T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in the Greco-Roman World 9780567666406, 9780567666420, 9780567666413

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T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in the Greco-Roman World

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T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in the Greco-Roman World Edited by Soham Al-Suadi and Peter-Ben Smit

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Copyright © Soham Al-Suadi, Peter-Ben Smit and contributors 2019 Soham Al-Suadi and Peter-Ben Smit have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. Cover image © Still life with eggs and thrushes, from the Villa di Giulia Felice, Pompeii (fresco), Roman, (1st century AD) / Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples, Campania, Italy / Bridgeman Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-6640-6 ePDF: 978-0-5676-6641-3 eBook: 978-0-5676-6932-2 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

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Dedicated to the Memory of Dennis E. Smith (1942-2017)

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Contents Introduction to T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in the Greco-Roman World  Peter-Ben Smit and Soham Al-Suadi 1 Part One  Authors & Collections Meals in the Works of Philo of Alexandria  Maria Sokolskaya 9 Dining with Dignity: Josephus’s Rhetorical Use of the Essene Common Meals  William den Hollander 19  3 Plutarch’s Septem sapientium convivium: An Example of Greco-Roman Sympotic Literature  Matthias Becker 31   4 Meals at Qumran: Literary Fiction, Liturgical Anticipation, or Performed Ritual?  Claudia D. Bergmann 44   5 Hermetic Texts in Nag Hammadi Codex VI  Jan Heilmann 56   6 Meals in the Apostolic Fathers  Andrew McGowan 66   7 ‘Prepare Yourself.’ Spatial Rhetoric in Rabbinic and Synoptic Meal Parables  Eric Ottenheijm 75   1   2

Part Two  Gospel Tradition   8   9 10 11

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The Gospel of Mark – The Commitment of the ‘Unleavened’ to the Kingdom of God Agenda of Jesus  Martin Ebner 93 Meals in the Gospel of Luke  Matthias Klinghardt 108 The Primary Role of Meals in Matthew’s Construction of Diasporic Identity  Hal E. Taussig 121 ‘Let Anyone Who is Thirsty Come to Me, and Let the One Who Believes in Me Drink’: The Johannine Jesus as the True Provider of Earthly and Heavenly Nourishment  Esther Kobel 136 Interpretations of the Eucharist in the Gospel of Philip  Silke Petersen 147

Part Three  Acts 13 14

Meals as a Literary Motif in Acts of the Apostles  Dennis E. Smith 165 The Contribution of Meal Scenes to the Narrative Theology of Acts of Paul  Annette Merz 177

viii Contents 15 16

Eucharists and other Meals in the Apocryphal Acts of John and Acts of Andrew  Jan N. Bremmer 197 Meals in Joseph and Aseneth  Angela Standhartinger 211

Part Four  Epistolary Literature 17 18 19 20 21 22

“The Meal in 1 Corinthians 11”  Soham Al-Suadi 227 Meals in the Letter to the Romans – The Debate about the Food on the Table  Kathy Ehrensperger 240 Pseudepigraphic Letters of Paul  Soham Al-Suadi 251 Meals in the Johannine Letters  Jan Heilmann 258 Meals in the Further Epistolary Literature of the New Testament  Hans Joachim Stein 269 Useless Foods: Communal Meals in Hebrews  Gabriella Gelardini 278

Part Five  Apocalyptic Literature 23 24

Food in Fourth Ezra  Peter-Ben Smit 297 Meals and Banqueting Culture in the Apocalypse of John  Markus Öhler 316

Part Six  Texts of Daily Life 25 26 27

Meals and Magic: Eating for Revelation in the Eighth Book of Moses (PGM XIII/ Leiden I 395)  Monika Amsler 327 Meals in Ancient Medicinal Texts  John Wilkins 341 Material Meals: Space, Inscription and Image as the Texts of Daily Life  Lillian I. Larsen and Jesper Blid 354

Name Index Ancient Sources

371 381

Introduction to T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in the Greco-Roman World Peter-Ben Smit and Soham Al-Suadi

Meals have long been a topic of key interest in the field of early Christian studies, including the field of New Testament studies. The reasons for this can be found both in early Christian writings themselves, as they are quite preoccupied with meals and the dynamics proper to them, such as inclusion and exclusion and the structuring of a community, and in the role that meals have played and continue to play in the history of Christianity: Christianity is a meal-centered religion, given that the Eucharist (under whichever name) is a central act of worship in all large traditions (even if it is celebrated infrequently, this is often due to awe for the celebration rather than to disinterest in this meal). Celebrations of meals in the history of Christianity and today have been and continue to be legitimized by appeals to early Christian texts, especially canonical ones, that are concerned with meals. In being so preoccupied with meals, Christianity, as it originates in Judaism, mirrors human preoccupation with food and meals at large – as anthropologists such as Mary Douglas have shown, meals are not important primarily because they are a way of receiving nutrition (there are more efficient ways of taking in calories and the like than a meal), but because they shape relationships and are an important means for structuring a community and positioning this community in the wider world. When studying early Christian meals in the Greco-Roman world (thereby including the Jewish subculture), this also becomes apparent: meals are never just meals, they are always more than merely a way of taking in food. In the past approximately 20 years, research about the evolving Christian identity and the basic communal practices of the first Christian communities has been renewed fundamentally by studying these in relation to Greco-Roman meals. In the first half of the twentieth century early Christian communities and their worship and ritual meals were especially examined against Jewish or pagan backgrounds, from the middle of the twentieth century early Christian meals were primarily understood as an integral part of Jewish-Hellenistic practice. This resulted in an embedding of emerging Christianity in the Hellenistic world, which has influenced and changed the study of early Christian meals accordingly. Leading in the change of paradigm of meal studies were mainly scholars from Germany and the United States (see the overview in: Taussig: 2009). In research into early Christian meals, the publication of Dennis E. Smith’s From Symposium to Eucharist in 2003 (based on his 1992 PhD thesis) and Matthias Klinghardt’s 1996 Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft a veritable paradigm shift occurred. From primarily genealogically oriented studies that usually assumed

2 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals a number of distinct meal traditions in the ancient world (e.g. Greek and Jewish, with early Christian meals as a mixture of both) and that was focused on the shape of ritual and matters of theological interpretation, the focus shifted to a view of meals in the Greco-Roman world that was more encompassing and had a broader scope when it came to positioning all of these meals in Greco-Roman society. The Smith/Klinghardt paradigm simply says: throughout the Mediterranean world, a coherent meal culture can be found, with meals that were structured in a similar way to a large extent and, even more importantly, that were discussed and evaluated according to a common frame of reference. Rather than attributing a particular meal tradition to a particular (sub)culture, it appeared to make more sense to view all kinds of meals as variations on a theme. Support for this view was found in a plethora of sources, but a particularly eloquent one is probably Philo of Alexandria’s De vita contemplativa, where Philo proceeds to compare the philosophical culture of the Greek to his own Therapeutes on the basis of their way of banqueting: ‘I wish also to speak of their common assemblies, and their very cheerful meetings at convivial parties, setting them in opposition and contrast to the banquets of others’ (40), in what follows, Philo compares the meals involved, notably Plato’s Symposium and the meals of the Therapeutes, on a point-by-point basis, thereby proving the superiority of his own group. Although Plato (or contemporary Platonists) would have doubtlessly repaid the compliment in kind, this way of arguing is exemplary for what the new paradigm concerning early Christian meals emphasizes. Meals can be compared across (sub)cultures in the ancient world, the ancients did so themselves, and in doing so, they were arguing about the quality of communities, how these should be organized and what values were embodied by them or ought to be embodied by them. In a way, one can speak of a broad ‘theology of meals’, which reflects critically on the way in which meals represent and embody different kinds of life in communion and the values inherent to them. On a meta-level, such values would be broadly shared, yet, they were always interpreted and applied in the context of particular traditions and contexts. A good example is when Paul refers to the kingdom of God being characterized by δικαιοσύνη καὶ εἰρήνη καὶ χαρὰ ἐν πνεύματι ἁγίῳ (Rom. 14.17). The three values of righteousness (justice), peace and joy would be acceptable to most people, yet his de-emphasizing of food might raise some eyebrows (some foods were regarded as ‘nobler’ or ‘more pure’ than others, of course), while the source of these values, i.e. the Holy Spirit, is very particular and potentially controversial. Such controversy would also arise when a meal was celebrated in remembrance of someone who had been crucified under Roman Imperial rule, but was venerated as Lord by a community, which also derived its values from this Lord. In other words: although all these meals can be seen as variations on a common theme, these variations do matter a lot! Research in the footsteps of Smith, to whom this volume is also dedicated, and Klinghardt, have shown this in much detail and in relation to a plethora of early Jewish, including early Christian, texts. The broader classification of early Christian meals in their actual context, the GrecoRoman world as a whole (not only in the Jewish environment, or merely in the context of mystery religions), and in their peculiarity (not only as a precursor to the Mass)

Introduction

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from the mid-1990s resulted, however, in that the specific literary, philosophical and theological characteristics of individual texts and their contexts were not sufficiently analysed, given that all emphasis was placed on the social aspects of meals. This research has now come to a point where the collection, systematization and fuse of the insights and results, including theological insights and results, have become a necessity. In addition, the particular work on a wide range of texts from the Imperial Period in the direct interest of an interdisciplinary communication of the results and insights was due to come. This interdisciplinary handbook studies the question of whether the motive of the common meal can be understood as a hermeneutical key to understanding literary and theological concepts about the origins of Christianity. It provides a comprehensive analysis of the relevant sources, offering insights into their literary, social and religious aspects, and thus combining the scholarly perspectives that have been developed in relation to early Christian meals over the last decades. To study meals as a literary motive is an aim to allow insight of selected writings for the interested reader and invites the experienced theologian to engage in a more sophisticated analysis. The handbook reflects this differentiated reading in its outline. Selected texts are first introduced and interpreted as a whole regarding the meal as a literary motive; second, each author is asked to analyse one aspect of the theme that is particularly relevant. To cover more systematic themes, the authors are asked to focus on a canon of questions that are relevant in understanding the Greco-Roman meal practice. The questions cover topics like: How does gender matter at meals? Where does politics become relevant? Is it possible to examine religious formations of monotheism and polytheism during the meal? How is sacrifice understood in different meal practices? Is inclusion and exclusion a social dynamic of power struggles? Where does ethnicity matter? How can we interpret the meal within a distinctive space or time? How did collegia understand the significance of their meal practices? The authors will thereby base their interpretation of individual aspects of the meal as a literary motive on an analysis that precedes the consolidation. Subdivided into six categories, dealing with representative texts from the intellectual milieu of early Christianity, gospel literature, various acts, epistolary literature, apocalyptic literature and texts related to everyday life, the volume offers a broad overview of which meals matter to what communities in what way, while balancing presentations of extant scholarly knowledge with new insights and proposals. In the chapter ‘Authors and Collections’ Maria Sokolskaya studies Philo of Alexandria and reflects on the banquets that appear in De vita contemplativa. Josephus and his description of the Essene common meals are interpreted by William den Hollander. In reference to the observation that scholars often offer ‘meagre information from the Qumran texts with selected data from written sources by Philo or Josephus’, (§§§) Claudia Bergmann focuses on the literary texts from Qumran and the descriptions of communal meals in particular before any socio-historical conclusions are made. Matthias Becker asks if Plutarch’s Septem sapientium convivium is an example of GrecoRoman sympotic literature. Texts from Nag Hammadi, namely the Codex VI that includes three hermetic texts (VI.6–8) (the untitled, so-called ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’ (NHC VI.6), the ‘Prayer of Thanksgiving’ (VI.7) and, ‘Asclepius’ (VI.8)) are examined by Jan Heilmann. Also focusing on a collection, Andrew McGowan studies

4 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals meals as a literary motive in the Apostolic Fathers. He surveys Barnabas, 1  and 2 Clement, the Didache, the Letter to Diognetus, the Shepherd of Hermas and the Letter of Polycarp to the Philippians. McGowan gives particular attention to the meals with the corpus of Ignatius of Antioch. Eric Ottenheijm reflects on Rabbinic texts and the question of how material context and rhetoric intertwine. The gospel tradition is covered by Martin Ebner’s chapter on the Gospel of Mark with the focus on the Meal of the Feast of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’ and the ‘Leaven’ in Mark 14. Matthias Klinghardt’s contribution is on the Gospel of Luke. He shows how the literary discussion of the meal contributes to social formations. The Gospel of Matthew, as a gospel within the diaspora context, is discussed by Hal Taussig. Esther Kobel is interested in meal scenes and metaphorical talk about food and drink in the Fourth Gospel. This part of the handbook concludes with Silke Petersen’s reflection on the Apocryphal Gospels. Her interpretation of so-called gnostic texts from Nag Hammadi reflects a surprisingly infrequent account of Eucharistic meals. The chapter on acts includes the Acts of the Apostles, apocryphal acts and Joseph and Aseneth (as it uses a similar literary format). Due to the narrative character of the Jewish-Hellenistic novel in which Joseph meets Aseneth during his travels through Egypt (Gen. 41.47-49), the handbook reflects on the literary importance of meal scenes in that particular literary context. Dennis Smith, to whom the handbook is dedicated, reflects the close connection between a novel and acts: The overall genre of Acts is most closely related to ancient historical novels (Pervo 2008: 170). The author creates a literary world that utilizes historical figures and some historical data, but the story he tells follows his own literary agenda. He is an accomplished writer and utilizes a variety of sub-genres and literary motifs throughout his narrative. In this essay, we will explore how meals function as a literary motif in Acts and what they reveal about the larger literary world that Acts is creating. (this volume, §§§)

For him, meals as literary motives were embedded in the social reality and vice versa. Therefore, Acts 2.42-47 is interpreted as a story that describes an idealized community of the distant past. Jan Bremmer and Annette Merz discuss the meal scenes in apocryphal Acts, namely the Acts of John and Andrew (Bremmer) and the Acts of Paul (Merz). They describe a genre that develops early Christian theology and corresponds with the literary interest in meals with novels, like Joseph and Asenath, and epistolary literature. The chapter on epistolary literature begins with the reflection on the letters of Paul to the Corinthians (Soham Al-Suadi) and to the Romans (Kathy Ehrensperger). For the letters to the Corinthians, Paul makes use of the well-known characteristics of the Hellenistic meal to convey his Christology by introducing Jesus as the symposiarch of the meal. In Romans, on the other hand, Paul is evaluating the relationship between Israel and the nations in light of the Christ-event and Ehrensperger reconsiders Rom. 14.1–15.13 beyond the dichotomy between Jews and non-Jews. In the pseudepigraphic letters of Paul, Soham Al-Suadi observes that a shared meal performance stands in relation to shared scriptures. Jan Heilmann is reflecting on the implicit literary motive

Introduction

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of the meal in the Johannine letters. The so-called Catholic Epistles and their interest in ‘the growing predominance of the word-orientated symposium over the foodorientated meal’ (§§§) are evaluated by Hans-Joachim Stein. Gabriella Gelardini is reflecting on food metaphors in Hebrews. Apocalyptic literature as a genre, that answers to a theological crisis, portrays meal scenes in a particular way. Peter-Ben Smit illustrates that 4 Ezra is provoked by the destruction of Jerusalem and includes the occurrence of meals, foodstuffs and foodrelated symbolism in the apocalyptic setting. Similarly, Markus Öhler elaborates on how the Apocalypse of John makes use of meals on a ‘metaphorical manner and presents his vision of the future by means of images of meals from both the Old Testament and Jewish tradition and Greco-Roman banqueting culture’ (§§§). As pointed out by many authors of the handbook, the representative texts from the intellectual milieu of early Christianity, gospel literature, various acts, epistolary literature and apocalyptic literature strengthen their theological, political and social arguments through metaphorical and non-metaphorical representation of meals and foodstuffs. Magical and medical texts as well as inscriptions are literary genres of daily life, which have been underestimated in their relevance for early Christian identity formations in relation to meals. Monika Amsler is discussing the definition of the term ‘magic’ as well as relevance of foodstuff rituals that stand for a common life in the Papyri graecae magicae. John Wilkins shows that food and nutrition were crucial to wellbeing in Antiquity and that ‘wellbeing of the body was a matter for sympotic reflection as was the wellbeing of the soul’ (§§§). The chapter on texts related to everyday life ends with Lillian I. Larsen’s and Jesper Blid’s paper on inscriptions. They show how material ‘texts’ have played an important role in situating the idealized literary community. The current volume thus adds to extant literature on early Christian meals, which consists of monographs dedicated to a particular topic, collections of essays resulting from the joint study of a topic and generally aimed at fellow specialists, and broad surveys and introductions to the field of meal studies by presenting the most relevant texts and textual corpora in sequence and by presenting them all in one place. This leads not just to a useful survey, but also to a further demonstration of the heuristic usefulness of the Smith/Klinghardt paradigm and to the scope of the variations on the theme of the meal (or banquet) in the ancient world. No meal is ever just a meal, nor can one say that all meals are the same just because they are meals. Each author (or community) seems to take pride in a particular way of celebrating meals and thereby performing and embodying their own identity, positioning themselves within broader society, dealing with questions of inclusion and exclusion and the division of roles within a community. The volume is dedicated to the memory of Dennis E. Smith (1942–2017), the nestor of contemporary meal research in early Christianity, who passed away prior to the publication of this volume, but who is represented in it with an essay on the (canonical) Acts of the Apostles. May his memory be a blessing!

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Part One

Authors & Collections

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Meals in the Works of Philo of Alexandria Maria Sokolskaya

Introduction Philo, an approximate contemporary of Jesus and a great exegete of the Jewish Bible, lived in Alexandria ‘by Egypt’, as it was called in antiquity to indicate its exclusive status of a Greek outpost on the Mediterranean coast of Egypt. The first of Alexander the Great’s foundations, it rapidly advanced to the capital of Hellenistic literary culture. Situated not far from Palestine, in a region familiar to Jews since biblical times, it hosted from the very beginning a large, flourishing Jewish community which benefited greatly from high standards of Greek education in the city, preserving at the same time its national distinctness, religious traditions and vivid connections to Jerusalem (see Fraser 1972).1 Philo’s native city produced some 300 years before his time the very text on which he spent his whole life commenting – a Greek translation of the Pentateuch called ‘the Septuagint’. The Septuagint is an offspring of the highly cultivated Hellenistic Judaism that felt a need to express itself in the lingua franca of the civilized world. The translation of the Holy Writ brought with it the conversion into Greek of the previous exegetical tradition of the Hebrew Bible, almost entirely lost for us; subsequently the Greek exegesis based on the Septuagint developed into a distinct branch of Jewish religious thought. Philo is our only surviving witness of this rich intellectual activity previous to the destruction of the Temple. The intertwining of Hellenic and Jewish elements in his works, the interpenetration of the two cultures, not excluding but intensifying polemics and rivalry – features that are also characteristic of some of the Sapiential Books – make him a difficult, but a very rewarding, study subject. He lives in the same world and is an heir to the same tradition as Jesus and his first followers, yet he disposes of his treasure in a somewhat different way. Still, the similarities are often striking, especially with Paul. Among other things, both provide a substantial amount of material pertinent to the topic ‘common meals’. In the whole ancient world festive meals belonged to the core of social life. They included entertainment, and a good talk was an important part of it. Now, what people understand under ‘entertainment’ and ‘good talk’ is obviously very different and says a lot about them. Ancient Greece and ancient Israel alike had a high esteem of what they

10 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals called ‘wisdom’ and of people deemed to be wise – ‘wise men’ or ‘sages’. It was apparently a frequently asked question in people’s minds, how the sages would behave at such an occasion and what their talk would be like. The philosophical banquet was therefore a popular literary genre, exemplified in classical Athens by the celebrated models of Plato and Xenophon, and brought in some way to its logical extreme in Plutarch’s Dinner of the Seven Wise Men, where the protagonists are the legendary Seven Sages of archaic Greece. The Jews had a special claim to wisdom, being sometimes acknowledged by the Greeks themselves as philosophers by race (Theophrastus, De pietate, apud: Porphyry, Abst. II, 26),2 especially because they typically converse with each other about the deity during the sacrificial meals, which, in the opinion of Theophrastus, are for this folk not – as it is for Greeks – an occasion for feasting on meat, offerings being burnt completely, but for fasting (ibid.). In the Jewish-Hellenistic tradition we can track a sort of rivalry with the Greek philosophical symposia. The centrepiece of the Letter of Aristeas is a royal banquet with the seventy-two Jewish sages, whose talk and behaviour excite the amazement of the cultivated Greek public. The Wisdom of the sapiential literature is sometimes a hostess, sometimes the meal itself. In Proverbs she has built a house for herself and set up seven pillars. She has killed her beasts; she has mingled her wine in a bowl, and prepared her table. She has sent forth her servants, calling with a loud proclamation to the feast, saying, ‘Whoso is foolish, let him turn aside to me’: and to them that want understanding she says, ‘Come, eat of my bread, and drink wine which I have mingled for you.’ (Prov. 9.1-5 LXX English Brenton)

The book of Sirach combines both images in one sentence: ‘She [Wisdom] will feed him with the bread of learning, and give him the water of wisdom to drink’ (Sir. 15.3); some chapters later it’s the meal itself who speaks to the reader: ‘Those who eat of me will hunger for more, and those who drink of me will thirst for more.’ (Sir. 24.21) Philo alludes to this in the treatise De somniis:3 Blessed indeed are those to whom it is granted to have joy of the love-charms of wisdom, and to banquet on truths she has discovered, and after revelling in these delights still to be athirst, bringing a craving for knowledge which knows no fullness not satiety. (Somn. 1.50)

What an important role banquets play in Philo´s mindset (Nikiprowetzky 1977: 22)4 can be seen from his exegesis of the Creation Story (cf. Gen. 1–2). One well-known exegetical problem about it was that man comes last in the creation account. It was important to show that his place in the series is no sign of inferiority, him being the supreme aim of the whole process (Runia 2001: 245–50). The first reason for man coming last adduced by Philo is that God wished him to be a guest at his banquet: Just as givers of a banquet, then, do not send out summonses to supper till they have put everything in readiness for the feast … exactly in the same way the Ruler of all things, like some provider of contests or of a banquet, when about to invite man to

Meals in the Works of Philo of Alexandria

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the enjoyment of a feast and a great spectacle, made ready beforehand the material for both a banquet and a most sacred display, the one full of all things that earth and rivers and sea and air bring forth for use and for enjoyment. (Opif. 78–79)5

So we are all guests on God’s banquet, provided with best nourishment and best entertainment through His grace. In a symbolically arranged universe as Philo’s that amounts to say that our own festive meals must be a reflection of God’s model. God invited man to the magnificent feast of His creation to share his love and goodness, and also to provide instruction. Men should imitate him, if their banquets be good.

1  Meals in De Vita Contemplativa The most extended discussion of human banquets appears in De Vita Contemplativa (for an extensive analysis of the meal of the Therapeutae, cf. Klinghardt 1996: 183–216; translations follow Colson 1941 unless indicated otherwise). This enigmatic treatise describes a Mosaic ascetic community of Therapeutae, living in solitude near Alexandria on the shores of the Mareotic Lake. Philo is our only source about their existence, and even he mentions them in no other work, so that the problem of their historical reality can never be ultimately settled. For Eusebius in the fourth century this group represented the earliest Christian Church of Alexandria (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.17.18-19). Nobody believes today in the Christian identity of Philo’s Jewish ascetics; doubts concerning Philo’s authorship are dissipated as well. So we are left with his report as our prime evidence (on the Therapeutae-Essenes-Qumran problematics see Schürer 1973: 591–7). According to Philo, these ardently pious people fled the noisy and turbulent life of a big city, leaving behind them all their property, ‘the blind wealth’ that distributes its gifts at random, without any regard to merit; they abandoned it to their children or other kinsfolk or friends, ‘thus voluntarily advancing the time of their inheritance’ (Contempl. 13). Symbolically dead for the earthly life, they are ‘longing for a deathless and blessed’ one and spend their days in study and contemplation, aspiring to the vision of the one God (Contempl. 13). Most of the time they don’t even communicate with one another: For six days they seek wisdom by themselves in solitude in the closets [it’s interesting to note, by the way, that the closets, or consecrated rooms for the study of the Holy Writ are called in Greek ‘monasteria’], never passing the outside door and indeed never even looking out. But on the seventh day they all come together as if to meet in a sacred assembly. (Contempl. 30)

It seems, however, that their ordinary Sabbath gatherings do not include a symposion. It’s only once in seven weeks, and especially on their ‘chief feast’ occurring once a year, presumably at Shavuot (the Feast of Weeks, Pentecost), that they indulge in extensive banqueting. Nevertheless, more than one half of the treatise is dedicated to the symposial habits of the Therapeutae. The focus on the meal shows how relevant this practice was: Philo knows of no better way to demonstrate the high moral and intellectual standards of the group as well as its religious ardour and its specific kind of

12 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals asceticism than by showing them banqueting. It’s not surprising, because the common meal is the centre of the group life, the chief collective activity. The same holds true of numberless Hellenistic associations or clubs so characteristic of the era after the end of polis democracies (Taussig 2009: 34). De Vita Contemplativa is in some respect Philo’s counterpart to Plato’s Politeia – an idealized description of a perfectly functioning society, a utopia showing a desirable state of human affairs. Characteristically, the philosopher of the polis needs for this a fictive state constitution, whereas a Hellenistic thinker, a citizen of a large empire, describes a festive common meal. The improvement of human affairs is now sought outside of political activities, in the congregations of like-minded people seeking moral perfection. The Therapeutae are cosmopolites, ‘citizens of Heaven and the world’ (Contempl. 90). But their serene seclusion is at the same time a defiance against the current state of things. Striking in the Philonic passage is the polemical verve against the surrounding symposial traditions, both real and literary. ‘I wish also to speak of their common assemblages and the cheerfulness of their convivial meals as contrasted to those of other people,’ says Philo (Contempl. 40; italics by the author). To fully appreciate the achievement of the Therapeutae, suggests Philo, we must see it against the background of the common practices of the time. So he expands on ordinary drinking parties, where under the influence of alcohol ‘noses, ears, fingers and some other parts of the body’ are gnawed off, so that ‘those who but now came to the party sound in body and friendly at heart, leave soon afterwards in enmity and with bodily mutilation’ (Contempl. 40), then on fashionable banquets à la Rome with a great display of ‘Italian expensiveness and luxury’ (Contempl. 48), with precious furniture, beautiful young slaves offering services and grotesque abundance of foods. Actually, you need not to be a Jewish sage for disliking both drunken orgies and vulgar ostentation, as we know, for example, from Horace or from Petronius’s famous parody. Philo himself gives us a hint that his apparently realistic description is already a literary topos (Klinghardt 1996: 188):6 ‘But why dilate on these doings which are now condemned by many of the more sober minded as giving further vent to the lusts which might profitably be curtailed?’ (Contempl. 56; italics by the author). A stronger point for the superiority of the Jewish Wisdom is made through a severe examination of the paradigmatic philosophical banquets of Classical Greece, namely of those in which Socrates took part (Contempl. 57). Socrates was at Philo’s time the sage of the ‘pagan’ world, model of the moral integrity, and Plato, his disciple and biographer, the philosopher. To dismiss Plato’s Symposion as a ludicrous piece of vile entertainment was pretty provocative, but Philo doesn’t stop at it: That these [sc. festive meals with Socrates’ participation] deserve to be remembered was the judgement of men whose character and discourses showed them to be philosophers, Xenophon and Plato, who described them as worthy to be recorded, surmising that they would serve to posterity as models of the happily conducted banquet. Yet even those if compared with those of our people who embrace the contemplative life will appear as matters for derision. (Contempl. 57 f.)

Xenophon, whose ‘banquet is more concerned with ordinary humanity’ (Contempl. 58), is done away quickly, but Plato gets an ample treatment. Philo’s main reproach is

Meals in the Works of Philo of Alexandria

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the ‘unnatural’ pederastic love with which ‘the talk in Plato’s Banquet is almost entirely concerned’ (Contempl. 59). As a consequent adherer of Mosaic Law, Philo has no indulgence for the common vulgar love which robs men of the courage which is the virtue most valuable for the life both of peace and war, sets up the disease of effeminacy in their souls and makes womanish (androgynous) those who should be disciplined in all the practices which make for valour. (Contempl. 60, Colson’s translation slightly modified)

Nor does he believe that the proper subject of Plato’s dialogue is more sublime than it appears on the surface. On the contrary, Philo explicitly dismisses this widespread assumption: ‘For, if we find some clever subtlety dealing apparently with the heavenly Love and Aphrodite, it is only brought in to give a touch of humour’ (Contempl. 60). It seems to be an urgent necessity to persuade the ‘disciples of Moses’ out of excessive relying on Plato: I pass over the mythical stories of the double-bodied men (disōmatoi) who were originally brought by unifying forces into cohesion with each other and afterwards come asunder, as an assemblage of separate parts might do when the bond of union which brought them together was loosened. All these are seductive enough, calculated by the novelty of the notion to beguile the ear, but the disciples of Moses trained from their earliest years to love the truth regard them with supreme contempt and continue undeceived. (Contempl. 63, italics by the author)

Paying attention to the fact that the ‘double-bodied men’ (disōmatoi) are the androgyns of the platonic myth, so famous in the ancient world that they even play a role in the early rabbinic Creation exegesis, where the Greek word is used in Hebrew transliteration (cf. Gen. Rab. 8.1), and that Philo obstinately avoids to use the word in the specific mythical sense invented by Plato in the Symposion, using it instead in this very passage in its habitual meaning of a word of abuse ‘effeminate’, we may be able to get the point: The disciples of Moses are warned not only against vicious pagan habits such as love between males, but also against the seductiveness of the pagan philosophy which in the eyes of Philo must be strictly subordinate to the traditional Jewish wisdom. It’s very typical of Philo that life and literature in his descriptions of banquets run into each other and are practically indistinguishable. It is also true about the festive meal of the Therapeutae. Each detail seems to have some anchorage in reality but is fraught with a symbolic and ideological meaning that must not always have been present in the minds of those who acted as a model for the writer. Nevertheless, we get a glance into the gatherings of an ardently pious Mosaic community which is apparently consciously opposing the conventions of the surrounding world and asserting its own values, and dare look on it through the lens of a Jewish thinker preoccupied with fashioning a utopian society of Sages. A symposion was a rewarding site for social experimentation (cf. Taussig 2009: 145–71) both in reality and in literature because of its importance in the whole

14 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Hellenistic world and of its ritual character – ritual not in the religious sense, but as a set of relatively fixed patterns. These were commonly accepted as ‘normal’ and therefore able to create expectations which in their turn could be played upon by breaking them. The meal of the Therapeutae is a telling example of such a play. It begins already by the reclining order. The Therapeutae recline according to seniority, a practice very common in the ancient world where the elderly were, as a matter of course, entitled to respect. But at once we are wised up: it’s not the physical seniority which matters, but the order of the admission to the community (Contempl. 67) . The next sentence makes a still stronger point: ‘By senior they do not understand the aged and grey headed who are regarded as still mere children if they have only in late years come to love this rule of life.’ If we trust Philo, what is at stake here is not the internal hierarchy of the community – a topic often discussed in the symposia-literature – but the issue of spiritual maturity which is the only one that matters. The spirit has its own seniority which is not connected with physical years or social ranking – an affirmation which sounds almost revolutionary against the conventional practices of the time. The Therapeutae are first of all spirit, which has no age. Nor has it gender. So the next sentence informs us that ‘the feast is shared by women also’; the requirements of decency are met through spatial separation, men reclining ‘by themselves on the right and women by themselves on the left’. (Contempl. 69) Philo stresses that the women are an exact opposite of the sort conventionally expected to take part in a symposion of men: most of them aged virgins, who have kept their chastity not under compulsion, like some of the Greek priestesses, but of their own free will, in their ardent yearning for wisdom. Eager to have her for their life mate they have spurned the pleasures of the body and desire no mortal offspring but those immortal children which only the soul that is dear to God can bring to the birth from itself because the Father has sown in her spiritual rays enabling her to behold the verities of wisdom. (Contempl. 68)

Virginity is neither a precondition for the participation in the meal nor for the membership in the community. Philo’s stress on it seems to point in the same direction as the notion of the spiritual seniority: physical properties such as sex are irrelevant in the world of spirit. The Therapeutae women have abdicated affections considered to be the most characteristic for females: longing for men and desire of having children. Under these conditions Philo sees no difficulty for women to ‘behold the verities of wisdom’ on a par with men. It is interesting to note in passing the imagery of spiritual rays ‘sowing’ in a virgin so that she conceives ‘immortal children’. It reappears centuries later in the iconography of the Annunciation in the Late Medieval and Renaissance art. Virginity understood as negation of corporeality opened many ways to some sort of gender equality in the spheres where ‘there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female’ (Gal. 3.28, NIV). The issue of the slave and the free is also made explicit: They do not have slaves to wait upon them as they consider the ownership of servants is entirely against nature. For nature has borne all men to be free, but the

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wrongful and covetous acts of some who pursued that source of evil, inequality, have imposed their yoke and invested the stronger with a power over the weaker. (Contempl. 70)

The meal seems to restore in a way the ‘original’ or ‘natural’ state of the world. An antique symposion was nevertheless technically impossible without servants. With no slaves available, somebody else must take on the task: Services are rendered by free men who perform their task as attendants not under compulsion not yet waiting for orders, but with deliberate goodwill anticipating eagerly and zealously the demands that may be made. For it is not just any free men who are appointed for these offices but young members of the association chosen with all care for their special merit who as becomes their good character and nobility are pressing on to reach the summit of virtue. They give their services gladly and proudly like sons to their real fathers and mothers, judging them to be the parents of them all in common, in a closer affinity than that of blood, since to the right minded there is no closer tie than noble living. And they come in to do their office ungirt and with tunics hanging down, that in their appearance there may be no shadow of anything to suggest the slave. (Contempl. 71–2)

Here many typical features of a conventional banquet are inverted. Above all, a traditional symposion was a juxtaposition of free men dressed in a long hanging garment, who alone enjoyed the privilege of reclining at the meal, and serving slaves in short tunics girded for work (see Lk. 22.27, cf. Mk 10.43 for the proverbial character of these statements). Here the services are rendered without waiting for orders, out of pure love and zeal to be helpful to the beloved ones, by people whose clothing emphasizes their status as freemen. A close parallel to that is John 13.4–15: [Jesus] got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. … When Jesus had washed their feet and put on His robe, He reclined again and said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done for you? You call me Teacher and Lord – and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.’ (NRSV)

The washing of feet by a slave was an obligatory service before a guest could recline, mentioned as such already in the dialogues of Plato. It was apparently felt as particularly ‘slavish’. This humble task performed out of pure love by a person whose rank, at least in this particular assembly, was the highest thinkable one had a tremendous effect of inversion. Philo’s description is less drastic, but employs very similar means, working with the same oppositions: reclining vs. getting up from table, wearing a long hanging robe vs. a short-girded tunic. Love instead of duty or coercion turns a community into

16 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals a family – once again a conventional image filled with new life through the notion of spiritual kinship, which is ‘a closer affinity than that of blood’, because ‘to the right minded’, things of spirit are much more real than contingencies of the corporeal world. All particularities of the Therapeutae’s symposion in Philo’s description are ultimately explained by their aspiration to put the highest value on the spirit and their contempt of things corporeal. Neither physical age nor physical kinship matters; spiritual seniority as well as spiritual kinship successfully take their place. An important point is the impact of such an aspiration on the social coexistence here on earth. What Philo tries to show is that adherence to bodily affects leads to quarrel, dissension, enslavement, injustice, degradation, whereas ‘the right minded’ create a better sort of human community. The superiority of the mind finds expression also in another inversion of the traditional order of a symposion. The first part of it was always a deipnon, the meal properly, followed by a wine party (symposion, ‘co-drinking’) with conversation and entertainment. The latter could occasionally be of a more earnest kind, turning the gathering into a sort of rhetoric or philosophy class. But neither a flute girl nor a moral teacher began his performance before the proper meal was finished. The Therapeutae at the contrary get first a Torah lecture on an empty stomach, discuss upon it, and only when ‘both sides feel sure that they have attained their object, the speaker in the effectiveness with which his discourse has carried on his aims, the audience in the substance of what they have heard’ (Contempl. 79), and praises to God are sung (Contempl. 80), tables are brought in with the ‘truly purified meal of leavened bread seasoned with salt mixed with hyssop’ (Contempl. 81). This part of the gathering is expressly called deipnon in the next paragraph, making conspicuous the reversion of the usual order. So the spiritual nourishment precedes the corporeal one,7 which is at any rate frugal to the extreme and ‘pure from the flesh of animals’ (Contempl. 73). Together with hard couches only covered with ‘quite cheap strewings of native papyrus’ (Contempl. 69) and water instead of wine, a feature so unusual that Philo expects some opponents to laugh at this (Contempl. 73), it expresses the core stance of the Therapeutae: ‘They always and everywhere practise a noble frugal contentment, and oppose with might and main the love-lures of pleasure’ (Contempl. 69). But the Therapeutae need not stay annoyingly sober during their festivities: an inebriation of spirit takes the place of the common drunkenness. The singing of hymns during the sacred vigil makes them ‘drunk with this noble drunkenness … not with heavy heads or drowsy eyes but more alert and wakeful than when they came to the banquet’ (Contempl. 89). Philo is fond of this metaphor of the ‘sober drunkenness’ which he uses often in his works (cf. the evidence in Lewy 1929: 3–34). He is apparently not alone in this, because Paul recommends to the Ephesians (Eph. 5.19): ‘Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be filled with the spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts.’ The meal of the Therapeutae is made primarily of spiritual food and spiritual wine, those of Wisdom; that is, to speak with Macbeth, great nature’s second course, chief nourisher in life’s feast, whereas the material bread and water paradoxically play an almost emblematic role, creating the common meal setting. It’s important to note that ‘spiritual’ for Philo does not mean ‘priestly’. He is particularly careful to

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distinguish between the two. The bread of the Therapeutae is leavened and ‘seasoned with salt mixed with hyssop’ (Contempl. 81), it falls short of the highest standard of ascetic frugality, not out of complaisance towards the human weakness, but, if we are to believe Philo, out of reverence for the sacred table, which lies thus in the holy outer temple; for on this table are placed loaves and salt without seasoning, and the bread is unleavened, and the salt unmixed with anything else, for it was becoming that the simplest and purest things should be allotted to the most excellent portion of the priests, as a reward for their ministrations, and that the others should aspire similar things, but should abstain from the same portion as they in order that those who are the more excellent persons may have the precedence. (Contempl. 81–2, trans. Yonge)

Philo describes it as a sign of humility and reverence against the Temple of Jerusalem and its priests, and reverence is undoubtedly there. On the other hand, it is a claim on a conspicuously holy life outside of the priesthood; without encroaching on the privileges of the consecrated, the Therapeutae achieve a kind of laic sanctity (cf. Nikiprowetzky 1977: 22), which in some way reminds us of the Pharisees movement. Once more, the spirit prevails: The ‘worshipers’ of God (such is the meaning, or at least one possible meaning, of the name Therapeutae, cf. Contempl. 2) can dispense with a material appurtenance to clergy, while they ‘aspire similar things’. It is characteristic of Philo’s version of Judaism, actually indifferent, even though reverent, towards the Temple Cult and insisting upon the intention and purity of heart as the only thing which really counts. In a similar vein, he states in the Life of Moses that a burnt sacrifice is valid and ‘stands firm, though the flesh is consumed, or rather, if no flesh at all is brought to the altar. For the true oblation, what else can it be but the devotion of a soul which is dear to God?’ (Vit. Mos. II, 108, transl. Colson, cf. Spec. 1.290-291). In contrast to Paul, Philo does not conclude thereof that the Law does not have to be obeyed, but the spiritualization of religion, so characteristic of the time, left a clear mark on the banquet of the Therapeutae.

Concluding remarks The festive meal, a central feature of both social and religious life in the Greco-Roman world, lends itself readily to symbolic, polemic, utopian descriptions. It therefore plays an important role in the literature of religious propaganda, in particular in the writings of Hellenistic Judaism. Philo makes extensive use of the possibilities of the genre; issues of spirituality and ascetics, social utopia, Jewish delimitation from the ‘paganism’, religious devotee’s self-demarcation from the conventional social values – all this finds expression in the rich metaphorics of the meal, of the spiritual and carnal food, of voluntary service, mutual love and equality. Meals’ relation to sacrificial practice in both Greek and Jewish religions allows a subtle accentuation of differences from pagan customs and new sensibilities within Jewish religiosity.

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Notes 1 Information on Jews in Alexandria, scattered through the whole work, can be easily tracked down with the aid of General Index in volume 3, 46. 2 Cited after Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, ed. by M. Stern, V. I (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1976): 10. 3 Cf. Philo, Fug. 166: ‘But as soon as he comes into existence he finds wisdom placed ready to his hand, shed from heaven above, and he drinks her undiluted, and sits feasting, and ceases not to be drunken with the sober drunkenness which right reason brings.’ 4 The list of references to banquets in Philo, besides main passages discussed here, is given in: Nikiprowetzky 1922.32n110: Ebr. 148; Her. 35; Fug. 166; Somn. I, 81 s.; III, 249; Mos. I, 187; Decal. 41; Spec. I, 37, 321, IV, 92; Virt. 99, 188; Praem. 122; Prob. 13; QG. IV, 8, 59, 124; QE. II, 15. 5 Philo, Opif. 78-79. Cf. Borgen 1995: 369–89, especially 378 with a close parallel to Philo from Tosefta Sanhedrin 8.9, where the text of Prov. 9.1-2 cited above serves as a scriptural corroboration of the ‘banquet’ explanation of Adam being greeted last. 6 Klinghardt points to Lucian: ‘Die oben erwähnten satirischen Mahlschilderungen, insbesondere bei Lukian, machen deutlich, daß Philon auch in diesem Abschnitt seiner Mahlapologie nicht aus dem Rahmen des (literarisch) üblichen fällt, sondern Topoi der Kynikerschilderung verwendet.’ 7 A different opinion in Klinghardt 1996: 197. Klinghardt conjectures that the inversed order was a real Jewish synagogal practice of this poorly documented time.

Bibliography Borgen, P. (1995), ‘Man’s Sovereignty over Animals and Nature according to Philo of Alexandria,’ in T. Fornberg and D. Hellholm (eds), Texts and Contexts: Biblical Texts in their Textual and Situational Contexts: Essays in Honour of Lars Hartman, 369–89, Oslo: Scandinavian University Press. Colson, F. H. (1941), Philo IX, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University. Fraser, P. M. (1972), Ptolemaic Alexandria, Vols. 1–3, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft, Tübingen: Frankce Verlag. Lewy. H. (1929), Sobria ebrietas. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der antiken Mystik, Gießen: Brunnen Verlag. Nikiprowetzky, S. (1977), Le commentaire de l’Écriture chez Philon d´Alexandrie: son caractère et sa portée; observations philologiques, Leiden: Brill. Runia, D. T. (2001), Philo of Alexandria: On the Creation of Cosmos According to Moses: Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Leiden: Brill. Schürer, E. (1973), The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, Vol. 2, edited by G. Vermes and F. Millar, Edinburgh: A&C Black. Stern, M., ed. (1976), Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism V.I, Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Taussig, H. (2009), In the Beginning was the Meal, Minneapolis: Fortress. Yonge (1855), The Works of Philo Judaeus IV, translated by C. D. Yonge, London.

2

Dining with Dignity: Josephus’s Rhetorical Use of the Essene Common Meals William den Hollander

Introduction In the middle of his history of Judea leading up to the outbreak of the revolt in AD 66, Josephus breaks off his narrative of the vicissitudes of the Herodian family and plunges into a lengthy digression on the three ‘philosophical schools’ among the Judeans: the Pharisees, Sadducees and Essenes (B.J. 2.119-66).1 Among the three groups, the last receives the most attention, and within the lengthy description of the Essenes we come across the fullest depiction of a meal in all of Josephus’s writings (2.129-33). Unsurprisingly, this specific passage has been subjected to considerable attention in scholarly literature, mainly in three, often overlapping, contexts. Most understandably it has been used as evidence of the meal practices of the Essenes within broader scholarly analyses of that group (see Van der Ploeg 1957; Mendels 1979; Baumgarten 1997b: 93–5, 108–9). Closely connected is the scholarship that has used it to fill out our understanding of life in the Qumran/Dead Sea Scrolls community (cf. Beall 1988; Bilde 2001; Smith and Taussig 2001: 21–33; Magness 2002: 201–2, 2004b: 86–90; Rajak 2002b: 219–40; Pfann 2006), based on the Qumran-Essene hypothesis.2 Finally it has received attention in other investigations into meals in the ancient world, particularly in connection with early Christianity (cf. Finger 2007: 146–66; Kobel 2011: 112–26). The description of the Essene dining habits has not yet, however, been considered in detail for its rhetorical place in Josephus’s writings. The entire passage has been subjected to close scrutiny by Steve Mason and he has argued cogently for its key role within the Jewish War and the Josephan corpus as a whole (see Mason 2000, 2007a, 2009). But there is room for a careful consideration of the ways in which the meal passage in particular contributes to Josephus’s authorial purposes. The aim of the present paper is, then, to build on these earlier investigations, on the assumption that such details are not included simply for the purposes of conveying information or for plain historical interest (Eckhardt 2010: 192), but that they play a vital role in Josephus’s discourse. Thus, the primary aim is not to consider how the Essenes ate or to address related sociological questions, but instead to see how the description of these meals fits with Josephus’s literary aim, a topic to which I am more suited to speak.

20 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals I will argue that Josephus intended to bolster his defence of Judean ethnic character, which had been called into question by popular imperial rhetoric in the aftermath of the revolt. I will begin by analysing the noteworthy characteristics of the meal, including resonances with ethnographic descriptions of the Spartans. I will then demonstrate how this contributes to Josephus’s broader attempts within the socio-political climate of Rome to present a competing discourse and an alternate portrayal of the Judeans, with the Essenes standing in as representative of them.

1  Josephus’s description of the Essene common meals In order for the reader to follow the analysis and appreciate the overall sense of the passage, it is best to include it in its entirety: After they have worked strenuously until the fifth hour they are again assembled in one area, where they belt on linen covers and wash their bodies in frigid water. After this purification, they gather in a private hall, into which none of those who hold different views may enter: now pure themselves, they approach the dining room as if it were some [kind of] sanctuary. After they have seated themselves in silence, the baker serves the loaves in order, whereas the cook serves each person one dish of one food. The priest offers a prayer before the food, and it is forbidden to taste anything before the prayer; when he has had his breakfast, he offers another concluding prayer. While starting and also while finishing, then, they honour God as the sponsor of life. At that, laying aside their clothes as if they were holy, they apply themselves to their labours again until evening. They dine in a similar way: when they have returned, they sit down with the visitors, if any happen to be present with them, and neither yelling nor disorder pollutes the house at any time, but they yield conversation to one another in order. And to those from outside, the silence of those inside appears as a kind of shiver-inducing mystery. The reason for this is their continuous sobriety and the rationing of food and drink among them – to the point of fullness.3 (B.J. 2.129–33)

The noteworthy characteristics of these meals can be separated into three (interconnected) categories: purity, discipline and piety. Each are intended by Josephus to cast light on the character of the participants, as was more commonly the case in Greek ethnographic meal depictions, which presented a strong correlation, positive or negative, between a people’s dining practices and their ethnic characters (Momigliano 1975: 54, 69; Rajak 2002b: 229). The emphasis on purity for these common meals is immediately evident and unsurprising, given the nature of the community Josephus is describing.4 This was established first of all by the purifying actions prior to the meal: the Essenes belt on linen covers (ζωσάμενοί σκεπάσμασιν λινοῖς) and wash in frigid water (ἀπολούονται τὸ σῶμα ψυχροῖς ὕδασιν), which appears elsewhere in Josephus’s writings in connection with purification (ἁγνεία; Vita 11; A.J. 3.263). The linen coverings that are mentioned appear to have been loincloths (cf. 2.137, 161), likely

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to preserve modesty during immersion (Vermes and Goodman 1989: 5; Baumgarten 1997b: 194–202; Magness 2002: 198–202; Tigchelaar 2003: 307–8). This concern for modesty may have appealed to at least some of Josephus’s audience members (on which see Mason 2005; Den Hollander 2014: 289–93) considering the moralistic discourse in Rome about public nudity at the baths, which was seen to be unhealthily influenced by Greek culture.5 After this purification ritual, although Josephus does not state it explicitly, the Essenes would put on another set of clothes (2.131; τὰς ἐσθῆτας) specifically for the meal.6 Presumably this was a white garment (cf. 2.123),7 which they later laid aside ‘as though holy’ (ὡς ἱερὰς). In this way too the purity of the meal was guarded, much in the way the sacred clothing of the temple priests maintained the purity of their ministrations, according to biblical prescriptions (Lev. 16.23; Ezek. 42.14; 44.19; for the correspondences between the Essene meals and the ritual acts of the temple priests, see Delcor 1968: 406–8). Purity was also preserved by separation from outsiders. Josephus observes that meals were held in a private hall (2.129; ἴδιον οἴκημα) from which any who held different views (2.129; μηδενὶ τῶν ἑτεροδόξων) were excluded.8 Even those who were still within the three-year testing period and had not yet undertaken the formal oathswearing ceremony were not permitted to join these communal gatherings (2.137-42), perhaps with the intention of maintaining pure conversation as well (cf. 2.132). Guests were admitted (2.132), but these must have been travelling Essenes who had already passed through the initiation process (cf. 2.124-5; on their identification see Baumgarten 1997a: 56–60). These guests were fully dependent on their admittance to these meals for sustenance, since Josephus reports elsewhere that, once in the order, Essenes were no longer permitted to eat food from others (2.139, 143). Expulsion from the order was, therefore, a death sentence (presuming the expelled ones still took their oaths seriously). This suggests that there was also a certain purity to the food that was offered, possibly in connection with the prayers offered by the priest (2.131), but perhaps also with its preparation (cf. A.J. 18.22). This is consistent with the prior bathing, which corresponds with priestly practice before sacrificial meals (see Gray: 1993: 86–7). The second significant characteristic of the Essene meals, as described by Josephus, is the discipline and restraint shown throughout. After their purification, for example, the diners would seat themselves (2.130; καθίζω), rather than take up reclining positions as was customary among their contemporaries (Smith and Taussig 2012: 22–3; Mason 2008: n. 815), including their fellow Judeans (Mt. 9.10-13 // Mk 2.15-17 // Lk. 5.29-32; see Smith 2015: 361–2). Given that reclining dining was generally associated with ‘pleasure, otium, luxury, and social privilege’ (Roller 2006: 84, cf. 1–14), particularly in Rome where Josephus’s audience members primarily resided, Josephus’s mention of their seated posture would suggest that he wished to contrast the self-conscious sobriety and moral uprightness of the Essenes with the presumed hedonism of reclining dining (for early Christian responses and reactions to the ‘culture of reclining’, see Smith and Taussig 2012: chs. 14–18). Their food consumption also furthers this impression. Once the diners had been seated, they were served loaves by the baker in order (2.130; ἐν τάξει; cf. 2.132), a phrase that gives the scene an air of military discipline (Mason 2008: 101 n. 767,

22 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 107 n. 816; cf. B.J. 2.122). Moreover, the cook would serve each person a single dish of a single food item (2.130; ἓν ἀγγεῖον ἐξ ἑνὸς ἐδέσματος ἑκάστῳ), in contrast to the regular practice of sharing from common dishes (Magness 2004a: 88–9; Atkinson and Magness 2010: 332–3) Thus, the Essene meal was the very picture of orderliness and sobriety: nothing in excess.9 This is further emphasized at the end of the passage, where Josephus highlights their continuous sobriety (2.133; ἡ διηνεκὴς νῆψις) and their careful apportioning of the food, eaten only to the point of fullness (2.133; μέχρι κόρου). In their eating habits, then, the Essenes demonstrated a strong control over their desires, in implicit contrast to the wellknown excesses of the symposium. In addition to discipline in eating, Josephus’s Essenes also displayed sobriety and control in conversation. Just as the food was served in an orderly manner, so too the discussions were conducted with restraint. Josephus writes, ‘Neither yelling, nor disorder pollutes the house at any time, but they yield conversation to one another in order.’10 The repetition of the phrase ἐν τάξει is significant, as is the use of μιαίνω to describe what might happen if the meals were any less disciplined and restrained (Mason 2008: 108 n. 823). If the conversation were not pure, the meal itself was in danger of pollution. The result of this control of conversation was that these meals were characterized above all by silence (2.133; σιωπὴ), which Josephus claims left an indelible impression on those who observed them from outside – including perhaps himself (Taylor 2012: 75) – ‘as a kind of shiver-inducing mystery’ (2.133; ὡς μυστήριόν τι φρικτὸν). This disciplined silence was all the more striking since the Greek and Roman symposia were (stereotypically) boisterous affairs because of the consumption of copious amounts of wine (Van der Ploeg 1957; Atkinson and Magness 2010: 331). Finally, we should make note of the piety that attended these meals. This was established already by the prayers that Josephus notes were offered by the priest both before and after the meal, honouring God as the sponsor of life (2.131; ὡς χορηγὸν τῆς ζωῆς). None of the diners was permitted to touch his food prior to the opening prayer. More significant for our purposes, however, is the language that Josephus chooses throughout the passage to describe certain features of the meal. First of all, when he writes of the purified diners’ entrance into the dining room he compares it to entry into a sanctuary (2.129; καθάπερ εἰς ἅγιόν τι τέμενος). Then, after the meal is finished, he describes how they lay aside their clothes ‘as if they were holy’ (2.131; ὡς ἱερὰς). Finally, he evokes the image of the mystery cult to describe the silence that hung over the meal (2.133; ὡς μυστήριόν τι φρικτὸν). Josephus clearly wants to give the impression that these meals have a sacred quality or ‘the aura of the sacrificial cult’ (Baumgarten 1997b: 94). We should probably not, however, take this as evidence that ‘the sectarians considered these meals to be a substitute for participation in the temple sacrifices’ (Magness 2004b: 130, 2002: 95; cf. Delcor 1968: 403; Bilde 2001: 161). I would even be hesitant to describe these as ‘sacred meals,’ ‘sacred banquets,’ ‘cultic meals’ or ‘rituals’, at least on the basis of Josephus’s evidence (Sutcliffe 1960; Vermes and Goodman 1989: 54; Rajak 2002b: 228; Magness 2002: 130, 202). These judgements mistake the precision of Josephus’s language.11 He does not identify these things with their sacred counterparts, but compares them, as should be clear from his choice of καθάπερ and ὡς (Van der

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Ploeg 1957: 167). Beall rightly observes, ‘Josephus, then, does not actually say that the meals of the Essenes are sacred, but rather, because of the Essenes’ extreme concern for purity, quietness, and order, their sober meal times appear sacred in character to an outsider’ (Beal 1988: 62–3; emphasis mine). Josephus draws out these sacred comparisons to demonstrate that the most mundane activities are for the Essenes a matter of religious concern; their whole lives are devoted to God.12 Furthermore, in a later passage Josephus expresses disapproval of their failure to participate fully in the temple sacrifices (A.J. 18.19; cf. Baumgarten 1994). His positive portrayal of these meals here would suggest, therefore, that he did not consider them to be replacements of the temple sacrifice. At the same time, I do not want to deny that these meals, so described, fall under the category of table fellowship (for similar arguments regarding the meals at Qumran, see Schiffman 1983: 197; Hempel 2012: 62–3). Before we consider the purpose of this passage within Josephus’s writings, it is worthwhile to observe briefly the allusions in this passage to the Spartans. If the Essenes serve in the Jewish War as an idealized and ideal society (Rajak 2002b: 227), they do so in part by evoking the spectre of Sparta (Mason 2000: 423–55, 2007a: 219–61). In Xenophon’s fourth-century BC description of the Spartans, for example, he observes that the amount of food granted at the common meals was neither too much nor too little, and that drink was restricted to those who were thirsty (Lac. 5.3-4). Moreover, regarding the conversation, he writes, ‘there is little room for insolence or drunken uproar, for unseemly conduct or indecent talk’ (Lac. 5.6). The resonance with our passage is clear. The Spartan myth lived on into the Roman era (Rawson 1969: 99–115). Where Josephus only implicitly contrasts the seated dining of the Essenes with the reclining dining of the symposium, his contemporary Plutarch explicitly writes that Lycurgus reacted to the latter by instituting common meals among the Spartans. His description of the dangers of excess provides an effective foil for Josephus’s Essenes as well: [Lycurgus] introduced [common messes] … so that they might … not take their meals at home, reclining on costly couches at costly tables, delivering themselves into the hands of servants and cooks to be fattened in the dark, like voracious animals, and ruining not only their characters but also their bodies, by surrendering them to every desire and all sorts of excess, which call for long sleeps, hot baths, abundant rest, and, as it were, daily nursing and tending. (Plutarch, Lyc. 10)

The common meals, in contrast, were characterized by simplicity of diet. Moreover, the one who refused to abide by institution, Plutarch writes, ‘was reviled as a weakling, and one too effeminate for the common diet’ (Lyc. 10). If Josephus is borrowing this rhetorical capital, it may suggest that his mention of the simple diet of the Essenes was meant to highlight their manliness, a virtue highlighted throughout the excursus (Mason 2009: 251–63). But while everyone viewed such Spartan customs with great admiration, Xenophon wrote that no state chose to imitate them (Lac. 10.8), and that situation changed little over the years. In his Jewish War, however, Josephus holds forth a shining exception in the Essenes and in his later work even insists that they outstrip their Spartan predecessors in every aspect (C. Ap. 2.225-31).

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2  Josephus’s purpose with the Essene common meals This already gives us a hint at why the meals of the Essenes deserve a place in Josephus’s writings, more so than in the writings of his contemporary, Philo (Hypoth. 11.5, 11; Prob. 12.86, 91). While we could chalk it up to a simple matter of interest or filling space, that would not adequately account for Josephus’s careful crafting of his narratives to achieve his rhetorical purposes. Moreover, as Eckhardt observes, ‘meals and meal customs in antiquity are never reported just for the sake of information’ (Eckhardt 2010: 192). The key lies in our understanding of the entire Essene excursus. The Essenes stand in for the Judeans as a whole; their virtues embody those of the entire ethnos (Mason 2000: 423–55, 2007a: 216–61, 2009: 239–79, cf. Taylor 2012: 103–4). Our passage, therefore, also contributes to this broader rhetorical aim. This relies on a supposition underlying Josephus’s description of the meal, namely that group identity was constructed as well as displayed through such a meal. That is, the nature of the common meal reflected the ethos of the participants (see, e.g. Klinghardt 1996: 35–43). Thus, self-discipline, piety and attention to purity were not only features of the meal itself, but also qualities that the Essene diners brought to the table, which were in turn reinforced by the table manners. Thus, Josephus is claiming that the Essenes themselves were uniquely self-disciplined, pure and pious, and this was displayed in the way that they ate together. Furthermore, given the representative nature of the Essenes in the Jewish War, the reader is expected to extrapolate these characteristics to the Judean ethnos as a whole. Josephus was defending the Judean character from the negative moral assessments that had been levelled at the Judeans in the aftermath of the war. In his prefatory remarks, he says that he is interested above all in countering the efforts of those who drew up accounts of the war that gave false impressions of the character of the Judean people (B.J. 1.2, 7-8). Indeed, his entire writing programme can be understood in this light (Mason 2000: 251). A good example of the kind of invective that was levelled at the Judeans is what survives of Tacitus’s well-known introduction to his account of the war. He opens with a sharp contrast: ‘[The Judeans] consider profane everything we consider sacred, they allow whatever we detest’ (Hist. 5.4). He observes specifically their practice of sitting apart at meals (5.5; separati epulis), which he links with their general hatred of others; he criticizes their demand that proselytes reject all other gods, even if he does not repeat the common charge of atheism (ἄθεος);13 and he questions their self-control, particularly in sexual matters. In short, the Judeans exhibit none of the qualities Romans prize. Tacitus’s negative comments regarding the Judeans’ particularities fit within broader Roman discourse both before and after the war (see, e.g. Feldman 1993: 123–76; Gruen 2002: 41–52). One of the popular topics was the Judeans’ abstinence from pork, which became the butt of jokes, such as Juvenal’s about Judean clementia allowing pigs to reach a ripe old age (Sat. 6.160).14 Outside observers also commented on the Judeans’ Sabbath dining practices, mistaking it as a day of fasting.15 In other contexts, however, the Sabbath was held up as evidence of the laziness of Judeans.16 While much of this can be explained by a general dislike or mistrust among staunch Romans of foreigners, the heightened rhetoric against the Judeans that the Flavian victory over them brought

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on, especially in the city of Rome itself, made a defence of Judean character all the more necessary (Cody 2003; Millar 2005). In this environment, then, Josephus describes the Essenes’ communal dining: where simplicity of diet is not to be mocked as arbitrary but to be honoured as austere; where restriction of fellowship is not to denigrated as misanthropy but to be commended for maintaining purity; where piety, purity and self-discipline – all integral to the Roman mos maiorum – were on full display. While Josephus’s efforts to defend the Judean character by his description of the Essenes in the Jewish War require reading between the lines, there is no such ambiguity in his later writing Against Apion. There he takes the very things he articulated earlier regarding the Essenes and applies them wholesale to the Judeans. Thus, he writes, ‘I think it will become clear that we possess laws that are extremely well designed with a view to piety (εὐσέβεια), fellowship (κοινωνία) with one another, and universal benevolence, as well as justice, endurance in labours and contempt for death’ (C. Ap. 2.146). A more explicit comparison is found in Josephus’s description of the sacrificial meals at the temple: We offer sacrifices not for our gratification or drunkenness – for that is undesirable to God and would be a pretext for violence and lavish expenditure – but such as are sober, orderly, well-behaved, so that, especially when sacrificing, we may act in sober moderation. And at the sacrifices we must first offer prayers for the common welfare, and then for ourselves; for we were born for communal fellowship, and the person who sets greater store by this than by his own personal concerns would be especially pleasing to God. (C. Ap. 2.195-6)17

While we are not yet in the realm of the quotidian meals of the Essenes, Josephus’s description of these temple meals does highlight similar virtues of piety, self-discipline, moderation and a concern for fellowship, in implicit contrast with non-Judean counterparts. A final example provides the clearest demonstration of what Josephus intended. Here the essentials of the Essene dining experience are applied to the Judeans as a whole: One should not be amazed if we face death on behalf of the laws more courageously than everyone else. For others cannot easily endure even what seem the easiest of our customs: I mean working for oneself, a simple diet, not eating or drinking anything thoughtlessly or according to the whims of individual desire, nor in connection with sexual relations or extravagance, and, on the other hand, enduring an unchangeable regime in abstention from work.18 (C. Ap. 2.234)

In the Jewish War Josephus had used the Essenes as the embodiment of the Judean ethos, or perhaps the pinnacle of Judean virtue. But by the time we get to his Against Apion, where criticism is being faced head on, the Essenes have disappeared entirely from view and instead their virtues and even their dining habits have become the property of the Judean people as a whole.19 They are a whole ethnos of philosophers. One might object as to the likelihood that a Roman audience member would be convinced by this application of Essene virtue to all Judeans. To answer this we need

26 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals only consider the ubiquity of common meals, also among the Judeans themselves (see Klinghardt 1996: 30; Smith and Taussig 2001: 21–35). Josephus himself cites a decree of Julius Caesar directing the magistrates of Parium in Mysia to allow the Judeans, ‘to collect money for common meals (σύνδειπνα) and sacred rites’ (A.J. 14.214), in which Caesar supports his judgement with the observation that in Rome the Judeans were permitted to do the same (Schwartz 2001: 221). There is no reason to imagine that the Roman Judeans stopped holding their common suppers into Josephus’s day. It would certainly explain how Tacitus knew to criticize them for their exclusivity. Thus, Josephus’s audience members were to imagine – since they would never be admitted personally – that also the meals in their own city were conducted with the purity, piety and self-discipline of the Essene meals. There was surely no harm in allowing such people to experience fellowship with one another in such a way!

3  Concluding remarks Josephus’s use of the Essenes’ common meal to defend the Judean ethos from contemporary defamation was only effective insofar as it rested on a broader cultural assumption, namely that there was an integral link between one’s dining practices and one’s character. Nowhere is this more clearly stated than in the aforementioned biography of Lycurgus, where Plutarch writes that unfettered and profligate dining among the Spartans would ‘ruin not only their characters but also their bodies’ (Lyc. 10). Josephus was able to exploit this popular perception to advance his purposes while writing in the hostile atmosphere that emerged in the aftermath of the Judean war with the Romans. That does not mean, however, that his depiction is imaginary. Josephus claims he himself gained expertise in all of the Judean philosophical schools, including the Essenes, and, even if there are issues with his chronology, a complete fabrication seems unlikely (Vermes and Goodman 1989: 57; Rajak 2002a: 34–5, 2002b: 222; pace Smith 1958: 277). Moreover, Josephus reports that Essenes were found in all the cities of Judea, which suggests the possibility that at the very least he encountered them in his travels (B.J. 2.124; Mason 2000: 436–7). Also, given that certain members of his Roman audience may have had opportunity themselves to encounter these Judean philosophers (Vita 362; C. Ap. 1.51; Den Hollander 2014: 255–63), Josephus’s liberty in inventing details would have been restrained. Thus, he found in the historical Essenes a group of Judeans worth praising at length and holding up as prime examples of the type of character that could be expected among the Judeans more generally. The way they ate was a case in point.

Notes 1 Throughout this chapter I use ‘Judean’ as the best translation of the Greek Ἰουδαῖοι and Latin Iudaeus to emphasize that at this time the designation was primarily ethnic, that is descriptive of an ἔθνος or gens; cf. Mason 2007b; Den Hollander 2014: 7 n. 35.

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2 My sympathies lie, for methodological reasons, with those who question the hypothesis; see, e.g. Mason 2008, 84–96; pace Atkinson and Magness 2010. For a useful history of scholarship on the Essenes, including the Qumran-Essene hypothesis, see Taylor 2012: 3–21. 3 The translations are those of the Brill translation and commentary project, whenever available. Otherwise they have been adapted from the Loeb editions. 4 It should be noted that Josephus is actually describing two meals, the morning meal (129–31) and the evening meal (132–3). Since he links the two closely (132; δειπνοῦσι δ᾽ ὁμοίως), however, we will for the purposes of this chapter assume that he intends the characteristics to apply uniformly. 5 See, e.g. Cicero Tusc. 4.70; Tacitus. Ann. 14.20; cf. Hallett 2005: 71–6. Some have suggested that the Romans also wore special garments for public bathing to avoid public nudity; see Yegül 1995: 34–5. 6 An alternate possibility is given by Taylor 2012: 84, ‘Josephus does not say that they put on any new outer clothing, and so it appears that they go off directly to a pure meal resiliently wearing these (uncomfortably wet) linen wraps.’ 7 Josephus mentions later that white clothing was given to the novices at the time of their initiation three years later (2.137); see Beall 1988: 75; Baumgarten 1997a: 55; Tigchelaar 2003: 309–10. 8 Mason, Judean War 2, 107 n. 812, observes the uniqueness of this term, which occurs only in philosophical contexts. 9 There is no mention here that these cooks and bakers were priests as well. They seem to be distinct from the priests who offer prayers over the meals; cf. A.J. 18.22 where Josephus writes that the Essenes choose ‘priests to prepare bread and other food’ (ἱερεῖς δὲ ἐπὶ ποιήσει σίτου τε καὶ βρωμάτων). 10 War 2.132: οὔτε δὲ κραυγή ποτε τὸν οἶκον οὔτε θόρυβος μιαίνει, τὰς δὲ λαλιὰς ἐν τάξει παραχωροῦσιν ἀλλήλοις. 11 The translation of Magness 2002: 130, is misleading: ‘Afterwards they lay aside the garments which they have worn for the meal, since they are sacred garments’ (emphasis added). Translating ὡς with ‘as if ’ or ‘as though’ is more appropriate in the context. 12 Compare Paul’s description of Christians who eat and drink ‘to the glory of God’ (1 Cor. 10.31), which does not make their meals sacred, but imbues their eating and drinking with sacred character and meaning. There is a (not insignificant) difference there. See Van Der Ploeg 1957: 165. 13 Cf. Josephus C. Ap. 2.65,79,148; Pliny Nat. 13.46; Florus Epit. 1.40. In Josephus’s day, the charge had significant weight, since under Domitian many were accused of ‘atheism’, also in connection with ‘drifting into Judean ways’; Cassius Dio 67.14.1-3; cf. Den Hollander 2014: 240. 14 Juvenal Sat. 14.98-9; Philo Legat. 361; Tacitus Hist. 5.4.2; Macrobius Sat. 2.4.11. 15 Suetonius Aug. 76; Martial Ep. 4.4.7; Petronius Sat. 37; Strabo 16.2.40; Trogus apud Justin 36.2.14. 16 Seneca apud Augustine Civ. 6.11; Tacitus.Hist. 5.4.3-4; Juvenal Sat. 14.105-6. 17 There are some manuscript variants with this passage. I have accepted the longer version, in line with Barclay 2006: n. 255. 18 Italicized: τροφῆς λιτότητα καὶ τὸ μηδὲν εἰκῆ μηδ᾽ ὡς ἔτυχεν ἕκαστος ἐπιτεθυμηκὼς φαγεῖν ἢ πιεῖν. 19 Mason 2000: 260, observes that Porphyry treats this passage as a description of the Essenes, which confirms the resonances between the passages observed here (Abst. 4.3.1–5.2).

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Bibliography Atkinson, K. and J. Magness (2010), ‘Josephus’s Essenes and the Qumran Community’, JBL 129 (2): 317–42. Barclay, J. M. G. (2006), Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10: Against Apion, Leiden: Brill. Baumgarten, A. (1994), ‘Josephus on Essene Sacrifice’, JJS 45 (2): 169–84. Baumgarten, A. (1997a), ‘He Knew That He Knew That He Knew That He Was an Essene,’ JJS 48 (1): 53–61. Baumgarten, A. (1997b), The Flourishing of Jewish Sects in the Maccabean Era: An Interpretation, Leiden: Brill. Beall, T. S. (1988), Josephus’ Description of the Essenes Illustrated by the Dead Sea Scrolls, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bilde, P. (2001), ‘The Common-Meal in the Qumran-Essene Communities’, in I. Nielsen and H. Sigismund Nielsen (eds), Meals in a Social Context: Aspects of the Common Meal in the Hellenistic and Roman World, 145–66, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Cody, J. M. (2003), ‘Conquerors and Conquered on Flavian Coins’, in A. J. Boyle and W. J. Dominik (eds), Flavian Rome: Culture, Image, Text, 103–24, Leiden: Brill. Delcor, M. (1968), ‘Repas cultuels esséniens et thérapeutes, thiases et haburoth,’ RevQ 6: 401–25. Den Hollander, W. (2014), Josephus, the Emperors, and the City of Rome: From Hostage to Historian, Leiden: Brill. Eckhardt, B. (2010), ‘Meals and Politics in the “Yaḥad”: A Reconsideration’, Dead Sea Discoveries 17 (2): 180–209. Feldman, L. H. (1993), Jew & Gentile in the Ancient World, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Finger, R. H. (2007), Of Widows and Meals: Communal Meals in the Book of Acts, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Gray, R. (1993), Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Jewish Palestine: The Evidence from Josephus, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gruen, E. (2002), Diaspora: Jews Amidst Greeks and Romans, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hallett, C. H. (2005), The Roman Nude: Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 BC–AD 300, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hempel, C. (2012), ‘Who Is Making Dinner at Qumran?’ JTS 63 (1): 49–65. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke Verlag. Kobel, E. (2011), Dining with John: Communal Meals and Identity Formation in the Fourth Gospel and Its Historical and Cultural Context, Leiden: Brill. Magness, J. (2002), The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Magness, J. (2004a), ‘Communal Meals and Sacred Space at Qumran,’ in J. Magness (ed.), Debating Qumran: Collected Essays on its Archaeology, 81–112, Leuven: Peeters. Magness, J. (2004b). Debating Qumran: Collected Essays on Its Archaeology, Leuven: Peeters. Mason, S. (2000), ‘What Josephus Says about Essenes in his Judean War’, in S. G. Wilson and M. Desjardins (eds), Text and Artifact in the Religions of Mediterranean Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Peter Richardson, 423–55, Waterloo, ON: Wilfred Laurier University Press.

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Mason, S. (2005), ‘Of Audience and Meaning: Reading Josephus’ Bellum Judaicum in the Context of a Flavian Audience’, in J. Sievers and G. Lembi (eds), Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond, 71–100, Leiden: Brill. Mason, S. (2007a), ‘Essenes and Lurking Spartans in Josephus’ Judean War: From Story to History’, in Z. Rodgers (ed.), Making History: Josephus and Historical Method, 219–61, Leiden: Brill. Mason, S. (2007b), ‘Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History’, JSJ 38 (4): 1–56. Mason, S. (2008), Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 1b: Judean War 2, Leiden: Brill. Mason, S. (2009), ‘The Essenes of Josephus’ Judean War: From Story to History’, in S. Mason, Josephus, Judea, and Christian Origins: Methods and Categories, 239–79, Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers. [Fuller online version: http:​//ori​on.ms​cc.hu​ ji.ac​.il/s​ympos​iums/​progr​ams/M​ason0​0-1.s​html]​ Mendels, D. (1979), ‘Hellenistic Utopia and the Essenes’, HTR 72: 207–22. Millar, F. (2005), ‘Last Year in Jerusalem: Monuments of the Jewish War in Rome’, in J. Edmonson, S. Mason and J. Rives (eds), Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome, 101–28, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Momigliano, A. (1975), Alien Wisdom: the Limits of Hellenization, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pfann, S. (2006), ‘A Table Prepared in the Wilderness: Pantries and Tables, Pure Food and Sacred Space at Qumran’, in K. Galor, J.-B. Humbert and J. Zangenburg (eds), Qumran. The Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Archaeological Interpretations and Debates, 159–78, Leiden: Brill. Rajak, T. (2002a), Josephus: The Historian and His Society, London: Duckworth. Rajak, T. (2002b) The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural and Social Interaction, Leiden: Brill. Rawson, E. (1969), The Spartan Tradition in European Thought, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Roller, M. B. (2006), Dining Posture in Ancient Rome: Bodies, Values, and Status, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Schiffman, L. H. (1983), Sectarian Law in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Courts, Testimony, and the Penal Code, Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Schwartz, S. (2001), Imperialism and Jewish Society 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Smith, D. E. (2015), ‘Food and Dining in Early Christianity’, in J. Wilkins and R. Nadeau (eds), A Companion to Food in the Ancient World, 357–64, West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell. Smith, D. E. and H. E. Taussig (2001), Many Tables: The Eucharist in the New Testament and Liturgy Today, Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Smith, D. E. and H. E. Taussig (2012), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Smith, M. (1958), ‘The Description of the Essenes in Josephus and the Philosophumena’, HUCA 29: 273–313. Sutcliffe, E. F. (1960), ‘Sacred Meals at Qumran?’, HeyJ 1 (1): 48–65. Taylor, J. (2012), The Essenes, the Scrolls, and the Dead Sea, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tigchelaar, E. J. C. (2003), ‘The White Dress of the Essenes and the Pythagoreans’, in F. Garcia Martinez and G. P. Luttikhuizen (eds), Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome: Studies in Ancient Cultural Interaction in Honour of A. Hilhorst, 301–22, Leiden: Brill.

30 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Van Der Ploeg, J. (1957), ‘The Meals of the Essenes’, JSS 2 (2): 163–75. Vermes, G. and M. Goodman (1989), The Essenes According to the Classical Sources, Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press. Yegül, F. K. (1995), Baths and Bathing in Classical Antiquity, New York: Architectural History Foundation.

3

Plutarch’s Septem sapientium convivium: An Example of Greco-Roman Sympotic Literature Matthias Becker

Introduction: Genre and content – An overview Eating and drinking together was a common socio-cultural practice among the political and intellectual elites in the Greco-Roman world (Smith 2003: 13–65; Vössing 2004, 2008; Stein-Hölkeskamp 2005; Roller 2006; Stein 2008: 27–64; Schnurbusch 2011; Hobden 2013; Wecowski 2014). In order to shed light on the significance and the distinctive features of aristocratic banquets and symposia, the literary evidence is of special importance. Although depictions of dinner parties and feasting procedures surely mirror real-life convivial gatherings of ancient upper classes (König 2012: 20–3), they also serve as a narrative device in Greek and Roman authors. Meal scenes became a literary motif early on: Beginning with Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, the Greco-Roman epic tradition until at least the late antique Latin poet Claudian contains dozens of meal type-scenes that follow a literary pattern whose basic elements remain unchanged for almost 1,200 years (Bettenworth 2004). A special and influential genre of sympotic prose literature emerged in the fourth century BC (Martin 1931; König 2012: 6–17), the earliest extant examples of which are Plato’s and Xenophon’s Symposia (Aune 1978: 53; Görgemanns 2001: 1139). During the Hellenistic period, symposion literature remained exceedingly popular in the philosophical schools of Athens: Aristotle and Peripatetic philosophers like Prytanis and Hieronymus, the Academic philosophers Speusippus and Dio as well as Epicurus are all listed among the literary representatives of the genre (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I praef. 612d–e, Martin 1931: 196–7). Written ‘in the late first or early second century CE’ (Hobden 2013: 108), Plutarch’s Banquet or rather Symposion of the Seven Sages (Τῶν ἑπτὰ σοφῶν συμπόσιον) stands, therefore, in a fairly long tradition of Greco-Roman literature and thought (Mossman 1997). Basically, in the texts that belong to the sympotic genre, the representation of an aristocratic dinner party provides the framework for a narrative account of various conversations and speeches that were held by the participants who are mostly part of the political and intellectual elites of their time. Other examples of the genre include

32 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Plutarch’s Table Talk or Athenaeus’ Deipnosophists. Parodic descriptions of GrecoRoman meals and symposia with a tendency towards social criticism can be found, for example, in Petronius’s Satyricon with its so-called Cena Trimalchionis, and in Lucian’s Symposion or the Lapiths (Männlein 2000; Smith 2003: 62–4; König 2012: 17–20). Besides the entertainment factor which is not to be neglected with regard to reader reception, texts representative of the genre reveal a didactic impulse. As a result, a variety of quite serious topics are dealt with in the talks and dialogues that are portrayed, spanning from erotic, philosophical, political, ethical, religious, literary and musical issues to advice on how to host a banquet (Görgemanns 2001: 1139–40). Tradition has it that Periander, tyrant of Corinth in the sixth century BC, was not only a favourer and promoter of literature and the arts but also a wise man who produced didactic poems (Diogenes Laertius I.97-8).1 In Plutarch’s Symposion of the Seven Sages, it is he who invites the so-called Seven Sages to Corinth to participate in a dinner party together with other selected guests. By the time Plutarch wrote his piece, a vivid legendary tradition about the Seven Sages had evolved the roots of which probably go back to the fifth century BC. Even though the accounts agree on the number seven, the list of names that were attributed to the group of the wise men varies (Diogenes Laertius I.41-2, Aune 1978: 55–6, Fehling 1985: 39–48). With the exception of Anacharsis who replaces Myson of Chen, Plutarch’s list is in accordance with Plato whose reference to the Seven Sages includes Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, Solon of Athens, Cleobulus of Lindos, Myson of Chen and Chilon of Sparta (Plato, Prot. 343a; cf. Fehling 1985: 12–18. For a collection of biographical and doxographical data on all of the above-mentioned wise men (including Periander), see Diogenes Laertius I.22-108). Using a fictitious narrator – a diviner at Periander’s court by the name of Diocles, who tells his equally fictitious contemporary Nicarchus about the procedure of the banquet and the conversations that were held (Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 146b–c, 149d) – Plutarch evokes the narrative constellation of Plato’s Symposion (Aune 1978: 53; Klotz 2014: 218) and gives a presentation of sayings and teachings of the Seven Sages. The importance of the ‘reported’ conversations at table results from the fact that the Seven Sages ‘both individually and collectively … exemplified the archaic Greek ideal of σοφία, i.e., a judicious combination of practical and intellectual wisdom’ (Aune 1978: 55). By conflating various legends about a banquet and meetings of the Seven Sages (cf. Plutarch, Sol. 4.1-2; Diogenes Laertius I.40; Martin 1931: 262–6; Aune 1978: 56), Plutarch has produced a narrative that is – on its surface – partly reminiscent of historical fiction (Görgemanns 2001: 1140; Kim 2009: 481–5; König 2012: 63), especially because Plutarch approves of ‘several anachronisms and chronological impossibilities’ (Mossman 1997: 121, cf. Billault 2008: 584–6). A close look, however, shows a twofold intention which goes beyond both correct chronology and the common desire of Greek writers to recall the Greek past and to invigorate Hellenic identity under Roman rule (cf. Asper 2006: 100; König 2008: 87–94): Judging from the ‘recurring central theme of the composition’, Plutarch is not only eager to present a philosophical discussion on ‘the οἰκονομία or proper management of states (kingdoms, tyrannies and democracies), households and the cosmos’,2 but he also ‘wishes to create an exemplary symposion to serve as a model for those held in his own day’ (Aune 1978: 52, cf. Billault 2008: 584). The imaginary evocation of a sixth-century

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environment reveals, therefore, a critical undercurrent with regard to meal practices in the imperial era. Before elaborating on what Plutarch’s text has to say about banquets and symposia as such, its outline has to be briefly considered. Generally, Plutarch’s Symposion of the Seven Sages comprises four major parts (cf. Martin 1931: 252–9; Defradas 1954: 12–15; Aune 1978: 56–60; Klotz 2014: 218–21) which can be summarized as follows:

1. The προοίμιον in which the fictitious narrator Diocles without mentioning his

name introduces himself to his fictitious recipient Nicarchus as a trustworthy eyewitness of the events and conversations that he is about to share (146b–c); 2. Introductory remarks about (1) the setting of Periander’s symposion in a banqueting-hall that lies adjacent to a temple of Aphrodite near the Lechaeum outside of Corinth (146c–d), (2) the festival of Aphrodite which is presented as the occasion of the banquet (146d), (3) the journey and conversations of Thales, Diocles and Neiloxenus who take a walk to the banqueting-hall (146d–148b) and (4) the arrival of the guests at the banquet site (148b–149f); 3. The ‘banquet’ (δεῖπνον) which is mentioned comparatively briefly (149f–150d); 4. The symposion proper (συμπόσιον) that follows after the meal and that provides the setting for conversations over wine about (1) the governance of states (150d–154f), (2) the governance of households (154f–160c) and (3) the governance of the cosmos (160d–164a). Plutarch’s Symposion ends with a short discussion about the Delphic maxims,3 followed by final libations to the Muses, Poseidon and Aphrodite (164a–d). Even though Plutarch assembles his famous guests primarily for philosophical discussion, there are a lot of references to be found in his text regarding the procedure and meaning of aristocratic meals and symposia. While evoking the historical context of sixth-century Corinth, the depiction of the meal and drinking party mirrors customs of Plutarch’s own day (cf. Aune 1978: 70–1). On the one hand, this shows that the ‘basic structure of the symposion seems to have remained relatively unchanged from Homer to the end of antiquity’ (Aune 1978: 71). On the other hand, a number of comments of the Sages clearly function as a critique of certain meal customs of Plutarch’s own time. Therefore, the following presentation and interpretation of the evidence on what Plutarch has to say about meals and symposia serves two purposes: firstly, to gain insights into the cultural history of Greco-Roman dinner parties in the first and second centuries CE, and secondly, to explore Plutarch’s own notion of the ideal symposion.

1  The order of the depicted banquet and symposion Plutarch’s Septem sapientium convivium presents the typical tripartite structure of Greco-Roman banquets. These three constitutive elements are the meal, the (ritual) transition from meal to symposion (libations, music, hymns) and the symposion (Klinghardt 1996: 45–60, 99–129; Smith 2003: 27–31, Stein 2008: 36–47; Schnurbusch 2011: 144–69). Plutarch highlights the following aspects: When Diocles the narrator

34 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals states that the host Periander did not prepare the ‘reception’ (ὑποδοχή) in the city, but in a ‘banqueting-hall’ (ἑστιατόριον) not far away from the Lechaeum, that is, one of the ports of Ancient Corinth (146c–d), he indicates a private domestic banquet as opposed to one held in an urban context.4 In mentioning the location of Periander’s house, which is said to have been situated right next to the temple of Aphrodite (146d), the literary setting from the outset has a religious connotation that remains important throughout the narrative. As a wealthy host, Periander sends beautifully decorated chariots to pick up each of his invited guests, but Thales refuses to be transported and prefers to walk to the banquet site together with Diocles and a friend named Neiloxenus (146d–e). Although this ‘avoidance of luxury’ (Aune 1978: 82) clearly is indicative of the kind of philosophical moderation that the Seven Sages exemplify in Plutarch’s eyes, the episode underscores the importance of being personally invited to a meal (cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. III.1.1.645f–646a). Upon arrival at the ‘house’ (οἰκία), the guests take a bath as it was common to do before attending banquets (cf. Plato, Symp. 174a; Plutarch, Brut. 34.8; Pliny the Younger, Ep. III.1.8; Defradas 1954: 94 n. 38; Schnurbusch 2011: 150), and they are anointed before servants lead them ‘through the roofed colonnade (διὰ τῆς στοᾶς) into the men’s chamber (εἰς τὸν ἀνδρῶνα)’ where the banquet takes place (148b–c; cf. Xenophon, Symp. I.13; Wecowski 2014: 30–1). After a short discussion between Alexidemus of Miletus and Thales about the seating arrangements of the banquet (148e–149b), the guests take their seats in the dining room and the δεῖπνον begins. Diocles mentions some ‘jesting while [the guests] ate (ἅμα δειπνοῦντες ἔπαιζον)’ (150c). After the δεῖπνον, the tables are removed and Melissa, Periander’s wife, distributes garlands to the guests (150d). Before the symposion proper commences, the participants make a drink-offering while a flute girl plays her instrument (150d). Once the conversations about political philosophy, household management and the gods’ governance of the cosmos (150d–164c) are finished due to nightfall (164d), closing libations are made for the Muses, Poseidon and Amphitrite. Finally, the guests leave (164d).

2  Insights into Plutarch’s thoughts about the ideal banquet and, respectively, symposion As is evident from the works of Pliny the Younger, Statius, Martial and Juvenal, one of the many debates of the first and second centuries CE revolved around the question of what the ideal aristocratic banquet should look like. Stein-Hölkeskamp (2002: 488) who has investigated this issue concludes that Pliny and his contemporaries all advocate abstention from culinary extravagance, favour fairly highbrow entertainment and disapprove of a kind of hospitality that is graded according to the rank and status of the guests, and they all wish the ideal banquet to be a social occasion that is to be kept free of politics.

Plutarch expresses very similar views in his fictitious Septem sapientium convivium, and therefore is one of the voices in this intellectual debate (pace Martin 1931: 259–60).

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König  (2012: 21) rightly states that Plutarch partly reveals ‘didactic intentions’ in his sympotic works and that he aimed at influencing the ‘sympotic activities’ of his contemporaries by ‘offering’ them ‘paradigms for their own behaviour’. Like in other literary works in which symposia, table talks and scholarly debates are portrayed, it is not always easy to discern in Plutarch’s dialogues which speaker(s) or character(s) express Plutarch’s own opinion as an author (Brenk 2009: 51–3; Hobden 2013: 229–34). However, with regard to the question of whether the Septem sapientium convivium contains any hints about Plutarch’s notion of the ideal banquet, its true meaning and purpose, it is likely that he used different speakers to share his thoughts about a model banquet. Taken together, some of the remarks voiced by the narrator Diocles and other characters add up to a consistent picture that shows features of Plutarch’s philosophical or rather ethical concerns. What he ultimately envisions is the coming together of a number of cultivated men (and selected women)5 with the intention of enjoying respectful sociability and fellowship, displaying good manners and philanthropy,6 engaging in amusing as well as learned conversation fit to delight the soul, participating in discussions about philosophy and religion (cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.1; VIII praef. 716d–717a), showing human affection for one another and cultivating friendships (cf. Smith 2003: 54–5; Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I praef. 612d; IV praef. 659e–660c; VII praef. 697d). Of course, food and wine are mentioned by Plutarch, and a physician named Cleodorus even defends their social, physical and religious importance against the radical ascetic approach embraced by Solon. While the Athenian sage is convinced that it would be best for mankind not to require food at all, because thus the soul would be less bothered by the needs of the body, men would have more leisure to enjoy one another’s company and injustice resulting from the need of food could be reduced among humans (158c, 159b–160c), the physician holds a different view: If food and cooking were disregarded altogether, Cleodurus tells Solon, then family life at home would come to an end, the display of hospitality would be made impossible and gods like Helios, Selene, Zeus the rain-giver, Demeter, Poseidon and the joy-giver Dionysus would be dishonoured, because through their blessings and gifts they not only nourish and sustain the human body, but also provide physical pleasures for beings that consist of souls and bodies (158c–159a). Nevertheless, it is made very clear in the text that banquets and symposia are really not about eating and drinking as such and that luxury, outward opulence and excesses like getting drunk are to be avoided at dinner parties. The reader learns about this vision early on in the narrative. During the walk to Periander’s house, Thales draws his companions’ attention to the fact that like the host has to make arrangements, the guest has to prepare himself for the meal in advance. Unlike Sabarite women, who prepare themselves for invitations by choosing nice clothes and precious jewellery, Plutarch’s Thales says that the ‘true preparation of a banquet guest’ consists in ‘adorning the character’ and not the body (147e). According to Thales, the ideal guest should be a ‘sensible person’ (νοῦν ἔχων) who does not attend a banquet ‘as some kind of vessel (ἀγγεῖον) to be filled’. Rather, he should be apt to partake in ‘serious conversation and jesting, to listen and to speak’ as it is appropriate in order to ensure that the invited ones can ‘have a pleasant time together’ (μετ’ ἀλλήλων ἡδέως ἔσεσθαι) (147e–f). Thales continues that a ‘companion at table should neither cause a headache nor be harsh nor

36 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals distasteful’ (147f). ‘Insolent conduct’ (ὕβρις) and ‘angry behaviour’ (ὀργή) should not be part of a symposion (148a). That is why, according to Thales, it is vital for ‘the sensible man’ to make inquiries about other invited guests beforehand so as to be able to make an informed decision about whether to participate in a dinner party or not (148a). To bring home his message that banquets and symposia are not about ‘drinking’ and ‘enjoying oneself ’ (ἡδυπαθεῖν), but about ‘friendship and affection for one another’ (πρὸς φιλίαν καὶ ἀγάπησιν ἀλλήλων), Thales refers to the Egyptian custom of displaying a σκελετός, that is, a mummy or ‘mummy-like statuette’ (Aune 1978: 87), at symposia which the participants could easily interpret as a memento mori.7 Because life is short, Thales says, it should not be extended by devoting oneself to ‘bad things’ (148a–b). The idea of cultivating friendships in the context of meals is later on confirmed by the physician Cleodorus who calls the ‘table’ (τραπέζης) an ‘altar of the gods of friendship and hospitality’ (φιλίων θεῶν βωμὸν … καὶ ξενίων) (158c). Regarding the food and drinks that are served, Plutarch’s wise men leave no doubt that frugality should be the guiding principle in hosting banquets. When Diocles depicts the δεῖπνον he expresses his surprise that the meal was not lavish at all but almost frugal, without ‘special dishes (περιεργασίας ὄψων), foreign perfumes (μύρα ξενικά), cakes (πέμματα), or expensive wines’ (150c). From the way Plutarch puts Diocles’ description, it can be deduced that aristocratic banquets in his own day showed a high degree of flamboyance that Plutarch wanted to criticize.8 In the course of later conversation, Hesiod is praised for having recommended a simple lifestyle, thrift and a light diet whose primary intention is to appease hunger (157e–158b). As for wine, Mnesiphilus underscores that the work of Dionysus is not to be reduced to causing ‘intoxication’ (μέθη) and giving ‘wine’. Rather, the gift bestowed by Dionysus serves as a medium to cause or promote ‘kindliness (φιλοφροσύνη), longing (πόθος), communion (ὁμιλία), and intimate acquaintance (συνήθεια) with one another’ (156c). That is why, Mnesiphilus continues, in most cases Dionysus ‘softens the character’ (μαλάσσων τὰ ἤθη) of such people who do not know each other in order to facilitate their making friends (156d). In the case of philosophers, however, no wine is actually needed because for them the Muses are of greater importance than Dionysus: To induce ‘kindliness’, they use the λόγος (‘discourse’) as ‘a mixing vessel without wine’ (κρατὴρ νηφάλιος) that contains ‘the highest degree of pleasure (ἡδονή), amusement (παιδιά), and earnestness (σπουδή)’ (156d). Consequently, Solon is portrayed as ‘not drinking’ (155e). This whole paragraph surely addresses the issue of the drunkenness of guests and the ordering role of philosophy which Plutarch stresses elsewhere too (cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.1.2.613b; I.1.3.613f). The considerable proportion of moderate and self-controlled philosophers attending is probably the reason why in the Septem sapientium convivium no ‘president of the drinking-party’ or ‘toastmaster’ (συμποσίαρχος) is explicitly mentioned. Such a supervisor of the symposion was chosen from among the guests. Besides creating a harmonious and pleasant atmosphere that helps the guests to make friends, Plutarch requires the ideal συμποσίαρχος to strive for a healthy balance between the extremes of abstinence and excess so that the symposiasts neither abstain from wine altogether nor get heavily drunk (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.4 passim).

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Another important aspect of the ideal banquet and symposion concerns the social status of the guests. While it is obvious that Plutarch primarily has educated or at least intellectually interested participants in mind, he has the Athenian Mnesiphilus tell Periander that neither the tasting of ‘wine’ nor the ‘opportunity to speak’ (λόγος) during the symposion should be measured ‘according to wealth’ (πλουτίνδην) or ‘according to birth/merit’ (ἀριστίνδην). Rather, ‘like in a democracy’, ‘everyone should get equal opportunities’ to drink and to partake in discussion (154c).9 By incorporating a scene into the narrative composition in which Alexidemus, a bastard son of the tyrant Thrasybulus, complains about the seat that was assigned to him by Periander (148e–149b), Plutarch draws attention to the fact that in his own day seating arrangements still mirrored social prestige and that guests could be offended when they had to sit in a place that did not correspond to their (presumed) honour (Aune 1978: 88–9). Thales answers that Alexidemus should not consider the ‘place for reclining’ (τόπος / τόπος κλισίας) at a table as some kind of ‘humiliation’ (ταπείνωσις): [Instead of minding] after whom we recline (μετὰ τίνας κατακείμεθα), it is rather important that we be in good harmony with those who recline next to us (εὐάρμοστοι τοῖς συγκατακειμένοις) by instantly seeking within ourselves or rather having already within ourselves the beginning and occasion of friendship (ἀρχὴν καὶ λάβην φιλίας εὐθὺς ἐν αὑτοῖς ζητοῦντες μᾶλλον δ’ ἔχοντες) which consists in not being disgusted but in applauding that we recline next to such people. After all, he who feels disgust at his place for reclining, feels more disgust at his companion at table than at the one who invited him, and thereby incurs the hatred of both. (149a–b)

In order to put his teaching into practice, Thales later on chooses the place that Alexidemus had rejected (149f).

3  Social status and symbolic communication within the context of the meal A scene like this, which exemplifies the issue of social hierarchies at banquets, is no isolated case in Plutarch’s writings. His oeuvre provides a number of instances in which the social dynamics of the aristocratic meal are reflected. However, as the following excursus will show, Plutarch, instead of just ascertaining the codes of social status and rank, makes efforts to philosophically penetrate and also partly question the social institutions of his day. The crucial factor with regard to the ascription of dignity to guests was to assign seats to them that corresponded with their social status and political rank (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.1.615d, Klinghardt 1996: 75–83, Vössing 2004: 372–91, Stein-Hölkeskamp 2005: 101–11, Stein 2008: 33, Schnurbusch 2011: 196–206). As Plutarch knows, this custom was a significant trait of elites in a number of different peoples in ancient societies. Regarding the Persians, Plutarch states that the middle seat which was reserved for the king was ‘held in honour’ (ἔντιμος), whereas the Greeks held the first seat in high regard. In his own culture, which was influenced

38 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals by the Romans, the ‘last seat on the middle dining couch’ (ὁ τῆς μέσης κλίνης τελευταῖος), which they called ‘the consular seat’ (ὑπατικὸς τόπος), was evidently of special significance (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.3.1.619b).10 Among the invited ones who all reclined on two dining couches, the consul was considered to deserve ‘the highest honour’ (τῷ μάλιστα τιμωμένῳ), which is why his seat was closest to the one of the host who took the first place on the third dining couch with his wife and children reclining next to him (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.3.1.619d). Plutarch adds that this seat allowed the consul to devote himself to official duties even during the banquet: Seated at the place where the second dining couch joined with the third, he could without disturbing any of his fellow-feasters receive and answer messages, sign documents and converse with ‘a secretary, a servant, a bodyguard and a messenger from the army’ (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.3.1.619d–f; cf. Plutarch, Caes. 63.7). Plutarch’s biographical works offer further material, which illustrates the social and political significance of aristocratic meals (Billault 2008: 577–81; Pelling 2011). As an important motif in ancient historiographical texts, symposia in the Lives are not only ‘a place where Plutarch’s subjects reveal their virtues’, but also a place where ‘quarrels, excessive consumption, political plotting, sometimes even murder and decapitation’ occur (König 2012: 61). For the matter at hand, it may suffice to mention two examples. In his Life of Aemilius, Plutarch elaborates on how Lucius Aemilius Paullus Macedonicus hosted banquets during his military campaign in Macedonia: He [sc. Aemilius] also held all sorts of games and contests and performed sacrifices to the gods, at which he gave feasts and banquets, making liberal allowances therefor from the royal treasury, while in the arrangement (τάξιν) and ordering (κόσμον) of them, in saluting and seating his guests, and in paying to each one that degree of honour (τῆν πρὸς ἕκαστον αὑτοῦ τῆς κατ’ ἀξίαν τιμῆς) and kindly attention which was properly his due, he showed such nice and thoughtful perception that the Greeks were amazed. (Plutarch, Aem. 28.7, trans. Perrin 1954: 431)

In his Life of Antony, Plutarch shows that seating guests in certain places was a matter of symbolic communication that even enabled a host to rebuff guests for political or personal reasons: When P. Iulius Geminius Marcianus attended a banquet that Cleopatra gave in Greece in the year 32 BC, ‘he was constantly scorned during the meal and treated with contempt by being seated at places of the dining couch that had no honour’ (σκωπτόμενος δὲ παρὰ δεῖπνον ἀεὶ καὶ κλισίαις ἀτίμοις προπηλακιζόμενος) (Plutarch, Ant. 59.3). Obviously, Plutarch insinuates that Cleopatra intentionally assigned ‘places of no honour’ to Geminius in order to insult him and to prevent him from conversing confidentially with Antony (Schnurbusch 2011: 203–4). While in a general sense it can be affirmed that the assignment of seats was common within the context of aristocratic banquets in the Roman Empire, there is some evidence for free choice of place at table to be found in Plutarch (Plutarch, Cat. Min. 37.7-8) and other authors (Lucian, Sat. 17; Athenaeus, Deipn. II.29.47e Kaibel; cf. Teodorsson 1989: 64 and Klinghardt 1996: 80 n. 70). Considering that social hierarchies took visual form in the seating arrangements (Stein 2008: 31, Schnurbusch 2011: 205), it is no surprise that free choice of place could lead to severe resentment and even

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quarrels (Klinghardt 1996: 80–1 n. 71). Plutarch tells about a private banquet that his brother Timon once hosted without assigning seats to the rather heterogeneous group that he had invited and that consisted of ‘strangers (ξένους), citizens (πολίτας), friends (συνήθεις), relatives (οἰκείους), and all kinds (παντοδαπούς) of people’ (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.1.615c–d). As a result, a rather snobbish stranger who arrived late with his entourage of servants left the banquet instantly because he ‘could not find a place that was worthy of him’ (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.1.615d). Plutarch, who by his own account attended this banquet himself, uses this occasion to discuss in his Quaestiones convivales if the entertainer really should assign seats to his guests or not. The opinion of his own father, who also participated in the banquet, serves to reflect the traditional aristocratic point of view: Of course the host has to assign seats, the father says, firstly because it is important to create ‘order’ (τάξις, εὐταξία, κόσμος) and to enable an orderly procedure for the meal, and secondly because it is vital to visibly honour the guests according to their ‘age’ (ἡλικία), ‘office’ (ἀρχή) and ‘other similar merits’. Without such ‘order’, the host is unable to distinguish between social hierarchies at one glance and therefore to easily ‘pledge to someone’ (προπίεται ἑτέρῳ) who has deserved it more than others (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.2.615e– 616b). Timon acts as an advocatus diaboli and disagrees with his father: A host should not consider himself to be a ‘judge’ (δικαστής) or an ‘umpire’ (κριτής) who decides who is ‘better than someone else and who is worse’. After all, such a decision would not be easy to take because some people could be preferred due to their ‘age’, others due to their ‘power’ (δυνάμει), others due to their ‘need’ (χρείᾳ) and others due to ‘kinship’ (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.3.616c–d). Therefore, ‘humiliating’ (ταπεινοῦντες) and ‘extolling’ (ὀγκοῦντες) guests through the arrangement of the seats can not only introduce ‘anger’ and even ‘hostility’ to the symposion, it also entails the danger of promoting ‘vain glory’ (κενὴ δόξα) and ‘love of honour’ (φιλοτιμία) which thwart the true purpose of fostering friendships among the invited ones (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.3.616d–e). Timon concludes that the ‘equality of men’ that is ‘protected in other contexts’ (περὶ τἄλλα τὴν ἰσότητα τοῖς ἀνδράσι φυλάξομεν) should also be respected at the occasion of eating and drinking together. He ultimately envisions a ‘democratic meal’ (δημοκρατικὸν δεῖπνον) and guests ‘who recline together in simplicity without being puffed up’ (ἀτύφως καὶ ἀφελῶς κατακλίνεσθαι μετ’ ἀλλήλων) (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.3.616e–f). Plutarch, whom his father and Timon had chosen as an arbitrator to settle the dispute, says that he wants ‘to steer a middle way’ on that issue: In the case of ‘young people’ (νέους), ‘citizens’ and ‘friends’, it is inoffensive to let them choose where they would like to sit. If, however, ‘strangers’ (ξένοις), ‘magistrates’ (ἄρχουσιν) or ‘elderly people’ (πρεσβυτέροις) are among the guests, ‘habit’ (συνηθείᾳ) and ‘custom’ (νόμῳ) require that respect be paid to their status by assigning them appropriate seats (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.4.616f–617a). The ‘honour’ (τιμή) that is thus attributed reflects the rank that respectable guests have earned through ‘excellence’ (ἀρετῇ), ‘nobility of birth’ (εὐγενείᾳ), ‘an office’ (ἀρχῇ) and the like (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.4.617c). Since not many high officials are invited to one and the same banquet, and since there are ‘several places of honour’ (πλειόνων τόπων ἐν δόξῃ γεγονότων) to be assigned, Plutarch is confident that a host can meet both his responsibility and the demands

40 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals of his guests (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.4.617c–d). After expounding his own view, Plutarch presents yet another opinion on this issue by introducing his other brother Lamprias: He argues that ‘the seating of guests at table’ (τὰς κατακλίσεις) should not be done according to their ‘good repute’ (τὸ ἔνδοξον), but with the intention of creating ‘an enjoyable atmosphere’ (τὸ ἡδύ) among the participants (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.5.618a). To avoid ‘disorder’ (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.5.618c: ἀταξία), Lamprias suggests that the complementary needs and dispositions of the guests should fit together, and so his ideal of sympotic commensality results from people who either compensate for one another (like a gentle person sitting next to a curmudgeon) or who have the same interests (like farmers or hunters sitting together) (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.2.6.618c–619a). As this little sketch of Plutarch’s polyphonic prose illustrates, the Chaeronean philosopher is well aware of the social dynamics of the meal. Although he does not seem to endorse radical innovation with the aim of questioning hierarchies within the context of meals altogether, the evidence presented and discussed here allows the conclusion that mutual respect and acceptance of all the diners and symposiasts is what he had in mind. The repeated highlighting of the importance of friendships and philanthropy ultimately offers the potential to transcend existing patterns of social hierarchies without abolishing them. Furthermore, since every participant is supposed to take part in pleasant as well as philosophical conversation, all feasters are united by an intellectual bond of conviviality.

4  Concluding remarks In conclusion, Plutarch leaves no doubt that banquets and symposia provide a setting – in real life and in the fictional world of literature – in which humanness can duly be appreciated in a double sense. Firstly, the harmonious communion of humans is to be considered more important than social rank. Secondly, man’s immortal part, his soul and its intellectual abilities and needs, is to be ascribed a higher value than his physical body. The nourishment and delight of the soul in communion with other souls is, therefore, quintessential for Plutarch’s concept of the ideal banquet and symposion. In the end, his literary evocation of a symposion of exemplary wise men in the Septem sapientium convivium is surely meant to introduce fiction to reality and to reverberate in real-life feasts of his audience.

Notes 1 As Plutarch knows (Plutarch, Sol. 12.7, Plutarch, E Delph. 385d–e), Periander is even considered to be one of the Seven Sages in a number of ancient sources; cf. Diogenes Laertius I.13, I.98-99. In Plutarch’s Symposion, Periander is not portrayed as one of the sages. However, he is depicted as a ruler who seeks the company of wise men (Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 147c), see Leão 2009: 517–20. 2 Cf. Aalders 1977 and Leão 2009.

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3 These ‘maxims’ (ὑποθῆκαι), like ‘Know Thyself ’ or ‘Nothing in Excess’, were inscribed at the temple in Delphi for all visitors to see (Plato Prot. 343a–b, Plato, Charm. 165a, Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 164b, Plutarch, E. Delph. 385d, Plutarch, Pyth. orac. 408e, Plutarch, Garr. 511a–b). There are several ancient lists of maxims attributed to the Seven Wise Men (Althoff and Zeller 2006b: 50–61), the longest of which was collected by an unknown Sosiades (Althoff and Zeller 2006b: 61–71). This list has been preserved in Stobaeus, Anth . III.1.173 Hense. 4 Vössing (2004: 234–40) and Schnurbusch (2011: 20–2) draw attention to the fact that the rigid modern separation of the private and public domain does not apply to Roman society. Therefore, Schnurbusch (2011: 20–2) suggests differentiating between domestic and urban spheres in their spatial sense. On Roman dining in the urban context, see Dunbabin 2003: 72–102. 5 Cf. Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 146c. Taken together, Plutarch introduces 18 personae of the dialogue: Diocles, Periander, Thales, Melissa, Neiloxenus, Solon, Bias, Pittacus, Chilon, Anacharsis, Eumetis, Cleobulus, Ardalus, Aesop, Cleodorus, Mnesiphilus, Chersias, Gorgus (Periander’s brother). Alexidemus, a bastard son of the tyrant Thrasybulus, leaves before the dinner begins (Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 148e–f, 149e–f). On Plutarch’s personae, see Defradas (1954: 16–28) and Mossman (1997: 122–7). In Plutarch, Quaest. conv. V.5 (passim), Plutarch and his grandfather Lamprias argue in favour of inviting not too many guests so that everyone can get to know each other, cultivate friendships and make new friends. This argument is directed against ‘rich people’ who ‘set up 30 and even more dining couches in their homes’ (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. V.5.2.679b). 6 On the central idea of philanthropy in Plutarch’s work and thought, see Hirzel 1912: 23–32; on philanthropy in the context of symposia, see Ribeiro Ferreia, Leão, Tröster and Barata Dias 2009. 7 On this Egyptian meal custom, see Herodotus, Hist. 2.78; Defradas 1954: 93–4 n. 35; Aune 1978: 86–7. 8 An example of an opulent and lavish Roman banquet is the Cena Trimalchionis in Petronius’s Satyricon (Petronius, Sat. 26.7–78.8). Culinary hedonism was also attacked by Stoic philosophers like Seneca (Seneca, Epist. 89.22, Seneca, Dial. VII.11.4, XII.10.25) and Musonius Rufus (Musonius 18B Hense) and by other authors of the first and second centuries (Stein-Hölkeskamp 2005: 211–19); cf. Vössing (2004: 244–53). 9 Since it is crucial for Plutarch that each and every one of the symposiasts is able to participate in the various table talks of a symposion (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.1.5.614e), he espouses the idea that philosophical issues have to be treated in such a way that non-philosophers can also get involved in the discussions (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. I.1.3.613c–5.615a). Consequently, he does not appreciate taciturn guests (Plutarch, Quaest. conv. III praef. 644e–645b). 10 The special significance of the middle dining couch is also highlighted in Plutarch, Brut. 34.8. On the locus consularis, see Schnurbusch (2011: 197–205). Similarly, Petronius mentions a locus praetorius in his Cena Trimalchionis (Petronius, Sat. 65,7; Schnurbusch 2011: 198).

Bibliography Aalders, G. J. D. (1977), ‘Political Thought in Plutarch’s Convivium septum sapientium [sic!]’, Mnemosyne 30: 28–39. Althoff, J. and D. Zeller, eds (2006a), Die Worte der Sieben Weisen, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.

42 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Althoff, J. and D. Zeller (2006b), ‘Antike Textzeugnisse und Überlieferungsgeschichte’, in J. Althoff and D. Zeller (eds), Die Worte der Sieben Weisen, 5–81, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Asper, M. (2006), ‘“Literatursoziologisches” zu den Sprüchen der Sieben Weisen’, in J. Althoff and D. Zeller(eds), Die Worte der Sieben Weisen, 85–103, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Aune, D. E. (1978), ‘Septem sapientium convivium (Moralia 146B–164D)’, in H. D. Betz (ed.), Plutarch’s Ethical Writings and Early Christian Literature, 51–105, Leiden: Brill. Bettenworth, A. (2004), Gastmahlszenen in der antiken Epik von Homer bis Claudian. Diachrone Untersuchungen zur Szenentypik, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Billault, A. (2008), ‘Plutarque et la scène du banquet’, in A. G. Nikolaidis (ed.), The Unity of Plutarch’s Work. ‘Moralia’ Themes in the ‘Lives’, Features of the ‘Lives’ in the ‘Moralia’, 577–89, Berlin: De Gruyter. Brenk, F. E. (2009), ‘“In Learned Conversation”. Plutarch’s Symposiac Literature and the Elusive Authorial Voice’, in J. Ribeiro Ferreira, Tröster Leão and Barata Dias (eds), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch, 51–61, Coimbra: CECH. Defradas, J. (1954), Plutarque: Le Banquet des Sept Sages. Texte et traduction avec une introduction et des notes, Paris: Librairie C. Klincksieck. Dunbabin, K. M. D. (2003), The Roman Banquet. Images of Conviviality, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fehling, D. (1985), Die sieben Weisen und die frühgriechische Chronologie. Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Studie, Bern: Peter Lang. Görgemanns, H. (2001), ‘Symposion-Literatur’, in: Der Neue Pauly, 11: 1138–41. Hirzel, R. (1912), Plutarch, Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Hobden, F. (2013), The Symposion in Ancient Greek Society and Thought, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kim, L. (2009), ‘Historical Fiction, Brachylogy, and Plutarch’s Banquet of the Seven Sages’, in J. Ribeiro Ferreira, Tröster Leão and Barata Dias (eds), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch, 481–95, Coimbra: CECH. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft. Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke Verlag. Klotz, F. (2014), ‘The Sympotic Works’, in M. Beck (ed.), A Companion to Plutarch, 207–22, Oxford: Blackwell. König, J. (2008), ‘Sympotic Dialogue in the First to Fifth Centuries CE’, in S. Goldhill (ed.), The End of Dialogue in Antiquity, 85–113, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. König, J. (2012), Saints and Symposiasts. The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leão, D. (2009), ‘The Tyrannos as a Sophos in the Septem sapientium convivium’, in J. Ribeiro Ferreira, Tröster Leão and Barata Dias (eds), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch, 511–21, Coimbra: CECH. Männlein, I. (2000), ‘What Can Go Wrong at a Dinner-Party: The Unmasking of False Philosophers in Lucian’s Symposium or The Lapiths’, in K. Pollmann (ed.), Double Standards in the Ancient and Medieval World, 247–62, Göttingen: Dührkohp & Radicke. Martin, J. (1931), Symposion. Die Geschichte einer literarischen Form, Paderborn: Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh. Mossman, J. (1997), ‘Plutarch’s Dinner of the Seven Wise Men and its Place in Symposion Literature’, in J. Mossman (ed.), Plutarch and his Intellectual World. Essays on Plutarch, 119–40, London: Duckworth.

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Pelling, C. (2011), ‘Putting the -viv- into ‘Convivial’. The Table Talk and the Lives’, in F. Klotz and K. Oikonomopoulou (eds), The Philosopher’s Banquet. Plutarch’s Table Talk in the Intellectual Culture of the Roman Empire, 207–31, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Perrin, B. (1954), Plutarch’s Lives. With an English Translation by B. Perrin. Vol. VI: Dion and Brutus, Timoleon and Aemilius Paulus, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Ribeiro Ferreira, J., D. Leão, M. Tröster and P. Barata Dias, eds (2009), Symposion and Philanthropia in Plutarch, Coimbra: CECH. Roller, M. B. (2006), Dining Posture in Ancient Rome. Bodies, Values, and Status, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Schnurbusch, D. (2011), Convivium. Form und Bedeutung aristokratischer Geselligkeit in der römischen Antike, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist. The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Stein, H. J. (2008), Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern. Ihre Gestalt und Bedeutung nach der neutestamentlichen Briefliteratur und der Johannesoffenbarung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stein-Hölkeskamp, E. (2002), ‘Culinarische Codes: Das ideale Bankett bei Plinius d. Jüngeren und seinen Zeitgenossen’, Klio 84: 465–90. Stein-Hölkeskamp, E. (2005), Das römische Gastmahl. Eine Kulturgeschichte, Munich: Verlag C. H. Beck. Teodorsson, S.-T. (1989), A Commentary on Plutarch’s Table Talks. Vol. I (Books 1–3), Gothenburg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis. Vössing, K. (2004), Mensa Regia. Das Bankett beim hellenistischen König und beim römischen Kaiser, Munich and Leipzig: K. G. Saur. Vössing, K., ed. (2008), Das römische Bankett im Spiegel der Altertumswissenschaften, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Wecowski, M. (2014), The Rise of the Greek Aristocratic Banquet, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

4

Meals at Qumran: Literary Fiction, Liturgical Anticipation, or Performed Ritual? Claudia D. Bergmann

Introduction: Studying meals in texts from Qumran: Two temptations Studying Qumran texts comes with a certain degree of uncertainty. As the scrolls are often damaged or fragmentary, and, at the same time, represent views that can easily be compared with and contrasted to other contemporary texts, scholars have occasionally fallen prey to two temptations: associating literary material with archaeological finds at the nearby site of Khirbet Qumran, and including material from other contemporary texts for the purpose of ‘supplementing’ Qumran texts. This is especially true for the texts that describe meal practices, as (communal) meals are likely to leave archaeological and occasionally also literary traces, either at an archaeological site or in texts about the habits of historical communities, whether they are based on actual historically accurate observations or not. When studying the archaeological data of Khirbet Qumran, one will find a plethora of material that points to food production and preparation at the site and, at the very least, suggests locations for communal meals at a larger scale (Magness 2004; Pfann 2006; Bergmann 2012). Roland de Vaux, who was the first to connect the site with the scrolls and also the first to identify the group living at Qumran with the Essenes, had identified two rooms, L86 and L77, as the pantry and the communal eating hall. He imagined the solid structures spread throughout L77 as table legs for individual or one large table and found a large cache of pottery nearby (see Pfann 2006: 163–5). Other archaeologists challenged his initial suggestions. Jodi Magness identified a large dining hall on the second floor of the building in question and proposed that there had been a second room for communal meals, including a room for pottery used for dining (L114), in the northern part of the settlement (Magness 2004: 100). Pauline H. E. Donceel-Voûte identified de Vaux’s Scriptorium L30 as the communal dining hall (Donceel-Voûte 1992: 61–84). No matter what their interpretation, the archaeological finds at Khirbet Qumran would indeed be somewhat congruent to the descriptions of communal meals in the Dead Sea scrolls that also bear witness to the high importance

Meals at Qumran

45

of ritual purity in connection with food and eating. The fact that the pottery used at Khirbet Qumran was crafted on site and stored adjacent to the possible dining halls could be interpreted as signs that the inhabitants wanted to avoid any trace of impurity when making and transporting eating vessels. In addition, archaeologists found several Miqva’ot adjacent to kitchens, wine presses and work rooms that ensured ritual purity for those who worked there and prepared meals for the community. Whether the people settling at Khirbet Qumran actually ate according to the texts found in the scrolls remains, however, a matter of speculation as there are still many questions as to the relationship between the site and the scrolls that need to be answered. Aside from the undue connection of archaeological site and content of the scrolls, especially in regard to the meal practices, one should also be careful about attempts to supplement the information found in the scrolls themselves by adding additional information from contemporary texts. Both Philo’s and Josephus’s descriptions of the Therapeutae and the Essenes were occasionally applied uncritically for such purposes and are, as Benedikt Eckhardt aptly wrote, ‘a creation of a philosopher’s mind, designed to be exactly what other (pagan) philosophers would regard as admirable’ (Eckhardt 2010: 191; cf. Philo, Contemp. 34–5, 73; Jos. B.J. 2.128-33, A.J. 18.22, and see Collins 2010a: 122–42). Yet, until today scholars attempt to supplement the often meagre information from the Qumran texts with selected data from written sources by Philo or Josephus.1 Both temptations described here are certainly understandable as one always would like to arrive at a complete picture that provides answers rather than raises more questions. Yet, the literary texts from Qumran in general and the descriptions of communal meals in particular should first be viewed on their own merit and thus without speculations as to what their relationship to the community that lived nearby was or whether the practices that they describe can be compared to any other meal practices found in contemporary texts.

1  Communal meals as a literary motif in Qumran texts The production, distribution, preparation, consumption and disposal of food are topics that are often relegated to the undercurrents of (biblical) texts as food and eating practices are seen as ordinary and/or without need for explanation (Goody 1982). This is probably the case for the Dead Sea scrolls as well, as food and meals are not major topics of description. As in the Hebrew Bible, Qumran texts assume that it is God who provides food for God’s creatures (cf., e.g. 11Q5 26.13; 4Q381 frag. 1; 4Q370). Several passages from the scrolls use agricultural imagery (cf., e.g. 4Q302; 4Q418 frag. 103; 4Q423 frag. 2 and 5) or discuss calendrical concerns that relate to food production and (agricultural) festivals (cf., e.g. 4Q265 frag. 6; 4Q508; 11Q19 19 and 21). Food laws, especially in regard to the temple practices and for those who separated themselves from the temple, are discussed as well (cf., e.g. CD, 1QM, 1QS, 1QSa, 4QMMT and 11QT, and see Reed 2003: 129–52). Most of the passages that deal with food emphasize their high regard for concerns of purity and holiness.

46 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals When the scrolls refer to communal eating events, they also deem purity to be one of the most important factors of their discussion. Several texts mention washing and bathing in order to remove acquired temporary impurity as a prerequisite for the participation in meals (cf., e.g. 4Q514 Ordc; 4Q274; 11QT 44.2-21). In turn, people plagued with cases of severe impurity are required to keep at a distance from any place that houses food (cf., e.g. 4QMMT B 65–8; 4Q274 frag. 1.1-4; see Reed 2003: 130–56). The most elaborate descriptions of communal meals are found in two documents that belong to the group of texts that are generally considered community material and were found on the same scroll: 1QS 6 and 1QSa 2 (Metso 1997). Both texts give very little information about the types of food consumed or about the circumstances of communal meals such as the location of the meal, the table settings, the length of the meal or any other details that generally characterize individual and communal meals throughout history and in every culture. An explanation of possible symbolic meanings is not offered. Instead, both texts (and their contexts) focus on structures and hierarchies among the participants. Apparently, the meals described in 1QS 6 and 1QSa 2 were understood as communal ritualized activities that determined the identity of the group and the place of each individual within it. To express it in simpler terms: The meals in 1QS 6 and 1QSa 2 determine who is in and who is out, and – among those who are in – who is on top and who is below rather than characterizing the nature of the meal by mentioning the exact circumstances of it. The first text, Serekh ha-Yahad 1QS, which is commonly named Community Rule or Manual of Discipline, describes a highly hierarchical community, which Shemaryahu Talmon once characterized as ‘a tightly knit socio-religious entity, restricted in numbers and spatially compressed’ (Talmon 1987: 128). Apparently, one can move up in rank by striving towards and reaching a higher degree of ritual purity. Thus, 1QS distinguishes between three groups of people: the ritually unclean in the periphery who are not allowed to share in meals or even provide food to the ritually cleaner people (1QS 5.14b-17); the potential initiates who have the opportunity to move up into the ritually pure group, eventually sharing their solid foods after one year and their drink after two years (1QS 6.13-23); and the ritually pure group that shares food and drink and has the right to make decisions about everyone else’s meal praxis. This highest level of purity, as well as the permission to fully participate in meals, could be lost or revoked, however, if one accidentally became unclean or had to be punished through disciplinary measures (1QS 6.24-5 and 7.15-20). 1QS 6.2b-8, then, describes the meal of the pure group on top of the hierarchy as well as the structuring of time, the proceedings of the meal itself and the hierarchies among the participants: ‫ ויחד יברכו {לה}ויחד יועצו ובכול מקום אשר יהיה‬3 ‫ ויחד יואכלו‬...2 ‫ כוהן‬4 ‫שם עשרה אנשים מעצת החיד (היחד) אל ימש מאתם איש‬ ‫ואיש כתכונו ישבו לפניו וכן ישאלו לעצתם לכול דבר והיה כיא‬ ‫ לשתות הכוהן ישלח ידו‬5 ‫יערוכו השול{}חן לאכול או התירוש‬

Meals at Qumran

47

‫לרשונה להברך בראשית הלחם‬ ‫ להברך בראשית הלחם< והתירוש ואל ימש במקום‬6 ‫>או התירוש לשתות הכוהן ישלח ידו לרשונה‬ ‫ תמיד‬7 ‫אשר יהיו שם העשרה איש דורש בתורה יומם ולילה‬ ‫על יפות איש לרעהו והרבים ישקודו ביחד את שלישית כול‬ ‫ ולברך ביחד‬8 ‫לילות השנה לקרוא בספר ולדרוש משפט‬ They shall eat together, 3 together they shall bless and together they shall take counsel. In every place where there are ten men of the Community council, there should not be missing amongst them 4 a priest. And every one shall sit according to his rank before him, and in this way shall they be asked for their counsel in every matter. And when they prepare the table to dine or the new wine 5 for drinking, the priest shall stretch out his hand as the first to bless the first fruits of the bread (or the new wine for drinking, the priest shall stretch out his hand as the first 6 to bless the first fruits of the bread) and the new wine. And in the place in which the Ten assemble, there should not be missing a man to interpret the law day and night, 7 always, one relieving another. And the Many shall be on watch together for a third of each night of the year in order to read the book, explain the regulations, 8 and bless together. (Translation: Garcia and Tigchelaar 2000: 1.82-3) 2

The stratification of the community can be detected by the way they sit within the room (1QS 6.4), by the order in which they are to voice their opinion (1QS 6.4) and by the order in which the meal items are supposed to be blessed (1QS 6.5-6). The assumption is that neither the people in the periphery nor the initiates are present but only the ritually pure ‘community council’, the people who are allowed to fully participate in the meal. There are supposed to be at least ten, a minyan, one of them being a priest. The meal is imbedded in other activities that appear to be an integral part of it, such as ‘blessing’ and ‘taking counsel’ (1QS 6.3.8), ‘interpreting the law’ and/or ‘explaining the regulations’ (1QS 6.6.7), and ‘reading the book’ (1QS 6.7). They show that the communal meal in 1QS 6 is not simply an act of nourishing oneself in community but one that includes acts of conversation and processes of learning. Aside from these details, one finds out very little about meal praxis. The text mentions bread and wine as food items but stops short of a description of the actual consumption of them. Furthermore, 1QS 6.4 points to the eating posture as being one of upright sitting, ‫ישבו‬, which is decidedly different from the reclining seating position practiced in many contemporary communal eating events.2 The second text, 1QSa 2, is part of the so-called ‘Messianic Rule’ or ‘Rule of the Congregation’ (1QSa or 1Q28a). The description of the meal is in many ways related to the description in 1QS 6 but includes one notable difference, the presence of the word ‘messiah’, which has led many scholars to interpret 1QSa 2 as an imagined meal in the World to Come or a liturgical anticipation of it (literature abounds, cf. Cross 1958; Schiffman 1979; Stegemann 1996; Hempel 1996; Zimmermann 1998; Collins 1998; Reed 2003; Xeravits 2003). 1QSa as a whole is addressed to ‘all the congregation of Israel in the last days’ (1.1) and contains rules and laws for the entire community that probably saw itself as being on the threshold to the World to Come. Similar to 1QS,

48 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals it lays an emphasis on questions of ritual purity, authority and stages of membership within the community. The relevant passage on the meal in 1QSa 2.11-22 reads: ‫ ]ה[ וא ב[מו]שב אנשי השם [קוראי ]מועד לעצת היחד אם יוליד‬11 ‫ ]אל[ א[ת] המשיח אתם יבוא[ הכוהן ]רואש כול עדת ישראל וכול‬12 ‫ א[חיו בני] אהרון הכוהנים [קרואי] מועד אנושי השם וישבו‬13 ‫ ל[פניו איש ]לפי כבודו ואחר י[בוא מש]יח ישראל וישבו לפניו ראשי‬14 ‫ א[לפי ישראל אי]ש לפי כבודו כמ[עמדו] במחניהם וכמסעיהם וכול‬15 ‫ ] ישבו לפניהם איש לפי‬... ‫ ראשי א[בות הע]דה עם חכמ[י‬16 ‫ כבודו ו[אם לשול]חן יחד יועד[ו או לשתות הת]ירוש וערוך השולחן‬17 ‫ היחד [ומסוך ה]תירוש לשתות[ אל ישלח] איש את ידו ברשת‬18 ‫ הלחם ו[התירוש] לפני הכוהן כיא[ הוא מ]ברך את רשית הלחם‬19 ‫ והתירו[ש ושלח ]ידו בלחם לפנים ואח[ר יש]לח משיח ישראל ידיו‬20 ‫ בלחם [ואחר יבר]כו כול עדת היחד א[יש לפי] כבודו וכחוק הזה יעש‬21 [‫ לכול מע[רכת כיא יו]עדו עד עשרא אנש ]ים‬22 [At a ses]sion of the men of the name, [those summoned] to the gathering of the Yahad, when … 12 … the Messiah is with them.3 [The priest] (shall) enter (be)fore all of the congregation of Israel, and all 13 [his brothers, the sons of] Aaron, the priests, [who are invited] to the assembly, men of renown. And they shall sit 14 be[fore him, each one] according to his importance. Afterwards, [the mess]iah of Israel [shall enter]. And before him shall sit the heads of the 15 th[ousands of Israel, each] one according to his importance, according to [his position] in their camps and according to their marches. And all 16 the heads of the cl[ans of the congre]gation with the wise [men] shall sit before them, each one according 17 to his importance. And [when] they gather [at the tab]le of the community [or to drink the n]ew wine, and the table of 18 the Yahad is prepared [and the] new wine [is mixed] for drinking, [nobody should stretch out] his hand to the first-fruits 19 of the bread and of [the new wine] before the priest, for [he is the one who bl]esses the first-fruit of the bread 20 and of the new win[e. And he stretches out] his hand towards the bread before them. Afterwar[ds,] the Messiah of Israel [shall stret]ch out his hands 21 towards the bread. [And afterwards] all the assembly of the Yahad [shall ble]ss, ea[ch one according to] his importance. And in accordance to this precept [one shall act] 22 at each me[al, when] (at least) ten me[n are gat]hered. (Hebrew text: Martínez and Tigchelaar 2000: 1.102; translation by the author) 11

In this passage, expressing the hierarchy among the participants of the meal by the way they enter the room and sit down is as prominent as in 1QS 6. There is, however, a further important detail: The priest takes precedence over the messiah of Israel, both in the order in which they enter the room and in which they bless the food on the table. This has been explained in a number of ways,4 but possibly the simplest explanation is that – following Hempel’s suggestion – the text received a more eschatological flavour at a later stage of its development, at which time the note about the messiah was added. Indeed, the few references to the messiah are not closely connected to their contexts

Meals at Qumran

49

and are not crucial to the passage. In addition, the final instruction lacks a reference to the messiah and only mentions a minyan as prerequisite for the meal. Again, the meal described in 1QSa 2.11-22 is very similar to the one in 1QS 6: There is bread and wine at the table, the food items are blessed, the participants sit rather than recline, the hierarchy among them is of highest concern and the actual consumption of the food is not mentioned. In neither text is there any indication that these meals are more than communal meals, whether they are imagined to happen in the near or far future. They are not portrayed as ‘sacral’, ‘sacramental’, ‘sacrificial’, ‘cultic’ or as meals that substitute for the lost ritual meals at the temple, as had been suggested by a number of scholars since the scrolls were unearthed (cf. also Eckhardt 2010).

2  The idea of the meal in the World to Come at Qumran? As we have seen in the previous two parts, food consumption often plays an important role when Qumran texts speak of stratification among human beings. Only the ritually clean get to enjoy the full meal of the community, and even among the meal participants, there appears to be a hierarchy that might be expressed in the way people enter the room, sit at the meal and bless the food. Because 1QSa 2 mentions the presence of the messiah at the table, it has been called a text about the ‘messianic banquet’ or about the ‘eschatological meal’ in early Jewish literature and has occasionally been compared to New Testament passages about meals in the presence of Jesus Christ. Subsequently, the related 1QS 6 was also viewed in connection with this theme. The idea of a communal meal in the imagined World to Come is one of the many imaginative models for the future developed by authors of early Jewish texts.5 It views the World to Come as a festive meal where the righteous meet at a historically significant place such as Eden/Paradise or the mountain of God and consume symbolically significant food items such as Manna, fruit from the Tree of Life, or Leviathan and Behemoth, all of which are thought to have been prepared or created in the beginning of time for this very purpose at the end of time.6 The question now is twofold: Can this idea also be found in Qumran literature, and, if so, do 1QS 6 and 1QSa 2 indeed belong to this genre of texts? Tracing the idea of the meal to come in Qumran texts yields a few but often not very clear results. Some of them will be discussed in the following paragraphs.

