Der leidende Gottesknecht. Jesaja 53 und seine Wirkungsgeschichte, Forschungen zum Alten Testament 14 (Tübingen, 1996), 225-323. 4 For an overview of the references see Herbert Haag, ‘Der Gottesknecht bei Deuterojesaja im Verständnis der alten Kirche’, FZPhTh 31 (1984), 343-77; further see C. Markschies, ‘Jesus Christ as a Man before God’ (1996), 234-319, who identifies two ways in which the Church fathers understood the text: as an ‘exemplary’ model (231-81) and as a ‘Christological’ model (281-319). 5 Beside Jerome’s interpretation, a considerable number of commentaries in Greek is preserved, e.g. writings by Eusebius of Caesarea († ca. 340), John Chysostom († 407), Cyril of Alexandria († 444), Theodoret of Cyrus († 466) and (Ps.-)Basil of Caesarea from the 5th century, see P. Gemeinhardt, ‘Glauben und Verstehen’ (2016), 470. 6 Mainly, Jerome quotes the lemmata according to the Vulgate; rarely, he modifies or corrects the Vulgate by quoting the text form of the Vetus Latina by heart, see Roger Gryson, ‘Introduction’, in id. et al. (eds), Commentaires de Jérôme sur le Prophète Isaïe. Introducion, Livres I-IV, Vetus Latina: Aus der Geschichte der lateinischen Bibel 23 (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1993), 13-130, 62-8; Jean-Claude Haelewyck, ‘Le lemme vulgate du commentaire de Jérôme sur Isaïe’, in YvesMarie Duval (ed.), Jérôme entre l’Occident et l’Orient. XVIe centenaire du départ de saint Jérôme de Rome et de son installation à Bethléem. Actes du Colloque de Chantilly (septembre 1986) (Paris, 1988), 391-402; Gerd-Dietrich Warns, Die Textvorlage von Augustins Adnotationes in Iob. Studien zur Erstfassung von Hieronymus’ Hiob-Übersetzung iuxta Graecos, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 112 (Göttingen, 2017), 130.

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Whereas Jerome’s fame relies especially on his translation work,7 characteristics of his exegetical method or the significance of his theological interpretations have not been considered much so far. In general, his commentary on Isaiah, which is an extract of Eusebius’ interpretation, is rated as lacking theological originality and any interest in speculative questions.8 Nevertheless, due to a de facto lack of an alternative and his apparently broad discussion of the prophetical text, Jerome’s commentary got an almost ‘dogmatic’ significance in the history of Bible interpretation in the Western tradition of the Church.9 Therefore, using the example of his interpretation of the famous ‘songs of the suffering servant’, this article aims at investigating processes of reception between Jerome’s interpretation from Late Antiquity and the Carolingian Era. A similarly successful impact history in the Western tradition of bible interpretation does the commentary on the prophet Isaiah by Haimo of Auxerre (fl. 840-860) show. Haimo was a member of the Benedictine Abbey of SaintGermain d’Auxerre and schoolmaster of the so-called ‘School of Auxerre’ 10 around the middle of the 9th century, who is considered to be the author of commentaries on numerous biblical books.11 The significance of the Frankish schoolmaster’s work12 is based on the fact that his interpretation is the first complete commentary on the prophet Isaiah in the Middle Ages following Jerome’s writing; likewise, it is the first re-working of Jerome’s annotations.

7 For the close relationship between his translation work and his commentary as well as for his efforts to find the correct text form see Francesco Pieri, ‘Die Jesaja-Kommentierung und -Übersetzung des Hieronymus’, in Florian Wilk and Peter Gemeinhardt (eds), Transmission and Interpretation of the Book of Isaiah in the Context of Intra- and Interreligious Debates, Bibliotheca Ephemeridum theologicarum Lovaniensium 280 (Leuven, 2016), 113-29; Alfons Fürst, Hieronymus. Askese und Wissenschaft in der Spätantike (Freiburg im Breisgau, 2003), 116-21. 8 See H. Haag, ‘Der Gottesknecht’ (1984), 369-70. 9 See ibid. 370. 10 At the monastic school of Auxerre, one can observe a succession of scholars: founded by Murethach, an Irish grammar teacher, Haimo is considered to head the monastic school of Auxerre around the middle of the 9th century, followed by Remigius and Heiric of Auxerre. For the classification as ‘School of Auxerre’ see Édouard Jeauneau, ‘Les Écoles de Laon et d’Auxerre au IXe siècle’, in id. (ed.), Études Érigéniennes (Paris, 1987), 57-84, 71-84; Dominique Iogna-Prat, Colette Jeudy and Guy Lobrichon (eds), L’école carolingienne d’Auxerre. De Murethach à Remi 830-908 (Paris, 1991); Colette Jeudy, ‘Auxerre (Production littéraire de l’École d’)’, in Dictionnaire du Moyen Âge (Paris, 2002), 115-6, 115. 11 For an overview of his literary production see Dominique Iogna-Prat, ‘L’œuvre d’Haymon d’Auxerre: État de la question’, in id., Colette Jeudy and Guy Lobrichon (eds), L’école carolingienne d’Auxerre. De Murethach à Remi 830-908 (Paris, 1991), 157-79. 12 The recently published first critical edition of his commentary on Isaiah (ed. Roger Gryson) relies on more than 40 manuscripts which illustrates that Haimo’s interpretation showed a widespread acceptance and served as a popular pattern used for commentaries and sermons up to the High Middle Ages.

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Hence, Jerome’s interpretation is the main authoritative source that is used by the Carolingian scholar.13 One of the most notable characteristics of Haimo’s Annotatio libri Isaiae Prophetae is the fact that – unlike his contemporaries – his commentary is not a pure synthesis of patristic quotations but ‘written as an original composition with an independent viewpoint’.14 Contrary to Jerome, Haimo interprets the biblical text lemma by lemma. By doing so, he divides the text into small or even smallest units. In almost each single quarter-verse he selects certain topics as well as single words or even grammatical issues that are – according to the schoolmaster’s opinion – in need of further explanations. II. Analysis: the ‘servant’ between humbleness and exaltation For the purpose of investigating aspects of reception between Late Antiquity and the Carolingian Era, the following chapter analyses the interpretations of four selected verses from the ‘songs of the suffering servant’ that are contained in the commentaries by Jerome and Haimo of Auxerre.15 In doing so, the comparative analysis aims at exploring diverging Christological aspects, which the two scholars focus on, when they interpret these famous texts. a. The interpretation of Isa. 42:116 As a characteristic example, the opening line of the first song in Isa. 42 can be used: It illustrates processes of reception between Late Antiquity and the Carolingian Era that are distinctive of the Carolingian schoolmaster’s method. Jerome introduces his interpretation of Isa. 42:1-4 with an explanation why one has to apply the words in ch. 42 to Christ by using linguistic observations.17 Subsequently, he declares that the appellation ‘servant’ is not a surprising one (nec mirum).18 He exemplifies his assumption by referring to two characteristic 13 Besides, he relies on different patristic sources from Late Antiquity (for instance, on writings by Gregory the Great, Augustine or Isidor of Sevilla). 14 Charles P. Carlson Jr., Justification in Earlier Medieval Theology (The Hague, 1975), 35. 15 My analysis and the Latin quotations are based on: Roger Gryson et al. (eds), Commentaires de Jérôme sur le Prophète Isaïe, 5 vol., Vetus Latina: Aus der Geschichte der lateinischen Bibel 23, 27, 30, 35, 36 (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1993-99); id. (ed.), Haymonis Avtissiodorensis: Annotatio libri Isaiae Prophetae, CChr.CM 135C (Turnhout, 2014). Hereafter, the references will be used as follows: Jerome, Commentarii and Haimo, Annotatio. 16 ECCE SERVVS MEVS, SVSCIPIAM EVM (‘Behold, my servant, I will uphold him’). The quoted biblical texts show the text form of the Vulgate which can be found in Jerome’s work as well as in Haimo’s commentary; the English translation is my own. 17 Iacob et Israhel in praesenti capitulo non habentur, [… ubi autem de Christo est uaticinium, absque Iacob et Israhel legitur (Jerome, Commentarii XII 8, 16-25). 18 Nec mirum si seruus vocetur (Ibid. XII 8, 29-30).

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passages from the epistles of Paul: Christ can be addressed as a ‘servant’ because of Gal. 4:4, where is written that he was made of a woman subject to the law, as well as because of two characteristic verses from the Christ Hymn of Philippians, which can be regarded as the locus classicus that reflects his self-humiliation.19 More than 400 years later, around the middle of the 9th century, Haimo of Auxerre does not merely repeat the Church father’s explanations but rather offers his own interpretation of the same debateable aspect. After having described the new scenery which starts in ch. 42,20 Haimo, too, considers that the title ‘servant’ is in need of further explanation. He does not simply repeat Jerome’s deliberations, though. Instead, he starts with some fundamental and basic sentences that describe the uniqueness of the person of Christ and sums up some characteristics regarding his divine and his human nature. He does so in short, catchy sentences: The Lord Jesus is God and human being.21 Whereas regarding his divinity (in quantum ad diuinitatem pertinet), he participates in the co-eternity and the con-substantiality of the Father, the title ‘servant’ can be attributed to his humanity only (secundum uero humanitatem).22 Only after having declared these basic assumptions about the two natures of Christ, Haimo decides to follow Jerome by citing – as his source from Late Antiquity does – the Christ Hymn of Philippians. Comparably, during his further annotations, he does not simply follow Jerome’s explications step by step. Au contraire, Haimo neglects Jerome’s use of Gal. 4:4 and also shortens Phil. 2 by skipping the end of verse 7, which describes that Christ was ‘found in appearance as a man’.23 Instead, he adds a quotation – or rather, it is more some kind of allusion – from two verses from ch. 2 from the Epistle to the Hebrews.24 Afterwards, Haimo goes far beyond Jerome’s explanations, since he continues to explain the meaning of the verb suscipere that describes the Father’s acting. This is the second element Haimo choses from the first quarter-verse of Isa. 42:1 for further explanations. When God announces that he will sustain the ‘servant’ (SVSCIPIAM EVM), according to Haimo, this announcement has to be understood as the final exaltation of the ‘servant’.25 Obviously, Haimo does 19 Factus ex muliere, factus que sub lege [Gal. 4:4] qui cum in forma dei esset, humiliauit se formam serui accipiens, et habitu inuentus ut homo [Phil. 2:6.7] (Ibid. XII 8, 30-2). 20 Vox dei patris de filio (Haimo, Annotatio 42,1-2). 21 Dominus Iesus deus et homo est (Ibid. 42,2). 22 In quantum ad diuinitatem pertinet, deus est coaeternus et consubstantialis patri, secundum uero humanitatem seruus appellatur (Ibid. 42,2-4). 23 In comparison, Jerome cites the complete verse: qui cum in forma dei esset, humiliauit se formam serui accipiens et habitu inuentus ut homo (Jerome, Commentarii XII 8, 30-2). 24 Quia minoratus est paulo minus ab angelis (Haimo, Annotatio 42,6). 25 Deus omnipotens pater seruum suum, uidelicet dominum nostrum Iesum Christum, quadragesimo die resurrectionis suscepit eleuans eum super omnia sidera et super omnes caelos et collocans in dextra maiestatis suae (Ibid. 42,6-10).

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not want the pure humbleness of the ‘servant’ to have the final say, but rather he decides to end with his eventual exaltation. Consequently, he emphasises the eventual exaltation of the addressed ‘servant’. Even at a later point, Haimo comes back to this argument. When he interprets Isa. 52:1326, which addresses the ‘servant’, he repeats his explanatory notes from Isa. 40:1. Whereas Jerome only refers to the Christ Hymn of Philippians,27 Haimo, again, emphasises that the title ‘my servant’ can be understood only of the human nature of the person of Christ.28 b. The interpretation of Isa. 50:429 Whereas Isa. 42:1 addresses the ‘servant’, in ch. 50 the ‘sufferer’ himself is the speaker. Jerome starts his interpretation by offering some introductory remarks about the differences between Jewish and Christian understanding of his identity: Whereas the Jews wish to apply this passage to the prophet Isaiah himself, since he got a learned tongue to strengthen the weary people,30 Jerome votes for referring this chapter ‘to the Lord’s person’ (ad personam […] domini) because – in accordance with the dispensation of the assumed body – he was taught and he received a tongue of instruction.31 How does Haimo interpret this aspect? Initially, he simply recapitulates Jerome’s deliberations concerning the differing interpretations by Jews and Christians: Whereas the Jews reject the – according to the author’s opinion – appropriate understanding of the ‘servant’ by referring these words to the prophet,32 the Christian interpretation is the ‘better’ (melius) one, since Christ had ‘a learned tongue’ (linguam eruditam) to comfort the sad and to call the sinners to return.33 ECCE INTELLIGET SERVVS MEVS EXALTABITVR ET ELEVABITVR ET SVBLIMIS ERIT VALDE (‘Behold, my servant shall understand, he shall be exalted, and extolled, shall be exceeding high’). 27 Intelleget autem, non ut uerbum dei atque sapientia, sed ut seruus et puer. Qui cum in forma dei esset, formam serui est dignatus accipere, factus oboediens patri usque ad mortem, et mortem crucis (Jerome, Commentarii XIV 21, 18-21). 28 Filius dei secundum humanitatem seruus appellatur (Haimo, Annotatio 52,262-3). 29 DOMINVS DEDIT MIHI LINGVAM ERVDITAM (‘The Lord has given me a learned tongue’). 30 Iudaei hoc capitulum a superioribus separantes uolunt ad Esaiae referre personam, quod se dicat a domino accepisse sermonem, quomodo lassum errantemque populum sustentet et reuocet ad salutem (Jerome, Commentarii XIV 2, 19-22). 31 Ad personam igitur domini […] ista referenda sunt, quod iuxta dispensationem assumpti corporis eruditus sit et linguam acceperit disciplinam (Ibid. XIV 2, 40-2). 32 Hebraei nolunt hoc referre ad Christum, sed potius ad Isaiam, cui dominus linguam eruditam dedit, ut sustentaret populum iudaicum, et qui multa opprobria ab eis sustinuit […] (Haimo, Annotatio 50,65-8). 33 Sed melius es tut referamus illud ad dominum Iesum Christum, qui eruditam linguam habuit ad consolandm maerentes et reuocandum ad paenitentiam peccatores, et qui pro salute generis humani haec pati uoluit (Ibid. 50,69-72). 26

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However, apparently, the fact that the ‘servant’, who is speaking in ch. 50, is in need of getting a certain gift (namely, ‘a learned tongue’), leads Haimo to prevent a potential misunderstanding. He points out that this sentence can be only said by the voice of humanity (vox humanitatis est).34 Only regarding his human nature, Christ is in need of a learned tongue. Haimo continues to make his point: regarding his divinity (quantum enim ad divinitatem pertinet), the Son possesses everything forever together with the Father.35 Again, by reading the biblical text as well as the patristic source carefully, Haimo identifies one single aspect of this verse that could provoke an insufficient understanding of the person of Christ, according to which he is in need of getting a gift, i.e. a learned tongue. Therefore, Haimo does not separate but he distinguishes between the two natures and their characteristics very thoughtfully in order to emphasise that – regarding his divinity – the ‘servant’ is not at all in need to say that something must be given to him. c. The interpretation of Isa. 53:1136 A quite similar approach can be found in ch. 53. Verse 11b announces that ‘my just servant will justify many (people)’. Needless to say, Jerome refers this announcement to the person of Christ. He explains his understanding of the prophecy by referring to two characters from Passion narrative according to Matt. 27: Judas (the betrayer) as well as the wife of Pilate calls him a ‘just blood’ (sanguinem iustum) and a ‘just man’ (iusto illo).37 At the beginning of his own interpretation, Haimo explains that the Son of God is just.38 Then, first, he strictly follows the patristic source by quoting the above-mentioned two episodes from Matthew.39 Afterwards, again, he starts a digression that is dealing with the origin of ‘this justice’ (hanc iustitiam): the ‘servant’ did not receive justice according to his divinity (secundum diuinitatem) because he participates in the co-eternity of the Father and in the same (unius) divinity and power.40 However, regarding his humanity (secundum humanitatem), he accepted the human fragility.41 34

Quod dicit ‘dominus dedit mihi linguam eruditam’ uox humanitatis est, secundum quod et post passionem et ressurrexionem dixit: Data est mihi omnis potestas [Matt. 28:18] (Ibid. 50,79-80). 35 Quantum enim ad divinitatem pertinent, omnia possidet aeternaliter cum patre (Ibid. 50,81-3). 36

IN SCIENTIA IVSTIFICABIT IPSE IVSTVS SERVVS MEVS MVLTOS ET INIQUITATES EORVM IPSE PORTABIT

(‘by his knowledge shall this my just servant justify many, and he shall bear their iniquities’). 37 De quo e Iudas proditur confitetur: Peccaui tradens sanguinem iustum, et uxor Pilati: Nihil tibi sit et iusto illi; multa enimpassa sum hodie in somnis propter eum (Jerome, Annotatio XIV 25, 59-62). 38 Iustus est filius deus (Haimo, Annotatio 53,227). 39 Vnde et Iudas traditor: Peccaui, inquit, tradens sanguinem iustum, et uxor Pilati: Nihil tibi et iusto illi (Ibid. 53,228-30). 40 Hanc iustitiam non accepit ipse ex tempore secundum diuinitatem, quia coeternus est patri et unius divinitatis ac potentiae (Ibid. 53,230-2). 41 Sed secundum humanitatem assumendo carnem nostrae fragilitatis (Ibid. 53,232-3).

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As in the preceding examples, Haimo borrows essential interpretational aspects from his patristic source. Again, these aspects lead him to add some remarks concerning the appropriate understanding of the person of Christ. Consequently, he distinguishes carefully between the two natures when he explains the meaning of the prophetical announcement. d. The interpretation of Isa. 49:242 and Isa. 49:543 Although Haimo’s interpretation of Isa. 49:2 and Isa. 49:5 slightly differs from the preceding examples, these two passages might confirm my previous observations. In ch. 49, the ‘servant’ addresses a speech to the ‘isles and nations’ and recapitulates his task. When he describes his relationship to the Lord (Isa. 49:1), he explains that he is ‘hidden in his quiver’. Whereas this image does not seem to be of much interest to Jerome,44 Haimo makes clear that this statement can be said only by the voice of divinity (ex persona diuinitatis modo loquitur).45 Comparably, when the ‘servant’ confesses that ‘my God is made my strength’ (Isa. 49:5), Haimo emphasises that this announcement refers only to the human nature (ex affectu humanitatis loquens).46 Whereas Jerome does not feel obliged to explain these two verses, Haimo decides to add explanatory notes that make clear that certain (quarter-)verses of the prophetical announcement refer only to the divine and to the human nature of the person of Christ, respectively. By doing so, he uses a comparable linguistic wording like in the preceding examples, even if he forbears from developing and comparing the perspectives of both natures of the person of Christ. III. Conclusion As a conclusion, first, I will sum up my observations, and secondly, I will offer some further thoughts how to explain these results. Unsurprisingly, Haimo frequently (and mostly chronologically) refers to Jerome as his primary and authoritative patristic source. Obviously, the Carolingian 42

IN VMBRA MANVS SVAE PROTEXIT ME POSUIT ME SICVT SAGITTAM ELECTAM IN PHARETA SVA ABSCON-

DIT ME

(‘in the shadow of his hand he has protected me, and has made me as a chosen arrow: in his quiver he has hidden me’). 43 DEVS MEVS FASTVS EST FORTITVDO MEA (‘my God is made my strength’). 44 Jerome explains only the meaning of phareta: Quando dicit SAGITTAM ELECTAM, ostendit habere deum sagittas plurimas, sed non electas: quae sagittae propehtae sunt et apostolic, qui in toto orbe discurrunt […] Christus autem de multis sagittis et filiis plurimis una sagitta electa et filius unigenitus est, quam in phareta abscondit, id est in humane corpore, ut habiteret in eo plentitudo diuinitatis corporaliter […] (Jerome, Commentarii XIII 19, 52-4.57-60). 45 Haimo, Annotatio 49,36. 46 […] ex affectu humanitatis loquens, tamen non dereliquit illum (Ibid. 49,77-8).

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scholar assesses selected material from the late antique source as important contents of Christian knowledge and tradition. However, neither he simply copies the patristic source word by word, nor he only shortens Jerome’s commentary. Instead, Haimo knows very well to select single interpretational aspects from his source and to work with the selected material. However, he uses these aspects by embedding them into his own argument. By adding Christological aspects that are of particular significance to him, he offers an interpretation of the ‘servant’ that does not only focus on his obvious humbleness but also calls his full divinity to mind. When Haimo notices that the prophetical text as well as the authoritative patristic source describe the person of Christ in a way that only takes his humbleness into account, he decides to make a clear distinction between the two natures of the person of Christ. If the biblical text addresses the ‘servant’ (Isa. 42:1; 52:13) that is in need of receiving a ‘learned tongue’ (50:4) and ‘justice’ (53:11) or if the patristic source offers the ‘locus classicus in the discussion of the Incarnation’47 (Phil. 2:6-7), Haimo makes clear that these aspects can be referred exclusively to the human nature. Further, he exceeds his source from Late Antiquity by adding explanations that simultaneously describe the divine nature of the person of Christ. Two conditions might explain these observations: Whereas the first one refers to the historical situation in the 9th century, the second one takes into account the institutional background of the origin of Haimo’s writing. First: Regarding the historical situation, it is obvious that Haimo’s theology is based on the Christological decisions48 that were discussed mainly during the 5th century, just after Jerome’s death. Further, one can assume that his approach is possibly influenced by the recent conflict at the turn of the 9th century, when two bishops from the Iberian Peninsula, Elipandus of Toledo and Felix of Urgel, provoked a controversy that has come to be known as the ‘Adoptionist Controversy’ by insisting on the adoptive status of the human nature of Christ.49 According to Elipandus of Toledo, the second person of Trinity has to be distinguished strictly from the assumed human body. Consequently and due to soteriological implications, his humbleness and his affinity to human kind was 47 Ian Christopher Levy, ‘Trinity and Christology in Haimo of Auxerre’s Pauline Commentary’, in Ineke van ’t Spijker (ed.), The Multiple Meaning of Scripture. The Role of Exegesis in Early Christian and Medieval Culture, Commentaria. Sacred texts and their Commentaries: Jewish, Christian and Islamic 2 (Leiden, Boston, 2009), 101-23, 117. 48 Whereas the Carolingian Christology is shaped by the conception of enhypostasis, in Spain the (new) Chalcedonian creed has never been adopted, see Peter Gemeinhardt, Die FilioqueKontroverse zwischen Ost- und Westkirche im Frühmittelalter, Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 82 (Berlin, 2002), 91. 49 See I.C. Levy, ‘Trinity and Christology’ (2009), 109. For the origin and characteristics of the Spain Adoptionism see John Christopher Cavadini, The Last Christology of the West. Adoptianism in Spain and Gaul, 785-820 (Philadelphia, 1933).

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emphasised.50 Therefore, the Carolingian scholars feared that there was an affinity between Adoptionism and the Arian heresy that ‘ultimately compromised the full divinity of the Son’.51 Nevertheless, despite the differing historical situation, Haimo assesses key aspects of Jerome’s commentary as true, reliable and useful contents of Christian knowledge and tradition that are still relevant in the 9th century. However, when he anticipates that the prophetical announcement as well as the patristic way of interpreting the ‘servant’ only focuses his obvious humbleness and, therefore, possibly could be used to neglect the full divinity of the Son, he decides to add Christological key aspects to emphasise his real divinity as well. As to my second observation: Even if we do not know much about the actual teaching and learning methods or circumstances in the monastic school of Auxerre, one can assume that a schoolmaster’s commentary was written in an educational context and composed for a pedagogical purpose. Keeping an educational setting in mind, one can assume that Haimo distinguishes between the two natures due to didactical reasons, namely, to offer basic knowledge of key aspects of Christian theology. By discussing the biblical text as well as referring to the patristic heritage, Haimo is dealing with the scholarly question what can be said of the person of Christ regarding the divinity and the humanity, respectively. Further, by selecting, presenting and discussing single words or aspects of one biblical (quarter-)verse, he offers his recipients the opportunity to have a closer look at the meaning of the actual vocabulary of the biblical text in order to acquire a deeper and broader understanding of the ‘servant’. As the discussed examples have illustrated, Haimo’s commentary on the prophet Isaiah offers a far more methodological and theological independency than the usual view on the Carolingian scholars might suggest.52 In fact, the analysis of selected passages from Haimo’s interpretation of the ‘songs of the suffering servant’ has not only revealed examples of reception between Late Antiquity and the Carolingian Era but also showed an unexpected amount of independent judgement and theological originality regarding his methodological and Christological approach.