1. The fragmentary 4Q504 Frg. 2, col. IV is part of the so-called ‘Words of the

(Heavenly) Luminaries’ (Divrei Ha-me’orot) and probably constitutes a precommunity work from the middle of the second century (on the text, cf. Baillet 1982; Collins 1987; Chazon 1992; Olsen 1997). It contains a reference to the covenant with David and a description of an abundant meal that ‘satisfies’ and makes ‘fat’ those who participate in it: your re[si]dences … a place of rest 3 in Jerusa[lem the city which] you [cho] se from the whole earth 4 for [your Name] to be there for ever. For you loved 2

50 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Israel more than all the peoples. And you chose the tribe of 6 Judah, and established your covenant with David so that he would be 7 like a shepherd, a prince over your people, and would sit in front of you on the throne of Israel 8 for ever. And all the countries have seen your glory, 9 for you have made yourself holy in the midst of your people, Israel. And to your10 great Name they will carry their offerings: silver, gold, precious stones, 11 with all the treasures of their country, to honour your people and 12 Zion, your holy city and your wonderful house. And there was no opponent 13 or evil attack, but peace and blessing  …  …  .14 And they a[t]e, were satisfied, and became fat … . (Hebrew text and English translation: Martínez and Tigchelaar 2000 2.1014–5; cf. Baillet 1982; Olsen 1997: 131) 5

4Q504 mentions Jerusalem as one of the typical locations for the imagined meal in the World to Come designating it as a place of rest (‫)מנוחה‬, which again is typical for such descriptions. It also shows the Davidic messiah in a rather passive or preparatory role in regard to the meal. While his reign inaugurates the World to Come, the text does not describe David as fully participating in the meal. Unfortunately, the text becomes fragmentary at exactly the place where fantastic foods, abundance, the requirements for participation in this meal or any of the other typical features of the meal in the World to Come topic would have to be addressed. 2. A second possible candidate for a text referring to the meal in the World to Come is 4QPsf/4Q88 9.8-14, a psalm-like composition, often called an ‘eschatological hymn’ that speaks of future abundance for the benefit of the poor (Skehan, Ulrich and Flint 1998: 280). The passage in question is located within a larger scene apparently describing future times when YHWH judges and distinguishes between the good and the evil ones: ... The heavens [will give] their dew, 9 and there will be no corru[pt dealing in] their [terri]tories. The earth 10 [will give] its fruit in its season, and 11 its [pro]duce will not fail. The fruit-trees 12 … of their grape-vines, and 13 their [spring]s will not deceive. 14 The poor will eat and those who [f]ear YHWH will be satisfied. (Hebrew text and English translation: Martínez and Tigchelaar 2000: 1.2801; different reading: Skehan, Ulrich and Flint 1998: 280–1; the manuscript is usually dated round 50 BC) 8

The images of the passage are reminiscent of the descriptions of future abundance typical for the early Jewish texts that describe the meal in the World to Come. Line 14 has a close terminological relationship to 4Q504 Frag. 2 IV:14 and also parallels the main part of Ps. 22.27 (see Skehan, Ulrich and Flint 1998: 280 for a list of biblical ‘antecedents’ to the individual lines of the text). Unfortunately, there is a blank before line 14, and the text breaks off right after it. 3. The so-called ‘messianic apocalypse’ 4Q521 Frg. 2 ii might also allude to this future communal meal of the righteous in the World to Come (Puech 1992; Collins 1995b: 117–23; Bergmeier 1995; Becker 1997: 74–5). Again, the text is very fragmentary, it dates to the Hasmonean era. In the context of a passage that describes heaven and earth as obeying the messiah and reminds the reader of

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similar ideas such as in Psalm 146, Isa. 61.1, and even Mt. 11.2-5 and Lk. 7.22 (on the NT parallels see Collins 1994: 106–7), 4Q521 reads: The fru[it of a] good [wor]k will not be delayed for anyone 11 and the glorious things that have not taken place the Lord will do as he s[aid] 12 for he will heal the wounded, give life to the dead and preach good news to the poor 13 and he will [sat]isfy the [weak] ones and lead those who have been cast out and feed (to the fill) the hungry … . (Hebrew text: Martínez and Tigchelaar 2000: 2.1044; English translation: Collins 1994: 99 [adapted]; Eisenman and Wise 1993: 27–9 provide an entirely different reconstruction and translation) 10

The passage describes a radical reversal of circumstances (cf. also the very fragmentary 4Q285, esp. frag. 1, formerly 11Q14 1 II), in which the ones who suffer in this world will thrive in the next world, and this apparently even includes the dead. The verb ‫עשר‬, which in line 13 describes the beneficial action of God or the divine agent upon the hungry, is commonly translated as ‘to enrich’. Because it here refers to the reversal of hunger, it might be translated here as ‘to feed (to the fill)’. Whether the hungry ones participate in a formal communal feast and what foods they consume is again not described in detail. 4. A final text that might refer to a meal in the World to Come can be found in the Hodayot, a collection of psalm-like texts written by or attributed to the prominent figure of the Teacher of Righteousness.7 1QHa 16.4-108 contains an indirect reference to the fruits of the Tree of Life, a motif that is abundantly used in texts that describe the feast in the World to Come: I give [you] thanks, [Lord,] because you have set me at the source of streams in a dry land, at the spring of water in a parched land, 5 in a garden watered by channels … … a plantation of cypresses and elms, together with cedars, for your glory. Trees of 6 life9 in a secret source, hidden among all the trees of the water, which shall make a shoot grow in the everlasting plantation, 7 to take root before they grow. Their roots extend to the gul[ly], and its trunk opens to the living water 8 to be an everlasting spring. On the shoots of its leaves all [the anima]ls of the wood will feed, its trunk will be pasture for all who cross 9 the path, and its leaves for all winged birds. (Hebrew text and English translation: Martínez and Tigchelaar 2000: 1.180-1) 4

This passage plays with Tree of Life imagery from the book of Genesis, yet it refers to the trees in the plural form. The Hodayah mentions that the trees of life are edible, and that animals eat from their leaves and shoots. It is a characteristic sign of the trees’ livelihood that they grow leaves and possibly also fruit. The trees of life in this passage therefore have the potential of being or becoming food for righteous human beings in the World to Come, which alludes to several other early Jewish writings describing the fruits from the Tree of Life as one of the fantastic foods that are served at the imagined meal in future.10 All texts discussed here might hint at the fact that the idea of the meal in the World to Come was known to the authors who penned the Dead Sea scrolls. Yet all of them are fragmentary or mention just one or two details that characterize the idea of the

52 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals meal in the World to Come in other early Jewish texts. Therefore, all four passages are not more than supporting evidence for the idea that a communal meal in the World to Come was present at Qumran. This is also the case for a few other texts that might refer to future eating.11

3 Conclusion Communal meals are not a topic discussed widely in the Qumran texts. If they are mentioned, they often reflect (imagined) practices of defining ranks and hierarchies such as when someone enters the community and intends to move up into the circle of the ritually clean. There is also very little indication that the meal in the World to Come was of much concern to the authors of the scrolls. 1QSa 2, the related 1QS 6 and the other texts that possibly refer to future acts of eating in the World to Come are decidedly different from extra-biblical texts that describe the imagined meal in the World to Come. While the latter imagine the participants at the meal as a homogenous mass of righteous people without distinguishing between them in regard to age, gender, rank or role, such distinctions appear to be of utmost importance to the Qumran passages, especially to the longer passages 1QS 6 and 1QSa 2. Here, the community at the table is strictly structured, their actions and seating positions are in accordance with their rank in the hierarchy. In addition, the communal meal discussed in 1QS 6, 1QSa 2 and the other four passages generally does not take place at a historically significant location (the mountain of God, paradise/Eden, the universe-wide garden of abundance) as is typical for other early Jewish texts of that genre. Nor do the abundant fantastic foods that play such an important role at the imagined table of the future world (Leviathan and Behemoth, manna, fruits from the Tree of Life) appear in the Qumran texts.12 Even the overabundance of food, which is also a typical feature of early Jewish texts that describe the imagined meal in the World to Come, does not seem to be a major topic in the Qumran texts.13 The food offered in 1QSa 2 and 1QS 6 is notably simple and does not show any indication of being abundantly available to the people who share in the meal. All of this might in part be due to the fragmentary nature of the Qumran texts, but it is nevertheless impossible to call 1QSa 2 a prime example for the idea of a ‘messianic banquet’ or an eschatological meal in early Jewish literature (as has been done by parts of Qumran scholarship), or to compare it to New Testament passages about communal meals with Jesus Christ (as has been done by some New Testament scholarship).14 It is also not possible to deduce everyday practices out of these texts, as it is not clear whether they describe real eating or the idealized actions of a future community. It appears that at the time the Dead Sea scrolls were written, the idea of the meal in the World to Come existed but was not developed to the extent of the speculations about the future that arose in the decades after the destruction of the temple. As John J. Collins rightly observed, ‘the topography of the afterlife was still unclear, and the scrolls give surprisingly little information on the subject’ (Collins 2010b: 95–6). Studying the topic of the meal as a literary motif in the Dead Sea scrolls thus remains a task that is, on the one hand, comparable to the task of piecing together

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the actual scroll fragments once they were found. On the other hand, it is a task that requires utter carefulness, as the temptation to supplement the meagre sources looms large. What can be said for certain is that food and meals are always discussed by the Dead Sea scrolls as a literary motif in connection with issues of purity and hierarchy, both in regard to the exclusion of outsiders and in regard to in-group hierarchies. Thus, rather than mere information, these meal-related texts are discourses of legitimization and literary displays of present and imagined future hierarchies.

Notes 1 A more recent example can be found in Bilde 2001, who states on 160: ‘This fact gives reasons to assume that Josephus had access to detailed information about the Essenes, and this is one of the reasons why we believe that his description could be used as a supplementary source on the meals in the Qumran-Essene communities.’ 2 Whether or not the posture taken by the meal participants was an intentional political or religious statement is unclear. Cf. Schiffman 1989: 56: ‘Reclining was the GrecoRoman pattern, whereas the biblical tradition was one of sitting. The messianic banquet, in keeping with the approach of the sect, would embody the tradition of Israel, not those of the Hellenistic pagans.’ Cf. also Eckhardt 2010. 3 This crucial line is fragmentary. For reconstructions, see the summaries in Collins 1998: 75–6 and 164–5; Evans 1995: 186–8; Bergmann (2012): 89–90. 4 Collins (1995a) proposed that this is an example of the priest taking the leading role in the bifurcation of messianic authority typical for texts found at Qumran, and (1995b: 76) suggests that the priest here represents the ‘messiah of Aaron’ who is of higher importance than the ‘messiah of Israel’. Stegemann understood the priest to be a priest of a local community presiding over a common meal, cf. Stegemann 1998: 115. 5 See Bergmann (2016) and my forthcoming work Endzeit als Mahl-Zeit. Not all texts shared in this model of the World to Come, see, e.g. Baba Bathra Tractate ­Berakoth 17a. 6 Leviathan and Behemoth: 2 Bar. 29; 4 Ezra 6.49-52; and 1 En. 60.7-9, 24. Manna: 2 Bar. 29.8; Vis. Ezra 59, manuscripts L and H; and the Apoc. Zos. 13.2. Fruits from the Tree of Life: 1 En. 24–25; T. Levi 18.10-14; T. Jac. 23–28; Apoc. Elij. 38.14–39.15; and 4 Ezra 8.52. The mountain of God: 1 En. 24.1-2 and 25.3-5. A universal garden: 2 Bar. 29.1-8; 1 En. 10.16–11.2 and 60.7-8, 20-23. Eden or paradise: T. Levi 18.10-11; 2 En. 8.1–9.1 and 42.1-5; 4 Ezra 8.50-53 and 9.17b-22; the Syriac version of the History of the Rechabites 7 and 10–11; and the Apoc. Abr. 21.4-9. NB: The dating for some of these texts is extremely difficult, as is evaluating how much Christian redaction was involved. The Rabbinic imagination also displays examples of this idea throughout many centuries, cf. Baba Bathra 75a; the Otiot of Rabbi Aqiba; Akdamut Millin; and many others. It was even used in medieval Jewish imagery as the depiction of the meal in the World to Come in the Ambrosian Bible shows. 7 For the discussion whether or not these texts were the work of a single author or a collection, see the works of Eliezer L. Sukenik and Svend Holm-Nielsen 1960. Further information on this and the Hodayot in general can be found in Douglas 1998. 8 Sukenik lists this text as col. VIII. For a summary on 1QH 16.4–17.36, see Douglas 1998: 144–72 and Stordalen 2000: 431–3. 9 For this phrase, cf. Pss. Sol. 14.3-4; Rev. 22.2, which is often translated in the plural.

54 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 10 Cf. n. 6 and the texts listed there. 11 Fabry and Harrington (2011: 174) list a few more such texts: 2Q24 4; 11Q18 frag. 6, 2; also cf. 11QT; 1QM 2.5; and 4Q537 frag. 2.2. 12 Of the texts discussed, only one, 1QHa 16, mentions the fruits from the Tree of Life in passing, and only 4Q504 2 iv features one of the fantastic locations typical for this type of text, Jerusalem. 13 Only 4Q504 2 iv and 4QPsf (4Q88) 9.8-14 explicitly mention an overabundance of food in the World to Come. 14 The presence of the messiah at the future table is not as common in the Qumran passages as often portrayed. If the messiah is present, he does not take a very active role in the meal and is never described as actually eating.

Bibliography Baillet, M. (1982), Qumrân Grotte 4 III (4Q482-4Q520), Oxford: Clarendon Press. Becker, M. (1997), ‘4Q521 und die Gesalbten’, RevQ 18: 73–96. Bergmann, C. D. (2012), ‘Rituelle Aspekte der Mähler in den Schriftrollen von Qumran’, in M. Klinghardt and H. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 79–102, Tübingen: A. Franke Verlag. Bergmann, C. D. (2016), ‘Future Food and Future Feasting: Tracing the Idea of the Meal in the World to Come in Qumran Literature’, in J. Baden et al. (eds), Sybils, Scriptures, and Scrolls: John Collins at Seventy, 127–47, Leiden: Brill. Bergmeier, R. (1995), ‘“Beobachtungen zu 4 Q 521 f 2, II, 1-13’, ZDMG 145: 38–8. Bilde, P. (2001), ‘The Common Meal in the Qumran-Essene Community’, in I. Nielsen (ed.), Meals in a Social Context, 145–66, Aarhus: University Press. Chazon, E. G. (1992), ‘Is Divrei ha-me’orot a Sectarian Prayer?’ in D. Dimant and U. Rappaport (eds), The Dead Sea Scrolls. Forty Years of Research, 3–17, Leiden: Brill. Collins, J. J. (1987), ‘Messianism in the Maccabean Period’, in J. Neusner, W. S. Green and E. S. Frerichs (eds), Judaisms and Their Messiahs at the Turn of the Christian Era, 97–109, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collins, J. J. (1994), ‘The Works of the Messiah’, DSD 1: 98–112. Collins. J. J. (1995a), ‘“He Shall not Judge by What his Eyes See”: Messianic Authority in the Dead Sea Scrolls’, DSD 2: 145–64. Collins, J. J. (1995b), The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature, New York: Doubleday. Collins, J. J. (1998), The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Collins, J. J. (2010a), Beyond the Qumran Community: The Sectarian Movement of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Collins, J. J. (2010b), ‘The Otherworld in the Dead Sea Scrolls’, in T. Nicklas, J. Verheyden, E. M. M. Eynikel and F. G. García Martínez (eds), Other Worlds and Their Relation to This World: Early Jewish and Ancient Christian Traditions, 65–116, Leiden: Brill. Cross, F. M. (1958), The Ancient Library of Qumrân and Modern Biblical Studies, London: Duckworth. Donceel-Voûte, P. H. E. (1992), ‘Coenaculum la sale à l’étage du locus 30 à Khirbet Qumrân sur la Mer Morte’, in R. Gyselen (ed.), Banquets d’Orient, 61–84, Leuven: Peeters. Douglas, M. C. (1998), Power and Praise in the Hodayot: A Literary Critical Study of 1QH 9:1-18:14, Ph.D. diss., Chicago Divinity School: University of Chicago.

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Eckhardt, B. (2010), ‘Meals and Politics in the Yahad: A Reconsideration’, DSD 17: 180–209. Eisenman, R. and M. O. Wise (1993), Jesus und die Urchristen. Die Qumran-Rollen entschlüsselt, München: Bertelsmann. Evans, C. A. (1995), ‘A Note on the ‘First-Born Son’ of 4Q369’, DSD 2: 185–201 Fabry, H.-J. and H. K. Harrington (2011), ‘‫ ’לכא‬in H.-J. Fabry dna U. Dahmen (eds), Theologisches Wörterbuch zu den Qumran-Texten I, 166–75, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Goody, J. (1982), Cooking, Cuisine and Class: A Study in Comparative Sociology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hempel, C. (1996), ‘The Earthly Essene Nucleus of 1QSa’, DSD 3: 253–69. Holm-Nielsen, S. (1960), Hodayot. Psalms from Qumran, Aarhus: Universitetsforlaget. Magness, J. (2004), Debating Qumran: Collected Essays on Its Archaeology, Leuven: Peeters. Martínez, F. L. and E. J. C. Tigchelaar (2000), The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, 1–2, Leiden: Brill. Metso, S. (1997), The Textual Development of the Qumran Community Rule, Leiden: Brill. Olsen, D. T. (1997), ‘Words of the Lights (4Q504-506 = 4QDibHama-c)’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Dead Sea Scrolls. Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations. Vol 4A: Pseudepigraphic and Non-Masoretic Psalms and Prayers, 107–53, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Pfann, S. (2006), ‘A Table Prepared in the Wilderness: Pantries and Tables, Pure Food and Sacred Space at Qumran’, in K. Galor, J. B. Humbert and J. Zangenberg (eds), Qumran, the Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Archaeological Interpretations and Debates, 159–78, Leiden: Brill. Puech, E. (1992), ‘Une Apocalypse messianique (4Q521)’, RevQ 15: 475–519. Reed, S. A. (2003), ‘The Role of Food as Related to Covenant in Qumran Literature’, in S. E. Porter and J. C. R. de Roo (eds), The Concept of the Covenant in the Second Temple Period, 129–64, Leiden: Brill. Schiffman, L. H. (1979), ‘Communal Meals at Qumran’, RevQ 10: 45–6. Schiffman, L. H. (1989), The Eschatological Community of the Dead Sea Scrolls: A Study of the Rule of the Congregation, Atlanta, Georgia: SBL Press. Skehan, P. W., E. Ulrich and P. W. Flint (1998), ‘A Scroll Containing “Biblical” and “Apocryphal” Psalms: A Preliminary Edition of 4QPsf (4Q88)’, CBQ 60: 267–82. Stegemann, H. (1996), ‘Some Remarks to 1QSa, to 1QSb, and to Qumran Messianism’, RevQ 17: 479–505. Stegemann, H. (1998), The Library of Qumran: On the Essenes, Qumran, John the Baptist, and Jesus, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Stordalen, T. (2000), Echoes of Eden: Genesis 2-3 and Symbolism of the Eden Garden in Biblical Hebrew Literature, Leuven: Peeters. Sukenik, E. L. (1955), The Dead Sea Scrolls of the Hebrew University, Jerusalem: Magness Press. Talmon, S. (1987), ‘Waiting for the Messiah. The Spiritual Universe of the Qumran Covenanters’, in J. Neusner, W. S. Green and E. S. Frerichs (eds), Judaisms and Their Messiahs at the Turn of the Christian Era, 111–37, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Xeravits, G. (2003), King, Priest, Prophet: Positive Eschatological Protagonists of the Qumran Library, Leiden: Brill. Zimmermann, J. (1998), Messianische Texte aus Qumran, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

5

Hermetic Texts in Nag Hammadi Codex VI Jan Heilmann

Introduction ‘Hermetic texts’ summarizes, as a term of metalanguage, numerous Greco-Egyptian wisdom writings related to the Egyptian god Thot (Greek: Hermes Trismegistos) from the Imperial Period. Nag Hammadi Codex VI includes three texts which have been clearly identified as Hermetic (VI.6–8): The untitled, so-called ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’ (NHC VI.6), the ‘Prayer of Thanksgiving’ (VI.7) and ‘Asclepius’ (VI.8). Primarily the ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’ together with the ‘Prayer of Thanksgiving’ are often cited as evidence for a cultic meal or specific rituals performed within Hermetic groups (see below). However, before the problems of such hypotheses can be expounded, it is necessary to discuss the literary and compositional design of these two texts within the codex with reference to meals or meal motifs.

1  NHC VI.6 and VI.7 within the composition of the codex The sixth text of NHC VI, the ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’, is composed as the final educational conversation of a son and his father, aiming to finally introduce the son into the eighth and ninth stage (p. 52.1–63.32) of achieving the divine gnosis. While the son remains anonymous1, he recognizes his father as Hermes (p. 52.28; 59.11; 63.24) and as Trismegistos (p. 59.15, 24), which was an epithet of Hermes as well as of the Egyptian god Thoth (cf. Tröger 1973: 103–4). The son’s initiation process to the eighth and ninth stage is a combination of teaching, preaching, silent prayers and praises to God, and visions. The final instructions of Hermes, to write down the text in hieroglyphic characters for the temple at Diospolis (p. 61.18–62.22) in combination with the inclusion of an oath in the book (p. 62.22–63.15), functions, in my view, as a deceptive narrative. However, the text includes neither references to a meal nor motifs of eating or drinking. In contrast to this, the following text of Codex VI is a prayer closely connected to a meal. The so-called ‘Prayer of Thanksgiving’ is introduced by the phrase ‘this is the prayer that they offered’ (VI.7 63.33) and hence functions as an epilogue to NHC VI.6.

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Together with the concluding commentary, ‘When they said these [words] in prayer, they embraced/kiss each other and went to eat their pure food, which has not blood in it’ (p. 65.3-7), this initial phrase constitutes the narrative frame of the prayer, which will be important later on. Although the initial phrase could be seen as the title of a new text,2 for the readers, the subject of the prayer must be identified as the ‘father’ and the ‘son’ from the previous text in the codex. There are at least three strong arguments that these two texts have to be read together:

1. Two other versions of the prayer descending from a common template (cf. Mahé

1947; Mahé 1978: 137–41)3 have survived, and the comparison between those three versions shows that the narrative initial phrase ‘this is the prayer that they offered’ in NHC VI.7 has almost certainly been revised by the editor/scribe of the codex himself. The prayer in the context of Papyrus Mimaut (P. Louvre 2391) is clearly related to an individual person: The sentence before the beginning of the prayer reads: ὅπως ποιήσῃς πάντα τὰ τῆς εὐχῆς μου, θεῶν γενητέ (col. 18.590–1 [Preisendanz P III, p. 56]). The version at the end of the Latin Asclepius (41) is also connected to the preceding text by a passage that was probably editorially designed and differs completely from the narrative initial phrase in NHC VI.7 63.33. Furthermore, whereas the Latin version of the prayer uses the first person plural in its ‘concluding commentary’ (haec optantes conuertimus nos ad puram et sine animalibus cenam; ‘Wishing these things, we turn to a pure meal without any flesh of animals’), the Coptic version NHC VI.7 offers the third person plural form and other small variations as quoted above. These differences indicate that the editor/scribe of the codex modified his Vorlage in order to connect the prayer with the ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’ (cf. Williams and Jenott 2006: 1040–1). 2. The overall arrangement of NHC VI is based on a coherent editorial concept as M. Kaler has shown: ‘The order of texts has a progressive aspect, as well as a development of themes, showing the reader the need to transcend worldly matters in order to reach a ‘safe spot’ in which esoteric teachings can be received,’ (Kaler 2014: 197).4 Mahé rightly concludes from the viewpoint of the content of the ‘Discourse of the Eighth and Ninth’ and the prayer that it ‘is particularly appropriate to conclude a dialogue describing the final stage of Hermetic initiation,’ (Mahé in: Meyer 2007: 419; see also Kaler 2014: 214). However, it is not necessary for this view to assume that the prayer functioned as the final text of the codex in the original plan of the codex’s editorial concept (cf. ibid.). Even if the writer, on the one hand, had decided to integrate the prayer only later or perhaps during the process (!) of composition or writing and, on the other hand, the ‘Asklepios’ had been part of the initial plan,5 the prayer would still fulfil its function for the readers by concluding the final stage of Hermetic initiation in the final form of the codex. However, these questions are dependent on the assessment of the so-called ‘scribal note’. 3. If the so called ‘scribal note’ (NHC VI.7 65.8–14), which is placed between the prayer and the following text, refers back to the preceding text, the content of the note would be another argument for the close connection between NHC VI.6 and 7. However, the question whether the ‘scribal note’ refers back to the prayer or

58 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals to the following text (NHC VI. 8: ‘Asklepios’) is highly controversial in scholarship.6 Those who suppose that the ‘scribal note’ refers to the ‘Asklepios’ argue that way because of the lack of space at the end of the codex. The scribe then added the note after finishing the codex into a space that had been intentionally left free after the prayer (cf., e.g. Mahé 1982: 465; Kaler 2014: 213), or into the room that was made by erasing the title of Asclepius, (cf., e.g. Doresse 1956: 58–9; Krause 1970: 80).7 Those who argue in the opposite direction, that is, that the ‘scribal note’ refers back to the prayer, point to the verb tense and to issues of space, as well as to the quantity of text per page, (cf. Williams and Jenott 2006: esp. 1037–43).8 Both sides have good evidence for their view, but perhaps the question of reference cannot definitively be decided. Moreover, as far as I know, it has never been discussed that the ‘scribal note’ could in fact not just refer to NHC VI.7 or NHC VI.8 but to both texts because the editor/scribe wanted them to be understood as a unit. There is indeed weak evidence, but no compelling reason, to assume that the ‘scribal note’ is to be interpreted as indicating a change of an initial plan. From a viewpoint of ‘genre’, ‘one logos’ (en logos) in the first sentence of the ‘scribal note’ (p. 65.8) could easily be understood by readers as a reference to the so-called ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’ which includes ‘the prayer they offered’ (p. 63.33). Consequently, if both texts are to be read as a unit, the prayer, together with the embracement or kiss (see below), functions as a transition between the ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’ and a meal. Thus, the reader has to imagine that both, father and son, offer a prayer in which they, among other things, express their pleasure for being enlightened by God’s knowledge (gnōsis p. 64.15-16) and for having become divine through it (p. 64.19); they identify the ‘thanksgiving of the man’ as knowing him (p.  64.20-22) and ask for the favour of being preserved in that knowledge (p. 64.31-33). Then they embrace/kiss each other before they begin to eat. The meal itself is specified by the narrative frame as a meal with ‘pure food, which has not blood in it’ (p. 65.6 f.).

2  Evidence for a ‘cultic meal’ in the background of the hermetic texts of NHC VI? Some scholars interpret the information in the narrative frame as well as the initiation motif as evidence for a ‘cultic meal’ (cf., e.g. Krause 1975: 87; Mahé 1978: 54–9; Mahé 1998) or as practices of the Mysteries (Mysterienpraxis; cf., e.g. Colpe 1972: 16; Tröger 1973: 113.118-19; Tröger 1974) that are seen in the background of both texts. Nonetheless, this interpretation is difficult in many ways: a) The first problem of interpreting the meal of NHC VI as ‘cultic’ concerns the commonly undefined and quasi self-evident usage of the category ‘cultic meal’. Using this category as a notion of metalanguage implicitly postulates that it is possible to describe meals in (late) antiquity according to the guiding difference (Leitdifferenz) of profane/cultic. However, it is highly disputable whether the boundaries between cultic meals and profane meals can be defined sharply in (late) antiquity (especially

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on the thin basis of sources), and thus, the heuristic value of describing meals as ‘cultic’ is, in my view, arguable.9 b) Likewise, the question of initiation meals in the Mystery Cults has become disputable in recent research, too, (cf., e.g. Eckhardt 2009). The assumption of practices of the Mysteries in the background of NHC VI.6 and 7 has been established by K.-W. Tröger based on his study ‘Mysterienglaube und Gnosis in Corpus Hermeticum XIII’ (cf. Tröger 1971), and it is obviously influenced by the questions and perspectives proposed by the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule (History of Religion School) at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. The problematic implications concerning the methodology of his study have long been recognized in research as they are succinctly summarized by W. C. Grese: While Tröger does point out apparent parallels between C.H. XIII and various mystery religions, the parallels themselves are not sufficient to support the conclusions he wants to draw. Tröger wants to say that the author of C.H. XIII has intentionally used language from the mysteries with which his readers were acquainted, but one cannot draw such a conclusion simply on the basis of the use of terminology and concepts reminiscent of the mysteries. First of all, many of the concepts to which Tröger points are not unique to the mysteries, and, second, if we grant that C.H. XIII does utilize mystery religions terminology, the use of such terminology is not unique to C.H.XIII for the same terminology is also used by Plato, Philo and others. To prove his thesis Tröger would have to demonstrate some sort of relationship between C.H. XIII and known Egyptian mystery religions, but he does not, (Grese 1979: 51–2).10

Moreover, it is c) difficult, if not impossible, to determine the intended audience of the NHC, as the scholarly debates about the background of the codices show.11 In my view, M. Kaler is right to call into question if the intended audience ‘would have been sharply or exclusively defined,’ (Kaler 2009: 440) and to shift the burden of proof ‘to those who postulate that cult, sect or church-like formal groups would have formed the original audience for these texts,’ (Kaler 2009: 441). Furthermore, merely theoretically, there could be an exclusive group in the original background of the single texts which were secondarily included into the NHC, but the prehistory of the texts is in most cases highly hypothetical, (cf. Kaler 2009). Yet, in case of the Hermetic texts of NHC VI, we have other hermetic texts for comparison. However, in my view, the narrated world of most hermetic texts must first and foremost be understood as literary fiction (see also Colpe 1972: 16; Colpe and Holzhausen 1997: 535), which has another purpose than to represent ‘cultic liturgy’. For instance, W. C. Grese has elaborated on the notion that the purpose of the conversation between Hermes Trismegistus and Tat in CH XIII, concerning a close parallel to NHC VI.6 in genre and content, was to teach those who read it. Therefore, it may primarily function, in terms of Reitzenstein, as a LeseMysterium (reading mystery, cf. Grese 1979: esp. 201–2). In my view, it is challenging to interpret the family imagery in NHC VI.6 (‘children’ of Hermes [p. 52.26-7; 53.15] and ‘brothers’ of the son [p. 52.28; 53.8; 53.27.29-30]) as extra-textual references to Hermetic communities as often done, (cf. Tröger 1973: 118–19; Mahé 1978: 94–5). The text itself does not provide enough evidence for such a conclusion.12 Furthermore, the

60 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals hypothesis of ‘cultic’ communities that stand behind the hermetic texts has often been questioned, (see the references in Tröger 1973: 118–9n. 83–7).13 d) The most convincing arguments against the hypothesis of ‘cultic meals’ in the background of the Hermetic texts of NHC VI can be found in the texts themselves. Nothing about the content of the prayer and its narrative frame indicates a ‘cultic’ character of the following meal but rather a meal after an initiation process. In combination with the educational conversation between the father and the son of NHC VI.6, the prayer functions as a conclusion of the teaching, which is in fact reflected in the content of the prayer and the transition to the following meal. Analogies to such a teaching-meal sequence can be found, for instance, in Philo’s description of the Therapeutae (see Contempl. 30–6). After the prayer, the narrative frame tells the reader that the father and the son embrace or kiss each other, which is expressed by the Greek borrowing ἀσπάζομαι (p. 65.4). Semantically, the verb is actually ambiguous: It frequently expresses a salutation in the mode of an embracement or a kiss.14 However, from a viewpoint of cultural plausibility it is most likely that the editor/scribe15 wanted to indicate the latter as numerous instances of kisses before a meal show: Many sources prove that kisses could function as a ritualized sign of the inclusion of new members into a community, (cf., e.g. Cyprian, Ep. 64,4; Hippolytus, Trad. ap. 21. For further references, see Dölger 1929). Kisses symbolizing the affiliation to one community16 were often, but not exclusively (see Klinghardt 1996: 337, fn. 14), given before a communal meal and notably they are not only attested for Christian contexts, (cf., e.g. Apuleius, Metam. 7.8–9; Petronius, Satyr. 41.7-8). Moreover, some sources document, in analogy to NHC VI.7, a prayer before the kiss and the meal. In particular Justin, 1 Apol. 65, provides a close analogy to NHC VI.7: initiation – prayers – salutation with a kiss – meal (see in addition Tertullian, Or. 18. For further references, see Thraede 1968/1969: 150–3; Thraede 1972: 512–15; Colpe and Holzhausen 1997: 513). For the interpretation of the kiss in NHC VI.7, however, another aspect of the kiss could be of great importance: There are some Jewish and Christian sources that attest a kiss which functions as a ritualized symbol of the transmission of teaching or of someone’s assignment to teach, (Klinghardt 1996: 337, fn. 16, refers to T. Reu. 1.5; T. Dan 7.1; Jos. Asen. 22.13; Gos. Bart. 4.71; Hippolytus, Trad. ap. 4). Against this backdrop, the reader of NHC VI.7 could understand the kiss as a summarizing sign of the previous educational conversation condensed into a single act of ‘transmission’. Consequently, the kiss could not be seen as an indicator of a ‘cultic’ character of the following meal, but as a sign of including the son into the ideal community of those who have achieved the knowledge (gnōsis). The same is true for the further information given by the narrative frame. The reader is told that the father and the son eat ‘pure food, which has not blood in it’ (p. 65.6-7). In my view, the Coptic lexeme ouaab, that functions as a specification of trophē (p. 65.6), should not be translated as ‘holy’ (cf., e.g. Dirkse and Brashler 1979: 387; Colpe and Holzhausen 1997: 537) or ‘sacred’ (cf. e.g. Meyer 2007: 423) but, as an equivalent to the Latin purus (Ascl. 41), as ‘pure’, (cf. Mahé 1978: 166; Smith 1999: 37). Those who translate ouaab as ‘holy’ or ‘sacred’ a priori project a ‘cultic’ interpretation of the meal into the text.17 Nothing in the text indicates a specific holiness of the food that they eat. Instead, it is ‘pure’ because it has no blood in it, which in turn most likely

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implies that they eat a meal without meat, similar to the Latin puram et sine animalibus cenam (Ascl. 41).18 Equally, Philo describes the table of the Therapeutae as ‘pure from [food] with blood in it’ (καὶ τράπεζα καθαρὰ τῶν ἐναίμων, Contempl. 73).

3 Conclusion Thus, the meal of NHC VI.7 is to be categorized as an ascetic meal. Ascetic meal practice was in fact widespread in the Greco-Roman world until Late Antiquity, (cf. in detail with references to numerous sources as well as groups performing ascetic meals McGowan 1999: esp. 67–88). An impressive analogy to the ascetic and meatless meal in NHC VI.7 can be found, for instance, in the meal practice of the Therapeutae (see Philo, Contempl. 30–7):19 While the Therapeutae keep studying individually and for themselves six days a week, they all come together to an assembly on the seventh day in which the eldest of them who has the most profound learning teaches the others in their doctrines. Following this, they have an ascetic meal with ‘plain bread and a seasoning of salt, which the more luxurious of them do further season with hyssop; and their drink is water from the spring’ (37). Andrew McGowan interprets the rejection of eating meat in ancient philosophical discourses as ‘a radical response to the dominant culture of bloody sacrifice,’ (McGowan 1999: 69). Moreover, ascetic meals of groups that try to gain higher knowledge by philosophical or esoteric teachings can, from my point of view, be seen as an expression of transcending the ordinary world for which the consumption of meat and wine in the common meal practice is an obvious symbol. This interpretation fits perfectly to the meal in NHC VI.7 which forms the conclusion of the Hermetic initiation of the son in the narrated world of NHC VI.6.7. After the divine knowledge (gnōsis) is reached through the teaching of the father Hermes Trismegistos, the ascetic meal functions as a symbol for both, the son’s renunciation of the ordinary world and his new status as a brother of the other children of Hermes. However, as I have shown above, this does not necessarily mean that this ascetic meal practice is specific for certain presumed Hermetic communities. In fact, the editor/scribe (i.e. the one who was responsible for the compilation of the texts in NHC VI.6.7) created a meal as the conclusion of the son’s initiation process, which was simply culturally plausible for the readers.

Notes 1 In a close parallel to the NHC VI.6, the conversation in C.H. XIII, the son has the name Tat. 2 Although one could find the inscription of NHC VI.2 on p.13 and that of NHC VI.4 on p. 36 (moreover, NHC VI.6 presumably also carried an inscription as indicated by a remaining line on the top of the corrupt p. 52), the design of the codex is not completely coherent. While NHC VI.4 also has the title as a subscription (p. 48) and NHC VI.1 provides a subscription (p. 12), there is definitively no subscription at the end of NHC VI.2 and NHC VI.5; admittedly, the ends of the texts are marked by

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3 4

5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

13

14 15

16

17 18

ornamentation (p. 21.51). Thus, compared to the design of the subscription of NHC VI.4 on p. 48, which is strikingly similar to that of p. 63.33, one could assume that the initial phrase ‘this is the prayer that they offered’ is to be read as a subscription to the previous ‘Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth’. Against Colpe and Holzhausen 1997: 530, who assume, without any further argument, that the prayer originally belonged to the Greek treatise ΛΟΓΟΣ ΤΕΛΕΙΟΣ of which no Greek copy has survived. See also Williams and Jenott 2006: 1052, who comes to the conclusion that the NHC VI has to be described as ‘a fairly well-planned book’. For the opposite view (the older consensus) that regards NHC VI as a miscellaneous collection of loosely connected texts, see, e.g. Colpe 1972: 17, who describes the codex pejoratively as a Buchbindersynthese. See Williams and Jenott 2006: 1029–35, who provide good codicological evidence for this view. For a detailed survey of the discussion, see Williams and Jenott 2006: 1035–43. However, one would have to conclude with Williams, Jenott and others: ‘No evidence of such erasure has been found,’ (Williams and Jenott 2006: 1036). See also Kaler 2014: 214n. 50. See also the postulate by Tröger 1978: 120, unfortunately without further elaboration. For a detailed evaluation of these problems, see Leonhard and Eckhardt 2009: 1013–15. For a detailed discussion of the Tröger’s approach and its ancestors of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, see Grese 1979: 47–58. For an overview of the discussion, see Lewis and Blount 2014. The ‘brothers’ form an ideal community of initiated people into which the son wants to be included (p. 52.27). The text itself provides evidence for such an interpretation: Father and son obviously pray only in pairs (p. 55.2–55.23) while praying together with the brothers refers to the level of vision (p. 53.27–55.2). Tröger himself tries to prove the hypothesis of ‘cultic’ communities in the background of hermetic texts by pointing to the pretended evidence in NHC VI.7. However, his argumentation is circular as I will show in the following. He cites two unproven claims for mutual support: The argument that there are ‘cultic’ groups in the background of the hermetic texts presupposes specific rituals, while the interpretation of the ostensible textual evidence for ‘cultic’ rituals also presupposes ‘cultic’ groups in the background of the texts. The same circular argument can be found in Krause 1975: 87–8. See LSJ, Art. ἀσπάζομαι, 258. It is, in my view, most likely that this information is given by the editor/scribe of the codex as the missing of the embracement/kiss after the prayer at the end of the Latin Asclepius (41) suggests; yet, the last lines of the prayer in Papyrus Mimaut (P. Louvre 2391) are unintelligible. Cf. Klinghardt 1996: 337–8, who argues that symbolizing the affiliation to a community is the primary function of these ‘fraternal kisses’ (Bruderkuss) or ‘communal kisses’ (Gemeinschaftskuss). John Chrysostom confirms this view explicitly (cf. Hom. 2 Cor. 30.1; Prod. Jud. 2). Tröger, in Schenke, Bethge and Kaiser 2003: 524, interprets the end of the narrative frame as a ‘cultic conclusion’ (‘kultischer Schluss’). The assumption of Klauck, 1982; 220, that there could be a connection between the end of Ascl. 41 and the instances of a cena pura documented in the sources as a description for the Jewish meal on Friday night of Sabbath (cf. Tertullian, Marc. 5.4.6; Nat.

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1.13.4) or for the whole Friday, the preparation day = παρασκευή (cf. the readings of the Itala manuscripts in Mt. 27.62; Lk. 23.54; Jn 19.31,42; Irenaeus, Haer. 1.14.6; 5.23.4; Augustine, Serm. 221), remains without evidence. Moreover, in my view, it still has to be discussed if the term cena pura was also a term used by Jews as a description for the meal on Friday night of Sabbath as Horbury, 2006: 110–13, postulates on the basis of little evidence. In any case, it is problematic to construct the meal which Tertullian describes as a cena pura as an opposite to licentious Roman banquets (‘zuchtlosen römischen Gastmählern’) like Klauck 1982: 196, did following on Bacher 1905: 202. 19 Describing the meal of the Therapeutae as a ‘cultic meal’ is, from my perspective, misleading, too. Against Klauck 1982: 184–7. It is somewhat surprising that Klauk does not define the term ‘Kultmahl’ in his theoretical introduction of ‘Zur Phänomenologie des Heiligen Mahls’ (31–9); although, he frequently uses the concept. Additionally, this work frequently shows strong influence of both, the perspectives and concepts of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule as well as outdated theories of religious studies from the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century (e.g. the totemistic theory mainly represented by W. R. Smith and J. G. Frazer).

Bibliography Editions and translations Corpus Hermeticum (1983), Tome II: Traités XIII–XVIII. Asclepius, Texte etabli par A. D. Nock et traduit par A.-J. Festugiere, CUFr, Paris6. Corpus Hermeticum Deutsch (1997), Übersetzung, Darstellung und Kommentierung in drei Teilen, Teil 1 u. 2 (Clavis Pansophiae 7,1/2), im Auftrag der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften bearb. u. hg. v. C. Colpe u. J. Holzhausen, Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt. The Facsimile Edition of the Nag Hammadi Codices (1972), Published under the Auspices of the Department of Antiquities of the Arab Republic of Egypt in Conjunction the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. Codex VI, Leiden. Hermès en Haute-Égypte. Les textes hermétiques de Nag Hammadi (1978), Tome I. Ed. J.-P. Mahé (BCNH 3), Québec. Nag Hammadi Codices V,2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, 1 and 4 (1979), edited by D. M. Parrott (NHC 11), Leiden. Nag Hammadi Deutsch (2003), Bd. 2, NHC V,2–XIII,1, BG 1 und 4, hg. v. H.-M. Schenke/ H.-G. Bethge/U. U. Kaiser (Koptisch-Gnostische Schriften 3, GCS N.F. 12), Berlin The Nag Hammadi Scriptures (2007), The International Edition. The Revised and Updated Translation of Sacred Gnostic Texts Complete in One Volume, edited by M. Meyer, New York. Papyri graecae magicae. Die griechischen Zauberpapyri, hg. u. üb. V. K. Preisendanz, Bd. 1, Leipzig/Berlin 1928.

Secondary literature Bacher, W. (1905), ‘Cena pura’, ZNW 6: 200–2. Colpe, C. (1972), ‘Heidnische, jüdische und christliche Überlieferung in den Schriften aus Nag Hammadi I’, JbAC 15: 5–18.

64 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Dirkse, P. and J. Brashler(1998), ‘The Prayer of Thanksgiving)’, in D. M. Parrott (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices V,2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, 1 and 4 (NHC 11), 375–387, Leiden: Brill. Dölger, F. J. (1929), ‘Der Kuß im Tauf- und Firmungsritual nach Cyprian von Carthago und Hippolyt von Rom’, Antike und Christentum 1: 186–96. Doresse, J. (1956), ‘Hermès et la gnose. À propos de l'Asclépius copte’, NT 1: 54–69. Eckhardt, B. (2009), ‘Initiationsmähler in den griechisch-römischen Mysterienkulten?’ JAC 59: 7–21. Grese, W. C. (1979), Corpus Hermeticum XIII and Early Christian Literature. Studia ad Corpus Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti (SCHNT) 5. Leiden: Brill. Claremont Graduate School, Diss.--Claremont, 1977. Horbury, W. (2006), ‘Cena Pura and Lord’s Supper’, in Herodian Judaism and New Testament Study, 104–40. WUNT 193. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Kaler, M. (2009), ‘The Cultic Milieu, Nag Hammadi Collectors and Gnosticism’, Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 38 (3–4): 427–44. Kaler, M. (2014), ‘Finding a Safe Spot: An Attempt to Understand the Arrangement of Nag Hammadi Codex VI’, JECS 22 (2): 197–217. Klauck, H.-J. (1982), Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult: Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum ersten Korintherbrief. NTA N.F. 15, Münster: Aschendorff. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern. TANZ 13, Tübingen and Basel: Francke. Krause, M. (1970), ‘Der Stand der Veröffentlichung der Nag Hammadi-Texte’, in U. Bianchi (ed.), Le origini dello gnosticismo:Colloquio di Messina, 13-18 aprile 1966, 61–88. Studies in the History of Religions 12, Leiden: Brill. Krause, W. (1975), ‘Zur Bedeutung des gnostisch-hermetischen Handschriftenbefundes von Nag Hammadi’, in M. Krause (ed.), Essays on the Nag Hammadi Texts: In Honour of Pahor Labib, 65–89. Nag Hammadi Studies 6, Leiden: Brill. Leonhard, C. and B. Eckhardt (2009), ‘Art. Mahl V (Kultmahl)’, RAC 23: 1012–1105. Lewis, N. D. and J. A. Blount (2014), ‘Rethinking the Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices’, JBL 133: 399–419. Mahé, J.-P. (1947), ‘La priere d'actions de graces du codex VI de Nag Hammadi et le discours parfait’, ZPE 13: 40–60. Mahé, J.-P. (1978), Hermès en Haute-Egypte. Tome 1: Les textes hermétiques de Nag Hammadi et leurs parallèles grecs et latins. BCNH Textes 3, Québec: Presses de L’Université Laval. Mahé, J.-P. (1982), Hermès en Haute-Egypte. Tome 2: Les fragments du Discours parfait et les Définitions hermétiques arméniennes (NH VI, 8.8a). BCNH Textes 7, Québec: Presses de L’Université Laval. Mahé, J.-P. (1998), ‘A Reading of the Discourse on the Ogdoad and the Ennead (Nag Hammadi Codex VI.6)’, in Roelof d. van Broek and Wouter J. Hanegraaff (eds), Gnosis and Hermeticism From Antiquity to Modern Times, 79–86, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. McGowan, A. B. (1999), Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals, Oxford and New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Smith, R. (1999), A Concise Coptic-English Lexicon, 2nd edn, Resources for Biblical Study 35, Atlanta, Ga: Scholars Press. Thraede, K. (1968, 1969), ‘Ursprünge und Formen des ’Heiligen Kusses‘ im frühen Christentum’, JbAC 11/12: 124–80. Thraede, K. (1972), ‘Art. Friedenskuß’, RAC 8: 505–19.

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Tröger, K.-W. (1971), Mysterienglaube und Gnosis in Corpus Hermeticum XIII. TU 110, Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Tröger, K.-W. (1973), ‘Die hermetische Gnosis’, in K.-W. Tröger (ed.), Gnosis und Neues Testament:Studien aus Religionswissenschaft und Theologie, 97–119, Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Tröger, K.-W. (1974), ‘Die Bedeutung der Nag-Hammadi-Schriften für die Hermetik’, in P. Nagel (ed.), Studia Coptica, 175–90, Berlin: Akademic-Verlag. Tröger, K.-W. (1978), ‘On Investigating the Hermetic Documents contained Nag Hammadi Codex VI. The Present State of Research’, in R. Wilson (ed.), Nag Hammadi and Gnosis:Papers Read at the First International Congress of Coptology (Cairo, December 1976), 117–21. NHS 14, Leiden: Brill. Williams, M. A. and L. Jenott (2006), ‘Inside the Covers of Codex VI’, in L. Painchaud and P.-H. Poirier (eds), Coptica – Gnostica – Manichaica:Mélanges offerts à Wolf-Peter Funk, 1025–52. Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi Section ‘Études’ 7. Québec: Presses de l'Univ. Laval.

6

Meals in the Apostolic Fathers Andrew McGowan

Introduction The corpus known as the Apostolic Fathers is a modern construct rather than an obvious ancient reality. In some (and especially older) usages, the term refers to persons presumed to have been active in an era immediately after that of the New Testament apostles, including Clement of Rome, Papias of Hierapolis, Polycarp of Smyrna and Ignatius of Antioch. In addition, and now more commonly, ‘Apostolic Fathers’ also refers to a loosely defined set of writings, some of which are anonymous, including not only 1–2 Clement, the various Letters of Ignatius, the Letter (and sometimes the Martyrdom) of Polycarp and the fragments of Papias, which are all connected with figures such as those mentioned, but in addition are works well-known in antiquity; ‘Apostolic Fathers’ also refers to the Shepherd of Hermas and the Letter of Barnabas – and some works rediscovered in more recent times and attributed to the relevant dates and theological or ecclesial trajectory – notably the Didache, and the Letter to Diognetus (for texts and translations see especially Holmes 2007; Lindemann and Paulsen 1992). It may be easier to say what the Apostolic Fathers are not: works of equal antiquity which are part of the canon of the New Testament (the Pastoral Epistles) are excluded from the corpus; so too in general are apologetic works, mostly but not all of later date (Aristides); and also works probably of equal antiquity but whose relationship to what would become orthodoxy is less direct (Gospel of Thomas). However problematically defined then, this body of literature provides significant information for the practices and beliefs of Christians in the second century. While diverse in form and function, the works contain important evidence, implicit as well as explicit, for how meals were celebrated in early Christian communities.

1 Survey 1.1 Barnabas The Letter of Barnabas (late first or early second century CE) includes extended reflection on the relation between the beliefs and practices of the Christians and the

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scriptures and practices of Judaism, taking a somewhat imaginative set of strategies (some of which seem to stem from Jewish sources; see Kraft 1961; Paget 1994: 151–3) to claim the distinctiveness and superiority of the Christian movement. This includes reference to foodstuffs: When Moses said, ‘you shall not eat the pig, nor the eagle, nor the hawk, nor the raven, nor any fish that does not have scales on it’, he held three doctrines in mind. … So he said ‘the pig’ for this reason, ‘you shall not associate with people who are like pigs’. For when they live in plenty, they forget their master; but when they are in need, they acknowledge the Lord. (10.1-2)

While this and a whole set of similar interpretations manifest an attempt to remove or criticize observance of the Mosaic dietary regulations, Barnabas shifts the significance of the command to the realm of sociability, and hence not away from meals as such, but rather from the contents of the table to the population of the triclinium.

1.2  1 Clement The letter known as 1 Clement admits no personal author, but presents itself as a missive from the Church at Rome to that at Corinth. It is usually dated to the 90s CE. The concern of the letter is with divisions and conflict over leadership; it does not address issues directly concerned with meal practice. There are however a number of possible connections. In providing a set of historical examples that urge better behaviour, the author returns to the virtue of φιλοξενία no fewer than six times in a work of modest length (1.2, 10.7, 11.1, etc.). This theme of hospitality does not include foregrounding of banquets as such, but it would seem to imply that the generous sharing of food and drink should characterize appropriate social relations. A number of commentators have remarked on what appear to be liturgical or at least doxological elements in the letter. The presence of what may be prayer material could provide a link with the utterance that accompanied the Eucharistic meals in the Clementine community (Fisher 1980: 220). It is less likely that the phrase τὸ αἷμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ on which the Corinthians are urged to fix their sight (7.4) is any reference to the Eucharistic elements (Downs 2013; Fisher 1980).

1.3  2 Clement The text known as 2 Clement is associated with 1 Clement only by tradition. Its interest for meals lies primarily in being arguably the oldest clear instance of an extended homily, such as might have been recited in the discursive sequel – the symposium proper, in traditional terms – to a Christian meal. While other and earlier texts such as the Letter to the Hebrews may also have a homiletic character, and might have been read or pronounced in whole or part during ancient meals, 2 Clement makes for the first time explicit references to its own communal setting and performance: We ought not merely to appear to believe and to be attentive now, while we are being warned by the elders, but also when we have gone home let us bear in mind

68 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals the commands of the Lord (17.3). … So, brothers and sisters … I am reading to you an address for paying heed to the writings, so that you may save yourselves and the one who reads among you. (19.1)

2 Clement makes considerable use of the imagery of ‘flesh’ both as a negative or at least admonitory theme for morality, and also more positively in ecclesiological terms (see 14). Given its extended paraenesis on flesh and community, it would have been obvious for any Eucharistic associations to be drawn upon by the author, had this imagery been linked to understanding the elements of the meal in that community. The absence of that use suggests not. In one place 2 Clement uses ‘Eucharistic’ language in a way that could, as in the Didache and the Letters of Ignatius, combine an allusion to participation in the communal meal with the obvious or literal sense of the word (18.1) (Tuckett 2012: 288).

1.4  Didache The Didache is variously dated anywhere from the mid-first century to the mid-second (see the discussion in Draper and Jefford 2015). Its connections with the Gospel of Matthew in particular are intriguing and invite the possibility of reading the two documents together to create some picture of how an early community might have seen the traditions about Jesus and the realities of community life intersecting, including in the realm of meal practice (Draper 2008, 2000). Whether an earlier or later date among the range of possibilities is preferred, the Didache contains the oldest known prescriptions for a Christian communal meal (chapters 9–10). ‘Eucharist’ is used both for the act of thanksgiving or blessing over cup and broken bread (in that order, perhaps surprisingly) at the beginning of the meal, and for the event as a whole, apparently having become a technical term already. Prayers are provided for the unnamed presiders to use; these refer to Jesus as the παῖς (child or servant) of God, aligning him historically with David and offering thanks, not so much for wine and bread themselves as for wisdom, life and knowledge. No mention is made of the death of Jesus or of a Last Supper; yet bearing in mind the possible relationship with Matthew, those narratives may have been known to the compilers but not seen as sole or necessary models for prayer (McGowan 1999). Perhaps the ἐπίσκοποι referred to elsewhere in the document (15), or simply householders, will have undertaken meal-presiding roles elsewhere associated with the officials of associations or collegia, to which this group can be compared. However, there were also prophets (10.7; cf. 11–13) who presided when they were present with the group, and without having the constraint of these prayer formulae imposed on them. Participation in the meal is limited, at least aspirationally, to the baptized members of the community (10.1); this reflects typical practice in other dining clubs, but may also imply some variations or violations of such a pattern. The substantial character of the meal is explicit: all are expected to be satisfied (10.1). The instructions for a Sunday celebration use cultic language for the meal, loosely perhaps but not just metaphorically; the meal, like those of other ancient associations, is readily understood as an adjunct to sacrifice (McGowan 2012; Öhler 2014).

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1.5 Diognetus The Letter to Diognetus seems to be very ancient, but was not cited in, or otherwise attested by, any other extant writer before its rediscovery in the fifteenth century CE; the single manuscript was destroyed in the nineteenth century CE (Foster 2007). Its voice and interests are broadly comparable to second-century apologetic literature, but with a pedagogical rather than combative tone. Diognetus has little to say about the concrete realities of communal practice. It is equally critical of the Jewish cult and of Roman religion, and rejects ascetic refusals regarding food as incongruent with belief in a good creator (4.1-2). As for Christian ritual and performance, it claims they are distinguished only by a higher sense of morality, and not by any peculiarities: But, inhabiting Greek as well as barbarian cities as is allotted to each, and following the customs of the locals in respect to clothing and food and in the rest of life, they display to us the admirable and confessedly striking constitution of their own community (5.4).

This should be taken to mean that the Christian gatherings are understood, or at least represented, as unremarkable associational banquets save for their sobriety.

1.6  The Shepherd of Hermas The Shepherd is a complex work, apparently from the mid-second century in its current form, including three sections – Visions, Mandates and Similitudes – and was one of the most popular Christian writings in the first few centuries (see in general Brox 1991; Osiek 1999). It has an apocalyptic literary character, in which figures, including the heavenly Shepherd of the title, appear to the author Hermas in a number of visions and offer a variety of explicit and parabolic instructions. Eucharistic meal practice is alluded to at least once. In the Visions (3.9) a female figure (apparently representing the church) criticizes the conduct of Christian assemblies, as well as more generally pointing to instances of economic inequality manifested in disparities of satiety and hunger, somewhat reminiscent of the situation in 1 Corinthians 11 (Grundeken 2015: 150–1). That this refers to meal practices, and not merely to differences of wealth and power generally, is implied by the heavenly figure’s criticism not only of the gluttons, but of leaders who are table-presidents or who are at least seating themselves prominently at table (πρωτοκαθεδρίται) in particular. A second possibility at Sim. 9.11 (Grundeken 2015: 151) draws on the metaphor of dining, affirming its interest, but is less likely to refer specifically to Christian communal practice.

1.7 Polycarp The Letter of Polycarp to the Philippians (whose date is determined by the view taken of the Ignatian correspondence – see below) does not shed any particular light on

70 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Christian assemblies, although it focuses on related questions of order, roles, ethics and doctrine. The later Martyrdom of Polycarp however is well-known for some imagery that conjures food and meals, and perhaps the Eucharistic meals of the Christians in particular. While the events it depicts should be dated around 155–60 CE, the date of the document itself has been questioned more than once. Granted the likelihood of layers and editions, opinion is divided on whether its substance, or at least a core, can be attributed to the time of the historical Polycarp or soon after, or whether it is better to attribute the whole to a date in the third century (Moss 2010). In the latter case, the evidence of the Martyrdom for meals (as otherwise) is less useful for comparison with the evidence of the other Apostolic Fathers, but still commands interest. Polycarp’s arrest itself has an oddly commensal or even Eucharistic character, in that he provides hospitality to his captors (Mart. Pol. 7) who then find themselves eating and drinking for two hours to the accompaniment of a homiletic discourse, in a sort of implicit agape celebration that evokes the last meal or cena libera celebrated explicitly in other settings (cf. Pass. Perp. 17). When his pyre is to be lit, Polycarp is bound ‘like a fine ram chosen from a flock for an offering’ (14.1) and amid the fire appears like bread baking, accompanied by a fragrant aroma. The account of reclaiming and venerating his remains (18) seems to imply the liturgical commemorations that would come to combine martyr cult and Eucharist.

1.8 Ignatius 1.8.1  The Ignatius corpus The corpus of letters associated with Ignatius of Antioch is a rich source of information about second-century Christian meals as well as on other topics, but has continued to fuel scholarly controversy. Of three known recensions of the correspondence – short, middle and long – there is a general acceptance of the middle as authentic, or at least as original. While the identity and dating of Ignatius provided by tradition – he is associated with the reign of Trajan (d. 117) by Eusebius – remains widely accepted, doubts persist. Some prefer a later date for the correspondence, closer to or even after the middle of the second century (Hübner 1997; Barnes 2008). Such adjustments may ease tensions produced by what might otherwise have been a surprisingly sophisticated understanding of episcopacy, and place Ignatius’s evidence for early Christian meals in a more plausible context also, but they have not been universally accepted. All these arguments suffer (or benefit), at least as far as ritual meal practice goes, from a lack of corroborating evidence from such an early period, and depend on assumptions about development of order and doctrine external to the corpus itself. If real diversity of theology and organization can be allowed for early communities, neither Ignatius’s view of an episcopate nor his apparent sacramental theology can serve as arguments against an early date.

1.8.2  Eucharistic meals in Ignatius The authentic Letters include numerous references to community meals and other allusions to food and eating. In reference to the meals of the Christians, Ignatius

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uses both the terms ἀγάπη (agape) and εὐχαριστία (Eucharist). Although these words are not quite interchangeable, they do not refer to two completely different events or rituals, but to aspects of the same assembly. As in the Didache, εὐχαριστία refers for Ignatius both to the specific prayers of thanksgiving within a Christian community meal, but also to the meal ritual generally, and by extension to the event as a whole (e.g. Ign. Eph. 1.13, Ign. Smyrn. 6.7). On the other hand, ἀγάπη refers to the meal assembly and its overall character, rather than to specific elements of it (Ign. Smyrn. 8). In any case, these terms are not to be understood as reflecting two different occasions or gatherings. Ignatius seems to imply that such meals would take place on Sunday (perhaps meaning Saturday evening), criticizing continued Sabbath observance (Ign. Magn. 9). Ignatius places particular emphasis on collective participation in the Christian meal, and being (and eating and drinking) in solidarity with the bishop, who seems to be head of the community (or is at least envisaged as such by Ignatius): Let no one do anything connected with the Church without the bishop. A proper Eucharist is to be regarded as one held by the bishop, or by someone to whom the bishop has entrusted it. Where the bishop appears, let the assembly be too; just as wherever Jesus Christ is, there is the catholic Church. It is not lawful either to baptize or to hold an agape without the bishop; but whatsoever he shall approve, that is also pleasing to God, so that whatever is done is secure and valid. (Ign. Smyrn. 8)

Both words, and ἀγάπη in particular, are freely used in the Ignatian corpus beyond the context of meals. As well as unmistakeable references to the meal, there are distinct references to the virtue of love, but then some ambiguous uses where both may be indicated or at least alluded to (Eph. 2, 4; Magn. 1).

1.8.3  Food and flesh in Ignatius Further, Ignatius uses other imagery related to food and meals, and perhaps particularly to the bread and wine of a Eucharistic meal, in a variety of settings, including in relation to himself and his anticipated martyrdom. For instance, in Romans 7, Ignatius says: I take no pleasure in corruptible food, nor in the pleasures of this life. I want the bread of God, which is Jesus Christ ‘of the seed of David’, and for drink his blood, which is incorruptible love (ἀγάπη).

Ignatius’s writings show an unprecedented emphasis on realistic imagery of the body and blood of Jesus, perhaps with some connection to the thought-world of John’s Gospel. If the emphasis given to the elements of the meal in Ignatius suggests a degree of sacralization in terms of Jesus’s flesh and blood, this is not a direct equivalent of later sacramental theologies; Ignatius does not express anxiety about the elements themselves, and his realism always serves some moral or ecclesial purpose.

72 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals In an extended discussion about Christians who seem to deny the incarnation of Jesus in Smyrnaeans (cf. Ign. Trall. 9), Ignatius presents the Eucharist with such realistic imagery. Disbelief is referred to as denial of ‘the blood of Christ’ (6). These same dubious believers: stay away from the Eucharist and from prayer, because they do not acknowledge the Eucharist to be the flesh of our Savior Jesus Christ, which suffered for our sins, and which the Father, in his goodness, raised up again. (7)

In Philadelphians 4 a similar view seems to undergird a catechesis by Ignatius, not about the elements themselves but about the importance of unity: So take care to have one Eucharist. For there is one flesh of our Lord Jesus Christ, and one cup for the unity of His blood, one altar, as one bishop, along with the presbytery and deacons, my fellow-servants. So that whatever you do, you do it in God’s way.

The specific connection between ἀγάπη and blood already noted in Romans is also found in Trallians, along with a parallel correlation of Jesus’s ‘flesh’ and faith: You then, clothing yourselves with meekness, be renewed in faith, which is the flesh of the Lord, and in love, which is the blood of Jesus Christ. (Trall. 8)

In this case, while a Eucharistic allusion is possible (cf. also Eph. 1; Magn. 6; Trall. Prol.), it is more important to acknowledge how metaphors of eating and drinking convey the significance of internalizing a teacher’s words and wisdom, as also in the Gospel of John (Heilmann 2014). So too the ‘bread of God’ (Eph. 5) presumably alludes to the Christian meal, but actually refers to the unity of the local Church. Less obvious but probably with similar significance is Ignatius’s description of the deacons not as βρωμάτων καὶ ποτῶν … διάκονοι but instead as stewards of the Church. Another remarkable piece of Eucharistic theology is that of the meal as a sort of remedy against death: Obey the bishop and the presbytery with an undivided mind, breaking the one bread, which is medicine for immortality, and an antidote against dying, but for life for ever in Jesus Christ. (Eph. 20)

While this again suggests a very concrete understanding of the Eucharistic food and its effects, attention to context reveals the familiar Ignatian connection with the unity of the Church. Ignatius’s own enthusiasm for physical death seems to preclude the idea that the meal or its food and drink is being presented as a sort of literal remedy against sickness or mortality, but instead suggests that the practice of unified Eucharistic celebration is the means of celebrating and reinforcing the Christian hope of eternal life. By contrast he warns against the ‘deadly medicine’ of sectarian practice (Trall. 6).

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Ignatius also sees himself as becoming bread, ground in the mill of martyrdom via bestial attacks: Let me be food for the beasts, through whom it will come to God. I am God’s wheat, and am ground by the teeth of the beasts, so I may be found as the pure bread of Christ. (Rom. 4)

While Eucharistic connections cannot be excluded here, the basic imagery conflated with the picture of Ignatius’s violent death is actually that of milling; the relationship between his death and that of Jesus is also at best secondary. The ‘sacrificial’ character of Ignatius’s thought in general is not as clear as often assumed (Kirk 2013); while some of his references to self-offering have little connection to festive sacrificial celebration in any event, Ignatius does speak of himself as a libation for God, to be poured out in death (Rom. 2). In addition to Ignatius’s specific references to elements of Eucharistic belief and practice, his correspondence as a whole appeals not merely to details of particular meals but to an underlying cultic and festive reality, a mystery underlying the whole. Without articulating this in great detail, his life and letters are all presented as elements of a great, cosmic, celebration (Brent 2007).

1.9 Conclusion The diverse voices of the so-called Apostolic Fathers provide a source of information and reflection on the meals of the early Christians that is both intriguing and frustrating. The Eucharistic meal is confirmed in most cases to be a, or the, central assembly of the Christians, but elsewhere it has to be assumed or inferred; only in a few cases is it made anything more than an indirect reference point amid the different purposes for which these disparate works were created. It seems likely that the communities among whom these events took place still ate and drank in ways that were substantial as well as symbolic (Did. 10.1); there is no sign in these works of a merely token meal. While the Didache reflects an exclusive meal, this like the protest of Diognetus about the ordinary character of Christian food merely reflects typical meal customs in ancient collegia. The curious case of Ignatius is the closest we come to the emergence of a more explicit theologizing of bread and cup as (e.g.) body and blood, mostly in the promiscuous application of what was originally a sapiential and metaphorical image in the context of communal life and celebration.

Bibliography Barnes, T. D. (2008), ‘The Date of Ignatius’, ExpTim 120: 119–30. Brent, A. (2007), Ignatius of Antioch: A Martyr Bishop and the Origin of Episcopacy, London: Continuum. Brox, N. (1991), Der Hirt des Hermas, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Göttingen.

74 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Downs, D. J. (2013), ‘Justification, Good Works, and Creation in Clement of Rome’s Appropriation of Romans 5–6,’ NTS 59: 415–32. Draper, J. A. (2000), ‘Ritual Process and Ritual Symbol in Didache 7–10’, VC 54: 121–58. Draper, J. A. (2008), ‘Pure Sacrifice in Didache 14 as Jewish Christian Exegesis’, Neot 42: 223–52. Draper, J. A. and C. N. Jefford, eds (2015), The Didache: A Missing Piece of the Puzzle in Early Christianity, Atlanta: SBL Press. Fisher, E. W. (1980), ‘“Let Us look upon the Blood-of-Christ” (1 Clement 7:4)’, VC 34: 218–36. Foster, P. (2007), ‘The Epistle to Diognetus’, ExpTim 118: 162–8. Grundeken, M. (2015), Community Building in the Shepherd of Hermas: A Critical Study of Some Key Aspects, Leiden: Brill. Heilmann, J. (2014), Wein und Blut: das Ende der Eucharistie im Johannesevangelium und dessen Konsequenzen, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Holmes, M. W., ed. (2007), The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations, 3rd edn, Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. Hübner, R. M. (1997), ‘Thesen zur Echtheit und Datierung der Sieben Briefe des Ignatius von Antiochen’, ZAC 1: 44–72. Kirk, A. N. (2013), ‘Ignatius’ Statements of Self-sacrifice: Intimations of an Atoning Death or Expressions of Exemplary Suffering?’, JTS 64: 66–88. Kraft, R. A. (1961), The Epistle of Barnabas: Its Quotations and Their Sources, Ph.D. diss., Cambridge, MA: Harvard University. Lindemann, A. and H. Paulsen, eds (1992), Die Apostolischen Väter, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. McGowan, A. B. (1999), ‘“Is There a Liturgical Text in This Gospel?”: The Institution Narratives and Their Early Interpretive Communities’, JBL 118: 73–87. McGowan, A. B. (2012), ‘Eucharist and Sacrifice: Cultic Tradition and Transformation in Early Christian Ritual Meals’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und Religiöse Identität im Frühen Christentum, 191–206, Tübingen: Francke. Moss, C. R. (2010). ‘On the Dating of Polycarp: Rethinking the Place of the Martyrdom of Polycarp in the History of Christianity’, Early Christianity 1: 539–74. Öhler, M. (2014), ‘Cultic Meals in Associations and the Early Christian Eucharist,’ Early Christianity 5: 475–502. Osiek, C. (1999), Shepherd of Hermas: A Commentary, Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Paget, J. C. (1994), The Epistle of Barnabas: Outlook and Background, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tuckett, C. (2012), 2 Clement: Introduction, Text, and Commentary, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

7

‘Prepare Yourself.’ Spatial Rhetoric in Rabbinic and Synoptic Meal Parables Eric Ottenheijm

Introduction As recent scholarship argues, early Jewish and early Christian meals constitute a variation of a widely diffused meal practice in Late Antiquity, the basic form of which is represented in the Greco-Roman model of the symposium (Smith 2003; Marks and Taussig 2014: 13–39). Specific biblical practices such as the dietary laws (Garnsey 1999), liturgical traditions such as special blessings before and after the meal (Heinemann 1977: 18, 115) and social ethics peculiar to Jewish culture (Van Loopik 1991) amalgamate with and articulate the broadly shared Greco-Roman forms. A similar articulation is argued for meals in Rabbinic culture, whose regulation of the meal reflects the ‘Jewish’ type while adding some refinements such as the Rabbis’ emphasis on Torah talk during the meal or the meal as a substitute for the sacrificial cult in the Temple (Marks and Taussig 2014: 28, 99). By expressing Rabbinic values in a multisensory context, common meals are constitutive of religious group formation (Marks and Taussig 2014: 28–30). This study seeks to flesh out a spatial approach to this Jewish meal, in order to assess the spatial dimension of meal practices and their presence as motifs in meal parables as expressive of religious group formation. In doing so we follow the view that space is not defined by its physical dimensions and features only, but by social and cultural values and practices as well (Lefebvre 1991). Physical space provides for the material setting of social and cultural mapping, and this mapping shapes and defines space as a dimension of meaning. In particular, legal mapping of space, as occurs in halakhic and ethical traditions, is informative of social experience. Following a similar approach as outlined in Klein (2012: 328), ‘architecture can be understood as a medium through which humans operate in the world and as a means through which they assign it meaning’. As such, space is a dimension of meaning, and it is here, as we will argue, where Rabbinic and Synoptic traditions elaborate similar motifs. In the following, we address regulatory and fictive texts, as well as material culture, and focus on the opening stage of the meal. We will start by analysing the social structure of the meal as marked by halakhic tradition (par. 1), to be followed by a discussion of the spatial context (par. 2) and proceed by assessing its space as a motif

76 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in parables (par. 3). Focusing on the connection between space and practice, we will argue how Rabbinic and Synoptic meal parables reflect spatial rhetoric of the opening of the meal as a critical space of group formation.1

1  Rabbinic meal etiquette While common meals are not limited to private rooms (houses, palaces, upper rooms), as the narratives of the group meals in the open field testify (Mk 6.32-44 et parr.), the intimate setting of meals in a private space allows for an elaborate etiquette of religious expression and social behaviour, as well as for the establishment of visibly sealed-off communities. This becomes visible in the Rabbinic etiquette of dining: How is the order of the meal? (A) The guests enter and sit on cushions and on chairs. Until everyone has entered,2 they bring water for their hands, and each one washes one hand. They fill the cup for them, each one says the blessing (over the cup) for himself. They bring in for them the appetizers; each one says the blessing (over the appetizer) for himself. (B) They come up and recline on the benches. They bring the water for them; even though he has washed one hand, he washes two hands. They mix the cup for them; even though he has said the blessing over the first (cup), he says the blessing over the second (cup). They bring in for them the appetizers; even though he has said the blessing over the first, he says the blessing over the second (appetizer). And one says the blessing for all of them. (C) One who comes after the three appetizers, he is not given permission to enter. (t. Berakhot 4:8 Ms. Vienna, ed. Lieberman, 20)3

The meal is structured around the presence of a host and his guests, a basic setting reflective of dining habits recorded in both the Gospels and in Rabbinic literature and one invested with social and religious sensitivities (Ottenheijm 2011). However, whereas this tradition in the Tosefta opens by questioning ‘how is the order of the meal (‫’)סדר סעודה‬, the text informs us only on its opening stage.4 It covers the reception (A) of the guests with appetizers and wine, and the start of the main course (B). This formal opening is signalled in and closed off by (C), a rule on the constitution of a sealed-off meal community. The rest of this second stage as well as the final stage, which includes the blessings to be said after the meal (Birkath Hamazon), are not mentioned here. While these parts of the meal are discussed elsewhere (m. Berakhot 7.1-5; t. Berakhot 4.19-21; 5.1-32), here the concern clearly is the halakhic order of a meal, with a particular stress on the delineation of a diners’ community.5 In delineating the opening stage, it tells us about the way a meal community is separated from the non-diners.6 Its

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rhetoric is buttressed in a report of Shimon ben Gamliel, an aristocratic, pre-70 CE Pharisaic teacher, about ‘a great custom’ in Jerusalem to hang a veil in front of the entrance as soon as the common meal was closed off for other guests (t. Berakhot 4.9). Clearly, meal etiquette is an instance of social mapping. The rhetoric is buttressed by details of ritual praxis. Guests are being offered a first cup (‫ )כוס‬of diluted wine and parparot (‫)פרפראות‬, salads or relishes.7 These are served either by slaves or by pupils who perform the slaves’ duties at the table but who, unlike slaves (m. Berakhot 7.2), actually also join the diners (t. Berakhot 5.10), an institution echoed in Lk. 22.26-27. The saying of blessings fulfills the ritual obligation (m. Berakhot 6.1) to say blessings over foods before partaking of them, and bread and wine take a prominent place as embodying the constituent parts of the meal. The core of this practice dates back to Second Temple times.8 However, the individual recitation indicates that the meal has not been marked off as a common meal yet. The same is applicable to the washing of one hand, when the servants offer water to enable the participant to sprinkle it over one of his hands. Washing one hand coheres with Roman habits (Lieberman 1955: 62). This changes when they ‘come up and recline’ (‫ ;)עלו והסבו‬now one is offered fresh water and both hands are washed, probably followed (as is custom today) by the individual saying a blessing over this act. While the purpose of the sprinkling of a hand was hygiene in the first act of sprinkling, it becomes cultic in the second instance.9 According to the Rabbis, ‘sprinkling of the hands’ (netilat yadayim) removes minor forms of ritual uncleanness, and prepares the diner to gain access to the common meal in a higher state of Levitical cleanness.10 It is followed by two instructions: while new appetizers are brought in and a second cup is mixed, one person utters the blessing of these foods for all of them. This blessing defines the assembled members as a meal community, which is buttressed by the final instruction that no one is permitted to join them after the third appetizer, indicating a moment right after the second blessing of the host.11

2  Spatial dimension: Material context and rhetoric Arguably, these traditions may continue pre-70 CE Pharisaic customs. Both the Mishnah and the Tosefta, in presenting diner regulations, also mention the initiation practices of the Pharisaic havurot, brotherhoods similar to the Greek thaisos and Roman corpus or collegium and subsisting of members who devoted themselves to cultic and social activities (Neusner 1960; Peli 1984; Smith 2003).12 More important for our purpose, however, is the spatial rhetoric. The meal presupposes a two-tiered spatial structure.13 In the first section, the guests enter a waiting room or vestibule.14 Here the guests are seated on individual cushions (‫)ספסלים‬ and chairs (‫)קתדראות‬. While the meal actually starts – the guests are offered wine and appetizers – no external or internal social distinctions are visible yet. This changes with the second stage of the meal, when all ‘come up’ (‫ )עלו‬to recline on dining couches. This room is different from the first one, and here a social division of the dining community from the outsiders is established. As notified, after the third appetizer no one is allowed to enter, and the group is established. In this stage, an internal hierarchy manifests

78 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals itself, since the mode of reclining expresses a social hierarchy among the diners. A halakha on the etiquette of reclining (t. Berakhot 5.5) presupposes either two or three couches (‫)מטות‬, and regulates the seat of the older or more esteemed guest (‫)גדול‬: He is to be located at the head of the first couch (‫)בראשה של ראשונה‬, with the second recliner ‘down of him’ (‫)למטה ממנו‬.15 Reclining on the left arm while reposing on a cushion, he stretches his feet behind. So the position ‘below him’ must be a seat on the couch enabling the higher located person to face him. Reclining on the couches like this reflects the spatial and social structure of a Greco-Roman triclinium. Tellingly, Hebrew ‫( טרקלין‬traqlin) is a Rabbinic loan-word of Latin triclinium to designate a dining room. The name refers to a room occupied by couches at three of its walls, lectus summus, medius and immus, but is used as well for smaller or larger dining rooms. The positions in such a triclinium reflect the social hierarchy within the group. In its Roman version, the host or the guest of honour is located either at the first position of the lectus medius or the first position of the lectus immus, both positions being at the joints of two couches. Since the Tosefta uses ‘middle bed’ and ‘downwards’, the highest in ranking is positioned where the lectus medius joins the lectus immus.16 The triclinium being separated from a vestibule area presupposes a two or multiple-tiered mansion. Archaeological finds testify to the existence of such rooms. These were found in aristocratic, priestly, mansions in the pre-70 CE upper town of Jerusalem (Hirschfeld 1995: 58–61, 96), but also in the physically different houses in the Galilee (Hirschfeld 1995: 68; Richardson 2004: 64–6, 77–8, 81; Hezser 2010: 423–5; Klein 2012: 364). The room designated as a triclinium could be connected to a smaller room that could serve as a vestibule; in other spaces, curtains provided a division (Hezser 2010: 434). o

2.1  ‘Go up’ Textual and material contexts may shed light on the curious spatial implications of the verb ‘come up’ (‫)עלו‬, to recline on dining couches. Some texts suggest it to have literal meaning. A Rabbinic narrative has the first-century CE Pharisaic Shammaites hampering the Hillelites violently to ascend (‫ )עלו‬the stair of the upper room where religious policy will be decided (y. Shabbat 1.4 (3c), Ms. Leiden 1.7). Such upper rooms could be used both for convening and for dining. A similar spatial movement occurs in Acts 1.13: ‘When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs (εἰς τὸ ὑπερῷον ἀνέβησαν) where they were staying.’ A similar reference to the upper room as a place for religious discussions as well as dining is offered in Acts 20.11, where the Greek equivalent ἀναβαίνω recurs as well: ‘Then Paul went upstairs (ἀναβὰς δὲ), and after he had broken bread and eaten, he continued to converse with them until dawn; then he left’ (Acts 20.11). Moreover, the Last Supper was, according to Luke, in an upper room (Lk. 22.11, καταλύμα), and the apostles assembled in an upper room as well when they choose a substitute disciple for Judas (Acts 1.13, ὑπερῷον). In those cases, the division between the vestibule and the proper dining hall could be literally vertical, and this is corroborated by both Rabbinic texts and by material evidence of two-level buildings (Hezser 2010: 430).17 Nonetheless, in other archaeological contexts, triclinium and the adjoining vestibules were on the same level and separated only by a doorway. In this instance, Semitic ‘come up’ (‫ )עלו‬is idiomatic use of ‘entering the

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triclinium’, and this is buttressed by its Greek equivalents.18 However, as such it points to a social transition, as establishing a social hierarchy that will become visible while reclining in the traqlin. We already discussed the manner of reclining, and the expression ‘to come up’ is reflected as well in an ethical tradition of occupying dining spaces: But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place (ἀνάπεσε εἰς τὸν ἔσχατον τόπον), so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’ (προσανάβηθι ἀνώτερον); then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled (ταπεινωθήσεται), and those who humble themselves will be exalted (ὑψωθήσεται). (Lk. 14.10-11)

The final saying (παραβολήν) added to the etiquette rule in Lk. 14.8-10 on reclining at a lower place makes this etiquette applicable to other contexts. This becomes clear from the different verbs used. A similar logic occurs in Jewish ethics regulating the manners of seating either at a meal or in a context of study (Derekh Eretz Zuta 6.3, Van Loopik 1991: 375). The crucial connection is how spatial imagery is pervasive both for the etiquette and the ethical message: ending up ‘higher’ happens when someone is humble enough to start at a ‘low’ level.19 These teachings inculcate a sense of modesty in the pupil or believer, paradoxically by awarding them with greater visible honour in the dining hall or academy.

3  Meal parables and spatial rhetoric The spatial division of the common meal provides a peculiar Bildfeld deployed in several meal parables. A Bildfeld is a combination of a linguistic and cultural repertoire of images known to and accessible for the audience, and its realization in a standing metaphor embodies aspects of these social and cultural meanings (Hezser 2008). In line with the foregoing, we focus on the vestibule: How is the Bildfeld of the vestibule realized in parables? Some parables exploit the spatial division of the common meal in two phases discussed above as the locus of a diners’ group formation. Being invited to a banquet and participating at its primary stage puts man in a tricky situation. The best-known example of this is a parable attributed to the second-century CE teacher R. Jacob:20 This world is like a vestibule (‫)לפרוזדור‬21 for the World to Come. Prepare yourself (‫ )התקן עצמך‬in22 the vestibule so you may go into the dining room (‫)ליטריקלין‬. (m. Avot 4:16, following ms.Kaufmann; Avot of Rabbi Nathan b, 33) o

Hebrew ‫פרוזדור‬, prozdor, is derived from Greek πρόθυρον, designating the porch or portico, the space situated before an entrance.23 The prozdor is the location before the triclinium, where, according to the order of the meal discussed above (t. Berakhot 4.8), the guests are provided with appetizers, wine, and where they already perform rituals

80 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals like saying blessings individually and sprinkling one hand.24 The World to Come is the destination of man, a state of redemption in a Messianic realm or after the revival of the dead.25 How man prepares himself during his life, the vestibule, decides his eschatological fate, regarding whether or not he will be able to enter the dining hall.26 R. Jacob’s parable tells of a division between this world and the World to Come, but the division is nuanced at the same time. His parable shows ‘this world’ as already partaking of eschatological reality, in comparing it with the initiatory stage of the banquet. This part of the Bildfeld of a meal is elaborated to inculcate the parable’s message: Only by correct preparation during the first stage of the meal are guests welcome to enter the second stage, which will take place in the triclinium. While man is partaking of the initial stage of the banquet, being in the vestibule, he must show whether he is worthy of being called up to the inner room and to partake of the main course. We have seen how, while being in the vestibule, a diner had to say a blessing for himself over appetizers and over the cup of wine, as well as sprinkle one hand. It is this ritual behaviour that may have offered the first association with ‘prepare yourself ’, ‫התקן עצמך‬, and the association of the vestibule with blessings is buttressed by their mutual presence in t. Berakhot 6.21. If this is the implied social praxis realized in the Bildfeld of the vestibule, it also concurs with the Rabbis’ theology of the blessing. Eating and enjoying of goods is partaking of sacred goods, and saying a blessing is an act of asking allowance of the owner of the food: A man may not enjoy anything until he has said a blessing, as it is said: ‘The earth is the LORD’s and all that is in it’ (Ps. 24:1) and who enjoys anything from this world without blessing is like one who commits sacrilege, until all commandments permit him to do so. (t. Berakhot 4.1)27

The Rabbis define the blessing as the commandment by which man asks permission to make use of sacred goods otherwise forbidden for consumption. Food is a precious commodity, and humans should not enjoy it without proper authorization. The danger inherent in partaking of food without proper preparation is deployed in a parable explaining why man, the goal of creation, nonetheless was created at the end: Another explanation (e.g. of the question as to why man was created the last): so that he could enter the meal immediately. They told a parable: to what does it resemble? To a king who built a palace and consecrated it and prepared a dinner and (only) afterwards invited the guests. (t. Sanhedrin 8.9, ed. Zuckermandel 428)

In their exegesis of the sequence of creation, the Rabbis compare the first five days to the acts of preparation for a meal: building a palace, consecrating it, and preparing a diner. The subsequent creation of man (Gen. 1.26) is likened to the act of invitation of the guests. The banquet itself thus refers to the creation of plants destined as food for man, which may be stimulated by the biblical stipulation: ‘God said, “See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food”’ (Gen. 1.29, NRSV). Crucial, however, is the dedication of the palace (‫)וחניכה‬.28 This notion alludes to the consecration of the o

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Sabbath, the ‘palace in time’ for man to enjoy three meals. Indeed, immediately ‫מיד‬ suggests how man, without further ado, could enter the Sabbath diner. However, entering may be read as a spatial rhetoric for the garden of Eden as a banquet hall, and the parable an apt imagery for man’s residing in the garden of Eden (Genesis 2–3). In reading the creation of man as a prelude to a meal, the Rabbis were keen on the crucial motif of the allowance and prohibition of eating food: ‘You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die’ (Gen. 2.16-17 NRSV). Read in this perspective, the parable carries an ironic, even bitter undertone, since every reader knows how something went wrong already during the initial stage of this banquet: incorrect behaviour would result in Adam and Eve being thrown out.

3.1  Blessing the king (or not) Whereas the parable of R. Jacob may have associated the vestibule with saying blessings simply by way of association, the focus on saying blessings as the correct preparation while being in the vestibule is an explicit spatial rhetoric informing a beautiful parable in the Amoraic midrash Genesis Rabba. The parable occurs in its exposition on the biblical phrase ‘And behold (‫)והנה‬, it was very good’ (Gen. 1.31). Perceiving the near homophonic Hebrew ‘very’ (‫ )מאד‬as hinting at ‘death’ (‫ )מות‬the Rabbis suppose the biblical text as hinting at extra meaning: Not only the creation itself was very good, but also ‘death’ is implicated in ‘very good’. The question is, of course, how can death be a good thing for humanly existence? To explain this, a series of expositions is brought forward that rather qualifies the fear of (eternal) death as precluding man from acting badly, and as warning him to act according to the Rabbinic ideal of ‘commandments and good acts’. Thus, death is framed as a part of creation informing man how to behave himself. In this context, the connection between ‘good’ and ‘death’ is buttressed by connecting the exposition to a textual peg, the alleged superfluous copulum ‘and’ in biblical ‫והנה‬, ‘and behold, it was very good’ (Gen. 1.31) as hinting at an extra meaning of the verse: Said R. Shmuel bar Rav Yitzhaq: ‘Behold (‫)הנה‬, it was very good’ (Gen 1:31): this is the angel of life. ‘And behold (‫)והנה‬, it was very good’: this is the angel of death.

However, the midrash is not satisfied in suggesting this meaning of death being a good part of creation, it merely wants to know why it can be called a good thing after all: ‘And can an angel of death be “very good?”’ To explain this, it provides a parable: But it may be likened to a king who organized a banquet and invited the guests. And he brought in before them a dish full of all goods. He said: everyone who eats and blesses the king may eat and enjoy, but everyone who eats and does not bless the king, let his head be cut off (‫ )יותז‬by the sword! Thus, everyone who accumulates (‫ )מסגל‬commandments and good deeds: behold, the angel of life. But everyone who does not accumulate commandments and good deeds: behold, the angel of death.’ (Gen. Rab. 9, ed. Theodor Albeck, 72–3)29

82 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The mashal tells about a royal meal: the meal is organized, the invited guests show up and are served a full dish. However, now the king informs his servants to watch how the guests behave. If they bless the king, which means honouring him publicly, they may go on enjoying the meal, but if not, they will be beheaded.30 In this story, the royal invitation of the guests turns out to be a litmus test for their loyalty towards the king himself, and everyone who fails this test will be killed. The nimshal, the application of this drastic and rather cruel image is related to human behaviour of this world: If man accumulates Torah knowledge, commandments and good deeds in this world, he will enjoy the blessings of the angel of life; if not, he will meet the angel of death. While the biblical idea of a blessed and prolonged life as a result of keeping the Tora speaks against premature death, the Rabbis present the imagery of both angels as pointing to the individual fate after death: either as enjoying eternal life or eternal death.31 The spatial rhetoric is clear in the two-tiered stage of the meal. The guests are showing themselves and are being served a dish with tasty foods. Now, every one of them separately utters a blessing, and the watchful servants are to find out whether or not they bless the king. This individual blessing coincides with the initiatory stage of the meal discussed above, where appetizers are served and everyone says a blessing individually. This stage is represented in the ‘dish full of all goods (‫’)תמחוי מלא כל טוב‬, while the main course is hinted at in the king’s utterance that those who bless the king ‘will eat and enjoy’ ( ‫)יאכל ויערב לו‬. Here, moreover, the figure of the king is ambiguous. While representing an earthly king, threatening to kill those who do not bless him, he also stands for God. God is named King in the regular opening formula of blessings, such as: ‘Blessed are You, JHWW our God, King of the World, Who issues forth bread from the earth’, and ‘Who creates the fruit of the vine’. While this opening formula was regulated in Talmudic times, the main content clause of the blessings over bread and wine are derived from Ps. 104.14, and also the association of the blessing with God’s kingship must have been older. Indeed, ‘fruit of the vine’ is associated with God’s kingship in Jesus’ statement that he will not taste from ‘the fruit of the vine’ before the kingdom of God has arrived (Lk. 22.18). The parable locates this behaviour in the spatial context of a meal in two stages, with the angel of life and the angel of death at the threshold between the vestibule and the triclinium. Like in the parable of R. Jacob, the vestibule is the decisive location to select the guests. The angel of death embodies the Rabbinic theology of trespassing the commandment of blessings over food (t. Berakhot 4.1), since those who do not utter a blessing are qualified as sacrilegious.32 The nimshal, the rhetorical application, equates their ritual behaviour with performing the classical triad of Rabbinic religiosity: Torah study, commandments and acts of benevolence. This is a parable which contains, in its spatial setting the religious imagery that will be deployed fully in the application.

3.2  Wearing proper garments (or not) The dire consequences of not being well prepared are spelled out, finally, in the much debated Matthean addition to the parable of the ‘Wedding Banquet’ (Mt. 22.11-14). The basic parable (Mt. 22.1-10; Lk. 14.15-24; Gos. Thom. 64) tells a man (so Luke) or king (Matthew) who organizes a wedding banquet for his son, and finishes his

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preparations by inviting the guests. These, however, do not to show up.33 While Luke elaborates on the excuses of these guests (Lk. 14.18-20), Matthew depicts their violent behaviour towards the kings’ slaves (Mt. 22.6) and shows an enraged king, destroying ‘their city’ and killing the invitees (Mt. 22.7). Here, as in the parable on the guests blessing the king, the king exercises power over life or death, and insulting the king comes with the most severe punishment. Matthew adds a narrative which features an additional crisis involving a violent decree of the king towards one of his guests who is not dressed properly: Then he said to his slaves, ‘The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.’ Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad so the wedding hall was filled with reclining guests. But when the king came in to see the reclining guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, and he said to him, ‘Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?’ And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, ‘Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ (Mt. 22.8-13, NRSV, slightly adapted)

While the former guests have proved ‘not worthy’ (ἄξιοι), the new guests, including ‘bad and good’ persons (πονηρούς τε καὶ ἀγαθούς), must be gathered from the ‘outgoing streets’, probably alluding to market places.34 Nonetheless, also these new invitees have to proof their character in the way they respond to the host’s invitation. While the king observes the reclining guests, he notices one without proper attire (ἔνδυμα γάμου). His reaction to the man wearing no proper attire is shocking but appears as realistic in light of similar Rabbinic stories of persons inflicting the royal honour by wearing improper attire.35 Scholars propose to read ‘wedding robe’ (ἔνδυμα γάμου) either as referring to clean attire, purity or as an allegory of proper religious behaviour (repentance, good deeds), but this discussion falls outside the limits of this study.36 However, the crisis remains shockingly unexpected, and for a parable to be rhetorically effective, the reader’s expectation should be that this originally uninvited guest should have had a moment of preparation.37 The man involved was picked right up from the streets, and since the slaves ‘gathered everyone they could find’ (συνήγαγον πάντας οὓς εὗρον, Mt. 22.10), these quickly gathered invitees did not have time to respond to the king’s calling.38 For the parable to uphold a certain degree of realism, the reader might expect the guest to have been able to change his clothing somewhere, and this ability is reflected in the insulted reaction of the king.39 Therefore, the critical moment must have occurred right before the guest’s entrance in the dining hall where the king perceived him as one of the reclining guests (τοὺς ἀνακειμένους, Mt. 22.11). We surmise this critical moment to have ensued in the vestibule, and in line with the spatial meaning of the vestibule as a critical space of final preparation before the diners’ group formation.40 While the parable does not explicitly refer to a two-tiered space, the verb used for the king’s entrance (εἰσελθὼν) denotes entering the triclinium, as we saw earlier, and the same verb is repeated in his address to the guest: ‘Friend, how did you

84 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals get in here (πῶς εἰσῆλθες ὧδε) without a wedding robe’?41 So either just before the doors or in the vestibule, immediately before entering the hall, the guest should have changed his attire. His failure to do so costs him dearly as soon as he reclines in the dining hall: Now the king behaves like the one in the Rabbinic parable discussed above, punishing his lack of correct preparatory behaviour with (eternal) death. Matthew’s two-stage parable of the meal follows a spatial logic: While the first crisis shows the consequences of rejection of the initial invitation, the second crisis evolves while already being in the vestibule, just before entering the diner’s hall, and can be understood in light of the admonition of R. Jacob to ‘prepare yourself ’ (‫ ;התקן עצמך‬m. Avot 4.17) there.42 In its rhetorical application, however, the first part of the parable discusses the crisis evolving out of the Jewish leaders’ rejection of the Messianic call, while the second parable tells a lacking attitude while being part of a Matthew’s corpus permixtum.43

4 Conclusion Since common meals are structured by a socially and ritually inscribed spatial transition, it is in the coinciding of space and practice that a meal community establishes itself as a visible and regulated social entity. The transition from an amorphous society towards a well-established meal community takes place in the reception room. Its occupiers who are about to enter the dining room have a foretaste of its pleasures while yet being seated informally and behaving like individuals. Their behaviour during this stage is decisive, however, in both Rabbinic and synoptic parables, for their admission to the dining room. Rabbinic parables associate the vestibule with performing religious cultic actions such as saying blessings, the Matthean parable however stresses the final preparation of taking on a proper dress. In both cases, insufficient preparation results in insulting the host and in the guest’s drastic removal from the diner’s community. The reception room is a space of possibility and of tension, even danger. It is the intermediate character of this space that offers possibilities for the religious mind to fathom individuals as situated on the edge of new social belongings, as being on the verge of partaking at a collective destination. It is here, in the vestibule, that members must be proved worthy by their preparation, allowing them to take their proper place in the hierarchy of a new diners’ community.

Notes 1 Spatial approach has gradually gained momentum among scholars of Rabbinic culture, Klein (2012: 326, note 5). 2 The correct reading is offered in MS Erfurt: Lieberman (1955: 62). 3 The Tosefta is the twin sister of the Mishna, the last being the first collection of (mostly) legal traditions and discussions of Rabbinic Judaism, and edited about 210 CE. The Tosefta contains alternative opinions and traditions not recorded in the Mishnah, but follows the structure of the Mishna and thus appears to present a comment on it. Whereas the editing of the Tosefta may indeed have taken place in the

‘Prepare Yourself ’

4 5

6 7 8

9 10

11 12 13 14 15

85

course of the third century CE, so Goldberg (1987: 293–5), which suggest the Tosefta to be, indeed, the ‘Companion to the Mishnah’, scholars like Shamma Friedman and Judith Hauptman argue that in some cases it contains older strands of the halakhic tradition as well, thus predating the ones edited in the Mishna. The adverb ‘how’ is a regular opening to explain the systematics or details of a practice in Mishna (264 appearances) and Tosefta (374 appearances). The baraita in b. Berakhot 53a reads ‘order of seating’ (‫)סדר הסבה‬. Lieberman (1955: 62): ‘This halakha [“halakha” denotes an individual tradition of the Tosefta, auth.] tells of the customs of the meal in old times and among the distinct members of the people, and it includes here some details that do not result from conclusions of halakha, since their source is from local habits and not from halakha, and in general the order is parallel the customs of the Romans on their meals and also of the Greeks in a later age.’ Describing custom and etiquette, the regulations of saying blessings and sprinkling water are, however, clearly a matter of halakha; compare Safrai (1987: 121); Klein (2012: 335–6), following Seth Schwartz’s critique of Lieberman. Unfortunately, Smith (2003: 145) mistranslates these lines as being the stage of the desserts and subsequently fails in his analysis (146) of the text. The minor variations in the baraitot (y. Berakhot 6.6 (10d); b. Berakhot 53a) attest to its ubiquitous character. The parallel in the Yerushalmi a.l. explicates ‘wine’; ‫( פרפראות‬Yerushalmi a.l. reads ‫ )פרפרת‬are ‘nibblings that they bring before the meal to accompany the food’, Lieberman (1955: 62). Jesus’s way of saying the blessing over the bread and the fish reflects the Semitic background of saying a blessing over the food before partaking of it: Lk. 9.16: ‘Taking the five loafs of bread and the two fish, he raised his eyes to heaven, blessed them (εὺλόγησεν αὐτοὺς), and broke and gave to his disciples to distribute to the people’. Western texts (D, it, sy(s)c, and MarcionE offer ‘said the blessing over them’ (ἐπ αὐτοὺς), which is flawed Greek but reflects Mishnaic Hebrew ‫ברך על‬. Some witnesses (codex Sinaiticus, syp) leave object αὐτοὺς out, following the parallel in Mark and Matthew, they also miss ‘and broke’. Since the object ‘bread’ is meant (Lk. 22.19), this may be seen as a Greek equivalent of Hebrew and Aramaic ‫ פרס‬meaning both ‘breaking’ and ‘blessing over’ the bread, which would make ‘breaking’ redundant from a Semitic point of view; compare Jastrow (1903: 1232). Lieberman (1955: 62): ‘it was only because of hygiene, since the cup was held in one hand, and the appetizers were eaten with one hand’. Sanders (1992: 223–4) argues that, while being mentioned in Arist. Ex. 305–306; Sib. Or. 3.591-593, washing of hands appears as a contested purity practice between the Pharisees and Jesus (Mk 7.1-15). Details were debated between the Pharisaic Houses of Hillel and Shammai (m. Berakhot 8.2, 4; t. Berakhot 5.25-28, Sanders (1992: 437–8). Lieberman (1955: 20) refers to y. Berakhot 6.6 (10d): ‘in order not to embarrass the host’. Note how the disputes between the Houses of Hillel and Shammai (m. Berakhot 8.1-8) do not touch upon the basic structure of the meal as such. Actually, we should differentiate four stages of a meal: preparing, inviting, reception and reclining. Lieberman in his critical edition of the Tosefta text comments: ‘The waiting room’ (Lieberman 1955: 20). Lieberman (1955: 75–6) compares the text with Greek reclining postures. Compare Klein (2012: 335).

86 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 16 This would coalesce with the locus consularis mentioned in Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 1.3; Smith (2003: 17) mentions other possibilities of locating guests of honour in Roman culture. Van Loopik (1991: 276) notices that Hebrew reclining is also used metaphorically if no couches were available. Compare also Klein (2012: 333). 17 Remains of staircases found at the synagogues of Capernaum, Chorazin, Khirbet Shema‘, Khirbet Susiya, ‘En-Gedi and Meroth suggest the presence of a gallery or an upper room, but their function remains unclear (unpublished paper by my PhD student Jonathan Pater, Conference on Synagogue Architecture, February 2012, Leiden University). The Stobi inscription (CIJ I, 694) mentions an upper room (ὑπερώιον) in a synagogue, used for private gatherings (Hengel 1966). 18 Mt. 22.11-12 (εἰσελθὼν and εἰσῆλθες) is rendered in Syriac versions (Curetonian and Sinaiticus) with forms of ‫ܐܠ‬, ‘go up’, Hebrew ‫עלה‬. 19 Rabbinic tradition locates a similar paradoxical ethics in a saying of Hillel: ‘My humiliation is my elevation, and my elevation is my humiliation’ (Lev. Rab. 1.5; compare Urbach 1979: 591). 20 Stemberger (2011: 94); Bacher (1890: 395–7). Ms. Kaufmann reads R. Akiva, probably due to a similar apocalyptic saying on the eschatological meal his name in m. Avot 3.18. t. Berakhot 6.21 offers the parable as a halakhic reason for ending a closing benediction formula with ‘forever and ever’ (lit.: from world to world’): ‘They made known that this world is to the world to come as a vestibule before the triclinium’ (‫)כפרוצדר בפני טרקלין‬. 21 Ms. Münich 95 (Talmud) reads ‫בפרוזדור‬. 22 Ms. Kaufmann and Ms. Parma have ‫לפרוזדור‬, but Babylonian versions (Ms. Munich 95) read ‫בפרוזדור‬, ‘in the vestibule’. The spatial structure of the parable is a differentiation between a vestibule and the triclinium and comparing this to ‘this world and ‘the world to come’, so the reading ‘in the vestibule’ is the only one that makes sense; otherwise an additional space, that is, the room before ‘this world’, would have been implied in the application. The reading ‘for the vestibule’ may, however, have been influenced by parables about preparation before the start of the meal. 23 The word occurs in different morphology: ‫פרוסדור ;פרוזדוד‬, ‫פרוצדור‬. Krauss (1910: 362, n. 642) quotes Vitruvius 6.10: ‘prothyra graece dicuntur quae sunt ante januas vestibula (…)’. Compare Liddell-Scott, (1973: 1480). Krupp (2003: 44) mentions, albeit without sources, the less obvious πρόσοδος, ‘approach’. 24 Krauss (1910: 49): ‘Die Juden stellten sich unter dem Triklinium, das in jedem besseren römischen Hause als Speisesaal vorhanden war, etwas besonderes Stattliches vor, nannten dessen Vorraum ‫ פרוזדור‬und liessen es den Mittelpunkt des Hauses sein.’ 25 Urbach (1979: 649–53) discusses the relation between terms for redemption. 26 The parable of R. Jacob occurs anonymously in Midrash Mishle 6.6 (ed. Buber), in a series of sayings on eschatological preparation: ‫‘ אם אין אדם מתקן עצמו בפרוזדור היאך יכנס לטרקלין‬if man does not prepare himself in the vestibule, how can he enter the triclinium?’ On the variant readings of the manuscripts: Visotzky (2002: 46). It also occurs in Pesiqta Zutra (Leqah Tob) Bereshit, on Gen. 1.1. 27 On the correct reading, see Lieberman (1955: 56). Meant are all the food-related commandments, of which the blessing is the final one before consummation. 28 Building a palace is a regular metaphor for acts of creation in Genesis Rabbah. 29 Theodor and Albeck’s edition follows Ms. British Museum 27169; Ms. Vatican 60 reads ‘Thus, everyone who accumulates (‫ )מסגל‬commandments and good deeds: behold, the angel of death’ and omits part of the nimshal, most probably due to a copyist overlook (homoioteleuton?). The parasha is absent in Ms. Vatican 30, but this

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30 31 32 33 34

35

36

37 38 39

40 41 42

87

important manuscript misses parts of the beginning, end and of the main bulk of Gen. Rab., see Lerner 2006: 161, 163–4, 173; Stemberger 2011: 311. The parable is presented fully in the Geniza Ms. 5, nr. 22, which is, as Sokoloff (1982: 55, 99–100) shows, related to both Ms. Vatican 30 and Ms. Vatican 60. Compare Ziegler (1903: 183). Compare Mt. 13.41. Angels embodying divine judgement is an imagery present as well in Mt. 25.31 (Ottenheijm 2013). Lev. 5.15-16; the punishment is ‘death by divine decree’ in m. Keritot 1.2. Young (1989: 171–86) argues Rabbinic parallels for the eschatological banquet and the motif of last-minute guests. Richardson (2004: 60) notes that whereas large cities (Sepphoris and Tiberias) contain internal market places (forum or agora), locations like Khirbet Qana, Yodphata, Gamla, Capernaum and Chorazin do not show public market facilities inside town. The market was located, following the functions of the Iron Age ‘gate’, at the town’s entrance where the roads entered town. Is looking at the market place at the edge of town the meaning of the Matthean expression πορεύεσθε οὖν ἐπὶ τὰς διεξόδους τῶν ὁδῶν (Mt. 22.9)? Schottroff (2007: 483) contrasts the behaviour of the king with God’s mercy, but her proposal of the parable as an ‘antitethisches Gleichniss’ is unconvincing. Moreover, violence of kings at meals as teaching God’s judgements is a well-known motif in Rabbinic parables (Ziegler 1903). Jeremias (1962: 187–9) understands it as a clean garment, and argues it as a metaphor for eschatological repentance based on Isa. 61.10; Luz (1997: 245) as obedience to the Father’s will. Young (1989: 173) quotes Irenaeus who interprets the wedding garment as righteousness and the ensuing gift of the spirit at the banquet of His son. Note that wearing white linen garments before entering dinner was a habit of the Essenes as mentioned by Josephus (B.J. 2.129; Hezser (2010: 376)), emulating Temple holiness. Repentance is the intended meaning of Matthew according to Keener (2009: 522). Compare discussion in Snodgrass (2008: 321). Snodgrass (2008: 307) notices the parallel with the motif of preparation in the parable of the ‘ten maidens’ (Mt. 25.1-13), but these virgins were awaiting the expected groom. Note that the Rabbinic parallels mentioned above and discussed in Jeremias (1962: 187) contain the motif of invitation long before the meal took place. Jeremias (1962: 186) translates πῶς εἰσῆλθες ὧδε as ‘with what right did you come in’, without motivation. Keener (2009: 522) translates more literally ‘how did you get in’ and argues that the man slipped the attention of porters (Seneca, Ep. 19.11) at the door. Keener (2009: 522, n. 190) concludes that the story’s morale breaks with the narrative bounds, but this would make the parable rhetorically weak. We already noted how Syriac versions use the Semitic technical term for entering the triclinium. The Rabbinic parable of the guests with unclean attire, symbolizing repentance (b. Shabbat 153a; Qohelet Rabba 9.8; Semạhot of Rabbi Chija 2.1), combines the motif of preparation (‫ )תקן‬with proper attire, but locates the preparation immediately after the initial invitation and outside the precincts of the dining hall. The parable about the king distributing clothes (b. Shabbat 152b) as mentioned in Keener (2009: 522) is not connected to the setting of a common meal. So, we still lack pressing evidence, despite pagan examples in Keener (2009: 522 n.189).

88 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 43 Luz (1997: 234–5) observed rightly that the two parables present a typically Matthean combination of a ‘heilsgeschichtlicher’ and a ‘paränetischer’ rhetoric, but presupposes the first parable to reject Israel’s prerogative in salvation history. Rhetorical unity of Mt. 22.1-13 is also proposed in Snodgrass 2008: 320–1, but as a social-religious conflict within Israel: the parables tell a crisis involving ‘the refusal of the religious leaders, the gathering of the kingdom, and the separation that takes place at judgment’ (Snodgrass 2008: 321; compare Luz 1997: 244). A two-tiered crisis is present as well in the eschatological discourse of the Son of Man (Mt. 25.31-46), where the final judgement is precipitated by the individual’s behaviour during his life.

Bibliography Bacher, W. (1890), Die Agada der Tannaiten. Zweiter Band. Von Akiba’s Tod biss zum Abschluss der Mischna, Strassburg: Trübner. Garnsey, P. (1999), Food and Society in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goldberg, A. (1987), ‘The Tosefta. Companion to the Mishna’, in S. Safrai (ed.), The Literature of the Sages. First Part: Oral Tora, Halakha, Mishna, Tosefta, Talmud, External Tractates, 283–302, Assen: Van Gorcum /Fortress. Heineman, J. (1977), Prayer in the Talmud, Berlin: De Gruyter. Hengel, M. (1966), ‘Die Synagogeninschrift von Stobi’, ZNW 57: 45–83. Hezser, C. (2008), ‘Rabbinische Gleichnisse und ihre Vergleichbarkeit mit Neutestamentlichen Gleichnisse’, in R. Zimmermann and G. Kern (eds), Hermeneutik der Gleichnisse Jesu: Methodische Neuansätze zum Verstehen urchristlicher Parabeltexte, 217–37, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hezser, C., ed. (2010), The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hirschfeld, Y. (1995), The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Period, Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press. Jastrow, M. (1903), A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature, New York: Traditional Press. Jeremias, J. (1962), Die Gleichnisse Jesu, 6. Auflage, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Keener, C. R. (2009), The Gospel of Matthew. A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Kline, G. P. (2012), ‘Torah in Triclinia: The Rabbinic Banquet and the Significance of Architecture’, JQR 102/3: 325–70. Krauss, S. (1910), Talmudische Archäologie. Band I, Leipzig: Fock. Krupp, M. und Frank Ueberschaer (Übers.), Die Mischna: Avot. Väter, Lee Achim: Jerusalem, 2003. Lefebvre, H. (1991), The Production of Space, Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Lerner, M. B. (2006), ‘The Works of Aggadic Midrash and the Esther Midrashim’, in: S. Safrai, Z. Safrai, J. Schwartz and P. J. Tomson (eds), The Literature of the Sages: II. Midrash and Targum. Liturgy, Poetry, Mysticism, Contracts, Inscriptions, Ancient Science and the Languages of Rabbinic Literature, 133–229, Assen: Van Gorcum. Levine, L. I., ed. (1981), Ancient Synagogues Revealed, Jerusalem: Magness. Liddell, H. G. and R. Scott (1973), Greek–English Lexikon. New Edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Lieberman, S. (1955), Tosephta Ki-fshutah, A Comprehensive Commentary on the Tosephta I: Berakhot-Terumot, New York: Jewish Theological Seminary. Loopik, M. van, ed. (1991), The Ways of the Sages and the Way of the World. The Minor Tractates of the Babylonian Talmud: Derekh ‘Eretz Rabbah, Rerekh ‘Eretz Zuta, Pereq ha-Shalom, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Luz, U. (1997), Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (Mt 18-25). EKK 1/3, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Benzinger/Neukirchner. Marks, S. and H. E. Taussig (2014), Meals in Early Judaism. Social Formation at the Table. Ed. by-, New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Neusner, J. (1960), ‘The Fellowship in the Second Jewish Commonwealth’, HTR 53: 125–42. Ottenheijm, E. (2011), ‘The Shared Meal – a Therapeutical Device. The Function and Meaning of Hos.6:6 in Matt 9:10-13’, NovT 53: 1–21. Ottenheijm, E. (2013), ‘Die Werke der Barmherzigkeit (Mat 25:31-46) als Öffentlichkeitsethik’, in E. Koller, M. Rosenberger and A. Schwanther (eds), Werke der Barmherzigkeit. Mittel zur Gewissensberuhigung oder Motor zur Strukturveränderung?, 34–52, Linz: Katholisch-Theologische Universität. Peli, P. (1984), ‘The Havurot that were in Jerusalem’, HUCA 55: 55–74. Richardson, P. (2004), Building Jewish in the Roman East, Waco Texas: Baylor University Press. Safrai, S. (1987), ‘Halakha’, in: S. Safrai (ed.), The Literature of the Sages. First Part: Oral Tora, Halakha, Mishna, Tosefta, Talmud, External Tractates, 121–209, Assen: Van Gorcum /Fortress. Sanders, E. P. (1992), Judaism: Practice and Belief. 63 BCE- 66 CE, London: SCM Press. Schottroff, L. (2007), ‘Verheißung für alle Völker (Von der Königlichen Hochzeit) – Mt 22,1-14’, in: R. Zimmermann, D. Dormeyer, G. Kern, A. Merz, C. Münch and E. E. Popkes (eds), Kompendium Der Gleichnisse Jesu, 479–487, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Sherry, A. P. (1972), Midrash Bereshit Rabba: Codex Vatican 60. (Ms.Vat.Ebr.60.), Jerusalem: Jerusalem University Press. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist. The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Snodgrass, K. R. (2008), Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Sokoloff, M. (1971), Midrash Bereshit Rabba: Ms. Vat. Ebr. 30, Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press. Sokoloff, M. (1982), The Geniza Fragments of Bereshit Rabba, Jerusalem: Ben Zvi. Stemberger, G. (2011), Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch, 9th edn, München: Beck. Urbach, E. E. (1979), The Sages. Their Concepts and Belief (ET: I. Abrahams), Jerusalem: Magness. Visotzky, B. L. (2002), Midrash Mishle. A Critical Edition based on Vatican MS.Ebr. 44, New York and Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary. Young, B. H. (1989), Jesus and His Jewish Parables: Rediscovering the Roots of Jesus’ Teaching, New York: Paulist Press. Young, B. H. (2000), The Parables. Jewish Tradition and Christian Interpretations, Peabody: Hendrickson. Ziegler, I. (1903), Die Königsgleichnisse Des Midrasch. Beleuchtet durch die Römerische Kaiserzeit, Breslau: Schottländer.

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8

The Gospel of Mark – The Commitment of the ‘Unleavened’ to the Kingdom of God Agenda of Jesus Martin Ebner

Introduction The Markan account of the Last Supper (Mk 14.22-25) is characterized by two paradoxes: (1) The interpretation of the cup is spoken after all have drunk from it: ‘Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, and all of them drank from it [sc. the cup]. He said to them, ‘This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many’ (Mk 14.23-24). This raises the question what is actually being interpreted: the cup or the drinking out of the cup. (2) The second paradox concerns the moment at which the meal takes place. The Markan narrative frame emphasizes very precisely that Jesus’s last meal was prepared for the evening of the Passover meal (cf. Mk 14.12-14). The account of the meal in Mk 14.22-25, however, contains none of the characteristics of such a meal, even to the extent of describing the consumption of normal bread (Mk 14.22), which goes against any notion of a feast of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’ (cf. Mk 14.1, 12). As a number of indications exist that suggest that Mark himself is responsible for these inconsistencies in the text, the question as to their significance should be raised. In other words, by means of these paradoxes, Mark has opened up a path for leading the reader to discovering his interpretation of the Last Supper of Jesus (cf. Ebner 2004, 2008).

1  The Meal of the Feast of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’ and the ‘Leaven’ 1.1  The narrative setting Systematically, the Markan narrative indicates τὸ πάσχα καὶ τὰ ἄζυμα/‘Passover and the Unleavened (bread)’ as the moment of the Last Supper. In Mk 14.1 the feast is

94 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals announced (‘after two days’) by means of this bipartite reference to it, which is unusual in early Jewish literature.1 According to Mk 14.12-16, the appropriate preparations for the Passover meal were made on the first day of the feast; on the evening of that day (cf. Mk 14.17), Jesus and his disciples go to a prearranged place, upon which the description of the meal itself follows from Mk 14.18 onwards: The participants in the meal recline and eat. In terms of content, emphasis on the ‘unleavened (bread)’ can be observed. Whereas Mk 14.1 refers to a combination of feasts and mentions the Passover first, in Mk 14.12, the same feast is referred to as that of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’ only (τὰ ἄζυμα) and a note on the ‘butchering of the Passover’ in the sense of a characteristic ritual that is part of the feast is added by means of clarification: ὅτε τὸ πάσχα ἔθυον.2 In a similar manner, in the context of the preparations of the meal on the first day of the ἄζυμα, the reference to ‘eating the Passover’ (v. 12: ἵνα φάγῃς τὸ πάσχα; v. 14: τὸ πάσχα … φάγω) is almost idiomatic. Therefore, it is all the more striking that the next references to the meal do mention eating (Mk 14.17.22), but not the Passover. This idiom, which has just been used twice, is not continued. The Passover does not seem to play any role whatsoever during the meal. As both Mk 14.17 and 14.22 use a present participle (ἐσθιόντων), one cannot solve the issue with the argument that the narration concerns events that took place after the meal. For this argument to be valid, an aorist participle would be required.3 Furthermore, the expectations that have been raised by the narrative so far are contradicted by, on the one hand, the focus on the ‘unleavened (bread)’ (τὰ ἄζυμα) as the name of the feast on the occasion of which the meal is held, and, on the other hand, the eating of normal (i.e. leavened) bread according to Mk 14.22, where explicit reference is being made to ἄρτος that is broken and distributed.4 If one takes into account that the dating of the last meal on the ‘Seder evening’ (as it was later called)5 is neither tradition-historically (cf. 1 Cor. 11.23, Jn 18.28) nor historically certain (cf. 3. ‘The Historical Date of Jesus’ Last Meal’ below), while the focus on calling the feast that of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’ derives completely from the Markan narrative setting,6 then it seems that one can find a key to unlocking the typically Markan understanding of the last meal of Jesus precisely in the discrepancy between the names and dates that are mentioned and the narration of the ritual course of the meal.

1.2  The ‘leaven’ as a semantic contrast and a symbol for the counter-group of the ‘Pharisees and Herodians’ For readers, the connection of the last meal of the group of Jesus’s followers with the festal designation ‘unleavened (bread)’ becomes particularly relevant as soon as they remember that the contrasting concept to ‘unleavened’, that is, ζύμη/leaven, is connected to a group from which Jesus’s followers should keep their distance. This symbolic concept is introduced towards the end of the part of Mark’s gospel concerned with Jesus’s ministry in Galilee. Jesus separates two groups from each another. Leaving the Pharisees behind him (Mk 8.11-13) Jesus sails to the other side of the sea – taking with him his own disciples. On the way to Jerusalem (8.27–10.52) he then will begin

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to expound the agenda of his own group. Precisely in this situation Jesus warns his disciples ‘Watch out – beware of the leaven [ζύμη] of the Pharisees and the leaven [idem] of Herod’ (Mk 8.15). When reading this verse in isolation, then its meaning remains obscure. As soon as it is positioned within the overarching semantic web of the Gospel, however, the concepts ‘leaven’ and the ‘unleavened’ designate two groups, whose different religious and social values are narrated by means of recounting their understandings and celebrations of meals (Smith 2003: 242). Some examples will serve to illustrate this. To begin with the Pharisees: the reproach of the scribes of the Pharisees in Mk 2.16 concerning Jesus’s eating with publicans and sinners, reveals their fixation on the religious status of people: One does not eat together with sinners (such as publicans). By contrast, Jesus considers a meal a therapeutic means (cf. Mk 2.17) that initiates a process of following Jesus and that incorporates both publicans and disciples of Jesus. This is indicated by the remark in Mk 2.15 (‘for there were many who followed him’), as it refers to these two groups just mentioned. In the debate about purity and impurity (Mk 7.1-23) again the religious praxis is at stake in the context of a meal. The Pharisees, together with some scribes who have come from Jerusalem, observe an aberration from the ‘tradition of the elders’ in the behaviour of Jesus’s disciples: They do not wash their hands before eating. Jesus launches a counterattack, he downgrades the ‘tradition of the elders’ to the level of ‘human tradition’ with prophetic authority. Such human traditions fall short of the actual commandment of God (as recorded in the Decalogue), as Jesus illustrates by means of the example of the Corban (vv. 6–13). Through his subsequent positive argument, Jesus emphasizes the ethical interpretation of the purity laws as their actual meaning: ‘There is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile’ (v. 15) such as evil intentions, fornication, theft etc. (cf. vv. 21–22). Jesus himself explains this to his disciples (cf. vv. 17–23) by commenting on his own statement in v. 15. The fact that social self-interest hides behind the religious rigorism of the Pharisees and their scribes, because of which they use religious authority in order to further their own position in society, is expressed without any reserve in the warning about the scribes in Mk 12.38-40, which refers back to the ‘beware of ’ in Mk 8.15: Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats (πρωτο-καθεδρίαι) in the synagogues and places of honour (πρωτο-κλισίαι) at banquets! They devour (κατ-εσθίοντες) widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers.

This state of affairs has already been presented narratively in Mk 3.1-6. Pharisees and Herodians conspire (as in Mk 12.13). Initially they only want to observe whether Jesus also heals on the Sabbath, in order to be able to indict him (v. 2). But eventually they decide to destroy him (v. 6). This change of their intention must have to do with Jesus’s activities going beyond mere healings (v. 5) and discussions (v. 4): He allowed an ill person to become the centre of attention (v. 3), thus placing him symbolically in that central position that the Pharisees and Herodians eagerly claim for themselves.

96 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Who the Herodians are, according to the Gospel of Mark, becomes clear for the reader through the narration of Herod’s birthday banquet (Mk 6.21-29; for an historical analysis, cf. Krieger 1991; Taylor 2000). There, Herod reclines with his ‘great ones’ (μεγιστᾶνες), the chiliarchs and the ‘first ones of Galilee’. In the context of the Gospel of Mark, this banquet constitutes a contrast with the banquet of Jesus, as it is narrated immediately after (Mk 6.30-44; cf. Focant 2001; Smit 2009). The contrast pertains to the guest, the hosts, the foodstuffs and the service. Both meals are presented as symposia: In both cases the guests recline (vv. 22, 26 and 39) – in the case of Jesus ‘on the green grass’ (likely an allusion to Psalm 23). Herod eats with his ‘great ones’ only. Jesus, however, whose meal has started out in the same way (vv. 30–32), opens it up for nameless ‘little ones’: for the ‘many’ who are ‘like sheep without a shepherd’ (vv. 33–34). At Jesus’s meal, the fare is simple: bread and fish, poor people’s food. At Herod’s meal, in the end the head of John the Baptist is passed around on a meat dish (πίναξ, v. 28) – against Herod’s wishes, to be sure (v. 26). Herod is, however, forced to follow through on the wish of his daughter, given that he has made a promise to her under oath, made in front of his table fellowship of courtiers and followers. He has to give the order to produce the head of the Baptist. By contrast, Jesus remains in charge vis-à-vis of his ‘great ones’. In fact, he orders them to serve food to the people (v. 41: καὶ ἐδίδου τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ, ἵνα παρατιθ ῶσιν αὐτοῖς),7 and makes them fulfil the role of servants/διάκονοι. In the context of the story of Herod’s birthday, the latter is referred to as ‘king’ multiple times (vv. 14, 22, 25, 26 and 27). This happens to Jesus only when he enters into the last stage of his journey and gives his own body (Mk 15.2, 9, 12, 18, 26 and 32). Two kings are thus contrasted – and with them two kingdoms with rather different characteristics. The first king wagers half of his kingdom and is rendered helpless, when the climax of his festive birthday banquet is the serving of a human head; the other is the protagonist of a totally different kingdom and gives himself for his people. This is the way in which the kingdom of God comes.

1.3  The counter-agenda and the danger of contamination Mark contrasts the two different understandings of royal rule in the teaching of the disciples in 10.42-45: 42 So Jesus called them and said to them, ‘You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers (ἄρχειν) lord it (κατα-κυριεύουσιν) over them, and their great ones (μεγάλοι) are tyrants (κατ-ἐξουσιάζουσιν) over them. 43 But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great (μέγας) among you must be your servant (διάκονος), 44 and whoever wishes to be first (πρῶτος) among you must be slave of all. 45 For the Son of Man came not to be served (διακονηθῆναι) but to serve (διακονῆσαι), and to give his life a ransom for many.’

While the way of the diakonos is embodied and lived by Jesus, the counter-agenda is presented and elucidated by means of the presentation of the Herodians and the

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Pharisees and their scribes.8 In this manner, two religiously connoted understandings of rule are contrasted. On the one side, strict religious boundaries between sinners and righteous are in force, on the other side the option exists to open up these boundaries by means of initiating a religious process by the name of Nachfolge (‘following Jesus’) that is comparable to a therapeutic occurrence. The patterns of behaviour that invoke the authority of tradition, in particular the ‘tradition of the elders’, are contrasted with ethical criteria that seek to uncover the original intention of the divine commandments. A hierarchy of power is contrasted with a hierarchy of service. In short: the rule of Herod is contrasted with the rule of God, or, in the words of the Gospel of Mark: the ‘leavened’ is contrasted with the ‘unleavened’, the latter being the group that celebrates on the feast of the ‘unleavened (bread)’ its farewell meal with its ‘king’ Jesus. ‘Leavened’ (impure) Religious boundaries between ‘sinners’ and ‘righteous’ Cultic criteria in accordance with the ‘tradition of the elders’ Hierarchy of power Kingdom of Herod

‘Unleavened’ (pure) A religious process (= healing = Nachfolge) is initiated for sinners Ethical criteria with the intention to do the will of God Hierarchy of service Kingdom of God

The evaluation of both kinds of rule in the Gospel of Mark is obvious: Precisely those who claim cultic purity are labelled with the term ‘leaven’, which is a source of impurity par excellence to Jewish ears.9 Those, however, who transgress religious group boundaries and cultic purity laws in the worst ways possible in the eyes of the Pharisees are referred to by means of the term ‘unleavened’, alluding to the ‘pure’ bread, as it is consumed at the feast of Passover.10 The narrator of the gospel thus provides the key ethical category of the group of Jesus’s followers with the most outstanding Jewish mark of excellence. According to the warning of Mk 8.15 (cf. Mk 12.38), the followers of Jesus should beware of being infected with the ‘leaven of the Pharisees and the leaven of the Herodians’, that is, with their principles of rule and power. Precisely here, however, a large temptation can be found, as for instance the episode in Mk 10.35-40 shows, which precedes the teaching of the disciples in Mk 10.42-45. In this narration of a quasiaudience with Jesus (cf. Eckstein 1996), both Zebedaides come to Jesus and ask him: ‘Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.’ (Mk 10.37) With this request, they ogle the top spot in the conventional hierarchy of power, as it is common on the ‘leaven’ side of things. Jesus intentionally misunderstands the two, using the perspective of the rules of his own understanding of power. Simultaneously, he corrects them. Therefore, he asks them in return: ‘Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?’ (Mk 10.38). With the reference to the ‘cup’, Jesus is indicating his own road of suffering (cf. Mk 14.36), which has been mentioned as the way of service in the teaching of the disciples in Mk

98 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 10.45. From the point of view of the rule of God, this is the way for all who would like to be ‘first’. The two Zebedaides, who proudly answer ‘yes, we can!’ to Jesus’s question, are told by him, in a yet mysterious manner, ‘The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized.’ (Mk 10.39) In other words ‘go ahead with your wishes!’ The account of the Last Supper does not just take the two Zebedaides at their word, when it is said ‘all of them drank from it [sc. from the cup]’ (Mk 14.23). In the context of the overarching semantic web of the gospel, this statement is anything but an innocent description of what happens during the meal. That this statement is, coincidentally, positioned prior to the interpretative remark ‘this is my blood of the covenant’ (Mk 14.24), gives it a particular depth and pungency, which will be explored further in relation to the second paradox.

2  The interpretative statement after drinking out of the cup (Mk 14.23-34) 2.1  The narrative anecdote and interpretative statement in Mk 14.23-24 deciphered The narrative anecdote ‘all of them drank from it’ in Mk 14.23 disrupts the structure of the narration of the meal in Mk 14.22-25, which is otherwise characterized by its parallel composition: Καὶ ἐσθιόντων αὐτῶν λαβὼν ἄρτον εὐλογήσας ἔκλασεν καὶ ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς 22

καὶ εἶπεν, Λάβετε, τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ σῶμά μου.

καὶ λαβὼν ποτήριον εὐχαριστήσας 23

ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς, καὶ ἔπιον ἐξ αὐτοῦ πάντες. 24 καὶ εἶπεν αὐτοῖς, Τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ αἷμά μου τῆς διαθήκης τὸ ἐκχυννόμενον ὑπὲρ πολλῶν.

The descriptions of the rites with the bread (Mk 14.22) and the cup (Mk 14.23-24) are syntactically analogous. After the sequence of two participles (λαβών – εὐλογήσας11) and the main verb ἔδωκεν12 an interpretative statement follows, which is introduced by καὶ εἶπεν. On both sides we find the formula τοῦτό ἐστιν. Only the exhortation λάβετε is missing in the case of the rite with the cup. This exhortation would make no sense either. According to Mk 14.23, the disciples have already drunk from the cup: καὶ ἔπιον ἐξ αὐτοῦ πάντες. This narrative anecdote has been inserted into the rite about the cup prior to the introduction leading into the interpretative statement about the cup. Matthew, as one of the first readers of the Gospel of Mark, has removed this annoying unevenness. He has changed the narrative anecdote into an exhortation

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and has positioned it – in analogy to the description of the ritual about the bread – in a place immediately preceding the interpretative statement: πίετε ἐξ αὐτοῦ πάντες (Mt. 26–27). Luke, on the other hand, who remains faithful to the Pauline paradosis in 1 Cor. 11.23-25, uses only the phrase τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν ἐκχυννόμενον from the Markan narrative (Mk 14.2313) and adds it to the Pauline statement about the cup, removing the Pauline exhortation concerning the ‘anamnesis’. Thus, Luke creates a nearly perfect parallel in terms of length between the statements about the bread and the cup, compared with the inequality between the two statements in Mark.14 However, the oddity of interpreting an already consumed liquid retrospectively, which was already apparent to the first readers of the Gospel of Mark, receives a deeper meaning as soon as the text is analysed (1) narratively, (2) tradition-historically and (3) ritually. At the Last Supper, all the disciples do what the two Zebedaides have claimed to be willing to do: They drink the cup that Jesus is destined to drink (cf. Mk 10.3839). Jesus ‘drinks’ the cup by giving his life as part of his ‘diaconal’ service (cf. Mk 10.45). As the last stage of this journey commences, he pleads with God not to have to drink this ‘cup’: ‘Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want’ (Mk 14.36). Drinking this cup, which becomes a harsh reality for Jesus following the Last Supper, becomes a gesture of self-commitment because of the subsequent interpretative statement ‘this is my blood of the covenant’. This is suggested by tradition-historical observations. The Markan statement about the cup alludes to a striking formula from the ritual of the establishment of the covenant on the Sinai: ‘Behold, the blood of the covenant (ἰδοὺ τὸ αἷμα τῆς διαθήκης)’ (Exod. 24.8). With these words, Moses interprets the ritual sprinkling of the people with one half of the blood of the sacrificial animal, having poured out the other half over the sacrificial altar. By means of this sprinkling with one part of the sacrificial blood, the Israelites are bound to the promise that they made following the reading of the book of the covenant, the ‘contract’ between YHWH and his people: ‘All that the Lord has spoken we will do, and we will be obedient’ (Exod. 24.7). In analogy to this, the Zebedaides promise, with regard to the cup: ‘yes, we can’ (Mk 10.39). In the upper room, no actual blood is sprinkled or poured out, but wine is being drunk. However, the allegorical formula of identification τοῦτό ἐστιν expresses the deeper sense of this event: it seals the covenant.15 Just like the Israelites were sprinkled with blood on the Sinai, in the upper room, all of Jesus’ disciples, who have drunk from the cup and were, in accordance with its allegorical interpretation, sprinkled with the blood of the ‘sacrificial animal’ Jesus, are bound to their prior promise: To drink the cup like Jesus, that is, to go the way of the diakonos on which Jesus precedes his followers in the Gospel of Mark and of which he has outlined the agenda in Mk 10.42-45. The narrative anecdote ‘all of them drank from it’ in Mk 14.23, which has not been retained by either Matthew or Luke, is, therefore, by no means an instance of sloppy editing on the part of Mark. Rather, he has positioned it intentionally prior to the interpretative statement ‘this is my blood of the covenant’ that refers to Exod. 24.8 in order to raise the event of the Last Supper to the level of a formal commitment to a

100 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals covenant, which has as its content the way of the diakonos of Jesus, which culminates in ‘drinking the cup’.