50

See P. Gemeinhardt, Die Filioque-Kontroverse (2002), 92. Ian Christopher Levy (tr. and ed.), The Bible in Medieval Tradition: The Letter to the Galatians (Grand Rapids, MI, 2011), 41. 52 For instance, Beryl Smalley states that ‘to study the commentaries of Alcuin, Claudius of Turin, Raban Maur and Walafrid Strabo his pupil […] is simply to study their sources’ (Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages [Oxford, 21952], 37-8). 51

Urbs potens, urbs orbis domina, urbs Apostoli voce laudata. Jerome’s Adversus Iovinianum as an Exercise in Christian Romanness* Ingo SCHAAF, University of Konstanz, Konstanz, Germany

ABSTRACT Jerome’s treatise against Jovinian, dating to the year 393, is widely (in)famous for both its ascetic vigor and violent rhetoric with which it further fueled the Jovinianist controversy. However, some crucial aspects of this influential work, even if touched upon in scholarly literature so far, yet remain relatively unexplored. A store of literary references drawn largely from non-Christian sources, the Adversus Iovinianum is addressed to a readership which shares the author’s educational background. This presupposed acquaintance with Classical literature results in what might, rather paradoxically, be called Jerome’s most Roman work, since he had been living in far off Bethlehem for years already at the time of its composition. Such a high degree of ‘Romanness’, deriving from authority-based modes of identification, in Jerome’s case coalesces with the eruditeness of the Biblical scholar battling what he conceived of as heretical turmoil on the rise during his absence from Rome. In marshaling arguments from heterogenous fields as these, i.e. pagan literary exempla and Scripture alike, the Stridonian with his Adversus Iovinianum delivers a prime contribution to the concept of ‘Christian Romanness’ in Late Antiquity.

Introduction As befits a city called Eternal, Rome continues to celebrate its birthday even today. Every April 21 there are festivities that mark the occasion featuring fully-equipped legionaries parading through the streets, (if bloodless) gladiatorial munera, and the coronation of the Dea Roma on the Capitoline Hill. In somewhat of a novelty, the latter-mentioned ceremony has been held in the guise of a women’s competition in the 2019 re-enactments, adding to the oddity of the spectacle, for sure, but at the same time rendering it less ‘pagan’ somehow in that honors did not go to the goddesses’s representation as usual but to mortal * The present article originated in thematic conjunction with an international conference on ‘Jerome and Rome’, organized by the author in 2019 together with Emanuela Prinzivalli, Barbara Feichtinger and Giuseppe Caruso (proceedings currently under preparation). The style of the oral presentation has been maintained, after Wendy Watkins had generously checked its linguistic form.

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beauties instead. One is tempted to ask if this has anything to do with a small but significant detail: in 2019, the ‘Natale di Roma’ fell on no other day than Easter Sunday, the liturgical highest of Christian feasts. As harmless as this schedule conflict may seem to us, there can be no doubt that in Late Antiquity things were different and adherence to traditional polytheism still a reality, even if, as Alan Cameron has put it, ‘[t]he most that pagans could hope for by the second half of the fourth century was toleration’.1 The aforementioned figure of Dea Roma, deemed by that same scholar ‘a personification easily and soon Christianized’,2 certainly had much potential for such a common ground approach. In order to be acceptable for Christians, though, it had to be stripped of its polytheistic character, which in the Urbs, one should not forget, was prominently manifest at the Hadrianic foundation of Templum Urbis Romae on the Velian hill.3 Eventually, however, polytheistic landmarks in the urban religious topography were outlived by the overarching idea of personified Rome and a set of long-standing values attached to it:4 unity and peace, law and security, in a word the salus rei publicae would be hailed by all good citizens, which Christians claimed to be, with authors such as Prudentius (who happens to be the last ancient voice to mention the urbis Venerisque templa5) promoting a way of being decidedly 1

Alan Cameron, The Last Pagans of Rome (Oxford, 2011), 694. Ibid. 695, speaking of her representation on Late Antique contorniates in a chapter which has been reviewed by Alessandra Bravi, ‘The Last Pagans of Rome and the “Viewers” of Roman Art’, in Rita Lizzi Testa (ed.), The strange Death of Pagan Rome. Reflections on a Historiographical Controversy (Turnhout, 2013), 171-88. 3 See Lawrence Richardson Jr., A new Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome (Baltimore, 1992), 409-10. In fact a double temple dedicated to the deified city and Venus, this mighty ensemble was still marveled at by Constantius in 357 according to the famous account in Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae 16, 10, 14. There is a useful treatment of the cultic landscape within the adjacent regio which serves, in part, as an example, in Kristine Iara, ‘Seeing the Gods in Late Antique Rome’, in Marlis Arnhold, Harry O. Maier and Jörg Rüpke (eds), Seeing the God: Image, Space, Performance, and Vision in the Religion of the Roman Empire, Culture, Religion, and Politics in the Greco-Roman World 2 (Tübingen, 2018), since her ‘focus is on statuary representations of the gods’ (60, n. 6). However, for the numismatic evidence from the time of Maxentius see Annette Haug, ‘Das spätantike Rombild zwischen Visualisierung und Imagination’, in ead., Hans Ulrich Cain, Yadegar Asisi (eds), Das antike Rom und sein Bild, Transformationen der Antike 21 (Berlin, Boston, 2011), 80-1 (with fig. 5). Notably, it was that same ruler, who not only had the above named temple been lavishly refurbished, but who also issued locally struck aurei featuring the figurative representation of Rome, for which see Franz Alto Bauer, ‘Stadt ohne Kaiser. Rom im Zeitalter der Dyarchie und Tetrarchie (285-306 n. Chr.)’, in Therese Fuhrer (ed.), Rom und Mailand in der Spätantike. Repräsentationen städtischer Räume in Literatur, Architektur und Kunst, Topoi. Berlin Studies of the Ancient World 4 (Berlin, Boston, 2012), 6 and 9 (fig. 6). 4 After all, even if the detailed origins of this Greek-derived city-cult remain unknown, ‘some abstract conception of “Rome”’ must have lied at its roots already, for which see Mary Beard, John North and Simon Price (eds), Religions of Rome. Vol. 1: A History (Cambridge, 1998), 15860 (with further references). 5 Cf. Prudentius, Contra Symmachum 1, 221 (CChr.SL 126, 193), a reference to be dated between 402 and 404 AD. 2

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Roman in an Empire turned Christian. Of course, there were discordant voices who did not join the chorus (e.g. Augustine’s but not confined to his) or if so, only inasmuch theological presuppositions and/or shifting rhetorical needs would allow for it. Jerome, especially, bears full witness to this in a somewhat ideosyncratic way and it is in his Adversus Iovinianum, as I shall argue, that a particular high degree of ‘Christian Romanness’ is achieved deliberately, an observation which will lead, secondly, to an attempt to sketch Jerome’s underlying motivation.6 ‘Romanness’ – Romanitas According to the Oxford English Dictionnary, ‘Romanness’ designates ‘[t]he quality of being Roman (in various senses)’.7 The word’s polysemy is directly linked to the fact that its Latin pedigree Romanitas, as a term and as a concept, depends on authority-based modes of identification which, however static they may seem, are open to cultural changes and ideological craftmenship over time.8 In 393, when Jerome wrote the Adversus Iovinianum, his somewhat forced retreat from Rome after Damasus’s death lay eight years behind him.9 Notwithstanding, the now Bethlehem-based Stridonian all too readily took up arms and struck from afar against that monk who – horresco referens – had dared to deny ascetical Christians any additional award in Heaven. Even if nothing is known for sure of the sancti ex urbe Roma fratres from whom Jerome claims to have received a copy of Jovinian’s commentarioli in order to refute them,10 there can be no doubt that his subsequent action was due not only to personal zeal and ambition but also to strongly felt ties towards Rome: after all, it was here that he had spent important years of formation, his intellectual one, as a student of the celebrated grammarian Donatus,11 and moreover his spiritual one, since in Rome he had once put on the vestimenta Christi.12 To be sure, Jerome’s adherence to the Church of Rome through baptism, which he had 6 A fuller treatment of this topic has to be reserved for a more detailed study, which shall be offered elsewhere. 7 Last time retrieved under www.oed.com on July 29, 2019. 8 See the remarks in Walter Pohl, ‘Introduction: Early Medieval Romanness – a multiple Identity’, in id., Clemens Gantner, Cinzia Grifoni and Marianne Pollheimer-Mohaupt (eds), Transformations of Romanness. Early Medieval Regions and Identities, Millennium Studies 71 (Berlin, Boston, 2018), 3-39. 9 A readable account of Jerome’s second stay at Rome has recently been offered by Heinrich Schlange-Schöning, Hieronymus. Eine historische Biografie (Darmstadt, 2018), 130-65. 10 Cf. Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 1 (PL 23, 221). 11 See Hieronymus, Chronicon s.a. 354 (GCS 47, 239), Commentarius in Ecclesiasten 1, 9-10 (CChr.SL 72, 257) and Contra Rufinum I 16 (CChr.SL 79, 15). 12 Cf. Hieronymus, Epistula 15, 1 (CSEL 54, 63); more mundane memories include boyish visits to Roman catacombs, apparently ‘for creeps sake’ (see Commentarius in Hiezechielem 40,

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thus been eager to reinforce towards Damasus, did not prevent him elsewhere to speak of her as meretrix and mater in the same breath, who had shared her bed with a whole series of heretic adulterers.13 Now, in the early 390s, when yet another, i.e. Jovinian, had been trying to do his worst, Jerome stuck to similarly hefty imagery in order to influence his Roman readership and wreak havoc on his new theological opponent no matter if already condemned. Even if no longer an ‘inhabitant of Babylon’,14 but of the Holy Land instead, Jerome did so by resorting to one of his principal strengths, his invective skills, which ‘can be traced most directly to the satires of Ancient Rome’.15 In application of Quintilian’s famous dictum thus entirely Roman in a way,16 no wonder Jerome’s rebuttal opens up with a vicious style-critique, since such oratorical attacks belonged to the common arsenal of Latin invective literature.17 In fact, already Hagendahl in his treatment of the Adversus Iovinianum’s opening, packed with citations from classical authors as it is, has made the point that ‘[n]othing in this paragraph reveals that it was written by a Christian or against a Christian’.18 That the whole work’s framework was, of course, no other than Christian is out of question (as is visible from the copious biblical references, to begin with). However, there is more evidence which supports focussing on the aspect of ‘Romanness’ in Jerome’s Adversus Iovinianum and that indeed it might be called an ‘exercise’, as proposed in the title of this paper. The latter seems to be suggested by the very opening statement, according to which only ‘very few days’ had elapsed since the arrival of Jovinian’s writings.19 If this claim can be trusted and on grounds of the established chronology of events, this would mean that the composition process was a swift one. This view seems to be corroborated by a certain unevenness of structure, as well, given the fact that the first of Jerome’s two books covers just one of the four ‘propositions’ Jovinian had formulated, whereas the other three are dealt with in the second notably shorter one. Lastly, the actual reception of the treatise apparently was 5-13 [CChr.SL 75, 556-7]), and, less boyish, alluring female dancers (see Epistula 22, 7 [CSEL 54, 152-3]). 13 Cf. Hieronymus, Altercatio Luciferiani et Orthodoxi 26 (SC 473, 194): Meretrix sum, sed tamen mater tua sum. Non servo unius tori castitatem? Talis eram quando conceptus es. Cum Ario adulterium committo? Feci et antea cum Praxea, cum Ebione, cum Novato! 14 Hieronymus, Prologus in libro Didymi De Spiritu Sancto (SC 386, 136): Dum in Babylone versarer et purpuratae Meretricis essem colonus. 15 Kirk Freudenburg, ‘Introduction: Roman Satire’, in id. (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Roman Satire (Cambridge, 2005), 21. 16 Cf. Quintilian, De institutione oratoria 10, 1, 93: satura quidem tota nostra est. 17 See Ingo Schaaf, ‘Polemik, Unfreundlichkeit und Invektivität in den Briefen des Hieronymus am Beispiel der jovinianischen Kontroverse’, ZAC 22 (2018), 125-50, 127-8 and 147-8 (with further literature). 18 Harald Hagendahl, Latin Fathers and the Classics. A Study on the Apologists, Jerome and other Christian Writers, Studia Graeca et Latina Gothoburgensia 6 (Göteborg, 1958), 144. 19 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 1 (PL 23, 221): Pauci admodum dies sunt.

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not the one Jerome must have anticipated, so that the Adversus Iovinianum’s setup, with all its shrill denigration of marriage, might be seen as a major strategic blunder. However, exercise does not necessarily denote lack of deliberation or literary sketchiness, but rather on the contrary a demonstration of certain abilites. In fact, John Kelly has coined Jerome’s treatise an ‘imposing parade of learning’20 and rightly so. Especially the final chapters of book one feature an unparalleled mass of non-Christian literary references, only very few of which can, of course, be subsequently addressed in the given context, before drawing some preliminary conclusions on to how to understand Jerome’s guiding principles. Erudition and ascetism Obviously without being able to reiterate the detailed results of earlier Quellenforschung here, one should note that the reason for Jerome’s appeal to pagan exempla in book 1 is triggered explicitly by the will to ‘show that virginity ever took the lead of chastity’.21 However, to what extent Jovinian, for his part, had made use of classical literature before in order to bolster his position, as the Stridonian suggested in his refutation,22 is a question hard to answer. Nevertheless, it becomes clear at this point that when Jerome subsequently deploys mythical virgins, Vestals, Sibyls, even pagan gods and godesses in order to make his case, the reason for this amassment is an apologetical one. This is also why Jerome is able to fall back to arguments which one would hardly expect in a patristic treatise from the late 4th century but rather say in Justin or Tertullian, namely when the Stridonian even tries to underpin the possibility of virgin-birth via pagan analogy:23 And so that Roman might would not taunt us because of our Lord and Saviour having been born from a virgin, they believe that the founders of the city and its people were the offspring of the virgin Ilia and of Mars.

What thus is at stake here is the question of how to use the cultural heritage of classical, i.e. pre-Christian Rome, Romulus and Remus in the above passage, for one’s own pressing needs, although not any longer in face of pagan persecution but in defense of concurrent theological positions whose major battleground in the Jovinian controversy the Urbs had become. This observation is of course 20

John Kelly, Jerome: His Life, Writings, and Controversies (New York, 1975), 184. Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 41 (ed. Bickel, 382.6): docebo virginitatem semper tenuisse pudicitiae principatum. 22 See Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 4 (PL 23, 225). 23 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 42 (ed. Bickel, 385.3-5): ac ne nobis dominum salvatorem de virgine procreatum Romana exprobraret potentia, auctores urbis et gentis suae Ilia virgine et Marte genitos arbitrantur. 21

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not contradicted by the fact that several of Jerome’s references are made to barbarae historiae, as announced by himself earlier in his work.24 Thus not only Indian gymnosophists and even Budda himself get mobilized in favour of chastity;25 when it comes to examples of women who prefered death over a second marriage, for instance, Dido and Hasdrubal’s wife are adduced, clearly being representatives of Rome’s once arch-enemy Carthage.26 However, even these chief witnesses – far outnumbered by references to thoroughly Roman virgins such as Lucretia, Bilia, Marcia, Porcia etc. – stem from no other than classical literary tradition, of course. In fact, Jerome occasionally names his sources himself, Latin but also Greek: works on matrimony from the pen of Aristotle, Plutarch, Theophrastus, and Seneca, however profound the acquaintance with these may be in each individual case.27 Moreover, it is hard to tell, which of both his libraries he is citing from, the physical book collection which he had with him in Bethlehem or the mental one acquired throughout his life.28 However, the extensive consultation of classical sources in the Adversus Iovinianum, which in its density even exceeds Jerome’s standards, results in what might, rather paradoxically, be called his most Roman work, since the Stridonian, as we have seen, had been living in far off Bethlehem for years already at the time of its composition.29 The reason for this is quite evident from a presupposed readership perspective: When Jerome addresses the learned reader (lector eruditus) in order to wittily warn him of those women, who ‘before the first husband is buried, repeat from morning to night the precepts which allow a second marriage’,30 he can expect an acquaintance with Classical literature. 24

Cf. Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 41 (ed. Bickel, 382.5). Cf. Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 42 (ed. Bickel, 384.23-5); for a previous treatment of this figure in patristic literature see Dimitrios Papanikolaou, ‘Clement of Alexandria and Buddhism’, SP 110 (2021), 197-208. 26 See Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 43 (ed. Bickel, 385.10-8). 27 For the latter see now Liz Gloyn, The Ethics of the Family in Seneca (Cambridge, 2017), 207-23 (with a new presentation of the fragments and a discussion of previous scholarly literature); Theophrastus (in an unknown translation) is cited at length in Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 47 (ed. Bickel, 388.11-390.14), for which see William Fortenbaugh, Theophrastus of Eresus. Commentary Volume 6.1: Sources on Ethics, Philosophia antiqua 123 (Leiden, 2011), 78-82 and 410-5 (with further bibliographic references), whereas the other named authors occur in 1, 49 (ed. Bickel, 392.24-5); one has to ask though, how much of these references derives from handbooks, although some scholars have thought otherwise, even for the Greek material (see e.g. Pierre Courcelle, Late Latin Writers and their Greek Sources [Cambridge, MA, 1969], 48-89). 28 For such a distinction see now Giulia Marolla, ‘Jerome’s Two Libraries’, in Roberta Berardi, Nicoletta Bruno and Luisa Fizzarotti (eds), On the Track of the Books. Scribes, Libraries and Textual Transmission, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 375 (Berlin, Boston, 2019), 91-103. 29 Aptly formulated by Mark Vessey, ‘Jerome and the Jeromanesque’, in Josef Lössl and Andrew Cain (eds), Jerome of Stridon: His Life, Writings, and Legacy (Farnham, Burlington, VT, 2009), 225-35, 232: ‘Nothing cemented Jerome’s association with Rome like his leaving it’. 30 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 47 (ed. Bickel, 388.7-9): mulieres nostri temporis […] necdum elato funere prioris viri memoriter digamiae praecepta decantent; see his Epistula 123, 9 (CSEL 56, 82-3) for similar sarcasm. 25

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Otherwise, the remarkable pun he makes right afterwards would lose its force by saying ‘let them (i.e. women far too ready to get remarried) at least learn (discant) chastity from the heathen!’31 Yet probably the most relevant passage for our topic is to be found rather fittingly at the very end of the entire work (and this is from where it found its way into the title of my paper). It can thus surely be seen as a culminating emphasis on Jerome’s key concern to transmit his ascetic-centered message effectively to a wavering (as he had to fear) Roman audience of literary educated Christians:32 But I shall address you, who you have blotted out the blasphemy written on your forehead (scriptam in fronte) by the confession of Christ. Mighty city, mistress-city of the world, city of the Apostle’s praises, shew the meaning of your name. ‘Rome’ is either ‘strength’ in Greek, or ‘height’ in Hebrew. Keep up the excellence your name implies: may virtue (virtus) lift you up on high, not voluptuousness (voluptas) bring you low. The curse with which the Saviour threatened you in the Apocalypse you can escape by repentance, having as an example the inhabitants of Nineveh. Beware Jovinian’s name, which is derived from an idol. The Capitol is in ruins: the temples of Jove with their ceremonies have perished. Why should his name and vices (vitia) flourish now in the midst of you? Even under the kings and under Numa Pompilius, your ancestors (maiores) gave a heartier welcome to Pythagoras’s self-restraint (continentia) than they did under the consuls to the debauchery (luxuria) of Epicurus.

Addressing the personified city of Rome, a converted Dea Roma if you will, rebranded like statues of the age via cross-markings on their foreheads,33 Jerome here resorts to a most potent rhetoric device: although not a handbookversion of prosopopoiia in that we hear Jerome talk, and Rome listen (unlike e.g. in Symmachus or Ambrose),34 nevertheless, the effect is equally forceful and the dialogue structure even more subtle, since it is the task of the-flesh-and-bones addressees of the Adversus Iovinianum, the Christian representatives of Urban 31 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 1, 47 (ed. Bickel, 388.10-1): discant saltem ab ethnicis castitatem. 32 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum 2, 38 (PL 23, 352): Sed ad te loquar, quae scriptam in fronte blasphemiam Christi confessione delesti. Urbs potens, urbs orbis domina, urbs Apostoli voce laudata (Rom. 1), interpretare vocabulum tuum. Roma aut fortitudinis nomen est apud Graecos, aut sublimitatis iuxta Hebraeos. Serva quod diceris, virtus te excelsam faciat, non voluptas humilem. Maledictionem, quam tibi Salvator in Apocalypsi (Rev. 17-8) comminatus est, potes effugere per poenitentiam, habens exemplum Ninivitarum. Cave Ioviniani nomen, quod de (Iove) idolo derivatum est. Squalet Capitolium, templa Iovis et caeremoniae conciderunt. Cur vocabulum eius et vitia apud te vigeant? Adhuc sub regibus et sub Numa Pompilio facilius maiores tui Pythagorae continentiam, quam sub consulibus Epicuri luxuriam susceperunt. 33 For a similar treatment of polytheistic statues (albeit elsewhere and limited in dimension) see Nadin Burkhardt, ‘The Reuse of Ancient Sculpture in the Urban Spaces of Late Antique Athens’, in Troels Myrup Kristensen and Lea Stirling (eds), The Afterlife of Greek and Roman Sculpture. Late Antique Responses and Practices (Ann Arbor, 2016), 118-49, 145-6 (with further literature). 34 For which see Michael Roberts, ‘Rome personified, Rome epitomized: Representations of Rome in the Poetry of the Early Fifth Century’, AJPh 122 (2001), 533-65.

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nobilitas and potential ascetic partisans,35 to actively take up the call and stand ground on behalf of their city and its adhearence to orthodox (i.e. pro-ascetic) piety. Traditional keywords employed by Jerome, as highlighted before, are in line with such a strong moral appeal, whereby the Stridonian can exploit effectfully his exegetical competence by name-gaming on the city’s etymology, fashioning ‘himself’, as Andrew Cain has put it, ‘as a new Jonah preaching repentance to the latter Niniveh […] before it is too late’.36 Moreover, Jerome in his showpiece crescendo, explicitly takes up a Pauline approach of laus urbis however not without upgrading Romans 1:8 to a full climax of increasing members. Thus to be called an emblematic blend of two different strains of ‘Romanness’, imperial and evangelical at the same time, the Adversus Iovinianum’s closing appeal prompts yet one further observation (which as far as I can see it, has hitherto not been made explicitly): Paul and Jerome equally write from afar with the Roman community in mind, and even if the latter did not reach out for the first time but again, his role model, as well, was by no means lacking a local network before his arrival at the Tiber.37 This shared constellation gave Jerome the opportunity to convey, at least implicitly, the Apostle’s further words, as well: ‘For I long to see you, that I may impart unto you some spiritual gift, to the end ye may be established’ (Romans 1:11). To sum up: According to the interpretation offered here, one comes to the conclusion that even if the vigor with which Jerome aimed at crushing Jovinian influence in Rome was ‘Apostolic’, the formal means to do so were not. Rather, along the lines of conventional dichotymies (however pushed to the limit) of linguistic mastery and amateurship, of moral vice and virtue, desire and selfcontrol, tradition and subversive novelty, Jerome in his Adversus Iovinianum shows considerable effort in profiling his Christian authority as exercisable through an undisputedly orthodox yet thoroughly Roman literary identity. Secular erudition, in its combined application with exegetical championship was almost equally important, if required by the rhetorical circumstances, in order to boost ascetic claims and, at the same time, allowed for decidedly raising the bar of ‘Christian Romanness’.

35

See Michele Renee Salzman, The Making of a Christian Aristocracy. Social and Religious Change in the Western Roman Empire (Cambridge, MA, London, 2002) and Jessica van ’t Westeinde, ‘Jerome and the Christianus perfectus: a transformed Roman noble man?’, SP 97 (2017), 17-36 (with further literature). 36 Andrew Cain, Jerome and the Monastic Clergy: A Commentary on Letter 52 to Nepotian with an Introduction, Text, and Translation, SVigChr 119 (Leiden, Boston, 2013), 16. 37 As highlighted by Horacio Lona, Kleine Hinführung zu Paulus (Freiburg im Breisgau, 22016), 81.

Prepositional Metaphysics and Vergil in Jerome’s Exegesis of Ephesians 4:6 Thomas DILBECK, Florida College, Tampa, FL, USA

ABSTRACT In Jerome’s Commentary on Ephesians, the exegete uses the prepositions found in Ephesians 4:5-6 to combat ‘heretical’ teachings concerning the trinity. More specifically, Jerome applies each preposition in the aforementioned text to a member of the godhead to argue against Arian notions. While Jerome’s indebtedness to Origen is undisputed, on this occasion the former departs from the latter. Furthermore, he uses two texts from Vergil to bolster his argument. In this article, I will argue that Jerome’s exegesis of Ephesians and use of Vergil coincide with what has been termed ‘prepositional metaphysics’. This use of prepositions originates with Aristotle but was practiced by several different groups and authors including Jerome.