2.2  ‘All drink’ and ‘all’ fail The Markan narrative continues the notion in Mk 14.23 that ‘all’ (πάντες) drank from the cup in a highly dramatic fashion: in Mk 14.27, en route to the Mount of Olives, Jesus tells his disciplines: ‘You will all become deserters (σκανδαλισθήσεσθε) .’ Peter rejects this immediately, stating: ‘Even though all become deserters, I will not’ (Mk 14.29). Even when Jesus foretells him that he will deny him that very night, Peter protests that he is even willing to die together with Jesus (συναποθανεῖν σοι), which is commented upon by the narrator as follows: ‘All of them said the same’ (Mk 14.31). All the occurrences of ‘all’ refer very precisely to the ‘Twelve’ in the narrative immediately following the account of the Last Supper. This is ensured by Mk 14.1, according to which Jesus comes to the meal ‘with the Twelve’. Therefore, the ‘Twelve’ all drink out of the cup and thereby commit themselves to the way of the diakonos of Jesus. The ‘Twelve’ all indicate their willingness to die with Jesus – and when Jesus is arrested in Gethsemane, eventually ‘all of them deserted him and fled’16 (Mk 14.50). This means the behaviour of the ‘Twelve’ negatively mirrors what is expected from all who drink out of the cup in the context of the Last Supper: following Jesus. ‘Drinking out of the cup’ becomes, therefore, in the narrative and semantic world of the Gospel of Mark equivalent to ‘committing oneself to following Jesus in his diakonos existence’. The fact that precisely the ‘Twelve’ all fail is for Mark scandalous, but also in accordance with the Scriptures, that is, part of the divine plan (cf. Zech. 13.7 in Mk 14.27-28) – and anything but irreversible. The Easter message of the Gospel of Mark accordingly consists of giving the disciples, pre-eminently Peter, a second chance: Jesus precedes them once more to Galilee (cf. Mk 16.7).17 Seeing the failing Twelve, the more it is astonishing: In the narrative world of the gospel a whole range of characters exists who, so to speak, intuitively and from the start enact the agenda of Jesus. This series of characters starts with Peter’s mother-inlaw, who is the first to be said to engage in διακονεῖν (Mk 1.31), and ends with Joseph of Arimathea, who, as a preeminent councillor (εὐσχήμων βουλευτής), does not only request Jesus’s corpse, but does also not refrain from engaging in his burial himself (cf. Mk 15.42-46).18 In particular, however, the readers of the gospel, who can affiliate themselves at any given moment with the table fellowship of Jesus and thus commit themselves to his agenda, are in view. They may be indicated with the πολλοί/‘many’ over (!) whom the covenantal blood of Jesus has been poured out (τὸ ἐκχυννόμενον ὑπὲρ πολλῶν),19 according to the interpretative statement accompanying the cup. If the ‘all’ who have drunk from the cup according to Mk 14.23 are identified with the ‘Twelve,’ then the ‘many’ represent for the reader the various unidentified figures in the narrative world of Mark who allow themselves to be attracted to the table fellowship of Jesus (cf., e.g. Mk 2.15 or 6.13, see par. 1.2). The narrator seems to hope that there will also be ‘many’ among his readership, who, attracted by his narrative, commit themselves to the way of discipleship, following Jesus, thereby engaging the

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agenda of the ‘unleavened’ and ‘drinking out of the cup’ in this particular sense at their communal meal.

3  The historical date of Jesus’s last meal For a variety of reasons, it is historically speaking unlikely that Jesus’s last meal with his disciples took place on the evening of the very day on which the lambs were butchered for the Passover evening in the Temple, as the detailed indication in the Gospel of Mark suggests (Mk 14.12).20 First, the crucifixion would have had to take place on the following day, a feast day, an unimaginable affront. This concern is apparent in the Markan text when the high priests and scribes pressure for speed (Mk 14.1-2): The execution of Jesus should not take place ‘during the festival’ in order to prevent ‘a riot among the people’. (Mk 14.1-2) Second, the amnesty,21 which, according to the Markan chronology, was only given on the feast day itself, would have come too late. Releasing a prisoner would only make sense if the pardoned detainee could eat the Passover on the evening of the same day, thereby celebrating his own personal Exodus (cf. Theißen and Merz 2011: 152). Third, also within the Markan narrative order serious inconsistencies can be observed. Even though the author is at pains to emphasize that his characters observe the Sabbath (cf. Mk 16.1), he has Simon of Cyrene come from his field on the day following Passover evening, in other words: on a feast day (Mk 15.21). Also, Joseph of Arimathea would have bought linen cloth for the burial of Jesus under the same circumstances (Mk 15.46). Precisely such impressions are carefully avoided in both Mt. 27.59 and Lk. 23.53 in the context of the same chronology.22 The Gospel of John indeed witnesses to a different chronology: The trial before Pilate takes place on the day of preparation of the Passover. Those who bring Jesus from Caiaphas to the headquarters of Pilate do not enter ‘so as to avoid ritual defilement and to be able to eat the Passover’ (Jn 18.28). The day of preparation of the Passover (παρασκευὴ τοῦ πάσχα) is mentioned explicitly as the day of the trial in Jn 19.14; the execution and burial of Jesus also take place on the same day (Jn 19.31, 42). Jn 19.31 does not just offer the additional indication that the next day was a Sabbath, but also characterizes this Sabbath as a particularly ‘great day’ (ἦν γὰρ μεγάλη ἡ ἡμέρα ἐκείνου τοῦ σαββάτου), that is to say: as the start of the week of the Passover festival. In the Gospel of John, this is also the reason why the bodies of the crucified are to be taken down from the crosses as quickly as possible, before the eating of the Passover begins in the evening. Therefore, Jesus’s last meal must have taken place on one of the days before this day of preparation of the great feast, on the evening of which the Passover was eaten. According to the narrative of the Last Supper (cf. Jn 13.1), the moment of the meal remains undetermined: ‘before the festival of the Passover’. Consequently, it was no Passover meal.23 Therefore, when assuming a chronology different from the Markan one, the trial in front of Pilate, the subsequent crucifixion and the removal of the corpse can be made plausible in the context of Jewish festival customs.

102 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Chronology Passover week24 14th of Nisan: Day of Preparation

According to Mark (Synoptics) ‘First day of the Unleavened (Bread)’ (Mk 14.12)25

(from noon onwards) Slaughter of the animals in the Temple (in the evening) Passover meal 15th of Nisan: Passover Feast (feast of seven days of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’)

According to John Trial before Pilate Passover amnesty(sixth hour) Crucifixion of Jesus

Jesus’s Last Supper Proceedings at the Sanhedrin Trial before Pilate (Passover amnesty) Crucifixion of Jesus

In addition, in the Gospel of John, the trial and the crucifixion on the day of preparation of the Passover correspond to the symbolism of this feast (Felsch 2011: 258–61; Menken 2004: 284–5): Jesus’s condemnation takes place ‘about noon’ (sixth hour) of the day of preparation (Jn 19.14), his execution happens not much later. This is precisely the timespan during which the lambs for the Passover evening are butchered in the Temple.26 Moreover, according to Jn 19.29, the soldiers stick a sponge filled with vinegar on a hyssop reed in order to wet Jesus’s mouth. The reeds of this plant, covered with flower buds as they are, are, however, entirely unsuitable for such a purpose. This narrative detail, which is not to be found in the synoptic Gospels and has been added by the author, makes sense, however, when it is connected with the prescription found in Exod. 12.22, according to which the Israelites should paint their door posts with the blood of the Passover lambs by means of hyssop reeds. Finally, when according to Jn 19.32-36 only Jesus’s bones should not be broken, and when this narrative anecdote is supported by means of a Scriptural quotation (Jn 19.36), then again an association with the Passover feast should be provoked: ‘You shall not break any of its bones [sc. of the Passover lamb]’ (Exod. 12.46, cf. Exod. 12.10LXX, Num. 9.12, Jub. 48.14). In sum, according to the Gospel of John, Jesus dies as the true Passover lamb. In doing so he makes the announcement of the Baptist (Jn 1.29) come true, which on large creates a Christological arch, spanning the entire gospel. In the chronology of the Gospel of Mark, the day on which the Passover is being eaten plays a central role (Mk 14.12, 14), but this aspect of the narrative is neither narratively nor theologically used. Only the Gospel of Luke fills out this ‘gap’ in the Markan narrative (cf. Lk. 22.15; see Wolter 2008: 698–701). In the Gospel of Mark, the Passover is only of interest in relation to the ‘unleavened (bread)’ and the ‘leaven’ respectively as symbolic characterizations of groups of people associated with it. On the other hand, it is treacherous that also according to the Gospel of Mark the death of Jesus takes place on a ‘day of preparation’. In the introduction to the burial narrative, which takes place towards the end of the day of the crucifixion, it is said: ‘When

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evening had come, and since it was a day of Preparation (παρασκευή), that is, the day before the Sabbath (προσάββατον)’ (Mk 15.42). According to the text itself, this only concerns a ‘day of preparation’ preceding the upcoming Sabbath (cf. Mk 16.1). However, according to the Markan chronology, this ‘day of preparation’ would be the day after the evening of Passover, that is, the ‘great day’ of the festival week. A reference to the main day of the Passover in terms of a ‘day of preparation’ for a Sabbath is highly unlikely. The statement makes perfect sense, however, when it is received without the surrounding Markan chronology – then it agrees well with the Johannine account: The day on which Jesus died was the day of preparation preceding the Passover festival, which in this year took place on a Sabbath.27 In other words, at the moment at which the people in Jerusalem were eating the Passover, Jesus had already died. The Pauline account of the lord’s supper support this historical analysis also when it comes to its theological significance. According to the paradosis of the lord’s supper in 1 Cor. 11.23-25, the last meal of Jesus is not associated with the Passover meal, but with the ‘the night when he was betrayed’, while Jesus’s death is associated theologically with the butchering of the Passover lamb (cf. 1 Cor. 5.7) – this constitutes a perfect analogy to the Johannine chronology and Christology. As far as historical questions are concerned, the latter is therefore supported by the oldest available tradition. Historically speaking, the following sequence of events can be reconstructed. In the context of a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Jesus celebrates a final meal, in the same night he is ‘handed over’, that is, captured and detained (see van Cangh 1996, 1999 for the historical reconstruction). On the day of preparation of the Passover, he is condemned to death by Pilate,28 with the crucifixion taking place on the same day (more or less at the same time as the butchering of the lambs in the Temple). Prior to the setting of the sun, which marks the actual beginning of the feast with the Passover evening and the eating of the Passover meal, he is taken down from the cross and buried.

4 Conclusion Mark, the evangelist, uses associations to do with the ‘Passover’, the Feast of the ‘U/ nleavened (bread)’ and cleansing observances, which are firmly established in Judaism, to distinguish the behaviour and aims of two groups from one another. This culminates in the narrative of the Last Supper in Mk 14.22-26 – with its obviously deliberate inconsistencies: In spite of it being announced as Passover meal at the feast of the Unleavened (bread), normal bread is consumed; wine is imbibed from the cup before the interpretative statement is pronounced. These inconsistencies direct the attentive reader to the symbolic universe, which is gradually developed in the gospel narrative. Two kingdoms face each other. Herod`s kingdom is on the one side. It is represented by the Pharisees and the Herodians, whose ‘leaven’ should be avoided by the followers of Jesus. On the other side there is the kingdom of God, defined and made visible through Jesus himself. He celebrates the feast of the ‘Unleavened (bread)’ with all those who want to follow in his footsteps. Drinking out of the cup at the meal they commit themselves (cf. Exod. 24.8) to God’s rule as set out by Jesus in his behaviour and teachings: the diakonos way.

104 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Although there seem to be only slight differences in vocabulary between the synoptic narratives of the Last Supper, a very special sense is created by making them a part of the whole gospel story they are linked with. Reading the narrative of Jesus’s Last Supper in this manner, in the Gospel of Mark it reveals the essence of what being a follower of Jesus really means.

Notes 1 Both appellations are common, but for τὰ ἄζυμα the idiomatic combination with ἑορτή is typical. When the two designations of the feasts are not mentioned individually (cf. Jn 13.1; Josephus, Ant. 2.313; 2.224), but indeed in combination with each other, then they are – at least in the case of Josephus – treated as synonyms: ‘Passover’ is the Jewish term for the ‘Feast of the Unleavened (bread)’ (cf. Josephus, J.W. 2.10; Ant. 14.21; 18.29); see Colautti 2002: 146; Siggelkow-Berner 2011: 181. 2 This is an iterative imperfect. The interrelationship is precisely the reverse of the one in Philo, Spec. 2.145-150, who considers the feast of the ἄζυμα as an appendix of the Passover feast, and in Josephus, who indicates that the custom of eating unleavened bread is typical for Passover (Ant. 17.213; 20.106). The sequence of events and their connection with particular days is witnessed to by Ant. 3.248-251 (analogous to Philo, Spec. 2.145-150): On the 14th of Nissan the same sacrificial animal is butchered as was the case on the occasion of the exodus from Egypt, which is called Passover. On the 15th of Nissan, the feast of the Unleavened (bread), lasting seven days, begins. Cf. Colautti 2002: 144–52; Siggelkow-Berner 2011: 164–8. 3 This differs from Lk. 22.15, where in particular the eating of the Passover has been developed into a narrative segment of its own. 4 As such, ἄρτος has a broad range of meanings, but when ‘unleavened breaàd’ is in view in the LXX, then this is clearly indicated: ἄρτος ἄζυμος or ἄζυμα; cf. King 2007: 214–5. 5 On the historical evaluation of the Passover Haggadah, see, e.g. Stemberger 1990; Leonhard 2003b; for considerations about the shape of the feast in the first century CE, see Leonhard 2003a; Marcus 2013. 6 On the narration in Mk 14.12-16, cf. the analogy in Mk 11.1-6. 7 The same wording occurs in the second narrative of a large feeding, cf. Mk 8.6. 8 Cf. only the designations of the guests at Herod’s banquet (Mk 6.21), where terms occur that also appear in 10.42-44: μεγιστᾶνες/μεγάλοι; πρῶτοι τῆς Γαλιλαίας/πρῶτος. 9 Therefore, it is prohibited in the laws governing the sacrificial cult, see Exod. 23.18; Lev. 2.11; on the proverbial danger of contagion, see 1 Cor. 5.6; Gal. 5.9. 10 According to Jewish perceptions, one would even have to say that it is being consumed by the pure. Cf. the emphasis on the purity of the participants in the feast in Josephus, Bell. 6.425-426.; Philo, Spec. Leg. 2.148. 11 In the interpretative statement about the cup, the Jewish ‘eulogy’/‘praise’ is replaced with its Hellenistic counterpart: ‘eucharist’/‘thanksgiving’. 12 ‘Breaking’ (ἔκλασεν) cannot be said in relation to the cup. 13 In a slight variation on the Markan τὸ ἐκχυννόμενον ὑπὲρ πολλῶν. 14 15 : 14 words in Lk. 22.19-20 vis-à-vis 5 : 11 words (5 : 37 words respectively, if V. 25 is included) in Mk 14.22-24/25.

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15 On the provenance and function of the formula, see Lanzinger 2016: 185–93. 16 The linking of the distinct parts of the narrative by means of the key word πάντες is an indication for Markan redaction. The author, who without a doubt edited the passion narrative, likely also inserted the narrative of the Last Supper (Mk 14.22-25) into it, as is indicated by the repetition of καὶ ἐσθιόντων (Mk 14.18) in Mk 14.22 (such repetition is a literary critical indication of redaction). The author’s familiarity with the Pauline paradosis from 1 Cor. 11.23-25 is harder to prove (but see Theobald 2013). An indication for such familiarity could be found in the circumstance that, whereas Mark does not speak of a ‘new covenant’ in terms of Jeremiah 31 in his interpretation of the cup, but refers to the making of the covenant in Exodus 24, he may have inserted the notion of newness (καινός) into the logion about Jesus’s temporal abstinence from wine in Mk 14.25, where it is – strictly speaking – out of place. The term καινός does not emphasize any temporal aspect (as it is necessary in Mt. 14.25), but has a qualitative meaning. It refers to something that has not been there before, something that was not common so far, and therefore to a substantial change in the current state of affairs. In relation to the Markan storyline, the newness here likely refers to the new order of God’s rule, which was already being put into practice by groups of followers of Jesus in the context of the Imperium Romanum. 17 On probable analogies in relation to the contemporary persecution of Christians under emperor Nero and Christians who, like Peter in the night of the betrayal, have become weak in this context, see Ebner 1999. 18 Reference is made to wrapping in linen cloth, as well as to positioning the stone into the door opening of the grave. The absence of the ‘Twelve’ at this stage of the narrative must have struck the reader, especially as the burial of John by his disciples had been narrated already (Mk 6.29), even with the use of identical formulations as are employed for the activities of Joseph of Arimathea in Mk 15.46: καὶ ἔθηκαν/ἔθηκεν αὐτὸ/αὐτὸν ἐν μνημείῳ. On further minor characters in the Gospel of Mark that are presented as exhibiting exemplary behaviour, see Ebner 2000. 19 The preposition ὑπέρ with a genitive has first of all a spatial meaning ‘over’ and only secondarily a figurative meaning in terms of ‘for – for the protection of, for the benefit of ’ – cf. Passow [1857] 2008: 2066: ‘Mit dem Gen. bezeichnet ὑπέρ in räumlicher Beziehung das Verhältnis der Ueberragung, sowohl in verticaler als horizontaler Richtung.’ Given the tradition-historical relationship with Exod. 24.8, the spatial meaning is the more obvious one. This coheres with the observation that the idea of representation or substitution is expressed with ἀντί and not with ὑπέρ in the key logion about the ‘ransom’ in Mk 14.25. 20 To call this day the ‘first day of the Unleavened (bread)’ is, historically speaking, simply wrong, because, according to Philo, Spec. Leg. 2.145-150 (in agreement with Josephus Ant. 3.248-251), this indicates the day after the evening on which the Passover is eaten (cf. note 3). 21 Pes 8.6 every so often provides the basis for assuming a ‘custom’ of a special Passover amnesty (cf. Mt. 27.15: εἰώθει; Jn 18.39: συνήθεια). It is a fact, however, that according to Roman law, as it was in force in first century CE, both a collective amnesty prior to the verdict (abolitio) or following it (indulgentia) and an individual amnesty (venia) were common, but without a clear association with particular moments in time. Pagan festivals often provided the occasion for an amnesty, however. They could take place by popular request (cf. PFlor 61/85 CE), or be pressured for by political groups (cf. Josephus, Ant. 20.208–210/63 CE). According to Waldstein (1964) 41–2, a specialist in Roman law, the ‘Vielgestaltigkeit von Formen, in denen ­Begnadigungen …

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22 23

24 25 26 27 28

faktisch vorgekommen sind’ makes the amnesty of Barabbas historically certainly plausible. For an evaluation of the sources, see, e.g. Brown 1994: 814–20; Luz 2002: 273; Zumstein 2016: 701. Matthew removes the problematic association of the work in the field also for Simon of Cyrene, cf. Mt. 27.32. Attempts to save the Passover character of Jesus’s last meal by means of an argument based on the Essene solar calendar, according to which the evening of Passover would always be on a Tuesday (Jaubert 1957) fail due to the fact that the Jesuanic tradition does not show any interest whatsoever in calendrical questions, whereas Jesus himself apparently joined in celebrating the feasts in the Temple (thus following the calendar of the Jerusalem Temple). The latter is hard to harmonize with the Dead Sea scrolls. For an evaluation of various attempts at harmonization, see King 2007: 201–8. Cf. note 2. Cf. note 19. Cf. Philo, Spec. Leg. 2.145 (‘from noon until the beginning of the night’); Josephus, Bell. 4.423 (‘from the ninth until the eleventh hour’). Historically speaking, this constellation, with the day of rest, the 14th of Nissan, falling on Friday, occurred in the years 30 and 37. Cf. Theißen and Merz 2011: 154. Commonly, the governor of Syria or the prefect of Judea reside in the royal palace of Herod when they travel to Jerusalem from Syria or Caesarea, as they do especially on the occasions of festivals. There, they also conducted trials. See Josephus, Bell. 2.280 (Cestius); 2.301 (Florus).

Bibliography Brown, R. E. (1994), Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave II, New York: Doubleday. Colautti, F. M. (2002), Passover in the Works of Josephus, Leiden: Brill. Ebner, M. (1999), ‘Du hast eine zweite Chance! Das Markusevangelium als Hoffnungsgeschichte’, in O. Fuchs and M. Widl (eds), Ein Haus der Hoffnung, 31–40, Düsseldorf: Patmos. Ebner, M. (2000), ‘Im Schatten der Großen: Kleine Erzählfiguren im Markusevangelium’, BZ 44: 56–76. Ebner, M. (2004), ‘Die Etablierung einer “anderen” Tafelrunde: Der “Einsetzungsbericht” in Mk 14,22-24 mit Markus gegen den Strich gelesen’, in M. Ebner and B. Heininger (eds), Paradigmen auf dem Prüfstand: Exegese wider den Strich, 17–45, Münster: Aschendorff. Ebner, M. (2008), ‘“Hütet euch vor dem Sauerteig der Pharisäer …!” Die Profilierung jesuanischer Tischgemeinschaft im narrativen und semantischen Konzept des Markusevangeliums’, in A. A. Alexeev, C. Karakolis and U. Luz (eds), Einheit der Kirche im Neuen Testament, 147–68, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Eckstein, H.-J. (1996), ‘Markus 10,46-52 als Schlüsseltext des Markusevangeliums’, ZNW 87: 33–50. Felsch, D. (2011), Die Feste im Johannesevangelium: Jüdische Tradition und christologische Deutung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Focant, C. (2001), ‘La tête du prophète sur un plat, ou, L’antirepas d’alliance (Mc 6.14-29)’, NTS 47: 334–53.

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Jaubert, A. (1957), La date de la Cène: Calendrier biblique et liturgie chrétienne, Paris: Librairie Lecoffre. King, F. J. (2007), More Than a Passover: Inculturation in the Supper Narratives of the New Testament, Frankfurt: Lang. Krieger, K.-S. (1991), ‘Die Herodianer im Markusevangelium - Ein neuer Versuch ihrer Identifizierung’, BN 59: 49–56. Lanzinger, D. (2016), Ein “unerträgliches philologisches Possenspiel”? Paulinische Schriftverwendung im Kontext antiker Allegorese, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Leonhard, C. (2003a), ‘Die Erzählung Ex 12 als Festlegende für das Pesachfest am Jerusalemer Tempel’, JBTh 18: 233–60. Leonhard, C. (2003b), ‘Die älteste Haggada: Übersetzung der Pesachhaggada nach dem palästinischen Ritus und Vorschläge zu ihrem Ursprung und ihrer Bedeutung für die Geschichte der christlichen Liturgie’, ALW 45: 201–31. Luz, U. (2002), Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd. 4: Mt 26–28, Düsseldorf: Benziger/ Neukirchener. Marcus, J. (2013), ‘Passover and Last Supper Revisited’, NTS 59 (3): 303–24. Menken, M. J. J. (2004), ‘Die jüdischen Feste im Johannesevangelium’, in M. Labahn, K. Scholtissek and A. Strotmann (eds), Israel und seine Heilstraditionen im Johannesevangelium, 269–86, Paderborn: Schöningh. Passow, P. ([1857] 2008), Handwörterbuch der griechischen Sprache, Bd. II/2, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Siggelkow-Berner, B. (2011), Die jüdischen Feste im Bellum Judaicum des Flavius Josephus, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Smit, P.-B. (2009), ‘Eine neutestamentliche Geburtstagsfeier und die Charakterisierung des “Königs” Herodes Antipas (Mk 6,21–29)’, BZ 53: 29–46. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist. The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress. Stemberger, G. (1990), ‘Pesachhaggada und Abendmahlsberichte im Neuen Testament’, in G. Stemberger (ed), Studien zum rabbinischen Judentum, 357–74, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Taylor, N. H. (2000), ‘Herodians and Pharisees: The Historical and Political Context of Mark 3:6; 8:15; 12:13-17’, Neot 34: 299–310. Theißen, G. and A. Merz (2011), Der historische Jesus: Ein Lehrbuch, 4th edn, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Theobald, M. (2013), ‘Vom Sinai über den Berg der Verklärung zum Abendmahlssaal: Zur kontextuellen Einbindung des markinischen Becherworts (Mk 14,24)’, in F. Bruckmann and R. Dausner (eds), Im Angesicht der Anderen: Gespräche zwischen christlicher Theologie und jüdischem Denken, 463–94, Paderborn: Schöningh. van Cangh, J.-M. (1996), ‘Peut-on reconstituer le texte primitif de la Cène?: (1 Cor. 11, 23-26 par. Mc 14, 22-16)’, in R. Bieringer (ed), The Corinthian Correspondence, 623–37, Leuven: University Press. van Cangh, J.-M. (1999), ‘Evolution in the Tradition of the Last Supper: (Mk 14, 22–26 and par.)’, in B. Kollmann, W. Reinbold and A. Steudel (eds), Antikes Judentum und Frühes Christentum, 364–88, Berlin: de Gruyter. Waldstein, W. (1964), Untersuchungen zum römischen Begnadigungsrecht. Abolitio – Indulgentia – Venia, Innsbruck: Wagner. Wolter, M. (2008), Das Lukasevangelium, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Zumstein, J. (2016), Das Johannesevangelium, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

9

Meals in the Gospel of Luke Matthias Klinghardt

Introduction and overview The Gospel of Luke contains more sympotic scenes than any other Gospel: Repeatedly, the narrator portraits Jesus, the main character, as a participant in a formal meal, or rather in a banquet (symposium), making him the centre of the typical table talk.1 Besides those scenes in a sympotic setting and other narratives about ‘eating’,2 sympotic imagery also appears in the characters’ discourses, most notably in Jesus’s teachings, both within and outside of a sympotic setting.3 The achievements of the social history and ritual studies approaches to early Christian meals of the past twenty years can best be demonstrated with the banquet scenes where the narrator places Jesus in a sympotic setting and has him talk to his hosts or to his fellow guests (see Klinghardt 1996; McGowan (1999b; Smith 1987, 2003; Taussig 2009)).

1  Meal, symposium and table talk Although formal meals in Greco-Roman antiquity were twofold events, that is, an actual meal (deipnon; cena) followed by a drinking party (symposion; commissatio), the first part is rarely mentioned at all (Klinghardt 2012a: 10–12). In Luke, too, the act of eating is mentioned only insofar as it is necessary for the plot. As an example, the feeding story (9.10-17) is interested in the disciples’ learning about their ability to feed the crowds they have previously attracted by their mission (9.1-6, 10-11). Since the story develops the widely used metaphor of ‘foodstuff/eating’ for ‘knowledge/incorporating knowledge, learning’, it centres on the ‘foodstuff ’ (i.e. teaching) they have to offer and on its sufficiency to ‘satisfy’ (i.e. to teach) the crowd (Klinghardt 2002).4 This explains the disciples’ role whose commission is at the centre of this story. Although they think they cannot provide enough food/teaching for such a huge crowd, Jesus insists that they exercise their duties as hosts: Next to caring for the reclining arrangements (9.14-16), they have to satisfy their ‘guests’. The story shows that, although the food/teaching the disciples have to offer seems to be too little, it is more than enough to satisfy the crowd. In a similar way, the act of eating is important in the meal of the two disciples with Jesus in Emmaus (24.30-32). After not recognizing their companion on their way, their

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‘eyes were opened’ and they recognized Jesus ‘in the breaking of the bread’ (24.31, 35), that is, when he acted in his role as the host. There is nothing particularly ‘Eucharistic’ in the sequence of actions (taking, blessing, breaking and handing out the bread, 24.30). Rather, these are the normal opening gestures of any meal by which the host provides his guests with the indispensable means for scooping up the side dishes. Also, the following pericope tells how the risen Jesus eats a piece of broiled fish (24.42-43): Jesus’s eating is quintessential for the point of this story, that is, to prove that the risen Jesus has a physical body and is not merely a ghost without ‘flesh and bones’ (24.39). The story demonstrates ‘that he even had teeth’.5 In all these examples the plot requires that the act of eating is mentioned in more or less detail. This is probably the only reason why the meal proper is mentioned at all. In the great majority of all literary accounts of meal gatherings in antiquity the first part is not even mentioned, although it is always presupposed. For the abundance of literary descriptions of meals, the second part, the symposium, is of much greater importance. This interest is easily explained, for the symposium provides the occasion for the typical table talk which inspired a whole literary genre that flourished from Plato’s Symposium onward to Macrobius’s Saturnalia in Late Antiquity and beyond (cf. Martin 1931; König 2012).6 Plutarch distinguished between sympotika, that is, topics of table talk that ‘sober men admit as necessary to a banquet’, and symposiaka, that is, topics considered to be ‘pretty speculations’, however ‘more profitable and agreeable than a fiddle and a pipe’.7 While the topics of symposiaka have no relation to the meal at all (except that it provides the opportunity for conversation),8 the first group (sympotika) mostly consists of topics in close relation to the meal: foodstuff and the preparation thereof; wine and drinking manners; and, most important, all questions concerning the symposiasts themselves: their social relations, their behaviour and their role in a banquet situation. Uncountable references all over the ancient Mediterranean reflect the symposium (rather than the meal) as the ideal situation for learned conversation and teaching. Not accidentally, teaching can be considered more important than eating and drinking.9 This is the ‘better part’ the readers are advised to choose (Lk. 10.42).

2  Meals and social formation Since the Greco-Roman banquet was the most important social institution and seemingly the only setting in which secondary groups could meet, interact, experience community and negotiate their social relations, it is easily understandable that the wide range of topics concerning this field of social formation also dominates the abundant literature about meals (cf. Schmitt Pantel 1992; Klinghardt 1996: 21–174; Taussig 2009; Smith and Taussig 2012, as well as Smith 2012 and Klinghardt 2012a).

2.1  Social boundaries: Who eats with whom? The most important social function of meals is defining the group’s limits: Affiliation to a group is represented by participating in its meal. For this reason, Jesus’s meal

110 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals community with tax collectors and sinners is repeatedly at the focus of the Lukan narrative.10 The great feast made by the tax collector Levi for Jesus and others (Lk. 5.29-32) provides an opportunity for the guests to discuss the question of admission to the meal: Who should be admitted to the table? The table talk between Jesus and the Pharisees and their scribes addresses this problem as if Levi and the other ‘tax collectors and sinners’ (5.30) were not present: Luke is not interested in a plausible story about Levi but in discussing a general problem. Jesus refutes the Pharisees’ critique with the widely spread saying about the sick people’s need for the physician,11 thus pointing to their need of, and chance for, ‘healing’. The constellation of Pharisaic critique against Jesus’s table fellowship with sinners and/or tax collectors also shows up in a number of further texts. In Lk. 7.36-50 it is the sinner woman who anoints Jesus while he is reclining at the table in a Pharisee’s house. In Lk. 19.1-10 it is the chief tax collector Zacchaeus whose invitation Jesus accepts. But the critique against associating with the wrong people and eating with them can also be raised without the narrative setting of a meal (15.1-2); here, Jesus refutes the critique in the three parables about Losing and Finding (15.3-32) in a principle way. The sinners’ repentance makes them acceptable as table-fellows. Similarly, the sinner woman’s presence at the table is justified because ‘her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much’ (7.47). Likewise, Zacchaeus’s charity and compensation for his frauds (19.8) prove his repentance and make him worthy of Jesus’s companionship (cf. Neale 1991; Nave 2002; Méndez-Mortalla 2004). Beyond the rather abstract categories of ‘repentance’ or ‘justification’, Luke (as the other Synoptics) shows that the distinction underlying these conflicts is closely connected to the tangible meal situation. In the continuation of the table talk at Levi’s meal, the basic matter of contention becomes apparent (Lk. 5.33-39). Even if ‘sinners’ qualify as acceptable table-fellows by their repentance (thus proving to be former sinners), and even if they are ‘admitted’ to the table, different dining practices prevent an ongoing table fellowship. In Lk. 5.33-39 table fellowship between the respective disciples of the Pharisees and the John the Baptist on the one hand and of Jesus on the other is impossible for different practices of fasting and praying (5.33). The first aspect is evident: People fasting at different times or keeping different dietary restrictions cannot share a meal. In a similar way, it is impossible for them to eat with each other if they are used to saying different prayers at the (beginning and the end of the) meal (for safe-guarding the formulations of meal prayers as a group’s distinctive identity marker, cf. Klinghardt 1999, especially 24–9). Another aspect of deviating meal practices that precludes commensality between Jesus’s disciples and the Pharisees is the matter of purity as it is discussed in another sympotic scene (11.37-54): The Pharisees’ disgust about sharing the table with people who have not washed before dinner (11.38) clearly implies religious aspects as well as sanitary. Jesus’s answer picks up on the religious dimension of ‘purity’, yet he interprets it ethically and turns the charge of impurity back against the Pharisees (11.39-40). Therefore, the exclusion of commensality between Jesus and the Pharisees goes in either direction: The respective meal practices are irreconcilable (5.36-39). And so are the groups gathered at the table, as yet one more table-talk section demonstrates.

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At the end of the Parable of the Great Dinner, Jesus provides the transfer from the parable to the factual level in his concluding commentary: ‘None of those men who were invited shall taste my banquet’ (14.24).12

2.2  Equality and difference: Social stratigraphy at the meal Next to defining the limits of group affiliation, the meal provided for another aspect of social formation: the social order within the group. In the Greco-Roman symposium literature, the social hierarchy at the table is a heavily discussed topic, since there are two contradicting ideals.13 The social order at the table could either closely correspond to the guests’ social standing outside the meal; in this case, careful nuances should be observed for honouring the guests by differing amounts and qualities of food as well as by placing them to variably honourable places (Cf. Klinghardt 1996: 75–83, 158–63, 2012a: 15–16). Or the arrangements of the meal could level out all differences between the participants and create an overall equality.14 At any rate, ancient meal culture displayed a distinct awareness for social rank and esteem. Lk. 14.7-11 indicates this interest with respect to the order of reclining. The intention of Jesus’s admonition to seek the lowest place (14.8) clearly aims at the possibility of moving upwards sympotically and the chance of being honoured publicly (14.10).15 At first glance, this interest in seeking sympotic honours is inconsistent with the following admonition not to invite one’s peers but the lowly who cannot retribute the honour of an invitation (14.12-14). Abolishing the principle of sympotic reciprocity, however, will eventually provide for receiving the ultimate honours in the resurrection. The sequence of 14.7-11 and 14.12-14 is, therefore, well considered: It is based on the familiar values connected with the meal but utilizes them to go beyond these to an eschatological perspective (Braun 1992, 1995).

3  The meal as utopia: The eschatological meal The great importance of meals for negotiating social relations and their embodiment of social values explain their use for depicting utopian ideals. A number of different aspects can be connected to the meal: high quality and never ending abundance of foodstuff; peace and the absence of conflicts; permanent honours; joyous atmosphere; and, most importantly, perfect community (cf. Baldry 1953; Fauth 1973; Klinghardt 1996; Smit 2008; Pauling 2012; Taussig 2009: 55–85, 145–71 [methodological matters]). Within the context of Hellenistic Judaism and early Christianity the utopian character of meals is almost exclusively employed in eschatological expectation, that is, the so-called Messianic or eschatological meal. Understandably, the utopian or eschatological aspects connected with meals closely correspond with the general interest in meals. It is, therefore, to be expected that in Luke the references for the eschatological meal pick up on the discourse on social formation. The first example is the eschatological expectation of dining with the patriarchs. The basic structure of the Lazarus parable (16.19-31) develops the exact counterparts of both protagonists’ earthly and post-mortem experiences. While the rich man lived

112 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals in festive joy at the table (16.19-20) but then does not even have the smallest drop of water to drink (16.24), Lazarus is first in a shameful situation without any food but is then awarded the place of honour in the eschatological meal: He is carried ‘into Abraham’s bosom’ where he now ‘rests’ (16.22-23). This technical terminology clearly refers to reclining at the table in the place of honour.16 In 13.22-30 the idea of dining with the patriarchs ‘and all the prophets in the kingdom’ serves to identify those who are truly chosen and belong to Jesus. In contrast to the many who claim that they ‘ate and drank in your presence’, only few will be admitted to this meal. The locked door (13.25) and the (slightly incongruent) threat that they will be ‘thrust out’ (13.28) is contrasted with the people who will come from all cardinal points and ‘recline in the kingdom’ (13.29). Referring to the eschatological meal enforces the discourse on the insurmountable boundaries between Jesus’s disciples and the Pharisees. The Parable of the Great Feast hovers in between the factual and symbolic levels: It is stimulated by the beatitude of those who ‘participate in the meal in God’s kingdom’ (14.15); the symbolic value is then, however, directly applied in Jesus’s concluding remark (14.25; see above). Similarly, the sequence of the three parables in Lk. 15 parallels the heavenly joy ‘over one sinner who repents’ (15.7, 10) with the festive meal the father provides for the son who returned and is visibly honoured (15.22). All these texts clearly mirror the discussions of social boundaries in the light of the definite and irrevocable solution, the eschatological meal. Not surprisingly, the other basic aspect of social formation, that is, equality and difference, is also delineated within the framework of the eschatological meal. When the disciples have a dispute as to ‘who of them was regarded to be greatest’ (22.24), Jesus hints to the basic example of social differences: between those who recline in the meal and those who serve them (22.27). By invoking his own example – the master who serves his disciples (22.27b) – Jesus turns this social hierarchy around. The concluding remark promises that the disciples shall recline with him in his kingdom and eat and drink at his table (22.30). Again, the eschatological meal depicts a contrast to daily experience; again, it motivates for the present a behaviour opposite to the widespread pursuit of honours; and yet again, this reversal is not unique in early Christianity: There are a number of pagan analogies which connect the utopian reversal of social roles with the meal.17

4  Lack of a literary concept The symposium scenes of the narrative and the use of sympotic imagery in Jesus’s teaching reveal the typical topics an ancient reader who is acquainted with symposium literature would have expected. Those scenes do not, however, add up to a comprehensive literary pattern: They are not linked to each other with regard to their contents and they certainly display no narrative progress whatsoever. Their position in the narrative is arbitrary and provides no structure. Occasional attempts to approach the lack of an obvious literary pattern in Luke from the angle of the sympotic scenes have failed (cf. Smith 1987).18 With respect to the amount of sympotic scenes in Luke and the role Jesus plays in them, it is fair to say that he is portrayed as the ‘Lord of the Banquet’ (cf. the title of Moessner 1989). But since Luke neither uses this metaphor nor

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develops its symbolic potential, it is of little consequence for the understanding of the narrative or of Jesus. The need for finding a discernible pattern is not based on literary observations in the scenes themselves but rather on a methodological implication from the history of tradition. If Mark is seen as Luke’s main source (as is the case in the Two-Document Hypothesis and other models reckoning with Markan priority), the significantly greater number of sympotic scenes in Luke leads to the assumption that this amplification should have a structural basis; yet, it has not. A different perspective on the literary relations between the Gospels that reckons with a common source for Mark and Luke turns the redactional needs and interests around. Luke did not increase the number of sympotic scenes but Mark reduced them (Klinghardt 2015).19 He left some scenes out and connected others in a tightly knit editorial concept.20 The relatively great number of sympotic scenes in Luke can, therefore, not be explained by his editorial concept or by a literary plan. It rather reflects the cultural habits and the literary conventions of the ancient world: Problems of secondary groups (such as congregations and associations) show up and are discussed within a sympotic setting. Luke (or more precisely: his pretext) mirrors these social conventions without (sit venia verbo) reflecting them literarily.

5  The cup that is poured out (Lk. 22.20) The last important meal scene is, of course, the narrative about Jesus’s Last Supper with his disciples (Lk. 22.14-38).21 Social history and ritual analysis research provides some important insights for the understanding of the word over the cup: τοῦτο τὸ ποτήριον ἡ καινὴ διαθήκη ἐν τῷ αἵματί μου τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν ἐκχυννόμενον (22.20b).

5.1  Correct translation A comparison of modern translations reveals the problem at hand. By far, most translations relate the participle phrase which is poured out (τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν ἐκχυννόμενον) to the blood; they understand: ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is shed for you.’22 A few translations, however, relate this phrase to the cup: ‘This cup which is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.’23 Syntactically, only this latter translation is correct: The nominative of the participle phrase (τὸ … ἐκχυννόμενον) can only relate to another nominative, that is, to this cup (τοῦτο τὸ ποτήριον) but not to a dative. The obligatory congruence of case between the participle phrase and the word to which it relates excludes in my blood (ἐν τῷ αἵματί μου) as a possible reference. The position of the participle phrase in hyperbaton is quite usual and to be expected (cf. Schwyzer 1950: 615). Definitively, the text states that the cup is poured out, not that the blood is shed. Many commentators do not even mention this problem. Among those who are aware of it, some choose not to comment on it, others even try to explain the Greek text as a mistake, thus implying that Luke wanted to say something different than he actually did (for examples, see Klinghardt 2012c: 35–7). Of course, such interpretive

114 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals evasion is methodologically inadmissible. Yet, it is understandable, for the semantic consequences of the correct translation are far-reaching: The traditional interpretation (‘in my blood which is shed for you’) implies that the New Covenant is put into effect by Jesus’s violent death. In this case, the necessary connection between the blood, the New Covenant and the cup can only be established, if the cup metonymically represents its content: Although the text mentions a cup, it actually means its content, the wine. Usually, the common denominator between wine and blood is seen in their respective colour and consistency: a red fluid. This interpretation is, therefore, completely based on the wine as part of the foodstuff consumed in the course of a meal. The history of interpretation from the third century onwards reflects this focus on the meal element and on its physical quality. If, however, the correct syntax is applied, the interpretation must explain the relationship between the cup that is poured out and the New Covenant in my blood. In this case, the interpretation is completely dependent on the act of pouring out the cup, whereas its content is of no significance at all: The Eucharistic ‘word over the cup’ does not explain the foodstuff but the ritual gesture. This ritual aspect places the report about Jesus’s Last Supper within the larger meal culture of the Greco-Roman world. Every reader would have expected that a cup is poured out after the meal proper (μετὰ τὸ δειπνῆσαι), that is, the cup of the libation.

5.2  The libation and its functionality The libation24 had its indispensable place in all Greco-Roman meals between the meal proper and the symposium. Although the literary sources are similarly scarce on the libation as on the meal, the material allows for a coherent picture. Accordingly, the libation had its ideal place in a ritually accentuated ceremony after the meal proper that highlighted the beginning of the symposium.25 After the wine was brought in, yet before it was mixed with water, a small portion was taken from it and was poured out either into the fire of the hearth or on the ground as an offering for the deity. The religious aspect becomes even clearer from the Roman use of a patera, a special dish for libations. In Greek meals, the libation was usually connected with the paean, a prayer sung by all symposiasts in unison, often accompanied by a flute, which underlines the religious character of virtually all meals.26 The libation ceremony at the beginning of the symposium is probably the closest ritual analogy to the ‘Eucharistic’ prayer of early Christian meals. The ‘cup of blessing which we bless’ (1 Cor. 10.16) underlines exactly this combination of cup and prayer in the libation ceremony. Although this cup is poured out ‘for you’ (ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν), the apostles (22.14) are not the recipients of the libation but merely its beneficiaries. As an offering, the libation is directed to a deity as its immediate recipient. An analogy from 1 Esd. 6.30 (LXX) explains the implied logic and the relation between the beneficiaries and the deity: Darius supplied the Jerusalem temple ‘so that libations (σπονδαί) could be offered for the highest God (τῷ θεῷ τῷ ὑψίστῳ), for the benefit of the king and his offspring (ὑπὲρ τοῦ βασιλέως καὶ τῶν παίδων), so that it was prayed for their life (περὶ τῆς αὐτῶν ζωῆς)’. God (in the dativus commodi) is the recipient of the libation. The prayers which are underscored by the libation explain the particular benefit (‘for their life’) God is

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asked to grant to the beneficiaries (who are mentioned in the ὑπέρ-formula). Applying this logic to Luke clarifies the syntactic and semantic relations: The cup that is ‘poured out for you’ is an offering addressed to God. Although not mentioned at all, God is implied as the logical subject and is expected to bestow his gift (the New Covenant) on the beneficiaries (i.e. the apostles, mentioned in the ὑπέρ-phrase). The libation, ‘the cup that is poured out for you’, thus underscores the request that God establish the New Covenant for the benefit of the apostles.

5.3  The New Covenant The New Covenant clearly refers to Jer. 31.31-34 (38.31-34 LXX). In contrast to the covenant ceremony of Exodus 24, the context of Jeremiah 31 contains no mention of ‘blood’ whatsoever: The New Covenant is expected to be in effect without the mediation of blood. As long as the relation between the cup and its interpretation is seen in the metonymic wine-blood relation, the complete lack of the keyword ‘blood’ in relation to the New Covenant causes a problem. But if the cup refers to the libation, there is no problem at all. The qualification of the cup as the New Covenant does not need a tertium comparationis or a semantic interface: The libation is in itself the New Covenant. The closest analogy to this understanding can be seen in the libation poured out at the occasion of a peace conclusion. The usual terminology equals the peace treaty with the libations (σπονδαί) poured at this occasion: The libation is the peace.27 Likewise, the libation in the course of Jesus’s Last Supper is the New Covenant. It refers the New Covenant of Jeremiah 31 (38 LXX), without any reference to the ‘blood’. The precise reference explains a number of characteristics of the Lukan narrative. While the covenant ceremony of Exodus 24 is primarily concerned with the ‘vertical’ relation between God and the people, the New Covenant stresses the ‘horizontal’ aspects of the relation among the people. Internalizing the commandments levels out the differences between ‘the least of them to the greatest’, for ‘no longer shall a man teach his neighbour and his brother’ (Jer. 31.34). The image of the New Covenant evokes social equality among the covenanters.28 Not surprisingly, the mention of the New Covenant in 1 Cor. 11.17-34 stresses the typically sympotic value of social equality as well, in this case with regard to the portions consumed during the meal (cf. for this interpretation Klinghardt 1996: 275–31). The Lukan passion narrative develops this aspect in the immediately following scene with the disciples’ dispute about rank (Lk. 22.24-27). The solution offered by Jesus (22.26: ‘The greatest among you must become like the youngest’) recalls the effect of the New Covenant and even utilizes its wording (Jer. 31.34). The New Covenant refers to the community of those who are qualified by an equidistance to God and, therefore, by social equality among themselves.

5.4  Divine presence in the ritual Since the New Covenant is expected to be granted by God as an effect of the libation, the question must be answered of how the prepositional phrase ‘in my blood’ (ἐν τῷ αἵματί μου) is to be understood. Syntactically, it is an attribute qualifying the New Covenant. However, Luke does not say how exactly he understands the relation

116 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals between Jesus’s blood, that is, his violent death, and the New Covenant.29 Yet, clearly one must distinguish between (a) Jesus’s death as the factual prerequisite of the New Covenant; (b) the libation by which God is requested to establish it; and (c) the ritual ratification that puts the covenant into effect. Since Jesus is still alive when he pours out the libation, this effect clearly relates to the implied readers who will know about Jesus’s violent death. As the anamnesis order (‘do this in remembrance of me’, 22.19) shows, the readers shall see themselves as the members of this New Covenant in the ritual repetitions of the meal. Although Jesus’s death is clearly the destination of the narrative, it is of no particular significance for the understanding of the cup or of the last supper. As the idea of the communicants’ participation in the body and the blood of Christ is lacking here (and elsewhere in the NT),30 there is no possibility to conceive a presence of Christ in the meal, sacramental or other. The idea of a divine presence, however, is not completely absent. Yet, it is not related to the elements of the meal (bread, wine) but rather to the ritual, more precisely: to the prayers that were part of the ritual in the beginning and during the libation. Those prayers either contained invocations as a central part or even consisted of invocations only.31 In either case, the deity to which the prayer (and the libation) was directed could be imagined to be present in the ritual. Servius provides a characteristic example: Also, it was a custom for the ancestors to fall into silence after the meal was eaten and the first tables32 were cleared; for what was to be offered from the food was brought to the hearth and given into the fire. Then a boy pronounced the merciful gods (deos propitios) in order to honour the gods by silence … which the Greeks also call the ‘presence of the gods’. 33

Since the invocation is a prayer (intensified by the libation), such divine presence during the symposium does not depend on the recitation of the so-called words of institution: During the first two centuries, the verba testamenti were not part of early Christian meal rituals (cf. McGowan 1999a).

5.5  Interpreting the ritual and ritual transformation The major insight to be gained from this interpretation of the Lukan ‘word over the cup’ is that it clearly shifts the focus from the wine as a meal element to the ritual: Jesus does not interpret the wine but the libation, not the ‘meal element’ but the ritual. The same holds true for the ‘word over the bread’ as well: Jesus’s explanation (‘this is my body’) does not refer to the physical bread but to the whole sequence of breaking, thanking and handing out the bread. These two ritual gestures are performed together with prayers; they initiate the two main parts of every formal dinner and thus represent the whole meal. The meal’s religious quality, therefore, depends on the ritual performance rather than on the meal elements. That Jesus interprets the complete meal in a particular ritual form rather than merely bread and wine is true for the other narratives of the last supper too. While the interpretation of the meal proper in the ‘word over the bread’ seems to be identical or

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at least very similar in all four accounts (Mt. 26.26; Mk 14.22; Lk. 22.19; 1 Cor. 11.24), the word over the cup in Mark and Matthew does clearly not relate to the libation (as in Luke and in Paul): Here, the cup is not poured out. Instead, Jesus asks the disciples to conjointly drink from one single cup (Mk 14.24; Mt. 26.27-28). This refers to the proposis, a less common, yet well-attested ritual gesture (cf. Klinghardt 2012b for references and a detailed argument). The proposis functions like a toast and expresses the esteem one symposiast holds for another one (‘Here’s to you!’). If all participants drink from one and the same cup, they express their mutual esteem, each one for the others, thus evening out any possible differences of social status within the group. Interestingly, although the symbolic logic of both ritual gestures is completely different, the libation and the proposis serve a very similar purpose: the ritual production of social equality. Understandably, an interpretation that depends on a particular ritual form must change when this particular ritual setting changes. From the third century onwards the twofold meal-symposium ceased to be the defining form of ritual meetings among Christians. Gatherings with people standing in a basilica replaced the form of reclining in a banquet room; the saturating character of the meal was transformed into a token meal; and the libation disappeared altogether. As a consequence, the meal elements bread and wine became important as the anchors to which the religious interpretation could be attached. Simultaneously, the verba testamenti were incorporated into the Eucharistic prayers and were liturgically recited. Naturally, this ritual transformation implied, and required, theological changes as well. One of them is the altered understanding of the prepositional phrase τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν ἐκχυννόμενον. Since there no longer was a libation and no cup that possibly could be ‘poured out’, the phrase was now related to Jesus’s blood ‘which was shed for you’. Syntactically, this understanding bends the rules of grammar beyond the tolerable. Theologically, however, it is a creative continuation with a substantial impact on soteriological thinking.

Notes 1 2 3 4

Cf. Lk. 5.27-39; 7.36-50; 9.10-17; 10.38-42; 11.1-13; 14.1-24; 22.14-38; 24.29-31, 36-49. Cf. Lk. 6.1-5. Cf. Lk. 6.21; 11.3, 5-13; 12.16-21, 37; 13.23-30; 15.3-32; 16.19-31. Also Lk. 1.15, 53; 3.11. If the feeding story is thus understood metaphorically, it does not contribute to the otherwise (but not in Luke) attested aspect of eschatological abundance of foodstuff. 5 Tertullian, Marc. 4.43.8. 6 The Christian examples, among which Methodius of Olympus (De virginitate) and the Cena Cypriani stand out for different reasons prove that the literary genre flourished along with its social basis, the sympotic culture. 7 Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 2 prol. Cf. Klinghardt 1996: 125–9. 8 Books 2, 8 and 9 of Plutarch’s work mostly consist of such topics. 9 For the preference of teaching before eating and drinking cf., e.g. Cicero, Sen. 46; Philo, Contempl. 80–82 (singing and teaching instead of the main courses, cf. Ebner 2007: 73–5).

118 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 10 Lk. 5.27–39; 7.36–50; 15.1–32; 19.1–10. 11 Cf. Philo, Prov. 2.70; Plutarch, [Apoph. lac] (230f); Diogenes Laertius 2.70; 6.6; Dio Chrysostom, 3 Regn. 100; Virt. (Or. 8) 5 etc. 12 The subject of the commentary (‘I’ = Jesus) merges with the subject of the parable (‘I’ = God): The narrated situation is integrated into the situation of the narrative (Wolter 2008: 514). This deliberate identification diminishes the symbolic quality of the parable and renders it into a direct statement of the narrator’s. 13 For the most detailed discussion of this problem cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 1.2 (615c-619a). 14 Cf. Xenophon, Mem. 3.14.1ff; Pliny, Ep. 2.6; Lucian, Sat. 17; 1 Cor. 11.19 etc. 15 Both, the close correspondence of social rank and sympotic place and the visible movement from the lowly seat (subsellium) onto the reclining couch (lectus) are reported for the Roman comedian Terence (Suetonius, Poet. 1.2). Cf. Plautus, Capt. 471. 16 The position ἐν τοῖς κόλποις indicates Lazarus’s position in front of – or, in a triclinium setting: ‘below’ – Abraham, that is, in closest proximity: This is the most honourable place, the same as the beloved disciple has at the last supper (Jn 19.23, 25), cf. Smith 2003: 14–18. That Lazarus rested (ἀναπαυόμενον, 16.23) is expressed in few manuscripts. 17 Most notably, the ‘sympotic laws’ of the Saturnalia (Lucian, Sat. 17) with the basic request: ‘Make no differences!’ For further references and literature cf. Klinghardt 1996: 153–74; Pauling 2012. 18 The last and most comprehensive attempt is Heil 1999 who analyses the scenes one after the other but fails to explain an overall structure. The lack of literary structure is particularly evident in Luke’s ‘central section’ (Lk. 9-19) where most of the sympotic scenes are found. 19 In this case, the difficult question of the relationship between the ‘Western’ and the ‘Canonical’ (= Majority) text finds an easy answer. The importance of this text-critical problem for the topic of the meals in Luke is obvious in the different versions of the last supper account. 20 Especially for the two feeding stories in Mark 6 and 8 cf. Klinghardt 2002. 21 The following interpretation relates to the longer account of the majority of the manuscripts which I consider to be original within the Canonical edition, although it is secondary to the shorter text in the ‘Western’ tradition, cf. Klinghardt 2015: 1019–28. 22 New King James (1982). See also: King James (1611/1769); Robert Young’s Literal Translation (1862/89); American Standard Version (1901) and some of its filial translations, e.g. the World English Bible (2000); New American Bible (1970 and further revisions); New International Version (1978/2011); New Jerusalem Bible (1985). The same syntactic solution is reflected in nearly all German translations. The most recent revision of Luther’s translation (Luther 2017) deliberately chose to retain the wrong translation although it advertised ‘philological accuracy towards the original text’ as its leading principle. 23 Revised Standard Version (1952). Also: New Revised Standard Version (1989); (New) American Standard Bible (1995); NET Bible (2009). The only German translation with this syntactic solution is Berger and Nord 1999. 24 The usual Greek term is σπονδή. Other designations bespeak the mode of how it was carried out: λοιβή, hence the Latin libatio (from λείβω = to dribble) or χοή (from χέω = to pour); cf. Casabona 1966: 231–97. 25 Cf. the descriptions of the transition from meal to symposium in Athenaeus, Deipn. 9.408g; 15.665b-d; see also Schol. Aristophanes, Vesp. 85; Pollux, Onom. 6.100.

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26 Libation and paean: Homer, Il. 1.471. – Xenophon, Symp. 2.1; Anab. 4.1.5-6; Cyr. 41.6. – Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 1.1 (615b); 7.8 (713a); 9.14 (743c). – Athenaeus, Deipn. 4 (149c); 6 (250b) etc. Flute and libation: Plato, Symp. 176e. – Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 7.8 (713a); Sept. sap. conv. 5 (150d). – Propertius, Eleg. 4.6.8. – Pliny, Nat. 38.3.11. Cf. Klinghardt 1996: 101–11 (with references and literature). 27 Aristophanes, Ach. 186–196 provides an excellent example for the metonymic equation of the peace treaty and the libation that is poured out at this occasion: A man from Athens asks a Spartan for a separate peace treaty. The Spartan offers three different qualities of wine for the libations; the best one is a long-time peace by sea and land. 28 Typically, the few extra-biblical references of the New Covenant in Qumran (e.g. 4QDa 8.21; 19.33-34; 6.19; 20.12; 1QpHab 2.3-4) are used as the group’s self-designation. 29 Although Paul has to say quite a bit about the salvific effect of Jesus’s death in other places, he does not explain this relation in this very context, either (1 Cor. 11.25). 30 In 1 Cor. 10.17, the term κοινωνία τοῦ αἵματος τοῦ Χριστοῦ bears an ecclesiological meaning and should be translated as the ‘community (founded on the basis) of the blood’ rather than as ‘participation in the blood of Christ’, cf. Klinghardt 1996: 307–15; Baumert 2003. 31 E.g. Petronius, Sat. 60.8 (dii propitii); Servius, Aen. 1.730. 32 ‘First tables’ (mensae primae) is the typical designation of the main course(s), cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 4.1 (723b). 33 Servius, Aen. 1.730: Graeci quoque θεῶν παρουσίαν dicunt.

Bibliography The bibliography concentrates on the most important and comprehensive titles with further bibliographical references. Baldry, H. C. (1953), ‘The Idler’s Paradise in Attic Comedy’, GR 22: 49–60. Baumert, N. (2003), Koinonein und Metechein: Eine umfassende semantische Untersuchung, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Berger, K. and C. Nord (1999), Das Neue Testament und frühchristliche Schriften, Frankfurt: Insel. Braun, W. (1992), ‘Symposium or Anti-Symposium? Reflections on Luke 14:1-24’, TJT 8: 70–84. Braun, W. (1995), Feasting and Social Rhetoric in Luke 14, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Casabona, J. (1966), Recherches sur le vocabulaire des sacrifices en grec des origines à la fin de l’époque classique, Aix-en-Provence: Ophrys. Ebner, M. (2007), ‘Mahl und Gruppenidentität. Philos Schrift De Vita Contemplativa als Paradigma’, in M. Ebner (ed.), Herrenmahl und Gruppenidentität, 64–90, Freiburg: Herder. Fauth, W. (1973), ‘Kulinarisches und Utopisches in der griechischen Komödie’, Wiener Studien NF 7: 39–62. Heil, J. P. (1999), The Meal Scenes in Luke-Acts: An Audience-oriented Approach, Atlanta: SBL Press. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke.

120 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Klinghardt, M. (1999), ‘Prayer Formularies for Public Recitation: Their Use and Function in Ancient Religion’, Numen 46: 1–50 Klinghardt, M. (2002), ‘Boot und Brot: Zur Komposition von Mk 3,7-8,21’, BTZ 19: 183–202. Klinghardt, M. (2012a), ‘A Typology of the Communal Meal’, in D. E. Smith and H. E. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 9–22, New York: Palgrave McMillan. Klinghardt, M. (2012b), ‘Bund und Sündenvergebung: Ritual und literarischer Kontext in Mt 26’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 159–190, Tübingen: Francke. Klinghardt, M. (2012c), ‘Der vergossene Becher: Ritual und Gemeinschaft im lukanischen Mahlbericht’, Early Christianity 3: 33–58. Klinghardt, M. (2015), Das älteste Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien, Tübingen: Francke. Klinghardt, M., and H. E. Taussig, eds (2012), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, Tübingen: Francke. König, J. P. (2012), Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Martin, J. (1931), Symposion: Die Geschichte einer literarischen Form, Paderborn: Schöningh. McGowan, A. (1999a), ‘“Is There a Liturgical Text in this Gospel?” The Institution Narratives and Their Early Interpretive Communities’, JBL 118: 77–89. McGowan, A. (1999b). Ascetic Eucharist: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Méndez-Mortalla, F. (2004), The Paradigm of Conversion in Luke, Sheffield: Continuum. Moessner, D. P. (1989), The Lord of the Banquet: The Literary and Theological Significance of the Lukan Travel Narrative, Minneapolis: Fortress. Nave, G. D. (2002), The Role and Function of Repentance in Luke-Acts, Atlanta: SBL Press. Neale, D. A. (1991), None But the Sinners, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Pauling, D. (2012), ‘Das Mahl als Spiegel: Aspekte utopischer Reflexion in athenischen und römischen Mahlschilderungen’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 57–77, Tübingen: Francke. Schmitt Pantel, P. (1992), La cité au banquet: Histoire des repas publics dans les cités grecques, Rome: École Française de Rome. Schwyzer, E. (1950), Griechische Grammatik II, München: C. H. Beck. Smit, P.-B. (2008), Fellowship and Food in the Kingdom. Eschatological Meals and Scenes of Utopian Abundance in the New Testament, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Smith, D. E. (1987), ‘Table Fellowship as a Literary Motif in the Gospel of Luke’, JBL 106: 613–38. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress. Smith, D. E. (2012), ‘The Greco-Roman Banquet as a Social Institution’, in D. E. Smith and H. E. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 23–33, New York: Palgrave McMillan. Smith, D. E. and H. E. Taussig, eds (2012), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, New York: Palgrave McMillan. Taussig, H. E. (2009), In the Beginning was the Meal. Social Experimentation & Early Christian Identity, Minneapolis: Fortress. Wolter, M. (2008), Das Lukasevangelium, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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The Primary Role of Meals in Matthew’s Construction of Diasporic Identity Hal E. Taussig

Introduction: The basic synergy of Matthew and meals The basic social, literary and cultural dynamics of the Gospel of Matthew in the firstcentury world1 depend directly on the ‘Greco-Roman meal’2 as perhaps its leading literary motif.3 As a range of scholars over the past twenty years has shown, this powerful and thoroughgoing link between such meals and Matthew also applies to a wide range of other early Christ movement literature.4 In this regard, the assertion of the intimate and sustaining connection between meals and Matthew is derivative of the larger emerging proposal5 that applies to most Christ movement literature6 until at least 175 CE. Nevertheless, it is vital here to lay this particular case for the deep and key connection between the meanings and purposes of Matthew and the Greco-Roman meals in both their literary and historical dimensions. This demands prime attention because it has never been thoroughly proposed for Matthew per se.7 The ways that meals provide major social, literary and cultural dimensions of Matthew are summarized here in two ways. That is, first the ways the social code of ancient Mediterranean banquets are on display in Matthew are identified textually. Secondly, how major themes and values within Matthew operate through meal lenses are summarized.

1  The plethora of Matthean texts intersecting with ancient meal codes Dennis Smith has identified seven dimensions of ancient Greco-Roman meal codes (Smith 2009: 9–12). Below are clear Matthean texts which inhabit these particular meal codes: Social Boundaries: Citing Mary Douglas, Smith lays out how the social codes of banquets in general define boundaries. In particular, in Greco-Roman banquets the diner’s placement in the dining space indicates where that diner is located in larger

122 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals social networks. This is also true of the amount of food different diners receive at these banquets, so the diners’ specific place in the room and amount of food received serve as ‘a confirmation and ritualization of the boundaries that exist’ in social situations outside the dining room (Smith 2003: 9). The texts that illustrate these social boundaries that the meal ritualized are: 8.14, 15: ‘Peter’s mother-in-law … sick … he touched her … she got up and starting looking after him.’ 9.11: ‘Pharisees … began to question his disciples: Why does your teacher eat with toll collectors and sinners?’ 15.1, 2: ‘Pharisees and scholars come to Jesus and say: Why … don’t (your disciples) wash their hands before they eat.’ 15.26: ‘He [sc. Jesus] replied, “It’s not right to take bread out of children’s mouths and throw it to the dogs.”’ 16.5-6: ‘The disciples … forgot to bring any bread. Jesus said … Guard against the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.’ 20.22: ‘Jesus said, “Can you drink the cup I’m about to drink?”’ 23.12: ‘Those who promote themselves will be demoted, and those who demote themselves will be promoted.’ 23.25, 26: ‘You imposters! You wash the outside of the cups and plates, but inside they are full of greed and dissipation.’

Social Bonding: In tension with the meal ritualizing social boundaries, it also creates bonds among diners. Sharing food and sharing from a common table, dish, cup or bowl directly enacts such bonding. Even more to this point is that ‘the diners shared the event together’. In this regard such bonding reinforces ties that already exist as well as creates connections that would not happen without the meal. Smith notes, ‘One example is the Greek tradition of xenia, or the extending of hospitality to a stranger or foreigner, which usually meant inviting the stranger to one’s table’ (Smith 2003: 9). The texts that illustrate these social bonds that the meal ritualized are: 8.11: ‘Many will come from east and west and dine.’ 9.10: ‘Many toll collectors and sinners showed up … and they dined with Jesus and his disciples.’ 14.15-21: Feasting with 5,000. 15.32-38: Feasting with 4,000. 20.23: ‘He (Jesus) says to them, “You’ll be drinking my cup.”’ 20.1-10: ‘Jesus responded: “a … ruler … gave a wedding feast for his son.”’ 26.26-30: ‘As they were eating, Jesus took a loaf … and gave it to the disciples.’

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Social Obligation: Not exactly the same, but clearly allied with social bonding is the way these meals ‘created a sense of ethical obligation of the diners toward one another’. Although moderns might assume that this is simply what is called ‘manners’ or ‘etiquette’ today, for Greeks, this was ‘part of the larger category of social ethics’ (Smith 2003: 10). The texts that illustrate these social obligations that the meal ritualized are: 10.11-13: ‘Whichever town … you enter … stay there until you leave … give it your peace blessing.’ 10.42: ‘Whoever gives so much as a cup of cool water … won’t go unrewarded.’ 14.15-21: Feasting with 5,000. 15.32-38: Feasting with 4,000. 20.1-10: ‘Jesus responded: “a … ruler … gave a wedding feast for his son.”’ 25.1-13: ‘When the time comes, Heaven’s imperial rule will be like ten maiden … to meet the bridegroom …’ 25.31-46: ‘I was hungry … and thirsty.’ 26.20-25: ‘When it was evening, he was reclining … he said, “One of you will turn me in.”’

Social Stratification: Just as the way meals promoted both bonds and obligations, so also the boundaries were similar to the ways the meals create social stratification. This came in the forms of social ranking in the various social systems of that day. This was primarily occurring in terms of the honour of reclining at the meal and the ranking of seating order, usually starting at the right hand of the host or ‘president’, and sometimes literally on a couch higher than those to the left of them (Smith 2003: 10). The texts that illustrate these social strata that the meal ritualized are: 8.14, 15: ‘Peter’s mother-in-law … sick … he touched her … she got up and starting looking after him.’ 9.11: ‘Pharisees … began to question his disciples: “Why does your teacher eat with toll collectors and sinners?”’ 15.1-2: ‘Pharisees and scholars come to Jesus and say: “Why … don’t (your disciples) wash their hands before they eat.”’ 15.26: ‘He [Jesus] replied, “It’s not right to take bread out of children’s mouths and throw it to the dogs.”’ 16.8-10: ‘Jesus said, “You have so little trust … [dispute about how many baskets left over at the two different feasts].”’ 22.11-13: The wedding celebration guest not properly attired. 23.6: ‘They love the best couches at the banquets.’

124 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Social Equality: Such meals treated those who dined as equals, and this was a strong feature of the banquet ideology. Those who dined together were to be treated equally. This was a standard feature of ancient dining protocol. It functioned as an elaboration of the concept of social bonding at the meal and was a strong feature of banquet ideology at all levels of the data. Dennis Smith asserts, ‘The idea was that a meal that was shared in common and that created a sense of community among the participants should be one in which all could share equally and with full participation’ (Smith 2003: 11). The texts that illustrate these social strata that the meal ritualized are: 8.11: ‘Many will come from east and west and dine.’ 10.11-13: ‘Whichever town … you enter … stay there until you leave … give it your peace blessing.’ 11.19: ‘They say, “There’s a glutton and a drunk, a crony of toll collectors and sinners.”’8 14.15-21: Feasting with 5,000. 15.32-38: Feasting with 4,000. 26.5-13: ‘In Bethany … a woman who had an alabaster jar … poured it over his head while he was at table.’

Festive Joy: Joy was formally and emotionally at the very centre of these meals. These first- and second-century events assessed how well the banquet had gone in terms of how much festive joy had occurred. As such it was also related to an actual social obligation (Smith 2003: 12). The texts that illustrate this festive joy at the meal are: 8.11: ‘Many will come from east and west and dine.’ 9.14, 15: ‘Disciples of John … ask: “Why do we fast …, but your disciples don’t?”… Jesus said, “The groom’s friends can’t mourn … .”’ 11.19: ‘The son of Adam appeared on the scene both eating and drinking.’ 26.17: ‘On the first day of Unleavened Bread, the disciples … said: “Where do you want … to celebrate the Passover?”’

Banquet Entertainment: Entertainment at these meals was obligatory. Smith says, ‘This could vary from party games to dramatic presentations to music to philosophical conversation’ (Smith 2003: 12). The texts that illustrate the importance of such entertainment are: 14.6: ‘The daughter of Herodias danced for them.’ 26.6-13: ‘In Bethany … a woman who had an alabaster jar … poured it over his head while he was at table.’

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This survey then identifies thirty-two different Matthean texts that directly address meal dynamics in the stories, teachings, and commentary of Matthew.9 That is, in thirtytwo out of forty Matthean texts the ancient Greco-Roman meal codes identified by Smith function to characterize the meaning of Jesus’s teachings, critique the social and theological strategies of his opponents, propose different social and communitarian practices, identify particular techniques of argumentation and social posturing, and theologize about the reign of God/heaven. By and large, it becomes clear that the practice of meals contributes in major ways to what Matthew has to say.

2  Major Matthean themes intersecting with meal motifs This striking new perspective on Matthew can be tested inversely. Here it merits examining how the greater themes, arguments and proposals of Matthew are intertwined with the practice and values of meals. Such a list of themes, arguments and proposals would include and therefore interrogate whether our meal-centred hypothesis in Matthew’s greater meanings holds ll ll ll

the central good news of spiritual Israel (the ‘Jewishness’ of Matthew);10 the realm of heaven/God as the heart of Jesus’s teachings; the emerging connection between Jesus and Israel’s salvific traditions; and the communitarian contribution in Matthew.

The central good news of spiritual Israel in Matthew (the ‘Jewishness’ of Matthew) is expressed on several levels through meals. Jesus’s and his disciples’ key meal in Matthew is the Feast of Unleavened bread/Passover. Jesus’s eating in Matthew is almost entirely defined by the graciousness and welcoming of the stranger in Israel. Matthew regularly characterizes Jesus as eating with the toll collectors and sinners, despite an inter-‘Jewish’ fight with the Pharisees. On the other hand, Jesus himself is embarrassed by his rejection of food for the Canaanite woman and her daughter. Although Jesus is gently corrected by this foreign woman, in Matthew’s telling of the story the issues are framed within inter-‘Jewish’ debate. The realm of heaven/God as the central theme of Jesus’s teachings is named by Matthew perhaps most poignantly as people coming ‘from east and west’ to ‘recline at the feast beside Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the realm of heaven’ (8.11) Similarly ‘heaven’s imperial rule’ is illustrated by the different ways maidens in waiting respond in relationship to the wedding celebration (25.1-13). Matthew’s picture of Jesus as specially anointed for Israel’s people is expressed in terms of meals. His two miraculous feedings occur in Israel (in contrast to Mark where one of the feedings is in Israel and one outside Israel). And the meaning of Jesus’s special role for the people of Israel is made explicit in terms of the twelve leftover baskets of food (for the tribes of Israel) in one feeding and the seven baskets of leftovers relate directly to the Torah’s description of the seven days of creation. Similarly, in 11.19 the special role of Jesus as the Son of Adam is described as him coming as one ‘eating and drinking’. Scholarship has made much of the communitarian focus of Matthew, pointing out its traditional moniker as the gospel of the ‘church’, and its emphasis on teachings about

126 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals relationships among the ekklesia. This Matthean emphasis also comes to expression in meal dynamics. Mt. 25.31-46 focuses on the varied responses of people in community to those who are hungry and thirsty, condemning those who do not share food and drink with those in need and praising those who do. Similarly, in two different Matthean texts quarrels among the community must be settled before one gathers for the meal together (5.23; 18.15). With these two kinds of surveys, it becomes clear how much Matthew connects meal dynamics to its entire corpus and understands such meal practice as crucial literarily in thinking through its major meanings. Scholarship has somehow either taken for granted this central connection between meals and Matthew or overlooked it. On one level, this deep connection to meal meanings in Matthew is not remarkable, since such is the case in so many other early Christ movement texts. Here we affirm both the larger importance of meals in the meaning-making of most Christ movement literature and the particular way that Matthew accomplishes this emphatic connection.

3  Matthew’s construction of diasporic identity Scholarship has long attended to Matthew’s special closeness to Israel (sometimes somewhat anachronistically called Matthew’s ‘Jewishness’). Over and over again Matthew roots itself in Israel’s scriptures, practices and identity. Even Matthew’s occasional bitterness against Israel is appropriately connected to the particular disappointment of Israel’s own writings – especially, but not uniquely, in its prophetic literature’s regular condemnation of Israel. Similarly, Matthew’s thorough rootedness in first-century Israel, takes active account of what has been traditionally called the ongoing diaspora of Israel in the first century. That is, for Matthew, Israel is not just the land of Israel, but the existence of Israel’s people throughout the entire Mediterranean and near East. And, Matthew – even with its Judeocentric understanding of Israel’s significance and its focus on the bloodlines of Israel’s identity – takes special note that it understands some Gentiles also to belong to its particular understanding of Israel. This chapter now focuses on how the basic synergy of Matthew and meals analysed above makes particular meaning for Matthew’s diasporic, yet Israel-centred, people. This point can be made within the more classical meaning of diaspora as the spread of Israel’s people beyond its borders. But here we also rely on powerful new scholarship, often referred to as diaspora theory, in expanding the character of Matthean meals texts’ meaning-making. Drawing upon this new, mostly non-biblically centred, scholarship requires some additional clarification and explanation.

4  Summarizing twentieth- and twenty-first-century diaspora theory The primary distinction between classical diaspora scholarship and newly formulated diaspora theory has mostly to do with two new perspectives: (1) A thoroughgoing extension of the notion of diaspora beyond Israel and Jews. This distinction does

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not in any way eliminate the long experience of Jews and the people of ancient Israel from consideration. Indeed, such study of Jews and ancient Israel continues to play a significant role. On the other hand, however, the dispersion of vast amounts of people in the modern and post-modern eras also is central to diaspora subject matter. (2) Closer study of both modern and ancient exemplars now expand their examination also to people who have not experienced actual geographical dispersion. Rather, it has become clearer in certain cases that people who remain in stable geographical situations often think of themselves in very similar ways to those who have actually been dispersed. In addition, studies now note that often diasporically imagined identities are often centred in quite stable populations which then often in turn influence geographically dispersed people. So, in the last twenty to thirty years an unsteady, yet clear, brand of scholarship has developed, focusing not primarily on the dispersion of those belonging to Israel into other locations, nor just on the experience of any people being displaced from their homeland, but on theorizing the nexus of many different people’s experience of and expression about their displacement. Maia Kotrosits (2015a, b), one of the biblical scholars who has taken diaspora theory most seriously (see also Charles 2014), provides an overview of the implications of these new explorations (see also Braziel and Mannur 2003)11: While the traditional understanding of diaspora has been a discrete group of people who become a fragmented network, recent scholarship theorizing on diaspora specifically has focused on diaspora as fragmented networks that construct a wholeness to solidify a shared sense of identity. Diaspora theory might generally be described as a thematic interest in the social and discursive dilemmas/creativity of displaced populations, an interest that has engaged a huge number of fields and disciplines. It includes not just questions of what politics produce the condition of diaspora, or analyses of the violent effects of geographical and cultural dispersion. It additionally observes the ways diaspora as a condition enables the production of identity, and (relatedly) the production of place and shared origins. Stuart Hall, for example, writing on the ‘problem’ of Caribbean cinema and the articulation of Caribbean identity, has outlined two conceptualizations of cultural identity.12

Hall’s new framework of diaspora that helps understand how Matthew’s diaspora is far larger and more complex than earlier notions of diaspora as meaning primarily displacement from a homeland at the eastern end of the Mediterranean. Two concepts in Hall’s work in regard to ‘cultural identity’ in a diasporic framework are ‘oneness’ and ‘rupture/contingency’. The idea of ‘oneness’ according to Hall emerges in diasporic situations ‘beneath or despite surface variations/differences’.13 As Kotrosits relates Hall: Much effort and creativity has been spent by colonized peoples in trying to ‘recover’ and ‘research’ an identity that has been ‘distorted’ by colonization. However, he notes that cultural identity is actually made in the recovery process itself. Part of the work then entails “imposing an imaginary coherence on the experience of

128 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals dispersal and fragmentation. These projects of finding (creating) underlying unity “restore an imaginary fullness or plenitude to set against the broken rubric of our past. They are resources of resistance and identity, with which to confront the fragmented and pathological ways in which that experience has been reconstructed within the dominant regimes.14

Hall’s second concept, ‘rupture and contingency’ works in active tension with ‘oneness’ to produce diasporic identity. For Hall, it is not that cultural identity ‘transcends place, time, history and culture’ but rather is ‘subject to the continuous “play” of history, culture and power’. Perhaps it is better to think of cultural identity not as stable, but as different ways people work within narratives of the past that either impose themselves on people or which people claim anew. When thinking about Caribbean identity, the claiming of narratives from the past happens along two different axes: continuity and rupture. One axis reminds one of continuity with the past, the other reminds us that what we share is precisely the experience of profound discontinuity … . It was the uprooting of slavery and transportation and the insertion into the plantation economy (as well as the symbolic economy) of the Western world that ‘unified’ these peoples across their difference, in the same moment as it cut them off from direct access to their past.15

It is not an original geography or a real shared past that help cultural identity emerge so much as how Caribbean peoples position themselves in relationship to the West. It is here that, according to Hall, Africa plays a major role in Caribbean settings as a constructed place of origin in the African diaspora. As Kotrosits notices, ‘Africa gathers intense affective and figurative value, and is a place that cannot be returned to – at the very least because it risks reifying the western image of Africa as primitive and frozen in time.’16 What then diasporic Caribbean peoples understand as ‘origin’ is figurative and a ‘reservoir of representation’ precisely because there is nothing there.17 Displacement gives rise to ‘a certain imaginary plenitude, recreating an endless desire to return to “lost origins,” to be one again with the mother, to go back to the beginning’.18 Depending on the work of Benedict Anderson,19 Hall proposes that communities ‘are to be distinguished not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined’.20 Other new diaspora thinkers also call real place into question in similar ways. Brian Keith Axel dismisses analytics of place. For Axel in his extension study of Sikh diaspora, emphasizes state violence as a ‘key means through which the features of a people are constituted’.21 Kotrosits, as a New Testament/Early Christianity scholar, takes a similar position in her summary: In general, along with a critique of original, uninterrupted wholeness claimed by diasporic populations, diaspora theory has illustrated how claims to and about diasporic cultural authenticity and purity – how Irish/Chinese/black/Jewish are you really? – play into colonial or imperial discourses of particularizing

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and monitoring/targeting ‘others’. The question of who is inside and who is outside of any given category of belonging is a game almost always played by insiders, one whose rules are inevitably set by the colonial entity producing the diasporic situation in the first place. Claims to purity and authenticity are always rhetorical boundary-marking practices. Particularly the appeal to the (ever elusive) authenticity of one’s own origins constitutes a negotiation of one’s own complicated, hybrid, diasporic identity, even while it claims to be a defense of the place of origin. (Kotrosits 2015b: 194)22

Although the Gospel of Matthew is perhaps the easiest Christ movement text to place within this new diaspora perspective, Kotrosits places almost all early Christ literature in this category. She proposes that a great many of these texts are ‘reckoning with diasporic conundrums and colonial disempowerments’ and puts them precisely in the same space as so much … ‘early Christian’ literature of the late first and early second centuries which not only shows interest in Jesus/logos/ Christ/the Saviour, but develops themes of dislocation, intensifies imaginations of chosenness as well as those of being mired in darkness/evil/sin, and casts its longings for homeland upward in the wake of Jerusalem’s destruction.23

She proposes, for instance, the Revelation to John and ‘ “its cosmic recapitulation of geography in the Jerusalem that descends from heaven”; Hebrews’ lament that “we have no lasting city here,” (Heb. 13.14), its explicit claims to being a displaced population and its imagination of a “greater and more perfect tent” (Heb. 9.11) outside the realm of creation; the Gospel of John’s placeless God and its stark colonial tale of a luminous figure who offers universal belonging to those trapped in darkness’24 all fit the new perspectives of recent diaspora theory.

5  The expanded Matthean diaspora Before showing how meals in Matthew multiply and complicate the significance of diasporic identity in Matthew, it is first important to see how diasporic theory substantially expands the diasporic phenomena represented in Matthew. Without denying Matthew’s loyalties to Israel as geography, practice and identity; this new diaspora theory helps show how Matthew’s stories and imagery can also hold people beyond Israel’s (former) geographical boundaries, ‘Jewish’ practices or Jesus-based communities and associations. Especially throughout the imperially dominated Mediterranean basin, a wide variety of peoples have been displaced, enslaved, impoverished, robbed of tribal and national identities, and mocked as barbarians. No wonder Matthew intentionally provides an explicit (if narrow) range of Gentile associations with Jesus in Israel. But perhaps more to the point, Matthew’s stories and imagery provide an imagined liminal space of belonging for any number of peoples who have been actually displaced, under pressure of displacement or simply occasionally worried about Roman presence with its range of explicit and implicit threats.

130 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals In keeping with much scholarship of Matthew over the last four decades, it seems very likely that the only slightly disguised Exodus narrative in the first seven chapters of Matthew [Jesus escapes harm and travels to Egypt – chapter 2; Jesus goes through the water (baptism) – chapter 3; Jesus goes into the wilderness for forty days/years? – chapter 4; Jesus climbs a mountain and brings a central message to many – chapters 5–7]

was extremely meaningful to ‘Jews’ under Rome in Israel and beyond. It is also probable that peoples beyond the people of Israel identified diasporically with larger Matthean themes like the widespread healing of Jesus. Similarly, the complex characterization of Jesus in Matthew that holds diasporically in tension a dreamy recreation of Israel’s saviour manifest in ekklesia with a crucified Jesus provided a surplus of tensive meaning for a relatively wide range of dispersed peoples. Not unlike Philo’s Moses as philosopher king and standard bearer of Israel, Matthew stretches elusively out into the Mediterranean mix of irony, projection and tangible practice. With more quizzically texts of grounded Israel and less raw pain than Mark’s gospel, Matthew offers a practicable Israel, even while it is defused beyond borders.

6  Conclusion: Meals’ feast of diasporic belonging in Matthew Of course, the narrative force of Matthew’s larger story holds Kotrosits’s components of diaspora together by holding ‘fragmented networks’ and ‘(ever elusive) authenticity of one’s own origins’ on one level. There is, however, another major dimension of Matthew’s diasporic project of constructing ‘a wholeness to solidify a shared sense of identity’.25 This is the literary integration of the social dynamic of meals’ belonging by Matthew into the larger narrative plot at almost every turn. The larger social memory of past and current meal practice,26 as noted earlier, enters Matthew’s composition regularly. As such, it reminds the reader of how meals themselves display ‘a negotiation of one’s own complicated, hybrid, diasporic identity’27 and helps overcome the gap between the various lived fractures and the longed-for common origins story of peoples throughout the Greco-Roman Mediterranean. The ways Greco-Roman meals displayed a stunning combination of loose and reliable structure allowed their participants to acknowledge both their losses and a sense of imagined homeland. Matthew’s own story matches this artistic tension of a narrative full both of pain and a rhythmic group of images of diasporic roots. Here a dozen textual examples from Matthew suffice as illustration of the force for diasporic belonging within these meal dynamics. As noted earlier, Matthew places meals at iconic and strategic moments in the overall narrative. Probably the most pointed are the two miraculous feedings, which

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rival the transfiguration for Matthew’s most extended and evocative stories. These tightly related stories tower over almost all of Jesus’s deeds and teaching and reach into epic dimensions of ancient Israel in the Exodus and the Elijah/Elisha cycle. These two larger than life tableaus are foreshadowed by Jesus’s teaching in 8.11: ‘Many will come from east and west and dine with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in Heaven’s domain.’ Although less extended than the miraculous feedings, 26.26-29 also mirrors almost exactly some of those feeding stories’ vocabulary. As is noted below, the betrayal motif around this passage uses in a more complex way the meal’s ability to connect both diasporas’ hope for belonging to the social fractures so deeply rooted in dispersed peoples’ experiences. The festive joy, the social bonding, the social equality and the social obligation so emblematic of Greco-Roman meals play then literary roles in Matthew’s stitching together a fabric of tensive diasporic belonging between the more iconic meals. Jesus as the Son of Adam ‘comes eating and drinking’ (11.19) and restores, as Stewart Hall notes about the construction of diasporic identity, ‘an imaginary fullness or plenitude to set against the broken rubric of our past’.28 In a similar, but more pointedly ambivalent manner, the critique of Jesus’s disciples not fasting (9.14, 15), Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners (9.1), and the disciples not washing their hands (15.1, 2) deepen the joyous belonging of eating in Matthew and at the same time express the social tension underneath their fragilely constructed diaspora identity. Just slightly less tense are the ways Jesus’s disciples eat with their hosts and bless them (10.13), again experiencing the meal as belonging, but aware that they will not always be welcomed. One of the most imaginative compositional achievements of Matthew is the ways that scenes simultaneously enact what Stewart Hall calls ‘the experience of profound discontinuity’29 and a delicate attachment between otherwise diffuse people in meal scenes. In dramatic diaspora belonging, the portrait of the woman anointing Jesus at a meal pictures the alienation of the invading woman at the meal, the tenderness of her and Jesus’s connection, and the winsome stability of the meal practice itself that allows such an interruption to take place. Similarly, the story of Herodias’ daughter entertaining at a meal hauntingly holds the execution of John the Baptist, the festivity of Jesus’s own meals and the ethnic tension around Herod’s recent marriage together. Not unlike this Herodian meal is the fragile portrait of Jesus predicting the betrayal of Judas at the same meal in which an undying covenant of belonging is pledged among the leader and his disciples. Deftly adding the meal practice of entertainment, the banquet at Herod’s, the anointing of Jesus by the woman, and Jesus pointedly naming Judas’s dipping in the bowl all rely on the dramatic meal gestures to keep diasporic belonging and an undertow of anxiety in the picture. Depending on how one counts, the survey of meal texts in Matthew shows at least thirty-two and perhaps as many as forty passages about Greco-Roman meal dynamics. Looking more closely it also has become clear that meals play prominent roles in the portrayal of major Matthean themes. As the deep and broad diaspora meanings in Matthew unfold, it has turned out that all these meal texts are a primary way that diasporic meaning throughout Matthew is elaborated.30

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Notes 1 For initial overviews, see the following. Social: Balch 1991; Malina and Rohrbauch 2003. Literary: Lachs 1987 [from a Rabbinic perspective]; Luz 2007; Bauer 2015. Cultural: Carter 2004. 2 The category of ‘Greco-Roman meal’ was originated by Dennis Smith and Matthias Klinghardt independently of one another. The term probably originates with Smith’s dissertation research at Harvard Divinity School in the early 1980s. I have summarized the phenomenon itself of the Greco-Roman meal in consultation with Smith and Klinghard. My description includes the following five characteristics: the reclining of (more or less) all participants while eating and drinking together for several hours in the evening; the order of a supper (deipnon) of eating, followed by an extended time (symposion) of drinking, conversation and performance;marking the transition from deipnon to symposion with a ceremonial libation, almost always wine;leadership by a ‘president’ (symposiarch) of the meal – a person not always the same, and sometimes a role that was contingent or disputed;a variety of marginal personages, often including servants, uninvited guests, ‘entertainers’ and dogs. See Taussig 2009. 3 Matthias Klinghardt, Dennis Smith and Hal Taussig have studied closely the GrecoRoman meal paradigm in Matthew. Cf. Klinghardt 1996: 455–8 for study of prayers at meals in Matthew, 2012: 163–73 and idem 181–5 for a study of the forgiveness of sins and meals in Matthew. See also Smith 2003: 221–7, for a study of vestiges of the historical Jesus at meals in Matthew and Taussig 2009: 129–32 for a study of libations at Matthean meals. 4 For primary studies, see Klinghardt 1996; Klinghardt and Taussig 2012; Smith 2003; Smith and Taussig 2001, 2012; Al-Suadi 2011. 5 Primary to this larger set of projects has been work over the past 15 years in the Society of Biblical Literature, primarily the Consultation, Seminar and Section of the Meals in the Greco-Roman World units from 1999 until now. The consultation and seminar were founded and chaired by Dennis Smith and Hal Taussig. The current chairs are Soham al-Suadi and Andrew McGowan. 6 I am using the term ‘Christ movement’ as a way of distinguishing it from both efforts to determine what the historical Jesus might have done or said and that which can be considered as belonging to an entity called Christianity. It is my position that there is no such thing as a coherent Christianity until at least 150 CE. Hence, Christ movement represents in this chapter that which comes after the historical Jesus and before Christianity. It assumes that more or less all Christ movement social groupings and literary productions belong to something that might be anachronistically called ‘Judaism’, or perhaps less anachronistically they belong to what I call ‘spiritual Israel’, representing the variety of movements and institutions throughout the Mediterranean related intrinsically to what also might be called cultural ‘Israel’ both in and beyond the geographical entity of Israel. 7 See Al-Suadi 2011; Alikin 2012; McGowan 2012; Ascough 2012; Kotrosits 2012; Standhartinger 2012; Larson 2012; Taussig 2009: 171–87. 8 Cf. also 21.31 and 32 for an at least implicit parallel to this text. It is also important to note in these texts that the use of the translation of ‘prostitutes’ for hamartoloi is also quite common and is well defended. 9 This number would rise to forty if you included where particular texts actually applied to more than one dimension of ancient Greco-Roman meals.

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10 I place ‘Jewishness’ in quotation marks here as a way of marking a greater problem in contemporary New Testament, early Christian and Jewish studies. The problem with the term Jewish in relationship to documents of the first century CE is that the term ioudaios is not used very much in the first century, and certainly rarely, if ever, for what is meant today by ‘Jewish’. That is, ioudaios does not by and large signify the people of Israel or some sort of overall religion or identity. Indeed, it is unclear what ioudaios means at all. A number of scholars (cf. the longer study of the use of the word in Miller 2010 and Fortna 2005: 41–2), have proposed, at least provisionally to translate ioudaios as ‘Judean’. The larger problem, however, is what word to use that might mean what we anachronistically mean in the twenty-first century as the religion or people signified by the twenty-first century word ‘Jewish’. I propose that the term for this meaning in the first century CE could be ‘spiritual Israel’, meaning all the people in the Mediterranean basin, who belong in one sense or another to ‘Israel’. This is not a completely viable strategy, but I know of none better at this moment in scholarship. 11 The ensuing three pages are directly derived from the research of Kotrosits in a deft, original and well-framed manner. At the request of the editors of this volume, I have reworked the phrasing of Kotrosits’s work, but want to reiterate that the conceptualization, research and breakthrough genius of this summary of new diaspora theory is the work of Kotrosits herself. Cf. both her Rethinking Early Christian Identity: Affect, Violence, and Belonging (Kotrosits 2015a) and ‘Social Fragmentation and Cosmic Rhetoric: Interpretations of Isaiah in the Nag Hammadi Codices’ (Kotrosits 2015b). 12 Kotrosits 2015b: 29. 13 Kotrosits 2015b: 30 in reference to Hall 2003: 234. 14 Kotrosits 2015b: 30 in reference to Hall 2003: 235, 236. 15 Hall 2003: 238. 16 Kotrosits 2015b: 30. 17 Hall 2003: 245. 18 Ibid. 19 Anderson: 2010: 127. 20 Hall 2003: 248. 21 Kotrosits adds in a footnote Axel 2002. Axel analyses the Sikh diaspora in relationship to the Indian national state and government. He discusses the notion of ‘Khalistan’ (meaning land of the pure), a wished-for Sikh homeland ‘to set against constructions of India and Pakistan,’ conceived in the 1940s, and revitalized in the 1980s and 1990s when as many as 100,000 Sikhs had been killed in conflict with the Indian government. Khalistan in its recent evocation however meant not to describe a geographical location but rather a ‘global reality’ of identification. Particularly in the 1980s and 1990s, Sikh men were picked up, unlawfully imprisoned, tortured and killed. He describes the way this state-inflicted violence and torture of Sikhs was a crucial component of the Sikh diasporic subjectivity. The importance of and common display of graphic images of the tortured or dead bodies of shahids, or Sikh martyrs, worked to produce the Sikh subject ‘through gruesome spectacle … the authority of this spectacle, moreover, is elaborated through reference to a monstrous, inhuman Other: the Indian nation state’. (Hall 2003: 415). 22 Kotrosits adds in footnote 34: ‘For example, Rey Chow’s book Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993) critically examines the western academic self-interestedness in discussions of third world particularity, ‘the oppressed,’ and descriptions of cultural

134 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals pluralism. The western academic tendencies in discussions of non-western people have been either to regionally universalize (e.g., Said’s Orientalism) thus describing transcultural phenomenon, or almost fetishistically hyper-particularize (as in the cultural studies critiques of Said). In the latter tendencies, naming cultural particularity has been seen as an ethical redress, but for Chow, almost inevitably becomes a kind of poker-game of western (self-righteous) cultural sensitivity, as well as western attachment to an essentialized, ‘authentic’ other-cultural identity. Diasporic identity plays into this dynamic. She discusses discourses of Chinese poets and academics who are engaged with the western academy, noting how such poets and academics often compete for, trade on (or are accused of not) being “authentically” Chinese enough, either in their political alignments, theory or language. Being more “authentically Chinese” then ironically becomes the mode in which one’s status in the western academy is underwritten. She sees this happening in all sorts of identities that are considered marginal – feminist, Caribbean, queer – in which appeals to that identity are part of an upward mobility within academic circles.’ 23 Kotrosits 2015b: 198. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid.: 192. 26 Cf. Smith 2003: 17–42 and Taussig 2009: 7–19, 91–6, 183–99 the construction of belong by means of the Greco-Roman meal. 27 18Kotrosits 2015a: 194. Here I apply Kotrosits’s description of how diaspora constructs a belonging out of the tension between social fracture and imagined origins to describe a major function of Greco-Roman meals. 28 Hall 2003: 42. 29 Ibid.: 40. 30 As noted earlier in Kotrosits’s study of diaspora, there is an emerging consciousness that diasporic contexts and dynamics are throughout much of early Christ movement and early Christian texts. In many ways, further study of the combination of meal dynamics and diasporic meaning making is made easier because of the ways previous scholarship has acknowledged Matthew’s rootedness in the more noticeable dynamic of the people of Israel’s diaspora.

Bibliography Alikin, V. (2012), ‘Eating the Bread and Drinking the Cup in Corinth’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 119–30, Tübingen: Francke. Al-Suadi, S. (2011), Essen Als Christusglaübige: Ritualtheoretische Exegese paulinischer Texte, Tübingen: Francke. Anderson, Benedict, Rev ed., Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Verso, 2010. Ascough, R. S. (2012), ‘The Function of Meals in the Book of Acts)’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 119–30, Tübingen: Francke. Axel, B. K. (2002), ‘The Diasporic Imaginary’, Public Culture 14: 411–28. Balch, D., ed. (1991), Social History of the Matthean Community: Cross Disciplinary Approaches, Minneapolis: Fortress.

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Bauer, D. R. (2015), The Structure of Matthew’s Gospel: A Study in Literary Design, London: Bloomsbury. Braziel, J. E. and A. Mannur eds (2003), Theorizing Diaspora, Malden: Blackwell. Carter, W. (2004), Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading, London: T&T Clark. Charles, R. (2014), Paul and the Politics of Diaspora, Minneapolis: Fortress Chow, R. (1993), Writing Diaspora: Tactics of Intervention in Contemporary Cultural Studies, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Fortna, R. T. (2005), The Gospel of Matthew, The Scholar’s Version, Salem: Polebridge. Hall, S. (2003), ‘Cultural Identity and Diaspora’, in J. E. Braziel and A. Mannur (eds), Theorizing Diaspora, 223–46, Malden: Blackwell. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke. Klinghardt, M. (2012), ‘Bund und Sündenvergebung: Ritual und literarischer Kontext in Mt 26’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 159–90, Tübingen: Francke. Klinghardt, M., and H. E. Taussig, eds (2012), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, Tübingen: Francke. Kotrosits, M. (2012), ‘The Ekklesia and the Politics of the Meal’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 241–78, Tübingen: Francke. Kotrosits, M. (2015a), Rethinking Early Christian Identity: Affect, Violence, and Belonging, Minneapolis: Fortress. Kotrosits, M. (2015b), ‘Social Fragmentation and Cosmic Rhetoric: Interpretations of Isaiah in the Nag Hammadi Codices’, Forum 35: 22–44. Lachs, S. T. (1987), A Rabbinic Commentary on the New Testament: The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, Hoboken: Ktav. Larsen, L. (2012), ‘Meals and Monastic Identity’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 307–28, Tübingen: Francke. Luz, U. (2007), Matthew 1–7. A Commentary, trans. J. E. Crouch, Minneapolis: Fortress Malina, B. J. and R. L. Rohrbach (2003), Social Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels, Minneapolis: Fortress McGowan, A. (2012), ‘Eucharist and Sacrifice: Cultic Tradition and Transformation in Early Christian Ritual Meals’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 191–206, Tübingen: Francke. Miller, R. J. (2010), The Complete Gospels. The Scholar’s Version, Salem: Polebridge. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian Meal, Fortress: Minneapolis. Smith, D. E. and H. E. Taussig (2001), Many Tables: The Eucharist in the New Testament and Liturgy Today, Eugene: Wipf and Stock. Smith, D. E. and H. E. Taussig (2012), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan. Standhartinger, A. (2012), ‘Mahl und christliche Identität bei Justin’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 279–306, Tübingen: Francke. Taussig, H. E. (2009), In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity, Minneapolis: Fortress.

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‘Let Anyone Who is Thirsty Come to Me, and Let the One Who Believes in Me Drink’: The Johannine Jesus as the True Provider of Earthly and Heavenly Nourishment Esther Kobel

Introduction and overview: Meal scenes and metaphorical talk about food and drink in the Fourth Gospel Communal meals are a prime locus for identity formation. This insight originating from studies in sociology and cultural anthropology has been analysed and widely accepted across a broad spectrum of disciplines. Investigations into the history of religion as well as recent socio-historical studies demonstrate that believers in Christ convened for meals as did virtually any other group of people with a common interest in the Greco-Roman world in antiquity (Klauck 1982; Klinghardt 1996; Smith 2003; Taussig 2009). These meals were vital for the rapid growth and dissemination of the belief in Jesus as the Christ. Although the existence of a specific Johannine community cannot be proven by archaeological remains or by explicit references in ancient sources, it is reasonable to hypothesize a community of sorts (Culpepper 1975; Cullmann 1975; Brown 1979). These people developed their particular highly symbolic language with expressions referring to their shared history. Hence, the Johannine community is here referred to as the group within which and for which the Johannine Gospel was written. The role of meal narratives as well as metaphorical speech about food and drink in this Gospel are the focus of this article. It can be assumed that the Johannine community gathered for meals as was the custom for groups of this kind in Greco-Roman antiquity, therein creating the potential to form and consolidate the identity of this group of Christ believers. In all likelihood, these meal gatherings were the prime occasions on which the Johannine version of the Jesus story was told and passed along. The Johannine accounts, like those of the Synoptics, were conveyed orally and eventually written down in order to preserve the stories about Jesus, the Messiah, for all future time. These stories about meal gatherings, as well as the metaphorical references to food and drink, told at actual

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meal gatherings, would have provided additional meaning or a spiritual dimension to the possibly sparse physical nourishment shared on these occasions. With regards to meals, food and drink, the Gospel of John differs in a number of ways from its Synoptic counterparts. The act of eating with Jesus in the narrative present is not emphasized at all. The Johannine Jesus never expressly sits down at the table with tax collectors or sinners and, perhaps even more significantly, he does not institute the Eucharist. Nevertheless, a significant number of Johannine passages refer to the very topic of food, drink and communal meals. Their importance in the Fourth Gospel has not gone unnoticed by scholarship over the past years and a number of monographs and journal articles have been dedicated to the very topic (McKinlay 1996; Little 1998; Hodges 1996, 1999a, b; Webster 2003; Daise 2007; Kobel 2011; Warren 2015). Several passages in the Gospel of John expressly deal with the provision or consumption of food and drink, such as the wedding at Cana (Jn 2.1-12), the disciples buying food in the city of Samaria (Jn 4.8), the feeding of the five thousand (Jn 6.1-15), Jesus’s last meal with his disciples (Jn 13.21-30), the drink on the cross (Jn 19.28-30) and the meal on the shore of the Sea of Tiberias (Jn 21.1-14). A number of discourses, speeches and statements revolve around eating, drinking, thirst and hunger, such as: Jesus and the Woman of Samaria (Jn 4.5-15), Jesus’s rebuke of food provided by the disciples and the declaration that his food is doing the will of the one who sent him (Jn 4.31-38), the bread of life discourse (Jn 6.22-65), rivers of living waters for the thirsty (Jn 7.37-38), the father’s cup (Jn 18.11). Other passages are set in the context of meals: Lazarus’ resurrection is celebrated with a meal during which Mary’s anointment of Jesus’s feet foreshadows his own death. A last meal gathering with the inner circle of disciples prior to Jesus’s crucifixion serves as the occasion to institute the foot washing, to designate the betrayer and to give an elaborate talk on mutual indwelling of the disciples, better known as the farewell discourses (John 13–17). Finally, subsequent to the breakfast on the shore of the Sea of Tiberias, Jesus enters into a dialogue with Peter, ordering him to tend to his sheep (Jn 21.15-24).1 Some of these passages have parallels in the synoptic Gospels while many others are unique to John. The list in the above paragraph shows that meal scenes, as well as symbolic talk about food and drink, permeate the Fourth Gospel. These food references are set at crucial points of the narrative: The passages describing the wedding at Cana and the meal on the shore of the Sea of Tiberias mark the beginning and the end of Jesus’s earthly deeds. The wine miracle is Jesus’s first sign and, as the narrator points out, it is the way in which Jesus reveals his glory (ἐφανέρωσεν τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ, Jn 2.11). The effect of this revelation is that the disciples believe in Jesus. At the end of the Gospel, Jesus once again reveals himself to the disciples in the setting of a meal (ἐφανέρωσεν ἑαυτὸν πάλιν ὁ Ἰησοῦς τοῖς μαθηταῖς … ἐφανέρωσεν δὲ οὕτως, Jn 21.1, and emphasized again: τοῦτο ἤδη τρίτον ἐφανερώθη Ἰησοῦς τοῖς μαθηταῖς ἐγερθεὶς ἐκ νεκρῶν, Jn 21.14). Thus, the first and last occasions for Jesus to reveal himself in the Gospel narrative are both portrayed in the setting of a meal. In both passages the narrator comments on the significance of the scenes as occasions for Jesus to reveal his glory (δόξα, Jn 2.11), or to make himself seen fully. While the provision of wine generates belief in the disciples, the provision of food at the end of the Gospel respectively reassures Jesus’s followers that he takes care of them even after his death

138 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals and resurrection. The subsequent dialogue forms a final call to discipleship. The two meal passages at the beginning and end of Jesus’s earthly deeds thus complement each other and frame the earthly doings of the incarnate Logos. In between these two scenes, passages containing metaphorical talk about food and drink and a number of meal scenes permeate the Gospel. The most elaborate meal scenes with the longest discourses evolving out of them are contained in John 6 and 13–17. These passages along with John 4 are replete with metaphorical speech. Jesus promises water of eternal life. He is the provider of heavenly food and drink. Jesus himself is the living bread that came down from heaven (ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ἄρτος ὁ ζῶν ὁ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καταβάς, Jn 6.51). His flesh is the true food and his blood is the true drink. Whoever accepts this recognizes and respects Jesus. Chewing2 his flesh and drinking his blood express true belief in Jesus as the Messiah and appear as the condition for attaining eternal life. These passages are laden with intertextual markers and play with material from Old Testament and deuterocanonical traditions. Two examples from John 4 and 6 clearly illustrate this point. John 4 presents the scene of Jesus at the well with the Samaritan woman. In her very apt study of biblical invitations to eat, Judith McKinlay investigates traces of wisdom traditions in John 4 (McKinlay 1996: 179–207). McKinlay’s interest lies in the transformation of the inherently feminine motif of wisdom Sophia into a decidedly male one: In John 4 ‘the earthly manifestation of that relationship was not only masculine but a male person’ (McKinlay 1996: 181). The seemingly humane Jesus, tired and probably thirsty from his trip through Samaritan lands, asks the woman to give him a drink. Before his thirst is quenched with water from the well, Jesus transforms into the provider of living water and thereby reflects wisdom Sophia. However, it turns out that ‘Jesus offering the water of life is surely in some sense Jesus in the guise of Wisdom; but a male Jesus, offering the water to a woman’ (McKinlay 1996: 183) and thus reversing gender roles. The appertaining transformation of the female Sophia into a masculine Logos has been noted earlier already and discussed by, for instance, Meeks (1972: 44–72). The feminine dimension of the wisdom tradition is in danger of becoming invisible while the male Jesus appears as the true provider of food. Evidence of wisdom traditions (especially Prov. 3; 8; 9; Sir. 1; 14; 15 and 24) have also been discussed in John 6 (Maritz and Van Belle 2006: 349; Strotmann 2008). Both Sophia in Proverbs and Sirach, and the Johannine Jesus respectively appear as the providers of food for their audience (Prov. 9.2, 5; Sir. 1.16-17; 15.3). Intertextual relations beyond the wisdom traditions are perhaps even more prominent in the discourses following the feeding of the multitudes. In a study based on John’s interpretation of the Old Testament, Peder Borgen explores how John (as well as Philo) expounds the passage on manna in Exodus 16. Borgen shows how Jn 6.31-58 paraphrases words from the OT quotations in order to interweave them with haggadic fragments about manna (Borgen 1965). In his version of the bread from heaven, John depicts Moses in a negative way: It was not Moses who gave the bread but Jesus’s father in heaven (Jn 6.31). The Old Testament text is corrected through an alternative reading. Borgen argues that John’s use of present tense for God’s giving (πατήρ μου δίδωσιν, Jn 6.32; διδοὺς, Jn 6.33) instead of the perfect tense (Μωϋσῆς δέδωκεν) is another midrashic pattern of contrast.3 Together with the haggadic variant of the bread ‘coming down’

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instead of ‘being given’, the Johannine Jesus appears as versed in Jewish exegesis. He not only quotes from the Old Testament but also employs methods of interpretation from Jewish tradition. In summary: In John, the bread from heaven has been given the life-giving functions of Torah and wisdom. The presence of the bread is pictured with features from the theophany at Sinai and the invitation to eat and drink extended by wisdom. He who shares in the (preparatory) revelation at Sinai accepts the invitation and 'comes to' wisdom/Jesus (Jn 6.45). The midrashic formula of 'I am' receives in this context the force of the self-predication of wisdom with overtones from God's theophanic presentation of Himself. By combining ideas about the Torah, the theophany at Sinai and the wisdom, John 6.31-58 follows the lines suggested by the Prologue (1.1-18) where the same combination has been made. (Borgen 1965: 157). In both of these passages, drink, food and the provider thereof play a central role. In what follows, I explore in more depth the portrayal of those providing food and drink, and I will address some issues around the metaphorical talk about food and drink. Finally, I will discuss the potential impact of the passages on the implied reader.

1  The role of hosts and guests in the Fourth Gospel The first meal scene in the Gospel of John is the wedding at Cana. At the outset, the narrator informs the reader that the mother of Jesus is there. While Jesus and his disciples are explicitly said to have been invited to the wedding (ἐκλήθη Jn 2.2), it is interesting to note that her presence is simply characterized by ἦν ἐκεῖ (Jn 2.1). Yet it seems fair to assume that she is present as an invited guest as are Jesus and his disciples. The reader has no need to believe that this wedding is set ‘in a home where Jesus’ mother would have influence’ or ‘authority over servants’ (Scott 1992: 178). Nevertheless, when the wine runs out, the mother takes the initiative to organize more wine by proactively confronting Jesus with the fact that the wine had run out.4 Technically she only states a fact, perhaps simply calling for Jesus’s awareness of a desperate situation, not necessarily asking of her son to tend to the issue. Jesus speaks to his mother with the words: ‘Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come’ (Jn 2.4). This sentence has stimulated lengthy commentary. There is a general consensus among scholars that there is neither impoliteness nor a rebuke on the side of Jesus in addressing his mother by an impersonal term, yet it strikes the reader as somewhat odd. Some argue that what follows expresses ‘some refusal of an inopportune involvement’, and implies either hostility or plain disengagement (Brown 1966–70: 99). The hour foreshadows Jesus’s death. Despite the odd address to the mother, she instructs the servants to do whatever Jesus tells them. She seems to do so with self-confident authority and without any doubt that Jesus will intervene. It is possible to hear in her instructions to the servants an allusion to the Tanakhic expression in the mouth of the people of Israel: ‘Everything that the Lord has spoken we will do’ (Exod. 19.8; 24.3,7; Num. 32.31), or an echo of Pharaoh’s instructions to the Egyptians: ‘Go to Joseph; what he says to you, do’ (Gen. 41.55). Such echoes would increase the authority of Mary and her instructions. The servants follow Jesus’s

140 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals command and fill six stone jars to the brim. The headwaiter tastes the wine that had been transformed from water and comments on the serving priorities of wines of different qualities. By taking on the role of the bridegroom Jesus transforms from guest to host. Marriage imagery ‘with or without a banquet … often alludes to a restored relationship between God and people’ (Webster 2003: 40). Jesus not only provides a great abundance of wine. By providing the choice wine he also implicitly replaces the cultic purification waters and suggests that he is offering an alternative to traditional Jewish ritual practice. A subordinate theological motif of the water turned into wine may be sacramental, suggesting that the wine symbolizes Jesus’s blood poured out. The narrator ends the scene with the comment that this was the first of Jesus’s signs. The mother’s role is prominent in the scene in her interaction with Jesus as well as the servants. Yet her instructions to the servants may be unremarkable since women have always exercised authority in domestic affairs. The mother is the catalyst, but the miracle is clearly worked by her son. The sign of the water turned into wine creates belief among his disciples. John 4 presents a number of passages relevant to our topic. While the disciples are said to have gone to the city to buy food (Jn 4.8), Jesus is resting at the well of Jacob (Jn 4.7). He initiates a dialogue with a Samaritan woman whom he approaches by requesting a drink from her. Instead of serving him immediately, the woman asks how he, being a Jew, could ask her, a Samaritan woman, for a drink. Jesus immediately changes the agenda and focuses on himself as the person that’s offering water. Jesus and the woman engage in a discussion about the gift of God. Any reader aware of the Prologue and of Jn 3.16 will immediately identify Jesus with this gift of God and will know that he is the provider of living water, τὸ ὕδωρ τὸ ζῶν (Jn 4.11). According to biblical tradition, living water is salvific.5 The woman, however, wonders how Jesus wants to draw water from the well without a bucket. She clearly does not yet understand the significance of Jesus’s words. John plays with different levels. On the one level, there is the actual physical water that one draws from the well. We are not told whether the woman actually draws water from it for Jesus or whether his request for a drink merely serves to engage her into a conversation. On the other level, Jesus introduces into their discussion the water of eternal life which only he can provide. Instead of giving it to her, Jesus launches into a discussion with her about her husband and about proper worship. The woman comes to the conclusion that Jesus is the Messiah. The living waters that Jesus offers can therefore be understood as this insight which is synonymous with belief in Jesus. By playing with different levels of understanding John creates an ironic situation. On the one level, there is the apparent meaning of the water, which the unwitting woman reads.6 On another level the reader finds a metaphorical meaning of water that lies in sharp contrast to the woman’s perception of water. At the end of the scene the roles are reversed: the woman ends up not being a ‘giver’ of water at all but its recipient. The woman is the one to ask Jesus for the living water that he had promised, water that would quench her thirst forever and that will become a spring of water gushing up to eternal life in everyone who drinks this water. Again, in this account, Jesus’s role shifts from guest to host. He becomes the provider of living water that leads to eternal life.

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Right before the disciples return from their shopping trip, Jesus tells the woman that he himself is the Messiah. With the woman’s departure, the disciples return from the city and ask Jesus to eat with a straightforward imperative: ῥαββί, φάγε (Jn 4.31). Thereby they initiate the next discussion. The disciples appear as providers of food. Jesus, however, refuses what they have to offer and informs them that he has food to eat that they do not know of (ἐγὼ βρῶσιν ἔχω φαγεῖν ἣν ὑμεῖς οὐκ οἴδατε. Jn 4.32). The disciples do not understand that Jesus is speaking metaphorically and wonder whether someone had brought him food. Jesus then tells them that his food is to do the will of him who sent him and to complete his work (Jn 4.34) and teaches them about a different kind of harvest (Jn 4.27-38). This conversation about food balances the previous one about water. The disciples want to give Jesus real food. He, however, refuses it and, again on a metaphorical level, informs them that he has a different food that they do not know about. His food is to do the will of the one who has sent him. Again, in this passage, actual food is intermingled with metaphorical speech but with striking differences between them. Whereas Jesus requests real water for himself from the woman, he does not request food from the disciples. He even denies any need of it. In this passage, Jesus notably does not offer any food or drink to the disciples. The food functions metaphorically to unravel the identity of Jesus. It serves to highlight his origin as well as his divine commission. The feeding of the 5,000 on the shore of the Sea of Galilee shortly before Passover (Jn 6.1-15) introduces a long and theologically rich chapter highly relevant to our topic. Crowds of people follow Jesus because of the signs he has performed. Jesus asks Philip where they could get enough food to satiate them all. The omniscient narrator tells the reader that this question only served to test Philip. Jesus already knew how he wanted to deal with the situation. He is portrayed as being confident and self-assured with regards to the problem of providing food for a great number of people. While Philip answers that two hundred denarii would not suffice for enough food, Andrew informs Jesus about a little boy who has five barley loaves and two fish. Jesus orders the crowds to settle down. He takes the breads, speaks the blessing over them and distributes them among the hungry. He then does the same with the fish and gives it to the crowds until miraculously all 5,000 people are satiated. The leftovers fill twelve baskets. Again, as at the wedding of Cana, someone else provides the ‘material’ for Jesus to perform a sign, five loaves and two fish in this case. Jesus is the one to say the blessing for the food, thereby acting as the host and appearing as the confident provider of food. The crowds react by wanting to make Jesus king. This clearly indicates that they attribute the miracle to him. On the following day, a series of discussions around food and drink arise between Jesus and different groups of people. Jesus admonishes the crowds not to work for food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life (Jn 6.27). This metaphor of food leading to eternal life is to be expanded greatly in a sequence of dialogues. But first the crowds challenge Jesus to provide more signs to prove he is God’s emissary. Jesus tells them that his Father is the provider of true food, the true bread that comes down from heaven and gives life (Jn 6.32-33). Throughout the discourse, Jesus develops this notion and repeatedly calls himself the bread of life (ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ἄρτος τῆς ζωῆς, Jn 6.35, 41, 48). Whoever comes to him will never be hungry, and whoever believes in him will

142 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals never be thirsty. Jesus has come down from heaven to do the will of the one who has sent him and whoever believes in him will have eternal life. What follows is one of the most enigmatic and often-debated passages of the Gospel of John.7 Jesus repeats that he is the living bread (ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ἄρτος ὁ ζῶν, twice in Jn 6.51; note the difference between bread of life and living bread!). He equates the bread to his own flesh that he will give for the life of this world. The addressees ought to eat this bread, Jesus’s flesh, and drink his blood. When this order to the true believers is repeated, John employs the term τρώγειν for eating, emphasizing the act of chewing. This puzzling instruction to the audience is contrasted by Jesus’s comment that the true way of partaking in Jesus is through faith and spirit (Jn 6.27-29, 35, 63). Jesus appears as the provider as well as the substance of food that God offers to humankind. Eating his flesh and drinking his blood are made a condition for eternal life. The audience in the narrative as well as the implied readers is left wondering whether the discourses in John 6 are to be understood literally or metaphorically. Many among Jesus’s followers seem to understand Jesus’s words literally and take offence in his statements about his own identity. They abandon him and the narrator tells the reader about Jesus’s knowing the identity of his betrayer. The remaining disciples are those who understand properly, and they are introduced as the ‘Twelve’ for the first time (Jn 6.67). The Jews who are present at the scene disapprove of Jesus’s statement about himself and subsequently plot to kill Jesus (Jn 7.1). At the Festival of Booths, Jesus is portrayed as the one inviting those who are thirsty to come to him (Jn 7.37-39). Jesus offers drink for those who believe in him. Here again John employs words from the semantic field of food/drink language. The narrator explains that the water signifies the spirit. John 12 speaks of a meal scene in Bethany in the home of Lazarus. Whether the meal is in honour of Lazarus who had been raised from the dead or in the honour of Jesus who had performed this sign, remains unclear from the term (ἐποίησαν οὖν αὐτῷ δεῖπνον, Jn 12.2). Lazarus reclines with the other men. The festiveness of the meal is indicated by the use of the verb ἀνάκειμαι (Jn 12.2), suggesting that diners reclined as it was the custom for festive meals. In this passage, Jesus for once does not act as the provider of food. The men are served by Lazarus’s sister Martha (διηκόνει, Jn 12.2). It has been widely discussed whether the use of this verb indicates that Martha holds the office of a deacon as it is known from other New Testament texts.8 In the course of the meal, Mary anoints Jesus’s feet with valuable nard oil and then wipes his feet with her hair. The anointing appears as a proleptic anointing of Jesus for burial (Jn 12.7). Mary performs an extravagant act of devotion in the setting of this meal. She represents a believer who responds to the word of Jesus with a full confession of faith. John 13 offers the account of Jesus’s final meal with his disciples. Differing from the Synoptics, John’s is not a Passover meal but takes place before this festival (Jn 13.1). First there is the account of the meal as such; subsequently there are four entire chapters of discourses growing out of and following the meal in John 13. In these farewell discourses, John develops major themes like Jesus’s imminent departure, the relationship between Jesus and the Father, and the relationship between Jesus and his disciples. Differing from the Synoptic accounts, there is no information as to the whereabouts of this meal or on the preparations. Furthermore, Jesus does not distribute bread to all his disciples.

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He only dips a morsel of bread in the dish and hands it to Judas, thereby designating him as the one who will betray him. Thus, there is no account of an institution of the Eucharist. Instead, during the meal, Jesus washes his disciples’ feet. Normally foot washings took place before rather than in the course of a meal (cf. Thomas 1991: 26–60 on foot washing in Jewish and Greco-Roman contexts). Thus, Jesus’s act appears at an odd time and calls for a symbolic interpretation. Normally a servant would wash the master’s feet as act of cleansing as well as veneration. Jesus tells the disciples that they ought to follow his example and do for each other what he is doing to them. Following the foot washing Jesus launches into the farewell discourses in the course of which he identifies himself as the vine, the Father as the vinegrower and the disciples as the branches. Jesus as the vine sustains the branches so they can bear much fruit. The disciples produce fruit for others but remain dependent on Jesus without whom they cannot do anything. As Jesus hangs on the cross, he expresses thirst and receives a sponge soaked with vinegar (Jn 19.28-29). While Jesus is depicted as participating in meals in a number of passages, the scene on the cross is the single occasion on which Jesus is expressly said to be consuming by mouth. For once, Jesus is the recipient of drink. Jesus’s request for a drink takes on an ironic tone considering that he called himself the provider of living water that leads to eternal life. But the reason why Jesus expresses thirst is explained by the narrator. It is necessary to fulfil the Scriptures. Thereby the sip of water takes on a symbolic tone. He takes the sponge in order to complete his Father’s work. The Gospel’s final chapter offers yet another account of a meal within which Jesus acts as the provider of food. The disciples’ efforts to catch fish have been in vain. Jesus, still unrecognized by his disciples, tells them to cast their nets on the right side of the boat. This leads to the enormous catch of 153 fish, hauled ashore by Peter. In the meantime, Jesus has prepared food for the disciples. Only when he invites them to come and eat do they recognize him. Once again Jesus, by working the miraculous catch of fish and also by actually preparing food for the disciples, acts as the provider of food. Subsequent to the meal, Jesus engages in a dialogue with Simon Peter concerning leadership. The happenings on the shore of the Sea of Galilee demonstrate to the disciples as well as the implied audience that Jesus provides for their needs even after his death.

2  Conclusion: The provider of food par excellence evokes belief in his audience Meal scenes and metaphorical talk about food and drink permeate the Gospel. On the one hand, the real food and drink in the Johannine accounts is rudimentary: water, wine, barley, bread and fish. On the other, despite the miraculous transformation of water to wine and the abundance of bread and fish, Jesus offers his followers much greater nourishment: the living water and heavenly bread. The latter is equated to Jesus’s flesh. Jesus’s followers need to chew his flesh as well as drink his blood in order to attain eternal life.

144 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals This analysis demonstrates that Jesus appears as the provider of food par excellence. In various meal scenes, he evokes transformation or multiplication miracles and people are satiated. In his speeches, Jesus metaphorically speaks about food and drink. It is worth asking what the purpose of the metaphorical speeches and the depictions of Jesus as the only true provider of food during his lifetime as well as after his death might be. It has been suggested that the Fourth Gospel’s stories about communal meals and the discourses related to them spoke to everyday experiences of the Johannine community – perhaps more than any other Gospel passages. The Gospel characters serve as figures of identification for the post-Easter Johannine community, especially when its members met for meals. The meaning of these communal meals and other rituals would have been strongly influenced by the Johannine oral and literary traditions. The stories under scrutiny and discourses relating to them help to evoke and consolidate the belief in Jesus. This is in line with the Gospel’s self-declared purpose: that the signs have been written so that the Gospel readers may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God (Jn 20.31). The Gospel calls for a metaphorical imagination to be brought to bear upon the literal. The characters in the narrative need food that Jesus miraculously provides for them. At the same time, they are invited to consume the true nourishment that is offered to them: the belief in Jesus as the Messiah. For a community that very likely had to worry about earthly food, the heavenly food was made available to them through the Johannine texts, and served as the binding connection to Jesus, the founder of the community.

Notes 1 The integral version of the Fourth Gospel with its twenty-one chapters is the basis of my investigation. Due to the strong influence of literary criticism it has become customary to read the text as we have it. This by no means rules out the possibility that there has been a process of redaction. For arguments supporting the Fourth Gospel’s integrity, see, e.g. Barrett 1955; Ruckstuhl and Hengel 1987; Thyen 2007. 2 Translations of the verb τρώγω include to bite or chew food, eat (audibly) (Danker, Bauer and Arndt 2000: 1019). Aside from the four uses in John 6 (vv. 54, 56, 57, 58) this lemma appears only twice in the NT: in John 13.18 and Mt. 24.38 and nowhere in LXX or Philo or Josephus. The repeated use of the verb τρώγω in John 6 instead of the commonly used ἐσθίω draws attention to the reality of the physical eating. 3 Borgen argues that John takes a different vocalization of the assumed Hebrew underlying this passage, according to which ‫ נתן‬should be read ‫נותן‬. Thus, the giving of bread is continued (‫ )נותן‬and not a single occasion in the past (‫ )נתן‬but a reference to eschatological times; (Borgen 1965: 67). Borgen’s assumption of a Hebrew text underlying the Fourth Gospel, however, can hardly be held upright. 4 According to Derrett, the wine supply at weddings depended to some extent on the gifts that guests provided. Derrett (1963–64). 5 E.g. God as the ‘fountain of living water’ (Jer. 2.13; 17.13); the rivers flowing out from the temple precinct to all nations (Ezek. 47.12). In other passages of the Hebrew Bible water symbolizes God’s wisdom that grants life (Prov. 13.14; Isa. 55.1).

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6 Literal (mis-)understandings are a recurrent theme in the Fourth Gospel. For discussion of the misunderstanding by the Samaritan woman, see, e.g. Moloney and Harrington 1998: 117. 7 There has been a vast amount of literature on the sacramentality or lack thereof in John 6. For discussion and bibliography, see the very recent study by Meredith Warren (2015). 8 Acts 6.1-6, Phil. 1.1, 1 Tim. 3.8-13 all suggest that waiting at tables is a specific function of a deacon, and the reference to Phoebe in Rom. 16.1 suggests that this role could in fact be taken on by women. Recent studies, however, show that the verb διακονέω should not be limited to service at table, performed by women or slaves. Its primary meaning is to mediate something (Collins 1990), or to carry out an assignment or task (Hentschel 2007).

Bibliography Barrett, C. K. (1955), The Gospel According to St. John: An Introduction with Commentary and Notes on the Greek Text, London: SPCK. Borgen, P. (1965), Bread from Heaven: An Exegetical Study of the Concept of Manna in the Gospel of John and the Writings of Philo, Leiden: Brill. Brown, R. E. (1966), The Gospel According to John I, Garden City: Doubleday. Brown, R. E. (1970), The Gospel According to John II, Garden City: Doubleday. Brown, R. E. (1979), The Community of the Beloved Disciple, New York: Paulist Press. Collins, J. N. (1990), Diakonia: Re-interpreting the Ancient Sources, New York: Oxford University Press. Cullmann, O. (1975), Der johanneische Kreis. Sein Platz im Spätjudentum, in der Jüngerschaft Jesu und im Urchristentum, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Culpepper, R. A. (1975), The Johannine School: An Evaluation of the Johannine School Based on an Investigation of the Nature of Ancient Schools, Missoula: Scholars Press. Daise, M. A. (2007), Feasts in John: Jewish Festivals and Jesus’ ‘Hour’ in the Fourth Gospel, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Danker, F. W., W. Bauer and W. F. Arndt (2000), A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Derrett, J. D. (1963–4), ‘Water into Wine’, Biblische Zeitschrift, 7–8: 80–97. Hentschel, A. (2007), Diakonia im Neuen Testament: Studien zur Semantik unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Rolle von Frauen, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hodges, H. J. (1996), ‘Food as Synecdoche in John's Gospel and Gnostic Texts’, Ph.D. Thesis, University of California, Berkeley. Hodges, H. J. (1999a), ‘“Ethical” Dualism of Food in the Gospel of John’. Available online: http:​//cat​holic​-reso​urces​.org/​SBL/J​nLit-​1999-​Hodge​s.htm​l (accessed 22 July 2015). Hodges, H. J. (1999b), ‘Gift-Giving Across the Sacred-Profane Divide: A Maussian Analysis of Heavenly Versus Earthly Food in Gnosticism and John’s Gospel’. Available online: http:​//cat​holic​-reso​urces​.org/​SBL/J​nLit-​1999-​Hodge​sA.ht​ml (accessed 22 July 2015). Klauck, H.-J. (1982), Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult: Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum ersten Korintherbrief, Münster: Aschendorff. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke.

146 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Kobel, E. (2011), Dining with John: Communal Meals and Identity Formation in the Fourth Gospel and Its Historical and Cultural Context, Leiden: Brill. Little, E. (1998), Echoes of the Old Testament in the Wine of Cana in Galilee (John 2: 1–11) and the Multiplication of the Loaves and Fish (John 6: 1–15): Towards an Appreciation, Paris: J. Gabalda. Maritz, P. and G. van Belle (2006), ‘The Imagery of Eating and Drinking in John 6:35’, in J. Frey (ed.), Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language, 335–52, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. McKinlay, J. E. (1996), Gendering Wisdom the Host: Biblical Invitations to Eat and Drink, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Meeks, W. A. (1972), ‘Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism’, Journal of Biblical Literature 91 (1): 44–72. Moloney, F. J. and D. J. Harrington (1998), The Gospel of John, Collegeville: Liturgical Press. Ruckstuhl, E. and M. Hengel (1987), Die literarische Einheit des Johannesevangeliums: Der gegenwärtige Stand der einschlägigen Forschungen, Freiburg (Schweiz), Göttingen: Universitätsverlag; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Scott, M. (1992), Sophia and the Johannine Jesus, Sheffield: JSOT Press. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Strotmann, A. (2008), ‘Die göttliche Weisheit als Nahrungsspenderin, Gastgeberin und sich selbst anbietende Speise’, in J. Hartenstein (ed.), ‘Eine gewöhnliche und harmlose Speise’?: Von den Entwicklungen frühchristlicher Abendmahlstraditionen: 131–56, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Taussig, H. E. (2009), In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation & Early Christian Identity, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Thomas, J. C. (1991), Footwashing in John 13 and the Johannine Community, Sheffield: JSOT Press. Thyen, H. (2007), ‘Das Johannesevangelium als literarisches Werk’, in H. Thyen (ed.), Studien zum Corpus Iohanneum, 351–69, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Warren, M. (2015), My Flesh Is Meat Indeed: A Nonsacramental Reading of John 6:51-58, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Webster, J. S. (2003), Ingesting Jesus: Eating and Drinking in the Gospel of John, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.

12

Interpretations of the Eucharist in the Gospel of Philip Silke Petersen

1  Eating and the Eucharist in the Nag Hammadi codices and related documents The Gospel of Philip belongs to those texts that were lost for a long time and have only been rediscovered recently. In this case, this happened in the vicinity of the Upper Egyptian town of Nag Hammadi in 1945. For unknown reasons, thirteen papyrus codices (i.e. bound volumes) were buried there in the fourth century. In addition to these codices, two further retrieved papyrus codices exist that partially contain the same texts: The Codex Berolinensis (= BG) and the Codex Tchacos (= CT), which are for this reason connected to the Nag Hammadi Codices (= NHC). Generally, these texts are associated with the so-called ‘gnosis’ or ‘Gnosticism’. As detailed research projects on the individual texts progress, it becomes more and more evident that the writings do not represent a uniform movement that can be clearly distinguished from, for instance, Christianity. How difficult it is to actually employ the term ‘gnosis’, which has been inherited from early Christian polemics, is already apparent from the evaluation of the ‘gnostic’ attitude vis-à-vis sacraments in earlier research. Bousset, for instance, assumes that ‘the gnostic religion’ was pervaded by sacraments (Bousset 1907: 277), but Schmithals, for example, opined that ‘sacramental piety’ was principally alien to Gnosticism (Schmithals 1969: 233, with reference to: Irenaeus, Haer. I 21,4). In recent research, such mutually exclusive positions are not to be found anymore. A key reason for this is that ‘Gnosticism’ as a category has been called into question (King 2003; Williams 1999). Instead of an approach that continues evaluations that have been passed on from the church fathers into modern research of Gnosticism, detailed analysis of the individual texts is called for (cf., e.g. DeConick, Shaw and Turner 2013). When examining the retrieved writings as they were just mentioned in relation to the topic of the present volume, a first observation is that meals are mentioned surprisingly infrequently and also Eucharistic terminology1 is only mentioned rarely. If ‘eating’ is mentioned at all, this occurs virtually exclusively in the context of expositions and retellings of the book of Genesis, that is, the ‘eating’ involved is that from the fruit of the tree of knowledge2 – this does little to further our understanding of ancient meals.

148 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals However, three exceptions exist. To begin with, two fragmentary texts from NHC XI are of relevance. In scholarship, they have been given the designations ‘A Valentinian Exposition: On Eucharist A’ and ‘Eucharist B’,3 as in the first text the word ⲉⲩⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥⲧⲉⲓ (partially restored) occurs and in the second there are multiple instances of the word ⲧⲣⲟⲫⲏ (food), in between various lacunae. In terms of content, it is difficult – due to the many gaps in the text – to be more precise than these observations, however. The second exception is the Gospel of Jude (CT 3),4 the contextualization and evaluation of which has been a matter of fierce debate ever since its first modern edition. This controversy also pertains to possible references to the Eucharist in the document (cf., e.g. Rouwhorst 2011; Schmid 2012; Schwarz 2012). In a scene towards the beginning of the writing, Jesus reacts with laughter when he sees how his assembled disciples are sitting together and are ‘offering a prayer of thanksgiving (ⲉⲩⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥⲧⲓ) over the bread’ (cf. Gos. Jud. CT p. 33,26–34,3; trans.: Kasser and Wurst 2007: 187). The laughing is likely to be interpreted as his distancing himself from the behaviour of the others. To what extent this concerns simply an instance of breaking of bread or whether this concerns in principle a critical attitude towards the Eucharist is a matter of debate in scholarship, among other things because of the difficulties to evaluate how the ‘Eucharist’ mentioned in the beginning of the text relates to the ‘sacrifices’ that are being critiqued later on. This also makes one aware of a problem in the descriptive vocabulary used here that we will encounter more frequently. Even though the texts use ‘Eucharistic’ terminology, that is, forms of the Greek verb εὐχαριστεῖν or of the noun εὐχαριστία occur in forms adapted to Coptic, such vocabulary does not determine whether a prayer of thanksgiving, as was common at ancient meals, is in view, or whether these formulations are connected with something that could legitimately be interpreted in association with a ritual praxis such as it occurs in New Testament texts such as 1 Cor. 11.20-34. The third text contains much more in relation to the topic ‘meals’ and ‘Eucharistic practice’. This text is the Gospel of Philip and it will be the focus of what follows. The Gospel of Philip is the third text contained in the second Nag Hammadi codex (i.e. NHC II.3), where it can be found right after the Gospel of Thomas (Gos. Thom., NHC II.2). Scholarship has typically assigned it to Valentinianism,5 even if Valentinus was probably not the author himself, and dated it to the late second or early third century CE. Different from the Gospel of Jude, the Gospel of Philip offers only positive statements about the Eucharist, unfortunately, however, concrete indications as to its performance are almost totally absent. This leads to the difficulty that the Gospel of Philip presumes and interprets something which is unknown to us as readers in as far as its performance is concerned, and which we can only deduce from its interpretation.

2  The Eucharist in the Gospel of Philip 2.1  Methodical considerations Given the situation as it was just outlined, the interpretation of the available Eucharistic terminology in the Gospel of Philip depends heavily on the manner in

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which the writing as a whole is contextualized. In particular, older research assumes that it is a ‘gnostic’ text and uses patristic polemics against ‘gnostic’ movements as a key to unlock the context and background of the text.6 A particular understanding of the text is thereby introduced a priori: as the church fathers wanted to distance themselves from a movement and a theology that they considered to be ‘heretical’, they emphasized those aspects that did not conform to the characteristics of their understanding of the ‘Christian’ tradition – aspects that were similar or comparable were of lesser interest to them (for a thoroughgoing critique of this approach, see King 2003). Hans-Georg Gaffron’s study of sacraments in the Gospel of Philip of 1969 is paradigmatic in this respect. When reviewing the relevant texts about the Eucharist,7 he repeatedly states that what is being said is fully within the spectrum of a common Christian view of things – and proceeds then to look for a specifically ‘gnostic’ meaning. I will proceed differently here: I will take my point of departure in Gaffron’s observation concerning the ‘common Christian’ character of the text and use the findings of Thomassen, who has shown that both Valentinianism and the Gospel of Philip knew of no other sacramental practice than the one that was also known to other Christian communities from the same era (Thomassen 2006: 3; 386, 394; 398– 401; Thomassen 2017: 1836; cf. also Turner 1996: 5; Pagels 1997: 281–2).

2.2  Water, wine and blood The Gospel of Philip mentions the usual material elements of the Eucharist, which are then the subject of reflection: The cup (ⲡⲟⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ) of prayer contains wine and water, since it is appointed as the type (ⲧⲩⲡⲟⲥ) of the blood for which thanks is given (ⲉⲧⲟⲩⲣⲉⲩⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥⲧⲉⲓ). And it is full of the holy spirit, and it belongs to the wholly perfect man. When we drink this, we shall receive for ourselves the perfect man.8

The chalice, wine and water were common material components of the celebration of the Eucharist in early Christianity and also the interpretation of the wine as blood will hardly surprise anyone (cf., e.g. the parallel in Justin, 1 Apol. 65). Furthermore, the text contains allusions to the New Testament. In scholarship,9 usually the echo of the Pauline formation in 1 Cor. 10.16 is emphasized: Τὸ ποτήριον τῆς εὐλογίας (in other manuscripts: εὐχαριστίας) ὃ εὐλογοῦμεν, οὐχὶ κοινωνία ἐστὶν τοῦ αἵματος τοῦ Χριστοῦ; τὸν ἄρτον ὃν κλῶμεν, οὐχὶ κοινωνία τοῦ σώματος τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐστιν; (cf., e.g. Gaffron 1969: 174; Wilson 1962: 161; Schmid 2007: 339–41; Schenke 1997: 456). Whereas Paul underlines the communion with the blood and body of Christ, the interpretation in the Gospel of Philip focuses on the ‘entire human being’ whom we will receive for us. In doing so, the phrasing used in the Gospel of Philip does not oppose 1 Corinthians, rather, it uses a different perspective to consider the same event. In fact, the Gospel of Philip does so in a double-edged manner, as it is typical of this text. To begin with, the blood is ‘full of the holy spirit, and it belongs to the wholly perfect man’, that is, it is the blood of Christ who is considered to be the

150 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals ‘perfect man’ (cf. Gos. Phil. #15; p. 55,9f., where Christ is identified as the ‘perfect man’; cf. also Gos. Phil. #116b; p. 79,33–80,4.). By means of drinking the blood, we absorb Christ into ourselves. Behind this understanding, a second level of meaning appears: By means of drinking the blood we are ourselves transformed into the ‘perfect man’ and thus become ‘christoform’. In a different place in the Gospel of Philip, a text can be found that also interprets sacramental acts and names the result of a successful transformation as follows: ‘For this person is no longer a Christian but a Christ.’10

2.3  Processes of transformation Following this association one can see that a shift occurs in the Gospel of Philip: The text does not emphasize the ‘transformation’ of the elements of the meal, but the transformation of the person who consumes them. In the end, the act of drinking changes the body. Whether this line of argument is indeed correct can only be evaluated when considering further texts from the Gospel of Philip. At this point, it can only be pointed out that this way of thinking is anything but uncommon in early Christian theology. The ideal of becoming perfect can be found both in the New Testament (Mt. 5.48; Eph. 4.13; Col. 1.28) and in the writings of the church fathers.11 In view of the Matthean summons to become perfect like God, the perception of the Gospel of Philip that someone is ‘no longer a Christian but a Christ’ can hardly be classified as exaggeratedly idealistic (or specifically ‘gnostic’). Yet, Christ remains the decisive figure for the entire process, which means that no identification of redeemer and redeemed (salvator and salvandus) occurs and the hierarchical relationship between the two is preserved (Similarly: Thomassen 2006: 101). The fact that this transformation has something to do with the body is confirmed by the context of the statement. It is immediately followed by a text, which is no longer concerned with the Eucharist, but with baptism: The living water is a body (ⲥⲱⲙⲁ). It is necessary that we put on the living man. Therefore, when he is about to go down into the water, he unclothes himself, in order that he may put on the living man.12

Whereas the previously quoted statement about the Eucharist, refers to the ‘perfect human being’ in the end (‘we shall receive for ourselves the perfect man’), this text concludes with a reference to the ‘living human being’ (‘he may put on the living man’). Because of the parallel structure the expressions ‘perfect’ and ‘living human being’ mutually interpret each other, just like the two rituals of baptism and Eucharist are presented in a parallel manner. Also the baptismal text plays with the double-edged nature of what it refers to: Following the ‘we’ in the beginning of the text, the grammar shifts to the third person singular, thus creating a situation in which ‘he’ can refer both to Christ at his baptism and to each individually baptized person. By means of this, associations with New Testament texts become possible, for instance with the ‘living water’ or with ‘being clothed with Christ’ or ‘with the new human being’ (Jn 4.10-11; 7.38; Rom. 13.14; Gal. 3.27; Eph. 4.24).

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2.4  The body as holy Another text in the Gospel of Philip is also concerned with Eucharistic praxis and the body. This text quite obviously argues against a theology that is hostile to the body: The holy man is completely holy, down to his very body (ⲥⲱⲙⲁ). For if he has taken the bread, he will consecrate it. Or the cup (ⲡⲟⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ) or anything else that he gets, he will consecrate. Then how will he not consecrate the body also?13

This text can again be interpreted in a double manner: with reference to Jesus Christ who takes the bread, and sanctifies it (by means of an act similar to what is reproduced in the contemporary usage of ‘words of institution’), or with reference to the individual believers, who through their ‘incorporation’ of the bread are assimilated to the holy body. The question at the end of this text may indicate that a counterargument had been provided here against all those who have little regard for the body and do not think it capable of being sanctified. This would, therefore, be an argument against those holding a position that is typically associated with ‘Gnosticism’. The first of these interpretations is, in a certain way, more conventional: Christ and the holy person (Isenberg translates ‘priest’) who follows him sanctify the bread and the chalice. The second interpretation, however, can also be contextualized well within early Christianity. This interpretation would indicate that the sacred is ‘contagious’, that it is able to expand. This is a position that Gerd Theißen has shown to be a key characteristic of the early Christian system of values (Theißen 2000: 156–67). Like in the case of the first Eucharistic text, quoted earlier, this text is also followed by a statement about baptism, by means of which both ritual acts appear in connection with each other: By perfecting the water of baptism, Jesus emptied it of death. Thus we do go down into the water, but we do not go down into death in order that we may not be poured out into the spirit of the world. When that spirit blows, it brings the winter. When the holy spirit breathes, the summer comes. (Gos. Phil. #109; p. 77,7-15)

This text presupposes a rite of baptism that involved the entire body (as it was common in early Christianity). In the case of his own baptism, Jesus changed the water into an element that brings life, rather than death. Again, the account describes a transformative event, which is less surprising in relation to baptism than it is in relation to the Eucharistic texts.

2.5  Sacraments and the hidden truth The double parallel between Eucharist and baptism in both texts cited above gives rise to the observation that ritual acts in Gos. Phil. ought to be interpreted continuously in relation to their symbolic interpretation. This is also evidenced by a further section of the text, which is generally regarded as the starting point for a more general discussion of ‘the sacraments’ in Gos. Phil., but which ought to be read cautiously: The lord [did] everything in a mystery (ⲙⲩⲥⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ), a baptism (ⲃⲁⲡⲧⲓⲥⲙⲁ) and a chrism (ⲭⲣⲓⲥⲙⲁ) and a eucharist (ⲉⲩⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥⲧⲓⲁ) and a redemption and a bridal chamber (ⲛⲩⲙⲫⲱⲛ).14

152 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The Coptic text uses a number of Greek loanwords. The first of them, ⲙⲩⲥⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ, cannot be interpreted as a terminus technicus for the sacraments, as they are enumerated subsequently. Research into the use of the term ⲙⲩⲥⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ in the Gospel of Philip has shown that this word refers to what is mysterious and hidden. It does not provide an official designation of the sacraments.15 Already the use of the singular ⲙⲩⲥⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ points in a different direction. Gaffron and others therefore suspect that the Greek background of the term may be μυστηριωδῶς, in a mysterious way (Gaffron 1969: 109; Thomassen 2006: 95). Also the indefinite article that precedes the items that are enumerated shows that this is not a general list containing juxtaposed ritual acts of equal significance in generic use, but that something else is at stake. At the centre of things seems to be the mysterious manner in which Christ acts. Behind this view is the manner in which the Gospel of Philip conceptualizes the way in which human beings can find access to the truth, which is influenced by Platonism: The mysteries (ⲙⲩⲥⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ) of truth (ⲁⲗⲏⲑⲉⲓⲁ) are revealed, though in type (ⲧⲩⲡⲟⲥ) and image (ϩⲓⲕⲱⲛ). (Gos. Phil. #124; p. 84,19-20)

Just like in the first text quoted above, here reference is made to ‘typos’. In the previous text, the chalice with wine was the ‘typos’ of the blood filled with the Holy Spirit, the consumption of which lead to acquiring the ‘perfect man’.16 When considering these two texts together, then it becomes apparent that Christ reveals the truth through baptism, Eucharist and so on in a ‘typological’ way, that is, by means of an image. The reason for this is that we are only able to receive the truth in this manner, as another text indicated: The truth (ⲁⲗⲏⲑⲉⲓⲁ) did not come into the world naked, but it came in types (ⲧⲩⲡⲟⲥ) and images (ϩⲓⲕⲱⲛ). The world will not receive truth in any other way. (Gos. Phil. #67a; p. 67,9-12)

Types and images are therefore ‘garments’ of the truth, which cannot exist ‘naked’ in the world. They participate in the truth, but in a hidden, mysterious way. The same applies also to the ‘names’ or ‘concepts’ in the Gospel of Philip, which are both criticized for being insufficient and nonetheless necessary: Names given to the worldly are very deceptive, for they divert our thoughts from what is correct to what is incorrect. … But truth brought names into existence in the world for our sakes because it is not possible to learn it without these names. Truth is one single thing; it is many things and for our sakes to teach about this one thing in love through many things. (Gos. Phil. #11a; p. 53,23-27; Gos. Phil. #12c; p. 54,13-18)17

This quotation contains the beginning and the end of a longer discussion about the ‘names’ with which the Gospel of Philip associates itself with the (middle-)platonic discussion about ‘names’ that has its starting point in the dialogue Kratylos.18 In doing so, the Gospel of Philip touches on two aspects of the discussion in particular.

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First, it goes along with a deep scepticism concerning the sensible nature of earthly designations (see above). Second, the writing also values etymological derivations very highly and uses it as the basis for far-reaching conclusions, to which I will return later. If one reads the texts that have been quoted so far in relation to each other, it appears that rituals such as baptism and Eucharist are no special cases when it comes to the road towards the ‘truth’, understood as an ideal, transcendent quantity, but that the discussion here expresses a general understanding of the structure of the reality in which we exist (i.e. the ‘world’), to the essence of which it belongs that we can approach the higher levels of reality only by means of symbols, images and concepts. Types and images are necessary vehicles to progress on the platonic journey to the realm above, to the truth.19 Such an interpretation would also help to make sense of a rather opaque remark about the material elements used in the rituals: So it is also with the bread and the cup and the oil, even though there is another one superior to these. (Gos. Phil. #98; p. 74,36–75,2)

Bread and chalice refer to the Eucharist and oil points to the anointing, which is also often interpreted in the Gospel of Philip. In the immediately preceding and only fragmentarily preserved text, the subject is baptism, from which someone apparently emerges while laughing. The connection between that text and this quotation by means of ‘so it is also’ creates a parallel between different ritual acts once again. In this case, Eucharist and anointing are paralleled with baptism. What is, however, that which is superior to them? I can discern two possibilities. First, when taking one’s cue from texts such as Gos. Phil. #68 and #95a,20 one could assume that that what is superior is redemption and/or the bridal chamber. Second and alternatively (or additionally), it could also be a reference to the platonic ‘change of levels’, which is necessary because the truth transcends its ‘types’ and also the ritual acts are only, even if necessary, types and images.21

2.6  Elements of the Eucharistic discourse and the Genesis account All of the elements that we have encountered so far can also be found in other parts of the Gospel of Philip. These elements are the following: The idea that the Eucharistic and other rituals are transformative in nature, their multi-layered description, and the numerous New Testament associations and references, which are used in a creative way. To this, Genesis allusions should be added, which opens a further level in the interpretation of the rituals: Before Christ came there was no bread in the world, just as Paradise, the place where Adam was, had many trees to nourish the animals but no wheat to sustain man. Man used to feed like the animals, but when Christ came, the perfect man, he brought bread from heaven in order that man might be nourished with the food of man. (Gos. Phil. #15; p. 55,6-14)

154 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The first sentence is surprising at first. The statement that there was no bread in the world prior to Christ seems to be plainly wrong, given that agriculture and the cultivation of wheat had been around since archaic times. Also, the ancient readers of the Gospel of Philip may well have known that people were eating bread even in the time of the Old Testament. However, ‘paradise’ should be taken into account as an important element here: Only following the expulsion from the garden of Eden, agriculture began (Gen. 3.17-19), thus concluding a period during which human beings and animals sustained themselves on a simple diet of fruit etc. (cf. Gen. 1.29-30), which is, according to the Gospel of Philip, a period of an ‘animalistic’ nourishment. This period is contrasted with the time after the coming of Christ, in which he, as the perfect human being establishes a human kind of nourishment by providing ‘bread from heaven’.22 This may well be an allusion to the heavenly bread (ἄρτον ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ) mentioned in Jn 6.31, where Christ himself is the bread (cf. Jn 6.51: ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ἄρτος ὁ ζῶν ὁ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καταβάς). Eating this bread leads to life eternal (cf. Jn 6.52, 54). Whereas the Johannine discourse on the bread of life refers back to motifs from the epoch of Israel’s sojourn in the wilderness (Christ, the ‘bread from heaven’, is interpreted on the background of the heavenly manna – cf. Petersen 2008: 201–34), in the Gospel of Philip the counterimage to the new heavenly bread is the breadless time in paradise. By means of the usage of a comparative particle following the first statement (‘just as’ – Coptic: ⲛ︤ ⲑⲉ), the fact that Christ’s gift of the bread did not follow on the expulsion from paradise immediately is glossed over. The period between Genesis 3 until John 6 is contracted to such an extent that it virtually disappears, while the variously intersecting biblical references create the potential for new meanings. Simultaneously, the text contains a stumbling stone right from the very start. It is a kind of riddle that slows down the process of reading intentionally and facilitates the associative recourse to biblical texts. A similar way of steering the reader by means of provoking a certain irritation can also be observed in other parts of the Gospel of Philip.23

2.7  Eucharist and the incarnation Recourse to John 6 is made also in another part of the text, thereby confirming the relations in the text quoted above. Additionally to the reference to John 6 also a quotation from 1 Corinthians occurs: ‘Flesh (ⲥⲁⲣⲝ) [and blood shall] not inherit the kingdom [of God]’ (1 Cor. 15.50). What is this which will not inherit? This which is on us. But what is this, too, which will inherit? It is that which belongs to Jesus and his blood. Because of this he said, ‘He who shall not eat my flesh (ⲥⲁⲣⲝ) and drink my blood has not life in him’ (Jn 6.53). What is it? His flesh is the word (ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ), and his blood is the holy spirit. He who has received these has food (ⲧⲣⲟⲫⲏ) and he has drink and clothing. (Gos. Phil. #23b; p. 56,32–57,8)

Here, an exegetical question pertaining to 1 Corinthians is discussed with reference to the Gospel of John. In 1 Corinthians the question is asked with which body the dead will be raised (cf. 1 Cor. 15.35). In line with this, immediately preceding this text the

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problem is mentioned that ‘some are afraid lest they rise naked’ and therefore want to be raised in the flesh (ⲥⲁⲣⲝ). The Gospel of Philip argues against these ‘some’: They are not aware of the fact that precisely those who are clothed with flesh are naked – and the other way around.24 This argument is followed by a quotation from 1 Cor. 15.50 (σὰρξ καὶ αἷμα βασιλείαν θεοῦ κληρονομῆσαι οὐ δύναται) and the question which kind of flesh will or will not inherit the kingdom of God. The flesh and the blood of Jesus are the kind of flesh and blood that will inherit, in particular by entering into the kingdom of God. Precisely this connection between different kinds of flesh and blood is supported by means of the quotation from John 6: Eating the flesh of Jesus and drinking his blood leads to life.25 This is again met with a question: ‘What is it?’ The answer is given in terms of an interpretation of the Gospel of John, even if 1 Corinthians remains at the background. The answer is: ‘His flesh is the word (ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ), and his blood is the holy spirit. He who has received these has food (ⲧⲣⲟⲫⲏ) and he has drink and clothing.’ It surprises at first sight because of the seemingly superfluous ‘and clothing’ at the end of the sentence.26 Whereas food and drink correspond with the flesh and the blood from the previous sentence and the quotation from the Gospel of John, the reference to clothing requires a return to the problem concerning the resurrection body that was discussed initially and that is solved here: by means of the ‘consumption’ of Jesus a new kind of clothing is acquired, that is, such consumption transforms the body into a body that can enter into the kingdom of God because it is ‘christoform’.27 What remains open in this interpretation, however, is the interpretation of flesh and blood in terms of word (ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ) and Holy Spirit, which indicates yet another shift to a further level of meaning. In extant scholarship of this interpretation, recourse is made to, for instance, the mythological idea of the ‘syzygies’ as it existed in Valentinianism. Gaffron makes an attempt to understand the interpretation along these lines, but he admits himself that there is no evidence for a ‘syzygy’ out of the logos and the Holy Spirit in the Gospel of Philip.28 It is more promising, therefore, to take into consideration the fact that the Gospel of Philip engages in textual exegesis here and to make recourse to the context of the Johannine text. The statement ‘His flesh is the word’ would then allude to Jn 1.14 (ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο) as well as to the fact that the quotation from John 6 is a ‘word’ of Jesus.29 Accordingly, the flesh of Jesus can be described as ‘logos’ because the ‘logos’ itself has indeed become flesh. Evidence for the conviction that the Gospel of Philip is not just connecting concepts randomly can also be found in the Gospel of John: Jn 6.51vv. is the only pericope (with one exception) after the prologue in which σάρξ is used again. An interpretation of the Eucharistic eating in line with the statement about the incarnation in the prologue is therefore already suggested by the Gospel of John itself: The incarnation is a precondition for the salvific effect of Jesus’s σάρξ. With this, the question remains whether the connection which the Gospel of Philip makes between the Holy Spirit and blood (‘his blood is the Holy Spirit’) can be fitted in this context determined by the notion of the incarnation.30 Again recourse to the Gospel of John provides a way forward, as there in two of the five instances where σάρξ occurs also the spirit (πνεῦμα) is mentioned (cf. Jn 3.6; 6.63).31 Furthermore, Jesus also announces that the spirit of truth will, in the shape of the paraclete, testify on his behalf following his departure and lead the faithful into the full truth (cf. Jn 15.26; 16.13)

156 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals By means of locating this spirit in the Eucharistic blood of Jesus, the Gospel of Philip creates a shift in the Johannine statements, namely a shift in the direction of a less dualistic way of theologizing, given that σάρξ and πνεῦμα are not being contrasted, as it happens in Jn 3.6 and 6.63, but are two dimensions that are both simultaneously present in the performance of the Eucharist, in which according to the Johannine line of thought – further developed in the Gospel of Philip – both the body of Jesus and the spirit/paraclete are present and are ‘incorporated’ in such a manner that the human body is transformed in the process.32 Thus, the Gospel of Philip witnesses to a further development of Pauline and Johannine insights that consistently takes seriously ideas and statements about the incarnation. Also, the last text to be discussed here can well be contextualized in this setting.33 In this case, however, the exegetical starting point is provided not by a quotation of or an allusion to biblical texts, but in an etymological deduction: The Eucharist (ⲧⲉⲩⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥⲧⲉⲓⲁ) is Jesus. For in the Syrian language he is called pharisatha, which means ‘that which is spread out’. For Jesus became one who was crucified to the world (ⲕⲟⲥⲙⲟⲥ).34

Etymological deductions based on Syriac play a role in the Gospel of Philip in several instances (cf. also Gos. Phil. #17.19.39.47). In this case, the root ‘prs’, ‘to divide, break’ provides the background. Its derivate that is at stake here ‘is indeed used in Syriac as a name for the eucharistic bread, with reference to the breaking and the distribution of the bread (cf. τò κλάσμα in Greek)’ (Thomassen 2017: 1844, cf. Schmid 2007: 351). Again, therefore, the text is double-edged, in this case concerning the two meanings ‘broken’ and ‘being spread out’ (cf. Schmid 2007: 351). This ambiguity permits the equation of the Eucharistic bread with Jesus, who hangs ‘spread out’ on the cross.35 Attempts in extant scholarship to interpret this in ‘gnostic’ terms, even when scholars admit also that this is not a very obvious course of action,36 seem to be quite unconvincing to me. The text is much rather concerned to take the incarnation seriously to such an extent that also the crucifixion, as the consequence of the incarnation, is integrated into the incarnational understanding of the Eucharist.

3 Conclusion Eucharistic language is only rarely used in the Nag Hammadi documents and related texts with the sole exception of the Gospel of Philip. There is no indication that the Eucharistic practise behind this Gospel was different from those of other early Christian texts and movements – as far as we are able to reconstruct them. What happens during Eucharistic meals is reinterpreted in the Gospel of Philip applying New Testament texts and even quoting from them. An additional layer is added through the connection with the Genesis account. The content of the (re)interpretation strongly emphasizes the human ability for transformation and for becoming a ‘perfect human being’ like Christ himself. The Eucharist is paralleled with other ‘sacraments’ (even if they are not named in this way since the terminology is later and derives from Latin), which are

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given like the Eucharist ‘in a mysterious way’ by Christ. If we read the complicated and double-layered texts closely we can see that the body has a high value in them and – fitting with this observation – that a special emphasis is given to the incarnation of Christ through a consequent application of Johannine theology, which even includes the crucifixion: The Eucharist is ‘spread out’ like Jesus on the Cross.

Notes 1 I do not intend to give a a priori definition of ‘Eucharist’ or ‘Eucharistic terminology’ here. Instead I am looking for words like εὐχαριστία linked with references for bread/body and wine/blood which are according to my prior experience with early Christian texts often connected to something we may now call ‘Eucharist’. My method is thus inductive rather than deductive, which I find more fitting to the subject in question since nobody really knows what Eucharist is. 2 See for instance Gos. Truth (NHC I,3: p. 18); Tri. Trac. (NHC, I,5: p. 107); Gos. Phil. (NHC II,3: #88, p. 71); Ap. John (NHC III,1: p. 28 / BG 2: p. 57f); Hyp. Archons (NHC II,4: p. 88–90); Orig. World (NHC II,5: p. 110.118–120); Testim. Truth (NHC IX,3: p. 45–47). On the hermetic texts from NHC VI, cf. the contribution of Jan ­Heilmann in this volume. 3 NHC XI,5, p. 43, 20–44, 37; see Turner 1990: 148–51; cf. also Thomassen 2006: 355–60; Lundhaug 2013, who doubts the connection between the fragments and Valentinianism. 4 The first edition with an English translation is: Kasser, Meyer and Wurst 2006; the first edition to include a Coptic text is: Kasser and Wurst 2007. 5 This is generally assumed, for the discussion, see Thomassen 1997. On Valentinus and the surviving fragments of his writings, see Markschies 1992; Thomassen 2006: 417–90. 6 The polemic against the ‘magician Marcus’ plays a special role as it can be found in: Ireneaus, Haer. I, 13. I will not discuss this texts and texts similar to it in what followers, because I assume, with Förster, 1999: 401, that the acts that Irenaeus describes are not eucharistic in nature. For a different view, see Thomassen 2017: 1846–8. 7 Cf. Gaffron 1969: 174–85. The more recent study Schmid 2007 proceeds in a similar manner. Doubt concerning such an approach is already voiced by Van Eijk 1971. 8 NHC II,3; #100; p. 75, 14–21; transl. Isenberg 1989: 193. The references first provide the numbering according to Schenke, 1997 = Schenke, 2013, followed by the page and line number of the Coptic papyrus. Unless indicated otherwise, I will use the translation of Isenberg. Square brackets indicate restorations of the text. 9 Schenke even makes a conjecture in the Coptic text in order to assimilate it to 1 Cor. 10.16, which does not seem to be necessary to me, however. 10 Gos. Phil. #44, p. 67, 23–24. The context indicates that this is not an automatic effect. Cf. Gos. Phil 67,19-27; Thomassen 2006: 354–5. – It should be noted that here like elsewhere in the Gospel of Philip a clearly Christian self-understanding can be found. 11 Cf., e.g. Clement, Strom. VI, Book, XII 104,2; Origen, Cels. VI,63; Irenaeus, Haer. III, 19,1 (cf. also Fragm. 28 in Theodoret, Eran. 1; Brox, FC 8,3, 1995: 238): ‘Denn dazu ist das Wort Gottes Mensch geworden und der Sohn Gottes Menschensohn, damit der Mensch das Wort in sich aufnehme und, die Sohnschaft annehmend, zum Sohn Gottes werde. Denn anders konnten wir die Unvergänglichkeit und Unsterblichkeit

158 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals nicht empfangen, als indem wir mit der Unvergänglichkeit und Unsterblichkeit vereinigt wurden.’ – Reference may also be made to an appeal to Plato, Theaet. 176ab, that was used frequently in Neoplatornism. Here the ὁμοίωσις θεῷ is presented as an ethical goal, cf. on this, for instance: Zintzen 1981: X; Dillon 1977: 44. 114. 122f. 145. 299f. 12 Gos. Phil. #101, p. 75, 21–5. 13 Gos. Phil. #108; p. 77,2–7. Different from Isenberg, I do not translate the subject of the first sentence not with ‘priest’, but with ‘holy man’, in order to retain the verbal repetition in the Coptic text (ⲡⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲉⲧⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ ϥⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ ⲧⲏⲣϥ) and in order to avoid narrowing down the meaning of the text. This of importance the Gospel of Philip refers to the ‘priest’ as ⲓⲉⲣⲉⲩⲥ elsewhere and because such a person is only mentioned in relation to the Holy of the Holies (cf. p. 69,21; p. 85,5). Accordingly, Schenke offers the translation ‘Der heilige Mensch ist ganz und gar heilig einschließlich seines Leibes’. 14 Gos. Phil. #68, p. 67, 27–30. According to Thomassen 2006: 355, 376, 405, 427, 457 ‘redemption’ and ‘bridal chamber’ are not reference to distinct rituals, rather they are different interpretations of a ritual. Similarly: Lundhaug 2010: 325–6. 15 Cf. Gaffron 1969: 108–9; Schmid 2007: 28–33. – The use of the term ‘sacraments’ could also be regarded as anachronistic when used to analyse the Gospel of Philip, because it constitutes a Latin category that refers to a sophisticated and official system of cultic acts. It is striking how many contributions to the discussion refer to ‘sacraments’ already in their titles, cf. Segelberg 1960; Gaffron 1969; Tripp 1982; DeConick 2001; Schmid 2007. 16 Gaffron 1969: 175, remarks concerning this: ‘Es liegt also keine Transsubstantiation vor, sondern die abbildliche Anwesenheit einer geistlichen Wirklichkeit.’ 17 Schenke translates the latter text as follows: ‘Aber die Wahrheit ließ Namen in der Welt entstehen um unseretwillen, die wir sie nicht erkennen können ohne die Namen. Eine einzige ist die Wahrheit. Und doch ist sie vielgestaltig und zwar unseretwegen, um (uns) diesen einen, so weit wie möglich, erkennen zu lassen durch vieles.’ 18 Cf., e.g. Dillon 1977: 181–2. The opposite of the scepticism regarding names in the Gospel of Philip can be found in, for instance, the middle-platonic teaching manual Didaskalikos VI, 10-11 (text in Summerell/Zimmer 2007, 16–19), where the names are qualified as sensible. In the platonic dialogue Kratylos both positions are being discussed. The emphasis on etymology found in this text is also extant in the works of Philo of Alexandria. 19 Cf. Gaffron 1969: 109, who paraphrases #68 as follows: ‘Christus offenbarte alles (= das Verborgene, die Wahrheit, sich selbst) in geheimnisvoller Weise, nämlich in Taufe, Salbung, Eucharistie, Erösung und Brautgemach. Diese Handlungen sind insofern geheimnisvoll, als sie τύποι und εἰκόνες der höheren Wirklichkeit sind. Sie sind gewissermaßen die irdische Hülle, in der die Wahrheit in der Welt anwesend wird, wie § 67 (= S.67,9-11) es ausdrückt.’ 20 Gos. Phil. #68 was quoted above, #95a reads as follows: ‘The chrism is superior to baptism, for it is from the word ‘chrism’ that we have been called ‘Christians’, certainly not because of the word ‘baptism’. And it is because of the chrism that ‘the Christ’ has his name. For the father anointed the son, and the son anointed the apostles, and the apostles anointed us’ (p. 74, 12–18). 21 On types and images as foundational concepts in the Gospel of Philip see Schmid 2007: 34–44. 22 Related is also another reference to food which occurs in the Gospel of Philip in a context where the trees of paradise are mentioned again: ‘This world (ⲕⲟⲥⲙⲟⲥ) is a

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23

24

25

26

27

28 29 30 31 32

33

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corpse-eater. All the things eaten in it themselves die also. Truth (ⲁⲗⲏⲑⲉⲓⲁ) is a lifeeater. Therefore no one nourished by [truth] will die. It was from that place that Jesus came and brought food (ⲧⲣⲟⲫⲏ). To those who so desired he gave [life, that] they might not die’ (#93, p. 73,19–27). See statements like ‘For it is by a kiss that the perfect conceive and give birth’ (#31, p. 59, 2f.). In my view, such statements are intended to provoke the reader and to further a questioning and searching attitude in the process of interpretation and an openness for level shifts concerning meaning and reference. At this point the text is damaged, but it is clear that it has contained an inverse variation of the preceding half sentence. Schenke fills out the damaged parts and translates it as follows: ‘Einige fürchten sich davor, entblößt aufzuerstehen. Deswegen wollen sie auferstehen im Fleisch. Und sie wissen nicht (, daß da gilt): Die mit dem [Fleisch] bekleidet sind, sind es, die entblößt sind; die sich (von ihm) entblößen [können, sind es, die] nicht entblößt sind’ (Gos. Phil. #23a, p. 56, 26–32). The quotation is not exact, but Jn 6.53 (ἐὰν μὴ φάγητε τὴν σάρκα τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου καὶ πίητε αὐτοῦ τὸ αἷμα, οὐκ ἔχετε ζωὴν ἐν ἑαυτοῖς) is, by means of using a singular and the replacement of the expression ‘son of man’ (as in Jn 6.54; ὁ τρώγων μου τὴν σάρκα καὶ πίνων μου τὸ αἷμα ἔχει ζωὴν αἰώνιον) adapted in such a manner that it suits the context in the Gospel of Philip. For a discussion of New Testament quotations in the Gospel of Philip in general, see Gaffron 1969: 32–62. Cf. Turner 1996: 233: ‘The inclusion of ‘clothing’ along with food and drink is interesting: the clothing in a white robe after baptism is a minor element in some relatively early Syrian baptism rites, while the image of the oil and the water as a garment clothing the person is prominently featured in the understanding of the change wrought by initiation in several.’ Cf. above on physical transformation in Gos. Phil. #100, which is confirmed in this way. See also the interpretation of Thomassen 2017: 1840: ‘The Eucharist provides us with the flesh in which we will rise, and it does so by means of the food and drink offered in the sacred meal, which also provide “clothing”’. Gaffron 1969: 178–9; also Schmid 2007: 172–3.320–37, who undertakes a ­‘gnostic’ interpretation of this passage, in particular by making use of the polemics of Irenaeus. Cf. Jn 6.60, where the preceding discourse of Jesus is called ὁ λόγος οὗτος. It is worth recalling that this connection also occurs in the first quotation from the Gospel of Philip, cf. #100; p. 75, 14–21. Cf. Jn 3.6: τὸ γεγεννημένον ἐκ τῆς σαρκὸς σάρξ ἐστιν, καὶ τὸ γεγεννημένον ἐκ τοῦ πνεύματος πνεῦμά ἐστι, and Jn 6.63: τὸ πνεῦμά ἐστιν τὸ ζῳοποιοῦν, ἡ σὰρξ οὐκ ὠφελεῖ οὐδέν· τὰ ῥήματα ἃ ἐγὼ λελάληκα ὑμῖν πνεῦμά ἐστιν καὶ ζωή ἐστιν. Cf. also Thomassen 2017: 1839: ‘The “reception” of “the perfect human” in the sacramental meal in the form of the wine and the bread representing his flesh and blood is conceptually homologized with the reception of the incarnated Saviour as a salvation historical event and is seen as a ritual enactment of that event.’ I refrain from an interpretation of Gos. Phil. #26b, p. 58, 10–14 (He said on that day in the thanksgiving [ϩⲛ̅ ⲧⲉⲩⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥⲧⲉⲓⲁ], ‘You who have joined the perfect light with the holy spirit, unite the angels with us also, as being the images’), as I do not consider this to be a text referring to the Eucharist. To mark this Schenke translates here ‘Danksagung’ and Isenberg ‘thanksgiving’. At the beginning of the text, ‘on that day’ refers to the previous paragraph that deals with the New Testament account of the transfiguration and neither the Eucharist nor eating plays any role whatsoever.

160 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 34 Gos. Phil. #53; p. 63.21-24; Translation by Thomassen 2017: 1844. Isenberg translates at the end: ‘ for Jesus came to crucify the world.’ The last subordinate clause is difficult (ⲉϥ⸌ⲥⲧⲁⲩⲣⲟⲩ  ⲙ̅ –ⲡⲕⲟⲥⲙⲟⲥ); its context suggests, however, that a passive interpretation of the verb with an indirect indication of the object is the more plausible interpretation. For a more detailed discussion, see Schenke 1997: 330; Thomassen 2017: 1844f; Gaffron 1969: 182–3; different: Schmid 2007: 356–9. 35 Cf. Thomassen 2017: 1844: ‘The point the Gospel of Philip wishes to make consists in the association between the distribution of the bread in communion and the “spreading out” of Jesus’ body on the Cross’. 36 Cf. Gaffron 1969: 183: ‘Der ganze Paragraph weist nicht spezifisch Gnostisches auf; nicht einmal der Schlußsatz müßte einem orthodoxen Christen anstößig erscheinen.’

Bibliography Bousset, W. (1907), Hauptprobleme der Gnosis, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Brox, N., ed. (1995), Irenäus von Lyon, Adversus haereses / Gegen die Häresien III, Freiburg: Herder. DeConick, A. D. (2001), ‘The True Mysteries: Sacramentalism in the Gospel of Philip’, VC 55: 225–61. DeConick, A. D., G. Shaw and J. D. Turner, eds (2013), Practicing Gnosis: Ritual, Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Hammadi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature, Leiden: Brill. Dillon, J. (1977), The Middle Platonists. A Study of Platonism 80 B.C. to A.D. 220, London: Duckworth. Förster, N. (1999), Marcus Magus. Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischer Gnostikergruppe. Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Gaffron, H.-G. (1969), ‘Studien zum koptischen Philippusevangelium unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Sakramente’, Ph.D. diss., Faculty of Protestant Theology, University of Bonn. Isenberg, W. B. (trans.) and B. Layton (text) (1989), ‘The Gospel According to Philip, Nag Hammadi Codex II,3’, in B. Layton (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7, Bd. I, Gospel According to Thomas, Gospel According to Philip, Hypostasis of the Archons, Indexes, 129–217, Leiden: Brill. Kasser, R., M. Meyer and G. Wurst (2006), The Gospel of Judas from Codex Tchacos, Washington: National Geographic Society. Kasser, R. and G. Wurst, eds (2007), The Gospel of Judas, together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and a Book of Allogenes from Codex Tchacos, Washington: National Geographic Society. King, K. L. (2003), What Is Gnosticism?, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lundhaug, H. (2010), Images of Rebirth: Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis on the Soul, Leiden: Brill. Lundhaug, H. (2013), ‘Evidence of “Valentinian” Ritual Practice? The Liturgical Fragments of Nag Hammadi Codex XI (NHC XI,2a-e)’, in K. Corrigan and T. Rasimus (eds), Gnosticism, Platonism, and the Late Ancient World: Essays in Honor of John D. Turner, 225–43, Leiden: Brill,

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Markschies, C. (1992), Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchungen zur valentinianischen Gnosis mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Pagels, E. (1997), ‘Ritual in the Gospel of Philip’, in J. D. Turner and A. McGuire (eds), The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years: Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration, 280–91, Leiden: Brill. Petersen, S. (2008), Brot Licht und Weinstock. Intertextuelle Analysen johanneischer Ichbin-Worte, Leiden: Brill. Rouwhorst, G. (2011), ‘The Gospel of Judas and Early Christian Eucharist’, in J. van den Berg, A. Kotzé, T. Nicklas and M. Scopello (eds), ‘In Search of Truth’: Augustine, Manichaeism and other Gnosticism, 611–25, Leiden: Brill. Schenke, H.-M. (1997), Das Philippus-Evangelium (Nag Hammadi-Codex II,3), Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Schenke, H.-M. (2013), ‘Das Evangelium nach Philippus’, in H.-M. Schenke, U. U. Kaiser and H.-G. Bethge (eds), Nag Hammadi Deutsch. NHC I-XII, Codex Berolinensis 1 und 4, Codex Tchacos 3 und 4., 140–63, 3rd edn, Berlin: De Gruyter. Schmid, H. (2007), Die Eucharistie ist Jesus: Anfänge einer Theorie des Sakraments im koptischen Philippusevangelium (NHC II 3), Leiden: Brill. Schmid, H. (2012), ‘Eucharistie und Opfer. Das “Evangelium des Judas” im Kontext von Eucharistiedeutungen des zweiten Jahrhunderts’, Early Christianity 3: 85–108. Schmithals, W. (1969), Die Gnosis in Korinth, 3rd edn, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schwarz, K. (2012), ‘Die Kultpolemik im Evangelium des Judas’, Early Christianity 3: 59–84. Segelberg, E. (1960), ‘The Coptic-Gnostic Gospel According to Philip and its Sacramental System’, Numen 7: 189–200. Summerell, O. F. and T. Zimmer, eds and trans (2007), Alkinoos, Didaskalikos. Lehrbuch der Grundsätze Platons, Berlin: de Gruyter. Theißen, G. (2000), Die Religion der ersten Christen. Eine Theorie des Urchristentums, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Thomassen, E. (1997), ‘How Valentinian is the Gospel of Philip?,’ in J. D. Turner (ed.), The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years, 251–79, Leiden: Brill. Thomassen, E. (2006), The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the ‘Valentinians’, Leiden: Brill. Thomassen, E. (2017), ‘The Eucharist in Valentinianism’, in D. Hellholm and D. Sänger (eds), The Eucharist – Its Origins and Contexts. Sacred Meal, Communal Meal, Table Fellowship in Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity Vol. III, 1833–49, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tripp, D. H. (1982), ‘The “Sacramental System” of the Gospel of Philip’, StPatr 17: 251–60. Turner, J. D. (text and trans.) (1990), ‘NHC XI,2: A Valentinian Exposition, with 2a: On the Anointing; 2b,c: On Baptism A and B; 2d,e: On the Eucharist A and B’, in C. W. Hedrick (ed.), Nag Hammadi Codices XI, XII, XIII, 89–172, Leiden: Brill. Turner, M. L. (1996), The Gospel According to Philip. The Sources and Coherence of an Early Christian Collection, Leiden: Brill. Van Eijk, A. H. C. (1971), ‘The Gospel of Philip and Clement of Alexandria. Gnostic and Ecclesiastical Theology on the Resurrection and the Eucharist’, VC 25: 94–120. Williams, M. A. (1999), Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’. An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Wilson, R. McL. (1962), The Gospel of Philip: Translated from the Coptic Text with an Introduction and Commentary, London: Mowbray. Zintzen, C., ed. (1981), Der Mittelplatonismus, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.

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Part Three

Acts

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13

Meals as a Literary Motif in Acts of the Apostles Dennis E. Smith

Introduction The overall genre of Acts is most closely related to ancient historical novels (Pervo 2009: 170). The author creates a literary world that utilizes historical figures and some historical data, but the story he tells follows his own literary agenda. He is an accomplished writer and utilizes a variety of sub-genres and literary motifs throughout his narrative. In this essay, we will explore how meals function as a literary motif in Acts and what they reveal about the larger literary world that Acts is creating. Acts is best understood as a product of the early second century CE (Pervo 2006). Thus, the literary world of Acts functions within the context of the second century rather than the first half of the first century (Pervo 2006; Smith and Tyson 2013). Since there was not yet a commonly accepted model of ‘Eucharist’ as we know it (Smith 2007), the meal scenes will not be read as ‘Eucharistic’ nor as stepping stones towards the Eucharist. Rather they will be interpreted as components of the literary agenda of Luke-Acts. Meals as a literary motif in the Greco-Roman world were embedded in meals as a social reality and vice versa (Smith 2003: 47–65, 240–75). The meal being described or referenced may not have actually happened in that way, or at all, but its literary description draws on motifs that functioned within the cultural understanding of banquet form and values. Formal meals in the ancient Mediterranean world were reclining banquets which followed a ritual order as defined in the culture. The focus was on the sharing of food, wine and conversation in such a form that social bonding or community formation took place. Plutarch called it the ‘friend making character of the dining table’ (Quaest. conv. 612D–E; Smith 2003: 9–10, 54–5). Within the banquet community, social equality among the diners was assumed, but in practice it was often in tension with an emphasis on honouring the status stratification of the diners (Smith 2003: 10–2, 55–8). Those who bonded at the dinner table also took on an ethical responsibility towards the group as a whole, a phenomenon I call social obligation (Smith 2003: 10). Because the meals in Acts are communal and assumed

166 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals to have significance, they are not ordinary meals but rather formal meals or banquets. Therefore they should be analysed according to the banquet literary model.

1  Acts 2.42-47 as a paradigmatic text The importance of meals as a literary theme in Acts is epitomized by Acts 2.42-47. It contains components of two separate sub-genres, association by-laws and utopian literature.

1.1  Acts 2.42-47 and association by-laws Acts 2.42-47 has numerous parallels to by-laws of Greco-Roman associations (Smith 2013b: 159–61; Ascough 2012: 211–15; Öhler 2005). The primary difference is in the genre. Associations wrote by-laws in a type of ‘legal’ language which were then inscribed on stone or written on papyrus and posted at the meeting place. Acts is written in a descriptive narrative form. They also differ in another key respect. Association by-laws provided rules for actual meal practice. Acts 2.42-47 describes an idealized community of the distant past. In my translation below, I have given special attention to the affinity of Acts 2.42-47 to association by-laws. The new members were diligent in following the by-laws instituted by their recognized leaders, the apostles, namely to be loyal to the community, to participate in all of its communal meals, and to practice faithfully the prescribed communal prayers. 43A sense of awe pervaded the community as deeds of supernatural power were performed in their midst under the authority of the apostles. 44All of these believers were united in one community in which they shared all their goods, 45even to the point that goods and properties were sold and the proceeds given to members in need. 46Their time was spent in daily devotion to the rites in the temple and to the communal meals in their homes, meals that were characterized by festive joy and equal sharing with all.1 47They exemplified a communal life devoted to the praise of God and, as a result, were well regarded by all outsiders. On a daily basis, newcomers who were led by the Lord to join them were added to their rolls. 42

The statutes of the Zeus Hypsistos association (first century CE) provide useful comparative data (Roberts, Skeat and Nock 1936: 40–2; Smith 2003: 106). The law which those of the association of Zeus the highest made in common, that it should be authoritative. / 5Acting in accordance with its provisions, they first chose as their / president Petesouchos the son of Teephbeenis, a man of parts, worthy of the place and of the company, / for a year from the month and day aforesaid, / that he should make for all the contributors one banquet a month in the sanctuary of Zeus, / at which they should in a common room pouring libations, pray, and perform the other customary rites / 10on behalf of the god and lord, the king. All

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are to obey the president / and his servant in matters pertaining to the corporation, and they shall be present at / all command occasions to be prescribed for them and at meetings and assemblies and outings. / It shall not be permissible for any one of them to … make factions or to leave the brotherhood of the president for another, / 15or for men to enter into one another’s pedigrees at the banquet or / to abuse one another at the banquet or to chatter or to indict or accuse another or to resign / for the course of the year or again to bring the drinkings to nought.

Both the Acts idealized community and the Zeus Hypsistos association were governed by rules that defined their community life together, a community life that centred on the communal meal. The rules of the Acts idealized community are defined by the ‘by-laws’ (ἡ διδαχή ‘teaching’) of the apostles and those of the Zeus Hypsistos association by its statutes (ὁ νόμος, literally ‘law’). The communal meal in Acts is defined as ‘breaking of bread’ (ἡ κλάσις τοῦ ἄρτου, 2.42, 46). It is called a posis and a symposion in the statutes of the Zeus Hypsistos association, both of which can be translated ‘drinking party’ or simply ‘banquet’. Whereas the Acts idealized community practiced some of its rituals at the temple (ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ) and its communal meals in the dining rooms of houses (κατ᾿ οἶκον, 2.46), the Zeus Hypsistos association met ‘in a common dining room’ (ἐν ἀνδρῶνι κοινῶι) located ‘in the sanctuary of Zeus’ (ἐν τῶι τοῦ Διὸς ἱερῶι). At their common meals, the Acts idealized community practiced faithfully the communal prayers as prescribed by the apostles, prayers whose content is not specified. Similarly, at the banquet meetings of the Zeus Hypsistos association, they were to ‘pour libations, pray (εὐχέσϑωισαν), and perform the other customary rites (τὰ νομιζόμενα)’, but it is not clear what was the content of ‘customary rites’. What is clear is that religious rituals appropriate to the gathered group were regularly practiced.

1.2  Acts 2.42-47 and utopian literature The utopian ideal was embedded in the Greco-Roman banquet as a guide to proper behaviour (Klinghardt 1996: 163–74). In Acts 2.42-47, that ideal is expressed as a literary motif. According to Richard Pervo, ‘utopias are a type of symbolic universe set up in opposition or contrast to the phenomenal universe’ (1994: 176). In the phenomenal world, food was always in short supply, famine was common and the poor were especially vulnerable. In a utopia, food is bountiful and available to all, even the poor. References to utopias are common in Greek and Roman literature (cf. the examples collected in Pervo 1994: 175–8). In the biblical tradition, examples range from the garden of Eden story (Gen. 1.29-30; 2.8-9) to the prophets (Isa. 25.6) to apocalyptic literature (2 Bar. 29.5-8; Rev. 20–21; Pervo 1994: 178–82. See also the discussion of the messianic banquet in Smith 2003: 166–71). Utopias were also a common motif in ancient Roman novels which, as Pervo has shown, functioned as a primary model for the narrative genre of Acts (1987: 69–70). In the Gospel of Luke, the purpose of Jesus’s ministry was especially focused on bringing ‘good news to the poor (4.18)’ and ‘feeding the hungry (6.21)’. The Gospel addressed the issue of caring for the needy by envisioning a patron class, exemplified

168 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals by Zacchaeus, who gave half of his possessions to the poor (19.8-9). In Acts, the care for the poor becomes embedded in the community itself. The community functions by means of a radical communal sharing of properties. Those who owned ‘goods and properties’ sold all they had for the specific purpose of distribution to the needy as seen in 2.44-45 and 4.32-37. These texts envision a stratified membership that includes a patron class as well as a significant proportion of poor and needy. The utopian community needed maintenance from time to time, aided by the power of God. Like the practice of associations in which those who did not pay their dues were penalized,2 so also in Acts, those who did not give their fair share were penalized as well. This is the theme of a warning story in Acts 5.1-11. Here a certain Ananias conspired with his wife, Sapphira, to hold back some of the proceeds from the sale of their properties. Peter became aware of this and accused them of ‘lying to God’. As a result, they were both struck dead. In Acts 6.1-6, another disciplinary matter was addressed. In this case, there was a dispute about inequities in the distribution of food to widows. The solution was to appoint spirit-filled individuals who were charged with the task of overseeing the food distribution (διακονεῖν τραπέζαις, ‘waiting on tables, serving meals’ [Danker 2000: 1013]).3 It was a matter of utmost importance to the community that its identity as defined in 2.44-45 and 4.32-37 be maintained. Thus, the direct involvement of the power of God was invoked. These texts together reinforce the idea that ‘care for the needy’ was primarily concerned with the provision of food, particularly at the daily communal meals (2.46; 6.1).

2  ‘Breaking bread in their homes’: The communal meal and the house In order to unpack the literary formula ‘breaking bread in their homes (2.46)’ and how the reader of Acts might understand it, we need to investigate how the ancient house functioned as a social environment (Smith 2012a and b). Most of the archaeological evidence for the form and function of ancient houses derives from the dwellings of the elites, primarily because they are the best preserved. In the literary world of Acts, however, the social level of householders was much lower than that of elites. The characters who break bread from house to house are not tagged as elites; when the author wants to name elites (or semi-elites) among the converts, he does so with emphasis (e.g. 13.7-12; 17.34; Pervo 2009: 404). Whether elite or modest in size, houses shared some features in common. They all had dining rooms or rooms that could function as dining rooms. Often in elite homes, the dining rooms would be indicated by permanent stone couches or by designs laid out in the mosaic floor indicating where couches would go. The standard model for a dining room in the Roman world was the triclinium, in which three large couches were arranged in a u-shape. Each couch was designed to hold three reclining diners so that a standard dinner party had room for nine diners, although in a pinch twelve or more might be crowded together on the couches. Some elites were known to host a banquet in a large space in which a crowd might be accommodated, but the preferred dining

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arrangement, as verified in countless archaeological examples, was the small gathering of diners in a standard triclinium (Smith 2012a: 103–10, 113–17; Smith 2013a). The reason why a small gathering was preferred is because it enhanced the social expectations of banquet protocol. It was to be a communal gathering where everyone could share in the same food, wine and conversation and thereby bond together in friendship. Large gatherings were considered by Roman moralists to be a travesty to the social intent of the banquet. If both space and the provisions are ample, we must still avoid great numbers, because they in themselves take away the pleasure of conversation. … People who bring together too many guests in one place … allow only a few to enjoy each other’s society, for the guests separate into groups of two or three in order to meet and converse. (Plut. Quaest. conv. 679A-B)

How might a modest or less-than-modest home provide a space for reclining? The most likely form they used was the stibadium, which was an alternative to the triclinium. A stibadium was a crescent shaped dining arrangement which could hold approximately the same number of diners as the triclinium. It was a more flexible format to that of the triclinium since it could be set up with cushions on the floor of a small room or even outdoors (Smith 2012a: 105–6, 108–9, 113). It is easy to envision as an option in modest housing, since the stibadium did not require furniture. Both the triclinium and the stibadium were designed for reclining in a format whereby the diners were facing one another. The emphasis was on a shared social interaction among the diners. Why reclining instead of sitting? The reclining posture was the expected form for any communal meal of significance (Smith 2003: 14–18). That is why the meals of Jesus in all four gospels are always described as reclining meals (Mk 1.15; 6.39-40; 8.6; 14.3; 14.18; and parallels). The genius of reclining is that it could be practiced anywhere, outdoors on the ground or in a small room that had been equipped with cushions. You did not have to be an elite householder to provide a reclining banquet. To be sure, reclining is never mentioned in Acts (though it is regularly mentioned in Luke, as in 5.29; 7.36; 9.14; 11.37; 14.7-10; 17.7; 22.14; 24.30). That they reclined can be inferred from the fact that they ate communal meals in houses and that their meals together had social and theological significance. The reader of Acts, being familiar with the social form and ideology of the banquet, would assume that the communal meals in Acts would be reclining banquets.4

2.1  ‘Breaking bread’ and other meals Rhetorically, the singling out of breaking and sharing bread as a ritual moment at the beginning of a communal meal functioned to refer to the meal as a whole. As a descriptive term, it places an emphasis on sharing food together, widely understood as a component feature of social bonding at the meal. In Plutarch, it is the sharing from the same wine bowl that is singled out as the primary symbol of bonding or ‘friend making’ at the table (Quaest. conv. 614E, 615A). Paul referred to both the sharing of bread and wine as creating koinonia with the Lord Jesus (1 Cor. 10.16-17). In Luke-

170 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Acts, the phrase ‘breaking bread’ (κλᾶν ἄρτον) is the preferred expression for the theme of social bonding at the table. This is the term used in Lk. 9.16 in the story of the feeding of the 5,000 (Lk. 9.10-17, based on Mk 6.30-44) and in 14.19, Luke’s version of the Last Supper (a combination of Mk 14.22-25 and 1 Cor. 11.23-25). In the Emmaus story (Lk. 24.13-35), which is unique to Luke, it is at the moment of the breaking of the bread that the risen Lord is recognized by the two companions who travelled the road with him (24.30, 35). Note that the meal scene takes place at the end of the journey, when they invite him into their home and they recline at a meal together (24.28-31). The Emmaus theme is echoed in the first scene in Acts, when the risen Lord commissions the eleven while at a meal with them (1.4). The term translated ‘during a meal’ (Pervo 2009: 31) is συναλίζειν, which in its basic form means ‘eat at the same table, with focus on fellowship; eat salt with, eat with’ (Danker 2000: 964). In the Acts story, once the ascension takes place (1.6-11), references to the presence of the risen Lord at community gatherings do not occur. A reference to eating with the risen Lord occurs later in the story but only as a reminiscence of the commissioning scene that took place before the ascension (10.41). In addition to 2.46, the term ‘breaking bread’ occurs twice more in Acts, at 20.7-12 and at 27.35. Acts 20.7-12 is an extended scene of a community gathering in a house. In the introduction to the story, meeting on the first day of the week for a communal meal, or ‘breaking bread’, was their regular practice (20.7); this contrasts with 2.46 in which the communal meals took place on a daily basis.5 The meeting is held in Troas on the coast of Asia Minor on the third floor of a private dwelling (20.8-9). Pervo describes it as an ‘urban tenement’ and proposes ‘this was a worship setting familiar to Luke and his readers’ (2009: 510). The space for the gathering would have been small and, since they had gathered for the purpose of the communal meal, the reader would assume that the meeting space was set up for a reclining meal. If there were a large number of guests, they would simply be crowded closer together in the reclining position; however, the story does not specify an overflowing crowd. Why, then, was Eutychus sitting in the window? The reader might assume that it was because he was a slave (Pervo 2009: 510n52) serving as an attendant at the meal; thus, he did not have a reclining position. He fell asleep because Paul talked so long, and also, perhaps, because of the soporific effect of the many lamps. Since he fell three stories, the narrative assumes he was dead and that Paul brought him back to life (Pervo 2009: 510–11). They then all returned upstairs and began the communal meal with the ritual breaking of bread, during which Paul continued to speak for the rest of the night. This text, towards the end of Acts, expands on the ‘breaking bread’ theme introduced at the beginning of Acts (2.46). These two texts bookend and serve to define the numerous texts extending from Acts 2 to Acts 20 in which community gatherings in houses are mentioned. The reader would have assumed that all such gatherings included a ritualized communal meal.

3  The house, the meal and community formation There are no church buildings in the literary world of Acts nor are there any hints that church buildings were somewhere in the community’s future. When the community

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gathers, it is in a house, or, rather, in houses, since each house would have a limited capacity for a gathering. As indicated above, the reader, being familiar with the social function of houses, would assume that a formal gathering would take place in the dining room at the dinner table, whether or not a meal was explicitly mentioned. To be sure, the apostles and other missionaries proclaimed in the temple and in synagogues. But neither of these locations was conducive to community formation. Rather temple and synagogue function in the plot of Acts as primarily locations where conflict with the Jewish leadership took place (e.g. 13.44-47; 14.1-2; 17.1-5; 18.4-7, et al.; Elliott 1991: 216–17). The house is sometimes mentioned in passing as the gathering place for the community. In 5.42, after the apostles have been released from prison, flogged by the Sanhedrin and ordered not to speak of Jesus again, they immediately continued to proclaim Jesus as Messiah ‘in the temple and in the various private homes’ (κατ’ οἶκον; Danker 2000: 698). Whenever Saul begins to persecute the Jesus followers, he does so by ‘entering house after house (κατὰ τοὺς οἴκους εἰσπορεθόμενος), dragging out both men and women, and delivering them to prison’ (8.3). In 12.12-17, a more extended description of such a house gathering is presented. After Peter miraculously broke out of prison, he went ‘to the house of Mary, mother of John Mark, where many had gathered and were praying’ (ἦσαν … συνηθροισμένοι καὶ προσευχόμενοι, 12.12). In all of these instances, the second-century reader would picture the scene in the dining room of the house because that was the default location for gatherings. The significance of the meal as constitutive of the community is foundational to the stories in Acts 10–11 and 15. In both cases, the primary issue is the divisive effects of dietary laws in relation to the emerging Gentile mission. In chapters 1–9, the community of Jesus’s followers had been entirely made up of Jewish converts. The Cornelius story (10–11) introduces the Gentile mission as a radical and unexpected development orchestrated entirely by God. Peter has to be convinced of the legitimacy of the mission by a vision from God. Three times the vision presents Peter with a choice of unclean animals and commands that he ‘kill and eat’. Each time he refuses, pointing out that he has always followed the dietary laws. At that point messengers arrive from Cornelius, a Gentile centurion God-fearer in Caesarea, who had also received a vision from God to seek out Peter. Peter, convinced by God’s vision to him and to Cornelius, offered hospitality to the messengers (10.23), all of whom were Gentiles (10.7). This is the first instance in which Peter eats with Gentiles. The second instance is when he accepts the offer of hospitality from Cornelius (10.48). Consequently, whenever in chapter 11 Peter must answer to the ‘apostles and brothers’ in Judea, they immediately accuse him of ‘eating with’ the uncircumcised (11.3). The issue is food, or more specifically, the communal meals which lie at the heart of community formation. Unless Gentiles can eat at the same table with other members of the community, they cannot be considered brothers in Christ. The issue of dietary laws is brought up again whenever Paul’s mission to the Gentiles is under review by the apostolic leadership in Judea (Acts 15). During the discussion, Peter reminds the group of his experience in the Cornelius episode. Then James develops a compromise position which incorporates a simplified version of dietary laws, often called the Noachide laws (Segal 2001; Livesey 2013). It was intended to allow Gentiles and Jews to eat at the same table utilizing the same menu. The council

172 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals agrees with James, a letter is drafted and Paul is delegated to circulate it to the Gentile communities (15.22-29; 21.25). Luke got the basic details of such a conference from Paul (Gal. 2.1-10; Smith and Tyson 2013: 164–75). But the idea of an apostolic decree regarding food laws was his own contribution to the story in order to advance his literary agenda. This story illustrates the importance of equal sharing at the communal meals regardless of dietary restrictions. It is a variation of the earlier theme of equal sharing at the communal meals regardless of social status. The overall motif is that the community realizes its identity as community at the communal meals.

3.1  House, hospitality and discipleship In order for communal meal gatherings to be held in private homes, the householder had to agree to serve as host. According to social convention, guests had to be invited to the meal; they could not just wander in. Inviting guests into one’s home was related to the theme of hospitality which was embedded in a variety of cultures in the ancient Mediterranean world (Smith 2012b: 14–15). In Jewish tradition, it is exemplified in the story of Abraham and Sarah at the Oaks of Mamre (Genesis 18–19). In the GrecoRoman tradition, it is exemplified in the story of Baucis and Philemon (Ovid Metam. 8.611-724). The standard myth behind each of these stories is that hospitality to the stranger was expected by the deity (or deities) and so, to test whether mortals were practicing hospitality as they should, the deity (or deities) would disguise themselves as travelling strangers in need of hospitality. The righteous ones (Abraham and Sarah in Genesis; Baucis and Philemon in Ovid) provided hospitality by means of a sumptuous meal and were rewarded. Their inhospitable neighbours were severely punished (Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis; the surrounding village in Ovid). Heb. 13.2 testifies to the ubiquity of this myth in a variety of versions in popular morality of the day. In Luke-Acts, to offer hospitality to a guest in one’s home meant to provide them with a sumptuous meal. Depending on the context, overnight lodging might be signified as well. There are two terms in Acts which refer to the act of hospitality, ξενίζειν (‘offer hospitality’) and μένειν (‘stay [with]’). The term ξενίζειν is the verb form of ξένος which means either guest or host in a hospitality context. The meaning of ‘stay with’ as a hospitality term is clarified in the Emmaus story in the Gospel of Luke. When the two travellers arrive at their destination, they invite the stranger (Jesus) to ‘stay’ (μένειν, 24.29) with them. The meaning of the term ‘stay’ is indicated in the very next verse: ‘while he was reclining with them, he took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them’ (24.30). Thus, in Luke-Acts the term ‘stay’ takes on a technical meaning for the hospitality motif as both sumptuous meal and, in some cases, overnight stay. In Acts, hospitality is offered and received in several stories. Hospitality with Gentiles offered and received is central to the Cornelius story as discussed above. At the beginning of the story, Peter is in Joppa where he has accepted the hospitality of Simon the tanner. In 9.43, the term for accepting Simon’s hospitality is μένειν; in 10.6 the term for the same act of hospitality is ξενίζειν, showing that the two terms can be used interchangeably. When Peter offers hospitality to the arriving Gentile messengers from Cornelius, the term is ξενίζειν (10.23). When the gathered group at Cornelius’ house offers hospitality to Peter, the term is ἐπιμένειν (10.48).

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One sign of true discipleship in Acts is the offering of hospitality by the recent convert. It plays a key role in conversion stories as a proof-of-piety motif. This is seen in 10.48, discussed above. It is also highlighted in the story of the conversion of Lydia in 16.11-15, a story which echoes the Cornelius story. Like Cornelius (10.2), Lydia is a Gentile God-fearer (16.14) and a householder with an extended household. Her conversion is aided by the direct intervention of God (‘the Lord opened her heart’, 16.14). Both she and her household are baptized, after which she immediately ‘urged’ Paul and his companions to accept her offer of hospitality at her house. Her reason for making this offer is instructive: ‘if you judge me to be faithful to the Lord’ (πιστὴν τῷ κυρίῳ, 16.15). Hospitality as a test of true discipleship could not be made more explicit. The Lydia story also traces the theory of house church formation as presented in Acts. Paul first preaches in a synagogue, or, in this instance, ‘prayer hall’ (προσευχή, 16.13), but the actual community formation takes place in a house, and it is occasioned by the offer of hospitality by the recently converted householder. As further confirmation, note that, before leaving Philippi, Paul and Silas stop by at Lydia’s house where a group of believers were gathered (16.40). Lydia’s house had become a full-fledged house church. Just as was the case in the earlier theme of sharing possessions with all in need, so also here, the utopian community depends on its patron class to be the backbone of community formation. Another theme to emerge from the story of Lydia is that hospitality is initially offered to the evangelist. This becomes an essential component of the success of the evangelistic mission in Acts. Both Peter and Paul are supported in their travels by the hospitality of householders who are either explicitly or implicitly assumed to be believers (9.43; 10.6; 17.7; 18.3, 7; 21.4, 8; 21.17; 28.7, 14). A rather obscure use of the hospitality motif is found in Acts 27.33-38, a text that also contains the ‘breaking bread’ trope. The scene takes place on the storm-damaged drifting ship just before it runs aground at Malta. Food has become scarce and the crew has not eaten in fourteen days. Paul urges them to eat to build up their strength since, based on a vision he has received from God, ‘none of you will lose a hair from your heads’ (27.34). The meal scene itself is reminiscent of Jesus’s meals in Luke: Paul ‘took bread, gave thanks to God before them all, broke it, and began to eat (λαβὼν ἄρτον εὐχαρίστησεν τῷ θεῷ ἐνώπιον πάντων καὶ κλάσας ἤρξατο ἐσθίειν, 27.35)’. In response to what Paul has said and done, the crew ‘cheered up and also took food (τροφῆς, 27.36)’. There seems to be a disconnect between these two verses so that it seems as if Paul and the others eat separate meals. The Western text clears this up by expanding on Paul’s actions with an additional phrase: ‘[Paul] began to eat and gave some to us’ (Pervo 2009: 641). This reading may have functioned to make explicit what for the ancient reader was implicit in this scene. In the context, Paul has just spotlighted God’s care for the entire group. He then breaks bread in a ritual format, including giving thanks to God in a public manner. This text is meant to be read in the context of the meal motif throughout Acts, so that Paul is here offering hospitality to a group of nonbelieving Gentiles just as Peter does in 10.23. In both cases, the unbelieving Gentiles at the meal have been blessed by God’s compassion and impartiality, an attribute of God explicitly named by Peter (10.34-35). These are examples of how ‘food/meals in

174 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Acts are not simply focused on group identity or “fellowship” … but also function as catalysts for shifts to recruitment from the outside’ (Ascough 2012: 211n12).6

4  Gender and meals in acts The place of women at a Hellenistic/Roman reclining banquet could be tenuous, ranging from exclusion from the banquet to taking on the lower-class role of sitting rather than reclining to taking on an honoured role as a reclining banqueter. In the Acts story, women who are named as householders and hosts of the banquet would have reclined in a place of honour befitting their status as patrons. This group included Mary, mother of John Mark (12.12-17); Lydia (16.13-15, 40); and Priscilla, wife and equal partner in ministry with her husband Aquila (18.2-3). Widows were included among the poor and needy, the lowest status group at the table. They were to be treated as equals at the table (6.1-6), but it is unclear whether the reader was to assume that they reclined or sat at the table. Another class of women at the gathering is represented by Rhoda, a slave attendant who likely served at the table rather than participating as one of the diners (12.12-17). She is one of the few women in Acts who is both named and given a speaking part, yet the role she plays in the story is that of the stereotypical clueless slave, a role commonly found in Roman comedies of the era (Harrill 2000). Shelly Matthews has concluded that ‘the overarching rhetorical aim of this author is ‘to circumscribe women within limited social and ecclesiastical roles’ (2013: 193). That is to say, the core group of leaders in the Acts story are all men. This is illustrated early on when the apostles are gathered in the upper room of a house (1.13-14). Women are included in their number but only Mary, mother of Jesus, is named, and none plays any defined role in this scene or in subsequent events.

5 Conclusion Acts used the literary model of the utopian community as the signature theme of its story. It was a community made up of multiple gatherings in houses. They came together through an act of hospitality by the householder and centred their gatherings on the dining room in the house. They bonded into a community through the act of sharing a meal together in a traditional ritual format as was common in the culture. In so meeting, they were also modelling themselves on associations. A special emphasis in Acts was given to equal sharing, primarily of food, with any who had need. Whereas associations required their members to pay dues, the Acts utopian community was supported by a class of patrons who freely gave of their possessions to support the needy in their midst. They also formed the essential substructure for the continuation of the evangelistic mission by providing hospitality to the missionaries. Presumably the Acts story was intended to be a model for Christian communities in the early second century. In order for it to be intelligible as such, we may assume that the second-century communities also gathered in house dining rooms for communal meals and worship. Association by-laws bridged the gap between actual meal practices

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and ideal meal practices by proposing rules of behaviour for the banquet. Acts bridged that gap by creating a compelling narrative portrait of idealized meal communities from the distant past as a guide for actual meal practices in Christian communities in the second century.

Notes 1 The Greek, ἐν ἀϕελότητι καρδίας, is obscure. Here I have adopted the translation ‘with generous heart’ (Conzelmann 1987: 24; Johnson 1992: 59) versus ‘simplicity of heart’ (Danker 2000: 155; Pervo 2009: 88). 2 See, e.g. the Iobakchoi, a Bacchic association in second-century Athens, whose regulations included specified penalties for failure to pay the prescribed dues: ‘[Each member is to] pay a fixed monthly contribution for the wine. If anyone does not fulfill his obligation, he is to be excluded from the stibas’ (Smith 2003: 119, 129 lines 46–8; Kloppenborg and Ascough 2011: 255; note that stibas was a term for the banquet meeting). 3 I disagree with Danker’s interpretation of this phrase in which he suggests that it is ‘improbable that some widows would be deprived of food at a communal meal’, and so thinks that διακονεῖν here must mean ‘administrative responsibility, one of whose aspects is concern for widows without specifying the kind of assistance that is allotted’ (230). But the text does specify: It is ‘tables’ that are attended to, that is, the tables on which the communal meals were served. Associations were also known to appoint officers to see that food distribution took place equitably (Ascough 2012: 217). 4 An exception is the explicit reference to the apostles sitting in a house in Acts 2.2. The question is what the reader is to make of the seated posture. I would suggest that sitting is not meant to suggest a dining posture but rather sitting upon thrones, as in Lk. 22.30 where the apostles are promised that they will ‘sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel’. That judgement is about to commence in Acts 2.2. 5 Associations also set aside certain days on which they would hold their banquets (Ascough 2012: 231). 6 Ascough, however, downplays the importance of hospitality in the meal scenes in Acts (2012: 207n2), a point with which I disagree.

Bibliography (with selected annotations) Ascough, R. (2012), ‘The Function of Meals in the Book of Acts’, in M. Klinghardt and H. E. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 207–39, Tübingen: Franke. Conzelmann, H. (1987), Acts of the Apostles, Philadelphia: Fortress. Danker, F. W., ed. (2000), A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and other Early Christian Literature, 3rd ed., Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Elliott, J. H. (1991), ‘Temple Versus Household in Luke-Acts: A Contrast in Social Institutions’, in J. H. Neyrey (ed.), The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, 211–40, Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Harrill, J. A. (2000), ‘The Dramatic Function of the Running Slave Rhoda (Acts 12:13-16): A Piece of Greco-Roman Comedy’, NTS 46: 150–7.

176 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Johnson, L. T. (1992), The Acts of the Apostles, Collegeville: Michael Glazier/Liturgical Press. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie früchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Franke. Kloppenborg, J. and Richard Ascough, eds (2011), Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary 1. Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace, Berlin: De Gruyter. Livesey, N. (2013), ‘The So-Called Noahide Laws’, in D. E. Smith and J. B. Tyson (eds), Acts and Christian Beginnings: The Acts Seminar Report, 175–7, Salem, OR: Polebridge. Matthews, S. (2013), ‘Women in Acts’, in D. E. Smith and J. B. Tyson (eds), Acts and Christian Beginnings: The Acts Seminar Report, 193–5, Salem, OR: Polebridge. Öhler, M. (2005), ‘Die Jerusalemer Urgemeinde im Spiegel des antiken Vereinswesens’, NTS 51: 393–415. Pervo, R. I. (1987), Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles, Philadelphia: Fortress. Pervo, R. I. (1994), ‘Panta Koina: The Feeding Stories in the Light of Economic Data and Social Practice’, in L. Bormann, K. Del Tredici and A. Standhartinger (eds), Religious Propaganda and Missionary Competition in the New Testament World: Essays Honoring Dieter Georgi, 163–94, Leiden: Brill. Pervo, R. I. (2006), Dating Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apostles, Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge. Pervo, R. I. (2009), Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia, Minneapolis: Fortress. This is the most comprehensive and definitive analysis of Acts as a work of literature. Roberts, C., T. C. Skeat and A. D. Nock (1936), ‘The Gild of Zeus Hypsistos’, HTR 29: 39–88. Segal, A. F. (2001), ‘Acts 15 as Jewish and Christian History’, Forum 4: 63–87. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress. Smith, D. E. (2007), ‘Eucharist’, in K. D. Sakenfeld (ed.), The New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible 2, 353–5, Nashville: Abingdon. Smith, D. E. (2012a), ‘Hospitality, the House Church, and Early Christian Identity’, in Matthias Klinghardt and Hal Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, 103–17, Tübingen: Franke. Smith, D. E. (2012b), ‘The House Church as Social Environment’, in A. C. Niang and C. Osiek (eds), Text, Image, and Christians in the Graeco-Roman World: A Festschrift in Honor of David Lee Balch, 3–21, Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Smith, D. E. (2013a), ‘Feasting, Hellenistic and Roman Period’, in D. M. Master (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Bible and Archaeology, 1.405–12, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, D. E. (2013b), ‘Religious Practices of Early Christian Converts According to Acts 2:41-47’, Forum 2: 157–68. Smith, D. E. and J. B. Tyson (2013), Acts and Christian Beginnings: The Acts Seminar Report, Salem, OR: Polebridge.

14

The Contribution of Meal Scenes to the Narrative Theology of Acts of Paul Annette Merz

Meal scenes in Acts of Paul: Introduction and overview Meal scenes form a crucial part of several episodes of Acts of Paul, and they contribute significantly to the narrative theology of this second-century work (Merz 2008).1 Any interpretation is compounded by the fact that considerable portions of the original work have been lost and that the text and the sequence of events must be reconstructed on the basis of fragmentary manuscripts2 and later versions of parts of the story, each with its own history of transmission.3 Nevertheless, the scholarly consensus on the general outline of the story, as it is presented in the leading editions of the Apocrypha and in a recent commentary (Schneemelcher 51989; Elliott 1993; Rordorf and Kasser in Bovon-Geoltrain 1997; Pervo 2014), forms a reliable basis for the analysis.4 I will first outline the course of action, focusing on the meal scenes. In the following sections, I will analyse the most significant scenes in more detail.5 Unfortunately, most of the beginning of Acts of Paul has not been recovered. Basing ourselves on surviving fragments and a later retrospect, we may infer that it contained the conversion of Paul in the vicinity of Damascus, and a visit to that city. Some fragments of a stay in Antioch relate how he raised a deceased boy and was then expelled by a hostile crowd. No meal scenes have been preserved from the opening scenes of the story. Next is the Thecla cycle, which contains three references to meals: the ‘breaking of the bread’ in the house of Onesiphorus (Acts Paul 3.5); Thamyris’s banquet, held to bribe Paul’s false companions Demas and Hermogenes in an unsuccessful attempt to win back his fiancé Thecla (Acts Paul 3.13); and an ascetic meal held in a grave following the reunion of Paul and Thecla after Thecla’s first martyrium (Acts Paul 3.23-25). In the city of Myra, Paul performs two healings and a resurrection. The first healing is concluded with a baptismal meal. Later on, a communal meal, with food being distributed among widows, provides the scenery for the unfolding of a family drama (Acts Paul 4). While Paul is travelling to Sidon accompanied by two couples, a frugal meal under a tree becomes the occasion of a dispute with pagan residents about the participation in cultic meals and the consumption of sacrificial meat, which culminates in the destruction of the temple of Apollo at Sidon (Acts Paul 6). The next

178 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals lengthy passage that contains a short but telling meal scene is located at Ephesus (Acts Paul 9). At the house of Aquila and Priscilla, Paul looks back on his conversion and the baptism of a lion. Later on, he is put into prison and sentenced to be thrown to the beasts. During the night before the planned execution, he converts the governor’s wife and then shares a post-baptismal meal (Eucharist) with her. This Eucharist is described in a highly unusual way that reveals a lot about the meal theology of Acts of Paul. The final passage to be discussed is Paul’s ‘last supper’ with the Corinthians before he embarks for Rome. The breaking of the bread is accompanied by a sign, followed by interpretations by prophets and a celebration that lasts all night (Acts Paul 12). A consistent and significant trait of the narrative is its intertextuality. Explicit and implicit references to well-known early Christian traditions stage the story of Paul in a scenery replete with meaning. Imitation, reinterpretation and innovation of these (predominantly narrative) traditions are intermingled in a fascinating way, resulting in a unique form of early Christian narrative theology which has been underrated by scholarship (cf. Merz 2004; 2006; 2008; 2012; 2017a). By concentrating on meals and their interpretation, we will be able to highlight an important segment of the theological universe of Acts of Paul.

1  Meals in Acts of Paul and Thecla: Ascetic communal meals as opposed to pagan banquets Thecla (Acts Paul 3–4) is the virgin daughter of one of the leading families in Iconium. She renounces her predetermined role of marrying Thamyris by becoming a follower of Paul’s proclamation of ‘the word of God about abstinence and the resurrection’ (Acts Paul 3.5). As she refuses to marry, she is sentenced to be burned, but she is saved by a miraculous hailstorm. For a short period of time she is reunited with Paul, but he leaves her behind in Antioch to be tried once again. She then baptizes herself and eventually she is sent out by Paul to be a proclaimer of the Gospel herself (cf. EschWermeling 2008; Merz 2012). The first scene portrays Paul as a preacher in the missionary household community of Onesiphorus and his wife Lectra (Acts Paul 3.1ff). Besides the hosts and Paul with his fellow travellers, a great audience is assembled there to hear his teaching. The crowd consists of ‘many women and virgins’ (Acts Paul 3.7) and even of many young men, who according to Theoclia, Thecla’s troubled mother, ‘go in to him to be taught by him. He says one must fear only one God and live in chastity’ (Acts Paul 3.9). What happens inside is described by the narrator as follows: There was great joy and bowing of knees and breaking of bread and the word of God about abstinence and the resurrection (ἐγένετο χαρὰ μεγάλη, καὶ κλίσις γονάτων καὶ κλάσις ἄρτου καὶ λόγος θεοῦ περὶ ἐγκρατείας καὶ ἀναστάσεως,). (Acts Paul 3.5)

This summary consisting of four elements reminds the reader of Acts 2.42 (Ἦσαν δὲ προσκαρτεροῦντες τῇ διδαχῇ τῶν ἀποστόλων καὶ τῇ κοινωνίᾳ, τῇ κλάσει τοῦ ἄρτου καὶ ταῖς προσευχαῖς). The most characteristic phrase, κλάσις ἄρτου, is reproduced



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literally, but the other three elements of Acts’ description of the paradigmatic Jerusalem community are also present: The bowing of knees refers to prayer, ‘great joy’ describes the communal and spiritual character of the gathering (cf. κοινωνία), and apostolic preaching is provided by Paul as well, rephrased according to Acts of Paul’s ascetic message. No further details are given about the meal that takes place in Onesiphorus’s house, but this sparseness of words will become revealing as the story unfolds. Thecla, who is not physically present, nonetheless participates in the preaching of the Gospel and in the emotional state of the group gathered in Onesiphorus’s house: [Thecla] was sitting at the window close by and listened day and night to the discourse of virginity, as proclaimed by Paul. And she did not look away from the window, but was led on by faith, rejoicing exceedingly. (Acts Paul 3.7)

Shortly afterwards, her mother tells Thamyris that Thecla did ‘not rise from the window either to eat or to drink’ (Acts Paul 3.8). As we will come across the phrase ‘to be nourished by the words’ (of God, of an apostle) later on in the story (cf. below, sections 4 and 5), the implication seems to be that Thecla does not need any other nourishment while listening to Paul. The frustrated fiancé takes action to regain his betrothed. He invites two false adherents of Paul into his house to gather incriminating evidence against him. The plot that will lead to the accusation, scourging and eviction of Paul and to Thecla’s first death sentence is hatched at a banquet that is described as a sumptuous meal with much wine, and with great wealth being displayed at a splendid table (Acts Paul 3.13: ἀπῆλθον εἰς πολύτιμον δεῖπνον καὶ πολὺν οἶνον καὶ πλοῦτον μέγαν καὶ τράπεζαν λαμπράν). The tension between the plain breaking of bread in Onesiphorus’s house and Thecla’s fasting on the one hand, and the palatial meal in Thamyris’s house on the other hand emphasizes the cultural and religious antagonism between Acts of Paul’s ascetic version of the Christian message and the lifestyle of the urban elite represented by Thecla’s mother and Thamyris. This antagonism is further developed in the third meal scene of the Thecla cycle, where the ascetic character of the believers’ meals is more explicitly addressed. Thecla survives the stake and she is reunited with Paul, who has found a provisional shelter in a grave, together with his former host Onesiphorus and his family. There he has been fasting and praying for Thecla’s salvation for six days. When the children (!) finally say that they are hungry, a remarkable story is told that echoes the feeding miracles of the Gospels and restyles them to suit the taste of an ascetic readership. The lack of bread is described with the words (κ)αὶ οὐκ εἶχον πόθεν ἀγοράσωσιν ἄρτους (Acts Paul 3.23), a wording that is reminiscent of the question asked by Jesus in Jn 6.5: πόθεν ἀγοράσωμεν ἄρτους. John focuses on the provenance of the food – πόθεν points to the origin of the heavenly bread from above – but this (symbolic) meaning of the Johannine πόθεν is not preserved in Acts of Paul’s reuse of the phrase. Instead, πόθεν now points to the lack of financial means, as the following sentence explains, ‘for Onesiphorus had left the things of this world and followed Paul with all his house’ (Acts Paul 3.23). This recalls the Gospels’ references to the disciples’ leaving everything behind to follow Jesus (cf. Mk 1.16-18; 10.28). The wording is especially reminiscent of Luke’s version of the calling of Levi in 5.28, where the same combination of verbs and

180 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals basically the same sentence structure are used.6 As so often in Acts of Paul, the apostle proves himself to be a worthy follower of Jesus, in this case also imitating the latter’s praxis of calling itinerant followers. Like Jesus, Paul provides for those who follow him. But, although the ‘five breads’ that recall the feeding miracles of the Gospels (Mt. 14.17; Lk. 9.13; Jn 6.9) do appear, no multiplication of bread (let alone of wine) takes place. The bread is paid for with the cloak of the apostle, and the Gospels’ sceneries of abundance (indicated by the substantial leftovers) are replaced by the frugal though joyful meal of the ascetic community, consisting only of five breads, vegetables and water (εἶχον δὲ ἄρτους πέντε καὶ λάχανα καὶ ὕδωρ). No fish is served and no wine is consumed at this communal cultic meal, where the participants ‘rejoiced in the holy works of Christ’ (Acts Paul 3.25). The extremely ascetic character of this meal stands in explicit contrast to the luxurious private meals of the urban elite, described earlier. The latent contrast to other Christian groups’ meals and to the Gospels’ portraits of Jesus’s celebration of bountiful meals is masked by the author’s artful way of alluding to the Gospels and unobtrusively transforming the well-known stories, leaving out all features that do not concur with Act of Paul’s ascetic base line.

2  Miracle and meals for the needy in Myra The episodes of Paul’s teaching in Myra (Acts Paul 5) are poorly preserved, and the readings and interpretations of many details are far from clear. Here we will concentrate on two meal scenes that are part of the complicated family drama that involves Hermocrates, a man suffering from dropsy, his wife Nympha and their two sons Hermippus and Dion. The first mentioning of a meal occurs in the closing scene of the healing of Hermocrates. After what is perceived by the crowd as a painful death under the hands of Paul, the apostle raises him and asks, what he wants. He answers: ‘I want to eat’ and is given some bread. The text concludes: He became whole in that hour, and received the grace of the seal in the Lord, he and his wife. (Acts Paul 5.1)

A cured person, especially one who has been reported dead earlier, taking food after the recovery, is a typical feature of healing and resurrection stories, where it serves to demonstrate the substantiveness of health or life regained (Mk 5.34; Lk. 24.41-43). But there is more to it here, as the eating occurs in close relation to baptism and to Hermocrates’s wish, uttered earlier, ‘that I may believe just as you [Paul] believed in the living God’ (Acts Paul 5.1). His wish to eat and his becoming ‘whole’ in that hour have symbolical overtones indicating his comprehensive salvation. The story continues with several subplots. Hermocrates’s younger son Dion dies as well, only to be resurrected by Paul. The older brother Hermippes feels cheated of his imminent inheritance by his fathers’ recovery. He tries to kill Paul but is punished by being struck with blindness, and forced to sit as a penitent and beggar at the door of his parents’ house, confessing his wrongdoings and proclaiming the voidness of material things. The story culminates at another meal, probably presided over by Hermocrates,



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where widows are present and people bring in goods that are blessed and distributed by Hermocrates (Acts Paul 5.5-6, as reconstructed by Pervo 2014: 193–6). Even if the poor state of the manuscript does not allow for a more detailed interpretation of the concluding meal scene, it seems that another dominant theological theme of Acts of Paul and other apocryphal Acts is illustrated here, namely that of the Christian community lavishly sharing material goods with the needy, typically during community meals.

3  Refusal to take part in cultic meals as a source of conflict with mainstream religion and society in Sidon Paul’s missionary visit to Sidon is described in the next, extremely poorly preserved chapter (Acts Paul 6). Its main theme is the confrontation of Paul’s message with polytheistic religion, and again meals play a major role in the unfolding of events (Merz 2008: 278–80; Pervo 2014: 198–204). A dispute with some locals occurs, as Paul is sharing bread under a tree with two accompanying couples and is about to say ‘amen’. Unfortunately, the fragmentary state of the text does not allow us to reconstruct the scenery and the argument with certainty. The most likely reconstruction assumes that the site Paul chose for his meal was dedicated to some local deity and that people were gathering to celebrate a sacrificial meal there. Paul preaches against the ‘table of demons’ (a quotation from 1 Cor. 10.21) and against ‘idols’ (probably images of gods present at the scene) that cause peoples’ deaths (1 Cor. 11.30). He proclaims Christ, who saves from all stains, impurities and wicked thoughts. After a major gap of at least two pages in the manuscript, Paul and his companions are taken captive and cast into the temple of Apollo to be presented to a gathering of the whole citizenship the next day. The prisoners are offered ‘abundant and costly food’. This remark by the narrator has aroused various interpretations in scholarship. Were the strangers to be fed as human sacrifices to Apollo (Schmidt 1936: 114)? Is ‘the rich food offered … the condemned person’s last meal’ (Pervo 2014: 200)? Merz (2008: 279–80) proposes a different interpretation, which better fits the immediate context, the main theological convictions of Acts of Paul and the intertextual foil of the chapter (1 Cor. 8.1–20.21). The text reads as follows: They were given large amounts of expensive food, but Paul, fasting for the third day, was exhausted after preaching all night. Falling prostrate, he prayed, ‘God, take note of their threats, do not let us stumble and permit not our enemies to lay us low but deliver us and bring down your justice quickly upon us.’ Just after Paul, with the believers Thrasymmachus and Cleon, had thrown himself to the ground, the temple collapsed. (Acts Paul 6.5 Pervo)

In my view, the food served in the temple resumes the theme of eating from the table of demons that dominates the opening scene of the chapter. ‘Expensive’ food certainly included wine and meat, both of which were cultically contaminated, especially the meat, which in the context of a temple must have come from the temple’s own ritual slaughterer. Thus the scene is about tempting the believers to consume ritually

182 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals forbidden food. This theme occurs frequently in Jewish and Christian apologetic literature (e.g. Dan. 1.8ff; 2 Macc. 6.18ff; 7.1ff; 4 Macc.; Josephus, Life 14). By the second century, the Christians’ refusal of sacrificial meat was common knowledge among Roman officials, as the example of Pliny the Younger proves (Epistulae 10.96). This interpretation also explains why Paul in his prayer cited above entreats God, ‘do not let us stumble’. It finally fits the undisputed Pauline background of the Sidon episode. Temptation is a primary topic in 1 Cor. 10.1-13, and one of the warnings there connects idolatry and food consumption in a ritual context: ‘Do not be idolaters as some of them were; as it is written, “The people sat down to eat and drink and rose up to dance”’ (1 Cor. 10.7). God’s answer to Paul’s and his companions’ steadfastness is massive and impressive: Half of the temple of Apollo collapses. In the contest of religions and of meals that pertain to the cults of the gods and of the one and only God, the Sidon episode of Acts of Paul proclaims that the ‘mighty God’ (Acts Paul 6.5), ‘the God who has sent Paul’ (Acts Paul 6.6) is superior and that it is necessary and rewarding to resist the temptation of the table of the demons. Understood this way, the Sidon episode contains explicit and cogently staged evidence for McGowan’s convincing thesis that the Eucharistic ‘bread-and-water-tradition’ (in ascetic circles) ‘tends to be anti-sacrificial generally’ (McGowan 1999: 273). One wonders why McGowan fails to recognize this here and offers a superficial interpretation of the Sidon story instead.7

4  A meal as part of a Christian nocturnal initiation in Ephesus A brief but highly intriguing description of a meal as the concluding part of a nocturnal baptismal ceremony is given at the end of the extended description of Paul’s stay in Ephesus (Acts Paul 9), which can to a large extent be reconstructed by combining the Greek Hamburg papyrus and the Coptic papyrus Bodmer XLI. This episode has been extensively discussed by Merz (2008, 2017b, c, see also Pervo 2014: 231–43, Snyder 2013: 71–4) and I refer the reader to those articles for more detailed information. At the beginning, Paul is preaching in the house of Aquila and Priscilla, where he speaks about his own conversion in Damascus and the period in which he himself received instruction. He summarizes this period in retrospect, using a phrase that will recur several times later on. Paul says: As he [Christ] was being proclaimed I rejoiced in the lord, nourished by his words. (Acts Paul 9.6, Pervo 2014: 215, my italics)

He then relates the story of the conversion and baptism of a lion, which was both famous and notorious in early Christianity (cf. Merz 2017b and Spittler 2008). Paul’s preaching brings about a mass conversion that provokes the envy of the pagan crowd. He is arrested and transferred to the theatre where he is forced to give an account of himself to the governor. In Acts Paul 9.13 he preaches against immorality (including adultery and drunkenness) and against the belief in gods that are ‘worthless, bronze,



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stone, and wooden objects, which cannot eat, see, hear, or stand erect’. He is then sentenced to fighting with the beasts – on Pentecost day! The preparations take six days, which allows some women to visit Paul in prison. The disciple Eubula brings Artemilla, the wife of the city governor, to Paul, who preaches a penitential sermon to her that leads to the desired conversion: ‘Woman, ruler of this world, mistress of much gold, citizen of great luxury, splendid in your raiment, sit down on the floor and forget your riches and your beauty and your finery. For these will profit you nothing if you pray not to God, who regards as dross all that here is marvelous but graciously bestows what beyond is wonderful. Gold perishes, riches are consumed, clothes become worn out. Beauty grows old, and great cities are changed, and the world will be destroyed in fire because of the lawlessness of men. God alone abides, and the sonship that is given through him in whom men must be saved. And now, Artemilla, hope in God and he will deliver you; hope in Christ and he will give you forgiveness of sins and will bestow upon you a crown of freedom, that you may no longer serve idols and the savor of sacrifice but the living God and Father of Christ whose is the glory for ever and ever. Amen.’ And when Artemilla heard this she with Eubula besought Paul that he would baptize (λούσῃ) her in God. (Acts Paul 9.17 [P.Hamb 2.18-35], my italics)

Paul devaluates all that has importance in this world and declares it to be in opposition to God who alone remains (eternally). The only way to become his child is through God’s gracious act and the forgiveness of sins that is granted through Christ; a genuinely Pauline idea is taken up here. The act of forgiveness of sins and adoption as God’s child is made a present reality through the ritual of baptism, and this is why the women’s request to be baptized (literally, to be ‘washed’) is a perfectly appropriate response to Paul’s discourse. The consequences of baptism also come in view. Once baptized, one will cease to serve idols and the ‘savour of sacrifices’, in order to serve the living God. In view of the texts discussed earlier, we cannot regard this mention of the savour of the sacrifices, or that of drunkenness in Paul’s public speech, as a matter of chance. According to Acts of Paul, the external sign of conversion is a diet without meat and wine, since these were obviously understood as symbols both of the life of luxury that has been abandoned, and of the sacrificial cult. The rite of baptism itself, which concludes with an intimate meal, is portrayed as a nocturnal Christian initiation into the mysteries, which takes place by the sea. It is accompanied by a whole series of miracles, including the apparition of a young man who shines with a light of his own,8 a miracle in which Paul’s fetters are loosed, a miraculous opening of his prison door and a miracle of light by the sea (Acts Paul 9.19-21). There is early and frequent attestation of the view that the Lord’s Supper and baptism are the true mysteries, whereas pagan celebrations of mysteries are nothing but demonic imitations (e.g. Justin, First Apologia 66; Tertullian, De praescriptione 40.2-4; Clement, Protrepticus 2.23,1f.; Firmicus Maternus, De errore profanarum religionum 18.1-8). The Ephesus pericope presupposes this common Christian understanding of baptism and creates a narrative that visualizes and dramatizes it.

184 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The baptism takes place during the night before Paul’s fight with the beasts. But again there is a liturgical chronology which accompanies the chronology of the plot: It is sabbath, and the day of the Lord is drawing near (Acts Paul 9.19 [P.Hamb 3,8-9]). In other words, the baptism is administered in the night between Saturday and Sunday. In addition to numerous individual elements in the action,9 the expression employed by Paul in his prayer, [ἵν]α Ἀρτεμύλλα μυηθῇ [τῆς ἐ] ν κυρίῳ σφραγῖδος· (‘that Artemilla may be initiated with the seal in the Lord’, Acts Paul 9.20 [P.Hamb 3,24-25]), shows that the author consciously shapes his account of the baptism on the analogy of initiations into the mysteries. Μύειν is a technical term from the language of the mysteries.10 Besides this, we have the testimony by a reader of Acts of Paul who clearly had the same impression. Nicephorus Callistus, the fourteenth-century Byzantine author of a church history, summarizes the extensive account in Acts of Paul as follows (possibly on the basis of a tenth-century source): And by God’s power, with angels to escort them and enlighten the gloom of night with the excess of the brightness that was in them, Paul, loosed from his iron fetters, went to the sea-shore and initiated them into holy baptism (τελέσαι … ἐκείνας τῷ θείῳ βαπτίσματι), and returning to his bonds without any of those in care of the prison perceiving it, was reserved as a prey for the lions. (Greek text Schmidt, 21905: 111; Translation: James 1972: 292)

Nicephorus employs the verb τελέω, which was also a common technical term for the initiation into the mysteries. After Paul returns to the prison unnoticed, the initiation is appropriately concluded with a meal, which is related briefly: The guards were asleep, and he broke bread and sacrificed water, gave her to drink of the word and sent her to her husband Hieronymus. (ἔκλασεν ἄρτον ὕδωρ τε προσήνεγκεν ἐπότισεν ῥήματι ἀπέλυσεν πρὸς Ἱερόνυμον τὸν ἄνδρα, Acts Paul 9.21 [P.Hamb 4.4-5], my translation and italics)

My rendering of the verb προσφέρειν as ‘to sacrifice’ diverges from most of the standard editions and dictionaries, which typically have ‘to bring’ or ‘to offer’.11 It is my thesis that the author has in mind the offering of a libation with water in a conscious imitation of pagan habit. This is made more plausible by the fact that Paul is once again in prison, where there is scarcely any possibility of fetching water from somewhere and ‘bringing’ it. The only water available to him is the water that is in his cell. Besides this, in the celebration of the Lord’s Supper in Corinth, to be discussed below, the preparation of the elements of the meal by Paul is described by means of the expression προσφορᾶς γενομένης ὑπὸ τοῦ Παύλου (Acts Paul 12.4 [P.Hamb 6.3738]); here, the noun from the same root is used as in the meal at Ephesus. Third, the continuation of the sentence – ‘he gave her to drink of the word’ – which should be juxtaposed to the promise that he would ‘nourish many with the word’ (Acts Paul 12.5 [P.Hamb 7.6], see below), shows that the symbolic meaning of the meal in the Ephesus pericope is indicated by the act of drinking. This heightens the possibility of a cultic



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sense of the verb in the preceding part of the sentence. For the present context, its narrative function seems clear: It would inevitably remind readers, familiar with the sacrificial cults of late antiquity, of a pagan libation. It would not evoke any associations with the tradition about the last supper (where a blessing was pronounced over the cup, but nothing was poured out), whereas the first mention of a breaking of bread was already a technical Christian term for the celebration of the sacramental meal. In sum, the baptism, which is described in terms borrowed from an initiation into the mysteries, concludes with a cultic meal in which bread is broken and water sacrificed. The latter is probably a defamiliarizing description of the customary rite that is due to the literary form (that is, the account of a Christian initiation into the mysteries) and depicts what Paul had insisted upon in his penitential sermon, namely, that the believers no longer ‘serve’ idols and the savour of sacrifices. Their sacrifice is the meal of bread and water.12 An interesting parallel in form and in content is provided by the Jewish conversion novel Joseph and Aseneth.13 In Jos. Asen. 8.5, Joseph refuses the kiss of the pagan Aseneth in the following words: It is not right for a man who worships God, who with his mouth blesses the living God, and eats the blessed bread of life, and drinks the blessed cup of immortality, and is anointed with the blessed unction of incorruption, to kiss a strange woman, who with her mouth blessed dead and dumb idols, and eats of their table the bread of anguish, and drinks of their libations the cup of treachery, and is anointed with the unction of destruction. (Translation by Cook in Sparks 1984: 480)

After Aseneth’s conversion, in a scene that is full of terminology and motifs from the mysteries (Jos. Asen. 15.13–17.4), a honeycomb is discovered, which Aseneth then eats. Those who eat this honeycomb become immortal (Jos. Asen. 16.14), and it is called ‘the bread of life, the chalice of immortality, and the unction of incorruptibility’ (Jos. Asen. 17.3). At the end of this scene, the honeycomb is burned as a fragrant sacrifice (Jos. Asen. 17.3-4). Like the libation of water in the Ephesus pericope, this emphasizes the similarity to the pagan cult to which Aseneth has now bidden farewell. Still some more reflection is needed on the puzzling phrase of Paul ‘giving’ Artemilla ‘to drink of the word’. This expression seems to transform the drinking of water into a physical act of making the word one’s own. Here too, the mystery of the honey in the Aseneth novel can help us. The honeycomb is discovered by Aseneth in her inner chamber at the command of the prince of the angels14 conducting the ceremony, although she knows for certain that no honeycomb was present in that room. When the angel asks, how that could be, Aseneth replies: σὺ ἐλάλησας καὶ γέγονε (Jos. Asen. 16.6). Thus, the angel demonstrates his participation in the divine omnipotence, which creates through the word alone. Or is he indeed a personification of the creative word of God, like wisdom in other texts of Hellenistic-Jewish theology? At any rate, Aseneth can consume in material form, as food (honey), the word spoken by the angel. Similar speculations in the theology of creation, and sapiential theology, probably lie behind the interpretation of the Eucharistic meal in Acts of Paul: The

186 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals word itself can be taken in by consuming the elements of the meal, according to the intriguing phrase ‘he broke bread and sacrificed water, gave her to drink of the word’ (Acts Paul 9.21 [P.Hamb 4.4-5]). Acts Paul 12, the chapter which describes the farewell meal between Paul and the community in Corinth, will offer still more evidence for this interpretation.

5  Paul’s last supper in Corinth: A bread miracle and ‘feasting according to the custom of the fasting’ The farewell scene that is located in Corinth before Paul’s final voyage which will bring him to Rome, contains a detailed description of the celebration of a Eucharist. It invites the reader to compare it to the last supper of Jesus and asks for an historical analysis in terms of its place in the history of Christian liturgy. Still, scholarly literature on the development on the celebration of the Eucharist has largely ignored this passage (Acts Paul 12 [P.Hamb 6-7; P.Heid 44/43; 51/52]), probably due to its fragmentary state and the perceived uniqueness of the recorded ceremony. Paul’s final station in the East is described in detail, beginning with a summary of forty days of enthusiastic public recapitulation of Paul’s entire activity, embedded in joy and prayer that are shared with the community (Acts Paul 12.1 [P.Hamb 6.1-14]). This is undoubtedly a conscious allusion to the forty days of preaching by the risen Jesus before his departure (Acts 1.3). The actual farewell scene begins only after Paul recalls his sufferings and his miracles: ‘in what place anything had befallen him and what great deeds had been granted to him’ (P.Hamb 6.12-13). It consists of a narrative introduction that reflects on salvation history (P.Hamb 6.15-18); discourses by Paul and Cleobius that predict Paul’s death (P.Hamb 6.18-36); the preparation of the meal in which a bread miracle takes place (P.Hamb 6.36–7.3), which is interpreted by Myrta as referring to Paul’s future activity in Rome (P.Hamb 7.3-8); the nocturnal celebration consisting of the sharing of the meal and hymns (P.Hamb 7.9-12). Finally, Paul leaves (P.Hamb 7.12-19), which marks the transition to the next scene on the ship en route for Rome. Only a few aspects of this rich episode can be discussed here.

5.1  A bread miracle and its interpretation by Myrta: ‘Nourishing with the word’ The assembled community reacts with great sorrow to Paul’s prediction of his death, and they hold a common fast (Acts Paul 12.3). Cleobius, filled with the Spirit, underlines once more the salvation-historical necessity of this death and describes Paul’s final activity in Rome as a working ‘in great instruction and knowledge and sowing of the word.’ Paul will have to ‘suffer envy and depart out of this world’ (Acts Paul 12.3 [P.Heid 51,13-15; P.Hamb 6,31-32]). All the assembly now ask God to help Paul, his servant, so that he may be able to remain with them because of their weakness. In earlier episodes, when people prayed that the apostle or others might



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be saved from the danger of death, a miracle always occurred to ward off the threat. The narrative link between prayer for help and a miracle is retained here, but in a different form. The risk is not warded off, but the salvific necessity of Paul’s death is highlighted by means of a miracle, which, unfortunately, survives in an extremely poorly preserved passage: But since Paul was cut to the heart and no longer fasted with them, when an offering (προσφορά) was celebrated by Paul … of itself into pieces (… [α]ὐτόματος εἰς μέρη)15 [and they asked?] what this [sign?] meant. (Translation according to Schmidt 1936: 48–9)

Schmidt’s interpretation – that when the sacrifice was offered, a loaf broke into many pieces of its own accord – is line with Myrta’s interpretation of the miracle that now follows (Schmidt 1936: 49 n. 1):16 But the Spirit fell upon Myrta, who said: ‘Brothers and sisters, why do you regard this sign with fear? Paul, the slave of the lord, will deliver many in Rome and will nourish so many with the word (πολλοὺς τρέφει τῷ λογῳ) that their number will exceed calculation and he will become the most noteworthy of the faithful. The glory [of the Lord Christ Jesus] will clothe him with splendor, a magnificent grace in Rome.’ (Acts Paul 12.5, Pervo 2014: 283, slightly adapted)

Paul’s journey to his death in Rome is given a positive meaning through the sign and through Myrta’s interpretation. His preaching and martyrdom there are necessary in order to ‘nourish many with the word’ in Rome and to save an innumerable host of believers.17 This final Lord’s Supper in Corinth, therefore, represents a specific interpretation of the final phase of Paul’s life, which ends with his death. The author certainly intended a reference to Jesus’s Last Supper, given that this tradition was well known, and given the analogous situation of leave-taking.18 In the synoptic-Pauline account of the words spoken at the last supper, Jesus’s death is presented as something that happened ‘for you’ or ‘for many’ and ‘for the forgiveness of sin’, with bread and wine being interpreted as his broken body and the blood that he was about to shed. According to this tradition, Jesus gives himself in every Lord’s Supper that is celebrated in remembrance of him. Paul’s role is different, since he is not – not a priori, at least – identical with the word/bread that he distributes. He is a ‘slave of the Lord’ (though the greatest servant), and after his conversion, he was nourished himself by the words of the Lord, as related at the beginning of the Ephesus pericope (see above, Acts Paul 9.6 [P.Bod XLI 3,14-15]). Nevertheless, we may see an intentional parallelization here between the deaths of Jesus and Paul, through the Eucharistic miracle of the bread that falls into pieces and is interpreted as symbolizing the word that satisfies the (spiritual) hunger of many. But the text, prudently perhaps, leaves open the question of the detailed interpretation of the miracle and of what is intended by the implicit reference to Jesus’s final meal. The furthest-reaching interpretation would be that Paul himself, through his preaching and his death, becomes the bread/word that satisfies the hunger of the

188 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals believers. This was not an impossible interpretation of a martyr’s death in the second century, as is evident from the case of Ignatius of Antioch. En route to his martyrdom in Rome, Ignatius writes to the Romans that he wants to be ‘an imitator of the sufferings of my God’ (Ignatius, Rom. 6.3). He wants to ‘be offered in sacrifice to God’ through martyrdom, ‘as long as an altar exists’ (Ignatus, Rom. 2.2). Indeed, in this way he wants to become ‘a word of God’ himself (λόγος θεοῦ, Ignatius, Rom. 2.1). He calls himself ‘God’s wheat …, ground … by the teeth of the wild beasts’ and wants to be found in death as ‘pure bread of Christ’ (καθαρὸς ἄρτος τοῦ Χριστοῦ, Ignatius, Rom. 4.1). Acts of Paul, however, does not go in for such vivid metaphors, and unlike Ignatius, who seems to be interested primarily in his own salvation, the interpretative passages in Acts of Paul emphasize Paul’s role as a preacher. I believe, therefore, that a ‘Eucharistic’ interpretation of Paul’s death in Acts of Paul is not the most likely one. In addition, Acts of Paul (once again, in contrast with Ignatius, and in its admittedly poor state of preservation)19 is quite reticent in speaking at all about the death of Jesus as a sacrifice, and about his body and blood. The extant portions of Acts of Paul display no interest in the sacrificial death of Jesus, and none of the surviving texts about meals gives any indication that the elements were interpreted as the body and blood of Christ. The replacement of the wine with water certainly does not support such an interpretation. What then is the meaning of the cultic meal in Acts of Paul? We must return to the phrase: ‘He gave her (Artemilla) to drink of the word’ (ἐπότισεν ῥήματι Acts Paul 9.21 [P.Hamb 4.5]) in the Ephesus pericope, and the expression ‘nourishing with the word’ that has been found three times so far in Acts of Paul. Myrta’s speech in Acts Paul 12.5 as preserved in P.Hamb 7.6 interprets the miracle of the bread with implicit reference to the Lord’s Supper. Such a reference is probably not present in P.Bod XLI 3.14-15 and P.Heid 60.10-11.20 Accordingly, ‘nourishing with the word’ describes first of all the apostolic preaching that leads to salvation. This metaphor is in keeping with the Old Testament tradition of personified Wisdom who invites to a meal. This tradition was received in a number of ways in Hellenistic Judaism and earliest Christianity (cf. Sandelin 1986; Strotmann 2008). Crucially, Wisdom (or the Logos) increasingly came to be understood not only as the giver, but also as the gift itself (see the mystery of the honey in the Aseneth novel, mentioned above). Thus, the nourishing word is probably not only to be understood as the preaching of Christ but also as Christ himself: the word that (as the Johannine prologue says) was in the beginning with God, through which the world was created, and that became flesh in Christ and entered into the world. This explains how the expressions ‘nourishing with the word’ and ‘giving to drink of the word’ could also be employed as an interpretation of the sacramental meal. In the present context, λόγος or ῥήμα can scarcely be understood otherwise than as concepts replete with Christological meaning. I conclude, therefore, that an interpretation of the meal and of its elements in terms of sapiential theology is present in Acts of Paul.21 When one partakes of bread and water, the life-giving presence of Christ is experienced, it becomes a present reality, and is made one’s own. The author emphasizes that it is Christ as the word of the Father – not his sacrifice, nor his flesh/body and blood – who becomes ‘the work of salvation’ for those who live in self-restraint, as the final macarism of Acts of Thecla puts it (Acts Paul 3.6).22



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5.2  The nocturnal celebration of the agape: ‘Feasting according to the custom of the fasting’ In Acts Paul 12.5-6 [P.Hamb 7.9-15, P.Heid 52.14-18], the following description of the meal ceremony is given: And immediately, when the Spirit that was in Myrta was at peace, each one partook of the bread and feasted according to the custom of the fasting (εὐωχεῖσθαι κατὰ τὴν συνήθιαν τῆς νηστίας) amid the singing of psalms of David and of hymns. And Paul too was glad. On the following day, after they had spent the whole night according to the will of God, Paul said, ‘Brethren, I shall set out on Friday and sail for Rome that I may not delay what is commanded and laid upon me, for to this I was appointed.’ (Elliott 1993: 383, slightly amended)

What is described here is the celebration of the meal as a whole, not (as scholars, following Schmidt 1936: 51, n. 10, 102, repeatedly affirm) a celebration of the agape following the Eucharist. As on earlier occasions, nothing but bread is eaten, and it is precisely this eccentric frugality that explains the expression ‘feasted according to the custom of the fasting (εὐωχεῖσθαι κατὰ τὴν συνήθιαν τῆς νηστίας)’.23 This oxymoron declares that after the period of preparatory fasting, the bread that is eaten during the singing of psalms and hymns is experienced as a banquet. We can grasp this all the better when we recall the insight acquired in the previous section, namely, that when the bread is eaten, the word (of God, that is, Christ) is eaten too. Philo (De vita contemplativa 35–37) makes very similar comments on the extreme fasting and the sparse meals of the Therapeutae (water and bread, seasoned with hyssop only by the ‘more luxurious of them’), who lived together in a Jewish community devoted to the study of Scripture and the search for wisdom. Philo does not, however, ascribe a sacramental character to the act of eating itself. We are not told explicitly that water (rather than wine) was drunk at Paul’s final Lord’s Supper in Corinth, but it may be assumed that the intended reader of Acts of Paul – having read the previous chapters – took for granted that this was the case.

5.3  Literary sources and references to liturgical practice The relatively detailed description of the ceremony allows us to distil a sequence of liturgical elements of which the celebration of the meal consisted: assembling towards the end of the preparatory fast; discourses filled with the Spirit; the offering of the προσφορά; interpretation of the meal in a discourse filled with the Spirit; the actual eating, accompanied by the singing of Psalms of David and of songs, and lasting throughout the night. This prompts the question whether the narrative may reflect one particular historical practice of the Lord’s Supper. While it is hard to come up with a definite answer, there is one observation, first discussed by Merz (2008: 290–2), that certainly must be taken into account: the description of the event in the text is based on a literary source, viz. the Letter to the Ephesians, particularly Eph. 5.17-20 (translation: RSV): [17] Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is (συνίετε τί τὸ θέλημα τοῦ κυρίου). [18] And do not get drunk with wine (μὴ

190 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals μεθύσκεσθε οἴνῳ), for that is debauchery; but be filled with the Spirit (πληροῦσθε ἐν πνεύματι), [19] addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs (ψαλμοῖς καὶ ὕμνοις καὶ ᾠδαῖς πνευματικαῖς), singing and making melody to the Lord with all your heart; [20] always and for everything giving thanks in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ to God the Father.

The agreements in structure and vocabulary are too numerous to be coincidental. The entire celebration is summarized retrospectively in Acts of Paul with the words: ‘when they had spent the whole night according to the will of God (διανυκτερευσά[ντων] … ἐν θελήματι θ[εοῦ])’. No wine is drunk, but three persons – Paul, Cleobius and Myrta – are filled with the Spirit. They eat while Psalms of David (ψαλμῶν) and hymns (ᾠδῶν) are sung.24 In other words, the author of Acts of Paul read Eph. 5.17-20 as a paraenetic text about the celebration of the meal, or recognized it as such on the basis of common practice, and made it the basis of his fictive description of a meal of this kind by simply changing the imperatives into indicatives.25 This means that Eph. 5.17-20 rather than Acts Paul is to be seen as our primary source of possible historical information on the early Christian practice of the Lord’s Supper.26 If Eph. 5.17-20 is the crystallization point of the literary structure of the celebration of the meal in the way I have shown, this text sheds light on yet another important aspect of the meals that are described in the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, namely, the absence of wine. It is highly probable that the exhortation μὴ μεθύσκεσθε οἴνῳ (‘Do not get drunk with wine,’ Eph. 5.18) was interpreted in a radically ascetic sense and was understood as a prohibition of drinking wine at the Lord’s Supper (or in general). In fact, all the text demands is restraint in the consumption of wine. However, the radical ascetic interpretation that can be discerned from its reception in Acts of Paul is both possible and completely in agreement with other ascetic interpretations of well-known words of Jesus and of Paul in this work. Compare, for example, the macarism ‘Blessed are those who have wives as not having them’ (Acts Paul 3.5), which in an analogous manner creatively misunderstands 1 Cor. 7.29 in the sense of sexual abstention. In all those cases, however, it is impossible to determine whether this interpretation was a scriptural justification a posteriori for a practice that was already there, or whether it in fact generated this practice.

6  Conclusion: multiple meanings of communal meals in Acts of Paul If we now bring together the insights collected about meals in Acts of Paul, we realize how manifold this narrative element is in its explicit and implicit meanings. In itself it certainly mirrors the importance of the banquet in the daily life of individuals and communities. It is helpful to distinguish three main aspects of the meal scenes. First, they constitute an intertextual feature that recalls early Christian meal traditions and thereby helps to characterize Paul and the whole story as being in accordance with tradition. Second, they help to position the Christian communities ideologically vis-àvis pagan society, and to express their own Christian identity. Third, more specifically,



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they offer a sapiental-theological interpretation of bread and water consumed at the Eucharist as mediating the presence of Christ, seen as the word of God.

6.1 Intertextuality: Acts of Paul and early Christian meal traditions a. Acts of Paul features a continuous intertextual play with early Christian meal

traditions (from the life of Jesus and of the earliest community, and from the Pauline letters), which it obviously assumes its readers to be familiar with. Thus, it repeatedly and unobtrusively demonstrates that Paul’s life and teaching imitate Jesus very closely and are in agreement with what the apostle writes in his letters. De facto, however, what is offered is often an ascetic rereading of these early Christian traditions, and a fundamental theological transposition. b. Contrary to Jesus and the Pauline communities, Paul and the other protagonists of Acts of Paul never eat meat (or fish) and never drink wine. And while the language of the Biblical stories of the multiplication of bread is alluded to in Acts Paul 3.23, 25, what this story describes is, in fact, an extremely frugal meal of five breads and some vegetables, paid for by the apostle after he sold his only possession, his cloak. c. The lengthy description of the farewell meal of Paul in Corinth, including his and the Christian prophets’ reflection on the necessity of his death, certainly has the intention of recalling Jesus’s Last Supper and death. All the more meaningful is the absence of any references to the words of institution which interpret Jesus’s death in sacrificial terms (see further below, 6.3). d. Paul’s celebration of the farewell meal in Corinth proves to be an accurate transposition into narrative form of Eph. 5.17-20, which obviously was understood as a paraenesis about the Lord’s Supper. e. The radically ascetic position taken by Acts of Paul, viz. that Paul refused to drink wine in general, and even at the Lord’s Supper, may be based on an ascetic interpretation of Eph. 5.18: ‘Do not get drunk with wine.’

6.2  Ideology and identity: The role of the meal in the overall narrative concept of Acts of Paul a. In Acts of Paul, the Christian ascetic meals are systematically presented as a

contrast and an alternative to the meals of other societal and religious groups, such as luxurious private symposia in Acts Paul 3.5, 13, 23-25, public pagan cultic meals in the Sidon pericope of Acts Paul 6 and mystery meals in the Ephesus pericope of Acts Paul 9. Christian community meals are a rejection both of worldly luxury and of the cults of other gods in their various forms; the absence of meat and wine is the main distinguishing material feature. b. This polemic-apologetic discourse against pagan meals and sacrifices is accompanied by a presentation of the early Christian meals that aims at a positive self-understanding of the audience of Acts of Paul. The meals appear as regular institutions at which brotherly and sisterly love and communality find expression, and where manifestations of the Spirit are an everyday occurrence (love, joy and exultation in the Spirit, prophetic speech by women

192 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals and men, the nocturnal recitation of psalms and hymns for hours on end, Acts Paul 3.5, 25; 12.4-6). c. Another identity marker of the Christian meal is the presence of needy persons, especially widows, who receive goods that are distributed at the Christian banquet (Acts Paul 5).

6.3  Theology: A sacrifice without a sacrifice, the presence of Christ as word a. The sacramental rite of the celebration of the Eucharist is called a ‘sacrifice’

(προσφορά, Acts Paul 12.4), in agreement with early Christian terminology found elsewhere. Interestingly, the Ephesus pericope (Acts Paul 9.21) holds the notion, not attested in other Christian texts, that water is offered in sacrifice – presumably a way of polemically referring to pagan libations of wine. b. There is no indication at all that the sacrifice of Jesus is recalled in the Lord’s Supper in Acts of Paul. The elements of the meal are not linked to the body and blood of Jesus. Probably the customary sacrificial cult was so radically rejected that even a spiritualized idea of sacrifice was unacceptable. The Paul of Acts of Paul forms a sharp contrast to the historical Paul in that regard.27 My thesis is that the expressions ‘nourishing with the word’ and ‘giving to drink of the word’ refer to the Christian message as such, but also to the consumption of bread and water at the sacrificial meal. If this is correct, Acts of Paul presents an interpretation of the elements of the meal in terms of a sapiential theology that offers a theologically substantial and attractive alternative to their interpretation as the sacrificed body and blood of Jesus. c. At least twice in Acts of Paul, a meal celebration follows the description of a state of sickness or perceived death, and is part of the baptismal ceremony (Acts Paul 5.1; 9.21).28 Christ is thought of as actually present as a nourishing word that satisfies and quenches spiritual hunger and thirst, and which provides true life and health. d. Several times the narrator mentions a period of fasting that precedes the meal (Acts Paul 3.23; 6.5; 12.2-4). This also suits well the interpretation of the presence of Christ as the word in the elements of the meal that I have proposed here, since in Acts of Paul, fasting serves to prepare oneself for the reception of divine revelations, which can take the form of words (Acts Paul 3.5: ‘Blessed are the continent, for God shall speak with them.’) or miracles (Acts Paul 6.5; 12.2-4). This is why the believers also fast before celebrating the Lord’s Supper, in which the word is received as bread and water.

Notes 1 Apart from this article (Merz 2008), meals in Acts of Paul have only been treated in passing, even by Andrew McGowan, who devotes two pages to Acts of Paul in his important work on Ascetic Eucharists (1999: 185–6), and by Richard Pervo in his valuable New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (2014). The present



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3

4 5

6 7 8

9

10

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article presents a thorough reworking and updating of my 2008 study. Parts of this essay have been translated by Brian McNeil in an early stage of writing; the end version has been thoroughly improved by Arian Verheij. I am grateful for their help. The three most important manuscripts are the Greek Papyrus Hamburg (P.Hamb, third-century, edition Schmidt 1936), the Coptic Papyrus Heidelberg (P.Heid, fifth- or sixth-century edition Schmidt 21905), and the Coptic Bodmer Papyrus XLI (P.Bod, edition Kasser and Luisier 2004). The three parts of Acts of Paul with a transmission history as independent literary entities are Acts of Paul and Thecla (Acts Paul 3–4; edition Lipsius 1891/1959, preserved in more than forty Greek manuscripts and various versions), the Third Letter to the Corinthians (Acts Paul 10; Greek Papyrus Bodmer X and various versions) and the Martyrdom of Paul (Acts Paul 14; edition Lipsius 1891/1959). Snyder 2013 has argued against this consensus, but his alternative solution is far from convincing (cf. Merz 2017a: 405–6). In this article I use the English translation by Elliott (1993: 364–88) unless indicated differently. The numbering of chapters and sections follows the more recent editions (cf. Rordorf and Kasser in Bovon-Geoltrain 1997; Pervo 2014; and the forthcoming critical edition by Rordorf et al.) that have integrated material which was not available to Elliott. Where precision is required, I also refer to pages and lines of the main manuscripts. Compare Lk. 5.28 (καὶ καταλιπὼν πάντα ἀναστὰς ἠκολούθει αὐτῷ) with Acts Paul 3.23 (κατέλιπεν γὰρ τὰ τοῦ κόσμου ὁ Ὀνησιφόρος καὶ ἠκολούθει Παύλῳ πανοικί). McGowan 1999: 186 reads: ‘At Sidon … the locals bring food for a feast while Paul chooses the better part and fasts.’ He may have been misled by the strongly abbreviated version of the account that is given in Elliott’s translation. Is this young man – which according to the textual restoration of Schmidt physically resembled Paul – Christ? In that case, the author would envisage the deity itself as present at the initiation. In favour of this interpretation, it may be noted that Christ often appears in the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles in various forms (cf. Acts Paul 3.21; Acts Jn 73.76.87.88.89; Acts Pet. 5; Acts Thom. 27). In his excerpt (cited below), Nicephorus speaks of angels, but the plural noun could be due to the fact that the young man appears more than once. The interpretation as ‘angels’ might also be caused by the parallel story of young men who appear at the tomb in the Easter traditions. The most important elements that characterize Artemilla’s baptism as an initiation into the mysteries are the following: the action takes place at night and is accompanied by impressive light phenomena (the apparition of the young man, the shining sea); a dark and dangerous path must be traversed, during which a number of miraculous events take place and prayers are said; Paul falls into ecstasy; the woman who is initiated has a near-death experience; and the ceremony closes with a cultic meal. The prospect of adoption as child expresses the abiding closeness to the divinity; salvation is promised. See Kloft 22003: 89–93, for a compilation of typical elements of an initiation into the mysteries. Although this essential section of the text is quite readable, Schneemelcher’s and Elliott’s translations both do not reproduce it. It is possibly due to this omission that the nature of this text as a Christian analogy to pagan and Jewish narratives that use experiences from mystery initiations (most notably chapter 11 of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Aseneth’s feeding on the life-giving honeycomb in Joseph and Aseneth 15.13–17.4) has not been widely recognized.

194 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 11 Thus Elliott 1993: 378; Schmidt 1936: 35; Schneemelcher 51989: 229; BDAG, s.v. προσφέρω I.b. The Dutch rendering by Hilhorst (in Klijn 1984: 180) is correct in my view: ‘hij offerde [=sacrificed] water’. 12 McGowan describes the narrative briefly and concludes that its intention is to depict ‘a discernable opposition … between bread and water, the food of the holy, and the bloodshed of the circus’ (1999: 184). My above analysis has not confirmed this view. 13 On the theology of the meal in Jos. Asen., see Klauck 1982: 187–96, and Sandelin 1986: 151–7. 14 According to Jos. Asen. 14.9, this angel, who is called a ‘human being’, resembles Joseph and shines with a supernatural light, like the young man who resembles Paul and shines of his own power in the Ephesus pericope (Acts Paul 9.20). 15 The crucial words ‘of itself into pieces’ are legible, though with difficulty. 16 Klauck (2005: 82) agrees, with the reservations that are inevitable, given the uncertain transmission of the text. Pervo 2014: 286 notes that the sign evokes the feeding miracles and may symbolize ‘the church’s growth and social missions’. Snyder (2013: 202), however, proposes a milk miracle (which has no textual basis whatsoever). 17 Within the narrative, the use of metaphor is intensified from the ‘sowing of the word’ by Paul in Cleobius’s speech to the ‘nourishing with the word’ in Myrta’s speech. 18 The similarity consists not only in the situation of farewell as such, but also in the fact that after the prophetical prediction of a death that is necessary in salvation-historical terms, there is a struggle with God and a prayer for preservation that goes unheard. 19 Ignatius speaks frequently of Christ’s flesh and blood, which he believes are consumed in the Lord’s Supper: cf. Ignatius, Rom. 7.3; Ignatius, Phld. 4; Ignatius, Smyrn. 7.1. 20 The fragmentary character of the surviving portions is an added difficulty in their interpretation. The context of Acts Paul 9.6 [P.Bod XLI 3.14-15] is relatively clear, and has already been described. It has not yet been possible to assign the fragment P.Heid 60.10-11 with certainty to any context. The speaker there (probably Paul or Peter?) says, referring to himself: ‘And we nourish [those who] stand [with] the word [in accordance with the promise] of his grace.’ 21 We find this interpretation in earliest Christianity in 1 Cor. 10.3-4 (where the manna and the water that flows from the spiritual rock that is Christ are compared with the elements of the early Christian meal), in the prayers at the meal in the Didache and in the Gospel of John (cf. Jn 6.35; 4.14; 7.37f.). In Paul and John, it stands alongside other traditions that interpret the bread and wine explicitly as the flesh/body and blood. 22 Acts Paul 3.6: blessed are the bodies of the virgins, for they shall be well pleasing to God and shall not lose the reward of their chastity. For the word of the Father shall become to them a work of salvation in the day of the Son, and they shall have rest for ever and ever. 23 The text of P.Hamb 7.10-11 has lacunae, but has been amended by Schmidt (1936: 50 with n. 9), based on P.Heid. Schneemelcher (51989: 235) rejects the reconstruction with the argument that the expression remains ‘unclear’; Elliott aligns himself with that decision. My arguments in the present essay refute this view. Cf. the translation in Pervo 2014: 283: ‘they feasted in accordance with the practice of fasting’. 24 Both textual versions are incomplete (Greek and Coptic) and corrupted (Greek) here, but according to Schmidt (1936: 50 n. 11), the Coptic version shows that a noun ‘parallel to the ψαλμοί’ belonged to the text, presumably the ‘hymns’ that are mentioned in Eph. 5.19. 25 Something analogous can be said of the clause: ‘when a sacrifice (προσφορά) was offered by Paul’ (Acts Paul P.Hamb 6.37-38), which could be understood as fulfill-



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ing the exhortation of Eph. 5.1-2 to become imitators of God and to walk in love, as Christ too loved and gave himself as a gift and sacrifice (παρέδωκεν ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν προσφορὰν καὶ θυσίαν). 26 Eph. 5.18-22 is interpreted by Wick (2003: 215–17) as a symposium text. De Jonge (2007: 14 n. 15) holds that Eph. 5.18-19 originally refers to the assembly that followed (!) the Eucharist. Several authors consider the possibility that Eph. 5.18a intends to warn against the abuses mentioned in 1 Cor. 11.21, when excessive quantities of alcohol were consumed at the Lord’s Supper (e.g. Gnilka 1971: 269), while others see a warning against mystery cults in general or against the cult of Dionysus, which was especially notorious for the consumption of large quantities of wine (for an overview of the various positions, see Lincoln 1990: 343f.). 27 McGowan (1999: 273) summarizes the role of the historical Paul in what I believe is a basically correct presentation: ‘Paul’s own response to the challenge of the cuisine of sacrifice could be characterized as the creation of a parallel meal-universe based on the tradition of the Lord’s supper as a sacrificial meal. … He constructs the Christian meal as one comprehensible in terms of the logic of pagan sacrifice. To participate in the Christian meal is, for Paul, to renounce the table of demons, but it is also to create another table whose logic is actually quite similar to that which he attacks.’ According to McGowan’s interpretation, the historical Paul is thus the inventor of a Christian parallel universe of eating, which remains attached to the logic of sacrifice while ostensibly refusing to participate in the sacrificial cult. The present investigation has shown that the author of Acts of Paul has his protagonist reject the whole business of sacrifice with a theological consistency that even goes further than McGowan has recognized. 28 Another resurrection story, not discussed in this article, that seems to have ended with a Eucharist and possibly a baptism is told in Acts Paul 11.2-4 (Frontina in Philippi), cf. Pervo 2014: 279.

Bibliography Bovon, F. and Geoltrain, P. (1997), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens 1, Paris: Gallimard. Elliott, J. K. (1993), The Apocryphal New Testament, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gnilka, J. (1971), Der Epheserbrief, HThK X/2, Freiburg, Basel, Wien: Herder. James, M. R. (1972), The Apocryphal New Testament: Being the Apocryphal Gospels, Acts and Apocalypses with Other Narratives and Fragments, Oxford 1924, 1953 corrected, reprinted 1972: Clarendon Press. de Jonge, H. J. (2007), Avondmaal en symposium. Oorsprong en eerste ontwikkeling van de vroegchristelijke samenkomst, Leiden: Universiteit Leiden. Kasser, R. and Luisier, P. (2004), ‘Le Papyrus Bodmer XLI en Édition Princeps l’Épisode d’Éphèse des Acta Pauli en Copte et en Traduction’, Le Muséon 117: 281–384. Klauck, H.-J. (1982), Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult. Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum ersten Korintherbrief, NTA.NF 15, Münster: Aschendorff. Klauck, H.-J. (2005), Apokryphe Apostelakten. Eine Einführung, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Klijn, A. F. J. (1984), Apokriefen van het Nieuwe Testament Vol. 1, Kampen: Ten Have. Kloft, H. (22003), Mysterienkulte der Antike. Götter. Menschen. Rituale, München: Beck. Lincoln, A. T. (1990), Ephesians, WBC 42, Dallas, TX: Word Books.