In his exegesis on Ephesians 4:5-6, Jerome states the following: Moreover, the difference of the prepositions, in which it is said, ‘One God and Father of all who is above all and through all and in all’, suggests a different understanding. For ‘God the Father’ is ‘above all’ because he is the author of all things. The Son is ‘through all’ because he traverses all things and goes ‘through all things’. The Holy Spirit is ‘in all things’ because nothing is without him. But the phrase ‘one God and Father of all’ is not to be imagined in common, that is to say so that the name ‘Father’ can be applied even to irrational beasts of burden. For example, if we should say without distinction among ten men, five of whom are sons and five servants. ‘There is one lord and one father of these ten’, we would by no means be designating him Father of all nor lord of all. In the same way also, he is to be taken as Father of some and God of others in the phrase, ‘one God and Father of all’. It was something such as this that Zeno with his Stoics suspected about creatures and God. Vergil followed him and said: ‘For God pervades all, both lands and the expanse of the sea, etc.’ and, ‘first, a sprit within nourishes heaven and earth and the bright plains and the shining globe of the moon and the Titanian star, and a mind infused through the members moves the entire mass and mingles itself in the great body’. (2.4.5-6)1 1 This translation has been taken, with some modification, from Ronald E. Heine, The Commentaries of Origen and Jerome on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians (Oxford, 2002), 170-1. I wish

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 223-229. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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This single excerpt from Jerome’s Commentary on Ephesians brings to light several significant issues relating to Jerome and Latin Christianity as a whole: Jerome’s relationship to the Latin classics and specifically Vergil, his reliance upon grammatical points to make theological arguments, to what extent Jerome relies upon Origen, and Jerome’s response to Arianism. In this study, I will attempt to show that Jerome’s exegesis of Ephesians 4:6 shows him to be an exegete not only of scripture but of Vergil as well.2 As such, Jerome employs Vergil as a philosopher in order to make an important trinitarian argument that is only vaguely hinted at in the lemma text of Ephesians 4:6.3 Jerome’s Grammatical Exegesis of Ephesians 4:6 In the aforementioned section from Jerome’s Commentary on Ephesians, which is dated to 386-7 AD, the exegete quotes from two passages of Vergil: one of which is a reference to Aen. 6.724-7.4 Aeneid 6.724-7 concerns the Stoic pneuma and reads: ‘First know that heaven and earth, and the watery plains, the moon’s bright sphere, and Titan’s star, a spirit within sustains, in all the limbs mind moves the mass and mingles with the mighty frame’.5 In this section of to thank Matthew Kraus for reading a draft of this article and offering helpful corrections. I also wish to thank Adam Kamesar and Daniel Markovic for their help in the earliest stages of the project. 2 Jerome’s relationship to the Latin classics is a much studied topic among Jerome scholars. One complication is Jerome’s famous dream in Ep. 22 wherein he renounces classical literature. One would expect Jerome to never quote pagan literature after this point (384 AD), but he continues to do so. Scholars also debate precisely how Jerome uses classical texts. Neil Adkin, ‘Jerome’s Vow “Never to Reread the Classics”’, Revue des études anciennes 101 (1999), 161-7, argues that Jerome cites classical texts as a result of his ‘magpie mind and a vast memory’, and thus, his quotations of classical literature are often nothing more than rhetorical ornamentation. Other scholars, however, argue that Jerome employs classical sources with more depth and nuance. See J.H.D. Scourfield, Consoling Heliodorus: A Commentary on Jerome, Letter 60 (Oxford, 1993); Adam Kamesar, Jerome, Greek Scholarship, and the Hebrew Bible: A Study of the Questiones Hebraicae in Genesim (Oxford, 1993); Matthew Kraus, Jewish, Christian, and Classical Exegetical Traditions in Jerome’s Translation Technique and the Vulgate (Leiden, 2017). 3 The notion that Vergil is a philosopher emerges in Late Antiquity and into the Middle Ages. Servius, in his preface to Aeneid 6, observes that Vergil’s works reflect many philosophical strands and undoubtedly reflects what many of his contemporaries thought about the poet. For a couple of the many works that chronicle the reception of Vergil particularly as a prophet, see Domenico Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages (Princeton, 1997), and more recently, Phillip Hardie, The Last Trojan Hero: A Cultural History of Virgil’s Aeneid (New York, 2016). 4 For the chronology of Jerome’s commentaries relevant to this study including the Ecclesiastes commentary, see Ferdinand Cavallera, Saint Jérôme: son vie et son œuvre, I (Louvain, Paris, 1922), 123-50; Alfons Fürst, Hieronymus: Askese und Wissenschaft in der Spätantike (Freiburg, 2003), 122-4. 5 This passage is employed several times by early Christian writers. The earliest Latin fathers to do so are Minucius Felix and Lactantius. For discussion, see my forthcoming ‘The Speech of

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the Aeneid, Anchises, the father of the hero Aeneas gives a cosmological speech wherein he answers Aeneas’ previous question concerning the desire for some souls to return to earth. Anchises answers his son’s query with a speech filled with philosophical notions from a variety of sources including the Stoics, Plato, Pythagoreanism, and perhaps others.6 In the relevant section of his Commentary on Ephesians, Jerome is commenting on Ephesians 4:5-6, which states, Unus Dominus, una fides, unum baptisma, unus Deus et Pater omnium, qui super omnes, et per omnes, et in omnibus. The Greek of Ephesians 4:6 is ambiguous with regard to the genitive and dative cases of πᾶς which could be neuter or masculine. Jerome takes the former position. In his comments on this verse, Jerome combats what he considers false notions of the relationship of the Father and the Son. He explicitly mentions several “heretics” such as Sabellius, Arius, Macedonius, and Euonomius, who in different ways have misunderstood the connection between the Father and the Son.

Jerome’s Reliance Upon Origen Before looking in detail at the passage in question, it is worth asking to what extent Jerome’s exegesis depends on Origen since the former frequently relies upon the latter particularly in his exegetical works. In fact, Jerome explicitly mentions his reliance upon Origen in the preface to his Commentary on Ephesians: I bring the following to your attention also in the preface that you may know that Origen, whom we have followed in part, has written three volumes on this epistle. Apollinarius and Didymus have also published some brief commentaries. Although we have plucked a few things from these, we have also added or removed some things that seemed proper to us. Consequently, the studious reader may know that this work is both another’s and our’s.

However, whether or not Jerome directly relies upon Origen in his comments on Ephesians 4:5-6 is questionable. While we have both Greek fragments of Origen’s commentary – including the section on Ephesians 4:5-6 – and Jerome’s commentary, it is impossible to reconstruct Origen’s commentary.7 Yet one senses that Origen’s influence runs throughout Jerome’s work. Still there are Anchises and Early Arguments for Monotheism in Minucius Felix and Lactantius’, JECS 29 (2021). 6 For discussion, see Ludwig Fladerer, ‘Vergil, ein materialistischer Stoiker: die Anchisesrede in Aen. 6,724-51 in semiotisch-philosophiehistorischer Perspektive’, Latomus 57 (1998), 337-61. See also, the discussion and bibliography of Nicholas Horsfall, Virgil, Aeneid 6: A Commentary I (Berlin, 2013), 484-90. 7 For discussion, see Francisco Pieri and Ronald E. Heine, ‘Recovering Origen’s Commentary on Ephesians from Jerome’, JTS 51 (2000), 478-514.

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some places where Origen could not have influenced Jerome. One clear instance of Jerome’s independence from Origen is where the former quotes Vergil. Another instance of possible originality is where Jerome comments upon the prepositions found in Ephesians 4:6. Jerome uses the prepositions to argue for the relationship of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit to the all.8 More specifically, in his exegesis of the phrase, ‘one God and Father of all who is above all (super omnes), through all (per omnes), and in all (in omnibus)’, Jerome or perhaps Origen seems to have recourse to an idea known as ‘prepositional metaphysics’.9 Prepositional Metaphysics and the Trinity The notion of metaphysical prepositions can be traced back at least to the Stoics, Peripatetics, and Platonists, who associated the distinction attributed to Aristotle concerning the four causes with fixed prepositional phrases.10 Aristotle denoted the four causes but does not explicitly connect them to the prepositions.11 The origin of this association is obscure. Perhaps the most well-known formulation is that found in Marcus Aurelius.12 In his praise of nature, he stated: ‘All things are from you (ἐκ σοῦ), all things are in you (ἐν σοί), and all things are for you (εἰς σέ)’.13 Eventually, authors influenced by these Stoic ideas began using these phrases, and variations of them, to talk about the divine.14 Perhaps the closest phrase to what we find in Ephesians 4:6 is in the Hermetic text, Asclepius. The author states: ‘All things are by him and in him and through him’.15 It is perhaps not surprising then that similar formulations are found in various passages in the New Testament, including Ephesians 4:6, and applied to Christian ideas of God.16 8

Jerome’s specific exegesis of the prepositions is not found in the extant fragments of Origen’s commentary. This does not necessarily mean that the exegesis is original to Jerome, but it is possible. 9 For what follows, Gregory E. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics in Jewish Wisdom Speculation and Early Christian Liturgical Texts’, SPhA 9 (1997), 219-38, has been helpful. 10 Seneca conveniently preserves the Stoic, Peripatetic, and Platonic views in Ep. 65. 11 Aristotle discusses the four causes in several places in his oeuvre, but a more thorough discussion can be found in Phys. 2.3-9. 12 Ad se ipsum 4.23. 13 G. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’ (1997), 223. 14 Ibid. 224-5. 15 The Latin reads: omnia enim deus et ab eo omnia et eius omnia voluntatis. Quod totum est bonum, decens et prudens, inimitabile et ipsi soli sensibile atque intellegibile et sine hoc nec fuit aliquid nec est nec erit. omnia enim ab eo et in ipso et per ipsum, et variae et multiformes qualitates et magnae quantitates et omnes mensuras excedentes magnitudines et omniformes species. 16 G. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’ (1997), 232, discusses several New Testament passages, but does not discuss Ephesians 4:6. He only wishes to include those texts wherein the prepositional phrases denote cause. On p. 232 n. 70, he states: ‘I have therefore excluded Eph. 4:6

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Thus, the notion of metaphysical prepositions is perhaps already present in Ephesians 4:6. What is significant in Jerome’s discussion of Ephesians 4:6 is that he applies each preposition to a member of the Godhead. According to Jerome, God is above all (super omnes) because he is the author (auctor) of all things. The Son is through all (per omnes) because he goes through all things. Finally, the Spirit is in all things (in omnibus) because nothing is without it.17 Jerome’s comments on the prepositions of Ephesians 4:6 seem to be occasioned by the confusion brought about by the Arian heresy. Jerome thus interprets the prepositions of Ephesians 4:6 in a way that argues against Arian notions of the unity of God. In light of this theological controversy still present in Jerome’s day, it is perhaps not surprising that, Origen, upon whom Jerome was very much dependent, mentions the prepositions of Ephesians 4:6, but his explanation does not reflect a trinitarian understanding.18 However, Jerome’s application of the prepositions in Ephesians 4:6 to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit has precedent in other authors and thus, does not originate with him.19 Jerome’s Use of Vergil As mentioned above, Jerome quotes the cosmological speech of Anchises in Aen. 6.724-7, but also alludes to Georg. 4.221-2. Before Jerome, both Minucius Felix and Lactantius quote these two passages, but for different purposes. When Jerome states that the Son is per omnes, there is a parallel expression in which describes God as ‘the one over all and through all and in all,’ although this could justifiably be considered a variation of the pattern’. Later Christian authors also use these New Testament texts to formulate their own arguments about the relationship between God and Jesus. For discussion of Ambrose’s use of some NT texts in this connection (Eph. 4:6) is not used, see Jean Pépin, Théologie cosmique et théologie chrétienne (Ambroise, Exam. I 1, 1-4) (Paris, 1964), 348-55. 17 It is worth noting that there is no hint that the infusion of the Spirit into all things refers to an eschatological future as Marco Messina argues in L’autorità delle citazioni virgiliane nelle opere esegetiche de San Girolamo (Rome, 2004), 623. Messina postulates that in Jerome’s comments on the previous verses of Ephesians, he mentions the consummatio rerum. While this does seem to be a reference to Origen’s ἀποκατάστασις, this has nothing whatever to do with the citation of the speech of Anchises in Jerome’s exegesis of Ephesians 4:6. 18 Origen states: ‘We must, furthermore, carefully examine the difference between the prepositions “above”, “through”, and “in”. The sun is “above all” who are on the earth in position, so to speak but, by its rays, it would be said to be ‘through all’ and, if the power of its light were also to reach into the depth of each one, it would also be said to be “in all”. So also, then, in relation to spiritual matters, we think that God’s pre-eminence is revealed by the “above all”. That his sufficiency to each one is revealed in the “through all”, and that the reaching “in all” belongs to the power of God, so that no one is altogether empty of him through the “in all”’. The translation is from R. Heine, The Commentaries of Origen and Jerome (2002), 167. 19 For example, Irenaeus, Haer. 18.2, comments upon Ephesians 4:6 and states that the Father is above all, and is head of Christ. Christ, or ‘the Word’, is through all things and head of the church. The Spirit, he says, is in us all. Eusebius, Laud. Const. 12.11, also quotes Ephesians 4:6 and states that God is above all, and is the author of the generation of the Word.

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Georg. 4.221: Deum namque ire per omnes.20 Furthermore, when Jerome says concerning God the Father, that he is super omnes, quia auctor est omnium, one can find a similar idea in line 222 of Georg. 4, but Jerome had merely stated ‘etc.’ and thus left it up to the reader to supply the line, hinc pecudes, armenta, viros, genus omne ferarum. Finally, when Jerome discusses the Holy Spirit, he says he is in omnibus. For this idea, Jerome quotes the spiritus intus alit of Aen. 6.726. In other words, Jerome, like Ambrose and others before him, use Vergil’s text to argue for the immanence of God in the Holy Spirit. Furthermore, Jerome’s interpretation of Vergil’s lines from Georg. 4 with the speech of Anchises are more exegetically sophisticated in that he employs the lines to make a point about the trinity, based upon the biblical text of Ephesians 4:6. Jerome’s distinction between pater/deus and how only humans can call God ‘Father’ is occasioned by Georg. 4.223, because humans are mentioned in between groups of animals. Furthermore, Jerome explains that one should not view the terms God and Father as synonymous. Instead, the word God can be applied even to irrational beasts of burden (ad irrationabilia iumenta), but the word Father cannot be. Jerome then cites the speech of Anchises and Georg. 4.221-2 as support for this idea. It is possible that Jerome has in mind the Stoic view of the scala naturae.21 The Stoics held that the pneuma pervaded everything from the rock to the human being. However, there are different degrees of tension leading to hierarchy with rational animals, like humans, at the top of the scale.22 Thus, Jerome employs the two texts from Vergil to emphasize the fact that Deus or spiritus pervades everything including irrational animals, the earth and sea. Yet, they cannot address God as Father.23 Only rational humans 20 While Vergil merely says that it is Deus who goes through all things, Jerome interprets the phrase as referring to the Son. Otherwise, Jerome seems to say that between Georg. 4.221-4 and Aen. 6. 724-7, Vergil’s lines accord with the three functions of the trinity. Therefore, Vergil is not wrong, as a representative of the Stoics, just imprecise as Jerome indicated in the phrase: tale quid creaturis, et de Deo etiam Zeno cum suis Stoicis suspicatur. 21 A similar distinction is found in Plutarch, Quaest. Plat. 1000E-1001C, on the basis of the statement in Plato’s Tim. 28C concerning the difficult of finding ‘the maker and father’ of the universe. Plutarch argues that the epithet ‘father’ only applies to the soul that is rational whereas ‘maker’ indicates that God created the world from pre-existent matter. For discussion, see John Whittaker, ‘Plutarch, Platonism and Christianity’, in Henry J. Blumenthal and Robert A. Markus (eds), Neoplatonism and Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of A. H. Armstrong (London, 1981), 50-63, 51-2. 22 For discussion and bibliography, see Julia E. Annas, Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind (Berkeley, 1994), 50-4. 23 Epictetus, Diatr. 1.3, states that God is the ‘father of men and gods’, but does not include animals. This is because humans have a certain commonality with God, namely reason and intelligence. On the other hand, Epictetus says that humans are like animals, not because of reason or rationality, but because of our bodies. Epictetus makes the point, that, unfortunately, humans tend to follow their animal kinship rather than the divine kinship. This implies that humans have a unique kinship to God which animals do not share. Similarly, and a much more likely source for

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can do that.24 In this way, Jerome qualifies Vergil because the poet does not have the notion of the scala naturae. In fact, Vergil mentions humans among beasts in Georg. 4.222. Therefore, Jerome refers to the scala naturae to avoid the implication of the lines from the Georgics. Conclusion For Jerome, Vergil’s lines provide important proof texts for the idea that the terms mentioned in Ephesians 4:6, God and Father, are not to be used interchangeably. Instead, for Jerome, Ephesians 4:6 indicates that there is a difference in function among the three persons of the trinity. The impetus for Jerome’s reference to the Stoic scala naturae and qualification of Vergil can be found in his previous statement in the Ephesians commentary about Arius. He stated that the Arians considered only the Father to be God. However, Jerome argues that there is a point of distinction to be seen in the scale of existence. Vergil’s texts are used to reinforce the notion that there are different functions of the persons of the trinity as indicated by the prepositions of Ephesians 4:6. Thus, Jerome is quite careful in how he employs the lines of Vergil, and makes subtle qualifications when he feels it necessary. But still, Jerome relies upon Vergil and Greek philosophical ideas in addition to scripture to make an important trinitarian argument. Quoting Vergil and referring to Greek philosophical ideas seem to create more problems for Jerome that are not necessarily present in the biblical lemma, although it too is problematic. Jerome’s originality in this passage at least lies in his attempt to explain and qualify Vergil’ s text in an attempt to make an argument about the nature of the trinity. Jerome is both an exegete of scripture and an exegete of Vergil.

Jerome’s thought here is Origen’s dismissal of Celsus’ notion that God cares more for ‘irrational animals’ than he does for humans in Cels. 4.97. 24 The analogy that Jerome uses concerning the ten men – five of whom are sons of a man and five his servants – is found in Origen. Origen specifically states that God is God of all, but not Father of some: πάντων δέ ἐστιν ὁ θεὸς καὶ πατήρ, τ[ῷ] τινῶν μὲν εἶναι θεὸς καὶ μὴ πατήρ, τινῶν δὲ θεὸς καὶ πατήρ, ὡς εἲ τις δείξας δέκα τινὰς τὸν ἀριθμὸν ἀνθρώπους, ὦν οἱ μὲν πέντε τοῦ δέ τινος υἱοί εἰσιν, οἱ δὲ πέντε δοῦλοι, ἔλεγεν ‘οὗτος τῶν δέκα κύριός ἐστι καὶ πατήρ᾽. The Ephesians commentary of Origen is preserved in catena fragments, and was originally published by John A. Cramer, Catenae Graecorum Patrum 6 (Oxford, 1842), 100-225. However, John A.F. Gregg, ‘The Commentary of Origen Upon the Epistle to the Ephesians’, JTS 3 (1902), 233-44, 398-420, 554-76, re-edited the existing fragments. The quotation is from Gregg, 413.

Ousia and Physis in Eunomius’ Trinitarian Language of Apologia apologiae Dragoş Andrei GIULEA, Concordia University, Montreal, Canada

ABSTRACT Eunomius does not conceive of ousia and physis in a Nicene way, as quasi-synonyms denoting the essence of an entity or set of entities. To the contrary, the term ousia connotes an individual substance. This is a key metaphysical feature, part of an older trajectory that goes back to the third century and the Council of Antioch 268. Eunomius shares this meaning of ousia with the Arians and the other anti-Nicenes. In Apologia apologiae, Eunomius makes the first steps to a triadic system of three first substances. However, unlike all the other triadic systems, Eunomius does not envision the Son either in communion or in relationship with the Father, or as the ontological image of the Father. Furthermore, while in his first apology Eunomius simply states that the Son did not exist before his generation from the Father, in Apologia apologiae he asserts that the Son did not exist in a proper sense before his generation. In what concerns the term physis, Eunomius understands it as the nature of a certain entity or set of entities. He envisions all the individual substances as ordered in a hierarchy in which the nature (physis) of each substance determines its place in the hierarchy. In this order of natures, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit have different natures, a feature which Eunomius shares with the other Arian authors. He preserves the same Trinitarian hierarchy from his first apology. In the second apology, Eunomius shifts the focus of his criticisms from the Homoiousians to the Nicenes and their doctrines of divine consubstantiality and common activity of the divine persons.

Introduction For everyone involved in a rational discussion, modern philosophers will always have a simple and invaluable counsel: discussions should start with a clarification of concepts. As in many theological (and even philosophical) controversies of antiquity, this enterprise was nearly absent, or rarely manifest, in the entangled Arian debate, which became endlessly prolonged and complicated on all personal and social facets. In modern times, in spite of the many studies dedicated to the clarification of concepts in the fourth-century controversies, there are still various aspects in need of further elucidation, regarding either the general method of analysis or the theoretical details of each author’s vocabulary.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 231-244. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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Thus, I consider that an appropriate method of conceptual analysis in our days should include two dimensions already pointed out by two modern scholars. I would synthesize them in two ideas inspired by Wittgenstein’s later thought. First, in his landmark monograph the Divine Substance, Christopher Stead has shown that patristic notions are polysemantic.1 Many times they imply a semantic fluidity from author to author and from time to time. Second, Lewis Ayres has already employed the expression “theological grammar” in association with such groups as the Alexandrians, Eusebians, Latins, neo-Nicenes.2 From there, we may now make a step further and argue that patristic terminology should not be investigated isolated, but within the grammar which a certain author, group, or alliance, advanced at the time. However, under this second aspect I submit that the basic grammar of a specific author, group, or alliance is metaphysical in its nature, unlike Richard Vaggione who argued that the basic frameworks involved in the Arian debate were hermeneutical in their nature.3 Thus, I avow that these basic grammars gravitate around some primary metaphysical notions such as οὐσία, ὑπόστασις, φύσις, ἀγγένητος, ἀρχή, and the metaphysical suppositions implied by the assumed meanings of these notions. The present article, which inquires the meanings and the interrelated logic of two Eunomian key concepts – φύσις and οὐσία – may be regarded as an illustration of this method. One may think that the two concepts have the same connotation, namely, the nature of a certain entity, be it sensible or intelligible, as in some classical Nicene authors. We will further see, nevertheless, that, according to Eunomius, their meanings are different. The present article will examine their senses and functions within the Eunomian metaphysical grammar, and identify the metaphysical-theological trajectory which generated this type of grammar.4 1

See Christopher Stead, Divine Substance (Oxford, 1977). Lewis Ayres already employs this term referring to theological grammars of such groups as the Alexandrians, Eusebians, Latins, neo-Nicenes; see L. Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2003), 12. 3 In this way I submit that these metaphysical assumptions generate a metaphysical grammar which is more determinant and basic that the hermeneutic framework of a certain group, as Vaggione supposed. Thus, the Nicenes and the Arians offer different interpretations to some key biblical ideas such as image (Gen. 1:26) or generation (Prov. 8:22-5) in order to support their ultimate metaphysical assumptions: the Son’s identity of substance with the Father and his subordination and difference of substance, respectively. See Richard Paul Vaggione, Eunomius of Cyzicus and the Nicene Revolution (Oxford, 2000). 4 For previous studies on Eunomius, see Xavier Le Bachelet, ‘Eunomius’, DThC 5:2 (1939), 1501-14; Jean Daniélou, ‘Eunome l’Arien et l’exégèse néo-platonicienne du Cratyle’, REG 62 (1959), 412-32; Michel Spanneut, ‘Eunomius’, DHGE 15 (1963), 1339-405; Luise Abramowski, ‘Eunomius’, RAC 6 (1966), 936-47; Elena Cavalcanti, Studi eunomiani (Rome, 1976); Bernard Sesboüé (ed.), Basile de Césarée, Contre Eunome. Suivi de Eunome, Apologie (tome I, II) (SC 299 and 305) (Paris, 1982-1983); Bernard Pottier, Dieu et le Christ selon Grégoire de Nysse (Namur, 1994); Richard Paul Vaggione (ed.), Eunomius, The Extant Works (Oxford, 1987); Bernard 2

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From the extant documents of the debate it is obvious that, first, Eunomius and Basil, and, later, Eunomius and Gregory, did not start their debates with a preliminary conceptual clarification. Yet, they differently conceived at least of such a fundamental notion as οὐσία. As a matter of fact, Greek philosophers, too, conceived of οὐσία in various ways, and this is not a minor aspect because different basic vocabularies imply different philosophical grammars and metaphysical assumptions. It was also the case with Eunomius and the Cappadocians. A tremendously significant consequence is that two conflicting sentences or arguments between Eunomius and Basil cannot be analyzed as two opposing or contradictory sentences, because frequently they are not part of the same grammar or logical system. On the contrary, each sentence belongs to one of the two distinct and conflicting metaphysical grammars in which it makes sense. Thus, the debate between Eunomius and the two Cappadocians was regularly not one between individual sentences but between two parallel metaphysical grammars. Most of the time, their arguments were valid within their own metaphysical grammars. Consequently, it is a fundamental methodological matter that any investigation of the debate between Eunomius and the two Cappadocians has to be aware of the two opposing metaphysical grammars.

A Triad of Individual Substances (οὐσίαι) I would begin by pointing out that Eunomius’ texts do not evince any modification in the use of his main metaphysical concepts – οὐσία, φύσις, and ἀγγένητος – from his first apology to Apologia apologiae. One may notice, however, a slight distinction in the focus of his argument and its organisation, which I submit reflects the intellectual interests of the second stage of the Arian debate in which Eunomius composed the tractates. We will see that the second tractate includes counterarguments against such Nicene positions as the Trinity’s unity of activity in creation and the doctrine of divine consubstantiality. One may remember that, in his first Apologia, Eunomius aims primary to delineate the unique ontological condition of God the Father, the only first-principle, which is the ingenerate and incomparable οὐσία (Apol. 26), in contradistinction with the generated Son. In terms of vocabulary, the Father is the unique ingenerate οὐσία, clearly conceived as an individual substance (Apol. 28). Unlike him, the Son is a generated and created substance which did not exist before its generation from the Father. Finally, the Spirit is an independent ὑπόστασις, Sesboüé, Saint Basile et la Trinité. Un acte théologique au IVe siècle (Quercy, 1998); Richard Paul Vaggione, Eunomius of Cyzicus and the Nicene Revolution (Oxford, 2000); Mark DelCogliano, Basil of Caesarea’s Anti-Eunomian Theory of Names, SVigChr 103 (Leiden, 2010); Dragoş Andrei Giulea, ‘Reassessing Arianism in Light of the Council of Antioch 268’, ETL 95 (2019), 63-96.

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third in nature and order (φύσει καὶ τάξει), the Son’s first and greatest work (ποίημα). Yet, the Spirit is not divine and lacks the power of creation, but is endowed with the capacities of sanctification and instruction (Apol. 25). Consequently, the roots of Eunomius’ triadic system and the main conditions and functions of its three principles may be found already in his first apology. In what regards the Apologia apologiae, one novelty consists in Eunomius’ effort to articulate a discourse on a triadic system of three substances, the primary three individual οὐσίαι which are the first three principles of everything: The whole statement of our doctrines comprises the highest and most authentic substance (τῆς ἀνωτάτω καὶ κυριωτάτης οὐσίας); the one which exists because of that [substance] (τῆς δι᾿ἐκείνην μὲν οὔσης) and after that [substance] has supremacy over all the rest, and a third (καὶ τρίτης) which is in no way ranked with them (συνταττομένης), but subordinated (ὑποταττομένης) to the one because of causation (αἰτίαν) and to the other because of the activity (ἐνέργειαν) by which it exists (καθ᾿ ἣν γέγονεν).5

It is worth making at this point an observation on Eunomius’ meaning of οὐσία in this text, since he consistently envisions it as an individual substance rather than an essence or nature. As I have previously argued, Eunomius carries on a pre-Nicene metaphysical language widely spread in the Eastern Roman Empire in the third and fourth centuries. The synodals of the Council of Antioch 268 and other authors of the time made use of it as well as the anti-Nicene authors of the fourth century, from Eusebius of Caesarea to Arius, to Asterius, to Eusebius of Nicomedia, to the Homoiousians, to Aetius, to Eunomius.6 Nevertheless, due to Eunomius’ doctrine on the Holy Spirit as a second creature after the Son – a Spirit which is not God and does not create – his pneumatology is so minimalistic that it may be labelled in fact as a very-low pneumatology. At least in the extant texts, his pneumatological interests may hardly be regarded as part of a Trinitarian articulation. Eunomius’ system is centred on the relationship, or better said, the lack of relationship, between the Father and the Son, between the ingenerate οὐσία and the generated one. As Manlio Simonetti rightly observes, ‘the Eunomian conception of divinity is binary: a unique and supreme God and a lower god who secures the relationship between the supreme God and the world of which he is the actual creator and ruler’.7 However, from a metaphysical angle, we may see his thought as 5 Eunomius, Apologia apologiae (henceforth AA) I 2a (Gregory, CE I 151; GNO I, 71-2). Trans. Stewart G. Hall, in Miguel Brugarolas (ed.), Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium I. An English Version with Supporting Studies, SVigChr 148 (Leiden, 2018), 73-197, 101. In light of this, we may discover an incipient form of this triadic system already in Apol. I 20, in which Eunomius had described the Father as the unbegotten substance beyond generation and any comparison, while the Son is the one ‘thing made’ by the Unbegotten, and the Paraclete the thing made by the Son. 6 See Dragoş Andrei Giulea, ‘Antioch 268 and Its Legacy in the Fourth-Century Theological Debates’, HTR 111 (2018), 192-215; as well as D.A. Giulea, ‘Reassessing Arianism’ (2019). 7 See Manlio Simonetti, La crisi ariana (Rome, 1975), 503. My translation.

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including three principles, even if the third one is not divine but rather owns the function and ontological condition of a mere special angelic creature. In what regards the first individual substance of the Eunomian system, he identifies it once more, in Apologia apologiae, with the Father. He is the unique ingenerate substance (οὐσία ἀγέννητος) and the unique substance without beginning or principle (ἄναρχος), which philosophers usually call the firstprinciple. Eunomius, in fact, delineates the first substance in a typical Greek philosophical fashion which may be traced back to the classical Parmenidian canon of the first-principle:8 ‘God is incorruptible and ingenerate (ἄφθαρτός ἐστι καὶ ἀγέννητος) in His very substance (οὐσίαν), which is unblended and pure (ἀμιγῆ καὶ καθαράν) from all alterity and difference (ἑτερότητος καὶ διαφορᾶς).’9 ‘The connotation of the divine substance itself (τῆς θείας οὐσίας) is the [term] “ingenerate” (τὸ ἀγέννητον).’10 God is ingenerate (ἀγέννητος) by nature (φύσει),11 and ‘the life he possesses is neither taken from outside (οὐκ ἐπείσακτον), nor put together (σύνθετον), nor diverse (διάφορον). For he is the eternal life (ἀΐδιος ζωή) which is immortal (ἀθάνατος), because he is the life itself and incorruptible (ἄφθαρτος) and he is the immortality itself.’12 Likewise, ‘his substance (οὐσίαν) is the incorruptibility in itself (αὐτὴν ἄφθαρσίαν) as well as the immortality (ἀθανασίαν ὡσαύτως) [in itself].’13 Eunomius equally portrays the Father as the ‘perfect Virtue and Life (παντελής ἐστιν ἀρετὴ καὶ ζωή) and unapproachable Light (ἀπρόσιτον φῶς), and by every sublime thought and title; so, when the Only-begotten Light did not yet exist (ὅτε τὸ μονογενὲς φῶς οὔπω ἦν), it is not necessary to postulate a corresponding darkness in opposition.’14 The passage, therefore, includes a reference to the fact that the Son, the Only-begotten Light, did not exist before its generation. Following the Platonic conception of a productive first-principle, Eunomius conceives of God the Father as the supreme Good and a productive principle who creates everything out of his goodwill: The supreme Good (τὸ ἐξοχώτατον ἀγαθόν), God, inasmuch as no nature (φύσεως) obstructs, nor cause (αἰτίας) compels, nor need (χρείας) impinges, both generates and 8 Parmenides’ hymn On Nature 8 already includes a list of the most frequently used attributes of the first-principle, a commonplace or canon of ancient Greek philosophy: ingenerate (ἀγένητον), indestructible, alone, complete, immovable, not from non-being (οὔτ᾿ἐκ μὴ ἐόντον), indivisible (οὐδὲ διαιρετόν), immovable (ἀκίνητον), without beginning or principle (ἄναρχον) and end; see Hermann Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker. Griechisch und deutsch (Berlin, 1906), 118-20. 9 Eunomius, AA II 5 (Gregory, CE II 380; GNO I, 337; my trans.). Cf. Eunomius, Apol. 28. 10 Eunomius, AA II 5 (Gregory, CE II 484; GNO I, 367; my trans.). 11 Eunomius, AA II 5 (Gregory, CE II 534; GNO I, 382). 12 Eunomius, AA II 5 (Gregory, CE II 536; GNO I, 382; my trans.). 13 Eunomius, AA II 5 (Gregory, CE II 554; GNO I, 388; my trans.). 14 Eunomius, AA III 8 (Gregory, CE III 7.61; GNO II, 236). Trans. Stewart G. Hall, in Johan Leemans & Matthieu Cassin (eds), Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III. An English Translation with Commentary and Supporting Studies. Proceedings of the 12th International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Leuven, 14-17 September 2010), SVigChr 124 (Leiden, 2014), 42-235, 184.

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creates (γεννᾷ τε καὶ δημιουργεῖ), in accordance with the supremacy of his own authority (ἐξουσίας), having his will (βούλησιν) as sufficient power (δύναμιν) to constitute the things that are made.15

In what concerns the Son, he is also an individual substance, the generated one (γεννηθεῖασα οὐσία),16 which is second after the Father because of its lower nature. This order of nature (φυσικὴ τάξις) between the first and the second substances is evinced by the fact that the Son is generated from the ingenerate Father, and also by his condition of being a Son. 17 Eunomius describes the begetting of the Son’s οὐσία as the generation of an entity, not as an abstraction, but as a thing which comes into being, however unlike any other creature; that means, neither by material extension, separation, conjunction, division, growth, nor by change but from nothing, only by the Father’s will: The substance (οὐσίαν) of the Son was begotten by the Father: not produced by extension (ἔκτασιν), not drawn forth by flux (ῥεῦσιν) or division (διαίρεσιν) from the conjunction with the Begetter, not perfected by growth (αὔξησιν), not shaped by alteration (ἀλλοίωσιν), but acquiring being solely by the will of the Begetter (τῇ βουλήσει τοῦ γεννήσαντος).18

Eunomius equally points out that uniquely the substance of the Father may be identified with the God of the Bible and bare the biblical name ‘I AM’, while the Logos is the Angel of the Father and a God ruling the things made through him.19 The substance of the Son is actually more similar to that of the created things. Eunomius argues that, like all creatures, the Son cannot have a communion of substance with the Father: Whatever we conceive as the substance of all creation (πάσης τῆς κτίσεως οὐσίαν), we assert that its firstborn has the same (τῆς αὐτῆς). If all creation is of the same substance (ὁμοούσιος) as the Father of the universe, the same we will allow is true of creation’s Firstborn; if on the contrary, the God of the universe differs in his substance (διαφέρει κατὰ τὴν οὐσίαν) from the creation, we are obliged to say that the Firstborn of creation does not share his substance with God either (κοινωνεῖν τῷ θεῷ τῆς οὐσίας).20 15

Eunomius, AA III 6 (Gregory, CE III 7.3; GNO II, 216; SVigChr 124, 171). Eunomius, AA III 1 (Gregory, CE III 1.3; GNO II, 4). 17 Ibid. 18 Eunomius, AA III 3 (Gregory, CE III 2.28; GNO II, 61; SVigChr 124, 77 slightly modified). 19 See, e.g., Eunomius, AA III 9 (Gregory, CE III 9.27; GNO II, 273-4; SVigChr 124, 209): ‘By being called an angel (ἄγγελος) he [i.e., the Son]) clearly taught who it was by whom he announced the words, and who He is, that Is (τίς ὁ ὤν; [i.e., the Father]); and by being also addressed as God, he [i.e., the Son] showed his own superiority to everything else. For he [i.e., the Son] that is God to the things made by him is an angel (ἄγγελος) to the God over all [i.e., the Father].’ For the Father as I Am, see also Eunomius, AA III 9 (Gregory, CE III 8.34;43; GNO II, 251; 255). 20 Eunomius, AA III 3 (Gregory, CE III 2.44; GNO II, 66; SVigChr 124, 80 slightly modified). 16

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While Eunomius envisions the Son as a creature closer in his nature to the sensible things, he also avers that the Son is different from all the other creatures. The first distinction from them consists in the fact that the Son created them. A second distinction regards the nature of his generation. The Father begets, makes, or creates the Son’s substance in an unmediated way (ἀμεσίτευτον), and preserves this begetting without division.21 Thus, unlike all creatures, the Son is generated from nothing and in an unmediated way by the Father’s activity: Such distinctions having been made, it might reasonably be said that the most authentic, primary and only substance (τὴν κυριωτάτην καὶ πρώτην … οὐσίαν) which subsists (ὑποστᾶσαν) by the Father’s activity (ἐνεργείᾳ) receives into itself the titles (προσηγορίας) ‘offspring’ (γεννήματος), ‘thing made’ (ποιήματος) and ‘creature’ (κτίσματος).22

However, a few lines further Eunomius specifies that the fact that the Father constantly produces the Son does not imply that he has a communion of nature or a relation with the Father: ‘the Son, who uniquely subsists (συστάς) through the Father’s activity (τῇ τοῦ πατρὸς ἐνεργείᾳ), does not have communion (ἀκοινώνητον) of nature (φύσιν) and relation (σχέσιν) with the One who generated him (πρὸς τὸν γεγεννηκότα).’23 According to Eunomius, therefore, the Son is so close to the other creatures that he shares with them an insurmountable ontological divide from the uncreated God the Father, and there is no communion of nature or relation between them. This position is actually very akin to Aetius’ doctrine of incomparability, which asserts that the Father’s substance is unbegotten, unapproachable, and without analogy (ἀσύγκριτος).24 Nonetheless, Eunomius equally avers that the Son is also dissimilar and without community with all the other creatures: ‘inasmuch as the begotten substance (τῆς γεννηθείσης οὐσίας) [i.e., of the Son] leaves no room for having communion (χώραν εἰς κοινωνία) with any other (for he is Only-begotten), nor is the action (ἐνεργείας) of the one who made him considered as common (κοινῆς)’.25 A last emblematic Eunomian mark concerning the substance of the Son consists of the doctrine that the Son’s οὐσία did not exist before its generation from the Father. Eunomius first developed it in his previous apology (Apol. 12) and further refined it in the second. In reply to Basil’s criticism of the doctrine, 21

Eunomius, AA III 3 (Gregory, CE III 2.117; GNO II, 91). Eunomius, AA III 3 (Gregory, CE III 2.73; GNO II, 76; SVigChr 124, 86 slightly modified). 23 Eunomius, AA III 3 (Gregory, CE III 2.73; GNO II, 76; my trans.) 24 See Aetius, Syntagmation 29: ‘its substance is without analogy (ἀσύγκριτος) and does not manifest outside the unapproachable (τὸ ἀπρόσιτον), but exists in itself without analogy and unapproachable (ἀσύγκριτος καὶ ἀπρόσιτος), since it is also unbegotten’. In Lionel R. Wickham (ed.), ‘The Syntagmation of Aetius the Anomean’, JTS 19 (1968), 540-4, 543. My translation. 25 Eunomius, AA III 3 (Gregory, CE III 2.125; GNO II, 93; SVigChr 124, 97 slightly modified). 22

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Eunomius now adduces more theoretical detail but softens his previous position. This time he states that the Son did not exist in the proper sense (οὐδὲ κυρίως ὤν) before his generation. This new formula echoes again an Aetian doctrine which maintains that the Son existed only in germ (σπερματικῶς) before his generation, and he acquired his real properties and fully existed only subsequent to his generation.26 Eunomius articulates this thought in the following passage: Our statements are two, he [i.e., Basil of Caesarea] says: that before his own begetting (πρὸ τῆς ἰδίας γεννήσεως) the substance (οὐσίαν) of the Only-begotten did not exist (μὴ εἶναι), and that having been begotten it exists before all things; he proves neither of these statements to be false. He dare not say that he was before his original begetting and constitution (ἀνωτάτω γεννήσεως καὶ συστάσεως), since the nature (φύσεως) of the Father and the judgment of the wise refute this. For what wise man could accept a son to exist (ὄντα) and be begotten (γεννητόν) before his original begetting (πρὸ τῆς ἀνωτάτω γεννήσεως), since one who exists without begetting (χωρὶς γεννήσεως) needs no begetting in order to be what he is (πρὸς τὸ εἶναι ὅ ἐστι)?27

The same idea occurs as well in other Eunomian pages of the same tractate. In AA 3.8 it receives probably one of its clearest formulations: ‘God, being without begetting (χωρὶς γεννήσεως), is also before the one begotten (πρὸ τοῦ γεννηθέντος)’, and a little further on, ‘he who has his being (τὸ εἶναι) from begetting, before he was begotten (πρὶν γεννηθῆναι), was not (οὐκ ἦν).’28 A final passage will show us that Eunomius further details this doctrine in Apologia apologiae and makes a step toward Aetius’ doctrine of germinal existence of the Son before his generation. However, instead of asserting that the Son existed only in germ, not fully, Eunomius deems that the Son did not exist in the proper sense of the word: Not existing (οὐκ ὤν), nor strictly existing (οὐδὲ κυρίως ὤν) … he who is in the bosom (ὁ ἐν κόλποις ὤν) of Him who is (τοῦ ὄντος), he who is ‘in a beginning’ (ἐν ἀρχῇ ὤν), and who is ‘with God’ (πρὸς τὸν θεὸν ὤν), though Basil ignores this qualification and predicate, and distorts the title of Him who is (τοῦ ὄντος), against the truth.29

Since Enomius does not pay much attention to the third οὐσία, the Holy Spirit, we may draw a partial conclusion at this point. While some elements of 26

See Aetius, Synt. 9. Eunomius, AA III 6 (Gregory, CE III 6.23; GNO II, 194; SVigChr 124, 157 slightly modified). 28 Eunomius, AA III 8 (Gregory, CE III 8.27; GNO II, 248; SVigChr 124, 194). See also Eunomius, AA III 6 (Gregory, CE III 7.15; GNO II, 220; SVigChr 124, 174). ‘For it was right and proper, he says, to beget the Son, just when he willed it, with no consequent cause for enquiry among thinking people about why it did not happen before’ (τί μὴ πρότερον). And AA III 8 (Gregory, CE III 7.61; GNO II, 236; SVigChr 124, 184) : ‘[T]he Father is total Virtue and Life and unapproachable Light (ἀπρόσιτον φῶς), and every sublime thought and title; so it is not necessary to postulate, when the Only-begotten Light did not yet exist (τὸ μονογενὲς φῶς οὔπω ἦν), the corresponding darkness in opposition’. 29 Eunomius, AA III 9 (Gregory, CE III 8.34; GNO II, 251; SVigChr 124, 195). 27

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his system may be inspired by the triadic systems of his predecessors, like those proposed by Numenius, the Gnostics, Oracles, Origen, Plotinus, and Eusebius of Caesarea, there is a fundamental distinction. Eunomius does not conceive of his second principle, the οὐσία of the Son, as either ontologically similar to the first, or its co-eternal ontological image, as in the other systems. In spite of the triadic framework of his system, Eunomius’ theoretical interest is rather limited to the Monad of the Unbegotten Father and its connection with the Only-Begotten Son, in fact the creator and the mediator of the universe. In that sense, we may encounter, as in Philo’s system, the central relationship between God and the Logos-Demiurge, the first-principle and the mediating principle begotten from the first without mediation. Equally similar to Philo, as seen above, Eunomius places the Logos in an ambiguous ontological condition, on the fringe between angelic and divine condition, as an Angel of God and a God of creation. Likewise as in Philo, the sacred biblical name ‘I AM’ is ascribed to God the Father rather than to the Son, as in the large majority of pre-Nicene Christian interpretations. It is also worth mentioning that Gregory of Nyssa already observed that Eunomius’ doctrines were similar to Philo’s, from whom he borrowed some ideas and even expressions. One of them, for example, states that, before generating things, God ‘controls His own power’ (κρατεῖ τῆς ἰδίας δυνάμεως).30 However, in contradistinction to Philo, Eunomius does not envision the Logos, or the second οὐσία, as an image or imitation of the firstprinciple.

A Hierarchy of Natures (φύσεις) Regarding the meaning of the notion of φύσις in Apologia apologiae, I would note that, while Eunomius’ concept of οὐσία refers to an individual substance, an entity, φύσις instead denotes its nature, which may belong either to one individual entity or a set of entities. Φύσις, therefore, connotes a specific ontological condition in which that entity, or individual substance, exists. We are told, for instance, that God is unbegotten by nature (φύσει).31 The Father’s nature, which is uniquely and truly divine, is beyond any communion or similarity with created natures, including the φύσις of the Son. Thus, Eunomius argues that ‘truth does not attest of anything that is connatural with God (τῷ θεῷ συμφυΐαν)’.32 Additionally, Eunomius envisions individual substances organized in a certain hierarchy according to the nature (φύσις) of each individual οὐσία. The world, 30

See Gregory, CE III 7.8-9 (GNO II, 217-8). Eunomius, AA II 5 (Gregory, CE II 534; GNO I, 382). Eunomius also states that God’s ‘nature is the unbegottenness (ἀγεννησία ἡ φύσις)’; see Gregory of Nyssa, CE II 23 (GNO I, 233). 32 Eunomius, AA II 8 (Gregory, CE II 605; GNO I, 403). My trans. 31

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therefore, encompasses an order (τάξις) of natures which determines the ontological order of realities, and in particular the one according to which the Father is greater than the Son. Furthermore, human predication, in its turn, reflects this order and mirrors the relationships between the real substances. Thus, Eunomius indicates that calling the Son the ‘begotten substance’ (γεννηθεῖσα οὐσία) reflects the ontological relationship between the Father and the Son which is part of this ‘natural order’ (φυσικὴ τάξις) of substances.33 Language seems to be God’s creation and a reflection of the world. In what concerns the sensible things of the universe Eunomius explains: ‘But from these things, … as it were from laws publicly established, it is apparent that God appointed suitable and particular names for the natures (ταῖς φύσεσι).’34 Φύσις, however, is ontologically more important than οὐσία because it determines or delineates the way an individual substance exists, its rank or place in the universal hierarchy, as well as its specific ways of acting or operating in the world, its ἐνέργεια, and the quality or nature of its products. Thus, God the Father generates the Son, the Son creates the world, while the things of the universe act according to their own species and particular capacities, and produce works specific to their condition. Consequently, the hierarchy of entities as well as that of their activities and that of their products generated in creation systematically follow the universal order of the hierarchy of natures.

Two Anti-Nicene Eunomian Arguments Eunomius employs this theological vision in one of his critiques of the Nicene ὁμοούσιον. One may remember that already in the 350s, the authors of the pro-Nicene alliance (Didymus of Alexandria at that time, and later the Cappadocians), argued that the identity of the three divine persons’ activity in creation is a clear proof of their identity of substance, of their consubstantiality. Eunomius’ reply to this argument was that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit do not have identical activities because their substances are different, and their natures are actually different. Then he assumes that the appropriate method of investigation should start from substances, as they are primary, and from them infer something about activities, therefore not from activities, as the pro-Nicenes do. This is one of the cases in which their arguments are not contradictory because they are formulated in two distinct grammars. According to the Nicenes, it is 33

See Eunomius, AA III 1 (Gregory, CE III 1.4 and 119; GNO II, 4 and 44). Eunomius, AA II 2 (Gregory, CE II 408; GNO I, 345). Trans. Stewart G. Hall, in Lenka Karfíková et al. (eds), Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium II. An English Version with Supporting Studies. Proceedings of the 10th International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa (Olomouc, September 15-18, 2004), SVigChr 82 (Leiden, 2007), 59-203, 151. 34

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logical that, if two entities have identical activities, then they have the same substance because only entities of the same substance, or consubstantial, have identical activities. But this is true in a Nicene metaphysical grammar in which οὐσία denotes the common substance or stuff. The Nicenes do not conceive any ontological difference and degree within the realm of the divine, therefore no difference or degree of divinity between the Father and the Son, and no degree of divinity among their demiurgic actions. To the contrary, in an Arian metaphysical grammar, as the one Eunomius articulates, οὐσία denotes an individual substance. Eunomius argues that individual substances are greater or less, therefore their activities are hierarchically distinct, according to the substance and also regarding the type of works they may accomplish. Thus, the activities which created the things of the world – angels, stars, human beings – cannot be the same, but distinct and proportional to the quality of these final products. Eunomius reproaches the Nicenes that they mix all creatures making all of them products of a single type of divine activity. Hence, Eunomius supposes that, if the products are different, then activities are different, and then individual substances are different. However, his argument is construed within an Antiochene framework which allows ontological degrees in the divine realm, and envisions the Father as more divine than the Son, and, furthermore, the Father’s activities as more divine than the Son’s. Within this metaphysical grammar, Eunomius further infers that, while the Son’s activity deals with sensible things and creates the world, the Father’s activity is not applied to sensible things but only generates the noetic Son: The activities which accompany the substances (τῶν ταῖς οὐσίαις παρεπομένων ἐνεργειῶν) and the names appropriate (προσφυῶν ὀνομάτων) to them of course should be treated together for the comprehensive statement of the whole doctrine. Yet again, since each of these substances both is and is perceived to be absolutely simple (ἁπλῆς) and altogether singular in its own rank (ἰδίαν ἀξίαν), and since the activities are defined at the same time as their works (τοῖς ἔργοις), and the works match the activities of those who effected them, there is surely every necessity both that the activities accompanying each of the beings are lesser and greater, and that some occupy the first and others the second rank (τάξιν), and in sum that they reach the same degree of difference (διαφοράν) as their works (τὰ ἔργα) reach. For it would not be right to speak of the same activity (τὴν αὐτὴν ἐνέργειαν) by which he made the angels, or the stars and heaven, or man; but just as works may be senior to and more honourable than other works, in the same degree also one of a truly religious mind would say that one activity excels another, in as much as the same activities (τῶν αὐτῶν ἐνεργειῶν) produce identical works (ταὐτότητα τῶν ἔργων), and varied works (τῶν παρηλλαγμένων ἔργων) reveal varied activities (παρηλλαγμένας τὰς ἐνεργείας).35

Consequently, Eunomius and the Nicenes construe differently the argument concerning the divine activity because their foundational metaphysical grammars 35

Eunomius, AA I 2a (Gregory, CE I 151-3; GNO I, 72-3; SVigChr 148, 101 slightly modified).