196 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Lipsius, R. A., and Bonnet, M. (1891/1959), Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha, Vol. 1, Leipzig 1891, reprint Darmstadt: Georg Olms. McGowan, A. (1999), Ascetic Eucharists. Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Merz, A. (2004), Die fiktive Selbstauslegung des Paulus. Intertextuelle Studien zur Intention und Rezeption der Pastoralbriefe, NTOA 52, Göttingen/Fribourg: Vandenhoeck/ Universitätsverlag. Merz, A. (2006), ‘Het Jezusbeeld in de Handelingen van Paulus en Thecla’, in G. v. Oyen and P. Kevers (eds), De apocriefe Jezus, 139–59, Leuven/Voorburg: Acco. Merz, A. (2008), ‘Tränken und Nähren mit dem Wort. Der Beitrag der Mahlszenen zur narrativen Theologie der Paulusakten’, in J. Hartenstein, S. Petersen and A. Standhartinger (eds), ‘Eine gewöhnliche und harmlose Speise?’ Von den Entwicklungen frühchristlicher Abendmahlstraditionen, 269–95, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Merz, A. (2012), ‘Gen(de)red power: die Macht des Genres im Streit um die Frauenrolle in Pastoralbriefen und Paulusakten’, HTS 68. http://dx.doi.org/10.4102/hts.v68i1.1185 Merz, A. (2017a), ‘Hinführung zu den Wundererzählungen in den Akten des Paulus (und der Thekla)’, in R. Zimmermann et al. (eds), Kompendium der frühchristlichen Wundererzählungen. Vol. 2, 403–23, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Merz, A. (2017b), ‘Bestialische Menschen und ein frommes Tier: Löwentaufe und Löwenkampf ’, in R. Zimmermann et al. (eds), Kompendium der frühchristlichen Wundererzählungen. Vol. 2, 453–75, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Merz, A. (2017c), ‘First Lady trifft Paulus (Die Taufe der Artemilla als Mysterieninitiation)’ in R. Zimmermann et al. (eds), Kompendium der frühchristlichen Wundererzählungen. Vol. 2, 476–99, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Pervo, R. I. (2014), The Acts of Paul. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers. Rordorf, W. (with P. Cherix & R. Kasser) (1997), ‘Actes de Paul’, in F. Bovon and P. Geoltrain, Écrits apocryphes chrétiens 1, 1115–77, Paris: Gallimard. Sandelin, K.-G. (1986), Wisdom as Nourisher. A Study of an Old Testament Theme, Its Development within Early Judaism and Its Impact on Early Christianity, Acta Academiae Abonensis, Ser. A 64,3, Åbo: Åbo Akademi. Schmidt, C. (1905), Acta Pauli aus der Heidelberger koptischen Papyrushandschrift Nr. 1, 2. erw. Ausgabe Leipzig 1905, reprint Hildesheim 1965. Schmidt, C. [unter Mitarbeit von W. Schubert] (1936), ΠΡΑΧΕΙΣ ΣΑΥΛΟΥ. Acta Pauli. Nach dem Papyrus der Hamburger Staats- und Universitäts-Bibliothek, Glückstadt und Hamburg: Austin. Schneemelcher, W. (1989), Neutestamentliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. Vol. 2 Apostolisches. Apokalypsen und Verwandtes, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Snyder, G. E. (2013), Acts of Paul. The Formation of a Pauline Corpus, WUNT 352, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Sparks, H. F. D. (1984), The Apocryphal Old Testament, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Spittler, J. E. (2008), Animals in the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, WUNT 2/247, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Strotmann, A. (2008), ‘Die göttliche Weisheit als Nahrungsspenderin, Gastgeberin und sich selbst anbietende Speise. Mit einem Ausblick auf Joh 6’, in J. Hartenstein, S. Petersen and A. Standhartinger (eds), ‘Eine gewöhnliche und harmlose Speise?’ Von den Entwicklungen frühchristlicher Abendmahlstraditionen, 131–56, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Wick, P., ‘Die urchristlichen Gottesdienste’, BWANT 150, Stuttgart 22003.

15

Eucharists and other Meals in the Apocryphal Acts of John and Acts of Andrew Jan N. Bremmer

Introduction The recent Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies does not give any attention to the apocryphal Acts in its chapter on the Eucharistic liturgy, nor does the recent RAC lemma on cultic meals contain a section on these Acts, instead jumping straight from Justin and Irenaeus to Clement of Alexandria (cf. Sheerin 2008; Leonhard and Eckhardt 2009; Markschies 2007). Similarly, Andrew McGowan’s recent informative book on early Christian worship pays less attention to the Acts than one would perhaps have expected in connection with the Eucharist (McGowan 2014, cf. McGowan 2015). This is unfortunate, as they are our best witnesses, albeit in a fictional form, of the cultic practices of early Christians in the period between Justin Martyr and Tertullian/ Cyprian. The oldest of these Acts, the Acts of John (AJ) and Andrew (AA), probably originated in Asia Minor and belong to the 160s and/or 170s AD, while the Acts of Paul and Peter, also originating in Asia Minor, probably date to the turn of the second century. We will therefore concentrate on the former, which in general reflect an earlier stage in the development of Christology, ecclesiastical rites, institutions and references to Scripture.

1 The Acts of John Let us start with the Acts of John, which many scholars consider the earliest of the five great apocryphal Acts.1 Its place of origin and date of composition are still a matter of discussion. Regarding a terminus post quem, the author almost certainly knew the Greek novel of Chariton, who worked in the middle of the first century CE (Junod and Kaestli 1983 2.691; Lalleman 1997: 66 and 1998a: 149; Tilg 2010: 65), and the AJ also borrows the name Lycomedes from the novel of Xenophon of Ephesus (1.1, 1.5 etc.), who was writing somewhere between the late Flavian and early Antonine periods, perhaps in the first years of Antoninus Pius (Coleman 2011). A date only

198 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals slightly later than this for the AJ is suggested by a detail that has not received the attention it deserves. In Ephesus, John commands Verus, ‘the brother that served him’, to convene the old women (AJ 30). Verus’s name is noteworthy. Here a man with an imperial name – Lucius Verus was co-emperor with Marcus Aurelius from AD 161–9 – is explicitly said to serve the apostle. The fact that ‘Verus’ is not employed as a personal name in any other texts or any inscription from Asia Minor, the area where our author is most likely to have lived, shows that the author of the AJ chose it for a reason. As it is unlikely that the author would have chosen the name long after Verus’s death in AD 169, its usage points to a date of composition in the late AD 160s or 170s. This detail, along with the evident knowledge of the two Greek novels, the AJ’s pre-Valentinian Gnostic tendencies, its specific form of docetic Christology2 and its seeming ignorance of the Old Testament and the Epistles of Paul supports the frequent suggestion that the AJ originated in the AD 160s.3 Admittedly, Otto Zwierlein has recently argued that the Acts of John derive from the Acts of Peter, which he dates to the beginning of the third century. Although he makes a reasonable case that a number of elements of AJ 87–105 derive from the Acts of Peter, Zwierlein overlooks the fact that precisely these chapters have long been recognized to be an interpolation (Zwierlein 2013: 233–48),4 plausibly written in Asia Minor or Alexandria at the beginning of the third century (cf. Lalleman, 1998a: 267–8 [Asia Minor]; Czachesz 2006: 59–72 [Alexandria]). As regards the place of composition of the AJ, it is important to note the social terminology used to describe its protagonists: both Andronicus (31) and Callimachus (73) are called ‘first of the Ephesians’ (31), and Antipater is ‘a first of the Smyrnaeans’ (56). This shows that the author came from the area I have identified as the centre of this social and political terminology, that is, Northern Lycia and Caria.5 The usage of the Ionian form Smyrne rather than the more common Smyrna (37) also points to an inhabitant of Asia Minor. While Aphrodisias might suggest itself as a more specific location based on the number of early novels that have been plausibly ascribed to that city (Tilg 2010: 97–122), it can hardly enter into consideration, since Christianity was a latecomer to Caria in general and Aphrodisias in particular (Van der Horst 1990: 166–81; Trombley 1994: 52–73). Somewhere in Northern Lycia, then, seems to be the most likely place of composition. Let us now turn to the actual text. Unfortunately, we cannot be too certain about the precise wording of the text, as the fluidity of the manuscript tradition means that extant manuscripts give us only ‘a snapshot of an evolving textual tradition’ (Snyder 2014: 96). Yet the text as given by Junod and Kaestli (note 1) is sufficiently plausible that we can nevertheless make some observations about meals in the AJ, of which there are several. We will start with Eucharists, the first of which receives only a fleeting mention. With the Eucharist I mean the ritual that has developed into the traditional Last Supper comprising of bread and wine. However, as will also be clear from what follows, in the first centuries this ritual was performed in different ways in the different congregations. Whereas the breaking of the bread seems to have been indispensable, wine or water was not. As the term εὐχαριστία started to be used in various places in the Christian world at more or less the same time for this ritual, as illustrated by Ignatius (Philad. 4, Smyrn. 7–8), Justin (1Apol. 66.1) and the Acts of John, I will stick to the term Eucharist.

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After the temple of Artemis collapses, a kinsman of the priest of Artemis lays the priest’s body down in front of the door of Andronicus’s house (on the priests, cf. Bremmer 2008: 37–53), where John is staying. Although the kinsman does not mention this to anyone, the apostle notices it. As might be expected, the apostle resurrects the priest, although not before ‘a homily to the brethren, a prayer, the Eucharist and the laying on of hands on each person assembled’ (46). The prayer probably was one of thanksgiving such as in the other Eucharists (below), but the laying on of hands is fairly unique in this context, although not wholly unparalleled.6 Junod and Kaestli persuasively argue that it took place at the end of the service, as this is also the case in the AA (13) (Junod and Kaestli 1983, 2.512). Our second scene takes place in Ephesus, where one of the protagonists, Drusiana, dies after an illness caused by the fact that a rich young man called Callimachus (the name suggests that the author has pretensions to high culture) has fallen in love with her, despite the fact that she is married. After her burial, he bribes the steward of her husband Andronicus, whose name was very popular in south-western Asia Minor,7 to open Drusiana’s grave. Just before Callimachus and the steward Fortunatus expose her nudity, a serpent appears that kills the steward and pins the young lover to the ground (63–71). The next morning, that is, on the third day, the apostle comes with ‘Andronicus and the brethren’ to the grave ‘so that we might break bread there’ (72). The scene is clearly reminiscent of the resurrection of Christ, a connection strengthened by the fact that Callimachus sees a handsome young man with a shining face in the grave, presumably an angel. Subsequently, John raises Callimachus from the ground. The latter immediately converts and resurrects Drusiana. In turn she resurrects Fortunatus, but he runs away instead of joining John and his group (73–83). His rejection of salvation leads John to give a brief speech that at first seems to be directed at the absent Fortunatus, to whom he says: Be removed from those who hope in the Lord … from their fasting, from their prayers, from their holy bath, from their Eucharist (ἀπὸ εὐχαριστίας), from the nourishment of their flesh, from their drink, from their clothing, from their lovemeal (ἀπὸ ἀγάπης), from their care for the dead, from their continence, from their justice.

The speech is very interesting, as it shows that in the author’s community there were two types of meals, the Eucharist and the agapê, both of which are well known from other early Christian sources, but are never mentioned together in the same passage elsewhere.8 Before proceeding to look at the continuation of this passage, let us first take a closer look at the agapê. The term is not elucidated in the text, so we do not know what precisely it entailed in the author’s community. One thing is clear, however: The agapê is considered to be a positive aspect of Christian community life. This was not the case everywhere, as we can see from the fact that Clement of Alexandria rails against it: Some, speaking with unbridled tongue, dare to apply the name agapê to pitiful suppers redolent of savour and sauces. Dishonouring the good and saving work

200 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals of the Word, [the] consecrated love [agapê], with pots and pouring of sauce; and by drink and delicacies and smoke desecrating that name, they are deceived in their idea, having expected that the promise of God might be bought with suppers. (Paed. 2.1.4.34, tr. McGowan, cf. also McGowan 1997: 314–18)

However, it seems evident that Clement objects to a celebration of the agapê in a manner unworthy of the Christian lifestyle, not to the agapê itself. Things were different in Carthage, where Tertullian provides our best information about the agapê, albeit around AD 200. We learn from Tertullian that it was a meal celebrated in the evening: Our dinner shows its purpose by its name: it is called what among the Greeks means affection (dilectio). … We do not recline until we have first tasted of prayer to God. So much is eaten as satisfies hunger; as much drunk as is fitting for the pure. Appetite is satisfied to the extent appropriate for those who are mindful that they have to worship God even at night; speech, as for those who know the Master is listening. After washing of hands, and lights, each is invited into the middle to sing to God as able, from knowledge of sacred writings or from their own mind; thus it can be tested how much has been drunk. Prayer again closes the feast. (Apol. 39.16-18, tr. McGowan, see on this passage: Georges 2012)

Tertullian clearly wants to stress that it is a sober meal and not a sumptuous banquet. Moreover, it all happens in full candlelight and not in darkness, as lurid pagan slander imagined (cf. McGowan 1994; Roig Lanzillotta 2007a: 81–102; Belayche 2009; Bremmer 2013 [with more bibliography]). The importance of this agapê is confirmed by the contemporaneous Passion of Perpetua, which reports about Christian martyrs who were executed on March 7, 203 CE: ‘Even on the penultimate day they directed remarks to the crowd with the same steadfastness (viz. as Perpetua: 16.1), when they had that last dinner that is called “the free dinner” (as far as they were concerned they did not celebrate the “free dinner” but the agapê): threatening them with God’s judgment, stressing the successful outcome of their martyrdom and ridiculing the curiosity of the onlookers’.9 The martyrs thus celebrated their penultimate day with a special meal, the so-called cena libera, and the editor of the Passion contrasts this meal with the simplicity of the agapê, or dilectio,10 as Tertullian translates it – a simplicity that the latter also stresses when discussing the more licentious tendencies of pagan meals (Apol. 39.16). Although the Passion does not mention at what time this dinner occurred, it seems reasonable to suppose that it took place in the evening, since it was the martyrs’ last full meal before they were executed at dawn the next morning (18). The celebration of the agapê at night is also mentioned in an episode of the apocryphal Acts of Paul (IX.7), of which the Coptic text was published only a decade ago. Here, at night time, Paul leaves the agapê in the house of the widow Lemma and her daughter Ammia.11 Unfortunately, we do not hear anything about the content of the meal or the place of the Eucharist, but the time is certain.12 McGowan rightly sees in the agapê the main meal with the Eucharist of the Carthaginian congregation at the turn of the third century, but he also notes that

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sometimes (regularly?) the Eucharist was distributed to Christians in Carthage early in the morning – witness Tertullian’s words: ‘We take also, in congregations before daybreak, and from the hand of none but the presidents, the sacrament of the Eucharist, which the Lord both commanded to be eaten at meal-times, and enjoined to be taken by all alike.’13 McGowan argues that this was not a Eucharist, however, but a sort of communion service at which Christians received Eucharistic food consecrated beforehand at the agapê (McGowan 2004, cf. Bradshaw 2004: 96–103). He does not seem to realize that the congregation of the author of the Acts of John probably had the same practices, including a morning Eucharist. As we saw above, John, Andronicus and the brethren go to Drusiana’s sepulchre ‘so we might break the bread there’. The text specifies that this happens ‘at dawn’ (72: ἐξ ἑωθινῆς). Of course, various complications at the grave delay the actual distribution of the bread, but the time proposed is clear. I conclude therefore that the Eucharist was probably performed both at early morning assemblies and at congregational evening meals in a number of late second-century Christian congregations. The AJ is fairly detailed as to how this morning Eucharist was performed. John starts by glorifying and thanking God: ‘We glorify (δοξάζομέν) thy name that converteth us from error and pitiless deceit’ and ‘we thank thee (εὐχαριστοῦμέν) who hadst need < > of (our) nature that is being saved’ (85, tr. Wilson). Glorification and thanksgiving seem to have been part of the standard ritual at the time, since Justin Martyr also says that before the bread and wine were consumed the president of the brethren ‘gives praise and glory to the Father of the universe … and offers thanks at considerable length for our being counted worthy to receive these things at His hands’ (1 Apol. 65, tr. McGowan). Roldanus, in an otherwise perceptive study of the Eucharist in the AJ (Roldanus 1995: 79), understands the apostle to leave the sepulchre before partaking of the Eucharist, but the preceding text clearly says that John has brought the bread into the sepulchre of Drusiana (85). In a way, the sepulchre serves as the house church in which morning assemblies normally would have taken place. Although the author does not say so, it seems clear that both the brethren and Drusiana take part in the ritual. The Eucharist is for all believers, not just the male ones. As usual in the AJ, the apostle does not specify the addressee of his prayer but starts directly with the glorification. It is only in the course of the prayer that the addressee is mentioned: ‘Lord’ (κύριε) and ‘Lord Jesus Christ’ (κύριε Ἰησοῦ Χριστέ). John glorifies and thanks God in the name of other Christians present as well as himself, mentioning that it is ‘we thy slaves, that are assembled and restored with (good) cause’ who are doing the thanking. The prayer constitutes a kind of explanation for the distribution of the Eucharist, but does not comment on Jesus’s institution of the Eucharist or establish a connection with the elements served. Indeed, a narrative of institution was not customary until the third century at the earliest (Rouwhorst 2011a: 77–8). Before we discuss which elements were served at this Eucharist, let us first consider another Eucharist in the AJ. Just before his death John offers another prayer before a Eucharist. This time the addressee is mentioned (Jesus), although his name comes at the end of ‘O you who have woven this crown for your plait’ in order to focus attention on the symbolic crown of martyrdom.14 After the prayer John asks for bread and offers another prayer in which he again glorifies and thanks (cf. Markschies 2007: 185–7), as

202 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals well as giving a long list of descriptors of Jesus, the relevance of which for the Eucharist is unclear. The allusions to various similitudes could suggest that the author had access to the Gospels even though he does not quote these word for word.15 As Junod and Kaestli observe, however, there are a number of reasons to think that this passage dates from a later period and does not belong to the original text (Junod and Kaestli 1983, 2.700–2, 1997: 1034 n. 109). After his prayer, John breaks the bread and prays that each of the brethren – and surely each of the sisters as well, since there is no reason to suppose that Drusiana is not now present – be worthy of the Lord’s grace and the most holy Eucharist (τῆς ἁγιωτάτης εὐχαριστίας). The latter expression suggests that the author attached great importance to the Eucharist, as this is the only passage in early Eastern Christianity where the Eucharist is described as ‘very holy’.16 The author’s respect for the Eucharist probably also explains his stress on the fact that John himself partakes of it, a detail not mentioned in the earlier Eucharist scene. Unfortunately, the author does not specify the time of this Eucharist. The fact that they leave Andronicus’ house after the meal without any mention of dusk, darkness or night suggests that this Eucharist was perhaps also distributed in the early morning. There is still one important question to address: What elements were served at this Eucharist? It is rather striking that our text only mentions bread, not water or wine. In chapter 72 we read that the apostle and the brethren went to Drusiana’s grave ‘to break bread there’ (ὅπως ἄρτον κλάσωμεν ἐκεῖ); in 85 John takes bread and brings it into the grave in order to break it (λαβὼν ἄρτον ἐκόμισεν εἰς τὸ μνῆμα κλάσαι); and in 110 he actually breaks it and gives pieces to the brethren (Καὶ κλάσας τὸν ἄρτον ἐπέδωκεν πᾶσιν ἡμῖν). It seems clear that in this community wine was not part of the Eucharist, which suggests an ascetic character of the community, even if it was a moderate asceticism (as it is well argued by Lalleman 1998a: 217–44). In an instructive study of the Jewish and Greco-Roman roots of the Eucharist, Gerard Rouwhorst has argued that the importance given to this breaking of the bread ‘appears to be unparalleled in Greco-Roman and Jewish sources. In the Jewish tradition, the emphasis lies on the blessing accompanying the breaking of the bread rather than on the breaking itself. In early Christianity, this ritual gesture gained an intensity it had never had in Jewish or non-Jewish symposiums’ (Rouwhorst 2007: 308). This is basically correct, but can be somewhat supplemented. The observation I would like to make is that we find the combination ‘breaking’ + ‘bread’ (panem + frango) in Latin only rarely before Christian authors,17 and not at all in Greek before the Septuagint, where we find it in Judges (19.5: κλάσματι ἄρτου), Jeremiah (16.7: κλασθῇ ἄρτος) and Ezekiel (13.19: κλασμάτων ἄρτου), as well as the early Jewish Apocryphon of Ezekiel (fr. a: τὸ κλάσμα τοῦ ἄρτου).18 In addition to the New Testament, it occurs in the second century in the AJ, the Didache (14.1: κλάσατε ἄρτον καὶ εὐχαριστήσατε) and the Acts of Paul (5: κλάσις ἄρτου), after which the combination becomes increasingly common. It seems to follow, then, that the ‘breaking of the bread’ derives from Christianity’s Jewish ancestry. There is one meal left in the AJ. In a series of brief scenes in chapters 89–93, we hear about the polymorphy of Christ (cf. Lalleman 1995; Foster 2007; Czachesz 2012:  115–29). John then speaks about the body of Christ and notes that it was

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sometimes solid, and sometimes immaterial and incorporeal. In this context, he says that when Jesus was invited by one of the Pharisees, the apostles accompanied him. This might suggest a solid body, but John then reports that although everyone received a loaf of bread, Jesus divided his and shared it, so that their loaves remained intact. This is interesting in light of Lk. 24.36-43, where Jesus suddenly appears and terrifies the group, who think they are seeing a pneuma. Jesus then invites those present to look at and touch his hands and feet, presumably to prove that he is not a pneuma, which would apparently lack flesh and bones. The ultimate proof, however, is that he eats fish in their presence – clearly, not something normally done by a pneuma. We may even wonder if the eating refers back to the resurrection of Jairus’s daughter (Luke 8), who also receives food after her resurrection, presumably as definitive proof that she is really alive and not a kind of ghost. The immateriality of Jesus’s body in the AJ is also affirmed in the last scene where his polymorphy is described. John reports that he had often looked, when walking next to Jesus, to see if footprints had appeared on the ground. He never saw them, which clearly is meant as another proof of his immateriality. This scene must have surprised more educated readers who would have known that pagan gods often left footprints on the ground as a sign of their divine presence or epiphany,19 a phenomenon also attested outside the ancient world (cf., e.g. Bakker 1991). Having now finished the Acts of John, let us turn to the Acts of Andrew.

2  Acts of Andrew Unfortunately, modern editions of the Acts of Andrew (AA) combine a variety of Latin, Greek and Coptic texts written at different times with different purposes. As my former colleague Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta has convincingly argued, the oldest and most primitive text is that of Codex Vaticanus 808, but the other witnesses cannot be wholly neglected.20 There are a number of close parallels between AJ and AA, which suggest their chronological proximity. Although the state of the textual tradition makes it difficult to determine who has borrowed from whom, there seems to be a consensus that the AA borrowed from the AJ (cf. Lalleman 2000). Since the author of the AA had read Achilles Tatius’s novel Leucippe and Kleitophon, this puts the AA around AD 170 or a bit later, given its dependence on the AJ (Cf. Roig Lanzillotta 2007b: 147, 271 [parallel with Ach. Tat.]; Henrichs 2011: 306–9 [date Ach. Tat.]). Its middle-platonic insights fit this dating (Roig Lanzillotta 2007b: 191–265). Our author also uses the expression ‘first of the city’: In the Pontic town of Amasea Andrew resurrects an Egyptian slave of Demetrii … primi civitatis Amaseorum (AAlat 3). The expression, variants of which can be found in the AJ, as we have seen (§ 1), also occurs in a Pontic inscription.21 We might even wonder if the AA was written in Pontus. A Pontic origin would explain the awkward scope of the AA, which somewhat uneasily combines a stay of Andrew in Pontus and Bithynia with martyrdom in Patras (cf. Lequeux 2013), a city of which the author displays hardly any real knowledge (cf. Weiss 2013: 13–5). In any case, the vocabulary used for elite and civic virtues makes it

204 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals unlikely that the Acts of Andrew was written anywhere besides Asia Minor (Bremmer 2000b: 15–19). There are only a few references to meals and the Eucharist in the Acts of Andrew, and given the fragmentary state of the text, we will look at them in the context of the sources in which they appear. Let us start with the Eucharist. There are only two examples, one of which occurs in a source that is challenging to use. At the end of the sixth century Gregory of Tours wrote a Liber de miraculis beati Andreae apostoli (=AALat), an abbreviated version of a longer Latin translation of an originally Greek Acts of Andrew. He cut out most of the original speeches, and also updated some of the miracles.22 His methods mean that it is often difficult to determine if a specific detail is original or not, as in the following reference to the Eucharist. When the son of Gratinus of Sinope is tortured by a demon in a women’s bath, his father asks the proconsul to prevail on Andrew to come and heal him, as well as himself and his wife. The apostle does as asked and heals all of them. Interestingly, after the wife’s healing it is reported: ‘Then the blessed apostle broke bread and gave it to her. When she had given thanks, she took it and believed in the Lord with her whole house.’23 The scene as a whole undoubtedly belongs to the original AA, given its location in Pontic Sinope. Specific elements of the scene, including the healings, the exorcism and the reference to the sexual sins of the characters also look original, since sexual asceticism appears elsewhere in the AA. This leads me to believe that the Eucharist also belongs to the original text. If Gregory had added the reference to the Eucharist himself, one would also have expected him to add similar instances in other scenes. Furthermore, it fits an earlier date that we only hear about bread, not about wine, and that no institution narrative for the Eucharist is provided. The thanksgiving also goes well with what we have seen in the AJ. The authenticity of the Eucharist in the scene discussed above seems to be confirmed by the second example of a Eucharist in the AA. After the apostle has preached for five days, ‘He received the bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to all, saying, “Receive the grace which Christ the Lord our God gives you through me his servant”’.24 Once again a thanksgiving is included, and we hear only of the breaking of bread, not of wine.25 Taken together, these Eucharists seem remarkably similar to those in the AJ. We also hear of a few meals in the AA, which give us an idea of the author’s attitudes towards food in general. Let us start with the part of the AA that is probably the oldest and best preserved, from Codex Vaticanus 808 (= V; for the value of this text, see Roig Lanzillotta 2007b: 53–100). Here we read that Aegeates, the Roman proconsul, who was frustrated that his wife Maximilla had refused to reconsider her decision not to sleep with him, ‘finally turned his attention to Andrew’s execution and considered to which kind of death he would put him. And when, finally, from all possibilities crucifixion prevailed to him, he went out and ate with his friends’.26 In this case the consumption of food is closely connected with the apostle’s execution, hardly a positive sign. Similarly, after he has ordered the jailer of Andrew’s prison not to let anyone enter, however important that person may be, and has commanded Maximilla’s bedroom to be guarded so that she cannot try to visit the apostle, ‘the accursed Aegeates turned to his dinner’.27 Once again food and unholy deeds are closely connected. This concentration on the belly is also highlighted when Andrew

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causes Aegeates to have diarrhoea just when he is about to discover him and the brethren in Stratocles’s bedroom (AA 13).28 It is different with Maximilla. After Aegeates locks Andrew up, he goes to his wife, whom he finds with her slave Iphidama ‘eating bread with olives (ἄρτον μετὰ ἐλαιῶν) – for that was their custom at this hour’. When her husband tells her that the apostle will perish in an evil way, she says to Iphidama: ‘Sister, we are now eating, and he who after the Lord is our benefactor is imprisoned’, and tells her to visit the apostle in prison (AA 27). We see that the pious Maximilla is not a slave to food, but lives on simple fare, just like the pious Stratocles, who only buys ‘vegetables, bread and other necessities’ (λάχανα ὠνούμενος καὶ ἄρτους καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ ἐπιτήδεια) and is not ashamed for the city to see it (AA 25). Given this focus on ascetic eating habits, it is hardly surprising that Andrew himself can hang on the cross for four days teaching. The crowd cries out to Aegeates: ‘For four days he has hung, and eaten nothing, but he has fed us to the full with his words’ (AA 59). The words of the apostle constitute the really important food. In daily life, ascetic food is okay, too, but not gourmet dinners.

3 Conclusion What can we conclude from our analysis? We have looked at two important and often neglected early Christian writings, the Acts of John and Acts of Andrew, which can be located confidently in Asia Minor, and which help to fill out our knowledge of Christianity in AD 150–80. They offer a glimpse of Christians – whether of whole communities or only individuals is not clear – who favoured an ascetic life, as manifested in an aversion to sex – admittedly more in the AA than in the AJ – and a preference for simple food. Should we conclude from these passages that these Christians practised the same asceticism in daily life? Gerard Rouwhorst has noted that in the Pseudo-Clementines, Peter says that his ordinary food consists of bread, olives and occasionally vegetables (Hom. 12.6.4; Rec. 7.6.4). Likewise, according to the Acts of Thomas (20, 96, 104), the apostle Thomas fasted a lot, eating only bread and salt and drinking only water. Rouwhorst concludes that these descriptions serve to highlight the ‘magical’ powers of the apostles and should not be taken as an indication of daily diets (Rouwhorst 2013: 90). In the AA, however, it is not apostles but ‘ordinary’, albeit upper-class, believers who practise this simple diet. Consequently, there seems no reason not to accept that some Christians indeed practised this kind of asceticism in their daily lives. Regarding the Eucharist, these Acts describe performances of the Eucharist at both morning assemblies and evening agapê meals, at which only bread is broken and neither water nor wine is mentioned. We have identified the tradition of breaking bread as coming from the Jewish world. This is a not unimportant observation, given the tendency of many scholars to look for an exclusively Greek background to the Eucharist (Klinghardt 1996; De Jonge 2001; Smith 2003; Leonhard and Eckhardt 2009: 1067–90; Alikin 2010). Moreover, the Eucharist is not yet connected to the Last Supper and lacks any institution narrative. The reasons for this are not entirely clear, but may

206 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals well have to do with the fairly late emergence of the Gospels and the Letters of Paul as authoritative writings (cf. Vinzent 2014). On the other hand, the ritual seems to imply more than just the breaking of bread. The role of the apostle looks like that of the most important person in the group (congregation?),29 and prayer and thanksgiving also seem to be indispensable parts of the performance, since they are already mentioned in the Didache.30 The ‘very holy’ status of the Eucharist meant that non-believers were excluded from participation (cf. Schröter 2006: 107). This exclusion appears in various scenes of the Apocryphal Acts and even seems to have been part of the original AJ, if P.Oxy. 6.850 does indeed go back to its original version. The fragmentary papyrus probably relates the revelation of a secret sin of a newly converted Christian, Zeuxis, at the moment of the Eucharist, which is preceded by a prayer of thanksgiving.31 Apparently, this local variety of the Eucharist was typical of the varied world of second-century Christianity,32 in which there was lively written contact between various Christian groups (cf. inspiringly: Kloppenborg 2014), and also lively varying development of ideas and practices among the earliest followers of Jesus.33

Notes 1 I follow the text and the numbering of the chapters of the authoritative edition by Junod and Kaestli 1983 of which the French translation has been updated by Junod and Kaestli (1997). I use and sometimes adapt the English translation by Schäferdiek (1992). An important study is Lalleman 1998a. 2 Lalleman 1998a: 270. For a survey of modern studies of the AJ, see Jakab 2000 and the important analysis of Snyder 2014: 90–141. 3 Junod and Kaestli 1983, 1.168 note 5 observes that the author of the AJ ‘ne mentionne nulle part l’existence de l’Écriture’, but see Lalleman 1998a: 110–34, 142–6, whose proposed parallels do not strike me as wholly persuasive. 4 For the recognition of interpolations, see Junod and Kaestli 1983, 2.581–677; Lalleman 1998a: 25–68; 1998b. Zwierlein’s arguments (2013: 248–51), for the dependence of the AJ on the AP are rather feeble. 5 Cf. Bremmer 2001b: 157–9; add now SEG 51.1811 D.II.11 (Termessos); 55.1492 (Rhodiapolis), 60.1115 (Iasos). 6 It is not mentioned by McGowan 2014: 157–60. 7 As can easily be verified from the website of the Lexicon of Greek Personal Names: http://clas-lgpn2.classics.ox.ac.uk/ cgi-bin/lgpn_search.cgi. 8 Note that use of this passage has also been discovered in a fragmentary Manichaean papyrus: see, most recently, Zwierlein 2013: 251–7. 9 Pass. Perp. 17.1: Pridie quoque cum illam cenam ultimam quam liberam vocant, quantum in ipsis erat, non cenam liberam sed agapem cenarent, eadem constantia ad populum verba iactabant, comminantes iudicium Dei, contestantes passionis suae felicitatem, inridentes concurrentium curiositatem. I quote from the new translation by Farrell and Williams (2012). 10 For the custom in the time of Perpetua, see Tertullian, Mart. 2, Or. 28, Bapt. 9.4, Jejun. 17. Cf. Dekkers 1947: 48; Pétré 1948: 64–5; Hauschild 1977. 11 For the important place of widows in early Christianity, see Bremmer 1995b.

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12 Kasser and Luisier 2004: 318, 321 (ΤΑΓΑΠΗ). I follow the numeration of Rordorf and Cherix 1997. 13 Tertullian Cor. 3.3, tr. McGowan: Eucharistiae sacramentum, et in tempore uictus et omnibus mandatum a Domino, etiam antelucanis coetibus nec de aliorum manu quam praesidentium sumimus. 14 AJ 108.1: Ὁ τὸν στέφανον τοῦτον πλέξας τῇ σῇ πλοκῇ Ἰησοῦ. The invocation in this chapter of θεὲ Χριστὲ Ἰησοῦ κύριε deserves more attention that it has received in the discussion of so-called Christomonism in the AJ, cf. Paschke 2014, 2015. 15 This is clear from the references collected by Junod and Kaestli ad AJ 109. 16 Leonhard and Eckhardt 2009: 1075 wrongly state that the Eucharist is called ‘holy’ in Did. 10.6. 17 Plautus, Poen. 729; Curtius 4.2.14; Juvenal Sat. 5.68, 10.200; Thesaurus Linguae Latinae s.v. frango for many Christian examples. 18 Mladen Popović also referred me to the Aramaic 2Q24 (New Jerusalem), fr. 4 line 10, where we seem to have the combination of ‘distributing’+‘bread’. Unfortunately, ‘bread’ is a conjecture, albeit a plausible one, as (loaves of) bread are mentioned before and after this line. But the distribution will imply the breaking of the bread beforehand. 19 See most recently, with excellent bibliography: Petridou 2009. 20 Cf. Roig Lanzillotta 2007 (summarized as Roig Lanzillotta 2010). I use the edition of Prieur 1989, with the corrections of Roig Lanzillotta 2007. I also use the translation of Prieur and Schneemelcher 1992. 21 IGR III.115, republished by B. Le Guen Pollet (1989: 65–6) and Mitford (1991, no. 12). 22 Gregorius Turonensis ([1885] 1989): 376–96, reprinted, along with a French translation, in Prieur 1989, 2.551–651. I use the English translation by MacDonald (2005: 43–76). For Gregory’s way of handling the text, see also Van Kampen 1991. 23 AALat 5: beatus autem apostolus fregit panem et dedit ei. Quae gratias agens accepit et credidit in Domino cum omni domo sua. For such conversions of ‘the whole house’, see Bremmer 2014. 24 AALat 20: Et accipiens panem, gratias agens fregit et dedit omnibus, dicens: ‘Accipite gratiam quem vobis tradit per me famulum suum Christus dominus Deus noster’. 25 The passage has to be added to the full ‘dossier’ collected by Rouwhorst 2010: 232–6. Rouwhorst’s essay is a stimulating discussion of the various interpretations of the absence of wine, with an excellent bibliography of the problem, but add Wischmeyer 2004: 38–47. 26 AA 46 = V 14: ἀπιὼν μὲν αὐτὸς ἅμα τοῖς ὁμοίοις [ὡς θὴρ] ἐσιτίζετο: the bracketed words belong to the amplified version of the much later Narratio, cf. Roig Lanzillotta 2007b: 68, which is not noted by McGowan 1999: 190. 27 AA 31: Ὁ δὲ κατηραμένος Αἰγεάτης ἐπὶ τὸ δεῖπνον ἐτράπη. 28 For this scene, see Czachesz 2012: 98–9, 106–9. 29 Cf. McGowan 2014: 40–1 for this role. 30 Cf. Didache 9 and 10; McGowan 2014: 37–40. Lietzmann 1926: 240–1 had already noted the connection of the AJ and Didache. 31 Cf. Junod and Kaestli 1983, 1.109–25, who also compare Acts Pet. 2 and Acts Thom. 51–4. 32 In actual fact, the ritual as reconstructed here shows remarkable similarities with that criticized in the Gospel of Judas, cf. Rouwhorst 2011b. 33 I am most grateful to Veronika Niederhöfer for help, to Birgit van der Lans for comments and to Julia Snyder for her careful and insightful correction of my English text.

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Jonge, H.-J. de (2001), ‘The Early History of the Lord’s Supper’, in J. W. van Henten and A. Houtepen (eds), Religious Identity and the Invention of Tradition, 209–37, Assen: Van Gorcum. Junod, E. and J.-D. Kaestli (1983), Acta Iohannis, 2 vols, Turnhout: Brepols. Junod, E. and J.-D. Kaestli (1997), ‘Actes de Jean’, in F. Bovon and P. Geoltrain (eds), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens 1, 973–1037, Paris: Gallimard. Kampen, L. van (1991), ‘Acta Andreae and Gregory’s De miraculis Andreae’, VC 45: 18–26. Kasser, R. and P. Luisier (2004), ‘Le papyrus Bodmer XLI en édition princeps L’épisode d’Éphèse des Acta Pauli en copte et en traduction’,. Mus 117: 281–384. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft, Tübingen: Francke. Kloppenborg, J. S. (2014), ‘Literate Media in Early Christ Groups: The Creation of a Christian Book Culture’, JECS 22: 21–59. Lalleman, P. J. (1995), ‘Polymorphy of Christ’, in Bremmer 1995a: 97–118. Lalleman, P. J. (1997), ‘Classical Echoes (Callimachus, Chariton) in the Acta Iohannis’, ZPE 116: 66. Lalleman, P. J. (1998a), The Acts of John: A Two-Stage Initiation into Johannine Gnosticism, Leuven: Peeters. Lalleman, P. J. (1998b), ‘The Relation between the Acts of John and the Acts of Peter’, in J. N. Bremmer (ed.), The Apocryphal Acts of Peter, 161–8, Leuven: Peeters. Lalleman, P. J. (2000), ‘The Acts of Andrew and the Acts of John’, in Bremmer (2000a), The Apocryphal Acts of Andrew, 140–8. Le Guen Pollet, B. (1989), ‘Sébastopolis du Pont (Sulusaray). Documents littéraires et inscriptions déjà publiées de la cité’, Epigraphica Anatolica 13: 51–86. Leonhard, C. and B. Eckhardt (2009), ‘Mahl V (Kultmahl)’, in RAC 23 (2009): 1012–1105. Lequeux, X. (2013), ‘Les anciennes Passions latines de l’Apôtre André’, in E. G. Saradi and D. Triantaphyllopoulos (eds), ‘Ο Απόστολος Ανδρέας στην ιστορία και την τέχνη, 9–16, Patras: Πανεπιστήμιο Πελοποννήσου. Lietzmann, H. (1926), Messe und Herrenmahl, Bonn: Marcus und Weber. MacDonald, D. (2005), The Acts of Andrew, Santa Rosa: Polebridge Press. Markschies, C. (2007), Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. McGowan, A. (1994), ‘Eating People: Accusations of Cannibalism Against Christians in the Second Century’, JECS 2: 413–32. McGowan, A. (1997), ‘Naming the Feast: The agape and the Diversity of Early Christian Meals’, StPatr 30: 314–18. McGowan, A. (1999), Ascetic Eucharists, Oxford: Oxford University Press. McGowan, A. (2004), ‘Rethinking Agape and Eucharist in Early North African Christianity’, Studia Liturgica 34: 165–76. McGowan, A. (2014), Ancient Christian Worship, Grand Rapids: Baker. McGowan, A. (2015), ‘The Myth of the “Lord’s Supper”: Paul’s Eucharistic Meal Terminology and Its Ancient Reception’, CBQ 77 (2015): 503–21. Mitford, T. B. (1991), ‘Inscriptiones Ponticae-Sebastopolis,’ ZPE 87: 181–243. Paschke, B. (2014), ‘Christomonism? A Narrative-Critical Analysis of Two Prayers to God the Father in the Apocryphal Acts of John’, BN 163: 121–34 Paschke, B. (2015), ‘Die Anfänge des Christomonismus in den apokryphen Johannesakten’, ZRGG 67: 85–9. Pétré, H. (1948), Caritas, Leuven: Université Catholique de Louvain. Petridou, G. (2009), ‘Artemidi toichnos: Divine Feet and Hereditary Priesthood in Pisidian Pogla’, Anatolian Studies 59: 81–93.

210 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Prieur, J.-M. (1989), Acta Andreae, 2 vols, Turnhout: Brepols. Prieur, J.-M. and W. Schneemelcher (1992), ‘The Acts of Andrew’, in Schneemelcher and Wilson 1992b: 101–51. Roig Lanzillotta, F. L. (2007a), ‘The Early Christians and Human Sacrifice’, in J.N. Bremmer (ed.), The Strange World of Human Sacrifice, 81–102, Leuven: Peeters. Roig Lanzillotta, L. R. (2007b), Acta Andreae Apocrypha, Geneva: Patrick Cramer. Roig Lanzillotta, L. R. (2010), ‘The Acts of Andrew. A New Perspective on the Primitive Text’, Cuadernos de Filologia Clásica. Estudios griegos e indoeuropeos 20: 247–59. Roldanus, H. (1995), ‘Die Eucharistie in den Johannesakten’, in Bremmer 1995a: 72–96. Rordorf, W., and P. Cherix (1997), ‘Actes de Paul’, in F. Bovon and P. Geoltrain (eds), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens 1, 1127–77, Paris: Gallimard. Rouwhorst, G. (2007), ‘The Roots of the Early Christian Eucharist: Jewish Blessings or Hellenistic Symposia?’, in A. Gerhards and C. Leonhard (eds), Jewish and Christian Liturgy and Worship. New Insights into its History and Interaction, 295–308, Brill: Leiden. Rouwhorst, G. (2010), ‘L’usage et le non-usage du vin’, in A. Lossky and M. Sodi (eds), Rites de communion, 229–41, Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. Rouwhorst, G. (2011a), ‘Faire mémoire par un geste: la fraction du pain’, in A. Lossky and M. Sodi (eds), ‘Faire mémoire’: l’anamnèse dans la liturgie, 75–86, Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. Rouwhorst, G. (2011b), ‘The Gospel of Judas and Early Christian Eucharist’, in J.A. van den Berg, A. Kotzé, T. Nicklas and M. Scopello (eds), ‘In Search of Truth’: Augustine, Manichaeism and Other Gnosticism, 611–25, Leiden: Brill. Rouwhorst, G. (2013), ‘Eucharistic Meals East of Antioch’, StPatr 64: 85–103. Schäferdiek, K. (1992), ‘The Acts of John’, in Schneemelcher and Wilson (1992), 152–209. Schneemelcher, W. and R. McL. Wilson, eds (1992a), New Testament Apocrypha 1, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schneemelcher, W. and R. McL. Wilson, eds (1992b), New Testament Apocrypha 2, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schröter, J. (2006), Das Abendmahl, Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk. Sheerin, D. (2008), ‘Eucharistic Liturgy’, in S.A. Harvey and D.G. Hunter (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, 711–43, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Snyder, J. (2014), Language and Identity in Ancient Narratives, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tilg, S. (2010), Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Trombley, F. R. (1994), Hellenic Religion & Christianisation c. 370-529 2, Leiden: Brill. Turonensis, G. ([1885] 1989), ‘Liber de miraculis Andreae apostoli’, in Prieur (1989), 2.551–651. Vinzent, M. (2014), Marcionand the Dating of theSynopticGospels, Leuven: Peeters. Weiss, A. (2013), ‘Lokalkolorit in der Apostelgeschichte des Lukas und in den apokryphen Apostelgeschichten – Realitätseffekt oder Authentizitätsmarker? Ein Vergleich’, in J. Thiessen (ed.), Die Apostelgeschichte des Lukas in ihrem historischen Kontext, 9–28, Münster: LIT Verlag. Wischmeyer, W., ed. (2004), Aus der Werkstatt Harnacks: Transkription Harnackscher Seminarprotokolle Hans Von Sodens (Sommersemester 1904 - Wintersemester 1905/06), Berlin: De Gruyter. Zwierlein, O. (2013), Petrus und Paulus in Jerusalem und Rom, Berlin: De Gruyter.

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Meals in Joseph and Aseneth Angela Standhartinger

Introduction The Jewish-Hellenistic novel Joseph and Aseneth (Jos. Asen.) supplements the biblical story of Joseph (Genesis 37–50) with some details on Aseneth, daughter of Pentephres (Potiphar), priest of Heliopolis (On). In the Bible Pharaoh presents her to Joseph as a reward for interpreting his dreams (Genesis 41.45). Jos. Asen. narrates how Joseph meets Aseneth during his travels through Egypt, gathering the grain in the years of plenty (Gen. 41.47-49). Both fall in love at first sight. She turns away from her Egyptian gods and towards the God of Israel, is visited by a heavenly visitor and is finally given to Joseph by Pharaoh (Jos. Asen. 1–21). A second part of the story covers the years of famine after Joseph’s father and brothers have moved to Egypt (cf. Gen. 47.11). Here, Aseneth has to fight off an attack by Pharaoh’s jealous son and Joseph becomes the Pharaoh of Egypt (Jos. Asen. 22–29). In the biblical story of Joseph, important scenes take place during a meal. At Pharaoh’s drinking party, the dreams of the cupbearer and the baker come true (Gen. 40.20-23). Without revealing his identity, Joseph invites his brothers to another banquet (Gen. 43.25, 31-34). Here, three tables are required, one for Joseph, one for the Hebrew brothers and one for the Egyptians, ‘who were dining with him by themselves, for the Egyptians could not eat bred loaves together with the Hebraism, for it is an abomination to the Egyptians’.1 However, by the end, everyone is happily inebriated. Similarly, in Jos. Asen. 1–21, the main figures in the narrative meet at banquets. Both the heroine and the hero change their respective meal practices in the course of the narrative. Since the 1950s, Jos. Asen. has been famous in New Testament scholarship for its so-called meal formulas and phrases like ‘bread of life’ and ‘cup of blessing’ (ποτήριον εὐλογίας; cf. Jn 6.48; 1 Cor. 10.16). In the following, I will introduce the meal scenes of Jos. Asen. Secondly, I will summarize the research on the so-called meal formulas. Thirdly, I will ask how Jos. Asen. fit into the ancient debate on Jewish dietary laws. And finally, I will place the novel within the ancient discourse on banquet culture.

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1  Narrated meals in Joseph and Aseneth No other text from the so-called Old Testament Pseudepigrapha is better preserved than Jos. Asen. We know today of more than ninety manuscript copies in seven languages, among them sixteen in ancient Greek. There are several critical editions available (for details, see Standhartinger 2014: 354–63). Marc Philonenko edited the shortest version of the text (family d) based on two Greek manuscripts (B, D) and the Slavonian translation (Philonenko 1968). Christoph Burchard (2003) reconstructed the longest possible ancient text out of Syriac, Armenian and one of the Latin translations (L2). His text was recently revised by Uta Fink (2008; this text has been added to the TLG). Major differences between the shorter and the longer text editions occur in the so-called meal formulas. In the following I will basically follow the text of Burchard/Fink, but will indicate important differences between the text marked as ‘B/F’ (Burchard/Fink) and ‘Ph’ (Philonenko). At the beginning of our story, Aseneth is introduced as the supremely beautiful fairy-tale princess, desired by all the high and mighty of the country (Jos. Asen. 1). But she despises all men and lives cloistered in a tower near the house of her parents (Jos. Asen. 2). In chapter 3, a servant announces to her father that Joseph wants to lodge and dine at his house.2 Thereupon Pentephres summons his chief servant to prepare a large banquet (δεῖπνον μέγα) for Joseph. Aseneth adorns herself to meet her parents, who are returning from their family estate, bearing fruits, grapes, dates, peaches, pomegranates and figs. At a shared meal, that is more implied than actually described, her parents suggest to Aseneth that she marry Joseph (Jos. Asen. 4.4-5). Yet she is not prepared to marry the ‘shepherd’s son from Canaan’ (4.10). However, observing Joseph splendidly entering her father’s home, she realizes her mistake (Jos. Asen. 6). Joseph is set upon a throne and somebody washes his feet (Jos. Asen. 7.1, cf. Gen. 43.24). They also set a table for his use alone, because he ‘did not eat with the Egyptians, because this was an abomination to him’ (7.1).3 This is an ironically inverted allusion to Gen. 43.32. Joseph demands that the strange woman who watched him from the tower be sent away. After he is told that the woman in question is Pentephres’s daughter, he is willing to meet her. However, he rejects the kiss she offers him in greeting, as it is not fitting for a god-fearing man who praises the living God with his mouth and eats blessed bread of life, drinks (a) blessed cup of immortality, and anoints himself with blessed oil of incorruption to kiss a strange woman who praises dead and dumb idols with her mouth and eats the bread of strangulation from their table, drinks (a) cup of treachery from their drink offering, and anoints herself with oil of destruction. But a god-fearing man will kiss his mother and his sister (the daughter) of his mother, his sister from his tribe and kindred. (8.5-6)

The text of the first of these so-called meal formulas is documented only in some manuscripts. The shortest edition reads only ‘eats the blessed bread of immortality’ (8.5Ph*).4 Despite his refusal to greet Aseneth with a kiss, Joseph is willing to bless her. He wants her to ‘eat the bread of your life and drink a cup of your blessing’ (8.9B/F). The

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shorter text family refers here only to a cup of blessing (Jos. Asen. 8.11 [Ph*] – again, Philonenko [1968] adds text from other manuscripts). Joseph enjoys food and drink in the house of priest of Heliopolis (9.3). Meanwhile, Aseneth returns to her tower and mourns for eight days (9.1-2, 10–13). She fasts, exchanges her royal garments for sackcloth and divests herself of her Egyptian gods and her royal meals – ‘the fatlings, the fish, the meat of the heifer, and all of the sacrificial offerings of her gods and their vessels of wine libations’ (Jos. Asen. 10.13, cf. Jos. Asen. 13.8). Some texts add that she threw her royal food to strange dogs (Jos. Asen. 10.13B/F; 13.7B/F; 13.8B/F). In a psalm she confesses that her ‘mouth has been defiled by the sacrificial offerings of the idols and by the tables of the Egyptian gods’ (Jos. Asen. 12.5; cf. Jos. Asen. 11.9 B/F). Finally, a heavenly visitor (called ho anthropos) appears to her in her tower and proclaims that her prayers have been heard (Jos. Asen. 14–15). Among other things he tells her: See, now, from today … you will eat the blessed bread of life and drink a blessed cup of immortality, and you will be anointed with the blessed oil of incorruption. (15.5)

With this, the heavenly visitor repeats what was said by Joseph in Jos. Asen. 8.5 about the God-fearing man and thereby references a so-called meal formula. Again, the shorter text version reads only: ‘See, from today on you will eat the bread of incorruption’ (Jos. Asen. 15.4Ph*; text of the manuscripts BDslav). Aseneth rejoices over the blessings and promises of the heavenly visitor and invites him to share a meal with her: If I have found favor before you, O lord, … sit now on this bed for a short while … and I will set a table before you; I will bring in bread for you and you will eat (it), and from my storeroom, I will bring you fine wine, the aroma of which will reach as far as heaven, and you will drink from it. And after this, you will go on your way. (Jos. Asen. 15.14Ph. The longer text version adds a dining couch [κλίνη], mentioned already in 2.9)

However, the heavenly visitor asks for a honeycomb, which suddenly materializes through his words. Because Aseneth realizes this immediately, the heavenly visitor praises her: ‘Happy are you, Aseneth, because the secret mysteries of the Most High have been revealed to you’ (16.14). The honey, the visitor explains, descended from paradise and serves as the food of the angels and everybody who eats of this honey will not die in eternity (ibid.). Subsequently he shares the honey with Aseneth (16.15). Some manuscripts add another level of meaning. Here, the heavenly visitor interprets the sharing of the honeycomb as follows: ‘See then, you ate the bread of life, you drank a cup of immortality, and you have been anointed with oil of incorruption’ (16.16B/F). Bees fly up from the honeycomb and encircle Aseneth, either settling on her mouth or making a honeycomb on her lips. Unfortunately, almost every single manuscript adds its own details and storyline here. Therefore, the interpretation of these symbolic actions is highly disputed in scholarship.

214 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Once the visitor has returned to heaven, Joseph’s second visit is announced. Now it is Aseneth who orders a ‘fine banquet’ to be prepared for Joseph (18.2 cf. 18.5B/F). In some manuscripts, Aseneth explains to Joseph upon his arrival what has happened to her. Using another meal formula, she says: ‘A man came to me from heaven today, and he gave me bread of life and I ate, and a cup of blessing and I drank’ (19.5B/F). Aseneth leads Joseph into her house, washes his feet (20.2, cf. 7.1) and sits down beside him (20.6). When her parents return home all four eat and drink together and enjoy themselves (20.8). Pharaoh invites all chief officials and kings of the nations to a seven-day wedding celebration, with banquets and symposia in the evenings. This might be interpreted as a mass feeding or civic banquet, a common practice in Antiquity at such occasions (cf. Standhartinger 2015). When Joseph later distributes grain, he is likewise acting in the manner of a Hellenistic king or Roman emperor (Jos. Asen. 4.7; 25.6; 26.3-4; cf. Kügler 1998: 118). Some manuscripts append a penitential psalm after the wedding: Aseneth’s account of her experience (21.11-21). Now she reports what Joseph had said before (8.5B/F): namely that she ‘ate the bread of strangulation’ and ‘drank a cup of treachery from the table of death’ (21.14B/F).5 Furthermore she confesses: ‘[Joseph] gave me bread of life to eat and a cup of wisdom to drink’ (21.21B/F). This is a two-part meal formula, as in 19.5B/F, yet only here it is Joseph who serves as the founder of the feast.

2  The so-called meal formulas in Joseph and Aseneth In New Testament scholarship, Jos. Asen. was introduced in 1952 by the Oxford professor George D. Kilpatrick as a reply to Joachim Jeremias’s The Eucharistic Words of Jesus (cf. Kilpatrick 1952; Jeremias 1955; the German original had been published in 1935). Whereas Jeremias argues that the liturgy of the Passover Seder is the only analogy to the Eucharistic words of Jesus in the sense of identifying foodstuffs with a historical narrative, Kilpatrick (1952: 7) counters that Jos. Asen. proves ‘the existence of a Jewish religious meal quite distinct from the Passover, and sufficiently similar to the Last Supper’. Jos. Asen. ‘represents a conversion to Judaism under the guise of initiation into a mystery’ (Kilpatrick 1952: 6) and the character of the meal with phrases like ‘bread of life’ and ‘cup of blessing’ recalls the New Testament Eucharist and proves its sacramental character. Jeremias responded a few months later that nowhere else in Jewish literature had such a sacramental meal as Kilpatrick proposes ever been attested to (Jeremias 1952). The so-called meal formulas are in his view words of blessing that are given at the beginning and end of every ordinary Jewish meal. The writing might attest to a formal Jewish banquet on the occasion of a conversion (cf. Mk 2.15; Acts 16.34). Since the time of Kilpatrick and Jeremias, scholarship on Jos. Asen. has been contingent on their theses. In 1958 Hans Georg Kuhn adds the observation: The formula is not a natural outgrowth of the events described in the story, but an independent and established ritual formula for a cult meal in which the ‘pious’ and ‘god-fearing’ Jew participates. (Kuhn 1957: 75)

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The Sitz im Leben of these formulas are the cult meals of the Essenes, the Qumran people and especially the Therapeutae and Therapeutrides.6 Philonenko’s edition of the shortest text version appeared in this context. This might explain why he includes at least three of the so-called meal formulas (8.5Ph, 8.11Ph = 8.9B/F; 15.4Ph = 15.5B/F) in his text although they do not feature in his favourite manuscripts (BDslav read only ‘bread of incorruption’ [8.5Ph*, 15.4Ph*] and ‘cup of blessing’ [8.11Ph*]). However, unlike his doctoral advisor Dupont-Sommer, Philonenko moved away from the hypothesis of an Essenic/Therapeutic origin of the writing and argued for a Jewish mystery cult influenced by the Egyptian Isis religion (Philonenko 1968: 89–98). Hans-Josef Klauck also places emphasis on the formulas’ sacramental character (Klauck 1982: 195–6). In his view, the meals in Jos. Asen. were designed to compete with other mystery meals in Antiquity. Lately Christian Grappe has proposed that Jos. Asen. contains an initiation and mystery meal (Grappe 2004: 90–5). The edition of the longest version of the text made by Jeremias’ student Burchard is yet another product of this controversy. Originally Burchard interpreted the so-called meal formulas as ‘expressions … that distinguish the Jewish way of life from the pagan and therefore serve as a short cut for ordinary Jewish eating practices more judaico’ (Burchard 1965: 129–31). The anointment with oil is added ‘to describe staples of the diet’ (Burchard 1965: 129; cf. Chesnutt 2005). After Rudolf Schnackenburg emphasized the symbolism of the meal formulas, Burchard modified his position, arguing that ‘the positive clauses about bread, cup, and ointment are best explained as referring to the proper Jewish use of these things for daily maintenance (sustenance) and hygiene’ (Burchard 1987: 113; cf. Schnackenburg 1971: 339). Many scholars signed on to these theses. Randal Chesnutt added the socio-historical observation that the meal formulas helped to assert Jewish identity in a pagan environment (Chesnutt 1995: 130–5). Recently, some scholars argue that expressions like ‘bread of life’ and ‘cup of blessing’ are direct parallels to 1 Cor. 10.16 and Jn 6.48 and that this suggests a Christian origin of Jos. Asen. (Leonhard and Eckhardt 2009: 1062–4). Few passages of Jos. Asen. seem to be indeed affected by Christian liturgies.7 However, while there has been an extensive history of interpreting the text in Christian circles, what is said about meals in Jos. Asen. fits well into the contemporary Jewish-Hellenistic discourse on table fellowship with non-Jews, as I will show below. The biggest problem for the interpretation of the so-called meal formulas is that no eating of bread, drinking of a cup or anointing with oil is narrated in the story. Only the heavenly visitor interprets Aseneth’s eating of the honey comb in 16.16B/F as eating of bread and drinking of a cup. Yet this does not explain much. First of all, the meal formulas carry on a meta-discourse on correct and deviant meal behaviour. In my view, those interpreters who have recently pointed to an ancient banquet culture are on the right track. Matthias Klinghardt interprets the meal formulas as benedictions, that is, blessings at Jewish meals that point out what distinguishes Jewish from pagan meal practices.8 Soham Al-Suadi observes the similarities both at the beginning of the story, when the priest of Heliopolis, Pentephres, prepares a meal for Joseph, and at the end, when the now-converted Aseneth prepares a meal for him (Al-Suadi 2011: 89–96). In either case, the guest’s feet are washed, he is sat upon a throne, and together host and

216 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals guest enjoy food and drink. The only difference is the degree of inclusiveness. Joseph no longer needs an extra table on his second visit to the house of priest Pentephres. Instead, everybody – including the chief officials of Egypt and all kings of the nations – celebrates the wedding feast together. This movement from exclusivity to inclusiveness reflects a Jewish debate on inclusive table fellowship and the sharing of food with nonJews in Hellenistic and Roman times.

3  How to eat with non-Jews? The dietary laws of the Hebrew Bible explicitly forbid the consumption of specific animals, blood and particular ways of preparing meat.9 The Bible further prohibits the worship of other deities (cf. Exod. 34.14-5; Num. 25.2-3; Ps. 106.2). However, apart from the Book of Daniel, the Hebrew Bible does not explicitly forbid the consumption of meat prepared by non-Israelites or commensality with non-Israelites (Freidenreich 2011: 31–46). To the contrary, there are many examples of table fellowship between biblical heroes and non-Israelites. Abraham accepts bread and wine from Melchizedek, King of Salem (Gen. 14.18), Isaac invites the Philistines Abimelech and Phicol to a meal (Gen. 26.30), Aaron and the elders of Israel share a sacrificial meal with a Medianite (Exod. 18.12). Not even Ezra and Nehemiah, so deeply concerned with the ethnic and religious identity of their group, have anything to say about food and table fellowship. In Hellenistic times, food restrictions began to play an important role in marking Jewish identity and the otherness of non-Jews (Freidenreich 2011: 58–95; cf. Rosenblum 2010: 36–45). The difference can be observed in the biblical book of Esther. In the Hebrew version, Esther does not hesitate to accept food from the table of the Persian king (Est. 2.9) and twice accepts an invitation to eat at his table at his banquets and drinking parties (Est. 5.4-8; 7.1-6). The Greek version adds a prayer in which she states: ‘Your maid servant has not dined at Haman’s table, nor have I extolled a royal symposium nor drunk the wine of libations’ (Addition to Esther C 28 LXX).10 The Greek Esther abstains from consuming Persian food and sacrificial offerings. Similarly, Daniel, when imprisoned at the royal palace of the Babylonian King, refuses to accept the daily ration of food and royal wine he is offered. Instead he asks for ‘legumes’.11 Yet it is not explained why Daniel is afraid to ‘defile himself with the king's table’ (Dan. 1.8).12 These ‘legumes’ come from the same royal pantry and are served to him by the chief of the king’s eunuchs. It seems, however, that they have not been cooked or otherwise prepared by the Gentiles. The point made by the narrator is that with this foodstuff, Daniel and his friends ‘appeared fairer and stouter in flesh’ than the royal guests. Tobit also abstains from the bread of the Gentiles (ἐκ τῶν ἄρτων τῶν ἐθνῶν) consumed by his compatriots displaced to Nineveh. Nevertheless, it is he who receives the king’s favour and grace, nor are his fellow Judeans rebuked in this story for sharing food (Tob. 1.12-13). In 1 and 2 Macc. the most pious Judeans refuse to eat pork and food from sacrifices to idols (1 Macc. 1.35-63; 2 Macc. 6–7). Priest Eliezer even abstains from eating meat prepared by himself under the pretext that it is food sacrificed to idols (2 Macc. 6.21). Here abstaining from meat is a demonstration of ethnic-religious identity even if this

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leads to martyrdom. Eating or not eating distinguishes the pious from those who gladly adopt the Hellenistic religion (1 Macc. 1.43, 62-63). Yet only the Book of Jubilees articulates a general prohibition against commensality with non-Jews. Here Abraham on his deathbed impresses upon his son Jacob: Separate from the gentiles and do not eat with them. Do not perform deeds like theirs. And do not become associates of theirs. Because their deeds are defiled, and all of their ways are contaminated, and despicable, and abominable. (Jub. 22.16. Translation O. S. Wintermute, OTP)

Food restrictions and table fellowship function in the Book of Judith as a plot device. Her strategies to separate herself from food and table in the encampment of the foreign general Holofernes helps her not only to hide herself from his inebriety and wantonness but indeed to assassinate him (Jdt. 10.5; 12.1-4). Like Tobit, Judith only eats food prepared by other Jews. She does not, however, refuse to sit at the table of Gentiles but rather joins them, albeit with her own food, dishes and oil (Jdt. 10.5). For Jews in Alexandria, however, the issue of eating at the table of the Egyptian king and sharing his food and drink seems to have been less problematic. The Letter of Aristeas presents for the first time an allegorical interpretation of Torah’s dietary laws, including the requirement to eat only animals with split hoofs as a symbolic representation of the fact that Jews are set apart from Gentiles and their vice (Ep. Arist. 128–171). This does not prevent the ambassadors from Jerusalem from taking part in King Ptolemy’s banquet and from partaking of food and drink from the king’s pantries so long as it is prepared ‘according to their customs’ (Ep. Aris. 181–182). False allegations that Alexandria’s Jews abstained from commensality with their neighbours nearly resulted in the destruction of city’s the Jewish population as part of a plan to have them trampled by a herd of drunken elephants (3 Macc. 3.2-7). After King Ptolemy, with God’s help, changes his mind, Alexandria’s Jews are prepared to attend a seven-day festive banquet (εὐωχία) and partake of the king’s food and wine (2 Macc. 6.30-36). How should one place Jos. Asen. within this discourse on Jewish dietary laws and commensality with Gentiles? In contrast Judith, Daniel and Tobit, Joseph does not abstain from consuming food and drink prepared by the priest of Heliopolis. Like the Jews in the Letter of Aristeas and 3 Macc., Joseph enjoys the drinking party together with his Gentile host. Only at the beginning does Joseph require an extra table. With the so-called meal formulas, Joseph emphasizes the need for him as a Jew to distance himself from the food of the non-Jews. In her conversion, Aseneth pursues this strategy of separation and destroys the food sacrifices to Egyptian idols. Thereafter the danger of potentially consuming a sacrificial meal in the house of the Egyptian priest seems to be forgotten. Joseph, Aseneth and her non-Jewish parents share a table when reunited. At the wedding feast, which is celebrated across the land with all satraps and kings of all nations, any notion of a separate table seems to be forgotten. David Freidenreich states: ‘The author of Joseph and Aseneth uses rejection of commensality with gentiles as a literary motif but not as an expression of Jewish piety in its own right.’ (Freidenreich 2011: 42) In the following, I try to demonstrate

218 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals that this seemingly inconsistent position reflects the wider discourse into which the authors of Jos. Asen. have placed themselves: the discourse on meal practices in the Greek and Latin novel.

4  The discourse on meal practices in the Greek and Roman novel The stories of Jos. Asen., Judith, and Esther centre on a heroine. Of these three, the storyline of Jos. Asen. most closely resembles the genre of the ancient romantic novel (Wills 1995: 153–84). A beautiful but arrogant heroine meets a no-less-impressive but conceited hero. She falls in love at first sight, suffers from lovesickness, is heard and ultimately happily married. Afterwards she has to defend her chastity in attacks by illegitimate rivals. One finds similar if more elaborated and varied plots in all the Greek romantic novels, including Xenophon of Ephesus’s Ephesiaca, Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe, Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe, Achilles Tatius’ The Adventures of Leucippe and Cleitophon and Heliodorus’s Aethiopica.13 Of course the language and narrative style of Jos. Asen. are reminiscent of some of the lesser works in this genre, which have survived only in fragments, as well as of Xenophon’s Ephesiaca (Standhartinger 1995; for fragments of Greek novels, see Stephens and Winkler 1995). In the ancient novel, members of an urban elite have to preserve their identity through numerous trials. They face jealous rivals, bandits, enslavement, shipwrecks and abduction to faraway barbarian lands. Yet everywhere, self-discipline helps them to maintain their elite status, at least in their own minds, and preserve their physical beauty, so that their original status can easily be restored at the end of the story. Not only in Jos. Asen. 4–7 do the future lovers meet at a meal.14 At banquets, the hero and the heroine receive important messages about the fate of their respective beloved ones15 and finally, the whole city celebrates the reunion of the couple and their reintegration into the city’s elite with a festive meal.16 The seven-day wedding banquet celebrated across Egypt (Jos. Asen. 21.8) recalls this novelistic motif.17 In contrast to these elite banquets, robbers and barbarians reveal their deviant culture precisely at meals (cf. Doody 1997: 424–5; Harland 2007: 59–64; König 2012: 270–8). Anthia is at risk of being eaten by bandits.18 Cleitophon witnesses the sacrifice of his beloved Leucippe in a barbarian ritual.19 Shortly afterward he himself is seduced at a banquet by the widow Melite.20 The most extensive surviving fragment from Petron’s Latin novel Satyricon contains a narrative in which the in every respect deviant and morally corrupt banquet of the parvenu Trimalchio is described at length (Petronius, Satyr. 27–78; cf. König 2012: 276–7). Apuleius’s Metamorphosis can be read as a commentary on ancient banquet culture (König 2012: 278–89. Cf. Zimmerman 2008). In all these writings, a basic distinction is made between elite and non-elite, correct and deviant meals. In his first speech in Jos. Asen., Joseph distinguishes between two types of meals: That of the God-fearing man, consisting in some manuscripts of the ‘bread of incorruption’ (8.5Ph) and in others of the ‘bread of life’, a ‘blessed cup of immortality’ and ‘oil of incorruption’ (8.5B/F), and that of the foreign woman that consists of the

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‘bread of strangulations from the table of the idols’, ‘a cup of treachery from their drink offerings’ and the ‘oil of destruction’ (ibid.). This deviant meal practice is only insinuated in the following narrative. The repentant Aseneth throws her ‘royal meal’ consisting of ‘fish, meat of the heifer and all of the sacrificial offerings of her gods and their vessels of vine libation’ out of her window (Jos. Asen 10.13, cf. 13.8).21 Only here, fish and meat are mentioned. In an implicit criticism of luxury food, Aseneth eats with her parents fruit and vegetables (Jos. Asen. 4.2; cf. also Philo, Contempl. 40–89; Petronius, Satyr. 27–79, etc.). ‘Bread of strangulations’ (ἄρτος ἀγχόνης) is a unique expression in ancient literature.22 Biblical dietary laws use other expressions to forbid the consumption of blood and carrion.23 Only Philo (born c. 15 BC, died c. AD 50) refers once to ‘strangulations’ in his explanation of the Jewish abstention from blood and carrion: But some of the type of Sardanapalus greedily extend their unrestrained and excessive luxury beyond all bounds and limits. They devise novel kinds of pleasure and prepare meat unfit for the altar by strangling and throttling (καὶ ἀποπνίγοντες) the animals, and entombing in the carcass the blood which is the essence of the soul and should be allowed to run freely away.24

The example of the barbarian people Sardanapalus and their savage meal practices represents an antitype to the Jews’ civilized abstention from eating strangled animals. ‘Bread of strangulations’ is a creative metaphor that points to an analogy.25 It evokes the impression of a meal that celebrates death and distress rather than commensality and pleasure. The expression ‘Cup of treachery’ is no less original. This metaphor has ties to Jewish wisdom literature that speaks of the treachery of man-made idols and the ambush of commensality with the wrong guests.26 Both metaphors express creatively what is told in the ancient novels about meals among barbarians, robbers and bandits. Those meals endanger culture and life by perverting food, drink and the rituals of the elite and noble banquet. With her eight days of fasting, Aseneth frees herself from this dangerous and deathly meal practice.27 Here, as in the eleventh book of Apuleius Metamorphosis, this ascent to culture has religious implications. Apuleius’s hero Lucius, having been transformed into a donkey, is freed from this beastly state by the goddess Isis when her priest presents him with a garland of roses.28 Aseneth shares a honeycomb with her heavenly visitor (Jos. Asen.16). This is the only meal in Jos. Asen. that is celebrated on a kline or banquet couch (Jos. Asen. 15.14). The honeycomb is designated as the food of the angels in Paradise (Jos. Asen. 16.14). Through its mysterious appearance in Aseneth’s storeroom, its nature as heavenly food is underlined. No angel would eat of human bread and wine (cf. Goodman 1986). Honey might allude to manna, and thereby angel’s food,29 or wisdom,30 God’s compassion (Portier-Young 2005), food for new-born babies (Hubbard 1997, referring to Barn. 6.17) or to a symbolically veiled ritual of conversion to Judaism or a form of Judaism (Sänger 1980: 174–90; Putthoff 2014). In any event, Aseneth’s beautiful appearance is transformed after meeting and eating with the heavenly visitor, and she is praised for recognizing heavenly mysteries. The heavenly food indeed transforms.

220 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals At the same time, this scene marks the beginning of inclusive banqueting in the story. Henceforth, not only heavenly beings, but also an Egyptian priest and the Pharaoh share food and drink at one table with Jewish patriarchs and matriarchs and indeed the whole land. This narrative suggests that overcoming the opposition between the perverted food and banquets of idol-worshipers and the praiseworthy Jewish meal leads to the highest form of banquet culture: namely an inclusive commensality that brings people from all nations together at one table. This inclusive banquet celebrates the reunion of the couple and their return to an elite status and transformation into the king and queen of the whole land of Egypt.

5 Conclusion I hope to have demonstrated that there is more to say on meals in Jos. Asen. than is expressed in the so-called meals formulas. The whole narrative takes part in the Jewish-Hellenistic discourse on the question of eating and not eating with non-Jews as well as in the discourse on meal etiquette and forms of banquet that endanger or are appropriate for the cultural elite. My thesis is that this writing translates and thereby transforms the second discourse into the first one. It states that Jewish meal practice does not only express the meal practice of the cultural elite but also surpasses it. In positing Jewish meal practice as the highest form of elite banqueting, it expresses the ideal of shared commensality without luxury and distress that was universally idealized in Greco-Roman antiquity. At the same time, it criticizes the critic of Jewish exclusivity at meals.31 A real Jewish meal does not require luxury banquet couches or foodstuffs but rather unites heaven and earth, a Canaanite ex-slave with a noble-born lady, a Pharaoh and a Jew, at the same table, under the guidance of Israel’s God.

Notes 1 Gen. 43.32 LXX. Translations of the Septuagint are taken from Pietersma and Wright 2007. 2 Joseph announces that he will appear at noon, the time of his banquet with his brothers according to Gen. 43.16. 3 If not otherwise indicated, all translations, are taken from Ahearne-Kroll 2013. 4 This is the text of the manuscripts B.D. and the Slavonian translation. Philonenko’s critical edition (1968) adds texts from other manuscripts. 5 However, no manuscript includes a full text of this psalm. Cf. Burchard 2003: 266–9. 6 Kuhn 1957: 74–7; Kuhn refers to Josephus, B.J. 2.130-131; 1QS 6.1-6 and 1 QSa 2.17-22 and to Philo, Contempl. Dupont-Sommer (1962) compared Jos. Asen. to the Therapeutae of Philo, Contempl. 7 Jovanović (2011) demonstrates how Jos. Asen. 27.8 is influenced by Slavonian Liturgy. See further Standhartinger 2009. 8 Klinghardt 1996: 433–47. Yet, the so-called meal formulas are not connected to an actual meal. Therefore, one cannot conclude that they were used as benedictions. 9 For the following see Freidenreich 2011: 17–28; cf. Gen. 9.3-6; 17.10-12, Exod. 23.19; Lev. 11.2-23; Deut. 14.4-20, etc.

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10 Est. gr 4.17.24 (C 28): οὐκ ἔφαγεν ἡ δούλη σου τράπεζαν Αμαν καὶ οὐκ ἐδόξασα συμπόσιον βασιλέως οὐδὲ ἔπιον οἶνον σπονδῶν. The Manuscript A adds: ‘And your slave has not eaten with them at their table and I have not honored the king’s banquets nor drunk the wine of Libation. Your slave has not rejoiced since the day of my change, except in you Master.’ 11 Dan. 1.5: ἀπὸ τῆς βασιλικῆς τραπέζης und ἀπὸ τοῦ οἴνου οὗ πίνει ὁ βασιλεύς. Daniel’s food in Dan. 1.12 and 1.16 is disputed among the manuscripts. LXX reads ἀπὸ τῶν ὀσπρίων (of the legumes), while Theodotos reads σπέρματα (seeds). 12 Dan. 1.8: ἵνα μὴ συμμολυνθῇ. For interpretations see Freidenreich 2011: 66–70. 13 For scholarship on the genre of Jos. Asen. and comparison to the ancient novel, see Standhartinger 2014: 375–80. 14 Achilles Tatius, Leuc. Clit. 1.5; Heliodor, Aeth. 6.6-7; Athenaeus, Deipn. 15.575 b-f; Metiochos and Partehnope col. I-II, A., cf. Stephens and Winkler 1995: 83–9. Cf. the banquet of males and females in Apollonios 11.2 (Stephens and Winkler 1995: 391–9). Cf. Doody 1997: 420–31; König 2012: 268–91. 15 Cf. Chariton, Chaer. 4.3.7-12; Achilles Tatius, Leuc. Clit. 5.18. 16 Xenophon of Ephesus, Anthia und Abrokomes, 5.13.5-6; Longus, Daphnis und Cloe, 4.32, 34-36, 38. Achilles Tatius, Leuc. Clit. 8.4.1-8.7.1; 8.15.3-18.5. 17 Cf. Xenophon of Ephesus, Ephesiaca 1.7.3; 11.2. Chariton, Chaer. 3.2.10-17; Longus, Daphn. 4.38-40. 18 Xenophon, Ephesiaca, 2.13. A human sacrifice at the banquets of some robbers is told in fragment B1 (P. Colon 3328), verso 9-16 of Lollianus. 19 Achilles Tatius, Leuc. Clit. 3.15. 20 Achilles Tatius, Leuc. Clit. 5.12-5.21. Leucippe has to fight the same danger (ibid. 5.3.2). 21 Σιτιστός is a civic banquet on the occasion of the dedication of the new temple (Josephus, A.J. 8.40) or a royal wedding (Mt. 22.4). 22 Burchard 1965: 127, Fn. 2 refers to ἄρτος θλίψεως in Isa. 30.20 and 1 Kgs. 22.27/2 Chron. 18.26. But here the expression is as a prophetic metaphor for suffering. His other reference to Asterius, Hom. 20 on Ps. 11.14 (LXX) interprets the end of Judas according to Mt. 27.5. 23 See Gen. 9.4: κρέας ἐν αἵματι ψυχῆς (flesh with blood of life); Lev. 17.13-14: αἷμα πάσης σαρκὸς οὐ φάγεσθε (Ye shall not eat the blood of any flesh); Acts 15.20.29; 21.15, ὁ πνικτός (what has been strangled). 24 Philo Spec. 4.122. Translation: F. H. Colson, LCL. The Sardanapalus seems to have been famous for their bad eating habits. See Nicetas David of Paphlagonia, Ep. 85 to Arethae. 25 Aristotle, Rhet. 1411a.1-10 knows of the metaphor: ‘squeezing the people by the throat’ (εἰς πνῖγμα ὁ δῆμος ἄγχειν). 26 Sir. 11.29 LXX: ‘Do not bring every person into your home, for many are the ambushes of the deceitful’. Cf. Philo, Spec. 3.95-6 and Clement, Strom. 3.4.29.1 27 Here Jos. Asen. anticipates cultural criticism by later apocryphal Acts. Cf. König, 2012: 290–322. 28 Apuleius, Metam. 11.13. Cf. 11.24, 27. 29 Burchard 1965: 129–31, Klauck 1982: 193–4, who points out that manna tastes like honey in Exod. 16.31 cf. Philo, Det. 117–118; Fug. 138, cf. also Josephus, A.J. 3.28. According to Ps. 77.25 (LXX); Wis. 16.20; 19.21; L.A.B. 19.5 manna is called bread of angels. Cf. also Lk. 24.42 in some manuscripts. 30 Sir. 24.20. See also Sänger 1980: 191–9. For the symbolism of honey in antiquity, see Sallinger and Böcher 1994.

222 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 31 Tacitus, Ann. 5.5.2. Cf. Diodorus of Sicily 34.1. Philostratus in the third century CE has Apollonius to say: ‘The Jews cut themselves off long ago, not only from the Romans, but from all mankind, since people who have devised an unsociable way of life, with no meals, libations, prayers, or sacrifices in common with other men, have moved further away from us than Susa, Bactria, and the Indians beyond’ (Vit. Apoll. 5.33.4 translation: Christopher P. Jones, LCL). The banquets of the Indians are lauded for their modesty and lack of hierarchal seating: ‘The seating plan resembled a club dinner, the king not having that precedence which is so highly valued by Greeks and Romans, but each being placed according to his inclination’ (Vit. Apoll. 3.27.3).

Bibliography Ahearne-Kroll, P. (2013), ‘Joseph and Aseneth’, in L. Feldman (ed.), Outside the Bible: Ancient Jewish Writings Related to Scripture, 2525–89, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Al-Suadi, S. (2011), Essen als Christusgläubige. Ritualtheoretische Exegese paulinischer Texte, Tübingen: Francke. Burchard, C. (1965), Untersuchungen zu Joseph und Aseneth. ÜberlieferungOrtsbestimmung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Burchard, C. (1987), ‘The Importance of Joseph and Aseneth for the Study of the New Testament: A General Survey and a Fresh Look at the Lord’s Supper’, NTS 33: 102–34. Burchard, C. (2003), Joseph und Aseneth kritisch herausgegeben mit Unterstützung von Carsten Burfeind und Uta Barbara Fink, Leiden: Brill. Chesnutt, R. D. (1995), From Death to Life. Conversion in Joseph and Aseneth, Sheffield: JSOT Press. Chesnutt, R. D. (2005), ‘Perceptions of Oil in Early Judaism and the Meal Formula in Joseph and Aseneth’, JSP 14: 113–32. Doody, M. A. (1997), The True Story of the Novel, New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Dupont-Sommer, A. (1962), ‘Un roman d’amour d’origine thérapeute: Le Livre de Joseph et Aséneth’, BLE 63: 3–27. Fink, U. B. (2008), Joseph und Aseneth: Revision des griechischen Textes und Edition der zweiten lateinischen Übersetzung, Berlin: de Gruyter. Freidenreich, D. M. (2011), Foreigners and their Food. Constructing Otherness in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Law, Berkeley: University of California Press. Goodman, D. (1986), ‘Do Angels Eat’, JJS 3: 160–75. Grappe, C. (2004), ‘Le repas de Dieu de l‘autel à la table dans le judaïsme et le mouvement chrétien naissant’, in C. Grappe (ed.), Le repas de Dieu. Das Mahl Gottes, 69–111, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Harland, Ph. A. (2007), ‘“These People are .. Men Eaters”. Banquets of the AntiAssociations and Perceptions of Minority Cultural Groups’, in Z. A. Crook (ed.), Identity and Interaction in the Ancient Mediterranean, 56–75, Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Hubbard, M. (1997), ‘Honey for Aseneth: Interpreting a Religious Symbol’, JSP 16: 97–110. Jeremias, J. (1952), ‘The Last Supper’, ExpTim 64: 91–2. Jeremias, J. (1955), The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, New York: Macmillan. Jovanović, L. (2011), ‘Aseneth’s Gaze Turns Swords into Dust’, JSP 21: 83–97.

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Kilpatrick, G. D. (1952), ‘The Last Supper’, ExpTim 64: 4–8. Klauck, H.-J. (1982), Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult. Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum 1. Korintherbrief, Münster: Aschendorff. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft. Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke. König, J. (2012), Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kügler, J. (1998), ‘Der König als Brotspender. Religionsgeschichtliche Überlegungen zu JosAs 4,7; 25,5 und Joh 6,15’, ZNW 89: 118–24. Kuhn, K. G. (1957), ‘The Lord’s Supper and the Communal Meal at Qumran’, in K. Stendahl (ed.), The Scrolls and the New Testament, 65–93 and 259–65, New York: Harper. Leonhard, C., and B. Eckhardt (2009), ‘Mahl V (Kultmahl)’, RAC 23:1012–106. Philonenko, M. (1968), Joseph et Aséneth: Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes, Leiden: Brill. Pietersma, A. and B. G. Wright, eds (2007), A New English Translation of the Septuagint, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Portier-Young, A. (2005), ‘Sweet Mercy Metropolis: Interpreting Aseneth’s Honeycomb’, JSP 14: 133–57. Putthoff, T. L. (2014), ‘Aseneth’s Gastronomical Vision. Mystical Theophagy and the New Creation in Joseph and Aseneth’, JSP 24: 96–117. Rosenblum, J. D. (2010), Food and Identity in Early Rabbinic Judaism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sallinger, A. and O. Böcher (1994), ‘Honig’, RAC 16: 433–73. Sänger, D. (1980), Antikes Judentum und die Mysterien. Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu Joseph und Aseneth, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schnackenburg, R. (1971), ‘Das Brot des Lebens’, in G. Jeremias, H.-W. Kuhn and H. Stegemann (eds), Tradition und Glaube. Das frühe Christentum in seiner Umwelt, 328–42, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Standhartinger, A. (1995), Das Frauenbild im Judentum der hellenistischen Zeit. Ein Beitrag anhand von ‘Joseph und Aseneth’, Leiden: Brill. Standhartinger, A. (2009), ‘Zur Wirkungsgeschichte von Joseph und Aseneth’, in E. Reinmuth (ed.), Joseph und Aseneth, 219–34, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Standhartinger, A. (2014), ‘Recent Scholarship on Joseph and Aseneth (1988-2013)’, CRBS 12: 353–406. Standhartinger, A. (2015), ‘Zweierlei Gabekulturen? Jesu Speisung der Fünftausend im Kontext des antiken Euergetismus’, in A. Grund (ed.), Opfer, Geschenke, Almosen. Die Gabe in Religion und Gesellschaft, 47–63, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Stephens, S. A. and J. J. Winkler (1995), Ancient Greek Novels. The Fragments, Princeton: University Press. Wills, L. (1995), The Jewish Novel in the Ancient World. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Zimmerman, M. (2008), ‘Cenatus solis fabulis: A Symposiastic Reading of Apuleius’ Novel’, in W. Riess (ed.), Paideia at Play: Learning and Wit in Apuleius, 135–56, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing.

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Part Four

Epistolary Literature

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“The Meal in 1 Corinthians 11” Soham Al-Suadi

Introduction Shared meals are at times of social, political and religious changes, subject to the affirmation of common values but function also as a medium of collective renewal. The interplay of physical satisfaction of one’s needs with the presence of several individuals and the protected space for public or personal interests supports the thesis, that the common meal in ancient times, allowed the affirmation of common and individual identities and changed them at the same time.1 Seemingly solid components such as the preparation of food and the invitation of guests are highly complex cultural processes that are established socially and yet have high variability. This variability is forming a diversity, which is not universal, but based on the proper context.2 The aspects and forms of common meals are considered the performance of social, political and religious content of a community. Meals were marked culturally by social, political and religious diversity.3 Due to the social-scientific methods, that are applied to map social history as well as the diversity of the Hellenistic meal, we understand meals as rituals (DeMaris 2008). Understanding the Hellenistic meal as a ritual provides an adequate theoretical framework. Ritual theories allow us to analyse the dining community and capture their social, political and religious function within the society. This implies that the Hellenistic meal was configured socially in order to serve cultural codes on the one hand and change them on the other hand. In which ways where the cultural codes negotiated in the letters of Paul? To illustrate the negotiation of cultural codes by the Hellenistic meal it will be important to look at different social performances that were discussed and changed during the meal. The letters of Paul illustrate the negotiation of cultural codes and are considered a strong voice within the theological decision-making process of Early Christianity.

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1  The overall structure of the Hellenistic meal ‘Early Christians celebrated a meal based on the banquet model found commonly in their world. No further explanation for the origin of early Christian meals is needed’ (Smith 2003: 279). This statement summarizes, that the Greco-Roman banquet tradition contributed more to early Christianity, however, than simply the form of the meal. The banquet was a social institution of the first order and as such was a carrier of a social code, the ideology of the banquet. Earliest Christian theology developed out of the models for religious thinking of its day, and one such model was the ideology of the banquet. Banquet ideology provided a model for creating community, defining behavior within the community, sharing values, and connecting with the divine. It was also embedded in a social practice and so provided a means for the ideology to be confirmed through a shared experience. Since early Christian groups first created and experienced community by means of table fellowship, banquet ideology is also the foundation for the development of early Christian liturgy. (Smith 2003: 279)

The banquet model is key to the so-called Smith-Klinghardt paradigm because it argues against theories that propose a single origin of the early Christian meal gatherings. Neither Jesus’s teaching nor his practices are an explanation for the communal meetings. This stands also against explanations, that want to see a development of the Christian originating from Jewish or Greco-Roman traditions. Rather, the Christian practice matches and adopts their cultural variety and diversity. Matthias Klinghardt attests that the New Testament data complicates Hellenistic dining structures because in 1 Cor 11.23-25 Paul gives a version of the last supper tradition, where Jesus is following the deipnon/symposium model. Paul’s deipnon (banquet) of the Lord followed a Greek banquet model for their community meal (Klinghardt 2012: 24). Nevertheless, Paul is instructing the community to follow the banquet model and uses the dining as an opportunity to set boundaries. In 1 Cor 11.21 he is clear about the participation at other meals: You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons. You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons. (1 Cor 10.21)

The negotiation over cultural codes involves setting boundaries of the community. Dennis Smith explains: To dine together formed the dining group into a community whose identity was defined internally by means of social bonding and externally by means of social boundaries. By dining together the dining group separated itself from the outside world thus creating social boundaries. Sometimes this was not an especially stark boundary; civic groups, for example, dined together as a component of their common civic identity. In other cases, however, the meal intensified the community’s sense of separation from the outside world. The Essenes of Qumran

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defined strict requirements for eligibility to participate in their ‘pure meal.’ Paul urged his Christian community to maintain strict banquet boundaries. (Smith 2012: 28)

As we can see, the commonly shared meal practice in Antiquity allowed the participants to come together as a community and develop boundaries towards other dining communities. Looking at the letters of Paul shows that neither the dining practice nor the development of boundaries was a process without difficulties. Nevertheless, difficult social situations are a chance for individual and communal development. The meal was an ‘experiential component’ that laid the ground for development within known social, political and religious values as well as Paul’s theology of community (Smith 2012: 28). Scholars therefore understand the meal as a centre for theological developments beyond the single community and place it directly at the beginnings of Christianity. Hence it is necessary to interpret Paul’s writings within his sociohistorical context through the ritual of the Hellenistic meal. Klinghardt and Smith describe the following basic dimensions of the meal and give a clear typology of the Hellenistic meal:

1. the reclining of (more or less) all participants while eating and drinking together for several hours in the evening;

2. the order of a supper (deipnon) of eating, followed by an extended time (symposion) of drinking, conversation, and/or performance;

3. marking the transition from deipnon to symposion with a ceremonial libation, almost always of wine;

4. leadership by a ‘president’ (symposiarch) of the meal, a person not always the same, and sometimes a role that was contingent or disputed;

5. a variety of marginal personages, often including servants, uninvited guests, ‘entertainers,’ and dogs. (Taussig 2009: 26)

Besides the typology of structure Klinghardt identifies a typology of the ethics of the Hellenistic meal, which is paraphrased by Taussig: the commitment to community (koinonia), equality and friendship (isonomia and philia), and utopian grace/ generosity/beauty (charis) (Taussig 2009: 49). Another aspect that concerned New Testament scholars was the accessibility to dining communities. John Kloppenborg approaches the questions through the ancient associations: He suggests that there are three ways one can gain a membership for associations: household, occupation and cultic (Kloppenborg 1996). All socially accepted affiliations are based on the network. The connection within a household, that holds masters as well as women, children and slaves, the ethnicity or the geographic bonds that are formed within a group, the connections that are formed within a neighbourhood, the relationships between tradesmen, and the affiliation due to a cult are ways the social network can be maintained (Harland 2003: 25). Relevant for the study of the letters of Paul is the observation that the meal was as much a part of religion as a part of the activity of daily life. This means that there was no difference between private and religious meals. Understanding the meal as part

230 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals of the cultural code of Antiquity allows us to conclude, with Klinghardt and Smith, that there were no differences between Jewish and Hellenistic (i.e. pagan) meals (Klinghardt 1996: 11). Consequently, the problems that are described in the letters of Paul are not primarily religious disputes, but social problems. Phillip Harland argues at length, that stories of secretive, nocturnal, and uncontrolled banquets involving drunkenness and, at times, somewhat extreme rituals – incestuous sex, ritual murder, and cannibalism among them – were the mainstay of mud-slinging and a source of novelistic shock-value among upper-class authors in antiquity, particularly in dealing with foreigners and cultural minorities. (Harland 2003: 61)

Locating the meal within the daily life of a household, including the context of ethnic or geographic difficulties, considering regional aspects down to neighbourhoods and local cults and temples, shifts the frame of interest. One is faced with beginnings of Christianity, that were concerned with much more than previous scholarship associated with the distinction between the emerging Christianity and ancient Judaism. Another aspect that previous scholarship on meals brought into the discussion is the semiprivate character of the meal gatherings. In In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity, Taussig he writes in detail about the semiprivate structure of the meal: The semiprivate character of these meals proved to be a particularly evocative dimension of their societal and political influence in a world militarily occupied by an imperial power. To a certain extent, these meals were private in that a private individual almost always hosted them and the invitations were directed to either private individuals or members of an association. On the other hand, people from the public sphere permeated the meals with relative ease, and there was even a certain element of display inherent in the meals themselves. (Taussig 2009: 35)

As a semiprivate social act it allowed the participants to experiment with social variables so that they could put new social alternatives into practice. Likewise, social networks intertwined and shared the experiments of common meals in different contexts. The shared structure allowed an agreement on aspects that were in themselves plural. Social alternatives could be performed and expressed through values of the community. Hence, a discussion of social alternatives raises questions of the social value of these alternatives. In Klinghardt’s view, these alternative social values are expressed through the ethics of the Hellenistic meal (Taussig 2009: 26–7).

2  The Hellenistic meal in the letters of Paul In regard to the meal, Paul’s ethics are tested in many aspects. Knowing that the order of reclining, as much as the other elements of the ritual, is related to social and religious tensions within a community, encourages one to understand the literary negotiation

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over the community as the body of Christ as part of the ritual. In the letters of Paul one can study his participation in the social and religious negotiations. In Gal. 2.11-14 the reader isn’t informed much about the perfecting or rationalizing patterns but about the common reclining of Jews and Gentiles during the meal. Together with Romans 14 one is well aware of the disturbing consequences the denial of the right reclining order might have. Kephas separating from the table in Antioch and Paul’s warnings against the brother mark these consequences. The brother or sister in Romans 14 can be judged and despised (10); a stumbling block or hindrance can be put in the way of another (13); and he or she can be injured by what one eats (15). Knowing these warnings makes us conscious of the community, which can only understand itself as the body of Christ if this devastating interaction can be transformed to participation. 1 Corinthians 8 goes further by assessing the differences on one side and expecting the withdrawal of other temples for the sake of the weaker brother. Paul writes: 12 But when you thus sin against members of your family, and wound their conscience when it is weak, you sin against Christ. 13 Therefore, if food is a cause of their falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall.

We can see clearly that the sin against a member of the family is related to the sin against Christ (Gäckle 2004: 441). In 1 Corinthians 10 the centre of attention is given to verses 16 and 17: 16 The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a sharing in the body of Christ? 17 Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all partake of the one bread.

Smith elaborates that the meal tradition Paul is referring to is the Hellenistic banquet tradition. The meal pictured here has the following features of a normal Greco-Roman banquet: (a) benediction over the food, represented by the bread; (b) the division of the meal into deipnon (mentioned in the text) followed by symposium (implied by the wine blessing); (c) a benediction over the wine marking the transition from deipnon to symposium. It is clear, therefore, that the Greco-Roman banquet form provides the backdrop for this tradition. Since that is the case, it is reasonable to expect that banquet ideology lies behind the meal interpretation being presented here. (Smith 2003: 188)

With Klinghardt, he understands, that ‘one of the central concepts defining the theoretical basis for meal ethics is koinonia or ‘sharing,’ which refers in a larger sense to the communal nature of the meal situation itself ’ (Smith 2003: 54). The NRSV translates koinonia as ‘a sharing’ in 1 Cor. 10.16. The translation indicates, that koinonia is often assumed as a reference to the earliest ecclesiological and Eucharistic formation because of the mention of bread and wine. The usage of koinonia in the New Testament is quite

232 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals divers: 2 Cor. 8.4; 13.13 and 1 Cor. 10.16 indicate that participation in the community plays an important role. J.Y. Campbell has shown that koinonia is not primarily the community with each other, but the participation in a community (Campbell 1932: 353). Consequently, koinonia is the community with someone through the common participation in something, in our case, the participation in the Hellenistic meal. Translating koinonia as ‘a sharing’ doesn’t make very clear that koinonia is not a strategy for achieving this community. Understanding koinonia as a participation in a community, which is clarified by the difference between koinonia and koinonos, is much more appropriate. 1 Cor. 10.18 and 20 exemplify that koinonoi themselves are not making a koinonia. This change of perspective means to emphasize the performance of the group and to assume that the interplay of the parties of koinonia are not practiced for their own sake, but to participate in an expressed community (Al-Suadi 2011: 152). We can see, that koinonia is the Other-Place, the heterotopy, where the identity of the participants is the body of Christ – or as Brigitte Kahl states: ‘He [Paul] had to bring Jews and Gentiles together at the One table that transforms One and Other into Onean(d)-Other: the table of the new creation’ (Kahl 2005: 41). If we have to distinguish between participation at and interaction within a community, the discussion about the participation at other tables becomes relevant. 1 Corinthians 11 doesn’t deny, like 1 Corinthians 8, that there is participation at the table of other gods and states that this is not the community that represents the body of Christ. Divisions frighten the community, which, under these circumstances is not able to come together for the Lord’s Supper. The terms of identification are made very clear in verses 33 and 34. When you come together to eat, wait for one another. 34 If you are hungry, eat at home, so that when you come together, it will not be for your condemnation.

From the perspective of ritual theory, it is especially relevant that Paul assesses problematic and disturbing patterns but that he doesn’t consider them as part of the ritual. In contrast to Galatians 2, where he doesn’t deny that the reclining of Jews and Gentiles raises difficulties and 1 Corinthians 8, where he even tries to influence the outcome of the meals through his own abdication of meat, and 1 Corinthians 10, where the heterotopy of the body is dependent on the different body parts, 1 Corinthians 11 and Romans 14 don’t show at all that negotiation is a substantial part of the ritual. 1 Corinthians 11 and Romans 14 only give evidence that there are limits of individual identifications when one wants to be part of the body of Christ: either the worship of other gods or the separation within the koinonia. Limitations are not only expressed through ethical patterns, but also through the implied structure of the gathering. Knowing the structure of the Hellenistic meal is very important to identify the ritual characteristics behind the description of the meal in 1 Corinthians. This paper also analyses exegetically how Paul puts the ritual into a grammar of written and social practice (Lieu 2004). In other words, we are asking about the social codes in Antiquity that allowed Paul to address the Hellenistic meal practice of the communities with which he was in contact. Exploring the characteristics of the Hellenistic meal, as Klinghardt and Smith do, addresses the social codes of the

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participants as well as their behaviour, the order, the sequence, the language and the objects and spaces of the meal. Key to the argumentation in 1 Corinthians 10 is the role of the symposiarch. Hence, we are specifically discussing the experimental behaviour of the participants and the role of the symposiarch.

3  1 Corinthians 11 As previously stated: The meal gave participants the chance to experiment with social variables so that they could put new social alternatives into practice. Where do we see experimentation in 1 Corinthians 11? Instead of following most New Testament scholars by solely discussing 1 Cor. 11.24-25 we are focusing on 11.17-23. Paul writes in 1 Cor. 11.17-23 that when the community comes together it is not for the better but for the worse (17). Paul believes that there are divisions among them (18) and that the community doesn’t really eat the Lord’s Supper (20). He criticizes that each of them goes ahead with their own supper (21) and blames them for not eating and drinking at their homes (22). Instead of having the idion deipnon, Paul reminds them of the kuriakon deipnon, that he received from the Lord. Considering Burton Mack’s notion of the early Jesus movements as ‘arenas for social experimentation’, we can imagine that experimentation did not necessarily mean happy, peaceful communities who agreed harmoniously on changes to their cultural codes (Mack 1995). Instead we can observe that experimentations are a matter of power struggles, disagreements, separation, heard and unheard voices, that continue until common agreements are or are not found. Therefore, we can account that these dynamics of experimentations could also be found in the early Christian communities when it comes to the practice of the shared meal. Indeed, it is not difficult to find the power struggles and disagreements that are expressed literarily in 1 Cor. 11.17-23. Paul is addressing divisions and factions, hunger and drunkenness, hatred and shame. At the height of his overwhelming anger he considers it impossible for the community to practice the Lord’s Supper – and he takes it even further by accusing them of practicing their own meal, the idion deipnon. I understand from this passage that Paul views the community’s experimentation in terms of power struggles and disagreements, which he was not fond of. Therefore, in his argument he criticizes their emphasis on experimentation and names this eating idion deipnon, their own, the private meal. Here, ‘what does not belong to God’ is rhetorically set against kuriakos, which clearly expresses belonging to some kind of imperial leadership. The idion deipnon becomes the image of a devastated social constitution of the community in which members concentrate on their own needs and remain separate from one another. In the next paragraph it will be discussed, that instead of the idion deipnon Paul favours the practice of the kuriakon deipnon. As an adjective kurios can describe things as well as people. The term ‘κυρία ἐκκλησία’ is the expression for regular conventions (Ar.Ach. 19, Arist.Ath. 43.4 and at Amorgos, IG12(7).237.46) whereas a person, described as kurios, is associated with ruling power. The adjective can be used in self-reflection for someone who has power over himself. The highest military leader is the ‘κυριώτατος τῆς δυνάμεως’. Obviously,

234 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals kuriakos is a form of the adjective kurios and has the same meaning. In non-biblical contexts kuriakos is found in the decree of the prefect of Egypt Ti. Julius Alexander, who finished his decree with kuriakon logon in 68 CE. Other inscriptions and papyri show that kuriakon can refer to the emperor as well. In biblical sources kuriakon is found only in Rev. 1.10 as the adjective for ‘the day’ (Al-Suadi 2011: 295). It is appropriate to consider kuriakos as an expression for the belonging of something to some kind of imperial leadership. Smith shows that ‘the term Lord, of course, gives the meal a sacred character of some sort’ (Smith 2003: 191) and understands that the quality of the meal is depending on the God: That is, Sarapis, like the Christian ‘Lord,’ would provide banquets that met the highest ideals of the culture. They would be banquets at which equality, friendship, and joy would prevail over disputes at the meal. (Smith 2003: 191)

From what we have seen before, I understand, that in 1 Corinthians 11 kuriakon functions as an attribute of the meal and of the people at the same time. Meaning that the meal and the people belong to some kind of imperial leadership. In the following, I want to take seriously Paul’s introduction of Jesus as the kurios in v. 23 while keeping this socio-political reading in mind. So far we have seen that Paul is dealing with social realities of the community, which he refers to as problematic and troublesome. By giving the ritual a name – kuriakon deipnon in contrast with idion deipnon – Paul deals as much with the particularity of the audience as he does with its given social reality. I will show how Paul expresses a communal and a social critique by naming Jesus the kurios as the symposiarch of the meal, which is contrasted with the idion deipnon.

4  Jesus as symposiarch The presider of a meal, the symposiarch, was often selected from the participants before the meal. It was his responsibility to set the rules for the drinking party to follow (Smith 2003: 33).4 Sometimes the symposiarch was announced right before the meal, which means that the symposiarch was not necessarily the host. His duty was to decide on the arrangement of the seats, on the mixture of water and wine, and to make decisions regarding the order of the meal. He was responsible for the tone of the meal, which was always in danger of disturbance by guests who were not happy with his decisions, uninvited guests and interactions between guests (Taussig 2009: 45). Dennis Smith lists the responsibilities of the symposiarch: ll ll

ll

ll

presiding at the meal and seeing that the rules are obeyed; to decide the proportions of the mixture of water to wine in the krater, or wine bowl; to decide what would be the sizes of the portions of wine to be served to the guests; the passing of the cup during the libation (Smith 2003: 34.108).

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According to his responsibilities, the symposiarch was given different names: ‘presider at the table’ (klinarchos), ‘chief presider at the table’ (prōtoklinarchos), ‘head of the feast’ (archieranistēs), ‘presider at the drinking party’ or ‘symposiarch’ (symposiarchos), ‘officer of the table’ (kleinokosmos), and especially ‘host’ (hestiatōr) (Smith 2003: 90). The responsibilities of the symposiarch show that meals were the place where social interaction was regulated, controlled and balanced. Although the cultural understanding of the role of the symposiarch is well established, the difficulties that come with his responsibilities are not. Reclining at meals always underlined status and stratification. Taussig explains that the most honoured position was the one on the right hand of the president/symposiarch and the least honoured being the one at the other end of the circle who faced the symposiarch’s back (Taussig 2009: 69). Hierarchies signal the need for clarification, when a setting is variable. Although the symposiarch had these duties, one cannot say that his personal interest dominated the scene. It was not a matter of his personal qualifications that was central. Rather, I consider him the administrator of the ritual because he had to live up to the expectation of the group, which were the expressions of the cultural code. The symposiarch had a limited role within the meal practice because the course of the meal was defined by the common culture and was not defined by his individual leadership. With the variability we can observe that differences and cultural development take place. Hence, ‘what determined the events of the meal depended much more on the culturewide consensus on the structure and character of the meal than it did on individual leadership’ (Taussig 2009: 79). We will see that the role of the symposiarch becomes a projection of an idealized community and an utopian world, when Jesus is pictured as the leader of the Lord’s Supper.

5  The utopian symposiarch As mentioned in the features of the Hellenistic meal, the utopian political character is a very important aspect of this ritual. Klinghardt sees it in the social value of charis, which stands for grace, generosity and beauty (Klinghardt 1996: 153). Obviously these aspects are missing in Paul’s description of the idion deipnon. While it was Klinghardt who began thinking about utopian political values, Taussig goes into much more depth with this idea in his recent book and concludes: Early Christian meals, … were often very significant acts of resistance. On numerous levels, they regularly functioned for their participants as generative of opposition to Rome and models for alternative visions and behavior. It is, nevertheless, also important to remember … that these meals produced other important effects in the lives of their participants beyond this significant resistance to Rome. (Taussig 2009: 143)

Given that resistance to Rome was not the only struggle Paul and the communities were fighting, I began to wonder how resistance to social disagreements is expressed in the texts.

236 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The connection between utopian and experienced social realities is best described by discussing the role of the symposiarch, as it is characterized in Paul's First Letter to Corinth, the leader of the meal. 1 Corinthians 11 is the only text which describes Jesus as the symposiarch. In v. 23, Paul introduces Jesus the kurios as the symposiarch, whose performance is, to a large extent, dependent on the community to which he belongs and on whose meal he is leading.

6  Jesus as the symposiarch In 1 Cor. 11.22, after Paul warns the community about their divisions and factions, he introduces the kurios Jesus as the symposiarch of the meal. It is important to recognize that the kurios is Jesus and not Christ. In fact, in 1 Cor. 11.17-34 Paul is not speaking of Christ at all. Jesus is obviously the symposiarch: He takes the bread, he thanks, he breaks it and he talks to the community (11.23). In the same way he deals with the wine before he talks to the community (11.25). It seems to be very important to Paul to name the kurios Jesus and it is interesting that the kurios in 1 Cor. 11.17-34 is directly communicated to the community. There is no intermediation needed. The community doesn’t need to imitate Paul or Christ to realize their participation in the meal, which is led by the kurios himself. Instead Paul receives his advice to the community, and the information about the kurios Jesus, directly from the kurios himself. This Pauline emphasis leads to a utopian counter-setting against the divisions and factions diagnosed by Paul. Taking into consideration that the role of the symposiarch was very flexible, if not ambiguous, draws attention to the fact that the symposiarch – here the kurios Jesus – was always a member of the community. Paul makes a communal and social critique by naming Jesus the symposiarch. On the communal level, addressed through Paul’s responsibility towards the community, we should keep in mind that Paul is not referring to the historical Jesus but to the kurios who was ritually remembered. So, when 11.23 is referring to the night he was handed over, Paul is reminding the community of the ritual behaviour of the kurios Jesus. In this remembrance of the communal behaviour it is also said that Jesus is not the only symposiarch. Quite the contrary – for social-historical studies we know that the position of leadership for the next meal is to be given to somebody else. The communal level reflects that the kuriakon deipnon was a daily activity for the community, which gave the community the chance to interact with experimental dynamics. Within the group these dynamics were regulated, controlled and adapted to the needs of the community. In other words: It was their responsibility to make the ritual work. On a social level it is striking that the variable power dynamics of leadership were related to the kurios. Just remember that the adjective kurios usually refers to the emperor. Naming the meal kuriakon deipnon performs a social critique in two ways. First Paul names the kurios Jesus, and second, gives him the position of the symposiarch, which is not a type of power usually associated with imperial leadership. Paul is making his communal critique: It is the responsibility to the community to make the ritual work. As well as his social critique: Jesus, not the Roman emperor, is the leader of the ritual.

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7  The realization of the utopia With this elaboration I place exegetical work in the context of socio-historical practice. Let me sum up how the kuriakon deipnon became a Pauline topoi for the utopian Hellenistic meal. Grace, generosity and beauty – all expressions of charis – stand for utopian communal and social values, which can be performed during the Hellenistic meal. Understanding the performance as part of the social code allowed me to identify the social code within the texts. We can see clearly that Paul is reflecting the experimental behaviour of the community and the role of the symposiarch in his letter to the Corinthians. Knowing that power struggles, disagreements and separation are the voice of experimentations led me to the observation that Paul describes the idion deipnon as the image of a devastated social constitution of the community in which members differ from each other through the satisfaction of their needs. The kuriakon deipnon in opposition to the idion deipnon functions as the counter-image to experimentation and the devastating side effects that Paul was describing.

8 Conclusion We started by elaborating on how the Hellenistic meal is at times of social, political and religious changes subject to the affirmation of common values. As a medium of collective renewal, the variability allows a diversity, which is not universal, but based on the proper context. ‘Early Christians celebrated a meal based on the banquet model found commonly in their world. No further explanation for the origin of early Christian meals is needed’ (Smith 2003: 279). This conclusion, drawn by Smith, encouraged us to look at the way early Christian communities developed within the banquet tradition. They set boundaries towards other dining communities and the letters of Paul mirror the observation that the meal’s social developments and questions were as much a part of religion as a part of the activity of daily life. Hence, the koinonia is the Other-Place. A place where the identity of the participants is the body of Christ. In that regard, we concluded, that kuriakos in 1 Corinthians functions as an attribute to the meal and to the people at the same time. The meal and the people belong to some kind of imperial leadership, which is not represented by earthly powers. But Paul remains within a projection of an idealized community and an utopian world when Jesus is pictured as the leader of the Lord’s Supper. Comparable to charis, the kuriakon deipnon stands for utopian communal and social values. It is remarkable how Paul establishes his utopian expectations towards the community by introducing Jesus as the kurios and symposiarch: ll

ll

On the communal level he is giving the responsibility of leadership back to the group because the power dynamics relating to the symposiarch are changing. On a social level, he is ironic about the kurios, who is Jesus and not the Roman emperor.

238 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The liberation that Paul gives the communities is becoming a limitation at the same time. Utopian values are difficult to live with in a world with divisions.

Notes 1 This thesis has been elaborated especially by the Greco-Roman Meals seminar of the Society of Biblical Literature, see Taussig and Marks (172014), Taussig and Smith (2012). 2 This is discussed in more detail by Matthew B. Roller, who looked at dining postures in different social contexts (Roller 2006). 3 Already the ‘Greeks easily adapted to the diversity in particular local dining practices, just as they adapted to other local variations in custom’ (Evans 2012: 151). 4 ‘The position of symposiarch, or its equivalent, is found to be present in the organization of clubs …, as well as in other banquet settings’ (Smith 2003: 34).

Bibliography Al-Suadi, S. (2011), Essen als Christusgläubige – Ritualtheoretische Exegese paulinischer Texte, Tübingen: Francke. Campbell, J. Y. (1932), ‘Koinonia and Its Cognates in the New Testament’, JBL 51: 352–80. DeMaris, R. E. (2008), The New Testament in its Ritual World, London: Routledge. Evans, N. (2012), ‘Slaves at the Table’, in H. Taussig and D. E. Smith (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 149–64, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Gäckle, V. (2004), Die Starken und die Schwachen in Korinth und in Rom: Zu Herkunft und Funktion der Antithese in 1 Kor 8,1-11,1 und Röm 14,1-15,13, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Harland, P. (2003), Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations: Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Kahl, B. (2005), ‘Reading Galatians and Empire at the Great Altar of Pergamon’, USQR 59: 21–43. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen: Francke Verlag. Klinghardt, M. (2012), ‘A Typology of the Communal Meal’, in H. Tuassig and D. E. Smith (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World, 9–22. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Kloppenborg, J. S. (1996), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World 1, London: Routledge. Lieu, J. (2004), Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mack, B. L. (1995), Who Wrote the New Testament?: The Making of the Christian Myth, San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco. Roller, M. B. (2006), Dining Posture in Ancient Rome: Bodies, Values, and Status, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress Press.

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Smith, D. E. (2012), ‘The Greco-Roman Banquet as a Social Institution’, in H. Taussig and D. E. Smith (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 23–33, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Taussig, H. (2009), In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Taussig, H. and Marks, S. (2014), Meals in Early Judaism: Social Formation at the Table, New York: Palgrave Macmillan (ISBN 978-1-137-36379-4). Taussig, H. and Smith, D. E. (2012), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, New York: Palgrave Macmillan (ISBN: 978–1–137–00288–4).

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Meals in the Letter to the Romans – The Debate about the Food on the Table Kathy Ehrensperger

Introduction One gets to the table late in Romans. Meals explicitly come into play only towards the end of the letter, in chapters 14.1–15.13. Distinct from other letters (Galatians, 1 Corinthians) this seems to render meals a topic that appears rather secondary, a parenthetical addition to an otherwise highly theological letter with the core themes being found in chapters 1–8 or 1–11 (cf. Karris 1991). The discussion in 14.1–15.13 is thus often considered as dealing either with a general practical issue concerning table fellowship of Jews and non-Jews in Christ, or even the relationship of generic ‘weak’ and ‘strong’ in communities (Fitzmyer 1993: 687); or with a particular issue which had arisen in Rome but which was seen as rather detached from the main theological focus of the letter (as might be suggested by Dunn 1998: 680–9). The passage is interpreted as advocating the obliteration or irrelevance of Jewish food laws, and thus as decisive evidence that Paul considered the Law as being overcome in Christ, and thus irrelevant if not in opposition to emerging Christian identity.1 It thus has been attributed high significance in perceptions of Paul as the champion of a law-free gospel. Together with Rom. 2.17-29 and 7.1-25, Rom. 14.14 and 14.20 in particular were interpreted as a clear indication for the dichotomy of law and gospel in Paul’s theology, both in interpretations which considered Romans to be a general letter setting out Paul’s theology and when it was considered a particular letter addressing contextual issues in Rome (Newton 1985; Calvert-Koyzis 2004: 138). More recent approaches acknowledge that Paul does not argue that those who eat vegetables, that is, adhere to food laws, should accommodate to the strong, but these interpreters nevertheless regard Paul’s advice to the strong to accommodate to the weak as a concession of a temporary nature, since in principle the law was overcome in Christ (Engberg-Pedersen 2008). In light of approaches beyond the New Perspective the Law–Gospel dichotomy as the core of Paul’s theology has been substantially challenged and thus the interpretation of Romans and the role and function of this meal passage have been re-evaluated. This part is then being seen as integral to the letter, addressing actual issues in Rome in relation to aspects of the letter as a whole (Campbell 2013). If it is not presupposed that the core of Paul’s argument

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centres around the dichotomy of law and gospel then the interpretation of the passage as evidence for precisely that needs to be reconsidered as well. A key theme of Romans is the relationship between Israel and the nations in light of the Christ-event, that is, the inauguration of the kingdom of God. The letter’s addressees are Christ-followers from the nations (ἔθνη), but it is evident that Paul considers it necessary to address issues concerning the relationship between those from the nations who belong to Christ, and the people Israel, that is, the Jews (Stowers 1994: 21–33; Nanos 1999; Campbell 2010). This points to the presence of Jews, whether in Christ or not and ongoing social and theological interactions between Jewish communities and Christ-followers from the nations in Rome even though the precise nature of such interaction is a matter of debate. I find it difficult to envisage a scenario whereby Christ-followers from the nations did not operate to a certain extent under the umbrella of Jewish tradition, but the fact that Paul clearly identifies himself as apostle to the nations and takes care particularly in Romans to emphasize that as such he considers it appropriate for him to address them (1.5), indicates that they must have been a socially identifiable group. However, socially identifiable does not mean separate or in opposition to others, that is, Jews, whether in Christ or not. Paul considers it necessary to write to those from the nations who are in Rome by way of a ‘bold reminder’ (Rom. 15.15). In his view, their behaviour and perceptions threatened the unity of the movement in Rome, and thus impinged on core aspects of its emerging identity. The direct address in Rom. 11.13 introduces directly what appears to be a misunderstanding on the part of those from the nations, namely that although they are now in Christ, related to the one God, there is nothing that would give them any reason to boast about this inclusion. This indicates that such an attitude was prominent in Rome among some from the nations. It may have been rooted in negative perceptions of Jews as prevalent in certain strands of Greek and Roman societies. Moreover, the problem could well have been nurtured by the competitive patterns of social relations prevalent in the dominating majority culture of Rome (Bartchy 2005; Ehrensperger 2008: 102–4; Ehrensperger 2017). The problem of such competitive behaviour modelled on the hierarchical stratification of Roman society would have become particularly evident in the context of hospitality and table fellowship. Greek and Roman social stratification was enacted at formal banquets, with people in power positions dominating the table, hence confirming and stabilizing respective social structures, at elite and most likely also at sub-elite levels (see Ascough 2012; Smit 2007: 42). Given the significance of table fellowship in the early Christ movement it is thus not much of a surprise that this pattern as well as other aspects of Greek and Roman meal practices with which particularly Christfollowers from the nations would have been thoroughly familiar would find its way into assemblies of the Christ movement. That this particular issue arises in Rome, at the heart of imperial power, may not be a coincidence (as argued by, e.g. Elliott 2008: 16–23). With its focus on contempt and judging, Rom. 14.1–15.13 addresses core aspects of life in Christ and is thus an intrinsic rather than mere additional part of this particular letter. It is linked to other parts of the letter through thematic and semantic markers (Rom. 2.1-3; 2.16; 3.4-6 [κρίνειν]; Rom. 2.17, 23; 11.18 [καυχάομαι]) (cf. Meeks 1987).

242 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Competitive and judgemental behaviour are identified as the divisive factors, rather than difference and diversity within the movement. This is one of the core aspects addressed in Romans, and it emerges also in 14.1–15.13 in the question of assembling for a common meal. Unlike, for example, in 1 Corinthians, Paul does not refer to issues arising ‘when you come together ἐν ἐκκλησία’ (1 Cor. 11.18) generally in Romans. He only refers to a getting together with reference to hospitality. The coming together for meals appears as the central event in Romans, that is, as the locus and the occasion of enacting of ‘being in Christ’. In the context of hospitality, the threat to the unity of Christ-followers in Rome by judgemental and contemptuous behaviour becomes particularly evident.

1  Rom. 14.1–15.13 1.1  The problem I – The actors The actors of this passage have traditionally been labelled as ‘the weak and the strong’. However, the two designations only occur once each, in 14.1-2 (ἀσθενῶν) and 15.1 (δύνατοι).2 There are other characterizations for them, namely ‘vegetable eating’ and ‘all eating’, and significantly also ‘judging’ and ‘despising’. Whether all of these labels can neatly be assigned to one or the other group, as if there were two clearly identifiable groupings is an open question in my view. Although Paul seems to attribute vegetable eating and judging to the weak, ‘and all’ or meat eating and despising to the strong, it has been argued that there are most likely more than two groups involved here, or that clear boundaries between those involved cannot be discerned (Sampley 1995). At the forefront of Paul’s argument seem to be attitudes and behaviour expressing judgement and contempt. As noted issues concerning κρίνειν and καυχάομαι have been addressed earlier in the letter (chapters 2 and 11). These are clearly concerned with the perception of the relationship between the nations and Israel/Jews, whether the latter were in Christ or not. In light of the fact that these issues are addressed earlier in Romans, it is not surprising that they resurface in the context of the social enactment of being in Christ at the table. The sharing of the table seems at least to be the occasion Paul has in view here, as this is what is intrinsically implied by the term προσλαμβάνεσθε which opens the scene here, and is repeated at a crucial point in the passage (15.7). Apart from this introductory indicator there are only indirect pointers to the table with reference to the food under debate, such as vegetables, ‘all’ (λάχανα, πάντα), meat and wine (κρέα, οἶνον 14.21), and the purity categorizations κοινός3 and κάθαρος, which here obviously indicate food as well. Other key terms, such as τραπέζα, κοινωνία, μετέχειν and συνέρχομαι εἰς τὸ φάγειν, are absent. Nevertheless, it is generally assumed that the debate concerns actual situations of shared meals, rather than a discussion about the consumption of certain food as such (Jewett 2007: 829– 73). Although a number of issues could possibly arise at the table (cf. Gal. 2.11-13; 1 Cor. 8.1-13; 10.14-33; 1.17-33), here in Romans the issue is actually the food stuff that is being or not being consumed that apparently causes the problem. The food consumed or not consumed is obviously the reason for behaviour that Paul considers

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as not being in keeping with the ethos of the gospel. The identification of the meal participants – apart from the fact that what is at stake seems to be hospitality among Christ-followers – is difficult (Ehrensperger 2004: 183–4; Reasoner 1999: 61–2). The labels ἀσθενῶν and δύνατος do not clarify the issue.

1.2  The problem II – The food The fact that particular food is discussed here, including pure (κάθαρα) and impure (κοίνον) foods, indicates that something concerning Jewish food laws is at stake. This seemingly states the obvious, but it is obvious only because the letter is authored by Paul, a Jew and addresses issues concerning a Jewish message in its relevance for nonJews. The perception that certain items, animals and foodstuff are pure or impure, consumable or inconsumable, due to cult adherence is not a Jewish particularity but shared throughout cultures around the Mediterranean and the Ancient Near East.4 The context and themes of the letter indicate that with the terms κάθαρα and κοίνον most likely reference to Jewish tradition is made. This identification has been taken as an indication that those who eat vegetables must be Jews, hence the weak in faith are considered to be Jews who have not as yet been able to overcome their scruples concerning food laws which are deemed overcome or rendered obsolete in Christ (Engberg-Pedersen 2008). The conclusion that those weak-in-faith vegetarians must be Jews is remarkable and is often assumed rather than argued. However, it is interesting to note that distinct from Gal. 2.11 the discussion is not about who could share the table with whom but about what could or could not be eaten. Whether this concerned food eaten at the shared table or the consumption of certain food generally, is not quite evident. The issue of disputes over different opinions, however, is presupposed by Paul as occurring at the shared table, as προσλαμβάνεσθε is referring to hospitality. The quarrelling is not about table fellowship in principle but about the menu, that is, views concerning the menu. Paul admonishes those who ‘eat all’ (φαγεῖν πάντα) that they should welcome those who eat vegetables without discussions. These discussions would have concerned the applicability of the Law in Christ generally exemplified through the notion that the food laws, and hence the Law per se, were overcome in Christ. This has been interpreted as an exemplary discussion about the (non-)applicability of the law in Christ. Jews and their adherence to the Torah are then seen as the problem. As noted, the identity of those involved in this dispute is not evident. The labels weak and strong, the combination of weakness and vegetarian diet, and some mentioning of κάθαρος, κοίνος point to ethnical aspects in the dispute, but this is not sufficient to identify those involved in this dispute in ethnic terms, as Jews and non-Jews respectively. The problem addressed is not formulated along identifiable ethnic group categorizations, despite notions of Jewish categorizations of food most likely playing a role. It cannot be concluded from these few markers who is who in ethnic terms in this debate. In as much as it is evident that the weak are those who eat vegetables, and by implication possibly the strong (or powerful) are those who eat ‘everything’,5 the reasons for the respective diets are not similarly evident. That the problem would be the adherence to food laws by Jewish Christ-followers is based on the assumption that it is evident what the respective practice looked like.

244 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals But this is far from being the case, as Karin Zetterholm recently has convincingly demonstrated (Zetterholm 2015). There are some narratives which tell of the abstinence from eating meat of heroes who live in a pagan environment (Tob. 1.11; 2 Macc. 5.27; Dan. 1.8-16; 10.3; Jdt. 12.1-2; LXX Est. 14.17). Philo mentions that the Therapeutai adhered to a limited diet of bread and water. But such dietary restrictions appear to be narrative ideals or specific cases rather than general practice of Jews living in the diaspora. The notion that interpretations of food laws similar to those of the Rabbinic period were operative in the first century CE and throughout the diaspora is highly hypothetical. The information for the period in question is far from conclusive, and thus provides a rather slim base for respective interpretations. External sources indicate that some aspects of adherence to food laws were obvious to contemporaries of Jews living in the diaspora, such as the abstention from eating pork, but apart from this little is actually known in further detail. The more important notable aspect is the abstention from cult participation, which led to the image of Jews as ἀσεβής, ἄθεος, and μισανθρώπος. That this non-participation possibly also had implications concerning eating practices cannot be ruled out, but the precise nature of this cannot be established (Tomson 1990: 179–201). Hence, the issue concerning food in this passage need not necessarily or exclusively have to do with adherence to food laws by Jewish or Gentile Christ-followers but might as easily have something to do with the avoidance of idolatry (Smit 2007: 44). An indication for this could be Paul’s reference in Rom. 14.6 that whatever food is consumed or not consumed should be an expression of honouring the one God (of Israel and all creation). This actually is in tune with the opening emphasis of Rom. 1.18-25 where idolatry is presented as the core distortion in the life of those from the nations. The choice of the respective diet hence may or may not have specifically to do with food laws; the issue of idolatry cannot be entirely ruled out. This is of course a decisive issue concerning Jewish identity, but the respective practical application of the principle of avoiding idolatry may well have led to diverse actual Jewish practices (Ehrensperger 2013b: 186–9). The possibility that some Christ-followers from the nations avoided meat either because they followed some Jewish practices or because they did so out of concern of committing idolatry cannot be ruled out.6 Thus the vegetarians can be Jewish or non-Jewish Christ-followers or both – their motivation possibly consisting of both, adherence to Jewish practice either as Jews or non-Jews, or avoidance of idolatry, or both.

1.3  The problem III – ‘Disputes over opinions’ Those from the nations in Christ had to learn what it means to relate exclusively to one God, the one God of Israel – and the nations. The Torah was not binding for them in this respect, but certainly provided guidance including certain Jewish interpretations (cf. Rom. 13.8-10). Hence, although the Torah is not binding for non-Jews in Christ, it certainly would have been considered helpful in that it provided also guidance concerning the avoidance of idolatry. The latter might have been the more pressing issue for former pagans, in that the respective boundaries might not have been as evident to them as to Jews, who would have been familiar with negotiating these

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boundaries in their diaspora contexts (for a detailed discussion, see Ehrensperger 2013b: 189–213). Thus table fellowship between Jews and non-Jews might have been an issue also here in Rome, but it is not addressed as such by Paul and thus if it is part of the problem, then it is a marginal one. The core issue Paul addresses is the ‘disputing over opinions’ (διακρίσεις διαλογισ μῶν). The problem focusses on, but does not seem to be restricted to, the occasion of table fellowship, a more fundamental debate seems to have been going on. There are vegetarians and others who gather. The purpose of this assembling remains hidden until 15.6: ‘so that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ’. The coming together or mutual welcoming’s purpose, including the meal, is the glorifying of God in unity. The hospitality, that is, the table fellowship of Christfollowers serves a specific purpose among those who come together. In a proleptic analogy this purpose is designated by Paul as consisting not in food and drink, but in ‘righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit’. Paul argues from this wider perspective that debates concerning food and drink should not become the dominating dimension of these gatherings. Those who came together in Christ in Rome obviously considered their respective dietary practice to be the one and only accurate practice for Christ-followers, judging or despising those who adhered to a different one. Judging (κρίνειν) and despising (ἐξουσθένειν) indicates that the respective ‘practicioners’ regarded the practice of the others as inappropriate for life in Christ. The labels δύνατοι and ἀδύνατοι in 15.1 indicate that these disputes most likely were not merely verbal disputes but involved a power struggle, with the powerful possibly being in a position to exercise pressure on the powerless to conform (cf. Reasoner 1999: 62–6). Distinct from at least some of the addressees, Paul does not consider these different practices – that is, vegetables or meat – to be the problem but this ‘quarreling over opinions’. Far from advocating the right of the powerful to exercise this power as they possibly had been used to, they are called to restrain this power, and use it for the support (βαστάθειν) of the powerless. This is not an invitation addressed to the powerful to endure the weakness of the powerless for the time being (until they know better for instance). The weak or powerless are not depicted as being in the wrong or in need of changing their practice. If those who abstain from meat do so due to Jewish food laws, then there is no critique or overcoming of these laws implied here, not even implicitly. The discussions and disputes concerning the others’ practice rather than the practices or motivations of the practices as such needed to change. In 14.6 Paul provides the rationale for his perception of these different practices, affirming that they are all compatible and appropriate in Christ as long as eating or not eating is done in relation to the one God. This is the decisive motivational aspect here. If what is done is done in relation and thankfulness to God, then in no ways could anyone else interfere and challenge a brother or sister to adhere to a different practice. Whether the respective practice is adhered to as an expression of trust in God is only for God to judge, hence should be left to him. The area where human discernment is required is in relation to the brother or sister in Christ, not in relation to the food on the table. Here, in relation to their brothers and sisters, Christ-followers are called to discern what kind of behaviour contributes to the stumbling, injuring or even the ruin of ‘the one for whom Christ died’ (4.15c).

246 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Although Paul actually expects them to be able to discern this for themselves,7 he provides some explanatory guidance in this respect. Addressing Christ-followers from the nations, it is only logical that he confirms that ‘nothing is unclean in itself; but it is unclean for anyone who thinks it unclean’(14.14b). He acknowledges, in tune with Jewish tradition, that the categorization of food into κοινός and κάθαρος is not inherent to the food (or the animals) and thus not universally relevant for all peoples. It is an explanation, which not only applies to Jewish perceptions but is inherently understandable and logical also from a non-Jewish perspective as such categorization were, as noted above, ubiquitous in Antiquity.8 It was evident that such categorizations were not perceived to be ontological but culturally constructed. This did not render them matters of indifference (ἀδιαφόρα) (cf. Jewett 2007: 860) but indicated that they were limited to the adherents of respective cults and traditions. The distinction in question here is part of the expression of the covenantal relationship between the people Israel and her God. Food is κοινός or κάθαρος for those who consider them to be categorized along these distinguishing lines as expressions of their trust in God. The fact that it is a particular practice rooted in this specific relationship does not render it wrong or obsolete in light of the Christ-event. This categorization is not irrelevant in Christ. It is, as Paul confirms, relevant for those for whom it is relevant. These are, in the first instance of course Jews, but as I have argued above, this could also apply to some Christ-followers from the nations. A number of reasons could have lead former pagans to consider some food as incompatible with being in Christ and hence they would particularly not eat meat (at least this seems to be implied by the distinction made between those who eat vegetables and those who eat ‘everything’), following Jewish food laws being one of them, but doubts concerning idolatry could have played as much a role. There is nowhere any indication that there is something wrong with such perception whatever the motivation. The limitation of this perception does not render it obsolete. As an expression of the relationship to the one God for those who live according to this practice it is actually of decisive relevance in Christ. By the same argumentation, Paul implicitly confirms that the practice of those who do eat meat is as valuable an expression of their relationship to the one God as is the refraining from it for the others. Arguing for the acceptability of both practices in Christ, it seems that Paul is addressing all those involved in the same way by appealing to everybody’s insights. But this is not so. Already in the opening of the passage, in 14.1-2 Paul clearly addresses those who eat everything as the ones who cause problems, possibly due their socially more powerful position, and thus require guidance as to how to handle the situation. They are the ones who are admonished to welcome those who eat vegetables, without raising discussions concerning opinions. These disputes carry the risk of splitting the fellowship at the table, not the different practices, that is, the food on the table.9 Again in vv. 15–23 those who eat everything, and now explicitly meat, are addressed as the ones who should change their practice. It seems obvious that the brother or sister who ‘is being injured by what you eat’ (14.15a) is the one who does not eat meat. And not only is he/she at risk of being injured, she is at risk of being ruined by the food the other eats. This does not render the vegetable eaters the problem nor are they depicted as having a problem. The problem lies with the meat eaters who seem to have caused

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problems for those who do not eat meat. By causing problems for the other, they disturbed the peace and risk ‘to destroy the work of God’. They need to be reminded that the kingdom of God is not food and drink, hence their behaviour towards brothers and sisters requires change, rather than the practice of the vegetarians. It is not the one who does not eat meat who might cause another to stumble; whether he avoids meat because of adherence to Jewish food laws or of attempting to avoid idolatry is actually irrelevant! The only motivation that is relevant is that God is honoured and the peace between those who assemble in Christ is maintained. To cause someone to stumble through one’s eating practice risks not merely the well being of the other, but the work of God. And it is evident that the meat eaters caused this risk; they threatened the peace and harmony and up-building of the assembling Christ-followers. They are asked to abstain from their practice if there is any doubt or risk of injuring a brother or sister. The decisive aspect is the trust of the one who eats. If there is any doubt and what is eaten is not doubtlessly eaten in relation to the one God, the risk for the brother or sister of harming themselves is exceedingly high. To cause someone harm through one’s own, in principle, acceptable behaviour is what Paul labels as κάκον (14.21b). Thus, the eating of meat by some may cause others to be hurt, whereas the disputes caused by those who eat meat actually threaten to destroy the work of God.