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are different. While the Nicene metaphysics of one common substance does not admit degrees within the divine realm and among the divine activities, the Eunomian metaphysical grammar regards οὐσία as an individual substance and allows ontological degrees among the divine persons and among their activities. However, Eunomius’ argument is not very clear, because even if the three divine persons had distinct activities in creation, as he asserts, in an Antiochene-inspired grammar, they would still be divine actions of different types and different degrees of divinity. Hence, the Nicene expression may be valid even within this metaphysical grammar: if the Son or the Spirit is able to accomplish divine actions, then he is divine. Another significant aspect of the Apologia apologiae is that Eunomius shifted the focus of his criticism from the Homoiousians and their doctrine of the likeness of substance to the Nicenes and their doctrine of consubstantiality. Furthermore, his main argument against the Nicene ὁμοούσιον is finally one regarding their understanding of οὐσία. However, even in this case Eunomius does not challenge the Nicene understanding of οὐσία as common substance, but the fact that they allot or ascribe the same substance to the Father and the Son. Then, he does not continue the argument ad absurdum in line with the Nicene hypothesis of understanding οὐσία as common substance but further articulates his argument within the limits of his metaphysical grammar which understands οὐσία as an individual substance and predicates three substances. It is true, in fact, only within the Eunomian grammar that, if one ascribes divinity to all first three substances then the three substances may be without principle or beginning (ἄναρχος). And it is also only within this grammar that Eunomius may conclude that there is a contradiction that the Son is both ingenerate as a first-principle and generated from the Father: For you above all are guilty of these errors, since you have attributed (διακληρώσαντες) the same substance (τὴν αὐτὴν οὐσίαν) to the Begetter (τῷ γεννήσαντι) and to the Begotten (τῷ γεννεθέντι). Consequently ridicule for these things is an inescapable trap you have laid for yourselves, since justice seems to base the verdict against you on your own words. For either you suppose that without beginning (ἀνάρχως) these substances (τὰς οὐσίας) are distinct from each other (ἀλλήλων κεχωρίσθαι), and by putting one of them into the class of Son through a begetting, and in contending that the one who is without beginning (τὸν ἀνάρχως ὄντα) as generated by the one who is (ὑπὸ τοῦ ὄντος γενέσθαι), you are subject to your own ridicule – since to the one you imagine to be unbegotten (ὃν γὰρ ἀγέννητον εἶναι) you also attribute begetting by another (τὴν παρ᾿ ἑτέρου γέννησιν) –, or else by confessing one single substance without beginning (μίαν καὶ μόνην ἄναρχον … οὐσίαν), and then circumscribing it into Father and Son by the begetting, you will say that the unbegotten substance (τὴν ἀγέννητον οὐσίαν) has itself been begotten by itself (παρ᾿ ἑαυτῆς γεγεννῆσθαι).36

36

Eunomius, AA. I 2a (Gregory, CE I 476-7; GNO I, 164; SVigChr 148, 159 slightly modified).

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In contradistinction, the Nicene grammar admits only one common substance, while the hypostasis of the Son may be eternally begotten from the Father. Thus, Basil of Caesarea’s previous answer to Eunomius was to reject the synonymy between ‘eternal’ and ‘ingenerate,’ and to assert that the Son is eternal but not unbegotten.37 Eunomius further comments that there is another metaphysical possibility to understand the Nicene common substance, yet this second way implies another contradiction. Thus, they may understand it as a unique substance without principle from which the Father and the Son are circumscribed through the process of begetting. However, in this case the Father would be both ingenerate (as it is commonly accepted) and also generated from that first substance without principle, which is contradictory. Nevertheless, once again, Eunomius envisions this hypothetical first οὐσία without principle as an individual substance which may beget other entities or individual substances. This is actually not the Nicene understanding of οὐσία as common substance, which is not an entity but the common essence, stuff, or way of existence shared by the three divine hypostases. Eunomius articulates his argument, therefore, within a different metaphysical grammar or framework than the Nicenes. Concluding Remarks To conclude, I have argued in this article that Eunomian theology has to be conceived as a particular metaphysical grammar generated from the specific meanings of its basic notions: ousia, physis, hypostasis, aggenetos. In large proportion, Eunomius shares this metaphysical grammar with Arius, Eusebius of Nicomedia, Asterius, and Aetius. By its internal logic, this metaphysical grammar leads to the central ontological conclusion which Arius formulated and was further championed by Eusebius, Asterius, Aetius, and Eunomius: The Son did not exist (in the proper sense) before his generation from the Father. Thus, if one understands ousia as an individual substance, as in the Antiochene metaphysics, and the Father is the first substance, then a second substance cannot be fully divine. A second substance cannot be eternal and without beginning (anarchos), or unbegotten (agennetos), because it would become a second first-principle, which is a metaphysical impossibility. For that reason, Arius and his followers, including Eunomius, strongly defended the thesis that the Son cannot exist before his generation. Eunomius preserves certain theological elements from this Antiochene trajectory, such as the understanding of ousia and hypostasis as an individual entity, 37

See Basil of Caesarea, CE II 17. On this topic see also Mark DelCogliano, ‘The Influence of Athanasius and the Homoiousians on Basil of Caesarea’s Decentralization of “Unbegotten”’, JECS 19 (2011), 197-223.

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and two of its main metaphysical consequences – the subordination of the Son, and the rejection of the Nicene homoousion. On the contrary, the radical subordination of the Son to the point of conceiving him as a creature without co-eternal existence with the Father (without existence before his generation) and without ontological likeness with the Father (excepting that of will and activity) definitely severed Eunomius from the Antiochene trajectory and tightly connected him with the theological visions proposed by Arius, Asterius, and Aetius. Another specific element of the Eunomian metaphysical grammar is that the notion of physis denotes the nature of a certain entity. Thus, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit do not share the same physis, as the pro-Nicenes would argue, but each of them owns a distinct nature, a doctrine previously professed by Arius and Asterius. All entities, in fact, form a hierarchy of substances determined by the hierarchy of their natures. Eunomius does not change his metaphysical grammar from the first apology to the second one, but only specifies a few details. First, the Trinity is one of three individual substances. Second, the Father does not have communion with the Son. Third, the Son existed before his generation only as a potentiality, without a proper or actual existence. Lastly, Eunomius focuses his criticism on such key Nicene views as the doctrine of consubstantiality and the doctrine of common divine activity in creation. Eunomius’ metaphysical system cannot be simply qualified as Platonist or Aristotelian, but as one which employs notions and conceptions from various philosophical trends. He envisions a triad of principles as the Platonists but does not see the first principle in communion with the second one and the second as the image or imitation of the first. He envisions ousia as an individual substance like the Aristotelians, and also develops a doctrine of conceptualisations (epinoia), which is a classical Stoic concept. In spite of making philosophy a leading method of his thought, Eunomius cannot be associated with a particular philosophical trend but rather with a theological one, Arianism.

John Chrysostom and Democracy Constantine A. BOZINIS, Aristotle University, Thessaloniki, Greece

ABSTRACT Although in a modern bibliography we encounter occasional references to John Chrysostom’s attitude toward monarchy – the political regime during the Roman period in which he lived – there has been no discussion of his convictions regarding ancient democracy. Nevertheless, the term dēmokratia (= democracy) appears twice in Chrysostom’s writings – once even in reference to the apostolic Church of Jerusalem and its pioneer system of organization. In the corpus Chrysostomicum, there are also occurrences of both the adjective dēmotikos (= democratic) which John uses to characterize his ecclesiastical office, as well as the nouns isonomia and isēgoria in the frequent praises which the father sings about the Church, extolling the equality of the faithful in her bosom. Moreover, as I have had the opportunity to show in a previous work, John knows well the philosophical conversation carried out in antiquity regarding democracy and makes use of the arguments for and against the democratic polity as formulated by Plato and Aristotle (K. Bosinis, Johannes Chrysostomus über das Imperium Romanum: Studie zum politischen Denken der Alten Kirche [Mandelbachtal, Cambridge, 2005], 79-90 and note 28 on p. 86). The evidence which we collect from the homiletic work of Chrysostom proves that he was not indifferent to democracy. But is this evidence sufficient for us to elicit his view of the political arrangement in ancient Greece? This is the question posed in this paper and which we will attempt to answer through a careful juxtaposition and analysis of select passages from Chrysostom’s works.

Already in the 19th century, John Chrysostom began to attract the interest of researchers from a wide range of academic disciplines: theologians, historians, economists, sociologists, and political scientists. Many considered him a forerunner of the modern labour movement and saw in his preaching similarities with the communist manifesto.1 Others discerned in his person a spiritual descendant of Plato or of Zenon and the Stoics of the Roman period,2 while yet 1

Karl Kautsky, Die Geschichte des Sozialismus in Einzeldarstellungen, vol. I/1: Die Vorläufer des neuen Sozialismus. Von Platon bis zu Wiedertäufern (Stuttgart, 1895), 30-1; Theo Sommerlad, Das Wirtschaftsprogramm der Kirche des Mittelalters: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Nationalökononmie und zur Wirtschaftsgeschichte des ausgehenden Altertums (Leipzig, 1903), 147-8. 2 Otto Schilling, Reichtum und Eigentum in der altkirchlichen Literatur: Ein Beitrag zur sozialen Frage (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1908), 119-20; Robert von Pöhlmann, Geschichte der sozialen Frage und des Sozialismus in der antiken Welt, vol. 2: Rom und das Römische Reich,

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 245-253. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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others thought him a fanatical monk who was supposedly dead set on turning the capital of the Imperium Romanum into a gigantic monastery.3 Indeed, criticism is not lacking for his radical ideas: naive, romantic, dreamer, inconsistent, chameleon, a flatterer of authority, caesaropapist following in the footsteps of Eusebius of Caesarea. All of these are but a few of the ways that he has been described in the international academic literature.4 * * * Despite the systematic engagement of academic research with this great Father of the Church, an important aspect of his personality seems to have been completely disregarded: his attitude toward ancient democracy. Yet, his works contain a plethora of clues which indicate that he had a deep familiarity with this ancient form of government. In the first place, this is seen in his understanding of his own role as a spiritual leader in the Church. In his view, the priestly office, with which he himself had been invested, is in fact an institutional expression of popular sovereignty; a great distance separates the priesthood from the office of the secular ruler: the latter gives commands which must be carried out by those subject to him – with or without their consent. The spiritual leader, however, cannot implement any decision without first having obtained the consent of the faithful who are listening to him preaching from the pulpit.5 Unlike secular authority, which imposes itself through coercion, threat of punishment and fear, spiritual authority relies exclusively on persuasion using words. Its legitimacy depends on exchanging views and dialogue among the different voices being raised within the Church.6 Chrysostom underscores this fact in one of the homilies commenting on the Epistle to Titus. The political ruler [he says] because he governs autocratically through the legal coercion of the state, it is only natural that he should only very rarely take into account public reprint of the 3rd expanded and corrected ed. of 1925 with prologue by K. Christ (Darmstadt, 1984), 482-6 and Stephan Verosta, Johannes Chrysostomus – Staatsphilosoph und Geschichtstheologe (Vienna, Cologne, Graz, 1960), 87-9, 420-9; additionally, Th. Sommerlad, Das Wirtschaftsprogramm der Kirche des Mittelalters (1903), 154, 161-4. 3 Ernest Tröltsch, Die Soziallehren der christlichen Kirchen und Gruppen, in the collected works of the same: Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 1 (Tübingen, 1923), 126. 4 See Ignaz Seipel, Die wirtschafts-ethischen Lehren der Kirchenväter, Theologische Studien der Leogesellschaft 18 (Vienna, 1907), 106; R. von Pöhlmann, Geschichte der sozialen Frage und des Sozialismus in der antiken Welt (1984), 488; O. Schilling, Reichtum und Eigentum in der altkirchlichen Literatur (1908), 122-3; Francis Dvornik, Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: Origins and Background, Dumbarton Oaks Studies 9, vol. 2 (Washington, DC, 1966), 698-9; Elizabeth A. Clark, Jerome, Chrysostom, and Friends (Lewiston, 1979), 11-2; John N.D. Kelly, Golden Mouth: The story of John Chrysostom ascetic, preacher, bishop (London, 1995), 98, 141 et passim. 5 In 2 Cor. hom. 15.4 (PG 61, 509); In Is. 6:1 hom. 4.5 (PG 56, 126; SC 277, 164); De sac. 2.3 (SC 272, 110-2). 6 See In 1 Thess. hom. 10.1 (PG 62, 455) and the passages from Chrysostomian homilies to which we referred earlier (n. 5).

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opinion. On the other hand, it is very different for he who ought to lead men that have freely entered into obedience to him and who feel themselves beholden to him on account of the responsibility he has taken on. If he goes so far as to ignore the views of others and to decide everything by himself, he will strip his authority of its democratic character and transform it into a tyranny.7

The adjective dēmotikón, which John uses to designate the kind of authority that should be exercised in the Church, is derived from the noun dēmos (the people of a country): the dēmotikón is that which belongs to the dēmos. In the masculine form it denotes the man who comes from the common people or is favourably disposed towards them.8 Consequently, ho dēmotikós – the ‘man of the people’– is, in contrast to the oligarchical or monarchical man, the citizen who belongs to the democratic party, either as a simple member or as a public person who conducts the government for the good of the people and serves their interests. Dēmotikós is how, for example, Demosthenes, in his oration On the Crown, characterizes Solon, the father of Athenian democracy.9 Similarly, Aelius Aristides calls Pericles dēmotikón and praises him for his democratic sensibilities. The great statesman of ancient Athens, he contends, demonstrated in practice his devotion to democratic government: he was a humble man and treated his fellow citizens as equals.10 There is an abundance of evidence in the literature of antiquity that can help us clarify the meaning of the term as John uses it in his sermon. All of it points to the same conclusion: Chrysostom includes the priestly office within a centuries-old democratic tradition, which has its origin in the classical age and is kept alive – chiefly by means of the Second Sophistic – into the late Roman period.11 7 In Tit. hom. 2.5 (PG 62, 672): Ὁ μὲν γὰρ ἔξωθεν ἄρχων, ἐπειδὴ νόμῳ κρατεῖ καὶ ἀνάγκῃ, εἰκότως οὐ πολλαχοῦ τῆς τῶν ἀρχομένων γνώμης κοινωνεῖ· ὁ μέντοι ἑκόντων ὀφείλων ἄρχειν, καὶ χάριν αὐτῷ τῆς ἀρχῆς εἰδότων, ἂν οὔτω τὸ πρᾶγμα καταστήσῃ, ὡς ἀπὸ τῆς οἰκείας γνώμης τὰ πάντα ποιεῖν, καὶ μηδενὶ μεταδιδῷ λόγου, τυραννικώτερον μᾶλλον ἢ δημοτικώτερον τὴν ἐπιστασίαν πεποίηται. Therefore, according to John, the consent of the people to the decisions of the Church hierarchy is necessary to a greater or lesser degree. He himself, however, confesses how difficult this is to obtain. He expresses his bitterness about the insults that are hurled against him daily by those who disagree with him or feel that they were attacked in his preaching. In contrast to the secular ruler, the bishop is permanently in the sights of critics and must defend his words and actions before the masses (In Ac. hom. 3.4 [PG 60, 39]). 8 See in LSJ, ‘δημοτικός, -ή, -όν’, revised and augmented ed. with a supplement (Oxford, 1996), 387. 9 Or. XVIII (De cor.) 6. 10 Or. IIIK (In Plat.) 13. 11 Nostalgia for classical democracy is a common feature in the writings of the Greek intellectuals of the Atticizing movement and the Second Sophistic – despite the admiration that they, of course, had for Roman authority. The Imperium Romanum is praised as the ‘common democracy of the earth’ (κοινὴ τῆς γῆς δημοκρατία) by Aelius Aristides while its founder, Octavius Augustus, was the model of a popular leader who respected democratic liberties, according to Dio Cassius. See Or. XXVIK (Ad Rom.) 60-1 and Hist. rom. XLVII 8, 1 respectively. Specifically, for the dialectic of democratic-tyrannical (δημοτικόν-τυραννικόν) that John uses to explain to his flock the difference between the spiritual and worldly authority, see Plutarch, Romul. (Vit.

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Concord between leader and people, however, is not the only feature that the Church shares with the democratic constitution, according to John. In the bosom of the Church, the natural equality of human beings is also restored, which was severely impaired by the Fall of Adam and the contamination of the human race by evil and sin. In his homilies, John continuously returns to the saying of Paul in Galatians that ‘there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female (…) in Christ’ (RSV). Going even a step further than the apostle, Chrysostom will proclaim the abolition of all class distinctions within the Church. ‘If in Christ there is neither slave nor free, how much more so can we say that there is neither king nor subject’, he will say in an oration on the Epistle to the Romans,12 while elsewhere he emphasizes the equal rights that the rich and poor enjoy in the Church: ‘The same table, the same paten and chalice, the same spiritual food is offered to all who pass the threshold of the Christian church’, he states in his characteristic way.13 John struggles with great determination to uproot from the hearts of his listeners the worldly mentality, according to which the value of a man is measured by his money, education, birth and social standing. For Chrysostom, the cornerstone of the Church is the equality of all the members making up the mystical body of Jesus Christ – a position completely in accord with the principles of democracy.14 It is worth noting that the father usually makes reference to the equality of the faithful using the terms isotimia or homotimia (meaning sameness of value or honour) but, in certain instances, he gives preference to other terms with the same meaning but which are much more ideologically charged. For example, he uses the word isonomia (equality of rights),15 which refers directly to ancient democracy for many reasons, but above all because it was the original name for the regime that was inaugurated in Athens in 510 BC with the driving out parall.) XXVI 1; Lysand. (Vit. parall.) XIX 1-2; Demosth. (Vit. parall.) VIII 4-6; Dionysios of Halic., Ant. rom. VII 30, 1; Lucian, Phalar. I 2; Libanius, Decl. I 163; XVI 30; XXIII 18; XXXVI 51; XXXVII 11. 27; XLIII 75-6; Progymn. VII 5, 6; Sopater, Diair. zetem. VIII 212 Walz; Epictetus, frg. 5 Schenkl. For the ideological features of the Second Sophistic and the revitalization of patriotic sentiment among the Greeks, which its representatives pursue with constant references to the past, see Ewen L. Bowie, ‘Greeks and their Past in the Second Sophistic’, Past & Present 46 (1970), 3-41 and Simon Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classisism, and Power in the Greek World, AD 50-250 (Oxford 19982), ch. 3. 12 In Rom. hom. 1.3 (PG 60, 399). 13 In 1 Cor 10:1 5 (PG 51, 249). 14 See, among a plethora of other excerpts from Chrysostom’s corpus: Res. Chr. 3 (PG 50, 437-8); In 1 Cor. 11:19 2 (PG 51, 255-6) and 4 (PG 51, 258); In Ps. 48.1 (PG 55, 223); In Mt. hom. 19.4 (PG 57, 278-9); In Mt. hom. 72.3 (PG 58, 671); In Jo. hom. 15.3 (PG 59, 102) and hom. 26.3 (156-7); In Rom. hom. 1.3 (PG 60, 399); hom. 23.2 (610) and hom. 31.3 (671); In 1 Cor. hom. 30.1 (PG 61, 250-1) and 30.3 (PG 61, 253); hom. 31.2-3 (PG 61, 260); In 2 Cor. hom. 17.2 (PG 61, 519-20); In Eph. hom. 10.1 (PG 62, 75-6) and hom. 11.1 (PG 62, 79-80); In Phil. hom. 6.3 (PG 62, 222); In Philm. hom. 2.2 (PG 62, 711); In Heb. hom. 10.3 (PG 63, 87). 15 In Mt. hom. 69.4 (PG 58, 654); In Ps. 48:17 hom. 2.2 (PG 55, 514) and 4 (PG 55, 517-8); In Job 10 (PG 64, 516B-C).

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of the dynasty of Peisistratus and the reforms of Cleisthenes.16 Another term, isēgoria (equal freedom of speech), is also a concept inherent in the rights of the citizens of a democracy, and John does not hesitate to use it to emphasise the freedom that prevails in the Church in stark contrast to the absolutism of wider society with its oppression of the weak and the poor. He describes in vivid terms the moment when the church building resounds with the voices of the faithful as they chant all together during the Divine Liturgy. And no one could say [he notes] that the master sings with greater boldness while the slave does not dare breathe a word; neither does the rich man open his mouth to sing while the poor man must hold his tongue; nor the man raises his voice and the woman stays on his side mute and speechless, but the whole abnormality of life is abolished at once and all become one in the same choir. There is complete freedom of speech and earth imitates heaven.17

Ἰσοτιμία, ἰσονομία, ἰσηγορία: Chrysostom sees these democratic ideals being realized in the Church of his time, which was gradually being liberated from the manipulation of the state and establishing itself as an independent institution in the public sphere.18 * * * However, this romance between Christianity and democracy that we have been watching unfold in Chrysostom’s writings is interrupted suddenly when we turn our attention away from John’s praises for the Church to examine his judgments regarding the common people. He harbours no illusions about the quality of the men belonging to the lower classes of society. He harshly criticises their superficial ideas for not standing up to logical scrutiny, and he points out one by one each of their moral failings to them: the envy that they feel toward the rich, which leads them to ingratitude towards God and to blasphemy against Him;19 their cunning and deceit, the ease with which they lie in order 16 See Herodotus, Hist. ΙΙΙ 80: Πλῆθος δὲ ἄρχον πρῶτα μὲν οὔνομα πάντων κάλλιστον ἔχει, ἰσονομίην and Scolia anonyma n. 10-3: Αἰεὶ σφῷν κλέος ἔσσεται κατ’ αἶαν/ φίλταθ’ Ἁρμόδιε καὶ Ἀριστόγειτον/ ὅτι τὸν τύραννον κτανέτην/ ἰσονόμους τ’ Ἀθήνας ἐποιησάτην (= Anthologia Lyrica Graeca, vol. 2, ed. Ernest Diehl [Leipzig, 1925], 185). Relevant explanatory remarks concerning the above passages in Gregory Vlastos, ‘Isonomia’, AJPh 74 (1953), 337-66. Cf. Jakob A.O. Larsen, ‘The Judgment of Antiquity on Democracy’, CP 49 (1954), 2, 5-6. 17 De st. praes. 2 (PG 63, 487). Cf. In Is. 45:7 2 (PG 56, 145) and Ps.-Chrysostomus, In Pasch. serm. 6:42 (SC 27, 163): ὅπου Χριστός, ἐλευθερία, πάντων ἰσηγορία, ἰσονομία, ἰσοτιμία. 18 See Averil Cameron, The Later Roman Empire: AD 284-430, Greek trans. by Johanna Kralli (Athens, 2000), 120-3, 178, 297, who correctly considers the institutional independence of the Church vis-à-vis the state and the influence of the bishops on the public life of the Empire as a significant difference between the Rome of the principatus and that of the dominatus. 19 Oppugn. 2.5 (PG 47, 338); Laz. 1.11 (PG 48, 978); Pan. mart. 1.2 (PG 50, 648); Pecc. fr. 2 (PG 51, 356); Quod nem. laed. 10 (PG 52, 470-1); In Ps. 4.9 (PG 55, 53-4); In 2 Cor. hom. 20.1 (PG 61, 538).