2 Conclusion Contrary to those involved in judging and despising each other because of their diet, Paul insists that the food is not and should not be a problem that leads to such frictions.10 The problem Paul tries to solve has to do with unity in diversity. This may have something to do with ethnic differences, but above all they have to do with questions concerning the ethos, or practices, appropriate for life in Christ. Neither adherence or non-adherence to specific food laws should be divisive. That they should not be the cause for disputes does not render them obsolete or indifferent. Particularly, Paul confirms that the practice of abstaining from certain foods is an expression of trust in God, and the non-restrictive diet is also confirmed as being in accordance with trust in God. In their particularity, they are relevant in that whatever practice the Christfollowers adhered to, they were supposed to adhere to it in honour of God. Uniformity of practice is no condition for unity in Christ. Where a problem arises concerning the food on the table, the problem should not be disputed, no power should be exercised by some to push others into practices they themselves considered problematic. The powerful thus are the ones who are required to abstain from their practice (of eating meat and drinking wine) and accommodate to the powerless. The early Christ-followers embodied their life in Christ in shared meals, evidently also in Rome. But the crucial point of this embodiment is not the overcoming of ethnically connoted practices, that is, food laws. The diversity of diets per se does not threaten the unity in Christ. The unity is threatened by judging and despising behaviour towards each other, and by power exercised over powerless or weaker brothers and

248 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals sisters. If the powerless cannot trust that what the others eat is an expression of honouring God, then the powerful should abstain and accommodate to the powerless in order that the ‘work of God’ continues to be built up rather than destroyed. What in Paul’s view has to characterize those in Christ is primarily the mutual recognition of the respective practice as an expression of their relationship with the one God. If this core aspect is in doubt – that is, if a practice causes a brother to stumble in his trust that every practice is performed to honour God then the work of God is under threat. Significantly it is not the avoidance of eating everything, it is not the perception of something as κοινός and κάθαρος that is considered to cause a brother to stumble. This means that Paul does not consider the adherence to Jewish food laws to be potentially a cause for a brother to stumble. It is not the not eating of ‘all’ that might cause someone to doubt whether what is practiced might really honour the one God. It is the other practice, eating everything, which has the potential to raise such doubts as it renders it unclear whether the practice is honouring God or not. Eating according to food laws, particularly avoiding meat in a setting where the provenance of the meat might have been unclear, was doubtlessly considered to be an expression of honouring God by Paul. In contrast, causing others to stumble by one’s own convictions and power was certainly preventing such honouring. Hence the powerful have to accommodate the powerless. The building up of the ‘other for whom Christ also died’ is the measurement for this honouring of God. The mutual (ἀλλήλους) welcoming in difference, and in the case of doubt, to the benefit of the powerless, is the identity marker of those in Christ. Diversity in meal practice is not a threat to unity but disputes over diversity are. The purpose of the welcoming and sharing the table is that those who are and remain different honour the one God together. This theocentricity is the core parameter in Paul’s argument concerning the meal practice of Christ-followers in Rome; it actually is at the heart of the letter, as its concluding section 15.7-13 clearly expresses. The mutual welcoming serves the purpose of praising God.

Notes 1 Thus, Robert Jewett maintains that ‘the motto [Rom. 14.14] declares a complete break from the purity laws that bound both Judaism and the Greco-Roman world’ (2007: 867). Cf. also Barclay 2001. 2 What is often taken as a second reference to the ‘weak’ in 15.1 is a reference to the powerless, which indicates an issue involving social power as Mark Reasoner in my view has convincingly argued. Cf. Reasoner 1999: 49–55; see also Esler 2003: 341. 3 For the use of κοινός in relation to food see my discussion in Ehrensperger 2013a: 97–105. 4 Cf Schäfer who notes that ‘different people behave differently in respect of food in people’s worship of their gods. … Dietary laws, like the prohibition of eating pork, belong to the worship of gods, and they are as diverse as the belief in different gods.’ Schäfer 1997: 48–9. Cf. also Frevel and Nihan 2013. 5 Since the strong are only mentioned in 15.1 it is not absolutely clear in my view that they are identical with those who ‘eat all’, although this is what is assumed in most interpretations. For an emphasis on social power implicit in the labels see Reasoner 1999: 202.

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6 This was Augustine’s interpretation cf. Propositions from the Epistle to the Romans 78, text in Frederiksen 1982: 45. 7 As he actually confirms in Rom. 15.14. 8 Tomson refers to Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai’s discussion of the purification ritual that involves the ashes of a red heifer (Nim 19) ‘Ba our lives! A corpse does not render impure nor does water purify, were it not for the decree of the Holy One, Blessed be He.’ Cited in Tomson 1990: 248–9. 9 Cf. Esler, who is of the view that the dominant are driving the διασλογισμοί and hence potentially contribute to a schism in the group (Esler 2003: 349). 10 This certainly resonates with ideals of κοινωνία at symposia of the elite of society, thus providing the bridge in the cultural translation process at stake here.

Bibliography Ascough, R. (2012), ‘Social and Political Characteristics of Greco-Roman Association Meals’, in D. E. Smit and H. E. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 59–72, New York: Palgrave MacMillan. Barclay, J. M. G. (2001), ‘“Do We Undermine the Law?”: A Study of Romans 14.1-15.13’, in J. D. G. Dunn (ed.), Paul and the Mosaic Law, 287–308, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Bartchy, S. (2005), ‘“When I am Weak I am Strong”: A Pauline Paradox in Cultural Context’, in C. Strecker (ed.), Kontexte der Schrift Band II: Kultur, Politik, Religion, Sprache, Text, 49–60, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Calvert-Koyzis, N. (2004), Paul, Monotheism, and the People of God. The Significance of Abraham Traditions for Early Judaism and Christianity, London: T&T Clark. Campbell, W. S. (2010), ‘The Addressees of Paul’s Letters to the Romans: Assemblies of God in House Churches and Synagogues?’, in F. Wilk and J. R. Wagner (eds), Between Gospel and Election: Explorations in the Interpretation of Romans 9-11, 171–96, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Campbell W. S. (2013), ‘The Rule of Faith in Romans 12:1-15:13’, in W. S. Campbell, Unity and Diversity in Christ: Interpreting Paul in Context, 39–66, Eugene: Cascade. Dunn, J. D. G. (1998), The Theology of Paul the Apostle, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Ehrensperger, K. (2004), That We May Be Mutually Encouraged. Feminism and the New Perspective in Pauline Studies, London: T&T Clark. Ehrensperger, K. (2008), Paul and the Dynamics of Power: Communication and Interaction in the Early Christ-Movement, London: T&T Clark. Ehrensperger, K. (2013a), ‘“Called to be Saints” – The Identity-shaping Dimension of Paul’s Priestly Discourse in Romans’, in K. Ehrensperger, J. B. Tucker (eds), Reading Paul in Context: Explorations in Identity Formation, 90–109, London: Bloomsbury. Ehrensperger, K. (2013b), Paul at the Crossroads of Cultures – Theologizing in the SpaceBetween, London: T&T Clark. Ehrensperger, K. (2017), ‘Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations’, in J. Zurawski and G. Boccaccini (eds), Second Temple Jewish ‘Paideia’ in Context, Berlin: de Gruyter (forthcoming). Elliott, N. (2008), The Arrogance of Nations: Reading Romans in the Shadow of Empire, Minneapolis: Fortress.

250 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Engberg-Pedersen, T. (2008), ‘“Everything is clean” and “Everything that is not of faith is sin”: The Logic of Pauline Casuistry in Romans 14.1-15.13’, in P. Middleton, A. Paddison and K. Wenell (eds), Paul, Grace, and Freedom, 22–38, London: T&T Clark. Esler, P. (2003), Conflict and Identity in Romans: The Social Setting of Paul’s Letter, Minneapolis: Fortress. Fitzmyer, J. A. (1993), Romans: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, New York: Doubleday. Frederiksen, P., ed. (1982), Augustine on Romans: Propositions from the Epistle to the Romans: Unfinished Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Chico: Scholars Press. Frevel, C. and C. Nihan, eds (2013), Purity and the Forming of Religious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism, Leiden: Brill. Jewett, R. (2007), Romans: A Commentary, Minneapolis: Fortress. Karris R. (1991), ‘Romans 14:1-15:13 and the Occasion of Romans’, in K. P. Donfried (ed.), The Romans Debate, 65–84, Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Meeks, W. A. (1987), ‘Judgment and the Brother: Romans 14.1-15.13’, in G. F. Hawthorne and O. Betz (eds), Tradition and Interpretation in the New Testament, 290–300, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Nanos, M. D. (1999), ‘The Jewish Context of the Gentile Audience Addressed in Paul’s Letter to the Romans’, CBQ 61: 283–304. Newton, M. (1985), The Concept of Purity at Qumran and in the Letters of Paul, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reasoner, M. (1999), The Strong and the Weak: Romans 14.1-15.13 in Context, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sampley, J. P. (1995), ‘The Weak and the Strong: Paul’s Careful and Crafty Rhetorical Strategy in Romans 14.1-15.13’, in L. M. White and O. L. Yarborugh (eds), The Social World of the First Christians, 40–52, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Schäfer, P. (1997), Judeophobia: Attitudes toward Jews in the Ancient World, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Smit, P.-B. (2007), ‘A Symposium in Rom. 14:17? A Note on Paul’s Terminology’, NovT 49: 40–53. Stowers, S. (1994), A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews and Gentiles, New Haven: Yale University Press. Tomson, P. (1990), Paul and the Jewish Law: Halakha in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles, Minneapolis: Fortress. Zetterholm, K. (2015), ‘The Question of Assumptions: Torah Observance in the First Century’, in M. D. Nanons and M. Zetterholm (eds), Paul Within Judaism: Restoring the First-Century Context to the Apostle, 79–103, Minneapolis: Fortress.

19

Pseudepigraphic Letters of Paul Soham Al-Suadi

Introduction Since the focus of previous chapters was primarily on authentic works, this article will examine how authors of deutero- and tritopauline letters understood Pauline theology in reference to the meal. It will start with an overview of pseudepigraphic voices concerning the Hellenistic meal practice and discuss Pauline theology that is related to the meal practice.

1  Pseudepigraphic authority A distinct feature of letter writing in antiquity is the intention to distribute the written word not only to a single person or a single community but to distribute knowledge outside community boundaries. Although debates continue about the best definition for scriptures that claimed to be written in another person’s name, we can agree that pseudepigraphic letters of Paul deliberately used the apostle’s name for their letters. Indeed, the letters of Paul must have been in existence from an early date. One might think of the letters compiled as collections (Murray 1914: x). This leads to the assumption, that pseudeprgraphic letters were ‘works by the followers of a philosopher tended to be credited to their master’ (Becker 2009: 372). Hence the letters were written to promote the authority of someone particular or to imitate a certain norm represented by the authorities. Presumably these letters built a Pauline identification symbol and we witness the first steps of a Pauline school formation. Recently Eve-Marie Becker questioned whether such an authority or norm is the right category to describe letter writing in the name of Paul (Becker 2009: 375). I would like to follow up this critique and examine the contexts where Pauline letters were read and pseudo-Pauline letters were written before constructing a dominant influence. I promote an understanding of pseudepigraphic letters that primarily reflects theological, social and cultural settings that were immediately relevant for the group. This endorses an understanding of texts that were embedded into the community’s routine and intellectual as well as cultural development. The Hellenistic meal occurs to be a social setting that allows dealing with

252 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals texts and community values at the same time. This chapter highlights the relevance of a shared meal performance in relation to shared scriptures that were part of theological debates of Early Christianity.

2  The Hellenistic meal in pseudepigraphic Pauline letters The first question that needs to be addressed is the notification of meal scenes within the deutero- and trito-Pauline scriptures. Arguing that meals, texts and theological thought are intertwined in these writings as well as in the letters of Paul leads to passages about eating and drinking in the Hellenistic meal setting. The most significant passage is written in Eph. 5.18-20: 18 Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be filled with the Spirit, 19 as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, 20 giving thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

From the beginning the author of the Letter to the Ephesians is clear about his theological motives in his portrayal of the household. Excess in any form is not part of the plan. The insufficiency of food juxtaposed with the sufficiency of Christ is not only known in Romans (Rom. 14.17) and Paul’s letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 8.8) but also in Pauline voices in Hebrews (Heb. 13.9) and Ephesians (Eph. 5.18) (Rothschild 2009: 558). One can understand the critique of drunkenness as analogy to Dionysos, the pagan interference with the Christian agapê meal, as over realized eschatology, or simply as the general debate about drunkenness and moral exhortation (Thielman 2010: 357–8). Despite the impulse to favour one explanation over the other, Eph. 5.18-20 gives a detailed description of the communal gathering. Drinking wine, singing, praying, giving thanks and sharing these elements among each other portrays the Hellenistic meal.

3  Meal theology in pseudepigraphic Pauline letters Having established that the ritual of the Hellenistic meal practice is part of the routine in which the pseudepigraphic letters of Paul were present, we have also argued for a letter writing that did not address one person in particular, but was meant to unfold in the communal performance. Singing hymns, regulating the alcohol consumption and debating about shared values demonstrates the closeness of texts and context. When it comes to the theological debates that are incorporated into the meal setting, I’d like to focus on some theological ideas Paul conveyed through the ritual of the meal. The Hellenistic meal can be regarded as stable in the Mediterranean culture; hence, the elements of the Hellenistic meal are the common ground for theological debates. We will focus on the discussion of identity over food, definition of theological

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heresy and, in connection with heresy, the establishment of common values to analyse a theology of fellowship.

4  Meal theology in Pauline tradition 4.1  Theology and identity Identity formations over food, definition of theological heresy and the establishment of common values are often regarded as the key to meal theology and they are also interpreted as irrevocable beneficiaries when it comes to the debate about Christian identities. Eating the wrong food and/or drinking too much wine are interpreted as heresy and sin not only against shared values but also against Christ. For Pauline studies the deconstruction of these interpretations has been successfully done. Hal Taussig’s study is based on the grounds that ‘the categories of orthodoxy and heresy have been shown to be inadequate to characterize the differences’ in the first two centuries (Taussig 2009: 15). Taussig is right when he is describing the process of identity formation with Judith Lieu’s attempt to have a more fragile image of Christian identity in Antiquity (Lieu 2004: 182). Without going deeply into the debate over dynamic identity formations, it is important to understand that neither Paul nor the pseudo-Pauline authors intended to mark the difference between orthodoxy and heresy. They all had a contextualized understanding of what is right or wrong in favour of their individual or communal needs. The question that concerns us is whether we find contextualized identity formations in pseudepigraphic as well as in Pauline letters. And talking about theological identity formations we are interested in theological modifications and/or adaptations in these letters. It is not at all difficult to trace food discourses aligned with contextualized debates in our letters because they are defining responsibilities within the community. 1 Tim. 3.8 characterizes the ‘deacons as serious, not double-tongued, not indulging in much wine and not greedy for money’. Tit. 2.3 is warning ‘older women to be reverent in behavior and not to be slanderers or slaves to drink’. The Ephesian statement already introduced us to the harm drunkenness does to the community, which is specified for deacons and older women. (We also find an alternative use for wine. 1 Tim. 5.23 tells us that ‘a little wine for the sake of the stomach and the frequent ailments’ is appreciated by Paul.) On a more general level we are informed by 1 Tim. 4.3 that the other apostles ‘forbid marriage and demand abstinence from foods, which God created to be received with thanksgiving by those who believe and know the truth’. Col. 2.20-22 even labels these demands as human regulations that break down into ‘Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch’. Reading the verses from the letter to Titus and First Timothy together it appears inevitable that the proper use of food and drink is important for a community that is not merely a matter of individual choice or determination … but of discerning the nature of reality and encouraging the community to conform its life and action to it.’ (Aageson 2008: 32)

254 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals With this statement James Aageson points in the right direction, when he specifies this statement with the observation that Titus relates teaching and preaching to the word of God (Aageson 2008: 50–1). Combined with the Pauline authority that is passed from Paul to Titus, it expresses the divine origin of the proclamation made in the letter to Titus (Aageson 2008: 96–7). The responsibilities that are conceptualized in Titus and First Timothy ‘appear to work in tandem in the transmission and preservation of the Pauline tradition’ (Aageson 2008: 97). So far the analysis does not convey the fragile process of identity formations that Lieu pointed out. Other than the rejection of human regulations and the favour of Pauline traditions, we have not witnessed any fragility. We can visualize more inconsistency when we contextualize the teaching and preaching with the social practice. The success of a common meal practice and therefore of a community that is preserving the Pauline tradition is not dependent on the individual qualities but on the interaction between the group members (Al-Suadi 2011: 192). To stick with Lieu we can conclude that the ‘social grammar’ is a construct that is based on a ‘mask of similarity’ that relies on bodily performance (Al-Suadi 2011: 128–9). In our case the ‘mask of similarity’ is the Pauline tradition and the social grammar, the description of communal responsibilities. The authors of our letters knew about Paul’s hesitation towards the cup of demons (1 Cor. 10.21) and about his abhorrence of drunkenness (1 Cor. 11.21). They adapted his teachings, assigned preaching in his tradition to mask each other with similarity. Bourdieu’s understanding of ‘embodied history’ matches this interpretation. ‘Embodied history’ is happening when ‘habitus, the product of history, produces individual and collective practices, and hence history, in accordance with the schemes engendered by history’ (Bourdieu 1977: 82). The habitus is ‘embodied’ because its structures are ‘active only when embodied into a competence acquired in the course of a particular history’ (Bourdieu 1977: 81). The course of a particular history is literarily performed during the meal practice, which provokes individual qualities to live up to the interaction of the group. One that is tempted to drink too much wine during the meal or one who is not serious, double-tongued, or greedy for money will not be able to embody the mask of similarity that is determined by the Pauline theology. This will also concern the theological debates about fellowship.

4.2  Theology of fellowship Fellowship, which has been discussed by Dennis Smith in regard to the literary motive of the gospels including meal participation, can be interpreted as the image for a utopian society that envisions the coming age. Since the Gospels are literary presentations of the Jesus story, they also utilized the common literary motifs of the banquet in the Greco-Roman world. Significant literary models include the literary form of the symposium or the idealization of the hero at table in folklore and literature. (Smith 2003: 223)

In the Pauline voice the image of fellowship is related to the apostle himself and transfers the imitation Christi into an imitation Pauli. His advice to the communities

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to follow him in order to follow Christ is also integrated into his debates about the meal: 1 Cor. 11.1, 1 Cor. 8.9 and 1 Corinthians 10 open the floor for the participants to identify as the body of Christ through the ritual performance. I argued in my dissertation (Al-Suadi 2011) that Paul is introducing the ritualized Jesus rather than the historical Jesus because the community is invited to be part of a ritualized process. To put it in the words of Catherine Bell, the actual bodily performance with the theological image of the followers as the body of Christ. Bell summarizes: The strategies of ritualization are particularly rooted in the body, specifically, the interaction of the social body within a symbolically constituted spatial and temporal environment. …Ritualization is embedded within the dynamics of the body and defined within the symbolically structured environment. (Bell 1993: 93)

How do the pseudepigraphic letters of Paul relate to the theological image of fellowship? Is the tone more excessive because they refer to Paul who is referring to Jesus? Do they mirror Pauline theology at all? We certainly find fellowship in our pseudepigraphic letters. 2 Tim. 2.1-2 makes it very clear: 1 You then, my child, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus; 2 and what you have heard from me through many witnesses entrust to faithful people who will be able to teach others as well.

The imitation Pauli is again pointed to in 2 Tim. 3.10: ‘10 Now you have observed my teaching, my conduct, my aim in life, my faith, my patience, my love, my steadfastness etc.’ Not surprisingly we find the connection between fellowship and food as well. The Second Epistle to the Thessalonians uses the Verb μιμέομαι to direct the community’s behaviour. 2 Thess. 3.6-12 can be described as apostolic decree that is illustrated by the apostle’s way of life: 6 Now we command you, beloved, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, to keep away from believers who are living in idleness and not according to the tradition that they received from us. 7 For you yourselves know how you ought to imitate us; we were not idle when we were with you, 8 and we did not eat anyone’s bread without paying for it; but with toil and labor we worked night and day, so that we might not burden any of you. 9 This was not because we do not have that right, but in order to give you an example to imitate. 10 For even when we were with you, we gave you this command: Anyone unwilling to work should not eat. 11 For we hear that some of you are living in idleness, mere busybodies, not doing any work. 12 Now such persons we command and exhort in the Lord Jesus Christ to do their work quietly and to earn their own living.

Wolfgang Trilling highlights in his commentary on Second Thessalonians the progression of communal imitation. He is right when he observes that the combination

256 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals of Paul’s teaching and Paul’s life is a climax that it not recognizable in proto-Pauline letters (Trilling 1980: 142). This might be a distinctive feature of the second generation of Pauline scriptures. In concern to our interests we can observe that eating is related to work for the first time in Pauline literature. Most commentators illustrate this passage with the picture of being hungry and eating according to hard labour. Verse 10 saying that ‘anyone unwilling to work should not eat’ supports that interpretation. But reading these verses in relation to the Hellenistic meal practice and to fellowship points us  to  the necessity of sustaining the meal practice constantly until the anticipated coming age is realized. Therefore, Second Thessalonians is combining the need to maintain the ritualization of a common meal practice that involves the organization of space, food and participants with the need to share a common theology. Although Paul claims to have the right to eat without contributing, ‘anyone unwilling to work should not eat’ says that those who are not contributing are not part of the Hellenistic meal. Consequently, those who burden the other are not part of the body of Christ because they are not part of the ritualized meal practice. The debate about being a strain reminds us of Romans 14 and 1 Corinthians 8. In Rom. 14.17 Paul states that the ‘kingdom of God is not food and drink’ and he warns those he addresses not to fall out of love over food. 1 Cor. 8.13 even states that Paul would resist eating meat if it affects the other. Second Thessalonians is clearly leaning on these debates because the relationship between weakness and strength is equally analysed. But Second Thessalonians does not follow Paul’s hesitation towards food and the kingdom of God. Both letters argue from the perspective of the strong and claim that the community is at risk. To save the community from falling apart Paul claims that the strong should anticipate the situation of the weak and must protect the weaker brother. On the other hand, Second Thessalonians twists the rhetoric of the known Pauline argumentation and does not anticipate the situation of the weaker brother. Whereas for Paul the strong is at risk of sinning against Christ (1 Cor. 8.12) because his strength is overwhelming the other, Second Thessalonians blames the strong for being weak. The willingly evoked weakness of not contributing provokes the author of Second Thessalonians to suspend those who might burden someone due to insufficient work. Unlike Paul, who did not force the weak to eat meat, the author of Second Thessalonians forces members to contribute although they would have the right to abstain from their responsibility. The anticipation of weakness is therefore not always the key to communal success.

5 Conclusion Our short analysis allowed us to compare and contrast the theological readings that Paul and authors in his name developed on the basis of the Hellenistic meal practice. We have seen that the Hellenistic meal was ritualized and mostly concerned with fellowship and identity formations over the communal practice. Therefore, sustaining the communal ritual was of great importance for the group. We have seen that pseudepigraphic letters were much more concerned about the communal practice. Whereas Paul favours the abstinent food over the troubled meal, Second Thessalonians is willing to expel someone from the life as the body of Christ who did not support

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the gathering financially. As for the theology of fellowship, it became evident that the Pauline concepts were altered and adapted to the community’s needs. When it comes to identity formations through the Hellenistic meal we have seen that the contextualization is the basis an early Christian theology. The differentiation between heresy and orthodoxy did not start with Paul nor with pseudepigraphic authors. In fact, they embodied their history by following Paul’s notion that not the individual decision but the communal experience is relevant for a Christian identity. Hence, we can differentiate Pauline theology from theological concepts of later theologians. It is evident that the Hellenistic meal was embedding theological concepts, which can by understood as the beginning of a Christian theology.

Bibliography Aageson, J. W. (2008), Paul, the Pastoral Epistles, and the Early Church, Peabody: Hendrickson. Al-Suadi, S. (2011), Essen als Christusgläubige – Ritualtheoretische Exegese paulinischer Texte, Tübingen: Francke. Becker, E.-M. (2009), ‘Von Paulus zu “Paulus”. Paulinische Pseudepigraphie-Forschung als literaturgeschichtliche Aufgabe’, in J. Frey (ed.), Pseudepigraphie und Verfasserfiktion in frühchristlichen Briefen = Pseudepigraphy and Author Fiction in Early Christian Letters, 363–86, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Bell, C. M. (1993), ‘The Authority of Ritual Experts’, Studia Liturgica 23: 98–120. Bourdieu, P. (1977), Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lieu, J. (2004), Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Murray, J. (1914), The Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Ephesians, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rothschild, C. K. (2009), ‘Hebrews as a Guide to Reading Romans’, in J. Frey (ed.), Pseudepigraphie und Verfasserfiktion in frühchristlichen Briefen = Pseudepigraphy and Author Fiction in Early Christian Letters, 537–74, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Taussig, H. (2009), In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Thielman, F. (2010), Ephesians, Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. Trilling, W. (1980), Der zweite Brief an die Thessalonicher, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsbuchhandlung.

20

Meals in the Johannine Letters Jan Heilmann

Introduction The letters of John neither contain terminology explicitly referring to a meal, nor address the recipients’ meal practice directly as, for example, Paul does in 1 Corinthians 11. However, the meal as a social setting or implicit literary motive could be discussed as an important background of several verses in John’s letters. According to the line of argument of 1 John, love (ἀγάπη 18x in 1 John) or ‘love for one another’ (1 Jn 2.10; 3.11, 14, 18, 23; 4.7 etc.) seems to be the most important quality characterizing the bond between the members of the community (cf. at length 1 Jn 2.3-11; 3.1–4.21). This mainly has the function to mark the identity (on which, see Kobel 2011: 33–5) of the group as well as the difference between inside and outside the group (cf. 1 Jn 3.1, 10, 13; see also Jn 13.35; 15.18 ff.). As is widely known in scholarship, these passages also feature a high number of intertextual links to the Gospel of John, which unfortunately cannot all be discussed here in detail. However, many of these intertextual links,1 most notably the so-called ‘New Commandment’ (Jn 13.34 f.: Ἐντολὴν καινὴν δίδωμι ὑμῖν...; 15.9-17; 1 Jn 2.7-11; 3.11, 22-23; 4.7, 12, 21), refer to the Johannine Last Supper narrative and the Farewell Discourse (Jn 13–16/17). In the Gospel of John, the giving of the so-called ‘New Commandment’ is closely related to the washing of the disciples’ feet (Jn 13.4 ff.), which Jesus interprets as an example or model (ὑπόδειγμα) for the social behaviour of the disciples among each other (Jn 13.15). Accordingly, the foot washing is to be interpreted as an exemplary concretization of the ethics that are expressed in the ‘New Commandment’ (cf. van der Watt 2006: 152–4; Rabens 2012: 129) which Jesus only reveals to the narrowest circle of his disciples after the betrayer has left the meal, and thus, the κοινωνία of the table fellowship (see below) is restored. It is no coincidence that the meal functions as the context of the discourse about social ethics in the Gospel of John and that 1 John points its readers to the narrative of Jesus’s Last Supper and the Farewell Discourse. Reflections about social ethics in a meal context correspond with the general ancient discourse on meals. In the GrecoRoman world, meals were ideally oriented towards values like ἰσονομία (equilibrium, balance), κοινωνία (communion/confraternity), ὁμόνοια (concord, unanimity), φιλíα (friendship) and χάρις (for a detailed discussion of the difficulty to translate that

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term, see Klinghardt 1996: 153–74). Therefore, in the hierarchically stratified society of the Greco-Roman world, meals could be a place where the participants were able to experience a utopian counter-image of an ideal community. Moreover, the meal functioned as an ideal model of society onto which utopian ideas could be projected. Apart from this, the constitution and construction of a group’s identity took place as an experimental process during the meal, (cf. Taussig 2009: 21–54; Klinghardt and Taussig 2012; Ehrensperger 2012; Smith and Taussig 2012). Taking this into consideration, it becomes plausible why the early Christians characterized their meals as an ἀγάπη (cf., e.g. Jude 12; Origen, Cels. 1.1; Ign., Smyrn. 8.2; Tertullian, Apol. 39,16;2 Can. Hipp. 33; Const. ap. 2.28; see also the painting of a sigma meal in the catacombs of Santi Marcellino e Pietro in Rome with the inscription AGAPE MISCE NOBIS [RCLau 45]; cf. Deckers, Seeliger, and Mietke 1987: 266–70). Moreover, denying the ἀγάπη status of other groups’ meals was a common topos of demarcation in early Christian literature (cf. e.g. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 3.2.10; 7.16.98; Paed. 2.1.4; 2.1.8; perhaps also 2 Pet. 2.13 [inconsistent testimony in the manuscripts]). Seeing the meal as an important background for the discourse on love in 1 Jn 3–4, one can speculate if 1 Jn 3.17-18 also implies the request to include those brothers who have need (χρεία) in the banquets. The preceding considerations presume that 1 John is literary dependent on the gospel narrative. This thesis indeed represents the majority of scholarship (cf., e.g. Wengst 1978: 24–5; Vouga 1990: 11–13; Klauck 1991a: 105–9; Rinke 1996: 25–8; Heckel 2004; Hahn 2009: 370) and, in my view, explains more phenomena than the opposite thesis, yet there are still controversial discussions about this subject (cf. Frey 2000: 53–60; Popkes 2005: 52–4.296–305).3 However, if the letter was older than the Gospel of John, the narrative of the Last Supper in the latter could be regarded as evidence for the history of reception in which the giving of the ‘New Commandment’ was put into a meal context. The author of John’s Gospel could have had reasons for this. 2 John broaches the issue of meals in early Christianity in so far as the elder gives the order to refuse hospitality for those who do ‘not abide in the teaching of Christ’ (2 John 9): ‘If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, do not take him into your house and do not welcome him’ (v. 10). Normally, scholars do not relate this refusal of hospitality specifically to the meal but rather to ‘the refusal of any domestic hospitality’ (Lieu 2008: 250). This would involve the hospitality of the meal anyway. However, on the one hand, hospitality was, from the viewpoint of social history, a common topic of the ancient discourse on banquets in the world of early Christianity. (Cf., e.g. Mt. 10.10-15; Did. 11–2 [here similarly linked with the question of the right teaching]; Tertullian, Praescr. 20) On the other hand, there is also some textual evidence in 2 John which suggests that the quoted order may specifically address hospitality of the meal.

a. In the same way as the commandment of love in 1 John (see above), which is also

indicated in 2 John 5 and refers to the Last Supper in John’s Gospel, the motif of abiding in the teaching of Jesus and thereby having the father and the son, as well as not-abiding in the teaching of Jesus (2 John 9), could be understood as an intertextual reference to the Johannine Farewell Discourse, that is, the table talk mostly realized as a teaching of Jesus following the Last Supper. Particularly in this

260 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals scene, the Johannine formulae of reciprocal immanence are extremely prominent (cf. Jn 14.10.17; 15.1 ff.). b. The motif of bringing a teaching (διδαχή) in 2 John 10 is also related to meals. As Paul’s request in 1 Cor. 14.26 proves, bringing a teaching to the symposium that follows the actual meal (δεῖπνον) is a common feature of meals in the ancient Christian world. (cf. e.g. Tertullian, Apol. 39; for meals or the symposium as a context for teaching, cf. in addition Lk. 14.1-24; 22.24-38; John 13–16; Acts 20.7-12; Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1.1.8.) c. In New Testament texts, adverbial adjuncts that include the noun οἰκία (εἰς οἰκίαν 2 John 10) are often connected with meal scenes explicitly (see in particular Mk 2.15 parr; 14.3 par; Lk. 22.10 ff.; Acts 9.17-19; 10.1-23; 11.11; 16.34; see also the use of οἰκία in Jn 12.3; 1 Cor. 11.22). This is yet another indicator for the importance of meals in constituting social communion within the world of early Christianity. d. In my view, the phrase μὴ λαμβάνετε αὐτὸν εἰς οἰκίαν καὶ χαίρειν αὐτῷ μὴ λέγετε should be understood tautologically. The warning against greeting those who do not bring the teaching of Christ does not refer to social encounters, for example, on the street. This is sometimes assumed (cf., e.g. Culpepper 1998: 278) and many translations suggest this reading when they translate καὶ as the conjunction ‘or’. It should be interpreted, however, as another synecdoche for giving hospitality.4 Nevertheless, χαίρειν could also refer directly to the welcome prior to a banquet (see, e.g. Plato, Sym. 174e; 212e; Hippolytus, Trad. ap. 25: primum salutabit dicens). Moreover, the brotherly kiss for salutation (Justin Martyr, Apol. 1.65.2 etc.) functions as a sign for the social affiliation and as a ritual element of the admission to a community (see Klinghardt 1996: 336–8). e. The latter interpretation corresponds with the argument of the elder not to welcome those who do not bring the teaching of Christ (ὁ λέγων γὰρ αὐτῷ χαίρειν κοινωνεῖ τοῖς ἔργοις αὐτοῦ τοῖς πονηροῖς. 2 John 11): Everyone who welcomes such people has κοινωνία (= κοινωνέω) with their wicked deeds. This argument is very similar to Paul’s remarks in 1 Cor. 10.14-22 where he argues against idolatry (v. 17) by using the ecclesiological metaphor of the κοινωνία of the body of Christ (v. 16) (see Klinghardt 1996: 307–15). For an adequate understanding of both arguments one has to be aware of the importance of the value of κοινωνία in the ancient discourse on table fellowship or communal meals: After the radical political and social changes of the third and fourth century BC, the value of κοινωνία, which has its origin in the political discourse of the Greek polis, was realized primarily in the context of associations in the Greco-Roman world. As a result of this, it became the central value of Greco-Roman meals and the symposiastic culture. Furthermore, the extensive discourse on meals shows that κοινωνία could be endangered fundamentally through conflicts triggered by the consumption of wine or provoked by different kinds of social factors such as matters of prestige or diversity (see Klinghardt 1996: 155–63). Considering the preceding discussion, the argument functions as follows: If, for instance, the host welcomed someone who does not bring the teaching of Christ, he

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(and implicitly also the other participants of the meal) would have κοινωνία with the wrong teaching whereby the κοινωνία of the table fellowship would be endangered as well. However, from the perspective of social history, the actual issue appears to be that conflicts or disputes triggered by the wrong teaching could endanger the table fellowship, for the ideal of table talk in Antiquity was free from disputes and topics like war or conflicts (see at length ibid., 153–74; cf., e.g. Aristophanes, Ach. 971 ff.; Xenophanes: Athenaeus, Deipn. 462e; Hippolytus, Trad. ap. 28; see also the imagery in Philo, Prob. 13).5 The following quote could be seen as an impressive analogy in which the motif of love is linked to the content of table talk: ‘I do not love the one who, midst the filled cups drinking wine,/ Says nothing but old tales of war and strife / But him who gives its honour due to mirth / Praising the Muses and the brightfaced Venus’ (Anacreon: Athenaeus, Deipn. 463a, transl. by C. D. Yonge, modified by JH).

1  ‘Sacramental’ allusions in 1 Jn 5.6-8? There is one passage in the letters of John which has been discussed extensively as an allusion to ‘the Sacraments’, that is, the rituals of baptism and the Eucharist that, as some scholars suggest, were performed in the Johannine community: NRS 1 Jn 5.6 a b c 5.7 5.8 a b

This is the one who came by water and blood, Jesus Christ, not with the water only but with the water and the blood. And the Spirit is the one that testifies, for the Spirit is the truth. There are three that testify: the Spirit and the water and the blood, and these three agree.

Regarding the question whether water and blood refer to the sacraments, scholarship is divided into three ideal types of interpretation.

1. In the view of the first type, the whole passage should be understood as an

expression of the Johannine anti-docetic theology. This view is based on the model of a specific dispute in the Johannine community reconstructed from the Gospel of John and John’s letters. This dispute is characterized as follows: On the one hand, the docetic opponents (see 1 Jn 4.1-3) refuse to participate in the Eucharist because they deny the incarnation. For them, solely the ritual of baptism has significance for salvation. On the other hand, the writer of the letter defends the significance for salvation of both, baptism and the Eucharist: The phrase ‘not with the water only but with the water and the blood’ (v. 6b) is then understood as the argument for defending the relevance of both rituals, (see e.g. Schweizer 1963a: 347; b: 377–9; Nauck 1957: 150–1; Brooks 1963: 300; Schnelle 1987, passim; Wehr 1987, passim; Vogler 1993: 13–4.164.169; Uebele 2001: 129 n. 595; Schnelle 2010: 170). Furthermore, for additional validation of the anti-docetic interpretation,

262 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals scholars commonly refer to a seemingly analog dispute concerning the Eucharist in the background of the letters of Ignatius of Antioch (see, e. g., Schnackenburg 1979: 262–3; Strecker 1989: 275–6).6 2. Those who deny any allusion to a ritual in this passage mostly interpret water and blood as symbols for concrete events in the life of the narrated Jesus of the Gospel of John, or even of the historical Jesus, that is, as a symbol for his baptism (Jn 1.3233) and his death on the cross (Jn 19.17 ff.) (see, e.g., Richter 1977: 133.139.142; Wengst 1978: 210–1; Vouga 1990: 72–1; Rensberger 1997: 88–90; Thomas 2004: 250–53; Smalley 2005: 264–6; von Heyden 2014: 192–3). As their main argument against the sacramental interpretation, they refer to the aorist ἐλθὼν in v. 6b ‘which suggests a definite moment in history (the incarnation), rather than a repeated appearance in the sacraments’ (Smalley 2005: 264). 3. The third type can be found of the two extremes: Many scholars do not see Eucharistic allusions before the reoccurrence of the lexemes water and blood in v. 8a. As a result, representatives of this view have to assume a shift of significance of the lexemes water and blood within the line of argument: While water and blood are symbols for Jesus’s baptism and crucifixion in v. 6, the lexemes in v. 8 refer to the rituals of baptism and the Eucharist which realize salvation through the spirit (see, e.g., Klos 1970: 80–1; Brown 1982: 597–8; Vogler 1993: 164). Apart from these three ideal types of interpretation, one can also find the optimistic thesis, developed in the history of research throughout the first half of the twentieth century, that v. 8 indicates a specific post-baptismal Eucharist, or that this passage should not be understood as a part of the Johannine baptismal catechesis (cf., e.g. Greiff 1933; Manson 1947; Nauck 1957: 146–82). However, these theses are no longer represented in research today. However, the discussion about Eucharistic allusions in 1 Jn 5.6-8 is misleading for several reasons, as I will show in the following. (a) The text contains no clear reference to a ritual connected with eating and drinking. Therefore, scholars who argue for a Eucharistic interpretation implicitly postulate the complex assumption that the sign /blood/ refers to the wine drunk during a meal ritual. This assumption is based on three further presuppositions. (1) In the cultures of the ancient world, from a cognitive point of view, wine was closely connected to blood. (2) In the accounts of the Last Supper (Mk 14.23 parr; 1 Cor. 11.25), the cup (ποτήριον) functions as a metonymic reference to the content of the cup. (3) This metonymy is connected to the blood of Christ and also part of the semantics of early Christian ritual practice itself. The first presupposition, which is mainly based on evolutionistic theories of social and cultural anthropology (e.g. R. Smith’s and J. G. Frazer’s) from the beginning of the twentieth century (cf., e.g. Kircher 1910; Eitrem 1915; Rüsche 1930. See also Burkert 1972: 239–50; for a critical evaluation of the theoretical basis, see Gladigow 1984; Obbink 1993) is not grounded on any clear source evidence (for a detailed discussion, see Heilmann 2014: 69–75). In New Testament scholarship, the assumption of a close connection of wine and blood is often adopted from the religious studies without further discussion (cf., e.g. Poplutz 2007: 839; Kobel 2011: 229; Kobel 2012: 91;

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Eberhart 2013: 122). Due to limited space, however, this cannot be deconstructed in detail in this chapter. The second presupposition of a metonymy of cup and content has been challenged by Klinghardt’s studies on meals in early Christianity. Such an understanding is unnecessarily complicated for ancient readers and misses the different nuances of the accounts of Jesus’s Last Supper with his disciples. To be more specific, the different accounts refer to different ritual acts during a meal (see Heilmann 2014: 85–106). While the ritual analogy of Mk 14.23 and Mt. 26.28 is the symposiastic proposis-ritual (cf. Klinghardt 2012a) Lk 22.20 must be read in the context of the ancient practice of libations. The participle ἐκχυννόμενον (to pour out) in Lk 22.20 refers grammatically unambiguously to the cup and not to the blood (cf. Klinghardt 2012b). Third, the postulate that the sign /blood/ refers to the wine drunk during a meal ritual presupposes an anachronistic concept of early Christian Eucharistic meals in which the consumption of bread and wine was associated with the body and blood of Christ. However, this concept reflects a later stage of the evolution of Christian Eucharistic meals presumably in the third and fourth centuries (cf. Klinghardt 1996: 499–522; Wallraff 2004; Wallraff 2011; Bradshaw 2004: 97–115.139–57; McGowan 2004; Leonhard and Eckhardt 2009). It can be now considered a relative consensus among scholars that there is no source evidence until the third century CE to prove that the so-called ‘words of institution’ were part of the Eucharistic prayers or the ritual itself. Moreover, the liturgical forms and prayers were not fixed, but rather arranged relatively loosely and therefore diversely (cf., e.g. Bouley 1981; Bradshaw 2004: 116– 38; Markschies 2007: 146–7). The earliest evidence for a liturgical use of the ‘words of institutions’ (Hippolytus, Trad. ap. 4) can probably be dated to the third century (for a survey of the relative consensus in academic literature, see Heilmann 2014: 14–6). Hence, there is no proof of a so-called ‘sacramental’ (anachronism!) character of eating bread and drinking wine as the body and blood of Christ during meals in early Christianity. There is also simply no compulsory need, according to the law of parsimony, to assume such a ‘sacramental’ concept. Finally, the assumption that the so-called ‘words of institutions’ have an etiological function is inaccurate since it is based on a circular argumentation (for a detailed discussion, see McGowan 2010; Heilmann 2014: 9–20). With regard to this I will now outline why John 6 cannot be used as proof of this assumption either. (b) The discussion about Eucharistic allusions in 1 Jn 5.6-8 is dependent on the debate about Eucharistic allusions in the Gospel of John and in particular linked to the interpretation of John 6. Usually, the motifs of eating the flesh of Christ and drinking his blood in the so-called ‘Eucharistic discourse’ (Jn 6.51-58) are interpreted as referring to the ritual of ‘the Eucharist’. However, only if the motif of drinking Jesus’s blood in Jn 6.53 ff. is understood as a metonymy for drinking wine, one can get the idea that the sign /blood/ in 2 Jn 5.6-8 could actually refer to wine, too. As I have shown elsewhere at great length (see Heilmann 2014:144–240; Heilmann 2018), the ‘Eucharistic’ interpretation of John 6 and other passages of the Gospel of John is misleading for several reasons. The motifs of eating the flesh of Jesus and drinking his blood are best understood against the background of the conceptual metaphor ‘eating/ drinking is adopting teaching’. This metaphor is widely used in the ancient world and in

264 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals early Christianity7 and constitutes the conceptual basis on which the complex metaphor network in the bread of life discourse is formed. In short: By using this drastic imagery, Jesus insists that the disciples eat, drink and chew him, which means incorporate him, the incarnated Word of God that has become flesh and blood, completely in order to have eternal life. Therefore, the bread of life discourse must be specified as a textual phenomenon that makes use of an imagery of eating and drinking, but does not refer to a specific meal practice on the ritual level. This interpretation of Jn 6.51-58 fits to the narrative outline of the whole chapter as well as the whole gospel narrative: Only those who get the proper meaning of Jesus’s teaching remain his disciples and therefore have eternal life (see esp. Jn 6.68). In contrast, those who misunderstand Jesus’s teaching literally no longer follow him (Jn 6.60-66), that is, in the words of the Gospel, do not abide in the true vine (Jn 15.6). Moreover, the ancient history of reception of John 6 provides impressive validation of the metaphorical understanding of the motifs of eating Jesus’s flesh and drinking his blood (cf., e.g. Origen, Pasch. 1.96 f.; Makarios, Apokr. 3.15.2 ff.; 3, 23, 11 f.). As a result, it is very unlikely that the motif of drinking the blood of Jesus (Jn 6.53 ff.) provides the background for 1 Jn 5.6-8. However, concerning intertextual relations, the closest parallel to 1 Jn 5.6-8 should be seen in Jn 19.30-35. Referring to the slight difference in sequence between καὶ τὸ ὕδωρ καὶ τὸ αἷμα in 1 Jn 5.8 and αἷμα καὶ ὕδωρ in Jn 19.34 in order to deny an intended allusion of 1 Jn 5.8 to Jn 19.34 (see, e.g. Smalley 2005: 265) is not convincing (cf. Klauck 1991b: 296). The sequence of ὕδωρ and αἷμα in 1 Jn 5.8 depends on the invariable sequence of argumentation in 1 Jn 5.6. The deliberate change of tenses (aorist of ἔρχομαι in v. 5a; present of μαρτυρέω in v. 7 f.) marks the difference between the proposition (Jesus Christ came by water and blood [1 Jn 5.6a/b], i.e., Jesus really became human through the incarnation [cf. 1 Jn 4.2], cf. Richter 1977: 128–30, 133–4; Brooks 1963: 294–5; Witherington 1989; Uebele 2001: 128–31)8 on the one hand, and the argument (this is testified by the Spirit as well as by water and blood, 1 Jn 5.6c–8) on the other. The elder in 1 Jn 5.6c–8 calls the spirit as well as water and blood witnesses because all three are connected with the motif of testifying in the Gospel of John (cf. for the spirit: 15.26; see also Jn 1.32; 13.21; 14.17, 26; 16.13; and for water and blood: 19.34-35). It follows from this whole discussion that the Johannine letters (as well as the Gospel of John) do not contain a concept of meal theology that could be labelled as anti-docetic. 1 Jn 5.6-8 has nothing to do with meals. Nevertheless, there are other passages in the Johannine letters which comprise topics that are closely related to the discourse on meals in the Greco-Roman world as shown above.

2 Conclusion To sum up, a meal sensitive examination of the Johannine letters shows that an ideal type conceptualizing meals and the associated values in the Greco-Roman world can function as a hermeneutical key for a better understanding of the specific Johannine concept of table fellowship and hospitality (in canonical perspective). On the one hand, as the most important identity marker, loving each other (ἀγαπάω) is the constitutive

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maxim for the group that should be evident particularly in the setting of the common meal. However, the texts show a clear line of demarcation to the outside. Although admonition to be hospitable are widespread in early Christian literature (cf., e.g. Rom. 12.13; Heb. 13.2; 1 Pet. 4.8-9 [here linked with the exhortation to stay in the ἀγάπη]; 1 Tim. 3.2; Tit. 1.8; Hermas, Man. 9.10; Sim. 9.27; 1 Clem. 1.2), the Johannine letters exclude those who do not fit into the Johannine theological concept of incarnation from hospitality and therefore, from table fellowship. In this respect, it remains an ambivalent picture of the Johannine idea of hospitality and table fellowship at the end. However, this picture could be contextualized in a process of identity formation within the history of the early church that was presumably marked by a high degree of uncertainty and the need of stabilization efforts. But to examine those processes would be a task for another study.

Notes 1 E.g. the motif of the hate of the world (1 Jn 3.13 || Jn 15.18 ff.; 17.14); the relation of reciprocal immanence (1 Jn 4.13, 16, 24 || Jn 14.10, 17; 15.1 ff.); the motif of risking his life for his brothers/friends (1 Jn 3.16 || Jn 15.13 [for this interpretation of τίθημι, see Zimmermann 2004: 252.390–5; Söding 2007; Heilmann 2014: 251–2; the change of ‘friends’ (gospel) to ‘brothers’ (letter) is best understood as adaptation to the group-specific language]). 2 Tertullian emphasizes in an apologetic manner against reservations concerning the Christian banquets that the triclina Christianorum (Apol. 39,15) were referred to as ἀγάπη: Id vocatur quod dilectio penes Graecos (Apol. 39,16). 3 Beside the discussion about a direct literary relationship between the Gospel and 1 John, several scholars explain the parallels between both texts using the model of tradition (cf., e.g. Lieu 2008: 17–18) or to speculate both texts came from the same author (cf., e.g. Marshall 1978: 41). 4 In my view, B. Olsson is right to interpret ‘this double formulation as a single act’, Olsson 2013: 54. 5 For disputes during meals that could endanger the table fellowship, see, e.g. Mt. 22.1-14; Lk. 7.36-50; 14.7-14; 22.24-30; Lucian. Symp. 42–45; Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.16; Further, see the numerous statutes of ancient associations: SIG 1109, lines 71–94; P. dem. Cairo 31179, lines 24–26; P. dem. Cairo 30605, lines 21–22, etc. Cf. Klinghardt 1996: 94–97. 6 Concerning this matter, it should be emphasized that Ign. Eph. 20.20 does not document a ‘sacramental realism’. Rather, this passage has to be understood in relation to the motif of the unity of the Christian community which is one of the main themes of the epistles of Ignatius: ‘Assemble yourselves together in common, every one of you severally, man by man, in grace, in one faith and one Jesus Christ, who after the flesh was of David’s race, who is Son of Man and Son of God, to the end that ye may obey the bishop and the presbytery without distraction of mind, breaking one bread; that (ὅ) is the medicine of immortality and the antidote that we should not die but live forever in Jesus Christ.’ The subordinate clause that is initiated by the neuter pronoun ὅ does not point to the material bread (masculinum) but refers to the entire preceding sentence: To break one bread harmonious in unity (cf. also Ign. Eph. 5), that is the medicine of immortality. Moreover, a ‘sacramental’ interpretation is also misleading from a perspective of textual criticism. See Anderson 1996: 119–27; Heilmann 2014: 209–19.

266 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 7 The following evidence is of particular relevance because those sources prove an imagery that is very close to Jn 6.51–58: Jer. 15.16; Sir. 15.3; 24.3, 19, 21 LXX; Aristophanes, Ach. 484; Athenaeus, Deipn. 347e; See also: 1 Cor. 3.1 f.; Col. 4.6; Heb. 5.11-14; 6.4-5; 1 Pet. 2.2-3; Rev. 2.17; Philo, Legat. 2.86; b. mHag. 3a; m. Abot 1.4; 2.8; 1,11; Gen. Rab. 70,5; Plato, Phaedr. 227b.236e; Quintilian, Inst. 2.4.5; 10.1.104; 10.6.25; 12.2.104; 14.1.14; Seneca, Ep. 2.1 ff.; 8.5-6.; 84.5-6; Artemidorus Daldianus, Onir. 2.45; Aelian, Var. hist. 13.22; Barn. 10,11; 11,11; Ign., Trall. 6.1; Gos. Thom. 28 (P. Oxy. 1,1,14–17); Acts Paul P.Bod. 41.3.14 f.; Acts Paul P.Hamb. 4.5; Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 2.1.6; Tertullian, Apol. 39.19; Marc. 4.7.6; Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4.23 etc. 8 The counterargument that ‘the wording appears to be a very allusive way of emphasizing something that easily could be more clearly expressed’ Lieu 2008: 209, misjudges the symbolic character of the Johannine language.

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Klauck, H.-J. (1991b), Die Johannesbriefe, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern, Tübingen/Basel: Francke. Klinghardt, M. (2012a), ‘Bund und Sündenvergebung: Ritual und literarischer Kontext in Mt 26’, in Klinghardt, M., and H. Taussig (eds), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum: Meals and Religious Identity in Early Christianity, 159–90, Tübingen: Francke. Klinghardt, M. (2012b), ‘Der vergossene Becher: Ritual und Gemeinschaft im lukanischen Mahlbericht.’ Early Christianity 4: 33–58. Klinghardt, M., and H. Taussig, eds (2012), Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum: Meals and Religious Identity in Early Christianity, Tübingen: Francke. Klos, H. (1970), Die Sakramente im Johannesevangelium: Vorkommen und Bedeutung von Taufe, Eucharistie und Buße im vierten Evangelium, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Kobel, E. (2011), Dining with John: Communal Meals and Identity Formation in the Fourth Gospel and Its Historical and Cultural Context, Leiden: Brill. Kobel, E. (2012), ‘The Various Tastes of Johannine Bread and Blood: A Multi-Perspective Reading of John 6’, in K. Ehrensperger, N. MacDonald and L. Sutter Rehmann (eds), Decisive Meals: Table Politics in Biblical Literature, 83–98, London: T & T Clark International. Leonhard, C. and B. Eckhardt (2009), ‘Art. Mahl V (Kultmahl)’, RAC 23: 1012–105. Lieu, J. (2008), I, II & III John: A Commentary, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press. Manson, T. W. (1947), ‘Entry into Membership of the Early Church’, JTS.OS 48: 25–33. Markschies, C. (2007), Kaiserzeitliche christliche Theologie und ihre Institutionen: Prolegomena zu einer Geschichte der antiken christlichen Theologie, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Marshall, I. H. (1978), The Epistles of John, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. McGowan, A. B. (2004), ‘Rethinking Agape and Eucharist in Early North African Christianity’, SL 34: 165–76. McGowan, A. B. (2010), ‘Rethinking Eucharistic Origins’, Pacifica 23: 173–91. Nauck, W. (1957), Die Tradition und der Charakter des ersten Johannesbriefes: Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Taufe im Urchristentum und in der alten Kirche, Tübingen: Mohr. Obbink, D. (1993), ‘Dionysos Poured Out: Ancient and Modern Theories of Sacrifice and Cultural Formation’, in T. H. Carpenter and C. A. Faraone (eds), Masks of Dionysus, 65–86, Ithaca: Cornell University. Olsson, B. (2013), A Commentary on the Letters of John: An Intra-Jewish Approach, translated by R. J. Erickson, Eugene: Pickwick. Popkes, E. E. (2005), Die Theologie der Liebe Gottes in den johanneischen Schriften: Zur Semantik der Liebe und zum Motivkreis des Dualismus, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Poplutz, U. (2007), ‘Eine fruchtbare Allianz (Weinstock, Winzer und Reben). Joh 15,1–8 (vgl. Agr 61)’, in R. Zimmerman (ed.), Kompendium der Gleichnisse Jesu, 828–39, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Rabens, V. (2012), ‘Johannine Perspectives on Ethical Enabling in the Context of Stoic and Philonic Ethics’, in J. van der Watt and R. Zimmermann (eds), Rethinking the Ethics of John: ‘Implicit Ethics’ in the Johannine Writings, 114–39, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Rensberger, D. K. (1997), 1 John, 2 John, 3 John, Nashville: Abingdon Press. Richter, G. (1977), ‘Blut und Wasser aus der durchbohrten Seite Jesu (Joh 19,34b)’, in G. Richter, Studien zum Johannesevangelium, 120–42, Regensburg: Pustet. Rinke, J. (1996), Kerygma und Autopsie: Der christologische Disput als Spiegel johanneischer Gemeindegeschichte, Freiburg i. Br.: Herder.

268 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Rüsche, F. (1930), Blut, Leben und Seele: Ihr Verhältnis nach Auffassung der griechischen und hellenistischen Antike, der Bibel und der alten alexandrinischen Theologen.: Eine Vorarbeit zur Religionsgeschichte des Opfers, Paderborn: Schöningh. Schnackenburg, R. (1979), Die Johannesbriefe, Freiburg i. Br.: Herder. Schnelle, U. (1987), Antidoketische Christologie im Johannesevangelium: Eine Untersuchung zur Stellung des vierten Evangeliums in der johanneischen Schule, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schnelle, U. (2010), Die Johannesbriefe, Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Schweizer, E. (1963), Neotestamentica: Deutsche und englische Aufsätze 1951–1963, Zürich: Zwingli Verlag. Schweizer, E. (1963a), ‘Das Herrenmahl im Neuen Testament’, in Schweizer, E. (1963), Neotestamentica: Deutsche und englische Aufsätze 1951–1963, Zürich: Zwingli Verlag., 344–70. Schweizer, E. (1963b), ‘Das johanneische Zeugnis vom Herrenmahl’, in Schweizer, E. (1963), Neotestamentica: Deutsche und englische Aufsätze 1951–1963, 371–96, Zürich: Zwingli Verlag. Smalley, S. S. (2005), 1,2,3 John, edited by David A. Hubbard and Glenn W. Barker, Nashville: Nelson. Smith, D. E. and H. Taussig, eds (2012), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Söding, T. (2007), ‘Einsatz des Lebens: Ein Motiv johanneischer Soteriologie’, in G. van Belle (ed.), The Death of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel, 363–84, Leuven: Leuven University Press. Strecker, G. (1989), Die Johannesbriefe, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Taussig, H. (2009), In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity, Minneapolis: Fortress. Thomas, J. C. (2004), The Pentecostal Commentary on 1 John, 2 John, 3 John, Cleveland: The Pilgrim Press. Uebele, W. (2001), ‘Viele Verführer sind in die Welt ausgegangen’: Die Gegner in den Briefen des Ignatius von Antiochien und in den Johannesbriefen, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. van der Watt, J. G. (2006) ‘Ethics and Ethos in the Gospel according to John’, ZNW 97: 147–76. Vogler, W. (1993), Die Briefe des Johannes, Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. von Heyden, W. (2014), Doketismus und Inkarnation: Die Entstehung zweier gegensätzlicher Modelle von Christologie, Tübingen: Narr Francke Attempto. Vouga, F. (1990), Die Johannesbriefe, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Wallraff, M. (2004), ‘Von der Eucharistie zum Mysterium: Abendmahlsfrömmigkeit in der Spätantike’, in P. Gemeindhardt (ed.), Patristica et Oecumenica, 89–104, Marburg: Elwert. Wallraff, M. (2011), ‘Christliche Liturgie als religiöse Innovation in der Spätantike’, in W. Kinzig (ed.), Liturgie und Ritual in der alten Kirche: Patristische Beiträge zum Studium der gottesdienstlichen Quellen der alten Kirche, 69–97, Leuven: Peeters. Wehr, L. (1987), Arznei der Unsterblichkeit: Die Eucharistie bei Ignatius von Antiochien und im Johannesevangelium, Münster: Aschendorff. Wengst, K. (1978), Der erste, zweite und dritte Brief des Johannes, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagsbuchhaus. Witherington, B. (1989), ‘The Waters of Birth: John 3. 5 and 1 John 5. 6–8’, NTS 35: 155–60. Zimmermann, R. (2004), Christologie der Bilder im Johannesevangelium: Die Christopoetik des vierten Evangeliums unter besonderer Berücksichtigung von Joh 10, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

21

Meals in the Further Epistolary Literature of the New Testament Hans Joachim Stein

Introduction The so-called Catholic Epistles mirror how early Christian communities more and more formed their identity by means of communal meals. They participated in the meal values of their Jewish and Gentile environment and simultaneously tried to establish their own values, rules and rites. The communal meal became an important identity and boundary marker: (1) The Letter of James shows, how a Jewish-Christian community probably neglected the habit of reclining during the symposium, but nevertheless shared the same symposiastic values as their Graeco-Roman neighbours. (2) The First Letter of Peter closes his community off from a hostile environment and understands the meal as a performative expression of a new self-understanding, as a community of priests and equals. (3+5) The Letter of Jude and the Second Letter of Peter are witnesses of identity conflicts within the community: Former Gentile members endangered the Jewish identity of the community by not closing themselves off enough from their original socialization. (4) Finally, in Jude the meal is called agapê for the first time. This reveals the importance of the Pauline impetus to the development of a Christian meal culture, and the growing predominance of the word-oriented symposium over the food-oriented meal.

1  The Letter of James At first glance, the Letter of James does not mention a Christian meal gathering. In the beginning, true religion (θρησκεία) is defined as ethical behaviour, and not as cultic or ceremonial ritual. Adoration of God does not consist in pure talking, but in taking care for those in need and in maintaining moral purity: If any person regards himself as religious, and does not hold his tongue in check, tongues but deceive his heart, his religion is worthless. 27 Religion that is pure and 26

270 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals undefiled before God the Father, is this: to take care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world. (Jas 1.26-27)

Nevertheless, the target of James is not the distinction between cultic and ethical religion, but the control of the tongue. And the control of the tongue again presupposes a communal gathering, where the members talk with each other. Otherwise the demand would make no sense. A hint for such a gathering can be found in Jas 2.1-13: My brothers and sisters, you should not try to combine the faith in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ with favoritism. 2 For if a person enters your meeting with a gold ring and in fine clothes, and if also a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in, 3 and if you take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say, ‘Have a seat here, please,’ while to the one who is poor you say, ‘Stand there,’ or, ‘Sit at my feet,’ 4 don’t you draw a distinction among you and become bad minded judges? (Jas 2.1-4) 1

In recent research this meeting is often identified with a judicial or Sabbath gathering. But we try to show that it is probably a Christian symposium. Two arguments seem to contradict our thesis. Firstly, the gathering is called συναγωγή and according to many scholars, the Jewish synagogue meetings did not include meals (Wick 2003: 105–6). Secondly, it is not presupposed, that the participants were reclining, rather they seemed to sit (κάθημαι). Both arguments can be refuted as follows. The term συνnαγωγή has a Jewish background, but this does not necessarily mean that the gathering did not include a meal: (a) The term is not used for a building, but for a gathering, which could have taken place in a private house. In the first century CE the transition between house and synagogue was fluent, because the first synagogue communities met in private houses (Claussen 2002: 299). (b) But even if the community of James met in an official building, this does not contradict to a meal gathering. In the synagogue buildings of Stobi and Caesarea dining rooms can be proved (Claussen 2002: 221–2), which could have been used for communal meals. (c) That Jews met for meal gathering is proved by an edict of Julius Caesar, in which he allows the Jews to gather and eat with one another (συνάγεσθαί τε καὶ ἑστιᾶσθαι).1 But does not the practice of sitting instead of reclining speak against a symposiastic background? As Smit summarizes: ‘The options are to be seated, to be standing, or to be seated on a footstool (ὑποπόδιον)’ (Smit 2011: 113). The footstool can be identified with a small stool at the foot of a κλίνη (Smit 2011: 113–14), but the problem remains, that according to James even the guest of honour does not recline, but sits down. The same issue, how to place guests, is discussed in Lk. 14.7-14, but there the guests recline. Nevertheless, the practice of sitting in the gatherings does not speak against a symposiastic background, if we do not take a look at outward practices, but at communal values. The values that are presented in the letter of James correspond with symposiastic values. By discussing the seating order James participates in the discourse about honour and partiality, reality and utopia. A parallel can be found in Plutarch’s Table Talk (Mor. 615C–619A). Plutarch’s brother Timon and his father Lamprias dispute the true seating order. Lamprias is in favour of a fixed order that mirrors social reality. Timon,

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however, prefers a free choice of seats that mirrors symposiastic equality. When James argues in favour of impartiality, he is close to Timon. Both of them are convinced that the symposium must not reflect social ranking but has to reflect social equality. In the case of James, this equality is substantiated by theological reasons: The seating order has to be impartial, because Christ, too, is impartial. In the same manner, James’s demand for appropriate speech has parallels in symposiastic discourses (cf. Sir. 32.1-12). James does not give concrete suggestions, how to speak and teach, but reflects upon the power of the word, in order to sensitize the teachers and speakers in the congregation to fulfil their task in a responsible way. Otherwise they cause conflicts (Jas 4.1-12). Besides teaching and talking the gathering is also a place to pray: Does anybody among you suffer? Then pray. Is anyone in good spirits? Then sing a song to God. 14 Is anybody among you sick? He should call for the elders of the congregation and have them pray over him, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. 15 The prayer of faith will save the sick one, and the Lord will raise him up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. 16 Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. (Jas 5.14-16) 13

Although James might primarily think of prayers in the houses of the sick members, it is possible that in the communal gatherings the participants also prayed for the needy. We may conclude that the letter of James is transparent for a Jewish-Christian community that probably met regularly in a private home where the members sat rather than reclined. It cannot be proved whether the meeting was accompanied by a meal. Nevertheless, the community participated in Greco-Roman symposiastic conventions and discourses, as the discussion of seating order and table talk reveals.

2  The First Letter of Peter The First Letter of Peter, too, does not make an issue out of the communal meal. But we can find several hints of the self-understanding of the community and can therefore draw conclusions for its understanding of the meal. On the inside, the congregation regards itself as a holy priesthood (1 Pet. 2.5.9) and as brothers and sisters (φιλαδελφία) (1 Pet. 1.22). The congregation understands itself as an egalitarian and familial community with a high ethical standard. And on the outside, the congregation feels strange within a hostile world and socially isolated (1 Pet. 1.1; 2.11). This polarity between inside and outside is mirrored in the meal conventions: The author draws boundaries between the communal meals and the meals of the pagan environment. He speaks about the pagan meals in injurious terms:2 You have already spent enough time in doing what the Gentiles like to do, living in licentiousness, passions, drinking parties, feasts, revelries, and lawless idolatry. (1 Pet. 4.3) 3

272 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals What does this mean for the understanding of the community? First, the members of the congregation do not want to be licentious; therefore, they have to be modest in their meal behaviour. And second, they do not want to commit idolatry. They dedicate their meals to the one God. And they do not want to let a priest act on behalf of all. As they all are priests, all are responsible for a God-like course of the meal. But although boundaries are drawn with regard to the environment, the values the writer wants to establish and support are still part of Greco-Roman meal culture. The purity of the meal gathering is discussed also in pagan communities.3 In 1 Pet. 4.9-10 we get an insight in the organization of the communal meals. Probably, the congregation met at various places. Not every member might have been able to host the community. But those members, who had the space and the means to host the others, are demanded to be available to the congregational needs. In this sense, 1 Pet 4.9 can be understood: Be hospitable to one another without complaining. 10 Like good stewards of the manifold grace of God, serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received. (1 Pet. 4.9-10) 9

And the following demand, to serve one another with one’s gifts, is not only to be understood financially and materially, but also symposiastically: Everybody has to contribute his or her spiritual gifts to the Christian symposium (cf. 1 Cor. 14.26). Regarding themselves as strangers in a hostile environment, it is improbable, that non-members participated in the banquets. The Christians are obliged to give information to outstanding people about their faith (1 Pet. 3.13-17), but do not have to invite them to participate to their gatherings. We can suspect that the criterion of admission to this exclusive community was the baptismal. In 1 Pet. 1.3.18.23 the baptismal is described as a new birth. Consequently, the meal gathering has the task to let the ‘new born children’ grow and taste the goodness of their heavenly father: Like newborn infants, long for the pure, spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow into salvation— 3 if indeed you have tasted that the Lord is good. (1 Pet. 2.2-3) 2

Finally, 1 Peter seems to presuppose the participation of women in the congregational banquets: Your adornment should not consist of externals, such as your braided hair and the gold you put on, or the clothes you wear. 4 Rather, let your adornment be the inner self with the lasting beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in God’s sight. 5 It was in this way long ago that the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves by deferring to their husbands. 6 Thus Sarah obeyed Abraham and called him lord. You have become her daughters as long as you do what is good and never let fears alarm you. 7 Husbands, in the same way, show respect to your wives in your life together, paying honor to the woman as the weaker sex, since they too are heirs of the gracious gift of life—so that nothing may hinder your prayers. (1 Pet. 3.3-6) 3

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The instructions must not be restricted to married life at home, but can also be interpreted ecclesiologically: The common prayer of men and women (3.7) is a hint for the presence of women not only in the meal part of the gathering, but also in the following symposium. Such an inclusion of women was not natural in the GrecoRoman world. Because the community regarded itself as a familial relationship of brothers and sisters, women’s participation had to be permitted. But their presence required rules in order to prevent the meeting from becoming sexual or erotic. Therefore, women are instructed to be cautious, pure and plain in their outward appearance. We may conclude, that the community of 1 Peter strengthened its identity by drawing boundaries to its environment. The meals the congregation celebrated were simultaneously anti-meals to the pagan environment and empowering meals for the community of priests and equals.

3  The Letter of Jude The Jewish-shaped community to which the Letter of Jude is addressed, is the coming together to a meal called ‘love-feast’ (ἀγάπη). These are the people who feast with on your love-feasts, without fear, feeding themselves, like dangerous reefs. They are like shepherds who only look after themselves. They are waterless clouds carried along by the winds; autumn trees without fruit, twice dead, uprooted. (Jude 12) 12

From the fact that the opponents within the community are called ‘those, who feast with you together (συνευωχεῖθαι)’, we can conclude that these love-feasts were satiating and not just ritual meals (Vegge 2017: 663–5).4 In the context of these love-feasts, a conflict occurred. It was probably not about foodstuff; Jude does not mention food laws. The conflict had nothing to do with the meal, but with the symposium after the meal, as Jude 8 reveals: Yet in the same way these dreamers also defile the flesh, reject authority, and slander the glorious ones. (Jude 8) 8

The ‘authorities’ (κυριότατα) and ‘glorious ones’ (δόξαι) have to be interpreted as angels, which were neglected by the opponents.5 We can assume that the congregation practiced the veneration of angels, as it was usual in Jewish-apocalyptic circles.6 By adoring angels, the Jews of the congregation tried to participate in the heavenly cult.7 The opponents seem to be Gentile rationalists. As they were not familiar with angel veneration, they rejected and mocked it. For Jude, the rejection of the angels is a symptom of a deeper disease – that the pagan members did not close themselves off from their pagan socialization. By not drawing boundaries, they threaten the purity and the Jewish identity of the congregation like

274 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Bileam did (Jude 11). Therefore, Jude predicts God’s judgement like Paul did in 1 Cor. 11.29-32: It was also about these that Enoch, in the seventh generation from Adam, prophesied, saying, ‘See, the Lord is coming with ten thousands of his holy ones, 15 to execute judgment on all, and to convict everyone of all the deeds of ungodliness that they have committed in their ungodliness, and of all the harsh things that ungodly sinners have spoken against him.’ (Jude 14–15) 14

But different than Paul, Jude does not think, that this judgement is fulfilled in the presence as a kind of cleaning judgement, but reckons on an eschatological punishment of the opponents. If the expression ‘The Lord is coming’ has something to do with the early Christian call ‘maranatha’, this eschatological judgement was present in every love-feast (cf. Stein 2008: 234–5). We may conclude, that the love-feasts were understood as communication with the heavenly world. Therefore, they were exclusive gatherings. Who wants to participate in the meal community has to break with the past and one’s social roots in the Gentile world.

4  The Pauline origin of agapê as a term for a meal gathering In early Christianity, the communal meal has different names. One of them is agapê. It first occurs in Jude 12 and is testified in early Christian writings of the second and third century CE.8 How did it come to name a meal love-feast? As Jude was familiar with Pauline traditions, it makes sense to search for the origins of agapê in Pauline theology (Stein 2008: 220-8). In 1 Corinthians 13 Paul develops a sympotic ethic, which is governed by love. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul cares for the unity of the body of Christ; in 1 Corinthians 14, he presents different charisms which on the one hand enrich the community and on the other hand cause conflicts. Love, as it is described in 1 Corinthians 13 is the link between unity and diversity, as love has the power to unify a heterogenic group. But as it is impossible to live perfect love within a heterogenic community, love is more than an ethical instruction; love is utopia or an eschatological ideal, which cannot be reached in this world. The utopian character of love makes it comparable to sympotic ideals such as φιλία und φιλοφροσύνη.9 But whereas brotherly love and friendship, according to Aristotle, fit to a homogenous group of equals,10 love does also fit to a heterogenic group of unequal. And whereas brotherly love and friendship just have to do with interpersonal relations, love also is open for the relation of God and humans. But what is love in Paul’s opinion? We can find out by considering the introductory part of chapter 13, verses 1-3, and the eulogy on love in verses 4-7. If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. (1 Cor. 13.1-3) 1

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Speaking in tongues and prophesying are charismatic and pneumatic forms of talking, which reflect the eschatological character of symposiums, as they transcend social reality and transform the earthly community into its heavenly ideal. By subordinating such endeavours to love, Paul makes clear that they only make sense when they strengthen not only a few members of the congregation but the congregation as a whole. And by criticizing loveless behaviour as a noisy gong or clanging cymbal, Paul may also criticize instrumental music as a part of the Christian symposium; he prefers the spoken or sung word. The eulogy on love in 1 Cor. 13.4-7 reminds us of pagan eulogies on the Eros, but differ in that Paul not only praises love but demands to arrange the symposiums according to the principle of love:11 Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant 5 or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; 6 it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. 7 It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. (1 Cor. 13.4-7) 4

All the qualities of love can be related to sympotic behaviour: As love is patient and kind, the participants of the symposium stick together and support each other during the gathering. As love is not envious or boastful, the participants do not come into conflict with each other. As love is not arrogant, no one takes a position above others. Quarrels and conflicts, lies, shameless behaviour and injustice do not fit in a community of love. Therefore, love is the realization of the ideal order of a symposium (εὐκοσμία). Who behaves oneself according to love, overcomes disorder and supports peace (cf. 1 Cor. 14.33). At the same time, Paul overturns the idea of social status. Love does not strive for hierarchy, but for subordination and serving one another. The ideal symposiast does not rule, but serve the others. Therefore, Paul goes beyond just criticizing the status-oriented way of thinking, but ‘has overturned the idea of status itself ’ (Smith 2003: 213). Agapê could become the name for Christian symposiums, because the term stands for specific Christian meal ethics and meal theology in a Gentile environment. And Jude could make use of this term in order to criticize the behaviour of his opponents: By despising the angels and those in the community who adore angels, they cause conflicts and divisions. Such behaviour is wrong as it contradicts the ethical and theological principle of love: In an ethical sense, love demands to live in unity and peace and not in division and struggle; in a theological sense, love demands to live according to the love of the one God and not according to the shamelessness of the Gentile world.

5  The Second Letter of Peter The Second Letter of Peter is literally dependent on the Letter of Jude. The concrete conflict, that occurred during the meal gatherings (Jude 12), is generalized in 2 Pet. 2.13: These people, however, are like irrational animals, mere creatures of instinct, born to be caught and destroyed. They slander what they do not understand, and 12

276 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals when those creatures are destroyed, they also will be destroyed, 13 suffering the penalty for doing wrong. They count it a pleasure to revel in the daytime. They are blots and blemishes, revelling in their dissipation while they feast with you. (2 Pet. 2.12-13)

Like in the community of Jude, the conflict seems to be a conflict about symposiastic conventions and not about foodstuff. Whereas Jude reveals a conflict about the veneration of angels, 2 Peter is reacting to false teachers, who spoke in the meal gatherings and confused the congregation: Even so, many will follow their licentious ways, and because of these teachers the way of truth will be maligned. (2 Pet. 2.2) 2

But the problem behind false teaching might be the same as that behind the rejection of angel veneration: They seem to be Gentile Christians who did not close themselves off enough from their pagan socialization. By not drawing boundaries they threaten the purity and the Jewish identity of the community. We can conclude that the meal in Jude as in 2 Peter is understood exclusively. Whoever wants to participate in the meal community has to break with the past and one’s social roots in the Gentile world.

Notes 1 Cf. Josephus, Ant. 14.213-216. 2 These are typical reproaches of Jews against pagans, cf. Ep. Arist. 205; Pss. Sol. 14.2231; Philo, Mos. 2.185; Spec. 4.91. 3 Plutarch, Mor. 12B, criticizes drunkenness and insatiable appetite like 1 Peter does. 4 Cf. Philo, Spec. Leg. IV 119; Philo, Omn. Prob. Lib. 102; Josephus, Ant. 1.92; 6.363; 9.270; Clement of Alexandria, Paed. II 2.25.1; 7.60.1. 5 Cf. Col. 1.16; Eph. 1.21, Philo, Spec. 1.45; T. Levi 18.5; T. Jud. 25.2. 6 Cf. T. Job 48,3; 11Q14 1 II 4–6; 1Q28a II 8–9; CD XV 15–17. 7 Cf. 1QS XI 7–8; 1QH XI 19-23. 8 Ignatius, Smyrn. 8.1-2; Acts John 84; Acts of Thom. 50). Ignatius also uses the term ‘Eucharist’ (Ignatius, Eph. 13.1; Smyrn. 7.1a; 8.1). It cannot be concluded that both terms stand for different types of meals. They rather seem to be used interchangeably. 9 Cf. Plutarch, Mor. 660B, 612D. 10 Cf. Aristotle, Eth. nic. 1158a; 1168b. 11 Cf. Plato, Symp. 197c–e.

Bibliography Claussen, C. (2002), Versammlung, Gemeinde, Synagoge: Das hellenistisch-jüdische Umfeld der frühchristlichen Gemeinden, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Smit, P.-B. (2011), ‘A Symposiastic Background to James?’ NTS 58: 105–22. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist, Minneapolis: Fortress.

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Stein, H. J. (2008), Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern: Ihre Gestalt und Bedeutung nach der neutestamentlichen Briefliteratur und der Johannesoffenbarung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Vegge, T. (2017), ‘Meals in the Context of the Deutero-Pauline Letters, and the Letter of Jude’, in D. Hellholm and D. Sänger (eds), The Eucharist – Its Origins and Contexts, vol. 1: Old Testament, Early Judaism, New Testament, 645–71, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Wick, P. (2003), Die urchristlichen Gottesdienste: Entstehung und Entwicklung im Rahmen der frühjüdischen Tempel-, Synagogen- und Hausfrömmigkeit, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer.

22

Useless Foods: Communal Meals in Hebrews Gabriella Gelardini

Introduction1 In the left foreground, the viewer might fail to observe a robust figure reaching for a succulent haunch, the length of a man’s arm. To the immediate right is a woman with child. But rather than directing her attention to the gourmandizer (presumably her husband), she casts a furtive glance at a rival, who obligingly and submissively offers her an apple. The strongly coloured, somewhat oversized, figures featured in the lower third of the triptych impose themselves on the viewer and instil a sense of exuberant revelry. But this delight rapidly transforms into despair, as we become aware of the associations engendered by the central scene in the middle panel: the fall of man and whoredom. Following a vertical line upward, we discern the reason for the verdict: perched upon a golden column, pale and almost insignificant, is the golden calf, unmissable at eye level. Scantily dressed individuals are seen cavorting around the idol, exhibiting the same fervour as the diners in the foreground. The Renaissance painter Lucas van Leyden (1494–1533) demonstrates a fine rapport with the authors of the Old and New Testaments, who regarded rebellion against God as tantamount to whoredom.2 Similarly, he is aware that ‘The Dance of the Jews around the Golden Calf ’,3 as he titled his work, is comparable to the fall of man in paradise4: The former depicts the first sin of God’s people after ratifying the covenant; the latter the first fall of mankind. The gourmandizer, whose face is averted from the viewer, is engaged in nothing less than eating meat sacrificed to an idol. If our gaze ascends further, we vaguely descry a solitary man of God, Moses,5 offering his final prayer on Sinai as a lowering cloud settles upon the mountain. He appears a second time, immediately below and similarly inconspicuously, in Joshua’s company. With the tablets of the covenant securely under his arm, he descends the mountain with a determined step towards the camp, eager to avert the manifestation of God’s wrath in some fearful cataclysm. The viewer familiar with the biblical narrative will know that what follows is the destruction of the covenant tablets, damning judgement and shrill lamentations. Is van Leyden, who produced this representation of the biblical narrative in 1530, implying that those who abandoned Catholic table fellowship to feast on Reformed

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commons would be subject to such lamentations? Van Leyden would have considered these foods – the meal served at a wake, akin to the haunch of meat set before his viewer – useless.

1  The Epistle to the Hebrews and communal meals The auctor ad Hebraeos also speaks of useless foods, when in Hebrews 13 he relates that the heart is strengthened, not by foods, which do not benefit those who partake in them, but by grace (Heb. 13.9, βρῶμα pl.). Author and audience share an altar that precludes those who officiate in the tent (or tabernacle). When the theme of communal meals is considered in the Letter to the Hebrews (henceforth Hebrews), 13.9-10 usually come to mind first. But are these the most important verses in this regard? The theme is also treated in Heb. 12.16 (βρῶσις sing.),6 where the author, alluding to Gen. 25.2934, deems the meal for which Esau sold his birthright useless. In a third reference to meals in Heb. 9.10, the author, describing the earthly temple, considers the offerings and sacrifices placed upon the altar as mere foods (Heb. 9.10, βρῶμα pl.) and drinks (9.10, πὀμα pl.). In addition, he mentions the loaves (9.2, ἄρτος pl.) placed on a table at the front of the tent, whereas the manna was kept (9.4, μάννα) at the rear, in a golden jar within the ark of the covenant. Besides these allusions to material foods and drinks, in particular in the context of the earthly cult, the author repeatedly employs food metaphors, a common practice at the time.7 Prominent here is Heb. 5.12-14, where the teaching conveyed to recipients is likened to food, whom the author upbraids for again needing the rudimentary elements of God’s utterances. They are seen as akin to infants again in need of milk (5.12, 13, γάλα) and not solid food (5.12, 14, τροφἠ). Equally figurative is the author’s explication to the audience that Jesus ‘tasted’ death instead of – and implicitly also for – the children of God. The same term occurs in Heb. 6.4, 5, which asserts that believers who fall away cannot be restored to their former condition by repentance, having ‘tasted’ heavenly gifts and the powers of the coming age. This point is frequently misundersood in Hebrews scholarship. Another metaphor related to food and drink occurs in Heb. 6.7, when the author considers that the soil to be blessed repeatedly ‘drinks’ (πίνω) the rain, and thereby produces an abundant crop. The idea of the soil ‘drinking’ the rain concludes the use of food and drink metaphors in Hebrews. This confirms the initial impression that the most important passage about communal eating in Hebrews is 13.9-16. Thus exploring this topic in greater detail at this point seems most promising.

2  Context, structure and content Heb. 13.9-16 is best approached by analysing its structure and immediate literary context. The context of the passage in question is chapter 13. Whereas earlier Hebrews studies doubted whether this last chapter or parts of it are actually part of the letter, more recent research is convinced of the letter’s, or rather the homily’s, integrity. This

280 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals includes chapter 13. First of all, scholars have argued that the end of chapter 12 and the beginning of chapter 13 are inherently linked. Accordingly, chapter 13 presents concrete commandments as examples of what is required of the audience in Heb. 12.28: to be thankful to God for having received the steadfast kingdom, by serving him, pleasingly, in reverence and awe (Lane 1991, 505–7, esp. p. 506). In a text stylized as sophisticatedly as Hebrews, the collection of commandments is presented in an orderly and symmetrical way. However, Hebrews scholarship has so far not agreed on the structure of chapter 13. Two-,8 three-9 and four-part10 structures have been proposed. Of relevance in this regard is the observation that the word ‘leaders’ is repeated in verses 7 and 17. This has been said to indicate (by way of inclusion) the margins of a central element, which structures the chapter into three units: 1–6, 7–19 and 20–25 (Attridge, 1989, 390–91). It is possible to refine this observation, which demonstrates that further correspondences between relevant signifiers lie hidden, especially regarding the central element. The exegete can thus find the subsequent chiastic structure in Hebrews 13. A) God’s will (13:1-6) B) Leaders (13:7-8) C) Sacrificial altar (13:9-10) D) Outside the camp (13:11-12) D’) Outside the camp (13:13-14) C’) Sacrifice (13:15-16) B’) Leaders (13:17-19) A’) God’s will (13:20-25)

These structural considerations, which need not be too detailed here, reveal mutually interpretative correspondences and analogies. They also raise an important question: Against the backdrop of this immediate literary context, what do verses 9-16 express as far as communal meals are concerned? Regarding content, the author warns his audience of foreign doctrines as their heart should not be strengthened by useless food, but by grace. For the audience and the author have an altar from which those who officiate in the tent have no right to consume (C). In the section facing verses 15-16, the author calls upon the audience to offer sacrifices of praise, that is, the fruit of their lips, through Jesus to God (C’). Several – seemingly contrasting – statements are made. First, if the wider context is taken into account, the author and his audience position themselves visà-vis an Aaronite priesthood. Second, the author seems to imply that both groups eat separately, from different altars. Third, food seems to stand in a cultic context in both cases, and must hence be sacrificial. But whereas the priests believe that their hearts are being strengthened through participation in the sacrifice, the author denies them this. Rather, these sacrifices are considered related to foreign doctrines, and are thus deemed useless. God’s grace strengthens the heart, and the appropriate response is to make sacrifices based on Jesus’s sacrifice, that is, those that come out of the mouth rather than enter it. Thus, virtual sacrifices are compared to material ones. While this structural interpretation is illuminating, several essential questions remain

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unanswered: Which group of people does the author actually refer to? Which altars does he mean? Which kind of sacrifices does he have in mind? With reference to the altar accessible to himself and the audience, the author asserts in verses 11-12 that the bodies of those animals whose blood the high priest took to the sanctuary for sin would be burned outside the camp. Therefore, to sanctify the people with his own blood, Jesus had also suffered outside the city gate (D). Verses 13-14 prompt the audience to join the author in following Jesus there and to suffer the same abuse. For, as he continues, neither they nor he had an enduring city here, but were seeking the one to come (D’). The author refers to a place outside the camp or (city)gate three times. On closer examination, it is striking that his spatial reference cannot refer to one and the same place. Instead, he must have been thinking of three different places at different times. The first place lies outside the camp at the time of the peregrination. Then there is a place outside Jerusalem at the time of Jesus. And finally, there is a place outside the city at the time of the audience. If the assumption made by most interpreters is correct, this place is presumably Rome. The sacrifice provides further details about the space outside the camp or the city gate referred to by the author: It is a sin offering on the great Day of Atonement. For it is only on this day that the high priest enters the sanctuary.11 At the time of the temple, this place was located outside the eastern wall of the city, the only section that was also a temple wall. The bodies of the dead sacrificial animals were taken through a gate built specifically for this purpose across a bridge12 to the Mount of Olives, where they were burned. Even earlier, during the time of peregrination, and corresponding to the time of the temple, the carcasses of these sacrificial animals were most likely burned east of the camp, as the main entrance was located on this side of its fence.13 Thus, these specific sacrificial animals were burned – not eaten – at the time of perigrination, just as at the time of Jesus.14 Hence, no altar was erected outside this place either. In a somewhat lame comparison, Jesus is likened to the sacrifice offered on Yom Kippur: while Jesus ‘only’ suffers on the Mount of Olives, in Gethsemane,15 the sacrificial animals carried there are already dead. Jesus dies later, not on the Mount of Olives, but on Golgotha.16 However, it seems that the author considers Jesus’s suffering in Gethsemane equivalent to death. As with Jerusalem, the third place is also located outside a city. As mentioned, this is probably Rome. And there, outside the walls, the future city can be seen. Considering the extended context of Hebrews, the author must mean Jerusalem (Heb. 12.22). Notably, the city of Rome is described as impermanent. Once again, an interpretation considering symmetries is highly illuminating: The author speaks of an outside, which points to three different places and times. These spaces should not be imagined as unrelated, but rather, cartographically speaking, as three overlapping and mutually interpretative maps.17 As discussed previously, however, these corresponding sections also leave several questions unanswered: Where exactly is an altar located in the outside? What exactly did one eat there? And why should Jesus be praised there because of God? Verses 7-8 address the theme of leadership. On the one side are the deceased, who must be commemorated and whose faith should be imitated; on the other side stands Jesus as the immutable one (B). In verses 17-19, the author also speaks of the leadership of those who are still alive and probably means the leaders of the addressees.

282 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals The audience is admonished to obey them, and the author also refers to himself. He is convinced of the good conduct of all, and therefore asks for their prayer (B’). The four groups of people mentioned in these two sections are presented in an entirely positive light, or so it seems. They are considered exemplary and hence they – rather than others –  should be followed. Nevertheless, it remains unclear who the unidentified people are and in which respect they should be followed. It is possible, however, that the obedience demanded is linked to the sacrificial meals and altars mentioned in Sections C and C’, as well as to the respective teachings. Verses 1-6 list a series of concrete and seemingly unrelated commandments: Brotherly love should abide, hospitality should not be forgotten, prisoners should be remembered, marriage should be honourable and conduct should forgo any love of money. We are also reminded of God’s promise of assistance, so that the audience may be certain of his help (A). The corresponding passage in verses 20-25 merely presents the summary assertion that God completes the audience through Jesus in doing his will. These verses have an epistolary ending (A’). Still, the correspondence between these two sections is by no means obvious. This might be because A exemplifies how the demanded exercising of God’s will (mentioned in A’) is fulfilled. Once more, however, it remains unclear why exactly the audience needs to complete these specific commandments and no others. Neither does any connection with the assertions on communal meals become apparent here. Considering the literary context of Heb. 13.9-16, its structure and its content has produced some initial results. At the same time, however, several questions have remained unanswered. They call for more detailed analysis.

3  Research history and central intertext Research history is of little help in this respect, especially as its interpretations of Hebrews 13 are contradictory. In verses 9-10, for example, researchers have suspected different things. The foreign doctrines have repeatedly been associated with food, albeit in various ways. While some scholars have linked these doctrines to the ‘abstentions from foods or dietary restrictions as found in the Jewish kashrut or other ascetic regulations’, others have explicitly seen them as addressing ‘participation in pagan cultic meals or the eating of meat sacrificed to idols’, and still others as highlighting ‘ritual dining or a Eucharistic theology’.18 Backhaus went even further, interpreting the reference to foods as sheer metaphor and believing that the term ‘strange teachings’ is a reference to ‘laws of the flesh’. that is, to the Levitical cult per se (2009, 467–9). In connection with the claim that these verses address the Eucharist, the altar, which the author along with the audience calls his own, was interpreted as Christian. It was not possible, however, to agree where this ought to be localized according to the author. No solution to this interpretative crux, nor to several other issues, that would be acceptable to the majority of exegetes, has been found. What is certain, as is the case with other New Testament writings,19 is that the assumption that the altar refers to the ‘communion table’ has been widely dismissed as anachronistic.20 Even if intratextual discussions on the altar and the strange teachings led exegetes into the aporia, the author does not

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leave the interpreter without any interpretative approach at all. Regarding the place outside the camp, he laid – as mentioned – a trail, which, unsurprisingly for Hebrews, is an intertextual one. It leads to a place that has been repeatedly discussed in Hebrews scholarship: the space outside Israel’s camp during pilgrimage, or more specifically, the one locus mentioned in Exod. 33.7-11.21 Before turning to this specific place, we must first examine its plausibility in this intertextual context. Various instances in the Hebrew Bible require the burning of sacrificial animals (or parts of animals) outside the camp, for instance, in relation to sin offerings in general (Lev. 4.12, 21), sin offerings related to Aaron’s ordination (Exod. 29.14; Lev. 8.17) or Yom Kippur (Lev. 16.27), and, finally, as part of the activities performed in the ceremony of the red heifer (Numbers 19).22 But the specification that the animals are those ‘whose blood is brought into the sanctuary by the high priest’ (Heb. 13.11) points to two possible sin offerings during Yom Kippur (Lev. 16.27): the sin offering for the high priest and his house (a bull) or that for the people (a goat). The subsequent verse, Heb. 13.12, must lead to the exclusion of the first possibility, as the addition ‘to sanctify the people’ compares Jesus’s sin offering clearly with a sin offering for the people.23 This comes as no surprise as the portrayal of Jesus as a sin offering for the people is one of the author’s main assertions regarding the interpretation of Christ’s death in Hebrews.24 Legislation for Yom Kippur was given to Moses by God, not at some indeterminable place in the desert but specifically at Sinai, just as the arrival of the Israelites in the wilderness of Sinai is mentioned in Exod. 19.1-2 and their departure from Sinai in Num. 10.11-13. The superimposition of the first map onto the second links Jesus’s going outside the gate with attaining atonement on Yom Kippur. During Yom Kippur, however, the high priest never left the camp or the city. There is only one instance in the Hebrew Bible where a leader goes outside the camp and suffers: Moses in Exod. 33.7-11. This wellestablished narrative is related to the cleansing of the people’s sin and to the cleansing of the camp from impurities caused by that sin, hence with Yom Kippur avant la lettre.25 One early testimony to this exegetical correlation of Exodus 33 with Leviticus 16 – that is, of the high priest’s entry into the holy of holies with Moses’s entry into the tabernacle of testimony – is offered by Philo (see Leg. 2.54-56; see also below, p. 289). Before turning to Exod. 33.7-11, the crucial intertextual passage, let us first consider its context.

3.1  Exod. 19.1–33.6 After departing from Raphidim, the Israelites enter the wilderness of Sinai and camp there in front of the mountain. Immediately thereafter, God calls Moses from the mountain, and Moses then goes up to the deity. On the mountain, God tells Moses that he is willing to treasure the Israelites as his possession out of all the people, that is, to enter into a covenant with them, provided they are willing to obey his voice and to keep his covenant (Exod. 19.2-6). After reporting this exchange to the people, and after the people have expressed their consent, on the third day Moses, as commanded, leads the sanctified people to the foot of Mount Sinai, and God descends upon the mount (Heb. 12.18-21 refers to this dreadful event). Once he has descended, God calls Moses to the top of the mountain

284 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals and reveals to him a long list of laws, of which the first are the Ten Commandments (19.7–24.2). After Moses has relayed all the ordinances of God to the people, and after they have pledged loyalty, Moses writes down all the words, builds an altar (θυσιαστήριον, 24,4) under the mountain and makes the covenant (24.3-11). God then calls Moses up to the mount again – this time together with Joshua – in order to give him the tables of stone, while he commands Aaron and his sons along with the elders to stay down below with the people. Thereupon, the glory of God comes down on Mount Sinai, and Moses remains in his presence for forty days and forty nights in order to receive subsequent commands related to the cult institution needed to warrant the covenant relationship. In this context, God also decrees that Aaron and his four sons should serve him as priests (24.12–31.18). As Moses delays coming down from the mountain, Aaron – whom God has just designated to serve him as priest – at the request of the people casts the golden calf as a surrogate deity in the camp and builds an altar (θυσιαστήριον, 32.5) before the calf. He then proclaims the subsequent day as a feast in honour of this idol. On the following day, the Israelites – transgressing the covenant and particularly the first commandment – sacrifice animals and eat from the idolatrous sacrifices, drink and rise up to revel (32.1-6). At the same time, on the mount God reveals to Moses the events in the camp: that the people had made for themselves a golden calf, had worshipped it, and sacrificed to it (32.8). In his wrath, God plans to consume Israel, whereupon Moses immediately implores God to spare his newly chosen people. God listens to Moses and changes his mind about the disaster he had planned to bring upon his people (32.7-14). Equipped with the tablets, and accompanied by Joshua, Moses descends to the camp. And when he hears the noisy celebration and beholds the dancing people, he breaks the tablets in anger, destroys the idol, takes Aaron to task, and orders the Levites to kill 3,000 people in the camp, which thus becomes a place now multiply defiled (32.15-29). The very next day, Moses returns to the mount and seeks to atone for the people with his intercession because God has additionally sent a plague upon them for their idolatry. While God represses his wrath, he is determined to distance himself from Israel. He commands Moses to bring Israel up into the promised land without him. He announces that he will send an angel before him as his substitute. When the people hear these harsh words, they mourn, and no one puts on ornaments (32.30–33.6).

3.2  Exod. 33.7-11 What follows, in Exod. 33.7-11, the crucial paragraph, is Moses’s reaction to God’s harsh verdict that he will not go up to the land among his people. The Septuagint, which deviates from the Masoretic texts in some places, renders this moment as follows: And Moses took his tabernacle and pitched it without the camp, at a distance from the camp; and it was called the tabernacle of testimony (σκηνὴ μαρτυρίου):

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and it came to pass that every one that sought (ζητῶν) the Lord went forth to the tabernacle which was without the camp. (Exod. 33:7) And whenever Moses went into the tabernacle without the camp, all the people stood every one watching by the doors of his tent; and when Moses departed, they took notice until he entered into the tabernacle. (Exod. 33:8) And when Moses entered into the tabernacle, the pillar of the cloud descended, and stood at the door of the tabernacle, and God talked to Moses. (Exod. 33:9) And all the people saw the pillar of the cloud standing by the door of the tabernacle, and all the people stood and worshipped (προσεκύνησαν) every one at the door of his tent. (Exod. 33:10) And the Lord spoke to Moses face to face, as if one should speak to his friend; and he retired into the camp: but his servant Joshua the son of Naue, a young man, departed not forth from the tabernacle. (Exod. 33:11)

According to the Septuagint, Moses takes ‘his’ tent, while the Masoretic text speaks only of ‘the’ tent. Due to the defilement of the camp, Moses pitches that tent outside, at a distance. The tent is called the ‘tabernacle of testimony’ (σκηνὴ μαρτυρίου). Semantically, this implies not only testimony, but notably also martyrdom, presumably a reference to Moses’s distress or, according to the allusion in Hebrews, his ‘suffering’ (Heb. 13.12) due to God’s impending absence (Exod. 33.7). Since Moses is the only mediator between God and the people, anyone ‘seeking’ (ζητῶν) the Lord has no option other than to go out of the camp to Moses’s tent. The people take notice of Moses’s departure, and whenever he leaves, they watch him from the doors of their tents: ‘Will Moses be able to influence God to go up among us?’ might have been their fearful question (33.7-8). Whenever Moses enters the tabernacle outside the camp, the pillar of the cloud – God’s presence – descends and stands at the door of his tent and talks to him. God’s appearance in the pillar of the cloud, which God said in his harsh verdict would no longer be with them, evokes instant ‘worship’ (προσεκύνησαν) among the people standing at the doors of their tents (33.9-10). Then the Lord speaks to Moses, face to face, as if to a friend. After each conversation, Moses retires back into the camp, while Joshua remains in the tabernacle outside (33.11).

3.3  Exod. 33.12-16 Moses struggles to find ‘favour’ (χάριν) in God’s eyes so that God’s presence will go with him, with God’s people. The subsequent debate between Moses and God offers glimpses of his challenge. Eventually, Moses finds grace both in God’s eyes and in God’s promises to him that ‘My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest’ (καταπαύσω; Exod. 33.14). These words in Exod. 33.12-17 serve as a premise for the covenant renewal in the subsequent chapter.

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4  How the intertext Exod. 32–34 interprets Heb. 13 A careful reading of the primary intertext in Exod. 32–33, with all its aspects of the altar, sacrifice, food and communal meal, sheds helpful light on the questions raised above. Ancient renditions of this narrative, in particular from the Targumim and Philo, add even more aspects. Together they form an intriguing midrashic soundscape from which the author seems to have chosen those identity-forming tones that could transform the addressees’ place of eating into a space of resistance and liberation. In what follows, I consider the spaces, people or bodies, and actions related to meals.26

4.1  Spaces in Exodus and Hebrews The primary intertext includes four spaces. The first and largest is the wilderness of Sinai, where Israel had journeyed from Rephidim (Exod. 19.1-2). Again, this distinction of Sinai is important as Hebrews refers to past narratives that take place in various deserts, for instance Hebrews 3–4, whose content is considered against the background of the wilderness called Paran (Num. 13.26). The second space is Israel’s camp, located in front of the mountain (Exod. 19.2). As a living space, the camp provides protection from hostile forces, and hence also functions as a military camp. This aspect of the camp is alluded to by several Targumic variants, for instance, with ‘ornaments’ or changing into ‘armament’ (literally, Israel’s adornment of his armament) (Tg. Onq., Tg. Neof., and Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.6).27 Philo also argues in this direction, describing the camp as ‘full of wars and all the evils that war produces, a place that has not part in peace’ (Leg. 3.46).28 Moreover, he degrades the camp in anthropological terms as ‘bodily’, as a ‘corporeal army’ (Det. 160; Gig. 1.54). The camp harbours all the tents of the people (Exod. 33.10), but neither the tent pitched outside nor God’s tent (33.7-11), the tabernacle, which is still to be erected. At this point, God cannot dwell inside the camp as it is defiled, as hinted at by one Targumic variant: ‘But my glory will not dwell where you reside in your camps, for you are a stiff-necked people, lest I wipe you out’ (Tg. Ps.-J Exod. 33.3). In place of the living God, Aaron erects the image of the calf within the camp and builds before it an altar in honour of the idol (Exod. 32.5). When the author of Hebrews points indirectly to the camp in chapter 13, he seems to imply a well-fortified habitat of the people, defiled by an idol, and its related altar, sacrifices and feasts. The third space lies outside the camp. It is more concrete, a tent pitched by Moses ‘some distance from the camp’ – 2,000 cubits away, according to one Targumic variant (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.7) – but apparently still in sight (Exod. 33.7-10). The Septuagint identifies the tent as Moses’s own tent (Exod. 33.7; see also above, pp. 226–7). In addition to being called the ‘tent of meeting’ (in the MT) or ‘tabernacle of testimony’ (in the LXX), this tent is associated in Targumic variants with teaching and is referred to accordingly as the ‘tent of the house of study (or instruction)’ (Tg. Onq. and Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.7; see also b. Ber. 63b). Philo goes even further, equating this tent with ‘wisdom’ itself (Leg. 3.46) and describing it as ‘darkness’ and as an ‘invisible region’ (Gig. 1.54). Thus, the sole purpose of this tent is to serve as a place to encounter God and to receive or ‘eat’ his words (Exod. 33.9, 11). Because the decreed tabernacle has

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not yet been erected, this tent functions as a tabernacle avant la lettre. Because God descends here, the tabernacle is neither defiled nor in need of an altar, as the covenant is broken. In Heb. 13.11-13, when the author points to the various spaces outside the camp, he seems to be alluding initially to this temporary tabernacle: an undefiled meeting-place bare of any cultic furnishing, a space with the sole function of enabling reconciliation with God. This reconciliation with God seems to evoke allusions in the author to the altar erected at the foot of Mount Sinai in connection with the covenant (Exod. 24.4; Heb. 13.10). The fourth space is the promised land, situated in the remote distance and with its capital city Jerusalem. The negotiations over reaching and eventually seizing this land by conquering all enemies with the help of God are conducted in this tent. The path to the heavens is open during these negotiations in the tent, and the promised land is brought into perspective via the heavens; it can be seen only from the tent. In Heb. 13.14, when the author points to the city to come, this place might similarly be far away and occupied by enemies, in particular by the Romans. Yet, as the author seems to imply, when God goes up with his people, he will give them rest from all these present foes in due time.

4.2  Bodies in Exodus and Hebrews The primary intertext includes three groups of bodies. The first group consists of two deities: one is a supra-creational and living God, a non-corporeal ‘pillar of clouds’ that appears only outside the camp, at the ‘entrance of the tent’, and only in the presence of Moses (Exod. 33.9-10); the other is a lifeless deity crafted by Aaron from the people’s golden earrings, taken from their wives, sons, and daughters (32.2-3). While the first deity rightfully claims to have delivered Israel from Egypt by bearing his people on the wings of eagles and by bringing them to Sinai (19.4), Aaron falsely ascribes to his image the same heroic deeds (32.4). When the author of Hebrews points to God in Heb. 13.6, he means the first deity, the one whose accomplishments match the author’s confident assertion that this Lord is truly a helper. The second group of bodies is formed by the leaders, who likewise fall into two contrasting groups. On the one side are Moses and his young assistant Joshua (Exod. 33.11). Moses is tasked with mediating between the people and God. One Targumic variant depicts him as a teacher (Tg. Neof. Exod. 33.12, 17), which coincides with the designation of the tent as the ‘house of Torah’. Mediation takes place outside, in the tent. Moses does not stay there, however, but instead returns regularly to the camp (see also b. Ber. 63b), unlike Joshua, who remains permanently in the outside tent (Exod. 33.11). Both their roles have priestly aspects. On the other side stands Moses’s brother Aaron with his four sons, Nadab, Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar, who were appointed only a little earlier to serve God as priests (28.1). Aaron is not yet consecrated to ministry, and his attempt to serve the people in this role is illegitimate and can only lead astray. And so it does, whereupon Aaron is guilty of bringing upon the people the worst of all possible sins: idolatry (Exod. 32.21; see also Deut. 9.20). Aaron’s (and his sons’) site of action is exclusively inside the camp. When the author of Hebrews points to past leaders, he seems to have in mind these two contrasting groups: on the one hand, the faithful,

288 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals ‘who spoke (or fed) the word of God’ (Heb. 13.7; see also 4.8); on the other, those who illegitimately proclaim ‘strange teachings’ (13.9) when feeding the people with food sacrificed to idols. Jesus is modelled upon Moses (see 3.1-6), yet he outdoes Moses in temporal regard as he serves in this role forever (13.7). Similarly, present leadership is portrayed as contending with Moses and Jesus (13.17-18). The third group of bodies is formed by the people, who likewise fall into two contrasting groups. While all the people are guilty of the sin of idolatry, the texts seek to distinguish between those who are remorseful and those who are not. Particularly to blame are those who provided gold for the idol, and thus one Targumic variant observes: He took the calf that they had made and burned (it) in the fire, and ground (it) until it was powder, scattered (it) on the surface of the water of the brook and made the children of Israel to drink (it). Whoever had given an object of god there, a mark came out on his face. (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 32.20)

Equally suspect are those who do not engage in reconciliation with God and accordingly are deplored in one Targumic variant as evil: Whenever Moses went out of the camp and went to the tent, all the wicked ones of the people would stand up and station themselves, each at the entrance of his tent, and watch Moses with an evil eye until the time he entered the tent. (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.8)

This group of people refuses to go out of the camp, in stark contrast to those who do leave, who are portrayed in one Targumic variant as seeking teaching (Tg. Onq. and Neof. Exod 33.7) and repentance (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.7). In his address to the audience, the author of Hebrews makes evident that he does not want them to remain in idolatry (perhaps a reference to the metaphor of adultery in Heb. 13.4; see also 12.16) like the stiff-necked ones (13.9); instead, they should go outside the camp like the remorseful ones (13.13). At the same time, idolatry and idolatrous meals separate not only God and his people, but also brothers and sisters, which might explain why the author admonishes the audience to let mutual love continue (13.1).

4.3  Actions in Exodus and Hebrews The primary intertext includes the actions of all the above bodies. While, as is logical, no actions of the idol are reported, the living God is truly a helper. He not only appears in the pillar of cloud at the covenant breaking – albeit at a distance from the camp – but also speaks to Moses as to a friend (Exod. 33.11). He also speaks to those people who seek his word and is willing to forgive them even to the extent that he forsakes his original plan to not lead Israel to the promised land (33.12-17). Therein, God expresses peaceableness (see Heb. 13.20) and grace (Exod. 33.12, 17: χάρις). When the author of Hebrews reminds his audience that ‘it is well for the heart to be strengthened by grace’ (Heb. 13.9), he might well have the giver of that grace evident in the intertext in mind.

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Aaron’s corrupt role in the text goes hand in hand with his actions. He rejects what God commands him to do and instead does what the people ask of him, namely, to craft a god. Moreover, he builds an altar before this image and the next day proclaims a festival honouring this idol. His actions lead to sacrifices being made and subsequently to eating (and drinking) those foods sacrificed to the idol (Exod. 32.1-6). When the author of Hebrews refers to ‘strange teachings’ related to food, he might mean the deeds performed by Aaron and his sons (Heb. 13.9). Whereas Aaron seems to hamper the relationship between God and his people, Moses commits himself to maintaining and repairing this relationship. He provides a temporary space, a tent of meeting, for God and his people, despite his fear of God’s anger (Deut. 9.19; Heb. 12.21). In addition, he makes himself available to receive God’s words, commands and teachings, which he conveys as spiritual food to the people as one Targumic version asserts: ‘The Lord would converse with Moses – He would hear the voice of the Dibbura, … . And when the voice of the Dibbura had gone up, (Moses) would return to the camp and relate the words to the congregation of Israel’ (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.11). Moses’s return to the camp can be perceived as potentially dangerous, as the people could have attempted to kill him, which perhaps explains why one Targumic variant reports that Moses hid the weapons of the people in the tent outside the camp (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.7). The impending threat from the people and also from God provides crucial insight into the difficulties facing Moses (Exod. 32–33; see also Deuteronomy 9). Hence, to circumscribe his situation as one of suffering might be appropriate; moreover, the designation of the tent as the tabernacle of testimony semantically points to the impending threat to life (see above, pp. 229–30). Philo reinterpreted the high priest’s entry into the holy of holies with Moses’s entry into the tabernacle of testimony, and the author of Hebrews may well have had Moses’s example foremost in his mind when describing Jesus’s entry as suffering ‘outside the gate in order to sanctify the people by his own blood’ (Heb. 13.12). With Moses’s example in mind, Philo asserts: ‘This is why the high priest … shall enter [the holy of holies] naked … to pour as a libation the blood of the soul and to offer as incense the whole mind to God our Saviour and Benefactor’ (Leg. 2.56 see also Leg. 2.54–55). Simply put, the actions of the wicked are none. In contrast, the actions of the insightful are first and foremost worship, reverence for the fact that the pillar of cloud appears at the entrance of the tent. When the author of Hebrews invites his audience to offer God a sacrifice of praise (Heb. 13.15), he might have in mind this instance. And when he invites the audience to ‘bear the reproach’ (13.13), he might be reminded of the key action in the intertextual narrative, which one Targumic variant describes as follows: ‘And anyone who repented before the Lord with a perfect heart went out to the tent of the house of instruction which was outside the camp. He confessed his sins and prayed about his sins, and praying, he was forgiven’ (Tg. Ps.-J. Exod. 33.7). In Philo’s anthropological and dualistic rendition of this ‘bearing reproach’, to go out means to rid oneself of the bodily camp as well as bodily needs (such as eating), to make the soul ‘naked until it is barren of all vices’. Moreover, in the abode outside, the soul ‘gains a fixed and assured settlement in the perfect ordinances of virtues. Wherefore witness is also borne to it by God that it loves things that are noble,’ which is why the tent received

290 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals the name tabernacle of testimony (Leg. 2.54-55). Philo is convinced that in pitching his tent outside the camp, Moses is telling us, figuratively, that the ‘wise man [and woman] is but a pilgrim who travels from war to peace, and from the camp of mortality and confusion to the divine life of peace where strife is not, the life of reasonable and happy souls’ (Ebr. 100; see also Leg. 2.54-55).

5 Conclusion The linkage of Hebrews 13, indeed of the whole homily, to its central intertext in Exodus 32–34 lends the last chapter, including verses 9-16, its particular meaning. The actual problem of the examined pericope is wonderfully captured in Lucas van Leyden’s triptych, at that time as at the time of the audience: He who consumes meat sacrificed to idols has fallen away (Heb. 3.12) and takes part in idolatry; idolaters, however, whom the author calls ‘fornicators’ (12.16), are responsible for covenant breaking and for God turning away.29 Whoever seeks reconciliation with God, and that is exactly what the author calls for, goes to the ‘sacrificial altar’ of the suffering Jesus, as did those willing at the time. He or she goes to the somewhat different ‘table’ in the tent and the house of study. For there the repentant receives from the good teacher the right teaching, ‘solid food,’ as Heb. 5.12, 14 put it (see Graf 2016: 97–108), in order to obtain Jesus’s forgiveness (as he did from Moses at the time). Perhaps the author sees this virtual food related to a fast that might already have been practiced at Yom Kippur at that time.30 However, regardless of the virtual character of this food at the sacred time, a true and proper ‘communal meal’ nevertheless takes place in the outside. It creates identity, because the brothers and sisters committed to love are given not only reconciliation and fellowship (Heb. 13.1), but also a future, an unshakeable kingdom (Heb. 12.28). Already recognizable in this place, this makes spontaneous, spiritual (or sacrifice of) praise flow from willing mouths.

Notes 1 I am grateful to Dr. Mark Kyburz for proofreading this essay. 2 See, for instance, Lev. 17.7; Hos. 1.2; 4.10-19; 5.3-4; 6.10; 9.1; Heb. 12.16. 3 Oil on wood, 92 × 30–93,5 × 67–92 × 30 cm. For a good rendition and description of the picture, see the recent publication Die Bibel in Bildern: Meisterwerke der Malerei von Michelangelo bis Chagall von Gérard Denizeau (2016: 80–83). Among other useful websites, see http:​//www​.male​rei-m​eiste​rwerk​e.de/​bilde​r/luc​as-va​n-ley​den-t​anz-d​er-ju​ den-u​m-das​-gold​ene-k​alb-0​5441.​html.​ 4 Rabbinic homilies often draw parallels between the covenant breaking in Exodus 32–33 and the ‘covenant breaking’ avant la lettre in Genesis 2–3. See, for instance, Pesiq. Rab Kah. 15 (Wünsche 1993: 160); see also Pesiq. Rab Kah. 14 (Wünsche 1993: 154, 157–8), Pesiq. Rab Kah. 17 (Wünsche 1993: 183), and Pesiq. Rab Kah. 20 (Wünsche 1993: 200–1). Num. Rab. 14.19 (Wünsche 1993: 425–7) connects the paradisiacal fall not only with that at Sinai, but also with that at Kadesh-Barnea (Numbers 14), which is also the theme of Hebrews 3–4.

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5 The surprisingly understated figure of Moses contrasts starkly with the figures in the foreground, to whom the artist, eager to establish a diversity and abundance of colours, seems to have devoted his full attention (Denizeau 2016: 82). 6 Unlike βρῶμα, the lexeme βρῶσις usually means ‘eating as human activity’. Not here, however, where it is also best translated as ‘food’ (Balz 1.548-552, esp. 551). 7 The metaphorical usage of food and drink is widespread in Greco-Roman antiquity. Besides the writings of the New Testament, it is also widely documented in the Christian literature of Antiquity (Heilmann 2014: 193–4, notes 443 and 444). 8 See, for instance, Paul Ellingworth (1993: vi), who divides the chapter into Heb. 13.1–19 and Heb. 13.20-25. Quite similarly, Knut Backhaus (2009: 11) divides the second section into Heb. 13.20-21 and Heb. 13.22-25. 9 See, for instance, Attridge (1989: 384), who considers Heb. 13.7-19 to be the ‘central’ section preceded by Heb. 13.1-6 and followed by an epistolary ending in Heb. 13.2025. Quite differently, Craig R. Koester divides the chapter into Heb. 12.28–13.9, Heb. 13.10-21, and an epistolary postscript in Heb. 13.22-25 (2001: xi–xii). 10 See, for instance, Lane (1991: 502–5), who unlike Attridge divides the epistolary ending in Heb. 13.20-21 and Heb. 13.22-25 and considers Heb. 13.7-19 to be symmetrical in arrangement: an inclusion in Heb. 13.7-9 and 13.17-19, and parallels in Heb. 13.10 and 13.15-16 (A), in Heb. 13.11 and 13.14 (B), and in Heb. 13.12 and 13.13 (C). The same four-part structure is also followed by Erich Gräßer (1997: x). Martin Karrer, by further contrast, divides the chapter into Heb. 13.1-6, Heb. 13.7-17, Heb. 13.18-21, and Heb. 13.22-25 (2008: 9–10). 11 Exod. 30.10; Lev. 16.18, 34. 12 See m. Yoma 1.3; m. Mid. 1.3; see also m. Parah 3.6, which speaks of a ‘causeway’ connecting the temple with the Mount of Olives. 13 Exod. 27.13-16; 38.13-15. 14 Regarding the sin offering on the Day of Atonement, see Lev. 16.27; the other sin offerings must also be burned (Lev. 4.11–12.21). 15 Mk 14.32-42; Mt. 26.36-46; Lk. 22.39-46. 16 Mt. 27.33; Mk 15.22; J 19.17. 17 The technique of spatial overlapping and reinterpreting contemporary spaces by means of past spaces is not unique. It was also applied by other contemporary authors, particularly in view of establishing correlations between the desert camp and Jerusalem. Various texts from Qumran explicitly equate the tabernacle with the temple, the camp with Jerusalem, and outside the camp with the space outside Jerusalem. See, for instance, 4Q394 f3 7ii: 16–17 or 4Q397 f3.3. 18 See, for instance, Attridge (1989: 393–6); Lane (1991: 530–7); Ellingworth (1993: 705–8); Koester (2001: 560–1, 566–8); Gräßer (1997: 372–4); and Karrer (2008: 365–7). Until the 1990s, exegetes were convinced that Heb. 13.10 refers to the ­Christian Supper. For example, Søren Ruager believed that the altar referred to the Christian Supper table (1990: 72–7), while Michael Cahill argued that the author’s homily prepares his church members for the Lord’s Supper (1994: 141–8). 19 See, for instance, Heilmann (2014); Klinghardt (1996); Kobel (2011); Smith (2003); Warren (2015). 20 See, for instance, Attridge (1989: 396–7); Lane (1991: 537–9); Ellingworth (1993: 708–12); Isaacs (1997: 268–84); Koester (2001: 568–70); Gräßer (1997: 376–82); ­Karrer (2008: 367–9); and Backhaus (2009: 469–71). 21 See, for instance, Attridge (1989: 399); Lane (1991: 543–4); Ellingworth (1993: 712–14); Gelardini (2007: 371–2); Karrer (2008: 369–70); and Backhaus (2009: 471–4).

292 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 22 Whereas the first three occasions require animals to be killed inside the temple court and burned outside, the last one demands that animals be killed and burned outside the camp. 23 Given that Barn. 8.2 equates the red heifer with Jesus, an exclusion of this sacrifice as a textual reference does not come lightly. I dispense with this reference particularly because the sprinkling of the blood does not take place ‘inside’ the sanctuary (as Heb. 13.11 has it), but outside the camp and ‘towards’ the front of the tent (as Num. 19.4 has it). That the priest sprinkles the blood outside the camp is also supported by the Mishna (m. Parah 3.9). 24 Jesus is free of sin and hence needs no sin offering for himself (see, for instance, Heb. 4.15; 7.26). Further, he died to cleanse the people (see, for instance, 9–10). 25 See, for instance, Gelardini (2011: 225–4). Here I demonstrate that according to ancient commentators not only the corpses of Aaron’s sons in the tabernacle (Lev. 16.27) necessitated Yom Kippur, but also the corpses of the people in the camp that ceased because they worshipped the golden calf (Exodus 32). 26 As a human necessity, eating always takes place in certain rooms and, in some cases, in specific social contexts. It also involves another kind of space: the body as that place where food is ingested. In this context, I refer to a recently published essay of mine on the question of space in Hebrews 13 (Gelardini 2016: 210–37). 27 The citations from the various Targumim are from Targum Onkelos to Exodus (1990) and Targum Neofiti 1 and Targum Pseudo- Jonathan to Exodus (1994). 28 The citations from Philo’s work are from the Loeb Classical Library edition (trans. 1929–53). 29 However, the author’s main concern is not the food sacrificed to idols, as is central to Paul’s argument in 1 Cor. 8 and 10 (see, among others, Al-Suadi 2011, esp. 272–91). Rather, it is falling away from the living God, which leads to consuming the foods sacrificed to idols, as in the above intertext (see also Freidenreich 2011, esp. 101–9). 30 The relevant Torah passages about Yom Kippur do not mention fasting (Exod. 30.10; Lev. 16; 23.26-32; 25.9-10; and Num. 29.7-11), but speak of ‘humbling oneself ’ (Lev. 16.29, 31; 23.27, 29, 32; 29.7). The Mishnah clearly interprets this in mJom 8.1-6 as a fasting rule, alongside the Sabbath’s sanctification, quite comparable to today’s religious practice.

Bibliography Al-Suadi, S. (2011), Essen als Christusgläubige: Ritualtheoretische Exegese paulinischer Texte. TANZ 55, Tübingen: Francke. Attridge, H. W. (1989), Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews, Hermeneia: Philadelphia: Fortress. Backhaus, K. (2009), Der Hebräerbrief: Übersetzt und erklärt. RNT. Regensburg: Pustet. Balz, H. and G. Schneider, eds 1992. EWNT. 3. Bde. 2., verbesserte Auflage mit LiteraturNachträgen. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Cahill, M. (1994), ‘A Home for the Homily: An Approach to Hebrews’, ITQ 60 (2): 141–8. Denizeau, G. (2016), Die Bibel in Bildern: Meisterwerke der Malerei von Michelangelo bis Chagall, Darmstadt: WBG. Der Midrasch Bemidbar Rabba: Das ist die haggadische Auslegung des vierten Buches Mose (1993), Bibliotheca Rabbinica 4. Übersetzt von August Wünsche und bearbeitet von J. Fürst. Nachdruck von 1880, Hildesheim: Olms.

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Die Pesikta des Rab Kahana: Das ist die älteste in Palästina redigierte Haggada (1993), Bibliotheca Rabbinica 5. Übersetzt, eingeleitet und mit Noten versehen von August Wünsche. Nachdruck von 1880, Hildesheim: Olms. Ellingworth, P. (1993), The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Greek Text. NIGTC, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Freidenreich, D. M. (2011), Foreigners and Their Food: Constructing Otherness in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Law, Berkeley: University of California Press. Gelardini, G. (2007), ‘Verhärtet eure Herzen nicht’ : Der Hebräer, eine Synagogenhomilie zu Tischa be-Aw. BINS 83, Leiden: Brill. Gelardini, G. (2011), ‘The Inauguration of Yom Kippur According to the LXX and its Cessation or Perpetuation according to the Book of Hebrews: A Systematic Comparisonֺ’, in T. Hieke and T. Nicklas (eds), The Day of Atonement: Its Interpretations in Early Jewish and Christian Traditions, 225–54, TBN 15, Leiden: Brill. Gelardini, G. (2016), ‘Charting “Outside the Camp” with Edward W. Soja: Critical Spatiality and Hebrews 13’, Seiten in Hebrews in Contexts. Herausgegeben von Gabriella Gelardini und Harold W. Attridge. AJEC 91, 210–37, Leiden: Brill. Graf, F. (2016), ‘“You Have Become Dull of Hearing”: Hebrews 5:11 and the Rhetoric of Religious Entrepreneurs’, in G. Gelardini and H. W. Attridge, Hebrews in Contexts, 97–108. AJEC 91, Leiden: Brill. Gräßer, E. (1997), An die Hebräer (Hebr 10,19–13,25). EKK 17/3, Zurich; NeukirchenVluyn: Benziger; Neukirchener Verlag. Heilmann, J. (2014), Wein und Blut: Das Ende der Eucharistie im Johannesevangelium und dessen Konsequenzen. BWANT, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Isaacs, M. E. (1997), ‘Hebrew 13.9–16 Revisited’, NTS 43: 268–84. Karrer, M. (2008), Der Brief an die Hebräer: Kapitel 5,11–13,25. ÖTBK 20/2, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Klinghardt, M. 1996. Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfeiern. TANZ 13, Tübingen: Francke. Kobel, E. (2011), Dining with John: Communal Meals and Identity Formation in the Fourth Gospel and Its Historical and Cultural Context. BINS 109, Leiden: Brill. Koester, C. R. (2001), Hebrews: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. AB 36, New York: Doubleday. Lane, W. L. (1991). Hebrews 9–13. WBC 47b, Dallas: Word Books. Philo. 1929–1953. Translated by F. H. Colson and G. H. Whitaker. 12 vols. LCL. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Ruager, S. (1990), ‘“Wir haben einen Altar” (Hebr 13,10). Einige Überlegungen zum Thema: Gottesdienst/Abendmahl im Hebräerbrief ’, KD 36 (1): 72–7. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress. Targum Onkelos to Exodus (1990), translated by Israel Drazin and based on the Alexander Sperber and Abraham Berliner eds Hoboken, NJ: Ktav. Targum Neofiti 1 and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan to Exodus (1994), translated by Martin McNamara, Robert Wayward, and Michael Maher. Aramaic Bible 2, Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Warren, M. J. C. (2015), My Flesh is Meat Indeed: A Nonsacramental Reading of John 6:51–58, Minneapolis: Fortress.

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Food in Fourth Ezra Peter-Ben Smit

Introduction In 4 Ezra1 foodstuffs and their (non-)consumption are of considerable importance. Researching it is of relevance for a number of reasons. First, out of an interest in the literary (and theological) structure of 4 Ezra, a prominent topic such as this is worth researching. Second, the fact that that foodstuffs and their meaning were of high importance in the social world of Ezra, conveying a range of meanings, invites such research. Third, as foodstuffs and meals are closely related to what human beings need for their subsistence, studying them may shed light on the social context of 4 Ezra. In pursuing this topic, therefore, one studies more than just meals and foodstuffs, as they are related to the literary character of the work its theological position and its social world. With regard to the latter, it should be pointed out that 4 Ezra is understood here as a late Second Temple Period writing that seeks to respond to the theological crisis provoked by the destruction of Jerusalem. It does so in particular in interaction with traditions, such as the sapiental one (Hogan 2008: 35–40; Kerner 1998: 175–6; Esler 1994) that emphasized the sanctity and significance of Jerusalem (Hogan 2008: 35–40; Kerner 1998: 175–6; Esler 1994; see also the survey in Barclay 2015: 280–308). Much is unclear, however, for example Stone takes a very reluctant approach (Stone 1990: 9–11, 36–43, on 40: ‘We do not know how the book functioned and to whom it was directed’; cf. Kerner 1998: 174–5). Esler (1994) also sketches a general picture, arguing that the work was intended both to come to terms with the cognitive dissonance caused by the destruction of the Temple and to rally the people of Israel to once again unite around the Law. More specific positions also exist, Longenecker (1997: 271–93), for instead, has argued that the work ought to be located in the post-70 Yabneh community and to be understood as the result of scribal leadership (for a critique, see Hogan 2011: 222–7, suggesting that 4 Ezra should be seen as an ‘esoteric’ work). In addressing the topic at stake here, that is, the question of the significance of the frequent occurrence of foodstuffs and food-related symbolism in 4 Ezra, the following steps will be taken. First, an overview of significant aspects of meals, foodstuffs and food-related symbolism in the social world of 4 Ezra (focusing on such aspects that will be of relevance for the study of 4 Ezra) is provided. Second, an outline of the

298 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals occurrence of meals, foodstuffs and food-related symbolism in 4 Ezra is presented. Third, the various motifs emerging from this outline are discussed following the narrative sequence of 4 Ezra, which lead to final conclusions. Synchronic analysis will be dominant, therefore (for tradition-historical backgrounds, see Hogan 2011: 1–35; Stone 1990: 1–47). An excursus on 2 Baruch 29, a text close to 4 Ezra, in which imagery occurs that is in many ways similar to that in 4 Ezra has been included for the sake of completeness and contextualizing 4 Ezra.

1  Food, food symbolism and meals in the social world of 4 Ezra and in 4 Ezra In general, foodstuffs and their use are closely related to the following topics, as research in the sociology of (early Jewish and Christian) meals has shown: ll

ll

ll

Social relations are expressed through meal fellowship or lack thereof (e.g. due to fasting). Meals are expressive of the fabric of a society or a group within society (Smit 2008: 14–34, 83–96; Taussig 2009: 21–86; Stein 2008: 27–95). Foodstuffs function as identity markers (high/low status; ethnic identity etc.), or as markers of a mood or atmosphere. Their (non-)consumption, therefore, can be an effective way of characterizing a person, event or mood (Smit 2008: 95–6; Tomson 1999; Baumgarten 1998; Grimm 1996: 1–13). Particular foodstuffs are associated with particular events or places, their use aids discerning the relation of persons or places to, for example, deities, holiness or profanity (Smit 2008: 28–30; 94–5).

Both the actual use or non-use of foodstuffs and/or eating of meals and their social implications as well as their metaphorical use are therefore of importance for the analysis of 4 Ezra. When focusing on 4 Ezra itself, it appears that the foodstuffs and acts of eating and drinking occurring in this text may be organized in three main groups and a number of further, scattered remarks.2 In this contribution, the latter will not be discussed separately. The focus will be on the three main groups: (a) fasting and non-fasting; (b) the world to come and nutritional abundance; (c) the symbolic use of foodstuffs, especially in relation to ‘paradise’ and ‘righteousness’. In category ‘c’, special attention will be given to (1) the production and (2) the consumption of symbolic foodstuffs, as well as to (3) the issue of drinking. This also means that meal fellowship is not a topic of its own. This is striking: It simply only features negatively in 4 Ezra, as Ezra refrains from such fellowship. Before turning to these texts referring to foodstuffs themselves, a brief survey of some of the most important HB/LXX and early Jewish backgrounds to the use of foodstuffs will be given.

A. Fasting and non-fasting. Fasting and non-fasting as well as the progression from the one to the other plays is highly important in 4 Ezra. In early Judaism, fasting was prescribed only on the Day of Atonement (cf. Grimm 1996 14–33; Gerlitz

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1983). Yet, various (conventional) kinds of voluntary fasting existed as well, especially among penitential movements in early Judaism (e.g. the followers of John the Baptist, cf. Q 7.33), or among those dedicating themselves more intensely to the Law, such as the Pharisees (France 2002: 138; Guelich: 1989, 109, cf. Lk. 18.12). All of these continued conventions also occurring in the Hebrew Bible. For instance, fasting was called for in relation to repentance and confession (cf. 1 Kgs 2.21.27-29, Neh. 1.4.) – in other words, when forgiveness, atonement and healing were sought (see, e.g. Dan. 9.3, Ps. Sol. 3.6-8, and also Apoc. Elij. 1.21; for examples of penitential fasting, see further: Leviticus 16, 1 Kgs 21.27, Isaiah 58, and for mourning: see, e.g. Est. 4.3, 1 Sam. 21.13, Jdt. 8.6.). Fasting also occurred in the context of intense dedication (cf. Jos. As. 10.17 [with purifications]; 11.2.6.12.17; 13.1; 15.3; Ps. Sol. 3.8, Schenk 1997: 273–6). Yet a further occasion for fasting was supplicant prayer (cf. 2 Sam. 12.21-23; Ezra 8.23; Jon. 3.5–9LXX; Ps. Sol. 3.8-9, and the rabbinic examples given by Mell 1996: 18–19). Beyond this, the connection between mourning and fasting was quite self-explanatory. By contrast, joyful occasions, notably the celebration of a wedding, provided occasions on which fasting would be highly inappropriate. The introduction of elements of mourning into the Jewish wedding ritual following the destruction of the Temple was, therefore, an indication of deep shock and trauma (Zimmermann 2001: 285–6). B. The world to come and nutritional abundance. The ‘world to come’ was in the Mediterranean world, including the world of early Judaism, closely associated with a return to paradisiacal conditions of natural fertility and nutritional abundance. In the Hebrew Bible, such abundance also occurs frequently in connection with the (eschatologically connoted) return from the exile3 or with blessings following Israel’s repentance (Steffen 2001: 47–8). Repentance, adhering to the Law, the (renewed) reception of divine favour cohere, therefore, with the restoration of creation.4 Examples include Isa. 49.10, while the invitation in Isa. 55.1-2 functions along similar lines, as does Isaiah 65 (esp. 13-14). In Ezek. 36.21-38, the restored Israel is even explicitly compared with the garden of Eden (cf. Ezek. 36.35). The motif also appears in Zech. 9.17, while that prophet also testifies to the same dynamic that could be observed for Isaiah and Ezekiel (1.17, 3.8-10, 8.11–12.19, 9.15-17, 10.1; Steffen 2001: 65–6). Also, in the Psalms nutritional abundance is a sign of the divine rule (see, e.g. Ps. 22.27). In this context, the connection between a divine shepherd or divinely appointed shepherd-king and the provision of nutrition for his flock is of significance (cf. also Ezek. 34.23-31, and see esp. Ps. 23.1–3.5). As early Jewish texts, also early Christian texts can be considered as part of 4 Ezra’s context. In them, the nutritional abundance is linked to the eschaton frequently (cf. Q 6.21a [Lk. 6.21a/Mt. 5.6]; Jn 4.13-14, 6.35; Rev. 7.16-17 and 21.6). ‘Paradise’ is identified by means of symbolic foodstuffs in the Apocalypse of John (tree of life, water of life and the hidden manna, cf. Revelation 21–22). Also, the gift miracles in Mk 6.32-44parr. and Mk 8.1-10par. (with Jn 6.1-15), Lk. 5.1-11, Jn 2.1-11 and 21.1-14 focus on the theme of nutritional abundance, which is in John. also the background of the water of life discourse in Jn 4.1-42 and the bread of life discourse in Jn 6.22-59. Finally, references to nutritional abundance in the

300 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals eschaton are found in many non-canonical texts, including: 1 En. 10.18-19 and 2 Bar. 29.5-7 (cf. also Irenaeus’s quotation of Papias in Haer. 5.33.3-4). A similar notion is found in Sib. Or. 3.619-623, which describes the state of affairs after the judgement on the nations (Steffen 2001: 68–70). Ap. El. 1.9 (probably drawing on Rev. 3.12, 7.3.16, 14.1) stands in the same tradition. Among the Dead Sea scrolls, 4QpPs 37 2.10-11, 11Q13, 4Q521 5 ii 5–13 are of relevance. C. The symbolic use of foodstuffs, in particular as identifiers of paradisaical situations and righteousness. A number of foodstuffs have roles that go beyond the nutritional or the social only; their significance is primarily symbolic. Of such foodstuffs, the tree of life and its fruit are particularly prominent in 4 Ezra. The tree of life, part of the paradisiacal garden (cf. Genesis 2–3, see Ezek. 31.2-9), belongs to a wide field of ANE tree-symbolism (Schroer 1995). The expression ‘tree of life’ occurs in the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament in Gen. 2.9, 3.22-24 and Prov. 3.18, 11.30, 13.12, 15.4, though only in Genesis eating from (the fruits of) this tree is in view. None of these instances is clearly eschatological, even though Genesis 2–3 contains protological utopian thought. In the New Testament, the Apocalypse of John contains four references to this motif (Rev. 2.7, 22.2.14.19; cf. Aune 1997: 151–4 for the tradition history). Here, they function as an eschatological reward for the faithful. It indicates partaking in the blessings of the eschatological paradisiac garden, that is, the heavenly Jerusalem. In the noncanonical literature apart from 4 Ezra, the motif occurs frequently in the context of eschatological expectations. For instance, 1 En. 25.4-5 and 3 En. 23.18 refer to eating from the tree of life as part of the eschatological reward for the righteous. Test. Lev. 18.11 (even if a Christian interpolation, cf. Aune 1997: 152), Test. Jac. 7.23-24, Ap. Mos. 28.4, and Ap. El. 5.6 use similar imagery. In other imagery, the tree of life and the Torah are equated. This is of interest for the interpretation of 4 Ezra, especially as both of them could be considered as eschatological entities and as part of the contents of ‘paradise’. (Aune 1997: 153–4, compare 4 Macc. 18.16 and Prov. 3.18). 4 Ezra offers an interesting combination of the notions of the tree of life (c.q. Torah) in the world to come and the bringing forth of the fruits of the law (c.q. of the tree of life) in Ezra’s day and age.5 With this broad background in mind, this paper will explore how the use of foodstuffs and (non-)eating and drinking function in 4 Ezra. Attention will be given to their relation to the role of Ezra and to the insight that the work seeks to communicate (see Stone 1990; Schreiner 1981: 291–309; Hogan 2008: 1–35, esp. 35–40; Kerner 1998: 6–32).

2  Foodstuffs, eating and drinking in 4 Ezra 2.1  Fasting and non-fasting Fasting is very closely related to the progression of 4 Ezra, which is dominated by a sequence of seven visions (1) 3.1–5.20a, 2) 5.20b–6.34, 3) 6.35–9.25, 4) 9.26–10.59, 5)

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11.1–12.51, 6) 13.1–13.58, 7) 14.1–14.49, cf. Stone 1990: 50–1). The beginnings of most visions and dreams are related to fasting or other food-related behaviour on the part of Ezra. In addition, the fourth vision, a turning point in the work, contains an encounter between Ezra and a mourning and fasting woman. Furthermore, the progression in divine-human communication, from dreams, to visions, to speaking wisdom in the final episode of the work, is closely matched by a development from fasting, to the eating of flowers, to the drinking of a fiery liquid. The first vision, which is concerned with God’s justice,6 is not explicitly introduced with a reference to fasting. In fact, the topic is only mentioned in 5.20 for the first time, but a remark in 6.35 about Ezra’s fasting for three weeks suggests that Ezra had been fasting during the entire first vision and some time before that as well. This would also fit Ezra’s mood during this vision, which is described as ‘troubled’ in 3.1. The second vision is more concerned with God’s handling of justice (i.e. with how God treats Israel in this world) than with God’s (ultimate) justice as such.7 It is introduced by means of a section on fasting. In 5.20, Ezra fasts in preparation of his second vision (Schreiner, 1981: 326, cf. 2 Bar. 9.2, 12.5, and 21.1; Henze 2011: 133), or rather, for his second time of addressing God (Stone 1990: 118–19). Ezra’s fasting here probably has multiple and complementary functions and meanings. Ezra fasts on the angel Uriel’s command (5.13) and sends away the ‘chief of the people’ Paltiel, who wanted him to eat after the trying first vision (see 5.14–15; for Paltiel, see 5.16–20a), in 5.19. This fast lasts seven days and Ezra completes it with mourning and weeping (5.20b). All of this sheds light on the meaning of this fast. First, solitary fasting functions as a means of dedicating oneself to God and to communication with God; second, fasting also is an expression of mourning, here likely due to the destruction of Zion/Jerusalem (see 5.23–30); finally, fasting can be an expression of penitence, which would suit Ezra’s mood here as well. Given Ezra’s visionary experiences following his fasting, this fasting may also be associated with ascetic techniques to induce visions (see Henze 2011: 133, compare: Exod. 34.28, Deut. 9.9, Dan. 9.3, 10.2-3, Asc. Isa. 2.1011, Apoc. Abr. 9.7, 12.2, 3 Bar. 3.14. See further Rowland 1982, 228–9; Diamond 2004: 97). As a result of his fast, Ezra receives the spirit of understanding and addresses God again (5.22). Also the third (and longest) vision is preceded by intense fasting; the introduction is very similar to that of the second vision and the distress of Ezra’s soul prompts him to speak in the presence of the ‘Most High’8 (6.35). In the same verse, the reference to three weeks of fasting that had been prescribed by Ezra (although it is unclear by whom and when) ties together the first three visions and fasting, given that Ezra will change his behaviour from now on as this period is now completed. The transition from the third to the fourth vision is again characterized by foodrelated behaviour. Unlike in the previous two transitions, this time Ezra is specifically instructed not to fast, but to go out into a field and to feed himself with flowers for a week. The purpose of these flowers is not explicated, but the further context of 4 Ezra does provide some clues. To begin with, in 6.44 flowers are mentioned as part of the contents of the primordial garden.9 Furthermore, Ezra can also be seen as to participate in the paradise to come (or to be revealed), given that the future Zion is revealed precisely in the field where Ezra is eating his flowers in 10.53-54 (Moo

302 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 2011 146–8). From this point onwards, the apocalypse continues on a lighter tone; mourning, fasting and penitence have disappeared, only abstinence from rich food (meat and wine, 9.24) remains. Ezra does as instructed in 9.26: ‘I sat among the flowers and ate of the plants of the field, and the nourishment they afforded satisfied me.’ Having eaten these flowers, Ezra’s mouth is opened and he again addresses God. This time without any signs of distress prompting or accompanying him. During the fourth vision, Ezra encounters a woman mourning her only son. He, given to her in her old age, has been taken from her on his wedding day (9.47; the reference to the wedding feast also implies meal fellowship). The woman is fasting because of her grief and intends to do so till she will die (10.4);10 Ezra chastises her, telling her that her own loss (of the ‘fruit of her womb’) is nothing compared to that of Jerusalem, and that what has happened is according to the way of the earth, that is, the earth has always given its fruit, human beings, to God (10.14). Ezra reassures the woman that she will receive back her son in due time (10.16). This conversation with the woman, however, receives a rather unexpected twist towards the end of this vision. All of a sudden, the woman is transformed into (a vision of) the heavenly Jerusalem and, because of his sincere concern for Jerusalem, Ezra is told that the fate of the woman was in fact the personified fate of Jerusalem (see also the eschatological city mentioned in 8.52). In many ways, this encounter constitutes a major, if not the major turning point of 4 Ezra, as Ezra himself now begins to be consoled and to understand God’s view of things (Hogan 2008: 162–73; Longenecker 1991: 149–57 [soteriological questions]). The shift from the fourth to the fifth vision occurs without explicit reference to food or fasting. However, there is no indication that Ezra changes his diet, therefore he receives his fifth vision while sleeping after his first week of his flowers-only diet (see 11.1, the field with the flowers is mentioned just before, in 10.53), and the sixth vision (or rather: dream) is introduced again by a reference to Ezra’s diet of flowers (12.51). This changes, however, in the seventh and last vision, in which Ezra is commanded to go out into the field again, taking scribes and supplies for the writing of books with him, in order to dictate public and secret books. Ezra is prepared for his dictation as follows: And it came to pass, on the next day, behold, a voice called me, saying ‘Ezra, open your mouth and drink what I give you to drink’. Then I opened my mouth, and behold, a full cup was offered to me; it was full of something like water, but its color was like fire. And I took it and drank; and when I had drunk it, my heart poured forth understanding, and wisdom increased in my breast, and my spirit retained its memory; and my mouth was opened and no longer closed. (14.37-41; Stone 1990: 437, see also 440 and Hogan 2008: 214–17 [motif and tradition history])

On the basis of the above survey of (not) eating and drinking in relation to Ezra’s visions, dreams and his speaking of wisdom, the following may be concluded. First, it can be concluded that Ezra’s fasting, eating and eventual drinking is directly related to the structure of 4 Ezra. Time and again, fasting or eating introduces the visions and the speaking of wisdom.

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Second, the distinct forms of food-related behaviour also agree with particular communications from on high that Ezra receives: as long as Ezra fasts, he receives visions; as soon as he eats flowers, he receives dreams; and as soon he drinks a fiery liquid, he speaks wisdom. What Ezra does or does not eat is directly related to the kind of communication that he receives. Third, the progression from fasting and visions, to eating flowers and dreams, to drinking a fiery liquid and speaking wisdom agrees with and is expressive of Ezra’s own development. He moves from not understanding God, to being initiated into God’s view of things, to acting as an active proponent of these views. From disagreement, mourning and fasting, Ezra moves to agreement and eating and drinking.11 Fourth, given the significance of fasting and eating and drinking, the development that was just identified, signifies a movement from death to life. Quite in line with this is the encounter between Ezra and the woman/Jerusalem in chapters 9–10, where Ezra’s active exposition of what he has learned so far also produces a change in the woman, who changes from being someone who is intent on fasting until death into a heavenly city. The author of 4 Ezra can, therefore, be assumed to be familiar with the social significance of fasting, both in relation to communication with the divine, in relation to penance and in relation to mourning.

2.2  The world to come and nutritional abundance Also the association of ‘paradise’ or the world to come with an abundance of foodstuffs will be considered. In this context, also a parallel text will be discussed, 2 Baruch 29. To begin with, in 6.44 the abundance of fruit of the primordial garden is stressed, in 7.123 this is also mentioned as a characteristic of the world to come. The context of 6.44 is an account of the creation of the world, where on the third day ‘immediately fruit came forth in endless abundance and of varied appeal to the taste, and flowers of inimitable color, and odors of inexpressible fragrance’ (see Gen. 1.11-12; cf. Stone 1990: 178; Whitney 2006: 35–8). All but the Latin textual traditions add a reference to trees here as well (Schreiner 1981: 339). The appearance of fruits here is of interest, given that it reminds us of fruits that were mentioned earlier. Apart from the fruit of the seed of evil (4.30-31), these were fruits of righteousness, belonging to the redeemed and renewed world to come (3.20, 6.28). In 6.44, the notion of ‘fruit’ is in addition associated with ‘paradise’. In 7.123, paradise, the age to come and fruits are brought together, given that Ezra describes the following place: ‘a paradise …, whose fruit does not spoil and in which are abundance and healing’,12 which qualifies the age to come. The three aspects of the notion of fruit, that is its relation to paradise, its abundance and its connection with the world to come are now combined in one comprehensive image that also conceptualizes the world to come as a ‘return to paradise’. Albeit without an explicit reference to fruits, this combination returns in 8.52. There, paradise is presented as being accessible to the humbled and righteous, the tree of life is planted there for them, and ‘plenty is provided’.13 Also, a ‘city’ is referred to in this context, which probably refers to the heavenly (or eschatological) Jerusalem.

304 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals This survey of eschatological abundance in 4 Ezra also gives reason to consider a close parallel in some details: 2 Baruch 29.

2.2.1  Excursus: 2 Baruch and the food of the Messianic Age 2 (Syriac) Baruch 29 contains rich food imagery in an eschatological context. In a concentration of imagery that reminds one of 4 Ezra 6.44-52 (cf. 1.19 for the manna), the text features the slaughter of Leviathan and Behemoth, a superabundantly fertile creation, the end of hunger, the smell of fruit, as well as the revelation of a treasure of manna. All of these elements belong to the repertoire of early Jewish apocalypticism and their concentration in 2 Bar. 29.4-8 prompts the question as to their meaning and function here. This excursus considers the elements found in this text and seeks to relate them to the message of 2 Baruch and to its social setting. In doing so, the current study goes beyond Lied’s proposal that the effect of the combination of these various foodstuffs is primarily ‘a concentration of the most nutritious elements of Creation’ (Lied 2008: 216). 2 Baruch is to be dated in the first half of the second century, and therefore (roughly) contemporary 4 Ezra – the (historical) relations between these texts are complicated and will not be a primary concern here (cf. recently: Henze 2012). Consisting of a series visions, their explanation and finally Baruch’s letter, it is clear that 2 Baruch is drawing on traditional material, much of which also occurs in 4 Ezra, which could suggest a direct literary dependence. However, the option that both are drawing on the same, freely available, traditions should not be excluded either. Although the genre of the apocalypse might suggest a ‘sectarian’ context, most scholars locate the work in mainstream Judaism (cf., e.g. Klijn 1983; Collins 1989: 178–80; Stone and Henze 2013). Nir’s proposal that it is essentially a Christian work still has to win the day (Nir 2003: 1–15). The author or compiler of the work, ‘Baruch’, addresses ‘out of the historical window’ his own hearers, and calls, above all, for obedience to the Torah. The work suggests a strong dependence of the hearers, resp. readers of the work on ‘Baruch’, which suggests a social structure of the group not dissimilar to that of the followers of the early rabbis (or Jesus and John the Baptist; cf. Hezser 1997: 324–6). About the social status of the author, little can be said beyond stating that (s/)he was a critical thinker with an exceptionally creative mind, an accomplished writer, well versed in the Jewish Bible, nonpartisan, and intimately familiar with a wide range of early Jewish traditions, of which he made careful and deliberate use in composing his own work. (Henze 2011: 32–3)

For understanding the work, it is essential to note that the sage and the audience involved were part of an early Jewish society, which was in need of religious, social and political reorientation after the destruction of the temple in CE 70 (cf. Henze 2011: 10–13, 187–252). Accordingly, the community that received this work was all too familiar with the horrors of war and its aftermath (Leemhuis, Klijn and Van Gelder 1986: 617). Apart from direct physical violence, hunger must have characterized this period (cf. Josephus, Bell. 6.3.3).

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When considering the announcements of Baruch’s fasts (9.1-2, 12.5, 21.1, 47.1-12), the introduction to the vision (35-46) in 36.1 and the beginning of the letter to the nine and a half tribes (78.1) as literary markers (cf. Klijn 1976: 118–19, cf Dénis 2000: 725–7; Collins 1989: 170–1), 2 Baruch 29 is situated in the fourth of the seven parts of the work (21.2–34.1). The section itself can be structured as follows. 21.1, describing Baruch’s fast of seven days, constitutes the introduction, which is followed by a prayer (21.2-26) of Baruch that initiates a dialogue between Baruch and a heavenly voice (22.1–30.5), in which various elements of the ‘latter days’ are spelled out to Baruch (22.1–23.1 the logic of the end; 23.1–24.2 prediction of the end; 24.3–28.1 signs of the end; 29.1-8 the era of the Messiah; 30.1-5 the time after the glorification of the Messiah; 31.1-34.1 Baruch’s address to the people that intends to leave [32.8a]; the protest of the people [32.8b–33.3]; Baruch’s promise to return [34.1]). Thus, 2 Baruch 29 occupies itself with the beginning of the ‘Messianic Age’ (cf. Henze 2011: 296). 2 Baruch 29 itself can be structured as follows: 29.1-2 belong partly to the previous chapter and answer Baruch’s question in 28.7 of whether the signs mentioned in 2 Baruch 28 will concern the whole world or only part of it. V. 3 introduces the rest of the chapter by saying that the Messiah will begin to reveal himself. Vv. 4-8 introduce phenomena that accompany the revelation of the Messiah: v. 5: the release and consumption of Behemoth and Leviathan; v. 6: the superabundant fertility of the earth, specifically of the vine; v. 7: the enjoyment of the hungry, the smell of fruits, a healing dew; v. 8: a treasure of manna. The pericope is separated from the next section by 30.1, where the next series events described in 29 is introduced (the glorification of the Messiah and a resurrection). With this background, it is possible to consider the list of eschatological imagery as it appears in 2 Bar. 29.4-8 in more detail. First, the occurrence of Behemoth and Leviathan deserves attention. The notion of the two primordial monsters (or ‘dragons’, cf. Lied 2008: 213) being turned into food for the redeemed in the world to come is a notion that has roots in texts such as Ps. 74.12-14 and 104.26-27, while texts like Gen. 1.21 explicitly identify sea monsters as part of creation, a notion that appears in a more elaborated form in Job 40.15–41.1. The same occurs in other early Jewish texts, such as 1 En 60.7-8, Apoc. Ab. 21.4, and 4 Ezra 6.49-52, as well as in a number of Rabbinic Texts and in Rev. 13.1-18 (cf. Lied 2008: 213; Lietaert Peerbolte 1996; Whitney 2006). The monsters’ being served up for the redeemed also occurs elsewhere (cf. 1 En. 60.7-8; 4 Ezra 6.52). The primary purpose of Leviathan and Behemoth in 2 Bar. 29.4 is to serve as food for the redeemed, yet it may be asked whether their significance has been exhausted with that. When the two are interpreted as monsters and when reading them at the background of similar texts that emphasize God’s control over these powerful creatures and when noting the political slant of parallel texts such as Rev. 13.1-18 (cf. Lietaert Peerbolte 1996; see also Whitney 2006), while taking into account the post-war context of 2 Bar., Leviathan and Behemoth may well fulfil a role as symbolic representatives for (doomed) ungodly powers at large. Second, the superabundant fertility of 2 Bar. 29.5-6 needs to be considered. Such abundance is a stock motif from apocalyptic literature (cf. Lied 2008: 214–15). In 2 Bar. 29.5-6 the focus is on the vine, whose remarkable fertility may be intended pars pro toto for the earth’s fertility at large. Still, the reference to the production of wine facilitates

306 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals a link between fertility and joy, in particular that of those who have hungered. Such rejoicing in connection with wine is in Israel’s Scriptures and early Jewish traditions a common eschatological theme, while it was also closely related to the socio-economic realities at hand (cf. for instance: Isa. 49.10.13, Ezek. 34.29, 39.17-10, Pss. 17.14-15, 37.19, 132.15 (22.26, 78.29, 104.27-8, 105.40, 147.10, Tob 12.9, as well as Lk. 6.21)). The fertility of the land is a typical characteristic of the rule of a righteous king in harmony with the deity, as Lied puts it: ‘The Messianic era brings men and women back to their original state by annulling the consequences of Adam’s transgression during the first, black, waters. 2 Baruch’s Messianic Era thus reasserts the original, righteous, order’ (Lied 2008: 221). To such harmony also liberation from enemies belongs. Accordingly, similar imagery occurs in apocalyptic literature in order to describe paradise as it was and as it will be (cf. 1 En. 10.18-19, 4 Ezra 6.44; Apc. 22.2; see also Irenaus’s quotation of Papias in Adv. Haer. 5.33.3-4). Third, the smell of divine fruits and the healing dew is of interest (2 Bar. 29.7). The former is brought to the redeemed from the presence of the deity, the latter by clouds. Such smells are relatively common in early Jewish literature (cf. Kügler 2000b: 111–13). Their roots are to be found in a preoccupation with smells in Hellenistic, specifically Egyptian culture, which was, partially through wisdom traditions, imported into the youngest parts of Israel’s Scriptures and into extra-canonical writings (cf. Kügler 2000a, b). While the pleasing smell of aromatic fruits is not a foodstuff as such, it does connect the presence of the deity, which is communicated by this fragrance, with the renewal of creation. The notion of healing dew probably originates in Isa. 26.19 and has parallels in Od. Sol. 35.1.5, 36.7, as well as in rabbinic thinking, where dew fulfils an eschatological role, and can, to a certain extent (together with rain), even be seen as an agent of resurrection. Also, manna could be seen as having dew-like properties (Ex. 16.14), which may provide a connection between the dew and the manna in 2 Bar. 29.8 (see also 3 Bar. 6.11, cf.: Lied 2008: 216; Kern-Ulmer 1995; Humbert 1957). In relation to smell and dew, Lied has proposed that they may well be expressive of eschatological recreation (Lied 2008: 217–21). Fruit-bearing trees were created on the third day (Gen. 1.29) and according to Jub. 2.7 dew was created on that day too. In the LAB 32.8, the fragrance of fruits, as it occurs in a similar way in 2 Bar. 29.6, is equally related to the garden, while 1 En. 25.4 refers to a fragrant tree in the garden. This may be further supported by the fact that on the fifth day, the sea monsters were created that return in 2 Bar. 29.4, while manna was in later Jewish traditions understood to have been created on the first Sabbath eve. All of this taken together suggests ‘recreation’ in a very literal sense (Lied 2008: 219). Fourth, the treasure of manna mentioned in 2 Bar. 29.8 is to be discussed. In both early Jewish sources and early Christian texts, the notion of the revelation of hidden manna occurs frequently (cf., e.g. Syb. Or. 7.149, Hist. Rech. 13.2, Gen. Rab. 82.8 (on Gen. 35.17), Num. Rab. 11.2 (on Num. 6.22), and QohRab 1.9, see Aune 1997: 189; Dumoulin 1994: 41–164; Maline 1968). Rev. 2.17 and 2 Bar. 29.8 seem to be some of the oldest instances of this tradition. While manna is obviously a foodstuff, and 2 Bar. 29.8 likely indicates that it is part of the diet of the redeemed, there are a number of other associations and backgrounds that need to be taken into account as well (cf. esp.

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Aune 1997: 189). Notably, the association of manna with God’s provision for his people is of importance, given the connection with the Exodus. In relation to this, it is very possible that the eschatological manna evokes the notion of an eschatological Exodus. Then, there are texts that refer to the eschatological revelation of the manna that used to be kept in the Temple. Manna as an expression of eschatological divine care and the association with an Exodus-like redemption seem to be the most plausible additional dimensions of the manna in 2 Bar. 29.8, given the lack of emphasis on a temple in the text. Thus, the manna is both part of the diet of the redeemed (Lied 2008: 216), as well as a foodstuff that helps to interpret the situation of the redeemed in terms of being liberated and divinely cared for. On this basis, the following can be noted regarding the question of eschatological foodstuffs and the message of 2 Baruch can be addressed. To begin with, 2 Baruch 29 looks most like a collage of six different themes, which all refer to a blissful millennium, at least four of which refer to an eschatological meal, feeding or eating. At the same time, echoes of creation and redemption narratives occur. One might argue therefore, that the picture in 2 Baruch 29 is, generally speaking, that of paradise restored and that this restoration is conceptualized as a redemptive event. Such redemption has dimensions that are theological (God rules) and therefore political (ungodly enemies are destroyed) as well as social (food and healing are provided for all). All of this may well speak to the traumatized Jewish community following the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE.

2.3  The symbolic use of foodstuffs Returning to 4 Ezra and when considering the category of symbolic foodstuffs, a distinction can be made between the production and the consumption of symbolic foodstuffs. The issue of drinking is given separate attention as well, as it leads to questions and literary connections of its own.

2.3.1  The production of symbolic foodstuffs How are symbolic foodstuffs produced in 4 Ezra? A first foodstuff, a fruit, is mentioned in the context of the first vision, in 3.20. Here, God is accused of not removing the evil heart from the people of Israel, enabling the law to bring forth fruit in them (cf. also 3.33, 4.30, 6.28, and 8.6 – see Stone 1990: 73 and Burkes 2003: 194–6). The reverse image occurs in 4 Ezra 9.31: ‘I will sow my law in you, and it shall bring forth fruit in you, and you shall be glorified through it forever’ (Stone 1990: 73; Schreiner 1981: 374, see also 2 Bar. 32.1). This expression is likely connected to further imagery of foodstuffs and eating and may also be connected to the reference to a ‘garden’ in 3.6 (or with Schreiner 1981: 312: ‘Paradies’ – cf. Tigchelaar 1999). In other words: The metaphor used here is likely related to the tree of life that is planted in paradise and provides life eternal for those who have access to it (4 Ezra 7.13, 7.123, and 8.52). At the same time, references to wisdom, compared to a tree of life, were interpreted in terms of the Torah (e.g. Prov. 3.18, see also 11.30) in early Judaism. Also in Sir 24.12-17 paradise imagery occurs in relation to wisdom, which is related to eating the fruits of wisdom in Sir. 24.19. These connections also form the background to 4 Ezra 3.20

308 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals (cf. Stone 1990: 73). Thus, 3.20 relates keeping the Torah to having the seed of the law (because tree of life = Torah) sown into someone (or into the people of Israel), which will result in bringing forth the fruit of the law (cf. Stone 1990: 73, 123, 198–9, 259, 266, 286 and Bachmann 2009). In 3.33, the bringing forth of fruit occurs once more, as Ezra states that there has been no reward for the faithfulness and labours of Israel.14 In 3.56 Ezra reiterates this question, noting that the nations have abundance – possibly also including an abundance of food – while Israel goes empty-handed (Burkes 2003: 194–6). The relation of this world and the world to come is expressed in terms of fruits in 4.31, where Uriel dwells at length on the seeds of evil that produce evil fruits (humans). Such fruit will be ‘harvested’ in the eschaton, as Uriel points out. Even if the angel says this with so many words, it is likely that bringing forth fruit of evil on earth is fruitless in the world to come. At the same time, it is indicated that the clearing away of the evil growths will make space for good seeds to grow (see 3.28-29), both in the world as such as well as in the hearts of the human beings involved.15 This also includes the clearing away of the evil from the hearts and minds of those in whom the good seed had taken root already (Stone 1990: 94–5). The imagery of seeds and the fruit that they (eventually) bring, returns in the second vision, specifically in a section that outlines details of the eschatological judgement: It shall come to pass that whoever remains after all that I have foretold to you shall himself be saved and shall see my salvation and the end of my world. And they shall see the men who were taken up, who from their birth have not tasted death; and the hearts of the earth’s inhabitants shall be changed and converted to a different spirit. For evil shall be blotted out and deceit shall be quenched; faithfulness shall flourish, and corruption shall be overcome, and the truth shall be revealed, which has been so long without fruit. (6.25–28; Stone 1990: 163; Schreiner 1981: 337 notes that the ‘truth’ that is referred to here is probably synonymous with the Law)

This text unpacks what was already suggested in the first vision: even if the truth, or the law (and adhering to it), seems to be fruitless in the present age, in the end, divine intervention will cause it to bring forth fruit and stand vindicated. The image of the fruit and its production is taken up next in 8.6, this time in a petition in which Ezra asks God for such seed in his heart that it may produce fruit ‘by which every mortal who bears the likeness of a human being may be able to live’. This image may be understood as a request for the seed of the law/Torah in the heart of Ezra (Stone 1990: 266; Burkes 2001). In 8.41, the same theme occurs, now with references to sowing, growing and harvesting, a motif that recurs in 9.17-21. As noted above, in 8.52 paradise and the tree of life occur, as well as a reference to ‘plenty’ for the righteous in the age to come. Subsequently, one of the first things that Ezra says in his address to God from 9.29 onwards is that God indeed has sown the Law in Israel and that it will bring fruit in them, even if ‘our fathers’ did not keep the Law. Ezra’s (new) confidence is based on

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the observation that the Law and its fruit are God’s; therefore, they are indestructible (9.31). This is expounded upon with an analogy involving food and drink (9.34). Ezra states that when you put one thing into the other, the thing that is inserted into the other is usually destroyed (or digested). However, not so with the Law, given that it remains, even when its receptacle(s) perish(es) (9.37). Finally, in the fifth vision (i.e. second dream), the production of a foodstuff occurs in 11.42, where the (righteous) inhabitants of Jerusalem are referred to as ‘those who brought forth fruit’.16

2.3.2  The consumption of symbolic foodstuffs Next, the consumption of symbolic foodstuffs may now be addressed. Apart from Ezra’s flowers-only diet and the fiery liquid that have already been addressed in the discussion of Ezra’s developing diet above, this topic occurs in two instances in particular. First, the consumption of foodstuffs associated with paradise is of interest. Relevant passages include the following. In 6.44, an abundance of savoury fruit in the original creation is mentioned (cf. also in 7.123, imperishable fruits in paradise, but no consumption); in 8.52 the tree of life and the provision of plenty are mentioned together. Furthermore, a fruit occurs in 7.13: The fruit of immortality (Ethiopian version: ‘of life’, cf. Schreiner 1981: 343) is described as being provided by the entrances of the world to come. Second, in the section on the creation of the world in 6.38-55, a note on Leviathan and Behemoth occurs (6.49-52). They are described as creatures who have been preserved ‘to be eaten by whom thou wilt, and when thou wilt’ (6.52). This statement fits the general drift of this creation narrative: ‘the world is created by God for the good of humanity’ (Whitney 2006: 33). In fact, the remark about Leviathan and Behemoth is an expansion of the note in Gen. 1.21 about the creation of the ‘sea monsters’ (Whitney 2006: 34). Those who will consume these monsters are the righteous in the eschaton, who thus participate in the destruction of these monsters and are themselves nourished in the process (Stone 1990: 188; Whitney 2006: 38 and in general 31–153). There is more to the motif of these animals, however: It hints at the promise of eschatological blessings for the faithful remnant of Israel and offers the assurance that those blessing are part of the divine plan written in creation. For this reason 6:49–52 serves the author of 4 Ezra quite well. It functions as a microcosm of the second vision. On the one hand, the power of God over the monsters stands in contrast to his present inaction against Israel’s oppressors. On the other, the preservation of the two beasts for the righteous heightens the tension of the moment by offering a cryptic hint of that tension’s eventual solution. It suggests the impatience and frustration of the seer’s community in the face of what it perceives to be God’s inactivity in its present moment of crisis. It also points to the seer’s answer to that impatience and frustration, his reassertion of God’s eventual resolution of the crisis, through the defeat of Leviathan and Behemoth, a defeat which will actually lead to the very nourishment of God’s people. (Whitney 2006: 38)

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2.3.2.1  The coherence of the production of fruits in 4 Ezra In 4 Ezra, ‘fruits’ are used in a number of images and metaphors. What is their coherence, however? First, there is the fruit brought forth by those keeping the Law (3.20; 8.6, see also 8.10.41; 9.31-32; 11.42) and, conversely, the fruits of those who do evil (4.31). In both cases, fruits are being brought forth due to something that has been sown into the heart of human beings (the Law or an evil inclination, cf. also 3.33 with the lack of fruits for Israel, these fruits turn out to be eschatological, cf. 6.28). All of these fruits are related to other fruits, specifically to those that grow in the garden (sc. Paradise). Both the primordial garden (6.44, see also 3.6) and its eschatological counterpart contain fruitful trees, the latter specifically the tree of life (7.123, 8.52); it consequently has the fruit of immortality (7.13).17 The tree of life can also be an image for the Law. While it would go too far to press all these images into one coherent metaphor,18 the conceptual background of all of this is the (early Jewish) comparison of the Torah to a tree of life (Stone 1990: 73, 123, 198–9, 259, 266, 286). Sowing the good seed of the law into one’s heart (see 8.6, comp. 4.30-31) leads to bringing forth the fruit of the law (= tree of life), which also enables access to the place where the tree of life grows: paradise. Ezra’s view of the possibility of this happening develops from a rather gloomy one to a more confident one in the course of the apocalypse. In this context, it should be noted that the imagery of the ‘fruit of the law’ or the ‘fruit of the tree of life’ is not focused to the consumption of this foodstuff. Rather, this particular fruit is related to ‘fertility’ on the part of those bringing it forth and it functions also as a way of identifying the primordial garden and relating it to the ‘fertility’, that is, righteousness, of the people of Israel. Thus, 4 Ezra combines the notion of the tree of life and its (assumed) equation with the Torah in an elegant way with the notion of the law being sown into people and bringing fruit. Even though this combination does not lead to a completely coherent metaphor, it still seems to be a compelling literary feat on the part of the author of 4 Ezra to combine these two notions in this way.19

2.3.3  Symbolic drinks and drinking Finally, instances of symbolic drinks and drinking are to be considered. First, in 8.4, Ezra calls upon himself to ‘drink wisdom’. This is a metaphor for listening and a rather similar – and quite literal – image for the reception of wisdom is used later on in the work. It appears that drinking and the reception of wisdom are related to one another in 4 Ezra. Second, Ezra’s drinking of a fiery liquid in 14.37-41 is of relevance. The effect of this drink is, as Ezra says: ‘my heart poured forth understanding, and wisdom increased in my breast, and my spirit retained its memory; and my mouth was opened and no longer closed’. This drink has on Ezra an effect analogous to that what he referred to in 8.4, that is, the reception of wisdom.20 The description of the outcome of the ensuing sapiental outpouring of Ezra again reminds us of drinks and drinking. In 14.47, the quality of the contents of the books that were written under Ezra’s guidance are said to contain ‘the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom, and the river of knowledge’.

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3  Conclusion: Foodstuffs, eating and drinking in 4 Ezra On the basis of the above, one can conclude that the development of Ezra in relation to God is reflected in the description of his (non-)consumption of food and drink. Also the development of the righteous is outlined in terms of a foodstuff: the fruit that they produce and that is closely related to the fruit of the tree of life in paradise, which they will attain and enjoy in the world to come. This world to come is presented as a land of plenty. Thus, both the instruction that Ezra receives is conceptualized with the help of foodstuffs and also the content and goal of this instruction is outlined by means of the same literary motif. Meal fellowship does not occur, the reasons for this are unclear, though they may be related to the ‘esotericism’ of the book and Uriel’s emphasis on Ezra’s being different from all others. Therefore, most aspects of the use of literary motifs related to foodstuffs and their consumption in 4 Ezra are connected to the work’s literary development and to the expression of its message. At the same time, they show how the work is part of the apocalyptic imagination of its time and well aware of social conventions with regard to, notably, fasting and other techniques related to divine-human communication. In addition, by addressing the need for food, the work likely speaks to the socio-economic situation of its readers in the post-war Jewish community.

Notes * This chapter includes materials published earlier in Smit (2014): 366–87. It appears here in a substantially revised and enlarged form. 1 That is chapters 3–14 of what is known as 4 Ezra in some traditions, therefore, not including chs. 1–2 (5 Ezra), or 15–16 (6 Ezra). The text that is followed here is the one provided (in translation) by Stone 1990, while taking into account his text-critical notes. To be sure, in the chapters that were added later foodstuffs, eating and drinking also occur, notably in: 1.19-24 (provision of food in the wilderness during the Exodus; 1.31 (Rejection of food/meal fellowship in the form of oblations by God; 2.12 (tree of life); 2.18-19 (abundance in a future paradise); 2.25 (a nurse is to nourish her children); 2.38 (the feast of the Lord); 15.19 (hunger); 15.53 (drunkenness); 15.57-58 (hunger); 15.62 (fruitful trees and their demise); 16.18-19 (famine); 16.21 (cheap provisions); 16.24 (trees bearing fruit for no one); 16.29-30 (olives and grapes); 16.33 (no wedding feasts); 16.34 (famine); 16.43.46 (strangers gathering the fruits of those who labour for them), 16.69 (food offered to idols). 2 They include: 3.24 (oblations, possibly indicating meal fellowship), 4.48-50 (water and rain), 7.104 (eating and drinking as an act that cannot be substituted), 7.114 (sinful indulgence, possibly including eating and drinking), 9.22 (comparison of Israel to grape and vine), 9.47 (wedding feast), 10.14.16 (fruit of the womb, fruit of the earth), 12.39 (a comparison involving a cluster of grapes), and 14.42 (eating bread at night). 3 See with Steffen 2001: 45–113: Isa. 1.19; 9.3; 27.2–6.12-13; 29.17-24; 30.19-29; 32.1-8, 49.5-13; 51.3; 55.1-2; and in Ezekiel the same relationship between lack of food during the exile (see 4.13-17; 5.10.12.16-17, 6.11-12; 7.15.19; 12.16-20; 14.13.21) and its abundance after Israel’s restoration (see 34.13–16.27.29; 36.8–15.29–30.34–35.37) can be observed.

312 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 4 See, e.g. only in Isaiah already: 1.19; 9.3; 27.2–6.12–13; 29.17-24; 30.19-29; 32.1-8; 49.6-13; 51.3; 55.1-2, with a relationship to the coming of the Messiah: Isa. 9.6-7; 24.23; 26.1–4.15-19; 27.6.13; 35.1-10; 43.5-7; 45.20; 49.8–13.22-23; 51.11-14; 54.7; 60.4-14, and, with the inclusion of the nations or the dispersion: Isa. 2.1-4; 9.1; 11.10-12; 18.7; 19.18-25; 42.6; 49.6–7.22-23; 56.3; 61.7; 66.21 (see Steffen, Banquet, 48). 5 See, e.g. 3.20, 8.41, 9.30-37; in New Testament texts, bringing forth fruit is associated with repentance and doing righteousness, see, e.g. Mt. 7.15-20, 21.43, Jh 15.1-16, Rom. 6.22, 7.4-5, Gal. 5.22-23, for the sowing of the Word, see, e.g. 1 Cor. 3.5-9, Mk 4.1-9parr. and for some of the conceptual background, see Isa. 55.10-11, Hos. 10.12, Prov. 11.18.30-31, Job 22.21LXX, Sir. 1.16-186.18-19, 37.22-23, and further Job 4.8. See Donahue and Harrington 2002: 142. 6 As Stone 1990: 63 puts it: ‘Human free will, Ezra claims, is meaningless, if the ultimate result of human action is, in any case, inevitable punishment because of the very way the world is constituted by its divine creator.’ See also Stone 1991b. 7 Example by letting them be punished by the Romans (5.29-30). As Stone 1990: 127, puts it: ‘Ezra seems to have moved from his doubt about God’s justice to bewilderment at his actions.’ 8 As an aside, one may remark here that the obvious decrease in Ezra’s distress and mourning while the visions keep coming renders psychoanalytical theses that the visions originated in mourning unlikely. See however Merku 1989. 9 This intratextual connection makes it slightly more plausible that Ezra subsists on a ‘paradisiacal’ diet here, rather than on hallucinogenic herbs, inducing a dream or vision. See Schreiner 1981: 373 for notes on this diet in the various textual traditions; there is a tendency to align it with Gen. 1.29. 10 Though her behaviour is doubtlessly extreme, fasting as such is a way of refusing life because of excessive sorrow and pain and a common part of mourning rituals in antiquity. See, e.g. Kerner 1998: 188. 11 This is in line with other behaviour on the part of Ezra, such as praising God (13.57), coming from earlier mourning, and in contrast with the mourning of others; Ezra’s behaviour is, just like his change of mind, paradigmatic. See, e.g. Kerner 1998: 185. 12 See Stone, 1990, ad loc., and also Schreiner 1981: 359, noting that other versions than the Latin refer to ‘Wonne’ rather than ‘Sättigung’. 13 Following Stone 1990; Schreiner 1981: 369, notes that the other versions than the Latin follow a similar pattern of differences as in 7.123. 14 The efforts or labours of Israel are, according to Schreiner 1981: 316, a reference to the efforts required to keep the Law. 15 One of the things that Ezra learns during his seven visions is that the situation is not as bleak as he indicates at the beginning, that is, the Law is more efficacious than he thinks, evil not as strong as it seems. See, e.g. Burkes 2003: 215–17 and Knowles 1989; the renewal of the Law in the final chapters of 4 Ezra also points into this direction. 16 Following the Latin text, see for the alternatives: Schreiner, 1981: 387. The reference to ‘qui fructificabant’ here suits the general use of the image of bringing forth fruit in 4 Ezra. 17 The references to the fruit of the womb or of the earth in 10.12.14 are not related to this. 18 See, for cautious remarks regarding the harmonization of the eschatology/-ies of 4 Ezra, e.g. Hogan 2008: 199–204. For a consideration of the relationship between realized and futuristic eschatology in 4 Ezra, see, e.g. Kerner 1998: 252–60. On the question of coherence, see also Stone 1991c, see esp. on 345 his notion of ‘associational complexes’. – See also Stone, 1990: 204–6.

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19 For another view of the metaphorical coherence of the harvest/bearing fruit imagery and analogies, see Hogan 2011. She does not relate those ‘fertility’ metaphors to the Paradise/Tree of Life motif, however. Still, the ‘mother earth’ background does provide further coherence to 4 Ezra’s use of images of growth and fertility. 20 Here, it may also be noted that in 10–11, namely the nourishing of a human being through God’s provision, specifically by means of drinking the fruit of the breasts, that is, milk, is mentioned, which leads to a human being’s education in God’s law and wisdom.

Bibliography Aune, D. E. (1997), Revelation 1–5, Dallas: Word Books. Bachmann, V. (2009), ‘Rooted in Paradise? The Meaning of the “Tree of Life” in 1 Enoch 24–25 Reconsidered’, JSP 19: 83–107. Barclay, J. M. G. (2015), Paul & the Gift, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Baumgarten, A. I. (1998), ‘Finding Oneself in a Sectarian Context: A Sectarian’s Food and Its Implications’, in A. I. Baumgarten, J. Assmann and G. G. Stroumsa (eds), Self, Soul and Body in Religious Experience, 125–47, Leiden: Brill. Burkes, S. (2001), ‘“Life” Redefined: Wisdom and Law in Fourth Ezra and Second Baruch’, CBQ 63: 55–71. Burkes, S. (2003), God, Self, and Death. The Shape of Religious Transformation in the Second Temple Period, Leiden: Brill. Collins, J. J. (1989), The Apocalyptic Imagination, New York: Crossroad. Denis, A.-M. (2000), Introduction à la literature religieuse judéo-hellénistique, Turnhout: Brepols. Diamond, E. (2004), Holy Men: Fasting and Ascetism in Rabbinic Culture, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Donahue, J. R. and D. J. Harrington (2002), The Gospel of Mark, Collegeville: Liturgical Press. Dumoulin, P. (1994), Entre la manne et l’eucharistie, Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico. Esler, P. F. (1994), ‘The Social Function of 4 Ezra’, JSNT 53: 99–123. France, R. T. (2002), The Gospel of Mark, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002. Gerlitz, P. (1983), ‘Fasten/Fasttage. I. Religionsgeschichtlich’, TRE 11: 42–5. Grimm, V. E. (1996), From Feasting to Fasting: The Evolution of a Sin, New York: Routledge. Guelich, R. A. (1989), Mark 1–8:26, Dallas: Word Book. Henze, M. (2011), Jewish Apocalypticism in Late First Century Israel: Reading Second Baruch in Context, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Henze, M. (2012), ‘“4 Ezra” and “2 Baruch”: Literary Composition and Oral Performance in First-Century Apocalyptic Literature,’ JBL 131: 181–200. Hezser, C. (1997), The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hogan, K. M. (2008), Theologies in Conflict in 4 Ezra. Wisdom Debate and Apocalyptic Solution, Leiden: Brill. Hogan, K. M. (2011), ‘Mother Earth as a Conceptual Metaphor in 4 Ezra’, CBQ 73: 72–91. Humbert, P. (1957), ‘La rosée tombe en Israël’, TZ 13: 287–493.

314 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Kerner, J. (1998), Die Ethik der Johannes-Apokalypse im Vergleich mit der des 4. Esra, Berlin: De Gruyter. Kern-Ulmer, B. (Rivka) (1995), ‘Consistency and Change in Rabbinic Literature as Reflected in the Terms Rain and Dew’, JSJ 26: 55–75. Klijn, A. F. J. (1976), ‘Die syrischeBaruch-Apokalypse’, JSHRZ 2: 103–91. Klijn, A. F. J. (1983), ‘Syriac Apocalypse of) Baruch, a New Translation and Introduction’, in J. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, 615–52, Garden City: Doubleday. Knowles, M. P. (1989), ‘Moses, the Law, and the Unity of 4 Ezra’, NovT 31: 257–74. Kügler, J. (2000a), ‘Zur religiösen Bedeutung des Dufts im griechisch-römischen Kulturbereich’, in J. Kügler(ed.), Die Macht der Nase, 99–110, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Kügler, J. (2000b), ‘Duftmetaphorik im Frühen Judentum’, in J. Kügler (ed.), Die Macht der Nase, 111–22, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk. Leemhuis, F., A. F. J. Klijn and G. J. H. van Gelder (1986), The Arabic Text of the Apocalypse of Baruch, Leiden: Brill. Lied, I. Liv (2008), The Other Lands of Israel, Leiden: Brill. Lietaert Peerbolte, B. J. (1996), The Antecedents of Antichrist, Leiden: Brill. Longenecker, B. W. (1991), Eschatology and the Covenant. A Comparison of 4 Ezra and Romans 1–11, Sheffield: Sheffield University Press. Longenecker, B. W. (1997), ‘Locating 4 Ezra: A Consideration of its Social Setting and Functions’, JSJ 28: 271–93. Malina, B. J. (1968), The Palestinina Manna Tradition, Leiden: Brill. Mell, U. (1996), ‘“Neuer Wein (gehört) in neue Schläuche” (Mk 2,22c)’, ThZ 52: 1–31. Merku, D. (1989), ‘The Visionary Practices of Jewish Apocalypticists’, in L. B. Boyer and S. A. Grolnick (eds), The Psychoanalytic Study of Society, 119–48, Hillsdale, NJ: Analytic Press. Moo, J. A. (2011), Creation, Nature and Hope in 4 Ezra, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Nir, R. (2003), The Destruction of Jerusalem and the Idea of Redemption in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch, Atlanta: SBL. Rowland, C. (1982), The Open Heaven: A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity, New York: Crossroad. Schenk, W. (1997), Die rhetorische Funktion der Fastenwarnung Mk 2,20, in W. L. Petersen, J. S. Vos and H. J. de Jonge (eds), Sayings of Jesus: Canonical and NonCanonical, 251–76, Leiden: Brill. Schreiner, J. (1981), Das 4. Buch Esra, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagsbuchhaus. Schroer, S. (1995), ‘Lebensbaum’, in M. Görg and B. Lang Neues Bibellexicon 2, 602–3, Freiburg: Herder. Smit, P.-B. (2008), Food and Fellowship in the Kingdom, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Steffen, D. S. (2001), The Messianic Banquet as a Paradigm for Israel-Gentile Salvation in Matthew, Ph.D. dissertation, Dallas Theological Seminary. Stein, H. J. (2008), Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern: ihre Gestalt und Bedeutung nach der neutestamentlichen Briefliteratur und der Johannesoffenbarung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stone, M. E. (1990), Fourth Ezra, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Stone, M. E. (1991a), ‘The Way of the Most High and the Injustice of God in 4 Ezra’, in M. E. Stone (ed.), Selected Studies in Pseudepigrapha and Apocrypha: With Special Reference to the Armenian Tradition, 348–58, Leiden: Brill.

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Stone, M. E. (1991b), ‘Coherence and Inconsistency in the Apocalypses: The Case of “The End” in 4 Ezra’, in M. E. Stone (ed.), Selected Studies in Pseudepigrapha and Apocrypha: With Special Reference to the Armenian Tradition, 333–45, Leiden: Brill. Stone, M. E. and M. Henze (2013), 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch: Translations, Introductions, and Notes, Minneapolis: Fortress. Taussig, H. E. (2009), In the Beginning was the Meal, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Tigchelaar, E. J. C. (1999), ‘Eden and Paradise: The Garden Motif in Some Early Jewish Texts (1 Enoch and Other Texts Found at Qumran)’, in G. P. Luttikhuizen (ed.), Paradise Interpreted. Representations of Biblical Paradise in Judaism and Christianity, 37–62, Leiden: Brill. Tomson, P. J. (1999), ‘Jewish Food Laws in Early Christian Community Discourse’, Semeia 86: 193–211. Whitney, Jr., K. W. (2006), Two Strange Beasts: Leviathan and Behemoth in in Second Temple and Early Rabbinic Judaism, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Yarbro Collins, A. (2000), Cosmology and Eschatology in Jewish and Christian Apocalypticism, Leiden: Brill. Zimmermann, R. (2001), Geschlechtermetaphorik und Gottesverhältnis, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Meals and Banqueting Culture in the Apocalypse of John Markus Öhler

Introduction Meals occur repeatedly in the Apocalypse of John. In a wide range of contexts, the author refers to actual meals as well to meals in a metaphorical manner and presents his vision of the future by means of images of meals from both the Old Testament and Jewish tradition and Greco-Roman banqueting culture. The following survey presents an overview of the manifold reception of meal imagery and meal praxis in the Apocalypse of John, which is derived from a variety of perspectives on meals. Special attention will be given to the question of whether the author had a specific meal praxis in mind and demanded ascetic behaviour from his readers.

1  References of real and metaphorical meals and aspects of meals The following overview shows that the apocalypticist uses a range of references to real and metaphorical foodstuffs (in alphabetical order): ll ll ll ll ll

ll ll ll ll

A book (10.9-10) Barley (6.6) Flour (18.13) Food offered to idols (2.14, 20) Fruits −− Of the tree of life (2.7; 22.2, 14, 19) −− In general (18.14) Honey (10.9-10) Human blood (16.6; 17.6) Human flesh (17.16; 19.17, 21) Manna (2.17)

Meals and Banqueting Culture in the Apocalypse of John ll ll ll

ll ll

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Oil (6.6; 18.13) The community of Laodicea (as it is vomited out; 3.16) Water −− Water of life (7.17; 21.6; 22.1, 17) −− Poisoned water (8.11) Wheat (6.6; 18.13) Wine −− In a neutral sense (6.6; 18.13) −− Wine of passion (14.8; 17.2; 18.3) −− Wine of wrath (14.10; 16.19; 18.6-7; 19.15)

This overview demonstrates that some real foodstuffs have a positive connotation (water, fruit, manna), that others are mentioned without an evaluation (wheat, barley, fruit, flour, oil, as well as wine) and that some have a primarily negative meaning (blood, flesh and wine in most occurrences). In the heavenly Jerusalem, only water and fruit can be found, like had been the case in the garden of Eden (cf. Gen. 2.10, 16). The reference to the water of life (ὕδωρ ζωῆς) is one of those figures of speech in the Apocalypse of John that indicates a proximity to the Gospel of John (cf. Jn 4.14). The apocalypticist formulates his message in such a manner that the water of life – that is to say: life itself – will be given as an enduring gift to those who remain faithful to God and God’s Christ during the tribulations. As for the instance of its usage in 21.6; 22.1, 17 shows, the image only plays a role in the context of an eschatological preview of the untroubled existence of the faithful with God, whereas it is not connected with references to the meal of the community (different: Stein 2008: 267). In addition to water and fruit, manna will also be available, given that 2.7 indicates that ‘hidden manna’ will be provided to the faithful in heaven. The restriction of the elements of the eschatological wedding banquet (19.9) to water and fruit agrees well with the fact that the author does not only use the image of the messianic feast in a positive sense, but also caricatures it in 19.17-21 (Aune 1998: 1063). There, not the faithful are invited to the ‘great banquet of God’ but the birds, and their meal consists of humankind, as it has been killed (19.18). ‘All the birds were gorged with their flesh’ is the concluding statement of this horrific vision (19.21). Just like this is not the case in 17.16, this is also not an allusion to cannibalism, but a reference to corpses that are being left unburied. Human flesh is consumed by birds, not humans. In 17.16, it is likely that this idea is combined with elements from the Jezebel narrative (1 Kgs 21.23-24; 2 Kgs 9.1, 36), in 19.17-21, the author uses elements from Ezek. 38–39 and the prophetic speeches threatening Israel’s enemy Gog found there. Drinking blood is used as a metaphor for destruction (16.3-6): As is the case in the narrative of the plagues in Egypt (Exod. 7.14-25), water is turned into blood (Lichtenberger 2004: 232–3). This concerns the sea in the first place, but subsequently also drinking water (cf. 8.10-11). The connection with the Exodus tradition is then given up in favour of a broader kind of metaphor: The blood becomes part of a judgement due to the spilled blood of the saints and the prophets. Their killers are made to drink it, as 17.6 states explicitly. Drinking this blood, into which the drinking

318 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals water has been changed and which is the blood of those who have been murdered at the same time, thus becomes a metaphor for the judgement: Those who spilled blood are executed by means of blood (Aune 1998: 888). ‘These destructive foodstuffs and destructive nutritional processes stand in contrast to a range of foodstuff associated with paradise’ (Smit 2008: 326). Wine is used in two ways. First, the enjoyment of wine is an expression of the desire or passion (θυμός) of the whore of Babylon and of all the peoples associated with her (14.8). The unchecked drinking, in particular when performed by a woman, is utilized by the author as part of the imagery with which he can characterize the Imperium Romanum as the counter-image of the community of the saints. In doing so, he uses it to complement the motif of porneia (cf. 2.20-11). All those who are associated with her, the harlot, are just as drunk and degenerate as she is. Second, wine is also the wine of the wrath of God (14.10; 16.19). It is a deadly beverage that has to be drunk by those who have resisted the will of God. The specification that God’s wine of wrath has to be drunk undiluted (ἄκρατος) makes use of imagery derived from the cultural conventions of the non-Jewish readers of the Apocalypse: Unmixed wine was used for libations (offerings of liquids) at the symposium. At the eschatological judgement, however, God, the ruler of all, pours out the undiluted wine himself, with the purpose of destroying his adversaries (cf. Jer. 25.15-16). A special case of a bad kind of beverage occurs in the letter to the community of Laodicea, in which the kurios announces (3.16): ‘So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth.’ This metaphorical statement may allude to aspects of the local context of Laodicea, which was located close to the hot springs of Hierapolis (Hemer 1986: 186–91). It is more plausible, however, that hot or cold beverages were considered as preferable to lukewarm ones as such, which also applied to wine at a banquet (Koester 2003). Also the threat to vomit out the community suits the ancient practice of utilizing lukewarm water in order to induce vomiting (Athenaeus, Deipn. 3.123a; Vita Aesopi 2-3). By means of this image, the author addresses polemically a situation in which the congregation is no longer distinguishable from its context concerning the way its members conduct themselves. This makes the author want to puke quite literally. A special instance of a foodstuff is, finally, the scroll (βιβλαρίδιον) that the apocalypticist has to eat himself (10.9-10; cf. Ezek. 2.9; 3.3). It tastes sweet like honey, but also causes abdominal pain. Whether this refers to specific aspects of the subsequent prophecies or whether it concerns a renewal of his vocation can be left open here (cf. Aune 1998: 571–5).

2  Warnings for false foodstuffs The author vehemently rejects one kind of foodstuff in particular: food offered to idols (εἰδωλόθυτον; 2.14, 20). This rigorous rejection of any kind of meat that has been associated in any way with sacrificing to pagan deities or with their invocation (ἱερόθυτον is actually ‘sacred meat’) was, from his point of view, insufficiently acknowledged by the communities of Christ believers in Pergamon and Thyatira. In

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2.14-15, this point of view is connected with the Old Testament figure of Bileam (Num. 22–23; 31.8, 16), in 2.20 a similar connection is made with Jezebel (1 Kgs 16.31; 18–20; 22.53; 2 Kgs 9). This ‘teaching of the Nicolaites’ (2.15; cf. 2.6) did not only involve permission to eat food offered to idols, but also toleration of porneia. As far as the two biblical names are concerned, it is clear that these are codenames (this might also apply to Nikolaos) that refer to persons who had affiliated themselves with the people of Israel in different ways, but led it astray. It is much less clear, however, to what extent these reproaches actually agreed with the reality of both communities. If eating meat offered to idols was indeed considered unproblematic, then one may well assume a use deriving from Pauline tradition (cf. 1 Cor. 8.1-13; 10.14-33; Hemer 1986: 92–4), a case that is, admittedly, much more difficult to make for porneia. Behind the harsh admonition, one would have to assume the behaviour of Christ believers who did consider participation in symposia not a problem, even if cultic acts and instances of prostitution occurred in their course (Lichtenberger 2004: 240; Stein 2008: 250; Wengst 2010: 72–5). If one considers these verses from the Apocalypse as polemical accusations that should throw as negative a light as possible on the activities of a teacher (2.14) and a prophetess (2.20) that competed with the author of the Apocalypse, however, then one should be very hesitant when it comes to drawing historical inferences from them (Barr 2011: 3–4). In any case, the author of the Apocalypse aims to achieve two distinct results with his reproaches. First, they should lead to distancing the communities from the teaching of the Nicolaites, as is happening in an exemplary fashion in Ephesus already (2.6). Second, he is much concerned with creating, as decisively as possible, a distance between the religious praxis of the surrounding pagan society and the communities. This includes of course the ethical practices of the nations, porneia being the most reprehensible (as it was evaluated from both an early Jewish and an early Christian perspective, cf. 9.21; 14.8, etc.). The position of the apocalypticist concerning meat offered to idols as well as concerning everything that he views as porneia is therefore unambiguous: It has to be avoided under all circumstances, both within the community (which may well have been the lesser problem) and in everyday life. The latter also concerned, for instance, voluntary associations, but even more than that it concerned the religious praxis in households, in which all members were compelled to participate, both in terms of participation in communal acts of worship and through participation in the banquets of a family. Distancing oneself from pagan cultic practices in the latter context must have led to serious difficulties (cf. Öhler 2011). To be sure, with his rejection of meat offered to idols and porneia, the author of the Apocalypse takes a position that agrees with the edict of the ‘council of Jerusalem’ (Acts 15.29; 21.25; cf. 15.20; Did. 6.3), even if two other injunctions that are mentioned there (concerning the consumption of blood and of meat of strangled animals) do not feature in the Apocalypse. The concrete kind of meal praxis that is of importance to the apocalypticist has to do with religious boundary drawing. Does this mean that the author demands the avoidance of certain foodstuffs as a matter of principle, for instance meat? (cf. Stein 2008: 316). If he would consider all meat as meat offered to idols, he would have to assume that all meat that was not purchased directly from a temple was in fact also

320 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals meat offered to idols. This is hard to argue with much plausibility from an historical perspective. Instead, his fundamental concern was to create a clear distance from all events in which sacrifices (sacrifices of animals, but also other kinds of sacrifice) played a role, irrespective of whether they took place in the context of public ceremonies in temples or in the more private realm of voluntary associations (Harland 2000; Witulski 2007: 244). In other words, even if meat as a foodstuff was under suspicion of being contaminated, it was not rejected out of hand, but only if it had indeed been used in a cultic manner. Just like the author of the Apocalypse does not reject any kind of sex as such with his condemnation of porneia (cf., however, 14.4), the rejection of particular kinds of meat does not imply the rejection of all meat as a foodstuff. At the same time, however, meat offered to idols functions as a pars pro toto for all kinds of foodstuffs that were used in pagan cultic practices, as they occured in everyday religious life. This applies to wine in particular, which played a role of importance in the context of meals just as much as it played a significant cultic role in lived religion in Greco-Roman society. However, shouldn’t the apocalypticist not be regarded as an ascetic when water and fruits are mentioned positively as foodstuffs primarily? For this position, there is a lack of any further support – in particular, injunctions to avoid particular foodstuffs as such are missing. Also the rather neutral references to oil, wheat, barley, yes, even of wine (6.6; 18.13, different: Royalty 2016: 505) do not encourage viewing the apocalypticist as a radical ascetic, at least in as far as it concerns foodstuffs.

3  The meal of the future The first reference to food in the Apocalypse already evokes the interrelationship of the past and the future (Wengst 2010: 233). In 2.7, the conclusion of the letter to the community of Ephesus, the first of the seven letters, the author makes a promise, like he does towards the end of each letter. The promise concerns those who are ‘victorious’, that is to say: those who remain faithful to their ‘first love’ (2.4) in spite of the multifarious temptations and hostilities that are announced in what follows. God will give them food from the tree of life that is located in paradise. With this, the Eden narrative is evoked (Gen. 2.9; 3.22, 34), which was received in a variety of ways in ancient Judaism (Smit 2008: 330–2). At the centre of the garden of Eden, which is referred to as ‘paradise’ here, as it is elsewhere in the Septuagint, the tree of life was located, together with the tree of knowledge. Because of the expulsion from the garden of Eden, access to the tree of life had become impossible, however. This prevented human beings from living forever – like God. The author of the Apocalypse alludes to that precisely: Eating from the tree of life implies eternal life which is mediated through a meal right at the centre of paradise. At the same time, this also indicates that redeemed existence is imagined as the recreation of untroubled life in the presence of God. Lost communion with God is regained and this is expressed in an exemplary fashion by means of the reference to eating from the tree of life. This image is used again towards the end of the Apocalypse: The apocalypticist sees the promised tree of life in the concluding vision of the heavenly Jerusalem: ‘The tree

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of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations’ (22.2; cf. 22.14). Food, this much is made clear by both texts, is in a quite self-explanatory manner part of a redeemed existence. The example of the tree of life in the garden of Eden, paradise itself, functions as an exemplary chiffre for such a redeemed existence, and it is used to announce its coming. In addition to providing these key coordinates for the description of paradise in the context of time and space, the tree also has a further function. This becomes apparent when one is aware of the fact that the tree was a key motif in the cult of Artemis in Ephesus (Hemer 1986: 44-52). Therefore, it need not surprise that God’s tree of life in paradise occurs precisely in the letter to the community in Ephesus, thus creating a marked contrast with the traditional symbol of the cult of Artemis and the function of the latter’s temple as a place of refuge. The letter to the community in Laodicea concludes with a promise for all who repent: Christ, who is knocking on their doors will come to them ‘and eat with you (δειπνήσω), and you with me’ (3.20). It is clear that Christ is here a guest, not the host. From the point of view of the history of religions, it is well possible that there is a connection with associations dedicated to the mystery cult of Serapis (cf. Aristides, Or. 45.27; Stein 2008: 261–2), but the differences are also noticeable. Here, it concerns a meal of the individual with Christ, not a communal meal of the ekklesia of Ephesus (different: Smit 2008: 342, n. 121). The coming of the kurios to the meal is therefore a metaphor for the communion between him and a person who repents, while it functions at the same time as a proleptic reference to eschatological communion (Hemer 1986: 207). The communal meal of Christ, the lamb, and the saints can be found in 19.7-9. The metaphor of the wedding banquet (τὸ δεῖπνον τοῦ γάμου) is used here only with reference to the preparations of the bride, who is dressed in white linen (cf. Ps. 45.9, 14; Isa. 61.10). This metaphor was widely spread and occurs, for example, also in the tradition concerning Jesus (Mt. 22.1-14, cf. Smit 2008: 351–2). It is striking that the author does not describe the meal proper, but only mentions its announcement. What the guests at the wedding of the lamb with the heavenly Jerusalem are served in terms of food and drink is not made explicit here yet, but can be learned from the vision of the heavenly Jerusalem itself (21–22; Zimmermann 2003: 162–74). In only a few instances, mainly in the seven letters, it is possible to identify potential connections with the Lord’s Supper. To begin with, this might apply to the reference to the ‘hidden manna’ in 2.17. It is fairly clear that the manna that will be given to those who are victorious is different from the manna of the Exodus (Exod. 16.32-34) in the sense that it is located in heaven where it is (still) hidden (Smit 2008: 334). The futuristic aspect of this manna is, from my point of view, already sufficient to argue that it is related to eschatological meal fellowship and not to the actual historical meal praxis of early Christian communities (different: Stein 2008: 259–60; Theobald 2011: 414–15). The context of an actual meal might also be evoked by the promise of the gift of a white stone that will carry a name, presumably that of God or Christ, but still preserves an eschatological outlook. It could refer to gaining access to a meal fellowship in the sense that only those in possession of this stone, functioning as a kind of invitation or identity card, can enter it (cf. 19.9; Hemer 1986: 98; Royalty 2016: 518).

322 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Concerning the visons of the eschatological banquet, the announcement in 7.16 is to be understood as a preview of what will come. The existence of the assembled victorious ones in the throne room of God is also characterized by the fact that ‘They will hunger no more, and thirst no more’ (cf. Isa. 49.10). This does not mean that the saints would not experience an appetite anymore, but it is rather to be understood as an expression of the superabundance that is to be expected in God’s presence.

4  Abundance instead of hunger The announcements of God’s acts of wrath contain famines twice. The fourth seal (6.8) refers to dying by means of the sword, illness and wild animals, and also due to the absence of foodstuffs, which were already subject to a price hike at an earlier stage (6.6). However, the demise of Babylon will also be caused by hunger as one factor among others. This hunger provides a contrast with the fact that Babylon, the whore, drinks wine with the kings of the earth (17.2, 4), has intoxicated the nations with the wine of the passion of her porneia (14.8) and has become drunk with the blood of the saints and the witnesses of Christ (17.6). Even though these negative descriptions ought to be interpreted metaphorically primarily – the great whore Babylon, for instance, is a metaphor for Rome – it remains remarkable that the author uses the imagery of the exuberant symposium in order to describe these situations. An abundance of food and drink is also part of the meaning of the use of the expression στρηνιάω, ‘to live in luxury’, used in 18.7, 9, which does not occur elsewhere in the LXX or the New Testament. Its usage also expresses the disgust of the author with regard to such behaviour. Just like hunger and the poisoning of drinking water (8.11) appear among God’s instruments of punishment, the absence of hunger and thirst are indications of abundance. Such absence is one of the most important gifts to those who are living with God (7.16-17). Traditions attributed to Jesus had already contained a similar promise in relation to the beginning of the rule of God (Q 6.21). Now, it is relocated in a paradisaical context (Smit 2008: 349). From the thrones of God and the lamb, streams of the water of life flow (8.17; 22.1) and all who wish can drink from it (22.17), because it is a gift from the one who is on the throne and who is the alpha and the omega (21.6). In addition to this vision, which refers to the stream that emerges from the garden of Eden (Gen. 2.10), the apocalypticist also stresses that the water is free of charge (δωρεάν 21.6; 22.17). In this way, the abundance of the new paradise is contrasted with the actual world, in which everything has to be bought at a steep price (6.5-6), the proceeds of which serve to support the life of luxury of Rome and its allies (18.7, 9).

5  Conclusion: Meals as identity markers The significance of food for the construction, maintenance and further development of identity plays an important role in the Apocalypse of John, just as it does so elsewhere in early Christianity. It is unlikely that this role is best described in terms of abstinence

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from certain foodstuffs (Stein 2008: 316–20), but that it is more fruitful to focus on those religious practices in which meals or elements of meals played a role. Worshipers of Christ do not distinguish themselves from others because they do not consume meat or wine, but because they avoid any association with pagan cults. They dissociate themselves from others by not participating in those activities that combine pagan cultic practices and meals. On the other hand, the identity of early Christians is also constructed positively by means of meals, in particular where it concerns eschatological hopes and perspectives. The fruit of the tree of life, the water of life, the manna that is hidden in heaven are the foodstuffs of paradise. As ‘subversive foodstuffs and subversive drinks’ (Stein 2008: 297: ‘Gegenspeisen und -getränke’) they are unavailable to those who have joined the bacchanals of the whore of Babylon, which includes those who understand themselves to be followers of Christ. All of this applies not only to the emperor cult, but to all cultic celebrations, both those taking place in the public sphere (temple, processions) and in the non-public (private, semiprivate) sphere (associations, the community of the household). The kind of identity construction in which the apocalypticist engages in relation to contemporary meals takes place exclusively as a policy of disassociation with regard to both pagan cultic practices and to those followers of Christ who were willing to make compromises in this regard.

Bibliography Aune, D. E. (1998), Revelation, Waco: Word Books. Barr, D. (2011), ‘Idol Meat and Satanic Synagogues: From Imagery to History in John’s Apocalypse’, in M. Labahn and O. Lehtipuu (eds), Imagery in the Book of Revelation, 1–10, Leuven: Peeters. Harland, P. A. (2000), ‘Honouring the Emperor or Assailing the Beast: Participation in Civic Life Among Associations (Jewish, Christian and Other) in Asia Minor and the Apocalypse of John’, JSNT 77: 99–121. Hemer, C. J. (1986), Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia In Their Local Setting, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Koester, C. A. (2003), ‘The Message to Laodicea and the Problem of Its Local Context: A Study of the Imagery in Rev 3.14–22’, NTS 49: 407–24. Lichtenberger, H. (2004), ‘Die Mahlmetaphorik in der Johannesapokalypse’, in C. Grappe (ed.), Le Repas de Dieu – Das Mahl Gottes, 227–52, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Öhler, M. (2011), ‘Das ganze Haus. Antike Alltagsreligiosität und die Apostelgeschichte’, ZNW 102: 201–34. Royalty, R. M. (2016), ‘Demonic Symposia in the Apocalypse of John’, JSNT 38: 503–25. Smit, P.-B. (2008), Fellowship and Food in the Kingdom. Eschatological Meals and Scenes of Utopian Abundance in the New Testament, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stein, H. J. (2008), Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern. Ihre Gestalt und Bedeutung nach der neutestamentlichen Briefliteratur und der Johannesoffenbarung, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Theobald, M. (2011), ‘Selig, die zum Hochzeitsmahl des Lammes geladen sind (Offb 19,9)’, in E. Gaß and H.-J. Stipp, ‘Ich werde meinen Bund mit euch niemals brechen!’ (Ri 2,1). Festschrift für Walter Groß zum 70. Geburtstag, 399-433, Freiburg: Herder.

324 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Wengst, K. (2010), “Wie lange noch?” Schreien nach Recht und Gerechtigkeit – eine Deutung der Apokalypse des Johannes, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Witulski, T. (2007), Die Johannesoffenbarung und Kaiser Hadrian. Studien zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Apokalypse, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Zimmermann, R. (2003), ‘Nuptial Imagery in the Revelation of John’, Bib 84: 153–83.

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Meals and Magic: Eating for Revelation in the Eighth Book of Moses (PGM XIII/ Leiden I 395)1 Monika Amsler

Introduction: What is a magical text? The term ‘magic’ has a long history, dating back to the fifth century BC. Today, the term is still widely used in everyday language as well as to denote a scholarly concept in the study of religions. Since the term began to comprise everything that did not fit the new ideas of truth in reformatory discourses and, subsequently, in Enlightenment discourses, its use for scholarly purposes has been heavily criticized. (For an elaborate overview on magic as a tainted terminology, cf. Hanegraaff 2012: 164–77; for the difficulty in classifying ancient ‘magical texts’ properly, see for example Graf 2005, 288–9). Still, most scholars of Late Antiquity continue to use the term as a heuristic device. This would not be a problem if this ‘heuristic device’ were used in a neutral way. However, it still serves scholars to distinguish between ‘right/official’ and ‘wrong/deviant’ thinking and acting and is thus heavily biased. Indeed, if one looks into the manifold definitions of magic, they all focus on the content of the texts and the (presumed) intent of the symbols and artefacts. This is usually the point where boundaries between magic and religion become blurred and where the ‘correct’ classification remains again within the judgement of the scholar. Looking for an appropriate method to approach the subject, Otto has first argued for discourse analysis (2011, passim) and then for ‘patterns of magicity’ (2013: 10–12). Still, the former clearly fails in its comprehensiveness while the latter fragments material according to content. But, as we shall see, the texts are already so eclectic in nature that an artificial collection of (mostly) indistinct patterns does not add to clarification. Yet, there seems to be a much simpler and less prejudiced way to define magic since it does not rely on content but on style. The term magic is first used in a self-referential manner in two Greek papyri from Egypt, dating from the early fourth (PGM IV) and late fourth/early fifth (PGM I) century CE.2 Since these two papyri are not the earliest of their kind, the claim that the content of the papyri is indeed magic points to an increasingly distinct selfconsciousness of the authors of these rituals. The irritatingly late date of these (only)

328 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals two papyri, however, seems to point to the fact that the term was adopted rather than genuine. Yet, the papyri continually evolved in style and thus became increasingly distinct from other ritual texts. The development of a distinctive genre of magic texts (rather than a blurring modern concept of ‘magical texts’) in Egypt has to be seen against the background of the overall change in the religious landscape in Late Antiquity. Thus, the rise of this genre of ritual goes hand in hand with the decline of the Egyptian as well as the Greek cults and the annihilation of the prosperous Jewish communities in Egypt. Their overall characteristic is estrangement: Seemingly familiar things – to the scholar of late antiquity – turn out to be not familiar at all.3 In the first place, this estrangement is generated by an artful involvement of Greek and Egyptian gods as a basic structure and occasional Jewish, Gnostic, Mithraic, Persian, Babylonian and Christian elements (cf. Brashaer 1995: 3422–9 for details).1 A second generic distinction marker for these texts is the increasing use of so-called voces magicae (or nomina barbara), whose content is basically Egyptian and Hebrew, mostly composed of names of gods and other divine beings as well as sequences of vowels (Brashear 1995: 3433–4; for a glossary of voces magicae in the PGM see idem: 3576–603). The choice of languages that were in decline in Egypt at the time is a further argument for the deliberate estrangement of known features within these texts. The number of voces magicae in the texts gradually increases as well. This might also be a reason for the adoption of the term magician/magic for the genre itself, since the term had always been used for rituals carried out in a foreign (originally Persian) language or in a foreign manner. Thirdly, the rituals require complete seclusion. The distinction markers for a magic text are therefore the involvement of gods from different traditions (maybe as many as were known to the scribe), the use of voces magicae and the request for seclusion for the performance of the ritual. The creativity within these outlined boundaries of the genre knows no limits. No two texts are the same, even though there are references made to pre-existing texts (Vorlagen). Thus, the estrangement does not only concern cultic elements but also the rituals of predecessors. It is with this definition of magic as a Late Antique phenomenon, which emerged in Egypt and led to the production of this specific genre of texts, that the text under scrutiny in this chapter is called a magic text.

1  The Greek magic papyri (PGM) It was Karl Preisendanz who brought the Papyri graecae magicae (hence PGM) to scholarly attention with his edition and translation of the texts in two volumes between 1928 and 1931 (below listed as Preisendanz 1973 and 1963). Preisendanz’ point of departure was a collection previously started by Richard Wünsch, an assemblage he further enriched until it comprised all of the known documents on applied magic (‘Zauber’) in Greek language at the time.4 Preisendanz’ work was crucial and pioneering   This is, of course, a very blunt categorization. Cf. Boustan/Sanzo 2017 for a critical approach to such taxonomies.

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for these texts and his critical transliterations still remain the only ones for many of the texts. What seems to be a pitfall is that the PGM are now passed down to us gathered in these volumes as if they had always belonged together.5 But there is no such thing as the PGM. Preisendanz’ PGM collection consists of several works that are in themselves collections. Each PGM is a work on its own and needs to be investigated separately. What remains to be done after Preisendanz’ remarkable work is to take it apart again and put the papyri back into their (most likely) original environments.

1.1  Egyptian temples and the production of the PGM The cultural pattern of the PGM is distinctly that of Roman Egypt where the old Egyptian cult was only slightly more popular than the Greek one. However, as already noted, the temples –Egyptian as well as Greco-Roman – were in decline at the time when the first texts of the magic genre were written. The seemingly obvious conclusion that the dismissed priests found a way of reconstructing their identity by inventing a new type of ritual is nevertheless an oversimplification of the facts. A closer look at the materiality of the text in question, Moses VIII (PGM XIII), will demonstrate that a priestly environment for its production (and most likely that of PGM in general) is more than questionable. Moses VIII was almost certainly found in Thebes along with other texts of the same genre, but not by the same hand.6 The text was written in the Greek vernacular of Roman Egypt, in scripta continua, and its leaves were bound into a small codex (av. 15cm W x 26.5 cm H). It was made from a single quire of 8 sheets that were folded into 16 sheets, that is, 32 pages in total. The codex made of a single quire is something distinctly Egyptian: no such codex made from parchment has ever been found. Indeed, it seems that this is the original form of the papyrus codex, which disappeared completely after the fifth century (cf. Turner 1977: 58). Thus, the codex containing Moses VIII is of quite ordinary make-up. But still, it is a codex and not a roll and ‘the temples never made the transition from roll to codex’ (Bagnall 2009: 86). Moreover, the temples in Thebes were in disuse for more than a century when our text was written around 350 CE. The Temple of Amun was turned into a military camp in 301/2 CE and was already in disuse before this happened (cf. Bagnall 1996: 263; Dijkstra 2011: 403). In the Temple of Hatshepsut, the last inscription by a visitor dates from the middle of the second century. The scriptoria of the temples can thereby be excluded as the place of the production of Moses VIII. Bagnall further observed that the political measures taken by Constantine and his predecessors to control the privileges and status of the temples and the priests ‘did not drive them “underground”’ (Bagnall 1996: 266). Thus, the decline of the temples was not primarily due to political measures, but to an increasing disinterest of the people in the ancient cults in general. The priests not only lost more and more of their faithful but decreased in number themselves and lost their knowledge.7 Thus, there is no reason to assume that people were still drawn to the priest’s ‘unique aura of ancient tradition’ by which he became ‘the local healer, diviner, manufacturer of amulets, and dispenser of spells’.8 The people who wrote and practiced magic rituals in Egypt must have been someone else than the priests of the ancient cult (contrary to Ritner 1995: 3361–2).

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1.2  Meals in Greek magic papyri As explained above, there is much dissimilarity, or rather, originality within the PGM. Still, there are topics that some of them share, and some of them concern meals. What is true for all of the magic rituals is that they are not intended for groups. They have to be carried out alone and in secrecy9 or, at the most, with a medium or henchman, often a child (cf. Johnston 2001 for the use of children as mediums in PGM). Further, the rituals always have the practitioner partake in the sacrifice in a gastro-sensual way. An innovation of PGM, presented in several variants, seems to be the meal designed to obtain a parhedros. The word originally means ‘to sit next to someone’, a term also used to designate the companions at the banquet (similar to the parasitoi, the noble family members who were elected to assist the priests in the sacrifice; cf. Zografou 2008a: 61). Later, the parhedroi take the connotation of being divinities of a second order in the Greek pantheon. In the PGM, however, their nature varies from recipe to recipe and sometimes even within (Zografou 2008a: 62). But they always possess supernatural powers in order to carry out any desires of the practitioner and are following the invitation to a meal prepared by the practitioner in the same way it was expected of the companion to attend his companion’s banquet. Thus, PGM combine these two aspects of the parhedros in a very original way. The expectations concerning such companionship are usually not made explicit. In one case, we learn that the parhedros will not only eat with the practitioner but also cohabit with him (cf. PGM I, lines 1-2). Zografou makes the important observation that the shared meal with the parhedros signifies the start of a common life, similar to marriage ceremonies (Zografou 2008a: 63–4). In other instances, the practitioner is requested to celebrate a feast with or in front of a self-installed divinity (e.g. PGM III, 698; PGM I, 3125-3171; PGM IV, 54-70). Other rituals seem to be derived from ordinary funerary rites, namely the feeding of leftovers to the divinities (PGM X, 1-9; PGM IV, 54-70 and 1390-1495). However different the rituals are, nothing can be obtained from the gods without edibles.

2  Case study: The Eight Book of Moses (PGM XIII) Preisendanz’ PGM number XIII is usually referred to as the ‘Eighth Book of Moses’, although the other title of the work, Monas – the Only, is stated beforehand: This is the sacred book called Monas or the Eighth of Moses.10 The first two and, conclusively, the last two pages of the slim codex are missing. Still, the book seems intact as it is. The first two pages might have served as a cover, as would the last two pages, 30–2. Pages 26–30 are blank as well. Because of these empty pages in the end and the different hand that finished the book (starting on page 21, line 23)11 one can assume that something in the production of the book did not go according to the original plan. Especially since the book ends with an unfinished instruction and is then hastily subscribed with ‘The Secret Tenth Book of Moses’ (pg. 25, line 1078). The codex comprises two versions of Moses VIII, Version A (lines 1-343, with the second name ‘the Only’, Μονὰς) and a Version B (lines 344-733, with the second name

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‘the Sacred’, ἤ ἁγία) and, most likely, a Tenth Book of Moses (lines 734-1078).12 It seems that the author of the codex deliberately renamed his Vorlagen after Moses who had a wide reputation in Late Antiquity. The author claims to have written a book called the ‘Key of Moses’ himself (line 229) and also cites from ‘The Archangelic of Moses’ and ‘The secret Moon Prayer of Moses’ (lines 970-971 and 1057 respectively). It is more than probable that he collected, authored or renamed these Moses-texts because he himself tried to establish his reputation as ‘Moses’. Moses would then be his pen name in the same way others referred to themselves pseudepigraphically as ‘Hermes’ (line 15) or ‘Manetho’ (line 23). That the book is called the Eighth Book of Moses might be due to the popularity of the Ogdoad at the time, the eight Egyptian gods who created the cosmos.13 This cosmic notion might also have inspired the choice of eight sheets for the codex. For the purposes of this chapter it is most noteworthy that version A shows the most signs of an author acquainted with Christianity. Therefore, it is only Version A that will be the focus of the analysis.

2.1  The author of Moses VIII The text is addressing a child (τέκνον, for the first time in line 230). This ‘child’ could be a minor or someone inferior in knowledge to the writer, a student, for example. Indeed, the document presents the ‘child’ as having been present many times when the master performed a certain act (266-267). It looks like a teacher–student situation but at the same time the possibility must be considered that the author was experimenting with a well-known and widely used literary feature: the letter. The turning of an instruction for a secret ritual into a literary text is a little bit disturbing but the possibility has to be considered. The fact that the ‘child’ is only addressed in version A speaks both for and against this option. What can be said for sure is that two people were working on the text. The techniques they used show that they knew how to write. The last word of the pages is repeated on the next to maintain the correct order of the pages. They used different modes to insert corrections, each up to the standards of their time.30 What might argue for a student working on the text with his teacher is that hand one (h1) is ‘generally cramped’ (Daniel 1991: x) whereas hand two (h2) is ‘round, relaxed, upright, and sometimes semicursive’ (Daniel 1991: xi). Moreover, h2 added corrections to the text written by h1 (on pages 4, 9 and 19) while h1 only added corrections on the pages he wrote himself.14 But most significantly, Daniel would have dated h2 ‘somewhat earlier’. Maybe the teacher was dictating while the ‘child’ was writing, just as the ‘child’ is instructed in version A to take a tablet (πινακίδιον) for writing down what the God says. But, as already noted above, something did not go according to plan. This is indicated by the change of hand in the middle of a line and the abrupt ending.

2.2  Christian influence on Moses VIII Shandruk’s careful onomastic investigation into Egyptian magic texts has shown an increasing use of Christian topoi (cf. Shandruck 2012, esp. 53–7). This development is analogous to the rapid growth of Christianity in Egypt in the fourth century

332 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals (Cf. Bagnall 1996: 278–89). Suddenly, Christianity penetrated Egyptian society, and, of course, also PGM. That the Christ (χρηcτοc) is mentioned in line 289 of Moses VIII is therefore merely a reflection of this change and cannot serve as evidence for a Christian author- or editorship (on this see also Boustan/Sanzo 2017). Moreover, Klutz’s list of ‘wonder-motifs and related features shared by version A and the narrative writings of the New Testament’ (Klutz 2011: 154) proves no more than a common cultural world for they lack a ‘high volume of lexical and other correspondence exemplified by familiar instances of biblical intertextuality’ (Klutz 2011: 155). But the degree of Christianization might have varied greatly among the ‘Christians’. However, there seems to be evidence in the text that the author had some knowledge of Christian teachings and habits through inclusion or overt rejection. One striking example is the use of nomina sacra. Indeed, the scribes have set up their own system of nomina sacra, using, for example, a square with a horizontal stroke over it for the concealed and yet (by means of the ritual) to be revealed name of the god who gave power to all other gods (64-70). The horizontal stroke atop the whole abbreviation (and not just its ending) is a distinct feature of nomina sacra. These were already in use in the earliest Christian manuscripts and were used for the divine names and later adopted for some other dogmatically important words as well.15 In contrast to random Greek abbreviations they do not save time and space but serve as a sign of reverence towards the word for which they stand. The same is true for the nomina sacra replacing the names of certain divinities in Moses XIII, since they seem rather time consuming. There is, for example, a cone-shaped sunray, standing for Helios and a crescent for Selene. Strikingly, theos and kyrios are written out in a seemingly obvious attempt to avoid the Christian nomina sacra. Still, the signs are not an innovation of the author(s) of Moses VIII for they can be found in a scroll of approximately the same age and origin as well.16 Since ‘the presence of them (i.e. nomina sacra) in a manuscript is itself a good indication of its Christian provenance’ (Hurtado 1998: 658) this suggests that the scribes were acquainted with Christian scribal habits. But again, the authors of these magic papyri seem to have been versed, to a certain degree (and in some more than others),17 in several cultic traditions as indicated above. Therefore, there is nothing certain that can be said about the religious background of the scribes.

2.3  Content of Moses VIII Moses VIII basically provides instructions to obtain the one divine name superior to all others. Once knowledge of the name is obtained, the name can be used to become invisible, to make people fall in love with each other, to deliver someone from the power of a demon and other healing purposes, to revive the dead, to cross the Nile by crocodile, to send a dream to someone, and much more (lines 234-341). Because of the powerful name, these instructions are much simpler compared to the complex ritual necessary for its revelation, which therefore serves as a key to everything else. For the purposes of this chapter it is important to note that it is only during this initial ritual that the practitioner is eating or tasting something. At the same time, it is only in this ritual that the practitioner meets the god. Food and intimacy with the god are closely related.

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3  Structural analysis of the key ritual for revelation For the purposes of this chapter, I will focus on the material aspects of the ritual for the revelation of the name and leave the liturgical instructions aside. The ritual is not composed in a linear manner but unfolds gradually, moving back and forth on the time line with necessary preparations. To provide a better overview, I will be rearranged the ritual and put it in chronological order. The lines will be indicated, though, to provide the reader with a notion of their original order of appearance.

3.1 Preparation At first, the practitioner has to be initiated to the gods of the hour (lines 30-37). This ritual can be performed on ‘whatever new moon’. It requires dough made from the finest flour. Three figurines have to be moulded: bull-, ram-, and goat-faced. Each figurine should stand ‘on the pole of the celestial axis and each’ should hold ‘the Egyptian flagellum’ (translation: Klutz 2013: 204). This probably means that every figure has to stand on its own hemisphere. Afterwards, the figurines have to be fumigated and eaten. Egyptians used to divide the day as well as the night into twelve hours. Every hour was assigned to a particular god who accompanied Helios on his journey during this very hour. Since ‘hour’ is a feminine word in Egyptian, the gods of the hour were females (Bonnet 1952, 753–4). However, we do not find this aspect of femininity here, neither philologically nor within the figurines. The bull-faced god is reminiscent of Apis, the ram-faced one of Khnum and a goat was venerated in a different part of Egypt (in Medes) in ancient times. Here, aspects typical for the genre of magic texts are evident: They are full of allusions and familiarities, but there is nothing to really connect them to other known rituals or even other rituals in the PGM collection. Still, the flagellum suggests that the figures were meant to represent gods since it belonged to the regalia of the Egyptian gods.18 For the purpose of this chapter, however, it is important to note that the godlike figures have to be eaten. The intent behind this gastro-sensual contact with the gods is, most likely, the incorporation of divine properties. It is via this act of incorporation that the practitioner will ‘be consecrated to them’ (i.e. the gods of the hour, line 37). Thereafter the practitioner has to stay pure (ἁγνὸς) for forty-one days. In what this pureness consists, whether in abstinence from certain foods or sexual intercourse or through maintaining bodily cleanliness (achieved through ritual baths or else) is not stated. Obviously, the instruction is intended for someone who knows the meaning behind such standard terms. The last of these forty-one days has to coincide with ‘the conjunction that is in Aries’ (line 7). This conjunction (σύνοδον) of the sun and the moon denotes the astronomical new moon that, once a year, happens to occur in the sign of Aries (around the spring equinox).19 On the twenty-first day of preparation, the seven flowers (ἄνθη) of the seven stars have to be picked, dried in the shade and ground to powder together (lines 24-25). Although the text explicitly speaks of the seven stars (ἀστέρων), it can be assumed that the scribe had the seven ancient planets in mind: sun, moon, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn,

334 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Mercury and Mars. The seven flowers are marjoram, lily, lotus, ἐρεφύλλινον, narcissus, gillyflower and rose. The flowers are all local and can be picked at low or no cost – with the exception of the fourth flower which is unattested elsewhere. It might be the colloquial and local name of a common flower. On the other hand, the invention of a name of a flower fits the active attempt to estrange the ritual from its source material that is so characteristic for the magic texts. It might further be assumed that the flowers have to be dried in the shade in order to keep their potency and validity for the sacrifice. By exposing them to the sun (Helios) this potency would be consumed by the sun god as a sacrifice and the flowers would be useless for another sacrifice.

3.2  The praxis The space of the ritual is ‘a ground-level room, where no one died during the past year. Let the door be placed looking west’ (Translation: Klutz 2013: 202, slightly modified). The ‘room’ is called οικος, lit. house, (line 6) just like the room in which Thessalos of Tralles, a Roman physician, had his theophany in Thebes in the first century CE (on Thessalos’s experience see Moyer 2003). With regard to this oikos, Frankfurter argues that it ‘suggests a temple alcove or additional room, redesigned for oracles’ (Frankfurter 1998: 169, with reference to Festugière). However, a comparison with the abaton in the Asklepeia might be more fruitful. The sick visitor of the Asklepion spent the night in incubation in the abaton in the hope of a dream or a vision. The dreams or visions usually showed how Asklepios or another divine being healed the person or it revealed the means by which he or she would be cured. The detailed cures usually lack in the Iamatha, the testimonials of cured patients displayed (for encouragement and advertisement) in the Asklepeia (cf. Dillon 1997, 76–7). Could it be that PGM are compilations of detailed accounts of such visions? Since Moses VIII is almost 200 years younger than Thessalos’ account, it would be possible to think of a transfer of this special room (an abaton?) into the private domain due to the above-mentioned transformation of the Egyptian and Greek cults. This would be in agreement with a common feature of PGM, where rituals are often privatized and some even miniaturized (cf. Zografou 2008b: 59–60). The door of this oikos has to face the rising sun in the west, Helios, the most revered of the named gods in this codex. Indeed, the ritual has to take place early in the morning and Helios has to be greeted first (line 117). The room is apparently intended to be empty, for instruction is given to build an altar out of earth and to place it in the middle of the room (line 8).20 Yet, space has to be reduced further and hence made more intimate by the erection of a tent (line 99). It is in this tent that the god will finally meet the practitioner (line 212). This tent is strongly reminiscent of a bridal tent (Betz 1986: 174) and reinforces the notion that the focus of the ritual lies in attracting the god into increasingly more intimate spaces: from the lockable room with a door (the oikos) into the (bridal-) tent – probably with the intention to contract a durable relationship. Cypress wood and ten pinecones have to be placed on the right of the altar. Then, two white, undamaged and spotless roosters together with two lamps have to be placed, conclusively, on the left (lines 9-14).21 In an Egyptian list of articles for a

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sacrifice (undated, but CE) eight pinecones and four chickens are required (P. Oxy. XXXVI 2797 [3/4c]). Again, there is a close resemblance to an Egyptian cult sacrifice but the ritual is markedly distinct. The rooster is closely connected to the sun god since it apparently rises with him. The sacrifice of the two white roosters further emphasizes the special focus placed on the sun god throughout Moses XIII. That the roosters indeed have to be sacrificed becomes apparent in lines 92-93, where a pure, two-edged knife is requested for the slaughtering of the sacrifice (θῦµατος). These instructions reveal a further concern of the ritual: purity. Zografou assumed that the dominant focus on purity in many PGM (spaces, ingredients and utensils have to be white or black, new or ‘pure’) is due to the fact that the rituals did not take place in a previously consecrated space with consecrated utensils like, for example, the temple.22 But then, it would also be possible to consecrate the magic utensils once and for all. Rather, this suggests that in the same way the rites are never the same and are constantly renewed, so are the necessary utensils. The lamps have to be filled only to a fourth of their content with good oil. This is important for when the god enters, their flame will be intensified (translation: Klutz 2013: 202). Lamps were always a part of the temple and, especially, the altar. Their flames animated the faces of the divinities and thereby became consubstantial with them. This is reflected in the text when the god is expected to nourish the flame upon his entrance (Zougrafou 2010: 279–83). Then, the top of the altar has to be set with incenses that please the gods. That the top of the altar is hereby called τράπεζα, table, underlines the intended intimacy of the sacrifice. It adopts the feature of a shared meal in which the practitioner takes the place of the circumspect host in expectation of his guest. The incenses to be prepared are: for Kronos: Styrax; for Zeus: Malabathron (Indian bay leaf, Cinnamomum tamala); for Ares: Kostos (Saussurea lappa); for Helios: Frankincense; for Aphrodite: Indian nard; for Hermes: Cassia; for Selene: Myrrh. Different fumigations for the gods are also known from the Orphic Hymns. But a comparison shows that the incenses used in Moses VIII are much more varied and only in the case of Helios is there a partial agreement, since the seventh Orphic Hymn prescribes for him Frankincense and Manna. However, not only the variety of incenses is striking but also their costly nature. Several of the products are not indigenous to Egypt. Most obviously, the Indian nard and the Indian bay leaf are imports. But also Kostos had to be imported from India and Frankincense from Arabia (Lev and Amar 2007: 68–9). These incenses are not easy to access at all (Zografou 2008b: 2). On the contrary, their costly nature makes the ritual only applicable for people with certain financial means. What follows is an interesting hint: Above all prepare bitter vetch (vicia ervilia) (line 23). Bitter vetch was widely consumed in the Levant and served also as fodder for animals. In the classical era, it became known as a medicinal plant that cured stomach trouble, skin diseases, as well as dog- and snakebites (cf. Lev and Amar 2007, 360–1). In this ritual it seems to serve as a kind of first-aid remedy that needs to be at hand in case anything goes wrong. Indeed, the purpose of the vetch within the ritual is not further specified in the sequel and it might serve the practitioner in case of stomach troubles, as we shall see.

336 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals For libations, wine and honey have to be prepared in earthenware vessels (line 95). In line 130, we learn that the wine has to be free from seawater. This hints at Seth, the enemy of Osiris, god of fertility, whose element was the sea (Betz 1986: 175 n. 27). Moreover, there is need for milk of a black cow, a fluid that is playing with the two pure colours, as we have seen above, white and black. Then, writing ink has to be prepared with the incenses and the ground flowers. With this substance, a square piece of natron (νίτρον) has to be inscribed on both sides. The piece of natron together with the text is called sacred stele (ἱερὰ στήλη, line 61) or simply stele (line 132).23 Subsequently, one side of the natron plate has to be licked off and the other should be washed off with the wine and this solution should be drunk as well. Since natron (sodium carbonate) is a ‘soapy substance’, Betz laconically states that ‘this is not a gourmet rite’ (Betz 1986: 173 n. 14). Indeed, this might be the moment where the vetch comes in handy, not least because the milk has to be drunk as well at this point (lines 130-135). On the symbolical side, the stele is now absorbed completely by the practitioner. The text, which came out of his heart, went into his stomach. In the end, apart from the two roosters, the honey and the cinnamon, every edible part of this ritual has passed through the stomach of the practitioner (dough, incenses, flowers, natron, wine and milk).

4  Conclusion The fact that no two rituals within the PGM collection are the same suggests an intended unorthodoxy (Johnston 2001: 98–100 also points to the innovative nature of the papyri). And yet, the authors of Moses VIII were working with Vorlagen: They knew of other magic texts and used the same nomina sacra as others did. Still, there are no grounds to suggest regular encounters or some kind of a magic association. These would not go together with the required seclusion for the rituals either. However, the continuity in which the magic tradition was transmitted and gradually evolved suggests some kind of active transmission processes. Judging from the popularity that magic enjoyed in Egypt, as manifest in the form of everyday magic such as love spells, amulets and defixiones (inscribed in the outlined feature of the genre!), there is also no reason to assume political or social oppression. Certainly, in terms of the choice of the student, some kind of power was in play. But, again, there is no reason to suppose that this power was stronger or more aggressive than that of other people who controlled the transmission of certain knowledge. The whole initial ritual of Moses VIII is designed to involve the practitioner in a very sensual way. Within the procedures of this ritual (which lasts, all in all, at least a month), the practitioner has to eat three god like figurines made from dough, lick up prayer-like writings and drawings in self-made, substantial ink, and drink the same in a mix of wine and milk. Thereby a part of the writing tablet is ingested as well, since it is made of dissolvable natron. As outlined above (1.4.), the aspect of tasting and eating during the sacrifices is very prominent in magic rituals. Hence, Zografou considered the possibility that the stomach joined the magic praxis like a further environment where it could take place.24

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Indeed, there is reason to consider that the stomach plays an active part since it is only involved in rituals designed to attract a parhedros or, as in Moses VIII, a god. Through the ingestion of certain ritually processed ingredients, the practitioner becomes attractive to the divine being: He is himself transformed into a suitable parhedros for the divinity. Indeed, the practitioner in Moses VIII is not only creating an appealing atmosphere in the room for the god, luring him in with an appropriate sacrifice, but he is also mysteriously hiding in a tent with the god’s favourite scent hanging around his neck (cinnamon). The practitioner clearly wants to have an attractive body for the god, from within and without. What increases the intimacy between god and practitioner is their complete seclusion. Nobody is present, the room has a door and the tent is a further hidden space. The whole is clearly reminiscent of a wedding scene and the practitioner is thereby not only taking the place of the host but also of the bride. It has most likely to be seen against this background of an intended wedding that the ritual shows a clear preference for one god, even though several other gods are honoured as well. The Egyptian gods of the hour are revered in the ritual of initiation, but receive no substantial offering and several Greek gods are offered incenses in the main ritual. But there is only one god expected to appear and reveal an unknown, powerful name of his. But while the other gods only receive fumigations of incenses, the highest god is offered the more substantial foodstuffs: the meat of two roosters.25 This difference in the materiality of the offerings (no food, incenses, meat) might reflect a hierarchy. On the other hand, the offered food is telling in regard of the nature that is attributed to the different gods: Some are considered more volatile than others. In Moses VIII it is the god superior to all the others whom the practitioner wants to become substantial and meet him in the bridal tent and therefore he offers him the meat. Thus, the practitioner as well as the god is shaped according to what they eat. The former ingests divine properties, while the latter becomes more substantial through the meat offering. The goal of these reciprocal eating-processes was to achieve physical likeness and maybe even bodily union in order to establish an intimate companionship between a human and the non-human being.

Notes 1 For the persisting error to cite the papyri with capital J instead of capital I, see Dieleman 2011: 87 n. 3. 2 Cf. PGM IV, 2318/19; PGM IV 2446-49 and PGM I, 126/127. 3 It is with full intention that I allude to Brecht’s famous coinage of the term Verfremdung. 4 Cf. Preisendanz 1973, III. Preisendanz was very strict in editing only the Greek texts and parts of the texts. Fortunately, Daniel and Maltomini took over the task of editing also the demotic parts of the Greek texts as well as demotic spells in the two volumes of the Suppplementum Magicum, 1990 and 1991. For a more detailed account of the history of these papyri, cf. Betz 1986: xli–xliv. 5 The bibliography of this article, for instance, offers several titles referring to the PGM. 6 See list in Bagnall 2009: 84. Where exactly the papyri were found and if they were found together is unknown. Still, they are often referred to as the ‘Theban magical library’.

338 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 7 For example, it is evident from the inscriptions that the priests of the last temple still in use at the end of the fourth century CE, Philae, were hardly able to write hieroglyphic, cf. Dijkstra 2010: 62. 8 Frankfurter 1998: 210. This statement rather reflects the archaeologist and historian who laments the disappearance of the ancient Egyptian cult. But for the people of Late Antiquity, the cult was simply no longer attractive -and this had nothing to do with Christianity in the first place: ‘The roots go too deep’, Bagnall 1996: 267 n. 48. 9 See, for example, the double warning (κρυβε, κρυβε) in PGM I, 41 or the one in PGM XII, 37 (ἂλλος δἑ µηδεἱς συνέστω). 10 Thereby an unjustified Jewish provenance is put forward, see, for example the publication of Klutz’ translation in the volume ‘Old Testament Pseudepigrapha’. 11 The lines refer to the counting of Preisendanz 1973: 86–7. 12 See Klutz 2011 for a summary of arguments for and against the three sources. I follow Smith 1984 and Lietaert Peerbolte 2007, not in all their arguments, but in the view that there are three books in one: two versions of Moses XIII and one of Moses X (not complete). 13 Cf. Betz 1986, 189, n. 112 and 172, n. 2. Similarly, the choice of the number ten for ‘The Tenth Book of Moses’ can be explained: it is the perfect number in Pythagorean philosophy, cf. ibid.: 30 Cf. Brinkmann 1902, passim. 14 There are no philological reasons to assume a female writer. 15 For a list of nomina sacra used in the NT manuscripts, see Hurtado 1998: 657. 16 PGM XII (Leiden I 384), cf. Daniel 1991: 2–3. Four other papyri, published in the Supplementum magicum (Nos 1, 4; 7; 74), make use of the sign for ὂνοµα, name, as well. But the system in the two Leiden papyri in respect to divine names seems much more elaborate compared to the list in Daniel/Maltomini 1992, 338. 17 See for instance Betz’ commentary upon line 82 of PGM XIII: ‘The author seems to have known Hebrew and Egyptian badly enough to mix them up.’ Idem 1986: 174 n. 21. 18 Cf. Bonnet 1952: 211–12. Indeed, it is even a very original feature of Egyptian gods and yet, surprisingly, the author felt the need to classify it as ‘Egyptian’. 19 I am grateful to Professor Sacha Stern for the clarification of this obscure passage. He further pointed out that Version A, whose specification on the subject is quite problematic (ἲνα εἰς τὴν σύνοδον τήν ἐν κριῶ καταντήση), cannot be emended from Version B, as was done by previous scholarship (lastly by Klutz 2013: 202). For version B, in fact, states something different: ‘The moon is eclipsed in Aries’ (ἡ σελήνη ἐκλιπειν ἐν κριῶ). Since such an eclipse of the moon occurs only very occasionally and even less frequently in Aries, it would be almost impossible to ever perform the ritual. 20 The word for altar, βωµός, was first written with two omicrons and then corrected. This is a further argument for the inexpertness of h1. 21 Although only the right side is mentioned explicitly it is only conclusive to assume that the other items have to be placed on the left side of the altar. 22 This was proposed by Zografou for the ritual ingredients in PGM in general, cf. idem: 2008b: 2. 23 For the content of this ‘stele’, see lines 62–87. 24 ‘On pourrait donc considérer que le corps ou l’estomac du practicien fonctionne, dans certains cas, comme s’il s’ajoutait à ces nouveaux milieux de pratique rituelle.’ Zografou 2008a: 60. 25 Version B of the text clearly defines the things the practitioner has to taste as well, the apogeusis: milk, wine and natron. This leaves the meat entirely to the god (cf. line 360).

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Bibliography Bagnall, R. S. (1996), Egypt in Late Antiquity, 4th edn, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bagnall, R. S. (2009), Early Christian Books in Egypt, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Betz, H. D., ed. (1986), The Greek Magical Papyri. Including the Demotic Spells, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bonnet, H. (1952). Reallexikon der ägyptischen Religionsgeschichte, Berlin: de Gruyter. Boustan, R., and J. E. Sanzo (2017), ‘Christian Magicians, Jewish Magical Idioms, and the Shared Magical Culture of Late Antiquity’, HThR 110/2: 217–40. Brashear, W. M. (1995), ‘The Greek Magical Papyri: An Introduction and Survey. Annotated Bibliography (1928-1994)’, in W. Haase and H. Temporini (eds), ANRW, Teil II: Principat, Band 18: 5, 3380–684, Berlin: de Gruyter. Brinkmann, A. (1902), ‘Ein Schreibgebrauch und seine Bedeutung für die Textkritik’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 57: 481–97. Daniel, R. W. (1991), Two Greek Magical Papyri in the National Museum of Antiquities in Leiden. A Photographic Edition of J 384 and J 395 (= PGM XII and XIII), Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag. Daniel, R. W. and F. Maltomini (1990–2), Supplementum Magicum, 2 Vols., Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag. Dieleman, J. (2011), ‘Scribal practices in the Production of Magic Handbook is Egypt’, in G. Bohak, Y. Harari and S. Shaked (eds), Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition, 85–117, Leiden: Brill. Dijkstra, J. F. (2010), ‘Les dernières prêtres de Philae: un mystère?’, Egypte, Afrique et Orient 59: 57–66. Dijkstra, J. F. (2011), ‘The Fate of the Temples in Late Antique Egypt’, in L. Lavan and M. Mulryan (eds), The Archaeology of Late Antique ‘Paganism’, 389–436, Leiden: Brill. Dillon, M. (1997), Pilgrims and Pilgrimage in Ancient Greece, London and New York. Frankfurter, D. (1998), Religion in Roman Egypt. Assimilation and Resistance, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Graf, F. (2005), ‘“Magie II,” A-B’, in ThesCRA 3, 288–99, Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Hanegraaff, W. J. (2012), Esotericism and the Academy. Rejected Knowledge in Western Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University. Hurtado, L. (1998), ‘The Origin of the Nomina Sacra: A Proposal’, JBL 117: 655–73. Johnston, S. (2001), ‘Charming Children: The Use of the Child in Ancient Divination’, Arethusa 34: 97–117. Klutz, T. (2011), ‘Morton Smith, and the Eighth Book of Moses (PGM 13.1-734)’, JSP 21: 133–47. Klutz, T. (2013), ‘The Eighth Book of Moses’, in R. Bauckham, J. Davila and A. Panayotov (eds), Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. More Noncanonical Scriptures, Vol. 1, 189–235, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Lev, E. and Z. Amar (2007), Practical Materia Medica the Medieval Eastern MediterraneanAccording to the Cairo Geniza, Leiden: Brill. Lietaert Peerbolte, B. J. (2007), ‘The Eighth Book of Moses (PLeid. J 395): Hellenistic Jewish Influence in a Pagan Magical Papyrus’, in B. J. Lietaert Peerbolte and M. Labahn (eds), A Kind of Magic. Understanding Magic in the New Testament and its Religious Environment, 184–94, London: T&T Clark.

340 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Moyer, I. (2003), ‘Thessalos of Tralles and Cultural Exchange’, in S. B. Noegel, J. T. Walker and B. M. Wheeler (eds), Prayer, Magic and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World, 39–56, Philadelphia, PA: Penn University Press. Otto, B.-Ch. (2011), Magie. Rezeptions- und Diskursgeschichtliche Analysen von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit (RVV 57), Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. Otto, B.-Ch., and M. Stausberg, eds (2013), Defining Magic. A Reader, Sheffield: Equinox. Preisendanz, K., ed. (1963), Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die griechischen Zauberpapyri II, Berlin: de Gruyter. Preisendanz, K., ed. (1973), Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die griechischen Zauberpapyri I, 2nd edn, Berlin: De Gruyter. Ritner, R. K. (1995), ‘Egyptian Magical Practice Under the Roman Empire: The Demotic Spells and their Religious Context’, in W. Haase and H. Temporini (eds), ANRW, Teil II: Principat, Band 18: 5, 3333–79, Berlin: de Gruyter. Shandruk, W. M. (2012), ‘Christian Use of Magic in Late Antique Egypt’, JECS 20: 31–57. Smith, M. (1984), ‘The Eighth Book of Moses and How it Grew’, in Centro Internazionale per lo studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi (ed.), Atti del XVII congresso internazionale di Papirologia, Vol. 2, 683–93, Naples: Centro Internazionale per lo studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi. Turner, E. G. (1977), The Typology of the Early Codex, Philadelphia, PA: Penn University Press. Zografou, A. (2008a), ‘La nourriture et les repas dans les Papyri Graecae Magicae’, Food & History 6: 57–72. Zografou, A. (2008b), ‘Prescriptions sacrificielles dans les papyri magiques’, in V. Mehl and P. Brulé (eds), Le sacrifice antique. Vestiges, procédures et stratégies, 187–203, Rennes: Presses Universitaires. Zografou, A. (2010), ‘Magic Lamps, Luminous Dreams, Lamps in PGM Recipes’, in M. Christopoulos, E. D. Karakantza and O. Levaniouk (eds), Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion, 276–94, Lanham: Lexington Books.

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Meals in Ancient Medicinal Texts John Wilkins

Introduction Medicine in the Greco-Roman world, like all other medical systems, was a cultural production which reflected broad understandings of the world (Nutton 2013). It was based on a mixture of theory and practice, whether that practice was based on belief in such healing gods as Apollo and Asclepius or upon ‘rational’ approaches to the natural world – or, more commonly, a blend of the two. Six centuries after the complex theorization of the Hippocratic doctors, Galen was quite happy to give a physiological causation to a disease and also to visit the Asclepieion in Pergamum to incubate with the god. His Pergamene compatriot Aelius Aristides spent much longer than Galen in the Asclepieion and in his extensive comments shows how divine cure blended strongly with sleep, diet and other ‘medical’ practices. The practice is widely attested in Edelstein and Edelstein (1945). I refer of course to high-status medicine in the written and epigraphic record. Most people in antiquity were cured in traditional folk medicine which I believe resembled high-status medicine in many respects. Bear in mind that in his various formulations of how to divide up the medical art, Galen observes that nutrition is one-third, alongside pharmacology and surgery – the third a dangerous last resort. In another formulation, preventive medicine is half of the art, along with the therapeutic art. This is gentle medicine, with nutrition and pharmacology drawing their resources from the flora, fauna and minerals of the Mediterranean world. The Pre-Socratic philosopher Alcmaeon of Croton shows how the ‘mixtures’ of the body reflect the balance of the wider city (fragment 24 DK): Alcmaeon holds that what preserves health is the equality (isonomia) of the powers – moist and dry, cold and hot, bitter and sweet and the rest – and the supremacy (monarchia) of any one of them causes disease; for the supremacy of either is destructive. The cause of disease is an excess of heat or cold; the occasion of it surfeit or deficiency of nourishment; the location of it blood, marrow or in the brain. (trans. Longrigg)

342 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals This striking political image brings out the equilibrium (summetria) of the fluids of the body, which are the biological equivalents of the four elements, earth, air, fire and water. In the body these are hot, cold, wet and dry, and their mixture (krasis) might be the sole basis of physiology, or somehow matched on to the four humours which became so important in post-Hippocratic medicine, Galen in particular. Galen systematized the Hippocratic theory into his own understanding of the body, with the help of the Hellenistic anatomists Erasistratus (Garofalo 1988) and Herophilus (von Staden 1989). Galen showed how the food taken into the body is processed by body heat and transformed into blood, the primary and most complex humour, and into the other three, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. Imbalances in body heat or unsuitable foods might imperil the digestive system and give rise to residues (perittomata), which are humours in the wrong place, in tissue, under the skin or in vital organs. These must be dispersed, primarily through kidney action prompted by diuretics – wine above all – and by massage, which eases the residues out through the pores of the skin. If dispersal failed, then the body fell out of equilibrium and became ill. In this system, food and nutrition are crucial to wellbeing, and doctors were keen to give patients a customized profile of their katastasis (constitution), which is often also called their physis, or individual nature. Few people had a constitution in perfect balance, and so needed to modify food and drink intake and other ‘necessary’ activities (anangkaiai energeiai) in order to maintain good health. Galen’s system was built on daily life in a city, such as Pergamum or Ephesus, and was a method for the individual to monitor his or her wellbeing. It was in a sense the micro level of a balanced life to echo Alcmaeon’s more political language of tyranny and balance. Mealtimes, going to the baths, massage, sleep and mental health were all important and interconnected. Within mealtimes, the order of the food might be crucial (see below). Galen brings out the wide cultural reference of his scheme by taking as the model of the well-balanced body the Doryphoros of Polycleitos, a statue so perfect that Polycleitos is said to have written his Canon for artists based on it. Roman copies of it were placed in market places and private homes. Some 50 have been found in cities of the empire, demonstrating that citizens could match their bodies against the ideal model throughout the Empire. Galen is a crucial author for our purposes, not just because his texts are so voluminous that only the church fathers surpass him in vast output, but because of his attentive and scholarly regard for the past, which was characteristic of the Greek authors in the Roman Empire in the second century CE. Galen shares much with the non-technical authors Athenaeus of Naucratis in Egypt and Plutarch of Chaeronea in Boeotia, to whom I turn below. Galen’s key authors are Hippocrates, Plato and Aristotle, but he refers to many authors writing in the centuries between these three and his own time, most notably the anatomists mentioned above but also many authors of nutritional works, such as Diocles of Carystus (Euboea), Mnesitheus of Athens, Dieuches and Heraclides of Tarentum (see Wöhrle 1990). The last is interesting since he belonged to the Methodist school of medicine to which Galen was strongly opposed. His objection was to a monist view of the body in which health was based on corpuscles which might be constricted or released in their passage through the channels of the body. Changes to those channels brought disease. Galen’s principal opponent in this school was Asclepiades of Bithynia who brought Greek medicine to

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Rome in the second century BC, and advocated a life of wellbeing based on bathing, wine and gentle exercise. Galen’s criticisms are not really borne out in practice since much of what Celsus and Pliny record of Asclepiades is very close to Galen’s own recommendations. Indeed, Edelstein 1967 has suggested that much ancient dietetics remained similar and consistent in the long term, though with differences in detail. The nutritionists mentioned above are quoted at length in the Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus of Naucratis, a text which belongs squarely to the sympotic literary tradition recently surveyed in the pagan and Christian worlds by Jason König. Deriving from Plato’s Symposium and early Greek elegiac poetry, this tradition built eating as well as drinking around the sympotic features of poetic recitation, narrative and popular philosophy, nearly always including medical discussion. Plato himself included Eryximachus the doctor in his programmatic text. Plutarch’s Table Talk is a very good example of sympotic chat which includes popularizing medical content in a non-technical form. Galen shared with Athenaeus an encyclopaedic knowledge, which drew not only on a millennium of written and recited texts from Homer onwards, but also on a vast geographical range. Athenaeus was proud to mention authors from Sinope in the Black Sea, anthropologists such as Posidonius of Apamea on the Celts in Gaul, authors on the fish of Cadiz and Sardinia, and fish in his native Nile. Galen could match this, mentioning rabbits in Spain, fish in Sardinia and the Black Sea, honey dew in Lebanon, apricots in Syria and dates in Egypt. This is empire-wide encyclopaedic knowledge, brought together for technical medical purposes – Palestinian jujubes appeal to pregnant women but are not advisable – and for the upper classes to savour over their wine after dinner. It has been argued that the symposium was largely an upper-class affair in the Greek East (Murray 1990; Davidson 1997), but Fisher and I, among others (Fisher 2000, Wilkins 2000), have suggested that wine-drinking was so widespread that this was standard male behaviour, albeit more regularly and lavishly done by wealthy people. Roman culture was different, since women of status were not excluded and drinking was built into the patronage system, in which dependent clients could receive hospitality from their patrons, while reciprocally acknowledging the higher status of the patron. It has also frequently been asserted that Galen and other Greek doctors were only interested in wealthy patients (e.g. Garnsey 1999), many of whom seem to resemble hypochondriacs like Aelius Aristeides and the patients of Herodicus criticized by Plato in his Republic. Galen’s Prognosis certainly confirms this picture as he swept into Rome as a kind of medical miracle worker confounding the resident doctors and building his glorious ascent to the position of physician to the Emperor Marcus Aurelius and his successors. But this is misleading. Unlike some predecessors such as the Hippocratic author of Regimen III and Diocles of Carystus (fr. 182 van der Eijk), Galen, in his main work on nutrition, On the Powers of Foods, shows the greatest interest in manual labourers since they make enormous demands on their muscles and consequently need rapid replacement of energy with nutritious food. Here are two examples: Depletion of the body as a whole … necessarily accompanies those who toil throughout the day at their proper activities. For the depleted flesh snatches up from the stomach not only half-concocted, but even, when they work after a meal,

344 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals sometimes absolutely unconcocted chyme. This is why these people suffer very troublesome illnesses and die before they reach old age. Ignorant of this, most people who see them eating and concocting what none of us can tackle and concoct congratulate them on their bodily strength. Also, since very deep sleep occurs in those who undertake much hard labour, and this helps them with concoction to a greater degree, they are consequently less injured by harmful foods. But if you were to force them to stay awake for more nights in succession they would immediately become ill. So these people have but this one advantage in the concoction of harmful foods. (1.2, 6.486-487 Kühn)

The mealtimes of these workers were dominated by hunger: Galen makes it clear that their diet is quite different from that of the educated elite reading his book, but also that it can be mitigated by combining eating with good sleeping, another of what Galen saw as a ‘necessary activity’ (see below). A little later in the treatise (1.7, 6.498-9 Kühn), Galen gives us another vignette of country life as observed by members of the elite. The context is the importance of cooking method and preparation: If I had not once eaten wheat , I should not have expected food from it to be of use to anyone. Not even in famine would anybody come to this sort of use, for if wheat is in good supply, one can make bread from it. At dinner people eat boiled and roasted chickpeas and other seeds for want of so-called desserts, preparing them in the same fashion, but nobody eats boiled wheat in this way. … But once when walking in the country not far from the city, with two lads of my own age, I myself actually came upon some rustics who had had their meal and whose womenfolk were about to make bread (for they were short of it). One of them put the wheat into the pot all at once and boiled it. Then they seasoned it with a moderate amount of salt and asked us to eat it. Reasonably enough, since we had been walking and were famished, we set to with a will. We ate it with gusto, and felt a heaviness in the stomach, as though clay seemed to be pressing upon it. Throughout the day we had no appetite because of indigestion, so that we could eat nothing, were full of wind and suffered from headaches and blurred vision. For there was not even any bowel action, which is the only satisfactory remedy for indigestion. I therefore asked the rustics whether they themselves also ever ate boiled wheat, and how they were affected. They said that they had often eaten it under the same necessity that we had experienced, and that wheat prepared in this way was a heavy food, difficult to concoct. (trans. Powell 2003)

Galen is clear that working people ate less good food than the wealthy, and could not always cook it in the best way.1 But they could be healthy. Furthermore, Galen is impatient with some luxury foods that have no food value. Of red-mullet livers he observes (3.26, 6.716 Kühn): Now gourmets have marvelled at the red-mullet liver on account of its tastiness, but some people hold that it is wrong to eat it on its own, and they make what

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is called garelaion in a container which contains a small amount of wine in which they macerate the organ, so that everything derived from the liver and the previously-prepared liquids becomes one fluid that is uniform to the senses. In this they dip the red mullet and eat it. But I do not think that it has either the taste or the benefit to the body to justify such esteem; just as neither does the head, and yet gourmets praise the head and assert that it takes second place after the liver. Nor again can I understand why very many people buy the largest red mullet, which has flesh that is neither tasty like the smaller ones, nor easily concocted since it is quite firm. (trans. Powell 2003)

Galen separates himself from the food fashions of the wealthy, just as Plato’s Socrates had done in Gorgias, where the useful doctor is contrasted with the meretricious cook who panders at mealtimes to the pleasure of the individual. Galen picks up the idea precisely in a discussion of celeries and alexanders (2.51, 159.1-11 Wilkins, 6.638 Kühn): Also among this class are rue, hyssop, oregano, fennel and coriander, regarding which there has been discussion in the compilations on cookery which in a way are common to both physicians and cooks, but have a specific aim and purpose. For we physicians aim at benefits from foods, not as pleasure. But since the unpleasantness of some foods contributes largely to poor concoction, in this regard it is better that they are moderately tasty. But for cooks, pleasantness for the most part makes use of harmful seasonings, so that poor rather than good concoction accompanies them. (trans. Powell 2003, adapted)

I shall return below to the importance of taste and the other senses to ancient medicine, a point where Galen has to divert strongly from a Platonic rejection of the senses as misleading and deceptive.

1 Texts Greek nutrition in the written record began with the poems of Homer.2 Heroes wearied by fighting on the battlefield need rapid restoration. Heroes too long at sea are desperate for sustenance and will happily sink down the food chain to eat wild animals and fish. Denied the high-status beef of the heroic code, they are reduced to fishing and hunting. The oddities of this heroic code are commented upon in Plato and Athenaeus. Such nutrition is distinguished from the Egyptian drugs that Helen supplies to calm the mental anguish of the heroes as they remember their dead comrades at Troy. Energy replacement and pharmacological properties remained at the heart of the ancient understanding of nutrition for the next two millennia, and indeed until well into the Early Modern period. Dennis Smith and others have shown the extent to which food consumption in ancient Palestine conformed with the Greek dining practices of the East; people reclined, as they did when Jesus visited them in their homes (Smith 2003). Amos

346 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals is among early witnesses for the transfer of Persian reclining practices into the Mediterranean world (Murray 1990), and by the time of the Roman Empire in which the Gospels were written, ancient Palestine was a fusion of Greek, Roman and Jewish practice (among others), reflected too in the languages of the Bible and travels of St Paul. Medicine was part of everybody’s world, whether in popular forms or in high-level treatises, such as those by Galen and Soranus. In medical practice, nutrition and drugs were the key approaches, as surgery was high risk due to the risk of microbiological infection. It was even more important to keep yourself away from the doctor as much as possible, as even Galen advises (De Sanitate 6.14). Medical interventions were much less effective than modern interventions. But lacking powerful interventions such as chemotherapy and antibiotics was, paradoxically, a benefit as well as a disaster. With the exception of childbirth – the major cause of a high mortality rate before the modern period – people could medicate themselves in their daily lives. Nutrition was a third of medicine, Galen tells us, not an ancillary area as in biomedicine. People took responsibility for their own health as that was the best way to stay alive. Galen makes clear, as we have seen, that this was not a preserve of the rich, but could be applied to manual labourers, wet nurses and soldiers. Many have written of the importance of the Greek symposium as a background to early Christian life and practice (Smith 2003, Konig 2012 with bibliography). This social practice was followed throughout the Greek East and broader Roman Empire in the time of Christ, and included much social and cultural reflection, which might include religious, technical and indeed medical elements. Doctor Eryximachus is present in Plato’s Symposium, which he sets in the late fifth century BC, and thereafter medical men regularly appear in literary versions of the symposium. They appear extensively in Plutarch, to take a Roman Imperial example. Wellbeing of the body was a matter for sympotic reflection as was the wellbeing of the soul. And of course the connection between body and soul was a central concern for the ancient philosophical and medical traditions, exemplified by Plato and Galen to take but two.3 For this chapter, I draw on three authors of the end of the second century CE who knew the world of the early Christian church. The medical tradition of the Greek East is best preserved in the works of Galen and Athenaeus. Citizens of Pergamum and Naucratis in the Nile Delta respectively, they are the major surviving witnesses of ancient medicine and the Greek sympotic tradition, drawing extensively on contemporary knowledge and practice, alongside an inheritance stretching back over a millennium of Greek literature and medical writing. Galen was educated at Pergamum, Corinth, Smyrna and Alexandria; less is known about Athenaeus’s personal circumstances, but he combined interests in Egypt and Syria (Braund and Wilkins 2000) with a focus on Rome as the centre of the Greco-Roman world. Plutarch, born on the Greek mainland, also had major interests in multi-cultural sympotic and medical traditions, largely from the perspective of Platonic philosophy. In his Table Talk Plutarch explores various practical and ethical issues within the framework of a sympotic discussion between friends. At 3.1, the topic is whether garlands are a good thing or not at symposia (they were in fact almost universally used at such occasions). Are they a luxury that is not needed? At 3.1.3, doctor

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Trypho responds, with the point that much ancient medicine depended upon medicinal plants: Proof of this are the first-fruits which even now Tyrians still bring to Agenorides and the Magnetes to Cheiron, said to be the first two practitioners of medicine – for the gifts are roots and plants with which these two used to treat the sick. And Dionysus was considered a pretty good physician not only for his discovery of wine, a very powerful and very pleasant medicine, but also for bringing into good repute ivy, which is quite opposed to wine in its properties, and for teaching his celebrants to wear garlands of ivy that they might suffer less distress, since ivy by its coldness checks intoxication. (trans. Clement and Hoffleit, adapted)

Tryphon continues in this vein with other flowering plants, as earlier discussions had explored why women get drunk more slowly than men and why wine is good for old men. Note in this extract the doctor’s linking of medicine with mythology (especially Cheiron the Centaur who gave medicine to mankind) and religion, namely the god of symposia and festivals, Dionysus. The medical value of wine I mentioned above, and the balancing of this heating substance with the coolness of ivy through consideration of the properties or dunameis of a plant or animal is central to, for example, Galen’s nutrition in On the Properties (Powers) of Foods and his pharmacology in On the Properties and Mixtures of Simple Medicines. We can see Plutarch further as a popularizer of medical thought in his On Maintaining Good Health, which is an interesting predecessor of Galen’s work of a similar name considered below. At 131e, Plutarch comes to meals: Of the solid and very nourishing foods, things for example, like meat and cheese, dried figs and boiled eggs, one may partake if he helps himself cautiously (for it is hard work to decline all the time), but should stick to the thin and light things such as most of the garden stuff, birds, and such fish as have not fat. For it is possible by partaking of these things both to gratify the appetites and not oppress the body. Especially to be feared are indigestions arising from meats; for they are depressing at the outset and a pernicious residue from them remains behind. (trans. Babbitt)

There is nothing here that is not echoed in Galen, but the objectives are very different. The medical author considers grains and pulses in his first book, leaving animal products to the third, since nourishment for Galen means energy for muscles, which, as we have seen, is particularly needed for manual labour. Plutarch is at the other end of the spectrum, echoing Plato and the Stoic philosophers Cato and Musonius Rufus in recommending light and thin foods since philosophers have little interest in labour but much in spiritual rarefication. In addition, Plutarch is special because of his recommendations for a vegetarian diet, a rare option in the ancient world espoused by Pythagorean philosophers, and, after Plutarch, by Porphyry the neo-Platonist in particular in his de abstinentia. Porphyry concedes the diet would not suit labourers or people involved in political life. Athenaeus organizes his vast work around mealtimes, with the learned Deipnosophists, as he calls them, quoting richly from Greek literature all the texts they

348 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals can remember which mention a certain food or eating practice. This extraordinary feat of memory and scholarship is frequently pedantic, but at the same time our best witness to the literature of the Greek meal and symposium. Among texts quoted are the medical texts of Mnesitheus and Diocles mentioned above, among many others. In Mnesitheus fragment 40 Bertier, from his On Foods, the doctor recommends: Pigs’ head and trotters have no great nourishment or richness in them.

And in fr. 41 Bertier, Mnesitheus reveals, strangely in verse, that Dionysus is a great doctor who gives wine as nourishment to drinkers and strength for body and soul. Galen also appears as one of the semi-fictional Deipnosophists, here commenting on the properties of wines (1.26c): Regarding Italian wines, the Galen who was in this sophist’s house4 says: Falernian wine can be drunk after ten years and especially after 15 to 20; once it is older than that it causes headaches and attacks the nervous system. There are two varieties of it, one dry the other sweet. (trans. Olson)

The text and indeed the terminology does not match perfectly with any known text of Galen, but there are close resemblances with what Galen does have to say about Italian wines in On the Thinning Diet. He is writing about wines that do not thicken the humours and are less diuretic than some: There are many such wines in every country, most famous among them being Ariousian, Lesbian, Falernian, Tmolite and Theran. (trans. Singer)

In both his semi-fictional form and in person, Galen writes about the most prestigious wines in ancient Rome, Falernian being the red Burgundy of Roman drinkers. In his own treatise, he lists it with wines from the Aegean and from his native Asia Minor. The doctor is bringing together what is expensive at the wine merchant and what has desirable medical properties, without any prejudice towards the discerning connoisseur. He simply writes about what wealthy people normally drank. (We might add that in antiquity, wine was broadly praised by medical authors for its diuretic qualities and ability to restore body heat: The medical estimation is quite the reverse of modern medicine: see Mudd 2015.) A further area in which we can see medical writers coming close to the sympotic culture of drinking and dining is in recipe books. Galen announced that he intended to write a cookery book, but if he did so it does not survive. Athenaeus, though gives us a scholarly list of authors who wrote cookery books, many of whom were physicians (12.516c): Glaucus of Locris, Mithaecus, Dionysius, the two Heraclides (both from Syracuse), Agis, Epaenetus, and Dionysius, as well as Hegesippus, Erasistratus (fr. 290 Garofalo), Euthydemus, and in addition Stephanus, Archytas, Acesias, Diocles (fr. dub, 234 van der Eijk) and Philistion (fr. 13 Wellmann). (trans. Olson)

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Those writers explicitly linked with medical authors are listed with critical editions of the authors: What is clear is that cookery writers and medical writers shared things in common, as Galen conceded above. In this case Athenaeus focuses on recipes for making the luxurious Lydian sauce known as karuke. To return to mainline medicine, the Hippocratic author of Regimen I-IV, writing much earlier, in about 400 BC, has much advice to offer on meals. This remarkable text, unusually for the Hippocratic Corpus, is based on the two elements fire and water, and their biological analogues. This philosophy is set out in the first book, and the last book is on dreams, but it is the second and third that give our first systematic review of what the Greeks called diaita. They offer a catalogue of foods and their impact on the body, followed by how mealtimes are to be integrated with exercise, sleep, mental difficulties and other demands of life. I concentrate on meals, which I have filleted from the very long chapter III.68: Now first of all I shall write for the great majority of men the means of helping such as use any ordinary food and drink, the exercises that are absolutely necessary, and the sea-voyages required to collect the wherewithal to live. … In winter … a man should have one meal a day only, unless he has a very dry belly; in that case let him take a light luncheon (ariston). The articles of diet to be used are such as are of a drying nature, of a warming character, not too refined and unmixed; wheaten bread is to be preferred to barley cake, and roasted to boiled meats; drink should be dark, slightly diluted wine, limited in quantity; vegetables should be reduced to a minimum, except such as are warming and dry, and so should barley water and gruel. Exercises should be many … short walks in the sun after dinner. … It is beneficial to sleep on a warm bed. … When a bath is desired, let it be cold after exercise in the palaestra. Now is the season for the swallow to appear; from this time onwards live a more varied life. … It is accordingly right to assimilate diaita to the season, varying it with softer and lighter foods and exercises. … Take barley cake instead of wheaten bread and eat boiled vegetables; make boiled meats equal to roasts; use baths; have a little luncheon. Then it is summer … eat softer food, more refined and less in quantity, more barley cake than bread and that of well-kneaded but not of finely crushed barley; drink soft, white, and watered wines; take little luncheon and only a short sleep after it; avoid as far as possible surfeits of food, and drink plentifully with food. But during the day drink as little as possible, unless the body experience an imperious dryness. Eat boiled vegetables, except those that are heating; eat also raw vegetables, except such as are warming and dry. From the equinox … have massage and practice wrestling with the body oiled, increasing the vigour gradually … food should be warmer and less moist and refined, drinks darker, soft and not watery, vegetables dry and less in quantity. (trans. Jones, adapted)

While Galen did not consider this text worthy of Hippocrates,5 it proved influential on most later writers on nutrition, including Galen himself. The close reference of

350 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals human life to the seasons is classic Hippocratic method (seen most prominently in Airs, Waters, Places), and the integration of eating and drinking with exercise, sleep and bathing, massage likewise. Details of interest in this exposition are the following. The number of meals to be eaten in a day6 varies according to season. The term for ‘eating once a day’ is monositie, which might best be translated into English as ‘taking bread once a day’. The author is as interested in the texture and processing of the food (coarse or refined, boiled or roasted) as in its wetness or dryness, warmness or coolness, which were the key properties in the medical mind; the kind of wine changes with the season also, as does the amount of water mixed with it.7 Some raw food is allowed in the summer – the occasional salad perhaps – but authors tend to be very wary of uncooked foods, seeing them as unprepared for ‘cooking’ in the heat of bodily digestion and with the potential to produce ‘residues’ or misplaced humours. Finally, we should note that this is advice for ordinary people with a working life, not for the idle rich. The Hippocratic author does later concede, though, that a rich man with nothing else to do has the advantage of full dedication to health, anticipating Galen’s observation that employers often damage workers’ health by forcing them to work unhealthy hours. The major text that this chapter is concerned with is Galen’s great treatise on how to maintain good health, de sanitate tuenda, which he wrote in the 180s CE, and which remained a text of reference in later antiquity, in Arabic translation, and in Early Modern Europe. The book aims to keep the patient healthy and not in need of the doctor through leading a moderate, well-balanced life and following the ‘necessary activities’ mentioned above and already seen in Hippocrates, namely breathing good air, eating and drinking a balanced diet, exercising in moderation, sleeping in moderation, maintaining a balanced state of mind, and maintaining the humours in a balanced state, which we might today call having a well-regulated body as far as cholesterol, blood pressure and sugar levels are concerned. Galen occasionally describes his own habits, noting his own less than perfect constitution. In the following passage, he describes meals in the first part of the day, when he had sometimes been working at night (180.32–181.16 CMG, 6.412 Kühn): Let the first foods and drinks taken be those that relax the stomach, of wines those that are sweet and laxative (they are not all of this kind), of foods vegetables with oil and garum. Guard against astringent wines, as also astringent foods … It is best for some to eat before bathing around the time in which this is done. A word must be said about quantity and the kind of food that should be eaten. I will not shrink from speaking of what I myself normally do when I think to bathe rather late because of seeing to the sick or some business in the city. So let the day in which this happens be one of thirteen equal hours and let the hope be that care of the body will happen at around the tenth hour. On this assumption, I thought it right to eat the simplest food around the fourth hour – just bread. So I myself did this but some others do not manage to eat bread alone without a tasty addition, but either after bathing eat dates or olives or honey or salt, and then some of them drink too. I never used to drink on such food and ate only the bread. Let this be the amount of each that can be digested in the stomach until the tenth hour. And

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if they want to take exercise, they can do so quite safely on this basis. For no small harm befalls those who exercise after a large amount of food.