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to make economic profit; furthermore, their inhumanity towards those who are dependent on them or who turn to them in moments of need.20 John also considers the pathological love of the masses for spectacles and athletic contests a serious moral failing;21 he becomes enraged when he addresses the senators and state officials who organize these events so that they can receive the acclamation of the crowd in the city’s hippodrome and theatre.22 In his opinion, this is an impermissible concession to the masses’ lower instincts. If you will ask one of the politicians who incur these great expenses [Chrysostom says] why he spends so much gold and for what purpose he makes such expenditures, his answer would be nothing else but ‘to earn the favour of the people’. If you were to ask him again ‘who are the people?’, he will tell you: ‘A mass full of noise and turbulence, fools for the most part, which are tossed blindly to and fro like the waves of the sea, often composed not of one but many contradictory opinions’. Yet when you have such masses for your master, are you not then the most miserable of all men?

says Chrysostom concluding his imaginary dialogue with the representatives of the political establishment of his day.23 John’s description of the people goes beyond the usual admonitions against the sinfulness of the faithful. The paternal manner in which he usually addresses the congregation, criticising them for the slackening of their morals and their errors, is completely absent from his preaching about the spectacles organised by the authorities of the Roman state.24 The masses that flock to the theatre and the hippodrome to enjoy these sights are identified, as we see, with a [π]ρᾶγμα θορύβου γέμον καὶ ταραχῶδες, καὶ ἐξ ἀνοίας τὸ πλέον συγκείμενον, ἁπλῶς φερόμενον κατὰ τὰ τῆς θαλάττης κύματα – in other words, with a mob, filling the urban centres of the Empire, which is fickle, capricious and unstable, changing its moods from moment to moment going wherever the wind blows. What is the point of spending huge fortunes to satisfy its appetites, looking for 20 If it is arrogance that characterizes the members of the upper classes, then it is lying, according to Chrysostom, which is the negative quality of the poor at the bottom of the social pyramid. See In 2 Cor. hom. 13.4 (PG 61, 496): Τί οὖν ἡ πενία ἐλάττωμα ἔχειν δοκεῖ; Ψεῦδος. Τί δὲ ὁ πλοῦτος; ‘Υπερηφανίαν. Also, In Mt. hom. 61.2 (PG 58, 591); In 1 Thess. hom. 10.4 (PG 62, 460-2). 21 See Leonardo Lugaresi, Il teatro di Dio. Il problema degli spettacoli nel cristianesimo antico, Supplementi di Adamantius 1 (Brescia, 2008), 695-812. 22 See, for example Oppugn. 3.7 (PG 47, 359); In Gen. hom. 20.5 (PG 53, 173); In Ps. 48.11 (PG 55, 240); In Rom. hom. 17.3-5 (PG 60, 568-72); In 1 Cor. hom. 12.4-5 (PG 61, 101-3); [Ps.-Chrysostomus?] De inan. gl. 3-7 (SC 188, 74-82). 23 In Jo. hom. 3.5 (PG 59, 44). 24 Specifically, the members of the city council of Antioch, as the imaginary dialogue of Chrysostom with the politicians (politeuomenous) is found in his series of homilies on the Gospel of John, which are dated to the first phase of his priestly career (± 391), before his elevation to bishop of Constantinople. For the funding of spectacles by the city councilmen of Antioch, see John H.W.G. Liebeschuetz, Antioch: City and imperial administration in the Later Roman Empire (Oxford, 1972), 144-9 and Paul Petit, Libanius et la vie municipale à Antioche au IVe siècle après J.-C., Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 62 (Paris, 1955), ch. 3 – among a rich secondary literature on the topic.

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its support?25 His portrayal of the masses has political resonances that would have sounded familiar to any well-educated hearer of late antiquity, Christian or pagan, brought up with a classical paideia. Basically, Chrysostom has placed in the mouth of his interlocutor a stereotypical argument against democracy with a long history reaching back to the 5th century BC. We encounter it for the first time in Herodotus, in the context of a comparison that the ancient historian undertakes between the constitutions of monarchy, oligarchy and democracy.26 Afterwards, we meet it again in Pseudo-Xenophon, Aristophanes, Euripides, Plato and, in the centuries after Christ, in Dion Chrysostom and Plotinus. They all point out the foolishness of the people and their ignorance of public affairs. They ridicule also the noise of the mob’s cries, cheering and jeering when gathered in the public assembly, and its capricious and frivolous behaviour when making decisions. These writers liken the people sometimes to a raging fire, at other times to a rushing river or an overflowing stream and at yet other times to rough seas whipped up by the winds.27 It is very interesting how John resorts to this commonly-used argument against democracy for the needs of his polemic against the funding of spectacles by the Roman nobles. He does not seem at all disposed to doubt the argument’s validity. Quite the opposite! In the dialogue that he opens with the politeuomenous from the pulpit of the Church, he defends its correctness against any possible objections. He pours scorn on the mobs which fill the tiers of the theatre and the hippodrome, calling them ‘nobodies’ with ‘mistaken and deluded judgment’. Then, he turns again toward the politician who seeks the acclamations of the crowd and asks him: 25 In Jo. 3.5 (PG 59, 44). Cf. In Gen. hom. 5.6 (PG 53, 53-4) and hom. 8.6 (PG 53, 75); In Ps. 111.6 (PG 55, 298); In Mt. hom. 40.4-5 (PG 57, 444-5); In Jo. hom. 77.3 (PG 59, 413-4); In Eph. hom. 12.1 (PG 62, 89); In Tit. hom. 2.3 (PG 62, 674); De sac. 2.5 (SC 272, 122), as well as the passages that we quoted above in n. 22, in which the people’s vulgarity is likewise emphasized: their lack of learning, their foolishness, their superficiality and the ease with which they change their opinion about a public person, deifying him one moment and cursing him with derogatory characterisations the next. 26 ‘Nothing is more foolish and violent than a useless mob’, Herodotus writes, transmitting in his work the criticism of democracy advanced by the supporters of the oligarchical faction. In their opinion, even the hubristic authority of a tyrant is to be preferred to government of a city by the plebs. ‘Whatever the despot does, he does with knowledge’, they say, ‘but the people have not even that; how can they have knowledge who have not learned or seen for themselves what is best, but always rush headlong and drive blindly onward, like a river in spate?’ (Hist. III 81, trans. Alfred D. Godley, LCL II, 107). See already in Homer, Il. II 209-10 and 394-497 (Jacqueline de Romilly, Problèmes de la démocratie grecque [Paris, 1975], 27 and n. 22 on the same page). 27 Ps.-Xenophon, Athen. polit. I 5; Aristophanes, Equit., 178-93 and 751-5; Acharn., 630-2; Euripides, Orest., 696-703; Suppl., 417-20; Plato, Crit. 44d; Resp. VI, 492b-c; Dio Chrys., Or. III (De regn.) 47-4; Plotinus, Enn. IV 4, 17 and VI 4, 15. See also Plato, Resp. VI, 493a-c, where the gathered population in the Ecclesia of the demos is likened by the philosopher to a ‘great and mighty beast’ (θρέμμα μεγάλον καὶ ἰσχυρόν), which the politician must constantly coax with ploys so that it does not become wild and out of control. Further witnesses from Ancient Greek literature in J. de Romilly, Problèmes de la démocratie grecque (1975), ch. 1.

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If you say that the many, people of no significance on their own, when they gather together, become people of importance, then it is precisely for this reason that you should hold them in contempt. Because if you consider none of them worthy of your attention as individuals, then how much less should they be together, when they gather in a crowd. Because when they gather together, the foolishness of each is added to that of the other and becomes all the greater as the mob increases in size.28

Here yet again Chrysostom directs the mind of his hearers to the past, hearkening back to the political controversies of Ancient Greece. The syllogism which he constructs, with the premise that ‘the many, when they come together, become people of importance’ is the most well-known argument of antiquity in favour of democracy. This same argument Aristotle records in the third book of his Politics, where he examines the question of who should be sovereign in the city.29 The claim of the nobles that they alone should have power, because they possess greater virtue and riches than the masses, is not justified for the Stagirite: it may be that the people is composed of men who as individuals are nothing special; when they come together, however, ‘the virtue and prudence of each’ (μόριον ἀρετῆς καὶ συνέσεως) is added to the that of the other, with the result that together they are superior to the members of the upper class.30 Chrysostom explains Aristotle’s thinking on this point only to then refute it from the pulpit. He replaces the ‘virtue and prudence of each’ which the Greek sage puts in favour of the masses, with the ‘foolishness of each’ (ἡ τῶν καθ’ ἕκαστον ἄνοια), which only increases beyond all measure when the many gather together and form a single whole.31 * * * 28

In Jo. hom. 3.5-6 (PG 59, 44-5). Polit. III 11, 1281a.39-13, 1284a.3. 30 Ibid. III 11, 1281a.40-1281b.15. Cf. in the same book of the Politics 13, 1283b.33-35: ‘Nothing prevents the multitude from being at some time better and richer than the few – not as individuals but considered together as a whole’; also, ibid. 15, 1286a.24-35. 31 ‘For this reason, if one takes each one of them separately, he would perhaps be able to correct them’, John says in this sermon about the people. ‘When, however, they all are gathered together, it is very difficult, since their foolishness too grows and each one always follows the other based on whatever idea comes down into their mind, going here and there like animals’ (In Jo., hom. 3.5 [PG 59, 45]). At first glance, at least, Chrysostom’s attitude toward the people is diametrically opposed to that of Aristotle. It should be noted, however, that the Stagirite does not consider the imposition of the people’s will as an inviolable principle of public life in the city. He takes special care to highlight the limitations, to which the summation argument in favour of democracy is subject: the masses may, by virtue of their cumulative moral and intellectual capabilities, be better than the nobles, on the condition, however, that they possess some rudimentary cultivation and education and are not ‘excessively slavish’ (λίαν ἀνδραπῶδες, Polit. III 11, 1281b.15-21 and 1282b.15-16). For further analysis of the argumentation of Aristotle in his Politics, see Richard Kraut, Aristotle, Founders of Modern Political and Social Thought (Oxford, 2002), 402ff. and J.A.O. Larsen, ‘The Judgment of Antiquity on Democracy’ (1954), 4, 9. The latter calls Aristotle ‘an oligarch who concealed some of his oligarchic leanings behind a democratic vocabulary’ (ibid.). 29

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What was, then, Chrysostom’s view of democracy? Is it possible for us to draw a conclusion based on what we have heard him put forth in his homilies? One may think that perhaps we should accept the view proposed by certain scholars that John did not have solid convictions but changed his view like a chameleon depending on his audience and the circumstances. Does he not betray a certain shallowness of thought and a lack of firm principles with the manner in which he goes back and forth between opposing claims, such as the foolishness of the people, on the one hand, and the value of public opinion, on the other?32 In my opinion, no. Despite the impression that he gives us of sometimes contradicting himself, all of Chrysostom’s positions regarding the question that occupies us are governed by an internal logic, which is clearly discerned when we pay close attention to his homiletic works. Studying them thoroughly, we fall upon a textual witness which, alongside the others that we examined previously, leaves little room for doubt about the coherence of the father’s position on the constitution of classical Greece. John’s position is unambiguous. He states it explicitly when interpreting Paul’s advice in Ephesians, ‘let the wife see that she fears her husband’ (Eph. 5:33): Where there is equality, it is impossible for peace to prevail [he explains to his audience] neither in a household that is democratically governed, nor where there are many leaders. Authority must necessarily be one. This is true everywhere that the flesh prevails [John adds before he goes on to take back the claim which he has just made]. When, however, men are spiritual [he goes on to say] although there is equality among them, peace can still prevail. There were five thousand souls (in the Church of Jerusalem) and no one said that any of his possessions was his own, but each was subject to the other.33

Consequently, the father’s view on the issue of democracy is immediately dependent on the sarx-pneuma dialectic that he draws from the New Testament. When the Holy Spirit, as in the days of Pentecost, is poured out on the world and fills the hearts of men with love, then – yes! – Chrysostom thinks democracy is possible, both in private as well as in public life. Otherwise, it is impossible and, despite the invocation of its highest principles, it can easily become the pretense for the imposition of a harsh regime, like that of the Roman empire, which embellished its autocratic authority by using titles from the glorious past of the res publica34 and distributed free bread and circuses to the mob. 32 Suspicions of ‘chameleonism’ are expressed against Chrysostom by both J.N.D. Kelly, Golden Mouth (1995), 98, 141 and Kirsten Groß-Albenhausen, Imperator christianissimus: Der christliche Kaiser bei Ambrosius und Johannes Chrysostomus (Frankfurt am Main, 1999), 202-3. The supposed shallowness of his thought is highlighted by Chrysostomus Baur, Johannes Chrysostomus und seine Zeit, vol. 1: Antiochien (Munich, 1929), 212, while O. Schilling, Reichtum und Eigentum in der altkirchlichen Literatur (1908), 122-3, insists on his impulsive temperament, to which he attributes his tendency to contradict himself from the one sermon to the other. 33 In Eph. hom. 20.4 (PG 62, 141). 34 See Werner Dahlheim, Geschichte der Römischen Kaiserzeit, Oldenbourg Grundriss der Geschichte 3, 2nd expanded and corrected ed. (Munich, 1989), ch. I/1-2 and, especially, 7-19.

The Human Nature of Homo Oeconomicus: An Anthropological Investigation in the Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew by Saint John Chrysostom1 Nicoleta ACATRINEI, Princeton University, NJ, USA

ABSTRACT Delivered in Antioch (390-398 AD), the Chrysostomian commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, composed of ninety homilies, is recognized as one of the most important works in the Christian literature. Traditionally, this corpus is praised for its excellence in terms of moral teaching regarding wealth, money, greed, etc. The present study proposes an alternative reading of this text through an economic anthropological framework. The study offers an analysis of the desire for riches in the Homilies on Matthew which are screened through the homo oeconomicus concept. As mentioned by John Stuart Mill in his treaty Utilitarianism. Essay on Bentham ([Paris, 1998], 90), ‘the love of money is nevertheless one of the driving forces of human existence and money is even, in many cases, desired in itself and for itself’. The present study concludes that Chrysostom is a theologian of theosis and in this perspective, he invited his auditors to an eschatological understanding of the performative impact of the desire for riches on spiritual progress. The real stake does not consist in becoming morally right, neither to adhere to a catalog of virtues to be practiced and of vices to be avoided, but in the intrinsic excellence of the human nature and the most favorable conditions to reach it.

Introduction – Motivation ‘But oh covetousness!2 All things have become money, for this cause all things are turned upside down. If anyone declares another happy, he mentions this: should he pronounce him wretched, hence is derived the description of wretchedness. And all reckonings are made on this account, how such an one gets rich, how such an one gets poor. Should it be military service, should it be marriage, should it be a trade, should it be what you will that any man takes 1 The author thanks Yannis Papadogiannakis, Wendy Mayer and Chris de Wet for their support and insights related to this paper presented at the Oxford Conference in August 2019. 2 In this study, the references to chrysostomian homilies are based on the bilingual collection Œuvres complètes de Saint Jean Chrysostome, Français-Grecque, édité par l’Abbé Bareille (Paris, 1866-69), and used by Vilfredo Pareto. The correspondence of the Bareille text with the TLG will be provided in the footnotes.

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 255-268. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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in hand, he does not apply to what is proposed, until he see these riches are coming rapidly upon him.’3 This text was recently read in front of an audience composed of people working in the banking system. When asked to guess when and by whom was this text written, the audience responded: ‘it might have been published last week in The Times’. Senseless to say that the audience was speechless when it was told that the text is more than 1400 years old, and that it was delivered in front of an audience from Antioch in a church by John Chrysostom. Indeed, the modernity and the actuality of chrysostomian work is been rediscovered these last twenty years in many articles4 underlying the interest in these works not only for patristic scholarship but also for other fields5. The recent volume on Emotions6 is bringing a significant contribution to this trend. As Yannis Papadogiannakis mentions in his introduction to this volume, ‘a broader framework and the parameters are missing’ and that ‘a broader framework is needed that not only builds on exiting specialized studies but also goes beyond the emphasis placed on any particular emotion to attempt a larger synthesis’. The present study is responding to this call and it is proposing the framework of the economic concept of homo oeconomicus, which provides, among other advantages, an alternative way to approach the topics of emotions. As a matter of fact, an unexplored intersection is that between chrysostomian writings and economics. However, Chrysostom is not completely unknown to economics. As shown in the picture here attached, Chrysostom was read in Greek by one of the most representative founders of the modern economic science, Vilfredo Pareto7. Given the exploratory nature of this intersection, this 3

Homily 90, in Œuvres complètes de Saint Jean Chrysostome (1866-69), XIII 226. Recent works include: Wendy Mayer and Chris de Wet (eds), Revisioning John Chrysostom: New Approaches, New Perspectives (Leiden, 2019); Doru Costache and Mario Baghos (eds), John Chrysostom: Past, Present, Future (Sydney, 2017); Nicoleta Acatrinei, ‘Perspectives of Saint John Chrysostom for the VUCA World’, in S.S. Nandram and P.K. Bindlish (eds), Managing VUCA through Integrative Self-Management (Cham, 2017), 27-43. For more earlier works on Chrysostom and economics, see Nicoleta Acatrinei, ‘Sfântul Ioan Gură de Aur şi homo oeconomicus: de la etică la morală’, Revista Teologică 17 (2007), 168; Nicoleta Acatrinei, Saint Jean Chrysostome et l’Homo Oeconomicus. Une enquête d’anthropologie économique dans les homélies sur l’Évangile de St Matthieu (Rollinsford, NH, 2008); and Nicoleta Acatrinei, ‘Saint Jean Chrysostome (IVe siècle): à propos de business ethics’, Finance & Bien Commun 22 (2005), 89-95 (based on the author’s master thesis from 2004 under the supervision of Prof. Eric Junod and Prof. Guido Palazzo [HEC Lausanne]). 5 For a full review of John Chrysostom research, see W. Mayer and C. de Wet (eds), Revisioning John Chrysostom (2019), and D. Costache and M. Baghos (eds), John Chrysostom: Past, Present, Future (2017). 6 Markus Vinzent and Yannis Papadogiannakis (eds), Emotions, SP 83 (2017). 7 For details on this topic see Conference paper Nicoleta Acatrinei, ‘The Saint and the Economist: a discussion between John Chrysostom and Vilfredo Pareto’, French Patristic Group Meeting, University of Fribourg, Switzerland (2000). 4

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study will limit its aim to a presentation of the potential of such an interdisciplinary study, and an exemplification of how such a research framework can be developed. Therefore, this paper will cast light on the 1) pertinence of such an approach both for Chrysostomian scholarship as well as for the economics field of study, 2) on a potential methodology to implement such a synthesis through an anthropological approach, and 3) exemplifying this methodology by inquiring on the Homilies on Matthew that Chrysostom preached in Antioch. In order to do so, this paper is composed in three sections: Section I will underline the relevance of the chrysostomian contribution to the economic thinking and vice-versa, mainly how economic concepts could help to a new understanding of Chrysostom works; Section II is proposing a methodology able to combine patristics hermeneutics with economic anthropology, while Section III delivers the results of an economic anthropological inquiry into the Homilies on Matthew.

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I. Motivation and Research Questions: the relevance of John Chrysostom’s work for economics and the usefulness of economic concepts in the understanding of Chrysostom’s theology I.1. Chrysostom as a theologian of theosis – four characteristics that makes Chrysostom’s work pertinent for economics The four characteristics that makes Chrysostom himself and Chrysostom’s work relevant and pertinent for economics are as follows: 1. First, Chrysostom’s works are shaping the Christian beliefs and behaviors of Christians in Antioch in a significant way to the point that he is changing the balance of economic power in Constantinople. 2. Second, Chrysostom experienced both wealth and poverty and his audience was composed of very wealthy Christians as well as of poor peasants, craftsmen and slaves.8 As a young man he is acknowledging the problems and the difficulties of managing a big and wealthy house. Later, as a monk living an ascetic life, he experiences poverty and lives among the poor monks on the Silpious Mountains. As a deacon and then as a priest in Antioch, he has the charge of preaching and taking care of the poor, giving him a firsthand information about his community. 3. Third, the central characteristic that makes Chrysostomian writings pertinent for economic thinking is their actuality on key topics such as altruism versus selfishness in economic models, decision theory and heuristics, moral dilemma, mindfulness and wellbeing, ethics and corruption, as well as inequality and distribution, charity and impact faith-based investment, etc. The richness of these topics is determined by the fact that Chrysostom is delivering to his audience the quintessence of a monastic tradition in which he excels, more specifically in teaching the fight of passions and how to foster virtues in daily behaviors, how to free-up the nous and get more accurate dianoia and krisis. Chrysostom is the heir of the Syrian monastic tradition9 which has an extensive knowledge of the human soul and its inner mechanisms, so to say. Chrysostom succeeds to adjust, but not to mitigate, the exigencies of the monastic life for Christians living in the world. 8 Jaclyn L. Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity: John Chrysostom and his Congregation in Antioch (Cambridge, 2006), and Wendy Mayer, ‘Who Came to Hear John Chrysostom Preach? Recovering a Late Fourth-Century Preacher’s Audience’, ETL 76 (2000), 73-87. 9 Chrysostom is ‘A Son of Hellenism’, see Wendy Mayer, ‘A Son of Hellenism: Viewing John Chrysostom’s Anti-Intellectualism Through the Lens of Antiochene Paideia’, in Silke-Petra Bergjan and Susanna Elm (eds), Antioch II. The Many Faces of Antioch: Intellectual Exchange and Religious Diversity in Antioch, CE 350-450 (Tübingen, 2018), 369-90. And he is also the heir of Syrian monasticism. It is at the intersection of these two experiences and knowledge that it is possible to capture Chrysostom teachings full contribution.

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4. Finally, the excellency of his biblical scholarship that Chrysostom has acquired in the Antiochian school as well as during the longue nights of study in the cave where he lived as a monk. This expertise makes his writings an excellent source of knowledge on economics and Christianity based on biblical hermeneutics. The intersection with the economic field is facilitated by a characteristic of Chrysostomian works, à savoir, his focus on human being, her betterment, her perfection as a Christian. The focus on moral and pastoral topics led scholars to consider John Chrysostom’s works through these lenses and define him and his work within this moral/moralistic framework. This article proposes to take this approach at the next level, and to acknowledge the transformative power of Chrysostom’s argumentation based on a sophisticated yet straightforward theology of theosis based on a theology of human genesis and eschatology – these two perspectives going hand in hand. As a result, Chrysostom’s teaching follows a fundamentally theological anthropological methodology. Hence, a theological and even a mystical character of Chrysostomian works, not only a pastoral and homiletic one.10 When disentangling these theological roots, the potential of Chrysostomian works for economic thinking is unveiled, mainly regarding the theoretical concept of homo oeocomicus. An unexpected result, as it is often the case in exploratory research, concerns the contribution of this anthropological economic approach to the research on emotions in patristic studies. Indeed, recently, patristics scholars11 are approaching the topic of emotions in various patristic writers by using 10 Here I join Chris de Wet in challenging the fact the Chrysostom’s works were not given the ‘theological’ character that they deserve. 11 Yannis Papadogiannakis, ‘Introduction’, SP 83 (2017), 1-18; J. David Woodington, ‘Fear and Love: The Emotions of the Household in Chrysostom’, SP 83 (2017), 19-36; Jonathan P. Wilcoxson, ‘The Machinery of Consolation in John Chrysostom’s Letters to Olympias’, SP 83 (2017), 37-72; Mark Therrein, ‘Just an Old-Fashioned Love Song: John Chrysostom’s Exegesis of Ps. 41:1-2’, SP 83 (2017), 73-90; Peter Moore, ‘Deploying Emotional Intelligence: John Chrysostom’s Relational Emotional Vocabulary in his Beatitude Homilies’, SP 83 (2017), 131-8; Clair E. Mesick, ‘The Perils and Virtues of Laughter in the Works of John Chrysostom’, SP 83 (2017), 139-58; Andrew Mellas, ‘Tears of Compunction in John Chrysostom’s on Eutropius’, SP 83 ( 2017), 15972; Maria Verhoeff, ‘Seeking Friendship with Saul: John Chrysostom’s Portrayal of David’, SP 83 (2017), 173-84; Blake Leyerle, ‘Animal Passions. Chrysostom’s Use of Animal Imagery’, SP 83 (2017), 185-202; Justus T. Ghormley, ‘Gratitude: A Panacea for the Passions in John Chrysostom’s Commentary on the Psalms’, SP 83 (2017), 203-16; Brian Dunkle, ‘John Chrysostom’s Community Anger Management’, SP 83 (2017), 217-30; Margaret Blume Fredoso, ‘The Value of Job’s Grief in John Chrysostom’s Commentary on Job: How John Blesses with Job’s Tears’, SP 83 (2017), 271-88; Jesse Siragan Arlen, ‘“Let Us Mourn Continuously”: John Chrysostom and the Early Christian Transformation o Mourning’, SP 83 (2017), 289-312; Martin Hinterberger, ‘Basil of Cesarea and Gregory of Nazainus Speaking about Anger and Envy: Some Remarks on the Fathers’ Methodology of Treating Emotions and Modern Emotion Studies’, SP 83 (2017), 31341.