Galen gives a more extensive overview of the meals in a day when reviewing the lifestyle of two old men, Telephus and Antiochus (143.16-144.12 CMG, 6.332-334 Kühn): Care must be taken in frail old men to give a little food three times a day, as Antiochus the physician himself lived when he was more than eighty. He went forth every day to the building in which the assembly of the citizens met, and at times he went on a long road to visit the sick. To the agora he walked from home, a journey of three stades; as I have seen in frail neighbours, if forced to travel further he was carried in a litter or went up in a vehicle. At home he had a room heated by a stove in winter and with a balanced breeze in summer without the heat. Here he always lived winter and summer, going to the toilet early in the day. And in the building in the agora at the third or at the very most the fourth hour he ate bread and Attic honey, more if boiled and more sparingly if raw. After this he spent time with others or read until the seventh hour, after which he went to the public baths and took exercises that befit an old man … Then after bathing he had a balanced lunch, first eating things that relax the stomach and then mostly fish which live either in rocky water or the deep sea. And then at dinner he abstained from fish and ate foods of the best juices and unlikely to digest badly such as coarse flour with wine and honey or a bird in a simple sauce. By caring for his old age in this way Antiochus lived until the end unimpaired in his senses and agile in all his limbs. Telephus the grammarian lived longer than Antiochus, reaching an age of around 100. He bathed twice a month in winter, four times in summer, and three in the intervening seasons. On days he did not bathe he anointed himself around the third hour with a light massage and then ate coarse flour boiled in water. Mixing in the best raw honey, and this sufficed him for the first meal. He lunched at the seventh hour or a little earlier, eating vegetables first and then tasting either birds or fish. In the evening he ate just bread moistened in wine mixed with water.

Like Plutarch, Galen does not approve of complex or excessive food,8 but his focus is scientific rather than ethical. In the doctor’s view, long life is best achieved by a moderate and healthy lifestyle throughout life, and by doing what the body is accustomed to, including walking, work and exercise, though adjusted for an old man’s body. The old man needs well-regulated temperatures at home, food integrated with bathing and massage, and regular small meals three times a day. Foods should not be the most robust and high-energy, but lighter for a frailer body. Interestingly, the cereal base for both old men seems to be wheat flour rather than the barley porridge that much of the population ate and which the doctors thought gentler on the system. Galen has probably balanced out the potential dangers of wheat by the addition of honey in the meals of both old men. Wheat, then, remains, in contrast with the bread in Galen’s adult diet, but when it comes to protein, the old have birds and fish rather than the high-energy beef and pork. What remains consistent about the two passages of Galen studied at the end of this chapter is the integration of a medically approved diet into the

352 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals working life of the citizen, with fixed but flexible times for meals, and a link between them and bathing and massage sessions. These last were very important in medicine as massage was used to remove residues from the body; but at the same time an afternoon at the baths was central to daily life in the Roman Empire for all genders and classes. Again, culture and medicine meet in a happy harmony. A male harmony, it must be said, since little is said of a woman’s lifestyle in Galen’s treatise.

Notes 1 Galen would have been much more impressed by the feeding of the 5,000 from emergency rations, since the cereal was properly made into bread, and was complemented by tasty fish. 2 Medicine was not just text-based either in the ancient world. There is much inscriptional and archaeological evidence: see Massar 2005 on doctors in the Hellenistic and later cities, and Edelstein and Edelstein 1945 on inscriptions from Asclepieia. 3 On Galen see Singer 2017. Jesus, in often drawing on physical health as a background to spiritual teaching, fits perfectly into ancient medical thinking, which was deeply embedded in social interaction and daily activity. 4 ‘This sophist’ is Larensis, the fictional Roman host. 5 On the Powers of Foods 1.1, 6.473-474 Kühn, 18.10-19.8 Wilkins. The principal objection was probably to the two-element theory of fire and water. Regimen I-IV are now considered part of the ‘Hippocratic Corpus’ that was assembled long after the death of Hippocrates. 6 A light breakfast is probably assumed to be taken but is not mentioned. See below on Galen. 7 Unmixed wine was normally reserved for the gods in Greek culture. 8 The luxurious life of drinking and eating is scornfully dismissed at On the Therapeutic Method 1.1, 1.3 Kühn.

Bibliography Bertier, J. (1972), Mnésithée et Dieuchès, Leiden: Brill. Braund, D. and J. Wilkins, eds (2000), Athenaeus and his World, Exeter: University of Exeter. Davidson, J. (1997), Courtesans and Fishcakes, London: Fontana. Edelstein, E. J. and J. Edelstein (1945), Asclepius, Baltimore: John Hopkins. Edelstein, J. (1967), Ancient Medicine, Baltimore: John Hopkins. Fisher, N. (2000), ‘Symposiasts, Fish-Eaters and Flatterers: Social Mobility and Moral Concerns’, in D. Harvey and J. Wilkins (eds), The Rivals of Aristophanes, 355–96, London: Duckworth. Garofalo, I. (1988), Erasistratus, Pisa: Giardini editori e stampatori in Pisa. Garnsey, P. (1999), Food and Society in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge: Cambridge University.

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Koch, K., G. Helmreich, C. Kalbfleisch and O. Hartlich (1923), Galeni de sanitate tuenda, de alimentorum facultatibus, de bonis et malis sucis, de victu attenuante, de ptisana, Berlin: Teubner. König, J. (2012), Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University. Massar, N. (2005), Soigner et servir, Paris: De Boccard. Mudd, S. A. (2015), ‘Constructive Drinking in the Roman Empire: The First to Third Centuries AD’, PhD diss., University of Exeter, Exeter. Murray, O., ed. (1990), Sympotica, Oxford: Clarendon. Nutton, V. (2013), Ancient Medicine, 2nd edn, London: Routledge. Powell, O. (2003), Galen: On the Properties of Foodstuffs, Cambridge: Cambridge University. Singer, P. (2017), ‘The Essence of Rage: Galen on Emotional Disturbances and their Physical Correlates’, in R. Seaford, J. Wilkins and M. Wright (eds), Selfhood and the Soul, 161–96, Oxford: Oxford University. Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress. van der Eijk, P. J. (2000), Diocles of Carystus, 2 vols; Leiden: Brill. von Staden, H. (1989), Herophilus, Cambridge: Cambridge University. Wilkins, J. (2000), The Boastful Chef: The Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Culture, Oxford: Oxford University. Wilkins, J. (2013), Galien: Sur les facultés des aliments, Paris: Belles lettres. Wöhrle, G. (1990), Studien zur Theorie der antiken Gesundheitslehre, Stuttgart: Steiner.

27

Material Meals: Space, Inscription and Image as the Texts of Daily Life Lillian I. Larsen and Jesper Blid

All historical interpretive moments illuminate some things, they cast shadows over others, they foreground some things, render into the background certain others. V. L. Wimbush1

Introduction In a seminal essay, ‘Interpreting Resistance, Resisting Interpretation’, Vincent Wimbush observes that ‘all historical interpretive moments illuminate some things … cast shadows over others, they foreground some things, render into the background certain others’.2 Scholarly consideration of ancient commensal practice might serve as a case study of such ‘Wimbushian wisdom’. Here, iterative emphasis has rendered the meal protocol refracted in Plato’s Symposium disproportionately dominant. Tracing Plato’s particular influence on Ancient Christian Worship, Andrew McGowan suggests that the literary and social emphases foregrounded in Plato’s idealized Symposium have served not only as primary models for subsequent diners, but for generations of ‘scholars, conversationalists, and students’.3 Extant material ‘texts’ have arguably played as important a role in situating the idealized literary contours of Plato’s persuasive prose within discrete cultural and chronological settings. Refining interpretive emphases that long framed emergent Christian meal practice as singular in character, material remains – preserved in physical space, surviving inscriptions and extant images – confirm shared ideals that refract normative practice.4 On the one hand, material remains have imbued literary ideals with depth and dimensionality. On the other literary description has added rich grain to what might otherwise remain opaque material landscapes. The present essay continues the work of situating dominant literary ideals within the material loci of concrete historical praxis.5 Affirming groundbreaking analyses of commensal configurations of gender,6 it documents the degree to which juxtaposing literary and material ‘texts’ has effectively served to elucidate idealized practice. Simultaneously, it extends this work, exploring the ways in which comparing literary

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and material ‘texts’ can likewise afford a reflexive hermeneutic – or perhaps better, an orienting tool – for separating the real and the ideal (and/or judging the merits of competing ideals). To illustrate, the meal practice described in Plato’s Symposium is placed in conversation with literary and material ‘texts’ drawn from the registers of first-century Judaism, emergent Christianity and late-ancient monasticism. Providing something of a ‘sandbox’ for identifying complementary and contested expressions of commensal configuration, less familiar literary and material ‘texts’ invite alternate readings of familiar source material. Potentially anchoring interpretive horizons in competing contours of text and context, they afford access to tensive interpretive ideals that continue to texture the fabric (and refraction) of ancient and contemporary commensal space.7

1  Mediterranean meals There is little question that contemporary refractions of ancient Mediterranean meal practice have been foundationally formed in conversation with the literary settings and scenarios depicted in Plato’s recounting of the dialogues between Socrates and his associates – at table. As reported: Socrates took his place on the couch, and supped with the rest; and then libations were offered, and after a hymn had been sung to the god, and there had been the usual ceremonies, they were about to commence drinking, when Pausanias said, And now, my friends, how can we drink with least injury to ourselves? I can assure you that I feel severely the effect of yesterday's potations, and must have time to recover; and I suspect that most of you are in the same predicament, for you were of the party yesterday. Consider then: How can the drinking be made easiest? … It was agreed that drinking was not to be the order of the day, but that they were all to drink only so much as they pleased. Then, said Eryximachus, as you are all agreed that drinking is to be voluntary, and that there is to be no compulsion, I move, in the next place, that the flute-girl, who has just made her appearance, be told to go away and play to herself, or, if she likes, to the women who are within. Today let us have conversation instead. (Symp. 176e–177d)

The normative qualities assigned the caricatured diners at Plato’s banquet are broadly familiar. As modelled, the meal is comprised of elite males, engaged in substantive, philosophical dialogue. Summary dismissal of the flute girl ‘to go away and play to herself or … to the women who are within’ has arguably proved as persuasive in defining female diners as antithetically predisposed to philosophical pursuits.

1.1  Confirming the Ideal Scholarly readings of material ‘texts’ have effectively served to confirm the physical parameters of Plato’s iconic meal space.8 For example, in his foundational monograph, From Symposium to Eucharist, Dennis Smith surveys a broad range of excavated meal

356 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals settings to elucidate a common vernacular of banqueting practice. Imbuing Plato’s literary descriptions with rich texture, Smith uses the common configurations that link discrete material loci to elucidate the ‘arrangement typical of Greek dining rooms’, as a space ‘designed to contain dining couches … that [allowed] all of the [primary] diners [to] recline on the left elbow’.9 Countering interpretive emphases that long treated diverse dining forms as structurally distinct, Smith identifies material ‘texts’ which confirm the normative valance of Plato’s descriptive detail. Through effective juxtaposition of literary and material evidence, he derivatively demonstrates ‘that the banquet as a social institution [was] practiced in similar ways and with similar symbols’ throughout the Mediterranean.10 Material sources and settings have proved as elucidating in iteratively defining the collegiality of the commensal setting in iconically gendered terms. In her broad survey of ‘convivial imagery’ Katherine Dunbabin calls attention to the degree to which the literary ideals of the ‘classical’ banquet were iconographically emphasized.11 She notes that narrative descriptions of reclining male banqueters who retain a voice at the table, and self-regulated access to food and wine, are consistently corroborated in the most familiar classical registers. Women, if present at all, are depicted in secondary roles. Many appear as counterparts to Plato’s quintessential ‘flute girl’. Arranged in sexually suggestive roles, their presence is reduced to one element in the diners’ evening entertainment.12 Images of ‘respectable’ women seated at a reclining male banqueter’s feet,13 similarly reinforce the limited participatory status implicit to Plato’s literary ideal. William Hoepfner’s observation that the andrones, in which ‘… die Männer speisten und tranken, sangen und diskutierten’14 appear identifiably masculine in both constituent composition and nomenclature, gives voice to an interpretive trajectory that has arguably served to emphatically reinforce dominant renderings of both the literary and material register.

1.2  Nuancing the Ideal Such delineations derivatively demonstrate the degree to which tacit embrace of the Platonic ideal has derivatively rendered alternate commensal configurations, exceptional. Just a bit of delving into the interpretive ‘shadows’, however, invites further consideration of the ways in which the material register usefully nuances the normative character assigned familiar ideals. For example, Nancy Bookidis’s consideration of dining areas at the Corinthian sanctuary of Demeter and Kore, calls attention to the presence of stone couches in settings in which women apparently reclined15 (or settings in which ‘the custom of segregated dining did not exist’).16 While literary accounts of what women ‘did and said’ in these loci are less readily accessible than the descriptions included in Plato’s well-thumbed Symposium, material ‘texts’ that refract meal settings comprised solely of reclining women offer little support for Plato’s passing portrayal of female banquets as characteristically superfluous (Symp. 177c-d).17 Elsewhere, material exemplars from the Roman period18 indicate ‘that elite [Roman] women did … attend mixed banquets, and that they would recline when they did so’.19 In fact, in her detailed examination of Roman Banquets, Dunbabin observes that ‘for many centuries … Roman art … [remained] inconsistent in its portrayal of women at the banquet’.20

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Affirming a diversity of practice, she notes that ‘both seated and reclining women are found, in a variety of different contexts … an anomaly which almost certainly reflects not only the use and adaptation of different models, but also … fundamental ambivalence both in actual practice and in the ideology that lay behind it’.21

1.3  Challenging the Ideal In literary sources ‘Roman moralists’ also reference such mixed-gender commensal settings, identifying the same ‘as one of the marks of the extent to which their own customs had changed for the worse from good old … simplicity and morality’.22 Belying such assessment, however, Dunbabin introduces material ‘texts’ that challenge the normative status traditionally assigned to Plato’s overtly gendered practice. Preserved as a body of Etruscan wall murals – chronologically commensurate with Plato’s Symposium in date23 – these material texts depict women and men reclining together not as sexual partners, nor in a hierarchical/participant-observer configuration, but in mixed-gender, mutual enjoyment of convivial repartee.24 Relativizing the chronological precedence ‘generations’ of diners, ‘scholars, conversationalists, and students’ have assigned Plato’s iconically gendered ‘ur’ banquet,25 these configurations trouble nostalgic notions of mixed-gender meals as inherently dilatory or degenerative. They instead invite repositioning the all-male andron as one choice on a spectrum of practice. As reclining women, and men, retain a voice at the table (and self-regulated access to food and wine), they define a spectrum of festive meals that also includes commensal settings comprised solely of reclining females, and/or reclining males.

2 Jewish/Ascetic Often examined in conversation, there is little debate that the commensal depictions included in Philo’s account of the Contemplative Life are as idealized as Plato’s literary refractions. Likewise, among scholars of emergent Jewish and Christian meal practice, the commensal habits of the Therapeutae – a contemplative community of Jewish ascetics, ostensibly located in the environs of Alexandria – are arguably as familiar.26 As reported: The order of reclining is so apportioned that the men sit by themselves on the right and the women by themselves on the left. … [Additionally] while they mitigate somewhat the harsh austerity of Sparta, they always and everywhere practise a frugal contentment worthy of the free, and oppose with might and main the love lures of pleasure. They do not use slaves to wait upon them as they consider that the ownership of servants is entirely against nature. … Services [instead] are rendered by free men who perform their tasks as attendants not under compulsion or yet waiting for orders, but with deliberate goodwill anticipating eagerly and zealously the demands that may be made. For it is not just any free men who are appointed for these offices but young members of the association … [who] give their services gladly and proudly like sons to their real fathers and mothers, judging them to be

358 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals the parents of them all in common, in a closer affinity than that of blood. … In this banquet … no wine is brought … but only water of the brightest and clearest. The table too is kept pure from the flesh of animals; the food laid on it is loaves of bread with salt as a seasoning, sometimes also flavoured with hyssop for the daintier appetites. … [After] the President … [has] discusse[d] some question arising in the Holy Scriptures … and both sides feel sure they have attained their object … the President rises and sings a hymn. … After [this], all the others take their turn as they are arranged and in the proper order while all the rest listen in complete silence except when they have to chant the closing lines or refrains, for … they all lift up their voices, men and women alike (V. Contempl. VIII-X).27

Philo’s idealized account depicts a feast explicitly shared by both women and men. Their respective participation in the meal ritual is mirrored in antiphonal singing and choreographed dance. Whether Philo’s community of Therapeutae ever existed remains a topic of ongoing debate. However, the degree to which his literary register attaches to both prior and subsequent material ‘texts’ is provocative.

2.1  Confirming the Ideal The literary contours of Philo’s prose have sometimes been deemed so idealized as to retain few concrete historical elements. However, less noted material referents remind readers of the long-lived character of recurring practice. Here, it is useful to place Philo’s first-century descriptions in conversation, not only with the material ‘texts’ discussed above, but also with later Christian meals – in particular, those refracted in fourth-century, Roman catacomb frescoes. For example, Dunbabin notes that ‘in almost all of these scenes, there is a conspicuous row of tall baskets full of loaves of bread’. She additionally observes that at a point when these scenes were viewed in isolation, the ‘presence of fish’ (and bread) was deemed a ‘specifically Christian feature’, and the banquet itself assigned explicit Eucharistic significance.28 Re-contextualized within a wider Graeco-Roman frame, however, the catacomb scenes more directly suggest alignment with wider practice. Similarly clear consonance with foodstuffs emphasized in Philo’s literary register, confirms the links that attach first Jewish, then Christian practice, not only ‘with … charitable distributions endemic to GraecoRoman funerary banquets’, but also broader ‘euergetistic tradition’.29

2.2  Nuancing the Ideal As a rule, Philo’s distinctive gender configurations have primarily been read in conversation with Plato’s literary banquet. Viewed in light of a broader range of material referents, however, the degree to which Philo deliberately equalizes Plato’s gendered hierarchies might alternately be framed as an additional evidence for a more nuanced spectrum of tensive engagement.30 Like earlier Etruscan ‘texts’, Philo’s literary register depicts women, not as seated or sexualized appendages to male diners, but instead as reclining guests.31 By placing men on the right and women on the left, his refraction simultaneously hybridizes more overt mixing of genders

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in configurations that appear characteristically reminiscent of banquets comprised solely of men, and/or women.32

2.3  Challenging the Ideal Extant material ‘texts’ add still richer dimensionality to layers of idealized prose. In particular, Jane Tulloch’s close reading of a series of eight banquet scenes preserved in the catacomb of SS. Marcellino e Pietro,33 affords a challenging register of material contrast. In her analysis, Tulloch observes that a number of the murals ‘depict female figures raising cups’. Others include ‘both a male and female figure rais[ing] a cup’.34 Although the frescoes have been variously interpreted, with female figures framed as everything from ‘wine girls’ to metaphorical constructs, Tulloch calls attention to the terms, Agapê (love) and Irene (peace), which appear close to the cupbearers in respective frescoes. Countering suggestions that this nomenclature simply records the names of the women, she offers a more materially resonant reading. In alignment with practice depicted in Philo’s literary refraction, Tulloch premises that the inscriptions serve to record an antiphonal ‘toast said with wine and shared among the participants at the banquet’.35 ‘Materializing’ leadership roles, shared equally by women and men, Tulloch’s parsing adds rich dimensionality to Philo’s detailed literary description. Implicitly challenging relegation of female diners to sexualized, non-participatory, and/or silent postures, instead one meets material refraction of antiphonal exchange in which ‘note … responds to note and voice to voice, the treble of the women blending with the bass of the men, creat[ing] an harmonious concert … sometimes chanting together, sometimes taking up the harmony antiphonally, hands and feet keeping time in accompaniment …’ (V. Contempl. XI).

3  Emergent Christian Alongside the meal depictions attributed to Plato and Philo, dominant scholarly representations of emergent Christian meal practice have arguably been informed by relatively singular literary ideals. Of these, the meal description that introduces the canonical Acts of the Apostles retains pride of place. As reported: Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved. (Acts 2.43-47; NRSV)

In this recounting, the male/female make-up of constituent banqueters is left undefined. However, in traditional interpretation, there has been little effort to divorce

360 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals the attributed gender of those in attendance with broader questions of who retains status as an apostle, and derivatively, ‘a voice’ at the table (or vice versa).36

3.1  Confirming the Ideal The degree to which the literary and material record of emergent Christian meal practice has been shaped in conversation with an idealized register of broader dining norms is well documented. For example, ‘the quantity of bread depicted’ in material texts preserved in the Roman Catacombs is readily ‘associated with the biblical “multiplication of … loaves and fishes”, and Acts’ ideal of “distribut[ion] … to all, as any had need” (Acts 2.43)’.37 Graeco-Roman depictions of ‘respectable’ women, seated silently at the feet of reclining male banqueters, add material dimensionality to Luke’s literary commendation of Mary of Bethany having chosen the ‘better part’ (Luke 10–11).38 Examined in conversation, both literary and material ‘texts’ affirm Christian reliance on literary refraction that corresponds to a well-established visual vernacular.

3.2  Nuancing the Ideal As the narrator places Mary at the feet of Jesus – during a banquet at her family’s lakeside home – both her posture and her silence effectively communicates the material contours associated with iconic female virtue.39 Simultaneously, the author’s reliance on the same visual vernacular in less charitable representation of Martha, Mary’s sister, invites more nuanced assessment. Thinly veiled critique of Martha’s active meal engagement offers stark contrast to Mary’s ‘better choice’. In counterpoint, however, Martha’s overtly directive role relativizes the caricatured norms that govern Mary’s passive participation. Like a no-fishing sign that marks fine fishing,40 Martha’s presence signals a broader spectrum of available participatory options. As literary and material ‘texts’ coalesce, the sisters’ inversely antithetical roles implicitly belie idealized depictions of uniform practice, inadvertently imbuing Luke’s narrative juxtapositions with unexpectedly rich nuance.41

3.3  Challenging the Ideal Ute Eisen’s survey of Women Officeholders in Early Christianity, engages material ‘texts’ that add challenging context to the tensive contests refracted in the narrative register of Luke-Acts.42 Extending Bernadette Brooten’s earlier examination of material ‘texts’ that document the status of Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue,43 Eisen calls attention to inscriptions and epigraphs designating women as apostles, prophets, teachers, presbyters, enrolled widows, deacons, bishops and stewards.44 Each designation offers fertile ground for analysing the literary tensions apparent in the Lucan dining postures assigned to Mary and Martha, at table. Countering a long interpretive legacy, grounded in the premise that ‘because a woman could not have been an apostle’ figures assigned leadership roles ‘could not have been … wom[e]n,’45 Eisen re-contextualizes the norms of patriarchal hegemony. By materializing the caricatured ideals associated with Martha and Mary’s respective roles, she effectively situates each within a cyclically

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variable register of tensive commensal contests, and derivatively, long-lived debates about the gendered character of communal leadership.

4 Monastic It is ironic that the period from which the greatest density of explicitly Christian sympotic ‘texts’ survives has been characterized as the moment when ‘images of banqueters … disappear … become much rarer or change their nature’.46 Loosely captured in oftcited depictions of ‘the [humble] holy man who sits while others recline’,47 the most familiar meal depictions derive from hagiographical vignettes. For example, among the Apophthegmata Patrum, one meets radical ascetics who eat, at most, every other day, and drink water as occasionally.48 As reported, one male hermit: … made a resolution not to drink anything. [Instead] when thirsty, he washed a vessel, filled it with water, and hung it before his eyes.49

Another brother, … sometimes longed to eat a cucumber [but instead] took one and hung it before him where he could see it, [taming himself, and so] repent[ing] that he had wanted it at all.50

A certain abba is delivered, … one basket of bread [each year. The brothers eat] some of [this same] bread when they bring the subsequent year’s basket.51

Another abba, … drink[s] wine for the brothers’ sake. [However, for each cup he consumes] go[es] without water for a whole day.52

Elsewhere, however, one finds more direct re-framing of commensal practice. Here, it is striking that one of the most explicit references to convivial meals is attributed to Amma Syncletica, the leader of a community of female monks:53 Worldly people esteem the culinary art, but you, through fasting and thanks to cheap food, go beyond their abundance of food. It is written: ‘He who is sated loathes honey.’ (Prov. 27.7) Do not fill yourself with bread and you will not desire wine. (Syncletica 4 [Ward])54

In language that antithetically idealizes resistance to conventional banqueting practice, with her male counterparts, Syncletica arguably signals her listeners’ intimate familiarity with the meal’s implicit appeal.

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4.1  Confirming the Ideal Traditional considerations of emergent monasticism have routinely examined early eastern expressions through a later western lens. More contemporary work has, in contrast, sought to place western literary traditions in conversation with material ‘texts’ that elucidate both eastern and western practice.55 For example, Jesper Blid’s recent survey of material ‘texts’ provenanced to Saint Antony’s monastery (close to the Red Sea), loosely confirms the ascetic ideals captured in later hagiographic hyperbole. Affirming a broad ethos of ascetic restraint,56 monastically produced tableware registers meal settings characterized by austere simplicity. Elsewhere, dining rooms – dominated by a single oblong table, with an attendant lectern – offer compelling refraction of anteconvivial settings, characterized by non-participatory, attentive silence.57 Such material loci register monastic practice characterized by functional commensality, and radically ascetic, egalitarian ideals.

4.2  Nuancing the Ideal Alternate collections of literary and material ‘texts’, however, add unexpected nuance to these relatively late refractions. Destabilizing notions of broad resistance to conventional commensality, these portrayals suggest a more variable range of meal practice. For example, the material ‘texts’ preserved at Saint Apollinare Nuovo, in Ravenna, picture the twelve (male) apostles reclining at the Last Supper.58 Mirroring commensurate continuity of practice, the illuminations included in the Rossano Gospels – copied and illustrated by monks, picture Jesus and the twelve disciples, reclining.59 Diners in the Codex Sinopensis are analogously depicted, reclining, ‘at table’.60 Viewed in light of the ascetic ‘holy man’, these late ancient material representations have routinely been interpreted as a nostalgic holdover from earlier eras. However, placing literary and material ‘texts’ in conversation reveals a more nuanced diversity of practice. For example, in his early rule, Basil of Caesarea includes protocol for ‘how one ought to conduct oneself with regard to sitting and reclining at the midday meal or at supper’.61 In contrast, Palladius notes that in Pachomius’s Egyptian establishments, although meals are jointly shared, the diners no longer ‘recline at full length’ (Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32.2-3). In turn, monastic meal practice in Augustine’s North African setting, comprises two commensal constellations. The first is explicitly designated for lay monks (and/or virgins), the second for clergy.62 In the ‘lay monastery’ of Hippo, the regulatory record mandates a demeanour of attentive silence for the duration of the meal. However, at the ‘monastery of clerics’, as in Plato’s andron, conventional convivial rhythms are apparently expected, and encouraged.63

4.3  Challenging the Ideal The material ‘texts’ elucidated in Simon Malmberg’s study of the Dazzling Dining of Byzantium, in some sense, bring conversation full circle. Challenging interpretive trajectories that have linked a decline in commensal dining with the Christianization of the Roman Empire, and more explicitly, the emergence of monasticism,64 Malmberg traces a trajectory of cyclically tensive continuity that is difficult to discount.65

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He observes that when ‘the Great Lavra’, the first of the entirely male, coenobitic monasteries on Mount Athos, was founded by Athanasius in 963, ‘one of the most important buildings … was the trapeza’.66 A far cry from the austere refectory of popular imagination, ‘this [commensal] dining hall … included nineteen large sigma tables in white marble at each of which twelve monks could [dine]’. Still in existence today, ‘the tables [were] placed in two rows along either side of the hall’. Retaining pride of place, at the back of the hall, was the abbot’s table ‘in an apse … flanked by two separate tables’.67 Perhaps predictably, parallel exploration of the literary and material registers that refract the meal practice of female monastics remains a desideratum. However, as recurrent contours are again defined by who is awarded place and voice at the interpretive table, they suggest a common thread that invites closer consideration.

5 Conclusion As generations of ‘scholars, conversationalists, and students’ have selected the structured sequences outlined in Plato’s literary Symposium as primary models, long-lived iterative emphases well illustrate the degree to which ‘all historical interpretive moments illuminate some things, they cast shadows over others, they foreground some things, render into the background certain others’.68 Perhaps as interesting, however, is the degree to which ‘interpreting resistance’ invites ‘resisting [such] interpretation’. The readily accessible literary and material ‘texts’ examined here, effectively confirm, nuance and challenge oft iterated, dominant ideals. Placed in conversation, they simultaneously offer an effective hermeneutic for discerning the distance between fact and idealized fiction (and/or judging the relative merits of competing fictions). Arguably as significant, is the degree to which rendering visible this rich range of shadowy communal configurations, not only foregrounds less familiar ideals, it also retains real potential for providing useful models for rethinking both ancient and contemporary practice. As daily news reports decry the degree to which women’s voices continue to be excluded ‘from the tables’ of boardrooms, governing bodies and visibly re-masculinized academic and research structures, it is worth pondering the ways in which iteratively authorized, ancient ideals, continue to sanction deeply ensconced, problematic practice. Inversely, the recurring patterns woven into the fabric of less familiar literary and material registers offer a tantalizing glimpse of ‘what comes out differently’, if one chooses an alternate starting point. Each invites awarding interpretive privilege to more plausible, more varied and ultimately more palatable meal models – that by virtue of consequent influence, retain not solely ancient, but increasingly urgent, contemporary valence.

Notes 1 Wimbush (1997). 2 Ibid. 3 McGowan (2014), 21.

364 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 4 The topical approach adopted by the ‘Meals in the Graeco-Roman’ Society of Biblical Literature seminar has proved particularly persuasive. 5 Various components of this research have been presented in work associated with the SBL ‘Meals in the Graeco-Roman World’ seminar. Two presentations – respectively, ‘Early Christian Meals and Slavery’ and ‘Resisting a Reclining Culture’ are published in Smith and Taussig (2012), 191–204. A third, ‘Meals and Monastic Identity’ is included in Klinghardt and Taussig (2012), 307–28. My thanks to participants in these earlier conversations for consistent and useful feedback, questions and comments. 6 Aitken (2012), 109–22; Daniel-Hughes (2012), 215–27; Katrosits (2012), 241–78; Marks (2012), 123–48; Osiek (2012), 37–56; Tulloch (2006), 164–93, 289–96. 7 In his volume, Taussig (2009), Hal Taussig encourages ongoing consideration of the degree to which ancient meals afforded contexts for ‘think[ing] about, experiment[ing] with and negotiat[ing] … social structures, personal relationships and identity formation’ (67–8). 8 Al-Suadi (2011); Harland (2003, 2012); Klinghardt (1996); Kloppenborg and Wilson (1996); Marks (2013); McGowan (1999); Osiek and MacDonald (2006); Smith (2003); Taussig (2009). 9 Smith (2003), 15; In addressing the sociological parameters that would have shaped emergent Christian meal practice, the work of Mattias Klinghardt remains as foundational. 10 Smith (2003), 14. 11 Dunbabin (2003). 12 Ibid., 22–3. 13 Cf. Dunbabin (2003), 22–3, 104–40. 14 Hoepfner, (1999), 144. 15 Bookidis (1990, 1994), 86–101. 16 Ibid., 91. 17 Ibid.; For example, Dunbabin addresses such all-female meal settings in a somewhat cursory fashion. However, more particular studies, like those noted above (n. 6), raise interesting questions about the degree to which material texts elucidate the distance that separates the real from the ideal. 18 Dunbabin (2003), 36–71. 19 Ibid., 23. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid.; Cf. 63–68, 114–20. 22 Dunbabin (2003), 23. 23 Steingräber (1986); Cf. Steingräber (2006). 24 Dunbabin (2003), 25–33; Cf. Steingräber (1986). 25 McGowan (2014), 21. 26 Marks and Taussig (2014). 27 Philo (1995), 70–2 in Philo, 69–90. 28 Dunbabin (2003), 175–6. 29 Ibid., 177; Cf. Smith (2003); McGowan (1999); Taussig (2009). 30 Philo’s gender neutral descriptors likewise add important nuance to interpretive emphases that have traditionally characterized the Christian culture inherited from Greece and Rome as implicitly progressive, and framed its Jewish counterparts as alternately regressive; Cf. Kraemer (1999), 35–49. 31 Cf. Al-Suadi (2010), 209–28. 32 Dunbabin (2003), 22; Cf. Bookidis (1990, 1994), 86–94.

Material Meals 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44 45 46 47 48

49

50 51 52 53 54

365

Tulloch (2006), 192–3. Ibid., 164. Ibid., 166. Subsequent ecclesial regulation has iteratively filled in the blanks, effectively rendering each role emphatically male. Dunbabin (2003), 175–6. Cf. Taussig (1991). Cf. Taussig (1991). Wire (1990). It has increasingly been argued that the author of Luke-Acts may likewise be the pseudonymous letter writer who penned the Pastoral Epistles – 1, 2 Timothy, and Titus. Images drawn from both material and literary ‘texts’ affirm this linkage. Within the canon, it is the Aristotelian household codes articulated in these epistles that preserve the most explicit restriction of women’s leadership roles; Cf. Reid (1996); Seim (1994). Eisen (2000). Brooten (1982). Eisen (2000). Brooten (1977), 141–4. Dunbabin (2003), 193; As referenced in Dunbabin drawing on Sulpicius Severus, Vita Martin 20.1-7; Cf. Roberts, ‘Martin Meets Maximus’. Dunbabin (2003), 193. For example, in The Body and Society, Peter Brown offers a detailed study of the place held by food in the hierarchy of ascetic abstinence. The examples upon which he bases his analysis, however, are drawn almost solely from hagiographical material (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988). AP/Syst 4.67 (Ward 2003). The manuscript tradition of the Apophthegmata Patrum is exceedingly complex. Early compilers of the most well-known collections organized often overlapping source material according to three different systems: ‘alphabetic’, ‘systematic’, and ‘anonymous.’ The Greek original of the ‘alphabetic’ collection is published in Migne, PG 65.71-440 (AP/Alph). An English translation by Ward (1975, 1984), makes this collection among the most accessible. The Latin ‘systematic’ collection was edited by H. Rosweyde, and re-published in Migne, PL 73.851-1024 (AP/ Syst). It too has been translated into English by Ward (2003). The first 400 sayings of the ‘anonymous’ collection (AP/Anon) were edited by F. Nau and are published in vol. 12–14 and 17–18 of the Revue de l’Orient chrétien (1907–13). Less frequently cited collections are preserved in Ethiopic (AP/Eth), Armenian (AP/Arm), Coptic (AP/ Copt) and Syriac (AP/Syr). A selection of these collected apophthegms is available in Regnault (1970). In contemporary scholarship, the ongoing work of Chiara Faraggiana offers the most sophisticated and detailed analysis of respective strains. See especially Faraggiana (1997), 455–67. AP/Syst 4.60 (Ward 2003). AP/Alph Arsenius 17 (Ward); Abba Arsenius is likewise noted for observing a seasonal practice of ‘tasting a very little of each … [of] all the varieties of fruit [that were] ripe … just once, [while] giving thanks to God’ (AP/Alph Arsenius 19 [Ward 1984]). AP/Syst 4.26 (Ward 2003); Cf. Larsen (2013), 1–34. Scholarship on meal practice among medieval female monastics has largely focused on literary registers marked by radically austere practice. More familiar is Abba Poemen’s simple, ‘Wine is not for monks’ (Poemen 19 [Ward 1984]); Cf. Larsen (2013).

366 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals 55 Larsen (2012a), 191–204; Larsen (2012b), 245–60; Larsen (2012c), 307–28. 56 An ample deposit of storage- and tablewares was excavated from inside a bakery within the early medieval monastery. Blid suggests that the assemblage was most probably used for communal meals as the quantity seems too large for individual use. The dimensions of the vessels are highly standardized in terms of shape and size. Material remains from this monastic meal setting, affirm a diet of simple fare in an ethos of radical equality. Blid notes that, beyond gender, material distinction between the various participants cannot be discerned (Blid, et al. 2016: 133–215, 211–13). 57 The historical refectory still visible today at the Monastery of Saint Paul is comprised of furnishings that consist solely of a long stone table and a substantive stone lectern; Cf. Larsen (2012c). 58 Dunbabin (2003), 201 fig. 120. 59 Ibid., 200 fig. 119; The absence of slaves and the cup echoes themes of communal negotiation encountered both in Philo’s literary descriptions, and in monastic regulatory and literary tradition. 60 Dunbabin (2003), 200 fig. 118. 61 Basil (1950), 21; Cf. Larsen (2012b); Larsen (2012c). 62 Lawless (1990), 60–5. 63 Possidius (1919); Cf. Lawless (1990), 62. 64 Dunbabin (2003), 193–202. 65 While the regulations that structure life in all female monastic settings are, as a rule, less detailed, it is interesting to consider whether communities under female jurisdiction would have supported commensurate gatherings, attended solely by women. Here, imagining a continuous trajectory of practice that begins with early models like the all-female household of Theocleia encountered in the Acts of Paul and Thecla is provocative. These environs take on added valence as they are placed in conversation with a broader range of both literary and material, ascetic texts; Cf. Larsen (Forthcoming); Brooks-Hedstrom (2017), 183–206. 66 Malmberg (2003). 67 Ibid., 89–90; Malmberg notes that the refectory is reminiscent of the dining halls in the capital. In fact, he suggests that the tables may have come from a great triclinium in Constantinople. In some sense, bringing Augustine’s literary descriptions to life, he suggests that ‘at least the abbot’s table is of late antique origin’. Malmberg likewise premises that neither is it impossible that ‘Athanasius’ nineteen tables were taken by Nicephorus Phocas from the recently demolished Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches to his new foundation on Athos’ (90). 68 Wimbush (1997).

Bibliography Aitken, E. B. (2012), ‘Remembering and Remembered Women in Greco-Roman Meals’, in D. E. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 109–22, New York: Palgrave. Al-Suadi, S. (2010), ‘Wechsel der Identitaeten: Philos Thereapeuten im Wandel der Wissenschaftsgeschichte’, Judaica 66: 209–28. Al-Suadi, S. (2011), Essen aus Christusgläubige: Ritualtheoretische Exegese Paulinischer Texte, Tübingen: Francke.

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Basil, (1950), ‘The Long Rules’, in M. Monica Wagner (trans.), St. Basil: Ascetical Works, 223–337, New York: Fathers of the Church. Blid, J. (2016), ‘Excavations at the Monastery of St Antony at the Red Sea’, Opuscula 9: 133–215, 211–13. Bookidis, N. (1990, 1994), ‘Ritual Dining in the Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Corinth: Some Questions’, in O. Murray (ed.), Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion, 86–94, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brooks-Hedstrom, D. (2017), ‘Monks Baking Bread and Salting Fish’, in S. Ashbrook Harvey and M. Mullett (eds), Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Monasticism, 183–206, Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Brooten, B. J. (1977), ‘Junia … Outstanding Among the Apostles’, in L. Swidler and A. Swidler (eds), Women Priests: A Catholic Commentary on the Vatican Declaration, 141–4, New York: Paulist Press. Brooten, B. J. (1982), Women Leaders in the Ancient Synagogue, Brown Judaic Studies 36, Atlanta: Scholars Press. Daniel-Hughes, C. (2012), ‘Bodies in Motion, Bodies at Rest: Status, Corporeality, and the Negotiation of Power in Ancient Meals’, in Dennis Smith and Hal Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 215–27, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Dunbabin, K. M. D. (2003), The Roman Banquet: Images of Conviviality, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eisen, U. (2000), Women Officeholders in Early Christianity, translated by Linda M. Maloney, Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Harland, P. (2003), Associations, Synagogues and Congregations: Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Harland, P. (2012), ‘Banqueting Values in the Associations: Rhetoric and Reality’, in D. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 73–85, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Hoepfner, W., et al. (1999), ‘Die Epoche der Griechen’, in W. Hoepfner (ed), Geschichte des Wohnens 1, 123–524, Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Katrosits, M. (2012), ‘The Ἐκκλησία and the Politics of the Meal: Rethinking Christian Identity in and Through Acts’, in M. Klinghardt and H. Taussig (eds), Meals and Religious Identity in Early Christianity. Texte und Arbeiten zum Neutestamentlichen Zeitalter, 241–78, Tübingen: A. Francke. King, K. (1996), ‘Mackinations on Myth and Origins’, in E. A. Castelli and H. Taussig (eds), Re-imagining Christian Origins: A Colloquium Honoring Burton L. Mack, 161, Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International. Klinghardt, M. (1996), Gemeinshaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie früchristlicher Mahlfeiern. Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter 13, Tübingen: Francke Verlag. Klinghardt, M., and H. Taussig, eds (2012), Meals and Religious Identity in Early Christianity. Texte und Arbeiten zum Neutestamentlichen Zeitalter, Tübingen: A. Francke. Kloppenborg, J. S., and S. G. Wilson (1996), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, New York: Routledge. Kraemer, R. S. (1999), ‘Jewish Women and Christian Origins’, in R. S. Kraemer and M. R. D’Angelo (eds), Women and Christian Origins, 35–49, New York: Oxford University Press.

368 T&T Clark Handbook to Early Christian Meals Larsen, L. I. (2012a), ‘Early Christian Meals and Slavery’, in D. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 191–204, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Larsen, L. I. (2012b), ‘Monastic Meals: Resisting a Reclining Culture’, in D. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 245–60, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Larsen, L. I. (2012c), ‘Meals and Monastic Identity’, in M. Klinghardt and H. Taussig (eds), Meals and Religious Identity in Early Christianity. Texte und Arbeiten zum Neutestamentlichen Zeitalter, 307–28, Tübingen: A. Francke. Larsen, L. I. (2013), ‘Redrawing the Interpretive Map: Monastic Education as Civic Formation in the Apophthegmata Patrum’, Coptica 12: 1–34. Larsen, L. I. (Forthcoming), ‘Slavery in Early Monasticism’, in J. Woods and K. Cooper (eds), The Violence of Small Worlds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lawless, G. (1990), Augustine of Hippo and His Monastic Rule, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Malmberg, S. (2003), ‘Dazzling Dining. Banquets as an Expression of Imperial Legitimacy’, Ph.D. Dissertation; Uppsala University. Marks, S. (2012), ‘Present and Absent: Women at Graeco-Roman Wedding Meals’, in D. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 123–48, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Marks, S. (2013), First Came Marriage: The Rabbinic Appropriation of Early Jewish Wedding Ritual, Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press. Marks, S., and H. Taussig, eds (2014), Meals in Early Judaism: Social Formation at the Table, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. McGowan, A. (1999), Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals, Oxford: Oxford University Press. McGowan, A. (2014), Ancient Christian Worship, Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Osiek, C. and M. Y. MacDonald with Janet H. Tulloch (eds) (2006), A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Osiek, C. (2012), ‘What Kind of Meals did Julia Felix Have? A Case Study of the Archaeology of the Banquet’, in D. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, 37–56, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Palladius (1964), The Lausiac History, translated and edited by R. T. Meyer, New York and Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press. Philo, (1995), ‘The Contemplative Life’, in F. H. Colson (trans.), Philo; LCL; Volume IX, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Plato (1991), The Symposium. Dialogues of Plato, Volume 2, translated by R. E. Allen, New Haven: Yale University Press. Possidius. Sancti Augustini Vita 22 (VAug); English translation by Herbert T. Wieskotten (1919), The Life of Saint Augustine, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Reid, B. (1996), Choosing the Better Part? Women in the Gospel of Luke, Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Regnault, L. (1970), Les Sentences des Pères du Désert: Nouveau Recueil, Solesmos: Éditions de L’Abbaye de Solesmos. Roberts, M. (1995), ‘Martin Meets Maximus: The Meaning of the Late Roman Banquet’, REAug 41: 91–111. Seim, T. K. (1994), The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke and Acts, Nashville: Abingdon Press.

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Smith, D. E. (2003), From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World, Minneapolis: Fortress. Smith, D. E., and H. Taussig, eds (2012), In D. Smith and H. Taussig (eds), Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Steingräber, S., ed. (1986), Etruscan Painting: Catalogue Raisonné of Etruscan Wall Paintings, New York: Harcourt Brace. Steingräber, S., ed. (2006), Abundance of Life: Etruscan Wall Paintings, Los Angeles: Getty Trust. Taussig, H. (1991), ‘The Sexual Politics of Luke’s Mary and Martha Account: An Evaluation of the Historicity of Luke 10:38-42’, Forum 7 (3–4): 307–19. Taussig, H. (2009), In the Beginning was the Meal: Social Experimentation and the Early Christian Banquets, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Tulloch, J. H. (2006), ‘Women Leaders in Family Funerary Banquets’, in C. Osiek and M. MacDonald (eds), A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity, 192–3, Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Ward, B., trans. (1984), The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, Rev. ed., Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Press. Ward, B., trans. (2003), The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks, London and New York: Penguin. Wimbush, V. L. (1997), ‘Interpreting Resistance, Resisting Interpretation’, Semeia 79: 1. Wire, A. (1990), The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction Through Paul’s Rhetoric, Minneapolis: Fortress Press.

370

Name Index Aageson, J. W.  253–4 Aaron  216, 284, 287, 289, 292 n.25 Abihu  287 Abimelech  216 Abraham  172, 216, 217, 272 Acesias  348 Adam  18 n.5, 81 Aegeates (Roman proconsul)  204–5 Aelius Aristides  341, 343 Aesop  41 n.5 Agis  348 Ahearne-Kroll, P.  220 n.3 Alcmaeon of Croton  341–2 Alexidemus of Miletus  34, 37, 41 n.5 Alikin, V.  205 Al-Saudi, S.  132 n.5, 215, 232, 234, 254, 255, 292 n.29 Althoff, J.  41 n.3 Amar, Z.  335 Ammia  200 Amphitrite  34 Anacharsis  32, 41 n.5 Ananias  168 Anderson, B.  128 Anderson, P.  265 n.6 Andrew, St., the Apostle  141 Androniucs  198, 199, 201, 202 Anthia (fictional character)  218 Antiochus (physician)  251 Aphrodite  33, 335 Apis  333 Apollo  341 Aquila  174, 178, 182 Archytas  348 Ardalus  41 n.5 Ares  335 Aristides  66 Aristotle  31, 342 Arsenius the Great  365 n.51 Artemilla  183, 185, 188, 193 n.9 Asclepiades of Bithynia  342–3

Ascough, R. S.  166, 174, 175 nn.2–3, 5–6, 241 Aseneth  185, 193.8, 211, 212–14, 215, 217, 219 Asklepios/Asclepius  334, 341 Asper, M.  32 Athanasius the Athonite  363 Athenaeus of Naucratis  342, 345, 346 Atkinson, K.  22, 27 n.2 Attridge, H. W.  280, 291 nn.9–10, 18 Aune, D. E.  31, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 300, 306–7, 317, 318 Axel, B. K.  128, 133 n.21 Bacher, W.  63 n.18 Bachmann, V.  308 Backhaus, K.  282, 291 n.8 Bagnall, R. S.  329, 332, 337 n.6, 338 n.8 Baillet, M.  49, 50 Bakker, H.  203 Baldry, H. C.  111 Balz, H.  291 n.6 Barata Dias, P.  41 n.6 Barclay, J. M. G.  27 n.17, 248 n.1, 297 Barnes, T. D.  70 Barr, D.  319 Barrett, C. K.  144 n.1 Bartchy, S.  241 Basil of Caesarea  362 Baucis (fictional character)  172 Bauer, D. R.  144 n.2 Baumert, N.  119 n.30 Baumgarten, A. I.  19, 21, 22, 23, 27 n.7, 298 Beall, T. S.  19, 23, 27 n.7 Becker, E.-M.  251 Becker, M.  50 n.3 Belayche, N.  200 Bell, C. M.  255 Berger, K.  118 n.23 Bergmann, C. D.  44

372 Bergmeier, R.  50 n.3 Bertier, J.  348 Bettenworth, A.  31 Betz, H. D.  334, 336, 337 n.4, 338 nn.13, 17 Bias of Priene  32, 41 n.5 Bilde, P.  19, 22, 53 n.1 Bileam  319 Billault, A.  32, 38 Blid, J.  362, 366 n.56 Böcher, O.  221 n.30 Bonnet, H.  333, 338 n.18 Bookidis, N.  356, 364 n.17 Borgen, P.  18 n.5, 138, 139, 144 n.3 Bouley, A.  263 Bourdieu, P.  254 Bousset, W.  147 Boustan, R.  328 n.1, 332 Bovon, F.  177, 193 n.5 Bradshaw, P. F.  201, 263 Brashear, W. M.  328 Brashler, J.  60 Braun, W.  111 Braund, D.  346 Braziel, J. E.  127 Bremmer, J. N.  199, 200, 203–4, 206 nn.5, 11, 207 n.23 Brenk, F. E.  35 Brent, A.  73 Brinkmann, A.  338 n.13 Brooks, O. S.  261, 264 Brooks-Hedstrom, D.  366 n.65 Brooten, B. J.  360 Brown, P.  365 n.48 Brown, R. E.  106 n.21, 136, 139, 262 Brox, N.  69, 157 n.11 Burchard, C.  212, 215, 220 n.5, 221 nn.22, 29 Burkert, W.  262 Burkes, S.  307, 308, 312 n.15 Cahill, M.  291 n.18 Callimachus  198, 199 Calvert-Koyzis, N.  240 Campbell, J. Y.  232 Campbell, W. S.  240, 241 Casabona, J.  118 n.24 Cato the Younger  347 Celsus  343

Name Index Charles, R.  127 Chazon, E. G.  49 Cherix, P.  207 n.12 Chersias  41 n.5 Chesnutt, R. D.  215 Chilon of Sparta  32, 41 n.5 Chow, R.  133 n.22 Claussen, C.  270 Cleitophon (fictional character)  218 Clement of Rome  66 Cleobius  186, 190, 194 n.17 Cleobulus of Lindos  32, 41 n.5 Cleodorus  35, 36, 41 n.5 Cleon  181 Cleopatra  38 Cody, J. M.  25 Colautti, F. M.  104 n.2 Coleman, K.  197 Collins, J. J.  45, 47, 49, 50–1, 52, 53 n.4, 304, 305 Collins, J. N.  145 n.8 Colpe, C.  58, 59, 60, 62 n.3–4 Colson, F. H.  11, 13, 17 Constantine I, Emperor of Roman Empire  329 Conzelmann, H.  175 n.1 Cornelius the Centurion  171, 172, 173 Cross, F. M.  47 Cullmann, O.  136 Culpepper, R. A.  136, 260 Czachesz, I.  198, 202, 207 n.28 Daise, M. A.  137 Daniel, Prophet  216, 217 Daniel, R. W.  331, 337 n.4, 338 n.16 Danker, F. W.  144 n.2, 168, 170, 171, 175 nn.1, 3 Davidson, J.  343 De Jonge, H.-J.  195 n.26, 205 De Vaux, R.  44 DeConick, A. D.  147, 158 n.15 Defradas, J.  33, 34, 41 n.5 Dekkers, E.  206 n.10 Delcor, M.  21, 22 DeMaris, R. E.  227 Demas  177 Demeter  35 Den Hollander, W.  21, 26, 27 n.13 Denis, A.-M.  305



Name Index

Denizeau, G.  290 n.3, 291 n.5 Derrett, J. D.  144 n.4 Diamond, E.  301 Dieleman, J.  337 n.1 Dieuches of Tarentum  342 Dijkstra, J. F.  329, 338 n.7 Dillon, J.  158 nn.11, 18 Dillon, M.  334 Dio of Alexandria  31 Diocles  32, 33–4, 35, 36, 41 n.5 Diocles of Carystus  342, 343, 348 Dion  180 Dionysus  35, 36, 347, 348 Dirkse, P.  60 Dölger, F. J.  60 Donahue, J. R.  312 n.5 Donceel-Voûte, P. H. E.  44 Doody, M. A.  218, 221 n.14 Doresse, J.  58 Douglas, M. C.  1, 53 n.7–8, 121 Downs, D. J.  67 Draper, J. A.  68 Drusiana  199, 201, 202 Dumoulin, P.  306 Dunbabin, K. M. D.  41 n.4, 356, 357, 358, 364 n.17, 366 n.59 Dunn, J. D. G.  240 Dupont-Sommer, A.  215, 220 n.6 Eberhart, C. A.  262–3 Ebner, M.  93, 105 n.17–18, 117 n.9 Eckhardt, B.  19, 24, 45, 49, 53 n.2, 59, 62 n.9, 197, 205, 207 n.16, 215, 263 Eckstein, H.-J.  97 Edelstein, E. J.  341, 352 n.2 Edelstein, J.  341, 343, 352 n.2 Ehrensperger, K.  241, 243, 244, 245, 248 n.3, 259 Eisen, U.  360–1 Eisenman, R.  51 Eitrem, S.  262 Eleazar  287 Eliezer (Priest)  216 Ellingworth, P.  291 nn.8, 18 Elliott, J. H.  171 Elliott, J. K.  177, 189, 193 nn.5, 7, 10, 194 nn.11, 23 Elliott, N.  241 Engberg-Pedersen, T.  240, 243

373

Epaenetus  348 Epicurus  31 Erasistratus  342, 348 Eryximachus  346, 355 Esler, P.  248 n.2, 249 n.9, 297 Eubula  183 Eumetis  41 n.5 Eusebius  70 Euthydemus  348 Eutychus  170 Evans, N.  238 n.3 Eve  81 Ezra  216 Fabry, H.-J.  54 n.11 Farrell, J.  206 n.9 Fauth, W.  111 Fehling, D.  32 Feldman, L. H.  24 Felsch, D.  102 Finger, R. H.  19 Fink, U. B.  212 Fisher, E. W.  67 Fisher, N.  343 Fitzmyer, J. A.  240 Flint, P. W.  50 Focant, C.  96 Förster, N.  157 n.6 Fortna, R. T.  133 n.10 Fortunatus  199 Foster, P.  69, 202 France, R. T.  299 Frankfurter, D.  334, 338 n.8 Fraser, P. M.  9 Frederiksen, P.  249 n.6 Freidenreich, D. M.  216, 217, 221 n.12, 292 n.29 Frevel, C.  248 n.4 Frey, J.  259 Friedman, S.  85 n.3 Gäckle, V.  231 Gaffron, H.-G.  149, 152, 155, 157 n.7, 158 nn.15–16, 19, 159 nn.25, 28, 160 nn.34, 36 Galen  341, 342–3, 345, 349 García Martínez, F.  47, 48, 50, 51 Garnsey, P.  75, 343 Garofalo, I.  342, 348

374 Gelardini, G.  292 nn.25–6 Geoltrain, P.  177, 193 n.5 Georges, T.  200 Gerlitz, P.  298–9 Gladigow, B.  262 Glaucus of Locris  348 Gnilka, J.  195 n.26 Goldberg, A.  85 n.3 Goodman, D.  219 Goodman, M.  21, 22, 26 Goody, J.  45 Görgemanns, H.  31, 32 Gorgus  41 n.5 Graf, F.  290, 327 Grappe, C.  215 Gräßer, E.  291 nn.10, 18 Gratinus of Sinope  204 Gray, R.  21 Gregory of Tours  204 Greiff, A.  262 Grese, W. C.  59, 62 n.10 Grimm, V. E.  298 Gruen, E.  24 Grundeken, M.  69 Guelich, R. A.  299 Hall, S.  127–8, 131, 133 n.21 Hanegraaff, W. J.  327 Harland, Ph. A.  218, 229, 230, 320 Harrill, J. A.  174 Harrington, D. J.  145 n.6 Harrington, H. K.  54 n.11 Hauptman, J.  85 n.3 Hauschild, W.-D.  206 n.10 Heckel, T. K.  259 Hegesippus 348 Heil, J. P.  118 n.18 Heilmann, J.  72, 157 n.2, 262, 263, 265 nn.1, 6 Heineman, J.  75 Helios  35, 333, 334, 335 Hemer, C. J.  318, 319, 321 Hempel, C.  23, 47, 48 Hengel, M.  86 n.17, 144 n.1 Henrichs, A.  203 Hentschel, A.  145 n.8 Henze, M.  301, 304, 305 Heraclides  348 Heraclides of Tarentum  342

Name Index Hermes  56, 61, 335 Hermes Trismegistos  56, 59, 61 Hermippus  180 Hermocrates  180–1 Hermogenes  177 Herod the Great  95, 96, 97, 103, 104 n.8, 131 Herodicus  343 Herophilus  343 Hezser, C.  78, 79, 87 n.36, 304 Hieronymus  31 Hippocrates  342, 349 Hirschfeld, Y.  78 Hirzel, R.  41 n.6 Hobden, F.  31, 35 Hodges, H. J.  137 Hoepfner, W.  356 Hogan, K. M.  297, 298, 300, 302, 312 n.18, 313 n.19 Holmes, M. W.  66 Holm-Nielsen, S.  53 n.7 Holofernes  217 Holzhausen, J.  59, 60, 62 n.3 Homer  343, 345 Horbury, W.  63 n.18 Horst, P. W. van der  198 Hubbard, M.  219 Hübner, R. M.  70 Humbert, P.  306 Hurtado, L.  332, 338 n.15 Ignatius of Antioch  4, 66 Iphidama  205 Isaac (Israelite patriarch)  216 Isenberg, W. B.  151, 157 n.8, 158 n.13, 159 n.33, 160 n.34 Isis  219 Ithamar  287 Jacob  217 Jacob, R(abbi). (2nd CE) 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 86 n.26 Jakab, A.  206 n.2 James, M. R.  184 James, St., the Apostle  171, 172 Jastrow, M.  85 n.8 Jaubert, A.  106 n.23 Jefford, C. N.  68 Jenott, L.  57, 58, 62 nn.4–5, 7



Name Index

Jeremias, J.  87 nn.36, 38–9, 214, 215 Jesus Christ  4, 9, 15, 49, 52, 68, 71, 72, 73, 82, 85 nn.8, 10, 93, 94–5, 96, 97–8, 99, 101–3, 104, 105 n.16, 106 n.23, 108–9, 110, 111, 112–13, 114, 115–17, 118 n.12, 119 n.29–30, 122, 123, 124, 125, 129, 130, 131, 132 n.6, 136, 137–8, 139–41, 149–50, 151, 153–4, 155, 156, 159 n.29, 160 n.34–5, 167, 169, 171, 172, 173, 179, 180, 186, 187, 188, 190, 191, 192, 201, 202–3, 206, 214, 228, 234, 235, 236, 237, 245, 252, 254, 255, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263–4, 265 n.6, 279, 280, 281, 282, 283, 288, 290, 292 n.23– 4, 304, 321, 322, 332, 345, 360, 362 Jewett, R.  242, 246, 248 n.1 John the Baptist  96, 110, 124, 131, 142, 299, 304 John. St., the Apostle  201–3 Johnson, L. T.  175 n.1 Johnston, S.  330, 336 Joseph (Israelite patriarch)  185, 194 n.14, 211, 212–14, 215–16, 217, 218–19, 220 n.2 Joseph of Arimathea  100, 101, 105 n.18 Joshua  278, 284, 287 Jovanović, L.  220 n.7 Judas  78 Julius Caesar  270 Junod, E.  197, 198, 199, 202, 206 nn.1, 3–4, 207 nn.15, 31 Justin Martyr  201 Juvenal  34 Kaestli, J.-D.  197, 198, 199, 202, 206 nn.1, 3–4, 207 nn.15, 31 Kahl, B.  232 Kaler, M.  57, 58, 59, 62 n.7 Kampen, L. van  207 n.22 Karrer, M.  291 nn.10, 18 Karris, R.  240 Kasser, R.  148, 157 n.4, 177, 193 nn.2, 5, 207 n.12 Keener, C. R.  87 nn.36, 39–40, 42 Kerner, J.  297, 300, 312 nn.10–11, 18 Kern-Ulmer, B.  306 Khnum  333 Kilpatrick, G. D.  214 Kim, L.  32

375

King, F. J.  104 n.4, 106 King, K. L.  147, 149 Kircher, K.  262 Kirk, A. N.  73 Klauck, H.-J.  62 n.18–19, 136, 194 nn.13, 16, 215, 221 n.29, 259, 264 Klein, Gil P.  75, 78, 84 n.1, 85 n.5 Klijn, A. F. J.  194 n.11, 304, 305 Klinghardt, M.  1, 2, 5, 11, 12, 18 n.6–7, 24, 26, 33, 37, 38–9, 60, 62 n.16, 108, 109, 110, 111, 113, 115, 117, 118 nn.17, 20–1, 119 nn.26, 30, 132 n.2–3, 136, 167, 205, 215, 220 n.8, 228, 229–30, 231, 232, 235, 258–9, 260, 263, 265 n.5, 364 nn.5, 9 Kloft, H.  193 n.9 Kloppenborg, J. S.  175 n.2, 206, 229 Klos, H.  262 Klotz, F.  32, 33 Klutz, T.  332, 333, 334, 335, 338 nn.10, 12, 19 Knowles, M. P.  312 n.15 Kobel, E.  19, 137, 258, 262 Koester, C. R.  291 nn.9, 18, 318 König, J.  31, 32, 34–5, 38, 109, 218, 221 n.27, 343, 346 Kotrosits, M.  127, 128–9, 130, 133 nn.11, 21–2, 134 nn.27, 30 Kraemer, R. S.  364 n.30 Kraft, R. A.  67 Krause, W.  58, 62 n.13 Krauss, S.  86 n.23–4 Krieger, K.-S.  96 Kronos  335 Krupp, M.  86 n.23 Kügler, J.  214, 306 Kuhn, K. G.  214, 220 n.6, 344–5, 350–1, 352 nn.5, 8 Lalleman, P. J.  197, 198, 202, 203, 206 n.1–4 Lamprias  41 n.5, 270, 271 Lane, W. L.  280, 291 nn.10, 18 Lanzinger, D.  105 n.15 Larsen, L. I.  365 n.54, 366 nn.55, 57, 65 Lazarus of Bethany  137, 142 Lazarus, the beggar  111–12, 118 n.16 Le Guen Pollet, B.  207 n.21 Leão, D.  40 n.1, 41 n.6

376

Name Index

Lectra  178 Leemhuis, F.  304 Lefebvre, H.  75 Lemma, the widow  200 Leonhard, C.  104 n.5, 197, 205, 207 n.16, 215, 263 Lequeux. X.  203 Lerner, M. B.  87 n.29 Leucippe (fictional character)  218, 220 n.20 Lev, E.  335 Levi (tax collector)  110, 179 Lewy, H.  16 Lichtenberger, H.  317, 319 Liddell, H. G.  86 n.23, 335 Lieberman, S.  76, 77, 84 n.2, 85 nn.5, 7, 9, 11, 14–15, 86 n.27 Lied, I. L.  304, 305, 306, 307 Lietaert Peerbolte, B. J.  305, 338 n.12 Lietzmann, H.  207 n.30 Lieu, J.  232, 253, 254, 259, 265 n.3, 266 n.8 Lincoln, A. T.  195 n.26 Lindemann, A.  66 Lipsius, R. A.  193 n.3 Little, E.  137 Livesey, N.  171 Longenecker, B. W.  297, 302 Loopik, M. van  75, 79, 86 n.16 Lucian  18 n.6 Lucius (fictional character)  219 Lucius Aemilius Paullus Macedonicus  38 Lucius Verus, Emperor of the Roman Empire  198 Luisier, P.  193 n.2, 207 n.12 Lundhaug, H.  157 n.3, 158 n.14 Luz, U.  87 n.36, 88 n.43, 106 n.21 Lycomedes  197 Lycurgus of Sparta  23 Lydia of Thyatira  173, 174 MacDonald, D.  207 n.22 Mack, B. L.  233 McGowan, A. B.  61, 68, 108, 116, 132 n.5, 182, 192 n.1, 193 n.7, 194 n.12, 195 n.27, 197, 200–1, 206 n.6, 207 nn.13, 26, 30, 263, 354 McKinlay, J. E.  137, 138 Magness, J.  19, 21, 22, 27 nn.2, 11, 44

Mahé, J.-P.  57, 58, 59, 60 Malmberg, S.  362, 366 n.67 Maltomini, F.  337 n.4, 338 n.16 Männlein, I.  32 Mannur, A.  127 Manson, T. W.  262 Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Roman Empire  198, 343 Marcus, J.  104 n.5 Maritz, P.  138 Marks, S.  75 Markschies, C.  157 n.5, 197, 201, 263 Marshall, I. H.  265 n.3 Martha of Bethany  142, 360 Martial  34 Martin, J.  31, 32, 33, 34, 109 Mary (mother of John Mark)  171, 174 Mary, Blessed Virgin, Saint  137, 139, 142, 174 Mary of Bethany  360 Mason, S.  19, 21–2, 23, 24, 26, 27 nn.2, 8, 19 Massar, N.  352 n.2 Matthews, S.  174 Maximilla  204, 205 Meeks, W. A.  138, 241 Melchizedek, King of Salem  216 Melissa (Periander’s wife)  34, 41 n.5 Mell, U.  299 Mendels, D.  19 Méndez-Mortalla, F.  110 Menken, M. J. J.  102 Merku, D.  312 n.8 Merz, A.  101, 106 n.27, 177, 178, 181, 182, 189, 193 n.4 Metso, S.  46 Meyer, M.  57, 60, 157 n.4 Millar, F.  25 Miller, R. J.  133 n.10 Mitford, T. B.  207 n.21 Mithaecus  348 Mnesiphilus  36, 37, 41 n.5 Mnesitheus of Athens  342 Moessner, D. P.  112 Moloney, F. J.  145 n.6 Momigliano, A.  20 Moo, J. A.  301–2 Moses  13, 67, 99, 278, 283, 284, 288, 289, 290



Name Index

Moss, C. R.  70 Mossman, J.  31, 32, 41 n.5 Moyer, I.  334 Mudd, S. A.  348 Murray, J.  251 Murray, O.  343, 346 Musonius Rufus  41 n.8, 347 Myrta  186–8, 189, 190, 194 n.17 Myson of Chen  32 Nadab  287 Nanos, M. D.  241 Nauck, W.  261, 262 Nave, G. D.  110 Neale, D. A.  110 Nehemiah  216 Neiloxenus  34, 41 n.5 Nero, Emperor of Roman Empire  105 n.17 Neusner, J.  77 Newton, M.  240 Nicephorus Phocas  366 n.67 Nicharchus  32 Nihan, C.  248 n.4 Nikiprowetzky, S.  10, 17 Nir, R.  304 Nock, A. D.  166 Nord, C.  118 n.23 Nutton, V.  341 Nympha  180 Obbink, D.  262 Öhler, M.  68, 166, 319 Olsen, D. T.  49, 50 Olsson, B.  265 n.4 Onesiphorous  177, 178, 179 Osiek, C.  69 Osiris  336 Ottenheijm, E.  76, 87 n.31 Otto, B.-C.  327 Pachomius  362 Pagels, E.  149 Paget, J. C.  67 Papias of Hierapolis  66 Paschke, B.  207 n.14 Passow, P.  105 n.19 Paul, St., the Apostle  2, 9, 78, 170, 171, 172, 173, 195 n.27, 200

377

Pauling, D.  111, 118 n.17 Paulsen, H.  66 Pausanias  355 Peli, P.  77 Pelling, C.  38 Pentephres (Potiphar)  211, 212, 215, 216 Periander, tyrant of Corinth  32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 40 n.1, 41 n.5 Perrin, B.  38 Pervo, R. I.  4, 165, 167, 168, 170, 173, 175 n.1, 177, 181, 182, 187, 192 n.1, 193 n.5, 194 nn.16, 23, 195 n.28 Peter, St., the Apostle  100, 105 n.17, 137, 143, 171, 172, 173, 205 Petersen, S.  154 Pétré, H.  206 n.10 Pfann, S.  19, 44 Phicol  216 Philemon (fictional character)  172 Philip, St., the Apostle  141 Philistion  348 Philo of Alexandria  9 Philonenko, M.  212, 213, 215, 220 n.4 Pietersma, A.  220 n.1 Pittacus of Mytilene  32, 41 n.5 Plato  10, 15, 342, 345 Pliny the Younger  34 Plutarch  342, 351 Poemen  365 n.54 Polycarp  66 Polycleitos  342 Pontius Pilate  101 Popkes, E. E.  259 Poplutz, U.  262 Portier-Young, A.  219 Poseidon  33, 34, 35 Posidonius of Apamea  343 Powell, O.  344, 345 Preisendanz, K.  328–9, 330, 337 n.4, 338 n.11 Prieur, J.-M.  207 nn.20, 22 Priscilla  174, 178, 182 Prytanis  31 Ptolemy I, King of Egypt  217 Publius Iulius Geminius Marcianus  38 Puech, E.  50 Putthoff, T. L.  219

378

Name Index

Rabens, V.  258 Rajak, T.  19, 20, 22, 23, 26 Rawson, E.  23 Reasoner, M.  243, 245, 248 nn.2, 5 Reed, S. A.  45, 46, 47 Regnault, L.  365 n.49 Reid, B.  365 n.41 Rensberger, D. K.  262 n.2 Rhoda (slave attedant)  174 Ribeiro Ferreira, J.  41 n.6 Richardson, P.  78, 87 n.34 Richter, G.  262 n.2, 264 Rinke, J.  259 Ritner, R. K.  329 Roberts, C.  166 Roberts, M.  365 n.46 Roig Lanzillotta, F. L.  200, 203, 204, 207 nn.20, 26 Roldanus, H.  201 Roller, M. B.  21, 31, 238 n.2 Rordorf, W.  177, 193 n.5, 207 n.12 Rosenblum, J. D.  216 Rothschild, C. K.  252 Rouwhorst, G.  148, 201, 202, 205, 207 nn.25, 32 Rowland, C.  301 Royalty, R. M.  320, 321 Ruager, S.  291 n.18 Ruckstuhl, E.  144 n.1 Runia, D. T.  10 Rüsche, J.  262 Safrai, S.  85 n.5 Sallinger, A.  221 n.30 Salome (daughter of Herodias)  124, 131 Sampley, J. P.  242 Sandelin, K.-G.  188, 194 n.13 Sanders, E. P.  85 n.10 Sänger, D.  219, 221 n.30 Sanzo, J. E.  328 n.1, 332 Sapphira  168 Sarah  172, 272 Schäferdiek, K.  206 n.1 Schenk, W.  299 Schenke, H.-M.  62 n.17, 149, 157 n.8–9, 158 nn.13, 17, 159 nn.24, 33, 160 n.34 Schiffman, L. H.  23, 47, 53 n.2 Schmid, H.  148, 149, 156, 157 n.7, 158 nn.15, 21, 159 n.28, 160 n.34

Schmidt, C.  181, 184, 187, 189, 193 nn.2, 18, 194 nn.11, 23–4 Schmithals, W.  147 Schmitt Pantel, P.  109 Schnackenburg, R.  215, 262 n.1 Schneemelcher, W.  177, 193 n.10, 194 nn.11, 23, 207 n.20 Schnelle, U.  261 Schnurbusch, D.  31, 33, 34, 37, 38, 41 n.10 Schottroff, L.  87 n.35 Schreiner, J.  300, 301, 303, 307, 308, 309, 312 nn.9, 12–15 Schroer, S.  300 Schröter, J.  206 Schürer, E.  11 Schwartz, S.  26, 85 n.5 Schwarz, K.  148 Schweizer, E.  261 Schwyzer, E.  113 Scott, M.  86 n.23, 139, 335 Segal, A. F.  171 Segelberg, E.  158 n.15 Seim, T. K.  365 n.41 Selene  35, 335 Seth  336 Shandruk, W. M.  331 Shaw, G.  147 Sheerin, D.  197 Shmuel bar Rav Yitzhaq, Rabbi  81 Siggelkow-Berner, B.  104 n.1–2 Simon of Cyrene  101, 106 n.22 Simon, the tanner  172 Singer, P.  348, 352 n.3 Skeat, T. C.  166 Skehan, P. W.  50 Smalley, S. S.  262 n.2, 264 Smit, P.-B.  96, 111, 241, 244, 270, 298, 318, 320, 321, 322 Smith (1999)  60 Smith, D. E.  1, 2, 4, 5, 19, 21, 26, 31, 32, 33, 35, 75, 77, 85 n.6, 86 n.16, 95, 108, 109, 112, 118 n.16, 121–5, 132 n.2–5, 134 n.26, 136, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172, 175 n.2, 205, 228–30, 231, 232, 234, 235, 237, 238 nn.1, 4, 254, 259, 275, 345, 346, 355–6, 364 nn.5, 9 Smith, M.  26, 338 n.12 Smith, R.  262



Name Index

Smith, W. R.  63 n.19 Snodgrass, K. R.  87 n.36–7, 88 n.43 Snyder, G. E.  182, 193 n.4, 194 n.16 Snyder, J.  198, 206 n.2 Socrates  355 Söding, T.  265 n.1 Sokoloff, M.  87 n.29 Solon of Athens  32, 35, 41 n.5 Soranus of Ephesus  346 Sparks, H. F. D.  185 Speusippus  31 Spittler, J. E.  182 Standhartinger, A.  212, 214, 218, 220 n.7, 221 n.13 Statius  34 Steffen, D. S.  299, 300, 311 n.3 Stegemann, H.  47, 53 n.4 Stein, H. J.  31, 33, 37, 38, 274, 298, 317, 319, 321, 322–3 Stein-Hölkeskamp, E.  31, 34, 37, 41 n.8 Stemberger, G.  86 n.20, 87 n.29, 104 n.5 Stephanus  348 Stephens, S. A.  218, 221 n. 14 Stern, M.  18 n.2 Stone, M. E.  297, 298, 300–1, 302, 303, 304, 307–8, 309, 310, 311 n.1, 312 nn.6–7, 12–13, 18 Stowers, S.  241 Stratocles  205 Strecker, G.  262 n.1 Strotmann, A.  138, 188 Sukenik, E. L.  53 n.7–8 Summerell, O. F.  158 n.18 Sutcliffe, E. F.  22 Syncletica of Alexandria  361 Talmon, S.  46 Tat  59, 61 n.1 Taussig, H. E.  1, 4, 12, 13–14, 19, 21, 26, 75, 108, 109, 111, 132 n.2–5, 134 n.26, 136, 229, 230, 234, 235, 238 n.1, 253, 259, 298, 364 nn.5, 7 Taylor, J.  22, 24, 27 nn.2, 6 Taylor, N. H.  96 Telephus (grammarian)  351 Teodorsson, S.-T.  38 Thales of Miletus  32, 34, 35, 37, 41 n.5 Thamyris  177, 178, 179

379

Thecla, St.  177, 178, 179 Theißen, G.  101, 106 n.27, 151 Theobald, M.  105 n.16, 321 Theoclia  178, 366 n.65 Thessalos of Tralles  334 Thielman, F.  252 Thomas, J. C.  143, 262 n.2 Thomassen, E.  149, 150, 152, 156, 157 nn.3, 5–6, 10, 158 n.14, 159 nn.27, 32, 160 n.34–5 Thoth  56 Thraede, K.  60 Thrasybulus  41 n.5 Thrasymmachus  181 Thyen, H.  144 n.1 Tiberius Julius Alexander, Prefect of Egypt  234 Tigchelaar, E. J. C.  21, 27 n.7, 47, 48, 50, 51, 307 Tilg, S.  197, 198 Timon  39, 270–1 Tobit  216, 217 Tomson, P. J.  244, 249 n.8, 298 Trajan, Emperor of the Roman Empire  70 Trilling, W.  255–6 Tripp, D. H.  158 n.15 Tröger, K.-W.  56, 58, 59–60, 62 nn.8, 10, 13, 17 Trombley, F. R.  198 Tröster, M.  41 n.6 Trypho  346–7 Tuckett, C.  68 Tulloch, J. H.  359 Turner, E. G.  329 Turner, J. D.  147, 157 n.3 Turner, M. L.  149, 159 n.26 Turonensis, G.  207 n.22 Uebele, W.  261, 264 Ulrich, E.  50 Urbach, E. E.  86 n.19, 86 n.25 Uriel  301, 308, 311 Valentinus  148 Van Belle, G.  138 van Cangh, J.-M.  103 van der Ejik, P. J.  343, 348 Van der Ploeg, J.  19, 22–3, 27 n.12

380

Name Index

van der Watt, J. G.  258 Van Eijk, A. H. C.  157 n.7 van Gelder, G. J. H.  304 Van Leyden, L.  278–9 Vegge, T.  273 Vermes, G.  21, 22, 26 Vinzent, M.  206 Visotzky, B. L.  86 n.26 Vogler, W.  261, 262 von Heyden, W.  262 n.2 von Staden, H.  342 Vössing, K.  31, 37, 41 nn.4, 8 Vouga, F.  259, 262

Winkler, J. J.  218, 221 n.14 Wintermute, O. S.  217 Wischmeyer, W.  207 n.25 Wise, M. O.  51 Witherington, B.  264 Witulski, T.  320 Wöhrle, G.  342 Wolter, M.  102, 118 n.12 Wright, B. G.  220 n.1 Wurst, G.  148, 157 n.4

Waldstein, W.  105 n.21 Wallraff, M.  263 Ward, B.  361, 365 nn.49, 51, 54 Warren, M.  137, 145 n.7 Webster, J. S.  137, 140 Wecowski, M.  31, 34 Wehr, L.  261 Weiss, A.  203 Wengst, K.  259, 262 n.2, 319, 320 Whitney, Jr., K. W.  303, 305, 309 Wick, P.  195 n.26, 270 Wilkins, J.  343, 345, 346, 352 n.5 Williams, C.  206 n.9 Williams, M. A.  57, 58, 62 nn.4–5, 7, 147 Wills, L.  218 Wilson, R. McL.  149, 201 Wimbush, V. L.  354

Yohanan ben Zakkai, Rabban  249 n.8 Yonge, C. D.  17, 261 Young, B. H.  87 nn.33, 36

Xenophon  10, 12–13 Xeravits, G.  47

Zacchaeus (tax collector)  110, 167–8 Zeller, D.  41 n.3 Zetterholm, K.  244 Zeus  35, 335 Zeuxis  206 Ziegler, I.  87 n.35 Zimmer, T.  158 n.18 Zimmermann, R.  47, 265 n.1, 299, 321 Zintzen, C.  158 n.11 Zografou, A.  330, 334, 335, 336, 338 nn.22, 24 Zumstein, J.  106 n.21 Zwierlein, O.  198, 206 nn.4, 8

Ancient Sources OLD TESTAMENT Genesis (Gen) 51 1–2 10 1.1 86 n.26 1.11–12 303 1.21 305 1.26 80 1.29 306, 312 n.7 1.29, NRSV 80 1.29–30 154, 167 1.31 81 2–3 81, 290 n.4, 300 2.8–9 167 2.9 300, 320 2.10, 16 317, 322 2.16–17, NRSV 81 3 154 3.17–19 154 3.22, 24 300 3.22, 34 320 9.4 221 n.23 14.18 216 18–19 172 25.29–34 279 26.30 216 35.17 306 37–50 211 40.20–23 211 41.45 211 41.47–49 4, 211 41.55 139 43.16 220 n.2 43.24 212 43.25, 31–34 211 43.32 212 47.11 211 Exodus (Exod) 7.14–25 12.10LXX 12.22

317 102 102

12.46 102 13.14 287 16 138 16.14 306 16.31 221 n.29 16.32–34 321 18.12 216 19.1–2 283, 286 19.1–33.6 283–4 19.2 286 19.2–6 283 19.4 287 19.7–24.2 284 19.8 139 23.18 104 n.9 24 105 n.16, 115 24.3, 7 139 24.3–11 284 24.7 99 24.8 99, 103, 105 n.19 24.12–31.18 284 28.1 287 29.14 283 30.10 292 n.30 31.2–9 300 32 292 n.25 32–33 286–90, 290 n.4 32.1–6 289 32.1–6 284 32.2–3 287 32.4 287 32.5 284, 286 32.7–14 284 32.8 284 32.15–29 284 32.21 287 33 283 33.6 286 33.7 285 33.7–8 285 33.7–10 286

Ancient Sources

382 33.7–11 33.8 33.9 33.9–10 33.9, 11 33.10 33.11 33.12–16 33.12, 17 33.12–17 33.14 34.14–5 34.28

283, 284–5, 286 285 285 285, 287 286 285 285, 287, 288 285 288 285, 288 285 216 301

1 Samuel (1 Sam) 21.13

299

2 Samuel (2 Sam) 12.21–23

299

1 Kings (1 Kgs) 2.21.27–29 16.31 18–20 21.23–24 21.27 22.27/2 22.53

299 319 319 317 299 221 n.22 319

Leviticus (Lev) 2.11 104 n.9 4.12, 21 283 5.15–16 87 n.32 8.17 283 16 283, 292 n.30, 299 16.23 21 16.27 283, 292 n.25 16.29, 31 292 n.30 17.13–14 221 n.23 23.26–32 292 n.30 23.27, 29, 32 292 n.30 25.9–10 292 n.30 29 292 n.30 29.7 292 n.30 32 292 n.30

2 Kings (2 Kgs) 9 319 9.1, 36 317

Job 40.15–41.1

305

Numbers (Num) 6.22 306 9.12 102 10.11–13 283 13.26 286 19 283 19.4 292 n.23 22–23 319 25.2–3 216 29.7–11 292 n.30 31.8, 16 319 32.31 139

Psalms (Ps) 17.14–15 22.27 23.1–3.5 37.19 45.9, 14 74.12–14 77.25 (LXX) 104.14 104.26–27 106.2 132.15 146

306 299 299 306 321 305 221 n.29 82 305 216 306 51

Deuteronomy (Deut) 9 289 9.9 301 9.19 289 9.20 287 Judges (Judg) 19.5

202

Ezra 8.23

299

Nehemiah (Neh) 1.4 299 Esther (Est) 4.3 299 5.4–8 216 7.1–6 216 14.17 244

Proverbs (Prov) 3 138 3.18 300, 307 8 138 9 138 9.1–2 18 n.5

9.1–5 LXX 9.2, 5 11.30 13.12 13.14 15.4 27.7

Ancient Sources 10 138 300, 307 300 144 n.5 300 361

Isaiah (Isa) 25.6 167 26.19 306 30.20 221 n.22 49.10 299, 322 49.10.13 306 55.1 144 n.5 55.1–2 299 58 299 61.1 51 61.10 87 n.36, 321 65 299 Jeremiah (Jer) 2.13 16.7 17.13 25.15–16 31 31 (38 LXX) 31.31–34 (38.31–34 LXX) 31.34 34.29 39.17–10

144 n.5 202 144 n.5 318 105 n.16 115 115 115 306 306

Ezekiel (Ezek) 1.17 299 2.9 318 3.3 318 3.8–10 299 8.11–12.19 299 9.15–17 299 10.1 299 13.19 202 34.23–31 299 36.21–38 299 36.35 299 38–39 317 42.14 21 44.19 21 47.12 144 n.5 Daniel (Dan) 1.5

221 n.11

383

1.8 216, 221 n.12 1.8–16 244 1.8 ff. 182 9.3 299, 301 10.2–3 301 10.3 244 Jonah (Jon) 3.5–9LXX

299

Zechariah (Zech) 9.17

299

APOCRYPHA 1 Esdras (1 Es) 6.30 (LXX)

114

Additions to the Book of Esther (Add. Est) C 28 LXX 216 Judith (Jdt) 8.6 299 10.5 217 12.1–2 244 12.1–4 217 1 Maccabees (1 Macc) 1.35–63 1.43, 62–63

216 217

2 Maccabees (2 Macc) 5.27 6–7 6.18 ff. 6.21 6.30–36 7.1 ff.

244 216 182 216 217 182

Sirach/Ecclesiasticus (Sir) 1 138 1.16–17 138 11.29 LXX 221 n.26 14 138 15 138 15.3 138 24 138 24.12–17 307 24.19 307 24.21 10 32.1–12 271 Tobit (Tob) 1.11

244

Ancient Sources

384 1.12–13 12.9

216 306

Wisdom of Solomon (Wis) 16.20 221 n.29 19.21 221 n.29 NEW TESTAMENT Matthew (Mt) 68, 130–1 5.6 299 5.23 126 5.48 150 8.11 122, 124, 125, 131 8.14, 15 122, 123 9.10 122 9.10–13 21 9.11 122, 123 9.14, 15 124, 131 10.10–15 259 10.11–13 123, 124 10.13 131 10.42 123 11.2–5 51 11.19 124, 125, 131 13.41 87 n.31 14.6 124 14.15–21 122, 123, 124 14.17 180 15.1, 2 122, 123, 131 15.26 122, 123 15.32–38 122, 123, 124 16.5–6 122 16.8–10 123 18.15 126 20.1–10 123 20.22 122 20.23 122 22.1–10 82, 122 22.1–13 88 n.43 22.1–14 265 n.5, 321 22.6 83 22.7 83 22.8–13, NRSV 83 22.9 87 n.34 22.10 83 22.11 83 22.11–12 86 n.18 22.11–13 123 23.12 122

23.25, 26 23.6 24.38 25.1–13 25.31 25.31–46 26.5–13 26.6–13 26.17 26.20–25 26.26 26.26–30 26.27–28 27.5 27.15 27.32 27.59 27.62

122 123 144 n.2 87 n.37, 123, 125 87 n.31 88 n.43, 123, 126 124 124 124 123 117 122 117 221 n.22 105 n.21 106 n.22 101 63 n.18

Mark (Mk) 4, 130 1.15 19 1.16–18 179 1.31 100 2.15 95, 100, 214 2.15 parr. 260 2.15–17 21 2.16 95 2.17 95 3.1–6 95 5.34 180 6.13 100 6.21 104 n.8 6.21–29 96 6.29 105 n.18 6.30–44 96, 170 6.32–44 76, 299 6.39–40 169 7.1–15 85 n.10 7.1–23 95 8.1–10 par. 299 8.6 104 n.7 8.11–13 94 8.15 95, 97 8.27–10.52 94 8.6 169 10.28 179 10.37 97 10.38 97 10.38–39 99 10.39 98, 99



Ancient Sources

10.42–45 96, 97, 99 10.43 15 10.45 97–8, 99 12.13 95 12.38 97 12.38–40 95 14 4 14.1 93–4, 100 14.1–2 101 14.1, 12 93 14.3 169 14.3 par. 260 14.12 94, 101, 102 14.12, 14 102 14.12–14 93 14.12–16 94 14.17 94 14.17.22 94 14.18 169 14.18 94, 105 n.16 14.22  93, 94, 98, 105 n.16, 117 14.22–24/25 104 n.14 14.22–25 93, 98, 105 n.16, 170 14.22–26 103 14.23 98, 99, 99, 263 14.23 parr. 262 14.23–24 93, 98 14.23–34 98–101 14.24 98, 117 14.25 105 nn.16, 19 14.27 100 14.27–28 100 14.29 100 14.31 100 14.36 97 14.50 100 15.2, 9, 12, 18, 26, 32 96 15.21 101 15.42 102–3 15.42–46 100 15.46 101, 105 n.18 16.1 101, 103 16.7 100 26, 27 98–9 26.28 263 Luke (Lk) 4.18 5.1–11

4 167 299

5.28 5.29 5.29–32 5.30 5.33 5.33–39 5.36–39 6.21 6.21a 7.22 7.36 7.36–50 7.47 8 9.1–6, 10–11 9.10–17 9.13 9.14 9.14–16 9.16 9–19 10–11 10.42 11.37 11.37–54 11.38 13.22–30 13.25 13.29 14.1–2 14.7–10 14.7–11 14.7–14 14.8 14.10 14.10–11 14.12–14 14.15 14.15–24 14.18–20 14.19 14.24 14.25 15.1–2 15.3–32 15.7, 10 15.22 16.19–31 16.19–20

385 179–80, 193 n.6 169 21, 110 110 110 110 110 167, 306 299 51 159 110, 265 n.5 110 203 108 108, 170 180 169 108 85 n.8, 170 118 n.18 360 109 169 110 110 112 112 112 260 169 111 265 n.5, 270 111 111 79 111 112 82 83 170 111 112 110 110 112 112 111 112

Ancient Sources

386 16.22–23 16.24 17.7 18.12 19.1–10 19.8 19.8–9 22.10 ff. 22.11 22.14 22.14–38 22.15 22.18 22.19 22.19–20 22.20 22.20b 22.24 22.24–27 22.24–30 22.24–38 22.26 22.26–27 22.27 22.27b 22.30 23.53 23.54 24.13 24.28–31 24.29 24.30 24.30–32 24.30, 35 24.31, 35 24.36–43 24.41–43 24.42–43

112 112 169 299 110 110 168 260 78 114, 169 113 102, 104 n.3 82 85, 85 n.8, 116, 117 104 n.14 113–17, 263 113 112 115 265 n.5 260 115 77 15, 112 112 112, 175 n.4 101 63 n.18 170 170 172 109, 169, 172 108 170 109 203 180 109

John (Jn) 71, 72, 265 n.3 1.29 102 1.32 264 1.32–33 262 2.1 139 2.1–11 299 2.1–12 137 2.1–14 299 2.2 139 2.4 139 2.11 137

3.6 155, 156, 159 n.31 3.16 140 4.1–42 299 4.5–15 137 4.7 140 4.8 137, 140 4.10–11 150 4.11 140 4.13–14 299 4.14 194 n.21, 317 4.27–38 141 4.31 141 4.31–38 137 4.32 141 4.34 141 6 138, 144 n.2, 145 n.7, 154 6.1–15 137, 141, 299 6.22–59 299 6.22–65 137 6.27 141 6.27–29, 35, 63 142 6.31 138 6.31–58 138, 139 6.32 138 6.32–33 141 6.33 138 6.35 194 n.21, 299 6.35, 41, 48 141 6.45 139 6.48 211, 215 6.51 138, 141, 154, 155 6.51–58 263, 264 6.52, 54 154 6.53 154, 159 n.25 6.53 ff. 263, 264 6.60–66 264 6.63 155, 156 6.67 142 6.68 264 7.1 142 7.37f 194 n.21 7.37–38 137 7.37–39 142 7.38 150 12 142 12.2 142 12.3 260 12.7 142 13.1 101, 104 n.1, 142

13.4 ff. 13.4–15 13.15 13–16 13–16/17 13–17 13.18 13.21 13.21–30 13.24 f. 13.35 14.10.17 14.10, 17 14.17, 26 15.1 ff. 15.6 15.9–17 15.13 15.18 ff. 15.26 16.13 18.11 18.28 18.39 19.14 19.17 ff. 19.28–29 19.28–30 19.29 19.30–35 19.31 19.31, 42 19.32–36 19.34 19.34–35 19.36 20.31 21.1 21.1–14 21.14 21.15–24

Ancient Sources 258 15 258 260 258 137, 138 144 n.2 264 127 258 258 260 265 n.1 264 260, 265 n.1 264 258 265 n.1 258 155, 264 155, 264 137 94, 101 105 n.21 101 262 143 137 102 264 101 63 n.18, 101 102 264 264 102 144 137 137 137 137

Acts 1.13–14 174 1.4 170 1.6–11 170 1.13 78 2.2 175 n.4 2.42 178 2.42–47 4, 166–8

387

2.43 360 2.43–47, NSRV 359 2.44–45 168 2.46 168, 170 4.32–37 168 5.1–11 168 5.42 171 5.5–6 181 6 181 6.1 168 6.1–6 145 n.8, 168, 174 8.3 171 9.17–19 260 9.43 172, 173 10.1–23 260 10–11 171 10.2 173 10.23 173 10.6 172 10.7 171 10.23 171, 172 10.34–35 173 10.41 170 10.48 171, 173 11.3 171 11.11 260 12.12 171 12.12–17 171, 174 13.44–47 171 13.7 168 14.1–2 171 15 171 15.20 319 15.20, 29 221 n.23 15.22–29 172 15.29 319 16.11–15 173 16.13 173 16.13–15, 40 174 16.14 173 16.15 173 16.34 214, 260 16.40 173 17.1–5 171 17.7 173 17.34 168 18.2–3 174 18.3, 7 173 18.4–7 171

388

Ancient Sources

20 170 20.7 170 20.7–12 170, 260 20.8–9 170 20.11 78 21.15 221 n.23 21.17 173 21.25 172, 319 21.4, 8 173 27.33–38 173 27.34 173 27.35 170 27.36 173 28.7, 14 173 Romans (Rom) 1.18–25 244 2.1–3 241 2.16 241 2.17, 23 241 2.17–29 240 3.4–6 241 4.15c 245 5.29–30 312 n.7 7.1–25 240 10 231 11.13 241 11.18 241, 242 12.13 265 13 231 13.8–10 244 13.14 150 14 231, 232, 256 14.1–2 242, 246 14.1–15.13 4, 240, 241, 242–7 14.6 244, 245 14.14 240, 248 n.1 14.14b 246 14.15a 246 14.17 2, 252, 256 14.20 240 14.21 242 14.21b 247 15 231 15.1 242, 245, 248 nn.2, 5 15.6 245 15.7 242 15.7–13 248 15.15 241 16.1 145 n.8

1 Corinthians (1 Cor) 1.17–33 242 5.7 103 7.29 190 8 231, 256, 292 n.29 8.1–13 242, 319 8.1–20.21 181 8.8 252 8.9 255 8.12 256 8.13 256 10 231, 232, 255, 292 n.29 10.1–13 182 10.3–4 194 n.21 10.7 182 10.14–22 260 10.14–33 242, 319 10.16  114, 149, 157 n.9, 211, 215, 232 10.16, NRSV 231 10.16–17 169 10.17 119 n.30 10.18 232 10.20 232 10.21 181, 228, 254 10.31 27 n.12 11 69, 232, 233–4, 236 11.1 255 11.17–23 233–4 11.17–34 115, 236 11.20–34 148 11.21 195 n.26, 228, 254 11.22 236, 260 11.23 94, 236 11.23–25 103, 105 n.16, 170, 228 11.24 117 11.24–25 233 11.25 119 n.29, 236, 262 11.29–32 274 11.30 181 12 274 13 274 13.1–3 274 13.4–7 275 14 274 14.26 260, 272 14.33 275 15.35 154 15.50 154, 155



Ancient Sources

2 Corinthians (2 Cor) 8.4 232 13.13 232 30.1 62 n.16 Galatians (Gal) 2 232 2.1–10 172 2.11 243 2.11–13 242 2.11–14 230 3.27 150 3.28, NIV 14 Ephesians (Eph) 4.13 4.24 5.1–2 5.17–20 5.18 5.18–19 5.18–20 5.18–22 5.19

150 150 195 n.25 190, 191 190, 191, 252 195 n.26 252 195 n.26 16, 194 n.24

Philippians (Phil) 1.1

45 n.8

Colossians (Col) 1.28 2.20–22

150 253

2 Thessalonians (2 Thess) 256 3.6–12 255 1 Timothy (1 Tim) 254, 365 n.41 3.2 265 3.8 253 3.8–13 145 n.8 4.3 253 5.23 253 2 Timothy (2 Tim) 2.1–2 3.10:’10

365 n.41 255 255

Titus (Tit) 254, 365 n.41 1.8 265 2.3 253 Hebrews (Heb) 3–4 3.1–6 3.12

286, 290 n.4 288 290

389

4.8 288 4.15 292 n.24 5.12, 13 279 5.12, 14 279 5.12–14 279 6.4, 5 279 6.7 279 7.26 292 n.24 9.2 279 9.4 279 9.10 279 9.11 129 12.6 279 12.16 288, 290 12.18–21 283 12.21 289 12.22 281 12.28 280, 290 13 279, 290 13.1 288, 290 13.1–7 280 13.2 172, 265 13.4 288 13.6 287 13.7 288 13.7–8 280 13.9 252, 279, 288, 289 13.9–10 279, 280 13.9–16 279–83 13.10 287 13.11 283, 292 n.23 13.11–12 280 13.11–13 287 13.12 283, 285 13.13 288, 289 13.13–14 280 13.14 129, 287 13.15 289 13.15–16 280 13.17–18 288 13.17–19 280 13.20 288 13.20–25 280 James (Jas) 1.26–27 2.1–4 2.1–13 4.1–12 5.14–16

269–71 269–70 270 270 271 271

Ancient Sources

390 1 Peter (1 Pet) 269, 271–3 1.1 272 1.3.18.23 272 1.22 271 2.2–3 272 2.5.9 271 2.11 271 3.3–6 272 3.13–17 272 4.3 271 4.9–10 272 2 Peter (2 Pet) 2.2 2.12–13 2.13

269 276 275–6 259, 275

1 John (1 Jn) 259, 265 n.3 2.3–11 258 2.7–11 258 2.10 258 3–4 259 3.1, 10, 13 258 3.1–4.21 258 3.6 265 n.1 3.11, 14, 18, 23 258 3.11, 22–23 258 3.13 265 n.1 3.16 265 n.1 3.17–18 259 4.1–3 261 4.2 264 4.7 258 4.7, 12, 21 258 4.8–9 265 4.13, 16, 24 265 n.1 5.6 261, 264 5.6a/b 264 5.6–8 261–4 5.6c–8 264 5.7 261 5.8 261, 264 15.18 ff. 265 n.1 17.14 265 n.1 2 John (2 Jn) 5 259 5.6–8 263 9 259 10 260 11 260

Jude 269, 273–4 8 273 11 273–4 12 259, 273, 274, 275 14–15 274 Revelation (Rev) 5 1.10 234 2.4 320 2.6 319 2.7 300, 316, 317, 320 2.14 319 2.14–15 318–19 2.14, 20 316, 318 2.15 319 2.17 306, 316, 321 2.20 319 3.12 300 3.16 317, 318 3.20 321 6.6 316, 317, 320, 322 6.8 322 7.3, 16 300 7.16 322 7.16–17 299, 322 7.17 317 8.11 317, 322 8.17 322 10.9–10 316, 318 14.1 300 14.4 320 14.8 317, 318, 322 14.10 317, 318 16.3–6 317 16.6 316 16.19 317, 318 17.2 317 17.2, 4 322 17.6 316, 317, 322 17.16 316, 317 18.6–7 317 18.7, 9 322 18.13 317, 320 18.14 316 19.7–9 321 19.9 317 19.15 317 19.17, 21 316 19.17–21 317 19.18 317



Ancient Sources

19.21 21.6 20–21 21–22 21.6 22.1 22.1, 17 22.2 22.2, 14, 19 22.14 22.17

317 299, 317 167 299, 321 317, 322 322 317 53 n.9, 321 300, 316 321 322

DEAD SEA SCROLLS

3, 19

CD (Damascus Document) 45

391

4QPsf/4Q88 9.8–14

50

4Q265 Frg. 6

45

4Q274 Frg. 1.1–4

46 46

4Q285 Frg. 1

51

4Q302

45

4Q370

45

4Q381 Frg. 1

45

1Q28a

47

1QH 16 16.4–108 16.4–17.36

4Q418 Frg. 103

45

54 n.12 51 53 n.8

4Q423 Frg. 2 Frg. 5

45 45

1QM

45

4Q504 2 iv Frg. 2, col. IV Frg. 2 ii

54 n.12–13 49–50 50–1

4Q508

45

4Q514 Ordc

46

4Q521 ii 5–13

300

4QMMT B 65–8

45 46

4QPsf (4Q88) 9.8–14

54 n.13

11Q13

300

11Q14 1 II

51

11Q5 26.13

45

11QT 44.2–21

46

11Q19 19 21

45 45

a

1QpHab 2.3–4

119 n.28

1QS 5.14b–17 6

45 46 46, 47, 48, 49, 52 6.2b–8 46–7 6.3–8 47 6.4 47 6.5–6 47 6.6.7 47 6.7 47 6.13–23 46 6.24–5 46 7.15–20 46 1QSa 45, 47–8 2 46, 47, 52 2.11–22 48–9 4QDa 6.19 8.21 19.33–34 20.12

119 n.28 119 n.28 119 n.28 119 n.28

4QpPs 2.10–11

37 300

Ancient Sources

392 PSEUDEPIGRAPHA

Apocalypse of Abraham (Apoc. Abr.) 9.7 301 12.2 301 21.4 305 21.4–9 53 n.6 Apocalypse of Elijah (Apoc. Elij.) 1.21 299 5.6 300 38.14–39.15 53 n.6 Apocalypse of Moses (Apoc. Mos.) 28.4 300 Apocalypse of Zosimus (Apoc. Zos.) 13.2 53 n.6 Ascension of Isaiah (Asc. Isa.) 2.10–11 301 2 Baruch (2 Bar.) 9.1–2 9.2 5.13 5.19 5.20b 5.23–30 12.5 12.25 21.1 21.1–30.5 21.2–26 21.2–34.1 23.1–24.2 24.3–28.1 28.7 29 29.1–2 29.1–8 29.4 29.4–8 29.5–6 29.5–7 29.5–8 29.6 29.7 29.8 32.1 31.1–34.1 35–46

305 301 301 301 301 301 305 301 301, 305 305 305 305 305 305 305 53 n.6, 298, 303, 304–7 305 53 n.6, 305 306 304, 305 305–6 300 167 306 306 53 n.6, 306–7 307 305 305

36.1 47.1–12

305 305

3 Baruch (3 Bar.) 3.14 301 6.11 306 1 Enoch (1 En.) 10.16–11.2 10.18–19 24–25 24.1–2 25.4 25.4–5 25.3–5 60.7–8 60.7–8.20–23 60.7–9, 24

53 n.6 300, 306 53 n.6 53 n.6 306 300 53 n.6 305 53 n.6 53 n.6

2 Enoch (2 En.) 8.1–9.1 42.1–5

53 n.6 53 n.6

3 Enoch (3 En.) 23.18

300

4 Ezra 5, 297–303, 307–11 1.19–24 311 n.1 1.31 311 n.1 2.12 311 n.1 2.18–19 311 n.1 2.25 311 n.1 2.38 311 n.1 3.1 301 3.1–5.20a 300, 301 3.20 303, 307–8, 310 3.24 311 n.2 3.28–29 308 3.33 307, 308, 310 3.56 308 3.6 310 4.48–50 311 n.2 4.30 307 4.30–31 303, 310 4.31 308 5.20 301 5.20b–6.34 300, 301 5.22 301 6.25–28 308 6.28 303, 307, 310 6.35 301 6.35–9.25 300, 301



Ancient Sources

6.38–55 309 6.44 301, 303, 306, 309, 310 6.44–52 304 6.49–52 53 n.6, 305, 309 6.52 305, 309 7.104 311 n.2 7.114 311 n.2 7.123 303, 309, 310 7.13 307, 309 7.123 307 8.4 310 8.50–53 53 n.6 8.52  53 n.6, 302, 303, 307, 309, 310 8.6 307, 310, 310 8.10.41 310 9.17–21 308 9.17b–22 53 n.6 9.22 311 n.2 9.24 302 9.26 302 9.26–10.59 300, 301–2 9.29 308 9.31 307, 309 9.31–32 310 9.37 309 9.47 302, 311 n.2 10.4 301 10.14 302 10.14.16 311 n.2 10.16 302 10.53 302 10.53–54 301 11.1 302 11.1–12.51 301, 302 11.42 309, 310 12.39 311 n.2 12.51 302 13.1–13.58, 7 301, 302 13.57 312 n.7 14.1–14.49 301, 302 14.37–41 310 14.42 311 n.2 14.47 310 15.19 311 n.1 15.53 311 n.1 15.57–58 311 n.1 15.62 311 n.1 16.18–19 311 n.1

16.21 16.24 16.29–30 16.33 16.34 16.43.46 16.69 18.16

393 311 n.1 311 n.1 311 n.1 311 n.1 311 n.1 311 n.1 311 n.1 300

History of the Rechabites (Hist. Rech.) 7 53 n.6 10–11 53 n.6 13.2 306 Joseph and Aseneth (Jos. Asen.) 188 1 212 1–21 211 2 212 2.9 213 4.2 219 4.4–5 212 4.7 214 4–7 218 6 212 6.48 211 7.1 212 8.5 185 8.5B/F 214, 218 8.5Ph 212, 215, 218 8.5–6 212 8.9B/F 212, 215 8.11Ph 213, 215 9.1–2, 10–13 213 9.3 213 10.13 213, 219 10.13B/F 213 10.17 299 11.2.6.12.17 299 11.9B/F 213 12.5 213 13.1 299 13.7B/F 213 13.8 213, 219 13.8B/F 213 14–15 213 14.9 194 n.14 15.3 299 15.4Ph 213, 215 15.5 213

Ancient Sources

394

15.5B/F 215 15.13–17.4 185, 193 n.10 15.14 219 15.14Ph 213, 215 16 219 16.6 185 16.14 185, 213, 219 16.15 213 16.16B/F 213, 215 17.3 185 17.3–4 185 18.2 214 18.5B/F 214 19.5B/F 214 20.2 214 20.6 214 20.8 214 21.11–21 214 21.14B/F 214 21.21B/F 214 22–29 211 22.13 60 25.6 214 26.3–4 214 Jubilees (Jub.) 2.7 22.16 48.14

306 217 102

L.A.B. (Pseudo-Philo Liber antiquitatum biblicarum) 32.8 306 Letter of Aristeas (Ep. Arist.) 128–171 181–182 305–306

10, 217 217 217 85 n.10

3 Maccabees (3 Macc.) 3.2–7

217

4 Maccabees (4 Macc.) 18.16

182 300

Odes of Solomon (Od. Sol.) 35.1.5 306 36.7 306 Psalms of Solomon (Ps. Sol.) 3.6–8 299 3.8 299 3.8–9 299 14.3–4 53 n.9

Sibylline Oracles (Sib. Or.) 3.619–623 300 7.149 306 Testament of Jacob (T. Jac.) 7.23–24 300 23–28 53 n.6 TESTAMENTS OF THE TWELVE PATRIARCHS Testament of Dan (T. Dan) 7.1 60 Testament of Levi (T. Levi) 18.10–11 53 n.6 18.10–14 53 n.6 18.11 300 Testament of Reuben (T. Reu.) 1.5 60 Vision of Ezra (Vis. Ezra) H 53 n.6 L 53 n.6 PHILO OF ALEXANDRIA Contempl. (De Vita Contemplativa)  2, 3, 11–17, 357–9, 364 n.30 2 17 13 11 30 13 30–36 60 30–37 61 34–35, 73 45 35–37 189 40 12 40–89 219 48 12 56 12 57 12 57 f. 12 58 12–13 59 13 60 13 63 13 67 14 68 14 69 14, 16 70 14–15

71–2 73 79 80 80–82 81 81–2 89 90 VIII–X XI

Ancient Sources 15 16, 61 16 16 117 n.9 16, 17 17 16 12 357–8 359

Decl. (De decalogo) 41 18 n.4 Det. (Quod deterius potiori insidiari soleat) 117–118 221 n.29 160 286 Ebr. (De ebrietate) 100 290 148 18 n.4 Fug. (De fuga et inventione) 166 18 n.3–4 Gig. (De gigantibus) 1.54 286 Her. (Quis rerum divinarum heres sit) 35 18 n.4 Hypoth. (Hypothetica) 11.5, 11 24 Leg. (Legum allegoriae) 2.54–55 289–90 2.54–56 283 2.56 289 3.46 286 Legat. (Legatio ad gaium) 361 27 n.14 Opif. (De Opificio mundi) 78–79 10–11, 18 n.5 Praem. (De praemiis et poenis) 122 18 n.4 Prob. (Quod omnis probus liber sit) 12.86, 91 24 13 18 n.4 QE (Quaestiones et solutiones in exodum) II, 15 18 n.4 IV, 8 18 n.4

395

IV, 59 IV, 124

18 n.4 18 n.4

Somn. (De somniis) I, 50 I, 81 s. III, 249

10 18 n.4 18 n.4

Spec. (De specialibus legibus) 2.145 106 n.26 2.145–150 104 n.2, 105 n.20 2.148 104 n.10 3.95–6 221 n.26 4.122 221 n.24 I, 37 18 n.14 I, 321 18 n.14 IV, 92 18 n.14 Virt. (De virtutibus) 99 188

18 n.14 18 n.14

Vit. Mos. (De vita mosis) I, 187 18 n.4 II, 108 17 JOSEPHUS

3

A.J./Ant. (Antiquitates judaicae) 2.224 104 n.1 2.313 104 n.1 3.248–251 104 n.2, 105 n.20 3.263 20 3.28 221 n.29 14.21 104 n.1 14.214 26 17.213 104 n.2 18.22 21, 27 n.9, 45 18.29 104 n.1 20.106 104 n.2 20.208–210/63 CE 105 n.21 B.J./J.W. (Bellum judaicum) 23, 25 1.2, 7–8 24 2.10 104 n.1 2.119–66 19 2.122 21–2 2.123 21 2.124 26 2.124–5 21 2.128–33 45 2.129 21, 22, 87 n.36 2.129–31 127 n.4

Ancient Sources

396 2.129–33 2.130 2.131 2.132 2.132–3 2.133 2.137 2.137, 161 2.137–42 2.139, 143 2.280 4.423 6.3.3 6.425–426

19, 20 21, 22 21, 22 21, 27 nn.4, 10 27 n.4 22 27 n.7 20–1 21 21 106 n.28 106 n.26 304 104 n.10

C. Ap./Ag. Ap. (Contra Apionem) 1.51 26 2.65, 79, 148 27 n.13 2.146 25 2.195–6 25 2.225–31 23 2.234 25 Vita/Life 11 20 14 182 362 26 RABBINIC LITERATURE Mishnah (=m.) Avot 3.18 4.16 4.17

84 n.3, 85 n.4 86 n.20 79 84

Berakhot 6.1 77 7.1–5 76 7.2 77 8.1–8 85 n.12 8.2, 4 85 n.10 Para 3.9

5.25–28 85 n.10 5.5 78 5.10 77 6.21 80, 86 n.20 Sanhedrin 8.9

LATER RABBINIC SOURCES Avot of Rabbi Nathan b, 33

Tosefta (=t.) 84 n.3, 85 n.4 Berakhot 4.1 80, 82 4.8 76, 79 4.9 77 4.19–21 76 5.1–32 76

79

Babylonian Talmud (=b.) Baba Bathra (B.B.) 75a 53 n.6 Berakhot 53a 63b

85 nn.4, 6 286, 287

Derekh Eretz Zuta 6.3

79

Semạhot of Rabbi Chija 2.1 87 n.42 Shabbat 152b 153a

87 n.42 87 n.42

Midrash Rabbah Genesis Rabbah (Gen. Rab.) 8.1 13 9 81 82.8 306 Leviticus Rabbah (Lev. Rab.) 1.5 86 n.19 Mishle 6.6

86 n.26

Number Rabbah (Num. Rab.) 11.2 306 14.19 290 n.4 Otiot of Rabbi Aqiba

292 n.23

18 n.5, 80

53 n.6

Qohelet Rabba (Qoh. Rab.) 9.8 87 n.42 1.9 306 Jerusalem Talmud (=Y.) Berakhot 6.6 (10d) 85 nn.6, 11 Shabbat 1.4 (3c)

78



Ancient Sources

OTHER LATER RABBINIC SOURCES Akdamut Millin

53 n.6

Pesiqta de Rab Kahanai (Pesiq. Rab Kah.) 14 290 n.4 17 290 n.4 20 290 n.4 Pesiqta Zutra

86 n.26

Targumim Targum Neofiti (Tq. Neof.) 33.6 286 33.7 288 33.12, 17 287 Targum Onqelos (Tq. Ong.) 33.6 286 33.7 286, 288 Targum Pseudo-Jonathan to Exodus (Tq. Ps.-J.) 32.20 288 33.3 286 33.6 286 33.7 289 33.8 288 33.11 289 EARLY CHRISTIAN AND GNOSTIC SOURCES Acts of Andrew 4, 203–5 13 199 27 205 46 207 n.26 59 205 Acts of John 4, 197–203 30 198 63–71 199 72 199 73–83 199 73.76.87.88.89 193 n.8 87–105 198 89–93      202 Acts of Paul 4, 197 1.3 186 3.1 ff. 178 3–4 178, 193 n.3 3.5 178, 192 3.5, 13, 23–25 191 3.5, 25 192

397

3.6 188, 194 n.22 3.7 178, 179 3.8 179 3.9 178 3.13 177, 179 3.21 193 n.8 3.23 179, 192, 193 n.6 3.23–25 177 3.23, 25 191 3.25 180 3.5 190 4 177, 202 5 180 5.1 180, 192 6 177, 191 6.5 179, 181, 182, 192 6.6 182 9 178, 182, 191 9.6 182 9.6 [P.Bod XLI 3.14–15]  187, 194 n.20 9.13 182–3 9.17 [P.Hamb 2.18–35] 183 9.19 [P.Hamb 3,8–9] 184 9.19–21 183 9.20 194 n.14 9.20 [P.Hamb 3,24–25] 184 9, 21 192 9.21 [P.Hamb 4.4–5] 184, 186 9.21 [P.Hamb 4.5] 188 10 193 n.3 11.24 195 n.28 12 178, 186 12 [p.Hamb 6–7 P.Heid 44/43; 51/52] 186 12.1 [P.Hamb 6.1–14] 186 12.2–4 192 12.3 [P.Heid 51,13–15; P.Hamb 6,31–32] 186 12.4 192 12.4 [P.Hamb 6.37–38] 184 12.4–6 192 12.5 187, 188, 188 12.5 [P.Hamb 7.6] 184 12.5–6 [P.Hamb 7.9–15; P.Heid 52.14–18] 189 14 193 n.3 IX.7 200 Acts of Paul and Thecla 188, 193 n.3, 366 n.65 Acts of Peter

197, 198

Ancient Sources

398 5

193 n.8

Acts of Thomas 20, 96, 104 27

14.1 202 15 68

205 193 n.8

Diognetus (Epistle to) 4, 66, 69, 73 4.1–2 69 5.4 69

Apophthegmata Patrum  361, 365 n.49 Barnabas (Epistle of) 6.17 8.2 10.1–2

4, 66–7 219 292 n.23 67

1 Clement 4, 66, 67 1.2 67, 265 7.4 67 10.7 67 11.1 67

Eusebius Historia Ecclesiastica 2.17.18–19

11

Gospel of Bartholomew (Gos. Bart.) 4.71 60 Gospel of Jude (Gos. Jud.) 207 n.32 CT 3 148 Gospel of Philip (Gos. Phil.) 148–6 11a 152 12c 152 15 150, 153 17.19.39.47 156 23a 159 n.24 23b 154 26b 159 n.33 44 157 n.10 53 160 n.34 63.21–24 160 n.34 67, 19–27 157 n.10 67a 152 68 153, 158 nn.19–20 95a 153 98 153 100 159 nn.27, 30 108 158 n.14 109 151 116b 150 124 152

2 Clement 17.3 19.1

4, 66, 67–8 67–8 68

Clement of Alexandria Paedagogus (Paed.) 2.1.4 2.1.4.34 2.1.8

259 200 259

Stromata (Strom.) 1.1.8 3.2.10 3.4.29.1 7.16 7.16.98 VI, Book, XII 104,2

260 259 221 n.26 265 n.5 259 157 n.11

Gospel of Bartholomew (Gos. Bart.) 2.28

259

Cyprian Epistles (Ep.) 64,4

60

Protrepticus 2.23,1f

Gospel of Thomas (Gos. Thom.) 66 64 82

183

Ignatius

Didache (Did.)  4, 66, 68, 71, 206 6.3 319 10.1 68, 73 10.6 207 n.16 10.7 68 11–12 259 11–13 68

Ephesians (Eph.) 1 1.13 2, 4 5 5.17–20 20 20.20

68, 70–3, 262 68 72 71 71 72, 265 n.6 189–90 72 265 n.6



Ancient Sources

Magnesians (Magn.) 1 71 6 72 9 71 Philadelphians (Philad.) 4 72, 198 Romans (Rom.) 2 73 2.1 188 2.2 188 4 73 4.1 188 6.3 188 7 71 Smyrnaeans (Smyrn.) 72 6.7 71 7–8 198 8.2 259 Trallians (Trall.) 6 72 8 72 9 72 John Chrysostom Homilies (Hom.)

62 n.16

Justin Martyr First Apologia (1 Apol.) 1.65.2 65 66 66.1

260 60, 149 183 198

Martyrdom of Polycarp (Mart. Pol.) 7 70 14.1 70 Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas (Pass. Perp.) 16.1 200 17 70 17.1 206 n.9 Polycarp Philippians

4, 69–70

Pseudo-Clementines Homilies (Hom.) 12.6.4 205 Recognitions (Rec.) 7.6.4

205

Shepherd of Hermas Mandates (Man.) 9.10 Similitudes (Sim.) 9.11 9.27

399 4, 66, 69 265 69 265

Visions 3.9 69 Sinope Gospels

362

Tertullian Ad nationes (Nat.) 1.134

62 n.18

Adversus Marcionem (Marc.) 5.4.6 62 n.18 Apologeticus (Apol.) 39 39,15 39.16 39,16 39.16–18

260 265 n.2 200 259, 265 n.2 200

De oratione (Or.) 18

60

De praescriptione (Praescr.) 20 259 40.2–4 183 OTHER GRECO-ROMAN SOURCES Achilles Taitus Leucippe and Cleitophon (Leuc. Clit.) 5.3.2 5.12–5.21

203, 218 221 n.20 221 n.20

Aelius Aristides Orations (Or.) 45.27

321

Aesop Vita Aesopi 2–3

318

Alcmaeon of Croton Frg. 24 DK

341

Apuleius Metamorphoses (Metam.) 1 93 n.10, 218, 219 7.8–9 60

Ancient Sources

400 Aristophanes Acharnians (Ach.) 186–196 971 ff. Aristotle Rhetoric (Rhet.) 1411a.1–10

119 n.27 261

221 n.25

Athenaeus Deipnosophistae (Deipn.)  31–2, 343, 347–9 3.123a 318 12.516c 348–9 462e 261 463a 261 II.29.47e 38 Augustine Sermons (Serm.) 221

63 n.18

Cassius Dio 67.14.1–3

27 n.13

Chariton Chaereas and Callirhoe

218

Cicero Sen. 46

117 n.9

Tusculanae Disputationes (Tusc.) 4.70 27 n.5 Diogenes Laertius Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers I.13, I.98–99 40 n.1 I.22–108 32 I.40 32 I.41–2 32 I.97–8 32 Firmicus Maternus De errore profanarum religionum 18.1–8 183 Florus Epitome of Roman History (Epit.) 1.40 27 n.13 Galen De sanitate tuenda 6.14

350–2 346

143.16–144.12 CMG, 6.332–334 Kühn 180.32–181.16 CMG, 6.412 Kühn On the Powers of Foods 1.7, 6.498–9 Kühn 2.51, 159.1–11 Wilkins 3.26, 6.716 Kühn 6.638 Kühn

351 350–1 343–5, 347 344 345 344–5 345

On the Properties and Mixtures of Simple Medicines 347 On the Thinning Diet

348

Prognosis

343

Heliodorus Aethiopica

218

Herodotus Histories (Hist.) 2.78

41 n.7

Hippolytus of Rome Apostolic Tradition (Trad. ap.) 4 60, 263 21 60 25 260 28 261 Canones Hippolyti (Can. Hipp.) 33

259

Homer Iliad

31

Odyssey

31

Irenaeus Adversus haereses (Adv. Haer.) 1.14.6 63 n.18 5.23.4 63 n.18 5.33.3–4 300, 306 I 13 157 n.6 I 21,4 147 III 19, 1 157 n.11 Juvenal Satires (Sat.) 6.160 14.98–9 14.105–6

24 27 n.14 27 n.16

Longus Daphnis and Chloe

Ancient Sources

218

Lucian Satumalia (Sat.) 17 38, 118 n.17 Symposion (The Lapiths) (Symp.)  32 42–45 265 n.5

401

Gorgias (dialogue)

345

Politeia

12

Protogoras (Prot.) 343a 343a–b

32 41 n.3

Republic

343

Symposion (Symp.)  2, 12–13, 31, 32, 109, 343, 346, 354, 355–6, 357, 358, 359, 363 174a 34 174e 260 176e–177d 355 177c–d 356 212e 260

Macrobius Saturnalia (Saturn) (Sat.) 2.4.11

109 27 n.14

Makarios Apokr. 3, 23, 11 f. 3.15.2 ff.

264 264

Martial Epigrams (Ep.) 4.4.7

27 n.15

Mnesitheus of Athens Frg. 40 Bertier Frg. 41 Bertier

Theaetetus (Theae.) 176ab

158 n.11

348 348

Plautus Captivi (Capt.) 471

118 n.15

Origen Contra Celsus (Cels.) 1.1 VI, 63

259 157 n.11

On the Pascha (Pasch.) 1.96 f.

264

Ovid Metamorphoses (Metam.) 8.611–724

172

Palladius Historia Lausiaca (Hist. Laus.) 32.2–3 362 Petronius Satyricon (Sat.) 26.7–78.8 27–79 37 41.7–8 65,7

32, 218 41 n.8 219 27 n.15 60 41 n.10

Philostratus Vita Apollonii (Vit. Apoll.) 3.27.3 222 n.31 Plato Charmides (Charm.) 165a

41 n.3

Pliny the Elder Naturalis Historia (Nat.) 13.46 27 n.13 Pliny the Younger Epistulae (Ep.) 10.96 III.1.8

182 34

Plutarch Aemilius Paullus (Aem.) 28.7 38 Antonius (Ant.) 59.3

38

Brutus (Brut.) 34.8

34, 41 n.10

Caesar (Caes.) 63.7

38

Cato Minor (Cato. Min.) 37.7–8 38 De Garrulitate (Garr.) 511a–b 41 n.3 De Pythiae Oraculis (Pyth. orac.) 408e 41 n.3

402

Ancient Sources

Lycurgus (Lyc.) 10 23, 26 On Maintaining Good Health 131e 347 On the E in Delphi (E. Delph.) 385d 41 n.3 385d–e 40 n.1 Quaestiones convivales (Quaest. conv.) 4.1 (723b) 119 n.32 612D–F 165 614E, 615A 169 679A–B 169 I praef. 612d 35 I.1 35 I.1.2.613b 36 I.1.3.613c–5.615a 41 n9 I.1.3.613f 36 I.1.5.614e 41 n.9 I.2.1.615c–d 39 I.2.1.615d 37, 39 I.2.2.615e–616b 39 I.2.3.616d–e 39 I.2.3.616e–f 39 I.2.4.616f–617a 39 I.2.4.617c 39 I.2.4.617c–d 39–40 I.2.5.618a 40 I.2.5.618c 40 I.2.6.618c–619a 40 1.3 86 n.16 I.3.1.619b 38 I.3.1.619d 38 I.3.1.619d–f 38 I.4 passim 36 III praef. 644e–645b 41 n.9 III.1.1.645f–646a 34 IV praef. 659e–660c 35 V.5 passim 41 n.5 V.5.2.679b 41 n.5 VII praef. 697d 35 VIII praef. 716d–717a 35 Septem sapientium convivium (Sept. sap. conv.) 3, 10, 31, 32, 33, 33–7 146b–c 33 146b–c, 149d 32 146c 41 n.5 146c–d 33, 34

146d 146d–e 146d–148b 147c 147e 147e–f 147f 148a 148a–b 148b–c 148b–149f 148e–149b 149a–b 149f 149f–150d 150c 150d 150d–154f 150d–164c 154c 154f–160c 155e 156c 156d 157e–158b 158c 158c, 159b–160c 158c–159a 160d–164a 164a–d 164b 164d

33, 34 34 33 40 n.1 35 35 35–6 36 36 34 33 34, 37 37 37 33 34 34 33 34 37 33 36 36 36 36 36 35 35 33 33 41 n.3 34

Solon (Sol.) 4.1–2 12.7

32 40 n.1

Table Talk 3.1 3.1.3

31–2, 270, 343 346 346–7

Porphyry De abstinentia ab Esu Animalium (Abst.) 347 4.3.1–5.2 27 n.19 II, 26 10 Regimen I-IV

349–50

Seneca Dialogues (Dial.) VII.11.4, XX.10.2–5

41 n.8

Epistulae (Epist.) 19.11 89.22

Ancient Sources

87 n.39 41 n.8

Servius Commentary on the Aeneid of Virgil (Aen.) 1.730 119 n.33 Stobaeus Anthologium (Anth.) III.1.173 Hense Strabo Geographica 16.2.40 Suetonius De Poetis (Poet.) 1.2

41 n.3

27 n.15

118 n.15

The Life of Augustus (Aug.) 76 27 n.15 Tacitus Annales (Ann.) 5.5.2 14.20

222 n.31 27 n.5

Historiae (Hist.) 5.4 24 5.4.2 27 n.14 5.4.3–4 27 n.16 5.5 24 Theodoret Eranistes (Eran.) 1

157 n.11

Trogus apud Justin 36.2.14

27 n.15

Vitruvius De Architectura 6.10

86 n.23

Xenophon (historian) Lac. 5.3–4 23 5.6 23 10.8 23 Symposia (Symp.)

31, 34

Xenophon of Ephesus (novelist) Ephesiaca 218 1.1, 1.5 197

403

INSCRIPTIONS, MANUSCRIPTS & PAPYRI BG (Codex Berolinensis)

147

CT (Codex Tchacos)

147

Codex Vaticanus 808

203, 204

Coptic Bodmer Papyrus XLI

182, 193 n.2

Geniza Ms. 5, nr. 22

87 n.29

Ms. British Museum 7169

86 n.29

Ms. Leiden 1.7

78

Ms. Munich 95

86 n.22

Ms. Vatican 30 60

86 n.29 86 n.29

Nag Hammadi Codices (NHC) 3, 4 II.2 148 II.3 148 II, 3 157 n.8 VI 56, 62 n.4 VI.1 p. 12 61 n.2 VI.2 61 n.2 p. 13 61 n.2 p. 21.51 61 n.2 VI.4 p. 36 61 n.2 p. 48 61 n.2 p. 63.33 62 n.2 VI.5 61 n.2 p. 21.51 62 n.2 VI.6 57, 58–61 p. 52 61 n.2 p. 52.1–63.32 56 p. 52.26–7 59 p. 52.27 62 n.12 p. 52.28 56, 59 p. 53.15 59 p. 53.27.29–30 59 p.53.27–55.2 62 n.12 p. 53.8 59

404

Ancient Sources

p. 55.2–55.23 p. 59.11 p. 59.15, 24 p. 61.18–62.22 p. 62.22–63.15 p. 63.24 p .65.3–7 p. 65.4 p. 65.6 p. 65.6–7 VI.6.7 VI.6–8 VI.7

62 n.12 56 56 56 56 56 57 60 60 60 61 56 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62 n.13 p. 63.33 56, 57, 58 p. 64.15–6 58 p. 64.19 58 p. 64.20–22 58 p. 64.31–33 58 p.65.6 f. 58 p. 65.8 58 p. 65.8–14 57–8 VI.8 56, 58 41 57, 60, 61, 62 nn.15, 18 XI 148 PGM (Papyri graecae magicae) 328–30 I 327–8 3125–3171 330 III 698 330 IV 327–8 54–70 330 1390–1495 330 X 1–9 330 XI 338 n.16 XIII (Moses VIII) 329, 330–2, 336–7 line 1–343 330 line 7 333 line 8 334 line 9–14 334 line 15 331 line 23 331, 335 line 24–25 333 line 30–37 333

line 37 line 61 line 64–70 line 82 line 92–93 line 95 line 99 line 117 line 130–135 line 132 line 212 line 229 line 230 line 234–341 line 266–267 line 289 line 344–733 line 734–1078 line 970–971 line 1057 pg. 4, 9, 19 pg. 21, line 23 pg. 25, line 1078 pg. 26–30 pg. 30–2

333 336 332 338 n.17 335 336 334 334 336 336 334 331 331 332 331 332 330–1 331 331 331 331 330 330 330 330

P. Hamb. (Greek Hamburg Papyrus) 6.12–13 6.15–18 6.18–36 6.36–7.3 6.37–38 7.3–8 7.10–1 7.12–19

182, 193 n.2 186 186 186 186 194 n.25 186 194 n.23 186

P. Heid. (Coptic Papyrus Heidelberg) 60.10–11

193 n.2 194 n.20

P.Oxy. (Oxyrhynchus Papyri) 6.850 206 XXXVI 2797 [3/4c] 335 P. Mimaut (P. Louvre 2391) 57, 62 n.15 col. 18.590–1 57 Stobi inscription CIJ I, 694 86 n.16