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different methodologies.12 The present anthropological approach might in fact serve as broader analytical framework that allows not only the completion of a taxonomy of emotions, but also to disentangle their inner systematic interactions and their impact on final motives and behaviors. Therefore, the main research question shaping this inquiry is as following: what is the nature of homo oeconomicus in the Matthean corpus of Chrysostom? And consequently, it is this human nature in line with the homo oeconomicus theory or at the contrary it is opposed to it? What are the main criteria and factors that Chrysostom introduces when analyzing economic motivations and behaviors? Are they different from those introduced by classical and neo-classical homo oeconomicus theory? Could the utilitarian approach be true for Chrysostom works? Can Chrysostomian work be a place of inspiration for contemporary economic thinking? And if yes, how? While patristic literature about Chrysostom works is immensely rich, the questions addressed in this paper were not yet explored as such. The most frequent and preferred topics related to money and wealth in Chrysostomian works turn around philanthropic aspects and about the charity, about the care for poor and about social context.13 We can say, that these patristic studies are implementing a macro-economic approach.14 This article proposes a micro-economic analysis focusing on the economic agent and her individual preferences and choices, and finally on her decision-making processes. Therefore, the present analysis proposes an economic agent-centered approach where the ethos/moral of the economic agent is screened, so to say, at the intersection of economic and religious beliefs and behaviors altogether, resulting in a transformative and performative paradigm. The implementation of such an approach may contribute both to Chrysostomian patristic literature as well as to the economic field. This article is in line and responds to the call expressed by patristic scholars15 to open patristic scholarship to other fields of study and reciprocally to use methods from other fields16 in order to reinterpret patristic texts in new perspectives by using innovative frameworks of analysis.

12 M. Vinzent and Y. Papadogiannakis (eds), Emotions, SP 83 (2017); W. Mayer and C. de Wet (eds), Revisioning John Chrysostom (2019); D. Costache and M. Baghos (eds), John Chrysostom: Past, Present, Future (2017). 13 For example, see Blake Leyerle, ‘John Chrysostom on Almsgiving and the Use of Money’, HTR 87 (1994), 29-47. 14 An original analysis is proposed by Peter Brown in all his writings, but most powerfully done it is in the Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350-550 AD (Princeton, 2013), where he is implementing a mixed method of macro- and micro analysis of the intersection of wealth and Christianity in Late Antiquity. 15 Keynote speech of Wendy Mayer at the Oxford Patristic Conference in August 2019. 16 Speeches of Wendy Mayer and Susanna Elm at the Oxford Patristic Conference 2019.

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These types of analyses constructively challenge accepted views in the fields of study involved (psychology, moral psychology, emotions, cognitive science) as well as in the patristic field. For example, the present analysis, challenges the fields of economics and decision theories in the light of Chrysostomian propositions about the assumptions of homo oeconomicus nature, inclinations and biases. At the same time, a new reading of Chryosostom’s hermeneutics in the light of economic methodology unveils neglected treasures of his contribution to the theological scholarship, as well as to the Late Antiquity field of study.17 I.2. The problem of homo oeconomicus The economic science and most specifically, the debate on homo oeconomicus are at a crossroad. While the classical and neo-classical approaches adopted the assumptions of a human nature characterized by egoism and maximization of one own’s wealth, recent studies in the psychology and economics fields have shown that humans may prefer to cooperate instead of compete, and that they often behave pro-socially, even altruistically. These findings challenge the assumptions of the economic models and force scholars to inquire and to understand why, when and how this is happening. Chrysostom already addressed these questions in his writings and provided sound explanations worthy to be considered in the actual economic debates. To better understand the centrality of the homo oeconomicus concept, a brief historical detour is necessary. The genesis of this concept begins in the Age of Enlightenment, which is teeming with essays on human understanding, natural laws and morality. J. Locke, D. Hume, A. Smith, all of them wrote about human nature. Locke wrote in 1690 his essay on the human understanding in which he formulates the project of a deductive science of morality. Such a discipline would suppose that one starts from a definition of the essential nature of man and his place in the universe – especially with regard to his creator – and that we deduce from it the set of duties that are appropriate for such a nature, both in relation to itself and in relation to God and all other creatures.18

On the other hand, for D. Hume,19 morality is a morality of utility and at the same time of pleasure. Hume speaks of a sympathetic resonance that exists between humans which, added to the necessity of living in collective life, spontaneously engenders in practice general rules that all can adopt, and which can counteract the naive action of trends peculiar to each individual. It is not a 17

The author(s) thank to Peter Brown for all the support in the development of this research. J. Locke, Morale et loi naturelle. Textes sur la loi de nature, la morale et la religion, présentation et traduction par J.-F. Spitz (Paris, 1990), 9. 19 D. Hume, Enquête sur les principes de la morale, trad. A. Leroy (Paris, 1947), 13. 18

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constructed and learned behaviors, but it is inée. As for A. Smith, he wrote a Treatise on Moral Sentiments,20 which he regarded as his most important book, but was dethroned by another book, The Wealth of Nations, which was to make him the founder father of the economic science. The desire for riches is considered as the main characteristic trait of homo oeconomicus and this is because – says John Stuart Mill21 – not that any economist would be so stupid to think that this is the true nature of humans, but because of the need of science to look for quantifiable measures and, hence a limitation the study of this specific measurable trait, the desire for riches. It is this focus on the desire for wealth that makes the Chrysostomian work highly relevant for the homo oeconomicus theory and debate. Chrysostom’s analysis of the desire for riches is offering to the economic science new perspectives in the understanding of motives and behaviors related to money and work. For example, while economic science only recently acknowledged the preference for cooperation in humans and their capacity of altruism, in other words in bearing an opportunity cost in order to improve someone else’s utility function, Chrysostom casts light in his homilies on these preferences, and the advantages of having economic relationships based on these types of relationships from an economic and spiritual point of view. More than this, by showing how passions are impairing the lucidity of the nous, by blurring its capacity of dianoia and its incapacity to recognize a moment of krisis, Chrysostom shows how human being is biased in his evaluations and decision-making processes. From this perspective, Chrysostom is in fact the precursor of the heuristic field and that of decision theories. II. Methodological challenges and perspectives at the intersection of patristics with economics II.1. Why an anthropological inquiry? There is a homo oeconomicus of economic theory and there is a homo oeconomicus that does the economy. It is the at the cross-road of this two aspects that lies the methodological challenge when implementing such a synthesis between Chrysostom and economics. As a matter of fact, Chrysostom’s writings are rich in analyzing the desire for wealth and the motives and behaviors of the greedy. In these analyses, he is offering a complex view of the rich man by pointing out his behaviors, his decision-making processes, by describing the inner psychological mechanisms at work in the desire for riches. In other words, Chrysostom is using a behavioral analysis to explain the motives of the desire of riches, by complementing it with a subtle interpretation of these 20 21

Adam Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments (London, 1887). J.S. Mill, L’utilitarisme. Essai sur Bentham (Paris, 1998), 90.

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motives and behaviors in the light of his monastic knowledge of the way passions impact cognition and affect, and therefore, the decision-making processes. Thanks to this particularity, it is possible to read Chrysostom writings through the lenses of homo oeconomicus of the theory. The present analysis proposes a face to face between the homo oeconomicus of the theory and the homo oeconomicus from the real life against the backdrop of the homilies of John Chrysostom. The anthropological inquiry on the human nature of homo oeconomicus in the Homilies on Matthew leads to a subsequent question: is this image consistant across other Chrysostomian works or is it particular to the Matthean corpus? The second subsequent question related to Chrysostom’s anthropology is as follows: is this anthropology in line with that of other Christian writers from his time or is he developing a specific anthropological vision? Related to this last question, there is another inquiry on how much Chrysostomian anthropology is owned to his philosophical training?22 II.2. Chrysostomian methodology The reading of the Matthean corpus allows to identify that Chrysostom’s analysis of man’s motivations and behaviors follows a three-levels perspective, such as three concentric circles. The human being is seen as through a telescope with three lenses: 1. The First level is the one looking at the nature of humans, a face to face between the actual human being and his human nature. 2. The second level is when the human being relates himself to others in the family environment, in the work environment, in the society in general. 3. The third level is when the human being is considered in his relationship with God. These three levels are interconnected and influence each other; however, they address specific questions and provide different facets of the human being. The present analysis is focusing on the first level of analysis, where the anthropological analysis is central to the argumentation developed by Chrysostom. Following these three levels of analysis, we can identify three characteristics of the Chrysostomian sequence of argumentation: a) First characteristic is that Chrysostom will always show that his argumentation is true both now in the present and in the future, see, in eternity. For example, when he exposes the misery of the greedy people, he is showing their sufferance regards not only the afterlife but also the present life, where the greedy are tormented and live in slavery like condition. 22

These questions are addressed by the author in a different working paper.

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b) The second characteristic regards the fact the Chrysostom’s arguments stand up both from an intrinsic and extrinsic point of view, for the invisible and visible parts of the human being. Someone who is enslaved by wealth will feel miserable inside and outside too; such a man is constantly tortured by thoughts and is hated by his entourage. c) Finally, the third characteristic is that Chrysostom uses the very logic of his auditory to demonstrate the truth of his argumentation, he is taking them from where they are. When he is saying ‘who does one not want to be rich, in power and in glory’, he will not criticize these desires by themselves, at the contrary, he is acknowledging them as being natural, and shows the correct way to acquire all this. Chrysostom is, in this sense, a precursor of utilitarian calculus of happiness, in economic terms it means the analysis of costs and benefits.23 When discussing about money and its impact on people’s lives, Chrysostom is always making a calculus between the benefits and costs in material and spiritual terms, and he is showing that his demonstration stands up both from an economic and spiritual point of views. In other words, the utilitarian approach could be a good approximation of how the homo oeconomicus thinks and acts, at the condition that his utility function is acknowledging the need to maximize the spiritual benefits too. III. Anthropological economic inquiry in the Homilies on Matthew: a brief synthesis III.1. Human Nature: Interdependence and Hierarchy of body and soul Chrysostom’s homilies reveal a man made up of body and soul with a double foundation, visible and invisible. Chrysostom’s anthropology follows a dichotomic structure, but it is different from the philosophical vision of man. Greek philosophy reveals a man made up of body and soul, and in this dualism, only the soul is immortal, while the body perishes forever. The body has a mostly negative role in life, and human being must get rid of it in order to reach true happiness, as the body prevents him from being happy. Chrysostom’s anthropology is completely different, it is a biblical one and it is echoing the medical conceptions of health and sickness in Late Antiquity.24 23 The calculus of happiness in terms of cost and benefits started in the 18th century with Jeremy Bentham who is introducing a calculus related to crimes based on punishments and benefits allowing to take moral decisions (e.g. committing crimes or not). The key aspect in this calculus is the relation between pleasure and pain, with the objective to maximize pleasure and minimize pain. 24 Christoph Markschies, ‘Demons and Disease’, SP 81 (2017), 11-36; Ellen Muehlberger, ‘Theological Anthropology and Medecine: Questions and Direction for Research’, SP 81 (2017),

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The body is so strongly bound to the soul that they interfere at the level of their functioning. A healthy body influences the soul, and feeding disorders weaken and sicken the soul. Chrysostom rejects the Manichean vision of a contemptible body, underlying its importance in man’s life. In return, the condition of the soul shows through the body. The diseases of the soul spoil the face and the body, while virtues beautify it. In accordance with this vision of man, the destiny itself of the human being is considered in a biblical way, meaning that man is destined to gain eternal life, body and soul together. Their separation brought by death is only temporary, and mainly, it is unnatural to mankind. There is a strong connection between body and soul and there is a hierarchy which guarantees stability, equilibrium to this connection. The soul is superior to the body. If this hierarchy is not observed, serious disorders prevent man from being healthy and happy. The main representative paragraph is in Homily 34,5:25 For it is not the body wherein the beauty lies, but the expression, and the bloom which is shed over its substance by the soul. Now then, I bid thee love that which makes the body also to appear such as it is. And why speak I of death? Nay even in life itself, I would have thee mark how all is hers that is beautiful. (…) For while as to bodies, the longing is with pain, in the case of souls the pleasure is pure and calm.26 Why then let go the king, and be wild about the herald? Why leave the philosopher, and gape after his interpreter?27

37-50; Stefan Hodges-Kluck, ‘Religious Education and the Health of the Soul according to Basil of Cesarea and the Empreror Julian’, SP 81 (2017), 91-108; Jessica Wright, ‘John Chrysostom and the Rethoric of Cerebral Vulnerability’, SP 81 (2017), 109-26; Chris de Wet, ‘Gluttony and the Preacher’s Diet: Regimen, Obesity, and Psycho-Somatic Health in the Homilies of John Chrysostom’, in W. Mayer and C. de Wet (eds), Revisioning John Chrysostom (2019); Wendy Mayer, ‘The Persistence in Late Antiquity of Medico-Philosophical Psychic Therapy’, Journal of Late Antiquity 8 (2015), 337-51. 25 Œuvres complètes de Saint Jean Chrysostome (1866-69), XII 165. 26 J.S. Mill, L’utilitarisme (1998), 33, 37, 90 is doing the same analysis as Chrysostom does in this paragraph. 27 ἐπιχρώννυται τῇ οὐσίᾳ. Φίλει τοίνυν ἐκείνην τὴν κἀκεῖνο τοιοῦτον ποιοῦσαν φαίνεσθαι. Καὶ τί λέγω τὸν θάνατον; Καὶ γὰρ ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ ζωῇ δείκνυμί σοι, πῶς πάντα αὐτῆς ἐστι τὰ καλά. Ἄν τε γὰρ ἡσθῇ, ῥόδα κατέπασε τῶν παρειῶν· ἄν τε ἀλγήσῃ, τὸ κάλλος λαβοῦσα ἐκεῖνο, μελαίνῃ στολῇ τὸ πᾶν περιέβαλε. Κἂν εὐφραίνηται διηνεκῶς, γέγονεν εὐπαθὲς τὸ σῶμα· ἂν δ’ ἀλγήσῃ, ἀράχνης ἰσχνότερόν τε καὶ ἀσθενέστερον ἐποίησεν· ἂν θυμωθῇ, πάλιν πεποίηκεν ἀποτρόπαιον καὶ αἰσχρόν· ἂν γαληνὸν ὀφθαλμὸν δείξῃ, πολὺ τὸ κάλλος ἐχαρίσατο· ἂν βασκήνῃ, πολλὴν τὴν ὠχρίαν καὶ τὴν τηκεδόνα ἐξέχεεν· ἂν ἀγαπήσῃ, πολλὴν τὴν εὐμορφίαν ἐδωρήσατο (PG 57).

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III.2. Human being is a noble, smart and free creature Man is naturally intelligent, tender and charitable, fundamentally good, virtue corresponds to the nature of man (Homily 20,4):28 For God, He saith, gave us understanding, that we might chase away all ignorance, and have the right judgment of things, and that using this as a kind of weapon and light against all that is grievous or hurtful, we might remain in safety. But we betray the gift for the sake of things superfluous and useless. (…) As therefore, should any one cast into sickness the physician (who should be in good health, that he may end our diseases), and then bid him lie on a silver couch, and in a chamber of gold, this will nothing avail the sick persons; even so, if thou corrupt the mind (which hath power to put down our passions), although thou set it by a treasure, so far from doing it any good, thou hast inflicted the very greatest loss, and hast harmed thy whole soul.

Chrysostom puts in the center of this argumentation the mind which plays the role of a general, of a physician, when the eye of the body – the mind – is neglected ‘for the sake of things superfluous and useless’. Refuge in ignorance is not a solution. Ignorance cannot be an excuse because man is a reasonable being and he has an inner capacity of understanding29 as well as the right judgement of things thanks to the nous. The nous is that faculty of the soul capable to make judgements about things and events, and therefore it enables human being to take decisions according to his own nature. It is possible now to draw a conclusion – man is a noble being capable of right judgement, he has all the capacities that allow him to be happy. But if man is good how can evil be explained? Chrysostom fights against the idea that the human being is bad by nature or the idea that God created human being as a bad creature. Evil is unnatural for mankind, contrary to virtue. Chrysostom takes example from daily life of his audience as shown in Homily 59.30 The conclusion is that evil is not natural, it is a ‘name’, the role of the will and the process of choice are the keys of the strategy described by Chrysostom. The passions are the ones impacting and negatively affecting the discernment of the human being, first and foremost by enslaving him. Therefore, passions have an anthropological impact – nobleness and liberty are influenced by passions and human nature itself it is suffering. Passion brings man to a state of decadence, making him a slave, surrounding him with unhappiness. Is passion a fatality that man cannot change? Chrysostom answers ‘no’, and he shows how human being can free himself from the desire for riches. The human being is considered being between two poles: either he becomes a beast, falling below his human nature if gripped by wealth, or he becomes an angel if detached from material goods, which he shares with the poor. 28

Œuvres complètes de Saint Jean Chrysostome (1866-69), I 595, see also 593. Interesting to remember here that John Locke was writing his “Treatise on human understanding” as an answer to a question raised by his friends after a meetings were the subject was “what are the bases of the principles of morals?”. 30 Œuvres complètes de Saint Jean Chrysostome (1866-69), XII 469-77. 29

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A new definition of wealth based on an anthropological framework Chrysostom defines wealth through the relationship between man and the material world like in a geometrical shape with the nature of human being as a system of reference; a geometrical plan with two coordinates given by the double foundation: the body – visible, the soul – invisible. Wealth is defined in relation to these two coordinates, hence an anthropological anchorage of possessions, of wealth and money. This approach allows to move away from a moralistic understanding of wealth and economics in general. The purpose is not to deal with norms and rules connected to the notion of moral and immoral, nor with the dialectics of guilty or innocent, but to the notions of healthy and sick.31 Chrysostom underlines the passive state of the person enslaved by passions and he discusses this matter from a medical perspective and from an eschatological perspective. With regard to virtues, ‘arêté’, Chrysostom describes the features of virtue: integrity and integrality, underlining the active role of man in the process of betterment. For Chrysostom, freedom and will are cardinal virtues and have a signaling role, when they are deteriorated; they signal an anthropological impact of economic behaviors and decisions. Inspired by the Greek tradition but also by the monastic spiritual tradition and experience, Chrysostom delivers a list of virtues and passions and their interconnection, being able to propose effective ways to dealing with them to restore the human nature and even more, to lead her to theosis. In order to do so Chrysostom proposes a three steps methodology, a monastic one: 1) Identifying virtues and passions, 2) Describing their way of action and their consequences, 3) Imagining strategies in order to fight against passions and developing virtues. This three steps methodology might help to explain the so-called lack of systematic analysis in Chrysostom’s homilies or why he is contradicting himself. Chrsysostom is following the monastic tradition in the fight of passions, where one must fight first the passion which is the closest to the soul. That is why sometimes greed and sometimes anger are called the most dangerous passions. He is not contradicting himself from one homily to another, he is applying the monastic approach in the fight of passions, by prioritizing and strategizing the spiritual war in each context. The original contribution of Chrysostom in this field lies in the fact that he emphasizes the fight against passions. The usual discourse in economics privileges an approach that pays attention to virtues; see also the Aristotelian approach on business ethics.32 The fight against passions is necessary and Chrysostom proposes an apothatic approach in business ethics, as an alternative to a cataphatic approach based on virtues. 31

See also Wendy Mayer on healing the soul in Chrysostom. Robert C. Solomon, Ethics and Excellence: Cooperation and Integrity in Business (Oxford, 1992). 32

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Conclusions This vision of homo oeconomicus identified in Chrysotomian works reveals an ontological anchorage of the human traits, and virtues and vices that affect economic motives and behaviors. Chrysostom considers man noble and smart. Making good use of his faculties gives him equilibrium, security, inner consistency, the latest being a guarantee for true happiness. Man has a double foundation: one visible – the body and the other invisible – the soul. Consequently, he is likely to enjoy visible and invisible things simultaneously. To conclude in regard with the present analysis, Chrysostom would deserve to be named the theologian of theosis and his homiletic work previously seen as pastoral literature, to be considered as a manual of deification.

Hyphenation in John Chrysostom’s Exegetical Homilies. A Case Study on the Link between Exegesis and Parenesis Taken from the Homilies on Philippians (CPG 4432) Pierre MOLINIÉ, Centre Sèvres, Facultés jésuites de Paris, France

ABSTRACT Most of John Chrysostom’s exegetical homilies present in the manuscript tradition a break between exegesis and parenesis. Relying on the study of the sixteen homilies on Philippians, this article explores the relevance of this break – which we name hyphenation. A stylistic and rhetorical analysis of the dynamics of the homilies, especially the inclusive exhortations and the places where a propositio appears, allows us to distinguish several degrees of relevance: in some cases the ethicon of the manuscripts corresponds to a literary and argumentative reality; in other cases, such a hyphenation is artificial and may reflect the desire of the publishers to standardize the Chrysostomian corpus according to a ideal vision of John’s homiletical practice.

In most of John Chrysostom’s exegetical homilies, it appears that the manuscript tradition presents an internal gap: at a certain point of the homily, the abbreviation ηθ (standing for ἠθικόν) followed by the number of the homily shows up in the margin, as well as at the top of the page along with a title. It can be therefore adduced that a distinction is made between a first part, devoted to the commentary on the biblical text, and a second part, referred to as ethicon. Such a division, evident from the earliest manuscripts, was reproduced by generations of copyists until the era of printing: later editions have always hesitated between inserting this indication in the text, leaving it in the margin or removing it.1 In this latter case, the bipartite structure is eliminated – but the text can be divided into numbered sections. 1 For the series on Philippians, which I will consider in this article, Gian Matteo Giberti and Bernadino Donato’s edition (1529) mentions the beginning of each ethicon together with its whole title; Henry Savile (1612) only gives the word ΗΘΙΚΟΝ in the margin, whereas Bernard de Montfaucon (1734) eliminates it but introduces the numbered sections. Frederick Field (Sancti patris nostri Joannis Chrysostomi archiepiscopi Constantinopolitani. Interpretatio omnium Epistolarum Paulinarum per Homilias Facta, 7 vol. [Oxford, 1845-1862]), the best edition we have for the series on Pauline Epistles, places the indication and the title in the critical apparatus. For scholarship about this editorial history, see Pierre Augustin, ‘D’Érasme à Field: Apport et limites des éditions et traductions des Homélies de Jean Chrysostome Sur l’Épître aux Philippiens’, SP 114 (2021), 55-79. Today’s editors and translators face the same choice: the bilingual English

Studia Patristica CXXVIII, 269-281. © Peeters Publishers, 2021.

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This phenomenon is not a mere paratextual matter: Chrysostom himself occasionally shows signs of awareness that he is moving from a commentary on Scripture to an exhortation2 – ethicon could be translated as an exhortation, a parenesis or a moral teaching. Additionally, the presence of stylistic markers at this transition point between exegesis and parenesis brings a further literary dimension to this hyphenation, which I will discuss later. Most importantly, this ‘bipartition’ influences the way the homilies are read. Thus, ethica summaries can be found in manuscripts, allowing to ‘jump’ directly to the development devoted to a particular parenetic theme. Some manuscripts and some translations even cut the text of the homilies out in order to solely keep the ethical part.3 Following this path, there has been a scholarly tendency to exclusively focus on the moral teaching of a series of homilies or on the exegetical sections. However, recent scholarship tends to pay more attention to John’s ‘holistic approach’4 and to his unified perspective of pastoral exegesis5 – that is, to underline, beyond apparent heterogeneity, the single σκόπος of his preaching.6 In this article, I will question the relevance of such a bipartition. I will initially show that there is no definitive reason to separate the ‘exegetical’ part from a ‘parenetic’ one within the Chrysostomian homilies. I will then focus on the hyphenation or suture – the break identified within the manuscripts – in order to evaluate whether such a division is consistent with the dynamics of the homily. I will draw examples from the sixteen homilies on Chrysostom’s Epistle to the Philippians,7 edition of John’s Homilies on Philippians by Pauline Allen (Writings from the Greco-Roman World 36 [Atlanta, 2013]) offers the plain text without further indication of the ethicon or of the numbered sections. 2 See Homily 7 on Philippians and John’s statement that he is moving from a teaching about faith to a teaching about ‘our affairs’ (τὰ ἡμέτερα), that is ‘a life worthy of faith’ (Field, 65.9-16). 3 Andrius Valevičius, ‘The Earliest Slavonic Translations of John Chrysostom’, SP 32 (1997), 380-5. 4 Wendy Mayer, ‘The homiletic audience as embodied hermeneutic: Scripture and its interpretation in the exegetical preaching of John Chrysostom’, forthcoming in Sarah Gaydor-Whyte and Andrew Mellas (eds), Homilies, Hymns and Hermeneutics, Byzantina Australiensia (Leiden); see Zofia Latawiec, ‘The Rhetorical Structure of John Chrysostom’s Seventh Homily on Philippians in Relation to the Kenosis Hymn’, Classica Cracoviensia 20 (2017), 55-70. 5 Catherine Broc-Schmezer, Les figures féminines du Nouveau Testament dans l’œuvre de Jean Chrysostome. Exégèse et pastorale, CEAug., Série Antiquité 185 (Paris, 2010). 6 See Frances M. Young’s reflections (‘John Chrysostom on First and Second Corinthians’, SP 18 [1989], 349-52; Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture [Cambridge, New York, 1997]), echoed by Isabella Sandwell (‘A milky text suitable for children: The significance of John Chrysostom’s preaching on Genesis 1.1 for fourth-century audiences’, in William J. Lyons and Isabella Sandwell [eds], Delivering the Word: Preaching and Exegesis in the Western Christian Tradition [London, 2012], 80-98). 7 It is not our intention here to pronounce on the unity of the series or on the place and date of the sixteen homilies that make it up – elements on which, since the work of Pauline Allen and Wendy Mayer (‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: a Re-examination of the Fifteen Homilies in Epistulam ad Philippenses [CPG 4432]’, Vigiliae christianae 49 [1995], 270-89), no progress seems to have been made. We draw from this longstanding literary corpus examples and analyses on the homiletic practice of John Chrysostom.

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which are currently being prepared for a critical edition at the ‘Sources chrétiennes’ Institute (Lyon).8 I. Bipartition in question Whether the editor ignores it or mentions it in the paratext, the hyphenation is a literary fact that affects the reception of the work. A sign of this is the widely held opinion that patristic homilies are characterized by a twofold division between exegesis and parenesis – a phenomenon which in reality is barely illustrated outside of Chrysostom and his successors, and artificially limits the diversity of relationships between the literal and spiritual meanings found in many authors.9 Yet even for Chrysostomian homilies, this binary scheme does not respect the flexibility of their author’s practice. For he does not behave first as an exegete and then as a pastor. Rather, his homilies, in their entirety, are both exegetical and parenetic. 1. Exegetical parts are parenetic First, the so-called ‘exegetical’ parts are not devoid of moral or spiritual comments. This can be seen by opening the second homily of our series, where John comments on the beginning of the epistle.10 From the very first words, explaining the title (‘Paul and Timothy, slaves of Christ Jesus’), John underlines the respect that the apostle has for his interlocutors (he makes them his ὁμοτίμοι), the high dignity (ἀξίωμα) that is covered by the fact of being a servant (δοῦλος) of Christ, and the moral choice that this implies: That person who is the servant of Christ is really free from sin, and a genuine servant is nobody else’s servant, because they wouldn’t be Christ’s servant, but half-and-half (7.19-21)11.

Here John seizes the opportunity provided by the word δοῦλος to deliver a moral teaching to his listeners. This is a characteristic of Chrysostomian exegesis: the literal meaning can certainly take a more historical turn – as we can see in the following paragraph, where the exegete distinguishes the meaning of the word ‘saints’ for the Jews contemporary with Paul and for the first Christians, 8 This project has already resulted in several papers at the seminar ‘Jean Chrysostome: édition et histoire des textes’ (see our blog: https://chrysostom.hypotheses.org). 9 See examples in Pierre Molinié, Jean Chrysostome exégète. Le commentaire homilétique de la Deuxième épître de Paul aux Corinthiens, OCA 305 (Roma, 2019), 136-54. 10 The series has a double numbering, since it consists of fifteen homilies preceded by a prologue (ὑπόθεσις, argumentum). We follow here F. Field and the manuscript tradition: λόγος Α refers to the prologue; the commentary of Paul’s text thus begins with homily 2. 11 Our quotations refer to the page and lines of Field’s edition (see note 1). The same page numbers can be found in P. Allen’s translation (see ibid.), which we follow with some modifications. New Testament quotations are taken from the New American Bible Revised Edition (2011).

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or of the word ‘bishop’ in Paul’s time and in the fourth century; he also explains why the initial address of the epistle to the Philippians includes a mention of the clergy : ‘Because they were the ones who sent donations to him and bore fruit, and it was they who sent Epaphroditus to him’ (8.31-2). But the literal explanation is also concerned with the pastoral and affective dimension of Paul’s relationship with the Philippians, which naturally leads to a moral teaching: in the commentary on verse 1.1a, the call to live as a true Christian, wholly committed to Christ and fleeing from sin, is implicit – as is the echo of Matt. 6:24 (‘No one can serve two masters’) and the Chrysostomian theme of the ‘half-Christian’.12 Later in the same homily, this moral dimension turns into an explicit exhortation: commenting on Phil. 1:5 (‘Because of your partnership for the gospel’), John explains what meaning this verse could have in the lives of his own listeners. This participation (κοινωνία) is reflected in the Church when the faithful financially assist those proclaiming the Gospel (οἱ κηρύττοντες) and those living an ascetical life (οἱ τὸν ἀγγελικὸν ἀνῃρήμενοι βίον).13 Here, the apostrophes and questions of the listener emerge, while the speaker develops the images of the athlete and the soldier, both sharing their glory with those who trained or supported them (9.16-11.18). Thus, Chrysostomian exegesis does not distinguish between the literal and the moral sense – rather, the literal sense carries a pastoral dimension from the outset, and the pastoral context provides the framework for interpreting the biblical text.14 We can speak of a pastoral hermeneutic or, with Frances Young, a hermeneutic of empathy and retrieval.15 2. Parenesis are exegetical On the other hand, ethica are not just moral instructions: they have an exegetical dimension as well. First, they play with scriptural references that take on a whole range of rhetorical functions. Let us come back to homily 2. Here, we can find argumentative quotations of ‘authority’ (Matt. 10:41 in 14.9-11; 2 Cor. 9:7 in 15.11-2; Luke 14:12-4 in 15.29-31; Matt. 25:35 in 16.1-2; Luke 6:30 and 12 See Laurence Brottier, L’appel des « demi-chrétiens » à la « vie angélique » : Jean Chrysostome prédicateur entre idéal monastique et réalité mondaine (Paris, 2005). 13 The homily certainly makes numerous references to monks (see W. Mayer and P. Allen, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series’, [1995], 282-3). Nevertheless, if the word saint appears several times as well as references to a retired life, no less numerous mentions are made of those who actively serve the Church. John indeed starts from a Pauline expression ‘partnership for the gospel’ (κοινωνία εἰς τὸ εὐαγγέλιον), which he glosses over several times using the word preaching (κήρυγμα) or announcing the Gospel (κηρύττω) (9.21; 10.1,2; 14.12-6), and refers explicitly to those having inherited Paul’s ministry (τοῖς τὴν διακονίαν ἀναδεδεγμένοις τὴν ἐκείνου) and to Church leaders (τῶν προεστώτων ἐκκλησίας) (14.4; 15.25). 14 Other examples are: the commentary on Phil. 1:22-3, where John compares Paul’s freedom to Christians’ fear of death (homily 5, 39.10-42.3), and the commentary on Phil. 3:19, where John confronts his listeners who believe they are not concerned with Paul’s accusations (homily 14, 143.4-144.17). 15 F.M. Young, ‘John Chrysostom on First and Second Corinthians’ (1989), 351.

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Prov. 24:11 in 17.2-5), argumentative allusions of ‘illustration’ (1Kgs. 17:9-16 and Mark 12:41-4 in 16.10-22; Gen. 18:1-16 in 16.25-6) and an argumentative quotation of ‘testimony’ (Phil. 4:15 in 14.18-20).16 These ten biblical references certainly support the preacher’s exhortation, but they indirectly contribute to enlighten the notion of κοινωνία present in Paul’s text.17 These quotations in turn receive a theological insight by being brought together as a full ‘dossier’ dealing with the close relation between financial solidarity and ecclesial communion. As a result, the parenesis are clearly part of the exegetical process. Second, within parenetical sections, John comments at length on certain biblical figures. For example, when referring to the spiritual warfare (homily 7), he quotes several scriptural words and situations depicting the victory of the believer over the devil (Luke 10:19; Mark 5:12-3; Job 1:6-2:7); he then introduces Judas, against whom the devil could do nothing before Jesus excluded him from the Twelve. In this case, there is far more than a mere biblical illustration, as is suggested by the fifty-line digression on the topic: ‘What kind of gain is the knowledge that one of the Twelve betrayed Christ? What kind of benefit? What kind of help?’, a series of questions that are all based on a commentary of Matt. 26 and John 13 (67.29-69.13). In homily 9, while Chrysostom struggles against ‘ingratitude and grumbling’, he cites the example of Job, who keeps on giving thanks to God despite the series of hardships he faces. This is certainly a usual theme in Chrysostom’s works,18 but it is given here a significant place with eighty-five lines, with no less than ten different quotations19 from the book of Job (91.27-94.8). In the same way, in homily 12, the Prodigal Son provides the main background for a parenesis on the theme: ‘How is it possible to flee from God?’ The sinner trying to escape from God’s face is compared to the young man in the parable, who exhausts himself as he runs away from God while he should return to his loving father. This comparison is introduced by a paraphrase of Luke 15:11-6, followed by a re-enactment in the believer’s life (130.4-11), which rephrases vv. 13-9, thereby expressing the distress and repentance of the sinner (130.12-132.1). This passage concludes with the ‘final prayer’ of the homily,20 where the moral and spiritual reading of this parable is concisely summarised: ‘Evil makes us pigs; evil engenders hunger in the soul’ (132.7). 16

This typology is described in P. Molinié, Jean Chrysostome exégète (2019), 205-61. On average, in this series, each parenesis includes twelve biblical quotations. 18 See Laurence Brottier, ‘L’actualisation de la figure de Job chez Jean Chrysostome’, in Le Livre de Job chez les Pères, Cahiers de Biblia Patristica 5 (Strasbourg, 1996), 63-110. 19 Job 2:95; 2:94; 2:95; 7:5; 6:7; 7:14; 7:4; 11:6; 30:1; 16:2. We count here only the explicitly quoted verses, and not all the narrative episodes to which the author refers. 20 Final prayers do not consist of the mere addition of a doxology at the end of the commentary, as is the case with other authors. In Chrysostom’s homiletic commentaries, the final prayer has a relatively stable structure including a brief recapitulation of the latest parenetic developments, an invitation to act and/or to turn to God, a reminder of the promise of eternal goods, mention of the mediation of Christ, and last a doxology (see P. Molinié, Jean Chrysostome exégète [2019], 194-204). 17

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Consequently, the parenetic parts of the homily, while free from technical explanations, provide a true exegetical teaching. Finally, a simple criterion for distinguishing between exegesis and parenesis consists in trying and clearly identifying where the commentary stops. While one could tentatively identify the place where Chrysostom stops quoting the text of the epistle and gives the impression of moving on to something else, it appears that such a rupture is unfortunately never so easily discernible. A distinctively amazing case can be found in homily 9 where John pauses after explaining Phil. 2:12-5, then begins a development that resembles in every way a parenesis (91.7-94.8), but surprisingly resumes his commentary, which covers vv. 15c-18, before concluding with a last exhortation (95.15-96.14). As such, the homily would strictly consist of four parts divided into two exegetical and two parenetical sections. A more frequent case is the presence, in the core of a parenesis, of verses from the text previously commented on. Sometimes, specially at the beginning of the ethicon, John may quote a whole verse21 or take some words from the Pauline text,22 in order to orientate the subject of his exhortation. When the parenesis echoes the commented text, some verses of the latter can be used among other quotations of authority.23 Homily 15 combines both types of reference: on the one hand, the preacher alludes to two verses of the Pauline text (Phil. 4:7b and 4:5a, in 156.18-9) without commenting on them specifically. On the other hand, Phil. 4:8-9 comes up again in the middle of the parenesis, where these verses receive a new explanation (155.31-156.19) despite being previously commented on in the first part. Do these observations invalidate the very existence of a bipartite structure? Certainly not, but this structure is relativized for several reasons. First, because of the absence of a clear boundary between one part and the other; second, because the so-called parenetic part provides a place of exegesis in its own right 21 In homily 11, Phil. 3:7 is rephrased almost completely (‘Paul considered it a loss – although formerly it had been a gain – in order to win Christ’) at the beginning of the parenesis (116.9) and again in the middle (118.15), while the words gain (κέρδος) and loss (ζημία, ζημιῶ) are repeated twenty-two times throughout this development (116.10-119.3). In homily 14, Phil. 3:20 (partly quoted and partly rephrased) introduces the parenesis (147.13-5). In this same homily, the reference to Phil. 3:10-3 (commented on in the two preceding homilies) plays a comparable function of returning to the commentary (149.30-3). The case of homily 1 is different: two verses open the parenesis, but they had not been quoted in the first part of the homily (4.17-9). 22 Thus, in homily 8, the parenesis borrows from Phil. 2:7-9 the words δοῦλος, ὑπακούω (for ὑπήκοος), ταπεινῶ, ὑψῶ (for ὑπερυψῶ); the expression ‘master of all, of both angels and all other creatures’ echoes 2:10 (‘Every knee should bend, of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth’) (81.24-8). In homily 9 the word grumbling (γογγύζω) from Phil. 2:14 is repeated ten times in the first parenesis (91.7-94.9) and once again in the final prayer (96.10); furthermore verse 2:18, the last one to be commented on (95.9-11,14-5) is repeated twice in the second parenesis (95.19-20,29). See also homily 11 (described in the previous note). 23 Thus, in homily 10, two verses concerning the needs of Paul and his disciple Epaphroditus (Phil. 2:25,27) are quoted among other biblical passages (109.5-8).

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(not only referring to new texts, but at times to the text already commented on in the first part); lastly, because in some (rarer) cases the two parts are intertwined and thereby indistinct. II. The meaning of hyphenation What is then exactly going on around that place marked by the ethicon symbol? Does it constitute a limit or a transition? Can we find textual indications showing that John and his listeners were aware of crossing such a border? 1. Looking for a theme The task is made easier when John explains, at the beginning of a parenesis, the theme he wishes to deal with. This happens in some homilies (‘type 1’ homilies) such as homily 4. In the verses commented on (Phil. 1:18b-24), Paul states that he is totally united with Christ and therefore is not afraid of death. The end of the commentary clarifies the meaning of these statements, which should not be considered as an apology for suicide! For death belongs to the category of indifferent things: death isn’t bad, but it’s bad if the deceased is punished. Nor is death a good thing, but it’s good if the dead person is with Christ. It’s what happens after death that’s either bad or good (36.1-5).

Right after this comes the hyphenation, and the very next sentence provides the theme of the following parenesis: Let’s not therefore simply mourn those who have died, or simply rejoice over those who are alive, but what? Let’s mourn the sinners, not only the dead, but also the living; let’s rejoice over the just, not only the living, but also the dead (36.6-7).

In this particular case, a classical propositio can be detected: Paul’s verses and their commentary provide a kind of narratio; then the preacher draws a precise element from it – not a juridical point, but a point of moral life – which the rest of the homily will strive to prove.24 The same goes for homilies 625 and 15,26 and maybe homily 10.27 24 See Heinrich Lausberg, Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik: eine Grundlegung der Literaturwissenschaft (Stuttgart, 2008), 189 (§ 346): the propositio is located at the hinge between narratio and argumentatio. For an analysis of a homily according to the categories of ancient epidictic rhetoric, see Zofia Latawiec, ‘The Rhetorical Structure’ (2017). 25 With a rough start: ‘Humility is the cause of all good things’ (Πάντων γὰρ τῶν ἀγαθῶν αἰτία ἡ ταπεινοφροσύνη) (53.15). 26 Savile’s text stresses the propositio: Οὐδὲν οὕτως ἐχθρὸν τῆς ἡμετέρας φύσεως, ὡς κακία; but even without these words, the next sentence clearly starts a new development: ‘How evil is our ennemy and virtue our friend is obvious for many reasons’ (154.26-7). 27 If one follows most editions and some manuscripts: Μὴ τοίνυν μηδὲ ἡμεῖς μέγα φρονῶμεν, τοῖς ἁγίοις παρέχοντες, μηδὲ χαρίζεσθαι αὐτοῖς ἐν τούτῳ νομίζωμεν. However, the text

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– Generally, however, the break is not so evident: it would be more accurate to speak, rather than of a hyphenation, of one or more transitional paragraphs. In this case, another distinction needs to be proposed. In some occasions (‘type 2’ homilies), the propositio28 is simply postponed: John introduces it further down in the text. In homily 1, for example, parenesis begins with a typical formulation (ταῦτα καὶ ἡμεῖς εἰδότες) followed by an invitation to imitate the saints who gave their lives for Christ. Chrysostom then raises a typical objection about the absence of persecutions today,29 and finally expresses his actual exhortative concern: If we do nothing else, let us imitate (μιμώμεθα) their zealous beneficence, and let us not consider (μηδὲ ἡγώμεθα), when we give once or twice, that we have fulfilled the whole command, for we must do this throughout our lives (4.22-5).30

The same goes for homily 2, where the exhortation deals with the assistance to be given to those who serve the Church.31 Taking the key words of grace (χάρις) and communion (κοινωνία) from the Pauline text (Phil. 1:7), John proceeds to the parenesis: Since, then, it’s possible in different ways to be a partner in grace as well as in troubles and anguish, please let us too be partners (κοινωνῶμεν, παρακαλῶ). All of those who stand here, yes, every one, you would like to become partners with Paul in the good things that were accruing (13.34-14.3).

The propositio follows straight afterwards: If you like, it’s possible to become allies, to assist those who have submitted to Paul’s ministry (τοῖς τὴν διακονίαν ἀναδεδεγμένοις τὴν ἐκείνου), those who are suffering something terrible on Christ’s account (14.3-5).32 adopted by Field does not include this typical start. In this case, the suture is much less clearcut; it could be placed somewhere between the previous parenetic false start (102.32-3) and the whole paragraph following the hyphenation, where the theme is declined in different ways (103.15-27). 28 In the present work, we do not claim that Chrysostom’s homilies would usually conform to a pattern borrowed from classical rhetoric. By propositio, we mean a brief passage in which John sets out the theme that he will later develop. 29 Cf. Homily 1 on 2Cor. (Field III, 10.6-7). 30 The manuscript tradition of this section is complex; we follow the argumentative logic as it emerges from the text adopted by Field. 31 This theme had already been the subject of a brief parenetic development in the commentary, where John urges his parishioners to help those who had chosen the ascetic life (10.12-11.10; see note 13). 32 See also homily 7, with a transition paragraph of seventeen lines (65.9-25). Z. Latawiec (‘The Rhetorical Structure’ [2017], 64) does not pay particular attention to the hyphenation, but one could easily qualify as a transitus those seventeen lines that separate the end of the commentary (where she identifies a digressio with the metaphor of the seed, 65.3-8) and the propositio (which in her case corresponds to the beginning of the refutatio, 65.24-30). See also homilies 12 (129.1228), 14 (147.13-21, without a clear propositio) and 16 (167.18-168.3).

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– In other cases (‘type 3’), a first propositio is put forward, but does not constitute the real parenetic theme. For instance, in homily 8, a first proposition is made whereby the listener is invited to ‘believe’ and to ‘live for the glory’ of God, but after about ten lines, John turns back to the Pauline vocabulary of humility and exaltation, which in turn provides the true parenetic theme.33 In homily 3, a clear hyphenation signals the end of the commentary and the beginning of the parenesis, with a call to giving thanks: On this account, please, let’s give thanks to God for everything (διὸ παρακαλῶ, ὑπὲρ πάντων εὐχαριστῶμεν), because he has both lightened our burdens and increased our reward (23.26-7).

This theme is doubtlessly indicative of the discussion that follows (23.2824.23), but as we read on, two other proposals can be identified as providing new teaching points.34 Here, we are dealing with homilies with more complex internal dynamics, or with a less clear argumentative structure. However, it makes little difference for our purpose: Chrysostom’s listener may be lost in the course of the parenesis, trying to follow the preacher’s changes of direction; but the impression of rupture remains clear nonetheless when the speaker drops the exegetical commentary to embark on a moral teaching. – There are still cases (‘type 4’), however, where the hyphenation indicated by the word ethicon does not correspond to a distinctive break at all. As an example, the first words of the ethicon in homily 5 consist in a simple address (‘Do you see the praises of the men of that time’), starting with the word ὁρᾷς, frequently used in exegetical parts. Admittedly, listening to John’s complaints and considering the contrast between the first Christian’s attitude and the present situation (ἡμεῖς δέ) may open up the possibility of a question: are we still in the middle of the commentary, or has parenesis already begun? However, the preacher only gradually introduces the topic of shame (αἰσχύνη) by successive shifts, moving to that of mercy (ἔλεος), with the latter constituting the real topic of this parenesis. Consequently, the theme of mercy only emerges after twenty-eight lines, or said otherwise a three minutes talk!35

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Homily 8, 81.15-32. ‘Envy comes from nowhere except sticking to things of the present life (…). And everything results from this – from admiring the things of the present life’ (homily 3, 24.23-30); ‘The person who has nothing isn’t poor – they’re not; it’s the person who is greedy for a lot. The person who’s acquired isn’t rich; it’s the person who needs nothing’ (ibid. 27.9-11). See W. Mayer, ‘The homiletic audience’ (forthcoming) on this passage. 35 Homily 5 (45.22-46.22). Similarly, in homily 11, the first section of the ethicon still looks like a commentary on Phil. 3:7 – the only parenetic indication would once again be the antithesis Παῦλος μέν … ἡμεῖς δέ (116.6-13). A real exhortation about Christian freedom seems to start two pages later (118.32-119.3). See also homily 9: commentary and parenesis are mixed (see above); homily 13: the real propositio seems to come fifty-six lines after the hyphenation (‘Nothing will be able to harm the vigilant person’, 138.20-1). 34

P. MOLINIÉ

278

Trying to identify an ethicon as such certainly bears some intrinsic limits depending on the reader’s awareness of a coherent text or his understanding of the nature and boundaries of the different sections as well as their respective importance. Many readers may not be attentive to the same statements or the same turning points when reconstructing the dynamics of a homily.36 It is for this very reason, that it may prove to be worthwhile considering a stylistic element that is often associated with hyphenation, namely ‘inclusive exhortation’. 2. Inclusive exhortations and closing prayers In the exegetical parts of his homilies, Chrysostom often engages his audience using the imperatives and fictional dialogues typical of diatribe style. However, inclusive exhortations rather belong to the parenetic genre. They consist in introducing a verb in the first-person plural subjunctive (whether present or aorist) that calls to ‘consider’ an issue in Christian life or to assume a certain spiritual attitude or behaviour.37 The end of homily 14 is a good example, where John urges the whole community to consider the glory they might lose (ἐννοήσωμεν), to be enthusiastic (σπεύδωμεν) and to give a lot of thought (πολλὴν τὴν φροντίδα ποιώμεθα) about their salvation, then to groan (στένωμεν), pursue virtue (μετέλθωμεν τὴν ἀρετήν), grieve (πενθήσωμεν), weep (κλαύσωμεν), trouble oneself (θλίψωμεν), pray (εὐχώμεθα), be serious (σπουδάζωμεν) and finally make a small effort (μικρὸν πονέσωμεν).38 Such exhortations rarely occur in exegetical commentaries;39 when they appear within an ethicon, it points to the fact that John does not merely intend to teach a point of moral or spiritual theology, but that he is rather exhorting his listeners. Furthermore, these expressions indicate a change in the homily’s atmosphere: the preacher is no longer facing an audience that he wants to convince, but he is standing together with them on a common journey of conversion. 36 In her introduction to the series on Philippians, P. Allen gives a summary of each homily (p. xv-xxvi). 37 See P. Molinié, Jean Chrysostome exégète (2019), 168-70, and literature. 38 Homily 14, 148.29-150.5. 39 Leaving aside six reformulations of the Pauline text and about twenty occurrences such as ἐξετάσωμεν or ἴδωμεν (which do not imply a real exhortation and are as numerous in exegetical than in parenetic parts), we have counted 130 inclusive exhortations, which are distributed as follows.

Location

Commentary

Hyphenation (1st sentence)

Near hyphenation

Occurrences

11

20

6

Parenesis Near final (body) prayer 29